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youngster-monster · 4 years ago

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shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

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jaydicksummerexchange · 4 years ago

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[ ❤ Works posted so far! ❤ ]

TODAY IS THE DAY!

We have reached 118 Exchange works for 2020! Thank you, thank you to all our fabulous artists and writers who tapped that creative well and let JayDick rain down upon us. And thank you to everyone who has clicked on the link and left kudos and comments for our participants. They worked, so, so hard y’all!

We’ll reveal all of our participants tomorrow, September 5, so get your score cards ready and see how many of your guesses were right!

Here are today’s releases!

A Kiss and a Kingdom by anonymous for TheWayneManner [Fic, Mature, No Archive Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Fae & Fairies, Fae!Dick, Shade!Jason, Alternate Universe - Magic, Prince!Dick, Assassination Attempt(s), Diplomacy

Summary: The Fae Kingdom must work together to help their human brethren when a border conflict arises. Fae Prince Dick Grayson chooses Knight Jason Todd to be a human representative for the negotiations because something about Jason draws him in. Little does he know, he and Jason are spinning a spiderweb around themselves filled with romance, intrigue, and enemies.

The Blud is no Haven by anonymous for Fancy_Dragonqueen [ART, Mature, No Warnings Apply, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Mafia Dick Grayson, Mob Boss Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson is Not Nightwing, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Hooker Jason Todd, Fanart

Summary: Dick Grayson is a policeman. Dick Grayson is a community hero. Dick Grayson has never, in fact, been on the right side of the law.

That one Mafia AU where Dick is Bludhaven's biggest mob boss and Jason is his right-hand (in more ways than one).

Gotham City Pride by anonymous for epistemology [ART, General Audiences, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Digital Art, Fanart, Pride Parades, Asexual Character, Pansexual Character, Is this an AU? Who knows., JayDick Summer Exchange

Summary: ♫ Just two boys, hugging during pride month 'cause they're both gay. ♫

My Thoughts on You by anonymous for Morimaitar [FIC, Teen, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Secret Crush, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, First Dates, First Kiss, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Alternate Universe - College/University

Summary: Left alone for the holidays, grumpy and a bit sad, all Dick Grayson wanted was to get a hot drink from his favourite coffee shop near campus. But little did he know that his life would take a much-needed turn when Jason Todd, his longtime crush, starts working as a barista there.

lit the fuse and missed the candle (i love you and despise you) by anonymous for Airdanteine [Fic, Explicit, Creator Chose Not to Use Warnings, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dick Grayson is Catlad | Stray, Break Up, Post-Break Up, Love/Hate, Love to hate to love, Hate SexAvoiding Sex Scenes with Violence and Intimacy Issues Is My Kink, Angst with a Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Past Dick Grayson/Rose Wilson, Past Dick Grayson/Harley Quinn, Jealous Jason Todd, Slut Shaming

Summary: “You are nothing,” Stray hisses, slashing Jason’s face with his unoccupied hand.

Jason lets him, smiling as the blood drips down his cheek.

“Oh baby,” he says, all low timbre and heat, “I’m everything to you.”

Spyral Teens by anonymous for ZeroMonster [ART, Gen, No Warnings, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: young spies, Brothers, Big Brother Dick, Little Wing - Freeform, Little Brother Jason, Spyral (DCU), AU, Dick Grayson is Agent 37, Batfamily (DCU), Jason in the 1st Dick's outfit for Spyral, sidekick's sidekick

Summary: They are spies. Little spies. Meet Grayson-Lad and Kid Todd!

We Might Fall by anonymous for empires [FIC, Mature, No Warnings, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Batman Beyond - Freeform, Angst, Difficult Decisions, Retirement, Confessions, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Break Up, Moving On, Developing Relationship, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, how to tag

Summary: Dick and Jason are together but they're not. They love each other but they won't ever admit it. There's too much history. Too much pain. Ideals that could never match. Choices that could only end with them hating one another. But as Jason makes a life-changing decision, Dick is forced to look back on his own life, the events that led him to become who he is today. He is forced to finally look at Jason in a whole new light.

Once Upon a Time.... by anonymous for naol [ART, Teen, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Digital Art, Little Red Riding Hood AU, Kemonomimi

Summary: "What pretty eyes you have.”, This was a fic prompt but a Red Riding Hood AU was too cute not to draw as a treat <3

will i change for good? by Anonymous for 3isme and TheWayneManner [Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fae, Curses, Curse Breaking, Beastmen - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, mysterious magical stranger dick grayson, jason todd is not a changeling, Dick Grayson is a Talon

Summary:

PROMPT 3 for 3isme - Jason runs from the villagers that have hated him his whole life. They think he's a changeling. A child of the fae swapped with a human baby during infancy. He's not. Despite all the odd things that make him different from the others, he knows he's not. But They don't, and they will kill him if

PROMPT 1 for TheWayneManner - A Dark!Au of some sort. Horror and/or gothic elements. Heavy angst. Eerie vibes. NO Rape NO Underage.

Ideas: DarkFae!Dick, Mobster AU, Demon/Angel AU, Siren!Dick AU, Gothic/Horror AU, Dystopian AU, Vampire AU, Prostitute AU, Prison AU, Asylum AU... Really anything that has a dark twist to it, the boys struggling with their inner demons. BONUS: It would be awesome if the fic contained an element of forbidden love with it. Boys against the world kind of vibe.

Ambiguous or sad ending is welcome.

Favored to Win by anonymous for Fancy_Dragonqueen [Explicit, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Knifeplay, Porn With Plot, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bottom Jason Todd, Top Dick Grayson, Begging

Summary: When Jason agreed to throw fights or the mob, he was not expecting this. Jason had definitely Not had 'ass in the air, face on the floor' on tonight's bingo card. But he's not exactly complaining either...

All Washed Out by anonymous for stribirdf (timidGoddes)[FIC, Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Battle for the Cowl, Batkids Age Reversal, Angst and Feels, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Difficult Decisions, Confessions, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Omega Dick Grayson, Alpha Jason Todd, True Mates,

Summary: Batman is dead. He is dead and everything is about to change. Still grieving for his father, Jason Todd, his son and first sidekick, has no choice but to take up the mantle his alpha left behind, continuing the legacy so that the streets of Gotham are always safe. Estranged from the family, Dick Grayson, the son who died, the son who came back all wrong, has decisions to make, ones that could change everything forever. A fire has been struck, one that is bound to spread and no one can

False Alarm by anonymous for Nottak [Teen, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Married LifeSome Humorno capes AU

Summary: One day in the life of Jason Todd, former crime boss, current house husband.

Hush Hush (Don’t Give It Away) by anonymous for solomonara [Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, Writer's Block, Author Jason Todd, Secret Identity, Secret Crush, Awkwardness, Walking In On Someone, Realization, Love Confessions

Summary: ‘He was a skater boi. He said 'I'll write a fic for your later boi.'

In which, Dick Grayson really loves reading romantic stories written by a best-selling author who just turns out to be Jason Todd. Awkwardness ensues.

There are a hundred reasons why I'll run (but for you I'll stay) by anonymous for Hedgebelle (Ahaanzel) [Explicit, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Light Angst, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, First Kiss, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Happy Ending

Summary: Jason, the god of the underworld, cannot stand the Olympians who constantly keep making bets about his love life. His only desire is to stay away from everyone and mind his own business. That is, until, one day, Dick walks into his life.

a keeper of secrets for me by Anonymous for anoncitomikolino [Explicit, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, intersex omega, Alpha Jason Todd, Omega Dick Grayson, in this universe….

Summary: You can have all your dreams if you really believe in something that's true

The Bees - Listening Man

#2020 jaydick exchange #jaydick exchange #jaydick #dickjay

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josefavomjaaga · 4 years ago

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Sir Robert Wilson on Murat and Eugène

Okay, so I said I would read up on Wilson first before reading anything by him – but I had already looked into the second volume of his diaries, and this is just perfect: During the final days of March and April 1814, when the First Empire ended in Upper Italy, he visited both Murat and Eugène and had dinner with them.

Please bear with me, this is going to be lengthy. Plus, I do not know if these diaries were truely private or intended for publication, so I have no clue in how far they were edited later and how trustworthy they are as a source.

We start off in mid-March. Eugène is still holding the Mincio line for Napoleon. Murat has received the ratification of his treaty with Austria but is still on awful terms with Austrian Field Marshal Bellegarde – and with Bentinck [»Lord William«, as Wilson writes], of course.

March 15th – As I am of the species of anecdote collectors, I must note a speech of Beauharnois at Verona, which has made an impression in his favour, although it is not sufficiently towering for a hero's last struggle and would rather suit a sixth than a fifth Henry:

"Pour moi, je suis monté par un escalier si bas que je ne me ferai pas du mal en descendant. Je n'aurai que du chagrin pour ma femme, née et elevée princesse."

In English: "As for me, I have climbed a staircase from so low that I shall not harm myself on the way down. I will only grieve for my wife, born and bred a princess." That was Eugène’s usual attitude. Auguste did the same, in reverse: Of course she never wanted that crown of Italy for herself. But her Eugène (best of husbands™) deserved it so much more than anyone else in Napoleon’s family!

There are many others recorded equally meek; and this humility of spirit, combined with other good qualities and his present martial and military conduct, excites great interest in his favour.[...]

Yesterday, Colonel Cattanelli arrived and brought me advice that Lord William and Murat were at Reggio, contending for and against the British occupation of Tuscany. [...]

March 20th - We have no further advices from Reggio, but are most anxious to know the result of Murat's and Lord William's final conference.

Cattanelli tells me that Murat said to him: "Whereever I am in all the great battles, I have seen General Wilson. He is certainly one of the most distinguished officers, and if it had not been for him, we should in various instances in Russia have got through much better. He has done us infinite harm, but it is a fatality that he should always be opposed to me." He then continued his remarks, observing that I was an enemy to him, his family, the French nation etc. Cattanelli told him that he had heard me extol his military conduct, which pleased him much.

The fact is that I have not written a line or given an opinion under the influence of personal feeling. I have not shown the smallest prejudice in conversation or official correspondence, although I consider Murat's conduct as very dishonourable with reference to his benefactor. I have always said that the Allies did not give his renegade zeal fair trial, and that our present propositions are inadmissable by a King of Naples having only an armistice with England.

There is a reason, why, personally, I would wish to serve Murat. He now knows it, and will be satisfied that at all events I respect myself too much to wrong him.

March 29th, Bologna. - In consequence of the difficulties which existed and seemed to increase, I was requested by Lord William to negotiate with Murat. Constant to the principle of promoting public utility, I acquiesced, but I felt much personal reluctance. […]

At midday I went with Lord William, and was introduced to Murat. He received me very amicably; and we had more than an hour's very interesting conversation on past military events, particularly those relating to the Russian campaign; and I acquired some valuable information on that subject. Murat's dress was singular. Hair curled in Roman coiffure—two ringlets, or what, à la Parisienne, are styled “pensées”, dependent on each shoulder. Blue uniform coat, red pantaloons, yellow shoes, with spurs; sword, with three pictures in the handle. His countenance martial, his manners soft, his conversation easy and intelligent. I reserve further opinion until I have transacted business with his Majesty.

30th. — I dined with the Duke di Gallo - a handsome entertainment and a well-chosen party. In the evening went to the opera. Murat was seated as a Sultan -- princes and dukes all standing behind his throne-chair. He is by far the best actor that has appeared in the royalty theatre. This morning Lord William is gone to have an interview with the Pope. I am left to negotiate. I find myself much like the Allies in France—without any base for operations, line of communication uncertain, various interests clashing, and no unity of direction. [...]

April 1st. —On the evening of the 29th, at half-past six, I was at the dinner-table with Murat. The banquet was according to all the rules of perfect gastronomy. The master's manners were very gracious. It was impossible for Lord Chesterfield to have done the honours better. A certain high personage in England would, I am sure, ever feel a little jealous of his kingly courtesies. There was somewhat more of ceremony in the arrangement of the table than I ever witnessed before in royal fêtes. Murat occupied one whole side himself. Three persons sat opposite, and two at each end. With the exception of this distinction, there was no extraordinary attention paid to him, and the conversation was as general, fluent, and free as in private society. After dinner was over we remained talking till near eleven o'clock. I fought with his Majesty all the battles over again which we had witnessed together. He was exceedingly interesting, very candid, and by no means a Gascon for himself or his brethren in arms. I profited by this opportunity again to acquire information on various subjects which he was best qualified to give, and which may tend to make a posthumous memorandum of the late campaigns more valuable. […]

3rd. - I, yesterday, had a very long audience of Murat, and received his ultimatum on the subject of Lord William's demands. I begged, however, to have the statement in writing, and Murat promises to give it under his own hand. I think his case a good one. In foro conscientiæ he is justified. He has had much reason to feel mistrust and suspect hostile intentions under the pretext of peace. […]

Wilson actually lists up a whole bunch of reasons why Murat was justified both to mistrust the Allies and to break away from Napoleon, including Napoleon's intended takeover of Naples. So, in comparison with what he wrote on March 20, his opinion of Murat seems to have improved much by the end, on meeting him personally and on hearing his side of the story.

I skip over some stuff: The Allies and a bit later the Italians receive the news of Napoleon's abdication, which leads to a first military convention between Eugène and Bellegarde. Then we get the anti-French riots in Milan as soon as the senate tries to install Eugène as king of Lombardy, Pina gets tortured to death. That’s the point when Eugène quits the game.

25th. —Events have streamed so rapidly that I cannot attempt to note their progress. Yesterday, Marshal Beauharnois agreed to surrender the kingdom of Italy. The insurrection at Milan and the intelligence of Buonaparte's cession of the iron crown, with other circumstances, determined that measure.

I have, in my despatch to Lord Castlereagh, rendered justice to his conduct as an administrator, a general, and a man.

I passed the whole of yesterday evening with Beauharnois and in Mantua, and enjoyed very interesting conversation on all subjects. He treated me with a confidence that very few friends could experience from a person in his situation, and earnestly begged that I would see him again to pursue our discourses. There is unquestionably great satisfaction in a reception which gives proof of previous good repute, and shows the existence of unlimited credit on the heart's stores. [...]

Well, if I may suggest – don’t flatter yourself too much. That has, I fear, a lot to do with Eugène and rather little with you. (And btw, Eugène was not a marshal!)

The dinner was a most agreeable part of the day's entertainment, not only because we did not sit down till 7 o'clock in the evening, which is a great extension beyond 2 o 'clock, but because the society was very select, there not being more than eight, including three ladies appertaining to the Princess whose presence embellished the company. The Princess was herself not visible, having been confined only eight days, but they say she is very handsome. Her children, four of whom I saw, are of the best appearance and manners.

Beauharnois asked much after the Duke and Duchess of Bedford.

And that’s because he kinda knew the duchess pretty well before she became the duchess, during the peace of Amiens, when all the Brits crowded Paris. (There had even been talk about marriage but in the end either First Consul Bonaparte or the Duchess of Gordon decided against it.)

He is altered, but has a great resemblance to Moreau, and is as plain as Murat is gaudy in his dress. He is, in my opinion, just the man to suit some good Englishmen of my acquaintance.

Something makes me think he does not intend this to be a compliment 😉.

27th. — Yesterday, Beauharnois and his Princess arrived here. The preceding day there was much reason to fear that there might be obstacles to his departure, as the Italian generals, etc, were greatly displeased with the second convention which surrendered the capital and the fortresses without any arrangement made for them, according to the express stipulation of the first convention to that effect. I think, however, that Beauharnois does right; especially as Berthier desired him to withdraw, and the people had commenced a senseless and what threatened to be a very sanguinary insurrection, only to be repressed in its first outbreak by the presence of an Austrian force. [...]

The Princess, although only brought to bed twelve days, bore the journey very well; but Assalini tells me that she is very delicate, and that he fears the more for her as her mother died after child-birth. I have just sent her a bottle of Tokay from the cellar of John Sobieski. It was given me when I was in Warsaw, and I have carried it about intact on the presumption that I might one day apply the nectar to a better purpose than the gratification of my own palate. If I have not, as I hope, combined the “ utile dulci,” I have at least combined in this instance the “decorum dulci,” and this is more in character.

28th - Yesterday, Beauharnois showed me a letter from his sister, the Queen of Holland. It was full of anecdote about Buonaparte, the Empresses, etc, and proved that she possessed much good sense and good feeling. One of her remarks was—“Fatality determined that no experience, no counsel, not even the Emperor's own intelligent mind should discover the bandage which it had bound over his eyes. The perception of the heart was wanting, and great geniuses rarely possess it. He has been abandoned almost by all. Rustan (the Mameluke) is even about to quit, and when I saw the Empress Louisa the other day, she had not more than one valet-à-pied in her service. She came to the advanced posts to embrace her father before she followed her husband, but it is now said that she will not be allowed to go after him. It is true that he was not latterly kind to you, but I am sure you will remark only his benefactions at this time.” The tears started in the eyes of Beauharnois as he read.

May 1st. - I dined on the 29th with the Prince Eugène, the Princess and three ladies of her court; no other persons present. A conversation of five hours enabled me to travel over much matter, but without exhausting our subjects. I had every reason to be pleased with the Prince, and to be assured that we did not separate without a mutual wish to meet again. He was very anxious that I should be at Paris when he was there, but as I hate traitors and cowards - however beneficial their treason and baseness — I shall not sojourn in that city. I would rather be Buonaparte, to have written his last bulletin, than any one of the yet prosperous renegades.

So, to sum up: Murat fascinating but hard to assess, Eugène plain boring. No surprises there.

#joachim murat #eugene beauharnais #eugene de beauharnais #napoleon #italy1814 #sir robert wilson #abdication #trust in whoever meets murat to describe his outfit in detail #napoleon's marshals - not!

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mymiraclebox · 4 years ago

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The Fall of Atlantis (ML One-Shot)

Summary: When it came to the sinking of Atlantis, humans blamed Plagg, Destruction himself. But the kwamis remember that another of their kind had been lurking in the shadows.

Rating: Teen (implied death with the sinking of Atlantis)

Also read on ao3.

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Attlantis was silent as he came flying out of the scarf, the transformation falling away as his chosen slipped into their home, a small little place. The human stretched, looking quite satisfied with himself. His kwami watched him wordlessly, his skin darkening to a deep blue as he regarded his human.

“This is not what my powers are to be used for, Calix,” he finally stated.

Calix threw the Octopus an unimpressed look. “Were you not the one that told me to use this Miraculous to choose my destiny?”

“Yes,” Attlantis said. “That does not mean you made the right Choice. I placed this power in your hands in the hope that you would help this land progress. Instead you have crowned yourself a god.”

He had sought out someone from humble origins in hopes that they would be humble themselves. He realized he had chosen incorrectly far too late– Calix donning the name of ‘Poseidon’ when transformed, and with the power he held many had come to believe that was who he was. Gifts and offerings had been presented to him, the fine trinkets lining the shelf of his small home, and all looked to him in awe.

He now had children on the way, conceived under false pretenses and a name that was not his.

Attlantis had watched this island be built and prosper; he and his holders had been among the first to arrive on this land, and it had even been named in his honor. The people that had lived then had been ones he had been proud of, those who had been worthy of the powers they were granted and the titles they gained– but that generation had only lasted for a moment in time. He had watched their descendants fall into greed, the Miraculouses in their possession.

As soon as Attlantis had been given the Choice to leave, he had.

He had taken his scarf and fled to the farthest corners of the island, watching as humans fought against one another, brother turning against brother– it was a sight he had dreaded to see. He did not understand, he and the others had been so careful with who they had brought to this land, and how their children had been raised– yet it seemed no matter what people they lived among, they fell into their selfish ways in just a couple of generations. This land had been meant to be a utopia, but it had become anything but that.

When Attlantis first found Calix he had been a quiet human, scavenging what he could for his family who lived off of the scraps of society. He had not been a grand leader like his past holders, but the small choices he made demonstrated greater morals than the momentous decisions the current rulers crafted.

