#if you insist that it's impossible to be an authority without being a tyrant

[rhowena]

"I have had the capability to pull the strings behind the most powerful thrones in Exandria for some time. And I've only done so towards these ends. I don't wish to control. I don't wish to be a tyrant. I just want them gone."

The irony of this statement is that Ludinus's single-minded obsession with killing the gods is precisely what makes him so controlling and tyrannical. He could have spent this entire time using his extended lifespan to shape the Dwendalian Empire into a glittering jewel of a kingdom, as J'mon Sa Ord has done with Ank'Harel. He could have channeled his negative experiences with authority into offering the people under him the kind of support he wishes he'd received, as Vex has been doing in Whitestone and Emon. He could take five minutes out of his day once in a while to spend some low-level spell slots or short rest resources helping people he crosses paths with, as Trist and Ayden did multiple times during Downfall. Instead, he's stayed focused entirely on himself and his petty personal vendetta.

[tossawary]

wait can we hear more about da ge mbj au I'm very interested

MBJ getting abandoned as a child makes me enjoy imagining him being soft for babies, especially demon babies. Which made me want to see SQH put into a situation with a lost demon child and MBJ getting to see that. 

Which ended in 3,000 words of canon divergence fic.

-

The situation was bad. 

 Airplane’s fellow An Ding disciples were dead. 

 There was a young demon lord unconscious in front of him, probably dying, and Airplane couldn’t bring himself to bring down the rock in his hand. 

 His hand was shaking. He couldn’t make it stop. 

 This System really didn’t give a fuck about the author’s wishes, huh? Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky had been shoved into one of the worst character roles in Proud Immortal Demon Way and left to take the long way around to the plot. Now he was being told that his favorite character was expendable? Irrelevant? Talk about insult to injury! Nothing was sacred here, was it? 

 Airplane put down the rock. 

 Then he picked up the rock again. 

 He looked at it. 

 Then he hurled the rock away and put his head in his hands instead. 

 He came to a decision - a shitty decision for a shitty situation - and got to work saving his future murderer’s life. At least he would know some of what to expect if he kept the storyline mostly the same! Besides, his life wasn’t good enough to be that concerned about it! Maybe the System would put him into a decent role next time! 

 Maybe it was empathy at seeing someone being fucked over by the System! 

 Airplane did his best to slow down Mobei-Jun’s bleeding and loaded the man into the cart. He also did his best to ignore all the dead bodies around them. Gross. 

 That should have been that! He should have then been on his way to continue making a really bad decision in a really bad situation. But as Airplane moved to leave the scene of a massacre behind him, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He startled, snapping around, prepared to defend himself physically or verbally! 

 Instead, he saw a baby. 

 Ah, well, not a baby baby! But a child somewhere between the ages of three and four years old! A chubby one too! The chubby child was crouched halfway behind a tree, looking at Airplane with wide eyes, little hands clawing anxiously into the grass. It was impossible to miss their little pointed ears and the blue mark in the middle of their forehead. How could anyone miss that kind of family resemblance? 

 The demon child froze upon being noticed. 

 Airplane looked between the demon child and the young demon lord in the card, but the similarities only got stronger the longer he looked! 

 Holy shit! 

 HOLY FUCKING SHIT! 

 But he didn’t remember Mobei-Jun having a child! He remembered Mobei-Jun having siblings, sure, but he was pretty sure that... he’d alluded to Mobei-Jun’s uncle doing away with most of them. Did that mean that this child was supposed to… die? 

 This situation had gotten even worse. 

 Leaving a child here to die was… pretty bad. Airplane had done some not very good things to make it in this world and in his sect without losing any sleep over it at all, but the idea of leaving this child to die made Airplane want to be sick! At least, as soon as he realized that if Mobei-Jun had been protecting this demon child and woke up to find this demon child missing, then Airplane would be really, truly, totally fucked no matter how tightly he hugged the man’s thighs! 

 It looked like the demon child had to come too. 

 How the fuck did a person go about catching a demon child?! 

 “Is… this your gege?” Airplane tried carefully. “Is this your gege here?” 

 The demon child didn’t respond. 

 Airplane gestured at Mobei-Jun repeatedly, unsure how to get the message across. “Is this your gege?” he said, louder. “Baba? ...No? Not Baba? Da-Ge? Are you his didi?” 

 That got a blink. 

 “Didi?” Airplane repeated, desperately. “Come here, Didi.” 

 Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky hadn’t handled children since his last life. He’d been one of the younger siblings in Shang Qinghua’s family, so he hadn’t been involved in any of the child-rearing before leaving. But Airplane’s experience wasn’t very good! Some forced babysitting of his father’s do-over children and his mother’s stepchildren’s children didn’t make him an expert! And this was a demon baby! 

 “Didi, your gege needs you,” Airplane wheedled. “Come here! Come on!” 

 Slowly, the demon child began to crawl over towards the cart. 

 “Your gege is hurt and needs help,” Airplane said, in most most soothing and also urgent voice. It was a weird balance! “Come on! Come along! Didi, your gege needs help. He’s hurt. Come here, please, that’s it! That’s right! Good job! You’re doing such a good job coming up here for your gege! We need to get your gege somewhere safe!” 

 The demon child made it to the cart, trying to stay on the far side of it and away from Airplane. Airplane tried not to make himself look too threatening. He also tried not to contemplate his apparent natural talent for kidnapping children, which probably wasn’t something to make a person feel proud. 

 “Didi, can I pick you up? Didi, can I lift you up next to your gege?” 

 Reluctantly, the demon child lifted his chubby arms and let Airplane slowly approach him. Airplane carefully put his hands under their armpits and then hefted them into the cart beside Mobei-Jun. The demon child nearly kicked him in the gut, struggling to get to the unconscious and injured ice demon! 

 “Ah, be careful of the injury-!” Airplane said, trying to move the child back. “OW!” 

 The demon child bit him. 

 Airplane yanked his poor hand back. “You little fucker! Ah, fine! Curl up in your gege’s blood and see if I care,” he muttered. “Let’s just get out of here already.” 

 The demon child curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side and Shang Qinghua got back into the driver’s seat of the cart. Trying to channel his spiritual energy for healing purposes while focusing on driving was hard. Even if he could have managed it properly, he still would have been stuck with an aching hand as it healed, which didn’t make him feel very charitable towards the demons in the back seat. 

 Ungrateful! The both of them! 

 When they finally got to a decent hiding place, unloading Mobei-Jun was nothing less than a pain in the ass. Airplane was forced to negotiate with a two-foot tyrant with needle-sharp teeth who didn’t want to move and didn’t want Airplane to touch his gege. Airplane was forced to wheedle like never before. 

 “Your gege is hurt, but I can help him,” Airplane insisted soothingly. “See that place? It’s safe in there! Don’t you want your gege to be somewhere nice and safe, where no one can see him and I can heal him? Look at that hiding spot! It’s a good hiding spot. We all need to go into the hiding spot now. We’re all going into the hiding spot. Come on, Didi, help me get your gege into the nice, safe hiding spot. Come on now. Be good.” 

 The demon child bared his teeth as Airplane helped him down from the cart, but thankfully didn’t bite again. The demon child then hugged Airplane’s shins very unhelpfully as Airplane hefted Mobei-Jun into his arms. 

 Airplane was forced to shuffle. 

 He never thought he’d be so grateful for all the carrying that An Ding Peak forced its disciples to do! Sometimes, carrying things around was all Airplane did all day long and now it was paying off! Airplane wasn’t as strong as some of his peers, sure, but he still managed to carry a giant ice demon into the “hiding spot” with a little ice demon attached to his leg. He counted himself grateful there was only one Mobei-Jun to deliver inside, because he couldn’t have handled more. 

 Once inside, the demon child curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side again. Airplane took the opportunity to look after the cart’s beast of burden and unload the supplies from the cart, searching desperately for the medical supplies their mission had been allotted. When he finally found the medicine, returning triumphantly, the demon child was ungratefully unenthusiastic about Airplane’s careful approach. 

 “Ah, Didi, don’t growl at me! See, look! Look! It’s medicine! Medicine for your gege to stop the bleeding and... make sure his organs go back on the inside. Eugh. Ah, anyway, I’m helping. It’s okay because I’m helping. See, look, I’m helping. It’s okay.” 

 Airplane managed to get pretty far before the demon child couldn’t take it anymore and tried to bite him again. Airplane shrieked, but managed to wrestle the demon child off him, and ended up grabbing some of the food supplies as a desperate distraction. 

 “Bite this! Bite this! Didi, look, it’s food! Food for Didi!” 

 The demon child growled, but putting the food directly in front of his face caught his attention. The demon child’s eyes narrowed in on the food in a super predatory way that was unseen in human babies. Airplane gladly made the sacrifice. He threw the food to the demon child, who scrambled to catch it, gave it a sniff, and then started to hesitantly nibble on it before taking bigger bites. 

 “See? Don’t bite your Shang-Gege and he’ll give you food instead,” Airplane muttered, quickly turning his attention to the bigger demon. “You stay there and chew that and let me help your gege. I’m helping. I’m helping. I’m helping. Shang-Gege is helping Didi’s gege. Everything is good. Everything is okay. There’s no need for biting.” 

 Airplane didn’t really know how much the demon child understood of what he was saying. The demon child looked more than old enough to understand basic speech. He at least understood “stay”, Airplane decided, by sitting off to the side and anxiously chewing through dried food supplies while Airplane worked rearranging Mobei-Jun’s guts and then bandaging up the blood mess. 

 Maybe it helped to see that Airplane had no intention of eating the unconscious and vulnerable Mobei-Jun or something. He was pretty sure that was a demon thing. 

