#almost a weapon in the hands of their persecutors

[brick-van-dyke]

Also I'm hyper focused on the history again so I want to do a brief rundown of a few things I've looked into as someone who's just been generally invested in the origins of Zionism. Removed from Israel, Palestine and the general horror of it all, I've found the history itself utterly fascinating from a historic standpoint.

See, the hope to return is an important Jewish thing that is genuinely a part of Jewish culture worldwide. However, this doesn't explicitly mean it's a desire for ownership, just to go back to the land and return to old practices in the place they view as holy and as "home". This isn't wrong, but it is different to Zionism when you consider what Zionism has become over the course of, say, a century and a half post the French Revolution. To be more precise, since the creation of a political ideology centred on western nationalism and socialism. The two are very distinct, but at the turn of this specific event in history, the two became conflated and thus Zionism as we know it came into being. It's why, today, Jews who are anti-Zionist are seen as "Self Hating", because of this conflation despite the strong differences in both origins and historical contexts. Obviously, this will all be me simplifying and paraphrasing, and just generally explaining as briefly as I can to the best of my ability and the knowledge I've acquired thus far. My knowledge isn't perfect, but it is something I've been studying for long enough to create a sort of internal timeline while understanding how Zionism formed.

So, returning to the French Revolution. For the first time, Jews were granted the same rights and citizenship of other groups in France, meaning that they could live however they like, including in traditionally "non Jewish" ways. This was an amazing step forward for human rights and equality, but with the merging of two cultures, sometimes you get strange hybrid subcultures, one being the introduction of socialism and nationalism into the Jewish sense of the hope for return. Mix that with different perspectives of how that should be done and different reasons why one would want to achieve it, you'll evidently get something fairly messy. Even so, it became a common held belief for many socialists, (arguably) this included Karl Marx himself and many others who saw Zionism as a fellow socialist movement and a potential usage to help with the then "Jewish Question" of Europe. Marx himself was said to have been Jewish, yet seemed reluctant to associate with the label. From the beginning, I would argue there is a considerable overlap in anti religious socialism and the socialist nationalism of Zionism, though that in and of itself would require further study. For now, it is something I have been considering due to how much overlap I have observed over such an extended history of the two interwoven movements.

For many Jewish communities, there wasn't really a linear type of Zionism that everyone agreed on. Not until around 1897 when Theodore Hertzl created a more unified ideology of Zionism and propelled the ideology forward. In Hertzl's vision, assimilation and the concept of a homeland in a westernised ownership sense of the word became more mainstream. It wasn't as widely accepted as nowadays, but it was something that became very popular amongst European Jews and, to note in particular, the European Jews that immigrated to historic Palestine. Before, during and after World War I.

As a sort of side note/ tangent (since I find it really interesting, but it isn't exactly directly related to Zionism per se), a European-Ottoman Jew created the beginnings of Modern Hebrew from Ancient Hebrew and Ottoman Arabic. Ancient Hebrew is somewhat like Latin in that it had become a dead language that lacked an ability to be spoken. Yiddish, a compensation of ancient Hebrew with modern European languages, became the norm in Europe, while modern Hebrew (what would later become Israeli Hebrew) originated from Arabic in order to be spoken and ancient Hebrew in terms of base words and structure that could be utilised. There were other forms of Hebrew as well iirc, but these two became the most prominent. I still need to understand the potential relations or there lack of when it comes to ancient Berber (Amazigh), Armenian and Assyrian, I do know that Aramaic specifically was widely spoken alongside Greek. Hebrew was a written language more used by the wealthy and upper class, as I understand it. Which is quite interesting when you consider the different languages used, the immigration in a biblical context, etc. but that's a tangent for another time.

Back onto Zionism, Palestine and generally just the history of how it all developed into what it is. In the aftermath of the defeat of the Ottoman Turks, Europe created the British Balfour Declaration in order to come to a sort of agreement amongst European Zionists and the British government. However, there is much controversy on if this was to appease the Jews, or to simply get rid of them and create a place to "better manage and control" the Jews. This is particularly pushed due to the rising antisemetism in Europe, particularly within the government itself at the time. It had no respect or love for Jews and likely sought a way to "get rid" of them through mass immigration. Again, this is more theoretical and contemplative of the potential reasoning. I personally see the logic, but I wouldn't say it's "a historical fact" rooted in concrete events. Basically, there's a lot of evidence, but I won't claim it as fact.

In the post Ottoman British Mandate of Palestine, we begin to see a strong push from Britian to control Palestine and it's affairs (irrespective of Arab or Jewish prioritisation iirc). It created much tension in the region between native populations of Arabs and Jews to any Europeans and Britons who immigrated there. To the local diaspora, they were seen as invaders and a potential avenue for the Mandate to further wrest more power over local resources and to limit access to the land and their own practices. A fear of colonisation, more so than any fear of religion, began to fester in the British Mandate of Palestine. However, irrespective of the native Jewish population, the European Jewish immigrants were seen in a different light to their indigenous counterparts. Namely, they were seen as European settlers rather than simply just Jews. That isn't to say there were many different perspectives born from this and potential antisemetism, but the main cause was indisputably the context of a foreign entity resting control of the area and seeing immigrants of said entity as potential dangers. This would accumulate and continue to boil over until the Arab Revolt, when tensions flared even more out of the rejection of European immigration and the desire for assimilation from European Jews in the midst of British oppression and colonialism. The mixture was violent and something that, in my view, was a sad inevitability considering the pretext of the British Mandate Itself. Had Palestine been self-governing, while still having many issues, I believe the tensions would never have been so high had it not been for the control the British government sought at the time; those sparks would exist, but the fuel added created an explosive environment that was bound to erupt at any moment.

In light of such tension and violence amongst the different groups involved, Jewish resistance forces were born, or in other words, European Jewish resistances more specifically or "terrorists" in the eyes of the Britons, certain indigenous Jews (specially anti Zionist groups that formed at the time) and Arabs alike. Internationally they were also legally recognised as the terrorist organisations; Haganah (which intersected with the Histadrut, a socialist nationalist union to create and preserve immigrant Jewish settlements), Irgun Zvai Leumi and the Stern Gang. These three would eventually merge and create the basis for Israel's governmental systems and agencies, as well as it's military.

The 1920s-1940s, if not before and after as well, saw a great deal of hardship and violence, against both Arabs and towards Jews who did not conform to the Zionist movement in Palestine. Namely, the bombing of the King David Hotel which was counted as one of the reasons for the later UN resolution to create a state of Israel in order to prevent further violence (this didn't work very well evidently), and the assassination of Jacob Israël de Haan, a Jewish antizionist. That isn't to say they didn't protect Jewish settlements, they did and prioritised Jewish sovereignty. However, this was done with indiscriminate violence towards Jews and Arabs alike who expressed any dissemination or push against said settlements and Zionist views. These were sparks that were ignited from the history of western colonialism irrespective of Jewish immigration, but also evidently a new issue arose from this of westernised Zionism using colonialist methodology and ideologies of nationalism, borders and ownership to further flare preexisting suspicions towards European settlers. Zionism created a further distaste for Jewish immigration as a result of all these factors merging into one larger issue.

Meanwhile, back in Europe, antisemetism was on the rise which saw further immigration to Palestine, until the British Mandate began to reject refugees, just as Australia, the USA, UK, Canada and New Zealand, amongst many others, began to ban Jewish refugees from entering the country. Meanwhile Nazi Germany supported Zionist efforts in Palestine due to the potential "solution" of expelling Jews from Nazi Germany completely via Palestine. The Haavara Agreement also came into effect from 1933 to 1939, another example of collaboration between Zionist entities and the Nazi party owning to the shared belief in a Jewish Palestine and a "Jew-free" Europe. Though there are other factors as well, many of which I am still researching myself, it is clear that Zionism shared much of the end goals of (early) Nazism when it came to mass immigration, as well as Nazism in general when it came to socialist nationalism. The history of socialism and Zionism itself is a long one of comradery, one I would compare almost to a parental ideology and it's subgroup, owing to the fact political Zionism originated from socialism and the French Revolution. What's more was the emphasis of nationalism and ethnic essentialism in the two ideologies, which further created a unified solidarity between Nazis and Zionists in Europe before, and even during the Holocaust. It also just be understood that Zionists themselves were not necessarily Jewish and didn't necessarily have the interests of Jews in mind, rather, the interest of a Jewish Palestine and a solid socialist nationalist movement within Palestine.

Overall, it can be very clearly seen throughout history that Zionism, as a political entity and movement, is one with political motivations rather than purely cultural or religious. It cannot be claimed that it is merely "a desire for return" when compared to the history, unless one would ignore this history and claim there were two distinct "Zionisms" at play; the Zionist Movement (the socialist nationalist ideology) and the Zionist Sentiment (the Jewish cultural ideal). However, due to the harm calling both Zionism has caused in relation to the evident increase in antisemetism from those fearing and/ or rejecting the political movement, who then conflate the two different ideologies, I would confidently say that referring to the Jewish right to return ought to be considered separate. The history, owing to its violence and severity, as well as the antisemetism interwoven into the Zionist political movement, would create more issues for the Jewish people rather than assist them. This is my own opinion here, of course, but the above has indeed contributed to such a conclusion. It is based on historical evidence that has more or less seemed consistent in its overarching intention to push socialist nationalism, rather than purely a home for the Jews. I would even go as far as to claim that Zionism would continue to exist and prosper without the Jewish people, it would merely seek another group to explain the expansion of socialist nationalism.

Anyway, those are my thoughts so far and, of course, I'm still looking into this so take this all with a grain of salt. I also need to look further into the Russian side of things and more into the Zionism in Russia. Either way, better to look into these events in history yourselves and expand your own knowledge of these events. These are just my own observational insights and conclusions thus far.

If there's one thing I've respectively noticed from Zionists and defenders of Israeli war crimes, it's that every source, argument and potential avenue to explore each explanation is riddled with cherry picking, moving the goalposts and mental gymnastics to explain why their conclusions, which typically are barely even related to the sources they use, somehow overshadow literal reality and what we see with our own eyes.

While scrolling, one example I came across was the repetitive misrepresentation of BLM, antifa and quotes from Martin Luther King Jr, as well as statistics, scholarly journal articles and government website information. These are all good sources, yet every single time they're mangled completely until the only possible "interpretation" of any of them is "well Israel is right to defend itself after shorting rockets beforehand because the retaliation was brutal and all Arabs are bad by default therefore". As if any of these sources are even about individual exceptions of Israel versus hatred towards Arabs.

I think what I find most absurd, as someone in the middle of their own studies, is how every bit of critical thinking and logic goes out the window as they do every single thing possible to do what professors worldwide say NOT to do when evaluating sources. It's like watching a race to see who can tangle and misconstrue scientific information to fit their world view the fastest. Then said people say "um actually I studied at university before so it's actually not wrong that I'm doing this exact this everyone is warned not to do because I have a permit". Ignorance I can forgive, but willful and arrogant manipulation? That's another thing entirely.

[little-lily-w]

Thief part 1

A/N: In case I continue it, it’s meant to be Chishiya x Reader. Don’t know what I’ll do with Niragi. Also, TW: this may not be for sensitive people. I don’t want anyone to be triggered. 

The knuckles went directly to your temple, your neck twisting as a reflex, adding to the overall pain a new pulled muscle. You didn’t know what was worse: if to have the brunette man repeatedly throwing you around the bedroom like a sack of potatoes or having his “team” there to witness it all. Seeing their faces for the brief moments of intact vision you were granted, you could tell they were silently cheering for him. But now everything was blurred and you could only hear some distant chuckles and comments as background sound for the main male voice. He seemed to have grown tired of throwing you to the wall and to the floor back and forth, because now he decided that punches would make the message clearer. Despite that, you couldn’t really understand if he wanted an answer of if he just desired to punish you for what you’ve done less than an hour ago. The only question of his that you could retain was: “why would you steal the card from us, you stupid bitch?”. Oh, he seemed to be the type who liked using slang, probably because it helped him be the center of attention. The clown of a circus. Correction: the murder clown of a freak show.

Calling the game you had been in brutal would have been falling short. It didn’t just demand physical exertion as the spades type did, it also meant witnessing people killing each other, even if they were on the same team, just for the sake of surviving. You were supposed to run with other people and escape what was nothing less than a mass shooting. You didn’t even have time to turn and see where the bullets came from but your teammates falling down with rounded holes in the back of their heads was enough to realize that there was another team hunting each and every one of you down. And they had weapons. Something only two people playing on your side seemed to have, one of them being the brunette, the other one, his henchman. The goal was simple: reaching a determined location before the opponents ended you all but since it wasn’t a clubs strategy, people pushed each other so they worked as a distraction to buy time or so they tripped and let the faster runners keep their pace, even if that meant stepping on their corpses. Only the man in question seemed to find enjoyment in the horror and desperation of others. You registered his actions. He stopped each and every time around the corners with his armed friend, using a wall as protection to shoot against the hunting team. And even when you were ahead of him for meters, you could still hear his cheerful screams. He killed another one. Following your steps was a blonde man who called your attention momentarily before you left him behind. He was running with his hands inside his pockets, almost jogging as if nothing was happening, meanwhile you were about to spit your heart out. But then you lost sight of him. It was only when you and the two armed guys, only lasting survivors from the twenty players escaping the shooting, ended up at the alleyway signaled in your phones that you realized he had taken a shortcut and poured gasoline across the street. Once all three of you were in, he set fire with a lighter, impeding the hunters to go further into the alleyway as you climbed up some stairs which supposedly led you to the finish line: a small and twistedly cozy rooftop bar.

“Game cleared for four players. Congratulations”. And then nearby explosions of collars at unison from the failing persecutors.

You remembered the brunette yelling some more, moving his body in exaggerated ways to celebrate and accentuate each and every word he let out. It was exasperating and at the same time, it made you flinch. His friend was laughing as well but the blonde man was silent, once he looked at them with disapproval, he turned his gaze towards you, following your actions. That’s why he was the first one to realize what you did. Hurrying your way like a little rabbit, you went for the card you found on one of the bar tables and ran away with it, going down with the opposite stairs that led you to a free street.

You knew the blonde one didn’t alert the others because by the time you heard the yelling from the two guys, you had actually managed to escape a few streets and hide behind a garbage container. You wiped the sweat of your forehead with your forearm, the scent of death was perceivable in the air or maybe it was just your brain playing the traumatic events from the last minutes on repeat. Where were they? You took a few seconds to recover, considering which street could be your exit way and by the time you gave some steps backwards reaching the corner behind, the brunette man ambushed you, knocking you out with the back of his rifle.

By the time you opened your eyes, you were in this hotel bedroom, soon to realize that the utopia behind The Beach was nothing more than the fertile soil for a dictatorship to rise. But Niragi, as you heard one of his followers call him, didn’t allow you much thinking, especially when the punches began. Four of them were enough to have you in a plain state of surrender, mostly because your brain couldn’t handle sending proper impulses to your nerves to even move a finger.  

Niragi then grabbed your legs with an iron grip, pulling from them to turn your fetal position into a flat one, belly up, so he could sit on your hips and look at the mess he created on your face.

“You know the punishment for traitors here? It’s death”, he chuckled, his pierced tongue licking his upper lip, almost as if he couldn’t wait to torture you some more but your limp state was depriving him of further satisfaction. “But since you are new, I think we’ll go with punishment for thieves. And what is that?!”, he exclaimed at the four other people in the room. Every single one of them had the smile on their faces erased rather fast, they must have thought he was looking for a real answer about the rules they didn’t know instead of just telling a sick perverted joke to spark the situation up. “Don’t be so fucking stupid”, he told them, laughing and leaning impossibly close to your face, his tongue licking your cheek up, barely reaching the blood in your temple. “Punishment for thieves here is… stealing from them back! Like this!” he said out loud and grabbed a handful of your top to rip it to the side.

 Chishiya was back at the hotel too with his silent demeanor as usual. Kuina was the first one to reach to him (and possibly the only one). By the way she hurried her way to him, it was obvious she was relieved to see him come back intact. “Tough?”, she asked because ‘everything okay?’ was silly.

“The usual”, Chishiya disregarded the events, finding rest for his back against a wall in the main hall. Kuina followed him, standing by his side. “And the new one?”, he asked, not looking at her.

“Niragi”, was the only thing she let out as a whisper.  

if you think it’s okay, I’ll try another part, just let me know cuz I never know where stories will take me lol

[float-me-now]

Kinda pissed that my country's stupid fascist government proclaimed national mourning and organized a state funeral for B*rlusconi.

Friendly reminder that this shit stain was the one of the biggest force behind Italy's downfall from the past 30-40 years up to these days.

He was a complete criminal and there's even a Wikipedia page about all his trials and allegations (the Italian one is even longer), among which there are corruption, tax fraud, mafia, money laundering, witness tampering, underage prostitution influences, perjury, bribery all while he was prime minister. He never spent one (1) day in jail because of ad-personam laws that his governments created to make it possible for him and his minions to be untouchable (statute of limitations, tax amnesties, wiretapping etc).

The piece of shit paved the way for using politics, people and state funds for his own interests in a way that was so blatant and shameless that now it is almost normal. He shoved his entrepreneurial interests everywhere, creating laws that were made especially to allow him and his business partners (yes, including the mafia) to do exactly whatever the fuck they want without any fear of repercussions because the judges had their hands tied. He normalized sacrifing people's money and lives for his own interests, gave 'fake news' a new meaning and invented the anti-communist narrative ('anyone who doesn't agree with me is a filthy communist'). The judges that were in charge of his numerous cases became 'persecutors' and he became a martyr, even when he was guilty, that is to say, 99.9% of the times. He made lying the default form of political communication and personal attacks and belittlement weapons to use against his opponents.

He tried to buy practically every means of communication and even now there are several tv channels and newspapers that are nothing but shameless, disgusting worshippers of this pathetic excuse for a man. Several free journalists that spoke against his regime and tried to investigate and bring out the truth were largely fired or isolated.

He made Italy the laughing stock of the world because of his affairs and his disgraceful words and behaviors towards other ministers during meetings and calls. He was friends with Putin.

I know he seems funny from the outside with all the bunga-bunga jokes and stuff, but this selfish, greedy, ruthless, self-entitled buffoon fucked my generation and many, many other generations of Italians.

Like fuck I'm mourning. I'm fucking happy he's dead and I'm only sorry that he didn't croak before. Tonight we celebrate, pals.

[hacked-by-jake]

12 and 93 of your prompts? :3 MC and Jake?

Would be really interesting to see what you'd do with that :D

Why are they shooting at us?

A/n: Thank you for submitting! Here we are and I hope you like it :D

Prompt: “I would die for you.” and “We should break up.”

Words: 1,5k

Warning: Angst

--

A scream escapes you as the bullet of your persecutor’s weapon hits the house wall, right next to you at the height of your belly.

Shocked you stare at the spot where now a little of the stone has broken off. Jake doesn’t wait a second and reaches for your hand to drag you along in a hurry. The strong traffic prevents the persecutors to can track you fast enough and gives you a head start.

You run through a tiny alley, into a strange shop for souvenirs and on the other side out again. Passing surprised people and back into a small alley.

At the other end, turn right. Your lungs and neck are burning, the side stitches are getting worse and your breath is getting shorter and heavier. Your feet hurt from running and your legs feel like jelly. You jump over a box on the floor and almost slip out in a puddle. Jake’s hand slips out of yours, but luckily you can  catch yourself before you fall. He stops immediately and helps you get up until it pulls you further.

Again out of the alley and over a small bridge into the industrial area.

You’ve never run as fast and long as you do right now.

Jake pulls you into a backyard of an old factory where you should be safe until you finish your usual routine.

Hard to breathe, you lean your arms on your knees and try to get air back into your lungs. Jake is still doing relatively well and he is not nearly as out of breath as you are.

"Take off your sweatpants and sweater" he orders and puts his backpack down. Even though you are extremely dizzy, you immediately do what he says. Under  the sweatpants you wear jeans and under the sweater a Tshirt.

Instead of the black sweater, Jake gives you a black jacket from the backpack.

He changes from a jacket to a sweater, pulls down his jeans a little further and puts on glasses. His hair disappears under a cap, just like yours. He opens the container for garbage that is here and makes the old clothes disappear in it. It was not much camouflage but at least something. 

"Give me your phone," he mumbles.

You get it out of your backpack and give it to him.

The small USB stick that is used for data backup and was programmed by Jake, is removed before he punches it powerfully against the steel container so that it bends once in the middle and almost breaks. Second phone in three weeks..

Exactly the same happens with his and also that disappears in the trash.

"Shit" you moan as a little bit of peace comes in.

The cartridge almost hit you, there were only a few centimetres of air in between.

"Are you okay?" Jake asks worried and comes closer to you.

"Yes, I’m fine." hard breathing, you lean against the concrete wall of the factory and rub your face.

"Shit why did they shoot at us? They’ve never done that, Jake," you hiss desperately and tears kick in your eyes.

"I’m so sorry, MC, I can’t explain, I couldn’t get a signal from them anywhere. I don’t understand how they were able to find us." Jake puts his hand on your cheek and looks guiltily into your eyes.

"Why are they shooting Jake? What the hell did you find out? What is it that makes them shoot at us?" You can’t hold back and silently run tears down your face as Jake’s face turns into amazed and then worried again.

Jake immediately pulls you into his arms and presses you firmly against him.

You cling to his sweater his sweater and hide your head in his shoulder.

"I’m so sorry" a sniffle sounds right next to your ear and jerky you look up.

The hacker’s eyes are reddened and a small tear rolls over his cheek.

"No, Jake, don’t blame yourself," you plead and put your hands on his cheek.

He grabs your hands to remove them from his face and steps back.

His eyebrows are slightly pulled together and his nose is wrinkled.

"I shouldn’t blame myself? mc, but it’s my fault! It’s MY fault! I should never have taken you with me! They just shot at you because of me!"

Before you can answer him, he continues to talk, "You are in a dirty backyard in an old, dirty industrial area instead of safe with your friends in Duskwood! Because of me you don’t get a proper sleep for weeks and are constantly stressed! I’m used to it but you don’t! That’s not what’s supposed to happen in your life, and that’s my fault. Because I’m so selfish, and I thought we could do it without you being in danger and now? Now exactly what I wanted to avoid happened and it is even worse".

His face looks like he’s going through the worst pain in the world right now, and your chest is contracting at the sight.

"Jake please stop saying that, I’m here voluntarily, I want this! I want to stand here for you! I was just shocked, and I shouldn’t have criticized you. I’m sorry, but please don’t blame yourself. You just said you wanted to protect me from this, but I’m still here because I want to be here with you!" you try to make him understand.

"Maybe you’re here voluntarily but I shouldn’t have let it happen! I shouldn’t have allowed you to be put in such danger! You may have wanted that, okay, but you certainly didn’t want to get shot at! And that’s what happened now and that’s because of me!"

