#follows a set of values he himself imposed on himself more than any god but bane aligns with those

[loderlied]

need to finish that gort is simultaneously great and terrible at being “religious” essay some day

[boop-le-snoot]

masterpost • main masterlist • taglist & faq

previously on...

Witchy stuff! Disclaimer: I am not a witch so please do not take my theory of theory seriously. This has been taken off first page of Google, which is where I did my research. First ironstrange x reader interaction & tony being sweet and stephen radiating wife energy.

fun fact: the moodboards are just chapter spoilers without context.

Whatever protection spell the book had, it was nuclear. Burn cream didn't do much in terms of numbing the pain; I had to wear gloves throughout my shift at the café, self-conscious about the skin peeling off my palms and the light, sensitive fingertips. Saying that the day was hellish would have been too kind.

My spirits were briefly lifted when one of my favourite mad scientists walked in, nose buried in a StarkPad - his chattier, more confident friend nowhere to be seen. Doctor Bruce Banner lifted his eyes from his work only to give a brief, polite smile and mumble his order, immediately resuming the poking of the screen.

"You forgot something last time," I couldn't suppress the grin. Sometimes routine was nice, comfortable. The napkin with unintelligible scribbles and formulas in my hand was transferred to Banner's pocket with a shy smile and a reddish tint to his cheeks, as if he didn't find himself in this very situation more often than not. "Is Mr. Stark okay?" I voiced my concerns, having noticed the recent, acute absence of the rowdy man in the café. Dr. Banner rarely came here alone and it was more of a telling exception than anything.

"Oh, Tony? Yes, he's fine," the scientist nodded absentmindedly. "He's on a small vacation with his boyfriend," the last part was said with puzzlement and incredulity and I had to remind myself that a forty-something scientist was unlikely to possess at least a halfway decent gaydar. I mean, I would have eaten my shoe if Tony Stark was 100% straight.

The fact that Tony having a boyfriend surprised Dr. Banner, who appeared to be one of Mr. Stark's best friends, was quite funny to me. "Good for him, he deserves it after saving the world, like, a bajillion times," I replied honestly, attempting to hide my good-natured snicker at Banner's obliviousness. Scientists, they just are a different breed, man.

The perplexion melted off Banner's face, leaving only supportive contentment. "That is correct," he nodded confidently, exchanging a bill for his matcha. "Thank you. And, uh, congrats on your new job," he added with another one of his not-quite shy smiles.

My cheerfulness vacated the premises shortly afterwards as I struggled to keep up with the endless stream of customers all the while my hands throbbed and burned under the nitrile gloves. I was ready to call it a day and just tell Jeremy I had an accident, but my pride wouldn't let me. I arrived at Odette's feeling less than stellar, running purely on spite and several cups of espresso.

It went about as good as expected, select few customers growing clouds over their heads at the slow pace I was assembling their orders: the fact that even witches had Karens of their kind was a fact that I found both amusing and alarming. It wasn't particular comfortable, knowing that I, or any other wait staff, was always at risk of being cursed for bringing them the wrong kind of cake or messing up their white suburban mom coffee.

"You could have asked, you know," Odette's slow drawl startled me out of the trance I'd put myself in to avoid focusing on the discomfort. "Come here, girl, I'll take care of it."

My face heated up immediately as I realized the tender skin of my grubby little hands was on full display. Odette must've put two and two together, seeing my sins written all over my scarred hands and my guilty face. Not wanting to invoke a negative reaction and get on her scary bad side, I let myself obediently trot into her office.

"I, uh," the eloquence of my speech - spectacular. I was ready to fall through the floor out of of shame.

"It happens sometimes," a round jar of what looked like buckwheat honey landed on the table. Odette massaged the thick gel into my palms with gentle circular motions, shushing my hums of pain in-between. "The book called for me in the same way it called to you. The only difference, it was my grandmother's at the time so the protection wards did not go off because I was family." My eyebrows rose at the calm in Odette's voice. Composed as ever, the witch looked more amused than upset by my little snooping stint.

The pain in my hands disappeared completely, a cool sensation I could only describe as minty enveloping them and spreading throughout my body. The chill was pleasant - I hadn't even realized my body had been running on higher-than-usual temperatures ever since I touched the book. Those protection wards Odette spoke of, they really packed a punch!

"I will teach you," she must've interpreted my stunned silence as curiosity, having made up her own mind in the seconds I was basking in my newfound relief. "We'll start slow. The transition from the material world into the spiritual isn't easy," Odette warned, locking her fingers, her magnetic eyes commandeering mine for utmost attention. "But it is incredibly rewarding. If you follow the rules, you will prosper. Our kind isn't plentiful these days, with people praying to gods that condone greed and selfishness," her lip curled in distaste. "Each one of us can make a large difference in this world. The opportunities you have been given need to be taken seriously."

My lip caught between my teeth as I mulled over the words my boss spoke with so my concern and conviction. Nothing in her speech sounded amiss; sure as she was, I was still mercifully given a choice. Odette's aura, that used to seem suffocating and dense, grew around me into a non-physical hug, a comfort akin to a mother supporting her child taking their first steps.

I eyed the sixty-something year-old, tall, imposing woman, scanning her for any deceitfulness, exhilaration and wariness sitting on my shoulders and whispering into my ears. True to myself, I gave into the side that craved and lived for adventure. "I would love to learn," hoping my voice conveyed the excitement and hopefulness of being a part of something special.

Odette smiled kindly. "I knew that," with a chuckle to herself, she reached into a set of drawers and extracted a few worn, plain notebooks. "Homework," the wink she threw at me instantly took ten years off her face. I couldn't even bring myself to sigh, only the sludge still covering my palms preventing me from making grabby hands in the direction of new information.

The bell rang before I could make another comment and I was let go with the instructions to wash my hands - and that's exactly what I did, having noted the short Asian man impatiently tapping his foot next to the front desk.

The man's name was Wong and he was the sole reason for my uncontrollable flares of temper during my work hours at the bodega. Odette herself avoided him like the plague, and for a good reason: his attitude was nothing short of conceited, as if the weird robes that he wore were some kind of a hall-pass to be a demanding asshole when it came to the store's wares.

Wong could spend up to forty minutes inspecting the baggies containing herbs and other knick-knacks, meticulously picking out what he considered best and curtly insulting the items he found to be lacking in quality. I was made aware he belonged to some sort of a sect or a cult of honest-to-god wizards; as if him looking like a worker of the Ministry of Magic didn't make that fact obvious. I was unpleasantly surprised at the fact that even witches, much like doctors, had elitist pricks among their kind - and Odette had the audacity to simply vanish whenever one of those robed people set foot in the shop, leaving me to use all my mental strength to try and not strangle the wannabe Karens.

I was willing to bet my favourite star-patterned scarf that Wong hexed the waiters who made him wait longer that he considered appropriate. I just knew it.

The anger, the frustration and at times, blind, total rage came in useful - and that was a surprise to me. According to Odette's notebooks, everyone had the potential to master magick - to an extent, each individual's threshold was, well, individual - but the more a witch was in tune with her emotions, her feelings, the higher the success rate of her spells grew.

The notebooks contained enough information for me to understand that Odette was considered a High Priestess (not to be confused with Head of the Coven - not all witches wanted to be a part of those) and the amount of power she held was quite impressive. No, she couldn't turn back time, she couldn't raise the dead; the people she helped and healed were, oftentimes, made well at the expense of her own life energy. It was an endless cycle of emptying a glass and refilling it back up. The deities lended a hand with that.

Some time after I'd gone through the theory, Odette encouraged me to choose a direction I was to study in depth; much like her, I was interested in the defensive rather than the offensive. Healing spells, protection wards and the occasional light hex to deter enemies from reoffending: I was disappointed but not surprised to learn the fact that curses and serious harm done to other people quite often backfired, harming the caster themselves as well as their victim.

I had always believed in karma, to a healthy extent, but these days I was that much more aware of how I treated those around me. That's not to say I became a pushover - I simply chose to smile rather than frown at the world and replaced my longing and envy with a sense of gratitude towards the things I already possessed. Just like Odette had said, layering the spiritual values over my material, earthly ones wasn't easy - it was hard work, and what prevented me from stopping when I felt exhausted was that it actually paid off.

As I got ready to cast my first serious spell, I ran through a mental checklist of things I developed - of sorts. Positive vibes only. Having vengeful intentions when warding off potential harm-doers was not only dangerous, it was counterproductive. Intentions mattered the most when casting a spell and I could end up killing all the innocent, stray cats in the area instead of making a burglar choose the neighbouring building some five months down the line.

The spell, I considered to be a success. The atmosphere in my home lightened, the dingy walls of my rental started radiating comfort and safety I hadn't felt since moving out of my parents' home. A slight tiredness persisted for a few days after the last candle burned out; Odette reassured that it was perfectly normal as I was a baby witch and my energy channels were adapting, growing to accommodate my newfound awareness and flow of cosmic energies that I was training to harness.

Next on my list was a personal protection charm, an antique silver locket adorned with stars I had scavenged in a local pawn shop. Odette had given me instructions on how to cleanse potential magical conductors: the amount of rings and jewelry she wore directly correlated to the power of a singular spell she could cast. There was a fine hairline between charging your accessories and letting them drain you and I learned to walk South of it the hard way, but as all learning processes go, eventually I found my middle ground and was successful.

My daily routine grew small rituals like the forest trees grew moss. Slow and steady, I was transitioning from a curious baby witch into a self-sufficient practitioner of magic. Sounds crazy, I know, coming from someone who could barely believe into aliens until Thor himself had walked into the coffee shop and ordered a latte, but as all things do in life - I changed.

Working the morning shift allowed me to discreetly place a few of the good-luck charms I had made during my most recent creative stint. While they didn't have a direct effect on the customers or their tipping habits, the atmosphere on the cafe's premises had lightened enough that even Jeremy's usually sour face tipped more towards neutral these days.

The smile blossomed on my face without effort as I caught the tell-tale bespoke suit and sunglasses of the man waltzing through the doors of the café as if he owned the place. "Nice to see you, Mr. Stark. Enjoy your vacation?" I asked the smirking man, giving a respectful once-over to the tall, lithe man holding onto his shoulder.

"It's Tony," the happiness was radiating off him in waves. "Missed my favourite coffee shop and the world's nicest barista," he winked at me, causing the man behind him snort, steely blue eyes studying me in turn. "Had to introduce my two favourite people," the engineer took a step back, parting his arms with a flourish gesture. "Stephen, Starlight. Starlight, Stephen," he spoke before rattling off his usual order. And a cake on top.

I gave an amused grin to the man obviously humoring his significant other, as Stephen mock-bowed in my direction. "You're right, how could we be together without the approval of your favourite barista?" Stephen had his wits. I decided I definitely liked him. "Starlight? Is that a nickname or were your parents hippies?" Okay, witty bordering on rude. Was Stephen a lawyer?

"Now, now, honey," the crinkles around Tony's eyes deepened as he barked out a laugh. "No need to be jealous. We're all adults here, we can share. There's enough of me for everyone."

I rolled my eyes, easily slipping into the familiar banter. "Speak for yourself, Mr. Stark. I'm very selfish," I cocked an eyebrow, tilting my head to the side and pretending to size up Stephen. "You've outdone yourself this time," Stephen's eyebrows rose. The line between 'sizing up' and 'checking out' was so very fine and I walked it well, a quiet sort of confidence that had bloomed within me at the recent events in my life letting me be slightly bolder that allowed myself to be before. "I'd have to be the Devil myself to break up such a blessed union. My congratulations," my smirk grew into a warm smile as Tony beamed at me in return, content on showing off his most recent acquisition.

Who, by the way, looked a little bit lost. Evidently, Stephen did not expect such a degree of familiarity between me and Tony; which was, to be honest, most likely what had him returning to the establishment over and over. Come for the coffee, stay for the company. Or how was it?

The energy between Tony and Stephen was electric. There was something undoubtedly attractive, magnetic even, about the tall, steely-eyed man, something similar to Odette's charismatic pull but without the overwhelming ossification of the air around her. Even putting aside the fact that Stephen was a visually stunning person with his sculpted phisique and high, sharp cheekbones, he commandeered the attention to himself without even uttering a word. Definitely a lawyer, with how the type could hold the whole courtroom together with a single look.

The early birds on a Friday were few and in-between; the three of us chatted as the two men sipped their coffees with muted noises of joy. According to Tony, Fiji was delightful this time of the year. Oblivious to everything around him, the engineer rambled about his ventures without a care in the world as his partner looked up to him with earnest happiness and I- well, I wished I could go to Fiji, hot boyfriend optional. The weather in NYC was slowly becoming dreary: I did not look forward to winter sludge and the traffic congestions that it created.

"And I love what you've done with the interior. Those cat statues? Charming," Tony rambled, pointing out the good-luck charms I'd placed all over the café. Small knick-knacks I carefully selected to match the overall vibe of the room. "Tell Jeremy I send my regards. Appreciate the lack of paps, too," he winked at me, looking visibly relieved.

"Huh?" The rag in my hands froze. "I haven't seen a single paparazzi around here, since, like, ever," I admitted, puzzled.

"And I appreciate it. Ever since our thing became public knowledge, they've been hounding me wherever I go," the eyeroll Tony made was truly powerful. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it," and again, the engineer winked at me, apparently having made some assumptions of his own. "I won't tell if you won't."

The puzzlement persisted within me all throughout my shift. I lived in NYC, for fuck's sake, I wasn't unfamiliar with how things ran around here.

Every establishment I worked in had been swarmed with the annoying, persistent celebrity hunters at some point - and yellow press and paparazzi were, by far, the worst. Some of the greedier ones could go as far as to shove simple folk out of the way or order a cup of coffee with their camera hiding under the tablecloth to sneak in a juicy picture of a celebrity just trying to have their brunch in peace. I hated those vultures with a passion; their negative energy, their lack of morals when it came to hunting for a new scandal that would make them a few hundred bucks.

The only way to even slightly deter them was to repeatedly call the cops on them for public disturbance. I'd done it once or twice, egged on by Jerry and his worry of losing profit - after all, there were establishments known specifically for high rates of celebrity sightings and if any of the superheroes wanted to make an appearance, they would just go there for their cup of overpriced coffee and defrosted sponge cake. Our café was strictly for comfort and leisure - a rare thing me and my boss actually agreed upon.

As I said warm goodbyes to my favourite engineer and his newfound, dashing boyfriend, the cat statues stared at me in mute satisfaction, their hollow eyes radiating smugness and their immobile mouths stretched in what looked like pure, mocking mischief.

Taglist is open until the story is finished. Spare comment? 🥺

@couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites

[moontheoretist]

1. Sam, some terrorists and supremacists are kids, but I agree with you that there must be a peaceful way to deal with it. A Person who gets radicalized can also be deradicalized. There is still hope for her, but she would still have to be held accountable for what she did. She killed 3 people after all.

2. Zemo’s “everybody is inherently on the path to being a supremacist if they want to become superhuman” thing is just a bullshit excuse to kill people instead of changing them. It’s no different than installing a system in which criminals are killed instead of being resocialized. Yeah, some people who wanted to achieve the pureness of race indeed followed the idea of “superhuman” in a sense, but Nietzsche’s idea of superhuman wasn’t about biology, it was about changing oneself to become “more than a human”, not the world around them.

Superman, German Übermensch, in philosophy, the superior man, who justifies the existence of the human race. “Superman” is a term significantly used by Friedrich Nietzsche, particularly in Also sprach Zarathustra (1883–85), although it had been employed by J.W. von Goethe and others. This superior man would not be a product of long evolution; rather, he would emerge when any man with superior potential completely masters himself and strikes off conventional Christian “herd morality” to create his own values, which are completely rooted in life on this earth. Nietzsche was not forecasting the brutal superman of the German Nazis, for his goal was a “Caesar with Christ’s soul.”

~ Superman, Brittanica

So as much as I disagree with the notion that “christian values” are the ones which save the world, so in this I and Nietzsche agree (because religions are bad, though I disagree that you can just set values and rules for yourself and call them just, because it’s a bull), I personally never read Nietzsche’s superhuman as a concept in the way Zemo did, because to me, it sounds more like the self-imposed rigid training to become better person rather than becoming a god. Though there is still a huge crack even in the way I read it, which is also one of Steve Rogers biggest flaws. Trying to achieve perfection, being sure you are the perfect person or close to being a perfect one, is the way to become someone who abuses everybody else around them without even seeing that they’re doing it, because they’re “just” following their own values and rules. They are so sure that they are doing right by others that they don’t even listen when others say it’s not helping, or that it’s actually hurting them. Which brings me to point 3.

3. Steve Rogers wasn’t corrupted by the serum, because he was already a corrupted person. His corruption was the idea that he was the perfect person when it comes to virtues and soul, who deserved to be a hero, so when he got a chance to become one, he jumped onto it like a starving animal at the meal. He wanted to be prefect in both body and mind, and it ultimately means that he was corrupted from the very start, before he even got the serum. So, yeah, Bucky. Your faith is admirable, but when I hear you saying this I call bull. Bucky didn’t like superhuman Steve, he preferred the small one, and I know that people will say that it was just because Bucky wasn’t needed by him anymore or come up with some other explanation why he didn’t like the bigger Steve, but to me, it will always be “when you were smaller you couldn’t hurt people, now you can”.

4. There is enough Steves Rogers without superpowers out there to fill a whole lifetime, Zemo. And I dunno how you, but I am tired of glorifying Steve Rogers.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Don’t Let The Screen Door Hit You On The Way Out

”It’s never the crime, it’s always the cover-up.” Watergate Lesson #1

Y’know, some bastards need to be cancelled.

The liars, the hypocrites, the betrayers of trust public and private.

The “do as I say, not as I do” anusoids.

Dropkick those bozologists right outta here.

The problem is not people who screw up -- people screw up all the time.

It’s not ideas that later prove to be in error or just plain bad -- all of us at one time or another believed something we now know to be wrong.

No, the problem is those who set themselves us as moral exemplars and then betray the very moral example they proclaim.

Ska-rue those dips.

