#i shall gladly be the sacrifice

[frogthane]

I can't. I have a singular weakness (okie, maybe not true, but for the sake of this post, allow me to play pretend😊) and that is found family. You cannot show me an old scraggly man realize "oh shit, I got a new kid now" then zoom to Connor's puppy dog eyes completely oblivious to the world and not expect me to be ready to lay down my life for them

[moon-river-me]

Hii, a recommendation would be that the reader is a single mother of a 5-year-old child and is on a date with Hotch.

Aaron Hotchner x reader

single parent reader, fluff, sfw, slight flirting

I loved writing this, I hope you enjoy <3

you could not remember the last time you had been on a date. You couldn’t remember the last time you even entertained the thought of a date.

Raising a child solo meant a ton of sacrifices, dating was one of them. You had made your peace a long time ago that you are only going to re-entire the dating pool once Emma was 20. It was for the best honestly.

That was until you met Aaron Hotchner.  

You crossed paths at a coffee shop next to your daughter’s daycare, his son Jack, went to the same one.  Everyday since that meeting all those months ago, you have coffee together in the morning. You both played it off as friends with similar situations, single parents with demanding jobs. you never talked about the shared looks, the gentle caress of hands, or the warm smiles that you doubt Aaron ever gave to anyone but you.

You didn’t talk about it until you did.

It was 11pm when he had appeared at your doorstep after a particularly difficult case. His suit a mess, his breath ragged as if he ran straight from Quantico itself, and a look of pure desperation in his eyes.

“I just need to know you are safe. I needed to see you.” Neither of you uttered a word as you lunged into an embrace that said everything you didn’t. you never checked the time but if you estimated you would have said you stood like that for an eternity. One of which you would gladly repeat until your dying days.

So, that is why at this current moment you were picking a dress with your very opinionated 5-year-old.

“No no no! wear the blue one, you look very beautiful.” Her v’s and t’s sounding more of an f sound due to her lose tooth (she made you promise to be back intime to get a peek at the tooth fairy as the babysitter wouldn’t).

“Okay okay I will wear the blue one!” you exclaim through chuckles, she definitely had your stubbornness, there was no doubt about that.

Getting ready took twice as long because of your constant overthinking and Emma’s constant input. But you both decided on a royal blue dress with short black heels.

You opened your front door to see an exquisite image. Slightly ruffled hair, loose button up, black suit pants, and a rose in hand. Wow.  You knew you were gawking at him, but you didn’t care, not when he looked as delectable as he did in this current moment.

“You look beautiful, you are beautiful.” His eyes diverted to your lips for a fraction of a second before traveling back up to your eyes. You could have sworn his cheeks had a slight blush too them.

“You clean up nice yourself.” You comment smiling while taking the rose from his grasp.

“I know you believe that” he stated knowingly, his dark eyes twinkling in this light. Clearly he had seen your staring, but can you be blamed?

“I have to appreciate all of life’s beauties, and you are one of them.” It was always easy with Aaron. Conversations on what are mondain topics become hour long discussions on everything. Flirting is only an added bonus.

“Shall we go?” He asks, offering his hand to help her into his car,

“I thought you would never ask.” Happily getting into the car, never being more grateful for breaking your dating promise to yourself in your life.

a/n

hope this is good because I loved writing it.

Hotch is my grumpy little pookie so defo love writing about him

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

In English, we say, "Change."

In TES, we say, "The Amulet is shattered. Dagon is defeated. With the Dragon's blood, and the Amulet of Kings, we have sealed the gates of Oblivion . . . forever. The last of the Septims passes now into history. I go gladly, for I know my sacrifice is not in vain. I take my place with my father, and my father's fathers. The Third Age has ended, and a new age dawns. When the next Elder Scroll is written, you shall be its scribe. The shape of the future, the fate of the Empire, these things now belong to you."

[nonbinaryspy]

Meta: Elincia's Trolley Problems

Elincia's arc comes into sharpest relief when you consider both PoR and RD together. From living a sheltered life as a secret princess, to watching her parents get killed as her country is invaded, to eventually rising to the challenge of her unexpected role as queen, she has to deal with important decisions at every turn. Every action she takes is out of love for Crimea's people and a desire to secure them safe and happy lives. But what happens when she has to choose between the life of a loved one and the future of the overall populace? Both PoR and RD test this with narrative beats that form a perfect mirror, ultimately reflecting Elincia's development.

Path of Radiance

Throughout PoR, Elincia has been separated from her usual support network, particularly her retainers. After returning to Crimea, she finally finds them—however, in chapter 24, before she is able to reunite with Geoffrey, he is left behind to fend off Daein troupes so that Elincia can escape. Elincia is naturally horrified.

Bastian: Geoffrey's acting as a decoy. You must continue on this road to the southwest. Lucia: So the enemy's found us, eh? Lucia: Nothing to do about it but change course. I'll lead you to another hiding place. Elincia: Wh-what are you saying, Lucia? We must help Geoffrey! Bastian? Lucia: Luck was not with us, Princess. We have no choice. We'll have to abandon our companions in Castle Delbray. Elincia: No!! We will not!! Geoffrey and the others have survived so much already... I will not abandon them! Lucia: Princess, please understand. If we could do so without danger to you, we would gladly risk our lives to go back. Elincia: We cannot do this! Please, Lucia! We must go to the castle! ...Bastian! You must not do this thing! Bastian: Geoffrey is a knight. In the name of our friend's honor, Princess, you must escape. Elincia: No... No! They've survived this long! They're alive! NO!!!

When Ike gives her the chance to instead save Geoffrey, she affirms that this is what she wants.

Elincia: Yes. I don't want... I don't want anyone else to be sacrificed.

Lucia and Bastian respect her wishes and agree to help Geoffrey, at which point she is able to get her feelings across.

Elincia: Because the two of you think to put me above all else, you say you will sacrifice your lives for me. Yet... Even if I'm able to borrow of Ike's strength and win back Crimea... If the cost of that victory is the lives of the two of you, I shall never smile again. And joy? Never again would that emotion fill my heart...

Elincia is a leader, but she's also a person—one who never asked for this role. Until recently, she has not had to make decisions that would affect the future of a whole country, as opposed to only living within her personal sphere. In fact, the main political decision made re: her life—the decision to keep her birth secret—was made for her. She has already lost her parents and, as far as she knows, her beloved uncle.

Since then, her choices have all been for the sake of Crimea. In reality, she has had little choice in how to go about that goal, considering she has been fleeing for her life while at the whims of Begnion politics. Being able to return to Crimea and reunite with her retainers is the first time she has been running toward, rather than away, from something, and still part of that goal is being held from her reach. Nothing will stop her from working hard for Crimea, but individual losses will still give her permanent grief. So here, she finally takes a stand against the choices other people try to make for her, and insists on protecting her loved ones and regaining some of what she lost.

What happens next depends on the player, but considering her retainers are alive in RD, the duology's canon here is that they all survive this fight. Due to Elincia getting her feelings across, her loved ones are saved, and the campaign continues.

After this experience, the cost of individual lives in war is hammered home, and Elincia decides it's not enough to order others to keep her retainers safe. Regaining her inherited pegasus and sword, she takes to the field despite the mixed feelings of her retainers.

Elincia: Even though I'm dressed like this, I have no experience, and do not expect to fight as well as the rest of you. But…this constant waiting behind and doing nothing…it sets my heart beating with such unease I fear it may burst. Even if I cannot fight, I could use a staff to heal the wounded. If I could save just one soldier, it would mean so much to me.

This quote shows her resolve and compassion, but it also shows that she still lacks experience and confidence, especially when it comes to conflict. Despite being trained in swordplay, she instead emphasizes her ability to heal, and sets a fairly low bar for what her contribution will mean. Although, given that this plot demonstrates the importance of saving an individual life, maybe I shouldn't call it a low bar. Either way, at this point, there is still plenty of room for her to grow and change, and RD will challenge her to due so.

Radiant Dawn

Part two of Radiant Dawn focuses on Ludveck attempting to usurp Elincia's throne by stirring up reactionary attitudes toward her policies, specifically with regards to her alliance with Gallia, to threaten civil war and pressure her into giving up her throne. Because she fears the conflict that could come out of taking direct action against a noble, and because his followers are also citizens of Crimea for whom she feels responsible, she approaches the situation carefully. Ludveck takes advantage of this hesitance to eventually kidnap Lucia.