 He couldn’t bring himself to think about what he was doing! 

 If he thought about his actions here, he was going to throw up or something! 

 So long as he kept his hands moving here, he didn’t have to think about anything. He was just an An Ding Peak disciples hard at work betraying the sect. Yeah. 

 Eventually, Mobei-Jun was in as good a shape as Airplane could get him. The demon child - Didi, Airplane decided to call him - was curled up into a ball beside where Mobei-Jun was lying. Didi looked like he was forcing himself to stay alert. 

 “It’s all okay now,” Airplane said. “See? I helped. Shang-Gege helped your gege. Your Gege needs to sleep to get better and now you can sleep beside him.” 

 Airplane washed himself as best he could and tried to wash Didi a little, but the demon child was resistant and snapped at him. Airplane, expecting this now, successfully dodged the snap and wiped at Didi’s face. Trying to be nice was too much work! Airplane’s clean-up job ended up being pretty shitty. There was no doing anything about Mobei-Jun’s blood staining Didi’s clothes around the knee and elbow. 

 “Ah, fine, curl up in blood again, you little brat,” Airplane sighed. 

 Didi curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side again and, apparently, immediately fell asleep. 

 Airplane secured their hiding place as best he could, took stock of their pitiful amount of resources, and tried not to panic about what the fuck he was was going to do now. He was exhausted. Saving two ungrateful demons was hard work. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He was pretty sure he had just made the worst mistake of his life, but it was a little late to change things now. 

 Airplane found a good patch of floor to watch over the demons and let himself collapse. He was too tired to think anymore. There were too many things to think about. 

 He hoped that Mobei-Jun didn’t die. Demons were hardy and demon lords were even hardier, but the real world that had been made out of his shitty web-novel was really unpredictable sometimes. For all Airplane knew, Mobei-Jun was going to develop an infection and a fever. Maybe Mobei-Jun would die anyway and Airplane was going to be stuck with a bitey demon brat who hated him. 

 Airplane yawned. Keeping his eyes open was becoming really hard. Fuck. 

 Watching Didi’s back go up and down with his unconscious breaths was pretty mesmerizing. It was really tempting to sneak over there and pinch one of those chubby, chubby cheeks. Or those cute demon ears. But the demon child looked almost as tired as Airplane felt and probably bit in his sleep. 

 Airplane really didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d just taken off with Mobei-Jun, not knowing the demon child had been hiding nearby. That might have been the worst possible situation. Didi was dirty and exhausted now, sure, but he looked like one of those babies who should have been spoiled and happy all the time, and not mercilessly abandoned to the human world.  

-

 Airplane woke up with a hand around his throat, squeezing. 

 There was a dark shadow above him and an even darker feeling in the air. The hand at his throat felt freezing cold. The air was burning with hateful demonic energy that felt like acid on his skin. Airplane struggled, but it was all immoveable. 

 “Where is he?” the shadow snarled. 

 Airplane choked. 

 His shadowy attacker belatedly seemed to realize that Airplane couldn’t talk when he was being choked to death! The squeezing let up enough for Airplane to breathe again. His lungs felt like they were burning hot and cold! His throat felt crushed and ruined. 

 “What did you do with him?” the attacker demanded. 

 “...W-wh…?” 

 “The child! Where is the child?!” 

 Airplane realized here that he was looking into the face of his future murderer. It was hard to make out in the darkness when he was being choked! 

 Mobei-Jun looked wild. His eyes looked like lightning. 

 “The ch-child… ch- chi- is-” 

 Mobei-Jun snarled again with impatience. 

 Even though it definitely wasn’t Airplane’s fault he couldn’t talk coherently! 

 “H-here,” Airplane choked out. 

 Mobei-Jun’s grip tightened, but then the man froze. His head snapped to the side. 

 Airplane followed the demon lord’s gaze. 

 Through the darkness, if Airplane squinted, he could see a small figure crouched by the supplies. Didi was frozen, watching them, chubby cheeks stuffed with stolen food. 

 Oh, there weren’t words for what Airplane wanted to say to the brat! Sneaking around like this in the middle of the night! Nearly getting Airplane strangled for no reason! 

 Mobei-Jun released Airplane immediately and flew across the room to the demon child, who threw up his arms immediately. Mobei-Jun took his younger brother into his arms and then collapsed heavily to the floor. By the sound of it, he crushed some of their precious food supplies as he fell! But the man was too busy wrapping his arms around the demon child to care about things like that, letting Didi sob into his chest, glaring at Airplane over the demon child’s head. 

 Airplane kept his distance! He knew better than to get anywhere near that! 

 The silence was very heavy. 

 He was certain that Mobei-Jun had reopened his wounds, if they had managed to close at all! As time trickled by them, he could see red seeping down the man’s side. 

 “...There are more bandages,” Airplane said finally, hoarsely. 

 Mobei-Jun’s scowl deepened, his lip curling. 

 “Ah… if- if you want them.” 

 What an asshole! 

 Airplane stayed put and didn’t make any sudden moves. 

 His throat felt like shit, so he tried to heal it with his spiritual energy. It was hard to focus with the demon lord glaring at him like that, on the other side of the room, but he didn’t really have anything better to do. There were only so many names he could silently call this ungrateful young demon who’d attacked the bro who’d saved his life! 

 At least Mobei-Jun hadn’t bitten him too. 

 Time trickled by and by. Eventually, Mobei-Jun’s eyelids began to droop close. The man’s injury appeared to be pulling him back under, whether he liked it or not. 

 After Mobei-Jun’s eyes had closed without opening for a long time, Airplane finally risked moving again. Mobei-Jun didn’t wake up, but Didi’s eyes fixed on Airplane, which made Airplane fear being bitten as he carefully came closer. 

 “Ahhh, see? Your gege is fine. I’m just… just going to put him back to bed, alright? You- don’t get up… just stay there and don’t bite me. We’re putting gege back to bed.” 

 Airplane dragged Mobei-Jun back to where the man had been before, with Didi staying put on his elder brother’s chest. Airplane was sure that this couldn’t be good for the demon lord’s wounds! But clearly Mobei-Jun didn’t give a shit about his own health! 

 “Didi, can you get off gege’s chest? Keep hugging him, just slide off, please? Gege is hurt, remember? Gege is hurt and we need to help him. See, he’s bleeding. Please let your Shang-Gege help again and don’t bite me. Everyone is fine. Everyone is happy. Everyone is getting along just fine and helping and healing. There’s no need to bite your Shang-Gege who is only helping, okay?” 

 Didi was more cooperative this time, sliding off Mobei-Jun chest to hug his less-injured side, while Airplane poked at the demon lord’s bleeding. The injuries looked… a lot better than Airplane would have expected them to. This healing rate was nothing short of astounding. Was this the power of an OP demon lord? How unfair! 

 Airplane did his best fixing the man up again. 

 He should have just let the man rot! 

 Mobei-Jun had just tried to kill him again! He would totally deserve it! 

 But there was a demon child carefully watching and Airplane didn’t want to end up with custody if his future murderer died here after all. What would he do with a demon child? Take them back to the sect?! His master would love that, he’s sure! 

 “Ah, looks like he’s getting lots better,” Airplane told Didi hoarsely, rubbing at his poor throat. “You’re doing a good job looking after him. Good job helping your gege. Keep helping his sleep, okay? Stay right there and don’t go sneaking off again, okay? Please don’t go sneaking off again, your Shang-Gege won’t be able to take it.” 

 Didi just blinked at him. 

 “Good job,” Airplane said. “Good job. Shang-Gege is… going to make sure that everything is okay outside. You stay here and protect your gege. Good job.” 

 That said, Airplane crept backwards, got up, and went outside. 

 Once outside, he promptly fell to his knees and curled in on himself. 

 “Holy fucking shit,” he said. 

[inkribbon796]

The Emissaries of Death and War Ch. 2: Not So Different

Summary: After stopping Wil, old enemies get to talk.

Chapters: 1, 2

After a little bit of a chase and a struggle, Dark, Techno, and Philza were able to stop Wil. Techno being the one to physically knock down and keep a hold on the madman.

Dark sent Wil to the Void and held him there until he calmed down. It took a while but the next time Wil saw Techno he seemed to be fine.

Wilford was being brought back in while Techno was conducting something of a report on the fight.

“Not too bad, you raised a couple half decent fighters, well except for the new one,” Techno told Dark. “Or, I assume he’s your newest, the other two are better fighters, so . . .”

As Techno trailed off, Bim felt his face heat with shame. Yes, he was the youngest, but he was not the newest. He was Dark’s kid!

“Geez, Techno, you didn’t rough them up too much did yah[1]?” Philza cackled. “Hardly fair. We should’a gone ta find Tommy. That would have been more fair, man.”[2]

“Nah, against these three?” Techno scoffed angrily, “they would have torn through him like wet tissue paper.”

“Come on, mate, he’s not that bad,” Philza tried to defend from the other room.

Philza had paused to look at the large portrait in the hall, and smiled before only now starting to catch up with the rest of the group.

Techno took a couple steps so Phil could see his face and fixed him with a baleful glare.

Rolling his eyes, Phil added, “Okay, so he’s a shitehead[3] who’s done some shite[4] things, but he’s not a half bad fighter.”

“Uhh, brat was discorporated for the first time during a fist fight, you do the math,” Techno reminded coldly.

Phil frowned at him, huffing and looked around to see that the Entity was out on the back balcony. So as Wilford and Techno were talking with the three spawnlings, Phil decided he needed a change of company.

“How do you feel about anarchy?” Techno smiled at Wil, as Philza shook one of his wings and then pulled a bottle of Chardonnay out of it.

