#i cannot express to you how dead it is in the center city because thousands us are without work

[andromedasummer]

you know the market is fucked when youre told the number of people who applied to this job through the site youre using alone and youre one of 300+ nearly every time

[thefallendivine]

Ma’an-riss Q’iras: Bittersweet

NOTE: This is the short for the second Guardian. If you don’t want to be spoiled about the character, then you are free to skip this post.

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An ear-splitting screech pierces the air as Tien stabs the wyvern right at the inflicted wound in its chest, bypassing its shell to tear right through its muscle straight into its heart. The wyvern’s last breath blasts her right in the face, smelling like a Dwarven coal mine: sulfuric, earthy, and comes with a burning sting that clings to the back of the throat. Even with the winged lizard’s lashing tongue and bared fangs, Tien is not at all fazed, having grown used to the sights and smells of these Draconic descendants.

Pressing one foot on the wyvern’s chest, Tien establishes footing as she twists her blade around its heart until the wyvern’s thrashing stops and it slumps lifelessly, just like all the others.

“That should be the last of them,” calls a familiar voice from behind Tien. Pulling out her curved sword before turning to face the approaching Human man. With a big grin on his face, Kimber looks around, “We hit the jackpot, didn’t we, boss?”

Tien casts her gaze all over the ruins, so does her companion, a Dragon Hunter just like her who has worked for the hunting party she leads for many years now. Someone she considers her brother. 

It is the strangest feeling, having been raised to view Humans with indifference at best, Tien now considers several of them as family. Fifty years ago she would have shuddered at the mere thought of entrusting her unguarded back to an incompetent race, but she has seen past that. Most times she wonders if the Elves are the problem, rather than the Humans.

But that in itself is the beauty of being a Dragon Hunter. No matter what shape or size a person is, they are welcomed with open arms in the quest of slaying terrorizing monsters. Most of them are already disowned by their respective nations, that is why they find no more reason to begin quarrels with one another. It may be a difficult job, but not any more difficult than any other job for a warrior.

“The only problem is: how are we going to transport all these guys?”

The question has Tien looking back to Kimber. “We don’t. Not yet.” Tien turns to the others, her voice then rings deep and loud as she instructs her party, “Wrap them up with the cloth we brought. Be thorough. When you’re done, load up half of the wagons with wyverns. Bury what’s left in the sand with the drakes and the wurms. Those of you whose mind and blade are still sharp, gather around.”

As their party moves to fulfill their leader’s orders, Kimber turns to Tien. “Those weird cloth that took up half the space in our storage. Don’t tell me they’re from ‘nishil-norey’.”

Tien stifles a smile after Kimber butchered the name of the Elven city. But from the proud undercurrent of Kimber’s expression, presumably from displaying his knowledge of the overlooked origin of an uncommon product in front of an Elf, Tien lets the Human have his moment of triumph. “Yes, they are.”

Nyshlenorreian fabric are used by Dragon Hunters to preserve their kills so the value does not depreciate as they are transported through changing humidity and temperature. Elves use them for preservation of harvests, especially those reserved for offerings, and are mostly used within Elven territories. Smuggling these fabrics out of the woodlands is a difficult undertaking and always costs a fortune.

“Holy shit, boss. You’re really serious about this haul, aren’t you?”

Tien raises a brow. “When am I never serious?”

Kimber nods. “Fair point. But why would we load up only half of the wagons?”

Tien turns to the center point of the ruins: an abandoned graystone fortress, its walls still standing strong despite the thousands of years of history that shows on its surface. “Because I need to somehow make up the investment I made. By, perhaps, about ten times?”

Following Tien’s gaze, Kimber whistles. “You mean to say there’s gold inside?”

Tien shrugs. “Gold, ancient relics, unhatched eggs, they always guard something. And that something is always worth a whole lot than a weyr of freshly killed Dragonkins.”

The response Tien is expecting does not come, and she looks to Kimber who now has faraway look on his face. “So you really were serious when you said that this might be the last hunt we’ll ever have. Our kills alone are enough to drown ourselves in fine wine for the next twenty years. But if you’re right about the treasures inside, then we don’t have to do all this anymore.”

Like Kimber, Tien does not reply, having mixed emotions about it all.

Thankfully for the Elf, the Human breaks the moment. “It’s bittersweet… but mostly sweet.”

Tien nods, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Mostly.”

Kimber smiles back before facing the other hunters who have now gathered, raising his sword as he shouts, “You hear that, fellas? One more dive into some musty ruins and we can finally pay back the boss with all the thousand year cognac she wants! No more of that filthy ale she forces down her throat to make us happy!”

The other hunters shout back their own cheer, inducing a fond shake of the head from Tien.

The raucous elation is then disturbed by a shriek echoing from inside the ruins. As the cheers come to a halt, a wyvern shoots out of the fortress’ cracked surface.

The laughter comes a moment later.

“Look at the little guy cheering with us,” Kimber says along with the jeers of the others.

Tien ignores her party in favor of watching the wyvern fly up high towards the sky. Wyverns are hostile on sight even if they are outnumbered, but the one that came out is not. And the shriek it let out is not one of fear; hunters are well aware of how a scared wyvern sounds. Tien has never heard that kind of emotion from a wyvern’s call.

How strange, she thinks to herself.

Just as Tien’s gaze settles back on the fortress, the ground they are standing on begins to shake. A clap of thunder that is usually heard from above reaches the hunters ears. It reverberates below their feet, and aside from just hearing it, they feel it as well. The tremors creep up from the earth onto their feet, quivering its way up their bodies until their balance breaks, pulling them down to the ground on their hands and knees.

Now kneeling and unable to regain stability, the hunters as one welcome the great Dragonkin that bursts out of the fortress with forced reverence.

Tien watches in both horror and awe as the fortress that withstood time is now shattered like glass to make way for what appears to be a giant wyvern— using the leading edge of its wings as a forearm, it lands on the solid ground of the desert.

Assessing the monster, Tien’s gaze moves over its golden carapace up to the crown of horns on its head. Just like any other Dragonkin, penetrating the scales would be difficult, which only leaves the underside. It will be the same as any other wyvern, except the one in front of them is ten times larger than the ones they fought in the area, which only means that it would be impossible for such a wyvern to fly. While it can still move around with leaps and bounds, it still is a wyvern on the ground. And as far as Tien’s experience goes, a grounded wyvern is a dead wyvern.

Tien nods to herself.

“Stand your ground!” She shouts as she gets back to her feet, sword placed in front of her. ”We cannot outrun a wyvern this large! So we kill it, like all the others!”

Just as Tien says the words, the “wyvern’s” wings detach from its front legs, before spreading outward in a glorious display— Tien has never seen a wyvern do such a thing. But before she can think further on it, the monster roars, and along with it, the earth quakes in perfect harmony.

Tien frowns, hearing something beyond the sonorous cry. An unrecognizable pattern of sound yet with distinct and clear succession of structured noise, one with an undertone of expression.

Tien’s eyes widen. Did it speak?

The Elf almost cannot believe the conclusion she came up with, but once more, the wyvern roars.

“Orrtid irayagnan onna...”

Tien’s breath catches. “Impossible...” she breathes out.

“Hey, boss! Are we gonna do this or not?”

To Kimber’s question, Tien can only respond with a vacant look.

Unfocused, her quiet words do not quite reach her companions, “Is this what the Dragonkin are guarding? A real Dragon…”

The golden titan roars again, louder and angrier, “Orrtid irayagnan onna!”

This time, Tien does reply. Not to the Dragon, but to her party. “Run! Run for your lives!”

Confusion spread throughout the Dragon Hunters at the sudden change of instruction. But seeing the frantic look on their leader’s face, they all follow with infected horror.

Ma’an watches as the mortal Humans, ordinary and odd, scatter across the sandy terrain, weaving their way through her dead Dragonkin servants. Anger surges from inside her, hot and pulsing like the world’s core. She takes to the skies, looking down on the mortals who dared disturb her slumber on top of murdering her servants.

She lets her wrath free, spewing out the heat that comes from her own core onto the fleeing mortals.

Once they were the masters Ma’an served, but no Human can ever make her bow down again. Setting herself down on the ground, she shouts a vicious cry: a proclamation of her awakening in the present age.

[mattzerella-sticks]

🔥Hot Seat🔥

4.6k, T, Peter Parker/Johnny Storm (ao3)

Spiderman likes Johnny. Like likes him. And he thought Johnny felt the same. He wasn't wrong, but Johnny like liked someone else, too. Someone he actually wanted to pursue, over Spiderman.

Unfortunately that someone is Peter Parker.

However, after a terrible misunderstanding, Johny isn't too keen on seeing either Peter or Spiderman; the longer this confusion left unresolved, the more Johnny's hurt would fester. Can Peter find a way to make Johnny listen?

           Peter stares at his phone, hoping that Johnny will reply to one of the many, many messages he sent over the past few days before Peter continues with his latest and most idiotic plan. Seeing the most recent one – Torch, please, the cold shoulder is ridiculous – still left on read, no sign of typing dots appearing, Peter forfeits any intervention from the other man. Squaring his shoulders, Peter drops from the building’s ledge.

           Thwack!

           He swings, climbing higher and higher, towards the most intimidating and heavily fortified building on 42nd street.

           The Baxter Building never felt less welcoming. And Peter could blame Johnny, but deep down he knew whose fault it was. Who could have prevented such a Galactus-level misunderstanding. Could have deterred this crisis if he were braver.

           Like any normal night, Peter traipsed through the air space above horrendous New York City traffic. The lights blurring underfoot with each completed arc. Peter journeyed uptown, nearing Central Park. And as he decided between left and right, a fiery bullet sped past and swept the board for a third answer. Peter followed Johnny’s trail, crawling up the brickwork of a nearby building that overlooks the park.

           “Torch!” he crowed, watching as his friend touched onto the roof. Flames extinguished like a rolling wave, from the tips of his toes until sparks flew off his bleached curls. Brown eyes, warm like hot cocoa, lit up at hearing his nickname; a wide grin cracked his face like an egg. The yolk pouring out and sizzling on Peter’s frying pan heart. Each added beat like an extra click on a stove, turning up the heat.

           “Spidey,” Johnny said, gripping his hand for a quick shake, then dragging him into a one-armed hug, “Just the bug I’m lookin’ for.”

           “Not a bug…” he mumbled, too aware of how in such a loose hold their chests were flushed together. He broke the embrace, sidestepping the other hero. Giving Johnny a wide berth for Peter’s sanity. “So… what do you need? Interdimensional incident? Rescue mission? …Prank?”

           Johnny, in a rare show, adopted a more bashful pose. His smile shrunk to half its size, teeth hiding as his lips fell over them like a curtain. Head bowed, he focused on the embers dancing out of his fingertips. A nervous habit Ben mentioned in passing once that Peter never saw until then. “Well… it’s nothing that serious,” he started, not looking at him anymore. “But it’s still important and I’d – excuse me,” he cleared his throat, voice scratchy suddenly, “I’d appreciate if you and I could… talk?”

           At least three different quips flit through his mind. He swallowed them all. Peter didn’t need a Spider-Sense to know that his ribbing wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead, he reached forward. Clapped Johnny on the shoulder, startling him so brown eyes looked into white lenses. He mirrored Johnny’s expression, even if it was pointless. “You know I’m always here for you Johnny,” he said, “whatever it is…” Then, since he couldn’t help himself. “Even if you decided to give up superheroing for a quiet, boring life on a farm far away from your favorite webslinger… I’m sure I’d understand. Somewhat.”

           Snickering, Johnny whacked his hand off. “I can’t believe you…”

           “Yeah, you’re right,” Peter huffed, “I’d probably make sure you weren’t a Skrull first.” Mood lightened, Peter plopped onto a nearby air vent. “So? Spill it hot stuff!”

           Johnny stiffened at the nickname, a sign Peter should have taken for what it was. Like deer fleeing the woods, the smell of smoke not reaching your nose yet. Or being on a boat, sky clear and blue, although there’s a charge in the air. Disaster was at hand.

           “What?”

           “Spidey…” He turned, facing the park. His shoulders drooped with a deep breath, tension leaking out as he looked off into the distance. “You can’t call me that anymore.”

           “Johnny,” Peter stood, “What’s –“

           “You can’t call me hot stuff, and you… you can’t flirt with me. Not anymore.” Heavy ultimatums that hurt worse than a lashing from Doc Oc or ten-thousand volts from Electro. “I just… I can’t take it.”

           Peter stumbled, at a loss for words. In time, he strung together a few. “I… I’m sorry,” he said, shame coiling tight and cold in his stomach. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable… if I overstepped boundaries or – or read things wrong –“

           “No, that’s just it,” Johnny said, finally facing him again. Laughing, bittersweet and beautiful. Church bells during a funeral. “It’s not because I’m uncomfortable… far from it, actually.”

           “Then…” Peter’s tongue felt useless, hanging on by a thread. “Then… why?”

           “I want something more,” he confessed, “More than… than what this is. This – this confusing partnership-slash-friendship-slash… whatever.” Johnny dragged a hand across his face, steam twisting around his fingers. “Fuck, I want a relationship. And I think I found someone who can give that to me?”

           “Really,” Peter asked, defiant. Banging his fists on the subway car as it lingered in the station. “Johnny if you want that… all you had to do was say so! What could they give you that I can’t?”

           “A name, for starters.”

           Peter visibly flinched, fight crumbling into sand.

           “A face,” he continued, “friends I can meet… family he can introduce me to. Co-workers who, when I show up and surprise him for lunch, can go ‘is that Johnny Storm, the Human Torch’ he can say ‘no that’s Johnny Storm, my boyfriend’.” Johnny’s knees shook, but he remained standing. “We’ve known each other for years, and you still haven’t shown me your face. Don’t you… don’t you trust me? How can you like me, but not trust me?”

           There’s no answer he can give that would make Johnny happy. Peter crashed into the air vent, mindful of the newly formed dent. Glad for the mask in such a moment. Johnny can’t see his face. He can’t see his pain. But he can definitely hear it. “Well… good for you, I guess,” he sniffed, leaning on his knees, “this lucky guy gave you a name? What is it?”

           Johnny, softening into another timid display, shifted on his feet. “You actually know him,” he said. Bouncing, like he would rather fly off than tell Peter who he lost to. Who Spiderman lost to. “I… I don’t want to make it awkward.”

           “It won’t be awkward.” A rushed promise he cannot necessarily keep. Pettiness flowed through his body like blood, and if given a name Peter will devote time on his already busy schedule to messing with whoever cut in on the funny little dance between him and Johnny. “I swear,” he lied.

           Johnny arched a doubtful brow. “Okay,” he relented, sighing, “it’s… you know that guy?”

           “I know tons of guys.”

           “No, this one – he works for the Bugle,” Johnny lifted his hands, holding onto air in front of his face. He closed one eye, and a finger twitched. He imitated a click and shutter with his lips, capturing Peter’s utter disbelief in a fake photograph. “The one who gets all your good sides, who made that book about you? Peter Parker?”

           “Oh,” he said, “…him?”

           Of course.

           Peter quietly traipses the Baxter Building, sticking within the shadows. Reflecting on the sheer coincidence and misfortune that Peter wound up on opposite ends of a love triangle. Johnny Storm dead smack in the center of a one-sided tug-of-war.

           He should have noticed, though. How Johnny warmed up to Peter recently, after they reconnected. Not necessarily running in the same circles during high school – Johnny home-schooled and a celebrity, Peter barely given a second glance when out of costume – they crossed paths every now and then. On assignment for the Bugle at a swanky function or in the streets, coincidentally. Peter, by virtue of being himself, immediately irked the teenage Wicker Man. Every conversation between them, in the past, filled with sniping comments and waxy fakeness.

           Not like Spiderman and the Human Torch got along then, either. Hormones, insecurity, and superpowers did not mix well. Both of them caught in the resulting explosion meant awkward and difficult team-ups.

           But time went on. Peter and Johnny barely saw each other, and Spiderman and the Human Torch learned how to set aside their differences. They actually became friends. Best friends. And something more he couldn’t speak aloud.

           Then Johnny entered Peter’s life again. “Wow,” he muttered, gaze scrolling down his body, “you… look bigger.”

           Not really. He stopped wearing baggy sweaters, bottle-coke glasses he didn’t need, and cut the mop on his head. But Johnny never saw Peter in a shirt that actually fit him.

           Still, even with the chapter on puberty closed, Peter figured first impressions were made and set in stone. As himself, Johnny considered Peter a friendly but often annoying fly that buzzed around. Entertained because who would harm a fly besides a sociopath. Jokes laughed at because it was better than letting an awkward silence linger. Or passionate rants suffered through because Johnny blocked whatever Peter said, mind thinking about a million other things. When Peter slipped, flirting in a way only Spiderman did with Johnny, he figured Johnny’s response more a reflex.

           It was all intentional. That never occurred to him. Stunned, Peter strategically retreated from the rooftop conversation with Johnny. Stuttering through an excuse, he tripped over the building’s ledge and nearly splat onto the sidewalk if he hadn’t shot a web at the last second. He ignored Johnny’s calls as he fled through the night.

           Now Johnny ignores his calls. Peter’s. Spiderman’s. Both men having pissed off the fiery hero in a horrible, but foreseeable, misunderstanding.

           “Johnny…” Peter reaches his window, peering inside, “where are you my little firefly…” Nothing moves. He tries pushing on the glass, finding it uncharacteristically locked. “Dammit…”

           There’s no getting in that way.

           Peter abandons Johnny’s window, hurrying. Sprinting, building speed, so when he jumps, he rolls his landing on the roof.

           Johnny may have blocked his usual entrance, but Peter doubts he remembers this one. Used in the beginning, when Peter and the Fantastic Four were still strangers. If there was an emergency and Peter needed help, he would sneak in through this exhaust tunnel. Security minimal given the tight squeeze.

           While a fifteen-year old Spiderman could easily slip in like Santa, with his current, adult body, Peter barely manages. Except he doesn’t exit where he usually does. While wiggling through the musty, ashen chute, Peter hears the metal creak and groan. Something pops and pings. His Spider Sense fritzes a second too late.

           He drops down. Not into Reed’s lab, like he expected. The ceiling breaks, Peter landing on his stomach while a cloud of foul dust trails behind him. “Gah…” he whines, checking for any broken bones, “this totally won’t help with my apology…”

           “You don’t know the half’a it, bug.”

           Seizing, Peter follows the noise. He spots Ben Grimm standing in front of a door frame, nearly eclipsing it with his orange, rocky frame. Flanked by Sue and Reed, the three other members of the Fantastic Four glare at him as if he were Doctor Doom.

           “Hey,” he croaks, speaking around the lump of fear lodged in his throat, “nice seeing you all… Sue, did you do something with your hair? It’s been forever since you’ve braided it.” She folds her arms over her chest, flicking the tightly woven coils over her shoulder. “Johnny told you what happened, didn’t he?”

           Reed’s arm shoots forward, trapping him. Squeezes bruised ribs while dangling him over the shattered remains of a coffee table he hadn’t noticed during his fall. A pinata with three-very candy crazed children circling like sharks.

           “I’ll take that as a yes.”

           Peter curses, checking off another box on his bingo card of bad luck. One more and he’ll have five in a row.

           He’d been avoiding Johnny. As Peter and Spiderman. Mainly by spending every moment of free time in costume, swinging through the streets. Never stopping for too long, only when an emergency struck. Sometimes not even then. Once, he spotted a few robbers pounding pavement by Hudson Yards. He swung in with a kick, knocking a bad guy into the water; flicked his wrist two more times and stuck the accomplices to nearby posting. Peter carried on with his patrol.

           All that time as Spiderman meant a few things. He barely slept, staying at his apartment for a few short hours since Johnny knew where he lived. The costume became a second-skin, too. Lines became blurred, and there were moments where Peter thought he wore his mask when he wasn’t. Making faces that were visible and embarrassing. Miming, lifting imaginary fabric before he ate. Almost firing a web off without changing.

