#its their purpose. its their only purpose. of course they hurt the prophets that read them. they resent this state of being.

[quietwingsinthesky]

anthropomorphizes angel blade anthropomorphizes the tablet anthropomorphizes the bunker anthro-

[silentaura]

holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ?  are they aware of it ?   do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?  

hollyhock :   how strong is your muse’s sense of ambition ?  what’s something they strive for in life ?  

♛ ¦ 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 . ( not accepting ) holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ?  are they aware of it ?   do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?

all zeldas of the royal family have some level of natural intuition , and its pretty heavily suggested that zelda's mother was the " fortune teller "that first had the premonition that ganon was to return in the near future . while zelda is certainly no exception , i think she's more inclined to doubt her own prophetic dreams . she doesn't trust herself enough to fully capture them , so often she suppresses them .

she doesn't share much with others , mostly capturing them in her dream journal , which she keeps hidden at her bedside . its a habit passed on from her mother , whose journals she found and would read in secret ( premonitions of having a daughter , of the unearthing ancient sheikah artifacts , of the calamity , and of her own death . ) zelda's mother seemed much more in tune and comfortable with her intuitions , and able to tell what was dream and what was prophecy .

on the other hand , zelda just writes down everything . . . because she's not sure what is or isn't some sort of message . if asked , zelda would say that she's incapable of receiving prophetic dreams . . . but she's definitely getting them . she just can't always remember them clearly , or is afraid of sharing them in case she is wrong . the only three she'd possibly speak to about her dreams would be either urbosa , impa , and link . and even then , its with confidence that they wouldn't talk about it with anyone else . its . . . almost like she's shameful .

hollyhock :   how strong is your muse’s sense of ambition ?  what’s something they strive for in life ?  

zelda is extremely ambitious , nearly to the point where she is blind to anything else . it doesn't matter what she is doing , if she cares . . . then she's giving it her all .

she eats , breathes , lives with her prophecy in the front of her mind . it is her entire life's purpose and the reason she believes she exists . others might not always agree with her methods ( whether its by praying or by research ) , but she is undoubtedly very focused and determined to protect her people and fight ganon despite how time and lack of success had worn her down . that , is true determination .

so thats another reason why the calamity is so traumatizing . besides the fact that its . . . a literal calamity , all her efforts and works have been in vain and are quickly used against her to hurt her people and destroy hyrule . that's her life's work .

through and through , zelda is the example of a princess . she is dutiful to her responsibility to protect others and take care of the land she's inherited . while she hasn't always thought the highest of herself , she's never deterred from her responsibility . she strives to do good by her kingdom , and in the middle of the calamity . . . she strives to protect what little part she can .

of course she breaks down , but its pretty telling how even when link nearly dies and all odds are against them . . . she's still considering how they'll both fulfill their destiny -- how they'll save their land .

its suggested by the writers that zelda was fully prepared to die and sacrifice herself for the sake of everyone . she'll stop at nothing . this is why link is a good counterpart -- he's very trustworthy and equally as ambitious when it comes to their destiny . . . and its that trust that helps stop her from " going at it alone " . she has faith link'll help her , so she instead suppresses ganon for 100 years and waits for him .

[theskyiscorn]

Taking on the internet, more dangerous than you think. Preface, none of this is a relection of the original artist or thier work, just thoughts inspired by their work's concepts.

I remeber reading a NariLamb fanfiction on AO3 (who's name eludes me and I can not find it) which obviously center on the angst. Now, at the time of reading this story was still in its infancy, like 2-3 chapters, but what it established was a theme of broken trust. Primarily from Narinder towards Lamb. Now, obviously, he always feels betrayed for "stealing my godhood" but what I found different and exciting, was that it was specifically, Narinder hating the Lamb's lack of trust in him.

I believe the story had prefaced Narinder's downfall as him wanting to assuage mortals fears of death through resurection. Like, he was a necessary part of life, it's end, and he found it frustrating and disheartening that when mortals died, all they seemed to do was beg for more life, for more time, for him to "go away" for longer. Death was his domain, it was who he was, and he was doing his best, but people where only ever afraid of him.

Then comes Lamb, who was very devoted and unafraid of him as their patron. Narinder got his hopes up, that someone finally understood. He belived that he hsd found someone who did not fear him, who understood his necessity and wanted to serve for that purpose, rather than to earn his favor to stave him off.

Then Lamb betrays him, "because they didn't want to die", and it hurt him. It hurt him because it told Narinder Lamb didn't trust him as their god. That they, his prophet, didn't trust Narinder with their afterlife. They had preachdd his word, spoke his glory, shared to gospel of death and why one should not fear it, and when it came time to die, they refused. They took up arms against him. The one person who was suppose to accept what he was, maybe even love him and convince others of to do the same, didnt truly trust him. And that hurt like hell.

What does this have to do with the artists work? It gives me that same vibe, but with a different twist. Narinder here spent 1000 years chained up by the people he loved and trusted. Then the Lamb comes, his promised 'Liberator', and in the final moments, they turn on him, take his power, his title, and leave him with nothing. If someone wants to chain him again, they don't have to over power a God to do so now, anyone can, he's easy prey. And that must be terrifying for him.

Trust in those he may or may not care about, utterly shattered. Ability to direct his own life, gone. Agency and choice, illusion at worst, pity at best. His own, personal hell that he lived in for 1000 years, is now a cage that looms over him at all times, and he has no strength to stop it should it come for him, no course of action to escape, no hope of liberation. And the person who holds that power betrayed him once, and may hate him (in his mind). No shit he's scared, the only delay action he can take is avoidance, stay out of attention and hope trouble never finds him.

And I find it fascinating for a story. If Lamb had promised Narinder and not themselves they would not look in his mind, which is yet another vulnerability he must suddenly content with, that would be even worse.

Anyways, that's my thought dump on all of you, and the drawing that made it resurface. Thanks by!

Took a few days but BEHOLD MORE NARI ANGST/WHUMP

Was thinking about trod Narinder being secretly in love with Lamb the whole time and the fact that Narinder most definitely has trust issue and fears of being mortal now

So with those two trains of thought combined, I wanted to explore… other hidden feelings he might have towards the lamb… 👀💧

Eat well, my flock, Cult of Nari Babygirls tm 🤲

[gunpowdville]

The Great Flesh-Eating Cake Incident of Year [REDACTED] (Not to be Confused With the Bifrost Incident)

Chapters: 1/2

Words: 3502

Relationships: Drumbot Brian - Raphaella la Cognizi (queerplatonic), Gunpowder Tim/Lyfrassir Edda/Marius von Raum, The Aurora/Nastya Rasputina (although most don’t show up until the second chapter)

Other Things: genderfluid tim, she/her tim, he/fae marius :)

Summary: Brian and Raph bake a cake. Or, they try to. It doesn't exactly go well. (aka, Why Raphaella la Cognizi Should Never Be Allowed in the Kitchen)

read on ao3 here or read below the cut for people who don't like ao3 (i will post the second chapter. at some point. hopefully soon)

Chapter 1

“Try it now.”

“Is it safe?”

“Does that matter?”

Brian gives her what she calls his teacher look, a combination of calm exasperation and gentle chiding. “I would prefer to not fry myself from the inside out, if I can help it.”

“Boring,” Raphaella accuses, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “And you know I’d fix you if you did.” Well actually, she would get Nastya to fix him, as Raph herself has absolutely no self control when it comes to the prospect of tinkering with a complex mechanism and Brian hates being tinkered on without his permission.

“Yes, of course, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt like hell,” Brian points out. “Not to mention how horrendously it would fuck up my systems.”

Raphaella pouts. “So I installed the flamethrower for nothing?”

Brian hesitates. “...I didn’t say that.”

Raphaella perks up immediately, turning her full attention from the clattered worktable to her partner. Brian straightens up and faces away from her, focusing at the blank wall at one end of the lab. He pokes his tongue around the inside of his mouth a little, probing at the new addition in the back. He tests out flipping its settings, making sure everything flows smoothly, then steels himself and opens his mouth, turning it on. Nothing happens.

Raphaella throws up her hands in exasperation. “I don’t understand! That should have worked! It-”

Brian yelps suddenly, clapping his hands to his throat as the back of it heats up rapidly, too rapidly, the heat growing from gently uncomfortable to unbearable in a matter of seconds. Luckily, his systems react before he can, shutting off the new attachment the second it could cause potential harm. The heat fades almost as quickly as it had swelled.

“Ow,” Brian says mildly.

“That was about to work,” Raphaella huffs, hands on her hips, eyes fixed somewhat accusingly on Brian. “If you had just waited a moment longer.”

“It was about to melt my vocal cords,” Brian points out in retort. Raphaella throws up her hands again.

“My husband is a coward,” she declares to no one in particular, with no actual insult behind it. Brian can’t help but smile softly at the endearment. They’re not married, technically, but for all intents and purposes they might as well be.

“I’ve started to become convinced that you’re simply trying to kill me,” Brian remarks to her as she turns back to the notes on her lab table. She shoots him a brightly malicious look, one backed heavily with fondness. “Maybe I am.”

He sits down on the stool beside the lab table and reaches for her, catching her waist from behind and pulling her onto his lap. She leans back into him as he wraps his arms around her, and he rests his chin on her shoulder so he can peer down at the pages of notes in her hands.

“Here, tell me what I’m doing wrong,” Raphaella holds up the notes so Brian can get a better look at them. He hums thoughtfully as he scans her delicate sketch of his body, each part individually labelled with possible enhancements to be added in Raph’s lacy handwriting. Brian’s own handwriting, cramped and blocky, annotates the science officer’s notes with his own observations of measurements and possible difficulties.

In his mind, Brian overlays the sketch on top of the official schematics the doc left in there, focusing on his throat and the new addition, checking for anywhere where it isn’t wired properly or messing with any of his other systems. Nothing. He bites his lip, a very natural bad habit that he’s never been able to shake, despite it splitting the rubber badly. Raphaella hits him lightly in the side of the head when she notices him doing it.

“I don’t think it’s anything you’ve done,” Brian says finally, leaning back slightly on the stool. “I think it’s simply a matter of too much heat.”

Raphaella ‘hmphs’, taking her notes back from him and setting them back on the table. She turns her head to study Brian’s face, placing her hands atop his where they rest over her stomach. He quirks an eyebrow at her, and she regards him silently. He can tell that she’s thinking through what next to work on, now that their flamethrower experiment is a bust.

He gives her stomach a light pat. “If you don’t mind, I was going to go bake something. Tim’s been complaining that there aren’t enough ‘munchies’ onboard. And yes, that is the word xe used.”

Raphaella slaps a hand to her heart melodramatically, the gesture accompanied by a theatrical gasp. “Leaving me for Tim, are we? Scandal.”

Brian chuckles gently as he rises to his feet, dislodging Raph in the process. “Yes, I’ve decided you’re much too cruel and brutal for me, and I’d be much happier feeding Tim for the rest of eternity.”

Raphaella tosses her hair and turns away from him, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her chin up imperiously. “Good riddance.”

“Good riddance indeed,” Brian agrees drily, with no heat behind it. Raph glaces over her shoulder at him and grins, and he smiles back as he slips out the lab door, tipping his hat as he goes.

Ivy’s reading at the kitchen counter when he enters. She doesn’t look up as he makes his way into the kitchen proper, wrangling his hair into a wiry ponytail and tossing his hat on the counter. He peeks at the cover of her book and makes an intrigued little noise when he notices it’s about prophets and oracles throughout space and time.

“I was going to give it you when I was finished,” Ivy says without looking up. “I thought it might interest you.”

“It does,” Brian tells her, and she smirks, proud of herself. She still doesn’t take her eyes off the pages. Brian leans over, resting his elbows on the counter, and knocks his forehead briefly against hers, a somewhat awkward sign of affection that’s he’s developed with some members of the crew. She responds by patting his head absentmindedly, still not looking up from her book. He smiles, and turns back to the kitchen.

After a couple minutes of rummaging around in cabinets, Brian becomes aware of Raphaella’s presence leaning against the counter to his left.

“Missed me?” he asks teasingly. She rolls her eyes and pokes him in the arm. “You promised you’d teach me to bake.”

Brian pauses, replaying the last ten minutes in his mind to confirm that he has not, in fact, promised her this. And then he realizes that she’s referring to a time quite a few decades ago, when the two of them had been left back on the ship while the others had been out pillaging a nigh-extinct planet. They’d been sharing some pastries that Brian had been experimenting with, and Raphaella had asked him how he’d made them. He had launched straight into a detailed explanation of exactly which ingredients he had used and what amounts of each, and how he had played with the measurements and tweaked the recipe to see how he could improve it. Raph had listened with utter fascination, and after he had finished she had mentioned that it seemed a bit like her experiments, only with slightly different materials. He had offered to teach her a little, if she’d like, and she had said she would love to learn. And now here they are.

“I did do that, didn’t I,” Brian muses. He studies Raph, leaning against the counter, a sparkle in her eyes that both makes him excited to see what she has in store and fear for his life.

“So?” Raphaella raises an eyebrow. Brian considers.

“We are making a cake,” he tells her, keeping his voice slow, steady, and serious. “A basic cake. We are not going to put anything in it that is not on the ingredients list. We are going to follow the recipe. To the letter. And we are not, I repeat, we are not going to burn down my kitchen.”

My kitchen, Aurora corrects him gently.

“Our kitchen,” he concedes.

Raphaella steps forward and takes Brian’s hands, looking him solemnly in the eyes. “I won’t let you down,” she promises. “Trust me.”

“Phee, I love you to death, and I always will” Brian tells her, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing the back of it. “But I draw the line at trusting you.”

“Rude,” Raph sniffs, while Ivy tries to cover up a snort.

“Practical,” Brian shoots back, letting go of her hands and reaching past her to pluck the recipe from the counter. With a flourish, he deposits it in her hands. “Find me these ingredients.”

Raphaella mutters something about ‘bossybitch Brian’ as she turns away from him and marches purposefully toward the cupboards. He watches her fondly for a moment, before busying himself gathering pans and setting up his beloved electric mixer, something he’d found being sold for scraps on a junkyard planet and had lovingly repaired and repainted with his own two hands. Its name is Small Brian, and it remains one of his most prized possessions.

“Bri, which eggs are we using?” Raphaella calls to him, her head buried deep in the disorganized fridge. Brian abandons Small Brian for just a moment and pokes his head in beside hers.

“Ah, not those,” he says, indicating a half dozen of jet-black eggs glowing faintly from within. “Those are Ashes’. They will supposedly hatch into a rare breed of fire-breathing corvid.”

“And those?” Raphaella points to the other carton of eggs.

“We’re using those,” Brian confirms, pulling the carton out. “Ah. Wait. Not this one.” Carefully, he removes a small, round, green orb from the carton and places it gently on the counter. “An octokitten laid this. We think.”

Raphaella leans over and picks it up, holding it in the palm of her hand and bringing it up close to her eyes. She looks suspiciously like she’s about to slip it into her pocket, so Brian plucks it from her hands before she gets a chance to. She sticks her tongue out at him. He waves her off to go collect the rest of the ingredients, reminding her that the lovely ceramic pot labeled ‘sugar’ is in fact actually filled with gunpowder, and the sugar is in the cabinet to its right. Meanwhile he goes back to fussing over Small Brian.

The mixer isn’t starting up properly, it keeps stuttering and stopping whenever he tries to turn it on. Brian frowns, tapping the top of it with a metal finger. “Come on, love,” he says softly to Small Brian. “Don’t give up on me now. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“Raph,” Ivy speaks up from her place at the counter, her tone amused. “Brian’s talking to the appliances again.”

“If either of you make a joke comparing me to an appliance, I will kill you,” Brian warns both of them placidly, fiddling with Small Brian’s mechanisms until the machine whines and starts up properly. “Good lad,” Brian says, patting the appliance lovingly.

“I saw that,” he adds when he catches the look Ivy and Raphaella share over the counter. Raphaella rolls her eyes and gestures to him to come approve the ingredients she’s gathered. She hooks her arm through his and tips her head onto his shoulder while he checks each one off against the recipe.

“Excellent, that’s everything. Thank you.” he says, kissing her on the top of the head. “ Now we can begin.”

Raphaella, as always, is a very attentive student, listening well and asking questions when necessary. He suspects that she asks some of the questions just to listen to him talk about something he loves, and he adores her for it. They work very well together, the two of them, bantering back and forth as they do. Ivy chimes in on occasion, never taking her eyes off of her book.

Jonny strolls into the kitchen at one point, zeroing in on the chocolate chips scattered across the counter with a predator’s precision. As soon as he spots the first mate, Brian sweeps a knife into his hand and points it at him. “Out.”

Jonny backs away, throwing his hands up in surrender. He’s been killed enough times over messing around in the kitchen that he knows by now that the best thing to do is back off.

All in all, it’s a shockingly peaceful time. Brian hums to himself as he stirs ingredients together, and Raphaella goes through the cupboards, looking for something to play with. She reaches to open one in the back, and Brian notices too late which one it is. Raphaella stops, tilting her head in curiosity as she stares at the contents of the cupboard.

“Oh, Briiiiiiiiaaan?” she calls in a singsong voice, which is usually a sign that Brian is about to either be taken apart or assist in taking apart someone else. “What is this?”

Brian sighs and sets down the bowl, making his way slowly over to her. She raises an eyebrow at him as he gazes silently for a moment at the dismantled skeleton shoved into the back of the cupboard. “Those… are my bones.”

“Your… bones.”

“My bones.”

“Why…?”

Brian shrugs. “It’s not like I’m using them.”

“Right.” Raphaella studies the skeleton for a moment longer, before declaring, “I’m going to make soup out of them.”

Brian starts. “I’m sorry?”

“Your bones. I’m going to make soup out of them.”

“You are not.”

“Bone broth is a thing, isn’t it? Ivy?”

“It is,” Ivy confirms, casually turning a page.

Raphaella grins, gathering the bones into her arms. “Brian soup.”

“Brian s- no!”

“Brian soup Brian soup Brian soup Brian soup-”

“NO.”

“I thought the doc took your bones,” Ivy mentions, as Brian attempts to gently cajole his partner into giving him back said bones.

“I asked her to let me keep some of them,” Brian explains, tugging a rib out of Raph’s arms and dislodging about three more, which clatter to the floor unceremoniously. “They are mine, after all.”

“It’s unusually sentimental of me, I know,” he adds as Raphaella ducks under his arm, executing a perfect twirl to get the bones out of his reach, “I’m not quite sure why I wanted them.”

“For soup,” Raphaella quips, and Ivy snorts as Brian throws himself at the science officer. Raph yelps and scrambles away from him, and so begins an epic chase around the kitchen, Raph struggling to run away while clutching an armful of bones, the owner of said bones following a step behind her, playfully angry.

Brian doesn’t realize he’s started humming to himself until Raphaella turns to face him, jogging backwards, and asks what song it is.

“It’s a new one I’m working on,” he says, using her moment of distraction as an opportunity to trap her in the kitchen, the wraparound counter devoid of exits besides the one that he is currently standing in front of. “It’s called ‘Raphaella Please Don’t Make Soup Out of My Bones.’”

“I hate it,” Raphaella decides, still backing away. She’s almost hit the counter, and Brian smirks at his inevitable victory.

