#he tried very hard to give them damascus

[stephantom]

I rewatched it because I’m insane and now I’m sad

[teecupangel]

Imagine Desmond in Crusades Era, but like with Alamut - he tries to keep aside from all that is happening. An attempt to keep the timeline as canon as possible. But... Talking to no one is hard, with what Desmond lived through. So he resorts to writing oblique stories, taking part in discussions with veiled knowledge of the Isu era and future. Somehow, this result in him becoming a well nown scholar. He and Altaїr meet when Al Mualim orders Desmond's assassination

This would work so well because Desmond would have vague ideas of the books Altaïr had read and he would be so bored doing nothing that reading all those books would seem like a good idea. Some of them only made Desmond even more bored than he already is and this snowballed to him talking shit about the book he read. This, in turn, made other scholars argue with him about how that book or another book is great or whatever and Desmond would now use the knowledge he got from the other books he got to roast this book.

From there, Desmond became known as someone who reads anything you give him but will fucking roast the book if he doesn’t like it and freaking burn you alive if you even try to defend your bad taste.

This makes him a very fun person to talk to, a very entertaining person to watch, and a very hard opponent to debate with.

Desmond is just passing his time, not understanding how fucking important the scholars are.

Like, he knows the Levantine Brotherhood uses them to blend in and there was one incident involving scholars but Desmond’s memories of that are very foggy. He also doesn’t consider himself a scholar, just someone who reads and questions the shit he reads.

Unfortunately, to the eyes of the scholars, they believe Desmond is being contradictory because that’s how he believed he and his peerage (aka them) could grow collectively. Like their very own Socrates.

The scholars love Desmond for it.

Desmond just likes talking to people and he honestly believes they’re just… talking. Nothing deeper than that.

In his free time, he writes. He writes of what he had seen but he tells people it is fiction, simply things he thought of. He had to get creative though because, well, he can’t write Assassins and not get everyone to realize that he’s talking about the Assassins in Masyaf.

So he adds more Isu bullshit to it in the vein closer to fantasy than sci-fi. Maybe he even adds some steamy romance to it that makes most people blush because it's considered filthy by their standard while Desmond is just like "??? That's tame. You want filth? I'll write you actually kinky shit." and this entire thing gets him writing erotica that is controversial but really... like... they kinda dig it because it's something new and daring.

It becomes a kind of past time of his between ‘talking’ to the other scholars.

Sometimes, the scholars would ask for his help in books they are writing and Desmond helps out in exchange for food and lounging.

Before long, he’s living in Damascus with the other scholars, just minding his own business, not realizing that all the help he’s been doing has gotten the attention of a certain someone.

A powerful man by the name Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn.

And that’s when Altaïr receives his mission to assassinate him.

For this idea, let’s say Altaïr is sent to assassinate Desmond before he became a Master Assassin.

Why?

Because Desmond inadvertently stands in the way of a certain Templar from getting to a key position in Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn’s inner circle.

A Templar by the name of Jubair al Hakim who is supposed to lead the scholars and keep their knowledge ‘contained’.

But because of Desmond, that’s becoming harder and harder as more and more scholars are being converted to Desmond’s ‘philosophy’ (“What philosophy? I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”) of listening and understanding but questioning everything.

Hard to contain knowledge when the knowledge itself is being scrutinized by many scholars which gives way for more derivations of that knowledge to appear questioning it, supporting it, or flat-out rejecting it.

The Templars wish for order and Desmond’s idea that everything must be questioned is a definite fucking no to their cause.

On the other hand, Jubair himself cannot act, not when it’s clear that he is in total opposition of Desmond. He has to leave Damascus a month before Desmond is assassinated just to make sure he has a clear alibi (even if the rumors would persist anyway).

So Altaïr infiltrates the academy that Desmond is staying in, blending in as one of the many scholars and… he just… can’t. Catch. Desmond.

What. The. Fuck.

Desmond, on the other, immediately sees Altaïr as he’s coming close to the academy because Altaïr glows the brightest gold Desmond has ever seen. He knows it’s because of his connection with Altaïr so he leaves the academy just as Altaïr is approaching and tries to hide because he believes Altaïr is here for someone else.

Altaïr, on the other hand, sees him as the brightest gold in his Eagle Vision as well which was curious thing because he could see the wisps of blue around the gold but his curiosity soon turns to annoyance because. He. Can’t. Catch. Up.

Desmond always seems to be on the move and always seem to move in a way that keeps Altaïr from catching up to him while he’s trying to maintain his cover.

By the end of it, Altaïr just goes “fuck it” and just chases Desmond full speed, without a care if it breaks his cover. When he sees Desmond run, he realized…

Desmond had been running away from him from the very beginning.

Desmond, on the other hand, finally realizes that Altaïr was after him from the very beginning and he has no fucking idea why but he’s not going to stay still to find out, damn it!

This ends with them running all over Damascus’ rooftops and Altaïr recognized Desmond’s moves as more efficient in freerunning. Not only that, some of his moves are moves Altaïr used himself. Moves that belonged to the Brotherhood.

When Altaïr finally caught up to him because Desmond had just been spending a lot of his time just chilling and being a bit lazy, Altaïr doesn’t kill him immediately. Instead, he asks why Al Mualim would want him dead.

Because, as far as Altaïr can see, Desmond is an Assassin.

He checked his left hand and sees the five fingers and conclude that perhaps Desmond was a deserter from perhaps Alamut but Desmond says no and come on, it would be dumb for a deserter to freaking stay in Damascus where the Assassins had a huge presence in, right???

And that only made Altaïr more curious.

He lets Desmond go and Desmond is confused by this.

The following day, Altaïr sits next to Desmond who had been contemplating if he should just pack up and leave after breakfast. Desmond is confused and Altaïr just says…

“I’m here to observe you.”

“Why?”

“Al Mualim wants you dead. I want to know why.”

“Why would you want to know why the old man wants me dead? Actually, why don’t you just kill me and finish your mission anyway?”

“Do you want to die?”

“No. But I know your mission is to kill me. By not killing me, you’re going against Al Mualim’s orders.”

“I’m not. I’m doing what you have been preaching all these times.”

“What’s that? Also, I don’t preach.”

“Questioning the information the novices has gathered and listening to your side.”

“… That’s tantamount to treason, Altaïr.”

“Perhaps but… there’s something about you, Desmond, that makes me think…

… You are worth betraying everything that I know to be true.”

[witches-and-devils]

Kinktober Day Six, Cockwarming

Hey, warning! Smut under here involving monster fucking, cockwarming, and some dirty talk! Enjoy!

    “So, if we end up taking up the guy who’s paying us to take out this rival don of his, our payout should be pretty substantial, but the other guy is also asking us to take out the other don so I think it’s more of a ‘who we think could be useful for future work’ type of situation. Did you pick up anything during the meeting with them?” Ace questioned, pausing when his only response was a low hum. The Witch was used to the uninterested noises and half-assed remarks from his Familiar, true, but this was getting ridiculous. Looking over his shoulder with a  raised brow, a wry smirk spread across Ace’s face. “Damascus?”     “Mm?”     “You’re not listening to me.” Damascus shifted slightly, causing a shudder to roll up Ace’s spin when he felt the cock inside him brush against his prostate for an achingly brief moment.  He bit down on the inside of his cheek, sighing through his nose in an annoyed huff. The Demon’s face was coated in a faint sheen of sweat, a red tint underneath his eyes as his claws dug into the chair he seemed to adore far too much for Ace’s liking. The complaints would roll in later about the damage to the nice leather seat, but Ace could take a little complaining now that he had this lovely image of Damascus trying his damnedest not to move underneath him.     “Ace-” He cut the poor man off with a ‘tsk’ of his tongue before turning around so he was facing him. He couldn’t help making his movements painfully slow, feeling the dick inside him as he slid around deliciously while a low groan slipped out of both of them. His fingertips trailed along Damascus’s jawline before hooking around the shell of his ear and pinching hard enough that he watched the Demon jump. He doubted it actually hurt, but the sensation was enough to rip Damascus’s gaze off of the spot where they connected to finally focus on Ace’s golden gaze.

    “-Boss,” he corrected quickly, his claws now digging out the stuffing in the arm of his chair as his tail thumped loudly against the wood floor beneath them. “It’s been hours-”

    “And? It’s important that we talk about this stuff as soon as possible, Damascus, you know that. It might be boring, but-”

    “You know what the fuck I’m talking about!” The Demon snapped, his voice cracking near the end and causing him to lean back to observe him for just a moment. Huh. He certainly hadn’t gotten that to happen before. They should do this more often. Still, the arguing wasn’t allowed in this scenario and Damascus knew that when they talked about cockwarming at first. So Ace scoffed at his tone, sitting up just enough for his Familiar to give a moan of relief before slamming back down with enough force that had both of them crying out into the quiet of their home. Damascus broke then, his hands lurching out to hug Ace to his chest so he could start pounding away relentlessly but before he could even try the chain manifested in the Witch’s hands and yanked him back against the chair.

    He roared unhappily, trying to thrust his hips up to continue the small burst of pleasure he’d been torturously allowed. “Fuck- Boss, c’mon!” Damascus whined, his head leaning back against the chair cushion as his hips finally gave up in their attempts.

    “Oh- please-” Ace puffed out as he tried to recollect himself. It’d taken a hell of a lot of willpower to not just let the Demon lose to use him as he pleased. “Don’t… don’t be a big baby, Damascus. You think I’m going to reward you when you’re complaining the whole time?” A quick flick and the chain was gone once Damascus had settled back down to his shaking and quiet groaning. Chuckling, Ace leaned forward with a pleased sigh as his arms hooked around the Demon’s neck. “If it’s any consolation, you’re doing very well.”

    “I… Boss.”     “Hmm?” He smirked, leaning down and lazily nibbling away at the skin along his neck and collarbone. That’s when Damascus’s arms clamped down around him with a sudden, intense force. Ace gasped, eyes widening slightly as he pulled back to look at Damascus who had a relieved but cocky look to him. “You dick-” All he heard was a loud laugh before the Demon was lifting him and pounding away into him with a relentless, desperate speed.

    As much as he wanted to be upset at the sudden end to his torturous game, Ace had a hard time denying the pure satisfaction as he threw his head back and cried out at the nearly painful force behind Damascus’s thrusts. “Dah- Dama-”

    “Shh, there ya go,” the Familiar purred, one of his hands reaching up and fisting into that short red hair. Yanking his head back, Ace gave a yelp of pain as Damascus bit down on his shoulder, breaking through the skin with his shark-like teeth. The pain was enough to cause a dam inside the Witch to snap, his cum splattering across Damascus’s chest which only resulted in a low growl before he shifted his grasp to his hips. “Damn, you must’a been wantin’ this more than I was, Boss, look at ya! All strung out n’ exhausted, ya poor thing. We’re almost done, don’t ya worry.”

    Ace screamed when he felt Damascus slamming into his prostate, the sudden pleasure mixing uncomfortably after his orgasm as his hands clawed and gasped for some sort of purchase on the larger man. Damascus ripped Ace off of him, his own cum staining the nice vest the Witch had been wearing.

    The room was filled with heavy pants as the pair tried to catch their breath. Without really thinking, Ace smacked at Damascus’s shoulder as the big guy laughed at how feeble the attempt was. He slipped out of the man’s lap, looking down at his vest with a small frown. “Well… shit. Dammit all, Damascus, I really like this vest.”

    “Heh, whoops.”

    “Fuck you.”

    “Ya just did.”

    “Ha-ha.” He slowly stood up, groaning as his legs shook underneath him before steading himself on the arm of the ripped-up chair. “Well, I gotta go wash this now.”

    “Wanna go again while ya wait for it to dry?”

    “Obviously. You’re an ass, someone’s gotta punish you for breaking the rules.”

[unhingedselfships]

It was some big, multi group, party. 

Seemed weird given most of these people wanted to kill each other but.

Well she wasn’t really one of them so far be it for her to understand. 

Still. Her nerves were wearing thin.

She was a novelty here. The barely legal little American girl the Tojo Chairman had moved across the planet for… reasons. There was plenty of speculating. 

Not that most of it was true.

He cared about her, he was a good man, and when she’d desperately needed to escape, he’d offered. 

Nothing else to it. One emotionally wrecked girl, and a man with far too much kindness.

Alas, she’d been quickly dismissed as the latest ‘toy’ by everyone up to and including the man’s own mother.

She wasn’t even that pretty? Maybe they thought her a freak? Willing to do some real weird shit? After all, she didn’t exactly set that “gold digger standard”. 

She supposed maybe she’d dressed a bit like one, but eh. She had nice tits, and she knew it. The only nice thing about her, no duh she was gonna show it off.

Of course, that meant others were gonna notice too. He’d been sleazy and way too obvious and very not her type. Shutting him down had been trickier than she’d expected but eventually he’d wandered off in a huff, making promises to return or do something or other, she didn't know, she’d stopped caring. 

“Backpfeifengesicht, never met anyone more fitting,” an exaggeration, maybe, but she was cranky.

“Really now? That sounds unpleasant,” he’d leaned over her shoulder, startling her, and she twisted to look at him.

Annnnd immediately felt her face heat. For all the creepy old men that had been sidling up to her that night, this one was well- decidedly less creepy. And a lot nicer to look at. And his voice gave her chills.

“Oh- um- yeah- well,” she stuttered and he grinned at her, “It um, well it isn’t exactly nice,”

“Care to share?”

She hummed, and tried not to look directly at him.

“Ah, gimme a second yeah?”

“Take your time princess, I can wait.”

Something in his tone was both smarmy and eager. 

She mulled it over a bit longer and he chuckled, and in perfect Upper Class British-English, “My English is pretty good too, if that would be easier for you.”

“Ah, um, ok. I guess the closest would be like ‘a face in need of a fist’, or something like that.”

He blinked before throwing his head back and laughing, the chains around his neck jingled and his hair fell in his face.

The flush was back, and worse than ever.

“Yeah, yeah I could agree with that assessment,” he seemed delighted. 

She took the moment to look him over, the burgundy textured velvet suit, the black on black shirt, half buttoned. 

And a knife. She knew that shape well. And actually-

“Oh!” she didn’t think as she reached, “Is that the-”

He moved faster than her, and with a hell of a lot more grace, grabbing the offending hand and spinning her, arms pinned across her, her back pressed to his chest-

And she was still rattling off knife specs. Weight, length, the fucking metal blend. 

How cute~

She was still babbling, and he found himself even more amused, did this girl really have no fear?

Looking up he noticed the Sixth Tojo Chairman making a beeline for them, eyes hard, and ready for conflict.

Kadokura’s eyes took on something… manic. Wild and wicked.

He felt her shift but didn’t think much of it, too busy silently goading the younger man.

She tugged at something on her thigh, passed it from hand to hand, and he found another knife, not his own, waved vaguely in front of him.

He blinked, bemused. 

Tricky little thing.

“Thiisss one, is mine. I doubt it’d be a comfortable hold, it was made specifically for me, but. It’s nice right?”

It was nice. Damascus steel, antler handle, seven inch blade, eleven inch total, give or take a bit.

Daigo had moved within range, and she finally noticed him, trailing off in her rambling.

One arm loosened its hold on her, grabbing the knife from her hand.

“It is lovely, where did you say you got it?”

“Oh!” She leaned her head back against his shoulder, and he found it novel how comfortable she seemed to be in his hold, “My cousin makes them. Well, there are like, three cousins who do forging. They make me pieces for gifts now and then. They’re good right?”

He hummed, “Indeed they are.”

Looking up she noticed the approaching Chairman, and paled, finally going quiet.

“I’m- being super autistic about this, aren’t I?”

His arms fell from around her as he took a step back, bending double, and cackling.

He gasped, trying to catch his breath, and she seemed uncomfortable with the audience they’d attracted, looking between him and Daigo-chan anxiously.

Adorable, really.

Standing, he reached out with a grin, giving a lock of her hair a tug.

“I’ll be seeing you around darling.”

He laughed at the flush that darkened over her, and wandered off.

Wide eyed, she turned to Daigo.

“Who was that?”

“Kadokura Kenshi, from one of the factions up North. He’s not a man you want to be involved with Kimi.”

“Oh. Oh I think I do.”

…

A little while later, the cry of “That asshole still has my knife!” carried across the room, and he cackled as he left.

[lifeofresulullah]

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad: The Battle of Khandaq and Afterwards

The Battle of Khandaq: Part 3

The Prophet Breaks the Hard Rock into Pieces

The activity of digging was going on.

The Companions confronted a hard rock. While trying to break it, several tools like sledgehammers, pickaxes and spades were broken. No matter how hard they tried, they could not break it.

They informed the Messenger of God who was having a rest in the tent made of animal hair. They said, “O Messenger of God! We confronted a white rock. We could not break it. What do you order us to do?”

The Prophet took the sledgehammer of Salman al-Farisi. He hit the rock by saying, “Bismillah”. One third of the rock was broken. He said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Damascus. I swear by God that I see the red manors of Damascus now!” Then, he said, “Bismillah!” again and hit the rock with the sledgehammer again. One third of the rock was broken. The Prophet said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Persia. I swear by God that I see the city of Madayin of the Chosroes and his white manors!” Then, he said “Bismillah!” again and hit the rock with the sledgehammer; the remaining part of the rock was broken into pieces. The Prophet said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Yemen. I swear by God that I see the gates of Sana now!”

