#if I could live in an eternal darkness and polar winter I would

[niuniente]

Every single soul on my dash celebrating the return of the sun and I'm here like

[samwisethewitch]

Pagan Paths: Wicca

Wicca is the big granddaddy of neopagan religions. Most people who are familiar with modern paganism are specifically familiar with Wicca, and will probably assume that you are Wiccan if you tell them you identify as pagan. Thanks to pop culture and a handful of influential authors, Wicca has become the public face of modern paganism, for better or for worse.

Wicca is also one of the most accessible pagan religions, which is why I chose to begin our exploration of individual paths here. Known for its flexibility and openness, Wicca is about as beginner-friendly as it gets. While it definitely isn’t for everyone, it can be an excellent place to begin your pagan journey if you resonate with core Wiccan beliefs.

This post is not meant to be a complete introduction to Wicca. Instead, my goal here is to give you a taste of what Wiccans believe and do, so you can decide for yourself if further research would be worth your time. In that spirit, I provide book recommendations at the end of this post.

History and Background

Wicca was founded by Gerald Gardner, a British civil servant who developed an interest in the esoteric while living and working in Asia. Gardner claimed that, after returning to England, he was initiated into a coven of witches who taught him their craft. Eventually, he would leave this coven and start his own, at which point he began the work of bringing Wicca to the general public. In 1954, Garner published his book Witchcraft Today, which would have a great impact on the formation of Wicca, as would his 1959 book The Meaning of Witchcraft.

Gardner claimed that the rituals and teachings he received from his coven were incomplete — he attempted to fill in the gaps, which resulted in the creation of Wicca. Author Thea Sabin calls Wicca “a New Old Religion,” which is a good way to think about it. When Gardner wrote the first Wiccan Book of Shadows, he combined ancient and medieval folk practices from the British Isles with ceremonial magic dating back to the Renaissance and with Victorian occultism. These influences combined to create a thoroughly modern religion.

Wicca spread to the United States in the 1960s, at which time several new and completely American traditions were born. Some of these traditions are simply variations on Wicca, while others (like Feri and Reclaiming, which we’ll discuss in future posts) became unique, full-fledged spiritual systems in their own right. In America, Wicca collided with the counter-culture movement, and several activist groups began to combine the two. Wicca has continued to evolve through the decades, and is still changing and growing today.

There are two main “types” of Wicca which take very different approaches to the same deities and core concepts.

Traditional Wicca is Wicca that looks more or less like the practices of Gerald Gardner, Doreen Valiente, Alex Sanders, and other early Wiccan pioneers. Traditional Wiccans practice in ritual groups called covens. Rituals are typically highly formal and borrow heavily from ceremonial magic. Traditional Wicca is an initiatory tradition, which means that new members must be trained and formally inducted into the coven by existing members. This means that if you are interested in Traditional Wicca, you must find a coven or a mentor to train and initiate you. However, most covens do not place any limitations on who can join and be initiated, aside from being willing to learn.

Most Traditional Wiccan covens require initiates to swear an oath of secrecy, which keeps the coven’s central practices from being revealed to outsiders. However, there are traditional Wiccans who have gone public with their practice, such as the authors Janet and Stewart Farrar.

Eclectic Wicca is a solitary, non-initiatory form of Wicca, as made popular by author Scott Cunningham in his book Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner. Eclectic Wiccans are self-initiated and may practice alone or with a coven, though coven work will likely be less central in their practice. There are very few rules in Eclectic Wicca, and Wiccans who follow this path often incorporate elements from other spiritual traditions, such as historical pagan religions or modern energy healing. Because of this, there are a wide range of practices that fall under the “Eclectic Wicca” umbrella. Really, this label refers to anyone who considers themselves Wiccan, follows the Wiccan Rede (see below), and does not belong to a Traditional Wiccan coven. The majority of people who self-identify as Wiccan fall into this group.

Core Beliefs and Values

Thea Sabin says in her book Wicca For Beginners that Wicca is a religion with a lot of theology (study and discussion of the nature of the divine) and no dogma (rules imposed by religious structures). As a religion, it offers a lot of room for independence and exploration. This can be incredibly empowering to Wiccans, but it does mean that it’s kind of hard to make a list of things all Wiccans believe or do. However, we can look at some basic concepts that show up in some form in most Wiccan practices.

Virtually all Wiccans live by the Wiccan Rede. This moral statement, originally coined by Doreen Valiente, is often summarized with the phrase, “An’ it harm none, do what ye will.”

Different Wiccans interpret the Rede in slightly different ways. Most can agree on the “harm none” part. Wiccans strive not to cause unnecessary harm or discomfort to any living thing, including themselves. Some Wiccans also interpet the word “will” to be connected to our spiritual drive, the part of us that is constantly reaching for our higher purpose. When interpreted this way, the Rede not only encourages us not to cause harm, but also to live in alignment with our own divine Will.

Wiccans experience the divine as polarity. Wiccans believe that the all-encompassing divinity splits itself (or humans split it into) smaller aspects that we can relate to. The first division of deity is into complimentary opposites: positive and negative, light and dark, life and death, etc. These forces are not antagonistic, but are two halves of a harmonious whole. In Wicca, this polarity is usually embodied by the pairing of the God and Goddess (see below).

Wiccans experience the divine as immanent in daily life. In the words of author Deborah Lipp, “the sacredness of the human being is essential to Wicca.” Wiccans see the divine present in all people and all things. The idea that sacred energy infuses everything in existence is a fundamental part of the Wiccan worldview.

Wiccans believe nature is sacred. In the Wiccan worldview, the earth is a physical manifestation of the divine, particularly the Goddess. By attuning with nature and living in harmony with its cycles, Wiccans attune themselves with the divine. This means that taking care of nature is an important spiritual task for many Wiccans.

Wiccans accept that magic is real and can be used as a ritual tool. Not all Wiccans do magic, but all Wiccans accept that magic exists. For many covens and solitary practitioners, magic is an essential part of religious ritual. For others, magic is a practice that can be used not only to connect with the gods, but also to improve our lives and achieve our goals.

Many Wiccans believe in reincarnation, and some may incorporate past life recall into their spiritual practice. Some Wiccans believe that our souls are made of cosmic energy, which is recycled into a new soul after our deaths. Others believe that our soul survives intact from one lifetime to the next. Many famous Wiccan authors have written about their past lives and how reconnecting with those lives informed their practice.

Important Deities and Spirits

The central deities of Wicca are the Goddess and the God. They are two halves of a greater whole, and are only two of countless possible manifestations of the all-encompassing divine. The God and Goddess are lovers, and all things are born from their union.

Though some Wiccan traditions place a greater emphasis on the Goddess than on the God, the balance between these two expressions of the divine plays an important role in all Wiccan practices (remember, polarity is one of the core values of this religion).

The Goddess is the Divine Mother. She is the source of all life and fertility. She gives birth to all things, yet she is also the one who receives us when we die. Although she forms a duality in her relationship with the God, she also contains the duality of life and death within herself. While the God’s nature is ever-changing, the Goddess is constant and eternal.

The Goddess is strongly associated with both the moon and the earth. As the Earth Mother, she is especially associated with fertility, abundance, and nurturing. As the Moon Goddess, she is associated with wisdom, secret knowledge, and the cycle of life and death.

Some Wiccans see the goddess as having three main aspects: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. The Maiden is associated with youth, innocence, and new beginnings; she is the embodiment of both the springtime and the waxing moon. The Mother is associated with parenthood and birth (duh), abundance, and fertility; she is the embodiment of the summer (and sometimes fall) and of the full moon. The Crone is associated with death, endings, and wisdom; she is the embodiment of winter and of the waning moon. Some Wiccans believe this Triple Goddess model is an oversimplification, or complain that it is based on outdated views on womanhood, but for others it is the backbone of their practice.

Symbols that are traditionally used to represent the Goddess include a crescent moon or an image of the triple moon (a full moon situated between a waxing and a waning crescent), a cup or chalice, a cauldron, the color silver, and fresh flowers.

The God is the Goddess’s son, lover, and consort. He is equal parts wise and feral, gentle and fierce. He is associated with sex and by extension with potential (it could be said that while the Goddess rules birth, the God rules conception), as well as with the abundance of the harvest. He is the spark of life, which is shaped by the Goddess into all that is.

The God is strongly associated with animals, and he is often depicted with horns to show his association with all things wild. As the Horned God he is especially wild and fierce.

The God is also strongly associated with the sun. As a solar god he is associated with the agricultural year, from the planting and germination to the harvest. While the Goddess is constant, the God’s nature changes with the seasons.

In some Wiccan traditions, the God is associated with plant growth. He may be honored as the Green Man, a being which represents the growth of spring and summer. This vegetation deity walks the forests and fields, with vines and leaves sprouting from his body.

Symbols that are traditionally used to represent the God include phalluses and phallic objects, knives and swords, the color gold, horns and antlers, and ripened grain.

Many covens, both Traditional and Eclectic, have their own unique lore around the God and the Goddess. Usually, this lore is oathbound, meaning it cannot be shared with those outside the group.

Many Wiccans worship other deities besides the God and Goddess. These deities may come from historical pantheons, such as the Greek or Irish pantheon. A Wiccan may work with the God and Goddess with their coven or on special holy days (see below), but work with other deities that are more closely connected to their life and experiences on a daily basis. Wiccans view all deities from all religions and cultures as extensions of the same all-encompassing divine force.

Wiccan Practice

Most Wiccans use the circle as the basis for their rituals. This ritual structure forms a liminal space between the physical and spiritual worlds, and the Wiccan who created the circle can choose what beings or energies are allowed to enter it. The circle also serves the purpose of keeping the energy raised in ritual contained until the Wiccan is ready to release it. Casting a circle is fairly easy and can be done by anyone — simply walk in a clockwise circle around your ritual space, laying down an energetic barrier. Some Wiccans use the circle in every magical or spiritual working, while others only use it when honoring the gods or performing sacred rites.

While it is on one level a practical ritual tool, the circle is also a representation of the Wiccan worldview. Circles are typically cast by calling the four quarters (the four compass points of the cardinal directions), which are associated with the four classical elements: water, earth, fire, and air. Some (but not all) Wiccans also work with a fifth element, called spirit or aether. The combined presence of the elements makes the circle a microcosm of the universe.

Casting a circle requires the Wiccan to attune themselves to these elements and to honor them in a ritual setting. This is referred to as calling the quarters. When a Wiccan calls the quarters, they will move from one cardinal point to the next (usually starting with east or north), greet the spirits associated with that direction/element, and invite them to participate in the ritual. (If spirit/aether is being called, the direction it is associated with is directly up, towards the heavens.) This is done after casting the circle, but before beginning the ritual.

What happens within a Wiccan ritual varies a lot — it depends on the Wiccan, their preferences, and their goals for that ritual. However, nearly all Wiccan religious rites begin with the casting of the circle and calling of the quarters. (Some would argue that a ritual that doesn’t include these elements cannot be called Wiccan.)

When the ritual is completed, the quarters must be dismissed and the circle taken down. Wiccans typically dismiss the quarters by moving from one cardinal point to the next (often in the reverse of the order used to call the quarters), thanking the spirits of that quarter, and politely letting them know that the ritual is over. The circle is taken down (or “taken up,” as it is called in some traditions) in a similar way, with the person who cast the circle moving around it counterclockwise and removing the energetic barrier they created. This effectively ends the ritual.

There are eight main holy days in Wicca, called the sabbats. These celebrations, based on Germanic and Celtic pagan festivals, mark the turning points on the Wheel of the Year, i.e., the cycle of the seasons. By honoring the sabbats, Wiccans attune themselves with the natural rhythms of the earth and actively participate in the turning of the wheel.

The sabbats include:

Samhain (October 31): Considered by many to be the “witch’s new year,” this Celtic fire festival has historic ties to Halloween. Samhain is primarily dedicated to the dead. During this time of year, the otherworld is close at hand, and Wiccans can easily connect with their loved ones who have passed on. Wiccans might celebrate Samhain by building an ancestor altar or holding a feast with an extra plate for the dead. Samhain is the third of the three Wiccan harvest festivals, and it is a joyous occasion despite its association with death. (By the way, this sabbat’s name is pronounced “SOW-en,” not “Sam-HANE” as it appears in many movies and TV shows.)

Yule/Winter Solstice (December 21): Yule is a celebration of the return of light and life on the longest night of the year. Many Wiccans recognize Yule as the symbolic rebirth of the God, heralding the new plant and animal life soon to follow. Yule celebrations are based on Germanic traditions and have a lot in common with modern Christmas celebrations. Wiccans might celebrate Yule by decorating a Yule tree, lighting lots of candles or a Yule log, or exchanging gifts.

Imbolc (February 1): This sabbat, based on an Irish festival, is a celebration of the first stirrings of life beneath the blanket of winter. The spark of light that returned to the world at Yule is beginning to grow. Imcolc is a fire festival, and is often celebrated with the lighting of candles and lanterns. Wiccans may also perform ritual cleansings at this time of year, as purification is another theme of this festival.

Ostara/Spring Equinox (March 21): Ostara is a joyful celebration of the new life of spring, with ties to the Christian celebration of Easter. Plants are beginning to bloom, baby animals are being born, and the God is growing in power. Wiccans might celebrate Ostara by dying eggs or decorating their homes and altars with fresh flowers. In some covens, Ostara celebrations have a special focus on children, and so may be less solemn than other sabbats.

Beltane (May 1): Beltane is a fertility festival, pure and simple. Many Wiccans celebrate the sexual union of the God and Goddess, and the resulting abundance, at this sabbat. This is also one of the Celtic fire festivals, and is often celebrated with bonfires if the weather permits. The fae are said to be especially active at Beltane. Wiccans might celebrate Beltane by making and dancing around a Maypole, honoring the fae, or celebrating a night of R-rated fun with friends and lovers.

Litha/Midsummer/Summer Solstice (June 21): At the Summer Solstice, the God is at the height of his power and the Goddess is said to be pregnant with the harvest. Like Beltane, Midsummer is sometimes celebrated with bonfires and is said to be a time when the fae are especially active. Many Wiccans celebrate Litha as a solar festival, with a special focus on the God as the Sun.

Lughnasadh/Lammas (August 1): Lughnasadh (pronounced “loo-NAW-suh”) is an Irish harvest festival, named after the god Lugh. In Wicca, Lughnasadh/Lammas is a time to give thanks for the bounty of the earth. Lammas comes from “loaf mass,” and hints at this festival’s association with grain and bread. Wiccans might celebrate Lughnasadh by baking bread or by playing games or competitive sports (activities associated with Lugh).

Mabon/Fall Equinox (September 21): Mabon is the second Wiccan harvest festival, sometimes called “Wiccan Thanksgiving,” which should give you a good idea of what Mabon celebrations look like. This is a celebration of the abundance of the harvest, but tinged with the knowledge that winter is coming. Some Wiccans honor the symbolic death of the God at Mabon (others believe this takes place at Samhain or Lughnasadh). Wiccan Mabon celebrations often include a lot of food, and have a focus on giving thanks for the previous year.

Aside from the sabbats, some Wiccans also celebrate esbats, rituals honoring the full moons. Wiccan authors Janet and Stewart Farrar wrote that, while sabbats are public festivals to be celebrated with the coven, esbats are more private and personal. Because of this, esbat celebrations are typically solitary and vary a lot from one Wiccan to the next.

Further Reading

If you want to investigate Wicca further, there are a few books I recommend depending on which approach to Wicca you feel most drawn to. No matter which approach you are most attracted to, I recommend starting with Wicca For Beginners by Thea Sabin. This is an excellent introduction to Wiccan theology and practice, whether you want to practice alone or with a coven.

If you are interested in Traditional Wicca, I recommend checking out A Witches’ Bible by Janet and Stewart Farrar after you finish Sabin’s book. Full disclosure: I have a lot of issues with this book. Parts of it were written as far back as the 1970s, and it really hasn’t aged well in terms of politics or social issues. However, it is the most detailed guide to Traditional Wicca I have found, so I recommend it for that reason. Afterwards, I recommend reading Casting a Queer Circle by Thista Minai, which presents a system similar to Traditional Wicca with less emphasis on binary gender. After you learn the basics from the Farrars, Minai’s book can help you figure out how to adjust the Traditional Wiccan system to work for you.

If you are interested in Eclectic Wicca, I recommend Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner and Living Wicca by Scott Cunningham. Cunningham is the author who popularized Eclectic Wicca, and his work remains some of the best on the subject. Wicca is an introduction to solitary Eclectic Wicca, while Living Wicca is a guide for creating your own personalized Wiccan practice.

Resources:

Wicca For Beginners by Thea Sabin

Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham

Living Wicca by Scott Cunningham

A Witches’ Bible by Janet and Stewart Farrar

The Study of Witchcraft by Deborah Lipp

[hafanforever]

Princess Protection Program

Throughout the two main Frozen films, part of Elsa and Anna’s bond of love is shown with how they desperate they become to protect one another. However, the ways that they protect each other are true polar opposites.

