#The Resurrection Maker | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marlinspirkhall · 5 months ago

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The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

#writing-prompt-s #writing prompts #writing fills #making this its own post #short story #thank you Ursula Le. Guin you are the blueprint #long post

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idylls-of-the-divine-romance · 3 months ago

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*bangs head on the table repeatedly* Why. Do. The. Brothers. And. Sisters. Of. Christ. Love. To. Hate. Each. Other. So. Much.

You're Christian. I'm Christian. They're Christian. We all believe Jesus is God. We all believe God is love. Why all the hate?? So what if they believe Mary was assumed into heaven and you don't? So what if you believe Mary was ever a virgin and you don't?

There are lots of things we disagree on. But you know what? We agree on so much more!

We believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible.

We believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made. For us humans and for our salvation he came down from heaven, and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man. For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered death and was buried, and rose again on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead and his kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father, who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets.

We believe in one, holy, universal and apostolic Church. We confess one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins and we look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Amen.

We are all Christians for we are all anointed by the Anointed One, the Son of the Living God.

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imagine-darksiders · 9 months ago

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A little respite...

A short Death/Reader oneshot about birthday presents, mugs, and how a Horseman without a heart isn't necessarily heartless. Enjoy! <3 xxx

---

Birthdays, Death supposes, carry far greater significance when one only has a finite number of years in one’s lifespan.

If there’s anything he’s grateful for, it’s that modern humans seem to have tailored their annual celebrations to smaller, intimate gatherings, which, in his opinion, are far more tasteful than the ostentatious and plethoric affairs those pharaohs used to throw. If the Horseman thought he’d have to wade through a veritable ocean of humans just to get to your front door…. Well. He certainly wouldn’t have been best pleased, to say the least.

Nestled within the cup of his palm and safely hidden from prying eyes is a small, unassuming parcel. It doesn’t look like much, deliberately so. The tiny thing is wrapped in some old parchment he had to pilfer from Azrael’s study. It was the first and only thing he could think of after he belatedly recalled how humans like to peel away a layer of paper before they can lay eyes on whatever has been pre-emptively hidden within it.

You became quite prickly once after he pointed out the aimlessness of the custom.

‘Some traditions,’ he begrudgingly yielded after several hours of trying to see past your cold-shoulder, ‘are better left undisputed.’

Trudging along the newly rebuilt street in the direction of your home, Death makes every conceivable effort to avoid the stares and shocked gasps from the few humans who are still milling about in the golden light of the evening.

Even after the Resurrection and the frequent comings and goings of the Horsemen, angels, makers and even the occasional demon, Humanity still hasn’t grown accustomed to seeing the Grim Reaper skulking about on their planet.

In the corner of an eye, he sees a man haul a small girl into his arms and scurry to the opposite side of the street, and it takes everything in the Horseman not to sigh.

It isn’t long before he finds himself turning onto the short, gravel path leading up to your front door. His footfalls make no sound on the loose stones, and the parcel is starting to carry weight in his palm now.

Coming to a halt on the step, his eyes drift down to the faded mat by his boots that reads ‘Welcome.’

The Horseman scoffs, as he does every time he sees it. Sometimes you’re too hospitable for your own good.

Giving his shaggy head of hair a bemused shake, he reaches for the doorknob, only to pause.

Another custom best left undisputed… Humans don’t like it if you enter their home unannounced.

Curling his hand into a fist, he instead gives the wood three, solid raps with his knuckles before letting his arm drop back to his side, briefly giving a thought to what it must seem like for an onlooker to witness the ancient Nephilim ceding to human habits.

With a grunt, he leans back on his haunches to wait, idly counting the cracks that have formed in the plaster surrounding your doorframe, each one betraying the frequency of visits made by his younger sister, Fury. It’s a wonder the entrance is still intact with how often she barges in and out, scuffing the paint and chipping off wooden flakes with her armoured shoulders.

Sometimes she forgets that while she might have the slightest build of the Horseman, she’s still unconventionally large from the average human’s point of view. Regardless, you haven’t said a word to her about the marks, as far as Death is aware, and somehow, he doubts you ever will.

His ears prick towards the sound of shoes trotting hurriedly across linoleum, approaching your front door.

“Coming! Coming!” your voice calls out, instantly shaking loose that little fragment of unease that sits between Death’s ribs every time he comes to your home and waits outside the door. There’s a private part of him, a part he’ll never reveal, that dreads the day he knocks without receiving an answer.