“You’ve barely heard it,” he argues, and begins humming louder. Raphaella’s back hits the counter, and Brian stops. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he begins tapping his foot along to the tune.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Raphaella starts, but the other foot has already begun to move as well. Just tapping at first, tap tap tapping to a beat in Brian’s head, but the footwork quickly becomes more and more complicated as he eases into the song. Ivy picks it up quickly and starts tapping her fingers on the counter, taking charge of the beat while Brian continues humming the melody.

Raphaella shakes her head, refusing to let his shenanigans charm her, but Brian refuses to give up. He dances his way smoothly across the floor to her, finishing with an elegant twirl and an extended hand. Raphaella regards him with reluctant defeat, then rolls her eyes and takes Brian’s hand.

He waltzes her out into the middle of the floor, two steps forward, one step back. He spins her out, then spins her back in so they’re swaying with her back pressed to his chest. “You’re a master manipulator, you know,” she says to him. He smiles. She twirls him out, then twirls him back in and dips him, effortlessly holding up his mass of metal.

“I don’t remember this step of the cake recipe,” Ivy comments drily. She’s finally looking up from her book and is watching the two of them with an expression that is equal parts exasperated and amused.

“Which step, the bone soup or the dancing?” Brian returns, just as dry. Ivy is saved from having to respond by the arrival of Marius, who comes striding through the door like an invading general, arms spread wide in greeting.

“Well, if it isn’t my three favorite delinquents,” fae says, grinning like a maniac. “Dancing in the kitchen like- wait. Why is Raph in the kitchen?”

“I’m helping,” Raph says proudly, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a decidedly smug fashion as Brian collects his bones and returns them to their cupboard. “How can we help you?”

Marius pulls up a stool and takes a seat next to Ivy, scanning the pages of her book idly. “Tim stole my partner.”

“To be fair, Tim is also dating your partner,” Brian points out, handing the bowl of cake batter to Raph to finish stirring and put in the oven.

“Sure, but she’s being smug about it. So I’m pouting,” Marius replies, metal fingers tapping on the counter. “Oh, also: Tim wanted me to tell you. She/her for the time being.”

Brian nods, taking note of the pronouns. “Well, when you feel like speaking to Tim again, you can tell her that a cake is on its way.”

Marius raises an eyebrow. “You mean that cake that Raph just slipped something into behind your back?”

Honestly, Brian is surprised that this didn’t happen earlier. Slowly, he turns to Raphaella, who meets his eyes with a mischievous smirk as she slips an empty vial back into her pocket.

“What was in that?” he asks gently, not mad, just curious.

“Just a little something I whipped up,” Raphaella says, giving the batter an experimental stir. An odd squelching noise escapes from the bowl, and she quickly lets go of the wooden spoon as a dark tendril of… something curls up around it, possessive and hungry. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

“What the fuck was that?” Marius leans forward over the counter, curiosity evident on faer features.

Raphaella sets the bowl carefully on the floor and steps away from it, circling around it to Brian’s side. He gives her a questioning look, and she shrugs cheerfully, indicating that she has no idea whatsoever the effect of whatever she put in may be. With somewhat tired resignation, Brian steps forward to investigate what has become of his simple chocolate cake.

It’s… alive. The dark, viscous substance in the bowl has begun to writhe and bubble in a distinctively sentient manner, tendrils forming reaching out, looking to grab hold of something. The tendrils feel their way around tentatively, like a newborn animal learning to walk for the first time. The substance itself has an oddly familiar shimmer to it, the nearly oil-black surface revealing colors of every hue and nature when the light hits it.

“That looks like…” Marius frowns, clambering over the counter and dropping next to Brian as what was meant to be a cake slowly drags itself out of the bowl and onto the floor. “Oh, Raph, you didn’t!”

“Don’t touch it,” Brian advises as Marius crouches near the thing to get a better look.

Marius gives the Drumbot a scathing look. “I’m not a moron, Brian, I’m not going to-”

“Mare, get back,” Brian snaps, but it’s too late. The crawling blob has already reached the violinists foot and has clamped on tightly, wrapping its tentacles up and around his leg. He stares down at it in mild concern for a moment, then says: “Fuck.”

What happens next is hard to describe. The viscous thing sort of… stretches itself, until it covers Marius’ entire body, undulating and pulsing, then collapses in on itself, returning to its smaller form, leaving nothing but a slightly steaming metal arm left where the ship’s doctor once stood.

“What the hell did you do?” Brian demands, staring at the (now slightly larger) creation as it drags its way across the floor.

Raphaella doesn’t respond. “I think it ate faer,” she says instead. Then, “where is it going?”

Brian glances at the floor just in time to see the thing disappear into the vents. He lets out a cry, but it is much to late. It’s gone.

“Well,” Ivy says, staring with vague concern at the open vent. “Fuck.”

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 11

Read on FF.net

Read on AO3

Fireflies glided through the air like green-yellow orbs of light. Zelda was grateful for the comfortably humid evening air of Damel Forest, welcoming it against her skin. 

She, along with Link and Impa, approached the entrance to the Spring of Courage, which was marked by the wide-open maw of a stone dragon, carved by an ancient tribe in the distant past.  Zelda pushed ahead of Link and Impa, ascending the stone steps and moving towards the spring at the end of the walkway, eager to get this whole ordeal out of the way.

Fallen leaves floated in the ankle-deep, crystal clear waters of the spring. Zelda looked back momentarily at her companions. Link had stopped some distance away and had his back turned to them, guarding the two women should monsters encroach on Zelda’s duty at the spring.

Impa gestured for Zelda to get in, giving her a reassuring smile. “Everything is going to work out.”

Zelda hung her head slightly. She made her way over the last bit of the walkway where it started to space apart, carefully balancing herself as she navigated the stepping stones. She began her prayers aloud, watching the water ripple out from her as she waded through the water.

“I will do whatever I can, as I am right now. Even if all I have to give is my faith that things will work out. This is the thread I have been following all this time.” Zelda hated the worn-down quality of her voice.

She came to a stop, directing her attention to the towering Hylia statue in front of her, and she absentmindedly wondered which had been carved first: the monument to the dragon Farosh or Hylia.

She stared up at the goddess statue. It had a simple smile carved onto its face, and Zelda couldn’t help but feel a tinge of irritation. It was almost like it was mocking her, as silly as that sounded.

She was already quite exhausted just from the journey itself. And there was a terrible ache in her heart, weighing her down.

What's wrong with me? Am I not enough or am I just a joke to you?

And Zelda can almost hear the statue whisper back. “It’s because you’re not trying hard enough... You’ve got a poor attitude... It’s because you’re wrong. It’s because you’re impure, not holy like all the royal girls of the past. You’re a stain…”

Every real or imagined slight she’s ever endured came to mind and she broke. Zelda unclasped her hands, letting them fall to her sides. “I can’t… I can’t do this…”

“Princess Zelda?” Impa’s concerned voice called out from the edge of the spring. “Why don’t you take a moment of rest before you continue.”

“But we just got here…” Zelda replied, a little embarrassed that she had lost her composure so soon.

The silent knight turned to give Impa and Zelda a pitying look but said nothing.

Impa clasped her hands, a look of resolve dawning in her eyes. “Okay, I want you to try this. You say whatever’s on your mind and know that there is nothing you can say that will make us think less of you. You can get whatever it is off your chest, and then you can try again with a clear mind. Need to scream and rage? Want to gush about something you love? Anything. No judgment.”

Zelda gave Impa a strange look. This was the most unorthodox suggestion.

“It works for Purah when she gets stuck in her research.” Impa nodded for Zelda to at least give it a try.

“All of the research into the relics - if I cannot awaken to my power -will have been in vain. Impa, you are carrying out your duties with such grace, just as much as Link and the Champions. I am the only one who cannot live up to her own potential...”

“I didn’t ask you to self-flagellate, and there’s no need to butter me up. I’m asking you to air your rawest and darkest thoughts and emotions. Come on, give the goddess a confession that will make her proud.”

“I don’t have anything to confess.” Zelda choked out defensively. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought Purah had used a glamor spell to impersonate Impa. Zelda bit her lower lip, knowing there was no use trying to fool her closest friend and royal aide. “Well, I…” She took a steadying breath. “If you must know…. I can’t help but -”

The Princess’s expression went lifeless, being frozen in place as she was enveloped by a transparent dome characterized by a familiar feverish pink glow and constellations.

“Your Highness!” Impa yelled, noticing with alarm that Zelda’s eyes were glassy, the irises a faded green as if they were viewing something beyond their perception. Her lips were slightly parted as if in surprise.

Link quickly closed the distance between him and Impa, helping the Sheikah woman in her attempt to dispel the magical barrier holding the princess, but it was no use.

Impa pressed anxiously against the dome. “Is this the power? Please tell me it’s the power…” Impa’s voice went up an octave, although already knowing this was a ridiculous conclusion.

Link shook his head, pounding on the barrier with a look of desperation in his eyes.

Zelda’s eyes focus on the Prophet of Doom. They are both standing within an expansive luminous pink dome with its constellations creeping across its surface. Outside the dome, there is nothing but darkness. He’s not facing her, but he looks like he’s waiting for her. Zelda gives a sigh of longing, relieved that he is still alive. He is the one who consumes most of her thoughts. He was the first person she thought of when she woke up in the morning and the last she’d think about before she fell asleep. He had summoned her for some reason, and her heart skips a beat wondering what he could want. He’s not facing her, but he looks like he’s waiting for her.

“Good evening, your Highness...” There’s something about the tone of his voice that sets her at ease. It’s far less antagonistic.

Astor turns to her, and she’s not sure what to make of his expression, but it’s different from the way he looked at her before. She can feel his eyes on her, and she doesn’t move to cover herself, letting his gaze fall over her. His pale complexion does nothing to hide a massive bruise on his cheek, and Zelda’s hand goes to her chest.

Astor’s fidgeted with his hood, trying to hide his face from her. “Oh… You’re wondering how I came to be in such a sorry state? A certain Princess ordered her champions to attack the Yiga Hideout and Kohga’s right hand took exception to that…”

“I did no such thing! I was trying to protect you. I begged you to stay, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Hmph! It is not befitting for you to fear for my safety. I have seen the future and you have not. I am far more powerful than a mere Yiga footsoldier. Ganon would not allow me to fall, for I have his resurrection and victory to ensure. 

Zelda recognizes doubt in his voice, she has heard the same pained inflections in her own prayers.

“Ganon’s chosen or not, you are mortal. I can’t imagine Ganon to be a merciful master who would revive you if you were to fall. Did Ganon even punish those who did this to you?”

Astor didn’t answer, her point having landed.

“So… What are you going to do now?”

The question catches Astor off guard, but he responds with what comes naturally and makes him most comfortable, not ready to feel disloyal to Lord Ganon. “Continue my purpose without them, of course, and when the Calamity returns the Yiga Clan will face the full brunt of Lord Ganon’s wrath.”

“Just tell me… Does my seventeenth birthday mark the return of Calamity Ganon? Is it true?”

Astor nods, giving her a taunting smile, “It is fated by Lord Ganon himself, so you won’t awaken your power in time to stop the Calamity.” He doesn’t know why he persists in torturing this poor girl; not being able to help but fight against Hylia’s plan for him, set in his devotion to Ganon.

“Then… I’ll just have to go to the Spring of Wisdom early. I don’t care if I get in trouble or what happens to me as a result - if my father wants to punish me, that's fine. At least no one could say I didn’t try… not even him.” Zelda thought back to what Impa said, but she wasn’t confessing her most personal thoughts to Hylia, she was telling them to Astor.

“Naughty Naughty... Breaking Lanayru’s decree, are you? Nice try, Your Highness, but you don’t stand a chance of holding back the Calamity, even by going up to Mount Lanayru prematurely.” Astor couldn’t help but admire her devotion to her duty. Perhaps she wasn’t that different from him.

The princess sighs. “Maybe you are what’s wrong with me.” A sad, introspective expression crosses the princess's features. “You… being the reason I can’t find my power… Does that give you some satisfaction?”

Astor blinks. Was she even listening to him? It is like she is in her own little world as she looks at him… And Astor knows he has already lost to her. He is overcome at how vulnerable and beautiful she is at that moment, and he is stunned into silence by her admission. He had summoned her to shake her companions to the core and make a show of his power, or at least that is what he convinced himself of to not feel like a failure before Lord Ganon for wanting to see her so badly, but it is the princess who breaks down all his defenses with her words and her gaze. He can see the weariness and desire in her eyes. A Desire for him?

“What do you want from me? Why did you bring me here?” She asks.

“I- I don’t know…” He says, sounding… afraid? Zelda’s heart melts. Was she actually getting through to him?  

“Astor… I hope you will allow me to give you what Calamity Ganon cannot…”

The seer panics, losing all control of the illusion, and the dome that held them shatters violently. Zelda screams, shielding her eyes as she reaches out for him.

Zelda blinked a few times and then looked to Impa and Link with surprise. “Oh…”

“Your Highness, you’re not hurt are you?”

It takes her a moment to fully come to. “Oh no, I’m fine,” she said, managing a melancholy smile. “I… I think I’m ready to continue.”

Link and Impa exchanged suspicious looks.

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to tell us what that was?” Impa demanded.

“Oh… That was… Astor.” Zelda said, trying to keep her voice serious in tone, although not being able to hold back a dreamy look in her eye.

“What? That was him? He didn’t hurt you, did he? What did he say?”

“Calm down, Impa. I’m fine, really,” Said Zelda, gently.

They stayed for about an hour more. The Princess eventually grew increasingly exhausted from her training and the group returned to Hyrule Castle.

After a day of rest, Zelda proceeded to the Spring of Power in Akkala, once again going through the motions of what was expected of her. 

Her seventeenth birthday was closing in. She was growing more and more disillusioned by the day, although not willing to give up.

Zelda recalled when she’d first began her training at the age of seven. Urbosa had accompanied her to this spring during the winter months. The idea was to push her mind and body to the limit by standing in freezing cold water, and she had done just that for hours growing weaker and weaker. Urbosa had rescued her when she noticed the young girl begin to sway. Zelda had become very ill from that incident.

Now she stood in that same spring nearly a decade later, although thankfully it was a much warmer time of year.

Would prayer really awaken her power? She was questioning it more and more these days.

She thought of her mother, trying to recall memories that were growing dull with age.

Mother promised that her own power would develop within me… But she was wrong…

It was becoming harder and harder to return to the castle unsuccessful, mostly because her father was looking at her like she had disappointed him.

When she returned from the Spring of Power, King Rhoam issued the decree to evacuate Hyrule Castle Town, instructing his citizens to take shelter in villages that were furthest away from Hyrule Castle.

Zelda went to her chambers and collapsed into her bed, quickly falling asleep. 

Zelda looks out over what she assumes to be the Spring of Wisdom, which is completely taken over by gelatinous red-purple matter... Malice. And she sees the eyes, like the one she saw in The Lost Woods; like the jewelry Astor wears to signify his role as Calamity Ganon’s chosen, that stare up at her as she calmly steps into the malice, wading through the waist-deep, undulating plasma.

She stands there a moment in silence, just accepting the state of things, and then she perceives a light growing above her. She looks up to see the goddess… Or at least the same woman from her dream before, the same one she had seen playing a harp and singing silently, as Zelda could not hear her voice.

The goddess was looking right at her, trying to speak to her, but again, no matter how urgently she spoke the goddess was silent. Zelda focused, trying to read her lip movements.

“Wake up” or “Don’t give up.” That was what she seemed to be saying. “Go now!”

[the-daily-multi-fandom-post]

A slayer and the daughter of Dean Winchester:

9358 words later thank the lord I've finally finished! I hope you like this! warnings: Cussing, Death, Vampires, Angst, sadness, idk what else. 

Finally!! AFTER WAITING SO LONG HERE IT IS!!! So so sooooo sorry it has taken so long for this to post I’m sorry for the sucky story. But I hope you like it. 

@thornyrose463 hope you like it <3 xoxo! Credits go where they belong. Thank you @thornyrose463​ for making the cover and requesting!

The slayer and the daughter of Dean Winchester:

My name is Y/n Winchester. I know what you're thinking. 'Oh my Gosh, Winchester. Like Sam and Dean Winchester?'  Yeah, Deans my dad, and Sams my Uncle. My mom left me on my dads door step 15 years ago. It was a one night stand mistake. She was a bar hooker and well, you know how that ends. (Should've wrapped it before he tapped it.) She left a note when she dropped me off at the doors of the bunker. It said, 

"I can't have her. Not with the life I live. I can barely take care of myself much less a kid. I've seen how you and your brother are. I know you two can take care of her. Please don't call or try to reach out to me. I don't want to hear anything about her. I feel bad enough about it. I just want you to give her the life I never had." Yeah, very heart felt. 

I was never a hunter. Dad and Uncle Sammy were to protective to let me hunt. They always tell me, "Kiddo, we've lost too much. We can't lose you too. We couldn't live with ourselves if you get hurt." I understood where they were coming from, but it sucked. I would get left behind. They never took breaks. It got lonely just to stay in the hotel room all day long. That is until one particular day when something strange happened.

Y/n was the smartest kid Dean and his brother, Sam had ever known. She was homeschooled, but if they had long hunts in a town Dean would put her in school. She was at the top of all her classes and was capable of doing anything she set her mind to.

Sometimes she would go to her uncle Bobby's. He treated her like she was a normal kid. He would play games with her. One time when she was little she and Bobby had a tea party. Y/n made Bobby wear a hot pink boa, a tiara, painted his nails purple. Dean may or may not have a picture of Bobby when he had passed out on the sofa.

Years went by and Y/n became a teenager. Her life was as normal as it can be with being a Winchester and all. But that is until a strange man walked up to her after school.

the night of the watcher-

Y/n walked out of her last period of school. She was glad the school day was over. She had enough homework  and books in her bag it seemed to be ripping the seams.

Y/n was walking out to the black impala when a Brown haired man walked up to her. She looked at him confused as he stopped beside her. "Hi, my name is Jackson." He started with a smile. His soft caramel eyes looking into her Y/e/c eyes. He seems to be only a few years younger than Sam and Dean.

"Y/n."  She said shaking his hand. Her silver ring she purposely wore not burning the man.

"Can I help you?" She asked softly looking at the man confused at what he wanted. "Well, I’m your watcher. I’m here to help you." He says it like Y/n is suppose to know what that meant.

"I was sent here because you're a slayer... a vampire slayer," he whispered softly as he smiled.

"Umm, I have no clue what your talking about." The man nodded as he walked with her to the Impala where her uncle sat reading something on his tablet and Dean watched them intently. "Who's that?" Dean asked nodding over to you and Jackson walking over to the impala. Sam looked up seeing you and Jackson waking over. "A boy," he gasped dramatically, clutching his heart. "Call the police! Your baby is growing up!" He joked. Even though he was just as protective as Dean was. "Bitch."  Dean said as he got out of the car. "Jerk!" Sam called out the window. “Y/n, who is this? Dean asked looking at Y/n. I'm Jackson, Y/ns watcher.” “Right. Is that suppose to be a new name for a stocker?” Dean asked with a look that could kill. “No, a watcher is someone who watches the slayer. Protect them and guide them. You can actually help out. A slayer is someone who dust vampires. My job as a watcher is to train them. But you can help with the fighting part. I'm not much to be beat up by a 15 year old.” Y/n looked up at Jackson who was a good foot taller than her. “Is it because I'm a girl?” She joked looking at the man. Jackson shook his head, looking down at y/n. “No, I just don't want my ego bruised.”  He spoke playfully. Making Dean and Y/n chuckle.

