#but the sheer joy he must have experienced

[good-to-drive]

Pisses me off that John is the only beatle who never got to be on the Simpsons because aside from George he'd have appreciated it the most

[writethrough]

The Diviner (Part V)

(Morpheus x Prophetess Reader)

Synopsis: Your body needs time to heal, but your unconscious is finally dreaming.

Warnings: None? (Message me if you see any.)

Word Count: 3219

A/N: Did you really think I'd leave you hanging a full week after that little blurb of a last chapter? I think I've more than made up for it with this sucker.

Thank you to everyone who's stuck it out with me. I really enjoyed hearing what you like about this series.

To everyone who has reblogged, you are spectacular humans and deserve an endless supply of your favorite food.

I hope you all enjoy this final chapter! I'd love to know what you thought of this series, and if I should post more multi-part fics in the future.

Series Masterlist

You wander. A maze of darkness before you.  

You exhale and remember Morpheus.  

A room appears, lit by stained glass, with a throne in the middle. And he's there, alive, staring at you in shock. 

—  

“I don’t understand,” you say. “How am I awake?”  

You were dying. At least it felt like you were dying. So, why are you...fine?  

“If I may?” Lucienne asks. Morpheus called for her as soon as he saw you.  

His chin dips a fraction, but it’s enough for Lucienne to continue.  

“Given your abilities, I believe the severity of your injuries—and healing in the Dreaming—has allowed your subconscious to manifest.” She smiles, pleased with her next words. “You’re dreaming, my lady.”  

Your brow furrows, and you glance from her to Morpheus.  

“How is that possible? If I’m healing, shouldn’t my mind be recovering as well?”  

“Your mind is the most resilient part of you, prophetess. It stands to reason it would need little to no time to replenish,” Morpheus says.  

Your eyes lower to the floor, considering this.  

For centuries, you’ve seen possible futures—travesties no one could imagine. And you haven’t forgotten one.  

Day in and day out, vision after vision, a constant rush of images, sounds, smells, and even sensations when intense enough. Your mind has built up a tolerance for nearly anything and everything.  

It seems almost dying is child's play for it though your body would be down for some time.  

You take in Morpheus’ throne room, truly seeing where you are. “I’m…dreaming.” And you laugh. In disbelief, in wonder—in sheer joy.  

You are dreaming.  

—  

Morpheus transported your body into his realm as soon as you fainted.  

Between your physical injuries and the attack meant for Morpheus, your only chance was the magic and tools in the Dreaming.  

Lucienne, Matthew, and Death helped him stabilize you, but he never expected you to walk right up to him as if you were fine.  

However your body absorbed the attack, it caused your powers to shut down, and you’re experiencing the Dreaming for the first time in centuries.  

You’re acting yourself mostly, but sometimes you grow tired, your physical form telling your unconscious you aren’t out of the woods yet.  

Morpheus urges you to take a seat, worry flashing through his eyes.  

“I’m okay,” you say. “It’s just a minor spell.”  

“I wish I could do more,” he says, hand still on the back of your bicep.  

“You’ve done plenty. More than I could ever hope for.”  

His jaw clenches, a twitch of movement, but you catch it. You’ve gotten better at picking up his micro-expressions.  

“I mean it, Morpheus. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you.” You try to push as much conviction in the words as possible.   

“You wouldn’t have been in harm's way if it wasn’t for me.”  

You shake your head, dizzying yourself and need to rest it on your hand. Morpheus’ brow pinches slightly.  

“Warrens decided to trap you and use me. I should've predicted that.”  

“That’s not in your ability,” he says.  

“And I should’ve figured I'd be in danger when Death said you’d be fine. I should’ve known she saw me dying and not you.”

It clicked not longer after you woke up. Of course, Death knew what was supposed to happen.

“You must not focus on the past. It will do nothing to aid your recovery.”  

You sigh. “I know. I just feel so stupid.”  

Your eyes are downcast. It surprises you when a gentle touch lifts your chin and directs you to focus on him.  

“I will not have you speaking as if you’ve done something wrong,” he says. “Because of you, I am alive. I will forever be grateful.”  

He waits for an answer. All you can do is nod.  

His touch vanishes, and he stands.  

“Perhaps I can show you more of the Dreaming.”  

You give him a small smile. “I’d like that.”  

—  

Time moves differently in the Dreaming. It was best when you stopped trying to keep track of it. All you know is that you’ve been recovering for some time. Long enough for you to have your role carved out here and for the residents to call you by name.  

Your exhaustion and dizzy spells are few and far between, but they’re intense and accompanied by symptoms of visions. A faint smell, a phantom touch, even a whisper of a voice, but no matter how much you try, you can’t hang onto them. They slip through your fingers before you recognize what they are. It’s like you’re missing a limb.  

Today, the loss is affecting you more than you thought it could. You miss your ability. As much trouble as it can cause, you somehow feel untethered from yourself. Even with your body lying unconscious, you’re more of a shell now than ever.  

And as much as you try to hide it, somehow, Morpheus knows.  

“You will return to yourself,” he says.  

You’re sitting in Fiddler’s Green on a bench beneath a grove of magnolia trees.  

“It feels like it’s been years,” you say, rubbing your arm. You haven’t felt the breeze on your skin since the attack. You hardly notice it now as the grass moves with it.  

You can tell he’s about to respond, and you already know what he’ll say.  

“Don’t tell me ‘it takes time’ or ‘be patient.’ I’ve been patient. I’ve had to be patient since Destiny gave me this damn power, and now I can’t even access it because I missed the signs last time!” You rub your face, trying to push the frustration out.  

He lets you have your moment to feel that anger.  

“Immortality is crueler than death,” he begins. “It's companions are loneliness and waiting.”  

You look at him, scanning his features, and nod. Your agitation cools into sympathy. 

“I forget what happened to you sometimes. I’m sorry.”  

“I will not accept an unnecessary apology,” he says. “My experiences do not outweigh yours.”  

“Nevertheless, I’m free here. You weren’t.”  

He locks eyes with you, a softness to them. “I am also free.”  

It’s like he’s latched onto your soul. His timbre pulls you closer. And you realize you don’t feel so lost when he’s around.  

“Boss!”  

You lean back and look toward the sound, missing Morpheus’ eyes widening a fraction at Matthew’s interruption, too.  

“Boss! Death’s here.” Matthew lands in front of you.  

Your brow furrows, and your heart quickens. “Death’s here?”  

Why would Death be here? She wouldn’t come to the Dreaming if she didn’t have a good reason.  

What if she’s working? What if you aren’t improving and the Dreaming is masking your worsening condition?  

Morpheus tilts his head slightly, sensing your tension. He puts the pieces together quickly as he stands. 

“I requested she come.” He turns to you, voice tender, reassuring. “I wished to spend time with her.”  

—  

You haven't seen Death since you arrived.  

She and Morpheus urged you to stay even though you wanted to give them privacy. You forgot what it was like to have friends—to be close to others. It was nice.  

Then she whisked you away, telling Morpheus it was “girl time.”  

You’re strolling on one of the paths: one that extends as long as you can walk and leads to wherever you wish.  

You’ve had enough time to think about that day, your limitations, Death’s, what Warrens did to you…  

“You knew I’d be there,” you say.  

Neither of you stop walking. It’s not a surprise that you’ve brought this up.  

“That’s why you were surprised. Not because I had a vision of Morpheus, but because I was supposed to be there all along—because I was supposed to die—and you couldn’t interfere.”  

She grimaces. “I’m sorry.”  

You let out a breathy laugh. “I should be used to all the secrecy, but I’m not.” You pause. “And yet, I get it. Price of power and all that, I guess.”  

Now, she halts. “I know this won’t bring you comfort, but your being alive is a miracle.”  

“Then how am I…”  

“I don’t know. And that’s not something I say often,” Death says. “I can only speculate, but the day Destiny came to you—before that, he came to me and asked I keep you here. I didn’t ask why, but maybe this was meant to happen. You were the only one who could save my brother.”  

You shake your head. “I still don’t understand. Why give me this power at all? Why not just put me on the path so I could save Morpheus at the end? And how could you see my murder if you made that promise?”  

“Not even I am sure of that.” She answers your last question. “But: Is that not what Destiny did? Put you on that very path?” She pauses, then softly. “And gave you a purpose. One bigger than anyone should have, but a purpose nonetheless.”  

That thought runs around your head. 

Did Destiny do that? 

It's hard to imagine that being the reason. But why else would he— 

“Do you…Do you think Destiny gave me this power so I would survive?”  

You aren’t sure that makes sense. 

You. Out of everyone that could make a difference in the world, Destiny chose you.  

Death shrugs. “Again, I can’t be certain. But think about it, it brought you to Hob, to me," she gives you a knowing look, "to Dream.” 

You roll your eyes. “Need I remind you that I hated Morpheus for the longest time.”  

“Need I remind you that was in the past tense.” She grins.  

“So, you’re saying it’s harder to kill me than I originally thought,” you say, trying to change the subject.  

“None of that,” she tuts. “Even though it’s not under the best circumstances, I am happy you and Morpheus are getting to know one another.”  

You hum. “I spent so long not knowing what to feel for him—having all of these unanswered questions—it’s strange…to finally have that behind me.” You pause. “I enjoy his company.”  

“I would’ve used a stronger word than that,” she says, grinning cheekily. 

The tiny smiles Morpheus sent you and the glances you threw him could’ve made her squeal if she was the type.  

“Okay,” you wave her off, “enough.”  

She puts her hands up, yielding.  

You hesitate before telling her this next part.  

“I think—No, I know my visions are returning.”  

“That’s great!” She grabs your arm. “...Isn’t it?”  

“It’s just…They aren’t back yet. They’re not full visions. And I don’t know what that means. Or how long I’ll be like this.” You gesture to yourself.  

She smiles empathetically. “It means you’re getting better. I can only imagine how frustrating it’s been, but you are healing.”  

You nod. She’s right.  

She slips her arm into yours. “Now, let me tell you all the embarrassing stories about my brother.”  

You throw your head back and laugh.  

—  

It’s been a few days since then, you think. You and Morpheus have spent most of your time together. He’s become someone you care for deeply, and you wonder if he feels the same.  

You think he does when he pulls out your chair or helps you cross a stream. He’s interested in your life besides your visions. And when you told him about your family and loved ones throughout the years, he placed his hand atop yours. You could still feel it sometimes.  

You’re both in the library. A rare occurrence of rest brought Morpheus to curl up with you on the plush sofa. Well, you curled up. Morpheus has his feet on the floor but is leaning into the cushions.  

“I’ll have read everything in here by the time I wake up,” you joke, flipping your page.  

“I can feel your bouts of power when they rise. It will not be long now.”  

He always speaks so assuredly when it’s about your healing. His steadfastness has rubbed off on you. You aren’t so pessimistic about it anymore.  

You don’t notice you’re staring at him until he asks if something’s wrong.  

You shake your head. “No. I just don’t know what I would’ve done all this time if you weren’t here.”  

He faces forward, not staring at anything, and silence settles over you. The atmosphere shifts, and you can almost feel the tension coming from him.  

“There is no universe where I would have been elsewhere,” he says, as still as ever.  

And it’s his seriousness that makes you drop your light tone and scoot closer.  

“I know. And I appreciate that.” You glance at your fingers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”  

“You haven’t.” He rests his hand on yours. “But know that you are my priority, and I am happy to have been by your side.”  

“Morpheus…” you lock eyes, “we’ve been over this. I hate that you feel obligated to help me.”  

His brows twitch inward. “I feel no such compulsions. I am grateful you saved my life, but I can never repay such sacrifice.” He pauses. “Your wellbeing is my concern as your…friend.”  

His thumb brushes your cheekbone as he searches your eyes.  

You pull your lips into a thin line, hoping he can’t feel the heat in your cheeks. “Just know that I wouldn’t change what I did. I wanted to save you—I needed to.”  

“You didn’t—”  

“I did!” You say almost desperately. “You’re the only connection I have to my past. You’re the only one who knows who I was. I can’t lose you…”  

You’re afraid to look him in the eye, but he lifts your chin with a slightly hooked finger, tenderness in his gaze.  

“You won’t.”  

He pulls his hand away, and you realize how much closer you both have gotten.  

“You can’t promise that, though,” you whisper.  

“No. I cannot. But I can promise that ritual is gone.”  

You clench your jaw. “That won’t stop me from worrying.”  

“Then you know how I feel.”  

He says it like a joke—mirthful—a tone that’s both strange and welcome in him.  

You roll your eyes halfheartedly. “You don’t need to worry. I’m fine.”  

“I will stop worrying when you’re awake,” he says. “Until then, I will watch over you.”  

A slight shiver runs down your spine. Morpheus' entire focus on you always makes you a little weak, but hearing him say those words? They almost send your knees buckling.  

“I don’t understand. Why have you been so insistent about this?”  

Something seems to settle in his eyes, his head tipping closer.  

“When you were writhing in pain—screaming—something came over me that hasn’t in a long while.”  

You tilt your head, waiting.  

“Fear.”  

“What?” you whisper.  

The back of his fingers grazes your cheek, lingering, caressing.  

“I feared I would lose you.” He’s searching you, analyzing every twitch and passing emotion.  

“Morpheus,” you start, “what are you saying?”  

The corner of his lips lift briefly.  

“You’ve become important to me,” he breathes. “My prophetess.”  

His lips are so close to yours. A moment more, and they’d touch. But as much as you want this, you stop him.  

“I don’t want our first kiss to be when I’m dreaming,” you say. “I want it to feel real because…you’ve become important to me, too.”  

Softly, he rests his forehead against yours.  

“I will wait as long as I must. Knowing you feel the same is enough.”  

—  

Your dizziness has been nonexistent these past couple of weeks. You’ve been able to help Lucienne in the library much more. However, this morning, if you could even call it that in the Dreaming—it’s like you’ve been getting hit from all sides.  

A breeze on your cheek while you were indoors.  

A shimmering red when you paged through a book.  

And whispered words of “regret this” and mumblings you couldn’t decipher.  

But this is your strongest one yet.  

It’s not images or scents, not even a noise, but an expansive, all-encompassing feeling blooming within your chest. You swear you’ll burst when Lucienne sees you steadying yourself against a table.  

She says your name. “Are you alright?”  

The feeling keeps getting bigger and bigger, and then Lucienne seems so far away, then the entire library. And you realize it’s time.  

“I think…I think I’m waking up.”  

A moment after you spoke, it feels like you're falling backward.  

Your eyes open with a quick inhale, and you look around.  

You’re in a bed, and everything feels so much more tangible. There are soft sheets, a comforting breeze from the open window, and that unmistakable feeling of something new beginning.  

You slowly rise, but where you thought there would be soreness, none comes.  

You've healed.  

You laugh in disbelief, running out of the room and to the one person you need to see.  

He’s creating dreams, something you’d usually take a moment to marvel at, but you can’t seem to give a damn.  

He glances over his shoulder, lips ticking up when he sees you.  

He’s about to speak. Then, his eyebrows twitch downward when you don’t stop walking, and you barely contain your smile before you kiss him.  

It takes him no more than a moment to grip your waist and pull you closer. To feel him like this instead of those phantom pressures, it's indescribable.   

You reluctantly retreat, and he stares at you with this kind of awe, tracing the back of his knuckles down your cheek, his features brighter than you’ve ever seen.   

“How are you feeling?” he asks.   

