#a Wanderer's Entreaty

[agentc0rn]

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking about bea catching a cold in switzerland and ava making toast and tea for her and putting a little bouquet of wildflowers in a mug on the bedside table and bustling around their apartment wishing there was more she could do, more she could be, any way at all she could help bea feel better

standing watching Beatrice doze in the patch of light from the window, freckles picked out against her skin in tiny constellations. Ava who used to dream about lying underneath the stars finding them here on the ground, on earth.

the loose-limbed grace of her. Ava picking up a battered copy of Cosmos and reading to her from it, squinting at the little notes she’s left in black pen, red pen, blue.

‘from an intergalactic vantage point we would see, strewn like sea froth on the waves of space, innumerable faint, wispy tendrils of light.’

perched on the edge of the bed furthest from Bea. afraid to touch the edges of this ocean.

‘these are the galaxies. some are solitary wanderers; most inhabit communal clusters, huddling together, drifting endlessly in the great cosmic dark.’

she’s not good at making toast. the butter is always too hard, tearing the softly browned slices. or the bread is half-charred, heavy on the tongue. she carries each offering into their bedroom - stumbling over that statement, picking up the laundry on the floor because Beatrice is tired. lays her love down on the bedside table.

milky tea with a spoonful of sugar, paracetamol tablets from the store in town. she wants to be good at this, the making of toast and tea. keeping her hands at bay, how the tips of all her fingers ache for Bea’s skin, taking her temperature and staring at the residual heat on the backs of her hands.

Bea’s been teaching her about thermodynamics. loss and entropy and systems always in danger of unraveling.

you forgot to teach me this. toast and the exact angle of the butter knife. teach me your deft hands, your smooth motion, your warmth.

yes, she wants to know everything. yes, most especially Beatrice.

later, in moonlight, street-lights, Bea waking up and eating cold toast with relish. sipping cold tea. Ava almost phasing through the wall in a rush to make more, to make better, but Bea’s voice arresting her.

‘Ava.’

turning and seeing her, dressed in all their blankets, crumbs in the bed.

‘yeah?’

god, her voice. she slept for a day and Ava felt herself in mourning for it. dying from the want of it.

‘you look exhausted.’ her eyes are caught up in the shadows sprawled over the bed. maybe that’s for the best.

they close, she sighs. ‘come to bed.’

usually they’re exhausted at night. no negotiation in their touch. Ava just curls up around her, pretending to think it’s natural, normal.

(it is, it is, it is)

but now? Bea’s awake, watching her, asking for her.

‘i should-’

‘Ava, please.’ the entreaty is soft, like light. ‘just lie down.’ she pauses, calculates. ‘it’s chilly.’

‘you’re cold?’

Bea nods. it’s definitely a lie - she has all their blankets and there’s sweat on her brow.

maybe there are different kinds of cold, Ava thinks, climbing into the bed.

watching Bea’s eyes slip closed, like permission. sliding over the sheets, crumbs spilling as Bea turns toward the window, offering up the slope of her shoulder, her neck, the firmness of her waist.

touching her is like touching fire. Bea’s been teaching her poetry, too, and there’s one about a candle. silly, short, what Bea calls a ‘useful exercise for memorisation’ because she’s also teaching Ava how to scan a room for danger. to see what others don’t.

unbeknownst to herself, she’s teaching Ava to see her.

the poem goes like this. Ava recites it silently against Bea’s neck, feeling her relax into their shared space. this ocean, this shore.

“my candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but oh, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light.”

[lailoken]

Greetings!

If I may ask, what delineates an interesting natural find in the woods or river and a find that is a gift from a spirit?

How does one tell the difference?

I often find hagstones, calcite, and quartz geodes in just about every waterway I've come into contact with (albeit, nearly always after asking) and while I would love to believe that I've somehow interacted with the local water spirits, there always lingers a doubt within me that maybe I'm just lucky, or good at spotting patterns and I don't realize it. I a similar fashion, as of late, I've been stumbling upon whole, pristinely preserved white snail shells during my wanderings in the woods (again, usually after being struck by a sudden urge to move a specific pile of leaves, picking up trash, or being moved to place a different shiny in a specific location). It just strikes me as strange and wondrous that such things seem to happen in this manner for me, and I'd honestly like to know if my experiences are mere chance or if they are encounters with the Other.

On this note, what can one do with a surplus of hagstones and what are the uses of stump/tree hollow water? I recently "discovered" such a hollow in a tree I've frequented many times before but somehow never noticed the hollow in the trunk. I feel I'm supposed to collect water from it for something, but I'm not sure what.

Thank you again for your time!

That's a good question, though it can't exactly be satisfying answered in a one-size-fits-all sort of way.

For me, personally, I generally tend to consider something a Spirit Gift if it comes to me one of four ways.

