#eternal shadow: myth

[eyeforchaos]

I WAS gonna draw nsfw of these two but the silly brainworms won out so--Have that one 'be not afraid' meme featuring @bigidiotenergy 's Odysseus and true form Kyvyn :3 under the cut for the tiniest bit of blood and a crow skull

The DA link since tumblr killed the quality waa

[janumun]

Nomos (Xavier - NSFW/18+)

Pairing: Xavier/Queen Reader (based on Xavier’s first myth) Word Count: 3.7k Tags: religious imagery/desecration sex, angst, evol bondage, oral sex, orgasm denial, Knight Xavier on his knees repenting to his Queen MC, spoilers for Xavier’s first myth, female dominating, canon divergence, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

Summary: The Queen of Philos had sacrificed her heart ultimately and along with it, part of her humanity, in the wake of Xavier’s failed Backtrack mission; binding it to Philos’ core for eternity. Now, returned to her, centuries after, Xavier seeks his Goddess’ audience, and her forgiveness, within the stone-cold chambers of her castle. 

But centuries suffered alone, and with her heart now gone, she is a former frigid cast of the woman he used to love. Xavier is adamant on repenting, even if it costs him his life this time round. 

[A fic where Prince Xavier manages to return to Philos but he is too late; his Queen has long thrown her powerful core, her heart, into Philos’ centre and now, she has nothing to offer Xavier but her bitter resentment.]

O celestial body of mine, Slumbering adrift in darkness, Which never heeds the whispers of life, Till it fades into oblivion, nothingness. 

The rolling echo of thunder — knelling an approaching storm — was the only sound that rippled across the heavy, cold silence that had settled itself across the throne room. Wan shadows clung to the wide, dismal stone pillars of the great hall. Barely quelled by the flickering protocore lamps interspersed on either sides of the room. 

A looming, stone figure of the Goddess adorned the space right behind her great throne, staging Her chosen Sovereign to rule and obey, for all of Philos to see, placed by Her will upon the throne. The Goddess; doused in cool shadow, her sculpted eyes stared down glacial and unforgiving, set into regal stone. Her great Sword aimed at length towards the altar Xavier knelt at. 

The flagstone beneath his knee was a harsh and frigid reminder; Xavier considered, not for the first time how it too had frozen in on desolate isolation, just like his Queen’s majestic figure in front. She stood tall and silent — the paradigm of dignity she’d forced herself to be, for the sake of Philos... and for the sake of a lover who’d refused to accept the wretched Crown of a King.  

Solitary and unattended — he’d allowed her to experience the empty desolation that came with a Sovereign’s crown of lonely leadership. And yet, even confined to the yawning silence of her frigid throne room, she’d ushered Philos into an era of prosperity. While he— 

Xavier had failed her; her hopes, her dreams... her yearnings he’d turned blind to each time she’d granted him the soft brunt of her affections sifting like stone against his heart. So in love with her — she would never know — and yet, the distance he’d maintained stretched flimsy in between them; closer than friends, stranger than lovers.  

The burden of her past life, their first life, lived in futility, through a heart that brought her no end of pain until it had burned her life out of existence — and in turn, ended his, in spirit — with her untimely demise.  

And he had — in misguided intentions, she viewed them as — refused to let the cycle of tragedy repeat once more, in the sacrifice of her sole being. As Xavier, prince of Philos. And a mere man in love with a woman. The one heart he could never bear to let go. In the name of a ‘greater good’, his father, the previous King had called it such. For Philos.  

To hell with a nation his father and his wretched co-conspirators had painted from the ground up, drenched in the blood of numerous sacrifices before her. Xavier had wanted no part in the perpetuation of that horrifying ritual.  

Desperation had eventually led him to adopt far perilous measures, to prevent her oblation in this lifetime — two centuries spent in between their tentative meetings, and then several countless more spent traversing the stars and through worlds in search of a solution. To prevent Philos’ downfall without the need to hold on to age old rustic customs. 

And he had promised her, his beautiful lonely Queen, a victory he had failed to bring to her feet. Swore to her in centuries past, when she’d still looked upon him with love naked in her gaze and worry taut in her features, that he’d search for a better path for Philos from among his travel in the stars, while she’d resolved to stay behind as their planet’s sole Sovereign; their Goddess incarnate.  

The tender warmth of her skin as he’d traced her features into memory on their last meeting all those centuries back, within the plaza rife with life; a reminder of what they were fighting for. The way she’d layered her own hand against his, letting her eyes drift shut as if she too wished to forget their fast-looming separation. 

And on the day of her coronation, he’d left her, branded as a traitor. Chancing one last, proud look upon her majestic form as she’d leveled the blade of her sword against his shoulders apiece, in their private ceremony of two, knighting him as her Grandis Knight. 

A fleeting, tentative touch of her palm she’d pressed against his shoulder in farewell, determined eyes staring into his from beneath the weight of her crown as she’d wished him well. 

“The fate of our nation rests within your hands now, Xavier. And should you fail, the entirety of Philos shall have to pay the price for the Prince’s failings.”  

Her delicate hand had tightened against the pressed shoulder of his regalia, not caring for the badges of honor there, digging into her skin. “May the Goddess be with you. Goodbye, Xavier.” 

 Xavier’s eyes flitter shut in resigned recollection; the very last touch of her warmth still fresh in his mind. In the flex of gloved digits against the badge attached to the hilt of his sword, one she’d gifted to him, in lieu of her star tassel.  

Now, as he kneels at her feet, she hasn’t even moved to touch him. Hasn’t deigned him worthy enough to afford even the mercy of her hands on his body, even if just to strike him. In ire or curses; Goddess, his heart and body have missed her so dearly. And yet, this is not the time for personal weakness. But repentance. And Xavier has always been one devoted to his cause, his one sole duty; to live and serve, to die or be tortured by her will alone.  

His Demiurge regent, his sole Queen.  

She observes great clemency as is expected of a Sovereign of her stature, when her steps shift closer; the dignified brush of her mantle pooling about her feet. Soft fur fabric brushing against the polished heel of pale shoes, the slip of bare skin through the part of her flowing robes at her legs, filling his line of sight as it remains firm, fixated upon the ground. For she has not allowed him leave to freely gaze upon her form. And Xavier is her Grandis Knight, committed to propriety of duty, if it is for her alone.  

He, however, dares: gloved digits reaching for the sweep of her queenly cape brushing the stone-cold flagstone. The pads of them skimming the soft of fur that lines its edges. And when she does not move to refute his brazen touch, he curves his fingers into the fabric and guides it up to his lips, lashes descending shut as he lays a kiss against the cloth, in show of the proper reverence she deserves. “I have returned, my Queen.” 

Xavier feels her shift above his genuflecting form, a response she utters in the voice he has missed. “Why?”  

“I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary for my failure, your Majesty. If it is my life you seek—”  

“Why have you returned now?”  

“Forgive me, your Majesty.” 

“You are far, far too late.” The first hints of displeasure seep into her intonation, accusing strains of heat Xavier prefers to the thick monotone she’d employed previously.

“Forgive me, your Majesty.”  

An explicable tremor breaks across her still form; minute, missable, were it not for how finely attuned he is to her mannerisms, her emotions, her simmering ire.  

“Why have you returned now, after all this time? You made no promises.” She asks once more, cool resignation in her voice.  

He stares fixedly at the sight of her feet, a response she seeks from him, he has no answer to.  

Silence stretches long and taut, infinite, in between them. 

“After the first five hundred years spent waiting in futility...” she deliberates. “I finally concluded that you’d died. Perished among the unknown.” 

His fist, sunk into the unyielding cold floor at his knee, crushes tighter at her words. “...Please allow me to look upon your Majesty’s face.”  

Her footsteps glide forwards, another step closer. Ignoring his entreaty, she resumes, “I continued to make excuses for your failure to return.” She pauses. 

“It brought me some modicum of comfort to know you had not just abandoned me but that you were simply no more.” The terrifying frigid inflection of her voice numbs Xavier’s heart — cool tendrils of dread coiling vines within his chest, like their first life, he’d held her within his arms. Watched the life pool out of her eyes, leaving her dull and lifeless within his embrace.  

She has lost her heart once more, and the mere thought has Xavier’s nerves driven to near devastation.  

But he is here, he knew of the consequences. And he is here, to bear through them, to accept his Sovereign — and beloved’s — ire; no matter if she remains full or half. She is all he draws breath for, all he fights for, the pinnacle of his existence and his desires. His guiding star, his monarch, his God. 

“Forgive me, your Majesty.” He speaks, once more. 

The first signs of emotion other than cool resentment thread through her low voice: furied indignance. “Utter insolence.” 

The heel of her shoe rises before his very gaze — Xavier’s eyes falling shut to accept the brunt of her oncoming strike. One that does not come. He feels her press the harsh tip of it, instead, underneath his jaw, knocking his face upwards so that his eyes meet hers, glacial turbulence within her gaze. “How does it feel to be demeaned as if you were a mere traitor, at my feet? Do you feel as violated and desolate as I too did all those years ago?” 

She is kind, she remains so gentle; her punishment, she considers it humiliation for him to be put at her feet when it is anything but. As if it could ever be. She offers him her worship instead, and so he follows her regal command. 

Pitching his face to dig deeper against the tip of her shoe, his eyes remain devoted upon hers. Gloved fingers he brings to curl, slow beneath the sole of her boot to support, mouth skimming a kiss of reverence to the polished surface.  

Ire and heat fulgurate within her gaze at his brazen actions, she continues to watch as his mouth parts, pink tongue darting forth to slick a slow, deferential path against the cool leather of her shoe. “This is not punishment enough, your Majesty, when your Grandis Knight has been ever prepared to end his life at your feet, were it your will.” 

The spark of heat within her gaze retreats and shutters itself behind its glacial curtain. “Do you remember what it is I told you when you embarked on your journey, my Knight?” 

“I do.” He murmurs, just as she digs the edge of her heel deeper against his cheek.  

She rips herself away from his worship, sweeping right up close against his kneeling figure, until he can catch the drifts of her perfumed scent emanating from her bone-ivory robes. Can feel the brush of the silken cloth adorning her thighs, against the tip of his nose. 

Wretched, blasphemous desire churns vicious within his belly at having the woman he loves this close, after centuries spent without her — a woman that is not his, never will be. Immoral desires of a sinner for Philos’ Mother. A woman — and their nation — he brought to ruin by his own hand; Philos’ branded traitor. 

“I told you,” she speaks, in the neutrality of a Sovereign, “that were you to fail, all of Philos would have to pay the price for the Prince’s failure.” She stills. “And I am Philos, I am centered to Her core. I am Her life-force as she is mine. Our people paid a hefty price for our peace, oh Grandis Knight.” 

Xavier’s face sinks forward, brushing the edges of her silken robes against his cheek. “Forgive me, your Majesty.” In the harsh clench of his jaw; and when she does not move to spurn him, he devotes a kiss of resigned reverence to the cloth above her thigh. Her body loses part of its stillness at the action.  

“Even after all this time...” she murmurs under her breath. “You refuse to address me by my proper name, like a foolish coward.” A slipping fracture of something akin to torment in her voice.  

Xavier lets his mouth glide further up across the lustrous cloth in begging of her pardon, for the ache he has caused, has continued to cause to her. To Philos. For his protection that he has always known held a double cutting edge to itself.  

He drifts towards her other thigh, mouthing proper worship onto it and his Queen — benevolent, tender in heart still — lets the Sinner at her feet do as he pleases. Canting his gaze heavenwards to watch as she allows; her own eyes that burn into his kneeling form, observing him from her place on high.  

Her legs shift, allowing Xavier the fleeting sight of unblemished skin in between the loose flow of her fabric and like a devotee starved, he’s drawn to the catch of her inner thighs revealed with the slight disarray of her robes beneath his questing mouth. Finding her undeniably warm when his lips brush near the junction of her thighs at bare skin.  

“My Knight—” 

��You may call me by my name, your Majesty.” His hungering tongue slips past his lips to lave gentle at her. “After all, I am no more than servant to your Majesty and her great throne.”  

“Grandis Knight, you are—” 

“I am your Xavier, your sinner.” His hot gaze rolls up towards hers and beseeches. “So, please call me by name so you may curse at me.” 

He feels the fire of her indignant resentment sputter within her gaze, receding the glacial indifference of it. Her cold fingers slink into his hair and wrench harsh at the argent strands, ripping a groan free of Xavier’s throat. The very first gift she makes of pain, to him, one he receives with the reverent ardour it deserves.  

Xavier heaves forward once more to settle in between her legs, nosing at the fabric of her mound, breathing in her scent. Teeth catching at the cloth that keeps her concealed from view before he loosens it apart with a violent jerk of his head.  

Moisture glistens tempting in between her folds — the firm press of her digits against the back of his head is the sole permission Xavier requires to engulf her entirely against an open, hungering mouth, a low moan of desire breaking past his throat at the intoxicating taste of her on his tongue.  

