#Mount Venere

[web-novel-polls]

Aroace-spec Character Losers' Tournament

[Please vote for who you believe has the most canon evidence to be aroace-spec, not the most popular. It will never be acceptable to post "anti-propaganda" in this tournament or invalidate a suggested identity because "they're not aroace enough." You will be blocked unless it's clearly a genuine mistake / misphrasing.]

Propaganda underneath the cut

Yin Hanjiang from Devil Venerable Also Wants to Know

Submission: Demisexual demiromantic

Resubmitting him too because, having read the book, he is also not allo. He very clearly draws a line between love and desire, which allo people usually don't do. He spends the entire book being fairly platonically loyal to Wenren E and then when someone explains what love is and he notices that it lines up with how he feels about Wenren E, he's mad about it. Plus the aroace feeling of falling in love with someone and having that shake your entire being to the core. Also, when asked, he doesn't know what love is, but none of the characters in this book do, so.

Mod Propaganda

Literally only cares about Wenren È

“And as for Yin Hanjiang, he actually seemed to deeply believe he was an ice-cold sword, blind and heartless, not caring if what was in front of him was a man, woman, or beast, so long as it wasn’t Wenren È.” - Ch.6

One of the only characters that’s clearly in love/obsessed with someone at the very beginning, but the story clearly talks about how he Only Likes Wenren È specifically, romantically and sexually (probably. Haven’t gotten that far).

Chung Myung from Return of the Mount Hua Sect

Submission: Aroace

He's so aroace! to me!! He's hard on the outside, but soft on the inside, no matter what he wants us to believe. He also says it multiple times that what he loves the most is the Mount Hua sect! He clearly loved his father/older brother figure, and his best friend, and thinks of them every chapter (they have passed away). And his current friends!! I wasn't expecting them to 'found family' this hard and fast, but they did! These kids care about each other so much </3

[crazycatsiren]

One day in the near future, my utmost honoring of my ancestors will be complete with mounted archery. 🏹🏇

[evilvillain123456789]

my body can heal itsself indefinitely, instantly, to any extent and for any amount of time. for years i was studied in labs by the nations freakiest scientists against my will, punched, acid applied to my erogenous zones, kicked, all manner of venereal diseases fended off by my immune system. a month ago, they began testing my resistance against falling from great heights, and took turns pushing me out of helicopters. the last time they were able to get their hands on me was during a flyby over Mount Everest, where they had wanted to see if i could survive the tumble down. in my panicked flailing, i had landed squarely on the peak with my legs spread, and tip had entered my vagina. my hymen, unbreakable, had acted like a rubber band, stretching before returning the momentum upwards, launching me back into the sky. i soared through the upper atmosphere before ending up in space. i now reside on the moon and i have a very pleasant time every day

[literaryvein-reblogs]

10 More Words Related to Medieval Art & Architecture

to include in your poem/story

1. Monstrance: A vessel created to display the consecrated Host, the body of Christ. They were first created in response to the Feast of Corpus Christ established in 1263 that enabled the faithful to see and venerate the consecrated Host on a crescent moon-shaped mount. Monstrances were used in liturgical processions, especially on feast days, and were also placed on the altar.

2. Ogee Arch or Ogive: An arch with a pointed apex, formed by the intersection of two S curves usually confined to decoration and not used in arcade arches. Ogee arches were used only in the late Gothic period.

3. Pediment: A triangular space above a window or entrance. Originally, the triangular space was formed by the end of a gable roof and later was used decoratively.

4. Quatrefoil: An ornamental form which has four lobes or foils. It may resemble a four-petaled flower.

5. Refectory: Dining room in a monastery.

Refectory at Mont-Saint-Michael, France

6. Scriptorium: Area in a monastery where books and documents were written, copied, and illuminated.

7. Trefoil: An ornamental form which has three lobes or foils.

8. Trumeau Figure: Statue decorating a trumeau (i.e., vertical architectural member between the leaves of a doorway. Trumenus were often highly decorated). Usually this was a human figure, usually a religious personage.

9. Tympanum (plural, tympana): The semicircular area enclosed by the arch above the lintel of an arched entranceway. This area is often decorated with sculpture in the Romanesque and Gothic periods.

10. West End: The area of the church opposite the east end. The west end usually functions as the main entrance to the church. When one enters a church from the west end, the left side is the north side, and the right is the south side.

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

Words Related to Medieval Art & Architecture (pt. 1)

[boinkingbattlemechs]

Phoenix Hawk IIC

Though in many ways it resembles the combat prowess of the Inner Sphere's Charger, the Phoenix Hawk IIC is a fixture of many second-line Clan Clusters and front-line Successor State regiments during the Word of Blake Jihad.

During the reign of the lackluster Khan Jacob Masters, Clan Steel Viper entered a period of stagnation in all areas, including technological development. In a rare fit of innovation at the time, though one many observers considered oddball at best, the Steel Viper Scientist Caste decided to base a new assault BattleMech on the venerable 45-ton Phoenix Hawk chassis. At 80-tons, the resulting design was almost twice as heavy as the original, though it is severely undergunned for an assault 'Mech due its incredible speed for a 'Mech its size. Following the introduction of the OmniMech by Clan Coyote just three years later however, the Phoenix Hawk IIC largely saw itself relegated to second-line status.

Built around the Type 79 400 XL engine mounted on an Endo Steel skeleton fitted with five Jump Jets, the Phoenix Hawk IIC features as close as possible ground speed and agility to the original Phoenix Hawk as can be reasonably achieved on an 80-ton assault 'Mech, making it an effective fast interdiction unit. Ten and half tons of ferro-fibrous armor provide eighty-one percent of the maximum possible protection at its weight class, while ten Double Heat Sinks are sufficient for the weapons array.

The main armament of the Phoenix Hawk IIC is the paired Ultra Autocannon/10s, each of which has a three-ton ammunition bin it can draw on. The cannons are mounted in twin pods on either side of torso to the rear, a feature allowing technicians easy access to the weapons and reducing maintenance time both at base or in the field. A pair of Machine Guns provide extra firepower that is most useful against unarmored infantry. Despite the Clans' disdain for it, the 'Mech's weaponless arms are almost ideal for physical combat.

The Phoenix Hawk IIC would gain a new vitality following Clan Jade Falcon's ejection of the Steel Vipers from the Inner Sphere in 3061. Seeking to rapidly rebuild their weakened touman, Khan Perigard Zalman approached Clan Diamond Shark offering captured Heavy Laser technology and the plans for the ancient design in return for the production of a new variant for the Steel Viper's second-line clusters. Initially observers were curious why the Sharks dealt so fairly with such a weakened "customer", but the rapid development of even more deadly variations not included in the deal agreed with the Vipers provided some explanation, with production of the visually reworked chassis initiated at both Auxiliary Production Site #5 on Babylon and the rebuilt Trellshire Heavy Industries of Twycross.

By 3078 six variations of the Phoenix Hawk IIC were walking off Trellshire's production lines for the garrison forces of Diamond Shark as well as for sale to both Clan and Inner Sphere buyers. While some among the Clans opposed such sales to Spheroids, the focus on designs like the Phoenix Hawk IIC that are considered mediocre by Clan warrior but are still outstanding by Inner Sphere standards appears to be a conscious choice by the Sharks. Many of the variants also utilize ammunition-hungry weapons, a decision Clan observers wryly note ensures Inner Sphere buyers either make steady munitions purchases or are forced to more frequently buy replacement parts from the accelerated wear caused by using inferior Spheroid ordnance, both ensuring frequent repeat business for the Diamond Sharks.

[aquitainequeen]

I was sitting in the dark thinking about cannibalism Furiosa’s depiction of Dementus and his connection to motorbikes.

When we first see Dementus, he’s seated before a sleek, gorgeous and clearly venerated bike, pristine in this most wasted of lands, while the History Man preaches of its make and properties. Instantly we can tell that the bike isn’t just Dementus’ favoured mode of transportation, it’s his idol, his beloved.

The reverence that Dementus holds for motorbikes brings rewards. He cuts a splendid and imposing figure as he drives a carriage pulled by three bikes at once, leading an ever-growing pack of followers on their own modes of transportation. The bikes and their riders are kin to their lord’s flesh and blood hounds; fleet enough to hunt down, corner and harry larger lumbering prey, slavering to be in at the kill of a deposed leader.

Then Dementus gets a hint of the abundance of the Citadel and the potential of Gas Town. Once he uses his warriors on bikes to take the latter, Dementus ends up forsaking motorbikes and the nomadic lifestyle to settle down and live on high in a penthouse, growing corpulent. The Octoboss and his own followers defect from him and race across the desert on bladed feet or take their bikes to the air to survive, while Dementus makes grandiose declarations from the back of a monster truck, all his splendour and charisma gone.

If Dementus had been riding a bike like his followers, he wouldn’t have caught Furiosa and Jack; they would have been able to slip from his reach and speed away to a spot where they could mount their own bikes and escape him utterly, setting out for the Green Place. But while he returns once more to using bikes as a means of executing Jack – his metal hounds preparing the feast for his flesh and blood dogs – one of the bikes betrays Dementus. One of them allows Furiosa to flee from him, carrying her far enough back to the Citadel that she can bear word to Immortan Joe.

