#Ice Vatican is about to get real cold
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akumanoken · 1 year ago
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When you enjoy fall and winter but it also means the flowers and trees are starting to sleep and you'll have to wait until spring to see your friends again...
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aureatchi · 6 months ago
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ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu
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৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.
◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.
SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+
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৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3
৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.
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— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about. 
The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up. 
An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you. 
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The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…
“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!” 
The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence. 
Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…
“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.” 
“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.” 
You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud. 
“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.” 
“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement. 
“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.” 
Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right. 
“I hope the question slips his mind.”
You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed. 
You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile. 
You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps. 
He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far. 
“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.
“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.” 
“Pardon me, Fyodor?” 
A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position. 
It was just meant to be, you guessed. 
Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence. 
However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested. 
You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now. 
You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint. 
He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both. 
Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too. 
They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.
And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works. 
“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?” 
“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.” 
“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation. 
“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied. 
“Even worse! You better not fall off!” 
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There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening. 
“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”
“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made. 
He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness. 
You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.
“I think I’ll try this one first.” 
Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror. 
You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular. 
You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.
The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room. 
“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design. 
“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said. 
“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.” 
The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others. 
“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”
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Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods. 
You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics. 
You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you. 
“Good day, miss,” a few of them said. 
“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.
I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile. 
“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!” 
“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks. 
“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.” 
“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…” 
You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…
Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters. 
You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after. 
“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.
A moment passed. 
“…Yes, my lady.” 
Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing. 
“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again. 
“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.” 
The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man. 
What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.
You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.
Splash!
Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake. 
Oh shit! 
You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank. 
Am I really going to do this? 
This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.
You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began. 
You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in. 
He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. 
You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature. 
Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you. 
You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return. 
Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue. 
You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly. 
You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.
The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared. 
Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—
“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.” 
“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.” 
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“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?” 
It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry. 
Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up. 
“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!” 
“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”
Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside. 
Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting. 
“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?” 
You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself. 
“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”
You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.
Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs. 
However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.) 
You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves. 
There is no way. 
However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room. 
“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask. 
Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway. 
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd. 
“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!” 
You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else. 
“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.” 
After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading. 
“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away. 
If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.
But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white. 
You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.
It’s him. 
And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed. 
What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him? 
Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions. 
In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”
“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters. 
“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them. 
You didn’t miss how Dazai���s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear. 
“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all. 
“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.
“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face. 
“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you. 
He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach. 
“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.
Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago? 
He was the artist you admired all along? 
“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words. 
He was familiar with my name all along.
“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked. 
“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.
But to your relief, he did not. 
“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.” 
Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.” 
“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.” 
It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you. 
He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words. 
“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.
“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough? 
“Is grasping originality so tough?
“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?” 
He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face. 
“Excuse me?” 
But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you. 
“I’m flattered.” 
For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.
You gave him a poisonous smile of your own. 
“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”
Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat. 
You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)
“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project. 
“What about you, my lord?” 
There was a pause; he was thinking. 
“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”
“And you’re sure you can find it here?” 
“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”
The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you. 
What a juxtaposition. 
“What did you say?” 
“Did you not hear me?” 
He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.” 
“May I have this next dance, my lady?” 
The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you. 
“Lord Dazai?” 
You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where. 
“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.” 
“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.” 
“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.” 
You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine. 
“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”
He dramatically pretended he was offended. 
“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!” 
“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared. 
“Keyword: nearly!” 
You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them. 
“Ow!” 
Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn. 
“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin. 
“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot. 
“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin. 
He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot. 
“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted. 
“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.” 
He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor. 
You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere. 
“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly. 
“What dance is this?” you asked.
“A galliard. The La Volta.” 
Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what. 
It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore. 
Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit. 
You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.
I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge. 
The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…
“No, I’ll do it,” you decided. 
…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned. 
“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.” 
“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.” 
“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.
“Collaboration,” he bowed. 
You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer. 
Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist. 
“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?” 
You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy. 
You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. 
“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.
Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.
“Shut up.”
He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you. 
He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you. 
His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night. 
“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.” 
In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal. 
You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.” 
“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!” 
You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.” 
“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”
“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake. 
“Exactly! You remember!” 
“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”
Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?
He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?” 
“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”
“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself. 
“You’re too beautiful to not.” 
“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.” 
Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room. 
“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.” 
There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors. 
“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.” 
There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas. 
It was unheard of. 
“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again. 
“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you. 
Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked. 
“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?” 
“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay. 
“But that’s sculpting, not painting.” 
“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?” 
He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”
“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.
Oh.
You paused, scanning the room to see where he was. 
He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope. 
“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 
Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed. 
“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.
There was a pause.
“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.” 
Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it. 
“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”
There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out. 
However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm. 
“There you are! Let’s go!” 
“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away. 
“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.
“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?” 
“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away. 
“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?” 
“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.” 
“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.” 
What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!
“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.” 
“Intentions? For what?” 
“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…” 
You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside. 
“...I carve marble, not paint.” 
“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”
“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.” 
You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice. 
“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.
Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo. 
“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care. 
“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-” 
Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you. 
“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.” 
The three of you waited. 
“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.” 
He thought for another moment. 
“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.” 
What a rat!
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It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night. 
You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?
Knock, knock, knock!
“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door. 
“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?” 
“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.” 
He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys. 
“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”
“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!” 
“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.” 
“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys. 
“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.” 
“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”
He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…
Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside. 
“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face. 
“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased. 
“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.” 
“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.
“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!” 
You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day. 
Ugh, Fyodor.
“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.” 
Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.
“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.” 
“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.” 
“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.” 
Dance. 
Deceit.
Dreams. 
Only a few you had discovered so far. 
“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”
You couldn’t even grasp,
Dazai.
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You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land. 
Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?
That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise. 
But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours. 
You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.
“Ow!”
You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again. 
When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.
“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).
Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked. 
“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you? 
“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!” 
“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative. 
“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…” 
“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?” 
“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.” 
You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!” 
“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”
You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?” 
“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.” 
“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?” 
“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin. 
“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more. 
“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.” 
You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?” 
“Rome.” 
“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.” 
“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state. 
As if you did not already. 
“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again. 
Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer. 
“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.
“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?” 
You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway. 
When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face. 
He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night. 
And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again. 
“I pinkie promise,” he said. 
You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing. 
“Your name?” he asked. 
“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter. 
“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—” 
“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless. 
You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.” 
His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.
“Until we meet again.” 
“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”
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ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3
WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.
+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ
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TERMS & DEFINITIONS:
CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress
RUELLA - salons/social gatherings
ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)
TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)
gramercy - “thank you”
artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)
bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)
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© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + animated line divider by cafekitsune. header + series dividers mine; DO NOT SAVE.
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quazartranslates · 3 years ago
Text
Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH60
**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**
[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]
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Chapter 60: Purgatory Reunion (XII)
It was getting late at night, so reason told Qi Leren that it was time to rest, but the warm night wind was rare in the Underground Ant City, and the person sitting beside him was the lover he had met after a long separation. Qi Leren felt no drowsiness at all, as if he could talk to Ning Zhou all night.
They did talk for a long time, and even Ning Zhou, who has always been taciturn, said many things about the past.
"Winter swimming in Neverland? That’s too cold!" Qi Leren was stunned by Ning Zhou's hobby, and his teeth chattered with cold when he listened.
"...Fortunately, it wasn’t as cold as when we were ashore." Ning Zhou said and added seriously, "Really."
Qi Leren was skeptical. Even though he had been baptized by Maria's power and had a strong resistance to low temperature, Leviathan had left a psychological shadow on him in their fight underground. Under that terrible temperature, it seemed that the human soul would be frozen and crack. Neverland was in the polar regions, and the temperature of the polar night was also terrible. Even the polar days weren’t much better.
Enjoying swimming in the winter in Neverland... It was really a hardcore hobby.
"It must be very cold once you come out. After going under? You must freeze as soon as the wind blows, right?" Qi Leren is getting colder and colder.
"If you wipe your body with ice and snow first, it will soon heat up," Ning Zhou said.
Qi Leren was really shaking now, rubbing his hands and saying, "I feel cold now!"
Ning Zhou immediately reached over and wrapped his rubbing hands: "Is it still cold?"