All of the conquests informed by the Messenger of God took place during the periods of Hazrat Umar and Hazrat Uthman. Abu Hurayra said to Muslims, “These conquests are only a beginning. God gave the keys of the cities you conquered and the cities that will be conquered until Doomsday to Muhammad (pbuh) beforehand” when he saw those conquests.

The Feast Given to the Army

The Muslims who worked without having a rest in order to finish digging as soon as possible did not have much food to eat. There was a famine and drought in Arabia that year; Madinah was also affected by that famine.

The act of digging was going on.

Once Jabirb. Abdullah went home and said to his wife, “I saw that the Messenger of God was extremely hungry. Nobody else could have put up with that hunger. Is there anything to eat at home?”

His wife said, “By God, I have this kid and one sa’ (3,5 kg) of barley.”

Jabir slaughtered the kid and his wife ground the barley in the mill. They put the meat into an earthenware pot and made some dough. They put the pot into the oven and waited.

When Jabir was about to leave the house, his wife said, “Do not make me embarrassed in the presence of the Messenger of God and the people near him”, implying that the food was not enough.  

Jabir went to the Messenger of God and said,

“O Messenger of God! I have some food. Take a few people with you and let us go to my house to eat.”

The Messenger of God asked, “How much food do you have?”

Jabir said, “Bread made of one sa’ of barley and a small kid”

Thereupon, the Prophet, “It is plenty of food and it is very nice. Tell your wife not to take the pot and the bread out of the oven until I arrive!” Then, he said to the people there in the presence of Jabir, “O people of Khandaq! We will go to Jabir’s house to have a feast. Come on.” All of the people of Muhajirs and Ansar who were there stood up.

Hazrat Jabir went home and said to his wife in astonishment, “May God give you goodness! The Messenger of God (pbuh) is coming here to eat with all of the people near him! ‘Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun!’ (To God we belong and to Him is our return!) What are we going to do now?”

His wife said, “Did the Messenger of God (pbuh) not ask you how much food we had?”

Jabir said, “Yes he did. I told him how much food we had.”

Thereupon, his wife said, “You will be embarrassed, not me!” She asked Jabir, “Did you or the Messenger of God invite them?”

Jabir said,“The Messenger of God (pbuh) invited them.” Then, his wife said, “He knows better than you do.”

The Messenger of God went to the house of Jabir with all of the Companions that were there. He said to them, “Enter the house without squeezing one another.”

The Companions entered the house in groups of tens.

The Messenger of God said a prayer of abundance. Then, he said to Jabir’s wife, “Call a woman bread maker and make bread together. Take food from the pot with a scoop. Do not remove the pot out of the oven!”

The Prophet took the bread out of the oven with his hands and broke some pieces from the bread. He put some meat on a piece of bread and gave it to a Companion. It went on like that until all Companions ate and were full.

Although everybody ate the meat and the bread, they remained the same.

The Messenger of God said to Jabir’s wife, “Eat the remaining meat and bread yourself and give it away because everybody is hungry.”

Jabir, who had thought he would definitely be embarrassed, stated the following regarding the issue:

“I swear by God that about a thousand people came. All of them ate and were full. However, the pot was still full and the bread was still there. We ate it and then gave it away to the neighbors.”

The Digging of Trenches is Completed

The extraordinary efforts the Companions made while digging the trenches were the most evident proof that they were loyal to God and His Messenger. They never left the place even when they needed to leave without getting permission from the Prophet. It was an example of self-sacrifice and renunciation suitable for the Companions. As a matter of fact, God Almighty witnessed that they were believers and their loyalty was unique by sending down the following verses:  “Only those are Believers, who believe in God and His Messenger: when they are with him on a matter requiring collective action, they do not depart until they have asked for his leave: those who ask for thy leave are those who believe in God and His Messenger; so when they ask for thy leave, for some business of their, give leave to those of them whom thou wilt, and ask God for their forgiveness: for God is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.”

The Messenger of God and the Muslims took the activity of digging trenches very seriously but the munafiqs considered it unimportant. They worked lazily and they left whenever they wanted without getting permission from the Messenger of God. They sometimes made fun of the Companions who worked very hard and who were examples of belief, loyalty, self-sacrifice and hard work; they also laughed in order to demoralise the believers.

God Almighty stated the following about the inappropriate attitude of the munafiqs:

“Deem not the summons of the Messenger among yourselves like the summons of one of you to another: God doth know those of you who slip away under shelter of some excuse: then let those beware who withstand the Messenger’s order, lest some trial befall them, or a grievous Penalty be inflicted on them.”

As a result of the tiring work, the activity of digging trenches lasted for six days. The trench was five ells (3.40 m) deep; it was too wide even for a very good cavalryman to jump over. Only one part was not wide enough because they were in a hurry. It was possible for cavalrymen to jump over that part. The Prophet expressed his concern about that place by saying, “I do not fear that the polytheists can pass anywhere but this place.”

The Messenger of God decided to appoint guards to defend that narrow place during the battle.

Besides, the Prophet had entrance places built through the appropriate places of the trench. He would appoint guards under the command of Zubayr b. Awwam when the enemy army came and settled their headquarters.

[basicsofislam]

THE COMPANIONS OF THE PROPHET (PBUH) : Salman al-Farisi (r.a.).Part2

The Prophet explained it as follows:

"The light that came out of the rock and that you saw when I first hit it enlightened the manors of the city Hira and the city of Madayin of the Chosroes. Jibril told me that my ummah would dominate those cities. The light that came out of the rock when I hit it the second time enlightened the red manors of Byzantine. Jibril gave me the glad tiding that my ummah would dominate them. The light that came out of the rock when I hit it the third time enlightened the manors of Sana (Yemen). Jibril told me that my ummah would dominate them too. Feel joyful. My ummah will be helped and be victorious.  

The Prophet repeated the last sentence three times. When the Companions heard this glad tiding, they said, “Praise be to Allah. He keeps His promise. He promises us help after the siege of the polytheists.” They became happy.

After giving this glad tiding, the Prophet described the white manor of the Chosroes (Persian King) in Mada­yin. Hz. Salman knew the properties of the manors since he was from Iran. Upon this description, Salman said, “O Messenger of Allah! You are right. I swear by Allah, who sent you with the true religion and book that the properties of the manor is exactly like your description. I witness that you are the prophet of Allah.”

Finally, the Messenger of Allah (pbuh) stated the following:

“O Salman! Allah will enable you to conquer those countries after my death. Damascus will definitely be conquered. Heraclius, the Byzantine king, will retreat to the furthest place in his land. You will dominate the whole Damascus. Nobody will be able to resist you. Ye­men will definitely be conquered. Then, the Chosroes will be killed.”

While the Prophet was giving the good news about the future to his Companions, the hypocrites (munafiqs) started to gossip. They tried to demoralize the Muslims by saying, “While you cannot fight in the battlefield out of fear and dig ditches, Muhammad promises you the manors of Hira and says he saw the city of Madayin of the Chosroes and that you will conquer those cities. Are you not surprised by his empty promises?”

However, their gossiping did not affect the belief of the Companions in the honesty of the Prophet at all. For, they definitely believed that the Prophet saw the centuries ahead in the future with the light of the prophethood. As a matter of fact, this glad tiding given by the Prophet at such a hard time took place during the caliphates of Hz. Umar and Hz. Uthman. The Muslims conquered the cities and countries mentioned by the Prophet. Several years after this glad tiding, Hz. Salman said, “I saw all of them to be conquered.” He thanked Allah Almighty for this boon.

The activity of digging trenches was completed after six days. Thus, the Muslims secured themselves. They started to wait for the polytheists to come. They arrived soon. They hurried in order to eliminate the Muslims as soon as possible. They were very confident. However, when they saw that Madinah was surrounded by ditches that were impossible to pass, they were astounded. The polytheists had never seen such a strategy. After a long siege, they had to return to Makkah in a terrible state.

Thus, thanks to the offer of Hz. Salman and help of Allah, the Muslims were saved from a big danger. Besides, the danger of the enemy was eliminated thanks to a decision made as a result of consultation; in addition, the glad tiding of the future conquests were given to them.

Hz. Salman was distinguished among the Companions due to his closeness to the Prophet. He served the Prophet all the time and frequently entered his house. He listened to the talk of the Prophet at night and learned from the Prophet.

Once, Hz. Salman went to visit the Prophet. The Messenger of Allah was reclining on a cushion. When Salman arrived, he gave the cushion on which he was reclining to Salman and said,

“O Salman! When a Muslim goes to visit his Muslim brother and he gives him a cushion as a gesture of hospitality, Allah Almighty forgives his sins.”

Salman received the reward of being close to the Prophet in advance. He reached a high rank in knowledge. The Messenger of Allah praised him by saying, “Salman is definitely full of knowledge.” Hz. Ali said, “The knowledge of the previous and future people is in Salman. He is an unending sea. On the other hand, when a great scholar like Hz. Muadh bin Jabal died, he advised his students to receive knowledge from Salman.

As Hz. Salman visited the Prophet frequently, talked to him and served him, the Prophet also visited Salman from time to time to please him.

Once, Hz. Salman became ill. The Prophet visited him and prayed for him as follows: “O Salman! May Allah Almighty grant you cure, forgive your sins and give you health of religion and body as long as you live!”

That a poor and lone person like Hz. Salman was so close to the Prophet and received compliments from him disturbed some people who were interested in Islam but who had not become Muslims yet. They felt them beneath them to be together with poor people with simple clothes. Once they made the Prophet the following offer by implying people like Hz. Salman and Abu Dharr:

“O Muhammad! Whenever we come to you, we see those poor people with you. We are the notables of the tribe of Mudar. Keep them away from you so that we will believe in you. We feel ashamed of being together with them; we cannot make our souls accept it. If we believe, the other tribes will believe too.”

After their offer, which was impossible to apply, the following verse was sent down:

“And keep thy soul content with those who call on their Lord morning and evening, seeking His Face; and let not thine eyes pass beyond them seeking the pomp and glitter of this Life.”

When the revelation was completed, the Messenger of Allah looked for Hz. Salman and Abu Dharr.  He found them at a corner making remembrance of Allah Almighty. He gave them the following glad tiding:  

“'Praise be to Allah Who did not take away my soul until He commanded me to restrain myself with men of my community. You should know that it is with you that I live and with you that I die.”

One of the properties of Hz. Salman was his hospitality. He always served his guests. He would offer the guests to eat anything he had in his house, whether it was a little or much. For, the Prophet stated the following in a hadith:

“If a guest despises the food the host brings him, he is destroyed; if a host avoids serving food to a guest despising the food he has, he is destroyed.”

Once, Shaqiq bin Salama and one of his friends were guests at Hz. Salman’s house. Salman prepared the table from the foods that he had in his house. They sat at the table. While eating, Shaqiq's friend said, "It would be nice if there was some pepper." Hz. Salman had no money to buy pepper but he wanted to please his guest. He pawned his water bottle to buy some pepper and brought it. After eating, the person who asked for pepper said, “Praise be to Allah Who has granted us contentment.” Hz. Salman said, “If you had been content with what you found on the table, my water bottle would not have been pawned.”

Hz. Salman was a heroic mujahid of Islam. He joined the army that was prepared for the conquest of Iran. He did very important activities in the army because he was from Iran. He guided the Islamic army in the land that they did not know. He gave them information about the weapons they used and their war tactics. He taught them how to kill the elephants the Iranian army used in the war. He also worked hard to make the people of Iran accept Islam. He invited them to Islam using their own language. He told them about the beauties of Islam. He told them that they could pay jizyah (tax) if they did not accept Islam. However, they did not accept any of the offers. Eventually big wars took place between them. The Islamic army had great victories.

After the conquest of Iran, Hz. Umar appointed Salman as the governor of Madayin. He fulfilled this duty properly. The people of Madayin loved him.

Hz. Salman had a simple and plain life. He wore and ate the same things both when he was a slave and when he was the governor of Madayin. He avoided all kinds of pomp and show off.

Hz. Salman treated the people under his command well; he did not give them hard work to do. He would help them in their work. He would even help his slave. Once, he was kneading dough. A person who came to visit him was surprised when he saw this. He asked, “What is the matter?” Hz. Salman said, “I sent the servant somewhere to do something; I did not want him to do also this.”

One of the greatest traits of Hz. Salman was his generosity. When he received the salary of governorship, which was five thousand dirhams, he would give it away to the poor. He met his needs by weaving baskets. He sold one basket for three dirhams; he would buy date leaves for one dirham of it, spend one dirham for his needs and give the remaining dirham to the poor. He would not dine without guests. He would call the poor and lone people to his house and entertain them.

Hz. Salman gave great importance to visiting his friends only for the sake of Allah. Once, he went to visit his close friend Abu ad-Darda from Madayin to Damascus on foot.

Hz. Salman visited ill people, consoled them and advised them to show patience. Once, he went to visit a friend of his who was ill. He was suffering a lot. When Hz. Salman saw him, he gave him the following glad tiding:

“If Allah Almighty gives an illness to a believing person and cures him later, it becomes atonement for his previous sins if he shows patience. It will also be a means of atonement for the sins that he will commit in the future. If Allah gives an illness to a sinner and cures him later and if that person has not shown patience and has complained all the time, that person is like a camel that is tied from its foot by its owner and that is released after a while; this camel does not know why it is tied and why it is released.”

Hz. Salman would laugh at three things and cry for three things. He laughed at the following things:

(1) A person who stretches his hopes in this world though death seeks him, (2) a person who is heedless and unaware of his Lord though his Lord is aware of him (3) a person who laughs aloud though he does not know whether he has attained his Lord's consent or wrath.

The three things that he cried for were as follows:

(1) Being separated from the Prophet, (2) experiencing the throes of death at his deathbed, (3) not knowing whether he will go to Hell or Paradise when he leaves the presence of Allah on the Day of Judgment.

Hz. Salman gave the following advice about worshipping:

“Perform five daily prayers regularly! They are atonement for minor sins as long as you do not commit major sins. If a person commits a sin making use of the darkness of the night and unawareness of people, he is at a loss, not profit. A person who sleeps after performing prayers is neither at a profit nor at loss. Avoid worshipping so much as to prevent you from worshipping; worship normally but regularly.”

Salman al-Farisi served a lot by helping the words of the Prophet reach us. One of the hadiths reported by him is as follows:

I was once sitting under a tree with the Messenger of Allah. He caught hold of a dry branch of the tree and shook it until its leaves fell off. He then said to me, "O Salman! Will you not ask me why I am doing this?" I said, "Why you are doing this?' Thereupon, he said, "When a Muslim performs wudu properly and then observes his prayers five times a day, his sins fall off just as these leaves have fallen off."

Hz. Salman, who was a pious and ascetic person, became ill one day. Sa’d bin Abi Waqqas came to visit him. Hz. Salman was crying. Hz. Sa’d said, “Why are you crying? If you die, you will rejoin your friends. You will meet the Messenger of Allah at the Pond of Kawthar. The Prophet was pleased with you.”

Hz. Salman replied as follows:

“I am not crying because I am afraid of death or because I do not want to leave this world. What makes me cry is the following advice of the Messenger of Allah: ‘The wealth you own in this world should be as much as the food that a traveler carries with him.’ However, I look around me and see a lot of wealth.”

However, all of Hz. Salman’s things were worth 15 dirhams only. Then, Hz. Sa’d asked Salman to give him advice. Salman gave him the following exemplary advice:

“Remember Allah when you decide something or when you state your decree about an issue or when you divide goods among people.”

Hz. Salman called his wife when he was at his deathbed and said to her,  

“Open those doors. I expect guests today. I do not know which of the doors they will enter. Bring me the musk I had given you to keep. Mix it in water. Sprinkle the scent around my bed. For, my visitors will not eat but they like nice scent. Go downstairs after you have done what I said.”

His wife did exactly what he said. Then, she heard some whispers. When she went upstairs, she saw that Hz. Salman had died.

Yes, Hz. Salman, who received the following glad tiding of the Prophet rejoined the Prophet and the other Companions in Paradise:  “Paradise longs for three people. Ali, Ammar bin Yasir and Salman.”

May Allah be pleased with him!

