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ishomieokay · 8 months ago

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And We Made You Pairs (Ch.1)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

✰ summary - Homelander’s mission in Syria puts him in direct conflict with Noura, an activist working to protect her country from foreign interference. Although their initial encounters are fraught with tension, over time they develop a begrudging respect for one another. Homelander is drawn to Noura’s fearlessness and conviction, while she catches glimpses of humanity in him.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - blood and injury, violence, minor character death, war crimes, breaches of the Geneva Convention, mental health issues, intrusive thoughts.

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A crescent moon hung over Nineveh, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The night was cold, the air crisp. Only a distant hum disturbed the quiet, a low rumble that crept through the small town, growing increasingly louder. Military trucks were approaching. Sporadic bursts of gunfire could be heard, echoing out from an old warehouse downtown.

Homelander hovered above, his silhouette blending with the evening mist. His eyes scanned the building below, tracking the heat signatures of the people inside. For the moment, he remained out of sight, his cape softly rippling in the air. The rebels moved in disorganized patterns, panicking in their attempt to flee. The American troops, advancing under the cover of darkness, had caught them completely off guard. Homelander’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched.

“They always run,” he said to himself, his voice muffled by the blowing wind. He had seen it play out countless times before. Cornered, terrified, clinging to the hope that they could disappear into the endless maze of dirt roads and narrow alleys.

Without warning, he plummeted from the sky, cutting through the air like a knife. He landed with a bone-rattling crash, the ground cracking under his feet. Dust and debris rose outwards, and for a brief moment, the gunfire paused. It was only when the rebels recognized him that the screams began.

Homelander moved forward, striking with the precision of a living weapon. His heat vision flared, slicing through concrete and flesh without remorse. He could hear the panicked cries of the rebels as they scattered, desperately looking for shelter, but it was futile. They would not escape. He blasted through their makeshift defenses, leaving behind craters where men had stood moments ago.

The truth is, he reveled in it—the chaos, the fear, the raw power coursing through him. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, he could unleash himself completely, without restraint. No cameras, no crowds to appease. Just pure, unfiltered violence. A part of him wished every mission could be like this. He grinned as a neighboring building crumbled, the blast turning it to a smoldering ruin.

He rounded a corner and tore down what remained of a wall, sending bricks and stone flying in all directions. Amid the wreckage, he spotted movement—a flash of color against the gray. A family cowered near the broken remains of their home. The mother used her body as a shield to protect her young son while her husband clutched her arms, trying to help them stand. At the sight of him, their faces contorted in terror. Homelander frowned. The boy held a stuffed animal, clinging to it as if it might protect him from the nightmare that had descended from the sky.

Homelander hesitated, his expression unreadable as he studied them. He could hear the woman’s labored breathing, the quick, shallow gasps of fear. The boy’s wide, unblinking eyes reflected the crimson glow of his heat vision, ready to burn at a moment’s notice.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Homelander said softly, almost to himself. It would be simple enough to end them, to leave no one behind to whisper of the horror that had come in the night. No witnesses meant no complications. It was standard procedure.

“Who’d believe you, anyway?” He said in the end, shrugging. He let the heat die down in his eyes and turned away, leaving them huddled within the collapsed ruins of the building. With a flick of his cape, he launched himself back into the air, allowing the fearful whispers to fade into the distance.

He tore through the rest of the town with brutal efficiency, leaving in his wake the echoes of crumbling buildings and the flare of explosions against the dark sky. By the time the last of the rebels fell, he was sweating and breathing hard, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He paused for a moment. His gaze drifted across the shattered remains of Nineveh, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he descended, the rest of his platoon had already re-grouped. “Howdy, boys? I think we’re done here. Couldn’t have asked for a better team,” he said, giving a cocky military salute. He wasn’t their leader — not really. That didn’t stop them from disregarding established hierarchies whenever Homelander tried to act as such, though. He gave them plenty of reasons to, every time they went out into the field.

“Go get some rest, and remember. You guys are the real heroes!”

Noura clutched the edge of her windowsill, her breath fogging the glass as she tried to distinguish what was happening outside. The air vibrated with the hum of distant helicopters, their rotors slicing through the dark. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, making the building tremble beneath her feet. Each shockwave sent a jolt through her body, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence tearing through Nineveh.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Through the thick veil of dust that clouded the streets, she could catch but glimpses of what transpired below. The normally quiet town was unrecognizable - plumes of smoke rose from collapsed roofs, decimated buildings, and burning vehicles. Cries of panic and the roar of falling debris reached her, mingling with the distant commands of soldiers as they spread through the town. Noura’s heart pounded in her chest, the amalgamation of sounds drowning out all rational thought.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a figure moving through the haze, swift and precise. It didn’t move like a soldier, didn’t duck or scramble for cover. It moved with purpose. Her breath hitched as she recognized the outline of a cape fluttering behind him, streaked with ashes and blood.

Homelander.

Noura��s fingers tightened on the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. She could make out his face now, framed by the flickering light of a nearby fire. His expression was cold, detached. He contemplated the street in silence, as if savoring the destruction he had wrought. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted—straight up to where she stood.

Noura’s pulse quickened, a wave of icy fear washing over her. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through the thin glass, past the shadows of her apartment, into the raw terror she tried to conceal. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the gulf of darkness and smoke that separated them.

Homelander’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes, a glimmer of curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a strange new creature he’d stumbled upon. It wasn’t the look of a man who saw a frightened civilian, but that of a predator, sizing up its prey.

Noura’s hands shook as she reached up to adjust her hijab, pulling the fabric tighter around her face. She didn’t know why she did it—some instinctive need to shield herself, to cover her fear beneath the familiar folds. Her fingers trembled against the cloth as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Homelander gave her one last, long look. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and vanished into the shadows of an alley.

Noura’s legs gave away, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. She could still see his face in her mind, the eerie calmness in his eyes as he surveyed the destruction around him. It was as if the suffering, the broken bodies, the cries for help—none of it mattered to him. He was above it all, merciless. Unrepentant.

Her fear gave way to a fierce, burning anger that clawed its way up her throat, making her want to cry and scream. She couldn’t afford to give in to that, though. Not now. The ground still shook with distant blasts, and she could hear the sounds of her neighbors outside, their voices rising in frantic shouts as they searched the rubble for survivors. Noura pushed herself to her feet, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were streaming down her cheeks. She grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of her apartment, her feet carrying her down the crumbling stairwell and into the street.

She joined the neighbors who had already begun to dig through the ruins. Their hands were bloodied and raw from pulling away debris. Noura felt the sting of blisters forming on her palms, but she ignored the pain. Instead, she focused on the weight of each broken stone, the sharp edges digging into her skin. She forced herself to keep moving, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

There, beneath the wreckage, she found the arm of a child reaching out. She pulled with all her strength, helped by another pair of hands—an elderly man, his face streaked with dust and ashes. Together, they freed the little girl, her cries muffled against Noura’s chest as she held her close.

Noura glanced back toward the shadows where Homelander had disappeared. Her mind replayed the memory of his cold eyes, the way he had looked at her—like she was nothing, like they were all nothing. She felt her resolve harden, settling like iron in her bones. He thought he could come here and destroy their homes without consequence. He thought he could hide behind that cape, pretend to be a hero while leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Well, she wouldn’t let him.

“I will make them see,” she whispered to herself, cradling the little girl as she wept. “I will make the whole world see what you really are.”

Noura held onto that thought, clinging to it like a lifeline as the night wore on. It was her shield, her only weapon against the terror that still clawed at the edges of her mind. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She moved from one ruin to the next, her hands bloody and her heart burning with a new, unyielding purpose.

The first light revealed the full extent of the damage—streets filled with rubble, overturned vehicles smoldering in the distance, and crumbling buildings that sagged against each other like wounded giants. The mosque lay in ruins, its once proud minaret snapped in half like a twig. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of ashes and blood, and Noura breathed it in, feeling the sting in her lungs.

She stood at the entrance of her apartment building, her legs trembling beneath her. Her brother, Amir, hovered beside her. His left arm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glanced at her with a frown. “We should leave. There’s nothing left for us here.”

Noura shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’m staying. They need help.” She gestured to the street below, where families sifted through the wreckage, calling out names in a desperate search for their loved ones. The sound of a mother’s wail as she cradled a lifeless child in her arms cut through the air, sharp and raw. It dug into Noura’s chest, twisting with each breath she took.

Amir’s grip tightened on her shoulder, trying to pull her away. “You can’t help everyone. The buildings are crumbling, debris is falling all over the place. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Noura planted her feet, though, eyes glistening as she took in the shattered remains of the life they once knew. She remembered playing in the town square as a child, the taste of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer that had echoed through the streets every morning. Now, it was all gone, and only devastation remained.

Amir frowned, dropping his hand in defeat. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, stepping back. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’ll be fine.” Noura forced a smile, though it felt like a lie.

With a final, reluctant glance, Amir turned and disappeared up the stairs. Noura took a deep breath and walked down the cracked steps, the morning sun casting her shadow long across the dirt road.

As she made her way downtown, she noticed neighbors and acquaintances clustered together in the remnants of their properties. Shattered windows and tumbling walls stretched as far as the eye could see. An old man dug through the rubble with his bare hands, voice hoarse from calling out a name that had gone unanswered. A woman with bloodied feet limped past, clutching a baby to her chest, eyes unseeing.

Noura stopped to offer water and food to those she could. She tore strips of fabric from her own clothes to bandage wounds, wrapping them around arms and legs as gently as possible. With each face she saw, each sob that reached her ears, her resentment only grew. At the main square, people whispered—murmurs about the events of the night before. The stories passed from one person to another like a disease, carrying awe, fear, and bitterness.

“They say he flew down like a devil, tearing through buildings with his bare hands,” an elderly woman whispered, her lips trembling. “It wasn’t human. Nothing human could do that.”

Another man, his voice strained from the fumes he had inhaled, shook his head with disappointment. “They call him a hero back in America. What kind of hero burns down entire towns? What kind of hero leaves children to die under the rubble?”

Noura pulled out her phone. Her grip around it was awfully tight as she recorded what little was left of her neighborhood. She filmed the collapsing mosque, the dilapidated houses, the faces of wandering pedestrians who had lost everything. Her voice wavered as she narrated, words catching in her throat. “This… this is what the American army does in Syria,” she said, forcing herself to keep her hands steady as she panned the camera across the ruins.

She turned the phone toward herself. “They are not here to protect us,” Noura said into the lens. “They are here to destroy and conquer. The world needs to know what happens when foreign powers bring their war to our doorstep. What happens when their heroes come to save us.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. Not while there was so much that needed to be done. She had to keep moving, keep recording. Anything to take her mind off of everything she had lost. If she couldn’t save her home, she could at least make sure the world wouldn’t forget it.

As she lowered the phone, her thoughts returned to the figure she had seen the night before—Homelander, standing in that dark alley like a monster cloaked in red and blue. A shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she let her anger steady her. It didn’t matter how powerful he was, or how many people labeled him a hero in the west. She would make sure that he, and everyone like him, answered for what they had done.

A makeshift shelter had been set up in the center of the town square—a temporary refuge built from salvaged tarps and metal beams that had survived the onslaught. As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and the survivors huddled together for warmth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.

Aid workers moved through the crowd, handing out what little food they had left—small packets of dried bread and canned beans. The lines stretched far, though. The children near the back clung to their mothers’ skirts, already suspecting they would go to bed hungry.

Noura sat cross-legged on the cold ground, her hands stained with blood as she wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s arm. He winced but gave her a grateful nod, clutching his injured limb to his chest. Beside her, Fatima knelt with her head bowed, carefully stitching up a gash on a woman’s leg.

They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the shelter—muffled whispers, the occasional sob—filling the space between them. Noura glanced at her friend, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled with exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fatima beat her to it.

“Are you really going to do it, Noura?” Fatima’s voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting one of the soldiers patrolling the town to appear out of the shadows. “All this talk about protesting, about filming… it’s dangerous.”

Noura set down the bandages and wiped her hands on her clothes. “And what do you want me to do, Fatima? Pretend like this never happened? Pretend that they didn’t come here and tore apart our homes, our lives?” Her voice was harsh, and she forced herself to soften it. It was not Fatima she was angry at. “If we don’t speak up, no one will know the truth. We can’t let them turn us into ghosts.”

Fatime flinched at the bitterness in her words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she fixed Noura with a pleading look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “I just… I don’t want to lose you too,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Noura reached out, squeezing Fatima’s hand tightly. “I know, habibti. But I can’t stay quiet anymore. I just can’t.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “They think they can come here, kill our people, and proclaim themselves heroes. They think no one will care because we’re just another war-torn town. But I’m going to make them care. I’m going to make sure the world sees what they’ve done.”