Cast them into the outer void.

Cast in point: The drugging rapist comedian spent their entire professional career stressing high principles and values, openly saying “look at what I did and do likewise” while deriding members of their own community for not obtaining the heights they did.

A good hunk of that time they spent drugging and raping victims, paying them off to keep silent so they could drug and rape more victims.

Look, back in the day Bob Hope was a notorious philanderer but he and his wife had an understanding and Hope never promoted himself as a moral exemplar (quite the opposite!).

So to find out Hope engaged in consensual adultery with the tacit approval of his wife is neither a big shock not does it undermine any message he sought to convey.

On the other hand, the drugging rapist comedian did espouse a message that millions saw as valid, and they held themselves up as an example for their fans to aspire to.

If we learned said comedian was a garden variety philanderer like Bob Hope, their message and example would be somewhat tarnished but not destroyed; consensual sex gets a tsk-tsk and nothing more, especially if the spouse doesn’t object (and said comedian’s spouse damn well knew what was going on yet didn’t think raping victims drugged into unconsciousness was a deal breaker of a marriage ender).

Some people today hope to this disgraced comedian will die soon so their comedy can be enjoyed publicly again.

Why?

Any good from this rapist’s life has already been done in whatever charitable donations and scholarships they provided, whatever inspiration they gave audiences to help them better themselves before learning of their crimes, and stylistic / topical insights gleaned by other comedians.

The rapist’s comedy routines and TV shows -- all family friendly and morally high minded -- now ring hollow and taste sour.  Whatever comedic insights the rapist had to offer have long since been absorbed by those who followed.

Leni Riefenstahl created two monstrous documentaries -- Triumph Of The Will and Olympiad -- that glorified Nazism while at the same time inventing the cinematic language for depicting mass movements and covering sporting events.

Nobody today ever need watch her original films in order to learn those lessons; thousands of film makers and videographers have applied them elsewhere and the technical lessons remain valid even when divorced from their racist origins.

So be it with the rapist comedian.

Let those who learned from their routines reinterpret those lessons in a form that noi longer contains a poison pill.

Case in point: The comic-turned-film maker presented their work -- no matter how funny the material – as a serious examination of modern moral values.

And, dang, the c-t-f certainly fooled a lot of us.

In their defense, the c-t-f always claimed in public to be a really terrible person, but this was all just c-y-a.

Of course those public admissions were all self-depreciating self-mockery, look how thoughtful and complex the c-t-f films were, how they examined modern life, look how they laid bare the contradictions and conundrums of the human condition.

Then it turns out the c-t-f could not keep their own knickers up and wreaked havoc on a dozen or more lives, rendering all their opinions and observations as worth less that a wadded of soiled toilet paper.

Yeah, the rapist comedian’s crime are worse by at least two orders of magnitude, but the c-t-f only misses a charge of incest by the barest of technicalities.

And it doesn’t matter that c-t-f’s spouse at the time is a batshit crazy homewrecker themselves -- c-t-f knew this then and chose them as a spouse and contributed to the chaos being wreaked in that family.

So, no, you can’t pose your films as Important Serious Examinations Of Modern Morals when you’re acting in a way that would get Dr. Freud to say, “That’s some seriously fucked up shit.” 

Open reprobates like John Waters and Russ Meyer never need worry about failing audience expectations; they’re upfront and honest about their perversions and peccadillos (and to be fair to them, they never screwed up the lives of others the way the c-t-f did).

I used to love the c-t-f’s work and eagerly looked forward to each new one.

Not any more.

You can never trust that viewpoint again, and even the earlier, funnier work is now called into question.

Case in point: This one is smaller, more localized, but I have personal knowledge of it and it’s emblemic of a far larger, far more vast problem.

The retired pastor tried to stay busy, volunteering at their local church and nearby nursing homes, and proposing an outreach for runaway abused teen girls.

It came as quite a shock to learn the retired preacher had been caught in a classic honey trap sex sting:  They texted what they thought was a 16 year old girl but turned out to be an adult investigator trolling for sexual predators.

The retired pastor got probation and registered as a sex offender.  There was a big public confession and an apology to their church, a contrite promise of repentance, and a big heaping helping of forgiveness all around.

There but for the grace of God, right…?

The retired pastor wanted to resume the runaway abused teen girl project.

Oh, they would have nothing to do with it directly, of course.

Just be available to advise others as needed…

Well, that waved more red flags than a May Day celebration in Tiananmen Square.  Even assuming the retired pastor was incredibly naïve -- more naïve than any retired pastor has a right to be -- the sheer optics alone would be incredibly bad.

And the chance of somebody finding out and filing a complaint for reasons real or suspected would put the church sponsoring it at terrible risk.

Dude, you screwed up.   That door is shut to you.

Organized religions are imploding right now, and no matter what faith or denomination, the reason is inevitably the same:  Predators of all stripes infiltrate the structure to find victims.

Sexual abuse ranks high, but there’s also financial abuse, emotional abuse, and just plain old abuse of power.  

It’s ultimately the exact same problem as that of the rapist comedian and the comic-turned-film maker:  Hypocrisy.

Religious leaders are as human as anyone else, few are the plaster saints we make them out to be.

And there are those who make mistakes, and those who hide their personal peccadillos from others (word among the BDSM community is that quite a few religious leaders enjoy those reindeer games), but those have the common fucking sense not to videotape themselves (remember, if you make a copy of anything you’re giving the universe tacit permission to share it and if the copy is digital, the sharing is compulsory).

The worst part is that the very victims of these predators are not only quicky to forgive these abuses and let them continue, but viciously turn on those victims that dare speak out against their abuse!

This is the reason organized religion is collapsing:  It’s become a cesspool of sexual predators and con artists.

Church leaders who decry the declining numbers are eager to blame a lack of spiritual discipline, a loss of faith, cultural influence, and of course that ol’ standby, Satan hizzowndamsef.

But when you ask people who left why they left, the answer is almost always they grew tired of being taken advantage of.

Physician, heal thyself. 

The problem we face today is that too many people impose standards on others they are not merely incapable of following themselves (which would be a sad but typically human failure) but are utterly unwilling to even make the attempt.

We need so-called cancel culture.  We need to expose hypocrites, denounce their hypocrisy, and deny them access to new victims.

Don’t feel sorry for the bastards who get caught, get angry over the harm they inflict.

    © Buzz Dixon

[patricia-von-arundel]

A World on Its Side: Part 1 - Prisoners of Fortune - Chapter 1

Art by @zaaschila​

Rating: M

Summary:  It began with a simple mission: to rescue the Imperial children from beneath the palace in Enbarr. But when Jeralt brings home with him the sole survivor - Edelgard - he sets in motion a chain of events that will forever alter the course of the war to come in Fódlan. Soon, Edelgard and Byleth will find themselves joined by unlikely allies... and by ghosts from a past neither knew existed.

Prologue

Imperial Year 1180

Keep a close eye on that one, they said. 

Don’t trust what you see. This animal is feral. Rabid.

Anaxi had taken it all very seriously, at the start. Checking upon the hour, every hour. Keeping logs of all that he observed, exactly how much food was consumed at each meal, the length of sleep cycles. He asked the questions his training had told him to ask, despite receiving no more response than cold, bright eyes briefly meeting his own. By the book, just as he had tried so hard to do in his magic training. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that it worked no better here than it had there. Maybe he just wasn’t a by-the-book kind of man.

He had been assured that this was a truly plum position, especially for one on such a tenuous second chance as he. He was in charge of guarding no ordinary prisoner, kept only to provide a means to gain influence and information - this one was somehow... different. And had once escaped, almost a year previously, killing two guards to do so. (This information had weighed heavily on Anaxi’s mind, in the earliest days of his posting. Now, he questioned the truth of it, honestly - it was rumored there had been accomplices. This one hardly seemed to have the will to move, much less kill.)

A plum position, yes. A very special position. 

So why did he feel as if once more, existence had chosen him as the butt of some nasty, inescapable joke?

All he’d ever wanted was to be noticed - to be something more than just another cog in an army that seemed less a well-oiled machine and more some mighty automaton collapsed to ruin, pilfered for scrap and beginning to rust. The children of Shambhala were taught of their own great legacy - descendants of those who had brought down gods! - but Anaxi had very early found himself questioning if any of that greatness truly remained. What was the value of legacy if no one lived up to it? 

As a naïve child, he had dreamed of being the one to do it - to rise up, and reclaim that glory his ancestors had called their own. False gods once more reigned across a beastly, primitive world, worshiped by vermin. He could bring them down. He could become the rebirth of true history. An end to stagnation! Words with meaning, more than parroting ideals, proverbs of steel left without bite!

But it was not to be, of course - beyond boyhood, he remained devoted to such a cause, but knew the war would never be his to lead. Instead, he watched as his dreamt-of reclamation nonetheless began, plans unfurling first as rumor, but soon as proud promises that the end of that world of primitive creatures and nefarious false deities would soon, finally, be at an end. 

Anaxi was then in military training - the perfect place for lapping up every drip of information. Soon, the gossip all seemed to whisper. Soon, soon, soon. 

Then they called for more mages - training for any willing to do what was necessary for the greater good. And once more, Anaxi felt a calling. There were moles on the surface now. Infiltrating. Risking everything. But they could do nothing without magic. 

Anaxi was accepted. 

Half a year later, he was dismissed. 

There was no dramatic story to tell, no grand plot against his future - he simply proved to be, in a word, lousy at magic. Juggling words, his hands, and the direction of power, all at the same time, turned out to be more than he was able to handle. 

A blow - and one that, at the time, had seemed likely to leave unfading bruises to his pride. He had believed in himself - believed he truly had something to give for the glorious future of this woefully maligned land. 

But eventually he realized... He still believed it. He just had to figure out the true capacity by which he might show it. It wasn’t magic or leadership - so be it. But whatever it was, he would search until he found it. Deciding he needed a position that allowed time for rumination on the matter, and speaking to some of his former tutors in spellwork, he had received his current security position: monitoring the most valuable of prisoners. The advantage of it was that they were also the least likely to escape - far darker means than wood and iron kept them in their cells. 

This one, though - this one was kept apart from the others. He could see the dark magic, writhing, powerful, that worked its way across the entrance to the tiny, bare room. There was a bed in there, a wooden bucket, cleaned twice daily (thankfully not by him), a small basin of water...

And the prisoner. 

Face covered by a cowl, though he did not know if that was by order, or choice. Rarely moving - sitting on the edge of that narrow bed, most of the time, looking down. Lean, in those dark fabrics: more a wraith than a feral animal. Still and silent. And those cold, bright eyes...

He no longer bothered to do hourly checks - just the occasional one, and he scribbled “no unusual activity” in the log for each required entry at the end of each tedious session. He spent most of his time cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall and trying not to doze off. He wasn’t supposed to engage beyond official questions, but he really wished the prisoner would talk, even just a little bit. Babble or something, like some of the prisoners in the regular cells, where he had been before. Some sound, any sound; something besides his own bored sighs. 

He told himself he was accustomed to the silence by now. It wasn’t true. 

Still, he remained. Considering the future. Maybe he would see that outside world of beasts, when it had been taken. Maybe there was still a way he could assist in the taking. Maybe - 

He jerked his head from the wall, sat up straighter. 

A noise. Around the corner. Echoing - a cry, quickly silenced. A muffled thud. 

The prisoner’s head turned. 

That sharp face, beneath the cowl -

It was smiling.

-

Imperial Year 1159

For most of the journey, it had rained. Like the clouds were following them - a dark thought, but an amusing one. And rather appropriate - she felt a little cloudy still herself, though far stormier than the steady spring showers she watched through the window. 

The distance was not great, but the entire journey was across craggy hill and mountain, and the rain did nothing to improve the conditions of the roads. Even calling them “roads” was being generous - they were often hardly more than muddy goat paths. The carriage made slow, steady, laborious way along them, a crawl that made what should have been a 10-hour journey become instead a day and a half. She spent the short night at the inn tossing and turning, wishing desperately that this part could be over with - that she could just get there, and be done with it. 

Be done with him. 

The pompous, self-righteous picture of perfect piety sitting across from her in the carriage. 

“I’m perfectly capable of getting there myself,” she had said - multiple times. 

“Of course you are. But it wouldn’t do for a young lady for your stature to arrive at such a place alone. Besides, I would like to pay my respects to the Goddess at her own eternal resting place.”

Of your stature - she should have laughed every time he said it. As if she didn’t know exactly why he wanted to accompany her. It had less to do with the Goddess or any “eternal resting place,” and far more to do with hoping to kiss the holy rump of the Archbishop and any powerful noble rumps that happened to be there besides. 

She had wanted to go to Fhirdiad, to study sorcery. But no - no, to him, that was not good enough. Not after he had been denied his own place, over a decade before, their mother citing the stiff cost. Where the gold had been found now, she did not know. Perhaps the Goddess herself thought to give her a year’s respite from pious social-climbers, and had vomited money down upon them. 

She smiled at the mental image, then quickly forced it away - but not quickly enough. “There’s a happier expression,” he said. “From what I’ve heard, it will soon be hard to hide that happiness. You’ll like it here - it is the heart of all Fódlan.”

She had her doubts, but said only, “Perhaps.”

The sun was trying to find its way out as they made the final, winding climb - he’d probably see that as some kind of sign. There were other carriages now, a few open wagons, and one small party on horseback. She envied the last; they had probably made the best time of any of those arriving. 

Arriving at Garreg Mach Monastery. 

She had been here once before, though she did not remember it. There had been border skirmishes that threatened to turn deadly, and her mother had brought her here for shelter until the situation was resolved. She’d been only two or three at the time. 

Looking up at it now, she wondered how impossibly enormous it had appeared to a child so young. Even now, it was imposing... almost monstrous. What message was intended? If she asked, she was certain the answer would be “sanctuary.” But she felt no warmth, no comfort. She felt threat. 

...Which even she had to admit to herself was ridiculous. Certainly, she did not view the Church of Seiros with the same blind devotion as some, but this was no more than a series of buildings. Large, looming buildings, but still just stone and wood for all that. The worst that might happen here was admonishment for her abysmal bow skills. No need to be over-imaginative. 

How often had she been told that? 

A lot. 

They were stopped at the gates, and a knight with a long scroll of paper opened the door, bowing his head as he did so. “New student?”

She opened her mouth, but was not given a chance to speak: “Yes - my sister.”

She bristled, but only until the knight looked at her then, not him. She appreciated that. “Your name?”

She sat up a little straighter, head held high. “Anselma von Arundel.”

Whatever happened later...

This was how it began.

-

Her room in the dormitory was larger than her room at home - significantly so. For all the value of the Arundel lands compared to much of the rest of Adrestia, they might as well have been in Faerghus (and practically were), and the manor house reflected as much: low and long, with a thatched roof and small rooms built to retain as much heat as possible through long, cold, damp winters. 

The room at the Officers Academy was high-ceilinged, bright, airy. She wasn’t about to admit it to Volkhard, but this offered a very positive first impression of a school she had fought tooth and nail not to have to attend. 

She left the two trunks of her things beside the bed - she could unpack them later. For now, while Volkhard was off kissing rings and the toes of Saints’ statues, it seemed the perfect opportunity to come to know her new surroundings a bit better, before the welcome dinner to be held that evening. 

(That, she was actually looking forward to - because it would offer her her first glimpse of her house leader. Alger von Vestra, cousin of the recently-recognized new marquis - even in the remote northwest of Adrestia, the Vestra family was... notorious. Infamous. Volkhard’s pursed-lip displeasure at the choice had alone been enough to leave Anselma intrigued.)

She closed and locked the door to her room - something she would have to try to grow accustomed to doing, though slipping her very own key in her pocket made her feel foolishly adult - and gave her new home a longer look around than she had coming in. Walls, and more walls. Paths, and more paths. Grass. A lot of grass. All very well-kept, attractive, but - 

I’m going to get lost. Often. 

Perhaps forever, and she could become the Eternal Lost Soul of Garreg Mach, a tale told to frighten new students and see that they were in their rooms come curfew. Better than a year here trying to woo some noble so she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life offering utterly sincere prayers under Volkhard’s thumb. Though lost souls probably couldn’t visit Enbarr, something she rather wanted to do, as long as she was this close. She’d never been anywhere bigger than the hamlets and villages scattered across the Arundel lands, and most of those had more goats than people. 

From her left, a sudden crash - loud and close enough to make her jump. She whirled, startled, to find a girl of about her own age. The girl’s eyes were wide, and her face was flushed a brighter color than her rather-bright hair. She was already in uniform - Anselma only noticed because the collar was incorrectly fastened, and had come askew. At her feet, the source of the crash: a pile of large books that had to stack almost as tall as she was. 

Their eyes met, and the girl’s face grew even brighter. “I... I’m sorry. I tripped on the edge of the path. None of them hit you, did they?” She held up a hand, almost as if offering something. “I can heal you. I mean... if you need it.” She looked almost hopelessly eager - like a naughty puppy trying to wag its tail to avoid trouble. 

“They didn’t hit me. I’m fine.”

The girl’s hand dropped, and so did her shoulders. “Oh. Good. But... I’m still sorry. And sorry if it’s rude, but I... I need to pick these up. Quickly.” She gathered them with almost frantic hurry, hugging them to her chest with one arm in nearly as much disarray as they had been in on the ground. 

They were just going to go everywhere again if she tried to get them all like that. “May I help?”

For a moment, the girl’s eyes met hers once more. “You... you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. All my things are already in my room.”

“I... it would be easier. If you’re sure you don’t mind. I would... very much appreciate it.”

“Not at all.” She got the rest before the girl could attempt any more herself, then followed her to her room - “Hey, it’s right next to mine!”

“Really?” The girl was fumbling for her key, her books in danger of going everywhere yet again. Finally, she managed to shove the door open with her shoulder. “But your clothes... I thought they said the nobles mostly take second-floor rooms? That’s... what someone told me, anyway. When I was applying.” She dumped the books on her bed, so Anselma did the same. “Are you a noble?”

