#i think being surrounded by all the elements of greek myths is doing a number on me

[mercymaker]

praying to the writing gods to not abandon me on this oneshot and give me the strength to put this into something cohesive and finish it I beg on my knees

[the-blonde-adventurer]

Never Ending Truths (2)

Pairing: Indiana Jones x OC

Summary: Everyone is born with a matching tattoo to their soulmate, but not everyone can feel their soulmate's emotions. Harley LaCarrubba is a freshman attending Marshall college to one day be an archeologist with her passion for history. Lucky for her, she is being taught by none other than the famous Indiana Jones, the school heartthrob. She can feel her soulmate's emotions but never met him in real life, making her feel guilty about having a crush on her professor.

Words: 2961

***

I wake up jumping out of bed as my alarm clock causes me to panic. I felt my soulmate kiss my hand good morning as I rushed around, trying not to be late. I give a quick peck before brushing my teeth and putting on my mascara. I don't have time to do my hair like all the other girls, so I decide to put my hair in a bun on top of my head, making it stay in place. I go over to the pile of clothes I had set out quickly, throwing on the long-sleeve blue shirt with a black collar and a black skirt that went to my calves. I grab my things and my cup of coffee before rushing out the door going to my red car in the parking lot. I don't know why I wake up so late and rush around in the morning like a madwoman threading with tardiness.

I try to focus on the road as it drifts off inside my head, thinking about my archeology professor, Dr. Jones. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen; I don't know why my heart flutters when I look at him. I'm cheating on my soulmate being interested in another man; how could I betray him like that? Dr. Jones teaches his class with passion and enthusiasm, totally engrossed in the topic. The smile never leaves his face as he goes over a topic adding in his own opinions and cracking a few jokes. He's so cute in his suit and the way he takes his glasses off and bites the tip of the arm in deep thought. I snap out of my daydream as I park my car turning it off and grabbing my bookbag.

I get out and lock my car before heading inside, ready to conquer the day. I got this! I make my way down the crowded hall trying not to bump into other rushing students along the way. I finally made it to my first class, taking a seat and getting ready for the lecture with a notebook and pen ready for notes. Mr. Johnson walked in, setting his coffee mug down on his desk before turning to us, rubbing his hand together excitedly. "Who is ready to have fun with numbers?" He questions with a smirk on his face. He went to the board, introducing us to calculus and showing us 'how easy it was. I took notes like a madwoman, not wanting to miss a single step knowing this class I would have to work my ass off.

After a challenging class, the bell finally rang, releasing us from this boring class. I trek the halls to mythology, excited to see what we are learning today. I love history and myths of the world, so I want to be an archeologist where I will be surrounded by history. Ever since I was a little girl, I have been interested in the world's history. My family would often give me history books and textbooks as gifts making my curious mind content. My favorite topic is ancient Egyptians and the mystery of the pyramids, trying to figure out how they built those vast structures. I have become so intrigued with them I taught myself how to read hieroglyphics. One day I'm going to visit those Pyramids and uncover their truths. I sat in my seat, noticing the topic on the board already, "Greek Gods." Oh, this is going to be fun! Mrs. Donovan began her lesson by going over the famous Greek gods and the family tree and what they are the gods of. "Zeus is the sky and thunder god in ancient Greek religion, who rules as king of the gods of Mount Olympus. His name is cognate with the first element of his Roman equivalent Jupiter. His mythology and powers are similar, though not identical, to those of Indo-European deities such as Jupiter, Perkūnas, Perun, Indra, and Dyaus." she explained as I wrote down every word she said, listening with interest. She didn't go over anything I didn't already know, but it was still interesting to hear.

***Lunch***

I stand in the long lunch line waiting for my turn, wanting nothing more than to eat since I don't eat breakfast. I grab a chicken wrap, ranch, water, and a cookie before paying and going outside once more. I walk past the group talking about me yesterday, not paying them any attention as I sit in the grass. I felt the grass tickle my legs as the breeze gently blew, dancing on my skin. I pulled out a book on Egyptians reading as I ate my food, trying to relax on my lunch break. I felt something hit me in the back of the neck with a sting, so I turned around to see what was going on. I say that group of four people trying to act normal and hide their laughs, not wanting to get caught. I look down to see a peanut was thrown at me, so I slowly look back up at them, feeling my blood start to boil. I turn around, trying to calm myself down and not start a fight.

I felt another hit me, but I didn't even bother to turn around. I looked straight ahead when I saw Dr. Jones walking the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets as he scratched his leg with his foot. He looked over at me, but I was distracted by hearing the crinkle of a wrapper, knowing they were about to throw another. I then caught it and threw it at the guy hitting him in the eye with precision. "STOP THROWIN' THINGS AT ME, YA DAMN IMMATURE ASSHOLE!" I yelled as my southern accent stood out. I gather my things throwing away my trash, glaring at the table, still feeling the anger boiling inside me. They were shocked I could catch it and launch it at that stupid boy. He still held his eye in pain as I turned to walk away in a huff catching a glimpse of Dr. Jones watching with his mouth slightly agape, still frozen in place. I storm into the history building going into my history class, waiting in my seat for lunch to end and this class to start. I read my book, distracting myself from the fury I felt a few minutes prior.

I was startled by the loud ringing of the bell, making my heart race and chuckle at myself for being so jumpy. Students started to arrive one by one, not wanting to be late and treated like yesterday.

*** I sit in Dr. Jones's class, reading my book before the bell getting wholly engrossed in this chapter. Students file in their seats, but I never looked up from my text until the bell rang. "Alright, settle down, class." I heard his baritone voice announce. I shut my book, placing it in my bag before grabbing my notebook and bottle of water. "Today, we will be going over ancient Egypt," he announced. I take a sip of water before looking up at him and the board noticing hieroglyphics on the chalkboard decorating the top. I spit my water out as I read what it says, choking and laughing, trying to control myself. I wiped my face and tried to silence my laughter as I reread the board. "Care to share what's so humerus?" Dr. Jones questions me. I take a deep breath trying to compose myself. "It's What is written on the board," I tell him with a smirk. He turned around, searching for what I was laughing at. "What?" he turned to me with a scrunched-up face.

"The translation of the hieroglyphics." I clarify with a chuckle as I stare at it.

"You can read what that says?" he questions me, raising a brow with a smirk. I nod my head with a smirk as I nervously chuckle. "Care to enlighten me?"

"It's inappropriate," I smirk. He pulled a blank sheet of paper off his desk, handing it to me so I could write it down without saying it out loud. 'Cleopatra sucks dick.' I wrote, handing it back to him as he looked at my book on Egyptians on my desk. He read the paper, and his eyes went wide before he let out a chuckle looking back Up at me. "I guess I should have translated the text before putting it on the board." he walked over, erasing it off the chalkboard. He went into the spare room, handing me a roll of paper towels so I could clean myself up. "Thank you." I smile up at him as I start to wipe off my desk and the floor. I throw away the used paper towels before sitting at my desk, ready to stay focused. He continued with his lesson.

