#Or as we say in English - Crimson Saviour

[digimontamerrichie-tcg]

[licuadora-nasir]

Could it be?: Episode 6 fic.

I made my own version of Eldarya ANE's last talk with Lance since I felt that some things were... Missing. Or not completly clear regarding Lance and Erika's past.

The reason why I put my gardienne's name instead of "Erika"? During TO you can decide if you empathize with Lance or not, if you want to understand him or just go with it and try to kill him, and my OC had a bit of hope towards him until the very last moment.

Therefore, whether you liked Lance or not in season one, I thought that it would be more proper to do not use "Erika" this time and give each gardienne more free will.

Any feedback or suggestion is appreciated ❤️ Also, if anyone wants to request anything be my guest lmao, college doesn't start until September and I don't have much to do.

I want to thank the kind @rina-nanashiro that has assisted carefully reading it and pointing my grammar mistakes (English is not my mother tongue woah what a suprise).

I certainly screwed up this time. I was feeling awful. How could I let this happen? Why didn’t I prevent it?

I couldn’t stop thinking about Edgard’s death. The image of the knife in his neck, his blood a wild contrast to the white pristine snow behind him. The only thing I could do before rushing to the ship was stupidly staring at his corpse. Tenjin and his men hurried out and I just let them. I did nothing, again.

I was on the ship’s rail, staring at the ocean like it was the most intriguing and interesting thing I had ever seen. Even the waves seemed to mock me that day. They were calm and peaceful, not like in our first journey when they almost destroyed our ship. Despite it, I would prefer troubled waters that match my mood.

What would I tell Huang Hua, Chrome, Karenn and the rest of the people who expected great things out of me? Am I worthy of a statue when I’m not even capable of saving someone who’s right in front of my eyes? Did I honestly deserve all the praise at the title of “Eldarya’s saviour”? The truth will out and soon all the Eldaryans will realise that I’m nothing but a human with small wings and sparkling powers.

The sound of footsteps interrupted my train of thought. Lance came towards me with a slightly worried expression.

— Are you alright, Kali? You seem pensive.

— Well, we could say so, yes. — I guess he would prefer to say that I seemed pensive instead of a complete failure. Lance sighed and his mien turned serious.

— Actually, you look quite miserable. You’ve barely started these long monologues of yours talking about anything that crosses your mind. — I let a sad chuckle escape my lips. This man could read me like an open book.

— Look, I’m truly sorry we weren’t able to protect Edgard. Really. — I tightened my grip against the rail and turned myself towards the ocean.

— I swore to protect him. To keep him safe, to take him to the HQ. I promised I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. And now he’s dead.

I didn’t dare to turn my head to face him. I didn’t want to see the look in his eyes; pity or annoyance, I just didn’t want to see it. If he pitied me I would feel worse, but if he was angry, I wouldn’t hesitate to argue with him.

— Kali…

— It could have been me! It could have been Mathieu! I was there, I could have helped him.

— Accidents always happen, Kalissandra. This mission turned out to be much more complicated than we initially expected. You weren’t supposed to save his life, you were supposed to assist in the examination of the earth construction.

— But wouldn’t you try to protect one of your kind? — I regretted that the moment I said it. I could feel his jaw tightening even without looking at it. Great Kali, you just have reminded him about the extinction of his whole race.

— I’m sorry I… I didn’t want… I just.... — I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat, and my eyes already began to burn.

— How’s that I’m supposed to be the saviour of Eldarya when I can’t even help someone that’s in front of my eyes? How can I deserve all that admiration when I can’t even do that! I could have been Edgard, Lance, I could have ended up there just like him and DIE the way he did. He was scared, he didn’t deserve it, he just wanted to try and make a living! And The Oracle knows how many people are still out there! And I’m here, doing ABSOLUTELY nothing!— I could not help but let some sobs run free. It was impossible to remove Edgard’s presence from my mind.

It would not matter how many years have passed nor the many deaths I have witnessed. The cruel truth about life would not ever stop being impressive to me.

Oh dammit, how was I even supposed to be a mighty warrior when I struggled to face death?

I felt a soft grasp on my shoulder, and Lance turned me gently to face him.

— Kali, look at me. — Without any hesitation left, I raised my head to face his deep, ice stare. I was expecting some kind of annoyance, pity or maybe even indifference, but what I found was… Determination.

— You are not him. You were truly lucky you landed right in the HQ, and I know you tend to empathize with anyone, even with the ones who don’t precisely deserve it, — He left my eyes for a brief moment. Was he talking about himself? — but right now, there’s no use in thinking about the “what if”. It has happened, and there’s no chance of going back.

— You have to learn to accept that you can’t save everyone. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, how fast you run or the prowess you have upon your powers, you will never control everything that happens around you.

— The fact that you saved Eldarya doesn’t mean that you’re supposed to be perfect. And as I told you, It’s important to be aware of our capacities, but no one is invincible, not the dragons or the aengels. — His hand came to rest on my face, his thumb brushing away a tear running down my face. Determination never left his eyes, still locked with mine. — You may have become a legend, but you are still a person. — His hand was to leave my face, but I gingerly held his wrist to keep it in place.

— I see how willing you are to help everyone in need and improve every day, even though you have skipped the training of the obsidian guard for three weeks. — I genuinely laughed at that. When I learned that he was my boss I was completely horrified.

— Fine, I promise you’ll see me there in the next one. — I gave the dragon a small smile that he returned eagerly. After a satisfied nod, he spoke to me again.

— Listen… I still wanted to tell you that you were impressive, back there. — His hand began to stroke my cheek with his fingertip. I could feel the warmth gathering in my face. — I already knew you were a precious asset for The Guard, of course…

— But I realise now that you are… More than that. — More than that? More than that in which way?!?! At this point, I’m sure my cheeks were flushed with a crimson red, and he must have noticed too, cause he seemed pretty satisfied with it.

— Well, the last time we were together, we didn’t take much time to talk. — He smiled awkwardly and withdrew his hand.

We stayed in silence, side by side, facing the ocean, for several long minutes. There was something intimate about that moment. Strangely, being beside him was… Calming. After this conversation, I felt great. Much better than these past days.

I believed we finally recognized each other. Of course, not everything was forgiven nor forgotten, I hoped we had a chance to discuss our past but right now… I could finally breathe in peace beside him. I didn’t have to keep my guard up around the dragon anymore.

I mean, he could have let me drown in the depth of the ocean and say that it was an accident. Wait, what am I even saying? That wouldn’t work. He’s not incompetent enough to let anyone drown under his gaze. Fine, I won’t thank him for any of that.

But… He did seem truly concerned about my well-being. He has given me a helping hand several times when no one was looking, and even though that’s not enough to neglect his stubborn personality, and yet…

Suddenly, I was seized with doubt. Something strange was happening between us… My heart was racing like crazy, and a small wave of panic rushed through me. His piercing blue gaze was lost in the horizon, and I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by his eyes…

I recognized this feeling. It was very similar to the one I had when we were in memoria, at the forgotten cliff. That time, I still had a small hope that there was something good left in him, and maybe, just maybe, I was right, and this was what I was expecting.

Was it possible..? That he really… That he actually had changed? I couldn’t find the Lance that sunk his claws in his brother’s chest in the Lance that was standing beside me.

I was conflicted. I couldn’t forget the man who inspired my fear, the one I hated and hurt me several times, and at the same time, a new growing feeling was overflowing me.

I shouldn’t, I… It’s Lance! We never got along, and I don’t even think he even wants to, but I was hoping… What was I even hoping for?

I have to get a hold of myself and stop overthinking. I have experienced too many emotions in a few days, and I could always ponder about this with my head over my shoulders.

In the meantime, we were getting close to the HQ, and we would have to face the consequences of our actions in Genkaku.

[mrs-dynamight]

Be Nice To Me

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x fem!Reader, Denki Kaminari x fem!Reader

Warnings: Eventual mature content, angst, hurt/comfort, love triangle, the reader is lowkey toxic, everything will be adressed in every episode (:

Chapter warning: Swearing but just a little bit of it. Everything else is pure Fluff.