He laps up at her; a man starved — one he is, after the emptiness of her endured in his soul, the burdens of his failures and desires commingled in the wet lave of his tongue from base to hood. Slicking the edge of his tongue against the pearl at her apex. Her low sigh follows the incessant push of his face deep into her mound, his nose brushing at the curls of it, accepting the gift of her benevolence.  

“Did you know, my dear Knight—” her voice skitters mildly in pleasure with the press of the tip of his tongue, cleaving gentle into her slit. “It did get easier.”  

Her wetness seeps past her opening and onto his fervent tongue as he dutifully swallows. He feels incredibly parched, open mouth pressing deeper against her as he works her pleasure, tongue slinking into her depths. She clenches around him at the intrusion, knocking a muffled groan free of his throat.  

“When time finally ran out for your chance to return and Philos neared the end of its life, with our people on the brink of desolate death,” her breath jolts. “I marched out there.” 

His brows knit into a severe frown, stroking his need for her ire to sheath itself deeper into his body. He requires it; his Queen’s rightful anger so that he may take all of it and her, let her bruise her emotions into it, until the moment she’s used him up to her heart’s desires and she finally weeps and hurts no more.  

And so, his lashes descend with the tight spasm of her fingers carded through his hair, steering his mouth however she pleases. 

“And I willingly bound my life force to Philos’ core so that it could continue to live. Cut out the part of me that loved and felt until I turned myself into something entirely non-human for the sake of our people. A true God.” A slow, desolate string of weak sound tapers out of her body before it augments itself into mirthless laughter that rings hollow through the great, empty space of her throne room. “It was all too easy to do so, in a world I knew my Star no longer existed. For my heart had beat for him alone.” 

A heavy bludgeon of agony rips through his chest, tries and clambers its way out of his body before Xavier tamps it mercilessly in the gentle scrape of his teeth against her tight bundle of nerves. Her violent shudders, he feels buffets her limbs before he’s reaching out for her on instinctual, fervid desire in the clasp of gloved palms against the sides of her legs, trekking his touch up her thighs. A low moan parts her lips at the touch. 

Xavier’s audacious attempt at desecrating his God further underneath his obsidian worship is foiled in the twin blades of light that cleave around his wrists, whipping them swift and away from her body to shackle them together at the base of his spine. 

His body jolts through the glaze of his desires, part sense rending through the thick of pain knocking at the back of his breastbone to realize she’s forced his submission in the resonation of her Evol against his. Emulated his Light seamlessly in the binds of radiance — befitting of Philos’ Sovereign — wound tight at his wrists. Even centuries past now, she remembers the precise shape of his Light. 

He tests a flex against his restraints, finding they do not give an inch. “You’ve grown far too bold in your time away,” her voice is a cold dagger that scotches itself right beneath his ribs. She heaves him away from her body, reluctant mouth drenched in the strings of slick and spit that trail from his mouth to the soaked space of her legs. “Grandis Knight, what makes you think you’ve earned even an ounce of me to embrace as you would, a lover?” 

“I have not, your Majesty, forgive—”  

Severing through the rest of his apology in the quiet catch of Xavier’s breath when the sole of her heel comes to rise, knocking a firm, uniformed thigh apart to reveal the indecency of his arousal to her gaze, straining painful against the placket of too tight trousers.  

The edge of her heel trailing the inside of his thigh, she switches towards the heavy length of him. Brushing the underside of his arousal, Xavier’s shoulders tense in heavy need at the barely present stimulation. Before her heel sinks firmer against the length of him, jolting a groan free of him. “Does that feel good then?” 

“Yes, your Majesty.” He breathes heavily.  

“Look at you, coming apart under the mere, filthy touch of my foot.” Her brow bunches in an irked frown.  

“No part of you—” His voice breaks apart into quiet, ragged breaths at the stimulation of her heel against the increasingly sensitive strength of his arousal. “—is filthy to me, your Majesty.”  

Xavier tugs against the leash she’s made of her fist at the back of his head and she allows him, in that moment, to arch forwards and nudge the part of her dress aside. Sink into the wet heat of her; a man imprisoned to her tender mercies and the flood of her taste in his mouth. 

He works her open against his tongue, laving at her desires. Back and forth, he doesn’t let a single drop spill past his hungering mouth until he feels the tell-tale evidence of her orgasm in the insistent clench of her walls.  

Her hips gyrate forward in tandem to the suck of his mouth against her tightened bead and Xavier lets his shoulders fall slack to allow her free reign of her release as she grinds herself against his tongue to a precipitous finish. The gush of her desires Xavier drinks down, humming in dazed arousal, to have let her find her relief; used as her personal seat of pleasure, to be tossed at her will alone.  

Her hands flitter about his head, curling on either side of his jaw to pull away from the heaven of her body, and up as she descends, her mouth settling against his in a violent kiss he receives with vehement pleasure.  

Releasing herself, slow, from him only when her desire to breath turns overbearing. The edge of her thumb slips just past his damp bottom lip, urging his mouth open further. Before she spits against his revering tongue and instructs him to, “Swallow.” 

Xavier’s mouth clamps shut on instinct, working the taste of her against himself. Gaze flittering in darkening, vicious desire at the heat of his Goddess’ gift.  

A low hush of withering laughter leaves her mouth. “I’ve tethered a rabid beast to my side.” 

Her thumb and index cup about his jaw, coaxing his gaze to remain on hers, bright, burning. “Swear to me,” she speaks. “Swear that your loyalty shall never lie with another.”  

He feels his Queen curl a tremulous fist into the robes at his shoulders, crumpling the fabric hard in between her fingers. “Swear that you shall remain mine, my Grandis Knight, for all time. That you shall never abandon me again, Xavier.”  

His gaze quivers in fleeting emotions for a moment’s weakness, steel gray resolve returning once more to utter his vow renewed. 

“I have always been yours to have or reject, your Majesty. This Knight — his Body and Soul is yours alone to wield.” 

Making of himself, a promise, he commits to her in the life she shall have; to end at the sweep of her sword, should he ever dare renege on it.  

Declaring himself, at long last, in his clear devotion; to his one Queen and God.  

Tagging: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @beebumbo , @hellinistical , @dangerousluv1 , @webmvie , @aria-tempest , @raendarkfaerie , @lamentinee , @unhingedsillygod , @tiredas

(Skipping folks who do not have tagging permissions on, so they cannot be mentioned, unfortunately)

I had the angsty pleasure of reading Xavier’s first myth for the first time a few weeks back and with the help of a Xavier main friend and inspiration drawn from Xavier’s prayer pose in photobooth, this fic was born. I hope you enjoyed your read! 

Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated, if you are so inclined, lovelies!

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here. If you’d like to be removed, shoot me a DM! You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to chat or just squeal with me about hot characters, in general.

[jezebelblues]

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[apoemaday]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

[myster-roca]

La Pelle del Diavolo: A Halloween Special

The night air in the hills of Tuscany was thick with the scent of earth and wild herbs, but a chill crept through the wind, slipping from the shadows cast by ancient oaks around the estate. Marco Romano, a seasoned thief, felt the familiar prickle of excitement as he approached the villa.

Dark whispers and superstitions tugged at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed them aside. Danger was an old friend, and tonight, it had led him to the mysterious Villa Tenebra.

The locals had spoken of the villa’s hidden treasure in hushed tones over dark wine, only daring to mention it in shadowed corners of Florence’s oldest bars. It was a relic of myth, known as the Corpus Noctem, the key to immortal life. Marco had dismissed it as folklore at first, but the lure of such power was impossible to resist.

He had slipped into Villa Tenebra with the help of a map from a cryptic dealer in Florence—a strange man eager to be rid of it. The map was faded and worn, but it revealed something extraordinary: an old smugglers’ passage hidden in the villa’s foundations, built centuries ago to let noblemen move treasures in and out undetected.

The entrance to the passage lay hidden behind a statue in the villa’s overgrown gardens, its base concealing a narrow stone door. With a grunt, Marco pushed it open, revealing a winding staircase descending into the earth. The air was cool and damp, and each step echoed, punctuating the silence with a heavy, ominous beat.

At the bottom, the passage twisted into a dimly lit stone hallway. Shadows flickered on the walls, worn smooth by years of forgotten footsteps. Marco moved forward, his senses sharp, adrenaline building. The air was thick, carrying an old, metallic scent, as though it held memories of things long past.

A few meters down, he found himself in a corridor and saw something he had never encountered—a perfectly sculpted muscle suit that looked like leather, coated in wax, and painted red. The closer he got, the more he felt an odd pull, a magnetic force that made his skin tingle and his pulse intensify.

The suit looked like leather but felt too smooth, too alive. It beckoned to him.

“This is it. The Corpus Noctem. The Flesh of the Night,” he whispered, his voice thick with greed. “The key to youth and eternal life.”

His fingers hovered over the material, and as soon as he touched it, a rush of heat surged through him, like electricity flooding his veins. His fingertips tingled as he traced its sculpted lines. The sensation was intoxicating, almost erotic. His breath quickened, and an unfamiliar hunger stirred deep within him.

With the suit clutched in his arms, he moved quickly down the hall, rounding a corner, his breathing quickening as he felt its warmth intensify. The heat from the suit seemed to throb, mirroring his own pulse, sending waves of anticipation rippling through him.

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he needed it on his body, needed to feel it enveloping him.

Setting the suit down, he hurriedly removed his clothes, pulling off his sleek, dark outfit and kicking off his boots. His legs trembled as he reached for the red muscle suit once more, pressing himself against it and feeling heat spread through his body.

He removed his pants, standing completely naked before the suit, savoring the rich red sheen of the leather.

Without hesitation, he began to put it on. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of pleasure and power flooded his senses.

As he slid the suit further up his leg, he felt an incredible tightness around his calf, a strange, thrilling tension as though the suit were pulling at his muscles. And then, to his astonishment, he felt his calf muscle expand, swelling against the material as though infused with newfound strength.

He continued, slipping his other leg in, feeling the suit tighten around his thighs. The same sensation of growth surged through him, his quads and hamstrings expanding, hardening, becoming thicker, stronger.

Marco’s hands trembled as he pulled the suit up over his hips, feeling the snug embrace of the material. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, and as the suit enveloped his torso, a wave of heat exploded through his chest and back.

He watched in awe as his pecs rose, filling out, becoming solid and powerful, each muscle now perfectly defined. His shoulders broadened, the suit tightening around them, forcing them to grow, to harden, until they were as strong as stone.

His arousal surged as he ran his hands down to the calves and then up to the chest, pressing his palm against the sculpted abdomen. It felt perfect—hard, tight, like a muscular man was inside.

Eyes closed, he traced his hands over the biceps and around to the triceps, savoring every sensation.

“You shouldn’t have touched that.”

The thief spun around. An old man stood in the hallway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. On his right hand, a tarnished silver ring caught the faint glow, intricate symbols etched into its surface.

His eyes, sharp and full of something the thief couldn’t quite place, bore into him. The air between them crackled with tension.

“This is your treasure, old man?” the thief sneered, masking the tremor in his voice.

The old man stepped forward, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Treasure? No… it’s a curse. You should strip it off and leave while you still can. That suit… The Corpus Noctem… was never meant to be worn by anyone who values their soul.”

The thief chuckled darkly, reveling in the waves of pleasure and power coursing through him as the suit clung tighter, molding to his body like a second skin. “You’re just trying to scare me. It’s mine now.”

But then, something shifted. The warmth he’d felt before began to change, becoming suffocating, as though the suit itself was tightening around him, digging deeper into his flesh.

The initial rush of pleasure twisted into something unbearable, a heat that clawed at him from within.

His chest heaved as panic seized him. “What… what is happening?”

The old man’s gaze was steely, his voice soft yet filled with grim satisfaction. “You wanted to own the suit, to wield its power. But now, it owns you.”

The thief’s hands flew to the suit, trying to rip it off, but the material wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him as he realized the truth—this wasn’t just a myth or legend. This was real, and he had fallen for its trap.

“The suit was crafted centuries ago,” the old man continued, his voice soft yet laden with dark knowledge. “A coven of sorcerers, desperate for immortality, summoned an ancient demon—the Harrower of Flesh—who bound its essence into the hollow skin of a man, creating the Corpus Noctem. Whoever wore it would gain eternal youth and beauty, but at a cost: for each year they lived, they’d need to drain another’s essence, leaving behind a lifeless skinsuit. To bypass this, the wearer must cloak themselves in the flesh of another soul—only by donning this skin over the Corpus Noctem can one remain whole.”

The thief’s vision blurred as the suit constricted around him, merging deeper into his skin. His body tingled with a sensation that was equal parts pleasure and terror. It felt as if the suit were feeding on him, consuming his very essence.

The old man’s frail form shifted, and with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands to his face. He pulled it off, revealing a lifelike mask, and beneath it, a strikingly youthful, handsome face emerged—features sharp, jawline strong, eyes dark and piercing. Smirking, he removed his clothes piece by piece, casting off the disguise of age.