Qi Leren froze, and the body temperature of another person was warm against his hand, which made him really shiver. The two people were motionless together, holding hands together for a long time without separating.
Ning Zhou's eagle flew in from outside, and landed on the railing of the terrace. It walked from one end of the railing to the other with his head held high, and then turned and walked back in a different posture. However, no matter how coquettish and enchanting it was, these two people ignored it. It was so angry that it began to tell the time: "Two o'clock, two o'clock, staying up late to die suddenly, endangering health!"
It really spoiled the mood, and Qi Leren glared at it gloomily: "It's late, we should go back to sleep."
"Hmm."
Actually, both of them didn't want to sleep. But considering each other's health, they left the terrace tacitly, crossed the living room, and came to the two bedrooms that were side by side.
Two bedrooms separated by only one wall.
"Goodnight," Qi Leren said with difficulty.
"Well, good night," Ning Zhou also said.
I said good night and should go back to my room to sleep, but a feeling of reluctance overwhelmed him. Qi Leren looked at his toes and said, "Sweet dreams."
"...You too."
It was really time to go this time, but after a few hours, they could sit together for breakfast again. Compared with the long separation before, such short hours were just a blink of an eye.
But they were still loath to give them up.
"What do you... what do you want to eat tomorrow?" Qi Leren asked.
"Anything's fine," Ning Zhou said.
The evening breeze blew all the way from the open door of the terrace to them, and the first light from far away projected the gauze curtain on the clean marble floor. The soft mood was like a lingering love song playing continuously, while they were like people sitting aimlessly on the bus in the afternoon, listening to the little love song drowsily in the warm sunshine, half dreaming and half waking, only thinking about this song. Don't wake up from this dream. Don't wait for the bus to reach its station.
"Then... then I’ll go to sleep." At this moment, Qi Leren restrained many impulses, such as telling him he was afraid to have nightmares, admitting that he still wanted to talk, and kissing Ning Zhou's beautiful blue eyes.
He tried to treat this relationship in a mature way, and he also tried to make himself behave properly enough. Therefore, he held this treasure carefully, and only wanted to hold it firmly in his arms, but he was afraid that he would break it if he tried too hard.
"Well, then goodnight," Ning Zhou whispered.
Qi Leren had already rested his hand on the doorknob and pushed open the bedroom door. The imaginary gentle love song finally ended when the bus stopped, so he said softly, "Goodnight."
Ning Zhou also opened the door of the other bedroom. He said, "Goodnight."
This long farewell was finally over. Qi Leren, who closed the door, put his head on the door panel, cleared his mind, and pressed the weight of his body against the upper half of the door.
Qi Leren had the illusion that he had thought a lot, but felt that he hadn't thought anything. He wanted to recall the farewell with Ning Zhou just now, trying to find some inappropriate action, but as soon as he recalled it, he was knocked down by shy emotions.
It was probably that talking with Ning Zhou had relieved the mental stress he had been feeling. Now, Qi Leren really was a little sleepy. He dragged his tired feet and fell on the bed, slowly moving towards the side against the wall until he reached the innermost part of the bed.
He had seen the layout of Ning Zhou's bedroom before, and the bed was on the side against the wall. That is to say, at this time, they were only separated by one wall. If you spoke while in a dream, maybe the other person would hear it.
Thinking this, Qi Leren couldn't help laughing.
A brain washed by love always made the people who had fallen in love do some strange things, and Qi Leren was no exception. He slept in the bed on this side against the wall, reached out, and quietly drew a heart on the cold wall.
When he realized what he was doing, he flung up the quilt and covered his face.
What the hell was he doing? Qi Leren let out a cry in his heart, half ashamed and half collapsed, and spontaneously formed two debate teams with an abnormal split in his mind to start quarreling about the topic of love.
Qi Leren felt obliged to be more mature, especially when it came to falling in love. He was four years older than Ning Zhou! Ning Zhou, who was only twenty-one this year, should still be a boy in college in the real world, and he had already entered the workforce. In terms of experience in love, both of them were tragically equal at zero, but Qi Leren had lived in the 21st century with modern information and open communication. His theoretical level beat Ning Zhou, who was almost equal to the man living in the medieval Vatican. Moreover, when studying, Qi Leren had still had many experiences of being chased by girls.
Even Qi Leren himself felt very strange. When boys the same age as him had been affected by hormones and began to desperately want to fall in love, he had not been attracted to the lovely young girls, and of course, he was not attracted to the same sex. Although sometimes he had seen friends showing love, he had had a feeling of "love is really good", but he had never started a relationship with someone he didn’t like purely to seek this feeling.
Maybe, before he realized it, he had been waiting for someone who was destined to appear, but the world was too big, and there were too few people one could meet in his life. How lucky would he be to find the right one?
But he had met him. This romantic miracle had consumed his whole life's luck—so that there was something wrong with his beloved’s gender—but he still felt lucky.
He should cherish this luck and protect Ning Zhou.
Along the way, Ning Zhou had really suffered too much. I really hope to make him happy... Half-asleep, Qi Leren finally fell into a deep sleep with this thought.
He had a dream.
It was not an endless near-death experience, but a very relaxed and happy dream.
In his dream, he "flew" in the blue sky and rode on the back of a black dragon.
The black dragon carried him from the ground, blasted away the land and mountains that blocked them, passed through underground lakes and flowing red lava, and they broke free from the bondage of gravity and marched fearlessly toward the sky.
The world was bright, clear, peaceful, and beautiful.
The wind under the clear sky blew his hair, and Qi Leren pushed the unruly hair on his forehead to the top of his head, watching the vast world under the rising sun, breathing the air that had no bloody smell, and being as happy as a child.
Flying at such a high height, the world under his feet was like a large sandbox, and the river reflecting the light of the sunrise spread from one end of the earth to the other end, like a ribbon shining with silver and blue light. In the vast wilderness, the earth was like an emerald carpet, but when a gust of wind blew, the carpet turned into green waves, rushing forward one after another. The peak of the mountain near the horizon was covered with a thin layer of ice and snow, but the foot of the mountain was full of colourful wildflowers...
The dragon flew over this reborn land, casting a cloud-like shadow, and then the sun shone brightly.
They flew too fast. In the blink of an eye, they have already passed through deserts and plains, and were still flying farther to the east. They might even fly over the vast sea and the fog at the end of the world, or they might fly towards the place where the sun, the moon, and the stars were located.
Where on earth were they going? The Qi Leren in the dream didn't know. He only feels that they were like this world...
Becoming one.
-----
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shirtlesssammy · 6 years ago
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8x02: What's Up, Tiger Mommy?
Then:
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Dean Winchester is back from Purgatory, and he’s tan, rested, and looking better than ever. Oh, and he’s BFFs with a vampire.
Now:
Chicago, IL
An elderly man heads to a bank to access his safe deposit box. He’s had it for a verrrry long time. He opens the box while the bank attendant is still there. 
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She sees what he pulls out and it appears to be a very old bone. She’s taken aback but remains professional. She asks if there’s anything else she can help with and gets hit with the blood cannon. 
Sam, Dean, and Kevin are on the run and Kevin wants to check in on his mom. Dean hates the idea. He knows that Crowley is just waiting for Kevin to show up at her house. Kevin just wants to make sure she’s ok. Dean wants to find the tablet and blast Crowley away. Then it’s all “sunshine and sandy beaches.” #season15beachvacation He relents though and they head off to Linda Tran’s house in Michigan.
 In their completely inconspicuous car, the trio stakes out Mama Tran’s house.
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They see her from the window. She seems fine. Dean then points out the mail carrier has put mail in her box three times already. And the gardener is over-watering the plants. Demons. 
They corner and kill both demons (it’s moments like this that make me sad about how many humans the brothers have killed with that knife. RIP, Carl the mail carrier). 
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Mrs. Tran is inside talking with a friend when there’s a knock on her door. She opens it to find Kevin. Their beautiful reunion is briefly interrupted when the brothers throw holy water on her to make sure she’s not possessed. Resume hug. 
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Sam and Dean check out the house because they smell sulfur. The demon possessing Mrs. Tran’s friend starts to escape (and tell Crowley where Kevin is) but Sam reverses the exorcism spell and then Dean stabs the friend. Uh, teamwork? 