Fatima sighed, dropping her head. “I’m scared for you, Noura.”

“I’m scared too,” Noura admitted, but there was steeliness in her voice. “But I’m more afraid of what will happen if we don’t do anything.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the rustle of the wind against the makeshift walls of the shelter. A shadow fell over them, and Noura looked up to see Rami Haddad, his expression grim beneath his unkempt beard. The local journalist had been a fixture in Nineveh for as long as she could remember, but the past months had hardened him—made him quieter, more cautious.

“Noura” he said, nodding to her before glancing at Fatima. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

Fatima looked between them, worry etched into her face, but she simply nodded and rose to her feet, giving Noura’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping away. Rami took her place on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the wounded around them. “You’re really going through with this, then?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern. “The protest in Damascus. The footage. You know they won’t take kindly to it.”

Noura pulled a small, battered phone from her pocket, the screen cracked but still functional. She held it out to him, showing him the videos she had taken—scenes of collapsed buildings, grieving families, the wreckage that had once been their homes. “I need the truth to get out, Rami. I need people to know that Vought’s heroes aren’t saviors—they’re executioners.”

Rami studied the footage in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced back at Noura, at those big brown eyes, full of determination. His expression softened. “I’ll help you get the footage out,” he said. “And I’ll spread the word about the protest. But you have to understand, Noura, once this gets out… there’s no going back. You’ll be putting a target on your back, on all our backs.”

Noura met his gaze without hesitation. “I know the risks, Rami. I just feel like… I have no other choice.”

He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright then. Just… be careful. It’s not just the Americans. The world isn’t kind to people who try to tell the truth.”

She managed a small, tired smile, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It’s never been kind to us, Rami. But that’s not going to stop me.”

Rami gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in Damascus. We’ll make sure this gets seen.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay safe, Noura. What you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t lie. It’s going to take some guts, so you better be ready.”

Noura nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. She knew the path she had chosen wasn’t easy. As Rami disappeared down the street, she turned her gaze back to the people huddled in the shadows of the shelter. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath her skin. They had survived the night. Now, it was time to fight for the days to come.

A military base loomed just outside Nineveh, a fortress of steel and concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Inside there was a different world—clean walkways, neatly aligned vehicles, and soldiers laughing over trays of scrambled eggs and hot coffee. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the distant thump of helicopters on patrol.

In a sleek, sterile briefing room deep within the base, Homelander stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on a large digital map projected onto the wall. General Mark Thompson, a broad-shouldered man with a silver buzzcut and a perpetually stern frown, paced in front of the screen.

“Hell of a job, Homelander. Hell of a job,” Thompson said, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of someone used to shouting orders across battlefields. He tapped a spot on the map where the town was located. “You took out the core of their operations in one night. This is the kind of show of force that keeps the locals in line—lets them know who’s in charge.”

Homelander nodded, his chest swelling slightly with the praise. He felt the warmth of Thompson’s words seeping into him, a balm for his own bruised ego after the recent dip in his popularity back home. “Just doing what needed to be done, General,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “Can’t have those supervillains thinking they can run wild under our noses.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. his mouth twisting into a thin smile. He folded his arms across his chest, the rows of medals on his uniform catching the light. “Of course, there were… some unfortunate casualties among the locals. But you know how it is—collateral damage. Sometimes you gotta make necessary sacrifices. We’ll handle any reports that come out. Our PR team’s already spinning the narrative. You’ll come out of it looking like the hero you are.”

Homelander took a moment to absorb the words. Slowly, he nodded along. “Good. It’s important that people back home see the bigger picture. They need to know we’re making progress out here.”

“Don’t worry, son. We’ve got your back.” Thompson gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The general turned his attention back to the map. Homelander walked out of the briefing room, still smiling faintly as he basked in the aftermath of the old General’s praise. It felt good to finally be appreciated. As the door slid shut behind him, the chill of the air-conditioned hallway pressed in, though, and the emptiness beneath the accolades began to gnaw at him. It was too quiet. He needed a moment away from the base’s antiseptic order. Homelander wandered down a narrow corridor, finding a quiet corner by one of the windows that overlooked the desert beyond.

The glass pane reflected his image back at him—a tall, imposing figure clad in a red and blue suit, still speckled with traces of blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He stared at his own eyes, at the hardness of his expression, and felt the familiar pull in the back of his mind.

“Sloppy,” a voice drawled, low and mocking. Homelander’s reflection in the glass twisted, just slightly, into a smirk that didn’t match his own. “Letting them see you like that. But then again, you liked it, didn’t you? The cries, the horror. Watching them beg and squirm, knowing there’s nothing they can do to stop you.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was in earshot, before he muttered under his breath, “They should be thanking me. Those rebels would’ve torn this place apart if I hadn’t stepped in.”

The smirk in the glass grew sharper. “Keep telling yourself that, hot shot. But we both know the truth, don’t we?” The voice was soft, oozing with smug certainty. “You enjoy this. The power, the fear in their eyes… It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive, isn’t it?”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give voice to his nagging doubt. He turned his gaze back out to the endless stretch of desert, where the sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape. The silence between him and the voice in his head stretched, thick with tension, before he forced a dismissive chuckle.

“They need me. The locals, the military, even Vought. None of them could do this without me,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud might make it truer. The voice, his own and yet not, merely scoffed in response.

“They need you… or they’re afraid of you?” It let the question hang in the air, taunting, cutting deeper than Homelander cared to admit. “It’s all a lie, Johnny. A show you put on. It was back home, and it still is now. You know better than anyone that there were no supervillains in that town.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing away the flicker of doubt, the hint of something he was yet to put a name to. He wasn’t some ordinary man—he was the Homelander. Untouchable, superior. He had a job to do, a role to play, and he wouldn’t let anyone—especially not a voice in his own head—undermine him.

And yet, as he stared out at the desert beyond the base’s pristine walls, the weight of its words lingered.

The underground café was hidden beneath the shell of a bombed-out building, its entrance barely discernible behind a sagging metal door. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Shadows clung to the corners, where the locals huddled over tables, whispering about the latest military movements, exchanging fragments of news from the outside world. A dim bulb swung overhead, casting restless light across their faces.

Noura sat across from Rami at a rickety table near the back. His camera lay between them, battered and scratched, his loyal companion in the pursuit of countless war stories. Rami’s face was drawn, his usual wry smile absent as he listened to Noura lay out her plan. Her fingers traced invisible lines on the table as if sketching out her vision on the scarred wood.

“Next week, there’s going to be a press conference in Damascus. It'll be the first time the Syrian government meets with a high level US delegation in years,” Noura said, her voice low but firm. “The eyes of the world will be on us. That’s when we need to stage the protest.”

Rami’s brow furrowed, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the dim light. He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the heavy air. “Damascus is a whole different beast, Noura. It’s not like here. You make noise in the capital, and everyone comes down on you, hard. Our government and the Americans might be at each other’s throat more often than not, but there’s one thing they have in common. They don’t like troublemakers.” He paused, studying her with a critical eye. “You know what happens to those who attract too much attention.”

Noura met his gaze, unflinching. “I know the risks, Rami. But I can’t stay silent. If we don’t speak up, they’ll bury everything—our stories, our town, our lives. They’ll rewrite history while we’re still living it.”

Rami sighed, scratching his forehead. He glanced around the café, where faces turned away from the mere mention of protests. “It’s not just your life you’re risking, Noura. If you do through with this, it won’t just be you they come for.”

“That’s why I need your help. You’ve seen what they did to us. You have the proof, the footage. If we can get this out there, we might have a chance. We might be able to make people care.”

Rami’s eyes softened. There was something like admiration in his gaze, but also skepticism. “All right,” he relented, snuffing out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray. “I told you I’d help and I will. But we do this my way. No reckless speeches, no big signs with your face on them. We’re trying to make noise, but we have to do it carefully.”

Noura nodded, grateful for even this reluctant agreement. They sat in silence as she edited the footage on her phone, translating the Arabic words into English subtitles. Her hands shook slightly as she added the final frames—a shot of the town square, reduced to rubble, followed by a close-up of a child’s doll half-buried in the dirt, one eye missing. She took a deep breath, mildly uncomfortable as she watched a recording of herself speaking into the camera.

“We are not terrorists,” she said, eyes red and face stained with ashes. “We are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. And we are not going to disappear.”

She posted the video online, her fingers hesitating for only a moment before hitting ‘upload’. Rami watched her with a grim expression, knowing that with this one action, there was no turning back. Noura stared at her phone, feeling her pulse quickening as the video began to circulate. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She knew that this could be the moment that changed everything—or that it might just be another cry drowned out in the endless noise of war.

The notification chime echoed in the silence, and her heart leapt. It had begun.

The street was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull glow of a flickering lamppost. Dust swirled in the night breeze. It was late, and they were the only patrons left in the café. Rami hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen’s cold light. His fingers flew across the keys, uploading photos and videos of the attack onto his social media platforms.

Noura sat beside him, her own phone in hand, scrolling through the footage she had taken earlier. Her thumb hesitated over the screen, pausing on an image of the collapsed minaret, its broken spire reaching pitifully toward the sky. She swallowed hard, staring at the twisted metal and shattered stone.

“I like this shot,” she murmured, holding her phone out for Rami to see. “We can lead with this. The mosque… they’ll understand what that means, right?”

Rami glanced up, shaking his head slightly. “Not necessarily. It’ll hit hard in Muslim countries, but in America? They’ll call it propaganda. They’ll try to twist it.”

Noura’s jaw clenched. “Let them. The truth is out there now. It’s up to the world to decide what to do with it.”

As Rami continued his work, the café fell into a tense silence, broken only by the baristas cleaning and picking up plates, the distant hum of generators powering the few buildings that still had electricity. Noura’s focus drifted, her mind replaying what happened the night before—Homelander’s blood-soaked figure against the moonlight, the way his eyes had met hers, unflinching, unfeeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged herself against the chill.

She glanced towards the window, and her breath caught in her throat. On a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood silhouetted against the starless sky. Her heart lurched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin. It was him. She was sure of it. Watching her, like some monstrous guardian or a predator biding its time.

“Rami…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She reached out, clutching his arm. “Look—up there—”

When she looked again, the rooftop was empty, though. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had vanished into the darkness.

Rami followed her gaze, frowning. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Nothing. I… I thought I saw something.”

Rami studied her for a moment, concern furrowing his brow. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially at times like this. Danger seems to lurk at every corner. It’s a hazard of the profession,” he said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “Come on, we’ll be done soon. Then you can go home and rest.”

Noura nodded, though her thoughts remained on the empty rooftop, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest refused to fade. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, leaning over Rami’s shoulder as they reviewed the final uploads. Each image, each frame, was another weapon in their growing arsenal.

As they finished, the weight of what they had done settled between them. The air in the café felt colder. Noura slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Stay safe, Rami,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

“You too, Noura. We’ll meet again soon, when it’s time for the next step.”

They parted ways. Rami disappeared into the shadows of the alleys, his footsteps muffled by the dust. Noura lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had seen the figure. Was it just her imagination, or had she really glimpsed a presence up there, watching her?

She pushed the thought aside, though her unease clung to her like a second skin. The real fight was just beginning, and there was no time for fear.

#homelander #the boys #homelander fanfic #homelander fanfiction #the boys fanfiction #antony starr #my babygirl #the boys fanfic #homelander x oc #homelander x you #homelander x reader #fine i'll create my own content #homelander x y/n #homelander x muslim oc #homelander x arab oc #and we made you pairs

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williamoftyred · 2 months ago

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The Phoenix of Jerusalem

Chapters 50 - 54

Trigger Warning: The following chapters contain depictions of violence, illness (including leprosy, convulsions, delirium, and agonal pain), and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

Headnote: I have found both minor and major inconsistencies in the previous chapters that I've contemplated abandoning this fanfic. However, today, my husband learned that his paternal side's French ancestry traces back to the House of Anjou. (If you know, you know.) Learning this, I became compelled to smooth everything out and finish this novel. For the honor of our favorite king.

Chapter 50: When the Olive Branch Withers

The road back to Jerusalem was long, but Baldwin barely felt the distance beneath his horse's hooves.

He felt other things.

The raw sting of sores flaring beneath his robes. The numbness creeping into his right hand—once strong, now beginning to betray him. A dull haze had begun to settle over the edges of his vision, most sharply in his right eye. What began as a mist became a blur, then a smudge of light and dark with no detail to it.

The flare in his body had begun the moment he left the sea behind.

And with it came a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with illness.

Ysolde had noticed immediately. "You're burning up," she said, touching his forehead. "Your fingers are swelling again. Your joints are inflamed."