As the last layer fell, the old, fragile illusion was gone, replaced by a chiseled, muscular figure that looked as if it had been carved from marble. His back straightened, shoulders broad, and every inch of him radiated a powerful, youthful energy.

“You see, I was once like you,” the man said, his voice now rich and powerful. “I, too, was lured by the suit’s promises. But unlike you, I learned its secrets and made it my own. I’ve lived for centuries, wearing this skin, draining life from those foolish enough to fall into its grasp.”

The thief stumbled back, his body no longer his own. The suit tightened again, and he felt his skin loosen, as if separating from his bones, becoming pliable and empty. He was now little more than an outer shell waiting to be filled.

“You’ll be perfect,” the man murmured with a predatory smile. “I’ve been needing a new face. And your body… it will serve me well.”

The man reached down, his fingers trailing over the thief’s hollowed form, savoring the warmth and fresh pliability. He lifted the emptied skin carefully, feeling its readiness to be inhabited. Pausing, he slid a tarnished silver ring from his finger and set it gently on the floor beside him, a faint smile crossing his lips, as if the gesture held private, ritualistic meaning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he began donning the suit, the thief’s former identity slipping over him like a glove. The skin conformed to him, tightening and sealing with a sensation that sent shivers through him—a seductive merging of flesh and power.

He ran his hands over his new form, relishing the strength beneath his fingers. This body was everything he’d hoped for—youthful, strong, and ready to endure another century. He reached down, rubbing his hands over Marco's abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. His hands drifted lower, gripping Marco's cock, heat radiating from it. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he began to stroke.

“Do you like it?” he asked himself with a smile.

He began to laugh as he continued stroking, feeling Marco grow harder. On the verge of climax, he still sensed remnants of Marco's essence, and his smile grew even wider. Reaching up, he massaged his new face.

But he wasn’t done. He turned to the Corpus Noctem, lying on the floor like a crimson shadow. With practiced ease, he slipped it on, layer by layer, feeling it fuse with his stolen body, amplifying his strength, fortifying every fiber. The suit melded seamlessly, completing his transformation.

Reaching down, he retrieved the silver ring from the floor and slid it back onto his finger, a final touch that signified the bond. He looked into the grand mirror, admiring the flawless reflection. Turning sharply, he traced a hand along his new jawline, savoring the unfamiliar yet perfectly familiar contours. The face of a man he had consumed, a youth he had stolen, now belonged to him entirely.

With a slow exhale, he ran his hands over his abs, savoring each hard, sculpted ridge beneath his fingertips. The suit hugged every contour perfectly, every muscle honed, every line exact.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low with satisfaction, echoing through the empty hall like a dark promise. Only his faint laughter remained, drifting through Villa Tenebra’s silent halls, waiting for the next soul to fall prey to the Corpus Noctem.

--- ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ---

Would you like to expand this dark universe? Follow me to explore more content and updates: https://linktr.ee/mysteroca

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey, I wanted to ask, do you have any tips for numbers and their meanings, For example: what does the number 5 represent?

Writing Notes: Symbolism of Numbers

In symbolism, numbers are not merely the expressions of quantities, but idea-forces, each with a particular character of its own.

The actual digits are, as it were, only the outer garments.

All numbers are derived from the number one (which is equivalent to the mystic, nonmanifest point of no magnitude).

The farther a number is from unity, the more deeply it is involved in matter, in the involutive process, in the“world.”

The first 10 numbers in the Greek system (or twelve in the oriental tradition) pertain to the spirit: they are entities, archetypes and symbols.

The rest are the product of combinations of these basic numbers.

Below are the most generally accepted symbolic meanings of each number.

ZERO

Non-being, mysteriously connected with unity as its opposite and its reflection; it is symbolic of the latent and potential and is the “Orphic Egg.”

From the viewpoint of man in existence, it symbolizes death as the state in which the life-forces are transformed.

Because of its circular form, it signifies eternity.

ONE

Symbolic of being and of the revelation to men of the spiritual essence.

The active principle which, broken into fragments, gives rise to multiplicity, and is to be equated with the mystic Centre, the Irradiating Point and the Supreme Power.

Stands for spiritual unity—the common basis among all beings.

Guénon draws a distinction between unity and one, after the Islamic mystic thinkers: unity differs from one in that it is absolute and complete in itself, admitting neither two nor dualism.

Hence, unity is the symbol of divinity.

Is also equated with light.

TWO

Stands for echo, reflection, conflict and counterpoise or contraposition; or the momentary stillness of forces in equilibrium; it also corresponds to the passage of time—the line which goes from behind forward; it is expressed geometrically by two points, two lines or an angle.

It is also symbolic of the first nucleus of matter, of nature in opposition to the creator, of the moon as opposed to the sun.

In all esoteric thought, two is regarded as ominous: it connotes shadow and the bisexuality of all things, or dualism (represented by the basic myth of the Gemini) in the sense of the connecting-link between the immortal and the mortal, or of the unvarying and the varying.

Within the mystic symbolism of landscape in megalithic culture, two is associated with the mandorla-shaped mountain, the focal point of symbolic Inversion, forming the crucible of life and comprising the two opposite poles of good and evil, life and death.

THREE

Symbolizes spiritual synthesis, and is the formula for the creation of each of the worlds.

Represents the solution of the conflict posed by dualism.

Forms a half-circle comprising: birth, zenith and descent.

Geometrically it is expressed by three points and by the triangle.

The harmonic product of the action of unity upon duality.

The number concerned with basic principles, and expresses sufficiency, or the growth of unity within itself.

Associated with the concepts of heaven and the Trinity.

FOUR

Symbolic of the earth, of terrestrial space, of the human situation, of the external, natural limits of the “minimum” awareness of totality, and, finally, of rational organization.

Equated with the square and the cube, and the cross representing the four seasons and the points of the compass.

A great many material and spiritual forms are modelled after the quaternary.

The number associated with tangible achievement and with the Elements.

In mystic thought, it represents the tetramorphs.

FIVE

Symbolic of Man, health and love, and of the quintessence acting upon matter.

Comprises the four limbs of the body plus the head which controls them, and likewise the four fingers plus the thumb and the four cardinal points together with the centre.

The hieros gamos is signified by the number five, since it represents the union of the principle of heaven (three) with that of the Magna Mater (two).

Geometrically, it is the pentagram, or the five-pointed star.

Corresponds to pentagonal symmetry, a common characteristic of organic nature, to the golden section (as noted by the Pythagoreans), and to the five senses representing the five “forms” of matter.

SIX

Symbolic of ambivalence and equilibrium, six comprises the union of the two triangles (of fire and water) and hence signifies the human soul.

The Greeks regarded it as a symbol of the hermaphrodite.

It corresponds to the six Directions of Space (two for each dimension), and to the cessation of movement (since the Creation took six days).

Hence it is associated with trial and effort.

Shown to be related to virginity, and to the scales.

SEVEN

Symbolic of perfect order, a complete period or cycle.

Comprises the union of the ternary and the quaternary, and hence it is endowed with exceptional value.

Corresponds to the seven Directions of Space (that is, the six existential dimensions plus the centre), to the seven-pointed star, to the reconciliation of the square with the triangle by superimposing the latter upon the former (as the sky over the earth) or by inscribing it within.

It is the number forming the basic series of musical notes, of colours and of the planetary spheres, as well as of the gods corresponding to them; and also of the capital sins and their opposing virtues.

Corresponds to the three-dimensional cross.

The symbol of pain.

EIGHT

The octonary, related to two squares or the octagon, is the intermediate form between the square (or the terrestrial order) and the circle (the eternal order) and is, in consequence, a symbol of regeneration.

By virtue of its shape, the numeral is associated with the two interlacing serpents of the caduceus, signifying the balancing out of opposing forces or the equivalence of the spiritual power to the natural.

It also symbolizes—again because of its shape—the eternally spiralling movement of the heavens (shown also by the double sigmoid line—the sign of the infinite).

Because of its implications of regeneration, eight was in the Middle Ages an emblem of the waters of baptism.

Corresponds in mediaeval mystic cosmogony to the fixed stars of the firmament, denoting that the planetary influences have been overcome.

NINE

The triangle of the ternary, and the triplication of the triple.

It is therefore a complete image of the three worlds.

The end-limit of the numerical series before its return to unity.

For the Hebrews, it was the symbol of truth, being characterized by the fact that when multiplied it reproduces itself (in mystic addition).

In medicinal rites, it is the symbolic number par excellence, for it represents triple synthesis, that is, the disposition on each plane of the corporal, the intellectual and the spiritual.

TEN

Symbolic, in decimal systems, of the return to unity.

In the Tetractys (whose triangle of points—four, three, two, one—adds up to ten) it is related to four.

Symbolic also of spiritual achievement, as well as of unity in its function as an even (or ambivalent) number or as the beginning of a new, multiple series.

According to some theories, ten symbolizes the totality of the universe—both metaphysical and material—since it raises all things to unity.

From ancient oriental thought through the Pythagorean school and right up to St. Jerome, it was known as the number of perfection.

ELEVEN

Symbolic of transition, excess and peril and of conflict and martyrdom.

According to Schneider, there is an infernal character about it: since it is in excess of the number of perfection—ten—it therefore stands for incontinence; but at the same time it corresponds, like two, to the mandorla-shaped mountain, to the focal point of symbolic Inversion and antithesis, because it is made up of one plus one (comparable in a way with two).

TWELVE

Symbolic of cosmic order and salvation.

It corresponds to the number of the signs of the Zodiac, and is the basis of all dodecanary groups.

Linked to it are the notions of space and time, and the wheel or circle.

THIRTEEN

Symbolic of death and birth, of beginning afresh.

Hence it has unfavourable implications.

FOURTEEN

Stands for fusion and organization.

And for justice and temperance.

FIFTEEN

Markedly erotic.

Associated with the devil.

OTHER NUMBERS

Tarot

Each of the numbers from sixteen to twenty-two is related to the corresponding card of the Tarot pack; and sometimes the meaning is derived from the fusion of the symbols of the units composing it.

There are two ways in which this fusion may occur: either by mystic addition (for example, 374 = 3 + 7 + 4 = 14 = 1 + 4 = 5) or by succession, in which case the right-hand digit expresses the outcome of a situation denoted by the left-hand number (so 21 expresses the reduction of a conflict—two—to its solution—unity).

These numbers also possess certain meanings drawn from traditional sources and remote from their intrinsic symbolism:

24, for example, is the sacred number in Sankhya philosophy, and

50 is very common in Greek mythology—there were fifty Danaides, fifty Argonauts, fifty sons of Priam and of Aegyptus, for example as a symbol, we would suggest, of that powerful quality of the erotic and human which is so typical of Hellenic myths.

Repetition

The repetition of a given number stresses its quantitative power but detracts from its spiritual dignity.

So, for example, 666 was the number of the Beast because 6 was regarded as inferior to seven.

Contained within a multiple

When several kinds of symbolic meaning are contained within a multiple number, the symbolism of that number is accordingly enriched and strengthened.

Thus, 144 was considered very favourable because its sum was 9 (1 + 4 + 4) and because it comprises multiples of 10 and 4 plus the quaternary itself.

Lastly: Dante, in the Divine Comedy, has frequent recourse to the symbolism of numbers.

Sources: 1 2 3

More: On Symbolism

Hope this helps, would love to read your writing if it does!

[call-sign-shark]

Echo of Shadows || Masterlist

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader

Summary: "They called her the White Plague, a saint or a monster—but she was neither, only destruction wrapped in a pretty bow."

In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Plague spreads—a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta.

General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark and his desire obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone. Someone he could finally share his eternal life with. Caught in a cruel game of power and love, she's torn between Kirigan’s corrupting passion and Alina Starkov’s promise of freedom.

Amidst the chaos, one question arises: will she become a savior, a monster, or something far more dangerous?

TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.

ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE

1. Keep Moving, Little Girl

2. Their Frozen Shackles

3. The Court of Shadows

4. The Fear Within

5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞

6. A Dance of Puppets part 1.

7. A Dance of Puppets part 2.

8. Gazed Into the Abyss…

9. Burn Your Village

10. ... The Abyss Gazed Back Into Me 🔞

11. All I've Ever Wanted. 🔞

ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

12. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light

13. Blinding Light

14. It's in Our Veins

15. Your Darkness Flayed 🔞

16. After the Storm, the Sun

17. Safe in the Dark 🔞

18. Paint Me Black 🔞

19. Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird

20. Your Heart, My Chains

21. To the Core

ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID

22. The War of Light and Shadow

23. Never You

24. Barbwire Kiss🔞

25. It Has Always Been You 🔞

26. I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.

27. Swan Song

28. Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞

29. The Mask of the Red Death

30. The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts

31. Symphony of Our Ruins

32. Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse

ONE SHOTS

Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff

Away From the Deep Shadow

Happiness Therapy - modern AU, fluff

Folie À Deux - modern AU, fluff

A Rose in the Corridor - modern AU, fluff

Friend and Festivities - modern AU (by the wonderful @justrainandcoffee )

MOODBOARD

Light in the Dark

ASK

Modern!Aleksander x Heaven for Christmas

Notes:

☾ I haven't read the books so this work is based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(

☾ Taglist: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune @meadows5 @kasagia

[readriordan]

Happy Halloween!