She laughed - she couldn’t help it. “Theoretically. More like Lady of the Goats. I’m Anselma von Arundel, and I’d bet my last 100 gold the name means absolutely nothing to you.”

For the first time, the girl smiled. She really had a very eye-catching face, especially those heavy-lidded blue eyes. “I don’t think I should take that bet. I don’t have 100 gold. I’m Cornelia Arnim.”

“Cornelia Arnim, who likes to read.”

“Well... not just... I like to read, but -” She stopped abruptly, and turned to stare out the window. Her eyes once more went wide. “I... my apologies. I have to go. Right now. The wagon is hired, and I have to get the rest of my stuff - if the driver’s not back to Enbarr by sunset, he charges for another day. I’m sorry, I have to -”

“I’ll help,” Anselma said - and at the door, took off running. The gates were the one thing she knew how to find, and she’d been cramped in a carriage for nearly two days. “Come on, hurry! We can get it all!”

Cornelia’s voice, calling after her: “Are we allowed to run?!”

“Nobody said we couldn’t!”

Behind her, she could hear the quickening footfalls, hurrying to catch up.

-

He had never had the richest lands, nor the richest life. Nonetheless, Volkhard von Arundel had always felt blessed by the Goddess. Truly blessed. He had never lacked for food, or shelter, or clothing. Losing his parents - his father when he was 12, to an injury from a horse kick; his mother when he was 16, to an inflammation of the lungs - had been hard, and attempting to raise Anselma, only 5 years old when he became her guardian, even harder. He had become lord and parent, and in doing so forewent his lifelong goal - something he had never truly abandoned until then - of being the first Arundel to attend the Officers Academy. 

Still, he felt he had risen well to one of the Goddess’ accompanying challenges - as lord, he had managed to arrange for increased sales of meats, furs, and cheeses across the border, into Faerghus. It not only allowed for fresher goods to be sold, it also meant less travel and higher prices - much of Faerghus still highly reliant on imported goods to feed and clothe its population, and paying a premium to do so - which in turn led, for the first time Volkhard knew of in recorded history, to significantly greater profit across the soil-poor Arundel lands. Anselma might complain of all the sheep and goats, but he suspected she would change her tune soon enough, when she truly understood all that those animals had brought her. 

But that was the other challenge of the Goddess: Anselma. 

Here, he feared his plans had not fared so well. Maybe it was losing her parents so young, and then being allowed too much indulgence and freedom as he focused most of his attention on their livelihood. She had had a nursemaid, of course, and later there were several young scholars willing to take low-paid positions in exchange for a recommendation to carry along with them at departure, but perhaps none of them had been firm enough, disciplined enough, for one such as Anselma. She had been pushing boundaries - if not outright leaping over them - her entire life, and showed little inclination to attempt to stop doing so even now. She spoke her mind even when her thoughts were highly unorthodox - even vulgar - then five minutes later refused to speak at all. She had a self-righteous pride the Saints themselves would find trying - and Volkhard was himself certainly no saint. 

She accused him of sending her to Officers Academy solely to see his own dreams fulfilled, and perhaps there was an element of that. Certainly, the offer from the Central Church to pay for her time here had come as an unexpected, very pleasant surprise, after he had so long ago seen his own dream of attending dashed. 

But there was also the hope that it might instill in Anselma more discipline - and, perhaps, a modicum of piety. She did not yet recognize the value of such things in arranging a successful marriage - nor, as yet, did she seem to recognize the value of a successful marriage in and of itself. It was a sign from the Goddess, surely: she had rewarded him as a faithful servant, for his increased donations each year to the church as his own wealth slowly grew, and now she had sent a sign she did not intend to forget him... nor even his wayward younger sister, difficult though she might be to reach. 

He had never had the opportunity to visit Garreg Mach; when their mother had fled here with young Anselma, he had been 14 years old, and already lord in name if not in practice: he remained behind. This visit was not one he intended to squander, and he allowed Anselma to shoo him from her new dormitory with little protest. There were things he must do. 

The cathedral itself: that was where he must go first. One of the oldest structures in Fódlan, and - as he could confirm for himself now, staring up at it with his own awe-struck eyes - very likely the most beautiful. It was a far cry from the squat little stone church he had attended all his life. He could only imagine the glory of seeing this place filled, hundreds of rapturous voices rising even above the rafters, all the way to the heavens and the ears of the Goddess herself... Back at home, it was usually only himself, Anselma (if she hadn’t woken up early enough to disappear first), and a handful of the oldest inhabitants of the nearly villages who attended worship. Much - too much - of Adrestia had seen the dissolution of the Southern Church as an excuse to turn their backs on the Goddess. 

The money in his pocket - he’d brought it for just this visit to the cathedral. More than he could truly afford to give, but it wasn’t only for himself - it was also for Anselma, and her future, and the future of the Arundel name. Perhaps a husband in Enbarr, children to cure some of Anselma’s high-spiritedness, and security for the family beyond wools sold to Fhirdiad and the frigid borderlands to its north: that would be all and more Volkhard would ever ask of the Goddess. His final gift, then, would be himself. Should Anselma bear a son to take over the family lands, he intended to retire here, and dedicate the rest of his life to the Goddess as a monk.

(Yes, of course, some would call his desire for a male heir antiquated and ridiculous - Anselma likely among them. But he had no qualms about being viewed as old-fashioned, and as long as he was alive and serving as Lord Arundel, he would pick an heir as he saw fit.)

It felt satisfying, dropping the gold into the collection basket beside the entrance. He walked inside slowly, breathing deep of hushed, rarefied air. This was where the Archbishop herself came to pray. This was where the Goddess dwelled. This was where the Saints might watch over Fódlan, with all their holy wisdom. 

He could feel them all. 

The space was enormous - cavernous. His steps echoed now, as did many of the prayers offered from the pews. The nave was more filled than he would have expected - and many of those praying or sitting in silent contemplation were in the uniforms of students. Some with their families, but just as many were alone - here of their own volition? If so, it must bode well for their potential influence on Anselma’s faith... or lack thereof. 

He allowed himself, very briefly, to have a seat and a prayer of his own: a prayer that he was making the right decision. A prayer that this was truly the will of the Goddess. 

Then, he went to the left. Down the aisle. 

Just as the letter had said - a courtyard. A knight stood in the doorway. He ducked into a quick bow. “My apologies - this area is currently off limits.”

“My name is Volkhard von Arundel.” The words, too, came from the letter. “I am expected.” 

Like magic - the knight stepped wordlessly aside. 

The man outside had his back turned, looking out over the wall at the world spread before them, so very, very far below. He was wearing robes and the distinctive cloth tri-cornered hat of a monk. 

“You came, then, Lord Arundel,” he said - and only then turned to duck his head in greeting. “Well met. The Archbishop will be pleased at your willingness to come even this far.”

“I would do anything the Archbishop asked of me. As I have already put into writing. I would gladly do so again, and seal it with my own hand.”

The monk almost smiled - he had a youthful face, but something of his expression spoke of greater years. “I think your presence here is assurance enough. Your sister - she has also arrived?”

“Yes. Though she is probably more eager to nose around than to begin her studies.”

The monk laughed at that. Very briefly. “She is not the first such student, nor will she be the last. Worry not - there are eyes everywhere at Garreg Mach, especially as new students arrive. She will be kept to approved areas. For her own safety, of course.” He glanced around, as if to make certain none of those eyes he spoke of watched them. “Now - about the... small matter... I alluded to in my letters. Dangerous to all of the Church - and all of the people of Fódlan. You remember all of this, I presume?”

“Of course.” The letter - the second he had received - had come with instructions to burn it... and a chit for the full cost of Anselma’s time at the Officers Academy. From any other source, he would have of course immediately smelled a rat, but from the Church itself - “Whatever I can do to assist you in this matter, I give you my word, I will do it.”

A curt nod. “My thanks, Lord Arundel. Come, then - let us speak of his more privately. And perhaps over a cup of tea? I fear all I need to tell you may take quite some time...”

-

Imperial Year 1180

Anaxi scrambled to his feet, reaching for the shortsword at his belt. He could feel himself shaking - and he could feel the cold eyes of the prisoner still, staring at him through all that crackling, surging magic. 

I probably just fell asleep. Fell asleep, and had one of those dreams that wake you right back up, like the one where you miss a step and your foot jerks in real life. 

Then why had the prisoner been looking at him? Why that smile?

He could hear something new now. It sounded like... breathing.

Panting, eager breathing. 

Just around the corner. 

On the surface world, beastly creatures stalked their prey. They made a game of it - toying. Sending eyes wide, flesh quivering, hearts racing. Fear - they feasted upon it as surely as upon muscle and marrow. 

He was prey. 

Cold sweat, beading along his skin. 

He drew his sword. As silently as he could. As if whatever lurked around the corner did not already know he was there. 

He wished now, once more, for magic. 

The heavy breathing had slowed. There was no other sound. His own breath had long caught. 

Then -

A slow, sliding, heavy step closer. 

Another.

He held the sword up. Breathing, suddenly, in harsh, erratic gasps. “Halt!” His voice shook, too - and suddenly, irrationally, he wondered if the prisoner would laugh at him. “None are permitted here!”

“Oh?” The voice was deep... sonorous... and very close. “I do not recall asking.”

“I have a weapon!”

“...Glorious.”

He was grabbed by a blur of movement and pain, the shortsword falling from his hand as he was slammed, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, into the cold stone of the wall behind him. 

But colder still was the blade that speared his middle. 

He heard his own desperate, choked groan. 

Eyes. Colder even than the prisoner’s. 

Then the blade was gone - jerked mercilessly from his belly - and he was released, collapsing in a heap on the floor. 

Blood. Hot. It was so hot.

Something to give for the glorious future of Shambhala...

His life.

It was hard to focus - darkness dancing around his eyes. Inside his head. 

The last thing he saw: the one who had killed him. Walking through that crackling wall of spellwork as if it was no more than cobwebs. 

And the prisoner’s eyes, watching him die. 

[benvoliosantodomingo]

@ofrosso asked for / any mythology au  mentioned / @romroses (based on the myth of theseus and the minotaur) 

how strange, that the only thought bellamy should have as he makes his way towards his inevitable death, is that crete is unseasonably warm for so late in the year. a gentle breeze rustles through the trees that provide him with shadow as he makes his way towards the imposing structure of the maze, but it provides little comfort, does little to dry the sweat that his already starting to bead on the skin of his arms, spots where the parts of his armor don’t quite meet. maybe it isn’t warm, he thinks, as the imposing blocks of grey slate that house the beast come into his view. maybe this is what the thrill of the kill is supposed to feel like. maybe his body is just trying to prepare him, to heat him into a frenzy from the inside like a blacksmith’s forge.

he sees no sign of roman, and for a moment he wonders if the prince was lying to him, perhaps he’d decided to use bellamy’s own plan against him, to trick him into the beast’s jaws for certain--bellamy was a prince in his own right, one that had been cast aside, had only just arrived in the kingdom of his father, but a prince nonetheless. it would be a boon for the montague line, to be able to claim his blood.

he’s startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his arm, one that stills his efforts to draw his sword. roman wears a black hood in an effort to obscure his features, clutches something between his hands. “are you sure about this?” he whispers, and his fingers tighten just a fraction around bellamy’s arm--as if he is trying to divine surety by the flexing of muscle, the temperature of skin. “no one has ever come out of that place alive--they don’t care if your father is poseidon or the king of athens. they will kill you if they get the chance.”

bellamy exhales slowly and spares a glance at the structure in front of them. you would never know the horrors inside, if no one saw fit to illuminate you of such. he turns back to roman and nods his head in the affirmative. “i cannot sit back in the comforts of my father’s palace, while people sacrifice their lives. i value my life exactly the same as theirs.”

roman sighs and mutters something about bellamy being too noble for his own good, but does not hesitate to move into action. he loops his fingers around bellamy’s sword belt, and begins the work of tying a length of red string tightly to the leather. “genevieve gave me this.” he says in way of explanation. “i’ll be holding the other end while you’re in there. all you have to do in order to find your way back is follow it.”

it’s simple--so simple it's a wonder that no one else had considered such a thing before now.

after the work of keeping the two of them together through the darkness is finished, roman looks at him for a long moment before throwing his arms around bellamy’s shoulders. “be careful.” he says, and bellamy can only nod in response. they both know he can’t make any promises, that speaking out loud of his survival would only be tempting the gods, who have already been angered enough. “for my sake, if not your own.”

the two of them manage to open the doors, revealing only by the light of the moon one of the great stone walls of the maze. roman hands him a torch from a sconce on the wall, but he makes no move to follow after bellamy as he comes to the first turn. from this point on, bellamy is alone with the beast, to live or die.

he can hear the thing, even if he can’t see it as he works his way slowly through each path. it howls, but not like a wolf trying to communicate with the pack--whatever lies at the heart of the labyrinth sounds like it cries out in some kind of pain--or maybe bellamy’s kind heart just wants to ascribe some kind of reason to all of the senseless death that has occurred within this place, for so many years. in the dark, with his life hanging by the string that pulls gently at his waist, he thinks it would be easy to believe just about anything.

it's difficult to keep track of the passing of time, but he’s fairly certain that he’s only been traversing the passages for a short while when he comes to his first dead end. a longer stretch goes by before he comes to the second. all the while, he could swear that someone was following his every step--that he could feel the distinct weight of a gaze on the stretch of skin at the back of his neck where his armor does not reach. if it is the creature, he wonders why it doesn’t just strike, while his back is turned? maybe it's stalking him, in the same way that predators track their prey across the forest floor, putting them into the perfect position before they go in for the kill. maybe it's just the spirit of one of the people who had come to an end here, taunting him for thinking he possessed the skill necessary to take on such a thing.

i must be close to the heart of it now, he thinks to himself, after a small eternity seems to have unraveled itself not unlike the spool and string. he wraps his fingers around the hilt of his sword, as he has before taking each corner, and makes the turn on an exhale of breath--only to be presented with a figure that resembles a human being, more than any kind of half-animal, or any of the other horrific tales he’s been told. they have the pale skin of a human, streaked with dirt and the dried blood of numerous victims, green eyes that come to rest on bellamy’s own unflinchingly, a shock of dark hair. for a moment, he is simply transfixed by the way each muscle moves as they stalk closer to him, a cruel smirk pulling at the corner of their mouth, revealing sharp canine teeth.

“you truly must be stupid,” they speak, but bellamy does not move to draw his sword--he entered the maze for the purpose of defeating the creature that has been hunting his people for sport, he did not come in here to cause pain to another human being. not when the evidence of pain inflicted becomes clearer and clearer to his mind--all they’ve probably ever known are the walls of this place, the terrified screams of those abandoned to it, those who would go to any length of cruelty to keep themselves alive.

were they born with this blood on their hands, like the stories they tell to the citizens back in athens? or were they created by this darkness, by this elaborate cage designed to keep them away from everyone else, to give them no choice but to live with their rage, survive by their rage?

“maybe so,” bellamy replies. “but i had to try. my people don’t deserve to be brought here like lambs to slaughter.”

they sneer and stalk closer, like they’re waiting to see if they can inspire some kind of reaction from him.  “you’re a prince, you’re all bred like hunting dogs, with cruelty in the marrow of the bone. what do you care about the lives of fourteen people, when you have a city’s worth?” come on, each step seems to say, bare your teeth, prove you’re just like the others.

“i set my life the same as theirs--and i have no intention of hurting you. i came here to hunt a creature, i was lied to.” he pulls the sword from its sheath, and lays it down on the ground that remains between them. “if you really require the blood of my people, take mine. i was fathered by the sea-god, i claim the house of the king of athens. surely the ichor that courses through me will saitate you.”

he expects them to spring into action, in the same way a predator who has made up its mind to strike does the deed quickly and with efficiency. they only pick up the blade and swing it once through the air experimentally, before placing the tip at bellamy’s throat, holding it there. “in case you haven’t noticed, that is a feat not easily accomplished.” their voice is quieter, a husky sound from the back of their throat. “i must have slaughtered hundreds of your people by now, and i still feel it.”

hunger. bellamy’s mind supplies. it has made beasts of lesser beings than them, terrible, howling things that have done what so many could not--learned to live with constant pain.

“what about freedom?” bellamy manages, even though every exhale of breath brings the skin of his neck closer to the tip of the blade. “maybe what you’re feeling isn’t hunger at all. maybe you’ve been trapped your whole life and you’ve been raging at the walls, at the constant twisting and turning.” he grins, slowly moves  his hand to the string tied to his belt. it's a risk, they could easily use bellamy’s own blade to sever his connection, but it's one he feels he must take.

“i could get you out. the prince, he’s nothing like his father. he could protect you. i could protect you.”

they blink at him, and bellamy’s declaration sits in the stilted warm air between them for a moment before it seems to enter into their mind, before they can make sense of it in any capacity. “why would either of you choose to protect me?” they ask, their cadence blunt and sharp not unlike the blade in their hand.

bellamy grin turns into something softer, something bold in its tenderness. “because, that’s who i am. i look after people who have been hurt. and if you let me take you out of here, if you take my offer of shelter and safety, then my labor is done. my people are safe. you can be more than this, you could even be forgiven, one day.”

they chuckle and roll their eyes as they lower the blade, let it drop to the floor with a clang. “you really are stupid, princeling. for being noble enough to charge in here, for thinking that there’s redemption for me somewhere.” they meet his gaze, and for a moment, in the hazy glow of the torchlight, bellamy thinks he sees something like hope flash across green eyes. “you’ll need someone to look out for you, in return.”

bellamy touches the bones of their cheek gently, clears away some of the accumulated dirt and blood. they flinch, expecting a blow before such a gentle gesture, but they do not pull away. “without a doubt, my friend. do you have a name? something i can call out in my time of great need?”

the corner of their mouth pulls up in something like a smile--a hesitant thing, a beautiful thing in bellamy’s humble opinion. “they called me marcelo, once.”

he nods, gently moves his hand to rest on their shoulder. “follow me, dear marcelo.”