Later, they try to explain to Mrs. Tran what Kevin’s life has been like for the past year. “Prophet of the lord? It does have a nice ring to it.” No, Linda, no it does not. She agrees to go with them, but not to a safe house. They have to find the demon tablet. The boys argue that it’s too dangerous, but Mama Tran isn’t budging.
Time to get inked up!
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Next they head to a locker in Wyoming. The tablet is there though. Cut to later, the boys are in their fed suits and are interviewing a security guard who informs them of the break-ins with all the lockers. The guy who did it is in lock up downtown. The boys head there next. 
In the interrogation room, the brothers play Good Cop/Dude Who Spent a Year in Purgatory and Would Do Anything to Track Down His Angel Cop. In other words, Sam asks questions, Dean flashes back to Purgatory. Benny and him have captured a monster and Dean asks it, “Where’s the angel?” In the present day, Dean takes his tie off and strangles the prisoner while pulling the demon knife on him.
For Pure Science:
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The man tells him about a pawn shop. We cut back to Purgatory, where the monster tells Dean of a stream in a clearing. “You’ll find your angel there,” he finishes. (You’ll find your angel there...you’Ll FInd YoUR anGeL thErE...YOU’LL FIND YOUR ANGEL THERE. coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool) 
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Dean kills him. They leave the holding cell without Dean killing the man. 
At the pawn shop, the surly shop attendant is decidedly unhelpful until Mrs. Tran lays some hard truths about his newly acquired car that is clearly not registered. 
They get the address to where the tablet is headed next. It’s there that a dapper dressed man greets Kevin and introduces himself as Beau to Kevin’s mom. He’s not here to take Kevin. He has an invitation for him to an exclusive auction of rare items --the tablet included. 
Dean asks what they have to bid. They don’t have anything. Then Sam looks at the Impala and the brotherhood crumbles to pieces, end of show. 
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Sam then realizes that the items will be on display before the auction. All they have to do is have Kevin memorize the spell. 
They head to the auction and take a look at the items up for sale. Mjolnir! And the tablet which is covered from full view. So much for their plan. 
And then Crowley shows up. Just great. 
On the plus side, Crowley hits on Linda Tran. On the extra plus side, she hauls off and smacks him in the face, warning him away from Kevin. I love her. Dean levels some serious side eye at Crowley, but gets waylaid from the group by a young man in a garish Wiener Hut uniform. It’s Alfie, also known as Samandriel!
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Samandriel is an angel, and is there to procure and protect the word of God. He asks about what happened to Castiel. “We iced Dick Roman and got a one way rocket ride to Purgatory for our trouble.” Dean then replies to Samandriel’s subsequent inquiries about Castiel’s escape by clenching his jaw dramatically. Oof. 
“There are some in Heaven who still believe, despite his mistakes, Castiel’s heart was always in the right place,” Samandriel says and I die a little. “Too much heart was always Castiel’s problem,” he follows up with and I wake up six months later buried in the earth.
Dean is also FINE with this emotional trigger and definitely does NOT flash back to Purgatory and that one time he finally found Cas after tracking him for like a year. 
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He spots Cas in a clearing and calls out to him. Castiel looks around with apprehension before standing and facing Dean. There’s a hug! “Nice peach fuzz,” I mutter in my underground coffin. “Nice...peach fuzz.” (Boris: I’m still having war flashbacks to Cas’s fist clench here.)
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Dean introduces Benny to Cas and asks Cas if he’s feeling okay. Castiel gets the implication immediately. “I’m perfectly sane,” he tells Dean. “But, then, 94% of psychotics think they're perfectly sane, so I guess we'd have to ask ourselves, ‘what is sane?’” Valid! 
Benny gets right to the point, asking Cas why he flapped away. Dean defends Cas and we get a peek at the story he’s imagined for Cas during their separation. Cas clearly got jumped by a monster that first day but has now kicked its ass and...lives by the water now? “I ran away,” Cas says abruptly. 
Disbelief and anger emerge in Dean. “I prayed to you, Cas. Every night!” Cas defends his actions. He’s being hunted by everything in Purgatory but mostly...he’s been hunted by leviathans. His goal in running was to keep them away from Dean. 
Castiel tells them to leave but Dean tries to make a case for a different plan. He’s got a way out, and he’s taking Cas with him. 
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“I need you,” he tells Cas. And the leviathans can fucking BRING. IT. “Let me bottom line it for you. I’m not leaving here without you. Understand?”
Castiel looks at Dean and, with weight to his words says, “I understand.”
For Emotional Reunion Science:
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Back in the present, oh my god where even WERE we? I have been on a journey, my friends, and I have SEEN THINGS. 
The auction starts. The Winchester crew fumble in their wallets like total noobs while Crowley sits back by Samandriel and taunts everyone. When the bidding for the first item starts on “three tons of dwarven gold” the Winchesters and Trans realize that they are in way over their heads. (Soooo when do we meet gold-smithing dwarves?) Dean heads off to the restroom which here is code for “following a demon and looking for the secret treasure storage vault.” Dean handily pickpockets the demon, swipes the key, and opens the door.
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The room has a couple of demons in it, and one very discomfited Dean Winchester on its threshold. Wherps. The tablet is there, though. Back in the auction room, they set into auctioning off Thor’s hammer. Sweet. Mr. Villi from the cold open throws out a bid of a frost giant’s fingerbone and when that fails, tries “five-eighths of a virgin.”
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Dean returns, mutters to Sam that “plan C tanked,” and Crowley tells him that “you should try plan "D" for dumbass.” I’m SORRY for quoting this whole episode but I love it. 
The Word of God comes to the auction block and Crowley and Samandriel throw out bids, including:
Three BILLION dollars (cue Austin Powers pinkie finger)
The Mona Lisa
The REAL Mona Lisa (where she’s topless - that explains the smile)
Vatican City
Alaska (but the auctioneer is NOT sold on Palin’s wilderness and WOW a Palin joke omg)
The moon (“You think a man named Buzz gets to go into space without making a deal?”)
The auctioneer mourns that the reserve price has not been met. He’s adding an item: Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord. Kevin gets zapped to the front of the room, bound in magical chains. Linda offers up her material possessions - her savings and her house - but the auctioneer isn’t into it. Then Linda bids her soul.
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Crowley offers up as many souls as they want, and Samandriel announces that angels guard the souls in Heaven and won’t use them for barter. The owner is enticed by Linda’s sacrifice. Her soul is everything to her, and is therefore the most valuable thing to him. Crowley bids his soul and the owner laughs in his face and tells him that he doesn’t have a soul. Ouch.
When the bidding closes, the Winchesters talk to Linda about losing her soul. It’s no big deal, “you’ll just wish you were dead.” Um. Thanks, guys. Good talk. She asks for a minute alone to compose herself before handing it over. 
Samandriel approaches her and offers to protect Kevin, but she quickly puts him in his place. She watched a whole flight get killed and Kevin kidnapped. So thanks but no thanks...she’s putting her money on the Winchesters. 
Linda gets ready to sell her soul when Dean notices something odd on Linda’s arm. A burn mark. Her eyes glow red and Crowley says hello with her mouth. Beau, the smiling salesman, is in cahoots with Crowley. He burned the anti-possession tattoo off her arm, then Crowley jumped in and took control. Y I K E S. 
Crowley grabs the tablet and Dean brandishes the demon-killing knife. The Winchesters defend Kevin from Crowley, who splits with the tablet. Dean races after Crowley and Sam protects Kevin while Beau shoots up the place. He’s leveled his gun on Kevin when Sam comes out of NOWHERE and smites him with Thor’s hammer.
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GLORY GLORY! Mr. Villi asks for the hammer back, but Sam looks at it, then asks where he got five-eighths of a virgin. He smites Mr. Villi in retribution. YEAH SAM. 
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Crowley and Dean fight and Kevin races for his mom when Crowley smokes out and emerges moments later wearing his usual body. He carefully dusts off his clothes, taunts the Trans, and warns them about the Winchesters. “‘Cause the Winchesters – well, they have a habit of using people up and watching them die bloody.” Urg. Kevin, you deserved better. 
Kevin’s got a pretty good head on his shoulders. He shuts Dean’s platitudes down, because Dean tried to kill his mom when she was possessed. Life ain’t all desaturated extremes, Dean Bean.
