#In this chapter allow me to illustrate how her mother made her children earn her affection through acts of service

[fuckedliar]

Liz understanding people love her and like her but she just sits back like : and why is that?

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​

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[pengiesama]

Dies Caniculares (Fic, Mikleo/Sorey, Fantasy/God AU) (Chapter 1/6)

Title: Dies Caniculares (Chapter 1/6) Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Mikleo/Sorey

Summary: Mikleo dreams of travelling the world, having exciting adventures like his uncle. Unfortunately, he lives a pretty boring life in the tiny mountain village of Camlann. If he's not working at his family's temple, he's having to deal with his mother's constant attempts to match-make him to every eligible girl in town.

He also happens to be best friends with a god. That god happens to be a dog, who happens to be able to turn into a frustratingly handsome young man. Complications, as they do, inevitably crop up.

CHAPTER ONE:

Mikleo gets dumped, gets his snacks stolen, and isn't allowed to get drunk -- but it's still a pretty good day regardless.

(CONTENT WARNING: shapeshifting, eventual mpreg.)

Link: AO3

This is a collaboration between me and @sensenaoya! I'm honored to be allowed to write for their wonderful AU, and even more honored to have their lovely art illustrating it!

Please heed all content warnings!

Check out my commission info here.

Read on Tumblr!

“We need to talk,” Himeko said gravely.

Mikleo gave a pained smile over the rim of his teacup, and lightly set it back down on its saucer.

“Of course,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

Himeko took a deep breath, and launched into a screed that Mikleo had heard few dozen times before – in different voices, and with different finer details, but with the same overarching message.

Mikleo was twenty-four years old, and had earned something of a reputation in town and the surrounding villages. This reputation was not entirely undeserved, when looking at the hard facts: he’d dated and broken the hearts of roughly sixty-three percent of the eligible female population in a fifty-mile radius. However, Mikleo wasn’t a heartbreaker by choice. His mother was dead set on chaining him to the village by any means necessary, and “You Need to Settle Down and Start a Family” was her current weapon of choice; when “You Need to Honor Our Family’s Duty and Tend to the Temple” had failed to inspire piety. The thing was, Mikleo also had no interest in settling down and absolutely no interest in children, so Muse had elected to force him on dates with every unmarried woman that she passingly caught the name of. She was a one-woman matchmaking service, and it was quite impressive in its own way. Though Mikleo did wonder how she managed to keep up with the temple’s day-to-day needs while taking on this little side gig of hers.

(Idly, as Himeko went on and on, Mikleo wondered how it would go if he brought up that point during his and his mother’s next fight. It would probably go very badly.)

Although Muse’s zeal for matchmaking was abundant, the quality of the matches...left something to be desired. Not a single one of these little relationships had lasted longer than a few weeks, and most of them crashed and burned quite spectacularly. (Usually the “burning” wasn’t literal; one memorable breakup notwithstanding.) Mikleo knew that he wasn’t a good fit for these girls – they wanted a quiet little life in the village and somewhere between two and a dozen children, and he wanted nothing more than to leave this town and travel the world with his uncle. Their life goals were simply incompatible, and even when it came to the finer details of shared hobbies and interests, kindred passions...well, there simply weren’t any. Mikleo could only think of one other person other than his uncle who shared his passion for history, and he—

“—honestly, from the rumors going around about you, I thought you’d be more – you know, more pushy, more of a scoundrel! Ravishing me against walls and over tables! But you’re more affectionate with that raggedy dog of yours than you are with me!” Himeko declared.

Himeko was clearly waiting for Mikleo to deny it, to reaffirm his devotion to her. The table fell into an eerie silence. Mikleo stared evenly at her, his expression very carefully blank.

“...’raggedy’?” Mikleo repeated.

Himeko shifted uncomfortably under Mikleo’s piercing gaze, and hemmed and hawed a moment before collecting herself. “Y-yes, well, I don’t know how else you want me to describe it. That bizarre fur that it’s always shedding on everything, and smelling like it’s just rolled in something foul, and that brainless expression it always has on its face--”

“I’m sorry,” Mikleo interrupted. “This isn’t going to work out.”

Mikleo signaled for the check, and the waitress brought it over wordlessly – she’d been witness to enough of these breakups that she knew to prepare herself the moment Mikleo walked in the door. Himeko sputtered, turned cherry red, and snatched up her purse before bounding to her feet. She stood in front of Mikleo, glaring down at him where he sat. He maintained eye contact, and raised an eyebrow at her.

“I hope you and that mutt keep each other company, and have a long life together,” she snapped before storming out of the cafe.

Mikleo wondered if that was supposed to be an insult. He bent down to dig in his pack for his wallet. The waitress took his money, and began to clear up the table as Mikleo finished his tea.

“She keeps looking back over her shoulder,” said the waitress. (She was named Lily, and had once been subjected to Muse’s matchmaking quest as well. Her breakup with Mikleo was years in the past now, however, and her doting husband was the village’s baker.) “I think she’s expecting you to chase after her.”

“Is she now?” Mikleo asked flatly. He swirled the tea in his cup before he took a sip.

Lily chuckled and shook her head. “Well, at least this one didn’t slap you. I had a cold washcloth all ready for you just in case.”

“You’re too kind.” Mikleo rose to his feet, and bowed at his waist. “Sorry about the commotion. As usual.”

“Are you kidding? We get so many customers who come in to watch the show. I think there’s a betting pool.”

Mikleo was happy to hear that he was supporting the local economy, and less happy to hear that he was the town’s designated soap opera star. His long brown hair, tied back in a low ponytail, hid how his ears burned red. He bade Lily farewell, and ducked out the cafe’s side door. He had a busy day ahead of him, and couldn’t let the embarrassment of yet another very public breakup get to his head. He had appointments at two houses, today, and had to run back to the temple to dress beforehand, and listen to his mother tut about how he just wasn’t trying to make it work with all the perfectly lovely girls she’d picked out for him—

Mikleo’s thoughts were interrupted by the press of a cold wet nose against his hand. Mikleo jumped, then sighed, and tried his best not to smile. Sorey’s sparkling green eyes gazed up at him; his expression bright and curious. (“Brainless”. Honestly, one would have to be pretty empty-headed themselves to even – no, no, there was no point in going down that path. Mikleo was a single man once more, and moreover, brooding would do him no good during his upcoming house-calls.) Mikleo reached down to ruffle Sorey’s coat, and rub at his soft ears. Sorey whined happily, his tail picking up speed and his tongue poking out of his muzzle as he leaned his head in to relish Mikleo’s touch. Mikleo felt his heart ache with fondness. Honestly, what was he to do with him.

“Come on,” Mikleo said. “We need to head back to the temple before I’m late for my house visits.”

Sorey trotted in step beside Mikleo, matching his pace as he always did. Mikleo knew that Sorey had all the speed and grace of the lightning that pierced the sky, and that poking along this sleepy village street was surely beneath his dignity as a god – and yet Sorey still walked beside him, ever since that fateful day in front of the temple.

A foul smell reached Mikleo’s nose, jolting him from his reverie. He crinkled his nose, and eyed Sorey as they walked.

“...were you rolling in something?” Mikleo asked sternly.

Sorey flinched, and he looked up at Mikleo with soulful, apologetic eyes. His soft fluffy ears lowered, making him a portrait of sincere, smelly contrition. Mikleo had a special weakness for Sorey’s puppy-eye look, and did not appreciate having said weakness targeted. He averted his eyes and managed to keep walking, keep focusing on the important things – getting back to the temple, getting to his appointments, and the fact that Sorey smelled like musky garlic that’d been baking in the sun too long.

“Sorry,” Sorey said. They were at the temple’s steps, and no one was around to hear him speak. “I’m...guessing your date didn’t go too well?”

“Nope,” Mikleo replied. He was already over it, not that there was really anything to get over. Himeko was surely right for someone, but Mikleo had little patience for the dramatic princess act. “And don’t try to change the subject. What were you--”

“Mikleo!”

Mikleo looked up to see his mother, resplendent in her priestess robes, approaching him. Her smile was bright and hopeful, and Mikleo felt a twinge of annoyance at the sight of it. (And no little guilt at that fact.)

“You’re back! How did it go with Himeko today?”

“Horribly,” Mikleo stated. “We didn’t work out. I’m sure she’ll be cursing my name all over town for the next few months.”

Muse sighed heavily, but didn’t really seem to be surprised by the statement. “Mikleo. You really need to try a bit harder. These girls are all so lovely, and you don’t let them get to know you at all...”

Muse sniffed the air, made a face, and looked down to where Sorey had sat himself at her feet. Sorey beamed his sweet doggy smile up at her, and wagged his tail; lifting one hopeful paw to ask for pets.

“--Sorey, you--” Muse coughed at the foul smell and covered her nose with her long sleeves, but leaned down to delicately pat Sorey’s head in spite of the olfactory assault. “Mikleo, please...before you go, would you...”

“I’ll take care of him,” Mikleo assured her. “Don’t worry. I’m off to get ready for my appointments.”

Thankfully, being as Sorey was a holy spirit of heaven-on-high, it wasn’t blasphemous for Mikleo to firmly instruct him to go wash off in the ceremonial waterfall on the temple grounds while Mikleo took a bath inside. Mikleo would have simply had him bathe indoors with him if Sorey wasn’t quite so smelly, and if Mikleo didn’t have business to attend to after. Mikleo walked out of the baths and back to his room, to find that Sorey had returned in his absence.

“All clean!” Sorey announced, smiling bright. “Promise. I even washed behind my ears. In both forms!”

Sorey had transformed into his human form, and was seated on Mikleo’s bed; casual, cross-legged, and half-naked. A towel was draped around his strong, broad shoulders, and his dripping-wet hair seemed to sparkle in the noonday light filtering through Mikleo’s windows. Water wandered in trails down Sorey’s bare chest and back and arms, outlining his muscles and making his tan skin glow. The drips meandered down Sorey’s body so enviously casually, and settled dark and damp at the hem of his trousers. Mikleo had lived his whole life in the presence of divinity, in the sight of sculptures and etchings of perfect, heavenly forms. Mikleo had lived almost his whole life by Sorey’s side. This practice hardly prepared him to stand upright at the sight of Sorey in this state, but he managed.