[sasorikigai]

BLOOD TIES - Prelude Meta

Years ago, a great war between realms brought the universe to the brink of destruction. In their most desperate hour, Earthrealm's champions rallied in strength and spirit—saving their world from the forces of evil. In the years that followed, there existed a peace between realms for the first time since the Mortal Kombat tournaments began. But peace did not last for long...

The story begins in the Himalayan wilderness with Kenshi Takahashi battling infamous Red Dragon member Hsu Hao and other Red Dragon members with Takeda Takahashi, his son. While Kenshi is quick to attempting to subdue his enemies in order for Takeda to escape, Kenshi incites by trespassing the Shirai Ryu Territory, which smoothly transitions forth Hanzo Hasashi’s abrupt intervention, which quickly disposes of Hsu Hao by a skewered kunai to his chest, with a flaming fist impaling the Red Dragon’s head. 

Even in this brief fighting scene, it could be referenced that Kenshi and Hanzo has been close friends, who would reciprocally save each other’s lives, and acting not only on vengeance, but justice (but this parallel and ongoing concept when it involves Hanzo will come later on, repeatedly, in fact). 

"Good is not nice, polite, well-mannered, self-righteous, or naive, though good characters may be some of these things."

Hanzo Hasashi may be a redeemed character who has gone through hell and back to experience growth and redemption, but he is a natural loner - a lone wolf throughout the franchise, ever since he lost his family, his clan, along with his life. His senses of duty may force him to perform heroic acts, but he does not consider chitchat or politeness to be parts of their obligations, lest someone really deserves it through mounted trust and reciprocation as it is extremely hard to downright trust anyone. Also, he may want to be an affable person, but Hanzo believes that being nice does not always get things done, and that doing good requires them to be harsh and cruel, particularly if he has to teach something. This may be an intermittent effect, applied only when necessary; to train Takeda, who wasn’t obviously handpicked by Hanzo himself, but taking care of him on Kenshi’s behalf. 

Hanzo may be no longer an Anti-Hero, nor Vigilante Man, but he still harbors that significant dualism in a sense that he could be a genuinely friendly, sociable, caring person, always looking out for his friends and family and trying to do the right thing. It's just that this niceness doesn't extend to giving free passes to the truly vile and horrific among his enemies (Quan Chi in canon, Havik in the comics). They are the reason why the villain should Beware the Nice Ones, especially since Hanzo is not gonna wait to be angered or snap before the inevitable beatdown/killing begins. Hanzo will find them, will stop them and (if they're lucky) will kill them before they can hit that Berserk Button (where Hanzo fails, which will come later on with Hanzo vs. Havik fight). 

The Shirai Ryu Temple is full of Shirai Ryu warriors who lost their families in the Netherrealm War, sole survivors like Hanzo Hasashi himself. It’s a jarring reminder of his death, and resurrection as Scorpion, as he would serve as the Enforcer of the Netherrealm on Quan Chi’s leash... With all things past him, as Kenshi Takahashi helped Hanzo to get him out of the darkness, Hanzo reciprocates the good deed upon them. Kenshi has his own vengeance as Kenshi was performing a deep covert cover mission to eradicate the Red Dragon’s cult leader, Daegon. When his cover was blown, his son living in Thailand was also blown and Suchin (Kenshi’s wife) was killed in gruesome matter before Kenshi could get there, but Suchin was smart enough to hide Takeda in the next town, to escape slaughter. Hanzo takes him in, as he sought revenge and find death. Takeda fears and resents Hanzo, because he is a wraith from hell. Kenshi, intimately knowing of Hanzo’s demons, tells his son that Hanzo conquered his own years ago. When Hanzo catches Takeda running away from the Shirai Ryu Compounds, he catches up to the boy and tells him. 

“You are a survivor, Takeda, like me. But Shirai Ryu do not run. We fight.” 

This philosophy, the strong, iron-willed Sasori Hanzo wears will be a continued ouroboros that will repeatedly return as the comics’ events continue. It will also become the catalyst in Takeda’s harbored strength as he grows from a weak boy to a formidable warrior. 

Hanzo trains Takeda, as the young Takahashi battles Forrest Fox, who comes on top as he gets beaten over and over again. Years later, Takeda simply feints using his speed, instead of countering Fox when he attacks. Hanzo immediately calls Takeda out for playing around, even when he could have utilized his advantage to strike at first opportunity given. Hanzo does not hold back with his criticism, be imposing and charismatic when he needs to be, while also offering protection towards Takeda, as he assigns Fox to protect him. 

"Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death."

Imposing, intimidating and austere, Hanzo Hasashi, at least before the events of MKX storyline still harbors the duality of his personality (Hanzo and Scorpion), Scorpion being that of vengeance, hatred and wrath, while Hanzo is his humanity and compassion. One of the worst things Hanzo’s enemies can ever do with him is to do something that gets him well and truly furious, because rage makes him close to being unbeatable despite him being a mortal being now. He will go into a frenzy and become stronger, faster, braver, more agile and more indestructible than he has ever been, and he will annihilate anyone who stands in his way. In Takeda’s training, Hanzo is most definitely harsher with him than any of the other handpicked ninjas, for Forrest Fox comments on “If you thought Hanzo was a harsh master before, wait until you meet the real Scorpion.” And Hanzo regards the Shirai Ryu as his blood and family - For Hanzo Hasashi is a Grandmaster, a commander cares deeply about their men and exhibits it constantly. A mentor to the officers (generals and ninjas) under them, Hanzo takes a deep personal interest in their welfare and try to keep them out of harm's way. Even those non-kombatants, who stay behind the front defense line (those that work in infirmary, women who take care of the ninjas, as being a traditional Japanese setting, there still are more women non-kombatants than their male counterparts) will be treated with utter respect and made to feel as valued as the ninjas on the front line.

Hanzo thinks of being abruptly interrupted by Raiden - unexpected and unwelcomed - as the Thunder God warned Hanzo of the Netherrealm Invasion damaging cosmic barriers that protect the Earth from realms beyond. A powerful demon from another realm broke through before Raiden could repair them. Hanzo comments that it is Raiden’s fault, and as he recalls his memory, comments to Takeda that if this demon shows up, warns that warriors don’t dance around it, but kill it before it kills him. Forrest Fox, corrupted with the Blood Code, massacres almost all of the Second Shirai Ryu and takes Takeda to Grandmaster Hasashi, who is in a mental entropy; a state produced by a psychedelic from Hanzo’s own poison collection, reliving old times to stroke the fire until vengeance consumes him. He struggled years to control his vengeful spirit, and now he’s lost yet another family, corrupted Fox waits for what Hanzo will become. 

In his poison-induced delirium, Hanzo remembers the tragic, agonizing event, seemingly from a lifetime ago, Hanzo fights against Lin Kuei warriors, and comes across Harumi (Kana) and Satoshi (Jubei), who are solid frozen with Sub-Zero before him. That day, Hanzo has lost everything - his family, his clan - as he thinks himself becoming Scorpion, the hellfire never being able to burn him whole. Takeda refuses to kill Hanzo, and Fox calls on an occasion where Hanzo has been especially hard on him, considering Hanzo handpicked every fighter he trained, except Takeda, and calls him a runner, not a warrior. Hanzo gives into Scorpion’s persona, burning Fox in hellfire, then Takeda splits him in half, killing corrupted Fox as they burn the Shirai Ryu Compounds, and plans to visit Raiden, to have him beg for mercy. 

Since Hellfire is often explicitly magical in nature, it may also have other affects or the way it does what it does is different from conventional fire. While normal fire might melt something with heat, Hellfire may just disintegrate it entirely, or even go against the annihilative nature of the fire itself, as it was shown with corrupted Forrest Fox under the Blood Code. Maybe whatever normal fire affected will be hot after but eventually the heat will die down but with Hellfire, the object may stay hot or even feel cold. More than that, when used on a living creature, Hellfire might not hurt it the same way as normal fire. Instead of burning the body, Hellfire may burn the soul and physical injuries are the result of a wounded spirit that may never heal. And this also goes along with how Hanzo faced his violence; immoral, thriving on hatred rather than love, not only it destroyed communal sense of his wholeness, it left his world in monologue, rather than dialogue. 

Hellfire itself was a stark metaphor of his violence ending by defeating itself, Hanzo Hasashi’s own triad of body, mind and soul. For it had created bitterness in a sole survivor within him and brutality in destroying them as his cruel madness pulverized so many innocents. 

At this point, Hanzo’s hatred towards Raiden is rampant; for he blames the Thunder God for giving him the Kamigodu Dagger, then having the Second Shirai Ryu massacred, to come close to losing almost everything, save for Takeda and his own life. 

[kewltie]

“Do you think His Holiness had forgotten about us by now?” Tanel asks, brows furrowing in concern. “It has been over a week since he had last called upon the Fyre.” He bites down on his lower lip worriedly. “The Furie can’t keep ignoring His Majesty, right? Maybe the Fyre shouldn’t have to pick a fight with the Furie in the first place if he knows he can’t win. Nobody can out stubborn His Holiness.” 

Ein frowns at him. “I see your mouth moving but I don’t see any work being done,” she snaps. “This room won’t clean itself.” 

Tanel huffs. “There’s only two of us here, not counting on His Majesty, how are we supposed to clean this debilitating manor all by ourself anyway? Couldn’t His Majesty pick somewhere better to sulk in?” 

Ein’s left eye twitch. “You brat--!” she starts, reaching toward Tanel but he quickly dodges her grabby hands and makes a dash for the door. 

“Yea, okay, I’m going to clean now. In the other room, preferably,” he declares over his shoulder with a wave as he disappears completely beyond the entertaining chamber. 

“Boys,” she mutters under breath in an aggrieved sigh. For a moment she does not let herself think of the other young man trapped within this manor, but at least his impose exile isn’t a punishment. Refusing to go back to Imperial Quarters or his own palace after his fight with the Furie, the Fyre had set up their new home in an abandoned manor just outside of the Inner Core of Lavaein.

It’s not the first time a consort of a Furie have left the Inner Core to live outside, but it was never at their own volition. It’s either from them having fallen out of favor or a rebuke of their misdeed, but their new Fyre had walked out on the Furie and had not looked back since.

Even a simple marital spat between spouses is elevated to new heights when it’s their Fyre and Furie, the god-king and his consort. 

The Furie’s rules are absolute and he rules absolutely; he won’t bend, not to his subjects, not his friends or family, not to even the gods themselves, and certainly he won’t be cowed by his own husband either. The Fyre’s rebellion is written off as a childish tantrum by many and the whispers in the Inner Core all say the same thing, “it’s hopeless, the Furie won’t be moved.”

This isn’t a battle that the Fyre can hope to win out of sheer will, but even as the day turns into another night and still no words from the Furie, His Majesty remains staunch in his self-impose exile. Ein knows the new Fyre is quiet and unassuming upon first glance, but hidden behind that brittle smile is iron steel that can bear the full weight of their empire if only they let him.  

By the eleventh day of the Fyre’s seclusion, a caravan of Imperial Guard and servants lug several large wooden chests into the courtyard of their manor as every members of their household gather out in front. “His Holiness requests the presence of the Fyre in the Imperial Quarters,” the head steward beseeches. 

Several hands unlock and opens to the five chest to reveal a plethora of glittering jewelries in one, silk and high end fabrics in another, and artifacts of high values and important from various states across Kurenai in the last three. They are treasures beyond compare and they beckon the Fyre to come closer and be move the Furie’s magnanimous gesture. 

The Fyre takes one look at them with uninterested eyes and quickly turns away. “Send it all back,” he says dismissively before walking back into his room to the disbelief of everyone in the courtyard. 

After Ein kicks effectively kick everyone else out, Tanel walks up to her and whines, “Why didn’t the Fyre accept His Holiness’ apology gifts already?! He finally got the Furie’s attention, doesn’t that count for something?”

Ein flicks his forehead. “Not even,” she scolds. Tanel didn’t see the hope that had lit in the Fyre’s eyes for a moment before it quickly squashed out by the disappointment in the so called ‘gifts’. This isn’t what the Fyre wanted at all.

The Furie is the Master of Fate, King of Kings, Lord of the Hallows, and the Anointed One, yet in the matters of the heart is he is like a babe in the wilds.  

On the twelve days, another caravan arrives at the footstep of their door but this time they bring several chests full of books from the Imperial Library. Books are forbidden from leaving the grounds of the Inner Core yet by the order of His Holiness the books are brought here, anyway.

The shallow gifts earlier had failed to gain the Fyre’s interest, but the books are another story.

Ein and everyone else holds their breath as the Fyre walks toward the open chest with a speculative look. “Leave those here,” the Fyre finally says, hands carefully combing over the cover of a large tome, “but you all may go.”

It’s another dismissal. Another failure as the Fyre remains in willful exile.

On the thirteen days, the caravan comes again but there’s no chest this time; a single edict. Ein and Tanel quickly fall on their knees, ready to receive the Furie’s proclamation but His Majesty steps forward and rips the scroll carrying the official words of the Furie from the steward’s hand. “Before he is my king, he is my husband,” the Fyre snaps, green eyes alight with the fire of defiance. “If he wants to say something, say it to my face.”

He takes the scroll with him as he storms back into his room in a huff, leaving them all horrified by his bold act. To reject an edict sent by the Furie is an act of treason, but their Fyre doesn’t seem to even have a drop of care.

“Are we going to be executed?!” Tanel whispers worriedly in her right ear.

She glares at him. “Be quiet.”

After coming out of his shock stupor, the steward quickly composes himself once more and not saying another word to either of them, he hurriedly rush out of the manor with the caravan.

In the next following days after the Fyre’s bold move, there were no more caravans or visitors to their manor. Anxiety reigns in their household with each passing day that they haven’t heard from the Furie. Even His Majesty’s carefully crafted mask of aloof indifference is starting crack under the weight of the disquiet. The Fyre’s rebellion may have pushed His Holiness too far and lost him altogether.

“His Majesty had offended the Furie, now we’ll never leave this place,” Tanel laments over dinner with the two of them as the Fyre went to bed early in a sour mood. Ein had caught him sitting by the window while his book was opened on his lap but his eyes drifted toward the east, beyond the walls of Inner Core where His Holiness reside in. Not even his beloved book could hold his interest for long, not when his longing was near palpable. “I didn’t think there exist anyone as stubborn as His Holiness. It’s like fire on fire.”

Unlike the last few times Tanel’s remarks had earned him her ire and rebuke, this time she couldn’t even argue.

On a boring and unexpected nineteen days since the Fyre had ran away, the doors of their manor is once again grace by visitors. This time there’s no caravan of soldiers and servants, no chests with elaborate gifts, and no steward to bring the personal words of the Furie to their doors because this time the Furie has personally come himself. It’s just him and his personal attendance.

Ein and Tanel quickly drop to the ground with their head pressed against it. “Your humble servant greets His Holiness,” they say. “May the sun rise upon your brilliance and the moon shines on your grace.”

“Rise,” the Furie grunts out, and they get back to their feet just in time to see the Furie stepping pass them without another word to meet the other person who had been quietly watching them.

“My lord,” the Fyre says, dry and humorless. Face carefully neutral, but his shoulders are tense and his hands are fisted at his side, like he’s gearing up for another battle.

The Furie takes a cautious step forward toward him, looking as though he has never felt more unsure than right at this moment. In the glaring lights of the day and in front of the one he had wronged, the Furie is but another young man just like the rest; human, fallible, and hesitant.  

Seeing it all in action, it’s like witnessing two unstoppable objecting colliding. A collision is bound to happen, but nobody knows if the fallout is irreparable.

“The Imperial Quarters,” the Furie coughs into his hand as though to clear his throat as his eyes flit elsewhere for a second, “has been annoyingly quiet without your constant yammering so come back already.” He extents his right hand toward the Fyre and waits.

It’s not an outright apology nor a concession either, but it’s close enough. For the Furie to willingly come here to retrieve the Fyre himself that in itself is a bold statement. As proud and ornery as their Furie this was the equivalent of him lowering his head to ask for the Fyre back.

Ein’s heart is set alight with hope and warmth. They’re young and still new at this whole relationship thing that most take years and years to master, but they’re learning. Clumsily and full of mistakes, they reach toward each other because this bond is may not be their choice but in this way they choose each other.

Something in the Fyre’s break, the frigid cool indifference melting away to a slow creeping smile on his face. “You could have just said you miss me, my lord,” he teases, his voice thick with a merriment that Ein hasn’t heard in so many days.

“Don’t push it,” the Furie says tartly beside him. “I’m not coming here to pick you up if you run out on me again.”

The Fyre snorts in disbelief and even to Ein’s own ears that had sounded like a lie, but for now they’ll let him have it. After all sometimes marriage is about compromise, they both will soon learn.

[armageddon-generation]

The Big Moffat Rewrite: Series 7

Following on from my Series 5 and my Series 6 rewrites

XMAS SPECIAL The Snowmen

The Bells of Saint John

The Rings of Akhaten

Cold War

A Town Called Mercy

The Slow Invasion

Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS

Asylum of the Cybermen

Nightmare in Silver

Dinosaurs on a Spaceship

Hide

Supremacy of the Daleks

Extermination of the Daleks

The Name of the Doctor

The Snowmen

·         11 is still a recluse in Victorian London, but because in my Series 6 he left the Ponds instead of losing them, it’s because he’s convinced he’ll screw up if he travels again. After wiping himself from history he’s lying low, not helping because he’s convinced he’ll make things worse

·         (also he’s totally wallowing in self-pity because of his self-imposed exile from the Ponds)

·         Clara re-convinces him he can make positive change, drags him out of his self-absorption, shows him something new

 CLARA’s CHARACTER

·         Clara gets all of series 7. Moffat originally wanted The Time of the Doctor to be a whole series, so we can fit some of that stuff about the Silence and Trenzalore in here.