He can trot out his chariot and have it driven behind his truck in pride of place, very nearly in the front of the procession of his forces, but soon Dementus’ metal pack is reduced to a few bikes in the desert, and then not even that once he swaps his chariot for Smeg’s very inferior vehicle (with a dummy for handle bars) and flees into the storm. The man we met in a tent while venerating a bike, surrounded by his followers and horde, is now reduced to a man in a tent formed out of his bike, content in the shelter that it provides; back in familiar territory, not resentful but resigned, ‘here we are again’.

[cipheramnesia]

Part 3: The Death, Rebirth, and Afterlife of Parasite Alice

The Riverside Clinic for Wellness and Long-term Care weathered safely the storms of the burn just as all the worst memories navigate the mindscape unimpeded. The venerable history of the red brick and white trimmed building carried it through the poor and homeless left in squalor to the airy chill of lobotomy and electroshock therapy, two wings wide and three floors tall. Its height well serviced its intent, too short for escape even via a yearning leap from the roof to its concrete driveway.

The persistance of such single-minded enclosure of the divergent mind carried forward to the interior, with mutiply sectioned floors along each wing navigable only through a network of stairwells. A more modern elevator spired through the center of the building, lever operated and gated by iron on all sides. None of the layers of white tile or muted gray carpet or soothing art prints or geometic wall paintings over the years could fully excise the prison lovingly built into the architecture. Inside, it promised no escape. Outside its dignified facade offered warm reassurance that aging loved ones to difficult children and everyone in between would be safely forgotten.

Some part of Alice understood all this as the square black truck complained about stopping at the brick stairs with their awkwardly late addition of a wheel chair accessible ramp, leading to wide white doors set with large windows blocked by gauzy white curtains. The driver helped her out of the car and she said, "I can do it just fine!" before almost falling as her legs wobbled. She didn't like strangers touching her, but now everyone was a stranger and she leaned on a stranger just for the simple task of reaching the door of the building where she will die of cancer.

The doors swung inward to reveal an average man with a surfeit of dignity to his gray peppered mustache and deep, dark eyes beneath a noble high forehead and a gently swept back head of mostly gray hair. His thick belly preceded his wide shoulders into any room, and his hands were noticeably large with thick fingers, moving quickly and nimbly to pull a wheelchair onto the small porch. He wore checked trousers, a pale yellow golf shirt, and his arms were exceptionally hairy.

"So good to meet you," he let one hand overtake his stomach to greet Alice, which she disregarded. "My name is Dr Hopewell, and I'm the administrator here at Riverside. I've heard quite a bit about you, and I wanted to make you comfortable right away. You're quite the special guest!" He smiled away the dignity of his profile.

"I don't need a wheelchair," she said. The driver shrugged and let her go, forcing her to grab to armrests to keep standing. "I'm just tired." She gave daggers out of her eyes to both men before maneuvering herself into the seat. "Don't get used to this."

The driver passed a clipboard over her head. "You gotta sign for the delivery, also initial there... and there. Sign and date there too. Okay, nice knowing you."

Dr. Hopewell was already turning her and rolling her into the building before the driver started the truck. "Don't worry Alice, we'll make sure you have the best of care here. You're a celebrity after all, but there may be a few bumps ahead!" They wheeled past a heavy wood door and a much larger orderly took over, pushing her down the hall then bumping up a flight of stairs.

"We specialize these days in unique individuals like yourself. I understand you won't persue treatment?" She folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, we can be ready to start immediately." The chair and orderly bumped back down stairs into another long hallway. "But here is your room, and we've put you with someone you should get along with. She's very unique."

The room was small, two beds with a curtain divider, wall mounted TV sets, a closet bathroom, one tall window and a few small sets of sad artificial wood drawers.

Another woman sat in a rolling tube frame chair in the far corner of the room. She was big and soft and still in pajamas, her belly stuck out a bit from under the top, and her sloping shoulders seemed to be a permanent fixture of her slouch while the sweeping curve of her neck to her chin echoed in her faint jawline. Her nose was long and straight and Alice thought it was very fine with her dark black eyes looking a thousand miles away and her arrow straight glossy black hair hanging behind the chair. Alice wondered what it would be like to hold her hand. Would she squeeze hard or gently? Interlaced or fingers to thumb.

She about the woman's hands and lips and eyes enought, it took her longer than it should have to realize the other woman was also shimmering with the golden glow of the burn.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; iii

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀɪʙꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴏᴅᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 14.4k warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos. feedback very much appreciated! previous series masterlist

Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor. 

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon. 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass. 

It is soft below your feet now. 

The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.

The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand. 

Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above. 

The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace. 

The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange. 

An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise. 

A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.

A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry. 

His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch. 

A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.

Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth. 

Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat. 

A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.

In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.  

A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.

His presence is warm, eager; and consuming. 

Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance. 

Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more. 

You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly. 

The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek. 

Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.

“I love you.” 

Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine. 

Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck. 

The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.

His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you. 

“I know, pet.”

A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens. 

A sharp pain punctures through you. 

Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes– 

Though it is not Paul at all.  

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses;  The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

In terror, you look down:

A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you. 

You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead. 

Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken. 

“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.” 

Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life. 

A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze. 

Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops. 

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.

"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”

It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.

 “Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”

Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”

It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat. 

“I wouldn't hurt you.”

Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.” 

You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face. 

You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime. 

And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her. 

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear. 

But never, not until now, has there been a man with you. 

Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever. 

A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as… 

Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.

An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing. 

Dressing is a solemn affair this morning. 

It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate. 

It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck. 

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it. 

She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.

“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.” 

Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.” 

The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head. 

Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light. 

She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.” 

And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress. 

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.

 “It's not so simple”

Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.” 

And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.  

“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”

You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.” 

And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations. 

 “N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”

You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls. 

You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack. 

A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own. 

You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.

“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind. 

And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”

A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.

There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum. 

“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet. 

“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."

Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.” 

And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists. 

 Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters. 

A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling. 

“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away. 

“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.” 

It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it. 

She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.” 

And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash. 

Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile. 

An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room. 

“Now, let's get you to this War Council.” 

Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room. 

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

“Concentrate, Paul.” 

His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”

But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room. 

“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”

He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own. 

“Dreams?” 

She reads him so well. 

Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates. 

Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean. 

“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all. 

“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.” 

And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained. 

A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.

“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?” 

The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls. 

And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun. 

Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash – 

Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts. 

“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.” 

Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?” 

He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind. 

“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs. 

And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon. 

He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it. 

His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”

Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him. 

“Dreams are messages from the deep.”

Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time. 

Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing. 

It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room. 

But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.

And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil. 

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning – all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat. 

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors. 

But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him. 

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead. 

But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil. 

In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh. 

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing? 

Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure –  but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium –  I am not yours to keep.

Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head. 

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same. 

Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

“Lady Bourbon?”

And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s. 

It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke. 

“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.” 

After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen. 

Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son. 

From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.

You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.” 

You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?” 

And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.” 

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”

And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought. 

Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?” 

Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more. “I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”

Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise. 

Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.” 

The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head. 

His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”  

You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.” 

It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?” 

Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.” 

Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony. 

“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.” 

A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”

Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council. 

“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.” 

It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?” 

There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand. 

Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”  

Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.” 

Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them. 

Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest. 

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch. 

Instead, you are asleep within minutes. 

Your name calls to you. 

A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.  

Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up. 

“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly. 

And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.

“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you. 

“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm. 

“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”  

And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.

And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–

A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest. 

And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.

And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through. 

A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back. 

Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over – 

“I'm yours.” 

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.  

Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams. 

“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks. 

“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around. 

The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight. 

“I need some fresh air.” 

Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps. 

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air. 

Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power. 

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor. 

And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.

Paul sighs harshly. 

He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach. 

Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you. 

A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight. 

The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips. 

When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers. 

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters. 

For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil. 

A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table. 

It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.

“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation. 

Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent. 

He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you. 

And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.

It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red. 

“I assume you met the crabs.”

And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture. 

“I did.” 

Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.

And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all. 

He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”

And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you. 

He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.” 

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you. 

He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”

I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.

And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.

In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time. 

And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.

The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.

“How did you know to do that?” 

Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin. 

Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.” 

You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health. 

Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you. 

And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.  

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.” 

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.

Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.

But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?” 

Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust. 

And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.  

Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.” 

And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you? 

It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning –  He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised. 

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head. 

It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing? 

Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way. 

“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.” 

Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest. 

A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.” 

And he does look, after that. 

Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life. 

And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings. 

Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze –  disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.

The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret. 

You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips. 

Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?” 

You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife. 

Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.” 

You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.

It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry. 

A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting. 

“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–” 

But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.” 

And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance. 

“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”

It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach. 

This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly? 

“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”  

You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.  

“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”

It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently. 

And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.” 

It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart. 

 And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.” 

And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet. 

And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.

Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role. 

You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest. 

You will make a good duchess. 

And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor. 

A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers. 

You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?” 

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog. 

And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.

Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure. 

He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?” 

He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear. 

You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly. 

And this does not ease his conscience. 

It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you. 

He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours: 

“Threats demand evolution.”

His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you. 

His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile. 

It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table. 

A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly. 

He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.  

Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion. 

“It's sparkling tea.” 

At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.

“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”

Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn? 

“Not even when you were young?”

And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.

“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.” 

Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening. 

There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him. 

“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.” 

You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance. 

Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide. 

Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest. 

“I owe you an apology.” 

And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits. 

In his peripheral, you turn to him.

His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth. 

And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it. 

Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”

You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.

And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own. 

 “This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.” 

And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same. 

“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.

“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”  

You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.” 

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides. 

You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle. 

And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.

By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.

You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give. 

The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side. 

But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in. 

And you don't put the veil back on.

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[serpentface]

Two questions regarding the Wardi religion:

In addition to the bull and the lioness, what are the seven faces of god/sacrificial animals?

Given that white animals seem to be sacred, does that influence how albino humans/other sophents are treated by society?

The seven faces of God are as follows:

-the lunar, horned, or 'wild ox' face of God, which presides over the moons, and the fertility of the land, animals, and people. In pre-imperial times, this was functionally the most central face of God (replaced by the lion face/odomache). The most ideal sacrifice is a wild ox (especially white or albino) that has never been bred. -the ‘ox’ face of God, presides over agriculture and labor, as well as the domestic sphere. The most ideal sacrifice is a healthy plow oxen or khait who has never been yoked or bred (if the sacrifice is towards Ox-Face as the domestic sphere, this should be a heifer). -the lion face of God, presides over sovereignty, statehood, military might, and is most associated with the health and continuing existence of the imperial entity. The most ideal sacrifice is a maned lioness (functionally white, though this is a trait of the captive population). -the ocean or skimmer face of God, presides over the seas, winds, as well as fortune and mercantilism. The ideal sacrifice is the skimmer gull or an albatross, especially one taken from one of the sacred rocks in the 'mouth' of the Viper sea. -the serpent face of God, presides over the cosmos and divine Mysteries, associated with funerary rites and death. Also has a wildly disparate association with royalty (which is derived from entirely separate traditions and has not yet fully been reconciled into the faith). The ideal sacrifice is a two headed or melanistic snake, especially a venomous one (both would be MOST ideal, but this is rare beyond any practicality) -The solar face of God, presides over the sun, stars, and fire, also heavily associated with khait and mounted warriors. (this is a VERY direct import from the chief solar god in the Burri pantheon (who rides and/or is a khait with the sun between its horns), hence the seemingly random khait association). The ideal sacrifice is a healthy riding khait (especially with a white spotted coat), or alternatively a golden eagle. -The river face of God, presides over fresh water, seasonal flooding, and the rains. The ideal sacrifice is the migratory reed duck (which arrives at the onset of the wet season) or a freshwater hesperornis (ideally taken from one of the sacred waters). An-Nechoi are also occasionally given.

Though the core religion is monotheistic, each face of God is functionally a syncretic fusion of older ethnic Wardi beliefs, the Burri pantheon, and other regionally native traditions, which have not all been fully reconciled (the process of fusion is more or less still ongoing). Each face in of itself has dozens or more epithets with distinct features. For example, the river face has a specific epithet for each major riverway, each venerated as a distinct aspect of the Godhead. Functionally, common practice of the Wardi faith is pretty indistinguishable from polytheism, and most of the religious authority does not care as long as required orthopraxy is maintained (the central dogma of the religion does not care How you believe, but that the correct practices are enacted).

Also for reference, these are the specific animals taken on the pilgrimage in the story (transporting seven rare animals cross country can be fraught, so each had at least a few backups):

A pure white aurochs calf, found naturally born in a wild herd.

A massive, unbred and unyoked bull draft khait (dies en route, replaced by a less physically impressive backup with the same qualities)

A lioness with a full mane, from the white captive stock

A skimmer gull taken from a nest on the sacred rock in the waters of Od-Koto.

A baby two headed cobra (which dies en-route and is replaced with its backup, a melanistic viper)

A beautiful speckled riding khait mare whose horns form a near perfect circle (which is stolen en-route and replaced with its sister)

A rare wild hesperornis (haven't come up with an in-universe name yet) taken from the reeds of the Brilla river delta.

Anyway the sacrifices listed above are considered the absolute IDEALS when working with a specific face, but a great variety of animals will be sacrificed to various ends. There’s some very specific cultural/religious components to which animals are most valued, but in practice the value of a sacrifice is pretty close to 1:1 with the animal’s monetary value, at an intersection of utility and rarity.

So a young, healthy bull plow oxen who has never been bred or yoked is a more valued sacrifice than an old, experienced plow ox who has already sired offspring. You are giving up an extremely valuable animal and all its unused potential in a very practical sense, which makes the sacrifice more potent and valued. The 'virginal' status of the animal is key when the rite is SPECIFICALLY related to fertility, in the sense that the animal itself is sacrificing its unused fertility, allowing for the sacrifice-rebirth cycle to perpetuate. (Animals which Have been bred may be preferred in certain cases and rituals).

An animal with a rare coloration is usually going to be more valuable than one with more common genetics. This is the core root of why albino animals are of high value. It's less that white animals themselves are valued, just that rare genetics such as albinism = valuable sacrifice.

There are some specific exceptions where the color itself is significant (rather than just an extension of its rarity). God is specifically supposed to have taken the form of a white aurochs (itself emerged from the foam of the sea) during creation, so white oxen and wild oxen SPECIFICALLY have especially high value. Melanism or black scales are valued to the serpent face of God, which is associated with the cosmos and void behind the stars. (this stems from much, MUCH older beliefs in a cosmic serpent god in the region).

Animal sacrifice is a very significant part of the religious framework and involved in most rituals and prayers intended to affect significant change and transformation. (This is due in part to a deeply ingrained belief in the world being perpetually sustained in a cycle of sacrifice and rebirth, and in God Itself being the physical mechanism of rebirth and requiring sacrifice to be sustained). While blood itself is seen as potent, the nature of sacrifice isn't just 'spill blood and make thing happen', it's got a self contained value system and is very calculated and intentional in nature. You aren’t going to just grab a random rat and bleed it and pray, there needs to be a perceived ‘loss’. Sacrifice via killing is also not the only form, the most common day to day sacrifice is in (very minor) bloodletting and offerings of food and drink- the key is allowing a personal loss to sustain a greater cycle.

That being said, there is a HUGE trade system built up around the breeding and selling of animals solely for sacrifice. The industry revolves mostly around birds (doves are the cheapest, but also poultry, waterfowl, some birds of prey, a few select songbirds and ornamental birds), goats, sheep, and horses (the small, premodern kind). Cattle and camelids are a higher tier, and khait are among the highest of common sacrifices due to their great value.

Other animals that have no direct utility but are sacred are also bred or captured for sacrifice (hesperornis, lacetor, gulls and albatrosses, several kinds of snake, a bunch of wild ungulates, nechoi, etc). Some '''‘exotic’''' animals are imported specifically for this purpose, mostly as a means of displaying the wealth and reach of the state, with their sacrificial value rooted in the difficulty of acquisition. Animals taken from sacred sites are also prime candidates (ie cattle bred and grazed on the foothills of the Sons of Creation are VERY valuable).

---

So all that being said the importance of albino animals has come off a little overstated on my part, and doesn't have any particular impact on how albinism in people is regarded. It’s valued mainly for its rarity in the context of animal sacrifice, which would not have direct translations to how it’s perceived in people.

Albinism in people doesn’t have a super well defined significance in broader Imperial Wardi culture, but perspectives mostly skew negative and towards seeing it as a sign of ill fortune (physical differences in people tend to be seen as a result of being cursed in the womb). Imperial Wardin is culturally diverse (united mostly by a identity based in shared religion), so exact nuances would vary and this statement should not be taken as a universal.

Imperial Wardi population is mostly human (with its citizen population being MAYBE 5% elowey, 2% qilik, and a decimal point of caelin). Overall sentiment towards other sophonts by the human majority is not outright hostile, but is human-centric and tinged with xenophobia (as most qilik and elowey in the region are immigrants, with the only elowey ethnic group historically inhabiting the region (the Jazait) being regarded as 'heathens'). Albino elowey or qilik might be similarly seen as products of a curse, or may be given a 'wow how beautiful' treatment (in a heavily patronizing capacity) and seen as a curiosity, or otherwise just subject to varying perspectives on albinism in the region.

The one other thing I have established in this vein is that the semi-mythological hero Janise (sworn brother of other semi-mythological founder hero Erub) is said to have been albino. While he is positively regarded, he is supposed to have died young of a snakebite (assumed to be the product of a curse from his enemies) and this would not improve perceptions of albinism being related to ill fortune.

[wealmostaneckbeard]

About Mech Pilots:

There are many different kinds of mech pilots. But they can be arranged into a spectrum with monotask on one side and multitask on the other.

Multitask pilots have a life and skill sets outside of their combat vehicle. They can still be dangerous without their ride because of their tactical and political acumen. Examples of such pilots can be found in Titanfall, Lancer, and Battletech/Mechwarrior.

Monotask pilots are essentially organic control devices mounted inside the mech. They have slightly more personality and agency than other system components like an autoloader or jet thrusters. But the pilot is just as useless as those things if removed from the greater whole. Examples of these pilots can be found in Armored Core and Warhammer 40,000.

There are pilots that can fall between these extremes such as conscripted civilians, venerated sacrifices, or artificial intelligences. Examples of these beings can be found in Mobile Suit Gundam, Gen:Lock, or, again, Warhammer 40k.

There's no wrong way to portray pilots. That being said, I'd love to read stories where pilots from across the spectrum interact with each other.

