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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

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Exodus. Yan Chrollo x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol mention, implied trauma, and panic attacks. Word count: 1.6k.

Tonight commemorates an important milestone.

You don’t know if you’d call this outing a “celebration”, the somberness of your mood presenting a stark contrast to the festive label. Reclaiming authority over your own life shouldn’t have been a necessity in the first place. To take pleasure in having autonomy again feels surreal, invoking a bitterness within you that can never be sated. Nothing serves as a permanent solution in making you feel better. Distractions, all of them, fleeting as the wind that carries you from one city to the next.

The glass in front of you is empty, your throat burning from finishing it off. It’s late -- around midnight, last time you checked -- you should be heading out by now. Staying in one location longer than necessary is unwise. This prepaid card should have just enough to cover your tab for the night, if you’ve been keeping track properly. The man who’s been chatting you up for the past thirty minutes pauses when he sees you reaching for your wallet.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he chuckles, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “My treat?”

It’s a welcome enough invitation. “Ah... if it’s not too much a bother.”

He shakes his head, and waves the bartender over. “It’s the least I could do. You make for a good conversation partner.”

Good conversation partner, you think, repeating his words in your mind. Well, it beats some lecherous guy trying to feel me up. I’ll take it.

“Though, I’ve got to say, are you feeling alright? You look like you��ve been spaced out for a bit. Did you drink too much?” He asks with a frown. It’s true that your head feels hazy, but it’s not debilitating.

“I’ll be fine,” you respond, stretching your sore muscles. “Thank you for caring.”

As more people from nearby clubs pour in for a drink, the bar feels more claustrophobic. Various people walk by you at every moment. You and your friendly companion have to move out of the way to make room for the influx of people, even though you’re sitting on barstools. Can’t people bother giving a bit more space? Geez...

“Alright, just making sure,” he’s been feeling around his pocket for a few seconds now, eyebrows furrowing. “Huh, that’s strange, I could’ve sworn I left my wallet right here...”

You look at the pocket he’s referring to, recalling how he put his wallet in there after ordering drinks for himself earlier. Before you get the opportunity to offer to help him search, there’s an additional voice behind you. One that instantly submerges your body into a state of unrivaled panic.

“I’ll pay for them.”

There’s a hand placed on your shoulder. For such a light touch, it carries a heavy weight, your body all but crumbling underneath of it. Your breath catches in the back of your tightening throat. This... this can’t be happening. It’s been months. How is this possible, I took every precaution--

“Isn’t that right, [First]?” Chrollo comes into your view, a content smile on his face. The same smile that tells you he knows he’s won. The same smile that seals your fate, closing every door to the future you fought tooth and nail to open up. You don’t trust your voice, not in this petrified state, opting to nod your head once. Wrapping up some unsuspecting stranger in this is the last thing you want to do. Especially as courteous as this person has been to you.

“Ah, thanks man, I must’ve dropped it somewhere,” he lets out an awkward laugh. From how Chrollo is referring to you with familiarity, he assume he’s your boyfriend. “I’ll head out for now then. It was nice meeting you.”

“Y-yeah. Nice meeting you too.” You swallow bile that rises in your throat, every muscle in your body going taut. Chrollo takes the seat the stranger had once occupied and eyes you with acute interest. He’s wearing far more casual clothes than usual, bandages covering the peculiar mark on his head. Neither of you make a move. Had it been anyone else, any other person threatening you without so much as uttering a word, you’d be making a scene.

It isn’t anyone else. You know Chrollo, you know the lengths he’d go to. One wrong move and everyone in here would be reduced to nothing less than a bloodstain on the floor. Playing your cards right is the only option, stalling until a better solution comes into your paralyzed mind. His dark grey eyes are unreadable, piercing straight through you, bringing a sense of dread like no other.

Your hands tighten on your lap, fingernails digging into the skin of your thighs. “How... how long...?”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow at your quivering voice. “How long what? How long ago I knew the body wasn’t yours, that you’ve been using various forms of false identification, or since I entered this bar?”

He returns your poorly executed question with a barrage of his own, delivered in an even timbre. Chrollo takes a sip from his own glass at your silence. What is there to say? What is there to do? You’ve been caught, trapped in the spider’s web, any forms of struggle fastening you further into his clutches. Squirming underneath his unrelenting stare feels even worse, but you can’t will yourself to remain calm. You know this is what he wants. To make you feel powerless, taking some form of twisted pleasure in your misery. There’d be a tiniest touch of satisfaction in denying him that, yet you can’t even manage that much.

“I wanted to observe what you’d do, what lengths you’d go to,” Chrollo explains as he taps the rim of his glass, “Now that you’ve had your fun, I believe it’s time to come home.”

Fun...? Is that what he’d call it? Having to look over your shoulder whenever you went out for basic supplies, the insomnia that haunted you as you feared you might wake to the sight of him watching over you, cutting off contact with everyone you cared for as you feared the repercussions if he found out? There was no fun in the last few miserable months of your life, only anxiety and lament. It took everything you had to escape from Chrollo once. Seeing the light of that victory extinguished is agonizing.

Chrollo places a smothering hand atop your shaking one. “Though, I do have to admit that I’m quite... disappointed, with you. There’ll be time to discuss that elsewhere.”

“What makes you think I’ll come with you?” you snap before you can stop yourself, pulling your hand to your chest in disgust. Chrollo doesn’t bother moving his hand. You both know your lack of power in this situation, how every act like that is nothing but an attempt to make you appear stronger than you are. Never before has his surname felt more fitting than now.

“The same reason why you haven’t tried doing anything since I showed up,” Chrollo closes his eyes, reflecting. His voice drops to a sinister whisper. “You know what’d happen if you did.”

There are no hidden strategies up your sleeve. No escape route, counter argument, or clever tricks. Your eyes dart around. There are people from every walk of life gathered here, none the wiser to the threat that looms over like a shadow in the night. College students, long time friends reconnecting, workers relaxing after a long week at the job. To Chrollo, they aren’t meaningful people with lives and ambitions, they’re puppets. His Nen is capable of horrors that you wish you could unsee.

“In that case... what do I do?” Your body is heavy with the burden of defeat. Shoulders slumping, eyelids drooping, and eyes threatening to overflow with tears.

Chrollo places some bills onto the countertop, money no doubt gained through the pain of others. “I’m glad you asked. There’s a car outside waiting for us.”

Of course. This wasn’t a chance encounter, or fate spitting at you in disgust. It was meticulously planned and executed by a man who specializes in the art of thievery. You’d expect no less. Sighing, you reach for Chrollo’s drink, that he had sit down in favor of inspecting you. He watches wordlessly as you take it for yourself, chugging the remnants in its entirety. The flush on your face worsens at your actions, but you can’t bother yourself to care.

It’s only when you place it down with a clink that he comments. “I leave you to your own devices for this short a time and you end up like this? Surely, being with me was better than jumping motel to motel for months on end. You’ve proven you’re incapable of taking care of yourself without my intervention.”

“It’s because of you that I’m like this,” you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, venom dripping from your every word. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Chrollo simply smiles, standing and motioning for you to join him by his side. For something that’s posed as a choice, it’s lacking the options to truly be one, a single path set ahead of you. Chrollo helps you to your feet, your legs too unstable to function properly. In the moment, you can’t settle on how you feel. Angry with yourself? The rest of the world for not being able to see what’s happening? Exhausted from months of being on the run? You don’t know. You don’t know anything anymore for certain, the room around you steadily becoming a blur. All you know is that it’s all his fault.

“Whatever helps you feel better about yourself, [First].”

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araitsume · 3 years

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The Acts of the Apostles, pp. 399-418: Chapter (38) Paul a Prisoner

This chapter is based on Acts 21:17-40; 22; 23:1-35.

When we were come to Jerusalem, the brethren received us gladly. And the day following Paul went in with us unto James; and all the elders were present.”

On this occasion, Paul and his companions formally presented to the leaders of the work at Jerusalem the contributions forwarded by the Gentile churches for the support of the poor among their Jewish brethren. The gathering of these contributions had cost the apostle and his fellow workers much time, anxious thought, and wearisome labor. The sum, which far exceeded the expectations of the elders at Jerusalem, represented many sacrifices and even severe privations on the part of the Gentile believers.

These freewill offerings betokened the loyalty of the Gentile converts to the organized work of God throughout the world and should have been received by all with grateful acknowledgment, yet it was apparent to Paul and his companions that even among those before whom they now stood were some who were unable to appreciate the spirit of brotherly love that had prompted the gifts.

In the earlier years of the gospel work among the Gentiles some of the leading brethren at Jerusalem, clinging to former prejudices and habits of thought, had not co-operated heartily with Paul and his associates. In their anxiety to preserve a few meaningless forms and ceremonies, they had lost sight of the blessing that would come to them and to the cause they loved, through an effort to unite in one all parts of the Lord's work. Although desirous of safeguarding the best interests of the Christian church, they had failed to keep step with the advancing providences of God, and in their human wisdom attempted to throw about workers many unnecessary restrictions. Thus there arose a group of men who were unacquainted personally with the changing circumstances and peculiar needs met by laborers in distant fields, yet who insisted that they had the authority to direct their brethren in these fields to follow certain specified methods of labor. They felt as if the work of preaching the gospel should be carried forward in harmony with their opinions.

Several years had passed since the brethren in Jerusalem, with representatives from other leading churches, gave careful consideration to the perplexing questions that had arisen over methods followed by those who were laboring for the Gentiles. As a result of this council, the brethren had united in making definite recommendations to the churches concerning certain rites and customs, including circumcision. It was at this general council that the brethren had also united in commending to the Christian churches Barnabas and Paul as laborers worthy of the full confidence of every believer.

Among those present at this meeting, were some who had severely criticized the methods of labor followed by the apostles upon whom rested the chief burden of carrying the gospel to the Gentile world. But during the council their views of God's purpose had broadened, and they had united with their brethren in making wise decisions which made possible the unification of the entire body of believers.

Afterward, when it became apparent that the converts among the Gentiles were increasing rapidly, there were a few of the leading brethren at Jerusalem who began to cherish anew their former prejudices against the methods of Paul and his associates. These prejudices strengthened with the passing of the years, until some of the leaders determined that the work of preaching the gospel must henceforth be conducted in accordance with their own ideas. If Paul would conform his methods to certain policies which they advocated they would acknowledge and sustain his work; otherwise they could no longer look upon it with favor or grant it their support.

These men had lost sight of the fact that God is the teacher of His people; that every worker in His cause is to obtain an individual experience in following the divine Leader, not looking to man for direct guidance; that His workers are to be molded and fashioned, not after man's ideas, but after the similitude of the divine.

In his ministry the apostle Paul had taught the people “not with enticing words of man's wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power.” The truths that he proclaimed had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit, “for the Spirit searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God. For what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him? even so the things of God knoweth no man, but the Spirit of God.... Which things,” declared Paul, “we speak, not in the words which man's wisdom teacheth, but which the Holy Ghost teacheth; comparing spiritual things with spiritual.” 1 Corinthians 2:4, 10-13.

Throughout his ministry, Paul had looked to God for direct guidance. At the same time, he had been very careful to labor in harmony with the decisions of the general council at Jerusalem, and as a result the churches were “established in the faith, and increased in number daily.” Acts 16:5. And now, notwithstanding the lack of sympathy shown him by some, he found comfort in the consciousness that he had done his duty in encouraging in his converts a spirit of loyalty, generosity, and brotherly love, as revealed on this occasion in the liberal contributions which he was enabled to place before the Jewish elders.

After the presentation of the gifts, Paul “declared particularly what things God had wrought among the Gentiles by his ministry.” This recital of facts brought to the hearts of all, even of those who had been doubting, the conviction that the blessing of heaven had accompanied his labors. “When they heard it, they glorified the Lord.” They felt that the methods of labor pursued by the apostle bore the signet of Heaven. The liberal contributions lying before them added weight to the testimony of the apostle concerning the faithfulness of the new churches established among the Gentiles. The men who, while numbered among those who were in charge of the work at Jerusalem, had urged that arbitrary measures of control be adopted, saw Paul's ministry in a new light and were convinced that their own course had been wrong, that they had been held in bondage by Jewish customs and traditions, and that the work of the gospel had been greatly hindered by their failure to recognize that the wall of partition between Jew and Gentile had been broken down by the death of Christ.

