#I was unable to eat or sometimes even look at figs for a while after I learned.

[unoriginal-and-dumb]

what's Kaspers favorite animal? and why? :0

The basic dumb answer would probably be cats (I think he like actually goes insane whenever he sees poptart he loves that cat so unbelievably much)

but if we’re talking specifics, for the other favorite Im gonna say the emerald cockroach wasp (he would pull one of them weird cards when it comes to animals like huehuehue they’ll never guess this one)

As to why,

The wasp itself is just very pretty, it’s also called a jewel wasp cuz of how shiny and colorful they are

It’s a parasitic wasp, which is both absolutely disturbing to look into but very interesting

The cool thing about his particular parasitic wasp is what it does in comparison to other parasitic wasps. They go specifically for cockroaches, and almost surgically sting its brain. They don’t kill the cockroaches and make it much more docile, so it isn’t tweaking tf out. Then it creates a little tucked away hold for it, lays an egg on the cockroach, and closes the entrance. The cockroach just kinda chills there until the egg hatches then it’s life gets significantly worse because the larvae eat it from the inside out, non-important to vital organs so it stays alive for the longest amount of time. Then the full grown wasp hatches from the empty cockroach shell isn’t that just wonderful

Not saying he would ever want a jewel wasp or anything, I just think he would find them really interesting and pretty because LOOK AT THEM they are so pretty and they are so awful it’s COOL

The jewel wasp was actually one of the wasps that inspired the way xenomorphs function in the alien franchise too!!

Definitely not biased as to why I chose it for him at all.

[fedtothenight]

this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!

the sweetest fruit

The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’

Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.

‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’

‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’

‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’

Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.

In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.

The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.

‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’

‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.

Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.

‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’

‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’

‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’

Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’

‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.

‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’

‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’

Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’

But meat? He could get meat?

Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.

‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’

The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’

‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’

‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’

‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’

Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’

Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.

Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’

Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.

‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’

Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.

On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.

‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’

On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.

‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’

On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.

‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’

‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’

As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’

[jamiebluewind]

Character Descriptions for Fantasy High 2.9!

***

As always, let me know if I need to edit or add anything and tag/ask/PM me about art and stories so I can check them out!

Warning: trauma, abuse, mental abuse, neglect, starvation, manipulation, memory loss mention, dark themes, isolation, imprisonment, fantasy racism, vomit mention (please let me know if I missed any)

All pronounciations typed out have a rolled R.

***

Facts

The party is currently at 44,100 exp. each. Next level is at 48,000 (which will probably take 3 more big battles, 2 if Brennan is super generous with RP awards).

Abernant family had all their land and wealth reclaimed by The Court of Stars for their treachery and failure to prevent a war with Solace. Elianwyn committed treason and betrayal as well.

To save Adaine, the group decided to break up into 3 teams: Pylon 1 (Ragh, Tracker, Cathilda, and Sandra Lynn), Pylon 2 (Gorgug, Fabian, and Riz), and Recovery (Ayda, Fig, and Kristen). Team 1 and 2 would simultaneously take out the pylons. Then, the recovery team would go in (invisible and/or disguised) and gets Adaine and Aelwyn. They would all meet back at Van where they would most likely use Ayda's teleport to leave Fallinel (or regroup to plan their next move).

***

New Characters

Tell-ah-mine Low-men-el-da

Fabian's grandpapa

Tall elf with regal green robes, a silver circlet, long platinum white blond hair with a widows peak, and shimmering blue eyes

Crinkle in the corners of his eyes shows his age in sort of an Elrond way. He look of a dude in his late 40s/early 50s who took excellent care of his body and kept it tight

Moves with supernatural grace

Can turn into silver sand and float away

Has no concept of what time means

Obsessed with the fact that his grandson will die before him (Your human blood has brought mortality to this family. You will one day die.)

Offers to send word to an elf who is a fabled eye smith who lives on the high mountains at the heart of Fallinel that can craft a working eye (from songs, whispers, beams of moonlight, jeweled edges of the blue of the sea, and shimmering poems pulled from the ether itself) for Fabian, but has no clue how long it will take (a moment, a year, or a hundred years).

Can't pronounce words in common very well, especially words he's never heard before (which delights Fabian and pisses off Gorgug)

Calls Fabian Aramais Seacaster fa-bee-ahn ah-rye-ah-my-ess Seacaster (which might actually be the proper pronouncations of his name in that region as "Seacaster" was said correctly and that's how all the other elves say his name as well) and calls Hallariel ha-lair-ee-el

Weeps without moving his face, but also sometimes makes a soft eeehhhh sound when he cries (at one point he cried over a drop of water)

Gifted stewardship of Khy-low Meh-new-rah 3000 years ago after he crafted The Sword of the North Star (he was the smith of fung-dran-ghoor) for the ancient king of Fallinel Th-wrist-win Eversong.

"Without the Elven Oracle, we are lost."

Saw the Abernants as power hungry and cruel and can't understand why they would leave Fallinel. He found Anguin in particular to be a crass and small man with no nobility, only a thirst for power.

Thinks Riz has a harsh energy, is "a little dick", and calls him "a strange green mouse thing"

Got physically ill when a gun was explained to him, calling it gross and some dwarven kind of thing before vomiting which he turns into a flock of white crows

Vhan-lair-ee-el

Fabian's aunt

Tried to heal Fabian's pneumonia with elvan singing

Said "I have failed" when her singing doesn't work before she fades into starlight and vanishes

Hal-door-in and [unnamed youth]

Elven teens in white linen shorts arguing because [unnamed] believes Hal-door-in took his lute.

Calmed by a distant song which stopped their fight.

Faf-threth-riel

Lithe elven youth (around 17 or 18 years old) with a blond mop of hair covering one eye

Bakes elven whey bread

Lived a sheltered life

Ragh was the first half-orc he met

Mostly into Ragh due to Ragh being half orc, excessively talking about his green skin (like the boughs of a tree leafy, my leafy man), being big and beefy (your legs are like the mighty trunks of trees), was really into rage (like when Ragh punched a seat cushion) to the point of it making Ragh uncomfortable

Sang in bed

Treth-thren-ren

Elven youth who does morning dance yoga

Tried to get Fabian to eat a grape

Oak Warriors

Elemental plant based automaton soldiers made of pure magic

Look like 8 foot tall green men with leaves coming from their faces

***

Changes to Established Characters

Aelwyn

Matted long blond hair

Dry skin, chapped colorless lips, and thick bags under her eyes

Severely dehydrated and trance deprived (probably hasn't been allowed to trance for nearly a year)

5 points of exhaustion. Only magic is keeping her from going to the 6th level and dying.

Her "room" is a large large beautiful elven chamber with silver and marble. Ambiant light glows from the white stone.

Trapped inside a 15 foot diameter orb that's constantly turning so she can't trance

Crawling on hands and knees while trapped, shaking with the effort

Doesn't give Adaine up to Kear

Can still remember how to cast the message cantrip

Feels strange and addled (unable to think clearly; confused), can't remember what's real or imagined anymore, doesn't clearly remember what happened in her past (including what she did to get imprisoned), and forgets what she and Adaine have already talked about (causing a lot of reputation).

Thinks her parents "tried their best they could" and that "they expected quite a lot of us, but isn't that what- doesn't that... didn't that make us great?" (possibly due to something her father said or did since her imprisonment as it echoes a few things he's said)

Gilear

Looks scruffy (from not shaving), dirty, and has pit stains

Somehow didn't mess up being diplomatic with Fabian's grandpapa

Unbuttons the top button on his shirt when he "lets loose"

To Fig about Sandra Lynn and Garthy: Are you aware of such... hanky panky?