Miraculouses granted power, power created influence– and the kwami had hoped that with his power Calix would be able to guide this island back towards the glory it had once held.

He had never imagined that Calix would turn into the very type of human he had fled from. One that chose to lie– not to protect and serve, but for his own selfish gain. One that drank the power that had fallen into his hands, and who had left the family he had cared for so diligently, to prosper on his own.

Attlantis could not understand– were all humans fated to the same destiny? Was corruption rooted in their beings?

The Octopus ate his meal in silence as Calix sat down to feast on the harvest he had been given today. Attlantis did not care that he was only given the scraps, he only thought for the younger sisters Calix had once fed, would they have been a better choice for the scarf that sat around his holder’s neck? Or would have they fallen to the same fate as their brother?

Calix fell upon his cot, lavished with fine fabrics and plush pillows that did not match the small shack they rested in. The kwami hovered above him, skin fading to a paler teal as he watched his holder, who said nothing to him as he fell asleep. When had he gone from companion to merely a tool? Were humans truly unable to see beyond themselves?

As soon as his breathing slowed and his snores became loud, and Attlantis swooped down, carefully reaching for the scarf around his neck. It shimmered as it was pulled from the human, turning into a shimmering material, an iridescence of blues and greens. The only reaction Calix gave to losing the Miraculous was a slight twitch in his sleep, twisting over to his side as he slept on. Calix had chosen not to give Attlantis any orders against taking the Miraculous– and so the kwami was glad to take it from someone as unworthy as him. He had given the human many chances, and none of them he had taken.

Attlantis stared down at Calix for a moment longer– leaving a holder was usually a time of grieving for a kwami, having grown close to the humans they could only know for such a short amount of time– but right now he felt nothing. It had been the same after his last holder, and the few before them. The last time he had felt anything had been generations ago.

What had humans become?

He slipped out through the door and into the cool night, the smell of earth and the sea rippling around him. He could search the island for a new holder... but Calix had been his last hope. He now knew that no one here would be worthy of wielding his power. As for his fellow kwamis that lived here... he was sure their powers should not be in the hands of humans either.

Attlantis made his decision in that moment– and he knew it was not a simple Choice. But with the mistakes he had already made and the darkness that was clouding the humans’ hearts he was certain that this would not be one he would regret. Others might though, and considering he could not do this alone... he would have to choose his words carefully.

There were several that could help him– Tonna’s powers would be best, but she lived on the other side of the world, and the time it would take him would allow for the corruption here to spread further. Nokk’s powers would be sufficient as well, and much closer, but there was one other kwami who was even nearer who could complete the task. The Alphas carried great force– but it was that power that he needed.

So Attlantis set off across the ocean, tentacles holding tightly to his scarf, heading towards Greece.

-----------

Though Creation and Destruction’s current wielders were not associated together, Attlantis was hoping that Paschalítsa wouldn’t be close at the moment, perhaps near the Black Sea as he heard she often was, but it wasn’t expected to find Perses and Paschalítsa so close to the other. Creation and Destruction went hand in hand, even if their current holders had little to do with each other.

“Kwami,” Perses said when he saw Attlantis approaching, stiffening up slightly. Paschalítsa raised her head, staring at him with an uninterested gaze. He wasn’t sure if he had intruded on a meeting or not, but he saw no reason to linger in the window. Human affairs were limited in their relevance.

“Greetings, Creation and Destruction,” Attlantis said, bowing his head somewhat, tentacle over his chest– the titles and gestures were beyond what he felt they deserved, but he needed their favor. The tentacles on his back held tightly to his Miraculous, not wanting it to fall into the hands of a human once more. “I am Attlantis, the kwami of Choice. I have come to seek a favor from Plagg.”

Paschalítsa stretched. “That’s yours, right? So can I leave now, or...?”

Perses sighed. “We still have much to discuss, Hippolyta. We shall continue after we speak to this kwami.” He turned his attention towards Attlantis. “I am not familiar with you, I am afraid. I am Perses, wielder of Destruction. Who is your wielder, and why have you come?”

“I have no wielder,” he said simply, and he felt a strange thrill at that thought. He had no holder, and he was not bound to a Miracle Box– what path he took from here was his choice and his alone. “I come from Atlantis, which was named in my honor, but the people there no longer treat the island with such. They have abused my powers, and the other kwamis which reside there. I have come to seek Destruction’s assistance.”

Perses looked alarmed. “Is there not a Guardian in the area for you to contact?”

Attlantis’ expression remained neutral, he had not gone to one for many reasons. They would simply remove his Miraculous and the others on the island, but the people and their corruption would still remain. There were other sources of powers they could seek– but a Guardian was not an option. His grip on his scarf tightened, pulling away from the humans.

“That was not an option,” he said simply. “I need to speak to Plagg.”

“Very well,” Perses said. “Plagg, claws in.”

The black ring on his finger gleamed, his transformation falling away as the kwami of Destruction came flying out from it, paws crossed. He hovered upside down in front of his holder for a moment, staring at him.

“Cheese, Petros,” Plagg finally said. Petros sighed, before pulling out a piece of feta, which the kwami swooped down and ate in a single bite, before turning towards the Octopus. “Attlantis,” he said, sounding surprised. “Haven’t seen you in a few centuries. What’s going on?”

“The people of Atlantis are planning a siege against this land,” Attlantis said, the lie flowing off his tongue with ease. “Their numbers and weaponry are great, and they will be using our brethren as well. I barely managed to escape, but something must be done.”

Plagg’s holder, Petros, looked up with wide eyes. “Why did you not alert us to this the moment you came here, Kwami? This is no small matter– we must alert others right away. Hippolyta, you should gather your sisters, I will alert our Guardian–”

“No.” Attlantis said. “The innocent people of this land would be slain if there was such a battle, we must stop this before it can begin, which is why I seek Plagg’s assistance.” He took in a deep breath, not knowing how his request would be received. “I believe our best course of action would be to eliminate the problem– rid them of their navy and vessels, and they cannot cross the oceans to this land. That will give us plenty of time to prepare.”

Paschalítsa raised her head, now looking interested. “Destroying a whole fleet? I like the way you think, little kwami.”

Plagg crossed his paws. “There’s a reason why you got Tikki and not me, Paschalítsa.” He turned to Attlantis, head tilted slightly. “When you say you want my help, you mean my abilities without a holder?”

“If it is a lack of control you fear, I can help you,” Attlantis said, holding out a paw. “I can help rein in your abilities with what you choose to destroy, but we simply do not have time to wait for your holder to cross the sea to guide your Cataclysm. We need to leave now.”

Plagg turned to Petros. “Well kid, what do you say?”

“Me?” Petros said, looking slightly surprised.

“You’re wearing the ring, kid. I’m not leaving you unless you are okay with it.”

Attlantis’ tentacles tightened on his Miraculous. One of the most powerful beings in this universe, and he left his fate in the hands of one who would be gone in the blink of an eye? Perhaps for the ones who had proven themselves, but he was beginning to see that was quite rare to find among mankind.

“Of course, Plagg,” Petros said. “We swore to protect this land, and if this is the best way to do so then we will do so.”

Paschalítsa raised an eyebrow. “So, are you going to say you need Tikki next too or something? How do we not know this is a trick to strip us powerless and leave us vulnerable to attack?”

“I am not here to drag Creation away from you,” Attlantis said.

Plagg flipped upside down. “He has his Miraculouses with him– that means no one ordered him to do this. Nothing not to trust.”

“Just like that?”

“Unlike you humans,” Plagg said. “We kwamis don’t turn against each other.”

“Shall we go?” Attlantis said, not wanting to waste their time with these humans. He held out a paw. “I can help hide us to avoid detection.”

Plagg replied by flying over to him, placing his paw into his.

“Cloak,” Attlantis whispered softly, waves of rippling energy spreading across them. Within moments he and Plagg’s colors had morphed, perfectly matching the walls around them, even the scarf he held. Petros took a step forward, looking at their now nearly invisible forms in awe.

“See you around, kid,” Plagg said with a cackle, and together they flew out the window.

They were on their way, and soon Attlantis would be at peace.

-------------------

Attlantis had not wasted a single moment of his and Plagg’s journey, telling the kwami of every single thing Calix and his previous holders had done while in possession of his Miraculous. Unlike some of his previous words to his fellow kwami these were not lies, but he carefully chose to leave out details, painting his story so that it would suit his purposes.

“Your Guardian should have checked up on your island,” Plagg muttered.

“Perhaps he agreed with the idea of war?” Attlantis suggested.

The Black Cat shivered at the thought. “No matter what he believes, he knows that Miraculouses shouldn’t be used that way. I think this is a much bigger issue than you realize, Attlantis. As soon as we destroy this fleet we need to prepare.”

Attlantis smiled softly. He had said the right thing, if even the lax Destruction was this concerned. His gaze shifted to Plagg, whose eyes were lit with determination. He brushed his tentacle against his fur ever so slightly, releasing the tiniest amount of his power into the Black Cat– who didn't even blink.

But with each soft touch Attlantis was slowly securing the kwami’s decision of Destruction, so when the time came there would be no chance for hesitation, no restraint when the Cataclysm was released. Because destroying a mere fleet would not be enough, Attlantis knew that to stop this corruption they would have to go to the very roots.

---------------------

“Looks peaceful enough,” Plagg muttered as they approached Atlantis.

“Wait until you see the weaponry they’ve stockpiled,” Attlantis said simply. “Perhaps we should begin there, and not the fleet. No ships means they can’t sail, but no weapons means that they cannot harm anyone.”

Besides, Plagg seeing a lack of war vessels in the harbor would only raise his suspicions.

Plagg’s eyes gleamed. “Take me there.”

Destruction had truly grown to love the many city-states and all the lands in between, Attlantis could see that. He wondered if Plagg would feel the same despair he had when his people eventually caved to corruption, or would the Black Cat be blinded by the fondness he held now? They would have to see in time.

Attlantis led him to the small shack Calix called home. Plagg looked at the small, pitiful building, then back at the Octopus almost doubtfully, but when he saw the burning rage in the normally calm kwami’s eyes he saw no reason not to believe him. He circled the small shack, whose windows were still covered from when Calix hid his offerings. He wondered if his former holder was still in there now, clinging to the last of the treasures he had taken before he had left.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Plagg commented.

“It’s an entrance to an underground system,” Attlantis replied. “You will want to project your powers to below the surface, destroy it all before they have a chance to scavenge a single arrow.”

Plagg gently placed a paw on the roof of the shack, and Attantlis felt himself growing restless. The Black Cat was hesitating, or perhaps calculating just how much of his Destruction to unleash. It didn’t matter though, because his decision had been cemented long before they had reached this little shack.

“Cataclysm,” he muttered, clearly intending to release the smallest amount he could– but as the words slipped through his lips Attlantis lashed out at him, tentacles pulsing with light as he released his own energy into the Black Cat.

"Course," Attlantis hissed, and Plagg let out a gasp, but his Choice was made final in that moment, and the Cataclysm surged up into a blinding flare of black light.

Attlantis smiled faintly as the shack crumbled to ash, the surrounding plants withering upon contact– the fully powered-Cataclysm rippling out at the surrounding land. Cracks appeared in the earth, the crevices crumbling and widening as the entire land shook from the growing Destruction.

“What did you do?” Plagg shouted, whipping around to face Attlantis with wide eyes.

“Just... confirmed your choice to use your powers,” Attlantis said softly as he released Plagg, barely heard over the rupturing from the island. “Making sure that you didn’t hold back.”

Another loud rumble shook the island, the spreading darkness creeping across the island. Plagg tried to race ahead of it. “We need to warn the humans!” He cried. “That was too much force, Attlantis, you know my powers are unpredictable– this whole place is going to crumble!”

“Exactly,” Attlantis said, unmoving, and Plagg froze. “Perhaps there was no fleet or forming army, but with the path they were on I am sure it would have only been a matter of time.”

The Black Cat looked back at him, mouth open, searching for words he did not know. The horror in his eyes was raw, and it made the Octopus hum in amusement. Attlantis simply rose higher into the air, watching as earth began to crumble into the sea, the destruction webbing out across the island. Buildings fell in its wake, and the sounds of screams were heard between the rumbles and the quakings.

Plagg rushed down towards the island, in what Attlantis knew was a vain attempt to save those who remained. He remained up in the sky, wrapping his scarf around him as the sun slowly rose in the east– the grand island of Atlantis withering away into nothing. The sea churned, waves crashing as chunks of earth and rocks crashed into it, the cacophony of Destruction sounding like a symphony to his ears.

Attlantis closed his eyes as the last of the island sank into the ocean, a smile on his face.

“You lied to me?” Plagg cried, and the kwami opened a purple eye to find that the Black Cat had returned. He was trembling, the hurt in his gaze clear. “How... how could you do that? Why would you do that?”

“You would not have chosen to help me otherwise,” Attlantis said simply. “And I did not possess the power to do it for myself.”

“They’re dead Attlantis!” Destruction screamed. “Every human on this island is dead because of you– you killed them!”

“No, you killed them,” Attlantis said, and Plagg flinched back as if he had been hit. “It was not all lies I told you, Plagg, the deeds of my past holders did happen– and after what Calix had done I knew there was no hope left for the humans here.” He stared down at the ocean below them. “I could not just leave and let this corruption continue.”

“That was not your choice to make,” Plagg hissed.

Attlantis tilted his head. “How is it any different than when you and Shii culled the dinosaurs? And the creatures that roamed this earth before them?”

Plagg looked at a loss for words, and Attlantis turned away. This was not the first time they had rid Earth of life they had deemed unfit, so he saw no reason why now should be any different. He drifted forward, looking down at the restless sea, knowing that it wouldn’t be the two of them alone here for long. The humans may have not survived, but for kwamis death was not a reality they would live.

Skyy was the first to surface, the Griffin bursting up from the waves, her Miraculous clutched in her paws. Her eyes were sharp as she looked about, zipping up towards the frozen Plagg, wings flaring.

“What have you done?!” She snarled.

Haabu, Orikko, and Finn were the next ones to surface, the Rattlesnake’s, Rooster’s and Salmon’s expression more akin to Plagg’s as they looked down at where their home had once been– which was nothing more than another part of the endless expanse of ocean. Attlantis was glad to see that each had been able to lay claim to their Miraculouses, their fate no longer bound to the humans they had been serving.

“Did you think you had a right, Destruction?” Skyy screeched. “Where is your other half? Bring Creation here to restore what you have done!”

“There will be no undoing what has taken place,” Attlantis said, slowly drifting up towards them. “Plagg’s Cataclysm was done under my influence– his Choice is final.”

Skyy turned towards him. “You... you helped with this? Our island? Our land? Our people?!”

Attlantis smiled softly, aware of the other three kwamis that drifted up behind him, trying to make sense of what had just taken place. “This was entirely my Choice, Skyy. I guided Destruction here under false promises.”

“Our holders... they’re... dead.” Orikko whispered.

“One trick all humans have in common,” Attlantis agreed. “Surely you saw the paths they were going down were not good ones. Had we let this continue...” He shook his head. “This was necessary.”

Finn drew close to Attlantis. “Perhaps their choices were not Wise, but their fate was not meant to be of our choosing.”

Haabu shook her rattle. “Did you know this was going to happen, Finn?”

The Salmon locked eyes with Attlantis. “Attlantis has chosen his path, interference would have made no difference in the end.”

“You murdered my holder!” Skyy screeched, rushing at Attlantis, and he had no time to react– the Griffin slamming into him. Her paws slashed at him, and he lashed out with his tentacles in retaliation, Skyy’s cries drowning out the shouts of their fellow kwamis as they struggled in the air.

Orikko rushed between them, while Haabu’s tail wrapped around Attlantis’ body, trying to pull him back. Finn tried to approach Skyy, but she dove at Attlantis once more with ruffled feathers.

“Murderer!”

“Enough!” Plagg’s voice echoed across the waters, the entire air shaking with the power the Alpha carried. All the kwamis went still in response, the tension palpable. “...Haabu, take his Miraculous.”

“No!” Attlantis cried, whipping about, but the Rattlesnake had already gotten a hold of the scarf. He rushed forward in a chance to reclaim it, but Skyy blocked his path, wings flared open. He glowered at them, knowing he needed to reclaim the scarf– because without it his freedom was nothing. Fellow kwamis couldn’t force him to obey, but as long as they held it they could not stray far.

“Finn, Haabu,” Plagg said, trembling slightly. “I’m counting on you to make sure that his Miraculous falls into no one else’s hands but your Guardian’s. Tell them exactly what happened– I need to return to Greece and see if Tikki and I can reverse what happened.”

“You know you can’t,” Attantlis said, tentacles curling. “Not under my influence. Not without Vitaa's Life.”

“I’ll go with them,” Skyy said, a growl in her voice. “He shouldn’t be out of the Miracle Box for some time, not when he’s killing humans.”

Attlantis sneered. “Do you think I want to be another pawn for a human? Very well, return me to the Miracle Box– better than serving for a corrupted cause!”

“Orikko, you come with me,” Plagg said softly.

“Of course,” the Rooster said, drifting up towards the Black Cat, who turned his back on the other kwamis. He was shaking slightly, and if it was from anger or sorrow, Attlantis did not know– though he would pity the kwami if he truly felt sorrow for those who had once been here.

Attlantis felt his Miraculous switch paws, Finn carefully taking the scarf into his care. It would be near impossible to reclaim the Miraculous with his keen Foresight. He closed his eyes, but saw no further reason to fight. His mission had been accomplished, and the people of Atlantis could no longer abuse the powers of the Miraculouses. They could lock him away for a time, but he was sure they would come to see that his Choice and been the right one.

-----------------------

The other kwamis refused to speak to Attlantis once he returned to the realm of the Miracle Box.

He understood their Choice– for they called him a traitor among kwamis. He had lied and tricked an Alpha. His actions had not only slaughtered Miraculous holders, but a whole kingdom as well. But letting a bad branch of humanity continue to grow... it would infect all those who remained. Loss was necessary for the growth of the better parts of humanity. Though how long they would survive– he did not know.

He lingered in the far corners of their pocket dimension, far from where the others gathered. Attlantis took no part in celebrating the kwamis who returned or those who were setting off to a new holder, no care for what human they would end up in the hands of. He was content with the peace he had for a time– but like all creatures he too grew lonely.

Yuume was the kwami of Dreams– and as such he spent more time asleep in the world of dreams than he did awake in the Miracle Box. He did not think the Sheep would be keen to his presence if he were to wake, but the Octopus was content to linger near him when he craved the company of another. He was careful to leave when he saw signs of him awakening, not wanting to disturb him.

Yet the Dreams Yuume roamed in were not always peaceful, and it was only a matter of time before he was awakened from one with Attlantis was near.

It had been a quiet time when the Sheep jerked awake suddenly, a look of horror on his face– no other kwami near them. Yuume’s paws were wrapped closely to him as he looked about, the young kwami seemingly not realizing he was now awake. Attlantis drew back, expecting to see horror on his face if he was seen, but before the Octopus could move away his fellow kwami was rushing at him– and Attlantis froze as Yuume’s paws wrapped around him.

“Are... Are you alright?” Attlantis asked in surprise– and he wasn't sure how long it had been since he had spoken to another.

Yuume shook. “They weren’t always like this. Why must they be like this?”

He patted Yuume’s back uncertainly. “What happened?”

“Dreams used to be pleasant,” he muttered softly, still pressing into his embrace. “But very few are now– what has become of humanity?”

The Octopus blinked, before bringing him in a bit closer. “Indeed.” He said quietly. “What has become of humanity?”

#atlantis #attlantis #miraculous ladybug #plagg #ml plagg #kwami #kwami oc #kwamis #miraculous ladybug oc #miraculous oc #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #ml fanfic

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pengychan · 5 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Genesis 4:9

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Uncomfortable realization time? Uncomfortable realization time. But at least this supernatural version of Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego is drawing to a close.