This was the golden opportunity for all the leading brethren to confess frankly that God had wrought through Paul, and that at times they had erred in permitting the reports of his enemies to arouse their jealousy and prejudice. But instead of uniting in an effort to do justice to the one who had been injured, they gave him counsel which showed that they still cherished a feeling that Paul should be held largely responsible for the existing prejudice. They did not stand nobly in his defense, endeavoring to show the disaffected ones where they were wrong, but sought to effect a compromise by counseling him to pursue a course which in their opinion would remove all cause for misapprehension.

“Thou seest, brother,” they said, in response to his testimony, “how many thousands of Jews there are which believe; and they are all zealous of the law: and they are informed of thee, that thou teachest all the Jews which are among the Gentiles to forsake Moses, saying that they ought not to circumcise their children, neither to walk after the customs. What is it therefore? the multitude must needs come together: for they will hear that thou art come. Do therefore this that we say to thee: We have four men which have a vow on them; them take, and purify thyself with them, and be at charges with them, that they may shave their heads: and all may know that those things, whereof they were informed concerning thee, are nothing; but that thou thyself also walkest orderly, and keepest the law. As touching the Gentiles which believe, we have written and concluded that they observe no such thing, save only that they keep themselves from things offered to idols, and from blood, and from strangled, and from fornication.”

The brethren hoped that Paul, by following the course suggested, might give a decisive contradiction to the false reports concerning him. They assured him that the decision of the former council concerning the Gentile converts and the ceremonial law, still held good. But the advice now given was not consistent with that decision. The Spirit of God did not prompt this instruction; it was the fruit of cowardice. The leaders of the church in Jerusalem knew that by non-conformity to the ceremonial law, Christians would bring upon themselves the hatred of the Jews and expose themselves to persecution. The Sanhedrin was doing its utmost to hinder the progress of the gospel. Men were chosen by this body to follow up the apostles, especially Paul, and in every possible way to oppose their work. Should the believers in Christ be condemned before the Sanhedrin as breakers of the law, they would suffer swift and severe punishment as apostates from the Jewish faith.

Many of the Jews who had accepted the gospel still cherished a regard for the ceremonial law and were only too willing to make unwise concessions, hoping thus to gain the confidence of their countrymen, to remove their prejudice, and to win them to faith in Christ as the world's Redeemer. Paul realized that so long as many of the leading members of the church at Jerusalem should continue to cherish prejudice against him, they would work constantly to counteract his influence. He felt that if by any reasonable concession he could win them to the truth he would remove a great obstacle to the success of the gospel in other places. But he was not authorized of God to concede as much as they asked.

When we think of Paul's great desire to be in harmony with his brethren, his tenderness toward the weak in the faith, his reverence for the apostles who had been with Christ, and for James, the brother of the Lord, and his purpose to become all things to all men so far as he could without sacrificing principle—when we think of all this, it is less surprising that he was constrained to deviate from the firm, decided course that he had hitherto followed. But instead of accomplishing the desired object, his efforts for conciliation only precipitated the crisis, hastened his predicted sufferings, and resulted in separating him from his brethren, depriving the church of one of its strongest pillars, and bringing sorrow to Christian hearts in every land.

On the following day Paul began to carry out the counsel of the elders. The four men who were under the Nazarite vow (Numbers 6), the term of which had nearly expired, were taken by Paul into the temple, “to signify the accomplishment of the days of purification, until that an offering should be offered for every one of them.” Certain costly sacrifices for purification were yet to be offered.

Those who advised Paul to take this step had not fully considered the great peril to which he would thus be exposed. At this season, Jerusalem was filled with worshipers from many lands. As, in fulfillment of the commission given him by God, Paul had borne the gospel to the Gentiles, he had visited many of the world's largest cities, and he was well known to thousands who from foreign parts had come to Jerusalem to attend the feast. Among these were men whose hearts were filled with bitter hatred for Paul, and for him to enter the temple on a public occasion was to risk his life. For several days he passed in and out among the worshipers, apparently unnoticed; but before the close of the specified period, as he was talking with a priest concerning the sacrifices to be offered, he was recognized by some of the Jews from Asia.

With the fury of demons they rushed upon him, crying, “Men of Israel, help: This is the man, that teacheth all men everywhere against the people, and the law, and this place.” And as the people responded to the call for help, another accusation was added—“and further brought Greeks also into the temple, and hath polluted this holy place.”

By the Jewish law it was a crime punishable with death for an uncircumcised person to enter the inner courts of the sacred edifice. Paul had been seen in the city in company with Trophimus, an Ephesian, and it was conjectured that he had brought him into the temple. This he had not done; and being himself a Jew, his act in entering the temple was no violation of the law. But though the charge was wholly false, it served to arouse the popular prejudice. As the cry was taken up and borne through the temple courts, the throngs gathered there were thrown into wild excitement. The news quickly spread through Jerusalem, “and all the city was moved, and the people ran together.”

That an apostate from Israel should presume to profane the temple at the very time when thousands had come there from all parts of the world to worship, excited the fiercest passions of the mob. “They took Paul, and drew him out of the temple: and forthwith the doors were shut.”

“As they went about to kill him, tidings came unto the chief captain of the band, that all Jerusalem was in an uproar.” Claudius Lysias well knew the turbulent elements with which he had to deal, and he “immediately took soldiers and centurions, and ran down unto them: and when they saw the chief captain and the soldiers, they left beating of Paul.” Ignorant of the cause of the tumult, but seeing that the rage of the multitude was directed against Paul, the Roman captain concluded that he must be a certain Egyptian rebel of whom he had heard, who had thus far escaped capture. He therefore “took him, and commanded him to be bound with two chains; and demanded who he was, and what he had done.” At once many voices were raised in loud and angry accusation; “some cried one thing, some another, among the multitude: and when he could not know the certainty for the tumult, he commanded him to be carried into the castle. And when he came upon the stairs, so it was, that he was borne of the soldiers for the violence of the people. For the multitude of the people followed after, crying, Away with him.”

In the midst of the tumult the apostle was calm and self-possessed. His mind was stayed upon God, and he knew that angels of heaven were about him. He felt unwilling to leave the temple without making an effort to set the truth before his countrymen. As he was about to be led into the castle he said to the chief captain, “May I speak unto thee?” Lysias responded, “Canst thou speak Greek? Art not thou that Egyptian, which before these days madest an uproar, and leddest out into the wilderness four thousand men that were murderers?” In reply Paul said, “I am a man which am a Jew of Tarsus, a city in Cilicia, a citizen of no mean city: and, I beseech thee, suffer me to speak unto the people.”

The request was granted, and “Paul stood on the stairs, and beckoned with the hand unto the people.” The gesture attracted their attention, while his bearing commanded respect. “And when there was made a great silence, he spake unto them in the Hebrew tongue, saying, Men, brethren, and fathers, hear ye my defense which I make now unto you.” At the sound of the familiar Hebrew words, “they kept the more silence,” and in the universal hush he continued:

“I am verily a man which am a Jew, born in Tarsus, a city in Cilicia, yet brought up in this city at the feet of Gamaliel, and taught according to the perfect manner of the law of the fathers, and was zealous toward God, as ye all are this day.” None could deny the apostle's statements, as the facts that he referred to were well known to many who were still living in Jerusalem. He then spoke of his former zeal in persecuting the disciples of Christ, even unto death; and he narrated the circumstances of his conversion, telling his hearers how his own proud heart had been led to bow to the crucified Nazarene. Had he attempted to enter into argument with his opponents, they would have stubbornly refused to listen to his words; but the relation of his experience was attended with a convincing power that for the time seemed to soften and subdue their hearts.

He then endeavored to show that his work among the Gentiles had not been entered upon from choice. He had desired to labor for his own nation; but in that very temple the voice of God had spoken to him in holy vision, directing his course “far hence unto the Gentiles.”

Hitherto the people had listened with close attention, but when Paul reached the point in his history where he was appointed Christ's ambassador to the Gentiles, their fury broke forth anew. Accustomed to look upon themselves as the only people favored by God, they were unwilling to permit the despised Gentiles to share the privileges which had hitherto been regarded as exclusively their own. Lifting their voices above the voice of the speaker, they cried, “Away with such a fellow from the earth: for it is not fit that he should live.”

“As they cried out, and cast off their clothes, and threw dust into the air, the chief captain commanded him to be brought into the castle, and bade that he should be examined by scourging; that he might know wherefore they cried so against him.

“And as they bound him with thongs, Paul said unto the centurion that stood by, Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Roman, and uncondemned? When the centurion heard that, he went and told the chief captain, saying, Take heed what thou doest: for this man is a Roman. Then the chief captain came, and said unto him, Tell me, art thou a Roman? He said, Yea. And the chief captain answered, With a great sum obtained I this freedom. And Paul said, But I was freeborn. Then straightway they departed from him which should have examined him: and the chief captain also was afraid, after he knew that he was a Roman, and because he had bound him.

“On the morrow, because he would have known the certainty wherefore he was accused of the Jews, he loosed him from his bands, and commanded the chief priests and all their council to appear, and brought Paul down, and set him before them.”

The apostle was now to be tried by the same tribunal of which he himself had been a member before his conversion. As he stood before the Jewish rulers, his bearing was calm, and his countenance revealed the peace of Christ. “Earnestly beholding the council,” he said, “Men and brethren, I have lived in all good conscience before God until this day.” Upon hearing these words, their hatred was kindled afresh; “and the high priest Ananias commanded them that stood by him to smite him on the mouth.” At this inhuman command, Paul exclaimed, “God shall smite thee, thou whited wall: for sittest thou to judge me after the law, and commandest me to be smitten contrary to the law?” “They that stood by said, Revilest thou God's high priest?” With his usual courtesy Paul answered, “I wist not, brethren, that he was the high priest: for it is written, Thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of thy people.

“But when Paul perceived that the one part were Sadducees, and the other Pharisees, he cried out in the council, Men and brethren, I am a Pharisee, the son of a Pharisee: of the hope and resurrection of the dead I am called in question.

“And when he had so said, there arose a dissension between the Pharisees and the Sadducees: and the multitude was divided. For the Sadducees say that there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit: but the Pharisees confess both.” The two parties began to dispute between themselves, and thus the strength of their opposition against Paul was broken. “The scribes that were of the Pharisees’ part arose, and strove, saying, We find no evil in this man: but if a spirit or an angel hath spoken to him, let us not fight against God.”

In the confusion that followed, the Sadducees were eagerly striving to gain possession of the apostle, that they might put him to death; and the Pharisees were as eager in striving to protect him. “The chief captain, fearing lest Paul should have been pulled in pieces of them, commanded the soldiers to go down, and to take him by force from among them, and to bring him into the castle.”

Later, while reflecting on the trying experiences of the day, Paul began to fear that his course might not have been pleasing to God. Could it be that he had made a mistake after all in visiting Jerusalem? Had his great desire to be in union with his brethren led to this disastrous result?

The position which the Jews as God's professed people occupied before an unbelieving world, caused the apostle intense anguish of spirit. How would those heathen officers look upon them?—claiming to be worshipers of Jehovah, and assuming sacred office, yet giving themselves up to the control of blind, unreasoning anger, seeking to destroy even their brethren who dared to differ with them in religious faith, and turning their most solemn deliberative council into a scene of strife and wild confusion. Paul felt that the name of his God had suffered reproach in the eyes of the heathen.

And now he was in prison, and he knew that his enemies, in their desperate malice, would resort to any means to put him to death. Could it be that his work for the churches was ended and that ravening wolves were to enter in now? The cause of Christ was very near to Paul's heart, and with deep anxiety he thought of the perils of the scattered churches, exposed as they were to the persecutions of just such men as he had encountered in the Sanhedrin council. In distress and discouragement he wept and prayed.

In this dark hour the Lord was not unmindful of His servant. He had guarded him from the murderous throng in the temple courts; He had been with him before the Sanhedrin council; He was with him in the fortress; and He revealed Himself to His faithful witness in response to the earnest prayers of the apostle for guidance. “The night following the Lord stood by him, and said, Be of good cheer, Paul: for as thou hast testified of Me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness also at Rome.”

Paul had long looked forward to visiting Rome; he greatly desired to witness for Christ there, but had felt that his purposes were frustrated by the enmity of the Jews. He little thought, even now, that it would be as a prisoner that he would go.