"Ancient Egypt was a civilization of ancient Africa, concentrated along the lower reaches of the Nile River, situated in the place that is now the country Egypt. Ancient Egyptian civilization followed prehistoric Egypt and coalesced around 3100 BC (according to conventional Egyptian chronology) with the political unification of Upper and Lower Egypt under Menes (often identified with Narmer). The history of ancient Egypt occurred as a series of stable kingdoms, separated by periods of relative instability known as Intermediate Periods: the Old Kingdom of the Early Bronze Age, the Middle Kingdom of the Middle Bronze Age, and the New Kingdom of the Late Bronze Age." he informs the class as I didn't take any notes but listened intently watching him walk around with enthusiasm and passion for the subject. "Egypt reached the pinnacle of its power in the New Kingdom, ruling much of Nubia and a sizable portion of the Near East, after which it entered a period of slow decline. During the course of its history, Egypt was invaded or conquered by several foreign powers, including the Hyksos, the Libyans, the Nubians, the Assyrians, the Achaemenid Persians, and the Macedonians under the command of Alexander the Great. The Greek Ptolemaic Kingdom, formed after Alexander's death, ruled Egypt until 30 BC. Under Cleopatra, it fell to the Roman Empire and became a Roman province." he looks so handsome in his suit and bowtie. He looked over at me then noticed I wasn't taking notes as the rest of the class but was leaning back in my chair listening. He looked away and continued his lecture depending on his desk, looking over the group. The bell rang, signaling the end of the day. "Read chapters two through four and write a summary two pages long. It will be turned in tomorrow for a grade," he announced. "LaCarrubba, stay after class," he tells me, stretching to see over the students making sure I heard him. "Yes, sir." I nod my head sitting back down in my seat. Am I in trouble for interrupting his class? Soon everyone was gone, and it was only us in this giant room. "Are you alright?" he asks as he walks over, leaning against his desk.

"Yes, sir." I nodded my head, looking at him, confused about what he was talking about.

"I have a few things to say. Do you have anywhere you must be?" he asks me kindly as his hazel eyes stare into my eyes. I shake my head as I wait for him to continue. "Alright, I saw that senior throwing food at you during lunch, and I witnessed you catch it and throw it back at him, injuring him."

"My apologies, professor; I lost my temper for a brief moment. I walked away before I did somethin' stupid and escalated the situation." I apologize as I look down at my desk, keeping my breathing steady.

"How would you have escalated the situation?" he looks me up and down before looking back into my eyes. I chuckle before I look back at him. "Where I'm from when someone disrespects you or bullies you, we handle it out in the parking lot, usually at the Piggly wiggly."

"You wanted to fight him?" he snorts as he sizes me up.

"Yes, sir, I may look small, but I guarantee you I can handle myself just fine."

"Alright, well, no fighting. I want you to know I spoke to his teachers, informing them what he was doing. He is going to be benched next game for messing with you." Dr. Jones informs me.

"Yes, sir, I understand." I nod my head with a smile.

"Where are you from? I hear a mixture of two accents, and I can't seem to place it."

"I'm from Tennessee, but my first language isn't English," I tell him, not wanting him to find out because of the hate we still receive. The public doesn't really like my kind an Irish, Italian, southerner what a mixture to be. Like the Irish before, we were called "job stealers" and "shiftless." we were stereotyped as being "mafia." some either do not know our own people's history or choose to ignore it. "You're Italian, aren't you?" he questions me. I nod my head before looking down at my hands and looking back up at him. He only looked at me as if he was studying me. "Do you speak Italian and can read hieroglyphics? How are you able to read that?"

"Yes, I love Egyptians. It's an obsession of mine. I have always been obsessed with history and artifacts, which is why I'm majoring in history. Since I was a kid, my family would buy me history books to read. I taught myself how to read hieroglyphics for fun so I could see what the pictures in my book said." I explain.

"Hmmm, interesting. Is that why you didn't take notes for this class?"

"You didn't teach me anything I already didn't know, so I just listened to you." I shrug my shoulders as I stare into those warm brown eyes.

"Ancient Egypt was responsible for the earliest known peace treaty between Egypt and what group of people?" He tests me. I look up at him with a smirk, already knowing the answer. "The Egyptian-Hittite peace treaty is the only ancient Near Eastern treaty in which both sides' versions have survived. A copy of the treaty is displayed on a wall in the United Nations headquarters in New York." I tell him, seeing the smirk on his face as he nodded.

"What was the first pyramid to be built called?" He continued to test me, asking questions from his lecture.

"The Pyramid of Djoser, Also known as The Step Pyramid, it was built during the Third Dynasty for the Pharaoh Djoser. It is surrounded by a wall of limestone 10.5 meters high. The wall has 15 doors, but only one opens. The others are for the pharaoh's spirit to use in the afterlife." I added in my knowledge to impress him, seeing it worked as he had a smirk on his face.

"Not bad, kid."

"I'm not a kid; I'm twenty-four."

"Really?" He raised his eyebrows as he studied me again.

"I had to fight to go to college because the family business doesn't require college."

"What is the family business?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Farmers." I answer, knowing he was thinking mafia. Everyone always thinks we are mafia, but they wouldn't be wrong. My Papa was mafia a long time ago, along with his father before him. Dr. Jones looked like he wanted to say something but decided it was a bad idea and just nodded his head.

"Alright, so why were they throwing food at you?"

"It all started yesterday when I went outside for lunch and sat on the grass. They were talking shot about me, but I could hear them. 'What a weirdo sitting in the grass like a child.' 'She's the school freak.' 'I bet she's ugly.' 'Can she not afford a haircut?' 'She's talking to herself what a freak.' I was minding my own business, trying to relax before my next class and look at the beautiful scenery, and they were rude to me all because I'm different. I promised my nonna I wouldn't cut my hair off again, and I've kept that promise. They don't like I'm different, so they decided to throw food at me." I explain, trying to hide my emotions as I stare into his warm eyes.

"Don't let it get to you; who cares what people think about you? I think your hair is beautiful. I don't know what the problem is that you sit on the grass; I don't see anything wrong with it. They just wanted to give you a hard time, but they won't be bothering you again. If anyone gives you a hard time, you come and tell me, and I will take care of it." He uncrossed his hands, leaning back on his desk. I couldn't help but smile, knowing he thinks my hair is beautiful and he has my back. "Thank you, alright, I will." I nod my head.

"Good, tomorrow I want you to translate something for me." He tells me.

"What is it?" I smile, raising my eyes excitedly.

"You'll see, now I won't keep you any longer. I'm sure you have more homework to do than just mine." He walks back over to his desk, grabbing a stack of papers and putting it in his leather case. I pick up all of my things, putting them in my bag before standing up and looking at my professor. "Thank you." I tell him as I walk to the door.

"No worries, have a good night."

"You as well." I walk out to my car with a smile on my face, delighted things are looking up.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Of Poetry and Valentines

I’ve decided that even though I may not participate in every day of @ineffablehusbandsweek I might as well at least write a story for prompt #1.

1. Valentine’s Day -- (3,400 words)

Chocolate Love-A Cake.

Million Heart Cheesecake.

Mint-To-Be Chocolate Candies.

Some sort of cupcake simply titled Heart of the Batter.

Crowley had been standing in Aziraphale’s favorite bakery for over forty-five minutes. He’d stopped even trying to hold up the queue, which now simply flowed around him

Even the pastries without disgustingly twee names were covered in little frosting hearts and other nonsense. Not to mention all that pink.

“Are you ready to order yet?” asked the girl behind the till, handing yet another customer an absurdly elaborate confection that represented exactly six pounds and thirteen pence worth of I love you.

“Nh,” Crowley said, glancing at the coffee list. The flavors of the month started with Cupid Cappuccino and it went downhill fast from there. “Euh.”

“I’ll give you five more minutes,” she said, with far more chirpy good cheer than was strictly necessary.

