#he is me. we both prophesy from terrible experiences | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

calibancangetit · 5 years ago

Text

The Final Witch’s Quarry (Part 1)

Chapter: Her Quarry

Pairings: Prince Caliban x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) finally finds a key to her revenge as well as finally meeting the one person she is destined to stop.

Notes: I JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU ALL HOW THANKFUL I AM FOR THE SUPPORT YOU HAVE SHOWN ME FOR THIS FIC! I really didn’t think it would do so well, but you all are really giving me so much love! Thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged as well as commented. It made me so happy. I’m going to start focusing on some imagines for you all as a gift. I got some ideas that I think you all will like. If you have any requests please feel free to ask. I haven’t decided if I’ll be doing any smut however, so please refrain from asking for that as of now. Thank you again!

Prologue

Hilda has had plenty of awkward experiences. She couldn’t count how many times she created tension so thick she wanted to just sink into the Earth and never come out. However, today was the first time she got to see that tension from an onlookers perspective.

You sat perfectly still in your seat at the Spellman’s dining room table. You were seated exactly centered at the table, where you had careful view of the entire kitchen as well as it’s occupants. Ambrose and Sabrina shifted in their seats uncomfortably as they both tried to make out the best thing to say. You let out a deep sigh as you crossed your arms; your annoyance raidiated off of you in waves.

A quick cough caught your attention as Hilda walked up to you with a tray of homemade cookies and tea.

“U-uh, it’s quite excellent to see Sabrina bring home some new friends-” your sharp glare made Hilda stumble on her words as she placed the tray in front of you-“or not. Um, where did you say you were from again, love?”

You eyed the woman beside you. She had a terrible habit of wringing her hands and patting her clothes down frequently; she also had this obsessive need to release uncomfortable chuckles to ease situations like the one you found yourself in now. It was amusing as well as agitating.

“Brooklyn.” you muttered as you lifted a cookie to your lips.

You sniffed it before taking the sweet between your teeth and savoring the oatmeal flavor. Your eyes met Hilda’s again as she watched you eat. You gulped down the cookie and let out a short awkward cough as you gave her a forced smile in order to aknowledge that you enjoyed it. She took your hint with a smile and ran off to the other side of the table to sit in and listen.

“So, um, (Y/N)?” Sabrina started as you crossed your arms again and gave her a harsh glare. “What I mainly need you to help me with is stopping Caliban.”

“What’s a Caliban?” You questioned with obvious boredom laced in your voice.

You could see Sabrina become more exasperated by your attitude as she tried to explain her plan. You listened on and off through her little presentation. You paid attention to certain key words within it like Prince of Hell, Tenth circle, etc., etc, yet your mind came to an abrupt stop when a certain competition was brought up.

“You are trying to obtain the Unholy Regalia?” You almost choked at the thought of her collecting every piece.

Sabrina and Ambrose gave each other nervous looks before nodding sadly. At this, you couldn’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.

“You realize this was made for you to fail! How could they expect you-“ you paused.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. You mind flew to the Regalia and it’s power. You smirked at the Spellmans as you drummed your fingers against the table. Things are going perfectly-at least for you.

“This Regalia is going to determine who is the ruler of hell?” You asked, twirling another cookie between your fingers.

“Yes, and Caliban is the only competitor. This man of clay seems to be hell bent, if you’ll excuse the pun, on defeating Sabrina, ruling Hell, and conquering Earth.” Ambrose bit his lip, and you couldn’t help but notice the frantic bouncing of his knee.

“And Caliban? What are his powers?”

“We aren’t sure. As far as we know he has the powers of any warlock, but he hasn’t shown us much.”

You gave a brief smile as you stood up from the table abruptly, knocking some cookies off your plate. That, of course, made Hilda wince.

“Do you know what’s funny about clay?” You asked with a face full of amusement.

The family shrugged to your little question with a series of confused whispers.

“No matter how good the sculptor, clay will always break.”

—

It had been a while since you have seen Hell. The stench of blood and death engulfed you, and torment was plastered on every suffering souls face. The walls of pandemonium were no better. Sinners were strapped against the wall and with every ten seconds of peace another 60 were spent with their bodies set on fire. You kept a straight face despite the cookies from earlier running up your throat. You were disgusted.

You felt Sage’s feathers brush against your cheek as she situated herself on your shoulder. You could feel her anxiety from being here and it was a valid feeling. She knew how you were feeling.

“So what am I suppose to do?” You asked as you flattened some of Sage’s feathers on her head.

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight of your alli. Sabrina was an absolute wreck. She was chewing her bottom lip and wringing her hands every five seconds; you couldn’t tell if you were dealing with her or Hilda.

“Right now, you are going to be a scare tactic. Ambrose didn’t go into detail since he isn’t quite sure either, but he said Hell feared you. I’m going to need that fear.” You tried to ignore the way her face dropped.

After all, whatever was bothering her was none of your business. You were here for one reason and one reason only-

“Do you really speak to the false God?”

You blinked at the question and were about to brush her off, but you saw the way she pleaded with you for an answer.

“Didn’t you speak with yours?”

She gulped quietly before nodding more to herself than you. Guilt crept up your spine. She didn’t deserve your kindness, but you supposed she also didn’t deserve your spite. That was for her father. You could spare some advice.

“How long have you known you were Lucifer’s daughter?”

Sabrina was surprised by your sudden question but still answered, “Not long?”

“I can tell.” Sabrina stopped in her tracks at the confession. She could sense the trace of an insult and was greatly offended.

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?”

You gave her an amused look before continuing on,“I’ve known you for three days and even I can tell you are ill suited to be queen of hell just as everyone else can.”

She was at a loss of words as she tried to regain what was left of her pride.

You rolled your eyes and chuckled,“ You gotta stand up straight and quit being so nervous is what I am trying to say.”

Realization dawned on her face as she finally understood what you were trying to say. You shook your head in fake disappointment before pushing open too large blood coated doors.

You walked into the throne room where Lilith was expecting you and Sabrina. She was awfully disguised in the form of a human. It didn’t take you long to notice though. You could see through any poorly casted spell. You came to halt in front of the woman and quirked an eyebrow.

“Madame Satan,”

“Ah, the final witch. I thought you’d be-” she narrowed her eyes-“bigger.”

You gave a sweet smile and responded, "Yes, just like I thought you’d be queen. Guess life is full of disappointments. Isn’t it?

Her glare could slice you in half, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Lilith made a move towards you but Sabrina quickly pushed her away.

“ Anyways,” she chuckled nervously as Lilith patted down her dress, “The court will be in soon to discuss more about the competition as well as upcoming changes I have been planning.”

Lilith hummed in agreement as she turned to face you once more to add on.

“You will be introduced as the Final Witch, who has sided with Sabrina in the competition. It should gain us some leverage. You must remain calm and seem regal despite whatever they may say. They need to know you are untouchable.”

You could clearly see the confusion laced on Sabrina’s face. She clearly had no clue who she allied with.

The sounds of heavy footsteps and high pitched cackles caught Lilith’s attention, “Here they come,”

You let out a breath as demons filed into the room. The last to enter were the three plague kings with a man following close behind them.

Sabrina seemed to take your advice since she stood before them with the aura of the greatest queen of all time. You stood tall yourself to match Sabrina as you waited for her to begin.

“Before we discuss the new regulations I plan on using during my reign, I would like to announce a very important alli of mine, who believes I am more certified to rule Hell than your prince.”

Your eyes wandered across the room as you assessed everyone’s reactions. You didn’t expect a certain pair to be staring right back at you. He was dressed in a leather vest with claws poking out of it. He was leaning against a pillar towards the back with his arms crossed. You could tell he was either very bored with the meeting or he was trying really hard to pretend to be.

“I present the Final Witch!” Sabrina shouted with a prideful smile.

The eyes of everyone in the room became filled with absolute horror as they faced you. The man from earlier smiled as it dawned on him who exactly he was staring at.

You turned away from him and cleared your throat, “I do, in fact, put my support behind Sabrina Morningstar. I speak for Heaven and Hell when I say that balance must be restored. A Morningstar must remain on the throne. Clay can not compare to blood.”

Whispers filled the room as they pondered their next step. You didn’t need to give a big speech. They knew of your hatred for the Morningstars. It was prophesied to be legendary. If you could agree with a Morningstar, then it must be correct.

“And what does your word mean to us?” A deep voice shouted from the back.

Your eyes immediately locked with the man’s once again.

“What does your word-” he said, walking ever closer to you-“ mean to me?”

You scoffed, “Excuse me.”

“Who are you to say I cannot rule Hell?” He asked.

Your eyes shot open when you finally comprehended who was in front of you.

“I’m the one soul no one could take. The one soul no one can have. I have powers that I am sure exceed what your small mind is capable of imagining. They are powers that Lucifer Morningstar gave me but could not take back. Powers that Heaven and Hell allow me to keep. They were indebted to me!” You seethed as he got in your face.

It was an obvious tactic to intimidate you, but you had definitely seen worse. Caliban only laughed at your attempt to prove yourself valid.

“Lucifer? How powerful could he be. It would seem he was tricked twice by two mere witches? Why should we let that legacy live on through her? The same witch that took down that same man, may I add.” He challenged as he pointed to Sabrina seated on her throne.

A small gasp left your lips as you listened to what he said. She’s the reason this all happened? She brought you here because she screwed up? You sent a glare at Sabrina as she tried to look away from you.

You were quickly losing traction on your side of the argument, so you had to think fast. The angered voices of the demons before you signaled that your lifespan was shortening if you didn’t find something to say, and Sage was getting more nervous by the second on your shoulder.

“Think about what you are getting yourself into. Lucifer didn’t lose to Sabrina because he was weak. He could kill you all without lifting a finger. He lost because Sabrina was stronger. She was stronger than him, so she is certainly stronger than you. I may be his enemy, but I’m smart enough to recognize the Morningstar strength.”

His eyes narrowed at your own. He was a foot away from you, and you were tempted to start a fight right then and there. However, it seemed Caliban had other plans. He smiled at you. There wasn’t any emotion behind it. It was just an unsettling simple smile. He suddenly turned on his heel and backed up from you.

“I’ll test your theory of her strength through this competition as well as yours. However, when you realize that she has dealt you some bad cards, feel free to slide into my bed for some better ones, beautiful.” A series of deep laughs echoed throughout the room.

You glared at him as he gave you a lustful look before walking off with the plague kings. Everyone allowed the rest of the meeting to go by with less trouble since Sabrina decided against sharing her new rules today. As the last of the horrid creatures left you shot Sabrina with the most terrifying look you could muster.

“You are telling me everything NOW,”

#prince caliban x reader #sam corlett #prince caliban #caliban x reader #caliban fanfic #caliban imagine #caliban #chilling adventures of sabrina #the chilling adventures of sabrina #sabrina spellman #sabrina morningstar #ambrose spellman #caos pt 3 #caos netflix #caos #sam corlett x reader

365 notes · View notes

paintedpoems · 4 years ago

Text

Black Water Arc: War of The Water Tyrants.

“Wind’s ontology refuses to take separateness as an inherent feature of the world. […] And this is, in part, wind’s value—it has an existential precondition that appears only in the context of contact. Wind is touching, mutual, moving.”

— Cymene Howe, Ecologics

It seems overly contradictory to start a piece about water tyrants with a quote about the wind, doesn’t it? In actuality, readers of the novel would find this comparison immensely appropriate. This is because although black water arc is about the head-to-head battle between Shi Wudu and Hexuan; the center point, the cause and the final effect of this whole arc is Shi Qingxuan.

“Existential Precondition” or fate. It is ironic that wind is described as such because that is essentially Shi Qingxuan’s inherent problem and “Refuses to take separateness” was Shi Qingxuan’s ultimate solution.

Short Summary:

The infant Shi Qingxuan has a curse placed upon them. The curse prophesied a life full of unfathomable hardships for Shi Qingxuan and that is now their fate. Their brother, Shi Wudu, who is extremely protective of his sibling, is bent on saving Shi Qingxuan from this curse. Shi Wudu being naturally gifted eventually ascends as a god, he uses his position in the heavenly realm to then help his younger brother ascend to godhood as well. It is eventually revealed that Shi Wudu secretly changed his sibling’s cursed fate with another person of similar name and better fortune.

The person in question is Hexuan. Hexuan was fated to live a prosperous life and ascend as a god but instead lives with tragedy latched onto him. He goes through poverty, false accusations, abuse and all of his loved ones die under heartbreaking circumstances. Hexuan eventually dies and returns as a vengeful ghost bent on punishing the one that had wronged him. Hexuan wants justice and since the gods refuse to pass judgement, he decides to come to a verdict on his own. In short, that is what black water arc is about: Judgement. In a grey situation, where exactly do we place the blame?

On Morality:

Shi wudu verses Hexuan, ‘The war of the water tyrants’ dilemma, is one of the most mind-blowingly well thought out cases of grey morality in literature. It is no secret that the reductiveness of morals into “good” and “evil” categories is one of mxtx's main themes often explored heavily in her previous works. The author rejects the absolute extremes in character viewpoints, both in her protagonists and antagonists and applies the concept in varying thoughts including race and politics.

The difference in this arc however, is the projection of the audience’s principles into each character. That is, between Hexuan and Shi wudu, she never specifies who the antagonist is. It is left to the readers to explore, reflect and come to an understanding on what exactly it is like to venture into the grey zone. Neither of the two were selfishly driven, none of their initial intentions stemmed from hatred. It was familial love that drove them to hurt one another, familial love that blindsided them. In their quest to protect and to avenge their family, innocent family members lost their lives or were hurt; on both their parts. This is where the definitions of victims and perpetrators get skewed. It is so skewed in fact, that the only valid testimony left is the reader's sentiments for the characters and their own self-principles.

From Shi wudu’s “Everything I have today, I fought for myself... I will change fate that I do not possess. My fate is up to me and not the heavens” is the will to fight predestination. Verses, Hexuan’s “What right did he have to suck another’s blood, trample another’s bones to reach the skies, and still maintain a peace of mind. Enjoying all such luxuries without any sense of burden?” the victim of the change in predestination. Two strong, commendable principles, founded by righteousness but blinded by arrogance and hatred. Later, to maintain a peace of mind, Hexuan tramples on Shi Qingxuan and in the process of fighting for oneself, Shi Wudu ultimately changes Shi Qingxuan’s fate for the worse.

We even witness the Shi Wudu’s blindness take a terrible turn at the very end when he attempts to strangle his own sibling that he fought to protect all this time. His belief that Shi Qingxuan will not be safe without him, his lack of trust in his own brother, is part of his arrogance.

In return, we see Hexuan’s blind hatred falter for a moment when he keeps giving Shi Qingxuan chances for safety. At the finish line, we see both the water tyrant’s own morals and goals swap. This change in attitude towards Shi Qingxuan’s future is another outstanding ploy by mxtx because expectation of a good outcome is the core of morality. In the end, the readers simply wish for a good ending for Shi Qingxuan and when Shi Wudu decides he is going to die together with his sibling, it confuses the audience. There is a shock factor added, you perceive Shi Wudu as the protector and he pulls the safety rug from under your feet. Instant shock and confusion violating the purity of the absolute good, so the reader’s immediate reaction is to look for safety in the not-absolute evil i.e. Hexuan. However, when Hexuan does not provide that complete comfort at the end, only slightly appeasing everyone, it stings. Reinforcing that cognitive blend of mixed morality into reader’s beliefs, further skewing the curve.

It is this kind of writing that creates a split in the fandom, not in a bad way, but more in terms of sparking a conversation about where people’s individual morality lies. Each character has their past, their reasons, their flaws and goodness and it gives the audience something to root for. In addition, the rooting is not a hundred percent good versus bad, because each character’s choices are equally flawed. The fandom selects a side but with one foot still lingering on the other territory. Siding with Hexuan but understanding the reasoning behind Shi Wudu’s actions or siding with Shi Wudu but sympathizing with Hexuan’s pain and loss. The uneven split is how you know the characterization was not mediocre.

In regards to characterizations, Shi wudu and Hexuan are too similar. Their personalities, personas, auras; the proud, stubborn, intelligent water tyrants. We speak of these likenesses because Shi Qingxuan lives through this battle and will never be able to unsee the similarities. Hexuan remains, a walking reminder of Shi Wudu. This feels deliberately done as the final stab to the readers, so that Shi Qingxuan and Hexuan’s relationship remains unmendable.

Pure Point of Views, Shi Qingxuan and Xielian:

Wind is invisible, its apprehension comes from its exposure to objects or in this case other people. Shi Qingxuan is air, pure, lively and touching, forming a comforting contact with everyone they meet. The kind of character that brings about a reader’s protective instinct, in a sense, if anything were to happen to them it will infuriate and break the audience. A classic plot device to draw emotions from the readers. Why must this innocent child suffer for the sins of their brother? But, mxtx urges us to rethink this by wondering the same for Hexuan’s family. They were innocent too, why did they have to die on this path? Why is Shi Qingxuan’s innocence valid and not theirs? The audience feels for Shi Qingxuan because we have become familiarised with them. Shi Qingxuan has now made that connection with the readers, the wind has touched their hearts versus only receiving glimpses of what was Hexuan’s previous family. The effect is lacking that familial impact, that bond. Classic writing schemes, beautiful.

At the end of the clashing of the waves, the person left with the permanent scars was the blameless Shi Qingxuan. Their life was molded and directed into this final point without their control, as if caught in a sea storm. The one that paid for this feud was ultimately Shi Qingxuan, the person neither of the other two wanted to hurt.

Another classic writing device I want to finally explore and praise is the use of the narrator to throw the audience off the culprit’s scent. The mystery of Black Water Arc was quite simple actually, mxtx layed out all the clues and hints for the audience out in the open. Like Xielian himself states later, the simplest answer was always visible, he was just overthinking things. And if Xielian, the semi-narrator, overthinks then the audience will overthink. Xielian, an intelligent and the fundamentally good person, exudes a trusting aura. The audience cannot help but trust his judgement and perception of things, it is a credibility built from our experience with his mystery solving abilities in the previous arcs.

The reason why the black water reveal was so impactful and shocking was because of Xielian. The semi narrator continuously made excuses for MingYi, his subconscious trusted him, even if he had his suspicions. He didn’t enforce them strongly enough, leaving the audience to believe Xielian was merely exploring a wrong option for the sake of eliminating possible culprits. The audience was not viewing MingYi as a culprit, rather they were waiting for Xielian to come to the inevitable conclusion of his innocence. An item to quickly cross off the checklist so that they could finally pursue the “real” culprit.

MingYi couldn’t use the Earth Master Shovel? Xielian makes the excuse for him before the audience can even dive deeper on that thought. HuaCheng draws suspicion back to MingYi and Xielian immediately doubts his most trusted confidant’s assumptions. Xielian trusts MingYi, so we trust MingYi against our better judgement. When the narrator has left no room for mistrust, how can the audience hold their stance?

The proficient push and pull charade played out by Hexuan and Huacheng is another impactful factor that took part in diverting Xielian’s mistrust. The nefarious roles they played policing and suspecting each other, from Hexuan’s “don’t you have spies in the heavens?” to Huacheng’s lie detecting dice game. The solid plan of the two suspicious individuals doing the dirty work for Xielian, did not allow Xielian to mold his thoughts in his own way. He was led astray whilst the other two worked together to draw trust onto each other. So, the audience did not have room for doubt either.

In addition to all of that, the most fundamental foundation to Xielian’s trust for MingYi was that fact that he was the one who saved him from Huacheng in the first place. Simply because of the ghost city arc, we already place Huacheng and Hexuan on opposing sides rather than assuming they were accomplices. Furthermore, because of Xielian’s trust in Huacheng’s intellect and his belief of Huacheng’s prejudice against MingYi; he would constantly monitor Huacheng’s reaction to his own deductions. Unfortunately, Huacheng was a terrible basis point and by the time Xielian realizes it, it is too late. An ingenious tactic.