While the Lord encouraged His servant, Paul's enemies were eagerly plotting his destruction. “And when it was day, certain of the Jews banded together, and bound themselves under a curse, saying that they would neither eat nor drink till they had killed Paul. And they were more than forty which had made this conspiracy.” Here was a fast such as the Lord through Isaiah had condemned—a fast “for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of wickedness.” Isaiah 58:4.

The conspirators “came to the chief priests and elders, and said, We have bound ourselves under a great curse, that we will eat nothing until we have slain Paul. Now therefore ye with the council signify to the chief captain that he bring him down unto you tomorrow, as though ye would inquire something more perfectly concerning him: and we, or ever he come near, are ready to kill him.”

Instead of rebuking this cruel scheme, the priests and rulers eagerly agreed to it. Paul had spoken the truth when he compared Ananias to a whited sepulcher.

But God interposed to save the life of His servant. Paul's sister's son, hearing of the “lying in wait” of the assassins, “went and entered into the castle, and told Paul. Then Paul called one of the centurions unto him, and said, Bring this young man unto the chief captain: for he hath a certain thing to tell him. So he took him, and brought him to the chief captain, and said, Paul the prisoner called me unto him, and prayed me to bring this young man unto thee, who hath something to say unto thee.”

Claudius Lysias received the youth kindly, and taking him aside, asked, “What is that thou hast to tell me?” The youth replied: “The Jews have agreed to desire thee that thou wouldest bring down Paul tomorrow into the council, as though they would inquire somewhat of him more perfectly. But do not thou yield unto them: for there lie in wait for him of them more than forty men, which have bound themselves with an oath, that they will neither eat nor drink till they have killed him: and now are they ready, looking for a promise from thee.”

“The chief captain then let the young man depart, and charged him, See thou tell no man that thou hast showed these things to me.”

Lysias at once decided to transfer Paul from his jurisdiction to that of Felix the procurator. As a people, the Jews were in a state of excitement and irritation, and tumults were of frequent occurrence. The continued presence of the apostle in Jerusalem might lead to consequences dangerous to the city and even to the commandant himself. He therefore “called unto him two centurions, saying, Make ready two hundred soldiers to go to Caesarea, and horsemen threescore and ten, and spearmen two hundred, at the third hour of the night; and provide them beasts, that they may set Paul on, and bring him safe unto Felix the governor.”

No time was to be lost in sending Paul away. “The soldiers, as it was commanded them, took Paul, and brought him by night to Antipatris.” From that place the horsemen went on with the prisoner to Caesarea, while the four hundred soldiers returned to Jerusalem.

The officer in charge of the detachment delivered his prisoner to Felix, also presenting a letter with which he had been entrusted by the chief captain:

“Claudius Lysias unto the most excellent governor Felix sendeth greeting. This man was taken of the Jews, and should have been killed of them: then came I with an army, and rescued him, having understood that he was a Roman. And when I would have known the cause wherefore they accused him, I brought him forth into their council: whom I perceived to be accused of questions of their law, but to have nothing laid to his charge worthy of death or of bonds. And when it was told me how that the Jews laid wait for the man, I sent straightway to thee, and gave commandment to his accusers also to say before thee what they had against him. Farewell.”

After reading the communication, Felix inquired to what province the prisoner belonged, and being informed that he was of Cilicia, said: “I will hear thee ... when thine accusers are also come. And he commanded him to be kept in Herod's judgment hall.”

The case of Paul was not the first in which a servant of God had found among the heathen an asylum from the malice of the professed people of Jehovah. In their rage against Paul the Jews had added another crime to the dark catalogue which marked the history of that people. They had still further hardened their hearts against the truth and had rendered their doom more certain.

Few realize the full meaning of the words that Christ spoke when, in the synagogue at Nazareth, He announced Himself as the Anointed One. He declared His mission to comfort, bless, and save the sorrowing and the sinful; and then, seeing that pride and unbelief controlled the hearts of His hearers, He reminded them that in time past God had turned away from His chosen people because of their unbelief and rebellion, and had manifested Himself to those in heathen lands who had not rejected the light of heaven. The widow of Sarepta and Naaman the Syrian had lived up to all the light they had; hence they were accounted more righteous than God's chosen people who had backslidden from Him and had sacrificed principle to convenience and worldly honor.

Christ told the Jews at Nazareth a fearful truth when He declared that with backsliding Israel there was no safety for the faithful messenger of God. They would not know his worth or appreciate his labors. While the Jewish leaders professed to have great zeal for the honor of God and the good of Israel, they were enemies of both. By precept and example they were leading the people farther and farther from obedience to God—leading them where He could not be their defense in the day of trouble.

The Saviour's words of reproof to the men of Nazareth applied, in the case of Paul, not only to the unbelieving Jews, but to his own brethren in the faith. Had the leaders in the church fully surrendered their feeling of bitterness toward the apostle, and accepted him as one specially called of God to bear the gospel to the Gentiles, the Lord would have spared him to them. God had not ordained that Paul's labors should so soon end, but He did not work a miracle to counteract the train of circumstances to which the course of the leaders in the church at Jerusalem had given rise.

The same spirit is still leading to the same results. A neglect to appreciate and improve the provisions of divine grace has deprived the church of many a blessing. How often would the Lord have prolonged the work of some faithful minister, had his labors been appreciated! But if the church permits the enemy of souls to pervert the understanding, so that they misrepresent and misinterpret the words and acts of the servant of Christ; if they allow themselves to stand in his way and hinder his usefulness, the Lord sometimes removes from them the blessing which He gave.

Satan is constantly working through his agents to dishearten and destroy those whom God has chosen to accomplish a great and good work. They may be ready to sacrifice even life itself for the advancement of the cause of Christ, yet the great deceiver will suggest to their brethren doubts concerning them which, if entertained, would undermine confidence in their integrity of character, and thus cripple their usefulness. Too often he succeeds in bringing upon them, through their own brethren, such sorrow of heart that God graciously interposes to give His persecuted servants rest. After the hands are folded upon the pulseless breast, when the voice of warning and encouragement is silent, then the obdurate may be aroused to see and prize the blessings they have cast from them. Their death may accomplish that which their life has failed to do.

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ibijau · 4 years

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Burn it down AU // on AO3 // extras on AO3

Having found (nearly) every part of Nie Mingjue’s body, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian return to the Cloud Recesses with a guest, and find they were expected.

It took several weeks for Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian to return to the Cloud Recesses with Nie Mingjue's body. Their goal aside, it had not been an entirely unpleasant journey. At least, not until they had picked up an undesirable guest who had made the last couple of weeks rather harrowing.

Even with that man bound and trailing behind them on a donkey, Lan Wangji was in a good mood. He had missed home, and he had missed A-Yuan immensely. Besides, Wei Wuxian was feeling joyful, and some of that always transferred to him.

"Should I hide it?" Wei Wuxian asked as they walked the path to the gate, smiling at the jar of Emperor's Smile that Lan Wangji had bought him. "It's still forbidden, right?"

"Hm."

"And I'm probably too young to drink. Lan Zhan, aren't you ashamed, letting a child drink?"

"Wei Ying would drink anyway. This way, I know how much."

Wei Wuxian laughed without restraint. Still, when they reached the gate, he prudently hid the jar in his sleeve and at least pretended to look innocent. It was as believable as when he had truly been fifteen, but since he now had Lan Wangji vouching for him, nobody could call him out on it.

"Has Sect Leader returned?" Lan Wangji asked the man guarding the gate.

"Just last week. After that Night Hunt with sect Leader Jin, him and your husband went to Qinghe to deal with some trouble, but they're both here now. Should I go fetch them?"

"Hm. Warn him we bring a dangerous prisoner. Have a cell prepared. Bring strong people to guard him. He must be contained right away."

The man shot a look at their prisoner, but did not appear to recognise him. He bowed to Lan Wangji and quickly went away.

"It's good that Nie-xiong is here as well," Wei Wuxian whispered. "He has a lot to explain, doesn't he?"

"Hm."

"Of course, I'm sure there's a good reason," Wei Wuxian added, always careful to avoid saying too much against Nie Huaisang. "Still, it was very peculiar, that building we found. And it's not as if he doesn't have a history of keeping secrets, eh?"

"Hm." Lan Wangji glanced behind at their prisoner. He knew too much already, there was no need to let him hear more. If he could sense any unrest between them, he would use it. "We will talk when the time is right."

Either guessing at the cause of his uneasiness or unwilling to attack Lan Wangji's husband, Wei Wuxian did not insist. They waited in silence for a while, until at last Lan Xichen arrived with Nie Huaisang and a few trustworthy disciples trailing behind him.

Lan Xichen stopped on his tracks at the sight of their prisoner, blood draining from his face, but he quickly recovered and gave some quick orders regarding the security of the cell being prepared.

"I thought Xue Yang was dead?" Lan Xichen asked, watching him be taken away.

"You can't count on people to stay dead these days," Wei Wuxian replied with a smirk, glancing at Nie Huaisang who ignored him, too focused on watching Xue Yang until the path inside the Cloud Recesses took a turn and hid him.

Since it was only the four of them and the guard on duty, Lan Wangji feared for a moment that Nie Huaisang would let his emotion explode again at finding out Jin Guangyao had lied about one more thing. Instead his husband remained somewhat calm, his expression turning sad and resigned. In the end, Lan Wangji might have preferred rage.

"Where did you find him?" Nie Huaisang asked.

"Hiding in a small town, playing house with someone," Wei Wuxian replied. "We were lucky to find him when we did, the situation was about to go bad."

Lan Wangji nodded. He would have perhaps struggled to fight Xue Yang alone while defending Wei Wuxian, A-Qing and Xiao Xingchen, just as Song Lan alone might have met his match, but Xue Yang never stood a chance against both of them. Meeting Song Lan on the road had been luckier than they had realised when they agreed to travel with him for a while.

"Did you ask him about…" Nie Huaisang started, only to be interrupted by his brother-in-law.

"We can discuss Xue Yang later in the Hanshi," Lan Xichen said with urgency. "At this hour, and with 'Mo gongzi' back, it is unwise to stay here much longer. We need to head back inside quickly."

"Is there a problem, Zewu-Jun?" Wei Wuxian asked. "Have the people from Mo village come with more accusations against Mo Xuanyu while we were gone?"

"They have made their grievance against him known, but not to me," Lan Xichen explained, sharing a look with his brother. "You are not safe outside of the Cloud Recesses, not until certain things are dealt with."

Wei Wuxian's eyebrows arched in surprise, but easily allowed himself to be pulled toward the gates. The air of worry on the three others was enough to convince him to keep his questions for later.

And yet they were not quick enough. Before they could all four step inside the safety of the Cloud Recesses, a voice rang behind them.

"Sect Leader Lan, I see Hanguang-Jun is back at last. How convenient. Now we will be able to set things right, won't we?"

Again the Lan jades exchanged a look. While Lan Wangji struggled to contain a grimace and pushed Wei Wuxian behind himself, Lan Xichen put on a smile to greet Jiang Cheng.

"Sect Leader Jiang is really determined to help us deal with this," Lan Xichen remarked. "I thank you for your interest in this situation, but we have this under control."

Jiang Cheng, who had come with a dozen of his disciples, walked up to them with the same arrogance as if they had been some merchants he could threaten rather than his equals. Wei Wuxian tried to take a peek at the man he once called his brother, but Nie Huaisang placed himself at Lan Wangji's side to keep him out of Jiang Cheng's sight.

"Are you in control of anything when your brother once more ran off with a demonic cultivator?" Jiang Cheng sneered. "I heard he was severely punished for his actions in Nightless City, but it seems some lessons are not so easily learned."

"What about Nightless City?" Wei Wuxian whispered. "Lan Zhan, what did you do there?"

Lan Wangji ignored the question, all his attention on Jiang Cheng in case he planned some underhanded action. Nie Huaisang shot Wei Wuxian a surprised look, but still gestured for him to be silent.

"Sect Leader Jiang, please understand that Mo Xuanyu is only a boy of fifteen," Lan Xichen remarked. "He has already been punished for his deeds in Carp Tower, and we have no reason to believe he ever did any unorthodox cultivation since then, except to protect the people of Mo Village. Would you have him punished for saving lives?"