--

The streets of Soho had been transformed. Paper hearts and cupids in every window; massive displays of roses, orchids, tulips and lilies spilled out in front of every shop, regardless of what they sold; even the nearest pub was covered in bright pink garlands and little red fairy lights.

Did no one in this district have even an ounce of self-respect?

Crowley stepped up to the Bentley and groaned. Someone had tied a red heart balloon to the wing mirror of every car on the street. Someone else had stuck little pink animal and flower shapes all over the windscreens.

The Bentley now sported a paper rabbit with Some bunny loves you! scrawled across it, as well as a large paper flower reading:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Here’s a Valentine

Just for you!

He pulled them both off and shredded them to confetti, yet all the tiny pieces still managed to look like little hearts. The balloon he transformed into a pink-and-red football and kicked it as far down the street as he could.

Crowley slammed the door of the Bentley as he climbed in, and angrily shoved one of his favorite Wagner CDs into the player. Of course, what emerged was not the prelude to Das Rheingold but Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

He slapped the radio off and glared at the dashboard. “Cut that out. I swear to Someone, if you even try and pull that on me today…”

Leaving the threat to hang in the air, he turned the radio back on and skipped to the second song, which was now “March of the Black Queen.”

“Better,” he muttered, and pulled away from the kerb.

--

Aziraphale had never taken to Valentine’s Day, no more than any other saint’s feast day, in any case. He hadn’t commented at all when, almost six centuries ago, it had been co-opted by certain European courts as a day of romance.

Crowley, on the other hand, dove right into it, reveled in it: the poetry, the elaborate tournaments, the sighing tales of courtly love. He was in his element.

After all, a celebration of love might be considered Heavenly, but a day devoted to pageantry and dramatic empty gestures? With an undercurrent of lust masked by a noble myth of pure adoration? That sounded downright demonic.

At least, that’s what he told Head Office. Humans, as always, did ninety percent of the work. Crowley simply observed and dropped a few well-placed suggestions. The poetry got worse, the eloquent love declarations more empty.

By 1800, the exchange of awful verse and sappy greetings in mid-February had become so entrenched in English society that printers had begun to mass-produce cards for the holiday. By 1835, thousands of Valentines – store bought or handmade – were sent through the post every year.

A few more whispered words into the right ears. In 1840, postal rates across the kingdom dropped, and the first postage stamp was introduced. The next February, four hundred thousand Valentines Day cards were mailed all around the country – and, thanks to the changes in the postal system, they could now be sent anonymously.

--

On the thirteenth of February, 1841, an envelope was delivered to A.Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop – there was no sender’s address, no salutation, just a number and street name, hastily scribbled. Inside was a simple piece of white card, covered enthusiastically but inexpertly with white lace; pasted in the center, framed by a heart, was a printed image, a bouquet of red roses and blue forget-me-nots. Below, a bit of gold ribbon surrounded a single word: Devotion.

“I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley grumbled when Aziraphale showed it to him. “Could be anyone. Could be one of your customers. Maybe one of them has a thing for rude shopkeepers.”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, turning the card over to study the pattern of the lace. “There’s something very familiar about it…”

“Familiar?” Crowley demanded sharply.

“I mean, the sender is being very familiar with the recipient. As if they’d known each other a long time.” He ran his finger across the single word. “Perhaps it was misdirected?”

“Nrg.” Crowley shrugged.

In 1842, another envelope arrived. This one held a pre-printed card, a single flower on a pink-and-gold background. A bright red heart, tucked behind a pink ribbon, carried the message:

Paeonia, symbol of happiness sublime

Wilt thou be my Valentine?

More pre-printed cards followed.

In 1843, two birds built a nest, filled with hearts instead of eggs.

In 1846, a couple strolling through a watercolor landscape under the words Valentine Greetings.

In 1849, a little girl in a white dress with a basket of roses, and the words With True Love.

In 1852, the angels started appearing. The first was surrounded by morning glories and gold filigree. Loving Greeting.

1853 brought back the lace and forget-me-nots, surrounding a winged figure wrapped in lace and gauze and little else. With Love and Devotion.

In 1854, a chubby cupid crossed a serene lake in a white-and-gold boat filled with pink roses; a line of white swans bridled with more roses pulled it along. Love’s Message to my Valentine.

“They’re just pre-printed messages,” Crowley pointed out in 1856. “They don’t mean anything. Whoever sent it probably just picked one that looked nice.”

“Oh, no, there’s real feeling behind it, I’m sure. Look at this.” It was the most elaborate yet: white lace, roses, hearts, a dove delivering a heart-covered envelope to a little angel, white ribbon framing a poem, tied in a perfect bow.

Crowley rolled his whole head in an exaggerated gesture. “Trying way too hard,” was all he said.

“Are you jealous?” Aziraphale asked with a grin.

“Jealous? What, that you get sappy misdirected mail? No, I’m fine without.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, studying first Crowley, then the card. “Sixteen years? Without missing one? Surely it must be intentional.”

“Angel, a million of those are sent every year. There has to be some mistakes in all that.”

“Perhaps you’re right…” His eyes ran across the poem one more time.

May this bow of white

Which gives delight

And which I send to you

A token be

Of love divine

Oh, will’t thou be

My Valentine?

“Truly horrible verse,” Crowley muttered. “Does that even scan?”

1857 saw the return of the hand-made cards. Skillfully cut paper, lace, ribbons, flowers – sometimes painted, sometimes embroidered onto linen. Pre-made pieces, painstakingly glued together with endearing imperfection. The messages were short, but hand-written: To My Star. Valentine Greeting. Love Always.

“They have different handwriting,” Crowley pointed out. “Different senders.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale conceded. “Unless the sender is disguising their handwriting.”

“Wh-what? Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. But look – all the ribbons are pasted on exactly the same way.”

Crowley squinted at three different cards. “I don’t see it,” he said flatly. “I think it’s your imagination. Do you want a secret admirer?”

“No,” Aziraphale started slowly, glancing at Crowley from the corner of his eyes. “No, on the whole I’d rather have an admirer I knew.”

“Mh. Why do you keep those, anyway?”

“Oh, I love a mystery.” Aziraphale felt the grin slide across his face. “Anonymous cards, mailed to my shop every Valentines Day for almost twenty years? Simply irresistible, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley, apparently, had nothing at all to say.

In 1862, the poetry returned, pre-printed again but at least somewhat better verse. Around a watercolor that was possibly meant to depict Romeo and Juliet:

I may wander over land and sea

Pass many days away from thee

Yet my heart can never rove

From thee, my own, my love.

Aziraphale professed it was his favorite yet, but Crowley only scowled.

--

The greatest shock was the card that arrived in 1864.

Aziraphale had not expected anything that year. The envelope sat in his hands, as simple and anonymous as all the others. Inside, a heart-shaped card framing an almost embarrassingly cute cat.

This little kitten,

Valentine,

Has come to ask you

To be mine.

He suddenly realized he had made a grave miscalculation. If these cards were still arriving after…after certain recent developments…that could only mean…

Well. At least Crowley was no longer around to realize what a foolish conclusion he’d jumped to.

Another print arrived in 1865, a young lady holding a tulip to her nose.

Oh! Would I were the flower that sips

The honied kisses from your lips.

My Darling Valentine.

The card tumbled from his trembling fingers.

Why? Why did he even bother opening it? Why did he keep them even now?

Aziraphale grabbed all twenty-five Valentine’s Day cards and thrust them into a box. He found a spot on the highest shelf of the bookcase furthest from the door, tucked the box into a corner so gloomy even he could barely spot it. He was absolutely determined to forget any cards had ever arrived.