Chapter: 1/? I'm planning about 20, maybe even a little more.

Synopsis: You're in love with your best friend Bakugou, and you're cofessing to him but things get a lot more complicated when Denki starts to treat you different *wink wink*

Word count: 1.1k

Author's note: Heeey! This is my first fic ever in life, I had this idea rotting in my brain and I've been dying to write it for soo long, it is lowkey inspired of something that happened in mi DR. English isn't my first language so if you see any grammar mistakes please lemme know. Luv ya.

Chapter 1 I wanna be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

I’ve been in love with Bakugo Katsuki since our first year in the UA, I mean yeah, he’s got some issues to deal with, but he was able to go through a lot of stuff, he was kidnapped, marked as a problem child and been a victim of this disastrous “hero society”, but in the end he is just a loud kid who likes to win, there is absolutely nothing wrong with him wanting to be the no. 1 hero. Isn’t it?

Today is the day, the first day of our last year in this hero academy that made the promise of turning kids like us into saviours of the people, it’s been a long journey since the selection exam and at first I was kinda shocked that I really gotten into class 1-A, since there was people with better kirks than mine, I used to think that drawing things in my skin was way less impressive and useful than shooting lightings, make things float or throwing acid, but I grew fond of my quirk thanks to our talented teacher Mr. Aizawa and the marvellous All Might, and in this day I’m really proud of everything we have accomplished as students, and that is why I am going to confess my undying love for the ash blonde guy this year.

I’ve waited enough time I know, but there was so much more I had to know before telling him, at first I was completely sure he and Kirishima were boyfiends, but it turns out they just love each other in a soulmate-ish kinda way, and of course be sure Bakugo actually likes girls (although neither of us actually knows what does he like cause he never talks about that stuff), my best friends Deku, Shoto, Ochako, Tsuyu, and Tenya have been listening me rambling about Katsuki for two whole years so we made a 12 steps-ish program for confessing, but now that is time for the first step I’m nervous as I can be, sure it’s easy, it’s not like it is the first time actually talking to him but it surely feels different. I grab my stuff and wait by the class 3-A dorms stairs, but the one who comes up is no other than my favourite pokemon in the flesh.

-Well if it isn´t L/N Y/N in person- Said Denki Kaminari with a big smile and a non matching sleep deprived face – I appreciate you waiting for me to walk to class together but I have to eat breakfast first, Sero bought this new cereal who is basically just marshmallows and colourful tiny stuff and I’m dying for tasting it but you know how Aizawa don’t like when I eat sugar before class, or during class, or after, In fact I don’t think he wants me eating sugar at all, but it just tastes sooo good, Y/N wanna gab something for lunch?-

-No thanks Denki, actually I’m waiting for Bakugo, I have a couple questions about his internship, you know quirk related stuff, and… uhh just school things I guess, but please tell me if the cereal tastes good, now I’m dying to know- I say with a bit more nervous expression that I planned, but I don’t think Denki notices

-I’ll let you know, good luck with Bakubro, he’s angrier that usual today- Said the yellow haired boy.

And just as he said that a Redhair and a Blonde came downstairs, my heart skipped a beat when Bakugo looked at me with that gorgeous crimson eyes.

-Good morning Y/N!- Said Kirishima with his usual brighter than the sun smile

-Morning, draw- Said Bakugo in his usual raspy voice. C

onsidering how almost every one of us in class A were upgraded from “extras” to some sort of specific quirk related nickname “Draw” was one of the best, and I think it was because of how close he and I have grown, ever since we started training together after the UA sports festival of our first year, I was beat up so easily by Tetsutetsu that I had to practically beg for assistance and of course, Bakugo being the winner and also no. 1 in class was the perfect choice, two years has passed and I can say with confidence that he is my best friend, he would deny it completely if someone asked it, but I think he also enjoys my company, I have seen him laugh, cry, complain about family or whatever, and even blush when I asked if he and Kiri where a thing, and my feelings toward him only grew and grew.

-HeyBakugo, wannawalktoclasstogether? Ihaveacoupleofquestionsaboutinternshipsandthisthinghappendwithmyquirk and… – I was so nervous that I spoke way too fast.

-Have you been drinking that monster stuff that shitty hair and Pikachu are into? Because I didn’t understand a single word coming from your mouth, now besides tutoring you in kicking ass I have to make sure you know how to speak? – Bakugo said with his usual mocking kinda bully tone

-Hey, just wanted to walk you class, what if some crusty-looking guy wants to kidnap you on the way there? AGAIN – I said with some defiance tone, Denki busted into laugh and Bakugo give him a killing stare.

- ‘Tch, let’s go then, shitty woman- Was that a blush? Maybe I crossed the line but bitch I might be.

This was the first part of the plan, just casually invite him on a date, I know him, he can’t say no to 8x spicy ramen and a night at the arcade (anything were he can fight and win, thank God for Bakugos competitiveness)

-So Katsuki, I was wondering if you are free on Friday, there is this new ramen place, and they have this extra spicy ramen challenge that I just know you can beat- I say holding my breath to not sound so nervous, why am I so nervous? This is Bakugo, we’ve been friends for two whole years, we’ve hung out together a lot of times, sure with Kiri, Mina, Denki or Sero, but, it counts, right?

- Huh? Friday? Yeah why not, bet that I can beat you at eating too, should I tell shitty hair? – He said.

-Actually I have only two coupons so I was thinking we just both go after school, I also want to beat your ass in Mario Kart so maybe a ramen and arcade afternoon? – Yeah Y/N confidence, relax, you got this.

-Beat me in something? I doubt you can be able to do that woman, but sure, let´s give it a try then, just don’t hate me for being better than you in everything- He said with a smirk in his face, God he’s gorgeous.

-You wish Katsuki- Yeah that’s better, this is the friendship we have built for over two years, everything is going to be just fine.

OMG! Thanks for reading, if you wanna be tagged in the series please lemme know.

Part 2 here

[bhushita]

artist corner

Bhushita Vasistha: WORDS THAT DANCE IN DARKNESS & LIGHT

Photo file: Beni Waiba

Bhushita Vasistha is an aficionado of Nepali Chhanda Kavita, a special genre of lyrical and metric Nepali poetry. She writes and recites it, “I have an emotional attachment with Chhanda Kavita”. Her melodious voice gained recognition when she recited the Chhanda Kavita of legendary Nepali poets at the Paleti musical series in April last year.

Bhushita is a student of English Literature and works with a daily newspaper as a writer. She has currently taken the lead of the editorial segment of Nepalaya curating some interesting books this year. She says, “We are looking for new styles, genres, tones and issues. The political consciousness the country has acquired in these few years is massive, but we are still in the dearth of books that can astutely reflect this evolution. My focus will be on curating and encouraging these kinds of books.” Her talents are not limited to writing, she is admired as an actor too. The character of Anindra played by her in Kumar Nagarkoti’s play Bathtub had her share the stage with veteran artistes Neer Shah and Brajesh Khanal.

In conversation with WOW’s Pabita Dahal, she talks about Chhanda Kavita and what it means to her. Excerpts:

What does poetry mean to you?

Poetry, to me, is that sacred window through which we can peer into the illogical, irrational, and molten state of the beauty of the world, which often gets overlooked in the prosaic precision of everyday life.

How did you get into Chhanda poetry?

I grew up in a household where these prosodies were the very part and parcel of life. I would wake up to the sonorous sound of mantras being chanted. Sometimes to chastisement for being asleep late into the morning too was rendered in lyrical poetry. But of course, I grew up to study Journalism and English Literature. Nepali Chhanda poetry was gradually lost to the oblivion. And about two years ago, I hit a rather low point in my life. Rather desperately, I tried to pick up the scattered pieces of childhood memories to reconstruct my happy place again. In this process, these sounds slowly ebbed back to me. Chhanda poetry is my happy place, my den of solace.

How do you define it and how is it different from the free verse?