"Yes, if his actions endangered those lives in the first place. The people of Mo Village made serious accusations, I have to check if they are true. Hand Mo Xuanyu over to me and I'll get the truth out of him."

Lan Wangji shivered at his tone, while Nie Huaisang opened his fan to hide a grimace. Everyone knew the stories about what happened to demonic cultivators that entered the Lotus Piers, and everyone knew they never left again. Jiang Cheng held a grudge like few people could, and he was merciless.

"Mo Xuanyu is under our protection," Lan Wangji stated, not speaking directly to Jiang Cheng who he refused to address in any way, but simply to generally make his position known.

"And the protection of the mighty Hanguang-Jun is a precious commodity for a demonic cultivator," Jiang Cheng sneered. "If he is innocent, what does he have to fear? Can't I at least see your new friend? I hear you have been parading him all over the country, why shouldn't I get a look at him as well?"

They had perhaps been a little careless, Lan Wangji belatedly realised. With how bad things had been in Mo Village, of course it could only have attracted Jiang Cheng's attention. And with everyone knowing how obsessed he was with finding anyone associated in any way with his former brother, with Lan Wangji's own history… They should have been more careful.

Suddenly, Lan Wangji mildly wished that he had not indulged so many of Wei Wuxian's fancies during their travels. There was no close resemblance between Mo Xuanyu and his original body, but now that he was dressed in the fashion he preferred, even tying his hair exactly as he used to do… Jiang Cheng might not guess the exact truth, but one look would be enough to make him think 'Mo Xuanyu' admired Wei Wuxian more than necessary.

"Jiang Wanyin, don't provoke a scandal," Nie Huaisang advised, lowering his fan. "The Lans are taking care of that boy and trying to reform him, isn't that good enough? Or do you have some monopoly on dealing with demonic cultivators? Jiang-xiong, if that's so, you should have told us. Or were we told?" he wondered, looking up at his husband with an expression of absolute innocence. "Wangji, did we all decide that Sect Leader Jiang is in charge of this now? Ah, I should have paid more attention…"

"You should have paid attention for sure," Jiang Cheng spat. "How can you act like your husband hasn't been going all over the country with his new teenage lover? Even you deserve better than that!"

Lan Wangji winced, ever so slightly. He had definitely gone too far in spoiling Wei Wuxian, especially when he knew how fast gossip travelled. He still couldn't regret it. Wei Wuxian deserved to be given everything he wanted, from clothes, to trinkets, to food, and everything in between.

But if he could bear with this new accusation, Wei Wuxian could not. At the word 'lover' he sprang from behind Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang.

"That's taking it too far!" he exclaimed. "Hanguang-Jun is an honorable man, how dare you accuse him of betraying his husband!"

At the sight of a teenager dressed like his late brother, in a posture so like his brother's, Jiang Cheng gaped. A series of emotions displayed on his face before anger won, as it always did, and sparks crackled from Zidian.

"Wei Wuxian!"

Jiang Cheng unleashed Zidian before any of them could react. Wei Wuxian only barely managed to jump out of the way of the first hit, but did so by moving further away from Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang. Just as Lan Wangji unsheathed Bichen to rescue him, Jiang Cheng whipped at Wei Wuxian again, this time hitting him in the waist and making him fall to the ground.

Lan Wangji nearly dropped his sword in horror at the pained cry Wei Wuxian let out. He knew the effect of Zidian on possessed bodies. Everyone knew it. Jiang Cheng had made sure to give plenty of demonstrations, which had both improved and worsened his reputation. For a second Lan Wangji couldn't breathe, couldn't feel his heart beating even at the sight of Wei Wuxian lying on the dirt path.

But to all their surprise, Wei Wuxian then sat up and groaned in pain.

"Well that's rude!" he complained. "I'm just a kid, do you have to be this rough?"

Air found its way back into Lan Wangji's lungs, and relief flooded over him. Apparently the ritual used by Mo Xuanyu did not count as possession then.

One strike from Zidian should have been proof enough that Mo Xuanyu wasn't, strictly speaking, possessed. But Jiang Cheng had not earned his reputation by being a measured and reasonable man. Seeing that his strike had failed, he simply raised his hand again, ready to attack again. This time Lan Wangji reacted fast enough, moving in front of Wei Wuxian's prostrated body and countering the whip with his sword.

"Move," Jiang Cheng ordered.

Lan Wangji did not. If rumours were to be believed, Jiang Cheng had killed Wei Wuxian once already. Lan Wangji would not give him a chance to do it again.

"Oh, this is getting boring," Nie Huaisang sighed, quite loudly. "Listen, it's getting quite late here, do we have to do this now? Only, I have to get back to my inn for dinner and it's a long way to Gusu. Can't we just drop this?"

"Drop it?" Jiang Cheng snapped. "That boy…"

"Cannot have been possessed by Wei Wuxian," Nie Huaisang pointed out with a smirk he quickly hid behind his fan. "Or do you not trust Zidian anymore? As for your worries about my marital situation, I thank you but things are fine. As Mo gongzi said, Hanguang-Jun is too honourable. So, Jiang Wanyin, how about we head back together to Gusu, and maybe dine and drink together?"

"Why would you still stay at an inn now that your husband is back?"

Nie Huaisang laughed, still hidden behind his fan. He glanced first at Lan Wangji, then at Lan Xichen who gave him a concerned look.

"I value decent food and good wine over my husband's company," Nie Huaisang eventually announced. "I'll have both with or without you, Jiang Wanyin, but it's more fun to drink with someone, isn't it ? Come on, it'll be fun!"

Had anyone else spoken so carelessly to Jiang Cheng, they might have gotten a taste of Zidian. But there appeared to still remain some friendship between him and Nie Huaisang. Jiang Cheng called back his wip so it was once more nothing but a showy ring on his finger.

"I'm not done with this," he warned, throwing a disgusted look at Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.

"Of course not," Nie Huaisang agreed, lowering his fan and coming closer to shamelessly grab Jiang Cheng's arm. "But first, we'll have some fun. Oh, you remember that nice inn, the one we always went to? They still do that roasted duck you used to like. Let's go there for dinner, and then we'll find a place to drink. I simply have to tell you that adorable thing Jin Ling did when we were in Carp Tower! When did you last see him? I swear, he just keeps growing so fast, I feel like I'll blink and he'll be an adult. But it's the same with our A-Yuan of course. Ah, children… right?"

Under that verbal onslaught, Jiang Cheng could only nod. Nie Huaisang grinned and started pulling him down the path. He then stopped after a few steps, and turned to Lan Wangji.

"Don't worry, husband, I'll be back in the morning. Ah, I have a lovely idea! What if we had tea with your brother, so you can tell us how you've been doing? And do bring Mo gongzi as well, he is such fun. Er-ge, you don't mind if we do this at your place, right? But the Jingshi has been empty for a long while, I feel your place will be better."

Lan Xichen assured him he had no objections. Satisfied with that answer, Nie Huaisang returned to dragging Jiang Cheng down the mountain, the sound of his blabbering audible long after they had gone from view.

"I guess some things don't change," Wei Wuxian noted, carefully standing up, wincing slightly as he touched his waist. "That's going to leave a bruise. That Jiang Cheng, does he need to be so brutal? I could have been just a kid!"

"Sect Leader Jiang has taken it upon himself to ensure your cultivation method does not spread," Lan Xichen explained. "He seems to feel fear of himself is the best way to stop demonic cultivators. All people need a goal, and this is his. But let's go in, or else it will be dinner time before you two can pick up Lan Yuan from Hou Tianjian. He will be happy to see you, Wangji."

And they would both be happy to see him as well. Wei Wuxian had asked few questions during their journey about the things that had occurred since his death, but he had been extremely eager to be told as much as possible about his son. This, and the occasional inquiries about the events surrounding Nie Mingjue's death, had been the only things to interest him.

And speaking of Nie Mingjue…

"How is Huaisang?" Lan Wangji asked as they finally entered the Cloud Recesses.

"Better. I was able to convince him to let me play Cleansing for him a few times. He was reluctant at first, but… he knows he went too far with Mo Xuanyu, and he's making an effort to get better at last."

That came as a relief. After so many months of watching Nie Huaisang spiral out of control a little more every time they met, Lan Wangji was glad it might finally stop. He wished it could have stopped before a teenager lost his life, but until then he had trusted Nie Huaisang to know what he was doing.

“Nie Huaisang chose to take a room at an inn in Gusu since we returned," Lan Xichen continued. "I told him that he could simply stay in the guest quarters here, but he thought it safer to do it this way. Apparently, you have forbidden him to see A-Yuan?”

“Hm.”

Lan Xichen frowned.

"You know Huaisang would rather die than hurt Lan Yuan,” he scolded. “He has cared for that child nearly as long as you have, you're been needlessly cruel to him. Just let him see his son."

Lan Wangji thought of the legs they found in a building without doors, its walls filled with corpses, with tombs that contained nothing but ancient swords. Most of his early anger against Nie Huaisang had calmed down over those last few weeks, but too many new questions had been raised to simply trust him again until answers were given.

"Brother as well is cruel to Huaisang," he said instead, deflecting the question. "Brother too withholds things from him."

"It's not that simple, Wangji."

"It's not that simple for me either. I will see tomorrow if I can reconsider my decision. For now, I must think of A-Yuan's safety."

"Then think of his disappointment as well," Lan Xichen warned. "He has asked often after you, and about Huaisang as well. He might be angry when you return to him with the wrong father."

Next to Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian flinched at the unkind words, but said nothing.

In the end, Lan Xichen was only partly right in his warnings. When they arrived to Hou Tianjian’s quarters, A-Yuan was disappointed to see his Nie-ge still wasn't there, and he did ask a few times when he would see him again. Yet he ended up just accepting his step-father's absence, just as he always seemed to accept any perceived loss. In a way, Lan Wangji might have preferred anger.

Still, he refused to dwell on such unhappy thoughts. Carrying his son in his arms, the man he loved at his side, Lan Wangji went home, determined to enjoy every last drop of happiness he could before they went to war against Jin Guangyao.

#wangxian #xisang #lan wangji #wei wuxian #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mdzs #burn it down au #I'm neither happy nor unhappy with this #mostly I just realised that it'd be weird if jc stayed completely out of the story considering his... reputation in canon #jau writes

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homespork-review · 5 years

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Homespork Act 1: The Note Dawdling Tension Plays (Part 3)

CHEL: John heads outside, finally, but finds the mailbox empty and the car locked with a package inside. It seems he’ll have to confront his father to get the game he seeks. And then, we get the internet equivalent of a splash page, with ominous wind chimes, slow-pan animation, and lyrical text.

You have a feeling it's going to be a long day.

Regarding the term “ominous”, it applies in ways Hussie intended, implying the strangeness to come, but also in ways he may not have. Notice anything absent from that animation? Go on, guess.

FAILURE ARTIST: John’s neighborhood is more bland than Privet Drive.

CHEL: True, but “character” wasn’t really what I meant. What would one expect to see at least one of, in a nice suburban neighbourhood, even a bland one, in the daytime, when we know John’s dad is home from work, even if through a window? What are we not seeing here?

FAILURE ARTIST: No people and not even any pets.

CHEL: Hot dog, we have a wiener. Not character, characters. There are no signs of life at all. Not even a wild bird. Now, John is the focal character here, so that might come under the heading of unnecessary detail, but considering what happens later, this becomes very creepy. The big dangerous thing has not happened yet, so there should still be people in the neighbourhood, and the sound of wind chimes implies at least one of those houses is inhabited. But we don’t see them. Come to think of it, John never mentions his school at all, nor any other friends apart from the other kids featured in the comic, and nor do they. It’s as if they literally sprang into existence on that day and got plopped down in place just in time to be in the comic.

FAILURE ARTIST: Given that John is home in the middle of what would be a school day I think he might be home-schooled.

CHEL: That didn’t occur to me. I’m a Brit and I guess I was thinking “Easter break”, but the school year pattern in the US is different. But that raises further questions. Doesn’t he know any local kids? His dad works full-time and he has no other family - when does his dad find the time?

FAILURE ARTIST: Maybe it would be Spring Break in Washington State. I don’t know.