You take a moment before answering. “I’m okay. Everything feels…stronger now.” You give him a small smile. “Real.”  

“Not many have visited the Dreaming as you are,” he says. “If you’re overwhelmed, please tell me.”  

You shake your head fondly. “Not overwhelmed, just…happy.”  

“I am glad.”  

Your hands rest on his chest as you stare at him, too thrilled to care that maybe you should say something. But all you want to do is look at him—feel him now that you’re back in your body.  

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind.  

He’s gripping your hips, the lightest of touches, yet it almost burns you in the best way possible. His thumb grazes one side, grabbing your attention. Like he knows you’re daydreaming. 

“I must give you something,” he says.  

He reaches within his coat, and in his palm is a gold band embedded with a ruby, a piece of Morpheus’ Dreamstone.  

“Stay with me,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “Come and go as you please, but always return. To your home.” He pauses. “To me.”  

You stare at him, eyes wide with wonder and glistening.  

“Yes,” you breathe, beaming.  

He strokes your cheekbone with his thumb before cupping it fully and slotting his lips between yours.  

You giggle. “I have to say I really didn’t see this coming.”  

If Morpheus was one to roll his eyes, he would have.  

“Do not make me regret this.”  

The lit in his voice pulls a playful gasp from you.  

“It’s too late. You can’t change your mind,” you say, eyes alight.  

His warm smile sends gooseflesh up your arms.  

“Never,” he whispers.  

Destiny has strange ways of working, but after centuries of unanswered questions, you finally think you understand why he chose you.  

Maybe the eldest Endless has a softer spot for his younger brother than any of you realize.

Taglist: @sayumiht, @hatterripper31, @snowsatsu, @1950schick, @navs-bhat, @bookshelf-dust, @sapphireonline, @fictional-hooman, @steph-speaks, @ladyredstar1991, @secretdreamlandmentality, @ababycake, @morpheuss1mp, @boofy1998, @alice-the-nerd, @herfantasyworldd, @poemfreak306, @under-kitty

If you’d like to be added to any taglists, please comment or message me with the character you’d like updates on. 

[lizzybeth1986]

Laylat al-Henna

Book: The Royal Romance

Rating: PG

Pairing: Kiara Theron x Hana Lee

Word Count: 1, 882 words

Summary: It's the night before Kiara and Hana's wedding! What fun things do Kiara's cousins from Fes have in store for their henna night?

A/N: You'll find details and visuals on the fashion and henna designs (as well as faceclaims for the OCs!) in this post.

Tagging @kiaratheronappreciationweek for KTAW Day 1: Culture, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW/LGBTQ Archive, @choicespride as well even though it may be a bit early for the pride event.

It is tradition - Kiara has been told over and over, wedding after wedding, from the time she was twelve - for a woman to have her bridegroom's name hidden in the designs of her henna.

Their families back in Fes would make a game of it on their wedding night; the groom could touch his bride only when he found his name, tiny and dark and perfect - leaving the most beautiful stain on her palms.

At least four (well...three, really) of those cousins had giggled over how it all went down at their own wedding nights. Nour's henna had her husband's name written in extremely small print, squirreled away among a row of curls. Imane's flowed along the curves of a large, floral paisley. Nissrine's husband was rumoured to have taken hours searching for his name in her henna and poor Fatimazahra's collapsed into an eight-hour slumber before he could even truly try.

All four of them laughed even harder when they were told that Kiara would be marrying a woman.

At first Kiara assumed it had to be the fun of celebrating two brides rather than just one. Double the joy, double the dancing, double the bridal henna!

Should've known better, Kiara mutters to herself as her eyes search frantically for telltale signs of calligraphy along the darkened vines on Hana's palm.

She almost lets out a triumphant yell when she catches a lovingly inscribed kaaf, deceptively mirroring the vines. That's before she realises the other four letters are scattered in Arabic all over Hana's palm.

Kiara purses her lips, immensely annoyed. Why did she think this to be so romantic in the first place?

"Oh!" Hana whispers in delight, "Look! I've found mine." Her finger lightly traces the soft skin underneath Kiara's little finger, caressing the spot where her own name is inscribed, in Mandarin....as a whole word. Her eyes sparkle in childlike glee.

Kiara manages to catche an alif peeking out from behind a flower on the soft skin just below Hana's thumb. She lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking her head.

Perhaps she should thank every deity of every faith that her parents' gave her a name as short as Kiara. Imagine her plight if it had been as long as Fatimazahra's, zut alors.

"My darling cousins," she says, her eyes still roaming over Hana's palms. Now...now she understands all those hearty cackles Nour seemed to be making, at the idea of arranging a henna party for two women. "Elles me conduiront à ma tombe!"

--

Every woman at the henna party in Castelserraillan that night shared very knowing grins as Kiara and Hana entered - completely blissed out, skin dewy and aglow, a mixture of a french lavender scent and the earthy aroma of ghassoul clay emanating from their bodies.

They'd been brought into the hall like princesses of old, carried in jewelled palanquins, dressed in caftans and takchitas whose golden threads reflected the soft light of the hall, the candles that seemed to receive their own henna treatment in tones of pink, purple and rose gold, and their light glowed softly in trays of pure gold.

Having experienced the joys of the pre-henna night hammam baths themselves, most of Kiara's aunts and cousins could tell how good the treatments must have been within the first ten minutes of a bride entering the ceremony.

Beneath her golden veil, Kiara's eyes roamed around the hall, in awe of the sheer love and detail that must have gone into planning this party alone. Both women being daughters to a multitude of cultures meant that Kiara and Hana had to pay their respects to several of their homes - Bethulia. Castelserraillan. Udvada. Orleans. Fes. Shanghai. Cordonia. - in different ceremonies, and include a multitude of relatives.

Which meant that Kiara's aunts and cousins knew this night was their moment to shine.

Hana was whisked to another corner of the room before Kiara could even get a chance to speak to her - a bevy of ladies already surrounding her to fulfill requests, give her mint tea, admire the henna's artist's craft or just for a small chat. Anything and everything Hana wanted. Tonight (and this was exactly how Kiara wanted it) Hana was going to be treated like a queen.

From under her lashes, Kiara sneaked a look at Hana. The woman she would call her wife tomorrow. Listening, nodding, her silken brown hair catching the glow of the lights as she threw her head back at a joke her aunt Hala said.

"If you stare any harder you'll bore a hole in the wall behind her," Nissrine came to her, grinning as she followed Kiara's gaze. She looked around the hall, slightly doubtful. "How did we do?"

Kiara laughed, placing her free hand on her cousin's arm, reassuring her with the word they would all use to describe something as beautiful. "Zwina."

Fatimazahra - who had been minding the caterers this whole time - seemed to appear out of nowhere, chukling. "Tomorrow is her wedding night. Of course everything will be zwina. The macroute will be zwina, her henna will be zwina, her wife will be the most zwina."

Kiara moved her gaze from Hana to her own palms, admiring the naqasha's speed and precision. The henna felt cool on her left palm, the designs on her arms already beginning to dry a little and the paste itself smelling pleasant and earthy - the way real henna should.

The naqasha - an experienced henna artist from their hometown whose team had become popular among the family circles for their vast knowledge of different henna styles (Indian, Pakistani, Khaleeji, Fassi, Marrakechi, Meknessi, Saharawi - you name it) - had finished making a beautiful dome at the centre of Kiara's palm, and was now referring to a tiny piece of paper Imane seemed to have given her before carefully writing out Méihuā - the name Hana's paternal family often used for her - in Hànzì script.

Kiara smiles mistily as she watches Soraya, the naqasha, labour over each character of the script, making sure she never got a single line or slant wrong. Hana often told her that that name reminded her of happier times, far more than her own birth name did. It meant plum blossom - the flower that grew fragrant and resilient in the snow, China's national flower. Her Năinai's favourite flower.

And over the past year...she'd begun to answer to it a little more too.

Kiara mouthed a silent "thank you" to Imane as she sauntered to her side, looking very pleased with herself.

"Wonderful work, Soraya," she patted the naqasha lightly on her shoulder, "What oils did you add in the henna paste this time?"

"Tea tree, geranium and lavender," Soraya said, smiling, "She can hold her hands in front of some herbal incense later. A lovely rich colour and the scent will be incredible."

"Ohhh...what a deep stain it'll leave behind when the henna comes off!" Imane looked back at Kiara, winking. "Remember what our aunts used to tell us, Kiara? The darker the stain of the henna, the deeper the essence of his love. Or her's, in this case."

Kiara was grateful for her golden veil as heat creeped up her neck. Maman loved that adage, ever since her own wedding where - if Kiara's aunts were to be believed - her henna deepened to a dark, rich brown without even holding her hands to a brazier like everyone else did.

Kiara always liked to call herself a practical woman. But this didn't stop her from dreaming of showing Hana her palms, rich and deep brown from both henna and their love.

"Is Hana liking her designs?" Kiara asked Imane.

"Iyyeh," Imane nodded. "Soraya's girls have really outdone themselves. Indian designs are usually very elaborate, but Hana wanted something simple, a little floral."

She gave Kiara a wolfish grin, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I think you're going to love it."

Kiara narrowed her eyes at Imane. She knew that look. It was the kind she would give all her cousins when, as children, she was about to do skin her knees climbing the branches of a fig tree.

Kiara was going to open her mouth to ask what Imane had in mind, when the low, deep strains of the guembri rang throughout the room.

It was Nissrine's younger sister Nour, closing her eyes in reverence and plucking the strings of the family guembri - a legacy from her father, a renowned Gnawa master himself. The guembri had been in the family for generations, itself decorated with henna patterns so intricate it would amaze even the best of naqashas.

As the women in her family got up to dance to "Toura Toura", a song Kiara would listen to and relish in 12 hour lilas every year in Fes (singing in Bambara - a language neither she nor her cousins truly understood but loved to hear), she found herself somehow dancing next to the woman she had been craving to see for the last few hours.

"Well, hello there," Kiara said, sneaking a kiss to Hana's cheek.

Hana giggled. "Fancy running into you."

They danced until their feet were sore, until their eyes begged for sleep, until their henna dried - leaving behind a stain that was a deep, dark, rich brown.

--

"They did that on purpose!" Kiara huffs, ten minutes after she has triumphantly shown Hana the final letter - the rāy curling at the base of her wrist. "They were planning to annoy and vex me this entire time. If they were here right now I'd tell them to go cook themselves an egg."

For all her grumbling, however, Kiara was quite overjoyed. She had hoped that her extended family in Fes would adore Hana just as much as she did, that they would love her and pamper her silly. They went above and beyond; they made Hana's first real experience of Morocco practically unforgettable.

It was. In every sense of the word. Even if that involved secretly pulling Kiara's leg.

Hana pouts, her fingers still tracing the name on Kiara's palm. "I wish they scattered letters for me too. Seems like more of a challenge." She shifts a little more into Kiara's arms, turning her gaze to her own palms. "Not that I don't love your henna already. It's gorgeous; look at these curls in the center! They remind me of a compass rose."

Hana runs her fingers purposefully along the length of Kiara's body. She presses five tiny kisses along her face.

"A kiss for each letter," she hums happily against Kiara's skin, "A just reward for your hard work."

Laughter bubbles in Kiara's throat. "Only five?"

"Kiara Yasmine Thorne," Hana's voice takes on a raspy, sultry quality, "Don't be greedy."

"Ma moitie," she whispers back, "I believe tonight's the one night when greed is allowed."

Hana bites her lower lip to stem her own laughter, then lets her lips roam free over Kiara's face.

"Fine, then," Hana huffs in mock-petulance, only too happy to go along with the joke, "Eighteen kisses it is."

Kiara buries her hands in Hana's hair as she breathes in the fragrance from between her shoulder and neck. "I won't mind if you give me more...but alright. Eighteen's a start."

Translation -

Darija:

Kaaf (ك), yaa (ي), alif (ا)(twice), rāy (ر) are the isolated letters that - I think - will form Kiara's name in Arabic. I believe that it may look somewhat like this (كيارا) when written as one word, but the letters are meant to be scattered around Hana's henna just to tease Kiara.

Ghassoul/Rhassoul clay - a type of clay that some people use as a cosmetic product for their skin and hair. It’s a brown clay only found in a valley in the Atlas mountains of Morocco. The term “rhassoul” comes from an Arabic word that means “to wash.” Typically used in hammam baths.

Zwina - a compliment, literal meaning is beautiful or good.

Macroute - a diamond shaped sweet cookie filled with dates and nuts or almond paste.

Naqasha - Henna artist

Guembri - a three stringed skin-covered bass plucked lute used by the Gnawa people

Lila - a rich ceremony in the Gnawa community, of song, music, dance, costume, and incense that takes place over the course of an entire night, ending around dawn. Learn more here.

Toura Toura - Popular Gnawa song. Here is a version by Innov Gnawa.

French:

zut alors - an expression of annoyance, like saying "darn!" or "damn!", mostly used in non-serious instances.

Elles me conduiront à ma tombe! - They will lead me to my grave!

Va te faire cuire un œuf! - Literally, "go cook yourself an egg!". An expression of annoyance, similar to "go take a hike!" or "leave me alone!"

[targcrazies]

Moonless, Dark Night. Pt. 6

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Strong (half Targaryen) Words: 3.2k+ Warnings: Violence and Graphic Descriptions, Emotional Distress, Mature (ish) themes, Mentions of Self-Harm and Su*cide, Adult Language, Incest.

This chapter has spoilers from the actual Fire & Blood storyline and sm*t

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

9th Day of 7th Moon, 126 AC.

He found me behind the large, looming bar of bricks in our new grand apartment, his fingers grazing my waist before I winced in surprise and broke into a run. It rained outside and breezed speedily, a rarity in King’s Landing. The air tingled on the skin like gentle kisses and the smell of soil overtook every Dornish incense. The night melted onto the earth as the shower stole the humid air of the day earlier, when he and I had been wed. What a grand day it was, only second to Aegon’s weddings! Despite the grandeur, the joy, and the successful confluence as such; the heat was unbearable. We all drank honeyed wine and ate so little. The rest of the food was dutifully distributed among the smallfolks. Their joy was insurmountable and they all promised to pray endlessly for my and my husband’s welfare.

My husband! What a delight to call him so! He is finally mine. And whilst he always felt mine, there was always this qualm that held my tongue in place. But now, I shall call him mine before the whole realm. My husband, my Aemond, my Prince, my Bejeweled Prince! And, no one shall ever have the nerve to object. He is mine and mine alone and none but he and I are each other’s. 

So, when we retired to our new apartment after a whole day of festivities, Aemond having vehemently refused to let anyone bear witness to our “bedding”, saying, “Oh, she and I will bed alright. You needn’t watch us for you will hear us. Now leave!” I must have turned ten shades of red but he seemed upright and everyone fled shortly. I was honestly grateful and even though we were not exactly living up to the promise he had made, I could not care less!

As we had unclothed down to our shifts, the rain began with a thunderous vigour! The strong, mighty rain took down, with the clouds, almost all the candles. The only source of light was the lightning then, which was awfully, conveniently frequent. I requested my husband to let all the smallfolks who had come to congratulate us for our wedding in, to allow them respite and warmth alongside food. My dearest husband found my notion kind and followed through. I know that the castle does not hold every smallfolk in King’s Landing now, but I feel at peace that it holds many!

My husband had then come in with the expectation to find me totally bare, his eye gave it all away when he found me still in my shift. I took a ribbon of mine and blindfolded him, I asked him to play with me, and my dear husband followed through! Again!