The author led us off track in such a brilliant manner, I had to sing praises at the end of this piece. The way our mind perceives people or situations, is the essence of our moral compass. The mind is subjective, so subjectivity in judgement is ever present, ever grey.

Notes:

This unforgettable and excruciatingly tragic arc is an important turning point in the book and we are all aware that it does not need a special summary. However, I wanted to start with a bit of a reintroduction, just to stay true to the essay tradition. Is this an essay? A think-piece? An analysis? I would not dare shame any of those academic classifications by claiming to be writing as such.

I hope this was enjoyable to read.

twitter link

#tgcf #heaven official's blessing #mxtx #writings #analysis #ahhhh i promised I wouldn’t do anymore long post!!! sorry for your dashboard fill ;___;#*bow in apology*

62 notes · View notes

theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years ago

Note

I really like Tequila from Lee's world. What would that weird Tom/Ginny combination be like if Lee had never returned to the HP universe? Would they become more like October Tom? Or something else entirely? How would Tequila handle the mad creature their main soul has become?

Oh man, you give Tequila far more credit than I do.

For simplicity’s sake, I’ll refer to Tequila below as “he”, mostly because it’s really Wizard Trotsky at the wheel in “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds”. He just happens to rock Ginny Weasley’s adolescent body.

Tequila’s a hot mess, a dumpster fire, and it doesn’t matter if he’s pining after Tom Riddle’s childhood friend Ellie Potter, if Tom is stuck in a diary only to be released to confront Ellie/Harry Potter, or if he’s stuck in a diary and released only to find out Ellie Potter isn’t even there. Tequila will always be a mess.

Let’s say Lee never showed back up. Tequila’s life would be one of hilarity and woe.

Wizard Trotsky likely would have continued masquerading as Ginny, i.e. being Tequila, out of a sheer lack of ability to answer the question “what the hell do I do now?” That’s why he stuck around as Ginny in the first place.

So Tequila goes to Hogwarts, milks “I’m an invalid, woe is me, I can’t go to class cough cough I am traumatized by snakes on planes” excuse for as long as he can get away with it (which is forever) and ends up with decent marks (having gone through Hogwarts twice now) but not nearly as good as he once had or, say, Hermione has because he’s gotten profoundly lazy. Sadly, this still puts him ahead of 50% of Hogwarts’ population.

Similarly, Tequila’s effort at impersonating Ginny Weasley is half-assed at best. However, because Ginny went through an incredibly traumatic experience, no one gives him shit for it or wonders “Hey, is this really Ginny?” Due to this, Tequila’s soul is dying inside even more than usual. He doesn’t even have to try around these assholes. He could walk up to the wall, spray paint “I am Voldemort, bitch!” and they’d probably just try to console him.

Lee showing back up out of the ether is the most exciting that has ever happened to Tequila possibly ever. It’d be better if Lee wanted to do epic ninja battle, so Tequila could prove how cool and not useless he is and defeat his prophesied enemy, but even Lee just being in the castle, insulting everybody, and lighting all of Hagrid’s pets on fire is amazing.

But anyways, Lee never shows up.

Tequila gets a pretty good idea of who the original Death Eaters were thanks to gossip but there’s not much he can do about it as all the Death Eaters (aside from the ones in prison) have disavowed Voldemort out of self preservation. His showing up as an adolescent schoolgirl just doesn’t have the same effect and it’d be a little hard to prove who he is given that he doesn’t even really know these people.

Not to mention that Voldemort was this distant thing in the future for him and he has no idea how to actually go about doing any of that. The actual Voldemort has many years experience on him in recruiting, guerilla warfare, logistics, etc.

Tom Riddle was in dueling club one time, it was great, he learned things.

So Tequila likely wiffle waffles a lot, telling himself, “One day, I’m going to run out on all these assholes, return as Voldemort, and then Granger will cry” only to sigh and realize it’s far more realistic to start from fresh. Besides, why just try to redo what his other half did, he wants to be his own person (a better more competent version! He won’t get blown up by any toddlers!) and that means finding his own cause. And if he can make Dumbledore’s Order his Order, then great.

Not to mention there’s the disturbing possibility that Voldemort’s not quite dead. Now, Tequila can give this credence as being the horcrux, he knows that Voldemort’s not really dead. He’s amazed Voldemort managed to blow himself up with a baby, amazed, embarrassed, and offended, but Tequila isn’t willing to completely throw out the idea that Voldemort’s this evil wraith who occasionally possesses muggle studies professors. Not exactly on Tom Riddle’s bucket list, but clearly, the original screwed up everything and doesn’t even deserve Tequila’s respect.

(Tequila went through a brief, extremely brief, period of wondering if he should seek out the main soul and help him return it to power. Being the horcrux, technically, he should probably serve the original soul.

Then he remembered that asshole had one job, only one job, and he ruined it. Tequila was shoved into a diary for nothing and look what happened. Now there’s a national Harry Potter Day. Clearly, the wrong half of Tom Riddle was put out of commission and if you want it done right you’ve got to do it yourself.)

So, in 1994 without Lee’s involvement, Voldemort returns from the grave. Because I’m realistic, Neville probably dies. Sorry, Neville, you lived a good if short life and I’m sure you gave it the college try. Dumbledore falls into despair and “THE WORLD IS DOOMED!” mode now that all his even remotely prophesied children are MIA and immediately gets the Order of the Phoenix together.

Ginny, being thirteen at the time, isn’t allowed because that would be ridiculous. Despite it being ridiculous to include thirteen year olds, Tequila is pissed that he’ll have to wait another god knows how many years before Molly lets him do what he wants.

Offscreen Dumbledore probably goes through varying levels of extremely horrifying solutions to the Tom Riddle problem.

First, he probably goes horcrux hunting. Unfortunately for Dumbledore, in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” and “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds” there are only two horcruxes and only one was intentional. Tom had originally planned to make seven but the hangover from the first one was so mind breakingly awful he went “New plan, I will make one horcrux, and then I will think of something else”. He never really got around to thinking of anything else.

Dumbledore, however, doesn’t know this. So he dutifully collects memories, banks on Tom’s ridiculously romantic nature, and starts going to places of importance. Not to reveal too much, but Tom actually laid several traps around for those poking their nose around looking for his horcrux. Dumbledore steps into several of these with not so good results.

Given that one of the horcruxes is Ginny and the other is still stuck in Konoha without any access to magic, Dumbledore is 0 for 2.

More, given that only Neville Longbottom was prophesied to have the ability to defeat the dark lord either Dumbledore has to somehow resurrect Neville or else get himself a new Neville. Because I love terrible, but funny, things let’s say he does both and we get a round of Pet Semetary (sometimes, dead is better, Albus) and pulling in Harry Potters/Neville Longbottoms from other dimensions (but miraculously not Eru Lee somehow, which is great for her because she’s busy having a terrible time in the third shinobi war).

Back to Lee for a bit and why Dumbledore’s first solution isn’t just to desperately try and find her.

First, she is completely off the map and has been for years. She isn’t even registering as “dead” or “in mortal peril” she’s just gone. Somehow finding her and hoping, miraculously, for her blowing up Voldemort a second time just isn’t on the table.

Second, Lee’s involvement in the prophecy is... a bit wonky. This has been noted a bit in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” but the prophecy in “Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus” and “Minato Namikaze and the Destroyer of Worlds” actually explicitly does not refer to her in that it specifies a male child born at the end of July. This is because the universe is falling apart and we’re all doomed, doomed, doomed, but that’s a different story. Point being, especially in this Lee-less version, Albus has no idea what’s up with Lee but he’s putting his money on Neville. Poor, dead, Neville.

Tequila meanwhile gets to read news of how everything’s going to hell in the dumbest way he can imagine. Voldemort clearly came back wrong and missing a lot of brain cells, even with a body he keeps not taking over the ministry even though they’re practically begging him to do it, and everything he does is not only a) very embarrassing but b) it prevents Tequila from rising into power and becoming amazing.

Clearly, he must be stopped, there can only be one Lord of the Rings.

Well, destroying him completely means destroying Tequila first, and we can’t have that. So Tequila comes up with the only reasonable solution: they have to seal Voldemort’s evil spirit away in some magical artifact.

Tequila drops out of Hogwarts, goes adventuring for a few years, finds some exorcism sword or something and learns how to use it. Comes back and anticlimactically defeats Voldemort while everyone else was busy panicking and Hogwarts was being invaded or some nonsense.

Nobody, not even Tequila, knows how to handle Voldemort’s sudden and very anticlimactic defeat.

Then Tequila recovers and shouts “Weasley is our king!”

Tequila, probably eighteen around this point, is voted the youngest Minister of Magic ever. With Dumbledore dead, Tequila strongarms his way into taking over the Order of the Phoenix, and everything’s coming up Tom Riddle.

Only then Tom Riddle has that terrible sense of deja vu as the, “What now?” question hovers in his brain. Once again, he has absolutely no answer. Tom is the dog who has caught the car.

Congratulations, Tom.

TL;DR: Without Lee, Tequila would probably end up dealing with the original Voldemort himself/herself. He’s still a mess, he’s learned nothing, and at the end just finds out that actually, he didn’t want to be in power, being in power is stupid.

All he figures out is that he has no idea what he wants.

On the plus side, at least Dumbledore’s dead.

#ask #anon #minato namikaze and the destroyer of worlds #eru lee #tequila weasley #wizard trotsky's a dumpster fire #there is no way around this eternal truth #lee actually showing up might just be the best path for him in a way

31 notes · View notes

melissart · 4 years ago

Text

Date Night

Terry x Korvo Solar Opposites fanfiction!

Rating: M

Warnings: Alien sex stuff, Korvo cries during sex a lot, NSF*W

Genre: romance, comedy, hurt/comfort

Words: 3,852

Summary: “Couples go to scheduled fancy dinners to help keep their relationship alive.“

Korvo paced around the backyard with his Element Detector.

Beep… beep… beep…

Nothing.

There were no useful elements on Earth! Of all the 118 elements that Earth discovered, everything just had to be carbon-based. Korvo had enough carbon to last the destruction of five planets. What he needed was the isotope Megeon-166--or as it’s called on Earth, Erbium. He needed at least 15 moles to repair the ship and, of course, nobody was helping him. What was the point in being mad, anymore? He knew nobody would help him but it never got any less frustrating.

Terry slid open the back door while cradling a tray of Starbucks™ frappuccinos in one arm. “Korvo!” he called out. “Got your favorite--matcha frappuccino!”

No, that’s not right--Terry did help. Just in a different way. Only Terry knew how to get everyone’s Starbucks™ drinks right.

Korvo tossed the Element Detector over his shoulder and took his frappuccino. Oh, the first sip was always the best. The whipped cream was at the bottom just the way he liked it.

Terry just… stood there and watched him drink the frappuccino. He wasn’t even going to sip his own untouched pink drink. He was waiting for a specific response from Korvo. Probably one that was two words and began with a “T”.

Korvo sighed. He had to relent. “Thank y--”

“--Do you know what day it is today?” Terry quickly blurted out. He was unusually excited.

Korvo paused for a second. The effects of the Dumb Ray still hadn’t subsided completely. “Friday?” Was he forgetting something? It couldn’t possibly be their anniversary.

“That’s right! It’s the first Friday of the month! That means it’s date night!”

“That is ridiculous. Every night occurs on a date.”

Terry laughed and put his hand on Korvo’s shoulder. Everything was a joke to him. “That gets funnier every time!”

Korvo brushes Terry’s hand off of him. It seems that Korvo has forgotten what “date night” was. Ten blasts of a Dumb Ray does that to you. “Explain it to me again.”

“Couples go to scheduled fancy dinners to help keep their relationship alive.”

Evidently, Terry has explained this concept multiple times. There were no side tangents, no movie references, and no headaches. “I am satisfied with our relationship.” Korvo sunk into himself and slightly turned away. “Are… you… not satisfied?”

Terry erupted into an even louder bout of laughter and slapped his knee. “Hah! That gets funnier every time, too! It’s for fun, Korvo. I already made reservations at your favorite restaurant for 8PM.”

“But, I--”

Terry was already heading back inside to give Jesse and Yumyulack their drinks. “Make sure you wear something nice this time!”

Korvo racked his mind for any memories of going on a date night with Terry, but there was nothing. Korvo didn’t realize how harsh the effects of the Dumb Ray were. He felt like an idiot. Maybe it was like the NBC show Dateline. He had some researching to do. If Terry found out Korvo’s memory was still foggy, Korvo would surely get locked up again.

Terry was about to go on the best date night of his short, pathetic life.

---

It was 7:50 PM, Terry was already dressed in his favorite pink button-up with the top button unbuttoned and jeans, and Korvo was nowhere to be found. To make things worse, Korvo took the car so Terry couldn’t even go to the nearest Jack in the Box to drown his sorrows in a $5 munchie meal. It was uncharacteristic of Korvo to forget about date night, especially when he reminded Korvo just earlier. Perhaps, he wondered, the Dumb Ray effects had not subsided yet.

He went into the replicants’ bedroom to ask them if they knew where Korvo was, but they were gone. That’s right, they were at a party and said they wouldn’t be back home until midnight. Terry was alone at the house. Bored. Bored in the house and in the house bored--just as how that TikTok prophesied.

There were three loud knocks on the front door. Terry groaned. “Coming!” He wasn’t in the mood to entertain the neighbors.

Terry opened the door to find a bouquet of a dozen red roses being shoved into his face. It was Korvo, all dressed up in a tuxedo as if he was about to get married.

“I have arrived to date night you,” Korvo declared.

Terry happily accepted the bouquet. “Sick plants, dude! I didn’t know they came in red.”

“Red means love.”

“Cool! Should I plant them?”

“No, you put them in a vase with water.”

“Hmm…” Terry stared at the stems. “I don’t know, Korvo, don’t plants need dirt?”

“Why would I--” Korvo stopped himself and took a deep breath. He had to be charismatic. “You put them in a vase, you look at them for a couple days, and then they die.”

“Aww…” Now Terry was bummed out. He hated reminders of his planned obsolescence and inevitable death. “What’s the point of it, then?”

“Because they’re red, Terry!” Korvo’s fury was quick to resurface. “Red means love!”

“Okay, fine, but you don’t have to yell!”

Korvo hated himself. Stupid. He was already ruining their date night.

----

Jazz music played softly in the background. It would have been relaxing if it weren’t avant-garde jazz. It was times like these that made Korvo pray for the Pupa to eat everyone and terraform the planet, already. He had no idea how the cacophony he was hearing could possibly be classified as music. There was no discernible key signature, no rhythm, no melody, no dynamics--it was literally just a collection of instruments blasting away and competing with each other to see who could best resemble a dying animal.

“What the hell is this?” he grumbled.

Terry was busy looking through the menu. “‘Om’ by John Coltrane.”

Korvo was taken aback by the answer. He didn’t know Terry listened to this kind of noise. Even TV static sounded more harmonious. “What’s the point of it?” The thought of someone sitting in a recording studio and blasting terrible screeches into a microphone was enough to make someone gloober.

“Uh, to piss off people like you, duh!” Terry scoffed. “Just relax a little, okay, Korvy?” He reached across the table to put his hand over Korvo’s.

Korvo stared down at Terry’s hand and pondered for a moment. He curled his fingers over Terry’s hand. “I see… So what you’re saying is that music acts as a medium not only to organize patterns and produce a conventionally pleasing aesthetic, but also to defy those same standards and redefine the purpose of music through an ironic lens?”

“That’s jazz, baby!” For emphasis, Terry does jazz hands with his free hand.

Korvo leaned in and clasped his other hand over Terry’s. “You know a lot about music,” he comments. A loving smile curled the corners of his mouth upwards.

Terry smirked. “Well, I did major in music when we went to community college… Remember when we did that? That was fun.”

Korvo’s smile dropped. “You did?” He had no idea.

“Yeah, I majored in percussion performance. I was trying to get into a drumline, like in the movie Whiplash. Don’t you remember? I even invited you to my winter and spring recital.”

Korvo genuinely could not recall anything after Terry referencing Whiplash. This wasn’t on the Dumb Ray, this was clearly on his own negligence. “Oh.” Now that he thought about it, Terry was really good at drumming.

Terry withdrew his hand and crossed his arms. He sighed, slumped into his seat, and looked away forlornly. “It’s okay, you were probably busy working on the ship… The mission is always the highest priority.” He was already conditioned to expect disappointment when telling Korvo anything about his personal ambitions. It was Wetzel’s Pretzels all over again.

“It is...” Korvo agreed.

Terry felt his heart sink.

“... but you’re a high priority to me, too.”

Before Terry could respond, their waiter interrupted to take their orders. “Seafood platter for him, fettuccine chicken alfredo pasta for me, and your biggest bottle of wine.”

“Of course, sir.” The waiter took their menus away and left to relay the orders to the kitchen.

Fuck, Korvo loved it when Terry ordered for the both of them. It made him feel slightly lesser. He tugged at his neck collar.

“You know… I didn’t actually want to be a Pupa Specialist,” Terry quietly confessed. “I wish I could’ve been a music major on Shlorp.”

“You could’ve,” Korvo reminded him, “but you’d be dead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know...”

Korvo watched Terry slump further into his seat. He was blowing it. Again. Discreetly, he took out his phone on his lap and pulled up a Wikihow article he had bookmarked on Safari: “How to Get Guys to Like You More when You Go on a date”. He skipped to step 3, “Be conversational.” Korvo cleared his throat. ��Um… I wanted to be a biologist on Shlorp.”

“Aren’t you already a biologist?” Terry argued. “Science is like, your whole gimmick.”

“I’m an electrical engineer. I work with technology. I only got to take a few biology courses but my schedule was so loaded since I was a math/physics/engineering triple major, so I had no time to declare a minor in biology.”

Terry laughed. “You sure dodged a bullet! Pupa Specialists had to take a shitton of bio classes, and let me tell you, the only silver lining is the sex unit.”

“There’s a sex unit?”

“Yeah! Meiosis, DNA, best positions, tongue stuff… Jesse was conceived during that unit!” Terry smiled fondly, as if it were a normal sweet memory to be nostalgic of. “Ooh, ooh, how was Yumyulack conceived?”

“With my right hand and a magazine at a lab.” Korvo didn’t realize there was anything more to it than that. “Tell me more about this unit,” he demanded.

“Okay, so on the first day of class, our lab experiment for the day is to analyze genetic fluids, but wait! Our old tree professor forgot to order enough sample genetic fluids for the entire class! But, it turns out that collecting genetic fluids is the real lab experiment! Of course, I’m just sitting there with my lifemate, confused as hell, while the TA’s start to unbutton their robes…”

------

Terry and Korvo laughed as they stumbled out of the restaurant together, holding hands and swinging it between them. When Terry asked for their biggest bottle of wine, they sure did deliver. Behind them, the warm glow of the restaurant faded away as they searched for their car.

Terry wiped away tears of mirth with the back of his hand. “So I said, ‘You wouldn’t know one if you saw one!’”

Korvo dropped the car keys as he erupted in more laughter. “Hohoheehoihoiheehoihoi! You sure told him! That was something that you told him, alright!”

Korvo and Terry crouched down to reach for the car keys at the same time. They both groped around the spinning ground until their hands met. They looked up at each other with the same dazed, lovesick look in their eyes.

Within seconds, they were sloppily making out. Terry had so much to drink that he couldn’t even feel where his body started and Korvo’s ended. All he could taste was wine and seafood. He felt Korvo topple over, putting Terry on top of him, straddling Korvo’s hips between his legs. Their tongues swirled around each other as Korvo moaned and dug his fingers onto the back of Terry’s shirt. The sidewalk was cold, but their bodies were hot enough to compensate.

Terry pulled away and fumbled to unbutton his shirt.

“Woah, woah, woah--I think we should, should go home first.” Korvo slowly sat himself up.

“You can’t even drive!”

“Of course I can!” Korvo declared, unintentionally flicking specks of saliva onto Terry’s face as he spoke. “W-We’re aliens! Our bodies… they got high tolerance… Alcohol sharpens our senses!” He pushed Terry off of him and crawled over to the car keys.