The handle rattles, a lock slides out of place, and once again, he hears you speaking from the other side of the wood.

“You guys are early!” you laugh, “I haven’t changed yet, but I’m-“

Your sentence trails off into silence as the door is tugged open and you poke your head into the light outside, brows scrunching together as your eyes fall upon a pale, cadaverous chest.

Blinking, you dart a look up, only to gasp at the sight of an all too familiar bone-mask tilting down towards you, inclined in acknowledgement.

“Death?” you gape, your expression falling open in shock.

Another oddity of humans, he finds. Even when you can clearly see what’s right in front of your nose, you still feel the need to ask for clarification, as though you can never fully trust what your eyes are seeing.

“In the flesh,” he says, gesturing up and down at his emaciated waist and sinewy chest, “I’m pleased you still recognise me, given our months apart.”

And it has been months. Six and three days, to be exact. Not that he’s counting.

It happens the moment he drops his arm back to his side. Like the sun rising over the peak of a dark mountain, your face bursts open with bright, glimmering warmth.

The corners of your mouth retreat from each other, spreading your lips into a grin so wide that your cheeks round out and squeeze your eyes halfway shut with unbridled delight as a laugh gushes out of you, bouncy and awestricken.

“Death!” Without warning, you bound across the threshold and - showing no hint of a reservation - throw your arms around the Horseman’s lean torso, burying your face into the concave dip below his chest, “Oh my god! I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today!”

And because he still hasn’t grown used to your displays of affection, Death forgets the etiquette and freezes in place, arms hovering rigidly above your own and his chin tucked into his neck, as though he’s mildly alarmed at your sudden proximity.

And because you know he isn’t used to affection, you don’t hold him hostage for long.

Pulling away only seconds later, you sweep a hand through your hair, clutching loosely at the strands as you take a step back and give the Horseman a quick once-over, beaming all the while.

“I can’t believe you actually made it! This is the best birthday ever!”

Well, if that isn’t the most flattering thing he’s heard all year.

“Oh! Would you like to come in?” you ramble on, stepping aside and sweeping your hand into the hallway behind you, “I’ve got people arriving for a party, but not for, like, another hour. So, you can stick around or…”

“Ah, regrettably, I can’t linger for long,” he interrupts, holding up a palm to quiet you. He truly can’t stay. And not just because he’s disinclined to ‘party.’

He’s heard whisperings of a demon uprising stirring in a city across the sea. He and War have made plans to travel there under the cover of darkness to investigate, and he’s already behind schedule. He notices that you make a considerable effort not to let your expression droop, though he can tell by the pinch of your lips that you’re disappointed.

He… hopes he can make it up to you with the tiny package hidden safely within his palm.

Clearing his throat, Death flexes his fingers, wrestling with doubts for a moment before he gives himself a mental kick and forces his hand out from behind his back, thrusting the parcel under your nose.

“Here,” he grunts as he gives it a gentle shake, willing you to take the damn thing rather than continue to blink down at it in surprise, “I understand gifts are customary on one’s… birthday, hm?”

… For a long time, you don’t say a word. You merely look at the Horseman’s palm as though he’s holding a live grenade, your eyes round and wide and uncertain. In fact, you remain silent for so long, that for once, Death is the one who feels compelled to explain himself.

“I… wrapped it,” he ventures, frowning behind his mask at the parcel, “… Although, I suppose it isn’t very good, is it.” Now that he's presented it to you, he's only just noticing how shoddy and rushed the job must look. In fact, he realises he must have stolen parchment that Azrael was in the middle of writing on, judging by the ink smudges that are only half hidden beneath the thin twine he used to bundle the whole thing together.

Mind racing, he scans your expression for tells, anything that’ll clue him in as to whether he’s made a mistake in bringing you something at all…

Perhaps… he was misinformed. It might be a grave insult to give a human something on their day of birth. Damn that half-wit brother of his, Strife. If he’s fed Death another lie to make him look foolish in front of you, why, he’ll-

A soft touch alights upon his palm.

Death’s gaze snaps down to see your tiny fingers curling tentatively over the parchment, and it takes a lot of concentration to keep his appendages from twitching as you slide the parcel out of his palm, brushing your thumb over his in the process.

“You… got me a present?” you ask gently, staring down at it before flicking your eyes up to peer at the Horseman from beneath your lashes.