It's that time of year once again, and with the release of The Wrath Of The Triple Goddess, it seems only appropriate to take a look at some of Hecate's spoooooky~ children! Let's take a dive into the night and hang out with our favorite demigodly magic users!

1.) Lou Ellen Blackstone

You know her, you love her! Master of turning campers into pigs and prestidigitation, Lou Ellen is an extremely skilled daughter of H̵ecate. It's no wonder she's counselor of the brand new Cabin 2̷0̷! Lou Ellen is first during a counselor meeting in The Lost Hero, having literally stolen Miranda Gardiner's nose, and later is seen alongside her friends Will Solace and Cecil Markowitz in The Blood of Olympus. In interesting trivia (which also happens to be Hecate's oman name!) - Lou Ellen is technically the first human character in the franchise to use multiple sets of pronouns, due to being referred to with ħɘ/him̷ in the Polish translation of The Lost Hero.

2.) Josephine

Josephine, also known as Jo, is another daughter of Hecate and a former Hunter of Artemis. One of the few adult demigods we meet, Jo lives with her wife Hemithea, or Emmie, and their daughter Georgina. Together Jo and Emmie run the Waystation - a magic ever-shifting safehouse for demigods owned by the goddess Britomartis. Perhaps that's a bit of Hecate magic? Jo grew up in the 1920s, disguised as a man and working with mobsters until eventually joining the Hunt, where she met Hemithea. The two remained in the Hunt for several decades until deciding to leave so that they could continue to pursue their relationship. From there they became the stewardesses of the Waystation. In The Dark Prophecy, they meet our protagonist Apollo, alongside our old friends Leo Valdez and Calypso and offer them refuge throughout their quest.

3.) Lami҉༙྇ⱥ

One of Hecate's immortal children, Lamia was once a mortal woman. In some myths, she went insane after the abduction and murder of her children by the gods. In retaliation, Lamia began ki̴l̸l̵ing and devouring the children of others. For this, she was transformed into a monster, eternally hunting in retribution for her children. .̴̺̿.̴̩̾.̷̳̏ᴴᴱᴸᴸᴼ?.̶̹͠.̸͖͛.̴̧̄ And hunt she does! Lamia has quite the accomplishment among monsters, having̵ ̸c̸r̵e̴a̷t̶̫͝ē̴͎d̷̝̋ ̵̪͐a̷̯̐ s̷̘͖͛̚p̶̨̆̓é̵̛̪l̶̰̽̇l̶̥͛̑- HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? -t̶̮̔h̷̜̐ȃ̷̗t̵͚́ makes it easier for monsters to track down demigods. Perhaps she's to blame for demigods not being able to use technology? Regardless, we meet her in T̷h̵e Dem̴i̸god D̷̝̋i̷̠͑ar̸i̷e̸s̶, where she's hunting dơ̷̻w̴̖̒n̷̤̽.̴̠̅.̵͉͒.̶̘͗ actually, ẉ̷͗h̸̹̔ô̸̪ ̴̼́ is s̴h̴e̶ ̵hunting down? Ǐ̷͍ can't s̴͕͗ȇ̵̞e̸̯͑m to recal̸l̵... .̸͖͛.̴̧̄ ᴾᴸᴱᴬᔆᴱ⸴ ᴸᴵᔆᵀᴱᴺ⁻ ᶜᴬᴺ ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴱᴬᴿ ᴹᴱ? .̸͖͛.̴̧̄ Regardless, you can witness her terror for yourself in... oh, what was ţ̶̓ḧ̵̳a̴̯͒ť̷̝ short sto̷͙͐r̸̨͒y̸͖͗ called...? In... in... Ah, that's right! .Ɔ̷̱̄I̴̬̒Ә̸̯̽A̴̞̽M̶̱̆ ꟻO И̵͓̍Ö̶͉́Ƨ̸̭̒ ƎHT

4.) Hylla's Amazon Assistants

Perhaps the most obscure of Hecate's mortal children, we were nevertheless delighted to meet these two daughters of Hecate in The Blood of Olympus. Though nameless, these two are seen alongside Hylla as members of the Amazons. They assist her by shadow-travelling and fight Orion alongside her. Besides the̸s̶e̵ ̵t̵i̷n̷y̶ ̸g̶l̷i̷m̸p̴s̴e̶s̸,̴ ̷w̵e̶ d̶͔͑ȯ̷͜n̷͌ͅ'̷͕̎t̸͕͌ ̶̪̓s̵̝̕ē̷̗e̴͕̋ ̴̹̽m̷̫̊u̶͚̇c̶̡͑h̵̪͝ ̴̹̍o̶͕͗f̷̮͛ ̸͚͐t̸̳̕h̷̜̓e̴̠̒s̴̲͆e̶͇̿ t̴̤̓̄w̵̛̰̪o̷̩͊̚.̶͇́ ̶̝̦̆̃Ẃ̷̘̉e̶͚̔̆r̴̮̈́e̵̛͇ ̷̈́͆͜t̸̺̠̂̔h̶̘͂̈è̸̙͕y̶̟͗ ̷͌̄ͅs̸͈͉̈̑o̷̤̊r̷̠̭̋̃c̴̱̳͗͋e̴̛̟͇̽ṙ̴͔̕ë̵͉̝́̎s̵̻̺̒s̸̫͂͑e̵̝̅͛s̴̡͎̊̕ ̸̟̦̋ụ̸̈́͊n̷̨͎̊̈́d̷̪͑e̷̻͓̓́r̷̥̱̈́̊ ̶̨̗̈̏C̶̳͊͠i̵̤̫̎r̵͖͝c̵̠̗͑e̶̳̦͊ ̵͚͔͆ă̴̟̫̈l̵̨̗̐o̵̠̽̀ͅn̸̮͑́g̷̠͌s̷̥̻̽́i̷̻̍d̶̛̮͗e̴̲̓͋ ̸͈̫̎̕H̶̗̾ẏ̶̹͍l̷̲̺͋̅l̷̩͗͝ả̶̼͔͝ ̶̘͊a̸̢̎̓n̵͚͊ď̶̻̠ ̵̻̞̔Ř̶́ͅè̴͉͒y̸̬͋̚n̸̘̱͘͝a̵̯̘̕?̸͖̣́̌ ̵͇̬̓̉Ŵ̸̙̙͝ë̷̠̺̍r̶̠͇̂̏ȩ̵̳͝ ̶̟̀̈́ẗ̵́ͅḫ̸̈́ë̷̦́͜͝y̵̳̘̅ ̵̪͍́̊ă̵͇͠l̶̲͕͒ŕ̶̻̟e̶̗͆͘a̶͚̽̚d̶̡̆̅y̴̨͕̎ ̷̤̄p̸̞͝͝ą̵̝̍r̴͚̲͌t̸̤̺͌ ̴̨̀o̵͓͓͐f̶̲̍̑ ̸̱͇͋suozɐɯⱯ ǝɥʇ? 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ̵́𝓀ⲛⲟⲱ𝓼!̸̘͐ ̸̢͇̏̂𝕒𝓛𝓛 ̵̭̀͝t̸̤̓̕h̸̡̚e̶̹̒ ̷̥̼͝𝓂𝖔𝓇𝖊 ̵̠͕̑ŗ̸̿͒ỏ̴̞̖ȏ̴̭̉ḿ̶̹͉̀ ̶͎̃f̸̛̱̲̾ȏ̸̲̲͝r̷̠̔ ̵̳̏̌h̷͔͍͈̔͒͝ē̶̢͈̈̈́̈́ã̶̝̦͍̥̽͘d̷̛̺̤͙̅͋̈̑c̸̭̽̓̾̊͌â̴̤̤ň̸͎͉͙͂̓̕ŏ̷͎̫̣̬̇̽̏̇n̸̜͙͍̓̋ͅs̴͙̻̲̄!̴̨̣̬̱̅̍

5̸͋́̈́͜.̴̘͖̬̯̱̒͋̾͝)̵̢̝͒̀̐̕ Ɐl҉༙྇ꅔƀä͓̰́ͫꕷt̖̪͈̽̂ͤ͡ēⓡ Ć̷͇. ₮ꝋʁɍiꞥꞡⱦ_̓o🅝

S̶p̷e̵a̷k̵i̸n̸g̴ ̶o̵f̸ ̶d̸e̶m̴i̴g̸o̷d̶s̸ ̶w̵e̸ ̸d̸o̵n̸'̴t̸ ̸k̶n̶o̴w̴ ̴m̷u̸c̵h̷ ̴a̴b̸o̵u̶t̶ ̵-̵ ̷h̸e̶y̸,̴ ̸w̸̵̶̢̙̙̫̐̂ḣ̴̸̷̠̺̯̣̓̄õ̷̵̷͔̼̝̓̎͠ ̶i̴s̶ ̴t̶h̵i̵s̸ ̷g̵u̵y̵?̷ L̵i̴t̷t̷l̷e̴ ̴i̸s̷ ̸k̶n̷o̶w̸n̴ ̴a̴b̷o̶u̴t̸ ̶t̷h̷i̴s̵ ̶m̶y̵s̵t̷e̸r̶i̶o̶u̸s̷ ̸s̴o̷n̷ ̸o̵f̶ ̷H̷e̵c̴a̷t̴e̶.̵ ̸I̵n̶ ̸f̸a̷c̶t̶,̷ ̴I̶ ̴c̵a̸n̶'̸t̸ ̵s̸e̵e̷m̶ ̵t̸o̷ ̵̴̪͠ṙ̴̠é̵̼c̵͉͗â̸̤l̶͖̎l̴̻͂ ̷̬̏ä̵̗́n̵͍̈́y̶͈͗t̶̛̠h̸̩̎i̷̮̇n̴̥͝g̴͔̈́ ̴̤̈a̶̿͜t̴͔̉ ̴̈ͅa̴̾͜l̷̨̊ļ̷̛.̸̭͂.̵̧̈́͊̈́.̴̻̩̼̎.̸̟̹͓̎͊?̵̯̲̓̈́

-̶̟̂Ḣ̸͖e̶̛̜ḻ̴̏l̵͉̈́ỏ̷̬?̷̺̏ H̷e̸l̵lo? I think I've got this working. Please, listen, I don't have much time.

My name is Alabaster Torrington. I'm the son of Hecate, I was exiled from the demigod camps, and my half-sister is hunting me down as we speak.

My siblings were killed for following our mother in the Titan War, and I nearly was as well. The gods decided to prolong my suffering, exiling me so I couldn't "corrupt" my siblings who were forced to join Camp Half-Blood. My monstrous half-sister was tasked to hunt me down and kill me, and so far has successfully killed a mortal working with me. I nearly succeeded in trapping her to prevent her from reforming, but unfortunately our mother wishes for neither of us to die, so I was prevented from doing so.

In my search for ways to defeat her, I am on the brink of a breakthrough that I believe may change the lives of all demigods. I just need time.

I am extremely close to finding a way to break my sister's curse upon demigods that aids monsters in tracking us. But so long as I'm being hunted I'm not able to work on it. I-

D̸a̴m̵m̴i̶t̸!̶ I'm out of time. I'll contact you again̴ ̵a̷s̴ ̶s̵o̸o̷n̴ ̵a̶s̴ ̴I̴'̶m̵ ̵a̴b̸l̵e̷.̸ ̸ ̸̸̸̣̩̐̽ ̷̲̚U̶̩͋n̷̠̿t̸̫̅ȉ̵̺ļ̶̇ ̷̲̈́t̶̫̀ḩ̴͗ȇ̶̡ñ̷̦-̷͙͘!̴͓̈́

[̷C̴R̷A̷S̷H̴]̵

-̴̬̖͠ ̵̟̙̎Y̶̘̲̊͠o̷̢͑u̶̹̿ ̷c̵a̵n̸ ̶s̴e̸e̷ ̴Ⓜ̙𝑜𝑟e of Alabaster in The Son of Magic, a short story written er, ahem, an "interview," "transcribed" by Haley Riordan - since of course, Camp Half-Blood's own resident transcriber was not able to get close enough to speak with a wary former Titan Army member - that can be found in The Demigod Diaries.

Regardless, you can see more of Hecate herself in The Wrath Of The Triple Goddess. Perhaps we'll be seeing more of Hecate's children soon as well?

[youremyheaven]

Mrigashira: The Price of Speaking The Truth

I have been studying the themes and patterns of Mrigashira nakshatra for a while and I thought it's time I made a post about the same.