He touched my arm, belly, back, hair SO MANY TIMES. But, each and every time, I ran! It was dark and then light, both of us failing to ascertain accurately where the other one was. However, that is the thrill of it! The sheer fun of it! I knew that I was tiring the man out. If Lady Cass were in my place, she’d fear exhausting her husband out of their bedding. But, honestly, the idea of bedding scared me sort of; even though Rhaenyra told me everything to expect and anticipate, to say yes and no, to ensure that I experienced optimum pleasure myself. 

Finally, I think, my husband had caught on to my antics, for his arms wrapped around my bosom so tightly that I could not twist myself out of his grasp. He called me his ‘dearest wife’ and his ‘impish wife’; before turning me to face him! I was ‘his’ as he was ‘mine’. I was so pleased that I took the ribbon of his eye myself and told him that he had won, he had won it all. The game, my life, my all – he took me in his arms and made me feel so small but so whole, so VERY WHOLE. He hadn’t touched me so in so long! We had been betrothed but he hadn’t even kissed me. He teased and teased and teased. I didn’t know what to say or do. I didn’t know what to mention here! What was I to say? My betrothed touched my lips and leaned closer to say there were bits of eggs on my lips? Or that my betrothed had me pitted against a bookshelf with his giant body to only pick out a book and hit me on my head with it? Or HOW his foot would always find its way on top of mine but he ALWAYS pretended that he did NO SUCH THING?

And then, HE KISSED ME. Finally, FINALLY. I felt so… floaty. My feet couldn’t feel the ground underneath. There was nothing but clouds. I was so taken by his kiss that I held on to him for DEAR LIFE and he laughed in the kiss. My heart felt so heavy from the fullness and wholeness that I could have cried. When we stopped kissing and he looked at me, the sky had cleared up and the moon shone upon the earth so brightly. And it kissed his face for how else did it seem so beautiful? I don’t know, I couldn’t. My husband is a beautiful man. A true Valyrian dragon-riding Prince. He is so very beautiful that I always fawn. However, last night, one would only have to see him themselves to understand exactly what and HOW I mean it when I say that HE LOOKED SO VERY BEAUTIFUL that my CHEST HURT. It felt like someone had knocked the air out of me when he smiled at me. Oh, his smile. His happy, calm, loving smile. My dear, dear husband. My heart, my love, my dearest sweet husband.

I don’t know why or how I had the notion, but I said, “You have not played with me in so long. Tonight, we shall play more.” He looked at me so befuddled, and I shoved his arms off me and ran off, told him to catch me. The white curtains flapped and flew into the wind and I, like a child, ran all around them and shoved them into his face and obstructed his running! He, for once, did not express any irritation if he felt any. He laughed and called my name with such love and ran for me! Anyone who says he is a grump and irritable, I wish they could see him with me. He has so much love for me and ONLY ME. I feel so special!

He finally caught me when I got myself hopelessly tangled in one of the curtains. He laughed at me and asked me if I was alright. He helped me untangle and CARRIED ME TO THE BED, OUR BED. He meant business, I say, WHOLE BUSINESS. He was so gentle with me, assuaging all my fears and filling me so comfortably. It felt so wrong to not have done this before, to not have had him in me. He fit me like a glove! It was so perfect and divine and warm and… titillating, if I may say! He was so wonderful. He kissed me everywhere. He put his all into ensuring that I felt the most wonderful! His hands and his mouth are magical! They hold every magical thing in this world! I felt like I’ve experienced the world and beyond last night in his arms!

My dear husband! My wonderfully dear husband! I will never let anyone come between us. No Lady Cass, no Lord Hightower, no Queen! He’s mine and I am his. Oh dear, I am in utmost bliss! I am enthralled by my dear husband. Oh, how he loves. How he loves me!

Aemond had stolen her old journal after their marriage had soured toward the beginning of the war. He often placated himself with it, despite knowing the wrongdoing in breaching her privacy. He loved his wife, he did, dearly. But oftentimes, he’d find her brooding, in this quiet, stagnant rage. She’d be as cold as iced steel, her gaze giving away so little that he felt like his soul was being torn to shreds whenever her eyes would deliberately seek him out. Her lips, straight and unwavering, remained so. He often wondered how it was possible for someone capable of such exuberant warmth to be driven with mad, critical rage. 

She’d either yell, scream, and drain herself of the venomous anger. Or, she’d let it brew her soul bitter, the smell of charred flesh wrecking up the abode. This time, she was somehow angry enough to have yelled so much that she brewed darker than ever. She was Strong, in name, and in temper. Thus, it really helped to have a remnant of her uncorrupted warmth in his hold, even if it was wholly wrong.

“Why husband? If you have nothing to hide, why don’t you seat yourself beside me like the dear husband you are? I must interrogate Alys Rivers regarding how she’s exploited the kindness shown to her.” She was aware that despite his regular constraint, he’d be even more so, given her state. She was taking advantage of it.

“Of course, Lady Wife. I have nothing to hide, at all.” Aemond took a big gulp of his wined honey, knowing better than to refuse her then. He waited for a while, keen upon knowing the whereabouts of Alys yet adamant on not making any inquiry on the matter himself.

After ten or so minutes, Alys was brought before them by Larys. The brother had taken it upon himself to attend to every whim of his sister. Aemond knew what the man thought. With both of Aegon’s sons having passed, Aemond was heir to the throne. With Aegon’s supposed injury, he might be left unable to produce any more heirs of his own. If Aemond were to have sons, he’d have a strong claim to the throne following Aegon. The one deserving of the Iron Throne, Aemond himself, could one day sit upon the Iron Throne. He’d have the woman he loved beside him, and that’d strengthen him and his reign. 

“Alys, I hope you’ve slept well.” Her voice interrupted his trail of thoughts. He daren’t look at the woman before him, he needn’t worsen her chances of a pardon.

“Maam, it was cold and unkempt. I slept not much at all.” Alys sniffed, indicating having caught a cold. “Must I ask why I was detained so abruptly?”

“Alys, I will ask you, plain and clear. If you like your comfort and do not want to be in loss of it, could you clarify what has been going on between you and my Husband, Prince Aemond Targaryen?” Sansa’s voice was without any emotion, leaving little for anyone to assume of her mind. She spoke the way a neutral adjudicator would, without having anything to gain or lose from the outcome of the situation. 

“Why Lady Strong, nothing at all!” Alys looked at the Prince, scouring for mercy and attention. She found none. “I have only been a loyal, faithful servant to the Prince.”

“And serve him you did!” Sansa laughed dryly, “My husband says you’ve been a true companion, holding intriguing conversations, providing politically astute advice, even having visions in his favour?” Sansa aptly raised a single eyebrow, “That consists more than I have done for my husband in the nineteen years I’ve been his companion myself.”

Alys stood tall, “My Lady, the Prince and I have had limited interactions that have consisted almost entirely of the current dispute. My loyalties align with King Aegon the Second and the Prince’s cause.”

“Hmm,” Sansa took a sip of her watered down wine, “How old were you again, Alys?”

The hostage seemed the most alarmed at the inquiry, “Yes, my Lady?”

“I remember you being good looking even when I was young myself. It’s like you haven’t aged a day from when you were a wetnurse to Harwin Strong, my deceased older brother?”

Alys’s eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion, “My Lady, you are mistaken. I might be old, yes, but not old enough to have let your brother suckle on my teat. We were childhood companions!”

“You’ve had your share of companions, I see.” Sansa leaned forward, “That makes you what, Alys, three-and-forty, or four-and-fourty?”

“My Lady, I am barely a day over forty.” Her voice was low then, her eyes stuck on Sansa’s feet. 

Sansa looked at her brother, who nodded in response. “That is more believable, I suppose, than the age my husband thought you were.” There was a devious chuckle in her voice, “He thought you were thirty, my innocent husband.”

Aemond’s eye stung with tears. He looked up at Alys for only a moment or two to find her face contorted in utter hurt and humiliation. “I apologise for the lie I told, my Lady.”

Sansa cocked her head to the side, “How about the lies you told a moment ago?”

“My Lady,” Alys looked close to tears, “I don’t understand.”

“Oh dearest, you do.” Sansa slowly nodded, “The Seven Kingdoms are in a state of war, which puts me in an awfully compromising position. I cannot send you anywhere to serve, fitting your status. And, you’re not highborn enough to be allowed to stay anywhere else as a guest.” Aemond’s chest burned as Sansa went on, “You will be designated to one of the chambers, which we shall conceal for very obvious reasons,” She cast a look at her husband, so incisive that Aemond had to look her way. She smiled. “You will not be allowed out of your chamber. Your chamberpot will be cleaned every night, your meals will be provided duly. Your garments and linens will be washed and provided duly. However, if I hear a peep of your attempts of escaping or conversing with anyone who’s not accessorising your captivity, I will have your tongue.” She then turned to her brother with a gentle smile, “Take her away, brother, you know where.”

Aemond watched his wife’s shoulder fall to rest as her brother followed her command. She took a generous bite of her bread, chewing heartily. She casted a glance towards her husband’s plate, “Dearest husband, your bread looks awfully dry.” She pushed hers away and took his, slathering fatty, molten butter and coating the bread with sugar, “This will fill you right up and help you prepare for the sacking of more villages here.” She raised the bread to his lips, and he had no option but to do as she expected of him.

“I should have known better,” He thought to himself, “Bitch Rhaenyra is her favourite cousin, after all.” 

Sansa knew that she was preying on Aemond’s vulnerability, however, she could not find it within herself, the kindness to let him be. He may deny till his last breath, but she knew what he had done. He had betrayed her trust and gone to bed with another woman. There was no forgiving for a crime so shameful. She knew he loved her, she saw it in his eyes, plain and clear. He should have just been more mindful of his love and maintained loyalty.

As time went by, her belly grew. Aemond refused to stay at Harrenhal for long after the Battle by the Lakeshore, being aware that his uncle could strike at any given moment. Criston left for King’s Landing and Aemond took Sansa with him to stay in castles belonging to minor lords whose loyalties lied with the greens, atop Vhagar she saw the world and wished her child had no need to be born under such circumstances. She felt more lethargic with time, her cravings becoming more queer and severe. She wrote ravens back at Harrenhal and checked in on Alys every once in a while. She made sure that Wylla, one of the girls down in the kitchen and her brother were the only ones aware of Alys’s whereabouts. She wished she could punish her husband instead of the woman who owed her little loyalty, however, the war had laid out constraints. Despite the frequent travelling, Aemond had ensured her utmost comfort, seeing to all her needs and whims being attended to the best of their abilities. News of Criston’s demise at the Butcher’s Ball reached them shortly after and Sansa could not conceal her glee. The man had dipped toes in unnecessary business, she thought, he had it coming. The babe in her belly stirred.

“I cannot wait for the birth of our son, my dearest, then your suffering shall come to an end, too.” Aemond visited Sansa after she had thrown up whatever little supper she had had, “We will name our son together.”

“What if it’s a girl, Aemond?” Sansa sipped on warm tea, trying to calm her nerves as she breathed in its floral scent.

“That’d be jolly news as well, dear wife.” Aemond responded, “We can think of names for both a son and a daughter, if you so desire.”

“What’s the point?” Sansa casted her eyes away from her husband, taking the large moon in, “It’s all pointless.”

“You mustn’t speak like that, Sansa.” His voice softened, “Dearest, do you want to know what name I’ve considered?”

“What?” She wanted to get it all over with.

“Baelon, after our grandfather.” Aemond beamed with pride.

“Did you know that Grandfather was cold to my mother?” Sansa began, “He couldn’t stand the sight of her, said it reminded him of his betrayal to a wife who had died when he had slept with my wretched grandmother. If it weren’t for Uncle Viserys and Uncle Daemon, my Mother would have been miserable.” 

“I am certain Grandfather loved aunt Visenya,” Aemond kept his hand on hers, “They say that she was the last person whom he desired to see as he passed. Aunt Visenya was a Targaryen through and through. It was hard to not fall in love with her.”

“You were so cold to my Mother until her passing,” Sansa recalled, “She tried her earnest to speak with you, to look after you, to be there for you after your injury. She felt so thwarted. She did not deserve to suffer such humiliation.” Sansa sighed with a heavy heart.

“I was… I was not pleasant at that time and I was-”

“You have no respect for my Mother at all, do you? You kept your mistress in her bedchamber…” Sansa swallowed, “It’s one thing to be unfaithful, dear, it’s another to choose my Mother’s apartment for it.”

Aemond’s eye became glassy, “Dearest, you mis-”

“I do not misunderstand, Aemond. I am neither a child nor a fool. I saw what I saw and I heard what I heard. You haven’t needed me how you needed her then in long.” Sansa could not keep her voice from breaking as she thought of how much she missed being able to cradle her husband’s face on her lap.

“You haven’t allowed me such intimacy for a while now, dear wife. You must remember how you rejected me.” Aemond interjected, “The fact that you are with child is an accidental lapse on your part. You couldn’t look at me in the face the next morning…” Aemond looked away, gulping back snot. 

“You were so happy with that crown on you,” Sansa recalled, “You could not fathom how the crown looked better on you than anyone you’d ever seen. You couldn’t stop yourself from remarking how Rhaenyra would look like a fat cow wearing gold. It disgusted me to think that this was the man I had made love to the night before.”

Aemond sat before her quietly before he looked up at her face, “We’re at war. It makes us do things and say things that we are not exactly proud of-”

“You admit you’re in the wrong?”

“Dearest, we’re all in the wrong.” 

For the first time in long, Sansa found a remnant of her old husband in Aemond’s words and his gaze. “I miss you, my love. I miss you so badly.”

“Then, let me in. Please, I beg you. Let us be how we once were. I am so tired of not being able to hold you and touch you as I will, as my heart wills, dearest.” Aemond had left his chair and knelt before her. He took her hands in his and found her eyes, “I promise to be loyal and attentive. All my love, my heart, everything- it’s all yours, dearest. Please, let go of the grievances. I love you, I have always loved only you. And now,” he put his hand on her belly, “Our child grows within you, a symbol of our love.”

“You cannot complain if the child is a girl, I can’t make promises about what child I give birth to. I do not desire that level of pressure on myself.”

“Of course, dearest. Whatever child, girl or boy, will be dearest to me. You could give me ten girls and I’d rejoice. I don’t need a son, I need you, Sansa.” 

He rested his head on her belly gently, kissing there. His eyes shifted to her bosom, more ample than he remembered inside her shift. He knew that she was watching him, but he could not resist burying his face on her left tit, his lips kissing there gently. He felt her relax beneath him, her soft sigh encouraging. He planted soft kisses all over her bosom, his mouth then seeking refuge at the skin beyond her shift. Her soft sighs became breathier, her fingers holding onto his silver locks.

That night, they made love. He took her from behind, allowing her to rest on her side as he thrust into her passionately, his hands touching and caressing whatever he could find in his hold. His mouth peppered her shoulder and neck with gentle kisses. Before he knew it, she had gotten on top of him, ready to mount him in passion. She looked beautiful, he thought, swollen breasts and belly from his child, her skin glowed as her raven black hair fell over her beautiful lilac eyes. She took his hands and moved her hips fluidly, her eyes never leaving his as soft moans escaped her lips. He laid her on her back and positioned himself appropriately, chasing his high as her face contorted slightly in pleasure. She had forgotten to let go with him, he realised. His thumb located her small bud, pressing at it exactly how he remembered her liking. A cry emerged from her throat, his name, some swears. She stopped him, held onto the headboard and turned her back to his as she positioned herself on her knees. He entered her from behind, bending forward to meet her mouth in a passionate, fierce kiss.