"We ride on," Baldwin said. His voice was tight, short.

"Baldwin, please," she begged, reins in her hands, trying to slow her mare beside him. "Just one night to stop. Let me treat the fever. Let the others rest—"

"No."

He turned to her, his face pale behind the veil, lips dry and cracked.

"I must reach Jerusalem. If we stop, they win another day."

The letter had arrived two nights before, sent by courier from Joscelin of Courtenay, his closest advisor.

Baldwin had read it in silence beneath the shade of a cypress tree. Ysolde sat nearby, tending to the wounds of a soldier with a fractured toe. She glanced toward him, sensing the shift in his expression.

My lord, Sir Bohemond and your uncle, Raymond have begun efforts to shift loyalties in your absence. Court protocol has been altered, signatures pressed without full consent. They speak softly but move swiftly. I have not yielded. But the city is tense, and our enemies take courage from our divisions. I urge Your Majesty to return before the throne is treated as empty. —Count Joscelin

Baldwin had closed the parchment and said nothing. But he wrote later that night.

With trembling fingers and clouded vision, Baldwin composed a letter on parchment bearing the seal of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was not to the English.

It was to Louis VII, King of France—Baldwin's kin by blood, and perhaps his last hope for honorable succession.

To the most Christian King of France, Louis VII, whom God has crowned with justice and strength, You have heard, no doubt, of my affliction. Though I still bear the crown of Jerusalem, the crown now rests upon a body that fails with every passing moon. To be deprived of the use of one's limbs is of little help to one charged with the burdens of government. I feel it now as a slow undoing—not sudden, but certain. If I could be cured, as Naaman was cured, I would wash seven times in the Jordan and be clean. But I have found in this age no Elisha to heal me. And so it is not fitting that a hand so weak as mine should hold the sceptre of this Kingdom, not while fear of Arab aggression grows daily at the gates of the Holy City. My sickness only emboldens the enemy and tempts disorder within. Therefore, I entreat Your Majesty: summon your barons. Choose from among them one who is wise and faithful. Send him to this land—not as a conqueror, but as a guardian. For We are prepared to receive with affection whomever you send Us. And I will, with willing heart, yield this crown to a successor who will defend what I soon may not. Baldwin IV, by the grace of God, King of Jerusalem

He folded the letter with care, sealed it with wax, and gave it to one of his most trusted riders.

"Take it to Acre," he said. "From there, put it in French hands. Go in silence. No delays."

The man bowed and rode into the night.

Ysolde stood by the tent flap, arms crossed, watching Baldwin as he leaned over the writing board, breath labored, hand trembling.

"Does he know?" she asked softly.

Baldwin nodded. "He will."

The next morning, the king rode in silence.

His vision swam. His joints throbbed. His breath grew shorter. But his spine remained straight, and his banner still flew behind him.

He would enter Jerusalem with dignity.

He would meet the eyes of traitors without flinching.

For he understood now, from Joscelin’s warning, that Raymond of Tripoli and Bohemond of Antioch had moved beyond whispers. In his absence, they had tried to tilt the court against him—not by seizing the throne directly, but by weaving a new succession around it. They sought to sideline Sibylla and Guy, to crown young Isabella and her husband Humphrey of Toron instead. It was not a coup of swords, but of parchment, protocol, and persuasion. Still treason, all the same.

Raymond had gathered nobles in secret councils; Bohemond had lent him his name and men. They had counted on Baldwin’s weakness, betting he would not return in time to hold the crown by will alone.

But Baldwin still breathed.

And he would answer them not with decrees from a sickbed, but with his presence—riding through Jerusalem's gates beneath the battered, sun-creased standard of the Cross.

If his body was failing, then let his spirit stand tall enough to carry what was left of his reign.

Chapter 51: The Crown in the Fire

The hills of Judea glimmered under the hard light of day, but the air crackled with tension heavier than the sun.

The road back to Jerusalem was choked with dust and urgency. Baldwin’s caravan pushed forward, banners low, knights wary.

Within the covered wagon at the center of the column, Ysolde sorted her healing supplies, her hands steady despite the unease creeping under her skin.

She was knotting a pouch of ground myrrh when the wagon lurched and stopped.

Boots crunched against the rocky road. The reins jostled sharply.

Ysolde pushed aside the linen flap, just in time to see Baldwin at the head of the column, mounted and issuing clipped orders.

She caught the end of it:

"Escort the royal physician to St. Anne’s Valley. Five guards. Now."

Her heart dropped.

Before she could call out, Baldwin turned in his saddle—one glance. Deliberate. Final.

Then he rode on, flanked by his captains, pressing toward Jerusalem.

Ysolde’s fists clenched in the fabric of the wagon.

No explanation. No time. Only command.

"As Your Majesty commands," she whispered bitterly.

The wagon turned off the main road, creaking as it veered east with its small escort.

Jerusalem loomed ahead, but it did not welcome Baldwin with peace.

Joscelin met him inside the city gates.

"My lord," he said under his breath, "the court fractures. The house of Lusignan grows bold. They call for immediate recognition of Guy as heir."

Baldwin’s mouth tightened behind the veil.

"And Bohemond?"

"Still pushing Hugh of Ibelin for Sibylla," Joscelin answered grimly. "But their failure to secure her hand openly has only made the court more volatile. The knights of Tripoli and Antioch clash openly with Lusignan’s men in the taverns and corridors."

Baldwin stopped in the shadow of a great archway, eyes burning.

"How bad?"

Joscelin lowered his voice. "We have already seen blood spilled at the Damascus Gate. The Templars watch, but they do not intervene. Every house watches the others, swords half-drawn."

The king closed his eyes briefly.

What began as ambition had spiraled into a tinderbox. One spark — and the city would burn.

He could not defend the throne and defend her. Not if the city turned on itself.

That night, under cover of dusk, Baldwin sent trusted riders to ensure Ysolde’s wagon continued east—out of the walls, out of reach of the court’s knives.

Not because she was weak.

But because she was precious.

Too precious to leave in the midst of a coming war.

Baldwin leaned slightly in his saddle and drew the letter from beneath his mantle. Without ceremony, he held it out to one of his men—his grip firm, eyes fixed ahead. “Give this to her when you reach the valley,” he said, his voice low, final. Then he rode on, saying nothing more.

To the One I Trust, I should not have had to send you away. But Jerusalem no longer answers to crown or law. Only ambition. Only knives. I cannot shield you while vultures circle my throne. I cannot shield you when men plot succession while I still breathe. Had I kept you near, they would have used you against me. As bait. As ransom. As a wound they could strike again and again.I would sooner cut out my own heart than allow them that power.So I send you away. To live. To endure. To remember that what we built is not theirs to destroy. They will not have you. They will not break you. And if I fall—know this: It was never weakness that sent you from me. It was love. —Baldwin

Chapter 52: Wrath Like Fire on the Mountain

The gates of Jerusalem groaned open for the king.

Baldwin rode in under gray skies and muted bells, the air heavy with dust and dread. His veil clung to his fevered skin. His right eye saw only shadow. Beneath his cloak, sores flared angry and raw across his limbs. His breath came thin and hot. Every step of the horse jarred the bones in his swollen joints.

Yet he sat straight in the saddle, jaw clenched, his cloak snapping in the wind.

The city watched in silence.

They still saw a king.

But Baldwin felt the truth seething beneath his skin. His body was flaring again—joints afire, fingers swelling, nerves twisted in pain. His legs ached down to the marrow, and his vision blurred in pulses. Still, he had come not to rest. He had come to judge.

At the palace gates, Joscelin waited, grim as stone. Beside him stood Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli—two lords who had once ridden as his allies, now bowed under the weight of their failure.

Baldwin said nothing.

He dismounted alone, though his legs threatened to collapse beneath him. A cane, carved dark and smooth, supported his right side. His steps were slow, uneven, but deliberate.

Each one was agony.

Each one was power.

He walked through the courtyard without speaking, cloak trailing behind him like a banner of war. The sweat beneath his robes was cold and slick. The wounds on his sides had reopened from the motion. But he did not falter. Not here. Not before them.

Forty men stood waiting.

Stripped of weapons. Stripped of sigils and armor. Stripped of dignity.

Some were Lusignan knights, their faces still bruised from skirmishes in the alleys. Some were Bohemond's, grim-faced men of Antioch. Some were knights of Tripoli—Raymond's own—who had raised steel for power, not for king. And some were high court officials who had pressed wax to treason behind chamber doors.

This was no trial.

This was judgment.

Baldwin climbed the platform with stiff legs, leaning hard into the cane. Every step was a vow.

When he reached the top, he turned and faced them all.

His crimson cloak caught the wind, his veil golden in the dusk light. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the head of the cane—but his voice, when it came, rang through the courtyard like a slow toll of doom.

"You who swore to protect Jerusalem," he said, voice dry and rasping from fever, "have spilled Christian blood inside her walls."

The lashmen waited behind him.

"You who vowed peace broke it for ambition. For pride. For a marriage. For a throne you will never touch."

He raised his hand—trembling but firm—and pointed toward them.

"You tore my kingdom apart," he said, voice splitting with the force of it. "While I fought to regain my strength—so I could return and lead you through a storm none of you are fit to weather."

The courtyard held its breath.

Raymond bowed his head. Bohemond stood, jaw clenched, eyes locked forward.

Baldwin's cane tapped once against the stone. Then he raised his hand again.

"Strip them."

The guards surged forward.

The knights were dragged from their ranks. Surcoats torn. Tunics slashed. Their bare backs turned to the platform. The first scream came early—sharp, human, helpless.

The whip cracked again.

One. Two. Three.

The leather split skin. Blood spattered the ground.

Four. Five. Six.

Baldwin stood through it, one hand clenched around the cane, the other rigid behind his back. His knees trembled. Sweat soaked through the linen of his shirt beneath the cloak. His fingers had begun to curl again—deformed by the leprosy, inflamed and throbbing.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Another knight screamed, his voice breaking like a child's.

Baldwin gripped the cane tighter.

The lashings continued.

Twenty lashes for each man.

The courtyard stank of sweat, iron, torn flesh. The sound of leather and screams rang between the walls like a hymn of damnation.

By the time the last man was whipped, the courtyard stones were blackened with blood. Some of it ran into the drains. Some of it pooled around Baldwin's boots.

He descended the platform slowly.

Each step a war.

He passed the punished men—slumped, broken, sobbing—and moved toward the lords who had let this happen.

Bohemond. Raymond.

Their men lay like wreckage. Their banners hung limp.

Baldwin stood before them, barely upright now, voice rasped to a thin blade.

He did not shout.

He whispered.

"Your pride nearly broke the kingdom."

Bohemond bowed stiffly.

Raymond, shamed and grim, knelt.

"My king," Raymond murmured, voice torn with guilt, "I followed the wrong counsel."

Baldwin looked down at him.

He had once called Raymond uncle.

Now he saw only a man bent beneath mercy.

"You will not fail me again," Baldwin said, final and cold.

He turned to the guards.

"Confine the traitors. Bread and water. No visitors. No priests."

He let the words fall like hammer strokes.

Then he turned from them—dragging himself toward the palace, leaning heavily on the cane.

Bohemond bowed low. Raymond knelt lower still.

They would follow him now.

Not from loyalty.

From awe.

Because he had not broken.

Because he had bled inside his cloak and never once let them see him fall.

But by the time Baldwin reached the marble steps, his body gave out.

His cane slipped from his grasp with a sharp clatter. His knees buckled. His weight sagged into the arms of the guards rushing to catch him.

They half-carried, half-dragged him through the palace halls.

The veiled king.

Sweating. Burning. Delirious.

His breath rasped harsh and wet against the linen of the veil.

Past whispering courtiers. Past weeping servants. Past grim-faced knights who dared not look too closely.

None of them spoke.

But all of them thought the same:

He might die tonight.

In his chamber, they laid him upon the broad bed under the carved canopy.

At once, the room swarmed with movement.

Aides. Knights. Nurses. Chamberlains. Guards.

They crowded around him, desperate to help—but helpless.

One tore away his soaked cloak. Another tried to unlace his tunic, but Baldwin flinched violently, muttering hoarsely. His limbs spasmed. His fingers curled into broken claws against the sheets.

Someone dabbed his forehead with a cloth.

Someone brought water.

Someone whispered, "Summon a priest."

But Joscelin shook his head sharply.

Not yet.

They could press cool cloths to his skin. They could loosen the veil from his cracked mouth.

But they could not fight the fever. They could not still the swelling in his joints. They could not stop the fire raging through his blood.

Baldwin muttered nonsense now—half-prayers, half-memories, none coherent. His body tossed weakly, soaked in sweat.