“...you’re dripping on my bed,” Mikleo said quietly.

Sorey blinked at him, then down at the bed, then scratched at his cheek, embarrassed. “...sorry. But I got myself a towel!”

Yes, that tiny towel draped around those obscene shoulders of yours is doing so much for us right now, Mikleo thought to himself bitterly. He shook his head and averted his gaze (with no small effort), and went to his closet to dress.

“Just two houses today, if you want to tag along,” Mikleo said. His bath-robe fell to the floor around his feet. The cool air made goosebumps prickle along Mikleo’s bare skin. “I’m sure you’ve had a busy day already.”

A busy day of napping, chasing butterflies, and hitting up the village butcher for scraps. Mikleo turned with a smile on his face as he tied his robes into place, to see Sorey covering his eyes with both hands. Mikleo raised an eyebrow.

“Sorey. You’ve seen me dress before.”

Sorey peeped between his fingers.

“…yeah, but…”

Sorey trailed off, letting the rest of that statement hang between them. Mikleo sat down next to him on the bed, and settled a brush and hair tie in Sorey’s lap.

“Here. Help me put it up today, won’t you?”

Sorey’s face lit up as if Mikleo had offered him a fine spread of gourmet delicacies, and Mikleo dutifully turned to allow him to work. Mikleo let very few people touch his hair – none of the girls he’d dated had ever gotten the privilege – and even Sorey was granted permission only on special occasions. Mikleo was feeling sentimental, today, perhaps – or maybe he just was still stewing over that “raggedy” comment from earlier. Sorey brushed his hair gently, reverently; carding his fingers through the strands to coax it up. Mikleo let his eyes slide shut at the feeling. Honestly, “raggedy”. Sorey’s coat as a dog was soft as silk and glittered in the sun, and his hair as a human was pulled into a romantically-tousled high ponytail. He looked a bit rumpled, sometimes – when they came home from a hike through the forest, and Sorey managed to get more branches and leaves stuck in his hair than any of the actual bushes or trees – but his heavenly presence always shone through loud and clear. Mikleo didn’t have the time or patience for anyone who couldn’t see something so obvious.

“All done!” Sorey sounded proud.

Mikleo looked himself over in the mirror. Honestly, not a bad job at all.

“It’ll do for now,” Mikleo said. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

--

 The temple was called upon to bless and cleanse households and properties on a regular basis. Frequent cleansings prevented the buildup of malevolence, and decreased the strain on the region’s god, Maotelus. Malevolence built up more quickly in more populated areas, or in locales where bad energy was frequently generated – thus, a quiet village farm could get away with a cleansing only once or twice a year, while the village square called for weekly blessings. Family homes usually called upon the temple’s services every few months, and as the son of the temple’s head priestess, Mikleo often found himself making these house calls personally. The lower-ranked priests and priestesses were tasked with the repetitive and less personal cleanings of public areas, and the older, higher-ranked priests and priestesses served Maotelus directly. Mikleo didn’t envy the work of either faction, but visiting homes directly wasn’t a cakewalk either. Mikleo had to smile and make small talk and listen to gossip, and deal with the judgmental stares when he visited an ex-girlfriend’s family home. Worse, some of these places had barking dogs. All of these factors were equally unpleasant.

Luckily, neither of the homes today were overly-complicated appointments. Both had asked for a simple, straightforward blessing – armed with staff and holy sutras, Mikleo was able to sweep away the malevolence in the air and gathering in the corners of the foundation. Some homes were hotbeds of drama and sorrow, and required top-to-bottom cleanings with holy water – Mikleo usually was able to bring a few temple attendants as assistants to these difficult appointments. A certain amount of malevolence was a part of human existence, but if Mikleo suspected foul play, he reported his findings to his mother at the temple; Muse then saw to it that the source of the matter was investigated. A household continually generating bad energy was a strain on Maotelus, and a strain on the village’s harmony. It was Mikleo’s duty to determine what begged a closer look.

The sun was beginning to set, and Mikleo and Sorey were on their way home; Mikleo’s arms filled with offerings made by the household in thanks for the temple’s service. Homes presented many things as offerings, and today, Mikleo had lucked out and been presented with two boxes of beautifully-made sweets from the town’s bakery. The sweet bean paste filling each perfectly-round miniature cake was rich and smooth; the perfect complement to the subtle resistance the mochi shell gave to the bite of Mikleo’s teeth. Mikleo savored two treats from the box on the walk back, and Sorey – well, “savoring” wasn’t the term. It implied a certain level of care and slowness of consumption that Sorey absolutely did not do. However, he clearly enjoyed it; the drool was evidence enough.

They passed by Zaveid’s bar on the way back; the Spring Breeze. Mikleo eyed it, considering. He wanted very badly to get home and crawl into bed, but these sweets would be perfect with a drink or two…Mikleo felt Sorey tugging on the hem on his robe with his teeth, and looked down, frowning.

“Sorey. I can have a drink if I want to,” Mikleo said sternly.

Sorey made a whiny little howl, and tangled himself in Mikleo’s legs stubbornly. He couldn’t speak aloud to him – there were too many people around outside the bar – but he made enough of a nuisance of himself for Mikleo to give up and keep walking to the temple. Once they were out of earshot of the crowds, Mikleo requested an explanation.

Sorey’s ears went low, and those damn eyes of his stared up at him. Mikleo’s face flushed, and he managed to look away before the effect floored him.

“You can’t go in there looking…like that,” Sorey said. “Who knows what someone who’s had a few too many drinks will try to do!”

Mikleo didn’t really understand what Sorey was implying – he wasn’t planning on getting sloppy drunk while in temple dress, if he was concerned about Mikleo besmirching the temple’s good image. He also was fully capable of defending himself against some drunk who wanted to fight; not that Zaveid would let any of that go on in his bar. Still, the urge for a drink had passed, and they were back at the temple once more.

“I want to share some of these with Maotelus,” Sorey said, and stood in front of Mikleo until Mikleo slotted one of the boxes into Sorey’s waiting jaws for him to carry.

“Don’t sample too many on your way there,” Mikleo said, only half-joking. “I’ll go change and then come up to offer my respects.”

Maotelus was the region’s chief god, and the temple had the peerless honor of being his seat in the earthly realm. Mikleo did not see him often – after all, it was the job of the more senior temple staff to attend to him – but their past interactions had been wholly pleasant. Maotelus was warm, friendly, and as down-to-earth as a god could really be. He often asked about whatever Mikleo was currently reading or studying, and was just as excited to hear about what Mikleo’s uncle Michael was getting up to as Mikleo and Sorey were. He could have passed for another one of Mikleo’s uncles, if not for the fact that he took the form of a white dragon, about the size of a draft horse. His radiance and imposing figure was only undercut a bit by his youthful-sounding voice. Mikleo hadn’t ever seen him in a more human state – perhaps that kind of thing was improper for a god of his stature.

The rest of the temple was silent, devoid of any attendants rushing about – most had gone home for the day. True to his word, Mikleo climbed up to the highest part of the temple grounds, kowtowed at the gates, and went in to pay his respects.

“Mikleo! Good to see you.”

The greeting from Maotelus seemed a bit abrupt, a bit forced – as if Mikleo had walked in on a conversation that needed to remain a secret. Mikleo couldn’t pretend not to be curious (curiosity was in his nature, after all), but was a respectful man at heart – he knew better than to pry into godly business. Or…whatever he and Sorey were getting up to in their little clubhouse up here. Mikleo eyed the empty sweets boxes, and spied a teetering pile of more empty boxes stashed in a corner.

“Lord Maotelus,” Mikleo said, bowing low and placing his forehead upon the ground. “It’s an honor, as always.”

“Please, get up. Tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”

Mikleo shifted into a more comfortable position, and fixed the fall of his hair over his shoulder. “What can I say, really? Same as always. Uncle Michael should hopefully be visiting home soon; he’d have much more interesting things to tell you.”

“Will he?” Maotelus asked. He sounded almost relieved. “Good, that’s good.”

Maotelus seemed… he was still magnificent, of course, but he seemed smaller than Mikleo last remembered him. It was maybe just a trick of the waning light, or a fault in Mikleo’s memory. But the exhaustion written all over Maotelus’ face was no trick, to be certain. Mikleo felt a twinge of guilt. It was his duty to keep the town cleansed of malevolence, to decrease Maotelus’ strain on keeping the realm prosperous. Was he slacking on his appointments? Were his heartbreaking escapades causing a storm of negative energy to arise from the town’s distraught women? Mikleo fretted. He would have to scout the town tomorrow, to see if he could detect any increase in negativity.

“…I see that you enjoyed the offerings,” Mikleo observed.

“We did,” Maotelus agreed. “I…don’t suppose you could rustle us up some more next time you’re out?”

Sorey’s puppy eyes were hard enough to handle on their own, and paired with Maotelus’ pleading, hopeful look…well, Mikleo didn’t stand a chance.

“Of course,” Mikleo promised. “But don’t let Sorey steal all of them. He’s been getting a bit of a belly recently.”

“Hey!” Sorey said, offended. He scowled down at his stomach and poked it with a finger. “I have not.”

“I’ll try my best,” Maotelus said with a chuckle. “Now, why don’t you two head off to bed? It’s getting late.”

“Sure,” Sorey said. He leaned over to stroke Maotelus’ muzzle with his hand. “Night, Mao.”

“Good night, Lord Maotelus.”

They slipped out the grand door that led to Maotelus’ chambers and into the cool night air. Sorey had transformed back into his dog form, and trotted alongside Mikleo as they walked back to the temple’s living chambers.

“You and Maotelus seem to be close, lately,” Mikleo observed. “What have the two of you been getting into together? Hopefully nothing that the attendants will have to clean up after.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sorey assured before trotting ahead of Mikleo. “You promised to get us more sweets, though? Really promised?”