She fell asleep as soon as he licked her to her peak after having achieved his own. Her lips were red and swollen, small bruises left on her shoulders and neck. She slept peacefully in his arms, breathing gently. He was rather drowsy himself, but he feared so much that she would change her mind in the morning and he’d not be able to touch her again like this, let alone kiss her and hug her.

His worst fear remained so, for she had evidently tired of their distance as well and chosen to let go, for then. She was warmer with him, and despite not being able to achieve the love and closeness they shared before the war, he found joy in thinking that they were making good progress. He also realised, after a few fortnights had passed, that he hadn’t even thought of Alys even once.

Sansa grew everyday with the babe. The Maesters said that the child must be in great health, pointing out how the closeness between the husband and wife must be contributing strongly to the child’s growing strength. Larys would often be found cooing to his sister’s belly, her laughter erupting like music in the air. However, he had to leave soon as well, and despite his not telling Sansa where, she knew that he had left to be with Aegon. She had plenty of lamb and goat, feasting on many fruits as well. Aemond was happy to be able to provide her with comfort. He could tell, however, that despite her being more joyful in recent times, she could not help but find her belly rather humbling, her exhaustion catching up to her at the realisation that she hadn’t even half the help she would have had were the situations different, normal. He tried to be there as much as possible. At times, he forgot about the war. It somehow comforted him.

One morning he awoke and found the space beside him empty. Sansa stood by the door with a parchment in her hands, trembling slightly. Aemond hadn’t seen her so distressed in long. He shot up from the bed, rushing beside his wife. “Dearest, what has happened?”

“It’s- it’s from Daemon.” Sansa muttered, “The letter states that you killed Uncle Simon and my little cousins… is that true, Aemond?” Aemond had concealed the news of their killings, and Larys had complied, agreeing that it would be harmful for Sansa’s health. She was told that they all had managed to flee successfully. 

“They died in the ambush, my dear. Forgive-”

She put a hand up to his face, “No,” she grimaced, “I’m tired of apologies. You are fighting your war.” She breathed in her whole chest full before breathing out, “My house shall not survive this war and fade into oblivion.”

“You’re a Targaryen-”

“I am a Strong first, Aemond.” She did not look at him as she shoved the parchment into his chest before walking toward the bed, “Uncle wants to meet you.”

“What?”

“He’s now in Harrenhal, where he found out about your massacre. He is challenging you to a duel, Aemond, one on one.”

“Yes…” Aemond walked up to his wife, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“What will you do, dearest?” Sansa looked up at her husband, her eyes were bloodied with tears streaming down her face. He felt a pang of guilt in his heart.

“I don’t believe I have the luxury to say no, my love.” Aemond put his hand on her head. She stared at him quietly for a few moments before breaking down in tears, her body dropping to the ground below. He bent down beside her, hugging her, trying to soothe her from her pain. She spoke through her tears, muffled from the impact of her grievous cry. “Dearest, I can’t understand you.” He removed her hair sprawled across her face.

“You will die, Aemond. He will kill you. He will kill you.”

[roskirambles]

Halloween Movie of the Day: The Addams Family Reunion (1991)

As perhaps the oddest people in America, the Addams need no introduction. But this time, they are about to welcome a new member into the family; turns out Morticia just recently gave birth to little Pubert!

Yes, all is good and well with a new baby in the family, unless you ask Fester. Seeing all others tie the knot has got him forlorn, so he's now looking for love. And love he finds in the new nanny, Debbie Jellinsky. But something is amiss, as this woman is pushing Fester away from them just as the two get married. And as Pugsley and Wednesday get sent to summer camp, the family faces their biggest crisis yet in a black widow trying to separate them all. Will Fester return to their side before it's too late?

A compelling argument for how sometimes a sequel is actually better than the original, this comedy goldmine by Barry Sonnenfeld takes what worked in the first 90's reimagining of the Addams and cranks it up to eleven. And yet, more than just a rethread the film is also a mirror of it's own prequel (which I must say also comes with a hearty reccomendation by proxy on this end); one being about how strangers end up joining the family by learning to connect with the Addam's eccentric but enotionally fulfilling way of life, the other being about a different stranger with violent motivations failing to do the same. Which brings us to Debbie: with such a violently petty energy and delusions of grandeur, she's a delight to watch even when she's trying so hard to murder Fester.

Outside of a gag about Michael Jackson aging like milk (for reasons they couldn't have forseen), it's incredible how fantastically this film has aged. The black comedy, the haminess, the slapstick absurdity, the wholesome family dynamics undercut by a screwed up sense of normalcy, and the lighting in a bottle casting that redefined what the public sees these characters as. They REALLY don't do them like they used to.

Ok, I just HAVE to gush a little over the casting, because it really, REALLY made these movies shine.

The obvious one is the late Raul Julia as Gomez. With a classical background and being adept at musical theatre, he really gives his all every moment, which makes some of the funniest scenes come out of either the earnestness on which he plays a romantic situation, or the incongruity of how most people would react to what he's experiencing.

Anjelica Houston as Morticia works marvelously as the complement to Julia's Gomez too, being equally passionate but in a much more composed way, which grants her an elegance and snark that simply cannot be beaten.

Christopher Lloyd as Fester was sheer genius as well. You're telling me there was a better option for someone with uncle Fester's well known level of quirky manic energy than Mr. Emmet Brown and Judge Doom? Get outta here.

Jimmy Workman as Pugsley looks like the weakest of the bunch at a glance, as he almost feels like the straight man by contrast of how vivid the other performances are. But then you really think about it, and it's PRECISELY that nonchalance which makes him work. He can do incredibly troubling unchildlike things without batting an eye.

And of course, Christina Ricci as Wednesday is a no brainer as to why this role shot her to stardom. While a diversion from how Wednesday was portrayed in other versions, it stands out as one of THE big examples of how to do a goth creepy girl. She is not an uncaring person, but boi, is she more prone to violence than Pugsley AND a scheming gremling with a creepy heartthrobing smile. Yes, I was crushing hard on Christina Ricci's Wednesday as a kid, shut up

Last but not least, since we're talking about Family Values in particular, Joan Cussack as Debbie is just a joy to watch, with such a delightful level of entitlement and the perfect opposite rosy masquarade to make her less annoying or disturbing, and more someone with the proper level of crazy to absolutely fit with the Addams were she not all about herself.

[residentweasels]

Radiohead Songs With Resident Evil Characters

Featuring very few characters this time cus I took the time to apply correctly and describe why I put what..

Equally so, the descs of the songs do not match the actual meanings, I applied meanings that I believe would fit the characters themselves ! Every character got two, and some got a bonus :^)

Chris Redfield -

Vegetable (points towards having done so much for what feels like nothing, repetition in the refusal to stop and to spit at anyone who tries to stop, overall a tired song of someone who is on the cusp of giving up),

(Nice Dream) (The minute hope and joy in one good dream could put a pause on everything else in reality, that one sheer, minimal good thing would be a deal-breaker against what is just another day all the same against what has been a stalemate on earth for as long as he's been around to try and solve it. That if at night, he could sleep and have a good dream it would be what he needed only then.),

BONUS: MAN OF WAR (pretty self explanatory, descriptive of being designed to kill despite the eventual fact of death sooner or later only meaning he'll be food for the worms)

Leon Kennedy -

How To Disappear Completely (after everything done, everything experienced is a hum and a denial that "I'm not here" creating an implication of dissociation towards events, something I apply as a hc but yk. not to mention the idea of moments like that already passing, as if the pause in action could reverberate the worst of it all in a single second),

Street Spirit (expectations of perfection, protection and a steelish way of life that can't keep itself together, broken thoughts become lyrics in this with the slow rising ticking and picking of the song to act as the time being always just out. Mentions of death like a glaring concept as if the mere idea of death being so close isn't a shock much anymore)

Ethan Winters -

Paranoid Android (Applicable lyrics against things he's faced, feelings he has, repetitive notions towards different lyrics, ending off with "God loves his children" bringing back to the catholic part which is a friends hc!)

Fake Plastic Trees (dissatisfaction in a life deemed unreal, sad tones and consistent mentions to being worn out but still going, wishing to just escape)

Albert Wesker -

All I Need (a continuous sentence of indecision, whether things are right or wrong. Putting oneself down and then up again, consistently denying yet desiring someone to love "you are all I need, you're all I need" before it shifts into the rest of the song being "it's all wrong" "it's all right")

Videotape (Depictions and descriptions of hesitation, repetitive audio creates that feeling of being unable to properly finish the beat, the thought and therfore the words against someone who they won't ever see again)

BONUS: Ill Wind (a short quiet echoed song of reverberating the belief that showing emotion could make an ill wind, a cold blow of words that "must not be spoken")

William Birkin -

My Iron Lung (love driven away, consistent tone of something eery, a cynical happiness towards something that really isn't happy, but under the facade of sarcasm/humor in the midst of suffering)

No Surprises (with everything someone can do in a life, there comes a point where you're only living to provide, to leave that lasting mark while making an internal promise to not leave anyone behind who needs them in their life, "no alarms and no surprises" is a quiet, gone feeling of just slipping away, not in control)

Sherry Birkin -

Everything in Its Right Place (repetition, glitched out memories of words, but the tone shift between the pacing and singing makes it feel like a slow moment in a fast scene, constantly dealing with everything at a time with no near end)

Ful Stop (true ignorance is bliss, choosing to know and ignore the wrong you see is its own form of moronic tragedy. This song represents the harsh reality that someone can face, and how destructive it may prove to be if you can't accept the truth. Most of the song is the repeated lyrics of "truth will mess you up" accompanied by a picked up pace in speed of the song as "all the good times" floods over the truth, covering up what should have been accepted a long time ago.)

Excella Gionne -

Nude (Soft, even tones and higher pitches as if it's a calm scene, but it describes a sort of guilt inducing scene, as if the nice sounds of the song are meant to be a false sense of safety to let the 'truth' in, a guilt towards either not being enough, or being too much for someone),

Burn The Witch (a sharp, repetitive song meant to replay a single type of feeling as something builds up, a feeling of confident anger accompanied solely by the idea that its meant to represent a panic attack. The chorus is a break in the pace to be a reminder of the duty, the reminder of being the messenger, the voice of the song)

[yellowocaballero]

this entire chapter was a joy to read but I gotta say I 100% understand knives’ fear of brad—the opening scene was one of the most strangely fear inducing things I’ve ever read. kudos and 10/10 for making me feel nauseous over what turns out to be a very funny scene of knives getting murder-grounded

Love this ask. Love asks about experiences that surprise me a lot, in a good way - part of me is always like 'write a dialectical essay on why you think so???' and the other part is 'the picture and vibes you've painted is incredibly funny and I love it'. Thank you for the ask anyway. Get to talk about Brad and Luida FINALLY.

I'm deciding that this is a victory, because it gave you a great insight into exactly how Knives felt LMFAOOO. He has spent literally this entire story acting superior, holier-than-thou, won't shut up about how he's physiologically and mentally leagues ahead of you puny humans, you're so lame and pathetic and Millions "Genius Cool Guy Surgeon" Knives is soooo much better than you. And then the minute he goes home and sees his foster parents he is suddenly the goodest little boy who you would both introduce to your parents and give a doggy treat. They are two geriatric astronauts and Millions Knives is pants-shittingly terrified of them.

I was legitimately a bit worried that I wrote Brad as too harsh in the flashback scene, or uncomfortable-in-a-bad-way in the beginning scene. I was really careful with both. How Brad and Luida raised Knives is absolutely not a great method of parenting, lmfao. But they weren't really raising a child - they were taming a tiger. I think you can safely assume that Knives was not given a single inch his entire adolescence. He didn't get away with shit. That's how behavioral conditioning works. I really can't stress enough that, although Knives is a pretty good guy in the present, he is still the literal actual Millions Knives. And what 14yo Knives here got up to wasn't all that different from what canonical 14yo Knives was getting up to. The difference is Brad and Luida - and they knew exactly what they were trying to prevent. They knew they couldn't fuck up. They knew what would happen if Knives didn't change. It must have been a lot of pressure.

The sheer balls on the guy who walks up to Millions Knives and just goes, "Okay, asshole. Kill me. Do it.". So insane that it gaslights Knives into believing that Brad and Luida are the only superior lifeforms to himself.

But at the end of the day, what that scene still conveys is - it's a farce. Their family is a social contract: Brad and Luida will give Knives what he wants (a meaning to his life, and on a deeper level he won't acknowledge, a family), and in return Knives politely pretends that they are remotely capable of controlling him. A handcuff is an insanely restrictive method of grounding somebody - and obviously Knives could have gotten outb of it any time. But Knives lets them do it, because if he doesn't then it would break the keyfabe, the farce. And that would destroy Knives' only path towards becoming a good person. Because Brad and Luida told him that they are the only path towards becoming a good person. And if you aren't a good person you have no reason to exist btw. Also we don't love you anymore.

Kinda fucked up if Knives was, like, a regular child? Yes. Only sensible thing to do if the child was Millions Knives? Yes. It's complicated but that's why I really love it. Also for the insane funniness of Knives experiencing fear.

TL;DR Handcuffing your child to its bed is only okay if the child has bad vibes and is unfun to be around.

[unknowncruiser]

King Carlos Butt Plug

"Hey, Ethan! I brought something special for us to try today," Carlos said, holding up the sleek and luxurious butt plug.

Ethan's eyes widened with anticipation. "Oh, I've heard great things about this one! I'm excited to see what it can do."

Carlos followed Ethan into the living room, where they settled on the couch. He placed the butt plug on the coffee table, giving it a little spin to showcase its elegant design.

"This is the Imperial Silicone Butt Plug, designed for unparalleled comfort and pleasure," Carlos explained, his voice oozing with excitement. "Its tapered shape and smooth, body-safe silicone make it perfect for effortless insertion and extended wear."

Ethan leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. "Tell me more about its features, Carlos. What sets it apart from other butt plugs?"

Carlos picked up the plug, running his fingers along the velvety-smooth surface. "Well, this beauty boasts a powerful yet whisper-quiet motor, offering ten different vibration patterns. You can explore a range of sensations, from gentle pulsations to intense vibrations."

Ethan's eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Sounds amazing! How about we put it to the test?"

Carlos nodded, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Absolutely, Ethan. Let's embark on a journey of sublime pleasure together."

As they delved into the experience, Carlos guided Ethan through the process of preparing and inserting the butt plug. Their conversation intertwined with whispers of pleasure and encouragement, creating an atmosphere of trust and exploration.

In that moment, the Imperial Silicone Butt Plug showcased its prowess, delivering waves of exquisite sensations that left both Ethan craving for more. It was an intimate encounter that brought them closer, exploring new depths of pleasure in their shared journey.

"Carlos, this plug is incredible. I can't imagine parting ways with it. Do you think... maybe you could leave it here?" Ethan's voice was filled with a mix of longing and excitement.

Carlos chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, Ethan, I must say, you seem to have developed quite the attachment to this exquisite piece of pleasure. But it's from my personal collection, you know?"

Ethan's pleading expression intensified. "I understand, Carlos, but I've never experienced anything like this before. It's like it was made for me. Please, just let me enjoy it a little longer."