In Frozen, Elsa thinks that to protect Anna, as well as everyone else, she must stay as far away as possible, without any sort of physical contact made between them, especially by Elsa first. But in Frozen II, Anna thinks that to protect Elsa, she must stay by Elsa all the time and never let Elsa out of her sight, while also making as much physical contact with her as possible, even if Anna is always the one to make the first move.

In Frozen, young Elsa demonstrates her way of protection after she accidentally strikes Anna and nearly kills her. Following this, Elsa becomes crippled with fear over the instability of her powers, believing that they are only dangerous and harmful. So she consequently chooses isolation from everyone she loves, including Anna, presuming that being completely isolated would protect them from any further harm her magic could do. As she spends 13 years trying to control her magic with little success, Elsa refuses to have any sort of contact with Anna, especially physical contact, since she fears that she might accidentally harm or kill Anna if another disastrous event occurred.

Once her coronation day arrives, Elsa is not only determined to suppress her powers to protect Anna, but also her people in hoping that they won’t discover she has been keeping such a big secret. After they are accidentally revealed following an argument with Anna, the first thing Elsa does is run away, and she keeps on running once more Arendellians discover her secret.

Although this is an excellent example of showing how running from problems don’t always, if ever, work, Elsa feels she has no other choice. She is unique for having these ice and snow powers, but she doesn’t know anyone else who has them, has answers about them, or can teach her to control them.

Therefore, Elsa doesn’t know any other way to solve her problem except to entirely remove herself from society and live all alone.

When Anna discovers Elsa at her new ice palace, the sisters are briefly happy to see each other. But Elsa rebuffs Anna’s suggestion at mending their bond, saying it is because she is only trying to protect Anna and tells her to stay away for her own safety. Upon Anna saying that Arendelle has become trapped in an eternal winter, Elsa panics and accidentally strikes Anna in the chest. Realizing that she has harmed Anna again, Elsa continues to insist that Anna leave, and when Anna refuses to go without her sister, Elsa resorts to creating Marshmallow in order to forcefully throw Anna out.

Then when Hans captures Elsa at her palace and brings her back to Arendelle, she insists that she must be set free since she is a danger to the kingdom, though she in unable to remove the winter. Not knowing that Hans plans to frame her for treason upon learning that Anna is dying from her frozen heart, Elsa breaks out of the dungeon and tries to flee back to the mountain. She ends up getting caught in the whiteout caused by her increasing fear, and when Hans appears and tells her that she can’t keep running away, Elsa only pleads with him to take care of Anna.

In Frozen II, Elsa still occasionally tries to protect Anna, but this time, Anna is the one with a goal to protect her sister. This is first displayed when Elsa makes up her mind to find the voice calling her by going to the Enchanted Forest. When Anna objects to Elsa going alone, Elsa initially refuses to let Anna come, saying that her powers can protect her, but Anna does not have that advantage. Before they depart, Pabbie tells Anna that he fears Elsa’s powers may not be enough to help her, and Anna vows not to let any harm come to Elsa.

From that point on, Anna remains determined never to let Elsa out of her sight, showing that she feels that she must remain by Elsa’s side at all times in order to protect her. When the group finally reaches the entrance of the Forest and the mist covering it, the sisters take hands and Anna makes Elsa promise that they do their journey together. During another attempt to propose to Anna, Kristoff stumbles over his words, including saying “In case we die...” This causes Anna to panic, and she hurries to find Elsa, saying out loud that she promised she wouldn’t leave her sister’s side. Once she finds Elsa, Anna rushes to her, asking if she’s all right. Soon afterwards, the group is swept up in Gale’s tornado, then she keeps Elsa in her vortex while she drops the rest. Anna shouts to Gale to release Elsa, and then she again makes sure her sister is all right after Elsa stops Gale and makes the ice sculptures.

Shortly after meeting the Northuldra tribe, and Lieutenant Mattias and his soldiers, Bruni appears and sets the Forest ablaze. Elsa rushes to put it out, and Anna follows her, endangering her own life when she starts inhaling and choking on the flames. When Kristoff is riding Sven and calls out Anna’s name upon seeing her in danger, Elsa hears him and sees where her sister is. So she puts out enough flames to create a clear path for Kristoff and Sven. The duo immediately race over and Kristoff pulls Anna up into his arms, then Elsa calls out to him “Get her out of here!”, after which Anna objects and calls back to her sister. (Now this moment shows me that Elsa very much trusts Kristoff to protect Anna and get her to safety whenever she (Elsa) is unable to do it herself.) After Elsa settles and befriends Bruni, she reunites with Anna, and they briefly chastise each other for putting the other person at risk and not being careful.

Later, as the sisters and Olaf continue north, they discover the remains of their parents’ wrecked ship and that they were on their Ahtohallan when they died. In the following scene, the girls’ different ways of protecting each other comes into play. While both realize that Ahtohallan is the next stop on their journey since it holds all the answers about the past (as Iduna told them years ago and sang from “All Is Found”), Anna says that they go to Ahtohallan together...but Elsa disagrees.

Like I said in “Split Decision”, Elsa decides that she must go to Ahtohallan alone, and that Anna cannot come with her because of the risks that would come with both of them crossing the Dark Sea. Anna objects to this, pleading with Elsa to remember their promise to do it together, particularly because of the “All Is Found” lyrics warning that one will drown by going too far into Ahtohallan, and that she wants to make sure Elsa won’t meet that fate. Though they tell each other that they can’t bear to lose one another, and Elsa understands why Anna wants to come, she refuses to change her mind since Anna would be more at risk trying to cross the sea (which, again, alludes to her earlier line that Anna does not have powers to help/protect her). So much like when she created Marshmallow to throw Anna out of the ice palace and stay away from her (Elsa) for her own safety, Elsa again resorts to forcing Anna away to safety by putting her (and Olaf) inside an ice boat creation and making a path on which the boat can slide.

The difference between these moments, though, is that Elsa does not do this out of believing that her powers make her a danger to Anna, but because she fears that Anna would have a greater chance of dying while trying to pass through the Dark Sea. And Elsa is proven right when she herself gets knocked down by the waves, struggles to swim in the rough, choppy waters, and uses her powers to overcome other obstacles. When the Nokk appears, things get more complicated for Elsa when it attempts to drown her, which forces her to use her magic to fight back until it finally calms down.

As I said in the aforementioned analysis, Elsa facing the Nokk while crossing the sea proves that she was correct about why she and Anna could not go together, and what she said before about her powers being able to protect her while the same could not be said for Anna. Elsa would not have been able to take care of herself by working to get past the big waves and fighting the Nokk if she had to do it with Anna, too. Because Anna lacks powers of her own, successfully crossing the Dark Sea and taking on the Nokk at the same time is not something she would have been able to do at all.

Now Elsa and Anna’s methods of protecting each other differs primarily, of course, because Elsa is magical, so it makes the most logical sense for her to protect others by isolating herself from them. Pushing that aside, it is also due to the fact that the two sisters have opposite personalities; therefore, they have opposite ways of displaying protection towards other people.

Like I’ve said before, Elsa is an introvert. She is reserved, closed in, and reluctant to talk about her feelings. She is somewhat antisocial and prefers having more of her own personal space. She is sometimes uncomfortable having intimate physical contact with people unless it is people she loves and to whom she is very close. As an introvert, Elsa is also very independent and individualistic. When she makes up her mind to go to the Forest, find the voice, and restore Arendelle, she wants to do it on her own, not merely because she doesn’t think anyone can help her, but because she wants to achieve what she needs to do and not let anything distract, hinder, or prevent her from doing so. She does not want to worry about being responsible for others in case any danger could occur. This would explain why she initially refuses to let Anna come along, with the argument that Anna doesn’t have her own powers for protection. It’s not that Elsa simply wants Anna to stay behind where they both know it is safe, but she doesn’t yet know what dangers she will have to face. So she did not want Anna tagging along since Anna could cause distractions or slow her (Elsa) down if she got in any danger since Elsa would have to protect her.

On the other hand, Anna is an extrovert. She is very open, expressive, and does not hide her feelings or anything else about herself. She is very gregarious, social, and thrives being in the company of other people. She loves to talk and befriend people, and never hesitates to make physical contact with them, particularly hugs. As an extrovert, Anna also actively depends on people and seeks to help them with their problems. When she makes up her mind to come with Elsa to the Forest, she wants to help because she doesn’t think Elsa should try or will be able to do everything entirely on her own. She doesn’t care, or at least is not afraid, about what dangers the trek will bring because she has proven what kinds she has faced without any magic of her own. While Elsa thinks that Anna coming along would distract her or slow her down from accomplishing her mission, Anna instead thinks that she could help accomplish the mission a lot faster than if Elsa went alone, not to mention they should go together to protect each other from any danger.

Essentially, the way Elsa and Anna protect each other is just how they would want to be protected themselves based on their personality types. Elsa likes to have her own space, so she protects her sister by giving Anna enough space where she can be safe, away from her (Elsa). But Anna likes to be in the presence of people, so she protects Elsa by staying with her as much as possible so she can personally make sure she is with her if danger strikes.

In the end, both girls learn important lessons about how they protect each other and their own personal limits. Although she likes to be independent, Elsa accepts that she can’t do everything on her own, that she does sometimes need help, specifically from Anna. Likewise, although Anna still wants to help people, she accepts that she always can’t always do so by being by their sides, that she needs to give people their space and boundaries, specifically Elsa. They both realize how much they need each other, even if they can’t be together all the time.

Despite being apart for the last part of their journey, Elsa and Anna still resolved the conflict between Arendelle and the Northuldra together, just as Elsa promised they would. 😉😊❤️

[toukenramblings]

i had a thought... what about tsurumaru, a tachi with a long history of masters, after intending to rest forever, with the immortal saniwa, who's seen more death than a regular human should? or maybe nikkari, a "cursed" sword, with a similar cursed saniwa? maybe oodenta, a divine sword, said to cure any illness, whose spiritual power was so strong animals would stay away from him? there are so many possibilities! you can pick any one of these three or write all of them if you want! tysm!

~~

Been a hot minute since I’ve wrote for Oodenta so HERE WE GO: Immortal!Saniwa idea taken from here~! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE LOVE~! I also will happily write more for the Immortal!Saniwa for Tsuru and Nikkari if you like~! Shoot me an ask! PLatonic? Romantic? Who knows man, I just wrote and here I am.

Note: I have this lil headcanon that because the Immortal!Saniwa is a cursed being, the more divine swords (Tenka Gouken, Ishikirimaru, and Taroutachi to name a few) and their touch will hurt the master. I cannot help but think even the mere act of touching them will cause the divine sword to either be repulsed or the master to begin to fucking burn. So yeah.

FEAR ME (NOT)

“Do you fear me?”

No.

Oodenta never did.

How could he? The master was an immortal, yes, but they are still…human. So fragile, able to bleed as a mortal would. He is a sword, a warrior, a divine blade meant to ward off illnesses and dispel diseases. By all of the stars in the sky, he is their polar opposite.

They, a cursed being – a monster who has lived for far too long, a cursed being, burdened with watching the seasons pass and flowers and lives wilt; beloved ones taken away by the snow and buried under the earth for eternity. Yet their heart remains aloft, full of life, the blossom waiting to spring forth again. It never died, no matter how many boots it was trampled under, no matter how many winters had threatened to freeze it solid.

It’s survived to this day, a persisting flower growing through the stone boulders that it was thrust against; overcoming them, outliving them.

But what is he?

A divine blade, a warrior meant to kill. His heart pitch black from the curses he had absorbed, spiritual power oh so intense that the fauna fear him for good reason. Is he not the antithesis to them? To the master who is cursed from the beginning?

“No.” he answers the master, slightly turning his head to face them – their face illuminated by the yellow of sunflowers, and of the golden sun itself.

“Do you not fear me?”

Does it not hurt to be around him? A blade full of purity, a cursed master, shouldn’t he burn them? Their skin curled into blackness and dead cells.

A hand finds his, and the man flinches from the touch, startled. He stares down at the offending limb and the scent of slightly burnt flesh hits his nose. There is a hiss from the master – dark and light colliding, clashing. “Master pl-“ “I do not fear you.” They speak through the pain, their hand squeezing his tighter. He feels nothing but they do.

They always have.

[wifeofkimtaehyungofbts]

Chapter 11

>> Pairing: Taehyung x Y/N, Taehyung x reader

>> Words: 2,379

>> Notes: I’m going to upload a new chapter whenever possible. Please bear with my hectic schedule! You may leave asks and let me know what you think of my writing (:

Synopsis: You run into a rather strange man one night. He seems terrified, as if fighting battles only he can see. He seems detached from the world, talking only to a voice inside his head. Oh, another strange fact: he keeps talking about angels. You discover later that you were the angel he was praying to.

>> Previous / Next

**

“Hey"

I jolted at the sudden voice echoing against the walls of the eerily quiet changing room of the McDonald’s.

Jungkook was leaning against the door. His apron was thrown over his shoulder and he cocked his head at me.

“Wanna go out tonight?”

“Huh?” I wasn’t quite sure I heard him right. Jeon Jungkook. The guy that hardly ever talks to anyone. The handsome guy who shies away from girls at the cashier trying to get his number. The guy who leaves work without sparing a second for an after-work chat with his colleagues. Wants to go out with me?

I continued to stare at him in shock. Instead of breaking the awkward silence between us, he stared back at me. His dark chocolate brown eyes looked deep. Not in the romantic sense. It almost seemed like there was an entirely different person behind them. If the person differed from the one who stood before me in a good way or a bad way, I couldn’t tell. But what I could tell was that if I didn’t reply fast, we'd be staring into each other for all of eternity.

“Don’t you have work?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “You are supposed to fill me in tonight because Felix had an emergency at his house and couldn’t make it”

“I got someone else to cover for me" he shrugged.

I wanted to know more but I figured it didn’t really matter as long as my shift was covered and he didn’t get into trouble either.

“Gimme a minute. I need to wash my face” I said turning my back on him.

As I busied myself removing my hair tie and gathering my hair in a bun, I felt someone lightly brush against my back.  I wanted to turn but it felt too cold.

“You look beautiful Y/N" Jungkook whispers, his warm breath blowing the hair at the top of my head.

In reflexive panic, I grabbed my bag pack and dashed to the girl’s bathroom. I couldn’t calm my racing heart as I tried to shake off the eerie coldness I felt a few seconds ago.

Why did Jungkook come onto me so suddenly? And what’s with the compliment? I mean sure, thank you but it felt so off. He didn’t sound sweet or shy when he said it. He sounded stern, like he was stating a matter of fact I better believe else.... else?

Else what, Y/N? He was going to kill you??

I slapped myself for overthinking and washed my face before hurrying to the front. My colleagues were busy with customers so I couldn’t wave them goodbye. I stepped outside to the chilly air, spotting Jungkook standing by the road. I walked up to him and smiled warmly.

He looked down at me and smiled back. “Do you like pizza?”

“Who doesn’t!” I giggled, already drooling at the mere idea of pizza.

He laughed as we started walking towards the Arthur’s Pizzeria around the corner.

**

We were seated by the window across from each other. The table was too big for just us two, but we were glad no one else attempted to sit with us. It was fine, just the two of us.

We ordered our pizzas and spoke about ourselves as we waited for the food.

I found out Jungkook is from Busan and he was studying music at the campus. He was in fact a top graduate from Busan Arts School along with some guy whose name Jungkook doesn’t remember. He likes to play video games and tries new activities every weekend. Last week he had attempted fishing with a friend of his and they ended up catching no fish but a cold so bad, Jungkook requested for an extension on his vocal exam. Oh, and he hates reading.

I told him about the time I submitted the wrong thesis paper for my semester end assignment and had to retake the whole module all over again in the next semester. He asked my favourite colour, movie and book. He judged me for being a book worm and laughed when I pouted at him in annoyance.

Our food arrived soon and we didn’t talk as we devoured the delicious, thin, saucy pizza. I caught him watching me from the corner of my eye but I made no attempt to eat decently. It’s not like I want to impress him or anything anyways.

Three girls seated at the table next to us wooow’ed at the sight of Jungkook. They turned their attention to me and stared on with disgust.

“What’s someone like him doing with someone like her?”

“God knows! See this is why we never get to experience anything good. Because the good guys are always after someone so random”

“It must be true love if he actually chose someone like her. I mean, look at her hair!”

I could even hear their eye rolls as loud as I heard their words. It pricked and I found myself slowing my eating. I suddenly couldn’t chew anymore. I felt restrained. Like someone had put handcuffs and a leash on me and I had to strain against them to take a bite of my pizza.