The myth associated with Mrigashira involves Daksha, the son of Brahma. Daksha organized a grand Yajna (a ritual) but intentionally avoided inviting his daughter Sati’s husband, Shiva, whom he despised. Sati went to the ritual without Shiva’s consent, where Daksha insulted her and Shiva. Sati couldn’t bear the humiliation and jumped into the sacrificial fire. Upon learning of Sati’s death, Shiva became furious and destroyed Daksha’s yajna. Yagya, the presiding sage, turned into a deer and ran away, but Shiva caught up and killed him. His head became the Mrigashira nakshatra, which symbolizes sacrifice. (there are multiple myths associated with each nakshatra and another myth about Mrigashira involves Rohini, Brahma's favourite daughter leaving heaven to escape Brahma's incestual interest in her and taking the form of a deer on earth)

From this myth, we know that making a sacrifice for doing the right thing is a theme in the lives of these natives (Yagya was only overseeing the ceremony, he did nothing wrong, he never insulted Shiva, he was just doing his job). Another prominent theme is escaping someone's wrath or escaping to seek safety.

The yoni animal of Mrigashira is a serpent.

Serpents feature prominently in many mythologies and are commonly associated with renewal and transformation.

The ouroboros represented in this picture is a serpent eating its own tail. Carl Jung, saw this as a basic mandala of alchemy and said:

"The alchemists, who in their own way knew more about the nature of the individuation process than we moderns do, expressed this paradox through the symbol of the Ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail. The Ouroboros has been said to have a meaning of infinity or wholeness. In the age-old image of the Ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the more astute alchemists that the prima materia of the art was the man himself. The Ouroboros is a dramatic symbol of the integration and assimilation of the opposite, i.e. of the shadow. This 'feedback' process is at the same time a symbol of immortality since it is said of the Ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life, fertilizes himself, and gives birth to himself. He symbolizes the One, who proceeds from the clash of opposites, and he, therefore, constitutes the secret of the prima materia which unquestionably stems from man's unconscious."

It speaks of human nature and how we must consume the opposites within ourselves to integrate into one whole being. Every nakshatra serves a cosmic purpose. Each nakshatra is a journey forward, its every step in the process of discovery. If you look at the standard descriptions of some naks, some are explicitly negative and others are overwhelmingly positive, while this is a simplistic understanding of nakshatras, it does point to how to retain balance in this universe, we need all kinds of energies, light and dark, good and bad, but every nakshatra contains within themselves these opposites, like the yin & yang symbol which shows a balance between two opposites with a portion of the opposite element in each section.

In Taoism, distinctions between good and bad, along with other dichotomous moral judgments, are perceptual, not real; so, the duality of yin and yang is an indivisible whole.

The serpent then can be seen as a representation of the eternal truth of reality, that all is one.

Truth telling is the purpose of the serpent in mythology and this is universally true across mythologies from different parts of the world.

This also seems to be innately tied to the nature of Mrigashira natives who speak their truth or make sacrifices to expose the truth. A simpler manifestation is how blunt and straightforward these natives can be.

Edward Snowden- Mrigashira Stellium in 1h (Sun, Mars & Rahu)

In 2013, Snowden revealed evidence of a shocking global surveillance programme run by the USA’s National Security Agency (NSA) and the UK’s Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) which have been monitoring the internet and phone activity of hundreds of millions of people across the world.

The Internet itself was allowed to spread at a magnanimous pace and reach people all over the globe because it serves the interests of people in positions of power by allowing them to track and monitor us, inundate us into a permanent state of distraction with ads and useless content, that fill the pockets of the already rich. It wasn't some lucky happenstance incident, the internet exists for a very malicious reason and if you read about reports from the 90s when the internet was still at a nascent stage you would know that many people called out this bs. In an occult sense, the internet is an all-pervading manifestation of Maya or illusion. It wraps itself into our reality and there's no escaping it, it becomes harder and harder to see the truth and most people are so completely immersed in this illusion, believing it to be real.

Like the serpent that lured Eve out of paradise, a Mrigashira native, Snowden became the harbinger of an era where we now know that companies including Facebook, Google and Microsoft were forced to hand over customer data under secret orders from the NSA. And that the NSA recorded, stored and analysed ‘metadata’ relating to every single telephone call and text message transmitted in Mexico, Kenya and the Philippines.

Several major companies including Apple, Google and WhatsApp have improved the default security and encryption provided to users. Greater consumer pressure has pushed the industry to strengthen its approach to protecting users’ privacy.

We know how algorithms work, we know that our user data is being tracked, we know why we see targeted ads. We know that most content out there is an ad in disguise. Still, we have no real choice in the matter (except maybe clicking the "reject all cookies" button lol), we're forced to stay in a state where despite knowing that something is deeply wrong with society we still have to participate in it. This is Rohini, who had to stay with her father Brahma in the celestial heavens even though he made incestual advances towards her.

In Mrigashira, the truth dawns on you and you have no choice but to act. The reason Rohini ruled by the Moon is connected to manipulation is because these natives cannot exit their unideal situations safely, they are forced to stay and to survive, they must manipulate their reality. Their freedom is curbed. Even if irl, there are no restraints, these natives feel restrained within, so leaving isn't an option for them, they stay and make things worse to cope or in hopes of changing things.

Mrigashira is Mars ruled and is the first Mars ruled nakshatra. Mars is all about taking action and marching forward. The truth can set you free only if you let it and Mrigashira natives deeply understand this. They are determined to remove themselves from these circumstances and stand in their truth. It may not always be literal but this pattern of setting boundaries, establishing a distance between what is "false" and what is "true" is deeply tied to the nature of Mrigashira.

Snowden sought asylum in Russia where he lives to this day. Being in exile or having to escape your home is also Mrigashira coded simply because the home is a toxic/unsafe/unhealthy place for the Mrigashira native to be. I have talked about it before but Mrigashira is connected to the story of Rapunzel.

Naomi Klein, Mrigashira Moon is an author, social activist, and filmmaker known for her political analyses; support of ecofeminism, organized labour, and leftism; and criticism of corporate globalization, fascism, ecofascism and capitalism.

Her book No Logo which came out in 1999 is a landmark book that exposes the evils of corporate globalization and franchises and how the Global South are being exploited to fatten the pockets of companies in the Global North. It greatly expanded the growing anti-capitalist consciousness and anti-corporate activism in the decades since. Here's a video where she explains her research. Its chilling to think this was made over 2 decades ago considering how all these things still persist in society and now hurt people more than ever.

Honestly, all her books are amazing exposé work and that's on her Mrigashira Moon.

Louis Pasteur- Mrigashira Moon

He was a French chemist, pharmacist and microbiologist renowned for his discoveries of the principles of vaccination, microbial fermentation, and pasteurization (named after him). His research in chemistry led to remarkable breakthroughs in the understanding of the causes and prevention of diseases, which laid down the foundations of hygiene, public health and much of modern medicine. Pasteur's works are credited with saving millions of lives through the development of vaccines for rabies and anthrax. 

He was a very controversial figure in his lifetime who was known for deceiving people.

This article explains it well. Here's an excerpt from the article:

"His most famous experiment was on a young boy, Joseph Meister, who had been bitten by a rabid dog and was doomed to death, and whose mother pleaded with Pasteur to treat him. Pasteur reported that he had previously used his rabies vaccine on 50 dogs without a single failure.

Again, the laboratory notebooks show that this account was misleading. Pasteur had tested a vaccine on dogs, but it was prepared by a completely different method than the one he used for the vaccine given to Meister, and he had no conclusive animal results to show that the vaccine worked. But he had guessed right."

Pasteur often lied to get his way and used "deception" to advance his practice. It is ethically questionable for sure but the work he did has helped millions of people and one could say it was all for the greater good.

He disproved the then prevailing notion of spontaneous generation (it was believed that any exposure to air anywhere causes the generation of living organisms) through his experiments and was initially disbelieved and ridiculed until his experiments began to be accepted as true and was recognised by the scientific community.

Mrigashira natives often have a tendency to gauge things or call people out on things even when that thing/person is widely accepted. The native may get flak for it and be shunned for it but eventually their ideas become widely accepted and everyone sees the truth. They may or may not get credit for this. They see the truth before others do.

Aldous Huxley- Mrigashira Rising

He was an author and philosopher who is best known for his novel Brave New World although he has written over 50 books. Brave New World (the title itself is very Mrigashira core, don't you think?)

The idea that government control is dehumanizing is the overarching theme. In Brave New World the government controls every aspect of the citizens' lives. They are created and born in a government lab. They are raised in a government facility while learning society's values.

It was published in 1932 and lets just say that the audience wasn't ready for such an alarming dystopian tale.

A notable critic of Brave New World was the author H.G. Wells, whose 1923 novel Men Like Gods (a book about a man who visits a utopian world and then returns to earth) had been an inspiration of sorts to Huxley, who told a friend in 1931 that he was writing a novel about the “the horror of the Wellsian Utopia and a revolt against it.” Wells said, “A writer of the standing of Aldous Huxley has no right to betray the future as he did in that book.”

H.G Wells was known for his utopian visions that permeated nearly all of his published work. Interestingly, he was a Shravana Rising. The thing is, Wells never used these utopian visions to criticize the reality of the world we live in, it was more of a "look how good things could be ughhh". This once again reflects Moon's nature which is idealistic but not practical or rooted in confronting situations as they are, if you ask them for a solution to the war, they'll say "if only everyone could get along and we could all stop killing each other" instead of saying "the power imbalance between nations is alarming, they create crises in other nations, put puppet governments in place, exploit them for their own benefits and when it no longer serves their interests, leaves the people to deal with the mess themselves". The former is a more emotional response but it also comes down to Lunar nature believing things are that simple, that if everybody could get along, then everything would be okay. its basically not a solution but a nice thought. I have made posts in the past about Moon dominance and manipulation but what i had failed to mention is that the reason Moon dominants resort to manipulation is because they lack the ability to think in concrete, tangible, practical terms since Moon is tied to the emotional mind which is incapable of rationality or logic. They have to manipulate because they do not know how to think critically. Being guided by your emotions is not reliable or healthy which is why Moon dominance often results in toxicity and manipulation as they are emotionally reacting to what is said instead of responding with their mind or logic.

Wells himself later said about his novel Men Like Gods, "It did not horrify or frighten, was not much of a success, and by that time, I had tired of talking in playful parables to a world engaged in destroying itself."

Do you notice how passive his tone is? He speaks as though he is not part of this world and that all he can do is merely observe its self-destruction (if not writing "playful parables" to it lol??). He thought his book was a flop because it did not "horrify" or "frighten" people (implying that, thats what sells) when the reality is that its more effective to read about the horrors prevailing our society that we are ignorant of instead of reading 300 pages about a perfect alternate reality where everything is wonderful. one calls to action, another encourages passive daydreaming. This further differentiates the nature of Mrigashira vs Moon dominant natives (Mrigashira follows Rohini's fall from heaven or realising the truth).

"There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception"- Aldous Huxley, Mrigashira Rising

George Carlin, Moon (conjunct Ketu) in Mrigashira

Here's an excerpt of something he said that has stuck with me and exemplifies the truth telling nature of Mrigashira.

"But there’s a reason. There’s a reason. There’s a reason for this, there’s a reason education SUCKS, and it’s the same reason that it will never, ever, ever be fixed. It’s never gonna get any better. Don’t look for it. Be happy with what you got. Because the owners of this country don't want that. I'm talking about the real owners now, the real owners, the big wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions. Forget the politicians. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don't. You have no choice. You have owners. They own you. They own everything. They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They’ve long since bought and paid for the senate, the congress, the state houses, the city halls, they got the judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear. They got you by the balls. They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying, lobbying, to get what they want. Well, we know what they want. They want more for themselves and less for everybody else, but I'll tell you what they don’t want: They don’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’t want well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking. They’re not interested in that. That doesn’t help them. Thats against their interests. Thats right.

They don’t want people who are smart enough to sit around a kitchen table to figure out how badly they’re getting fucked by a system that threw them overboard 30 fucking years ago. They don’t want that. You know what they want? They want obedient workers. Obedient workers. People who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork, and just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly shittier jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it, and now they’re coming for your Social Security money. They want your retirement money. They want it back so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street, and you know something? They’ll get it. They’ll get it all from you, sooner or later, 'cause they own this fucking place. It's a big club, and you ain’t in it. You and I are not in the big club.

And by the way, it's the same big club they use to beat you over the head with all day long when they tell you what to believe. All day long beating you over the head in their media telling you what to believe, what to think and what to buy. The table is tilted folks. The game is rigged, and nobody seems to notice, nobody seems to care. Good honest hard-working people -- white collar, blue collar, it doesn’t matter what color shirt you have on -- good honest hard-working people continue -- these are people of modest means -- continue to elect these rich cocksuckers who don’t give a fuck about them. They don’t give a fuck about you. They don’t give a fuck about you. They don't care about you at all -- at all -- at all. And nobody seems to notice, nobody seems to care. That's what the owners count on; the fact that Americans will probably remain willfully ignorant of the big red, white and blue dick that's being jammed up their assholes everyday. Because the owners of this country know the truth: it's called the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it."