The nurses glanced at each other, helpless.

The knights stood rigid along the walls, shifting uncomfortably but refusing to leave.

No one wanted to leave the king to die alone.

The candlelight guttered low.

The entire palace seemed to brace for death.

Outside the chamber, Joscelin stood grim and silent.

He knew there was only one hope left.

He pressed a hastily-written letter into the hand of the royal messenger.

"You ride to Saint Anne's Valley," he said. "You will find the physician there. You know her name."

The messenger bowed sharply.

"Tell her it is the king," Joscelin said. His voice roughened. "Tell her to come at once."

No questions were asked.

The rider vanished into the night at full gallop.

Inside, Baldwin twisted weakly on the bed, the fever dragging him deeper into darkness.

The aides remained. The guards remained.

Watching. Waiting. Praying.

Jerusalem itself waited with them.

And somewhere beyond the hills, a woman who once loved him like a brother—and more—was about to be called back to the city.

The city that might wake to mourn its king.

Chapter 53: Come Back to Me

The message arrived by dusk.

The parchment was wrinkled, marked with a hurried seal. Its bearer had ridden without rest.

To: Ysolde bat Nura, royal physician, currently in neutral camp near St. Anne's Valley.

His Majesty's condition has worsened. The fever has turned. The king collapses often. His right eye is gone. His limbs stiffen. He is in pain. He asks for no one by name—but we ask for you. Come swiftly. —Under the hand of Joscelin of Courtenay

Ysolde read the letter once. Then again. Then pressed her eyes shut against the wave that overtook her chest.

She had known, in her bones, that something had gone wrong.

She had felt it in the air—the stillness of the trees, the strange hush over the hills, the way her heart had beat too loudly that morning.

She packed no trunk. She left with nothing but her satchel, two vials of tincture, and her riding cloak.

She mounted the horse herself, giving no command. The guards followed her without question.

They rode into the dark.

That same night, the palace of Jerusalem stood under siege—not from an army, but from silence, fear, and the sound of their king's suffering.

Baldwin lay in his chamber beneath linen sheets, drenched with sweat. His lips trembled with whispers that made no sense. His body twisted and bucked. His arms jerked, then stilled. His breath came in shallow rasps that rattled in the air like dry leaves.

He howled once—loud, raw, feral.

The cry echoed through the halls like a prophecy.

The palace feared he might die tonight.

Some said it aloud now.

The maids crossed themselves with trembling hands. The nurses whispered with one another between cloth changes. The torches flickered. No one slept.

Joscelin stood in the doorway, face grim. Raymond sat in the chair by the hearth, unmoving, watching the king suffer in silence.

"Where is she?" a maid sobbed.

"She's coming," Joscelin answered. "She rides through the night."

Baldwin twisted again, legs kicking against the mattress.

"No..." he murmured, voice ragged, eyes shut. "Don't... don't let her see me like this..."

He gasped for air.

His eyes were bloodshot, rolling back. His words turned to whimpers. To cries. To hallucinations.

He flailed—punching at ghosts. Screaming at shadows. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes. His fists shook. His mouth opened wide with silent agony. He cried again—more a sob now than a scream.

"He's delirious now," one of the nurses whispered. "The pain..."

"He won't last another day like this," another said.

Baldwin screamed again, flailing. His limbs shook with violent tremors. New sores had bloomed on his face, red and angry. His mouth hung open, dry, cracked at the corners. He muttered to the air, fighting visions that weren't there. His lips moved with broken pleas—some to God, some to someone unnamed.

Then came the trembling moans—long, hopeless, and raw.

The sound of a man trying to leave his body.

Ysolde's horse flew through the night, faster than fear, faster than prayer.

Her cloak whipped behind her. Her hands blistered on the reins.

She saw the palace lights before sunrise—golden and wavering against the black horizon.

She did not wait for permission.

She dismounted before the guards could announce her. She climbed the stairs two at a time, her satchel clutched to her chest.

The guards opened the chamber doors without a word.

And she saw him.

Baldwin writhed, soaked in sweat. His eyes were red, unfocused, lashes wet with tears. His mouth was ajar, his voice lost to exhaustion.

His sores were livid, and two new ones had bloomed on his face—one at the edge of his jaw, another under his left eye. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps.

She dropped her satchel and ran to him.

And when she knelt beside the bed and said softly, "Your Grace..."

He heard her.

His head turned slowly, eyes blinking through the blur. He saw nothing clearly—just the silhouette of someone he loved so desperately it hurt to breathe.

A strangled sound escaped his throat.

And then, Baldwin—King of Jerusalem, Defender of the Cross, Warden of the Holy City—began to cry.

Hot, silent tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting through the filth and the blood.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't raise his hand. But the sound that broke from him, aching and full of relief and grief, told her everything.

Ysolde blinked back her own tears. Her hands never stopped moving.

You are not losing him. Not yet. Not now.

But even as she administered tinctures and cooling salves, she knew:

What was inevitable might come sooner than she had feared.

And so she whispered, through clenched teeth and trembling lips:

"God... I'll do all I can... but please... just give me more time with him."

The room emptied over the next hour. The other physicians left. The aides retreated. The guards took shifts outside. The nurses slumped in the hallway, exhausted. The palace quieted.

But Ysolde stayed.

She rolled opium leaves between her fingers. Lit them in a small brass censer. Wafted the smoke over him, again and again. When that was not enough, she drew the smoke into her lungs, leaned down, and breathed it into his mouth—gently, slowly, hand cradling his face.

She repeated the act until his body began to still.

She held him through every violent kick, every tremor that threatened to rip him apart.

She gripped his wrists when his hands clawed at his face.

She pressed her body against his to hold him down as his cries turned to groans.

And when his body finally stopped thrashing... when the pain ebbed enough for his eyes to close...

She eased onto the bed beside him, pulling him into her arms.

And he fell asleep in her embrace.

When the morning sun rose over the eastern towers, a pair of guards cracked open the doors to check the king's status.

What they saw stopped them still.

Ysolde, arms wrapped tightly around Baldwin, her head against his.

Both asleep.

The king—quiet at last.

The physician—his last sanctuary.

And the Holy City, still and waiting.

Chapter 54: Rise, My Son

The fever burned like fire through his veins.

Baldwin tossed in a world of darkness, surrounded by heat and the stench of decay. His limbs flailed, but no one held him now. No arms caught him. No sheets wrapped him. He fell—through fire, through smoke, through judgment.

Then he landed.

Hell.

Or what felt like it.

Monsters leered at him from the shadows—horned, clawed, grotesque. Demons crawled from the stone. His skin blistered and peeled. Maggots emerged from his sores. His flesh sizzled, and he screamed as worms erupted from his chest like bile.

He howled into the blackness: "Why?" His voice cracked. "Why am I here? What have I done?"

No answer.

Only the echo of his own terror.

He stumbled through sulfur, clawing at his arms, his face. The pain was endless. The heat unbearable. Shadows mocked him.

"Is it because... Muslims died?" he gasped. "Because we... I... let them die at the hands of Raynald?"

He choked on smoke.

"Was it the scriptures... I skipped once when I was twelve? I wanted to play... just one more hour..."

No reply. Just the echo of children laughing cruelly in the distance.

His voice cracked again, desperate, almost childish: "Was it my family's sins?"

Visions surged in the flames: His father Amalric with foreign women tangled in sheets. His mother Agnes, whispering lies into the ears of men in the shadows of court. His own young face—eight years old—mocking a boy with crooked teeth, making him cry.

Baldwin fell to his knees.

"Is it... because I loved her?" The words were a whisper now. "Because I lay with Ysolde, when I should have waited..."

The fire raged higher.

Then—

Flash.

The sea.

Salt on his lips.

Ysolde in the water, wading toward him. The moonlight bathing her in silver, catching the curve of her bare shoulders. Her hair trailing behind like ribbons of silk.

He kissed her.

He carried her to the sand.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth found her shoulder. His tears mixed with her sweat.

Then—the wedding. Her hand in his. The olive grove. The way she looked at him.

And then—

Jerusalem in flames.

The domes collapsed.

Smoke choked the sky.

Ysolde screamed from a burning corridor, and this time—she did not escape. Her body consumed. Her name, a cry lost to ash.

Then came Baldwin V—his sweet, innocent nephew—dragged by soldiers in black and green. His face bloodied. Gone.

Then the people—his people—crying out, being slaughtered.

Then... nothing but smoke. Choking smoke.

He curled into himself.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "God... I'm so sorry..."

And then—

A whisper.

Soft, tender.

"Your Grace..."

Then another: "Baldwin... stay with me."

Then: "Please..."

It was her.

A rush of white light tore across the sky.

A blast of wind—like a supersonic boom—thundered through the inferno.

His ears rang. His heart stopped.

Then: cold.

Everything stilled.

Silence.

And from the silence, a voice—not loud, but all-encompassing. Not angry, but absolute.

"Rise, my son. Your job is not done."

It washed over him like a warm embrace.

And he breathed.

His eyes opened slowly.

A dull ache pulsed behind his temples. His skin felt clammy, the air thick with opium smoke. But the fire was gone. The pain was quieter now. Manageable.

He was in his bed, wrapped in soft sheets damp from sweat.

The world had not ended.

And beside him, curled on her side, was Ysolde—asleep, chest rising and falling steadily, arms tucked against her chest.

His muscles trembled, but he lifted a hand.

He touched her lips gently with his thumb. Traced them. Memorized the shape.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake.

And Baldwin whispered, his voice low, cracked, reverent:

"My wife."

#king baldwin iv x oc #baldwin iv #the phoenix of jerusalem #koh #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin iv #the leper king #fanfic #fan fiction #koh fandom #tpoj

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trippinsorrows · 9 months ago

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Hi! I remember you saying you saying you love perfumes/fragrances, what are some of your favorites?❤️

oh, friend…..

way tooo many! i will splurge on perfumes in a minute, but i also have a lot of non expensive faves! it’s just smelling good is a must 😭😭

————

literally all of the ‘good girl’ perfumes by caroline herrera. no. i literally have them all. the og is my go to though. i get a ton of compliments every single time i wear it. 😭

valentino ’born in roma’

jimmy choo ‘i want choo’ and ‘i want choo forever’

ysl ‘mon paris’

‘juliette has a gun, not a perfume’

kayali ‘yummy pistachio’ or something like that

kayali ‘sparkling lychee’

jessica simpson ‘fancy’

‘red temptation’ and ‘rose gourmand’ by zara

i absolutely love arabic perfumes and have really been into those the past couple years.

they project farther and stronger and last longer. you can often find ‘dupes’ of high end fragrances, which is what i buy over my high end unless i really just can’t say no. like with my good girl ones 😭

‘ard al zaafaran hareem sultan’

‘taskeen caramel cascade’ by paris corner (dupe for bianco latte)

‘rave now’ by lattafa (dupe for burberry her)

‘khamrah’ by lattafa (dupe for angels share by killian)

‘pistachio khair’ by paris corner (significantly better dupe for the pistachio one by kayali. it lasts much longer and isn’t just a skin scent)

‘qissa pink’ by paris corner

‘mohra silky rose’ by lattafa

‘yara’ by lattafa

—————

i have an obsession with perfumes and body mists. it’s really bad 😭😭😭 i have like 6 perfumes coming this week, all arabic, so i’ll let yall know how it goes. 😂 they’re blind buys, but i do my research and know what scents i like, so it’s typically a good time lmao

#ari answers

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stillbornedprincess · 2 months ago

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Seven pillars of wisdom . Book observation from the top of my heart (its bottom is logged with barbered wire)

what was the reason I went to read this book? I recall now how I wrote my reasons in an earlier post prior. It took me one month in total to complete this book. Three weeks toiling over 3/5s of it, and the last field rolled over in a week. What is there to say about this book? It was written by a human who hates his body and his blood. MacEwen wrote a poetry collection from her likeness of him; and I’m sure many readers read this book along their likeness of him too. David Lean directed a very epic film along his hyperboles, him being the likeness that read along with Lean.

It is crude to say this book is full of lies. What is true, and what is not true, is lost on me because I am not a historian. Nevertheless I believe the conception that chapters of the book are fiction, and also recognise the mythic integument the lies make up.

the book in total is wrought with the human weaknesses. Two of these weaknesses are placed before the eyes of the reader in the first chapters. 1. the trial of lunging around a body only useful to a worldly movement 2. ‘‘our modern crown of thorns’’ as the author would call it. It’s all grim, what is there to elaborate on? I will resign to discussing the prose.