Once again, one of the Delbray siblings is in peril, and this time, as Crimea's queen, Elincia does not need to convince anyone to save her. Instead, she takes to the field herself. As with PoR, she had not immediately done so—in this case, because of the delicacy the situation called for. But with Lucia's life at risk and Ludveck's forces at Elincia's door, she decides the time for delicacy is past.

Elincia: “Lucia… Lucia, I’m sorry. Somehow, I promise you… I will save you!” ... Elincia: “…Very well. I must prepare as well. I had hoped this day would never come… Amiti, the treasured blade of House Crimea, will awaken from its long slumber.”

Unlike in PoR, rather than focusing on her healing ability, she mentions Amiti. She no longer needs to make disclaimers or doubt the importance of her role commanding the field. The wording of "I had hoped this day would never come" and "awaken from its long slumber" emphasize that she has already been through the horrors of war once, and never wanted to again. She despises violence, but she is resigned to doing what she must.

Despite holding out against Ludveck's forces and throwing him in the dungeon, she is not able to do anything about his trump card. With Lucia as hostage, he tries to use her life as a bargaining chip for his release, as well as the country. After the incident in PoR, where her retainers saw their own lives as disposable, she convinced them to realize how valuable they were to her. So with the Delbray siblings' situations reversed, Geoffrey now asks Elincia to save Lucia.

Geoffrey: “…Your Majesty, you can’t… You have to let me do something about this.” Elincia: “…” Geoffrey: “Lucia would willingly die fighting for her country, I know… But you have to help her, Elincia. If you were in her position, she would surely do the same. Please, just give the word.”

Again, Elincia is at the point where she is taking action herself instead of entreating others. Rather than order him to do anything, Elincia visits Ludveck in what is one of the most defining scenes of her arc. The non-extended version is below as I think it gets the point across quite well, but there are more dialogue beats in the extended version.

Ludveck: “Queen Elincia, you’re so naive. Cold and callous decisions are sometimes required of a nation’s ruler. …I was testing you. We all wanted to know if our queen would have the power to stop a civil war.” Ludveck: “But, no, you were too hesitant and too concerned about harming the people… Now look what has happened. The rule of Crimea cannot be kept in your hands! Please, Your Majesty! You must abdicate and cede the crown to me!” Ludveck: “And considering Lady Lucia’s life is on the line, you haven’t much choice. Now, let’s have you free me from this prison cell, and then we can discuss any further details…” Elincia: “I don’t think so.” Ludveck: “What?! Are you truly willing to sacrifice Lady Lucia?!” Elincia: “…Lord Ludveck, all your dissatisfaction and misgivings about me are well founded. However, do you realize how many lives you’ve simply thrown away?! Strength without compassion does not a ruler make. You care nothing for the people, sir. You cloak your desire to rule with pretty speeches, but it is petty avarice nonetheless!” Ludveck: “…So this is how it shall be? Very well… But Lady Lucia cannot be spared without my order.” Elincia: “Allowing you to plant the seeds of rebellion and play havoc with the lives of my people is a failure for which I must answer. But I will see Crimea through this trial. I will give my people the future they deserve, no matter the cost.”

Ludveck patronizes Elincia for her compassion while pretending he has the citizens' best interests at heart, but Elincia doesn't bow to his demands. She maintains her compassion along with her resolve. However, no matter how caring someone is, the fact of the matter is that decisions that help even a great deal of people still come with consequences. Elincia realizes this, and is prepared to make that sacrifice while taking responsibility—even though, as she said in PoR, she "shall never smile again."

In the beginning of PoR, Elincia lost almost everything in one fell swoop. When she was finally reunited with her retainers, the thought of sacrificing even one of them was unbearable, even if it could potentially have derailed her goal to retake her country from an invading tyrant. Now, though, she is in a position of greater power, and she is fully aware of the responsibility that comes with it. Compared to PoR, where she was so often at the mercy of others, the only thing tying her hands now is the threat to Lucia. Of course, Lucia is immensely important to her, but after spending three years working to rebuild Crimea, nothing can convince her to let it again fall to ruin under another power-hungry leader.

Thankfully, Lucia's life and Elincia's smiles are saved, thanks to Bastian secretly calling in the Greil Mercenaries. Despite her resolve, Elincia's conflicting priorities are still apparent, as in the extended version (translation on Serenes Forest provided below) she expresses wonder at her decision. As for her retainers, though their feelings on how she should handle such situations have shifted over time, they don't begrudge her decision.

Elincia: “…When Lucia was captured… It was as if I lost my other half. Even now, seeing her by my side, I feel so strange… Wondering how, at that time, I could make the decision to abandon her…” Lucia: “Lady Elincia…” Elincia: “Still… If the same scenario occurred… I believe I would make the same decision. Lucia’s life is important, but it’s not on the same scale as protecting the country. As the Queen of Crimea, I must accomplish my duty to the country foremost.” Lucia: “Of course. Seeing Lady Elincia being able to make this decision, it truly makes me happy. As if I would hate you.” Geoffrey: “My thoughts exactly.” Elincia: “Lucia, Geoffrey… I value your lives more than even my own. But it’s my duty to protect this country, even if that means losing you. I’ve learned a lot from all of this. I hope to keep them out of harm’s way, and I’ll never make the same mistakes again.”

By the end of this section, the bulk of Elincia's arc is complete. She has decided what matters to her and what she will do as queen when put into high-pressure situations. She resolves the situation by deciding to be openly harsh in punishing Ludveck's followers despite the fact that it will gain ire toward her, as refusing to do so before gave him the opening he needed. She has decided to be uncompromising in the face of reactionary politics. Not everyone in Crimea will agree with her decisions, but those closest to her will never waver in their loyalty, to the extent that they are both willing to live and die for her. It's no wonder that, as her epilogue says, "Her reign was remembered as a golden age."

Conclusion

Because I touched on the topic of Elincia's agency and how she maneuvers within the limits of it, I want to give a brief shout-out to her actions in part three. She is Gallia's ally and does not want any more bloodshed in her lands. However, due to Begnion exercising its imperial power, she cannot fully stop its army from entering her lands in pursuit of the laguz alliance. The action she ultimately takes, dropping her weapon in between the opposing armies and essentially daring them to murder a queen of a country with whom they're both allied, all without betraying her own nonviolent ideals, is an unparalleled power move.

Getting back to Elincia's trolley problems, what I find interesting is that though Elincia's decisions are different in PoR and RD, neither game condemns her for her choices. She cares for both the mass of strangers that comprise her kingdom and the loved ones who she's spent her life beside. Her situation in each game is different, so she handles each situation differently in ways that make sense given her roles, pressures, and motivations.

FE in general, and Tellius in particular, asks the characters and players to care about the fates of individual lives as well as whole worlds. Both PoR and RD present the question of what someone would or should do when these personal and political goals conflict, without giving one black-and-white answer. Elincia's arc is just one impactful example of this.

As for me, I'm not gonna lie—though Elincia doesn't have the option to reset the game whenever someone dies, I probably always will.

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Based on my evil playthrough

Rated: Explicit

Warnings: blood lots of blood, vampirism, rituals, evil ancient villian tav uwu

back at it again w a tav that is equally (more so) evil with their bae ascend!astarion

"Go on, speak what you deem is necessary to be heard."

Your hands touch his flesh, fingers stained by the ink of crafting and reciting forbidden magic. They are cold, a comfort he needs as his flesh feels on fire.

"More." His pale skin is decorated with blood from the body before him, his mouth is stained as well. He wants more. There were plenty of sacrifices for him to feast upon, you made sure of that, but your beloved is greedy. He wants more than is required.

"Tsk, tsk, you know Gortash will not be pleased if Baldur’s Gate population suddenly starts to drop." Your hands touch his bare chest, the painted ritual marks upon his chest glow as your power touches him. "Feast upon me. I will give you enough."

Astarion will not kill you like the others, no, he knows how to feed enough to fuel him while giving you the thrill of a glimpse of oblivion.

"You spoil me, little love."

"I do and I shall forever do so gladly."

A replacement for the stone once connected to Bhaal is required and Astarion is to be the bearer of this.

Kanchelsis, the God of the Vampires, Blood, and Debauchery is to taint the stone with his power.

All that is needed is for you to assist Astarion in claiming his right.

The ritual requires an action to please the vampiric God. The blood bath has drawn his gaze, now Astarion will defile your body.

Not like you mind, after all, you are the one who made this happen.

Bane, Nerull, and Kanchelsis, the new Chosen Three shall rule over all of Baldur’s Gate and soon beyond.