Desperately you approach him as you struggle harder and harder with the tears.

You want to grab his hand, but he withdraws immediately.

"Not MC..." he chokes out, his hands tremble and he looks like he’s losing his temper.

"Jake" you whisper before you have to sob out loud.

He wipes his tears from his face and swallows hard, "I think w-we should break u-up."

"W-what?" you gasp for air; "No."

"Y-yes, i think, it’s the best."

"Bullshit Jake! Look me in the face and answer my question" you hiss upset and hurt.

"Do you see that? I cry? When did I start crying? When they tried to shoot me? No! but when you cried! That’s when I started to cry because I can’t bear it! Stop telling yourself that this is your fault, that's not true. I’d be in danger if I wasn’t with you! Then I’d be in danger! The only reason I’m still out here is you! Without you they would have had me months ago, but thanks to you and NYM-OS, the program YOU developed for ME, I am still free. We met involuntarily because of Hannah. Whatever you found out, what has brought you into this situation, was before us and has nothing to do with me! so you didn’t put me in danger because I volunteered to stand here with you! Jake, I fucking love you, and nothing in this world could ever stop me from staying with you. And it’s too late to leave me now, if you leave now, they’ll catch me because you’re not with me. Either they’ll get me right away or they’ll catch me in a few days. But you know what? That wouldn’t be the worst thing, the worse thing is, that you left me.

'Cause that’s the only thing that would really hurt me 'cause that pain could never be compared to another, Jake. I really love you and I know you didn’t have it easy but damn it you have to understand that you won’t lose me or that you can push me away from you, because I won’t let that happen. I’m not gonna watch you destroy yourself. And I’m gonna say it 100 times if I have to, it’s not your fault. Damn Jake, I’d die for you! And that’s fact, and that will not change if you break up or leave me alone. It’s way too late for that!" You take a deep breath, your heart hurts worse than after running, and your vision blurs a little from all the tears.

"I don’t need much to live but what I know I need you!"

And that was the moment when you burst into tears and slumped on the wet floor. You desperately put your face in your hands and weep bitterly at it. It does not take long until Jake shows up by your side and takes you in his arms.

"I’m sorry I said that," he whispers, "I didn’t want that, I just didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t bear it if someone hurts you because of me. I’m so sorry, I would never leave you. I’m not capable of doing that, I love you too much, I would have done the most harm to myself."

"You can’t leave me alone" you are at the end with your nerves "you can’t".

"I’m not going to. I will never leave you, no one will ever be able to separate us. You’re the only reason I breathe"

-

🌹

[uroborosymphony]

The receiving end of Ara's ire is like staring down the sharp edge of a knife. Her eyes are hard when they pierce into yours, merciless. Ara knows how she intimidates either by her known unstability, her eloquence, her gained superiority or a twisted mix of the three. It would have been anybody else than Annie serving her these words, it would triggered an erratic theatrical reaction of hers, a loud laughter of Awww are you judging me Honey? Followed by a grand exposé on how the world will be saved by her and the machinations in her head. She believes, more than her own existence, in this ideal she wants to create, perhaps to the point it becomes a dangerous fantasy she lives in, one she drags everything around her in. It's obsessive. It's called fanatism. Everything is different here. It's Annie. Annie being the one asking her these questions does seize her core. Ara is offended, a little hurt - wanting to believe Annie, more than anybody else would know what's in her heart and that every single action taken is to serve the causes she dedicates her life to. Despite Annie being careful about her words the way she always is, it is judgment. A brow is arched at first, then it's followed by a frown, the lines of her face resisting the urge to distort. "So you are judging me huh." A silence follows. A contemplative silence followed by slow nods from Ara's head, the type of slow nods of disapprovement that actually helps her to slow down, hold her tongue, the type of "I see" cold silence. Ara refuses to lash out, believing it is not Annie's intention to hurt her nor cause a fight yet it's hard not to. "Then tell me if my Choices are Oh so morally inferior. What does it mean to protect the neighborhood to you? Keep doing what we have been doing for YEARS?" Escalating, the last word is almost yelled, she clenches and unclenches her fists, back and forth like a mad woman trying to refrain to raise tone, to control what's always creepling under her skin. Ara is impulsive, it is something she never truly worked on. She attacks, she yells, she overpowers but here, here she is trying. "I won't' protect shit by remaining a lowlife, what we've been our entire existence : victims. There are young girls out there who are currently living the same fucking lives we lived, or you know what, even WORSE, at least I never had to sleep in the streets nor did I got abused by my own alcoholic father who lost his job because he was considered too old to serve some company who treat their employees like stoke. But I swear to fucking God that's what's happening on the daily. Do you know why?" She crosses her arms. "It's a pyramid. In a world where money is power, the only way to stop this madness is to climb the ladder, seize that wealth to be able to redistribute it. And how the FUCK am I going to do that if I don't fight equal to equal? Stealing from the Rich occasionally, we've done that, it's not enough. I need to break the cycle and to break the cycle I need to step inside of it, become part of it and make it implode from the inside." A sigh follows as she paces a bit, stretching her neck, thinking, she's jittery. "This dress - " she starts again, pointing at her own self, stopping where she is, eyes back to Annie. "That's the weapon I need to see eye to eye with the persecutors, I need to be close to them if I want to dare to take them down and dilapidate them all. But I'm all ears if you got a better idea." A sarcastic scoff escapes from her lips as she looks down shaking her head again, her hands on her hips this time. "I bet you don't. No one has. I bet this isn't even your point nor your wish to protect a goddamn neighborhood no, you just wanted to call me a sell out. How long have you been thinking that of me huh?"

[moon-in-daylight]

heyy! love your fics! i've seen you take requests so i'm testing my luck here. can we please get a dhawan!master x reader fic where reader is forced to pilot the tardis (like reason w her or link with her telepathically idk) to get the master to a hospital as he's passed out and kinda dying? like some angsty action that turns out fine in the end, please? thank you

Dispensable / Dhawan!Master x reader

Summary: You’ve always felt safe by The Master’s side, but when he endangers himself to save your life, you start wondering if his efforts to protect you are really worth it. Especially now that his life depends on you learning how to pilot a TARDIS.

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Blood, weapons, injuries, insecure!reader, a little angst maybe. 

A/N: Anon, I’m sorry this took me so long. I’ve just been out of inspiration lately and this is what came out after a month of writing. I hope you still like it though 💖

It wasn’t unusual for The Master’s plans to go terribly wrong sometimes, as it wasn’t unusual that you regularly got hurt in the middle of your adventures as a consequence.

Luckily, it was nothing too serious most of the times. Maybe you would get some scratches while running on the quiet days, some scars on the most serious days when you had to face some extremely angry alien civilization… And, in the worst scenarios, you had almost encountered your reaper face to face.

It was inevitable to suffer some unfortunate accidents while travelling inside the TARDIS. You knew that from the very start, that your least developed anatomy would barely be able to follow a Time Lord’s way of living, especially one’s with so much love for chaos and destruction. You were well aware that while you travelled with The Master death would always be keeping an eye on you. Yet, you gladly took the risks that staying in his ship entailed.

From the first moment you had stepped a foot inside that console room, you had known there would never be a way of turning back to your old life. Not after seeing the things, places and eras he could show you with the simple pull of a lever. At first, the main reason you stayed with him was the time travelling.

Though it was extremely dangerous and you feared The Master could abandon anytime and anywhere when he got bored of you, you decided to endure his rage filled words about your species and his several rules on how you should behave to try and get him to show you the stars. He wasn’t an easy person to deal with, but you had grown to both love and deal with him, and you liked to think he had done the same with you too.

After more than a year aboard of his ship, you trusted him almost blindly, confident that he would do anything he could possibly do to try and get you uninjured of the deadly situations you faced daily.

He was way more gentle and caring now than he was when you first met him, though that was something he would never admit out loud to you. But his change of behavior was evident. You noticed it by the little thing. By the way he always kept an eye on you when you were outside of the TARDIS, on how he threatened anyone that seemed barely interested in hurting you… He almost seemed a different person now. He even took care of your wounds when he couldn’t prevent you from getting hurt, and making sure you got the fastest recovery possible instead of leaving you to deal with them on your own.

You supposed he had gotten used to having a ‘human pet’, and that he took the trouble of taking care of you mainly because he didn’t want to have to take another human in his TARDIS to replace you if you were ever missing. Too much inconvenience to have to take another pet now that he had finally grown somewhat comfortable with your presence… Either way, and despite the many risks you faced time and time again, you always felt save by his side knowing that he wouldn’t let you die that easily.

While being by his side, you barely could remember what fear felt like.

That was, of course, until you found yourself in the worst situation you could have pictured.

The day had started as any other, with The Master taking you to New Earth in the middle of the First New World War, following your request of wanting to know more about the future of your species. The Master had told you repeatedly that humanity’s history was not worth seeing, that they were little more than amoebas. But your curious self had insisted him so many times about wanting to see your future that he had eventually given in.

You didn’t exactly liked what you saw there. The cruelty, the hatred that your own race processed against their own… The senseless death and unnecessary barbarism between those of their own blood… The Master had warned you that it wouldn’t be pretty, but considering the fact you were already used to face every possible form of chaos by his side, you had been sure that nothing he could show you could be worse than the damage you had already seen him cause to distant planets and civilizations.

Now that you ran for your life in the middle of an open battlefield, hand in hand with The Master as he tried to guide you to the safety of his TARDIS under a never-ending rain of bullets, you realized your mistake. You had never imagined a war could be so bloodthirsty, so atrocious… The Master hadn’t said it, but you were sure he was jealous of the destruction and despair caused by your species.

The two sides of the conflict were ready to do anything to get even the slightest advantage over their enemies, and of course, The Master had decided he should turn such horrible situation in his favor. He had manipulated both, the leader of the resistance and the supreme general of the new Earth’s forces, to make them believe the other would throw an offensive in the middle of the night. That way, while everyone fought to death in the middle of the battlefield, you and him could sneak into each side’s bases and steal whatever could be useful or valuable.

The Master’s plan was executing itself perfectly, to the point where it was all being too good to be true. Everyone had seemed to believe him and, though you were suspicious that things were never that easy with him, he appealed to your specie’s stupidity to justify the fact that no major complications had met your little scam. If everything went as he had planned, you would be in and out of each fortress in barely ten minutes, with your pockets full and the armory of the TARDIS completely renewed with new nuclear weapons. But just when the both of you were emptying the armory of the rebel band, two guards caught you red-handed.

Apparently, before indulging their soldiers into a bloodshed battle that would likely finish all live on the planet, the leaders of each side had decided to make things the diplomatic way. And for the first time in a very long time, they had decided to unite forces against a common enemy, you and The Master. You would’ve been proud of them, had your life not been in such danger.

Now, getting yours and The Master’s head was top priority to every living being in that planet, and you almost doubted you would be able to make it to his ship alive.

You had ran alongside The Master from angry crowds hundreds, maybe thousands of times now, but never before had you felt so trapped. The TARDIS was somewhere nearby, and every step you took closer to her was a sigh of relief that left your already tired lungs. Bullets and all kinds of projectile weapons were thrown in your direction, and The Master had to keep you even closer than usual to his body to prevent you from getting hurt.

When the disguised aspect of the TARDIS finally met your eye, you thought you had never felt happier in your life, but your legs were beginning to get tired and you felt yourself losing all the strength in your body, struggling to stabilize the rhythm of your breathing.

One last push, you repeated yourself internally as you forced your body to not give up, to resist until you could collapse on the safety of the TARDIS’ ground.

With every passing second, you could see your destination getting closer, but that little time felt eternal as you did your best not to lose focus and sprint those last meters for the sake of your life.

You only let go of The Master’s hand so you could extend your arms to push the TARDIS’ doors open, get inside and quickly close them after you. But the only thing your hands laid on was the ground as you tripped and fell only a few steps away from the ship.

Your heart sunk in your chest as your bad luck struck in, realizing that you didn’t have enough time to stand up from the ground before the hordes of soldiers reached you, probably killing you instantly. This time there was no way out, and you closed your eyes while you met your unavoidable fate.

This wasn’t a bad way to die, you supposed. You hadn’t lived too long, but you had lived your life to the fullest, running away through the stars with a psychopath alien and visiting places most of your kind couldn’t even dream about. You were at peace with yourself, suspecting that The Master wouldn’t be too affected by your loss and knowing that you had already lived longer than what could be expected of such a fragile being living such a dangerous life.

You were ready to let the rest of your body hit the floor and say goodbye forever, but then The Master’s hands gripped you tight from each side of your body and pushed you up and forwards, giving you the last boost you needed to reach the TARDIS’ doors.

“What are you doing?!” His angry tone reprimanded you as he positioned himself behind you to shield you from your persecutors. “Run!”

Taking The Master’s hand in yours again, you finally made it to the insides of the TARDIS, the comfort of the familiar console room greeting you as she hummed happily at your arrival. As soon as the doors closed, you threw yourself onto the Time Lord, surrounding him with your arms to pull him into a victory hug, or more a thankfulness hug for having saved your life seconds earlier.

You squeezed him tight as you let fear crawl out of your body, starting to feel safe again by his side. For a moment you had truly believed he wouldn’t turn back for you, that he would simply get inside his ship and forget about the fact you had ever existed. But now, after watching him risking his own life to save yours, you realized there wasn’t a single place in the universe where you could really be endangered if you were with him.

As your breathing calmed and you stopped hearing the throbbing of your heart buzzing in your ears, you heard him hiss slightly at the same time you felt the lower part of your torso dampening. Getting away from him, you discovered your shirt was covered in blood, and immediately, you lifted it up to find there was no wound underneath.

Looking again in The Master’s direction and finding that his belly was also covered in the thick liquid, you didn’t let him time to say anything before undoing the lower buttons of his shirt and discovering a bullet wound on the right side of his torso.

Blood was quickly coming out of it, and you were quick to tear the lower side of your shirt so you could use the fabric to press against the bullet hole and stop the bleeding. You had always seen that work in movies, but the material was soon soaked and you realized you couldn’t stop him from bleeding out when you found a second wound a few centimeters above the first one.

“You’re going to bleed to death…” Fear was starting to form in the pit of your stomach as your mind rushed trying to find a solution to the mess developing right in front of you.

“Don’t exaggerate.” He said, as if he had just gotten an insignificant scratch. “I will be fine.”

“No.” You shook your head, taking some piece of clothing you had left in the room earlier and placing it over his belly in hopes it would do something more than the piece of fabric you had used earlier. That didn’t seem to stop the bleeding either and you started to become more and more desperate. “You need to regenerate.”

The Master frowned at you, and then you realized the weak state in which he was. In normal situations, he would have look way more threatening and powerful with the simple act of just lying his eyes on you. Now, looking at the titanic effort he put in simply trying to stay awake was enough for you to pity him.

When you thought of The Master, many adjectives came to your mind, but pity had never before been a word you would’ve use him to describe him.

“I’m not going to regenerate for something so stupid.” He immediately refused, and you cursed him internally as you guided him to the nearest couch, hand still pressing on the side of his body as you helped him sit down as comfortably as possible.

“You’re dying.” You tried to reason with him, but his stubbornness was too much to handle at the moment. He didn’t say a thing as he let the weight of his body collapse on the piece of furniture, and you watched him in desperation. “Please, just do the goddamn thing!”

You pressed the fabric in your hands harder against his wounds, wishing that he would listen to you for once in his life. When you got no answer from him, you lifted your stare to his face again, realizing he had lost consciousness.

“No, no, no, no...” You muttered as you shook his body slightly, trying to get him to wake up. “Wake up, come on. Just wake up and regenerate!”

Seeing that he wouldn’t respond, you immediately decided to check for his heartbeat. Or more correctly, heartbeats. Placing two fingers on the side of his neck, you found that the rhythm of his two hearts was starting to get very similar to the one your single heart made, and then you realized just in how much danger he was.

You were no doctor, but he had already lost a lot of blood. If you did nothing, you feared he could be dead in less than a few hours.

You had been under The Master’s care and protection for so long that now that you were the one that had to look after him, you felt completely helpless. How were you supposed to help him? All you knew about Time Lord’s biology was that they could regenerate when in life or death situations, and he had refused to do it, so you were out of ideas.

“Please, help me…” You felt your eyes watering as you cupped his face in between your hands, shaking it from side to side slightly in yet another attempt to bring him back in himself and get him to help you save him.

You didn’t get any response from him, but you heard the TARDIS humming intensely at you. And you felt relieved to at least have received a single answer to your plea, even if it was by some piece of seemingly inanimate, alien technology. Turning your head to the center of the room, you watched the console lights flicker as she indicated you to get closer to the controls of the ship. Understanding what she wanted you to do, you looked at The Master one last time.

“I’ll never forgive you if you dare to die on me.”

He looked as calmed as you had ever seen him, eyes closed and facial expressions completely relaxed. Your last thought while looking at him before rushing to the controls, was that you wished you could see that serenity in him more often, in better situations that the one taking place now of course.

Placing yourself before the buttons and levers of the console, you found yourself completely lost. You had seen The Master piloting the TARDIS billions of times, but looking down at the controls you couldn’t recall any of the movements he made while doing so… Was it really that hard to show you how to pilot the TARDIS? Hadn’t he thought it could be useful in a situation like this one? And why couldn’t you have a better memory? How could you have seen him doing so many times and not have the slightest idea of what to do?

You searched around the console in hopes of finding a piloting manual, some instructions, or at least some note handwritten by the dying Time Lord that could give you some clue on how to put the time travelling ship in motion. But when you found nothing and realized you wouldn’t even know when or where to take the ship to if you knew how to pilot it, you started to feel impotence taking over you.

The Master was dying because of you, because he had stopped to help you, a simple, useless human. And you weren’t able to do anything to help him, to make things right. You were the one dying, not him.

Feeling the lump forming in the back of your throat you wished you could turn back time and stop him from helping you get to the ship.

How ironic was that? You were inside a time travelling machine, desperate to go back in time, and you simply couldn’t. You had never felt so small and worthless in your whole life as the tears started to fall down your cheeks.

“I don’t know what to do…” You looked back towards The Master, his unconscious body laid on the other side of the room. Your eyes examined him with an apologetic look for a few seconds before the TARDIS’ hum called you again.

Following the sound she made, you realized she was trying to draw you attention to one specific lever of the console, one she had pointed out by illuminating it with a characteristic purple light. Assuming she was trying to guide you, you got closer to the lever and pulled it without thinking it twice, desperate to at least try something to fix the situation.

When you heard the approving hum of the TARDIS and noticed the way she illuminated a close button in the same purple light, you proceeded to push that button too, and then the next one she pointed you to. You honestly didn’t know what any of those controls were doing or if you would be able to follow her instructions well enough to get The Master somewhere safe, but you had no time to waste with doubt and second-guessing.

You rushed through the console’s controls, pulling and pressing as soon as the TARDIS indicated you what it was that you had to do next. After pulling one final lever, you noticed the ground beneath your feet tremble as the ship entered the time vortex. You looked back at The Master one last time as the ship landed in an unknown location and time.

“Is it done?” You asked her, quickly wiping away the tears that had fallen from your eyes seconds earlier.

She gave you yet another hum, and you supposed you would need to go outside and figure out if you had succeeded in piloting the TARDIS to the right place. When you ran outside and found yourself inside a building that seemed like what you knew as a hospital, you finally let out the breath that you had been holding.

By the time The Master woke up again, he was lying inside a hospital bed, a sharp pain on his side and a little dizziness caused by whatever substance they were putting into his IV, which he quickly took off without even acknowledging what it was. He attempted to get off the bed to try and find out in which planet he was, or how he had gotten there, but he found himself too weak to move, the stabbing pain on his side making him desist from it.

Giving up and lying his head back on the pillow again, he caught a glimpse of something that look like a bracelet on his right wrist. When he looked at it, he realized his data was printed on that bracelet:

SPECIES: Time Lord

AGE: ?

NAME: Doctor

He immediately frowned at the name of his older enemy on his own hand, and for a second he theorized about being dead and having been sent to the profundities of hell as a punishment for his numerous crimes during his extremely long existence. For a second he feared he would have to live as The Doctor for the rest of eternity.

If there was in fact something similar to hell, he was sure this was it.

Your entrance in the room interrupted his thoughts as he sighed in relief by seeing you. He let out the air too fast out of his lungs, and he couldn’t help but hiss in pain.

“How are you feeling?” You asked him after you realized he had gained consciousness back again, closing the door behind you.

“Better than ever, love.” He said with that smug smile on his face, trying to ignore the intense ache on the side of his torso.

You looked at him for a few seconds, upset that he would act as if nothing had happened. Well, he was The Master. He was an expert in being annoying, you thought. What else could you expect from him?

“I hope it’s really hurting, you thick idiot.” You spitted out, not holding yourself back as you bitterly let him know just how angry you were with him. Had you been anyone else, you wouldn’t have probably lived to tell about it “Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?! I thought you were dying!”

“Dying is not something I’m very good at, as you can see.” The Master casually said with a pompous smirk on his face, one you wished you could slap off him. You simply decided to ignore his comment.

“Why didn’t you just regenerate? Do you have any idea how many trouble you would have spare me?”

“I thought you liked this face, pet.” He raised an eyebrow at you, arrogance showing all over his face as you couldn’t help but blush slightly. It was true you found him attractive, but he clearly didn’t need you to boost his already enormous ego.

“I would have rather have you alive with a different face than dead with this one.”

For barely a second you could see the façade in The Master’s eyes fall apart as you said those words. You knew he wasn’t very keen on talking about feelings, but you hoped he knew you were being serious.

“How did we arrive here?” He quickly changed the subject. “And why am I The Doctor now?”

“I brought us here. The TARDIS taught me to pilot her” You started to explain, watching the surprised look on his face as he tried to imagine you maneuvering his ship. “And well, when they asked me what your species was so they could give you the right medication, I thought I would tell them the truth, but when they asked me for your name I figured telling them they were treating one of the most dangerous criminals in all of time and space wasn’t such a great idea.”

“I would have rather you letting me die before letting anyone think I was her.” He rolled his eyes and ripped off the bracelet on his wrist, clearly annoyed by the idea of being mistaken for his former best friend.

“If you hadn’t stopped for me back then I wouldn’t have had to do it!” You pointed out in frustration, tired of him only complaining. You knew The Master would never thank you for saving his life, but those comments he made were starting to get you on your nerves. The Time Lord started at you in confusion for a few seconds, eyes glued to your face as he tried to decode what was going through your mind before forcing himself inside of it. After staying silent for several seconds, you decided to ask right away. “Why would you risk your life for me anyway?”

“You’re my pet, dear. I’m supposed to keep you safe.” He replied as if it was an obvious thing. When you had first met him, you had never thought you would hear him speak that way about a human.