The envelope that arrived in 1866 was tucked, unopened, into a thick volume of Greek philosophy and pushed back onto a dusty shelf. Aziraphale swore no matter how many more arrived, he would never look.

But, as if a spell were broken, no more Valentines were delivered after that. And the last one remained unopened for over seventy-five years.

Until, two nights after a certain incident in a church, he found it again, hands shaking from the exertion of the search, from the unnamed emotions racing through him.

The card inside was gold and silver lace, simple yet elegant in a way he hadn’t remembered the others being. There was an earnest charm to the way the edges didn’t quite line up to the white paper underneath. In the center, a printed poem, surrounded by hand-painted flowers in more varieties than Aziraphale could name.

Valentine –

Fain would I guard thee through life’s desert drear

And fling around thee love to soothe and cheer

For thee I live might I but call thee mine

I’d be forever thy own Valentine.

He didn’t know how it was possible, but only one being in all Creation would send such a poem.

Aziraphale sat down on the floor of his shop. The tears he’d been holding in for two days finally began to fall.

--

After Crowley woke from his extended nap, he was disgusted to find how the holiday had spiraled out of control, how it only grew worse with every passing decade. Chocolates. Jewelry. Mass-market commercialization. It became a million-pound industry, and eventually a billion-pound one. Where once hopeful lovers could send a chintzy greeting card for a few pennies, the fools now spent a week’s pay – or more – on useless trinkets, somehow convinced it would ensure a return of affection.

And the engagements! The diamond rings, the elaborate proposals.

It was an absolute mockery of the cheap, empty exchange of sentiments he had spent so long cultivating. Was nothing sacred?

He was sure the Americans were to blame.

And yet now, when the holiday was devoid even of the anti-meaning Crowley had worked so hard to endow it with, now Aziraphale took notice? Now he began decorating his shop with angels even more absurd than the ones he usually collected? Now he put vases full of dried flowers on every table – roses and carnations and tulips in pink and red and white?

Every year, the traditions grew worse, yet Aziraphale only embraced the holiday more.

--

The Apocalypse had come and gone. The world had changed. For eight months they’d stood on the cusp of…something.

It was absurd. They each knew how the other felt – there was no denying it at this point – but somehow, after six thousand years, Crowley suddenly couldn’t find a way to say the words. Now it was Aziraphale waiting patiently on him, and if that wasn’t embarrassing, he didn’t know what was.

He just needed the right time. He’d hoped Valentine’s Day could be it.

But here it was, the fourteenth of February, and all Crowley felt was fed up. He couldn’t bring himself to buy the overpriced flowers, the punfully-named treats, even a racy gag gift (of which there was never any shortage in Soho). It just felt…empty.

He walked into the bookshop and prepared to disappoint his angel.

--

Aziraphale had set up a garland of sorts, too, but not paper flowers or bright red crepe paper. Across the two pillars nearest the door – where no one entering the shop could miss them, let alone Crowley – hanging from a string, were twenty-six Victorian Valentine’s Day cards.

Some were handmade – clumsy and uneven. Some were pre-printed – cheap, mass-produced. All were just a little tacky, but in the light of the shop, they seemed to glow with love.

“Ah! You’re here.” Aziraphale emerged with a pile of 19th-century romance novels, which he proceeded to arrange on the front table, to more easily chase customers away from them. “How do you like my decorating?”

“Oh. Uh. You. You kept those.”

“Naturally.” He didn’t even turn away from his task. “They were sent by someone very important to me.”

Crowley gulped. “You worked that out, then?”

“Yes, dear, in 1843.” Aziraphale chuckled, standing a copy of Wuthering Heights on the top of his display.

“Uh…Nh…” Crowley felt his face getting very warm. “You could have said –”

“I assumed, at the time, this was the beginning of some very elaborate prank on your part, and I was curious to see where it might go.”

“You – you said it was a mystery!”

“Yes, that was me playing along.” Satisfied with his display, Aziraphale turned back. “Now, if we’re finally going to talk about this, I do have a question.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. No avoiding this, it seemed. “Fine. Right. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but it was…it was too much. Too big.” He looked at the ceiling as he talked, the walls, anywhere but at the angel who was now watching him with rapt attention. “You’d just reject it, and I didn’t want that kind of…y’know. So I just – I devalued what it means to say…that…on Valentine’s Day. Made it cheap and easy and meaningless so that when I told you, maybe it wouldn’t seem so big. Maybe you’d be able to accept it. Or at least maybe the rejection wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Soft footsteps across the floorboards, and Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek, drawing his face back down to meet that blue gaze.

“I know. I worked that out, oh, seventy years ago.”

“You what?”

“Once I understood how you felt, well, it seemed rather obvious. I also know why it never worked.”

Crowley hadn’t felt this completely lost since the night the world had almost ended. He reached up and grasped Aziraphale’s hand for balance. “Please…enlighten me.”

“Crowley, dear. A meaningless bit of frippery bought for a few pennies? A quiet I love you disguised as a joke? That’s not who you are. You need a big, grand show of affection, a blazing banner across the sky, or it won’t ever feel real to you. So even when I told you I liked the cards, you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. The holiday was all wrong.”

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbled.

“Well, I was going to say something when you next sent me a card, only you never did. And so I, well, I decided to encourage the humans to, as you say, ‘go bigger.’ I thought you wouldn’t be able to resist a culture of grand romantic gestures. Only I’m not very subtle and it got rather out of hand.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked.

“So…all – all that,” Crowley waved a hand at the window. “All that was you?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled apologetically, though the bastard had probably never been sorry a day in his life. “The holiday generally, and also more specifically the state of Soho just now. I’ve been rather giddy lately and it seems to have gone contagious.”

Crowley thought of everything the day had come to mean – the heart-shaped sweets, the over-the-top dinners, flowers that cost as much as an outfit, jewelry that cost as much as a car. Piles of gifts of every description, sky-diving marriage proposals, holiday getaways to Paris or Florence or tiny cottages in snow-filled forests.

“Aziraphale,” he laughed, found he couldn’t stop laughing. “Angel! You…you made a whole holiday of big, stupid, over-the-top romantic gestures for me?”

“Only because you started it.” He slipped his arms around Crowley’s neck, pulling them together, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s hips, pressing their bodies close. The words he wanted to say danced on the edge of his tongue, waiting for the right moment.  Not yet, not yet. Instead he asked, “Didn’t you have a question?”

“Ah, yes. How did you do it?” Aziraphale pulled back enough to look up at his eyes. “The last three cards arrived while you were asleep.”

“Oh! That’s easy enough.” His hands found their way into Aziraphale’s and, without anyone needing to suggest it out loud, they walked together to the back room and the well-worn sofa, where a bottle of wine waited for them. “I didn’t want to lose my nerve, so I would buy and send the cards five at a time. I gave the post office instructions to mail them one per year. I told myself each time, ‘After the last card, I’ll say it out loud.’ But, well, I always wound up buying more cards.”

Aziaphale froze two steps away from the sofa. “Are you saying you haven’t bought me a Valentine since 1861? This is outrageous.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, flinging himself down and pulling Aziraphale after him. “Have you seen what passes for romantic verse these days? Pathetic. I’m not going to pay…five pounds or whatever it is for that nonsense.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale shifted to lean against him, flashing another bastard smile. “I suppose the card selection has been disappointing lately. Still, an angel likes a little poetry now and again.”