You, the oldest of villains, were awoken from your slumber in the Abyss by foolish necromancers who sought to use your power. Though to bind your soul by the flesh of the current body Astarion loses himself to, oh, how you have grown once more to the level of power you once wielded.

Those many eons ago there were three who sought and failed to conquer this realm. Now you are here to finish what your former colleagues started— With those stronger than the ones you once allied with.

Your public marriage to Bane worshiper Gortash is fruitful as is your true marriage to the Vampire Ascendant Astarion is amazing. Love, you feel it for both of them, the power, and goals they share.

Astarion groans as your nails claw into his back, his movement relentless and very skilled.

"Consume me, beloved."

His fangs sink deep into your neck reopening the place he first bit you. Drinking deeply and with a moan as you are always his favorite to taste.

Oh, you are beyond pleased to feel Kanchelsis' presence as this union is soon to be completed.

Netherstone stone dipping into the shadows and blood created in the same style the vampiric cleric of Kanchelsis first had. Removing Bhaal's last gasp of power and purifying it with the unholy power of the real God of blood.

The dizziness kicks in, your vision tunneling, your body relaxing.

"(Name)," The way his voice says your name is like the sweets of poisons, one you drink every day with glee. "It is done."

The bliss is wonderful. The union between you both is always satisfying. You like how his seed leaks out of you, the reminder of who has claimed you once more.

"My Lord," Kissing him with your blood on his lips, "Our time has come!" Gleeful but too weak to get as excited as you want.

"We will celebrate once you have rested." Caring for you as he covers you with a robe he took off before he went on a killing spree. You hum as he carries you out of the temple to the upstairs portion of the former Szarr Palace.

Everything is remade to his and your liking.

Nothing, not even the hidden crypt, is the same.

Much like the world will be soon, with Gortash's input of course.

[cloudseeker14]

Me and The Devil (Scaramouche x GN!Reader)

Summary : You’d hunted down Scaramouche, pushing aside your lingering strings to his previous lifetimes, awaiting the confrontation between the two of you with bated breath. But will your resolve as a hero remain as steadfast as it always was when what you had imagined countless times finally happens?

Pairing: Scaramouche x GN!Reader

Genre : Romance, Angst

The devil sat upon his throne, the object of his malignant devotion clutched tightly within his grip as blood streamed down his face.

You knew you should be afraid, that the sixth harbinger was no longer the naive soul you’d once known, he was now a spirit devoid of any holiness without a mere semblance of a heart.

Yet, as much as your mind desperately tried to find a sliver of fear or hatred within you, there was nothing.

Scaramouche walked towards you, his hat fluttering in the wind and he cooed as a single finger of his caressed your face.

You stiffened, feeling the last embers of revolt fading away into a languid abyss as you met his eyes, those damning eyes that had captivated you as Kabukimono and now as this temptress of sin.

“Do you have any idea how long I have yearned for you?” He drawled, his unrelenting grip on your face tightening.

The sword in your hand trembled, an avid reflection of the mirage of thoughts and betrayals that had pushed the two of you into this stage adjourned by fate, a play of your own choosing.

Scaramouche stepped closer to you, chuckling. “Are you going to plunge that sword into me, Y/N? You, who was the very first match which set my rage ablaze, the sum off all my ardour, do you really think you can kill me?”

You rose your blade, the tip aimed at where his heart should have been. “I am the sworn hero of Teyvat. My will is always aligned with the wishes of the people and you, Scaramouche, have sinned grievously against mankind itself. I’m no longer the kindred friend you knew in your previous lifetimes or the faint echo of the lover you once sought in me and it would do you well to remember that.”

“Then kill me.” Scaramouche dropped his hand from your face and grabbed the hilt of your sword, tugging the weapon towards him until a hair breadth was left between it and his chest. “Kill me and become the hero that these vermin do not deserve.”

You gasped, frantically searching for your sense of duty within you, only to realise that it had vanished into the roaring depths of relentless craving of the man before you.

“I..”

How many times had your imagined this during moonlit nights, pictured the look on his face as you drove a blade into his chest?

How many years had you spent tossing and turning in your chambers, steeling your nerves and hardening any faint reminisces about the past?

“If death will be brought to my doorstep by your beckoning, Y/N, I shall gladly look forward to it.”

At that moment, you knew you’d already lost.

Because within those eyes, the windows of the soul, you couldn’t bring yourself to see the ruthless harbinger that had slaughtered innocents. All that appeared in your head was the confused puppet, curious about the realm of humans, running to you with a basket of freshly picked flowers.

All you could feel were the kisses he had once peppered across your face.

All that filled your vision was only his smile that shone like it had been spun from sunlight itself.

You lowered your sword, face colouring in shame. Scaramouche closed any space between you and him, gently placing his lips on yours and you froze up, heart hammering in your chest.

Scaramouche kissed you deep and slow, savouring your timid responses as you reciprocated his affection, like a wanderer in a desert that had arrived upon a bountiful oasis.

Tears ran down your face as you tangled your fingers in his blue hair. You knew what this meant, your oaths to the people, the sacrifices of your comrades, all of it had been ripped apart merely due to a moment of weakness.

Scaramouche gently placed his hand upon your chest, feeling your heartbeat as he pulled away. That rhythm of life, it completed him. Even if he didn’t have a heart, as long as he could hold you close like this, he knew it would satiate him.

He held out his hand, the shared core of hatred of humanity itself, awaiting your judgement. “So my friend, my love, my enemy, will you take my hand for the dance of a lifetime?”

The devil wasn’t the little mythological creature preached to children to encourage them to behave well.

He wasn’t a hideous monster, marred with marks of cruelty that maliciously sat upon your shoulder.

He could be beautiful, a perfect visage of elegance and you had just grasped his palm, a scorned excuse of a savior of Teyvat.

You both knew that this dance between the lines of love, betrayal and duty couldn’t last forever. That it could only be a fleeting moment and the second it was over, the harsh boundaries of war would be drawn yet again.

But surely it wouldn’t hurt to pretend for a little while longer?

[syrupsyche]

Today's chapter has some of my favourite quotes from the Brick— both about Enjolras and the book in general. This is going to be a long post so I shall segment this into parts!

Hugo's realism

First, a bit of meta-analysis. Hugo creates a sense of believability REALLY well, not only by name-dropping real historical figures and events but also by inserting the ambiguity of historical retelling:

This man, whose name or nickname was Le Cabuc, and who was, moreover, an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him, was very drunk, or assumed the appearance of being so [...]

[...] We will add, that if we are to believe a tradition of the police, which is strange but probably well founded, Le Cabuc was Claquesous.

Why not state outright that Le Cabuc was pretending to be drunk? Why make it ambiguous that Le Cabuc was Clasquesous? To create that sense of realism. One might think that it's counterintuitive to admit that one doesn't have all the details, but that is what makes a piece of fiction seem more 'real', for what sort of historical event has ever had a 100%, completely truthful depiction? Hugo purposefully makes it so that his retelling of the June Rebellion has bits and pieces missing so as to replicate all other pieces of history: which that is unable to cover every aspect of the truth.

The Paradox of Enjolras

Hugo's description of Enjolras is contradictory in certain parts. He is a "frail young man of twenty years", but he also possesses "a superhuman hand". He is framed by many metaphors of purity (his "pale...woman's face" and "virgin lips") but is also undeniably terrifying. He is both "executioner and priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also of rock." Even Enjolras contradicts himself:

It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it [...] Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee.

Why? Well, Enjolras' paradoxical nature has been a long time coming (see: charming young man who is capable of being terrible), and his character is thus used to emphasize the unfortunate reality of revolution and of justice (which is what he Represents). Justice is a charming notion, with a terrifying execution. Justice is the young beautiful man, as well as the ruthless killer. By presenting Enjolras as both pure and horrid, readers can see the horrid reality of justice: that it is no glorifying matter; it takes a TON of sacrifices and terrible actions.

Enjolras has to kill Le Cabuc because he is Justice, and he exists in a world that still needs Justice, so he must play his part to the end. And Hugo perfectly portrays Enjolras/Justice well by crafting him with this paradoxical personality.

Love, The Future is Thine

The Quote of All Time. It also gives us an insight into Enjolras as a character rather than a symbol: I've mentioned before that he obviously detests the violence he has to commit, but he ultimately accepts his role as Justice. Still, he yearns for a world where he does not need to exist as an executioner of Justice anymore, where "no one will kill any one else, the earth will beam with radiance, the human race will love".