They say the prose is the triumph of idea over style and poetry is that of style over the idea. There certainly is a difference between free verse and Chhanda poem, in terms of their composition, grammatical structure and poetic devices like refrain or rhythm, etc. However, any good poetry, be it Andrew Marvel’s To His Coy Mistress or Devkota’s Ek Sundari Beshyaprati, they liquidate that rational rigidity of mind and make you more receptive to those feelings or emotions that preceded language, those that were more visceral and real.

How do you relate to Chhanda poetry as an individual?

I am an aesthete, my religion is that of beauty. While I find it particularly distasteful and dehumanising to idolise a person as a saviour, I am convinced of a higher state of order - call it God, or nature or any other name if you may - because of the immense beauty that oozes out of this world. The mountains, the play of breeze on pine needles, the intoxicating perfume of night jasmine, the crimson flame of rhododendron forests in April bloom - I live to experience these scattered moments of exaltation and to gradually imbibe them, their colour, their melody, their stillness. Chhanda poems! I would have been a lot poorer in my soul had there not been chhanda poems, they are my hymns to beauty.

You sang the Chhanda poems of legendary Nepali poets at Paleti. What was the experience like?

I think joy is contagious. If you do something out of joy, it ripples out and regardless of the act, everybody who experiences it, is embraced by joy. It was such a moment of joy for me to sing those poems and that joy gently fell into the hearts of the audience and the ripple just kept expanding. It was pure joy. I don’t even know what to say because the love that I received afterwards was a very special achievement. But, soon after, I was slightly stunned by the attention I received on social media. It was, as Faulkner said, too much of white noise. I felt an incessant hum all the time. There was no moment of unadulterated silence, or a slice of darkness, where I was free to unfurl as my whim dictated. So I just disabled my social media. It made me realise while I love sharing poems with people, I also like that darkness, that anonymity where nobody sees me, except myself. That darkness is essential.

You also played the character of Anindra in Kumar Nagarkoti’s play, Bathtub. Tell us about it.

Anindra was a passage of rite for me. I shed my old skin and entered into a new phase of life. It was a groundbreaking experience in more than just one way. For one, going bald and stripping off the prescribed norms of gendered identity was huge. And enacting murder every day for a month to redeem my compromised dignity and freedom was a tone-setter. I am stained by Anindra’s hunger for individuation forever. She was profound, melancholic, lyrical, childlike and surprisingly very brave. The fact that she lodged in my body for three months (during the rehearsals and the play) has left me a changed person. And every evening, Anindra murdered Mr. Rana, I murdered one of my shadows that kept me in psychological hostage. It was an experience.

What can be done to preserve the melody and culture of Chhanda poems?

If you really want to preserve something, you cannot do it out of the sense of civic duty. You need to be invested in it, you need to love it, relish it. I love Chhanda poems, I never wanted to preserve it, or rekindle people’s interest in it. I only wanted to create that unsoiled space of happiness for myself through the poems. In the process, people are beginning to appreciate it. Some people ask me if we should make an institutionalised effort to preserve Chhanda poems. Poetry is personal, just like prayers. If I really love poetry, I cannot shove poetry down people’s throat that is just what poetry is not. At the best, I can become poetry myself, that is the only service you can do to poetry.

https://wowmagnepal.com/quick-links/artist-corner/

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober Prompt, 26

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #26 - Dark

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

(Note: I tried to do a 5+1 thing, but it kind of didn’t work. Anyway. Here’s 5 times Crowley saved Aziraphale from trouble in the night, and 1 time Aziraphale returned to favour.)

Lindisfarne, 792

“I would find a different monastery if I were you.”

The voice was deep, reverberating off the hallway around the church's courtyard. Aziraphale, whose head was still half-stuck in the prayer he'd just finished inside the building, whipped around to see Crowley, leaning against a pillar.

“What are you doing here? This is holy ground!”

“Apparently not.” Crowley lifted one  foot and shook it. “Guess just outside the church doesn't count anymore. Luckily.”

Aziraphale, his monk's habit skirting along the ground, quickly made his way to the demon. The sound of his feet echoed just like their voices had, alone in the empty gardens at nighttime, as the other monks had already finished their last prayers and retired to bed. God knows what would've happened if any of them had discovered Crowley in here, and Aziraphale was sure to let him know-

“Again, you should find a different monastery.”

He'd not even opened his mouth to scold him yet before being interrupted, and all he could answer with was a short grumble.

“I'm quite happy here, thank you very much.”

“Maybe.” Crowley shuffled his feet on the ground with a sigh. “But Hell is definitely not happy with this place. You know. Spreading faith to Northcumbria. They're going to find a way to cause trouble soon, I suspect.”

“You suspect.”

Another sigh. “Alright, I know. It's not my assignment, but -” Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale almost wanted to believe there was kindness in those eyes, just a tiny bit of softness and care. It wasn't that hard to believe. “Stay away from sea-side monasteries, angel. At least for a while. Find yourself a nice holy place in-land.”

He'd not given him time to answer before he turned and left. Aziraphale stood for quite some time, wringing his hands, not unlike they'd just been clasped during prayers. He wasn't quite sure if he should really follow the advice of a demon, as much as he wanted to. He stared into the darkness where Crowley had vanished, the cold wind from the seaside a small howl through the night.

A year later, hearing the distraught story of the viking raids from the travelling visitors in his monastery deep in the English country side, he was glad he had listened during that night.

Glencoe, 1692

“You have to leave. Now.”

Aziraphale was still blinking in confusion, after something – or rather, someone – had shook him awake from his simple beddings of a blanket over hay. He stared up into very familiar serpentine eyes, surrounded by an also familiar, yet puzzling, uniform. A few more blinks, and he realised it was one of the military. He'd seen it around in the past few days, on the soldiers lodging with the local Clan (which had put him out of a room to sleep in, very rudely, as he'd only stopped by on his travels anyway, following a previous invitation the last time he'd been in Scotland). He'd not seen Crowley amongst them, though. Truth be told, he'd never seen Crowley in any military's uniform, and it made him feel worse than even being woken up as rudely as he had been made him feel.

“What are you doing here in this outfit-”

“Who cares? You need to leave. Pack your stuff. There's a horse outside. Go to Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or whatever. Leave the Glen.”

“Crowley!”

He was almost out of the small, broken down cottage before Aziraphale could call him, but he stilled and turned around anyway.

“What's going to happen?”

The demon sighed, and averted his eyes. “Nothing you can stop, angel. Please, you need to leave. As fast as you can.”

And with that, he disappeared into the dark outside the house. Aziraphale followed him soon after, indeed finding a well-fed horse waiting for him, and dared to look back only once as he rode out of the valley. The sight of a familiar shape, dressed in all red, standing on top of a small hill, and the glint of golden eyes followed him all the way out, even as the night's darkness and fog enshrouded the rest of the Glen.

News of the massacre travelled fast, reached Edinburgh long before he did himself, and overhearing the angry rant of a drunken man in the inn he'd sheltered in made him realise that the demon had, once again, been his saviour.

London, 1888

“What are you doing here?!”

The voice of the woman was barely a hiss in the quiet street, but Aziraphale recognised it all the same – or maybe because of that. Crowley, her crimson hair in long, messy braids on his head, an almost dishevelled dress on her feminine curves, stared at him, and even the shades could not hide the anger in her eyes.

“This is no place for an angel to walk around at night.”

That much was true – the area was as dingy as its inhabitants, who were quickly milling past them, trying to get to whatever it was they called home before the darkness of night had completely taken over the streets.

“Some horrible things have been happening here lately-” Aziraphale tried to explain, but was shushed again by Crowley's hiss.

“Exactly! So you shouldn't be here at all!” “I was trying to help-”

“Help? You're going to get yourself murdered, gentleman's outfit or not!”

She wasn't wrong, and Aziraphale was this close to agreeing and leaving, but Crowley's appearance made him stop.

“Are you trying to lure-”

“Never mind what I'm doing, angel. What you're gonna do is turn around, get a carriage, go home and not wander through the slums of London when it's getting dark anymore, alright?”

And with that, she'd turned the angel around, pushed him forward by his shoulders, and stared him down until he got into a carriage at the end of the street. He could feel her stare even as he drove on, the clomping of hooves echoing through the otherwise quiet night air.