So, it was a secret, then. Mikleo tried not to feel hurt – since when did he and Sorey have any secrets between them? – and look at it logically. There were simply some things beyond mortal comprehension; godly business that humans had no business prying into. He could leave it at that, and try to quash the curiosity that still nagged at him.

Still, maybe he could buy himself a seat in Sorey and Maotelus’ clubhouse with some treats.

“Yes, yes, I really will. I’ll have the priests bring them up starting tomorrow.”

Sorey cast a beaming doggie smile over his shoulder, his tongue lolling out of his mouth joyously. Mikleo couldn’t help but smile back, and jogged to catch up with Sorey. The day was done, and tomorrow was yet to come – it was time to rest, and dream of the wide world outside the village gates.

And maybe, if luck was on his side, Muse would give him a few days’ break before setting up another date.

–

Chapter Directory

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[dfroza]

A warning against liars

is seen in Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the Letter of 2nd Peter with chapter #2:

In the past there arose false prophets among God’s people, just as there will continue to be false teachers who will secretly infiltrate in your midst to divide you, bringing with them their destructive heresies. They will even deny the Master, who paid the price for them, bringing swift destruction on themselves. Many will follow immoral lifestyles. Because of these corrupt false teachers, the way of truth will be slandered. They are only out for themselves, ready to exploit you for their own gain through their cunning arguments. Their condemnation has been a long time coming. But their destruction does not slumber or sit idly by, for it is sure to come.

Now, don’t forget, God had no pity for the angels when they sinned but threw them into the lowest, darkest dungeon of gloom and locked them in chains, where they are firmly held until the judgment of torment.

And he did not spare the former world in the days of Noah when he sent a flood to destroy a depraved world (although he protected Noah, the preacher of righteousness, along with seven members of his family).

And don’t forget that he reduced to ashes the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, condemning them to ruin and destruction. God appointed them to be examples as to what is coming to the ungodly. Yet he rescued a righteous man, Lot, suffering the indignity of the unbridled lusts of the lawless. For righteous Lot lived among them day after day, distressed in his righteous soul by the rebellious deeds he saw and heard.

If the Lord Yahweh rescued Lot, he knows how to continually rescue the godly from their trials and to reserve the ungodly for punishment on the day of judgment. And this especially applies to those who live their lives despising authorities and who abandon themselves to chasing the depraved lusts of their flesh.

They are willfully arrogant and insolent, unafraid to insult the glorious ones. Yet even angels, who are greater than they in power and strength, do not dare slander them before the Lord. These individuals are nothing but brute beasts—irrational creatures, born in the wild to be caught and destroyed—and they will perish like beasts. They are professional insulters, who slander whatever they don’t understand, and in their destruction they will be destroyed. For all the evil they have done will come crashing down on them. They consider it their great pleasure to carouse in broad daylight. When they come to your love feasts they are but stains and blemishes, reveling in their deceptions as they feast with you. They are addicted to adultery, with eyes that are insatiable, with sins that never end. They seduce the vulnerable and are experts in their greed—they are but children of a curse!

They have wandered off the main road and have gone astray, because they are prophets who love profit—the wages they earn by wrongdoing. They are following the example of Balaam, son of Beor, who was rebuked for evil by a donkey incapable of speech yet that spoke with a human voice and restrained the prophet’s madness.

These people are dried-up riverbeds, waterless clouds pushed along by stormy winds—the deepest darkness of gloom has been prepared for them. They spout off with their grandiose, impressive nonsense. Consumed with the lusts of the flesh, they lure back into sin those who recently escaped from their error. They promise others freedom, yet they themselves are slaves to corruption, for people are slaves to whatever overcomes them.

Those who escape the corrupting forces of this world system through the experience of knowing about our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Messiah, then go back into entanglement with them and are defeated by them, becoming worse off than they were to start with. It would have been much better for them never to have experienced the way of righteousness than to know it and then turn away from the sacred obligation that was given to them. They become illustrations of the true proverb:

A dog will return to his own vomit

and a washed pig to its rolling in the mud.

The Letter of 2nd Peter, Chapter 2 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments continues with the theme of justice and integrity with chapter 19 of the book of Leviticus:

The Eternal One spoke to Moses.

Eternal One: Go, talk with the community of Israel, and tell them that they are to be holy, for I, the Eternal your God, am holy. I want all of you to honor your mothers and fathers and keep My Sabbaths, for I am the Eternal your God. Do not turn from Me to follow useless idols or cast metal images of other gods, for I am the Eternal your God.

When you sacrifice a peace offering to Me, present it correctly so you are accepted. Your peace offering should be consumed the same day you present it or the day after. But you must burn any of the offering that is still left on the third day. If any of it is eaten on the third day, your offering will not be accepted; by then it has become foul. Anyone who consumes the peace offering on the third day will bear his guilt and suffer the consequences, for he has desecrated what has been set apart for Me. That person must be cut off from his people.

When you harvest the crops of your land, do not gather the grain all the way to the edges of your fields or pick up what was overlooked during the first round of harvesting. Likewise do not strip the vines bare in your vineyard or gather the fallen grapes. Leave the fallen fruit and some grapes on the vine for the poor and strangers living among you; for I am the Eternal your God.

Eternal One: Do not take what is not yours or conduct business dishonestly or lie to each other. Do not swear to a lie in My name. If you do, My name is profaned. I am the Eternal One.

Do not mistreat your neighbor or steal from him. Do not keep the payment of a hired hand overnight, but compensate him for work at the end of the day. Do not mock the disabled by shouting a curse at a deaf person or putting something in the way to trip up the blind. Instead, honor and fear your God; I am the Eternal One.

In a court of law, do what is just, not unjust. Do not favor one side or the other, the poor or the wealthy; instead, judge your neighbor fairly. Do not go around spreading malicious lies about other people. Do not take a stand that would endanger your neighbor’s life. I am the Eternal One.

Do not harbor a deep hatred for any of your relatives. If your neighbor is doing something wrong, correct him or else you could be held responsible for his sin. Do not seek revenge or hold a grudge against any of your people. Instead, love your neighbor as you love yourself, for I am the Eternal One.

Honor My decrees. Do not breed two different species. Do not plant two different sorts of seed in your fields. Do not wear clothing made from two different kinds of material.

If a man has sexual relations with a slave woman who is promised to another man but has not yet been redeemed or freed, then they will face an inquiry. Neither the man nor the woman will be put to death because she was a slave and not a free woman when the offense took place. The man must present to Me a ram as his guilt offering at the entrance of the congregation tent. The priest is to sacrifice the ram of the guilt offering before Me to cover the man’s guilt; then the guilty man’s sin will be forgiven.

When you go into the land and plant fruit-bearing trees, you are not to eat the fruit right away. It’s off-limits for three years. When the fourth year arrives, all the fruit of those trees must be regarded as sacred, a praise offering to Me. When the fifth year arrives, you are finally allowed to eat the fruits of those trees. If you demonstrate your faith by following this procedure, these trees will be even more productive. I am the Eternal One, your God.

Do not consume any meat while the blood is still in it. Do not practice divination or fortune-telling. Do not cut the hair at your temples or trim your beard. Do not make cuts in your body for the dead or mark yourselves with tattoos. I am the Eternal One.

Do not defile your daughter by forcing her into prostitution. If you do, you not only corrupt her but you also infect the land with prostitution and wickedness. Keep My Sabbaths and respect My sanctuary. I am the Eternal One.

Do not turn to mediums or consult with those who communicate with the spirits of the dead. Do not go near them, or else you will defile yourselves. I am the Eternal your God.

You are to stand in respect for the older people in your community. You must fear your God. I am the Eternal One.

Don’t take advantage of any stranger who lives in your land. You must treat the outsider as one of your native-born people—as a full citizen—and you are to love him in the same way you love yourself; for remember, you were once strangers living in Egypt. I am the Eternal One, your God.

In business dealings, be fair and do not cheat. Measure accurately length, weight, and volume. Your scales are to be accurate, your weights true, and your containers standard. I am the Eternal your God, who led you out of Egypt.

You are to keep all My directives and all of My rules, and do as I have instructed. I am the Eternal One.

The Book of Leviticus, Chapter 19 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, may 15 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

[rosywrites]

The Beauty Within (Part 1/2)

Title: Reunited Chapter: The Beauty Within (Beauty and the Beast AU) By: ArisuChanSenpai (Visit my blog for AO3 link!) Fandom: League of Legends Ship: Jhin x Sona

Word count: 7755

Once upon a time, there lived a king in a grand castle surrounded by lush, green forests. He was given everything and anything he ever wanted, but he became obsessed with beautiful things. He would call the most beautiful people from all over the country to work in his castle and make it as beautiful as he envisioned it, even holding lavish dances to flaunt the elegance of his castle.

One night, he was called to the front door to see a shivering woman in a black cloak. Her skin was colored purple with lighter markings, her clothes worn out. She pleaded for shelter from the cold rain in exchange for a single rose, a flower the king adored the most.

But repulsed by her inhuman appearance, he rejected the woman’s offer, claiming that he could pick out a more beautiful rose than the barely blooming one she held. The woman warned him that he shouldn’t judge things based on appearance, for true beauty lies within.

The king scorned the woman’s warning and turned her away once more, going so far as to calling her a demon.

At his final refusal, the woman shed her cloak in a burst of glistening light, her skin now like a human’s without a horn, dressed in golden clothing—revealing an enchantress of stars. The king’s apologies fell on deaf ears, for the enchantress found no beauty underneath. Only a selfish and unkind king.

As punishment, she cast a spell to turn him into what he had called her. In addition, she spread the spell to the rest of the castle and its residents, her powerful magic hiding the castle in a mist and from the memories of others.

In the king’s claws was an enchanted mirror and the rose, which will bloom for ten years until he can learn to find love in the beauty within. If he could find love and earn their love back by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. Otherwise, he would remain a demon forever.