***

For a time after the War, Gabriel - as well as everyone else, apparently - failed to truly realize what was happening.

Part of the reason, he supposed, was that they were all busier than they’d ever been. The war had been exhausting but, once it was over - the rebels cast down, out of paradise, away from God - they had very little time to rest. There was so much to do, so much to fix: entire galaxies had been turned to dust as the War raged on, and the Heavenly host had been reduced by half.

Which translated to a lot of work… and very little desire to think of what had become of the other half of them, for a lot of excellent reasons.

Anger was one, of course. How dare they turn against God, against them? How dare they believe they were above their creator, and throw everything in such chaos? They deserved their punishment, certainly, and they shouldn't waste time thinking of them.

Another reason was pain. Few of them would acknowledge it - surely they were not supposed to grieve the loss of traitors - but it was there, a constant ache previously unknown, worse even than the sting of betrayal. They had lost half their brethren, after all, corrupted beyond salvation, they who’d never known loss before. They weren’t meant to know loss, not built to withstand it.

But the busier they kept themselves the less they thought of the Fallen, and the less they thought of the Fallen the easier it became to bear. So they chose, collectively, not to think of them at all.

Until the day Gabriel tried to, and found that he could not. Names, faces and ranks he’d known as well as his own were beyond his grasp, or at least the vast majority of them. There was a name he could recall, a name he clung to.

Ba’al.

He didn’t remember their face, nor their rank, or much of anything about them at all, and yet the last scraps of a memory remained, lingering stubbornly-- Ba’al was stubborn, too -- and refusing to fade away.

Part of him wanted to hold onto those memories, of course; try to remember the Ba’al he’d known and cared for, before he was lost along with countless others. Only that it was a small part of him, somewhere behind his left knee, while the rest was desperate to be rid of them.

“I tried to warn you.”

“Join our cause.”

“Abandon this folly!”

"Next time you cross my path, I shall take you down."

Certainly, if the memories were fading it had to be God’s will, and he had no reason no intention to defy it. So he let it happen, allowing himself relief before he carried on with his duties, determined as ever to serve God and the Great Plan. They knew there had been a War, of course; they had vague recollections of the fight, clear memories of the victory.

As time passed, they learned to know their adversaries - the demons the Fallen had become, not the same beings anymore - and it was easy, so very easy, to see them as the enemies and nothing more.

Knowledge of the fact they had once been part of them meant little, with no real memory of it; no angel regretted forgetting them, or at least none of them said as much aloud.

In Heaven, many things go unsaid.

***

“Archangel Gabriel asked you to find Alison.”

“Yes. He did personally request we seek your sister, and as it is proving more difficult than expected we would appreciate your cooperation--”

“Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

That, Uriel thought, was the reason why no high-ranking angel had ever willingly taken on duties in the lower spheres of Heaven, where good mortals resided after death. Dead or not, virtuous or not, they were still humans. And humans could be… unnecessarily crude.

“Such language is entirely uncalled for in Heaven, and I’d appreciate you minding it,” she said. Had she remembered that Gabriel had referred to himself precisely that way not too long ago, she might have thought otherwise… but she did not, in fact, remember that.

The formerly-mortal, now eternal soul Daniel Brown didn’t even seem to hear her: he just rubbed his face and turned to look, wide-eyed, at the woman beside him. His wife - Liv, he called her. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Uriel frowned. “There is no need to involve him. As I was saying--”

“It was really the Archangel Gabriel! The guy from the Bible! And-- shit, that song-- Sting-- he got all weird listening to it, I didn’t-- I had no idea--!”

Having been dead and in Heaven for several years now, said wife seemed less surprised by the notion of an Archangel walking on Earth with a dislike for Sting. She patted his shoulder.

“I heard you, darling. Mind your pressure.”

“Liv, we’re dead. I just-- I thought he was just fucking around!”

“Mr. Brown!” Uriel protested. “Archangels - even former ones - do not… do that,” she muttered, despite not actually remembering whether or not Gabriel did have the habit to, quote, fuck around. She would just assume he did not, as it would be beneath his status.

Since when was it normal for a human soul to speak like that in front of an angel, anyway? Uriel’s experience in dealing with humans was rather limited - on top of her mind she had told a fellow named Noah that rain was coming, and checked Egypt’s doors for lamb blood on one more memorable occasion - but she was rather sure they used to be more polite than… that.

“How did he even-- how do you become a former Archangel?”

“... His employment was terminated.”

“Ah. All right, that’s… pretty much what he said. That he was cast down - I thought he meant he’d been sacked, you know, walked out with his stuff in a cardboard box or something.”

Was Gabriel given a cardboard box prior to being cast out? Uriel didn’t quite remember, so she decided not to remark on that. “Well, either way, what I am here to talk about is your--”

“I thought he was just drunk. I mean, he was, but what he said - off with his wings - was… real?”

It was, of course. Uriel knew Gabriel’s wings had been torn off by Michael while she and Sandalphon held him down, but only because they had written it down and talked about it. She had no memory of the event itself. “I am afraid this is a metter I cannot discuss. Now--”

“Why cast him out?” Daniel Brown asked, refusing to drop the matter. “What did he even do?”

Nothing we did not do as well, Uriel thought, but did not answer. In the back of her mind, a tiny voice murmured that maybe he had done something to deserve it - he must have done something to deserve it. It was the only thing that made sense. They had just… forgotten it.

“... What he did or did not do is not for me to discuss, much less with you,” she finally said, and straightened herself. “Now, Mr. Brown, about your sister…”

***

“... So you couldn’t find anything.”

“Unfortunately not, but we’re not giving up just yet. We will find out where she is. Uriel went to speak with the mortal, to see if he can tell her anything of use.”

Michael’s voice was collected, perfectly professional. Sitting across the table with a mug of hot coffee in his hands - he’d almost offered Michael some, before remembering that with one notable exception angels did not, in fact, consume human food or drinks - Gabriel nodded.

“I see. How… how is he?” he asked, gaining himself a slightly confused look.

“Well, I have not met him, but-- he’s in Heaven. Certainly he’s doing well.”

Ah, of course. How could anyone possibly be in Heaven and not be doing well? Beyond its gates, there was everything a soul could possibly ask for… but maybe not everyone. Their loved ones may be in Hell, or… wherever in creation Alison Brown even was.

Is it really paradise if those you care about are missing? He’d never wondered such a thing until now, and suddenly he found he couldn’t stop thinking about it. “He had a wife,” Gabriel found himself saying, looking up. Seeing Michael made the scars on his back ache, but his hands were not shaking anymore and his voice was firm. “She died some ten years ago. Is she there?”

To his relief, Michael nodded. “Yes, I did see that on his papers. He has been reunited with her.”

“Ah. That’s-- good. He missed her a lot.” It should have been enough, knowing he was well, but somehow it was not. He was well, yes, but he was not there. Gabriel had never known an absence could take up so much space, and make it so empty.

There was a silence, a bit too long not to be awkward. Gabriel focused on Michael’s face, on the way she avoided his gaze as she busied herself with her notes on the case. It was almost eerie; Michael had never before, since the very beginning of everything, averted her gaze from anyone but God. As far as he could remember, at least: there were holes, of course, where memories relating to any of the Fallen had simply… gone.

Why did we forget the Fallen? Why am I recalling things now that I could not before?

The thought was sudden, and it caused Gabriel to frown. Something else whispered in the back of his mind, a voice that had spoken to him in his dreams and which, he suspected, belonged to a certain Prince of Hell.

They will forget you. Maybe they already did. They have all forgotten you. Forget them, too.

“... Gabriel? Is something the matter?” Michael’s voice caused Gabriel to recoil. He realized only then he’d been staring for entirely too long, eyes wide and mouth agape, probably looking quite foolish. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say it was nothing, that she may go.

What actually left him was a question. “How much do you remember about me, Michael?”

It struck a nerve, Gabriel could tell: Michael stiffened, pressed her lips, and was quite a few moments “... I do know who you are,” she replied, and stood. “I ought to go back--”

“But you’re forgetting me, aren’t you?”

Another pause, then a sigh. “We won’t. We have notes about you to-- remind ourselves.”

The notion he was being forgotten about in Heaven hit him hard, but until not too long ago a part of him - the part that every night, as he dreamed, cried and screamed and begged uselessly for his wings not to be torn out - for he would at least have found some relief in the fact those who’d cast him out would have no reason to seek him out ever again.

Now, however, there was no relief to mitigate the hurt but rather something else - confusion and something warm in his chest that he dared not name. “Notes to remind yourselves?”

A nod. “So that we don’t entirely forget you.”

“... Why?”

“No one knows. We forgot the Fallen, of course, but this is different. You are no demon, and--”

“No, I mean-- why fight it?” Gabriel cut her off. “If it’s divine will that you forget the Fallen--”

“You are not Fallen, Gabriel,” Michael cut him off right back, frowning. “You were--”

“Cast out,” he cut her off, again. “Some difference.”

“We refuse to forget you.”

“If God wills it--”

“We don’t know if God wills it,” Michael retorted, cutting him off again. It was turning into a habit.

“Everything happens because God wills it,” Gabriel replied, but his voice lacked conviction. Something whispered in his mind that perhaps - just perhaps - forgetting the fallen had less to do with God’s will and more to do with their need to take the path of least resistance, to allow themselves no doubts or regrets that might weaken their faith in God’s plan.

Aziraphale had been no exception then, but he was now. Aziraphale, who had defied the Great Plan. Who had strayed from the path, allowed himself doubt, and… remembered him well.

“Gone native,” they had muttered. More human than celestial, trading a world of easy order and certainty with chaos, second-guessing, twisted paths shrouded in mist.

“How will I know I’m doing the right things?”

“You won’t,” Metatron had said.

“You figure it out, Gabe,” the demon Crowley had sneered. “It’s the gift of free will.”

A long breath, and Gabriel stood, looking at Michael in the eye. “Was it hard?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “Carrying out the order to cast me out.”

She avoided his gaze. “... The hardest thing I ever had to do. It haunts me. Haunts all of us.”

“You cast out many of the rebels.”

“That was different. They rebelled - you were one of us.”

“... They were part of us, too.”

“They rebelled. You were punished for something we all took part to,” Michael almost snapped, finally looking back at him again. “You were trying to do the right thing.”

“Good intentions. What was it that paves the road to Hell again?”

A scowl. “This is ridiculous. I know you’re nothing like the Fallen we--”

“How would you? You don’t remember what they were like. None of us did. It was easier not to.”

Is it really paradise if those you care about are missing?

You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.

“What…?”

“Could you - or Uriel, or Sandalphon or anyone else - carry on with your duties as easily if you thought of the enemy the way you think of me?”

For several moments, Michael stared. Then she spoke slowly, as though letting the words sink in as she uttered them. “... You don’t think it was God to will us to forget,” she said. “You think it was our own doing. Then with the Fallen, and now with you.”

Gabriel nodded. “The path of least resistance. No reason to doubt. Nothing to regret.”

Michael slowly sat. She looked… lost. That was new. “I can’t be. We don’t want to forget you.”

“... I know. But old habits are hard to die,” Gabriel replied, and managed a smile, sitting as well. His hands went back to the cooling mug of coffee. “Believe me, I found out the hard way.”

***

It wasn’t often that Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, asked to view the file of a mortal. It was even more unusual when said mortal was already deceased and in Heaven; the few times it had happened, it had been because they believed there was a chance a mistake had been made and that the soul was deserving of Hell.

In very few occasions - Dagon could count them on one hand, and a mutilated one at that - they had even won that argument with the Archangel that wasn’t an angel anymore.

But judging from Beelzebub’s expression as they stared at the file, sprawled on their throne, that probably wouldn’t be the case. They were glaring at it as though they were trying to make it catch fire with the sheer force of will - which happened just now, as the folder burst in flames. The Prince of Hell extinguished them with an impatient wave of their hand and kept reading. The scowl kept deepening.

As the Lord of the Files, Dagon couldn’t stand by and watch a… well, a file risk being destroyed in a fit of anger. “... Perhaps I can help, my Lord. Is there any information you’re looking for?”

“Yes. Anything about this mortal’s sister,” they snapped, turning the pages. “Anything of use.”

“If both our men and Heaven confirmed there is no file to be found about her, then perhaps she really never exist-- huh. My Lord?”

No answer. Lord Beelzebub - Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies and so forth - had stilled entirely staring at the file, the scowl replaced by a stunned expression that was, in turn, slowly replaced by something else. Comprehension.

“... Lord Beelzebu--” Dagon began, and trailed off with a wince when the Prince of Hell tore off one page and let the rest of the folder fall unceremoniously on the ground. A sudden flare of fire, a cloud of sulphur, and they were gone - leaving yet another scorch mark on their throne and a smoldering pile of ash where the folder containing an accurate list of Daniel Brown’s sins had been only moments earlier.

***

"GABRIEL!"

The mug of hot cocoa Gabriel had just picked up - a gift from Aziraphale, that cocoa, and he had to admit it was growing on him as a substitute for the fifth mug of coffee - fell from his hands to shatter on the floor, splattering hot liquid across his bare shins. He yelped, both at the sting and out of surprise, heart jumping somewhere in his throat. A ball of fire suddenly erupting before you while someone bellows your name will do that.

"Jesus Christ!"

"No, it's me-- don't you ever insult me like that again," Beelzebub said, scowling, and slapped something down on the kitchen counter - a piece of parchment burnt at the edges. "I know why we couldn't find the mortal's sister."

Gabriel looked back, stunned, the scowl gone and the sting already in the back of his mind. "You do? How? What did you find out?"

"He never had a sister."

That... made no sense. "Are you sure? Daniel said… but why? Why would he lie--"

"He didn't lie. He just thought he had one."

"... I'm afraid I'm not following. Are you telling me he hallucinated her, or--" Gabriel began, only to trail off when Beelzebub quite literally slapped him with the piece of parchment.

"Shut your mouth and just read this, idiot. Daniel Brown’s sins. Well, the relevant part.”

He did shut his mouth, and he did read. It was indeed a list of sins - a young boy’s sins, small things, irrelevant things - lied to his mother over a broken window, copied his math homework, chased pigeons - up to one that was bolded and underlined, a serious sin for that young age. Gabriel read it, and his eyes widened. He read it again, just to be sure, mouth falling open.

Homophobia, hateful speech and rejection of his brother.

For a few moments, Gabriel stared. He suddenly felt… rather stupid for not thinking of that possibility. It made so much sense, now that the key piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Daniel had thought he had a sister; what he truly had was a brother who hadn’t stuck around to make him aware of the mix-up.

Daniel never knew. He was looking for someone who only exists in his memories.

“... His name is no longer Alison Brown,” Gabriel muttered, looking up. “That explains everything. But… shouldn’t former names remain on record?”

“Former names, yes. Deadnames, no. Those vanish from the records the second they are abandoned - we have standards, you know,” Beelzebub said, looking slightly offended. “It’s the same in Heaven, I assume? They couldn’t find any records of this Alison, either. We were searching for a mortal woman, after all, while we should have been looking for a man all along.”

“Ah-- right, yes. Yes, it is,” Gabriel said, and looked down again. It had been him, after all, to insist that the forms matched in Heaven and Hell. “All right, this is… this is something.”

“Just something? This changes everything.”

“We still don’t know his name, though, and--”

“The surname might have stayed the same. I shall task Dagon to search the archive for every man born in Plymouth in the time frame you provided whose surname was Brown.”

“... I understand it is a common surname.”

“No matter. We’ll find him, so he can know his stupid brother was sorry, get his stupid closure, go to his stupid funeral if he wants, and you can get your stupid conscience to shut up.”

That seemed… a solid plan, Gabriel supposed, at least on account of being the only possible plan. He smiled. “That would be very kind of yo-- ow!”

“If you know what’s good for you, you will not dare finish that sentence.”

“Right, right. My apologies,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing his arm. “Oww, that hurt.”

“Good,” Beelzebub replied, sitting on the table. “For the record, I am obviously not doing this for free - let alone out of kindness,” they spat out the word like it left a rotten taste in their mouth. “I still expect you to hold your half of the bargain. Speaking of which, was there any progress?”

“I… well… the thing is...”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Join our cause.”

“Abandon this folly!”

You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.

Ah, but would bringing back the memories be the wise thing to do? It was a can of worms Gabriel wasn’t sure he was ready to open, a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge. Would it not be easier to let the sleeping dogs lie? Take the path of least resistance once more, as he’d always done, letting all uncomfortable thoughts sink into oblivion before they could breed doubt in his mind?

Old habits are hard to die.

“... All right, I’ll bite. What’s with the face journey?”

Gabriel recoiled, looking up. Somehow, he’d managed to pretty much forget that the Lord of the Flies just so happened to be sitting on his table. “Huh?”

“You changed expression six times in less than twenty seconds, and each one was dumber than the one before. What’s going on?”

“Ah, er-- nothing. Nothing at all.”

Somehow, Gabriel suspected that was not the most convincing lie he ever told. To be entirely fair, he had… very little experience telling straightforward lies. At most, he would simply… omit information that wasn’t strictly necessary. Or tell a lie that wasn’t even a lie, because the person he was speaking with knew exactly how things really were

I'm sure there's a perfectly innocent explanation.

Would you have any objection to me following this up using back channels?

There are no back channels, Michael.

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “You are going to hold your half of the bargain, are you not?” they buzzed, a handful of different threatening notes to their voice.

Gabriel held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Of course, of course! I just-- apologies. There has been a lot going on, and--” he cleared his throat. “I will keep my word,” he added, trying to to evaluate whether trying to lie to the Prince of Hell was a wise option - or even an option at all.

At least for the time being, however, it seemed to work: Beelzebub nodded, placated.

“Very well. I’ll get to the bottom of this, and then I will expect you to keep your word. And if you so much think of taking it back--” a snap of their fingers, a burst of flames, and they were gone. Gabriel wasn’t sure whether the fire was meant to be a threat or simply their normal way to leave, but he supposed it was probably both.

Well, decision time was delayed, at least.

With a sigh, Gabriel looked back down at the piece of parchment Beelzebub had brought him, read it over again, and finally put it down. He wondered what Daniel would think once he knew. All those years looking for a sister he rejected, without knowing that the person he remembered was no more - maybe had never been. Gabriel would find his brother for him, but it wouldn’t be the person Daniel thought he was. Then again, after a lifetime apart, he would have found himself facing a stranger either way. Unlike angels, who always remained true to themselves, a notable exception aside and Fallen notwithstanding, human beings changed. That, he’d learned.

Would Daniel be happy to meet his brother? Or would he be disappointed? Gabriel wasn’t even certain Daniel’s brother would want to be found, that he would want to come to his funeral at all. Maybe he’d burned all bridges behind him, and had no intention to waste time on someone who rejected him and whom he only remembered as an angry boy. It had been so long since they last saw each other.

“I know you,” he’d said once to a Virtue known as Ba’al.

“No,” they had replied. “You do not.”

Why bring back those memories? Why now? There was no point to it, nothing it could possibly change. What if there had been someone named Ba’al, a long time ago, whom he’d cared for deeply? What if they had cared for him? That was then and this was now. Ba’al the Virtue was no more, and neither was Gabriel the Archangel.

They were not the same beings anymore.

***

(Okay, so I lied. It wasn't Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego. It was Where's Wally all along.)

***

Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is Abel, your brother?” He said, “I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?” -- Genesis 4:9

***

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pamphletstoinspire · 5 years ago

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Today is Passion Sunday

(by Fr. Prosper Gueranger 1870)

Today, if ye shall hear the voice of the Lord, harden not your hearts.