“What’s that?” Wilford asked with a huge smile on his face.

Techno gave a huge grin that Phil couldn’t help but copy that smile as Techno began to launch into — as Philza called it — his “fuck the government” spiel.

Instead of joining in, Philza walked out on the balcony to smile at Dark with his bottle of Chardonnay in his hands. “Come on, Ent, I’ve got your favorite.”

“I don’t get drunk anymore,” Dark warned, but summoned two glasses for them.

“Shame,” Phil chuckled. “You’re a fun drunk.”

“I have been rather reliably told that I become insufferable and impossible to deal with,” Dark corrected, opening the bottle and pouring out two drinks.

“By who?” Phil took the glass he was offered, swirling his aura in it a bit, Dark copying him before they both took the first sips. “You were a riot after Agra.”

“Exactly,” Dark pointedly didn’t answer the first question. “Besides, I have too much to worry about to get drunk on top of it.”

“Right, right, anyways I thought I saw traces ‘a[5] Phantom’s aura in town, thought he was with you,” Phil began. “What’s he up ta[6] these days?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Dark snarled.

“Ohhh,” Phil took another sip, “it was that bad huh? Sounds like yeh[1] traded up.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dark warned.

“Fair,” Phil allowed. “So what’s the new pact mate like, you two dating? Seems like it, looks all domestic in here.”

“We work together,” Dark answered, “everything else is our business.”

“True, true,” Philza agreed. “I’m just curious, we come inta[7] town and find out you’ve got a new pact mate, some spawnlings, and a body. Wanted to figure out how much had changed.”

Dark didn’t give a real comment to that, sipping on his wine.

“How many you got?” Phil leaned in a bit.

Dark considered for a second if Philza was going to talk to Phantom, then he said, “Six.”

“Oh yeah,” Phil whistled, “I saw the painting.”

“I need to move that thing back into my office, two of Wil’s boys insisted it be on display in the hall,” Dark scoffed. “We don’t even have guests over, I don’t know who they expect to see it.”

“Six is a lot, mate,” Phil reminded. “Sounds like you’ve been up ta[6] some mad fun. How old are they?”

“None of your business,” Dark told him firmly.

“Right,” Phil agreed. “But I gotta ask because I have to answer someone else’s question, it’s not about your spawnlings, it’s about mine.”

“You do have a reputation of picking fights with every lord and vizier in the world, unsurprising,” Dark responded. “How many did you keep?”

“I had two, one is, uh,” Philza paused and downed the rest of his glass before reaching to fill it up again. “He’s dead, and the other is off doing his own thing. An empath and a glitch.”

“Hmm,” Dark hummed as he sipped on his wine.

“Which do you have?” Phil asked.

Dark thought on if he should tell the avian, but figured that anyone who looked at the Lost Ones long enough could probably figure it out on their own. “Two deal makers, a showman, and the other three are all empaths, I’m fairly certain.”

“Are they all yours, or did your friend split some ‘a[5] them off?” Philza asked, if he was surprised or impressed he didn’t show it.

Dark wasn’t going to answer, was about to brush it off, but the Entity felt a deep twinge of pain. It wasn’t bad, but it did hurt, and Dark fought the urge to cough.

Phil looked over Dark’s shoulder and smiled, “Hello, who are you? You one ‘a[5] his lot?”

Grabbing his chest, Dark looked around at his echoes, his red was fine, but his blue one was clutching his chest in obvious pain. But that wasn’t the real problem.

His echo didn’t look like him, he looked like Damien! Dark almost screamed in surprise but after a second or two of shock, his aura shot out and dragged his blue soul back in and the echo of course screamed and tried to fight him out of fear. The outside balcony lights flickered, but eventually everything was still and calm again and Dark told Phil, who was just staring at him, “Ignore him, that is not a spawnling.”

“I didn’t hit yah[1] too hard, did I, mate?” Philza asked in concern. “You splitting?”

“I’m fine,” Dark snapped, and slammed his fists down and her body changed to match her red one, forcing her blue soul deep into the back of their soul.

“That’s a neat trick,” Phil commented, “now I can’t see why you’re in a body if it does that.”

“Yes,” Dark stood up, “now, I think we’ve left the others alone for too long.”

Philza was quiet for a moment before he stood up as well, “Yeah, probably. Don’t know how yours are, but Techno’s usually good ta[6] leave to his own devices. He’s not the one I was always worried about.”

“Really?” Dark commented, her aura holding the door open for Phil.

“Oh yeah, anytime I left my two boys alone they always got into some trouble,” Phil smiled warmly. “Tommy still gets inta[7] trouble.”

“Spawnlings do tend to do that,” Dark agreed and they saw the group sitting in the living room as Wil was telling one of his stories and Techno occasionally cutting in with comments or his own stories.

Dark was able to stay calm and collected during the rest of the visit. Techno did give an eyebrow raise at her changed body but didn’t give any other type of comment. Wil did naturally fawn over her but after their guests left so did the Host, saying his goodbyes and Dark sent him back to the heroes’ base.

It was quite possibly the only time she was happy to see the Host go. As much as Dark cared for the young man, Host tended to be a bit nosy and he always seemed like he knew what was going on.

And Dark didn’t need that right now. She needed to sort out what had been bothering her aura. For weeks she’d been wondering, and now she knew.

There was something wrong with her blue soul! That’s what the problem was! Which explained why she could hide it better when she was using her red one.

Dark had let this go on for too long, and she had to act fast before her blue soul did irreparable damage.

Techno and Philza were halfway out of Egoton, heading out of the city through Brighton, when Illinois caught up with them. He wasn’t really trying to disguise his approach and Philza’s crows warned him the young man was following them before Techno heard him coming.

Techno’s sword came out and the voices began clamor for a new fight. “Round two then?”

“Nah,” Illinois was flipping his lucky coin in the air. “Just wanted to talk without my mom listening in. She tends to get a little antsy when I’m on my own.”

“Illinois right?” Philza smiled.

“Heh,” Techno snickered, “were you born there?”

Illinois took a deep breath, “I was born in Ohio.”

“Missed opportunity, then,” Techno chuckled, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s a name,” Illinois defended. “Anyways, I came to ask you two something.”

“Sure,” Techno glanced at Phil.

“I kindly request you leave my brothers and sister out of whatever fight you have with our father,” Illinois told them. “You deal with him, and me, and that’s it.”

“Oh is that how it is?” Techno stared at Illinois with a fire burning in his eyes.

“You two strike me as the type to like a good fight, I’m more powerful, as you saw with my baby brother, besides me and Host they don’t really have a lot of aura worthy of a good fight.”

Techno thought on that for a second, “You know you’re starting to speak more of my language.”

Illinois smiled back, “So let’s leave the little kids out of it.”

“Careful Junior,” Phil warned and watched Illinois’s eye twitch angrily at the nickname. “Yer[8] a kid yourself. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“We have a deal or not?” Illinois redirected the conversation.

Techno hummed, “That depends on how much of an iron-booted tyrant your old man is, but the fact that your brothers don’t seem to be all that beholden to authority is very intriguing.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Illinois scoffed. “They don’t have to help run the business.”

The two veteran warriors glanced at each other before Phil chuckled, “We’ll make yeh[1] a counter-deal, mate, your siblings don’t mess with us and we’ll pretend that Ent only has one kid.”

Illinois glared at them but flipped his coin again before stowing it back into his pocket. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.”

“It is, now if you’ll excuse us, we have a train to catch and all,” Phil grinned and they left, Phil’s wings fluttering as he walked and Techno always keeping an eye on him.

When he was sure they were out of the city, Illinois returned to the Manor to talk with Dark, while Techno and Philza got on a train that led from Brighton to Northern Scotland where they were currently hiding out. Phil had paid extra to make sure their trip stayed as quiet and private as possible, in that if he had to he bought extra tickets.

The Blood God did have to make his face look a touch more human instead of the mask he always wore so they weren’t given much trouble.

Techno was settling down for a long nap, trying to calm the voices on his head enough to relax, and only sleep could grant that calm silence to him.

Besides them, the car they were in had a couple other people but their little four-seat section was empty apart from them.

Until someone came over to sit down.

Initially, Phil wanted to chew the guy out but he saw the green hoodie and the familiar face, along with the white smiley face mask in his hands. So instead he just groaned and poked his blood brother in the arm, “Tech.”

“Hnghmmm,” Techno groaned, still awake enough for Phil to rouse him back to consciousness. “What do you want, Dream? I was kinda busy sleeping.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk with you before you drifted off again,” Dream told them. “I need you two to come back to Gainesville. I need you to find someone for me.”

“Dude we just got on this thing, yeh[1] couldn’t have called us earlier?” Phil groaned, looking out the window. “We’ve got Tech’s dogs ta[6] feed back home.”

“You cashing in your favor so soon?” Techno smiled eagerly, leaning in. “You calling it in?”

“What?” Dream smiled deviously. “For something this petty? No, I just figured you might want in on this. But if you want to head back to Inverness, that’s fine. I won’t stop you.”

“So, what’s the problem, mate?” Phil sighed.

“There’s a Legate in Gainesville, I’ve been tracking his legion’s movements for a while now, and he apparently hates making himself known,” Dream explained.

“You sure it’s not just an empath with a ton of spawnlings,” Techno rolled his eyes. “Everytime I go to find and fight one it’s always some empath hoarding their kids.”

“Positive, I wasn’t sure a couple weeks ago, which is why I didn’t waste your time with it before,” Dream dismissed cooly. “But he’s real, and this Legion has apparently been operating in Gainesville for the past twenty-five, thirty, years or so. The Entity hasn’t even seen him, he’s that secretive. His legion is apparently seven strong.”