Slowly, he retrieves his arm, giving it a shrug and sniffing, “It’s nothing particularly special.”

But you’re already pulling at the twine's lacklustre knot, delicately peeling away crinkled parchment to reveal the gift inside.

When you finally unfold all of the paper, a soft sound of wonder escapes your parted lips, and your face is illuminated in a soft, green glow.

It’s a flask. A tiny flask no larger than your thumb, cut from thick, crystalline glass and stoppered at the top with a chunk of cork. The flask itself has had a silver chain welded to the neck that glints in the sunlight as you bring it closer to your face to peer inside. Clinking around behind the glass, you spot a piece of shard, green as a summer field, glowing prettily like a captured firefly, small and dainty but luminous enough to cast its light through its crystal prison.

“I’m sure Muria could have made you something prettier,” the Horseman mumbles, “I’m no maker. But, I always did have a knack for crafting these talismans… You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to convince Fury to carry one…

“…Death…” you breathe.

“Yours is modified, of course," he ploughs ahead, clearing his throat, "Now, it won’t keep you safe indefinitely.” There's a pause, and you think you hear him mutter ‘yet’ under his breath before he continues, “But it will serve as a shield, of sorts. If you’re ever injured-“ Reaching out, he taps his nail against the glass. “- This will bear the worst of the damage. So long as you wear it, your skin will be harder to break. Your bones will only splinter where they might have shattered. You will be, in a word, protected.”

You can’t reply for a moment, your throat is too clogged with things you don’t know how to say.

You know this talisman. You know it because you’ve seen the one Fury keeps tucked beneath the high neck of her cuirass. She insists that Strife and War carry them too, though the brothers have yet to relinquish that secret to you just yet.

Nephilim’s Respite. It’s a protective trinket made by the eldest Horseman to safeguard his brothers and sister on their travels.

Death made them for his siblings. His family.

And now, here you are, holding the self same talisman in your hand.

You try to maintain your composure. You really do try. But when you blink, you’re slightly dismayed to find your vision blurring and a warm dampness tickling your lower eyelashes.

“Ah,” Death utters, drawing his head back to regard your gathering tears, “You’re crying. That… wasn’t my intention.”

A watery laugh tumbles out of your mouth, and you raise your unoccupied hand to sweep a wrist across your eyelids. “It’s oka-“ you start to sniff, though the Horseman jumps in before you can finish the thought.

“If the gift isn’t to your liking,” he concedes, reaching out to take the talisman back, “I can always-“

“-No!” Clutching the gift defensively to your chest, you throw Death a scandalised look, tears trickling lazily towards your chin, “It’s perfect, it’s just – it’s so much, Death! My god, I got you a mug for Christmas!"

And a fine mug it is, he reflects. Bone china, a yellow warning label with 'Warning, prone to sarcasm' scrawled across its surface in thick, black lettering.

It's one of his most preciously guarded items. He almost fed War's remaining arm to Harvester when the younger Horseman knocked it off his table.

But... you're fretting, and his reminiscing of the the humorous crockery will have to wait.

"You... accept the gift, then?" he asks, halfway convinced your eyes are misted over because he'd committed a faux-pas he isn't aware of.

There are times when Death wonders if you must think him quite dense. Such as now, for example. Short of throwing your hands above your head, you positively erupt in exasperation as you exclaim, "Wh-! Of course I do! This is the kindest thing anyone's done for me in my life!"

"Kinder than saving said life?" he quips, "Repeatedly?"

You only shoot him a wide, watery grin in response. Tossing the parchment over your shoulder, you hurry to slip the silver chain around your neck, clutching the flask delicately in a palm and thumbing the glass with fond, gentle strokes.

"I'm never taking this off," you murmur around a beaming smile.

Grunting, the Horseman folds his arms across his chest and replies, "See that you don't. With how attractive you are to trouble and disaster, this is the most efficient way to ensure you are kept relatively safe when I... when one of us isn't around to keep an eye on you." Pausing, he quirks a thoughtful brow behind his mask and adds, "Well... I suppose I could always enlist Nathaniel to play human-sitter..."

Your bright, incredulous peal of laughter cuts him off, but before he can lament on how much different he is now for allowing himself to be interrupted by a human and feel no malice, you suddenly plant a hand on his chest, spreading warmth from the tips of your fingers straight through to the hollow cavity that used to house his heart.