“Not if it costs you your own life!”

“Did you really want me to abandon you?” He asked, tone deadly serious and eyes inspecting you carefully.

“No, but…” Sighing, you tried to find a proper way to express what was going on inside your head. “I would never want you to get hurt because of me. I’m only human, and my life is so ephemeral and fragile… Your life is way bigger and exciting than what mine could ever be, and you shouldn’t put it at risk because of me. I’m dispensable.”

While hearing your words, The Master regretted every time he had told you how inferior you were because of your ‘human condition’. He had seen you as dispensable at first, but he no longer considered you anything other than his equal, his partner in crime. The fact that you had grown to see yourself as something of less worth than him was almost as painful as the injury on his side.

“Don’t you ever say something like that again.” He warned you in what almost sound like a threatening tone. “You’re not dispensable. If you were I wouldn’t have you in my TARDIS. I did what I did, and I would do it again if I had to, love. I promised to take care of you and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, no matter the cost. Is that understood?”

A little taken aback but moved by his words, you simply nodded, trying to regain composure again.

“Good, now help me get out of here.” Without giving you a second to react, he immediately attempted to get out of the mattress. You quickly rushed to his side to try and get him to lay back again.

“What are you doing? You’re still not ready to go!” You tried to convince him to stay in the hospital for a little longer, to give himself some time to fully recover. Deep down you knew everything you’d try would be useless, knowing that he would run away from that room at the first chance he got. He would probably even want to go plan his next heist right after arriving the TARDIS, as if nothing had ever happened.

“It won’t take long for the staff to discover you lied about my identity, and they’ll want some explanations.” He began to explain to you. “We need to be gone by the time they arrive.”

Closing your eyes, you realized he was right. That was one of the few inconveniences of travelling around space and time causing chaos and destruction, you couldn’t stay anywhere for too long if you didn’t want to get caught, and The Master was a wanted man in practically every corner of the universe.

“Okay, we are leaving.” The Master’s face was adorned with a pleased smile as he heard your words. “But don’t even think about getting into trouble for the next few days. You’re going to get a full recovery first. You have to promise me.”

“I promise you, pet.” He stated as he leaned onto you to use your body as support when he got up.

“Oh, and I’m piloting the TARDIS, by the way.” You added, gaining a warning look from him. “What? You are going to need a lot of rest in the next few days and I have to practice in case I have to pilot her again.”

[autokratorissa]

Within two weeks of the total application of Libertarian Communism in Aragón, collectivized businesses became vacuums of empty stores and warehouses, creating a serious supply problem. The textile industry, the produce industry and in general, all light industry in Catalonia, also collectivized by the Anarchists, refused to accept the vouchers and other paper money given out by the “Committees” in Aragón. They demanded that they be paid in the coin of the Republic.

In reply the Committees of Aragón threatened the National Committee of the C.N.T. with cutting off the electric power that serviced the greater part of the industries of Catalonia, plus the central electrical system itself, if clothes and supplies were not sent to the “liberated areas.”

In reply to the gravity of this threat the National Committee of the C.N.T. ordered the Military Chief of the Anarchist forces in Aragón to execute the leaders of the Committees if they persisted in their attitude.

While the contradictions within the F.A.I./C.N.T. leadership grew ever sharper, the dominion which they continued to exercise over the peasantry of Aragón and Catalonia presented grave consequences for the war as a whole. Economically, these areas which had held such a wonderful potential for the Republic, were fast becoming wastelands. Politically, tens of thousands of peasants were losing all interest in the war; some had been actually forced into minor revolts against their persecutors.

In Catalonia the situation grew worse. At the end of August the Casanovas Government issued a decree that imposed the obligatory syndicalization of all peasants into one union---The Federación de Sindicatos Agricolas de Cataluña (F.E.S.A.C.).

[...] [T]he Catalan peasantry [...] were obligated to join the new syndicates where the selling of all crops would be regulated as well as all personal purchases. [The] syndicate would control the prices, security and credits. The system took from the peasants all the freedom to handle their own products, buying and selling, and in the long run, destroyed any stimulus to produce anything beyond their personal needs.

With an abysmal lack of knowledge of economic laws, the Anarchists also set out to reorganize Catalan industries, basing their concepts upon infantile solutions that had been declared “utopian” by all Marxists as early as the 19th century. Applied to the 20th century, only catastrophe could result.

[...]

A first result of the takeover was the refusal by the F.A.I. to recognize the priorities of the fronts---this, when the war against Fascism was a question of life and death for the whole of Spain. All stimulus was killed. “Equal” salaries were imposed for all categories; from engineers and technicians to the lowliest worker.

[...]

The Anarchists forgot, or never knew, the simple, elemental reality, that production is the decisive aspect of any active economy; if you do not produce there is nothing to distribute. They put down the problems of production, concentrating solely, in their demagoguery, upon their programs for “equal distribution.” In fact this highly touted “equality” didn’t apply either, since salaries differed from one factory to another. The workers collected according to the fortunes and the reserves of their particular factory, and were continually subjected to the caprices of the omnipotent Committees. When the reserves were spent the F.A.I. then went to the [central] State to ask that it subsidize the payrolls.

This process of applied egalitarianism went to such extremes that actors and entertainers collected the same as the cleaning woman in the theater. And if this sound[s] inspiring to “Women’s Liberation,” know this: equality stopped with the differentiation between the sexes. The F.A.I. maintained the principle that the wages of woman workers would continue to be inferior to those of men, though they did the same work.

In the name of “economic federalism” the Anarchists pushed a chaotic decentralization of industry, sowing confusion and disorder. There was no coordination of any kind. In not a few cases different factories of the same industry, those that would complement each other, fell into the hands of different committees. Economic relationships were destroyed and production suffered.

Goods generally produced were not the goods so desperately needed at the front, but rather that which could be sold quickest and with the highest margin of profit. Indeed an almost artificially created anxiety for increased benefits surged in many factories inflaming conflicts of interests between one factory and another, and one committee and another. [...]

Deprecating the absolutely desperate war needs of the country, the F.A.I. did little or nothing to create a meaningful war industry. The immense possibilities existing in this area were almost totally disavowed or ignored. One is reminded of the Chinese 8th Route Army and its “war industry” located in the caves of Yenan, where thousands of rifles were manufactured almost by hand during China’s long struggle against the Japanese and the Kuomintang. One is reminded too of the “arms industry” of the early Viet Minh located in the jungles of Vietnam, and producing excellent weapons with nothing but the will and the heart and the patience of a people intent on winning their fight against imperialism.

The industrial might of Catalonia, with a metallurgical and chemical industry equal to that of some of the most advanced countries, was sufficient to have provided all the small arms—rifles, machine guns, mortars and cartridges, plus all manner of artillery shells, that the Republic needed.

The Anarchists, who for the first critical year of the war, controlled this industry, and in effect sabotaged its potential for the war, will forever share the guilt along with the capitulationists and the defeatists, for the final Franco victory.

D. Santillán boasts that at the end of three months they were producing approximately 4,000 shells per month. This is at less than 150 per day; less than the total potential of any medium sized machine shop. He also boasts of 1,000 kilos of T.N.T. being produced per day, after one year, and 600,000 fuses for shells and grenades during that year. And this was done, he writes, with approximately 150,000 workers in the war industry. If his production figures reveal nothing more than the total waste of manpower here, one will have some idea of the tragedy of the Spanish Republic. Where were the rifles and the small arms so desperately needed? There is no mention anywhere of this kind of production in Catalonia. Any applied statistics will show that the zone was capable of producing these weapons in the tens, if not in the hundreds of thousands. But this was not done, so that in the end, when Catalonia fell, Álvarez del Vayo could say that the remnants of the Peoples Army in its retreat across the French frontier, had but 30,000 rifles to defend itself against a Franco army—in Catalonia alone—of over 350,000 men inclusive of five complete Italian divisions.

Absolving themselves of any guilt in the matter by simply hiding the facts from the world—and they had plenty of help in this—they then, in what can only be described as an act of supreme arrogance, denounced the Central Government of the Popular Front for not issuing Soviet arms to their units in Aragón—this, while the Madrid militia battalions were bleeding to death before the guns of the Army of Africa and the bombs of the Condor Legion; while Málaga fell, and while the Fascist onslaught in the valley of the Jarama and before Guadalajara was being desperately contained. “It is obvious,” they announced pontifically, and ignoring any vestige of reality, “that these arms are being given only to the Communist led units to enhance the prestige and power of the P.C.E.”

--- Landis, Arthur Harold. “The Death of the Spanish Republic.” Spain: The Unfinished Revolution. 1972.

[newstfionline]

Monday, March 22, 2021

Under Biden, A New Kind of Family Separation (Politico) The door to the U.S. has been shut tight to asylum seekers since last March, when the Trump administration issued an order at the onset of the coronavirus pandemic that every migrant—child or adult—would be immediately “expelled” back to Mexico or their home country if they attempted to cross the border, without even a chance to make a case that the persecution they face qualifies them to stay. After he took office this year, Joe Biden kept the policy largely in place, but began to admit unaccompanied minors even while continuing to expel both adults and children who enter with families. Since the shift in policy, some parents and guardians have made the devastating decision, calculated only out of desperation, to send their children off ahead of them, alone, to cross the border. The result is a new form of family separation—but instead of happening at the hands of federal agents in American government facilities, it’s taking place family by family. The fact that minors won’t be expelled like everyone else has rapidly spread by word of mouth across the length of the border. And while many families choose to stick together, the pressure to separate weighs heaviest on the most vulnerable—families who fear death, whether from persecutors who have followed them to the border, or from extreme hunger. One immigration official said, “This kind of information spreads like wildfire: If you hear about a child successfully making it, and your kids are desperate or sick or in danger, there are a lot of reasons why you would make that incredibly difficult decision.”

US businesses near border struggle with boundaries’ closure (AP) Evan Kory started calling brides in Mexico’s northern Sonora state last March, asking if they wanted to get their wedding gowns from his Arizona store just before the U.S. closed its borders with Mexico and Canada because of the coronavirus. His namesake shop in the border town of Nogales was popular among brides-to-be in northern Sonora for its large, affordable inventory, said Kory, the third-generation proprietor. Located steps from the border fence, Kory’s has been in business for half a century but has been closed for a year because of the pandemic, with its main customer base—Mexican day-trippers—largely unable to come to the U.S. and shop. In border towns across the U.S., small businesses are reeling from the economic fallout of the partial closure of North America’s international boundaries. Restrictions on nonessential travel were put in place a year ago to curb the spread of the virus and have been extended almost every month since, with exceptions for trade, trucking and critical supply chains. Small businesses, residents and local chambers of commerce say the financial toll has been steep, as have the disruptions to life in communities where it’s common to shop, work and sleep in two different countries.

Miami Beach mayor declares emergency as ‘wall-to-wall’ crowds descend on city, sparking virus fears (The Week) Miami Beach, Florida, Mayor Dan Gelber on Saturday declared a state of emergency, set an 8 p.m. curfew, and closed roads in the entertainment district as large crowds arrived in the city, sparking fears of another coronavirus surge. Law enforcement officials said people flocked to Miami Beach because they were looking for a place with fewer pandemic restrictions—Florida reopened earlier than most states—but city leadership thinks it’s gone too far, The New York Times reports. “Too many people are coming, really, without the intention of following the rules, and the result has been a level of chaos and disorder that is just something more than we can endure,” Gelber told CNN, adding that at night the city “feels like a rock concert, wall-to-wall people over blocks and blocks.” Raul Aguila, the interim city manager, said “you couldn’t see pavement, you couldn’t see grass.”

Eruption of Iceland volcano easing, not affecting flights (AP) The eruption of a long-dormant volcano that sent streams of lava flowing across a small valley in southwestern Iceland is easing and shouldn’t interfere with air travel, the Icelandic Meteorological Office said Saturday. The eruption is “minor” and there were no signs of ash or dust that could disrupt aviation, the agency said. In 2010, an eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland sent clouds of ash and dust into the atmosphere, interrupting air travel between Europe and North America because of concerns the material could damage jet engines. More than 100,000 flights were grounded, stranding millions of passengers.

Protesters Across Europe Clash With Police Over COVID-19 Lockdowns (NPR) Anger at restrictions imposed to contain the coronavirus pandemic swept into the streets of Europe on Saturday. German police used water cannons, pepper spray and clubs on protesters rallying over the coronavirus lockdown in the town of Kassel in central Germany where demonstrators numbered some 20,000. Protests against government measures to rein in the pandemic were also reported in Austria, Britain, Finland, Romania and Switzerland. Protesters held placards that read, “Fear Westmonster, Not the Virus, and “Stop Destroying Our Kids’ Lives” as they marched in central London along Oxford Street, the Embankment and Parliament Square before heading up to Whitehall.

Europe’s COVID-19 setbacks risk another summer travel washout (Reuters) Europe’s airlines and travel sector are bracing for a second lost summer, with rebound hopes increasingly challenged by a hobbled COVID-19 vaccine rollout, resurgent infections and new lockdowns. Airline and travel stocks fell on Friday after Paris and much of northern France shut down for a month, days after Italy introduced stiff business and movement curbs for most of the country including Rome and Milan. The setbacks hit recovery prospects for the crucial peak season, whose profits typically tide airlines through winter, when most carriers lose money even in good times. Airlines that have already racked up billions in debt face further strain that some may not survive without fresh funds.

Massive religious gathering worries India as COVID-19 cases surge (Reuters) India’s health ministry warned on Sunday that a huge gathering of devotees for a Hindu festival could send coronavirus cases surging, as the country recorded the most new infections in nearly four months. The ministry said up to 40 people were testing positive for COVID-19 daily around the site of the weeks-long Mahakumbh that began this month and peaks in April in the Himalayan holy town of Haridwar, next to the Ganges. The festival is held only once every 12 years. Organisers have said here more than 150 million visitors are expected, as many Hindus believe bathing in the river during this period absolves people of sins and bring salvation from the cycle of life and death.

Myanmar Protesters Answer Military’s Bullets With an Economic Shutdown (NYT) Bank tellers’ windows are gathering dust. Cargo at the port sits uncollected. And in grand government ministries in Naypyidaw, the capital of Myanmar, stacks of documents are curling in the humidity. There are few people to process all the paperwork. Since the military seized power in a coup last month, an entire nation has come to a standstill. From hospitals, railways and dockyards to schools, shops and trading houses, much of society has stopped showing up for work in an attempt to stymie the military regime and force it to return authority to a civilian government. While demonstrators continue to brave bullets—at least 220 people have been killed since the Feb. 1 coup, according to a local group that monitors political imprisonments and deaths—the quiet persistence of this mass civil disobedience movement has grown into a potent weapon against the military. For all the planning that went into the putsch, the generals seem to have been utterly unprepared for the breadth and depth of resistance against them. The effect of millions of people refusing to do their jobs has been dramatic, even if the military is built to withstand pressure. Up to 90 percent of national government activity has ceased, according to officials from four ministries.

N. Korean diplomats leaving Malaysia after ties are severed (AP) North Korean diplomats vacated their embassy in Malaysia and prepared to leave the country Sunday, after the two nations cut diplomatic relations in a spat over the extradition of a North Korean criminal suspect to the United States. Ties between North Korea and Malaysia have been virtually frozen since the 2017 assassination of the estranged half brother of North Korean leader Kim Jong Un at Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Two days after Kuala Lumpur extradited a North Korean man to the U.S. to face money laundering charges, a furious North Korea on Friday announced it was terminating ties with Malaysia. Malaysia denounced the decision and in a tit-for-tat response, gave North Korean diplomats 48 hours to leave.

Strong quake shakes Japan; minor injuries, no major damage (AP) A strong earthquake struck Saturday off northern Japan, shaking buildings even in Tokyo and triggering a tsunami advisory for a part of the northern coast. No major damage was reported, but several people had minor injuries. The U.S. Geological Survey put the strength of the quake at magnitude 7.0 and depth at 54 kilometers (33.5 miles). The shaking started just before 6:10 p.m. The quake was centered off the coast of Miyagi prefecture, in the country’s rugged northeast, which was heavily damaged during the huge earthquake and tsunami of 2011 that left more than 18,000 people dead. The strong temblor caused a temporary blackout in some areas and suspended bullet train services in the area, according to the East Japan Railway Co.

Wary Philippines says 200 Chinese vessels at disputed reef (AP) The Philippine government expressed concern after spotting more than 200 Chinese fishing vessels it believed were crewed by militias at a reef claimed by both countries in the South China Sea, but it did not immediately lodge a protest. A government body overseeing the disputed region said late Saturday that about 220 Chinese vessels were seen moored at Whitsun Reef on March 7. It released pictures of the vessels lying side by side in one of the most hotly contested areas of the strategic waterway. The reef, which Manila calls Julian Felipe, is a boomerang-shaped and shallow coral region about 175 nautical miles (324 kilometers) west of Bataraza town in the western Philippine province of Palawan. It’s well within the country’s exclusive economic zone, over which the Philippines “enjoys the exclusive right to exploit or conserve any resources,” the agency said in a statement. China, the Philippines and four other governments have been locked in a tense territorial standoff over the resource-rich and busy waterway for decades.

Heavy rains in Australia’s east bring worst floods in 50 years (Reuters) Heavy rains along Australia’s east coast over the weekend have brought the worst flooding in half a century in some areas, authorities said on Sunday, forcing thousands to evacuate and damaging hundreds of houses. New South Wales Premier Gladys Berejiklian said the downpour across the state, Australia’s most populous with 8 million people, was worse than initially expected, especially for low-lying areas in Sydney’s northwest. People in parts of Sydney’s northwest were ordered to flee their houses in the middle of the night as fast-moving waters caused widespread destruction. Late on Sunday, about another 1,000 people were asked to evacuate, after Berejiklian said that some 4,000 people may be asked to leave their houses.

Pope Struggles to Contain Conservative-Liberal Tensions in Catholic Church (WSJ) Pope Francis is struggling to manage powerful bishops in the U.S. and Germany, two groups at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum, as he tries to advance his progressive agenda without jeopardizing the unity of the Catholic Church. The election of President Biden, a progressive Catholic whom some U.S. bishops want to censure for his support of abortion rights, has exacerbated longstanding tensions between the pope and the largely conservative American episcopate. U.S. church leaders have resisted promoting the pope’s priorities of social and economic justice and care for the environment over opposition to abortion and defense of religious freedom. On the left, the pope is trying to rein in German bishops who—encouraged by the pope’s liberalizing gestures on topics including sexuality, ecumenism and the role of women—are pressing for changes that go further than Pope Francis is comfortable with, and that conservatives warn could cause a schism. Each country presents “a different set of issues, a different set of struggles but I think some of the underlying dynamics are the same,” said Adam DeVille, a professor of theology at Indiana’s University of Saint Francis. “In both cases, the pope I think is really trying to say, ‘come on guys, let’s rein it in here, let’s get back into the same lane all together.’”

[uroborosymphony]

"I say it's an honor to meet you and that's what you reply to me with? Ughh. And here I was hoping for you to be a little more fun than the legends say, mmm, we are Not going to be friends Nighty." Quinn replies with an overly exaggerated dramatic tone as it is always part of her games. Her eyes however, are telling a whole different story. If the female vigilante was usually playing around her half seductive, half nonchalent yawning and fake-manicuring her nails while trash talking her enemies for fun - here, she is tense. Agitated. Jittery. Disturbed. There is a ticking clock in her head, banging against her skull, words hammered into her mind as another side of her psyche is awekening, eating her bones from the inside. It's your duty, it's your duty, it's your duty. We're running out of time. We have to teach a lession. It's now or never. Kill him. Kill him. Get rid of him. Move. Hurry. MOVE.

"Shut it."

She speaks to herself on a sharp tone, half shouted, half whispered, closing her eyes for a second, breathing in and out, her hands shaking, clenching around her daggers as she opens her eyes again, wide open- her pupils skipping to one side then to the other, before looking back at him again. To face the Black Knight in this key moment is either a drag or a bless. Quinn knows she has to focus, to nagivate through the fires inside her head as if dancing between two realms of anchored in this reality and drawn in a foreign madness. He is here for a reason too. One it would be useful for her to hear about, to witness. After years of sharing the scene, while Quinn remains in the dark enough for the Knight to perhaps not know enough of her - she, on the opposite heard all the tales. To share the ground with another masked one meant something. That the city they are living in has lost faith in its authorities, craving a self made justice - and the two of them, now reunited in this room are the symbol of that, willing to put their lives on the line for their mission. However, That mission. Was it the same? Quinn starts walking, to the side in a circle, bent, her hands not leaving her weapon, expecting him to do the same, to mirror it - like two wrestlers around a ring ; she wants to see how he moves. Who will strike first? He is prepared for the situation to escalate in the same way she is but Not without a talk first. The vigilante does know the Knight fights with a sword which she always found funky yet not to underestimate : a good swordsman is to her a disadvantage. Her skills rely on close combat, which, became rare she believes on today's underground scene. Many of their opponent gangs for example are heavy on the guns, mostly men believing they simply had to be strong and heavy enough to win a fist fight and often found themselves taken by surprise by her speed, and flexibity. Quinn is a stratetic fighter - aware of her light weight , she doesn't' strike when not necessary, she waits for the right angle, the right opening and she slices once, in a piece of skin she knows can provoke either neuralgic pain or hemorragia ."I have heard stories about you, Black Knight. One with a hat and a sword who moves in the night." Quinn starts, still moving, slowly as her eyes are on him. "Oh I had sooo many questions. Wondering. What could this man possibly want?" As she narrates, her voice oscillates, up and down, like a story teller, her face ; animated, almost possessed by her speech. "Fight the bad guys, just like me? I wanted to believe that. I started fantasizing then, of a world where I wouldn't be the only one, hiding in the dark, craving to make this city a little less shittier. Greedy to finally, FINALLY, bring it, serve it on a plate to society : JUSTICE. To PROVE THAT the rulers of this world wear the same names as the persecutors and that TOMORROW, they will fall." Her eyes narrow, her intense, cat like eyes that reflect the dimmed light of the moon through the open windows in the empty hotel room. "But here I am, facing you, listening to you blabbering about Civilians? Wooooow. Don't you see these civilians would be more than happy? HONORED! To contribute to what I am about to accomplish here?" She clenches her jawline, her pupils, darkening. "I'm realizing... Was that Naive of me? To imagine us all, you, me, all of us, running in the night, UNITING to do what we are Meant to do? So tell me before I blow aaaaall of this up. Tell me you've come for Justice." Quinn finally questions, this time, taking her dagger fully out of her harness, pointing it straight at him.