Carlos paused for a moment, contemplating Ethan's passionate plea. He couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction in seeing how much his product had captivated Ethan. With a playful smirk, he finally relented.

"All right, Ethan," Carlos said, a twinkle in his eye. "Consider it on an extended loan. But remember, this plug is part of the King Carlos collection, so I expect you to take good care of it."

Ethan's face lit up with joy, grateful for Carlos's understanding. "Thank you so much, Carlos! I promise to treat it like a treasure and make the most of every pleasure-filled moment.".

"Ethan, my friend, I have a proposition for you," Carlos said, his voice filled with excitement. "This plug... it's more than just a pleasure device. I believe it has the potential to take our gooning sessions to an entirely new level. Imagine the sensations, the intensity, the sheer bliss of combining the plug with our dumbzone journey."

"You think this plug can enhance the dumbzone experience?" Ethan asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Carlos nodded vigorously. "Absolutely! Just imagine the feeling of being completely filled, every nerve ending electrified as we surrender to the goon. The plug will keep us anchored in pleasure, intensifying the sensations and amplifying the power of the dumbzone. It's like a catalyst for pure ecstasy. Trust me my bro.."

Ethan couldn't help but be captivated by Carlos's enthusiasm. "How about we take have a little goon sesh right now, bro?"

The dimly lit room enveloped Ethan and Carlos as they settled into their gooning session. The air was thick with anticipation, and a sense of transformation lingered in the atmosphere. Carlos suddenly took the lead, his voice carrying a hypnotic cadence.

"Relax, Ethan. Let the dumbzone embrace you," Carlos began, his tone commanding yet soothing. "Feel the weight of your thoughts drift away, as your mind opens itself to the depths of surrender."

Ethan closed his eyes, allowing Carlos's words to wash over him. But something was different this time. Ethan's thoughts began to unravel, his sense of self blurring at the edges.

"Carlos... I... I don't understand," Ethan stuttered, his voice tinged with confusion. "Why... am I feeling this way? Why do I... feel like dumbzone?"

Carlos's expression remained calm, a glimmer of intrigue dancing in his eyes. "Good boy, Ethan. Let go of the need for understanding. Embrace the dumbzone. In the depths of the dumbzone, boundaries fade, and identities merge."

As the session progressed, Ethan's confusion gave way to a strange sense of liberation. He felt Carlos's energy surging within him, a newfound boldness and confidence permeating his being. The roles were shifting, their personalities intertwining as if caught in an ethereal dance.

"Gooooon....dumbzone....bliss" Ethan whispered, his voice carrying a mix of awe and realization as he stroked himself dumb.

Carlos smiled, the lines between them blurring further. "Good boy, Ethan. Together, we explore the vast landscapes of the goon. We transcend the limitations of individuality and merge into a powerful force, unlocking hidden depths and untapped pleasures."

In the midst of their profound exchange, the boundaries of self dissolved, replaced by a profound sense of unity. Ethan, now embodying Carlos's essence, surrendered to the goonful obedience, relishing in the liberation it offered.

As the session unfolded, the lines between guide and follower blurred, and the two became entwined in an intricate dance of dominance and submission, exploration and surrender. Within the depths of the dumbzone, they embraced the thrilling ambiguity of their roles, reveling in the transformative power of their connection.

Carlos's transformation into the goon guru seemed almost effortless. His demeanor exuded confidence and authority as he observed Ethan's deepening state of dumbzone-induced bliss. A mischievous smirk played on his lips, a testament to his growing control over the situation.

"My dear Ethan," Carlos said, his voice laced with a newfound authority. "You are truly embodying the essence of the goon. Your mind expands, your inhibitions fade, and you surrender to the intoxicating currents of mindless pleasure."

Ethan, lost in a sea of dumbzone-induced haze, nodded absentmindedly, his eyes glazed over with a mixture of confusion and ecstasy. "Gooooon." Giggle. "Goooon."

Carlos continued, his voice resonating with an almost hypnotic quality. "Good boy, Ethan. In this journey, I am your guide, your mentor, and your goon guru. I will lead you through uncharted territories of desire, pushing the boundaries of your mind and body."

Ethan's lips curled into a vacant smile as he murmured, "Yes, Master Carlos. Lead me deeper into the realms of the goon."

Carlos's smirk widened, his confidence growing with each passing moment. "You have only scratched the surface, my dear Ethan. You're going to be giving in more to Master Carlos from now on. do you understand?"

Ethan's eyes gleamed with a mix of anticipation and surrender. "Yes Master. I am yours to mold, Master Carlos. Mold me into the ultimate goon, a vessel for pleasure and obedience."

Carlos's voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. "Submit to the goon, Ethan. Allow it to consume you, shape you, and elevate you to new heights. Embrace the primal urges within, for in the realm of the goon, there is no judgment, only liberation."

As Ethan basked in the waves of dumbzone-induced ecstasy, as drool started to drip over his lips, past his chin and down onto his cock. Carlos's role as the goon guru solidified. With each passing moment, he grew more adept at guiding Ethan through the intricate pathways of pleasure, deepening their connection and solidifying his dominance.

Carlos reveled in the power he now held, a budding master of the goon arts, as Ethan willingly surrendered to his authority, lost in a world of pure, mindless bliss. Ethan's journey into submission to Carlos had just begun.

As Ethan basked in the depths of his dumbzone, his mind blissfully empty and his body pliable under the influence. His cock grew slippery with drool. Carlos now took on a nurturing role, embracing his newfound position as the goon guru. With a gentle touch, he began to massage Ethan's head, applying just the right amount of pressure to alleviate any tension that remained.

Carlos leaned closer, his voice a soothing whisper. "Relax, my goon. Let go of all thoughts and surrender yourself to the sensations. Feel my touch as it eases the burdens of your mind, melting away any remnants of resistance."

Ethan's eyes fluttered, his drool escaping the corner of his mouth as he emitted a soft, contented sigh. His body responded to Carlos's touch, each stroke of the massage fueling his descent into deeper levels of dumbzone-induced relaxation.

Carlos continued his ministrations, his hands expertly navigating the contours of Ethan's head and neck. He reveled in the power he now held, the ability to guide and shape Ethan's destiny, to tap into the wellspring of pleasure and obedience that lay dormant within him.

With every touch, every stroke, Carlos cemented his authority over Ethan's goon journey. The once confident and charismatic Ethan was now a vessel of submission, pliant and receptive to Carlos's guidance. The transformation was complete, the roles reversed, as Carlos embraced his new identity as the goon guru, a master of pleasure and manipulation.

As the minutes turned into hours, Carlos's massage became a symphony of touch, coaxing Ethan deeper into the realms of goonhood. He relished in the power dynamics, the dance of dominance and surrender that played out between them. In this moment, there was no denying the connection that had been forged, the intertwining of their desires and aspirations in the pursuit of ultimate goon bliss.

And so, in the dimly lit room, with the scent of relaxation oils in the air, Carlos continued to massage Ethan's shoulders, his touch a testament to his mastery and the depths of their shared journey. Together, they embraced the duality of their roles, reveling in the symbiotic dance of gooner and goon guru, lost in the intoxicating allure of submission and pleasure.

As Ethan drifted deeper into the realms of his dumbzone, his mind enveloped in a fog of blissful submission, Carlos saw an opportunity to assert their new routine. Tonight was just the beginning, a taste of what was yet to come.

Carlos leaned in closer, his voice low and commanding. "Ethan, my loyal gooner, remember this feeling. Remember the pleasure, the surrender, and the liberation that comes with embracing your dumbzone. This is just the start of our journey together."

Ethan's eyes glazed over, his gaze fixated on Carlos as if entranced by his words. A faint smile danced upon his lips, a reflection of the profound satisfaction he found in his state of dumbzone-induced goonhood.

Carlos continued, his tone confident and assertive. "You will return to this place, Ethan, time and time again. You will crave the intoxicating release that comes from embracing your goon nature. Each visit will deepen your submission, strengthen your loyalty, and reinforce the bond between us."

Ethan's expression was a mixture of dazed confusion and eager anticipation. He nodded, his mind filled with the desire to experience more of what Carlos had to offer.

Carlos placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder, his touch both reassuring and possessive. "Remember, Ethan, you are mine to mold and shape, now. Your devotion fuels my power, and together we will unlock new levels of pleasure and enlightenment. You are my goon, my loyal disciple, forever bound to me."

Ethan's voice was barely a whisper as he replied, "Yes, Carlos... I am your gooner. I submit to your guidance, to the depths of the dumbzone. Lead me, master me, and I will follow."

Carlos's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, the power dynamics between them solidifying. "Good boy. Embrace your goon nature fully. Allow yourself to be consumed by the desires that lie within. Together, we will explore the uncharted territories of pleasure and domination."

And so, as the night grew darker, Ethan surrendered himself more fully to the dumbzone, knowing that each visit to Carlos's domain would strengthen their connection. Their routine was now established, an intricate dance of dominance and submission that promised new adventures, deeper explorations, and boundless pleasure in the days to come.

Ethan blinked, still feeling a bit foggy as he tried to recall the details of what had just transpired. His mind felt hazy, the memories distant and elusive. But before he could dwell on it, Carlos intervened, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.

"Don't worry about the details, Ethan," Carlos reassured him, his voice confident and assuring. "The mysteries of the dumbzone are not meant to be fully understood. Embrace the experience, let it wash over you, and trust in its power."

Ethan nodded, a small smile forming on his lips as he surrendered to Carlos's words of wisdom. He realized that overthinking would only hinder his journey. It was best to simply go with the flow, allowing the goon spirit to guide him.

Carlos shifted gears, his tone becoming more upbeat. "Now, my friend, let's set our sights on tomorrow. I have a special workout routine planned for us, one that will tap into the depths of our goonhood and unleash our hidden potential. Meet me at the gym at 8 am sharp."

Ethan's foggy mind struggled to process the information, but he trusted Carlos implicitly. "8 am, got it," he replied, his voice still tinged with a hint of confusion.

Carlos patted Ethan's back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Good. Rest up and prepare yourself, Ethan. Tomorrow's workout will be unlike anything you've experienced before. It's time to push the boundaries a little and embrace my power."

"Yes Mast...wait what?" Ethan could comprehend neither Carlos's words nor his own response.

With those parting words, Carlos bid Ethan farewell, leaving him in a state of anticipation and curiosity. Ethan watched as Carlos walked away, his presence leaving an indelible imprint on his mind.

As the fog began to lift, Ethan couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation for what awaited him. He knew that Carlos held the key to unlocking his true goon potential, and he was eager to follow his lead, even if the memories of their encounter were hazy.

With a renewed sense of determination, Ethan decided to put aside his doubts and embrace the journey ahead. Tomorrow was a new day, a chance to delve deeper into his goonhood and discover the limits of his desires. And as the fog fully cleared, Ethan found himself filled with a sense of anticipation for the adventures that awaited him in the realm of pleasure and submission.

[flawedconqueror]

This year, and it has been confirmed through other videos I will, I am fasting to break generational strongholds. Similar to Bahamian minister Kevin Ewing sheer desperation brought me to this point. After feeling this year was filled with ambiguity, discouragement and setbacks I have a rejuvenated joy that my testimony is here!

I often daydream of London probably one of the most supernatural experiences of my life. My name, my wardrobe, my phone all changing seamlessly. But I admit I still had old strong holds and was still not committed to fully plunging in London which made it difficult to embrace all that God had for me and to let go of Toronto.

However, this year is not without a breakthrough. Slowly the breaches in familial relationships are being repaired. I felt obtuse and awkward initially, and that is expected. But it is coming. It can be a simple 'hi' whereas before I didn't communicate as well whilst away.

I am excavating deep-rooted flaws of anger - this can lead to heated emails, texts - I am embarrassed but I am mastering the gift of self control, less is truly more when it comes to speaking. So much of our behaviour can be influenced by spirits or open doors. I had a spirit of compulsion that had to be broken.

Also not striving knowing God has all my days in His book, did I know when I was in Richmond Hill's emergency room for my mum in 2020 that God would propel me 5 hours ahead just under a year later in Hither Green essentially a new lease of life.

God must finish what He started. He is faithful.

I am doing the year of the bride fast and boy oh boy adultery is a big one (spiritual).

Finally one of the biggest revelations I had this year is spiritual warfare. I for one am tired of going to churches, no breakthrough, no revelation same ol', same ol' bondage. A likkle prayer.

I believe after a 3-day fast God led me to the teachings of Minister Kevin Ewing.

This has been a game changer. For starters, he had experienced the same buffers and binds, and after frustration he went into a 40-day prayer/fast. This led to a promotion and other things. He talked about the impact of dream interpretations and how dreams provide snippets of what is going on in the spiritual world. At 30, I am really seeing how so many physical events are governed by what happens in the spiritual. You would think after the story of Daniel and the Prince of Persia, I would know but I am just now realising its significance on events. I do know as I approach 31 I should be established but I believe there are spiritual forces that are preventing my progress - but that is broken in Yeshua's name. My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.

This led to Tiphani Montgomery's teaching on curses/covenants. Looking at my familial line I had siblings die prematurely, family members struggling with mental illness, not being homeowners, on financial aid. I imagine me trying to elevate myself, there will be push back in the spirit realm to keep me bound, to not fulfill all God has for me. The devil would want to make light of the spiritual realm, so we don't uproot demonic covenants. But I am compelled to fast, pray and excavate strongholds I am convinced I am under the bloodline of Christ and will no be beholden to my ancestors' iniquity. It is an empty slate, a new canvas.

I wished churches provided these tools, we don't have to struggle with this situations for 5, 10 years.

[pazodetrasalba]

TVF - The smart puzzle solver

Dear Caroline:

Your relative's words were very insightful, and probably represent what must have been a rather common befuddlement, I imagine, amongst those who didn't know so much about your EA engagement and your pull towards optimizing good-doery. Then again, he had access to other facets of your life and personality. I can easily imagine you experiencing joy in mathematics and puzzle solving -it would be hard to explain otherwise your involvement and success in maths team and other competitions. I find it more difficult to see you going into the realms of pure math, given your background and other inclinations. Cryptography and/or professorship do seem like reasonable professions for the Carolines in the nearby multiverses.

Whichever challenges and issues you'll have to face in the future, I am also pretty sure you are clever enough to solve them to the degree that they be solvable though sheer talent, hard work and personal application of both. Aligning all this with your good ethical core, I am convinced it promises well for a future of yours away from finance. And you will have learned powerful lessons and filled important pieces in the puzzle of life along the way. I would never have wanted you to have to learn those lessons with so much hardship, but we humans only make our history in conditions not of our own choosing. Confucius, in the Analects, states his personal, quasi-atheistic way of dealing with the facts of chance, fate and misfortune assailing the good with a metaphor which illustrates how virtue is tested through the fires of adversity: “Only in winter do the pine and cypress show they are evergreen”. I hope this thought - and these words- give you solace when you are about to begin your Trial by Adversity in the Risen Lands.

[actual-bill-potts]

The weeks Finrod stayed at the house of Eärwen in Alqualondë were both balm and ache. A balm, for any number of reasons: his only sister was in the room next to him, an arrangement Finrod had last enjoyed in the glory days of Doriath. Elrond Peredhel had arrived, and his conversation was everything Finrod could wish. Once, long ago, he had walked the shores of Númenor with Elros Peredhel, who had then been an old Man and borne strongly the stamp of the House of Bëor. It was a pleasure to at last meet the twin of his long-departed friend - and to hear news from one who had as strong an interest in mortal affairs as he himself did.