Years passed, and the king slowly fell into despair at his wicked appearance. He could only wait for the last rose petal to fall. After all, how could someone ever come to love a demon?

What a small village this was. There must have been something beyond the forests and mountains surrounding this crowded place. And yet, only the hunters or merchants were allowed to traverse through the dirt trails into the forests. “To keep this village safe,” they say. Sea green eyes rolled at the notion as they gazed out into the horizon, the sun’s rays spilling out of the mountain peaks.

Sona sat by the window of her cottage while strumming her harp to the sounds of the birds chirping in the tree by the windowsill. She took a deep breath to take in the aroma of the autumn morning breeze and exhaled.

The view from her room sometimes made this small corner of the world feel a little bigger.

Her eyes glanced at an elderly woman spreading grains for the chickens in the coop. Her hands winced away from the strings as she slowly backed away from her window. Attracting attention so early in the morning wasn’t ideal. Especially for her.

Giving up on playing her harp any longer, she stepped out of her room with her parchment and charcoal to start making breakfast. However, her mother, Lestara, was already awake, stirring rice porridge in a pot and cooked eggs on a plate by the table. She knocked on the doorway four times in a rhythm to gain her mother’s attention. “Oh! Sona, good timing. Sit down, dear, breakfast is almost done.”

She took a seat and watched her mother pour the porridge into bowls and bring them over. She scribbled something onto the parchment and flipped it around. “Do you have everything you need for today?” she wrote.

“Of course, dear. I double checked everything and made sure I didn’t miss a thing.” Lestara poured soy sauce into her bowl and tested the taste. “I’ll be visiting the market after the hunt, but I’ll be sure to come back as soon as I can.”

Sona started writing onto the parchment again. “Will you be warm enough? It’s getting closer to winter, after all.”

“With the fur coat you and I made, I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” She hummed in satisfaction when the porridge turned out to be better this time. “Is there anything you would like from the market?”

“Perhaps more parchment? I’m starting to run out.”

“Other than parchment and charcoal, dear. You don’t have anything you would like me to get you?”

“I’m fine with whatever you give me, mother. You usually get me something I like anyways.”

Lestara chuckled. “I know, but I felt like you might want something specific. You know I’ll ask before every hunt, Sona.”

Sona giggled as she took a bite from her porridge. But she shook her head to indicate that she didn’t want anything specific. Everything her mother gave her was precious, but she always cherished the books her mother could chance to get her with the extra money left over from the profits. “Anything is fine, I promise.”

“If you insist, my dear daughter. How’s the porridge? I think I did a superb job this time.”

“A little thick, but it’s better than a soupy porridge.” Sona smiled and finished the rest of her breakfast with her mother to see her off after.

 “Are you sure this is warm enough? You don’t need anything more?” she wrote, pointing to the fur coat around her mother’s shoulders.

“I’ve packed extra clothing aside from what I need, so don’t you worry.” Lestara ran her hand through Sona’s hair and smiled. “I’ll be back soon, Sona. You take care of the house for me, okay?”

Sona nodded and watched her mother take their horse and cart past the village gates, waiting until her mother disappeared into the woods. She sighed. Her mother was skilled in hunting, but Sona couldn’t help but worry whenever she went alone.

“You know, there are demons out there beyond these forests. Or, at least where your mother always goes,” a voice drawled from behind. She turned to see Yasuo standing behind her with his hand lazily placed on the hilt of his sword. “Your mother mostly goes alone, and that can be a great risk to her.” Sona was about to scribble something onto the parchment until Yasuo grunted and contorted his scarred face in distaste. “Don’t even bother. I’m not a man of reading words.”

She glanced at her writing on her paper, the Ionian characters rather blocky and stiff compared to their original, fluid form. Being adopted and taken to Demacia at a young age limited her study of her native tongue and writing, something that distanced her from the rest of the Ionians in this village. Despite being Ionian herself.

His eyes glanced at Sona and her writing on the paper before he turned around to leave. “For someone of our descent, you’re not really like us. You’d be better off doing work instead of reading or writing all day, don’t you think?” He wandered off with a listless drag in his step.

“Hmph,” Sona huffed out loud, her face hot in embarrassment. She watched Yasuo disappear into the sea of people walking or running about to get their tasks done.

Yasuo was known as the village’s protector and slayer of demons, according to the tales of the villagers who have gone hunting—demons or animals—with him in the forests. They said that he was the reason they could hunt and travel again. Before, demons had taken over the forests, perhaps spiriting away the trespassers who dared to step in their territory.

She never liked his crude and arrogant personality, Yasuo usually bragging about his kills and how he got certain scars.

Not to mention, he sometimes picked on her when she was without her mother, taunting her for her inability to speak. The worst of the worst in this village, she considered him to be.

With a sigh, Sona locked the door of the cottage and headed to a small, lonely building nearby, vines of ivy crawling on the walls. She pushed the door open, greeted by the smell of books and scrolls waiting to be studied. A slightly older woman with forest green hair poked her head out from the back.

“Oh! Sona, I was wondering when you’d be coming in. Here to borrow another book?”

She nodded as she scribbled something and showed it to the librarian. “Do you have something I can use to practice writing Ionian characters?”

Not many people knew how to read or write here. The librarian was one of the few people who knew how to read, but she was the only one who offered Sona the welcoming kindness the village lacked. But it was a place Sona frequented to escape from this small village into bigger worlds. Books were the one thing she could turn to for communication. Even if knowing how to read was frowned upon here, words made up so much of her world.

“Did Yasuo say something to you again?” Seeing Sona hesitate, the librarian shook her head as she scanned one of the shelves for an appropriate book. “That man is never up to anything good. Just keep ignoring him, dearie, he’ll leave you alone eventually.” Her face lit up as she grabbed a book and looked through the contents. “Aha! How about this one?”

Sona approached the librarian to see a book of illustrations and writing with it. She tilted her head to see an illustration depicting two children climbing a rope to the sky.

“This is a handwritten storybook of Ionian folktales. The writing in here is big enough to see each stroke properly to practice with.” She patted the back of Sona’s hand as she placed the book in her hands. “Your Ionian is proficient enough, but if you want to practice writing, I would highly suggest starting with that.”

Nodding thankfully, Sona sat down by a table and chose the story of a daughter of a poor farmer marrying a dragon prince. She copied a few words and repeated them as she read through the folktale. Time seemed to pass faster in the library, but it wasn’t like she had much to do in the first place in this small village.

Lestara was lost. Perhaps she took the wrong turn from the last fork in the road. But there was no reason why it mattered, since the two roads eventually merged again anyways. So why was there another fork in the road, when there wasn’t one there before?

She looked at the map she had bought from her previous visit to the market, her brows furrowed in confusion at the unmarked fork on the map. “That can’t be right…” She held her lantern up at both roads, each seeming to lead into the same direction anyways. “Let’s try this way, Hec.” She guided her horse down one of the roads, hoping that this would lead to the right way eventually.

The night was eerily silent. Almost too silent. Her breath turned into white in the winter breeze as the first flakes of snow began to fall from the sky.

The pattering of paws against the snow.

A howl.

Two howls.

Now primal growls sounding from behind Lestara’s cart.

Lestara turned to see a pack of wolves slowly approaching the cart. They were not interested in the excavated objects packed in the cart. No, they wanted meat. They wanted blood. Three behind the cart. Two on her right. One on her left. Without another moment to spare, she unlatched the cart from her horse’s saddle.

“Hyah!” Her horse speeded through the road with the wolves making chase after them.

They weren’t going to make it.

The wolves were growing closer with every second.

She looked back to see the alpha of the pack only a foot away. All it needed was to extend its neck to bite a chunk of flesh off her horse to send her flying into the snow as their next course. But when she turned back around, her horse collided into a wall of branches. She collapsed from the saddle, her horse running in another direction and abandoning her.

Looking back, she saw the wolves trying to get through the branches and used the opportunity to escape. Her eyes settled on the open, vast land before her.

And a castle.

There was no time to think. Lestara immediately ran through the snow to the castle as she pulled her fur coat closer to her body. She felt a sudden pull and fell onto her knees, turning to see one of the wolves with her fur coat in its jaws. Panic coursed through her body as she kicked it in the throat and kept running. But there was no way she could outrun the pack of wolves that were now free from the branches and heading straight for her.

She cried out in relief when a gate came into view as she pulled it open as much as she can. But another yank at the sleeve of her coat sent her face first into the snow. She immediately got up and swung her arm to pull her sleeve free from the wolf’s jaws, but it wouldn’t let go.

“Ugh, keep it!” She ripped her coat open to run through the gate and pulled the gate closed. She shivered in her now-soaked turtleneck as she hurried through the spacious garden and up the stairs to the door. She held her hand up to knock, but suddenly, the door clicked and swung itself open—much to Lestara’s bewilderment.

“H-hello?” she managed to stutter out. She stepped inside with caution, seeing the ornate palace to be empty. “Is anyone here?” Lestara spotted the orange color of fire flickering from further back of the castle and paced across the hall to, hopefully, greet the owner.

But there was no owner. Only a table of food by a lit fireplace. “I apologize if I’m intruding, but I have lost my horse and my belongings to go home. I would at least like some shelter from the snowfall before I go back.” Seeing there was no one to greet her, she approached the fireplace to warm herself up. She crouched in front of the fire with a sigh and dug her head into her knees.

How could this happen? Not only did she abandon the cart that contained her weapons, her horse was nowhere to be found. How was she going to return to Sona? Another sigh escaped her as she looked up at the table of food behind her. If no one was coming out after her few attempts to get their attention, she could eat too, right?

Hesitant but hungry, Lestara approached the table and sat down. She grabbed a small loaf of bread and spread some butter and cheese before taking a bite. The loaf tasted like it was freshly baked, making her wonder if someone had just made this meal. But there was no one in sight.

“Psst.”

Her eyes widened as she jerked her head around to find the source of the voice.

“Over here.”

She looked at the candelabra at the right of her plate. It, it couldn’t have been the candle talking, right? The design of the candelabra suddenly moved like a face.