Growing up, I haven’t had the most stable family. My fatherless life had involved trying to work odd jobs since I was 13 and missing out mile stones other girls got to experience during their teen years. My first kiss wasn’t under a starry night with my first love, it was rushed and filled with greed at the car park of the local book store. And he cheated on me a week later with the girl who sat next to me at chemistry. The man I first shared a bed with was not looking for a long-term relationship and left me when he found a full time, high wage job at his uncle’s company in New York. My mother was crippling, losing a bit of herself every passing day until one day she came down the stairs to have her tea and I couldn’t even recognize her anymore. My sisters were still too young to understand life and I didn’t want them to see the world as I saw it. I wanted them to have a happy childhood and experience life as any growing child should. They were sent away to my uncle’s and although they were more than willing to also let me stay, I needed away. I left my mother as she screamed indecent words at me one night and took the subway train that led me here. The letter of acceptance from the university was the only good thing that has ever happened to me. I soon became best friends with my room mate who is the polar opposite of me but somehow, we spoke to the same stars and saw life in the same light. My life has always been rushed, difficult to comprehend and there was no easy way through. Having to hear the body that pulled me through those sleepless nights of putting my scared sisters to sleep and locking their doors so my alcoholic mother couldn’t hurt them with her drunk violence, the same body that has cried itself to sleep after carrying stack after stack of recycle paper up 7 flight of stairs for very little pay and a terrible neck and back ache, the same body that is still living and breathing and pushing through, is not good enough, is less, is devastating. It makes me want to cry.

I didn’t ask for such a difficult life. Additionally, my face is the only remainder of who my mom used to be; I am the spitting image of her. The her that was over flowing with positivity and had a heart of gold. The her that lovingly brought my sisters and I into this world and took us cycling and cooked our favourite pasta for our birthdays. To think this face, this remainder of what she looked like, who she was, is less makes my heart crinkle around the edges and burn in the deepest pits of its centre.

“All good?”

I look up to see Jungkook looking at me worriedly.

“Oh yes! I just.... should stop eating else I’ll throw up" I laughed awkwardly.

Jungkook continued to munch on his pizza as he stared at me. He was trying to read the worry in my eyes, the sad drop of the corners of my lips. I couldn’t hide my emotions on my face even if the world depended on it, so I wouldn’t be surprised if any minute now Jungkook presses me for answers and stories. Stories I’d rather keep hidden like I have all this time.

“Okay" Jungkook hums as he takes another slice of pizza. I look at him, grateful he dropped the subject. I watched on as he ate. He didn’t once lift his eyes to mine. He busied himself finishing up his own pizza and the remainder of mine. I wasn’t shocked he ate so much given the fact that he was full of muscle and stamina.

I looked out the window at the busy street. People walked by, carrying the weight of their lives on their shoulders. The lights from cars and street lights looked like stars on Earth from where I was seated. I felt a sudden sense of closure knowing I could disappear into the night, walk mindlessly around these people and no one would know who I am. I’d have no one to explain or compare myself to. Nobody would know what’s going on inside my head. Frankly, nobody would care enough to know. And it felt nice. To not be alive and surviving. I wanted to be light, float over the Earth and find my purpose at my own pace without trying to catch up with the rest of the world only to fall short of breath and lost.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, but I’ll listen if you share” Jungkook wipes the corner of his mouth with a tissue. He has cleaned the trays of pizza without leaving behind even a trace of any food being there. I smiled kindly at his words.

“Thank you Jungkook. But I’m not thinking about anything that needs concerning attention”

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes and I know he noticed it. He pays the bill entirely despite me fussing about wanting to split the bill. We make our way back to my house, the breeze a little colder and stronger than yesterday, reminding us of the oncoming winter.

**

I pace the living room painfully slow, waiting.

Waiting for her to come back home.

Daffodil.

I have been practising what I wanted to say as I give her the present over and over again in my head. I had wrapped it neatly in a brown paper bag and tied with an orange ribbon I found on her study table. The wrapping was not at all attractive, but it was neat and I hoped she would see the value of the gift that’s wrapped rather than the wrapping itself.

I look at the time. 09.19pm.

She was supposed to be back a long time ago. I heard her making arrangements yesterday to leave early from work today. I had cleaned the entire house; sweeping the wooden floor boards, removing cobwebs and brushing off the dust that had collected on top of the cupboards and TV.

I did not have a phone on me and even if I did, its not like I had her number anyway. I sighed loudly and slumped on the cold floor. My eyes kept fluttering, threatening to close for hours. My shoulders felt heavy and I couldn’t pull myself up off the floor. I rested my head on the floor and allowed my eyes to close. The coldness from the floor piercing my right cheek was the last thing I was aware of before I drifted off to a sleep full of nightmares.

**

I saw it again.

The playground.

The swing.

The boy.

I was playing in the park around the corner from school. I had sand in my old, torn shoes and my school tie was hanging loosely around my neck. My hair was a mess and sweat dripped off the ends of my bangs. I was having too much fun running around to stop. I sat at one of the swings and turned to face the boy seated in the other.

“Hey!” I waved brightly.

He did not respond, his head bent low and slowly swinging. He had dark brown hair and a piercing in his left ear. I could not see his face because it was surprisingly too dark on the side of the swing he was on. It was almost as if a dark cloud was looming over him, night fallen on the side of the Earth he was on.

I turned away and focused on swinging as high up as I can. However, my merry only lasted for a short while because I had swung a little too high and as I swung back, I was thrown off the seat and face first onto the dirty sand. I got up spitting sand out of my mouth. Any average person would have shrieked in disgust and run straight home for a good shower at what just happened. But I just laughed, almost choking on my spit as I attempted to spit sand out of my mouth.

“Pathetic”

The boy suddenly spoke. His voice was soft, melodic and had a boyish charm to it.

He’d make a great singer if he could sing, I thought to myself.

I turned to look at him, mirth sparkling in my eyes.

“Ha! So you can speak! I thought-” I began but had to stop at the sight before me.

My eyes grew wide in terror as the boy lifted his head to reveal a face with no features except for a gaping hole where his mouth should be. A dark liquid oozed out of his ears, supposed-mouth and where his eyes should’ve been.

My breath caught in my throat as I tried to scream again and again, but no sounds came out.

**

Tag list: @tae-n-u​

[kellerybird]

I wish I could be a sunset. The whole world dyed orange with pink and purple clouds and the comforting knowledge that night is coming.

I wish I could be the night sky. Countless glimmering stars and the hypnotic splash of northern light colors weaving through them. The stillness and silence and the peace the night can bring.

I wish I could be the dawn. A cotton candy sky, soft pink clouds against an expanse of pale blue, slowly getting more vivid as the planet wakes up. The chill in the air as the sun slowly crawls back into view.

I wish I could be a sunny afternoon in late spring. A gentle breeze rustling tree leaves while flowers showed off their brightest colors after a long, dim winter. The sun beaming down on you while you nap outside, a kind of warmth no fabric can provide. Puffy white clouds inching across the sky.

I wish I could be a rainy Sunday morning. That calm haze covering everything and the odd lightness of the sun trying to shine through the clouds. The rhythmic sound of rain hitting the roof and the ground. The listlessness it can cause.

I wish I could be a snowy winter night. The stillness that comes only when everything has gone to sleep. The beauty of seeing snowflakes illuminated by a street or porch light, and the anticipation of seeing a white, fragile, elegant world the next morning.

I wish I could be a tiny village somewhere in the countryside. Quaint little buildings and winding tree-lined streets. A sense of community, of belonging. Abundant nature among people going about their daily lives. Rolling hills in muted colors filling the distance.

I wish I could be a forest. Endless trees and plants and animals. The uncertainty of what lies just ahead. The excitement that something magical could happen if you wander far enough.

I wish I could be a lightning storm. Fierce and powerful and terrifying. A dark and imposing cloud formation. A brilliant, beautiful flash of lightning, sharp in contrast to hazy city lights.

I wish I could be a tropical beach. Crystal clear waters, sunny skies, fine grain sand. The soothing sound of small waves crashing into the sand and the more distant, but stronger, waves crashing into the rockier shores some ways away.

I wish I could be a mountain range. Tall and majestic with snow capped peaks and a grand valley below. Huge expanses of green forests spreading as far as the eye could see, bleeding down into a massive lake and the rivers that fed it.

I wish I could be a polar icecap. A frozen wasteland inhabited by few, but majestic, creatures. Bare, but beautiful. Severe, yet serene.  Simple, but at the same time so complex.

I wish I could be the middle of the ocean. Vast and seemingly endless. The only life being the occasional boat carrying deep sea fishermen and the creatures they try to catch. A whale breaching the surface, it’s tail vanishing into the blue void below.

I wish I could be a marsh at dawn. Eerie and foggy as the sun starts rising. Plants sticking out of the still waters and the mist weaving between them. The chill in the air as a cold wind stirs the fog and the fleeting thought that something might happen if you stay too long.

I wish I could be a cemetery. Gloomy and dark, just after the rain passed. The soggy ground and water stained gravestones with moss and lichens peppering the surface. A single flower, placed in front of a grave and more flowers of the same kind in front of another. The two graves are for unrelated people. The single flower perhaps meaning “I don’t know who you are or when you were last visited, but I hope you too are resting well”.

I wish I could be a large window. Left wide open in the summertime to let the breeze and any passing bugs that happened to fly the wrong way inside. Floral print curtains flutter in the wind, and the sunlight seeps in, lighting up the room.

I wish I could be an old castle. Elegant, untouchable, eternal. Set into a mountainside, far from others. Once an escape from the rest of the world, now a reminder of the power and majesty there once was.

I wish I could be all these things. Because then someone would photograph me. And people would see me and think “how beautiful”, “how amazing this planet is”.

[redteabaron]

bran stark - shield that guards the realms of men (king of the gods, bringer of summer)

I ended up posting some things separately without editing them because, well, I’m bad at planning things and didn’t think I’d actually sit down and type all this out or work out in a somewhat coherent manner. These are just theories that I’ve had regarding the books and where they may end up and I’ve just jotted them down. I see, as the fandom sees, a lot of inspiration in asoiaf in Norse and Greek mythology, so it’s kind of fun to hold it up to the light and pick out what picture is on the other side. 

In a previous meta, I said I believe that Bran’s ending will be with him as a king, but I don’t believe it will necessarily be to the same throne we saw in the show. 

I think one way to interpret Bran’s journey might be one of an ascension to godhood - he’s going to be the deciding factor in this eternal conflict between R’hllor and the Great Other. Yet while I think magic is definitely going to be balanced, I don’t think it’s going to go away or die - but fire dragons and the Others are definitely what are causing this cosmic unbalance so they can’t just stay. I don’t believe we’re seeing magic itself being the cause, but manmade magic created for the purpose of destruction (and whatever the Children of the Forest did to create the Others since I doubt the showrunners of GOT were able to come up with that on their own) is what this imbalance is really about (coming full circle to grrm comparing the dragons to nukes and writing a series that shows us that war is hell and there are no good wars). 

The Great Other (probably the original Child of the Forest who came up with the Others, maybe still rules over them) and R’hllor are likely similar; a mortal, or someone who once walked the earth and became a god - maybe the Great Other/the COTF who became the Great Other is a god for the Others/their progenitor. Perhaps R’hllor is the polar opposite - maybe the original creator of fire breathing dragons.  Yet if both are ended, done away with - is that balance? Is eliminating fire (R’hllor) and ice (The Great Other) completely balanced? I’m personally not so sure; balance doesn’t just mean doing away with something imbalanced wholesale. It means compromise. (Bringing an end to the Others and fire dragons, their “nukes” sounds like it could be a way to find that balance though)

Anyway. They represent antithetical beings apparently warring over the world. R’hllor is presented as the god of light, fire, and life - all things associated with passion. The Great Other is ice, death, dispassion. Either way the gods present a great imbalance if one ‘rules’ over the realms of men. Bran, imo, could be being set up as the one who not only ushers in spring, or brings balance to the world, but must continue to do so in a way that doesn’t necessarily allow him to intervene in mortal affairs. (It could also account for the way Bran ended in the show, being a king yet removed from the process; I’ll explain down lower)

Bran is going to be a king - king of the gods, maybe, but certainly the king of summer, and the protector of the realm (of mankind). 

Parallels to Baldr: that rambling mess of a meta I mentioned previously takes this apart more, but the gist is: Baldr is a beloved god of the court, representing spring and renewal. His death brings about the cataclysmic downfall of the gods and the war (Bran’s ‘death’, similarly topples Westeros, is a beloved child, indirectly ushers in the beginning of the end of the current status quo). Yet he returns and brings with him life, renewal, change. 

To: Apollo

Apollo is the Greek god of light, truth and prophecy, healing, and knowledge. He, like Baldr, is seen as a beautiful god and the opposite of evil; actually seen as a protector from shadow and evil things. He is mostly recognized as an oracle god. 

Bran has some pretty obvious traits in common with Apollo. He’s going to be the one to figure out the truth behind the Others, the Great Other, R’hllor, Azor Ahai, the Wall, Bloodraven, etc - all these mystical, magical pieces of the world. If he is the Keeper of History, then this is likely part of his journey to (godhood) being a king. He has to be the one to remember on behalf of mankind because the Great Other and R’hllor do not care about balance; Bran will have to be the one who does. His character arc is about healing (of himself, realizing he is whole no matter what had happened to him and coming to terms with himself which will in turn set him free) and finding out the truth of magic, gods, and balance, history of mankind.  

Where Bloodraven, I believe, is playing the part of Loki masquerading in the disguise of an Odin-like figure (or at the very least sharing some of Odin’s traits and past), Bran is being developed not just as Baldr, a beloved god who represents renewal and resurrection, or Apollo, the god of prophecy and knowledge as well as the protector of mortals, but also of Heimdallr. 

Heimdallr is, as with Baldr and Apollo, a well liked god. He’s the Norse god of clairvoyance, having keen eyesight and hearing, and is considered a guardian of the realms and is associated with boundaries. He’s the owner of Gjallarhorn, a magical horn, which can be heard all across the Nine Realms. When Heimdallr blows this horn in warning, Ragnarok begins. In asoiaf, there’s a horn once owned by a King-Beyond-The-Wall, Horn of Joramun, that the free folk believe has the ability to bring down the Wall. 

“The Horn of Joramun? No. Call it the Horn of Darkness. If the Wall falls, night falls as well, the long night that never ends. It must not happen, will not happen!” - Melisandre, Jon III ADWD

But with Jon Snow being built up as the one who sounds the alarm about the Others/the Long Night to everyone south, it could be that Jon Snow will act, in a way, as Bran’s Gjallarhorn. It would also tie into the twist that Jon’s battleground won’t be found in the north, but in the south (and so may his endgame) - he won’t technically be the shield that guards the realm of men (Bran will be); but he will act as the horn that wakes the sleepers (re: he will indirectly be Bran’s mouthpiece in spreading the warning about winter and the Long Night in the south). 

Bran’s journey has always included boundaries - not the boundaries that Sansa, Arya, and Jon must navigate; his transcends that. He’s not stripped of his humanity, but I think he will be stripped of his mortality (in a sense). His boundaries are tied directly into the otherworldly, whereas all the Starks may have a magical ability they are tied directly to their direwolves. Bran’s abilities aren’t; they include Summer, but he himself is in another category from the other Starks.

While Bran’s journey to becoming king (of the gods and protector of mankind, and the bringer of summer) makes him tied to Baldr, I think he does have an enormous part to play in what’s to come - it just won’t be regulated to mortal affairs. Bran’s powers of prophecy, greenseeing, and eventual knowledge under the tutelage of BR are slowly building him as a mythical figure, the origin of how a god may come to be, even if they aren’t literally a god. There’s a possibility he isn’t going to be given a mortal crown, because in the scope of what he is capable of, surpassing even BR, that seems like an anticlimactic ending that throws away all of what he can do. He might literally be the king, protector of the realm (of all of mankind, king of the gods). 

The show’s ending showing him as the king of the 6 kingdoms, in an elective monarchy (which is just such an awful idea) with that godawful small council should’ve at least shown him as a well-loved king, or an anticipated one, but he’s shown to be dispassionate about mortal affairs. It could be, that with these really general brushstrokes and bullet points given by grrm to the show, that Bran is indeed meant to be king (but because the showrunners thought Bran was boring and hated magic were only left with one choice to make him king of) but not the one who presides over mortals directly. Kingship has to be more than just about who has a good story, who is charismatic, who won a throne, etc (we are shown that time and time again) it has to include not desiring power for power’s sake, compromise, realizing the value of the lives you may preside over, etc. Bran is the only one who could/would be able to navigate a compromise between the “warring” factions of the Great Other and R’hllor, of magic’s place in the world, and the COTF. Maybe his show ending is less literal and more in spirit; he is the king (of the gods), he is the deciding factor of fire and ice (he must compromise and preside over the Great Other, R’hllor), he doesn’t (cannot) care about the 6/5 kingdoms (because he can’t intervene in mortal affairs as the Great Other and R’hllor have/will try to and he has to protect mankind from those that have become more/transcended). 

Most importantly, he won’t be Bran the Broken are you fucking kidding me

Bran wanted to be a knight, a protector like in his songs and stories, but gave up on it because of his disability. He will be a protector and he will have songs and stories (maybe as the king of the gods, bringer of Summer, protector of mankind). 

[knking]

Memory 3 :Brothers

This memory is special, this one is a written fic by the amazing TK. It was an art trade and they did an amazing job at it, I love this so much !