Here, he resembles Valjean quite a bit: he martyrs himself ("I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself.") for others, similar to how Valjean sacrifices himself for Champmathieu. He would rather condemn himself to death, to non-existence, if it meant he could usher in a world that is peaceful and free. What a tragic character! And we shall see, once more, his views on this in 5.1.5, where his speech is full of hope for the future! So contradictory once again: this man who has only known violence is so full of love.

-

Sorry for the long analysis but this is one of my favourite chapters ever. Please share me your thoughts on this as well because I had to cut things out from this post bc it was seriously getting too long so I would gladly infodump once more if anyone wants me too haha

[the-kirbe-anon]

Sorry Kirbs, you're damned to hell. God can only be found in the One, True, Apostolic, ROMAN Church. Bet that pink rubber will burn just fine in hell, so you'll be fine <3

~ JESUS / GOD HATES PROTESTANTS ~ ~ ROMAN CATHOLICISM FOR LIFE ~ ~ ONE TRUE FAITH & ONE TRUE CHURCH ~

if u wanna be saved, convert and pray to mary jesus and some saints <3 okay thx bye

1 Timothy 2:5 (KJV)

5 For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus;

John 14:6 (KJV)

6 Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

Isaiah 8:19-22 KJV

And when they shall say unto you, Seek unto them that have familiar spirits, and unto wizards that peep, and that mutter: should not a people seek unto their God? for the living to the dead? To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them. And they shall pass through it, hardly bestead and hungry: and it shall come to pass, that when they shall be hungry, they shall fret themselves, and curse their king and their God, and look upward. And they shall look unto the earth; and behold trouble and darkness, dimness of anguish; and they shall be driven to darkness.

Revelation 22:8-9

8 And I John saw these things, and heard them. And when I had heard and seen, I fell down to worship before the feet of the angel which shewed me these things. 9 Then saith he unto me, See thou do it not: for I am thy fellowservant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book: worship God.

Jesus says that HE is the way, not Mary, not saints, not a specific church (The Church is every Christian who believes that Jesus is the Messiah and God, not just certain denominations)

Praying to Saints is idolatry. We can go straight to God himself for prayers and ask brothers and sisters here on earth to pray for us, but we cannot ask the dead or angels to pray for us because they cannot hear or answer our prayers. We also have no need for a priest or Pope to step in because Jesus is our high priest. Prayers are supposed to be to God alone, as prayer is an act of worship. God will not give His glory to another. Even God's angels rebuke those who try to pray to them.

Also the Pope claims that homosexual "marriage" and other sin is ok, which is incorrect. The Pope is a fallible man and the Bible is the infallible word of God. We should be lining up our ways to Scripture alone and follow what it says, not just what any person in power said.

Also I can be certain that by Christ's sacrifice and resurrection, I am saved and will not be going to Hell. I try to follow Him the best I can and anything good in me is from God.

Christ loves all of us, Protestant, Catholic, or any other denomination. Including you. And so do I.

To my Catholic friends who will likely see this:

I love you all dearly, but I cannot agree with your beliefs about praying to Saints or angels. We should only pray to God, because He alone should be worshipped. If you want to talk to me, I will gladly talk. Love you guys.

[sea-lanterns]

The cat shall be named Lynette and once a day she shall choose one fish to sacrifice as her meal. That person shall then be kicked from the server until one remains. The last person's reward? Also being hunted.

NOT THE BATTLE ROYALE INSIDE THE FISH AQUARIUM 😨

Well, it’s less of a battle royale I suppose and more of a “last man standing” type of game. Tbh tho, if Lynette was the cat that was eating all the fish in the fish aquarium, I’d gladly sacrifice my fish to feed her 😅

[im-not-corrupted]

Part 1/6 of my merman Hob au (also on ao3 here!), of which I previously posted a snippet of here. Chapters two and three are half done so far so updates may take a bit? I’m not sure but we shall see!

Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Merman!Hob, Human Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, the fantasy is very vague but like. mermaids., Dream of the Endless | Morpheus has Depression, Grief/Mourning, deals with the death of Orpheus, and Dream and Calliope's divorce, Brief suicidal ideation, Near Death Experiences, Drowning, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, POV Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Arranged Marriage, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Saves Hob Gadling, Developing Friendships

—————

The first time Morpheus de Endeles steps foot on a ship, it is with the intention of sailing to his wife’s homeland—the place of her birth, the place her parents rule, the place their son once knew far greater than he does now.

Ex wife, that is. They are no longer married now, because he had thoroughly ruined whatever the two of them had. The divorce had been a swift affair, and he is glad for it, despite the uproar it caused amongst his parent’s court and the disappointment his parents expressed in the face of such disaster. Last they saw one another, Calliope’s parting words had been scathing things, weapons made to kill and maim and cause the most damage possible while doing so.

She hates him now. This he acknowledges distantly as he steps on board the ship, feeling a little like he walks towards his own death. More than once, he bore witness to the end of a criminal’s life with the distinct impression that justice had been served, brutally and efficiently. Now he wonders if this is how they felt, facing their own end.

A bleak thought to start the trip off on, but that seems appropriate. If the knowledge of Calliope’s hatred for him is a distant thing, that is only because his mind remains occupied by other recent events. Namely, his son’s death.

The first time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, he does so with the intention of sailing to his son’s funeral.

Calliope insisted—over letters, written in elegant, swooping hand that did nothing to hide the sharp edges to her words—that Orpheus be buried in her homeland. And though the knowledge of her hatred is a distant thing, and has been since she spoke her last parting words, there was room inside him even then for the ache that arose as he read that letter. 

There was more than enough room inside him for the guilt, too. There still is. You sent our son off to his death, Calliope hissed at him. This, he knows, is true. It is a different kind of agony, this knowledge. To know his son is dead is one thing. To be the one to blame, to have Orpheus’s blood stain his hands however indirectly—well, that is another thing entirely.

It was also this knowledge that prompted him to grant his past wife this wish and agree that Orpheus should be buried in her homeland. It was, he figures, the least he could do. He had subjected her to the same pain that currently sits inside his chest, an agony he thinks he won’t be rid of for as long as he lives. If this would soothe some of that agony for her, then he will gladly make that sacrifice for her.

On this ship is Telute, too. As Morpheus stands by the railing, looking out at the sea and the sky with a sense of detachment he has not felt since dear Del’s death, she stands beside him. She is dressed similarly to him, in mourning regalia. This is not so different to either of their typical styles—black suits them both well, and they each prefer the darker, drearier colours to those Epithumia tends to don.

She places a gentle hand on his shoulder. It is a comforting weight. His shoulders bow underneath it. He does not deserve this comfort—She is dead, he told Orpheus, unsympathetic as he wept for his lost love Eurydice, and yet you live. So live.—but he is a greedy thing, and therefore does not push her away.

She does not speak. She does not move away, either. Not as the sails are raised, commands shouted across the deck of the ship. Not as they begin to leave the harbour, and any sense of familiarity. She remains there, standing beside him, in a show of solidarity as the ship begins to move.

The swaying motion leaves him feeling ill. He pushes it down insistently. It is a feeling he must bear—a punishment, for all he has brought upon both his own family and Calliope. The disappointment in Nyx’s eyes, the rage in Cronos’s, and Calliope’s final words are not things he is likely to forget. He holds them close to his chest, a reminder of his own failures and regrets. Perhaps this way, he will not make them again.

A foolish thought, that. He has always been particularly resistant to the idea of change.

”It’ll be alright,” Telute tells him softly.

It is not a comfort. He nods stiffly anyway.

The two siblings remain standing for a while, silent and still as statues, and the feeling of dread doesn’t leave him for the duration of the trip.

+++

It is a quiet affair, the funeral. The hushed air, the grief that seems to live in it, do not disguise the looks he receives from both Calliope and her sisters. They hate him too. He does not begrudge them this, and tries his best to ignore them.

They are not his concern. His concern is Orpheus—his dear son, whose eyes were the same lovely brown as Calliope’s, whose raven hair curled at the nape of his neck. Orpheus was a joy, with a grin made for laughter and a voice made for singing. His affinity for music made things all the brighter back at home—there was no way to be miserable, even under the shadow of his parents, when Orpheus sang or played the lute. It was his own joy that made it so lovely, Morpheus thinks. It had been infectious. He had been made for music, and that became apparent with every string he plucked and note he hit.