The first is when I explicitly ask my Spirit Kith for help locating something and then end up discovering it within a reasonably swift window of time following my entreaty.

Secondly, I will sometimes find something I've been looking for in a particularly strange place or especially well-timed way, and it's hard to overlook those cases, even if I didn't specifically entreat a numinous entity for assistance.

Thirdly, I occasionally find something entirely by chance that I wasn't actively looking for, but which is so striking or unusual to find that I suspect that "hand" of the spirit world.

Finally, sometimes I'll find something without thinking much about it, only to discover later that this item is exactly what I need for a given ritual or magical operation.

As the circumstances I listed above descend in order from 1 to 4, it becomes less clear whether something is definitely a spirit gift or not. But in the end, I often choose to simply view it as such with gratitude, and leave offerings to cover my bases. In situations where it does prove important to know whether I've really gained the attention of a spirit or not, I use divination to clarify

As for your last additional questions: There is plenty you can do with a surplus of hagstones; you could incorporate into spellwork, you could use them to make amulets, you could gift them to others, or you could simply collect them. And I actually have articles on my website that talk about both Stump Water and Hollow Water.

[sallysavestheday]

I worked my way through the SWG Tengwar Challenge last month with a drabble per tengwa but never posted them here. Let's do one a day!

Here's #1:

Calma (lamp)

Finarfin climbs the Mindon Eldaliéva through the purpling sky, rising as the night descends. He prays as he climbs: each footfall a link in a chain of grief and entreaty. He lifts his aching heart, calling out to the Powers for mercy, for grace. He prays for the dead; for his loved ones gone East behind the Sun; for Eärwen, cold and sad in Alqualondë; for all the wandering, sorrowing hearts of the Eldar, broken and bruised and bereaved. Last of his line, but not least, he sings for the lost, then lights the tower’s lamp to guide them home.

Full collection is on AO3 here.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Happy 3 year Call Me-Versary to me 🍑

Prequel to the journal fics, so can be read as a stand-alone.

Heaven, he’s found, exists within in a precocious brat with a penchant for classical music and obscure French novels, and Oliver can’t help smiling as he props his chin in his palm, the tips of two fingers tracing reverently over the rose-bud pout of Elio’s lower lip. 

A lip his malakh then bites; a too-knowing trait that drives Oliver half-wild with wanting each time he does it.

Breathless, he continues his explorations to the freckled constellation behind his left ear. Sweeps the pad of his thumb along the smooth curve of Elio’s jaw. It’s a familiar journey that somehow still feels like a discovery, and Oliver commits the details of Elio’s face to memory as he drops a kiss to his bobbing Adam’s apple, earning a heart-felt moan when wandering digits slide southwards to the waistband of his bathing suit.

Oliver’s bathing suit, technically, and the possessive thrill of seeing Elio in his clothes has yet to fade.

The cords at his naval are tied loosely, and recent experience shows that one sharp tug will bring them to Elio’s knees, exposing his secrets and eager manhood alike. That’s not what Oliver craves right now, though - flanked by gnarled olive trees and stunted pines - and the lean grooves of Elio’s stomach tense as he picks at the knot slowly. 

Already, his erection strains beneath the yellow cotton, and Oliver knows he’s just aching to be free of the netted material. But patience is a virtue, or so they say, and still he takes his time. Stretching out Elio’s desire and need. Feeding it. Rewarding him with a second kiss to his nipple when slender fingers wrap around his wrist, flexing repeatedly in silent entreaty.

“Look at you,” Oliver murmurs, angling up to sample that tortuous bottom lip for himself.

The way it plumps and swells in his mouth holds him in thrall, and Oliver nibbles playfully as he squeezes the jut of Elio’s hip once, twice, three times deliberately. His cheeks ache from an unstoppable grin. Blood thrums at his temple. Happiness spreads through every corner of his being, and it’s only when Elio’s breathing picks up that he finally, finally, eases the bunched material from his pearling crown.

“What about me?” Elio asks belatedly - squirming to kick the borrowed trunks from his ankles - and Oliver allows it, struggling to focus with so much beauty laid sprawled in a canvas of aster and cornflowers.

He’s hard himself - uncomfortably so - but his focus is otherwise engaged as it flicks from Elio’s wiry forearms to his heaving chest. His tapered waist to the dark curls at his groin. Monet himself could paint no better masterpiece, and put together the sum of his parts leaves Oliver desperate for more. 

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, removing a leaf that’s gotten snagged in Elio’s hair. “...I can’t help thinking I wasn’t real until I met you.”

Elio hums. Soft and playful. “That’s funny,” he says, draping his arms around his neck. “Sometimes I think I dreamed you into life.”