[ithisatanytime]

xavier wulf - pedals to the metal(slowed)

“ there is no longer gentile or jew, man nor woman, for all are one in christ jesus”

this is a bible quote you will be hearing a lot about in the coming days, let me give you some context though, paul unlike many of the other apostles was not a close personal friend of jesus, paul was literally a pharisee who persecuted and killed christians, that bit of acts that i shared the other day where a “certain synagogue” makes trouble for stephen and stephen hits them with the truth do you remember that? well they killed stephen not long after those quoted passages and paul, or saul back then, was among them and picked up stephens cloak personally after they murdered him, he encountered an apparition of christ on the road to damascus and the rest is history. for a thousand years or more, the hebrews were gods chosen people, of whom paul belonged (or so he thought) and then jesus came along and said to their faces “ye are not of abraham”and they killed him about it, thats where paul is coming from when he says “theres no longer gentile or jew but all are one in christ jesus” he was himself a so called jew, christ had JUST come and said basically that these were NOT jews and he came for the lost sheep of the house of israel who were considered at that time gentiles, they were unaware of their true identity BUT they still followed christ because his sheep know to follow his voice. that is the context, so its like if the jews were japanese instead lets say the japanese were gods chosen people and he sent his emmisary to earth to say the high priests arent even japanese anymore they are korean, in fact its so bad i have to go to korea and china to find unmixxed japanese whos parents were taken in exile hundreds of years ago, theyve remained pure and kept my commandments, now as a japanese high priest this would be upsetting to say the least, you might even kill this mans followers for a time, but then he appears to you from beyond the dead and says “takeshi why do you persecute me so?” then you might say there is no longer japanese or korean but all are one in christ jesus.

 to ignore the racial component of the bible is to read the book with your eyes fucking closed, it is interlaced throughout the entirety of the bible and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is a fucking liar, dont believe me? read it yourself! that being said, there is no longer gentile or jew and all are one in christ jesus, and his sheep will be known BY THEIR FRUITS, which ought to be love at the very least. race is very important (obviously) but if there is real genuine love in your heart than you are gods own. but if there no longer be gentiles or jews, than who are these people who claim to be jews? it will never get that far, that quote will only be used as a prybar to separate gods people from the truth, but the fact of the matter is paul himself had a great deal to say about these so called jews, that they were contrary (enemy) to all mankind, that they persecuted the early christians constantly, they are LITERALLY the thorn in pauls side ive heard the thorn called everything but what it is, even implications that the thorn was pauls homosexuality, lmao go read it for yourself it is LITERALLY the so called jews attacking him constantly, and paul says that there be a BLOOD CURSE on them forever for killing the christ and furthermore in revelation it says “beware them who say they are jews but are not, but do lie and are the synagogue of satan” it says it TWICE almost verbatim in the very last book of the bible thats meant to prophesy far into the future.

  i know it can be hard to know what to believe about the bible, but notice i am CONSTANTLY encouraging people to read it for themselves or posting entire chapters of context at a time, something they will not do because they are liars and when they lie they speak of their own.

[cavalierious-whim]

Mercedes, a witch, finds unexpected family in a strange smith who lives in the middle of the woods. Written for Welcome Home, a Lamine Siblings Zine.

Don't forget to check out this fic on AO3. You can follow me here on Twitter!

--

Mercedes wakes with the rising sun, slipping her feet into soft woolen socks. 

She hums as she closes her eyes and feels the earth. Soft and loamy power bubbles from the ground. If she had her way, the floor of her cottage would be dirt, not wooden planks but that’s too hard to keep clean, and Mercedes is too busy.

The floor is cold underneath her feet. She wiggles her toes to get her blood moving and then stands to dress. A shift of cotton; a nice, woolen skirt; keen leather boots that lace up nicely to her ankles; a soft shawl that her mother gave her when she was young.

Mercedes is a straightforward woman who lives a very simple life. 

It’s her magic that is complicated. Mercedes spends her days picking and pulling at the strings of the universe, weaving together complicated spells to fix the lives of others. She mends broken things and stitches them back together, like the old holes found in a moth-eaten sweater. 

It is, perhaps, her calling; bringing peace and calm to others. She was once a noblewoman and is now only a kindly green witch who lives in this humble cottage. The forest and nature call to her, and flora sprouts with the mere touch of her fingertips. 

A quiet existence. 

Mercedes smiles as she revels in her freedom.

#

A client comes to her with a request that requires an unusual spell. 

Mercedes listens to the earth and consults her books. She mixes tinctures and bottles up karma and charisma, but nothing seems to stick. So, more research upon research as she flips through old and dusty tomes, trying to decipher handwritten notes of ages gone by. 

And then, Mercedes realizes that she’s missing an ingredient. “Damascus steel,” she says with a sigh. “Oh, the absurdity of it all.”

Annette regards her with an amused expression, hiding a grin behind a cup of tea. “I mean, there are worse ingredients. Ever tried to farm the phlegm from a child’s snotty nose?” 

Mercedes has, unfortunately. “It isn’t about annoyances, it’s about impossibilities. High-carbon steel, carefully folded into a Damascus ingot? Made from metal blessed by an ancient hearth—Annie, where would I even start?”

“Refund the client?” Mercedes’s mouth tightens as she gives her a curt look. “Right, no take-backsies. Forgot about that.”

“It’s a matter of pride,” huffs Mercedes. She isn’t a prideful person, but she does have a reputation to uphold. 

“What about the Smith of the Woods?”

Mercedes blinks, cocking her head to the side. Oh, she never thought about him. What a delicious idea. Mercedes isn’t one for traveling but she’d risk it, if only to meet another being of strange repute like herself. 

“I—” Mercedes licks her lips as she thinks. “It isn’t a terrible idea.”

Annette nods smugly. “My ideas rarely are.”

“But, you also know the rumors,” continues Mercedes. “The stories of the man. Unfriendly and unkind.”

“He forged a sword for a child!” 

“So that the child would leave him alone. I would do the same if the poor boy camped outside my hut for three straight days.” Mercedes levels her with an unimpressed look and Annette pouts. Mercedes sighs, rubbing at her brow. She feels a headache brewing, which is the worst kind of witch’s magic—one that she can’t do much about. 

“It would be unfortunate if I tripped there only to be turned away at the door.”

“Who’d turn away dear, sweet Mercie?”

“A hermit of a smith with a distaste for all?”

Annette's face scrunches up cutely. “All right, you have me there.” A pause. “But do you have another choice?”

Mercedes does not. She wrings her fingers and bites at her lip. And really, it isn’t about traveling—Mercedes has no issue with a nice foray away from her cottage. 

The stories that surround the Smith, however, are dubious and darkly intended. A man of vast talents became jaded of the world, and so, he locked himself up to play hermit in a forest. People seek him out at the oddest of times and are usually turned away. But, if he deems you of worth, he’ll strike at his iron in exchange for the strangest requests.

Annette watches her think. “I heard that the last guy who successfully procured his skill was that Meandering Swordsman, or whatever. The price was a spar.”

“Hm.” Mercedes taps at her mouth as she thinks. Then she looks at Annette. “What is the worst that can happen? Annie, be a dear and fetch my cloak.”

#

Mercedes’s cloak weighs heavy on her shoulders, but not as heavy as the dark that seems to loom around her. This place is different from her home. It crawls with a strange energy that seeps into her pores. She stands there, feet shuffling as she pulls well-spun wool closer to her face to cut the biting chill.

Not evil. Different, she thinks, shaking out the zinging feeling at her fingertips. She doesn’t feel pushed away, she feels welcomed in—called to, even. 

So very odd.

Mercedes moves closer to the hut. There is a forge that’s attached to the side, unlit and cold. She wonders when it was last used. She knocks once, twice, and waits. The trees high above and all around seem to lean over and watch. Mercedes sighs softly—and then the handle turns. 

She expects an older man, perhaps with a beard, all grizzled and gruff. Mercedes is met with the face of someone young instead, and though handsome, he is tired-looking. Not the type of exhaustion from lack of sleep, but a soul-burning creep from the weight of the world resting across one’s shoulders. 

It’s how Mercedes felt once upon a time when she had responsibilities. Suddenly, the reason he is a hermit makes more sense. 

The man takes in her appearance with a quick once-over, eyes gray like a storm and calculating. There is something familiar about him that tugs deep at her gut. Magic is strange in the way that it works and perhaps there’s something within him that feels a kinship. Siblings, of a sort.

“I understand that you are a smith,” she greets.

“I was.” The man is quiet.

“I am Mercedes, a humble witch. I am here to request your help.”

The man sighs, his fingers tight against the door. “I shall tell you what it is that I tell everyone else—I do not help most, so best be on your way.”

As he moves to shut the door, Mercedes wedges her boot between it and the frame. “Damascus steel,” she says simply. “Forged in a blessed hearth, which no doubt that yours is, considering this forest that surrounds us. I need it for a spell.”

The man’s mouth twitches slightly at that. “Intriguing. The answer is still no.”

Mercedes tries one last thing. “Like calls to like,” she says to him. He pauses, his face scrunched, and Mercedes takes her chance. “Something that my mother once used to say—Like calls to like, no matter how we wish it won’t. I can feel the magic here. That you have. I have but this one request and then I will be out of your hair.”

The man hesitates. The wood of the door creaks underneath his fingers. And then he says, “The entrance to the forge is around the back. I shall meet you there.” 

Mercedes smiles warmly.

#

She is certain that she has met this man.

Mercedes is a powerful witch with many skills at the ends of her fingertips, but scrying has never been one of them, nor has the innate ability of just knowing. But, she feels it, a sharp pull the moment that she steps into the foundry. 

He has already set the forge alight, coaxing the flame into something blazing. Mercedes takes a seat on a stool at the edge of the workshop, watching. His features are unsettlingly familiar—but she cannot place them. The sight of him is something that seems to sit just on the tip of her tongue, lingering. 

“Is there a name that I should call you?”

The man grunts as he grabs several bars of steel. “Jeritza,” he says. “Not that you should be here long enough to use it.”

Mercedes is amused. She might not be an expert, but even she knows that she is stuck there for several hours. Damascus steel isn’t easy to make. It takes time to fold the layers and treat. She says nothing as he sets to work, heating a billet and setting it over an anvil. 

It’s awkward in the forge, the only sound his hammer striking against the red-hot metal.

“I’m sorry,” says Mercedes, eventually, unable to help herself. She teeters on the edge of the stool, kicking a foot. “I feel as though we’ve met before. Somewhere, a long time ago.”

Jeritza pauses, hammer held high above his head, ready to strike down. It wavers. “I have lived here most of my life,” he says. “Just as my master before me.”

“But only most of your life.”

He looks at her with an unreadable gaze. “Must you insist upon asking? There are things better left in the past. Leave an old smith to himself.”

Mercedes huffs. “You are hardly old. And it’s only curiosity. So rarely do I feel someone so similar to myself. As I said before, like calls to—”

“I remember what you said before.”

Mercedes blinks. She gives him a moment and he returns to work, setting the steel back into the forge because it has cooled in his distraction. When pulled out, it blazes fiery hot and orange. His hammer strikes down upon it and sparks fly in every direction.

She hums quietly, trying to distract herself. Mercedes cannot help but be curious, especially when it comes to the strange and occult. There is a heaviness within the forge, but it isn’t from just because it lays across a sacred leyline—there’s something else, something deeper. 

Something tied to the mysterious smith who lives a life of solitude. The air is oppressive and not from the heat of the room.

“Darkness clings to you.”

Jeritza pauses again, just a short hiccup in his work before he begins to hammer once more. “Darkness clings to many. I already said that some things are better left in the past.”

“You are a smith. What could you have possibly done to warrant such death that clings to you?”

The billet is set into the forge once more to heat. Jeritza turns the tongs, easing the fire along every edge. He wipes at his brow and the sweat that collects on his upper lip. And then he says, “I wasn’t always a smith.”

“I wasn’t always a witch.”

That garners his attention. Jeritza looks at her briefly before pulling the metal from the fire. He folds it, over and over, heating it repeatedly and hammering out layer after layer. 

“So, what is your story then, occultist?”

Mercedes’s eyes crinkle slightly at that. “Rather typical, I am afraid.”

“You seem more refined than your threadbare clothing.”

She sighs softly, looking down, tugging at her blouse. “Yes, well, we all come from somewhere, don’t we? Just as you, perhaps I have a dark past.”

“Doubtful,” he muses with a soft chuckle. His lips curve into a rather menacing half-grin. “But if you must know, I hail from the south.”

“The Empire then?” Nasty business. “What luck. We might even be kin.”

Jeritza stops dead, his hand tightening around his hammer. At that moment, something strikes Mercedes, old memories flickering to life. This man looks like—

She doesn’t say. Her words are caught in her throat and they watch each other warily. Like calls to like, her mother used to say. No wonder the magic is a strange balm in this place. It recognizes her as its own.

Mercedes has wondered for years upon years. When she fled her former life, leaving behind the only family she’d ever known, she wondered what became of him. Her fingers twist at her woolen skirt, wringing it.

“It might not be the answer that you are looking for, but I made terrible choices. I did horrific things, all to survive. My blood sang as I cut down others and I relished in the way that the earth was painted in their blood.” 

He strikes at the billet, his hammer sinking deep. Mercedes barely hears his voice next over the clamor and ring of the steel. “But, one tires of such a life. I wandered and searched until I found my way here. And here I stayed, under a kind man who adopted me without question.”

Mercedes’s heart burns for this boy who probably grew up too fast. But still, she says nothing. She doesn’t for the next few hours as he folds and folds the metal. 

When he is done, he tests it, a soft ping chiming through the air. She takes it from his hand, running her fingers across the ingot, feeling the expanse of waves and pock-marks. Then she catches his wrist before he can pull away entirely. 

“Emile,” she says softly, and like a dam bursting, comfort floods through the room as his gaze softens. 

“Merce.” His voice is a feeble thing, wavering just slightly. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you.” Which wasn’t his fault. Her brother was too young to have even considered such a thing. 

“Mother’s words,” she says. “That is when you recognized me.”

“Like calls to like, no matter how we wish it won’t. I’ve always wanted to retire in the quiet, in my lonesome. Mercedes, I cannot taint you with the death that shrouds me.” 

The metal is warm in her fingers, cleverly crafted by willing and skillful hands. It lacks the cold of darkness, holding the warmth of the hearth instead. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t understand. He isn’t a witch, so he doesn’t see that he’s folded his love into this steel. 

But, Mercedes does. She thumbs across his knuckles and laughs brightly. “You were always a fool.”

He doesn’t dispute it. Mercedes pockets the billet, hiding it neatly in her pouch. Jeritza puts out the forge and walks her to the edge of the foundry.

There, she hesitates, reaching out to smooth her hands across the expanse of his shoulders. “Fools are always late to things, but late is better than never.” More beloved words from their kindly mother. “Tea? Next Saturday? I shall be here around noon.”

She doesn’t give him a choice. 

And when she arrives the next week, a picnic basket hanging heavy on her arm, she wears that old shawl that her mother left her. Emile greets her at the door with a smile.

[ellana-lavellan-rp]

. INTO OBLIVION ,

(( plotted thread with @dreadwxlf; ellana steals the red lyrium idol and solas's agents capture her. ))

 i have burned the cliffs of Damascus, i have drunk deep of it. my heart is my leg and a black line etched on the paper all along this boat without a bottom. you are all the world like a nest to me, in which eggs unbroken form like fossils, come together, shatter and send small black flowers to the very air. from this infection, hope. from this island, flight. from this grief, love.  come back.

It takes longer than Ellana expects - spies, and months of Leliana's plots beyond plots, all with hardened eyes (and perhaps too much blood spilled) - but she does it. The idol is hers, taken from under her vhenan's nose (and it feels like triumph; he can't finish his plan, not now). She makes sure she gives it to Fenris to hold, her dear partner for the last couple of years (they’re about to part ways from hunting slavers with bittersweet sorrow, and it's unlikely she will see him again in this lifetime). She hopes the idol is destroyed promptly; she would do it herself but she has to make sure that it won't accidentally make things worse.  She’s dealt with enough messes to last a lifetime. Fenris is set to deliver the idol to Leliana for study, while her vhenan is currently out there believing that it's still within her possession. And isn't it something that the thought of him still leaves her breathless? She loves him still, even though his plan in its entirety is monstrous. A world without her dearest friends is a world she wants no part of, and she'll fight him until the end if it's necessary.

why cling so hard to the rock? because it is the only thing that stops us from sliding into the ocean.

into oblivion.

Eventually Fen’harel’s agents catch up to her, eager to fix their mistake. Ellana smirks, bids Fenris farewell (buying him time to get out of harm’s way, though he protests) - truly outnumbered - and takes out her spirit blade. “Lost something?” She jeers at the group, letting her winter magic spread across the ground, freezing most of them into place. “You’ll have to come get it, if you want it.”  She has no mercy for the elves that follow her vhenan; some of them young, some of them misguided, but they fall to her blade all the same. She’s taken a dragon by herself, these elves are nothing: but there are too many of them, and she is just one, no matter how accomplished she is with her magic. One sneaks from behind, a blow to her head, and -

black.

-x-

When she wakes, she is in a sparse cell, her weapons and possessions taken from her - even her obsidian arm gone. She squints, a copper taste in her mouth, an overwhelming pounding in her head and nose. Her nose is broken, she concludes as she takes in the sight of the meager dungeon cell, and there’s an wound at her temple, dried blood down the side of her face. She winces as she tries to sit up, and then collapses back down, her legs asleep, a twinge in her ribs, and her one good arm chained to the ceiling.  She hears footsteps approach - light and familiar - and she looks up into the violet eyes of her one and only love. “Hello, vhenan,” she says, mouth dry and cracked, her voice coming out hoarse, “I must say, your hospitality is quite lacking.”  She closes her eyes, almost involuntarily, against the pounding of her head, and rests the back of it against the stone wall, “Not even a glass of water, how shameful.”

[radiantmists]

i feel like this is gonna be an unpopular opinion but i sometimes see people talk about grizzop as a sort of paragon of logic and morality and it always bugs me.

bc like. yes, i love grizzop. and i think it’s clear that he is very much trying to be good, and he’s very committed to doing what he sees as the right thing. 

but the same are true for azu and hamid and plenty of characters, and i don’t think he’s any better at moral reasoning than most of the rest of the party. i think the impression that he is comes from his unshakeable confidence and his mastery of what I’ve started to think of as catholic logic. 