Mrigashira natives are the most likely to be critical of society, modern living, capitalism etc among other things. They see through to the truth of things and thus feel dissatisfied and disappointed with the world. There is a reason they say "ignorance is bliss", those whose eyes are veiled, can tune out of all this cacophony of living and pretend everything is fine. Mrigashira natives have to live with the weight of knowing.

Jules Verne- Mrigashira Rising

He is widely regarded as the father of science fiction and his works have inspired a generation of scientists like the pioneering submarine designer Simon Lake, Igor Sikorsky who often quoted Verne and cited his Robur the Conqueror as the inspiration for his invention of the first successful helicopter, the rocketry innovators Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, Robert Goddard, and Hermann Oberth are all known to have taken their inspiration from Verne's From the Earth to the Moon.

Edwin Hubble, the American astronomer, was in his youth fascinated by Verne's novels, especially From the Earth to the Moon and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Their influence was so strong that, like Verne, Hubble gave up the career path in law that his father intended for him, setting off instead to pursue his passion for science.

Jules Verne lived in the 19th century (he passed away in 1905, aged 77) but he described technologies that would later be invented (some were directly inspired by what he had written). He had prophetic vision some would say he had described submarines, helicopters, the moon landing, holograms, newscasts, space travel, video conferencing,

“In the Year 2889, instead of being printed, the Earth Chronicle is every morning spoken to subscribers, who, from interesting conversations with reporters, statesmen and scientists, learn the news of the day,”

He even made political observations that have since materialised,

In one of his later works, called The Purchase of the North Pole, an auction is held for rights to the North Pole. The mysterious buyer who wins out over a number of national governments is a private company with a plan to fire off a giant cannon will jolt the planet and change the tilt of Earth’s axis, adjust the length of the days and climates around the earth, and melt the polar ice caps. With the Arctic melted, the execs planned to mine the north pole for coal and make a fortune. This is more or less what is currently happening lol

He invented a new genre to talk about things that did not yet exist. This is tied to Mrigashira's quest for truth and imagining possibilities.

Kanye West, Mrigashira Sun

Do I think Kanye is problematic? Extremely. Do I think he's also telling the truth on some occasions especially when he's trying to expose Hollywood or the system? Yes, I do

This is a bit of a tangent but we have seen time and time again how mental illness has been weaponized against people (ex: Britney Spears) to control them (Mariah Carey also speaks about it in her memoir), I do think a great number of celebrities are victims of this because their management/people in their lives benefit from exploiting them (would it not be vvv scary knowing that your career is what pays the bills of a whole crew of people? they depend on you to live? what if they're greedy or evil? what happens to you then?) so I wholeheartedly believe Kanye when he says "people are trying to conspire against him for telling the truth" (look at how many whistleblowers have been killed and had their deaths written off as suicides).

Sometimes I wonder if he's deliberately ruining his public image so that he just comes across as a crazy guy saying crazy shit that no one takes seriously. This is a safe option for him because if he appeared to be a normal sober serious guy exposing the system he might get killed. Deception is also a huge part of Mrigashira's truth telling.

Who can forget him exposing Taylor on that phone call? lol

Anyway, I want to make it clear that I don't condone or endorse any of Kanye's politics or most of the vile hateful garbage he spews.

Amy Winehouse-Mrigashira Rising

Amy was known for how candid and straightforward she was. If you listen to this song, you can tell how frank and honest the lyrics are?? (its about women who try to score rich men). Amy was always so real and unapologetically herself.

Pamela Anderson, Mrigashira Rising

She's such an icon and such a dignified woman after everything she's been through. She came forward to speak her truth and take control of her narrative. Unfortunately not many women in her position can or will do this. She empowers sooo many others by standing up for herself and speaking her truth.

Mia Khalifa, Ketu in Mrigashira (a lot of people ask me why I include placements other than the big 3 and the reason I use Ketu specifically is because it is a karmic planet and Ketu's position in the birth chart is thought to indicate ties to previous lifetimes. It represents life experiences and knowledge that people may carry from past incarnations. Yes, I am aware that Ketu is a generational planet and people born across the same year have the same Ketu placement but the reason why Ketu placement is significant especially in the charts of accomplished people is because they are channelling the collective unconscious and I believe that in order to receive recognition for the work you do, you have to skilfully channel your Ketu as it represents your latent creativity and potential that connects you to the whole)

whew went off on a tangent 🤪(me with everything i post lmao)

Mia Khalifa has come forward exposing the porn industry and calling out its predatory nature and has candidly spoken about how she was "intimidated" into doing her infamous hijab scene and that her toxic ex husband encouraged her to pursue porn. I hope Mia heals from everything but she's sooo brave for calling out people/society/porn industry on their toxicity, misogyny, double standards when the same men who fap to her porn are the ones calling her a whore (she made a mistake when she was 20 and has been out of the business for 10 years at this point, at what point will we let her move on with her life and shed this image for good?)

Nicole Kidman- Mrigashira Sun

who can forget this iconic interview when Nicole exposed the truth behind her meeting with Jimmy lol, he was so sh00k

She starred in the 2003 movie Dogville where she plays the daughter of a mob boss who runs away because she cannot stand the stuff they do (running away because they can't accept the circumstance they are in is a prominent Mrigashira theme). Its an arthouse film about the nature of evil and it shows how after Nicole's character has run away to Dogville, she has to provide labor for the community in order to be allowed to stay (Mrigashira natives making a "sacrifice") and ultimately towards the end after enduring a lot of abuse, Nicole's character destroys the whole place.

Jim Carrey- Mrigashira Moon

He is hella problematic for sure but he has this existential side to him where he is always dropping truthbombs. Remember this iconic video where he says NYFW is meaningless lmfao

Parveen Babi, Mrigashira Moon

Parveen Babi was a Bollywood superstar in the 70s and 80s. In 1977, she started dating the filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt (he has a reputation for being vile, crass asshole) and he insisted that she go to a psychiatrist following which she was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. I cannot comment on whether or not Miss Babi was misdiagnosed but what is apparent is that her relationship with Bhatt took a severe toll on her mental health, there are tons of people who've said he's kind of a psychopath, so I don't doubt that he may have gaslit and abused Babi to a point where she may have lost her sanity. For the rest of her career she struggled with episodes of debilitating paranoia, delusion and violent aggression. She once even blamed Amitabh Bachchan (the biggest star in India) for being her biggest adversary and claimed that he was trying to kill her (I know this sounds delusional but we do not know what kind of relationship they had with each other or what might have led her to believe that she was in potential danger, its cruel to dismiss everything someone says as "oh but she's mentally ill").

Babi quit acting and was a recluse in her later years. She died alone in her apartment when she was 51 and her body was only found 3 days later. Mahesh Bhatt helped organise her funereal when nobody else stepped forward to even claim her body at the hospital. Her life is a tragedy and a cautionary tale.

Mrigashiras are doubtful of absolutely everything. They do not trust people easy AT ALL. They question absolutely everybody's motive and whilst this can create thought provoking and interesting art and make a person inquisitive, honest etc, it can also be exhausting and draining to constantly be on guard and watch your own back.

“Slowly, one by one, I lost trust in everybody and everything around me,” Babi wrote. “Have you ever wondered what it is like to function in life, distrusting everything and everybody? We trust most of the things and people around us without questioning. We trust the food we eat, the water we drink, the air we breathe...It is impossible to function in life without trusting. And that is precisely what happened to me.”- Parveen Babi

Mrigashira natives are prone to paranoia and feeling unsafe (this ties back to their mythology) and I truly feel for them :(((

Oppenheimer- Mrigashira Rising

Oppenheimer’s infamous meeting with Truman took place in October 1945. It did not go well: Oppenheimer failed to convince the president of the need for international control of atomic energy, while Truman confidently stated the Soviets would never get the bomb. Getting nowhere, Oppenheimer really did confess his guilt over the Manhattan Project, which turned Truman’s stomach.

Oppenheimer's morality is dubious and questionable etc etc but it is known and clear that he felt guilty for the role he played and the destruction that was caused as a direct result of his research. He stood up for what was true, although unsuccessfully.

Khloe Kardashian-Mrigashira Moon

Khloe has always been praised for being "real" and honest. She has opened up about a lot of different things and had this to say about having a baby via surrogacy:

“But a surrogate process – Kim knows – is very hard for me. It’s a mindf***. It is really the weirdest thing,” she bravely shares about her nine-month-old cherub, Tatum. “I do feel less connected. People do say it takes a minute to feel connected but Kim said hers was easy. This is not easy. I definitely was in a state of shock from my entire experience in general,” she said. “I felt really guilty that this woman just had my baby and I take the baby and go to another room and you are separated. It felt like such a transactional experience because it is not about him. I wish someone was honest about surrogacy and the difference of it. But it doesn’t mean it is bad or good. It is just very different.”

Compared to the kind of stuff that all the other Kardash-Jenners say this is a rare and sincere moment of truth telling.

John Cena Mrigashira Moon and Rising

He is known for his honest, humble and sincere personality.

In an interview about the Meltzer rating system, Cena honestly said:

“So how do I put this… I am much more concerned when I perform for WWE in how the audience as a whole feels about my performance rather than one individual trying to grade me in a level of stars. Not that it doesn’t matter, because that is a great way for those to try and get equity and try to get noticed. It’s a great ranking system and I do appreciate it. I’m not knocking critics. I’m just saying my process is to make sure that everyone who paid a ticket had a great night. And if that gets me a zero star match, I still know in my heart of hearts that I entertained my audience that night.”

if you type in John Cena honesty into google so many articles pop up lol, i guess thats a great thing to be known for. Zero bullshit that's Mrigashira for you

I hope this post was interesting and informativexx

thanks for reading<3

[eyeforchaos]

"If it weren't for me, we'd be out of here by now." - ody to kyv

He looks over as he hears the other, staring at him for a long moment. Kyvyn looks back to the sand underneath them, quiet a moment. “You couldn’t’ve known things would end up like this, captain.” He starts, choosing his words carefully. “You can’t control the way things happen. The best you can do is try and adjust as they do.” So much had happened since they left Troy, none of which they could’ve prevented.

But I could have. The guard is quick to shove that thought aside, hands digging into the sand a bit.

[xvysarene]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕒𝕡𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖

Pairing: Xavier x Fem!Reader Prompt: “No, you can't stay here.” Words: ~1.1k Genre: Angst, No Comfort Notice: Some spoiler of Xavier's Myth, Shooting Stars, although not entirely aligned

[ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST]

He staggered back, clearly surprised by how your muttered words reverberated loudly in the otherwise dimly lit room. Cerulean orbs searched for yours skilfully, eyes bright as they were when tracking Wanderers in the darkest of nights.

“What did you say?” A hint of disbelief was palpable in Xavier's voice.

You stepped away from the shadow, hands trembling as you struggled to steady them. Despite anticipating this moment, when confronted with reality, you found yourself questioning whether you could truly accept your sacrifice without harboring any regrets.

“I said, no, you can't stay here.”

Revelation dawned on him. Despite Xavier’s frequent drowsiness, he remained inherently sharp. It was one of the attributes that had made him a highly respected hunter.

“How long have you known?”

“Enough time to understand the over-complicated truth.”

Irritation briefly flickered in his eyes. He looked at the thinning veil behind him, clearly cursing the other party that stepped through it earlier. “Jeremiah told you.”

“I was the one who convinced Jeremiah to tell me everything. You shouldn’t kick his ass when you see him again.”

Xavier couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at that. Jeremiah, though physically not imposing, could defeat anyone on mind games. That’s why he brought him along on the mission as he needed a logical partner.

He couldn’t comprehend why Jeremiah had agreed to divulge the secrets they swore to keep between themselves—especially to the one person he had hoped would never uncover the truth.

“Besides, you’re not as secretive as you thought, Xav.” You gave him a small, sad smile. “I guess that's what makes us human, right? Despite not being a normal one, having an aether core-fused heart, or having lived for a hundred years, we still can’t stop ourselves from showing our deepest desires during moments of vulnerability. I used to believe that she was your unforgettable first love or perhaps an ex who taught you a crucial life lesson. However, that’s just me shying away from the undeniable.”

As much as you had steeled yourself for this moment, your vision began to blur, and Xavier was fast to engulf you in his hug. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around his lithe but muscular figure, feeling his warmth and further breaking your heart.

He buried his face in your hair, taking a deep breath to blanket himself in your scent like he always did.

“That’s not true,” his voice came out shakier than he intended.

“But it is, Xavier. You don’t know how many times you called out to her in your sleep. Or sometimes when you look at me, I can tell that you don't truly see me for who I am in this current existence. You can’t deny this, because in doing so, you’re also hurting her…me.”

You had to force your head up to fully face your light. Xavier wouldn’t let you step away from him.