[neoneversleeps]

arrow | k.dy

pairing: kim doyoung x reader 

genre: angst, fluff  (outlaw!au, robinhood!au, medieval!au)

warnings: mentions of past abuse, mentions of blood/gore/violence, major character death

description:

Doyoung makes you promise him something you’re not so sure you can keep.

words: 8.1k

notes: phew ok so i finally got this baby up after it had been slowly collecting dust in google docs. if im being completely honest im not that confident in this piece (when am i ever lol) but regardles i hope you enjoy! also feedback is always greatly appreciated! :) 

- lilac

The sound of thundering hooves pierces through the night. You move with their rhythm. Faster. Faster. Faster. You need to get away. Need to escape. 

You can barely make out the path in front of you, the only source of light you have is the periodic flashes of lightning from the storm that rages above you. The wind howls past you as you get faster, the sound of it mingling with the rushing of blood in your ears. Always faster. The rain that soaks through your cloak is unforgiving, and combined with the ice cold wind it chills to the bone. You press yourself closer to your horse, seeking both to accelerate and to receive at least some form of warmth. 

Hooves continue to pound against the ground beneath you, but you know the sound isn't coming from solely your own horse. You can't make out the figures behind you but their shouts cut through the noise of the storm. 

“Over there!”

“Quicker, we need to catch up!”

“Don't let her get away!”

Adrenaline pulses through your veins. All you can think about is going faster. The world around you blurs together and you try to somehow make out your surroundings through the thick sheet of rain in front of your eyes. You need to get away from the plains, a space where you’re out in the open. Luckily, years of moving in the dark have trained your eyes to be extra sharp. In the pitch black of the night, you make out the forest. Your escape.

There wasn’t a place on earth you knew better than the forest. It was your home and you knew every twist and turn, every detail, every crevice. The royal guard could try as they might, but in the forest they would never be able to keep up. All you needed to do was reach it. 

You press your heels down against your horse's side, encouraging him to pick up the pace even more. You were well aware of the danger that came from galloping at such a speed on an uneven surface. Well aware of the fact that the wet ground beneath you could cause your horse to slip and send you tumbling down with him. But this was your life. Countless times you had been on the edge of death, the images of the fiery pits of hell that surely awaited you after your demise blurring into your vision. 

Your bow and arrow were strapped securely to your back. If your hands weren’t frozen in place at your reins, gripping so hard you swear you're drawing blood, you might’ve fired some off. Even through the rain and at such speed, you would have made some hits. You were the best shot there was, unrivaled except for Doyoung. Doyoung. His face flashes up in your mind. You wince internally at the fury in his eyes you would surely have to face once you make it back to the camp. Correction, if you make it back to the camp. 

The forest was approaching quickly now. The first rows of trees only a few hundred meters out of reach. You lean down slightly, hand moving to stroke at your horse’s neck. “Riot, you know what to do.” Your horse, Riot’s, ears turnnto face you, a sign that let you know he understood the command. Some called you crazy for thinking your horse could actually understand you, but you were firm in your belief that Riot was much more than just a horse. He was your partner in crime, a loyal companion who was as much part of your family as any person back at the camp. 

You whiz past the first row of trees, finally inside of the forest. You can still make out the flicker of the guard’s torches and hear fragments of their shouts behind you, but in the forest, you have the upper hand. Riot carries you through the trees, taking sharp turns to make sure the guards would be unable to follow. He knows the ways of the forest as well as you do, if not better still. Your bodies move as one, your shoulders relaxing to follow his flow. Despite your eyes being trained to adapt to the dark, Riot could still see better than you. Horses had the ability to see at extreme precision even in complete darkness, a skill you very much envied. 

You had barely enough to time to prepare for the jump as Riot soared over a tree trunk laying on the road in front of you. You thank your quick reflexes for the fact that you held onto his mane, that being the only reason you weren't now sitting on the forest dirt. 

The rain wasn’t as strong in the forest, the tall trees sheltering you from most of the water and serving as a filter for outward sounds such as the storm. Your ears finally stop ringing with all the noise and you could sharpen them to listen to the sounds around you.

You catch onto the sound of running water, thankful that you can finally reorient yourself. Knowing that a familiar creek lay in front of you, you slowRiot down to a canter, allowing your heartbeat to slow down its pace. It was very faint now, but you could still hear distant shouts of the guards. You weren't going to be safe unless you crossed the bed of water that lay ahead.

You slow Riot to a halt once you reach the side of the water. The once small water level of the creek had risen so much it resembled a river. The constant influx of water from the rain causing the waves to aggressively crash against the rocks that lined its path. You close your eyes for a second, breathing deeply to try and clear your head. There was no going back, going down stream would lead you back towards the direction of the guards and going upstream would lead you towards the mountains, a dead end. There was only one option: across. 

You take a steadying breath and you hear the voices of your persecutors filtering back into your ears, feeling their presence nearing you once again. You briefly consider if it would be a worse thing to be executed than to face the wrath of Doyoung if you made it back home. Then again, if you were to die, you would eventually come to face Doyoung’s anger in the afterlife. You were sure Doyoung’s fury would last beyond even death itself. 

Shaking your head rid of the thought, your grip on Riot’s mane tightens, its grounding, you think, it ankers you to reality. You stare forward in preparation. Riot’s soul is interwoven with your and you know, as long as you feel no fear, neither will he. So you push down the feeling of terror that bubbles deep within you stomach and urge him forward. 

You hiss as soon as the icy substance touches you, the water level rising to your thighs and seeping through to your skin. The force around you is strong and unforgiving, it nearly pushes you out of your saddle. Riot’s winnies carry above the roaring of the water as he pushes forward, and you cling to him for your life. 

There’s a sharp pain to your left thigh and you scream out in agony for the rock that slices you skin cuts deep into the flesh and the icy water mingles with your crimson blood. The pain dulls down shortly though, and you know it's the adrenaline that courses through your veins that linder the ache. 

You feel as though it takes hours, even though the time probably only borders on a minute, until you finally feel Riot leap up onto firm ground. Your shoulders slump forward in defeat and there’s an ache that spreads your body. You know it stems from more than just your newly obtained wound. Maybe, you think, just maybe, you should’ve listened to Doyoung’s word as he warned you not to go on this mission You had been stubborn, and in addition to disobeying his orders, you had also snuck out, all on your own, after he had refused to send other members of your group with you. You hated to admit he was right, but he had been true in his prediction that the mission would be futile. 

Gripping onto the fabric of your cloak, you tear off a strip near the end and use it to tie around your injury. Your pants are soaked from the water and you can’t distinguish any blood stains, but you assume from the depth of the wound that you had lost a fair amount. You needed to get back to the base. There was no point in finding a place to rest. Besides, the sun would be up in just a few hours. So, you nudge Riot with your heels and continue to race on through the night. 

Its morning by the time you near the camp, you welcome the golden rays that shine through the trees on your skin and their warmth combine with the early breeze help dry your soaked clothes. The sound of Riot’s hooves walking on the gravel beneath you gives you a sense of comfort. One, two, three, four. Repeat. You’ve been listening to their calming rhythm for hours now, the soft sounds a stark contrast to the desperate pounding of the night prior. You feel drained, body and mind weak, and you sway slightly in the saddle. You’d stopped your wound from bleeding any further, but the loss of blood had taken a toll on you. Skin pale where you grip the reigns and eyes shifting in and out of focus every once in a while. Just a little longer, you tell yourself. You’re almost there. 

Lifting your right hand up to shield your eyes from the sun, you squint into the distance. Between a row of trees just a short distance away, you can see the outlines of tents. You breathe a sigh of relief. Home. 

Johnny is the first person you see once you arrive at your forest hideout. He jumps up from the log he’s been sitting at, working on weapons no doubt, and comes to take a hold of Rot’s reigns, allowing you to swing down off the saddle. 

“Hey Johnny.” You greet with a smile, mind a little hazy from the return of the numbing pain in your upper leg. Johnny doesn’t notice your wound as he’s too busy staring at your face, a stern expression painting his own. 

“You’re lucky you're still alive, you know? Otherwise Doyoung would have killed you.” You snort lightly at his words. “I don’t think he could’ve killed me if I was already dead, Johnny.”

Johnny’s expression falters for a second and he firmly shakes his head, brown bangs swishing from side to side. “Whatever. Just never pull that shit again, got it? Doyoung was already preparing to head to the castle himself to go save your ass. Not that I think he should’ve.” He grumbles the last part as he helps you remove your bow from over your shoulder. You chuckle lightheartedly. Johnny may say those things, but you know he’d lay his life down for you in a heartbeat. 

“Y/n! You’re alive!” Jaemin’s voice rings out from beside you and you turn to see he’s running over to you. “I can’t believe you're alive.” He says as he reaches you, relieved smile across his face. Jaemin really looks the most beautiful like that, when a smile graces his face. Too many times you’ve seen the young orphan in pain since he joined you. Too many times you’ve had to tend to his wounds. The memories twist at your heart. Jaemin was one of the younger members of your group, together with Renjun and Jeno.

You’d rescued them from an abusive orphanage a few years back, and accepted them into your group for you hadn't known what else to do. All of you had taught them your ways and they had become part of your little family quickly. Sometimes you wish you could’ve spared them this life completely. There were times where you'd thought it would have been better to send them off to some noble family. 

Then again, a large part of your life was spent robbing those families, so you suppose it wouldn't have worked out anyway. 

Despite Jaemin and the others now being the same age you were when you started your life as an outlaw, you would always view them as those big eyed, chubby cheeked kids they were before. They would always be like your little brothers. 

You smile fondly at Jaemin and reach out a weak hand to ruffle through his hair affectionately. 

“It's not that easy to kill me.”  The both of you chuckle for a second. “Hey, Jaemin, can you go tack off Riot?” Johnny hands your horses reins over to the boy and he nods in return. Your brows furrow in confusion. “Wha-”Johnny cuts you off before you can even manage a sentence. “You,” he emphasizes the word with a pointed look, “need to go talk to Doyoung.”

You roll your eyes slightly, and your head pounds as you do so, but you still wave the both of them off as you head towards the biggest tent, situated in the middle of your campgrounds. You stalk over, your boots crunching the autumn leaves that lay scattered over the ground. You stagger slightly as you walk, your legs feeling wobbly beneath you. Maybe you should've told Johnny about your injury, you think as you squeeze your eyes shut. The world starts spinning around you once you reopen them and before you know it, your vision turns black. 

One last shout of your name rings out through your mind before a wave of unconsciousness drags you under. 

You awake to the faint sounds of metal clashing against stone. Your eyes blink away the darkness slowly, and you’re greeted by the familiar brown interior of your leader’s tent. There’s an intense pounding in your head as you lean up slightly, causing you to fall back down onto the mattress. 

“Best not to get up yet.” You look to the side, where Doyoung is now walking toward you. His freshly polished arrows lay on a spare bed behind him. The bed sinks down with a creak as he sits down, his body facing yours. His brown hair is slightly matted against his forehead and his usually sharp eyes are softened at the edge, concern and worry and something you’d like to label as love swimming in them.  He parts his lips as if to say something, but before he does, he extends a hand towards you. His delicate fingers thread through your hair fondly, combing out a few knots as he does so. Your eyes close as you keen into his touch. Ever since you’ve known him, you’ve always wondered how his hands could be so soft. They’re littered with scars and callouses from the many years of holding a bow and arrow firm in their grasp, and yet somehow they still feel like satin against your skin. 

His hand leaves your hair suddenly and you involuntarily whine as you snap your eyes open. “There’s some leftover soup from dinner. You should eat.” Doyoung stands up and disappears through the entrance of the tent. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you slowly push your body to sit up, wincing every now and then at the pain in both your head and your leg. 

A few minutes later, Doyoung reappears with a bowl of soup in hand. The bed creaks once again as he sits himself down beside you and hands you the bowl of steaming liquid. You eat in silence, Doyoung never leaving his spot on the bed. Something in your gut tells you that Doyoung is close to snapping. There was no way in hell you weren’t in for a scolding. You know him far too well for that. 

After what feels like a small eternity, you place your empty bowl on the bedside table and pull your knees up to your chest. The chilly evening air from outside had made its way into the tent and was causing your skin to erupt in tiny bumps.  Doyoung still sits next to you, his eyes firmly trailed on his hands. The deafening silence that surrounds the both of you is broken only by his drawn out sigh as his slender fingers run through his amber locks. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” You swallow thickly at the low register of his voice. Doyoung wasn’t just pissed, he was furious. “Hm? What were you thinking? What could possibly justify you taking off alone, in the middle of the night and against my direct orders?” His gaze is directed at you know, anger evident in the curves of his face. You hang your head, suddenly desperate to get away from his accusing eyes. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences and our respective fuck-ups. But this? This is the biggest fuck-up yet.” The springs under the mattress protest sharply as Doyoung jumps up. He starts pacing the room. “Why would you- I mean- why?” His voice has steadily risen in volume as he now stands in the middle of the tent, arms raised in near-desperation. “What were you thinking, huh? Tell me!”

His sudden shout causes you to tear your eyes away from where they've been staring at the floor and towards him. “I was thinking that we needed to save those villagers… and seeing as you weren’t-” 

“Oh and you were going to save those villagers how? By breaking into the castle grounds at night by yourself? What, did you think no guards would be there?” “I-” Doyoung cuts you off again. “Or worse, did you think you could win in a fight against all those guards? I mean…” He stops to laugh bitterly. “...what the hell did you think you were going to do? What was your plan, hm?” His voice had lowered from his previous screams, but his lower volume did nothing to calm your pounding heart. 

He was right, you hadn’t thought anything through. You had been angry at Doyoung for turning down your idea of breaking out the prisoners that same night and you had stupidly, impulsively saddled up Riot in the dead of night to break them out yourself. You hadn't had any notion of a plan as you rode out towards the castle. You just thought you would figure something out as you got there. Which, very evidently, had not worked out. 

In truth, you were angry at yourself for not thinking anything through, for doing things on a whim, as you always did. You hated being scolded by Doyoung, suddenly feeling like a child cowering under his gaze. It reminded you of the night he had rescued you, so many years ago. You were still a child then, and while Doyoung had only been a few years older than you, he had always seemed so much more mature. Stronger, wiser. A true leader. 

As you would come to know later, Doyoung, orphaned at an age much younger than yours, was forced to fend for himself since the very beginning. A fact that, with certainty, had turned him into an adult much earlier than is usually intended. 

Tears prickle at your eyes and you look away from Doyoungs piercing stare. You feel ashamed and naive, just like the little girl you were back in that prison cell.  “I just- I only wanted to help them…” Your voice is so quiet that its barely to be heard over the howling of the wind outside. One lonely tear rolls over your cheek as you look back up at Doyoung. “I’m sorry…” All the anger seems to leave Doyoung in the sigh he releases. He comes to sit on your bed one again and lifts his hands to cradle your face in them. 

“What you did was reckless and extremely dangerous… but I know you only had good intentions.” His thumbs rub softly against the apples of your cheeks. “Which doesn’t justify your actions, but I forgive you. And we will help those people, Ok? I promise. But we need a plan, and that takes time. This isn’t just some plain robbery or any old prison raid. These cells are located under the best guarded Castle in the country. You understand that, right?”

You nod weekly, letting your head fall forward slightly so that your foreheads are touching. Your warm breaths mingle in the cold air of the night, faces illuminated only by the gas lamp that sits on the bedside table beside you. Doyoung leans forward first, capturing your pale lips with his. He kisses you sweetly, hands drawing you closer by your nape. When you part, he stays close to you, noses touching and lips brushing against each other as he speaks. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back to me…” Doyoung’s whisper is swallowed by your lips as you kiss him anew, praying that you somehow swallow all his pain as well. “I’m here. I won’t leave again.” 

Doyoung smiles at you and presses another kiss to your temple. “Good.” he breathes against your skin. “Now, you should probably get some more sleep.” You nod and he helps you lie down somewhat comfortably. A quick brushing of Doyoung’s fingertips against your scalp before he stands up, probably meaning to head out to keep watch of the camp. 

Your hand wraps around his wrist before he does. “Stay… just for a moment longer.” The man smiles down at you, returning to his position on your bed. His fingers begin to comb through your hair once again. “Okay.” 

Doyoung watches as your eyes fall closed, your breaths slowly evening out as your chest rises and falls in a calm rhythm. His fingers trail over your features, a fond look on his face at the way your lips part lightly in your sleep. “I’ll stay…” He breathes the words out into the night. A silent promise, one he is’t entirely sure he can keep

Weeks pass in your preparation to break out the wrongfully incarcerated townspeople from the dungeons that lie beneath the castle. You spend your time devising strategies and drawing maps, with the occasional break to overthrow nobleman's carriages that pass through the woods every so often.

You and Doyoung work in almost perfect harmony, leaving the rest of your group somewhat in awe since usually, the two of you butted heads on pretty much everything. Both stubborn to a fault. This plan however, had to be executed perfectly. It was the biggest attempt at a prison break (more accurately named rescue mission) your group had ever faced. 

Normally, you would stay away from the castle. The guards there outnumbered you greatly and the whole thing was built like a fortress. For years, you had been forced to overlook the cruelties inflicted by the royal family for the sake of keeping yourselves safe. 

This time however, they had crossed the line. Dozens of villagers from the nearby town had been imprisoned due to them not being able to afford the steeply rising tax payments. They were mostly women and children, taken as a threat to the men of the families. If the men did not deliver the payment required, their families would be executed in front of them. 

The execution dates were steadily approaching and your whole camp knew that you had to act fast. You and Doyoung had spent countless nights drawing up what seemed like hundreds of different plans of action until you finally found the one you deemed most plausible. This plan would rely on stealth, which was the one advantage you held over the royal guards. Nonetheless, the plan was risky, and in the days leading up to job, there was a thick underlying sense of fear that clung to the air around the camp like a fog.

You pace around Doyoungs tent, nerves making the hairs on your arms and legs stand up straight. This is the last night you would get any sort of sleep before the mission. You would leave the next evening, just before sunset, on your way to the castle. The lives of dozens of people rest on the events of tomorrow night, and as much as you try to keep face towards the members of your group, fear gnaws away at your insides as well. 

Doyoung pushes the entrance to the tent aside, startling slightly as he spots you standing in front of him. He raises his eyebrows at you in question and takes a step closer. Concern seeps into the features of his face when you still don't say anything, and he reaches out a hand to tuck one of the strands of your hair behind your ear. The small action is all it takes for your facade to crumble, and you fall forward and into his arms. He pulls you closer into him and your smaller frame shrinks even further as you press yourself to him. 

You stay like that for awhile, one of doyoungs hands stroking gently through your tresses. Stepping back slightly after a few moments pass, you look up into the older man's eyes. “I’m scared, Doyoung.” There’s a hushed air that falls around you two as Doyoung’s dark orbs scan over the lines that make up your face. He commits ever little detail he sees to memory, everything down to the smallest of scars that dent your skin. He sighs. “I’m scared too.”

The thought of Doyoung being scared should be concerning to you, but for some reason, you find it brings you comfort. Perhaps it was the feeling of being able to share your fear that made it seem like less of a burden.

A cold chill runs down your spine however, as Doyoung’s demeanor drastically shifts. His hands grip onto your upper arms firmly, nails ever so slightly piercing through to your flesh. “I need you to promise me something.” You can only stare back at him, uncertain of the next words he would speak. 

“If something...goes wrong. If anything-” A sharp intake of breath. “If I am to be captured-” You want to protest against him, arms moving to get out of his grasp as you suddenly wish not to hear whatever comes next, but he silences you with a look. “If I am to be captured...promise me you’ll kill me.” 

Something inside you urges you to pull away from his grasp, to flee from the words and what they implicate. How could he ask this of you? Surely, if you love someone, you would never ask them end your life? You thrash in Doyoung’s arms, frustrated tears at your eyes, vigorously shaking your head in denial. Doyoung’s grip is firm however, and once you stop moving he places his hands on either side of your face, forcing you to look only at him. The way he holds you, it almost feels as if he's holding you in place, as if his hands are the one thing that stops you from falling apart and splitting into a million shards on the floor. 

His dark orbs convey his innermost feelings as they stare at you, love, fear and a hint of desperation that linger uncomfortably in the darkness. Doyoung has never liked being desperate. All of it makes you acutely aware of how important this request seems to be for the man. “If they capture me, they’ll torture me. For weeks, months, maybe even years. They won’t stop until I’ve given them information… or until my body and soul have grown so weak that I am no more use to them. So I ask you, please, if it comes down to it being you or them, please…” He doesn’t say the words again and you’re grateful for it. They have already made themselves a home in your mind, echoing around the walls inside your head. 

With a deep intake of breath, you nod. A small sigh leaves Doyoung as the air i his lungs no longer feels constricting. “Do you promise?” The question comes out just as delicately as the way his hands once again move to brush the hair out of your face. He knows how much the mere idea of it all hurts you, and Doyoung wishes he could do anything to take away your pain. But he has to ask, for his own sake. 

“I promise.” 

Doyoung presses his lips to yours after that. The kiss is soft and sweet, and it feels as if it's both a silent thank you as it is a silent apology. Your hands move to link behind his nape and you tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss. Doyoung’s hands brush along your sides until they settle on your hip, grip tightening to the point of it almost hurting. A desperation has seeped into the kiss, and at this point you don’t know if its his, or yours, or both. All you know, as you pour every ounce of affection you can muster into the kiss, slowly walking backwards as Doyoung steers you towards the bed, is that there’s a shrill screaming resounding from the void of your mind. A voice that screams at you that this, this might be the last time you ever get to feel Doyoung’s skin against yours. 

The next day, the air around the camp is laced with the buzz of anticipation that comes every time before an important mission. There’s less talking than there usually is, no little echoes of laughter or joyful shouts. No telling of stories, and no sounds of crunching leaves as the younger members race through the grounds. Everything feels as if ts drowned in silence. There’s no clock anywhere at the camp, and yet it still feels like there’s a constant ticking sound carried around by the wind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

The sun hides behind the treeline way too quickly and you find yourself feeling as if the day had lasted only a mere hour or two  at most. You saddle up Riot, tightening the girth firmly and adjusting the leather pouch that would carry your arrows.Your fingers brush along Riot’s shimmery black coat absentmindedly as you notice Johnny leading his horse over to you. He greets you with a tight lipped smile, one that you return before diverting your gaze back to your horse. Johnny saddles up silently and the only sounds that surround you two are the slight rustle of the wind and the quiet squeaking of leather against leather. 

You wonder if you should tell Johnny about Doyoungs request. The man was like a brother to you. All these years, you had entrusted Johnny with basically everything, told him things you would never tell another living soul. Hell, at times it seemed he knew you better than you did yourself. You want to tell him, truly, you do, but there’s something in your heart that won’t allow it. the promise was made between you and the man you loved, and that's how it would stay. 