There’s a quiet moment of understanding. Gentle as the ocean waves lapping the cliff’s edge below. They might be a secret to the rest of the world, but the pair of them know what they mean to one another, and Oliver’s eyes burn with unsatisfied tears as he slips a still-clothed thigh between Elio’s, pinning him down as the steady push-pull of stimulation drives them ever higher. 

Elio goes immediately pliant - content like always to be naked before him - and Oliver pins his wrists above his head, wondering if love always feels so overwhelming. So electric. So gut-wrenchingly painful. There will never be enough time to slake his longing, and loath as he is to admit it, Oliver’s already preparing for the day he can’t quite recall the sound of Elio’s pleasure. 

The specific point on his side that makes him giggle and squirm. 

The sense of utter completion he’s discovered nowhere save the sanctuary of his arms.

He knows who he’s supposed to be. Who he needs to be. And despite his deepest wishes Elio Perlman will soon be lost to the relentless march of time. The burden of family responsibility is Oliver’s only option, and in following the path of least resistance he must consign his first love - his forever love - to some tchotchke-ridden corner of his consciousness.  

A sun-bleached chapter of freedom and candour, when if he were just a little braver, it could be an entire book.

[aaknopf]

A multi-generational saga courses across the pages of Ædnan, by Sámi-Swedish author Linnea Axelsson, translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel. The verse epic follows an Indigenous Sámi family who have herded reindeer for generations, as the forces of colonialism and modern development of their ancestral lands threaten their culture and livelihood. The story is told by a small chorus of characters from the 1910s through the current day, and we become especially close to Lise, who left her Sámi family, following her brother Jon-Henrik, to be educated at a residential school for “Nomad” children. This excerpt from Chapter XII takes place in the early 1970s, along the Great Lule River Valley, where the state-owned Vattenfall company was developing hydroelectric resources, and Lise is graduating into a world unimaginable to her parents.

. .

The river climbed silently up the hills

as soon as Vattenfall whistled it came creeping:

–

Streamed backwards up its deep channel and drowned the earth

When the great Suorva Dam for the third time was to be regulated

–

Entreaty

shone from Mama’s eyes

–

She explained clearly to the Swedes 

that the fishing will suffer if the water rises

–

There was probably no one who understood what she was saying

– –

After the social studies lesson I went with the others to sit on the gymnasium floor

–

Almost all of Malmberget’s students had been dismissed from class

– To participate in the miners’ strike meeting

 –

Someone had heard that Olof Palme was coming

that he would travel all the way up here 

–

To the mining company’s and Vattenfall’s world the one that he himself had helped build

–

It is what he is guarding

It is all that he can see

–

The mine boss’s voice

flowed wildly above the crowded hall which was hot with bodies

–

His voice was so robust his conviction so intense

–

I glanced at Anne who was sitting beside me leaning against the wall bars

and she smiled back at me

–

Soon we would be leaving school too 

–

And could start working join the union

–

You took the job you wanted that’s all there was to it 

– 

Switchboard cleaner or cook

with the old folks at the Pioneer or the children in day care

– –

I spend the weekend up at Mama and Papa’s 

–

I stand with Jon-Henrik

 –

Watching the river flow murky across the slope

–

That brushy slope

where he and I used to go it’s underwater now

 –

How are our tracks ever to be heard Among the Swedes’ roads and power stations

–

It’s Jon-Henrik who says this he had also been drawn down to the dam

–

To work for Vattenfall as soon as school was done

 –

I’m surprised when he says

That he’d preferred to have taken up with the reindeer

–

Been elected into the Sámi community

And learned to guide that wandering gray soft ocean across the world of the fells

–

Just as the lot of us were once taught at the Nomad School that this is what the Sámi do

that this is how we all live

–

He laughs and says:

–

Who knows what the spring flood will bring with it

this drowned  earth may yet be fertile

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Ædnan by Linnea Axelsson.

Check out The Rumpus for a conversation between Linnea Axelsson and Susan Devan Harness about Axelsson's Sámi heritage and the decision to write Ædnan in verse. 

Click here to read Linnea Axelsson's op-ed piece for LitHub on Scandinavia’s hidden history of Indigenous oppression.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[andromeda4004]

"new tag game fuck it

For my writing pals, mostly. But Who's Counting. It's cocky hours but make it communal.

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations."

I was tagged by @voluptatiscausa - thanks very much!

So let's start with my personal favourite, Mission: Ineffable:

The bag over his head was itchy and thick, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The barrel of a gun was pressed into his temple, but that wasn’t the worst of it, either. No, the worst of it was knowing that if this didn’t pay off, he had no other ideas left to try. “I thought I was going to see J?” he tried.  “Perhaps I misunderstood.” A pause, and the bag was lifted with unforgiving speed.  He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to sudden daylight.  The glare resolved into a figure dressed in black, draped over the seat and arm of a wingback chair like a discarded scarf.  Long lines of arms and legs in studied relaxation, except for the chin propped forward onto a hand, and the unreal focus of a pair of – Aziraphale blinked again – bright golden eyes, framed by a tousled auburn bob.  This had to be J.  Good Lord. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” To the point, then.  “Ah, hello.  I need one point five million dollars.”