Days passed and Y/n was fully trained. Y/n noticed a few changes in her life. Not only the new man or her knew knowledge on being a slayer but she began to have these dreams. Strange dreams that seemed a little, what's the word.. prophetic maybe?

First it was this man being attacked in an apartment . She could see the attacker was a female vampire; brown hair, red-black eyes, a smaller build yet had so much supernatural strength.

Y/n watched the woman as she walked into a five story apartment complex. Y/n trailed behind her, though the woman seemed like she wasn't around. She followed the woman up three flights of stairs and down a long corridor. The fifth door on the left the red haired walked into a door, leaving it slightly opened. Y/n looked at the door seeing the numbers 327 A on the door.

She seen a young man standing in the living room of the apartment. Ringing his hands nervously, almost as if he was scared of being caught.

Why so nervous? The ginger haired woman asked the man. His green eyes met her striking blue eyes and smiled.

I'm just scared were going to be caught. Y/n didn't understand, was the young man married, did he have a girlfriend or something. “Don't worry, I'm gonna take care of that. But for now I have something special for you.” 

Y/n noticed a shift in the room. There were footsteps coming from another room in the apartment. Two men came out with a  sinister smirk. 

She silently gasped as she watched the three attack the young man. His hands hitting and scratching them. Trying with all his strength to push them off him. To fight back, but he was too weak against their supernatural strength. She tried to move but it was like weights were holding her down. Like her feet were glued to the ground, incapable of moving. 

She watched as they man fell to the floor completely drained of blood. His eyes landed on y/n. Y/n watched as his life slowly left his eyes. Him crying out for help against the three. He fought to his dying breath. “Help... me..” Y/n screamed as she violently woke up. Busting through the door came Dean with his gun, Sam with his, and Castile with his angel blade. “Are you okay? What's with the screaming?”  Dean questioned as he looked around the room. “Nothing, just a bad dream.” Deans eyes full of sympathy as he looked at his daughter. “I’m okay, y’all can go.” Y/n voice wasn't wavering at all, but her hands were shaking. Dean and Sam nodded as they hug and kissed her forehead. “Get some sleep kiddo.”  Dean spoke softly to his daughter. she nodded, hugging him then Sam. “Goodnight.” She told the two Cass stayed there in the room. He noticed how she really felt. She was scared, but she wasn't going to tell her dad and uncle that. “Will you stay with me, Uncle Cass?” She asked softly to the angel. “Of course,” his deep voice sounded through the quiet room. He laid down beside her as she cuddled up to his chest. She tried to keep it all in. To be strong like her dad and uncles. But it all came out. Castiel rubbed her back as he tried to soothe her. “It felt so real!” She sobbed, her body shaking in sobs. “They were attacking this man and I couldn't move. It felt like I was just stuck there in place. Like someone was holding me down. I couldn't save the man.”  She cried. Castiel rubbed her back as her body slowly stopped shaking in sobs. He noticed Y/n slowly falling to sleep. --- “You know that dream is going to become real, right?” Jackson asked Y/n as she ate her breakfast that she had made herself. She jumped as she looked at her watcher. “What the hell!” She jumped, Jackson came out of nowhere. “How’d you get in here?” She asked watching Jackson as he tried to steal bacon off her plate. “No”. She smacked his hand. “Your father let me. Nice man, though I can see where you got your nasty attitude from.” He winked playfully. Y/n rolled her y/e/c eyes as she sighed into her pancakes. “Back to what I was saying. The dream you had, it really is going to come true. Most likely tonight, so you need to figure out where it was so you can kill the vampires before they kill.” Jackson said as he took a pancake from a plate beside the stove. “Do you have any syrup?” Y/n looked at him with annoyance. “Yes, we do. In the fridge.”  The two of them ate their breakfast and had occasional small talk. Though Jackson was new Y/n spoke to him kindly. Not much like her uncle and father. For some reason she felt like she could trust this man. As if he wasn't out to hurt her or her family. He seemed to have god intentions. I mean, who just lets some dude into your life when he claims to be a watcher. Dean and the rest of the gang. (Sam and Castiel) eventually made their way down to the kitchen. Sam with his hair wet from his daily shower after a run. Dressed in his normal a red flannel and blue jeans. Dean had on his blue jeans a white t-shirt and a gray flannel over that. Castiel, well you can tell what he was wearing, His famous trench coat and a suit. ___ “So your telling me, my daughters nightmare is gonna come true?” Dean asked as the watcher dug into his breakfast. “Mhm, its premonitions. You see a vision, dream a vision, in your case. And what you see is what's going to happen. For instance, Y/n, you dreamed of what? Someone getting attacked by vampires in a apartment. If we can find out where that apartment is we can save the victim, before he become the victim.” Jackson explained, looking at Dean who seemed like he was still confused. “Well how do we find the apartment?” Sam asked, looking at his niece hoping she could tell them where it was. “Y/n, do you remember anything from the apartment building that could tell us where it is located?” Castiel deep voice startled Y/n as she spaced out. It seemed like she was daydreaming. She could see the apartment building that was in her dream. She walked towards it when she felt her foot hit something. “1254 Raymond rd., Emporia Kansas.” Y/n muttered as she woke from her daydream. What? “That's the apartment building. 1255 Raymond rd. Emporia Kansas.” Y/n repeated. “Good, that's only a couple hours from here. Back some stuff and well go.”  Dean clapped his hands together. Leaving the room to get ready. “Good job, kiddo.” Sam spoke giving Y/n a smile. About half an hour later they were packed to go on Y/ns first hunt. Y/n tried to get some sleep on the way but couldn't she kept dreaming the same dream over and over again. She knew what she was looking for, she just hoped they will get there on time. “Alright, this is it.” Dean said as they pulled up into the apartment building. “So what we just sit here until we see them?” Y/n asked Jackson who pulled up in a white pick up truck. “No, were going to go inside. Find out which room the kid has rented and then kill the vampires before they kill him.” Jackson explained, pulling out a black duffel bag from the back seat of the truck. “Alright.” Y/n hummed, getting out of the car with Jackson beside her. “You three can stay there. Well can if we need help.”  Jackson followed the slayer through the building and up 3 flights of stairs. Down a long corridor fifth door on the right; Y/n knew this was the one. Y/n bent down, grabbing her lock picking set she picked the lock. “Why do you know how to pick a lock?” Jackson questioned Y/n skeptically. Y/n shrugged smiling coyly her answer is simple,  “Because I’m a Winchester.” They walked into the apartment. Y/n prepared to kill any vampires in the room. She quietly walked in. A wooden stake in her hand, she searched the room. Ready to dust any vampires around. “Are you sure this is the apartment you saw?” Y/n nodded as she pointed to the numbers on the door. “1254 apartment 327 A, pretty sure this is it.” Her voice soft so no one but Jackson could hear her. “In my dream” “- vision” Jackson butted in, whatever. She rolled her y/e/c eyes. “There were two men  in this room. They came out of this room right here. So if we wait in this room  we have an advantage.” Jackson took a second before he realized what she was saying. “Oh, you clever girl.”  He spoke. * The two waited in the room for what seemed like an hour. Y/n Standing beside the window where the fire escape would allow anyone who dared to enter the room.   She thought maybe the two men would come in through the window. Giving her the advantage of killing them and then going for the woman.  Jackson had left the apartment. He went walking around the building so Y/n could be ready when the woman appeared in the apartment. So Y/n patiently waited. She waited longer then an hour. Just as she was about to give up she heard a click. The lock on the window had opened. 

“Ohh”  The first man groaned as he came in through the window. His back hitting the window. He was quite big, barely fitting in through the window. 

He stood up straight popping his back from where he had bent over. Y/n popped out from the shadowed corner. A wood stake held high as she plunged it through the first vampires chest. Then the second vampire came in through the window. His eyes were wide as he looked at the scene. His brother lying down dead on the ground. His gray/ blue eyes flickered red as he met Y/ns Y/E/C eyes. 

“I’m sorry, but its my job to save human from vampires.” She spoke calmly. As if she was trying to get the vampire to understand and completely give himself up. “Look here, lass. Nobody goes killin  me family wit out payin for it.”  His voice held an accent unlike the first man. He had what seemed like a deep Scottish accent. “Well, that's why I am doing what I'm doing. To stop monsters like yourself.” Y/n lunged at the man with a stake. His eyes went wide as saucers, but he swerved just barely missing the sharp end of the stick.  He pushed her, but luckily she was able to keep balance. She kicked his knee. making him fall groaning in agony. “I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”  She pinned him down, one hand holding one of his arms down. She's leaned forward putting her body weight on his arm as she brought her hand up with the wooden stake. Bringing it down quickly she pierced him through the heart. Jackson came back in the room, seeing the two bodies on the ground. “The mans here. The woman should show up at anytime.”  Jackson said as he walked around the two dead vampires. Y/n nodded as she grabbed the arm of the first vampire she had killed. “Good, now help me drag him out the way.” Y/n spoke lowly. Jackson nodded as he came over, grapping the mans feet. The two moved him over than the other one. The door opened once again and they could hear talking. “Why so nervous?” The ginger haired woman asked the man. His green eyes met her striking blue eyes and smiled. “I’m just scared were going to be caught.” Y/n didn't understand, was the young man married, did he have a girlfriend or something. “Don't worry, I'm gonna take care of that. But for now I have something special for you.”  Y/n opened the door. The woman was caught off guard making her fall. The man fell backwards. “What the hells going on?” The man asked looking at Y/n and then to the red head. “Who the hell are you?” The woman asked, pushing herself off the ground. “I'm here to take care of a little parasite problem.” Y/n said a stake in her hand she tried to stab the vampire, the vampire caught her hand. The two fell into the floor as the man approached them. “Get off her, what the hell are you doing?”  He asked Y/n, but the closer he got he noticed the blood on her clothes and the blood on her face. “What the..” “Your little girlfriend or whatever she is to you, is a vampire.” Y/n spoke trying to push the stake into the red heads chest. But the woman had enough strength to keep it from piercing her chest. “What? No!”  he gasped. “Don't listen to her, Rick. She has no clue what she's talking about.”  But the more the woman got angry the more her vampirism showed. Her eyes flashing red. Lunging to nip up  at Y/n, but as she did she practically killed herself. 

Y/n and Jackson cleaned up the bodies. Then told Rick about what had happened. He took it way better then what Y/n had thought he would. But after the night Y/n had with all the waiting and then fighting with the three vampires; she was ready to go home and get a nice hot shower then go to bed. 

A year goes by and Y/n is a properly trained slayer. Dean, Sam and Jackson trained Y/n to fight. She was great at hand-on-hand combat. (She was a Winchester nobody would have expected her to be bad.) 

Y/n had just woke up as she walked down the long corridors of the bunker. She was on her way to the kitchen to fix herself breakfast when she heard someone walking behind her. It was one of those nights where she didn't dream about an innocent human being chewed on by a vampire. 

"Mornin' kiddo." dean greeted as he walked pass his daughter walking into the kitchen. Sam was fixing pancakes as coffee brewed in the pot. "What are y'all busy bees doing?" Y/n questioned the two as she grabbed a coffee mug from the cabinet and poured herself a mug of coffee. 