(this is fairly stream of consciousness and i’m not gonna tag it bc it’s not gonna be entirely coherent or especially well argued, i’m just getting some thoughts down. but my understanding is that sometimes untagged stuff shows up in search, plus ig i have followers, so feel free to reply and discuss this, i’d actually love that. but not much i say here is stuff i’m super confident about so... please don’t get too offended by my wrongness. just tell me why you feel im wrong without aggression, or move on.)

the first bit is the confidence. we don’t ever see grizzop have a moral crisis in the way that most of the other characters do. I can’t think of a time that he’s appeared to look back on something he’s done and wonder if it was wrong; the closest that occurs to me is when he regretted shooting the guy’s legs off in the cairo bar, but tbh i think that was more of a judgement error where he expected to hurt the person much less than he did. we don’t see him question things like flooding the orc town near damascus or dragging sasha into the politics of ancient rome when she didn’t want to be, and honestly, i think this lack is mostly to do with how short a time he was with the party.

most of the arcs he were present for were focused on hamid and sasha’s growth. where he played respectively the accuser and the protector, both roles that made him look good because they cast him as the arbiter of who was right. 

i think hamid, especially, bought into this in the cairo arc, because i think hamid is very consciously in the process of recalibrating his moral compass at the time and he has a marked tendency to do so based on the people he admires-- and the loudest voice in the room. hamid really doesn’t like people he admires having a problem with him, and he already felt that he wasn’t necessarily a good person, so he was very open to seeing grizzop or azu as the authority on whether he could be good, and since grizzop pushed where azu prevaricated, grizzop was the one who got the final say.

but in the same arc, you can see sasha and azu starting to question grizzop’s moral compass; sasha notices how legalistic grizzop’s judgement is, and that it really ought to condemn her too, while azu takes issue with how brutal grizzop’s methods are (see punching wilde). but neither of them are willing to press the issue with him at that point, and so he’s never really confronted with something that contradicts him.

and notably, grizzop’s confidence comes from the obvious source: he believes that artemis is inviolably good, and he knows she approves of what he’s doing because his powers still work. but there’s an arrogance here, too, a very strong belief in his own moral superiority with the slightest confirmation; look at rome, where he refuses to listen to azu and ed’s assertions that there’s something wrong with the gods there, because he was able to bull through to artemis the one time he tried, so obviously he must just be a better paladin of a better god, right?

grizzop has very strong beliefs and opinions, and he takes whatever route works best to fulfill them-- both in terms of actions, and in terms of logic. take his decision to forgive/endorse hamid near the end of the cairo arc: by his own assertions, people should experience consequences for their actions, and we know he knows what manslaughter is because he brings it up when hamid first starts talking about accidental murder. but where saleh and carter belong in jail because they’re ~bad~, hamid is allowed to continue on because he’s ‘trying to be better’, never mind that that  was hamid’s whole argument about why saleh didn’t deserve to go to jail. plus, saleh’s one goal when he thought he’d killed someone was to resurrect them, which imo makes a lot more sense as a redemptive gesture than going around killing entirely unrelated people. the rules are different because grizzop likes hamid (and probably a bit because ben didn’t want to break the party, but shhh).

this twisting of the logic to fit what you’re trying to prove is what i mean by ‘catholic logic’ (i’m catholic dont @ me); it sounds really good if you don’t think about it too hard, but in fact it’s generally post-facto rationalizations for decisions that have already been made.

grizzop is very enthusiastic about poking holes in other people’s moral reasoning, as we see with apophis, but i think his issue is that he’s got a blind spot when he looks at himself and his own decisions. in grizzop’s world, grizzop is right as long as artemis is still with him and everything else comes after.

now i’m personally of  the opinion that alex doesn’t bother/want to engage with the idea that gods take away powers, post-poseidon nonsense, which if true i sympathize with; doing so is either going to lead to the sort of inscrutability zolf had a meltdown over, or put a player in the weird position of making their character do what alex has decided their god would require or having to entirely reinvent the character without those divine powers.

on another meta level, my understanding is that grizzop  was designed to be very resistant to doubt because of ben’s difficulties playing zolf, so i think he might have been nearly as resistant to growth on that front as bertie was in general, because believing unshakeably that he’s right is a core element of his character. 

but i think if grizzop had lived longer, alex absolutely would have done some hammering at that absolute conviction. that might have come in the form of vesseek and the fact that grizzop is apparently an absentee father; even if he is sending home money, i can’t imagine that not being something that gets mined for angst. 

i also think he would have eventually come into a similar sort of conflict with azu, sasha, or cel (whoever was there) that zolf is in right now, where he absolutely believes that whatever killing he’s committed/intending to commit is not only right but a moral imperative, and they disagree. 

now whatever side you fall on in the barrett debate, i think grizzop ought to be a lot less willing than zolf to say ‘i’m not gonna go through you lot to do it’, not because i’m convinced grizzop would be hugely more willing to physically fight the rest of the team over it, we know that despite his practicality he seems to overlook some ‘’’wobbles’’’ in people he already cares about,  but because zolf is capable of giving up on something in a way that grizzop just isn’t. i dont know how that would play out; chances are, it would get interrupted by a fight, but. who knows.

[red1culous]

Familiar Stranger part 3

Part 1 // 2 // 3 // 4

At 6:10 pm you rush out of the store through the back entrance like a bat out of hell and stop dead in your tracks. Natasha Romanoff is leaning against your bike speaking to someone in a black corvette parked on the curb. You try and control your breathing and walk towards her smoothing down your clothes and running your fingers through your messy hair. You’re pretty sure you look like an absolute terror. She on the other hand looks as stunning as ever in her black jeans and black leather jacket.

As you approach her you notice through the tinted windows of the car a man with dirty light brown hair. He notices you and alerts Natasha who spins around to face you a dazzling smile on her face.

“Hey there” she says reaching out to you and giving you a quick hug.

“Hi” you say softly afraid your voice will betray you. “Sorry I’m a little late. Had to do some stock taking” you add shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Oh sorry this is Clint” she says pointing towards the man in the car. He gives you a hard look and nods before pulling out of the parking spot and driving off.

You swallow nervously, “don’t worry about him” Natasha says, “he’s always looking out for me”.

“Right” you say softly still unsure of what to do.

“You ready?” she says straddling the back of your bike and patting the space in front of her.

“Uh yeah” you say gingerly mounting the bike trying your hardest not to let any part of yourself come into contact with the Widow. You shiver slightly when you feel her thighs press on either side of your hips. And you groan internally when she places her hands on your waist.

You start up your bike and after a minute turn your head slightly towards her and say, “umm where to?”

She just laughs heartily, “let’s start with your place so you can get changed and then I know this place where they serve the best cake in town. How’s that sound like to you?”

You just nod and ride off in the direction of your apartment unable to process the fact that Natasha Romanoff was pressed tightly against your back.

The drive home helped clear the fog from your mind…a little. Riding always loosened you up a little. But the anxiety came back in torrents when you started to climb the steps to your apartment.

“Ok so I can’t remember if I left the place in a mess or not so please ignore everything that you see” you say as you slide the key into the lock and open the door holding it for her to walk through.

She chuckles a little and steps inside a smile growing on her face, “it would take a lot to phase me” she walks in looking around, “it looks fine to me Y/N”.

You look around and let out a breath. Thank god you had tidied up before heading off the work this morning. You make a mental note to always keep the place tidy from now on just in case…

“Umm would you like a drink while I get changed?” you say walking to the fridge and peering inside.

“Sure what do you have?” Natasha follows behind you looking at the knick knacks you had decorating your place.

“I have water andddd…” you stick your head further into the fridge picking up a carton of orange juice and cringing after you take a sniff of it, “…more water” you smile at her chucking the orange juice into the trash bin.

“Water is fine, thanks” she comes up to you and leans agains the counter.

“Right so I’ll just go change real quick and umm we can go right after” you say walking backwards towards your bedroom and bump into the console table which earns you a chuckle from the redhead.

“You like knives?” you hear her shout from the living room as you pull a t-shirt over your head.

“What?” you say walking out of the bedroom a denim jacket draped over your shoulder.

She holds up a large Damascus knife raising an eyebrow at you.

“Yeah” you smile walking up to her, “I actually make knives in my spare time”.

“I love knives” she says passing the blade from one hand to the other with a dexterity that was mind boggling. “You’re really good. This one is very well balanced” she adds.

“Yeah? I could make you one” you say eyes still glued to her hands as if mesmerised by them.

“I should show you where I keep all my toys” she says with a smirk passing the knife back to you. Her hand lingering in yours for a second longer than it should.

“Yo-your toys?” you swallow hard. She winks at you.

“Come on let’s get that cake and coffee” she says before walking towards the door and adding, “this time I’m driving”.

The ride to the coffee shop was something else. It had you gripping onto Natasha like a koala. You’re pretty sure Natasha could feel your heartbeat with how close you were holding her. In no time she pulled into this tiny parking lot next to a diner that looked like it came out of a 50’s movie set. Sofia’s Cafe Diner look cute but classy at the same time. As Natasha holds the door open for you she said she often came here because she knew the owners from way back and they made the best peach pie this side of town. She walked past the old lady behind the counter who spoke to her warmly in an accent that sounded Russian. Natasha led you to a booth in the back and took your jacket sliding into the seat opposite you.

You tried to be civil but sitting opposite the Black Widow was proving harder than you thought. Natasha sensed your unease.

“Is this weird for you, Y/N?” she asks.

“No. I’m fine” you lie and she cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Ok maybe it’s a little unsettling” you blush thanking the girl who brought your pies to the table. When you’re alone again you look at your date and sigh, “it’s just that you’re super hot and I’m just me and I don’t see why I’m even here”.

“First of all” she beams, “thank you for the compliment. And secondly I have a confession to make” this time she ducks her head and you can see a faint blush blooming across her cheeks.

“I’ve been watching you for awhile now” she says.

“That’s umm…comforting?” you say and she laughs.

“Promise me you won’t freak out?” she says placing her hand on yours which causes your breath to hitch.

“No promises but I’ll try” you say.

“You know about six months back when there was that assassination attempt on Councilwoman Staunton?”

“Uh huh” you say slowly nodding.

“I saw you” she adds.

“You saw me?” you parrot her.

“When everyone was running for safety you were running in the opposite directly looking for people caught in the rubble”

“You saw that?” you scrunch up your face in slight embarrassment.

“Well you kinda saved me actually” she says pausing for a second, “I was under one of the slabs of concrete you shifted”

“But I would’ve remembered you” you say thinking back to that time.

“I was caked in blood and muck even my teammates didn’t recognise me at first” she says smiling at you.

“You pulled me out and stayed with me until…”

“…until Captain America came by” you finish her sentence, realisation finally dawning on you. “That was you?”.

“That was me” she nods, “you said I looked like shit” she chuckles.

“Oh my god!” you panic, “I didn’t realise that was you”

“I did look like shit” she laughs, “you saved me that day and I’ve been searching for you ever since to say thank you”

“Wow” you stare at her dumbfounded.

“So…” she hands you a fork, “this is my thank you. The best pie this side of town”

“You really didn’t have to Natasha. If you needed to do anything a simple thank you would have been more than sufficient” you smile accepting the fork from her and taking a bite of the pie moaning at how good it tasted. She just smiles at you taking a mouthful for herself.

“Plus you looked really cute covered in concrete dust” she says causing you to choke on your pie.

“Well” you say wiping your mouth on the napkin, “it was my pleasure”

“So eat up there’s something else I want to show you” she says taking a sip of her black coffee.

You glance at her a quizzically. Swallowing hard on a too-big-spoonful-of-pie you mutter, “oh…show me what?”

“Well...the first one has to do with your doctoral thesis and the second…” she takes a minute as if contemplating what she’s about to say. Leaning against the table resting her hands on its edge she says in a hushed tone, “…the second part involves rope”.

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

Tagging: @natasharomanoffismywife​ @imnotasuperhero​ @ellebellerules @cybeleceto​ @silverwing2522​ @thelastavenger-3000​ @peggycarter-steverogers​ @niquey-salvatore @rooskaya-yelena​ @blackwidowromonoff​ @lesbian-x-blackwidow​ @nowthisisliving27​ @jumbojamba47​ @izalesbean​ @aaron-despair​ @rooskaya-yelena​ @marvelfansince08love​ @rileigh519

[screaming-introvertedly]

my heart told me to need you, so I do

Rusty Quill Gaming, Zolf/Oscar, G, 18-month time gap, fluff and angst, the inherent intimacy of having someone's fingers in your hair

Also on ao3!

“Wilde? Thought you could use a break. Brought you some tea.” Zolf came into the small room of the inn Wilde had claimed as an office, brandishing a clay teapot with a towel wrapped around its handle and two small teacups.

“What, nothing stronger?” Wilde asked, glancing only briefly up from his papers.

Zolf snorted. “Wouldn’ta thought you’d be the sort to get drunk before noon. ’specially not with all the—” he gestured at the piles of work in front of Wilde, setting the cups down on the one clear corner of the desk.

“Mm, you should’ve known me in my university days. Tea sounds lovely, though, thank you, Mr. Smith.”

As he’d gotten more and more into his work that morning, Wilde had propped his head on his right hand, absentmindedly tucking his fingers up into his hair. Now, as he set down his quill and went to sit up, he found his fingers caught in the countless tangles and snarls there, and he hissed a soft curse as the movement tugged on his oversensitive scalp.

Zolf, pouring tea, looked abruptly up at Wilde’s pained noise.

Wilde carefully extracted his hand from his hair, untangling a ring that’d gotten snagged, waving Zolf off with his left.

Zolf’s eyebrows crept further and further up his forehead. “You alright there, Wilde?” he asked, with a smirk in his voice even if it wasn’t quite on his face.

“Fine, fine,” Wilde breezed, shifting in his chair and reaching for a teacup.

Zolf’s gaze steadily worked its way over his head and face, taking in his appearance—no doubt he had some hideous dark smudges beneath his eyes—and the wrinkles on Zolf’s brow deepened. Wilde blew over the top of the teacup, disturbing a curl of steam, and took a delicate sip, preparing his rote response: Don’t worry about it, Zolf, I’m fine, stop asking.

“Wilde…. when was the last time you brushed your hair?”

The question caught Wilde off guard. How long had it been? He’d gotten rather used to his hair being short, but it’d grown back considerably since… since Damascus. Since—mentally, Wilde gritted his teeth—since Grizzop had chopped it all off.

All these months later, and you’re still barely able to think their names. He berated himself every time. You lost them. They’re gone and it’s your fault, and you can’t even think their names?

“Does it matter?” he said out loud, realizing how long a pause there’d been. He took another sip of his tea. Academically, he knew it was jasmine, probably perfect, prepared just the way he liked it, but he couldn’t taste it at all.

“Does it… well, no, I guess not really.” Zolf crossed his arms, voice deliberately even. “I was just wonderin’ why your hair looks like there might be a rat or two livin’ in it.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m serious, Wilde. You always seemed to—I dunno, take pride in your appearance before. You were meticulous. Fussy, really. So what happened?”

Wilde raised an eyebrow and tugged up one leg of his hakama, revealing the anti-magic cuff around his ankle.

“Oh, for the love of—do you not know how to take care of yourself without magic?”

Wilde only shrugged, not meeting Zolf’s eye. “It was easier back then, Zolf. I’ve been… busy, you know how it’s been.”

“It’s brushing your hair, Wilde, it’s not like you’re taking… I dunno, three-hour long bubble baths or something.”

Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for the chance…. Wilde gave an affected sigh and turned back to his paperwork, setting the empty teacup aside and picking up his quill. “Would that I had the time, Mr. Smith.”

Zolf stood in front of the desk in silence, arms crossed, while Wilde stared with unfocused eyes at the stacks of reports and made idle, useless marks with the quill, purposefully ignoring him.

After half a minute of increasingly belligerent silence, Wilde looked up at the stony-faced dwarf as if he’d just noticed him, and asked, as lightly and casually as he could, “Was there something else?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared. His mouth pursed. For all that he liked to play the stoic, he was actually rather easy to read. That, or Wilde had grown familiar enough with Zolf that he could sense tiny changes in his moods, a thought that both gave Wilde pause and made something warm and comfortable curl up, pleased, in the middle of his chest.

Zolf was still just looking at him. Wilde raised his eyebrows. “Zolf?”

“You need to take a bloody break, alright?”

“I am fine—”

“And,” Zolf continued, trampling all over the end of Wilde’s sentence. “I know how to do hair, so let me.”

Wilde’s mouth went inexplicably dry. He had to swallow twice before he felt like he could speak with anything approaching normalcy. “…What?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared again. Wilde would have smirked if he hadn’t been busy panicking.

“I said…” Zolf began, speaking slowly and clearly, “I’m actually pretty good at doin’ hair. My mum and dad, they—I’ve—well, I’ve had a lot of practice, right? It’s a—dwarves and braids, it’s a whole—” He blushed angrily, even though Wilde hadn’t said anything, and gestured to his own beard. “So… just, let me.”

By the time Wilde had gathered his wits enough to nod, a little dazed, Zolf had already left the room.