From my Regency human AU, Morningstar Abbey:

The General found his anger once again.  “Then you may leave, sir; the hospitality of my house is withdrawn from you.  I will not have Anthony wasting his time on someone so beneath him.  The carriage will be waiting for you in an hour to take you as far as Oxford; you may find your own way home from there.” The shock, the disappointment, the offence warred in Aziraphale’s breast as he heard Crowley and Adam both exclaim at their father, with entreaties and curses.  There was no purpose to fighting this moment; he had dared to harbour a fragile bud of hope that something might be done, that he might at least get to stay until the New Year, but this was only confirmation of what he had already known; the General would never accept this match.  He summoned his dignity against the storm of emotion and took two steps towards the General, who was glaring at him, ignoring the rushed words of his sons. Aziraphale pulled himself to his full height.  “I would not stay another minute if you begged me.”  The door slammed heavy behind him.

And from my latest, The Serpent of the Loch:

His mind wandered briefly to that easily-offended nemesis, with his dignified huffs of disapproval, and his rather less dignified flouncing.  Crowley’s mind had been wandering in that direction quite a bit lately.  It was the greenery, he was sure; that and the free time to sit and philosophise about Good and Evil.  It was just so much more interesting to do that with the angel around to argue with him.  Argue, and share a drink, and maybe even, by the end of the night, a smile.

Tagging @afrenchwriter, @theyhadcrepes, @sabotage-on-mercury if you want to share something 💖👀

[acommonloon]

Homeless Jesus

This was the first day I can remember wandering Bardstown Rd without being approached by a black man who wanted me to give him money.

My street wandering, curtailed by Covid, has only recently become a thing again. Leading up to Covid, the panhandlers in every part of Louisville had become aggressive. Gone were the days of humble entreaty. “Could you spare a dollar or anything?” Instead they would hail me loudly from across the street, Hey Hey my man! Can I talk to you for a second? They would hurry over and start their con.

Most people would just put their head down and walk away. It’s what D wanted me to do. I struggle to embrace meekness. I’ve nothing to inherit.

These harassers weren’t homeless, just grifters running a con. Like 45.

[miirshroom]

"Events may be horrible or inescapable. Men have always a choice - if not whether, then how, they may endure." - Cazaril, "Curse of Chalion" by Lois McMaster Bujold

"As the golden barbs inflicted eternal agony upon him, Midra held fast to Nanaya's entreaty: 'Endure.' The word was a curse." - Remembrance of the Lord of Frenzied Flame

Have been listening through "The Curse of Chalion" by Lois McMaster on audiobook. Early 2000's fantasy novel that I'd not encountered before, but has similar tone to Carol Berg's Rai-Kirah trilogy and Robin Hobb's Farseer trilogy from around the same era. It was a slow burn on the fantastical elements but once they kicked off I'm finding some familiar themes around death magic in the way that it is applied in Elden Ring.

Like, I have a concept of the characteristics of a "ghost" from pop culture osmosis, and the prose here describes it well:

"Old lost souls…No god takes up a sundered soul. It is left to wander the world slowly losing its mindfulness of itself and fading into air. New ghosts first take the form they had in life, but in their despair and loneliness they cannot maintain it".

This recalls to me mostly the ways that "souls" are presented in Demon's Souls, actually, but it carries through to Elden Ring in the way that the most degraded form of the soul detaches and hovers in various places waiting to be collected. Or how the Spiritgraves in Shadow of the Erdtree are the fading ghosts of graves.

There's the titular curse of the Bastard god, which corrupts the royal family like the demi-gods are tainted by their great runes. Also bringing to mind that the Remembrance of Astel, the Naturalborn of the Void can be used to craft the "Bastard's Stars" flail. Another design feature of the Astel being the gold rings around its tail, suggesting a connection to the Golden Star that delivered the Elden Ring with all of its corrupting influence.

But the parallel that is hard to overlook is in the mechanics of the death magic. To cast a death curse always is to slay both victim and caster and have their souls carried away by a demon. Due to a conflict between two divine powers acting at the same time there is a half-finished assassination where a soul is prevented from leaving and manifests to all mundane appearances as a cancerous tumour in a person's body. Similarly, the double deaths of Ranni and Godwyn are half-completed and this is connected to the deathroot which spreads across the Lands Between like a cancer.

BUT, did I enjoy The Curse of Chalion? I liked about the first 3/4 of the book but have mixed feelings about the ending. On the one hand, it's interesting to see a protagonist who recognizes that being ignorant of the truth does not protect people from consequences and has a fairly quick turnaround on keeping his allies informed, even of the crazy supernatural stuff. And the curse is lifted in the end, which effectively amounts to lifting the influence of a god - cool.