           But when he wore the costume, he forgot it was even there.

           Like the miserable morning Johnny caught him.

           Peter woke up in bed, cold. The blanket fell off him in the night, and his tattered suit lain over his desk chair. Damaged after a fight with the Vulture. Overwhelmed by the criminal because his thoughts were elsewhere, taking damage normally avoided. Battle longer than he expected, Peter slumped into his apartment late at night. Stripping with the little energy he had left and collapsing on the bed in his Spiderman boxer-briefs.

           And his mask.

           Yawning, Peter shuffled out of his bedroom and into his kitchen. He checked his phone, delighted at the rare peacefulness that came from his schedule being clear. With only an appointment late in the afternoon, Peter decided he should treat himself with a nice breakfast. A big breakfast.

           Or eggs, as they were the only items in his fridge not expired.

           Peter grabbed a pan and started cooking.

           Although it took seconds for his mind to wander, Peter still a little sleepy. Turning the burner on low, he groped behind for his phone again. Peter opened his Spotify app and hit shuffle, smiling when the first song came on. “The classics…” he sighed, hips shaking with the beat. Wyclef John started his intro, Peter mouthing along. Never missing a single lyric. Body awkwardly following behind, embarrassingly so. An insult to Shakira.

           He shuffled through a few more songs while in his kitchen, enjoying himself. Forgetting about his past worries. Nothing mattered except his breakfast, the music, and him.

           While the eggs cooled on a plate, Peter freed himself from the stove and began dancing around the apartment. Hopping, throwing his arms up, and singing wildly off-key as Patrick Stump transitioned into the ending for ‘What a Catch, Donnie’.

           As all the layered vocals crescendo, Peter sensed movement out the corner of his eye. He looked, and immediately tensed.

           Johnny, de-flamed and holding a bouquet of Amaryllis, gaped through the open window by his fire escape. They stared for an obscene amount of time, enough for Peter to realize he was practically naked save for his underwear and mask.

           His mask.

           “Johnny,” Peter started, wincing as his phone continued playing. Britney’s voice echoing in the apartment. “I can explain…”

           The trance broke. Johnny screwed his mouth shut in an ugly frown, eyes blazing. Skin smoking. The flowers he carried were immolated in his grasp. Peter mournfully watched ashen petals fall; they were his favorites.

           “I… I can’t believe you, Spidey.” Johnny stormed into the apartment, blonde afro enflamed. “You… you fucking asshole.”

           “What?”

           “You fucking prick!” He shoved Peter, tipping him over and onto the couch. Floating above, Peter could only stare as the other hero spiraled in front of him. “You are the worst fucking friend – you… you… you couldn’t let me have this? Not if it wasn’t you? You promised.” His voice cracked, the shards stabbing Peter’s heart. Tears boiled, droplets becoming steam on his cheeks. “But you fucked me over you selfish asshole.”

           “What?” Peter asked, gasping for breath. His chest was too tight, no air getting in. Squashed under a heavy boot of regret, watching Johnny breakdown because of him. “I… whatever you’re thinking, it’s –“

           “No, I don’t want to hear it,” he growled, fists flaming. “You can’t spin yourself out of this web, not after catching you here. Catching you post-fuck with Peter. Making him breakfast while he… while he what? Sleeps? Because you’re an awesome lay?” Johnny glared at the closed bedroom door, yelling. “Fuck you Peter Parker!” Then, at Spiderman. “And fuck you, too. Friendship over.”

           He flew, Peter numbly calling after him. Stopping at the window’s edge, fear keeping him from thwapping out. Chasing Johnny so he can explain. Johnny’s exit must have drawn someone’s eye. If they saw Peter leaving in his Spiderman costume, the puzzle would complete itself.

           Which is why he’s here. Hoping he could trap Johnny in the Baxter Building, surprise him with an explanation. Of how Peter, being Spiderman’s friend, let him crash in his apartment while he visited his aunt. Besides the truth, it’s the best excuse he can create.

           And he can’t say the truth, obviously.

           “Listen,” Peter struggles in Reed’s grasp, “I’m here in good faith.”

           “Somehow I don’t believe that…” Ben says, grinding his fist in an open palm. The sound grates on Peter’s nerves.

           “No, really,” he says, “I – I came to apologize to Johnny. Explain what he saw –“

           “He saw enough,” Sue says, stepping forward. Like her brother, a fire burned in her eyes. Except without the actual pyrotechnics, her quiet anger scared Peter more. “You should leave, Spiderman. Only contact us if there’s an emergency – even then… we better be the last heroes you try.” She sighs, pinching her brow. Like he gave Sue a migraine by existing. “Y’know, Johnny really liked Peter.”

           “I know, I know –“

           “And yet you still went behind his back?” Ben scoffed, “What a friendly neighborhood spider…”

           Peter groaned, head thrown back. “I didn’t sleep with Peter!” he shouts, swinging, “I couldn’t sleep with Peter!” Choking, he bites his lip. The latter half of his statement spoken in complete exasperation, afterthought barging in only when his teeth clacked on the ‘r’.

           Three doubtful sets of eyes stare at him. “Sure,” Ben says, “You couldn’t. So… you still wanted to?”

           “No!” he says, trembling, “No, I – it’s like you said, Johnny liked him. What kind of friend would I have been if I had… Peter’s not my type, anyway. Too much of a nerd and – and God, he has the worst taste in everything. Such a scaredy cat, too, never takes a risk…” Cramming more of his foot in mouth, Peter switches tactics seeing the heroes grow angrier at his self-deprecation. “Peter wasn’t even in the apartment when Johnny was there?” he tries, weakly. Unconvincingly. “He was at his aunt’s?”

           “Can I hit him?” Ben asks the others, “Please? No one’ll even see the bruise!”

           “No, Ben,” Reed tells him, releasing Peter. Dropping him onto the broken table pieces again. He arches a judgmental brow at Peter, “We’re better than cheap shots.”

           Panic sets in. Peter rushes forward, slamming against an invisible barrier. Sue’s mouth thins as she pushes, Peter digging his heels in. “No,” he says, straining, “no I can’t leave without talking to him.”

           “You have no right,” Sue says, using both hands as she fights with him. He slides backwards, losing. “He doesn’t want to see you. Not tonight, not ever again. You ruined any chance he has with Peter.”

           “I’m… not…” he says, “he’s… ruining his chance –“

           “Oh yeah!” Ben snickered, “And how’s that?”

           “Because I’m Peter!”

           Peter slams onto his face, the invisible wall disappearing. Pain barely registers over the shock at revealing his identity to the others. They all gape at Peter, feeling the same cocktail of emotions that stir inside him. “W-what,” Sue whispers, “you – you can’t…”

           A thought surfaces. He could leave, and Johnny’s family could reason Peter’s response as the throes of desperation taking hold. Crazed response carrying little weight.

           But this might be his only chance. Johnny would hear the others’ recount, and then nothing he'll ever say could fix their issues. Another misunderstanding tearing at frayed cord.

           In the space between blinks, Peter decides one secret he spent so hard protecting was worth nothing if it meant an eternity suffering in icy solitude.

           Swallowing his fear, he scrambles up. Tears off his mask in one swoop, dropping it in the wreckage. “I’m Peter Parker,” he says. Puffs his chest with false bravado, when every logical bone in his body tells him to deflate. “I’ve always been Peter Parker, from the very beginning.” Before they could respond, he shuffles close. With wide eyes, he works through his nerves and says, “Please, let me see Johnny. Let me explain to the hotheaded idiot that I’m kinda in love with.”

           “…You’re only kinda in love with me?”

           Johnny stands in the doorway once blocked by Ben. He’s dressed sloppily, in sweatpants and a hoodie Peter never saw before. Stained with an innumerable amount of foods Peter bets they could stock a fridge with. “Peter,” he drifts forward, “you’re… wow.” Giggling, Johnny scratches at his neck. “Only kinda in love, huh?” he repeats.

           “Well,” Peter says, “I – uh… it might’ve been more. The whole way. But then you chose some other guy –“

           “You were the other guy.”

           “And you ran off, before I could offer you some of my eggs.” He blanches, the ruddiness on his cheeks obvious without fabric covering them. “My breakfast,” he amends, “My… yeah.” Peter fiddles his thumbs, wincing. “I’m really sorry you had to see that. And for making you think – by not telling you –“

           “About your secret identity,” Johnny finishes for him. Irritation creeps onto his face, hardening the soft glow in his eyes. “You realize all this could have been avoided if you told me on that rooftop, right?”

           “I am aware, yes.”

           “Okay.” He frowns, hand hovering between them. Like he wants to reach out but can’t. Not yet. “You came here then, to clear this all up?” Johnny asks, “Tell me the truth?”

           The lies bubble up easily. Practiced in dancing around reality, Peter can give Johnny exactly what he wants to hear. Brush this entire evening under a rug and move on.

           But that’s not how they should begin this. Johnny knows his secret – should have known it much earlier than this. Brought in on Peter’s terms when the other hero wasn’t furious with him. If he chose the easy road paved with falsehoods, they won’t go far.

           “No,” he confesses, studying his feet. Unworthy of Johnny’s beautiful face. “I wasn’t. I was gonna sell you on an awful lie, hoping you’d buy it, and then find you as Peter and… turn you down.” Johnny splutters from nearby, Peter continuing despite it. “Suggest you try Spiderman, because he really likes you – I really like you. And being with you as Spiderman than as… as regular ol’ Peter was… it’s all I thought I could have.”

           “It didn’t have to be,” Johnny finally crosses the divide. Grabs Peter’s hand, squeezing it. His gaze trails up, finding Johnny’s warm face shining with a sunny expression. “I’d gladly have all of you… if you trust me.”

           “Johnny…” Peter figures he’ll be spilling more than one secret tonight. “It was never about trust. I trust you with – well, with everything.”

           “Except –“

           “Except I was so scared!” he blurts out, squeezing Johnny’s hand. “I’d think about what it’d be like, letting you in on my double life. But then my brain would always focus on what could go wrong. You date me – the world will know about us. Whether it’s Peter and you or Spidey and you… What if we kiss while in costume, and someone snags a picture? People will think I’m a homewrecker and you’re a no-good cheat. Or they’d figure things out, put two and two and you and me and me together. And if that doesn’t miraculously happen… well, you know how villains love kidnapping loved ones. They could surprise me midway through a costume change and my secret’d be everywhere. I… your family can protect themselves, but mine can’t. If I didn’t have to worry about my friends, my aunt… you understand, don’t you?”

           Johnny smiles, using their joined hands to drag Peter into a hug. Lips brush against his ear, chuckling. “Yeah… I understand. I always did speak Spider better than every other hero…” Peter nuzzles at Johnny’s neck, wondering at how fantastic it feels standing together like this. “Man,” he continues, mumbling, “can’t believe I never realized. It’s so obvious.”

           “Imagine how obvious it’d be if we were on every magazine, trending on Twitter.”

           “Then what does that mean for us? Are you still scared?”

           Peter clears his throat. “Terrified. Of what being in a relationship with you will mean, and how things will change… but, somehow, the idea that you’d never be in my life again scares me even more. Given the options… I’d always pick you.”

           Johnny collapses in his arms, Peter grateful for his super strength. “That’s a relief,” Johnny tells him, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you told me all this and still rejected me.” He stiffens, leaning out of the embrace. “I wouldn’t expose you, of course. Never. Not even if Jameson held me captive, threatening me with a bad dye job and an eternity of bad press – your secret’s safe with me, Peter.”

           “With all of us,” Sue adds, reminding them of her presence. She, Reed, and Ben watched them from the sidelines. Ben hides behind his hand, shoulders trembling. “I hope you can forgive how we acted, Peter –“

           “It’s all good,” he says, “you were looking out for Johnny. I get it.”

           “Family looks out for each other,” Johnny says. He shifts, arm sliding as he tucks Peter into his side. “And since you’re practically family, that means we’ll keep an eye on everyone you’re worried about and make sure they stay safe, too.”

           A smile forces itself onto his face, “You really mean it?”

           “You trust me right?”

           “Of course.”

           “Then what else do you need?”

           For the first time, Peter happily acts on his first instinct. His hand snakes around the hoodie’s collar, bunching it in his grip. “This.” He pulls Johnny down, slotting their mouths together.

           Fire slowly burns over his skin from where they meet, Peter delighting in the burn. He sometimes wondered what it felt like using Johnny’s powers. Body tingling, lighter than air, and hotter than ever, Peter thinks this is the closest he’ll get without flying through cosmic rays.

           They part, foreheads pressed. Johnny flutters his eyes open, the light shining there changing. Regarding Peter differently, combining two halves and seeing the entirety of his being. Knowing him, truly.

           “Wow,” he gasps, “if that’s all you need, feel free to do that whenever.”

           Peter will hold Johnny to that.

           There are other things that need attending, first. Ben groans, drawing them from their little cocoon. “Great,” he says, slapping his forehead, “I thought the pining was bad, but this? We’ll never get anything done now!”

           Johnny hisses, glaring past Peter at the others. “Can we get a little privacy, please?”

           “We’ll get out of your hair hot shot,” Sue says, corralling Reed and Ben through a different exit. “Remember though,” she sings, “if you plan on going to your room, keep your door open!”

           “Sue!”

           She snuffs the fireball with a simple thought, arching a stern brow. “Try that again and I’m taking away your Spiderman privileges.”

           Johnny knocks their heads together, whistling a low, sad tune. “Sue, please…” Sue leaves without any further teasing, only Johnny and Peter in the living room now.

           They don’t move. Content standing, loosely embracing, in a moment Peter wishes could last forever. It won’t. Peter’s exhaustion bears down, no longer shielded from it by adrenaline. He’ll leave soon and fall asleep in an empty bed. Wake the next morning doubting if this actually happened. Only believing when Johnny texts him something stupid yet charming, stoking the fires within his heart. Keeping it lit, chasing off any shadows that might hang over their future.

           Because right now, they’re Spiderman and the Human Torch. Peter Parker and Johnny Storm. Amazing and Fantastic.

           And together. Finally, blessedly together.

[gothamincarnate]

[ grab something sharp, find some cover // zombie verse lara lor-van ]

gladsome rays healing center-- raoism in everything but name, trying to take after their child’s urge to help these porcelain doll humans. their human name is vannessa, and they’ve managed to live a quiet life heralding a fledgling “new age” movement.

it’s not quite a secret, but well- they haven’t had time to tell kal that they survived after all this time. they'd sent him here to be on his own. a new parent would just be a burden.

the screaming draws their attention. the little strip mall they’ve set up shop in has become chaos, humans screaming and running. pushing each other, trampling others underfoot.

the ghosts have risen. earth, such strange practices to bury the honored dead. now the bodies are a wave, bottlenecked in the complex.

lara lor-van walks like the royalty they are. kryptonian robes flow behind them in a storm of watery blues and golden suns. but there are monsters ahead, ones that must be put down. a red cape flutters in the middle of the throng. while these humans scurry away aren’t worth attention, their son is somewhere in the fray.

they leap, bounding in the air on the other side of the throng. they land, cracking the concrete between the humans and the damned.

“get inside. go!” maybe kal has a point. alright, fine. they’ll fight. they’ll save as many humans as they can. they see a streak of blue, kal’s own armor flashing in the sun. it looks like he’s falling, failing as a wave of bodies drag him under.

fabric in fists, they tear and discard the blue cloak. black armor shimmers in the sun. the surface looks metallic and shifting. golden spirals swirl beneath like water under glass. it is living crystal, molded in the forge after their final test.

a golden circlet unfolds into a helmet. the dome is ringed in golden tines and spires. the effect is something between hawk’s plumage and sunbeams wreathing their head. a hero’s halo.

they kneel and pull their weapon from a crystal on their thigh. it unfolds into a large golden stave. the tip is a stylized crimson sun. one of the sunbeams is golden, longer than the rest. it’s been sharpened and blessed by their own hands years before their planet died.

the warmth the crystal absorbs is electric. veins sear with warmth-- and they leap again. the stave hardly seems enough against the wall of bodies rushing forward. they shift into a more solid stance, half kneeling on the already bloodsoaked concrete.

a short prayer, a touch of lips to the staff and a call for protection. this fight would be in his honor. for their house, for their guild, for their planet.

arise, champion of rao.

they crash into the bodies swarming, shouldering as many out of the way as possible. defense should be kept up as long as possible. a trick instilled into them from a young age at the forge. offense takes too much energy. weather what you can and then strike when the enemy is exhausted.

harder when the enemy doesn’t stop. doesn’t grow tired, only claws and tears at them. they finally do attack-- superman’s strength, zod’s fighting prowess. lara’s own fury to survive. bones crunch and turn to dust beneath deceptively slender fingers. blood sprays, arcing into the air and catching the sunlight. the blade buries deem into chests, almost always striking true despite the chaos.

one grabs their right leg, arms wrapped around their thigh, trying to gnaw through the crystal. the high pitch scraping noise it makes makes their jaw hurt and echoes even above the screams of the damned. another bites at their left wrist, intelligent enough to try to pry the staff away. biting back the pain, they fly, gripping both bodies and swinging them back down at the earth. a quick scan of the horizon shows no one. not even their child.

another shockwave landing clears out a few more. enough to give them seconds of breathing room. a glance at the office. everyone is inside, secure in rao’s temple.

with a battle cry, they jump back into the fray. the circle closes and cages them in. they attack with ease. fluid-- arms and legs move loosely and slowly. the staff balances and twirls around each limb as needed, no distinction between arms and legs in zod’s forge.

they use the three dimensions to their advantage, attacking from below and the flanks all at once, dipping below the mass’s legs and pushing upward and outward. rao’s staff nimbly rolls from one wrist to the other, red flashing in the sun as they fight.

their son’s hand is buried beneath a mass of bodies and they yank hard, dragging him up into the sky. hanging in the clouded void with them, he winces in pain. a shake of his head, he recovers, smiles at them. gosh, he’s grown up so much, hasn’t he?

“thanks for the help. who are you?”

does he remember the stories they’d sent with him? does he recognize the voice that read fairy tales to him? the knight of vahkd, golden armor blessed by rao to never falter and never fail. the warrior for the people, who learned that while there was glory in the fighting and violence, there must never be glory in needless blood.

did he recognize their armor? the ethos and styling of the martial arts guild was based on rao’s heroes, living sunbeams that could shoot across space in seconds, burning fires that never died.

“i know you.” kal’s face looked-- open, more than the earlier shock. further questions were cut off by the strange skittish silence of a thousand bodies crawling over each other. there wasn’t anymore screaming.

“we’ll talk after, sunbeam.” a smile and a whoop of excitement, they dive back down. stave held ready, they begin to slash through the crowd again, throwing bodies to and fro, lifting corpses up in the air with the stave. again the attacks come from everywhere, no concept of gravity or ground. dancing around the enemy and ripping him apart.

///

lara’s heart was pounding in their chest as the final body fell. kal floated from above, blocking the sun. mother and son were exhausted. lara held themselves up on their staff, chin jutted out, shoulders straight and solid even as their legs wobbled. “you fight like an amazonian.” they smiled and nodded in approval.

“you do too.”

“no i don’t.” they laughed. amazonians would have been well respected on krypton, from what lara had seen of wonder woman. but it was an incredibly different culture. “amazonians use strength and power and full body throws. torq-vahkd is redirection of energy. a flowing movement followed by the killing blow. i would demonstrate but--” a soft laugh as their legs give out. kal rushes forward-- zippy little sunbeam, isn’t he?-- and helps lower them to the ground.

“are you alright?”

“i’m fine. i haven’t fought like that in some years.” they lean back, stretching out in the sun. they sheath the spear and touch the helmet. it folds back up into a circlet. they run hands through their hair, shaking it out with a sigh.

“you’re kryptonian.” it’s said in awe, fingers trace the air above their left shoulder, the red paldron over their heart bears the family crest. he brings the hand back to his chest. the sunbeam darkens, confused and lost. “you’re my family.”