Learning of Sandra Lynn's infidelity with Garthy "Honestly? Perhaps this is... fucked up. It makes me feel... like there wasn't something uniquely wrong with me. Maybe a tiny little w for Gilear."

Spent the night walking through the forest with Hallariel's father, reciting poetry (badly)

To Fabian after Hallariel's father threw up "You're low and he's low. It's Gilear's day baby! It's Gilear's day."

Tried to ask Hallariel's father for her hand, but even though Fig gave him bardic inspiration and Riz helped by covering Fabian's mouth, he failed... so much. ("Lord Tell-ah-mine of Khy-low Meh-new-rah I like you am-" *makes himself throw up* "We get it. We both get it. We... We're the throw up boys." *passes out*)

Ayda

Hid in the van the entire visit

Might have rejection sensitive dysphoria (which is common in those with autism or ADHD)

Did a sending spell to Zelda for Gorgug for 150 gold (after reminding him that she very much does not like anyone in her debt or visa versa)

Offered to exact vengeance on Zelda for Gorgug

Is powerful enough to know teleport and learn plane shift (so level 13 or higher)

Stated that Adaine is her best friend and decides that since Fig is also Adaine's best friend, by the transitive property she is best friends with Fig as well (and Fig agreed). Learning this, she says "Fantastic. I grow richer by the day. I'm emotional." before starting to cry fire "I'm emotional. I'm gonna fly away." She then flew away, returning after she had calmed down.

Ragh

Ate grapes and started burping musical notes after he left Khy-low Meh-new-rah.

Lost his virginity to Faf-threth-riel who then got creepy and kinda racist, making Ragh very uncomfortable (and want to get out of there asap)

Fabian

Lost both points of exhaustion thanks to the 8000 thread count elven sheets (did they get to keep the sheets or at least one sheet for help with exhaustion?)

Felt really good when he tried out dance yoga, even wondering if he should be some kind of yoga dancer instead of a fighter (how about a whirling dervish dancer like Cathilda?)

The grapes he put in his pocket (after refusing to eat them) turned into song

Indifferent towards saving Aelwyn and doesn't want to be on the retrieval team

When he started feeling anxious about the Aelwyn stuff, Riz told him to lose himself in dancing again to feel free (Riz: You are the only one that I wanna see dancing right now.) It made him feel much better.

***

Other Characters

Adaine

Taken by Court of Stars

Her jacket and spellbook were taken

Trapped in an orb which is soft and doesn't hurt her, but the constant movement of its slow turning doesn't allow her to be still or trance

The walls of her room glow with runes and there are many perminant magical effects, making her captors capable of some crazy things (like prepared directional counter spells), but the setup wouldn't counter cantrips

Escaped the orb with dispel magic (dc 15) which makes a couple counter spells go off and an alarm sound

Hid in Aelwyn's room. The sister's spoke before she was recaptured and placed back in her orb. Adaine told Aelwyn that she was going to get her out

Discovered that her room was close enough to Aelwyn to talk to her via the message cantrip

Repeatedly cast Ray of Frost to turn her orb into a slip and slide to stay entertained

Instead of speaking to her father in elvish, she responded in common. Also cast Tasha's Hideous Laughter on him.

Anguin and Kear said she would be executed for treason for staying in Solace and refusing to cooperate. She demanded a lawyer and then the Ambassador to Solace, citing her age and being a student at Augefort Adventuring Academy which summoned a recorded hologram of Arthur Augefort.

Arthur Augefort

Has a recorded hologram that is activated when a student claims the need of his diplomatic help in foreign affairs.

It threatens the listeners with graphic and terrifying violence and doom, giving them the options of either rectify the actions that summoned him (Yes) or refuse and welcome the aforementioned punishment for their actions (No).

Gorgug

Fabian's grandfather called him Jhor-judge

Finally got a message to Zelda via Ayda using her sending spell (Zelda. Safe in Fallinel. Gonna finish cell tower soon. Sorry about everything, but hope your break is going well in spite of this. Miss you.) and got a reply the next morning a little while after waking up (Sorry. Was at a party. You don't have to build a cell tower. That's crazy. It's all whatever Gorgug. I don't blame you.)

Didn't sleep well, but still got the benefit of a full night's sleep due to elven sheets.

Kristen

Got in a fight with Tracker and then got 3 nat 1s on persuasion checks when she tried to make up with her.

Slept in Adaine's room

Doesn't know how to make a cell tower

Took one of the 40 to 50 foot long diaphanous silk scarves with her

Gave (inspiring?) speech ending with "Friendship is thinker than water and we need water to live." which gave everyone 11 temp hit points

Accidentally called Pok a "smiling elf" and then blew it off as being due to her being human

Can now see Shadow Cat in the picture (along with Tracker, Sandra Lynn, Garthy, Riz, and Sklonda and possibly the dead cambian, Pok, Jace, and Adaine's mom) and reacted by saying "Was I spooning the cat all night in the milk!?"

Sandra Lynn

Dropped out senior year and got her diploma after the fact to join an adventuring party

Joined as a replacement member for an existing adventuring party that was already active in the world and included an older much more powerful married couple.

Fresh out of high school, fell in love with one person from the couple (nonbinary or gender intentionally hidden) who "did not treat her very kindly"

When it all came out, she was ejected from the adventuring party, her romantic partner took great pains to smear her name (so no one would accept her), no other party would take her as a replacement, and she was forced to become a Celesian Ranger

Gilear knows who the couple were, but doesn't want to tell Fig (could she know the people involved?)

Key-heir/Khear

Child-like elven maiden with long brown braided hair, a white gown, and a large staff.

When confronted by Arthur Augefort's hologram, she chose to not heed his warnings.

***

More from 2.9!

***

Previous

[dfroza]

“Was it from heaven or from people? Answer me now.”

A question mark asked about a sign given to point someone to believe that is seen in Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament book of Mark:

[Chapter 11]

Now, as they were approaching Jerusalem, they arrived at the place of the stables near Bethany on the Mount of Olives. Jesus sent two of his disciples ahead and said to them, “As soon as you enter the village ahead, you will find a donkey’s colt tied there that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it to me. And if anyone asks, ‘Why are you taking it?’ tell them, ‘The master needs it and will send it back to you soon.’ ”

So they went and found the colt outside in the street, tied to a gate. When they started to untie it, some people standing there said to them, “Why are you untying that colt?”

They answered just as Jesus had told them: “The master needs it, and he will send it back to you soon.” So the bystanders let them go.

The disciples brought the colt to Jesus and piled their cloaks and prayer shawls on the young donkey, and Jesus rode upon it. Many people carpeted the road in front of him with their cloaks and prayer shawls, while others gathered palm branches and spread them before him. Jesus rode in the center of the procession, with crowds going before him and behind him. They all shouted in celebration, “Bring the victory! We welcome the one coming with blessings sent from the Lord Yahweh! Blessings rest on this kingdom he ushers in—the kingdom of our father David! Bring us the victory in the highest realms of heaven!”

Jesus rode through the gates of Jerusalem and up to the temple. After looking around at everything, he left for Bethany with the Twelve to spend the night, for it was already late in the day.

The next day, as he left Bethany, Jesus was feeling hungry. He noticed a leafy fig tree in the distance, so he walked over to see if there was any fruit on it, but there was none—only leaves (for it wasn’t yet the season for bearing figs). Jesus spoke to the fig tree, saying, “No one will ever eat fruit from you again!” And the disciples overheard him.

When they came into Jerusalem, Jesus went directly into the temple area and overturned all the tables and benches of the merchants who were doing business there. One by one he drove them all out of the temple courts, and they scattered away, including the money changers and those selling doves. And he would not allow them to use the temple courts as a thoroughfare for carrying their merchandise and their furniture.