Wilde remained sat at the desk, hands pressed flat to its wooden surface to keep them from trembling. He was about to have Zolf’s fingers in his hair. Zolf, who’d been a constant, solid, steady presence in his life for these past few months, obstinate and compassionate and deep-down good and whose wellbeing Wilde was rapidly coming to realise may be crucial to his own, who’d seen Wilde at his lowest and stayed with him anyway, had found Wilde the same week he’d finally accepted his team wasn’t coming back from Rome, and had cradled his broken pieces in his hands and forced him to hope… his head was getting away from him.

Point was, Zolf was about to be touching him. Quite a lot.

…how was he supposed to stand it?

Zolf’s heavy footfalls sounded in the hall, leaving Wilde with very little time to collect himself. Zolf returned to the room, holding a soft-bristled brush, a comb, and—gods—a bottle of his own hair oil. He stood behind a long, low couch, the place where Wilde slept when he couldn’t quite drag himself all the way down the hall to his bed, looking expectantly at Wilde.

Wilde tried to disguise his deep, steadying breath as a sigh of resignation. Despite his best efforts, it still hissed too quickly through his nose. He rose from his chair, spine popping and settling back into place after so many hours of hunching over his work, and he walked to the couch, perching in the middle, right at the edge of the cushion, hands folded neatly in his lap.

From this angle, Wilde was fairly confident Zolf couldn’t see his face. He allowed himself one moment to let his mouth fall open, one unsteady inhale as his fingers spasmed in his lap.

There was a frustrated grunt behind him. “Scooch back a bit, leggy git, can’t reach you from ’ere.”

Wilde swallowed. Settled further into the couch, stretching his long legs out. Rested his neck on the edge and let his head fall back.

And then Zolf’s fingers were there, brushing against the back of Wilde’s neck, and Wilde’s mouth went dry. Thick and gentle, calluses a little rough against Wilde’s skin, he started slowly at first. Took small lengths of Wilde’s hair, separating and lifting them away from his head, holding each lock firmly at the base so the comb didn’t pull as he softly teased out the tangles from the ends.

As he worked, he hummed thoughtfully, sometimes clicking his tongue and making little disapproving noises at the state of Wilde’s hair, sometimes muttering under his breath in concentration, little strings of “now how in the bloody hell did—” and “oh, for the love of—”

Wilde was grateful for Zolf’s noises, because there was a better chance they covered up his own. He had his teeth clamped down so hard on his tongue he tasted blood, trying to stifle the little gasps and back-of-the-throat sounds he refused to call moans, even in his own head. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because it’d been absolute ages since anyone touched him with any sort of kindness—and the person who currently had his fingers buried in Wilde’s hair just so happened to be the same person Wilde had been silently pining after for several painful months—didn’t mean he could completely lose his head.

Zolf worked his way from the ends up to the roots, from the left side of Wilde’s head around the back and to the right. Wilde let his eyes slide half-shut, wanting to luxuriate in the sensation but too on edge to let himself fully relax, sure he would do something truly embarrassing if he didn’t keep a tight rein on himself.

The comb snagged and pulled one particularly tender spot right at the nape of Wilde’s neck, yanking his head backwards. He gasped aloud, hands fluttering reflexively to his throat, knees jerking up below his chin. Zolf’s touch immediately gentled and he hissed through his teeth, muttering, “Sorry, sorry,” as he extracted the comb. Wilde fought to steady his breathing, clenching his fists at his sides.

“It’s fine,” he gasped, aware of how breathless he sounded and unable to do a thing about it.

Really, he was grateful for the pain. It provided a distraction from the truly lovely sensation of fingers in his hair, jolted him back into his body from where he’d been floating, a little untethered. He had to remain focused. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip out.

Soon, his hair felt smooth and lighter-weight than it had in some time, easing a headache he didn’t even know he had until it wasn’t there anymore. Zolf neatly parted it, switching to the soft-bristled brush and running it through each side. The hair curled in warm, gentle waves around Wilde’s face. He let his head tip forward, his breaths evening out as the brush stroked from roots to ends over and over, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Enjoy it now, because this cannot be allowed to happen again. You cannot allow yourself to fall in l—to care too deeply about him or else you are lost, you are compromised, and if you lose him, you will never be able to put yourself back together again—

The hairbrush paused. Wilde surfaced, realising belatedly that Zolf had been speaking to him, and was now waiting for a response.

He managed a questioning “hmm,” aiming for casual and missing by a mile. But anything other than a hum would’ve given away the crack in his voice. He tilted his head back. Zolf’s hands cupped his skull, gently supporting him.

Zolf snorted. Upside-down, Wilde had a great view of his wonderfully-expressive nostril flare. “I said, I’d like to use some hair oil on you. Jus’ didn’t want you startled.”

Wilde hummed an acknowledgement, letting his eyes drift shut again.

The pop of a cork, a quiet glugging, and the room filled with the smell of ginger and orange. Wilde swallowed reflexively. It was the same smell that followed Zolf around, the same oil that the dwarf used in his own hair before he’d cut it short, and still used in his beard.

So now Wilde was going to go around smelling of Zolf whenever he turned his own head. It would drive him utterly to distraction. And Zolf expected him just to be able to handle it?

Sure, it wasn’t as though he’d never entertained the idea of swiping one of the little bottles, sprinkling a drop or two on his wrists or his lapel—or his pillow—and returning it before it was missed. Especially when Zolf had been away on a mission for longer than expected, or, even worse, stuck in the anti-magic cell, and every day of the quarantine Wilde grew more paranoid, more certain that today’s check would be the time he found blue veins in Zolf’s skin, that this would be the day that proved his compan—his partn—his Zolf was gone.

But he’d never actually done it. He wasn’t quite that pathetic, thank you. Not yet. (And if Zolf truly had been turned, and Wilde had killed him, returning to a bed that smelled of him would’ve been… unimaginable.)

When those strong, blunt fingers stroked across the top of Wilde’s head, he did his best not to flinch. Zolf had obviously warmed the oil in his palms, and he smoothed it into Wilde’s hair, fingertips pressing down, digging in, massaging deeply into Wilde’s scalp. The ginger sent tingling warmth through his entire skull and answering shivers down the back of his neck.

Wilde released a held breath, letting his head fall back into the support of Zolf’s hands. He seemed to really be taking his time, giving Wilde one of the best scalp massages he’d ever had. Short nails scratched very gently at Wilde’s temples. Gooseflesh prickled down his arms. The smell of the oil saturated his senses. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open; they kept sliding shut completely without his input, narrowing all of his concentration down to Zolf’s fingers on his skin, Zolf’s smell in his head, Zolf’s care and attention enveloping him. Wilde started tensing and relaxing his thighs, clenching his fingers in the silky material of his trousers just to give himself something else to focus on.

It could have been anywhere from fifteen minutes to twelve days later when Zolf cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, and Wilde forced his eyes open. He felt… good. Almost as though he’d managed to doze off for a bit. His entire body was loose and relaxed, tingling warmth and lassitude in all his muscles. He lifted a hand languidly to his hair, which was smooth and soft, bound up in a loose, messy bun with a strip of cloth.

“Huh… no braid, Mr. Smith? I’m a bit surprised, I must say,” Wilde chuckled, syllables a little slack and rounded at the edges.

Zolf cleared his throat again. “Gotta let it sit first.” His voice was rough.

Wilde flopped his head to look in Zolf’s direction—it was extraordinary, it was like he had no motor control whatsoever. Zolf wasn’t looking at him, apparently totally focused on wiping the oil off his hands with a rag.

“I’ll just… go and get the innkeeper to draw you a bath. You’ll wanna wash your hair after it’s had some time to sit. Then I’ll… yeah. I’ll braid it.”

And Zolf left the room.

Wilde tilted his head back up, looking at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. He was more relaxed, more at peace than he’d been in… years. Luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of being well taken care of, of being given the chance to rest. It wasn’t that any of the problems Wilde needed to fix had gone away, they just… didn’t matter for the moment.

For the moment, he just sat in the middle of a cloud of ginger and orange, and breathed.

[ineedsomecyanide]

If Love Kills, You're my Hitman

Title: If Love Kills, You're my Hitman

Rating: M

Warnings: smoking, mentions of drug use and violence, kidnappings, suicidal thoughts

Relationship: Javert/Jean Valjean

Summary: modern AU in which Valjean never got to the road to Damascus, and became a mob boss instead. Javert chose a criminal path too. They met, and a complicated relationship ensued; this is an exploration of that relationship.

Written for @thebanguette.

This AU is @catallii's brainchild, I just expanded on it.

Beta-ed by the wonderful @italianjavert.

I. Roi de la misère

The line of bass pulsates through Javert’s ribcage, reminding him why he doesn’t like clubs: music so loud you can’t hear anyone talking, too many people, cheap alcohol and sweat. Sadly, he had to accept them as part of the job, like he had accepted guns, or never living in the same place for too long. In clubs you make the best deals and the most money.

He takes a turn, avoiding sweaty youngsters who are frantically jumping on the spot following the music, and he sees him: Jean Valjean, the man who controls three quarters of the city, drug emperor and reluctant philanthropist. He’s sitting on a leather couch, in an alcove in the VIP area, surrounded by his acolytes. Javert doesn’t like the girl in a low-cut dress, or the boy in tight jeans that are skirting too close to Valjean.

They have a… partnership of sorts, one could call it. They agreed on a non-belligerency pact, Valjean’s gangs won’t give Javert a hard time, and everyone will stay in their own territory. No stakeouts, no gunfights. They sealed their deal by fucking on the table they had just spoken around.

They have this animalistic attraction, and he’s not sure it’s all hate-fucking. It was very hard to keep their hands off of each other since the first time they met, when they were just a little more than street kids, small-time criminals who were starting to form bands of kids like them, and control small portions of the city, with petty thefts and some dealing.

They had danced in front of an old jukebox, swaying in the neon lights, drunk on cheap beer and the power they had just started to taste. Javert remembers the golden cross at Valjean’s neck glinting in the dim light, and the moans he did not manage to stifle when Javert had blown him in the back alley, hours later. Romantic, he knows.

And here he is, sitting on the couch, his white shirt hugging his muscles, with a drink in his hand and a bored gaze, that brightens up when Javert enters the small room. He greets everyone, and then brings Valjean outside, with the excuse of a smoke.

The air is chilly, maybe a little too much, and “outside” is just a wall and an immense and lonely parking lot. Valjean lights Javert’s cigarette (he doesn’t smoke, but always has a lighter on him – in some remote part of Javert’s heart, he likes to think that it’s only for him).

“We’re closing a big deal tonight.”

“Huh? Why didn’t I know?”

"I don't have to tell you everything", says Valjean with a sly smile.

"If you're telling me, it means you need my help. God knows you don't tell me most of the things you do."

"You're right. It's a big deal. I need the best." Valjean's smile just broadens. There's something of a tiger in him.

"I'm hardly the best, Valjean, you just know how I work. And," his voice turns into a growl, "you like staring at my ass".

A low chuckle. "Maybe so. Can you blame me?"

Perhaps? Javert doesn't think of himself as particularly attractive. Everyone who tried to get in his pants, did it because they wanted something. Even Valjean, to some extent. Not every time, of course, but sometimes he will kiss him breathless to shut him up in an argument, an argument they both know could turn very ugly, very quickly.

"So, what's the job?"

_

Javert is kind of a lone wolf. He tried, in his early days, to put up a gang, but he hasn’t got Valjean’s natural charisma. People simply didn’t listen to him, and did their own thing.

There’s only Rivette with him, a puppy-eyed, corrupted cop, with whom he will sometimes share a cigarette break and a tip or two on stakeouts and undercover missions.

Valjean is jealous of their relationship – he always has to watch his back whenever he’s with someone from his gang. (“Don’t think it’s different for me, Valjean. He’s a cop, he could sell me anytime, he’s dangerous”). Valjean never says it openly, but whenever Javert mentions him, he bares his teeth slightly. Old, scarred tiger, still defending his own territory. He finds a perverse pleasure in scaring Rivette, and manipulating him a little too much.

“You have no right to do that. I haven’t made any promises to you-” Javert will say later, when Rivette has long run off and they’re both alone.

“We have our pact”

“You know I’m not talking about that. I’m not yours”.

But in the safe haven of their bed, Valjean will bite him, mark him, and whisper a myriad of “you’re mine” in his ear while he drives him to his orgasm.

“It’s not fair, you only say that when I can’t dispute it”, Javert tells him a bit later, when they’re both sated, sweaty, and slightly sticky.

“You could dispute it now.” Valjean is watching him with his head propped on his elbow, smiling that too clever smile that Javert just wants to kiss off of his face.

“I don’t want to,” Javert says under his breath as he reaches for Valjean’s too big shirt, his tobacco pouch, and his papers and filters.

“So you’d admit it, that you’re mine.” He can hear Valjean’s voice from the balcony where Javert is standing. He won’t let him win, he never will.

“Valjean, I need your lighter!” He says, like nothing ever happened.

“You should stop smoking, it’s not good for you.”

“Valjean, I’m warning you- “

“I’m terrified!”

Javert runs back in the room, and hastily searches for Valjean’s lighter in his trousers pocket and jacket, that lie crumpled on the floor, his loose hair threatening to fall over his eyes with every movement.

“You could help me, you know,” he mutters with his rolled cigarette between his teeth.

“Nah, you’re handsomer when you’re annoyed.” Javert rolls his eyes so hard he hopes Valjean can hear the sound they’re making.

The lighter is in his breast pocket (Don’t you dare think it’s over his heart; it’s stupid, you’re stupid), and Javert hurriedly lights his cigarette. “Fucking finally,” he puffs out.

Then he turns to Valjean, still sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard, his hands behind his head, looking like he hasn’t got a worry in the world; Javert kneels on the bed and crawls until he’s almost in his lap.

“Can you go a second of your life without flirting with me, Valjean?” he then asks, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. Valjean has moved his hands from the headboard to Javert’s thighs, where his fingers are tracing imaginary patterns; he looks up to him, a faint blush on his cheeks. After all these years and after all we have done you are still blushing?, Javert wants to ask him, but he just brings his face even nearer to Valjean’s, and then he blows smoke into his parted lips, without breaking eye contact.

“I can’t,” Valjean’s answer comes after a while, and his voice is an old tiger’s purr. He kisses Javert’s almost certain snarky remark away, his hands snaking underneath his borrowed shirt.

He starts kissing Javert’s cheeks, and then his throat, and Javert lets out a strangled moan before telling him that they’ll burn the bed, if he continues.

“Hot,” laughs Valjean, that playful smirk still on his lips and in his eyes.

“Valjean, sometimes I wonder how you can be so fucking stupid,”says Javert, disentangling his long limbs from Valjean’s. Jean can hear the smile in his voice. “Let me finish this” (he gestures at his cigarette, which is threatening to go out again) “and then I’m all yours”.

“So you finally admit it”.

“Shut up, Valjean”.

II. This love is poisoned whipped cream (I want some more)

The young woman is sitting on a metal chair, a bit far off from Valjean and Javert; she’s trying to make herself smaller, sitting almost with her legs drawn to her chest. She’s chewing her cuticles, and looking at a non-specified point on the floor. The artificial light shines on her short blond hair and on her heavily tightlined eyes, making her look paler and more haggard than she already is. Every now and then she coughs.

They moved into Valjean's office, upstairs from the club, but Javert can still clearly hear a faint line of bass pulsating through the walls.

Valjean had explained to him that her name was Fantine, and her child had been taken hostage by Patron Minette. An ugly story of drugs and debt, like so many he has heard before.

Valjean and his sob stories and ill-concealed charity cases. Whatever he says about not being charitable, and doing only what is convenient for him, he always manages to gather around him hordes of needy people, who then buzz around him like a swarm of hungry bees.

Sometimes, Javert wonders if he isn’t just one of Valjean’s charity cases too, that Valjean keeps by his side to force him into self-care and loving with his fierce affection and the odd job here and there.

Wasn’t a charity case that had shoved him down the criminal path? Javert has only heard rumours, and knows that past lives aren���t a topic to ever discuss with Valjean – he wouldn’t talk to Valjean about his family if he asked, and he expects the same from him.

But the whispers said something about a sister, starving niblings, and too many years of jail for a petty crime to feed them all.

They were young and had only started hanging out when Valjean disappeared into thin air, and Javert later heard from other kids that he had been arrested. He assumed he was just another boy who came and went from his life, and went on with his life of stealing scooters for pocket change. Javert didn’t even bother to try and find where Valjean was kept, to send him a letter, oranges, maybe a cake with a file baked in it.

They ran into each other by chance sometime later, when Valjean had gotten out and was starting to build what would become a small empire, they reconnected like Valjean had left the day before, and the rest was history.

But Valjean didn’t talk about jail until years later, and he never uttered a word on why he had done it. Javert knew better than to ask: when he wanted, Valjean simply ignored the most uncomfortable questions. Javert knew that the topics of his familyand what he had been before were off limits.

Lost in his thought as he is, Javert has almost not listened to the girl’s sob story (literally, she’s crying profusely): she had contracted various debts with Thenardier, one of the most dangerous members of Patron Minette, and when she couldn’t pay them anymore, they took her daughter.

Her voice is feeble, and she actively avoids Javert’s eyes; she’s doing a bit better looking at Valjean’s, with a glimmer of faint hope in her exhaustion-ringed eyes.

“This is my associate, Javert”, Valjean’s voice continues, bringing him back from his musings. “He will infiltrate Thenardier’s gang and get your daughter back”.