CHEL: Regardless, it’s eerie. If he’s home-schooled, he still ought to have some local friends or at least be on wave-hello terms with neighbours, unless he really is stuck in his bedroom almost all the time. I’m tempted to add an ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY point for the implication that John’s been raised locked in a room, but that’s just silly speculation so I won’t.

While on the topic, John does live in a literal suburb, but I’m not going to give points for WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM here. That count is for when the characters’ behaviour comes across as white/suburban/wealthy and that contradicts how the author is trying to present them. John is supposed to be the everyman figure with an ordinary life, living in a regular respectable town.

Let’s move on. It’s time to confront the Parental Figure.

TIER: John finds himself heading to the kitchen to retrieve his game, and it's now that we get a good look at his dad, along with one of the neat little details about Homestuck's world being brought to the forefront.

I am of course, talking about STRIFE!

"[S] John: Enter and Strife!" (Watch on YouTube)

The more or less fighting system for lack of my vocabulary, and seemingly a thing you just do in this world.

CHEL: John gets to actually use his “hammerkind” weapon, and Dad’s preferred method of combat is offering yet more cake.

FAILURE ARTIST: John threatens his father with a hammer. In the real world, this would be horrifying. But it’s not in this video game world. The other Beta Kids have “STRIFE” with their parents and in only one case does it end up as being treated seriously. Yet that will wait to be seen.

CHEL: One case which is significantly less disturbing than one of the other cases, in some ways. But yes, that’s for later. To be fair, John could have been trying to hit the cake with the hammer, not his dad, but most parents still wouldn’t be pleased to have their kids waving hammers in their direction regardless.

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 2

TIER: After a short few rounds, John manages to properly distract his dad and successfully gets to his mail. A winner is you Johnny boy. Then we find ourselves with another hit of sylladex fuckery happening, joyous.

When we get back to John's room, it's pesterlog time, this time with a little sneak peak at the last of our fabulous foursome of thirteen years olds, gardenGnostic, or GG! They're only present for three short lines, but damn if they aren't pretty telling. From what little is seen they're an overall pretty chipper person, and to me at least adorable with those emojis.

CHEL: The beta’s finally in John’s hands, after all that effort to get it. So what do we do now? Why, it seems like a great time to go waste some time reading an entirely different imaginary webcomic promoting Hussie’s other work! Though, to be fair, the Midnight Crew will turn out to be relevant later. Keep that name in mind.

FAILURE ARTIST: The Midnight Crew actually started as the OCs of Problem Sleuth fan Mayonka who paid to have a extra episode.

CHEL: And then, FINALLY, he installs the thing, and it... gives us a loading page, and he goes off to read up on data structures and fuck about with his fucking sylladex some more!

TIER: The sylladex thing really knows how to wear its welcome thin with the shenanigans, thought I'll admit that John getting a razor embedded into the face of one of his posters was amusing in how dangerous the dang thing can be.

GET ON WITH IT!: 3

"Get on with it! (Monty Python)" (Watch on YouTube)

CHEL: Because I’m feeling bitter, I’m adding another point too!

HOW NOT TO WRITE A WEBCOMIC: 5 The Lost Sock - wherein the plot is too slight Here the main conflict is barely adequate to sustain a Partridge Family episode. Remember that this drama has to carry the reader through 300-odd pages. The central dilemma of a novel should be important enough to change someone’s life forever.

Our main plot hasn’t been introduced yet, so as far as the reader knows, what’s happening now is the plot. Getting a video game out of the kitchen should not take this long and is not much of an epic adventure! By now, Hussie’s committed almost all of the sins listed in HNTWAN’s section on beginning a story! NOTHING IS HAPPENING!

Okay, something happens. It’s not plot, but it’s adorable. John opens the birthday present from Dave, to discover a souvenir of his favourite movie; the very stuffed bunny prop featured in Con Air. Look at how happy he is!

TIER: I do believe that up to this point, there hasn't been much of a plot, just people doing stuff. It's boring in the same way that someone telling you about an average day is, not much going on to be honest.

FAILURE ARTIST: I enjoyed reading Act 1 when I first read it but I was coming in under no expectation. Homestuck as a deep meaningful story hadn’t begun yet.

CHEL: Okay, NOW a thing is happening. The game is installed, on comes the loading page, and… Well, that’s peculiar. Now, at last, we see what the big deal with this game is. It permits TT, who installed the “server” section of the game while John installed the “client” section, to reach into his actual bedroom with the cursor and move things around, place bizarre-looking machinery in the rooms, or even add parts to his house a la The Sims. Now that’s a game worth the hype it got! Too bad it took almost 140 pages to actually reveal this.

The kids don’t seem very surprised by all this, yet the reviewer hadn’t heard the game could do that. One would think even such a disaffected dudebro would be curious about that, if he knew. Maybe the game really does have some kind of built-in failsafe to keep adults away?

FAILURE ARTIST: This is a world people have inventories instead of pockets and an RPG battle starts every time you argue with your parents.

CHEL: Does that apply to all people in it, though, or just the lead characters? They are, as it turns out, special already, and we never see a person who’s not involved.

John wants to try moving things around, but he needs the “server” CD-ROM to do so, which is still in the car. TT’s attempts to help result in not only a large machine called a “Cruxtruder” blocking the front door, but also the toilet, which John earlier accidentally filled with cake during sylladex shenanigans, being ripped out and dropped in the yard, and the bathtub similarly ending up in the hallway, which is pretty funny, I admit.

EB: you can see me, right. EB: tell me what is wrong with this picture.

Perhaps sylladex shenanigans could be trimmed without being deleted entirely. SBurb shenanigans, similarly, are funny but might possibly do better to be compressed into fewer pages, but that’s not as big a deal, I think. The shenanigans aren’t entirely TT’s fault; she keeps losing her internet connection due to bad weather. GG’s earlier mention of an explosion near their home implies that things are starting to happen around them, too. Meantime, John finds a sledgehammer, a much better weapon, the implication being he’s going to need one, even if he turns out to be unable to lift it. TT helps him to hit the Cruxtruder with it, and said machine produces a glowing… thing and starts a four-minutes-and-thirteen-seconds countdown. Countdowns are never good in this context.

The glowing thing is a Kernelsprite, which needs to be “prototyped”, so into it goes the harlequin doll, causing it to take on the shape of a harlequin’s head and hand. Attempts to use the mysterious machinery TT has deployed result in the production of a shiny blue cylinder called a cruxite dowel and three green cubes labelled by the game as Perfectly Generic Objects, using up the game’s abstract building currency dubbed Build Grist. Wasting time playing with the machinery proves to be an unwise idea, however, as John looks into the sky and sees…

Even worse than the meteor heading directly for his house, Dad is coming back!

FAILURE ARTIST: THIS is where I came in. It is the most impressive flash animation so far. It is still awkwardly animated compared to later ones.

CHEL: I think it’s one of his earlier efforts, so I wouldn’t say it was bad. It succintly gets the point across and it’s better animated than anything I could do.

John messages TT again.

EB: oh man who cares about the bathroom, now there's a meteor heading for my house!!! TT: I see. TT: Do you suppose it has anything to do with the game? EB: i don't know, maybe! what do i do! TT: I think it's very likely. TT: The walkthroughs vaguely suggest an impending threat before they end. TT: The already poorly constructed sentences become even more curt and ambiguous. TT: As if written hastily and with a sense of alarm. TT: Actually, their dedication to updating the walkthrough under such circumstances is admirable.

TT concludes that if the meteor is caused by the game, succeeding at a game objective must be the way to stop it, and investigates while John talks to TG, resulting in one of my favourite conversations in the comic, but also leading into another count.

EB: we'll talk later if i am still alive and the earth isn't blown up. TG: like the size of texas TG: or just rhode island TG: theyre always throwing around these geographical comparisons to give us a sense of scale like it really means anything to us TG: but its like it doesnt matter its always just like: WOW THATS PRETTY FUCKING BIG TG: like mr president theres a meteor coming sir. oh yeah, how big is it? its the size of texas sir TG: OH SHIT TG: or, how big is it? its the size of new york city sir TG: OH SHIT TG: sir im afraid the comet is the size of your moms dick TG: OH SNAP TG: sir are you familiar with jupiter TG: you mean like the planet? TG: yeah TG: well its that big sir TG: hmm that sounds pretty big TG: i have a question TG: is it jupiter? TG: yes sir, earth is literally under seige by planet fucking jupiter TG: OH SHIT TG: anyway later

I don’t know if TG is supposed to believe John here. If he is, then we get another count:

HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 1

FAILURE ARTIST: Hate to be a killjoy but the line about your mom’s dick is transphobic.

CHEL: My original intention with the PROBLEMATYKKS count was to point out cases where it wasn’t justified by the character saying it, so I wasn't going to count this. Thirteen-year-old boys trying to be witty say all sorts of awful bullshit. Though the writer’s old enough to know better and it didn’t ever get called out, so yeah, okay, I’ll expand the original intention.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 4

The rest of it’s still funny, though. Besides, I was more immediately concerned with the fact that TG seems remarkably unconcerned about the possible risk to his friend’s life. There isn’t really anything he could do about it even if he tried, obviously, but one would expect he’d at least say “oh shit, run!” or something. This will become a recurring pattern in the comic, as will be shown fairly soon, hence the DO NOTHING count.

FAILURE ARTIST: I think that conversation is also from real life. Hussie and a friend talked about meteor movie conventions and Hussie decided to use it. However, I assume during that conversation they weren’t threatened by an actual meteor.

CHEL: Possibly he’d have done better to make it clearer that TG did not believe John actually had a meteor heading for him. John is a known joker, after all. It would be quite easy, and I would have assumed that in a comic which had had fewer unremarked wacky happenings already.

Dad Egbert is also remarkably calm about the bathtub in the hallway. TT’s attempt to move it is foiled when her connection is lost, causing her to drop it in front of John’s bedroom door, trapping him inside. John is now on his own.

#homespork #homestuck #homestuck meta #literary critique #sporking #homestuck reread #homestuck review #homestuck let's read

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wild-oats-and-cornflowers · 5 years

Text

Here is my barricade day 2019 contribution! Everyone else seems to have the Angst And Death angle covered, so I’m going a different way, and bring you 100% guaranteed sadness-free shippy fluff. You know, in case people need an emotional hanky or something :D

Title: Convergence

Summary, as posted on AO3:

“Ordinarily he enjoyed a good walk, but today he found himself wishing that Combeferre lived just a little closer to his own rooms. But cold weather or not, it had become something of a routine with the two of them to visit each other’s rooms on Saturday afternoons, to share books and dinner and conversation, and Combeferre had come to him last week, so it was only fair.

Prouvaire and Combeferre find that they've grown closer than they realized.”

Fic below the cut:

Chapter 1: Prouvaire (There will be a ch. 2, but I need to write it first)

Gray clouds scudded along overhead and a thin, cutting wind went skirling up the street, disturbing the light dusting of snow that lay scattered across the cobblestones. Jean Prouvaire shivered slightly as the breeze snaked a cold tendril down his collar, pulling his coat up more tightly around his neck. Ordinarily he enjoyed a good walk, but today he found himself wishing that Combeferre lived just a little closer to his own rooms. But cold weather or not, it had become something of a routine with the two of them to visit each other’s rooms on Saturday afternoons, to share books and dinner and conversation, and Combeferre had come to him last week, so it was only fair.

Combeferre greeted Prouvaire with a smile and an inquiry as to whether he had read the essay on freedom of the will that Combeferre had recommended last week. He had, and they wrangled pleasantly over the points raised by the article while Combeferre made soup and Prouvaire poked around among the rock and mineral specimens currently taking up much of the surface of Combeferre’s desk. The last time he had been there, the desktop had featured anatomical specimens instead. Although the stones he was now investigating offered significantly less invitation to contemplate the ineffable nature of human mortality, Prouvaire had to admit that they also offered significantly less insult to his nose.

The soup was finished, and they shared it, the conversation turning from philosophical questions to a discussion of the play Combeferre had attended two nights prior. Prouvaire, who had seen it three weeks previously and had been urging his friend to go ever since, was delighted to find several of his own opinions on the plot and acting shared, and almost as delighted to argue about the areas on which they differed.