The Holy Church begins her Night Office of this Sunday with these impressive words of the Royal Prophet. Formerly, the faithful considered it their duty to assist at the Night Office, at least on Sundays and Feasts; they would have grieved to have lost the grand teachings given by the Liturgy. Such fervour has long since died out; the assiduity at the Offices of the Church, which was the joy of our Catholic forefathers, has now become a thing of the past; and, even in countries which have not apostatised from the faith, the clergy have ceased to celebrate publicly Offices at which no one assisted. Excepting in Cathedral Churches and in Monasteries, the grand harmonious system of the Divine Praise has been abandoned, and the marvellous power of the Liturgy has no longer its full influence upon the Faithful.

This is our reason for drawing the attention of our readers to certain beauties of the Divine Office, which would otherwise be totally ignored. Thus, what can be more impressive than this solemn Invitatory of today's Matins, which the Church takes from one of the psalms, and which she repeats on every Feria between this and Maundy Thursday?

She says: Today, if ye shall hear the voice of the Lord, harden not your hearts! The sweet voice of your suffering Jesus now speaks to you, poor sinners! be not your own enemies by indifference and hardness of heart. The Son of God is about to give you the last and greatest proof of the love that brought him down from heaven; his Death is nigh at hand: men are preparing the wood for the immolation of the new Isaac: enter into yourselves, and let not your hearts, after being touched with grace, return to their former obduracy, for nothing could be more dangerous. The great anniversaries we are to celebrate have a renovating power for those souls that faithfully correspond with the grace which is offered them; but they increase insensibility in those who let them pass without working their conversion. Today, therefore, if you hear the voice of the Lord, harden not your hearts!

During the preceding four weeks, we have noticed how the malice of Jesus' enemies has been gradually increasing. His very presence irritates them; and it is evident, that any little circumstance will suffice to bring the deep and long nurtured hatred to a head. The kind and gentle manners of Jesus are drawing to Him all hearts that are simple and upright; at the same time, the humble life he leads, and the stern purity of his doctrines, are perpetual sources of vexation and anger, both to the proud Jew that looks forward to the Messias being a mighty conqueror, and to the Pharisee, who corrupts the Law of God, that he may make it the instrument of his own base passions. Still, Jesus goes on working miracles; His discourses are more than ever energetic; His prophecies foretell the fall of Jerusalem, and such a destruction of its famous Temple, that not a stone is to be left on stone. The doctors of the Law should, at least, reflect upon what they hear; they should examine these wonderful works, which render such strong testimony in favour of the Son of David, and they should consult those divine prophecies which, up to the present time, have been so literally fulfilled in His person. Alas! they themselves are about to carry them out to the very last iota. There is not a single outrage or suffering foretold by David and Isaias, as having to be put upon the Messias, which these blind men are not scheming to verify.

In them, therefore, was fulfilled that terrible saying: He that shall speak against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, nor in the world to come (St. Matth. xii. 32.). The Synagogue is nigh to a curse. Obstinate in her error, she refuses to see or to hear; she has deliberately perverted her judgment: she has extinguished within herself the light of the Holy Spirit; she will go deeper and deeper into evil, and at length fall into the abyss. This same lamentable conduct is but too often witnessed now-adays, in those sinners, who, by habitual resistance to the light, end by finding their happiness in sin. Neither should it surprise us, that we find in people of our own generation a resemblance to the murderers of our Jesus: the history of His Passion will reveal to us many sad secrets of the human heart and its perverse inclinations; for what happened in Jerusalem, happens also in every sinner's heart. His heart, according to the saying of St. Paul, is a Calvary, where Jesus is crucified. There is the same ingratitude, the same blindness, the same wild madness, with this difference, that the sinner who is enlightened by faith, knows Him Whom he crucifies; whereas the Jews, as the same Apostle tells us, knew not the Lord of Glory (I. Cor. ii. 8.). Whilst, therefore, we listen to the Gospel, which relates the history of the Passion, let us turn the indignation we feel for the Jews against ourselves and our own sins: let us weep over the sufferings of our Victim, for our sins caused Him to suffer and die.

Everything around us urges us to mourn. The images of the Saints, the very crucifix on our Altar, are veiled from our sight. The Church is oppressed with grief. During the first four weeks of Lent, she compassionated her Jesus fasting in the desert; his coming Sufferings and Crucifixion and Death are what now fill her with anguish. We read in today's Gospel, that the Jews threaten to stone the Son of God as a blasphemer: but his hour is not yet come. He is obliged to flee and hide himself. It is to express this deep humiliation, that the Church veils the Cross. A God hiding Himself, that he may evade the anger of men, what a mystery! Is it weakness? Is it, that he fears death? No, we shall soon see Him going out to meet His enemies: but, at present, He hides Himself from them, because all that had been prophesied regarding Him has not been fulfilled. Besides, His death is not to be by stoning; He is to die upon a Cross, the tree of malediction, which, from that time forward, is to be the Tree of Life. Let us humble ourselves, as we see the Creator of heaven and earth thus obliged to hide Himself from men, who are bent on His destruction! Let us go back, in thought, to the sad day of the first sin, when Adam and Eve hid themselves because a guilty conscience told them they were naked. Jesus is come to assure us of our being pardoned! and lo! He hides Himself, not because He is naked, He that is to the Saints the garb of holiness and immortality, but because He made Himself weak, that He might make us strong. Our First Parents sought to hide themselves from the sight of God; Jesus hides himself from the eye of men; but it will not be thus for ever. The day will come, when sinners, from whose anger He now flees, will pray to the mountains that they fall on them to shield them from His gaze; but their prayer will not be granted, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven, with much power and majesty (St. Matth. xxiv. 30).

This Sunday is called Passion Sunday, because the Church begins, on this day, to make the Sufferings of our Redeemer her chief thought. It is called also, Judica, from the first word of the Introit of the Mass; and again, Neomania, that is, the Sunday of the new (or, the Easter) moon, because it always falls after the new moon which regulates the Feast of Easter Day.

Lesson of Epistle of St. Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews. Ch. IX.

Brethren: Christ being come, an High Priest of the good things to come, by a greater and more perfect tabernacle not made with hands, that is, not of this creation, neither by the blood of goats or of the calves, but by His own Blood, entered once into the Holies, having obtained eternal redemption. For, if the blood of goats and of oxen, and the ashes of an heifer being sprinkled, sanctify such as are defiled, to the cleansing of the flesh; how much more shall the Blood of Christ (Who by the Holy Ghost offered Himself unspotted unto God), cleanse our conscience from dead works to serve the living God? And, therefore, He is the mediator of the New Testament; that by means of His death, for the redemption of those transgressions which were under the former testament, they that are called may receive the promise of eternal inheritance.

It is by Blood alone that man is to be redeemed. He has offended God. This God cannot be appeased by anything short of the extermination of His rebellious creature, who, by shedding his blood, will give an earnest of his repentance and his entire submission to the Creator, against Whom he dared to rebel. Otherwise, the justice of God must be satisfied by the sinner's suffering eternal punishment. This truth was understood by all the people of the ancient world, and all confessed it by shedding the blood of victims, as in the sacrifices of Abel, at the very commencement of the world; in the hecatombs of Greece; in the countless immolations whereby Solomon dedicated the Temple. And yet, God thus speaks to His people: Hear, O my people, and I will speak: O Israel, and I will testify to thee: I am God thy God. I will not reprove thee for thy sacrifices, and thy burnt-offerings are always in my sight. I will not take calves out of thy house, nor he-goats out of thy flocks. I need them not: for all the beasts of the woods are mine. If I should be hungry, I would not tell thee; for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof. Shall I eat the flesh of bullocks? or shall I drink the blood of goats (Ps. xlix. 7-13.)? Thus, God commands the blood of victims to be offered to Him, and, at the same time, declares that neither it nor they are precious in His sight. Is this a contradiction? No: God would hereby have man understand, that it is only by Blood that He can be redeemed, but that the blood of brute animals cannot effect this redemption. Can the blood of man himself bring him his own redemption, and appease God's justice? No, not even man's blood, for it is defiled; and even were it undefiled, it is powerless to compensate for the outrage done to God by sin. For this, there was needed the Blood of a God; that was the Blood of Jesus, and He has come that He may shed it for our redemption.

In him is fulfilled the most sacred of the figures of the Old Law. Once each year, the High-Priest entered into the Holy of Holies, there to make intercession for the people. He went within the Veil, even to the Ark of the Covenant; but he was not allowed to enjoy this great privilege, unless he entered the holy place carrying in his hands the blood of a newlyoffered victim. The Son of God, the true HighPriest, is now about to enter heaven, and we are to follow Him thither; but unto this, He must have an offering of blood, and that Blood can be none other than His own. We are going to assist at this His compliance with the divine ordinance. Let us open our hearts, that this precious Blood may, as the Apostle says in to-day's Epistle, cleanse our conscience from dead works to serve the living God.

The Gospel according to John Ch. VIII

At that time: Jesus said to the multitude of the Jews: Which of you shall convice me of sin? If I say the truth to you, why do you not believe me? He that is of God, heareth the words of God. Therefore, you hear them not, because you are not of God. The Jews, therefore, answered and said to him: Do not we say well that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a devil? Jesus answered: I have not a devil; but I honour my Father, and you have dishonoured me. But I seek not my own glory: there is one that seeketh and judgeth. Amen, amen, I say to you: If any man keep my word, he shall not see death for ever. The Jews therefore said: Now we know that thou hast a devil. Abraham is dead, and the prophets; and thou sayest: If any man keep my word, he shall not taste death for ever. Art thou greater than our Father Abraham, who is dead! And the prophets are dead. Whom dost thou make thyself? Jesus answered: If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father that glorifieth me, of Whom you say that He is your God; and you have not known Him, but I know Him. And if I should say that I know Him not, I should be like to you, a liar. But I do know Him, and do keep His word. Abraham your father rejoiced that he might see my day: he saw it, and was glad. The Jews then said to him: Thou art not yet fifty years old, and hast thou seen Abraham? Jesus said to them: Amen, amen, I say unto you, before Abraham was made, I am. They took up stones therefore to cast at him. But Jesus hid himself, and went out of the temple.

The fury of the Jews is evidently at its height, and Jesus is obliged to hide Himself from them. But He is to fall into their hands before many days are over; then will they triumph and put Him to death. They triumph, and Jesus is their victim; but how different is to be His lot from theirs! In obedience to the decrees of His heavenly Father, and out of love for men, He will deliver himself into the hands of His enemies, and they will put him to death; but he will rise victorious from the tomb, He will ascend into heaven, He will be throned on the right hand of His Father. His enemies, on the contrary, after having vented all their rage, will live on without remorse, until the terrible day come for their chastisement. That day is not far off, for observe the severity wherewith our Lord speaks to them: You hear not the words of God, because you are not of God. Yet there was a time, when they were of God, for the Lord gives his grace to all men; but they have rendered this grace useless; they are now in darkness, and the light they have rejected will not return.

You say, that my Father is your God, and you have not known Him; but I know Him. Their obstinacy in refusing to acknowledge Jesus as the Messias, has led these men to ignore that very God, Whom they boast of honouring; for if they knew the Father, they would not reject His Son. Moses, and the Psalms, and the Prophets, are all a dead letter to them; these sacred Books are soon to pass into the hands of the Gentiles, who will both read and understand them. If, continues Jesus, I should say that I know Him not, I should be like to you, a liar. This strong language is that of the angry Judge Who is to come down, at the last day, to destroy sinners. Jerusalem has not known the time of her visitation: the Son of God has visited her, He is with her, and she dares to say to Him: Thou hast a devil! She says to the Eternal Word, Who proves Himself to be God by the most astounding miracles, that Abraham and the Prophets are greater than He! Strange blindness, that comes from pride and hardness of heart! The Feast of the Pasch is at hand: these men are going to eat, and with much parade of religion, the flesh of the figurative lamb; they know full well, that this lamb is a symbol, or a figure, which is to have its fulfilment. The true Lamb is to be sacrificed by their hands, and they will not know Him. He will shed his Blood for them, and it will not save them. How this reminds us of those sinners, for whom this Easter promises to be as fruitless as those of the past years! Let us redouble our prayers for them, and beseech our Lord to soften their hearts, lest trampling the Blood of Jesus under their feet, they should have it to cry vengeance against them before the throne of the Heavenly Father.

by Bishop Ehrler, 1891

God, in creating us to His own image and likeness, has given us an immeasurable, almost infinite, scope for the cultivation and development of our souls. Our will, especially, possesses capabilities that can elevate us to the highest degree of perfection, and debase us into the most profound abyss of vice. By the assistance of God's grace, it is ours to decide so firmly and unalterably on the side of virtue that we rarely falter in its practice; but we may also wander so far away from God, and lose ourselves in sin, that we appear to be irredeemably lost to Him and to His holy kingdom.

Today's Gospel refers to this latter state–obduracy in sin. “Which of you shall convince me of sin?” said our Lord Jesus to the Jews, a short time before His crucifixion: “I seek not my own glory, but, of my Father. It is my Father that glorifieth me, of whom you say that He is your God.” They could not answer Him; and again he said to them: “Abraham, your father, rejoiced that he might see my day; He saw it and was glad. Amen, Amen, I say unto you, before Abraham was made, I am.” But the unbelieving descendants of Abraham took up stones to cast at Him. And “Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.” The downfall of the Jewish nation was sealed by their hardness of heart.

Of obdurate sinners, the Inspired Writer declares: “They leave the right way, and walk by dark ways: they are glad when they have done evil, and rejoice in most wicked things.” (Prov. 2: 13, 14.) In all ages, there have been such men, who never arose after they once fell. All the admonitions and reproaches of their conscience are in vain; all the exhortations of the Church to penance, and amendment of life are fruitless; all God's threats fall ineffectually upon hearts enclosed, as it were, in a coat of mail. The happiness the Lord sends them, in order to touch them by His benefits, makes them frivolous and misfortunes, instead of converting, embitter them. Without prayer, or contrition for their crimes, without the fear of God or the use of the holy Sacraments, they go through life like beasts, given up entirely to the lusts of the flesh.

That you may not be as these abandoned sinners, that you may not imitate the hard-hearted Jews, but listen with fruit to the admonitions of holy Church calling you at this solemn time to fasting and repentance, I will explain to you today,

I. The causes of obduracy in sin; and II. The lessons we should draw from it for our own instruction.

I. To sin is easy. Numberless are the dangers and attractions to evil, which surround us on all sides. We carry the inflammable material of the passions constantly within our bosoms, and it needs, at times, but a tiny spark of temptation, to cause them to blaze up into a raging and destructive fire. At first, however, sin, especially sensual sin, creates a loathing and abhorrence in a hitherto innocent soul. At the opening of a vicious life, there arises in the sinner a longing to be freed from the gross and leprous weight of increasing sin. He is ready to cry out with the royal penitent of old: “My iniquities are gone over my head: and as a heavy burden are become heavy upon me. I am become miserable, and am bowed down even to the end.” (Ps. 37 : 4, 6.) But if he goes on groveling in habitual sin, if he continues turning a deaf ear to the holy inspirations of divine grace, he grows accustomed, by degrees, to his terrible state; and, sinking lower and lower in crime, he ends by becoming utterly obdurate and callous in evil; insensible, deaf, and dead to the motions of the better part of his soul. That which one sin is unable to accomplish, is effected by a longer chain of evil, and a continued habit of wrong-doing.

1. Look into your own hearts, my brethren, and realize there the sad truth of my words! When we were little innocent children, how disturbed we were over the most trifling sin! A rash jest, an unbecoming word, the mere sight of evil terrified us then! Would, alas! that our delicacy of conscience, our prudent tenderness and anxiety of soul had increased with our years! Oft repeated sins have made us familiar with evil, and consequently indifferent to it! “The wicked man when he is come into the depths of sin, contemneth; but ignominy and reproach follow him.” (Prov. 18 : 3.) “Thy heart shall utter perverse things; and thou shalt be as one sleeping in the midst of the sea, and as a pilot fast asleep when the stern is lost.” (Prov. 23: 34.) It is on this account that St. Chrysostom says: “The evil of sin is two-fold:–first, the injury it inflicts on the soul; and secondly, the tendency it engenders to always become worse.” Habitual sin, like the octopus, grasps its victim firmly with its myriad arms, and rarely releases him until he has breathed his last.

Understand me, my dear Christians, God is not wanting to the sinner. Divine grace surrounds, and presses even the most hardened to repentance. At one time, it speaks to the unjust man in soft, mild words; again, it warns and threatens him by sufferings and severe afflictions.

2. But the struggle against evil demands labor and energy. Even the most faithful servants of God need to combat continually the insidious and powerful enemy of their souls. For the habitual sinner, therefore, the warfare is doubly desperate. Darling inclinations must be renounced; evil habits stripped off, which cling as close as the fabled shirt of fire. That which has been passionately loved and desired, must be thoroughly detested and abandoned; sinful companions must be given up, after the intimate intercourse of many years; restitution must be made of ill-gotten goods; lies and calumnies against one's neighbor must be contradicted; and long-standing feuds and enmities brought to a happy end. All this involves self-sacrifice, self-denial, humiliation, and a thousand bitter battles with proud, corrupt nature. One's whole way of life must be completely changed. And this is why our Lord tells us that the Angels of heaven rejoice more over the conversion of one sinner than of ninety-nine just who need not penance.

The struggle for conversion is such a long and tremendous one. The pleasures of sin are ever ready to allure the man whom divine grace moves to escape the toils. Satan whispers with pleading tenderness in his ear: “How can you ever renounce that charming companion? How can you restore that money, those precious goods, that valuable property, to their rightful owner? You will leave yourself and your family poor and dishonored. And as to reconciling yourself to that hateful enemy, or taking back the lies you have uttered against so-and-so,–such humiliations are not to be thought of!” If the sinner consent to these suggestions of the evil one, all hope of a change for the better usually dies out. He goes on heaping sin upon sin, scoffing at every admonition of God and of His grace. He sinks rapidly from one abyss of vice into another, until he falls at last into the bottomless pit of obduracy, impenitence, and eternal perdition. In vain, at the hour of death, the priest has been summoned–in vain, the consolations of our holy religion have been offered to the dying sinner. By stratagem or gentle force, the good friends and relatives have sought to secure the holy Sacraments for the departing soul–but, to the bitter end, the obdurate man rejects the grace of God. As Holy Writ declares: “The sinner hath been caught in the works of his own hands; the wicked shall be turned into hell, all the nations that forget God.” (Ps. 9: 18.) “The pride of them that hate thee ascends continually.” (Ps. 73: 23.) “Thou hast bruised them, and they have refused to receive correction; they have made their faces harder than a rock, and they have refused to return.” (Jer. 5: 3.)

3. It is the doctrine of our holy Church that, without the grace of God, we can do nothing good. “Not that we are sufficient to think anything of ourselves, as of ourselves; but our sufficiency is from God.” (2 Cor. 3:5.) “God worketh in you both to will and to accomplish according to His good-will.” (Phil. 2 : 13.) You know also that the ordinary grace of God, humanly speaking, does not suffice for the overcoming of very great temptations or powerful obstacles. At such moments, we need a stronger and more efficacious grace. What the sun is to the life of the earth, that the grace of God is to the soul. The blessed beams of heaven are the strength of our lives; penetrating our hearts; they rouse therein every good impulse, and nourish and ripen them to maturity. Grace is a free gift of God. It is given according to His good pleasure, as St. Paul says; and that stronger and more powerful grace which God owes in no way to man, is simply the effect of his pre-eminent love and special predilection.

4. But will Almighty God continue to offer this extraordinary grace to the man who despises even ordinary inspirations? No: He will either, as a punishment, withdraw His grace completely from him; or give him merely that insufficient grace by which he can not overcome greater temptations and dangers. Finally, that condition of soul will set in, of which the holy Scripture says: “God Himself will harden the heart of a man.” He takes from his reason the light of knowledge, so that he can no longer see nor understand anything conducive to salvation, and He deprives his will of the power of discerning correctly the good, and striving to do it. In His wrath, he tears asunder the bonds which unite Him to that man, and lets him live on undisturbed in the depths of his sins. “They have mouths and speak not; they have eyes and see not; they have ears and hear not.” (Ps. 113: 5, 6.) “God,” says St. Augustine, ” does not harden the sinner as to malice, but He justly refuses to grant him mercy.”