Then he began to teach the people, saying, “Does not the Scripture say, ‘My house will be a house of prayer for all the world to share’? But you have made it a hangout of thieves!”

When the chief priests and religious scholars heard this, they began to hatch a plot as to how they could eliminate Jesus. But they feared him and his influence, because the entire crowd was totally captivated by his teaching. So he and his disciples spent the nights outside the city.

In the morning, they passed by the fig tree that Jesus spoke to and it was completely withered from the roots up. Peter remembered and said to him, “Teacher, look! That’s the fig tree you cursed. It’s now all shriveled up and dead.”

Jesus replied, “Let the faith of God be in you! Listen to the truth I speak to you: Whoever says to this mountain with great faith and does not doubt, ‘Mountain, be lifted up and thrown into the midst of the sea,’ and believes that what he says will happen, it will be done. This is the reason I urge you to boldly believe for whatever you ask for in prayer—be convinced that you have received it and it will be yours. And whenever you stand praying, if you find that you carry something in your heart against another person, release him and forgive him so that your Father in heaven will also release you and forgive you of your faults. But if you will not release forgiveness, don’t expect your Father in heaven to release you from your misdeeds.”

They came again into Jerusalem, and while Jesus was walking in the temple courts, the Jewish rulers—the chief priest, certain religious scholars, and the elders—approached him. They came up to him and asked, “What right do you have to say and do these things? Who gave you the authority to do all this?”

Jesus replied, “I too have a question to ask you. If you can answer this question, then I will tell you by what power I do all these things. Where did John’s authority to immerse come from? Was it from heaven or from people? Answer me now.”

They stepped away and debated among themselves, saying, “How should we answer this? If we say, ‘from heaven,’ he will say to us, ‘Then why didn’t you respond to John and believe what he said?’ But if we say, ‘from the people,’ we fear the crowds, for they’re convinced that John was God’s prophet.”

So they finally answered, “We don’t know.”

“Then neither will I tell you where my power comes from to do these things,” Jesus replied.

The Book of Mark, Chapter 11 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 3rd chapter of the book of Job where Job complains of his suffering:

[Job Cries Out]

What’s the Point of Life?

Then Job broke the silence. He spoke up and cursed his fate:

“Obliterate the day I was born.

Blank out the night I was conceived!

Let it be a black hole in space.

May God above forget it ever happened.

Erase it from the books!

May the day of my birth be buried in deep darkness,

shrouded by the fog,

swallowed by the night.

And the night of my conception—the devil take it!

Rip the date off the calendar,

delete it from the almanac.

Oh, turn that night into pure nothingness—

no sounds of pleasure from that night, ever!

May those who are good at cursing curse that day.

Unleash the sea beast, Leviathan, on it.

May its morning stars turn to black cinders,

waiting for a daylight that never comes,

never once seeing the first light of dawn.

And why? Because it released me from my mother’s womb

into a life with so much trouble.

“Why didn’t I die at birth,

my first breath out of the womb my last?

Why were there arms to rock me,

and breasts for me to drink from?

I could be resting in peace right now,

asleep forever, feeling no pain,

In the company of kings and statesmen

in their royal ruins,

Or with princes resplendent

in their gold and silver tombs.

Why wasn’t I stillborn and buried

with all the babies who never saw light,

Where the wicked no longer trouble anyone

and bone-weary people get a long-deserved rest?

Prisoners sleep undisturbed,

never again to wake up to the bark of the guards.

The small and the great are equals in that place,

and slaves are free from their masters.

“Why does God bother giving light to the miserable,

why bother keeping bitter people alive,

Those who want in the worst way to die, and can’t,

who can’t imagine anything better than death,

Who count the day of their death and burial

the happiest day of their life?

What’s the point of life when it doesn’t make sense,

when God blocks all the roads to meaning?

“Instead of bread I get groans for my supper,

then leave the table and vomit my anguish.

The worst of my fears has come true,

what I’ve dreaded most has happened.

My repose is shattered, my peace destroyed.

No rest for me, ever—death has invaded life.”

The Book of Job, Chapter 3 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, April 10 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about the “sufferings” of this life:

Sometimes suffering comes not from any lack of faith, but in the midst of faith, or even because of faith, since the LORD often uses affliction as the means of upbuilding the soul and developing spiritual resilience and maturity (Prov. 3:1-2). In light of God’s sovereign power over all things, and God’s great love for you, regard your suffering a blessing from your heavenly Father to help you grow (Job 5:17; Psalm 94:12; 119:71). Persevering in the midst of your struggle develops patience and humility, teaching you to know your own nothingness and to utterly rely upon the goodness and mercy of God. Over time, suffering strips away your illusions, so that nothing remains except the naked heart and the treasures of faith. Only then does the heart find its blessing in God alone.

People tend to believe whatever they want to believe until they are faced with reality, and therefore God orchestrates tests and challenges to awaken people from their illusions and to help them realize their need for deliverance. Such afflictions are sometimes called the "troubles of love" (יִסּוּרֵי אַהֲבָה). Thus we read in the Torah how the people groaned because of their slavery and then cried out to heaven for help: "And God heard their groaning; he remembered his covenant ... and God saw the people of Israel, and God knew" (Exod. 2:24-25). God knows our profound need for Him. Affliction teaches us that wishful thinking is unable to sustain the weight of reality, and only God Himself can truly save us...

I am amazed that pagans cling to the idea that their lives have real value despite their rejection of transcendent worth and beauty and goodness as revealed in the Jewish Scriptures. Their everyday assumptions are lifted from the Judeo-Christian tradition, yet their underlying logical and semantic foundation is quite simply an illusion…. I’d like to listen to them justify the reason for getting out of bed in the morning using just the language that is entailed by their metaphysical assumptions. If seriously questioned, especially in light of the traction of their own personal heartache and disappointments, it is doubtless that they, like Nietzsche, would find themselves going insane as they attempt to (re)define the most meaningful aspects of life....

Where it is written, “The troubles of my heart are enlarged; bring me out of my distresses” (Psalm 25:17), we understand that it is God who hems us in and limits us (the word “troubles” (צָרוֹת) derives from a root (צַר) that means to limit or constrict), for the purpose of “bringing us out" of our distresses, just as God brought our ancestors out of “Egypt” (i.e., from mitzrayim: -מ, "from," and צַר, "narrow places") so they could experience freedom and newness of life.. The first step of lasting deliverance (יְשׁוּעָה) is to believe the revelation: “I AM the Lord your God,” which begins the healing (Exod. 20:2). We are then set free from our bonds to surface appearances as we trust in God’s Presence, since we now understand everything in relationship with the sacred Ground and Source of all life (Acts 17:28).

Regarding the cry of the heart: "How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily" (Psalm 13:2), the sages remark that just as long as we take counsel in our own soul there will be despair, since only after we realize that no further counsel can help us do we give up and confess our need for God's salvation. Therefore deliverance comes as we trust in the LORD with all our heart, and do not rely on our own understanding (Prov. 3:5). [Hebrew for Christians]

4.9.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 10, 2021

Privileged Suffering

“For unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake.” (Philippians 1:29)

Paul wrote in the previous verses that we are to conduct ourselves as though our only citizenship was worthy of the gospel message that we proclaim, and that in doing so we should be committed to a mindset held together by the Holy Spirit. Then, he encouraged us not to be “terrified by your adversaries” (Philippians 1:28).

Such adversaries—from the devil himself (1 Peter 5:8) to business (Matthew 5:25) and family problems (Luke 12:13)—are part and parcel to those who would “live godly in Christ Jesus” (2 Timothy 3:12). We should not be surprised when such challenges come; rather, we should be alarmed if all men “speak well of you” (Luke 6:26).