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The Winchesters head out to give Kevin some alone time with his mom. Sam asks Dean if he would have really killed Linda. Yeah. Dean totally would have done it to kill Crowley. “What’s one more nightmare, right?” Oh Dean bby no. Sam gives him sad eyes in response. 
A few moments later they head back into the room. Kevin and Linda are gone but there’s a note. Dean reads between the lines. Kevin will never trust the Winchesters because the moment Dean doesn’t need him, Kevin’s gonna die. (I’m just gonna...pound my head on a brick wall for a while, okay?) 
Dean then flashes back to Purgatory and Castiel calling out to him desperately as their hands separate. 
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______________________________
I’ll Bid a Doodle of Dean and Cas Kissing for These Quotes:
All we need to do is find the tablet, whip up the spell, and – boom! – sunshine and sandy beaches.
What? Like it’s my first tattoo.
You hid the Word of God in a diaper bag?
Rest assured that we have a strict "no casting, no cursing, no supernaturally flicking the two of you against the wall just for the fun of it" policy.
Is that even a planet anymore?
I think too much heart was always Castiel's problem.
You know what's better than one private island? Two private islands.
I don’t wanna hear any more of your crappy speeches.
_____________________________
Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 
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whiterosebrian · 6 years ago
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Restart, Part 2
This is the second part of an in-depth reflection on the twists and turns that my spiritual questing has taken. I urge you to go scroll down or browse the archives to see the first part. It explains how I came to the decision to step out of the Catholic Church and escape the toxic milieu within it. In this post I will share some scattered thoughts on the Catholicism that I practiced for nearly a quarter-century.
I don’t dismiss Catholicism as inherently evil. If I had been convinced that Catholicism was nothing more than an irredeemably criminal and backwards ideology fit only for authoritarian sociopaths, I would have ran away much earlier! There are noble ideals within the Catholic religion and even solid fundamental principles underlying the moral teachings (such as, for example, the seriousness of human sexuality and the need to treat it with respect). I am grateful for what I learned from the Church’s finer pastors. Even still I had to wonder whether those ideals really do enter the real-world instead of just a philosophical cloud. I had no illusions—Catholicism is the most organized and institutionalized religion out there and thus an easy target for those who reject organized religion. How does institutionalization affect a religion?
The Catholic Church has gone through so much over the centuries. Increasingly I learned that the Church has collectively learned and grown. The Second Vatican Council, which started a major process of renewal, helped me stay in the Church for as long as I did. The problem is that there are Catholics out there who reject the Council and everything associated with it, from respect for other religions and their practitioners (including Jews) to acceptance of democracy and freedom. They may be a vocal minority, but we shouldn’t forget how a vocal minority can suck out the proverbial oxygen and then accomplish its openly announced hostile takeover. Do they represent Catholicism in its pure, unadulterated form? The polarization within the Church is sure to get worse before it gets better.
Apologists claim that the Catholic Church brought so much beauty into the world. Hospitals, universities, and homeless shelters? Mozart, Shakespeare, and Michelangelo? Folk festivals? Scientific method? Women as more than property? Was all that BECAUSE OF Catholicism or IN SPITE OF Catholicism? Vocal atheists and other critics of the Church claim the latter. Furthermore, they can just as easily point to right-wing dictatorships, torture chambers, the literally fiery silencing of dissent, pogroms against “Christ-killers”, and enslavement of indigenous people.
What led me into Catholicism in the first place was the notion of a God who did not merely sit high in the clouds above but was present among us and even wanted a relationship with us. As suggested in Part 1, though, I became concerned that my discipleship had a crumbly foundation. As I learned more and more about humanity and asked more and more questions, I wondered if I could relate to a God who still seemed so distant and invisible. I haven’t been able to relate to Jesus as more than a distant authority figure. That may be partly due to my autism—I’ve had trouble bonding with even my own family members, let alone most other people around me! The fact that rightist Christians would present the true Jesus as an ice-cold, vindictive dictator certainly didn’t help.
Does Catholicism, in its purest form, truly celebrate the earth—or does it reject the earth as a vale of tears filled with nothing but temptations to sin? Does Catholicism cherish earthly lives of flesh-and-blood humans or does it filter them into a moralizing abstraction? Why do certain Catholics repeat “Save Souls” or “Eternal Salvation” in an endless loop while condemning the ordinary lives of flesh-and-blood humans and sneering at anything earthly? Even Francis of Assisi is sometimes turned into a grim-and-dark Crusader instead of a lover of plants and animals. Why isn’t the Catholic Church popularly associated with humanism or an enchanted world? James Joyce once said in a letter to a colleague, “There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.” Is there any basis in harsh reality for the Irish author’s claim? Remember the infamously grim and repressive Irish Catholic culture and the disgusting fruits that it ultimately sprouted!
I do want to offer an aside about Orthodoxy. There was a time, even before now, when I considered converting to Orthodoxy. It isn’t a top-heavy institution in the same way as Catholicism. From what I read it appears to have a rich theology of mercy for frail mortals as well as a sense of the divine presence among matter. I knew that converting to Orthodoxy, however, wouldn’t resolve my fundamental issues. Orthodoxy has a history of being even more tightly bound up to the authoritarian state. The Russian Church is notoriously sycophantic towards a notorious authoritarian regime and promotes its own reactionary social and religious agenda—it also aims at dominating worldwide Orthodoxy, which carries some disturbing implications. On a side note, to my knowledge there also hasn’t been a major reckoning with antisemitism, or at least on the same scale as in Catholicism.
There’s no likelihood that the Catholic sensibility will ever completely disappear. It appears that baptism has indeed left a deep mark in my soul. It appears that the godhead has left an imprint. I still believe in the godhead that is the source of all being. I still believe in the godhead of life, light, and love. The Church’s finer pastors have conceded that people outside the Church seek the godhead of life, light, and love, however unconsciously. What is religion supposed to be? Isn’t it supposed to be a serious search for the godhead, however faltering? What is philosophy supposed to be? A serious search for transcendent truth? What is faith supposed to be? What is spirituality supposed to be?
I told you that these thoughts would be scattered. It indeed turned out that way as I typed out what I had in mind. I trust that you can still understand what is going on in my mind and heart.
Stay tuned for Part 3.
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noplanwithavan · 8 years ago
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME…AND ETNA.
Most parents avoid putting their children in harm’s way.  If there was a “Parenting for Dummies” handbook, surely the first piece of sage advice would be:
1. ”Children have a limited sense of danger, and are reliant on parents for protection. Failure to do so may result in premature expiration of said offspring.”
With that guiding principle in mind, I wonder how we came to find ourselves heading straight for Europe’s most active volcano, right after it had just erupted..Oh, maybe because point number 2 of that handbook should read, “Life is there to be lived. Always choose adventure over fear.”
And so it came to pass. We found ourselves making a bee-line for the football just off the boot of Italy, otherwise known as Sicily. When we read an account of a BBC journalist fleeing for her life under attack from projectile lava last week, it was a done deal. “How do you feel about going to see Mount Etna girls?” asked Marcus, eyes glistening before images of dramatic fireworks and oozing red rivers. I could sense a mission coming on, a plan forming. There was a split second when we pondered if this was such a great idea. And then it passed. After all, what’s a volcano without an element of risk? Surely that’s part of the appeal.
It’s been a whirlwind month so far, veering from extreme sports to ancient history all within a few weeks. We started March in Andorra - meeting up with Marcus’s family for a ski holiday. We are so grateful to Ros Beck for her generosity and patience in spearheading a frenetic but fun-filled week! Six grandchildren in one place, all vying for the title of extreme fearlessness is not anyone’s idea of a relaxing break. But we were all bowled over at how well the kids adapted to the slopes, lapping up the kind of intuitive instructions which makes it so much easier to acquire a new skill than an adult learner. Legs in “pizza” meant snowplough, whereas “chips” was parallel. And with those two ideas in mind, they got it. Lulu earned the nickname “ski bomber” after trailing along in a caterpillar behind Caspar, Willem, Delphi and Sam. Too small for ski poles, she couldn’t shoost herself along so well as the others, but quickly worked out that by crouching as low to the ground as possible she could really turn on the gas. It was a pose reminiscent of “Eddie the Eagle” - short on finesse, but blessed with a low centre of gravity.