“Poetry, is it?” Crowley pulled off his glasses and tossed them aside so he could meet that breathtaking blue gaze straight on. Caught one of Aziraphale’s hands and held it to his chest.

Women have loved before as I love now;

At least, in lively chronicles of the past –

Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow

Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast

Much to their cost invaded – here and there,

Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,

I find some woman bearing as I bear

Love like a burning city in the breast.

I think however that of all alive

I only in such utter, ancient way

Do suffer love; in me alone survive

The unregenerate passions of a day

When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread,

Heedless and willful, took their knights to bed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured. “Well, that’s hardly appropriate for a card.”

Crowley tried to raise Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, but discovered he was shaking too much. “It’s – You’re probably right. But it’s how I’ve felt. For a very long time.”

Aziraphale pulled his hand back, then leaned in to softly brush his lips against Crowley’s. Hesitant. Shy. But when he finished, he didn’t pull back. Crowley could feel the trembling of Aziraphale’s breath, mirroring his own.

“I love you, too,” his angel whispered. “I hope you know that.”

-- end --

Inspired by the pastries at my local bakery, and by a conversation with @angel-and-serpent 

All the Victorian Valentines described are actual cards (I tried to do all vintage, but some may have been replicas/modern cards in “Victorian” style), slightly altered to be easier to describe. I also changed a word or two where the poetry was especially bad.

The final poem is by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I’ve said many times I default write the Husbands as asexual, but then Crowley goes and picks one of the sexy sonnets, so I guess interpret where things go from there as you see fit. (I’m ace myself and not going to try and deny the power of Millay’s sexy sonnets. Look at that thing. I become 5% more allo and 8% gayer every time I read it.)

[nadziejastar]

Does Axel’s tear drop marks have connections to The Eye of Horus?

I’m glad you asked that. I definitely think that there is a connection, since the Recusant’s Sigil is directly inspired by Egyptian symbolism. I think it’s the same as the situation of Lea and Isa. Them being best friends was thought up after KH2, when the idea for KH3 and the 7 Guardians of Light was created. 

Saïx already had moon symbolism, and Axel had the element of fire. And coincidentally the sun is associated with fire, and the moon with femininity. So, they were able to come up with Lea and Isa as Sun and Moon lovers based off of that. I think Axel’s teardrops are the same. The design wasn’t directly based off of that concept. But I think the writers added in that meaning later, since it fits so well. I’ll explain why:

Lea and Isa: Osiris and Isis

“A fragmentary passage”, meaning bits and pieces of something whole.

Isis is the feminine archetype for creation, the goddess of fertility and motherhood, healing, and magic. She represents our feminine aspects - creation, rebirth, ascension, intuition, psychic abilities, higher chakras, higher frequency vibrations, love and compassion. She is the Yin energy, the mother nurturer, the High Priestess, the essence of the feminine energy, which is part of us all. She is regularly portrayed as the selfless, giving, mother, wife, and protectress, who places other’s interests and well-being ahead of her own.

Isis was the sister and wife of the god Osiris. The name ‘Osiris’ is interpreted as ‘powerful’ or ‘mighty’. He was also known as The Lord of Love, King of the Living, and Eternal Lord. Isis and her twin brother/husband Osiris were deeply in love. It is said that they were in love with each other even in the womb. Osiris was a kind and just ruler, but his jealous brother Set coveted his throne. Osiris was murdered by his resentful brother, who dismembered him and scattered the parts of his body throughout Egypt.

Xehanort: “X”… A most ancient letter. Some say “kye,” but the meaning is the same. Death… A letter that spells endings.

Isis was distraught when she found her husband was missing and went searching for him all through Egypt. When she found him, Osiris was dead, but Isis knew she could bring him back to life. She retrieves and joins the fragmented pieces of Osiris, then briefly brings him back to life by use of magic. This spell gives her time to become pregnant by Osiris before he again dies. Osiris revived but could no longer rule among the living because he was incomplete; he would have to descend to the underworld and reign there as Lord of the Dead.

Axel: “But don’t waste your time. We Nobodies can never hope to be somebodies.”

Osiris is the god of the afterlife, the underworld, and rebirth in ancient Egyptian religion. He was the all-merciful, forgiving, and just judge of the dead who oversaw one’s life on earth and in the afterlife. He is associated with the mythical Bennu bird. The Bennu is the inspiration for the Greek Phoenix, who rises to life from the ashes.The name of the Phoenix in Egyptian is ‘Bennu’. The ancient Egyptians believed that the Bennu exploded from the heart of Orisis. 

They believed this bird to be sacred and that it arose regularly to renew Egypt.  The Bennu was one of the most important religious symbols in the mythology of ancient Egypt, symbolizing resurrection and the rising sun. This was because the sun was thought to spend the night in the underworld, and was subsequently “reborn” every morning. The Bennu Bird was believed to represent the soul of Ra, the Supreme Sun God. Ra was typically represented as a sun-disk, or as a falcon-headed man wearing a red sun-disk on his head.

Xemnas: “The strength of the human heart is vast. Soon, though…we will have gained power over it! Never again will it…have power over us.”

The crook and flail were symbols of the pharaoh, the ruling monarch in ancient Egypt, throughout history. They were originally the attributes of the deity Osiris that became insignia of royal authority. The shepherd’s crook stood for kingship and the flail for the fertility of the land. The Kings of Egypt were associated with Osiris in death – as Osiris rose from the dead, so they would be in union with him, and inherit eternal life through a process of imitative magic.

The “X” is also used in ancient Egypt as a symbol of the dead. It was used in pyramids and temples, where Pharaohs are buried with their arms and legs crossed. As the crook and flail was the symbol of Osiris, ruler of the dead and the underworld, this was done in devotion to him, in hopes of gaining eternal life after death. As ruler of the dead, Osiris was also sometimes called “king of the living”. Ancient Egyptians considered the blessed dead “the living ones”.

Ansem: “So many are still waiting for their new beginning, their birth by sleep. Even me…and even you.”

Isis later gives birth to Horus. Isis, fearing what Set might do to her son, hid Horus among the swamps of Egypt until he was grown. At that point, Horus emerged as a mighty warrior and battled Set for control of the world. Horus successfully defeated Set, avenging Osiris and becoming the new king of Egypt. The chaos Set had unleashed on the world was conquered by Horus, who restored order, and then ruled with his mother.

Since Horus was born after Osiris’ resurrection, Horus became thought of as a representation of new beginnings. He came to represent “a promise by the gods to take care of suffering humanity,” since he had himself suffered as a child and knew how it felt to be fragile and surrounded by dangers.  

Axel: “Well, I think you can be inseparable even if you’re apart. It’s like, if you feel really close to each other. If you’re best friends.”

Horus, in the ancient Egyptian religion, is a god in the form of a falcon. His right eye was associated with the sun, representing power and quintessence. His left eye was the moon, representing healing. The eye symbol represents the marking around the eye of the falcon, including the “teardrop” marking sometimes found below the eye. Sometimes Horus is shown as a winged sun disk.  

A quiet and cool-headed youth. Though he does come out of his shell when talking to his best friend Lea, toward others he is distant and untalkative.

The Eye of Horus is the Egyptian equivalent of the 6th chakra, often known as the “Mind’s Eye”. Its location at the front of the head is between the eyebrows, where the pineal gland is located. Exactly where Isa’s scar is. This is commonly denoted with a dot, eye or mark on the forehead of deities or enlightened beings, such as Shiva, the Buddha or any number of yogis. This symbol is called the “Third Eye” or “Eye of Wisdom”.