Death's mask tips down, his golden eyes calm, but curious as they fold into yours, old and new, sharing a moment of vulnerability on the steps of your home.

"Thank you, Death," you tell him sincerely, but oh so softly, "I mean it. Thank you."

And then, as if the thanks alone isn't quite enough to break a chip off his unassailable walls, you rise onto the toes of your shoes, reaching a hand up to hook a finger beneath the chin of his mask and drawing his head down inch by inch. Death, taken wildly aback by the boldness of laying your hands on the Executioner's mask, forgets himself, and follows the tug of your will until-

A layer of solid bone may separate you from the Horseman's skin, yet he'd still swear he feels the tender press of a warm, guileless mouth against his own, just for a moment, then you withdraw almost as soon as you leaned in, releasing his chin and letting your arms flop back to your sides.

"Well," you say, voice a little pitched like you've caught yourself by surprise, "Again, um... Thank you..."

Slowly, Death draws back to his full height, resisting the sudden urge to press his fingertips to the space near the bottom of his mask.

"Don't suppose you've got time to come in for a cup of tea?" you blurt.

And if the Reaper's thin, pale lips twitch up at their corners unbidden... Well... There's a reason he decided to keep his mask, after all.

#This is so stupid and abrupt #I wanted to end on a funny note #Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Death x Reader #found family

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portraitsofsaints · 4 months ago

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Saint Mary Magdalene

1st century

Feast day: July 22

Patronage: contemplative life, converts, glove makers, hairdressers, penitent sinners, sexual temptation

Mary Magdalen has been called the second-most important woman in the New Testament after Mary the mother of Jesus. Mary Magdalen traveled with Jesus as one of His followers. She was present at Jesus' two most important moments: the crucifixion and the resurrection. Within the four Gospels, the oldest historical record mentioning her name, she is named at least 12 times, more than most of the apostles. The Gospel references describe her as courageous, brave enough to stand by Jesus in his hours of suffering, death and beyond.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

#St Mary Magdalen #catholic art #artist on tumblr #catholic women #portraitsofsaints

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iloveyoutoinfinity · 2 years ago

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SNEAK PEEK!!! 🏳️‍🌈💖

Oh i can’t wait to see!!! It’s going to look beautiful!!! 💖

#yeshua #yeshua rp #yeshua gifs #jesus #jesus rp #jesus gifs #the miracle maker the story of jesus #the miracle maker #my gifs #gifset #ministry #passion and death #the last days #paschal triduum #resurrection #new look coming #new lewk

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talonabraxas · 5 months ago

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“Colour is the soul of Nature and of the entire cosmos...” — Rudolf Steiner

Colors Meditation, Aura, and Healing Levels

The Meditation/Dream level helps you to understand a color or a colored object seen in a dream or meditation.

The Aura level helps you to understand the purpose of that color within the human energy field.

The Healing level is the way the color works when applied to healing the body or spirit.

WHITE

Meditation/

Dream: Truth of the highest order. Enlightenment. Energy in its most pure form. Divinity.

Aura: Never a predominate color in the aura unless you are looking at an angel or an ascended master. However a white layer in the aura or a layer with white streaks indicates a person following the will of God and being directed by it.

Healing: Charging the energy field, bringing peace and comfort, divine light or whole white light entering.

VIOLET

Meditation/

Dream: Conjures feelings of enchantment, wishes fulfilled, of dreams made fact. Transformation of the self or of some aspect of your life into a higher form. Connecting to your higher self. The "I am God" presence.

Aura: This color in the aura is the highest vibration for the human spirit. A person who is in command of his life and energy. A visionary. Violet with a gold outline is a person who is one with spirit and God and is in service to mankind.

Healing: Connecting to spirit, the opening of the third eye, the clearing of the head, purging the auric field of distortions.

BLUE

Meditation/

Dream: Blue is the energy of pacification, self protection, sweetness and tenderness, and of loyalty. It represents contentment and reunion with the Earth.

Aura: Blue in the aura represents a teacher or a very sensitive person. They are kind and caring and will do much to help others grow.

Healing: Cooling, calming, restructuring of the etheric level, taking away pain when doing deep tissue work and work on bone cells. Blue also helps to expand a person's field to connect to his/her life task.

GREEN

Meditation/

Dream: Taken most directly from nature, these hues often are expressive of constancy, self-affirmation, security, self-esteem, and of deeply rooted pride. A healing meditation may contain green, as it is the color of new growth.