If he had been drinking something, Javert would have spluttered it all over the floor.

_

“Valjean, for fuck’s sake, next time, just tell me what are you going to do, please.” Javert snaps. “Especially if it concerns me personally”, he then adds, more quietly.

He has basically hauled Valjean away in the corridor, having the feeble decency not to yell in front of the girl. Not that the walls are thick enough to prevent Fantine from hearing them, but at least Javert can say that he tried, not like he usually does, yelling at and in front of people without thinking about the consequences. Valjean commented on this habit of his a few times, and Javert is really trying his best.

“You would’ve said ‘no’ regardless”.

Javert barely restrains himself from bursting out– he doesn’t know what he would have done to Valjean. He wouldn’t dare to lay even just a finger in him, and not only because he’s at least ten times stronger than he will ever be.

“Valjean, you– you– nrrrgh. You say that you don’t care, and you’re here only for the money, but then you help puny junkie girls get their children back! Can’t you see–” Can’t you see that you’re good? Can’t you see that you can tell me things? “Why, Valjean, why me?”

“Thénardier knows my face, but not yours. And I trust you above anyone else,” he says in a whisper.

“Will you help me then?” Valjean’s voice is a bit subdued, but gentle, conciliatory.

A very tired sigh on Javert’s part. "Yes, yes, I will.” Only because it’s you.

_

When they come back to the office, the young woman is slumped on the floor, unconscious.

“Call an ambulance, Javert”.

_

Fantine has been rushed to a private clinic whose head physician owed Valjean a favour. A principle of pneumonia in her already weakened lungs, but now she’s stable and will be fine, or at least that’s what Valjean said on the phone.

Javert feels useless, and at the same time he knows he doesn’t care enough for her to be actually useful at something. The slimy eel of his jealousy swims at the bottom of his stomach, but he decides not to listen to it. Always careful to not get too attached and not make any promises to Valjean, and now this.

He beats himself up mentally because he cares too much for his own good, grabs his jacket and gets out of the door.

Rivette is standing outside the police department’s back door, as Javert expected. He’s always precise, even with his cigarette breaks. Javert appreciates it.

He joins Rivette by the small space under the balcony, the only space protected from the rain that has started falling not so long ago.

“Hi”.

“Hi. Long time no see”.

Javert just hums in response, focused on rolling his cigarette, filter between his lips. For a long moment, they just stare at the grey walls and the greyer courtyard in front of them, listening to the water dripping from the drain pipes to the trashcans and the puddles on the ground. Then Javert speaks.

“Do you know where Patron-Minette meet these days, and can I get in?”

“Changing sides, huh?”

“You know I’m on my own.”

“What about you and Valjean?”

“I’m on my own.”

“I’ll pretend to believe you. What do I get in return?”

“A kiss?”

Rivette chuckles. “What about you and Valjean?”

“Shut up.” Javert punches Rivette’s arm lightly. “If I can get to them, and do what I have to do, you won’t hear from Patron-Minette for a while”.

“And you can’t get more specific than that, right?”

“I fear not.”

A few minutes and a cigarette after, Javert walks away, his jacket lapel pulled up as much as possible to protect him from the rain, and, in his pocket, a piece of paper with the address of a house in the hills scribbled on it.

“Be careful, Javert. You’re stupidly obsessed with him, and one day you’ll pay. Watch your back, always”, Rivette calls, when Javert has already walked a few metres.

He just keeps walking.

III. We're a candlelit dinner between two gasoline tanks

Infiltrating Patron-Minette is almost too easy: he just showed up to their fancy house, hidden between the hill and the woods, and got invited to a party a few days later.

There’s a quote swimming in the back of his head, that he must have heard in some of those pointless movies that Valjean always forces him to watch, or picked up from a book that Valjean has read aloud to him: “I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

It’s true: there are so many people drinking and talking and doing God knows what in that house, that nobody pays any attention to an inconspicuously dressed man, his hair pulled back in a low bun, walking, seemingly aimlessly, around the house.

His height never really allowed him any kind of anonymity, so he just revels in the feeling for a moment, and then he sets his mind into action.

He knows where to touch walls to find hidden switches, trap doors and secrets, he knows how a criminal – a person like him – thinks, and he knows where to find things (and people) hidden where no one wants to find them.

He finds several packs of cocaine, gay porn magazines (don’t they know the internet is a thing now?) and, curiously, a stash of candy, before he finally finds what he’s looking for. Who he’s looking for.

The door, carved out of a nook in the attic of the house, is especially hard to break open. Javert curses under his breath and wishes that Valjean and his lock-picking skills were here.

The door finally opens with a creak and the tiniest startled cry, and then there are two frightened, big blue eyes staring at him from underneath a curtain of dirty hair.

“Hi,” he whispers, dumbstruck for a moment, unsure what to do with a terrified child. The terrified child in question just cowers more in her little corner, and Javert feels like shit.

“Shhhh. I’m a friend of your mom’s. I’m going to get you out of here, I promise.”

The child stands still, but there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes now.

“I’ll need to find the right moment to sneak you out of here, but it will be very soon, I promise.”

_

A short while later he’s out in the cool air, outside again, out of that stifling tiny room, and his fingers are trembling on his cigarette. His heart is going soft.

“Hey, it’s me. You should see what state she’s in...” She’s frightened, I’m frightened, I want to come home, he doesn’t say to Valjean on the phone.

_

“I’m going back there, tomorrow,” is the first thing that Javert says, after Valjean greets him.

He has managed to sneak out earlier that evening, but not before reassuring Cosette he will be back.

He and Valjean make love with a desperation that Javert has never felt before (I missed you I missed you I missed you-), and Valjean’s bed is a safe vast heaven of white linens that Javert doesn’t want to leave; he wants to lie on Valjean’s broad chest and sleep there for eternity.

_

They’re on the roof, sitting quietly in the dark. The stars shine in the night sky, so far away from futile human troubles. The only light that brightens their faces is the flickering orange glow of Javert’s cigarette (that is about to go out). Then, beneath them, the bright white vastness of the lights of a city that never sleeps.

Javert has taken a risky break from his undercover job to update Valjean; he wants to make the most out of his brief visit, but there’s an alien embarrassment between the two of them. He has only informed him briefly, and then Valjean has accompanied him on the roof. The distant yet benevolent stars above him gaze calmly upon them, and Valjean’s fingers are almost touching his, but not quite.

“I did it for my sister and her children. Stealing, at first. And then all of this.” Valjean’s voice is strangely quiet and tentative, his words are unsure.

“When I got out, I found out she had cut ties with me. Five years for stealing some food, for starving children. Do you think this is justice?”

“You have informants everywhere; you could reach her, now.”

“If she doesn’t want to be found, I do not wish to force my presence on her.”

He’s so different from his usual gentle, yet commanding presence. To Javert, he looks smaller, although it’s impossible for a man with Valjean’s build to look small, but there’s an air of sadness around his hunched shoulders.

Javert has never been good with words, so he comes closer and kisses Valjean’s temple.

They don’t usually behave this softly around each other, but that night they sleep with their arms around each other.

IV. Bam Bam Twist

Honestly, it would be so easy, Javert thinks, looking at the gently sloshing water beneath him. How many people have they found drowned in pools like that? Sometimes it was someone who had partied too much, and couldn’t swim; sometimes, it was to cover a crime. It didn’t matter, in the end. Cases like that were always ruled like the first occurrence, Javert made sure of that. He wonders if Valjean, or someone on his behalf, will do the same thing, and pay (or threaten) a young shaky cop to write his suicide down as an accident.

Certainly, the premises are there: he’s been seen drinking all night, and now everyone’s gone, and there’s only him, his cigarette put out in his drink, and a pool glittering in the dark.

He doesn’t even know why he longs for death so much.

Sometimes he hopes that the gun he just knows will misfire, will shoot him in the chest or between his eyes instead. A clean, quick and painless shot and – bam! – Javert would be finally gone from this earth.

No more covering Valjean’s ass with the police (Javert knows he’s too cautious, he’d cover his tracks on his own just fine), no more odd jobs here and there, no more always looking over his shoulders, no more drugs, dirty money and beating guys up.

He wonders if Valjean would miss him; he wonders if he’d only miss his quasi-military precision and dependability and his cock and his mouth, or if he’d miss something deeper, like Javert would miss the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, or his reluctant generosity and disguised heart of gold.

Then there’s no more time for contemplating these morbid thoughts, because a bang pierces the air, the world around Javert becomes a world of glass shreds, and he’s knocked into the pool.

Everything is strangely calm in the pool: the sounds are muffled, the light is blue and distorted and, if it wasn’t for the glass shards, everything would be peaceful.

After the first moment of peace, Javert tries not to think about the fact that he has never learned how to swim: his limbs start to panic and convulse, and his instinct pushes him violently out of the water. His first breath is painful, and the second is worse; “drowning himself” is swiftly crossed out from his “how to kill himself” list.

Out of the water, the world is in chaos: there are people everywhere, running and shouting and grunting in pain, and the bullets they’re shooting at each other are flying in the air. Javert crawls out of the water clutching at his gun, which miraculously hasn’t left its holster, and he tumbles into a quieter place, trying to stay close to the ground to avoid the bullets.

An ambush orchestrated by a rival gang, there’s no doubt. But if not Valjean, who...?

There isn’t really anytime to think, if he wants to save his skin and have a chance at retrieving Cosette.

Cosette! Maybe, if they run, and take advantage of the general confusion...

Javert must move quickly: it will take a blink for Thénardier and his men to regroup.

Ducking bullets and firing his own, he reaches the room where the child is kept: all his cunning plans to recover the key fly out of the window: a nice hit with the butt of his gun will do.

The poor girl is crouched underneath the table, where Javert had seen her the other time, trembling, with those scared eyes as big as saucers.

“Shhh, shhh, child, it’s me. Listen– we don’t have much time. When I say run, you run, alright?”

Cosette’s eyes look like they might spill tears at any moment, but she nods almost imperceptibly.

Javert takes her by the hand, a blink and they’re back into the hell of shouts and gunshots. Except that now it is going quieter and Javert fears that they will be found out.

He can see the gate, they’re almost there–

A “Hey!” raises higher than the rest of the noise.

Sometimes the only thing you can do is run without looking back and hope for the best.

“Run, child, run!”

V. Adieu, mi amor, merci, je t'aime

A heavy rainfall patters on the window glass. Valjean hadn’t noticed that a thunderstorm had started, as focused as he was on his book. But now he has raised his eyes from the page for a moment, and he has noticed that the whole room has gone dark, and there is the promise of thunder and lightning outside.

He strides on the other side of the room, to turn the light on.

This house is too big for him alone and, despite Javert saying that he’s charismatic, he never felt comfortable enough to let any of his acolytes come in. After a life of running from the law, you can’t ever get comfortable enough.

Except with Javert, of course.

He briefly wonders if he’s alright, and if it was a bad idea to send him in the lair of the wolf alone, when someone knocks at the door.

At the door, with wet hair plastered to his face and a glare that would make the bravest of men quiver, there’s Javert, and, at his side, a similarly soggy bird of a child. Her eyes are scared, instead, and they won’t meet his.

Valjean was wrong in thinking that Javert was a lamb among wolves. He is the wolf.

“We got caught in the rain.” Not hi, not how are you, not we have armed men at our heels. He missed him so much.

“Come in, come in”. He walks bristly towards the sofa to find blankets for the child, and to light a fire.

“Are you hurt? Are you hungry? Have they followed you?” Valjean asks the air, more than Javert or Cosette – he’s still unsure how to approach the little girl, and he fears asking Javert would only bring bad news.

“They don’t know we’re here. Yet. Think about the child, don’t worry about me.” Javert’s voice comes from far away, from the corridor or the bathroom.

Valjean can’t do anything more than crouch near the child, his eyes at her level.

“You must be Cosette, aren’t you?”

_

Valjean swings the bathroom door open, with the confidence of a person who has been living alone for a while.

He finds Javert there, shirt off, tending with a cotton ball to a very bloodied shoulder.

“I’m sorry– are you alright?”

Valjean feels so stupid– he shouldn’t apologise and Javert’s very clearly hurt.

Javert’s eyes meet his gaze in the mirror. “I told you not to worry about me. Think about the child”, he barks, but his voice trembles when what Valjean supposes iss disinfectant comes in contact with the wound.

“Cosette has been tended to, and she’s sleeping now. You both had a very long day. What happened?”

Valjean’s fingers cover Javert’s and they gently take the cotton pad.

“Someone attacked Patron-Minette's headquarters during a party last night – no, I don’t know who it was – and there was a shooting. I took the opportunity to take Cosette and escape, I think a shard of glass grazed my shoulder. A window broke and I fell into a pool and–” Javert falls silent abruptly. “You don’t need my ramblings”.

“No. I’m just glad you’re back here”.

Both Javert and Valjean have had to get used to blood and injuries from a very young age, given their trade. And yet, Valjean feels an unspeakable amount of pain when he thinks that that bloodied shoulder is Javert’s and that, on some level, it’s his fault too that a bullet almost hit him.

His fingers tremble, and he has to clench his teeth and leverage the most rational part of his brain, the one that knows something about first aid and cleaning wounds and stitches.

“Here.” Valjean says when the wound is clean and bandaged, and he allows himself to breathe again. “That should do for now. But I’d like you to see a doctor first thing in the morning tomorrow,” he adds.

Javert just smirks in the mirror, and tries to put his shirt back on.

“Would you– would you please help me with this?”, he says, nodding at his stiffened, wounded shoulder and at his right shirt-sleeve.

When he’s done and Javert’s all bundled up in a clean shirt, Valjean allows himself a moment of weakness? tenderness?, and slips his arms around Javert’s waist, breathing in the familiar scent of his soap. (Valjean won’t admit that he has used Javert’s cheap, only slightly scented soap while he was gone, but he’s sure he’ll notice).

The thought that he could have lost Javert forever for a plan he himself conceived makes Valjean’s stomach roil with guilt. He will ask for forgiveness someday soon, with words, or bites or kisses. Better all three.

I don’t want to lose you, I was a fool, he breathes into Javert’s back.

Javert just squeezes Valjean’s hands tighter around him.

_

Javert never thought he would miss Fantine and Cosette’s chatter, but it feels very empty without them. They stayed in Valjean’s house for a while, enough for Fantine to be back on her feet, and for Cosette to stop hiding under the tables and start playing with Javert. Now they’re tucked away in their new apartment that Valjean bought them, somewhere that not even Javert knows, and the house is strangely quiet.

On the other hand, it’s nice to lie beside Valjean in silence, in their dark bedroom on the warm bed sheets, while his hands lightly caress his arms and chest and thighs.

He thinks about that time in which Rivette warned him about Valjean, and how his love would destroy them both. But with Valjean in his arms, he feels like his love is solid, and will nurture them both, like a home. They have just begun build it, baring their hearts and starting to communicate.

“Javert?” asks Valjean after a while, without looking at him.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about opening a foundation for single mothers? Without my name on it, of course. We could renovate this house–”

Some things never change.