Then, too, there were the mortals. From Alqualondë, it was a simple matter to travel to Tol Eressëa and visit the Halflings’ - Hobbits’ - dwelling-place. Bilbo and Frodo were delightful company, a breath of fresh air he had last experienced talking to Tuor - and Tuor had grown mightily Elvish in the Age since his arrival. Their cooking was unlike anything he had tasted before, so thoroughly new an experience that he laughed from sheer surprise the first time he ate with them, and had to quite hastily soothe their offended feelings.

Both, too, were keen loremasters, and it was from Bilbo that he first heard the full story of Aragorn and Arwen: how Aragorn had met Arwen in the woods of Lothlórien - he thought with a pang of Galadriel’s grief - how both the lovers had labored for years to bring about a world in which they could be wed; and how Arwen had at last broken from her family and her people to cross the great chasm between Elves and Men. At the last, Finrod had felt a sharp pang of longing that he could not quite suppress; and both Hobbits had looked at him with sympathy.

“It has often struck me,” said Bilbo, “how very cruel is the division between mortal and immortal! Poor Elrond; poor Arwen! Both have attained so much of their hearts’ desire, but they must be sundered forever, and grieve forever - or Elrond must, at least. I don’t know about Arwen. I suppose I shall find out eventually,” he added thoughtfully.

Frodo said nothing; but his eyes looked out at Finrod from his curiously unlined face with such wisdom and sorrow that Finrod had to look away.

The sorrow of mortals: that was the ache underneath the balm, the bitter dregs in a honeyed cup. Arwen was gone, his sweet niece’s daughter. He had heard so much of her from Celebrían that he had felt quite as if he knew her; and though he rejoiced that she would not be sundered from the one she had chosen, he grieved her loss. How much greater was Elrond’s grief, who had lost brother and daughter; how much greater Celebrían’s, who had said goodbye to her daughter in the certainty of reunion and must now face the certainty of loss; how much greater Galadriel’s, who had watched Arwen grow up!

Their grief had a seat at every table, a necessary guest whose presence made all watch their tongues, and harried Celebrían and Elrond upstairs early in the evening. Finrod recognized its presence, but that knowledge did not enable him to reach through that shadowy figure which sat between him and Celebrían when they broke bread together. He wanted to help, but in truth knew not how.

With some difficulty, he cast his mind back to the terrible weeks after Balan had died, seeking some - word of comfort, or gesture, or gift, that would have brought relief. He could think of none. He had been drowning, his only desire to feel the dizzy lightness his mother’s people had said was felt in the instant before Ossë took one’s spirit; but it had not come. He had clung to his own body with grim determination, lost to despair - and then one day he had simply - he had seen -

There had been a small white flower, peeking up at him from the dirt as if to say aha! Found me, have you?, and he had reached down to brush the velvety-soft petals, and felt, for the first time, a glimmer of joy. As if Yavanna herself had reached out her hand to his; as if Balan was saying, from beneath the earth where he lay, do not weep forever, dearest heart.

And from then on things were - more bearable. Not easy; but laughter no longer felt as if it would crack his face in two, and Balan’s smile in his children’s faces became a blessing as well as pain. He wanted desperately to show Celebrían the path to that moment; but he hardly knew it himself.

Perhaps it was different for everyone.

For Elrond, it must have been, for Elrond sometimes came to him and tried, carefully, to speak of it. It happened after weeks of light conversations in which Finrod carefully only inquired about things which he thought would not hurt to remember. Too often they had run up against the stone wall that was Elrond’s loss - for his children were in so many stories! - but in these times Elrond’s face was set as clay in the firing kiln.

Once he asked, “Was Elros - was he happy? In his old age?”

Finrod was puzzled, for although he had known Elros well and visited often in his later years, Elrond had visited more often than he - it was by chance only that they had never met in Númenor - and of course he would know his twin better than anyone. He said as much.

Elrond laughed a little. “A - Man may hide many things from his brother, if he does not wish to cause grief. He might have confided in a figure of legend more willingly, in truth.”

Finrod did not need to consider his answer this time. “Your brother, I believe, was joyful until his last day. He never expressed regret; and I have no doubt that he danced as lightly out of his body as Lúthien once did in the glades of Doriath. In truth I envied him,” he added, very softly.

Elrond’s face darkened a little. “Arwen will not be happy,” he said, “at the end. I have seen it.”

“Old age can be - unpleasant,” Finrod offered carefully, “but she will - she will not be alone after -”

“No,” Elrond said abruptly. “No, I cannot - I am sorry.” He was breathing harshly through his nose.

“Do not apologize!” Finrod exclaimed. “Please - can I -”

“I must - outside. Alone,” Elrond said vaguely, and fled, leaving Finrod sitting helpless. Grief was an ever-present specter in the Undying Lands that not even the Valar could take away. What was his little wisdom in the face of such a loss?

But Elrond came back the next day, driven, it seemed, to scratch at what hurt the most. He said, “Arwen will grieve. I have seen it. When her husband leaves her. She will weep and find no comfort, wander the forests of her youth in the winter of her life; and at the last she will give up her spirit in the bitterness of grief.”

Finrod said, carefully, “Of course she will grieve when Aragorn dies. But she will not grieve forever.”

He did not say I envy her; of course he did not; but perhaps it showed on his face anyway. Elrond’s expression lightened, a little; then sorrow chased the light from his eyes.

“Death will be - bitter for her,” he said. “I have seen so many mortals die. They cling to life even as their spirit slips away. And their lives are short! How much harder will it be for my daughter, who has so much life to hold to!”

“Life,” said Finrod, praying he was not overstepping, “can also be bitter. Often without remission.”

Elrond looked at him with those grey eyes of Lúthien’s. “I hope she finds joy,” he said simply.

“She will,” said Finrod. “Surely she will,” for if there was no joy for mortals after their brief lives of pain then all the world was to no purpose.

Celebrían was also trying, in her own way, to find a path out of despair. She attempted to be merry at table, but her words were quiet and her laughter rang false. She would often disappear for an afternoon or evening, reappearing only when the stars were out with deeply shadowed eyes.

She could not seem to speak of her loss, fleeing before sorrow as the first elves had fled the hunt of Oromë. She grew paler and paler, a grey flame that flickered palely against the stars. Finrod saw Elrond cast occasional helpless glances at her; saw Galadriel once mouth Míriel to herself before her face spasmed in pain; and resolved that he would run the sorrow to ground if he could.

Thus it came to pass that one day Finrod took Celebrían by the hand, and led her to a high cliff overlooking the water, and said, “Please, my friend, is there a way I can bring you comfort?”

He did not say ease your grief, for the grief could not be eased in Arda Marred.

Celebrían shivered, looking out at the waters, at the waves crashing unforgiving upon the sea.

“My daughter is gone,” she said at last. “She will live in joy for a mortal span; then she will be gone and not even death will bring her back to me. There is no comfort.”

“Is there not?” said Finrod helplessly. “She will have her heart’s-desire, and not lose it. Surely -”

He cut himself off as Celebrían turned upon him a look of such blazing fury that not Galadriel herself could have surpassed. “You speak of heart’s desires, who has never had a child!”

Had she slapped him full across the face it could not have hurt more; but Finrod carefully suppressed his flinch and said only, “I am sorry.”

She did not respond, but moved away in silence; then suddenly she sank to her knees in the scrubby grass. Her head was bowed. Then she spoke, voice quiet as a drop of rain upon the water.

“If you could have made the choice of Lúthien - would you have?”

Finrod found his tongue suddenly cleaved to his mouth. What could he say? He did not know her grief. He never would.

Finally he said slowly, “To follow Balan to Mandos would have been to abandon my siblings to the Siege of Angband alone; to abandon my people who had chosen me as their King; to give up all hope of reunion with my mother and father across the Sea. My duty would have cried out, No! and my heart now, which has gathered so many of my beloved’s children unto itself, cries out its refusal likewise. But - at the time -” he paused. He had spent so much time carefully not thinking of this. He had not wished to sully the Lay of Leithian with his own petty jealousy; nor had he wanted to burden Elros with ancient grief. But now - with Celebrían kneeling stiff before him -

“At the time, I - yes. I would have made her choice. Selfish though it might have been in a time of war, Elbereth preserve me, I would have taken Balan’s hand and in doing so released all else.”

Celebrian might have been graven of stone. “Would you have regretted it, if you had?”

Finrod considered, striving for calm; Celebrian did not need anyone’s turbulent emotions but her own at present. “I - do not know.”

A silence, and Finrod continued, haltingly. He had never said this to anyone. He had not intended to. “I will tell you - Manwë forgive me, for this part of myself - I was there when Lúthien sang in the Halls. I was there when she was granted mortality, and left hand-in-hand with Beren. And I tell you that - that when I heard - for a moment I felt naught but envy burning its way down my throat. I coveted that fate more than I have coveted anything before or since. Had it been granted to me, I would have followed Lúthien out of the Gates of Mandos, broken as I still was; I would have returned to Sauron’s cursed tower, and bled out among the wolves and the filth and the darkness, if it would have released my spirit beyond Arda. I -” he broke off; could not continue. He covered his face briefly.

“I am sorry,” he said, “Your own grief is enough. I do not wish to add to it.”

The breath of a laugh. “Is it? Why does grief multiply so? My daughter’s wedding has come and gone and I did not help her with her hair, nor send a single gift. She will bear children who will never know me. I will not make a blanket for her first child, nor care for her last. In the end she will fade in sorrow, and I will not be there. I will not be there again.”

Finrod had nothing to say. It was true. Arwen was sundered from them. There could be no comfort for such a loss. Two Ages of faithfulness, and he was still frozen in the moment when Balan’s spirit had trembled in his hand like a baby bird in winter and then fled. Anyone looking at Elrond could see the shadow of his twin: as if Elros was waiting smiling in the doorway, backlit by the dawn. The second before reunion, extended agonizingly into eternity.

There could be no reconciliation. There was only - the bearing up.

He said, almost to himself, “Yet there was joy. There was!”

He lowered himself to the ground next to Celebrían. Together they watched the waves roll in from the Sundering Seas; and Celebrían said at last, “And if my Undómiel had had only a single day - a single hour - before her spirit fled, still I could not regret her.”

She lowered her head to his shoulder; and if in the press of Celebrían’s small fingers on his own Finrod felt the echo of a young Artanis; if, when Elrond came to find them later, his black hair was turned by the sun to a nut-brown shade that could have belonged to anyone in the House of Bëor; if the Sea under the stars, as they walked back to the dwelling of Eärwen, shone with the vividness of Lúthien’s eyes, who had said farewell to him in the Halls so long ago -

He had loved them, those who were gone.

He had loved them.

There was a large crowd by the quays of Tol Eressëa.

Finrod did not, in principle, particularly enjoy seeing many of the Eldar gathered on the beach. It brought back too many memories: the curious milling about after the earth had swallowed the Númenoreans - what a stupid, thoughtless, evil waste of life - the departure of his father’s host for Middle-earth, taking with it everyone he had not yet lost, and of course the - first incident.

But today he was here among the crowd, and his father and mother, and his grandfather and grandmothers, and Angrod and Orodreth with Finduilas, and finally Celebrían. Still a small group, compared to the carefree days of his youth; but another place was about to be filled, for his sister was coming home.

Galadriel was coming home! He had missed her for so long that the thought of her was a river-tumbled stone in his heart, worn smooth by longing; but she would be here at last. When the news had come his mother had not stopped singing for days, and his father had stood taller, as if released from some great weight.

There were other important passengers on this ship, of course. Two mortals, for one - Finrod could not wait to meet them - and the famous Elrond, who was already twice-dear to him as Celebrían’s husband and a descendant of those whose loss could never be worn down in his heart. Celebrían’s small anxious face always brightened when she spoke of him; and Finrod had some hope that some of the great shackles of grief she still carried would be broken away by her spouse’s presence.

The crowd was not only Galadriel’s nearest and dearest, of course; there was Elwing the White, standing still and serious as she always was, waiting for her son; Idril and Tuor, hands clasped, awaiting their grandson; many of the Returned from Rivendell who wished to see Elrond again; and a large number of Elves who, Finrod was fairly sure, were merely curious about the mortals.

Though perhaps that was uncharitable. All on the ship - save perhaps the Halflings - had been dearly beloved by so many.

And now they were coming back. There was a collective breath from the crowd as the ship appeared on the horizon, sped by Ulmo. A beautiful sight, as Círdan’s craft always was; but Finrod hardly noticed, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of golden hair. Was that her? It must be, standing eagerly at the prow - so like his sister - he almost laughed for sheer joy. He was half-afraid to move, to blink, lest she disappear from his sight; but he blinked, twice, thrice, and there she still was.

Beside him, Celebrían murmured, "I see him," with a note in her voice that Finrod intimately recognized. He had said it often enough himself, when someone long since gone had returned from a hunting trip or a visit or simply a long walk. There had not been the desperation, the raw grief and longing, in his tone then that Celebrían’s voice carried now; but that unalloyed joy would not be his again. The one he loved had died indeed, and would not return.

He breathed through the grief and refocused his eyes, searching for a glimpse of dark hair - Celebrían had told him that much - curious to see Elrond. There, perhaps, under the sail, next to a small creature who must be one of the Halflings -

Finrod froze, and breathed in so sharply that Celebrían beside him looked at him, concerned.

"It is nothing," he said. "Merely - surprised."

Celebrían nodded absently and returned her gaze to the ship.

Elrond was the image of Lúthien, come again to the world. For a moment Finrod was lost in memories of Doriath, laughing with a pair of star-silver eyes that had looked into his just as Elrond’s had for a moment, both merry and grave.

She had been gone so long.

Beside him, Angrod leaned over and said, with all his customary tact, "Celebrían, you did not tell us your husband was Lúthien come again!"

Finrod winced - comparisons to Lúthien were always somewhat tricky - but Celebrían only laughed. "Wait until you see my daughter!" she said. "I believe my parents were a bit heartbroken. Three grandchildren, and they might as well all have been tiny duplicates of Elrond. For awhile, anyway," she added. "Elladan has my mother’s chin, and Elrohir my father’s very arched eyebrows." She was smiling more widely than Finrod had ever seen.

The ship drew ever closer. Galadriel’s eyes met his, and she winked; then she saw her daughter and an expression of such tenderness passed over her features that Finrod had to look away. There were so many Galadriels that he had never met: wife, mother, queen, grandmother.

But she was here now.

The instant the ship docked, Celebrían was running, a small silver flash. Elrond hastened to meet her, and for an instant silence fell as they crashed together like waves meeting the shoreline. Elrond spun her around and around, Lúthien’s face bright and alive once more; then they were kissing so passionately Finrod had to look away again.

Galadriel did not immediately come to meet her family, but Finrod did not begrudge her that; she was waiting for her daughter. That did not matter to Eärwen and Finarfin, who together were not three steps behind Celebrían, and who were weeping before they even reached Galadriel. "My daughter," Finrod heard Eärwen say, "My Nerwen. My daughter!" and then Galadriel was nearly obscured by her father and mother.