On the other hand, there was a literal Deus Ex Machina required to accomplish this and the main character concludes that for at least the last 3 years of his life everything that he has suffered has been orchestrated by this god to fulfill a prophesy that will lift the curse. All he had to do was endure and keep devoted to the higher purpose and in the end he is miraculously cured of an ailment, gets the girl, and is advisor to a queen. It's the kind of contrived outcome that only makes sense where gods are real and take active interest - and the text makes a point that faith in the existence of gods is absolute (due to a guaranteed miracle that everyone gets at end of life that shows which of the 5 gods their soul has gone to). So it's instructive about how to imagine what theology would be like in a world where the gods and demons being debated are literally real and active. But the ending is a little less intuitively cathartic for observers living in a world that is not like that. So if intuition fails I try analysis.

"If the gods saw peoples' souls but not their bodies in mirror to the way people saw bodies but not souls it might explain why the gods were so careless of such things as appearance or other bodily functions. Such as pain? Was pain an illusion from the gods' point of view?" "Perhaps heaven was not a place but merely an angle of view. A vantage. A perspective" - Cazaril

The pain of the character is indeed an illusion from the point of view of the author writing the story. I can see the thoughts (soul) of this character on the page and I know from those thoughts that he has gruesome and painful scars, but I can't see his body so if he didn't keep thinking about them I could forget that they exist. I wonder if there is an intent to partially deconstruct faith in this story. Some of the theological musings at the end dance around the idea that it is easy to read stories as validating religious belief, because 'faithful' characters will always be objectively correct that there is an omniscient divine being - the author - who deals out trials and rewards, and to whom people are puppets pulled along on strings. And once a character grasps this new perspective how could they not be struck by an obsession to describe the experience to other characters? Resulting in a sudden change of personality and detachment from former desires?

The only remaining point of contention would be on whether that author is a benevolent god for giving life to these souls or malevolent demon for causing suffering (an in-universe debate in the Curse of Chalion between the 5-gods religion and 4-gods religion - which honors the 4 gods of the 4 Seasons but insists that the Bastard god of Unseason is a demon!). And speculations on how the gods themselves are made and what happens if they die.

"Death ripped a hole between the worlds…If a god died what kind of hole would it rip between earth and heaven?"

If "god" is the author then what happens upon "death of the author"? There is no more mediator between the imagination of the reader (heaven) and the author's text (earth). In short: fanfiction. One may imagine that characters freed from the hand of the author can find happiness. Or, it can be imagined that their illusory struggles continue. Otherwise, they simply return to non-existence.

[lothiriel84]

So They Went to Cromer

AU. Margaret has no living relations who might take care of her after her father's death, and Mr Thornton feels compelled to beg his mother to do so in his stead.

A North and South ficlet. Background John/Margaret.

“She cannot stay here, John. People are already talking, and you know well enough the mill would hardly survive a scandal of these proportions.” 

Her son merely scoffed at what he clearly perceived as a most trivial objection, and she knew from the stubborn set of his jaw that there was nothing she could say that would make him see reason. “The way matters are standing, I have very little hope as it is to keep in business much longer. Mr Hale was my friend, and I owe it to his memory to see to his daughter until alternative arrangements can be made for her comfort.” 

Hannah shook her head but relinquished any further attempt at persuasion, at least for the time being. Conscious of her duties towards her unwanted charge, she took herself upstairs to check on that girl. She found Miss Hale precisely where she had left her, her tea untouched as she sat very still with a book in her lap, lost in contemplation of the magnitude of her grief.  

“This will never do, Miss Hale,” she sighed, struck afresh by the unwelcome memory of those terrible days she had once spent in a daze of stupefied apathy, before her motherly instincts had finally spurred her into action. “We ought to find you some useful employment – you will feel better for it, I promise.” 

She saw a shadow of recognition flicker across the girl’s ashen features. “You are right, Mrs Thornton,” Miss Hale murmured as she stood with aching slowness, and put the book aside. “I would not be more of a burden than I already am.” 

.

If there was one thing Hannah felt sure of, it was that she quite disliked the seaside. So used had she become to being in charge of her son’s household, and helping with the running of the mill besides, that she found this state of forced unemployment quite unsustainable – and if it were not for John’s pleading entreaties that they removed to Cromer for the summer for his own peace of mind, she would not have hesitated to pack herself and Miss Hale on the first train to Milton.  

She knew her son was finding Miss Hale’s continued presence in his house exceedingly difficult, despite all his protestations that he was merely concerned for her wellbeing as the orphaned daughter of his late friend, and they could not very well leave the girl to fend off for herself without any friend or relation to protect her. Mr Bell had initially offered to care for Miss Hale, but it had rapidly become apparent that the indifferent state of his health would soon prevent him from undertaking any such a commitment; although some mention had been made in passing of a relation of Mr Hale’s settled somewhere in Spain, there was no question of removing Miss Hale from England until she had recovered sufficient strength to face the journey.  