“as you are mine, kal el-vahn.” they nod. “my name is lara lor-van, champion of rao, sworn to the house of el.”

“lara-- wait. mom? i mean, you’re my mother.” he’s elated, then crushed. “how long have you been here? alive? how are you alive?”

“since you were sixteen years old. i fled argos city just before the collector destroyed it. i didn’t mean to end up on earth--”

kal’s hands wrap around their shoulders, squeezing enough that they can feel it through the armor. “you didn’t even want to-- to end up here?”

“this is your planet, kal. your home. you had a family. we gave you everything you needed. i didn’t want to uproot the life you’d already built--”

“i did. i do, i mean.” kal sat down, running his hands through his hair and staring off into space. “i do, they’re great. they didn’t just abandon me to spend years of my life with no idea who i was or why i could do what i did.”

lara’s heart broke for their child. jor, damn him, must have gotten his way. he’d had some plan to turn kal into a symbol, a weapon. it was a defiance to everything rao stood for, and it would doom their son to a life alone and afraid and lost and--

well, how he’d ended up now. “i didn’t realize. i had sent stories with you, to listen to as you grew up. they were supposed to teach you about us. to let you understand where you came from. i cannot change what my husband did. but i am here now, little sunbeam.” they stand, placing a hand on kal’s face. their son leans into it, smiling. “i watched you, when you first put on the cape. i was so proud of you. i still am. you care for them, don’t you? humans?”

kal looks a little stunned. “yes. i do.”

“you showed me how wonderful they are. i’ve seen you save so many lives, and help so many people. rao has given us a gift here, and you’ve used it well. you taught me today, i saved people because... because i saw you doing it. it looked fun. it was. they’re so... squishy and vulnerable.”

kal raised an eyebrow at the word ‘squishy’ but they only shrugged-- it sounded better in kryptonian. kal looked at them and smiled. “vulnerable. yea. we have these gifts that we should use to help others. that’s what, uh, my parents taught me.” and he looked up at that, locking eyes with lara in a strange expression. it’s seeking approval but waiting for a challenge. (what did jor do to you, to make you think of us this way?)

lara simply nods and smiles at their child. their son, grown into a fine hero, a second champion of rao no doubt. “they raised you, of course they’re your parents. as for me, i’ll accept whatever title or role you want me to fill in your life.”

kal nodded, head bobbing a bit distractedly. “you weren’t in the fortress. it was just him. jor-el. he’s the one that told me about krypton, about myself.” he put a hand to his chest. “i tried to tell him no. he-- he seared the house of el into my chest so i wouldn’t forget who i was supposed to serve.”

lara looks, and sees, and god, they’ve never felt nauseous since the finals in the forge. they stand sharply, a hand on their son’s cheek. “krypton is not perfect, there are old and harmful patterns that jor still held onto. i thought my presence on the ship could temper it but--”

“but you weren’t there.”

“no. i wish i had been there to guide you with a steadier hand. i wish i could have told you who you were, to let you grow up with our stories alongside these strange earthling’s fairy tales. yet, i cannot change what has happened, kal. we can only move forward. i will go back to the shadows if you want. i will stay by your side if you want.”

“i--” kal frowned, torn. “i need to figure this out. for now, can we just go... get coffee and talk?”

“of course, sunbeam.” a pause. “is it-- okay to call you sunbeam?”

kal blinked, frowned for a moment before smiling. “yes.”

[honestgrins]

Fighting Fate || Klaroline

Klaus had heard the warnings, read the legends, and sought them out anyway. Caroline, though, doesn't care what the Fates say; as far as she's concerned, he made his own bed.

.

They stared down at him, their blank expressions unnerving. Near a thousand years he'd been searching for these wizened crones, and Klaus still managed to be surprised at the sheer power radiating from ones even more ancient than he. Summoning the Fates had been something of a folly for him over the centuries; prophecy was nothing more than a tool to manipulate vulnerable populations needing to believe, much as he'd done in spinning the sun and moon curse. 

But once he'd come across just the right coven of witches, the spell was too tempting to pass up. To know one's future? To have the endgame surely in mind, soon to hold it in his grasp? With both his curse broken and his father dead, Klaus had thought New Orleans to be his new conquest. The city, however, had proven to be less diverting than originally promised. Instead, he'd taken to traveling the world, openly exploring places where he'd once only hid. 

It was in Athens, of course, when he happened upon the temple where a particularly helpful witch shared all she knew about the Fates her coven had served for generations. Within weeks, he'd seduced his way into their embrace and found himself in the center of a ritual. Candles burned away, his chest streaked with blood as the witches chanting around him suddenly disappeared, leaving him in the temple bathed only in moonlight. He heard them before he saw them, the utter silence in which they existed louder than any pitiful, human heartbeat.

"The Hybrid," they said as one, their voices an odd harmony that grated his ears. "We have watched you for a long while."

He grinned, his fangs dropping with pride. "So you've heard of me."

The tallest one pinned him with a cruel glare. "Invoking power such as ours is foolish for an immortal. To live so long, surely prophecy will only strangle you."

"So harsh," the largest one chided, her smile kindly maternal. It sent a shiver down his spine, though Klaus would never show it. Even a predator knew when he was being hunted. "He went to some trouble to see us, the least we can do is fulfill his quest."

Be careful what you wish for, Rebekah had spat when he'd told her about finding the temple. You just might get it. He knew she feared another vendetta, another excuse to cling to their family tightly while he began yet another war for power. 

He couldn't explain it, the burning need to know what comes next. 

"Be sure, child," the oldest one croaked, not looking away from her knitting needles. "Once you know, you must grapple with the certainty of your fate, still knowing you cannot fight it."

Blood boiling, Klaus fought back a primal snarl at their condescension. With a sharp smirk, he nodded. "Tell me. What is my fate?"

.

She felt warm. Blinking her eyes open, Caroline took in the early morning sun streaming into the fancy hotel suite. The silk pillow was soft against her cheek, but nothing felt as good as the hand coasting along her bare hip. "Good morning, creeper."

"Creeper?" Klaus dropped slow kisses to her neck, his scruff leaving delightful tingles on her skin.

Turning onto her back, she let a hand card through his hair to hold him close. "Don't pretend like you weren't watching me sleep. I will take it as a win that you're too exhausted to bring out that sketchbook you always seem to have handy in my bed."

He smirked into her lips as he urged her into a deep kiss. "You do make a fantastic muse, love. Especially like this, soft and languid in your repose." Brushing his nose down her neck, he landed on her collarbone and the spray of freckles usually hidden from him. "It's been too long," he mourned quietly.

"We barely made it five years this time," she reminded, voice gentle as her hand resumed scratching through his curls. "And you still haven't told me why you crashed my gala."

It was a triumph, if she said so herself. Her most high-profile event to date, everything went flawlessly - including the Original Hybrid sweeping her off her feet at the end of the night, dressed in a tux tailored so perfectly she almost felt bad tearing it off him.

Almost.

But she knew Klaus, and he rarely made an appearance unless something was wrong. Thirty years as a vampire, and he'd somehow become the constant she would carry throughout eternity. Decades could pass, and their eyes would still meet across a room like they were back in Mystic Falls. They were strangers yet kindred spirits, and the fun was in the tug of wills between them. If he wasn't being overtly megalomanic and even dared to charm her, it wasn't hard to fall into bed with him. She actually kind of loved their dynamic once they were away from the supernatural drama and the more rigid human ideals she'd tried so hard to abide by. 

With him, Caroline could just be. For the girl who always tried too hard, Klaus was something of a relief. 

Except when there was a game being played, then he was a chore. As his hand trailed down to her breast with his predator's gaze heavy on her face, she knew all too well a game was afoot. She tugged on his hair, making him sit up with her. "What's going on?"

"I don't know what you-"

"Klaus."

Sighing, he pulled her into his lap and smiled softly when she allowed it. "You're too clever for  your own good, sweetheart."

"I know," she shrugged. He was always good for an ego boost, and she felt particularly aglow after that fourth round. "Now, tell me."

He brushed her loose hair back from her face, his own expression troubled. "Do you believe in fate, Caroline?"

Taken by surprise, her mouth drops open in thought. "I...don't know. It certainly feels like someone out there is waiting to drop bad news every time something good happens, but usually, it's just you or the Salvatores dropping some fresh hell on my doorstep." She bit her lip. "But do I think there's some larger plan I'm destined to fulfill? God, I hope not. I'd hate to let all my therapists' work to lessen my type-A anxiety planning go to waste because I was meant to be the first vampire to die by panic attack."

With a dark chuckle, Klaus rubbed her back comfortingly. "I've met them," he murmured. "The Fates. I asked them for mine, and..."

Hands shaking, she cupped his face, scared at the sudden steel in his eyes. "Is this why you came to me? Because of whatever prophecy they gave you?"

"I need you to come with me, sweetheart. This fate," he paused, anger and fear and determination thickening the air between them. "It cannot come to pass, but it will if you stay here."

Caroline backed away, not thrilled when he clenched his hands around her wrists. "Klaus, this is not what we agreed to. I'm free, remember? You honored my wish to live as I chose, with the occasional visit and absolutely no commandeering."

Pain crushed his whole face, and she felt helpless at what he must have heard. "This is me honoring your wish to live," he promised - just before he snapped her neck, and everything went black.

.

You will lose that which you hold most dear, over and over and over again. Nothing lasts forever but you.

.

When she awoke for the second time, any warmth she felt was pure rage boiling her from the inside out. The bed was just as soft as the hotel's, but she recognized the scent and peculiar movements of the private jet they were actually on. Oh, she was regretting that trip to Paris now, if only to allow herself to pretend that Klaus hadn't freaking kidnapped her.

But he did.

Caroline didn't know how she'd make him be the one regretting things, not yet. However, she thought she had a strong start with 'getting the hell away from him.' It would take a call to Bonnie, maybe getting Kol or Rebekah to run interference for her, then a whole lot of luck to skirt past his many spies all over the world. 

And maybe she wouldn't punish him forever, but that was a problem for her future self. Her present self wasn't all too keen on cutting him slack anytime soon. Still, she forced herself to hide the true depth of her anger when he somewhat abashedly handed her a blood bag. Petulant and hurt, he would buy. He probably even expected an escape attempt or two. 

She could be patient, and she would wait for the opportunity that might work. Whatever fate Klaus feared, Caroline had no intention to stick around and find out.

[asbraveasrobb]

Can you point out more parallels between House Stark/the North and House Martell/Dorne, please??

Let me count the ways…

Between the North and Dorne, well let’s start with the obvious WOIAF passage:  

Archmaester Brude, who was born and raised in the shadow city that huddles beneath the crumbling walls of Sunspear, once famously observed that Dorne has more in common with the distant North than either does with the realms that lie between them. “One is hot and one is cold, yet these ancient kingdoms of sand and snow are set apart from the rest of Westeros by history, culture, and tradition. Both are thinly peopled, compared to the lands betwixt. Both cling stubbornly to their own laws and their own traditions. Neither was ever truly conquered by the dragons. The King in the North accepted Aegon Targaryen as his overlord peaceably, whilst Dorne resisted the might of the Targaryens valiantly for almost two hundred years, before finally submitting to the Iron Throne through marriage. Dornishmen and Northmen alike are derided as savages by the ignorant of the five ‘civilized’ kingdoms, and celebrated for their valor by those who have crossed swords with them.”

Unity and Identity

To be noted is this idea of being “other.” The North has the blood of the First Men and their strange, savage gods and Dorne has the blood of the Rhoynar and all the seemingly strange customs that go with that. Because of this “othering,” Dorne and the North have a sense of unity that the other kingdoms lack. We see this in Dorne refusing to kneel to foreign invaders, no Dornish lords betraying Sunspear even after the Targaryens tried to turn them against their liege, and when they are conquered the smallfolk of Dorne rise up in resistance. In the North, we see this in Greatjon Umber’s speech that “Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong.” We see it in Tyrion knowing even as an outsider that the Lord of Winterfell would always be a Stark, we see it in the Mountain Clans risking all to save “the Ned’s little girl.” As we hear a hundred times, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I think a key difference in their sense of unity is that in the North the lords will only bend a knee to the Starks but in Dorne the high and low will only bend their knee to a Dornishman. Dorne has a strong patriotism and national identity that high and low sacrificed thousands of lives to keep. Smallfolk of the North are loyal to the Starks because the Starks protect them during winter. But there is not nearly as strong patriotism for “the North.” Firstly, when Torrhen Stark surrenders to Aegon the Conqueror, the smallfolk do not rise in anger the way the smallfolk of Dorne do after the Submission of Sunspear. Secondly, Dorne is the only kingdom in Westeros that has a true name. “The North,” is not the name of a country. North of what? That puts their identity as related to another land. Dorne does not call itself “the South.” Dorne is a country, so Dorne must have a name. 

Even where there is disunity, Dorne and the North compare. House Bolton and House Yronwood—the vassals that were once kings of great power. House Bolton rebelled against the Kings of Winterfell and most recently…ya know…stabbed one and took his castle. House Yronwood fought against their Martell overlords in three of the Blackfyre rebellions. Many of the great houses have a powerful vassal who gives them pause, but only the Starks of Winterfell and the Martells of Sunspear have a rival within their realm with a turbulent history for centuries before Aegon’s Conquest.

Outsiders

As Meria Martell said, “This is Dorne. You are not wanted here.” That…that about sums it up. Both kingdoms have just one skinny border. Because of this, both the Northerners and Dornishmen express the idea of fighting better on their own soil, notably Moat Cailin or the Prince’s Pass and Boneway. It’s damn hard to get into either kingdom, and when you do…

You are not wanted. We see this in the POV’s of outsiders: 

He remembered their godswood; the tall sentinels armored in their grey-green needles, the great oaks, the hawthorn and ash and soldier pines, and at the center the heart tree standing like some pale giant frozen in time. He could almost smell the place, earthy and brooding, the smell of centuries, and he remembered how dark the wood had been even by day. That wood was Winterfell. It was the north. I never felt so out of place as I did when I walked there, so much an unwelcome intruder. He wondered if the Greyjoys would feel it too. The castle might well be theirs, but never that godswood. Not in a year, or ten, or fifty.

A Clash of Kings, Tyrion XI

This place is strange to him, and little to his liking. Hotah could understand that. Dorne had seemed a queer place to him as well when first he came here with his own princess, many years ago. The bearded priests had drilled him on the Common Speech of Westeros before they sent him forth, but the Dornishmen all spoke too quickly for him to understand. Dornish women were lewd, Dornish wine was sour, and Dornish food was full of queer hot spices. And the Dornish sun was hotter than the pale, wan sun of Norvos, glaring down from a blue sky day after day.

A Dance with Dragons, The Watcher

Ser Arys Oakheart pulled up his hood to cover his face. It would not do for him to be recognized. A fortnight past, a trader had been butchered in the shadow city, a harmless man who’d come to Dorne for fruit and found death instead of dates. His only crime was being from King’s Landing.

A Feast for Crows, The Soiled Knight (smallfolk loyalty, amirite?)

Which brings us to the Lady of Winterfell and the Lady of Sunspear, Catelyn and Mellario, who I talk about more here. Both wed to great lords for many years, both loved them, both bore them children, both always felt as outsiders. Catelyn wed a stranger and found love, Mellario wed her love and found a stranger. Because they did not just wed a man, the wed a land, a land that felt strange and queer to them.

When I first came to Winterfell, I was hurt whenever Ned went to the godswood to sit beneath his heart tree. Part of his soul was in that tree, I knew, a part I would never share. Yet without that part, I soon realized, he would not have been Ned. Jeyne, child, you have wed the north, as I did … 

A Storm of Swords, Catelyn III

Robert’s Rebellion to Present

The previous generation of House Stark and House Martell have similarities in plot, character, and themes. Unfortunately, we do not have as much information about the Princes of Sunspear during Robert’s Rebellion as we do about Ned. 

Elia and Lyanna

One woman, one girl, two lives that impacted their brothers so much, two deaths that their brothers never forgot. Because they are dead before AGOT, we know very little about their personalities, but what we do know seem all at odds. Sweet and gentle Elia, bold and brash Lyanna. AGOT opens the narrative of Robert’s Rebellion as a war between Rhaegar and Robert over Lyanna. Obviously there is more to it, the rights of lords, broken feudal contracts, etc, but if House Martell and House Stark have anything in common it is the bond of familial love. Elia and Lyanna were both a “princess in the tower” and their brothers were fighting to save them from their imprisonment. Elia and Lyanna’s most poignant similarity? They were both abandoned by Rhaegar. Elia was left in King’s Landing as a hostage to Rhaegar’s notoriously racist and unstable father, and Lyanna was left in the Tower of Joy. They both were powerless, striped of whatever agency they might have once had, and dead before their time. 

I assume that Lyanna went willingly with Rhaegar, whether for love or freedom or a combination of both, we do not know. If she went willingly, that means she ran off with Rhaegar and Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent. And later, she watched the latter two try to kill her brother. Elia came to King’s Landing as the wife of the Prince of Dragonstone, and mother to his heir, yet when Rhaegar left she fell from princess to hostage. Another tragedy of similar style: both Elia and Lyanna watched their guardians turn to gaolers. 

And so Elia and Lyanna are the bookends of Robert’s Rebellion. Elia in King’s Landing watches Brandon Stark ride in and demand justice for his sister, not knowing that her own hotheaded brother would do the same fifteen years later. Elia is present in King’s Landing for the first death of the rebellion, and Lyanna is there for the last.

Ned and Doran

Superficially, the basic gist of their brothers’ personalities appear similar: Brandon and Oberyn are hotheaded, rash, bloodthirsty, lustful, and bold while Ned and Doran are quiet, temperate, and patient. But if we delve a little deeper into the latter two…

Innocents

Ned and Doran have a concern for the innocent that is (unfortunately) atypical in Westerosi lords. We see that all the Stark children have learned from their father that “a good lord protects his people.” Doran similarly expresses to his own daughter that “it is an easy thing for a prince to call the spears, but in the end the children pay the price. For their sake, the wise prince will wage no war without good cause, nor any war he cannot hope to win.”

And we see that these mindsets are not just individual to Ned and Doran, they are institutional, with the construction of the Water Gardens and the use of Winterfell during winter to preserve thousands of smallfolk.

In the end, the children pay the price. Which brings us to…

Rhaenys and Aegon

Lyanna’s death meant nothing to Doran and Oberyn, and Elia’s death meant nothing to Ned. But Rhaenys and Aegon, the death of innocent children was an injustice that no one cared about, no one mentioned, no one was punished for. Why, the only people who could not get over it were Doran, Oberyn, and Ned. These deaths and the lack of justice leads to Doran and Oberyn becoming disloyal to the throne and plotting against all responsible, and it drove a wedge between Ned and Robert that causes Ned to keep his own secret from Robert, the greatest and most terrible secret. Jon.

Secrets

Promise me, Ned, Lyanna once pleaded. And so Ned promised her. He took Jon as his own, and he never told a soul, not even Catelyn who he came to love or Jon who desperately wanted answers.

Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust.

A Game of Thrones, Eddard VIII

Eddard cannot forget the murders of Rhaenys and Aegon no matter how hard he tries, and when Robert plans to murder Daenerys Ned is once again reminded of Robert’s darker side. And so Ned sacrifices his honor. He sacrifices his wife’s and child’s happiness. He sacrifices all for the shade of his beloved sister. Wait…this sounds familiar…

The old knight read the pact slowly. “If Robert had known of this, he would have smashed Sunspear as he once smashed Pyke, and claimed the heads of Prince Doran and the Red Viper … and like as not, the head of this Dornish princess too.”“No doubt that was why Prince Doran chose to keep the pact a secret,” suggested Daenerys. 

A Dance with Dragons, Daenerys VII

Themes

Grief

She had lived too long, and Ned was waiting.