Hooves pounding out against the ground bring you out of your thoughts. “You guys ready?” Both you and Johnny look up to see Taeyong, the only other member of your group who would be joining you, looking down at you from his seat upon the saddle. His gloved hands hold the reigns of the majestic white stallion he rides taught, keeping the somewhat hot-headed horse at bay. His dark hair falls into his face, and the stoic expression he shows make his sharp edges look even more intimidating than usual. You nod. 

One last ray of sun catches on the flower shaped scar underneath Taeyong’s right eye, before the light slips away completely and you are plunged into the beginning hours of the night. “Then let’s go.”

The ride through the forest is solemn. No words are exchanged between you and the other members of your group except for occasional questions about the plan. A mismatched rhythm of hooves sound out against the dirt of the path you're on.  You focus on the sound, that being the only thing able to keep you calm and distract you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your head. You hadn’t uttered a single word since the start of the journey, too afraid that your voice would quiver as soon as you opened your mouth to speak. 

The world around had long since fallen victim to the blanket of darkness that covered it, and the only source of light that aided you was the shine of the moon and the stars above. None of you carried torches or lamps, you couldn't risk being seen. Besides, you were all used to the dark by now. 

Slowly, the tips of the grey castle’s towers come into view, reminding you that the end of your journey was near. A sudden shout from nearby causes you all to startle. Your eyes move to Doyoung, who has his hand raised, a signal that you should all hold your breaths. A few more indistinguishable words are uttered up ahead, you can make out two or maybe three voices. 

“Guards.” Doyoung mutters barely above a whisper, but the wind carries the word to your ears regardless. You were definitely close now. Doyoung turns to look at all of you, the hood of his cloak obscuring half his face from your view. “We’ll head west, take the long way around. It’ll set the plan back by half an hour give or take, but we can’t risk getting seen.” Doyoung’s words are rushed, spoken in a whisper, but never losing their authoritative tone. He doesn't wait for any of you to respond, tugging the reigns of his horse to the side, down a nearby path that leads to the west entrance of the citadel. 

You glance at Johnny and Taeyong, waiting for any sort of reaction. Johnny spares you a glance in return, nodding firmly, a silent way of telling you that everything was going to be fine. Taeyong simply nudges his horse with his heels, following Doyoung’s lead. You go after him, Johnny trailing behind you. 

You near the entrance to the underground dungeon about thirty minutes later, as predicted. The forest bordered with the side of the castle, allowing you to stay hidden behind the first line of trees as you surveyed the entrance. Two guards stand watch in front of the imposing metal gates, taking turns as they walk about the surrounding area. Doyoung nods his head at you, and you, quickly understanding his order, swing the bow on your back over your shoulder and grab one of the arrows sticking out of your saddlebag. Drawing the bowstring taught, you look back over at Doyoung, who is in the same position as you. “You take care of the one on the right. On my count.” You lock onto your target, perfectly aligning your arrow with the exposed side of his neck. One, two, three. As soon as Doyoung finishes counting down, two arrows whistle through the air, and the bodies of the guards slump over, lifeless. 

All four of you get off your horses and leave them tied up near a small clearing, one where the others would later arrive with wagons to transport the rescued townspeople far away from the castle. You move towards the gated entrance to the dungeons. One forceful swing of Johnny’s sword and the heavy lock clatter to ground, unlocking the door that leads to a dimly lit staircase. Doyoung grabs one of the torches mounted to the wall and heads downwards, the rest of you close behind him. You spot the shadow of a guard up ahead and silently signal towards the rest of the group. Taeyong and Johnny nod at each other before sneaking around the corner. It takes less than a minute for you to hear two thumps up ahead. 

You and Doyoung move forward, bypassing the dead bodies strewn on the floor before catching up to your group members. 

You advance along the winding tunnels, easily taking out the guards in silence as you near the holding cells. You wrinkle your nose up in disgust after you breathe in the smell of urine that comes from the walls around you. You know you’re getting closer by the second, but still fear breaths down your neck. The darkness of the tunnels dont allow you to make ot what time it is, but something tells you the break of dawn is much closer than you want it to be. 

A low wail echoes off the stones around you. Doyoung signals a halt. You can practically see the gears turning in his head as you gaze up at him. “The cells must be just behind this bend. I’d estimate about four to six guards will be standing watch. Y/n and I will go in first, then you and Taeyong follow.” Doyoung’s directs himself at Johnny as he says so. “We should be able to take them out with our arrows, but just in case we don't, stay close behind.” Both men nod in unison. 

Doyoung turns to look at you now. Almost imperceivably, his eyes soften for just a second. he reaches out from under his cloak to take your gloved hand i his, squeezing it reassuringly. Although you're not quite sure if the squeeze was meant to reassure him or you.  “Ready?” You breathe in deep. “Ready.” Doyoungs gaze returns to its usual sharpness as he charges forward, bow and arrow drawn. 

Everything happens in a blur of motion, there are shouts of both despair and relief surrounding you as you fire at the guards. There are more guards than expected, but your team moves swiftly to take them out. One of them rushes towards you before you can draw another arrow but Taeyong grabs onto his head from behind, slitting his throat in one quick motion. You look around the room. the guard’s bodies litter the floor as Doyoung, Johnny and Taeyong struggle to open the locks of the cells. The commotion from moments prior must have been head by someone, there was no way all the shouting could have gone unperceived. Snapping out of your thoughts, you run towards one of the cell doors, picking up a nearby stone to smash open the heavy lock. One of the women inside holds onto the bars that separate her from you. “Thank, oh, thank you, thank you.” She wails out, her hollowed cheeks and red rimmed eyes bringing up distant memories you'd rather not recall at the moment. 

After several attempts, the lock finally breaks and clatters against the stone floor. You hear the sounds of the other locks breaking from behind you as an influx of people rush out of the metal doors. A collective surge of adrenaline pushes the townsfolk to start running into the tunnels. Doyoung’s shouts of Go! Go! Go! ring clear above all the nose as he usher th people along. Taeyong, Johnny and you run after them, Doyoung following behind you. 

Dozens of footsteps echo around the small space you're in, and if the guards above hadnt heard anything until then, they sure would now. dread slings onto your soul as you fear that the sun would have already climbed over the edge of the trees once you got pout of here. 

Your worst fears are confirmed as the door to the dungeon is flung open by one of the prisoners, letting light flood into the dimness of the tunnels. Once you arrive outside, you take notice of the fact that you can hear the castle grounds slowly coming to life from afar. You turn to Doyoung, eyes wide in desperation. His expression bares the same as yours as his eyes flit all over the place. You hear running and the sound of metal clashing against metal coming from somewhere to your right. Doyoung runs towards the strip of forest, the rest of you chasing after him. The frightened group of women and children follow your lead. 

As soon as you arrive at the small clearing, you see the two wagons already waiting for you. You allow yourself a breath of relief as you spot Jeno and Jaemin next to the transport vehicles, seemingly just as happy to see you as you were to see them. Doyoung makes quick of untying his horse before coming to stand in front of you, the roar of the incoming guards getting louder by the minute. Doyoung grabs onto your arm as he peers into your eyes, imploring you to listen to his words carefully. “Get them out of here now. Taeyong, Johnny and I will fend off the knights so that you can escape.” 

“But what about-” “We’ll join you later, but you have to leave. Now.” Taeyong and Johnny are already mounting their horses, awaiting their leaders command. Doyoung grips your face in his hands, eyes searching over your face with a sense of urgency. You almost think he's going to kiss you on the lips before he hesitates. This wasn't the time nor the place. Instead, he presses a chaste kiss on your forehead before turning around and swinging himself onto the saddle. “Let’s go! Hya!” 

Doyoungs shout causes his horse to rear up before galloping forward, the other two men quickly joining his side as they race off into danger. You spring into action, helping the two younger boys. As soon as everyone is successfully loaded up, you mount Riot, and turn to Jaemin and Jeno, who are both situated atop their respective seats on the wagons. 

“We take them around north, the mountain passage is safe since the guards will assume that we’ll be taking them through the forest”. Both boys nod in confirmation. You sink your heels into Riot’s sides, causing him to break out in a gallop, and consequently prompting the two horses pulling the carriages to follow suit.

You've just reached the beginning of the passageway when the thundering of hooves from behind you catches your attention. Swiftly pulling Riot to a halt and turning him around to face the noise, you see Johnny and Taeyong race up the side up the slanted road towards you. A weight is lifted off your shoulders as they near you, only to plummet back down with force when you realize Doyoung is missing. 

Your eyes move between them frantically once they come to a stop, but the two men avoid your gaze. Taeyong's knuckles are white from holding the reins tight, his face is turned downwards and you can make out a deep red slash across his right cheek. Johnny looks even worse for wear, cuts littering the sides of his arms and legs and splashes of blood strewn across his face as if it were some horrific painting. 

A lump lodges itself in your throat, closing off your airways and making it difficult to utter the question you want to ask. Johnny is the first to speak up as he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “We’re sorry, Y/n. We tried everything we cou-” “Just tell me.” You cut off Johnny’s words sharply, your tone much harsher than you had intended. “Is he dead?” You cast your eyes to the ground as you speak, unable to face Johnny all of a sudden as the sick taste of bile rises to your mouth. 

“We don’t know…” Taeyong is the one to answer, his voice weak and hoarse. Your head snaps towards him. “What do  you mean you don’t know?” Taeyong winces ever so slightly at the volume with which you speak. Somewhere inside you there's a tinge of regret for the way you barked at him. Taeyong had endured an inconceivable amount of abuse from an early age, verbal as well as physical. He doesn't answer. Johnny speaks up instead. “It was pure chaos, the guards were too many. We… we only made it out because Doyoung sacrificed himself for us. The last we saw of him was when they pulled him off his horse….” 

You clench your jaw to hold back tears that pool at your eyes. The mental image of Doyoungs mutilated face invades your mind like the violent crash of a wave against rocks. You make a decision then. You had to go back. 

“Johnny, Taeyong.” Both of them look to you as you call their names. “Get these people to safety.” You urge Riot forward, passing between the two older men, heading towards the direction they came from, until Johnny grips onto your arm. “Where are you going?” His voice is laced with confusion, crease between his brows as he stares you down.

“I’m going back.”

With that, you forcefully rip your arm from Johnny’s grasp and take off. 

“You can’t save him!”

“It’s too late!”

“Y/n!” 

Their desperate cries are lost in the howling of the wind that greets your ears as you push on. Hands gripping onto Riot’s mane as he practically flies past the bushes and the trees, you don't dare glance back even for a second. Your mind is focused on one thing and one thing alone. 

Kim Doyoung. 

You slow down Riot as you reach a hill that overlooks the inner courtyard of the castle, knights march around and servants run around fulfilling errands, most of them trying to avoid the stares of the royal guards. The place is on high alert. 

Trying to find Doyoungs familiar face, your eyes scan through the crowd below you, tracing over the different arrays of people that walk through the grounds. Your heart beats furiously in your chest as you try not to entertain the possibility that Doyoung had already been dragged down into the dungeons. 

Finally, you spot him. His face is beaten and there's blood dripping from a wound above his eyes, it trails down across his face, adorning the other bruises that stain his skin. Two guards hold him in place, their hands tight around Doyoungs arms. He may have been caught, caged between two men much stronger than him, but Doyoung’s expression remains cocky and his head is held high even in front of the general he now faces. You know what's at stake here, recalling Doyoung’s words from the night before last. If they take him into the cold pit of hell that are the castles underground dungeon, they’ll torture him. Submit his body and his mind to horrific procedures you dare not to imagine. 

The bow and arrow are already in your grasp and your eyes desperately flit around the grounds. Maybe if you can fend off all the guards, you can avoid what you dread the most. But the guards are too many. Even if you do manage to eliminate the men that hold Doyoung in place and the general that stands before him, with Doyoung’s weakened state he wouldn’t get far. 

Your eyes fall back to his and he meets your gaze. His face may remain blank but you see the fear in his eyes. He’s pleading with nothing but a look. Your breathing is erratic and there’s a cold sweat that runs down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before you glance back at Doyoung. No one else has noticed your figure on the hill, but it’s only a matter of time. 

You lock eyes with Doyoung once again and shake your head, you couldn’t do this, you just couldn’t. Doyoung’s eyes soften as he mouths his next words to you. 

You promised.

He was right. You promised. 

With blurred vision and shaky hands you steady your weapon, pulling back on the string with a strength you didn't know you possessed at that moment. You blink away the tears as you aim. It takes everything in you to not look away. Time slows down around you and everything is silent. One breath in, One breath out.

Release. 

Everything crashes back in around you once the arrow soars through the air and hits its target. There’s shouts and screams and frantic running below you. 

Your eyes meet Doyoung’s once again and you notice the smile on his face, before your eyes trail lower…

....to your arrow, buried deep in his chest. 

[publicdomainbooks]

XVII. A CATASTROPHE.

Scarcely six weeks passed before I had lost every feeling but dislike and abhorrence for this infamous experiment of Moreau’s. My one idea was to get away from these horrible caricatures of my Maker’s image, back to the sweet and wholesome intercourse of men. My fellow-creatures, from whom I was thus separated, began to assume idyllic virtue and beauty in my memory. My first friendship with Montgomery did not increase. His long separation from humanity, his secret vice of drunkenness, his evident sympathy with the Beast People, tainted him to me. Several times I let him go alone among them. I avoided intercourse with them in every possible way. I spent an increasing proportion of my time upon the beach, looking for some liberating sail that never appeared,—until one day there fell upon us an appalling disaster, which put an altogether different aspect upon my strange surroundings.

It was about seven or eight weeks after my landing,—rather more, I think, though I had not troubled to keep account of the time,—when this catastrophe occurred. It happened in the early morning—I should think about six. I had risen and breakfasted early, having been aroused by the noise of three Beast Men carrying wood into the enclosure.

After breakfast I went to the open gateway of the enclosure, and stood there smoking a cigarette and enjoying the freshness of the early morning. Moreau presently came round the corner of the enclosure and greeted me. He passed by me, and I heard him behind me unlock and enter his laboratory. So indurated was I at that time to the abomination of the place, that I heard without a touch of emotion the puma victim begin another day of torture. It met its persecutor with a shriek, almost exactly like that of an angry virago.

Then suddenly something happened,—I do not know what, to this day. I heard a short, sharp cry behind me, a fall, and turning saw an awful face rushing upon me,—not human, not animal, but hellish, brown, seamed with red branching scars, red drops starting out upon it, and the lidless eyes ablaze. I threw up my arm to defend myself from the blow that flung me headlong with a broken forearm; and the great monster, swathed in lint and with red-stained bandages fluttering about it, leapt over me and passed. I rolled over and over down the beach, tried to sit up, and collapsed upon my broken arm. Then Moreau appeared, his massive white face all the more terrible for the blood that trickled from his forehead. He carried a revolver in one hand. He scarcely glanced at me, but rushed off at once in pursuit of the puma.

I tried the other arm and sat up. The muffled figure in front ran in great striding leaps along the beach, and Moreau followed her. She turned her head and saw him, then doubling abruptly made for the bushes. She gained upon him at every stride. I saw her plunge into them, and Moreau, running slantingly to intercept her, fired and missed as she disappeared. Then he too vanished in the green confusion. I stared after them, and then the pain in my arm flamed up, and with a groan I staggered to my feet. Montgomery appeared in the doorway, dressed, and with his revolver in his hand.

“Great God, Prendick!” he said, not noticing that I was hurt, “that brute’s loose! Tore the fetter out of the wall! Have you seen them?” Then sharply, seeing I gripped my arm, “What’s the matter?”

“I was standing in the doorway,” said I.

He came forward and took my arm. “Blood on the sleeve,” said he, and rolled back the flannel. He pocketed his weapon, felt my arm about painfully, and led me inside. “Your arm is broken,” he said, and then, “Tell me exactly how it happened—what happened?”

I told him what I had seen; told him in broken sentences, with gasps of pain between them, and very dexterously and swiftly he bound my arm meanwhile. He slung it from my shoulder, stood back and looked at me.

“You’ll do,” he said. “And now?”

He thought. Then he went out and locked the gates of the enclosure. He was absent some time.

I was chiefly concerned about my arm. The incident seemed merely one more of many horrible things. I sat down in the deck chair, and I must admit swore heartily at the island. The first dull feeling of injury in my arm had already given way to a burning pain when Montgomery reappeared. His face was rather pale, and he showed more of his lower gums than ever.

“I can neither see nor hear anything of him,” he said. “I’ve been thinking he may want my help.” He stared at me with his expressionless eyes. “That was a strong brute,” he said. “It simply wrenched its fetter out of the wall.” He went to the window, then to the door, and there turned to me. “I shall go after him,” he said. “There’s another revolver I can leave with you. To tell you the truth, I feel anxious somehow.”

He obtained the weapon, and put it ready to my hand on the table; then went out, leaving a restless contagion in the air. I did not sit long after he left, but took the revolver in hand and went to the doorway.

The morning was as still as death. Not a whisper of wind was stirring; the sea was like polished glass, the sky empty, the beach desolate. In my half-excited, half-feverish state, this stillness of things oppressed me. I tried to whistle, and the tune died away. I swore again,—the second time that morning. Then I went to the corner of the enclosure and stared inland at the green bush that had swallowed up Moreau and Montgomery. When would they return, and how? Then far away up the beach a little grey Beast Man appeared, ran down to the water’s edge and began splashing about. I strolled back to the doorway, then to the corner again, and so began pacing to and fro like a sentinel upon duty. Once I was arrested by the distant voice of Montgomery bawling, “Coo-ee—Moreau!” My arm became less painful, but very hot. I got feverish and thirsty. My shadow grew shorter. I watched the distant figure until it went away again. Would Moreau and Montgomery never return? Three sea-birds began fighting for some stranded treasure.

Then from far away behind the enclosure I heard a pistol-shot. A long silence, and then came another. Then a yelling cry nearer, and another dismal gap of silence. My unfortunate imagination set to work to torment me. Then suddenly a shot close by. I went to the corner, startled, and saw Montgomery,—his face scarlet, his hair disordered, and the knee of his trousers torn. His face expressed profound consternation. Behind him slouched the Beast Man, M’ling, and round M’ling’s jaws were some queer dark stains.

“Has he come?” said Montgomery.

“Moreau?” said I. “No.”

“My God!” The man was panting, almost sobbing. “Go back in,” he said, taking my arm. “They’re mad. They’re all rushing about mad. What can have happened? I don’t know. I’ll tell you, when my breath comes. Where’s some brandy?”

Montgomery limped before me into the room and sat down in the deck chair. M’ling flung himself down just outside the doorway and began panting like a dog. I got Montgomery some brandy-and-water. He sat staring in front of him at nothing, recovering his breath. After some minutes he began to tell me what had happened.

He had followed their track for some way. It was plain enough at first on account of the crushed and broken bushes, white rags torn from the puma’s bandages, and occasional smears of blood on the leaves of the shrubs and undergrowth. He lost the track, however, on the stony ground beyond the stream where I had seen the Beast Man drinking, and went wandering aimlessly westward shouting Moreau’s name. Then M’ling had come to him carrying a light hatchet. M’ling had seen nothing of the puma affair; had been felling wood, and heard him calling. They went on shouting together. Two Beast Men came crouching and peering at them through the undergrowth, with gestures and a furtive carriage that alarmed Montgomery by their strangeness. He hailed them, and they fled guiltily. He stopped shouting after that, and after wandering some time farther in an undecided way, determined to visit the huts.

He found the ravine deserted.

Growing more alarmed every minute, he began to retrace his steps. Then it was he encountered the two Swine-men I had seen dancing on the night of my arrival; blood-stained they were about the mouth, and intensely excited. They came crashing through the ferns, and stopped with fierce faces when they saw him. He cracked his whip in some trepidation, and forthwith they rushed at him. Never before had a Beast Man dared to do that. One he shot through the head; M’ling flung himself upon the other, and the two rolled grappling. M’ling got his brute under and with his teeth in its throat, and Montgomery shot that too as it struggled in M’ling’s grip. He had some difficulty in inducing M’ling to come on with him. Thence they had hurried back to me. On the way, M’ling had suddenly rushed into a thicket and driven out an under-sized Ocelot-man, also blood-stained, and lame through a wound in the foot. This brute had run a little way and then turned savagely at bay, and Montgomery—with a certain wantonness, I thought—had shot him.

“What does it all mean?” said I.

He shook his head, and turned once more to the brandy.

[theonyxpath]

Ahoy there! Matthew here, with a blog post about our upcoming B-Movie sci-fi game, They Came From Beneath The Sea! This game is all about the thrills of the cinema, whether it be special effects, death-defying stunts, awful one-liners, or horrible monsters. They Came From has a rose-tinted view of the era in which it’s set, viewing the 1950s through a Happy Days meets Stepford Wives lens. There’s always a record playing on the jukebox, the guys all drive hotrods, and milkshakes only cost a silver dollar a piece.

Now the preamble is out of the way, I wanted to share a little bit of the chapter aimed at Directors (or GMs, Guides, Storyguides, or Storytellers, as they’re otherwise known). This part is called The Director’s Chair, and it handles different ways of framing your B-Movie extravaganza! Do excuse the page XX’s…

The Director’s Chair

While Directors come with many ambitions, they are as much of a player as the others at the table. Just like the players, who get to enhance their characters as they gain experience through play (see p. XX), Directors in They Came From Beneath The Sea! get to alter their games with a few fun features they should advertise before the game commences.

Low Budget

If the Director decides the story they’re running is equivalent to a low budget movie, they should go out of their way to describe the shoddiness of the sets, costumes, weapons, and acting. Directors of this type should play their supporting characters in stilted or hammy ways, implying washed-up actors pulled in off the lot are the cast of this feature. Monsters should seem less threatening in their description, or have their actions only rarely described. When the low budget Centopus devours its prey, the camera cuts away to the faces of the characters. You never see the full action in a low budget movie.

Consider restricting your plots to a handful of areas, or repeating descriptions for multiple locations using the same, slightly adjusted set. If you want to get truly meta, insert deleted scenes where transitions might otherwise happen. In games on the low budget setting, the highlight reel is more important than the car journey from A to B.

Directors should consider awarding Experience points (see p. XX) to players whenever they act in a hammy or amateurish way, when they describe their characters falling through scenery (or making it wobble) at a dramatic moment, or when harm dealt to an alien seems to do more damage to the costume than the alien itself.

Big Budget

Big budget movies barely scrape by under the B-Movie banner, but plenty of blockbusters have flopped, to later be incarcerated to the bargain bin of a supermarket somewhere. This is your story. Directors should insert characters based on famous movie actors and lovingly describe the effects and visuals surrounding alien attacks. Liberally apply explosions after every gunshot, even when a bullet hits something innocuous like a telegraph pole. Boom — up it goes, the victim of a movie with too high a budget.