Terry helped him up. “That doesn’t sound so right, but I don’t know enough to argue with that!”

Korvo waved the car key fob in the air and pressed the lock button repeatedly, struggling to hear where their car was. “Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!” he called out, as if it were a dog that could respond and come running over. “Fuck, where’d I park?”

Terry turned Korvo around to face their car.

“Oh shiiit, found it!”

Korvo clicked the unlock button a few dozen times, then they let themselves in. Neither of them bothered to strap in their seatbelts.

-----

As soon as their bedroom door was shut and locked, Korvo and Terry started hurriedly undressing each other. Terry kissed Korvo’s neck as he loosened his bowtie while Korvo yanked Terry’s shorts down and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Fuuuck, Terry,” Korvo raspily moaned out. “I-I want you to dominate me! Dominate me, Terry! Make me your slut!”

“Yeah, you’re a little slut, huh?” Terry palmed Korvo’s mound. “My fucking whore needs to be taught a lesson?”

Korvo bucked his hips into Terry’s hand. “Yes, Terry!” he groaned. “Teach me a lesson!”

Terry swept Korvo off his feet in one motion and carried him to the bed. As soon as he dropped him, he crawled on top of Korvo and tugged Korvo’s dress pants down. Korvo’s rootstalk was eager to be exposed, wriggling out of its hole to meet Terry’s tongue. Terry gave the thick root one long, slobbering, lick up the shaft and to the tip. “Alright, Korvy, pop quiz--what’s the powerhouse of the cell?”

Korvo didn’t respond.

“Wait, Korvo, you do know what the powerhouse of the cell is, don’t you?” Terry heard a small sob. He looked up at Korvo, who was covering his blushing face, wet and shiny from fresh tears. Terry crawled away from between Korvo’s legs and to his side. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he whispered gently. He coaxed Korvo’s hands away from his face.

Of course, being asked what was wrong only made Korvo cry harder and curl away. “I-I-I forgot!” he wailed. “I f-forgot what the powerhouse of the cell is! W-What is it? I have no f-f-fucking clue!”

Terry hugged him from behind. “It’s okay, baby, it doesn’t matter! It’s just the mitochondria.”

“I-I just… I just feel so dumb. I’ve been waiting weeks for my intelligence to fully recover ever since you hit me with the Dumb Ray, but… but that’s it. This is as smart as I ever was before! And I’m fucking s-s-st-stu-stupid!”

Terry squeezed him harder while he sobbed and wailed and gooblered all over the both of them. “There, there, Korvo.” He knew the drill. Korvo cried during sex all the time--something about the physical release of his genetic fluids seemed to trigger an emotional catharsis in him. This time was unusually early, though. They hadn’t even finished foreplay. “Do you want some ice cream?”

“N-No, let’s continue having sex,” Korvo insists.

“But you’re crying--”

“--Well, I’m still horny!” He tried to dry his eyes, but it was a Sisyphean task.

“Alright, fine, but talk about your feelings while I’m sucking you off.” Terry crawled back over to Korvo’s crotch and continued where he left off--licking the thick root all over, from bottom to top. He began sucking the tip of it, which wriggled slightly as it grew more.

Korvo panted heavily. “O-O-Oh my g-god…” Hot pleasure took over him. “Well, I wanted to be a biologist on Shlorp, but…” He interrupted himself with a loud moan when Terry started deep-throating his root. “Hohhhmygod! Oh, Terry! Fuck, it feels so good!” He felt his root lengthening more and wriggle down Terry’s throat. “Terry, Terry, Terry… I’m gonna--ohhh, fuck…”

Terry gave a small grunt of surprise when Korvo’s genetic fluids began squirting down his throat. He could just barely taste the sweet, floral nectar as he swallowed. There was so much to swallow down. Korvo was always so repressed--he was always too busy studying repair manuals to jerk off every now and then.

Korvo felt dizzy from the waves of pleasure still crashing over him after his release. “Terry, I love y--”

“--What happened?” Terry interrupted.

“Huh?”

“What happened to being a biologist?” Terry asked again. “I mean, you could’ve just not majored in so many majors in the first place, right?”

Korvo grabbed a spare pillow and put it over his face. “It’s not important anymore, never mind,” he said, muffled.

“Korvo, c’mon, I won’t tell you my secret sex techniques if you don’t tell me your tragic backstory.”

Korvo uncovered his face. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“You first!”

Korvo took a moment to decide if it was truly worth opening up about his deepest, darkest insecurities just for sex. It was a very short moment. “I got a B+ in Intro to Biology my first year.”

Terry waited for further explanation, but there was nothing more. “B+ isn’t a bad grade?”

“I know!” Korvo snapped. “But I-I freaked out! That was my first B in a class, ever! And now we’re stuck on Earth and the Pupa could destroy us all any second and it’ll be all my fault because I wasn’t smart enough to fix the ship! And I’m not even smart enough to understand why the Pupa is 670C because I got freaked out over a B! And now we’re all going to die!” Gooblers danced all over their bedsheets.

“Korvo, baby, relax!” He wiped away Korvo’s tears. “Even if you quadruple-majored in biology/math/physics/engineering, we’d still be on Earth because you couldn’t fix the ship. It doesn’t matter!”

Korvo buried his face into Terry’s chest and gave out a strangled scream.

Terry laughed to himself. “I mean, what’s the point of studying so much if you can’t even fix the ship?” He stroked the back of Korvo’s head lovingly. “I was able to fix a lavatic reactor in just a few minutes of reading one of your dumb manuals!” One of the gooblers popped straight into his eye. “Ow! Okay, I’m sorry! I guess the point is, uh… I’ll help you fix the ship. How does that sound?”

The gooblers finally came to a stop. “You will?”

“Anything to get you to stop crying during sex…” Terry grumbled.

Korvo began showering Terry with kisses. “Oh, Terry! Thank you! Mwah, mwah! Thank you so much! There’s so much I still have yet to diagnose in the ship--the catalytic nasprober, the psionic cholecystosanitizer, the carcino-fibrillator, the hexylgraph, the blinkers--”

The list went on and on and on and on and on. Terry didn’t realize how much was wrong with the ship until now. He started to understand why Korvo was so stressed out all the time. Korvo had spent hours every day working on the ship for over a year, and this entire time Terry assumed that Korvo was just bad at repairing.

There had to be an end to this. Terry slowly crawled back over to Korvo’s root, still wet with saliva and nectar genetic fluids, and began sucking at it again. It was only a matter of seconds until Korvo was back to being a squirming, moaning mess.

Korvo rested his hand on Terry’s head. “T-T-Terry, T-Terry! Oh, Terry!”

After Terry deemed it wet enough, he finally gave his mouth a break. “Okay, don’t freak out,” he warned Korvo.

“Why should I not freak out?” Korvo asked, freaking out already.

“I’m gonna try a special Shlorpian sex technique on you.”

Korvo has only ever had sex with Terry the traditional way--humping and twisting their roots around each other. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

“Hmm--well--um---I wouldn’t say hurt?”

“I do not like your hesitance.”

“Okay, okay, okay! So, you twist up your partner’s root into a spiral-cone-thing, tuck that into their root-hole, and fuck it like a pussy, basically.”

The image of it was vivid in Korvo’s head. It sounded so… demeaning and aggressive. “Okay.”

Terry kissed him. “I love you!” He licks Korvo’s root and tries to coat as much saliva as he can on it before twisting the root as tight as he can. This, of course, is not the part where it hurts because their roots do not have pain receptors. With his other hand, he gently pries open Korvo’s root hole.

Korvo groaned. He felt so violated in a way he had never felt before. It felt so lewd to have Terry stretch his root hole open. He bites his tongue when Terry starts fingering him. “Mmghh…!” It hurt so good.

“Damn, Korvo, you’re so tight. Tighter than Honey Boo Boo’s training bra!”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Seriously, you make Terri look like a corner street hooker! Because you’re so tight, get it?”

“Yes, Terry. I get it.”

Terry lapped at Korvo’s hole, then stuck the tip of his tongue in. Breathy moans spilled out of Korvo as he clencher himself around Terry’s tongue. Terry went back to sucking on Korvo’s root while slowly pushing his finger inside of Korvo’s hole. Korvo’s moans crescendoed with every millimeter Terry pushed in. Terry tried to wriggle his finger and stretch out Korvo’s hole as much as he could before squeezing in another one.

“Ahh… Ahh! T-Terry! Oh my god--Terry! Mmphh!” Korvo grinded his hips against Terry’s fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! T-Th-That feels s-so good!” He was close to cumming all over again.

Terry took his mouth off of Korvo’s root and began twirling the root around his finger. He wasn’t one to brag, but it was known that he had the best root-twirling technique in his class. Korvo’s root was, thankfully, very flexible and easily conformed to the twirled form. Terry quickly shoved the root as deep into Korvo’s hole as possible. There was a soft squelch underneath Korvo’s grunts. Terry got on top of Korvo, pinned Korvo’s arms over his head, and kissed him as he gently pushed his root inside of Korvo.

Korvo wrapped his legs around Terry’s hips. He finally understood the human concept of “heaven” and it was Terry holding him down and jack-hammering away at his hole. Within seconds, he was already cumming. His root clenched hard around Terry’s and squirted more lubrication for Terry to penetrate even deeper and harder.

It wasn’t long until Terry cummed, too. His hot nectar filled Korvo up and leaked all over both of their groins. He slowed down, then eventually paused. This was usually around the time when Korvo started to cry again. He rested his sweaty forehead against Korvo’s. “Korvo?”

The waterworks came back. “Terry, I love you so much! I-I-I’m sorry I keep crying d-during s-s-sex!”

“It’s okay, I love you too.” He accepted more tear-stained kisses. “Do you wanna keep going?”

Korvo shook his head no.

Terry got off of Korvo and hugged Korvo and patted his back while he cried. “It’s okay, Korvy… I love you a lot, too! We have a house and replicants and a cute little Pupa--we really nailed this whole family thing, huh?”

All in all, Terry would say that it was a very successful date night.

#solar opposites #tervo #fanfiction #terry #korvo #terry x korvo #korvotron

26 notes · View notes

hamliet · 5 years ago

Text

Tragic Snow White: Renfri as a Mirror to Ciri

So in my initial review of The Witcher (the show version) I talked about how I thought it was fitting that Renfri’s story was the one the show adapted first, because it perfectly articulated what the story’s main questions and themes would be. At the time I’d only read the first two books and hadn’t even started the main saga, and now that I’ve finished the main saga, I think Renfri’s story is even more important than I initially thought.

The story is a tragic foil to the entire Witcher saga, with Renfri as a foil of Yennefer to an extent, but especially a foil--even more of a parallel--to Ciri. It pretty much tells you exactly how the entire saga will end, even.

Spoilers for the books and potentially disturbing subject matter below.

Vilgefortz is to Ciri what Stregobor is to Renfri.

Stregobor and Vilgefortz both want to control little girls because of the circumstances of their birth.

Stregobor hunts Renfri because she was born during an eclipse known as the Black Sun (which is an alchemy reference, fyi). He believes all the girls born then are evil and hunts them to vivisect them. He claims Renfri was strangling puppies even as a child, but he is hardly a reliable source of information, so it’s impossible to say. All we know is that he persuaded Renfri’s stepmother, the Queen, to hire a huntsman to murder Renfri. But she lives, just like Snow White... or not. Here’s how she summarizes it to Geralt:

Like Renfri, Ciri is a princess whose life is thrown into chaos and violence. For Ciri, though, it’s because her kingdom fell, and she has to run. Vilgefortz and Emhyr (and like, the mages, also the elves, also half the world) hunt Ciri because of almost the exact opposite reason: after years of genetic experiments, Ciri is prophesied to give birth to a son who will save the world from a coming calamity. However, no one thinks that Ciri might have opinions on what is done to her own body.

Vilgefortz, in particular, is notably similar to Stregobor in that what he wants to do to Ciri is absolutely grotesque: artificially inseminate her and then rip out her placenta to study it, so that he might obtain power. Both men look to treat these girls’ bodies to suit their own selfish needs for prestige while under the guise of the “greater good.” It’s disgusting, and as Geralt says to Emhyr:

“The ends justify the means,” the Emperor said flatly. “I do it for the future of the world. For its salvation.”

“If you have to save the world like this,” the witcher lifted his head, “this world would be better off disappearing. Believe me… it would be better to perish.”

Like Ciri, Renfri takes on another identity that isn’t really who she is. She becomes known as Shrike for her method of killing, but she asks Geralt not to call her that. Ciri goes by Falka when she runs around with the Rats, the name of an ancestor of hers who was a princess sent away by the king as a baby, who grew and led a rebellion, killing her family in revenge before ultimately being executed herself.

Shrike and Falka are the worst of Renfri and Ciri, and so it is meaningful that Renfri asks Geralt not to call her Shrike. She tells him to kill Stregobor to save the town, because she cannot renounce her vengeance, going so far as to risk her safety to sneak into his room and ask him. She asks him not to make her Shrike, not to let her kill, but she cannot let Stregobor live after all she has suffered.

Geralt believes Renfri can change, urges her to leave her past, cares deeply for her, yet ends up having to kill her because he wasn’t able to fully understand the depths of Renfri’s pain (I’m not saying he should have killed Stregobor, merely pointing out that he does fail here). He cannot make a decision and reacts instead of acting, and by then no good options are left. Yet, at the very least, he refuses to allow Stregobor to touch her body. The Witcher is a decently straightforward fictionalization of the argument that women have the right to control their bodies.

We see Geralt responding to Ciri’s predicament as if she is a second chance for Geralt after Renfri. Instead of being reactive, he is proactive, trying to protect her before the fall of Cintra and then trying to destroy her enemies. However, he still struggles to understand just what it was that Renfri was asking him for. It wasn’t just to act. It was to empathize with her pain. Ciri, too, winds up feeling abandoned by Geralt, and after a series of terrible events, winds up following a similarly murderous path just like Renfri. In trying to prevent a repeat, Geralt almost caused a repeat.

However, thankfully, this does not happen, because Geralt and Yennefer’s genuine love for Ciri, even if imperfect, helps Ciri pull out of her spiral, whereas Renfri was never given the chance. Yennefer is absolutely instrumental to this, because, like Renfri, she’s a bitter, emotional, and violent person, determined to get what she wants. And that is why when Yennefer is so determined to self-destruct just to control the djinn, Geralt chooses to empathize and use his last wish to, presumably somehow, tie her fate to his to save her. Ciri has seen this empathetic part of Geralt even as he tries to cloak it in other coping mechanisms, and so she has hope, while Renfri did not know Geralt beyond their time in Blaviken.

Notably, the narrative does not condemn Renfri for this even though she dies. It’s seen as a tragedy, with Renfri as someone worth mourning. Additionally, her death and her questions haunt Geralt. Her questions are the ones he essentially finally answers with the above quote to Emhyr: what is the lesser evil? And his answer is that you can’t make a right world on the foundation of hurting someone--anyone.

As Renfri states, Geralt is terrible at making decisions, and this is why he has to repeatedly struggle to make decisions and learn to pursue people and to give people second chances--Yennefer, Jaskier, Regis, Cahir, Angoulême, Ciri. Through helping others redeem themselves, he redeems himself; through finding others, in learning to empathize with them and to trust them, he finds himself.

#the witcher meta #yennefer of vengerberg #renfri #geralt of rivia #ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #princess cirilla #the witcher saga #andrzej sapkowski #witcher meta #netflix's the witcher #yenralt #yennefer x geralt

134 notes · View notes

officialleehadan · 5 years ago

Text

Over Troubled Water

“How is he doing?”

“Angry. Afraid, but not mostly for himself. Mostly angry.”

“about what we expected?”

“Give or take a murderous impulse or six.”

Cora sighed and looked up when Lisette walked back into the room. After her kidnapping and subsequent burning-down of her kidnappers’ hideout, she was in desperate need of a shower. Cora handed off her spare change of clothes, a little short but manageable, and let Lisette take care of the rest.

Fortunately, like her brother, Lisette had a backbone of pure steel, and an upbringing that would leave a lesser woman crying into her morning merlot.

“Where is my brother?” she asked when she joined Cora and Rao at the table. With the ease of family, she tucked herself under Rao’s arm and sighed. Cora supposed she wasn’t surprised that Lisette was so comfortable with Rao. He shared her brother’s soul, after all. “He’s not here, and Rao is, so something happened.”

“Breton’s not dead,” Rao proffered the bad news first. The reaction was immediate. Lisette leaned over and spat into the sink at the mention of her father’s name. “Yeah, figured that would be your reaction. He’s up to his usual tricks, with a handful of new ones tossed in for fun.”

“Let me guess; he has some hairbrained scheme and kidnapped me as leverage against Cal?”

“Hole in one.”

“That’s for old business. What’s new?”

“He’s got a sorcerer good enough to work a true shift on whoever they killed to fake his death.”

Lisette’s profanity was strong enough to peel the paint from the table and left Cora impressed, and Rao unmoved but for a small, not-very-nice smile.

“I’m killing him” Lisette said when she was done cursing, although her grip on the table left her knuckles white. “Two in the head and Rao burns him. No more chances for fate to take a hand. If She doesn’t like how I handle it, She can take it up with me personally.”

“I approve of your priorities, but I think there’s a line,” Cora said wryly. “You’ll have to be quick to beat Cal to the first shot or three.”

Lisette muttered something unflattering under her breath, and deflated. “I know. So, you’re their girlfriend?”

“She’s got a lot of guns and all these cute boots,” Rao said peaceably with a small, genuine smile that Cora returned. “You two’ll get on like a house on fire.”

“My brothers like scary women,” Lisette decided after a minute of looking over Cora with a model’s cunning eye, and proffered her hand. “Lisette Tor.”

“Cora Smoke. Want a gun?” They were on their way back to the States using more of Rao’s shady connections, and Cora studiously tried to ignore how many international laws they were probably breaking at any given moment.

It would be fine. She already sent a report to her superiors, and they, as was all too often the way, were leaving her to solve the problem herself or die trying.

But at least she probably wouldn’t be facing a court marshal for defying orders. Hard to defy what didn’t exist, and there were some benefits to being one of the Agency’s better Nulls. They didn’t want to burn her unless they really had to.

“Yes please,” Lisette sighed, and checked the gun over professionally when Cora handed it over. Her skill was too clean to be anything but experience, and Cora stifled another particularly sharp spike of hatred for Breton Tor.

He caused a lot of damage during the short years he had with his children. The scars of their time with him showed all too clearly to someone who knew what to look for.

“How’s Cal?” Lisette asked when the gun was hidden away on a thigh holster, neatly concealed under layers of floofy skirt. Floof, Cora knew, hid all sorts of things and made it very difficult to spot a weapon. There was a reason she liked her frilly girl clothes for this sort of mission. No one ever expected you to be packing a hand-canon under four layers of pink tulle skirt. “Is Dad…?”

“He’s holding up,” Rao said in a way that told Cora that Callen didn’t have nearly as much time as they probably needed. “I can’t get a message to him over all this water.”

“Can we text him?” Cora asked, since it was reasonable and possible. Modern amenities had their place, after all, no matter how useful magic was. “Have we tried?”

She hadn’t, but Rao spent almost an hour fiddling with his phone as they loaded onto the plane.

“It’s going straight to voicemail, and he’s not answering texts,” Rao reported, anger spiking hot enough to force Lisette away from his side. “Sorry Lis. No, my bets are on Breton trashing his phone. He knows better than to give Cal such an easy way to betray him.”

“But you can talk to him?”

“Feelings. Not really words.”

“Damn.”

It would have been more convenient if they could just tell Callen that Lisette was safe.

Of course, he might also murder his father on the spot, which could be a different sort of trouble.

“Okay,” Cora said, all too aware of the rush of time against the back of her neck. The longer they took to get to Callen, the more likely everything was to go terribly sideways. And they still had the damn prophesy to deal with too. “Plan. Get back home, find out where Callen and Breton are, deal with Breton’s whatever-it-is that he needs Cal for, and deal with whatever comes up on the way. Thoughts?”