“Hey, you might want to get out of here before the master finds out. He’s not very welcoming to outsiders.”

It was the candelabra.

Lestara’s breath caught in her throat as she stopped chewing. “You, you can talk?”

“Zed, how many times do I have to tell you you can’t just start talking out of nowhere like that?” another voice came from a small clock on the opposite side of her. “I apologize. Zed tends to do things without thinking,” the clock sneered the last part at the candle.

“What else do you expect me to do, Shen? Dance in front of her and sing? That’s one way of easing her into it.” The table clattered from Lestara getting up without a word and running away from the talking furniture. “And there she goes.”

The candle talked. The clock talked. This was not a normal castle. If they were magical creatures, then surely the owner of this castle was of inhuman origins. She flew towards the door to make her escape, but she stopped dead in her tracks when a dark figure closed the entrance shut.

“Who are you?” a low and unworldly voice growled. “A thief?”

“N-no, I was just passing by… I was… chased by wolves,” Lestara stammered as she stepped back when the figure approached her. Horns. This man was no human. “Please, sir, I didn’t mean any trouble. I lost my horse and all my belongings!”

Glowing blue eyes glanced at the talking candle and clock, who tensed up at the figure’s stare. “Yet you enter this castle and help yourself like you live here?” He cornered her by a pillar, a growl rumbling from his throat as he spoke, “I think not.”

He was a demon.

Sona awakened from the sound of panicked hooves clopping to the gate of the cottage, a frightened whinny begging her to let it in. She burst out of the door and saw their horse looking around and fidgeting restlessly.

Why was Hec alone?

Where was the cart?

Where was her mother?

Her eyes widened as she checked behind the horse for a sign of her mother walking back from the forest, but no one was there. Her breath quickened once she realized their horse had come here alone.

What happened in the forest?

She pulled the horse in and ran back into the house for her shawl, packing her charcoal and parchment in a sack and tying it around her neck. She then hopped onto their horse and slapped the reins to jump over the village gates into the forest. They brushed through the snow until Hec skidded to a stop by the cart in the dirt.

The sheet covering the goods Lestara was planning to sell at the market was blown away by the wind, and some items were cluttered on the ground… with bite marks and shredded scraps.

Sona’s eyes darted around the area. If the wolves were still around, they had to leave. Now. She urged Hec to keep going until they walked through the opening of the branches Hec made. In the distance was Lestara’s fur coat, now torn into pieces. She looked up at the castle and gulped. Her mother must have taken shelter in there. She leapt off Hec and quickly opened the gates to let herself and Hec in, making sure to shut the gates tightly to prevent the wolves from entering.

Once she arrived to the base of the stairs, she took a deep breath to quell her shaking hands. The castle was large, but it looked so unsettling. She hopped off the saddle and walked up the stairs until she reached the door. Before she even raised her hand to knock, the door opened on its own, startling her. She pushed the door open more, poking her head through.

No one was in the castle except for the lit fireplace in the opposite hallway. She stepped inside with caution and closed the door quietly. Could her mother have gotten lost here? She hoped for the best.

“Isn’t that…?”

“Another person wandered in here?”

“As if the other one wasn’t enough.”

“But she looks like a younger woman. Do you think…?”

“You honestly think she could be the one?”

Her head jerked to the right, where she thought she heard voices. She approached the direction, seeing no one but a lit candelabra and a beautifully-designed clock. She took the candelabra to light her way through the dark halls of the palace, her nervous breaths making the flames flicker. Sona ascended the main stairs, but she felt the atmosphere growing colder and colder with each step.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and knocked on the handrail four times in a rhythm. She continued to wander around, repeating the knocking to see if her mother could recognize her and call for her. But the palace was too big. There was no way she could find her in such a huge place. She placed the candelabra down to sit down and press the hem of her dress to her cold, aching feet.

Suddenly, she heard a faint cry for help. It sounded like her mother. Her head perked up immediately and grabbed the candelabra again. She continued to follow the cries until she reached a stone staircase in a tower. Was this where her mother was? She quietly walked up the stairs, knocking again.

“Sona?!”

Without another thought, Sona ran up the spiraling staircase to see her mother behind bars. She gripped onto the cold metal, trying to shake them apart out of desperation. How did her mother get here?! Why was she imprisoned?!

“Sona, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come here!” Lestara pried Sona’s hands off the bars to send her away. “You need to escape. Before he comes!”

“Who?” Sona breathed out.

“Another one?” a voice echoed in the tower.

“No! Not her! She has done nothing wrong!” Lestara cried out. “Anyone but my daughter, please!”

Sona whipped her head to the source of the voice, seeing a horned figure sitting on the windowsill of the tower, covered by shadows. She heard her heart pounding in her ears as the figure hopped down to the stairs, merely feet away from her. Looking closer under the torch’s light, she spotted claws and spikes covering the arms.

“If you’ve come here to free your mother, your journey has been useless. She is being punished for trespassing my castle and thievery, and I intend to keep her here until she perishes.”

Her heart suddenly sank into her stomach. No. He couldn’t do that. Not to her mother. She desperately shook her head, grasping her hands together to plead to him to release her. But seeing that the demon wouldn’t budge, she took out the parchment and charcoal from her sack.

“Sona, no, please! Don’t do it!”

She bravely stepped into the light of the torch by Lestara’s prison with her parchment held out in front of her. The demon took a step forward, still in the shadows, reading her blocky writing.

“I will take her place. If you let me, please let my mother go.”

The demon paused, his eyes glancing up at her. “You’d take your mother’s place?”

“Please, sir! She can’t speak! She can’t live in a prison like this!” Lestara pleaded.

“Only if you promise me my mother will be set free and let her go back home.”

There was another pause, as if the demon was considering his options. “You shall have my word. But you are to remain in this castle forever. Will you go so far as to do that?”

Without hesitation, Sona grabbed the torch and held it to the demon. White, skull-like head with horns growing out and glowing blue orbs in the eye sockets. Fangs as sharp as mirror shards jutting out. Arms with spikes that turned from dark violet shoulders to crimson claws. Legs that bent like a beast’s. She gasped in horror at his inhuman appearance, nearly dropping the torch.

A demon. A monster.

But she had to promise him. And a promise he was going to get. She nodded firmly with determination flaring in her eyes.

“Fine.” He swept past her to unlock Lestara’s prison.

Sona rushed to the bars to give her mother one last hug before the demon hauled her away for all eternity. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, squeezing her mother tightly in her arms. Sona then locked herself behind the bars, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Lestara was then yanked away from her embrace by the demon, who carried her down the stairs to send her away.

The candelabra and the clock peered over from the side of the prison, seeing her silently weep into her hands while sitting in the corner. They exchanged worried glances. The candle then hopped onto the clock’s head to pull the lever to unlock the prison.

She flinched at the sound of the metal gate screeching. Strange. Was the demon letting her free? It couldn’t have been. A sharp gasp escaped her when the candelabra and the clock walked into her prison.

“Come with us, young lady. We can show you to, uh, your room?” the clock said. “Uh-oh.” He ducked when a wooden stick flew at him from inside, hitting the candelabra instead and sending him tumbling down the stairs. “Wait! We’re harmless, I swear!” he attempted to calm her down. “We promise we won’t hurt you.”

Sona had held up a wooden stool in her hands to throw the clock down the stairs with the candelabra too, but she set it down once her shock had finally settled in. A talking candle… and a clock…? How was this possible?

“You bitch! I’m going to light you on fire!” the candle threatened as it hopped back up the stairs, getting stopped by the clock.

“Zed! Calm down! She’s never seen talking furniture before. What do you expect?” The clock smiled nervously at her. “Sorry about him. He’s a little hot-headed, no pun intended. His name is Zed. My name is Shen. We, uh, we will be showing you to your new room in the palace, so please follow us.”

“No need.” The demon’s voice sounded from the stairway. “I will show you to your room. Unless you prefer staying in this tower forever.”

She shook her head.

“Then hurry up. I would rather we not dawdle.” He grabbed Zed to light the way through the castle. His eyes watched Sona hesitantly chase after him and follow from a few feet away. The atmosphere was heavy. But considering he had exchanged her mother with her as a prisoner, it was a given. He looked away when she sniffed and wiped a tear away from her cheeks.

There was no escape, was there? Looking around, it seemed as if the entire castle was alive. Sona glanced at the demon, who seemed to be having a conversation with the candle. Who was he? What was he? She winced when the demon looked back at her.

“You’re allowed to go anywhere you wish in the castle. However, you are forbidden from entering the highest floor. Do not let me catch you wandering up there, or else.” The threat in his voice was quiet but clear enough. They continued to walk through the halls until they reached a door at the end of a hallway on the second floor. “This will be your room. I will reiterate that you are free to wander around the castle of your own accord. My servants will attend to your needs, should you have anything to request.” He paused as he glanced at the insisting candle. “However, I expect you to be down for meals when you are called. That is an order.”

Sona flinched when the demon slammed the door behind her with a growl. She leaned against the door and slid down, hopelessness settling into her heart that she would never see her mother or the village again.

Yet she had no more tears to shed.

Yasuo sat by the counter of the bar, downing a cup of sake and pouring himself another. What a boring day it was today. There was nothing to do in this village anymore other than drinking or taking naps. Nothing interesting to travel for. Nothing to hunt. Nothing to slay. He was sure his sword was lusting for a demon’s blood.

But how could he find a demon when he’d already slain all the demons infesting the woods near their village?

As he was about to take another sip, the doors of the bar burst open, revealing Lestara looking desperate and helpless. “Somebody! Anyone! You must help my daughter. The demon took her prisoner in his castle!”

All eyes focused on her as she approached the nearest patron to ask for help. “There’s a demon living in a castle in the forest, and he took my daughter!”

Yasuo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. A demon? In these forests? Impossible. “A demon, you say?” he drawled. “Are you sure it wasn’t just the winter snow playing tricks on your eyes?” That earned him a snicker from one of the patrons sitting at the end of the bar.