When the Becks left en masse we were somewhat bereft. Since Morocco, Andorra had been our last significant landmark - something to head for, dare I say it, a plan. Now what we were supposed to do? Well the first thing was to take advantage of Andorra’s tax-free status to buy a new iPhone. We had scared family half to death with our prolonged periods of silence. After a month of more tragic than comic attempts to replace the one I lost, buying every gadget under the sun to bolster a secondhand Gibraltan rip off, with as much life in it’s battery as a dead parrot, enough was enough. And with that accomplished, we found a new urgency to take things under control, to be masters of our fate. “Let’s go to Italy,” I ventured. “There’s a ferry from Barcelona to Civitavechia, just north of Rome.” It’s moments like these I love about the life we’re leading. The pure beauty of the fact you CAN. No need to fill your time with anything you don’t want to do. To wait or put off today what you hope for tomorrow. And after nearly 7 months on the road it’s still thrilling, the realisation that you can pose the question, “Where do we want to go?” And then…just go.
Our battles with batteries were not over yet however. With just a few hours to spare before we boarded the overnight ferry, we returned to the van to discover the headlights had been left on. I had that prickling-sweat-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling at the sound of a lifeless ignition. We asked around for jump leads but without success, so Marcus decided to try and use the spare leisure battery to kick start it. He didn’t look confident, and kept muttering under his breath about how this could be “really bad.” After all, up until now the principle role of the leisure battery had been purely in keeping the freezer cold enough to make ice for our Gin and Tonics. The girls and I knew better though - with blind faith we stepped back and let him get on with it. Within minutes, the engine roared. We were going to make our sailing. “I knew you could do it Daddy!” they cried. “ He’s REALLY GOOD at fixing things isn’t he?” I heard them gossiping to each other.
Emerging from our cabins the next morning, we meet a Swedish couple during breakfast, and later a father and son from Argentina. We are clueless about free camping options in Italy, whereas the Argentinians seem to know something, or at least they said they did. Marcus returns triumphant just before we’re about to disembark. “We’re going to team up and travel in convoy,” he beams. “This should be fun!” Before long a welshman, an Argentinian and a Swede snake their way out of port, and I chuckle at how we make an eclectic international mix, full of camaraderie and a willingness to help complete strangers. The bonhomie fades somewhat when the duo from Buenos Aires lead us on a merry dance - and the Swede starts to question their navigational abilities. But after a few dead ends and detours, they deliver the goods, pulling up alongside Castle San Salver by the sea.
It never fails to amaze me how happy the girls are in whatever environment they find come the morning. At one point there was a lot of sibling rivalry going on, but they seem to be getting on a lot better now. And with no toys, and no-one but each other to play with, their creativity really shines. While I sit there worrying that we need more direction and a new focus, they play happily - making dens, building sculptures, mixing potions, setting up shops, even at one time creating their own imaginary city and offering guided tours. I’m invited into this game and it’s fascinating to hear the jumble of ideas and influences come spilling out. Elsie’s verbal diarrhoea really flourishes under such circumstances. At one point she explains we’ve arrived at the town square, “That’s where the government is,” she says. “He’s very corrupt, but the good news is he’s not actually a dictator.”
Maybe its the impetus from the signs of Spring we see all around us. Purple wisteria decking the walls, beech nut trees in early bud. Or perhaps its the invigorating sight of bountiful produce in the supermarkets. (Italy has much more variety than Spain, and we’re now spoilt for choice in the cheese, fresh pasta and salad department). Whatever it is, a new phase is beginning, and it’s time to make our next move. We hold a family meeting about what we want. Top of the list comes Romans, followed by danger (in the form of volcano hunting), and finally working again on a farm. After a few enquiries we receive a reply from a family with an 8 year old daughter in Southern Italy, near Bari. It’s a tense moment opening their message. I’ve discovered the following paradox: potential rejection feels most absolute precisely when what you are offering is free of charge. Yet success! We’ve been vetted as volunteer workers and deemed desirable. They would love for us to come and stay. Now we can afford to bargain..yeah sure we reply, we’ll be there, right after we’ve hit the historical and geographical highlights this great country has to offer.
We skirt the nearby Lago Bracciano, and from here, of course, all roads lead to Rome. It’s time to crack open the heavyweight research material, a voluminous tome that will tell us all we need to know about this ancient civilisation. “Here we are girls,” I say, brushing off one of the few essential textbooks we’ve brought along on this trip. “Finally, it’s time….for the “ROTTEN ROMANS!” It whets their appetites and sets in motion a series of stories and gruesome tales which leaves them spellbound for the next few weeks. The route towards the capital is our first real taste of Italian driving. It’s predictably awful - a terrifying cocktail of aggressive drivers, crazy spaghetti junctions, and jarring pot holes. “They may have given us roads,” remarks Marcus, “But they’re not great at repairing them - some of these don’t look like they’ve been filled in since Roman times.”
We leave our van in a secure parking garage, and its location puts me in mind of another Roman story. We’re on the Via Appia, where early Christians were crucified, and where Spartacus met his death along with his band of rebel slaves. For the next two days of sightseeing, his story sets the tone. The girls walk for hours, listening to me narrating, fuelled by Gelato, Pizza, and the cliff-hangers I leave each chapter dangling upon. Spartacus helps bring alive the gruesome, gory details of the Colosseum, which they love. They’ve always had a penchant for the macabre. And the part about the trapdoors underneath the arena spewing out terrible creatures to maul defenceless victims appears to really fire their imaginations. For a slightly more accurate historical perspective we found a great alternative to the pricey tour guide touts. Rather than pay astronomical fees of over 100 Euros per site, we dowloaded a free app by Rick Steves, with an audio commentary the kids could easily follow. I can’t get over the fact we’re actually in Rome, it is everything and more than I hoped. At the heart of the old city, each direction you look is truly awesome, and there can be nowhere on Earth which holds a candle to such imperial grandeur.
We visited the Vatican and missed the Pope. It was a Sunday and he was addressing the masses at the beginning of Lent. Arriving at St Peter’s Square and going against the flow of incoming crowds, we thought there was enough time to nip in for a quick sandwich before we caught a glimpse. There wasn’t. As we emerged, the scarlet flag hanging from a window up high (which apparently indicates  his presence) was just being rolled in. Stomach before Religion. My poor Irish Catholic Grandmother would not have been impressed.
Next stop is Pompei. The long drive is a seemingly endless urban sprawl, but the monotony is broken up when we pass a place called “Angri”, then spot another sign saying “Foof”. The girls find this particularly amusing given it’s the name they use to refer to their vagina. Never one to miss out on toilet-based humour, Elsie pipes up, “There was a town called ‘Poo’ in Spain too!” The story of Mount Vesuvius erupting in 79 AD and destroying Pompei is one of the girls favourites. It’s long been a source of fascination, hearing about whatever fictional characters I can summon managing to escape the deadly pyroclastic flow that fateful day. They’re excited to finally see it all with their own eyes. We only do a portion, picking the best bits, and they love many of the small details. The wide streets with the stepping stones for pedestrians, the holes they can spot in the pavements for fixing rings to harness a horse, the cats eyes in the flooring made from white marble to help people see at night, and the fantastically preserved mosaic of a dog by a front door which reads “Cane Canum (Beware of the Dog). Less cultured is their preference for pointing out big willies whenever they see one - and there are quite a few - on the many exquisite frescos. Towards the end we visit a brothel, complete with stone beds and even pillows. I have a go at explaining what they are, “Good luck with that,” says Marcus, drifting away. In the end I settle on a description as a brothel is a place where lady slaves have to work, lying down next to smelly sailors who want to look and kiss them. This seems to suffice, and they don’t push me on why its necessary to do this lying down.  