Curiously, Paul wrote that we are “gifted” (Greek verb charizomai, same idea as the related noun charis) with this privilege, in the interests of our Lord Jesus, to “suffer for his sake.” The apostles understood this paradox as they left the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem “rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for his name” (Acts 5:41).

Peter wrote that we should follow the example set for us by the Lord Jesus, “who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not; but committed himself to him that judgeth righteously” (1 Peter 2:23). In fact, we should “rejoice” when asked to share in the same kind of sufferings that our Lord endured, and whenever we are “reproached for the name of Christ” we should be happy, “for the spirit of glory and of God resteth upon you” (1 Peter 4:14).

Privileged suffering indeed! James wrote that we should “count it all joy” (James 1:2) when we are tested. Those times increase our faith and allow us to demonstrate our allegiance to Christ. HMM III

[mylifewithhurley]

Joy in Suffering

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself perfect you, establish you, strengthen you and settle you. 1 Peter 5:10

When I look back at my old social media posts, all I can see is how happy I used to be. I could see and remember how much joy I took in putting myself together and posing for a picture. I could see how I used to enjoy being in the company of friends and family, just eating out or shopping. It's depressing realizing that I no longer find as much pleasure in these simple things that I used to love.

HS has stolen a lot from me. I'm tearing up now just thinking about it. HS is an 'invisible disease', in which sufferers don't 'look sick' to non-sufferers. Most of the people around us will be shocked to learn we even have a disease. But really, this disease affects us daily, in more ways than we could count on our fingers, and probably in more ways than we even know.

HS has tried to steal my

My Body: This is probably the most obvious way HS attacks us. It changes our skin, making it displeasing to the eye, but even worse, it causes unbearable and excruciating pain.

My Esteem and Confidence: With open wounds and disfigured skin, it's hard to feel confident and beautiful. As a woman, loving our bodies is already a difficult task. HS makes it much harder.

My Style: In order to hide scars and wounds, I am unable to wear articles of clothing I used to love or would love to try. As an example, I do not buy or wear anything sleeveless, and definitely nothing white.

My Happiness: Depression is not an uncommon symptom of HS. It just makes me sad. Really sad. I am always on the verge of tears. One small offence, or sometimes even just a really good hug, and you'll see the water works from me. There's just so much bottled up sadness, that one small shake will cause me to explode. It's hard to explain, but also, do I really have to explain?

My Strength & Energy: Fighting disease is hard. It takes a lot out of you, mentally and physically. There are mornings that I am truly, truly, exhausted after just taking a shower and barely getting dressed - and all I want to do is crawl back into bed and get some rest. Such simple tasks can take the life out of you because your body is doing so much work just to keep you on your feet.

My Comfort: Even if I am somehow granted a few minutes free from pain, I am always uncomfortable. I always feel some sort of pressure, or irritating rubbing, or burning. This disease doesn't really let you forget that it's there.

My Relationships: It's hard to maintain relationships with someone who doesn't fully understand the extent in which your disease affects you. We're often just not in the mood, or physically just can't, and hate to have to pull out the 'I'm in pain/I'm just sad' excuse, every time. In intimate relationships, just the thought of having to show our scars to a love interest is terrifying, and may even cause us to avoid dating at all.

My Fun: It's hard to do anything fun or truly have a good time when you're in pain or extremely uncomfortable.

My Hopes & Dreams: Hopes and dreams that I once had for myself have simply just died somewhere inside of me while I have been busy trying to figure out this disease and how to manage it. Coping with or trying to cure yourself of HS becomes the number one thing in your life and you really don't have much time to dream or hope for anything else.

My Mind: As mentioned above, HS doesn't really give you a chance to forget it's there. It's on my mind all the time. It controls my decisions. It controls my schedule. It controls where I go, and what I do. I have honestly felt like I was losing my mind at times - not being able to think about anything else but the pain and frustrations that's come with such an ugly disease.

My Sleep: Of course, it's difficult to sleep while experiencing pain. Depending on the location of your flare, it could be impossible to get into a comfortable position. I've spent nights just scratching or picking at irritable skin that just won't let me get any rest. Oh, and lets not forget the nights we wake up due to completely soiled pajamas and bed sheets from a large abscess that has finally erupted - half thankful and half annoyed.

Thankfully, God has promised to return everything that was ever taken from us. He will restore. He will recompense. Not only will He return what was lost, He will multiply it. It's a truth that we must believe and put hope in. It's a truth that should give us great joy. We do not have to accept sickness. Restoration is God's will for us. You will recover. He will restore.

But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,’ declares the Lord, ‘because you are called an outcast, Zion for whom no one cares.’ Jeremiah 30:17

Instead of your shame you will receive a double portion, and instead of disgrace you will rejoice in your inheritance. And so you will inherit a double portion in your land, and everlasting joy will be yours. Isaiah 61:7

When the fig tree will not blossom, there is no fruit on the vine, and the fields yield nothing, I will still rejoice. God is my strength. Habakkuk 3:17-19

Although HS may sometimes rob us of happiness, It's important that we remain joyful. Joy comes from what we know: that we have a God of restoration and that He is for us. Without joy when things are painful, uncomfortable or just plain bad, we become prideful - challenging and questioning God. If you've ever read the book of Job, you know that pride interferes with restoration. We must humble ourselves before God if we want to be restored. Let me explain:

In the book of Job, God allows Satan to test Job by inflicting a large amount of suffering. Fun fact: one infliction Job experienced was boils all over his body. Of course, the disease didn't have a name back then; it may not have even existed back then, but to relate to Job a little better, I'd

like to think he had HS. As a God-fearing man, at first, Job continues to praise God. He explains, should we accept only blessings from God and not adversity? But as his suffering continues, he begins to cry out to God in anger, demanding an explanation for his terrible suffering. He eventually becomes extremely prideful - pleading innocence, listing all the good he has done in his life, and even accusing God of doing wrong by punishing the righteous just as he punishes the sinful, and by allowing evil doers to prosper while good people suffer.

God responds to Job and effectively puts Job in his place. God is God. He is creator of everything. He decides what is wrong and what is right.  He has infinite power and infinite knowledge while we are limited by the constraints of human understanding. We are in no position to question or challenge God. He does what He pleases, and it is always right. “It is impossible for God to do wrong, and for the Almighty to act unjustly” (Job 34:10). Returning to this realization, Job humbles himself before God, and repents. It is only after this that God restores Job's life by granting him twice as many possessions as he had before, more children, and long life.

Another important lesson in this book is that while Job's suffering was challenging and emotional, he never lost faith in God. Yes, he was loud and graphic and brutally honest about his frustrations and his depression. He was being real. It's okay for us to groan in pain, and cry in our devastation. God already knows how we feel, and so we don't have to hide it. While we acknowledge and express how we feel, what's important is that we stand on what we know: that our Redeemer lives (Job 19:25) and he will rescue us. Believe and rejoice! The faith that God will heal me has been crucial in preventing me from going down some dangerous and destructive life pathways. The joy of the Lord has been my strength. If you're missing this, ask God to restore this to you, first. Having joy changes everything - and when this is restored, everything else will be restored  to you, also.