The joy in the air was tangible; Finrod nearly laughed aloud for no other reason than sheer happiness. Angrod was grinning beside him as Celebrían tore herself away from Elrond at last and flung herself at her mother, a small shining figure against Galadriel’s stately tall queenliness; then the whole troupe emerged fully onto shore and Finrod and Angrod, Orodreth and Finduilas, all hurled themselves at Galadriel in turn. They ended up in one laughing pile on the sand; though Finrod nearly extricated himself when he saw the Halflings emerge from the boat. They were so small, and so - so bright to his eyes. He had missed mortals, oh! How he had missed them! But then Olórin followed them out, and said in his booming voice, completely ignoring the undignified tangle that was the House of Arafinwë: "Our mortal friends are weary from their long journey, and seek rest; all who wish to may come visit later!" and although this was addressed to the crowd, his eyes were resting directly upon Finrod.

Well, Finrod could take a hint; he turned away and dumped a handful of sand down the back of Angrod’s shirt.

"Ow!" Angrod yelped. "What was that for?"

"For being irritating, no doubt," Galadriel said serenely; then she shrieked in turn as Angrod poured sand over her head. "Angrod! My hair!"

Elrond was standing a little aside, looking at his mother, who stood transfixed upon the shore. Finrod carefully did not look, not wanting to intrude upon a reunion that, like his own with Galadriel’s, had been two Ages in coming; but he could not help hearing Elwing’s murmured, "My son; my son! Forgive me! Have you come back at last?" and Elrond’s gentle, "There is nothing to forgive, Naneth," before he was distracted by Finduilas - the traitor! - tossing sand at him.

At last Finrod and his siblings righted themselves, brushing the beach from their hair. Finrod could not stop looking at Galadriel. How grown she was! How wise, how strong, how shining! She had been grown for a long time, of course; but she was a Queen now, as he had once been a King; and she had never abandoned her people.

Galadriel, of course, had so many people to look at that she could not hold his gaze for long. But when she did meet his eyes, the old familiar light filled them as it always had: a teasing gleam, as if laughing at a joke only they two knew.

At last Celebrían stepped forward into the throng, holding Elrond by the hand. Close up, Finrod could see that he did not only bear the mark of Lúthien. There were Beren’s stiff-set shoulders, his cleft chin; and if they were Beren’s they had once been -

"May I present Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell and my wedded spouse," Celebrían said. Her tone was formal; but her eyes were lit with such joy it seemed as if she bubbled out the words. Such joy! It was good to see her so happy.

Elrond bowed, and the House of Arafinwë bowed to him as Celebrían introduced them each in turn. "Haru Finarfin, and Haruni Eärwen; Ar-Haru Olwë and Ar-Haruni Falwen; my cousin Finduilas; and my naneth’s brothers Angrod, Orodreth, and Finrod Felagund."

Elrond came to a stop before Finrod, and bowed low. "My house and I," he said, "stand forever in your debt." His voice was deep, deeper than any Elf’s Finrod had yet heard: the voice of the House of Bëor.

"Not so," Finrod protested; and swept into the magnificent courtesy of the King of Nargothrond. "It is I rather, and all the peoples of Middle-earth, who owe a debt to you and your house. All that I lost," he added, seeing Elrond about to protest, "I gave gladly long ago, in the name of one whom I loved; and I counted it a joy to give it. Do not hold yourself in my debt, Descendant of Bëor!"

After a moment, Elrond nodded and stepped back. His face filled with wonder. "Then the tales were true?" he murmured. "Bëor the Elf-Friend was beloved in truth by the King of Nargothrond?"

"Beloved; deeply beloved; and the love he gave in return was -" Finrod’s throat closed off. Two Ages, and the loss was still there.

Elrond bowed his head. "Forgive me!" he said. "Perhaps -" but he stopped. "Later," he said, and again took Celebrían’s hand.

Then there was another round of merry greetings, for Eärwen wished to hear of the voyage, and Celebrían for news of her father, still in Lothlórien, and her children - "you must meet them, Haru, they sometimes look so Noldor that my father was appalled," she said laughing.

But as the party began to drift away from shore, towards the ferry that would take them to Alqualondë, Elrond grew grave. He drew Celebrían aside for a moment, and placed his hand on her shoulder, and said something too quietly for Elven-ears to hear; but Celebrían’s sudden stillness and pallor could not slip by unnoticed.

Finrod happened to glance round, as Elrond was speaking, and saw Celebrían’s face break as if she had been split down the middle, and he knew. He could not help but know.

He did not know, yet, that it was Arwen, she who was said to be Lúthien returned indeed, who had chosen the path of Elros; but that suffering, from which there could not be relief till the breaking of the world, he knew as intimately as he had once known the inside of Balan’s wrist.

The rest of the trip was quiet, though no one pried - all had lost too much - and when they arrived at the beautiful house Eärwen kept, Celebrían and Elrond took a little food, and then entered their chambers and closed the door very softly. The House of Arafinwë remained in the graceful entrance hall several minutes more, talking of nothing in particular; then Galadriel said that she would like to unpack her things, and went upstairs. All dispersed: Orodreth and Finduilas to see to their luggage as well, Angrod outside to "kick at tide-pools," as he termed it, Finarfin and Eärwen to the kitchen, and Finrod - was at loose ends. He stood in the hall for a moment more; then he went up to see Galadriel.

At his hesitant knock, she called, "Ah - come!" as if she had been expecting him. Perhaps she had been. His sister was wise, and knew him very well.

He opened the door and entered. Galadriel was unpinning the pearls in her hair, which she had doubtless worn to greet Olwë and Falwen - politicking was a hard habit to break! - and her luggage was strewn across half the bed. Finrod felt his lips quirk at the sight. Few would guess that Galadriel was not always tidy; but she had rarely been so.

"Help me with my hair?" she said, without preamble, and Finrod sat beside her and began undoing the complex plaits. It could have been any number of evenings, after a ball in Tirion or Doriath or Nargothrond: Finrod and Galadriel, the two vainest members of the family, unraveling each other’s carefully-wrought braids and laughing over some amusing happening or other.

They were not laughing now.

"What has happened?" Finrod asked after a moment.

Galadriel met his eyes in the mirror. "My granddaughter Arwen has -"

She stopped. Her nose crinkled in the way it always had when she was about to cry.

Finrod touched her shoulder. "You needn’t say it," he offered. "I know. I could not help but see."

"I have missed you, Ingoldo!" Galadriel said, laughing a little. "Most gracious and perceptive of brothers. I suppose you could not have helped it, at that."

"You know why," Finrod said softly. "You know why I could see."

Galadriel sobered. "I will not make you say it, either."

"You needn’t make me," said Finrod. "We are in Aman, land of memory and peace, and there are no Men here who can be harmed by the appearance of bias, nor a leaguer that must hold and trump all other considerations; nor even many who will laugh - not that I care! I loved Balan. I wedded him in heart and in law, and held his children to be my children, and I dwelt with him in joy until the day his - his spirit left the circles of the world." It was still hard to say. "And he and all his children will not return to me until the breaking of the world - save Elrond and Elwing only. My heart went forth in joy and returned in bitterness. Yet I do not regret him. I do not wish to forget."

Galadriel’s nose crinkled again, a little; and her eyes were so bright with pain it hurt to look at them. "I have had many years - as mortals count them, anyway - knowing Arwen’s choice. Yet the moment of parting was not made easier. My only granddaughter! She danced and laughed in Lothlórien for many years, as Lúthien did in Doriath. You remember," she said, and Finrod nodded. "The most patient child - that was unlike Lúthien - and the kindest, and the most skilled of hand. That is like her atar; she meant to be a great healer, like him, when she grew up. And she was! A great healer and a great craftswoman both…" she trailed off.

Finrod had gently unraveled most of her crown of braids as she talked; now he took up her comb and began to run it through her hair. "Would it help to speak of - how it happened?" he asked.

Galadriel leaned back a little. "Not as yet," she responded, voice almost steady. "It is too - too close. But if you would - would talk to my daughter, when she is ready, I - there are not many who will understand."

"Of course," Finrod said. "Your daughter is a delight," he added. "Her company has brightened many a sad hour."

"So she has always been," Galadriel said fondly. "She is like you in many ways. I often thought of you - of all my brothers - when she was growing up. I thought how you would love her. I am glad to be proven right."

"I am sorry I was not there," offered Finrod, because he was.

Galadriel’s shoulders stiffened, just a bit. "I still have not forgiven you for the Lay," she said.

"The Lay? I quite like it, it’s a master-class in First Age composition - oh dear," said Finrod.

Galadriel was crying quite stormily. She turned to face him, so suddenly that he had to snatch the comb back or risk its entanglement.

"You," she said, "did not have to hear it sung throughout your kingdom for two Ages of the world. You did not have to hear how your brother died alone and in pain at every feast night, every festival, every musical celebration - you did not have to hear young bards attempting to bring out new sides of the story every century or so, as if your brother’s death was a light-prism or a tuning fork -" she paused for breath.

"I was not alone," Finrod pointed out, because after all he had not been.

"I should have been there!" Galadriel said. "Battling Sauron by your side as you dared to reach out your hand and attempt what none of the rest of us had even tried; or failing that, shouting down our foolish cousins; or at the least I should have been able to bury you! I did not hear that you had left Nargothrond until you were dead, dead and gone and lost to me, and you did not even have the decency to do it in such a way that would not follow me for two Ages! You fool! You utter, complete -" she broke off, burying her head in her hands. She was half-laughing; but the laughter was not merry.

Finrod reached out hesitantly; and she grasped his hand and pulled him close. "My brother," she said. "My brother who has returned!"

They sat like that, golden head upon golden shoulder, for a long time. Then Finrod took up the comb again, and they settled in front of the mirror. Queen and King, sister and brother, exiled and Returned: and for all their sorrow they could yet have been freshly come from the court of Menegroth, kicking off their dancing-shoes and laughing at the darkness.

[casspurrjoybell-23]

The Raven - Chapter 26

*Warning Adult Content*

It is not long before the raven grows tired of being cooped up in his dreary tower after finally having a slight taste of freedom, the solitude of the barren room could never compare to the insurmountable joy he feels while in Prince Henry's company.

Courage stirs within him, his overwhelming desire to be close to the prince igniting a spark of brave rebellion he could never have imagined he would feel before.

As the adrenaline surges through his veins, Caleb decides to sneak out to see the boy who has recently been consuming his every thought, nothing could sate the hunger inside him quite like the mere sight of his prince.

Once again, he finds it easy to slip through the West Wing without being noticed, which only further fuels the thrill tingling down his spine.

As the raven meanders through the main halls of the castle in his shadow form, he is careful not to be caught by any patrolling guards or wandering palace staff.

He is not even the slightest bit sure about how people would react upon seeing a shadow moving so freely and he would prefer not to find out at this moment.

Instead, he would much prefer to keep his focus attuned to seeking out his prince.

The sudden sound of melodious laughter lures him in, drawing him down one of the many winding hallways.

Following the entrancing sound, the darkened form of the raven hopes it will lead him to his destination.

To his beloved Prince Henry.

As he gets closer to the source and the joyful noise grows louder, Caleb can tell that it is definitely Henry's voice he is hearing.

The prince is happy, laughing heartily, the cheerfulness in his voice is unmistakable.

This brings a smile to the raven's face and a radiating warmth in his chest, for he loves seeing his prince undeniably happy.

Closer and closer, the black-haired boy's steps take him until he reaches a room that looks similar to what he would imagine the prince's bedroom to look like.

This must be it... he is about to enter Henry's room.

His heartbeat quickens, the warmth within him spreading through his body as excitement entangles him within its grasp.

He approaches the door cautiously, his slow steps allowing the anticipation to build within him until he feels he might explode.

Halting just outside the door, Caleb can now hear a second voice floating from within the room.

A feminine voice.

The realization that there is a woman inside Henry's bedroom hits Caleb like a ton of bricks, stealing the air from his lungs as his mind whirls with possible scenarios of what could be happening just mere feet away from him.

Does this voice belong to Princess Elaina?

Why would Henry allow her into his bedroom?

Panic begins to overtake Caleb's entire body, his pulse racing and his breathing becoming labored and erratic as his heart swells and throbs with fear and a pain he has never before known.

Has Henry changed his mind or worse, did he not mean the words he said?

Does he not love Caleb?

Has he decided to marry the princess instead?

"Oh, Henry. You are so funny," the female's voice giggles dramatically, the sheer volume of her high-pitched and squeaky tone causing another crack in the raven's already damaged heart.

As Caleb's mind spirals out of control, jumping to conclusions and imagining all of the worst-case possibilities that could come of this precise situation, he finds he has difficulty breathing altogether.

His previously strained attempts to force oxygen into his lungs have somehow become even more challenging and the raven is left gasping for air that seems to no longer exist.

This is an entirely new occurrence for him, what is this?

Hyperventilating is not something that Caleb has ever experienced before.

It must come with whatever raging emotions the boy is feeling right now.

Whatever it is, he really needs to calm down before his somewhat noisy failures to fill his airways draw attention and lead him to be caught skulking around the palace.

Closing his eyes, the raven takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, convincing his mind to hold onto that panic for later when he is alone, it is far too unsafe to show his weaknesses out in the open like this.

Right now, Caleb must decide what to do.

He had intended to visit Henry but the prince is not alone, should he risk being found out and sneak into his bedroom?

He cannot even be sure that Henry wants to see him right now, he may very well be far too preoccupied with his current visitor to even notice Caleb's unexpected appearance.

Perhaps he should simply return to the tower, where he can deal with this new onslaught of feelings and wait for his prince to come to him, Henry could not possibly be through with him altogether, not after the immense feelings they have shared.

Could he?

The raven dislikes that he has been put in this predicament with every fiber of his being but he knows he cannot blame Henry for it.

The prince did not even know that he was going to visit him, he could not possibly have been prepared for his sudden arrival.

Letting out a sigh, Caleb decides to return to his own room, leaving his prince behind to continue with whatever it is he is currently doing alone in his bedroom with the princess.

Caleb does not realize that he is so overwhelmed with emotion that tears are streaming steadily down his shadowy cheeks until he suddenly sniffles.

The sound startles him, having echoed more loudly through the empty corridor than he could have anticipated, luckily, there seems to be no one around to hear his humiliation.

The raven can feel his face flush with heat, his eyes likely beginning to glow their luminous red as embarrassment overcomes him.

As quickly as he can, he moves his shadow form along the wall with haste, doing his best to remain unnoticed should someone suddenly appear within the hallway to investigate the noise.

The faint sound of a sniffle draws Prince Henry's attention away from his guest, his eyes darting toward the doorway of his room.

His brows furrow in confusion as he tries to decipher the goings-on in the corridor.

What was that sound?

Is someone crying out there?

His heart pounds heavily against his ribs as his face suddenly drops in defeat, could it be Caleb?

It would undoubtedly be a pleasant surprise if his little raven had ventured out of his tower and sought him out of his own accord.

However, the prince's chest feels weighted down at the mental image of tears dampening that lovely pale face and glistening in those enchanting ruby orbs, the severity of the thought has his ribcage practically crushing his heart.

Removing himself from his seat, the prince makes his way to the partially open bedroom door and peers into the seemingly deserted hallway.

"Caleb?" he whispers, his voice both hopeful and full of sorrow simultaneously.

[t-swift-converter]

POST 2 - Childhood trauma

To begin Day 1, I’d like to introduce Dave’s background with Taylor Swift before he married me. Obviously, many things in his life improved when he asked me to marry him, but it wasn’t all dreadful for my man’s younger years. One reason I married him is because Dave has sisters. 3, actually. Which is more than I can say I even have siblings. He also has two older brothers, but they aren’t relevant here. Sorry to my brothers-in-law (Brother-in-laws? BRETHREN-IN-LAW??) if they ever see this.