Please take a look :

The creaking of chains and clashing of swords no longer woke Ömen from his meager slumber. Now the cacophony seemed to him more like a distant whisper, white noise behind the cold stone cell in which he lay. Truthfully, he no longer slept either, the constant rush of life and death kept him from the rest he so desperately craved. There seemed to be no yesterday nor tomorrow. Sunlight seemed like a dream from ages forgotten, the pleasant green of foliage and fields was all but nonexistent. All that remained was that dreadful crimson of blood that stained his fur. He'd seen so many shades of red, from all different kinds of living creatures. Occasionally, he would see his own, for a brief period of time, that is before all would go dark and went light returned, all he saw was the blood of another. 

"Shaa…" he whispered under labored breath, after every finishing move, after every nightmare, after every tear

On another equally cold and dark cell, his lesser half sat in near-ethereal meditation. Though he saw not with his eyes, he saw through his brother's. And with every whisper of his, he'd always repeat:

"It's not your fault."

He saw through the shadows of his prison the toll which their sentence bore on his brother. He'd see him walk through the gallery as crowds hollered in excitement. He'd see the speckles of spit and sweat that dotted the arena as his brother performed his dance macabre of survival. He'd see the large puddles under the lesser opponents, and lastly, he'd see the puddles under his brother's cell after every fight, though this puddle was clear and crystalline.

He grew unsettled, however, the puddles had become smaller and smaller, the whispers fainter and less emotional. Shaa knew Ömen's rope was coming to an end, it was only a matter of time until all that remained of his other half was an animalistic and feral beast, devoid of emotion.

Another fight. This one was over before it even began. A small human, an undisciplined slave most likely. The sword he held was bigger than him. Ömen ended him swiftly, the stands hollered and begged for more. He must have lashed back at his captors, for once it all ended, they fastened the polar bear-like monster's restraints tighter. They shared in their pain, and once more Ömen wept in his cell.

"Shaa…"

"It's not your fault."

But beyond the arena's domed enclosure Shaa felt something different in the air. For what he lacked in vision and strength he more than made up for in sensorial dexterity. He could sense the telltale signs of unrest and chaos beyond: he saw the faint glimmer of embers and the acrid scent of another's tears. It was unlike the sweat of the fighters or the spit from the spectators. It seemed more visceral, more desperate, more real. Perhaps if the world beyond their walls crumbled around them, there was hope, but at best, this seemed like a farfetched proposition. He talked to his brother through their shared spiritual connection.

"I sense change in the air." He "whispered", in his monk-like voice.

"Shaa…" Ömen replied, distant as ever.

"There is a war, I believe."

"Shaa…"

"Have hope my brother, it's not your fault. When this is all over I promise you, thou shall never see a speck of blood again."

There was a pause this time, Ömen replied not to his brother. The silence that reigned in the metaphysical realm through which they communicated seemed louder to both than the most desperate of cries of a dying gladiator. The polar bear feared for the worst, perhaps it was already too late. If that were the case, then an eternity in this hole seemed all but certain.

But then, for the first time in what may very well have been weeks or months, the gladiator bear mustered a reply beyond uttering his brother's name:

"They will kill you."

"I have hope, brother."

"I don't."

"Please, I beg you Ömen. Stay determined."

The grumbles and protests of the crowd echoed through the halls and corridors as they dispersed, for what they assumed was the end of the fights for the day, nighttime surely. Strangely, the usual detachment of guards around their cells increased, and though all Ömen could do was scowl and growl at his most detested of enemies, Shaa sensed something within them. They spoke not, but their souls betrayed their bodies. They were uneasy, restless. It was as cold as a winter's night in their cells, but yet he felt a single bead of sweat trickle down from one of the human's foreheads. He was right.

There was a war.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Full moon, a nightcrawler's worst foe. A small white bundle of fur dashed from umbra to umbra, like a ghoul of the night, careful to minimize his time in the light. He was lead by the whispers of the plants around him, they'd tell him whether a spot was adequate or not without uttering a single word. Asgore knew the humans could not find him in such pitch black darkness, but they had dogs for that. He could not stop, even if he was breathless and exhausted. He still smelled the charred wood of the forest, his feet and hands were still blackened with soot. Yet he dashed from shadow to shadow, avoiding the faint light that peeked through the canopy above. The skin on his back ached incessantly, the herbs he'd been able to muster after a short respite were starting to wear off. He needed shelter.

Shelter… How could this word have crossed his mind? He knew not of such a thing. Perhaps the last time he'd heard that word was when his parents still possessed him. He could not remember when that was. Now that monsters and humans had ruptured their pact of mutual "cooperation", shelter seemed as unlikely as peace between the warring races. This distraction in thoughts bit at him, as he tripped on the roots of a pine tree and dove into the dirt, drenching what little remained of his burlap smock in mud.

As he raised his bruised snout up from the muck he caught sight of a light slithering between the labyrinth of trees of the woods around him. Trying to remember which was the "Song of the Bowing Tree" he whistled a faint tune and the two small saplings that obstructed his view bent out of his line of sight, revealing a large, seemingly empty oval brick structure just beyond a clearing in the woods. Sconces burned feverishly outside.

Burning…

Fire.

He shut his eyes closed in desperation, he winced at the aching in his back.

"Éteignez le feu… Éteignez le feu…" he whimpered. His supplication was answered by the distanting barking of a hound.

This would have to do, he had no choice. He bit down on his lips and dashed as fast as he could. He soon cleared the woods and was now under the full might of the moon's beams. If he was seen now, it was all but over. The main entrance was unguarded, but the sconces shone blindingly bright. 

He grew weak at the knees, he would trip once more. The end, so long. But he had to keep going, he had to! He felt a fire of his own within him, a burning that ached not, an invisible force that filled him with hope, strength. A will to live, determination. The bronze light cast by the burning revealed a figment of green within the nooks of a few loose bricks.

"Queues de lion!" He thought

Once more he shut his eyes. How did that tune go? What was the melody? He materialized a small panpipe between his small paws and with the last of his breath he whistled a few melancholic chords. "The song of the dancing vine".

The green figment, as if by supernatural force, crept and twisted toward the lights and violently snapped their supports. As they fell down to the muddy earth, their remnants of fuel sprayed harmless sparks around the archway. Asgore jumped through the fireworks before him and hurled into the darkness.

The entrance led to his left into a torch lit opening and to his right down into a catacomb, meekly lit by the azure hue of a tuft of veilleuses that outcropped from the roof. He heard no noise to his left, but once more the fire struck despair in the heart of the young monster, however, down in the catacombs, he heard voices. Coarse, unpleasant voices. He then remembered a trick he'd learned not too long ago. Standing at the tip of his small toes he plucked two blossoms of the whispering blue flower and, as silently as he could, tiptoed down the spiraling rock shaft.

He was quick to notice, however, that this "shelter" he'd found looked uncannily similar to the one they'd kept him in, once his parents had so generously handed him over to a human warlord.

He could not remember their faces.

He hoped he'd made the right choice coming here

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

"How ghastly are they? I heard 'bout their black eyes or whatever." The brute spoke in a raspy voice, his companion was just about as unsightly in appearance as he was.

"So I'm told, the bastards can rip a man in half before he even moves a muscle."

"So what? Our little meatball over here can do just as well in the arena. You see what he did to that slave of Vlad's?" He pointed to the hunched, catatonic bear. 

"Yeah, yeah, but these are worse. I heard they can do that, but like, forty times more intensely. They grow extra limbs and shit, fire in their hands, all sorts of ludicrous shit." The man adjusted his armor with unease, jingling of cold steel reverbing in the catacombs.   

"Yeah right, but we're still kickin' their asses right?"

“You betcha." he cackled.

The words passed through Ömen ear's like dull air, just another amalgam of sounds that meant naught for him. The last few strains of his conscious mind were now buried deep within his skull. He tried to move in the darkness, but it was a waking nightmare. Sluggish in his movement towards consciousness, crawling through a black sludge of affliction. His time was running out, "Ömen" would soon be nothing but a distant whisper in the wind, a name forsaken for a beast of war. While a battle for his soul raged in his spirit, his exterior was still that of detachment, he'd been tamed at last. The blood on his fur had dried out. Two more brutish men patrolled up and down the corridor in front of his, the creases on their brows were accentuated, their scowls were sterner. Word of battles and razings had reached them through the jesters in the stands.

"You think they've come this far already, Pavel?" The guard continued.

"Hell no! The closest monster is probably hundreds of thousands of yards away. Heh, not counting these two little teddies here with us."

"Hah, true! Even still, I'd rather be up there than down here. At least there I can see 'em coming and slice 'em and dice 'em. You'd think these rich fucks would at least give us some stuff to light this cold hell up…"  

The acoustics of the place were such that any word spoken through the maze of rock and steel could be heard throughout the complex, so when these words reached Shaa's own ears his runic tattoos glowed with ancient purpose. He was right after all, conflict engulfed the land, they could possibly muster an escape in the ensuing chaos. That glimmer of hope that shone in what remained of his furry runes gave him just the spark of energy enough to once more pan out their enclosure in his psyche. Had the humans been more diligent in their task of removing said runes, this task would have been all but impossible. He counted 32 men, all armed. Last time he'd checked it'd been 17... But there was something else, something small. He felt a heartbeat. It was intense, pure. It crept around the dark with innocent intent, like a lost fawn looking for her mother.

As unlikely as it might have been, this seemed like that spark of hope he'd held for so long; a dying ember locked inside a glass jar, rejuvenated. It was a monster, a young one. His soul was strong, it danced in the dark of metaphysical space with blinding white light: a wisp of juvenile power. A boss monster? 

"Ömen." He whispered through the ether.   

"Shaa…" a nearly whimperish reply came through. Ömen was but a hair away from being entirely lost.

"Someone is here, one of us."

"Shaa…"

"He's a boss monster, brother."

Once more, silence. In the gladiator-bear's mind, he made way through the sludge of affliction, he grasped his body and mind just enough to muster another coherent response :

"Can he free us?"

"Perhaps, he's small. Real small, but I think-"

Their ethereal exchange was abruptly shattered by a desperate howl from the bowels of the dark.

"HEEELP MEEE!!!" a desperate holler, high pitched. Like a child's. A monster child's.

"ALAAAARM!!!" One of the guards yelled.

"SOUND THE BELL!"

And in a desperate frenzy, the company of men dashed to the source of the sound, guards abandoning their posts by the cages. The ear-shattering ringing of a large church bell filled the air, such that the unsheathing of swords and clatter of sabatons dwarfed in comparison.

And as suddenly as it sparked, that ember of hope within Shaa waned. From a near blazing fire it died down to a mere atom of light. Their chance, it seems, was gone as unexpectedly as it'd made itself known.

Ömen lifted his pupils to observe the shadows of bronze and grey dash beyond the wrought iron bars that imprisoned him. The sludge engulfed him more, he became more distant from himself, he sank, sight became weaker... So much for "hope", whatever their little helper was, he or she'd been found. There would be nothing left of them to feed even the hounds… He was slipping away... So long, you little…

But suddenly from the dark, once all the men had all made their way down the darkest chambers of the catacombs, two small lights appeared in the corner of his eye. Amber and azure. He could not believe he still recalled what those colors looked like. The lights blinked, and he saw the reflection of his very own emerald pupils.

A slithering sound, like a venomous serpent, crept from under the ground, between the eroded boulders beneath him. It stopped short of him. A blue sprout blossomed with near-blinding blue light, and like a ghost, the flower whispered to him:

"Are you a friend?"

Those words woke him from a nightmare that seemed to have lasted for countless months. The black sludge receded, he regained sight and control, he was Ömen once more. Under normal circumstances he would have answered "fuck off" to such a playfully childish question, but he rose his eyes from the blossom, and from the delicate hue it set off, he saw just beyond the bars a small bundle of white fur behind the amber and azure eyes. A monster. A boss monster.

As if by instinct, he whispered back to the flower:

"Yes, I'm a friend… How did you do that?"

It quickly shut closed and burrowed itself back under the rocks, before returning to his progenitor. As it blossomed again, he could see the little thing's features a little better. Short hair, short horns, pale white skin, he could not be more than 7 years old, maybe less. Ömen saw him whisper something into it, and once more it burrowed and resurfaced before him.

"I'll tell you later. I think I can free you."

His heart shot ablaze with those words. A lust for vengeance boiled in his blood, his muscles swelled with purpose. The urge to obliterate all that surrounded him blistered in his mind, but his newfound purpose was sufficient, for the time being, to calm him down. Shaa had to be freed first. Ömen's cell was rigged with bells and whistles, if he broke out first, his other half was as good as dead. With that out of the way, nothing could possibly stop them. Freedom was all but certain. If his new little "friend" survived.

He explained this to his little saviour

"Do you know where he is?" The youngling asked through the whispering blossom

"No. But he's the only other monster in this catacomb. Everyone else is… Gone. You'll find him. His eyes can glow in the dark."

The child listened carefully, before replying with one last message:

"Cool!"

And with such an erudite reply, the flower receded one last time and the little goblin dashed through the dark, and as he did, another howl echoed, coming from the complete opposite direction he came from.

The ember flared up again, stronger than ever. Shaa eagerly awaited their new friend.

Ömen clenched his paws in anticipation.

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

Asgore raced through the cold hallways and corridors, searching frantically for the white bear with glow-in-the-dark eyes. His back still ached, his stamina ran short, but he had to help his new friends! The big bear told him he was so, none before had openly declared themselves as his friend. Once more, he wondered where he remembered that word from. No matter, no distractions he kept dashing. The deep hollers of frustration from the guards shook the still air, they'd found nothing once more. They were sure to return to their starting positions soon.

Just as that thought crossed his frantic mind, a faint glow made itself known around the corner. It pulsed ever so slightly, before waning. This must be it. With one last dash, he rounded the bend and before him lay his other new friend: strapped by his neck, the bear's pure blue eyes met his own before he'd finished crossing over. The few remnants of intricate patterns on his fur gave off a mystical glow, faintly illuminating a warm smile. Asgore couldn't contain himself :

"Cool! Err… I mean, howdy!"

"You must be our little bard friend. That was a nice trick with the veilleuses." Those words snapped Asgore to attention almost immediately.

"How did you know that?" He recoiled.

"I'll tell you later." He snickered "Above me on the corner of the cell, there is a leak through the rocks. I am not sure, but there might be some vines tucked into the stone." His voice was serene, so serene in fact, that had they been uttered anywhere else, one might not have guessed it came from someone shackled to a wall.

The polar bear was indeed right, he could sense the whisper of a creeping vine cowered in the nook. But it was so far deep, he'd never attempted to retrieve something so far out of sight. Moreover, he did not know which song he'd play to summon it from its enclave. The guards hollered once more, they heard their little exchange. They had not much time. The immediacy was palpable.

"I-I don't know how to get them!" He stuttered, as the clanking of sabatons and swords encroached on him from both sides.

"Use 'the song of the dancing vine' to bring it closer! Quickly!"

"But that won't be enough! Your chains look hard! The vines can only push and pull!"

"You will have to improvise, my little bard friend!"

The yelling and clanking drew closer now, they could make out words now:

"Monsters!"

"Kill them!"

"Where's the company commander?!"

The little boss monster felt that same desperation now that he'd had in the forest. Craning his head looking for his pursuers, the images and sounds engraved in his mind returned to him. He remembered the roar of the blaze, the screams of soldiers, the fire seemed to surround him once more. There was no way! He knew not what to harmonize! The walls closed in, doom awaited him, his back winced once more. He started slipping. The corner of his irises became black as tar.

"What's your name?" The serene words woke him from his delirium.

"As… Asgore." He whimpered back

“I believe in you Asgore. I have hope."

The tar in his eyes retreated, and with it the affliction of his chase disappeared. He felt that inner fire roaring once more. Hope and a will to live. Determination. He heard the quiet bubbling of the water leak above through the ruckus of his foes approaching, and once more like outside, he willed a small panpipe to existence before his miniature monster paws. Putting the instrument to his mouth, once more he sang that melancholic melody, the wordless chant calling his creeping friend from his burrow of stone.

The vine crackled as it twisted and bent along the surface of the wall, an unsettling sight for one to see unprepared. But alas, no one was there to see. Shaa had not the gift of vision and Asgore, well, he need not look to know where the vine was. As the vegetation crept towards Shaa's restraints new sprouts and roots tangled around the rock, gripping firmly to aid their progenitor's purpose.

"KILL THEM!!!"

"AAAAGHHHH!!!"

They had not but 20 seconds left

"I believe in you Asgore."

A good bard, so it's said, is not the one who sticks to well-known harmonies unwaveringly. It is the one who can dance and play with the song that is a true bard. Asgore discovered that very moment he was one such bard, as with sudden vigor, the melancholy of his song was spliced with fast, foreboding chords. The vine obliged to his song, and as it did, in wrapped itself around the chain connected to Shaa's neck. The final chord is the most important one, as well.

With a final, ear-lifting and soul-searing blow on his pipes, the vines evoked their visceral primordial power. Their supports dug into the cold rock as, like a photosynthesizing anaconda, the vine tightened itself around the bronze chains, shattering them with an ear-splitting bang.

It was not an iota of a second before, once mote through the ether, Shaa announced to his greater half:

"I am free."

Years of torture, penance, violence and suffering weighed down on Ömen. But alas, his time had finally arrived. Retribution was his, the invisible chains that kept him from unleashing his own personal armageddon vaporized. Once more, his heart raced, his blood boiled, his muscles swole and that feverish desire for vengeance consumed him whole.