Why Miss Hale’s mysterious lover had not come back to fetch her was something Mrs Thornton could scarcely account for; and while she would not think so badly of the girl as to suspect her of an illicit attachment, surely there had to be some serious impediment preventing the marriage.  

All her careful enquires in that direction had yielded nothing but a melancholy declaration on Miss Hale’s part that she knew now she would likely never marry; her relation in Spain would take good care of her, and in turn she would look after his children as if they were her own, and be content. 

.

“I cannot see why John does not offer for her and has done with it,” Fanny stage-whispered once her new husband had taken his leave of both ladies, and Miss Hale had wandered off to stare out to sea as had lately become her habit. “He thinks I do not know, but one ought to be blind not to realise he still cares for her.” 

“Your brother will not thank you for meddling in his private business,” Hannah swiftly reprimanded her, and if her tone was more cutting than she meant to employ, it had more to do with her growing suspicions about the state of Miss Hale’s heart than with her daughter’s more immediate transgression.  

“John is as much of a fool as Miss Hale is,” Fanny went on, undeterred. “It is not quite the thing, to provide for an unmarried young lady who is entirely unconnected to him – she cannot be blind to the impropriety of it, and yet, for all her pride, she does not object to it.” 

“You will not mention any of this before Miss Hale, Fanny, and that is all there is to it,” Hannah commanded in such a manner as brokered no objection. Her daughter pouted, shrugged, and launched herself into a detailed account of all the delicate attentions her dear Mr Watson had seen fit to bestow upon her over the entire course of their wedding trip.  

.

“It is my John, is it not?” Hannah demanded quite brusquely, her hand clasped around Miss Hale’s arm in a vice-like grip. “This man you always speak of with such regret, he’s none other than my son.” 

The girl met her penetrating stare with a pensive glance of her own; but it was only for a moment, then her eyes went back to the perpetual movement of the waves crashing onto the seashore. “It does not matter. I have very little doubt he will soon find someone better suited to him – and I wish him every joy of it, for there is scarcely any other man more deserving of such happiness than he is.” 

“Miss Hale, you do not know what you speak of,” Hannah shook her head in exasperation, the burden of a beloved son’s disappointment bearing down on her conscience like a millstone. “I know my son’s heart better than my own, and there is very little room in it but for the woman who once saw fit to reject him under no uncertain terms.” 

“He told me himself, that he no longer cares for me,” Miss Hale acknowledged in a small voice, her quiet composure wavering only for a moment. “So you see, Mrs Thornton, he is quite safe from me.” 

Mrs Thornton all but dismissed the notion with an imperious wave of her hand, and turned to face the girl more fully. “He will not offer for you again unless he is made aware of your changed opinion, Miss Hale. Indeed, he might not even then, because of the precarious state the mill is in – through no fault of his own, if I may add.” 

“If he thinks any such consideration would prevent me from accepting him, then he does not know me at all,” Miss Hale declared with unanticipated passion, her cheeks colouring as she instantly regretted her forwardness.  

Hannah regarded her for a long moment, and it was as if she was seeing the girl for the first time; then she nodded to herself, and accepting Miss Hale’s arm once more, they strolled back in a silence that was, if not companionable, at least no longer hostile on either part. 

.

John had come at last to fetch them back to Milton, and there was something so distracted about his manner his concerned mother could scarcely refrain herself from enquiring about it.  

“He was her brother,” her son uttered, as if in wonder, holding out a letter marked from Cadiz, Spain. “I have been such a fool, Mother, and now it is much too late.” 

“Nonsense,” Hannah declared with unmovable conviction. “She is right here, and unmarried still. I have been wrong before, but I know for a fact she would more than welcome your addresses now. All you need do is ask, son, and you shall be given.” 

“I cannot credit it, Mother,” he replied, slowly, and there was something exceedingly pained to his tone. “And even if by some miracle she has indeed come to care for me, how could I ever – she deserves so much better than to find herself tied to a failed mill Master, unable to provide for his own family in the manner any respectable man ought to.” 

“I have every faith in you, son,” Hannah proclaimed, placing both hands on his shoulders. “And so you should have faith in God’s own Providence, and the strength of a woman’s true devotion through many a shared adversity.” 

She saw his gaze drift, almost against his will, in the direction Miss Hale had walked off. “Her brother has a greater claim on her, you must see that.” 

“Go to her, son,” his mother entreated him once more, and when he finally did, she found her lips curling in the faintest suggestion of a smile.  