Dave’s 3 older sisters have been a Godsend to our marriage in many ways (I found out that he is familiar with the classic bloody underwear in the sink). I feel for the kid. He experienced the puberty of a girl three times over before he even hit puberty himself. But it has made him a stalwart partner, not ashamed of much he encounters thanks to me.

Well, in addition to the period messes and hair-clogged drains, his sisters lovingly exposed him to the gold that is Taylor Swift’s first album. This back-fired, though, because it was on repeat so much he became resentful. Thus, Taylor Swift is not associated with much joy in his early youth.

This kind of childhood trauma MUST be considered as I try now to not just undo the damage inflicted, but actually reverse it.

I was given a glimpse of the sheer possibility of Dave learning to like Taylor Swift when we had this breakthrough moment on a road trip. We went camping for the weekend in the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE in Utah. Literally, nothing around. It is a protected Night Sky area, so the stars were incredible. Besides the point. I’m almost always in the passenger seat where I DJ from my Spotify and the few rare moments I took a turn driving, I was still DJing from my phone. Dave is not one to play his own music, mostly because he has no playlists built because he never listens to music. It's a vicious cycle. Well, I think, I THINK, he got sick of my songs because he asked me (HE asked ME) to make him a playlist called “Dave likes.” I was thrilled. I hate having to guess what kind of music of mine he’ll like ‘cause he only ever speaks up when he absolutely detests a song, so it's a ton of pressure to handle as DJ.

The game became this: I would play all my liked songs on shuffle and couldn’t skip any based on what I thought he might not like. He had to say whether to skip the song or add it to his playlist. I gotta say, it took some guts for me. You know how there are just those songs that you like but you would skip them everytime if any other person was around to hear? I swear every single one of those songs played on this road trip. But it was so much fun because things I assumed Dave wouldn’t like would go on his playlist. And he was being CHOOSE-Y. Wow, let me tell you. This man has such a God-complex when it comes to music. He himself is very musically gifted, I will say. Like, he writes his own songs and stuff, so if he doesn’t like the song, he will RIP into it with such authority and audacity. He will slander the artist, too, for making such a poor song. Then, he will slander the people who listen to this “crap.” I am usually that listener.

Alright, so he’s got like 5 of 30 songs that have played thus far added to his playlist when a miracle happens. “Delicate” comes on. Now, try not to hate me when I say this, but I didn’t looove Taylor’s “bad girl” Reputation Era. Some of those songs are total bangers, don’t get me wrong. I love a good rock out session to “Don’t Blame Me” or “Call It What You Want,” but I don’t like those popular, rougher songs like “Look What You Made Me Do,” “...Ready For It?” or even “Bad Blood” from 1989. The softer Taylor is so my taste. That’s why I am not surprised at all that “Delicate” quickly became my #1 song from that album. Though, it’s still got a really good beat.

The interesting part is I made a scoff noise when it came on, knowing who it was. But Dave said “don’t skip it, it’s good.” We listened to the whole song, me interchanging between singing along and holding my breath. Then finally in the last few notes he gave me permission to add it to the playlist.

BOOM.

My man likes Taylor Swift. At least one song. And I know he already forgot he liked one song. But he does and it’s forever in the playlist promising to haunt him for the rest of his life.

So what’s this mean?! This means I actually have something to work with!! A song, a beat, lyrics, sound, there are so many ways to tackle this. The next project is to find a song with a similar vibe and again present it to him. Should I stick with Reputation and work my way through the album? Should I bounce around to test other eras? We need to fill this playlist with Taylor Swift before he can realize it. Toss out song ideas!!

Here’s what I’m thinking of introducing to him next:

Similar beats ~ Cruel Summer (Lover), Lavender Haze (Midnights)

Similar love stories ~ Afterglow (Lover), the 1 (Folklore)

Same album ~ Call It What You Want, Getaway Car, New Year’s Day

Thoughts?

[markwatsonsbooks]

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[dailyaudiobiblechronological]

1/6/2023 DAB Chronological Transcription

Job 10-13

Welcome to Daily Audio Bible Chronological. I'm Jill. Today is the 6th day of January, and I know I say it a lot, but it's the truth. It is my joy, my honor, and sheer pleasure to be reading the Bible for us together in community. I'm so glad that you you're here day six, and I just want you to stop and take notice that it's day six and you're here and you're in the Word and the Bible is coming alive to you and God is speaking to you through his Word. And a lot has happened so far and yet we're just getting started and it's very exciting. No announcements today. We're going to just jump right into the word. Today we're reading Job chapters 10 through 13. And this week we're reading the New Living translation Job chapter 10. 

Commentary:

I found today some really key things hidden in just a couple of lines. The first thing is at the very beginning of the reading Job ten, let me complain freely. My bitter soul must complain. And then that bitterness is unleashed and we hear it and it starts getting cringy. But haven't we done the same thing? Don't we long for safe places? And we so often just sit with it in our mind, in our own self. And then comes the shame. Like, why am I speaking that way to God? Why am I questioning God? But yet we find we have questions. So let me complain freely. Fair enough. Especially in tragedy, safe places are essential to just spit out the venom that we're holding inside that seems to be eating us at times. And do we have safe places? I think the greater question that we have to ask ourselves is, are we a safe place? We may not be able to have a safe place available to us. So in the meantime, can we be what is missing in our own lives for somebody else? And do we need to have the answers and a response back when someone is unleashing their English, exposing the bitterness that they've been holding inside? And then maybe we take that a step deeper. Why do we feel the need to have the answers? Are we uncomfortable with what we're hearing? Are we uncomfortable with someone being upset or angry at God? Can we just hear them? Can we just sit shiva with them? Can we just be presence for them? Can our greatest offering be a listening ear to someone without feeling the need to fix the problem? There is a time for wisdom to speak, but there's also a time for wisdom to know when not to speak. The next little hidden set of questions come when Zophar opens his mouth to Job. Shouldn't someone answer this torrent of words? Is a person proved innocent just by a lot of talking? Should I remain silent while you Babylon? When you mock God, shouldn't someone make you ashamed? Here's the thing they're valid questions as he continues on. Can you solve the mysteries of God? This can be so complicated because there's the juxtaposition of valid points. He's got valid questions here. But are they helpful? Are they helpful in someone's time of English and someone's need to be heard rather than to be talked back to, to be talked down to? I think as we hear this dialogue and we continue it will, one, validate our need sometimes to just be able to safely say what we hold inside and internally wrestle with. And then secondly, it exposes those things that we say with good intentions, with a hope to help and to learn that it might not be as helpful as we thought it was. Here's the last thought of the day for today. We can so easily think we know what we would do in somebody else's situation, even though we've never been in their situation. We can so easily dismiss and diminish the severity of someone's pain and experience because we have not experienced it until we experience it. And then we want the whole world to grieve with us. One of the great benefits of listening to someone in their pain and in their experience is preparation for our own lives. None of us are guaranteed to come out unscathed through pain or suffering in this life. And yet I see, especially as Christians, we will do everything we can to avoid it, to dismiss it, to pray it away. And what we need to understand is grief. And pain that is undelt with eventually turns to bitterness and anger and it will seep its way out of the tightest of nooks and crannies and usually it bleeds all over the people that we love the most. And again, the point from yesterday, sometimes we don't know what we need in our pain and in our suffering, but sometimes we need to process through it. We don't want or need the words of good, meaning people that can be our very best friends. We sometimes want God to come and explain himself. And I'm pretty sure we're going to see the same thing in this story with Job. And so we pause here today in this story as we will turn the page tomorrow and the dialogue will continue. And we're just really getting started here with Job and his three helpful friends. 

Prayer:

Father, we thank you for your word today, your transformational word that shows us some parts of us that we don't necessarily want to take a look at. And they're hard to look at because the voice of shame can be very loud for some of us. We don't know what to do with that. But we thank you that you, God, are safe. We can bring that shame to you. We can bring that exposition of what has been revealed and that part of us that we might not even like, but our own self, we can invite you into that. We do that just now. We ask you to come to soften the shame as we hand it over to you and as we make necessary changes, as maybe we have underestimated the power of silence, the power of just being present, the gift of showing up and just being present with someone who needs a safe place. And I pray God, that we, as representatives of you, to learn to be a safe place, to listen, slow, to speak, quick to hear and listen for the voice of wisdom before we move forward, thank you that you go with us. Pray this now. In the name of the Father Son, the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Announcements:

Daily Audio Bible. That's home base. Check it out. If you have not, take a look around. Download the app. Take a look around at the store. If you have not, there are some resources available there that are intended to enhance your journey through the Bible. There are journals. If you are just like me and you're like, no, I need that pencil to glide across the page. Typing on a little tiny notepad on my phone just does not cut it. I'm your people. We have journals, we have pencils available. Black wing pencils. They are good, real nice. Coffee, tea. Sign up for the subscription, have it freshly roasted and delivered to your front door. All of that is available at the store. If you would like to partner with us, we thank you so much for your partnership. We could not do this without you. If you're giving by mail, DAB PO Box 1996, Spring Hill, Tennessee 37174. Or if you're utilizing that mobile app, hit the Give icon. It's up at the top right hand corner. Lastly, look for the Give icon on the website if you need prayer. If you'd like to pray for someone that's previously called in several different ways for you to do so 800-583-2164 or utilizing your app, hit the red circle button up at the top right hand corner. You have two minutes on the prayer line, hit Submit, turn the wheel to Chronological and it will get to the right place. That's it for me today. I'm Jill. We'll turn the page and continue the story of Job tomorrow. Until then, love one another.

Community Prayer Line:

Hey DABC. It is Refined by the Fire in Ohio and I wanted to reach out. Wish everybody a Happy New Year. Welcome everybody who is new this year, whether it is new to the Daily Audio Bible as a whole or just to chronological, and you may be either switched or double dabbing, or however many dabs you're doing, but welcome. I know when I first started it was something new and I wasn't sure, but I have just come to love all of you over at chronological. Obviously, Jill in China, both of you are so spectacular in sharing your wisdom and your insights and just how the Spirit is moving you. So I thank you for being the main voice and being brave enough to step out there to trip over all the words that I know none of us would be able to read those out loud. So you are so super brave and I appreciate that. Thank you all. So I just wanted to tell each of you welcome and also that I am always out here praying and lifting each one of you up as you call in, as well as celebrating together and mourning together through all of the events. And I know none of us know what this year is going to bring, but we're in this together and one day we will all celebrate in person together with Christ. Love you all. Happy New Year.

Father God, thank you so much for the Transcription team at the Daily Audio Bible and Daily Audio Bible Chronological. Specifically, I'm thinking of Janel and Angie as I'm posting this prayer request to the Chronological. Father God, thank you that they have a heart to serve. Thank you that they love you and that they're on fire for you and that they burn for you, Jesus. Lord God, as they go through the year, this year in transcribing the spoken word of Jill and China as they read through Chronological and they comment on the scripture and they close out with prayer and encouragement from people that call into that program, Father, bless them with strength and courage and endurance for the journey that lies ahead. It's hard work, Father God, but work that they've been called to, and I'm so thankful to have the opportunity and the blessing to get to know them and to do this work with them. So, community, if you would please lift Janel and lift Angie up in your prayers as they take and transcribe the spoken word from Jill in China each and every day and post it off to the Tumblr site that's associated with the transcriptions for the Daily Audio Bible Chronological. And if you didn't know that that was a resource, there are people that are finding great value in being able to go back and read what's been spoken on the program. I hope that you would find great value in that also and that you see there in the work that Angie and Janel are doing is life giving along with the tremendous work that Jill and China and the Hardin family does. Jill and China, thank you for your ministry. You're being prayed over every single day. We love you.

Hello, DABC family, this is The Burning Bush that will not be devoured for the glory of our God and our King. Yay. We made it through a year. That was my first year going through DABC, guys. I've been with DAB for a loose count now, I think probably 15 years, 14 ish, I can't remember now. But yeah, this is amazing. This is just phenomenal and I'm glad to be back and I'm actually going to try to do DAB and be a double DABer like some of you guys. Hopefully I can pay attention and focus and listen to the two at the same time. Anyway, I know this is a very casual call and I just wanted to extend a lot of love to all of you. And for those who are just joining us for the first time, welcome. You are in for a ride. The Word of God is amazing to be in every day. You know, that's why you're here. But the little icing on the cake is this community, this community that loves on you all year long. There will never be a time you will log on and somebody will not be awake somewhere in the world praying for you because this is international. And anyway, I love you guys. I look forward to hearing your voices. Bye.

Hi, everyone. It's Christie in Kentucky. Happy New Year, everyone, and welcome to all the new listeners to DABC. You are going to love this journey and find that we pray for each other earnestly and love one another very well. So welcome. I know that you're going to love this adventure in your life. It has been so wonderful in mine and my husband's. I wanted to pray today. Lord, we thank you for this most beautiful day that you've given to us, Father. And our sister Lisa has called in from Oklahoma and she's asking for a favor in her business this year. And Father, we are asking for that along with her. And we thank you in advance for the wonderful things that are going to happen in Lisa's life this year. Father, we pray for Tiffany, Lord Jesus, and praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus, for baby Elijah being born on Christmas Eve. All Christmas Eve babies so special. Of course, all babies are special. That I have a special love because my grandmother was born on Christmas Eve and what an amazing moment of God. She was so excited to hear about what God is going to do in Elijah's life. We're praying for you to heal from this birth and that you and your husband will be guided by the Holy Spirit in each and every decision that you have to make. Family, I have a biopsy on Thursday. By the time you hear this, it will be over with, but I'm praying that you will pray that it will go well and that there will be nothing to be concerned with. Asking you to continue to pray for my beautiful husband who has been diagnosed with ALS and we have been walking through that for a year and trusting the Lord every step of the way. He is a miracle working God. Amen. All right, everyone, I love you. I pray each of you have a blessed day.

Hey, DABC family. This is Eliza in California. And Debbie, I heard your request for prayer this morning and my heart is crying out to the Lord for you. So I am just praying that you would feel God's love surround you each day, that you would know he has a great plan for your life and for the life of your baby, and that you would let him pull you out of your mental struggles right now. So I am just going to keep praying for you, Debbie, that the Lord shows you how lovable you are because he loves you and you are worthy of being loved.

[pulim-v]

Already made propaganda for the first one so now for the second

The technical execution of this panel is FANTASTIC. It's not as detailed as the other one but there is a lot here that makes this genuinely amazing: the subtle foreshortening of TWLaios's arms, the sort of glow effect that he has that contributes to the What The Fuck Is Going On vibe, the details in the architecture itself, the way Chimera Laios just blends into the background, looking like a massive looming figure too large for the party to fight, hell the subtle detail of TWLaios's buttons fighting for their lives, there's so much stuff here!!!!

And then there's the thematic value of this scene. The fact that of the two creatures, the gigantic one hidden away in shadow is the lesser problem, the sheer joy both Laioses must be experiencing, the terrifying prospect of what the party has to do to win now, just the phrase "A nightmare appears" already does A LOT to convey the meaning of it all.

Honestly I'm still torn on which I'm voting for but I think I have to vote for the one on the right, if only for the expressions shown (TWLaios's crazed look Does Things to me)

Masterpost