"Y/n, they aren't bees. Are you okay?" The angel, Castiel, asked as he randomly walked into the kitchen. The three Winchesters laughed as Sam looked at Cas with a smile. "Cass, it's just a saying." He tried to explain as the angel was getting even more confused. "Why is that a saying? Neither of you resemble bees." Cass says making Y/n laugh. "The saying means they are busy like bees. Going all over the kitchen super fast." Y/n tried to explain what her uncle briefly explained. Cass nodded sort of understanding what the saying was meaning. "Is there any cases?" Y/n asked as she stole a piece of her dads bacon. Dean glared at Y/n as Sam typed on his computer before he bean talking. Y/n stuck her tongue out at her dad as she sat beside Cas at the table. "We do." Sam started as he clicked on random pages on his computer. "Check this out. There's been a handful of deaths outside of  Richmond, Virginia. All off the victims in between the age of 17 and 27. Cause of death, heart ripped out of their chest.  Yet, Something has been draining the blood of the victims after death. Without leaving any puncture wounds. Autopsies say the cause of death was unknown. Bruises were randomly found on the victims. But the weird thing is some of them were missing something.." Y/n and Dean looked at Sam confused. Neither of them knowing what Sam was going to say. "The heart was missing." Y/n looked at her uncle and gave him a knowing look. "Werewolf, easily. But the drained blood still sounds like a vampire." she spoke, as she took the computer from her uncle and read the website herself. "Maybe a vampire and a werewolf are working together?" Dean offered as he eats his breakfast. "That or maybe a vampire trying to act as a werewolf to throw hunters off its trail." Cass spoke in his deep voice. "Alright, pack up we leave in 15 minutes." Dean says as he gets up. His finished plate in the sink to be washed. Y/n, Sam and Dean on the way to their rooms to pack up their things. A week into the case. "Alright, we've talked to everyone connected to the case and still we have nothing." Dean groans as he lays on the hotel bed upset. "We've talked to them, but maybe we need to get to know them to get them to spill something." Sam says, sharing a look with his brother than to his niece. Y/n looked up from her lore book confused. "What? Youve gotta be kidding me?" She questioned. Sam and Dean looked at each other and then to Y/n. Clearly neither one of them were saying anything. The two brothers were just giving Y/n a look that told her that she was going to be the one they needed to use for information. "No! no no no no no. DO I need to spell it out for you N-O!" Y/n says as he uncle hands her a book bag and a "Transfer note". "You want me to go to school?" Y/n bellowed looking at her uncle and father with a deadly look in her Y/e/c eyes. "Look, sweetheart. We know you are going to be the smartest person in the school.." Dean trailed off waiting for Sam to help him out. "Let me elaborate," Sam starts as he looks at his niece with puppy eyes. (Yall know what I'm talkin about). "-We just want you to go to school get to know some people. Enough to gain their trust and have them spill their secrets. Enough so that We can figure out who is behind the deaths." "What makes you think its a teenager?" We don't, this is the only way to find out."  "Fine. But you two owe me." She groans, taking the book bag and note from her uncle. The school looks just like any other school. Big, annoying and sort of resembling a prison for children The school had two different levels.  It was quite big, but Y/n didn't care. Hundreds of teenagers crowds the hallways and the court yard. Y/n really didn't want to go to high school. She never had a good experience in school. Being in a hunting family meant never staying in one place for too long. She just home school herself, if she didn't know how to do something she would just ask her dad or uncle. She was quite smart for her age. Sometimes even out smarting her uncle and father. Y/n was staring out of the window starring at the school when they pulled up. All kinds of students and staff were starring at the black Impala. Dean tapped on her jean jacket clad shoulder to catch her attention. "Here's your schedule." Dean spoke softly. His eyes soft as he seen the anxiousness in his daughters Y/e/c eyes. The Y/e/c eyes that she had inherited by her mom. Dean didn't really understand why she was so stressed out. Sure, it was a new school. She would have to get to know the people there. Deal with bullies, annoying preppy cheerleaders, jocks, drug addicts, and possibly a vampire or werewolf. But Dean knew his daughter could take care of herself. But one thing that Dean didn't think about was teenage boys. He didn't think that he would have to worry about it. But the moment he walked Y/n into the school he could see school he could see a handful of teenagers already looking at Y/n. "Okay, you got this. You don't need to worry about anything." Y/n rolled her eyes at her father, fixing her gray bookbag back on her shoulder. "Sure, that's real assuring. I just don't need to worry. You know just because you tell someone to call down or that "they don't need to worry about anything" doesn't automatically calm them down. Sometimes it just stresses them out even more!" She rambled quickly. Dean looked at his daughter bewildered. He had no clue what happened to his confident daughter. Usually, Y/n was confident, outgoing (in a good way), smart, and optimistic. But looking at his daughter right now she was polar opposite. "Alright, tell me. What's wrong?" He asked sincerely. Y/n sighed, trying to feel less anxious, but breathing deeply wasn't working too well. "Dad, every time I get put into school I cant fit in. Hell, I don't fit in anywhere. When I go to my classes I'll be fresh meat. Everyone will be either making fun of me or wondering who the knew student is. But the thing is I will have to make friends. Earn some of these peoples trust and maybe, possibly have to gank them." She said the last part in a low whisper. So low dean had barely heard her from the busy corridor. Dean pulled his daughter into a tight hug. She could physically feel the some of the anxiety lift. Not all of it, but some. "Look, if you don't want to do this we can figure something out. I'm not gonna force this on you, okay?" Y/n nodded, looking at her father before looking around her. "How about this," he started as he wiped his face with his hands. Trying to figure something out. "Alright, you stay in school for a couple days. If you still feel anxious about it you don't have to go no more. I guess somehow I can get in and get to know some of these kids. I might have to be a gym teacher again.. and where them shorts." (you shiver disgusted thinking about that time your father wore those tiny shorts, kind of making you gag a little.) "No! No, I got this. I don't think we need to traumatized any kids." She shouted quickly. She felt like she was being weak. (Even though she wasnt. She was one of the strongest people Dean and Sam have ever known.) Good, because those shorts were so tight! Y/n laughed at her father for over exaggerating.   The school bell ring and Y/n have her father a tight lipped smile. Alright, kiddo. You got this. Have a good day. He gave his daughter a hug and a small peck on her hair line. Love ya, kid. Love you too dad. Y/n watched her father leave then tried to find her locker. Putting the books she didnt need in the locker and keeping the books she would need. Y/ns hands were shaking anxiously. She hated that she was anxious. She was always better around people older or younger then her. Never with people her own age. These days teenagers her judge mental, inappropriate, assholes. Completely different then her. Y/n was on her way to first period, Mr. James, American history class. Room 381. She spent quite a while searching for the class until she ran into something hard. Great, perfect first day Y/n running into people. A boy, who looks like her grade. He was tall looking down just a bit as he looked at Y/n. Y/n had to swallow the gasp she had when she seen his beautiful eyes. One an honey brown with what seemed to be gold flakes in them if you looked at them close enough. His iris a silver blue with a tent of green around the pupil. His eyes stood out with his dark, jet black hair. His skin a deep tan color. He wore blue jeans, gray sneakers and a AC/DC t-shirt on. Im so sorry. I didnt mean to bump  into you. I-I was looking at my schedule and just wasnt paying attention. Y/n rambled, what seemed to be her knew thing to do. His smile made Y/n blush, she looked down at her feet and then back to the boy a moment later. Oh, its fine! Youre new arent you? I think I wouldve remembered someone like you. Y/n tried to conceal the blush creeping up her neck. Her ears were red hot. I am new. My dad just got a job here. The boy nodded listening to Y/n with a smile on his face. Sorry, where are my manners. My name is Blake. Im in 10th grade. What grade are you? He asked, the two began to walk down the hall. 10th, my first class is history. Do you know where that is? Blake smiled and nodded. Yeah, thats my first class. Come on, Ill go show you. They walked into the history class right as it was about to start. Everyone staring  at the two. The teacher mr. James smiled as he welcomed them. Mr. Williams, whos your friend here? Y/n smiled as she walked up to her new history teacher. Y/n Winchester, Im a new student. She spoke politely handing him her transfer note. Welcome Miss. Winchester. Im glad to have you in my class. Pick an open seat. The teacher smiled as he put the transfer note in his desk then moved to the board in the front of the class. Y/n sat beside Blake and beside a Red haired girl. Im Claire, Claire Stevens. Im the class president. A boy snickered and she turned to the kid. Youre not class president. Nobodys voted yet. And even if they did theyd vote for me not you. Said a red headed boy who looked very similar to Claire excepts he had glasses. Thats my brother Keith. His my twin. -Older twin. He butted into the conversation. And I will be the class president, not Claire. He smiled proudly. Okay, whatever. Claire said pulling back the attention. You should totally vote for me when its time. Claire whispered. Anyway, welcome to the Temple high school. I hope you like it. If you need anyone to show you around Id be happy to help you out. Claire spoke softly so Mr. Williams wouldnt get after them for talking. Miss. Stevens Can you tell me when World War Two began? Mr. Williams called Claire as he continued to write on the board with perfect cursive writing. Umm.... September 1, 1939? She spoke unsure if she was correct. Thats right. You shouldnt question yourself. Most the time youre right until you second guess yourself. Claire nodded. Eventually the class ended and everyone left the class. Blake, Claire, and Keith walked out the class together. Claire holding onto Y/ns arms as she points out all the classes. Keith and Blake were talking when suddenly Claire stopped rambling. Who are they? Y/n asked looking at a group of what she would refer to as the mean girls group. Well the one wearing all pink is Claires ex-best friend, Jenna Harris. She stole Claires boyfriend from her. Its a long story for another day. Keith spoke as he pulled his sister into another hall they had to go down. Id just stay away from that group anyway. Theyre crazy. Blake said as he slung his arm around Y/ns shoulder. Y/n nodded as she followed her newly made friends down the hall. So, Y/n where are you from? Claire asked. Lawrence Kansas. Y/n answered with a smile. My dad, uncle and I moved up here for their work. Y/n added before they could get the question out. Oh? What kind of work do they do? Well, theyre detectives, but my uncle went to school to be lawyer years ago. Are they in town for those strange murders? Keith asked Y/n. His voice seemed to shake just a small bit making Y/n think maybe he had something to do with the murders. I think so, from what Ive pieced together theyre here for the murders. But they can tell me too much, You know. Y/n answer nonchalant. The bell rung and Claire showed Y/n to their English class with Mr. Stone. Blake and Keith went to their math class. As the day went on Y/n got to know these three people. They seemed to make great friends. Y/n learned Claire and Keith parents are divorced. They live three miles from the school; so they walk to school most of the time. Keith was worried about being murdered is why he was anxious about asking Y/n if her family moved there for the case. She learned that Blake was single. Not that she needed to know that, but Claire kept telling her that she and Blake would make a good couple. She learned he doesnt live too far from the motel that she and her family were staying in. He has two younger siblings and his parents are together. She also learned hay that he wants to be a detective when he graduates. Finally the last bell rings and Y/n, Blake and another boy whos name is Tyrese left the class together. Y/n learned Tyrese was a good friend of Blakes. So youre a good friend of Blakes? Y/n asked as the three walked to their lockers. Yeah, you can say that. Weve only been practically brothers since kindergarten. Tyrese spoke as he grabbed his books from his locker and put them in his book bag. Oh.. y/n nodded. Thats cool. She added as she too put her books in her book bag. Yup, me and him have been through everything together. His folks took me in when my parents died. Ever since then me and him have been inseparable. Brothers not lovers if thats what you were thinking. Y/n shook her head with a chuckle. No, thats not what I was thinking. I was just thinking how nice it is to have close friends. Tyrese looked at Y/n confused. You dont have any? Its kinda hard to make friends when youre moving all the time. Ive never been in one school long enough. My dad and my uncle makes us move around a lot for their work. Tyrese nodded understanding what she was saying. Well, you dont have to worry about not having any friends. Im your friend now. So is Blake, Claire and Keith. He smiled brightly at y/n. Thanks. She smiled and Tyrese nodded. Its no problem. Y/n, is he talking your ear off? Blake asked, who just came over from his locker. Oh, no. Were just getting to know each other. Y/n explained with a small (friendly) smile. Oh, god. He talked your ear off. Blake joked as he turned to his brother. Man, you gotta learn to stop talking so much. Y/n shook her head as she closed her locker. Y/ns phone dinged signaling a texts from someone. That someone was her dad, just letting her know he was there to pick her up. Tyrese and Blake walked with Y/n out of the school to the Impala, coincidently they parked right beside the black beauty of a car.   This your ride? Blake asked as they walked up to the 67 Impala. Yup, this is my dads baby. Y/n spoke with a smile as she looked at the car which held many memories. Dean looked up seeing his daughter with two boys. Instinctively he got out of the car to get Sticky teenage boys away from his baby. Hey, kiddo. Dean greeted his daughter as he got out the car. His arms crossed in a protective manner. Dad, this is Blake and his friend Tyrese. Blake, Tyrese this is my dad Dean. Y/n introduced them to each other. Nice to meet you sir. Blake said holding his hand out to shake Deans. Yeah.. Dean looked at Blake suspiciously. Well, you ready kiddo? Y/n nodded as she fixed the bag on her shoulder. Ill see you guys tomorrow. Y/n said as dean opened the front door for his daughter. Yeah, bye  Blake and Tyrese spoke as they waved at Y/n and then to dean who was glaring. Dude, you totally have a crush on her. Tyrese playful pushed Blake as he blushed. Blake shook his head as he smiled. Yeah, I do. *** Weeks passed and Y/n got to know the friend group better. She and Claire had became great friends. She would go over to Claires house to study together or just hang out. She tried to see if there was any chance Claire or her brother couldve been the murderer. But neither one showed signs of being vampire or werewolf. Y/n was happy to know that. She didnt want to have to kill her new friends. She, Blake and Tyrese were also close. She was closer with Blake then anyone else. She would go to their football games and cheer them on. She learned vampires are what killed Tyrese's' Parents. She wondered if maybe the people that killed his parents are the same people who are killing people now. "Y/n! You coming to the football game tonight?" Claire asked Y/n as she walked down the hall on her way to her Science class. "Umm, I didn't there was a football game tonight." Y/n said as she held her books to her chest turning to one of her best friends. "Well, there is. and a very special person is playing tonight. A very special quarter back. One that you are gonna marry one day." Y/n shook her head as she blushed.  "Who's marrying who one day?" Blake asked as he threw his arm over his girlfriends shoulder. "Y/n here is gonna marry the number one quarter back." Claire smiled as she looked at Blake with a smile. "Well, Y/n I didn't know you were gonna marry me." Tyrese said with a smile as he leaned over. Playfully kissing her forehead. "Ha. HA." Blake sarcastically laughed as he pulled his girlfriend closer to him. "Sorry, but Y/ns mine. Your gonna have to fight me for her." Blake said with a smile as he playfully held his hands up. Y/n giggled as she hugged Blake placing a kiss on his cheek as she smiled. "We better get to science class before we're late." Claire smiled at Y/n as they began walking to science. Y/n and Claire were hanging out at Claires house when it was time for the football game. The two of them dressed in the school colors as they left Claires house on their way to the game. "Okay, so I have y'alls wedding planed already. Its gonna be a June wedding." Claire started as she and Y/n walked on the sidewalk. "Oh my God! We're not even 18!" Y/n exclaimed with a big smile on her face. "Well, you guys are practically in love." Claire told Y/n as they walked down the sidewalk together. "Umm, I won't deny that, but still. I think its a bit too soon to be thinking about a June wedding." Y/n laughed looking at her friend. "Well doesn't every teenage girl think about their wedding? I mean as your girl best friend I of course will be your maid of honor." Y/n smiled as she looks at her friend. "Of course You will." Y/n smiled as she cheered on her boyfriend playing. Everyone in the stands could feel the exciting energy. The game is a close one 28- 28 with 3 minutes left on the clock. The people in the stands cheering on their team ready to party with the winning team. Y/n and Claire cheered Tyrese and Blake on as the ran down the field passing the football and running. The opposite team trying to catch Blake who had the football. "Run!!" Claire scream as the clock was down to the last 30 seconds of the game. Just as the timer hit 0 he scored. Winning the game. The whole crowd went wild! Y/n and Claire held each other while jumping up and down screaming in excitement. "They won!" They screamed in union. They waited for the crowd to die down until they could easily get to Tyrese and Blake. "You did it!" Y/n smiled as she hugged her sweaty boyfriend. "And you're grossly sweaty." Blake laughed as he kissed his girlfriend. "We won. of course I'm gonna be sweaty." "Well, why don't you guys clean up and shower then we'll go celebrate at the diner." Y/n said as She unraveled herself from her boyfriends sweaty arms. That night they all celebrated at a diner. They were all happy. Enjoying the time they had together. Y/n loved having friends. She just couldn't imagine leaving her friends when the time comes. A year went by and luckily they stayed in town. Sam and Dean decided they were just gonna stay until her senior year.

A year later- Y/n woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. She grabbed her phone not even looking to see who the caller was. "Hello?" She mumbles into the phone sleep present in her voice. "Y/n?"  A shaky  voice said into the phone. "Blake?" Y/n asked jumping up worried. "Y/n, you need to help us."  Y/n got up throwing some clothes in as she listened to her boyfriend. "Baby, where are you? Can you tell me where you are?" Y/n asked, trying to figure out how to help. "They have us. The people that killed Tyrese parents. Y/n, babe, they aren't normal. They're monsters." Y/n listened to his trembling voice and she was on the verge of tears. "Blake, I need you to call down. I know it's hard, trust me I really do. Can you tell me where you are?" She listened as the phone went quiet. She couldn't hear him not until she heard a blood curdling scream. "Hi there, Y/n." A voice said into the phone. "If you want your boyfriend and friends out alive meet me at the old middle school. You'll know where it is." "How can I trust you? I need to know they're all okay!" Silence. "Listen you stupid fucking bitch! Tell me they're okay and what you want!!" Y/n screams into the phone. Sam and Dean burst into the room seeing y/n in the room full on panicking. Y/n puts the phone on speaker. "Y/n?" It's all of their voices. "Help us! She's gonna kill us!!"  Dean grabbed the phone from his daughter and starts talking to whoever's on the phone. "Listen you sick son of a bitch. We're gonna find you and kill you. Alright, those kids are gonna come out of this alive. You not so much."

Y/n tried to calm down. She grabbed all the things she needed. Wooden stakes, knifes, her gun she perfected with wooden bullets, one of her favorite type of weapons she's made. Y/n hoped that she would get there in time. She's lost too many people in her life. Too many, and she doesn't want to lose anymore. Especially the ones who are close to her. Y/n got in the Impala, dean shot gun and Sam in the back. (She got to the drivers seat first before dean could). Y/n cranked the car and sped of, tires squalling as she sped out from the motel parking lot towards the old middle school.   "Alright, we need a plan. We can't just go in guns a blazin'." Sam said as he leaned over the back seat. Y/n tapped her fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. Her Y/e/c eyes scanning the road cautiously as she drove. silently praying no cops would pull her over for speeding so she could save her close friends lives. "We find the middle school. You and dad will follow behind me until we're inside. We'll split off and search for them. Whoever finds them kills the bitch who has them. But make sure were safe about it. Most of the time vampires stay with their nest. So they're most likely with two or more other vampires. Look, if you run into a vampire you have to stake them. They're not like the normal vampires you guys kill. These are different. You have to stake them, not cut they're heads off." Y/n explains as she slammed on breaks finally at the middle school. "Okay, I think we understand." Sam spoke softly nodding as he looked at his frighten niece. "Look, I know this isn't the best time. But honey, you have to be prepared for this. You don't know what-" "Don't" Y/n cut Sam off. "Don't say what I know you're gonna say. I-I don't want to hear it. So, lets just get out and go help my friends before.." She couldn't even finish what she was going to say. She just needs to help her friends. She cares too much to lose anyone else. Y/n grabs the wooden stakes from the trunks hatch, giving some to both Dean and Sam. Y/n placed her pistol on her side, after making sure she had her wooden bullets inside of it. She also made sure she had her other gun on her thigh holster. That gun kept silver bullets inside of it. She was thought it was a vampire, but was going to be prepared if it was a werewolf too. "Alright," She says clicking on her flashlight. "lets go." Sam and dean follow Y/n in, both with their guns in hand. "Split up, it'll be faster if we do." Y/n said while the entered the school. Dean and Sam shared a worried look but did as Y/n said. Y/n went straight down the hall, Dean went left and Sam to the right. Y/n said a silent prayer as she went into the office into the small rooms. Checking each room searching for the friends she considered family. The family she loved dearly. They continued through the school when Y/n heard screaming. She ran through the halls following the screaming. "Y/n! Help!" She heard the Screams of Claire and Keith. She speed down the hall coming to a stop at the boiler room. (Its always at the boiler room SMH) Y/n grabbed her pistol with the silver bullets in it and held a wooden stake in the other. She burst through the door and pointed the gun around. "Ahh, Y/n, welcome to the slaughter party." Y/n looked up to see a red eyed vampire. "Are you kidding me?" Y/n asked as lunged at the vampire, right as she was about to kill the vampire he moved over. The vampire  moved the stake out of the way punching Y/n as he tried to kick her. Y/n moved backwards before he could kick her.  "You don't get to mess with my friends." Y/n said through gritted teeth. Punching the male vampire hard enough it split the vampires lip. The vampire laughed at Y/n as she continued punching him until he was choking on blood. "You stupid, brat." he smirked as he shook his head. "I don't have your friends. You're wasting valuable time." Y/n shook her head as he eyes were wide. She staked the vampire. Her phone rang, her dad was calling. "Hey, there's noise coming from the gym. We think they're in there. We didn't find anything. Its the only room left inside the school we haven't checked." Y/n nodded until she remembered her father couldn't hear her. "I'm on my way." She ran as fast as she could. She could hear the screams of her friends and then there was another scream. Her dad and uncle. She finally made it to the gym when she seen a vampire draining the blood of Keith. Sobbing out a cry she burst into the gym. She could see a vampire holding onto her dad and uncle. "Put him down." Y/n said as she pointed the gun at the monster in front of her.  The vampire smiled as it stopped drinking Keith's blood. "Okay." The vampire smiled, Keith dropped down to the floor. Currently losing more blood, well what was left of his blood. Y/n shot the vampire with the wooden bullet. The vampire fell to the ground dead. Y/n quickly turned around to see her father and uncle being held back by vampires. Each with a sorrowful look on their faces. "I'm sorry, we couldn't save them." Y/n had no clue what her dad was talking about till her eyes caught a glimpse of crimson liquid on the ground. "No," She gasped looking down at the bodies behind her dad and uncle with the vampire behind them too. "What are you going to kill me? The only way to kill me is to kill your dad or your uncle." The man smiled as he looked at Y/n. "I can't." Y/n cried, shaking her head. Dean looked at his daughter as tears were brimming his jade green eyes. Sam too was on the verge of tears. "Just do it. Its okay." Y/n shook her head as she tried to think of an other option. "I can't, daddy." she cried looking at her dad as he body shook as she sobbed. "Yes, you can." "Awe, how cute. A little father daughter moment. But, its not gonna last. I'm giving you just a minute before I kill them." Y/n shook her head as she smiled. "No, you're not." Y/n smirked. Her gun held up as she pointed the gun at the vampires head. "You see, If I have learned anything about being a Winchester. I can say I have learned this. Usually when you shoot someone in the head it fucking hurts." Just as Y/n finished saying that she pulled the trigger. The wooden bullet going straight through the vampires head. Releasing Sam and dean from his tight grip. Giving y/n a chance to shoot the vampire through the heart. Finally killing the vampire. Sam and dean moved the bodies of the vampires as Y/n walked over to her friends. They were leaned up against the wall, covered in blood, and had been drained out of blood. Sobs racked Y/ns body as she seen the bruises on their bodies, showing how they had fought for their lives. Y/n fell to her knees as she sobbed. She could barely breath as she looked at her dead friends. "Y/n." She heard a voice mumble. turning her head she seen Blake smile. "You're here." He spoke softly as tears ran down his face. "I'm here, baby." She cried as she crawled over to him pulling him carefully into her arms. "I'm so sorry I didn't get here soon enough. I was too late." She cried. Blake shook his head as he took his cold, bloody hand wiping the tears from Y/ns face. "This isn't your fought. You couldn't control this. You can't control this." Y/n shook her head as she leaned her head against his. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I should've been there. I could've saved you. I could've saved all of you. If I would've known. If I.." Blake chuckled as he shook his head. "There's no what ifs Y/n." Blakes voice was slurring as he slowly losing more blood. Y/n cried as she kissed his forehead. "I don't want to lose you." She cried. He nodded he began to cry. "Listen to me." Blake started as he looked at Y/n through tears. "It was never your fought. You have to believe me." Y/n nodded as she cried. "I just don't want to lose anyone else." She whispered against his head. "You're not. Baby, look. I want you to know, no matter what happens I will never blame you for what's happened. You didn't cause this." Y/n cried as she nodded she was listening but not listening. She was tired of losing people, but being a Winchester had its baggage. She lost her dad and uncle probably more than ten times. She's lost Bobby, Ellen, Joe, Kevin (who was like her brother),  John her grandfather who was a dick, but still. There's more people she's lost, but she was just tired of losing all of her family. "I-I want you t-to promise me s-something." His voice was shaking as he started to lose more and more blood. "When I-I die." He stuttered, "no" Y/n shook her head not wanting to come to the fact she was going to lose the guy she loved. "It's gonna happen baby." He spoke softly. "I want-t you to remember me when I'm gone. But you have to promise me, promise me you'll move on." He cried as he moved his hands from hers to his left ring finger. His class ring. "I want you to have this. To have a small token of me while I'm gone." He placed his class ring on her finger making her sadly smile. "Have your June wedding with someone who loves you more than anything in the world. But most of all. You'll save hundreds of people. You might not be able to save everyone, but you can't let that get in your way. You have to believe in yourself." There was a short pause as he started coughing, slowly slipping away. "I love-e you, Y/n Winchester." He spoke as he leaned up kissing her one final time. "I love you too." She cried as she felt him take his final breath. She sobbed as she held onto his lifeless body. Unable to do anything besides scream for help. Sam and Dean walked into the room watching as Y/n and Blake had their last moments together. Y/n cried, sobbed, screamed as she held onto Blakes lifeless body. They walked over to Y/n pulling her into their arms as she sobbed. The two of them feeling her pain. They knew what she was feeling because they have been through it their whole lives. Being a hunter brings hurt and death. But most of all being a Winchester had its burdens, but they were there for each other. They care for each other and they love each other. There for each other through everything. Whatever came up, they would always protect each other. They let the families bury the dead, but at night they salt and burned the bodies making sure they wouldn't come back as spirits. Y/n may be broken, but she had her family. They will help her get back to normal. Whatever normal it. Whatever its going to be. She's going to always have a piece of herself gone, but one day that piece might be mended. Hopefully one day, she'll meet her one true love. The one who will love her more than anything in the world, give her the dream wedding she wanted. The June wedding she'll have. With the people she loves. One day, things will be better. But for now, she's gonna keep kicking. She's going to keep killing monsters saving people, hunting things. You know the family business.