“No, you don’t understand. His castle is hidden by the trees, and, and it’s alive! There are talking furniture in there that move like people!”

The bar fell silent and then burst into laughter at such unimaginable claims. Furniture that talk? Moving like people? She must have been joking. Even Yasuo couldn’t comprehend what kind of demon would have furniture as pawns.

“Yasuo, please. I am telling you the truth. The demon took me prisoner and exchanged me with Sona!”

For a moment, and only a moment, he had believed her. No sane person of admirable hunting skills like Lestara would lie about a demon in the woods. Perhaps he could check. It would provide him something to kill time with. “Then lead the way, Lestara. I can go with you to slay the demon.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you! Follow me, I will lead you there immediately.” Lestara and Yasuo rode horses past the librarian, whose eyes followed them out the village gates into the woods.

How curious. Where were they going at this time of night? But there was no time to answer that, for she had some scribing to finish.

However, the journey to find the castle was fruitless, for the fork in the road that lead to the castle had suddenly disappeared. Lestara desperately cleared bushes to try to find the other road. But there was no use. “That, that’s impossible! I know it was here! I had to leave my cart on the path to escape the wolves!”

“Wolves?” Yasuo repeated. “You mean you dragged me out all the way here to tell me that you were chased by wolves? Is that the “demon” you’re talking about?”

“No! No. They weren’t the demon. If they were, I would have said they were wolves, not a demon.” She clenched her hand into a fist out of frustration when she couldn’t find the road anywhere. “I don’t understand. It was here. I am not lying to you, Yasuo, I swear.”

Yasuo clicked his tongue. “Forget it. This was a waste of my time. As if there is a demon in these damn woods.”

“But…!”

“You are on your own!” he snarled. “Don’t even bother asking for help the next time you hallucinate something as ridiculous as a demon and talking furniture.” He turned his horse around to return to the village, leaving Lestara alone in the cold.

Sona couldn’t get a wink of sleep that night. She kept tossing and turning under her covers, thinking about how desperate Lestara was to remain in the prison instead. But how could she endure knowing her mother was out here in this castle, trapped forever? The thought of her mother’s freedom was her only solace.

Thankfully, she kept herself preoccupied with the talking wardrobe, Ahri, in her room. Ahri was certainly a talker, having engaged her in a conversation for most of the night. Since Sona was mute, Ahri resorted to yes or no questions and talking from there.

She sat up from the plush bed, combing her fingers through her hair. It was dawn already. The sky was still grey, still snowing. With a sigh, Sona hopped off the bed to change out of her nightgown. Once dressed, she poked her head out of her room to see if the demon was coming by.

Seeing as no one was coming, she decided to take the opportunity to wander around the castle. If she was allowed to go anywhere she wished, then she was going to take that chance. Especially if she can find escape routes.

She wandered from hall to hall, from floor to floor, taking note of every window she could use to escape safely.

Her feet took her to a large door at the end of a hallway that loomed over even the tallest statue in the hall. Her jaw dropped at the ornate design of gold and wood on such a huge door. She had considered this to be the demon’s lair, but it stood out too much to be so.

She pushed it open to see a ballroom behind the door, the gold floors matte from the dust that piled up from years of unuse. On a raised platform sat a piano and a harp as tall as her. Her eyes glittered brighter than golden doors as she approached the harp to pluck the string.

Her face contorted at the cacophony. It was so out-of-tune… She’d have to fix that.

But the sound of the door creaking open again stopped her. She turned to see a feather duster entering the ballroom. “Oh, it’s just you. What are you doing here? We’ve been looking all over for you!” When Sona opened her mouth to attempt to say something, the feather duster hurried over and shooed her away from the harp. “There’s no time for chatting. You’re being called for breakfast.”

Breakfast with the demon. What an unpleasant thought. Sona’s brows furrowed as she exited the ballroom and walked back to her bedroom instead. There was no way she was going to have breakfast with someone like him.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” the feather duster called out as it chased after her. “You can’t defy the master’s orders, you know!”

Sona answered the feather duster by slamming her bedroom door, but not without the duster slipping inside. She firmly shook her head to insist her refusal on joining the demon for breakfast.

“Ugh. Ahri, I’d expect you of all people to convince her first.”

“Hey, I tried, Syndra. But I can’t persuade someone who was practically taken prisoner in a castle. That’s unfair to her.”

Their conversation was cut short when four loud thumps sounded from the door. Sona flew to the door to lock it immediately. It was the demon. “I thought I told you to come down for meals when called,” he growled. “Care to give me an explanation?”

Sona shushed the feather duster that was about to speak and angrily started writing something onto her parchment, slipping it under the door.

“You can’t stay in there forever,” he growled louder.

“Yes. I. Can,” she wrote.

There was a bang of frustration against her door and a low snarl. “Fine. Then starve.” He stomped away from her bedroom, slamming the hall door with great force.

Syndra sighed. “Fantastic. Look what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Sona couldn’t help but send a glare at the door and shake her head as she rolled her eyes. As if she would ever let him have his way. Not when he was going to treat her like this.

The demon entered his lair, where pieces of wooden frames and canvas lay cluttered on the floor. Zed and Shen followed closely behind. He approached a table holding the enchanted mirror and a glass container holding the rose. His hand hovered over the back of the mirror as if to grab it but hesitated.

“Your Majesty, you mustn’t keep losing your temper like that,” Shen warned.

“It’ll only make it worse with that girl,” Zed muttered, earning a hard nudge from Shen.

He sighed as he picked up the mirror. “Show me the young lady.” His reflection changed, the mirrow now showing Ahri and Syndra trying to convince Sona to give him a chance. But Sona could only shake her head angrily, refusing to show acknowledgement of him. “Why does it matter?” He set the mirror back down on its reflective surface, walking out to the balcony to cool his head. “It’s hopeless.”

Shen and Zed exchanged worried glances and left the room to leave him to his thoughts.

After an hour, Sona snuck out of her room with Syndra tailing behind. “Oh, so now you’re hungry, huh?” Syndra shook her head as she guided Sona to the kitchen. “Well, we can’t have you starve, no matter what the master says.” Once they entered the kitchen, they were greeted by clusters of moving plates, utensils, and teacups. Shen and Zed were on a table talking to a teapot.

“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to join us,” one teacup said as he jumped down open drawers. “Care for some breakfast you missed out on? Or,” he paused to look out the window, “oh, sorry, it seems to be close to lunch now.”

“Kayn, leave her alone,” another teacup called from a table. “You can’t blame her for not wanting to join the master for breakfast.”

“Guess what, Akali? I’m going to. We went through so much trouble making all this food, only to have it go to waste because both parties decided not to eat.”

Sona bowed apologetically at the teacup’s piercing remark.

“Kayn, behave. We must be respectful to the guest,” Shen said.

“Guest, my ass,” Kayn muttered.

“Don’t give your uncle sass, Kayn.” Zed looked at Sona, who stared back with a questioning look. “Besides, at this point, we need to treat her like a guest.”

“Fine, dad,” he drawled.

“Yeah, Kayn. Listen to Uncle Shen for once.”

“Shut it, Akali.”

“Now, now. The young lady must be feeling hungry. We can still give her what we made,” the teapot hopped in between the two teacups glaring at each other. “Welcome, young lady. My name is Karma. I mostly run the kitchen to prepare the meals for you. I suppose you’ve come here because you’re hungry.” Karma looked at Shen and Zed to lead Sona to the dining hall. “We will be with you shortly, dear.”

The two lead Sona to the dining hall and sat her down at the end of the long table. “So, how are you liking the castle so far?” Zed asked.

Sona scribbled on her parchment and showed it to him. “The castle’s very spacious. I’m rather interested in the harp that’s sitting in the ballroom.”

“Interesting. You can play music?” Shen asked.

“I took lessons in my old country before I moved to Ionia.”

“Ah. That explains why you look Ionian. Your writing says otherwise, though,” Zed commented, making Sona’s cheeks turn red in embarrassment.

Her embarrassment was short-lived when the kitchen doors opened with trays flooding in and placing themselves before Sona, opening up to uncover the food inside. Oh gods, she was so hungry. How was she able to withstand this hunger earlier? She thanked them for the food and helped herself to as much as she could eat to last for the day.

“Slow down, dear, you’re going to choke,” Karma warned. “Even if the master won’t let you eat, I am not having that. I will personally deliver your dinner to your room if I must, so don’t force yourself.”

Sona nodded in thanks and started eating more peacefully, feeling relieved. The servants in the castle were so kind compared to the demon. She couldn’t help but wonder why the demon wasn’t like them.

While Shen and Zed were giving her a tour of the unventured part of the palace, they had eventually fallen into a deep conversation that paid no mind to Sona’s presence. Figuring they wouldn’t notice if she wandered off on her own, Sona took a detour up a staircase to see what else was up there.

The surroundings seemed to become more dilapidated as she continued to ascend the stairs. Even the marble statues seemed to turn darker and more frightening as she approached the top.

Next thing she knew, a door marked with scratches and webs stood before her. Realization hit her that this was the demon’s lair. She wasn’t allowed here. But her curiosity pushed her hand to open the door and enter the room.

The room was dimly lit by a fireplace and a few candles around a king-sized bed. In other corners of the room lay shattered and torn paintings. Upon closer inspection of a torn painting by the bed, she noticed it was a painting of humans. The man in the middle, where the canvas was most damaged, seemed to stare at her with deep blue eyes. Was it the previous owner of this castle? Before the demon took over?

Not wanting to think about the fate of the former residents of the palace, she turned away to explore the room more. By the balcony of the room, where it was lit by only moonlight, a table with a mirror and a glass container with a rose sat in the center. She approached the rose, examining it closer. She raised her hand to touch the glass to admire its beauty, when a shadow loomed over her.

She sucked in a sharp breath seeing the demon standing by the balcony.

“I thought I told you this place was forbidden!” His claws clenched into fists and struck the wall with so much force that it cracked under the pressure. “Get out. Get the hell out!” he roared, sending Sona running out of the room in fright. He eyed the rose for any damage or a sign it was tainted. It took mere seconds for the demon to realize the damage he had done.