This reminder made the funeral all the more painful. It is spent mostly in silence, broken only by the weeping of immediate family members and speeches made by Orpheus’s Calliope’s family. Not himself—he adamantly refuses when Calliope offers him the chance. It disappoints her, he sees it in her face, but how is he supposed to put words to the grief he felt over his son’s death? How is he supposed to speak and remain composed while reliving the death of one he loves more than he has loved anything or anybody before?

The silence is a mournful thing, sorrowful and weighing heavy. He thinks, for a moment, that he should’ve liked to hear Orpheus play at least once more before his death.

He does not cry. He is too scraped raw for that, for tears to come to his eyes. (Later, Calliope admonishes him about it. They are the last two standing before his grave, the sight o the name Orpheus carved into his headstone a knife in his chest. You did not even cry, she murmurs, her voice a terribly brittle thing. And Morpheus stands there and wishes he could turn back time, that the names they were given meant something more than abstract concepts. You do not even care.) He wants to cry. He wants to shed tears over his son’s death, to rage and agonise and scream at the sky. It all seems terribly unfair.

Telute remains by his side. Their arms are interlocked, now, his sister’s hand on his arm, and he is glad for her. For the steady, comforting presence she offers—for the ability to lean on her, to let himself succumb to despair while she remains the strong one. He has always looked up to Telute, to his dear sister Death, and he is more grateful than he thinks he can ever put into words for the fact that she didn’t leave him to face this by himself. He does not know if he would’ve coped otherwise.

She leaves him eventually, as those gathered begin to disperse. “You should say your own goodbyes,” she tells him, head tilting towards Orpheus’s new grave. Calliope sits before it, a motionless study of sorrow and mourning.

She is wise, dear Telute. He knows this. He knows this well. Always, she has had the answers, the right words to say. She is right about this, too.

But he stares after Calliope and yearns. Yearns to reach out, to offer a comforting hand on her shoulder or his own shoulder to cry on. Neither of those are things she will welcome. He does not blame her for this, but the yearning does not follow any kind of logic he knows of. They are nothing now, their relationship little more than ashes between them. His memories of their time together is soured by grief, by frustration and rage aimed at this entire damned situation, the hopelessness he feels so keenly.

He loves her still. Would offer her comfort despite it all, if he knew she’d accept it.

”I should,” he agrees softly. He doesn’t move. He isn’t sure he can. Grief has made his heart a cold, hardened thing. He is chilled with it, his blood like ice in his veins.

Telute offers him a terribly sympathetic look. It grates on him, makes him clench his jaw. He does not need pity.

Yet he would not dare say such a thing to his sister, and so she ignores the affronted expression he knows he wears and urges, “Go.”

He does. Calliope speaks to him only once, and it is as painful as the funeral itself. (I care, he wants to tell her. He wants to scream it, wants to make sure she knows. I care. He was my son, too.) She leaves him standing by their son’s grave.

He does not cry even then. He leaves a flower atop the gravestone instead, knowing it will be a while until he sees it again, and returns to Telute. (His eyes sting as they make their way back to their accommodations. He cries then. A single tear, but it is something.)

+++

The second time Morpheus de Endeles boards a ship, it is to return to his own homeland. It is to turn his back on his son, on the woman he once called wife and still loves as one despite her thorough abandonment of her. (There is a slowly rising anger there, too, as he thinks of her hardened eyes, once so gentle, as she accused him of not caring. Does she not know him better than that? Did their five years of marriage amount to nothing, for her to know him so little?)

It is also to face his first storm at sea, and to nearly drown.

It happens after a week and a half on the sea. They are nearly home, the captain tells him. He is a prideful thing, this captain, sure of himself and his abilities. I have not steered this ship wrong before, my Lord, he says, and this is enough for Morpheus, who only wishes to return to his home and immerse himself in the library so he might escape the horror of the last couple of months. He finds himself too tired to ask further questions, and simply leaves to return to his own cabin. His body has mostly acclimated to sea travel now—his stomach no longer feels like it is about to betray him at any given moment, and he is able to walk steadily.

A day later, they are hit by a storm.

It is a brutal, savage thing. At first, it is just the rain—the sky opens up above them to drench them in rain, the event so sudden it comes as a surprise. The skies were overcast before this, yes, but not bad enough for a storm so terrible, surely.

The sudden winds rip at them fiercely. The tides, which had been gentle for their journey so far, turn violent, larger than he ever imagined the sea capable of. His own fault, that—there are many stories about the brutality of the ocean, the fury that hides within its depths. He simply forgot about them, distracted by the beauty of the sun glistening on its calmer waves and the knowledge of why he stands atop a ship on the sea. He chose to see the beauty instead of the danger—he knows, in that moment, that he will not do the same a second time.

If he lives to see a second time. He is suddenly unsure he will—both sea water and rain drenches the deck. The crew hurries to obey the captain’s shouted, panicked orders, only just heard over the roaring winds. The ship tips and rocks and sways precariously. Morpheus grips onto the railing, tight enough his palms ache, and finds himself filled with a loud, insistent fear.

People die in the ocean all the time. The sea is not kind—it is full of rage and it is vengeful, determined to drown those who try to conquer it. He knows this. He knows this and yet he had let himself be distracted. And now he will die here, so soon after his son’s own death.

It is not that idea that terrifies him. Death does not scare him. He does not think it ever has. He believes not in any kind of afterlife—death, he believes, is simply nothing. To die is to no longer exist. There is beauty in that, he thinks. He is tired of existing already, and the grief that only swells within him makes that exhaustion all the more unbearable.

He does fear for his sister, though. His sister, whose eyes shine brightly, who treated his son kindly. Who had been there for him during his younger years, when misery clung to him like a parasite and sucked him dry of all desire for life. She does not understand him properly and often says the wrong things, but Morpheus doesn’t think that’s the point. She tries. She cares, offering him soft, fond smiles that are sometimes exasperated. She loves him, and even made this journey for him.

He thinks she does not deserve to die. He thinks, too, that he would do any number of things to ensure she makes it out.

There are shouts on the air, growing more urgent by the second. This is, surely, proof that this storm is far stronger than the rest of them, and he grits his teeth. Insistently, he surveys the crew as they rush back and forth, only—only he cannot see Telute anywhere. She doesn’t seem to be on the main deck, or perhaps he isn’t looking hard enough. The ship rocks and sways and his stomach lurches with it—he is not used to so much violent movement, and it is distracting.

But he steels his spine and stumbles across the deck, shouting as loud as he can, “Telute!”

”My Lord,” somebody says behind him, and he whirls—too fast, for his stomach lurches and he fears then that he will throw up, which would certainly be a reaction to have here and now—to find Lucienne standing behind him, her expression panicked and concerned. “My Lord, we must get you onto one of the boats.”

”No,” he denies immediately. The worst of his nausea dissipates but his voice still feels weak. He looks past Lucienne, ignoring the rain drenching his clothes and his face and his hair, and tries desperately to find Telute. “No. I must—I must find my sister.”

”My Lord, Jessamy is looking for her,” Lucienne informs him. When he returns his attention to her face, there is a quiet devastation there, and he regrets how harshly he spoke to her. She is a patient advisor, dear Lucienne. She does not deserve his harshness. Not now and not ever. “You must come with me now.”

He would trust Jessamy with his life, if it came to that. There is nobody more steadfast, nobody more loyal, than her. If she searches for Telute, there is little chance that she will stop until she inevitably finds her. Her stubborn streak runs bright, as does her loyalty to the Royal Family.

It is enough to inspire relief. Enough to make his shoulders slump for a moment—and as he says, “Very well,” he sees Jessamy escort a rather worried-looking Telute, who glances over her shoulder frantically, desperately. She will be safe, then.

“This way, my Lord,” Lucienne urges him, and he makes to follow.

He takes nothing more than a single step before the ship crests another wave violently, the winds driving them in the wrong direction, and it suddenly tips.

There is nothing for him to grab immediately, save Lucienne. Only, as he loses his footing and watches as Lucienne quickly regains hers, he doesn’t think that would be fair. If he falls—and he is, he realises belatedly, he is falling and falling and the violent, beautiful sea has never seemed quite so close—if he falls, he knows he would only drag her down with him. He is unaccustomed to this, to being upon the sea like so. He was not made for this. He was made for a throne to sit beside his parents’, and then beside his elder brother when his time eventually comes, just like the rest of their siblings. If not that, then marriage to another kingdom, to keep their ties strong, to keep trades between countries going. His fate was never supposed to be this.