In games based on big budget movies, action takes precedent over subtle dialogue. Incongruous styles edge in, such as a martial arts contest between the sheriff and the intruding special agent, a cheerleader who works as a costumed vigilante at night, or the giant monsters when humanoid-sized threats will do.

Directors should consider awarding Experience points (see p. XX, if we’ve not made that clear) to players whenever their characters cause an explosion, when they suborn dialogue in favor of fists, or when they accomplish an award-winning scene (see p. XX) that makes the rest of the players applaud.

Art

Art movies are, by their nature, often B-features. In the 1950s and 1960s, it was common for a confused crowd to stumble away from the French art feature preceding their monster movie, wondering why in hell that skeleton was smoking that cigarette for 45 minutes, and what the voiceover was rattling on about. A game of They Came From Beneath The Sea! with an artistic flair should give scenes over to introspective character moments, inexplicable alien movements, and political and philosophical declarations during the story that bear little relevance to the action. Only in the hours after the game ends will the players start thinking “so the Prefecture of the Pod was an Anarcho-Syndicalist commune after all…?”

No player group wants to walk away from a game utterly confused, but a teased mystery or a montage of events following or running adjacent to the story that seem to bear no relevance, can serve to pique interest or amuse. Consider freeze-framing at the end of a session to explain what happens to each character present. The players may be a little bewildered when they find out Dino, the local circus strongman, was a communist all along, but they may see this as part of the madness of They Came From.

Directors should consider awarding Experience points to players whenever they stand or move away from the group to perform a soliloquy, when their characters make a stunning political or philosophical revelation, or when the characters do something completely incongruous to the rest of the plot.

Exploitation

Exploitation movies existed in one form or other since cinema began and were almost always B-Movies. To those unfamiliar with the term, exploitation in a cinematic sense is creating a movie of a genre or containing content designed to shock or spread controversy. They Came From Beneath The Sea! can enter the realms of exploitation very simply: by exploring the politics of the time through a sympathetic lens. The sad fact is, the 1950s were no picnic for minorities in America or much of Europe. Any game focusing on the struggles of the persecuted could be described as an exploitation feature and should be finely measured to not wade into the realms of offense and ridicule. Careful highlighting of issues of the time, framed within a hamfisted alien invasion setting, is a perfect example of how minorities struggle beneath a tide of violence. It’s not advised this course is pursued entirely for comic effect, unless the humor is “punching up” against the persecutor.

Of course, exploitation also covers the realm of gore, needless violence, and sex. All these things happened to limited degrees in 1950s cinema (more prevalent in European features than American), but an inventive Director may wish to re-engineer They Came From into a splatterfest of green goo and pink guts. Directors should consider awarding Experience points to players whenever they get the better of “the Man,” when they achieve a poignant goal for a persecuted group (including aliens, potentially), or when they do something completely out-of-seeming with the light-hearted B-Movie sci-fi genre.

Tyrannical Director

Some directors (not Directors — you’re all lovely!) are complete jerks. Another word for them would be perfectionists, but it’s rare for actors to experience heavy-handed direction and feel “well, he’s just a perfectionist” when being made to experience take 98 of scene 12.

Directors should definitely advertise they’re playing the role of a tyrant before gameplay starts, as this is the style of story designed to punish characters. Never punish the players but do punish the characters. Make the characters go through the mill, have the aliens deal more damage than usual, cut off glib moments or award-winning scenes with an extra or supporting character walking across the location: do what you must to bring the best out of the characters.

What purpose does such a role serve other than to be the aforementioned arsehole? The Director should have a goal in mind, a Rubicon to cross, an achievement for characters to attain. Once the characters reach this goal, the tyrant should shower them with rewards. They’ve made it! They want Experiences? They have them! They want alien tech? They have it in the next adventure? It’s a fine line to walk, and not for brand new Directors, but consider it a trial by fire for all participants who want a tougher game.

Interested in learning more? Keep up to date with this project and our upcoming Kickstarter by following the Monday Meeting Notes.

[sserpente]

A/N: Tadaaa! Here it finally is! The first Captain Jack Imagine out of (hopefully) many to come! Enjoy, everyone, aye?

Words: 1990 Warnings: death sentence

The drums pounded in your ears, your heartbeat adjusting to their ill-fated rhythm. It was quite early in the morning. A sunny and promising day, with waves breaking at the shore, gushing against the rocks and wetting the hot sand at the beach and seagulls singing their cawing songs and yet, it was all but a dreadful day.

People were crowding in the court, their daily tasks and duties forgotten as they stared up at the huge wooden construction with only three men standing on it. They were greedy and hungry for blood and death, awaiting with anticipation what made them sinners themselves. You felt disgusted by each and every one of them. Every woman, every man and even every child that had locked eyes with the thick rope that was hanging from a big wooden bar, ready to be slung around somebody’s neck with only one purpose—to kill. To kill and to punish those who had disrespected the crown and refused to conform to its beliefs and laws, to be convicted for the simple wish for freedom.

The man speaking to the crowd was unimportant. He listed his crimes, eliciting devilish smirks from him as he did. Shaking your head, you pushed the onlookers aside. It earned you insults and complaints but you couldn’t care less. You needed to get closer. In time.

In fact, it all happened too fast for you to comprehend what was happening and at the same time, it all seemed to slow down. The hangman approached the wooden lever, ready to steal away the last piece of safety the pirate had all while the drums quickened their fatal rhythm.

You had one try. One shot that if wasted, was gonna be your personal death sentence. Were you really going to do that? Saving a man who you didn’t even know properly? You had read stories about him of course. Stories about a pirate who had managed to escape a deserted island, of a man who had plundered the harbour of Nassau without firing a single shot and a man who had even survived Davy Jones’ locker and returned from the dead. Jack Sparrow, Captain of the Black Pearl.

And now here he was. Standing on the podium right in front of you, looking into nothingness with sad and dark eyes as if this time, he had resigned himself to his inevitable fate already. There was nobody to come, nobody to safe him and nobody to cheat the Grim Reaper this time. He was alone and even if you had never exchanged a word—only heard him sneaking around Port Royal again—you had felt sorry for this brave and incredibly cunning man, hunting nothing more than the true meaning of freedom. Certainly, he had done terrible things too but in the end, he was a man with ambitions and passion.

And it was what impressed you, what gave you the final push to draw your weapon and aim at the thick rope.

Remember. You have one shot.

It all happened in a second. The lever being turned, the wooden board giving away under Jack’s weight. He dropped, helplessly, into thin air and you pulled the trigger, the shot echoing ear-piercingly through the whole court. You hadn’t missed. You had succeeded.

Instantly, guards were alarmed and started searching for the culprit, the people around you screaming and backing off, some of the men attempting to grab ahold of you—something you had already expected. You had to be fast now. Pushing through the crowd once more and knocking over a soldier who was approaching you, you drew your sword and threw it towards Jack, who had, seemingly confused, landed on his arse in the dirt. A shake of his head and a pout was all it took, however, to accept the weapon you were offering him and then, you legged it. Fleeing and escaping, doing what you did every day when obtaining food. Only this time, they wouldn’t just try and chop your hand off. This time, they would want to hang you as well.

You pretended to be a bunny. A dirty bunny, running from the fox, sidestepping to avoid the bullets they were firing at you and trying to irritate them until you climbed over a fence, starting at the harbour. Your heart was beating like a steam hammer, threatening to break through your chest as you ran for your life, all for saving a legendary pirate. On the other hand, there was not much you could lose.

Being born in a filthy alley in the dark and abandoned by your mother when old enough, you had no contact whatsoever with your parents. Your father, of course, you didn’t even know. Every day you had to fight for your survival, stealing, lying and cheating to satisfy the painful growling in your stomach. You had tried to find work at first—unlike you mother so you had sworn once, you would become an honourable person but that hope quickly subsided when you got all but rejected. The blacksmith preferred men to work with. The cook thought you too young to take responsibility. The bartender was a perverted man who wanted you to work for free and the only option that was left was selling your own body and making use of your womanly beauty.

You’d rather die than to sacrifice your dignity and self-respect and prostitute yourself. So you started stealing. An apple here, a few coins there… you had become a sneaky thief, sleeping under bridges, in old shacks or minging stables to keep yourself warm at night. Ergo, there really wasn’t anything you could lose, except maybe your life but certainly, you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The harbour was in clear sight now, the saving ships pitching and tossing in the water. It seemed like with the wooden landing planks several of them were inviting you to take shelter on their deck, hiding until the danger was over and then maybe to set sail as a stowaway.

You chose the one that looked least like a ship of the Royal Navy and got ready to board it when suddenly, you heard a deep and sloppy voice behind you.

“No! Not good, not this one! On yer left!” Half turning, you glanced at a funnily running Jack Sparrow, who was pointing to… the Erudite. For real now? One of the most appreciated ships of the crown? You opened your mouth to protest but he already stormed past you, the landing plank wobbling and shrieking when he set foot on it and then quickly checkmated the two guards on deck.

Apparently, they were preparing to cast off for some unknown reason but it most certainly came in handy now.

Cursing, you ran after the pirate and bit your lower lip once you reached the deck, joining Jack at the rudder. He had prepared everything that still needed to be prepared so quickly you couldn’t even blink twice before it was all over. You knew nothing about ships but you even you understood that he really was an expert in his trade.

On your right, a loud crash followed by a splatter erupted when wood collided with wood and the landing plank dropped straight into the water, bringing the ocean between you and your persecutors. Several shots surged through the air as they grew smaller in the distance, shouting out orders to get another ship ready to follow you. You would be long gone until then and for now, you felt safe. Well, as safe as you could feel next to a real pirate.

It was like Jack had read your thoughts. Without a warning, he suddenly yanked you towards him, his arm snugging around your waist. He kissed you so roughly and fiercely that you forgot where up and down was, his dark beard scratching your chin.

What in the…? It wasn’t uncomfortable, much to your surprise. He did taste of rum, something you didn’t quite appreciate but oddly, his lips were soft as they pressed against yours and moved so gently you almost closed your eyes with relish. Stop! Focus!

Struggling, you pulled away, having him glare at you with brown puppy eyes and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“And who may you be then, luv? What do I call me saviour?”

“(Y/N). I’m… call me (Y/N).” You mumbled out of breath. There were dozens of more questions and answers unspoken in this very moment, questions that burned and itched on Jack’s tongue but—there was going to be sufficient time for that later, especially because when you had collected your composure again, you started chiding him downrightly.

“Why this bloody ship? Out of all ships in the docks, why this one?!”

“Looked prettier than the others,” he replied with a smirk, shrugging as if it was nothing to worry about at all. You clenched your fists.

“You could have killed us! A-and, and they will be searching for this ship, it’s conspicuous, have you thought of that?”

He grinned again shrewdly, showing off his golden teeth in the process. “It’s take what you can, that’s what pirates are all about, savvy? You should know that, given that you just voluntarily saved one.” He pointed out, his cheeky grin widening when you scoffed. It was like he was proud of you. Now that was what you got for saving the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow. At least he always knew a way out. Well, almost.

“Go fetch me some rum, will you, luv? I guess you’ll be stuck with me for a while now, might as well enjoy it.” He mocked. Still, there was a tender tone in his voice.

Something about his wink that followed had your belly twist in pleasure. You felt yourself swallowing before you blinked frantically and forced your attention back to what was important—making it clear that you were not going to be his personal maid, even if he was the captain. He owed you his life, that was payment enough for that “pretty” ship he had just commandeered himself.

“This is a ship of the Royal Navy, you bugger. There ain’t no rum here.”

Jack’s upper lip twitched with displeasure as he gripped the rudder again, his other hand grabbing the compass he was carrying with him so he could determine the right course. Immediately, you wondered whether it was true. Did it really point to what you desired the most? You would have to find out. Like Jack had said—you were going to be stuck with him for a while. Unless of course he made you walk the plank or you decided to play mermaid and jump into the water in the middle of nowhere. Nothing you were planning on. Hopefully nothing he was planning on either.

“Well, first stop’s Tortuga then. I need to get meself some bloody rum. Almost being hanged really takes its toll on a man.”

Tortuga? Was he serious? What about you? When you had saved him from the Gallows, you hadn’t wanted to become a pirate yourself! Or… maybe you had? Wasn’t saving Jack from his death sentence an act of piracy as well?

Perhaps he would even kiss you again if you stayed with him to sail the seven seas. You were pretty sure not all pirates could kiss like that. Not that you had been kissed often before.

Still, you hesitated. “Tortuga? W-what about me?”

“You’re recruited. Welcome onboard, Miss (Y/N)! Ahead of me and you lies an exciting future!” The grin he gave you this time seemed sincere and honest, having the butterflies go wild in your stomach. You wanted to complain again, really. But somehow… you couldn’t. The stories hadn’t lied. Jack was indeed a charming… and handsome man. Maybe it wasn’t too bad, sailing with him.

Oh bloody hell, this was going to be a hell of a thrilling journey.

[crossedbeams]

Hey! I only really got up to date with all the crazyness today and just felt like I had to send you a warm hug and testify to the fact that certain parts of this fandom seem to have lost any empathy towards famous people, real people, tumblr people - well people - and they seem to not notice how their words are sexist and vile. One part of what I wrote before is still true, I think: That These people also tend to behave as if none would see each and every word they PUBLISH. (1)

(2) They appear to be caught in their own obsessions which btw seem to have nothing to do with the people they obsess over anymore. (Well you could argue that it never REALLY does as most of us don’t really know these folks in real life.) So yeah - before we can go to zen again - before I’ll go to zen again - I felt I should take a side. I wish these folks would also find some zen. By which I mean being respectful towards folks they don’t even know.

I know I sat on this for a while but I’ve been all over the shop on my thinking on this and I wanted to find some chill.

I tend to run hot on things I see that are wrong, and sometimes that gets me into trouble. I’m outspoken, forceful and sometimes I go too far in my desire to defend or protect those I love/my ideals/myself, and I get that public displays of “fuck no” are not for everyone.

I understand that for many, if not most, fandom is a place of escapism and bringing the ugliness of conflict and bullying into the light disrupts that, even when the purpose of publishing an ask or writing a post is to counteract the bad behaviour, and so it’s an incredibly difficult line to draw between standing up for oneself and perpetuating a discourse that has damaging effects to the fandom haven. I would never judge or want to shame anyone for not speaking up, for prioritising their own wellbeing over the ridiculousness of drama, and yet I have to admit at times I find the deafening neutrality hard to bear.

And that’s because I have felt, first hand, what it feels like to be the victim instead of the bystander. Tumblr drama is often an annoyance. It clogs your dash and interrupts your gifsets and that sucks when you just want a big dose of Mulder and Scully in your eyeballs, but what sucks worse is seeing a message pop up on your dash and feeling a sense of dread that its someone come to call you something unthinkable behind the mask of anon. It’s a visceral gulp I still feel on bad days.

Tumblr used to be my haven. It was a fun place, my first taste of fandom and I used to scroll for hours, skipping over hurt and hate because it wasn’t my business except suddenly it made me its business. Suddenly my place of fun was full of people calling me names, accusing me of lying, trying to discredit me, threatening my anonymity, my job, trying to claim ownership and spoil my interaction with Gillian. I still don’t really know why it happened but I do know that the result was, overnight, my relationship with tumblr changed. 

My comfort puppy had grown teeth and the bite hurt. And the silence was deafening.

Luckily, I have a group of friends here who have stuck with me though it all, supported me on and off screens and often been damned for doing it. But if I didn’t have them, I probably wouldn’t still be blogging. When I read one of the various essays about why I was a terrible person who needed to be punished I noticed that many of the people who liked and reblogged it were people who, up to that moment, had been commenting and liking the fic I shared. They were people with whom I’d discussed life, shared interests. Months of sharing my life and my work suddenly seemed meaningless, how could they believe such vile lies, and just like that my safe space shattered.

For every person who messaged me support there was one who liked that post.

And for every person who liked that post there were ten who just said nothing and kept interacting with both me and the people hell bent on driving me out. In the midst of the hurt and the worry, this was almost impossible for me to comprehend. Was I loved or hated? Or was I truly so unimportant that my tumblr torture was just an annoying blip for people? Was I being unreasonable? The thing about silence is that it creates even more room for self doubt, and however strongly you know you are in the right, the vacuum of neutrality between hate and support does amplify the bad rather than the good. 

Anyway.

I’ve rebuilt a tumblr experience for myself now where I feel secure. I have learned not to take the silence personally, found out who my true friends are and realised that honestly, the fandom don’t deserve as much of me as I was giving. I’ve learned to care less and stop worrying about pleasing everyone (which is impossible). I enjoy being here still, but it’s not the same as it was. I will never truly feel “zen” and that is why I find the people saying “shhh” when I do choose to speak up so frustrating. 

If you have never had the rug ripped out from under you then please don’t “shhh” me. I don’t post to ruin your day, or to “stir up drama”. I post when I decide that my silence is a greater injury to those being persecuted than a weapon to the persecutors. And sometimes maybe I get the balance wrong, but it’s important to me that when the hate spreads out beyond the area that I have designated “no mans land”, when the irrational hatred of a few starts to be shared and seep into the likes and circles close to me that I stand up and say “NO”. Because I was lucky. I’m mentally resilient, I had support and I didn’t fall apart, and I think it’s important to lend that strength to whoever is next in line for the kind of crappy treatment I experienced.

And that’s all I really want of others, not a mindless bandwagon of drama crusaders to call on, but just the acknowledgement that your safe space may have become someone else’s nightmare, and that they’re doing their best to get back to a happy place. Support and solidarity and awareness of the situation, go a long way to help that process, resolve it faster and make it easier to forgive, if not forget what has happened.

Which I guess is a really long way of saying thank you for this message. I really appreciate it. And to all the silent ones out there, it’s okay, you don’t have to like my rants but maybe also consider not liking the stuff posted by the people who tried to burn me as a witch ya know? Be neutral but be truly neutral, and show compassion, your annoyance will pass faster than the effects of a stint as the fandom pinata. 

[delwray-blog]

MAN IS A HUMAN DEVIL

HUMAN NATURE HAS MADE MEN HUMAN DEVILS “But Jesus did not commit himself unto them, because he knew all men, and needed not that any should testify of man: for he knew what was in man.” John 2:24-25 “I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts” Ecclesiastes 3:18. 