Best friends with Isa. Very outgoing by nature, he wishes to remain in the memories of others forever.

The Third Eye is represented by the color indigo, a combination of blue and red. This is because it activates when the two main energy channels, Ida and Pingala, unite at the brow. Ida and Pingala are symbolized by the sun and moon, and their colors are red and blue. Pingala is the male energy. Its name means “tawny” in Sanskrit. Tawny is “of an orange-brown or yellowish-brown color.” I found it interesting that Lea is wearing a combination of orange, yellow, and brown in BBS.

Xigbar: “If people see with their hearts, Saïx, then you’re even blinder than the rest of us.”

With this eye functioning, we can enter a different dimension and see things which are invisible to the physical eye, but visible to the subtle eye. When we look at a person, we look at the person’s soul, at the spirit. Not at physical body through physical eyes. The movement through this eye transforms into a new world, a subtle world. We start seeing things we have never seen.

The Third Eye is a symbol of enlightenment. Through it we access the higher, Divine Planes, the White Light, which filters downwards into our Chakras. But if we don’t stimulate the pineal gland and are too entrenched in the Ego, it calcifies and closes up, shutting the door to the higher Planes and Divine energy. The process of Spiritual Rebirth is also a process of re-activating and attuning the Mind’s Eye and the pineal gland.

“Their hurting will be mended when you return to end it.”

It was believed by the Greeks and Romans that an evil heart could get to the eye. Their belief in the powerful effects of the eyes and optics, created the myth that the energy-producing power of the eye had the ability to cast evil spells with just a glance. Because the ancients believed the evil eye could be counteracted with a ‘good eye’, myths about Horus arose.

When Set and Horus were fighting for the throne after Osiris’s death, Set gouged out Horus’s left eye, representing the moon. This became a mythical explanation of the lunar phases. It was later healed by the god Thoth. The figure of the restored eye (the wedjat eye) became a powerful amulet. Hence, the eye of Horus was often used to symbolise sacrifice, healing, restoration, and protection.

[matildainmotion]

A Fairy Tale School, and A Chance to Change the Story

Once upon a time there was a very special school. It was the flagship Steiner school, the longest-running one in the UK, on the edge of a great forest. Let me tell you about it.

The grounds are stunning – great old oaks, rolling lawns, deer, a stream, an iron spring. The facilities are amazing – a big gym, a proper theatre, a huge vegetable garden, a carpentry workshop, even a forge where you can make a real sword which they showed us on the school tour, the jewellery, the axes and blades that students had made in the fire, like something straight out of a story. I could see my son, the proud owner of three lightsabres, being happy there. My husband and I are theatre-makers and writers: story is the stuff of our work, and here was an educational system with stories at its heart - fairy tales, fables, saints’ tales, Norse and Greek myths, shaping the curriculum.

So we went for it. Like many others we made momentous changes in order to bring our son, now aged 7, to this school, and in time my daughter too, now aged 2. My mother sold the family home after 55 years so that she could buy a small house in Forest Row where she and I and the children could live. My husband had to stay in London because of work – we’d see him at weekends and in the holidays. It would be hard but it was worth it, for the school. I have heard many similar tales – of people coming from much further afield than London, from Japan, from America so their children can come here.

To make such major changes people are following big dreams, high ideals, deeply held convictions. What are mine? I do not necessarily want ‘the best for my children’ – I think ‘best-ness’ is overrated. Coming from a family of highly powered Oxford academics I tried to be the best and get the best for many years and it left me in a mess. I want rather to give my children a good chance of coming out of school in one piece, whole, connected to themselves, to a community, not ready for the big wide world – that old narrative of adventure and conquest – but rather already in it, present in the world and ready to care for it and each other as well as they can in these uncertain times. Wholeness, community and connection, an ability to be vulnerable and to act from a place of integrity - those were the things I was after when we upped and moved ourselves here at the end of last summer, ready for the start of the new school year.

Very soon after our arrival on the edge of Ashdown Forest, full of hope, I was struck by the amount of cynicism I encountered. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised – where you find dreams that big, you are going to find disappointment on a similar scale. In the woods where Winnie the Pooh lives, there also dwells Eyeore: “Your son’s going to Michael Hall? Oh well, good luck with that – I hope he fares better than me, but I doubt he will,” – heavy sigh, returns to thistles and damp, lonely corner. The pessimism, juxtaposed with the optimistic dreams that also surround the school, have reminded me not only of Eyeore’s gloom but even a level up - the desperate, intractable situations found in many fairytales and myths: the most beautiful king’s daughter that has fallen terribly sick and cannot be cured; the monster that haunts the lands that were once full of wonder; the evil empire that is trying to take over the universe and kill off the amazing Jedi.

Meanwhile, sometimes all is well in the woods, the kingdom, the universe. Peace reigns. I have heard hopeful stories too. I was amazed and encouraged by how many parents are old scholars. I am much more used to the narrative of “I am never letting my child go through what I had to endure” than the story of “I had such a great time at school, I want the same for my little one.” My son was and is having a good time in class one. He is an intense lad, with big emotions and grand ideas, and so far the school have been very quick to respond to his needs and challenges. His teacher is wonderful and there is a gradually growing sense of community amongst the parents of the class. For all of this I am deeply grateful.

As far as I can tell, from the anecdotes I have gathered in the short time I have been here, the school is brilliant until it isn’t - until something goes wrong, until the monster/ sickness/ evil fairy turns up. I realize this is tautological – the problems begin when the problems begin – but problems will always show up, so the true problem is not the monster but how we respond to it. All too often our knee jerk response is to blame another, and with this ‘us’ and ‘them’-ness kicks in, the good guys and the baddies, the innocents and the guilty. First off, inside this story we are in, there is the parent body versus the school – ‘us’ being the parents and ‘them’ being the school - how the school does not listen and never changes. I have encountered the story the other way round too- the school versus the parents – the parents who are always complaining, ready to attack, but rarely listen, or turn up in low numbers when the school has tried to lay on an event in response to a parent request. I have also heard about internal ‘us’ and ‘them’ dynamics: the teachers versus the management and an iteration of the same story and Eyeore-like complaint, “They never listen. No one understands.”

I tried to learn more about the structure of the school and found it incredibly difficult. Even those who have apparently been here for many years could not easily explain to me how it actually operates. I gathered there were different elements- a council, trustees, an Education Management Team, teachers, office staff – but how these positions fitted together and ran everything remained mysterious, a kind of tangled thicket of roles growing around the mansion and keeping princes and parents from being able to break in and have any impact. I had come in quest of wholeness, connection, community, integrity and I was finding people who felt disempowered, fractured and stuck.

           In the absence of any head teacher, a hallmark of traditional Steiner schools, from the way people talked ‘The School’ had become in itself a kind of mythical authority figure, hard to reach and impossible to change. I like a challenge and I am not very good at cynicism (though I do a good line in imagining terrible happenings and did, in fact, identify with Eyeore as a child) so I joined the Parents Working Group (PWG) to see if I could make a positive contribution to the school. I had spent the first term feeling like a failure as a Steiner parent because I cannot sew to save my life, had to buy instead of make my son’s crayon roll and could be of very little help in crafting anything for the Advent Fair, so I figured I had better find another way to play my part in the school community.