Phil hummed in uncertainty but Techno was all smiles.

“We’re still heading back home, got some things ta[6] sort out, mate,” Phil gave Techno a look.

“Fine, I need to train anyways,” Techno huffed, a nasal growl in his voice. “Don’t wanna[9] be rusty.”

“That’s fair,” Dream stood up, taking a fair sized green box out of his pocket and giving it to. “You two know where to find me.”

“If you can get me some scents, I might bring some of my dogs over,” Techno promised.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Dream gave him a huge smile and put on his mask before walking off the train.

Another five minutes passed and the train started moving. Techno took his much needed rest, and Philza settled down with a book in his hands as they train bypassed the barrier from the conjoined city and into the UK proper where it rocketed towards Scotland. The stars in the night sky above.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. you

2. Hardly fair. We should have gone to find Tommy. That would have been more fair, man.

3. shithead

4. shit

5. of

6. to

7. into

8. You’re

9. want to

[roxannepolice]

What do you think the odds are of dramatic tragedy Renperor happening, realistically? Without sugarcoating it or making reassuring platitudes about how he has to get redeemed?

Without lemoncoating: how likely is this story in a movie for 12 year olds? 

Surprisingly, I’m not actually making reassuring platitutes that he has to get redeemed - my belief he will get redeemed is a result of trying to conjure up other case scenarios and concluding they make no sense, either because they’re a bad story or not a story I would market to kids, a reductio ad absurdum, so to speak; and mind you, it’s the exactly same mindset that made me conclude epix is going to be one hell of a dramatic bumpy ride for that redemption to happen. Now, it is true that I will take that tragedy over a light side auto da fe or a completely empty fairy tale, but there really are better, more exciting alternatives: tragedy is always compelling - but a compelling comedy is better than most tragedies.

Let’s dissect Disney-LF’s gains and losses in killing him off unredeemed game theory style.

Gains: a) a loud minority of adult politically correct and infatuated with OT fans have their egos stroked; b) they can maintain Star Wars’ illusion of being a valid and almost literal socio-political commentary; c) they have a ready made compelling story by the grace of a tragedy; d) they kill off Skywalkers allowing for more freedom with future characters*

Losses: a) a whole generation of viewers ends up with trust issues and may be unwilling to watch their future installments, let alone pass the passion onto their children; b) the core message of the saga gets undermined - no bendemption makes Anakin’s redemption very empty; c) a story with the first SW movie female protagonist gets completely overshadowed by her tragic villain counterpart in a long run; d) SW solidifies itself as some distopian political satire which puts a shadow on all of their future installments; e) they essentially walk by the most interesting and challenging story they can tell; f) they break the poetical rythm.

Now, if anyone can show me what other gains Disney-LF has to make by leaving Ben unredeemeed, I will be glad to discuss. But game theory tells me that if I’m dealing with rational and intelligent players, there’s a 90% probability they’ll go the redemption route. And in the remaining 10% there’s 9% probability they’ll want to keep things simple and force him into a grotesque Palpatine 3.0. So on the whole, the tragedy of evil renperor has about 1% probability of happening. Of course, for a good drama, the question shouldn’t be what’s the most dramatic thing probable only what’s the most dramatic thing possible - which paradoxically increases the chances of going the tragic tyrant route - but the simple truth is the tragedy isn’t the most dramatic story possible - it would be if Rey and Ben where in a good place right now, which is why for heaven sake’s, reylos, don’t hope for secret force bond dates. The way tlj ended, the most dramatic story to tell is the majority of audience instinctively predicts and most theoreticians assume impossible - hea reylo.

*and I see that argument as actually a very weak one, because: a) hitherto they have been using the family for their profit in marketing, because even if Rey/Sky got outta hand by now it was JJ’s mystery box to keep audience invested between tfa and tlj b) seeing how we get Rey Kenobi, the fact that Kylo will die an apparent virgin won’t stop people from trying to connect future characters to the Skyfam, especially by insisting there was a Mara Jade c) you simply don’t finish off popcultural icons on a cautionary tale-subvert everything note: it’s essentially as if Doyle had Holmes die of cocaine overdose or Dumas had musketeers kill each other - or actually more: as if someone other than the authors created those endings and established them as canon.

[clairekatswritingcorner]

Where Do We Go From Here?

Word Count: 2,104

Summary: Alexys is the only one who believes in him, and part of that is only because she believes in herself. Despite the warning signs, she refuses to accept that there isn’t something redeemable in the alien overlord that was once a formidable enemy to she and her crew. Can her hope prevail over his malevolence?

*Author’s Note*: Another commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising, this time featuring her bad timeline canon AU for her selfship with Ug! Just by that description you should expect that it’s sad, and if you don’t, I’m telling you that it’s tragic and makes my heart hurt jfielshge BUT never fear, somewhere in there a happy ending can still be seen. I hope you enjoy!

A few weeks had passed since they’d managed to put the chaos to rest, but things were still pretty tense. Alexys was the one who shouldered the brunt of the burden, considering the integral role she’d played in creating this situation in the first place. Thanks to her, the fallout had caused less damage than expected, which was a relief no one took for granted. But she’d also convinced the crew to allow her to bring the TerraCor head back with them, alive and in one piece. Not everyone was keen on the idea from the beginning, and it had taken all of Alexys’s skill and persuasive power to convince them that this decision wouldn’t end up coming back to bite them. Their circumstances already couldn’t get much worse, which was probably why the team ended up caving to her proposition with minimal fuss.

Part of her was still in denial about the fact that she’d fought for such a cause at all. She had every right to be just as bitter as everyone else, to take her frustrations out on the man at the root of the nightmare they’d just barely managed to survive. He was ruthless and stubborn and unappealing…well, that last point was a little bit debatable in her eyes. Eyes whose opinion she wished she could have ignored, that she regretted letting sway her feelings in the first place. The man they’d captured and taken into their care was stoic and calculating and harsh, but Alexys was still able to see something more in him. She wasn’t entirely sure what that “more” happened to be yet, but she’d already decided that such information wasn’t essential for her to come to a conclusion.

It should have been, though. She should have used her head, listened to the others, taken their advice. She should have seen what they did, followed the thoughts and feelings they exhibited that were rationally guarded and judgmental. This alien tyrant didn’t deserve a second chance, didn’t deserve an opportunity to be rehabilitated, if such a thing was even possible. Something in Alexys desperately wanted to discover that it was, that she would be able to pull it off. She didn’t know the first thing about reforming someone’s bad habits, especially ones that were as nasty as his. Stampeding through the star systems and imposing his will on any and all that stood in his path. All he cared about was the wellbeing of his business—the entity, not the people.

He’d cost the crew members more than they cared to remember, but also what they swore they’d never forget. They couldn’t afford to, because they felt it was necessary to cling to the blame and rage that they’d cultivated towards this man who had become their natural enemy. So much conflict and confusion and pain…he’d instigated all of it, and yet Alexys wanted to keep him like a pet. She wanted to nurture him and help him see the error of his ways. The rest of the crew figured that receiving just punishment would be adequate enough to teach him a lesson, but the girl was insistent on not treating him with violence. To her, yielding to the encouragement of such malicious spite would only end up making them as bad as him.

They had a lot more to deal with upon their return to Earth than just the problems they brought back with them. That was another reason everyone had reluctantly deigned to agree with Alexys, because they didn’t have the energy or the focus to try to argue with her, knowing that in the end they still wouldn’t be able to change her mind. She was firm in her beliefs, and if she really wanted to be the one responsible for babysitting the heathen that’d threatened their lives, then what was the point of trying to stop her?

Well, it was the principle of the thing, really…none of them wanted to be forced to see the face of the man that’d caused them so much grief ever again, who had stolen so much from them, especially in Ethan’s case. Despite the close relationship he and Alexys shared, she wasn’t going to let it alter her conviction. Unfortunately, as a result, it seemed a rift had formed between them. Ethan rightfully felt betrayed, while Alexys felt guilty and confused about whether or not she’d actually done the right thing. She didn’t like knowing she’d hurt her friend, the boy who felt like family to her. He was still family in her eyes, but she wasn’t sure if he saw her that way anymore. As depressing as it was, they’d all lost someone, and if she could move past it and end up helping the culprit improve his ways and atone accordingly, then the extra suffering she was currently enduring would be worth it.

On the other hand, if he truly did end up changing his ways, Alexys wasn’t sure what she’d do. What could she do with someone like him, an alien with a merciless disregard for anything that didn’t suit him or his goals? He’d been somewhat cooperative with her so far, which was a good sign, but there was always a hint of caution in the back of her mind that was ready to pounce the moment something started to go wrong. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to fight or detain him on her own, which was an objective truth due to his strength. She’d seen what he could do with and without a weapon, and she was confident he’d be more than formidable in defending himself against even a group of trained athletes or soldiers. In a way, she supposed he could be seen as a soldier for his own cause. But he was going to have to let it rest, because that ship had sailed for him. Here on Earth, she was going to do whatever it took to impress the reality of his situation upon him.

They were sitting across from one another in the living room, her leaning against the armrest of her chair while he sat tied up in his own. A couple of her friends had made sure to tie him up tightly, and maybe even a little painfully. The alien didn’t mind, and for now neither did Alexys. His comfort wasn’t what was important, but his comprehension, his understanding. If she could get him to see things the way she and the rest of her friends did, maybe she’d have a better shot at convincing him why he needed to change. Whether he thought he’d done anything wrong or not, she was sure he had to have some sense of morals crammed in a dark corner of his subconscious, just waiting to be dusted off and put to good use again…if he’d ever even used them before, that is.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me all day?” His tone was thick with the implication that she was the one offending him. With a defiant huff she crossed her arms and settled back in her chair. “If I knew this is what I had to look forward to when I was brought to this bore of a planet, I would have put more effort into my escape.”