[casmoments]

Marriage of Convenience; part 7

Prompt: “Arranged Marriage” -  Certain factions of heaven are on your tail, the consequence of your death a trigger to greater destruction.  In order to protect your life and others, you agree to an old custom that prevents any heavenly agent from harming you.   The basic ritual?  You have to marry an angel.  Final part in the series.   Reader Gender: female Word Count: 5640 Warnings:  technically reader death but only the aftermath, not the process (cause/time of death is ambiguous).  flashbacks to when the reader was first captured by angels, though.   some true form!castiel as well.  

part one ; part two ; part three ; part four ; part five ; part six 

-

“Oh my god,” you say, mere moments after dying—sitting in heaven and you already blaspheme.  Something like fondness curls in the film of his being, slithering down every wisping stem of his essence.   The sensation tickles the underside of two faces, a curl of a smile on one head.

“No,” he says, the sound on the tips of his wings as he brushes them over you, “just me.”

You’re very small next to him.   A human soul is no bigger than the human that was,  but yours is blown wide, augmented by his grace.   It has melded into your being like something that always belonged there.   Your soul is thus small and not miniscule in comparison.   If he was human and you a subject, you’d look like a doll in his hand.

But neither of you are either thing.   He’s chaos and light and sound, rendered to something tangible in this odd dimension, with three heads and two arms and two legs, and blinking eyes running the length of every limb.   Two vast wings stretch behind him, greater versions of what he showed you long ago on earth.   The winding blue flames which circled ivory wings now cover the expanse of his back.   It licks around him and sometimes looks more like water than fire, and you might swear it reflects starlight like quiet waters under open sky.

You are warmth and sound, golden and soft next to his whirling blue fire and white light.  You best resemble a single flame, yellow and flickering, but your own being slowly bleeds through, even in this divine place.   Your soul begins to manifest to a human face.  

You’re perched before him in a garden which revolves underfoot.   You sit on a branch—it’s the only thing that sits still.  

“Oh, Castiel,” you say, “there is nothing just about you.”  

Golden colours slip around you like a translucent gown as your body takes shape where you sit.   You tip your head and look at him quizzically, glowing gold eyes roaming his form.    You look directly at his middle head.    “Is there a face under there?”

“No,” he replies, that same fondness slipping through him.   “That is my face.”

“Oh.”

His middle face appears to have a veil draped over it, a vague shape of a human head beneath it.   Of course, there is no beneath or atop, that is simply his entire face.   On its left sits the face of a bird.  It’s no specific bird as it seemingly changes at every angle.    On the right sits the head of some wild cat, something like a panther with thicker and coarser hair, though coloured brightly as the rest of him, and likely softer than it looks.   Other than the endless eyes, his arms and legs extend as a human’s might, albeit connected to a much bigger and stronger body shape.    It must be to support those wings.  

“Do I please you?” he asks.   He moves onto one knee in genuflection, and even though you sit at a very high vantage, it only just puts you at eye level.

Your body has taken its full shape now, its outward age the same as the day you married.  The translucent gold sheet still wraps around you and the iris of your eyes remain gold in colour.   Other than that, you are familiar where he knows he is not.

But you smile and lean forward, looking him over.

“Yes,” you say, “very much.”  

He lifts a hand to where you sit, placing it against the tree and not you.   It’s a timid offering for you to touch him if you like.  Considering he could easily crush something your size in one hand, he knows better than to suddenly grab at you like a plaything.   He won’t hurt you, but it could startle you.

You stare at his fingers for a moment.   His hands are somewhat human-shaped, and the eyes running down his arm end at his wrist, but something fiery seems to run over his knuckles, and his nails are more claw-like than any human.   For a moment, you just stare, then tentatively reach out and lay your whole palm against him.   When you make contact, wires of gold shoot up beneath your hand, running along his form like veins.   You snatch your hand back with a yelp, looking at him in concern.

“It is all right,” he says, inching his hand closer.   “That is how we are.”

He sees your understanding.  As his grace fills you, so does your soul fill him, bound from the celestial consummation which marked you as husband and wife.  

The golden threads fade and you place your hand to him again.  There is a faint pulse where they show again, but it disappears even as your hand remains.   You smile, running your hand back and forth.  

“You sound different here,” you say, looking up at him.   “But it’s pretty.”  

Pretty is probably an understatement.   He shifts so he kneels completely before your tree, each head fixated on you.

“This is how Enochian should sound,” he says.   You look bemused again.

“Are you speaking Enochian?   It just sounds like—”   You don’t continue; you can’t continue.  Sound is just sound, as redundant as that thought is.    You shrug.   “Am I speaking Enochian?”

“No.  You can if you wish.”

“That’s good to know.   I guess.”   You are not capable of blushing here.  There is no blood in your body-like form to alter it.   But he wraps his second hand beneath the branch you sit on, and there is open affection in his many gazes.

“Your cheeks pinken often,” he says.   You touch your face as if a blush sits there.

“What?  No, they don’t!”  You smile before the protest ends.  “Yes, they do,” you confess.   You’re thoughtful for a moment, looking away.   You look at him when you speak again.   “You told me I would be scared of your true form.”  

“I thought it might frighten,” he says.  “I am pleased it does not.”  

“Me too,” you say with a warm smile.   “But I don’t think I could ever be scared of you.”

“I thought you were,” he says, one of his head ducking in shame, “once.”

“What?”  You have never heard this story and you look at him confusedly.  There are traces of amusement on your face, however, as you see him recoiling with embarrassment.   Angels should not feel embarrassment—but then, they should not feel many things he does.     “What do you mean you thought I was scared of you?  When?”

“In the beginning.”

“Tell me.”

He does.

He remembers the warehouse where he first found you.   Until that night, he had not even realized a new prophet existed.   A gang of corrupted seraphim must have activated one, their dark purpose immediately clear as Castiel followed their trail.

Though he never received a clear explanation of how he came upon their trail at all.  They had quieted your prayers, preventing you from reaching anyone no matter your efforts.   But a whisper somehow reached him, transferred across cosmic wavelengths without explanation, planted right in his head so he might find you.

Castiel set on the mission by himself.  He would not burden the Winchesters with an endeavour beyond them.   They were already crippled by an obvious misery, memories of past failures.   Castiel felt much of that, feeling it beneath the skin of his vessel as it bled into his very being.   Responsibility, disappointment, heartbreak, and a terrifying despair if he failed that day.

Such unending chaos, unending hurt.  

Only two angels held you in captivity, awaiting a summons from their superiors.   Castiel easily vanquished one but released the second, not wishing for more bloodshed.   The angel taunted him for his sentimentalities, but even then Castiel ignored him.   Only when he saw how you had been treated did he reel.   When the angel came at him again, he finished the mutilated shadow of divinity.   He mentally recited but one lament, that for the human vessels not spared.

Then he was at your side, helping you from your frightened position.   You had curled in on yourself, protecting your body from further injury.   The damage done looked worse than it was, though the shock of it all had broken you.   Castiel touched you very carefully, even then you cried out in protest and tried to break from his arms.  

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, though his gruff voice may have startled you. He slid his hands past your protesting fists and cupped your cheeks, allowing a remedy to spread through your body.  

Your panic settled, bliss falling with the physical relief.   When he touched his hand to your mouth, healing the sensitive injuries more directly, you groaned into his palm—a very pleased moan that rumbled down an unfamiliar nerve.

“Is that better?” he asked when it was completed.  

You slumped against him, all but collapsing in his arms.   He remained on his knees, your body slanted against his, but he looked down when you looked up.

“Thank you,” you said, spoken with such sincerity.  He felt a thrum of something like affection.  You had placed unabashed trust in his presence.  It felt good to feel the embrace of someone who thought him unremittingly pure of character, a protector as he should have been.   He had failed in many regards but your gaze perceived someone who had not.  

But it did not last.

Time saw these sentiments flitter away.   And for the best.   It was wrong of him to indulge in good feelings for the sake of their simplicity.   Nor did he deserve it, anyway.  

Castiel observed your nature in the bunker, your demure character giving way to someone more boisterous once you were comfortable.   But you were never comfortable around him.   While you welcomed Sam and Dean into your circle, Castiel read your distance as fear.   A wall stood between you and him so he remained dutifully behind it, even if a bitter and jealous sting affected him.   He had found you and helped you, had been the first to hold you, but it was others who reaped the benefit.   But he quickly quelled those thoughts; you were an individual and deserved greater respect than such crude thinking.   It was not his place to gain anything.  

And, truly, it pleased him to see you so happy.  To see the Winchesters so happy.  

He recalled a particular visit to the bunker, early in your stay.   He materialized in the library but found it empty.   There was a scuffle echoing down the corridor, laughter and shouting and iron clattering.   Curious, Castiel ventured forth.   He followed the sounds to the kitchen where he stopped in the doorway.   His eyebrows lifted as he looked on in surprise.  

The room was completely upside down.  Pots and pans were littered across the floor while dishcloths  were suspended from lighting rigs.  Vials of food colouring stained the floor in multi-coloured patterns and it looked as though a bakery had exploded at the centre table.  

You were in the middle of it, the Winchesters as well.   You were hurling flour at one another, forgotten dough sitting on a cutting board.  All three of you were washed in white flour.   Castiel turned the corner just in time to witness Dean pouring a bowl of chocolate mix over Sam’s head.

“Dean!” Sam hollered.

You were beside yourself in hysterics, draped over the table and laughing.   The brothers became occupied with wrestling each other, smacking one another with flour and bits of dough while you watched and laughed to your heart’s content.  

Though Sam and Dean were vastly amusing, Castiel found his gaze straying.   He looked at you though you had yet to notice him.   Your smiles always compelled him to watch longer.

He admitted there was a race to his bloodstream, albeit beyond control.   A warmth spread across his chest and for a moment he remained there, standing in the doorway and looking at you.   Your hair fell from its messy up-do, caked in sugar and flour, your cheeks powdered white and a streak of pink icing across your forehead.

It was incredible to think you were the same girl once curled on a basement floor, a stranger to all three of them.  How much had changed and yet how much had not.   You were still more stranger than friend despite the growing desire to change that completely.   He wished to speak with you, wished to make you laugh as you laughed now, and because he was an unfettered excuse for angel, a patchwork creature felted of heaven and human, he could not help but admire your smiling lips and kicking legs, the wiggle of your hips and curve of your figure as you bent over the table.  

It was the first time his thoughts of you wandered to carnality—but not the last.

As he relates this chapter of his story, you slide to the edge of your branch to look at him better.   His wings have wrapped completely around the tree, one hand gripping your branch and the other holding the trunk.   He pauses in his account to asses you, wondering of your intentions.   You look at the ever-changing ground and then at him.

“Can you hold me?” you ask.

He eagerly offers his hand, having been waiting for you to ask such a thing.   You drop into his hold, not even blinking as you let yourself fall.  He catches you then sits back, allowing you to walk over his hands.   You move onto your hands and knees, bending over to look at the eyes on his arm.   Then you sit back in his palm and look up at him, smiling.  

“Continue,” you say.

He does so, perhaps with a greater strain now that you are in proximity.   And, of course, his story unfolds with more decadence than any angel should hold.

One day he happened to appear in the kitchen just as you bent right over, unwittingly flashing him a sudden view up your dress.    He didn’t move for a moment, taken back.   He hadn’t braced himself for that.   When he realized what was happening, he panicked, flying from the room.   He aimed for the library and succeeded—at the cost of smashing right into the table.   He toppled a chair and almost took himself down.  

You came running into the room, the skirt of your dress billowing.

“Castiel,” you said, already flushed.   You seemed embarrassed.  Did you know?   Did you know that he invaded your space and then remained there while you unknowingly revealed your more private attributes?  

“Y/N,” he said after a moment.   “Are Sam and Dean here?”

He knew they were not.   He meant to check on you.   You had been alone in the bunker for over a week.    

You shook your head, looking at him a bit strangely.  You were too polite to question his odd behaviour.

“No, they’re—”

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I apologize.”

He promptly fled the scene.

He fought to return to his previous state, a simpler state.   He liked to hear about you.   He liked to see you.   He liked the things he learned, your stories and habits, and there were other things he wished to discover.  Granted, he learned these things second-hand, through Sam and Dean.  But he enjoyed them nonetheless.   It was a fond acknowledgement, a tender affection.   An innocent curiosity.    Nothing more.

And then he joined the Winchesters on a hunt, waiting in their motel room while they dined elsewhere.    He turned on the television, idly flipping stations.   He momentarily thought of you, wondering if he should check on you.   Perhaps not.    He continued surfing the television instead, always a bit curious to see what he might find.

He froze after flicking to a pornographic channel, blinking at the screen.   His usual reactions were absent, a derisive glance or quirked eyebrow.                                                    His first foray into pornography had been baffling, to say the least.   He understood the concept of intercourse but the details of certain partnerships escaped him.    Those details were clarified but didn’t make particular sense.   After that, he had a low regard for most of it.  

It was still quite farcical but his vessel grew taut, human senses overpowering his angelic ones.   It was a faint sensation, gradually evolving.   It was difficult to reverse.   Especially with his eyes locked on the screen.  

It just—it so happened to be that this particular actress resembled you in a certain fashion.   His thoughts would not have strayed had the scenario been different.  But this unfortunate coincidence was very difficult to shake.  

The woman tossed her head back, a cry of ecstasy on her lips.   Castiel thought of laughter, another human response, and suddenly matched the two expressions.   A poor development, honestly.  He could now imagine such an expression on your face, lips pink and upturned with a delirious smile.   Ecstasy—

He turned off the television when the Winchesters stumbled back in.   They didn’t notice anything but Castiel excused himself, reappearing a block away.   He felt the evening breeze, his vessel alerting him to every sensation.   He peered through a narrowed perception, down at his own body.   This was not the appropriate time to become aroused.  And certainly not the appropriate reason.  

After that night, it did occur him that he should better understand these responses and ideas if he wanted to overcome them.   And he really needed to overcome them.  

The next time he visited, he recalled his previous thoughts and felt something like shame.   You would be appalled if you could hear his musings.   Not only did every thought once exist but they lingered.  

He may have tuckered through a moment with you, had you not wandered into the library wearing nothing but a long t-shirt.   You clearly just rose from sleep, something so natural and human, your body rolling through its cycles.   A body which made him very aware.

Needless to say, a whole slew of thoughts piled on him at that one moment—your skirt lifting as you bent over, a breathless moan on your lips, your head thrown back in ecstasy, and you nestled in your bed with a simple garment wrapped around your body.    

“Castiel?” you asked.   “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Sam and Dean,” he lied, careful to stand behind a chair.   The last thing he needed was you seeing was his traitorous cock protesting at its material confines.   He stood very still, breathing.   Not breathing in any particular fashion, but breathing.

“They went out,” you replied.

“Oh,” he said.   “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.  Goodbye.”

“Uh, bye—”

He tried to detach you from his thoughts as he researched humans and their oh-so vast sexual escapades.   You may have inadvertently encouraged this venture, but he only embarked upon it so he could better understand it.   The more he knew, the easier it would be to divest himself of it.  

He actually thought himself a decent success, not once debasing himself to any human level.   His vessel didn’t enjoy his purposeful avoidance, but he learned to control its urges.

At least until visiting yet another day.   Sam and Dean were gone and he was checking in, but he couldn’t find you anywhere.   He strolled the halls and paused as he neared your bedroom.   He would not just waltz in, obviously, though he did freeze when he heard noise inside.   He stepped a bit closer to the door, brow furrowed.  For a moment it sounded like you were in pain and he almost knocked.

Then he realized.

He stood still, feeling a physical drop as his vessel tightened around him.   You were moaning in pleasure, bedsheets rustling beneath your moving body as you so clearly pleased yourself on the other side of that door.   Castiel leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling very heavy.   He furrowed his brow and looked down, almost groaning at how quickly his vessel had hardened.   Was he so weak a creature after all?

He pushed away from the wall, moving to the other end of the corridor.   He leaned back, flexing his fingers.   He contemplated leaving, perhaps going to heaven, but he couldn’t find the willpower.   His blood was pumping hotly and it all moved south, his cock almost hurting with how desperately hard it was, trapped in his clothes.    He did eventually manage to fly, but he only made it to a bathroom on the other side of the bunker.  

He all but collapsed against the counter, with a ragged groan submitting himself to the habits of humans.   He opened his belt and then his pants, breathing out in relief when he pushed his hand down and freed the frustratingly needy erection which waited there.   He clutched the edge of the counter, panting but otherwise keeping his volume down.   He made a few half-hearted attempts to clear his mind, moving his hand over his cock in the appropriate fashion.

It was no use.   When he came, your image was plastered everywhere in his mind.   He recalled you moaning into his hand that day you met—morphing into a mental image of you sprawled beneath him, similar noises tumbling from your lips as you spread your legs and called him to you.

After cleaning up, he simply flew from the bunker and did not return.   He didn’t visit you when you were alone anymore.   Clearly, he had to keep his distance.

“I can’t believe you never told me that,” you say now, sprawled across his hand and looking up at him.   His heads have turned aside but he directs them to you, eyes likewise blinking in your direction.

“I thought it might embarrass you,” he says, a cord of blue flame twining from his wing, teasing at your body.   You laugh, squirming as you roll away.   He holds you carefully.  

“It would have then,” you admit, “but I think I would have liked it.”

“I know,” he says, a second strand of his grace dancing over you.   This time you lean toward it, humming contently as it caresses you.   “I know very well the things you like.”  

You would be blushing again if you could.

“What about when we married then?” you ask, laying on your stomach.  You prop your chin in your hand and kick your legs, tipping your head as you look at him.   “Were you happy when you found out we had to get married?”

“If I ever was, it caused guilt.”

“Guilt!  Why?”

“I thought you disliked me,” he replies.  “I thought you feared me.   It would be selfish to feel happiness at the arrangement if it would upset you.”

“It made me happy,” you say softly.   You rest your head when more of his grace rolls over you, covering you sweetly.  

“A fact I soon realized,” he says.

He remembers your wedding night very well.   He had been so concerned with hurting you, and then you revealed you were a virgin he felt even worse for intruding on your potential life.   It was not until he had you beneath his hands did he begin to wonder if he had been a fool.   Your body responded keenly to his touch, and he saw you fighting to stifle your gasps.   It could not be contained for long, your hips lifting so he would slide his hand beneath you, a tremble in your body as he touched you and felt how you desired him.

Then you were on your back, willingly spreading your legs as you encouraged his advance.   He settled over you and wondered.  He recalled your reactions the first day you met.   You were rattled from your ordeal so he never blamed you  for your hesitancy.   But as he looked at you then, pink-cheeked and shy and embarrassed, unable to meet his eye as you shifted beneath him, he wondered if that held true once before.   Perhaps you did not move away in fear, perhaps you did not avoid his gaze in worry.   Perhaps his own infatuation had commenced that day.   Perhaps you reciprocated.  