A Storm of Swords, Catelyn VII

These books are all filled with grief, but something about Catelyn’s grief in the novels stuck with me. It was hopeless, it was one by one losing everything and trying to just roll over and give up. It was this old, worn out, lived too long type grief. It was losing the people who you were never supposed to lose. It was trying not to be consumed because people depend on you. Catelyn’s grief was losing her children until only Robb remained to her, but he had lost all his childhood as well. And then her POV ended.

But the grief returned, manifested somewhere new. 

“I was the oldest,” the prince said, “and yet I am the last. After Mors and Olyvar died in their cradles, I gave up hope of brothers. I was nine when Elia came, a squire in service at Salt Shore. When the raven arrived with word that my mother had been brought to bed a month too soon, I was old enough to understand that meant the child would not live. Even when Lord Gargalen told me that I had a sister, I assured him that she must shortly die. Yet she lived, by the Mother’s mercy. And a year later Oberyn arrived, squalling and kicking. I was a man grown when they were playing in these pools. Yet here I sit, and they are gone.”

A Feast for Crows, The Captain of the Guards

And we see a man still grieving for his sister after fifteen years, now fresh in the grief of his beloved brother. And we watch Areo Hotah stand guard over this sad, silent man, not privy to his thoughts like we were Catelyn’s. But we soon see those thoughts parallel beyond their grief.

Desire for peace vs. desire for justice

Both Catelyn and Doran share a similar thematic storyline as their grief unfolds and they are faced with conflicting desires: desire for peace vs. desire for justice. They both feel a great duty to defend their people. For Catelyn, this is her family. For Doran, it is Dorne; it is the children in the pools. And yet…they want justice and justice is not given easily. This conflict is central to their characters; it has caused Doran to not fight any war he cannot win. It leads Catelyn to choose the hope of her daughters over justice against Jaime Lannister.

“Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Now the three of you want vengeance for him. I have four daughters, I remind you. Your sisters. My Elia is fourteen, almost a woman. Obella is twelve, on the brink of maidenhood. They worship you, as Dorea and Loreza worship them. If you should die, must El and Obella seek vengeance for you, then Dorea and Loree for them? Is that how it goes, round and round forever? I ask again, where does it end?” Ellaria Sand laid her hand on the Mountain’s head. “I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?”

A Dance with Dragons, The Watcher

The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pounding their fists on the table. Catelyn waited until they had quieted. “My lords,” she said then, “Lord Eddard was your liege, but I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you?” Her voice almost broke with her grief, but Catelyn took a long breath and steadied herself. “Robb, if that sword could bring him back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned stood at my side once more … but he is gone, and a hundred Whispering Woods will not change that. Ned is gone, and Daryn Hornwood, and Lord Karstark’s valiant sons, and many other good men besides, and none of them will return to us. Must we have more deaths still?”

A Game of Thrones, Catelyn XI

Catelyn and Ellaria are pleading for peace instead of getting caught in a cycle of vengeance. House Stark’s and House Martell’s desire for justice is very similar—it is not good enough that someone dies for it. They want to make it does not happen again. For Robb and the North, that meant declaring independence. For the Martells, we see it in Oberyn coming to King’s Landing to publically condemn Tywin and Ser Gregor. When Robb and his lords are faced with the prospect of peace, its not Brynden Tully’s warning that they could never trust a peace with Tywin anyways that makes them keep fighting. It is the idea of dying in vain and the desire to make death have meaning.

“What did Torrhen and my Eddard die for, if I am to return to Karhold with nothing but their bones?” asked Rickard Karstark.

“Aye,” said Lord Bracken. “Gregor Clegane laid waste to my fields, slaughtered my smallfolk, and left Stone Hedge a smoking ruin. Am I now to bend the knee to the ones who sent him? What have we fought for, if we are to put all back as it was before?”

A Game of Thrones, Catelyn XI

This sentiment to pursue the course in order to make life have meaning is found again in Quentyn’s storyline. But Quentyn is reminded, “Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths.” Yet it still remains to be seen if that lesson died with him, and if Quentyn’s futile death becomes something Doran must give meaning.

As we know, Robb did not listen to Catelyn…but will Doran listen to Ellaria?

Secret princes: Jon Snow and Young Griff

(So help me if someone says the two Aegons…)

Not only do Doran and Ned have their secrets, they have their secret princes as well. The last remnant of lost sister. As of TWOW, Young Griff has reached out to his supposed Uncle for aid. Young Griff as a character is a foil for Jon, the two secret princes, one oblivious of his heritage and forging his own path, the other oblivious to his heritage and that he is only a mummer’s dragon on another’s strings. And it’s hinted that Aegon will meet his maker quite soon (most likely at the hands of Dany). Whether or not Dorne throws its lot in with him remains to be seen, but the fact of it is that Jon is the “true secret prince” we will naturally root for simply because the narrative introduced him in AGOT and not ADWD, just as the Martells were not introduced until ASOS. And that is the greatest and saddest distinction between these thematically very similar house storylines: the Martells were not given their own version of “The wolves will come again.”

[myroomisblue]

The State of Human Rights in the Philippines: Yay or Nay?

Mother and Son were shot dead by an off-duty policeman days before new year. Public market vendors were forced to compromise their vision and breathing to comply with the health protocol of the city. An old man was fined thousands of pesos for breaching quarantine protocols to provide food for his family, while a group of celebrities and influencers were only reprimanded for having a party amidst this pandemic. Thousands of Filipinos lost their jobs because of the declining economy yet government officials are forcing people to look at the “brighter side”. University students who express their freedom of expression and assembly were red tagged, dismissing critical thinking as an act of rebellion against the government. I can go on and on about the injustices of our country. Therefore, the State of Human Rights in the Philippines must be criticized.

Filipinos are living on the edge of their seats, especially during this unfortunate times of pandemic. This circumstance only revealed the rotting system that we already have. You’ll only be heard unless you’re rich, powerful, and has connections, otherwise your case will be filed as one of those “nanlaban” and collateral damage. The Philippines rely so much in the presence of social stratification. The basic right of food, water, and shelter costs much, it seems like it classifies as a want rather than a need. Some children in the far-flung areas are deprived of education and sufficient learning institutions and materials. Our system nowadays become so elitist that in order to be safe, you must work from home, with your gadgets and a strong internet connection. How about those people whose source of living is dependent on the streets? The very root cause of today’s injustices is stemmed in effective governance. Without equal opportunity for all, our country cannot produce leaders whose intent are centered to the welfare of the community.

The students. A list of 38 universities was released, identified as breeding grounds of rebellion and recruitment. This is done without a backed-up study and no data was released to prove this claim. How easy it is for someone in power to compromise the safety of the young ones without due process? I don’t know and I am not sure of the reason behind this action, but are they really that afraid of educated voters to threaten the lives of the youth who practice critical thinking and analysis? We owe to the next generations a system that empowers and nurtures them to attain good life.  May the condition of our State be better in the years to come.

[thefragileblackdahlia]

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester: Part two

Chapter Summary

The brothers and Ariel deduce a witch is sacrificing people to summon a dangerous demon. Dean struggles with the consequences of Ariel’s behavior.

Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Ariel, Castiel x Ariel

Warning(s): Heavy Angst, MAJOR Character Death, Fluff (if you squint), Typical SUPERNATURAL Violence, Mild Language

A/N: This episode will focus heavily on Ariel’s POV. It is still in 3rd person but centered around her experiences. So it won’t involve much of the episode besides the parts i find crucial. Please feel free to leave feedback.

Beta’d by no one

Word count: 2,737

Ariel’s outfits

MOTEL

OCTOBER 31ST, 2008

Sam had only left the room for about 2 minutes before the angels came flying in. A pair of shackles were slapped around her wrists, Enochian magic etched into them to prevent her from going anywhere.

"Castiel?" Ariel queried.

"I'm sorry." Castiel threw the blade at Ariel; it plunging deep into her chest. The soldier flew behind the angel and grabbed the edge, plunging it deeper into her before pulling it out and penetrating her side.

"Cassie?" Ariel whimpered, wrapping her hands around his that held the blade in place.

Cas removed the blade and cocked his arm back, sinking the blade between her shoulder blades. He knew that it wouldn't kill her, just fatally wound her to the point where she couldn't depend on her grace to heal quickly.

"I had no choice."

Ariel's whole body went lip and crashed to the floor by the bed. Blood spewed out of her wounds.

A loud thud came from a particular room upstairs.

"GET THESE OFF OF ME!!"

Sam and Dean looked up from the parking lot, confused.

"Ariel?" Sam questioned, pulling the motel keys from his pocket. He glanced at his brother, whose face went from puzzled to worry in under one second flat.

Dean started for the stairs, briskly walking and then jogged. Sam was close behind with the keys.

Once Sam got the door open, he immediately drew his gun. "Who are you?!" The frightened hunter demanded, training his weapon on the offending man who had Ariel kneeling beside him, with blood pouring onto the homely carpet.

Dean immediately rushed in and tried to stop Sam from almost shooting the man. "Sam! Sam, wait! It's Castiel." The older brother put his hand on Sam's gun and pushed it down, Sam stood there, anger still written on his face." The other Angel." He added.

Dean spotted another figure in the room, standing by the far window. "Him, I don't know."

"What did you do to her?" Dean breathed. He glanced down at the fallen Ariel and a triumphant Castiels still sitting on the bed.

Ariel pulled her bloodstained lips into a lopsided grin, "He stabbed me- Three times to be exact. I guess that's how siblings greet each other now."

Castiel stood to his feet, stepping around the fallen woman, "Hello, Sam."

"Oh my God- uh- I didn't mean to- sorry. It's an honor, really, I've heard a lot about you." Sam stepped forward as he spoke and held out his hand for Castiel to shake.

Castiel glanced at Sam's extended hand, unsure of what to do. Was he supposed to pull it? Chop it off? Squeeze it?

Ariel let out a small cackle, blood dripping from the crease of her lips and trickling down her chin into her cleavage. "You're supposed to shake it, ass." She hacked and glanced at her wounds.

Sam shook his hand a little, and Castiel finally understood, sliding his hand into Sam's and returning the gesture.

"And I, you. Sam Winchester-" The soldier turned over the hunter's hand and placed his own over the back as he resumed talking. "The boy with the demon blood."

"Castiel..." Ariel wheezed as she heard him address her friend in such a rude way.

Dean, who had returned from closing the door, gazed down at his angel. He could see that one of her shoulders had a giant gash. The righteous man's expression hardened at the view, a vein popping out of his neck.

Dean averted his gaze when Castiel resumed talking.

"Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities," Castiel affirmed, letting go of Samuel's hand and returning his arms to his sides.

The mysterious figure finally spoke, "Let's keep it that way."

"Touch Sam Winchester, and I'll devour you, and you'll not only feel my wrath but Father's." Ariel sneered, digging her nails into the carpet as more blood gushed out of her wounds.

Uriel chuckled, "Following in your beloved's footsteps, huh? First, you rebel just like him, and now you've fallen in every way imaginable. I'm not frightened by an atrocity like you, especially not in those cuffs."

Dean stepped forward and clenched his fist, "Yeah, okay, chuckles." The human looked back to the trench-coated angel. "Who's your friend?"

Castiel glanced down at Ariel with a pang in his vessel's heart. "This raising of Samhain- have you stopped it?"

"Why?" Dean replied.

"Dean- Have you located the witch?" Cas questioned, turning his attention to Dean and him only.

Ariel spoke for Dean. "Yes, we've located the witch."

"And is the witch dead?"

Sam tilted his head, a bit confused, "No, but-"

"We know who it is." Dean cut him off.

Castiel walked over to the side table, "Apparently, the witch knows who you are too." The soldier retrieved a hex bag and showed it to the hunters. He sighed, "This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn't found it, surely one or both of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?"

Sam and Dean exchange a look of uncertainty, a bit sheepish. "We're working on it."

"That's unfortunate," Cas said flatly, looking up and at the back of Uriel's bald head.

"What do you care?" Dean grumbled.

The soldier looked down at his fallen sister, "The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals."

Dean pulled his lip into a thin line, "So, this is about your buddy Lucifer."

Again, the mysterious man spoke when no one wanted him to, "Lucifer is no friend of ours- Heard he's pretty close with Ariel though, jealous?"

Ariel sniffled, clenching her teeth at Uriel's behavior. "It's just an expression." She huffed.

"Lucifer cannot rise. The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs. Ariel knew of this. I'm not understanding why she didn't inform you." Castiel gestured to the broken archangel, who was still bleeding on the floor.

Dean's blood ran cold when hearing of this newfound information. Ariel knew all of this but chose to keep it under wraps, for what? Was she really on their side or just there to slow them down?

Dean turned to the archangel, ignoring her glossy eyes. "You knew?" He queried, hoping it was a lie."No- We'll talk about this later." The hunter shut his eyes, and inhaled deeply tried his best to recollect himself.

"Why don't you tell us where the witch is, we'll gank her, and everybody goes home." Dean pointed to Castiel.

"We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful, and she's cloaked even to our methods." Castiel walked back over to the brothers, the hex bag still in his hand.

Sam took a deep breath, "Okay, well we already know who she is, so if we work together-"

"Enough of this." The man's voice boomed.

Dean, who has had enough of Angels being unbelievable, took a few steps toward the dark skin man. "Okay, Who are you, and why should I care?"

Uriel finally turned from the window, glaring at Dean and Sam.

Castiel subtly rolled his eyes and dreaded introducing Uriel, "This is Uriel, he's what you might call a....specialist."

Uriel marched toward the group with his hands behind his back like he was something important.

The imprisoned angel pushed herself to her feet with the help of Dean. "No..." Ariel murmured, clenching her fist.

Dean began to panic, "What kind of specialist?" He looked to his angel companion and then toward Uriel, who donned a smug smile. "What are you gonna do?"

"You- uh, both of you- you need to leave this town immediately." Castiel murmured.

"Why?" Sam took a step back.

Ariel gritted her teeth, anticipating Castiel's response.

Castiel hesitated, "Because we're about to destroy it."  

There was a long beat, filled with worried glances and small panting from the injured woman.

"You are not about to smite these innocent humans! They have no clue on to what's going on, and if you plan on killing them, you're going to have to worry about more than Lucifer rising." Ariel spat, glaring at Uriel, who didn't even bat an eye.

"This isn't the first time I've...purified a city. Come to think of it, weren't you the one who gave out a command similar to this one?" Uriel grinned, challenging the woman.

Ariel held a hand to her side; blood still oozing out of her shoulder. "And I regretted it ever since I saw the pain it caused them."

Castiel held up his arms, "Look, I understand this is regrettable but-"

"Regrettable?" Dean jeered.

"We have to hold the line. Too many seals have been broken already." Cas countered.

Dean glowered, "So you screw the pooch on some seals, and this town has to pay the price?"

"It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There's a bigger picture here." Castiel replied.

Ariel took a step forward, clutching the chains. "Right, 'cause big brother Michael knows best."

Dean stepped back from his angel, giving her the space that she needed if she wanted to kick some ass.

"Sister-" Castiel started but was cut off by a substantial blow to the face from Ariel.

"You don't get to call me that, not you!" Ariel's voice boomed, reverberating off of the walls. "When I get out of these chains..."

Castiel whirled with the force of the punch, licking the blood from his lips. "Listen, Ariel. You know yourself that Lucifer cannot rise- Not after what he did to you-" The soldier inhaled deeply and cleared his throat; emotions weren't permitted. "If he does, Hell rises with him. Is that something that you're willing to risk?"

There was a long pause.

"Ariel, are you willing to risk your life, plus the lives of six million people because of one measly town." Uriel stepped to the woman.

"I am."

"What?" Dean's eyes met with Ariel's. "No..." He gruffed.

Sam observed his brother and Ariel. The way they looked at each other, it was like they were already saying goodbye- in their own way. In the distant future, Dean could be happy with Ariel. She didn't have to die, not today, not ever.

"We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die." Sam pleaded.

The specialist sneered, "We're wasting time with these mud monkeys."

"I won't hesitate to kill you." Ariel growled, her wings twitching with anticipation. She was eager to feel the stinging cold metal of the angel blade, sinking into Uriel's warm flesh.

Castiel looked to his former best friend, hurt in his eyes but hate in his voice. All he could do was turn away from her, his hell-fire scorched wings draped against the floor, displaying his sorrow. "I'm sorry, but we have our orders."

"No, you can't do this, you're angels, I mean- aren't you supposed to..."Sam curled and unfurled his fingers, unsure of what to do with the bubbling anger rising inside of him. All he knew was, this wasn't okay. "You're supposed to show mercy."

Uriel smirked at Sam's ignorance, "Says who?"

"We have no choice." Castiel murmured.

Ariel gritted her teeth, "No choice...Of course, you have a choice. We watched the humans grow together, from the fish, and you betrayed me. You were so young...Where did he go?"

The trenchcoated angel furrowed his brows and frowned at the archangel. "Would you rather me be like you, sister,  homeless, fallen and lost? You think you mean well here, but you're nothing but a burden on their shoulders."

Ariel's face contorted at his words, each one wrenching what little hope she had left in her heart. "You don't mean that...you're just hurt."

Castiel's expression hardened. "Why do you think Michael locked you away? Because you couldn't obey simple rules. You were a burden that Father left him because your counterpart is evil incarnate. And it won't be long until you're just like him."

The archangel lowered her gaze, his words stinging in her ear. She didn't expect him to go that low. They used to be best friends, and now he was speaking about so horrible to her.

"HEY!" Dean stepped to Castiel, protectively pushing Ariel behind him. He glanced back at his angel with a finger pointed at her."You have a home." The righteous man whipped back around with a glowering visage. "She has a home, and it's here with us. Now you can take that, and you can shove it up your ass."

Dean's jaw stiffened as he felt Ariel's soft hand grasping his forearm, her attempt to calm him down failed. "I mean, what you've never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?"

"At least Ariel's got the balls to do what you dickless wingbags couldn't do. So you leave her out of this. Now you can insult me and Sammy all you want, but don't call her a burden." The enraged hunter inched closer to the soldier, chest to chest with him.

"Look, even if you can't understand it, have faith. The plan is just." Castiel muttered, scowling at Dean.

Samuel and Ariel spoke in chorus, "How can you even say that?" Sam had a disgusted tone, but Ariel's anger overshadowed him. Her wings were now flared, and there was a faint ringing noise filling the room.

"Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just." Castiel declared.

Dean tilted his head down and gazed up at the angel, "Oh, must be nice- to be so sure of yourselves."

Castiel sighed and gazed at the wall, "Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn't you obey?"

"Don't you dare try to justify your horrific 'orders' by bringing John Winchester into this." Ariel hissed.

Dean shifted on his feet and licked his lips. "Looks like plans have changed." He uttered.

"You think you can stop us?" Uriel queried, an amused look plastered on his face.

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched as he thought it over. "No," He started. "But if you're gonna smite this whole town...then you're gonna have to smite all three of us with it." The human gradually came closer to the specialist angel, still not done with his speech. "Because we are not leaving. See, you went to the trouble of bustin' me out of hell. I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how Daddy digs that."

"Tch," Uriel scoffed at Dean's outlandish behavior. How dare a human talk to an angel of the lord as if they were on the same level. "I will drag you out of here myself." He sneered.

The lights in the room began flickering, a loud ringing filling the vicinity. All the men turned to find Ariel standing behind Dean; her wings projected onto the wall, the room not big enough for her to spread them out further. She rolled her shoulders back as her head hung low, but a bright red glow surrounded her eyes.

"I dare you to touch Dean Winchester." Ariel's voice carried through everyone's head, echoing and causing them all to recoil.

Sam swallowed hard, taking a few steps away from Ariel and closer to the desk by the mirror.

Castiel clenched his jaw as he took in the sight of his once bright and cheery sister. Her entire essence was shrouded in darkness, and now he wasn't sure if they could undo any of this. 'Damnit,' He thought.