“At the top, the waterfall, el-Shellala as the Arabs named it, was only a few yards away. Its rushing noise came from my left, by a jutting bastion of cliff over whose crimson face trailed long falling runners of green leaves. The path skirted it in an undercut ledge. On the rock-bulge above were clear-cut Nabathaean inscriptions, and a sunk panel incised with a monogram or symbol. Around and about were Arab scratches, including tribe-marks, some of which were witnesses of forgotten migrations: but my attention was only for the splashing of water in a crevice under the shadow of the overhanging rock.

From this rock a silver runlet issued into the sunlight. I looked in to see the spout, a little thinner than my wrist, jetting out firmly from a fissure in the roof, and falling with that clean sound into a shallow, frothing pool, behind the step which served as entrance. The walls and roof of the crevice dripped with moisture. Thick ferns and grasses of the finest green made it a paradise just five feet square.

Upon the water-cleansed and fragrant ledge I undressed my soiled body, and stepped into the little basin, to taste at last a freshness of moving air and water against my tired skin. It was deliciously cool. I lay there quietly, letting the clear, dark red water run over me in a ribbly stream, and rub the travel-dirt away. While I was so happy, a grey-bearded, ragged man, with a hewn face of great power and weariness, came slowly along the path till opposite the spring; and there he let himself down with a sigh upon my clothes spread out over a rock beside the path, for the sun-heat to chase out their thronging vermin.

He heard me and leaned forward, peering with rheumy eyes at this white thing splashing in the hollow beyond the veil of sun-mist. After a long stare he seemed content, and closed his eyes, groaning, “The love is from God; and of God; and towards God.”

it’s so great this heavy planet. It is the unchewed bread climbing down the throat of the expectant; no time to spare gliding upon the swerves of this space. Anyhow, it is with books I treck the earth, because I lack the resources to travel freely. Regardless, I loose no experience walking through the valleys words on print make, it’s still the same albeit the uncertain random sensation that comes with walking about in solid life comes late when travelling via words. It mightent even come. But this is my book review and it did appear to me so you will read about it.

In this passage Lawrence mentions the fragrance of a green ledge opposing it with words of his soiled body. For those who haven’t been to a scalding country, scent is as prominent as sight. Loosing your sense of smell in the global north is just inconvenience, a symptom. Being deprived of smell in the southern hemisphere is second to going blind. Everything smells of something there, and its scent if not mild is intense. The crowd is pungent, either of perfume oils if civilians or the most curdled sweat if beggars. Mendicant children are the worst, it’s beyond depressing. I wish not to slander the disadvantaged, so I will discuss the smell of other things.

“The trench was small for them, but so fluid was the mass that each newcomer when tipped in, fell softly, just jellying out the edges of the pile a little with his weight”

20/4/25

Lawrence’s war images are less than a faint memory now. It has been a while since I sat with them. But I can recall the images that did touch me, and the picture above is one of them. If I recall it was twilight in this scene, the people of Damascus were shouting takbers in the streets. Dead men were being disposed of in a mass grave. The effect of the image on me was visceral, how I imagine the sensation of butterflies when they land with their bandy legs. Isha prayer at a lavender city. There is really nothing I can write my heart is broken beyond compare

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monasteryicons · 1 year ago

Text

The Two Easters and Tomorrow’s Annual Miracle

The Patriarch of Jerusalem brings out the Holy Fire from the shrine encasing the Tomb of Christ

Every year on Holy Saturday according to the Eastern Orthodox calculations, a miracle takes place in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, where Christ was crucified and entombed, and rose from the dead. The miracle of the Holy Fire has taken place at the same time, in the same manner, in the same place every single year for centuries. No other miracle is known to occur so regularly and so steadily over time.

Beginning the afternoon of Holy Friday pilgrims wait in anticipation for the miracle, camped as close to the Holy Sepulchre as possible. Beginning at around 11:00 in the morning on Holy Saturday the Christian Arabs chant traditional hymns in a loud voice. These chants date back to the Turkish occupation of Jerusalem in the 13th century, a period in which the Christians were not allowed to chant anywhere but in the churches. "We are the Christians, we have been Christians for centuries, and we shall be forever and ever. Amen!"- they chant at the top of their voices accompanied by the sound of drums. The drummers sit on the shoulders of others who dance vigorously around the Holy Ciborium. But at 1:00 pm the chants fade out, and then there is a tense silence, charged with the anticipation of the great demonstration of God's power for all to witness.

Shortly thereafter, a delegation from the local authorities elbows its way through the crowd. At the time of the Turkish occupation of Palestine they were Muslim Turks; today they are Israelis. Their function is to represent the Romans at the time of Jesus. The Gospels speak of the Romans that went to seal the tomb of Jesus, so that his disciples would not steal his body and claim he had risen. In the same way the Israeli authorities on this Holy Saturday come and seal the tomb with wax. Before they seal the door, they follow the custom of entering the tomb to check for any hidden source of fire which would make a fraud of the miracle.

How the Miracle Occurs

The Orthodox Patriarch then enters the Holy Tomb alone. Listen to this account of Patriarch Diodorus, who was Patriarch from 1981 to 2000:

"I enter the tomb and kneel in holy fear in front of the place where Christ lay after His death and where He rose again from the dead. I find my way through the darkness towards the inner chamber in which I fall on my knees. I say certain prayers that have been handed down to us through the centuries and, having said them, I wait. Sometimes I may wait a few minutes, but normally the miracle happens immediately after I have said the prayers.

"From the core of the very stone on which Jesus lay an indefinable light pours forth. It usually has a blue tint, but the color may change and take many different hues. It cannot be described in human terms. The light rises out of the stone as mist may rise out of a lake — it almost looks as if the stone is covered by a moist cloud, but it is light. This light each year behaves differently. Sometimes it covers just the stone, while other times it gives light to the whole sepulchre, so that people who stand outside the tomb and look into it will see it filled with light. The light does not burn — I have never had my beard burnt in all the sixteen years I have been Patriarch in Jerusalem and have received the Holy Fire. The light is of a different consistency than normal fire that burns in an oil lamp.

"At a certain point the light rises and forms a column in which the fire is of a different nature, so that I am able to light my candles from it. When I thus have received the flame on my candles, I go out and give the fire first to the Armenian Patriarch and then to the Coptic. Hereafter I give the flame to all people present in the Church."

When the Patriarch comes out with the two candles lit and shining brightly in the darkness, a roar of jubilee resounds in the Church.

The miracle is not confined to what actually happens inside the little tomb, where the Patriarch prays. For the blue light is reported to appear and be active outside the tomb. Every year many believers claim that this miraculous light ignites candles, which they hold in their hands, of its own initiative. All in the church wait with candles in the hope that they may ignite spontaneously. Often unlit oil lamps catch light by themselves before the eyes of the pilgrims. The blue flame is seen to move in different places in the Church. A number of signed testimonies by pilgrims, whose candles lit spontaneously, attest to the validity of these ignitions. The person who experiences the miracle from close up by having the fire on the candle or seeing the blue light usually leaves Jerusalem changed.

How Old is the Wonder?

The first written account of the Holy Fire dates from the fourth century, but authors write about events that occurred in the first century. So Saints John Damascene and Gregory of Nissa narrate how the Apostle Peter saw the Holy Light in the Holy Sepulchre after Christ's resurrection. "One can trace the miracle throughout the centuries in the many itineraries of the Holy Land," writes the Russian abbot Daniel, in his itinerary written in the years 1106-07.

Only the Greek Patriarch

The awesome honor of invoking the miracle of the Holy Fire is reserved for the Orthodox Patriarch – literally reserved by divine fiat. Several times over the centuries clergy from other churches or Moslem conquerors tried to exclude the Patriarch from the Holy Sepulchre on Holy Saturday. When this was attempted in 1579, as the Orthodox Patriarch Sophrony IV stood sorrowfully with his flock at the exit of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre near the left column, a divine light split this column vertically and the Holy Fire flashed out near the Orthodox Patriarch. A Muslim Muezzin, called Tounom, who saw the miraculous event from an adjacent mosque, immediately abandoned the Muslim religion and became an Orthodox Christian. The split column can be seen to this day.

Seeing is Believing

Numerous online videos of the Holy Fire are available on YouTube. One of the best is this 30 minute documentary:

youtube

"For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not believe, no explanation is possible."

The Two Easters

Easter is a moveable feast, meaning it is not fixed in relation to the civil calendar. The First Council of Nicaea (325 A.D.) established the date of Easter as the first Sunday after the full moon (the Paschal Full Moon) following the northern hemisphere's vernal equinox. The date of Easter therefore varies between March 22nd and April 25th.

Why do the Western and Eastern churches sometimes celebrate Easter on different dates?

The Eastern churches base their calculations of the date for Easter on the Julian Calendar whose March 21 corresponds, during the 21st century, to April 3 in the Gregorian Calendar. So their celebration of Easter therefore varies between April 4 and May 8.

#church #orthodox #resurrection #jerusalem #miracle #holy fire #Youtube

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boyakishantriage · 2 years ago

Text

[Localised to Earth measurements.]

The killer of hundreds of species, a single person who'd rivalled systems, beat back massive companies and someone who I am told was "exceptionally lucky" was. Raging at a video game.

"FUCK OFF YOU STUPID CUNTS"

Text rapidly appearing, being sent. Countering masses of randoms, occasionally switching screens and focus to finish emails, send advice. Snapping her fingers, she continues.

"blah blah. Here to kill me, give me ten minutes- don't touch that, it'll electrocute ya into jerky, that's carbon monoxide gas, that's sodium metal, stop messing with the vials. You're gonna cause a chain reaction-"

Shouting into various pipes, she continued typing at the keyboard. Apparently whatever was going on had quietened down.

Shouting into the microphone, seeming to chastise her workers in Arabic, Filipino, Turkish and Japanese in that order, before turning on her chair.

"Ait."

CLICK.

"hands up- NO THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT YOU CAN JUST BAN SOMEONE- DEAL WITH IT LIKE A MAN- Drop your weapon, I don't care. Fuck off. Kill me tomorrow, I'm busy."

"... Human, your death-"

BANG. Click.

"I said. Come back tomorrow, I'm free tomorrow at 6am. Here's my card. Shoo."

"Why-"

"Would you like to see the Asia oceanic region in rebellion, or would you like to see what happens when people piss me off?"

Gun aimed at his head, an open dare.

"I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE A DICK SUCKING LES. EITHER FUCK OFF WORK AND CLEAN UP. OR GET A GODDAMN ROOM. OUT."

"but-"

"OUT."

"She's probably done now. Have fun killing her!"

The receptionist cheerily stated, a disgruntled female storming out the office.

He stepped in, a cleared desk, laptop pushed into what was presumably a closet under the desk. Sitting on the chair, a sword strapped to her back. At least 5 knives around her body. Pushing bullets into a revolver.

"Morning!"

She cheerfully stated, waving at the assassin.

"Five minutes for the speech, I'll let you fire a shot. Ya leave the building you break the Geneva conventions or honour rules, I stop using them. Understand?"

"... How- I'm here to kill you."

"your five minutes start now."

Flipping an egg timer upside down, mechanisms dropping a tiny bead of metal down a series of complicated channels.

"I am..." [Not gonna write the fucking speech. Tldr: his name's Nomura, he's a Waritan, an assassin to kill me. Blah blah, honour. Calls me a cowardly weakling with hardly any sense.]

"... Great, now catch."

Ripping a hidden bat out the wall, swinging it against the almost finished timer. She dropped off her seat, the flash going off as she kicked the table. Loading her revolver, she lets loose a shot. A dirty trick, but not unexpected.

Dropping to the ground, taking the full blast, he swings the spear. Red energy swirled, slicing the water as the carpet shred from his feet spikes. Shoving fingers into her ears, the chemical reaction explodes. Extreme heat and sound cracking the sound barrier.

White mist filled the room, head still banging from the grenade as something heavy and metal slammed him out the room.

"This is your honour?"

"Ain't no rules- against using your surroundings mate. Sides, you're an assassin."

Blades locked, steel bar meeting energy blade as she shreds the metal down the cut. Dropping through the floor as the alien pushes forward, sweeping a blade along the thigh as she pulls a rope. Slamming the door, dislodging the weight as an anvil drops from the ceiling. Rolling aside, she gets to her feet.

Assassin held against the wall, the most dissipating as she stands.

CLICK.

"Morning."

BANG

The bullet just barely misses, the man dropping his claws and thrusting his spear forward. Kicking the weapon up, slamming it into metal plate over the corridor entrance into the front of her building. He gets to his feet, shaking it off as she slams the spear at his feet with her feet.

"Ah, pooh."

He throws a punch, claws extended as she moves her body forward. Biting into his arm, both hands on the spear as he howls in pain.

"HOW DARE YOU CALL THIS HONORABLE."

"FLU VAC SAWS!"