Sona choked back the lump in her throat as she ran down the main stairway with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She couldn’t stay here any longer. Nothing was going right. The demon could have killed her. She was so scared. She ran past the servants begging her to stay and went on her way on her horse.

The sun had set, and she could barely make out the landscape. She went through the forest to hopefully find a way out back to the road. Her eyes darted around to find an opening. Somewhere. Anywhere.

A howl following two more chilled her blood. She looked back while Hec was still running and saw a pack of wolves approaching her from behind.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

She slapped the reins against her horse to escape.

The wolves were on her tail, one even getting close enough to try nipping at Hec’s legs. In Hec’s fright, he launched Sona into the snow, trapped by the circling wolves. Sona gritted her teeth and grabbed a branch by her feet and rushed to her horse’s aid. She swung the branch at the wolves to deter them, even managing to send one collapsing into the snow.

It was no use. There was only so much she could do.

A wolf caught her swing and pulled the branch out of her hands, rendering her vulnerable. She backed up to her horse to protect it. Was this how she was going to die? All without seeing her mother one final time? She shut her eyes for her imminent death when a wolf leapt at her.

A snarl sounded from her right following a pained whine from the wolf. Sona opened her eyes to see the demon before her. But his presence didn’t discourage the wolves. They collectively leapt at the demon, trying to tear at him, only to have claws sinking into their flesh as he sent them flying at trees.

The demon glared at the wolves, a demonic rumble reverberating from his throat and sending the survivors fleeing. He fell to his knees, his body covered in blood and wounds. Unable to take the pain, he collapsed onto his side.

Sona gulped, her breath shallow and quick from the adrenaline. She pursed her lips as she glanced at the demon, whose usual glowing eyes were now dull. This was her chance. She could escape his clutches once and for all. She regained her composure and went to hop back onto her horse.

But she stopped.

She could run. She could run right now without having to look back.

The demon wouldn’t be able to chase after her.

And yet she couldn’t just leave him to die.

“He’s waking up!”

“Oh, thank the heavens. I thought he wouldn’t make it.”

The demon awoke to some of his servants and Sona, who hovered over him with a soaked rag in her hands, by his bedside in worry. He groaned from the sharp pain in his arm and side. Tilting his head slightly, he saw bandages on his torso and arm. “What… is going on?”

“You suffered wounds trying to save this young lady, from what she’s told us,” Karma explained. “She’s been up all night tending to your wounds.” She nudged the bowl of hot water towards Sona. “If you have any sort of common sense, you would thank her.” She jumped off the bed. “By the time I come back, I expect you to have at least done what you should do.” She hopped away out of the bedroom to meet with the other concerned servants to update them on his condition.

An awkward silence settled between them as the demon tried to find his voice to speak to her. Sona remained in her seat, staring down at her cupped hands.

“I, um,” he started, “would like to thank you for helping me. I probably could have died, if you didn’t.”

Sona glanced up at him, whose eyes gave her a sincere apology. She reached out for the parchment and started scribbling onto it. “I accept your apology. But also, thank you for saving my life.” A genuine smile curled her lips for the first time since she came here.

The demon fell silent at her smile. He cleared his throat before saying, “You’re welcome.” There was another awkward pause before he cleared his throat again. “Your name was Sona, I believe?”

She nodded.

“My name is Khada Jhin. You can call me… or write, in your case, Jhin.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I believe that introduction was long overdue.”

[rhetoricandlogic]

JOINT REVIEW: THE GIRL WHO CIRCUMNAVIGATED FAIRYLAND IN A SHIP OF HER OWN MAKING BY CATHERYNNE M VALENTE

Twelve-year-old September lives in Omaha, and used to have an ordinary life, until her father went to war and her mother went to work. One day, September is met at her kitchen window by a Green Wind (taking the form of a gentleman in a green jacket), who invites her on an adventure, implying that her help is needed in Fairyland. The new Marquess is unpredictable and fickle, and also not much older than September. Only September can retrieve a talisman the Marquess wants from the enchanted woods, and if she doesn’t . . . then the Marquess will make life impossible for the inhabitants of Fairyland. September is already making new friends, including a book-loving Wyvern and a mysterious boy named Saturday. With exquisite illustrations by acclaimed artist Ana Juan, Fairyland lives up to the sensation it created when the author first posted it online. For readers of all ages who love the charm of Alice in Wonderland and the soul of The Golden Compass, here is a reading experience unto itself: unforgettable, and so very beautiful.

Stand alone or series: It can be read as standalone but hopefully it will be a series? Pleaaaaase Ms Valente?

How did we get this book: The author made the book available online free of charge, a couple of weeks ago and we rushed to download it. But we will get final copies soon.

Why did we read this book: Because it looked and it sounded great. And it won an Andre Norton Award. Not to mention that it is a Catherynne Valente book.

Review:

First Impressions:

Ana: I will try my best to be coherent about this book and not to break out the caps lock too much but it will be hard because OH MY GOD. This is the book that rescued me from a horrible reading slump; it is the book that made me realise that Cat Valente is an AWESOME writer (which I already suspected but this settled the matter); it is a book that is so beautifully written and full of incredible imaginative twists and ideas that I constantly had a sense of wonderment reading it; but above all, this is a book I will treasure forever and keep close and go back to, many times in the future. I just know it.

Thea: I have been an unabashed Cat Valente fan ever since I picked up The Orphan’s Tales (thanks to the glowing reviews from trusted bloggers), and I have seriously loved her adult fiction. When Ana sent me an excitable email (replete with many exclamation points and capslocking) that The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland was available for free download, I joined in the jubilation and immediately scurried my way to Ms. Valente’s website. And then I read the book, and then I fell in love. This is the first book from Ms. Valente that I’ve read that doesn’t employ the nested story-within-a-story, alternating chapters, narrators, and storylines – and even without that particular flavor, Ms. Valente’s writing shines. I, like Ana, loved this book, and I, like Ana, plan on rereading and treasuring this gem of a novel countless times over.

On the Plot:

Ana: It opens one fine day, with (The Somewhat Heartless) Twelve-year-old September being invited to visit Fairyland by the Green Wind. She says yes (and how could she not, being a fierce and adventurous girl?) and travels forthwith by means of Leopard (which is obviously, the best way to travel, if you ask me). In Fairyland, she will have many adventures and meet new friends including a half-library Wyvern (who most certainly is NOT a dragon) and a blue boy named Saturday. But also: this is where she might lose many things (including her shadow) and meet the all-powerful Marquess who sends her on a quest to retrieve a mysterious casket and what lies inside may well change Fairyland forever.

I am in AWE, folks, in AWE at Cat Valente’s creativity. This book is so full of wonderfulness that it is difficult to know where to start. Perhaps with the narrative itself, with an omnipotent narrator who sometimes interrupts the story to speak directly to the reader. It is so easy to get this wrong, to have these interruptions jarring and disrupting the narrative but not here: here it works well, and it adds to the story rather than disturbing it.

Then there is the creativity, the imagination: like for example, a creature that believes himself to be the son of a library and another one that is a soap golem; there is a herd of wild bicycles as well as flying leopards.

But this is only SURFACE, because underneath each creature has an underlying idea or concept or issue that is addressed with subtly and beauty: from a search for self-identity (if Wyvern is not the son of a library, then who is he?) to the horrible truths of slavery; from selfless devotion to political unrest. This is a book that celebrates fairytales without ever being derivative and never forgetting that they can be dark and gruesome. It sort of reminds me of Peter Pan and Neverland and how every child wants to visit Neverland and its wonders but let’s not forget: it is indeed a dangerous place inhabited by bloodthirsty people including young boys who are there because their mothers and nannies lost them.

Because in the end, I think that the most important thing to say about The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland is: you cannot have adventures without grief. And there is no shying away from it. But despite the grief and darker undertones, there is a lot of love and friendship here enough to – I can’t resist any longer, allow me to break out the caps lock- FILL MY HEART WITH JOY.

And then, to make things even BETTER, this book has the most amazing illustrations!

(link)

I mean, seriously. How can anyone resist?

Thea: Yes, yes, yes. What Ana said. The Girl (I am truncating this title because it is cumbersome to type, and much like September, who loves “A through L” as her friend Wyvern’s name, it is far too many syllables) is a gorgeous, imaginative novel that celebrates the daring-do of youth, the magic of the unknown, and the pitfalls and horrors of power. Also, this is decidedly unlike any other novels I’ve read by Ms. Valente, not only because the narrative style is more traditional, but also because the prose is ever-so-slightly screwball (I mean that in the best way). I completely agree with Ana that the omniscient narrator is a fantastic touch and sets the overall tone for the novel – doing the whimsical, breaking-the-fourth-wall type of narration can easily go sowrong – providing levity and whimsy, but tempered with actual thematic depth (the aforementioned examinations of slavery, of polity, and so on and so forth). This is a tall order, and to accomplish all of that in a children’s book, without ever becoming preachy or ham-handed, or completely frivolous is flabbergasting. I am honestly in awe of how Ms. Valente managed to weave together some of the most absurd story elements (migrating bicycles, hello!) into a cogent, poignant story.

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland is an amalgam of some of my most treasured stories, conjuring comparisons to The Neverending Story, Peter Pan, but most of all, it feels to me like a modern, more-fun version of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – and if anyone is worthy to earn comparison to these classic works of children’s fantasy literature (even surpassing them), it is Catherynne Valente.

On the Characters:

Ana: There is a whole plethora of wonderful characters in The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland and I fell in love with every single one of them. I felt so bad for the lonely Soap Golem who was still waiting for the return of her Queen; I felt tremendously sorry for Saturday and how terrible it was that his entire life was about granting wishes and the horrendous way he was made to grant those wishes. Hey, I even sympathise with the villain, the Marquess, once her full story is disclosed – scrap that: I completely related to the Marquess and her motivations and maybe even rooted a little for her. But just a little.