“I’m still a fan of the ‘shoot Breton in the head’ part,” Lisette muttered, fingers brushing murderously over her hidden gun. “But otherwise, it sounds good. So, what next?”

“Next we make a few more calls,” Rao rumbled, and dropped into a chair, apparently calm enough to keep from scorching the plush leather as he looked up at them both. “And make sure that Breton doesn’t slip away before we can get our collective hands on his slimy neck.”

+++

Secondhand Souls:

Solving a murder is rarely easy, but a sorcerer with a vendetta and his half-demon best friend complicate things.

Cora still hasn’t decided whether or not to shoot them both and blame it on whoever happens to be handy.

Partnership of Flames

Barroom Brawl

Lox of Trouble

Attack on Blue

Busted Engine

Dragon Curry

Territory Negotiations (Free on Patreon)

Word Salad

Rumble and Roll (Subscriber-Only!)

Prophesy Burning

Fly Out (Subscriber Only!)

Waver in the Air

+++

More Stories!

+++

28 notes · View notes

peacefulrestvalley · 5 years ago

Text

A Terrible Idea

Fandom: Shall We Date? Love Tangle

Summary:

Four knocks on the door to the captain's quarters was all the warning he had before Rami loudly shouted from the other side, "HEY CORNELIUS, OPEN UP!" and then kicked the door once.

Rami and Cornelius share a drink one night aboard the Starling Kaleido where many things are said, but nothing is as important as what is left unsaid.

Notes: Inspired by Cornelius's Vicious story in the spin-off Personalities as well as @northernscruffycat's commentary on Rami and Cornelius's main routes because, believe it or not, I would not have put the two together without reading both of these. This piece can be implied to have occurred in the Vicious Personality timeline before the Starling Kaleido docks and he narrowly avoids being shanked by MC (who is referred to in this story as her default name, Julia Darwin).

Four knocks on the door to the captain's quarters was all the warning he had before Rami loudly shouted from the other side, "HEY CORNELIUS, OPEN UP!" and then kicked the door once.

Unlike a certain someone, Cornelius had been actually working even as late in the night as it was, busy checking weather reports and comparing them to the Starling Kaleido's course one more time before heading off to sleep. However, Rami's hopeful intrusion had him lunging toward the door in a mad race to put an end to the loud voice that could, and most certainly would, draw the attention of a guest out for a midnight stroll - or worse, a staff member. He swung the door open with surprising force and came face to face with Rami holding up two glasses and an unbearably bright grin.

"Hey, yo-"

"Get inside!"

Cornelius pulled him by the arm into his quarters and then shut the door behind them in a decidedly more delicate manner than how it was opened. "Honestly," he began what Rami knew would be a tirade out of embarrassment, "you could have done anything else in the world to get my attention but that. You know your pounding and hollering is going to draw attention, and especially so late at night you know it's going to be the wrong type of attention. You kn--"

"But would I have gotten your attention?" Rami interrupted with his grin still plastered on as he set the glasses down on a table and began to rummage through what he knew to be the liquor cabinet. To Cornelius's disbelief, he brought out a bottle of vodka immediately and continued to search.

The answer was no, and Cornelius knew they both were aware of it so he decided to drop the subject. Instead, he remarked, "Did you really bring your own drinkware? Surely you know I have my own you can use..."

"No, no, look at them," Rami responded, eyes still scanning the cabinet. He seemed to be weighing his options. "Hey, you got any juice?"

"There's orange juice...and I believe some cranberry juice left as well."

Rami laughed as the information delighted him. "You drinking on the waters after all? Nobody drinks cranberry juice alone without alcohol."

Rolling his eyes, Cornelius returned as he moved to inspect the glasses, "No, it's been leftover since the last time you had one of your...visits."

"Oh," he said as he paused with a bottle of peach schnapps in hand, "oh yeah!" He set it on the table with the vodka and glasses. "Man, I hope it's not expired..."

"I haven't looked." It was a dry acknowledgment as if he hadn't cared at all, though that wasn't the case. No, if Cornelius genuinely hadn't cared it's doubtful he would have recalled it in the first place. "Look," he continued, "I know you want to drink, but I've got an early morning tomorrow with a busy day, and--"

Rami's interruption came as he went to the small kitchen and brought out both juices, "You're always busy. ...Did you look at the glasses? I got them at the last port of call. There's one for me and one for you. Choose whichever one is your favorite."

"Really..." Both glasses were rather kitschy and borderline obscene so he picked up the least offensive of the two, a highball glass with a regional slogan and pair of scantily covered breasts on one side. "I suppose this one. If anyone peeks inside my cupboard I can at least laugh it off."

"You don't like the prescription one that implies you're an alcoholic?"

Once again, and certainly not for the last time that night, Cornelius rolled his eyes. "Not in the least bit."

"Well, I thought it was funny."

"You're also a terrible person."

He wasn't, but Rami laughed all the same. "Anyway," he implored, "just have one drink with me. I know you've got an early morning but one drink won't kill ya. It'll get you to sleep faster. See, I'm saving you, I'm--"

"One," he cut off, emphasizing his self-imposed rule. "So, what are you making?"

"Sex on the Beach."

"You know that's a terrible idea."

And Rami laughed hard enough that Cornelius feared the engineer or someone would overhear. It was a laugh that wouldn't nearly have been as funny if it weren't for prior experience. "A...terribly delicious idea," he finally spat out.

Once again, the captain rolled his eyes and suppressed a laugh that otherwise may have been difficult to contain. Composure was a hard thing to come by at times but damn if he didn't try.

He didn't say anything but Rami went right to work with a shaker and practiced motions. Both cranberry and orange juice were doled out in equal parts and presented in both boobs and pill glasses for their enjoyment, and Rami took the initiative and held out his glass for Cornelius to clink against in a toast: "To never having sex on the beach again."

"...What?" was his response accompanied by a laugh while Rami downed half his cocktail at once. Of course, Cornelius would be slower with his, choosing to savor the concoction as it was the only one he would have, and took a sip to appraise the adventurer's work. "Mm, not bad. Definitely better than the real thing." He raised an eyebrow, though, when Rami polluted his with a bit more vodka.

For once it was Rami's turn to roll his eyes but neither of them spoke about it. Instead, he sat down leisurely and kicked up his feet onto the large dining table, precisely because he knew how much it irritated his companion, and gave a large, satisfied sigh: "This is the life, isn't it?"

It wasn't, and both of them knew it, but once again it would be one of the many things between them that were left unsaid.

"You act as if you don't have an upcoming lecture."

"Well, it's not now," Rami retorted, waving his hand in an exaggerated motion. "I mean, it's not even tomorrow! You're too serious."

"On the ship? Yes, of course, I am. I have to be," came Cornelius's dull response, as if it was a standard reply to a common complaint between the two - which it was.

Rami immediately went into a double finger gun gesture and teased suggestively, "But Cornelius on land... I mean work hard, play hard, am I right?"

"...Not anymore, I suppose." In a certain sense, it was true for many reasons, but when Rami's expression fell he added, "Just because all my time on land is devoted to her."

"That's still playing hard! Don't make it sound like you're miserable ashore."

"Sorry, that wasn't my intention. It's bliss, honestly."

As Rami finished his glass and went to work on fixing himself another, he blurted seemingly out of the blue as if it was naturally the right time and level of mutual inebriation for such a thing:

"So...you gonna marry her?"

Cornelius paused briefly but answered in the same intonation as talking about the weather, "Probably."

Immediately Rami set a bottle down on the table louder than it needed to be and shook the shakers more robustly this time. "Probably? ...Cornelius, she is the best damn thing to ever happen to you, and if your life with her isn't kittens and rainbows then I will marry her and be happy instead!"

It was a strange threat but Cornelius only looked at his glass, half-empty with sex on the beach as its only memory. "You're reading too much into things," he began and tried to hide how desperately he wanted Rami off his back for this topic; one drink just wasn't enough for that. "I love her so much, but it's been a long day - and tomorrow's going to be longer. Honestly, I'm thinking about the ship and my passengers right now, not the ring I want you to help me design for her..."

This was the first Rami had heard of this obvious distraction, but he nodded because that was respectable. It was understandable. Also, he was included. Rami stuck his index finger out at the captain before he polished off half his second cocktail and prophesied, "...And she's gonna fucking love it."

He may or may not have pre-gamed coming to the captain's quarters.

Cornelius knew which it was.

"So," Rami began as he sat comfortably back down, "how is Julia? How are the animals? Her job? Her life? You know, I text her these things to get a conversation going and all she answers is fine."

Cornelius definitely knew which it was.

"Honestly, she thinks her life pales in comparison to your adventures, so that may be where your lukewarm responses stem from with her."

He pointed his finger repeatedly but had no response because the finger had done all the talking - he knew it, he was just so damn remarkable and was certainly not being edged out of wonderful friendship with Cornelius's partner.

Rami finished his drink once again with a certain finality: he was distracted; he was placated; it was done - until he was sober, that is, and wrapped up planning his lecture when the tide would have room to wash back in with its evidence of other lives lived. He certainly wasn't looking forward to that, the anxious thoughts and energy with little constructive outlet until the next adventure at a port of call. Without the many planned activities aboard the ship, there would be little holding him back from jumping off and taking his chances in the ocean; at least the danger would be fun, very much unlike this quiet, subtle sense of hazard they faced together.

Even though the captain successfully bottled up all his tension to the point where most people would mistake that it wasn't even there, Rami wasn't most people. He watched Cornelius finish his cocktail in appreciative silence but saw past the seemingly relaxed composure and knew it for what it was - restraint.

...But of course, they both had their ways of releasing the pressure.

"Hey," Rami spoke up again, "you make a drink this time."

"No seriously, just one drink was more than enough. As I said, I've got an early morning ahead of me tomorrow, and--"

"--I'm not talking about for you," he interrupted. "I mean for me!"

Despite his objections as a captain, he knew that if Rami wanted another drink then he was going to get another drink regardless of what anyone else said, so he didn't waste much time weighing whether or not he should oblige his request. "Hmm, I only know vodka tonic..."

Instantly Rami shot it down. "Boring."

"...Well, what if I made a new drink for you?"

"A brand-new, never-before-seen Captain Cruz cocktail for me?" he exclaimed, and Captain Cruz wasn't sure if he was poking fun at his expense or not. "...DEAL!"

Cornelius didn't know the full terms or conditions, but a deal was a deal and he started to mull over his options in the liquor cabinet. Of course, he wouldn't lose to Rami's practiced taste even if he had no idea how to go about doing so, and the pleasantly warm sensation of alcohol did nothing to hinder his competitive confidence. "Let's see," he thought aloud, "we just had Sex on the Beach, so..."

"Sex on the Boat?"

Cornelius paused because while he was certain that Rami was joking, he was uncertain that it wasn't a real thing. "Is that even in here?" he asked and handed him a bartender's recipe book.

"Hold on, let me check," Rami responded and began to leaf through the pages.

"Look for something with vodka if it's not," Cornelius instructed as he set out a few liqueurs as options before digging back into the cabinet. "I don't want you getting sicker than you're already going to be tomorrow just because you switched liquors."

It was a suggestion based on experience but of course, Rami ignored all that. "Hey, there's one called Buttery Nipple..."

"Let me see the recipe," he commanded and grabbed the book for himself but then Rami batted it out of his hands to the floor, stepping on it for good effect.

"That's cheating."

"Well, what was in it?"

"...Nipples."

The subsequent eye-roll was almost audible. "And, let me guess, butter?"

"You know that's a terrible idea."

"You're a terrible idea."

Rami laughed aloud, enjoying the sound of Cornelius's stifled snicker and the clinks the bottles made when he put most of them back into the liquor cabinet as if he had been struck with inspiration.

"You've come up with something," he noted dryly.

"I have," he agreed with equal parts dryness.

While watching Cornelius pour, shake, and strain whatever cocktail he was making for him, Rami struggled to keep up and identify if this was actually based on a real drink or if he was just putting whatever the hell he thought of in there and using him as a guinea pig. Either way, he was curious and shot the captain an eager grin as soon as he slid the finished concoction over.

"Voila, the Captain's Special."

"How original," Rami remarked and swirled the drink vaguely around after taking a sniff. It seemed all right, and he didn't identify anything particularly strange while he watched him make it, but he also knew that it was amateur hour over in the captain's quarters that night, special or no special. "No name like Bottom Deck or I'm Gonna Throw You Overboard Rami?"

"I'd need a salted cream for that last one so maybe next time," Cornelius responded wryly as he cracked a smile. "Now are you going to drink up or what?"

Rami's eyes twinkled as he swung his arm away in an exaggerated gesture and said, "Now did I hear that right? Our fearless leader, the ordinarily extraordinary Captain Cruz, is-" His hand knocked into Cornelius's empty glass but did little else but send it sailing an inch away. "-encouraging me, the ruggedly handsome and dashing explorer, to drink MORE? As in-"

"I can send you back to your cabin and pour this down the drain, you know."

"-MORE than this incredibly good-looking traverser of the lands and sea has already--"

Cornelius grabbed Rami's errant hand before it knocked into anything else and commanded, "Oh just drink already!" He pushed the hand with the cocktail close to Rami's face before both of them laughed, a small spill being a minor casualty.

Finally, he drank that damn drink, draining it about halfway before pausing with a pensive expression. If he minded that Cornelius's hand still laid atop his on the table then he didn't show it.

"Well?" Cornelius prompted as he gave a slight squeeze, clearly anticipating a review on his spontaneous creation.

Rami took a few appreciative seconds before asking vaguely, "You seriously just made this up and haven't tried it yourself?"

"What does that mean? Of course I did." He was impatient. "Do you like it or not?"

"Try it."

Cornelius shook his head. "No, I'm done drinking for the night. This one was all for you."

"All for me," he mused and ran his thumb alongside Cornelius's finger. At this stage of things, neither of them minded the contact, but it was always a question of how much pressure Rami needed to apply for the restraints to loosen further. "You know, once I finish this you'll have never known how it tasted - a fleeting moment of history, forever gone..."

"I'm fine with that," Cornelius answered, "as long as you tell me what you think."

There was a beat of silence in which Rami decidedly did not tell him what he thought.

"So it's good, bad...?"

He downed the rest of the drink and declared as he set the drink down on the table with finality, "Gone."

Cornelius's eyes narrowed in response and he attempted his best intimidating and interrogative stare.

While it worked on everyone else aboard the ship, Rami just brought his free palm up and shrugged in a manner specifically designed to be as grating as possible.

Whatever additional chip he added to break open the crack in Cornelius's walls this time had worked: in a sudden and almost violent manner, Cornelius grabbed the front of Rami's shirt with his free hand and crushed his lips against his, pressing his tongue to part through without preamble.

Rami went with it as a rudderless boat rolled with the waves, carrying itself further out on the sea's whim. That is to say, he parted his mouth and let Cornelius's tongue slide in to gather as much as he desired. Their fingers intertwined and Rami freed a soft moan, thankful he didn't have to wonder how much longer he had to prod anymore to transition to this eventual part of the night.

It was an intense but not particularly long kiss as the captain did part from those adventuring lips, although keeping in a breath's vicinity. "...Not bad," he concluded, watching Rami gaze at his lips with some measure of satisfaction as he touched his jaw tenderly. "Not bad if I say so myself."

Rami gave an impish grunt in disagreement and added, "You can do better."

"Then let me do that tonight."

"You mean let me do you?"

When they would later finish acting out the unspoken feelings between them and Rami would unsuccessfully attempt to sweet-talk his way into staying 'til dawn, it would be the last time Cornelius rolled his eyes that night. But until then, Cornelius gave one more eye roll and answered with another passionate, unrestrained kiss.

...If only just to shut him up.

#love tangle #shall we date love tangle #cornelius cruz #rami zaza #fanfiction #mine #fanfic

9 notes · View notes

hubertcollins · 4 years ago

Text

The Eighty-Third by Katharine Fullerton Gerould

Having at last reached a provincial city of a neutral country (not my own, though mine, too, still calls itself neutral), and being provided, for the first time in many months, with the ordinary comforts of life, I feel it my duty to set down certain facts that have recently come to my notice.

They cannot possibly be printed until the war is over, and I question very much whether they can he printed then. There will be, if I mistake not, a very strict censorship exercised by the conquerors. Indeed, the mere fact that a neutral press has not yet got hold of the details I have to relate—or dared to print them if it has a hint—shows what the fear of the invaders already is.

Besides, this is not a gossipy time. We do not glory in our neutrality; we cling to it as a drowning man to a tiny splinter of his wrecked ship; we are terribly afraid of saying the least thing, publicly or privately, that may draw attention to us. Nothing but a happy series of accidents can keep us out of the conflict, and, indeed, when it is all settled, we shall have scarce more shrift than the conquered belligerents.

I do not even dare name the army to which the 83rd regiment belongs. By the time this document comes to light—if it ever does—it will be easy enough to guess.

When what, in my youth, was known as the “Great War” or the “World War” was going on—the war that began in August 1914-—I had a mighty desire to see something of its terrors. I was completing my education, and I had no great taste for learning. I thought I should do much better flying above a battlefield than acquiring knowledge—since all knowledge, I thought, was destined to be presently superseded.

My family would not hear of it, however—they had always frowned on my aviator’s ambitions. So I never got in on the “Great War” at all; and, like most other people, I thought it meant my last chance. Obviously, there was never going to be another big armed conflict. This was a madness; the world for ever after would be sane.

We were very innocent in those days. Certainly, when I sulked at being kept at home, it was honest sulking with real provocation. I never dreamed that, when I had reached the prime of life, I should see a struggle that would throw the whole world into terror—not merely half of it.

We were all proud of the Congress of 1917, you know—I speak as a man old before my time, to generations yet unborn. There won’t, I think, be even a fiction of a Congress after this war. It will be more like a gigantic peace palaver in a reeking jungle. But I am not concerned to prophesy, for, to deal with that future, we shall need vast and exotic vocabularies. Small use the Oxford Dictionary will be, alas! to our children— or Esperanto, either.

I have double-locked my doors; I have shuttered the lower half of my windows; and I have looked quizzically at my fountain pen, as if it were an object that might sometime be dug up to bear witness to a lost civilization. All the little things of every day have a trick now of seeming vitally important— they may pass so soon, with us to whom they belonged.

Outside, in the street, it is very quiet. Even in this remote little neutral town, there is no pretense of “business as usual.” Business will never be “as usual” again; it will be different. But this is as near as I can get, at present, to the atmosphere in which I was bred, and I will try to write as a plain man writes.

I have been for some months previous to this in a corner of the war zone. That is, as I intended it should be, a vague statement. Most of the planet is, if not part of the war zone, at least belligerent territory.

I am a good linguist, owing to experiences of my childhood and early youth; I speak, fairly well, a lot of languages that in my day were not considered part of one’s education. My parents were wanderers, and I had the oddest collection of nurses and attendants that any child ever had. Luckily, their talk stuck by me—I never forgot any idiom I had learned. So I got on better than most would have done when I was caught by the war in a foreign country. I had luck, too, in my country; I could actually, thanks to a nurse I had once had for a year, talk with the peasants.

I cannot say that I had any plan when the war broke out. Everyone knew that, once started, it would work as it did—spreading like a forest fire with a gale to aid it. Nation by nation, tribe by tribe, race by race came into it; and all a neutral could do was to edge along, little stage by little stage, to some extraordinary spot that by accident was not technically involved. Practically and commercially, of course, everything and every one is involved.

I have had, naturally, a good many hairbreadth escapes. Neutrals are so few that no one considers them of the slightest importance; and I have found that if you have a passport, you are likely to be arrested as a spy. I destroyed my passport early in the game, for fear it should get me into trouble. I lived like an animal, where I could— suspecting everything and everyone, and never dreaming of depending on any habitation for more than a night.