[web-novel-polls]

[Please only give reasons to vote for a character & be kind and courteous in the notes]

[quitealotofsodapop]

Family of Sages

I mentioned in this post about possible Celestial Water Monkeys; that one Ming-dynasty opera (written nearly 200 years before the Jttw novel) depicts the "Wuzhiqi" (a simian water demon) as a sister to Sun Wukong.

@journeytothewestresearch did an article or two on this particular play, and how there's a possibility of there being multiple "Great Sages" throughout folklore.

The play itself is pretty bawdy given that it's writer was known for adult comedy; with "Sun Xingzhe" being a bit of horndog (only stopped by the circlet), based on a popular cryptid of the time infamous for stealing women.

Other details include;

Red Boy (true name being Ainu’er) being the son of the Bodhisattva Manjushri and the ancient demon-mother-goddess Hariti (comparable to the Echidna of Greek mythology).

The nine skulls on Sha Wujing's neck representing the nine previous lives of the Golden Cicada. (cool af)

Zhu Bajie being afraid of nothing (hah!) but Erlang's dog Xiaotian Quan.

Princess Iron Fan being unmarried, to which Sun Xingzhe offers to be her husband (guess people were shipping them even back then, explains Goku and Chichi).

Tripitaka returning to Chang'an without his pilgrim buddies, instead the Buddha gives him four bodyguards of his own for the return trip. The demons aren't allowed go back East. Kinda sad.

So it's best to take the characterisation with a grain of salt, though it has some cool ideas.

The family sound off is presented as this:

"We are five brothers and sisters: my elder sister is Lishan Laomu [離山老母, Venerable Mother of Mount Li], my second sister Wuzhiqi Shengmu [巫支祇聖母, Holy Mother Wuzhiqi]; my older brother is Qitian Dasheng [齊天大聖, Great Sage Equaling Heaven], I myself am Tongtian Dasheng [通天大聖, Great Sage Reaching Heaven], and my younger brother Shuashua Sanlang [耍耍三郎]"

Wukong introduces himself as "Tongtian Dasheng [通天大聖, Great Sage Reaching Heaven]". But his older brother has the title of Qitian Dasheng [齊天大聖, Great Sage Equaling Heaven].

Another later story mentioned in the article has the "Cinnabar Cloud Great Sage/Danxia Dasheng"; a red-furred staff-wielding monkey who acts as an antagonist towards the main goddess character. Curiously is described as both a peach thief, a survivor of Laozi's furnace, and a frequent identity-stealer (possible Six Eared Macaque?). He is punished for being so naughty by getting neutered (ouch).

And of course there is the God of Thunder Leigong aka "Sire/Duke of Thunder", who is often depicted as a celestial monkey/ape working as the muscle and executioner for the Jade Emperor. Became immortal after eating a Peach dropped by a fox demon (Jiuweihuli?) arguing with Celestial soldiers. Is married to the Goddess of Lightning Dianmu, who lights up the sky to help her husband see his targets. He is said to be one of Five Brothers, leading to more connections.

So theres;

Lishan Laomu/"Venerable Mother of Mount Li" - Eldest sister/sibling. Curiously named after a popular goddess of the same name said to be equal in power to Nüwa, and possible Mother Nature itself. Said goddess appears in Jttw as a companion of Guanyin, and helps out Wukong when the rest of the hang were poisoned.

Wuzhiqi Shemu/"Holy Mother Wuzhiqi" - Second elder sister. Her name is associated with an aquatic flood demon with a stretchy neck - bound to the bottom of mountain/sea by Yu the Great (original owner of the Ruyi Jingu Bang) with iron chains.

Qitian Dasheng/"Great Sage Equaling Heaven" - older brother. Has the traditional "Great Sage Equal to Heaven" title. Makes me think of Dasheng from HIB.

Tongtian Dasheng/"Great Sage Reaching Heaven" - second brother aka the version of Sun Wukong/Xingzhe in the play. Is closer to "Quagmire" than Sun Wukong tbh.

Shuashua Sanlang/"Playful Third Brother" - youngest brother. Not much is said about him. His name literally means "Playful Third Brother". Might be the baby of the family.

+Danxia Dasheng/"Cinnabar Cloud Great Sage" - red-furred Wukong double. Got neutered for being naughty.

+Leigong/Duke of Thunder - Actual thunder god.

This gang of monkeys siblings is likely what led to the depiction of the "Four Stalwart Generals" who are Wukong's closest monkey companions. But now I'm imagining an universe/au where the Stalwarts are all similarly orphaned celestial monkeys of deferring elements who adopted one another.

Danxia/Cinnabar Cloud is an odd mix of both Wukong and the Six Eared Macaque. Possible kid? Maybe inspired ideas of Wukong being red furred. His shenanigans even remind me of Monkey from the netflix Monkey King (2023).

And of course Leigong... Jade Emperor sends a monkey to kill a monkey, and is shocked when Wukong survives. Leigong is like an old blue-collar worker who refuses to work if it violates his union rights - even orders from the King of the Universe.

[3rdeyeblaque]

Today we venerate Ancestor & Hoodoo Saint Nat Turner on his 223rd birthday 🎉

King Nat was a Seer, prophet, preacher, & Freedom Fighter who used his intuitive gifts to spearhead one of the greatest slave rebellions in U.S. History; one that would shift the trajectory of Black lives under Maafa for decades to come.

King Nat was born enslaved on the Benjamin Turner plantation in Southampton Co., VA. He was a highly intuitive and gifted child. He could easily recall events that took place in his life as early as 3 or 4 years old. He also foretold of events that occurred before his time. His grandmother was a deeply spiritual elder and nurtured his spiritual development. His mother and many of those enslaved on the Turner plantation knew that he would become a prophet & was surely destined for a higher purpose.

For his "uncommon intelligence ", Nat learned to read & write at a young age at which time he was also indoctrinated into Christianity. His interpretation of the Christian bible convinced him that the Christian God condemned Slavery. This inspired him to become a preacher.

By age 21, King Nat was a prolific Seer & was known as, "The Prophet". Nat received many visions & Divine messages over the course of his life. Much of which guided him to avenge slavery & free our peoples from bondage. He had a series of 3 visions that would set him on course to fulfilling his highest purpose, thus forever impressing his name upon in U.S. history.

The 1st vision came as he was following in his father's footsteps, fleeing the plantation. To everyone's astonishment he returned of his own volition after spending 30 days in the woods because, “the Spirit appeared to [him] and said [he] had [his] wishes directed to the things of this world, and not to the kingdom of heaven, and that [he] should return to the service of [his] earthly master.” One year later, the devil died.

On May 12, 1828, Nat he received a 2nd vision, as he witnessed a solar eclipse. He “heard a loud noise in the heavens, and the Spirit instantly appeared to me and said the serpent was loosened, and Christ had laid down the yoke he had borne for the sins of men, and that I should take it on and fight against the serpent, for the time was fast approaching when the first should be last and the last should be first.” This, he believed to be the sign he had been promised.

On, August 13th 1831, Spirit delivered a 3rd message; in the form of lights across the night sky. At which time, an atmospheric disturbance across the sky in the aftermath of an eruption at Mount St. Helen's (3,000 mi away) caused the Sun to appear bluish-green in color. Nat prayed to learn their meaning. For Nat, this reaffirmed the work that he'd been called to do; to move forward with his mission to avenge Slavery & free those he could. From then on his plans were set into motion.

At 2am on August 22nd, King Nat led his peers & allies into rebellion. They struck their slaver's household first; slaughtering the entire family. From there they went from house to house, killing every single devil in their path. By noon, they marched toward the neighboring town of Jerusalem where a White militia of 3,000 men lie in wait for them.

Most of the rebels were either captured or killed - except for Nat. He managed to escape & eluded Virginian authorities for 2mo. He hid in the woods just miles from his former slaver's plantation. He was discovered on October 30th by an armed farmer who stumbled across him hiding in a foxhole. Emaciated and weak, he surrendered willingly. After his arrest, Turner was taken back to Jerusalem where he stood trial & was convicted, then sentenced to death by hanging. Nat was killed on November 11th.

To our deepest disdain & no suprise, he was denied a formal burial. Instead, his body was taken to doctors for dissection, to be distributed among affluent White families. He was skinned to make their purses. His flesh was turned into grease. And his bones were divided up into trophies. These became heirloom souvenirs to be passereceive among these affluent White families for generations.

Although King Nat did not end slavery as he had hoped, he & his allies avenged those who wronged them, and they did, ultimately, achieve their freedom from this world. Nat became immortalized as a symbol; of warrior strength (for us) & a catalyst of White fear. King Nat single-handedly shook the institution of Slavert at its core. So much that it stretched the divide between Pro-Slavers & Abolitionists. Pro-slavery advocates began calling for greater restrictions on "Freefolk" & demanded that Abolitionists cease their interference with Slavery. In Virginia, politicians saw Nat's intelligence & education as a major threat, thus outlawing the practice of teaching enslaved Peoples how to read or write. Abolitionists' efforts to end Slavery only intensified. This set the stage in U.S politics for the Civil War.

"I had a vision - and I saw white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened - the thunder rolled in the Heavens, and blood flowed in streams - and I heard a voice saying, 'Such is your luck, such are you called to see, and let it come rough or smooth, you must surely bear it." - Nat Turner; "Confessions of Nat Turner".