[z-007]

A Journey of Sadism (mental and physical)

I was born in the 21st of April 1992, in Jableh-Latakia. But, since my father was an employee for Total French company in Syria, I grew up in Damascus. At the age of 4, I was diagnosed with Diabetes type 1. It was very hard for me at the beginning when I was a child, and my mother suffered a lot, giving me insulin injections, which I found painful at that time, and analyzing my blood sugar to inspect what did I eat if the result was soaring sky high. I hated her at the beginning, simply because as a child, I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. At 8 years old I went to a school that is Sunni Islamic Pre-Historic School in Dummar called -Young Scientists- something that I discovered later on to be ironic. In Syria, If you weren’t good at school, you were cursed, you became like a Boxing Heavybag. They also used Falakas, the art of whipping feet. It didn’t stop at that, simply because parents became part of this process too, using any tool at their disposal in beating their child, chair, water hose, hammer, clothes hanger, electric cables, let alone being slapped on the face in a way that I started feeling my bones were shaking, and my eyes will throw fire, or kicked in your head and started bleeding. All of this, was because my marks in Arabic, mathematics, history and geography were not good except in English. It was the best language to understand for me, and the subject in which I saw myself to be a good student. As a consequence of that, I started losing control and cause trouble to my so-called teachers at that time. Luckily in 2001, I found my sanctuary that took to a completely different world. It was the first time I saw James Bond in GoldenEye. I was so thrilled by the action sequence, the theme of betrayal and everything about it was cool. This was a turning point in my life to become a Bond fan. I also learnt how to sing rap songs like Faint for Linkin Park, and Bleed It Out. And all of my father’s friends who were French, British and Americans were impressed. It was something that I remember with a loving memory to those people. Later I watched the rest of the Bond films and the happiest moment in my life was when I found the complete DVD set in Tartus. Simply because no DVD store in Damascus had the complete set except one who was also our neighbor. The curse of buying films in Syria was that they were badly used CDs at the bloody beginning. It was very rare to have a CD converted from an original DVD. This greatest franchise in the whole world has sealed my internal wounds for not being a good student. Ironically, the mental case of mine came back to me when I was at High School, especially it was a time that determined who I am, luckily it passed with no harm to me, because a single mark changed future to some students .I forgot to mention, that the school principle when I was at the ninth grade, didn’t stop calling my parents and telling them not to spend a single penny on me, because he thought I will never be successful. But I brought a mark that was better than his children’s. In 2010, I became a student of English Literature in Damascus University, I remembered that I was not a bad student at that time with an average of 80 percent. But the Syrian Crisis began in 2011, the press was already screaming for blood and the political unrest escalated to the extent that we had to change residence. This was the bane of my existence to open my eyes and find myself in Latakia. I was simply cursed and hostile, because I didn’t speak like Alawaits, their accent felt like starving dogs, in other words, they bark. They are trivial, shallow minded wankers who had nothing inside their heads except clothes, mobile phones and narrating a fairytale about themselves having sex with girls and a horny 40-year-old women they come across and imagining penetrating their vaginas and sucking their nipples. I registered in Tishreen University at third year, I managed to transfer my documents to that platonic place. The professors didn’t like me, simply for participating in their lectures, and the fact that I spoke French, Spanish and a little bit Russian. As a consequence, I kept failing at University over and over. Moreover, I had different ideas, and University Professors are bigots and snobbish. Their opinion was the only one that matters. The impact of the mentioned earlier, had made my pain started with breakdowns, screaming my head off and security gathering around me like” what happened to you?”. Added to that, emotionally speaking, I had a horse sex drive in that Mohammadian society. Girls dressed in a way that said to male students, “come to me.”. The majority of women at that city showed their breasts, waist, legs, and what attracts me most their feet, especially, high heels, that gave them a very elegant look. For my good fortune, all I had in front of me was Pornographic DVDs and websites, so I kept masturbating from 11:30 pm until 10:00 am from night to daylight. Still wondering, how men attracted them, I didn’t have any idea, and the question kept circulating. I also hated the idea of marriage, especially that I always loved to live my life the way I fathomed. I didn’t like the idea of getting buried alive by being a bloody father and spend the rest of my life with only one Angry Factory, aka, one woman. The psychological problem kept increasing and started with depression; taking anti-depressants for a while and go back to my normal life when soothed down. I kept taking them every now and then. Students were not allowed to know about their mistakes at any cost, this was a University rule. Self-doubt has caused me to go to a neurologist who started doing me brain scans, simply, I just wanted to know why am I that stupid, for failing continuously and still I didn’t get an answer. I was always deprived of sleep, studying my arse off and my professors didn’t care seeing their students DIE and SUFFER in front of them. Everybody panicked from me, always avoided seeing me, treated as unusual man. At that time, due to the fact that I kept taking anti-depressants, they became ineffective and stopped giving me relief. Part of what killed me thousands of time when I’m still alive was realizing that I cannot become an MI6 agent at any cost. I simply wanted to do 1 % of what James Bond did, take notice, that I was not pursuing women, I was looking for action and suspense. I wanted to be stationed in the heart of ISIS or Spectre and operate in the shadows to protect Queen and Country. I didn’t like Hasan Nasrullah, Vladimir Putin who looked like a Bond villain or Ayatollah bloody Khomeini, even Ali Bin Abi Talib himself, and that’s why I was also crucified for being a James Bond fan. Family and friends made a laughing stock out of me. I started dinking excessively, and suicidal thoughts kept recurring to me. They didn’t stop driving me to bring a razor and wound myself to death, it wasn’t the MI6 job that destroyed me the most. It was self-doubt. Doubting my brain efficiency and abilities, and especially that I saw students whom I thought less capable to express themselves in English than I am. My family tried to see the professors in Tishreen University-Latakia, unsuccessfully. I simply couldn’t have any idea what is the main reason I kept failing over and over. How could I develop myself without knowing my mistakes?!!, I later told some people that I wanted to be an MI6 operative, I thought that might sooth my tension, however, it got things worse. I started attacking the professors while giving their lectures orally and physically. I also broke the classroom washbasin, and the entire classroom windows, then security staff gathered around me after 3 minutes, they were about to send me to an unknown destiny, later, everything stopped after the head of the English department told them not to take any action. The last problem I did was with World Literature professor, whose name is Noor AL Araby, she was a real bitch, I remembered studying her syllabus for a month, she told us that Virginia is not required for the exam, and she brought it. As a result of that, I wrote her three pornographic stories on the exam paper. Stories people see in Brazzers and Naughty America (Porn films companies). Everybody got pissed off, the story was about to be dragged from my house to a security branch for torture. Luckily, my uncle who was a Colonel in the Republican Guard he had connection to the President of the University, told the professor to drop out the case, but she was persistent to have my balls for Christmas decoration. She spread what I wrote her on the internet and about to send them to newspapers. My parents begged her not to and we had medical reports that proved that I had neurological and mental case. Then I was suspended from the University for years, from 2016, till now. She did all she could to destroy me to the utmost level. I was happy when I realized she got very agitated. Especially, there were students confirming that exam questions were paradoxical to the things she lectures about.

Suspension Time

At the time I was suspended it was a slow killer for me. Literary, I realized that I was the worst student in the history of the planet. I decided to follow Boxing, I remembered that I was fit enough for the game. I found out that I did well at round bouts on the ring. I could do sparring sessions, shadowboxing…etc. I was able to run at least 10kms per day, 300 sit-ups, 80 press ups and 20 pull-ups. I tried to be a champion but every time I kept persevering, in addition to that my left palm was broken and my right eye was wounded. I got cold and sick, and I realized that I had to spend at least 2 months with vaporizers, fertilizers and strong meds. I kept striving in Boxing with no success. I lost confidence in myself and felt humiliated. I said to myself, why didn’t I choose to work for the Syrian Secret Service, I went to the branches, and when they saw that I was discharged from the military because of diabetes type 1, they asked me to get lost. I was surprised when I found out that my dentist was an officer in the Ariel Intelligence in Syria, I told him the story, he said “this is not your fight, you might think that you can do well in the field, but your enemies are smarter than you, they know how they can take you down and destroy you once and for all. Second, we had people who kill targets, who can do silent killings, detonate and sabotage, whether male, or female, but they have nothing to lose, their parents are killed and very poor, working to make money, and you are a discharged, rich bastard and you want to join us. I’m surprised when you told me that. I was a James Bond fan like you, but believe me my friend, that the real intelligence work will never come up to your expectations. Once the film you watch finishes and the novel ends, go back to reality, what you look for does not exist. I realized that I couldn’t become an asset for MI6, or any spy agency in this world, I felt that I was under surveillance by my country. I knew that they could look at my messages, trace my location any time they wanted. That was not the real problem, suicidal thoughts and self-punishment ideas didn’t leave me. So, I talked to my uncle to send me to the Special Forces, or any Military Barracks to become a martyr, to take the bullets to my chest. I remembered when I drank wine bottle on my own, I told my parents that I wanted to wear a C4 charge belt and blow myself up inside ISIS. They were horrified, then I was unconscious and within minutes, I found myself inside the clinic, after I told my problem to the psychiatrist, about MI6 dream and the doubt that I’m under surveillance. He told my mother that I’m a Psychotic. I was injected with needles and medications that made me feel like cutting my head off. He also sent me to Damascus for electro-therapy (to take electricity directly to my brain). I also became a field of therapy by my Doctor, he was testing medications on me like Invega that made me shake while standing up. Hence, he decided to give me Zeldox 60 mg, second generation anti-psychotic. My only comfort was when I slept. Waking up to life while taking those meds was a curse. I lost my sexual drive (libido), I remember feeling dizzy all the time, I remember calling the doctor every time when I tell him about the side-effects concerning dizziness and loss of sexual drive, he kept telling me that what you say is incorrect and that it didn’t have any symptoms. By miracle, my father brought me lower dosage medication, life changed for me. I knew cat-houses in my city, every money woman I went to for an intercourse, they took a lot of money. They were abusing me. The sluts didn’t make me enjoy the intercourse the way I wanted. They were controlling me as well, and this is why I left them. After I told my psychiatrist that I reduced the dosage, he said that my condition will deteriorate. He confirmed to me that Chemistry in my brain was not right, then I told him to screw himself. Reducing the dosage had an effect as well. I remembered at a certain time that painkillers were like a bag of peanuts for me. And when night came I felt incredible fever in my head. I felt like being boiled alive. And I kept seeing nightmare afterwards, voices telling me that I will pay the price of reducing the medication dosage. Complete terror and horror kept chasing me for a very long time. After recovery, I logged into the James Bond groups on Facebook, they made me trivia to answer, did me a test about the James Bond 24 films from Dr.No 1962 to Spectre 2015. After I answered them all correctly, they called me Agent 00Zein. Made me an admin, and I had many friends from all around the world. In the 5th of October the global James Bond day , I celebrated with millions of the franchise fans. My great father, brought me a modern computer and IPhone X to follow up with these groups.

Nowadays, I’m not looking for immigration, nor women or anything else in this world. I have chosen to help my parents when they grow old, and help them. This is the best way I can pay them back. I decided to watch films about espionage world, read books, imagining the events and enjoy it fully and get my arse back to reality.

This is the only way; I cannot be punished.

I can imagine myself a soldier of 30 Assault Unit in Ian Fleming’s room 39 in WW2, or talking with Sir Alex Younger about my mission in VX or Whitehall. If not Sir Alex Younger, it could be Admiral Miles Messervy, Admiral Hargreaves, Madame Olivia Mansfield, or Lieutenant Colonel Gareth Mallory. And realize that” It was a matter of pride that the 00 Section has been chosen for this test. This painful experience kept coming back sometimes, notwithstanding, I have chosen to take with a pinch of salt, lol.

[shy-magpie]

RQG 157

these things get long and are by definition one spoiler after another, so live blog under the cut

pre episode nonsense:

My hopes for this episode are mostly just the obvious: For Zolf to pull out of his spiral; for Azu to talk to someone about how she's doing; for Hamid to find his footing with the Kobolds (loving that they are devoting a proper arc to using unearned privilege/power rather than pretending it doesn't exist); more Cel lore; a Wug; and for someone to shake answers out of the Brorb. Not sure Alex is going to let us get to know the kids individually which makes sense as juggling 7 new NPCs would seriously cut into everyone else's screen time. I think we will get more of Skraak & Hamid working through their issues, and Skraak's helping the kids through recovery. If we are very lucky maybe Zolf & Skraak will talk rather than just have Zolf resent the Kobolds for putting Hamid in a place to fall into old habits. Okay lets hit play!

Episode live blogging:

Intros are quick: Zolf sounds low, Ben sounds higher energy than he was.

Oh the Brorb drawings come better when the other half is distracted but not thinking about the real topic.

Krakens are through out the globe, unknown numbers, not true instances of Shoin, network is down.

Cel and I both react to having Shoin be the one to come closest to a truly non physical form.*

Krakens are cloned brains in robot bodies. Specifically said Daleks not Jurassic Park.

Shoin thinks he sent a ransom note using the Kraken as a threat against the world.

Does not handle it well when Zolf hones in on that no one knows who he is, much less trembles at his name.**

Hamid follows Zolf's lead and twists it towards boasting about beating the Infection. The talking half doesn't seem to know how he did it as clearly as the drawing bit. Unfortunately its strictly surgical which would be hard to reproduce at scale even before you consider the side effects.

Quick huddle with the rest of the team:

Cel always wanted to go to London?

Zolf wants to ask more about how the infection works so they could prevent infection. Wilde thinks he is suggesting using Shoin's solution, I get Alex has to catch people up but I don't like Wilde being a paragraph behind me or underestimating Zolf.

Bryn wants to review the diary. Alex confirms the diary says he had a possible  way to "end it" as a whole.

They go back and Cel feigns being extremely impressed that Shoin might have a way to stop the infection. I think having time to regroup cut him off from his memory of the infection again. Alex spells out Shoin loses coherence whenever they bring up the infection/the time period around when he was infected.

Heal check time. Zolf crit fails. Azu got a 29 and can see where his theory was better than his surgery. It may be an aphasia (issues to with communication. can't get to certain words, some can't be spoken even if he understands the concept; others he can't understand if he hears them even if he uses the word/concept himself. Brain trauma, memory problems more severe the more recent you get, sounds like unable to store short term memory properly so anything longer ago than a week but after surgery likely lost.)

Cel switches to the simulacrum. He verbally dismisses it as a waste of time. His hand keeps drawing based on the previous question re:stopping the infection.

Alex calls for a sense motive. Zolf & Azu see the latest drawing is a landscape using technical notation. Its a barren mine. Yes! it's the entrance to Svalbard. Cel can see its a circuit. Alex makes us/Lydia wait until after he's done with the simulacrum stuff.

Shoin thinks using humans as your base design to improve from is the wrong approach, gives some credit to Francois Henri for taking a different approach.

The circuit maybe to transmit something, it needs an organic component. Cel couldn't roll much better then that so they probably need to kick it towards the Harlequins to set a team on.

Shoin is moaning about paying the bills. Took on the contract to provide Simulacrum fluidics to Damascus for the money.

Drawings change shape get less technical and focus on the cavern entrance. Ben catches it sounds yonic, Alex was trying to not go there but did he really think you could go from cave imagery to seed imagry without stopping there?

Hamid tries to get more on how he caught the infection.

Bryn and Alex spell out that to get answers you ask a real question he won't answer verbally but will answer with his hand, with a decoy to keep the talking him distracted while the hand answers.

Decoy question is about Harrison Campell.

Concept drawing of a person, overwhelmed by an image of a huge figure with lines going from the small to the large? Is he suggesting they plant someone they prepare to be infected, and have them infect it back?

Proofs? Minor changes between the proofs and published version of early Campbell books.

Another review session upstairs. Hamid's red string wall got cited as being useful! Cult of Hades/Wellington may have been the one to hire Shoin to make parts for Damascus. Zolf and Hamid talk briefly, about work and as dry "stick to the subject" as possible but they are talking productively.

Oh Ben finally gets in that the interrogation is hard on Zolf's knees because he has to keep his legs out of the cell. He snaps a little at Cel when they comment on cell vs Cel. Carter suggests "naughty box" which nicely derails that point of tension. Cel refers to Shoin as being more pleasant to talk to than Carter. Not sure if that undermines the tiny Cel/Carter ship or fuels it with tension.

Cel asks who hired Shoin to make Sim parts. He can answer directly. Well directly for him, it seems to be mostly justifying stealing Tesla's work on the basis that Tesla wasn't going to implement his theory. Hamid snipes him with a shot praising Edison to get him back on topic. Shoin says Edison was being backed by a big investor. Is it to much to hope this is Alex finally consolidating the factions? If Hades is Edison's investor (leaving Edison & co as effectively their minions, rather than a faction of their own) and the factory owners we can cut down on sides considerably.

He goes on about how he spied on Henri, religion as money maker. Shoin was directly approached by Hades lot. Shoin made sure his bits won't work since he didn't want competition. Wellington was his contact with Hades. Wellington always had a pair of cloaked figures.  Vinegar + squizard = funny? Could be useful.

Do not follow what is going on with the hand.

Shoin is still unstuck in time and thinks he is going to connect them. Cel unplugs the speaker on his villain speech. Cel induces a dream state by powering him down

~break~

Cel suggests  painlessly killing him. Zolf seconds the idea because its immoral to keep him like that.   Hamid points out the longer the keep him around the more likely it is for someone to be infected. Wilde rules they should kill and seal it off.

Cel & Zolf have an argument about having the Kobolds handle the remains. Cel calls Zolf out on his inconstant stance on whether the Kobolds can be infected because if he doesn't believe that then he is risking them.

Wilde is moving on? Cel suggests letting the Brorb die, putting it in a bag of holding, keeping the bag in the anti magic field.

They can't just call Einstein because using unofficial channels is bad when irregular behavior is a sign of infection(?)

Alex's unhealthy attitudes about productivity are called out when he refers to the time Wilde spends thinking/planning before getting their transport arranged as "working" (with the inverted commas) rather than considering it part of the work.

They work out possible paths if teleporting is off the table.

And the boys are snapping at each other again. Zolf, you can't flip out every time you are reminded that Hamid doesn't have the experience or expertise of a seasoned sailor. Yeah you did leave the team without your skills and maybe the kid was a bit green for a field promotion; but you know what? He did a fine job, and the other choices were Sasha, who wouldn't lead, and Bertie, who shouldn't. Just because stepping down was the right thing to do, doesn't mean you get to lose it when you are confronted with the mere allusion to the idea it had consequences.

Barnes tells Hamid why going over the pole is a really bad idea. That Azu's suggestion is carrying Hamid has troubling symbolism.

Zolf actually comes more or less to Hamid's defense by pointing out that all their options are bad options, so having a go at Hamid's idea in particular is unwarranted.

I'm not going to bother listing out options. They will pick one or won't need to pick one. If we have been a very good fandom Alex may reward us with Earhart coming back as their preferred transport.

There we go, Hamid suggests her, Zolf seizes on the idea compliments Hamid on it, and immediately takes it to Wilde. Thank God he isn't so far down he can't do that. If he isn't compulsively shooting down any hope (especially from Hamid) then he really is on the upswing from the low brought on by quarantine stress.

Lydia isn't happy that there isn't going to be an American chapter. Then again we wrote off Svalbard, so don't give up!

Its the Northwest Passage and its so weird realizing that not everyone has it as a cultural reference. Wonder if it's an Oregon thing or a US thing.

Yes it would have been cool, but I think Alex is not going to let us have cool new story arcs when we haven't played with the ones we have at home.