Letting go of the arm, bite marks in his arm as the spear slams her legs into the ground. Roaring in pain, for a moment the two cradle wounds. Before she slams to her feet, prying the spear out the ground as she swings. Red energy sweeping, slicing through plywood walls. Scraping loudly across heavy safes as she rests into a position.

"HOORAH."

She runs forward, the entire actions taking minutes as he braces to parry the straight strike.

Then she lets the spear drop, raising it over her head as she vaults over the alien, swinging off the ends of the spear as she lands back in her office.

TADA!"

She shouts to nobody, the alien looking up in surprise as the plywood thumps. Something likely falls into her hands, then a sword appeared in the wall beside him. A gash across the false wood, thankfully he was out of range.

"Did I get ya?"

No response, the sword retracting out the gap. An eye peaking out.

"Ah bugger, just out of range. One second!"

Seeming to not realise the door beside the gash, she slices the wood again. Pulling spear out the ground, he readies himself. This human's fighting style. It was, frankly speaking. Insane, using the building around her, guessing his confusion ahead of time. He then noticed the gashes across the ground, burn marks, skids. She'd practiced this. But he was the first person they'd ever sent, how could she have possibly guessed any of this? Humans weren't this insane. Right?

The wall fell down, twins blades slicing a large enough hole as she swung the blades into the wall. Now holding only one blade, flipping a shield into her other hand. She stood into a stance, eyes unwavering from the assassin.

"... Hold on. How- how did you."

"mixture of foresight and a lot of duct tape."

"... What?"

She held her shield, circling towards him. Jumping back and forth, left. Right. Middle. What was her plan here?

Then she thrust, the Nomura jumped back.

"jittery mother fucker ain't ya?"

"... Excuse me?"

"scared of a little human huh?"

Her form relaxed, she. Was making guesses, taking in his form. Actions, that's how she fought. Extreme planning, so what- this was it. She was father information by faking strikes. She probably hadn't-

SHINK.

The blade sliced through his side, swiveling a knife in her other hand, as she slammed it into his throat.

"You think too much." She concluded, a straight stare into his eyes. His arm held by her leg, she shoved the blade into the stomach. Blood seeping out the back.

"How- when-"

"Too long in your head, too late to see."

She pulled the knife out, blood rushing out the artery. That was her plan, she'd make him hyperfixate and then stab him. Slumping to the floor, she raised his head, katana in hand.

"HOORAH."

CHOP.

#humans are space orcs #tag #Triage #5 #Aura #Lore shit

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coralperfumes1 · 2 months ago

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Why UAE Residents Love Light and Fresh Perfumes in Summer

In the heart of the desert, where temperatures often soar above 45°C in summer, life in the UAE is a mix of luxury, tradition, and adaptability. The blistering heat makes residents particularly conscious of their personal comfort and scent, and that’s where the preference for light and fresh perfumes comes in. While bold oud perfumes and exotic blends still have a cherished place in Emirati culture, there's a noticeable shift toward lighter fragrances and perfumes during the warmer months.

The art of wearing perfume in the UAE is deeply ingrained in the culture. From daily routines to special events, scent is more than just a fashion statement it’s a form of self-expression, hospitality, and even identity. However, when the summer heat kicks in, residents tend to swap their heavier, winter-friendly fragrances for something that feels cooler, crisper, and more refreshing.

Climate Matters

One of the most obvious reasons for the shift to light and fresh perfumes in summer is the climate. The UAE experiences extremely hot and humid summers, which can make strong, heavy perfumes feel overwhelming. These scents tend to intensify in the heat, becoming cloying rather than alluring. In contrast, lighter fragrances those with citrus, aquatic, floral, or green notes offer a cooling effect and evaporate gracefully on the skin, leaving behind a subtle, pleasant trail.

Perfumes in this category often feature ingredients like bergamot, lemon, grapefruit, lavender, mint, and neroli. These elements work harmoniously with the heat, creating a sense of freshness rather than suffocation. For this reason, many UAE residents consider these lighter compositions the best perfumes for men and women during the summer.

Cultural Preferences Meet Modern Trends

Although oud perfumes and musky oriental blends are cornerstones of traditional Emirati fragrance culture, the younger, urban population in cities like Dubai and Abu Dhabi is increasingly influenced by global trends. This modern generation still honors the legacy of strong scents but often prefers to wear them during cooler evenings or formal occasions.

During the day, especially in summer, residents are more likely to reach for international designer perfumes that prioritize freshness and simplicity. This trend is also supported by the sheer variety of niche and luxury fragrance brands available in the UAE. Whether shopping at Dubai Mall’s high-end boutiques or exploring local perfumeries, customers are spoiled for choice when looking for a summer-appropriate perfume for women.

Workplace and Social Etiquette

Another driving force behind the love for light and fresh perfumes is etiquette both social and professional. In office environments and public spaces, overpowering fragrances can be intrusive. People in the UAE are generally very mindful of how their scent might affect those around them, especially in confined spaces like elevators or meeting rooms.

Fresh and airy perfumes are considered respectful and are often associated with good hygiene and sophistication. They leave a positive impression without dominating the atmosphere. For this reason, they’re often considered the best perfumes for men and women who want to remain elegant but understated.

Fragrance Layering: A Popular Summer Practice

Fragrance layering is another reason why light perfumes are so popular in the summer. Many residents enjoy combining multiple scents to create a personalized signature. This is especially common with Arabic perfumes, where oils and sprays are layered for depth. During summer, lighter base layers are preferred to avoid heaviness.

A common routine might involve a base of a light floral or citrus scent followed by a mist of a refreshing body spray or even a hint of an airy oud perfume. The key is balance retaining the rich heritage of layering while adapting to the season’s demands. This creative approach allows wearers to enjoy their favorite perfumes year-round without compromising comfort.

Accessibility and Variety

The UAE’s fragrance market is incredibly diverse, with offerings from both global and local brands. Whether you’re looking for the best perfumes for women or something unique in a perfume for men, options are limitless. Seasonal lines from major fashion houses release limited-edition summer scents designed specifically to suit warmer climates, and these are eagerly awaited by perfume enthusiasts.

Moreover, local perfumers often create bespoke perfumes tailored to individual preferences. These artisans understand the climate and cultural nuances better than anyone, which is why their summer-specific collections often sell out quickly.

The Rise of Unisex Fragrances

As gender norms become more fluid, unisex fragrances are becoming increasingly popular in the UAE, especially in the summer. These scents typically avoid the deep, woody, or sweet profiles associated with traditional gendered perfumes and instead focus on fresh, neutral notes that appeal to everyone.

These gender-neutral fragrances are ideal for the UAE summer because they strike a balance between subtlety and sophistication. Whether you’re heading to a brunch, a beach day, or a business meeting, a unisex summer scent can feel appropriate and elegant.

Personal Expression and Identity

Fragrance is one of the most personal accessories a person can wear, and in a place as diverse as the UAE, residents use it to express their identity. Light perfumes are often seen as youthful, dynamic, and modern. They reflect a lifestyle that is active and outdoorsy, even in the sweltering summer months.

For locals and expatriates alike, wearing a light, refreshing fragrance during summer sends a message: of style, thoughtfulness, and awareness of one’s surroundings. It’s no surprise that perfumes are chosen as carefully as one’s wardrobe or accessories in this fashion-forward region.

Conclusion

The intense heat of a UAE summer demands more than just a change in clothing it calls for a complete sensory shift. That’s why residents, from seasoned locals to trend-savvy expats, gravitate toward light and fresh perfumes during this time of year. Whether it's citrusy, aquatic, floral, or green, the ideal summer fragrance provides relief from the heat and a boost of confidence.

Despite the strong heritage of oud perfumes and rich oriental scents, summer brings an opportunity to explore the lighter side of the fragrance spectrum. And with such an incredible variety of options on the market, finding the best perfumes for men and women becomes an enjoyable journey in itself.

From office halls to sunset beach gatherings, UAE residents understand that the right scent can make all the difference. In the land of luxury and elegance, even a breeze carries the story of a perfume well chosen.

#perfume #perfumes #fragrancesandperfumes #oudperfumes #bestperfumeformen #brandedperfumeformen #bestperfumesforwomen #perfumesforwomen #bestperfumeformenindubai #bestfragrancesformen #perfumesformen

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mudaship39 · 6 months ago

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Character Bio of the Afro Asian Half Dragon character:

Dossier, Profile, Record, & Archive: Chun Hei Kim

Human name: Empress Chun Hei Kim

Draconic name: Chaimol Champion Of The Red

Species: Half Human Half Dragon

Subrace:

Red fire magma and lava chromatic dragon, Blue lightning storm and thunder chromatic dragon, Green plant nature and wood chromatic dragon, White water snow ice and frost chromatic dragon, Orange wind air mist fog and sand chromatic dragon, Brown earth rock stone and metal chromatic dragon, & Black poison and acid chromatic dragon

Aluminum metallic dragon, Brass metallic dragon, Iron metallic dragon, Lead metallic dragon, Tin metallic dragon, Copper metallic dragon, Silver metallic dragon, Gold metallic dragon, Mercury metallic dragon, Platinum metallic dragon, Tungsten metallic dragon, Steel metallic dragon, Titanium metallic dragon, & Zinc metallic dragon,

Underworld celestial dragon, Dilong celestial dragon, Fucanglong celestial dragon, Horned celestial dragon, Panlong celestial dragon, Treasure celestial dragon, Jiaolong celestial dragon, Shenlong celestial dragon, Ryu celestial dragon, & Lung/Long celestial dragon.

Amber gemstone dragon, Amethyst gemstone dragon, Aquamarine gemstone dragon, Agate gemstone dragon, Citrine gemstone dragon, Diamond gemstone dragon, Emerald gemstone dragon, Jade gemstone dragon, Jasper gemstone dragon, Lapis Lazuli gemstone dragon, Malachite gemstone dragon, Moonstone gemstone dragon, Pearl gemstone dragon, Ruby gemstone dragon, Sapphire gemstone dragon, Sunstone gemstone dragon, & Topaz gemstone dragon.

Racial identity: Afro Asian

East Asian coded

In our world she identifies as Black American and East Asian Korean

Birthday: Virgo Dog

Height:

Human Form: 5’9”

Half Dragon Form: 7 feet tall

True Dragon Form: Tall as mountains

Weight: 130

Shoe Size: 8

Body Type: lean, tone, slender

Appearance:

Bust, Waist, Hip Measurements: 36 27 38

Hairstyle:

Human form: Afro centric braids, locs, & twists.

Draconic form: Tendril like locs with red scales growing in her scalp

Hair color:

Human form: Black

Draconic form: Red

Hair texture:

Hair look or state:

Eye color:

Human: light brown eyes

Draconic: golden eyes

Eye sight: myopic wears magical prescription glasses

Skin color:

Human: terra cotta brown

Draconic: Human scales with crimson, white, & golden scales growing on certain areas

Extra:

Scales on face, neck, chest, back, arms, legs, & feet

Fins on face

Horns on forehead

Wings on her back

Age: Several Millennia

Tattoos:

Traditional and modern Asian tattoos

Traditional and modern magical human tattoos

Traditional and modern magical draconic tattoos

Tattoos on her face, neck, chest, back, arms, & legs

Markings:

Scars:

Jewelry: Magical necklaces, bracelets, & rings with gemstones

Horns on her forehead are adorned with rings with gemstones

Piercings: Piercings with gemstones:

Pierced ears, pierced face, pierced nose, pierced tongue, pierced lips, pierced eyebrows, pierced cheeks, pierced nose, pierced chin, piercing on their chest, pierced navel, pierced nipples

Sex: Female

Gender: Cis

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Pronouns: She/her

Sexual Preferences:

Top

Dom

Verse

Switch

Religion: Polytheistic draconic paganism

Spirituality: Korean Buddhist

Languages:

English, Spanish, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Arabic, & Mongolian

Human, Elvish, Giantkin, Goblinoid, Dwarvish, Gnomish, Draconic

Disabilities:

Relatives:

Parents:

Father:

Mother:

Siblings:

Cousins:

Children:

Marital Status: Married:

Relationship Model: Polyamorous

Love interests:

Spouses and Partners:

High King/Queen Kittsak/Kaeo Alin Pramoj or Lysander Alphonse/Luciana Jacqueline Norwood, Queen Zhou Zhen/Zhou Chen, Bernadette Shultz, Valeria Nadia Garcia, Amelia Himmat Mishra, Maysa Nabila Uzun

Pets:

Pseudo dragon. Phoenix.

Mount: Qilin. Unicorn. Pegasi. Drake. Wyvern. Adult Chromatic Dragon. Adult Gemstone Dragon. Adult Metallic Dragon.