Perhaps was a heavy word, saturated with so much possibility, yet he found its use persistent.   For perhaps it was preposterous to imagine any sort of infatuation rooting so early in a story, yet he supposed everything had to start somewhere.  

He was so used to chaos and catastrophe, to the sinister and ugly.  He knew all about small problems snowballing into cataclysms of unmatched proportion.   He never thought something which in itself was quiet and affectionate could begin somewhere even smaller and blossom softly.   He wouldn’t know how to proceed much further.   In heaven, there was only the Will and the Way.   On earth, there was only pain and, if not pain, worry for the next mission.   He was the perpetual soldier.

It was unusual to feel himself falling into something brighter.

As his body had almost entirely overcome his senses, he had mere scraps of grace on the surface of his being.  The deeper levels would be breached at the celestial consummation, one that would bind you to him for eternity.   Of the outermost remains, he used all of it to make the experience more comfortable for you.  He carefully aligned his body to yours as he filled you for the first time.   He offered to leave the consummation at that—but you brought an end to his wonderings and hooked your leg around him, with a smile inviting he continue.  

He did, of course, thinking how happily he would continue for however so long you wanted him.    And it seemed you did want him, as mere hours later you were rolling back into his arms, requesting he make love to you.   He had lain behind you for hours, not sleeping but watching, touching your hair, your skin, careful not to wake you, content to be with you.   And then he had you wrapped around him again.

It all felt so good until morning came.  Uncertainty returned as you woke hazily, seeming almost frightened again.  Instinct kicked in, the same which had always protected him, and he retreated with pitiful shame, thinking he had pushed himself to the outskirts of your affection again.  

Until your emotional confession in the evening.   When he had you in his arms again, he was certain to pry every secret from your lips, confirm your wanting of him, and swear to himself that he would love every inch of you and never again allow petty insecurities to stand between you.

“You did a very good job of loving me, you know,” you speak again now, sitting on the edge of his hand.    You cling to him as he moves, laying on the spinning earth-like ground.   Your feet touch the grass and he remains on his side, watching as you roam in a circle near to him.    “Where are we?” you ask, looking up at his wing as it folds at his side, the tip reaching you.    You stand on your toes and touch it.  

“Your heaven,” he replies.  “You have two.   Prophets are blessed with an awareness of all heaven; you can come and go as you please.   This is a place for you to roam, but you have a personal space which resembles an earthly memory.”

“Oh,” you say.   A flash of gold moves through him when you sidle alongside him, pressing into his torso.   His wing slides further over you, gently keeping you against him.    You remain there for a moment, smoothing your hand over him as his grace likewise touches your hair.   It’s difficult to measure time in this place, but you linger for quite a while.   Then you sit up, touching his wing.   “Can we see the other heaven?”

“Of course.”

He stands in mere seconds, lifting you off the ground and holding you in front of him.   His wings seem to explode around him, flying up and spreading wide, so wild and bright it’s almost blinding—even here where you have nothing to properly blind.

You close your eyes anyway.   When you open them, you feel something flat beneath your bare feet.   You look around and realize you’re in your bedroom at the bunker.

“Home,” you murmur.   You shiver when you hear the flap of wings, much smaller and very familiar.   You turn around and see Castiel, standing in the shape of his vessel.   The gold thread which draped over you before remains, but as material now.   Likewise is he wrapped in something sheer and blue.   Though you don’t think you have a beating heart, you swear it races as he approaches you.  

He doesn’t say anything and you don’t need him to.  He takes your face in his hands as he did the day you met and he kisses you.   You feel the fabric fall from your body and then his.   Every sensation is heightened to the extreme, a tremor running through your entire form as his hands slide down your body.   You lean against him as he kisses down your neck, hands smoothing over your backside.   You squeak, smacking his chest when he squeezes your bottom.

“Cas,” you giggle.   He nips at your shoulder then lifts his head, smiling fondly.   “Always such trouble,” you say in Enochian.

In reply, he lifts you off the ground.  Thinking of his true form, all that strength makes sense.   You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs his waist, and you hold onto him when he lays you back on the bed.   His mouth moves down your body while his hands settle under your thighs.   He pushes them apart, breaking your hold on his waist.   You tremble and start to breathe when his lips scour your inner thigh, tracing familiar paths.    

“Castiel,” you breathe his name, lifting your hips as he teases you.   You moan with blissful relief when his mouth moves where you need it.    He brings you to climax quickly and, as usual, you expect a breather.  As usual, that doesn’t happen.   You make a high-pitched noise as he continues his assault, your body bending as you partly lift off the bed with your second orgasm.   “Cas,” you moan raggedly, because he isn’t stopping.   He turns you over and lifts your hips, and then his mouth returns.   “Ugh, this isn’t different—” you say, but you say it with a smile.

Your smile is broken with surprise when you feel him slide inside you, fingers still swirling over your throbbing and sensitive clit.   You finish in seconds, pulsing around him and listening as he breathes and grunts with every thrust.   He holds your hips with both hands, pitching almost erratically against you.   You clench around him and he comes, fingers digging into your hips.   You slump forward with hazy delight when he pulls away.   You slide onto your stomach, laying there for a moment.   You turn your head to look at him and you anticipate a tired, content look.

But it still blazes with desire, his hand running down your back.  

Your body recovers quicker here.  You suppose it does for him too.    He rolls you onto your side and, still a bit delirious, you grab at him messily.    He doesn’t seem to mind, hoisting your leg around his waist as his cock presses at your entrance.   You take hold of him, aligning him, mimicking his low sound when he fills you again.    You have each other in that position and then he rolls you onto your back.   His thrusts fill you differently, almost better, but he swallows your sounds with a hard kiss.

He makes you come again, following moments after, and you swear you see white for a moment.  

Then you’re settled in his arms.   His wings, scaled to a reasonable proportion again, unfold around him as he lays on his side.   He draws you against him and you nestle your head against his chest, breathing in as his wing slides over you.  

“So how do you think you heard my prayer?” you ask, thinking to the beginning of his story, how he heard your prayer when you were taken captive.  

He kisses the top of your head then breathes out.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, that familiar rough voice sounding in your ears.

“Can we go back to that other place for a bit?” you ask.  As much as you adore this form, you’re almost starting to miss his other one.  

No sooner has his wing moved do you feel yourself standing.   Gold wraps around you again, a part of your essence here, and you stand while he waits on one knee before you.   He still towers over you.   You lift one hand and he takes that as indication, picking you up.  

Before long, you’re sitting on his shoulder.  You felt a bit ridiculous at first but you adjusted quickly.   You touch one of his faces and he makes what must be a pleased sound.  

“Do you think you were sent to save me?” you ask, sliding off his shoulder and into his hands as he lays down again.   You curl up on his chest, his wings folding around you.    The flame is bright blue, amplified by the white beneath it.  

“Cherished wife,” he says, all his phrases a bit different in pure Enochian, but the compliment no less welcome.   You shudder when you suddenly feel much more, a whirl of emotion beneath his chest as a thousand different feelings unfold beneath you.   Most of them are unpleasant and you wonder why he shares them, but they soon bleed into something much warmer, and then it blisters hot in the most wonderful way.    You think of his story, beginning with worries and fears, ending here.   You understand, the essence of your soul almost completely bleeding into his grace.   Gold flickers in his wings above you like stars in the blue.    “You can see,” he says, “who was sent to save whom.”

castiel x reader masterpost

[auror-lovie]

I Loved You, Mr. Scamander; Ending 1 Part 2

━━━•✦.✧. Author’s Note.✧.✦•━

WAIT Y’ALL ACTUALLY LIKE VICTORIA???

PLOT TWIST!

━━━━━•✦.✧. Summary .✧.✦•━

Victoria always thought that writing out her feelings would make them disappear. And it worked!... Until Paris. When she returned home, she reread the letters she wrote about them.

━━━━━•✦.✧. Add-Ons .✧.✦•━

TW; SELF HARM: Picking at skin

THETORIA  (Theseus/Victoria) SUBTEXT (If you don’t want to read this then just click away)

━━━━━━•✦.✧.☾.✧.✦•━━━━━

After what happened in Paris, Victoria decided to take a break from working in the Ministry. She had just lost so much that it was taking a toll on her. Years of emotional baggage, finally released but at what cost? Her leaving the people she loved?

Yeah. That idea sounded better in her head.

A year away from the Ministry made her realize how mundane the muggle world was. In that year, she put her wand back in its box that Ollivander gave her all those years ago and put that box in a trunk that stayed in her closet. She distanced herself from the wizarding world, only keeping tabs via The Daily Prophet. 

Though she thought the muggle world was a bit mundane, she found herself falling in love with the muggle world, despite its flaws.

She needed income if she was going to keep living in that flat. So Victoria had cut her hair and started wearing men's clothing. She managed to charm her identification card to present herself as a male and got a job as a bartender.

When she wasn’t at work, she often strolled through the parks. Reading a book, thinking, or just… observing. Muggles were like wizards- possibly more advanced than they were. They had their own problems, their own battles, their own wars to fight.

Then she’d return home. Home to the flat that she shared with (Y/N). Even though she knew (Y/N) was gone, it didn’t stop Victoria from announcing that she was home. Old habits die hard.

“(Y/N)... I’m home…” Victoria whispered.

No answer. 

Victoria closed the door to her flat and walked over to the couch. She sat down and eyed a small box that sat on the coffee table in front of her. It was like the box was taunting her to open it, but if she were, the memories of her curse would reveal itself.

Her curse? She loved people too much.

She had put so much love into the world without expecting the world to reciprocate. She’s had many infatuations, but those died out within weeks or a month after she realized her affections.

There were only people in Victoria’s life that she ever truly loved, but due to circumstances, she only allowed herself to love them from afar. Hesitantly, she opened a small box. This box contained the letters to all the people she’s ever loved- not like she’d ever let those people read it. Opening the box, she picked up and opened the first letter her fingers touched…

Newt.

Wednesday 02 December 1908

Newton,

I’m writing this because I’m in love with you. I fell in love with your unfailing kindness. You were so kind to me and (Y/N). You were kind to the creatures you loved so much and I have a feeling that you’ll continue to hold this kindness. For your mind, as brilliant as it is, cannot comprehend extreme levels of cruelty or evil. You don’t have a wicked bone in your body, and I think that's something that we can all aspire to have.

Where kindness exists, generosity usually follows. My love, you have proven this quality in multitudes, as you are generous with your time and energy in taking care of us and your beloved creatures. Adding to that, your kindness and generosity lead to loyalty. Whether you are aware of it or not, you’re incredibly loyal to those you hold close- and I can’t help but be drawn to that.

Now, the other students would call you "weird". You are NOT weird- far from it. You love what you love, and you’re not going to apologize to anyone for it. With a mad twinkle in your eye, you lead us into a world of magical creatures with a sly smile.

Simply put, you’re a Hufflepuff through and through. You are hard-working, kind, generous, and selfless — with a touch of madness, and extreme loyalty all included. And for that, I love you. I just wish I could tell you, but (Y/N) loves you too.

And her happiness comes before mine.

- Victoria

She sighed and put Newt’s letter back into the envelope. Victoria picked up and opened the next letter.

(Y/N).

Wednesday 16 November 1910

(Y/N),

The most kindhearted Ravenclaw I’ve ever met. I think you deserve the world, yet somehow I don’t think you always see that. But I want you to know, I often find myself wondering what I did to deserve you.

You taught me what a soulmate really is, and I wouldn’t be able to survive without having you in my life. You come into people’s lives with a purpose and you change them. You make every single person around you better, without even realizing it.

You light up every room and lift every single person around you. You get to know the ones you hold close down to their very core, even when they’re hard to get to know. I would know- I was really closed off when we first met.

I could use up so many pieces of parchment, declaring my love for you but you don’t need that from me. You’re so in love with Newt. I can see it in your eyes. When we have Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw joint classes, you’re running over to his side. When we enter the Great Hall, you’re looking for him.

It hurts my heart to see you cry or be sad over Newt. Half of me tells you, “Everything will be okay. Just tell him when you’re ready”. What the other half of me really wants to say is “If he can’t see your worth now, then he doesn’t deserve it ever.” But you love Newt with all your heart and I wouldn’t dare get in the way of your happiness.

I love you, (Y/N). And I think I always will.

-Vi

Victoria hadn’t realized the tears forming in her eyes until a tear dropped onto the letter. She sniffled, wiping her eyes with her free hand. “Okay (Y/N), I’ve taken my break. I’m coming back to the Ministry… to get you back.”

•✦.✧.☾.✧.✦•

A year was long enough. It was long enough to heal- to move on.

She returned to the Ministry. Walking into the main hall, she made her way to the Minister of Magic’s office.

“Miss Howard, are you sure you want to return? I am aware of your loss and if you don’t want to continue working for us, then I completely understand.” The Minister of Magic, Hector Fawley, asked.

Victoria nodded, “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

“Alright then. You came in at the right time. I believe Travers and Scamander are with the others. Follow me.” Fawley informed, standing from his desk.

She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, despite her hair still being short. It was a force of habit she wasn’t able to break due to her anxiety. “Of course.”

Fawley guided her to the meeting room she knew all too well. She could hear Theseus’ voice through the door. Fawley gave no warning before he entered the room. “Travers, Mr. Scamander, I apologize for the interruption, but I do have an announcement to make. An Auror is coming out of… “retirement” to join your ranks.”

Victoria could hear his introduction spiel and picked at her cuticles. Her foot tapped impatiently. Fawley didn’t have to publicly announce her return. A nice private meeting would’ve been nice.

“Well, where is he?” Travers’ voice echoed.

Victoria stared at the door and gulped. Was she ready to face them again? Was she ready to face him?

“How bold of you to assume it’s a man joining you today,” Fawley replied. “Come on, Howard. Don’t keep your fellow Aurors waiting.”

Theseus’ head snapped up, looking at the doors. ‘Howard?’

She let out a shaky sigh before entering the meeting room. Eyes immediately darted to her. Her eyes met Theseus’ for just a moment before she focused on the bookshelf behind him.

Travers scoffed. “You can obviously tell that this Auror is a male.”

Victoria cringed. She felt her hands curl up into fists. Her knuckles turned white and small crescent moons were starting to form on her palm. It took everything in her power to not punch her superior. She exhaled deeply, unclenching her fists.

Theseus looked at the Auror that made their way into the meeting room. He looked down at their hands- Victoria now picking at her cuticles again. “Victoria?” Theseus asked to confirm his theory.

She looked back at him and nodded. “Hello.”

~*~*~

After a long day filled with meetings and settling back in, Victoria was exhausted and couldn’t wait to go back home. Once she organized the last file a soft knock was at her door.

“Come in!” She said, a small yawn following it.

“Victoria. Ah- hello again.” Theseus greeted as he entered her office. “Hope you’re settling in nicely.”

“You know, Scamander, you don’t have to tread lightly around me. I did my time. I asked for space and all of you respected that.” Victoria said, putting on her blazer as she walked to the entrance to her office.

Theseus cleared his throat. “T-That’s good. You heading home?”

Victoria nodded, “Of course! I can’t sleep in my office… unlike some people.” She teased.

“May I walk you home?”

Victoria looked at her watch. “Hmm… Since you’re offering. Sure.”

The walk consisted of them catching up. He asked about her new hairstyle and what she’d been doing for the past year.

“I like it. It’s cute. Now you can’t hide your face behind your hair whenever I make fun of you.” He said, ruffling her hair.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll mess up my hair no matter the length.” Victoria laughed, lightly whacking his hand away.

When they arrived at her place, Theseus looked around. Despite (Y/N) not living here, it seemed that she still did.

“Make yourself at home. I’m just going to change out.” She said, pointing to the couch before walking to her room.

Theseus walked to the couch and sat down. He looked around to see the photos of her and (Y/N) ranging from their Hogwarts years to the present.

He then looked at the box that sat in front of her. That box held three letters. He knew it would be rude to read them, but something was just calling out to him. So he slowly opened the box and took out the letters.

At first, he smiled when he saw that the letters were for Newt, him, and (Y/N). Then when he read Newt’s letter, something changed. He was confused. ‘Since when did she love Newt? Wait, she loved (Y/N)?’

Theseus was anxious to read his letter but proceeded anyway. As he read his letter, his heart was filled with mixed emotions.

He read aloud the last paragraph, “And all those times you made me smile and laugh, I fell in love with you. I hoped and prayed to whatever celestial being that could hear me. I wanted you to love me too, but you were already in love with (Y/N). No matter how many times you denied it, I saw it in your eyes. You have the same tells as your brother. I know because I loved him too at one point, so I noticed things. I’ve said it many times over the years and I’ll say it again, her happiness and well-being will always come before mine.”

“I loved you, Theseus Scamander,” Theseus whispered as if to keep that to himself.

Victoria gasped from behind him. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

He scoffed. “Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with a letter. Newt and (Y/N) got one too? Did they get to read their letter? Were you ever going to tell me?” He asked, standing up and turning to face her with all three letters in his hand.

“No! They didn’t. And you weren’t supposed to read them either. I was planning on not telling any of you” Victoria bit the inside of her cheek.

“Then why did you write them?” He asked, setting the letters back on the table.

“I was afraid of rejection. It was obvious that you and Newt fell in love with (Y/N). So when I wrote the letters, it was me saying “I love them and I’m aware that they won’t love me as I do them”. And in writing those letters, I laid out how I felt and from there I forced myself to move on.” Victoria explained.

Theseus stared in shock.

“Look, I’m not asking you to love me back in any way, shape, or form.” She sighed, picking at her skin.

“Victoria-”

“J-Just go. I know I invited you in here, but you need to go… Please.”

Theseus observed her actions and it didn’t seem like it was going to stop. “Victoria, you’re going to end up hurting yourself!” He said, walking over to her and quickly grabbing her hands.

“Theseus… Please just go. You read the damn letters. You know now.” Victoria cried.

He shook his head. “Not when you’re hurting like this. I’m not going to leave you alone.”

“But what about Leta?”

“We broke it off. We decided that getting together during a time like this would probably do more harm than good.” He said, holding her hands.

“Oh… I’m sorry…” She whispered.

“We can talk about that later. I’m staying to promise you something.”

She raised a brow. “Last time you promised me something, you broke it.”

“Well, I intend on keeping this one.”

“Then out with it, Scamander! I’m not getting any younger.” She joked, sniffling softly.

“I’m going to help you find her. I’m going to stay by your side and support you for as long as you want me to. I want to see a day where you’re not harming yourself due to stress or anxiety.”

“Then stay.”

And he did.