"THE POLAR BEAR IS LOOSE!!" A desperate voice cried in the dark.

"WHAT!?" A second voice replied, stricken with fear like a cornered animal.

The voice was just beyond the bar's in Ömen's cage. It was Pavel. The vilest of all his captors. He'd driven a spear through his side when the bear refused to execute a child warrior. Now his time had come, the gladiator-bear seeked not merely justice, his fight was purely for revenge.

He'd roar in the arena as he was commanded by his captors, but he only did so for the sake of Shaa, not for the sake of entertainment. He'd always held back, but now… His ear-shattering roar split the rock on the ceiling above him and rose the fur on his back, with one charge he'd demolished the bars beyond and swiftly crushed Pavel on the wall, a gut-wrenching noise followed by a dash of that dark crimson in Ömen's eyes.  

He only realized how mistaken he was in fuelling his escape on revenge, when the red in his eyes gave way to black; his level of violence peaking at the highest he'd ever been. A streak of desperation darted in Ömen's eyes but it was too late, he'd crossed over into near feral rage. Perhaps it was better that he did not see for the duration of his rampage, for if he did…

He would have seen more crimson than ever before in his life.

Written by TK

[INDEX]

[royal-fangirl-in-training]

Cold Contemplation

A/N: Wow! another Death Note fic? This time in an AU of sorts? Where Kira was a manifestation of the Death Note? And possessed Light? And then L helped him get rid of it? And now L and Light work together? WITH 100% MORE Lawlight?

Yep. XD Lawlight (L X LIght) (Please excuse any Typos or errors, I may have missed a few.)

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Cold Contemplation

Light looks at the area around him with a neutral expression, he acknowledges the cold with a serene indifference, taking in the night air.

He found himself sitting silently on a bench out in front of his old college. It was winter, early December, and it was the week after winter break would have started for the students. He remembers this vaguely, and finds himself unable to formulate an answer as to why he was there at this moment.

It had been years since he had last seen the campus... A part of him finds dark amusement at the thought; was he ever really here? Or was that Kira too?

He's found that question teasing at his mind more times than he'd like to count. The thought of him being an oblivious tool to what was essentially a manifestation of his own pride, morality and that book... It made him question who he was, who he could be, who he wanted to be. It made him yearn for his past narrow-mindedness in a sense. To have undying confidence that what he was doing was right, and that the end always justified the means. He often wished he could have that ignorance again, it was a freeing attitude. How could somebody become stressed if they could do no wrong? The idea seemed simple in concept; if he could do no wrong, then how could he possibly cause any trouble? Hurt anybody? Do anything wrong?

He couldn't.

Of course now, sitting on a grey winter night, watching the snow fall carelessly to the ground under the streetlamps- He could see how flawed that logic was. Just because he didn't see something as being wrong, didn't mean it wasn't. Ignorance was bliss, but bliss was far from innocence. The world was a mirage of colours and spectrums, and one person couldn't hope to see them all.

A lack of empathy would be the easiest way to explain his polarized perspective; but that didn't fit. He was empathetic at first, so empathetic he treated the world as if it was a child to coddled and protected.

No. His true explanation came from selfish arrogance. That same unwavering determination and sureness that had pushed him past others; was what ultimately pulled him down. In justice, there can be no black and white. One god cannot rule over the land of the righteous and Just- lest himself become unworthy of such titles in his own self-appointed justification.

The very idea seemed unbelievable now. Now that he understood what it was like to actually be in a position of power that hadn't been falsely assumed. One that had admittedly been thrust upon him with casual words and unpredicted actions. The thought makes the young man smile faintly. The reason he had been snapped from his gluttonous power trip, seemed almost ironic at this point.

The cold stinging at his bare face reminded him of his solitary position outside. The snow was coating the bench he sat on, and he was sure he himself would be covered in the fluffy substance by the time he got back to his family's house. The thought brought with it memories of wet socks and numb fingers; making him internally grimace. He wasn't the biggest fan of the side effects of the snowfalls he had loved so dearly as a child, but he found that others detested it far more. This allowed certain areas to be more empty than usual, and gave him more leeway to think.

Out in the freezing snow and brisk air, he didn't have to layer anything up besides his clothing. No false smiles with forced warmth, no obligatory charmed laugh, no unnaturally charismatic responses to weak attempts at conversation. Out here, he wasn't Light Yagami, brilliant student and young prodigy; something that was more comforting than most words or touches could ever be. The tension easing realization that for once he didn't have to act for the world was invigorating. He didn't have to pretend. He was allowed to be someone most people didn't know. He was allowed to be himself. He was allowed to be Light.

Brunette strands of hair slide gently into his eyes as he stands up from the bench, reminding him that he had forgotten a hat in his hurry to leave the house. Instead of letting the knowledge that his hair would need to be dried annoy him, he simply brushes the excess snow off of his jacket and moves his hands to his coat pockets.

He starts down the street silently, keeping his gaze lowered on the path ahead of him. He finds himself watching the snow under his boots, wondering absently why some of the snow made a soft crunch under his feet when the rest was silent. He was almost instantly brought to a scientific conclusion revolving around the thickness and water levels- but he pushed it aside. He didn't want the answer for once. He wanted to just observe what was happening and accept it as it was.

He walked with just his own speculations as company for what seemed an eternity. Internally he noted that the walk was probably only twenty minutes or so given the distance and his pace, but he allowed himself this false sense of time loss simply for the mere novelty of it. Something compelled him to pause as he rounded the corner to the block where his family's house was located. Light leaned against the closest fence, and dragged his gaze down the street.

He could see the house from where he was, the lights were on- reflecting softly against the snow outside. In comparison to the darkness outside, it seemed to exude warmth, welcoming anyone who needed a dry place to rest. He knew it wasn't just a facade either; his mother had always been hospitable to anyone who would accept it, and his father couldn't deny anyone in need of shelter.

His parents were good people. They both had a sense of morality and honour that was admirable. They had both done so much for the community, for their family. The brunette was positive that if it wasn't for their constant encouragement and pride, that he wouldn't be half of who he was today. He felt compelled to try and give back to them after all he had taken.

Raising him was a difficult task; they had both been working and they had both had to juggle their outside lives with their home lives more than ever. Eventually his mother had given up her career to take care of him; the workload of which only doubled when Sayu was born.

Light sighs to himself, running a hand through his wet, snow speckled hair. He doesn’t even jump when a voice speaks up from beside him, sounding partially inquisitive despite the flat tone.

"You know, standing out in the snow will not be good for your hair Light-Kun...."

Light glances over at the man standing next to him momentarily. He's met with two obsidian eyes watching him with evident curiosity, the proximity of which he hadn't detected until the man they belonged to, had made himself known.

"Standing out in the snow won't be good for your bare feet, either, L. " He replies, turning his head to look back at the house down the road. He knows L isn't wearing shoes or socks without having to look, even in the snow L is resistant to footwear.

It doesn’t even take L a second before he responds, skipping straight to the point and watching Light closely, his thumb resting just on his lower lip.

"What thoughts are you trying to conceal...?" He replies without missing a beat, making Light sigh again, rubbing his face with a hand.

"Just because I don't want to talk about them, doesn’t mean I'm concealing them." Light grumbles, turning to L once more. He realizes he shouldn't have even replied; when L tilts his head a little bit. The detective somehow makes it look smug, without so much as a word or an expression shift.

"Why wouldn't you wish to talk about them, unless you were trying to conceal them on some level...? I've come to expect trouble when you go quiet, Light-kun...and you are being very quiet...” The older male gets closer, leaning up a little bit from his slouch; an action that reminds Light that L is in fact taller than him- or would be if he ever stood up straight. The man pauses when his nose and Light's are inches from brushing.

Light frowns at him and leans back a little bit. He finds that he can't go much further, due to the fence behind him. He finds himself a little relieved when L doesn’t get any closer, however, his frown deepens when L simply studies him; onyx eyes meeting amber as the two stare at each other in silence; the chilling night air tousling their hair as it drifts by in the form of a small breeze.

The two continue to stare into each other’s eyes, neither wanting to break the contact, neither wanting to be the first one to give in. Their unspoken competition of will lasts for countless minutes; until finally, Light finds himself growing tired of the somewhat childish standoff. The younger glances away harshly, peripherally noticing how L doesn’t seem to outwardly react to his subtle act of frustration. This fact makes annoyance stir inside of him, but it's quickly quelled when he feels a slim hand slip into his own.

"...Light, I can tell when you're letting things fester..." L says, speaking lowly and calmly; making Light turn to him, his frown less harsh than before and his demeanor calmer than a moment ago. Light lets out a slow, drawn out breath, and looks at L tiredly.

"...I can't help it, L. After all I did to everyone- to the world- To YOU...I just feel like I'm exactly the type of scot-free criminal I fought so hard to prevent. If I can’t adhere to the same rules and ideals I so strongly push on others, then I'm worse than they are." He murmurs distraughtly, his tone filled to the brim with frustration and above all else: Shame.

L is silent as he listens to this. He had a suspicion that Light was stressed about something along those lines.

"You have not gotten off easy, Light...."

The detective puts his hands on Light's shoulders. He makes direct eye contact, and searches Light's gaze as he speaks again.

"...The difference between you and them, is that you are paying for your past-... Grievances...- everyday....I know it still bothers you- I've had to wake you up from nightmares many, many times...." He trails off, his voice turning to a mumble.

"Always about Kira..."

Light looks down at his feet, not responding. Nightmares hardly seem like enough punishment for what he did. For what Kira did. He would take any punishment that the world threw at him, but he had always felt as if the world was going easy on him. Why? He wished he knew. He didn't deserve a break. Quite the opposite actually.

He almost finds some dark amusement in the thought; yes, Kira would have judged him far more harshly than everyone else was. The irony of this wasn’t lost on Light at all. The punishment for doing exactly what Kira had done, would be swift and unquestionable in Kira’s eyes. He really was a hypocrite of another caliber.

The teen- almost young adult by now- was brought out of his dark lamenting, by a small sigh and a tap on his cheek. He glanced over in miniscule annoyance, and was greeted by the sight of L shaking his head at him. The younger male frowned, quirking a brow at the other.

“…What?” He didn’t quite mean for his query to sound so snappish, however it seems that way. L didn’t particularly care about his tone it would seem. He simply poked Light on the cheek again, this time a little harder: making Light frown more and move his face away from the detective’s offending finger. L simply speaks, as if he hadn’t just been poking Light without context.

“…I can tell you aren’t listening to me, Light-kun…” L explains, his tone low and distracted. He shakes his head again.

“I was listening to you L, I heard what you said-“ Light’s words are abruptly halted, and he freezes.

L has straightened up more than before- It was still a little shocking to see him straighten up almost completely. L had gently taken Lights chin in his pale, spindly fingers; and lifted the teens face up. He looks into Light’s eyes and speaks without breaking the contact.

“You heard me… but you’re not listening…” The man murmurs, his words ringing with a small background hum. The type of hum that just goes naturally with his deep voice and often monotone range. Light has noticed it before, but it’s never been quite as distracting as it was in that moment.

He makes sure he’s focused when L speaks to him again, searching onyx eyes for any extra explanation or shift. He’s fairly sure he won’t find anything. L is a hard person to read sometimes, especially when it comes to emotions. The man was like a blank slate when he wanted to be, not even a trained human phycologist could probably crack the man’s stoic mask.

“You, Light Yagami, are not Kira. You were never Kira to be exact... Kira was something else entirely, and you were simply another of his victims… A different victim than the others; but a victim nonetheless. You do not have to pay for his crimes, just as a dog does not pay for every other canine a flea has bitten before them. This is not a matter of the world going easy on you, or others not understanding- This is a matter of you being overly harsh on actions you believe you had a say in. I am here, right now, to tell you- as the lead investigator on the Kira Case- that you did not.”

There is nothing in his tone or his eyes that would make Light think he was lying. Despite the spark of doubt that has embedded itself into Light’s stomach, and the uncertainty he has lingering in the back of his mind- he feels himself believing L.  the man certainly knows about the situation, he knows the ins and outs of the investigation- and he knows more about Light’s thought process than the teen had originally suspected was the case.

He pauses for a long time; allowing the silence to stretch on in the cold air that seemed so different compared to the warmth he felt settling in his chest. If at any time during their relationship, he had doubted L’s care for him- this moment quickly wiped it from his mind. Why would he be so invested in making sure Light didn’t ball up his guilt until it consumed him? Why would he have done any if the things he had done for Light; if he hadn’t cared about him? The though was absurd.

“… I believe you…”

The words are barely above a whisper, but the meaning behind them spoke volumes. L can tell Light means what he’s saying; he’s being genuine. Amber eyes show nothing but sincerity and understanding, mixed with something else. Something warm and comforting that L has only seen when they’ve been alone- or with Light’s family.

Light hesitates to move closer to L. the decision is made FOR him however, when he is pulled closer by the raven haired man in front of him. He can practically smell the sickening sweetness on L’s breath, see the way the closest street lamp’s rays create a sheen on the dark hair that sits like a messy mop on the insomniac’s head. He barely has a moment to register what’s happening, before he’s being pulled into a kiss.

Light’s soft lips meet with L’s slightly chapped ones, and he can taste the sweetness he had smelled a moment ago. L tastes like frosting and tea; despite the oddness of the combination, it works to create a flavour that’s distinctly… L.

The brunette can feel L’s lithe fingers slip themselves into his hair and he can’t help but return the favour. The older man’s hair has always been an object of Light’s curiosity. It was somehow the perfect balance between messy, unruly and greasy- while maintain a healthy colour, silky texture and attractively unkempt charm. He would never understand how L had managed to keep it as such.

The two of them keep the lip lock for a couple more minutes of silence. Eventually, L pulls back just enough to breathe. He can hear his and Light’s quickened breath coming out in short puffs of air, the warmth tickling his cheek.

The detective gently rests their foreheads together, not saying anything. He doesn’t feel he needs to, it’s all unspoken yet understood. He glances down to meet Light’s half-lidded gaze. He moves his hands out of the younger’s hair, and runs them down to rest on Light’s waist. His touch is soft and barley even noticeable, yet his fingers leave behind a trail of warmth in their wake.

The two stand there, watching each other and saying nothing; snow falling from the sky around them in white pristine flakes. The streetlamp next to them provides a calming blanket of yellows and soft oranges, illuminating the small bits of snow that have nestled their way into the pair’s uncovered hair.

The shorter of the two gives a small hum, and leans in again; giving L a slow, tender kiss. Just a delicate brushing of their lips. He gives a small, placid smile once he pulls back again. He carefully takes L’s hands in his own.

“…C’mon… Let’s head back…” He whispers, taking L’s hands and pulling him patiently along back towards the Yagami household. The other genius allows himself to be pulled along, and feels a subtle smile grace his features.

As they get closer, they can hear the soft sound of music coming from inside the house. Its notes flowing from an ajar window out into the skiff of snow, and reflecting back around the house like a wall of sound. Light could hear laughter and voices speaking happily amongst the music. He recognized them as his family, and felt a smile tugging at his lips.

The grip on the other male’s hand tightened affectionately as he felt a fluttering warmth in his stomach, spreading to his chest. He smiled more when he felt the raven haired man give a tiny squeeze back.

As he reached for the handle and opened the door into his family home; he felt an airy freedom that he hadn’t experienced since he had first gotten rid of Kira.

He had a bright future ahead, with the people that he loved. He had his whole life ahead of him, but for now he felt the need to embrace the moment. The world was better than he had once thought, the coldness and anger he had once felt inside was shifting into something else entirely.

Although it was dark outside, and the snow was damp and cold- his home was warm and welcoming. There would always be light to shine through; he just had to find it… He would find it, and he would make sure it never went out. The good would always shine through the bad, he was in control of his own life…

His own world…

Perhaps he was the god of his own new world after all…

Wasn’t everyone?

[joanabeleza]

THREE WOMEN: A Poem for Three Voices (Sylvia Plath)

Setting: A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE: I am slow as the world. I am very patient, Turning through my time, the suns and stars Regarding me with attention. The moon’s concern is more personal: She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse. Is she sorry for what will happen? I do not think so. She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event. I do not have to think, or even rehearse. What happens in me will happen without attention. The pheasant stands on the hill ; He is arranging his brown feathers. I cannot help smiling at what it is I know. Leaves and petals attend me. I am ready.