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Psalm 51:10-12

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is going to be revealed to us. Romans 8:18

[general-du-vallon]

Post season two episode three thing for @rhesascoffee it’s not QUITE what you asked for there’s less Aramis getting in trouble, but, here you go :) It’s also not quite h/c. but, well, it’s... it’s a thing :) 

Samara doesn’t stay long to say her goodbyes and Porthos is left with a book of poems and an odd aching feeling while he sees to his horse. He’s going over her with a soft brush, telling her about his adventures and making her silky smoothe, when a rider comes clattering into the forecourt looking for Treville. No one much is around so Porthos takes a written message and heads for the palace with Mercredi. He knows he’ll get a telling off from Aramis for riding but Mercredi is in a gentle, easy mood and goes slow, as if she knows he’s hurt. It’s still a bit of a jolt to have to stand when they reach the palace and Porthos has to limp more than he wants as he weaves his way through the palace, which seems as quiet as the garrison. The furore over the sick dauphine has left everyone subdued and quiet, careful to avoid the queen’s wrath probably. Porthos takes a round-about route to avoid too many steps and finds himself passing through a corridor near the servant’s stairs toward the throne-room. There’s a door half open and Constance is sat in there, by the window, gazing out. Porthos taps and enters.

“Is the captain still around?” Porthos asks.

“I haven’t a clue,” Constance says. Her voice is grating and careless, it sounds like maybe she’s been crying and is definitely upset.

“Alright,” Porthos says. “I’ll go have a look, shall I?”

She turns to give him an exasperated look and he tries a disarming grin. She rolls her eyes to the heavens but gestures him further into the room. It’s a small anti-chamber, probably for the queen’s ladies-in-waiting to withdraw to when sent away but perhaps needed quickly. Porthos perches on a fiddly little spindly chair, stretching out his leg.

“You’re hurt,” Constance says. “I heard a little of what happened.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. “I haven’t heard much of you, these last few days.”

“I am staying silent on that subject, anything I say at this moment will come out sounding treasonous,” Constance says.

She’s not upset, after all; she’s angry. For one absurd moment Porthos wonders if perhaps she, too, met Samara and had reason to wish her to stay. But, Samara was locked in that basement with Porthos most of the time, so no. Just Porthos feeling that one.

“If you want to talk about it,” Porthos offers, getting to his feet. “Get some ‘a that anger out. My room aren’t at the garrison, they’re along behind, come find me later. I’m seeing Treville then going back to see to Mercredi and maybe talk Serge into feeding me, then home.”

He leaves her to her window gazing and just as he reaches the door she grudgingly tells him that Treville and the others are in the grounds round the back. He heads that way and down the steps and sees them in a little huddle, looking miserable. He expects Aramis to look annoyed when he spots Porthos, but he just looks right through Porthos and seems nothing but tired and fed up.

“Message for you, captain,” Porthos says, handing the letter over to Treville and leaning against the wall next to Athos.

“You should be in bed,” Athos says, mildly. Then he shrugs. “Thought I’d have a go at taking Aramis’s part, but I just sounds sarcastic.”

Porthos laughs and leans his shoulder closer to Athos, who reaches to give it a pat. Aramis wanders over and leans the other side of Porthos, holding his arm for a moment.

“d’Artagnan and Aramis,” Treville says, beckoning them over.

“I suppose that means I’m dismissed,” Athos says, loud enough for Treville to hear, hopeful.

“No. Stay here in case the king asks for the musketeers, let’s not give him any further reason to think badly of us,” Treville snaps. “Porthos, get gone, there’s no good hanging around looking like a sign for a bad barber-surgeon.”

Porthos looks at his nice, untorn trousers that hide his bandage and then up at Treville. Athos murmurs that he has blood on his shoulder and presses his thumb to demonstrate where, just out of sight. His hand is warm and familiar and Porthos feels a rush of comfort that he hadn’t thought he needed. Athos spreads his hand so more than his thumb is in contact with Porthos. Porthos sighs and goes back to Mercredi, leaving the others to their duties, riding back to the garrison. He’s tired enough that Serge gives him the good stuff: a pastry and some fresh bread and meat that’s probably meant for dinner or the captain. He must look bad, he thinks, when Serge brings out wine, too. But Serge joins him and pours some for himself which makes Porthos grin. Serge growls in irritation and Porthos grins wider, unable to help himself.

“Heard you got yourself blown up,” Serge says.

“Maybe,” Porthos says.

Serge shakes his head and asks about the woman Porthos has been seen with, then offers some heartfelt but prosaic advice on not getting involved with people who get him blown up, then leaves, taking the wine with him. Porthos finishes the small cup he’s been given and sits around trying to seem pathetic and in need of more. When Serge ignores him and does not bring more wine, Porthos heads home. He finds Constance in his outer room, with a skin of wine, and congratulates himself on his good fortune. She’s drunk most of it, it turns out, however. He gets his water jug and offers her a large mug, along with bread he took from Serge and some ends of cheese he has here.

“Thank you,” she says, eating eagerly and drinking all the water.

“Was this full?” Porthos asks, emptying the last of the wine into his own mug and refilling hers with water.

“Perhaps,” Constance says. “No. Mostly.”

“So? Have you had enough to loose your tongue?”

“That is not why I drank it. Her majesty told me I was to have whatever I liked from the kitchens, and I chose that. And…” Constance struggles with her dress for a moment, getting in a confusion, then emerges triumphantly with two figs. Fat, ripe, a good purple colour and so full they are almost splitting.

Porthos breaks his into two and takes a bite. It’s sweet and bursting with flavour. Porthos hums and smiles at Constance, swallowing and taking a sip of wine. She sets her own fig on the table carefully and drinks some water, also carefully.

“Her majesty the queen saw fit to lock me up and have me put to death,” Constance says. “I saved the life of Dauphine, but she did not trust me.”

Thoughts burst through Porthos’s mind, old things, bitter and curdling. He is loyal to the crown and believes in France and her king, her queen. He believes in royalty. Some of the time. He thinks of fighting for Louis in the tavern, of suggestion to Athos they show him the actual real world of ordinary men. Of Louis promising Bruno pardon and not giving it and not remembering Pierre Pepin. Porthos has visited the Pepins, just to check up. The first two times he took oranges for the little girl and some flour and bread for her mother, but last time they were gone, packed up and vanished. Probably to family. Hopefully. He knows d’Artagnan went back also to give her more gold, when he got his wage packet.

“Porthos?” Constance says.

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “They’re different, royals.”

“Yes,” Constance says. “I haven’t earnt her trust, clearly. I am to be her confidant, she seems to be asking more of me than I thought. Not a friend, someone who obeys.”

“Speaking out is brave. She’ll learn to respect it and appreciate it. Or she’ll lose you, I think,” Porthos says. “You’re not dead, so I assume something else happened?”

“The doctor… doctor Lemay. He was so sure I was wrong, wouldn’t listen,” Constance says, and here is the real anger and frustration. Porthos pushes his wine across to her and nudges the fig closer. She takes an absent bite and speaks around it. “The Dauphine was dying, Porthos. I couldn’t allow it, even if it had meant my death. Why are men so stubborn?”

“Are we still talking about the doctor?” Porthos asks and gets a scolding glare in reply, Constance hugs the wine closer to her and takes the other half of Porthos’s fig off the table as if in punishment for invoking d’Artagnan even slightly. Porthos raises his hands in submission, but gently takes his wine back. “We know we are right.”

“Yeah well, nearly killed the future king of France knowing you were right,” Constance says, another sharp glare piercing Porthos. “Anyway I took him to the laundries and he got commoner all over him.”

Porthos snorts, unable to keep his amusement from escaping. He remembers that old remedy, the laundresses used to let him bring the babies from the court, sometimes, for the steam. Didn’t help much, a lot of the time. Tiny little things with bodies that weren’t properly formed or fed, they often died. It made their passing easier, though, and made him feel better, being able to help them.

“Yeah,” Porthos says.

“I didn’t do it for her, anyway,” Constance says.

Porthos remembers riding from Paris with Constance bearing Henry, it feels a long time ago now. He had seen her tenderness for the child and the way she looked sideways to d’Artagnan.