A bout of incredulous laughter burst forth from Alexys’s mouth. “Oh please. As if you have the means to try to escape now. How long are you going to keep this pompous leader complex up, anyway? Because I promise no one’s buying it anymore.”

“It’s not an act, it’s simply who I am,” he replied with a sneer, and Alexys shrugged.

“Well, you’re going to have to get over that eventually. Because no matter how much you want to be, that’s not who you are anymore. The people you controlled, the power you had, it’s all gone. Dust in the wind, never coming back. So, if you’re still interested in having some kind of meaningful future, you’ll stop being so arrogant and at least try to listen to what I have to say. What I’ve been saying for the past couple of weeks. I’m honestly getting tired of having to repeat myself.”

“Then you could just give up,” he challenged with a smirk, and Alexys was just a few seconds away from lunging over the table and punching him.

Instead, she stood up and made her way around the table in a much more civil, sensible manner. She leaned in close to his face, examining it for any trace of something salvageable she could work with. It was pretty hard, almost impossible, and the girl was starting to think maybe he was right. So much time and energy wasted on a lost cause, someone whose viewpoint wasn’t going to be influenced or budged no matter what she tried. But she couldn’t give up, not yet, maybe not ever. She’d vowed to make bringing this man back with them worth it, to have something to show after how hard she’d fought to make it happen. It was like they were caught up in an endless game, and somehow, he was playing it better than her without even knowing the rules. She wasn’t going to let him make her give in, though. If she ended up calling off this little arrangement, it would have to be on her terms.

He tried to shuffle away as she approached, but due to his restraints his movement was impaired to the point of immobility. He gritted his teeth in dissatisfaction, trying to overcome the urge to turn and look at her. There was something wrong with him every time he saw her face, something distracting and unpleasant. And the one thing that made it so unpleasant to him was that deep down…it actually wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t something he was trying to feel or think or do, but it seemed his mind and emotions had other plans, and they were running wild inside him with reckless abandon. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if such things persisted…he wasn’t sure what he could do about them as they stood now.

What happened next startled them both beyond belief. Without warning or even really meaning to, Alexys reached out and ruffled his hair. Usually smooth and slicked down, she’d done away with any and all remnants of the utilitarian style. Now his hair was sticking up in all directions, naturally fluffy, curly, and voluminous. There were lingering traces of whatever product he’d used on it here and there, but for the most part she’d rubbed it all out. Or at least, she’d given his hair the opportunity to return to its original state as opposed to being forced into boring flatness by his hideous air gel.

“What in the—what are you doing?” he was simultaneously annoyed and astonished, and he also wasn’t sure which reaction was more potent. “Don’t touch me, what were you thinking?”

“I like it.”

That simple phrase shut him up in a heartbeat. He looked at her out of reflex, and the moment his eyes fell upon her face, he swore his heart stopped completely. She was looking at him with such affection, such tenderness…the softest expression he’d ever seen anyone make in the entire universe. No, those unwanted feelings couldn’t be coming back, she couldn’t be doing this to him…but she was. He was helpless to her charm, a charm that she didn’t even know she possessed, and that she probably would have denied if someone tried pointing it out to her. But it was this charm that kept him here, convinced him to be as accommodating as his pride could tolerate. Every time she used it on him, he felt another piece of his resolve being chipped away, making room for the feelings that seemed to never stop expanding deep within him.

“So, Counselor—” The way she said his title made him shiver. His real name was Ug, the name he’d been christened with at birth. He preferred to be known by his official title, Counselor Tetra, head of the recently disbanded TerraCor. A name that had once struck fear and respect into the hearts of anyone who heard it. He didn’t plan on giving into his captors easily, granting them access to information as personal as his true identity, but even his skepticism was getting difficult to cling to. When she said it, or really anything addressing him, all he could think about was how much he wanted her to do it again. “Where do we go from here?”

[bookishmatt]

Cage Match 2013 Round 3: IT vs. Gandalf

(Originally posted on the since-retired Suvudu.com on March 13, 2013)

The Contestants

IT

A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle

Age: Unknown

Race: Unknown

Weapons / Artifacts: All the defenses of the planet Camazotz; intrusive telepathic powers

Special Attack: Erosion of the will and dominance of the spirit.

Advantages

Heavily guarded fortress

Vast intelligence

Disadvantages

Physically vulnerable

Mental powers can be overcome by emotions like love

Not used to being challenged

Kills

The Harpy Celaeno

The Thing – That’s that

Gandalf

J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings

Age: At least 20,000 years

Race: Maiar (wizard)

Weapons / Artifacts: Glamdring, a staff, and fireworks

Special Attack: Arriving precisely when he means to

Advantages

Seemingly immortal

Has beaten a Balrog

Good at shifting big responsibilities to small hobbits

Disadvantages

Love of the halfling’s weed

Kills

Professor Moriarty

Doctor Who – Is there a doctor in the house? Not anymore.

How we think the fight will go

A deathly cold wave of darkness was extending through the universe, reaching its oppressive tendrils through every corner of space, growing each day ever stronger, ever dominant. Camazotz, at the heart of the corruption, could not save itself. Even the mere thought of liberation would be quickly extinguished, and resistance to the the tyrant who would not stop until every world was on their knees would result in dominance to all but the cleverest opponents. The Ainur, divine architects of countless worlds, had been leading the battle against the influence of The Dark Thing and all of the evil it brings for thousands of years, empowering lesser beings — no matter how small or seemingly insignificant — to fight back against the dystopian plague.

Ever stalwart in their insistence not to defeat power by granting even greater power, the Ainur saw it fit to win their battles in a very lateral manner and had been known to send their heralds to guide halflings and children alike, whose unassuming natures were often met with underestimation. After all, not even a being that could manipulate matter and minds as though they were clay would suspect to be challenged by a child, and the folly of arrogance would decide the battles.

But then, of course, there was the war.

The side of good had been losing for too long, and the divine overseers of righteousness, whose light could not shine in the web surrounding the Dark planets, were becoming desperate to stem the flood waters. With Gallifrey and its people lost to time and Earth lacking in warriors, the Ainur turned to Arda.

When a higher being appeared before Gandalf the White in the Undying Lands, he answered the call dutifully. As a re-ascended Maiar, Gandalf could not refuse his duty to defend the light — even if the herald was a little more whimsical than one might expect, clad in a mess of colorful rags and calling herself “Mrs. Whatsit.” Gandalf abided.

She teleported him through time and space in a chilling instant, but he had been warned of the feeling of death reaching out to grip his heart and spread through his every atom. He remained steely, even as relative warmth poured back into him at the end of the tesser, as he emerged onto Camazotz where IT sat atop its throne in the clouds.

Unable to bear the darkness of this planet, the sun-spirit immediately left Gandalf to face this challenge alone. The wizened figure tenderly readjusted his pointy hat atop his bushy head and fixed his eyes on the tower ahead. He gave himself a knowing hum as he couldn’t help but liken the monolithic tower to that of Sarumon’s. Using his long, gnarled staff to make his steps more sure, Gandalf began walking toward the tower, cognizant of his surroundings and of the baffled and terrified expressions fixed on him but focused on his purpose.

It was made clear to him that he was not brought to Camazotz to empower the enslaved humans of this world, as was usually the wish of the Ainur, but rather to act as its sole liberator. There was too much at stake, and too many good fighters lost, for the forces of Good to delay any further with usual methods. Finally, before all was lost, they had sent the best warrior in the universe to finish the fight — a warrior who, however powerful, was still technically mortal and still fit in with the divine plan.

To be sure, mortality didn’t take away from the fact that Gandalf had regained nearly all of his power as a Maiar. Ever since completing his quest to dispel the Dark Lord on Arda, Gandalf’s powers had grown stronger by the day in The Undying Lands.

So when he arrived at the base of the tower, thus far as unassuming as any little child or hobbit may be, he immediately attracted the attention of the local authorities after he tapped the ground with the bottom of his staff and caused the earthy foundation beneath the tower to spike suddenly into the earth in a perfectly square radius, driving the tower downward as though it had been struck with a gargantuan hammer.

Gandalf shielded his face with a baggy sleeve from the displaced earth particles. When the debris settled, there were two older gentlemen standing at either side of him, both well out of staff reach. Their eyes glowed red and yet their expressions were paternal. Gandalf knew that these figures were the muscle of the creature ruling from up in its tower, the top of which was now on the ground level.

“I think you’ll find that you’re making a great mistake, my friend,” said both suit-clad men in perfect unison. “You do not want to make an enemy of the savior of the universe, who wants nothing but happiness and peace.”

Gandalf gruffly guffawed and nodded to himself, musing, “I have seen the sort of ‘peace’ afforded by brute force and oppression before, and I think you’ll find that I am no friend of it.” He unsheathed his sword, Glamdring, to express his intent without further words.

The two men with their glowing red eyes understood his message loud and clear. They said, again in harmony, “Very well. We just want you to know that we offered you the chance for peace and to eliminate all of your suffering. We are gracious, and we must insist that you accept our offer.” Both men began to raise their hands for the incantation that Gandalf had been warned about, and the wise wizard chose that moment to conjure his shield of Istari, an ability that rendered him impervious for a time. The puppets’ attempt to rip Gandalf’s atoms apart were completely ineffectual, but they quickly readjusted and tried another approach, manipulating the pavement with hand waves to attempt squashing the Wizard in walls of concrete.