Look at King Pharaoh, in whom this unhappy condition was realized. In his pride, he opposed God's will and would not allow the people of Israel to go forth. Desiring to soften his hard heart, God permitted wonderful and hitherto unheard-of miracles to happen in his presence. But Pharaoh would not yield to grace. “Who is the Lord,” he asked of Moses, “that I should hear his voice and let Israel go? I know not the Lord, neither will I let Israel go.” Thereupon, the Lord said to Moses, “I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servant.” (10 : 1.) Pharaoh remained deaf to all the divine admonitions, and sank with his hosts into the Red sea. The magician Elymas withstood the grace of God which was offered him in the sermons and discourses of St. Paul, and he endeavored to hinder the governor of Paphos from believing. Then St. Paul said to him, “O, thou, full of all guile and of all deceit, son of the devil, enemy of all justice, thou dost not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord. And now, behold the hand of the Lord upon thee, and thou shalt be blind, not seeing the sun for a time. And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness, and going about, he sought some one to lead him by the hand.” (Acts 13 : 10, 11.) Corporeal blindness was the visible sign of that wretched man's interior or spiritual darkness. “He hath blinded their eyes and hardened their hearts: that they should not see with their eyes, nor understand with their heart, and be converted and I should heal them.” (John 12 : 40.)

II. What lessons should we draw from these considerations upon the obdurate sinner? We shall find them fraught with certain holy admonitions for our own personal instruction.

1. The first is, to fly from the first approach of sin; and if you have already sinned, to hasten with all possible speed to reconcile yourself with the Lord your God, so that no sinful habit may take root within you!

Never dally with evil; it is dangerous sport to play with fire or with deadly weapons. You may be maimed or disfigured for life, even if you are not instantly killed. Would you make a pet of a rattlesnake, or carry a tarantula around in your bosom? Act toward the soul as you do toward the body. Do not wait until the fire has scorched you or the revolver has been discharged. Do not suffer the snake to crawl around your feet. “Flee from sin as from the face of a serpent.” (Ecclus. 21 : 2.) Remedies taken in the beginning are always the best and most salutary. One sin begets another. The brood of Satan is a prolific one. As in a chain, link is joined to link, so the fetters of hell, sin by sin, bind the unhappy sinner a captive for all eternity! St. Augustine says: “As, when a stone is thrown upon the mirror-like surface of the sea, at first only one circle appears, then two; the second forms a third and so on, up to the very brim of the water, in like manner, will each sin become the occasion of a greater one to the hardened sinner; he falls from one sin into another, until, at length, it is almost impossible for him to cease sinning.”

2. He who does not tremble at the first step on the road to vice, and does not at once make efforts to return to his outraged Lord and God, by means of the Sacrament of Penance, will soon sink more and more hopelessly into the abyss of vice and crime. Behold the avalanche of the Alps rolling menacingly and destructively down into the smiling valleys! The most trifling movement, the dropping of a little stone, yes, often merely the gentle flight of a bird are sufficient to cause the downfall of that massive weight of ice. In the beginning, it was only a handful of snow; but little by little, the ice and snow began to accumulate and grow in volume, until at last, the avalanche, rushing from its dizzy height, breaks down trees like straws, and sweeping along, like a torrent, overturns into the abyss houses and entire villages. A single flake of snow is the cause of all this ruin and widespread destruction! In like manner a single wrong step often suffices to ruin the soul of a man eternally. The theft of a few pennies has aroused the cupidity of the highway robber. A thought of revenge not subdued and overcome in the outset, has produced murder. An impure desire not promptly banished has plunged its victim into the slough of licentiousness. Is not Judas, the traitor, a sorrowful example of this terrible truth ?” He loved money,” says the Evangelist. From the love of money originated avarice and covetousness; from these, robbery, then betrayal of his Lord and Master, which ended in suicide and his eternal reprobation!

Do we imagine it impossible for us to fall so low? Do we think that we never could sink as others have done, into such an abyss of ruin? Alas! like our neighbors, whose fall we lament or censure, perhaps–we bear within us, weak, unsteady, and naturally corrupt hearts. The same dreadful abyss is at our feet, its gloomy depths only veiled from us by the screen of the divine permission. The same spiritual dangers beset us that have ship-wrecked others. The same fire of lust rages within our veins. We are not holier than King David, wiser than Solomon, nor stronger than St. Peter. We are not as fervent as thousands of uncanonized saints and servants of God who have fallen into sin and vice through their imprudence and self-confidence. Nothing but vigilance and flight, prompt conversion and amendment of life after the first fall, will save us and keep us from the abyss of ruin, as St. Paul says:–” Let him that thinketh himself to stand, take heed lest he fall.” (1 Cor. 10: 12.) “Watch ye and pray that ye enter not into temptation. The spirit, indeed, is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Matt. 26: 41.)

3. It certainly requires a hard struggle for one who has been a slave to sin for a long time to free himself from the wicked bondage of bad habits, and become reconciled with his Lord and God. Great labor and much moral courage are demanded, after a long period of impenitence, to descend into the depths of one's conscience, and scrutinize and unravel the sins of years or of a life-time. It is a great tax on a proud man not only to confess his hidden secret sins and vices in the holy tribunal, but, furthermore, to extinguish by years of penance and satisfaction the evil consequences of those sins. It is a battle so difficult and fierce that none but an heroic soul, a heart filled with the love of God and supported by His grace, can come forth victorious from the struggle. But the combat is necessary, nay, most indispensable. Does not everything that is good in this life cost us labor and pain? Has not our Lord said: “The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent bear it away?” (Matt. 11: 12.) And if the battle is fierce and long-continued, we have no one to blame for it but ourselves. Whoever has feasted upon the pleasures of sin, who has drunk in iniquity like water, must do penance for it, by the pains of the conflict, and he who has committed an injustice during his life must make good his error, with all his might; or he will never obtain pardon here, or eternal bliss hereafter. Even if the sinner continue in his evil courses, his sins will cause him woe and suffering to which the warfare in the cause of virtue can not be compared. The latter is child's play contrasted with that which vice necessarily begets in man's heart. Outwardly, the sinner may appear prosperous, happy, and peaceful; but if you could penetrate to the interior of that guilty soul, and there behold the stings of conscience which scourge it like cruel lashes;–if you could hear the interior groans of despair which issue therefrom in moments of peril or suffering, or in the quiet watches of a sleepless night, you could cheerfully embrace all the pains and labors of the penitential warfare, sooner than live in sin and endure the agonizing torments of Satan's bondage. Penance has its sweetness and its consolation, no matter how bitter the work of self-denial may appear at first to the newly-converted soul. The grace of God softens all austerities, and graciously conducts us to the grandest and most glorious victory. But the struggles of the vicious man will become hourly more horrible and will be but the commencement of eternal misery.

4. To these admonitions, I will add another; do not oppose a single inspiration of grace, for thereby you withstand your Lord and God, and incite him to pour forth upon you the vials of his wrath. Dallying with sin and evil is dangerous sport; but to trifle with God and His grace, His love, and His justice, would be a sacrilege, that must invariably end in ruin. Grace is offered to us according to a certain measure, and that measure none save our Lord Himself can determine. “Lo! I stand at the door and knock,” He says of Himself; repulsed and despised, He repeats again and again His calls to salvation. He goes out like the householder of the Gospel, up to the eleventh hour, inviting laborers into His vineyard. But a day will come when he will cease to call, cease to knock at the door of our hearts. These words of mine, to-day, dear brethren, may be your last chance of grace. Will you thrust from you this golden opportunity of salvation? Shall we reply to him who calls us, perhaps, for the last time: “Come again, and then, possibly, I may listen to you?” God's love to us is great, infinitely great, but His wrath is infinite as well, and He who despises and contemns His love, will certainly feel His anger!

Free-will may be to man either a wonderful blessing or a terrible curse. Bound by the fetters of an unchangeable and urgent necessity all lesser creatures obey the will of God; man alone can say to this all-powerful Sovereign of heaven and earth: “Non serviam–I will not serve Thee!” He alone can oppose His commands. To him, it is given of his own free choice either, like a brilliant heavenly star to revolve forever around its true center, the eternal Sun of Justice, or to leave the appointed orbit, and like a fiery comet rush afar off from its Creator into eternal destruction. God has given us this capability of exercising free-will for His greater glory and our own great reward, making us thereby as kings resembling Himself. And do we dare as His chosen children, as the sons of a heavenly Lord and Master, to do what the meanest slave in our household would not undertake to do? The love of God, His gratuitous, undeserved love, would be, in that case, our utter reprobation and ruin, inevitably precipitating us a thousand fathoms deep into the abyss of hell! But if we follow joyfully the calls of grace with our free-will, then we shall mount the celestial ladder to the infinite heights of eternal glory.

In these holy days, when in the world of nature, Spring struggles with winter; and, in the world of grace, thousands of the faithful battle with the powers of sin and evil in their own hearts, let us, if we have hitherto been insensible and dead to God and His kingdom, begin this warfare for the salvation of our souls. Let us drive out all sin from our hearts by a worthy reception of the Sacrament of Penance, that Jesus may not hide Himself or flee away from us. May the sunlight of His mercy shine forth warmly and benignly in the depths of our souls, and there awaken by true penance and amendment of life, the germs, blossoms, and fruits of all the Christian virtues! Amen.

#passion sunday

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discoveringorthodoxy · 3 years ago

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St. Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch

Christ is Risen! Truly He is Risen!

Today we are going to be continuing our look into the Church Fathers, specifically St. Ignatius the God-Bearer & Bishop of Antioch. Like Saints Clement and Polycarp, I first heard about St. Ignatius from my friend when he was telling my Protestant friends about the Church Fathers. When we talked about St. Polycarp, we briefly mentioned St. Ignatius, so I’m excited to look more into his life!

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In Matthew 18:3, Jesus calls a little child to Him and said, “Assuredly I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.” Tradition suggests that this child was St. Ignatius (Feast Day December 20th). In certain legends, St. Ignatius is the boy that gave the loaves and fish in John 6:9.

The reason St. Ignatius is called “God-Bearer” or Theophoros in Greek is because he “bore God in his heart and prayed unceasingly to Him” (Hieromartyr Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch). He was also given this name because he was held in Christ’s arms.

St. Ignatius, like St. Polycarp, was a disciple of the Apostle John the Theologian. He was the third bishop of Antioch, the successor to Bishop Euodius, Apostle of the Seventy. As Bishop of Antioch, St. Ignatius was zealous and worked hard to build up the church of Christ. He is attributed to the practice of antiphonal singing during church services, which is still used today. He had a vision where he saw angels formed into 2 opposing choirs alternately singing praises to God. After this vision, he decided to separate his choir to follow this example. When Christians were being persecuted, St. Ignatius was a source of strength for his flock, and he was eager to suffer for Christ.

In the year 106, the emperor Trajan (who we mentioned in the post about St. Clement) ordered everyone to give thanks to the pagan gods. Any Christians who refused to worship the idols would be put to death. In the year 107, the emperor passed through Antioch. As he passed through the city, he heard that Bishop Ignatius openly confessed Christ and that he was teaching others to scorn riches, lead a virtuous life, and preserve their virginity. The Saint came voluntarily to Emperor Trajan so that his flock in Antioch wouldn’t be persecuted by him. St. Ignatius rejected Trajan’s request for him to worship the idols and was condemned to be thrown to wild beasts. The Saint joyfully accepted this sentence.

On the way to Rome for his execution, the ship stopped at Smyrna. At Smyrna, St. Ignatius met St. Polycarp. When he arrived, several clergy and believers from the surrounding areas flocked to see the Saint. He encouraged everyone to not fear death and to not grieve for him. He also wrote his Epistle to the Roman Christians here and asked them to assist him with their prayers. He also asked them to pray that God would strengthen him for his fate and martyrdom, saying: “I seek Him Who died for us; I desire Him Who rose for our salvation... In me, desire has been nailed to the cross, and no flame of material longing is left. Only the living water speaks within me, saying, ‘Hasten to the Father’“ (Hieromartyr Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch).

From Smyrna he then arrived at Troas. At Troas, he heard the news that the persecution against Christians in Antioch had ended. On his way to Rome, St. Ignatius visited several churches. He would teach and guide the Christians at these churches. He also wrote seven epistles to the churches of Ephesus, Magnesia, Tralles, Rome, Philadelphia, and Smyrna. He also addressed a letter to St. Polycarp.

Finally, he arrived at Rome. The Roman Christians met the Bishop with a great joy and sorrow. They hoped to prevent his execution, but St. Ignatius spoke against this. Instead, he prayed “with the believers for the Church, for love between the brethren, and for an end to the persecution against Christians” (Hieromartyr Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch).

December 20th was the day of a pagan festival. St. Ignatius was led into the arena. Once there, he turned to the people and said: “Men of Rome, you know that I am sentenced to death, not because of any crime, but because of my love for God, by Whose love I am embraced. I long to be with Him, and offer myself to him as a pure loaf, made of fine wheat ground fine by the teeth of wild beasts” (Hieromartyr Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch). After this, the lions were released and St. Ignatius was martyred. Only his larger bones and his heart remained. After his execution, the Martyr appeared to many of the faithful in their sleep to comfort them. Some people saw him at prayer for Rome.

After hearing of the saint’s great courage, the emperor thought well of the him and ceased his persecution against the Christians.

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The first thing that really amazed me is the fact that St. Ignatius, while not explicitly named, was present in the Bible. When I read that he was the boy present in Matthew or John, I was shocked. It’s so fascinating to me that St. Ignatius was not only blessed enough to know the Apostles, but also to have met Christ Himself.

The second thing that really stood out to me was St. Ignatius’ sacrifice. He voluntarily gave himself up to emperor Trajan in order to protect the Christians of Antioch. And because of his sacrifice, a lot more Christian lives were saved. Emperor Trajan admired his sacrifice and stopped his persecution of Christians. And despite knowing he was going to face death, St. Ignatius joyfully went to his execution. While he did ask for prayers to help strengthen him as he approached his martyrdom, he still faced his death head on.

Also it’s just cool to know that St. Ignatius started the tradition of singing antiphonally. This tradition has culminated into the Three Antiphons during the Divine Liturgy.

I really admire this saint. Not only is there some cool fun facts about him, but he also has a lot of courage. Courage is something I sometimes struggle with, and so reading St. Ignatius’ story inspires me to work on that more.

May God bless all of you and until next time!

- Joanna

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Sources:

“Hieromartyr Ignatius the God-Bearer, Bishop of Antioch.” Orthodox Church in America, https://www.oca.org/saints/lives/2021/12/20/103594-hieromartyr-ignatius-the-god-bearer-bishop-of-antioch.

#Eastern Orthodox #Orthodox Saint #Church Father #Greek Orthodox #Orthodox Christian #Orthodox #article

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woodworkingpastor · 3 years ago

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Say What? If my people… -- 2 Chronicles 7:13-14 -- Sunday, August 22, 2021

In Max Lucado’s children’s book, You Are Special, we meet the Wemmicks—small wooden people who have been lovingly carved by the master craftsman Eli. Wemmicks seem to spend most of their time putting stars or dots on people. It’s their way of expressing how important or unimportant they perceive others to be. If you are talented or interesting or pretty, you get stars. If you’re clumsy, awkward, or uninteresting, you get dots.

All the Wemmicks are covered in stickers, including Punchinello. He has been judged by his peers to be completely unworthy, so all of his stickers are dots.

One day, Punchinello meets a girl named Lucia. She, too, is unique: Lucia doesn’t have any stickers at all. The stickers don’t stick to her because she spends a lot of time in Eli’s woodshop, where she has learned that the stars or dots only stick if you let them.

This delightful story tells of Punchinello’s visit to Eli’s woodshop, where he learns more about the wooden people’s motivation for putting star and dot stickers on each other, and how he might learn to move beyond that.

The background to 2 Chronicles

If we were to evaluate the books of 1 & 2 Chronicles with star or dot stickers, we’d likely give them a lot of dots. But not 2 Chronicles 7:14; this very popular verse gets lots of stars. But let’s be careful; remember that this is the Say What?!sermons series. To misquote Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride: “You keep quoting that verse…I do not think it means what you think it means.”

As with each of the sermons in this series, the challenge lies in our preference to choose simplicity over depth and to reduce the treasures of Scripture to slogans. The difficulty with this passage is that pretty much every time I hear someone quote it as a solution to what they view as the world’s problems, it’s almost as if they read words,

if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land (2 Chronicles 7:14)

but they hear, “if those people…” We’re smart enough to see that there are problems. It’s the solution that we struggle with. If we choose the simplistic reading of the text, 2 Chronicles 7:14 becomes a giant dot sticker that we go around sticking on all the people and all the situations that we perceive to be the problem.

An incomplete understanding of sin

But a deeper reading of the text reveals a need to reconsider how we view sin. One way we understand sin is as a personal action that damages my relationship with God. You’ve probably heard sermons or read some devotional articles along the way about what kind of movies are ok for Christians to watch, or whether it’s acceptable to drink alcohol, or about sex outside of marriage. These are all fair topics that view sin as a personal action.

But let’s complicate things just a bit and apply this to a more complicated topic raised in the Church of the Brethren annual report. Racism is a significant—and highly controversial—topic in our nation at the moment. When discussing the sin of racism, many people approach through this lens of sin being a personal act. They correctly observe that “I never owned a slave; why should I be held responsible for something my ancestors did?” We all know people who are different from us and we get along fine; we have nothing but generous thoughts toward people whose skin color or religion or national origin is different. Seen through this lens, you understand why people get offended at the suggestion that they might be racist.

This view sees sin as an action that impacts the sinner’s relationship with God and those to whom the sinful act was directed. Jesus’ death on the cross atones for that sin, and God’s great gift to us is to extend forgiveness, forever settling the issue of sin.

All of this is “chapter and verse” correct, but it’s incomplete. It is also important to view sin as systemic, something that disrupts the harmony of life, feeds into evil powers, shapes frameworks, whose consequences are felt for a lifetime and lifetimes to come. In this view, sin is more than personal.

What I don’t understand is why this would be controversial for people who take the Bible seriously, because God tells us that this is exactly the way things will be. When God explains to Adam the consequences of sin, God says (among other things),

“cursed is the ground because of you…thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you” (Genesis 3:17).

In other words, the impact of sin is more than personal; sin corrupts everything.

This is what the current conversation about racism in America attempts to deal with. It works from the understanding that past sin continues to impact the present day, even when people in the present are not guilty of committing that sin. This is something that is significantly complicates the work of the Gun Violence Prevention Commission. There are reasons why much of our gun violence in Roanoke is in the NW community. Part of it is that there are too many young men making bad personal decisions with guns. But another part involves walking backward through time to Roanoke’s beginnings in the 1880’s to see how power was used to marginalize Black persons—legislating where Black persons could live in one generation, then condemning those homes in another generation to build the Civic Center; knocking down barbershops and corner grocery stores and other small businesses to build so-called “better” roads through the Gainsboro neighborhood; disrupting civic and congregational and neighborhood life by providing housing projects in place away from the old neighborhoods. We’ve come a long way, and most everyone celebrates that. But it doesn’t mean that old decisions and attitudes aren’t still a factor in today’s issues.

In this view of sin, Jesus’ work both forgives us and releases us to be transformed in the Spirit to join his work in unwinding and healing the consequences of sin that permeates the world.