“Oh!” Combeferre interrupted himself in the middle of explaining to a mildly indignant Prouvaire why he felt that the lead actress had not carried a particular scene as well as she could have done. “I forgot, I found that novel you were interested in. I hadn’t loaned it out after all; it had fallen behind the other books on the shelf.” He hopped up from the table and went over to one of the bookshelves. Prouvaire gathered the dishes and put them in the dishpan---“Thanks,” said Combeferre---took the novel, and sprawled inelegantly and happily on the divan, while Combeferre settled himself in the armchair set at right angles to it and opened a treatise on geology. They had developed a habit, at these times, of alternating reading with conversation. Prouvaire would have found this deeply irritating had anyone else tried it. To be spoken to, intruded on, while deep in a book, was one of his least favorite things. But all the summer and autumn and into the beginning of winter in which they now found themselves, he had gradually begun accepting it from Combeferre alone until now it bothered him not at all. It had long ceased to feel like an intrusion and had become a way in which Prouvaire felt that they communicated the closeness into which they had grown.

The chiming of the clock on the mantle, in a stretch of quiet, startled both of them. December brought the darkness early, and Combeferre had lit the lamp not long after they began to read. They had not noticed the progression of the hours. “Ten o’clock!” said Prouvaire in surprise. “I had not meant to stay so late.”

“These evenings always do go by too soon,” Combeferre said, smiling.

As Prouvaire collected his outerwear, Combeferre went to the window and pulled the curtains open. “Hmm,” he said, peering out into the darkness.

“Hmm?” Prouvaire was trying to remember where he had put his gloves.

“It looks a bit fierce outside.”

Prouvaire discovered the gloves in the pocket of his overcoat and extracted them triumphantly. “Is it snowing?” he said.

“Quite a lot, actually. Look.”

Prouvaire padded over and looked. The lamps were lit in the street below, but there was not much street to be seen. It was thickly covered and sparkling in the lamplight, and the air was filled with whirling whiteness. “Hmm,” Prouvaire said.

“My sentiments exactly.” Combeferre rubbed his chin. “It might be a good idea for you to stay the night here. It does not look very, ah, hospitable outside.” He returned to his chair and picked up his geology treatise again.

“I suppose you are right.” Prouvaire tossed his outer garments in the general direction of the trunk on which he had originally draped them. “Hopefully there will be less weather in the morning, and your bed was certainly big enough for two the last time I stayed over.” The last time he had stayed over, they had both been drinking, and Prouvaire, who tended to be a very affectionate drunk, had wakened the following morning to find himself practically on top of Combeferre, hugging his arm. He chuckled slightly at the memory and glanced over at Combeferre, expecting to find his amusement shared, but Combeferre was staring down at the book in his lap, looking, Prouvaire was surprised to note, vaguely uncomfortable. He made no reply, and after a moment Prouvaire went back to the divan and took up his novel again.

He made a few attempts to resume the intermittent conversation, but Combeferre responded to his sallies only in short phrases and kept his eyes fixed on the page in front of him. Combeferre seems to have grown a bit uneasy, Prouvaire thought. He will not look at me. Why? Aloud he asked, “Is everything all right?” Combeferre jumped slightly. “Yes,” he answered tardily, flushing. That is a lie, Prouvaire thought. But Combeferre never tells lies. He hesitated, then said “Forgive me, but you seem a bit tense. Are you certain it is not a problem for me to stay here tonight?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Combeferre answered. “Why would it be?” But his voice carried a standoffish note that troubled Prouvaire. “Well,” he said. “Only you are twitching a bit, and there is a certain tone in your voice. Have I done or said something to upset you?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about. Read your book.”

Prouvaire felt the sting of the brush-off as if Combeferre had lightly slapped him. Hurt, and wanting real reassurance, he pressed on, despite knowing underneath that it was unwise, “But if I---”

“Let it be,” Combeferre interrupted him brusquely, and his voice this time held a real edge.

A baffled soreness expanded in Prouvaire’s chest. He attempted to return to his novel, but he felt his face burning and knew he would not be able to focus on the story. Abruptly he sat up straight, slapping the covers loudly shut. He got up off the divan and stalked over to the door, where he sat down on the floor and grabbed his boots.

“What are you doing?” demanded Combeferre in a tone of mild alarm.

“I am very sorry,” Prouvaire said stiffly from the floor, “for having offended you, and if you do not wish to discuss it, you are within your rights not to do so, but as I do not wish to upset you any further, I am going home.” He yanked at a boot crossly.

“For heaven’s sake, Prouvaire. You cannot walk home in this weather.”

“I can do a great many things,” Prouvaire informed him, one boot off and one boot on, “and I do not require your permission for any of them. Anyway, there may be a fiacre or so that I can hire.”

“It is vanishingly unlikely that there will be such…” Combeferre began, then sighed. He rose and came a few paces towards Prouvaire, then stopped. “I assure you,” he said, “that you have done nothing wrong. It is only…something I was thinking of for a moment, that caused me to be sharp. I should not have snapped at you. I am sorry.”

Combeferre looked both anxious and genuinely penitent. Prouvaire felt all at once extraordinarily affectionate towards him, and also slightly embarrassed about his outburst. “Oh, well,” he mumbled, tugging at the heel of his boot. “If you are quite sure it’s all right?”

“Yes, quite. Please don’t go running out into the snow on my behalf.” The corner of Combeferre’s mouth quirked upwards slightly in a way Prouvaire had seen dozens of times but which he suddenly found extremely charming. He smiled fondly up at his friend and said, “Then I will sleep chez toi tonight after all.” Combeferre’s mouth un-quirked and a peculiar expression crossed his face. He nodded and turned hastily back towards his chair as Prouvaire rose from the floor.

Prouvaire re-ensconced himself on the divan, this time curled up into the corner near Combeferre’s chair. For some reason he could not articulate, he felt a desire to be physically near him. Sudden, impulsive desires to do arbitrary things were not an uncommon experience for Prouvaire, and he generally indulged them if they did not seem likely to cause trouble. He did not question this one any more than he usually did, merely accepted it. Soon he was lost in the pages of his novel again. The heroine was the most absurdly melodramatic fictional character Prouvaire had ever encountered, and her adventures wildly improbable. It was an enchanting tome, and it rendered him quite insensible to his surroundings until the heroine’s father said something that was so very Combeferre-esque that it propelled him back to reality.

Intending to read the passage aloud to Combeferre and demand of him, isn’t that exactly the kind of thing you always say, Prouvaire looked over at his friend. He was surprised to see that Combeferre had not apparently returned to the world of geology---the book lay open on his lap, but he was staring at the floor with a serious, pensive expression on his face. It may not be me, Prouvaire thought, but something truly is bothering him. Driven by another of those inarticulate impulses, he pulled himself up onto the arm of the divan on his elbow. He leaned towards Combeferre and said “Er…”

Combeferre started and turned towards him. “Yes?” he said, pushing his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose.

“I, ah, I don’t mean to pry,” Prouvaire said diffidently, “and you don’t---I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that really is fine, it’s your business, but it is only, you know, you looked unhappy, so I thought, I don’t know, maybe, is there anything I can do? To help, or make you feel better---” He cut himself off there, knowing he was babbling. He felt his face grow warm as Combeferre’s assumed an expression he had not seen before, a curious softness of the eyes accompanied by a faint, gentle curving of the mouth. Suddenly abashed, Prouvaire dropped his head like a child. “Anyway,” he said.

Long, sturdy fingers gently tilted his chin back up, then retreated. Combeferre was regarding him thoughtfully, from a disconcertingly close vantage point. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then hesitated. “It’s nice to have you here,” he said finally. Prouvaire thought, I don’t know what you started out to say, but I’ll wager that wasn’t it.

“It’s nice to be here,” he replied anyway, feeling an obscure need to make conversation. “I like your rooms. I like ransacking your bookshelves and investigating your minerals and moths and such. And---” he felt his breath catch oddly. “I like the company I find here very much. Very much, actually.” He fought the urge to look away again.

Combeferre was looking pensive once more, but he did not appear unhappy. “Well,” he said slowly, “I am honored. Thank you.” He tilted his head a bit, as though Prouvaire were a curious specimen which he was examining. His hair fell softly over his forehead, shining in the lamplight. His eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles were large and luminous and solemn. Prouvaire thought, I could look at him like this forever. Without even thinking about it, he leaned forward and kissed him. For a moment, he thought that Combeferre would pull away, but then his hand came up to cradle the back of Prouvaire’s head as he leaned into the kiss.

They broke for air. Combeferre’s hand gently slid downwards to curl around the back of Prouvaire’s neck, eliciting a shiver from him. He smiled into Combeferre’s eyes and said, “Yes, very much.”

Combeferre dropped his head. His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “You,” he said. “Me,” Prouvaire agreed happily.

Combeferre looked up again, laughter fading. He took his hand away and sat back in his chair, biting at his thumbnail absently. He said, “Jehan.” Prouvaire blinked. Combeferre was not generally given to the use of nicknames. “Have you thought about this, or are you just moving on impulse?”

Intellectually, Prouvaire supposed it was a fair question, given his tendency to spontaneity and the fact that this was all new ground. Nonetheless, it made him flinch. He said hesitantly, “I…I don’t know…it felt right, and I…” He cast about for the words to explain himself. “I think…I think I have wanted to do that for a long time. Only I didn’t know it, or didn’t understand it. It’s as if…as if something fell into its proper place…” He trailed off, frustrated at his inability to translate his own meaning properly. I am ordinarily very good at articulating myself, he thought, why do my faculties desert me.

Combeferre was frowning slightly; Prouvaire interpreted the expression as disapproval, and was taken aback by the stab of pain it generated. He felt hot tears rise in his eyes in response and curled in on himself a little, turning his face away from Combeferre and twisting his hands together in his lap. He heard Combeferre exhale sharply through his nose and push his chair back a bit, and then he was on the divan beside Prouvaire, laying a hand on his arm. “Jehan,” he said again, gently.

“I’m sorry,” Prouvaire muttered.

“No.” Combeferre embraced him, very carefully, and a little awkwardly. “No, Jehan, don’t…” He broke off and dropped a light kiss on Prouvaire’s temple. Prouvaire leaned his forehead into Combeferre’s shoulder. “Have you thought about this,” he whispered, “is that what you were thinking about earlier, that made you uneasy?”

“Well,” said Combeferre. He did not elaborate, but he tightened his hold on Prouvaire slightly.

Prouvaire took this for an affirmation. He felt an upwelling of tenderness in his soul, almost more than he could bear. Lightheaded with it, he wrapped his own arms around Combeferre’s waist and pressed his face into the soft fabric of his loosely tied cravat. He felt Combeferre bring one hand up to pet his hair, then push his collar down to stroke the back of his neck, feather-light. The sensation sent another shiver down Prouvaire’s spine and he turned his head slightly to press his lips against the side of Combeferre’s throat. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and, encouraged by this, pulled back a bit so that he could hook one arm around Combeferre’s neck and kiss his mouth again.

Combeferre matched his enthusiasm, pulling Prouvaire as close as he could; in fact, he pulled him in a little too tightly, causing Prouvaire to overbalance and knock Combeferre over onto his back, falling atop him in an ungraceful tangle. Both lay startled for a moment, then they began to laugh. Prouvaire’s left arm was pinned between Combeferre and the divan. They were pressed so tightly together that Prouvaire could feel Combeferre’s every breath, the shaking of his laughter, the hard edge of his hipbone under Prouvaire’s own. He swallowed and raised his free hand to softly run a single fingertip along the smooth curve of Combeferre’s cheekbone, to trace the delicate outline of his mouth. Combeferre looked up at him earnestly. He turned his head a little to kiss Prouvaire’s fingers, then smiled warmly at him. Prouvaire’s breath caught almost painfully in his throat. He thought, You are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen or will see.

Later, they lay in bed together, Prouvaire’s head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder. Idly, he traced small circles on Combeferre’s arm with a fingertip, watching the shadow on the wall echo his movement. He wondered lazily whether such a state of perfect contentment could be considered an example of the sublime. There was nothing grand or crashing or dramatic about it, but his whole being seemed to be quietly vibrating with a subtle and pervasive joy that he could not recall ever experiencing before. His soul was brimming with Combeferre like a glass of water filled to the absolute edge, to the point where one more drop would send the rest pouring out in a torrent. Prouvaire let his hand rest on Combeferre’s bicep. He half-shut his eyes, breathing slowly to try and contain himself.