“You want children?” Porthos asks. “With Bonacieux? I merely ask!”

He holds up his hands again when she turns on him. She softens though and looks away, all distant and sad.

“I don’t know. I have thought of it, imagined it. I don’t think I could bring a child into this, though,” Constance says, gesturing around her. “This.. d’Artagnan, his children would be bastards. Orphans, probably, the way he goes. With my husband they would be… unloved. There’s not money to give them luxury, all I’ve got is love and it isn’t enough, not really. Won’t keep a belly full or give a boy a good start, or save a girl from…”

“You are a practical woman,” Porthos says. “I’ve got no chance of any of my own, not really. I want a family, though. More than anything, maybe.”

“If either of us get it, we could share,” Constance says.

“Yes,” Porthos says, nodding, holding out his hand to shake on it; an agreement. “Family’s what you make of it, right? I haven’t got any, you’ll be as good as any of that lot over there.”

He waves towards the garrison, meaning Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan. Constance nods. They shake hands again as if making another pact, as if swearing family.

“I did it for the Dauphin,” Constance says. “He’s a whole person already, he’s too little to lose his life.”

“No, they can die smaller, or bigger, or anywhere between,” Porthos says. “He won’t, though. Not with you looking out for him, clearly.”

Constance raises her chin and swallows hard, eyes burning. Porthos gets up on a whim and goes to the closet where he keeps his weapons, pulling out a small boot knife. He gives it to Constance and gets out a sheath that she can wear around her thigh - he sits and cuts the leather, moving the buckle up and stitching it quickly while she watches.

“This’ll help,” Porthos says. “d’Artagnan ever teach you knife fighting, or close hand to hand?”

“No, just how to shoot and sword-work,” Constance says.

Porthos nods and promises to show her some. To his surprise she gets up right then and there and makes him move the table aside and show her the basics, show her where to aim her little knife, how to get her knee between a man’s legs hard and sharp, how to break a bone. He shows her the tricks he used when he was small, the things he learnt fast and could use against people bigger than him, keeping his weight off his leg and correcting her stance and movement rather than demonstrating well. She works out her anger on him and he lets her, familiar with the process, gently telling her when she’s going to actually hurt him if she doesn’t stop, moving slowly and clumsily with his limp. She ends up with her fists against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, panting and gasping for breath through sobs. He holds her, one hand cradling her head the other in the small of her back.

“She had me dragged away,” Constance says, through her tears. “For saving her son. I would do anything for her and she doesn’t… doesn’t…”

“Shh,” Porthos murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

“Your leg,” Constance says, on a sob. He chuckles and shrugs.

“Hurts, but is fine. I told you when it wasn’t,” Porthos says.

“Yeah,” Constance says. “I drank a lot of wine.”

“Yes you did.”

Constance sighs, kind of wetly, and moves her hands, her fists unclenching, arms winding around him to hold on tight, crying less violently. Porthos doesn’t really know what to do to make it better: he’s served the king most of his life, joined the army when he was young and never really looked back. He’s never had any kind of friendship or intimacy with the royals, though. He’d found the musketeers intimidating enough, young gentlemen second sons, the children of the rich. And Athos of noble blood. They’d been musketeers first, though. His leg hurts and Constance’s crying is less, she’s getting heavy as if she’s falling asleep. Porthos gently pushes her away and makes her drink some more water, eat something more. He rests his leg while she does that and then he walks her back to the palace. She’s a married woman so her being walked through Paris by a musketeer isn’t so odd, but he’s aware that they have been alone for a long time and it might not look right, so he carries a package of cloth for her, to give her a reason should she need one.

“Porthos,” Constance says, when they reach the bottom of the stairs and find one of the queen’s women waiting for Constance’s return. He nods. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, we’ve got you,” Porthos says, smiling. “You’ve got friends, right?”

“Right,” Constance says.

“Anyway,” Porthos says, bending closer and lowering his voice. “Wouldn’t have let them get as far as putting you to death. We’ll come for you every time, you’re one of us.”

Constance takes a slightly shaky breath and nods. Porthos hands her the package and heads back out. He rests when he’s left the palace grounds and is no longer under scrutiny, leaning on the wall. He regrets, now, using his leg so much. He’s not sure it’ll bear him the distance back to the garrison. He’s considering his options when he hears hooves and looks around, and sees Athos coming from the Louvre. He reigns in and looks down at Porthos, unimpressed, face shadowed by his hat. He offers his arm eventually and helps Porthos mount behind.

“Someone mentioned they’d seen you drop Constance back,” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Thanks.”

“I’m not defending you from Aramis,” Athos says.

They ride in silence and Athos, sure enough, leaves Porthos in Aramis’s hands. Aramis is waiting when they arrive in the courtyard of the garrison and Athos pushes Porthos gently off Jeudi and goes to see to her, ignoring Porthos’s imploring looks in the face of Aramis, hands on hips, hair down and in disarray, looking thoroughly tousled and annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos mutters, allowing Aramis to drag him inside to Aramis’s rooms, lying obediently on the bed and letting Aramis take his trousers and boots so he can’t escape. “‘Mis?”

“Mm?” Aramis says, examining Porthos’s wound. “It’s inflamed, you need to rest it. Rest, not go on gallivants about the place.”

“Do you think d’Artagnan…” Porthos trails off, deciding not to say anything afterall, pretending to be distracted by Aramis’s hair. It’s easy to do: Aramis has lovely hair, soft and long, twining around Porthos’s fingers when he wriggles them. Aramis tilts his head to look at Porthos and smiles.

“Whatever is worrying you, I’m sure he’ll do good in the end,” Aramis says. “He’s got a good heart.”

“Yes,” Porthos says. That’s true. “So do you. What happened, at the market?”

“I told you already,” Aramis says, less gently, going back to prodding at Porthos’s wound. “Alaman was in my shot.”

“Alright,” Porthos says. “I believe you.”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says, sighing, resting his forehead on the bed. “I’ve been distracted.”

“By what?” Porthos asks.

“Thing,” Aramis says. “Old mistakes. Not so old… The Cardinal, Richelieu, Adele didn’t choose him, didn’t leave. He had her killed, one of his people showed me her grave.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, reaching out to touch Aramis’s head again, stroking his hair. “Sorry.”

Aramis looks up and there’s something in his look, regret and sorrow and something else, but he doesn’t say more. Porthos knows that grief twists all kinds of things up with it so he doesn’t question it. He’s just glad to be back in the hands of his friends, safe. Athos comes and leans in the doorway, smelling of the stables and slightly of wine. He has a bottle with him, which he holds up in suggestion. It’s a good suggestion and Aramis re-bandages Porthos before letting him sit up and have some. They sit, him and Athos and Aramis, shoulder to shoulder, passing the bottle down. d’Artagnan slips in to join them, bringing oranges and another bottle of wine. He sits the side of Porthos Athos isn’t keeping warm and pulls his knees up, brooding. Then he looks up at Porthos and smiles, warm and relieved and glad, and wraps his arms around Porthos, kissing his temple, offering him the extra orange.

[catholiccom-blog]

The Sisters from Bethany and Their Approaches to the Spiritual Life

One of Jesus’ strangest actions in the Gospels happens when he was leaving Bethany, which means both “house of figs” and “house of affliction,” on his way to Jerusalem one day. He cursed a fig tree for not having figs when it was not the season for figs. Immediately afterward, he went to the temple and drove out the moneychangers. In response, we are told that the chief priests and scribes begin to plot Jesus’ own suffering and death (Mark 11:12–18).