This is the direction in which 2 Chronicles 7:14 helps us move, especially if we will take the time to at least read verse 13 along with it. Let’s connect some dots (not those of the Wemmicks, though!) here: remember the curse of sin: the land will produce thorns and thistles, making it harder to harvest crops. Now hear the judgment of verse 13: drought and locusts as punishment for sin. Sin is not only personal; sin is also an agent, creating a world in which no one can live well. Healing our land requires us to return to God—not only those people that we want to walk around and put dot stickers on, but all of us; all of the people. This verse is not a means of affirming or critiquing others’ behavior or worth. It is a spiritual discipline for prodigals, for people who have finally come to the end of themselves and realize our only hope is to return to God. If we are to humble ourselves and pray and seek God’s face and turn from our wicked ways, we must give up the desire to be in control of our own story, we must even reject our own ability to interpret the facts. We search Scripture deeply and in community; we lay down the weapons of rightness; we listen to the people who are grieving and bearing the suffering and losses of our day.

Conclusion

I have a file on my computer that is a one-page list of the challenges I see for our day, and how the church might address them. Every now and then I look at that list and edit it, rearrange it a bit, and so on. One thing is clear to me: we are rapidly moving toward a world in which no one can live in well. And no matter how hard we try, viewing the problems as someone else’s fault isn’t going to get us anywhere.

Do we want to be made whole? Do we want to see the world made whole? 2 Chronicles 7:14 invites us to take a collective way forward. There is another I want to offer to you: a hymn that I hope we can learn someday.

Great God, your love has called us here, as we, by love for love were made. Your living likeness still we bear, though marred, dishonored, disobeyed. We come, with all our heart and mind your call to hear, your love to find.

We come with self-inflicted pains of broken trust and chosen wrong, half free, half bound by inner chains, by social forces swept along, by powers and systems close confined yet seeking hope for humankind.

Great God, in Christ you call our name and then receive us as your own, not through some merit, right or claim, but by your gracious love alone. We strain to glimpse your mercy seat and find you kneeling at our feet.

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yhwhrulz · 4 years ago

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vantelieth-blog · 7 years ago

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Prologue Chapter XIV: The Cleansing Canvas

Albus would act before all else, lunging upon Regnal and driving his own fangs into the inflamed flesh of the Ideal God's left wing.

Then followed Madcow with a gallant charge from the front, pressing his head against Regnal's belly and forcing him aback with his own might.

Last was Constius in all his fury, brandishing his ornate, elongated broadsword and severing Regnal's head from behind in one swift motion.

Astot had observed it all with a look of anxiety, perhaps knowing as well as Enlenia that Regnal could never be so easily slain. And indeed, all efforts proved meaningless as Regnal's body, along with his severed head, erupted into an expansive vortex of sentient black flames, disintegrating the ground where Regnal once stood and threatening to do much the same to the trio that had dared a preemptive assault.

Constius, having already stood a distance afar, took a prompt step backward and eluded the danger.

Madcow, acting purely of instinct, so it seemed, retreated a moment before the flames emerged and observed the spectacle apparently unharmed by it.

But Albus would not be so fortunate, for by the time he had loosed himself from Regnal's wing and gained a safe distance away, the flames had already claimed from him his lower jaw, foreleg, and left eye.

“Regnal!” Enlenia shouted in protest as the flames condensed into a gentle orb hovering in the sky.

“So by your hand be it,” Regnal's scathing, disembodied voice echoed through the winds as the orb began to reshape. First from its sides spouted the shape of a delicate pair of arms; then from its crown formed the shape of a human skull; and finally, from beneath fell a woven fabric like the skirt of a ballgown, long enough to reach the cratered ground. And so hovered the shade of a skull-faced woman in a long dress, her right eye blue and her left eye not unlike Albus' own.

Enlenia stood pondering Regnal's uncanny facial expression from a moment prior. Never until Regnal responded to her words had she observed something more than hatred in his eyes. As a being with uncountable faces and forms, did Regnal seek to claim all power as his own or was his own power but a veil for his true identity? Perhaps he could see reason if only Enlenia knew how.

The dirt of the land, beckoned by Regnal's influence, filled the crater beneath his feat before he returned to the earth once more, his form now an amalgam all his own. He—or rather, it—glanced at Albus with its mutated eye as if to make a taunting gesture to the wounded guardian before turning to Enlenia once more. In the midst of it all, Constius flailed his blade savagely upon Regnal, his every attempt at cutting the Ideal God thwarted by an unseen obstruction that responded with a clanging noise as though one blade were clashing with another.

Astot stood between Regnal and Enlenia. “So be it if we are to become as enemies,” he muttered, “but I pray you cease this bloodletting until you have answered me this: do you stand willingly in our way to Old Halia?”

“I will cast all you are and desire unto my own being; you know this already,” Regnal replied, its voice now hoarse and genderless. “We will all go to Halia as one and the same.”

Astot gave Regnal a threatening glare. “Do with us as you please… but you will not have Enlenia.”

“You were ever a being subordinate to his faith in others, Astot,” Regnal spoke slowly. “Your final moments will be in condemnation of that very faith.”

“Albus is to myself a partner and a brother,” Madcow said as he stepped between Astot and Regnal. “I will raise your head in account of his suffering. And Enlenia I consider my salvation embodied; ne'er could I allow the ruination of your greed befall her. Though I bear no grudge against you for our differences—and you do not care to even hear my name—if by your hand my friends are to perish here, then I would wish to join them in their final resistance.”

With Enlenia and himself concealed behind Madcow's leg, Astot gave Enlenia a prolonged look as if to speak to her through his stern expression; but Enlenia could only speculate his expectations. Was it to say all fell upon her to stop Regnal here and now? Was she expected to run and abandon everyone to their deaths so that she alone may live to challenge Regnal another day?

“Tis' not that I wish not to know your name,” Regnal responded to Madcow, “but that I would choose to know it first as one of my own. I can offer for your bravery no recompense greater than a promise that you will be first to forfeit your existence and be spared the grief of playing witness to the slaughter of those so admired and beloved by you.”

As Regnal finished its speech, Constius' blade finally cut into the ground as far as Enlenia could hear, her vision still obscured by Madcow's standing. Panic seemed spread amongst the Chariots and their allies before Enlenia could so much as look behind herself, beckoned by both Astot and Cygna's frantic glaring in that direction. And there the Ideal God now stood, black flames rippling through the ground from beneath its feet.

“Run, Enlenia!” Astot finally shouted.

But the time to act had already come and gone, and Enlenia only managed to grasp Cygna's arm; then commenced Regnal's foreseen retribution. A deafening explosion flung her violently through the air. She felt no pain—she had survived unscathed. But with her senses thrown into disarray, she could not tell where Regnal had gone, nor if it had already killed her companions. She was left confused and frightened with only the comfort of Cygna's flesh against the palm of her hand as she fell to the ground. But she could not even tell if she was still grasping a living being.

Enlenia had landed soundly on her back, engulfed within a vast bed of tall grass. She had fallen upon the Garden of Mercy. From a distance away, a cloud of dust coated the plateau where she once stood, a giant portion of it having been rent apart.

A woman's scream sounded closely alongside her. Enlenia quietly crawled in that direction until she stood in front of where Cygna lay, her body under the shroud of a brilliant glow. So it seemed her own powers had saved her life.

“Cynga?” Enlenia whispered.

But Cygna responded with only a cry of pain.

Enlenia stood up to examine her closely. “Cygna!” she shouted frantically at the sight of Cygna's severed legs. The Halian had already lost much blood from her wounds—from what Enlenia could tell, she would not survive alone.

“Leave us be, Enlenia,” a wavering voice called out to her in another direction. “Save your life, and leave us be.”

From the distance Enlenia stood, the source appeared as an oddly shaped rock. With each step closer could she gradually recognize its true form. “No,” she whimpered. “Not you too.”

All that remained of Madcow was his head. Enlenia waited anxiously to hear his voice once more, but the beast would not respond, and his eyes were sealed.

“Madcow? Madcow!” Enlenia shouted.

And miraculously, Madcow answered her desperate cries, forcing his eyes open with what little strength he still possessed. “Why live at all if we are to die?” he murmured. “To die would be to forfeit the meaning of my existence, to cast myself aside into an everlasting void. I know it well—I have died before, only to be reborn. T'was such a lonely, empty state I found myself in… so why would I condemn myself to it for time eternal?” He looked at Enlenia with a complacent countenance. “But finally—now that I am to die eternally such as any mortal could—I finally understand. Though I may die, it is as such I find more appreciation for having lived at all and having learned all I have… and knowing a friend I could pass unto my wisdom. Though I may die, I will not be forgotten.”

Madcow would be interrupted by the coming of an ominous black cloud of smoke in the distance. And from that cloud soon emerged the form of Madcow's headless body, comprised of the Ideal God's black flames.

“Live, Enlenia, lest my words be wasted,” Madcow pleaded as his own stolen body pressed its leg against his head. “And should you one day find the might to stand against your foes… please, save my soul.”

Enlenia could only grieve as Madcow's head crumbled unto dust in the wind.

“Farewell, Madcow, O advocate of wisdom,” Regnal spoke through its now completed effigy of Madcow, its unmistakable eyes gleaming through the head it claimed from him. “For you I now declare a promise anew, that I will be all-knowing in honor of you.”

Now Enlenia knew hatred and fear—fear that she could do nothing to save her own friends, and hatred of the betrayer that would be as their executioner. But she could not run; she could not fight. All she could manage was to stare into Regnal's eyes and pray for an end to its madness. She had become no different than a human against a tainted.

“Do you feel disdain for all I have done?” Regnal asked quietly. “Rejoice that I have spared from him a fate far worse. What that fate holds for all us tainted deviants, I leave you to discover beyond the cradle of your ignorance. Know the truth with your own body.” It lowered its head closely in front of Enlenia. “You are not yet ready to part with your soul. To allow it would be to stanch the growing power of your vengeance. Forget not the cries of your fallen brethren as you venture to surmount my overcast shadow. And when comes that day you may stand against your foes… I will stand before you to proclaim my greatest prize.”

A sudden surge of Regnal's flames incinerated its surroundings, but Enlenia, having already lost the will to resist, noticed Regnal's deceit only too late. The flames engulfed her, throwing her to and fro like a speck in the wind, before leaving her on the ground with the wounds of despair.

“Until then, I claim this arm as my token,” Regnal continued as its flames condensed upon its body, revealing Madcow's form with the addition of a slender arm protruding atop its forehead.

Enlenia looked down where her right arm once existed, now but a gaping wound seeping dark blood. “Regnal… stop,” she breathed feebly.

Regnal stared blankly at her for a moment. “I will soon be as everything that is. No, Enlenia, I will stop not for aught less than that.”

Then a familiar sword came soaring through the air, impaling Regnal's back and pressing him to the ground. A triumphant roar ensured far behind Enlenia. She turned to see Constius alive and well, holding in his hand the wounded Albus.

“You will not be rid of me so easily!” Constius declared while advancing to Regnal's location.

“Forgive my knowing not how to die by your hand, Constius,” Regnal spoke behind Enlenia, slithering past her uninjured as a massive snake before she could turn to face it.

“You are a Chariot by my decree,” Astot's spoke in a muttering tone, his voice resounding from all directions. Constius and Regnal promptly halted in acknowledgment. “'Regnal' may be a name of your own choosing, but mayhap my guidance is to blame for your wickedness. I alone will annul this living fault of my foolishness.” Astot's form finally appeared before Regnal. “I am Astot, leader of all Chariots! I will prove with fitting might my RIGHT to your obedience!”

“I declare this on behalf of all Chariots, Astot: we do not serve you, we do not care for you,” Regnal retorted before attacking Astot.

So continued the brutal battle without Enlenia's participation. Enlenia merely watched the duo of Constius and Astot in their gallant struggle for survival, managing to keep Regnal at bay in an even bout. The opportunity had come to escape to Old Halia as Astot required of her, but she would not go alone.

“Let us journey to Old Halia, together,” Enlenia quietly urged in front of Cygna.

“There's nothing I can do,” Cygna groaned.

Enlenia quickly glanced at Cygna's legs, noticing she had managed to stop her own bleeding. “You will not survive here.” She extended her hand to Cygna. “Please, I wish to help you.”

As Cygna took her hand with some reluctance, Enlenia held her body in her remaining arm and carried her along as she hovered above the meadow toward the lake of Old Halia without looking back. Their journey was silent and more lasting than Enlenia could recall. Both she and Cygna remained lost in thought until its end.

The lake beyond the meadow, as expansive as a sea, hummed gently before the sway of the quiet winds. A persistent fog loomed above its space, but Enlenia could see a ruined city beyond it, a hodgepodge of half-sunken, dilapidated buildings and domes tinted rustic white.

Enlenia gently lay Cygna before the shore and gazed resolutely at the source of every answer she sought. She could faintly sense the presence of a tainted amidst the Halians' light. The Blade of Humanity was still alive. “What do they seek of the Blade of Humanity?” she asked.

“I was only told the answer would be made clear to me if I could reach her,” Cygna replied. “I guess I'll have a chance after all. I can't believe I really made it this far.”

“In some way, perhaps… nor did I,” Enlenia murmured, contemplating her past. “Never did I fully believe I would live forever—that I would live to be the one to destroy the scourge.” She solemnly placed her hand upon her chest at the thought of Astot's wishes. “And discover our creator foremost.” She raised her hand to halt Cygna's speech. “Come, let us act quickly.”

A single leaf flew past Enlenia's sight as she took a step forward. In its wake came several more—the leaves multiplied until they were innumerable, fluttering and dancing around her in a circle under an unseen influence. But Enlenia did not fear, for the spectacle resonated with a presence she knew well. And as she turned to face it, she gave a nod of recognition. “So you had returned to the meadow after all,” she whispered.

In the middle of the meadow stood a lone tree—the Garden of Mercy's lingering guardian, the tainted tree from whose defeat all began. It had grown massive in the days that followed, tall enough to tower over many buildings. But what remained unchanged was its hollow presence, as though Enlenia were staring into the eyes of a corpse. Its appearance was celebrated by only a shift in the once gentle breeze.

“Do you know me?” Enlenia asked the tree. “Could you sense me all this time?”

But the tree acknowledged her with only an ominous hum rolling from the bark of its decrepit branches. Such was the calling of its lingering instinct, to stand alongside its wonderful meadow as its sentinel for all eternity—no matter what.

Enlenia cautiously drew closer as she spoke, “We seek only a path to the ruins of Old Halia. Will you not forgive our trespasses?”

“You've got to shitting me,” Enlenia heard Cygna mutter behind her back. “We don't have time for this!”

“Who are you...”

Those words manifested as a foreign whisper in her jumbled thoughts. The tree had spoken to her.

“You tell me,” Enlenia responded, venturing to test the tree's awareness.

“Who are you… to transgress within this acreage?”

What was once a foreboding hum erupted into a deafening screech. From its repetitious melody spawned a shroud of crimson fireflies parading in a circle around the space the tree established as its own—an augur of its retribution.

Enlenia shook her head with disappointment, walking ever toward the tree with inexplicable bravery. “So, you do not know me,” she murmured. “Such is from the scourge which condemns you to this graveyard.”

“Our garden is their grave; I am their voice. My word alone… will beckon forth their wrath against the scourge of your sacrilege.”

And from the ground beneath it did the tree's roots extend and lash out against Enlenia, but the Painted Woman diverted them with but the influence of a hand gesture. She kept her hand outstretched as she strolled ever forward, causing every root before her path to crumble unto ash. Her body felt as though it were acting on its own.

“Humans suffer the Scourge as it threatens their existence, and tainted, still, must suffer its maddening embrace,” Enlenia continued. “Your reign as guardian ended as it began. There is no flower here seeking haven from a phantom—no presence beseeching this graveyard's sanctity. I must set you free from these lies.”

“And so, by my word… your blood will nourish our soil.”

For the tree's final act of defense, the fireflies set themselves ablaze with crimson flames. They circled before the tree in unison, blanketing it within a glorious storm. But Enlenia needed only to divert their course with her outstretched hand, and she continued her path unhindered.

“I will grant to you the rest you so deserve,” Enlenia whispered as she touched the tree, “but first… let us save this world, together.”

The garden fell silent before her words. The numerous fireflies fell dead unto the earth as the tree flaked quietly away into the atmosphere; but its power and spirit would live on within Enlenia as the rigor of her rebellion to follow.

“Fear not, child, for I have mercy on your soul. You are already forgiven.”

Enlenia bowed her head solemnly in acknowledgment of its parting words before retrieving Cygna and setting off for Old Halia, hovering steadily above the waters of the lake.

Cygna tightened her grip on Enlenia's shoulder. “What are you?” she asked.

Enlenia hesitated to answer, “I am as naught without the memories of the fallen.”

As Enlenia traversed the density of sunken buildings, bundles of light grew apparent in the air, centered above a circular space still afloat over the lake amidst the rubble. A closer look revealed Halians with wings of light, observing what appeared to be the well-maintained ground of a giant stone altar, along with a single woman kneeling at its center—the Blade of Humanity. The Halian's did little more before Enlenia's arrival than to quietly observe her descent onto the altar.

The Blade of Humanity lifted her head. “You finally made it,” she spoke in a gloomy tone. “I see you made it out with a bit more than just a scratch.”

“Sorry,” Cygna laughed wryly.

Enlenia drew closer to the Blade of Humanity, noticing no obvious signs of mortal injury. But as she drew close, she met with a chilling cold—the scourge within the nameless woman had grown frighteningly unsettled.

“Where's Albus?” the Blade of Humanity asked. “Don't tell me these fanatics got to him.”

“He is—”

Cygna interrupted Enlenia. “He's just staying behind to keep the Halians at bay. We wouldn't have made it here without him.”

The Blade of Humanity glared at Enlenia. “And what brings you here, O faceless one? It's a little too late to have a change of heart. Just look at me; I'm already done for.”

“We were waiting for you,” a Halian woman spoke as she descended to the altar directly behind the Blade of Humanity, a glint of curiosity in her emerald eyes as she lay them upon Enlenia and Cygna.

The Blade of Humanity forced a grin on her face. “Oh, great. Well, you could have at least left me something to be hopeful for.”

“Do you refer to me?” Enlenia asked, examining the Halian woman carefully. Aside from wearing an identical robe to the other Halians, the woman clearly presented herself as a figure of authority, standing tall, well-postured, and with kempt white hair framing a softly-aged visage.

“I am Caevin,” the woman introduced. “If you seek to forever rid the world of the Scourge, than fear not, tainted one, we are not your enemies. We have awaited this moment for so very long—awaited the day you would return to us, to fulfill your destiny as designed by your creator.”

“What do you know of my creator?” Enlenia sternly asked.

“Do you believe your creator to be a god? He was but a human with a gift worth more than the man himself. Alas, he has long parted from this world, and much of his past is unknown to me.” Caevin narrowed her eyes. “Now pray tell, why have you come? Have you come on behalf of this tainted in front of me? Is it merely the destruction of the Scourge you seek?”

“I will save her and destroy the Scourge,” Enlenia declared.

Caevin chuckled. “'Tis funny of you to say. There is naught to suggest that with the death of the Scourge, all tainted will not soon perish along with it. Surely you have pondered this, have you not?”

“Yes, I have. The Scourge must be destroyed so that we may all finally rest for eternity.”

“Such is your purpose—to bring forth that change. The question is, what will you sacrifice to that end?” She pointed to the Blade of Humanity. “Tell me, what is this creature before my pointed finger—a human or a tainted?”

“She is a human who will lose her identity and become a tainted.”

“Are you to save her as a human or a tainted?”

“She is an innocent who has suffered of circumstances beyond her control. She does not wish to be as a tainted, and so I wish to uphold her humanity.”

A slight smile crept upon Caevin's lips. “Well and just, tainted one; but surely you are now aware that some tainted such as you do oppose the Scourge, and some may even share similarities with humans. What is to say it is wrong to live as a tainted with the power to cling to one's own goodwill?”

“Yet not all tainted are so fortunate and wise, and I will abide by her own wishes.”

“Does your respect of human will—the desire to save humanity—proceed the wishes of your own friends?”