Let us remember that it was more than bravery, nerve, & standing ten toes down that drove King Nat's rebellion to success. It was, first and foremost, leading with Spirit & trusting in our intuitive/Ancestral gifts.

We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his gifts, Divine trust, bravery, and sacrifice. May we lift him up in prayer & offering in gratitude & lace toward his elevation.

Offering suggestions: prayers toward his healing/elevation, a Methodist bible, libations of water - especially on the battlegrounds of rebellion in Courtland, VA/Benjamin Turner plantation/, read & share his confessions

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

[serenaisavillain]

The Veiled Serenade - III

Summary: Prince Aemond and his brother Aegon traverse amidst the murky depths of Flea Bottom, where darkness reigns supreme. A web of intrigue is woven, fraught with forbidden desires and veiled intentions. As alliances shift and secrets unravel, the stage is set for an ardent tale of power, betrayal, and illicit love affairs in the heart of King's Landing.

Warnings: Contains sensitive themes, including imagery of graphic violence, as well as depictions of sexual assault and harassment. The story contains explicit language and mature themes, including substance abuse and addiction. Authors Note: Aemond in a towel… enough said. Comment your thoughts :) Word Count: 1.2k Series: I, II

Y/N LET OUT a guttural groan as the scorching sun of King's Landing beamed through the sheer curtains of her abode and into her bloodshot eyes. It was nearly midday, yet she tossed and turned in her misshapen bed before returning to her wine-induced slumber. The sound of Flea Bottom's blowsy children, boozehounds, and shrieking vendors lulled her into deep respite as they always had.

The past three eves had been her most fruitful, though toilsome. Fin and Y/N galumphed down the unpaved alleys and cross-streets of Flea Bottom, one gallant performance after another. As audience grew, so did their coin. It seemed as though all was well, after all Y/N was making a name for herself and so was Fin, to a far lesser degree, but, nonetheless.

When the girl finally arose, garbed in her tattered small clothes, head a mess of unkempt locks, her drooping eyes gawped Fin's hunched-over form, asleep on his venerable chair, his agape mouth overflowed with drool. This was quite a sight as Y/N so seldomly saw her companion at rest, rather, he rose hours before her ensuring that their small place was tidy and there was food to fill their stomachs.

Y/N's bare feet padded across the rotting oak floors into their kitchenette, fingers prying open the rickety and barren cabinet in search of something to break her fast. She exhaled through her nose as her eyes narrowed at the stale piece of bread in her grasp. Her fingers reached up to the top shelf, unearthing the box that held their coin; a few copper pennies and a golden dragon, reserved for The Crimson Lotus, remained, and she shut her eyes in disbelief. The coin that they amassed had so quickly been wasted on their lodging, a new ensemble, and two replacement strings for Fin's mandolin.

She could hear his gruff voice in her ear now.

Y/N you must spend coin to make it.

The curly-headed girl shook her head before attiring herself in her usual raw wool tunic, taking on the all too familiar mission of the smallfolk in the Crownlands, trying not to starve.

Y/N mounted the hill to the Street of Flour appearing at the window of Hearth and Harvest, the bakery where her father had needed dough before succumbing to burst belly.

"Tobin!" She perked up, spotting a familiar face, the baker's son.

The red-haired boy offered a polite smile to her, his cherubic freckled cheeks dusted with flour.

"Y/N..." he hummed leaning against the window.

She slid him the change, "What'll this get me?".

He laughed, "a mushroom pie."

The girl's stomach rumbled loudly before she could retort.

"Fine two. But this is the last time or I will get in troub-"

"Many thanks." She fluttered her eyelashes, watching the boy's pale skin flush.

Off she went again, scaling down the steep hill, escaping the aroma of freshly baked loaves and welcoming the putrid scent of pigsties and rat pits. Slinking through the sweat-slicked bodies of peasants, she returned to her dwelling where Fin was emptying their chamberpot out the window.

"Finally awake I see..." She laughed.

"I was wondering where you got off to," he eyed the mushroom pies in her grasp, "is one of those for me?" she nodded, handing the still steaming baked good to him.

THE SUN NOW SAT in the west, stretching the shadows of buildings through the pair's window. Y/N sat on the bed, quill and parchment in hand, humming to the rhythm of Fin's sweeping, the straw bristles of the broom scrapping the floor in such a cadence that her wrist was now scribbling furiously.

By the time Fin wiped down the windows, the ballad was completed, and the sun had sunk further into Blackwater Bay.

"Y/N."

The girl's head snapped up from the sheet.

"You'd best make haste to the bathhouse..." his calloused fingers pointed to the orange sky.

She hummed, setting the paper aside.

The day’s honest dealings gave way to the night’s debauchery as brothels and gambling dens flung open their doors. Y/N watched as the streets became more bacchanalian as the hour grew late, insatiable patrons pushing their way through the unpaved alleyways.

She had become a regular at the Dornish bathhouse, and the women now knew her by name. Y/N stripped, submerging herself in the familiar pool of steaming water before a chalice of dornish red was placed in her grasp.

"I shall return in a short while," a bathmaid named Sarella hummed.

Y/N nodded, allowing her shoulders to fall from her ears. Her eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the occasional drips of water that accompanied the hiss of steam; she did not, however, enjoy the sound of footsteps padding toward her.

"Enjoying yourself?" A familiar voice quipped.

The girl's eyes shot open, taking in a pale and unashamedly naked prince. She scoffed, eyes lowering to the dainty cloth that hung low on his hips.

"I was..." She exhaled, now sitting up, resting the goblet on the edge of the pool.

Prince Aemond laughed, discarding his modesty before submerging himself in the hot water.

"By all means continue. I am not here to disturb you..." he hummed, voice echoing, "rather I have a proposition..."

Y/N's eyebrows knit themselves together. She wondered if the hot steam was prompting a hallucination.

"And what could that possibly be?" she drawled.

The prince hummed again leaning back against the coping, his waxy chest on full display.

"Her Grace wishes to praise your efforts as a budding songstress..." Y/N rolled her eyes, "She is quite a patron of the arts..." he divulged.

The girl remained silent.

"She wishes to... amend, your bastard status and reward you handsomely for your efforts in... entertainment," he smirked eyeing her.

She tore her gaze from his, "In exchange for?" he chuckled, "In exchange for a ballad- or two, detailing King Aegon II's triumphs," he said lowly.

The girl laughed, "His what? I was not aware he had any triumphs cept for fucking whores and inhaling wine by the barrel..." she mused.

The prince rolled his eyes.

“And if I refuse?” she arched a brow.

The prince laughed, “I would be concerned for your safety Lady Waters.”

The bathing chamber was silent except for the sound of dripping water.

“You mean to threaten me?” She laughed, “Had I known I was such a formidable foe to the crown… I would have written many more ballads…”

Prince Aemond hummed, “You have until the next moon to decide.”

He emerged backside facing her.

The girl groaned before fully sinking her head under the water, the warm liquid filling every pore. His words cold and unfeeling on a constant loop in her mind, she exhaled bubbles of air from her mouth until she felt hands on her shoulders dragging her to the surface.

"Madam?!" Sarella, the bath maid, cried, her full brows knitted together.

Y/N coughed.

"How much?" she spat.

The woman flinched.

"How... much did he pay you?" Her jaw ticked.

The dark-haired woman tore her gaze from the girl, finding the stone slabbed floor most interesting.

"Three golden dragons madam but-" she began.

Y/N raised her hand, "I have heard enough..." the girl emerged from pool, the squelch of her wet footsteps the only sound echoing through the bath chamber.

The walk home was anything but tranquil. The girl found herself shrinking at every drunken shout or hungry bark of a stray dog. As her shadow stretched along the cracked and crumbling walls of Flea Bottom, Y/N wondered to herself if she too would bend to the will of her overlords just as the rank and file.

Arriving at her stoop she bit her lip. Was her defiance worth a hungry belly and tattered clothes?

[yamayuandadu]

Mai, Satono and their peers: a look into the world of dōji

Okay, look, I get it, Mai and Satono are not the most thrilling characters. I suspect they would be at the very bottom of the list of stage 5 bosses people would like to see expanded upon. Perhaps they are not the optimal pick for another research deep dive. However, I would nonetheless like to try to convince you they should not be ignored altogether. If you are not convinced, this article has it all: esoteric Buddhism, accusations of heresy, liver eating, and even alleged innuendos. As a bonus, I will also discuss a few other famous Buddhist attendant deities more or less directly tied to Touhou. Among other things, you will learn which figure technically tied to the plot of UFO is missing from its cast and what a controversial claim about a certain deity being a teenage form of Amaterasu has to do with Akyuu. 

Mai, Satono and the grand Matarajin callout of 1698

An Edo period depiction of Matarajin and his attendants (via Bernard Faure's Protectors and Predators; reproduced here for educational purposes only)

As indicated both by their family names and their designs, Mai and Satono are based on Nishita Dōji (爾子多童子) and Chōreita Dōji (丁令多童子), respectively. These two deities are commonly depicted alongside Matarajin, acting as his attendants, or dōji. Nishita is depicted holding bamboo leaves and dancing, while Chōreita - playing a drum and holding ginger leaves. ZUN kept the plant attributes, though he clearly passed on the drum. In the HSiFS interview in SCoOW he said he initially wanted both of them to hold both types of leaves at once, so I presume that’s when the decision to skip the instrument has originally been made. We do not actually fully know how Nishita and Chōreita initially developed. It is possible that their emergence was a part of a broader process of overhauling Matarajin’s iconography. While initially imagined as a fearsome multi-armed and multi-headed wrathful deity, with time he took the form of an old man dressed like a noble and came to be associated with fate and performing arts. The conventional depictions, with the attendants dancing while Matarajin plays a drum under the Big Dipper, neatly convey both of these roles. The group was additionally responsible for revealing the three paths (defilements, karma, and suffering) and three poisons (greed, hatred, and desire) to devotees. 