Aura: Green in the aura signals a very intellectual person who may possess healing gifts. At the very least it signals a nurturer personality and one that will do what they can to make another comfortable.

Healing: Charging the heart chakra, balancing the aura, general healing, sometimes charging the aura to ensure well being and health, and to remove illness.

YELLOW

Meditation/

Dream: Representative of cheerfulness, radiance, relaxation and release from burdens. It is warmth of sunlight, the halo around the Holy Grail. Yellow is hope.

Aura: Yellow, like green also signals a very intellectual person, but this person does not possess healing gifts. They are powerful thinkers, and idea makers.

Healing: Charging the brow chakra, clearing a foggy head.

ORANGE

Meditation/

Dream: Symbolic of fire, of expanding energy, power and the omnipotence of the sun and the majesty of sunsets. Energy to accomplish ones goals.

Aura: A very ambitions person who needs to succeed and has the energy to do so.

Healing: Charging the auric field, increasing sexual potency, increasing the immunity system.

ROSE

Meditation/

Dream: In meditation or dreams represents self-love, also resurrection. The color of flesh, of sensuality and emotion, romantic love, and supportive love.

Aura: A person in-love with another or in-love with one's created environment.

Healing: Subtle healing and love. This energy puts back a sense of self love and self worth.

RED

Meditation/

Dream: Red represents the will to achieve, energy, intensity, and struggle. It is also appetite, desire, and reproduction. It is life in the "now."

Aura: People with mostly red in their aura are fiery spontaneous people. They are often fearless, or appear that way. Red's make good police and firemen and soldiers. Red will also be found in the normal aura for brief periods during great anger or passion.

Healing: Super charging the auric field, burning out cancer, warming cold areas.

GOLD

Meditation/

Dream: Divinity transforming lower energy to upper energy. Spiritual power in all aspects operating for the greater good.

Aura: Gold in the aura is rarely a predominate color, however you can find it as an outline to another color, like violet. Gold as an outline in the aura adds the dimension of spiritual nobility and rank, a person that has and is achieving great spiritual progress and work.

Healing: The restructuring of the seventh layer of the aura (the God self).

GRAY

Meditation/

Dream: Grey in a dream or meditation signals excessive energy being burnt off. it is also a lifting of intense fear or some life-threatening situation.

Aura: A person who's life-force is leaking away due to unhappiness, sadness, depression, or illness. With the color black a person with advanced cancer.

Healing: Only used during a healing when excessive energy must be removed because the person can't handle it.

BLACK

Meditation/

Dream: In the shinny black variety it is a closing in of energy and resource to protect ones self. The velvet or shinny black is not a negative color to get in a meditation, especially if you are feeling burnt out. A velvet black light opens up the Aura so that it can accept higher colors.

Aura: A dull lifeless black in the aura shows a person who is very far removed from the constructive forces of the universe. With the grey streaks, it shows a person being destroyed by his or her own separation from God.

Note: Wearing black is very common and it opens up the human aura to all the other colors. Many students of the occult like to wear black for this reason. Wearing black also protects your energy from leaking out to others.

Healing: The velvet black color is used to bring a patient into the state of grace, silence, and peace with God.

SILVER

Meditation/

Dream: Silver relates to the moon, the subconscious, and the female aspect of the universe.

Aura: Not a color usually present in the aura in any great quantity.

Healing: Used to purge the auric field and to charge the sixth level of being (karmic level), to remove old karma that is no longer needed.

INDIGO

Meditation/

Dream: Purple or indigo in a dream or meditation signals some kind of psychic power or ability or some kind of psychic force.

Aura: In the aura shows a very intuitive person, a person with prepackaged abilities that come from before birth to be used physically in this incarnation. These people tend to be square pegs as far as society and fitting in is concerned. This will change as more of the current generation is born with this color and takes its place in society.

Healing: The opening up of intuition or of some psychic ability. It is also used to prepare the individual of the entering of the divine spirit.

CRYSTAL

Meditation/

Dream: Transformation into a new form or a higher energy state. Crystals amplify and a crystal light will amplify your own energy to a higher level.

Aura: A crystal aura around a person is clear but will have other colors intermingled with it. This is the 'chameleon' aura. People with this aura will take on the attitudes and ways of those around them. The aura of others becomes their own aura. It is important for these crystal people to only surround themselves with the best influences possible, for obvious reasons. A person with a crystal aura must learn how to separate themselves from everybody else.