·         GIVE CLARA A FUCKING ARC – the Doctor takes an ordinary girl who he thinks is special, and accidentally makes her special

·         Most people seem to prefer Victorian! Clara to her in S7B anyway, so she becomes that flirty, authoritative character by the finale

·         The pieces were already there – her being scared in Cold War compared to her taking charge in Nightmare in Silver, but make it explicit – the Doctor realises he is changing Clara and turning her into the person he met in Victorian London and the Cyberman Asylum

·         This sets up her arcs and relationship with 12 – he brings out the liar in her, forces her to become cold and calculating. This is now already happening with 11

The Rings of Akhaten

·         Introduce Trisha Lem, the head of the Church of the Silence, here. The best part of this episode is The Speech, but we could easily say that the Silence is presiding over the Long Song ceremony to appease the Old God, taking the place of those creatures hunting the little girl. 

·         (I imagine the Church pre-Trenzalore as a kind of Shadow Proclamation for religion - presiding over and safeguarding the religious traditions of species across the universe)

·         This way Trisha and the Silence’s role as confessionals doesn’t come out of nowhere in The Time of the Doctor

·         11 and Trisha’s relationship being so flirty confuses me - as the head of the Church, 11 must associate her with all the pain the Silence caused River and the Ponds. Instead, he acts really flirty but Clara notices he’s faking it – a reflection of their own relationship?

·         Trisha doesn’t understand why 11 is being elusive.

A Town Called Mercy

·         Use this story’s framework – a Western where 11 is forced to protect war criminal – and insert River

·         Partly bc River and Clara interacting seems super interesting

·         River is angry at 11 for ‘replacing’ the Ponds. I also think she’d be competitive with Clara? As she’s scattered all over the Doctor’s timestream, Clara is the only person who really could compete with her

·         As an archaeologist expert on the Doctor River knows about Clara, but can’t tell 11 exactly what she is

·         Also 11 agreeing with River’s more violent methodology is really interesting and shows how they can feed into each other’s dark sides – think River’s line from The Angels Take Manhattan – “One psychopath per TARDIS, don’t you think?”

The Slow Invasion

·         A version of The Power of Three told from the perspective of the Alice character who replaced Craig in S5/6. 11 pops in and out of her life with different versions of Clara

·         It’s revealed that 11 has tried to travel with different versions of Clara before, tracking her down all across the universe, but she always, always dies. Our Clara doesn’t know.

·         Alice is deeply critical of what 11 is doing. She acts almost as his therapist; he comes over for tea and talks to her about what’s going on.

·         Instead of the cubes being alien exterminators, this is a plot buy the Great Intelligence (series 7′s big bad) inspired by the Skith from DWM comic The First and Superman villain Brainiac – i.e. the Intelligence is collecting all information it can about a thing, and then destroys it to stop that knowledge becoming commonplace and therefore losing its value. Specifically, the Intelligence is also investigating Clara (because she keeps appearing across its timeline). The Intelligence’s fascination is a dark parallel to 11’s

·         Alice asks 11 what happened to the Ponds, and he reveals they still think he’s dead. Alice tells 11 to go see them (the ending scenes of The Doctor, the Widow and The Wardrobe). She also tells him to start treating Clara like a real person, not a human question mark

·         11 takes Clara to meet them. River is also there, having dinner. The episode closes with them reconnecting

Pond Life

·         After The Slow Invasion launch this minisode series about life post-11, with River barging in instead of the Doctor

Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS

·         Tie the TARDIS disliking Clara into the series arc – it’s because the TARDIS knows Clara is an anomaly scattered through the Doctor’s timestream. Have a scene in Journey To the Centre of the TARDIS where 11 argues with the TARDIS about it – “Do you know what she is? You do, don’t you? I miss the time when you could talk and just tell me.”

·         The TARDIS went to the end of the universe to throw Jack Harkness off, and 11 abandoned Future!Amy in The Girl Who Waited because the TARDIS hates paradoxes – this is the same kind of thing, just make it clear by the finale (Clara even jumps into the time stream INSIDE the TARDIS)

·         Clara remembers the events of the episode so she can be be active in the investigation of who she is, (also fixing how the episode undoes the three brothers’ arcs, but still insists they grew as people at the end)

          This represents 11 opening up to her and trusting her more

Asylum of the Daleks (retitled Asylum of the Cybermen)

         Roll Nightmare in Silver and Asylum into a 2-parter, because the best part of Nightmare is Mister Clever. Both episodes even have the same ‘someone’s about to destroy the planet’ ticking time bomb.

         The army fighting the Cybermen kidnap 11 to get him to destroy the Asylum with a bunch of expendable grunts they can afford to lose to a suicide mission.·         Clara meeting/interacting with another version of herself is really interesting, so we keep converted Oswin saving them·

         Changing it to Asylum of the Cybermen makes more sense thematically

        All those people, including Oswin, being converted – the Asylum’s security system is its conversion machinery – attackers become part of the security system. Instead of a nano-cloud, use the tiny upgraded Cybermats·

         It would also be scarier (a haunted hospital a la World Enough and Time- botched cybermen > insane Daleks) and would add an interesting layer to Cyberman lore instead of making the Daleks look weak. It can also use old models to explain the Cybermen’s multiple backstories, touched on in The Doctor Falls (”everywhere there’s people, there’s cybermen,” 12 says)·

         The ‘subtracting love’ thing makes more sense with cybermen too – instead of Amy and Rory, focus on Clara holding onto her connection with 11 – emphasising their genuine, emotion-based bond over ‘flirty quirky plot device’·

         This renewed focus on the Cybermen is good because the last full-on Cyberman story was in Series 2 (in The Next Doctor they’re just kind of in the background), and Moffat is much better at writing the body-horror of the Cybermen than he is writing the Daleks.

Nightmare in Silver

·         11 deliberately lets himself be ‘infected’ by the asylum’s nanocloud and begins conversion in attempt to save the converted Oswin’s mind.

·         Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the origin of Handles, the Cyberman head from The Time of The Doctor: the remains of Oswin’s cyber-converted mind downloaded into a head.

·         11 uses Mr Clever to get information about her - i.e. that she just appeared one day as a fully-formed person without any family. This sets up the other Claras being time remnants. 

·         It also lets Mr Clever play more psychological games with 11 and Clara – Mr Clever reveals 11 is scared of Clara, putting more strain on Clara having to hold on to her emotional attatchments

·         The Cybermen are actively trying to get out. This way we dig into their primary drive – survival at all costs,

·         What happens when a Cyberman’s emotional inhibitor is broken, but they don’t die? Driven insane and desperate, and fiercely intelligent.

·         I like the idea of the Cybermen like the Xenomorph in Alien; blending in with thoier broken down, mechanical environment, plugging into it and using to separate and play games with the soldiers.

Dinosaurs on a Spaceship

·         Replace The Crimson Horror with a version of Dinosaurs on a Spaceship with the Paternoster Gang replacing Brian, the Ponds, Nefertiti and that hunter bloke

·         I just really need to see Vastra interacting with her culture OK? Seeing her be taken back to her childhood, opening up to Jenny about it. Her anger, realising what the villain Solomon has done to her people. Use this conflict to call back to and explain how she met the Doctor, how he stopped her slaughtering humans before.

·         Clara and 11 go to the Paternoster Gang for help investigating her other selves

·         Clara researches and finds her past selves, not only in Victorian London but also throughout the 60s and 70s, when she’s helping the past Doctors – finding this research is how the kids find out she’s a time traveller

·         This is how THE DOCTOR REALISES HE’S SEEN HER MANY TIMES BEFORE, setting up The Name of the Doctor’s out-of-nowhere, un-guessable resolution.

·         Dark!11 again. Matt saoid they would’ve explored a ‘meaneer’ version if he’d stayed on for series 8. Clara is the perfect way to bring that out as they lie and manipulate each other for their own ends.

DALEK CIVIL WAR STORY

·         Progenitor Daleks vs the regular Time War model. Display how the Progenitor Daleks are different - each of them having a different weapon/role etc. The crux of the story is that the Progenitor Daleks are better at fighting the Doctor and come close to killing him, but the other Daleks value their ‘purity’ and survival more

·         Maximum Dark!11

The Name of the Doctor

·         When 11 rescues Clara she is changed – she retains bits and pieces of her time remnants’ experiences, it’s at once traumatising and exhilarating

The Time of the Doctor

·         Whereas The End of Time felt stretched-out (135 minutes) this felt really rushed. Make it 2 parts.

·         We see the set-up of Trenzalore and the Church of Silence in the first.

·         The second part is the long siege of Trenzalore – we need to see 11 age fighting these monsters, taking his turn being left behind, the tragedy of him slowly losing his memory, focusing on his character

·         We can also flesh out the citizens of Trenzalore and Christmas so their safety is important to us

·         Let’s see Madame Kovarian and her splinter cell break off from the main Church of Silence and leave to try and kill the Doctor – make her a supporting character

·         Then have Trisha Lem explicitly talk to the Doctor about how Kovarian blowing up the TARDIS caused the cracks in the universe in the first place, allowing the Time Lords to get their message out. Instead of a montage, have this be the moment that unites the Doctor and the Silence – they are both fighting to make up for their mistakes and the problems they caused

·         We see the many races surrounding Trenzalore form the alliance from The Pandorica Opens

[seexseexseex]