The papers were full of the new murder next morning, barely a street away from where they'd met. Apparently Crowley had not been successful (or, in the eyes of Hell, maybe he'd very much been). Either way, Aziraphale was reminded again of the guardian demon he'd apparently acquired a long time ago.

Chicago, 1925

“You can't be serious, angel.”

The lady in a tassel-covered dress slid up onto the barstool next to him. Her red hair was laid in the most delicate curls around her face, and her hands held a cocktail glass and a cigarette holder as long and slender as her fingers.

“Never thought I'd find you in a speakeasy. And then you go and pick this one.”

Aziraphale's hand cramped around the whiskey glass in his hand. He wasn't exactly against the prohibition – Upstairs was quite enamoured with it, too blinded by the whole abstinence thing to see the broiling underbelly of crime coming with it – but then again he also wasn't exactly against a nice glass of whiskey, or any other stiff drink he'd come to love in his years on earth.

“What's wrong with this speakeasy?” He tried to act nonchalant, his eyes decidedly not travelling down the frankly obscene cut of Crowley's dress.

“The mob's not too happy with the place.” Her voice was quiet, even though the place was so loud with celebrations and music Aziraphale had barely heard his own voice while ordering. She leaned forward to him just a bit. “I've heard they're planning something. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Either way, we really shouldn't stay for the party.”

And with that, she'd downed her drink and his, hooked an arm around his elbow, and masterfully steered him out of the hidden basement.

The cold night air hit his face with force – he'd barely had half of his 'whiskey', which he was certain now was anything but, and he could already feel its effect. How Crowley could drink that, plus her own cocktail, and still grin at him as if she'd had nothing but tea, was beyond him.

“Where to now, angel? I know some far better places, where you definitely won't get gunned down for enjoying some spirit.”

“I think I'd rather head home.” He swallowed, remembering the myriad times Crowley had swooped in at night to save him from something or other, thinking about what else might happen if they stayed out this night. Not thinking, though, what might happen if they stayed in.

“Good choice.” She patted his arm, which she'd held all the way down the street without him even noticing. “Lead the way.” They strolled the rest of the way in silence, Crowley's heels clinking away on the pavement, barely interrupted by other drunken couples passing them and hollering as they disappeared again into the dark of the night.

Crowley was still doing her hair the next morning (a night on the settee in Aziraphale's living room did not help with keeping her perfect hairdo) when Aziraphale opened the freshly-delivered newspaper, only to have a photograph of the bar he'd been sitting at yesterday stare into his face, covered in blood. Good choice, indeed.

London, 1941

“How do you always know?”

They'd been drinking for a few hours now, after Crowley had very quickly agreed to the offered Thank You drink as he'd dropped Aziraphale off at the bookstore. They'd been catching up, so to say, and Crowley had sunk deeper and deeper on the sofa, and had a hard time understanding Aziraphale's sudden question.

“Know what?”

“About trouble.” Aziraphale was in his armchair, prim and proper and sitting up straight despite the alcohol, fidgeting with his glass. The night had revealed far more than Aziraphale would've ever expected, so finding out even more did not seem as daunting as it usually did. “You always know when I'm somewhere in trouble, and show up to get me out of it. How do you know?”

Crowley shrugged. There were so many points to contest, so many reasons to lie, so many unsaid things he was never going to say. It was hard formulating an answer.

“I'm a demon. It's my job to know about shady business. I'm more wondering about how you manage to stumble into trouble, without fail, every night I meet you.”

“I don't stumble- I mean- I'm not out looking for trouble, if that's what you mean.” Aziraphale protested, taking another sip. “Trouble just... finds me.”

And so did a certain demon, who was now staring him up and down with pulled down glasses, golden eyes searing into his skin (even as covered up as he was).

“If you say so, angel.”

“I do.” He cleared his throat, trying to clear away all these pesky thoughts, about Crowley in a church, Crowley at his side, Crowley with a bag full of books in his hand, Crowley coming to his rescue again and again and.... “Anyway, I feel I must thank you.”

“You really shouldn't.”

“I know. But you've been saving me from trouble for... as long as I can remember, I suppose.”

“No big deal.” Crowley shrugged again. “Not like I'm planning on it, you know. S'just happens.”

Aziraphale stared at his glass, empty for at least half an hour now, and wondered. About the many times the demon had shown up out of the blue, in the dark of the night, whispering some warning, pulling him out of harm's way, offering up ways to escape. About how little or how much he could've planned for all those times. About what it might mean if he had planned, had gone looking for him on purpose.

It was easier to refill his glass. There'd been enough revelations for tonight. Best to leave the rest in the dark for now, and think about them when he was clearer, and the sky outside brighter, and his sofa empty.

London, 2019

“What are you doing?”

Aziraphale's voice was stern, cold, angelic in that way that had caused humans to fear them for centuries. The demons' heads shot up, staring in complete shock at the glowing figure approaching in the darkness from the restaurant at the end of the road. He could barely manifest a weapon after dropping the takeout bag in his hands before they'd taken off, leaving behind the crumbled pile of black clothes and limbs underneath them on the street.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale's steps became even faster before he kneeled down next to him, pulling him up with more worry in his face than ever before, if that was possible.

“Angel.” Crowley answered, spitting out a bit of blood to the side. They'd not gotten that many punches in, luckily, but his glasses still sat broken across his nose, barely hiding the blue eye.

“I left you alone for five minutes!” He'd tutted at the demon pulling out a pack of cigarettes as they'd waited for their order. Now he wished he'd asked him to wait just a bit longer instead of ducking out of the restaurant for a quick smoke.

“Good thing you did, too. They were up for a fight, surprised you scared them away as quickly as you did.”

Aziraphale was already dabbing away the blood on his nose with a handkerchief. “We need to go home. We need to go home and set up some wards and-”

“Relax. They were just some thugs. Probably ran into me by accident, and decided to take a chance on the traitor.”

Aziraphale's look was scolding, icy. “We need to go home.”

Aziraphale almost brought out the full med-kit as soon as Crowley slumped down on the sofa. The takeout on the table would stay miraculously warm for another moment, just as it had sitting on the dirty street a while ago. He was far too busy to think about it as he poured disinfectant on some clean papertowels, dabbing it across Crowley's cheek. The demon hissed, but did not move (he was smart enough to know Aziraphale would pin him down if he had to).

“We should've gotten delivery.” He mumbled as he kept cleaning his face, scratched all over from being pushed into the pavement.

“Oh come on. Like we could've known that would happen. What, we're never gonna get takeout again just to avoid the tiny chance of being ambushed by some low-level idiot demons?”

“Isn't it your job to know about shady business? Did you not notice there were other demons around?”

Crowley looked at him, almost hurt (emotionally. He was clearly hurt physically). “I'm retired, angel. I don't do the whole shady business thing anymore.” “Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, only now realising how bad that had come across. “I guess trouble just found you instead of me this time.” He joked, trying to force a smile, failing. Crowley's was far more sincere.

“And you showed up to help me out of it this time. Guess we're even, then.”

“I really don't think scaring of some hoodlums one time makes up for the centuries of you saving my bum.”

“Yeah, probably not. Better repay me for that with other things.” He grinned as the papertowel swept past his chin one last time. Aziraphale thought of scolding him again, for not taking any of this serious, but decided to cave instead. He placed a soft kiss on his lip, careful not to touch the part where it had split.

“I fully intend to.”

They'd eaten their dinner by now (or rather, Aziraphale had), snuggled up on the couch, surrounded by soft lamp light as utter darkness crept in through the bookshop's windows, but Aziraphale's thoughts were still circling around the evening's happenings.

“Did you always feel this scared, too?” He mumbled, nestled against Crowley's chest, where he could feel the questioning 'Hm?'.

“When you showed up to save me. Or told me to get away.” He played with Crowley's fingers, interlaced with his own. “I was so scared seeing you on the ground like that.”

“Probably not. I didn't often catch you in the middle of it.”

“But you knew what could've happened.”