           When I told people about the PWG and its aim to initiate and hold space for constructive dialogue with the school and support positive change, I was hit by a fresh wave of cynicism: “Ah, be careful the school will take all it can get from you, suck you dry and spit you out!”; “Well, good luck with that. You might make a small dent in its side but that’ll be it!” So there we have it – the school as the monster, the dragon that can devour you and that has such massive scaly flanks it can barely be dented, despite the beautiful swords that its pupils forge on its grounds. Or the school as an institution wrapped in creepers and thickets, under a heavy curse that cannot be lifted.

           Enter stage right a strange knight in heavy armour with clipboards for shields and a knife of regulation, an outsider, called Sir Ofsted - hero or villain? He rode from the city to the woods, slashed through the thickets, confronted the dragon, gave Sleeping Beauty an “Inadequate” kiss – blessing or further curse? - and lo and behold we all woke up. And, as in the original story, everyone woke up: the kings, the courtiers, the cooks and the gardeners, the parents, the teachers and the management. After 100 years of Steiner education we all have an amazing chance to wake up and decide what happens now, shape how the story unfolds from here. Let me pause at this cliff hanger to introduce a new strand of narrative.

           15 years ago my husband, Phelim McDermott, was feeling fed up. He works in theatre. He runs a company called Improbable, which makes big shows and tiny ones, with improvisation at their core. He had dedicated his whole life to theatre, he felt passionate about it, and he spent much of his time complaining about it. He was often angry about how it was carried out, about how people did not listen to each other and things did not change (notice the parallels to our other story). He was doubly fed up – frustrated by the ways things were done and frustrated by hearing himself moan about it but unable to do anything effective. He came across a book: Open Space Technology, A User’s Guide by Harrison Owen. It described a way for groups to self-organise around issues of shared concern, a way that was radically non-hierarchical, refreshingly playful, able to cut to the heart of complex situations really fast and allow truths to emerge and change to begin. He thought he would give it a go. It sounded like a good improvisation exercise. He followed the instructions in the book and wrote an invitation (step 1). He called it ‘Devoted and Disgruntled’ because that’s what he was feeling. It’s a good title and if I could I would steal it to use here at Michael Hall for all the many deeply devoted and disgruntled people whom I have met here. To his amazement and delight people responded to his invitation – about 200 people turned up (step 2). And it was incredible. Now, instead of the constant moaning, people were getting to work, fuelled by their passion and devotion, connecting, taking action, agreeing on change (step 3). 15 years later Devoted and Disgruntled has transformed the landscape of the performing arts in the UK. We have run literally hundreds of Open Space events under this banner, in every corner of the country and even overseas. We have an entire website dedicated to this great, unfolding conversation. Check it out: www.devotedanddisgruntled.com. Some people worry that it is ‘just’ a conversation, a talking shop – but almost all change starts with a conversation and an enormous number of actions have come out of our Open Spaces: shows made, companies formed, new initiatives, collaborations, even marriages (my own included) have emerged out of our events. It is an amazing practice, a brilliant tool – not a sword, but a circle, an open space.

           Having witnessed first hand the impact of opening space on the UK theatre scene, how it harnesses the devotion and helps to shift the disgruntlement, I want to bring it here, to our school, now in this moment more than ever. I think it holds the power of a forge – the hot, glowing place that can make hard things soft and malleable again, where change and transformation is possible. And yet it is beautifully simple. You send out an invite. (I have done this– it was in the last Friday Flier (You can read it here: http://www.michaelhall.co.uk/friday-flier) People who want to be there come along. We sit in a circle and a facilitator explains how it works – anyone who wants to call a session can do so, by writing the title on a piece of paper and putting it up on the wall. Together we co-create an agenda. Then we get to work and we follow the magical and yet entirely pragmatic ‘law of two feet’: you don’t stay where you don’t want to be, you follow yourself and go where your time and energy will be best used, and only you know where that is. This is the radical non-hierarchy of it – the fixed roles can fall away and a new fluidity is possible. Not ‘us’ and ‘them’ but me and you, listening to each other and having a conversation on an issue about which we both care deeply and on which we both want to act.

           There are many things that I am sure need to change within the school, but fundamentally, for me, the underlying shift that needs to happen is a cultural one. I think we need to start to model the sense of agency and possibility that I am sure we all hope the education is giving to our children. We need to wake up inside the story and notice how we are part of shaping it – we are not passive victims of a terrible curse from a wicked fairy or an evil dragon, or at least as well as playing the part of the victim, there are times when we also step into the role of the dragon, steam coming out of our ears, and curses falling out of our mouths. Notice these. And this fire, these strong words, whomever they come from – teacher, parent, manager - are not bad. They are potent, they are passionate and they are integral to our ability to bring about change.

When my son was in Kindergarten, at another Steiner school in London, he came home one day, in his first term, with a complaint. It was Michaelmas and they had been told a story about a dragon, “But the dragon didn’t do much! It wasn’t scary enough. They tamed it too quickly.” So there we have it. In opening space I don’t want to tame all the dragons. I want them to come. All of them. I want the dragons, I want the kings and the queens, the princes and princesses, I want the peasants, the wicked stepmothers, the caring fathers, the confounded leaders, wise teachers, the witches, the wolves. If you identify with any of these roles, please come. If I have left your role off the list please come and put it on there – make sure it is part of the story. Because right now we have an incredible opportunity to shape what happens next – this is in fact always true, but thanks to the dubious Sir Ofsted we just all managed to notice it.

I am not looking for a happy-ever-after ending. Or even an ‘outstanding-ever-after.’ I want what I wanted when I and my family decided to move here: I want connected-ever-after. Actually even ‘ever-after’ sounds like rather a high demand from which we might all come crashing down with a sense of failure. I will settle for connected-a-good-deal-of-the-time, whole as much as possible, in community through the rough and the smooth. What do you want? How do you wish your story and the school’s story to unfold from here? I am inviting you to come and tell me, and others. Because telling is the beginning of making. Making is the start of happening. The details of the dates and the times are here- http://www.michaelhall.co.uk/pwg- I look forward to seeing you there and to hearing your tales and those of others – the more diverse the better - and to us creating a new one together.

[iratobs]

Strongholds come from our thoughts. They develop from our patterns of thinking, our imaginations and really anything that has entered our minds and been pondered and thought about. Such things can come from arguments, logic, human reasonings and human cultural values. @IanVail

Let’s look again at 2 Corinthians 10:4-5 to get a clear idea of what a stronghold is. I have created for you an Amplified version on the basis of my own translation of this verse for you and the Greek words behind the text, combining it with the words used in the other translations I gave you in last week’s Nugget. So this is the result:

We use God’s mighty weapons, not worldly weapons, to knock down the [ochuroma] strongholds of human reasoning (imaginations, thoughts, patterns of human thinking) and to destroy false [logismos] (arguments, logic, reasoning, set of values). We destroy every [hupsōma] (proud obstacle, high and lofty thought, arrogance, opinion, pretense) that is raised up against the knowledge of  God and taking every [noēma] (thought, idea, notion, concept, reasoning, pretention, pretense, supposition, lie) captive in order to obey the Messiah / Christ.   (2 Cor 10:4,5) [IVV] – Ian Vail’s Version

I trust what I have done for you in the translation above makes it clear what is going on. Paul has used a number of Greek words to spell out to us where our thinking comes from. I have coloured the Greek words behind the text blue and then listed for the variations to describe what the meaning behind the text.