Gandalf dove fast just out of the animated jaws of material, pointing his staff while in midair at the man to his right. From the end of his staff, a massive lightning bolt snaked forward and struck the man directly in his sternum, instantly setting him completely ablaze. The man let loose a shrill scream of rage with a voice not his own, flailing and falling to his knees in defeat.

The remaining adversary continued his assault unfettered, trying to entangle Gandalf’s legs by animating the very ground he stood on. Gandalf leapt nimbly over these tendrils, but struggled to find his aim while bounding through the air. When he pointed his staff again, the red-eyed man waved his hand in the air in a slicing motion and cut the staff in half from afar, which had not been protected by the shield conjuration.

Gandalf barreled forward, still impervious for at least a few seconds more, and brought his sword around in a wide arc that connected with the arm of his opponent, cleaving through it cleanly. The man rolled, picking up his arm in the process, and manipulated the molecules of the severed limb so that it condensed into an impossibly sharp dagger. He thrust it at Gandalf, and the wizard, though still shielded, parried with his sword, not certain if his shield could withstand a blade made so fine with such a conjuration. In fact, the blade made chips in his otherwise hearty sword. Gandalf had to find an opening, and fast.

Though it was more difficult to execute a spell without his wand, Gandalf had to try. As he backed quickly away and parried from the precise swipes of the knife, he focused his energies on a blinding flash of light, effectual enough to stun his opponent as he moved around him to slash at his vitals uncontested, defeating him with certainty.

All the while during this battle with the two red-eyed men, several underlings of IT were forming a perimeter around Gandalf, wielding some sort of metallic projectile weapon, and more began pouring in from all around. But before they could get a chance to fire on the wizard, Gandalf focused his energies and swept his hand in a wide arc, shooting great pillars of unscalable earth upward to shield him from any more oncomers. He could now focus on his primary objective: defeating IT.

Winded and a little weary but nevertheless determined, Gandalf gathered his energy and focused his mind straight ahead to the metal wall of the building directly in front of him. He reached out his hand and nodded his head in an effort to find concentration. After a laborious moment, he sharply tapped the metal with his fingertips. Immediately, a giant hole large enough for him to step through blasted inward. Unafraid, Gandalf the White stepped into the throne room of IT.

What few lights hadn’t been destroyed in the fall of the tower flickered in the distance. Shadows animated the area as though the twisted metal panels were alive. But the room appeared to be free of IT’s minions, free of an opposition other than the dark, pulsating blob that sat atop a pedestal in the room’s center, its backside illuminated intermittently by the failing lights. IT.

You would bring death and strife to a happy world? A reproachful voice spoke directly into Gandalf’s mind. One as wise and as benevolent as you, Gandalf the White of the Istari, ought to know better than most what sure and harmonious peace I offer to this universe. There was something in the way IT said harmonious that formed a drumbeat in Gandalf’s heart, a drumbeat just barely out of sync with Gandalf’s own heartbeat.

“I know that you think that in order to defeat chaos, you must control it, but that is no one’s choice to make.” Murky thoughts began to seep into Gandalf’s head, but he pressed on, taking a step toward the enlarged brain atop the pedestal. “This power you wield to take away what you would call ‘chaotic thoughts’ should belong to no one, least of all a tyrant. Least of all,” Gandalf’s steps faltered, and he found it increasingly difficult to move to the beat of his own heart, “least of all a creature with no ability to love.”

This seemed to enrage the creature, and the ensuing shriek sent a shudder through Gandalf, who was inching ever closer to IT, pulling his sword up through the air to strike — but with such great difficulty, as though it weighed a hundred times more. Do not speak to me of love, Istari. Love is chaos! Love has no place in my universe.

Gandalf regained a bit of his focus, and his leaden footsteps dragged slightly less at this. “By the love of Ilúvatar, all of creation exists to be free and to love freely. To be free of such cold and twisted logic as yours.” Finally within striking distance, Gandalf’s arm was fully raised and his will had become enough of his own to fulfill his destiny.

What of pity, friend? IT pleaded with eerie calmness. You speak of love, but do you know the consequence of my demise? Gandalf’s heart pounding, he paused a moment. The Ainur didn’t tell you, did she? You ought to know what’s at stake. You ought to know that, if I am defeated, then every mind who I have liberated on this planet will collapse without my control. If you kill me, then you are also the murderer of eleven billion happy, useful humans. Can you live with yourself, knowing these consequences?

Though Gandalf had not known this — and could not know if IT was bluffing — this was a scenario he had contemplated countless times while philosophising on the halfling’s weed. He answered, “If indeed these minds are already lost, then I am powerless to change their fates. No, pity will not stay my hand from a corrupt ruler when every other man’s life in all of creation is at stake.” And with that, the defender of the light brought down Glamdring in a fatal arc, cleaving the brain spectacularly in two.

Predicted Winner: Gandalf

NOTE: THIS MATCH ENDS ON Friday, March 22th, 2013, AT 5 PM, EST

Check out all the Cage Match 2013 posts!

Check out the round 1 recap and Cage Match 2013 Bracket!

Check out the round 2 recap and Cage Match 2013 Bracket!

IT is a character from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time; Gandalf is a character from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien.

IT image courtesy of ShutterStock. Gandalf image courtesy of MGM/Warner Bros.

Cage Match fans: We are looking forward to hearing your responses! If possible, please abstain from including potential spoilers about the books in your comments (and if you need spoilers to make your case, start your comments with: “SPOILER ALERT!”

[mrmichaelchadler]

Nell Minow's Top Ten Films of 2018

It is remarkable how often movies, which can take years to make, seem to arrive at exactly the right time. This year, I was especially moved by films from black and female directors. As usual, my top ten list has a number one, and then everyone else tied for second place.

THE SECOND PLACE NINE 

"Black Panther"

Superheroes are fine, but it is the supervillains who make all the difference in comic book movies, and Erik Killmonger is the best supervillain ever, making Thanos, who knocked off half of the Avengers, look dull by comparison. Of course he was played by one of the most charismatic actors in Hollywood, Michael B. Jordan, who enters his first scene with such confidence, such sheer joy in his sense of who he is and where he is going, that we cannot look away. Co-writer/director Ryan Coogler gave him a backstory so compelling it inspired a #killmongerwasright hashtag. And he wasn’t wrong about what was wrong; he was only wrong about what to do about it. 

There was a nice parallel to that dichotomy in the scene Coogler says was his favorite, between Nakia, who is loyal to the royal family, and Okoye, who is loyal to the rules. Two of the film’s strong, brave, brilliant female characters have a loving, understanding disagreement about what to do when a tyrant takes the throne. Every element of this movie was thoughtful, nuanced, illuminating, and meaningful, words we don’t often use about comic book movies. But thanks to this one, we know we should expect that from now on.

"Blindspotting" 

Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal had me holding my breath several times as I watched this funny, sad, scary, brave, wise, film about a man in the last days of his parole, trying desperately to stay out of trouble in a world that keeps throwing trouble in his way. It’s tough to make a movie about ideas that does justice to its characters, and it's just about impossible to do that and throw in discussions about art, gentrification, race, and parenting. Now imagine that it’s also going to have a confrontation that includes a rap monologue. That is a very high bar, and this movie clears it easily.

"Sorry to Bother You" 

The title of this film is just the first lie that call center employees tell the prospects they are trying to sell. But even before he gets to that fake apology, Cassius “Cash” Green (Lakeith Stanfield) is lying about who he is. On the advice of his cubicle neighbor, he is using a “white voice” (provided by David Cross) to ingratiate himself with potential customers. And it works so spectacularly well that he is soon getting promoted. His activist/artist girlfriend (Tessa Thompson) does not approve. Writer/director Boots Riley spent time as a telemarketer, and he knows how to entice his audience to stay with him, even to “buy” something we were sure we could resist. The “white voice” switch-up is just the easy provocation that leads us to a place we never thought we would find ourselves, engaging with fundamental ideas about capitalism at the wildest party in any movie this year.

"A Star is Born"

Depending on how you count it, this is either the fourth or fifth re-telling of the real-life inspired story of the broken down star who helps, then loves, then almost destroys a talented newcomer. And yet writer/director/lead actor Bradley Cooper found a way to make it new again, with life imitating art as a movie star is born with Lady Gaga in her first dramatic role. She is compelling and utterly believable as a pop star, of course. But what we have only glimpsed before in the performer known for her brash videos and outlandish costumes (that meat dress!) is her ability to be completely natural and vulnerable. I love the way that, like in a classic Broadway musical, every song in this movie carries the story forward and tells us something about the characters. 

"Mary Poppins Returns"

We took it for granted that this movie would have visual Disney magic. No one assembles a more gifted collection of production designers, costume designers, and visual effects designers than Disney, and no studio has a better, more organic sense of its own history and culture. So when Disney decided to revisit the 54-year-old classic based on P.L. Travers’s novels, after having already mined its own history with a movie about the making of that movie, it was fair to expect that it would look and feel as though we had never left. 

The magic touch is there, with gentle references to the earlier film, including an animated adventure that looks like the old-fashioned hand-drawn, cel-based animation that was Disney’s specialty, and an enchanting appearance from Dick Van Dyke, who played two characters in the original. Emily Blunt as Mary Poppins, and “Hamilton'"s Lin-Manuel Miranda as her lamp-lighting friend, are practically perfect in every way. And, as “Saving Mr. Banks” taught us, the real magic is not just about fantasy adventures but about healing the family. The songs, the special effects, and the imagination are a lot of fun but what makes this movie top ten-worthy is the heart.