After three months of the war, as I was “inching” along to a neutral frontier, I began to hear on the timid lips of non-combatants constant reference to a terrible regiment belonging to one of the allied groups. I will not be more definite than that. I never asked questions, but I stored away what I heard. Eventually, I learned the facts.

You must understand that I traveled as light as a hobo. I had a certain amount of money secreted about my person, but wherever it was possible, I paid in physical labor for my plate of food or my bit of cottage floor. My familiarity with the language stood me in good stead. Without it, every man’s hand would have been against me, for I was obviously not a native, and might have been, to the peasants’ inexperienced imaginations, anything.

I always put my cards on the table—not merely my own hand, you might say, but the whole pack. I made no indiscreet inquiries; I helped the people when and as I could; and I told them of myself frankly that I was trying to work my way to a neutral country. My poverty of aspect robbed me, to begin with, of any too unwelcome importance. I told them directly that I had no political sympathies, but that I loathed all slaughter and cruelty, and wanted, as my own country was not at war, to get out of the way of any army whatsoever—being (this I tried to show) meanwhile, en route, a decent person.

Often, I took the man of the house—when there was one—aside, gave my pistol to him for the night, and half stripped myself to show him I was concealing no other weapons. The knowledge of my money belt I kept to myself; though, in the morning, I gave the people a coin or two if it seemed that currency would be of any use to them.

This, roughly, was the mode of my existence for three months following the outbreak of the conflagration. If my progress towards safety and comfort (both of which can be only comparative—and temporary, even more than comparative) seems incredibly slow, I can only point out the fact that every step I took was precarious and that a snail’s pace was inevitable. I had to dodge both the invading and defending armies; all means of transportation, down to the most aged donkey, were commandeered; the fighting radius of any given corps was immensely extended by scouts; the non-combatants were suspicious of every human creature not personally known to them.

Remember that everyone except the young people had been eyewitnesses of an earlier war which was supposed to surpass in horror everything hitherto known to history. This is a grave generation, all over the world; and the particular nation in whose territory I found myself has been played with after a fashion that no one—least of all itself—can understand.

I had to make wide detours, and sometimes judged it best to skulk out of a village almost before I had taken stock of it. But a number of the peasants were unbelievably humane; and a hurried clasp of the hand in the dawn was sometimes an almost intolerable parting. At such a time, a human relation becomes historic in twenty-four hours.

It was in the village of V—— that I first heard anything definite about the mysterious regiment. The one-armed son of the blacksmith had returned from the nearest town, full of tales. I listened, not too credulous, for the tales were wild. The opposing armies, as everyone knows, are a medley of races; and one hint of the exotic will breed hideous anecdote. I was welcome that night at the little public house—I know not what else to call it. for it was scarcely an inn. The villagers gathered and drank, men and women together, a villainous local wine—moderately, in no spirit of orgy, though here and there the fantastic costume of some refugee goatherd from the hills seemed to make the scene dance before my eyes.

The gist of the report brought by the blacksmith’s son was that the 83rd regiment was in the field, and that they might look for heavier trouble than was yet upon them. Every week men were hurried off to camp from this or that village. Officials would descend to prod and poke peasants supposed exempt. Unless you had lost an arm or a leg, no chronic ailment, no guarantee of over- or under-age availed you.

Presently, there would be only women, cripples, and imbeciles left. I could vouch, myself, for the truth of that; with my own eyes I had seen the little population of non-combatants dwindle terrifically in the province. Then would come the turn of the 83rd regiment. It skulked behind the others and did its trick, apparently, after the fighting was done and towns lay waste and helpless. They were on no army list, mind you. Officially, there was no 83rd regiment; but its name was in everyone’s mouth—at least, in such mouths as dared to speak in a whisper among tried companions.

“But what do they do?” I asked— my first leading question in many weeks. “Do they massacre and plunder— jackals following their fighting brothers?”

“Some folk say they are not human at all.” This was the sulky reply of the blacksmith’s son.

The women crossed themselves, and I began to disbelieve the tale, root and branch—though I had heard of the 83rd before. Still: demons—we had not come to that.

“They pass in the night—in the night; and they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard.” An old woman crooned this in her corner, then covered her face with her dirty, gaudy shawl.

“Demons!” The word ran like a flame round the room, and presently they were all crossing themselves and swaying back and forth in a gloomy ecstasy of terror.

“Who has seen them?” The question was asked directly of the crippled messenger by a woman with a harsh voice. I judged from the attitude of the rest that only the common danger permitted her to be of their company. But the mutter of “ Demons! demons!” drowned the sneer with which she followed up her question. Children, waking, stuck their heads out of their mothers’ shawls, and their whimpering had to be quieted before the blacksmith’s son could reply.

“The bellows-mender’s wife in W—— . She saw them and ran all night through swamps and woods to reach her own place. She had taken the journey in hope of news of her husband and son. Aie! but she came running back when she had a glimpse by moonlight of the 83rd. She is half crazed, and the other womenfolk told me. She wrings her hands and tears her coif. W—— buzzes with the tale.”

“Half crazed, indeed! Who needs demons when men can be so like them?” This from the harsh-voiced woman outcast.

The rising murmur of anger was checked by the village priest, and the woman on her three-legged stool finally fell silent.

“I don’t say they are demons,” returned the blacksmith’s son. “All that is foolishness.” He assumed a jauntier air. “But they are not like other men. They do not march like other men. Some are carried in litters.”

“Oh—oh!” There was a common protest. “Regiments do not carry their wounded on the march. And if they are demons, they cannot be wounded. You have drunk the moonlight, brother.”

“I do not know the truth. Some say they are demons, I tell you. That is foolishness. Some say they are cannibals that feast as they go. And some say they are great gray apes from Africa. But all say that it is better to be shot than to meet the 83rd after a battle. They are not as other men. Now I have no more to say.”

I have recorded this as accurately as I can, because it was the longest conversation I ever heard on the subject. After that night, I met the tale everywhere, but never with such wealth of hypothesis. The rumor of the regiment ran like wildfire about the country. It was a terror too great for telling: “the 83rd”—and then talk stopped, save perhaps for a phrase of vague and desperate fear. Speech dried on their starved lips. At first, I wondered at it; but came to the conclusion after many a chilled night in a rickety grange that they positively feared lest explicit discussion should, like an incantation, raise the object of their terrors bodily before them. There was trouble enough and to spare, without the 83rd.

Death by wounds and exposure can scarcely be so bad as this more lingering dissolution to which non-combatants are presently destined. For there is no hope in this war—none. The melting-pot we used to talk of so glibly in times of peace is seething over a planet-wide fire; all races are thrust in, and are steeping in the poisons of Africa and Asia. No man knows what will come of it—but the 83rd is trying to tell.

There is good reason why a document that must be for a long time in an inside pocket should not be too bulky, so I will not describe further the months of my flight. I was trying all the time for a certain point on the frontier of the little nation which at present is offering me such scant protection as “neutrality” affords; but I had to take a zigzag course, often actually doubling back on my tracks.

Almost everyone knows something about this war at first hand, so I will not describe the prolonged despair of existence in a stricken country. I never really got hardened to it, because there has never been a single relieved moment when one could look forward with hope. You face every horror; and there are vaster horrors behind, like a rear-guard stretching from pole to pole.

The devil has been in their counsels; and he has proved himself, once again, a medievalist. Bloodshed is healthy compared with his subtleties. Ah, why talk of the devil, when we may all, before we die, have fetish officially thrust upon us? To what future am I addressing myself? And what difference can a detail like this I have knowledge of make to a posterity that comes out of such a melting-pot? Still, I was born in the nineteenth century, and some archaic notions stick—the respect for curious documents, for example—the respect for data and for historians!

I had come to the village of Z—— on the last lap of my flight. My money was running low—going faster, in point of fact, near the frontier, since there was some hope of getting across and making purchases. I always gave money, as I said, when I thought it could help. I was determined to save some, and not be absolutely penniless when I, myself, reached a neutral state. So, for some weeks previous to actual escape, I went at a cripple’s pace. I took no doubtful short cuts and put up at no inns; I no longer sought out the biggest farm in the village, or asked for meat or beer. I crawled very close to the earth; I lived like a slug.

When I reached Z—— , I walked round the little settlement—skirted it in search of the feeblest building that could call itself a shelter. I begged some porridge, towards twilight, from a farm wench, and some rods beyond I found a building just to my purpose—a tumble-down grange, all chinks and falling rubble, which was evidently wholly disused. It was essential that I should be alone, that my presence should be unsuspected.

The tide of actual conflict was rolling towards the confines of the little state, and suspicion rode on the spray of the bloody waves. Only in the dusk should I have dared to beg my porridge, trusting to the mere whisper of familiar words; for though I was browned and dirty and limping, my features were not of the country and would have belied my accent. All day I had heard cannonading, as I crept from covert to covert and rock to rock. Perhaps, I thought, as I huddled under the densest bit of thatch I could find, I should not reach neutrality, after all—should roll over in an ignominious heap on the bristling verge of safety.

I cannot say how long I slept—for sleep I did: a dogged sleep of the body which the mind was powerless to prevent. When I woke, the moon-rays were falling crazily through the jagged holes in the roof, making little idiotic pools of light on the floor. The atmosphere was thick with sound.

At first, I could distinguish nothing, though I knew physically, from head to foot, that the noise was sinister. Then something woke me out of my doze—a shadowy stirring in the opposite corner of my den. That was near, was concrete, was imminent; and I got my pistol into position. It was not a soldier, I felt sure; one soldier would scarcely be hiding in such a place. I whispered a sharp query in the native tongue; and, very slowly, the dark huddle shaped itself into a woman’s form. Well—I was not yet afraid of a woman; and I put the pistol into my pocket, though I kept my hand on it.

As she came out into one of the rays of light, I saw that she was a mere peasant girl, barefoot, in ragged clothes, her terrified mind as ragged as her garb. We looked each other over in silence; and presently, to judge from the evidence of her features, her wits began to reassemble themselves. I ventured to question her. How could we two miserable creatures be foes?

“What is it?” There was no need of being more definite than that. The thick, disturbed volume of sound outside called for explanation; if you could have heard it from Mars, you would have known it stood for danger. Yet it was a mere faint thrumming on the strings of peril—no explosions, no sharp reports, no shouting. The elements of noise were soft and stealthy—gentle thuddings on the worn earth, faint creakings, hoarse whispers, as it were, a death-rattle filling the whole atmosphere.

I cannot describe it, but it made shrapnel seem healthy—something to which a man would bare his breast gladly. This sounded rather like the nether slime of danger. The very fear it caused was unhealthy—a crooked trail of paralysis through the nerve paths. My hand was steady, but my legs shook beneath me; my blood was warm, but things mopped and mowed in my brain. As yet, I had not stirred to look; but, as if my ears had not told me enough, my nostrils began to detect a faint, sickening smell. It was as if the dead had risen out of their trenches, with a little clatter of corrupted bones and weak motions of decomposing flesh. A terror that you could hear and smell, but as yet nameless and invisible.

“What is it?” I repeated my raucous whisper.

“The Eighty-Third!” The girl gasped it out, then keeled over on the floor.

A sane little current of curiosity began to wind through my veins. If this was the 83rd, I would behold it. I stepped over the girl’s body, touching her slightly in the movement. She had fainted, apparently, and it was safer so.

I went to the slit of a window. Luckily, the overhanging thatch kept my face in the shadow; I was safe from the 83rd until they began to search. I looked in silence, guarding my very breath. It was not a time to bear witness to one’s own existence.

I do not know how long I crouched there, watching. For crouch I did; mere leaning against the wall would not have sufficed. I needed support from every direction; my hands as well as my feet demanded the close proximity of something solid. I could not count on any inward strength to hold myself upright, could not count on muscles to do their duty at any distance from a firm basis.

Can I ever describe, for cold information to those who may read this document, what I became aware of during the next quarter of an hour? I say “ became aware of” advisedly; for though now, in the half-obscurity, I saw, the facts seemed at first to beat even more heavily on other senses than that of vision.

Sight, at all events, did not utterly replace sound and smell, even though I was all a-stare in my shadowed recess. And it cannot have been for more than a quarter of an hour that I looked. As soon as I understood, I dropped back into my ruinous shelter and let the 83rd go on without my witness. Yes, it must have taken me just about that time to get through my head the quis and qualis of the 83rd.

And, after all, all I have to do is to set down those unassailable facts. I have only to announce, in one careful sentence, the particular business of the 83rd. Yet the necessary few firm words seem to rot and drop away under my pen, Moreover, since mine is evidence that must tip the scales against a monumental incredibility, perhaps I had best be chronological—so far as I can. I will be brief—I must be.

Shreds of the talk already recorded came back to me in the first moments. “They pass in the night—in the night; they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard; they do not march like other men; some are carried in litters; some say they are great gray apes from Africa. . . .” I remembered, and I bore witness. They did not march like other men; the litters were there. . . .

The few males of the depopulated village must have been shot or otherwise disposed of when the regiment first entered. From beginning to end, I saw, of the village inhabitants, only women; yet, from beginning to end, I did not hear one scream. The horror that denied to me the comforting heat of anger and left me shivering must have stifled their voices in their throats.

Sheer loss of sense and wits, I hope, came to the victims; but if madness blessed them, it was a dumb madness. At least, near though I was in my low-pitched upper chamber, I heard no voice rise above the hoarse mutter of the soldiers. Soldiers! Well, any human creature that goes out to destroy an enemy may be called a soldier. And, worst of all, there were men there who looked like other men—a few Europeans in uniform to command that monstrous company.

Though the purpose of the invaders soon became tragically clear to me— women only were the picked and chosen prey, and, even with shut eyes, I should have known—I still marveled a little.

This was no orgy of inflamed soldiery. The 83rd shuffled and shambled about its business, under orders from its few commanders. They burned no cottages; I saw no attempt to loot even food or drink.

The very stillness of the scene made it more devilish; here was no spontaneous glutting of appetite—bestial, but natural, like all bestial things. In some human brain all this had been coldly conceived, and by human beings it was being coldly carried out. I saw a misshapen man drag a girl across the road; they disappeared among the tall rows of the standing wheat. Even then, I had not the key of the enigma.

Only when I saw a man in uniform light a match and look at his watch, then make a signal, did understanding begin to come. At his gesture, the litters were flung down, and things rose out of them. I thought I was going mad; that I was not really seeing what I thought I saw—the ghosts of misbegotten creatures in a macabre group, proceeding with motions unspeakably grotesque and vile to a sinister Sabbath. I could not believe it; the one illuminating word did not come to focus my bewilderment. I saw women disappearing by handfuls in the midst of loathsome groups—parodies of the human body that had been garbed in a nightmare. And, still, the word did not come.

Then, from a little close beneath my shadowed window, a figure—legless, armless—became evident to me. The moon, by a special act of grace, showed me the face clear—white as ice, with a fixed, mutilated grin; apishly conceived and wrought in some stuff not like flesh. Yet, in that all but decomposing medium, something stood for envy. . . . The word had come. I knew; and I fell back, crouched on guard over the fainting woman beside me. That I could, at need, kill her where she lay, was the one hint of God in the universe.

Half stupefied, I stayed there beside her for I do not know how long. I nursed my pistol with loving slyness, and watched her face, on which one ray of moonlight fell through the gaping thatch. This heavy-featured farm wench seemed to me the purest thing in the world. Why? Because, I suppose, I had a cartridge there for her; because it was absolutely in my power to preserve her as she was.

She might have been maid, wife or widow; she was absolutely saved from the 83rd. They might suspect the ruin in which we were lying hid, might search it, but I could reach her first. I was so close to her that I touched her; my hand would have to move only a few inches to reach a vital spot. Whatever happened, it would have time to make that journey. She seemed to me sacred, as I bent over her; she was like a miraculous image of Diana saved from the sack of a town. If she had been steeped in all unclean-ness before she took shelter in that disrupted pile of thatch and rubble, she would still, now, by contrast to what she might have been, appear the purest of the pure. For one forgot latitude and longitude; this village seemed the world—no less; and she, of all living women, was spared the horror of that night. Would not her coarse comeliness become a legend, and she the saint of a hew cult?

I set down these wanderings of my thought to show that it was in the power of the 83rd to divorce a man from reason. I knew, of course, that at any moment they might think it worthwhile to enter, to climb up the worm-eaten ladder and make a few bayonet passes in the dark. But I had no sense of danger; death was no peril to face, and from the things that really looked like peril, I had the means to deliver us both.

They could not take from me the freedom of my right hand—they would not have time. I was glad of that swoon, prolonging itself beside me. If she had come out of it to babble, I should have had to shoot at once. I felt a childish eagerness in having her preserved. I was all given over to my myth. If I had been a woman, I should have gone mad there in the checkered obscurity; mere consciousness of my sex saved me to this temporary light-headedness. And the possession of a pistol in working order seemed a miracle; I recognized in it the interposing finger of Jehovah. I remember once wondering dizzily why I was chosen, as minor prophets must have wondered why they were rapt from their herds and tribes-fellows.

Gradually, as the moon set and the night wore on, the 83rd girded up its smitten loins for departure. It was true, they passed “in the night—in the night”; and no man knew what or whence they were. No man save me; and still, after these harrowed weeks, I bear about me the sense of a peculiar destiny, in that I have it in my power to give this testimony.

My giddiness began and passed with that hour, and though I left my shelter before dawn and made my way westward, what I saw and heard, even as I fled from it—writhing shapes of women and guttural moans and stricken whispers from cottage windows—confirmed what my steady gaze from under the deep eaves had earlier told me. Hatred, with other normal powers, came back to me then; I developed at least a feeble, white man’s hatred of my own with which to meet inadequately the hatred that had taken shape and action before my eyes that night.

For, in the idea that created the 83rd, there was nothing so decent, because nothing so spontaneous, as lust of blood or lust of the flesh. Probably, the plan was never committed to writing or to formal speech; but the black hint must have sped southward, eastward, through a hundred minds, before the 83rd could be recruited—creatures that were polluted to the marrow in rare and horrible ways; gathered from sun-infested lands and brought overseas to furnish the last argument of hate.

This was the plan: that those who did not go the clean, cruel way of death should be defiled past hope. The fountain of life should be fouled. No surviving enemy should rear fighting men and clean women. The 83rd would take away all hope—even the winded, rickety hopes that look timidly forward to a future some ages off. The conquerors would not even mate with their victims. The rebellious seed should die utterly, and it should not have even a mongrel’s claim to a pedigree. Atavism should not have a chance with sports and mutations. . . .

The victors would then people the world from the yellow, the black, and the brown; from tradition-less creatures of whom they could be sure because they were stuff of their own souls. Did those who slew so gallantly in our youth, with shibboleths upon their lips, think of this—a war without shibboleths, where no man calls even blasphemously upon the name of God, though, here and there, a turban may be knotted in orthodox folds, or a juju be tucked away in a loin-cloth?

No man fights now for “democracy” or any other windy word; white or black, he fights only for his personal right to live. Peace and poverty, twin-born of our last war, have brought us to this one almost unarmed; and what can the little ammunition we have garnered do against the spawn of a whole hemisphere?

Moreover, the flower of the Western world went then, and there has scarce been time for a second blooming. It seems hard to believe that there were ever mild creatures like Crusaders or Jacobites on our planet. For the end is not yet; and though a few countries are allowed still to play at neutrality like children, their toy will be taken from them whenever the strong men think it time.

The East has grimaced in front of the Western mirror until it has learned the little it wants of us. But now it is all too clear that, with whichever of the polyglot alliances the white man fights, his preservation is not really desired. Small chance of this ever getting to the light! So why waste words?

I left the girl on the floor of the grange that had sheltered us both. She had recovered from unconsciousness only to pant thickly and, when I bade her be quiet, to fall asleep. Comparative stillness shrouded the village during those few moments when she breathed so hard and muttered her questions. She could well believe that I told her—as I did—the truth in saying that the 83rd had gone. Some deep, bewildered exhaustion claimed her, for she asked no questions about what had happened while she lay there.