In addition to being a mainstay of Matarajin’s iconography, Ninshita and Chōreita also had a role to play in a special ceremony focused on their master, genshi kimyōdan (玄旨帰命壇). This term is derived from the names of two separate Tendai initiation rituals, genshidan (玄旨壇) and kimyōdan (帰命壇).

Genshi kimyōdan can actually be considered the reason why Matarajin is relatively obscure today. In 1698, the rites were outlawed during a campaign meant to reform the Tendai school. It was lead by the monk Reiku (霊空), who compiled his opinions about various rituals in Hekijahen (闢邪篇, loosely “Repudiation of Heresies”). Matarajin is not directly mentioned there, and the polemic with genshi kimyōdan is instead focused on a set of thirteen kōan pertaining to it, with mistakes pointed out for each of them. Evidently this was pretty successful at curbing his prominence anyway, though.

By the 1720s, even members of Tendai clergy could be somewhat puzzled after stumbling upon references to Matarajin, and in a text from 1782 we can read that he was a “false icon created by the stupidest of stupid folks“. He ceased to be venerated on Mount Hiei, the center of the Tendai tradition, though he did not fade away entirely thanks to various more peripheral temples, for example in Hiraizumi in the north. Ironically, this decline is very likely why Matarajin survived the period of shinbutsu bunri policies largely unscathed when compared to some of his peers like Gozu Tennō. 

“Nine out of ten Shingon masters believe this”, or the background of the Matarajin callout

Dakiniten (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Tendai reformers and critics associated genshi kimyōdan with an (in)famous Shingon current supposedly linked with Dakiniten, Tachikawa-ryū. This is a complex issue in itself, and would frankly warrant a lengthy essay itself if I wanted to do it justice; the most prominent researcher focused on it, Nobumi Iyanaga, said himself that “it is challenging to write about the Tachikawa-ryū in brief, because almost all of what has ever been written on this topic is based on a preconceived image and is in need of profound revision”. I will nonetheless try to give you a crash course. Recent reexaminations indicate that originally Tachikawa-ryū might have been simply a combination of Shingon with Onmyōdō and local practices typical for - at the time deeply peripheral - Musashi Province. Essentially, it was an ultimately unremarkable minor lineage extant in the 12th and 13th centuries. A likely contemporary treatise, Haja Kenshō Shū (破邪顕正集; “Collection for Refuting the Perverse and Manifesting the Correct”) indicates it was met with at best mixed reception among religious elites elsewhere, but that probably boils down to its peripheral character. Starting with Yūkai (宥快; 1345–1416) Shingon authors, and later others as well, came to employ Tachikawa-ryū as a boogeyman in doctrinal arguments, though. Anything “heretical” (or anything a given author had a personal beef with) could be Tachikawa-ryū, essentially. It was particularly often treated as interchangeable with a set of deeply enigmatic scrolls, referred to simply as “this teaching, that teaching” (kono hō, kano hō, 此の法, 彼の法; I am not making this up, I am quoting Iyanaga); I will refer to it as TTTT through the rest of the article. These two were mixed up because of the monk Shinjō (心定; 1215-1272) who expressed suspicion about TTTT because of its alleged popularity in the countryside, where “nine out of ten Shingon masters” believe it to be the most genuine form of esoteric Buddhism. However, he stresses TTTT was not only non-Buddhist, but in fact demonic. The description of this so-called “abominable skull honzon”, “skull ritual” or, to stick to the original wording, “a certain ritual” (彼ノ法, ka no hō) meant to prove the accusations is, to put it lightly, quite something. 

Essentially, the male practitioner of TTTT has to have sex with a woman, then smear a skull with bodily fluids generated this way over and over again, and finally keep it in warmth for seven years so that it can acquire prophetic powers. This works because dakinis (a class of demons) live inside the skull. The entire process takes eight years because Dakiniten, the #1 dakini, attained enlightenment at the age of 8. Shinjō himself did not assert TTTT was identical with Tachikawa-ryū, though - he merely claimed that at one point he found a bag of texts which contained sources pertaining to both of them.  Ultimately it’s not even certain if TTTT is real. It might be an entirely literary creation, or an embellishment of some genuine tradition circulating around some marginal group like traveling ascetics. We will likely never know for sure.

Regardless of that, Tachikawa-ryū became synonymous not just with incorrect teachings, but specifically with teachings with inappropriate sexual elements. By extension, it was alleged that the songs and dances associated with Matarajin and his two servants performed during genshi kimyōdan similarly had inappropriate sexual undertones.

ZUN seems to be aware of these implications, since the topic came up in the aforementioned interview. The interviewer states they read that “during the middle ages a lot of Tendai and Shingon sects end up becoming obsessed with sexual rituals and wicked teachings, leading to their downfall” (bit of an overstatement). In response, ZUN explains that these matters are “interesting” and adds that he “did prepare some materials with that, but that would make [the game] too vulgar.” No dialogue or spell card in the game actually references genshi kimyōdan, for what it’s worth, but seeing as this is the only real point of connection between Matarajin and such accusations it’s safe to say ZUN is to some degree familiar with the discussed matter.

As in the case of the Tachikawa-ryū, modern researchers are often skeptical if there really was a sexual, orgiastic component to the rituals, though. A major problem with proper evaluation is that very few actual primary sources survive. We know the words of the songs associated with Matarajin’s dōji, but they are not very helpful. They’re borderline gibberish, “shishirishi ni shishiri” alternating with “sosoroso ni sosoro”. Polemics present them either as an allusion to sex or as an invitation to it; as cryptic references to genitals; or as sounds of pleasure.

None of these claims find any support in the few surviving primary sources, though. Earlier texts indicate that the dance and song of the dōji was understood as a representation of endless transmigration during the cycle of samsara. When sex does come up in related sources, it is presented negatively, in association with ignorance. Bernard Faure argues that the rituals were initially apotropaic, much like the tengu odoshi (天狗怖し), which I plan to cover next month since it helps a lot with understanding what’s going on in HSiFS. The goal was seemingly to guarantee Matarajin will help the faithful be reborn in the pure land of Amida. However, the method he was believed to utilize to that end can be at best described as unconventional.

To unburden the soul from bad karma, Matarajin had to devour the liver of a dying person. This is essentially a positive twist on a habit attributed in Buddhism to certain classes of demons, especially dakinis, said to hunger for so-called “human yellow” (人黄, ninnō), to be understood as something like vital essence, or for specific body parts. In this highly esoteric context, Matarajin was at once himself a sort of dakini, and a tamer of them (usually the role of Mahakala), and thus capable of utilizing their normally dreadful behavior to positive ends.

The true understanding of these actions was knowledge apparently reserved for a small audience, though. Keiran shūyōshū (溪嵐拾葉集), a medieval compendium of orally transmitted Tendai knowledge, asserts that even monks actively involved in the worship of Matarajin were unfamiliar with it.

Beyond Mai and Satono: dōji as a class of deities

You might be wondering why an article which was supposed to be an explanation of Mai and Satono ended up spending so much time on ambivalent aspects of Matarajin’s character instead. The ambivalence present in the aforementioned liver-related belief was a fundamental component of the character of many deities once popular in esoteric Buddhism, and by extension of their attendants too. Therefore, it is actually key to understanding dōji. As I already mentioned in my Shuten Dōji article a few weeks ago, when treated as a type of supernatural beings, the term dōji implies a degree of ambiguity. The youthfulness of these “lads” means that in most cases they were portrayed as unpredictable, impulsive, eager to subvert social order and hierarchies of power, and prone to hubris. Some of them are outright demonic figures, as already discussed last month. Simply put, they possess the stereotypical traits of a young person from the perspective of someone old. They initially seemingly developed as a Buddhist reflection of Taoist tongzi, in this context a symbol of immortality and youthfulness, though a case can be made that youthful Hindu deities like Skanda (Idaten) also had an influence on this process. Many Buddhist deities can be accompanied by pairs or groups of dōji, for example Jizō, Kannon, Fudō, Dakiniten or Sendan Kendatsuba-ō. In some cases, other deities could manifest in the form of dōji. In Chiba there is a statue of Myōken reflecting such a tradition, for example. There are also “independent” dōji. Closely related terms include ōji (王子), “prince”, used to refer for example to the sons of Gozu Tennō and the attendants of Iizuna Gongen, and  wakamiya (若宮), “young prince”, which typially designates the youthful manifestation of a local deity.In the second half of the article, I’ll describe some notable dōji who can be considered relevant to Touhou in some capacity.