Love under Will: Sexuality, Magic & Liberation by Phil Hine

I am the flame that burns in every heart of man, and in the core of every star. I am Life, and the giver of Life, yet therefore knowledge of me is the knowledge of death.Liber AL, II, 6. At a time when Magic is (supposedly) undergoing a renaissance, with core ideas & techniques presented in a clear and open manner, Sexual Magic remains entangled in glamours and misconceptions. There is little published material, it seems, which deals with the subject clearly. It is usually the case that Sexual Magic is shrouded (sometimes "drowned") in symbolic asides and allusions. To begin with, what actually constitutes an act of Sexual Magic? A broad definition is: that it is the harnessing of one’s own sexuality with intentionality - literally "Love Under Will", to bring about change. This implies a great deal more than the waving of rods, wands, cups, and roses. Celibacy, as a conscious decision not to be sexually active can be as much an act of Sexual Magic as any ritualised copulation or masturbation. The basis of Sexual Magic is to understand, and experience sexuality as sacred or "Magical". Sexuality is probably the most powerful means of transformation, discovery and knowledge that Humanity has. This is why sexuality is effectively put under 'lock and key' by our Society. The Judeo-Christian attitude to sexuality has become "embedded" in the cultural psyche, to the extent that many of us feel that sexual expression is "naturally" followed by shame and guilt. For orthodox Christianity, sexuality can never be entirely sinless, even within the confines of marriage. The onset of the "Permissive Society" is supposed to have freed us from past constraints and inhibitions, but has it? Sexuality has become another brand of commodity, another source of status. Although we tend to regard our own sexual natures in terms of privacy and "naturalness", it is subject to a great deal of interference and manipulation from external agents. There is a media-borne cultural imperative that we must be good at sex; that success is dependant on the number of orgasms that we can wring from our partners, or indeed from the number of partners we have. For many of us, sexuality is a major means of gaining status and Egocentric power, associated with imposing ones will upon others. The key factor in Rape for example, appears to be that of the male demonstrating his power over another person (woman or weaker male). Society acts to channel sexual energy into acceptable forms - those which maintain alienation; channels such as Sentimental Romanticism and Pornography. More powerful and invasive than any medieval incubi are the neuroses, obsessions and acts of violence which seem to be the inevitable spawn of this Sexual Nihilism. A characteristic of this profoundly Egocentric sexuality is that ones partner is regarded as little more than an instrument to satisfy ones own needs (be they physical or status needs). Human emotions are alienated in the scramble for consumer gratification; in goods, wealth, success, and the conquering of each others orifices. These cultural imperatives, to be successful and goal-oriented in every area of Life, are so deeply embedded that we only tend to notice the most obvious manifestations of them - with regard to work, for example. They can easily pass unnoticed in the very personal domain in which we place our own sexuality, and equally importantly, our sense of "Spirituality". As a result of the cult~ral emphasis placed on goal-orientation, a good deal of what passes for Western Occultism is also goal-oriented. Western Sexual Magic is no exception. There is a tendency to regard Sexual Magic as merely a 'better' way to acquire goods, "powers" or wealth, and there is great emphasis placed on the necessity of visualisation, inhibition of orgasm and mental concentration, rather than bodily awareness and pleasure. This seems to be a rather clinical and narrow approach to sexual potential- as Zach Cox put it (in Aquarian Arrow 22) "like using a microprocessor chip as a doorstop". Part of the problem that Western Sexual Magic suffers from is the enshrinement of the ideas of Aleister Crowley, who is often held up as a paragon of the 'new sexuality.’ However, Pansexuality such as Crowley displayed does not automatically imply total sexual liberation. Though a great innovator and synthesist, Crowley was unable to disentangle himself from the prevailing sexual mores of his time. His sexual philosophy displays a typical (and enduring) dualistic attitude towards women, placing his "idealised" women on a pedestal, yet seemingly unable to accept women as equals. Examples of his Egocentricity are not hard to find: "At about 8.45pm I was on 34th St & Broadway, looking for a soul-mate, a destined bride, an affinity, a counterpartal ego etc.; and should have considered the conditions satisfied by any orifice into which I could plunge my penis at a cost not exceeding $2.50". Rex De Arte Regia. Crowley’s approach to Sexual Magic seems to have been almost totally results-oriented, with his numerous opera for money, fascination, success, youth and magical energy. He implies that the partner in such a working is secondary to the will of the Mage, the selection of an appropriate partner being left to unconscious caprice Unfortunately for present-day occultists, there is little material available concerning the work and ideas of the women who followed Crowley’s system. Doubtless much of Crowley’s attraction as a guru-figure is the way his attitudes uphold male Egocentcic sexual values. All the material currently available on the subject of "suitability" of partners" is male-oriented, and serves to maintain a kind of imbalance On the one hand there is Louis T. Culling’s attitude: "Often, a woman who has studied occultism becomes impossible because she has too many preconceived ideas which are not in agreement with her role as a good, cooperative partner. If there is any possible rapport, the woman becomes responsive automatically to the aspiration of the male, and after this has happened, it would be very easy to give her an explanation and an understanding of the magical aspects" A Manual of Sex Magick, p25. while on the other hand, there is Kenneth Grants implication that Tantra is well-nigh impossible nowadays, due to the lack of suitable partners: "Western women who possess the required traits are rare, and as they have not the hereditary advantage of initiation into occult techniques - as have certain African and oriental women - the sudden impact of magical energy on their personalities tends to disturb their sanity" Aleister Crowley & the Hidden God, p84. Grant notes that according to Tantric practice, woman is the initiatrix of the male, but seems to hold the opinion that such women are a rarity in the West. Although the bulk of his writing is set towards the task of producing a sexual metaphysic based on the "occult" properties of menstruation, it seems to be distant from women in that there are many references about women as the Priestess or Suvasini - but almost nothing from women themselves on this subject. The focus of this issue of "suitability" is couched wholly, it seems, in terms or occult metaphysics. Nowhere is it mentioned that it is beneficial for all concerned to be working on their own sexual/emotional conditioning, or that empathic sensitivity to, and even understanding of ones partners needs and feelings could be paramount. It is these ordinary, Human qualities that are lost in the vast symbolic metastructures that Grant erects. One has the feeling that those who are not party to the ramifications of these "secrets" are not worth considering in terms of degrees of initiation Initiatory experience in areas of life other than the occult does not seem to matter Given this attitude, it does not seem likely that "Priestesses", at least in the way Grant seems to be depicting them, will "re-emerge", since women seem to be tacitly excluded from assuming a coequal role with males, as it is the latter who have erected the metasystem in the first place: "As it is we can but preserve the formula, confident that the present magical revival will discover genuine Priestesses to serve our mass." Aleister Crowley & the Hidden God. Given the current developments in male and female consciousness, it is more likely that the "Priestesses" are already out there waiting for us men to get our act together! It does seem to be a feature of male-oriented Magic that the emphasis is upon building these heavily intellectual metasystems, which are removed from 'everyday reality'. In contrast to this, "Women’s Mysteries" seem to revolve around aspects of daily experience - birth, sexuality, creation, nurturing, menstruation and Death. It appears that "High Magic" is largely concerned with acting within an abstract "inner-space" that has few points of contact with the consciousness of daily experience. I feel that this distinction should be emphasised, as the whole character of Magic is changing. There is a movement away from it being a kind of developmental process which is seen purely in occult terms, that has nothing in common with other spheres of life This traditional attitude is being supplanted by the idea of Magic as a fully integrative process of self-transformation. There has been a rekindling of the power of Magic in making connections, in communicating with, guiding, healing, and "reaching out" to one another, rather than an entirely personal inner-initiation. As 'the general emphasis of Magic changes, so too has there been a shift in attitudes regarding Sexual Magic. Intimations of this shift can be discerned in the writings of Dion Fortune. Her influence upon developing Western Sexual Magic comes from her novels, rather than from her non-fictional output. The underlying theme in her works, especially The Sea Priestess and Moon Magic concerns the intense consummation achieved by the partnership between a man who is in some way "wounded" and a woman who, to further her own Magical intent, takes on the role of the initiatrix. The Priestess "Vivien Morgan" chooses her partner, initiates him and then withdraws. Fortunes writing displays levels of feeling; of intuition and cycles which was absent in the writings of her male contemporaries. There is a fine understanding displayed of how "magical" development blends with ones relationship to life-changes in general. Fortunes approach to Sexual Magic is concerned with interpersonal transformation rather than goal or inwardlydirected experience. Her treatment of Pan for example, in "The Goat-foot God"is more concerned with the inspiration and awareness of "a Greater Whole" than the rutting, phallocentric Pan that typifies Crowley’s approach to sexuality. The Return of the Goddesses Over the last two decades, one of Humanity’s oldest cultural influences has begun to be reasserted, in the return of the Goddesses. Within the Occult subculture, this has manifested as the growth of Wicca and Earth-based Paganism, and in the wider culture of course as the rise of Feminism and the articulation of female consciousness. Wicca places great emphasis upon Sexual Magic. Doreen Valiente, in Witchcraft for Tomorrow notes the similarities apparent between Witchcraft and Tantra: the emphasis on balance between the sexes, the central role of the Priestess as initiator and Earthly representative of the Goddess. The focus of Wicca is directed outwards - into Nature and awareness of cycles (both intrapsychic and Natural rhythm), rather than a highly abstract metastructure. So the emphasis upon Sexual Magic is towards fertility rites and participation in seasonal changes. Some Wiccan writers see their attitude to Sexual Magic as the Hieros Gamos, the sacred marriage between Gods and Humanity There is also the idea of Sexual Magic as a means of "passing power from initiator to new-initiate" (Galadriel, in The Lamp of Thoth, Vol.1 No.2). Again, this shows a shift towards harnessing sexuality as a means to a process of engagement, rather than simply being another technique for acquiring results The rise of Feminism is also a very important factor in considering the shifting emphasis of Sexual Magic. John Rowan (1987) puts it in these terms: "…women starting to notice that the whole thing (i.e. the Sexual Revolution against Victorian attitudes) had been organised by men, with male assumptions and male values, for the benefit of men. The way in which women had been supposed to participate was by being like men in every way". The Horned God. The growth of Feminist ideology saw women demanding self-definition in their own terms, and a recognition of a female culture that is as important as that of male culture. Awareness of the necessity of this process has been growing steadily, not only at the socio-political level, but also as a Spiritual endeavour. It has showed up the glaring omissions in the "traditions" of Patriarchyderived Occult systems. There is now a resurgence of Women rediscovering, and recovering their own "Mysteries" as evinced in the work of Lynn Andrews, Barbara Walker and Monica Sjoo and others. A particularly important crossover for the development of Magic is the work of Starhawk, who provides a Feminist approach to Spiritual/Transpersonal development for both women and men. Her book Dreaming the Dark connects the values of Wicca with a developing Feminist/Therapeutic current. sexuality is seen of in far wider terms than techniques and metaphysics ( which can be seen as being bound up with male values of prowess & potency). Starhawk writes of the idea of the archetypes of Goddesses and Horned Cod providing possible re-evaluations of male and female, - beyond the constraints of Patriarchal culture. Exploring one’s sexuality through these archetypes is a way of transcending our cultural mores about masculinity and femininity. sexuality is understood as "a deep connecting power" (Starhawk, 1982). This is a far cry from the "traditional" ethos of Sexual Magic. The focus has shifted from a "bits" approach, to Sexual Magic as a distinct set of techniques; to an emphasis which regards sexuality as just one aspect of a whole process of transformation. This is very close to the idea of Sexuality as a means to "Liberation" mentioned earlier. But of course, such Liberation is not only Spiritual, but sexual, social and political. Sexuality & Intimacy Sexual Magic as a path to Liberation is a core idea within Tantric philosophy, but does not seem to have been widely explored in Western Magic. It involves the redefinition of gender stereotypes, exploring relationships beyond the cultural confines, and exploring personal sexuality. Exploring sexuality becomes a means to knowledge, both of self and others. This Gnosis (Knowledge of the Heart) can take us beyond our cultural norms and limitations, to actively engage in the realisation of the post-patriarchal individual Very closely linked with this process is the recovery of Love from its imprisonment in consumer-romanticism. Western ideas of Love have become gradually warped by the concept of Egotistical possession, so that the language of Love is equivalent, to a large degree, to the language of ownership. Love bound by rules, duties, morals and projected by television and commerce serves to maintain the alienation of men and women from themselves and each other. The transformational power of Sexual Energy thus becomes destructive, maintaining the wedge driven between self and other, mind and body, Ego and Exo. However it is possible for Love to be discovered despite these cultural blinds. This is the experience of Love as a Spiritual, inwardly-felt quality. again, this idea is emphasised in Tantra, but not in Western Magic (until fairly recently). It appears in the concept of Courtly or Sublime Love idealised by the European Troubadours, considered as heretical by the church. This Sublime Love is spoken of as a positive force that reaches out towards others, taking them on a journey of expansion. The key to Sublime Love is the "Deep Trust and Intimacy" experienced by the partners involved. Again, this recalls a Tantric idea, that the partners in acts of Sexual Magic be beloved to each other. This recognition (when it has actually been stated in Western writings on Sex Magic) tends to have been formerly restricted to statements that Sexual Magic is only valid when carried out by long-established ("married") partners, or else it becomes somehow "Black". This refers of course to Sexual Magic purely in terms of genital activity. However, when the focus of attention shifts from a narrowly-defined view of Sexuality, to one of intimacy (ofwhich physical sex is only one aspect), there also opens the possibility of intimacy in relationships other than those of conventional exclusivity, Close intimacy can develop within a "closed" magical group, without it necessarily moving into what we would otherwise call wife-swapping or group sex. Intimacy and Deep Trust in a group setting are powerful generators of a Group Gestalt which acts as a tribe or clan to each participant. To the prurient, this will be dismissed as an excuse for orgia, but exploration of intimacy can lead to a greater sense of involvement in both the group, and the wider process of transformation. The emphasis is shifted towards mutual growth and development, rather than the pursuit of sexual Conquests that appears to be so rampant in modern Occult groups. Indeed, the exploration of intimacy could almost be a necessity for Magical groups, where there undercurrents of sexual dynamics (attraction, anxiety, jealousy etc.) which develop when members become attracted to others outside their usual relationships, can quickly destroy a groups coherence Ritualised Sex in a group setting is only destructive when there is a lack of trust and intimacy between those taking part. An American Psychologist, Mosher (1980) researching into intimacy found that 'the level of intimacy a person experiences is related to the degree of expression, awareness, and interpersonal contact that is experienced during sex. According to Mosher there are three levels of intimacy; Ego-centred, Surface-centred and Core-centred. Ego-centred involvement only concerns Egocentric gratification; one’s partner being at best an instrument to fulfil physical or status needs.' Surface-centred involvement centres on sexual performance and pleasure, both of self and partner. Core-centred involvement however is typified by the desire at open oneself fully to the partner, or at its "peak" the experience of Bliss and loss of Ego-boundary. There is also 'the implication that once a new level (or depth) of involvement is attained, that those formerly experienced are in future, no longer wholly satisfying in the way they might once have been. It is this "Numinous" experience of sexuality which most closely corresponds to the Tantric experience of Sexual Ecstasy. But in Western Society, the energy liberated by such experience tends to be diverted into the culturally accepted channels of expression - those which maintain the boundaries of Egocentric involvement. Attachment in terms of possession, with all its attendant anxiety and Neurosis. If these constraints can be transcended (which obviously will take a long time and good deal of effort) then the intensity generated can facilitate a "breakout" from the inertia imposed by society. Lovers can find enough support and energy in each other to reject the cultural limitations and seek new forms of living, free to move in any direction. Obviously, blissful sex cannot of itself wipe away a lifetime of conditioning, but it can be an    impetus towards further development in all areas of awareness. Sexual bliss is a powerful Gnosis for imprinting a new vision of reality, as recognised by Timothy Leary in his theory of Neurological circuits. A first experience of the Numinous often marks the "trigger" for an individual’s transformational journey, and each subsequent experience of bliss provides further impetus for the process. It is the "heat" generated by such alchemical processes which moves the psyche from a condition of static identification (Ego-centric) to one of engagement and flow (Exo-centric). Starhawk writes of this sexual alchemy as: "…an exchange of energy, of subtle nourishment, between people. Through connection with each other, we connect with all". The Spiral Dance It is important to note that psychic structures cannot be "wiped away" completely by the transformational process, but they can be built on, and replaced by structures that are more adaptable, open to uncertainty and change. For men this involves letting go of the male Ego, and what John Rowan calls "surrendering to the Goddess". "Experiencing the Goddess through us, completes men and brings them into our world." Alathea the Shamoon This "surrendering" or willing sacrifice is the beginning of a process of psychic death, which leads ultimately to rebirth into a world of participation and engagement. For males, this psychic meeting with the power of the Goddesses - in the form of the Dark Destroyer (for example Kali, Hecate or the Morrigan) has a powerful transformative potential. The Goddess in her dark aspect is the gateway to the Underworld, the place of psychic dissection and restructuring. This aspect of woman appears in Patriachal culture as the male fantasy of the sexually uninhibited woman also linked with the anxiety-creating image of woman as castrator and devourer. If Will can be directed towards change, then any Magical process involving psychic restructuring ca lead to change in outward areas of life - interpersonal and social. The power of the Goddesses (Shakti in Tantric terminology) as experienced by men, opens us to an experience of empowerment (power not couched in male terms). We can recognise that the possibilities of transformation lie within us, which should lessen the tendency to project Egocentric needs onto women. The reality of this Goddess-experience is difficult to deny or rationalise away, once it becomes immediate and heartfelt. This experience of Devi must surely begin to loosen our cultural conditioning. It is part of the painful process of absorption and rebirth - a rebirth into participation. The Way Forwards? Liberation implies the freedom of the whole being, at all levels and in all areas of action. It is a change which is fundamental and total. It is not enough to ignore or try and wish away our current situation. The necessity of "obedience to awareness" is brought home with every update on our headlong plunge to self-destruction. In many ways this essay is a statement of my   personal views of Sexual Magic, as a way of uncovering, energising and realising our potential to evolve as Humans. The insights gained through the process of transformation give us glimpses of future possibilities, which we can then attempt to live towards. At the moment we know very little about what it means to be male of female, beyond the boundaries of Patriarchy. Growing up, or evolving is a hard and painful struggle, but we cannot resist it forever. Magic is a possible avenue by which we may at first glimpse, then realise these possibilities. This to me, is the essential nature of "I.ove Under Will". Bibliography · Aquarian Arrow magazine, no.22 · Crowley, Aleister - De Arte Regia, Liber Agapé · Culling, Louis T. - A Manual of Sex Magick · Grant, Kenneth - Aleister Crowley & the Hidden God · Magee, Mike - A Lecture on Tantrika (in VITRIOL magazine, no.2) · Richardson, Alan - Dancers to the Gods · Rowan, John - The Horned God · Starhawk - Dreaming the Dark, The Spiral Dance · Shual, Katon - Sexual Magick & Sexual Politics (in Nuit-Isis magazine issues 1 & 2) · Valiente, Doreen - Witchcraft for Tomorrow This article first appeared in Chaos International magazine, issue 4, 1988.

[ansu-gurleht]

sermon 23, annotated

i might have skipped a few. whoops. i just was reading this one and got excited and wrote this up. here goes!

First:

'The sword, treated as a delicate meal, is the Symbolic Collage. It serves you well in the first half of life. Name one dynasty that knows this not.'

to treat the sword “as a delicate meal” means to use it wisely, not rashly. using a carefully-aimed bullet makes more of a statement than a carelessly-tossed hand grenade. all of those statements come together in a “collage” of statements, or symbols - hence, “the Symbolic Collage.”

every budding emperor knows that an empire at war, an empire seeking conquest, is an empire doing well. see reman cyrodiil, tiber septim, indoril nerevar. it only serves you well “in the first half of life” because, well, at some point you run out of things to conquer. then it will either come back to bite you as you grow old, or in the lives of your successors. see reman with the akaviri potentate, septim with the oblivion crisis, nerevar with the red year (or tiber septim).

Second:

'The unity of my approach is understood by the immobile warrior. True eyes are acquired. Rejoice as my own subjects and realms. I build for you a city of swords, by which I mean laws that cut the people who live there into better shapes.'

“the immobile warrior” is steadfast in his ideals, and will fight to the death for them. vivec claims that such warriors, who see with “true eyes” (who follow the “true” ideals), see the same truth that ze does. therefore, they are hir “own subjects,” sharing the same ideals of God hirself.

the “city of swords” may at first evoke the city vivec, but consider the context of the previous sermon, wherein vivec establishes the morag tong. ze constructs a “[house] of swords,” an organization ordained by the laws (which vivec also constructs) to serve as a weapon against and for hir people. 

the sword can cut down enemies, but it also can “cut the people who live there into better shapes.” the morag tong receives assignments to take out problematic individuals, and vivec believes that a society which allows these sort of executions of individuals, individuals that people are willing to pay money to get rid of, is a society conforming to a sort of survival-of-the-fittest. 

if someone disagrees with your ideals, they send a sword - and who can disagree with a sword? in doing so they minimize dispute in society, and thereby “sharpen” the sword of culture by ensuring everyone is on the same page and able to move forward as one. 

but because there are so many players at this game, a “monopoly” on culture is very difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. but the culture still refines itself: the players learn the game, its rules and how to break them, and how not to get caught. and because the costs the sword exacts are great, it is often in the best interest of the players to find alternative ways to solve problems. through these processes the society learns what it values most, and progresses along those lines.

Third:

'Girls burn their dresses on my arrival if I am armored. They crawl to me as bled pilgrims. Minor spirits die without trace. Follow me of all the ALMSIVI if you are to mark your days with killing. AE ALTADOON, the third law of weaponry.'

ignore the first three sentences. it’s mk fuckery. ignore it. 

vivec, the thief, the sword of ALMSIVI, is the patron of assassins and mercenaries.

“AE ALTADOON” means something like “i am (a) weapon” or “is (a) weapon.” ALTADOON definitely means weapon. AE has a less clear meaning, despite (or maybe due to) its many appearances in lore. 

consider its first use in the lessons, “AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK.” this “seven syllable spell” seems to be a reference to ALMSIVI, of course. (in case you’re unaware: ayem, seht, and vehk are the names of daedric letters, each being the first letter of almalexia, sotha sil, and vivec, respectively.) it seems to mean something like “ayem is seht is vehk.”

it’s probably safe to assume AE simply doesn’t translate to english well. it’s definitely some form of the english infinitive “to be” that just doesn’t conjugate at all in ehlnofex. it seems when between two nouns, it means “is,” while when it begins a phrase, it means “i am.”

anyways! “AE ALTADOON” seems to make more sense here as “i am a weapon,” which is apparently “the third law of weaponry.” so even if you’re unarmed, you must know that you yourself are a weapon.

i really do wonder what the other laws of weaponry are!

Fourth:

'The immobile warrior is never fatigued. He cuts sleep holes in the middle of a battle to regain his strength.'

so this seems to mean like......the immobile warrior takes micronaps in the middle of battle?????

or maybe he just drinks restore fatigue/stamina potions...wouldn’t be the first time the lessons have made direct references to the games themselves.

Fifth:

'Instinct is not reflex action, but mini-miracles held in reserve. I am the welfare that decides which warrior will emerge. Beg not for luck. Serve me to win.'

hearken back to sermon 4. vivec does not believe in luck and does not want you to either. ze wants you to believe in hir. vivec decides who lives and dies. vivec is the one who helps you in battle, not “instinct” or “luck.” if you want to win, serve vivec.

Sixth:

'The span of the apparently inactivated is your love of the absolute. The birth of God from the netchiman's wife is the abortion of kindness from love.'

the things that you think are “inactivated” or unimportant only seem that way because of “your love of the absolute.” things are not so black and white. things that may seem not important at all might be at least a little important, and that matters. 

“the abortion of kindness from love” is very, very interesting. vivec says that love need not be kind. we’ll get a bit more on this in sermon 35, which is all about love. but suffice it to say, vivec has done many unkind things, but ze has done it all out of love for hir people. ze desperately wants you to trust hir on that.

Seventh:

'The true sword is able to cut chains of generations, which is to say, the creation myths of your enemies. Look on me as the exiled garden. All else is uncut weed.'

let’s look at this equation vivec is setting up: “chains of generations” = “the creation myths of your enemies.” 

the “chains of generations” are shackles imposed by the weight of heredity and genealogy. if you allow them, they will bind you to the fate of your family. 

this sermon is addressed to the morag tong. therefore, the “enemies” ze mentions are intended to be the altmer, the elves of the old ways which the chimer separated themselves from. 

the altmer are very obsessed with their lineage as proposed direct descendants of the gods. but vivec says all it does is bind them. “the true sword,” the philosophy that ze is teaching to hir audience, is not only able to cut these “chains,” but also demands you to. 

vivec as “the exiled garden” frames hir as something beautiful and well-kept. “all else,” speaking not only of the races of men but also the western mer obsessed with lineages, “is uncut weed,” unwelcome and unkempt.

Eighth:

'I give you an ancient road tempered by the second walking way. Your hands must be huge to wield any sword the size of an ancient road, and yet he who is of right stature may irritate the sun with only a stick.'

ah, the walking ways. this time, the second. this walking way was traveled by notables such as veloth himself. 

“your hands must be huge to wield any sword the size of an ancient road,” and so vivec gives it to hir mortal servants, since we know of hir “giant form.” ze gives it to them so they don’t have to make it themselves. they may walk the road thanks to vivec.

and the road grants them great power. to make a path like that requires you to have accomplished great things. it’s likely saint veloth, veloth the pilgrim, was the one who forged the path, while vivec has rediscovered and repurposed it. the act of sharing the road means that it is able to be used without starting from scratch. 

now, those who use it correctly can “irritate the sun with only a stick.” no grand gestures are necessary; an assassin can accomplish great change by simple acts. no need to use an army to topple a kingdom, when a well placed blade on a seemingly unimportant throat can do the trick. remember: even things that seem unimportant are at least important in some way, and chain reactions can get you very far.

as always,

The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.

[baneismydragon]

How about #2 or #19 (whichever inspires you more) for marichat. I miss your particular flare with those two.

This was SUPPOSED to be a short drabble… but its ok because @ktwesterna has been one of the most supportive and wonderful followers I have been blessed to have! Enjoy your Marichat #19 clocking in at just under 2k words lol.

Marinette had expected many things when she had come up with what was now jokingly referred to as the ‘best friend bonding compromise’. With her identity revealed she knew it would change the dynamic between herself and her partner. Chat had never been all that invested in the secrecy between the two of them, and it was honestly a miracle she had managed to stop him before he had detransformed himself after his first visit after the akuma that exposed her own secret. She had assumed that he would push for an end to his own hidden identity, (he had), that he would want for them to spend more time together outside of protecting Paris, (he did), and that he wouldn’t take no for an answer if she didn’t come up with some way to pacify his desire for them to become closer in light of this revelation. Which is why she was now constantly on the receiving end visits from her black clad companion.

She didn’t mind. In fact, she actually rather enjoyed getting visits from her partner. He was good company, enjoyed a lot of the same things that she did, was a good sport about losing at video games, and was surprisingly useful as a study partner. And again she had expected it.