Human Nature Revealed This treaty is not penned to condemn any race of peoples for all races of men stand condemned and guilty before God. It is our own human nature that condemns us as it is written “For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved” John 3:17. The Creator knows what is in man and that man needs to be protected from himself. It is the very purpose for which He gave us His Word by sending His Son into the world. It is human nature that has turned men into human devils. And this treaty is written to bear out the facts that through human history men have proven themselves to be but human devils. It was human nature that crucified Jesus Christ. We all are guilty, whether we are Jew, Gentile or of the Church of Jesus Christ, our sin our human nature killed the Son of God and put God on the Cross. Human nature being what it is apart from grace would do it again if it were possible. Humankind apart from the saving grace of God is nothing more than a human devil. The same forces which crucified Jesus Christ over nineteen hundred years ago are today trying to crucify His body, His Church and every single living member of His body is the object of their persecution with a death contract. And to accomplish their goal in America it means the incitement of revolution and the overthrow of the United States Constitution, the only truly free country left in the world. WE MUST KNOW OUR ENEMY! Many Christian leaders have not yet realized it, but Christianity is in the grip of a life and death struggle at the present time. International Jewish Communism, which has already undermined all nations, firmly expects to exterminate all Christians. What the Cause of Christ has endured in Russia the last 100 years surpasses its suffering at the hands of bloody Nero. One of the purposes of this present writing is to show that this struggle is not of recent origin. THE JEWISH ASSAULT ON CHRISTIANITY In the first twelve chapters of the book of Acts, five specific persecutions, sponsored by Jews against the infant Christian Church, are recorded. Failing to blot the new religious conception from the face of the earth by putting its Leader to death, they invented every conceivable scheme for torturing and murdering those who pledged allegiance to His plan for redeeming the world from the curse of sin. The Jews regarded Christianity as being an illegitimate child of Judaism. Therefore, in their hatred, they believed it to be their solemn duty to stamp it out. After the divine visitation at Pentecost, so many thousands of Jews were converted that the leaders became alarmed. One thing stood in their way, the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Had His body remained in the tomb, they would have found it easy to combat the new Faith which had suddenly sprung into existence. But with the resurrection being discussed on every side, they found themselves confronted with an insurmountable difficulty. When first faced with the fact of the empty tomb they did not hesitate to resort to deliberate falsehoods. "And when they were assembled with the elders and had taken counsel, they gave large money unto the soldiers, saying say His disciples came by night and stole him away while we slept. And if this comes to the governor's ears, we will persuade him, and secure you. So they took the money, and did as they were taught: and this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day." The first few months of the Church's history witnessed five distinct persecutions. What the Cause of Christ has endured at the hands of Jews, through the centuries, far surpasses anything the Jewish people have suffered from Christians. The attitude of the Jews toward the early Church reminds us that there would be no Christianity in the world today had Paul and others not taken the Gospel message to the Gentiles. First persecution: Acts 4:1-22. A pitiful beggar, a man born a cripple, was placed near the gates of the Jerusalem temple every day to beg for alms. On a certain occasion, as Peter and John were about to enter, the poor, helpless creature stretched forth a dirty, bony arm and pleaded for a coin. "Silver and gold have I none," said Peter, "but such as I have give I thee: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rise up and walk." Instantly the resurrection life of Christ smote the recipient of divine mercy and he jumped to his feet "walking, and leaping, and praising God." The man was more than forty years of age and had therefore been a familiar object on the streets of Jerusalem for years. This miracle caused a great stir throughout the city. Large crowds of curious people gathered around the apostles and the healed beggar. Peter was quick to take advantage of the opportunity and turned the occasion into a sermon. "Why marvel ye at this?" he asked, and then explained that a far more wonderful miracle had occurred a short time before in Jerusalem, namely the resurrection of Christ from the grave. When the report of this healing reached the treacherous Jews, their minds got busier than ever. They began devising new plans for putting an end to everything that was being done in the name of Christ. Their first thought was to deny that the miracle had been performed. Then they realized that this was useless because the man was so well known. At that moment he was rejoicing, praising God, testifying to his deliverance and telling everybody what had happened. "And we cannot deny it," mourned the Jews who would have lied to discredit the story if it would have advanced their selfish purposes. The members of the Sanhedrin came together and the little band of Christians was forced to appear before them. A torrent of abuse was turned loose upon the trembling group until finally Peter, "filled with the Holy Ghost," became bold. As spokesman for the group, he made it clear that the Christians proposed to obey God rather than man. Had it not been that the mobs were at that time favorable toward the apostles because of the miracle which had been performed, the Jewish leaders would have no doubt put the entire body of believers to death. Second persecution: Acts 5:17-42. "Many signs and wonders" were wrought among the people by the apostles. All manner of diseases were healed. But the Jews could see no good in any of this relief of human suffering because it did not come through the narrow, selfish channels of their bigoted nationalism. The leaders agreed to the use of physical weapons in their attempt to destroy spiritual power, the same as Communists are doing today in trying to exterminate Christianity by killing Christians. Repeated acts of supernatural intervention preserved the early Church. Without divine assistance, it would have perished. These early miracles confirmed the words of the Founder that the gates of hell would not be able to prevail against the Church. The Jews "laid hands on the apostles and put them in the common prison. But the angel of the Lord by night opened the prison doors, and brought them forth." Next morning when the Jewish senate convened and messengers were sent to bring the apostles for trial, it was discovered that unknown to the jailors, they had escaped and were at that very hour preaching in the area of the temple. Jerusalem was in turmoil by this time. Had the officials dared, they would have killed the Christians without a legal trial. When the saints appeared before the tribunal they were told that they had been previously warned not to teach in the name of Jesus. "Ye have filled Jerusalem with your doctrine, and intend to bring this man's blood upon us," said the high priest. From this, it is evident that the apostles had been denouncing the Jews and charging them with the responsibility for Christ's death. Here we find the leaders complaining about His blood being upon them, forgetting apparently their previous utterance: "His blood be on us, and on our children." It is to the credit of our spiritual ancestors that they were able to fill a whole city with the doctrines of Christianity in the face of such defiant opposition. Peter finally dared to shout: "The God of our fathers raised up Jesus, whom ye slew and hanged on a tree." Next, he called upon his persecutors to repent of their sins. We read that this "cut them to the heart." Who was this upstart that he should have the audacity to rebuke them! When they were almost ready to demand the lives of the apostles, Gamaliel, a tolerant member of the Sanhedrin, lifted a warning voice. If the new cult was not of God, he declared that it would come to naught and fall by its own weight. "But if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it; lest haply ye be found even to fight against God." At length, this line of common sense reasoning prevailed, and the passions of the leaders cooled a bit. The result was, instead of killing the apostles they were given another warning and a severe flogging. This form of punishment was cruel, brutal, cowardly and unjust. But even though bitter and painful to the flesh, it caused rejoicing to the spirits of the faithful few. As the wounds healed they "rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name." The only way the Jews had of striking at the Christ Whom they hated was to injure His followers; they availed themselves of this opportunity. Boldly and properly disregarding their illegal judges, the Christians kept on preaching Christ and reminding the Jews of their crimes against the government of God. Third persecution: Acts 7:54-60. The blood of martyrs began flowing in the same year that the Lord ascended into heaven. The Jews' first victim after Christ was a man named Stephen, whose primary crime was belief in the deity of the Son of God. This was regarded as blasphemy. The story of the murder of Stephen is one of the saddest in all the history of the Church. It is significant that a Hellenist, rather than an apostle, should have become the first Christian martyr. Stephen was accused of three things: blaspheming God, setting aside the Old Testament, and belittling the Temple. Each of these charges was untrue. Even while lying witnesses were being introduced against him, the members of the Jewish counsel saw his countenance light up with a spiritual glow like "the face of an angel." After listening to the charges, the priests asked their helpless victim: "Are these things so?" But instead of devoting himself to an answer of questions which everyone knew to be based upon falsehoods, Stephen entered into a discussion of Israelites’ history and closed by rebuking his judges for their hypocrisy. He declared that their devotion to God, the Law, and the Temple, was hypocritical. Here are his words: "Ye stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, ye do always resist the Holy Ghost: as your fathers did, so do ye. Which of the prophets have not your father’s persecuted? And they have slain them which showed before of the coming of the Just One; of whom ye have been now the betrayers and murderers." Thus Stephen laid bare the full measure of their guilt. The blood of the Son of God was upon their heads; they had ignored the miracles which testified of His deity; they had rejected the Pentecostal program of the new Church; they had also spurned the wooing of the Holy Spirit. Before God, they stood condemned, and judgment was sure to overtake them! Taking no thought of his own safety, Stephen shot his words of truth, like barbed arrows, into the hard hearts of his merciless tormentors. As he spoke, the Jewish leaders yelled and screamed to drown his words. They stopped their ears with their fingers to avoid hearing the truth about themselves. Like serpents, they hissed their poison at the courageous Christian. They rushed upon him with one accord. In their madness they dragged him outside the city, removing their outer garments as they ran. With stones, they pelted the body of the first Christian martyr until his life ebbed away. This execution was illegal because the matter was not submitted to the Roman Governor. Emulating the blessed Saviour, Stephen cried with a loud voice: "Lord lay not this sin at their charge." "And when he had said this, he fell asleep." Fourth persecution: Acts 8:1-3. The first three persecutions were spontaneous and did not result from deliberate planning. There had been no coordination of effort. Events had transpired so rapidly that there had been no time to sit down and quietly work out a concerted plan of attack. But the spilling of Stephen's blood seemed to whet the Jewish appetite for more Christian suffering. From that hour, nothing but a terrible pogrom could possibly satisfy them. The sight of blood, the appearance of the first deadly wound in the flesh of a believer, seemed to stir all their criminal instincts. They came to the conclusion that an organized effort was imperative if the new Faith was to be put down. Up until that time, their attempts to suppress the truth had proved ineffective. In searching for a persecutor who would be both cunning and brutal they selected a brilliant young rabbi by the name of Saul from the city of Tarsus. It will be recalled that this was the young man who had guarded the coats of those who stoned Stephen. Saul stood grinning at the contortions of the martyr squirming and writhing in death agonies, under the barrage of rocks which were heaped upon him. Jesus told his followers to go everywhere proclaiming the glad tidings. This was done following the Pentecostal harvest feast which brought Jews to Jerusalem from all parts of the civilized world. Those who accepted the Gospel message, on that great occasion, returned to their various communities to kindle spiritual fires. Unwittingly, in the fourth persecution, the Jews contributed to the success of this very plan of evangelizing because when Saul began scattering believers, driving them from their homes, forcing them into exile, "persecuting them from city to city," every such Christian became an evangelist. Until this time, the activities of the Christians had been confined for the most part, to the city of Jerusalem and its immediate environs, although a skeleton of Church organization was set up reaching into other areas, resulting from the embers which blew in all directions after the experience Pentecost. "As for Saul, he made havoc of the church, entering into every house, and haling men and women, committed them to prison. Therefore they that were scattered abroad went everywhere preaching the word." The very name Saul became a terror to the early Christians because of the heartless methods which he used. He and his helpers were happiest when they could rush into a house and catch a little group of believers in the act of worshipping, they would kill and wound some, banish others, and torture still others in ways too numerous and terrible for words. The irony of this organized attempt on the part of the Jews to blot the cause of Christ out of existence was the fact that their own ringleader got gloriously converted on the road to Damascus and became the greatest missionary and evangelist the world has ever known. But, in later years, Paul never forgave himself, nor was he ever able to erase the memories of his early attacks upon the little Church, which he came to love so dearly and for which he finally sacrificed his life. Fifth persecution: Acts 12:1-19. The next spasm of Jewish terror, mentioned in the early part of the book of Acts, was directed against Peter. This persecution is of particular importance because it introduces a new element in the Jewish plan of destroying Christianity. It reveals the scheme, which was continued for hundreds of years, influencing Gentile rulers to do their dirty work for them. During the first few centuries of Church history, when the pagans slaughtered Christians by the tens of thousands, a careful study will show that time and again the pogroms were precipitated by powerful Jews who were able to maneuver things from behind the scenes. They simply used pagans to carry out their crimes against Christians in the same manner that the player moves chessmen on the board. St. Justin said in the middle of the second century: "The Jews were behind all the persecutions of the Christians. They wandered through the country, everywhere hating and undermining the Christian faith." Tertullian said about the same time: "The Jews formed the breeding ground of all anti-Christian action." A plain example of Jews causing unbelieving Gentiles to destroy Christians is to be seen in this, the fifth persecution. We read that Herod the king has James put to death by the sword because of Jewish influences being brought to bear upon his throne. This ruler was the grandson of Herod the Great who murdered the babes of Bethlehem after the birth of Christ. James was one of the three, with Peter and John, who enjoyed the sweetest possible fellowship with the Lord. No details are given in the Scriptures about the killing of James. And yet underneath the simple statement, a deep anguish and sympathy may be felt. Then the next verse shows that the wicked king had planned to make away with Peter in the same way. "And because he saw it pleased the Jews, he proceeded further to take Peter also. And when he apprehended him, he put him in prison ... Peter, therefore, was kept in prison: but prayer was made without ceasing of the church unto God for him." The Jews desired a public execution of Peter. They wanted his death to be viewed by all because he was one of the principal leaders of the despised Christians. This would give them a chance to gloat over their ability to wrap Gentile monarchs around their fingers. It was quite an achievement, in their estimation, to get a Roman king such as Herod, to do their bidding. But a strange thing happened during the night proceeding the day when Peter was to be put to death. Another miracle occurred. Although execution awaited him, the faithful apostle who spent the night chained between two soldiers, slept as sound as a babe. Suddenly a shaft of light shot into the darkened cell like a bolt of lightning and an angel smote Peter on the side. He dressed quickly and followed the heavenly visitor to the outer court, through the gate, and down the street. Not until then did he realize that his deliverance was real and not merely a dream. Making his way to the home of Mary, the mother of John Mark, Peter found that an all-night prayer meeting was being held in his behalf. He came into the presence of the saints rejoicing "that the Lord hath sent his angel, and hath delivered me out of the hand of Herod, and from all the expectation of the Jews." The angel smote Peter and the result was life and liberty. A short time later the same angel smote Herod and the result was disease, death, and worms devouring his flesh. And this king was not the last to be cursed for allowing himself to come under the domination of Jews. So Herod having consented to an ignominious death for Peter, himself suffered one much more ignominious. Following thru history, we find it was ten, 10 Roman Emperors that sat out to wipe Christianity from the face of the earth, ten periods of Roman persecution where millions of Christians were martyred for their faith in Jesus Christ. Would you dare take a look at this period in Roman history where these ten Emperors sought to wipe Christianity from the Roman Empire? THE BLOODIEST ROMAN EMPERORS IN HISTORY: Ruthless and violent, Roman emperors are famous for their tyrannical reigns of terror. But who were the worst Roman emperors? We all know about the Roman Emperors, don’t we? Mad, bad and decidedly dangerous to know. Who can forget Peter Ustinov’s Nero in the 1951 epic Quo Vadis? Or John Hurt’s tortured and murderous Caligula in the BBC’s I, Claudius? In fact, as historians point out (to anyone who will listen), many of the emperors on the list below were competent, even gifted administrators, and the sources for some of the more lurid stories about them are not always above suspicion of exaggeration or invention. And some of the crimes that most shocked their contemporaries like a penchant for performing in public would not necessarily offend us so much today. Some emperors, like Nero or Domitian, have passed into history as models of erratic, paranoid tyrants; others, like Diocletian, were able administrators, providing good government (unless you happened to be a Christian, in which case you were in great peril). Even under the worst emperors, Rome continued to function, but involvement in public life could become a decidedly dangerous business. Tiberius (ruled AD 14–37) Tiberius was the successor to Augustus, though Augustus did not particularly want Tiberius to succeed him, and it was only the untimely death of the emperor’s grandsons Gaius and Lucius, and Augustus’s decision to exile their younger brother, Agrippa Postumus, that put Tiberius in line for the imperial throne. Tiberius was a gifted military commander and respected the authority of the Senate. However, he had a gloomy and increasingly suspicious outlook that won him few friends and led him into a bitter dispute with Agrippina, the widow of his war hero nephew Germanicus. Fatally, Tiberius relied heavily on the ambitious and ruthless Aelius Sejanus, who instituted a reign of terror until Tiberius, learning that Sejanus planned to seize power himself, had him arrested and executed. Tiberius sank into morbid suspicion of everyone around him: he retreated to the island of Capri and revived the ancient accusation of maiestas (treason) and used it to sentence to death anyone he suspected. Roman historians Suetonius and Tacitus give us a picture of Tiberius living on Capri as a depraved sexual predator, which may owe more to the colorful imagination than to fact, though he certainly made use of a sheer drop into the sea to dispose of anyone he took issue with. Tiberius was not a monster in the mold of some of his successors, but he certainly set the tone for what was to come. Gaius (Caligula) (ruled AD 37–41) Gaius (‘Caligula, or ‘little bootee’ a childhood nickname given him by his father’s troops) is best known for a series of eccentric actions, such as declaring war on the sea and proclaiming himself a god. His reign actually began quite promisingly, but after a serious bout of illness, he developed a paranoia that led him into alarmingly erratic behavior, possibly including incest with his sister, Julia Drusilla, whom he named as his heir. Gaius took particular delight in humiliating the Senate, claiming that he could make anyone consul, even his horse (though contrary to the popular story, he didn’t actually go through with this). As the son of Germanicus [a prominent general], Gaius was keen to establish his military credentials, though his campaign in Germany achieved little and his abortive invasion of Britain had to be turned into a battle with the sea god Neptune: he is said to have told his troops to attack the waves with their swords and gather seashells as booty. Gaius declared himself a god and used his divine status to establish what was, in effect, an absolutist monarchy in Rome, he followed Tiberius’s example of using treason trials to eliminate enemies, real or imagined. In the end, it was his rather childish taunting of Cassius Chaerea, a member of the Praetorian Guard which brought Gaius down. Chaerea arranged for his assassination at the Palatine Games. He is supposed to have protested that he couldn’t be killed because he was an immortal god, but he turned out to be rather less immortal than he thought. Nero (ruled AD 54–68) Nero is the Roman Emperor we all love to hate, and not without reason. He was actually a competent administrator, and he was aided by some very able men, including his tutor, the writer Seneca. However, he was also unquestionably a murderer, starting with his step-brother Britannicus, with whom he had been supposed to share power, and progressing through his wife Octavia, whom he deserted for his lover, Poppeaea, and then had executed on a trumped-up charge of adultery. Probably on Poppaea’s prompting he had his own mother murdered, though the initial attempt, using a collapsible boat, went wrong, and she had to be beaten to death instead. He then kicked Poppaea to death in a fit of anger while she was pregnant with his child. Contrary to the myth, Nero did not start the great fire of Rome, nor did he ‘fiddle’ (nor even play the lyre), while the city burned, in fact, he organized relief work for its victims and planned the rebuilding. But Nero’s fondness for his own music and poetry, which made him force senators to sit through his own interminable and talentless recitals, meant people could easily believe it of him. Nero was much hated for building his huge, tasteless ‘golden house’ complex [aka the Domus Aurea, a large landscaped portico villa] in the ruins of what had been the public area of central Rome. He undoubtedly persecuted Christians in large numbers, and his childish insistence on winning the laurels at the Olympic Games in Greece, whether or not he actually won, or indeed finished the race brought the whole empire into disrepute. Nero was toppled by an army revolt that sunk into a destructive three-way civil war. Domitian (ruled AD 81–96) Domitian was the younger son of Vespasian, the general who had emerged from the chaos after Nero’s fall and restored a certain element of stability and normality to Roman public life. Domitian inherited none of his father’s charm and, like others on this list he suffered from a deep suspicion of those around him, amounting to paranoia, possibly a result of his narrow escape from being killed during the civil war. He was particularly suspicious of the Senate and had a number of leading citizens executed for conspiracy against him, including 12 ex-consuls and two of his own cousins. Domitian’s rule became steadily more autocratic, and he demanded to be treated like a god. He turned against philosophers, sending many of them into exile, and he arranged the judicial murder of the chief vestal virgin, having her buried alive in a specially constructed tomb. Domitian was eventually brought down by a conspiracy arranged by his wife, Domitia, and was somewhat inexpertly stabbed by a palace servant. Some historians think Domitian’s tyranny has been overstated; others have compared him to Saddam Hussein at his most vengeful. Commodus (ruled AD 180–192) Commodus was the emperor immortalized by Joaquin Phoenix in Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000). Commodus was indeed a passionate follower of gladiatorial combat, and he fought in the arena, sometimes dressed as Hercules, for which he awarded himself divine honors, declaring that he was a Roman Hercules. Commodus was the son of the philosopher-emperor Marcus Aurelius and, although the film’s scene in which Commodus kills his own father is invention, it is true that Commodus was the very opposite of all that his father had stood for. Vain and pleasure-seeking, Commodus virtually bankrupted the Roman treasury and he sought to fill it up again by having wealthy citizens executed for treason so he could confiscate their property. Soon, people began plotting against him for real, including his own sister. The plots were foiled, however, and Commodus set about executing still more people, either because they were conspiring against him or because he thought they might do so in the future. Eventually, the Praetorian prefect and the emperor’s own court chamberlain hired a professional athlete to strangle Commodus in the bath. Marcus Aurelius Antoninus I (Caracalla) (ruled AD 211–217) Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was the son of the highly able and effective emperor, Septimius Severus. ‘Caracalla’ was a nickname, derived from a hooded coat from Gaul that he introduced into Rome. Severus named his younger son, Geta, as co-heir with Caracalla, but the two quickly fell out and civil war seemed imminent until Caracalla averted this scenario by having Geta murdered. Caracalla dealt brutally with opponents: he set about exterminating Geta’s supporters and similarly wiped out those caught up in one of the cities of Alexandria’s regular local risings against Roman rule. Caracalla is remembered for the magnificent bath complex named after him in Rome, and for extending Roman citizenship to all free men within the empire, though he was probably simply trying to raise the money he needed for his own lavish spending. He certainly turned the surplus he inherited from his father into a heavy deficit. Caracalla was a successful, if ruthless, military commander but he was assassinated by a group of ambitious army officers, including the Praetorian prefect Opellius Macrinus, who promptly proclaimed himself emperor. Marcus Aurelius Antoninus II (Elagabalus) (ruled AD 218–222) Elagabalus was a relative of Septimius Severus’s wife, put forward to challenge Macrinus for the throne after the murder of Caracalla. Elagabalus overthrew Macrinus and promptly embarked on an increasingly eccentric reign. His nickname came from his role as priest of the cult of the Syrian god Elah-Gabal, which he tried to introduce into Rome to universal consternation, even having himself circumcised to show his devotion to the cult. Elagabalus deliberately offended Roman moral and religious principles, setting up a conical black stone fetish, a symbol of the sun god Sol Invictus Elagabalus, on the Palatine Hill and marrying the chief Vestal, for which, under normal circumstances, she should have been put to death. Romans were particularly offended by Elagabalus’s sexual behavior as well as a string of marriages he also openly took male lovers, and he seems to have been what would nowadays be recognized as transgender. Few historians have much good to say about Elagabalus, and eventually, the Romans’ patience gave out: Elagabalus was murdered in a conspiracy organized by his own grandmother. Diocletian (AD 284–305) It may seem unfair to include Diocletian in this group, since he is best known for the risky but sensible decision to divide the government of the Roman empire in two, taking Marcus Aurelius Maximianus as his co-emperor, each with a subordinate known as a Caesar, in a four-way division of power called the tetrarchy. Diocletian was a good administrator and managed to hold his divided command structure together at a time when the Roman Empire was coming under increasing pressure from its enemies outside its boundaries. What gets Diocletian included here, however, is his utterly ruthless persecution of Christians. Christians had long been regarded by most Romans with a mixture of distaste and a rather amused tolerance, but Diocletian set about the total eradication of the religion. Churches were to be destroyed, scriptures publicly burnt, and Christian priests imprisoned and forced to conduct sacrifices to the emperor on pain of death. Christians who refused to give up their faith were tortured and executed. It was an unusually vicious persecution, given that the Romans were usually accepting of other religions, and it reflects Diocletian’s fear that, at a time when unity of purpose was essential for the empire’s survival, Christianity represented a rejection of Roman religious values that he could not afford to allow. These were all human devils demonstrating the wickedness of human nature turning men into wicked beasts. TEN HORRIFYING TORTURES OF EARLY CHRISTIANS: Early Christians sometimes faced persecution and even death for their beliefs. Many were tortured first; some were not. Of Jesus’ 11 disciples (not counting Judas) Peter, Simon the Zealot, Phillip, Jude the brother of James, and Andrew were all crucified in various parts of the world. Peter requested to be crucified upside down, a request the Romans were only too happy to grant. Andrew’s Cross was in the shape of an X, which is now called St. Andrew’s cross and appears on the Scottish flag. This list contains ten, 10 of the most bizarre and painful methods of torture inflicted upon the Christians of antiquity through the Early Middle Ages. Much of this information has been gleaned from John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and corroborated elsewhere. Many Were Cooked To Death; Saint Lawrence of Rome is better known for the manner of his death than his ministry in life. When a Roman prefect demanded that the tithes of the Catholic Church be handed over to the Roman state, Lawrence brought forth his impoverished congregation, who he stated were the tithes, as the money had been given them for food. The infuriated prefect ordered metal plates to be set over a bed of coals and heated until they were red-hot. Lawrence was then bound and laid naked on them, face up. His flesh sizzled, smoked, and was burned black, yet Lawrence made no outcry, nor did he beg forgiveness from the prefect. He finally called in a clear voice, “I’m done on that side. Turn me over and eat.” He is now the patron saint of cooks. Peter, a eunuch of Diocletian’s household, was discovered to be a Christian and cooked in the same manner as Lawrence. Dragged to Death; It was Evangelist Mark, who wrote the Gospel of Mark, founded the Christian Church in Alexandria and preached to the masses that they should give up their Egyptian gods and goddesses. It’s not clear how long he was able to keep this up, but he did convert many before A.D. 68 when an angry mob tied a rope around his neck and dragged him through the streets behind a chariot for two days without interruption. The dragging continued even after his death until his bones were showing. According to some sources, Hippolytus of Rome, an elder under Pope Pontian, was dragged to death behind a wild horse on the island of Sardinia. He is now the patron saint of horses. In 257, Saturninus of Toulouse was dragged behind a bull around the city until the bull was chased down a flight of stone steps and Saturninus’s brain was dashed from his skull. Julian the Apostate succeeded Constantius II (who succeeded his father, Constantine the Great) in 361. Julian restored the pagan religions to the empire and horribly persecuted Christians. Within two years, he was ordering them sought out and dragged to death in every city and along the caravan routes throughout Palestine. Skinned Bartholomew: Removal of the skin is so excruciating that victims invariably passed out multiple times during the torture. To prevent this, they were usually hung upside down so the excess blood flow to their brains forced them to remain conscious. The skin is not easy to remove, and torturers rarely made an effort to remove it in one piece unless they wanted a trophy. Typically, the skin was sliced into strips, and then each strip peeled from the body with the aid of a knife. Often, the skin was thrown into a fire or to animals, or dangled before the victim’s eyes. This is how Bartholomew, one of the 12 apostles, was killed by locals in Armenia, into whose language he translated Matthew’s Gospel. The Armenians refused to abandon their idols and executed Bartholomew by crucifying him upside down and skinning him. Sewn into Skins and Eaten by Dogs; Siemiradski Facke, in this torture was devised by Nero himself, not merely to cause Christians pain but to entertain him and his guests. Nero was infamously rumored to have crucified Christians on trees in his gardens, coated them with wax, and set them on fire to light his nightly walks (he evidently didn’t mind the stench). Others he ordered sewn into hides, any large animal was skinned, and the prepared skin sewn around the victim except for the head, hands, and feet. Then ravenous dogs were set loose. The victim could only scuttle around on all fours like a crab. Nero was said to have laughed heartily as the dogs gnawed at the skin as they would a bone. Julian of Antioch was tortured every day for an entire year and displayed to the crowds in every town in Cilicia, (a southern coastal region of what is now Turkey). He was then sewn into a skin filled with asps and scorpions and flung into the Aegean Sea. He was said to have floated all the way across the Mediterranean to Alexandria, Egypt. Starved to Death, Martyrdom of St-Stephen, Emperor Decius ruled from 249 to 251, when he was killed at the Battle of Abrittus in Bulgaria. During his short reign, he had a temple built in Ephesus and required that all Christians sacrifice for the good of the emperor (not “to” the emperor, since this would impute divinity to Decius, who was still alive). This was against Roman law, but the Christians largely considered any similar sacrifice counter to their faith and refused, even when warned that they would be tortured to death. Pope Fabian himself was beheaded over the issue. The next year, seven of Decius’s best soldiers, Constantinus, Dionysius, Malchus, Martianus, Maximianus, Joannes, and Seraion, were discovered to be Christian converts. Decius attempted to bribe them back to the Roman faith by giving them a long furlough while he was away. They fled the area and hid in a cave. Upon Decius’s return, he was told of their whereabouts and had the cave sealed. All seven died from starvation or dehydration. There is a legend, similar to Rip van Winkle, that these seven men fell asleep and woke up 360 years later, exited the cave and amazed the people in the town. Boiled To Death; boiling-cauldron boiling water causes almost instant first-degree burns and will cause third-degree burns after 10 minutes. Eventually, the flesh will slough away deep into the muscle, and death is usually marked by the water turning red as it finally breaches the blood vessels. Tradition holds that John the Apostle, who wrote the Gospel of John, survived without harm after being boiled in a cauldron of oil, after which he was exiled to Patmos Island in the Aegean. In 222, a woman named Cecilia, possibly Saint Cecilia, was boiled in a bathtub over a bed of coals for a day and a half, after she converted her husband and brother. They were beheaded, as was the captain who led them to their deaths because he converted in view of the victims’ fearlessness. After Cecilia was drawn alive from the tub, she is said to have sung a song of praise to God, which is why she is the patron saint of music. She was then beheaded. This inspired the Second Nun’s Tale in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. The Inquisition’s by the 13th century, everybody expected the Spanish Inquisition. The church formed inquisitions in every country in Western Europe, but the Spanish were the most brutal and feared. Anyone found guilty even of reading the Bible in his or her own language was tried, usually convicted, and often executed. The ceremony of execution and torture was called an “Auto da Fe,” or “Act of Faith.” The Inquisition was required not to spill any blood in performing tortures, but this requirement was usually ignored. The most common method called for the victim to be stripped to his underwear and laid face-up on an elevated platform. Thin cords were passed through holes and wrapped around the limbs, then drawn so tightly that they cut through the victim’s flesh to the bones. If no confession was made, the process was repeated up to four times. If this elicited no confession, the next stage involved folding the arms back behind the victim with the palms outward, then, both arms were tied to a winch that ratcheted them closer and closer until the backs of the hands touched. This ripped both shoulders out of the sockets with such pressure that blood spewed from the mouth. A surgeon would then set the joints and the victim was given two months in prison to recover. Two months later, the last torture involved a heavy chain lashed around the body with both ends attached to a winch. The arms were pinned straight at the sides and the chain was passed around the wrists. Then it was tightened like a tourniquet until the shoulders and wrists dislocated. The joints were then reset, and the torture immediately inflicted a second time. If the victim still did not confess, he was sent to be burned at the stake. If he did, he was placed in prison for another month or two, then, released a cripple. Ground to death in a Mill; under the rule of Maximian, Saint Victor Maurus may have suffered the most excruciating death of all. He secretly ministered to his parishioners in Milan until about 303, when he was discovered and immediately dragged through the streets behind a horse while the crowds stripped him naked and beat him, then, demanded he recant. He refused and was stretched on the rack for a day, during which time he prayed to God for patience. He was then imprisoned and immediately converted three of his guards. When Maximian heard of this, he ordered the guards beheaded, and Victor racked again, while the torturers beat him savagely with clubs. He was ordered to recant and refused a third time. Maximian had a Roman altar built and ordered Victor to sacrifice incense on it to Jupiter. This enraged Victor, who kicked over the altar. Maximian furiously ordered the offending foot cut off, after which Victor was flung into a stone mill used to grind wheat into flour, and the torturers ground him to death. Broken on the Wheel; the breaking wheel is a horribly painful method of torture in which the victim was tied to the side of a wheel laid flat on the ground. Then one of two methods was employed: Either the torturer used a sledgehammer to smash every limb to a pulp, or the wheel was made to turn in transaction with another, like gears, so that the victim’s body was crushed between them. No bone or section of bone was spared, except the torso and head to keep the victim alive. Sometimes the genitals were smashed. Then the victim was left in this condition to die from exposure, blood loss, or to be eaten by birds and ants. This was the fate of a man called Peter, in Lampsacus, Mysia (now Lapseki in Turkey), in about 250. He was martyred along with three others: Paul, Andrew, and Dionisia. Dionisia was condemned to be raped to death, but tradition holds that an angel spared her and the three nominated rapists ran away in fear. She then escaped prison, but desired to be martyred like her friends and allowed the authorities to recapture her. She was beheaded, and Paul and Andrew were stoned. Peter was broken on the wheel, then, beheaded. Having Their Guts Eaten by Pigs; In 363, under Julian the Apostate, Saint Marcus was Bishop of Arethusa, a town near modern Apameia, Syria. Julian ordered Marcus to repair a dilapidated pagan temple, but Marcus destroyed it instead, then, fled the city. He soon realized that his Christian followers would pay for what he had done if he did not return and so he did. The enraged townspeople dragged him through the streets, stripped him naked, stabbed him all over his body with their pencils and quills, then smeared him with honey and suspended him in a basket in a town square, where the wasps and bees would swarm into the basket and devour him. Several of his followers were discovered and dragged down by the mob, which ripped their bellies open with their bare hands. Corn was packed into their abdomens and pigs were set on them. The pigs devoured the corn and their intestines. CHRISTIANITY TODAY Christianity is passing through a crisis the like of which it has never faced before. Whether or not it possesses sufficient moral and spiritual resistance to survive remains to be seen. Paul said the Christian's instruments of battle were not physical: "For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds." The same thought is emphasized in the supernaturally inspired words to Zerubbabel: "Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the Lord of hosts." The strength of the Church is in its ability to influence the hearts and lives of men by the demonstration and proclamation of divine truth. Questions like the following constantly haunt the writer: "Will the Church be able to demonstrate sufficient power to triumph over its foes in the present crisis? Or has it become so weakened by apostasy and pernicious teachings that it will have to be drenched in its own blood before it can be brought to its senses?" Persecution has always had a purifying effect upon the Church. Like the individual saints of which it is composed, its "strength is made perfect in weakness." Unless the Christian forces of the western nations come under a new baptism of old-time spiritual power, the Church will go down and Soviet Atheism will come up. The Russian Empire was destroyed by the Red hordes, many years ago, because it did not possess sufficient spiritual vitality to resist the onslaught. The Greek Orthodox Church, which governed the religious life and thought of Russia, was a cold, dead, pagan institution. It lacked life, emotion, and creative energy. Consequently, it yielded to the first attack of organized Atheism. Its gorgeous temples have been turned into museums, brothels, and centers of entertainment and vice. Its wealth has been confiscated. Its priests and other leaders have been put to death. Its members have been slaughtered by the millions. Church life is a memory of the past. This very day the Russian “gulags” concentration camps are overflowing with Christians. Now let us turn our attention toward Germany. Next, to the British, the German people are the most religious people in Europe. Protestantism was cradled there. Out of a sixty-seven million population, sixty million Germans are today identified with some kind of a Christian Church. For several years, the Moscow conspirators focused their attacks upon Germany. It looked for a time as if the Country was doomed. But by degrees, the Church began to assert its moral and spiritual strength. Finally, the deep, underlying principles of Christian truth manifested on the surface with the result, that by a single stroke, Communism was destroyed. Dynamic Holy Spirit evangelism is the only dependable antidote for Soviet Atheism. Everyone is acquainted with the phrase, "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?" Rev 6: 1-8. The horses are of different colors, each color representing some event of far-reaching proportions which is to come upon the earth. They are White, Red, Black and Pale. It is predicted that these horses will gallop over the earth in the end-time of the present age. Each horse possesses characteristics which make possible its identification. The objective of the Red Horse is to "Take Peace from the Earth." Is it a mere coincidence that the one great system of government in the world today which exists for the open and avowed purpose of destroying peace, should be called Red? Since the butchering of the Czar and his royal family, Russia has become the parade ground of Communist practice. Moscow is the center from which world-wide revolutionary activities are being directed. The Red leaders concentrate first upon one part of the world, then another. The plan has been to keep revolutions breaking out systematically in different parts of the earth. In the year 1922, when the great strikes were being directed from Moscow, the United States government was very near collapse. Few people outside of government circles knew how serious conditions really were. And our country is once more being made the target for Red propaganda and agitation. For very good reasons Moscow believes that the time is ripe to start the Red Horse galloping over our land again, with the ultimate objective of destroying our churches, bombing our government, confiscating our property and introducing a reign of terror, out of which a heartless dictatorship is expected to be set up. During the first communist regime under Lenin, an investigating Committee in 1919 reported this incident: "The entire floor of a large garage was used as an execution site in the provincial city of Kiev. It was swimming with blood. It did not flow, but formed a layer several inches thick and was a grisly mixture of brain and skull fragments, as well as strands of hair and other human remains. "The entire walls were holed with thousands of bullets and were splattered with blood and fragments of brains as well as the skin that adhered to them. A ditch ran from the middle of the garage to a subterranean outlet pipe. This drainage ditch was 25cm wide and 25cm deep lt was filled to the top with blood. "Immediately after the executions, the corpses were removed by Lorries or horse-drawn carts and were buried in a mass grave. In one corner of the garden, we found an older grave which contained some 80 corpses, in which we discovered the most varied and unimaginative cruelties and mutilations. There were corpses with their entrails removed; others had their eyes poked out and there were deep wounds in their hands, face, and neck. Further on we found a corpse with an ax buried in its breast, while others had no tongues. In one corner of this mass grave, we discovered many arms, legs and severed trunks." You may be inclined at this point to say: "What a gross description. Who would believe it?" Well you better, if you want to stop it from coming here. I have been told of worse in Korea. Have you ever seen a man impaled alive on a sharp bamboo pole, while his pregnant wife is stripped before him and then raped over and over, before being chopped into pieces before his dying eyes? Have you ever seen a young woman stripped of her clothing, while she is nailed to a tree with spikes driven through her breasts and a bundle of rice straw, soaked in oil is bound between her bare thighs and set on fire? Have you ever seen an elderly nun crucified against the walls of her church, with bayonets driven through her hands and rib cage and listened for agonizing hours as she screamed, and cried, and begged for mercy from men who knew no mercy? Have you ever seen a tiny baby snatched from his mother’s arms and then tossed back and forth between two drunken soldiers, as they caught the little body on the points of their bayonets? Of course, you haven't and many of you are going to say or think: "How can you be so gross?" You don't even understand the meaning of the word "gross." I do because I saw these things in Vietnam and had a friend who was tortured having wooden spikes driven thru his skull in the shape of a crown as his captors were mocking his Lord. I promised God if He ever got me out of that mess, and safely back to the country I love and the people I love, I would do everything in my power to see that these things never happened in America. I can tell you without equivocation, that I get angry when I see plans underway in America, to bring that same kind of terror here. But look at the record. This terror is not unusual for Talmudic-Communism they have done it too well over 100-million people in the past seventy years. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK AMERICA IS IMMUNE? Human devils are the results of men’s fallen human nature! Under Stalin, Lenin and Trotsky over 60 million Russians, their own people were murdered during the Bolshevik revolution, most of them Christians killed by Talmudic Jews. During the II World War under the reign of the Nazis, Hitler was responsible for murdering six 6 million Jews. When China was taken over by the Communist, twenty 20 million more Christians were slaughtered by the Reds. One of my best friends was a missionary in China and got out just as they closed the doors to all American missionaries. He had to leave his wife, who was Chinese and his two sons behind who were not allowed to leave. He came home a broken man. They have recently admitted that over 336 million babies have been aborted many forcibly. That’s not speaking of the murder of millions of unborn babies in America as America’s government seeks to rid our country of all recognition of Christianity and its founder Jesus Christ. You say it can’t happen here, you are blind to your own nature. Let me not forget to mention the millions that the Muslims have been killing. This is not taking into effect all the other crimes of rape and murder going on in the United States every day. Just yesterday, a man returned home in our area and shot his wife in the head and then turned the gun on his three children killing all four, then committed suicide, five dead. We must be insane not seeing the tragedy of human nature. We must stop lying to ourselves human nature is “deceitful above all things and desperately wicked…” Jer. 17:9. Human nature in its fallen state hates God and is out to eradicate all reference to Him. If free America is to remain the land of the free and the home of the brave, it’s imperative that her leaders and her churches turn back to God NOW! You may kill this preacher and like, many other believers but you will never stop the prophetic fulfillment of Holy Scripture and the return of Jesus Christ to rule and reign. “Every knee will bow” “Every tongue confess” and “Every man will give an account to God”. FALLEN HUMAN NATURE INDEED HAS MADE MEN HUMAN DEVILS!