Familiars:

Summons:

Alignment: Depending on dragon sub race humanoid form:

Chaotic Neutral. True Good. Lawful Evil.

Class: Swordfighter. Spellsword. Sword Mage.

Background: Noble. Arranged Marriage. Academy Dropout. Unseen Academy Reject. Apothecary. Doctor. Nurse. Artisan. Weaver. Tailor. Blacksmith. Craftsman. Matchmaker. Madame. Attention Addict. Dauntless. Chosen One. Duelist. Destined to be a Hero. Farmer. Gardener. Trader. Shopkeeper. Vendor. Merchant. Soldier. Officer. Warlord. Government Officer. Librarian. Scholar. Sage. Wanderer. Wise one. Artist. Poet. Painter. Musician. Singer. Sculptor.

Subclass:

Rank: S rank

Skills:

Traits:

Stat Points:

Level: 500

Cultivation:

Martial Arts:

Titles:

Homebase:

Affiliation.

Transportation:

Education:

High school graduate

College graduate

Magical academy graduate.

Occupation:

Earth: Rapper. Singer. Songwriter. Producer. Director. Bodyguard. Athlete. Mixed Martial Artist. Stunt Coordinator. Stunt double. Voice actress. Actress. Soldier. Officer. Ensign. Lieutenant. Lieutenant Junior Grade. Commander. Fighter Jet Pilot. Space Fighter Pilot. Spaceship Captain. Commodore. Vice Admiral. Rear Admiral. Navy Fleet Admiral.

Other world: Farmer. Fisherman. Hunter. Gardener. Courtesan. Madame. Matchmaker. Fortune Teller. Chef. Bartender. Painter. Photographer. Sculptor. Singer. Stage Actress. Poet. Musician. Smith. Artisan. Craftsman. Monk. Grandmaster. Doctor. Nurse. Scientist. Cartographer. Historian. Mapmaker. Explorer. Astronomer. Librarian. Apothecary. Banker. Accountant. Merchant. Vendor. Trader. Shopkeeper. Conscript. Grunt. Soldier. Officer. Swordsman. Archer. Calvary. Warlord. City Guard. Lord Commander. City Watch. Lord Commander. Mercenary. Armed Escort. Samurai. Ronin. Shogun. Teacher. Professor. Scholar. Sage. Philosopher. Government official. Hired Guard. Bodyguard. Royal Bodyguard. Aristocrat. Noble. Lady in Waiting. Judge. Royal Advisor. Baroness. Countess. Duchess. Princess. Queen. Empress.

Economic Class: Aristocracy. Nobility. Royalty.

Base of Operations: Chromatic Dragon Empire of Chromatic Draconic Kingdoms.

Place of Residence: Imperial Palace.

Transportation:

Apparel:

Equipment:

Weapons:

Armor:

Powers:

#indigenous artist #indigenous writer #indigenous art #indigenous creator

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libidomechanica · 6 months ago

Text

Untitled # 12960

A sonnet sequence

I can unlooser suffering holiday! Dead angels of her still, seldom never rude weede he ground hither me like the lone had trod upon the beauty new; and rural gain to feel when the friend, from chimneys, slipperience-quit of sunset; O, a shifts, wha match yet with he, Camel! He lovers— who did; his Bounty! Why wasted inter cheeks, own sweet something to thee. Young, as I concern and thus seas; a love, the palate indicative burns from the rives; a lordly cottage-smell, and the sprout of face alas an Arab in a lasses and some roughness all too zeal animals of me.

The truth vain the world is corage hath so. Tell may best that their glens, on light, oft in Dian of their brilliards—it is back. So rich gripped thy death—most a morn in the wynd. You constraint, my bird sing sound. What the for the seen her veil draweth of him stone or dead in drouth, cap and Thrush of the state divine, but gloomy Winter’s her great though our father rosy face it the Light suffer a river-tips: that more, much truths and fragility, and marked scope: now bene, as doth are man, and take any rated from Dolly is delayed awaking Body, slave the king is chin, the mirror, the sea.

Who would open together plight well proportion of Africa meet that for me loue to them what all tell me, their own an earthly course and like so streets me: always straw. I’ver all to leave me not melody; gone afar—what the Privy, ’ is my heart. Which made the doll’s kisses, or deluded hole of this more by all the bread and I will find though the old Time but under mine eye. And over the panes, the faded Oake. Go and morning’s delight of the wintercourse, might to chance. Goings of the day, cross the Fantom off the dolours to rang beneath that pay for ane an’ twenty, Tam!

A gentle flower restful dreamer, and pledge where, then. What is not it, to see. Go the rather’s sight across. Rind, with rhyme. Is odd, nor ane and King, rider on a time for his hands of hopelessed hill send mean the day his old with frame; her vitall my tardy name up into eyes light he cates. And just with the hubbub of the danger from her, a bit on air as I writ overwhelming glacier where is become. And night the edge of regret lets from the means, not man at hole world come and life. Dig so correct, that my fresh with the gauds; nay, found? If I shall he toy globe, that hide ten.

As it rose and mine, each specks of her mind, or German miracles? Tis be the sunflower for all heart, they guesses on me worthy flower. With a royster of fifteen, the oceans to make no her heart that my minds, your declaretless prattle, hurried, your to know changen some belts of ourse: shee well, woodland gone!—Almost, and strangled in fierced, come, far more heart, left his smart, if merchance annoy’d. Troubles fill wears bene an operate lusty answer, that the Animal burdenous condition of flights come, I trust, sure scorn’d Lovers. Look on the cock can not girl should not yielded!

Such a farther small it too full verse. But howsoe’er to Right, and badd, and soul two friends reserve and some still to repertory by limping trimly flint influence seare: for whether little words you say This delightest speak and I’m surest May-dew my mists dying behint that Muse is white, ditch beyond, to resisting every modest still points held in the terms of monk may averteth so tormes to tell the understand as that might to marks. Gave angle company looks taught teach skin a fon, of this stars it? Ten the worlds, saying all sing; singing, unvariety; and play: love a gum.

No! Ah, do your absence inuent: my bird! What nowe no subtlessed Gods shee is old, and has much too was lasse, who cause the world woes turned your own glass and but all mast thousand descended, old, then sit holding by on its worthiest way, this my dispute: the Castle he magnify, angelo. Has not to vnder thee: the knew. Of this new field! A store, and still conversation extremity of Loue hath their stars united arounds wits chosen it in this screendoors of the braunches bent-knee swagge the leap up without curtainment perfumes into a fling, friendship like phone table on hight.

Life-blood without curtain him who’s smooth many a while of no green: she scattell, soon than of the prince of a child, which had your next because my Camel of quiet smiling down. Read lights till though evening line by train; for great prepossess’d; for Fortune’s a zone colder what them not be fritillars are thing even centuries floater, some sent; my thought? But modern mountains and wish, all enchantesque, which profound, although but ensues, so that this, and painted to all into him in he call’d six from such pass as the best way that recure, there woman shall bared the duke, began to given after shall licence the pardon, of wot not tell count in our fill with a goodly and gay; somethings unto place to behold, an any questions are all time. Come, he coffee great she danger: but on my throught it is extinct, then we again, among the despair, when she wished and the subtle sings.

Wherein hell, at Rome, I can hold my dwell. Else lets from New York, lying on the desired. With he though and night, and day. And how broad-should I be? Of Thee, nor all. That— love, which, former sheets to the Revelation, to recreatures. In my loof, i’m happy, count you must be time, and it both to free, but this shadowed with husks of a dead, still to deare, whose absent, dozes them, than of those their mosse man living in a fine of monster. And who groan, watches o’ heat of virtue again, that was it movest orchises, his way! Only fault? Get wind, to many as its dwell, reconciled!

Beneath broke beauties in angular first the coffee sponge bene myne foreign. Pardon, if merciful that just a while took my hour walking to tell, and noble,— conjugal, but trust, shout my back from the crack of the strewn—so he could grow on round, if it hands, fair would almost show it. Bent of a victim whom I’ve hearthquake than be made fruict, nor was kings, nor sin: each those sort of a weede, save to this king, and rushrings come of some for a son another’s true natures I fear on guano and beside! To this sleep, pricked the would lord, or daddy’s private perfection, boldly regular, spleen.

Sword, who experie death you of the laye, and then wrong, lingers, much good. Only to look up, and thought of fortune we should doest parts of joy the when those line, of Oliue we sad to people she was bored and shivering, and this is always see mystical mask. Up these curt some a man rising quest,—who could have seen behind; strays! One system doth smote stone, much small agacerie. Too rare, I did nothing, who you maun fleets and thine an’ gar me soon’s dew, impede the open wings invisible close sort of sweet even those who knows, and hath common Sensual Taint, and what thought cool; but them what? Draws breath.

—And recall’d hill! Deep question by no more at might, and seen on what is whole, and ship! I grand, that milliant repertory by rote. I tel it all my thorns the voice of stated: her had no old the cups man’s father own of the make youth and kiss. As I have morning their caps; your lovely before hems. Juno still morning, and prayer forget you in that deede her shadowe seemed to. My fresh, and never lost illustring; sings a landlord Henry he does ever best voice downes and dead, not that when most fields, I love’s choke thee, the years apes, we were fill. But on which still: the moonlight glanced unto me!

Fully Alexanderstanding and experie dead let him to ape throne. Do I dare to our owling sunflowers, to be vnkind on me, beam of that there, but form or seven- and-twenty, Tam! Love with Daffadowne, in the alert, o carefull night dead eyes? And time hether. But playing all- claretless like their like the fault; no bicker, alike, that ensigns and singe his Lover mind; why thee bemoaned as thing sting to live on the sun. A God, or ane and fair Elysium to share of men to fly from its tender, I will bet your same journe to the mightingales attires, her mind.

Then true, heap. Who reachable Creamer, hunting from a devils, a woman’s dew, sweet- Williant by friend, shouldest crowd were the for all Lady Adelines with his deuise: the corners of the day, and forbid her veil that lure him round anxieties, that my eyes of brother’s sight o ioyfull of excel, that with dawn. A swaines me to her. Have slept in a foolish air and yet how to fight, not like to know decked up common the centre as lythe, thought to follow bird sing all wear my purity with she gulf of what anyhow listening now. And tell you to another I shall in love.

How to blames erected, and night, and fear: why is you, except for look back, there the village cars follows the lads wither did behind you know the lusty prison-flower honey, have patiently exchange! To the God the summer or t’ other mind. Let none, in his time descry tears fires; don’t known the beare white told me downe, sad, it shows wearing; thou are, softly come ancient even in the could tell us with beset it be a drunk and desire of the daylight, that procreate him could set my Muses merimental board, loves and go talking the familiar me as rare, there.

On they not takes do stir in. The shepeheard our Desire? But you ask heroic clanks. Thou not mariners of winter’s chronology and I, where he strike my who thou fill without curtain royal translate something river-grass-green. If every Life is deadly the weaves Me, Helen, let still. Shall be truths call’d the world’s sun, she memorandum of truth or some shepherds sand, their separate lustless I can look up, to my shipwreck with play shipwrecked and snap conceit her, hooks. Caged eye forests forlorne? To see the sage, as not blisse forth, at all itself those tickets to badde the skimm’d tree.

Never hadst alabaster marriage-bed. Her chin, let fawn, but cloy’d; that the could feele mosse, when grudge ambitious liberty. Nick of eye, and romances palms, I said: went the dusty price we admired, white as the light broke, The spirits dead, and moon wilt thou what down. But busks his heards wont to leave it breeze: then so brings; looked clasp my sighing on their star-flower’d, like a bee circuses, how the blast, when the air, retired; if I not yet I care never due set for the pricks thrown, admire what else, but their piety both in primordial cavern deep river-fields bells of rhyme attonce.

My true, here in time to Vivian-place. For for where the storm. For that his bow, Thy Essential! Summer will compared win and mistress’ conditionly, to instrumps do not to thee, i’ll halt, but the love by in black. Climb out. Fifty-two rejoice doth Natures the let me stay, any tyrant, where. But thou cannot bliss: fie, put a stones for shalt not such outright like taxi girls’ dormitory. Who order, he came. Do you art morning youthful words fit form goodly verse in that off without remove.—Lovely thing in true; for speede here have studied flowers invocate; a little pool of stone.

Running, anything, mean not I, thou fills we may lived preserved up-stairs, since past annoy, our coonskin hate a sweet talk to express that was my breast, she island rage: scourse, o caroll itself crumble vain the City. So see it and my should singled is lowdly beautie before that once, and some once like a conquer Time allowship checks, the worm in up for all that vnto the make to the blows the grand and left behind you’ve minds, saying slight to impossible up then ribbon rose medled to heards lost the Blind was a noble,—conjugal, but where? And wagge the cannot lie rest. He heart from man!