Gohō dōji: the generic dōji and the legend of Myōren

A gohō dōji in the Shigisan Engi Emaki (wikimedia commons)

The term gohō dōji (護法童子) can be translated as something like “dharma-protecting lad”. It’s not the name of a specific dōji, but rather a subcategory of them. Historically they were understood as something like the Buddhist analog of shikigami. The term gohō itself has a broader meaning, and can refer to virtually any protective Buddhist deity, even wisdom kings or the four heavenly kings. The archetypal example of such a figure is Kongōshu (Vajrapāṇi), who according to Buddhist tradition acts as a protector of the historical Buddha. A good example of a Gohō Dōji is Oto Gohō (乙護法) from Mount Sefuri. He reportedly appeared before the priest Shōkū (性空; 910–1007) before his journey to China, and protected him through its entire duration. Afterwards a temple was built for him. Curiously, this legend actually finds a close parallel in these pertaining to Matarajin, Sekizan Myōjin or Shinra Myōjin protecting monks traveling to China - except the deity involved is a youth rather than an old man. From a Touhou point of view, the most important example of a gohō dōji is arguably this nameless one, though. He appears in the Shigisan Engi Emaki, an account of the miraculous deeds of the monk Myōren, who you doubtlessly know from UFO. The section focused on him is fairly straightforward: a messenger from the imperial court approaches Myōren because the emperor is sick. Using his supernatural powers, he summons a deity clad in a cape made out of swords to heal him without having to leave his dwelling on Mount Shigi himself. He obviously succeeds. Afterwards the court sends a messenger to offer Myōren various rewards, but he rejects them. While the emperor is not directly shown or named, he is presumably to be identified as Daigo. While the supernatural helper is left unnamed and is often simply described as a gohō dōji in scholarship, it has been pointed out that his unusual iconography seems to be a variant of that associated with the fifth of the twenty eight messengers of Bishamonten. A depiction of a similar figure is known for example from the Ninna-ji temple in Kyoto. This makes perfect sense, seeing as the connection between Myōren and this deity is well documented, and recurs through the legends presented in the Shigisan Engi Emaki. Needless to say, it is also the reason why Bishamonten by proxy plays a role in the plot of UFO. Given these fairly direct references, I am actually surprised no UFO character borrows any visual cues from the gohō dōji, seeing as the illustration is quite famous. It was even featured on a stamp at one point.

Zennishi Dōji (Princeton University Art Museum; reproduced here for educational purposes only)

Yoshiaki Shimizu has suggested that the connection between Myōren and his Gohō Dōji is meant to mirror that between Bishamonten and his son and primary attendant, Zennishi Dōji (善膩師童子), and highlight that the monk was an incarnation of the deity he worshiped. He also argued that Myōren’s nameless sister (not attested outside Shigisan Engi Emaki) - the character ZUN based Byakuren on - is meant to correspond to Bishamonten’s wife, Kisshōten/Kichijōten (presumably with spousal bond turned into a sibling one). I am not sure if this proposal found broader support, though - I’m personally skeptical.

Kongara Dōji (and Seitaka Dōji): almost Touhou

Fudō Myōō, as depicted by Kyōsai (via ukiyo-e.org; reproduced here for educational purposes only)

Kongara Dōji (衿羯羅童子, from Sanskrit Kiṃkara) and Seitaka Dōji (制多迦童子, from Sanskrit Ceṭaka) are arguably uniquely important as far as the divine dōji go - a case can be made that they were the model for the other similar pairs. They are regarded as attendants of Fudō Myōō (Acala), one of the “wisdom kings”, a class of wrathful deities originally regarded as personifications and protectors of a specific mantra or dhāraṇī. In Japanese esoteric Buddhism, they are understood as manifestations of Buddhas responsible for subjugating beings who do not embrace Buddhist teachings. Acting as Fudō‘s servants is the primary role of Kongara and Seitaka. As a matter of fact, both of their names are derived from Sanskrit terms referring to servitude. This is not reflected in their behavior fully: esoteric Buddhist sources indicate that Kongara is guaranteed to help a devotee who would implore him for help, but Seitaka is likely to disobey such a person. Interestingly, both can be recognized as manifestations of Fudō. This seems to reflect a broader pattern: once a deity ascended to a prominent position in esoteric Buddhism, some of their functions could be reassigned to members of their entourage. ZUN arguably references this in Mai and Satono’s bio, according to which “their abilities (...) are nothing more than an extension of Okina's.” Despite the aforementioned shared aspect of their nature, Kongara and Seitaka actually have completely different iconographies. Kongara is portrayed with pale skin, wearing a monastic robe (kesa) and with his hands typically joined in a gesture of respect. Seitaka, meanwhile, has red skin, and holds a vajra in his left hand and a staff in the right. His characteristic five tufts of hair are a hairdo historically associated with people who were sentenced to banishment or enslavement. He’s never portrayed wearing a kesa in order to stress that in contrast with his “coworker” he possesses an evil nature. It has been argued the fundamental ambivalence of dōji is behind this difference in temperaments.

While the pair consisting of Kongara and Seitaka represents the most common version of Fudō’s entourage, he could also be portrayed alongside eight (a Chinese tradition) or uncommonly thirty six attendants. The core two are always present no matter how many extra dōji are present, though. Appearing together is essentially their core trait, and probably is part of the reason why they could be identified with other duos of supernatural servants, like En no Gyōja’s attendants Zenki and Gōki (who as you may know are referenced in Touhou in one of Ran’s PCB spell cards, and in a variety of print works).

As for the Touhou relevance of Kongara and Seitaka, a character very obviously named after the former appeared all the way back in Highly Responsive to Prayers, but I will admit I am personally skeptical if this can be considered an actual case of adaptation of a religious figure. There are no iconographic similarities between them, and their roles to put it lightly also don't seem particularly similar. Much like the PC-98 use of the term makai (which I will cover next month), it just seems like a random choice. At least back in the day there was a fanon trend of treating the HRtP Konngara as an oni and a fourth deva of the mountain, but I will admit I never quite got that one. In contrast with Yuugi and Kasen’s counterparts, Kongara's namesake actually doesn’t have anything to do with Shuten Dōji. The less said about a nonsensical comment on the wiki asserting Kongara’s status as a yaksha (something I have not seen referenced outside of Touhou headcanons, mostly from the reddit/tvtropes side of the fandom) explains why his supposed Touhou counterpart is present in hell, the better.

Uhō Dōji: my life as a teenage Amaterasu protector of gumonji practitioners

Uhō Dōji (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Uhō Dōji (雨宝童子), “rain treasure child”, will be the last dōji to be discussed here due to being by far the single most unusual member of this category. Following most authors, I described Uhō Dōji as a male figure through the article, but as noted by Anna Andreeva, most depictions are fairly androgynous. Bernard Faure points out sources which seem to refer to Uhō Dōji as female exist too; this is why I went with a gender neutral translation of dōji. In any case, the iconography is fairly consistent, as documented already in the Heian period: youthful face, long hair, wish-fulfilling jewel in one hand, decorated staff in the other, plus somewhat unconventional headwear, namely a five-wheeled stupa (gorintō). Originally Uhō Dōji was simply a guardian deity of Mount Asama. He is closely associated with Kongōshō-ji, dedicated to the bodhisattva Kokūzō. The latter is locally depicted with Uhō Dōji and Myōjō Tenshi (明星天子), a personification of Venus, as his attendants.Originally the temple was associated with the Shingon school of Buddhism, though today it instead belongs to the Rinzai lineage of Zen. A legend from the Muromachi period states that Kongōshō-ji was originally established in the sixth century, during the reign of emperor Kinmei  by a monk named Kyōtai Shōnin (暁台上人).The latter initially created a place for himself to perform a ritual popularly known as gumonji (properly Gumonji-hō, 求聞持法, “inquiring and retaining [in one’s mind]”).The name Kongōshōji was only given to it later when Kūkai, the founder of the Shingon school of Buddhism (from whose traditions gumonji originates), received two visions - one from a dōji and then another from Amaterasu - that a place suitable to perform gumonji exists on Mount Asama. After arriving there, he stumbled upon the ruins of Kyōtai Shōnin’s temple, so he had it rebuilt and renamed it. Subsequently, Amaterasu appointed Uhō Dōji to the position of the protector of both this location and Buddhist devotees partaking in gumonji in general. Most of you probably know that gumonji pops up in Touhou as the name of Akyuu’s ability in Perfect Memento in Strict Sense. ZUN describes it simply as perfect memory, but in reality it’s an esoteric religious practice focused on chanting the mantra of Kokūzō 1000000 times over the course of a set period of time (either 100 or 50 days). The goal is to develop perfect memory in order to be able to memorize all Shingon texts, though it is also believed to increase merit and grant prosperity in general. The oldest references to it come from the eighth century, and based on press coverage it is still performed today. ZUN actually never mentioned gumonji in a context which would stress the term’s Buddhist character. In Forbidden Scrollery Akyuu prays to Iwanagahime rather than to any Buddhist figures. I get the idea behind that, but I will admit I liked the portrayal of her religious activities in Ashiyama’s Gensokyo of Humans much more.