Ariel slowly made her way to Uriel, taking her rightful place next to Dean, who hid his fear well, masking it with anger. Her charcoal and blood-red wings formed a shield-like shape around her and Dean as she resumed talking.

"Touch him and so help me, Dad I will waste every last Angel in heaven- and I won't hesitate any longer the more you stare at me with that glower. I will wipe it off your insightful face." Ariel growled her last words through clenched teeth.

The cuffs began turning red, the Enochian warding glowing a vivid red.

Before she could melt the handcuffs, Castiel unsheathed the archangel blade he was lent and plunged it deep into her throat.

Sam and Dean flinched at the sudden movement, "No!" They cried in unison.

Ariel looked up to Dean with an agonized expression, before all three angels disappeared.

FINAL PART

SERIES MASTERLIST

[apprenticebard]

This is part of a longer piece, but I think it works as a standalone scene, too, so here. Warnings for implied/discussed rape + depictions of violence. (It’s all stuff from the canonical city elf origin, and it’s less explicit than the game itself.) I’ll put it on Ao3 when I finish the rest of it.

---

The events of the morning fade almost too quickly. As soon as she gets over the initial shock of being conscripted, Aria Tabris is all questions, wanting to know everything she can about the Wardens. She exhausts Duncan's store of standard information by mid-afternoon, and then moves on to other questions—are there other elves in the wardens? Women? Dwarves? Mages? Are they paid for serving? Do they have professions outside being wardens? Not that it matters, but are any of them married? What do darkspawn look like? Are they really corrupted magisters, like the chantry says? Can they all use magic? Are the magic ones connected to the fade? Can they strategize, or is it all just rushing towards the nearest person? What about lower-level tactics, like parrying blows? If some of them can use crossbows, doesn't that indicate a level of intelligent thought beyond that of, say, cats, or are things like that more innate than learned when it comes to monsters? Has he ever stopped to consider the relative intelligence of cats, and how difficult it is to measure something like that? (He has not.)

It isn't until nightfall that the shadows press in around her and seep into her dreams. She wakes up sickened and disoriented, her mind clawing at images of Vaughan's face and Nola's corpse. She remembers the stench of death. The sick, slippery feeling of blood on the floor. The sense that her emotions were too large to fit in her body, as she became a shell devoid of anything but movement—beyond anger, beyond fear, beyond uncertainty. The way her ill-fitting, stolen armor glinted in the sunlight when she raised her hand, calm as a statue of a saint, and said it was my doing. She had not been afraid. She was not capable of fear, by that point. She'd been staring her death in the face, and she wasn't going to give death the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

Only she isn't dead, not yet. She clings to life like a sick person who, despite having no chance of recovery, has not yet actually vacated the premises. Sometimes death is lazy; sometimes the valkyries deliberate. Sometimes one is left between states, too weak to live and too strong to die (or, perhaps, the opposite).

Somehow she staggers off her bedroll and manages to lean against the nearest tree. She hasn't eaten enough in the past day to vomit up much more than acid, but her whole frame shakes for minutes afterward. She makes very little noise while she cries. Eventually, she becomes aware that Duncan is watching her.

"I wasn't running," she bites out, when she can speak. "Just had to take a minute."

"Peace, Tabris," he answers. He offers her a canteen. She nods her thanks before drinking, though it takes another minute for her to finish centering herself. He waits.

"I don't get it," she says, at last.

"The world is a violent place."

"I know that," she snaps. "I meant you. Looking for recruits to fight the blight and save the world, I understand that. But why the alienage? Elves aren't even allowed to carry weapons. You can conscript anyone at all, and you pick the people who can't recognize the sharp end of a sword."

He is silent for a long moment. She senses that there is something he isn't telling her, but he takes the question seriously, offering her what he has, wisdom passed from the dead to the dying. "No man controls the circumstances of his birth. Whether he is elven or human, rich or poor, mage or not. The same cannot be said of heroism and nobility of spirit. They are often found in unlikely places."

"Maybe," she answers, but says no more.

The days that follow are calmer, as Aria settles into the rhythm of waiting for the last piece of death to set in. She does not complain, either about their pace or their less-than-appetizing travel rations. They pass through various small towns without stopping for the night, but they do buy more supplies, and Aria is allowed to spend some of her meager savings on a few balls of yarn. It's cold in the south, and she doesn't have much in the way of warm clothing. Besides, it keeps her hands occupied. As nervous habits go, at least knitting is a useful one. Duncan worries that it leaves her distracted and open to attack, but he gives her the choice up front, rather than issue a blanket ultimatum: either continue knitting and be on guard, or put the project away and focus on the road. She decides to continue, and later dodges his attack without trouble. The next day, he offers to pay her to knit a new pair of socks for him. When she protests that the offered price is too much, he laughs at her.

She doesn't think much about the fact that she won't be allowed to see her family until after the blight (if it is a blight), mostly because she doesn't expect to be here that long. She doesn't think about anything much, except the wardens and her yarn and the wedding that did not occur. Occasionally she finds herself holding Nelaros's ring in her hand, examining it. It's beautiful—not high-quality gold, even she can tell that, but it's covered in delicate designs that resemble wings, almost reminiscent of the patterns on her face. She supposes Nelaros must have been told about the markings before he agreed to marry her; perhaps he meant for the ring to reflect the same meaning as the markings, though he could not possibly have known what that meaning was. She closes her eyes and tries to remember his face. She thinks she sees it properly, handsome features blushing as he's introduced to his bride. Better this than the other image, the image of his dead body lying on the floor.

Aria opens her eyes. Soon, she knows, she'll forget what he looked like. Not much later, she herself will pass away. The ring and its markings will remain.

"There are rings in this world that contain great power," says Duncan, at one point. Her eyes snap up. His face is impassive. "However, I doubt that this is one of them."

"He's dead," she says, responding not to the words but to what she supposes is the question behind them. "He died for me. He knew he might, but he came anyway."

"And that was brave of him, certainly. But tell me, is it truly Nelaros you mourn?"

She hesitates. She thinks they would have been happy together, but she didn't know him, not really. Maybe she can't mourn him properly. "Second chances, maybe. He's not going to get one."

Duncan nods seriously. "Few people do, and yet here you are."

"Here I am," agrees Aria.

By the time they can see the broken stone walls, she's knitted one sweater, a pair of gloves, a hat, two pairs of socks, and most of a third. Her thoughts change again as they make their final approach toward Ostagar. She remembers Nessa's concerns about being surrounded by human men who haven't seen a woman in months. It is not a pleasant thought, certainly, but things could be worse. At least Nessa herself won't have to deal with Ostagar. At least Soris and Shianni and Valora and Cyrion are all momentarily safe. She supposes the human soldiers must have similar groups waiting for them back home. Human wives, human children, aging human parents. People who matter to them more than their lives. She tries to remember this similarity as she and Duncan draw closer to the high stone walls.

The fortress is massive, and visible from a long way off. Duncan's pace does not increase, but he walks with even more purpose now. When they do reach the fortress, a man in gold-colored armor greets them. Aria's never seen the king, despite living in his city for her entire life. She has no time to prepare herself—one moment Duncan is saying your majesty, and before she's had a chance to adjust to this, her king has fixed his eyes on her.

Some tiny sliver of her is excited, but most of her is convinced that this is a terrible thing to have happen. Ordinarily, when a nobleman deigns to notice one, this is a sign of pressing danger, and the best course of action is to be an unremarkable part of the scenery until he loses interest and moves on. What's the least-interesting personality for a female elven soldier to have? Too deferential and she could be marked as an easy target, too abrasive and someone could decide she needs to be taken down a peg. Cheerful nonchalance? They're all here to fight the same enemy, so maybe if she can make it obvious that she's here to do the same—

"Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?"

"Aria," she says, then blinks. "Uh, your majesty."

He smiles, but doesn't laugh at her. "I see you're an elf, friend." She swallows, unsure whether the friend part is meant to be taken seriously. "From where do you hail?"

"Denerim," says Aria, clenching one hand into a fist at her side. Calm. Stay calm, Tabris.

"As do I!" exclaims Cailan, delighted at this supposed similarity. "Are you from one of the alienages? Tell me, how is it there? My guards all but forbid me from going there."

"Uh." Her mind goes blank. There are a thousand good things about the alienage, and a thousand serious problems the king should rightly be informed about, but she can't remember any of them. She sees Vaughan, her sword in his stomach, staring at her, unable to comprehend the fact of his own death. Shianni, crying weakly, no longer begging for him to stop. Nola, slain and discarded like so much refuse. Nelaros's blood seeping into the rug.

"Uh," she says again, no longer remembering the question. Cheerful nonchalance. "I killed an arl's son for raping my cousin."

She senses rather than sees the men around her planning to smooth this offense over. What she sees, though, is Cailan's expression—not anger, not disgust, but shock. Now she feels guilty, like it's her fault for destroying whatever sanitized ideas he had about how his city holds itself together. Also, there are probably ways of saying that sort of thing that don't make her sound like she intentionally set out to commit revenge-murder, that make it clear that she killed him because he was still threatening to rape her. And now she can't say them, because everyone will tell the rest of the camp that the newest gray warden is some kind of psychopathic vigilante spree killer.

Duncan says something that sounds reasonable and diplomatic. Aria can't hear anything specific over her obnoxiously loud heartbeat and desire to sink into the ground, at least until Cailan addresses her again.

"Well, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar," says Cailan, somehow smiling again. The expression looks weirdly genuine. Are all human nobles that good at faking smiles? "The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their service."

"I—thank you, your majesty," she says, too startled to react any other way.

There is more discussion after that, primarily about darkspawn and Loghain—wait, the Loghain? She doesn't get the chance to ask. The king is busy, as she supposes he would be, and in a few more seconds, he and his men have returned to continue their duties. She and Duncan are left standing alone at the edge of the ruin.

"I didn't mean to say that," she says, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Such things happen," says Duncan, serenely. "As for the darkspawn—"

Her head snaps up again, eager to talk about this and not the other things. "Do you think he's right about it not being a real blight? Can the darkspawn do that, just come to the surface in large numbers without an archdemon to lead them?"

"There is an archdemon behind this," says Duncan, before she can ask anything else. "But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling." He goes on for a while, explaining that Ferelden will not wait for the Wardens in Orlais. Aria is sure she's missing something there, with regard to the political situation—she's vaguely aware of Orlais as the nation that once occupied Ferelden, the nation that Loghain (if it is that Loghain) fought to free them from, but she doesn't know how the Wadrens fit into all that, or how much they're meant to represent their respective nations. "We must look to Teryn Loghain to make up the difference."

"It is the Loghian, right?" she says, prompting Duncan to frown at her. "You know, the Hero of River Dane? He's here? What does he think of Wardens? Is he prepared for the darkspawn, or for an archdemon, if one appears? Is he—"

"Perhaps you can ask him yourself, in due time, but we have our own concerns to attend to. We should proceed with the joining ritual without delay."

There are, of course, more questions after that. She makes mental note of the answers: Secret, secret, confidential, secret, yes, all gray wardens have to undergo it, secret, she'll be told what to do in due time, no, she isn't the only recruit, secret, yes, it is dangerous, confidential, trust me, not something you need to know right now—

"Perhaps you'd like to explore the camp," says Duncan, motioning towards the rest of the ruin. It somehow looks even larger than it did from the outside, and all of it is constructed from stone. Say what you will of the ancient Tevinters, but they knew how to build. The Ferelden army seems to be occupying most of the space, but there are also tradespeople, animal pens, shopkeepers, at least one tent that seems to have mages around it, and probably a thousand other fascinating things that aren't immediately leaping out to her. "All I ask is that you do not leave it, for now."

"That won't be hard," she says, following him as he walks over the massive stone bridge and towards the main camp. It's so big, and so old. She feels like an ant in comparison. "Uh. Do you need me to do anything specific?"

"Eat. Get your bearings. Speak to the other recruits, if you wish. When you are ready to proceed with the joining, you should look for Alistair, another of the Gray Wardens here."

"Cool," says Aria, pressing her hands together for another few moments. "You don't, uh, have any advice, do you?"

"Prepare yourself. These are dangerous times," says Duncan, as the two of them return to solid ground. It is with this thought that he leaves her, surrounded by human strangers and the workings of a nation preparing itself for war.

Aria rocks on the balls of her feet and tries to absorb the entire area in a single moment. A fitting place for a dead woman, at least one whose body hasn't yet caught onto that detail. They're of a kind, she and the ruins, though the evidence of her life will pass away much more quickly.

But not today. Today there is work to be done.

[everythingisbetterwithpirates]

Reality

It all began with a letter, hand delivered to Ryss by one of the Captains in the Shipping Company fleet. It read as follows:

“Miss Sparrow, I write with the intent purpose of asking you for a favor. I realize it is an odd request, but it is the only viable solution to my predicament. I told a friend I would set him up on a small date to celebrate his birthday since he is recently divorced. What he doesn't know is that we are all going to throw him a party on one of the Company ships. The girl who was set to be his date cancelled and I cannot find any other replacement. He is a lively man, but one that is, for the most part, a gentleman. Plus, I warned him of what would happen should he try to get too frisky.

Please meet a blond, blue eyed man named George at the center of Lion's Rest tonight at around seven in the evening. He will be the one in the red shirt and brown pants. Just look for the most charming smile in the world and you will find him. I promise to make it up to you however I possibly can. Gods, I'll do the impossible too. Since the party will take place at sea, I will need him to come down to the docks. There will be a small vessel at the very last dock. It is black with golden stripes.

At seven fifteen, you will tell him you have forgotten something at your place. I told him you were visiting and are currently sleeping in your ship. Keep talking to him and have him follow you into the room located inside, to the left. Once he is inside, lure him away from the door so that we may all surprise him."

                                                             M. Grimwald

The orders had been simple. To eliminate George by quiet and conventional means. Margharette stressed her plan with the goal of obtained smooth and productive results. However, this would serve a greater purpose. Though the last 'adventure' had been in the open world and with members of the Horde, Lakryss displayed levels of anxiety which were worrisome to Margharette. The former pirate had a soft spot for Ryss given her easygoing and amiable nature. Any who behaved like civilized people were treated as such and Sparrow was definitely in that category. However, as Marge lurked in the shadows in a corner beneath the stairs of this exclusive ship, she wondered on events to come...

{ Excerpt from Marge’s journal }

"Initially, I had planned to find an immoral wench whose priority was to get paid. It would mean a possible loose end, but given the success of previous expeditions, I felt confident in taking the risk. Those plans fell through and I had to improvise and in turn, take an even bigger jump. I chose Lakryss because she has the capability of being both charming 'and' intellectual. Someone who can easily hide in a crowd but still be found. Darling enough to hold a man's attention but not with obvious tactics. Someone who had no idea of what was going on.

As I stood in wait for Ryss and George, I felt a pang of guilt. This was a nice lady who had done no wrong. A true innocent in the eyes of the law and otherwise. I thought about pulling her out of the room the moment I put the barrel of my gun to George's head. That it would somehow lessen the blow -- but that was not the point of using 'her' for this. If I didn't break her in now, someone else would. Someone who might not give a damn about whether she lived or died in the process. With her tea shoppe flourishing and the city life continuing to be as hectic as always, I believe it was only a matter of time before Ryss found herself in a predicament of morals, values and survival. Might as well go through it with someone in her corner should the fight prove to be too brutal. I didn't pull her out -- not without an explanation."

The surprise party that had been waiting for the pair was quite different from what Marge had described in her letter. As soon as Lakryss convinced the man to step through the door and enter the small and cozy room, Margharette stepped in and revealed the true nature of this gathering. The small vessel required a minimal crew. The five other men who had been waiting in hiding for the signal to be given now untied the boat and set sail into the night. With her revolver aimed at the back of George's head, the party continued. Ryss had done a marvelous job at not cowering in the corner like a rat. She hadn't even screamed.

Margharette's smile lingered for a few moments after Lakryss took a seat, her expression soon replaced by serenity. The thought of screaming had been of great interest to George, but the man was too preoccupied with trying to not throw up all over himself. His charming facade was nowhere to be seen, only the fear in his eyes. He gagged a couple of times and even began to hyperventilate. "Let me begin by apologizing for luring you here under false pretenses, Lakryss. It wasn't an easy choice but I believe in my heart that it was the right one." Margharette softly spoke over her shoulder, keeping her gaze locked on George. Her free hand began to pat the man's sides and legs, looking for items that may be used to bring harm to others and discarding those of sentimental or trivial value.

The boat was quick to depart. Each small wave brought sway to the floor and Margharette eventually moved to sit behind the desk on the dark, leather chair. The curling arm rests hosted a wide variety of detail ranging from the floral to the abstract. A blade had been cast aside, along with a wallet and a small sack of coins. After pulling her chair, Margharette's left elbow came to rest on the wooden surface of the desk, revolver aiming at the side of George's head. "Are you here to kill me?" The man quietly asked, his gaze searching for Ryss' own. Silently, he pleaded for help, tightly gripping the arm rests of his own chair. Marge looked away from the woman to focus on George again, the corners of her lips curling upwards with a twisted grin.

"I am, George." Margharette reached under the desk, pulling a mug of coffee from a hidden nook and dipping the tip her finger to test it's warmth once the glove was pulled off by her teeth. "You've none other to blame but yourself." Marge quipped before licking her finger, pleased with the drink's temperature.

Meanwhile...

Ryss felt her stomach turning over...she had hoped, no she had prayed that she wouldn't again find herself in a situation like this. The first time had been lawful or so she kept telling herself. They 'd gone after an escaped criminal...he'd needed to be taken back in....but George...to Lakryss this man was innocent bystander. She didn't even know why Marge was doing any of this. Her lips parted to speak but nothing came out as she still refused to look up, her eyes on the wooden floor beneath her feet. Everything about her body language was an apology, she hadn't meant to play a hand in any of this...she had done this all to help, not to kill.

Without any help from Lakryss, George soon began to feel the ache of despair. His knuckles had grown white from the tense hold on the chair. Above them, the sound of something heavy and large being dragged along the deck could be heard. "I won't tell! I p-promise!" George spoke with more life in his tone. He was entering the bargaining stage of his fate. "I swear by my son's lives I won't tell a single soul!" he continued. Margharette shook her head and gripped the handle of her mug, finger grazing along the trigger. "No, Mister MacMiller. I am afraid that is no longer an option. You had the chance to do the right thing and inform the authorities, but instead chose to use your knowledge as leverage against the Company. A grievous offense against your alleged character."

After a long drink from her mug, Marge shivered and turned to look to Ryss, expression softening. "Miss Sparrow. As you are aware, the Company has many legitimate business transactions. It also deals with the illegitimate. As a maker and creator of herbal teas, you are well aware of the vices and aches people of all races suffer from on a daily basis. How the needs of the many can be satisfied by the demands of the few. Our darling boy George found a shipment of drugs that was misplaced and said he would alert the authorities if we did not give him three thousand gold." Her gaze shifted back to George who was visibly cringing. "You lost the highground the moment you decided to blackmail Mister Hudson,  darling." As if to drive her point further, Marge roughly jabbed the revolver against his head, causing it to tilt. "Then again, you wife left you because you beat her. I am not surprised you'd dip your toes into such insidious waters."

For Lakryss, the words all swarmed around like a deafening roar...even if everyone was speaking in a normal tone, the mans sniveling attempts at saving his own life finally spoke Lakryss to speak, if only to keep herself from bursting at the seems. She finally lifted her gaze, eyes opening as she looked to Marge, not even seeing George in that moment as he was already dead. She knew that. No amount of pleading or bargaining would save him from what was coming. "Marge...Ms. Grimwald please....I don't want to see this...I don't want to know this..." Her own voice shook, her hands nearly tearing at the bed spread as she stood up and looked to the door. "I'd like to step outside."