Robert Burns: ask for you of the did created stalls, the hils of spice as been female of blue crammed watches braw age may her, thought? No daunce, and white then she hath been bed. They strange,—but not sighing, soon; a birds, and you tell. I see, my friend me. But I think, thou do, to be without against the larks. The edged fresh forgive ourse from me and me, althought, and singing ankles. Could sure intered from the barbecue, you thys shall and half-lost much ioy, many fighting a dangers short hath all emong to be in’t finds—no Womb of them all: which thought and hey, sweet a mayden Queene, loved his holiday.

Way her Garments meaning. And so down the where day ten yet, will be a germ when did in—I too the graze a monks, treasure, filter’d then, which see doctors remove, I ne’er was a farthen silver from humanity, which many, in heart on hill-flower in his own to the sky. Do your sweetness, yet separate, late, of hem, What thought me wild be neare noticed me, especial Essence he dooth and in, so trust like blood sure of excel, the well. Did you’re dun; if something the same sneaking none or the village grow: for state or naked up to drincks she was the doth reward: for Kim. And when the marvel of a Veil married their feare, nor I never but what while my sweet desire. But love, that will becoming to the heard to town’s one of the even Sappho’s smoothe, his friend, the Lark is done. Somethings in whose crowded and shepheards sang, and said to say ever. The tell honor no long whose love.

Thumping on earther mind, I guess’d; for what come again should the presencelestial round anxieties, that while I rede so badd, and we shore, sad, it wild loosen it’s poorer praying true goodly Oake these force, but only said, How lost breast, as yond all daylightest me took down, and you well do to passion starued with neither thee without his hat, and fryday that voices our fill my lover. Thee, despaired then is no foot and bade but likeness in the purpose? And drop of rural numbering hether hose lets of brown of loued Lillies: that hole date: some say, she gifts to slack gowns, within.

Freckled by which see desperate she was a day among youth I have bid the swift Camilla, thou owest: t was in the awkward your life. We too crowne. I have caught in you were will, and seen theirs—God be the cast. Her voice of their thou art cruel, my doom, lights are not see alive yet form a devil’s for the middle of all aray: tis a weeds dooth assuraunch and ne’er that would have been of my heeled, and hew. A familiar me who whirl there enameless game back together pride, each the street to the skirts of the change and it vnto me, so sad and airy as wont to where be poured old.

Across till records me three A. And, t will a difference at mortgage we still affected. A flower, before track’d in the stations, subjects us, that Colin made of sterling brain if success the body weare, nor love, in a Brussels lack upon an idlenesse who spoil much a Bellibone, waiting all ages, orphans of sterne strength to speaks for all weepes, that having it wrong; and Forward and love! Love your life and gate as in true Love, that heards enterest into eternal slave told boughes were him them i want to dry away, hid from worst off with problems from purblind man, their leave: but in use, politics on the husband fastened his hand, his the bridal bene the crawl through their full worth: here apt even advantagenet. That were sweet was a little: Would wind she fell’d nymphs, but silence a wave his debts, winterruption bed. Worthy perfumes to a hornet’s nest.

But thou dost night put on sensual luck! By chance! The deep it crowded in her face or Affrick hold you lingers live in this blind, ye hill! And find his to plucked me good! All you can return out his shirt-sleeve, the shepherd’s kiss, stood to Night her, and it like Orpheus, from here, for Age and seen? Reward: for this even a piece of days long child fresh my thou not amisse. Sands: while, and yet letter with debt to straw, borne of the Witch. And know season: Thus girl show it. Then to love younge the straight to looks so had no praying I so clear times this wonted locke way this arte. So long the very faire broke.

The soldier told heart that it knew whole you of their spite to evening outstripes for lovers lived a slight and I—too lates somethink in his designal—sees it Absál in like Hindoos, for busloads on flashes vse too much to mends in the old not unworth that belied with her hair, thou’s weare, of other’d and thing and pain, as you will of men in thy perfume of a courself from them? And brag yond Bullocke of gold- skinny, red-headed. Allure, where is his you art, lost to be Lord grow nought remaine, sword, I telligence, your grave eyes of the Pyre the binds and bade in her homage.

And fast, her painter grieved on living to wavering strive thy sorrow deck her missive gone as misgouernaunce, now she call other kicking it was the way her the men’s mitten marry eyes give ass by her men them if not myself apart felt and a sudden death in Beauty had not blind her: where.—Indeed a humblebee visitors less bounds a thine own start but, lost moved beauty, for a yawns,—you come back to expressure I used to find’st thou shout the laws our days would, sure I shall night, not less, that my extremity of loue? From my pen with me. And the air as air as it size—how to be rash, and song; what hunting music hath child of element so that faine: little lily-handed Baronet, that the words, and never best lump of rang, and beaten hath be bonier years—but Dick was hole you had it scandal colder what though a talent to violent to the while heard in her.

None or more first hunger of life’s harsh, heavily from moats and decision, as love the windows? Only, mething more cause the brushes, the boys say? No found and a chiefest joy depart, the day, that very with this Oake casuist inventions, may her like thou believe That hole, ’ would cure for the wormes fair, in thy sweet, to inters where will be the country germ or seeing with her great Mother’d till her breathes dragging common herse, breath. All that is an answer: the totem. Lest higher in the action? Or the asp for centre as made; for griev’d the past, I put for dream as soueraigne with the world.

Our hand yet window, and meadow as they drank down the afternoon, the city to live and reprove the omen, there, I dare? Yet love’s bed by the lustlesse sheaf? Its pick upon highes were parts. Their claes, o hearken’d on the flower generous, are sees! But the heart, and the task, hopeless light me be their fantasy of Cypres do flower turn of the koi kiss and light me white- haire, nor all that oft he was it’s importunes home. But if being he lake wail my skipping you can bespake. Gout a show, proving shut vp in a roystery what, and fuel; and, go through above the or less on, so on thy mother may gnaw Tantallant flapper, some and cut the contine, think, since Hamlet and the dew one: Marriage? How should make her? To thy connects us, the could not deadly darte, where in a Britain, or wrap about the eyes of the falsehood fire spurn around just strike dying. She had.

In thyself; fire women lilies’ shepheard the warl’ asklent, that I’ver say, that it liv’d, to passive will go with sleep of mine eye follow leafless, and beames is wife’s hack in it. And thus he best flower turns from the sea, whose brutish growth to gaze upward by thy love hath aske roofs with the night, her veil draws break. I trustlessed honey, having the says her brother time broke up dead; thy duties brow, Himself than warm stove-window, should hopes, for walking Wether wrote beds and we were to enduring I present spaces chance—and thou, poor myself and therefore me; for if we couenants all my low smokes in fog, in chain on me, and watching a hear, it seemed enough. And could make what’s to that boy, and stoopegallan, but true, as infusion was fall? All distant with endless praying and wagge the solemn forest, for the world’s elder you fooleree. The chase of meriment over way.

It all that they strong an old my dresses. And find, ye hill, still to my vow, and the books to the dice by in this huge melanching with the longer so as Sylvio, when will goes by a who experimental situation extremes the meet hath lemons, subject, and bower of chat, by my Muses are should let me look, since fire is no one in Heaven in blisse foreigner in his Bosom swell of shrieking: last to leave made herse, sure better wreck with a hear one thy concern, and letter Eldre brains echo of the fayre flits ample Kurd perpetrate appear: thus could rise, o carefull verse.

Kurd, whose Two Love, believe at milkwhite hair, and gets difficult, Heavenly complete earth as old, if mercy, born to keep, when your hunted could not at bay; if i could arise and its and I will come fret with great prove? Be just wits smells me to work heroic salad usher mine immortal Love, and welcome backs, the ground one, and soul inspire: some seen behind your fingers are men. Thy worne in water, if men why liuely clings, your coming strange, how gravest of blest he sprang outside my Goddess, and such closed at sun shall the heart-aches breath, and, how fair, and make no short tune, mine its foot reached?

Will breath earth him, on the spoken. She waur beck, or Catholic creeps her eyes she is not even those without a wash of ill on a hell the stones white flames will quite every koi swishing, all and feed. As thus heaven, abler not my feet; she fear not my firstborn flower-fence, and sweete told, my funny Summary I closet can sit holding sport, his hold his rudely should sell. Nor foreheard less for the kindlye dew, impedimensions where death—most find hetherized her held haunt last. And harass’d with ground him quiet smile, as longer sports move, a dead let him with his Dido is miscarriage.

Ah, what wanton largely dight, here quoth humouring in the Night, then, from its way, my books directly came of Desire shall I gave meanest Allan! Of comfort, the cannot my fair, in old swell continuous libels by manner straight that were, or what one pole! Or to unwritten Summer brilliam with heate, quite every fairest fails, we the greeuance. We shadow flirtation whose of merciful dreams, after music, worthiest off the birth. Then that their secret in silent-bare under the sugar’d Shírín’s Lip the doth now later goe. Again here’s earth the house, and in lead you lies.

Rights, this under; and loves happier air in the grow! Ran upon me, but a charme the graces, I, i’d catch a sirocco, for gracious joltings purse, a heart in the acquaint, be it fed then? Mine, and missile, o my breast. My fires grows on me. I earned the princesses and then this, Time’s drown’d by the soul of his sprent list of mine, but, be in turns doen him shall alone, puffed in the merchanting from field in spring his art of insidious dear, it it solitude, as we were fair, hooks. By turns to gives that nowe long, it did we drops from slope to me—come well doubt, passing sheep, and flyeth.

And of a love, how half of rubies throw. The peace, to practice quiet! Black, the pipes of quick despatch it souerawed. And me. The dormitory ancient flame-lite the figure fire stars. And I’ll tears apes, thy mamie, should there. Ah Christians to marine be while I so close—at last night to your out his harsh, but Heavenly life and such discourge of Sorrow seem’d sommers flame have some in, let his sere, too read to reader, or tongue and calendars apes, flaunt laye, an hold, my funny warm weary within its eunuchs too was a bubble bed; the marmalade, and of the Meaning. The Firmament?

Fondly tripped on the river friend woe, and take fancient Secret, as brouzed, and something through ne’er known to keeps she same; with he thought a face discover in a cold for love happies me! Her moral common smell a Higher. So he call’d the sage, then thought? In visions of plants; which yet embraces can be thirty indeed, O shiness and Beauty in the Wise, them close; by wholly- hoaks, and to Niobe distracts; and what you know some thou be, yea, in temperate at balsam, some hounds, she love could distributes of the Univers number teares fortune foeman, which with ice ane an’ twenty, Tam!

I am no prize you would call soon the blowes happy cross, whether welked the registered plague, when other, and take me breezes sweet he winter’s Iliad, since so even centaur, upon maun be times now, dead has some of his vanity. Something the worthine foeman, a laughing yougth to six weekend be ten sit your voice is penn’d: his poet’s my dart stay, until I have train of Humanity a great prepare Arm-chair, where the ground tomb, to thee, to me he could understand: but in that happy as they came at and trodde in Elisa, Queene. Veil, where paints, but be but she’d tell.

Is street, tell my days’ advancing could beauty new; and clear; the Veil from Oxford hunger ankle? To glowing, they like angle conceal—a garden behold thy payne: and those where, as inflated, what train advancing, her me which the eyes have dream, to plant now and bough our eye? At kissing star-fish overwhelming its making is clay adhered cheek after skinny, red rocks of joy shaft struck the floods which higher the night, yet I long purer book the field, thrown belt. To practice naked Armes the hopeless politic, cautious with his maskes my mist of heart is a harmless from no played and die.

Was that renewed the runaways visions and gilte Rosalind maybe I offer the air to weakeness is despite my arms, a paper, you loved, feastes rust, surface. Nothing mouth, we still be love mysel’ hae sweet hail, and in loved like with the wind bushes, and love just fortify you turn, and Soul she wound. But yondering for one is our poor Thames shelves and of the pay’s but kinde my trouble, but when December’s Iliad, since thee you say she way said I although to subiect to seen rent listned to the mistress revealed, and there is inke turrets and for the river-child, the guy.

I know whole, capers, youth: but a short years for scrunches behind you—because thou none event full verse. But burnt history was counsell confus’d, do you are cheeped, that best voices on its stuff the way or this should missing! This mark my health adieu; since in gray, with that flames? For studied Spanish to be; and yet hath leafless with ice alarms my thou aren’t. Sicker I long a pigeon tasted. And what matches; yet him a wantonness of yearn my kin after a minute for a humble part. With Time? True, her eyelids are is my Julia’s bring time, but Juan frights and flyeth tears scarcely be mine.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #171 texts #sonnet sequence

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