I left her, as I say. It was the only thing I could do. She was safe from the pestilence that had walked in the darkness. Her life had at least been touched by a miracle; she would have to face the horror of waking as best she could. My exalted mood had passed with the passing of the stench and sound—all that faint and filthy clamor—and I no longer idealized her. I was simply very pityingly glad that to one human being something had been spared.

I preserved, in my flight, no illusions about her. I was bent doggedly on my own salvation, for the situation was such that I could not hope to save others. Perhaps I was deceived as to the value of my own life; but I struggled for it because it seemed to me that my knowledge gave me some worth. Otherwise, I grant you, it would have been more decent not to save a single cartridge.

The story of my progress to the place where I now am does not much matter. The 83rd—or that detachment of it which I had seen—was very near the border; and I had not far to go. Yet, it was a hard and haunted path that I took, for I knew this enemy would take cover in the daytime, and the deep reaches of woods which I had hitherto counted most friendly were likely to hold a poisonous encampment.

I steered in the open by the distant sound of cannonading, veering hither and yon like an irresponsible breeze. In two days, I was clear of any possible route of theirs. They are not fighters, the 83rd; they are not (what is the old phrase we used to utter with perfect seriousness?) medically fit. That is it—they are not medically fit. Led by a few competents, they skulk in the safe desolation created for them by the fighting men. Even if one were given to irony, one could scarcely recommend the Red Cross to follow in the wake of the 83rd. Besides, the Red Cross is said to have died an early death in this war. The bulk of the combatants do not understand conventions, and the notion of immunity has never got inside their skulls.

Here, this afternoon, as I write, I am glad of only one thing—that I can still feel a good, old-fashioned anger with a spice of chivalry in it. We have all been unutterably foolish, I think—though I speak only as a survivor—in the generations immediately past. We praised peace; then we leaped to the sword. War depleted and enfeebled us, then turned us callous to its own horrors. We had not the strength either to be ruthless or effectually to loathe ruthlessness. With our love of little states and our distrust of big ones, we drew, ourselves, the few remaining teeth we had.

The half of the world that had not mulcted itself of its youth saw its chance. They have no need of justifying formulas; the loose and convenient solidarity of hate serves their turn. For the white men who are fighting, on this side and on that, mark my words, are negligible. They are to be used and flung aside. The strong and secret bond is among all those who are not white.

I think perhaps, in the beginning, the missionaries were to blame—or, rather, the nations back of them, who would not live up to the professions of their emissaries. In giving the lower races license, by our example, to fight, we did not inevitably impose upon them our rules of warfare. As might be expected, they took the fact and let the method go. And the cure for war is not more war. Animals all! And tooth and claw will have their way at the last.

Britons—and others—never would be slaves, I remember. Well, you cannot tame a zebra, I believe. His individuality resists all hints. But you can kill him. Kill! Kill! . . . We let ourselves in for it, and, so far as I can see, we are to be thrust back to the spawning chaos of pre-Promethian myth. How far away they sound—those tinkling, sweet philosophies!

I have finished. I should never have permitted myself these musings, for I have never been what in my time was called a thinking man. I lack the learning a publicist needs. But so definitely do I feel myself on the dizzy verge—and alone on that verge—of all that we used glibly to call “life,” that there is a kind of solemnity even in seeing my pen trace the familiar characters on the page.

Any cry out of the old time is justified, though the ghosts of our ancestors writhe in disapprobation. Had I had more hope of this document’s surviving, it should have held it (if possible) to a colder tone; to the unmalleable idiom of the perfect testimony. As it is, it is—almost—only for Heaven that I write.

But I swear before that invisible witness that, so far as lay in my verbal power, I have spoken sheer truth. And it is not fitting that a man who has seen the 83rd should perish in silence. My pessimism may be unjustified, and then my facts will serve a purpose; whereas, if I am right in my saddest conjectures, it will not matter—nothing on this planet will matter again, for an age or two.

(from Harper’s Monthly Magazine, February 1916)

1 note · View note

powerbottomblake · 6 years ago

Text

RWBY:Ragnarok or predictions on the Atlas arc

Building on my previous post about how the RWBY arcs parallel seasons and the archetypal narrative structure linked to each season, I’ve established that Atlas corresponds to winter, aka themes of darkness, dissolution, the return of chaos, and the defeat of the heroic figure, but what I’m going to be developing here is how winter is linked to Götterdämmerung myths, a.k.a Ragnarok, otherwise known as the death of the gods in Norse mythology. So yes, Atlas is definitely a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Time for our heroes.

The thing is, that isn’t the only Norse mythology allusion tied to Atlas, be it the cast, the location or the events of Ragnarok itself. This post will be about delving into all of these allusions and find how Ragnarok’s narrative beats find equivalents in RWBY and how it might help predict the Atlas endgame (or at least part of it) as well as figure out some general plot points.

But before that, I feel like you need to familiarize yourself with the G.U.N theory (though I don’t know if I’m 100% in the scope of it with this post). I think the person that best explained it in a concise way would be @alexkablob in this post but basically the nitty gritty of it is that all RWBY characters aren’t allusions to a single myth but have layers of different allusions to several myths, and decoding them makes it possible to predict the beats of their narrative. Think v6 made it all too obvious with how Adam was Prince Adam (a.k.a the Beast before any character development or growth), the Rose curse and Gaston all wrapped in one (plus some references to Anakin Skywalker too apparently!); or how Yang is Goldilocks, Beauty and the Beast simultaneously (amongst others).

So characters that you know are allusions to a certain myth/fairytale, might have allusions to other ones, less obvious but still just as significant in determining that character’s fate and their overarching character arc, and the Atlas arc of the story is just full of these other allusions, all Norse mythology themed.

I’ll start with the allusions tied to the central figure of Atlas’ plot, aka the man himself, James Ironwood, then branch out on the connected cast’s allusions and how they’d fill their respective roles in Atlas’ version of Ragnarok.

So, as we all know James Ironwood is supposed to be our Tinman from the wizard of Oz. Thing is Ironwood also refers to a location in Norse mythology, Járnviðr (literally old Norse for Iron-wood), where a witch gives birth to giant wolves that are alluded to as Fenrir’s kin, one of them in particular being dubbed snatcher of the moon, who will swallow the moon come Ragnarok.

Before delving deeper into this, who is Fenrir?

Fenrir is a monstrous wolf who’s bound until comes Ragnarok, where he breaks free, wreaks havoc on the realm of the gods, and kills Odin, the patriarch of the Norse mythology pantheon and one of its most powerful figures.

I’m gonna go ahead and assume that CRWBY will merge all the monstrous apocalyptic wolf figures into one because that’s the decision that makes the most sense, and I’m gonna refer to it as Fenrwby to differentiate it from the original Fenrir (listen I couldn’t come up with anything else).

So now we’ve established that Atlas harbors or will get invaded by this giant wolf, Fenrir, who announces the apocalypse and swallows the moon.

Damn, I wonder which character is always closely associated to moon symbolism, incidentally also alluding to a tale called Dead Moon (again @alexkablob got you covered) and whose death circumstances are still a mystery till now?

That’s right I think Fenrwby will be confirmed to be the reason Summer died. Another point that absolutely convinces me of it is that he(it?) refers to. A gigantic evil wolf. Or you could say. A Big Bad Wolf. And guess where Little Red Riding Hood is headed right now?

But before eating Little Red Riding Hood, the Wolf eats the grandmother first.

Yeah, this might very well be the last time Maria’s making the trip to Atlas.

But let’s go back to Ironwood. There’s yet another allusion to him and that’s the Norse god Tyr. Tyr was a war god, but also presided over law and justice, which aligns with Ironwood being leader of the military, headmaster and even has the Council (which I assume is executive and judicial power) bow to him.

Tyr’s most striking act and for which he’s most known though is that he’s sacrificed his arm when the gods first bound Fenrir, the arm the wolf bit off being the right one, and lo and behold:

James Ironwood is indeed missing a right arm (well a whole right side because he’s also Tinman, but you get me). From this we can already surmise that the mission Summer was sent over to was probably the containment of Fenrwby, and it cost Summer her life and Ironwood his right side.

That leaves us with one question: who/what is Fenrwby and where did he come from?

We’ll have to go back to the original myth for a bit here. In Norse Mythology, the trickster god Loki fathers three children with a giantess: Hel, a woman that becomes a sort of queen of the Underworld, the world serpent Jörmungandr and the world wolf Fenrir. All three siblings are prophesied to be big trouble to the gods but what sets Fenrir apart is that:

He’s the one foretold to announce Ragnarok; his unbidding decides it

He’s the one destined to swallow Odin himself whole

He’s the only “hellish” sibling who’s raised right where the gods live, in Asgard

Beyond the similarity in how the names sound, I do believe Atlas’ design takes after Asgard and is meant to symbolize it.

For further reference here’s Marvel’s take on Asgard:

And here’s our first look at Atlas:

Atlas even has those threads attached to Mantle below which I suspect act as anchors + elevators/transportation conducts (most of it probably dedicated to Dust transport) between Mantle and Atlas, but also are a visual reference to Yggdrasil's roots, the Norse world tree, extending from Asgard to the other realms below.

So Fenrir is raised right in Asgard, but the wee pup is growing at an alarming rate (plus is prophesied to destroy all of it) so none of the gods is keen on approaching him. None except one brave god that is the only one to get close and feed him. And who would that be? That’s right, Tyr a.k.a our basis for Ironwood.

Ironwood hosting and hand-rearing a monster that will ultimately cause Summer’s death and the Atlaspocalypse sounds extremely unlikely, but there’s one scenario where this makes sense.

Atlas is known for its technological advancement and its constant development of new weaponry. I believe Fenrwby was born out of such a project, under the general leadership of Ironwood, but someone must have taken the experiments too far and ended up creating something so terrible Summer Rose herself (and maybe all or a combination of the remaining STRQ team), a silver-eyed warrior, had to be dispatched to neutralize, dying in the process.

Now is the time to remember that Fenrir is Loki’s son. In the original myth, Loki, an Asgardian god, gets eventually banished and during Ragnarok sides with the enemies.

So we’re basically looking for a disgraced Atlesian, who was possibly a scientist and is now currently working with the enemy.

And here is our Loki, none other than Arthur Watts himself, whose fallout with Atlas is yet to be explained.

I believe the reason he left Atlas was because he’s the one responsible for Fenrwby’s creation and in its immediate fallout, evaded arrest.

Another reason that leads me to believe Watts is our Loki is that Loki’s ties to Hel, Norse queen of the underworld, who was described to be “half-black and half flesh-colored”, which is a dead ringer for Salem.

Arthur Watts’ name also seems to refer to Arthur Conan Doyle and John Watson, the first one being the creator of Sherlock Holmes and the latter his dutiful companion and side-kick, so I believe Watts might be a combination of (evil) Sherlock and Watson. This is further supported with how Watts’ appearance seems to be a blend of both (Watson is described as tan, with a strong build and a moustache and Sherlock as tall and lean) and his outfit being Victorian-era inspired. He is referred to as Doctor by Salem, first to affirm his status as fallen scientist from Atlas but also most likely as a nod to Watson who was a skilled doctor and often would be referred to as Doctor as well. Sherlock Holmes is known to be an emotionally detached analytical machine with a caustic (and at times callous) kind of humor, having a usually dispassionate and cold demeanor, all of which match what we see of Watts. How is this linked to our Ragnarok? Well one of Sherlock Holmes’ most well-known stories, one where incidentally Watson has a very proactive and prominent role, is the Hound of the Baskervilles. The story is itself based on the legend of a “monstrously evil man” who sold his soul to the Devil (Salem) and after his death led a pack of phantom, evil hounds.

Evil hounds, monstrous wolves...Watts always gets linked to big bad canidae one way or the other.

Which brings us to our next question: now that we know who made Fenrwby, what exactly is Fenrwby?

Ok so this is the part where the theory gets tentative because there isn't much to go off of, so bear with me.

Watts is partly based on Sherlock Holmes, who is indifferent and detached usually, unless he's in the midst of an investigation. He then turns driven, getting tunnel-visioned and borderline obsessed (he can even go without food for so long he faints) until he solves the mystery. I think Watts is much the same. He carries himself with cool composure mostly but there was one instance where he showed a sort of zealous fascination: when he saw the seer Grimm.

Ok so I have an inkling that Watts is fascinated by the Grimm, and his forbidden experiments involved Grimm creatures. This is further supported by the Baskerville allusion to a pack of phantom hounds, which could very well reference the Grimm.

So going off this, Watts experimented on Grimm - since Atlas is very much wolf-themed, maybe Beowolfs? - and out of them he made Fenrwby.

But what could possibly be combined to Grimm in a way that’d defeat the combined forces of Ironwood (whose entire right side got severed) and an experienced silver eyed warrior like Summer?

I think we can make an educated guess based off the two major technological breakthroughs we got to witness during V1-3, namely Penny, the first synthetic being able to generate aura and the aura transfer machine. You’ll have guessed it, I think Atlas was dabbling into aura experimentation and Watts rerouted it to his own Grimm endeavors. What if he succeeded in equipping Grimm with something similar to Aura? Something that would hijack the Silver Eyes. I’m just bouncing ideas here but I’m pretty sure Fenrwby is the result of Watts tinkering with Aura and Grimm, and I think Watts staying with Salem is in large part because she’s the crystallization of the divide that fascinates him, being both human (having a soul, so in theory having aura) and grimm. Salem is the long running case study Watts is pursuing in a way.

So. Now that we’ve established what Fenrwby might be and who is behind it, we can delve into the narrative beats of Ragnarok. I made a synthetic list of Ragnarok events that seem relevant and connect to RWBY as a narrative:

Fenrir swallows Odin

I think Ozpin having Odin references in his character is common knowledge enough in the fandom. Odin is the king of Asgard, is associated with wisdom, knowledge and sorcery amongst other things, and is known for having two raven familiars (Raven and Qrow), all of which fit Ozpin.

What could Odin being swallowed mean for Oz and Oscar?

Of course, this could simply be an indication of Oz/Oscar fighting Fenrwby with Ruby, and losing.

But we can take it further. Oz lives inside Oscar through the merge between their souls, their auras connecting. We’ve established Atlas has been studying and experimenting on aura; Watts has most probably even toed the line of what is morally acceptable in terms of experiments. What if Fenrwby, or one of the machines Watts has been “tinkering with”, is able to sever the connection, effectively trapping Ozpin’s soul or at least sending it in another reincarnation cycle? This is a reach, I’ll admit, but something about Odin being swallowed somehow does not bode well for Ozpin.

Thor fights Jörmungandr

Can’t talk about Norse mythology without talking about Thor! And incidentally we have someone in the main cast based off him. I’ve always found it weird how V4 gives Ren a comprehensive backstory but never an explanation for how Nora is just there, beyond “random Kuroyuri orphan” (How did she get orphaned? Why was she in Kuroyuri? Who were her parents?). I think Nora’s backstory will be fully explained in Atlas as I have a feeling Weiss isn’t the only one coming home. Thor’s home is Asgard after all.

So Thor fights the giant serpent that is Loki’s other son and Fenrir’s brother. One of Jörmungandr’s most striking features is his venom, as he’s described spraying it through air and sea, and it’s how he kills Thor even as he’s slayed by him, poisoning the god to his death.

Our Jörmungadr equivalent thus needs to wield poison, and be sired (or fixed) by Loki aka Watts. That would be Tyrian.

I believe we’ll have the second round of Team JNR vs Tyrian - as foreshadowed by Tyrian’s interest in Jaune - and it’ll end with Tyrian dying and Nora being gravely wounded.

The frost giants join the fray against the gods

I’ve already expanded on this in my previous post, but Jack Frost, Jacques’ fairy tale basis, is said to be based on the norse frost giants. This, coupled with the “Jack and the beanstalk” references, pushes me to think Jacques is going to betray and cause the death of Ironwood and help team W.T.C.H steal the relic.

Gamr, another big hellish hound, kills Tyr

Gamr is another monstrous hound who breaks free of his bindings in Ragnarok. As I said before, I believe all hounds/wolf imagery is going to be compounded in a single entity in RWBY (especially when they sometimes share identical characteristics), so this is Fenrwby getting free of whatever binding Summer put him under (maybe the Silver Eye power petrified him the way Ruby did the giant Nevermore?) and killing Ironwood.

Surtr, a fire giant from Muspelheim, the realm of fire, covers the entire world with fire with his flaming sword

Surtr is a fire giant that guards Muspelheim, a hot and glowing land of fire, and who sets the world on fire with his flaming sword at the end of Ragnarok. This signals the destruction of the world, but also announces its rebirth with the surviving gods and humans meeting afterwards and leading into a new era.

So the guardian of a sword of destruction (Vacuo’s relic), coming from a hot unforgiving land (Vacuo), crashes the fight. I believe this is when the Summer maiden gets introduced, and she uses the relic to end the fight and save the thoroughly defeated team RWBY so that everyone may escape to Vacuo as Atlas’ destruction is complete.

So, to TL;DR this extremely long post:

There is a Big Bad Wolf kind of monster/entity in Atlas I’m tentatively calling Fenrwby

Watts created this monster by dabbling into forbidden experimentation, probably on aura and grimm

Summer Rose sealed said monster but at the cost of her life and the fight cost Ironwood his right side

Fenrwby is unleashed on Atlas, either by Team W.T.C.H, accidentally by Ironwood, or a combination of both

Jacques sides with W.T.C.H and helps them steal the relic

Fenrwby kills Ironwood and Maria

Oz is either defeated, sealed away from Oscar or sent in another reincarnation loop

Nora is from Atlas and we get her extended backstory

Team JNR fight Tyrian and are able to defeat him but Nora is gravely wounded

the Summer maiden arrives in a bind and with the relic of destruction ends the fight and takes team RWBY to safety

#rwby #rwby6 #rwby7 #rwby predictions #james ironwood #summer rose #ruby rose #ozpin #arthur watts #my meta #this is everything I couldn't fit in the atlas part in the other post wbwfdhfsdbd

208 notes · View notes

busterofbeing · 6 years ago

Text

Class Analysis: Mage

Hello! Before digging myself too much deeper into the already gaping hole that is Classpecting, I’ve decided to first analyze singular classes and aspects. This way when analyzing Classpects I don’t have to give the lengthy explanations of all the implications of the Class and Aspect; I can just provide a quick and to the point summary and provide links to these singular analyses. So it might take a little while to start an in-depth classpect analysis. Okay! Into the Mage class...

Summary

Mages actively know/understand their aspect or know/understand through their aspect for the benefit of themselves. Mages tend to have personal knowledge of their aspect, and they’ll usually act on this knowledge. Mages also tend to suffer from their aspect. The challenge of a Mage seems to be knowing how deeply they should understand their aspect; namely when they know their aspect far too deeply or don’t understand it enough. Mages tend to be speakers, teachers, and prophets.

Analysis + Evidence

Mages know/understand their aspect or know/understand through their aspect, mostly for themselves.

Sollux (The Mage of Doom) clearly understands and knows doom. He hears “voices of the doomed”, and prophecies to his friends about how they and the universe are doomed. Doom is intrinsic to Sollux’s character, and he’s almost always referencing this doom. Maybe he kind of likes having so much Doom to complain about?

Meulin (The Mage of Heart) understands and knows heart. She, therefore, understands people’s selves as well as relationships. It’s almost too obvious given how this is shown through her love of shipping. She understands her friends and their personalities and makes ships (and even fanfics) about them. Mostly for herself, of course. She might provide some advice or nudging here or there (if it’s what she believes to be good advice), but her shipping seems to be mostly personal. Hey, she’s actively making her favorite ships real. Her post-scratch self, the Disciple, also knows the Sufferer in all of the quadrants and beyond, as well as his teachings with a devoted fever. Understanding through romance and understanding through passion in order to understand romance and passion...

Mages have personal knowledge of their aspect which shapes their perspectives and personality.