“Yeah.” Crowley freed one of his hands from Aziraphale's worried fidgeting to stroke through his hair. “That's why I made sure to get you away from it.” His voice was heavy, deeper than usual, and Aziraphale could read more in it than he'd said, more than he'd ever admit. He had been scared. He had been worried, each and every time. Scared that he might miss just one hint, one sign that could've brought him to the angel's side. Worried that maybe his warnings were not enough, that Aziraphale would be stubborn, that all his good intentions and help were for nothing this time. That he didn't guard him and save him well enough.

Aziraphale shuffled around, partly to properly hug him, partly to stare at him with as much adoration as he could possibly muster.

“You've always been there for me, haven't you.”

“Not like I could let you wander around at night alone. Earth can be a dangerous place for an angel.”

“Not if he has a guardian demon like you.”

Crowley barked out a laugh at that, scratching through white curls as Aziraphale laid his head down on his chest again.

The night outside would soon break into dawn, light rushing through the windows and into their quiet little space in the backroom. Aziraphale knew he wouldn't have to fear or worry about any news that would find him in the morning, like always, as long as his demon was by his side.

[leftenant-sinani]

A bit of supernatural stuff from my universe again

Long post incoming.

The Three Beholders ; Beholders, Watchers, Dark Lords, Time Turners or Judges. They have many names, but they most commonly known as Beholders or Watchers to some. The Beholders are strange entities, deemed as either deities or demons to those who know about them. Their whole existence in general is very subtle and there is little to no evidence that they actually exist. However, it is said that 1 out of 10 000 people can actually see one of them in their dreams. Those who did see them in their dreams often went insane as Beholders are entities who are not supposed to be seen for mere mortals, this strange fact is shared with Ancient Gods from the old Grudgewill folklore. A lot is known about Beholders, but most of it comes from unreliable sources as minds of insane men and women, not to mention there is still a tons of information about them to cover, which is not to this very day. It is said that those who did see them and did not went insane, are keeping it either in secret as they are in so-called 'Covenant of Soul' of one of the Beholders, or they are lying about it so they will get attention. The truth is always evident in most of the cases when it comes to the lying individuals. However, there are some cases that actually talked freely in case of the second Beholder and even had a lot of evidence. Beholders are being told about in many lights. Some say that they are deities who are supposed to be our saviours when the time is right for it. Some on the other hand say that they are demons of untold power, who are the to blame for all the wars, hatred, pain and other horrible things. And then there is the middle version, which talks about these beings as only watchers who turn the wheels of the universe or possibly more universes whenever they feel like it but with no intention of doing good nor evil, as their only interest is to watch our petty lives. Whichever version is correct is up to debate. Needless to say, that Divine Order permitted the worshipping of such beings, as the tales mostly include that they are many times more powerful than the Saint Trio... or even the demons from the official religions and folklore; That their power can shape the universes themselves. The tales talk about three Beholders, the names are often the same, sometimes different, but it is not confirmed that these entities have even names or forms they are described as: The first Beholder, often called as Os Taq, the Mad Lord. In some religions, he's being referred to as someone who was a close acquaintance of demon Azazel, even though they are very different from each other. According to the painting from the insane people who saw him in their dreams, his look is not very describable, but he is often imagined as shadow silhouette of a demon with horns, dark halo and with only visible orange eyes and mouth full of sharp teeth, in some paintings, a fire is coming out of both his eyes and mouth. From what the people said, his voice is sound like demonic echo which talks in very strange language - most probably some ancient one - which cannot be understood at first, but it will eventually translate itself in the person's head into so-called 'Shakespearean English' as the people call it. It's believed that he's the most common Beholder out of the three to meet in dreams, and is taking pleasure in making the weak-willed people go insane. However, this kind of rule applies to every Beholder, as weak-willed individuals simply cannot comprehend the sight of them. The strong-willed characters often have strange nightmares in row for few days if Os Taq shows up in their dreams. He does not choose almost any person to be his chosen one, but if he does, he must be very interested in them (or so it's said), and there's not any information at the moment about what kind of abilities and terms the person gets. The second Beholder, called as Wernatt, the Judge of the Fate, often called as simply Watcher instead of Beholder. (That's also the origin of this Watcher term for the rest of the Beholders) Wernatt is considered to be most interested in fates of the living beings, and he chooses his favourites he deem as most fascinating people, who could do many good - or bad - deeds, and of course, the person has to have strong will in general. Those are called Watcher's Chosen. He offers them great power that cannot be explained by any magical theory, and of course invincibility at the cost of watching them with full interest and making them go live a life in different dimension than the one the person was born in, and if the person fails to impress the Wernatt to a certain measure, they will be eventually killed in some way and their soul will be kept by the Watcher himself. It is said that he lets his chosen speak freely of his presence to let the other, whether it's to spread the fear or fascination is unknown, as the chosen ones do not have a single idea themselves. This Beholder is often described as a pitch black silhouette of a man with piercing green eyes, his voice slightly deep and monotonous as if it was coming from a man with no soul and his presence can be known by sudden drop in temperature and unpleasant feeling in general. If he shows up in dreams of weak-willed person, the result is insanity, of course. However, if it's some strong-willed person, he doesn't materialise personally, but he makes sure to make the dream to be surreal and leave you with an unforgettable experience, whether it's for good or bad. Third and last Beholder, the Hernez, the Harbinger. The most illusive Beholder out of them all, as not very much is known about this one. A certain religion talks about him as a creator of Four Horsemen of Apocalypse, but that isn't confirmed nor denied. He's being often associated with evil and soul, not to mention that some people believe he's also the father of most of the demons and evil beings on Abrados, but all of this is pure speculation. He's the most rare Beholder to be seen in dreams, however, in this case it's better that he doesn't, since people who saw him in their dreams, not only go insane, but in most cases, they end up with some very horrible illness and in extreme cases, the mere sight of him can make you die. In all cases, he takes the soul of every person that saw him in their dreams; it is not known why exactly. Same as Wernatt and Os Taq, he too chooses his chosen. They are far, FAR rarer than the Wernatt ones, but still more common than Os Taq's. Sadly, not much can be said about the abilities nor terms, besides the most probable fact that the chosen one is in Covenant of Soul; In theory, the chosen one receives powers and something extra in the exchange for the Hernez their soul after their death OR if they will break the rule of silence, but all of this is a simple theory and the only explanation why the chosen ones are so rare as well. How does the Hernez look, is not really exactly known as the opinions vary, but there are three most used version; First version is portraying Hernez as a tall, black shadow with a silver mask reminding a face. Second version is a human male with a head of the lion, and the last version is more similar to his brethren, pitch black silhouette of a demon with crimson red eyes and nothing else.There is a lot of minor versions as well, but it seems that Hernez doesn't really have any real form and probably is making himself look different for every human or certain amount of people. Certain religions claim about Hernez having direct connectivity to a demon called Pazuzu, the worst and most known demon from tales and legends, but then again, those are but only claims. The Beholders are fascinating beings, who most probably have the very power of turning the world instantly into utopia... or apocalypse. But what is their real goal? Are they meant to be the highest versions of gods? Are they truly entities that rule over not just one, but many other universes like ours? Do they enjoy seeing many civilizations fall and rise while they most probably have the control to end it all at once? Will they ever come down on Abrados in their real physical forms? So many questions, yet only few answers. But who knows... Maybe some questions should rather remain unaswered, as the truth might not be what we were looking for this whole time...

[misssophiachase]

Dirty Laundry

Thank you to the supreme writing queen aka @supremeuppityone for the awesome prompts. I love them all immensely, so who knows I might get them all out : )

Prompt: The first time she saw him, his head was caught between the wall and a dryer.

Grammercy Park, NYC - 10:30pm

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Caroline uttered, not expecting the sight she’d encountered on entering her neighbourhood laundromat. 

“No, this is how I spend all my Saturday nights,” the low growl he emitted was telling Caroline he wasn’t in the mood to chat. 

“Okay then,” she murmured, raising her eyebrows curiously. There was no way this weirdo was going to mess with her perfectly planned evening. 