[noonymoon]

You Have Been Lied To #4

hello again!

in the first few posts we have talked about

how the public narrative is carefully constructed by a global elite

how our entire perception of our past and how we came to be was shaped throughout history

how the myths and stories about a great flood and giants throughout all the cultures are real

how there are children going missing in massive amounts

and why they are going missing 1 & 2 

while i am not at all hurt on a personal level by the fact that many people start to unfollow me - i really don't care for status, fame, pleasure, distraction, an online-reputation, or ANYTHING at all anymore -, i am really saddened that only a fragment of people care for the Truth. the only thing i can do is keep going and pray that people will wake up in time. many others have begun to wake up (a lot of people woke up because of the Qanon movement but i am not a Qanon).

in this post today, i'm going to shed light on what Nazi-Germany actually was. i personally didn't dig deep into my own research because i am entirely overloaded with all kinds of researches and Hitler is not really my favourite topic in the world. but i've read a great book that pulls from many well-researched sources, plus i am using my common sense. when you can count 2+2 together and it makes sense, you know that ist is the Truth. the 2+2 we are going to look at today is the following:

- we've learned that the mainstream media and the entertainment media serves mainly two agendas: 1. to keep the truth away from us, and 2. to shape our perception of WHAT is possible, what is fantasy, what is truth and what is just too crazy to be real. right?

so, according to this parameter, let me ask you the question: why do you think there are SO MANY movies and works about the Nazis being deep into occult knowledge and into mystical artifacts? Captain America: Civil War, Hellboy, Wolfenstein, the Indiana Jones series, Iron Sky, The Keep, and many others are part of this concealing of Truth. the reason why Hollywood wants us to believe that this thought is too fantastical and too absurd to be real is that the Nazis truly had religious interest in the occult.

here is a brief overview about the topic 

there are quotes by Hitler himself which make one think what the heck did he mean by that...? (looking at it from a public narrative perspective ofc)

according to what i've learned Hitler was a huge follower of the teachings of Madam Helena Blavatsky - who founded Theosophy, basically the doctrine where the New Age movement gets pretty much all its ideas, and on which all the secret societies are founded: the Knights Templar, Golden Dawn, Freemasons, Rosicrucians, Ordo Templi Orientis, Illuminati and many more.

this image alone speaks volumes once you realize what’s being communicated.

the Lemurians? the Atlanteans? THE ARYANS? after breaking the veil of deception that is around all of us, it couldn't be more obvious that Hitler was deep in the occult knowledge that was brought forth by Theosophy in 1875. it simply does not make sense at all that Hitlers only goal was to create a race that "has blonde hair and blue eyes" (though it plays a tiny role in this as well). Hitler truly believed with all his rotten heart that there is a race that is superior to regular humans. this religious belief burned in him and his Nazis like an insane fire and they went on a lot of expeditions around the world to find more occult knowledge and also a very specific thing which i am not mentioning yet.

there are a ton of actual real photos of Hitler and his Nazis in Tibet visiting the monks, and also Hitler in the Antarctica (which is a whole rabbit hole for itself but that one is really crazy *lol*) and whatever you've heard in the public why Hitler went to these places, it is not the Truth.

when i was still in this witchy community on here, i often saw posts that basically told Nazis to f*ck off and stop using Runes. back then i had no concept of why any Nazi would use the nordic runes except maybe the superficial thought of "Germans are germanics are nordics" or whatever *lol*, the Truth is, in Hitlers quest to unlock as much as occult knowledge as possible, he also visited Iceland and studied the Nordic Edda. [ Hitlers goddaughter was also named Edda, just throwing this in here ] - Guido von List (an Austrian living in Germany) was apparently the first one to assign mystical meanings to the nordic runes and founding an occult Religion named Wotanism, he died in 1919.

another thing i want to point out is the Swastika. you probably know that the Swastika is pretty much an ancient symbol and appears in ALL kinds of cultures of this world. there is a reason for this that goes deep beyond any regular comprehension, but the public narrative is that Hitler simply stole this symbol and made it a Nazi-Germany symbol, but the truth goes much, much, much deeper than that.

of course we can pretend like all of these connections are just "coincidences" and of course we can cling to the public narrative that is telling us lies, lies, lies. i dearly encourage everyone who wants to know the Truth about this world to start researching. in all of the previous posts i've mentioned and linked really good starting points. you don't have to be a Christian or believe in Jesus in order to find out about the world we live in (though, after discovering all of the pieces and puzzling them together, the most logical thought for me was to literally RUN towards Jesus and i know this is different for everybody but i am praying for you to find Him). i know a lot of this sounds crazy and flat-out foil-hat-kind of way. but always remember that this image of the Truth is on purpose. people who dig into the Truth get out-cast, people who discover the Truth and want to wake other people up are being labelled as wrong and crazy, get silenced, get threatened, get assassinated.

to say it in Hitlers very words: "Truth is not what is; Truth is what people believe it to be" .... sadly, that is very true in our society today. everyone just picks and chooses what they want to believe and there is no concept anymore of ultimate Truth because we are being lied to from each and every side. and i know this sounds radical and Noony how can you say something like this, and so on and so forth, i really GET IT. i understand that it sounds radical, i understand that it isn't what people WANT to hear. you can condemn me all that you want, i really do not care anymore, this is way too important than setting my own comfort above it. Truth is truth, and lies are lies.

one of my favourite scriptures in the Bible is "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." --- John 8:32 ... it could NOT be MORE accurate. it's actually mindblowing how relevant and true these thousand year old words are, especially today. i've never felt so light and free and happy and sane EVER before in my entire life. i've quit my psychopharmacy drugs a while ago (i've been taking prescription drugs for more than 10 years) and my life is looking just bright and wonderful right now, and this even though i almost died in April, still recovering from it. i am more courageous, more filled with love, more motivated, more friendly, more calm, my household is doing just fine, everything is clean and neat, i am doing my chores, my plants are thriving, and even though i am literally ALONE 24/7 (real life AND online) i never ever feel lonely. and i am living with wide open eyes and even though this world is HORRIBLE, i am peaceful now. the Truth really DOES make you free. i've stopped with all kinds of toxic things, from sugar to drugs, you name it. i don't crave neither stimulation nor attention anymore. it's incredible. i can only recommend it. what God and his prophets also foretold over 2000 years ago that it would be EXACTLY like this. "evil will be considered good, and good will be considered evil" - people who speak the truth and do the good deeds will be demonized by the masses.

doing witchcraft and magic and believing in the New Age NEVER felt evil because i was never harming anyone. and i am pretty sure that 99,5% of you people on here feel the exact same way. we are being conditioned by the entertainment media to believe that magic is wonderful, innocent and curious. Disney is doing a GREAT job easing little children into the concepts of magic and fantasy. and i know most of all people never harm anyone with their magic. and God didn't forbid us to do magic because he doesn't want us to have fun or to have a spiritual life, or because he thinks we don't deserve any of the things we can do for ourselves magically. God will HAPPILY provide each and every need of us. the reason why God forbid his people to practice magic, sorcery, divination and witchcraft is to protect us from being deceived. now, a lot of people will rebel mentally, and that's okay, i was the same way. before you haven't discovered the truth and combined all of the puzzle pieces, it really just doesn't make a lot of sense, is really provoking and sounds bad. i was really wrestling with all this myself. now, i am grateful to the Lord that this wrestling process ended up in me being OPEN to what He has to say, and discovering the Truth instead of rebelling and living a lie any further. Praise God for not giving up on me with my stubbornness.

today, i've listened to an interview with the Illuminati Defector that i've mentioned in an earlier post, who was going to be one of the highest ranks in the Illuminati (Queen Mother of Darkness). her name is Jessie Czebotar and she has made it her mission to bring light to this worldwide matter and help survivors being rescued. please listen to some of her interviews, it’s mind-blowing what she has to say.

honestly, when you realize how EVIL these people are and that they ARE witches and druids and that they USE the occult and witchcraft and magic on an EXTREMELY high and incredible level, the LAST thing you WANT is to continue doing the same thing. like. i am not judging anyone here, truly. because we simply do not know what's going on. but when you suddenly realize that EVIL PEOPLE like Hitler, like the Illuminati and the Freemasons and all of these secret occult societies did and ARE doing the same thing of which WE regular people think it's no big deal and it's okay, you simply wanna run, run, run from it as far as you possibly can. at least this is how i feel about it. i am not forcing anyone to believe me, i am simply encouraging you to at least find out why i am saying all these things to you, and then decide for yourself.

Jesus said that we will know them by their fruits. a good tree can only create good fruit and a bad tree can only create bad fruit. a good tree can not create bad fruit and a bad tree can not create good fruit. it's really quite simple.

God bless the ones that read this with an open mind.

[elfenbensord]

GOODBYE, STRANGER / CHAPTER 1

GOODBYE, STRANGER / CHAPTER ONE / OBLIVIATE

SERIES MASTERLIST

3-10.8.20

A/N: This is a new series I started a bit randomly one night. Enjoy some sad  Remus and chaotic Y/N content

Warning: A Sad™ time.

Word count: 3.8 k

It was an early morning yesterday

I was up before the dawn

And I really have enjoyed my stay

But I must be moving on

---

October 31st, 1981

On a train to London

Remus could see tiny stars on a black infinity as he looked up at the sky through the dingy windows of the train. He was all alone in the carriage, something which reflected his current life situation very well. In his mind, a series of panicked questioned were playing on repeat.

What had Dumbledore said? That the hiding place had been compromised? That the Dark Lord had personally gone after Lily and James?

And where was Sirius in all this? Where was Peter?

Were his best friends still alive?

The stars above granted him no answers. 

---

October, 1982

A year after

Remus woke up early. He always did. For a few hours, it was just him and the early morning sun. He hated it. Once, he could’ve given anything for just an hour of silence, a minute of calm. Now he felt himself suffocating on this endless expanse of nothing. The silence acted as yet another confirmation of one of his many dreadful suspicions - that he was lonely. Perhaps he always had been. He probably always would be. 

Breathing in deeply, he couldn’t help but turn his nose away in distaste. His entire flat smelled of old stains and neglected dishes. Sunlight peeked through the curtains of his bedroom window, illuminating a gentle storm of dust for an instance. After shining in a quite naturally magical way, it settled into his clothes, into his lungs. Looking down, he saw the same shirt and slacks he’d worn the night before. And the night before that.

I’m not even hungover, he thought. 

He wasn’t. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in months. The thought of drowning his sorrows in brown liquids and vile smells had never been appealing to him. Not even now. ‘Now’ being the end of everything. Well, maybe not everything. But the end of him, at least. It had already begun, deep in his mind. He just hadn’t come to the right conclusions just yet. 

The sun smiled at him from its rightful place in the sky. After giving it a dirty look, Remus closed the curtains.

---

His morning coffee tasted way too bitterly. With every sugar, it only seemed to turn darker. Nothing tasted quite the same anymore. Sweet was often exchanged for bitterness, and vice versa. Whenever he wished for one, he got the other. If anything, it made eating an awful business to him.

That night a year ago constantly lingered in the back of Remus‘ mind. That final night. When his entire fate was turned upside down. 

He’d lost so many things that one night. Went to bed one day, to discover it all gone the moment he woke up. He’d had a home. Grimmauld Place 12 had been a wonderful place back then, always full of volunteers and members of the Order, old and new. And there was a constant lingering smell of Molly Weasley’s roast chicken, companionship, and too much firewhiskey now and then.

And he’d had friends. Best friends. “Cross my heart and hope to die” friends. 

He’d had a purpose, or something like it. The war had given Remus a meaning. Where it to so many others had taken lives, it had unusually granted him one.

It was a life he did his best to take good care of. A life he’d spent years building, repairing, and desperately ensuring. He was even making plans to enroll in studies at a university nearby that hopefully one day would become a degree in teaching. He’d known where he was, and where he was going.

And over one night, nothing was left of that. 

He still remembered arriving to Grimmauld Place, only to see it empty and abandoned. And that recurring question - Where were his best friends? 

Gone. He’d discovered in the morning. No one had bothered to tell him - instead, he’d had to read all about it in the Daily Prophet.

James and Lily Potter dead. Their son, Harry, somehow survived. 

The Dark Lord defeated.

Peter Pettigrew - dead at the hands of Sirius Black. 

Sirius Black - the damned traitor! - a life sentence in Azkaban.

Remus was the only one left. Without friends. Without a home. And without purpose.

---

“Mr. Lupin, are you listening?”, the Healer inquired. 

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what did I say?”

“I- I don’t… I don’t know.”

Remus felt like he was being scolded, like a child who’d nicked candy from the Christmas shelf. A heavy knot of tears started to settle in the base of his throat. Like a child. Pathetic. 

The Healer smiled in a, what he thought, sympathetic way. To Remus it simply looked like pity. A lot of things looked like pity to him now. “No worries, I’ll go over it again…”

Please, don’t, he thought. 

“As I said, I need you to keep coming back for checkups at least once a month…”

Great, another thing to dread.

“... and I’ll have your asthma medication ready next time…”

Not only are all my friends dead, now my lungs are giving in as well.

“... and I really think it’d be good for you if you started making some new friends.”

New friends?

“Did you hear me this time, Remus?”

“Loud and clear. I’ll be back in a month.”

“Looking forward to see you.”

I’m not.

---

New friends?

Remus wasn’t even sure how to do that anymore. Friends were something for the past him. He hadn’t had anyone since that final night, a year ago. He didn’t even consider himself to be his own friend. Because what other friends than his first and last could he possibly ever have? And he even felt like a traitor to them. Most days, he tried to think as little of them as possible. Hoped to eventually forget them, in an attempt to soften the pain. Tried to stay in the present. But nothing worked. Nothing would grant him a single second of relief.

How could it? His best friends had died. 

And now… Now he was someone else. He suspected he’d become unrecognizable to the ones who’d known him. He hadn’t cut his hair in a year. It hung around his ears in sorry curls. He hunched in a new way now, something which might’ve granted him a sense of anonymity and security during the war, but now only hurt his back more as each day passed. Sometimes he felt like he was still in the thick of it. Still in the middle of a wizarding war. Like he’d forgotten it was all over. That’s why he still couldn’t walk without casting cautious glances over his shoulder every other minute. That’s why he awoke soaked in sweat, terrified and confused, in the middle of the night. 

They were always there. In the back of his mind. Their screams. Their final words. 

And as he failed to forget them, he started to forget himself instead. His existence before this seemed more and more like a dream for each day that passed. He existed in an endless vacuum. Only ‘now’ existed. Nothing before or to be. Nothing ever would. 

And he could never forget the night that made him want to forget himself. But Remus wanted to forget. For real, not just for a moment.

And he knew just the spell.

---

“Bloody fuck”, he whispered, eyes locked at the grey cobble street by his feet. The wind tugged at his hair. He added a curse for himself, and for not realizing he should’ve worn a hat. His ears burned in that cool way, when warmth and cold seem indistinguishable. He drew his worn-out tweed coat tighter around him. It’s unusually cold for July. Is it even still July?

Before him was his well-familiar grocery shop. In one of the big glass windows hung a sign, ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’ and a handwritten note, stating that the shop was to close permanently because of family troubles. 

For Remus, that meant he’d have to walk two more blocks to get to the next shop. Or disapparate. But he hadn’t tried to teleport in so many months, he was scared he might’ve forgotten how to. And if he messed up, who would he call? 

What he’d have to do was to walk. And he’d come to despise walking. He muttered a few swears, before beginning his journey. 

It took one block, before his lungs started to burn. Remus had come to despise the wheezing sound they - his lungs - made after the smallest kinds of exercise. His airways only seemed to close in tighter, in their wild ambition to strangle him. He found that even if he did arrive at the shop, he wouldn’t be able to get home. And then the whole thing seemed rather pointless. 

All this resulted in him turning around, and accepting the fact that he couldn’t have dinner tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sure, his Healer had said that any more skipped meals would eventually result in some sort of wicked starvation, which could get him a place at St. Mungo’s. And another month at St. Mungo’s wasn’t something he wanted. He thought he’d wasted enough time lying in a bed, being fed and dallied with.

Remus didn’t know what to do. His lungs burned. He could’ve killed for Molly Weasley’s roast chicken. With buttered potatoes and steamed green beans. Only a year ago, he had killed for Molly Weasley.

His lungs wouldn’t stop gasping for air. He pulled his arms around himself, and let out an ill-sounding cough. The sorry sight gained him a few looks from the people passing by. 

Pull yourself together!

Then he remembered - a few weeks back, he’d bought far too many instant soup packs after finding a coupon in the Daily Prophet. Maybe he could find one of them, preferably mushroom-flavoured, somewhere at the very back of his kitchen drawers. It was a shot in the dark, he admitted that. But it was a shot at something, at least.

---

Coughing and wheezing, he finally arrived home. Well, perhaps ‘home’ wasn’t the right word. He arrived at the place where he’d been hiding away for the past year. How homely that was, he didn’t want to judge for himself. 

As he held on to the wall beside the staircase for his dear life, he noticed how the front door opposite his own was hanging opened. 

Someone’s in there! His mind went haywire, hand cramping around the wand from his inner pocket. Breaths became shallow, inaudible. Steps softened. Time seemed to slow down. He could feel the seconds moving past him.

The top step creaked under the weight of his right foot. 

Remus moved closer to the open door. Meanwhile, he rehearsed the most useful spells for attack and defense.

But the scene before him was nothing like he’d imagined or rehearsed for.

“Hello there, stranger!” A girl half-shouted from inside. She was surrounded by moving boxes, but already looked quite at home. There was a happy look plastered upon her face. 

No Death Eaters. No ‘fight or flight’. Just a girl.

Remus was taken aback. “Good evening”, his voice sounded like an unfamiliar croak. “... stranger.”

At the presence of another human being, Remus also found himself quite self-conscious about his looks. He knew he hadn’t showered in ages, and he couldn’t remember if he’d brushed his teeth this morning. Only Godric knew the last time he’d combed his hair. He made a half-hearted attempt to calm his disorderly brown locks, before tucking his arms into his sides. He felt the sharp end of his wand dig into the flesh of his hips, and hoped he wouldn’t accidentally turn his insides to jelly. 

There was a stack of bowls wrapped in old newspapers in her arms, and a cheery smile on her lips. She hurried to put them down on the floor, causing Remus to cringe at the clinking sound they made. Surely something must’ve broken. She got up from the floor, standing in her full length. She still didn’t reach past Remus’ shoulders. “I’m the new neighbor.”

New neighbor?

“I’m Y/N”, she handed him her name. And, judging by the smile on her lips, a piece of her heart as well. She looked so effortlessly happy. It stirred something in Remus, making him wanting to return the smile in the best way he could.

He got lost in her happiness, and forgot himself for a moment. “I’m…”, an idiot. “I’m Remus Lupin.”

“Nice to meet you”, another goddamned smile. Wide and white-teethed. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I mean, sharing a whole corridor and all.”

Remus had never once given that corridor a single thought. “Yup. An entire corridor...”

Another smile. “It’ll be fun, won’t it?”

Fun? “Sure.”

He realized he still had his wand in his hand, and quickly put it away as to not look like he’d just been planning an attack on a devotee of the Dark Lord. 

“I better get back-”, he mumbled.

“I need to keep unpacking-”, she said.

She reached out a final hand. A final smile. “Nice meeting you.”

Remus took it. It was softer than he remembered hands could be. His lips were forced into a strained smile, “Same.”

Nose crinkled, eyes sparked. “See you around, Remus.”

Her door was still hanging open when Remus turned his back on her to return to his own nest. Careless girl. 

All of this made Remus unsure of how to feel. This exceeded all his expectations - but to be fair, pretty much anything did now a days. He felt himself thrown off his usual dull rhythm. This was... new. He threw a last look down the corridor, and noticed he could still see her through her open door. 