[agentc0rn]

The Visionary’s Soliloquy

-> The Professor's Elegy

-> A Wanderer's Entreaty

I feel at peace after finishing this! While it was great to finish, I do miss working on the process though. Nonetheless, it took a good while to complete this due to real life stuff and creative stumbles. I wanted to nail Lysandre's character and stay true to canon as much as possible, but at the same time show more facets of his that were not addressed/fully fleshed out in the games as opposed to the anime and manga counterparts. I found him difficult to draw and write lol. Lysandre was a pretty interesting character with an actually well built evil organization if XY went deeper with them.

With that, a three-part comic series, unofficially titled as the Triad of Kalos, has been finished! This mini project was a way of dabbling in good ol Kalos' story and its potential, added with my ideas.

[just-horrible-things]

Shorts

I am pulling out everything less than 300 words from my misc writing post. They get their own category now.

View them all: #short

Catalogue:

In House 93 words Snippet on the origins of “contestants”

Do You Realise 36 words Aggressive dialogue

The Angels And The Rocket 250 words Angels observe humanity and are unsettled

On Love And Endings 145 words Nearly poetry

No Blood 43 words They say we all bleed the same...

A Cut Above The Rest 167 words A gifted individual rejects an offer to change sides

Naïve 80 words Snippet of retrospective on judging one another’s world views

A Good Job 115 words Blunt honesty in the aftermath of an unspecified disaster

Think of Me 196 words Do you think of me, when you play your helpless little songs of defiance?

The Wanderer Returns 262 words Poetry. A homecoming to ruins.

Temple of Rust and Ruin 94 words A warning regarding safe conduct within the temple

Guinea Pig 279 words A prisoner is enrolled in a drug trial without consent.

I Had It Handled 278 words Torture victim saves herself -- mostly.

Don’t Mind Me 247 words Victim wakes restrained with a creepy figure at the foot of the bed

Sources 298 words Magic is powered by suffering. But it doesn’t have to be your own.

Falcon 25 words Almost poetry

Too Beautiful To Grow Old 51 words Faerie entreaty

For Once Needy 91 words Creepy captor with defiant victim vulnerable in their sleep

Punish Me 74 words Generic character begs for punishment

Not To Be A Creep 76 words Internet weirdo plugs whump website

The World Ended 57 words On living through the end, and carrying that with you

The Dead Speak To Me 168 words Brief horror piece on hearing ghosts

Prisoner Delivery 254 words Historic/fantasy prisoner treated roughly

Command Decisions 127 words Monologue on the decisions that war demands

The Pit 206 words Where monsters are made

Pinned 135 words Brief interaction between telepath and a victim pinned by her power

Negotiation 95 words We don't negotiate with hostage-takers -- until we do

Capture 182 words Violent manhandling

Alike 141 words A promise of the inescapable influence of an enemy

Another Dose 176 words Prisoner goes through withdrawal as captor withholds drugs

Cope 145 words Rant on living through the intolerable

Masterpost created: 26/09/23

[pers-books]

I can't quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield's room, which is somewhere under this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window. All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears. I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a little time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I could see it like smoke—or with the white energy of boiling water—pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words "a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night." Was it indeed some such spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary's Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist.

Me on reading Mina Harker’s Journal entry for today: Ah, fuck it! The bastard’s got her, too! 🦇

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Man of Lawlessness

1 Now we ask you, brothers, by (beyond, on behalf of, above, for) the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ and our gathering together (greek-episynagoge- gather/group upon, latin-congregationis-congregating) upon Him, 2 Unto that you not be quickly (speedily, swiftly) shaken (agitated, cast down, disturbed) away from your mind (latin-sensu-senses), and not be unsettled (troubled, thrown into confusion, emotional uproar), neither through spirit, nor through word, nor through letter, as if (like as) through us, like as that the day of the Lord is present (stands in). 3 Let no one deceive (latin-seducat) you in any way (manner), because it will not be unless the apostasy (greek-apostasia, latin-discessio-lawlessness, leave/depart away from a standing, departure, desertion, a leaving from a previous standing) has first come and the man (greek-anthropos, latin-homo) of lawlessness (not law-without law- latin-peccati-sin), the son of perdition (greek- apoleia, loss of well-being, entire loss or ruin, to be cut off, latin-perditionis-destruction its root has the idea of abandoning in it) shall have been revealed (uncovered, away from to cover, have the covering taken away from, latin-revelatus-revealed, greek-apokalyphthe); 4 The one opposing (placing against) and exalting himself (uplifting, raising/lifting above) upon all spoken (said) god or object of worship/veneration, so as for him to sit down unto (into) the inner temple of God, exhibiting (showing forth, setting forth, to show from, latin-ostendens-showing) that he himself is God. 5 Do you not remember that, being yet with you, I said these things to you? 6 And now you know that which is restraining (hold fast/back, latin-detineat-restraining like detaining) unto him being revealed in his own time (fitting/opportune time). 7 For the mystery of lawlessness is already working; there is only the one restraining it at present until he might be gone from out of the middle (midst, latin-medio). 8 And then the lawless one will be revealed, whom the Lord Jesus will put to death (slay, take away/up, abolish, make to end, consume) with the breath (spirit) of His mouth and will bring to naught (sever, annul, render inoperative) by the appearance of His coming; 9 Whose coming is according to the working (greek-energeian, latin-operationem) of Satan in all power and signs and wonders of falsehood, 10 And in all deceit of unrighteousness (injustice) unto those perishing (cutting off entirely), over against which they did not receive the love of the truth unto them to be saved. 11 And because of this God will send to them a working (greek-energeian) of delusion (wandering, error, latin-erroris) unto them to believe what is false; 12 So that all those having not believed the truth but rather having resolved to think well of (taken pleasure in) unrighteousness (injustice) should be judged (come to a choice/separation).