He loses his footing and he falls and there is railing behind his back, digging in, and panic flares inside his chest. The ship is righted quickly, only to be assaulted again, and he does not cling tightly enough to the railing behind him to stop himself from falling overboard.

Then he is in the ocean. It is frigid, freezing, and he gasps loudly when he breaks the surface. It is the kind of cold that could seep through to bone, that could freeze him all the way through until he is nothing but ice.

He never really learned how to swim properly, but he knows enough to keep himself afloat. The winds whip his hair, soaked through with rain and sea water both, into his face, and he is not sure how he can make it out of this. The ship he fell from is being pushed away from him, the winds terrifyingly strong, despite efforts of the crew and the captain. With some deep-rooted instinct, he tries to swim forward, cursing inwardly at himself and his younger mind’s insistence on finding pleasure in things other than his lessons.

For a moment, it seems like he may be capable of making it back. It seems like he could truly do it, could make it close enough to the ship they could help him back up, or close enough they might be able to pull him back up.

Then a wave crests behind him, shadowing him, a great, looming giant, and falls atop him without a care in the world.

He is pulled under the surface of the ocean and holds his breath intently. It is dark down there. The sea pushes him from seemingly every direction, with the same ferocity as the storm, and try as he does to push against the currents, he is unable to do much at all. The surface remains terribly distant, and that distance seems suddenly insurmountable. He knows, with abrupt and perfect clarity, that he is not making it out of there.

Morpheus de Endeless does not often contemplate death. Not truly.

There are thoughts, of course, that sneak past his own defences. They boil down to this: If I were to die today, I do not think I would mind. Ultimately, that is easy to ignore, to push away. He does not truly want to die, the way he knows some people do. He has his duties to his family, after all. He simply would not mind if death caught him in its clutches.

Now, with his lungs burning and his frantic struggles against the damned ocean proving futile, he thinks this may be preferable. Beneath all the pain of oxygen deprivation as he stubbornly refuses to try to take in a breath only to swallow the ocean into his lungs lies the grief, the ache, the knowledge that he so thoroughly ruined everything good he somehow managed to make his own. His Calliope. His Orpheus. His loves. One hates him now. The other is buried in the ground at only nineteen, hardly an adult and far too young to lose. His parents’ disappointment is an easy thing to conjure up in his mind, and he hates that just as much as he does his losses. What is there left for him, above the surface? At home?

When he frames it like that, he thinks—he thinks it would not be so terrible to face death. He thinks it might be better than rising another day only to remember his son is gone, to see another sunset and acknowledge the fact that Orpheus will not get to see one again.

When he thinks about it like that, it is remarkably easy to stop struggling. Involuntarily, he tries to suck in a breath only to choke on ocean water, and now he is stuck in an endless cycle of pain as he slowly drowns. His head feels…fuzzy, his vision full of little black spots. Distantly, he knows this isn’t good. Knows if he doesn’t do something, he will not make it out of this alive.

He does not want to. The ocean is not violent, he realises now. It is kind, and offers him a reprieve as his body slowly sinks, weighed down by the rich fabrics he wears, as his vision grows hazy and dark and keeping his eyelids open seems like an insurmountable task.

Before he closes them properly, he thinks—he thinks he sees something in the water. A figure, moving towards him. A person, perhaps, only—only that looks like a fish’s tail, fins and all.

Then his eyes fall shut, blocking out everything around him, and he loses himself to the void and the cold and the blissful, welcoming nothing that waits for him beyond.

+++

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped on board the ship. His mind had been occupied then, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, he realises after a moment, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird.

“Who are you?” Morpheus asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his joyful face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now, an alluring song. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall whether he has seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it makes his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving Prince Morpheus de Endeles’s life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him expectantly as though waiting for something more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares in the moment–and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who has a fish's tail instead of legs.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and tender, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not? "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression ever-serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does, anyway.

Whatever energy allowed him to carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearns for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever comes first. He doesn’t mind either way.

Then the merman speaks again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It takes a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thinks, and the thought is almost blissful—and then he is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too, maybe. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he says slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is truly an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from death at the hands of the ocean.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

The Heavenly Home (Revelation 22:1-10)

In the early pages of the Bible, we have the story of paradise lost. In the closing chapters, we have paradise regained. Between the two pictures, we have the story of Christ’s redemption. All we can do at present, is to glance hurriedly at some of the features of the restoration.

“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city.” The new Jerusalem is a city. A river runs through it. The waters of earth’s rivers are stained and impure but these waters are pure, as clear as crystal. A river is a great blessing in a country. It bears refreshing, fertilization and renewal where it flows. It quenches thirst. A wilderness has no water.

This present world is described in the Bible as a dry and thirsty land, where there is no water. A country without water is a dreary place to live. Man and beasts suffer from thirst; vegetation will not grow. Plants and flowers dry up and wither. A river flowing through the holy city, suggests that there shall be no thirsts unsatisfied. Nothing shall wither. No flower shall fade. The water is the water of life. This suggests the spiritual nature of the blessings pictured.

The source of the river is suggestive. It flows “from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city.”

There is a strange legend of the Valley of Chambra. The water which had supplied it failed. Everything was parched and burnt up. Birds and beasts and men were dying of thirst. The oracle said that if the Princess Reni would give her life for her people, the water would flow forth from her grave. When she heard this she answered, “Here am I,” and gave herself gladly to the sacrifice. Then from her grave there burst out a great stream of water, which flowed into all parts of the valley, carrying refreshment to every plant and flower, and supplying drink for bird and beast and man.

This heathen legend is a beautiful illustration of the redemption of Christ. The world was dying of thirst, and there was no hope of blessing. Then God gave His only begotten Son, and Jesus Christ gave Himself in death on the cross and from His open grave there poured forth the streams of the water of life, which carry blessing wherever the gospel goes.

“On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” There is more of this picture of the garden city. On the banks of the river grows the tree of life, another feature of paradise restored. This tree of life bears a great variety of fruit. Each month has its own fruits, so that at no time in the year will those coming to the trees, go away unsatisfied. You remember that Jesus Himself once went to a fig tree to find food and found only leaves. But this will never be true of the trees that grow beside the river of life in the New Jerusalem. There is also great variety of fruits, so that every form of hunger will find satisfaction. Every longing, every desire, every craving, every need of every life will be fully met.

Even the leaves of these trees are for use. They possess medicinal value. May we not think of the pages of the Bible, the messages of the gospel, and all Christian literature as leaves of the tree of life, scattered abroad for the healing of the nations? Think what blessings these leaves, bearing on them the Words of God, have been to the world wherever they have gone! They carry comfort to the sorrowing, strength to the weak, cheer to the discouraged, knowledge to the ignorant, inspiration, hope, joy, life to all.

Fairbairn speaks of the Words of Christ as a handful of sweet spices cast into the bitter waters of this world, sweetening them. These leaves of the tree of life, likewise scattered through the nations, work healing and blessing everywhere.

The new city of God, while it has in it all beauty and good, is characterized also by the absence of things that mar the happiness and joy of the earth.

“No longer will there be any curse.” Sin is the cause of all curse, and there will be no sin in this holy city, and consequently none of the bitter fruits of sin.

“There will be no more night.” Night is caused by the withdrawal of the sun’s light, and Christ is the light of this new city. His light never fails and never hides itself. Night is a symbol of ignorance, of superstition, of all evil and none of these shall be found in the regenerated life.

In the twenty-first chapter of Revelation we are told that “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any pain; and no one ever shall be sick there.” These, too, are miseries and evils that follow sin, and when sin is excluded, all its baleful consequences are also excluded.

Those who dwell in this new city, shall have privileges and enjoyments of which they have never even dreamed in the present world. “The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city.” It is thought to be a high honor to live close to earthly kings and great men. It is an infinitely higher honor to live close to the throne of God! This means continual blessing, everlasting joy, divine companionship. It will be a safe place to live in, for nothing can ever go wrong beside the throne of God the center of all power and also of all love.

This new life will not be one of idleness. Those who live in this city will not spend all their time in rapturous enjoyment, in ecstatic peace. They will be active. “His servants shall serve him.” Love always serves. It what ways Christ’s friends shall serve in heaven, we do no know. There will be no human need to relieve, no. sorrow to comfort, no sick to visit, no hungry to feed in that land of life. Perhaps, however, they will be sent to other worlds, where such needs shall exist as exist now in this world of ours.

“They will see His face, and His name will be on their foreheads!” They will also be admitted to Christ’s immediate presence. Their hearts will be pure, cleansed from all sin, and they can look upon the face of God and live.