SECOND VOICE: When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it. I watched the men walk about me in the office. They were so flat! There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it, That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions, Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed, Endlessly proceed-and the cold angels, the abstractions. I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed: ‘Have you seen something awful? You are so white, suddenly.’ And I said nothing. I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation. I could not believe it. Is it so difficult For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth? The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples. I am dying as I sit. I lose a dimension. Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures! The silver track of time empties into the distance, The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup. These are my feet, these mechanical echoes. Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs. I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death. Again, this is a death. Is it the air, The particles of destruction I suck up? Am I a pulse That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel? Is this my lover then? This death, this death? As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name. Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE: I remember the minute when I knew for sure. The willows were chilling, The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine- It had a consequential look, like everything else, And all I could see was dangers: doves and words, Stars and showers of gold-conceptions, conceptions! I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look, Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river. There is a snake in swans. He glided by; his eye had a black meaning. I saw the world in it-small, mean and black, Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act. A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn’t ready. The white clouds rearing Aside were dragging me in four directions. I wasn’t ready. I had no reverence. I thought I could deny the consequence- But it was too late for that. It was too late, and the face Went shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE: It is a world of snow now. I am not at home. How white these sheets are. The faces have no features. They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children, Those little sick ones that elude my arms. Other children do not touch me: they are terrible. They have too many colours, too much life. They are not quiet, Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances. I have tried and tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ, And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare. I have tried not to think too hard. I have tried to be natural. I have tried to be blind in love, like other women, Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one, Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look. But still the face was there, The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,

The face of the dead one that could only be perfect In its easy peace, could only keep holy so. And then there were other faces. The faces of nations, Governments, parliaments, societies, The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind: They are so jealous of anything that is not flat! They are jealous gods That would have the whole world flat because they are. I see the Father conversing with the Son. Such flatness cannot but be holy. ‘Let us make a heaven,’ they say. ‘Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.’

FIRST VOICE: I am calm. I am calm. It is the calm before something awful: The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves Turn up their hands, their pallors. It is so quiet here. The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks. Voices stand back and flatten. Their visible hieroglyphs Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off. They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown. I am a seed about to break. The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen: It does not wish to be more, or different. Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary. O colour of distance and forgetfulness! – When will it be, the second when Time breaks And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart – Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial. Waiting lies heavy on my lids. It lies like sleep, Like a big sea. Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug

Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal. And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE: I am a mountain now, among mountainy women. The doctors move among us as if our bigness Frightened the mind. They smile like fools. They are to blame for what I am, and they know it. They hug their flatness like a kind of health. And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did? They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs? I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments. It is a place of shrieks. It is not happy. ‘This is where you will come when you are ready.’ The night lights are flat red moons. They are dull with blood. I am not ready for anything to happen. I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE: There is no miracle more cruel than this. I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves. I last. I last it out. I accomplish a work. Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations, The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces. I am the centre of an atrocity. What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence kill and kill? It milks my life. The trees wither in the street. The rain is corrosive. I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors, The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.

I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting. I shall be a sky and a hill of good: O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity. I am breaking apart like the world. There is this blackness, This ram of blackness. I fold my hands on a mountain. The air is thick. It is thick with this working. I am used. I am drummed into use. My eyes are squeezed by this blackness. I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE: I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love. It is a love of death that sickens everything. A dead sun stains the newsprint. It is red. I lose life after life. The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all. So she supports us, Fattens us, is kind. Her mouth is red. I know her. I know her intimately- Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb. Men have used her meanly. She will eat them. Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end. The sun is down. I die. I make a death.

FIRST VOICE: Who is he, this blue, furious boy, Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star? He is looking so angrily! He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel. The blue colour pales. He is human after all. A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood ; They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love? I have never seen a thing so clear. His lids are like the lilac-flower And soft as a moth, his breath. I shall not let go. There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE: There is the moon in the high window. It is over. How winter fills my soul! And that chalk light Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices, Empty schoolrooms, empty churches. O so much emptiness! There is this cessation. This terrible cessation of everything. These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers – What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument. And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth Open in its gape of perpetual grieving. It is she that drags the blood-black sea around Month after month, with its voices of failure. I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north. I shall move into a long blackness. I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman, Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack. I feel a lack. I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets. See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral. I shall not be accused by isolate buttons, Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case. I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused. The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE: I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl. She is crying through the glass that separates us. She is crying, and she is furious. Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats. It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice. She is crying at the dark, or at the stars That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open. And from the open mouth issue sharp cries Scratching at my sleep like arrows, Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side. My daughter has no teeth. Her mouth is wide. It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE: What is it that flings these innocent souls at us? Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists, The little silver trophies they’ve come so far for. There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald. Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red; They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water ; they have no expression. Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water. They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments. I see them showering like stars on to the world-

On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones, These pure, small images. They smell of milk. Their footsoles are untouched. They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal? Here is my son. His wide eye is that general, flat blue. He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant. One cry. It is the hook I hang on. And I am a river of milk. I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE: I am not ugly. I am even beautiful. The mirror gives back a woman without deformity. The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity. It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen. It is usual in my life, and the lives of others. I am one in five, something like that. l am not hopeless. I am beautiful as a statistic. Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth. The red mouth I put by with my identity A day ago, two days, three days ago. It was a Friday. I do not even need a holiday ; I can go to work today. I can love my husband, who will understand. Who will love me through the blur of my deformity As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless. So I walk Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well. And I learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue. The body is resourceful. The body of a starfish can grow back its arms And newts are prodigal in legs. And may I be As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE: She is a small island, asleep and peaceful, And I am a white ship hooting: Goodbye, goodbye. The day is blazing. It is very mournful. The flowers in this room are red and tropical. They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for tenderly. Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces. There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know. There is my comb and brush. There is an emptiness. I am so vulnerable suddenly. I am a wound walking out of hospital. I am a wound that they are letting go. I leave my health behind. I leave someone Who would adhere to me: I undo her fingers like bandages: I go.

SECOND VOICE: I am myself again. There are no loose ends. I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments. I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened, Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again. These little black twigs do not think to bud, Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain. This woman who meets me in windows-she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit. How shyly she superimposes her neat self On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs. She is deferring to reality. It is I. It is I – Tasting the bitterness between my teeth. The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE: How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off? How long can I be Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand, Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon? The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow Lap at my back ineluctably. How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property? How long can my hands Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling? It is a terrible thing To be so open: it is as if my heart Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE: Today the colleges are drunk with spring. My black gown is a little funeral: It shows I am serious. The books I carry wedge into my side. I had an old wound once, but it is healing. I had a dream of an island, red with cries. It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE: Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house. The swifts are back. They are shrieking like paper rockets. I hear the sound of the hours Widen and die in the hedgerows. I hear the moo of cows. The colours replenish themselves, and the wet Thatch smokes in the sun. The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured. I am reassured. These are the clear bright colours of the nursery, The talking ducks, the happy lambs. I am simple again. I believe in miracles. I do not believe in those terrible children Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands. They are not mine. They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality. I shall meditate upon my little son. He does not walk. He does not speak a word. He is still swaddled in white bands. But he is pink and perfect. He smiles so frequently. I have papered his room with big roses, I have painted little hearts on everything.

I do not will him to be exceptional. It is the exception that interests the devil. It is the exception that climbs the sorrowful hill Or sits in the desert and hurts his mother’s heart. I will him to be common, To love me as I love him, And to marry what he wants and where he will.

THIRD VOICE: Hot noon in the meadows. The buttercups Swelter and melt, and the lovers Pass by, pass by. They are black and flat as shadows. It is so beautiful to have no attachments! I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

The swans are gone. Still the river Remembers how white they were.

It strives after them with its lights. It finds their shapes in a cloud. What is that bird that cries With such sorrow in its voice? I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?

SECOND VOICE: I am at home in the lamplight. The evenings are lengthening. I am mending a silk slip: my husband is reading. How beautifully the light includes these things. There is a kind of smoke in the spring air, A smoke that takes the parks, the little statues With pinkness, as if a tenderness awoke, A tenderness that did not tire, something healing.

I wait and ache. I think I have been healing. There is a great deal else to do. My hands Can stitch lace neatly on to this material. My husband Can turn and turn the pages of a book. And so we are at home together, after hours. It is only time that weighs upon our hands. It is only time, and that is not material.

The streets may turn to paper suddenly, but I recover From the long fall, and find myself in bed, Safe on the mattress, hands braced, as for a fall. I find myself again. I am no shadow Though there is a shadow starting from my feet. I am a wife. The city waits and aches. The little grasses Crack through stone, and they are green with life.

[lttlgreg-blog]

“Setting Things Straight”