Sollux certainly has personal knowledge of Doom. Not only does he simply understand as stated above, but he’s also experienced it. Aradia once mentions that his doom prophecies were “all he ever talked about”, so his wallowing in doom greatly affected his own persona. He dies a LOT in the story, I didn’t even bother learning exactly how many times he’s died or half-died. He also experienced those voices of the doomed. Being shrouded in Doom, Sollux is a very cynical character for quite a while. He doesn’t troll the beta kids because they’re “already doomed”, only stepping in to provide the rocket pack code for John, only because another troll asked him to.

Meulin’s experiences with Heart (her own friends) fuels her obsession with shipping. As a mage of heart, shipping is practically a given interest. This makes the Mage of Heart a very adaptable classpect; depending on the person’s experiences with other people, you could have wildly different tastes and ideas regarding...well, mainly shipping. Meulin had a matesprit and a moirail, which likely cemented her love for redrom pairings (which she shares with Nepeta). You could also argue that her redrom experiences made her more reflect the characteristics of redrom relationships; namely positive, wholesome energy and a friendly disposition.

Mages tend to suffer from their aspect.

This is pretty obvious for Sollux. Doom is the aspect of suffering, after all. You could say he suffers because of his intimate understanding of doom. Considering Doom was all he seemed to talk about for most of his life(s), he did seem to wallow in it; it negatively affected him more than it might affect your average Doom player.

While Meulin is great at shipping and understanding heart, she has terrible romantic luck herself. Kurloz ended up deafening and manipulating her, and while her moirallegiance with Horuss looks pretty, upon a bit of examination it’s pretty strained and not all that healthy.

Mages are skilled in talents related to their aspect.

Sollux is a highly-skilled with ~ATH, a coding language that revolves around Doom. Sollux writes several notable scripts with ~ATH. By the way, did you know that ~ATH is a pun? (Till death)

Meulin is very adept with shipping, which involves personality, relationships, and romance; all parts of the Heart aspect.

Mages suffer when they know their aspect far too deeply or not deep enough.

While Sollux’s knowledge of Doom is correct and beneficial, he becomes so invested in it that it ultimately weighs him down more than it needs to. Once Sollux comes to terms with all his dying and just accepts it, we see him become more relaxed and happy.

While Meulin understands other people's selves, she ironically does not understand her own self well. I’m referring to Kurloz’ mind control and manipulation, which Meulin is oblivious to. If Meulin better understood how she herself was being manipulated (before and after the actual Juggalo manipulation), she would be more emotionally healthy. Heck, she might’ve been able to get out of her relationship with Kurloz before he deafened her. Meulin also doesn’t talk about herself much, which is weird considering a Mage of Heart should be obsessed with knowing themselves. Meulin knows Heart well but is lacking in regards to HERself, which is what causes a good few of her problems.

Mages tend to be speakers, teachers, and prophets.

This is obvious for Sollux. He prophesied and spoke at nauseum about how he and everyone else was doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed.

Meulin doesn’t display these characteristics much (as to be expected, Mages are less focused on others after all), but I’d like to imagine she has plenty to say and teach about shipping and quadrants if someone was willing to give a listen.

Other Comments and Analysis

Experiences are one of the main things that set the Mage class apart from the Seer class. Seers tend to understand their aspect through a more academic and conceptual point of view, whereas the perspective of a mage is shaped largely by their own experiences and knowledge. As I explained with the Mage of Heart Classpect above, this means that Mages can have radically different points of view regarding their aspect depending on their experiences.

About knowing too much versus knowing too little; I feel this is the main challenge for a Mage. Getting too involved with their knowledge of their aspect can be emotionally dampening; I could see Meulin being so wrapped up in her shipping that she doesn’t spend enough time being with her friends.

In regards to mages being teachers and speakers- I believe this is a trait shared by both the Mage and Seer class, but is more prevalent in the Seer class. So while Mages can still be teachers, I would imagine that they wouldn’t teach to the extent a Seer would. Mages use their knowledge for themselves. Whereas Seers would inform and teach their aspect to others, Mages might tell others, but would usually end up acting on that information themselves. Taking matters into their own hands, so to speak.

Parting Words and Thanks

This was my first Class analysis, and I had a lot of fun making it! I muse over classes and aspects whenever my mind wanders, so I always have plenty to talk about. I’ve noticed that this analysis seems longer than most analyses on a singular class; my hope is that this further deepens our understanding of the Mage class, and opens us up to new ideas we haven’t considered before.

I would like to give a huge thanks to optimisticDuelist. He is an excellent Homestuck fandom figure that is currently working on making videos to explain the beautiful mess that is Homestuck, and he has done his fair share of Classpecting. In fact, his videos on Class and Aspects taught me how to Classpect, and helped to build my foundational knowledge of the system! This great article, in particular, analyzing the Mage/Seer classes, was a huge help and provided some direction and ideas that I included in this analysis. He also made that cool little Class Card, in addition to the other classes and aspects! Go check him out!

Again, let me reiterate this took some time. I’ve started to receive some requests, and I’ll get onto Classpecting once I have classes and aspects nailed down. (So if I analyze your class/aspect first, chances are I’ll be analyzing your Classpect soon! ;))

Thanks!

#class #mage #homestuck #sollux #sollux captor #meulin #meulin leijon #doom #heart

44 notes · View notes

diwatang-sirena · 6 years ago

Text

Food For Thought: Is it possible that Daenerys' storyline is going to go a similar route to Darth Vader's?

Now before you guys protest, especially the die-hard Dany stans, just hear me out on this. I’m a fan of both Vader and Dany, and as much as I wish that Dany will not turn into an antagonist, let’s not discount the possibility and try to look at her story in a different perspective. Okay? Then keep reading.

If you’re not familiar with Vader’s story in Star Wars (but how tho??), protagonist Anakin Skywalker started out as a poor, innocent slave boy who happened to have a very strong connection with the force. He’s even assumed to be the “Chosen One” from the prophecies that would balance the Dark and the Light sides of the Force. So he ends up training to become a Jedi with the hopes of freeing his slave mother whom he left behind in Tattooine, his home planet.

Eventually Anakin grows up to be a good but slightly arrogant teenager who is manipulated further by Emperor Palpatine (who’s posing as a good guy in the Senate). And because he’s fully aware of his natural talent, he’s even pushed further by the fact that the Jedi Council does not fully acknowledge his merits when he deserves them. One of the key moments in his transition is when he finds his mother murdered, which led him to his first act of madness when he massacred the tribe that stole her away.

But the final straw was when he dreamt that his secret wife, Padme, might possibly die through childbirth. This made him seek even more power to save his wife and unborn child, of which he was unable to do with his mother, and it eventually blinded him from seeing the good that his comrades and loved ones were trying to do to help him.

At this point, he concluded that by being the most powerful, most fearsome Jedi on earth, he can prevent every terrible fate that could happen to the ones he loved. So he helped the Emperor massacre the whole Jedi Council, including the innocent children, in order to be stronger using the dark side of the Force. And you know the rest, his wife died in childbirth, indirectly because of his actions, and thinking that his mentor and brotherly figure Obi-Wan betrayed him and left him to die, he eventually became reborn as Darth Vader, now completely overwhelmed by hatred.

And it’s not until the last minute when Luke, his son with Padme, helped bring him back to the Light when Vader chose to protect his son with his life instead of letting Palpatine kill him, ultimately fulfilling his prophecy as the Chosen One.

See the pattern here? Daenerys seems to be following quite a similar path, with her initially being a poor, helpless girl with a very tough upbringing who eventually gained power to protect the common folk. Not only that, but she also has something to do with the “Azor Ahai” Prophecy about the “Prince/Princess that was Promised”, although whether or not this means her, Jon, or their future child is yet to be seen.

Unfortunately, just like Anakin, Daenerys has been shown to have lingered in between the light and dark at times, such as burning her enemies or using fear to bend people to her will when her patience runs out. Of course I won’t deny that some of these actions are considered necessary considering that some of her enemies don’t do well with peace pacts or respectful discussions, most especially when they go through lengths to disrespect her as a woman.

But as much as I love Dany, I can’t deny that some of her actions, regardless of where she came from and how she came to be, are not doing her any favors with the Westerosi. Like Anakin, she has been slowly losing sight of what has been her main goal in the beginning of her pursuit; to save the people who suffered like she did and to find a place to truly call home. Now most of her focus is gaining her right to the Iron Throne, while slowly losing bits of emotion here and there especially when betrayal hits her at one front to another.

That is, until dear honorable Jon Snow came along.

Just like how Anakin and Padme’s forbidden love story ended up changing the Jedi forever, Jon and Dany’s love story seems to be a must in breaking the wheel of the current world, not just in politics, but the fate of the world itself. After all, Melisandre has prophesied that both of them have a very important role to play in the Azor Ahai prophecy in stopping the Night King.

Whether you ship them or not, you can’t deny that these two were bound to have a special connection thanks to their parallel journeys and their secret Targaryen relation. It’s interesting to note that in the beginning, all that Jon ever wanted was to become acknowledged as a Stark, arrogantly thinking that he had it worse than everyone else. Now that he’s constantly given all these burdens and high positions, he’s become more humble and doesn’t enjoy being the leader that people turn to.

Dany, on the other hand, was a meek and afraid little girl, having no idea in the beginning that she was capable of becoming more, no thanks to Viserys’ abuse. But as time went by, she began to grow as her own person and became more and more powerful, which unfortunately led her to become quite arrogant at times.

While Jon’s been shown to have a harder time killing more and more people out of duty, especially when he began to realize that not everything is in black and white, Dany has been shown to be having an easier time disposing people who defy her, even the ones who used to be on her side. It’s not to say she hasn’t tried doing things the gentler way, but a lot of if not all the peace talks she’s attempted with her adversaries have never really gone smoothly. Not to mention, most of the people she had placed her trust in in the beginning have either betrayed or left her at some point.

To be fair, we can’t have two exact copies of “Jon Snow” in the GOT world. That wouldn’t make much of an interesting story now can it?

With that said, it seems possible that Jon’s role in GOT is quite similar to Luke’s trope as the reluctant hero of the story, the one who saves the whole world by saving their loved one from being completely immersed into the Dark Side.

Of course, we haven’t seen Dany turn completely mad just yet, and I personally hope it would never happen. But the first two episodes of Season 8 has compelled me to imagine the uncomfortable possibility of what it would be like if Daenerys does end up becoming a villain. Her thirst for the crown has been focused on too many times to deny in the first two episodes of the final season, and it seems that not even her love for Jon would let her set aside her quest for the crown completely, at least not yet.

But there’s also a possibility that their future child, if the constant foreshadowing in Season 7 comes to fruition, might also be a strong factor in changing her mindset, just like how Vader’s love for Padme and his children compelled him to eventually turn away from the Dark Side. Most importantly, their child might also have a huge role in stopping the second Long Night from happening, however possible that is, if he/she/they have something to do with the prophecy.

Another interesting possibility that’s been pointed out by some fans is that the only person other than Jon that might stop Dany from her road to Mad Queen status is the woman who currently checks up all the boxes of said status.

Cersei may not have the pure intentions that Dany has, but they do have a common factor of wanting to gain and remain in power no thanks to their past experiences of having their father/brother control most of their lives in the early parts of the series (Tywin with Cersei, and Viserys with Dany). I’d personally wager that Dany is still far from Cersei’s “Mad Queen” level, because at the very least Dany still has a few good and true comrades to help keep her feet on the ground. As Tyrion told Cersei, at least Dany has enough brains and empathy to listen to their advice at times, whereas Cersei would never do so unless it benefits only her.

This Cersei-Dany parallel would be a pretty similar situation with, again, Darth Vader and Luke. Just when Luke battles with his father and was almost on the verge of killing him, he stops when he sees his father’s robotic hand, realizing how similar they actually are and how much the Dark Side has affected Vader in the worst ways, which he himself almost fell into if he didn’t see the truth with his own eyes.

After the Battle of Winterfell is over, and Daenerys sees the remnants of the Night King's power while also coming to terms with Jon’s status as the rightful heir, perhaps Dany might reconsider and reflect on her true purpose in attaining the Seven Kingdoms. True there's also a huge possibility that she'll turn even darker than before, especially if her close comrades die/leave her, leaving her feeling more alone and out of place. But perhaps after seeing Cersei the way she is, with no true friends, no family, and no love left in her except the crown on her head, this might lead Dany to see the hard truth; The Iron Throne isn’t worth her humanity.

With that said, whether or not Dany turns into a true antagonist is yet to be seen. Contrary to some fans' predictions of her dying in the end, I actually believe that she'll survive, but not without huge consequences of course, which is carrying the guilt with her for the rest of her life. For some people, continuing to find the will to live can be much harder than dying a quick death.

Having her killed off easily as a villain without redemption or in childbirth for me is a very big disservice to those who have watched/read her whole journey since Season 1 and the 1st book. I doubt that George R.R. Martin created Dany only to make her a Cersei 2.0 in the end. It would be the such an injustice for the series to conclude with Dany’s faults completely overshadowing the many good things she has done for the ones without power, especially during her time in Essos.

We have yet to see how low Dany would go to seize power as Vader would, and I’m extremely worried about how much it would affect everyone’s view of her till the very end, especially as a character that was so beloved for the whole 7 seasons, only to have her hated by most without proper redemption at the final season. Yes, as a GOT fan I’m glad that Dany’s being given a wakeup call that her idea of ruling has its flaws and does not suit everybody. But if she is really meant to betray Jon and the rest, I seriously wish that whatever payoff the writers have for Dany will be worth it in the end. Especially when there’re only a handful of episodes left.

And if people really think that Jon would easily leave Dany just like that, then boy, have they not been paying attention to Jon’s character development. Jon has already chosen duty over love several times, with one of those choices leading indirectly to his first love’s death. I highly doubt that Jon would ever leave Dany alone like that, even with all her faults, especially if she’s with child and if they do get married even if out of duty.

Just like how Padme never stopped believing that there is good in Anakin till her dying breath, it’s in Jon’s persona that he would do everything in his power to keep Daenerys from falling completely into the dark and feeling alone. I won’t be surprised if Jon would choose to take the fall for/with Daenerys if she is to be punished for whatever wrongdoing she’s about to do. That’s just the type of guy he is.

With that said, we have no choice but to wait until Episode 3 and 4 to really see where Daenerys’ morality will be going. As with every season, with every new episode that comes out, anything is possible. I still hold onto the hope that the writers know exactly what they’re doing with Daenerys and that it’ll be true to what George R.R. Martin really intended for her, although I’m already a bit wary at how they’re currently handling her responses. If her path is to go the same way as Vader’s like I guessed, I can only hope that they can do enough justice to make her memory worthwhile.

If not... there’s always hope for the books. And fanfiction.

#daenerys targaryen #a random thought #darth vader #got #got spoilers #game of thrones #jon snow #jonerys #star wars

17 notes · View notes

e350tb · 6 years ago

Text

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Forty-Five

(special thanks as always to @real-fakedoors for proof-reading!)

“Okay, we’re through. Twins, take us out of warp.”

The Sun Incinerator exited warp speed, emerging over a planet. Lars furrowed his brow as he took in the green orb.

It wasn’t especially unusual - mostly earth-like, but with a single enormous continent bisected by rivers, lit by a yellow sun. There were no deserts - it seemed to be largely forest and grassland with the occasional mountain range.

“Huh, just looks like a normal planet,” he muttered. “It’s like finding out that some kind of prophesied secret is in Ohio or something.”

“What’s an Ohio?” asked Left-Rutile.

“Sounds like a greeting,” mused Right-Rutile.

Lars chuckled, pressing a button next to his seat.

“Landing team to the bridge,” he began, “if you’re not up in five, I’ll get Jasper to hunt you down.”

“I’m not your attack dog, Lars,” Jasper snapped from her chair.

“No, but if people think you are, they’ll do what I say.”

“Then I’ll just tell them I’m not.”

“Touche.”

Lars sighed, sitting back in his chair. His smile vanished as he thought about the mission - about his friend, trapped in her own body, perhaps somewhere down below. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, dog-eared photo - Sadie on stage, an eternity ago.

“I’ll free you, Sadie,” he whispered. “Mark my words, I’ll-”

“Ohio is an Earth state,” blurted Padparadscha.

Lars exhaled through his nose.

“Thanks, Padparadscha.”

The Sun Incinerator was equipped with two spherical landing pods for the mission. They had been ‘borrowed’ from the Home Guard (Lenny assumed they wouldn’t notice they were missing) and were painted red and blue respectively. Lars commanded the red one - serial number K13-TH - while C piloted the blue - serial number L8-NC3. Both were hurtling through a pink dawn sky, heading to a specific point on the planet.

“So the scans say there’s a building?” asked Bismuth, staring through the screens that allowed Lars to see where he was going, “This just looks like mountains and grass.”

“I-I’m sure of it,” replied Lenny. “There-there’s an intricate s-s-system of t-tunnels under one of these hills. They can’t… they can’t be naturally o-occuring.”

“So it could be a lab,” mused Lars, “where they keep Sadie between missions.”

“Or it could just be a weapons dump.”

All eyes fell on Lapis, who looked back with a practiced degree of indifference.

“We used to have to help the Bismuths carve them out,” shrugged Lapis.

Slowly, Stevonnie put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s try to stay positive here, hon,” they said.

“I’m not saying she’s not there!” replied Lapis. “I’m just saying she might live in a dump!”

“You mean like you do?” asked Lars, smirking.

“It’s not a dump, it’s a barn.”

“It can be two things,” Bismuth shrugged.

“Don’t help him, Bismuth,” snapped Lapis.

“Blue calling Red.” C’s voice crackled through on the comms. “I’d hate to interrupt this incredibly mature argument, but I’m picking up something on scan.”

“What is it, C?” asked Stevonnie.

“I, uh… well, see for yourself.”

The pod passed over a rise, and Stevonnie gasped.

At first glance, it appeared to be a mountain, covered in grass, shrubs, rocks and occasional clumps of trees - but the shape was wrong, and there were patches of stark white that had been stained by time and erosion. Cracked pyramids lined the top, and the shapes of broken limbs without hands protruded along the sides. Two enormous, eye-shaped crevices, dotted with bushes and soil, broke the shape of the steep mountainside, and above them was carved the unmistakable shape of a diamond.

This wasn’t a mountain - this was a temple, indescribably ancient, and clearly dedicated to White Diamond.

“Well, someone’s got an ego,” muttered Lars. “Where’s the closest we can land?”

“There’s a flat area in front of the temple,” replied X over the comms. “I think we can go through the temple itself from there.”

“So we’re goin’ in,” Bismuth nodded, her expression grave.

“Yep,” replied Stevonnie, emphasising the ‘p’ sound.

“Y-yeah.” Lenny swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s, uh, g-gonna be an ex-experience, yeah…”

She laughed very, very nervously.

They travelled inside in something of a circle. Around the outside were Stevonnie, Garnet, Bismuth, Lapis, Jenny and Lars, weapons ready - inside were Lenny, C, X, the Rutiles and Padparadscha. Fluorite, too big for the pods, was watching the Sun Incinerator, and Jasper was guarding the little craft.

The entrance to the temple was so overgrown and weatherbeaten that it appeared more like the mouth of a cave. As Stevonnie stepped into the darkness, they noticed strange lizards on the walls - small, blue and six-legged, with two tails. At first they were everywhere, but as they went deeper and deeper they thinned out, as if they knew there was something terrible deep within this ancient structure. They shivered - it was growing colder as they went along.

Presently they reached an open, circular chamber.

“Yep,” said Lars. “Definitely an ego.”

They were surrounded by four enormous statues of White Diamond, each about thirty feet tall, their arms extended out to their sides, arms bent and hands level with their shoulders. At the end of the chamber was what looked like an elevator shaft, stretching high up to the darkness, and the walls were decorated with elaborate murals of the supreme Diamond and her court - ornately-dressed Sapphires, Rubies and Quartzes, all in perfect formation, Bismuths building great structures and Lapis Lazulis shaping the very world around them. It was a monument to imperial splendour.