[pamphletstoinspire]

Psalm 57 - Interpreted

Daily Plenary Indulgence

Per Vatican II, one of the ways to gain a daily plenary indulgence is to read Scripture for ½ hour per day. For Pamphlets to Inspire (PTI), the Scripture readings that inspire us the most are the Psalms. Reading the Psalms and understanding their meaning can sometimes be challenging. In an attempt to draw more individuals to not only read the Psalms, but to understand their meaning, PTI has found an analysis of their meaning by St. Cardinal Robert Bellarmine. The method that will be employed is to list the chapter and verse, and then provide an explanation of that verse. Your interest in this subject will determine how often we will chat about this topic. The Bible that will be used is the official Bible of the Catholic Church and used by the Vatican, that is, the Douay-Rheims or Latin Vulgate version.

David reproves the wicked, and fortells their punishment.

1. If in very deed you speak justice: judge right things, ye sons of men.

1. “If in very deed you speak justice: judge right things, ye sons of men.” When men are asked whether it is right to steal, commit adultery, cheat, and the like, they, very properly, answer that it is not right; because the law written in their hearts teaches them so, and no one wishes to be robbed, abused, etc.; and thus, all evildoers stand convicted of deceit when they say so, and still rob, steal, commit adultery, etc.; things they would not do unless they believed a certain amount of good or advantage was in them. Not only that, but they stand convicted of falsehood while they cry up justice, and descant on the sin of theft, adultery, etc.; but they also prove themselves to be laboring under a deplorable blindness, loud in their denunciations of theft, etc., and, at the same time, devoted themselves to those vices, and dealing with others as they would not be dealt with themselves. For, if theft be good in itself, why are they unwilling to be plundered? If it be not good in itself, why plunder another? The Holy Spirit exclaims against such voluntary and inexcusable blindness, saying, “if, in very deed, you speak justice,” when you condemn theft, anger, etc.; “judge right things, ye sons of men;” consider it in your hearts that you should not do them, and do not what you have acknowledged to be bad.

2. For in your heart you work iniquity: your hands forge injustice in the earth.

2. “For in your heart you work iniquity: your hands forge injustice in the earth.” He shows he had reason for the admonition he gave them, to judge justly if they would speak justly; for, it appears, they did the very contrary; and thus spoke with the semblance of justice, while they were full of malice and deceit. “For in your heart you work iniquity;” you think of nothing but what is bad, and you do not stop there; for “your hands forge injustice in the earth;” your hands put into execution what your heart conceived.

3. The wicked are alienated from the womb; they have gone astray from the womb: they have spoken false things.

3. “The wicked are alienated from the womb: they have gone astray from the womb: they are spoken false things.” Another misfortune of sinners is, that they fall, not after a lapse of years, but at once, almost from the cradle. “The wicked are alienated from the womb.” Scarcely out of the womb when they leave the straight path, the path of life, of happiness. “They have spoken false things;” lies and falsehood our corrupt nature first shows itself.

4. Their madness is according to the likeness of a serpent; like the deaf asp that stoppeth her ears:

4. “Their madness is according to the likeness of a serpent; like the deaf asp that stoppeth her ears.” No explanation given.

5. Which will not hear the voice of the charmers; nor of the wizard that charmeth wisely.

5. “Which will not hear the voice of the charmers; nor of the wizard that charmeth wisely.” Having told us that sin, as a disease, attacks us in our very infancy, he now adds that the disease is of long duration, but that it is also a most grievous disease; sinners being sometimes so overpowered by it, and hurried on to ruin others by it, that they may be compared to serpents of a certain kind, that will yield to no incantations whatever. “Their madness,” the madness of those grievous sinners, such as Saul, “is according to the likeness of a serpent,” that no art will tame; nay, even like a “deaf asp,” that stops her ears with her tail, for fear she should “hear the voice of the charmers, nor of the wizard, that charmeth wisely;” that is, of one well skilled in charming. Whether such be true of the asp or not is no matter for David speaks according to general opinion on the subject. St. Augustine observes that this passage no more approves of the arts and practices of wizards and charmers, than do the parables of our Lord regarding the unjust steward, and the man who found the treasure in the farm, of their honesty in such cases.

6. God shall break in pieces their teeth in their mouth: the Lord shall break the grinders of the lions.

6. “God shall break in pieces their teeth in their mouth: the Lord shall break the grinders of the lions.” Having painted the enormity of the sins of certain persons, Saul being the principal person in view, he now describes the punishments in-store for such sinners, by most appropriate similes. The first is in this verse, the gist of which is, that however great and formidable the power of the sinner may appear to be, still that he would be deprived of it. No animal more terrible, more formidable than a lion, and his teeth are the weapons he makes most use of, and the most destructive to his enemies. “God will break in pieces their teeth,” the teeth of the sinners, who, like lions, tear and plunder the unoffending. However powerful and strong like lions they made appear to be; “in their mouth,” while they are alive, and not after death – a thing easily done; and it is not the small teeth will be so broken, but their very grinders; for, “he shall break the grinders of the lions,” the largest and most durable of all the teeth.

7. They shall come to nothing, like water running down: he hath bent his bow till they be weakened.

7. “They shall come to nothing, like water running down: he hath bent his bow till they be weakened.” Another simile, teaching us that the power of the wicked would be very brief, and, after a very short time, would be so extirpated that not a trace of it would be found; like a sudden fall of rain, that creates, for the moment, a great inundation, of which, in a few hours, not a trace can be found. Such was the case with Saul, Achab, Jeroboam, Nero, Caius, Domitian, and, with the great heresiarchs, Arius, Nestorius, and others. “Theyshall come to nothing, like water running down;” that runs with great velocity, leaving not a trace of itself. And lest we may suppose this happened in an ordinary way, he adds, “he hath bent his bow till they be weakened;” the show it was all God’s work, all his doings; for it was he who bent his bow against them, and kept it bent against them until they were utterly ruined.

8. Like wax that melteth they shall be taken away: fire hath fallen on them, and they shall not see the sun.

8. “Like wax then melteth they shall be taken away: fire hath fallen on them, and they shall not see the sun.” The third simile, showing that it is as easy for God to destroy the power of the tyrant or the sinner, as it is for the fire or the sun to melt wax, which, however hard it may be, readily yields to the action of either. “like wax that melteth away,” when the fire or the sun comes to act upon it, so shall the sinners “be taken away,” and utterly destroyed. “For fire hath fallen on them;” the fire of the anger of God; and being thus melted, they disappeared; “and they shall not see the sun;” a thing they could not do when they were utterly destroyed.

9. Before your thorns could know the briar; he swalloweth them up, as alive, in his wrath.

9. “Before your thorns could know the briar; he swalloweth them up, as alive, in his wrath.” The last simile through which the Prophet teaches us that the wicked will be uprooted and cut down by God, before they can carry out their wicked designs against the just, and thus balk them of the gratification they calculated on from their ruin. Thus Saul had an unhappy end, before he could rejoice on David’s death; so with Diocletian and the other persecutors of the Church, we had a miserable exit before they could witness the extirpation of Christianity they were so bent on. The simile is taken from thorns, which, when young, are easily cut down, but when they grow to any age, so as to get into timber, or, as the verse expresses it: “to know the briar,” cannot be rooted out but with great difficulty. “He swalloweth them up as alive in his wrath.” He will annihilate, them is completely as if the earth opened and swallowed them up alive.

10. The just shall rejoice when he shall see the revenge: he shall wash his hands in the blood of the sinner.

10. “The just shall rejoice when he shall see the revenge: he shall wash his hands in the blood of the sinner.” When the sinners shall have been so signally punished, “the just shall rejoice when he shall see the revenge;” not through love of revenge, but from a love of justice, seeing it was God’s goodness that prevented himself will falling into such sins and meriting such punishment; and he will not only rejoice, but “he shall wash his hands in the blood of the sinner;” that is, his own good works will shine forth in bright contrast to the wickedness of the sinner. Contraries show more clearly when placed in juxtaposition; and the Scripture not infrequently uses the term “blood” to signify sin.

11. And man shall say: If indeed there be fruit to the just; there is indeed a God that judgeth them on the earth.

11. “And man shall say: if indeed there be fruit to the just; there is indeed a God that judgeth them on the earth.” When the wicked shall be punished and that just shall rejoice, then, in reality, “a man shall say;” the men, witnessing those things, will say: if justice brings any advantage with it, the greatest is, that God, the supreme Judge, does not let the wicked go unpunished, nor the just unrewarded; but he reverses all unjust judgments, and judges all, both good and bad, rewarding the good for the good works they did, and for all the persecutions they suffered; and inflicting condign punishment on the wicked for all their bad acts, and for all the wantonness in which they reveled; and thus is fulfilled the sentence in Apocalypse 18, “as much as she had glorified herself; and hath been in delicacies, so much torment and sorrow give unto her.”

End of Psalm 57