By Greg A. Oosterhouse 7-9-2017

It was a gorgeous evening in Royal Woods, Michigan, at least what one home preacher born and raised in Michigan would call gorgeous. The snow was falling, the wind was blowing, and the temperature was a lovely twelve degrees Fahrenheit. Indeed, ideal conditions for any fan of winter such as Greg Ostrander. Greg was relaxing in his recliner reading fan fictions based on his favorite cartoon. “I can’t believe all of these different varieties of stories based on a children’s cartoon!” The forty-one year old observed. “Dark, depressing, incestuous, heartwarming, the whole shebang to choose from.” Greg was enjoying a story about the main character having been diagnosed with a terminal disease, and his family’s reaction to the news. He never felt such emotion, especially from just reading a story. “It’s as if my emotions took a walk down a dark alley and got lynched by a vicious mob.” Near tears, he was startled by the sudden noise of the doorbell. “Now who would that be braving this bracing cold?” he thought to himself as he placed his ipad on the end table and got out of his chair. After putting on his shirt, he went to the door. He opened it to a very pleasant surprise. “Oh, hi Luna!” said Greg with a smile. To what do you owe the pleasure of coming by to see me on this lovely night?” he quipped, purposefully reversing the common greeting. “Hi dude!” There is something I would like to talk to you about, get your opinion on. Are you available to talk for a while?” Luna said while brushing the snow off of her coat. “Yup! You can enter only after paying the admission fee!” answered Greg with a smirk. “What’s that?” asked Luna wondering what Greg was getting at. The man simply opened his arms with a twinkle in his eye. Luna then opened her arms and took a step towards him and they shared a nice, friendly hug. Greg and the Loud family, especially Luna, have been friends since he counseled a close friend of hers after a suicide attempt. He gave her a guilt trip as an unconventional means to convince her that life was worth living. Months after, she was a changed person, even attending services at Greg’s home church. Luna was so grateful, she and the family had him over for dinner. They all became fast friends. Being that Greg was around her parents’ age, Luna thought him more of an uncle figure than a friend. Which is why she felt comfortable enough to tell him what was on her mind. “Brrrr!” shivered Luna as she took off her coat, Greg taking it. “I can’t stand this winter weather!” she complained as she took off her boots as Greg directed her to have a seat. One thing Greg hated was to hear people complain about the winter weather, especially his fellow Michiganders. “Well, I happen to love it! That polar vortex we had a few years ago, I thought that was the best winter we’ve had in a long time! He said with a scoff at Luna’s ‘brazenness’. “To each his own, I guess.” said Luna taking a seat on the couch while Greg returned to his recliner. “So what’s on your mind?” He asked as he flung his pen in the air and catching it between his index and middle fingers without looking. “Well, it’s something serious. I have been thinking about it for a while now.” said Luna with a look of trepidation. “Oh.” responded Greg. The autistic man avoided serious issues like he avoided eye contact. As a preacher however, he was confronted with people’s problems on an occasional basis. That time counseling Luna’s friend was nerve-wracking for him to say the least. Luna continued “Yes. Now I come to you knowing that you will not offer your affirmation. But I have seen in you the type of person that is caring. What I have to say is something that goes against your beliefs; the Bible.” Greg perked up with interest at Luna’s words. “You see, I have feelings, romantic feelings for another girl. She’s a rocker like I am. We have been friends for a good while now. I always get good vibes whenever we’re together. For the last few weeks I realised that I feel more than just friendship towards her.” Greg was taking it all in with a little surprise. Not that he ever really thought of it, but if he were, he would imagine Luna having at least one boy interested in her. Not only was she pretty, she was a very talented musician, and passionate about the things she loved. Most of all, he saw her as a great daughter and sister to her family, and almost as nice and sweet as her immediate older sister Leni. If he were twenty-five years younger, even he may have been captivated by her! Though rock was not his favorite type of music, that was classical and opera, he did love himself some Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd among others. “Just last week I dropped a note in her locker expressing my feelings. She had a smile when she read it, but I have yet to hear from her other than that.” “Well, you’re right that it goes against what I stand for, as God made us all male and female, one for the other. In a way you are wrong about my affirmation. In no way will I ever affirm same sex relationships, in the way that you feel about your friend, that is. However, I do affirm you! I love you Luna. You are a very nice young lady. Anyway, just because you are into another girl does not give me the right to condemn you, for now is not the time for condemnation.” “You came to me with this because you knew that I would not go all Westboro Baptist on you, right?” He asked, interrupting himself. Luna chuckled, “Yes, I came to you because I see you as the caring type. I was sure you were not going to damn me to hell like other Christians I have seen on gay pride parade videos.” Luna said, using air quotes with the word Christians. “Well, I find you to be justified using those air quotes. I also thank you for allowing me to present my opinion on the matter. I knew you were a nice young lady!” He said with a smile. “You know, we can’t really fault all of those who speak on the matter whilst using condemning language, we are to warn others of eminent danger, after all. They do have good intentions, I’m sure. I do agree with most of what they say, I just do not agree with their delivery. I truly believe that Jesus is being sorely misrepresented by most of His followers. Indeed, same sex intimate relations are condemned in the Bible, but so is adultery. An adulteress was caught in the act, and brought to Jesus. The religious leaders wanted to test Him to see if they could find fault in Him. It was the law then that those found in adultery should be stoned. Jesus however said to them “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” Eventually one by one the crowd went away, each dropping their stones. Then Jesus said to the woman that like the others, neither does He condemn her. He told her to go and sin no more. Sounds like love more than the condemning language used by the people you refer to, doesn’t it?” Luna nodded as Greg continued. “You have heard about John chapter 3 verse 16? Well, if you ask me, a lot of Christians seem to neglect the very next verse.” Greg got up to get his Bible and reading glasses then sat down next to Luna. “I’ll start from verse 16.” “16 ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. 17 For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved.’” “That is where I get the idea that now is not the time for condemnation. Yes, same sex relations are called abominable, yes, murder is frowned upon, lying, stealing, drunkenness, what have you. All of these and more go against God’s plan for us. Each of those can lead to eternal damnation. But there is another piece of Scripture that mentions sin and where it leads, then tells of the remedy. I Corinthians chapter 6. I’ll turn there now to read that.” “9 ‘Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, idolaters, adulterers, effeminate, abusers of themselves with mankind, 10 theives, covetous, drunkards, revilers, nor extortioners shall inherit the kingdom of God. 11 And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God. 12 All things are lawful unto me, but all things are not expedient: all things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any. 13 Meats for the belly, and the belly for meats: but God shall destroy both it and them. Now the body is not for fornication, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body.’” “Listening to a lot of those street preachers and such one would think that the practitioners of those sins, especially same sex are on their way to hell no question. I applaud their motives, but like I said, it’s the delivery, and lack of John 3 vs. 17 and Jesus dealing with the adulteress and such. You are only going to drive people away like that if you ask me. For example, if you came to me tonight just to talk about whatever, to have some nice friends time, and you told me about your love of rock, how you love to listen to and play it, then I come back with scathing remarks about it, and dared even curse the name of Mick Swagger, I doubt that you would see my point to listen to opera instead as valid, would you? You would either storm out of here, or give me a good thrashing, despite me weighing over two hundred pounds!” “I’d beat you within an inch of your life!” Luna said as she grabbed Greg by his shirt collar and got in his face. Straightening his shirt and sharing a little laugh with her, Greg continued. “But I do like rock, and I like Swagger just fine. I also love to “Rock and Roll’ on the way to the ‘Stairway to Heaven’, where you pay ‘No Quarter’ to visit ‘The Houses of the Holy’. ‘I Want You’ to know that no ‘Idiot Wind’ will make me ‘Run like Hell’ into ‘The Wall.’ Okay, I’ll stop now!” said Greg as he realised that Luna is the only one between them who can quote song titles so expertly. “Good idea!” Luna agreed with an eye roll. “’Hey You’! Ha ha! Just kidding! I realise that I never offered you a drink earlier. Would you like something? Maybe something to eat as well?” “Sure, whatchya got?” After showing Luna his itunes play list, Greg was preparing the snacks. Luna selected ‘Tom Sawyer’ by Rush. “You sure do have an eclectic taste in music. It’s no wonder why you and I are such great friends!” Luna said as she further scanned the list of music on Greg’s ipad. “’Zorba’s Dance’, Luna observed as she clicked on it. When the music started, Greg came in, strutting along with it. Luna laughed as she got up to join him. The two were having fun dancing as the music got faster and faster. When the song ended, Luna resumed her seat. “You wouldn’t know I have heel spurs in both feet and tendonitis in my right ankle, would you!?” Said Greg as he strutted back to the kitchen. “Really? Ouch! That sounds painful. You sure hide it well.” “Yup. I am mostly used to it by now.” “Cool, you even have some jazz as well!” Said Luna as she resumed looking at the play list. “Yup, I love jazz. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong among others. Speaking of jazz, here’s something Luan would appreciate: What do you call a resident of a monastery who commits crimes?” Luna looked befuddled and shrugged her shoulders. “A felonious monk! Ha ha ha! Get it?” Greg quipped, imitating Luna’s comedic sister. “That was actually pretty good. Corny, but good. If I wasn’t sure that Luan has no idea who Thelonious Monk was, I’d swear you got that from her.” Luna said as Greg returned with the snacks. “Well I used to call myself the Duke of Cornball!” Greg mused as he took his place next to Luna. “Okay, we have my ipad here, you know I have to show you some pictures now!” He said as he selected the photo albums icon. “Ah, yes, proud uncle Greg and his adorable nieces! They are so cute!” Luna swooned as she looked on. “How old are they again?” “The older one is four years and seven months, the other just turned one year last month.” Greg answered with a look of immense pride. “They are my little honey’s.” Watching Greg’s expression, Luna responded “Awww, you’re a cutie too!” she said as she put her arm around Greg and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Ooh! That tickles!“ Luna giggled as she rubbed her lips. “You’re the first man with a beard I have ever kissed!” “And you’re the first pretty girl to kiss me in a long time!” Greg said with a flattered smile. After about a minute of silence, enjoying their snacks, Greg decided it was time to return to the subject they were there to discuss. Putting his ipad aside, he grabbed Luna’s hand with both of his, and looked in the general direction of her eyes. “Earlier, if you’ll recall, during my initial response to your confession, I said that I love you.” “Yes, I remember that.” Luna sais anticipating what Greg was leading to. “Well, I meant it. I love you very much. I don’t tell people that if I don’t mean it. When I say’I love you’, I am saying that I care for you. I want you to be safe, happy and healthy. I want only the best for you. You and your family have been a great blessing to me. I am proud to call you my friends.” Greg ended with a smile and a glistening eye. Luna placed her free hand on top of Greg’s. “Well, Greg, we all appreciate your friendship as well. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your part in turning Kathy’s life around. I know that I have said that a lot. She is a treasured friend of mine. I don’t know what I would have done if she had succeeded in killing herself.” Luna finished with tears in her eyes as she wrapped Greg in a tight hug. “I love you, too, uncle Greg!” “That’s my niece!” he said as he returned the hug with the same gusto he felt from her. “What I was getting at is I would not be telling you what I have said before, about same sex relations being sinful. If you love someone, you tell them the truth, no matter how much it may hurt. ‘Better to hurt with the truth than to comfort with a lie’, a famous saying goes.” “Yes, I understand“. Luna said as the two released their embrace. “I may not like everything you have said, but I do appreciate the love that you said it all with.” “I wasn’t expecting anything else from you. Back to the condemnation issue. Do you want to know what really grinded Jesus’ gears? What put the feedback in his sound system? “What?” asked Luna with her interest piqued anew. “Not the sinners or unbelievers, nope. It was the religious folks, acting all holier than thou. Jesus called them vipers and all the insults of the day. Luan is the one that washes the dishes, right?” Luna affirmed with a nod. “Well, let’s say that she decided that after cleaning the outside of a glass, she decided that it was good enough, and put it in the cupboard, surpassing Lucy’s and Lynn’s part of the chore as well. When you come along afterward, and grab that same glass to get a drink. You observe the good job that Luan did with the outside of the glass, but then you see the inside. You are disgusted at the gunk inside. That is the way Jesus saw the actions of the religious people. They were clean on the outside, but stinking, rotting graves on the inside. Also, He went ballistic in a certain type of building. Not a place where adulterers, drunkards, or fornicators gathered, but the temple! Where God is to be worshipped. He was so angry with the misuse of the place. He overturned tables, and even used whips on the people to drive them out. Another instance, Jesus told of two men who were praying. The religious man said something along the lines of ‘Lord, I thank Thee that I am not like other men like this sinner here…’ The other man prayed ‘ Oh, Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ I am sure you can guess which one Jesus looked on with favor.” “The one who said he was a sinner.” Luna responded. “Yup! Jesus brings low the proud, and exalts the humble. I tell you what, I have every reason to be grateful for the grace and mercy that Jesus offers, for I sure have not been perfect in this life. Many is the time that I have been so disgusted with myself.” Inspired by that statement, he turned in his Bible to Romans chapter 7, and read the whole chapter. “Just like Paul wrote, I myself long to do what is right, but yet many has been the time I have done the opposite. Just one example of us human beings’ shortcomings, unable to save ourselves. As it says elsewhere …” Greg pauses to look up the phrase he had in mind on his ipad. “There it is.” Turning to Isaiah chapter 64 and read the whole chapter, where it says in verse six that our righteousness is as filthy rags. “We all fall short when it comes to pleasing God. Which is why Jesus came as a perfect substitute. He fulfilled all of the law. So when we put our trust in Him and Him alone, it is like we have fulfilled all of the requirements ourselves. So rich is He in grace and mercy! Considering my faults, I am so grateful that Jesus took my punishment on the cross, punching my ticket to eternal bliss in Heaven. What He did was for all people. He is the only ‘stairway to Heaven’ if you will! As it says in John 14 vs. 6: ‘Jesus said I am the way, the truth and the life, no man comes to the Father but by me.’ As exclusive as the idea is, it is also inclusive at the same time. Simply putting your faith and trust in His saving work on the cross, that is all it takes. Those who say you need to do this and that and to not do that and this, are placing their hope in their own righteousness, and that won’t cut it. As I said, it is what Jesus did and that alone that saves us. We can go on living in sin if we want, but if we really love Jesus, we would want to show it by doing good works. We do not do good works to get saved, we do good works because we are saved. ’Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe. Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.’” “Wow! You have given me a lot to think about there.” Luna said as she stretched. “Well, you asked me for my input on your relationship with your friend, so I gave it! Notice I did not quote Scripture where it says same sex relations are sinful, only one or two instances. I could have beat you over the head with them! But I chose to use gentle love towards you. The harder stuff is for those who should know better. As it says in I Corinthians chapter 13...” Greg pauses to turn to the text. “Okay, verse one, ’Though I may speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.’ Yup, I can tell you what I have said before, but if I did not put love in with it, it is just a bunch of noise. This is my motivation to use love in telling you what the Word of God says.” Said Greg with a hand on Luna’s shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with you loving your friend. Friends should love each other. When we get to what you told me, though, well that’s different. That is what God says, and I go with that.” Greg said as he got up. “Here, may I give you this?” Asked Greg as he held out a Bible to Luna. “So you can see and know for yourself what God’s will is for your life.” Luna took it. “I’ll take it, but don’t expect me to be a scholar anytime soon!” “I don’t expect you to be. I’m not one myself. I still discover new things every now and then reading it. That’s what the Bible does, If you let it, it will speak to you.” “I also suggest some teachers and preachers to listen to on video.” he said as he grabbed a note pad and wrote on it. “These are pretty good teachers of the Word in my opinion. Jacob Prasch, he knows Greek and Hebrew very well, and uses them to make the Bible clear to his listeners. Robert Rubino from Brooklyn. It is from him that I learned that it is the fault of the church for the world being in the mess that it is in. He is very passionate, I love his style. Zac Poonen, is just as passionate, but much more soft spoken like I am.” “I truly hope that you take what I told you to heart. Also that you will read the Bible and really consider what it says. The first four books of the New Testament are about Jesus’ life and His teachings. Any questions you may have, I’ll be ready to answer, or help you find an answer. My door is always open to you and your family. Any time you or they want to talk, please feel free to come to my door, or to invite me over. Is there anything else you would like to talk about or ask me?” “I’m sure there would be, but it is getting late. Wow, almost ten o’clock! We’ve been talking for three hours! I thought we would be talking for one maybe two hours, but three! I think I better get going.” Luna said getting up. “Before you go, may I pray for you?” Asked Greg also getting up. “Sure.” said Luna. Greg stretched his hands out to Luna, who then took his. “Lord Jesus, thank You for sending Luna to me tonight. May the words I spoke to her be pleasing to You, and penetrate her heart. She is such a precious friend to me, I want only the best for her, and that is You, Lord. Move in her Lord, open her eyes to Your truth. Thank You Lord. Amen and amen.” Greg then wrapped Luna in another tight hug, when her phone rang. “Hi mom. Yes, we just finished talking. I am about to head back home. Greg welcomed me warmly. We had a nice time, he truly is a sweet guy. I will tell you what we said when I get home. Okay, bye mom.” “Well, I better get going. Thank you, Greg. Like I said, I may not like everything you had to say, but you said it with love. For that I thank you.” Luna said with a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “You said I’m sweet!” Greg said with an awe shucks expression. “Well, you are!” Luna replied pinching Greg’s cheek. “You are not walking home, I will drive you. I know it’s only four houses away, but still at this time of night, it is much safer.” Greg said as he put on his shoes and got his and Luna’s coats. “That’s fine with me.” Luna said as she finished putting her boots on, then grabbed her coat. “One more thing, I invite you and the family to services here. Sometimes I play videos of those preachers I mentioned, and others, other times I preach a sermon. I hope if you do ever attend, you would be edified by what you hear.” “That is something to consider. I am open to the idea. I’ll have to see how the others feel about it.” said Luna as the two walked out the door. “Well, here we are.” Greg said as he pulled in the driveway and shut his car off. “I’ll walk you to the door.” As they got to the door, Greg turned to Luna. “Once again, thank you for giving me the opportunity to present the Christian side to the issue. It shows me that you are still thinking about what you should do in pursuing any further relationship with your friend.” “Her name is Sam, by the way. Yes, especially after talking to you, I have lots of thinking to do.” Luna said while watching the snow fall. “Please do not hesitate about coming to see me again. I enjoyed our time tonight. It was a great pleasure to talk with you.” Greg said as he breathed in the fresh, frigid air. Luna just smiled and embraced him one more time. “Thank you, uncle Greg. Thank you for everything.” She said releasing the hug. “Yup!” he said with his Oliver Hardy wave and headed back to his car. Luna watched and waved as Greg drove away. Cradling her Bible, she entered the house, greeted by her parents and her fellow teenaged sisters.

The End

[networkingdefinition]

Labrador Retrievers Quotes

Official Website: Labrador Retrievers Quotes

• A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no luster as you turn it in your hand, until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors.- Ralph Waldo Emerson • A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no lustre as you turn it in your hand until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors. There is no adaptation or universal applicability in men, but each has his special Talent, and the mastery of Successful men consists in adroitly keeping themselves where and when that turn shall be oftenest to be practiced. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic. – Annie Dillard • Australian cattle dogs, are not like Labradors, where they just like to just sit around by the fire and get petted. They’re working dogs, so they have a lot of energy, and they can drive you crazy. – Owen Wilson

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Labrador', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_labrador').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_labrador img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Books of natural history make the most cheerful winter reading. I read in Audubon with a thrill of delight, when the snow covers the ground, of the magnolia, and the Florida keys, and their warm sea breezes; of the fence-rail, and the cotton-tree, and the migrations of the rice-bird; of the breaking up of winter in Labrador, and the melting of the snow on the forks of the Missouri; and owe an accession of health to these reminiscences of luxuriant nature. – Henry David Thoreau • Children, as well as grown-ups, in their individual, glorified, drudgery-proof homes of Labrador, the tropics, the Orient, or where you will, to which they can pass with pleasure and expedition by means of ever-improving transportation, will be able to tune in their television and radio to the moving picture lecture of, let us say, President Lowell of Harvard; the professor of Mathematics of Oxford; of the doctor of Indian antiquities of Delhi, etc. – R. Buckminster Fuller • Clinton’s pet Labrador, Buddy, is getting neutered. The dog will never have sex again. Overnight, they’ve turned Buddy from a Democrat into a Republican. – Jay Leno • Coal is a portable climate. It carries the heat of the tropics to Labrador and the polar circle; and it is the means of transporting itself whithersoever it is wanted. Watt and Stephenson whispered in the ear of mankind their secret, that a half-ounce of coal will draw two tons a mile, and coal carries coal, by rail and by boat, to make Canada as warm as Calcutta, and with its comfort brings its industrial power. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • I can’t imagine living in a house without a couple of dogs. If I ever got out of bed at night and didn’t have to step over a Labrador or two or three, or move one off the covers so I could turn over, my nights would be more restless and the demons that wait in the dark for me would be less easily fended. – Gene Hill • I love dogs. I grew up with dogs in my family from the time that I was a little boy; we always had German Shepherds and Labradors. I get on very well with dogs, they trust me. – Paul Walker • If unconditional love, loyalty, and obedience are the tickets to an eternal life, then my black Labrador, Venus, will surely be there long before me, along with all the dear animals in nature who care for their young at great cost to themselves and have suffered so much at the hands of humans. – Richard Rohr • It is in vain to dream of a wildness distant from ourselves. There is none such. It is the bog in our brains and bowels, the primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires that dream. I shall never find in the wilds of Labrador a greater wildness than in some recess of Concord. – Henry David Thoreau • Most of my escapades were getting my Labrador dog into the back of my car to drive to Brooklyn where I worked at Avenue M Studios shooting a soap opera and battling being a 17 to 18-year-old playing twins being afraid that I was going to get fired, because who wouldn’t fire me? I had no idea what I was doing. – Anne Heche • Mousse was a Labrador retriever, which is a large enthusiastic bulletproof species of dog made entirely from synthetic materials. This is the kind of dog that, if it takes an interest in your personal regions (which of course it does) you cannot fend it off with a blowtorch. – Dave Barry • Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, are obedient to a fault. They are nine-tenths velociraptor and kitchen blender and one-tenth Labrador. It was the Labrador tenth that I valued most. – Jasper Fforde • Saying that you don’t believe in magic but do believe in god is a bit like saying you don’t have sex with dogs, except labradors. – Jimmy Carr • That Cabot merely landed on the uninhabitable shore of Labrador gave the English no just title to New England, or to the United States generally, any more than to Patagonia. – Henry David Thoreau • That’s the thing about being a Labrador retriever – you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you. – Carl Hiaasen • The hardest thing about being a guy is that women don’t accept that you really are just a simple, pathetic, labrador retriever-like creature. That we live in a world were women actually expect you to think thoughtful thoughts, and have real emotions, which we don’t have. Having to try to live up to the imaginary ideal that women have of what men are, instead of just being what you are, which is just a pathetic creature, but still. – Dave Barry • There are people all over the world who like to write fan letters in the voice of their pet: ‘Hello, my name is Fifi and I’m a labrador and I think you’re great. Paw paw!’ – Rebecca Hall • There is the morass, wherein you plunge up to your knees, or the walking over the stubborn, dwarfish shrubbery, whereby one treads down the forests of Labrador; and the unexpected bunting or sylvia which perchance, and indeed as if by chance alone, you now and then see flying before you, or hear singing from the ground creeping plant. – John James Audubon • Well the dog that is the most is the a Labrador retrievers because they tolerate kids tugging on them and things better than other dogs. They are a real good natured. They’re also real calm and sometimes when working with autistic children that’s probably more popular dog breed – now there are different ways to use service animals. – Temple Grandin • When the contemplative mind is a French mind, it is content, for the most part, to contemplate France. When the contemplative mind is an English mind, it is liable to be seized at any moment by an importunate desire to contemplate Morocco or Labrador. – Agnes Repplier • Yes, I hate it when people call me a ‘national treasure’. It takes away your bite and makes you feel like a harmless old golden Labrador. – Sue Townsend

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[equitiesstocks]

Labrador Retrievers Quotes

Official Website: Labrador Retrievers Quotes

• A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no luster as you turn it in your hand, until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors.- Ralph Waldo Emerson • A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no lustre as you turn it in your hand until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors. There is no adaptation or universal applicability in men, but each has his special Talent, and the mastery of Successful men consists in adroitly keeping themselves where and when that turn shall be oftenest to be practiced. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic. – Annie Dillard • Australian cattle dogs, are not like Labradors, where they just like to just sit around by the fire and get petted. They’re working dogs, so they have a lot of energy, and they can drive you crazy. – Owen Wilson