Einstein and Earhart are our two best transport options. I am a happy fan. Especially if Zolf has to use his family and Earhart’s reaching out to him near the end of the journey to appeal to her. I mean we did get more on Zolf's relationship with his family than I expected after Paris, so I'm not going to sulk if they don't pursue this, but it would be nice.

Conflicted as a fan, its hard to remember that this taking months extra is a bad thing when the end of the series is feeling too close for comfort.

Zolf, look at you leveraging your experience with moving even when things feel hopeless!

Cel I love you, kraken as submarine is brilliant. Air kraken is suggested by Carter.

Hamid plays with the ideas while Alex goes "why?". Because you are going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than that if you want Hamid to see it as a no win situation rather than proof he needs to redouble on cheerful creativity. Feeling like he had no options led to the worst parts of Hamid's life, the things he is truly ashamed of; having few losses outside of those, he is going to make Kirk's Kobayashi Maru hang ups look amateur.

Zolf is heading to the beach.

Cel is checking on their village.

Hamid wants to contact Einstein himself, Zolf says he should talk to Wilde about that. Hamid wants Zolf with him for that meeting. Zolf either doesn't want to be a safety blanket, wants Hamid to get used to dealing with Wilde directly, or completely missed Hamid offering a chance to work together because he is incapable of seeing Wilde as an opponent. He does say some nice things about being a team.

Hamid tells Cel to say hi to Jasper for them. He is good at the people side of leadership. Remembering names and relationships, knowing how to show he cares because it's important to Cel without overstepping. If Zolf can learn to let go of the rank stuff, they could be an unbeatable team of co leaders.

Zolf nods at Azu. Azu smiles proudly back. Alex jokes about not liking giving them time to heal because they coordinate.

Hamid offers hugs to both Cel and Zolf. Because this entire character is a "fuck you" to toxic masculinity and he is not afraid to openly show affection to his friends.

Cel gives him a great hug.

Zolf hesitates but gives him a pat on the shoulder. Hamid's has high enough charisma to make that not awkward. Good kid, accepting that Zolf is reaching out as far as he can.

Hamid talks to Skraak. Hamid is worried about taking the kids. Maybe Skraak can convince them to stay & help Jasper with science. Because RQG loves us and wants us to be happy, they are considering a fantasy some of us harbored since "science" as a serious possibility. Could solve the issue with Alex not wanting the kids to take up too much screen time too. Skraak is the perfect character for Hamid to have as his second. He believes in Hamid, and can be confided in, but isn't going to take an ounce of self pity or bullshit.

Alex that village better be okay. Smoke? Controlled burn. Ben lightens the mood. The tank is still guarding the village. The barricade is up but they are guarding about as well as a village of level 0(1?) characters can be expected to.

They are having a party and there is a bon fire. Because Alex knows we wouldn't have trusted him if there wasn't a little scare with the smoke. !puns

The village is visibly healing since the weather is fixed. They thank Cel but know better than to ask.

Jasper! Jasper is looking good. He stepped in as a leader of the village. Cel and I could burst with pride. Jasper thinks Cel is coming to stay, Cel tries to explain they are going to help save the other villages around the world and mentions that Jasper would like the Kobolds.

!puns

* One day I need to hunt down the right corner of SF because there has got to be a decent amount of trans humanist fiction for trans humans out there somewhere.

**Not sure if I should feel bad for hoping this gives him a safe target for his destructive tendencies. Ideally Zolf would get past that point without indulging his dark side lest he reinforce bad coping mechanisms. Ideally Zolf would have weekly therapy without the fate of the world on his shoulders too. Its the more personal version of looking forward to a fight after Hamid's been stressed because he seems to find cooking baddies cathartic.

[basicsofislam]

PROPHET MUHAMMAD (PBUH)’s BIOGRAPHY :The Battle of Khandaq.Part2

The Prophet Breaks the Hard Rock into Pieces

The activity of digging was going on.

The Companions confronted a hard rock. While trying to break it, several tools like sledgehammers, pickaxes and spades were broken. No matter how hard they tried, they could not break it.

They informed the Messenger of God who was having a rest in the tent made of animal hair. They said, “O Messenger of God! We confronted a white rock. We could not break it. What do you order us to do?”

The Prophet took the sledgehammer of Salman al-Farisi. He hit the rock by saying, “Bismillah”. One third of the rock was broken. He said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Damascus. I swear by God that I see the red manors of Damascus now!” Then, he said, “Bismillah!” again and hit the rock with the sledgehammer again. One third of the rock was broken. The Prophet said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Persia. I swear by God that I see the city of Madayin of the Chosroes and his white manors!” Then, he said “Bismillah!” again and hit the rock with the sledgehammer; the remaining part of the rock was broken into pieces. The Prophet said, “Allahu Akbar! I was given the keys of Yemen. I swear by God that I see the gates of Sana now!”[ Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, Musnad, Vol. 4, p. 303. ]

All of the conquests informed by the Messenger of God took place during the periods of Hazrat Umar and Hazrat Uthman. Abu Hurayra said to Muslims, “These conquests are only a beginning. God gave the keys of the cities you conquered and the cities that will be conquered until Doomsday to Muhammad (pbuh) beforehand” when he saw those conquests.[ Tabari, Tarikh, Vol. 3, p. 46. ]

The Feast Given to the Army

The Muslims who worked without having a rest in order to finish digging as soon as possible did not have much food to eat. There was a famine and drought in Arabia that year; Madinah was also affected by that famine.

The act of digging was going on.

Once Jabirb. Abdullah went home and said to his wife, “I saw that the Messenger of God was extremely hungry. Nobody else could have put up with that hunger. Is there anything to eat at home?”

His wife said, “By God, I have this kid and one sa’ (3,5 kg) of barley.”

Jabir slaughtered the kid and his wife ground the barley in the mill. They put the meat into an earthenware pot and made some dough. They put the pot into the oven and waited.

When Jabir was about to leave the house, his wife said, “Do not make me embarrassed in the presence of the Messenger of God and the people near him”, implying that the food was not enough.  

Jabir went to the Messenger of God and said,

“O Messenger of God! I have some food. Take a few people with you and let us go to my house to eat.”

The Messenger of God asked, “How much food do you have?”

Jabir said, “Bread made of one sa’ of barley and a small kid”

Thereupon, the Prophet, “It is plenty of food and it is very nice. Tell your wife not to take the pot and the bread out of the oven until I arrive!” Then, he said to the people there in the presence of Jabir, “O people of Khandaq! We will go to Jabir’s house to have a feast. Come on.” All of the people of Muhajirs and Ansar who were there stood up.

Hazrat Jabir went home and said to his wife in astonishment, “May God give you goodness! The Messenger of God (pbuh) is coming here to eat with all of the people near him! ‘Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun!’ (To God we belong and to Him is our return!) What are we going to do now?”

His wife said, “Did the Messenger of God (pbuh) not ask you how much food we had?”

Jabir said, “Yes he did. I told him how much food we had.”

Thereupon, his wife said, “You will be embarrassed, not me!” She asked Jabir, “Did you or the Messenger of God invite them?”

Jabir said,“The Messenger of God (pbuh) invited them.” Then, his wife said, “He knows better than you do.”

The Messenger of God went to the house of Jabir with all of the Companions that were there. He said to them, “Enter the house without squeezing one another.”

The Companions entered the house in groups of tens.

The Messenger of God said a prayer of abundance. Then, he said to Jabir’s wife, “Call a woman bread maker and make bread together. Take food from the pot with a scoop. Do not remove the pot out of the oven!”

The Prophet took the bread out of the oven with his hands and broke some pieces from the bread. He put some meat on a piece of bread and gave it to a Companion. It went on like that until all Companions ate and were full.

Although everybody ate the meat and the bread, they remained the same.

The Messenger of God said to Jabir’s wife, “Eat the remaining meat and bread yourself and give it away because everybody is hungry.”

Jabir, who had thought he would definitely be embarrassed, stated the following regarding the issue:

“I swear by God that about a thousand people came. All of them ate and were full. However, the pot was still full and the bread was still there. We ate it and then gave it away to the neighbors.”[ Ibn Hisham, ibid, Vol. 3, p. 229; Bukhari, Sahih, Vol. 5, p. 46-47; Muslim, Sahih, Vol. 3, p. 1611; Ibn Kathir, Sirah, Vol. 3, p. 188. ]

The Digging of Trenches is Completed

The extraordinary efforts the Companions made while digging the trenches were the most evident proof that they were loyal to God and His Messenger. They never left the place even when they needed to leave without getting permission from the Prophet. It was an example of self-sacrifice and renunciation suitable for the Companions. As a matter of fact, God Almighty witnessed that they were believers and their loyalty was unique by sending down the following verses:  “Only those are Believers, who believe in God and His Messenger: when they are with him on a matter requiring collective action, they do not depart until they have asked for his leave: those who ask for thy leave are those who believe in God and His Messenger; so when they ask for thy leave, for some business of their, give leave to those of them whom thou wilt, and ask God for their forgiveness: for God is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful.”[ an-Nur, 62. ]

The Messenger of God and the Muslims took the activity of digging trenches very seriously but the munafiqs considered it unimportant. They worked lazily and they left whenever they wanted without getting permission from the Messenger of God. They sometimes made fun of the Companions who worked very hard and who were examples of belief, loyalty, self-sacrifice and hard work; they also laughed in order to demoralize the believers.

God Almighty stated the following about the inappropriate attitude of the munafiqs:

“Deem not the summons of the Messenger among yourselves like the summons of one of you to another: God doth know those of you who slip away under shelter of some excuse: then let those beware who withstand the Messenger’s order, lest some trial befall them, or a grievous Penalty be inflicted on them.”[ n-Nur, 63. ]

As a result of the tiring work, the activity of digging trenches lasted for six days.[ Ibn Sa’d, ibid, Vol. 2, p. 67. ]The trench was five ells (3.40 m) deep; it was too wide even for a very good cavalryman to jump over. Only one part was not wide enough because they were in a hurry. It was possible for cavalrymen to jump over that part. The Prophet expressed his concern about that place by saying, “I do not fear that the polytheists can pass anywhere but this place.”

The Messenger of God decided to appoint guards to defend that narrow place during the battle.

Besides, the Prophet had entrance places built through the appropriate places of the trench. He would appoint guards under the command of Zubayr b. Awwam when the enemy army came and settled their headquarters.

Islamic Army

Islamic army consisted of three thousand people. It was one third of the number of the enemy army. There were only thirty-six cavalrymen. There were two standards in the army: one belonging to the muhajirs and the other to Ansar.  Zayd b. Haritha carried the standard of the muhajirs and Sa’d b. Ubada the standard of Ansar.[ Ibn Sa’d, ibid, Vol. 2, p. 67. ]

The Messenger of God settled the headquarters on the foot of the Mount Sal. The back part of the army faced that mountain. The women and children that did not take part in the battle were placed in the castle and fortresses. The food and valuable goods were kept in those fortresses.

A tent made of leather was put up on the foot of the Mount Sal. This tent was in the place where the Fath Mosque is today.

The Headquarters of the Enemy Army

The plain was filled with enemy tents immediately after the trench was dug.

The enemy settled its headquarters in the north of Madinah, where the Battle of Uhud took place. They were surprised when they saw the trench. They had not seen such a war plan and strategy before. Naturally, the trench demoralized them in the beginning.  

In fact, they had set off with the imagination and hope of capturing Madinah fully. They did not even want to think of returning empty-handed.

The mujahids did not fear or hesitate when they saw the enemy army of ten thousand soldiers. The Quran described their state as follows:

“When the Believers saw the Confederate forces, they said: ‘This is what God and His Messenger had promised us, and God and his Messenger told us what was true.’ And it only added to their faith and their zeal in obedience.”[ al-Ahzab, 22. ]

Sons of Qurayza Violates the Treaty

The Messenger of God was in the leather tent. Hazrat Abu Bakr was with him. The Muslims were watching the enemy and guarding. Meanwhile Hazrat Umar came to the presence of Hazrat Umar.

He said, “O Messenger of God’ According to what I have heard Sons of Qurayza Jews violated the treaty and decided to help the enemy.”

This unexpected news distressed the Prophet. In fact, he had made an agreement with Ka’b Ibn Asad, the leader of that tribe; therefore, he was sure that they would be loyal to the treaty.

The Prophet who was distressed uttered the following words:

“Hasbunallahu wa ni’mal-wakil [For us God sufficeth, and He is the best disposer of affairs].”[ Ibn Sa’d, ibid, Vol. 2, p. 67. ]

Sons of Qurayza were a big Jewish tribe and they lived in the strong fortresses outside the city of Madinah. They had signed a treaty with the Messenger of God. According to the treaty, they would defend Madinah together when there was an external danger for the city. Besides, they would not do any military moves without informing the Prophet about it. They would not help the Qurayshi polytheists and those who helped them.[ Ibn Hisham, ibid, Vol. 2, p. 147-150. ]

Thereupon, the Prophet sent Zubayr b. Awwam to the land of Sons of Qurayza Jews in order to verify the news.  Zubayr saw that Sons of Qurayza were repairing their fortresses and conducting military drills. He returned to the Prophet. Thereupon, the Messenger of God said,

“Each Prophet has an apostle; and my apostle is Zubayr!”[ Ibn Sa’d, ibid, Vol. 3, p. 106; Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, Musnad, Vol. 3, p. 314. ]

What Hazrat Umar had said was true. Hu­yayy b. Ahtab, the leader of Sons of Nadr Jews had persuaded Ka’b b. Asad. Thereupon, Ka’b violated the treaty.

The Prophet Sends a Delegate

The Messenger of God sent Sa’d b. Muadh the leader of the Aws tribe and  Sa’d b. Ubada, the leader of the Khazraj tribe, Abdullah b. Rawaha and Hawwat b. Jubayr to investigate the situation again and to give Sons of Qurayza advice and the Prophet said to them,

“Go and investigate whether the news that has reached us is true or not. If it is true, tell me about it using implied words so that people will not understand it. I will understand it. Do not express it clearly lest people should feel scared and weak. If they have not violated the treaty, you can express it openly.”[ Ibn Hisham, ibid, Vol. 3, p. 232. ]

Those distinguished Companions went to the land of Sons of Qurayza. They mentioned that it was a bad thing to violate the treaty and gave them some advice. However, they did not heed what the Companions said and declared openly that they had violated the treaty. They even acted so arrogantly as to talk against the Messenger of God.

The Muslim delegates were very disturbed about the situation. Sa’d b. Muadh, who had been an ally of Sons of Qurayza for a long time talked furiously and said, “I pray God not to kill me before I fight you!”

Then, the Muslim delegates returned and told the Prophet about the situation in an implied way. The Prophet said to them, “Keep the news as a secret! Tell it to only those who are aware of the situation. War consists of precautions and tricks!”[ Ibn Hisham, ibid, Vol. 3, p. 233. ]

Madinah had been surrounded by enemies. God Almighty expressed the situation as follows: in the Quran:

“They came on you from above you and from below you, and behold the eyes became dim and the hearts gaped up to the throats, and ye imagined various (vain) thoughts about God.”[ al-Ahzab, 10. ]

Sons of Qurayza’s Attempts to Attack Madinah

Meanwhile, Sons of Qurayza sent Huyayy b. Ahtab to the Qurayshis and asked for one hundred people from polytheists and one hundred people from Ghatafan in order to attack Madinah at night.

They would meet those forces and attack the women and children in the castle and fortresses of Madinah together.

This news caused a panic among Muslims. The Messenger of God sent Zayd b. Haritha with three hundred soldiers and Salama b. Aslam with two hundred soldiers to Madinah in order to protect the city at night. Those forces would patrol during the night.

Meanwhile Sons of Qurayza Jews made a few attempts of attacks but they could not succeed and had to return.

Hazrat Safiyya Kills a Jew

It was during the second attempt of the attack by Sons of Qurayza.

About ten Jews shot arrows at Hassan b. Thabit’s manor, in which Safiyya, the aunt of the Prophet was; they even tried to enter the manor. One of them reached the door of the manor and wanted to enter. There were many other women and children in the manor along with Safiyya.

When Safiyya saw that a Jew was wandering around the manor, she wrapped a turban around her head so that it would not be known that she was a woman. He took a piece of long wood and went out of the manor. She opened the gate slowly. She approached the man from behind and hit the man with the wood and killed him. Then, she cut off his head and threw it against Jews.

Thereupon, the other Jews became scared; they said, “We were informed that Muslim left the women and children alone but it was wrong.” Then, they left that place and returned.

The Prophet Himself Guards the Narrow Pass

The Messenger of God, who sent five hundred mujahids to Madinah and protected the city, waited at the narrowest part of the trench at night lest the enemy should pass through that place.

Hazrat Aisha said,

“When the Messenger of God (pbuh) went to the ditch to guard and returned, he was trembling due to the cold. He came near me and got a bit warm. He said, ‘I do not fear that the polytheists can pass anywhere but this place! I wish somebody from the Muslims waited there instead of me’ Meanwhile, I heard the sound of a weapon and an iron tool.  

The Messenger of God (pbuh) called out, ‘Who is that?’

‘Sa’d b. Abi Waqqas…’

The Messenger of God said, ‘I entrust this passage to you. Guard this place’.

Then, he slept.