Healing: Sometimes used to fill in an empty spot where some energy was removed, so that nothing unwanted takes it place, till the person's energy field can replace the vacuum with its own energy field.

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sunrisebythesea · 6 months ago

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The Nicene Creed

We believe in one God,

the Father, the Almighty,

maker of heaven and earth,

of all that is,

seen and unseen.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,

the only Son of God,

eternally begotten of the Father,

God from God, Light from Light,

true God from true God,

begotten, not made,

of one Being with the Father;

through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven,

was incarnate from the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary

and was made man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;

he suffered death and was buried.

On the third day he rose again

in accordance with the Scriptures;

he ascended into heaven

and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead,

and his kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit,

the Lord, the giver of life,

who proceeds from the Father and the Son,

who with the Father and the Son is worshipped and glorified,

who has spoken through the prophets.

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.

We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

We look for the resurrection of the dead,

and the life of the world to come.

Amen.

#catholic #catholic church #catholicism #roman catholic #christian #godisgood #jesus #jesusislord #prayer

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the--artist · 2 months ago

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Donna Beneviento and her Dance with Duality - An Analysis

9/10/24

Pretext: Donna Beneviento (ドナ・ベネヴィエント) is a character from Resident Evil 8 - a horror, first-shooting video game. She is one of the four lords that you/the protag Ethan Winters have to fight to collect four flasks which contain the body parts for Ethan to resurrect his daughter. This game also includes the wildly popular - Lady Demitrescu - the huge vampire gothic lady who entranced everyone on the sexuality spectrum everywhere.

While the four lords, themselves, are the evil antagonists of the story, they all have sympthetic (and unsympethetic) backstories and reasoining for doing what they do. They are all campy and stupid as well as menacing and frighting. For this anlysis I want to focus on one my favorite character from all time - Donna Beneviento - the quiet doll maker and the second lord we have to defeat.

Before I get started, thank you @celezztia for motivating me to write this! You are great mutual. Also thanks to @krisssssssy as well!

While it might not be as evident on the first watch/playthrough, Donna Beneviento walks this thin line with duality - a struggle and blessing for her. From her crest to her doll Angie, there are so many signs of an indecisive individual. Although her lack of screen time might make Beneviento seem boring or flat, there is a lot of pretext in her environment, personality, and choices that offer a lot to her character.

I wanted to write an analysis of this aspect of her and dive deep into what this could mean for Beneviento's character. Of course, there are plenty of different ways of interpreting her character since she is literally DROWNED in mystery, so feel free to criticize my analysis. I'd love to discuss it!!!

Angie Beneviento

...Okay, starting with the biggest showcase of this duality is Angie. Angie was a doll that Lady Beneviento got from her father and was very dear to her. She would play with it very often as she was lonely and cast out for having a scar on her face. Through the Gardner's Diary, we can see that Angie started to become more alive and alive after Donna was adopted.

Coming back to the present time, I think it's really interesting to question how Angie has SUCH a different personality from Donna. Is Angie Donna's split personality? Or is Angie just being 100% controlled by Donna - but just showcasing another aspect of Donna. The issue with this problem is that there is almost equal evidence for both sides of the argument.

During the final battle sequence, Donna is seen puppeteering Angie, and Angie then starts talking with Ethan. This could be used as proof that Angie needs Donna to function. Even during Ethan's trial, we see Donna with Angie. Donna has always been referred to as the puppeteer as well, which makes a lot of sense in this case. In scenes where we only interact with Angie, we can assume that Donna must be invisible and/or controlling Angie from a distance.

Proof that Angie is a separate person can reside in the fact that Angie is so much more loud, obnoxious, and berating than Donna. Donna struggles with talking as her voice is hoarse and dry - showcasing that she doesn't really speak - while Angie's voice is clear and loud. It also possible that the codou in Donna's brain allowed her to express a side of her that she felt she couldn't in the normal world, thereby creating Angie. It's also worth mentioning that Angie is never addressed as Donna in the game. Everyone mentions Donna and Angie separately.

The way the codou is unfortunately never really discussed, so it becomes very difficult to pinpoint how to treat Angie and Donna. But in both cases, they both showcase the duality of Benenviento. One quiet and calm (the Donna that everyone knows - including the gardener) and the loud Angie.