What she hadn’t expected was how much less flamboyant he was in this new, more domestic setting. He was more often than not perfectly content to curl up and nap or read a book whenever she wanted to work on a project. He was unexpectedly thoughtful and sensitive. Not that she had ever thought that Chat Noir wasn’t kind, but she would not have expected him to be the sort to consistently tidy up after himself much less her as well. In the past month she was fairly certain that he had actually made up her bed more often than she had.

But more than anything, she hadn’t expected him to be quiet.

“What are you reading?”

Marinette shrieked, desperately reaching to close the tab on her computer but instead managing to tilt her chair too far forward and crashing to the ground. 

She had all but forgotten that he was in the room. Last she had looked he had been crashed out on her bed, not hovering over her shoulder as he was now. 

“Nothing!” she cried from the floor. “It’s nothing, you should-”

“Is this fanfiction?” Chat said delightedly, stepping in front of her so that he could read the screen as she struggled to get to her feet.

“I just clicked on it because I was curious to see what it was!”

“So you opened chapter 17?” he grinned, holding her back with one arm as he leaned in and began reading.

This was bad. This was so bad.

She tried to reach past him and grab the mouse but she knew it was too late. She could feel his body tense as he realized what was on the screen, his tail and ears twitching as his mouth fell open in shock.

“My Lady…”

“It’s not what you think!”

“Is this…”

“I was reading it for academic purposes!”

“Is this LADRIEN fanfiction?”

Of course he knew what it was. He was the one who had introduced her to “Ladybug” fanfiction in the first place. He thought the entire thing was hilarious. More than once he had regaled her with admittedly hilarious retellings of some of the more wild interpretations of his character that he had come across while browsing the fan section of the Ladyblog.

Marinette felt her face flush and wondered if she should just crawl into her bed and die.

“It is,” he breathed, scrolling down the page and skimming through the chapter. His eyes got wider as he got further along, his cheeks turning a tell tale pink at whatever he had found later in the chapter.

Damn, she had been looking forward to this update too. If Chat’s expression was anything to go by it was just as heated as the author had promised in last weeks notes.

He turned to look at her, his brow narrowing in confusion.

“Wait, you hate Ladybug fanfiction. You’ve told me yourself that you think Ladynoir fics are, and I quote, ‘a giant waste of time with no truth or value whatsoever.’

“Can we just forget this ever happened?” she moaned.

“So why would you be reading this, unless…”

“Oh my God…”

“Chat-”

“Oh my GOD!”

“I will pay you to forget you saw this!”

“You like Adrien!” Chat cried, bursting into gales of laughter as he whirled around to face her. “YOU like Adrien.”

“Please, Chat, you can’t tell him about this. I would die, I would LITERALLY die if he ever found out. He can not find out, you have to promise me.”

“Yeah, I can’t promise that.”

“Chat come on!” she pleaded, grabbing his hands in hers and trying to give him her most convincing pout.

“Why is this the first time I am hearing about this?” he asked, his expression still lit with a giddy exuberance that terrified her.

“Because I didn’t feel like my crush was a worthwhile topic of conversation,” she said, glaring, “or maybe I didn’t want to rub it in your face that I liked someone else, which you already knew.”

“No I know that, I mean-” he cut himself off, his face scrunching in concentration as his thoughts turned inwards. His fingers twined with hers where she was still holding onto him, and she held her breath as she waiting to see what he was going to say. She could feel a sense of apprehension. Like there was still another shoe about to drop.

“You haven’t said anything,” he said quietly, his head cocking to the side.

She flushed, dropping his gaze at his accurate assessment.

“You’ve never said anything to… to Adrien, about how you feel.”

“I’ve tried a couple of times, but it never goes well,” she admitted.

“But you do like… like Adrien?” he asked, his voice still soft and surprisingly tender.

“Yeah,” she admitted, her eyes falling closed in both embarrassment and relief now that her secret was out. “Yeah I do.”

She felt Chat drop her hands, pulling her into a hug. His warm, quiet chuckle reverberating through her soothingly.

“What a crazy criss crossed life you live, My Lady.”

She snuggled into his embrace, grateful for the unending love and support her partner always offered her. He really was an amazing…

Suddenly she felt the loss of his presence around her.

“You should tell him! Right now!”

“Oh my God! Chat what are you doing?” Marinette cried as she heard the frantic typing of her keyboard.

“I’m messaging Adrien.”

“NO!”

She hurled herself forward, desperately trying to grab at the computer, but her arms were no match for his as the insane cat purposefully blocked her path.

“Don’t worry, it’s perfect.” He ignore her frantic cries even as she jumped up onto his back, leg wrapped around his waist as she desperately tried to pull him away from his new self imposed mission. “I just need to send this message and then everything will- GAAHHHH!”

He shrieked in startled pain as Marinette wove her fingers into his hair and yanked.

“What the hell!”

“You can’t send that message! What did you even write?”

“Relax its not a love poem or anything, it just says: hey Adrien, do you want to go to the movies with me this weekend?”

“That’s… actually not terrible.”

“Good. So now I can just-”

“You still can’t send it!”

“Why not!”

He twisted in circles trying to dislodge Marinette as she alternated between trying to grab his hands and trying to reach over and attack the computer itself.

Unfortunately for her, she was no match for his suit enhanced strength, and after a few more minutes of frantic twisting and clawing on both their ends, he rolled his eyes, reach back and hauled her over his shoulder, plopping her down onto the desk with an inelegant thud.

“Hold still,” he grunted, capturing both her hands and leveling her with his most intimidating stare. “This is in everyone’s best interest.”

“I won’t let you,” she growled, shifting in front of the computer screen and wriggling enough so that he couldn’t release her hands.

“Stop being stubborn!”

“Says the insane cat trying to play cupid!”

“Don’t you want to date Adrien?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He could say no!”

“He’s going to say yes.”

“I’m not ready! He’ll think I am insane.”

“I think its a safe bet to say he already does. He’ll still say yes and love you anyways.”

“I’ll never give you cookies again.”

“That is a price I am willing to pay,” he said, leaning forward and bopping their noses together. Her face scrunched in irritation

“Chaaaaaaat,” she whined, without any real malice.

“Sorry princess, this train has left the station and there is nothing you can do to stop me from sending this message.”

For one second Chat’s face filled with terror as he saw her eyes light up with a familiar gleam of inspiration, and then his mind went completely blank as she lunged forwards and planted her lips across his.

His whole body went rigid, his eyes wide as every nerve tingled at the feel of her so close.

Marinette grinned into the kiss as she felt him melt against her, his fingers losing their grip around her wrist as his eyes drifted shut and he let out an honest to god purr against her lips.

But just as she was about pull away and dive onto the computer to achieve victory, his hands reached up to cup her face and his head tilted slightly to deepen the kiss and all thoughts of moving fled.

Her brain dissolved into a pleasant haze as she savored the feeling of him kissing her, worshiping her. Time seemed to stop as their lips pressed and nibbled, exploring each other with delicious intimacy. By the time they finally broke apart, gasping for air, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you how they had even gotten into this position in the first place.

“Wow,” he breathed, nuzzling his nose against her neck, the hot whisper of his breath sending shivers up her spine. “You are absolutely amazing, My Lady.”

He kissed her softly on the hollow of her throat and instinctively she tilted her head to grant him better access.

“But there is one small flaw in this strategy of yours,” he said, even as his lips ghosted across the sensitive skin.

“What’s that?”

She heard a soft click.

Her eyes went wide.

“Now I HAVE to send that message.”

“Chat!”

Hope you liked the story!Please consider donating to my ko-fi! 

[xtruss]

What I Learned When I Rented My Parents’ Former Home as an Airbnb

They’d tried to escape the future by building a home off the grid. But the future found them anyway.

— By Thad Russell

— The Atlantic | August 29, 2021

September 2005 (All photos by Thad Russell)

About the author: Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

Two summers ago, my siblings and I found my late parents’ former house in northern Vermont listed on Airbnb. Once we got over our shock—“Wait! That’s our house!”—we immediately made reservations to rent it for a family vacation. The new owners had known my parents and generously waived our rental fee upon realizing who we were. The online description—“rustic retreat”—brought back memories of countless family gatherings of summers past: taking long walks, swimming in the lake, eating local corn and blueberry pie. I remembered hanging out together on the deck that extended into my parents’ gentle, south-sloping meadow like a pier, appreciating the peaceful view of hay fields, spruce trees, mountains, and an ever-changing sky.

I looked forward to the reunion for months. And yet, as I drove with my wife and young children along winding mountain roads that I knew by heart, I was surprised by the emotions stirring inside me. I began to realize something that should have been obvious. This special, idealized place that I was so excited to return to wasn’t a repository of just happy memories, but of difficult ones too. My parents had been concerned about the political and environmental trends in America. Their place in Vermont was meant to be a political statement in the form of a modern-day frontier house—hand-built, off the grid, and completely DIY. In other words, it was very difficult to live in and maintain. Now that many of their worries about climate change and political unrest have become reality, I understand the prescience of their vision and the virtues of the life they were designing. I also realized something even more important, however, when I rented their home as an Airbnb: No matter how hard you try to escape the future, the future will find you anyway.

May 2015

In the 1990s, my parents sold our family home in suburban Boston and moved to a virgin piece of pasture in Vermont’s rural and remote Northeast Kingdom in order to build a house—and a life—from scratch. They wanted to slow down, to live simply and more in concert with nature and its seasonal rhythms. My siblings, their spouses, and I not only supported this new chapter but were actively involved every step of the way. Though we all had careers, homes, and lives in other places, we would parachute in every August to help pour a foundation, build a timber frame, side a barn, or mow a field. This collective labor gave us a sense of investment in the property—“sweat equity”—and senses of accomplishment, pride, and joy in its growing compound of rough-hewn structures. We finished the “little house” (which is actually tiny) in time for my sister’s wedding one August, and we finished the “big house” (which is actually quite little) in time for my brother’s wedding six years (to the day) later.

This property was the realization of a long-held dream. My father was an MIT-trained architect and builder with his own brand of rugged modernism. His houses were shrines to their specific surroundings, made out of locally sourced wood, stone, and glass. After spending a lifetime building homes for others, he wanted to finally build one for himself and his family.

But he wasn’t trying to construct a well-appointed vacation home, and my parents weren’t hoping to retire comfortably to the country. They were hoping that their modest compound could be a refuge, a place separate and protected from the evil and disease of the modern world, a place to which we could all retreat when the long-prophesied and always-imminent economic and ecological disaster of Man’s own making finally came home to roost. With its solar panels, windmill, vegetable garden, root cellar, and well, it was designed to be a self-sufficient place apart, a lifeboat of sorts.

Though my parents’ organic, less-is-more lifestyle was supposed to be simple, it was never easy. Their life was intentional and incredibly labor-intensive, marked by hard work and discomfort. Their property became an unrelenting taskmaster. Many projects never got completed. Some just didn’t work. The sun didn’t always shine. The wind didn’t always blow. Batteries failed. The bespoke, high-efficiency refrigerator didn’t actually keep food cold. The well was contaminated with surface water from a nearby cow pasture and never produced reliably potable water. My parents’ self-imposed restrictions on energy usage—my father designed an aggressively frugal system that used only one-20th the amount of electricity of an average American family—seemed arbitrary, impossibly difficult, and puritanical; a dishwasher or clothes dryer was out of the question.

They—and we—argued a lot about how they lived, and the choices they had made. I thought theirs should be a model home, an equally attractive, non-fossil-fuel alternative that others could easily emulate so that we could collectively save the planet. My father thought it should be more of a laboratory that embraced cutting-edge experimentation, took risks, and courted failure. He thought it should be difficult by design so as to attract only zealots, purists, and true believers.

August 2019; May 2015

My mother sometimes complained about the ways the house didn’t work and she felt burdened by the endless list of domestic chores that seemed to fall disproportionately on her, but she nonetheless embraced this new life with passion and conviction. Why? For starters, she loved my dad and believed in his genius and vision. She was also a longtime political and environmental activist. Lastly, thanks to her strong Protestant work ethic and her progressive Christian faith, she always believed that wisdom and virtue came from labor, sacrifice, and struggle. I think she loved this new, difficult chapter of her life, not despite the challenges but because of them. It made her feel more alive, more connected to her husband and to herself, her planet, and her God.

One particularly hot and restless night in the summer of 2003, while sleeping in my parents’ barn, I awoke with a scary premonition: Things here were not going to end well. My parents were not going to live forever, and I had a feeling that their path ahead might be far more difficult and treacherous than any of us were prepared for. A few months later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The next three years were consumed by her illness, including her weekly drives across the state for radiation and chemotherapy. The August after she died, we had a memorial service for her under a tent in the exact same spot in the meadow where my sister and brother had each been married years earlier.

My father lived for eight more years, but his heart was never the same. First it was broken, and then, eventually, it began to fail. What he could do—and wanted to do—shrank considerably. For the first time ever, he stopped planting a garden. “What’s the point?” he said. Mail piled up. Bills went unpaid. Phone calls went unanswered. Dirt and dust collected everywhere. Necessary and long-overdue house maintenance was put off indefinitely. He would spend hours and days sitting and staring, at the clouds in the summer and at the wood fire in the winter. The house he built with his own hands became a waiting room, a purgatory clad in native spruce. One day in November 2013, he couldn’t get out of bed. I was visiting at the time, having driven north from Rhode Island after receiving a call from a concerned neighbor. I remember the ambulance in the front yard, parked on top of my mother’s perennial garden and EMTs dressed in Carhartt overalls taking my dad away on a gurney.

My father died the following August; two months later, we mixed my parents’ ashes and spread them in the meadow as friends and family looked on.

After my father’s death, my siblings and I debated whether to keep the Vermont property. I always thought we would. But the more we talked, the more I realized it was going to be financially and logistically impossible. The buildings were not in great shape. Managing their restoration and preservation was going to be complicated and expensive, and was going to take time, energy, and money that none of us had. Moreover, the property was hard to reach. We also realized that we weren’t simply inheriting a house or a piece of land, but a way of life, a philosophy, a set of values that we all respected but didn’t fully subscribe to. No, we all decided, it wasn’t right—or perhaps the right time—for any of us. With heavy hearts, we decided to let it go.

October 2005

Fast-forward to the summer before last, five years after my father’s death: We were returning to our family homestead, but this time as Airbnb guests. As we approached the house from the long dirt driveway, everything was at once familiar and surprisingly different. I instantly noticed all of the improvements: a new metal roof, new wood siding, and a completely rebuilt breezeway connecting the two houses; lush new landscaping featuring exotic flora and brilliant orange poppies that reminded me of California; a new well, professionally dug, with (I learned later) sweet, cold—and E. coli–free—artesian water.

The interior was stunning and immaculate. Everything seemed carefully and painstakingly finished, no more exposed electrical wires or pipes. A new floor was made out of spotted maple, and a fresh coat of satin varnish covered all the wood surfaces. The decor was modern and sparse—chairs made out of soft Italian leather and German stainless-steel appliances, including a dishwasher and a dryer. To my eyes, the house had never looked better and had never been more beautiful, more finished, more realized. The future looked good on this house. My appreciation was complicated, however, tinged with envy and regret. Why couldn’t this beautifully designed and now brilliantly realized house still be ours?

I also couldn’t help but notice what was no longer there: the vegetable garden; the windmill; the woodshed, wood stoves, and Finnish oven; the solar electric system. The house is now on the grid and comfortably heated with gas, its massive propane storage tank elegantly concealed underground. Sure, the house still looks groovy, but it’s now hippie house lite, like tie-dyes and distressed bell-bottoms one buys at the Gap. It has the counterculture aesthetic but all the dirt, difficulty, and rebelliousness have been removed. As my father might say, “What’s the point?”

But I have come to realize that the new owners have actually been the perfect stewards of our old property. Their careful and systematic restoration has removed the dust, decay, and dysfunction while preserving the essential design and rustic charm. I also realize that it is their house now, not ours, and maybe that’s a good thing. The burden of the property, its deferred maintenance and challenging memories, was too much, and is too much for me still.

The author’s brother, mother, and father. August 2001

Now, two years—and a world of difference—later, I find myself thinking about that piece of pasture in northern Vermont and my family’s 25-year adventure there. We are living through such scary and turbulent times. We are simultaneously in the throes of a resurgent global pandemic and a rapidly emerging climate crisis. Viral death tolls, huge heat domes, megadroughts, and 1,000-year floods mark our daily news. As I write this, dozens of massive western fires burn uncontained, their smoke turning even eastern skies an eerie and unhealthy shade of ocher. The world is changing in ways that many people find hard to believe and hard to endure, but that my parents essentially anticipated. They were preparing for this future; they saw it coming and tried so hard to protect their family—and themselves—from the pain and suffering that they feared it might bring. Now that that future is here, I realize we can’t really escape it. The future always catches up with us, and no matter where we are or where we go, we are all survivalists now.

— Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

[ceddrwyn]

Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Other

Fandom:

Supernatural

Relationship:

Castiel & Dean Winchester

Character:

Castiel

Awakening

Ceddrwyn

Summary:

Castiel realizes he's in love with his best friend.

Set after the events of Season 5 Episode 18 'Point of no Return'.

He stood alone, staring into the haunted crevasse commonly referred to as an alley.  It was mostly quiet, no one was driving on the street adjacent to his location at this time of night and except for the irregular sounds of the few nocturnal animals that made the city their home, it was serene.  Not that Castiel noticed.

Unbidden thoughts flashed through his mind, demanding his complete attention.  His hands, or actually, the hands of his human vessel, Jimmy Novak, were currently relaxed and clean but Castiel did not feel either reality.

His stomach twisted as his thoughts, memories really, continued to plague him.  It was a strange sensation as he lacked the physical needs that Jimmy had had to deal with.  He simply never had a reason to think of the organ that was currently raging with heat and a sharp, feral stabbing.

But the sensations from his torso had nothing on the guilt that assaulted him.  He couldn't remember being so angry, the need to make Dean aware of how he felt had taken over and he had hurt the one person he never wanted to hurt.