Gently cupping his cheeks, you urged him to focus on your next words. “Face it, Xav. Your queen and I… our resemblances are solely physical. We’re two entirely different persons, made up of distinct personalities. If she was the reason why you were in this timeline in the first place, you cling to the hope of going back to her one day, don’t you? You wouldn’t abandon her eternity, right?”

His hug tightened. “I’m sorry,” he said after some time, head bowed in shame. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Truly, deeply sorry for making you feel less than your worth.”

Despite his painful acknowledgment, you found yourself relaxing, accepting your fate. Xavier's thumbs gently wiped away the tears that had escaped from your eyes.

“But you’re going to be here all alone,” his voice cracked, almond eyes cloudy. “I can’t go back and live peacefully knowing that.”

“If what Jeremiah told me is the truth, I have left you more than once. It’s your time to experience having someone be there when you’re back. This is the time to redeem myself, even when the timeline has gone haywire.”

Xavier shook his head furiously. “We won’t know if the alternative aether core would work. If I go back and learn that I will lose you again and Philos, I would rather stay here with you in the past.”

“You know it will work, that’s why you were so insistent on sending Jeremiah back alone with it, and selfishly waiting at the other end just to make sure it disappears, an indicator that Philos has accepted the aether-core. You know how much Jeremiah wants to go back there, and for everything he has done for you, you believed it was your turn to help him. I can’t take you away from her; it’s not right. It’s not my time to have you.”

“What difference does it make when I’m also willingly leaving you here? You understand that once I step through that veil, we’ll never meet each other again in this timeline.”

As if aware of its existence, the veil dimmed. You eyed it wearily, realizing that the swirling vortex of electric blue and silver had turned almost transparent.

“Xavier,” you sighed when he cupped your hand, reveling at the contact, “we both know that my time in this realm will end, I can’t be immortal here. I would rather face the certainty of our eternal bond in another dimension than linger in the fleeting confines of this world.”

You placed your fingers against his lips, silencing his upcoming argument. “You do realize that if you abandoned me in the future, I would despise you, don't you?" you made a playful comment to lighten the mood, but he was miserable. Filled with guilt and disappointment that he couldn’t control the situation.

You guided his head down to meet your lips halfway. As both of your lips touched in a bittersweet embrace, a silent farewell woven into each tender touch. The palm pressed against his heart felt its rapid beats.

“Goodbye, my light. Be happy,” you whispered those words to his lips.

Xavier should have known that whenever you were around, his caution melted away. That was his greatest weakness. He registered the force that caught him entirely off guard a second too late.

Xavier reached out his hand, losing momentum. “Y/N! Wait—!” he called out, voice tinged with urgency.

As his body was hurled into the closing veil, it snapped shut, swallowing his unfinished words. Sobs wracked your body, each wave of emotion sent your body crashing to the wooden floor.

Moonlight peeking through the windows cast its glow upon the intricate gold of the gigantic frame before you.

Where the veil had shimmered moments before, there was now only emptiness, revealing a cold cement wall that stood as a cruel reminder of the end of a chapter you could never revisit.

While seemingly nearly empty every night, a profound silence enveloped Philo Flower Store differently. Vibrant blooms began to wilt, their once lively hues fading into desolation, while the lush vines that once cascaded down nearby buildings now curled and browned.

⤷ ᝰ.ᐟ MASTERLIST

[emma23]

Late night confessions:

Steven grant x reader

————————————————————————

You sat on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the room, but the hum of the background noise was doing little to distract you from the mess that had become your life. You had called off your engagement just hours ago, and now the weight of that decision pressed heavily on your chest. It was the right choice—you knew that deep down—but it didn’t make it any easier.

The knock on your door at 1 AM was the last thing you expected.

You sighed, dragging yourself up from the couch, wondering who on earth would be bothering you at this hour. You opened the door, and there, standing on your doorstep, looking nervous as ever, was Steven Grant.

"Oh my god, what are you doing here?" you asked, blinking in surprise.

Steven fidgeted, his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I, um, I had to see you. Sorry, it's late. I know it's late, but I couldn't wait."

"And this couldn't wait till the morning? Steven, it's 1 am." You rubbed your eyes, trying to make sense of why Steven, your adorably awkward friend from the museum, was standing on your doorstep in the middle of the night.

Steven took a deep breath, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his nerves. “I’m done waiting.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Waiting…waiting for what?”

“For you.”

That took you aback. Your heart skipped a beat, and you stared at him, trying to figure out if you had heard him right.

"For me?" you repeated, half in disbelief, half in confusion.

Steven nodded, his eyes finally meeting yours. "For you. I vowed the minute that this idiot messed it up with you, I’d come find you." He took a step forward, his voice more confident now. "It’s my turn now to love you."

Your mouth dropped open slightly, words failing you. Steven? This sweet, bumbling man who spent his days explaining ancient Egyptian myths to tourists and had more knowledge about gods and artifacts than anyone else you knew… was in love with you?

You stared at him, speechless for what felt like an eternity. He stood there, nervously shifting from foot to foot, waiting for you to say something—anything. The awkward silence dragged on until finally, you blurted out, "Steven, are you serious right now?"

He nodded earnestly, his face flushed but determined. "Yes. I mean, I know it’s mad, yeah? You just called off your engagement, and I’ve been waiting—well, not waiting, that sounds creepy—I’ve been, um, hoping? Hoping, that’s better."

You blinked at him, still trying to process what was happening. "You’ve been… hoping? For five years?"

Steven scratched the back of his head, his messy curls falling into his eyes. "Yeah, well, I thought I could wait, you know? Wait and see if things with him… you know, fell apart. And, um, well, they did. So here I am." He gestured to himself awkwardly, as if that explained everything.

You couldn't help but laugh. The whole situation was so absurd, and yet, somehow, it felt like the most Steven thing ever. "Steven… I don't know what to say."

He took a step closer, his brown eyes wide and sincere. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just… I needed you to know. You’ve been my best friend for years, and I’ve watched you with him, and it’s driven me mad. You deserve someone who sees how incredible you are, and I’ve always—well, I’ve always seen that."

Your heart twisted at his words. There was no denying that Steven had always been there for you. Every late-night phone call when your ex had let you down, every quiet conversation over tea, every time he had made you laugh when all you wanted to do was cry. He had been there, solid as a rock, never asking for anything in return.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you repeated, this time softer.

Steven’s face fell slightly, but he quickly tried to mask it with a smile. “That’s alright. Really, it is. I didn’t come here to pressure you or anything. I just… I couldn’t wait anymore, Y/N. I had to tell you.”

You stepped closer to him, looking into his warm, familiar eyes. "Steven, you’re… you’re amazing. You’ve always been amazing. But this is… this is a lot."

"I know," he said quietly, his shoulders slumping just a bit. "I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t stand the thought of you not knowing. I’ve been keeping this to myself for so long, and after you called off the engagement, I just… I thought maybe…"

You sighed, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "You’re not an idiot, Steven."

He chuckled softly, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. "Could’ve fooled me."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. You felt torn—Steven was everything you needed, but you had just broken off a huge chapter of your life. Was this even the right time to think about something new?

But then again… this was Steven. Steven, who had been by your side through everything. Steven, who had loved you quietly and patiently. Maybe this was exactly what you needed.

You stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you were inches away from him. "Five years is a long time to wait, Steven."

His breath hitched, his eyes searching yours for a sign of what you were going to say next. "Yeah. It is."

And then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping kiss like in the movies. It was soft and tentative, much like Steven himself. But the moment your lips met, you felt something shift. Something fall into place that had been missing all along.

Steven froze at first, clearly shocked by the sudden turn of events. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. You melted against him, your fingers tangling in his messy curls as you kissed him harder, years of pent-up emotions finally spilling over.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, and Steven was grinning like an idiot. "Blimey," he muttered, his cheeks flushed.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. "Five years, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice low and filled with affection. "But, um, worth the wait, don’t you think?"

You smiled, kissing him again. "Definitely worth the wait."

"So… tea now or after we figure out how to explain this to Marc?"

[atomicradiogirl]

here are my favorite quotes from dune messiah cause frank herbert cooked so hard

“save your praise for those who can be swayed by it”

“beloved,” she whispered. “have i troubled you?” her arms enclosed his future as they enclosed him. “not you,” he said. “oh… not you.”

“paul saw the moon become an elongated sphere. it rolled and twisted, hissing — the terrible hissing of a star being quenched in an infinite sea. it was gone. no moon. the earth quaked like an animal shaking its skin.”

“the flesh surrenders itself. eternity takes back its own.”

“they’ve blinded my body, but not my vision”

“awakening, she’d found paul sitting beside her, his eyeless sockets aimed at some formless place beyond. chani stilled a fit of trembling when he aimed those eyeless sockets at her.”

“i was baptized in sand and it cost me the knack of believing. who trades in faiths anymore? who’ll buy? who’ll sell?”

“we have eternity, beloved.” “you may have eternity. i only have now.” “but this is eternity.”

“he felt his body through her touch: dead flesh carried by time eddies. he reeked of memories that had glimpsed eternity. Past and Future became simultaneous.”

“you cannot see!” “i don’t need eyes to see you.”

“if you need something to worship, then worship life—all life, every last crawling bit of it! we’re all in this beauty together!”

“this myth he’d made out of intricate movements and imagination, out of moonlight and love, out of prayers older than Adam, and gray cliffs and crimson shadows, laments and rivers of martyrs—what had it come to at last? when the waves receded, the shores of Time would spread out there clean, empty, shining with infinite grains of memory and little else. was this the golden genesis of man?”

“there are problems in this universe for which there are no answers.”

“people are subordinate to government, but the ruled influence the rulers.”

“he is the fool saint, the golden stranger living forever on the edge of reason.”

[luckshmi]

Saturn vs. Sun

A Cosmic Tug of War Between Light and Shadow

In Hindu mythology, the relationship between the Sun (Surya) and Saturn (Shani) is rooted in complex dynamics of conflict, duty, and karmic lessons. According to Vedic lore, Saturn is the son of the Sun and his wife Chhaya, the shadow-form of Sanjana. Sanjana, unable to bear Surya's intense heat, created her shadow form, Chhaya, to take her place. However, when the Sun realized this, a great distance grew between the two. Shani was born from Chhaya’s womb, and from birth, he had a strained relationship with his father, the Sun.

Legend has it that when Saturn opened his eyes as a newborn, his father, the Sun, was eclipsed, symbolizing Saturn’s natural tendency to dim or challenge the Sun’s light. This myth perfectly encapsulates their astrological relationship—where the Sun represents illumination, vitality, and authority, Saturn embodies limitations, restrictions, and the cold hand of time.

The tension between them is symbolic of the eternal battle between light and shadow, freedom and responsibility, individuality and structure. The Sun, representing ego and self-expression, often finds its brilliance dampened by Saturn’s demand for discipline, humility, and the karmic weight of responsibility.

From an astronomical standpoint, the Sun and Saturn couldn’t be more different. The Sun is a massive ball of nuclear fusion, emitting light and heat that sustains life on Earth. It represents the life-giving force, constantly radiating energy. Saturn, on the other hand, is a cold, distant planet. Though it’s the second-largest planet in the solar system, its slow orbit around the Sun and its icy composition emphasize its association with time, patience, and endurance. Saturn is encircled by a set of iconic rings, which can be seen as symbolic boundaries or limitations that the planet imposes.

The physical warmth of the Sun contrasts sharply with Saturn’s coldness. The Sun symbolizes vitality, passion, and drive, while Saturn’s icy rings represent restriction, delay, and the long journey toward mastery.

The Sun rules the sign of Leo, while Saturn governs Capricorn and Aquarius. These rulerships reflect their inherent characteristics:

Leo (Sun’s rulership): Leo, a fire sign, is associated with creativity, leadership, self-expression, and authority. Like the Sun, which sits at the center of the solar system, Leo energy craves attention and recognition. The Sun’s influence makes Leo individuals naturally radiant, generous, and sometimes domineering, seeking to shine in whatever they do.

Capricorn (Saturn’s rulership): Saturn’s association with Capricorn, an earth sign, emphasizes hard work, discipline, ambition, and long-term goals. Capricorn individuals, influenced by Saturn, are known for their perseverance and their ability to navigate challenges with patience and determination. Saturn rewards those who endure hardships and stay committed to their path.

Aquarius (Saturn’s co-rulership): Aquarius has traditional ties to Saturn. Saturn’s influence on Aquarius is more intellectual, representing the structuring of ideas and social systems. Aquarius, an air sign, embodies progressive thinking, humanitarianism, and innovation, but Saturn’s co-rulership adds a layer of responsibility and commitment to collective goals.

The Sun is exalted in Aries, where its fiery energy is fully unleashed, and it’s debilitated in Libra, where it struggles to maintain its autonomy in the realm of balance and relationships.

Saturn is exalted in Libra, where its sense of fairness and justice shines, and it’s debilitated in Aries, where impulsive action and Saturn’s slow, methodical nature clash.