Combeferre, holding Prouvaire close, pressed his cheek against the top of his head. This was the last drop needed to cause an overflow. Prouvaire flopped over onto his stomach and furiously pressed his lips against Combeferre’s, burrowing one hand under his head and gripping his shoulder with the other. “You have entirely too much energy,” Combeferre informed him when they broke off. His eyes seemed wider than usual now that his spectacles lay on the table by the bed, rather than sitting on his nose. Probably they were having to work harder to see, Prouvaire thought. He rather liked the effect of surprised guilelessness it created. “I have precisely the necessary amount of energy, actually,” he said.

“Didn’t you burn any off just now?”

“No,” Prouvaire lied. He was rather tired now that he thought about it, but he didn’t want to go to sleep. He wanted to stay awake so he could look at and talk to and touch Combeferre.

Combeferre chuckled. “You,” he said fondly. Then, “Oh…it occurs to me. It’s rather a cold night---let me fetch a couple of nightshirts before…”

“No nightshirts,” Prouvaire stated firmly, depositing a kiss on Combeferre’s bare chest.

“You are impossible.” Combeferre pulled Prouvaire down next to him. “Lie quietly for a bit, won’t you? I’m tired, even if you are not.”

“Oh very well,” Prouvaire said, draping himself half over top of Combeferre and pressing his face into his shoulder. Combeferre turned his head and lightly kissed Prouvaire’s forehead.

“Good night,” he said.

Good, thought Prouvaire, beginning to relax into drowsiness, was not quite sufficient a descriptor. Marvelous might do better, or lovely, or enchanting, or…and before he could continue listing preferable adjectives, he was asleep.

#les mis #fan fiction #my fic #barricade day #no sads here #just fluff #combeferre #jean prouvaire #combeferre x prouvaire #it is SFW btw #s/o to the approximately 2 other people who ship this #les miserables

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fakesurprise · 7 years

Text

Small Favour: Three

I don’t open the curio shop until eleven on Sundays, but I tend to be there at nine. Catch up on paperwork, clean shelves, check e-mails, balance books. Everything boring that has to be done. Thom still hasn’t responded to the message I left about a fae being in my debt. I don’t know much about fae, despite what Thom told me and that I’ve seen them off and on all my life. Fae are like ghosts: most people believe in ghosts, but if you ask for genuine experiences almost no one can offer one up. I’ve never seen a ghost that I know of; the fae have always been a different matter.

My grandmother saw them too, and offered most of what I knew before meeting Thom. Circles of salt and prayers to saints. I don’t think the latter work, but the circles do tell they fae you know of them, even if they don’t necessarily stop them. They tend to be politer, and more respectful. No less dangerous, but at least civil enough.

Never be in their debt and never owe them. And above all, never follow a fae into the twilight kingdoms. Those were the closest thing to real commandments she ever offered and I never have. My grandmother went missing ten years ago, not long after her husband died. I don’t know if she went to bargain for him, or to escape, or for something new. Some questions you just have to let go of or they eat you up inside. I flick the alarm off, hearing a sound from the back. I move through the store, one hand on my cell phone, only to find Minou is already in the store.

The fae is at least wearing gloves as he sorts through the back room. I can’t really call it a workroom anymore, even if I did insist on the term despite barely having time to do work in it. There are boxes of various things. Broken things, whole things, garbage. He’s made a dent into clearing off one table and is working in silence, shaking a wall clock and listening to it.

“Minou?”

The fae turns, unsurprised. “Cam.” His voice remains low and raspy, at odds with his young appearance. His skin is the colour of rice under sunlight, his eyes pools of darkness containing flashes of amusement like minnows moving through a pond. He’s wearing the same pale jeans and jacket from before with a black t-shirt underneath.

“Do you have more clothing?”

The fae stops working at that, staring at me in silence for almost ten seconds. “That is a peculiar question?”

“Human thing. We vary our clothing. Unless it’s a glamour?”

“Heh. You use the word easily; glamour is not easy. These were made. Gifted.” He shrugs, too fluid for it to be merely human. “I like them.”

“Okay. You want some toast them?”

He grins. The teeth being normal startles me every time. “Please.”

I make coffee, then toast. The fae eats a few slices quickly, sitting back after. “My debt can be working on that room, yes?”

“I don’t see why not. You know how to repair things?”

“No. I know if they are broken and can discard those?”

I wait. He adds nothing else. “Minou. If you are working for me, I should know more about you?” I say, making it half a question in turn.

“That may not be safe.”

“For?”

“Me? You? It is –.” He spreads his hands, shrugs. “This is not something I do. It will attract attention.”

“And being under a geas doesn’t explain it?”

“No. They would not believe.”

I drink coffee. “Believe what?”

“The geas would work.” He stand, getting a cup and water from the sink, sits back down and has a sip of it. “I scared a witch; it is unwise, but glamour was needed.”

“A witch.”

“Wizard, mage, all that? One born with magic?”

“Are they rare?”

“Perhaps? Each has a finite amount to use in their life. She used all of hers, scared, unknowning? ‘You’re toast’ was her geas.”

“So you had to find and eat toast?”

The fae nods. “I believe it was more meant to burn me alive; it only caused a need to find toast. I had heard of you, came here. Rest happened.”

“You heard of me. In – in what way?”

“To see fae is rare, yes? You see fae in the knowing of it.” He has another sip of the water. “You see a fae in a glamour, you know they are fae. It is rare to know us even when in glamour.”

“Is this a bad kind of rare?”

He flashes a grin at that. “In centuries past, it meant death for a human. You do not act against us, so we just watch, help, all that?”

“And Thom? He owned the shop before I did.”

“I do not know. I could ask?”

“Okay. As long as this doesn’t put me in debt,” I add quickly.

His chuckle is a low rasp, but his eyes sparkle with distant light in them. “I will not trick you like that, Cam. Others would. Not I.”

“Why not?”

“I am not of the Kingdoms. And I do not desire to be a fae like that.” The words are more jagged. He takes another slow sip of water.

“Okay. Work in the back room; I’ll work up front. Once the FedEx people come to take the debit machine away, you can cover breaks?”

“I would enjoy that?” he says, the smile shy, moment passing like rain in sunlight.

I pour myself more coffee, print off cash only signs and put them out in the store, box up the machine, untangle cables, dust. Normal things. Normal helps. I had no idea witches existed. Or that the fae have kingdoms. And definitely never thought the fae considered me a threat. I finish my coffee, open the store early.

The debit machine is taken at eleven, I have lunch at twelve, return to the front. Pause. Jerri Hanes tries to return things at least once a week, sometimes breaking them in the store in ways she can fix and then demanding a cheaper price. And then try and return them for the full price claiming they don’t work, often with electronics.

“The cover has come off of –.”

“It has. You did it,” Minou says.

“How dare you –.” She pauses, steps back. I can only see the back of Minou’s head.

“The signs say there are no returns. I think that means you should not return, yes?” Minou’s voice is barely a whisper, but it sounds like his fingers when they cut through flesh.

Jerri seems transfixed, sees me, shakes herself and shoves the toaster oven at Minou and practically bolts out the door.

“She buys a lot,” I say as evenly as I can.

“She deals in tricks. No fae, but it costs more than she is worth, yes?”

“It does feel like it,” I admit. “But you can’t terrify customers out of the store, even rude ones.”

The fae stares at me without expression. “Truly?”

“What do fae do about such, ah, people?”

“What I did two nights ago to those humans who tried to rob you.”

I say nothing, but I suspect everything shows in my face.

“We are not human, for all the glamours we can bend and make,” Minou offers. “Fae society was not formed as yours: it is always dangerous and death is a preferable solution to the false coin of second chances. It is why,” he adds, softer, when I don’t respond, “debts and favours are important.”

“Including small ones.”

“Of course.”

I thank him and he heads back to make toast and try and keep cleaning out the back room. I try to busy myself in work and not think too hard about how large even a small favour might actually be. And I wonder despite myself if my grandmother meant that a fae being in your debt was as dangerous as being in theirs.

#writing #prose #small favours

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redeyedryu · 7 years

Text

Apathy & Happenstance

Chapter 4 - Perception and Peculiarity [Ao3] | 1 | 3 | x | 5

Catching up on posting these chapters to tumblr! Here’s 4. 5′ll be posted once I’m finished editing it. c:

Summary: These guys are weird. Seriously, who doesn't know monsters have relocated to the surface by now?

“no way.” Sans says in disbelief.

You note with a bit of curiosity that those little pinpricks of red light in his eye sockets have disappeared. Weird.

“HUMAN…” Papyrus starts, taking a heavy step toward you. What, did he forget your name already or is he just being obstinate? You see his arm moving, shifting to reach for you. To Papyrus’s surprise, you twist and bend to avoid his grasp, taking the opening to slip between him and Sans.

“Nope.” you say as you maneuver into your apartment, intent on relocating to the living room. “Nice try, but you do not lay hands on me. If you have something to say you can use your words.”

You reclaim your corner seat on the couch from when this all first started, depositing the paper bag on the coffee table, right next to your laptop, and pull your phone into your hands. At least they hadn't messed with your computer—as far as you can tell, anyway.

You hear a very frustrated growl, some whispered arguing, and then, after a couple minutes, you're rejoined by the skeletons in the living room. Papyrus is standing right in front of you, blocking you on the couch from the front, and Sans unceremoniously plops himself in the space beside you. Subconsciously, the muscles on that side of your body tense, as if flinching away without actually doing so.

Papyrus is looking down at you, arms once again crossed. His gloved fingers seem to be twitching, as if he's holding himself back from making another grab at you. The earlier thought that he's probably used to getting his way is reinforced and in that moment, you decide you're going to indulge your petty side—you're going to give this particular skeleton hell and bask in every single second of doing so.

“So?” you prompt, unperturbed. “What was it that you wanted to say?”

His sockets squint, and he's surprisingly quiet for a beat, before he finally decides to break the silence that has settled.

“IT WOULD BE UNWISE FOR YOU TO LIE TO ME.” he starts. “IT IS INCONCEIVABLE THAT WE WOULD BE ABOVEGROUND.” You don't understand how that can be so, but whatever, Edgelord. “TELL US THE TRUTH, HUMAN. WHERE ARE WE?”

You roll your eyes with a long suffering sigh and start fussing with the phone in your hands, twisting it this way and that, running your fingers along the black screen.

“Alright, first of all, Edgelord, in case you forgot, it's Y/n, not ‘human’. I'll thank you to remember that.” You have to bite your cheek to keep the grin from your lips at the way he bristles at your attitude, at your unwillingness to let yourself be subjected to his demands. “Second, did neither of you so much as look outside while I was gone?” You have to wonder what they had been doing in here, all that time you were out. Surely they hadn't just been sitting in the living room, twiddling their thumbs, right? “I assure you, the windows are real and functional.”

Papyrus glares down at you, silent and unblinking. Perhaps he thinks he’s intimidating, that he can scare you into telling the ‘truth’. Fat chance there, mister.

To your side, you feel the couch shift, can hear the sound of bone scratching against bone. In your peripheral vision you can see more red sweat beading along Sans’s skull, he's scratching at the back of his neck (...spine?) and… is that a red tinge to his face or just a trick of the light? Weird. Sans is weird.

“Look,” you begin, leaning back into the plush cushion of the couch. “Don't get mad at me because you're too scared to confirm it yourself. The proof is literally right there.” You tilt your chin, indicating the window again.

Papyrus seems to twitch, fingers clenching, bunching the fabric where they lay. You merely quirk a brow.

And cue another staring match. Spiky, loudmouthed Halloween decoration versus one human that couldn't care less.

You're unsure how much time passes—if it's very much at all—before Sans’s voice cuts across your childish display.

“uh… b-boss,” his voice calls from across the room, “you gotta lookit this.”

Your attention snaps to him and you see the smaller skeleton at your window, bathed in golden sunlight. He has peeled back the heavy fabric of your curtains to reveal a late afternoon day, the sun working its way in a downwards arch towards the horizon. You cast a quick glance to your side and sure enough, that's empty space next to you. When the hell had he gotten over there?

Papyrus clicks his tongue again (does that mean he has one? What does it look like? Is it made of bone???) as he does an abrupt about face. He's at the window in only a couple quick strides.

Silence settles in the room as the two monsters stare out your window in reverence.