Aggression was not a new concept for him.  He was a warrior of God, chosen to fight alongside his brothers and sisters for eons in whatever mission was requested of them.  He was used to the sensation of ripping flesh and blood pooling at his feet, or the equivalent as the fight was not always against humans.

He never questioned his orders, never questioned the actions necessary to follow his father's will.  Never in immeasurable time, until he met Dean Winchester.  What exactly caused Castiel to give up so much for one his siblings considered insignificant?  So many wondered the answer to that very question.

For Castiel, it was simple.  His father created humans with all their frailties and basic needs out of love.  He wanted someone to love him unconditionally.

Castiel had always obeyed his father, but he was a warrior, a messenger assigned to whatever purpose his superiors deigned at the moment.  Angels weren't supposed to love, emotions considered the path to doubt and rebellion.  He lacked the simple freedom to choose how to feel about his father, anyone or anything, to choose his path.  Or, at least, that is what he had always been told.

Only in creating something so weak, so needy as humans could true strength be found.  Humanity had the potential for such beauty, virtue and love, especially love.  However, with the potential of greatness and magnificence, came the equal potential for hatred and true evil.  

Castiel had seen so many examples of depravity and corruption in the simple beings that often had an overinflated ego and a ridiculous sense of their own importance.  Rarely during the few millennia they had existed had any stood out, calling to the true power and hope of their creation.  Dean Winchester was one of those rare few.

Castiel couldn't stop the small smile that transformed his face.  He was all too aware that Dean would argue against that assessment.  From the moment he had met the remarkable human, he saw how filled with self loathing and revulsion his friend was.  He didn't know if Dean had always carried that view of himself or if it was newly formed because of his imposed time in hell.

He wondered just what Dean would think if he knew Castiel saw him as the pinnacle of humanity.  He could have chosen to wallow in his perceived shredded humanity, allowing it to justify horrendous actions.  Castiel had seen it happen so many times and he felt pity for the poor soul that felt isolated, believing they had no choice but to continue in the muck and ruin of their life.

But not Dean.  No, that irritating, stubborn man simply refused to allow such horrors to truly change him.  He choose to be better, had pity on those who could not.

He thought he lost his humanity but Castiel saw him as the purest example of it.

How anyone could consider Dean Winchester insignificant was absurd.  He was unapologetically reckless and fool hearty at times, even vulgar but never insignificant.  Castiel would always consider himself lucky to have met him.

It was an opinion he knew the host of heaven didn't share.  Zachariah had referred to humans set aside as vessels as mere meat suits; worthless except for the value placed on them as receptacles for their superiority.  The arrogance in that viewpoint offended him.  He was grateful to Jimmy for the gift of his physicality.  He knew that Jimmy was in heaven now, the vessel he continued to use empty of that virtuous man.  That fact didn't lessen his gratitude.

The latest creations of his father deserved his respect and loyalty.  His siblings should have learned that after what happened to the chief among them, Lucifer.  Wasn't his punishment a direct result of his arrogance and refusal to concede to their father's command.

Why couldn't Dean see how idiotic it was to agree to Michael's proposition.  Castiel knew his warrior brother was not as crass as Zachariah, but he did not see Dean as he was.  He would not care about the loss of that penitent man.  He simply could not see him as Castiel did.

A sudden flare of anger filled him as he remembered what Dean had done to bring on his earlier rage.  Castiel only ever wanted to protect him, that is why he showed him the blood sigil in the first place.  To have Dean throw that back in his face, to use it against him hurt worse than the agony inflicted on him by the activation of the sigil. 

Why didn't Dean trust him, couldn't he see how Castiel only wanted what was best for him.

Castiel snapped back to reality with that thought.  Without intention, he had moved closer to the brick wall where he had thrown Dean earlier.  Even now he could sense the blood and torn flesh that had made themselves one with the wall.  How could Castiel honestly expect Dean to trust him when he didn't even trust himself?

Trustworthy or not, he still needed to help his friend.  Dean didn't see that Bobby, Sam and Castiel only wanted to protect him.  That, to become nothing more than Michael's vessel would steal this amazing man from the world.  The world couldn't stand to lose him and neither could Castiel.  The thought of Micheal parading around in Dean's body, suffocating his soul, impeding his, will hurt Castiel in a way nothing else ever had.

He couldn't lose Dean.  His stubborn resilient existence was necessary to Castiel.  Never since his creation had Castiel met someone who irritated him so, who inspired him, that he found himself helpless not to love.

What?!

He repeated his thoughts and found himself unable to deny the truth he had so honestly admitted.  It was a harsh realization, he was in love with his best friend.  I'm in love with Dean Winchester.

He didn't dare say it out loud, he had no idea who could be listening, who could use it against him.

He didn't know what to do.  He couldn't tell anyone, there was no one he trusted.  Of course he trusted Dean and Sam but he could never tell them the truth.  He would lose them, lose their friendship.

I could walk away.

No!   The thought of leaving Dean or losing him hurt deeper and burned hotter than any angel blade.  And to lose Dean was to lose Sam who Castiel truly saw as a brother, no matter what dark path he currently was on.

He couldn't even tell God, wherever he was.  God might be sympathetic at first… possibly.  Wasn't it his charge for his children to love humans, to serve them.

No, Castiel knew this wasn't what he meant.  He would find no repreive in the embrace of his father.

Castiel was alone… utterly and truly alone.  It was not a reality he relished.

Even when he rebelled against heaven, betrayed his brothers and sisters, he did not know this bitter cold that flowed through his essence and threatened to steal his lucidity.

The one person he longed to talk to, he knew could never know… he could never tell him.

He offered up one low word, "Dean."

Whether it was a prayer, a curse or merely acceptance, he didn't know.

"What am I going to do?"

[ahopkins1965]

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Home Verse Of The Day Luke 7:9

◄ What Does Luke 7:9 Mean? ►

Now when Jesus heard this, He marveled at him, and turned and said to the crowd that was following Him, "I say to you, not even in Israel have I found such great faith."

Luke 7:9(NASB)

Picture courtesy of Free Bible Images

Verse Thoughts

Jesus was sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel as their Messiah and King, but He also came as Saviour of the world. Although His ministry was to the Jew first, He always showed great compassion to the Gentiles who came to Him for help. One person who asked for His assistance was a Roman centurion, whose highly-valued servant was sick and about to die.

When the centurion heard about Jesus, he sent some Jewish elders to ask Him to come and save the life of his slave. They came quickly to find the Lord, and earnestly implored Him to help this well-respected member of their community. "He is worthy for You to grant this to him," they pleaded, "for he loves our nation and was the one who built us our synagogue."

Immediately Jesus set out to heal his servant. He did not go because the man was worthy or because of His love for the nation of Israel. He did not go because members of the Jewish community requested it or because the centurion had built a synagogue in their neighbourhood. Jesus went because His heart was full of compassion, mercy, and love.

Jesus came from heaven to heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, and drive out demons, but as He drew closer to the house, more servants met Him with an astonishing message from the centurion, "Lord, do not trouble Yourself further, for I am not worthy for You to come under my roof. I do not even consider myself worthy to come to meet You personally, but only say the word, and my servant will be healed." 

Jesus was utterly astonished by this message because it demonstrated a secure faith in the Person and work of Christ. "Now when Jesus heard this," we read, "He marvelled at the centurion, and turned and said to the crowd that was following Him, 'I say to you, not even in Israel have I found such great faith.'" How sad that Jesus came to His own people, who rejected Him, yet this heathen man demonstrated such astonishing faith.

This Roman commander was a remarkable man, who showed a far greater awareness of Christ's mission, ministry, and sovereign authority over sickness and death, than the Jews. Israel should have recognised Him as the promised Messiah, Who had fulfilled many prophecies about Himself. And yet, this Gentile showed a strong faith, deep humility, and a simple confidence in Christ - three complementary qualities that are so necessary in a man or woman of faith. 

It was not the centurion's generosity towards Israel, or his obvious compassion towards his sick slave that amazed the Lord. Jesus marvelled at the simplicity and strength of this man's faith, for he expressed an understanding of Christ's authoritative word and exhibited an unprecedented awareness of His sovereignty in the spiritual sphere. Unlike his Jewish neighbours, this Roman knew that Jesus was from God, and that His authoritative Word was powerful enough to command the fatal sickness to leave the ailing body of his faithful servant. 

There are only a few recorded instances where we read that Jesus was amazed. His amazement at the faith of this centurion stands in stark contrast to the amazement he had at the unbelief of the Jews in His hometown of Nazareth. The one... showing great faith in the spoken word of Christ and His supreme authority over nature, and the other... demonstrating such a lack of faith, that He was prevented from doing any mighty miracles in Nazareth, except to lay His hands on a few sick people and heal them. 

Our God is a God Who hears and answers prayers. Needless to say... "when those who had been sent returned to the house, they found the slave in good health." However, it should be remembered that God does not always answer our prayers for healing at the time we expect or in a way that we would like. Sometimes healing is delayed or even withheld to bolster our faith. Similarly, there are those that declare that if a prayer for healing goes unanswered it demonstrates a shocking lack of faith - but once again these are totally unbiblical teachings which should be avoided.

It was not the amount of faith this soldier demonstrated that is important - but the Person in Whom he placed his trust - the Lord Jesus Christ. It is not faith that is the issue but the Person in Whom we place our trust. May we cultivate the sort of faith demonstrated in the words and actions of this Roman centurion and cultivate a faith that believes in the authority of God's Word and the knowledge that His Word is TRUE.

My Prayer

Dear Father God, I know the importance of faith in our lives, and I thank You for the men and women in Scripture, and the different saints I have known personally, who have demonstrated true trust in the Person and work of the Lord Jesus Christ. Lord, I understand that it is not the amount of faith that is important, but the One in Whom I place my truth - the Lord Jesus Christ. Thank You for Jesus. Thank You that He is the One Who is able to keep and uphold me, provide for me and sustain me, according to Your riches in Him. Keep me low at the Cross and ever looking to Him, in Whose name I pray, AMEN.

Picture courtesy of Free Bible Images

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[benoist-mcgrath]

Is Dangerous Liaisons coming soon?! You left on quite the cliffhanger ;) love your work!

tonight episode was so good so i’m in an incredible mood. so i’m gonna post a little fragment from next chapter (and last chapter ahhh)

remember this is from Kara’s pov again. 

“I think they’re trying to set usup” Barry said, drinking from his beer.

“You think?”

“Yeah” he nodded “I think I’mbringing them down. I’m the only one single in the group”

“Hey!”

“The only guy single, I mean it makes sense, okay?” he replied, laughing“We’re decent people, you’re beautiful, I’m okay-looking…”

“Barry, shut up”

“Okay, I’m beautiful too…”

“Oh my god”

“Listen, I’m just saying it makessense” he laughed again “They will be disappointed”

“If you’re right, then Bruce andOllie need to mind their own business” you said, also drinking from your glass.

“I know” he said “Just to be sure,we’re only friends, right?”

“Barry!”

“Just friends, that’s what I said.Jeez, calm down” his smile dropped “I… I’m sorry. You know I’m joking”.

Barry Allen was Clark’s youngestfriend. They had met while your cousin investigated a murderer case, both ofthem convinced that the principal suspect was innocent. They had beeninseparable since then. Clark told you that Barry reminds him of you so heintroduced him to his other friends. There was Bruce Wayne, the eccentricbillionaire that was always brooding and only Clark could make laugh; OliverQueen, Barry’s best friend, CEO of Queen industries and politic enthusiasticwhom believed in people’s justice and second chances. And last but not least,there was Diana, Clark and Bruce’s dreamy-almost not real-friend. Diana was anart curator that was currently on Metropolis coordinating the Greece gallery atthe museum. She was taller than you, has no flaws and was incredibleattractive. Your attraction towards her probably born out her resemblance ofsomeone else…

But it was incredible soon for youto start something with anyone…

Someone who wasn’t…

“I’m afraid we’re only friends,Barry” you said “Don’t try to play with me, Allen” your tone was more playful“I know about your feelings for certain reporter”

“Shut up”

You had become fast friends in suchshort time. Your characters and same interests play a part on it but the majorthing you shared was your feelings for someone you couldn’t have. Barry was in love with Iris West, a close friendgrowing up, but he was in a relationship with another girl, firmly believingthat Iris would never look at him the way he wanted to.

It was like a deja-vu, seeingyourself in Barry: he was ready to propose to his girlfriend, telling himselfit would be enough and he will learn to love her like he loved Iris.

You talked to him about it, openingyourself for the first time since forever. You were sincere about Mon-el, aboutLena (even if you never mentioned her name), and the whole debacle that wasyour marriage.

His ex-girlfriend hated you afterthat as she was convinced you wanted Barry for yourself.  

“Hey lovebirds! Wanna play pool?”Oliver Queen screamed from the other side of the bar.

You rolled your eyes but followedBarry towards their table. Clark, Bruce and Oliver were already half-tipsy. Itwas Clark’s first boys night in awhile and he was enjoying himself with his friends. You smiled at him: Clarkhad stayed true to his word, he received you as family and introduced you tohis friends, making you feel less lonely. Without him, you would be bored outof your mind, always thinking about your past-mistakes. Now, you felt happy knowingsomeone beside your sister, had your back.

You enjoyed your time together andyou ended up heading back home at four in the morning. It was a weekend and Dianaoffered to give you a ride. You smiled at her like a fool but fell asleepalmost as fast as you hit her car’s couch.

CatCo’s magazine was doing great. Thefirst number was a total success and Ms. Grant gave you all the credit,mentioning how proud she was of you. After that, you just wanted to be alone. Itwas hitting you hard trying to spend so much time with other people. You triedto deny it but every single detail made you miss Lena, the life you could hadtogether.

Things were so unresolved and you felt like you were carrying around a leadweight all the time from the guilt of how you treated her. You would give anything to be able to go back and endthings differently. You knew it had toend, but you didn’t have to be so cruel.

Your guilt was your only truecompanion, and you had so much of it. Your entire life in National City wasdestroyed by your actions, and even though he didn’t know it, you’d betrayedMon just as badly as Lena.

You had a feeling your current statewas just the beginning of your atonement for your actions.

Barry dragged you out of the flatevery weekend, telling you that wallowing away locked in your house was what cat ladies did. When you told him you didn’thave a cat he said it was only a matter of time.

Sometimes he took you to crowdedbars with some of his other friends, a doctor named Caitlin and his bestfriend Cisco. But as soon as the clock hit midnight, you snuck out and wentback home. You weren’t in the mood for celebrations and parties. Going out withClark was different, his friends were older and they were more tamed.

You thought the new job and the responsibilitieswould bring you out of the funk, but inside you still knew you were goingthrough the motions. You may have finally made a decision and let Lena go, butit just didn’t feel right.

Barry continued trying to bring youout of your self-imposed shell, making you try new things and leave thesolitude of the flat. You even started spending more time with people fromwork. Interesting enough, you formed a tentative friendship with Iris West,Barry’s crush, and you can see why he had feelings for her. Tiny steps, youkept remind yourself, tiny steps, letting them know the real Kara, the one you were trying to getback to. You just weren’t sure how to find her again.

Lois Lane became a good friend aswell, and she often reminded you of Alex with her snarky but smart comments,intelligent and clever. The only problem you had with Lois was that she alwayshad a ‘friend’ who you would be perfectfor. She didn’t understand why you wanted to be alone.

“Don’t take it personal, Kara” Clarksaid one day, feeling your discomfort with Lois’s words “She just want you tobe happy. That’s all”.

Nobody seemed to understand you didn’thave any interest in dating when your heart was truly broken. You knew you didn’twant to end up alone, but you just weren’t ready.

…

By spring break, you had managed tobreak out of your depression with some professional help, and decided that youwere tired of living your life as a shell.

Caitlin, Cisco and Barry invitedyou to go with them to Oregon for break where Caitlin had a cabin they spendmost of their summers in. You managed to invite Iris as well and she broughther little brother, Wally, to the mix. Both Bruce and Oliver were busy withtheir CEO’s lifes and Clark had planned a trip with Lois and the children toKansas. Diana, however, surprised you when she agreed to go.

A cabin in Oregon was the last placeyou could imagine for Diana to spend her break.

“I’m offended, Kara” she said,looking at some papers on her desk “You know I actually have a wild side”.

You were at the museum after talkingto her about an article you were planning exposing the Greek Gallery. Offhand,you had mentioned the travel and she had agreed immediately.

“I’m sorry” you replied quickly “It’sjust… I can’t imagine you on anything else besides a fancy dress”.

“Funny, I can imagine you on anything else besides a fancy dress” your heartbeat increased and you could feela blush forming on your cheeks “Anyway, my mother valued physical education andI’ve been trained since I was a child”.

You laughed awkwardly at that,trying not to imagine a younger Diana, less serious and freer, having fun withher family. You didn’t want to go there, protecting your heart at all costs.

It was going to be peaceful, and youwere looking forward to spending some time away from your flat and the city.You liked living by yourself, but it was also isolating, and there was only somuch time you could spend with Barry. He was a great friend, but he still couldn’ttake your mind completely off of Lena.

She was a constant in your thoughts,and even though you tried to get her out of your head, she was not leaving. You’dbriefly considered talking about allwith the doctor you were seeing, about the affair behind your divorce, but ifyou took that step it would lead you towards closure and you didn’t want that. There was a tiny,little sad part of you that still had hopes for the future even though you knewyou didn’t deserved it. It would fade eventually, you were sure.

“Wow” you said as you unfoldedyourself from the backseat of Caitlin’s tiny Prius. She insisted on driving,and since you would only be here for five days, all of you conceded. It was agood thing Barry and you were so skinny. Anyone a little heavier would squishedin this car.

“It’s been in my family forgenerations” Caitlin said, starting to unload the back. You’d all just broughtsmall bags. The majority of the space was taken up by the food you’d broughtwith you.

The cabin was larger than youthought it would be. It was two stories, with the entire exterior looking likea log cabin. There were several large windows that wrapped around the side ofthe house, and it didn’t look like it was as old as Caitlin was implying.