Gumonji aside, the second major point of interest is the connection between Uhō Dōji and Amaterasu. In the legend I’ve summarized above, they are obviously two separate figures, with one taking a subordinate position. This changed later on, though. At some point, most likely between 1419 and 1428, the two deities came to be conflated. As Bernard Faure put it, Uhō Dōji effectively came to be seen as the “Buddhist version of Amaterasu”. To be specific, as Amaterasu at the age of sixteen, presumably to account for the fact that a dōji would by default be a youthful figure. The treatise Uhō Dōji Keibyaku goes further and asserts that that Uhō Dōji manifests in India as the historical Buddha, Amida and Dainichi; in China as Fuxi, Shennong and Huang Di; and in Japan as Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi and Ninigi. In his astral role, he represents the planet Venus, but he can also manifest as Dakiniten and Benzaiten, in this context understood as respectively lunar and solar. He is also the creator of all of these astral bodies. The grandiose claims about Uhō Dōji, Amaterasu and other major figures were not exactly uncontroversial. It seems that especially in the eighteenth century the Ise clergy objected to them, presumably because they effectively amounted to their peers at Kongōshō-ji promoting their own deity to make the temple more important as a part of the Ise pilgrimage, which at the time enjoyed considerable popularity. The association between Amaterasu and Uhō Dōji nonetheless persisted through the Edo period, and despite protests voiced at Ise among laypeople Mount Asama was widely recognized as the third most important destination for participants in the Ise pilgrimage, next to the outer and inner shrines at Ise themselves. It is also quite likely that there was no shortage of people who would imagine Amaterasu looking just like Uhō Dōji. Ultimately the Uhō Dōji controversy was just one of the many chapters in Amaterasu’s long and complex history, and there was nothing particularly unusual about the claims made. There were quite literally dozens of Buddhist or at least Buddhist-adjacent figures she developed connections to (Bonten, Enma and Mara, to name but a few), and the Ise clergy took active part in this process. Buddhist reinterpretations of Amaterasu flourished especially through the Japanese middle ages. It was only the era of Meiji reforms that brought the end to this, cementing the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki inspired vision of Amaterasu as the only appropriate one. However, this is beyond the scope of this article. Worry not, though: the very next one I’m working on will cover these matters in detail. Please look forward to it. Bibliography

Anna Andreeva, “To Overcome the Tyranny of Time”: Stars, Buddhas, and the Arts of Perfect Memory at Mt. Asama

Talia J. Andrei, The Elderly Nun, the Rain-Treasure Child, and the Wish-Fulfilling Jewel: Visualizing Buddhist Networks at the Grand Shrine of Ise

William M. Bodiford, Matara: A Dream King Between Insight and Imagination

Bernard Faure, The Fluid Pantheon (Gods of Medieval Japan vol. 1)

Idem, Protectors and Predators (Gods of Medieval Japan vol. 2)

Idem, Rage and Ravage (Gods of Medieval Japan vol. 3)

Nobumi Iyanaga, Tachikawa-ryū in: Esoteric Buddhism and the Tantras in East Asia

Gaétan Rappo, Heresy and Liminality in Shingon Buddhism: Deciphering a 15th Century Treatise on Right and Wrong

Idem, “Deviant Teachings”. The Tachikawa Lineage as a Moving Concept in Japanese Buddhism

Yoshiaki Shimizu, The "Shigisan-engi" Scrolls, c. 1175

[lettiegrief]

The Five Songs of Mourning (four), by Yuan Zhen

An analysis of the poem and Hua Cheng

离思 五 首（其四) [Lí sī wǔ shǒu (qí sì)] 曾 经 沧 海 难 为 水 [Céng jīng cānghǎi nán wéi shuǐ] 除 却 巫 山 不 是 云 [Chú què wūshān bú shì yún] 取次 花 丛 懒 回 顾 [Qǔ cì huācóng lǎn huí gù] 半 缘 修 道 半 缘 君 [Bàn yuán xiū dào bàn yuán jūn]

“All water is forgettable when you’ve seen the vast blue sea

No clouds so wondrous as those at Mt. wushan

Idly, I pass by some flowers without looking back

Partly to study Tao, partly to think of you”.

The poem “离思五首 (The Five Songs of Mourning)” was written by 元稹 (Yuan Zhen) after the death of his wife, describing his longing for her. Mourning is a recurring theme in ancient Han poetry. This is part four of five.

Yuan Zhen describes in every word the devotion he felt for his wife, the love he felt for her that would never be forgotten.

The sea water and clouds of Wushan are used as metaphors for the depth and breadth of love. After seeing the sea of Wushan, it is difficult to appreciate the water and clouds of other places. In other words, except for the woman whom the poet misses and loves, there is no other woman who can catch his attention.

曾 经 沧 海 难 为 水, (if you have experienced the rough sea, you will not be attracted to water anywhere else).

This first sentence is also quoted in "孟子·尽心上 (Mèngzǐ: jìnxīn shàng — Mencius: Chapter 1 of “Dedicate Your Heart”, free translation)", which talks about Confucian thought and encourages people to work hard and make a difference. It is one of the important classic works of Confucianism*.

It is interesting to talk about “高唐赋 (Gāo Táng Fù)” from 宋玉 (Song Yu) as well, which tells the story of a king who dreamed of meeting the goddess 瑶姬 (Yao Ji) of wushan:

“In the sun of wushan, blocked by high hills, clouds appear in the morning and rain falls in the evening (姜在巫山之阳，高丘之阻、旦为朝云、暮为行雨。) (Jiāng zài wushan zhī yáng, gāoqiū zhī zǔ, dàn wèi cháo yún, mù wèi xíng yǔ)”.

Nowadays, these two verses have come to refer to loyalty to love, indicating that love belongs to none other than the goddess Yao Ji, and this love is not for others.

The verses in these three poems express one's devotion to another, the dream of finding one's love in wushan, because the clouds and rough sea there are no match for those of others.

除却巫山不是云, (No clouds are as wonderful as those on Mount Wushan).

巫山 (wushan) is both a real place and a metaphor in Chinese poetry that refers to the encounter between men and women. In Yuan Zhen's poem “Li Si,” wushan expresses the loneliness, apathy, and love that the author feels after the loss of his wife.

取次花丛懒回顾, 半缘修道半缘君 (Idly, I pass by some flowers without looking back, partly to study Taoism, partly to think of you).

花 (hua) means flower. The flower here is not referring to nature, but rather to a place with many beautiful women, an allusion to brothels.

Taoism, also called Daoism, is a philosophical and religious tradition that is based on “Tao”, a word that means path or principle, and its goal is to find the path or tao to achieve liberation of the soul.

Taoism has two main branches:

Philosophical Taoism: Focuses on meditation and the study of the Tao to achieve wisdom and inner peace.

Religious Taoism: Involves rituals, worship and the veneration of deities.

The author, by saying that he passed by flowers without caring about them, obviously expresses that no other woman, no matter how beautiful, can compare to his beloved, because only his beloved is his wushan, the goddess Yao Ji. Experiencing grief, his attention has been to practice Taoism, perhaps as a way to find peace, after all Taoism is about the liberation of the soul, or even about continuing to worship, devotedly, his wife, and thinking about his beloved.

This is the favorite poem of Hua Cheng, who spent 800 years searching for his beloved, Xie Lian, being deeply devoted to him in both life and death. Unshakable and firm as a mountain, over the centuries his stubbornness only grew and strengthened him, leading him to commit acts of revenge, adoration, and romance, dreaming of finding him both to protect him and to love him romantically.

With Xie Lian being a god and Hua Cheng his last devotee, it can be said that Xie Lian is Hua Cheng's goddess Yao Ji, the one who ruined him for anyone else, because once you know something divine, nothing else compares.

Hua Cheng's name, 花城, means "city of flowers". Xie Lian's characteristic element is a flower: his first divine title was "Flower Crown Martial God, 花冠武神", his temples were decorated with many branches of flowers, and most of his statues and paintings depict him holding a flower in one hand and a sword in the other. Hua Cheng's name is about Xie Lian and a declaration of love for him.

“Xie Lian’s hand brushed against the red sand plate, leaving a few red traces on the paper as he struggled. On the paper, the words ‘wushan’ in the sentence ‘If you are enchanted by the wind and clouds of wushan, you will not be attracted by the clouds of other scenery’ were stained with small red marks, almost seductively… Xie Lian uttered, “San…” Before he could finish his sentence, Hua Cheng pressed his shoulders down and kissed him.

“San” is from “San Lang,” which is what Xie Lian calls Hua Cheng at Hua Cheng’s request. “Lang” is used by wives to refer to their husbands in Chinese culture. When they first met, Hua Cheng introduced himself as San Lang, and after his identity was revealed, he confessed that he preferred Xie Lian to keep calling him by that name.

The funny thing is that other characters knew Hua Cheng as San Lang before his identity was revealed, but no one dared to say his name other than Xie Lian.

The sedan scene was Hua Cheng finding his beloved wife after 800 years of searching, loneliness, and mourning, but he remained mostly quiet, as if he didn’t want to scare away the god he had dreamed of meeting, and as if he wasn’t yet ready to be anything more than a humble devotee. At that moment, Xie Lian was still a divine figure to be worshipped from afar. The carriage scene was his first courtship, and with a different appearance, Hua Cheng felt more comfortable acting ignorant and also paving the way for romantic love with Xie Lian.

*儒家 (rú jiā), one of the hundreds of schools of thought of the pre-Qin period, and grew out of the ritual and musical tradition of the Zhou Dynasty. Let people not be rigid or conservative, let them not be paranoid or extremist, let them advance with the times and not be complacent.

Sources:

Thinking of you, Yuan Zhen

Ancient Chinese Poetry Network

Wushan, Baidu 

Confucianism 

高唐赋

孟子·尽心上