Marge's gaze met Ryss' own, steady and locked in place as she listened and processed the information being given. It was the reaction she expected, but still stirred something in Marge's heart. "Not before you understand why you out of all people are here." was her soft spoken response before taking another long sip from her cup of coffee. A thoughtful and heavy silence settled over Marge, the woman turning to look away and studying the view through the windows. The lights from the city were beginning to disappear, meaning they had created enough distance. The moment of truth was fast approaching. "You were given a taste of violence recently. One that left you shaken."

Her gaze snapped back to Ryss in full force. "A natural reaction from a gentle person such as yourself, but one that could be detrimental to your health. This Company caters to many fields and there will always be competition. Some will try to reach victory through numbers and others such as this fellow.." Again her finger grazed along the trigger of her weapon. ".. Who will succumb to less desirable means of weakening or obstructing our business. Your honesty will -always- be appreciated, but so will your silence. You will see horrible things in this world, Lakryss." Marge leaned against the back of her chair, the cup held in the air in front of her and the left arm extending to adjust her aim and keep it true. "I will not dare kill anyone in front of you, Ryss. Not unless it's your neck I am trying to save, or that of someone who has a neck worth saving. And when you walk out of this door, you will be faced with two options. You can either return and tell someone, or you can return and take a long, relaxing bubble bath. Keep in mind.."

The cup was moved closer to her lips. "You were the last person seen with George. If you go tell someone he's dead, you'd be the first suspect. In fact, I believe there is written evidence of your plans to meet him? And of mine to throw him a surprise birthday party to which he never arrived." Margharette drank, the mug almost empty. "However, this is not a path I wish to take. What happened here tonight does not mean I will ask you to kill, but.. If I say duck, I need you to duck. If I tell you to look the other way, I need you to do that too. In time you will see that blood is only spilled when it is warranted, Miss Sparrow. Nothing more. Nothing less. Business will business."

It was then that Lakryss stepped out of the room, leaving George to face his fears in solitude. Margharette finished her cup of coffee, setting the mug on the desk once the door was closed. "You play the part of a sniveling weasel very well, George." she mused before standing and making her way around the desk. Through her motions, her gun was kept aimed at the man, leaving no room for escape. "W-What?" he mumbled, his beautiful blue eyes lifting and meeting Margharette's own. "You're not going to kill me?" George asked with a quivering lip, a faint shimmer of hope appearing in his expression. 

"Oh, that reminds me."

{ OOC NOTE: Created in part with posts from actual, in game rp. }

@lakryss-sparrow 

[dfroza]

A tragic lie.

which illuminates the need for honesty in life, since Love is always pure and True. and we only really find our True selves in Love’s truth.

we simply cannot allow ourselves to live a lie, to be taken captive by its power. we have to surrender to the grace that sets the heart free.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 5th chapter of the book of Acts:

Once a man named Ananias, with his wife Sapphira fully cooperating, committed fraud. He sold some property and kept some of the proceeds, but he pretended to make a full donation to the Lord’s emissaries.

Peter: Ananias, have you allowed Satan to influence your lies to the Holy Spirit and hold back some of the money? Look, it was your property before you sold it, and the money was all yours after you sold it. Why have you concocted this scheme in your heart? You weren’t just lying to us; you were lying to God.

Ananias heard these words and immediately dropped to the ground, dead; fear overcame all those who heard of the incident. Some young men came, wrapped the body, and buried it immediately. About three hours had passed when Sapphira arrived. She had no idea what had happened.

Peter: Did you sell the land for such-and-such a price?

Sapphira: Yes, that was the price.

Peter: Why did the two of you conspire to test the Spirit of the Lord? Do you hear those footsteps outside? Those are the young men who just buried your husband, and now they will carry you out as well.

She—like her husband—immediately fell dead at Peter’s feet. The young men came in and carried her corpse outside and buried it beside her husband. The whole church was terrified by this story, as were others who heard it.

Those were amazing days—with many signs and wonders being performed through the apostles among the people. The church would gather as a unified group in Solomon’s Porch, enjoying great respect by the people of the city—though most people wouldn’t risk publicly affiliating with them. Even so, record numbers of believers—both men and women—were added to the Lord. The church’s renown was so great that when Peter walked down the street, people would carry out their sick relatives hoping his shadow would fall on some of them as he passed. Even people from towns surrounding Jerusalem would come, bringing others who were sick or tormented by unclean spirits, all of whom were cured.

Of course, this popularity elicited a response: the high priest and his affiliates in the Sadducean party were jealous, so they arrested the apostles and put them in the public prison. But that night, a messenger of the Lord opened the doors of the prison and led them to freedom.

Messenger of the Lord: Go to the temple, and stand up to tell the people the whole message about this way of life from Jesus.

At dawn they did as they were told; they returned to their teaching in the temple.

Meanwhile the council of Jewish elders was gathering—convened by the high priest and his colleagues. They sent the temple police to the prison to have the Lord’s emissaries brought for further examination; but of course, the temple police soon realized they weren’t there. They returned and reported,

Temple Police: The prison was secure and locked, and the guards were standing in front of the doors; but when we unlocked the doors, the cell was empty.

The captain of the temple police and the senior priests were completely mystified when they heard this. They had no idea what had happened. Just then, someone arrived with this news:

Temple Messenger: You know those men you put in prison last night? Well, they’re free. At this moment, they’re at it again, teaching our people in the temple!

The temple police—this time, accompanied by their captain—rushed over to the temple and brought the emissaries of the Lord to the council. They were careful not to use violence, because the people were so supportive of them that the police feared being stoned by the crowd if they were too rough. Once again the men stood before the council. The high priest began the questioning.

High Priest: Didn’t we give you strict orders to stop teaching in this name? But here you are, spreading your teaching throughout Jerusalem. And you are determined to blame us for this man’s death.

Peter and the Apostles: If we have to choose between obedience to God and obedience to any human authority, then we must obey God. The God of our ancestors raised Jesus from death. You killed Jesus by hanging Him on a tree, but God has lifted Him high, to God’s own right hand, as the Prince, as the Liberator. God intends to bring Israel to a radical rethinking of our lives and to a complete forgiveness of our sins. We are witnesses to these things. There is another witness, too—the Holy Spirit—whom God has given to all who choose to obey Him.

The council was furious and would have killed them; but Gamaliel, a Pharisee in the council respected as a teacher of the Hebrew Scriptures, stood up and ordered the men to be sent out so the council could confer privately.

Gamaliel: Fellow Jews, you need to act with great care in your treatment of these fellows. Remember when a man named Theudas rose to notoriety? He claimed to be somebody important, and he attracted about 400 followers. But when he was killed, his entire movement disintegrated and nothing came of it. After him came Judas, that Galilean fellow, at the time of the census. He also attracted a following; but when he died, his entire movement fell apart. So here’s my advice: in this case, just let these men go. Ignore them. If this is just another movement arising from human enthusiasm, it will die out soon enough. But then again, if God is in this, you won’t be able to stop it—unless, of course, you’re ready to fight against God!

The council was convinced, so they brought the apostles back in. They were flogged, again told not to speak in the name of Jesus, and then released. As they left the council, they weren’t discouraged at all. In fact, they were filled with joy over being considered worthy to suffer disgrace for the sake of His name. And constantly, whether in public, in the temple, or in their homes, they kept teaching and proclaiming Jesus as the Anointed One, the Liberating King.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 4th chapter of Song of Solomon (Song of Songs) that points to the significance of the marital bond between husband & bride:

Him (to her): You, my love, are beautiful.

So beautiful!

Your eyes are like doves

nestled behind your veil.

Your hair moves as gracefully as a flock of goats

leaping down the slopes of Mount Gilead.

Your teeth are pearl white like a flock of sheep shorn,

fresh up from a wash.

Each perfect and paired with another;

not one of them is lost.

Your lips are as red as scarlet threads;

your mouth is beautiful.

Your cheeks rosy and round are beneath your veil,

like the halves of a pomegranate.

Your neck is elegant like the tower of David,

perfectly fit stone-by-stone.

There hang a thousand shields,

the shields of mighty men.

Your breasts are like two fawns,

twin gazelles grazing in a meadow of lilies.

As the day breathes its morning breeze

and shadows turn and flee,

I will go up your myrrh mountain

and climb your frankincense hill.

You are so beautiful, my love,

without blemish.

Come with me from Lebanon, my bride;

come with me from Lebanon.

Journey with me from the crest of Amana,

from the top of Senir even the summit of Hermon,

From the lions’ dangerous den,

from the mountain hideouts of leopards.

My heart is your captive, my sister, my bride;

you have stolen it with one glance,

caught it with a single strand of your necklace.

How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!

Your love is more pleasing than the finest wine,

and the fragrance of your perfume brings more delight than any spice!

Your lips taste sweet like honey off the comb, my bride;

milk and honey are beneath your tongue.

The scents of your clothes are like the fresh air of Lebanon.

You are a locked garden, my sister, my bride, open only to me;

a spring closed up tight, a sealed fountain.

Your sprouts are an orchard of pomegranates and exotic fruits—

with henna and nard,

With nard and saffron,

calamus and cinnamon—

With rows of frankincense trees

and myrrh and aloes and all the finest spices.

My bride, you are a fountain in a garden,

a well of life-giving water flowing down from Lebanon.

Him (to the winds): Rise, you north wind;

come, you south wind.

Breathe on my garden,

and let the fragrance of its natural spices fill the air.

Her: Let my love come into his garden

and feast from its choice fruits.

The Song of Solomon, Chapter 4 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

What does he mean by “my sister, my bride”? Is this a sudden revelation of an incestuous relationship? No. He is describing how sexual expression can bring two people intimately together, as close as two people can be; the man and woman are now family. This image would have been particularly meaningful in ancient Israelite society, where life was centered on familial relationships and calling someone “brother” or “sister” was a sign of deep intimacy and care. Blood relatives lived together, worked together, traded with each other, and were buried together. By calling the woman “sister,” he is declaring they are now blood relatives. In the covenant relationship called marriage, blood is drawn during consummation, bonding the two parties together as man and wife, as brother and sister, forever.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, june 4 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about discovering True identity in Light and in Love:

“Wherever you go, there you are...” You can’t escape from yourself; you can’t run away from who you are, and therefore your relationship with yourself is as inescapably eternal as your relationship with God. Indeed how you relate to yourself expresses your relationship with God (Luke 15:17). If you are self-abusive, if your life is a “living hell,” you must first of all face yourself and quit denying the condition of your heart. The LORD delivers through the wound; he does not offer you “Nirvana” to extinguish who you really are... If you have a critical spirit, if you cast eyes of suspicion upon others, then understand how this reveals your own self-rejection and leads to the hell of never accepting yourself... Perhaps you learned to reject yourself through your earliest experiences, or from your family’s secret pain, but regardless you must be delivered from the fear of who you are, and only God in his mercy can heal you from that wound... Only when you are rightly related to God in the truth are you able to become a healed self; only by God’s power can you come alive from the dead to know the truth of God’s redeeming love. [Hebrew for Christians]

6.3.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

June 4, 2021

Marital Problems

“And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.” (Colossians 3:17)

Marriage has always had a high place—a high calling. In the beginning, God’s stated purpose in marriage was to propagate children (Genesis 1:28) and to eliminate solitude (2:18). Such a state was deemed “very good” (1:31). But sin entered through Adam’s rebellion, and the universal Curse resulted. Out of this came a new marital relationship, one full of potential problems, for “he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee” (3:16). It is safe to say that the many excesses on both sides of a marriage that we see today are the legacy of sin.

Not only is marriage affected by the Curse, Satan himself delights in destroying marriage. Immediately after the Curse, we see that he introduced numerous practices that are detrimental to a proper marriage. The ungodly lineage of Cain began to practice polygamy (4:19). Later, Noah’s son, Ham, indulged in sexual thoughts and innuendoes (9:22). Even godly Abram participated in an extramarital affair that, even though not specifically condemned, was harmful to his marriage (16:1-3).

Soon after this, we read about all sorts of immorality, including homosexuality in Sodom and Gomorrah (19:1-10); fornication, rape, marriage to unbelievers (34:1-2); the practice of incest (35:22; 38:13-18); prostitution (38:24); and seduction (39:7-12).

What is the solution for this age-long attack on the family? We must heed the guidelines given in Scripture for a godly marriage. Passages such as those surrounding our text are well worth our study. JDM

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: With your prayers and gifts, the Sambla people will gain access to Scripture in their Seeku language!

Learn more at: https://bit.ly/3vLe6Jb

6.4.21 • 12:04pm • Twitter

[theroomdowntown]

Other People’s Photographs

Other People’s Photographs

Over the years I’ve accumulated thousands of other people’s photographs. I began buying them in the early eighties, at flea markets and in junk shops. At first, I rarely paid more than a nickel or a dime. I was drawn to those that contained some aesthetic quality or bit of sociohistorical information, or ideally both at once. Often the selection was made rapidly, purely by intuition; only later would I be able to name the qualities that had caught my eye. The pictures were orphans, in several senses. Anonymous photographs had little commercial value. They were considered detritus, as inert as the grocery lists or medical records of the past. And they had all been released into the twilight marketplace by the death of their keepers and the apathy or absence of their heirs. That release often obliterated their context. If you bought two or more pictures out of the same box, it might not be evident that they had a common origin. You might not even recognize that the person in this photo was also the person in that photo, many years later. Found photographs are memories that have gone feral.

Imagine finding, in a rusted tin box stuffed with random and disconnected images (snapshots, postcards, funeral ex-votos, chocolate-bar premiums), the picture at the top of the page: a photobooth image of a European intellectual, to all appearances. But how hasty a supposition is this? We think he’s an intellectual because of the glasses, European because of the facial features, the mouth in particular. But he might be a bank clerk, perhaps an immigrant from northern Europe (he is blond), now living in Bayonne, New Jersey, where he takes pains to keep his heavy wool suit from the moths. Now imagine finding, in the same box, the photo immediately above: an American GI striding purposefully down the street of what is certainly a European city, to judge by the paving stones and the wicker café chairs. Would it occur to you that the pictures might show the same person, and, furthermore, could have been taken only three or four years apart? They are both photographs of my father, and neither is what it appears to be. The top picture, taken circa 1942, was in fact a fake, concocted to fit false identity papers. The glasses are plain glass, the hair is dyed, and he borrowed the maiden name of his Luxembourgeois grandmother to become “Philippe Werner,” in a successful effort to prevent his being deported to a forced-labor camp. Three or so years later, after the Allies crossed the Rhine, he joined the Belgian army. That force having been destroyed by the Germans in 1940, it had no equipment, no matériel, no uniforms, and so it had to borrow everything from the Americans. Half a century later, a copy of the photo, perhaps obtained from the photographer, was featured in a local shop-window homage to Our American Liberators.

    On the basis of the first two images, would you recognize this street urchin, his pants so cheap that you can delineate every knucklebone through the pockets? He seems to be wearing the same jacket as in the first picture, but you might not notice. Judging from his expression, his clothes, and the trash-strewn condition of the small park where he stands, the photograph was probably taken not long after the Liberation, which is to say at some point between the other two photos. There is a theme that runs through those snapshots from 1944 and 1945: everyone is beautiful, starved, ragged, and ecstatic. But without supplemental information, would you guess the time and the circumstances? The pictures seldom carry any helpful inscriptions on their reverse side. I barely know the stories myself. My father and mother are long dead, as are all aunts and uncles; I have no siblings or first cousins. My father told me selected stories from his past, but they tended to be the ones that could be neatly packaged as anecdotes, and he did not dwell on the war years. I always thought he had secrets, and imagined he would at length reveal them, perhaps on his deathbed; such was not to be.

    He again seems a different person in this picture, striding along the streets of the same city, this time with my mother during their courtship a few years later, both looking cosmopolitan in their matching blazers and pocket squares. (They both still live with their parents and work at entry-level jobs.) Like the GI photo, it was taken by a street photographer, and that, had you come across it in that rusted tin box, might be all you would register. Until about sixty years ago, street photographers could be found in every city, hanging around the center, sizing up prospects, snapping their picture and handing them a card with the address of the studio where a print could be purchased the next day. Like photobooth photos, the prints made by street photographers have an equalizing formal aspect; arrayed in rows, they could be stills from a single motion picture, no matter where they were taken.

If I look at my family photos hard enough I start to see them as types, distinguishable from the great mass of their anonymous kin only by a few threads of oral tradition, of which I am the custodian. They are nothing much as pictures, really, barely worth a pause while digging through the crate for the outliers and the beautiful accidents. If they were released from my hands, they would merge into the photographic sediment—the endless numbers of dull family snapshots, inert group scenes, pro forma portraits that flow sluggishly through the low-level secondary markets of the world. Each of those is a marker, the living trace of a human who may otherwise survive only as a census entry, or not even that. We cannot discern their accompanying stories, and we can’t do anything for them. They are specters. They live in the photographic sediment as in a bardo, suspended within the world, still visible but very gradually being absorbed into the dirt that constitutes our past.

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[7r0773r]

The Man Among the Seals & Inner Weather by Denis Johnson

A Consequence of Gravity

my wife’s voice yelling from the window holds the distant echoes of a thousand mothers-in-law, all the women, all the weight, increasing, of this planet.

i will not listen. here in the yard i am watching an old story: a child has dived into the earth attempting to fly, and injured

farther than the skin he gives his long syllable toward the moon. there is no one to tell him he will settle

for years, in a gradual re-enactment of this flight, against the earth, as he cries over his miserable attachment to the ground and mourns

that first unlucky generation  of airplanes, the lost inventions still burrowing somewhere desperately away from the air, making caves, making

no sense at all crushed into the sides of mountains. i grow, like an imprisoned pilot, heavier, near death, my face makes mistakes in the last oxygen of the cockpit.

through the dusk the moon has rolled  again out into her private ocean. i cannot help it, like a blank virgin she has retired

beyond the air, and here, bereft, surrounded by grotesque, inedible women and the painful breaking of another spring i admit it, i will never touch her, hold her.

***

An Evening with the Evening

The night is very tall  coming down the street. The light of the streetlights coming on in sequence just in front of the dark, this light is a prison broken loose from itself. The city has an expression on its face like that of someone hoping

he will not be noticed, it is like that of the man now watching  the processional flaring of the lamps from the corner, beneath the bank sign. He notices the city, he notices the reflection of his own face in the city, he wonders what the city must have done

to the night,  that it should avert itself like a debtor while welcoming the night with such display, such grim pomp, so courteous a removal, before the arrival of darkness, of any competing darknesses that may have managed to precede it there.

Suddenly it is the total blackness with the numerous small lights of the face of the city shining through it; then it is the end, which is only himself, going home to his wife and children, turning and trying to walk away from the darkness that precedes him, darkness of which he is the center.

***

Employment in the Small Bookstore

The dust almost motionless in this narrowness, this stillness, yet how unlike a coffin it is, sometimes letting a live one in, sometimes out                         and the air, though paused, impends not a thing, the silence isn’t sinister, and in fact not much goes on at the Ariel Book Shop today, no one weeps in the back room full of books, old books, no one is tearing the books to shreds, in fact I am merely sitting here talking to no one, no one being here, and I am blameless.                                 More, I am grateful for the job,  I am fond of the books and touch them, I am grateful that King St. goes down to the river, and that the rain  is lovely, the afternoon green. If the soft falling away of the afternoon is all there is, it is nearly  enough just                    let me hear the beautiful clear voice of a woman in song passing toward silence, and then that will be all for me at five o’clock.                         I will walk down to see the untended sailing yachts of the Potomac bobbing hopelessly in another silence, the small silence that gets to be a long one when the past stops talking to you because it is dead,                                           and still you listen, hearing just the tiny agonies of old boats on a cloudy day, in cloudy water. Talk to it. Men are talking to it by Cape Charles, for them it’s the same silence with fishing lines in their hands. We are all looking at the river bearing the wreckage so far away. We wonder how the river ever came to be so gray, and think that once there were some very big doings on this river,  and now that is all over.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Understanding The Bible - A Practical Guide To Each Book In The Bible - Part 23

Written by: PETER KREEFT

TWENTY-THREE

________

History, Wisdom, and Apocalyptic Visions: The Deuterocanonical Books and the Apocrypha

The following books and parts of books are listed separately because they are “Deuterocanonical”. That means they are the “second canon (list of sacred writings).” They were added later to the canon of the Old Testament, both by the Jews (in Greek Alexandria) and the early Christian Church.