Another blessing will be that Christ’s name shall be on their foreheads. The name means the character and the likeness of Christ, shall appear in His friends. When they see Him they shall be like Him. It is noted that this divine beauty is said to be on the forehead, where others can see it and where they themselves cannot see it. This is a mark of all true excellence those who possess it are unaware of the radiance. “Moses was not aware that his face was radiant.”

“These words are trustworthy and true.” These promises are not mere impossible dreams. Not one of them shall fail of fulfillment. They are fulfilled in a sense in the Christian life in this world, in everyone who believes Christ and follows Him. The holy city descends out of heaven from God. Heaven must come down and begin in us, in our hearts, in the present life or we never can enter into heaven above. The words are fulfilled in a measure also for every one who, dying in Christ, passes into the presence of God. The full and final fulfillment, however, will be at the end of all things, when Christ shall come again, and gather all His own into one great company in the New Jerusalem!

[guideoftime]

The Sheikah Oath & Devotion.

   ❝ Someone must stay behind to watch over this blade. His spirit must not reawaken. He must never be allowed to threaten the world again. This is the nature of the task given to my tribe. As a member of the Sheikah, the goddess's chosen guardians, I gladly welcome this duty. Zelda, I shall watch over the Triforce. ❞

❝ We Sheikah have served the royalty of Hyrule from generation to generation as attendants. ❞

❝ R.I.P. Here lie the souls of those who swore fealty to the Royal Family of Hyrule: The Sheikah, guardians of the Royal Family and founders of Kakariko, watch over these spirits in their eternal slumber. ❞

   THE SHEIKAH; They are a mysterious and secretive tribe with pointed ears, red eyes and shadow magic abilities. They are the chosen guardians of the Goddess Hylia and were sent to be the protectors and guides of the descendants of her mortal incarnation, the Royal Family of Hyrule.

   Since the very beginning when Hylia made herself known, the Sheikah had been chosen by the Goddess to be her protector. The first of the Sheikah Tribe sealed the rest of their fate by taking an oath to the Goddess to protect her mortal form for eternity along with the Master Sword and the Triforce. This sent the Sheikah Tribe down an endless path of pain, bloodshed, sacrifice–where they’re repeatedly used and then cast aside. However, despite knowing this, they can never escape their fate. 

   Loyalty, fealty, devotion are repeatedly trained and conditioned into the Sheikah when they’re young. As keepers of the legends past down repeatedly through Hyrule, legends that are repeatedly proven true, and those whose fates are tied deeply with the Royal Family they continue the pattern of abuse unable to break the chain. To do so, in their eyes, will doom an entire Kingdom and world to a fate that they had sworn to help prevent. 

   They’re people who see the greater good more beneficial than their own lives. 

   For this reason, each member born into the tribe is sworn into the oath and then trained for the future of serving under the Royal Family of Hyrule. They’re trained to fight, to know the legends, to know the depths of the oath their people have upheld for generations without a single bit of waver. They’re trained as shadows, as those who exist beneath the Royal Family. Intended to be silent and unseen but a force when there is danger. Repeatedly lessening their own existence so that they can protect the Royal Family unseen from the shadows. Their lives are meant to be disposable if it means protecting Hylia’s mortal form. 

   This vow to the Royal Family has long since evolved to serving as more than just their protectors. 

   As their numbers fill in the ranks of the army, as they grow closer to those in power, giving their lives for Hyrule as well is just something that evolves naturally. To pick up their weapons and fight when asked to, when Hyrule and its people are threatened, when someone just asks for help–they give without hesitation. It’s the nature of who they have been trained to be, those who give without hesitation because they’re asked to. 

   They don’t know how to do anything else when they’re raised from the start to do that. 

   They’re reckless with their lives, smart in battle, defiant and determined in the face of those that question their loyalty. Stubborn to fight till the very end, no matter how grave the threat and no matter the danger it poses to them. To protect and serve till their very last breath has become the nature of their tribe. 

   And more often than not they’re more inclined to fall in battle rather than die from old age despite the length the Sheikah lives tend to be. 

   Even in death however, they still continue to serve. 

   The Sheikah believe that when they die their souls return to Hylia to continue to safeguard and protect her and the Royal Family. Their souls, tied to hers and the entirety of her bloodline, continue to watch over her for eternity with devotion. 

   Though what can be seen as blind faith and loyalty to most is something that the Sheikah hold very dear to themselves. To them, it’s what gives their lives and their sacrifices purpose in the end. More often than not they have a rather close bond with the Royal Family regardless, their ancestors holding high positions of power within the Royal army. Although this position often ends up working against them just as much. 

   They’re not ignorant to the fate their tribe often suffers. Repeatedly torn down and cut through the years. They’re not blind to what serving does to them. They’re far from stupid. 

   But they would rather continue to try, continue to give, continue to defend everyone because they truly do believe that the greater good outweighs the risk to their own lives. They Sheikah believe in fate and destiny. 

   And destiny has repeatedly proven to them that their sacrifices have some purpose in the end. 

[writingsofwesteros]

https://www.tumblr.com/writingsofwesteros/755457333792047104/httpswwwtumblrcomwritingsofwesteros755419197?source=share

I've forgotten about canon Nora-

"Princess Daenora Targaryen, of House Targaryen! Daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, and the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower!" The herald announced her as she entered the great hall at Sunspear. "Princess," Prince Qoren bowed his head. "Prince Qoren," Nora smiled. She smirked when she saw some of the servants flinch as Cannibal flew overhead, screeching. "A mighty dragon indeed," Prince Qoren commented. "Cannibal is a dear," Nora hummed as they walked. "It is a bit oxymoronic to call a beast named Cannibal a dear, is it not?" Prince Qoren asked. "Well, he is to me," Nora smirked. "And to those I tell him to." "You honour us with your presence, Princess," Qoren said. "Though I admit it is unexpected. I did not think that King's Landing could afford to be down a dragon." "Vhagar and Sunfyre more than suffice for protection." She told him. "There is also Dreamfyre, my sister's mount." "Well, what can I do for you?" He asked as they sat at the feast laid out. "I suppose I should counter your question with a question, Prince Qoren. What can King Aegon, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms do, to earn your fealty, and support?" She challenged. "House Martell has no place in your war, Princess." He replied. "None of us deserve to be a part of a war, My Prince. Yet when the gods summon us, we must all answer the call." "And do the gods summon me to fight on behalf of King Aegon?" He countered. "From what I hear, the Hightower host is near unstoppable. Your brother has no need for my men, and I do not wish to sacrifice Dornish lives for a petty cause." "If I were here to negociate for men, then it would be my brother Aemond here, and not I. We ask not for men, but for an alliance that shall see the prosperity of both our houses." She told him. "Your silver tongue rivals your grandsire's," He hummed. "Though I am not surprised, I hear that you learnt from the man himself." "My grandsire is a respectable and formidable politician," She replied. "And he, and I, reflect the views of our King- King Aegon wishes for the realm to prosper, and the war to end. We do not thirst for war, like my Uncle Daemon." "Indeed?" Prince Qoren sent the servant out and poured them wine. "That is quite contrary to what I've heard of your brother Aemond." She was unfazed, and hummed, "My brother only crime is his intense loyalty to his family. Should King Aegon win the war and peace restored, my brother will gladly sheath his sword."

"So I ask again," She sipped her wine. "What can King Aegon do for you, My Prince?" She purred.

NORA!

Alicent can sit back and just enjoy the sun thank you

She has such a way with words.

"That is quite contrary to what I've heard of your brother Aemond." Aemond adores his reputation, not that he would ever admit to such a thing

[theprayerfulword]

July 21

Philippians 4:6 Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

Psalm 51:17 The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Psalm 71:20 The psalmist wrote, “Though You have made me see troubles, many and bitter, You will restore my life again.”