Then of course, there is September, our main character, who is so fierce and a bit heartless that she leaves her house and her family behind without even thinking twice – but that decision is brought back and thought about throughout the entire book. She is dedicated, extremely loyal, compassionate, creative and just such a cool young heroine.

Thea: Yep, this is another one of those reviews where I am sitting in the back nodding my head emphatically, playing hype-man to Ana’s lead. What she said. I loved the lovely Soap Golem, and I loved SATURDAY, and I loved the Marquess (because, having been something of a heartless child myself, I have a soft spot for characters like this), and I loved A-through-L (or “Ell”) and the Green Wind and the leopard, and of course, more than anything, I loved September. September is not particularly pretty or smart or brilliant, but she is September – a normal, if slightly heartless, little girl from the decidedly unromantic land of Omaha, who is swept up by the Green Wind and embarks on an Adventure (with a capital “A”).

What is not to love about this book, I ask you? Nothing. It is perfect.

Final Thoughts, Observations & Rating:

Ana: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland is a small beautifully packaged bundle of perfect JOY. It is as awesome as a quest-coming of age story can be and I highly recommend it to everybody who loves fairytales, awesome heroines and beautiful writing. This goes straight into my top 10 of 2011.

Thea: I completely and wholeheartedly agree with Ana. It is a fantastical sort of bildungsroman (I have always wanted to use that word and something about Catherynne Valente encourages one to stretch and use vocabulary outside of one’s daily vernacular), a descriptive fairytale, and an imaginative feast of the bizarre and wonderful. I adored this book, and it too has a locked position as one of my top 10 books of 2011 (even if that is technically cheating since it was published prior to this year).

Notable Quotes/ Parts:

When they are in a great hurry, little girls rarely look behind them. Especially those who are even a little Heartless, though we may be quite certain by now that September’s Heart had grown heavier than she expected when she climbed out of her window that long ago morning. Because she did not look behind, September did not see the smoky-glass casket close itself primly up again. She did not see it bend in half until it cracked, and Death hop up again, quite well, quite awake, and quite small once more. She certainly did not see Death stand on her tiptoes and blow a kiss after her, a kiss that rushed through all the frosted leaves of the autumnal forest, but could not quite catch a child running as fast as she could. As all mothers know, children travel faster than kisses. The speed of kisses is, in fact, what Doctor Fallow would call a cosmic constant. The speed of children has no limits.

Additional Thoughts: The author has a website for the book where you can read HOW the book came about and why plus, read the first 8 chapters online, free.

And check out the lovely trailer:

[daddycoldhands]

Little Christmases #3: Necessary Sacrifice

Recently, my kids’ Sunday school teacher confided in me that that she’d been a little horrified by the day’s lesson. The class materials, bought in a package by the church, included a terrifying picture of Abraham about to sacrifice his only son Isaac. It’s a horrifying story, to be sure, but the illustrators got a little excited about drawing the cruel, curved knife in Abraham’s upraised hand, the dawning terror in his child’s eyes.

To be fair to these artists, though, and the good folk at our church who bought them, there’s no good way to make an illustration for this story. There’s nothing about child sacrifice—ordered by God or not—that can be drawn in a way that won’t give nightmares to Sunday school students.

The story can’t be swept under a rug, though, like some of the other dark and bloody tales of the Old Testament. Three major world religions trace their roots back to Abraham, and it’s in this moment, the moment when he demonstrates his willingness to sacrifice his child, that he shows the faith that will one day lead to God’s chosen people, their nation of Israel, and the man whose death would redeem God’s creation. That’s right; Abraham and his son Isaac are as much a part of the Christmas story as the angels who announced Christ’s birth to a band of bewildered shepherds.

So where does this particular Christmas story begin? Like all stories of redemption, it begins with God putting things in motion long before his people deserve them. Abraham (or Abram, as he’s known at this point of the story) is briefly mentioned in a genealogy in one chapter of the book of Genesis, and the next time he appears God makes extravagant promises to him:

“I will make you into a great nation,

   and I will bless you;

I will make your name great,

   and you will be a blessing.

I will bless those who bless you,

   and whoever curses you I will curse;

and all peoples on earth

   will be blessed through you.”

It’s fair to wonder what Abraham had done up to this point to warrant God’s blessings here. I’m going to go out on a limb say that Abraham had done absolutely nothing to deserve this. God’s fond of making outlandish promises to undeserving people. Think of Peter, a rash, uneducated fisherman with little more to offer God than a propensity for sticking his foot in his mouth. Jesus promised, long before Peter had any idea what it would mean, that upon him God would build his church.

Nations are made out of land and people, so it makes sense that God’s first direction to Abraham was to tell him to get up and move. God promised him the land of Canaan, and directed Abraham to uproot his entire extended family (quite a large group) and get moving.

Abraham probably assumed that the nation-building would start happening a lot sooner than it actually did. As it turned out, he ended up just passing through the promised land rather than settling there. When he arrived in his new nation, not only did he find that it was already occupied, but it was also in the middle of a famine. Abraham had to be confused and disappointed; his promised “nation” was a wasteland that couldn’t even feed his current nomadic family, let alone the nation that God had promised him.

So Abraham moved on to Egypt, but continued to find that God’s grand-sounding promises created more problems than they solved. Nothing was materializing yet. Part of his anxiety was created by his beautiful wife, Sarah. Convinced that the Egyptians would kill him so that they could claim Sarah for themselves, he lied to everyone and called Sarah his sister. The Egyptian pharaoh accordingly brought her into his house, but when his entire household suddenly became sick, figured out that there was something wrong with the arrangement.

After getting the pharaoh and his family ill by lying to them, Abraham rightly figured that it was time to get on the road again, and he ended up back in Canaan. Even back in his newly famine-less nation, though, things still weren’t going well for Abraham. The first step to being the father of many nations is being a father, and his beautiful bride hadn’t given him any children yet.

God kept making his extravagant promises to Abraham this entire time, but eventually Abraham decided to take matters into his own hands. Sarah, at this point, was well past her child-bearing age, so he let Sarah convince him into making a baby with one of their slaves instead. (Side note: this is not what Christians call traditional marriage.) God, realizing that Abraham had misunderstood his promises, showed up and reminded Abraham that his children would become a great nation, this time more specifically announcing that Sarah, not the handmaid, would be the mother of his children.

At this point, Abraham fell over and started laughing at God. Gotta love the honesty and of Abraham’s response here. Everyone else in the Bible who hears God’s words is paralyzed by fear and terror. Abraham laughed. He laughed because Sarah was not just too old to have a baby, she was so old that the idea was hilarious. Sarah laughed, too, when she heard God’s promise. But not long after, God got the last laugh by allowing Sarah to get pregnant and give birth.

It’s at this point that the story gets dark. Abraham got to enjoy being a father for only a few short years before God gave him the most terrifying instruction in the Bible: “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.” Notice how specific God is here. Abraham wasn’t allowed to wiggle out of this by sacrificing the child he fathered with his slave; God wanted Isaac, the son Abraham loved, to be the one sacrificed.

I don’t know how much I can dwell on what happens next. Scripture calls it a “test,” but it’s hard to understand what God was testing. Abraham traveled three days to the place God directed, each step of the way taking him closer to killing his child. Scripture doesn’t indicate how old Isaac was at this point, but he was old enough to ask his father where the animal was for the sacrifice—he still didn’t know that the sacrifice would be him. He was small enough yet, though, that his elderly father was able to overpower him and tie him to an altar.

God’s angel intervened before Abraham could finish his awful task, though, and everyone sighs in relief. Abraham was allowed to use a sheep in Isaac’s place, and the boy got to live. Abraham learned that this whole affair was a test, and God reasserted his promises to make a nation of his children, and that the whole world would be blessed through him.

Our sigh of relief, unfortunately, is only temporary. As charming and sweet as the Christmas story is, there’s a sadness and sorrow underneath all of it. Jesus was born to be the sacrifice that Isaac couldn’t be. The redemption of God’s creation still had to be paid for by the sacrifice of a child, but God knew that Abraham’s child couldn’t fill that role. It had to be his own child.

If there’s a text in the Bible that’s a stumbling block for people, it’s this one. If you’re reading this and thinking to yourself that there’s no way that you could worship a God who tests his followers the way he tested Abraham, I can’t blame you. As far as I know, there are no explanations of this almost-child-sacrifice that could possibly alleviate the fear and trembling that the story inspires. Compounding our difficulty with this text is the praise that the Bible heaps on Abraham for the faith in God that he shows in the story. Whatever else might be true about the kind of faith of that pleases God, it’s clear that he was pleased with the faith Abraham showed through his willingness to do the unimaginable.

I will argue, though, that this text is particularly tough for modern readers because we don’t typically understand sacrifice. For ancient Israelites, sacrifice was a regular part of their lives. We’re so used to paying for things with money that we often don’t understand what it means to pay for something. Everything, in the end, is paid for with life. Money is just a stand-in for life, for time, an approximation of how much our time is worth. When someone buys a house, they pay for it not with money, but with the time necessary to earn that money. A value meal at McDonald’s isn’t worth a few bucks; it’s worth one hour of life working at a minimum wage job.

Sacrifice, like other kinds of payment, involves paying with some measure of life, but is different in what we purchase with that life. Sacrifice is not just some kind of weird religious payment, but life paying for life. Think about an immigrant mother, devoting her life to saving up a college fund for her children. She sacrifices her life to create life for her children. Similarly, but on a divine scale, when God eventually does allow his son to be sacrificed on the cross, it’s his life that pays for our life.

The life that God wants to give us, like all life, has to be paid for. In his mercy and his love, God was unwilling to let anyone else, not Isaac and not you, be the sacrifice. He paid it himself. As terrifying as the story of Abraham is, it’s also the story of God’s love, and not just any kind of love, but the greatest. As Jesus gently reminds us, there is no greater love than that shown by a man who lays down his life for his friends.

We are, improbably and inexplicably, God’s friends. And he laid down his life for us, that we might live.