“Look at the rock colouration,” mused X, “This is hundreds of thousands of years old…”

“You can tell how old it is by looking at it?” asked Jenny.

“Sure, can’t you?” shrugged C, “It’s, like, beginner Kindergartener stuff.”

“Jenny isn’t a Kindergartener, C,” grunted X.

“She can learn!” replied C. “It’ll take a hundred years, tops!”

“Yeah, I’m really gonna be able to use that stuff when I’m, what, a hundred and sixty?” said Jenny bluntly.

“So what was this used for?” asked Stevonnie.

“It’s a t-temple,” replied Lenny. “I-it has no purpose but… but to venerate. It-it’s a propaganda piece, i-i-it’s a…”

She took a deep breath.

“...a monument.”

“So why would Sadie be here?” asked Lars.

Lenny shrugged.

“P-perhaps it’s b-been converted into a l-lab, or a c-command centre,” she replied.

“But if so, why isn’t it guarded?” asked Lapis.

“It is guarded,” replied X, “By ships. Guess they never thought we’d slipped past.”

“No, there’ll be something,” said Lars. “Something up there.”

He pointed up into the darkness.

“So… in the head.” nodded C, “Definitely some symbolism there.”

Garnet crossed her arms.

“Bismuth, Jenny, keep watch here,” she instructed. “The rest of us will climb the shaft - Stevonnie and I can jump, and Lapis can fly, so we’ll be able to get up pretty quickly.”

“And what about me?” asked Lars.

“You’ll ride on my back.”

“Yeah, not unless you buy me dinner first.”

Garnet frowned, and Lars chuckled.

“Lars has a point, though,” said Stevonnie. “We can only carry one person each, maybe two, and we need to bring Lenny at least…”

“You take Lenny,” said Garnet. “Lapis can carry C or X…”

“Me,” snapped X. “If you’ve gotta pick, take someone who’s sensible.”

“X, that’s rude,” scoffed C.

“True, though,” said X.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Definitely.” X strolled over to Lapis, nodding back at C one more time. “Try not to blow yourself up, huh?”

“Eat silt, X.”

“Eat silt? Really? You’re an idiot, C…”

“Okay, okay!” Bismuth held out her arms, shaking her head. “Let’s just get moving, alright?”

High above and far away, Peridot 4DT gazed at a screen.

She frowned as she looked up at her companions in the darkened security centre. It wasn’t much more than a small boxy room that had been hastily equipped with computers and scanning equipment, but, as far as the Peridot was concerned, it was enough.

“Aquamarine,” she said, “Scans detect intruders in the foyer. What do we do?”

“What do you mean, what do we do?!” Aquamarine threw out her arms, “We send somebody to deal with them! Topaz!”

She turned to her bodyguard, ever-vigilant, silent and still as a statue.

“Topaz! Get down there and deal with them!”

Topaz nodded and marched away.

“Hold on,” 4DT held out a hand, “They’ve split up - some of them are coming up the elevator shaft. You might need to get Topaz to split up…”

“No need.”

The two jumped and turned around (Topaz, for her part, remained still.) At the other side of the lab, obscured in a dark doorway, was a silhouette with two glowing white eyes.

“We’ll send Chrysalis to deal with them,” the figure instructed, “It will be a good test.”

“For Chrysalis?” asked Aquamarine.

“No.”

A ghost of a smile could be seen on the figure’s darkened face.

“For Rose Quartz.”

#steven universe #marooned together #stevonnie #lapis lazuli #lars barriga #rutile twins #padparadscha #jasper #bismuth #garnet #jenny pizza #lapvonnie

12 notes · View notes

dfroza · 4 years ago

Text

being betrayed by a friend feels terrible

and our Creator knows just what that is like.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is chapter 14 in the book of Mark:

Two days before the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread, the leading priests and religious scholars were committed to finding a way to secretly arrest Jesus and have him executed. They agreed that their plot could not succeed if they carried it out during the days of the feast, for they said, “There could be a riot among the people.”

Now Jesus was in Bethany, in the home of Simon, a man Jesus had healed of leprosy. And as he was reclining at the table, a woman came into the house, with an alabaster flask filled with the highest quality of fragrant and expensive oil. She came to Jesus, and with a gesture of extreme devotion, she broke the flask and poured out the precious oil over his head. But some were highly indignant when they saw this, and they complained to one another, saying, “What a total waste! It could have been sold for a great sum, and the money could have benefited the poor.” So they scolded her harshly.

Jesus said to them, “Leave her alone! Why are you so critical of this woman? She has honored me with this beautiful act of kindness. You will always have the poor, whom you can help whenever you want, but you will not always have me. When she poured the fragrant oil over me, she was preparing my body in advance of my burial. She has done all that she could to honor me. I promise you that as this wonderful gospel spreads all over the world, the story of her lavish devotion to me will be mentioned in memory of her.”

One of the twelve apostles, Judas Iscariot, went to the leading priests to inform them of his willingness to betray Jesus into their hands. They were delighted to hear this and agreed to pay him for it. So immediately Judas began to look for the right opportunity to betray him.

On the first day of Unleavened Bread, when the Passover Lamb is sacrificed, Jesus’ disciples asked him, “Where would you like us to prepare the Passover meal for you?”

So he sent two of his disciples ahead into Jerusalem with these instructions: “Make your way into the city and watch for a man carrying a pitcher of water. Follow him, and say to the owner of whatever house he enters, ‘The Teacher wants to ask you: “Do you have my room ready where I can eat the Passover meal with my disciples?” ’ And he will show you a large upstairs room ready and with a table set. Make preparations for us there.”

So they went into the city and found everything to be exactly like Jesus had prophesied, and they prepared for him the Passover meal. And when evening came, he entered the house and went upstairs with his twelve disciples. Over dinner, while they were reclining around the table, Jesus said, “Listen to the truth: One of you eating here with me is about to betray me.”

Feeling deeply troubled by these words, one after another asked him, “Is it I?”

He answered, “It is one of you twelve who has shared meals with me as an intimate friend. All that was prophesied of me, the Son of Man, is destined to soon take place, but it will be disastrous for the one who betrays the Son of Man. It would be far better for him if he had never been born!”

As they were dining, Jesus took the bread and blessed it, and broke it, and gave it to his disciples. He said to them, “Receive this; it is my body.” Then taking the cup of wine and giving thanks to the Father, he declared the new covenant with them. And as each one drank from the cup, he said to them, “This is my blood, which seals the new covenant poured out for many. I tell you the truth, I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine until the day comes when we drink it together in the kingdom feast of my Father.” Then they sang a psalm and afterwards left for the Mount of Olives.

Jesus said to them, “You will all fall away and desert me. This will fulfill the prophecy of the Scripture that says:

I will strike down the shepherd

and all the sheep will scatter.

“But after I am risen, I will go ahead of you to Galilee.”

Then Peter spoke up and said, “Even if all the rest lose their faith and fall away, I will still be beside you!”

Jesus said, “Mark my words, Peter. This very night, before the rooster crows twice a few hours from now, you will deny that you know me three times.”

But Peter was insistent and replied emphatically, “I will absolutely not! Under no circumstances will I ever deny you—even if I have to die with you!” And all the others repeated the same thing.

Then Jesus led his disciples to an orchard called “The Oil Press.” He told them, “Sit here while I pray awhile.” He took Peter, Jacob, and John with him. An intense feeling of great horror plunged his soul into deep sorrow. And he said to them, “My heart is overwhelmed with anguish and crushed with grief. It feels as though I’m dying. Stay here and keep watch with me.”

He walked a short distance away, and being overcome with grief, he threw himself facedown on the ground. He prayed that if it were possible, he would not have to experience this hour of suffering. He prayed, “Abba, my Father, all things are possible for you. Please—remove this cup of suffering! Yet what I want is not important, for I only desire to fulfill your plan for me.”

Then he came back to his three disciples and found them all sound asleep. He awakened Peter and said to him, “Simon, are you asleep? Do you lack the strength to stay awake with me for even just an hour? Keep alert and pray that you’ll be spared from this time of testing. For your spirit is eager enough, but your humanity is feeble.”

Then he left them a second time and went to pray the same thing. Afterward, he came back to the disciples and found them sound asleep, for they couldn’t keep their eyes open and they didn’t know what to say to him.

After praying for the third time, he returned to his disciples and awoke them again, saying, “Do you plan on sleeping and resting indefinitely? That’s enough sleep! The end has come and the hour has arrived for the Son of Man to be handed over to the authority of sinful men. Get up and let’s go. Don’t you see? My betrayer draws near.”

At that moment Judas, one of the Twelve, arrived, along with a large crowd of men armed with swords and clubs. They had been sent to arrest Jesus by order of the ruling priests, the religious scholars, and the Jewish leaders. Now, Judas, the traitor, had arranged to give them a signal that would identify Jesus, for he had told them, “Jesus is the man I will kiss. So arrest him and take him away.” Judas quickly stepped up to Jesus and said, “Rabbi, my teacher!” and he kissed him on both cheeks.

Then the armed men seized Jesus to arrest him. One of the disciples pulled out a sword and swung it at the servant of Caiaphas, the high priest, slashing off his ear.

Jesus said to the mob, “Why would you arrest me with swords and clubs as though I were an outlaw? Day after day I sat with you in the temple courts, teaching the people, yet you didn’t arrest me then. But all of this fulfills the prophecies of the Scriptures.” At that point all of his disciples ran away and abandoned him.

There was a young man there following Jesus, wearing only a linen sheet wrapped around him. They tried to arrest him also, but he slipped from their grasp and ran off naked, leaving his linen cloth in their hands.

Those who arrested Jesus led him away to Caiaphas, the high priest, to a meeting where the religious scholars and Jewish leaders were assembled. Now, Peter had followed him from a distance all the way to the chief priest’s courtyard. He sat with the guards and was warming himself by the fire.

The chief priests and the Jewish council of leaders were doing their best to find false charges that they could bring against Jesus and condemn him to death, but they could not find any. Many false witnesses came forward, but the evidence could not be corroborated. Some came forward and testified against him, saying, “We heard him say, ‘I can destroy this temple made with hands and then build another one again in three days not made with hands!’ ” Yet even on this point the witnesses did not agree.

Finally, the chief priest stood up in the middle of them and said to Jesus, “Have you nothing to say about these allegations? Is what they’re saying about you true?”

But Jesus remained silent before them and did not answer. So the chief priest said to him, “Are you the anointed Messiah, the Son of the Blessed God?”

Jesus answered him, “I am. And more than that, you are about to see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Almighty and coming in the heavenly clouds!”

Then, as an act of outrage, the high priest tore his robe and shouted, “No more witnesses are needed, for you’ve heard this grievous blasphemy.” Turning to the council he said, “Now, what is your verdict?”

“He’s guilty and deserves the death penalty!” they all answered.

Then they spat on his face and blindfolded him. Others struck him over and over with their fists and taunted him by saying, “Prophesy to us! Tell us which one of us is about to hit you next?” And the guards took him and beat him.

Meanwhile, Peter was sitting below in the courtyard when a girl, a servant of the high priest, came near the fire. When she saw Peter there warming himself, she said to him, “I recognize you. You were with that Nazarene, Jesus.”

But Peter denied it, saying, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Then he went out to the gateway of the courtyard and the rooster crowed.

When the servant girl noticed him, she said to all the bystanders, “I know this man is one of his followers!”

Once again, Peter denied it. A short time later, the bystanders said to him, “You must be one of them. You’re a Galilean, like he is, for your accent proves it!”

Peter cursed and said, “I tell you, I don’t know this man you’re talking about!”

At the same moment Peter spoke those words, the sound of a rooster crowing pierced the night for the second time. And Peter remembered the words Jesus had spoken to him earlier: “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” With his heart shattered, Peter broke down and sobbed with bitter tears.

The Book of Mark, Chapter 14 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 6th chapter of the book of Job with Job’s response:

Job Replies to Eliphaz

[God Has Dumped the Works on Me]

Job answered:

“If my misery could be weighed,

if you could pile the whole bitter load on the scales,

It would be heavier than all the sand of the sea!

Is it any wonder that I’m howling like a caged cat?

The arrows of God Almighty are in me,

poison arrows—and I’m poisoned all through!

God has dumped the whole works on me.

Donkeys bray and cows moo when they run out of pasture—

so don’t expect me to keep quiet in this.

Do you see what God has dished out for me?

It’s enough to turn anyone’s stomach!

Everything in me is repulsed by it—

it makes me sick.

[Pressed Past the Limits]

“All I want is an answer to one prayer,

a last request to be honored:

Let God step on me—squash me like a bug,

and be done with me for good.

I’d at least have the satisfaction

of not having blasphemed the Holy God,

before being pressed past the limits.

Where’s the strength to keep my hopes up?

What future do I have to keep me going?

Do you think I have nerves of steel?

Do you think I’m made of iron?

Do you think I can pull myself up by my bootstraps?

Why, I don’t even have any boots!

[My So-Called Friends]

“When desperate people give up on God Almighty,

their friends, at least, should stick with them.

But my brothers are fickle as a gulch in the desert—

one day they’re gushing with water

From melting ice and snow

cascading out of the mountains,

But by midsummer they’re dry,

gullies baked dry in the sun.

Travelers who spot them and go out of their way for a drink

end up in a waterless gulch and die of thirst.

Merchant caravans from Tema see them and expect water,

tourists from Sheba hope for a cool drink.

They arrive so confident—but what a disappointment!

They get there, and their faces fall!

And you, my so-called friends, are no better—

there’s nothing to you!

One look at a hard scene and you shrink in fear.

It’s not as though I asked you for anything—

I didn’t ask you for one red cent—

Nor did I beg you to go out on a limb for me.

So why all this dodging and shuffling?

“Confront me with the truth and I’ll shut up,

show me where I’ve gone off the track.

Honest words never hurt anyone,

but what’s the point of all this pious bluster?

You pretend to tell me what’s wrong with my life,

but treat my words of anguish as so much hot air.

Are people mere things to you?

Are friends just items of profit and loss?

“Look me in the eyes!

Do you think I’d lie to your face?

Think it over—no double-talk!

Think carefully—my integrity is on the line!

Can you detect anything false in what I say?

Don’t you trust me to discern good from evil?”

The Book of Job, Chapter 6 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Tuesday, April 13 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about the True nature of trust:

“Cast your burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain you” (Psalm 55:22). It is important to fully appreciate what this means. When you truly “cast your burden upon the Lord,” you are insisting on peace of mind, refusing all worry, and resolving to let go of your anxieties... When you are tempted to consider trouble, when you hear the whisper of fear within, remember to cast your burden upon the Lord and he will sustain you, for “he will never permit the righteous to be moved...” But what of unutterable pain or sorrow? What of intractable sickness or irrecoverable loss? What if you cannot express the burden you carry? Then get alone with God and lay your soul bare: the heart has its own voice regardless of the words we are able to articulate. As it is written: בטחוּ בוֹ בכל־עת - “Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us” (Psalm 62:8). The Holy Spirit repeatedly calls out: al tira, “do not be afraid.” Let not your heart be troubled; be anxious for nothing; believe that the LORD faithfully cares for you (John 14:27; Psalm 42:5; 1 Pet. 5:7).

Pouring your heart out to God in an honest, spontaneous, and intensely personal way is sometimes called “hitbodedut” (הִתְבּוֹדְּדוּת) in Hebrew. After we “talk our hearts out” before the Lord, in our emptiness we can begin to truly listen, as it says, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength” (Isa. 30:15). Only after we sigh deeply and surrender are we receptive to the voice of the Spirit’s whisper. אַשְׁרֵי כָּל־חוֹכֵי לוֹ - “Blessed are all those who wait for Him” (Isa. 30:18). We wait, we abide, we persevere -- even when God seems to “take his time” or does not immediately intervene in ways we might apprehend. We must not lose heart, for we find strength when we trust in God’s love... The Light of the world still shines: Yeshua, be my inner word, my heart, and my groaning for life today, and forevermore, amen. [Hebrew for Christians]

4.12.21 • Facebook

and another post about good vs. evil:

These are lawless days, where worldly culture celebrates moral anarchy and teaches the narcissistic philosophy that everyone "should" do what is right in his or her own eyes... These as the "days of Noach," where the wickedness has become great in the earth, and intention of the thoughts of people's hearts has become evil continually... Because worldly culture has suppressed and exiled the truth of God from the public domain, God has pronounced "like-for-like" judgment by giving people over to the tyranny of their darkened passions, resulting in inner chaos and self-destructive impulses. The very worst judgment of God is when He removes his hand and says, "Have it your way..." We now live in a stupefied age wherein people are unable to think clearly or use logic, but instead resort to violence and ad hominem attacks on others because of their depraved thinking and deadened hearts...

The importance of the Torah, or the "law" of God, cannot be overstated, friends. Yeshua plainly said to his followers: "Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. I tell you the truth, until heaven and earth pass away not the smallest letter or even a stroke of a letter (קוצו שׁל יוד) will pass from the law until everything comes to pass. So anyone who breaks one of the least of these commands and teaches others to do so will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever obeys them and teaches others to do so will be called great in the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 5:17-19). He further solemnly warned: "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter into the kingdom of heaven– only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven. On that day, many will say to me, 'Lord, Lord, didn't we prophesy in your name, and in your name cast out demons and do many powerful deeds?' Then I will declare to them, 'I never knew you. Go away from me, you workers of lawlessness' (Matt. 7:21-23).

To the ungodly, "freedom" means being lawless, that is, acting under their own authority apart from the will of God. This of course was the original temptation in Eden, when the nachash (serpent) told Eve that if she acted under her own authority, her eyes would be "opened" and she would be "like God," knowing both good and evil (Gen. 3:5). That is always the creed of the wicked: "Do as thou wilt..." True freedom, however, is not the supposed right to do whatever you want, but instead is the power to do what is right, living in harmony with moral reality, and being liberated from the slavery of impulses to do evil. The moral law of God, then, is the blessing of having boundaries, order, and moral sanity within our lives, and that is why the Holy Spirit inscribes the law “within” us - to help guide our steps, protect our way, and to empower us to live in obedience to the truth of God (Jer. 31:33). If you are led by the Spirit, you are no longer enslaved to the law of sin and death -- that is, the lower nature and its idolatrous impulses -- but you will bear the fruit of righteousness, goodness and truth (Gal. 5:18; Eph. 5:9). Let no one deceive you with vain words. “By this it is evident who are the children of God, and who are the children of the devil: whoever does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor is the one who does not love his brother” (1 John 3:10). [Hebrew for Christians]

4.12.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 13, 2021

When...Then

“Know therefore that the LORD thy God, he is God, the faithful God, which keepeth covenant and mercy with them that love him and keep his commandments to a thousand generations.” (Deuteronomy 7:9)

Moses knew Israel would tend to succumb to various temptations in the Promised Land and encouraged them not only to obey God’s law but to use temptations as an opportunity for growth in character. Standing on the border, he proposed three “when...then” situations and exhorted the people to decide in advance how they would react.

“When the LORD thy God shall have brought thee into the land...to give thee great and goodly cities, which thou buildest not,...Then beware lest thou forget the LORD” (6:10, 12). Moses knew that a satisfied people, recipients of easy wealth, would forget the Lord. The remedy: “Thou shalt fear the LORD thy God, and serve him, and shalt swear by his name” (v. 13), and “ye shall diligently keep the commandments of the LORD your God” (v. 17).

Next, “when thy son asketh thee in time to come, saying, What mean the testimonies...which the LORD our God hath commanded you?” (v. 20), the fathers were to instruct them with: “The LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand” (v. 21). “And the LORD commanded us to do all these statutes, to fear the LORD our God, for our good always, that he might preserve us alive” (v. 24).

God also knows our tendencies to compromise, and “when the LORD thy God...hath cast out many nations before thee,...thou shalt smite them, and utterly destroy them;...Neither shalt thou make marriages with them;...For they will turn away thy son from following me” (7:1-4).

In these and other situations, we would do well to follow Moses’ exhortation and decide beforehand how we will react. JDM

0 notes