At a symbolic level, the Sun and Saturn embody opposing forces in esoteric teachings. The Sun represents the ego, the conscious self, and our core essence. It is the source of light, radiance, and outward expression of identity. It tells us who we are at our core and how we project that identity into the world. The Sun is about presence, boldness, and self-confidence. It is masculine energy, action-oriented, and outward-facing.

Saturn, on the other hand, is the planet of karma, time, and discipline. Additionally, Saturn governs the lessons we must learn through effort, endurance, and often suffering. It is the planet of boundaries, restrictions, and responsibilities. While the Sun shines light on who we are, Saturn shows us where we must grow, through challenges, limitations, and the passage of time. Saturn is often referred to as the taskmaster or judge, ensuring we fulfill our karmic duties.

Saturn asks us to transcend ego by imposing limitations, while the Sun encourages us to embrace our individuality and creative expression. In this sense, they represent the dual aspects of life: freedom and responsibility, joy and sorrow, and self-expression and self-discipline.

Sun vs. Saturn in a Horoscope

When the Sun and Saturn aspect or are conjunct in a birth chart, it can indicate a life marked by tension between personal desires and external obligations. Those with prominent Sun-Saturn aspects may experience challenges with self-confidence, authority figures, or restrictions in expressing their creativity and individuality. Saturn’s influence can dim the Sun’s natural brightness, creating self-doubt or a sense of being burdened by responsibilities.

However, this combination also offers tremendous potential for growth. Saturn’s disciplined approach can refine the Sun’s creative energy, leading to mastery in one’s chosen field. Individuals with this placement may learn to overcome their ego-based desires in favor of more meaningful, long-term accomplishments.

The Sun in astrology is often associated with the father or authority figures, while Saturn represents the disciplinarian or strict, karmic parent. In a psychological sense, the Sun relates to how we perceive ourselves, our sense of identity, and the way we seek recognition. Saturn, by contrast, often relates to how we experience authority, restriction, and the limitations imposed upon us by external structures, such as society, family, or karma.

Someone with a strong Sun in their chart may have a healthy sense of self-worth and a positive relationship with father figures, while those with a strong Saturn influence may experience their fathers as stern, distant, or overly demanding.

Saturn’s transits over the natal Sun (or vice versa) are often significant periods of growth, maturity, and responsibility. During such transits, individuals may feel the weight of obligations or restrictions that force them to confront their ego and re-evaluate their goals. While challenging, these transits can lead to profound personal growth, as Saturn teaches the importance of structure, patience, and long-term planning.

In the cosmic play of Vedic astrology, the Sun and Saturn represent two essential yet opposing forces. The Sun’s radiant light signifies individuality, creativity, and self-expression, while Saturn’s cold restraint symbolizes discipline, karma, and endurance. Together, they create a balanced dynamic where the light of the ego is tempered by the lessons of responsibility and humility. Their interplay teaches us to honor both the joy of self-expression and the wisdom gained through life's trials.

[lmk-oc-competition]

LMK OC COMPETITION - ROUND 1

click to see full image

Yangwu Jin belongs to @littlethingsrae

Lady Obsidian belongs to @miccadomini

Learn more about them below the cut!

Yangwu Jin:

Yangwu Jin is the Granddaughter of Sanzuwu, the last Celestial Sun Crow - Jin was given life by Bìxiá Yuanjun (the Goddess of Dawn and Destiny) to one day take over the mantel and ultimately ease the stress on the Goddess' oldest friend.

Jin is enthusiastic and kind-hearted, always regarding others with the grace and patience that comes with being a Celestial. She’s fascinated by those outside of the Celestial sphere and mortal life in general, once you get to know her some of the ‘poise and restrictions’ seem to vanish - she’s naturally curious, talkative and very caring for those she holds dear.

Lady Obsidian:

Name: Lady Obsidiana

Title: The Eternal Matron of Shadows

Background:Lady Obsidiana is a figure of myth and legend, an immortal being whose name is spoken with reverence and awe throughout the realms. Her existence is shrouded in mystery, with few truly knowing the full extent of her powers or the depths of her kindness. Though her magic is rooted in the darkest of arts, she wields it sparingly, aware of the balance between light and shadow. Instead of ruling over the world with her formidable abilities, she has dedicated her life to protecting those most vulnerable—the orphans and abandoned children who find themselves lost in a world that often forgets them. Personality: Lady Obsidiana exudes an aura of elegance and authority, her presence commanding respect without uttering a word. Draped in flowing robes as dark as midnight, she moves with a grace that belies her power. Her eyes, like pools of endless night, reflect both the sorrow of centuries past and the wisdom of ages. Despite the darkness within her, she is a figure of nurturing care, her heart going out to those who have been discarded by society. She is gentle with the children she protects, but her enemies know her to be a force of nature, capable of wielding her magic with terrifying precision. Current Residence:Hidden deep within an enchanted forest, Lady Obsidiana’s sanctuary is a place of refuge and safety. This location is cloaked in powerful magic, making it nearly impossible to find unless she’s allows it. The sanctuary is home to countless children who were abandoned or orphaned, all of whom are cared for by Lady Obsidiana and a select group of trusted individuals. The sanctuary is a place of warmth and light, a stark contrast to the power Lady Obsidiana holds within her.

Friend: Pigsy: Although gruff, Pigsy supplies Seraphina and the sanctuary with food and other necessities, ensuring the children are well-fed and healthy.

Enemy: The Demon Bull King: A former ally turned enemy, the Demon Bull King sought to use Lady Obsidiana’s dark powers for his own conquest. When she refused, a bitter rivalry was born. The Demon Bull King now seeks to destroy her sanctuary, knowing it is the source of her compassion and strength.

Ex-Lover: Sun Wukong (Monkey King): Centuries ago, Lady Obsidiana and Sun Wukong shared a passionate but tumultuous relationship. Their love was powerful, but their paths diverged. Though they parted ways, there is still a lingering connection between them, a mixture of old love and unresolved tension (and bickering).

Current Lover: Macaque: . Their bond is deep, built on a foundation of mutual understanding and shared experiences. Macaque is fiercely protective of Lady Obsidiana and often acts as her eyes and ears in the outside world.

Sibling Figure: Lady Obsidiana and Princess Iron Fan share a sisterly bond. They understand each other’s struggles and burdens, and often confide in one another. Despite their differing alignments, they maintain a deep respect and affection for each other.

Abilities:

Dark Magic Mastery: Lady Obsidiana commands the dark arts with unparalleled skill, capable of casting spells that can warp reality, manipulate shadows, and summon powerful creatures of the night. Immortality: She does not age, and her wounds heal at a rapid pace, making her nearly indestructible. However, she is not invulnerable to pain.

Mind Enchantment: She can influence the thoughts and emotions of others, subtly guiding their actions without them realizing it.

Shadow Travel: Lady Obsidiana can move through shadows, allowing her to appear and disappear at will, traversing great distances in the blink of an eye. Protection Wards: She has woven powerful protective spells around her sanctuary, making it nearly impossible for those with ill intent to find or enter it.

Lady Obsidiana's powers are formidable, but like all beings, she has vulnerabilities that can be exploited. To weaken her, one must understand the sources of her strength and the rare weaknesses that can diminish her abilities.

Slight Weakening: Exposure to Sunlight for Extended Periods: While Lady Obsidiana is not harmed by sunlight, prolonged exposure to direct sunlight can slightly weaken her connection to the shadows and dark magic. Her powers become less potent during daylight hours, especially if she is kept away from shaded areas or places of darkness for an extended time.

Interference with the Sanctuary’s Wards: The protective wards around her sanctuary are a significant source of her strength, drawing on the ancient magic she wove into the land. By subtly disrupting these wards—through powerful counter-spells or rare magical artifacts designed to weaken such protections—her connection to her sanctuary and the source of her powers can be diminished, making her more vulnerable.

Use of Holy or Purifying Objects: Although not severely harmful, the presence of objects blessed with holy or purifying magic can create an uncomfortable aura around her. These objects can disrupt her focus and slightly reduce the potency of her dark spells, forcing her to exert more effort to achieve the same results.

Severe Weakening: Fire Rubies Dipped in Lava: The most effective way to severely weaken Lady Obsidiana is through the use of fire rubies that have been dipped in molten lava. These rare and powerful gems can drain her dark magic, stripping away her abilities and leaving her nearly powerless. Direct contact with such a ruby will cause her immense pain and could even render her unconscious if exposed for too long.

Breaking the Shadow Tether: Lady Obsidiana’s ability to traverse through shadows is linked to a mystical tether that binds her to the Shadow Realm. Severing this tether—through a powerful spell or a unique weapon designed to disrupt shadow magic—would drastically weaken her, preventing her from accessing her full range of abilities and leaving her vulnerable to physical and magical attacks.

Isolation from Darkness: Forcing Lady Obsidiana into a space completely devoid of shadows or darkness, such as a room bathed in pure, unbroken light, can severely diminish her powers. In such a state, she would be unable to draw upon the shadows that fuel her magic, significantly weakening her to the point where she could be subdued by less powerful opponents.

By exploiting these weaknesses, one could reduce Lady Obsidiana's formidable powers, though it would take immense knowledge and preparation to do so. However, even in a weakened state, she remains a dangerous and cunning adversary, not to be underestimated.

[extant-exhaustion]

Can I ask your top 10 fav fics ever (from any fandom, if you don't mind)?

Also, just curious, is there a story behind your name "extant-exhaustion "?

Well, first of all, thank you so much for your patience! I know it took me seven weeks to reply to this Ask! I agonized over my list (also, the holidays happened, which kept me busy). But I finally narrowed it down, so here we go, in no particular order:

My Top 10 Favorite Fanfics

In Another Life by LittleLuxray Haikyuu!! | T+ | 23k | Bokuto/Akaashi | angst, sickfic | It's famous for a reason. Truly one of the best pieces of writing I've ever read, including published works—I've rarely cried so hard or been moved so much.

died in my dreams by MTrash Haikyuu!! | T+ | 10k | Ushijima/Tendou | futuristic/cyberpunk AU, opposites attract, reluctant work partners to friends to lovers | fantastic characterization, really cool conceptually, a story about trauma and healing and finding your person

the weight of water by wordstruck/@redluxite Haikyuu!! | M | 6k | Iwaizumi/Oikawa | angst | Painful, soul-crushing heartbreak, but so, so beautiful. As someone who's experienced loss and grief, this story is visceral and the accompanying art haunts me.

Come and get lost with us by boxofwonder Haikyuu!! | M | 150k | Hinata/Kageyama, Daichi/Sugawara | action/adventure, Medieval AU(?) | unlike anything I've ever read before or since; a really masterful integration of an enormous cast and a plot that unravels with absolutely zero fluff or filler

shimmer in your shine by zenelly/@zenellyraen Hunter x Hunter | T+ | 91k | Leorio/Kurapika, Killua/Gon | American roadtrip AU | This story made me cry over a fist fight between Leorio and Illumi in the parking lot of a Red Lobster in Arkansas.

The Myth of Mankind by MistressEast/@mistresseast Promare | T+ | 63k | Galo/Lio | action/adventure, romance | masterful worldbuilding, kickass fight scenes, intrigue galore, falling in love while preventing mass murder? yes, please

A Second Chance To Say by KazimaKuwabara/@kazimakuwabara Yu Yu Hakusho | M | 92k | Yusuke/Kuwabara, Youko Kurama/Kuronue | action/adventure, hurt/comfort | ft. Kuronue's eternal sass and unwavering friendship, the slow burn of reincarnated already-in-love KuwaMeshi (because Kuwabara doesn't remember it), somewhat menacing levels of intrigue, and Hiei finally winning MVP of emotions on Team Urameshi

Don't Blink or You'll Miss It (Lift Up Your Head) by umisabaku/@umisabaku Kuroko no Basuke | M | 81k | Kagami/Kuroko, Kasamatsu/Kise, Midorima/Takao, Himuro/Murasakibara, Aomine/Momoi | super powers | This story and its accompanying series are so cool and so unique. The characterization is amazing and the worldbuilding is stellar.

neither fish, flesh, nor foam by twoif interactive on Twine Kuroko no Basuke | Kagami/Kuroko | angst, Little Mermaid–esque, interactive storytelling | incredible, but also devastating; a story about how sometimes our doubts can destroy not only ourselves but the good things we build; one of the coolest things I've ever interacted with as a story, a true tour de force

Transient Shadow, True Light by seafoamist/@seafoamist Kuroko no Basuke | M | 322k, WIP | Kagami/Kuroko | angst, hurt/comfort, time travel, historical (Edo Period) | If you talk to me about this story, I will go absolutely feral, because it is my current obsession and the only WIP that is on this list. I'm straight-up insane about its quality and depth. I can't even put this story into words. It knocks the wind out of me.

And lastly, my URL doesn't actually have a story behind it! It's basically just my life, haha. “Extant” is an adjective meaning “ongoing/still in existence” and “exhaustion” is pretty obvious. Essentially, I like alliteration and thought it sounded better than "tired 100% of the time."