"Green Book"

Maybe sometime in the future it will be possible to have a movie where a white person teaches a black person something important without being a white savior, or a black person teaches a white person something important without being a "Magical Negro," but it does not seem likely now. So this movie based on the real-life 1962 story of a sophisticated black musician touring the Deep South with a crude, provincial New York Italian white guy seemed like an inevitable cringefest (and, to be fair, some people do see it that way and they could be right). But for me the race/class/education/sensibility/sexuality divides are handled with nuance, sensitivity, and humor, and of course infinitely helped by Don Shirley’s music. There’s a reason the road story has been humanity’s most enduring narrative, going back to The Odyssey. Away from home, we have adventures. We find ourselves, and, if we’re lucky, we find each other.

"BlacKkKlansman"

There could not be a better match of director and story than Spike Lee and the real-life experiences of the first black cop in Colorado Springs, who went undercover over the phone to infiltrate the KKK and then, when it came time to attend meetings, sent a white colleague to impersonate him impersonating a racist white man. This film is so smart it crackles with the energy of its ideas. It is exciting, it is funny, and it evokes the style of the era perfectly with its clothes and filmmaking. "BlacKkKlansman" has a sensational brief appearance by Corey Hawkins, every bit as thrilling a speaker as the man he is portraying, Kwame Ture, and it has a tremendous breakthrough performance by John David Washington in the lead role.

"Support the Girls"

I am so glad that Regina Hall is finally getting some of the attention she has long deserved for her performance in “The Hate U Give” and in this film, a day in the life of the manager of a Hooters-style “boobs, beer, and big screens” restaurant. Dealing with constant problems ranging from trouble to catastrophe—from the hapless would-be burglar stuck in the heating vent to the waitress who goes back to her abusive boyfriend to the boss who insists that no more than one black waitress can be on each shift—she shows us the thousands of calculations she makes every day. This is a sympathetic, deeply human look at low-paid service industry people with no other options. Hall’s performance is deeply lived and vibrantly alive.

"Eighth Grade"

When author Anne Lamott was pregnant, one thing she could not stop worrying about was the "agonizing issue of how on earth anyone can bring a child into this world knowing full well that he or she is eventually going to have to go through the seventh and eighth grades." There’s a reason that even decades later, people still have nightmares about middle school. And in “Eighth Grade,” writer/director Bo Burnham and star Elsie Fisher evoke the terrible defenselessness of that stage of life so powerfully I kept having the sensation I was standing in the front of the school cafeteria, tray in hand, hoping anyone would ask me to sit at some table somewhere. This astonishing first film is so meticulously observed, and Fisher’s performance is so open-hearted, that it is easy to overlook just how smart it is, how carefully written, how well structured, how cinematic. Watch it twice, and you will see that Burnham is inviting you to sit at his table.

THE BEST FILM OF 2018:

"If Beale Street Could Talk"

I was enthralled and completely captivated by Barry Jenkins’ adaptation of James Baldwin’s novel about a devoted young couple caught up in an unjust justice system but still somehow able to hold on to their unbreakable connection. Jenkins honored Baldwin and his characters by bringing the full range of cinematic art to their story, impossibly beautiful actors with sizzling chemistry, performances of extraordinary sensitivity and precision, lush, beautiful cinematography and score, all of which gave the characters the dignity and understanding often denied people on the margins.

Honorable mention: "Capernaum," "The Favourite," "The Hate U Give," "Hearts Beat Loud," "Incredibles 2," "Leave No Trace," "Paddington 2," "Ralph Breaks the Internet," "Roma," "Spiderman: Into the Spider-verse," "Vice," and "What They Had"

from All Content https://ift.tt/2S0Mlsp

[smith--corona]

“Upon Touching that which He has Touched”

Dylan Smith

The following essay was written as an assignment for Dr. Julie Bates’s Samuel Beckett: Afterlives, a Sophister English Literature module at Trinity College Dublin. It is a response to a visit to Trinity’s Beckett archives. 

In response to: “Reflect on the experience of consulting Beckett’s archival material in M&ARL. What additional understanding (if any) did you gain, that might not have been available had you been restricted to the published versions of Beckett’s works?”

 Upon touching that which he has touched — he, a Nobel laureate, prolific writer, and man who seems all at once contemporary, recent, and of a time long gone by — one feels, I think, pressure to achieve some profound communion with Samuel Beckett. Beckett’s work is widely available[1]; Beckett, however, remains elusive within this body of work. He seems to have meticulously nullified himself within his writing; he often nullifies self altogether[2]. This nullification is an integral and valuable part of what Beckett has accomplished, yet it engenders his work with an unignorable spirit of absence — a spirit which often drives fans and scholars to seek such a communion outside of what Beckett has published.

Trinity College Dublin, then, is an ideal location for pilgrimage. Not only did Beckett (unhappily) study and teach at Trinity, but Trinity’s Manuscripts and Archives Research Library houses a significant collection of Beckett artifacts, which library staffers enthusiastically treat as relics. These relics include letters written by Beckett[3], personal photographs of Beckett, manuscripts and notebooks filled with the man’s barely legible scribble. When one observes and handles these artifacts, Beckett is no longer distant, abstract, or impersonal; the broad strokes painted by the man’s history and sparse interviews begin to be filled in.

Further, our guide at the library hoped to offer an opportunity for deeper illumination. She insisted that such archival visits are crucial for undergraduate literature students, and that students ought to engage with archival resources seeking, to paraphrase, something which can only be learned by being in the presence of literary artifacts. According to the archivist, experiencing these artifacts is important, particularly in the case of manuscripts and their marginalia, because “you can always go back to what the author intended.” Through her eyes, access to such artifacts provides an opportunity to peer into some ideal, unrealized text – some version of the text that’s, theoretically, closer to that which existed within the author himself than the final, published version.

After my visit to the archives and my experience of these artifacts, however, Beckett remains elusive. Dr. Julie Bates[4] has suggested the notion of Beckett being “the end of literature”. Seen in this light, Beckett looms as an apocalyptic figure: He not only signifies an important, influential moment in late modernism, but the resurrected sprit of modernism is engendered in the man himself. Beckett is modernism resurrected and returned to Earth – his work the epitome of Elliot’s wasteland uprooted from its war-torn source and transformed into something perpetual and inescapable.

If we accept that modern literature, free of conventional plot, characters, or formal structures, must be “decoded”, its images, textures, themes and aesthetics parsed for some meaning or message; then, too, must Beckett be decoded. The mystery of the two – the art and the artist – are intrinsically intertwined. They are both points of access to and obstruction from the truth or meaning which they contain and seek to impart. If we view Beckett’s literary work as a vehicle with which he sought to impart meaning – meaning which he himself contained – then understanding Beckett becomes paramount in understanding such meaning, especially when the literary work itself falls short in its role as a didactic or heuristic tool. Beckett’s work, in particular, seems susceptible to such attempted excavations; his plays and novels are characterized by an extreme reticence to didacticism or heuristics. In short: they have no obvious meaning. Beckett too, in his life, expressed a similar reticence to being decoded. Thus, the obsessive fetishizing and aggrandizing one sees at the Trinity Manuscripts and Archives Research library is understood. These literary seances are a frantic attempt to contextualize and decode that which refuses context and obvious meaning — attempts, ultimately, that are deemed necessary as a means to procure meaning from a dense and obscure body of work, written by someone who was often a dense and obscure man.

But Beckett’s rapture has missed me. Beckett, ultimately, is entirely separate from his artistic work. Intertwining Beckett with his work, with the supposition that knowing about Beckett can help us understand his work – or even that Beckett’s work requires reality-bounded “decoding” at all – seems to violate the very spirit of modern literature.

Per Virginia Woolf:

“The writer seems constrained, not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thrall, to provide a plot, to provide comedy, to provide tragedy love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so impeccable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour. […] Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being ‘like this’. […] . . . [I]f a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style. . . Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end” (Woolf, 160).

Woolf articulates a potent distinction between past writers and those of modern literature. Woolf’s modern writer, without being beholden to conventional elements of plot and realism, is free to pursue the spirit of modern literature, that is, a literature primarily concerned with the internal realities of life. Woolf’s modern literature is a literature of feeling; she elevates it as being the more authentic mode. Only through pursuit of the spirit of modern literature can a writer authentically express; without it he is merely under the control of a mechanical tyrant.

What, then, is Beckett, if not one of Woolf’s modern writers? While not an internal-monologue-ist like Joyce, Beckett frees his work from a sense of practical or external reality. Beckett, writing in the tradition of the Nouveau Roman, removes from his work notions of plot or “love interest” to probe truths about internal reality, interrogating the nature of memory, consciousness, or the passage of time. Beckett’s characters are concerned with being characters, rather than people; his environments concerned with being environments rather than locations, etc. Beckett’s works of fiction are concerned with being works of fiction, and not catalogues of real-life events.  

This prompts the question: What does the Nouveau Roman expect of us as readers and students of literature? John Sturrock, in his examination of the New Novel, interrogates the aesthetic project of the Nouveau Roman: “. . .[T]he property common to all nouveaux romans is that they embody the creative activity of the novelist – they display the novelist at work” (4). Sturrock explains that what defines the New Novel is a primary occupation with novelistic process; nouveaux romans are concerned with highlighting the very status of literature as a medium. According to Sturrock, “The New Novel, then, refuses to be a vehicle of documentary facts about the real world, to abrogate the function of other types of writing, or of other media” (16).  Sturrock argues that the New Novel evades the responsibility of other types of media – that responsibility conventionally being one of objective meaning. The new novel refuses interpretation in the conventional sense, as it is not concerned with conveying in the conventional sense. Rather, its aesthetic project is one of form; the primary meaning of a Nouveau Roman lies in its method of subversion. More saliently, the Nouveau Roman creates meaning primarily through its relationship to convention. The value, then, for a student and critic of the New Novel, exists primarily within the discrepancy between the realities of the novel’s composition and our own expectations of it.