Bethany is best known though as the home of Jesus’ friends, the sisters Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. We first meet Martha and Mary when Jesus visited them in Bethany immediately after telling his parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–42). In this chapter of Luke, Jesus commissioned his disciples to prepare the way for him by going ahead of him to towns he intended to visit. If the disciples were welcomed, they were to eat and drink there, and to wish peace upon the inhabitants. If they were not welcomed, the disciples were to shake the dust from their feet in rebuke of the inhabitants. Jesus told the disciples, “He who hears you hears me, and he who rejects you rejects me, and he who rejects me rejects him who sent me” (Luke 10:16).

With this as background, we can reasonably presume that the disciples found welcome in the town of Bethany, resulting in Jesus’ visit to the town and to the house of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus.

This home in Bethany might have had more than its fair share of affliction though. The family may have been poor, and Lazarus may have been ill, because later in Luke Jesus told a parable of a poor, sickly man named Lazarus who hoped for scraps from a rich man’s table (Luke 16:19–21). Nonetheless, this family from Bethany opened its home to Jesus and offered him what they had.

Rebuke, or reconcile?

Tensions rose when Martha shouldered the responsibility for serving, while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet listening to him teach. Martha, obviously annoyed, said to Jesus, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” Jesus responded, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her” (Luke 10:38–42).

Martha tends to get a lot of grief from those Christians who assume Jesus is telling Martha that her work is of secondary importance, at best, to Mary’s choice to sit at his feet and contemplate him. Spiritual writers have spilled a lot of ink on the differences between the active life and the contemplative life, as exemplified by Martha and Mary.

If we look closely at the passage though, we might see that Jesus wasn’t exactly rebuking Martha because she wanted Mary to help her. Had Martha actually asked Mary to help her, Jesus might not have objected. Martha, however, asked Jesus to rebuke Mary for her. Two chapters later in Luke, when a man asked Jesus to tell the man’s brother to divide an inheritance with him, Jesus said, “Man, who made me a judge or divider over you?” (Luke 12:13–14).

Perhaps one lesson we can learn from Martha and Mary is that God does not want us to use him as a hammer on other people. If we need assistance from someone, or are in the middle of a dispute with someone, we need to do the hard work of reconciliation for ourselves. God will give us graces along the way to help us in our task, such as when he counseled Martha to let go of her worries or when he counseled the brother deprived of an inheritance to let go of his desire for possessions (Luke 12:15), but he expects us to do our own work to the best of our ability.

Mary rises, Jesus weeps

John had his own story to tell about the sisters from Bethany. Jesus and his disciples received word from Martha and Mary that Lazarus was on the verge of death. Rather than set off immediately to Bethany, Jesus deliberately delayed going for two days. John said that Jesus waited until Lazarus was dead before going to Bethany so that Jesus could raise Lazarus from the dead as a sign for the disciples (John 11:1–15).

When the sisters heard that Jesus was on his way, Martha went out to meet him. Mary, on the other hand, stayed at their house (John 11:20). Why would she have stayed? In the Jewish tradition, after the death of a relative, the family stays in their home to receive support and condolences (John 11:19). Martha, the active sister, ran out to meet Jesus while Mary, the contemplative sister, stayed put even though she knew Jesus was coming. Mary did not go out to see Jesus until Martha returned and told her that Jesus was explicitly asking for Mary (John 11:28).

Both Martha and Mary told Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 11:32). The difference was that Mary broke down weeping, indulging her grief even though Jesus was present (John 11:33). Martha, on the other hand, told Jesus, “Even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you” (John 11:22), a not-so-subtle way of saying, “Give me back my brother, Lord! I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”

Perhaps we can also learn from Martha and Mary that both the active and the contemplative approaches to the spiritual life have their virtues and their temptations. Those drawn to the active life tend to be bold in their approach to God, willing to trust freely that he knows their needs and will respond to their desires. They also can be prone to anxiety, to taking on too much, to neglecting to stay still long enough to listen to what God wants to tell them. The contemplatives, on the other hand, find it easy to “come away, and rest awhile” with the Lord (Mark 6:31). But sometimes they find it so easy to stay put that they might become stationary instead, unable to move when they need to do so. They might also fall more easily into despair in the face of catastrophe.

Luke’s final mention of Bethany in his Gospel is in his last chapter, when the resurrected Jesus was preparing to ascend into heaven. Jesus led the disciples out of Jerusalem, to Bethany. Then, in the town called “the house of affliction,” Jesus blessed his disciples and was “carried up into heaven” (Luke 24:50–53). The house of affliction was transformed into a site of great joy (Luke 24:52), and the disciples left Bethany strengthened and prepared for the task ahead.

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What's Holding Back the kurma borong di shah alam Industry?