[ochuroma] - imaginations, thoughts, patterns of human thinking

[logismos] - arguments, logic, reasoning, set of values

[hupsōma] - proud obstacle, high and lofty thought, arrogance, opinion

[noēma] - idea, notion, concept, reasoning, pretention, pretence, supposition

Strongholds come from our thoughts. They develop from our patterns of thinking, our imaginations and really anything that has entered our minds and been pondered and thought about. Such things can come from arguments, logic, human reasonings and human cultural values. They can also come from high and lofty, pretentious thoughts that are purely human opinion stemming from human arrogance as contrasted to godly thought. In short strongholds can start from any way in which thoughts pass through our minds – ideas, concepts notions but can also be pretense, lies and basically untruth. Yet we believe them with a passion or a zeal which persuades us what we are thinking is true.    

Allow me to explain a little more. We gain our value systems and our thinking from what we hear and see and take on board from others. In the early years our parents and teachers. But we also assimilate into our thinking input from the thoughts, opinions, value systems of other people.  Our value systems and thoughts are honed by what we pick up from others; what is right, what is wrong, what is purely human choice. The others are those in our society or culture who think the same. Our culture constitutes the practices of life which those around us agree are right and appropriate to think believe or practice. Yet every culture has a set of values which they believe to be true and other values which are wrong. Cultural practices are purely the standards of behavior or practice which those around us hold to be true or false from which they determine a set of guiding principles.

Notice what Paul has written in 2 Corinthians 10:4 and 5 separates human thought processes from the knowledge of God. Paul makes clear to us that human reasoning can be set against the knowledge of God. There is human truth expressed and practiced in a family by individuals. Then there is human truth embodied by those within a cultural grouping. Not all thoughts and practices within a particular culture are all true. Above all human cultures there is God’s Truth. All cultures have some elements of God’s Truth but not all aspects of any particular culture contain all of God’s Truth.  Humans can embrace God’s Truth or raise up systems of thought opposed to God’s Truth. I have spelled human truth with a small t and God’s Truth with a capital T deliberately.

Allow me to give you two examples which illustrate this idea.

The Bible tells us that God created the world and all that is by speaking it into being. There is a system of thought which has been raised up in opposition to God’s Truth. It’s called the theory evolution. I am not going to debate this theory in this Nugget. Suffice to say it is full of holes and full of claims which are untrue. What I will say is that Evolution became a stronghold for me.  A system of thought which locked me into a particular way of thinking which I believed or was taught to be true.

The second stronghold arises in Western thought and learning which tells us that what is true and valid to believe is that which can be empirically observed and tested scientifically. That which can be validated in the laboratory or tested in a test tube is true. Other truths which people from non-western cultures believe but which can’t be tested empirically belong to the realm of myth, fable or religion. I was taught that the ethereal world was not valid or true. If it can’t be tested and measured and quantified then it is not true. Let me spell it out again from the perspective of God’s Truth. God’s Word (the Bible) tells us that we battle not against flesh and blood but against the spirit world.

For we are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places. (Ephesians 6:12)

God’s Word tells there are phenomena that we can’t observe empirically. The story of Gehazi in the Bible is a good example which most westerners would claim is nonsense. If you can’t see it, test it, touch it, measure it or quantify it then it doesn‘t exist:-

So one night the king of Aram sent a great army with many chariots and horses to surround the city. When the servant of the man of God got up early the next morning and went outside, there were troops, horses, and chariots everywhere. “Oh, sir, what will we do now?” the young man cried to Elisha.

“Don’t be afraid!” Elisha told him. “For there are more on our side than on theirs!”

Then Elisha prayed, “O LORD, open his eyes and let him see!” The LORD opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire. (1 Kings 6:14-17)

Tania and I have lived in various cross-cultural situations. I have seen things which lay outside of my observable, quantifiable reality. It will share Ian stories about such things in up-coming Nuggets relating to Overcoming Strongholds. But as you can conclude from what I have written above, strongholds can develop from the things which others tell us are true and we accept as being true. Or from the things which others tell us are true but we observe evidence to the contrary.

Probably one of the first strongholds to take hold of me in a significant way was atheism. For me it happened when I was nine years old by my father and then was strengthened by the stronghold of thought that is Evolution.  Growing up I was the son of an alcoholic father. It was common for me as a boy to help my mother pick up my father covered in blood and bring him into the house from where he had fallen on the concrete floor of the garage. Then for my mother and me to be subjected to a tirade of verbal abuse about anything and everything. I observed many inconsistencies in what my father said and what my father did. I just observed and put it all together. I knew not to say what I thought as a young boy. After years of abuse I remember one Saturday night as a nine-year-old. I stood behind my bedroom door with my baseball bat in my hand vowing in my nine-year-old heart that I was going to whack my father over the head as he abused my mother in the lounge. I was going to put an end to this horror for me and my mother. I could hear my drunken father getting up and coming out of the lounge. But he turned the other way and didn’t come past my bedroom door. I lost my resolve and dropped my bat and stood there trembling with emotion behind the door. The next morning I took my rugby ball outside to the front of the property to kick and catch as a sign for my friends to come and play. But my father burst out of the front door and yelled at me to get back inside. That I was not to go outside in the front of the house on the Lord’s Day. It was not that my father was in anyway religious. He had never set foot in a church before.  In my nine-year-old head I said to myself there is no God. I didn't know to call myself an atheist at that stage. But growing up I embraced what teachers and lecturers told me about evolutionary and consequently had a foundation for my growing stronghold of thought.

I didn't know enough when I was nine to reason it out that my father’s input to me related to anything biblical was seriously flawed. My father’s comments on church or the Lord’s Day should have been classified as nonsense. He was certainly no authority on Christianity. He would verbally abuse my mother if she wanted to go to church. So why would I accept his comments on the Lord’s Day and let them shape my thinking? Simply because years of verbal abuse colour our perspective.  In fact the strongholds of thought which develop from being abused (either verbally or physically) are those which we hold on to the strongest. They are exceptionally hard to let go. They often work contrary to the any Truth behind the stronghold. Truth and falsity are hard to separate when it comes to strongholds.

Allow me to give you one further example from my own family. My mother was a good living woman and had many life values that in fact were very biblical. My father eventually became a Christian and dramatically changed following my acceptance of God’s Truth. One day while talking to mother about her need for Christ to save her, I told her she too had sinned and needed God’s forgiveness. Her reaction was dramatic. In her mind she was not at all like my father – oh that was for sure. But to tell her she too was included in the biblical statement “For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard.” (Romans 3:23) meant she couldn’t hear any more. Her stronghold of thought prevented her from hearing the truth. She said to me “Ian Warren Vail, are you telling me I am a sinner just like your father.” Oh dear how do you answer a question like that? Whenever I was in serious trouble my mother used my full name. I knew to tread carefully on that one. I had encountered one of my mother’s strongholds and knew it.  It took months of unpacking that thought process before she too could accept the truth of God’s Truth about her.  

The influence of my father’s bad example made me predisposed to taking on board the lie of evolutionary thought later in life. The Evolutionary stronghold underpinned my reaction to my father’s pronouncements on Christianity. I wanted nothing to do with Christianity because of the way in which my father would use it when it was convenient to him. If I had been thinking clearly I could have relegated anything he said about Christianity or religion to the field of nonsense. But strongholds don't allow you to think clearly. They cause you to react irrationally.  

But strongholds can develop far easier and less dramatically than the way this one of mine did. We will investigate the simple ways strongholds develop in next week’s Nugget with some more stories from my own life.    

In the meantime I would encourage you to reflect on possible strongholds in your life. We all have them. Ask God to show you the thought processes that have become strongholds for you.

What lies or untruths have you taken on board and allowed to shape you?