Alain Robbe-Grillet, New Novelist himself, collects his observations on the Nouveau Roman in his series of essays, For a New Novel. “Each novelist, each novel,” he writes, “must invent his its own form. […] The book makes its own rules for itself, and for itself alone” (12).  Robbe-Grillet is insistent on the integrity of the Nouveau Roman, its ability to create its own meaning in its subversion of its own rules. “What [the author] was trying to do is merely the book itself. . .. [T]he work remains, in every case, the best and the only possible expression of [the author’s] enterprise” (13), he argues. Implicit in this statement is the assertion of the impossibility of sourcing meaning outside of the work itself. The work is the whole and absolute articulation of its own meaning, through the tension it creates between its “rules” and its own violation of those rules, read against the broader background of literary convention.

Thus, reading Beckett’s novels and plays as examples of the Nouveau Roman requires a faith in their facility to wholly articulate their own meaning. Further, we understand this meaning not on the basis of the work’s relationship to practical reality, but rather its relationship to literary convention and its conjuration and violation of its own set of “literary rules.” If we are to remain faithful to the literary project of the Nouveau Roman, as well as Beckett’s role in its implementation, then we must resist the urge to ground our reading of Beckett in knowledge of the man’s own life. Photographs and letters are no more informative that photographs of or letters by any other person, living or dead. Incomplete or edited manuscripts have value merely as separate works; never, however, must we view them as ‘alternate’ versions of a published work. Doing so questions the integrity of the work and implies a source of meaning outside of the text itself. To attempt to decode or externally source the meaning of Beckett’s work is to lose much of what makes Beckett’s work rich — mainly a careful subversion of conventional meaning across both the page and the stage. The fetishization of Beckett manuscripts wholly misses the point of Beckett’s aesthetic project: to create meaning through formal discrepancies which exist intact within the works themselves. Emphasis on Beckett artifacts as interpretive catalysts distracts from legitimate means of interpretation, such as formalist or comparative analyses, which consider the unique formal and aesthetic accomplishments of Beckett’s work.

[1] If sometimes inaccessible

[2] Or, at least the conventional self – an argument can be made that Beckett is constructing alternate expressions of self-hood or “I”-ness.

[3] Beckett requested that correspondents destroyed his letters upon reading them. Those in Trinity’s possession have been preserved against S.B.’s explicit wishes.

[4] Beckett scholar and Trinity lecturer

[revpauljbern]

This week’s Bible study with Author Rev. Paul J. Bern....

Peter Rejoins the Believers as King Herod Dies

[Acts chapter 12, verses 13-25]

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Last week when we concluded the first half of Acts chapter 12, the apostle Peter had just been miraculously set free from prison by what the Bible calls an “angel”. Personally, I do believe angels exist, and I think everyone has a guardian angel. There are skeptics and scoffers, I know, but I don't let that bother me. I can recall a time back in 1980 when I was hit head-on by a drunk driver who was southbound in the northbound lanes of I-65 just north of Nashville, Tennessee. I didn't break a single bone, and I'm certain to this day that my guardian angel's intervention is why I survived that awful accident. Similarly, Peter's guardian angel, or some other agent of the Lord, is what spared him from the execution that awaited him the following day. This week as we start the second half of chapter 12, Peter has just realized that his escape from prison is not just a dream as he first thought. So he has gone to the house of Mary, the mother of the apostle Mark, the same man who wrote the Gospel of Mark. Numerous individuals were inside, praying earnestly to the Lord on Peter's behalf. When Peter arrives, he starts knocking on the door, and that's where we will begin starting at verse 13.

“13) Peter knocked at the outer entrance, and a servant named Rhoda came to answer the door. 14) When she recognized Peter’s voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, “Peter is at the door!” 15) “You’re out of your mind,” they told her. When she kept insisting that it was so, they said, “It must be his angel.” 16) But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished. 17) Peter motioned with his hand for them to be quiet and described how the Lord had brought him out of prison. “Tell James and the other brothers and sisters about this,” he said, and then he left for another place. 18) In the morning, there was no small commotion among the soldiers as to what had become of Peter. 19) After Herod had a thorough search made for him and did not find him, he cross-examined the guards and ordered that they be executed.” (Acts 12, verses 13-19)

In another time and place, what happened in the first 3 verses could have been comical. When Peter shows up at the door and identifies himself to Rhoda, the servant girl, she breaks into her 'happy dance'! “When she recognized Peter’s voice, she was so overjoyed she ran back without opening it and exclaimed, “Peter is at the door!” “You’re out of your mind,” they told her. When she kept insisting that it was so, they said, “It must be his angel.” So there they are at their serious all night prayer vigil for the apostle Peter, praying their hearts out that Peter's life might somehow be spared. Peter then becomes the embodiment of the answer to their prayers, even while they were praying, and yet they don't believe it. They wouldn't even get up to answer the door. They were too busy praying. People still made these kinds of mistakes, these errors in perception, all the time.

“But Peter kept on knocking, and when they opened the door and saw him, they were astonished.” There was the answer to their prayers, standing in front of them! You know, God really can answer prayers in dramatic fashion just like he did with the saints in Jerusalem, where all this took place. He wants to do these same kinds of things in the lives of anybody and everyone who will simply place their faith in God and then – and here's the hard part – step aside and let God take control. Only those who are willing to humble themselves in such a way will be considered worthy of eternal life. “Peter motioned with his hand for them to be quiet and described how the Lord had brought him out of prison. “Tell James and the other brothers and sisters about this,” he said, and then he left for another place.” As you can see, the apostle Peter knew when to get the heck out of town!

Peter's guards in the prison where he was being held all found themselves executed at the hands of king Herod, as we saw in verse 19. Innocent people being executed for crimes they are falsely accused of has been occurring ever since government was first established, which was at least 5,000 years ago with the Sumerians, and probably a lot further back than that. Clearly the most egregious example of the abuse of authority would be the crucifixion of Christ. In modern times we have The Innocence Project, a nonprofit dedicated to pursuing wrongful convictions and freeing the innocent. Stories of their accomplishments pop up on the evening news from time to time, one of the few worthwhile things the mainstream media does with their time and resources. It's nice to know that, here on earth as it is in heaven, we have angels in human form who have dedicated themselves to this noble and noteworthy task. I hope there will be more good people who will devote their time to freeing the innocent as well. And now let's move on to part 2 of today's lesson, starting at verse 19.

“19) After Herod had a thorough search made for him and did not find him, he cross-examined the guards and ordered that they be executed. Then Herod went from Judea to Caesarea and stayed there. 20) He had been quarreling with the people of Tyre and Sidon; they now joined together and sought an audience with him. After securing the support of Blastus, a trusted personal servant of the king, they asked for peace, because they depended on the king’s country for their food supply. 21) On the appointed day Herod, wearing his royal robes, sat on his throne and delivered a public address to the people. 22) They shouted, “This is the voice of a god, not of a man.” 23) Immediately, because Herod did not give praise to God, an angel of the Lord struck him down, and he was eaten by worms and died. 24) But the word of God continued to spread and flourish. 25) When Barnabas and Saul had finished their mission, they returned from Jerusalem, taking with them John, also called Mark.” (Acts 12, verses 19-25)

Clearly, Herod got what he had coming to him. First he had had the prison guards executed for failing to stop an angel of the Lord – an impossibility. Then he goes to Caesaria to have an audience – similar to a town hall meeting today – with some people he had been “quarreling with”. That is, Herod's troops were decimating their people through aggressive law enforcement campaigns, not unlike what the police do today. They were killing innocent civilians, and now the people of Tyre and Sidon risked having their food supply cut off if they didn't come to the bargaining table with the king and his team of support staff, presumably to be extorted for payment. “.... they now joined together and sought an audience with him. After securing the support of Blastus, a trusted personal servant of the king, they asked for peace....” So there you have it, the peace talks are now being convened, and Herod delivers his message to the people. Evidently his message was not at all conciliatory, and so his entourage and the audience roared their approval by declaring jointly that Herod was a god, that he was divinity in the flesh. As you can see, Herod had quite a cult following!

“They shouted, “This is the voice of a god, not of a man.” Immediately, because Herod did not give praise to God, an angel of the Lord struck him down, and he was eaten by worms and died....” As you just read, there is only one true God, only one King of the universe, only one heavenly Father. When Herod's followers declared him to be a god, his silent approval became his death warrant, and God struck him down right in front of everyone. Let this be a lesson for us all on Who is in charge. Herod was a hated despot, an evil and vicious dictator who regularly amused himself by abusing his authority. The blood of many was on his hands, and he couldn't have cared less. So when he was struck down by the Lord in full view of all the people, everyone immediately knew who the real, authentic God was, and who is! The fact the Herod was “eaten by worms” tells us he never even got a proper burial. They simply threw his body down a ravine somewhere outside of town, where he was left to decompose in the hot Middle Eastern sun. Such is the ultimate fate of tyrants.

“But the word of God continued to spread and flourish. When Barnabas and Saul had finished their mission, they returned from Jerusalem, taking with them John, also called Mark.” So after all has been said and done, Barnabas and Saul finished their mission in Antioch, and left to meet up with the apostle Mark while Peter departed in the opposite direction in order to elude those who sought to execute him. Meanwhile, the early Church continued to grow by leaps and bounds as it was being turbocharged by the Holy Spirit! And so everyone had departed from there by this time, since Peter had escaped from that location. But the apostle Peter's ordeal, combined with his miraculous escape, made the early Church grow all the more. And next week when we return, we'll be moving on to chapter 13. Take good care, everyone....