What a strange reaction, you think. It's like this really is their first time seeing the sun and the sky. You have to wonder if they've been living under a rock or something, under that mountain, to only now , practically a decade later, be seeing the sun. It begs the question of where the hell did they come from before they poofed into your apartment?

Unable to continue watching the two (something uncomfortable twists and knots in the pit of your stomach the longer you do), you take the opportunity to look at your phone. Flicking the screen on shows a push notification from none other than ‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS’. You open the message.

THE GREAT PAPYRUS: WOWIE! THERE REALLY ARE OTHER SKELETONS! THEIR STYLE IS A BIT STRANGE, I MUST ADMIT, BUT THAT’S OKAY, EVERYONE EXPRESSES THEMSELVES DIFFERENTLY!

You huff a breath of air through your nose, a very subdued laugh, as the thought what an adorable bean flickers across your mind. You read on.

THE GREAT PAPYRUS: THIS IS MOST EXCITING, HUMAN! I MUST TELL SANS AT ONCE! SUCH EXCITING NEWS IS SURE TO… TICKLE HIS FUNNY BONE, NYEH HEH HEH!!

You can’t help but to snicker at the pun, deciding that that's it, ‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS’ is, without a doubt, a cinnamon roll. Entirely too pure, too good for this world. You do find it interesting, however, that this Papyrus uses ‘human’ in much the same was as the spiky Papyrus—as if it was a title or something. You wonder if it's a skeleton thing, as any monster you've socialized with has never referred to you by your species before. Is it specific to Papyruses? ...Papyri. ???

You shake the thought away. You can inquire about it later, when this mess is all figured out and sorted.

You tap the entry field of the messenger, ready to type out a response, but before you can so much as enter a letter, the screen lights up with a call, a little tune slicing through the silence of your apartment.

You furrow your brows at your phone just as the skeletons at your window startle, their attention shifting back to you.

“wha… the heck’s that?” Sans is the first to speak, his little red eye lights wandering the room in search of the source of the noise. He quickly settles his gaze on you, on the little device clutched between your hands. “s’that yer phone?”

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” Papyrus shouts, sounding almost personally offended by the ringing. “WHAT IS THAT INFERNAL RACKET?!” He shoots a heated glare your way, clearly blaming you. You barely contain the urge to roll your eyes. “HURRY UP ALREADY, HUMAN! EITHER ANSWER OR HANG UP! I WILL NOT TOLERATE SUCH DISRUPTIVE BEHAVIOR IN MY PRESENCE!” This time, you roll your eyes.

Glancing back at the ringing device in your hands, you see that you’ve got a call from ‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS’. Kind of weird. And out of the blue. And a little out of your comfort zone—you only just started talking to the guy today, after all. Why is he calling you now? Doesn't texting suffice?

As Papyrus begins to impatiently tap his foot, waiting for you to act, you decide to:

* Answer the call. Maybe he has something important to tell you? Why else would he call you, a practical stranger?

* Ignore the call. Papyrus might be a precious bean but that's still a little too much, too soon for you.

#Red Drabbles #Undertale Fanfiction #Underfell Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Apathy and Happenstance #The second option is crossed out since the decision has already been made #Well isn't that queuet

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meekspaceng · 5 years

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Jehovah's Witnesses and Blood Transfusions:

Critical Views

Opposition to the Watch Tower doctrines on blood transfusions has come from both members and non-members. A group of dissident Witnesses known as Associated Jehovah's Witnesses for Reform on Blood (AJWRB) states that there is no biblical basis for the prohibition of blood transfusions and seeks to have some policies changed.[97] In a series of articles in the Journal of Medical Ethics US neurologist Osamu Muramoto, who is a medical adviser to the AJWRB, has raised issues including what he claims is coercion to refuse transfusions, doctrinal inconsistency, selective use of information by the Watch Tower Society to exaggerate the dangers of transfusions and the use of outdated medical beliefs.

Scriptural Interpretation

Dissident Witnesses say the Society's use of Leviticus 17:12 to support its opposition to blood transfusions[98][99] conflicts with its own teachings that Christians are not under the Mosaic law.[100][101] Theologian Anthony Hoekemaclaims the blood prohibited in Levitical laws was not human, but animal. He cites other authors[102] who support his view that the direction at Acts 15 to abstain from blood was intended not as an everlasting covenant but a means of maintaining a peaceful relationship between Jewish and Gentile Christians. He has described as "absurd literalism" the Witnesses' use of a scriptural prohibition on eating blood to prohibit the medical transfusion of human blood.[103]

Coercion

Osamu Muramoto has argued that the refusal by Jehovah's Witnesses of "life-saving" blood treatment[104] creates serious bio-medical ethical issues. He has criticized the "controlling intervention" of the Watch Tower Society by means of what he claims is information control and its policy of penalising members who accept blood transfusions or advocate freedom to choose blood-based treatment.[101][104] He says the threat of being classified as a disassociated Witness and subsequently shunned by friends and relatives who are members coerces Jehovah's Witnesses to accept and obey the prohibition on blood transfusions.[8][101][105] In one particular case involving a Russian district court decision, however, the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) found nothing in the judgments to suggest that any form of improper pressure or undue influence was applied. It noted: "On the contrary, it appears that many Jehovah's Witnesses have made a deliberate choice to refuse blood transfusions in advance, free from time constraints of an emergency situation." The court said: "The freedom to accept or refuse specific medical treatment, or to select an alternative form of treatment, is vital to the principles of self-determination and personal autonomy. A competent adult patient is free to decide ... not to have a blood transfusion. However, for this freedom to be meaningful, patients must have the right to make choices that accord with their own views and values, regardless of how irrational, unwise or imprudent such choices may appear to others."[106]

Muramoto has claimed the intervention of Hospital Liaison Committees can add to "organisational pressure" applied by family members, friends and congregation members on Witness patients to refuse blood-based treatment. He notes that while HLC members, who are church elders, "may give the patient 'moral support', the influence of their presence on the patient is known to be tremendous. Case reports reveal JW patients have changed their earlier decision to accept blood treatment after a visit from the elders." He claims such organizational pressure compromises the autonomy of Witness patients and interferes with their privacy and confidentiality. He has advocated a policy in which the Watch Tower organization and congregation elders would not question patients on the details of their medical care and patients would not disclose such information. He says the Society adopted such a policy in 1983 regarding details of sexual activity between married couples.[107][108][109]

Watch Tower spokesman Donald T. Ridley says neither elders nor HLC members are instructed or encouraged to probe into the health care decisions of Witness patients and do not involve themselves in patient hospitalisations unless patients request their assistance. Yet Watchtower HLC representative David Malyon says he would respond to "sin" of Witnesses he is privy to by effectively saying "Are you going to tell them or shall I!"[110] Nevertheless Ridley says Muramoto's suggestion that Witnesses should be free to disregard Watch Tower scriptural teachings and standards is preposterous. He says loving God means obeying commandments, not disobeying them and hiding one's disobedience from others.[109][111]

Muramoto recommends doctors have a private meeting with patients to discuss their wishes, and that church elders and family members not be present, enabling patients to feel free of church pressure. He suggests doctors question patients on (a) whether they have considered that the Watch Tower Society might soon approve some medical practices they currently find objectionable, in the same manner that it has previously abandoned its opposition to vaccination and organ transplants; (b) whether Witness patients know which blood components are allowed and which are prohibited, and whether they acknowledge that those rulings are organizational policy rather than biblical teachings; and (c) whether they realize that although some Bible scriptures proscribe the eating of blood, eating and transfusing blood have entirely different effects on the body.[112] English HLC representative David Malyon has responded that Muramoto's suggested questions are an affront to coerce Jehovah's Witnesses with "complicated philosophical inquisition" and, if used by doctors, would be "an abusive transformation of the medical role of succour and care into that of devil's advocate and trickster".[110]

Selective Use of Information

Muramoto has claimed many Watch Tower Society publications employ exaggeration and emotionalism to emphasize the dangers of transfusions and the advantages of alternative treatments, but present a distorted picture by failing to report any benefits of blood-based treatment. Nor do its publications acknowledge that in some situations, including rapid and massive haemorrhage, there are no alternatives to blood transfusions.[101][113] He claims Watch Tower Society publications often discuss the risk of death as a result of refusing blood transfusions, but give little consideration to the prolonged suffering and disability, producing an added burden on family and society, that can result from refusal.[114] Attorney and former Witness Kerry Louderback-Wood[115] also claims that Witness publications exaggerate the medical risks of taking blood and the efficiency of non-blood medical therapies in critical situations.[116]

Douglas E. Cowan, an academic in the sociology of religion, has claimed that members of the Christian countercult movement who criticize the Watch Tower Society, make selective use of information themselves. For example, Christian apologist Richard Abanes wrote that their ban on blood transfusions, "has led to countless Witness deaths over the years, including many children."[117] Cowan wrote: "When the careful reader checks [Abanes' footnote], however, looking perhaps for some statistical substantiation, he or she finds only a statistical conjecture based on 1980 Red Cross blood use figures." Cowan also says Abanes omits "critical issues" in an attempt to "present the most negative face possible." Cowan wrote that "the reader is left with the impression that the Watchtower Society knowingly presides over a substantial number of preventable deaths each year."[118]

Outdated Medical Beliefs

Osamu Muramoto says the Watch Tower Society relies on discarded, centuries-old medical beliefs to support its assertion that blood transfusions are the same as eating blood.[119] A 1990 Watch Tower brochure on blood quoted a 17th-century anatomist to support its view.[120] Muramoto says the view that blood is nourishment—still espoused in Watch Tower publications[121]—was abandoned by modern medicine many decades ago.[101] He has criticized an analogy commonly used by the Society[122] in which it states: "Consider a man who is told by the doctor that he must abstain from alcohol. Would he be obedient if he quit drinking alcohol but had it put directly into his veins?"[119]Muramoto says the analogy is false, explaining: "Orally ingested alcohol is absorbed as alcohol and circulated as such in the blood, whereas orally eaten blood is digested and does not enter the circulation as blood. Blood introduced directly into the veins circulates and functions as blood, not as nutrition. Hence, blood transfusion is a form of cellular organ transplantation. And ... organ transplants are now permitted by the WTS."[101] He says the objection to blood transfusions on the basis of biblical proscriptions against eating blood is similar to the refusal of a heart transplant on the basis that a doctor warned a patient to abstain from eating meat because of his high cholesterol level.[123]

David Malyon, chairman of the English Hospital Liaison Committee in Luton, England, has claimed that Muramoto's discussion of the differences between consuming blood and alcohol is pedantic and says blood laws in the Bible are based upon the reverence for life and its association with blood, and that laws should be kept in the spirit as much as in the letter.[110]

Inconsistency

See also: Criticism of Jehovah's Witnesses § Blood

Muramoto has described as peculiar and inconsistent the Watch Tower policy of acceptance of all the individual components of blood plasma as long as they are not taken at the same time.[101] He says the Society offers no biblical explanation for differentiating between prohibited treatments and those considered a "matter of conscience", explaining the distinction is based entirely on arbitrary decisions of the Governing Body, to which Witnesses must adhere strictly on the premise of them being Bible-based "truth".[101] He has questioned why white blood cells (1 per cent of blood volume) and platelets (0.17 per cent) are forbidden, yet albumin (2.2 per cent of blood volume) is permitted.[101] He has questioned why donating blood and storing blood for autologous transfusion is deemed wrong, but the Watch Tower Society permits the use of blood components that must be donated and stored before Witnesses use them.[124] He has questioned why Witnesses, although viewing blood as sacred and symbolizing life, are prepared to let a person die by placing more importance on the symbol than the reality it symbolizes.[113]

Kerry Louderback-Wood alleges that by labeling the currently acceptable blood fractions as "minute" in relation to whole blood, the Watch Tower organization causes followers to misunderstand the scope and extent of allowed fractions.[116]

Witnesses respond that the real issue is not of the fluid per se, but of respect and obedience to God.[125][126] They say their principle of abstaining from blood as a display of respect is demonstrated by the fact that members are allowed to eat meat that still contains some blood. As soon as blood is drained from an animal, the respect has been shown to God, and then a person can eat the meat even though it may contain a small amount of blood.[127] Jehovah's Witnesses' view of meat and blood is different from that of kosher Jewish adherents, who go to great lengths to remove minor traces of blood.[128][129]

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