She set to work, dumping her dirty clothes in the nearest washing machine, whistling as she did it. Most people would call her boring given Saturday nights were reserved for laundry, well her best friend Katherine, who was currently on a date, would endlessly. But she considered it the optimal time to visit the laundromat when it wasn’t so crowded. Besides the grouch in the corner, they were all alone.  

“Not to interrupt your fun over there, love, but any chance you could lend a hand?”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me crazy but I assumed most people would find this particular scenario a little strange.”

“Well, this is New York,” she replied knowingly, adding an abundance of washing powder as was customary to rid her clothes of any unwanted grime. “So, nothing really surprises me.” 

“Obviously.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to ask you how you came to be in this predicament?”

“Or we could discuss your fabric softener suggestions.”

“Oh, that’s easy...”

“Obviously someone doesn’t understand the concept of sarcasm.”

“Says the guy with his head stuck,” she scoffed, trying to ignore just how taut his ass looked housed in those dark, denim jeans. “You could try being a little nicer Mister Grumpy Pants.”

“Maybe if I wasn’t in so much pain,” he huffed. “Any chance you could be so kind and help me out?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” she teased, turning the dial and pressing the obligatory start button before taking a seat and pulling out the latest copy of Cosmopolitan to devour.   

“Well, don’t let me interrupt your washing party.”

“Actually you kind of are,” she shot back, over the pages of her much loved magazine. “I came here for some zen and instead i’m getting some whiny, English attitude.”

“You’re one to talk about attitude, sweetheart.” Caroline rolled her eyes. She knew guys just like him and had no intention of entertaining his company. She looked at her washing machine willing it to work faster. 

“You know, I do have a name.”

“And surprisingly I have a face, not that you would know right now,” he mumbled. Caroline had to admit she’d been curious. All she could see were some dark, blonde curls that were becoming increasingly tempting to touch. 

“Fine,” she conceded, dropping her magazine on the floor and walking towards him purposefully. “You’ve already ruined my night with your whinging so how about you tell me what happened?”

“Or you could just help free me?” At this close range she could pick up an enticing and spicy scent and was trying to ignore. 

“I’ll help you, when you tell me how you ended up like that.” There was a long pause, Caroline knowing he was weighing up his options. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “If you must know my date sort of pushed me into the wall. Caroline attempted to stifle a giggle but failed. “And you wonder why I was reluctant to confess.”

“What did you do to her?” 

“Why do you assume I did anything,” he argued, his legs moving restlessly. “She suggested the laundromat. I thought it was weird but kind of quirky so reluctantly agreed. The moment I touched her underwear to put in the dryer she went ballistic.”

“Well, they’re not called intimates for nothing,” she drawled. 

“I’m pouring my heart out to you and all you can do is mock?” 

“If you must know, I’m waiting for the television cameras to burst in the door and tell me I’m being punk’d or something,” Caroline offered, looking around the open windows suspiciously. 

“Do you think I’d want my personal life telecast to millions?” Caroline shrugged her shoulders, the mystery stranger did have a point. 

“Go on.”

“She pushed me into the wall without warning and then stormed out, intimates in hand,” he admitted sheepishly. “You’re the first person that’s come in since.”

“Not to be rude but...”

“Oh, I think we’re well and truly past that point, love.”

“You don’t seem entirely weak...” She was now inspecting his toned physique through his henley quite closely now. 

“I’m not,” he growled. “I just will never let my brother set me up on a blind date ever again.”

“So, somehow this is his fault?” 

“Everything is Kol’s fault. I have a feeling this is his revenge for being the inferior  sibling.”

“Last time I checked, I’m not a family therapist,” she groaned, impatiently before placing her hands lightly on his hips. “In fact, I’m going to help you. Not because I like you given you seem to have a myriad of issues which, by the way, I’m not willing to unpack.”

As soon as she’d offered and her thumbs were hooked in his belt loops, Caroline knew she’d reached the point of no return. How in the hell had her washing night come to fondling some stranger’s hips? 

“Anything I can help you with?” He’d teased, obviously noting her hesitation and breaking her from the vortex he’d managed to suck her into. 

Without a word, Caroline pulled him backwards roughly. The unexpected force she’d exerted repelling them backwards. Caroline on the cold, tiled floor and him lying on top of her body. To say he felt unnervingly good against her chest, albeit heavy, was enough to tell Caroline she needed to extract herself from the situation and pronto.  

“Get off me!”

“Well, maybe if you’d given me some warning I might have been prepared,” he complained, finding his feet shakily and standing up whilst nursing his obviously sore head. 

“Is this how you always treat saviours?” She huffed, finally joining him upright and placing her hands on her hips defiantly. She was expecting another witty retort but instead his crimson lips curved upwards into a sly smile and he flashed an impressive set of dimples in her direction. If she’d known he was that handsome maybe she might have rethought her tactics. 

“Thank you, love,” he offered simply. “It’s nice to see my faith in New York women hasn’t all been lost this evening.” She was struggling to keep her composure, why was this idiot causing so many foreign feelings? 

“I should, uh, really get back to my washing.”

“I could help?” He offered. “I promise not to touch your intimates.”

“Is this your line, do you just pick up unsuspecting women in the laundromat?” 

“Yes, in fact I do it for a living,” he teased. “That whole dryer/wall scenario is actually one of my party tricks. You know, I don’t even feel the pain anymore.” 

“Who exactly was this mystery date then?”

“Aurora someone apparently.”

“Do you mean Aurora De Martel? You do realise she’s a pro-wrestler, right? Won the female championship three consecutive years.” Caroline asked in disbelief. 

“Funnily enough, Kol forgot to mention that particular fact,” he groaned. “Now it’s all starting to make sense.” 

It had been an ongoing joke between them and Kol didn’t let it slide during his best man speech either. Turns out you didn’t need to see someone’s face to fall in love at first sight as evidenced by their chance meeting in the laundromat. 

[delwray-blog]

WHO WAS THE FIRST JEW?

John Standring

We know that Saul was the first king of Israel and that John was the first man called Baptist, but who was the first Jew? Neither Adam, Seth or Noah are called Jew. Nor were Abraham, Isaac or Jacob. Moses was not called a Jew and neither were Saul, David or Solomon called Jew. In fact you will not find the word Jew in the first eleven books of the Bible. The first time Jews are mentioned in the Bible, is in II Kings 16:6 (and then only in translations revised in the eighteenth century) where we find Israel was at war with the Jews and drave the Jews from Elath. Isn't it interesting that we can read over five hundred pages of the Bible before we find a Jew anywhere, yet those who call themselves Jew today claim the first five books of the bible and call it their Torah. Do you not find it rather strange that those who claim to have written the first five books of the Bible and call themselves Jew, can't find the word Jew written anywhere in the book they call their own bible, and claim to have written? Jesus Christ tells John in Revelation 2:9 "I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews and are not, but are the SYNAGOGUE OF SATAN". We know that God changed the name of Abram to Abraham in Genesis 17:5, and that He changed the name of Jacob to Israel in Genesis 32:28, but nowhere in the Bible do we find where God changed the name of Israel to Jew! There is therefore no authority by which those who say they are Jews can claim to be Israel!  By the time of Jesus the word Edom or Edomite had been translated by Greek and Latin into Ioudaios and Iudaeus meaning a Judean or person living in Judea. The original King James version of the Bible, 1611, translated Idumaean-Judean into Iewes. It wasn't until the revised editions of the King James Bible, that the word Jew appeared. The word Jew does not mean Israel or Israelite! We must conclude therefore that the first "Jews" were Canaanite-Edomite-Hittite. It is certain, according to the Bible, that Jews are not Israel. jesusjew.htm

JESUS WAS NOT A JEW

Benjamin H. Freedman, Jewish Historian - Researcher - Scholar. From "Common Sense", p. 2-1-53 and 5-1-59