[Donna picking up Angie]

Thinking about why Angie's personality is the way it also interests me a lot. Since one can assume Donna had always been quiet and shy (basically showing no characteristics of Angie) before the codou, it is really interesting to me how a character like Donna ends up jelling with Angie. Is it because Angie is incredibly determined, attention-grabbing, and dominant? Did Donna need a way to interact with others while still keeping her comfort and distance? From the gardener's diary, it doesn't seem abnormal for a child (or even a teen) to speak to a doll when they are lonely. But I would assume a doll like Angie would have become less obnoxious if Donna was using Angie for comfort, no? When making friends in-person or online, don't we seek familiarity with others? So why did Donna feel the need to make her best friend so different?

I personally lean into the theory that Donna must have not gotten much affection, attention, and comfort during her childhood. The isolation coming from the death of her parents as well as having no friends must have forced Donna to seek out a way to express that. When the cadou was implanted in Donna's brain, this desire (separated now from Donna or not) led these desires to resurface and help deal with her current situation. If Donna needs attention from Mother Miranda, she doesn't have to speak at all, Angie can do it for her. Angie can grab attention for her. Angie can intimidate Ethan for her. Angie can accomplish all these things for Donna without her actually having to interact with them. I believe that when Donna was playing with Angie all those years ago, she must have expressed that loneliness to Angie - resulting in who Angie is today.

[Angie pushing Heisenburg and Demitrscu to fight, while a playful Donna watches her doll]

Beneviento's Design (feat Angie)

Alright!!! Now on to my favorite part of this analysis, Donna and Angie's design!

It's no secret that Donna is dressed up in mourning attire and Angie is dressed in a wedding dress. But the duality between both of their outfits is so insane! The fact that Donna is wearing all black and is pale as the moon, while Angie has grey skin but wears all white? Both of their outfits look worn and old as well. They both share a marking on the right side of their face which has the codou implantation (Donna) and moon crescent (Angie). Donna is very beautiful but hides her face with a veil while Angie is less beautiful (please don't go after me!) but shows her face loud and clear. Donna is so afraid to be seen but is ironically being seen through Angie when you consider all the design elements they have in common.

One can assume Donna wears a mourning veil to showcase her constant mourning for Claudia Beneviento (...I might make another post on this idk yet on who I believe she could be) and her parents. There is so much death that this girl has experienced that it has put her in a constant state of mourning. There isn't any reason to feel happy for Donna. Claudia's grave is beautifully decorated that Donna cannot move on. We are never given the reason for the death of her parents, but by the fact that Lord Benenviento created a doll for his daughter, we can only assume that they were a very close and tight-knit family. It is very unfortunate that a child had to go through this much tragedy with only having her Gardner there as a comfort.

Angie is such a contrast to this. Angie is like a child. Angie represents birth and life. She is bright cheerful and lively. Despite being a nonliving doll, she has more "life" than Donna. Through all this death and tragedy Donna experienced, she can finally breathe the normality of life through Angie.

[Please watch the RE8 puppet show, it is honestly so adorable!]

I wonder why Donna thought it was fitting to put Angie in a wedding dress? Did Donna dream of a wedding of her own? Was Claudia really Benviento's daughter? Why did Donna choose to celebrate life through Angie? I guess we might never know.

As mentioned previously, one commonality between Donna and Angie is their scar. It is just a hint of showing how divided they both are. The way they reflect each other here is adorable lol.

The Crest

The sun and the moon as well as life/death are both extremely important themes to Donna Benevineto (shout out to Dua Lipa's Houdini who I associate Donna with). Both Angie and Donna are divided but complete together. In some ways it feels like Donna just be herself if not a "full character" she needs Angie to complete her. It is not just Donna, but Donna AND Angie. No matter how divided Benviento(s) is/are, they will always need the other part to be whole.

In a way, the Benviento crest cemented this way of thinking by showcasing the crest together. Angie as the Sun, and Donna as the Moon - together make up a whole. I always ponder if the other Benevientos also dealt with this duality, but that might be questions left for interpretation....

Thank you so much for reading this far if you did! I've been meaning to write on this topic since forever! Even though this analysis was decently long, there is still SO MUCH to dig into Donna. So many theories on who she really is and what happened to her. I will continue to write about her in the future.

#donna beneviento #angie beneviento #resident evil eight #resident evil 8 #resident evil village #resident evil viii #resident evil #lady beneviento

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