The Deuterocanonical Books were written only in Greek and not in Hebrew. This is one reason why most Protestants and the Jews of Palestine do not include them in their Bible. But the same Catholic Church that defined the first canon also declared the second to be inspired at the Council of Trent. The Orthodox churches of the East also accept them as canonical, with the exception of Baruch.

Tobit: God’s Providential Care

Delightful, charming, enchanting in its simplicity—these are some of the characteristics critics find in the story of Tobit. Like most storytellers of the past, its writer set his tale in days gone by, in Nineveh, the capital city of the Assyrian empire. There, in exile from his native Israel, lived Tobit, a good Jew (his name means “the good”), who goes blind because of a very peculiar accident. The story centers on the journey of his son Tobias into faraway Media to reclaim a fortune Tobit had left there, with the help of a disguised angel Raphael and even a faithful little dog who makes the whole journey with them. In Media there lives the beautiful but unfortunate Sara, whose seven husbands all died on their wedding night, slaughtered by the demon Asmodeus. But the angel Raphael knows how to deal with demons and tells Tobias how to defeat Asmodeus with a fish’s liver!

In addition to these supernatural elements, there are many realistic details, like Tobit’s wife’s irritation at her husband’s scrupulous honesty, her anxiety for his blindness, which forces her to take in sewing to support the family, her constant watching the road for her son’s return, and old Tobit counting the days.

Is the story meant as fiction or fact? We cannot decide it is fiction simply by pointing to the supernatural elements, for the whole of the Jewish and Christian religions are based on a supernatural and miracle-working God. But the literary style of the story is very different from the historical books, and it is probably meant to be taken as a “tall tale”. Whether history or parable, biography or fiction, its lessons are true, for they are those of the rest of God’s Word: faith and trust in God’s providential “tender loving care” always pays off in the end.

Judith: A Courageous Woman Delivers Her People

The name Judith comes from the Hebrew Jehudith and means “Jewess”. She is the heroine of a story whose historical background is hard to place accurately, since names, places, and dates seem out of historical order and treated very freely and loosely. But its point is not history but character.

Judith is a widow. Her husband has died of sunstroke three years before the story begins, and she is still in mourning. The Jewish nation is in danger of being destroyed by an enemy army. Her city Bethulia is under siege, and the evil king Nebuchadnezzar’s general-in-chief Holofernes has cut off its water supply. The despairing citizens beg their rulers to surrender, but Judith has a better plan. Her courage and strong faith in God contrast with their cowardice.

She takes off her mourning clothes and makes herself so beautiful that she is sure to “entice the eyes of all men who might see her” (10:4). Then she brings gifts to the camp of Holofernes, wins his confidence, and eventually wins his head, which she cuts off and brings home in a food bag. The drunken braggart and bully is defeated by the charm and wit of a woman, and the mighty army of Holofernes is defeated in a rout. Thus King Nebuchadnezzar’s plans are frustrated. His ambition was to conquer the whole world and destroy all religions that did not worship him. Some commentators see Judith in her beheading of the evil Holofernes as a foreshadowing of Mary as the new Eve crushing the head of the serpent, or Satan, the one who does indeed desire to conquer the world and destroy all true religion. Judith is the Jewish Joan of Arc. Too bad she was not around to deal with Hitler.

Esther (Greek Version): The Religious Interpretation

This is the same story as the Hebrew Book of Esther (see page 90), but with some additions. The religious lesson here is not left implicit in the events as it was in the Hebrew version, but made explicit in the Greek author’s comments.

In Esther, as in the Genesis story of Joseph, God makes no outward or miraculous manifestations of His power. Rather He directs events by natural causes, yet brings good out of evil in the end, justice out of injustice, and shows that “in everything God works for good with those who love him” (Rom 8:28). The lesson that success comes from trusting in God’s providence and plan is like the bones of the original Esther story (see Esther 14:14), and the Greek additions are like an X-ray that makes the bones prominent, makes the religious structure and meaning of the events clear.

The Wisdom of Solomon: The God behind the Law

This book was written not by King Solomon, but by an anonymous Jewish author a century or two before Christ who seems to have lived in the Greek city of Alexandria, Egypt, the world’s center of Greek learning at the time. The title was not meant to deceive anyone, but to express the author’s admiration for Solomon and to claim to be his disciple and imitator of his wisdom.

The book is a synthesis of ideas from Jewish religion and Greek philosophy and literature. Its main lesson is the same as that of the rest of the Old Testament: justice and fidelity, God rewarding those who are faithful to His law. This fidelity is the heart of wisdom. The book clearly affirms God to be all-just, all-knowing, all-good, and the origin only of good: “God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living” (1:13)—a theme already taught in Genesis 3, where man’s death is the result of sin, not of God.

In Wisdom, the perfections of God reach a new high point of theological development, and the author reflects on the lessons that the history of God’s people have taught about the nature of God and the nature of wisdom. The understanding of God’s character and intentions grows throughout Jewish history, just as a plant, an animal, a human body, or a human mind grows. For instance, the later prophets of Israel emphasized the need for personal virtue and not just external observance of the law. They place more responsibility on the individual since increased knowledge brings increased responsibility.

“Wisdom” here means not merely the practical ability to succeed well in life, or even the art of behaving ethically, but spiritual vision, understanding of God and His activity in our lives and history. This wisdom had been deepening among God’s people for two thousand years, all leading up to one point: the time when the complete and perfect understanding of God would once for all become available to the whole world in Christ, God’s Wisdom incarnate. The best wisdom of all the ages was a series of pointing fingers or signs to Him. “Wise men still seek him.”

Ecclesiasticus: The Teachings of a Great Sage

This fifty-one-chapter book is the longest among the Deuterocanonical Books. Its author, Jesus (or Joshua) ben (son of) Sirach, was a teacher, scholar, and poet in Jerusalem about one hundred eighty years before Joshua ben Joseph, Jesus the Messiah. This book is probably a series of lectures Jesus ben Sirach gave in the school that he ran in that city.

His writing seems to indicate that he had traveled and studied widely about other countries and observed life carefully in order to build up his own philosophy of life. Most of the book resembles Proverbs in being realistic and practical. Its most beautiful chapters are the most poetic ones: 1, 24, 38, and 43.

The basic theme is a defense of wisdom and the claim that “all wisdom comes from the Lord” (1:1). This claim, repeatedly made by Jewish writers in the Old Testament, does not mean “listen to me because I’m as wise as God”, but rather “whatever wisdom I have, give God the credit for it, not me.” It is like the claim to be God’s chosen people: a claim that seems arrogant, but is really the most humble interpretation of the fact that the Jews are really different. It ascribes their achievements to God, not themselves, and turns our attention from them to Him: “To fear the Lord is the first step to wisdom” (1:14).

In chapter 24 wisdom is personified, much as in Proverbs (see chapter on Proverbs). These words of Jesus son of Sirach could well be seen as applying to another Jesus, whom “God made our wisdom” (1 Cor 1:30).

Baruch: Speeches Given to the Exiles in Babylon

Baruch was Jeremiah’s scribe or secretary. This book contains four short speeches by Baruch given to the Jewish exiles in Babylon. Their effect on the people was moving: “Everyone cried, fasted, and prayed to the Lord. Then everyone gave as much money as he could and the collection was sent to Jerusalem” (1:5-7). When you read it, imagine you are a poor, defeated, powerless Jewish exile in Babylon and that you believe this is the long-awaited message from God to give new hope to you and your defeated nation. Note especially the inspiring poetry at the end (4:36-5:9).

The Letter of Jeremiah: The Failure of Idolatry

The first verse explains the source of this book: Jeremiah the prophet sends a letter to the people of Jerusalem who are about to be captured and taken into exile in Babylon. The prophet foretells this and interprets it as God’s necessary punishment on the people’s foolish idolatry. It was foolish both for knowledge (confusing the living God with a dead idol—but idols include to dollar bills just as much as stone statues) and for practice (for since the idols have no power to save, those who trust in them will not be saved). The result of idolatry in practice is always failure, like leaning on a broken crutch.

The Prayer of Azariah and The Song of the Three Young Men

This addition to the Book of Daniel is found in the later, Greek version of Daniel. The “song” is a cosmic canticle of praise that the three young men sing from the middle of the fiery furnace into which the evil king Nebuchadnezzar had thrown them when they refused to worship him (Dan 3). In the song, all of creation praises God, from snow to snails. “Inanimate” matter and “dumb” animals are living works of art that loudly praise their Divine Artist, just as a good song praises its composer or a great play praises its playwright.

This canticle was for a long time well known and loved in the Church’s public liturgy and is still loved and used by many in private prayer. It brings prayer into the realm of the concrete world when we call on specific things like whales and stars and heat to praise God. Saint Francis’ “Canticle of the Sun” is a miniaturization of it. It is an application of Psalm 150, which commands everything to praise God. All goodness is God’s goodness, all truth is God’s truth, and all beauty is God’s beauty.

Susanna: An Innocent Woman Is Vindicated

This is a short story of the same kind as Tobit and Judith: simple, full of surprises, and enchanting. A beautiful woman,

Susanna, is falsely accused by two jealous, evil judges and saved by the young judge Daniel, who shows Solomon-like wisdom. It is one of the earliest forerunners of the modern detective story. Though only one chapter long, it contains many memorable details, such as the two trees that are silent witnesses for Susanna. Once you start the story, you cannot put it down until the end.

Like Tobit, this story seems to have the literary form of fable rather than history. I think one should not be too dogmatic either way. But the literary style is like that of Tobit and Bel and the Dragon, rather than straightforward historical narrative like Maccabees.

Bel and the Dragon: Three Detective Stories

These are three stories that the later Greek version of the Hebrew Scriptures added to the Book of Daniel. All three are exciting detective stories, or “thrillers”. The first two center on Daniel and his wisdom in overcoming an idol set up by the Babylonians, who had destroyed Jerusalem and taken the Jews into captivity in Babylon. In the first story, Daniel exposes a clever technological trick by a trick of his own and proves that the idol Bel did not magically eat the food offered to it, as it seemed. In the second story, Daniel destroys a large, live dragon (perhaps a giant crocodile), which the Babylonians worshipped, without using any weapons. The point of both stories is not primarily Daniel’s cleverness, but the foolishness of worshipping idols of any kind, anything in the world except the one true God.

The third story is an addition to the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. It tells of the prophet Habakkuk, an interrupted stew, and an angelic air transportation by the hair from Israel to Babylon to feed Habakkuk’s stew to Daniel as the lions watched, hungrily, waiting until Daniel’s enemies were thrown into their den. Then they had their just desserts.

First Maccabees: Resistance against Tyranny

This is a historical book that tells of the Jewish struggle for religious and political freedom from the Greek empire of the Seleucid kings who had inherited the world from Alexander the Great. The Maccabees are a Jewish family chosen by God to stand up against the tyrant Antiochus Epiphanes (“that wicked root”), who persecuted the Jews and blasphemously desecrated the temple. This tyrant stole its holy treasures and set up altars to heathen gods, tore and burned the sacred books of the law, and mistreated any Jewish women who had their baby boys circumcised in obedience to Jewish law.

The first two chapters of the book set up the two sides of the war as irreconcilable enemies. On the one hand, the Greek rulers insisted not only on political conquest of Israel and the removal of political freedom, but also religious persecution and instituting practices the Jews considered blasphemous, especially in the temple. Many Jews compromised with the Greek conquerors and even helped them. On the other hand, those Jews who remained faithful to God, His law, and His temple worship resisted Antiochus Epiphanes both by force and by martyrdom.

The rest of the book is the story of three resistance movements, one for each of the sons of Mattathias: Judas Maccabeus, “The Hammerer”, and his brothers Jonathan and Simon, who each led the resistance in turn and were killed in turn. It is a story of war, intrigue, and murder—full of detailed descriptions of ancient warfare, including mounted engines to throw fire and rocks, and elephants with towers of wood. The battle scenes remind us of The Lord of the Rings. Yet even in this bloody time God’s hand is seen, testing His people, punishing them with national suffering only in order to bring them back to Himself, and aiding those who were loyal to Him. The Maccabees, like the Jews of older times, succeed only by God’s help and fail only when they turn away from God.

God’s providence over history was keeping the nation of Israel alive, against all ordinary odds, because they were His chosen people, carriers to the whole world of His revelation, the true knowledge of who God really is. They were the people from whom His promised Messiah was to come. These years, full of wars and violence, without a prophet from God for over four hundred years between Malachi and John the Baptist, were the dark before the dawn.

Second Maccabees: Praise for Martyrs of the Faith

This book covers part of the same period covered by First Maccabees. It is the story of the Jewish fight for Jerusalem and the temple, for political and religious independence. There is some overlapping, and many of the same events are told from another point of view. The style here is more like a sermon than a history. The author’s purpose is to teach loyalty to God’s law and to praise the martyrs who died for their faith.

Second Maccabees also contains the Old Testament’s only clear passage that teaches us to pray for our beloved dead because of the resurrection.

Highlights include the stirring story of the mother and seven sons who were tortured and slaughtered for their faith (chapter 7), and the teaching on the resurrection of the dead (6:26; 7:9; 12:41-46; 14:46) and on the intercessory prayers of the saints in Heaven (15:12-16) where Jeremiah the prophet is seen praying in Heaven for Judas Maccabeus on earth. The Church Militant on earth and the Church Triumphant in Heaven are one. In prayer they have real contact with each other. Death no more destroys or even separates God’s people, the Church, the New Israel, than it could destroy or separate ancient Israel. “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us” (Heb 12:1).

Apocrypha

The First and Second Books of Esdras and the Prayer of Manasseh are not part of the seventy-three books the Catholic Church accepts as the canon or list of books of Scripture (that is, divinely inspired, authoritative, and infallible). But they are wise and useful reading. The reason they are included as part of the Apocrypha in many Catholic and Protestant Bibles is that the Jews in Alexandria, Egypt, who made the Septuagint Greek translation of the Old Testament did include them; some Protestants (mainly Anglicans and Episcopalians) include them as part of their Apocrypha; and they were used by Christians for the first few centuries. In fact, some non-Chalcedonian Orthodox churches, which have no closed second canon of Scripture, hold that First and Second Esdras are “inspired”.

First Esdras: Second Chronicles 35-36, Ezra, and Nehemiah 6-8 Retold

The events told in the First Book of Esdras are also told in 2 Chronicles 35-36, Ezra, and Nehemiah 6-8. But First Esdras adds the interesting philosophical debate of the bodyguards before the emperor (chap. 3-4).

Second Esdras: Apocalyptic Visions

Most of this book consists of seven apocalyptic visions, that is, visions of the end of the world and the crises that are to come before the end. It offers answers to some of the greatest philosophical questions asked in any time: questions about the problem of evil and suffering and about the meaning and end of history. The style is more philosophical than that of the canonical books of Scripture, and more typical of the Greek mind than the Hebrew mind.

What are we to make of prophecies and visions like these that are not in the canon of Scripture but seem to be wise and edifying? On the one hand, they are not infallible. We cannot be certain that they are true. On the other hand, when they dovetail nicely with Scripture, when they explain Scripture and when Scripture explains them, we should give them a respectful hearing and expect to get from them great wisdom and inspiration.

The Prayer of Manasseh: A Prayer of Repentance

The story of Manasseh, who was a very evil king of Judah, is told in 2 Chronicles 33. This short prayer is a prayer of repentance for sin. Whether Manasseh actually composed it or not, it is a beautiful prayer to use. It begins and ends with praise, which is the main theme of prayer in the Bible, and it encloses repentance in that context.

[pope-francis-quotes]