Ten years ago Marcus and I spent a few days in Naples, and loved it. Our only regret was that we failed to get a seat at “Pizzeria da Michele” - one of the top pizza joints in town. It filled up early, but this time we’re prepared, catching an early train in. By 11.45am there’s still a queue, but we’re soon seated, and presented with only two choices, Pizza Margherita (tomato, mozzarella and basil) or Pizza Marinara (tomato, garlic, oregano). The girls loyally proclaim their dad’s pizza tastes better cooked in our pizza oven at home. But I have to disagree, even Marcus can’t compete with Napoli’s tomatoes. We’re keen to show the girls the city’s gritty, scruffy charm. We’ve noticed on this trip how much they love to watch people making things, any form of artistic endeavour draws them like moths to a flame. They love the street dedicated to model makers, edging closer to peer at the mechanised scenes and study tiny ceramic legs being carefully painted. Marcus buys some small body parts to replace ones he bought here a decade ago which got smashed when he turned the music up too loud. There’s plenty of life to feast our eyes upon as we wander down the narrow intersecting streets rising upwards, layered washing hanging above us like flags.
All that remains is a volcano, and after taking a vote we decide to pass on Vesuvius and head instead for Europe’s most active volcano, Mount Etna. It’s going to cost a lot more money - driving all the way down to Italy’s toe, catching the ferry across to Sicily, and paying for the compulsory guide - but if you’ve got the chance to choose, why not make it into a real adventure? Spirits are running high, we camp by the beach across the water from Siciliy. That night to shake off the long drive there’s a disco in the van, playing the tracks loud and flashing patterns all around with a green laser we bought in Rome. Next morning Marcus spearfishes a bass and the girls collect bottles to put messages inside, casting them overboard on the short crossing, now our fifth ferry ride . We’re over in 20 minutes, and make straight towards Mount Etna, the landscape turning black and craggy as we approach. Climbing up into the wilderness we camp on the South East side, at the foot of the Valley de Bove. It’s one of the best wild spots yet, and you can lie in bed watching the crater pumping out smoke overhead.
Higher up, it becomes other-worldy. Snow, ash and black rock combine to create a kind of lunar scene. At it’s summit, 3,350 metres high, there are numerous craters. Pockmarking the flanks we spot several nest-like sink holes, reminders of previous activity. There are warning signs informing visitors its forbidden to go beyond 2,500 m without a guide (due to a series of eruptions this month). After some investigation we calculate it’s going to cost us 250 euros to get as near to the central craters as the authorities will allow - 100 euros for us to go up on a cable car, and a further 150 to be taken higher up in a specialist piste basher snow mobile with a guide. In a move to save money the girls agree to hike as far as they can. Fuelled by more chapters of Spartacus and a spin-off series by Marcus called “Fartacus”, 2 hours later we make it to the top of the cable car. From here its a typically Italian ramshackle affair, and people appear to be ignoring the instructions not to wander off alone. Sighting tourists crunching their way over hardened snow wearing only slip-on shoes, we ask if the girls can make it a bit father. The promise of extra Easter Eggs provides the incentive they need, and we creep ever higher, ignoring the warning signs, past the piste bashers and within sight of sulphurous rock at the peak. To our side are long roads of humped black lava flow, and a metallic sound alerts Marcus to peer closer. A heat shimmer is coming off of one, and on closer inspection nestled within is the glow of red lava, rocks tossing and tumbling over each other as they prepare to settle into a solid mass. I’m not sure what I’m more amazed by - this sight, or the fact the girls managed a 5 hour trek without one single meltdown. The next week is filled with volcano-wonder, trekking into the Valle de Bove to see the ancient swirling lava fields, gazing across up high at Etna from the Greek temple of Taormina, and visiting the Etna Museum. Despite keeping a watch we don’t see any fresh eruptions, but it doesn’t matter - we’ve made it our mission to have one big adventure in Italy, and so far it hasn’t disappointed.
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rhapsodyq · 6 years ago
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So apparently, the my favourite destination of this trip was over and to be honestly I was a little worn out and looking forward to go home already. Yeah, so I wasn’t exactly looking forward to visiting Split. The worse was, the rainy weather kinda made things worse. Slippery steps, the umbrella and stuff were too much of a chore.
Sis and I quarrelled a little bit due to the stuff of the slightest importance but we quickly patched up after that. We had this tour by a lady tour guide, who was dressed really flamboyantly. Elaborate accessories, heavy make up etc. And she talked with real confidence etc. So apparently, Split was a place in Croatia bearing Roman origins. So the architecture were very Roman-ish. We were brought to this cave place (which I don't really got what was going on) but yeah. It was pretty cool--the cave looked like it was about to fall apart, but somehow had very nice, cooling feeling to it, etc. We also hovered around the town and visited some churches--which reminded me a lot of the Vatican etc. Very beautiful and intricate details. But yeah, like I said, the weather made it very hard for us to take pictures, so it’s a shame.
The tour ended and we were given free time to explore the town. However, due to weather and the lack of exciting places, the tour group asked for a shorter free time (cos we all would rather go back to the hotel lmao). So yeah, 2 hours. Sis wanted ice-cream and I’m like okay..but it’s freezing cold. Didn’t really understood the rationale behind this crazy thought but I just went ahead with it. The ice cream was extremely nice though. Reminded me of the Gelato I had in Rome. Very rich, no artificial fake ass stuff. All authentic and nice. As usual, sis was lamenting about how Split was supposed to be the sunniest place of all but ended up having heavy rain the moment we reached. What an irony. 
We then went around the alley to see if they were selling anything interesting etc. But yeah, honestly there was nothing much. We fooled around a little, sang and shenanigans etc. Then we visited this chocolate shop--which had salt flavoured and olive flavoured chocolates. It was decent and pretty nice, but definitely not the best chocolate I’ve ever had though. Like, Bled had nicer salt chocolate, sorry.
We then headed to this Cafe cause we still had some time before the meet-up. Sis wanted me to practice independence and insisted I do the ordering. Well, I mean come on. I work part time as a promoter and YET SHE THINKS I have problem talking to people, what a freaking joke. But yeah. There were communication errors during the ordering but all ended up fine. We had hot chocolate and donut balls (again, haha). 
Afterwards, we met up with the group again and were brought to this restaurant for dinner. The waiter gave sis and I lots of attention (cause we smuggled our hot chocolate in). Okay, not smuggled but brought in openly. At first I was afraid that he would mind but he seemed to instead joke about it, ahaha. Like “chocolate and fish” joke. So all was good. He then kept talking to me throughout the servings, and winked at me for some reason, lol. It would be nice if he was a little younger though (He was literally a middle-aged man so HAHA). Then I began to recall how that middle-age shop keeper in Sarajevo winked at me too when I tried to haggle for a mug. He was like “next time it’s 30 Euroes, not 25!” etc but in a slightly suggestively way. lmao. So yep. I kinda figured maybe I was only considered attractive towards older Europeans, not the younger ones lmao. 
So, me having phobia towards fish, I didn’t finish my meal and tried to tuck the meat under the fish head to make it seem like I did. Cause you know, previous experience, so. Afterwards, we passed by a pizza place and Raymond asked if anyone wanted to get pizza. All stayed silent and he was about to continue walking. But I saw one of the moms having the same thought as me. I asked her if she wanted to get pizza, she excited said yes and somehow, the majority of the group went to get pizza with us. LOL. This was probably the most proactive thing I ever did throughout this trip, hahhaha. I brought the pizza spirits into everyone, so yay. 
We then head to our hotel for the night. The hotel was really luxurious. Elaborate and large reception, etc. Sis and I decided it was time to hit the gym, so yeah. We ate our pizza with our favourite lemon Coke Zero, then rested abit before heading out to the gym. I didn’t bring any gym attire with my for this trip, so I wore my sleeping clothes instead. And I felt so embarrassed throughout the session, haha. I tried on the treadmill first, but realised I had some injuries on my foot. So switched to the bike machine instead. And I didn’t sweat at all, so GOOD JOB FANG QING. 
Saw one of our tour members on our way back--we smiled sheepishly to them and they actually laughed. Like, they were the most stoic people I’ve ever seen and that was literally the first time I’ve seen the dude laugh. You know, kinda like an achievement unlock for PS4 AHAH.
The hotel room was a little disappointing through. I mean it was clean, fine, loaded with everything we needed. But it had a sailor theme--which I felt was a little off and lacklustre. Nevertheless, we had a good rest that night. 
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trendingnewsb · 7 years ago
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Why NASA Keep Lying To The World, According To Flat-Earthers
Earth isn’t a galactic Frisbee but, just recently, we took something of a deep dive, using science to posit what life would be like if our pale blue dot was flat. As it so happens, we’d sneeze ourselves into outer space, but before we did that, we’d be drinking absolutely awful wine on the surface of a geologically defunct discus.