“Should I destroy the Scourge, my friends will accept their fate.”

“But first, a meeting with their creator, no? As I have said, your creator lived and died a man—never will you chance upon this meeting you desire.”

“Could a mere man create a being such as I?” Enlenia retorted. “Even so, is it wrong to believe that such a man, in death, could prosper as a tainted?”

“If he is a tainted, you may yet find him; but who can say how long you must wait? How many more sacrifices must be made to appeal to his favor and earn his audience?”

Enlenia shook her head. “Ne'er have I taken a life in his name.”

Caevin crossed her arms. “And yet you do naught to stay all slaughter by the hands of your companions; you are no less guilty than they. Constius has led many humans to their deaths with the act of deception; Inguis alone has killed tens of millions in the name of your so-called creator, to say naught of the many more lives he had claimed afore that. Even the hands of Astot have been stained with human blood. And the bloodshed will go unhindered for as long as they remain unknown to their creator. I ask you, when will enough be enough? Will you allow them to be as they are for eternity, ever in pursuit of an entity which may well not exist?”

“But I...” Enlenia spoke timidly before lowering her head, struggling to ponder her response.

“Don't listen to a single word she says,” Cygna growled.

Caevin glared at Cygna. “And what of you, exile? Is your own life so precious that you would do naught before humanity's downfall to sustain it?”

“You haggish bitch!” Cygna roared, struggling to free herself from Enlenia's grasp. “Everything I've done was to SAVE mankind! I would have given my life away at any point for their sake!”

The Blade of Humanity sighed. “Give it up, Cyg. None of it matters at this point.”

Caevin breathed deeply. “Yes… for once, this woman speaks true,” she spoke in a placid tone. “At any rate, you come to us for three purposes, tainted one: to destroy the Scourge, to seek your creator, and to save this one tainted woman. We cannot provide you the answers you desire, and killing us will not stay the spread of the Scourge. Knowing this, how are you to act?”

Enlenia lifted her head. “If you cannot stop the Scourge, then so be it—I will save these two and be on my way.”

“Do you hope we could simply leave them be? Cygna is the daughter of an arrant rogue and must be put to death in retribution for her mother's sins. The Blade of Humanity possesses power beyond our comprehension, and should she lose control of it, we may face a calamity far greater than the Scourge alone. And try as you may to restore her humanity, you cannot take that power away.”

“I will not allow you to claim their lives,” Enlenia boldly declared.

“Are these two lives more worthy of your salvation than humanity whole?”

“I will save them because they are the future of mankind.”

“All the while leaving other mortals to their deaths? If they are our future, then you are to be as their greatest foe. To save them is to forgo the pursuit of your creator. Even your own Regnal is well aware of this. So you must decide what you find more important: enlightenment or heroism—your creator or our humanity. There is no standing amidst good and evil—you cannot but confront your own moral chaos.” Caevin lifted her hand in the air, conjuring within it a radiant blade of light. “Make your choice, Enlenia: you will either free these women from our grasp and dirty your hands with our innocent blood, unite with us to stand against the Scourge and the Chariots… or leave us be in the name of your creator.“

“I will not leave them,” Enlenia breathed.

“Then will you slay us?” Caevin asked.

“No.”

“Will you stand with us against the Chariots? Will you abandon your creator and his deluded followers?”

“No!”

“I'll kill them all myself and make it easier for both of us!” Cygna declared.

“NO, Cygna!” Enlenia shouted.

“Decide your choice or I will decide it for you,” Caevin growled. “I will put these defilers to death and enslave you, I swear it.”

“You've done all you can,” the Blade of Humanity murmured. “Just forget about me, all right?”

Enlenia froze, visions of her whole life flashing before her. She cherished nature; she valued all life beyond her own. She sought a means to end her undying existence for mankind to reclaim this decaying world. But she had long become an individual with selfish desires—she shared Astot's yearning to understand her own existence before casting it aside. And beyond that, Astot had proven himself as her friend, a guide that without, she would never know what it meant to dream. She would have strongly condemned her own existence had she foreseen the trial of this very moment, but there would be no escape from her own accursed life. A decision had to be made, no matter the outcome.

Enlenia gently lowered Cygna to the ground and extended her hand to the Blade of Humanity, forcing her own words with what little will remained of her, “Please... take my hand.”

The Blade of Humanity widened her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“My decision is made—I will save your humanity. But I choose to do so in the name of my creator. And by your hand will I accept my punishment, not only for the sins of my fellow Chariots, but as well for the sins I will soon commit myself.”

The Blade of Humanity grasped her hand without hesitation.

“For now, let us exist as one,” Enlenia continued. “Allow me to bear the burden of your corruption; I will conquer it. And when I am pure, I will pass unto you your humanity—an existence to call your own. You will one day be reborn anew.”

The Blade of Humanity smiled. “Not sure I completely understand, but I like how that last part sounds. I could use a rest if you ask me. And, who knows, maybe we won't need to be enemies in the future?”

Enlenia kneeled in front of her. “What is your name, Blade of Humanity?”

“Why ruin the fun of finding out yourself?”

Alas, the deed was done before Enlenia could insist. The Blade of Humanity faded away, and nothing remained of her but the will she passed on.

“I know it now: your hands, as well, are stained with the blood of innocents,” Enlenia grumbled with her head lowered. “Madcow gave his life on behalf of my ambition; I cannot but walk away and pardon your misdeeds.”

“Enlenia?” Cygna called out.

Enlenia stood up and lifted her head, revealing tears flowing from a pair of silvery eyes, a face wrought with guilt and anger. “I must kill you all. Forgive me.”

So began her retribution. Decayed branches spouted upward from the center of the altar, high as the clouds and burning bright with flame. From that flame emerged innumerable fireflies. From within the waters around the altar spawned grotesque and gigantic branches and roots lashing in every direction. In mere seconds, everything had become smothered beneath insects and rotted wood.

“Use the painting!” Enlenia heard from one of the Halians. Before long, they could let out only screams. Many Halians died by impalement of the shifting branches; others were torn apart by the rancid roots or set aflame by the ravenous fireflies. Enlenia soon grew deaf to the uncountable cries.

She was Enlenia, the Painted Woman—a name gifted to her by Astot of the Chariots. She sought enlightenment and aspired to save humanity.

Caevin had decided upon retreat in the midst of the chaos, gaining a safe distance from the isolated onslaught. But Enlenia had not been oblivious to her survival, and with a pointed finger, she directed a sunken branch through the Halian leader's torso, before her entire body was incinerated unto ash.

She was Enlenia—a name gifted to her by a man known as Astot. She sought enlightenment.

“We must retreat!” One of the Halians managed to announce. He, too, was quickly silenced by impalement.

She was Enlenia—a name whose origins she could not quite place. What did she seek? Why did she exist?

“Enlenia?” called out a woman lying next to her. And although she did not recognize her voice, Enlenia could not bring herself to kill her as she flew away.

Enlenia? Why had that name been mentioned?

What was it? Did it exist?

Unplaced hatred. Uncontrolled power.

Blackness, and nothing.

#iwrite #story #novel #poem #poetry #fantasy #scifi #book #literature #original #writing #abstract #EPWChapters #tragedy #conflict #battle #conviction

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marcellorecords-blog · 5 years ago

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A Message to all Seventh Day and Sunday Sabbath Keepers

The Old Testament is a direct account of history with God leading the Nation of Israel out of Egypt. We can reference both positive as well as negative occurrences throughout God’s dealing with the Nation.

Romans 15:4, “For whatsoever things were written aforetime were written for our learning, that we through patience and comfort of the Scriptures might have hope.”

When Moses gave the people all the words spoken by God on Mount Sinaikgkgk, the people’s reaction seems to be positive.

Exodus 19:8, and all the people answered together, and said, “All that the Lord hath spoken, we will do.”

The people had a heart for God, they were willing to be obedient to whatever God said, and they were all in agreement. However, when we reference the Apostle Paul’s statement in Hebrews the third chapter, he says that God was not pleased with them.

Hebrews 3:7, “Wherefore (as the Holy Spirit saith, “Today, if you hear His voice, 8, Harden not your hearts, as in the provocation, in the day of temptation in the wilderness: 9, when your fathers tempted Me, proved Me, and saw My works forty years. 10, Wherefore I was grieved with that generation, and said, “They do always err in their heart; and they have not known My ways. 11. So I sware in My wrath, They shall not enter into My rest).”

God says that He was very displeased with them. But why? To understand why they never enter into God’s rest and why that generation never made it to the promised land, we need to go back and trace whatever evidence Scripture shows us. In this case, the evidence leads us back to the beginning, the Garden of Eden.

Back to the Beginning

When we read of the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we need to understand that Adam sinned by disobedience and Eve was deceived by the Serpent. When this happened, the Tree of Life was closed to them as well as to the rest of mankind born into this world. They had rejected God and took allegiance with Satan, the God of this world, 2nd Corinthians 4:4. Since then, everyone born into this world has within them, the nature of Satan, we can call the Serpentine nature. That is the fundamental reason why we all have a death sentence placed upon us, Roman’s 5:12. Satan’s nature which is a mixture of good as well as evil, is not a pure nature which was available to them if they had taken of the Tree of Life. This Tree of Life we read of, will be closed to mankind from the third chapter of Genesis until we read of it in the Book of Revelation, chapter 22:2. Closed that is, with the exception of those to whom God calls directly, like Abraham, Genesis 12:1, or those who have a genuine love for Him. Why? Because our life and this creation is owned and paid for by God Himself.

To remedy the serpentine nature, gained within all men in the Garden, Moses speaks of a prophet who would be raised up:

Deuteronomy 18:15, “The Lord thy God will raise up unto thee a prophet from the midst of thee, of thy brethren, like unto Me, unto Him shall ye harken:”

The prophet raised up was Jesus, Who fulfilled the promised Seed of Genesis 3:15, was born of a virgin as we read in Isaiah 7:14, and would bring salvation to all people, Zechariah 9:9. These Scriptures point directly to Jesus Christ.

During the time of the Exodus, at the foot of Mount Sinai, the people had a heart for God when they said, “All that the Lord has spoken, we will do.” They were trying their best to keep God’s instruction, by honoring the Sabbath Day and other commands. But according to the Apostle Paul, they still fell short of God’s approval. Why? Because of the serpentine nature within them. The same nature that Adam and his wife Eve inherited from the Serpent in the Garden. Was that nature removed because they were keeping God’s Seventh Day or Sunday Sabbath? No! the nature of the self and all the fleshy works the Apostle Paul lists in Galatians 5:19-21 were still within them. The carnal mind and fleshy nature within all men as well as women cannot be removed by our trying to be commandment keepers. These lusts of the flesh are the reason God shows us why the people during the wandering were not satisfying to Him. Their serpentine nature followed right along with them, producing dead works.

Sabbaths Days Today

Even today, many among the 7th day Sabbath or Sunday Sabbath worshipers, although they have a love for God, and have many mighty works, and are zealous to advance God’s Kingdom to others, may fall short also. How? By being commandment keepers. By trying to keep God’s law with our own strength, and not realizing that we all have a nature within us that is not in harmony with our heavenly Father.

For more visit : https://marcellorecords.com/biblical-topics/uncategorised/the-twofold-significance-of-mount-horeb-the-mountain-of-god/

The Work of the Holy Spirit

In Luke’s gospel, there is an incident where the disciples of Jesus, James and John, were displeased because of the Samaritans treatment of Jesus.

Luke 9:54, And when His disciples, James and John saw this, they said, “Lord, wilt thou that we command fire to come down from heaven, and consume them, even as Elias did?” 55, But He turned and rebuked them, and said, “Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of.”

Their spirit, which wanted to destroy the Samaritans, was of the serpentine nature which was within them. It was this nature of the spirit within them that the Holy Spirit will work to eliminate, if allowed, not the keeping of any law. This nature has caused a curse on men from the time of the incident in the Garden of Eden. Men like to make rules and laws and want to pursue a lasting peace but because of their lack of knowledge will never be able. Now Jesus, as the promised Seed will disclose how there will be a remedy for the people.

John 4:23, “But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshipers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeked such to worship Him. 24, God is Spirit: and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.”

The human body is composed with three parts, spirit, soul, and body, 1st Thessalonians 5:23. We can see the human body as the outward form of men and women. The soul, hidden within the body, houses the intellect gained from the world, or of Christ. Our spirit is the communicator between those who are of God, or those who are of the world. Which spirit leads us, the Holy Spirit of God, or the spirit of the world? James and John were disciples of Jesus, and yet, they needed to be rebuked by Jesus.

When Jesus told His disciples that He would suffer many things, as well as death, Peter rebuked Him:

For more visit : https://marcellorecords.com/biblical-topics/uncategorised/the-twofold-significance-of-mount-horeb-the-mountain-of-god/

Matthew 16:22, then Peter took him, and began to rebuke Him, saying, “Be it far from Thee, Lord: this shall not be unto Thee.” 23, And He turned and said unto Peter, “Get thee behind Me, Satan: thou art an offence to Me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.”

Is there any of the commandment keeping that would have caused a different attitude of James and John, as well as Peter? No, of course not. Their words that Jesus had to rebuke, came not from law breaking, but came through the serpentine nature within them. Removing the serpentine nature, inherited from Adam’s sin in the Garden, is the work of the Holy Spirit.

Matthew 16:24, then said Jesus unto His disciples, “If any man come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me. 25, For whosoever will save his life will lose it: and whosoever will loose his life for My sake will find it.”

Jesus here is teaching His disciples that the natural things within them, all the negative fleshy deeds we find in Galatians 5:19, which are hostile to God, need to be repented of, brought to our mind, and allow the work of the Holy Spirit to turn these thoughts and teachings to ashes, with His fiery law, Deuteronomy 33:2.

On Mount Sinai, God spoke His testimony for the people to know and understand the nature of the God Who led the people out of Egypt. He never wanted or intended the people to obey laws in which He knew they could never keep, Exodus 31:18. What God had given to Moses was the two tables of His spoken words, testifying of Himself as to the nature and character of the one who freed the people from the Egyptians.

For more visit : https://marcellorecords.com/biblical-topics/uncategorised/the-twofold-significance-of-mount-horeb-the-mountain-of-god/

Galatians 4:22, “For it is written, that Abraham had two sons, the one by a bondmaid, the other by a freewoman. 23, But He that was born of the bondwoman, was born after the flesh; but he of the freewoman, was by promise. 24, Which things are an allegory; for these are the two covenants; the one from mount Sinai, which gendereth to bondage, which is Agar (Hagar). 25, For this Agar (Hagar) is Mount Sinai in Arabia, and answered to Jerusalem which now is, and is in bondage to her children. 26, But Jerusalem which is above is free, which is the mother of us all.”

Scriptures are telling us that if think we need to try and keep God’s law, we will fall short just as the bondwoman did and bring forth an Ishmael. But, on the other hand, if we are allowing God’s Holy Spirit to do its work in removing the serpentine nature within us, we are like Sarah, a free woman, in heavenly Jerusalem, rejoicing because we are, as Isaac was, are the children of promise,” verse 28. We read that there is a rest for God’s people, Hebrews 4:9-10. This rest will only be accomplished through the Spirit of the Lord.

2nd Corinthians 3:17, “Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is there is liberty.”

Jesus Christ will see to it that we keep the law, even His Sabbath, because we rest in Him.

#Mount Horeb Bible #Sixth Day Creation #Split Rock of Horeb

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ecotone99 · 6 years ago

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[SP]Elijah and the Mountain

To the reader:

I have come to the end of my days at last. I know not for certain when I shall fall into the long sleep, but I know the occasion is closer than it has ever been. I have spent these past few days lying in bed and pondering out the nearest window. YahWeh has been gracious to reveal many things to me in this life, but one thing I have pondered much of my days has—I think—been revealed to me by YahWeh at last.

The occasion of which I have been pondering is not from my own experience, though I will write of it as though it was. For I knew the one who experienced it as David knew Jonathan. It is nevertheless my aim to keep the story as preserved as is possible while still maintaining the facets I hope to convey.

It is with the latter things in mind that I hope the reader will approach the story.

I will leave the revelation to YahWeh.

Elisha

I was weary and tormented. It was several days after the happenings at Mount Carmel; where YahWeh showed His power to the people of Israel. Though the prophets of Ba’al—who encourage and demand the sacrifice of infants—had been disproven and slaughtered, not all were rejoicing.

I was at the gates of Jezreel when I received word from Jezebel, the Queen. All within me longed to hear that she, the king, and all of their house had rebuked Ba’al and fallen in worship to YahWeh. It was not so.

“May the gods punish me and do so severely if I don’t make your life like the life of one of them by this time tomorrow!”

This was the word from Jezebel. She was speaking of the four hundred and fifty prophets of Ba’al whom I had ordered be slain at the Wadi Kishon just days before. Her words bred terror in my veins.

Never has a man lived that was more cruel and terrifying than the Queen Jezebel. I had many brethren who were cut down at her command. From this, I knew her words were not given in vain, so I ran. I know not why the power of YahWeh at Mount Carmel was so quickly forgotten in my mind, but it was. I ran for several days; not stopping for food or drink.

My servant accompanied me, but even he at last grew too weary to carry on; so I left him at Beersheba and persisted: so great was the fear of Jezebel in my being. One morning I wandered off the road—hoping to lose any pursuers that I was certain would be close behind. I walked aimlessly through the wilderness that day. Always I sought to keep my path straight so as not to suddenly end up walking towards my enemies. But when food and drink have left the body and the sun is hot and fear is strong, one’s sense of direction is quickly lost.

It was during this time that I began to wonder at how any of this had come to pass. YahWeh had shown his power at Carmel. Ba’al was routed. Israel was on its knees before Adonai. I saw no better course of action than to do to the prophets of Ba’al what they coerced Jezebel to do to my brothers. Was it not the justice of YahWeh? Should not the king and queen of Israel have seen their wrongdoing and repented?

Perhaps it was the heat of the day and the hunger in my bones, but I was no longer certain.

This uncertainty was the final blow to my resolve. I lay down under a broom tree and prayed for death. Had death been granted, it would not have been so miraculous, considering. At some point I fell asleep.

I was awakened by a most unpleasant start. A light brighter than that of the sun was piercing my eyelids. Something not unlike a human hand touched my shoulder and a deep, ringing voice—I call it a voice, though voices come from somewhere distinct. This sound came from all around, including, it seemed, from within myself—commanded me to get up and eat.

I looked first to see if I could find the one who had awoken me, but I saw none: The brilliant light and ringing voice vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Instead, I found a few feet away a loaf of warm, fresh bread and a jug of water. This was the first time since hearing Jezebel’s message that I thought of hunger. So I ate, and the effort of eating was so exhausting that soon I was asleep again. Again the light, hand, and voice came to me, commanding me to eat.

This time the effort of eating was not exhausting, and in fact I finished the meal feeling incredibly invigorated. It occurred to me at this point that I knew not how long I had been sleeping, and that Jezebel’s men could have gained significant ground on account of my tarrying.

So I arose and walked for 40 days and 40 nights to the mountain Horeb, where YahWeh first appeared to our father, Moses. This may seem strange to the reader, and indeed it is strange to me now to think back upon it, but during those 40 days and nights I took no more food than what was given me under the broom tree. It was not for lack of availability: I passed many an edible plant. Rather, it was for lack of hunger. Because of this, I thought nothing at all of not eating. The reader again may find this strange, but think back to the days of one’s childhood: when did we think of hunger but when we were offered food?

Nonetheless, I remained in great turmoil during this long walk. For though I thought nothing of food, I thought much of everything else. I wondered at the prospect of being cut into pieces by Jezebel. I wondered at the might of YahWeh displayed at Mount Carmel, and I wondered at the people of Israel. Their hearts were swayed by the terrifying rule of Jezebel when she slaughtered my brethren, and their hearts were swayed again when YahWeh sent fire from heaven. Would they be swayed when another came to demand their attentions? Was YahWeh so different to them from Jezebel? Was His power not even more terrifying?