"Christians have been duped by the unholiest hoax in all history, by so-called Jews. This is considered their most effective weapon." "This 'big lie' technique is brainwashing United States Christians into believing that Jesus Christ was "King of the Jews", in the sense that so-called 'Jews' today call themselves 'Jews'. This reference was first made in English translations of the Old and New Testaments, centuries before the so-called Jews highjacked the word 'Jew' in the 18th century A.D. to palm themselves off on the Christian world as having a kinship with Jesus Christ. This alleged kinship comes from the myth of their common ancestry with the so-called 'Jews' of the Holy Land in the Old Testament history, a fiction based on fable." "American Christians little suspect they are being brainwashed twenty-four hours of every day over television and radio, by newspapers and magazines, by motion pictures and plays, by books, by political leaders in office and seeking office, by religious leaders in their pulpits and outside their churches, by leaders in the field of education inside and outside their curricular activities, and by all leaders in business, professions and finance, whose economic security demands that they curry the favor of so-called "Jews" of historic Khazar ancestry. Unsuspecting Christians are subjected to this barrage from sources they have little reason to suspect. Incontestable facts supply the unchallengeable proof of the historic accuracy that so-called "Jews" throughout the world today of eastern European origin are unquestionably the historic descendants of the Khazars, a pagan Turko-Finn ancient Mongoloid nation deep in the heart of Asia, according to history, who battled their way in bloody wars about the 1st century B.C. into eastern Europe where they set up their Khazar kingdom. For some mysterious reason the history of the Khazar kingdom is conspicuous by its absence from history courses in the schools and colleges. "The historic existence of the Khazar kingdom of so-called "Jews", their rise and fall, the permanent disappearance of the Khazar kingdom as a nation from the map of Europe, and how King Bulan and the Khazar nation in about 740 A.D. became so-called "Jews" by conversion, were concealed from American Christians by censorship imposed by so-called "Jews", of historic Khazar ancestry, upon all U.S.A. media of mass communications directed by them. Then in 1945 this author gave nation-wide publicity to his many years intensive research into the "facts of life" concerning Khazars. The disclosures were sensational and very effective but apparently angered so-called "Jews" who have continued to vent their spleen upon this author since then solely for that reason. Since 1946 they have conducted a vicious smear campaign against him, seeking thus to further conceal these facts, for obvious reasons. What have they to fear from the truth? "In an original 1903 edition of the Jewish Encyclopedia in New York's Public Library, and in the Library of Congress, Volume IV, pages 1 to 5 inclusive, appears a most comprehensive history of the Khazars. Also in the New York Public Library are 327 books by the world's greatest historians and other sources of reference, in addition to the Jewish Encyclopedia, dealing with Khazar history, and written between the 3rd A.D. and 20th centuries by contemporaries of the Khazars and by modern historians on that subject." Jesus was a 'Judean', not a Jew. During His lifetime, no persons were described as "Jews" anywhere. That fact is supported by theology, history and science. When Jesus was in Judea, it was not the "homeland" of the ancestors of those who today style themselves "Jews". Their ancestors never set a foot in Judea. They existed at that time in Asia, their "homeland", and were known as Khazars. In none of the manuscripts of the original Old or New Testament was Jesus described or referred to as a "Jew". The term originated in the late eighteenth century as an abbreviation of the term Judean and refers to a resident of Judea without regard to race or religion, just as the term "Texan" signifies a person living in Texas. In spite of the powerful propaganda effort of the so-called "Jews", they have been unable to prove in recorded history that there is one record, prior to that period, of a race religion or nationality, referred to as "Jew". The religious sect in Judea, in the time of Jesus, to which self-styled "Jews" today refer to as "Jews", were known as "Pharisees". "Judaism" today and "Pharisaism" in the time of Jesus are the same. Jesus abhorred and denounced "Pharisaism"; hence the words, "Woe unto you Scribes and Pharisees, Hypocrites, Ye Serpents, Ye Generation of Vipers".