Spread the Break Cheers With Xmas Wreaths

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An Invitation in Writing

THE NEXT DAY, November 9, I woke up only after a long, twelve-hour slumber. Conseil, a creature of habit, came to ask "how master's night went," and to offer his services. He had left his Canadian friend sleeping like a man who had never done anything else. I let the gallant lad babble as he pleased, without giving him much in the way of a reply. I was concerned about Captain Nemo's absence during our session the previous afternoon, and I hoped to see him again today. Soon I had put on my clothes, which were woven from strands of seashell tissue. More than once their composition provoked comments from Conseil. I informed him that they were made from the smooth, silken filaments with which the fan mussel, a type of seashell quite abundant along Mediterranean beaches, attaches itself to rocks. In olden times, fine fabrics, stockings, and gloves were made from such filaments, because they were both very soft and very warm. 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But what were mere winds to this Nautilus, which no storms could intimidate! So I was marveling at this delightful sunrise, so life-giving and cheerful, when I heard someone climbing onto the platform. I was prepared to greet Captain Nemo, but it was his chief officer who appeared - whom I had already met during our first visit with the captain. He advanced over the platform, not seeming to notice my presence. A powerful spyglass to his eye, he scrutinized every point of the horizon with the utmost care. Then, his examination over, he approached the hatch and pronounced a phrase whose exact wording follows below. I remember it because, every morning, it was repeated under the same circumstances. It ran like this: "Nautron respoc lorni virch." What it meant I was unable to say. These words pronounced, the chief officer went below again. I thought the Nautilus was about to resume its underwater navigating. So I went down the hatch and back through the gangways to my stateroom. Five days passed in this way with no change in our situation. Every morning I climbed onto the platform. The same phrase was pronounced by the same individual. Captain Nemo did not appear. I was pursuing the policy that we had seen the last of him, when on November 16, while reentering my stateroom with Ned and Conseil, I found a note addressed to me on the table. I opened it impatiently. It was written in a script that was clear and neat but a bit "Old English" in style, its characters reminding me of German calligraphy. The note was worded as follows: Professor Aronnax Aboard the Nautilus November 16, 1867 Captain Nemo invites Professor Aronnax on a hunting trip that will take place tomorrow morning in his Crespo Island forests. He hopes nothing will prevent the professor from attending, and he looks forward with pleasure to the professor's companions joining him. CAPTAIN NEMO, Commander of the Nautilus. "A hunting trip!" Ned exclaimed. "And in his forests on Crespo Island!" Conseil added. "But does this mean the old boy goes ashore?" Ned Land went on. "That seems to be the gist of it," I said, rereading the letter. "Well, we've got to accept!" the Canadian answered. "Once we're on solid ground, we'll figure out a course of action. Besides, it wouldn't pain me to eat a couple slices of fresh venison!" Without trying to reconcile the contradictions between Captain Nemo's professed horror of continents or islands and his invitation to go hunting in a forest, I was content to reply: "First let's look into this Crespo Island." I consulted the world map; and in latitude 32 degrees 40' north and longitude 167 degrees 50' west, I found an islet that had been discovered in 1801 by Captain Crespo, which old Spanish charts called Rocca de la Plata, in other words, "Silver Rock." So we were about 1,800 miles from our starting point, and by a slight change of heading, the Nautilus was bringing us back toward the southeast. I showed my companions this small, stray rock in the middle of the north Pacific. "If Captain Nemo does sometimes go ashore," I told them, "at least he only picks desert islands!" Ned Land shook his head without replying; then he and Conseil left me. After supper was served me by the mute and emotionless steward, I fell asleep; but not without some anxieties. When I woke up the next day, November 17, I sensed that the Nautilus was completely motionless. I dressed hurriedly and entered the main lounge. Captain Nemo was there waiting for me. He stood up, bowed, and asked if it suited me to come along. Since he made no allusion to his absence the past eight days, I also refrained from mentioning it, and I simply answered that my companions and I were ready to go with him. "Only, sir," I added, "I'll take the liberty of addressing a question to you." "Address away, Professor Aronnax, and if I'm able to answer, I will." "Well then, captain, how is it that you've severed all ties with the shore, yet you own forests on Crespo Island?" "Professor," the captain answered me, "these forests of mine don't bask in the heat and light of the sun. They aren't frequented by lions, tigers, panthers, or other quadrupeds. They're known only to me. They grow only for me. These forests aren't on land, they're actual underwater forests." "Underwater forests!" I exclaimed. "Yes, professor." "And you're offering to take me to them?" "Precisely." "On foot?" "Without getting your feet wet." "While hunting?" "While hunting." "Rifles in hand?" "Rifles in hand." I stared at the Nautilus's commander with an air anything but flattering to the man. "Assuredly," I said to myself, "he's contracted some mental illness. He's had a fit that's lasted eight days and isn't over even yet. What a shame! I liked him better eccentric than insane!" These thoughts were clearly readable on my face; but Captain Nemo remained content with inviting me to follow him, and I did so like a man resigned to the worst. We arrived at the dining room, where we found breakfast served. "Professor Aronnax," the captain told me, "I beg you to share my breakfast without formality. We can chat while we eat. Because, although I promised you a stroll in my forests, I made no pledge to arrange for your encountering a restaurant there. Accordingly, eat your breakfast like a man who'll probably eat dinner only when it's extremely late." I did justice to this meal. It was made up of various fish and some slices of sea cucumber, that praiseworthy zoophyte, all garnished with such highly appetizing seaweed as the Porphyra laciniata and the Laurencia primafetida. Our beverage consisted of clear water to which, following the captain's example, I added some drops of a fermented liquor extracted by the Kamchatka process from the seaweed known by name as Rhodymenia palmata. At first Captain Nemo ate without pronouncing a single word. Then he told me: "Professor, when I proposed that you go hunting in my Crespo forests, you thought I was contradicting myself. When I informed you that it was an issue of underwater forests, you thought I'd gone insane. Professor, you must never make snap judgments about your fellow man." "But, captain, believe me - " "Kindly listen to me, and you'll see if you have grounds for accusing me of insanity or self-contradiction." "I'm all attention." "Professor, you know as well as I do that a man can live underwater so long as he carries with him his own supply of breathable air. For underwater work projects, the workman wears a waterproof suit with his head imprisoned in a metal capsule, while he receives air from above by means of force pumps and flow regulators." "That's the standard equipment for a diving suit," I said. "Correct, but under such conditions the man has no freedom. He's attached to a pump that sends him air through an india-rubber hose; it's an actual chain that fetters him to the shore, and if we were to be bound in this way to the Nautilus, we couldn't go far either." "Then how do you break free?" I asked. "We use the Rouquayrol-Denayrouze device, invented by two of your fellow countrymen but refined by me for my own special uses, thereby enabling you to risk these new physiological conditions without suffering any organic disorders. It consists of a tank built from heavy sheet iron in which I store air under a pressure of fifty atmospheres. This tank is fastened to the back by means of straps, like a soldier's knapsack. Its top part forms a box where the air is regulated by a bellows mechanism and can be released only at its proper tension. In the Rouquayrol device that has been in general use, two india-rubber hoses leave this box and feed to a kind of tent that imprisons the operator's nose and mouth; one hose is for the entrance of air to be inhaled, the other for the exit of air to be exhaled, and the tongue closes off the former or the latter depending on the breather's needs. But in my case, since I face considerable pressures at the bottom of the sea, I needed to enclose my head in a copper sphere, like those found on standard diving suits, and the two hoses for inhalation and exhalation now feed to that sphere." "That's perfect, Captain Nemo, but the air you carry must be quickly depleted; and once it contains no more than 15% oxygen, it becomes unfit for breathing." "Surely, but as I told you, Professor Aronnax, the Nautilus's pumps enable me to store air under considerable pressure, and given this circumstance, the tank on my diving equipment can supply breathable air for nine or ten hours." "I've no more objections to raise," I replied. "I'll only ask you, captain: how can you light your way at the bottom of the ocean?" "With the Ruhmkorff device, Professor Aronnax. If the first is carried on the back, the second is fastened to the belt. It consists of a Bunsen battery that I activate not with potassium dichromate but with sodium. An induction coil gathers the electricity generated and directs it to a specially designed lantern. In this lantern one finds a glass spiral that contains only a residue of carbon dioxide gas. When the device is operating, this gas becomes luminous and gives off a continuous whitish light. Thus provided for, I breathe and I see." "Captain Nemo, to my every objection you give such crushing answers, I'm afraid to entertain a single doubt. However, though I have no choice but to accept both the Rouquayrol and Ruhmkorff devices, I'd like to register some reservations about the rifle with which you'll equip me." "But it isn't a rifle that uses gunpowder," the captain replied. "Then it's an air gun?" "Surely. How can I make gunpowder on my ship when I have no saltpeter, sulfur, or charcoal?" "Even so," I replied, "to fire underwater in a medium that's 855 times denser than air, you'd have to overcome considerable resistance." "That doesn't necessarily follow. There are certain Fulton-style guns perfected by the Englishmen Philippe-Coles and Burley, the Frenchman Furcy, and the Italian Landi; they're equipped with a special system of airtight fastenings and can fire in underwater conditions. But I repeat: having no gunpowder, I've replaced it with air at high pressure, which is abundantly supplied me by the Nautilus's pumps." "But this air must be swiftly depleted." "Well, in a pinch can't my Rouquayrol tank supply me with more? All I have to do is draw it from an ad hoc spigot.* Besides, Professor Aronnax, you'll see for yourself that during these underwater hunting trips, we make no great expenditure of either air or bullets." *Latin: a spigot "just for that purpose." Ed. "But it seems to me that in this semidarkness, amid this liquid that's so dense in comparison to the atmosphere, a gunshot couldn't carry far and would prove fatal only with difficulty!" "On the contrary, sir, with this rifle every shot is fatal; and as soon as the animal is hit, no matter how lightly, it falls as if struck by lightning." "Why?" "Because this rifle doesn't shoot ordinary bullets but little glass capsules invented by the Austrian chemist Leniebroek, and I have a considerable supply of them. These glass capsules are covered with a strip of steel and weighted with a lead base; they're genuine little Leyden jars charged with high-voltage electricity. They go off at the slightest impact, and the animal, no matter how strong, drops dead. I might add that these capsules are no bigger than number 4 shot, and the chamber of any ordinary rifle could hold ten of them." "I'll quit debating," I replied, getting up from the table. "And all that's left is for me to shoulder my rifle. So where you go, I'll go." Captain Nemo led me to the Nautilus's stern, and passing by Ned and Conseil's cabin, I summoned my two companions, who instantly followed us. Then we arrived at a cell located within easy access of the engine room; in this cell we were to get dressed for our stroll.