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Labrador', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_labrador').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_labrador img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Books of natural history make the most cheerful winter reading. I read in Audubon with a thrill of delight, when the snow covers the ground, of the magnolia, and the Florida keys, and their warm sea breezes; of the fence-rail, and the cotton-tree, and the migrations of the rice-bird; of the breaking up of winter in Labrador, and the melting of the snow on the forks of the Missouri; and owe an accession of health to these reminiscences of luxuriant nature. – Henry David Thoreau • Children, as well as grown-ups, in their individual, glorified, drudgery-proof homes of Labrador, the tropics, the Orient, or where you will, to which they can pass with pleasure and expedition by means of ever-improving transportation, will be able to tune in their television and radio to the moving picture lecture of, let us say, President Lowell of Harvard; the professor of Mathematics of Oxford; of the doctor of Indian antiquities of Delhi, etc. – R. Buckminster Fuller • Clinton’s pet Labrador, Buddy, is getting neutered. The dog will never have sex again. Overnight, they’ve turned Buddy from a Democrat into a Republican. – Jay Leno • Coal is a portable climate. It carries the heat of the tropics to Labrador and the polar circle; and it is the means of transporting itself whithersoever it is wanted. Watt and Stephenson whispered in the ear of mankind their secret, that a half-ounce of coal will draw two tons a mile, and coal carries coal, by rail and by boat, to make Canada as warm as Calcutta, and with its comfort brings its industrial power. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • I can’t imagine living in a house without a couple of dogs. If I ever got out of bed at night and didn’t have to step over a Labrador or two or three, or move one off the covers so I could turn over, my nights would be more restless and the demons that wait in the dark for me would be less easily fended. – Gene Hill • I love dogs. I grew up with dogs in my family from the time that I was a little boy; we always had German Shepherds and Labradors. I get on very well with dogs, they trust me. – Paul Walker • If unconditional love, loyalty, and obedience are the tickets to an eternal life, then my black Labrador, Venus, will surely be there long before me, along with all the dear animals in nature who care for their young at great cost to themselves and have suffered so much at the hands of humans. – Richard Rohr • It is in vain to dream of a wildness distant from ourselves. There is none such. It is the bog in our brains and bowels, the primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires that dream. I shall never find in the wilds of Labrador a greater wildness than in some recess of Concord. – Henry David Thoreau • Most of my escapades were getting my Labrador dog into the back of my car to drive to Brooklyn where I worked at Avenue M Studios shooting a soap opera and battling being a 17 to 18-year-old playing twins being afraid that I was going to get fired, because who wouldn’t fire me? I had no idea what I was doing. – Anne Heche • Mousse was a Labrador retriever, which is a large enthusiastic bulletproof species of dog made entirely from synthetic materials. This is the kind of dog that, if it takes an interest in your personal regions (which of course it does) you cannot fend it off with a blowtorch. – Dave Barry • Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, are obedient to a fault. They are nine-tenths velociraptor and kitchen blender and one-tenth Labrador. It was the Labrador tenth that I valued most. – Jasper Fforde • Saying that you don’t believe in magic but do believe in god is a bit like saying you don’t have sex with dogs, except labradors. – Jimmy Carr • That Cabot merely landed on the uninhabitable shore of Labrador gave the English no just title to New England, or to the United States generally, any more than to Patagonia. – Henry David Thoreau • That’s the thing about being a Labrador retriever – you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you. – Carl Hiaasen • The hardest thing about being a guy is that women don’t accept that you really are just a simple, pathetic, labrador retriever-like creature. That we live in a world were women actually expect you to think thoughtful thoughts, and have real emotions, which we don’t have. Having to try to live up to the imaginary ideal that women have of what men are, instead of just being what you are, which is just a pathetic creature, but still. – Dave Barry • There are people all over the world who like to write fan letters in the voice of their pet: ‘Hello, my name is Fifi and I’m a labrador and I think you’re great. Paw paw!’ – Rebecca Hall • There is the morass, wherein you plunge up to your knees, or the walking over the stubborn, dwarfish shrubbery, whereby one treads down the forests of Labrador; and the unexpected bunting or sylvia which perchance, and indeed as if by chance alone, you now and then see flying before you, or hear singing from the ground creeping plant. – John James Audubon • Well the dog that is the most is the a Labrador retrievers because they tolerate kids tugging on them and things better than other dogs. They are a real good natured. They’re also real calm and sometimes when working with autistic children that’s probably more popular dog breed – now there are different ways to use service animals. – Temple Grandin • When the contemplative mind is a French mind, it is content, for the most part, to contemplate France. When the contemplative mind is an English mind, it is liable to be seized at any moment by an importunate desire to contemplate Morocco or Labrador. – Agnes Repplier • Yes, I hate it when people call me a ‘national treasure’. It takes away your bite and makes you feel like a harmless old golden Labrador. – Sue Townsend

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[wendyimmiller]

You Don’t Want to Miss the Spring Train to Serendipity

Rose and I had an idea for a family homecoming last month. We hosted our kids for a week on the spring train to Serendipity.

Our son lives with his wife in London; our daughter and granddaughter live in Bellingham, WA. The plan worked. It was great to have the kids home.

Our children have always enjoyed the outdoors—in backyards, parks, gardens and the wild. Molly and Cooper, when they were young, even made a little walk-around money, collecting black-eyed Susan seeds for Jelitto Perennial Seeds, my old employer.

Cooper, Story, Rufus and Rose in George Rogers Clark Park in Louisville, KY.

Molly and Story at Bernheim Forest and Research Arboretum in Clermont, KY.

Our granddaughter, Story, has devoured nature’s surprises from a very young age. She’s 12 now and shows no signs of letting up. This past January, for instance, Story took a New Year’s Day polar plunge into Bellingham’s chilly Lake Padden. While visiting us, she jumped into Salvisa’s Salt River with her friend Sofia.The river’s temperature was a chilly 55F. Story is a Pisces water bug.

I myself am astrologically challenged. I prefer a warm threshold above 70F before I dip my toes in the water.

I don’t want to think about summer’s heat and oppressive humidity just as Kentucky begins to shed dormancy, when skies are blue and temperatures are mild. I outlasted winter by hoping with every fiber to be reborn in April. I succeeded. Sometimes spring blooms and lucky stars are waiting at the station. You don’t want to miss Serendipity. Summer can wait.

Seven years ago, we began binge-planting 500 daffodil bulbs in a two-and-a-half-acre field, adjacent to the Salt River. We kept up the fall ritual for five years.  Peak daffodil bloom was a week late this year, but it was serendipitously perfect. It was time for a party.

The chartreuse maple catkins arrived at the Serendipity platform in early April. If your eyes were peeled, you could see 100-foot trees in the distance, beginning to light up woodlands. Before a week went by, the redbud blooms splashed roadsides, followed lickety-split by white-flowering dogwoods. Spring beauties gave way to carpets of mayapples, woodland phlox and larkspur.

Mayapples with woodland phlox and Jacob’s ladder.

Larkspur, Delphinium tricorne.

Cooper, Kylie, Molly and Story returned to their respective homes to catch a glimpse of what spring had to offer in London and Bellingham. I’m waiting for field reports on what their daffodils looked like, but Salvisa’s never looked better.

There was no stopping springtime in Kentucky. Everyone I’ve asked around here agreed with the assessment of April’s abundance. I haven’t met a naysayer yet, though I remember when old timers used to preach the flipside of too much of a good thing. “We’re going to pay for it,” they would say. Heaven help us.Surely, we can hold onto this surprising spring goodness for a few more weeks.

When the daffodils finished blooming in the bottomland, they were followed by beaked corn salad, Valerianella radiata, that popped up voluntarily and keeps spreading magnificently in the wet bottomland it prefers. A record rainfall helped last year. The leaves of this native annual have a delicious lettuce-like flavor. We mow the field a month after the beaked corn salad is finished blooming in order to allow the seed to ripen and the daffodil foliage to go dormant.

Beaked corn salad in Salvisa.

The “spicily perfumed,” white-flowering witch alder, Fothergilla major, was planted intentionally in our garden 20 years ago. The golden ragwort, Senecio aureus, muscled its way in ten years ago. The unassuming yellow daisy made itself at home along a built dry creek bed designed and built by Bruce Carnahan for storm water drainage. I couldn’t have dreamed up the plant combination but I was happy with the surprise. The golden ragwort is a great, native groundcover, even though some might argue that it is a weedy thug.

Fothergilla major and golden ragwort.

I play it safe to avoid a runaway train—the possibility of thousands of seeds blowing away in every direction. I cut most of the blooms as soon as soon they’re finished. I don’t mind a few odd seedlings popping up. I am happy to have Fothergilla and a ribbon of flowering Senecio aureus parked at the railway station.

The dainty blooms of leatherwood (Dirca) and spicebush (Lindera) faded just as two sassafras trees began blooming for the first time. I started the sassafras from seeds given to me years ago by Bruce Eveslage. He collected them from his place across the Ohio River in Floyds Knobs, Indiana. One tree is male; the other female—essential for seed set. I can already imagine a crop of dark blue seeds, hanging from bright red stems.

Noble Boswell took me into the woods, across the river for a late afternoon hunt for morels. Noble, a gifted woodsman with a sharp eye, said morels (he calls them dry land fish) could be found when the oak leaves are the size of a squirrel’s ear. Noble’s a pro. He found a dozen or so morels.

I found one.

My sister Nancy was visiting with her friend Meg. I cut my one morel into four pieces and cooked them on the stovetop in olive oil with salt and pepper. “That’s it?” they asked, pointing the finger at their miniscule portions. Rose joined the laughter but they agreed: the miniscule mushroom slivers were tasty.

Sofia, Story, Salvisa, daffodils 040719

What a wonderful April.

May we all be blessed with sun-drenched dreams of an eternal train ride of spring blooms, sprinkled with a few extra morels.

        You Don’t Want to Miss the Spring Train to Serendipity originally appeared on GardenRant on May 1, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/05/you-dont-want-to-miss-the-spring-train-to-serendipity.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

You Don’t Want to Miss the Spring Train to Serendipity

Rose and I had an idea for a family homecoming last month. We hosted our kids for a week on the spring train to Serendipity.

Our son lives with his wife in London; our daughter and granddaughter live in Bellingham, WA. The plan worked. It was great to have the kids home.

Our children have always enjoyed the outdoors—in backyards, parks, gardens and the wild. Molly and Cooper, when they were young, even made a little walk-around money, collecting black-eyed Susan seeds for Jelitto Perennial Seeds, my old employer.

Cooper, Story, Rufus and Rose in George Rogers Clark Park in Louisville, KY.

Molly and Story at Bernheim Forest and Research Arboretum in Clermont, KY.

Our granddaughter, Story, has devoured nature’s surprises from a very young age. She’s 12 now and shows no signs of letting up. This past January, for instance, Story took a New Year’s Day polar plunge into Bellingham’s chilly Lake Padden. While visiting us, she jumped into Salvisa’s Salt River with her friend Sofia.The river’s temperature was a chilly 55F. Story is a Pisces water bug.

I myself am astrologically challenged. I prefer a warm threshold above 70F before I dip my toes in the water.

I don’t want to think about summer’s heat and oppressive humidity just as Kentucky begins to shed dormancy, when skies are blue and temperatures are mild. I outlasted winter by hoping with every fiber to be reborn in April. I succeeded. Sometimes spring blooms and lucky stars are waiting at the station. You don’t want to miss Serendipity. Summer can wait.

Seven years ago, we began binge-planting 500 daffodil bulbs in a two-and-a-half-acre field, adjacent to the Salt River. We kept up the fall ritual for five years.  Peak daffodil bloom was a week late this year, but it was serendipitously perfect. It was time for a party.

The chartreuse maple catkins arrived at the Serendipity platform in early April. If your eyes were peeled, you could see 100-foot trees in the distance, beginning to light up woodlands. Before a week went by, the redbud blooms splashed roadsides, followed lickety-split by white-flowering dogwoods. Spring beauties gave way to carpets of mayapples, woodland phlox and larkspur.

Mayapples with woodland phlox and Jacob’s ladder.

Larkspur, Delphinium tricorne.

Cooper, Kylie, Molly and Story returned to their respective homes to catch a glimpse of what spring had to offer in London and Bellingham. I’m waiting for field reports on what their daffodils looked like, but Salvisa’s never looked better.

There was no stopping springtime in Kentucky. Everyone I’ve asked around here agreed with the assessment of April’s abundance. I haven’t met a naysayer yet, though I remember when old timers used to preach the flipside of too much of a good thing. “We’re going to pay for it,” they would say. Heaven help us.Surely, we can hold onto this surprising spring goodness for a few more weeks.

When the daffodils finished blooming in the bottomland, they were followed by beaked corn salad, Valerianella radiata, that popped up voluntarily and keeps spreading magnificently in the wet bottomland it prefers. A record rainfall helped last year. The leaves of this native annual have a delicious lettuce-like flavor. We mow the field a month after the beaked corn salad is finished blooming in order to allow the seed to ripen and the daffodil foliage to go dormant.

Beaked corn salad in Salvisa.

The “spicily perfumed,” white-flowering witch alder, Fothergilla major, was planted intentionally in our garden 20 years ago. The golden ragwort, Senecio aureus, muscled its way in ten years ago. The unassuming yellow daisy made itself at home along a built dry creek bed designed and built by Bruce Carnahan for storm water drainage. I couldn’t have dreamed up the plant combination but I was happy with the surprise. The golden ragwort is a great, native groundcover, even though some might argue that it is a weedy thug.

Fothergilla major and golden ragwort.

I play it safe to avoid a runaway train—the possibility of thousands of seeds blowing away in every direction. I cut most of the blooms as soon as soon they’re finished. I don’t mind a few odd seedlings popping up. I am happy to have Fothergilla and a ribbon of flowering Senecio aureus parked at the railway station.

The dainty blooms of leatherwood (Dirca) and spicebush (Lindera) faded just as two sassafras trees began blooming for the first time. I started the sassafras from seeds given to me years ago by Bruce Eveslage. He collected them from his place across the Ohio River in Floyds Knobs, Indiana. One tree is male; the other female—essential for seed set. I can already imagine a crop of dark blue seeds, hanging from bright red stems.

Noble Boswell took me into the woods, across the river for a late afternoon hunt for morels. Noble, a gifted woodsman with a sharp eye, said morels (he calls them dry land fish) could be found when the oak leaves are the size of a squirrel’s ear. Noble’s a pro. He found a dozen or so morels.

I found one.

My sister Nancy was visiting with her friend Meg. I cut my one morel into four pieces and cooked them on the stovetop in olive oil with salt and pepper. “That’s it?” they asked, pointing the finger at their miniscule portions. Rose joined the laughter but they agreed: the miniscule mushroom slivers were tasty.

Sofia, Story, Salvisa, daffodils 040719

What a wonderful April.

May we all be blessed with sun-drenched dreams of an eternal train ride of spring blooms, sprinkled with a few extra morels.

        You Don’t Want to Miss the Spring Train to Serendipity originally appeared on GardenRant on May 1, 2019.

from GardenRant http://bit.ly/2Y3bzJl

[babakziai]

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men’s have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon’s spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare; But this was for my father’s faith I suffer’d chains and courted death; That father perish’d at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling place; We were seven—who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finish’d as they had begun, Proud of Persecution’s rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have seal’d, Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;— Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and grey, Dim with a dull imprison’d ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left; Creeping o’er the floor so damp, Like a marsh’s meteor lamp: And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years—I cannot count them o’er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop’d and died, And I lay living by his side. They chain’d us each to a column stone, And we were three—yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other’s face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight: And thus together—yet apart, Fetter’d in hand, but join’d in heart, ‘Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other’s speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon stone, A grating sound, not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be: It might be fancy—but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do—and did my best— And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother’s brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven— For him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distress’d To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day— (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)— A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer’s gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun: And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others’ ills, And then they flow’d like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr’d to view below. The other was as pure of mind, But form’d to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which ‘gainst the world in war had stood, And perish’d in the foremost rank With joy:—but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither’d with their clank, I saw it silently decline— And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter’d feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay: We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d; And I have felt the winter’s spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rock’d, And I have felt it shake, unshock’d, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that ’twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter’s fare, And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives’ tears Have moisten’d many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow men Like brutes within an iron den; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother’s soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain’s side; But why delay the truth?—he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,— Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died—and they unlock’d his chain, And scoop’d for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine—it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer— They coldly laugh’d—and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such Murder’s fitting monument! But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherish’d since his natal hour, His mother’s image in fair face The infant love of all his race His martyr’d father’s dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired— He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither’d on the stalk away. Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood: I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood, I’ve seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors—this was woe Unmix’d with such—but sure and slow: He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender—kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow’s ray; An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright; And not a word of murmur—not A groan o’er his untimely lot,— A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence—lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting Nature’s feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listen’d, but I could not hear; I call’d, for I was wild with fear; I knew ’twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonishèd; I call’d, and thought I heard a sound— I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him:—I found him not, I only stirred in this black spot, I only lived, I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath— My brothers—both had ceased to breathe: I took that hand which lay so still, Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive— A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne’er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope—but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well—I never knew— First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too: I had no thought, no feeling—none— Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and grey; It was not night—it was not day; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness—without a place; There were no stars, no earth, no time, No check, no change, no good, no crime But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! A light broke in upon my brain,— It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard, And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track; I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done, But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch’d, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne’er shall see its likeness more: It seem’d like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon’s brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in wingèd guise, A visitant from Paradise; For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile— I sometimes deem’d that it might be My brother’s soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then ’twas mortal well I knew, For he would never thus have flown— And left me twice so doubly lone,— Lone as the corse within its shroud, Lone as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate; I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe, But so it was:—my broken chain With links unfasten’d did remain, And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun, Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers’ graves without a sod; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crush’d heart felt blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all, Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No child, no sire, no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barr’d windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them—and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high—their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O’er channell’d rock and broken bush; I saw the white-wall’d distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; A small green isle, it seem’d no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o’er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem’d joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem’d to fly; And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled—and would fain I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o’er one we sought to save,— And yet my glance, too much opprest, Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days— I kept no count, I took no note— I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free; I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where; It was at length the same to me, Fetter’d or fetterless to be, I learn’d to love despair. And thus when they appear’d at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home: With spiders I had friendship made And watch’d them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn’d to dwell; My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:—even I Regain’d my freedom with a sigh. Lord Byron (George Gordon) BiographyMore poems by this author Poem of the Day: The Prisoner of Chillon Poem of the Day: The Prisoner of Chillon Poem of The Day {$excerpt:n} Source: Poem of The Day

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