Matthew 6:25 For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

1 Timothy 2:4 who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.

May you allow the work of the Spirit to have its way in your life, shaping, equipping, and placing the furnishings and tools for the work of the Lord in your heart, that you may be fully equipped and prepared, lacking nothing. 2 Chronicles 4, 2 Timothy 3

May you earnestly seek for, and gladly receive, the indwelling of the Spirit of God that He may take possession of, and be Lord over, your vessel of earth, setting His Name upon you for a witness to all and receiving glory for His power and lovingkindness evidenced in your life. 2 Chronicles 5

May you be dead to the law through the body of Christ so that you may belong to the One Who was raised from the dead and produce a harvest of good deeds for God. Romans 7

May you be released from the law by dying to what once bound you so that you may serve in the new way of the Spirit and not the old way of the written code. Romans 7

May you make your plea to the Lord in righteousness, knowing that He will give ear to your prayer since it does not rise from deceitful lips. Psalm 17

May your vindication come from God, for His eyes see what is right. Psalm 17

May you resolve not to sin by what you say, for then, by God's grace, you will be found to be mature and able to control your whole body. Psalm 17, James 3

My child, all shall know that I am the Lord. My people, whom I have called by name and claimed as My own, who have willingly embraced My name and My nature as they walk in My redemption, will accept the work of the Spirit in laying aside the old self; they will receive the renewed mind of Christ, putting on the new self created in righteousness and true holiness. As you grow in your love for Me, which is a reflection of My deep and abiding love for you, the laying down and casting aside of your old way of life will not be painful, but will be an expression of your joy at gaining the acceptance and approval of the Father through Me. The people of the world, though they have the witness of My creation in all of nature, do not seek in their hearts to know Me. They will, however, still come to the knowledge of who I am; as they are led and influenced by the spirit of this world to resist My will and My work as it is done by My people, My outstretched arm against them will reveal the truth of My presence and glory. I will make a distinction between My people, who bear in their hearts My law and the scars of their willing submission to the circumcision by My word, and those in the world, who have not yet submitted, neither by bowing their knees nor confessing with their mouth the truth of who I am. The judgments that I bring upon the citizens of the earth, thundering over their heads and darkening their skies, will destroy what they have gathered and take what they hold dear in this world. This will be done in mercy to awaken their spirits to their danger and raise questions in their heart about the lies they have been told, giving them one more chance to seek Me. When they do, My child, remember that I have placed you where they can find you; do not condemn them, My dear one, or despise them, but in compassion toward them, testify of Me in loving truth and accepting grace. Do not fear the expressions of My control over the earth, the weather, the seas, the water on the land and the plants of the field, even the systems of man with their finances, products, technology, and communication. I am drawing the final harvest of those who will turn to me, dividing the sheep from the goats. Know that My convincing power will go forth over all the earth, and My Holy Spirit will speak to all hearts through the declaration of the gospel, until all nations bow themselves at My name and call Me Lord.

May you keep yourself by the Word of God from the ways of the violent and, by following God's ways, your steps will not slip. Psalm 17

May you call on God to show the wonder of His great love by saving you with His right hand and giving you refuge from your foes as He gives ear to you and answers your prayer. Psalm 17

When the wicked assail you and your mortal enemies surround you, may the Lord keep you as safe as you would protect the pupil of your eye, and may He hide you in the shadow of His wings. Psalm 17

May you be rescued from the wicked by the sword of the Lord as He rises up to confront them and bring them down, for their reward is in this life only. Psalm 17

May you awake in righteousness to see God's face and be satisfied. Psalm 17

May you rest content as you find life through the reverent fear of the Lord. Proverbs 19:23

[heaven-said]

Raise your head, My Son. There will be no destruction today.

✞ Pops right up, claps his hands into prayer, tries to ignore how red his face feels- " Thank you, my Lord! Thou art merciful! Should there be any way to atone, I shall gladly apply myself! " You know. Beyond the whole 'deliver word of the savior' thing that made blood sacrifices unnecessary, of which he already did and all that, but-- he'll do more! Just say the word! No complaints!

He gives a very pointed look at Lucifer and speaks very deliberately-- " I plead that You forgive my BROTHER for calling on You just to START TROUBLE, Father, he knows not what he does...... "

@themosthatedbeingg

[caperingcryptid]

A Little Sacrifice

"Great Leader, I have given everything that I have to you! Please, sacrifice me in your glorious name."

The Lamb was no stranger to...interesting requests from some of their flock, of course. It came with the territory of being the sole creature that these poor, lost souls felt they could rely on to have their needs met. Sometimes they demanded another follower be locked up in the stocks for some petty crime. Sometimes they asked for fresh mushrooms from Anura ("Just to look at, I swear!").

The strangest by far, of course, had been the times where someone had asked for a fresh bowl of follower meat or...residue, and the Lamb was left wondering if maybe it wasn't the best idea to pick up any and all followers desperate for a place to stay.

This was a new one, though.

The Lamb didn't know where it came from. They had encouraged their followers to believe in the comfort of an afterlife, and not eagerly await the day their blood would be spilt upon the altar. They had never sacrificed any follower to begin with, even as The One Who Waits crooned into their ear, whispering to them about how they were little more than resources, fuel for the endless and all-devouring flame that they had become.

So why this? Why now? Were their followers truly so dedicated that, even without prompting, they would gladly offer their throats?

Unsettled, the Lamb looked down into the expectant- hopeful, even- face of their follower. Thenor. Not a particularly old recruit, but not a fresh-faced foundling either. One of the flock. One of their flock.

They collected themselves. "Child," they said, resting their hands upon his shoulders. "Are you sure? You do not have to give your all to me. You can live out the rest of your days in peace. You can live well. Grow old. There is no shame in waiting to meet our master until your time has come. He is ever patient."

Thenor firmly shook his head. "My time is now. I can feel it in my bones." His eyes were pleading. "Please, Leader. This is my purpose. Can't you grant me this final request? Have I not loyally served you for so long?"

"...You have." Was it not their job as leader to fulfill the requests of their followers? Even if they themselves disagreed with it? And oh, but the hope in young Thenor's face...

The Lamb lifted them to their feet. "Rise, my child. I shall grant you this request before the day is out." Their heart was torn. This was what he wanted, yes, but everything about this felt...wrong. They hesitated. "You may wish to spend this time saying your goodbyes to the others. I am...sure that your fellows would want that."

The words stuck to their mouth like tar. Who were they fooling? This wasn't them. They were chosen by The One That Waits, but they were no blessed leader. Once upon a time, they hadn't been so different from their followers. They were no longer mortal, but they were still infallible. They were no longer free of sin or stain, their hands bloodied beyond recognition, but their heart was still that of the lowly peasant they once were.

Did they really have the right to hold the sway they did over their peoples, outside of pure luck and happenstance? They didn't know. They dearly wished they did.

Thenor beamed up at them with a smile like sunshine. For a moment, the Lamb thought there might've been a reddishness to their eyes, but it was only a moment. "Thank you," he breathed. "You truly are divine. I shall tell the others of your greatness at once."

The Lamb watched in silence as he happily scampered off. They felt hollow inside.

The time came upon them far too soon. The Lamb marched their flock into their sacred temple, taking their place at the altar and gazing down upon the crowd. In the dying afternoon light, the shadows cast upon their faces made them seem strange, unfamiliar. Maybe it was better that way.

The Lamb spoke, and their flock listened. As it always was, and, they imagined, as it always would be.

Of course, that didn't mean that their followers would always like what they had to say. Their announcement elicited a chorus of gasps and disbelieving murmurs, as they expected it to. "Sacrifice" had always been an unfamiliar word here, left in the past with the Bishops that enforced it. What had changed? What had prompted their Leader to do this?

Thenor, at least, looked over the moon about it all. He proudly marched into the center of the circle, hands thrown up in prayer and reverence. He wanted this, the Lamb told themselves. The rest of the flock could think what they think: all that mattered was that Thenor had asked for it, and they were granting it.

They opened their ritual book to the right page. The symbols glared back at them. This, the Lamb told themselves, was for the best. It was a good thing. They just needed to not think about it. Just like how they didn't think about it when they first lifted their sword to free themselves. Just like how they didn't think about it when they took The One Who Waits up on their deal, the thought of refusal and impossibility.

The One Who Waits...

The Lamb only realized it when it was too late. When the ground had already tore itself asunder, lifting its prize high into the air for all to see.

The look on Thenor's face was not of calm acceptance, or religious ecstasy. It was the wide, vicious grin of someone who had finally won. It was the grin from a job well done.

It was satisfaction.

"No," whispered the Lamb.

The thing that was within Thenor, red eyes burning a hole into their very soul. It leered at the Lamb, and then was gone.

Thenor's head lolled back, then lifted, dazed. He looked around the temple, looked down at himself, looked at the Lamb.

"Leader?" Thenor whimpered. "Leader, what's happenin-"

His last words were stolen by a scream as he was whisked underground and out of sight. The floorboards politely reconstructed themselves shortly after. The only lingering sign of their sins was the look of horror on their followers' faces, and that last, haunted scream still ringing in their ears.