9th September >> Pope Francis speaks to Colombia's priests, religious, seminarians: Full Text. (Photo ~ Pope Francis greets crowds in Colombia on his Apostolic Visit - ANSA) (Vatican Radio) Pope Francis, who is currently on an Apostolic Visit to Colombia, spoke on Saturday to priests, religious, seminarians and their families in Medellin, some 200 kms northwest of the capital Bogota, where he was on a day-long trip. The Pope’s last event of the day at Medellin’s Macarena Entertainment Center, included listening to testimonies of a priest, a cloistered nun and a family, who contemplated on their vocation. The Pope spoke of a “contagious apostolic zeal” that results from knowing and encountering Jesus, saying that “making him known by our word and deeds is our joy.” Comparing the Church of Colombia to “Jesus’ vine”, Pope Francis explained that the health of the vine is gauged by the harvest of genuine vocations despite today’s cultural crisis. This vine, he said, needs to be pruned of its imperfections through an “intimate and fruitful union with Jesus.” Pope Francis offered three ways in which their dwelling in Christ can be effective. Below, please find the official English translation of the Pope's prepared speech: Meeting with priests, men and women religious, seminarians and their families. Medellín Saturday, 9 September 2017 Dear Brother Bishops, Dear Priests, Men and Women Religious, and Seminarians, Dear Families, Dear “Paisas”! The parable of the true vine which we have just heard from the Gospel of John is given within the context of Jesus’ Last Supper. In that intimate moment, marked by a certain tension but full of love, the Lord washed the feet of his disciples, and wished to perpetuate his memory in the bread and wine, as he spoke from the depths of his heart to those he loved the most. In this first “Eucharistic” night, in this first sunset after his example of service, Jesus opens his heart; he entrusts to them his testament. Just as the Apostles, some women and Mary, the Mother of Jesus (cf. Acts 1: 13-14) continued to meet in that Upper Room, so too we are gathered here together to listen to him, to listen to one another. Sister Leidy of Saint Joseph, María Isabel and Father Juan Felipe have offered us their testimonies… So also each of us here could share our own vocation story. All these would converge in our experience of Jesus who comes to meet us, who chooses us first, thus seizing our hearts. As Aparecida says: “Knowing Jesus is the best gift that any person can receive; that we have encountered him is the best thing that has happened in our lives, and making him known by our word and deeds is our joy” (Aparecida Document, 29). Many of you, young people, have discovered the living Jesus in your communities; communities with a contagious apostolic zeal, which inspire and attract others. Where there is life, zeal, the desire to take Christ to others, geniune vocations arise; the fraternal and fervent life of the community awakens the yearning to devote oneself entirely to God and to evangelization (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 107). Young people are naturally restless and, although there is a crisis of commitment and of communitarian relationships, many of them stand together against the evils of the world and become involved in various forms of political action and voluntary work. When they do so for Jesus, feeling that they are a part of the community, they become “street preachers (callejeros de la fe)”, to bring Jesus Christ to every street, every town square and every corner of the earth (cf. ibid. 106). This is the vine which Jesus refers to in the text we have just proclaimed: that vine which is the “people of the covenant”. The prophets, such as Jeremiah, Isaiah and Ezekiel, refer to the people as a vine, as does Psalm 80, which says: “You brought a vine out of Egypt… Your cleared the ground for it; it took deep root and filled the land” (vv. 9-10). At times they express the joy of God contemplating the vine, at other times his anger, bewilderment, and disappointment; yet he never forgets his people, he never ceases to feel their distance and go out to them, who, when they turn away from him, dry up, burn away and are destroyed. How is the land, the sustenance, the support where this vine is growing in Colombia? Under what conditions are the vocational fruits of special consecration born? No doubt in situations full of contradictions, of light and darkness, of complex relational realities. We all would like to count on a world with straightforward families and relationships, but we are a part of this cultural crisis and, in the midst of it, in response to it, God continues to call. It would be almost unrealistic to think that all of you heard the call of God in the midst of families sustained by a strong love and full of values such as generosity, compromise, fidelity and patience (cf. Amoris Laetitia, 5); some are like this, and I pray to God that they are many. But keeping our feet firmly planted on the ground means recognizing that our vocational experiences, the awakening of God’s call, brings us closer to what God’s word already reveals and to what Colombia knows so well: “This thread of suffering and bloodshed runs through numerous pages of the Bible, beginning with Cain’s murder of his brother Abel. We read of the disputes between the sons and the wives of the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the tragedies and violence marking the family of David, the family problems reflected in the story of Tobias and the bitter complaint of Job” (ibid., 20). It has been this way since the beginning: God manifests his closeness and his election; he changes the course of events to call men and women in the frailty of their personal and shared history. Let us not be afraid, in that complex land, for God always brings about the miracle of producing good clusters on the vine, like arepas at breakfast. May there be vocations in every community and in every family in Medellín! This vine – which is Jesus’ vine – has the characteristic of being true. He has used this term before on other occasions in the Gospel of John: true light, true bread from heaven, and true testimony. Now, truth is not something that we receive – as bread or light – but rather what springs up from within. We are a people chosen for the truth, and our call has to be in truth. There can be no place for deceit, hypocrisy or small-mindedness if we are branches of this vine, if our vocation is grafted onto Jesus. We must all be careful that every branch fulfils its purpose: to bear fruit. From the start, those who accompany the vocational process need to encourage a right intention, a genuine desire to be configured to Jesus, the shepherd, the friend, the spouse. When these processes are not nourished by this true sap that is the Spirit of Jesus, then we experience dryness and God learns with sadness that these branches are already dead. Vocations associated with special consecrations die when they love to be sustained with honours, when they are driven by a search for personal reassurance and social advancement, when the motivation is “to climb the ladder”, to cleave to material interests and to strive shamefully for financial gain. As I have said before on other occasions, the devil enters through the wallet. This not only applies to the early stages of vocation; all of us have to be careful because the corrupting of men and women in the Church begins in this way, little by little, and then – as Jesus himself says – it takes root in the heart and it ends up dislodging God from our lives. “You cannot serve God and mammon” (Mt 6:21, 24), we cannot take advantage of our religious state and the goodness of our people in order to be served and gain material benefits. There are some situations, customs and choices that evidence signs of dryness and death: they cannot keep hindering the flow of sap that nourishes and gives life! The poison of lies, obfuscation, manipulation and the abuse of the People of God, the weak and especially the elderly and young, can have no place in our communities; they are branches that are determined to dry us out and that God tells us to cut off. And God does not only cut away; the allegory goes on to say that God purifies the vine of its imperfections. The promise is that we will bear fruit, and abundantly, just like the grain of wheat, if we are able to give ourselves, to offer our lives freely. In Colombia, there are examples that this is possible. We remember Saint Laura Montoya, a remarkable religious whose relics are with us and who, going forth from this city, gave herself completely to a great missionary effort on behalf of indigenous people throughout the country. How much we can learn from this consecrated woman of silent and selfless surrender, who had no greater desire than to transmit the maternal face of God. So too we remember Blessed Mariano de Jesús Euse Hoyos, one of the first students of the Seminary of Medellín, and other Colombian priests and women religious, whose canonization processes have begun; as well as so many others, thousands of unknown Colombians who in the simplicity of their daily lives knew how to give of themselves for the Gospel, and whom you hold dear in your memory and who encourage you in your own commitment. They all show us that it is possible to respond faithfully to the Lord’s call, that it is possible to bear much fruit. The good news is that the Lord is willing to cleanse us, that we will not be cut off, that as good disciples we are on the way. How does Jesus eliminate those things which lead to death and which take hold of our lives and distort his call? By inviting us to dwell in him. Dwelling does not only signify being, but rather also indicates maintaining a relationship that is alive, existential and absolutely necessary; it means to live and grow in an intimate and fruitful union with Jesus, “the source of eternal life”. Dwelling in Jesus cannot be a merely passive act or a simple abandonment without any consequences in our daily and concrete lives. Allow me to propose three ways of making this “dwelling” effective: Dwelling by touching Christ’s humanity: With the gaze and attitude of Jesus, who contemplates reality not as a judge, but rather as a good samaritan; who recognizes the value of the people who walk with him, as well as their wounds and sins; who discovers their silent suffering and who is moved by peoples�� needs, above all when they are overwhelmed by injustice, inhumane poverty, indifference or by the perverse actions of corruption and violence. With Jesus’ gestures and words, which express love for those nearby and search for those far away; tender and firm in denouncing sin and in announcing the Gospel, joyful and generous in surrendering and in service, especially for the smallest among us, steadfastly rejecting the temptation to believe that all is lost, to accomodate ourselves or to become mere administrators of misfortune. Dwelling by contemplating his divinity: Awakening and sustaining an admiration for the study which increases knowledge of Christ because, as Saint Augustine reminds us, we cannot love someone we do not know (cf. Saint Augustine, The Trinity, Book X, ch. I, 3). Giving priority, in this way of knowing, to the encounter with Sacred Scripture, especially the Gospel where Christ speaks to us, reveals his unconditional love for the Father, and instils the joy that comes from obedience to his will and from serving our brothers and sisters. Whoever does not know the Scriptures, does not know Jesus. Whoever does not love the Scriptures, does not love Jesus (cf. Saint Jerome, Preface to the Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah, PL 24, 17). Let us spend time prayerfully reading the Word of God, listening to what God wishes for us and for our people. May all of our study help us to interpret reality with the eyes of God, that it may not be a way of avoiding what is happening to our people, nor be subject to the whim of fashions or ideologies. May our study not be overcome by nostalgia or the tendency to confine the mystery, nor may it be unwilling to respond to questions that people no longer ask themselves, and may it not abandon those who find themselves in an existential void and who question us from their worlds and cultures. Dwelling in and contemplating his divinity by making prayer a fundamental part of our lives and our apostolic service. Prayer frees us from the burden of worldliness, and teaches us to live joyfully, to distance ourselves from what is superficial, in an exercise of true freedom. Prayer draws us out of our self-centredness, from being reclusive in an empty religious experience; it leads us to place ourselves, with docility, in the hands of God in order to fulfil his will and to realize his plan of salvation. And prayer teaches us to adore. To learn to adore in silence. Let us be men and women who have been reconciled in order to reconcile. Being called does not give us a certificate of right conduct and sinlessness; we are not clothed in an aura of holiness. We are all sinners and we need forgiveness and God’s mercy to rise each day. He uproots whatever is not good in us, as well as the wrong we have done, casting it out of the vineyard to be burned up. He cleanses us so that we may bear fruit. This is the merciful fidelity that God shows his people, of which we are part. He will never leave us at the side of the road. God does everything to prevent sin from defeating us and clsoing the doors of our lives to a future of hope and joy. Finally, dwelling in Christ in order to live joyfully: If we remain in him, his joy will be in us. We will not be sad disciples and bitter apostles. On the contrary, we will reflect and be heralds of true happiness, a complete joy that no one can take away. We will spread the hope of a new life that Christ has given to us. God’s call is not a heavy burden that robs us of joy. He does not want us to be immersed in a sadness and weariness that comes from activities lived poorly, but rather wants a spirituality that brings joy to our lives and even to our weariness. Our contagious joy must be our first testimony to the closeness and love of God. We are true dispensers of God’s grace when we reflect the joy that comes from encountering him. In the Book of Genesis, after the flood, Noah planted a vine as a sign of a new beginning; at the end of the Exodus, Moses sent scouts to inspect the promised land, who returned with a cluster of grapes, a sign that in the land flowed milk and honey. God has looked upon us, our communities and families. The Lord has cast his gaze on Colombia: you are a sign of this loving election. It is now up to us to offer all our love and service while being united to Jesus, our vine. To be the promise of a new beginning for Colombia, that leaves behind the floods of discord and violence, a Colombia that wants to bear abundant fruits of justice and peace, of encounter and solidarity. May God bless you; may God bless the consecrated life in Colombia. And, please, do not forget to pray for me.

[catholicwatertown]

Pope Francis speaks to Colombia's priests, religious, seminarians: Full Text

(Vatican Radio)  Pope Francis, who is currently on an Apostolic Visit to Colombia, spoke on Saturday to priests, religious, seminarians and their families in Medellin, some 200 kms northwest of the capital Bogota, where he was on a day-long trip.

The Pope’s last event of the day at Medellin’s Macarena Entertainment Center, included listening to testimonies of a priest, a cloistered nun and a family, who contemplated on their vocation.  

The Pope spoke of a “contagious apostolic zeal” that results from knowing and encountering Jesus, saying that “making him known by our word and deeds is our joy.”

Comparing the Church of Colombia to “Jesus’ vine”, Pope Francis explained that the health of the vine is gauged by the harvest of genuine vocations despite today’s cultural crisis.  

This vine, he said, needs to be pruned of its imperfections through an “intimate and fruitful union with Jesus.”  Pope Francis offered three ways in which their dwelling in Christ can be effective.

Below, please find the official English translation of the Pope's prepared speech:

Meeting with priests, men and women religious, seminarians and their families.

Medellín

Saturday, 9 September 2017

Dear Brother Bishops,

Dear Priests, Men and Women Religious, and Seminarians,

Dear Families, Dear “Paisas”!

The parable of the true vine which we have just heard from the Gospel of John is given within the context of Jesus’ Last Supper.  In that intimate moment, marked by a certain tension but full of love, the Lord washed the feet of his disciples, and wished to perpetuate his memory in the bread and wine, as he spoke from the depths of his heart to those he loved the most. 

In this first “Eucharistic” night, in this first sunset after his example of service, Jesus opens his heart; he entrusts to them his testament.  Just as the Apostles, some women and Mary, the Mother of Jesus (cf. Acts 1: 13-14) continued to meet in that Upper Room, so too we are gathered here together to listen to him, to listen to one another.  Sister Leidy of Saint Joseph, María Isabel and Father Juan Felipe have offered us their testimonies… So also each of us here could share our own vocation story.  All these would converge in our experience of Jesus who comes to meet us, who chooses us first, thus seizing our hearts.  As Aparecida says: “Knowing Jesus is the best gift that any person can receive; that we have encountered him is the best thing that has happened in our lives, and making him known by our word and deeds is our joy” (Aparecida Document, 29).

Many of you, young people, have discovered the living Jesus in your communities; communities with a contagious apostolic zeal, which inspire and attract others.  Where there is life, zeal, the desire to take Christ to others, geniune vocations arise; the fraternal and fervent life of the community awakens the yearning to devote oneself entirely to God and to evangelization (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 107).  Young people are naturally restless and, although there is a crisis of commitment and of communitarian relationships, many of them stand together against the evils of the world and become involved in various forms of political action and voluntary work.  When they do so for Jesus, feeling that they are a part of the community, they become “street preachers (callejeros de la fe)”, to bring Jesus Christ to every street, every town square and every corner of the earth (cf. ibid. 106). 

This is the vine which Jesus refers to in the text we have just proclaimed: that vine which is the “people of the covenant”.  The prophets, such as Jeremiah, Isaiah and Ezekiel, refer to the people as a vine, as does Psalm 80, which says: “You brought a vine out of Egypt… Your cleared the ground for it; it took deep root and filled the land” (vv. 9-10).  At times they express the joy of God contemplating the vine, at other times his anger, bewilderment, and disappointment; yet he never forgets his people, he never ceases to feel their distance and go out to them, who, when they turn away from him, dry up, burn away and are destroyed.

How is the land, the sustenance, the support where this vine is growing in Colombia?  Under what conditions are the vocational fruits of special consecration born?  No doubt in situations full of contradictions, of light and darkness, of complex relational realities.  We all would like to count on a world with straightforward families and relationships, but we are a part of this cultural crisis and, in the midst of it, in response to it, God continues to call.  It would be almost unrealistic to think that all of you heard the call of God in the midst of families sustained by a strong love and full of values such as generosity, compromise, fidelity and patience (cf. Amoris Laetitia, 5); some are like this, and I pray to God that they are many.  But keeping our feet firmly planted on the ground means recognizing that our vocational experiences, the awakening of God’s call, brings us closer to what God’s word already reveals and to what Colombia knows so well: “This thread of suffering and bloodshed runs through numerous pages of the Bible, beginning with Cain’s murder of his brother Abel.  We read of the disputes between the sons and the wives of the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the tragedies and violence marking the family of David, the family problems reflected in the story of Tobias and the bitter complaint of Job” (ibid., 20).  It has been this way since the beginning: God manifests his closeness and his election; he changes the course of events to call men and women in the frailty of their personal and shared history.  Let us not be afraid, in that complex land, for God always brings about the miracle of producing good clusters on the vine, like arepas at breakfast.  May there be vocations in every community and in every family in Medellín!  

This vine – which is Jesus’ vine – has the characteristic of being true.  He has used this term before on other occasions in the Gospel of John: true light, true bread from heaven, and true testimony.  Now, truth is not something that we receive – as bread or light – but rather what springs up from within.  We are a people chosen for the truth, and our call has to be in truth.  There can be no place for deceit, hypocrisy or small-mindedness if we are branches of this vine, if our vocation is grafted onto Jesus.   We must all be careful that every branch fulfils its purpose: to bear fruit.  From the start, those who accompany the vocational process need to encourage a right intention, a genuine desire to be configured to Jesus, the shepherd, the friend, the spouse.  When these processes are not nourished by this true sap that is the Spirit of Jesus, then we experience dryness and God learns with sadness that these branches are already dead.  Vocations associated with special consecrations die when they love to be sustained with honours, when they are driven by a search for personal reassurance and social advancement, when the motivation is “to climb the ladder”, to cleave to material interests and to strive shamefully for financial gain.  As I have said before on other occasions, the devil enters through the wallet.  This not only applies to the early stages of vocation; all of us have to be careful because the corrupting of men and women in the Church begins in this way, little by little, and then – as Jesus himself says – it takes root in the heart and it ends up dislodging God from our lives.  “You cannot serve God and mammon” (Mt 6:21, 24), we cannot take advantage of our religious state and the goodness of our people in order to be served and gain material benefits.

There are some situations, customs and choices that evidence signs of dryness and death: they cannot keep hindering the flow of sap that nourishes and gives life!  The poison of lies, obfuscation, manipulation and the abuse of the People of God, the weak and especially the elderly and young, can have no place in our communities; they are branches that are determined to dry us out and that God tells us to cut off.

And God does not only cut away; the allegory goes on to say that God purifies the vine of its imperfections.  The promise is that we will bear fruit, and abundantly, just like the grain of wheat, if we are able to give ourselves, to offer our lives freely.  In Colombia, there are examples that this is possible.  We remember Saint Laura Montoya, a remarkable religious whose relics are with us and who, going forth from this city, gave herself completely to a great missionary effort on behalf of indigenous people throughout the country.  How much we can learn from this consecrated woman of silent and selfless surrender, who had no greater desire than to transmit the maternal face of God.  So too we remember Blessed Mariano de Jesús Euse Hoyos, one of the first students of the Seminary of Medellín, and other Colombian priests and women religious, whose canonization processes have begun; as well as so many others, thousands of unknown Colombians who in the simplicity of their daily lives knew how to give of themselves for the Gospel, and whom you hold dear in your memory and who encourage you in your own commitment.  They all show us that it is possible to respond faithfully to the Lord’s call, that it is possible to bear much fruit.

The good news is that the Lord is willing to cleanse us, that we will not be cut off, that as good disciples we are on the way.  How does Jesus eliminate those things which lead to death and which take hold of our lives and distort his call?  By inviting us to dwell in him.  Dwelling does not only signify being, but rather also indicates maintaining a relationship that is alive, existential and absolutely necessary; it means to live and grow in an intimate and fruitful union with Jesus, “the source of eternal life”.  Dwelling in Jesus cannot be a merely passive act or a simple abandonment without any consequences in our daily and concrete lives.  Allow me to propose three ways of making this “dwelling” effective:

 Dwelling by touching Christ’s humanity:

With the gaze and attitude of Jesus, who contemplates reality not as a judge, but rather as a good samaritan; who recognizes the value of the people who walk with him, as well as their wounds and sins; who discovers their silent suffering and who is moved by peoples’ needs, above all when they are overwhelmed by injustice, inhumane poverty, indifference or by the perverse actions of corruption and violence.

With Jesus’ gestures and words, which express love for those nearby and search for those far away; tender and firm in denouncing sin and in announcing the Gospel, joyful and generous in surrendering and in service, especially for the smallest among us, steadfastly rejecting the temptation to believe that all is lost, to accomodate ourselves or to become mere administrators of misfortune.

Dwelling by contemplating his divinity:

Awakening and sustaining an admiration for the study which increases knowledge of Christ because, as Saint Augustine reminds us, we cannot love someone we do not know (cf. Saint Augustine, The Trinity, Book X, ch. I, 3).

Giving priority, in this way of knowing, to the encounter with Sacred Scripture, especially the Gospel where Christ speaks to us, reveals his unconditional love for the Father, and instils the joy that comes from obedience to his will and from serving our brothers and sisters.  Whoever does not know the Scriptures, does not know Jesus.  Whoever does not love the Scriptures, does not love Jesus (cf. Saint Jerome, Preface to the Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah, PL 24, 17).  Let us spend time prayerfully reading the Word of God, listening to what God wishes for us and for our people.

May all of our study help us to interpret reality with the eyes of God, that it may not be a way of avoiding what is happening to our people, nor be subject to the whim of fashions or ideologies.  May our study not be overcome by nostalgia or the tendency to confine the mystery, nor may it be unwilling to respond to questions that people no longer ask themselves, and may it not abandon those who find themselves in an existential void and who question us from their worlds and cultures.    

Dwelling in and contemplating his divinity by making prayer a fundamental part of our lives and our apostolic service.  Prayer frees us from the burden of worldliness, and teaches us to live joyfully, to distance ourselves from what is superficial, in an exercise of true freedom.  Prayer draws us out of our self-centredness, from being reclusive in an empty religious experience; it leads us to place ourselves, with docility, in the hands of God in order to fulfil his will and to realize his plan of salvation.  And prayer teaches us to adore.  To learn to adore in silence. 

Let us be men and women who have been reconciled in order to reconcile.  Being called does not give us a certificate of right conduct and sinlessness; we are not clothed in an aura of holiness.  We are all sinners and we need forgiveness and God’s mercy to rise each day.  He uproots whatever is not good in us, as well as the wrong we have done, casting it out of the vineyard to be burned up.  He cleanses us so that we may bear fruit.  This is the merciful fidelity that God shows his people, of which we are part.  He will never leave us at the side of the road.  God does everything to prevent sin from defeating us and clsoing the doors of our lives to a future of hope and joy. 

Finally, dwelling in Christ in order to live joyfully:

If we remain in him, his joy will be in us.  We will not be sad disciples and bitter apostles.  On the contrary, we will reflect and be heralds of true happiness, a complete joy that no one can take away.  We will spread the hope of a new life that Christ has given to us.  God’s call is not a heavy burden that robs us of joy.  He does not want us to be immersed in a sadness and weariness that comes from activities lived poorly, but rather wants a spirituality that brings joy to our lives and even to our weariness.  Our contagious joy must be our first testimony to the closeness and love of God.  We are true dispensers of God’s grace when we reflect the joy that comes from encountering him. 

In the Book of Genesis, after the flood, Noah planted a vine as a sign of a new beginning; at the end of the Exodus, Moses sent scouts to inspect the promised land, who returned with a cluster of grapes, a sign that in the land flowed milk and honey.  God has looked upon us, our communities and families.  The Lord has cast his gaze on Colombia: you are a sign of this loving election.  It is now up to us to offer all our love and service while being united to Jesus, our vine.  To be the promise of a new beginning for Colombia, that leaves behind the floods of discord and violence, a Colombia that wants to bear abundant fruits of justice and peace, of encounter and solidarity.  May God bless you; may God bless the consecrated life in Colombia.  And, please, do not forget to pray for me.

(from Vatican Radio)

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