It shames me to say that I resented Israel for much of that journey. My anger for her grew with each step, and my contempt inflated with each breath.

When at last I arrived at Horeb, I entered a cave and spent the night.

Again a deep, ringing voice woke me from my sleep. This time there was no dazzling, penetrating light.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Believing I held an audience with one from the heavens, I withheld nothing in my reply.

“I have been very zealous for the Lord God of Hosts, but the Israelites have abandoned your covenant, torn down Your altars, and killed Your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are looking for me to take my life.”

It is worth noting here the vanity and blindness of contempt. I knew of 100 other prophets of YahWeh who were kept hidden and safe from Jezebel by our dear brother Obadiah. In my anger and pain, they were blotted from my mind.

“Go out and stand on the mountain in the Lord’s presence.” The voice replied.

Had I been of sound mind, this command would have brought great trembling over my being. None have seen the face of YahWeh and lived. As it was, I remained determined to plead my case and thought nothing of it. I was making ready to get on my feet when a terrible wind tore across the face of the mountain. It knocked me to the ground and ripped great pieces of rock from Horeb’s cliffs. The falling rocks shook the earth so that I thought for certain the cave would collapse upon my head.

Then, like the day on Mount Carmel, fire rained from heaven. The noise and heat and movement of the three events was so tumultuous and sudden that I believed it would never end. Indeed it felt like an eternity until it was over, at which point it seemed only a moment. When it was finished, I lay stunned on the floor of the cave. For a brief period the only sound was that of my breath.

The silence was broken by a soft, gentle whisper. Would that I could tell you what that whisper said, but as soon as I heard it, it escaped me. All I can recall is immediately rising to my feet and moving to the entrance of the cave. Here the voice that woke me came again.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

My anger burned like the fire that had fallen from heaven. Were the angels of the Lord not listening? Was His council no different than that of man? I gave my reply through gritted teeth:

“I have been very zealous for the Lord God of Hosts. But the Israelites have abandoned Your covenant, torn down Your altars, and killed Your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they’re looking for me to take my life.”

The voice replied by telling me to return by the way I had come, and gave instructions on what to do when I arrived there.

The instructions and what became of them can be read about in the 1st book of Kings at the end of the 19th chapter. They are not the reason for which I tell this story.

My rage upon realizing my complaint would not be heard by YahWeh was so great that I could do naught but stand in silence. Did Adonai have no compassion? Would the Lord not hear my suffering? I ALONE was left! There were none in Israel who would stand for YahWeh! Not like I would! They had turned from Ba’al at the sight of the Lord’s power on Carmel yesterday, but they would turn to some other god tomorrow! The children of Abraham were like waves in an ocean or wheat in a field! Only I—Elijah the Tishbite—was righteous and steadfast enough to remain faithful to the Lord of Hosts! I ALONE!!

I had been standing and trembling angrily so long that the moon replaced the sun in the sky. Somewhere in the passage of time while I stood at the mouth of the cave of Horeb, a stillness came over me. Within that stillness, I again heard a whisper. Perhaps it was the same soft, gentle whisper I had heard in the cave hours before. Perhaps not. Who can discern the ways of the Almighty?

Whichever it was, these words I remember with clarity, for I had heard them twice before in the deep, ringing voice.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

The Lord is great. His wisdom is boundless and everlasting. At last, the Almighty’s question had worked to examine my soul.

When my heart was weakened and grieved with the loss of my brothers at the hands of Jezebel YahWeh remained steadfast and true. He used his faithful servant Obadiah to rescue whomever He could.

When my heart was rent with anger and power at Carmel YahWeh remained steadfast and true. He rained fire from heaven to demonstrate the futility of Ba’al.

When my heart was filled with vengeance and I ordered the slaughter of the four hundred and fifty prophets YahWeh remained steadfast and true. He grieved the continuous bloodshed.

When my heart was overcome with fear and I fled at the message from Jezebel YahWeh remained steadfast and true. He fed me and provided me with shade.

When my heart was blackened and embittered with hatred for His people YahWeh remained steadfast and true. He did not come in the wind. He did not come in the earthquake. He did not come in the fire.

He came in the soft, gentle whisper.

My trembling anger turned to trembling sobs. I fell on my face, wept before the Almighty on the face of Horeb, and repented. When there were no more tears to shed, I stood, turned, and carried out the instructions of YahWeh.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2LtB9KLf98

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years ago

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PASSION SUNDAY

Today is Passion Sunday - April 7, 2019

(by Fr. Prosper Gueranger 1870)

Today, if ye shall hear the voice of the Lord, harden not your hearts.

Lesson of Epistle of St. Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews. Ch. IX.

The Gospel according to John Ch. VIII

by Bishop Ehrler, 1891

I. The causes of obduracy in sin; and II. The lessons we should draw from it for our own instruction.

II. What lessons should we draw from these considerations upon the obdurate sinner? We shall find them fraught with certain holy admonitions for our own personal instruction.

#passion sunday

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frederickwiddowson · 6 years ago

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2Corinthians 5:1-11 comments: our house which is from heaven

5:1 ¶ For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2 For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven: 3 If so be that being clothed we shall not be found naked. 4 For we that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened: not for that we would be unclothed, but clothed upon, that mortality might be swallowed up of life. 5 Now he that hath wrought us for the selfsame thing is God, who also hath given unto us the earnest of the Spirit. 6 Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord: 7 (For we walk by faith, not by sight:) 8 We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord. 9 Wherefore we labour, that, whether present or absent, we may be accepted of him. 10 For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body,

according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad. 11 Knowing therefore the terror of the Lord, we persuade men; but we are made manifest unto God; and I trust also are made manifest in your consciences.

Here is a reference to our resurrection bodies, the body that we will have after we are glorified by God. The promise of this body is found also in the doctrine of Adoption.

Romans 8:22 For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. 23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

1John 3:2 Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

Paul refers to our current bodies as earthen vessels in 4:7, if you recall. Job’s friend, Eliphaz, called our bodies houses of clay.

Job 4:19 How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth

Peter also called his body a tabernacle.

2Peter 1:13 Yea, I think it meet, as long as I am in this tabernacle, to stir you up by putting you in remembrance; 14 Knowing that shortly I must put off this my tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ hath shewed me.

The body we will receive will be eternal, a spiritual body, incapable of death.

John 11:25 Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:26 And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?

To repeat what I wrote for chapter 1, verse 22, another reference to the deposit on our salvation, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Paul makes the declaration that they and, of course, we, are sealed by God and the Holy Spirit indwelling us is our earnest money, the deposit, if you will, on our salvation. Again, he reinforces this in other places.

Ephesians 1:13 In whom ye also trusted, after that ye heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation: in whom also after that ye believed, ye were sealed with that holy Spirit of promise, 14 Which is the earnest of our inheritance until the redemption of the purchased possession, unto the praise of his glory.

Ephesians 4:30 And grieve not the holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption.

Romans, chapter 8, contains some important thoughts in this regard.

9 But ye are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you. Now if any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his.

10 ¶ And if Christ be in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness. 11 But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwelleth in you. 12 Therefore, brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh. 13 For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live. 14 For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God. 15 For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father. 16 The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God:

17 ¶ And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with him, that we may be also glorified together. 18 For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. 19 For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. 20 For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope, 21 Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. 22 For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. 23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

While we have the Spirit of God dwelling inside each of we believers we know that while we are in this flesh we are not going to be in the Lord’s physical presence, but we are willing and desirous to put off this body of flesh and be in His presence for eternity.

All believers must appear before the Judgment Seat of Christ to answer for the truth behind what we have done, to answer for our walk with Christ. Paul discussed this previously in the first letter and in Romans.

Now, most evangelicals believe that the Judgment Seat of Christ is a reference to the judgment of Christians upon their decease or rapture. Older commentators often believed this was the same thing as the Great White Throne judgment of Revelation for all people. Matthew Henry wrote in his commentary;

There are many things relating to this great matter that should awe the best of men into the utmost care and diligence in religion; for example, the certainty of this judgment, for we must appear; the universality of it, for we must all appear; the great Judge before whose judgment-seat we must appear, the Lord Jesus Christ, who himself will appear in flaming fire; the recompence to be then received, for things done in the body, which will be very particular (unto every one), and very just, according to what we have done, whether good or bad. The apostle calls this awful judgment the terror of the Lord (v. 11), and, by the consideration thereof, was excited to persuade men to repent, and live a holy life, that, when Christ shall appear terribly, they may appear before him comfortably. And, concerning his fidelity and diligence, he comfortably appeals unto God, and the consciences of those he wrote to: We are made manifest unto God, and I trust also are made manifest in your consciences.(6)

Again, in another reference to the Judgment Seat of Christ in Romans 14:10

We shall all stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, 2 Co. 5:10 . Christ will be the judge, and he has both authority and ability to determine men’s eternal state according to their works, and before him we shall stand as persons to be tried, and to give up an account, expecting our final doom from him, which will be eternally conclusive. (7)

And then, for Revelation 20:11 that mentions a Great White Throne.

“This will be a great day, the great day, when all shall appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. The Lord help us firmly to believe this doctrine of the judgment to come.” (8)

I bring this up to point out that there are differences of opinion and some of the commentators we respect from olden days did not agree with our appraisal that the Judgement Seat of Christ and the Great White Throne are two separate events although logically I have a problem with them not being separate. I believe that Christ’s Judgment Seat is for His people only and then we shall be present with Him at the greater judgment of mankind. Still, whatever you believe about the order of things at the end of human history it should not affect your daily walk with Christ and your submission to Him in your life. We know for sure that judgment is coming and in fact, like Benjamin Franklin admitted at the Constitutional Convention that the affairs of men are judged now.

“Sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth- that God Governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid?”(9)

Several points from this passage are worth noting. Our bodies will dissolve, return to their constituent elements, at some point. But we have a body prepared for us and waiting in the world of spirit, to use in eternity. Did not Jesus say that He was going to prepare a place for us?

John 14:2 In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

A mansion is a dwelling place, something you inhabit, and is not necessarily what we think of when we think of a mansion, like a 5,000 sf house bordering the golf course in a gated community or the fictional Downton Abbey on TV.

There we will be with the Lord and we will have to give an account of ourselves. I am not sure how this will work out but all indications seem to be that the emphasis will be on our motives and our faithfulness to God’s doctrines and God’s truth, the gospel. I believe that because Paul keeps emphasizing belief in the Resurrection and laments that there are those who deny it and subvert or water down God’s truth.

(6)Matthew Henry, Commentary on the Whole Bible, https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/2-corinthians/5.html

(7)Ibid., https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/romans/14.html

(8)Ibid., https://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/matthew-henry-complete/revelation/20.html

(9) John R. Vile, The Constitutional Convention of 1787 (Denver, CO: ABC-CLIO, 2005), 451.

https://books.google.com/books?id=oyFpDS8p33sC&source=gbs_navlinks_s

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woodworkingpastor · 5 years ago

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Easter Sunday, April 12, 2020 No more business as usual Matthew 28:1-10

youtube

Call to Worship, based on Psalm 118

This is the day that the Lord has made,

We will rejoice and be glad in it!

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good

God’s steadfast love endures forever!

Let the Oak Grove congregation say,

“God’s steadfast love endures forever!”

The Lord is our strength and our might; Jesus has become our salvation.

We thank you, Jesus, that you have answered us and have become our salvation.

The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone of our salvation

This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.

Hymn, Christ the Lord is risen today, # 280

No more business as usual, Matthew 28:1-10

Easter Sunday is normally one of the highest attendance Sundays of the year. We expect the pews to be full; our musicians and our choir will be prepared with preludes and offertories and anthems; everyone will be dressed up a bit more than most Sundays and, most importantly, we are together celebrating the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the event that separates the Christian faith from every other faith tradition in the world.

But this is no ordinary year. Social distancing requires us to be separate from one another, something that would be painful enough anyway, but is especially difficult on Easter Sunday. Recognizing that we probably—hopefully!—will never have another Easter like this one, I decided to take the opportunity to get out of the church office, drive to Antioch Church of the Brethren and record my sermon from their cemetery.

It’s an unexpected choice for an unusual time. But remember the Scripture that was just read: the story of Easter begins at a tomb. It begins with Mary Magdalene and the other Mary (presumably the mother of James and Joseph mentioned in 27:56) going “to see the tomb.” This is a story about seeing. And it makes me wonder—having had all the familiar traditions of Easter stripped away in the midst of this pandemic, do you think that God can move even in this time to help us see the grace and power of Easter more clearly? I hope so.

Helen Keller wrote an article for a 1933 issue of The Atlantic Monthly entitled “Three Days to See.” In the article, Keller named all the people and places and objects she would want to see if somehow she were granted a three-day reprieve from blindness. After describing in great detail how it felt to touch the smooth skin of a silver birch or the rough bark of a pine, she imagined what it would be like to see the face of her beloved teacher, Anne Sullivan, and so to know her more deeply than touch can allow. Keller wrote, “It is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.”

What can we see this Easter morning?

Shaking up business as usual

Keeping your Bibles open, notice Matthew 28 begins in a very normal way. Verse 1 does nothing more than mark the passage of time in the ways people have been marking the passage of time for thousands of years. Matthew has just spent 27 chapters relating events of eternal significance, and then we “turn the page” and come to Matthew 28:1 where he essentially says, “it’s sunrise on a Sunday morning” as if there’s nothing more notable about the day than that. Just another Sunday. Just another Sunday?!?!?!

We recognize that life has a predictable order to it. One of the reasons we resist disorder is because the universe is so predictable. You certainly don’t need our level of scientific sophistication to recognize this. People across time and space and culture learn that we can count on certain things happening at more or less predictable times. The sun will rise, the seasons will change, babies will be born, will grow old, and will die, and the next generation will come along behind to take their place.

The Psalm writers counted on this great regularity and predictability in the universe in the poetry they write in praise of God:

Psalm 50:1. The mighty one, God the LORD, speaks and summons the earth from the rising of the sun to its setting.

Psalm 133:3. From the rising of the sun to its setting the name of the Lord is to be praised.

So why are these two women named Mary visiting Jesus’ tomb on this particular morning? Because it was part of the rhythm of life. It’s what people did, and it’s what people still do—although for slightly different reasons. Medical technology being what it was in that day, there was always a chance that the person you though had died wasn’t actually dead; sometimes people could be in such a deep coma that people mistook them for dead. In the Jewish tradition of the time, the third day after death was when the most significant grieving happened because the third day established definitively that the person was actually dead.

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary have come as one last tribute to care for Jesus’ body. From the moment of Jesus’ arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus’ body had been reduced to something that could be controlled. Pilate could claim the power of life and death over it. The Roman guards could mock it and abuse it. Joseph of Arimathea could request it. Jesus’ body was dependent on the charity or ill-will of others. This, too, is somewhat the normal order of things.

But then we keep reading and we come to Matthew 28:2. That’s where the action is! Matthew introduces us to a massive disruption of the created order. This is not, in fact, an ordinary Sunday. Something disorderly is going on here; a disorder that can only come from God.

The NRSV represents this with the phrase “And suddenly…” The Greek carries more of the meaning of “Look!” or “Behold!” It’s a word designed to grab our attention, to make us sit up in our chairs a bit and take notice; it’s a word writers used to emphasize something had changed, there is something here we need to see.

What is there to see in the early dawn light of the cemetery? An earthquake, if you can imagine that an earthquake is such a thing as to be seen. This is fascinating, and it’s more significant to Matthew’s understanding of the gospel than we might realize.

The word in verse 2 is seismos; if you listen carefully you can hear that it’s where we get the words seismic or seismologist. It just means there was an earthquake. But it’s the second earthquake in three days as it turns out, the other being in 27:51 at the moment when Jesus died.

And what we see if we do a bit of looking around in Matthew’s Gospel is that the earth isn’t the only thing that shakes when the power of God comes up against the structures of people. Like the shaking caused by the earth’s plates rubbing up against one another, earthly people and institutions shake when they rub up against the power of God.

In verse 4 we read that when these highly trained Roman guards met an angel sent by God, they “shook and became like dead men.”

Going back just a week in Scripture to Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem in Matthew 21:10 we read that the whole city [of Jerusalem] was in turmoil when Jesus entered. People knew that Jesus had come to confront the established order of things. They could sense that some trouble was coming and they were anxious.

We can even go all the way back to Matthew 2:3 and read of the time the Magi met King Herod and asked about “the child who has been born king of the Jews.” Matthew tells us that Herod “was frightened.” It’s a synonym of the words used in Matthew 28, but it conveys the same meaning. When confronted with the power of God, human structures and attitudes and methods realize there a greater power. Everyone associated with the old power structures responds to the coming of Jesus in fear. We’re tempted to laugh out loud hearing that King Herod trembled in fear because a toddler is a threat to his throne.

The earthquake that Matthew says accompanied the angel’s appearance established a new order for the world. All of this happens in verses 3 and 4; the stone is rolled away from the entrance to Jesus’ tomb and the guards collapse in panic. When we finally get to verse 5 the only ones left standing are the ones we met at the beginning of the story: Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. These two women are the key players in the resurrection story.

Seeing these two women in the story and the crucial role they played in the story of our faith reminded me of some characters from Sherlock Holmes stories. You might know enough of the Sherlock Holmes story to recognize the names of Dr. Watson or Professor Moriarty. But there some other characters that play an important role in a few stories; they’re the “Baker Street Irregulars,” a group of street children to Holmes hires as spies. In 19th century London, poor, homeless children were everywhere—they were so prevalent that nobody really saw them. So Holmes could pay these children to go to certain places and watch for certain things, because these children were essentially hidden in plain sight. Sherlock Holmes found great significance in their seeming insignificance.

That’s what is going on here. The women aren’t a threat to anybody, so they could go to the tomb and see things that no one else would be able to see. And because they did, they became the first ones to hear the great news: “He is not here; for he has been raised” (Matthew 28:6). The women are the first to realize that everything Jesus said was true. All the persons in authority are left defeated. The methods taken against Jesus have been proven to be without power. Jesus’ resurrection validates everything in his ministry.

Responding to good news

What is the response to this news? If the Gospel story of Jesus’ resurrection helps us see that the people and the methods used to stop Jesus are ineffective, what else is there to see, and how should we respond?

We should see the women worship Jesus when they meet him on the road. Worship is one way that we show our values have been reoriented in the face of something or someone more powerful. The women stop the important work they are doing—what could be more important than sharing news of the resurrection?!—and acknowledge the worth and the lordship of Jesus. Everything else can wait while we structure our lives around the acknowledgement that Jesus is Lord!

We should see that in the resurrection the nameless and powerless become heroes while the named and powerful are shown to be helpless. In times of upheaval—like the resurrection and even like the times we’re in now—the ways we have normally measured what is important and unimportant gets turned on their head. In these days of social isolation we’re all much more keenly aware of the importance of people like grocery store employees and nursing assistants in assisted living facilities and the people who sell food and pick up our trash in places like stadiums and concert halls, and a whole host of other jobs that we have previously been able to undervalue or ignore. Whatever normalcy we have in life is being significantly influenced by people whose jobs we haven’t always valued as highly as we should.

This is exactly the kind of thing that Jesus was talking about in the Beatitudes when he said things like “Blessed are those who mourn, or who are weak, or who are peacemakers.” It’s why Jesus had time for people who were sick and suffering. These are the important people; these are the important things to be involved in. Sitting with someone who is suffering or forgiving someone who has offended you contributes nothing to our national economy, but these actions are of tremendous value in this resurrection life.

The resurrection validates everything about Jesus’ ministry. That’s important, because all we know are the strange in between times where the ways of the world exist as viable options side by side with the way of Jesus. And when we come face to face with those situations that make the ways of Jesus seem like not so great an idea, we ought to have the courage to pray for an earthquake of our own to shake everything up and reorder our priorities and life.

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