There are numerous hypotheses being bandied about that attempt to explain why people would genuinely believe the world is flat, despite the significant decrease in life quality. As far as we can tell, it’s pretty likely to be the same reasons anyone believes in any outlandish conspiracy theory: It’s a novel way of explaining an overwhelmingly complex world, one that’s partly driven by the human tendency to see things that aren’t there, a phenomenon known as “magical thinking”.
Leaving the psychology aside for the moment, we were curious about another aspect of this out-of-step ideology. Namely, what do Flat Earthers (trolls and die-hard believers) think or claim is motivating everyone else to cover up the “fact” that Earth is flat?
In Veritate Victoria!
The Flat Earth Society (TFES) is renowned for a few things, including their fundamentally off-piste belief system and their unnervingly persistent courtesy on their curious Twitter account. They also have their own Wiki, which is far more bellicose in its support for their belief system than their social media acolytes tend to be.
In it, their mission is described as if it’s a call to arms. Vowing to meet the “common round earther in the open,” to “declare that his reign of error and confusion is over,” their brief manifesto also hints at their thought process when it comes to the average person: We just haven’t figured out the truth yet.
“The soldiers of truth and reason of the Flat Earth Society have drawn the sword, and ere another generation has been educated and grown to maturity, will have forced the usurpers to abdicate,” it notes. The use of the word usurpers is an interesting turn of phrase, as it suggests that those pesky round earthers have essentially robbed them of the mantle of truth.
In case you’ve forgotten, we have known that Earth is spherical – or technically, an oblate spheroid, thanks to its equatorial bulge – for several millennia. By the time that the lovely Ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle came along, the idea that Earth was flat had largely fallen out of favor.
This is presumably the critical point of the usurpation that TFES hint at. You’d think that thinkers like Aristotle and Eratosthenes would be labelled as persona non grata to such societies, but no, not as far as we can tell: only their proofs are commonly “debunked”, and their motivations for concluding that the planet is spherical were simply born out of human error, not a mischievous urge to lie.
To Infinity And Beyond
Under their FAQ section, the topic of spaceflight comes up fairly early on, and it’s safe to say that themes of hoaxes and nefarious deceptions come up a lot more frequently than they do with ordinary folk.
JPL/NASA
Lamenting the lack of revelations from astronauts declaring that the planet is flat after all, TFES explains that “the space agencies of the world are involved in a conspiracy faking space travel and exploration,” something that they say began in the Cold War’s Space Race.
As it turns out, the US and Soviet Union had to keep out-faking each other for political gain. Nowadays, “the conspiracy is most likely motivated by greed rather than political gains, and using only some of their funding to continue to fake space travel saves a lot of money to embezzle for themselves.”
So NASA, ESA, and SpaceX are faking spaceflight in order to gain funds from silly round earthers. This argument is actually curiously similar to one used by climate change deniers, who often note that climatologists fake data in order to gain more funding.
That would neatly explain why astrophysicists, engineers, and climate scientists are the richest people on Earth.
Faking It
Jarringly, TFES take the position that “there is no Flat Earth Conspiracy”, but there is a “Space Travel Conspiracy”.
“The purpose of NASA is to fake the concept of space travel to further America’s militaristic dominance of space. That was the purpose of NASA’s creation from the very start: To put ICBMs and other weapons into space (or at least appear to),” the Wiki explains.
“The Chinese have also been faking their space missions.”
Rather entertainingly, TFES’ Wiki also explains that Flat Earthers are suspicious that – after the tragic, fatal disaster of Apollo 1 – NASA seemed to get increasingly better at spaceflight. The suggestion here is that they had to fake it to make it, but we’d suggest that they just got better as the engineering improved. Classic scientific progress, basically.
The members of the International Flat Earth Research Society (IFERS) seem to base their ideas on trains of thought percolating out of the group’s forums. They’ve got a long list of “global earth propaganda” examples for you to peruse through, including The Who song I Can See For Miles.
NASA comes up a lot, as does the fact that echo chambers on Facebook (which are real) reinforce the “mainstream” belief that the world is a globe (which it is). We won’t go into more of their thoughts, however, as a look at their forums also feature the promotion of other, far more morally reprehensible conspiracy theories, ranging from the Holocaust being faked to mass shootings being government false flag operations.
According to The Flat Earth Society – no, not TFES, another group – there are three reasons why we’re all lying about the shape of our planet: 1) to support the notion propagated by governments, space agencies, and science in general, 2) to “hide the truth of the Bible”, or 3) to deny the rest of the world of Antarctica’s resources, which is guarded by a giant ice wall for some reason.
Ultimately, they suggest that “without toppling the Planar Conspiracy there is no real way to know” why we’d lie in the first place.
Vox Paucis
As you may have gathered, Flat Earthers don’t all have precisely the same belief system. Just as there are multiple groups attempting to push their own explanation for why we’re on a cosmic coaster, different groups – and in particular, different individuals – differ on why everyone else doesn’t agree with them.
This disparity was clearly on show at the inaugural International Flat Earth Conference back in 2017. As documented by Vice News, there seems to be a general distrust of the US government, and although there are large numbers of people that are more than just a little wary of the powers that be, this is certainly a fringe, extreme example of that anxiety.
Satan, the Freemasons, the Illuminati, the Zionists, the Vatican, and “NASA, of course” – clearly, the prevaricators-in-chief – were also mentioned. Although motives weren’t elucidated upon, these (sometimes non-existent) groups are all seen as powerful entities, so there’s a chance the general population rejects flat Earth theories because they’re constantly told that they’re wrong by the upper echelons of society.
So it appears that the global lie about Earth’s shape is motivated by greed, money, and power; when it comes to the general population, we just haven’t opened our eyes to the “truth” yet.  
In that sense, it’s just like any other conspiracy theory.
Read more: http://www.iflscience.com/space/why-nasa-is-lying-to-the-world-according-to-flatearthers/
from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2HAUcb4 via Viral News HQ
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glendagerde-blog · 7 years ago
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Cathedrals, Art, and the Crucified Christ: Summer 2017
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I have been sitting in cathedrals:  London, Barcelona, Madrid, San Lorenzo, the Vatican, Assisi, Milan,  Como, Venice, Lyon, and Paris.  The Cathedrals are usually at the top of hills, of mountains, generally placed in the best location for real estate in each town…views from and to, stone and rock embedded grand piazzas at their entrances that beckon crowds to master a stroll, a conversation, a prayer, a meal, a selfie on ground that holds solid the steps of previous pilgrims, and history.
I have been walking aisles of European art.  The art is displayed in careful and delicate precision on grand walls sometimes gilded in gold, or pasted with ornate wallpaper, in palatial halls or museums, protected by guards, ropes, surveillance cameras, your ticket and high security screening through metal detectors, bags x rayed.  The art is carefully lit with artificial and natural lighting, the room temperature is controlled, and photos, if even allowed, may not flash.  At the Louvre, soldiers patrol with what looks like AK47s.  
The prominent theme in this country to country diorama of marble and paint is Jesus Christ.  
The statues: he carries his cross, apostles frame him, he is cradled in Mary’s arms, the saints are martyred because they believe.  The paintings: his nailed feet, his side is pierced, his first century support group prays at his feet, he is a swaddled lowest-income baby come to change our programming.
Not solely my observation.
The crowds, the millions, stand in line for their tickets, go in, pause, walk on, pause, stop, snap a photo.  In some places it is shoulder to shoulder, camera over camera, you breathe in what they breathe out.  In cathedrals they light candles, like me.  There are covered heads, uncovered heads, religious and non.  You try to pin down the language of the people in the hats next to you, their whispers sometimes coherent and sometimes not, you smile at them.  The German is wearing a yellow sweater today, the Frenchwoman a black skirt, the Indian couple are draped in purple.  The babies in strollers have chubby legs and universal drooling grins.