13 However, we ought to always give thanks to God concerning you, brothers beloved by the Lord, because God has chosen you from the beginning (origin, pre-eminent) unto salvation in the sanctification (the process of advancing in holiness) of the Spirit and belief of the truth; 14 Unto this He also called you through our gospel unto the acquiring of the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. 15 So then, brothers, stand firm and hold fast to the traditions (instruction handed down/over, latin-traditiones) that you were taught, whether through word or through letter from us.

16 Now our Lord Jesus Christ Himself and God our Father who has loved us and given us eternal entreaty and good hope in grace, 17 May He entreat your hearts and confirm (support to secure/stand, latin-confirmet) them in every work and good word. — 2 Thessalonians 2 | Literal Emphasis Translation (LET) The Literal Emphasis Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Deuteronomy 13:1; 1 Kings 22:22; 2 Chronicles 18:20; Job 4:9; Proverbs 4:6; Isaiah 11:4; Isaiah 14:13-14; Isaiah 44:20; Daniel 7:25; Daniel 8:25; Daniel 11:36; Matthew 16:27-28; John 3:16; Romans 1:18; Romans 1:32; Romans 2:8; 1 Corinthians 1:8; 1 Corinthians 1:18; 1 Corinthians 1:21; 1 Corinthians 7:26; 1 Corinthians 11:2; 1 Corinthians 16:13; Ephesians 1:4; 1 Thessalonians 1:5; 1 Thessalonians 3:2; 1 Thessalonians 3:4; 1 Thessalonians 3:11; 1 Thessalonians 3:13; 2 Thessalonians 3:3; 2 Peter 1:3; Revelation 17:5; Revelation 17:7

[iconuk01]

Icon_UK watches "The Adventures of Robin Hood" 1955 version

One of the Freeview channels is screening this British series which ran from 1955 to 1959. It's an old fashioned sort of affair with limited sets, but a cast giving it there all. Richard Greene makes for an engaging take on Robin Hood (He's not a young angsty type, the actor was in his late 30's when filming took place)

One episode yesterday really struck me, called "The Wanderer"

In it we meet Joseph of Cordoba, a travelling physician, who brings knowledge of actual medical techniques, which clashes with the local doctors approach of "We shall vigorously apply a full range of entreaties until the evil spirits have left the body"). He saves the life of a Lord, and shenanigans esnue when he becomes a pawn in a plot of the Sheriff to trap Robin.

It's made perfectly clear from the outset that Joseph is Jewish, with a reference to Rosh Hashanah, and he is itinerant, not through choice, but through circumstances of how his people are treated.

The bit that sticks with me is at the end, when Robin invites Joseph to join his band of outlaws in the forest.

"Make an outlaw out of me? That's a good one. Now listen my boy, we have been outlaws for over a thousand years. You are not doing too bad… for beginners... but if you ever want some lessons in survival, send for me!"

(Joseph actually does return for another appearance, in a story which directly refererences the anti-Jewish riots in England in the 12th Century)

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

The real unspeakable horrors were the wandering eyes of the guy outside that gas station a few states over, the way the skin of his face sunk into eye sockets while his pupils hung over the reach of his cheekbones. The way his eyes glittered off the cicada buzz of the streetlamps, the color of chewed sapphire, of a shattered stained-glass window under spent bat and bare feet.

A gaze that never settled onto any of our faces, and watched us all the same, eyes locked into the grainy abyss of an all nite roadtrip, as the face swiveled perfectly after movement. The snap of a fleshy arm covered by overhanging speakers, tinny, boxed music scratching out the movement to his mouth, a warning, a threat, an entreaty to the jackrabbit he’d been watching past the rolling curtain of bodies.

Or maybe it was the friends we made along the way, the backseat screeching is kind of indistinct and the check engine light will not shut the fuck up. Or stop bleeding. I’m sure one of those is important.