JESUS WAS NOT A JEW

By Jason Collett

Many denominational Christians and even church leaders are under the mistaken belief that Jesus was a Jew. But nothing could be further from the truth.  Judea and Galilee were two separate states and political entities, as illustrated on the map of Palestine in the time of our Saviour in your Bible. Jesus Himself was not a Jew (Judean) or resident of Judea, He was a Galilean or resident of Galilee (Matthew 26:69; John 7:41), and a Judahite or descendent of the Tribe of Judah. The Judeans of prominence were not of the Tribe of Judah, but of Edomites. Pilate was being ironic when he wrote the sign "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Judeans" for the Cross (John 19:19). That is, "the Galilean who was King of the Judeans," as in "Queen Victoria of England, Empress of India." Jesus grew up in Nazareth in Galilee. His disciples were fishermen from the Sea of Galilee. And although He visited Jerusalem, he spent most of His life in his home country of Galilee. John 7:1, "After this Jesus stayed in Galilee; for He could not walk in Judea, because the Jews sought to kill him." His followers were constrained "for fear of the Jews" (John 7:13, 19:38, 20:19).  Why was this?  Psalm 83:3 says God's elect are "hidden" or protected ones, and that they are under attack from a coalition of evil groups led by Edom. Who was Edom?  Esau, the brother of the patriarch Jacob, became the ancestor of the people called Edom, or Idumea. The Antiquities of the Jews by Flavius Josephus, XIII ix 1; XV vii 9 instructs us: John Hyrcanus forcibly assimilated the Edomites as a national group and they became "Jews" in about 120BC. The Jewish historian Josephus, who lived just after the time of Christ, wrote, "They [Edom] were hereafter no other than Jews'. The Jewish scholar Cecil Roth in his Concise Jewish Encyclopedia (1980) says on page 154, "John Hyrcanus forcibly converted [Edom] to Judaism. From then on they were part of the Jewish people. In the Talmud the name of Edom was applied to Christian Rome, and was then used for Christianity in general".  Terrible judgements against Edom are made in most of the prophecies of the Old Testament. For instance, Isaiah 34, 63, Jeremiah 49, and the entire book of Obadiah.  Isaiah 63:1-6, "Who is this coming from Edom . . . in garments stained with crimson? It is I [the Lord] who speak in righteousness and am mighty to save."  "Why are your garments red, as if you had trodden the winepress?" "I have trodden the winepress alone: and of the people there was none to help Me. In My anger I trod them down, trampled them in My wrath. Their blood splattered My garments, and all My clothes are stained. For the day of vengeance is in My heart, and the year of My redeemed has come. . . I will tread down the people in My anger, and bring their blood upon the ground".  These verses refer to Revelations chapter 19:11-21, when the Word of God destroys His enemies: "And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse: and He that sat upon him was called Faithful and True. . . His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on His head were many crowns, and He had a Name written that no man knew but Himself. And He was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood, and His Name is called The Word of God. . . and He trod the winepress of God’s fierce anger". Jehovah of the Old Testament "hated Esau (Edom), against whom He has indignation forever"  (Malachi 1:2-4). If Jesus will destroy Edom when He returns, then Edom is present today, and obviously evil, anti-Christian, and anti-Semitic.  The Edomite, Antipater, became the Procurator of Judea in 47BC. Ten years later his son Herod actually became "king of the Jews," initiating the Edomite dynasty which ruled Palestine under Roman authority for over a hundred years. The Edomite assimilation opened the way for the virtual takeover along the lines predicted by Ezekiel and stimulus for an influx of population from the arid country of Edom into the more hospitable environment of Judea, an influx obviously encouraged for political reasons by the ruling Herodian dynasty. Edomites would have been appointed to the most influential positions, in order to extend and consolidate Edomite authority over the land and its people. Herod became notorious for his massacre of infant boys two years old and undger," a supernaturally inspired attempt on the life of Christ (Matthew 2:16). Herod's son Herod Antipas, continuing the work, and was responsible for the gruesome murder of John the Baptist (Matthew 14:6-12).  Christ demonstrated a very real antipathy towards the people called Jews, in Bibles published after about 1776, but who would be more accurately described as Judeans, or residents of the Edomite-dominated territory of Judea. Jesus said to the Jews "You do not believe because you are not of My sheep" (John 10:24-27). "I was only sent to the lost sheep of the House of Israel" (Matthew 15:24). In fact, Christ referred to "those Jews (or residents of Judea regardless of religion, race or color) who believed on him," as "of their father the devil" for although they were children of Abraham, they were not children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and heirs of the blessing of Abraham, nor did they have the faith of Abraham, and were in all probability descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Esau (John 8: 31,44). In contrast, Jesus instructed His disciples - who were from Galilee of the Gentiles, not Judea (Acts 1:11; 2:7) - to pray to   "Both my father and my mother were survivors of the Warsaw ghetto and the Nazi concentration camps. . . One of my father’s lifelong friends was a former inmate with him in Auschwitz, a seemingly incorruptible left-wing idealist who on principle refused German compensation after the war. Eventually he became a director of the Israeli Holocaust museum, Yad Vashem. Reluctantly and with genuine disappointment, my father finally admitted that even this man had been corrupted by the Holocaust industry, tailoring his beliefs for power and profit. As the rendering of the Holocaust assumed ever more absurd forms, my mother liked to quote (with intentional irony) Henry Ford: "History is bunk." (ibid. p. 7). "The Holocaust proved to be the perfect weapon for deflecting criticism of Israel" (ibid p. 30).  "Much of the literature on Hitler’s Final Solution is worthless as scholarship. Indeed, the field of Holocaust studies is replete with nonsense, if not sheer fraud." (p. 55).  "Given the nonsense that is turned out daily by the Holocaust industry, the wonder is that there are so few skeptics". (p. 68). "Annual Days of Remembrance of the Holocaust are a national event. All 50 states sponsor commemorations, often in state legislative chambers. . . Seven major Holocaust museums dot the American landscape. The centerpiece of this memorialization is the United States Holocaust museum in Washington. . . [This] museum’s annual budget is $50 million, of which $30 million is federally subsidized." (p. 72). (This is in spite of the fact that, as he points out on page 32, per capita Jewish income in the US is almost double that of non-Jews).  "With a reelection campaign looming, Jimmy Carter initiated the [US Holocaust Museum] project to placate Jewish contributors and voters, galled by the president’s recognition of the "legitimate rights" of Palestinians.’ (p. 73). Finkelstein exposes the SWINDLE, a word formerly most often associated with Jews. "The Holocaust" is an ideological representation of the Nazi holocaust. Like most ideologies, it bears a connection, if tenuous, with reality. The Holocaust is not an arbitrary, but rather an internally coherent construct. Its central dogmas sustain significant political and class interests." (p. 3). And: "The Holocaust may yet turn out to be the "greatest robbery in the history of mankind". . . The Holocaust industry has clearly gone berserk." (p. 138-9). Is this evaluation fair?  Have a look at a typical account by one of the seemingly endless number of survivors: Olga Lengyel’s Five Chimneys: a woman survivor’s true story of Auschwitz (Granada/Ziff-Davis, 1947, 1972). The blurb on the cover of the book quotes the New York Herald-Tribune: "Passionate, tormenting". Albert Einstein, the promoter of the US construction of the bombs used at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, is quoted as offering "You have done a real service by letting the ones who are now silent and most forgotten (sic) speak."  Lengyel says:  "After June, 1943, the gas chamber was reserved exclusively for Jews and Gypsies. . . Three hundred and sixty corpses every half-hour, which was all the time it took to reduce human flesh to ashes, made 720 per hour, or 17,280 corpses per twenty-four hour shift. And the ovens, with murderous efficiency, functioned day and night. However, one must also reckon the death pits, which could destroy another 8,000 cadavers a day. In round numbers, about 24,000 corpses were handled each day. An admirable production record, one that speaks well for German industry." (Paperback edition, pp. 80-81). [No trace of any remains of or in ‘death pits’ has been found.] This implies almost 100,000 corpses per four working days, or a million in 40 days, or six million in 240 days (eight months). Could this claim be a misprint?  Kitty Hart, in spite of her name, a Jewish survivor born in Poland, fully confirms these figures:  "Working around the clock, the four units together could dispose of about 18,000 bodies every twenty-four hours, while the open pits coped with a further 8,000 in the same period." (p. 118; Return to Auschwitz - paperback edition by Granada (1981, 1983). According to the cover blurb, "The subject of the award-winning Yorkshire television documentary of the same name." "Both engaging and harrowing . . . an important addition to the growing holocaust literature, very little of which conveys so courageously both the daily torment and the will to survive" – Martin Gilbert, The Times. Martin Gilbert, indefatigable Jewish campaigner on behalf of the ‘Holocaust’ and biographer of Winston Churchill, adds to the rich flavour and makes his own numerical claims, certainly not without chutzpah:  In his book Auschwitz and the Allies (1981) he states:  "The deliberate attempt to destroy systematically all of Europe’s Jews was unsuspected in the spring and early summer of 1942: the very period during which it was at its most intense, and during which hundreds of thousands of Jews were being gassed every day at Belzec, Chelmo, Sobibor and Treblinka." (p. 26). If we assume a minimum figure of 200,000 per day, this amounts to say one million over a five-day working week, or 6 million in six weeks, and this does not include the truly awe-inspiring claims for Auschwitz put forward by Hart and Lengyel with Gilbert’s blessing. A detailed forensic examination of the site of the wartime Treblinka camp, using sophisticated electronic ground penetrating radar, has found no evidence of mass graves there. For six days in October 1999, an Australian team headed by Richard Krege, a qualified electronics engineer, carried out an examination of the soil at the site of the former Treblinka II camp in Poland, where, Holocaust historians say, more than half a million Jews were put to death in gas chambers and then buried in mass graves. According to the Encyclopedia of the Holocaust (1997), for example, "a total of 870,000 people" were killed and buried at Treblinka between July 1942 and April 1943. Then, between April and July 1943, the hundreds of thousands of corpses were allegedly dug up and burned in batches of 2,000 or 2,500 on large grids made of railway ties. Krege's team used an $80,000 Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) device, which sends out vertical radar signals that are visible on a computer monitor. GPR detects any large-scale disturbances in the soil structure to a normal effective depth of four or five meters, and sometimes up to ten meters. (GPR devices are routinely used around the world by geologists, archeologists, and police.) In its Treblinka investigation, Krege's team also carried out visual soil inspections, and used an auger to take numerous soil core samples. The team carefully examined the entire Treblinka II site, especially the alleged "mass graves" portion, and carried out control examinations of the surrounding area. They found no soil disturbance consistent with the burial of hundreds of thousands of bodies, or even evidence that the ground had ever been disturbed. In addition, Krege and his team found no evidence of individual graves, bone remains, human ashes, or wood ashes. "From these scans we could clearly identify the largely undisturbed horizontal stratigraphic layering, better known as horizons, of the soil under the camp site," says the 30-year old Krege, who lives in Canberra. "We know from scans of grave sites, and other sites with known soil disturbances, such as quarries, when this natural layering is massively disrupted or missing altogether." Because normal geological processes are very slow acting, disruption of the soil structure would have been detectable even after 60 years, Krege noted.  While his initial investigation suggests that there were never any mass graves at the Treblinka camp site, Krege believes that further work is still called for. "Historians say that the bodies were exhumed and cremated toward the end of the Treblinka camp's use in 1943, but we found no indication that any mass graves ever existed," he says. "Personally, I don't think there was a mass extermination camp there at all." Krege prepared a detailed report on his Treblinka investigation. He says that he would welcome the formation, possibly under United Nations auspices, of an international team of neutral, qualified specialists, to carry out similar investigations at the sites of all the wartime German camps. (Sources: "'Vernichtungslager' Treblinka: archaelogisch betrachtet," by Ing. Richard Krege, in Vierteljarhreshefte für freie Geschichtsforschung, June 2000 [4. Jg., Heft 1], pp. 62-64; "'No Jewish mass grave' in Poland," The Canberra Times, January 24, 2000, p. 6; "Poland's Jews 'not buried at Treblinka'," The Examiner [Australia], Jan. 24, 2000. Information provided by Richard Krege; M. Weber and A. Allen, "Treblinka," The Journal of Historical Review, Summer 1992, pp. 133-158; Y. Arad, "Treblinka," in I. Gutman, ed., Encyclopedia of the Holocaust [New York: 1997], pp. 1481-1488.)