I am in a bar somewhere, lost at present in Lyon, having a pot of English tea with milk and sugar and recharging my phone to venture another google maps effort to navigate the winding sometimes-named French streets like a modern woman.  The taxi driver outside smokes a cigarette, not waiting for me.  The wood floor of this old establishment is old, uneven, planked, worn, and shredding.  I kick off my walking boots and feel God under my feet.  A mosquito tires of circling English tea and flies away to stick itself on the yellowed wall.   The tea is delicious, the real thing, made of fresh black tea leaves.  The milk and sugar, well, no sacrifices here.  This sunny French day was made for another 5 mile walk on my European vacay. If I rub my feet on the floor, I will indeed get splinters.  Maybe something should be done about this floor, it could be somebody’s cross to bear.
The story of Jesus, whether you believe it as a bastion of your faith as a Christian or not, was not fake news.  One man lived a life of absolute love, forgiveness, compassion, and integrity that he remains the most admired hero.  He showed us how to live in the best possible human spirit, and that dying, even if it is a crucifixion, can be noble.  He took it all on his shoulders — the worst of mankind – the tendency to gossip, fear, point the finger, alienate, obstruct, gather in mass hysteria, lie, advertise false promises, bleed meaningless twitter into a coliseum of character degradation and eventual public slaughter.  He showed us how to be human in an animalistic environment created by people when they may have no wise leadership at the helm of their culture, their society, their workplace, their family, their minds.
Who will disown a “story” told and retold in an obvious synthesis of art and architecture that has compelled and inspired humankind for hundreds of years?  Jesus was crucified so we don’t have to be.  He showed us, guess what, there is Life after crucifixion.
America has seemed to become one big coliseum, hasn’t it?
If it’s getting to you, I recommend a trip to Europe’s cathedrals and art museums.  The Bigger Picture offers some salvation, relief.
In a society that is fractioned apart by politics with a chaos-driven president, where “anything goes” under the guise of “free speech” and so barbarism is tolerated, where an uncensored worldwide web is controlled by a room of a few men who have not been vetted or voted on by anyone, where short-wave thinking that has no half-life whatsoever—with the push of a cell phone key — now makes major policies and directs international markets and threatens actual, yes, nuclear war, where children are not protected by the humility and selflessness of adults but are instead daily victims to the dearth of protections in the blaring bru-ha-ha of the ‘money=success’ American lifestyle and media, where you end the day checking 10 phone apps for “information” while the pot of water you were boiling in boils over and you are too mesmerized to feel it…isn’t it time to take another look at Jesus?
The ice is melting, and we still have no defense against a meteor.
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We still know Too Much, and Too Little, all because of that apple.
I hiked my way up a relevant elevation gain to the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière.  The ornate church is more imposing because it rests at the highest point in Lyon, lording over the land like the stateliest of grand lighthouses.  “Come,” it says.  There, Jesus, pierced in his side, confronted me.  
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I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE.
I lit another candle for my son, and took another picture of this lit prayer.   I sat in a pew and waited.
I waited and waited until I was done waiting, my prayer deep within the hardwood spine of the wait itself.  My candle, part of a choir.
As I was leaving, I popped up my neon green umbrella under a light drizzle and retied my neck scarf.  A handsome white-haired Frenchman in an official-looking red jacket struck up a conversation in French.  I told him I spoke a little French and he told me my accent was very good.  As I set off down the hill, my eyes were wet like my umbrella.
So anyway, now I am lost and in a bar where an irritating song is playing and the tea’s gone cold, my phone is charged, and my pink-socked feet are pushing back off a scraggly wood floor into my laced up boots.  I end up giving up on Google, which has taken me in circles, I walk a few blocks and then use my humble French to ask a pharmacist to call me a taxi.  Soon I am back at the hostel reading an international adventure by Clive Cussler and breathing like a free woman, all because of art, cathedrals, and Jesus Christ.
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What are you waiting for?
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thegetawaydiary · 8 years ago
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Day 12 | 13.06.17
ROME, ITALY
- Last night I asked the hostel guy to turn down the air con in our room because it was too damn hot and he looked at me like I was crazy, believing that 27 degrees was already on the cold side. He turned it down though but definitely not enough and I woke up at 6 in the morning sweating, with the air con not coming back on until 7.30.
- I got up at 6.30 so I get could out and about nice and early before it got super hot and waited for the included breakfast, because I like to try and have a big one as I don’t usually buy something for lunch until about 2. The breakfast never came though, not even at quarter to 8 which was a pain in the arse but I headed out anyway. It was on my way out that I realised that my Vatican tour was in fact this afternoon and not tomorrow like I had thought.
- I walked to the colosseum which was amazing to see in real life, its pretty incredible that it was built thousands of years ago and gladiators actually fought there. I also had a look at the Palatine Hill and Roman Forum which was also incredible to see and to think that people had lived and worked there so long ago, my brain actually can’t comprehend it sometimes. I walked around the area a couple of times and then back to the hostel because my feet were killing me already. It was not a good idea to ware sandals that are so flat but it’s way too hot for sneakers. 
- I got back to the hostel around 10 and breakfast was still out, even though I thought it finished at 9-9.30. I had some cocopops and a croissant which was actually really fresh and it was so nice. I went online and found that my money had finally transferred over to my cash card thank god because I was starting to get a bit worried and was not looking forward to not eating all day. In future I will have to make sure to transfer the money I need well in advance.
- It was heaps too hot for pants and a card (32 degrees) but you have to cover your knees and shoulders when going to the Vatican, and wouldn’t be allowed in to the Sistine Chapel or St. Peter’s Basilica. After arriving at the Vatican and  ending my group just in time we went in and had to go through security. Everyone started sculling their bottles of waters because we thought we wouldn’t be allowed it but we were.
- I was really cool to finally be walking around the Vatican museums after thinking about it for so long, and it was  awesome to see the Raphael rooms in person, especially his work ‘School of Athens’ which I had seen so many times in classes at uni. It was kind of hard to appreciate the museums fully though because it was just so so hot, I was sweaty and my feet were on another level of pain, also my sandal broke. The tour was quite good overall, though I feel like we didn’t get a heap of information. The best part was definitely the Sistine Chapel and walking into St. Pater’s basilica, which wasn’t included in the tour. The Sistine chapel was beautiful and it was mind blowing finally seeing the Creation of Adam in real life. I could have just stared at the ceiling for hours but we only had 15 minutes. It was really special and I will always remember it. Once the tour ended I went into the Basilica which was also a highlight, and it was really amazing and something else I will always remember, especially with the Latin Mass happening, and hearing them sing. It was crazy how huge it was and how decorated it is, it really a work of art itself, covered in more art. The statues were incredible. 
- Afterwards I went to the souvenir shop and picked up some postcards, which really I should have bought an extra one to actually send because that would've been so cool to have a Vatican city stamped post card, but I like to just collect them. I continued into St. Peter’s square, feeling like I was in Angels & Demons trying to figure out which fountain was the one from the drowning scene. I wanted to get nice shots of the square but it was definitely the wrong time of day with the sun sitting directly behind it, making the photos too dark. I also got to see a couple of the Swiss Guard in their colourful uniforms, fill up my drink bottle straight from an old Vatican fountain, and found the little Vatican ‘Poste’ shop, which then made me wish again that I had bought an extra post card.
- It took an hour to get from the Vatican city back to the hostel on a bus, plus 20 minutes of waiting for the bus. I then decided to brave going to a restaurant for dinner by myself because by this time (8pm) I had only had a few boysenberries, a croissant and cocopops this morning. I was staaarving and really wanted some ravioli, like the proper Italian pasta. So I went to the restaurant right next to the hostel and was seated next to a mother and daughter which was kind of awkward but it was just awkward being by myself anyway.I got my ravioli and honestly it wasn’t that great, the pasta wasn’t quite cooked enough in some parts and it didn’t really have the nice flavour that I was expecting. The ravioli from Etrusco is better. I finished up, found an ice cream and came back to the hostel, so ready for bed. 
- I feel like I haven’t seen hardly any of Rome and I only have one full day left, and my feet hurt so bad that I don’t know if I will see much more which sucks but can’t be helped. I have to do some serious planning for tomorrow.
M
- The hostel lady just now wouldn’t turn the air con down for me, saying that 23 would be too cold for her. That air con would be for my room only, and in no way effect her so I don’t get that. I’ll just have to sweat in my sleep again. 
- the Italian police men and army men are so good looking, like wow.
- I think I am permanently going to smell of sunscreen. 
- Crossing the street is insane, you literally just have to start walking across and hope for the best.
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