Anyone could walk through an open door. Shaking his head, he closed his own door with a loud ‘thud’. 

---

FRIDAY

Remus had made sure the door was locked at least three times now. He got up from the coach to check again. Locked. Like it’d been the first time.

Satisfied, he returned to the coach. Looking around him, he made sure to check that everything was in order. He’d written himself a note, containing his name and birth information. He didn’t intend to forget every thing, but he knew that these sort of spells could be incalculable. ‘These sort of spells’ being spells for desperate fools. Such as himself. 

The note was in place on the coffee table in front of him. He figured he better sit down. It wasn’t impossible that a erasing your past could make you a bit fussy. 

It’s probably best to just nap it out, he thought to himself. Just… fall asleep old and wake up brand new.

The familiar wood of his wand felt like an old friend. Not that he particularly knew what those felt like anymore. The slender stick was the only thing linking him to his past. It started heating up slightly against his hand. Almost as if it knew what he was about to do. Begging him not to. His wand hand started shaking more. He needed steadier hands for this. The truth was, he needed someone else’s hands for this. Someone else to pull the plug. 

He had no one. Nothing. 

His lungs wheezed as he took a deep breath, steadying his hands. Another breath, and he braced himself.

His lips begun to shape the word, but his voice wouldn’t produce a sound. He tried again. Nothing.

Then, there was a sudden pain. The ever present ache in his head became more apparent; it turned into a sharp pain. His hands started to shake, dropping the wand like it was burning his skin. His airways closed in, there suddenly was no sair for him to breath. He could feel his head starting to spin, his vision becoming fuzzy. He felt like he was melting away.

Then there was nothing. 

---

SATURDAY

Remus woke up late. Judging by the way the sun was burning into his eyes, it must’ve been past noon. He’d been passed out for more than 12 hours. 

His mouth felt like sandpaper. Head was still fuzzy, and hands and limbs not feeling quite like they should. He was alive. And he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

A shower, he thought. A shower and I’ll be fine. Well, ‘fine’ was an overstatement. 

Looking into the bathroom mirror, he barely recognized himself. Who was this man? With sunken in, dull eyes, gazing back at him. There was an angry red mark on the bridge of his nose, probably caused by his metal-rimmed glasses digging into his face all through the night. And most of the day. His face was nothing more but a pale complexion in a dirty mirror. 

I used to be covered in freckles, he remembered. Little delightful brown spots everywhere. Now, his face was laid bare. 

The hot water from the shower hurt and pricked his fragile skin. But it was a good hurt. It was an ‘I’m alive’ hurt. Remus rested his head against one of the tiled walls, feeling the water pour down his back. He still couldn’t understand what had exactly happened last night. He’d tried to forget. He’d ended up passing out. 

“Shit”, he mumbled. The water ran a little hotter. His fist punched the hard surface of the tile wall. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Through the small window of his bathroom, the sun kept pouring in. It burned his eyes with its brightness. 

He cursed the sun. He cursed the moon and the stars. He cursed himself. Himself and his incapability. Himself and his naivete - had he really thought he could just forget?

A cold, frosty feeling started to settle into his insides. The water from the shower head turned freezing cold. Out of hot water. 

“... Shit.”

---

There was a knocking at the door. Three quick beats. At his front door. Remus was still standing in his hallway, towel wrapped around his middle and hair in a wet mess. He muttered a series of curses and swears, as he tried to find a clean shirt in his mess of a bedroom. Finding no such thing, he retorted to one of his coats from the hangers next to the door. It’d have to do. He’d fought off Death Eaters - one time even the Dark Lord himself - with worse dress sense. 

The knocking continued, followed by a voice. “Hello?”

The last syllable was dragged out far too long for Remus’ liking. Realizing a Death Eater most certainly would never use the word in such a comical way, he let himself relax just a little.

“Anybody home?”

He opened the door an inch, casting a cautious look outside. 

The new neighbor. The girl. Whatever her name was.

“Good afternoon”, followed by a wide smile.

Was it really that late?

She noticed the coat. The damned coat. “Are you going out?”

He crossed his arms around himself, in yet another attempt to hide himself. “No. Not particularly.” 

Remus’ confused face clearly amused her, for a bubbling laughter fell out of her lips. 

“Were you out for a bit too long last night?”

Was that a joke? “Yeah, something like that… Sorry, did you need anything?”

“No. I was just wondering what you were up to right now.”

A small smile started to involuntarily form on his lips. “I’m not doing… anything. Ever.”

At least that’s true.

“Good. ‘Cause I need a companion.”

“Companion?”

“You know, like a friend.”

Friend? “Oh. Right.” Friend? “Me? Am… Am I your friend?”

Another smile. “Of course. You’re the closest friend I’ve got in London at the moment.”

Friend? Remus wasn’t anyone’s friend. The thought both thrilled and concerned him.

“Okay. Sure. I can be your”, he cleared his throat, “companion.”  Then he remember, the damned coat! 

With his easiest smile, “Could you give me just a quick minute?”

“Sure. I’ll just wait inside.”

Before Remus could say or do anything she halfway forced, halfway snuck into his sorry excuse of a flat. This was not what he was expecting. But then, what had he really been expecting? From minute one, she’d been completely… unexpected. 

Whatever-her-name-was looked around, inspecting his dirty dishes, the clothes that had been on the floor for months. The layers of dust covering almost every area.

A small nod, another dawning smile. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Remus could only try to keep up, “... Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and you should probably put on some clothes before we head out.”

Remus looked down. His stomach dropped as he saw how his coat was hanging half open, revealing the towel around his waist. “Sorry! I’ll see to that right now.”

---

Dressed in his only clean button up shirt and a pair of almost clean jeans, Remus now walked side by side with his new acquaintance. He didn’t dare call her a friend yet, partly because of his own doubt, partly because of her (so far) unpredictable ways. The terms and conditions of this so called “friendship” were still a mystery to him, like so many things about her. 

“Excuse me for asking, but exactly where are we going?” He turned around to look at her, only to be met with a smile. Didn’t she ever stop smiling?

“Didn’t I tell you?”

Didn’t her mouth ever get tired?

“No, I don’t think so.”

Yet another smile. She seemed to have smiles for everyone. “How silly of me!” Her lips only widened. “We’re going to a marketplace.”

Marketplace? “Is there such a thing here?”

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

Right. Of course. 

“Right… And why did you need me to come with you?”

“So I don’t get lonely, obviously.”

Who was she? “Right. Sure. Obviously.” 

He realized a rather embarrassing fact. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

A smile. “You must have a really bad memory.”

“Well, no, I’d actually argue my memory’s quite good, but I was… distracted when I met you.” 

Another smile. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I’m your neighbor.”

“Yes. Right. And I’m Remus.” He stuck his hand out, “Very nice to meet you.”

She grabbed his hand in an unexpected way, and sped up her pace. “Come on, this’ll be fun!”

A strangled noise forced its way out of his throat. Chest begun to feel warm and slightly shaky. He was laughing. She soon joined him.

Looking up, Remus saw how the sky was clearing up. The sun still strained to reach through a fading curtain of clouds. He closed his eyes, and felt the sun smile on his face for what felt like the very first time.

---

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[loverandservantoftheahlulbayt]

🍂Yazid’s forces gather at Karbala 🍂

Ibn Ziyad had given strict orders to surround and compel Imam Husayn (a.s.) to proceed to Kufa where a large army was assembled. However, Imam Husayn never allowed them to succeed in their plan. He proceeded to take a different route and arrived at Karbala. On the second of Muharram, the year 61 AH when Imam Husayn pitched his camp at Karbala, al-Hurr also pitched his camp a little distance from Imam Husayn’s camp. Al-Hurr wrote to Ubaidullah ibn Ziyad stating that Imam Husayn (a.s.) had finally pitched his camp and settled at Karbala and appeared to have no plan to proceed to Kufa. Had Imam Husayn (a.s.) proceeded to Kufa, it would have been construed as his seeking to fight the forces of Ibn Ziyad who had already gathered there. By pitching his camp at Karbala, Imam Husayn (a.s.), forever, removed even the remotest chance of an allegation that he was the aggressor since he sought the stationary army of ibn Ziyad. By making ibn Ziyad to change his plans and send his army to Karbala, Imam Husayn (a.s.) showed who was the aggressor and who was after whom. Secondly, by avoiding going to Kufa, Imam Husayn (a.s.) forestalled the possible allegation that since he knew that a huge army had gathered and was for him at Kufa, it was suicidal to proceed to Kufa. Lastly sitting at a neutral place, Imam Husayn (a.s.) kept the door for negotiations open, as could be seen in the following pages.

If at all it can be called a ‘battle’, the battle of Karbala was extremely unequal and one sided. On the one side, when Imam Husayn (a.s.) pitched his camp in Karbala on the second of Muharram the year 61 AH, there were only few hundreds of persons, including ladies, children, teenagers, old men and only a few able (to fight) persons. According to some historians, there were five hundred cavalry and about a hundred infantry in the camp of the Imam Husayn.1 Some companions of the Imam (a.s.) suggested that it was possible to defeat al-Hurr’s army of the thousand men before any additional forces arrived. The Imam (a.s.) refused, saying that the Ahlul Bayt never commenced any hostility. Instead, Imam Husayn (a.s.) wrote and sent letters to Sulayman bin Surad, al-Musayyab bin Najaba, Refa’ah bin Shaddad, Abdullah ibn Wal and other known adherents of the Ahlul Bayt (a.s.).

The letters were identical and were as follows:

“Those who do not stand up to a tyrant and transgressor of the faith will suffer in this life and the life to come. You are aware that the Banu Umayya are impelled by their satanic desire, have perpetuated corruption, usurped the treasury for themselves, transgressed religious injunctions and permitted what is prohibited and prohibited what is lawful in Islam. You will recall that you wrote to me complaining that you are left without a guide in religion and had invited me to Kufa. Now, I am besieged by Yazid’s army. If you still hold fast to the pledge you made and the affection you promised to show me, know that at your instance I have come. I will not be surprised if you retract from your pledge, for, you had betrayed my father Ali and my brother Hasan.”2

Imam Husayn (a.s.) gathered his small group of companions and said to them,

“The course which affairs have taken is manifest to you. The world has changed its colours; virtue has almost vanished. This is the age of Wrong and the followers of Right have passed away. A time has come when the true believer has to separate himself from the mischievous mutineers and turn towards his Creator. Do you not see that the Divine Commands are neglected and what is forbidden is practiced with relish? Life under tyrants is hard to live and I consider death a great honor.”3

Hilal bin Nafi’ got up and said, “I would prefer to sacrifice my life than to live after you.” Zohair ibn al-Qain said, “If I were to be killed in defending you and then raised to life again a thousand times, I would still defend and not desert you.”

The battlefield chronicler Abu Makhnaf records that on the other side, in the course of two days, between the third and the fourth of Muharram, the plains of Karbala were filled with over a hundred and forty thousand warriors from Syria, Iraq, Iran and other countries to oppose Imam Husayn (a.s.). Umar bin Sa’d bin Abi Waqqas brought an army of six thousand soldiers, four thousand men were headed by Shibth bin Rib’iy, various contingents of between ten and twenty thousand men each headed by Urwa bin Qays, Sinan bin Anas an-Nakh’iy, Hussayn Bin Numair, Shimr bin Thil Joushan, Mudha’ir bin Raheena al-Mazini, Yazid bin Rikab al-Kelbi, Nadhr bin Harasha, Muhammad bin al-Ash’ath, Abdullah bin Hussayn, Khouli al-Asbahi, Bakr bin Ka’b bin Talha, Hajjar ibn Abhur4 besides the warriors under the command of Umar bin Hajjaj.

On the fourth of Muharram, Umar bin Sa’d wanted Urwa bin Qais a prominent figure from Kufa to go to Imam Husayn (a.s.) and inquire why he had come. Urwa was one of those who had repeatedly written to Imam Husayn (a.s.) inviting him to come to Kufa. He made a lame excuse from the task of meeting Imam Husayn, as he felt ashamed to face the Imam (a.s.). Ibn Sa’d tried to persuade other prominent personalities of Kufa to go on the errand, but they refused out of shame as it was they who had written letters inviting Imam Husayn (S) to come to Kufa.5 Then, Katheer bin Abdullah agreed to go to Imam Husayn’s tent. He was stopped by Zohair ibn al-Qain or by Abu Thumama according to some sources, and asked to remove his weapons that he did not agree and went back.6 Umar ibn Sa’d then sent Qurra bin Qeis al-Handhali. Imam Husayn (a.s.) asked if anyone knew Qurra. Zohair ibn al-Qain said that Qurra was his sister’s son and belonged to the clan of Tameem. Qurra agreed and deposited his weapons with Zohair and was allowed to meet Imam Husayn (a.s.). To Qurra’s question, Imam Husayn (a.s.) replied that the people of Kufa wrote letters inviting him to come to Kufa and guide them in religious matters as they were without an Imam. Imam Husayn (a.s.) further said that in those circumstances, as an Imam, it was his divinely entrusted mission to come and guide the people of Kufa even at the cost of his life. Imam Husayn (S) then said that if the people of Kufa had changed their mind and they did not want him to come to Kufa, he was ready and willing to go back. Zohair told Qurra that it was unfortunate that Qurra was with the opponents of the grandson of the Prophet (S).7 On hearing this, Qurra replied that before taking any decision he would first prefer to convey the reply of Imam Husayn (a.s.) to ibn Sa’d and watch his reaction.

On the nights of the fourth and the fifth of Muharram, Umar bin Sa’d wanted to meet Imam Husayn (a.s.). Arrangements were made in an open space between Imam Husayn’s camp and Umar’s army when a long conversation ensued during which Imam Husayn (a.s.) showed hundreds of letters written by the people of Kufa. The next night a similar meeting took place in which Imam Husayn (a.s.) explained that he had come only in response to the invitation of the people of Kufa; that it was his Divinely entrusted mission, as an Imam, to guide Muslims and that he had no other aspirations.8

Umar bin Sa’d wrote to Ibn Ziyad, “By God’s grace, an inevitable conflict and unnecessary bloodshed has been avoided in my dialogue with al-Husayn. He showed me over twelve thousand letters written by the people of Kufa inviting him to guide and lead them in religious matters. Al-Husayn has not come with any ulterior motive of grabbing power, but only to perform his religious obligation as an Imam. If, however, the people of Kufa say that they do not need him, he intends to go back to Medina or to any far-off place or even to any foreign country. As a last alternative, al-Husayn suggested that there should be a meeting between him and Yazid and the matter of leadership of the Muslims should be decided by public choice. Let me know what you propose to do in the matter keeping in mind all the alternatives, so that the matter may be resolved peacefully, without hurting the Prophet’s grandson.”9

Khouli, who was inimical to the Ahlul Bayt, wrote to Ibn Ziyad that Umar ibn Sa’d appears to have been impressed with Imam Husayn’s reasoning and mellowed and hence might not carry out the purpose for which he was given the command of the army. On hearing this, Ibn Ziyad said sarcastically, “Look, here is an advisor and well wisher of Muslims.” Ibn Ziyad was enraged by the attitude of Ibn Sa’d and he called for Shimr bin Thil Joushan to whom he gave a letter to be delivered to Umar ibn Sa’d. Shimr gleefully took the letter to Karbala and gave it to Umar bin Sa’d on the night of the sixth of Muharram.

The contents of the letter were recorded by Abu Makhnaf as well as A’sam al-Kufi, and translated into English by Mirza Ghulam Abbas Ali as follows:

“O son of Sa’d! I have known that you spend whole nights out of your camp along with Husayn near the bank of the Euphrates. You hold friendly discourses with him on various topics and show him mildness. Now as soon as this reaches you and you read it, see that no drop of water is carried to Husayn’s camp, if you mind your own welfare. Post your men between the Euphrates and Husayn’s soldiers. Attack and destroy them. I allow the use of water of the Euphrates by Christians and Jews, but refuse it to Husayn, his relatives and friends. Guard the banks, so that they may not be able to take any water in return for what they have done to Uthman who was so badly treated. I know that harming dead bodies does no good or evil, but I command you to trample their dead bodies under the hoofs of horses after you will have killed them. If you are reluctant to carry out my orders, hand over the charge of my forces to the bearer Shimr bin Thil Joushan and come to me to wait for my future orders. As soon as you receive this letter, seal the banks of the river and see that not a drop of water reaches Husayn’s camp.”10

Umar bin Sa’d realized that Shimr had always carried a grudge against him for being preferred and given command of the army and that he was overlooked; therefore, he incited Ibn Ziyad against him. The possibility of losing his command of the army as well as the riches promised by ibn Ziyad, was enough to, once again, blind Umar ibn Sa’d from the reality placed before him by Imam Husayn (a.s.) during the preceding nights. He forthwith ordered the closure of the banks of the Euphrates by posting several battalions under the command of Amr bin al-Hajjaj, and Hussayn ibn Numair with strict instructions not to allow anyone from Imam Husayn’s camp to come near the river and take any water.11

🍂🥀🍂 al-Islam.org 🍂🥀🍂

.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

5th March >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 21:33-43, 45-46 for Friday, Second Week of Lent: ‘They will respect my son’.

Friday, Second Week of Lent

Gospel (Except USA)

Matthew 21:33-43,45-46

This is the landlord's heir: come, let us kill him

Jesus said to the chief priests and the elders of the people, ‘Listen to another parable. There was a man, a landowner, who planted a vineyard; he fenced it round, dug a winepress in it and built a tower; then he leased it to tenants and went abroad. When vintage time drew near he sent his servants to the tenants to collect his produce. But the tenants seized his servants, thrashed one, killed another and stoned a third. Next he sent some more servants, this time a larger number, and they dealt with them in the same way. Finally he sent his son to them. “They will respect my son” he said. But when the tenants saw the son, they said to each other, “This is the heir. Come on, let us kill him and take over his inheritance.” So they seized him and threw him out of the vineyard and killed him. Now when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those tenants?’ They answered, ‘He will bring those wretches to a wretched end and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will deliver the produce to him when the season arrives.’ Jesus said to them, ‘Have you never read in the scriptures:

It was the stone rejected by the builders that became the keystone. This was the Lord’s doing and it is wonderful to see?

‘I tell you, then, that the kingdom of God will be taken from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit.’    When they heard his parables, the chief priests and the scribes realised he was speaking about them, but though they would have liked to arrest him they were afraid of the crowds, who looked on him as a prophet.

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 21:33-43, 45-46

This is the heir; let us kill him.

Jesus said to the chief priests and the elders of the people: “Hear another parable. There was a landowner who planted a vineyard, put a hedge around it, dug a wine press in it, and built a tower. Then he leased it to tenants and went on a journey. When vintage time drew near, he sent his servants to the tenants to obtain his produce. But the tenants seized the servants and one they beat, another they killed, and a third they stoned. Again he sent other servants, more numerous than the first ones, but they treated them in the same way. Finally, he sent his son to them, thinking, ‘They will respect my son.’ But when the tenants saw the son, they said to one another, ‘This is the heir. Come, let us kill him and acquire his inheritance.’ They seized him, threw him out of the vineyard, and killed him. What will the owner of the vineyard do to those tenants when he comes?” They answered him, “He will put those wretched men to a wretched death and lease his vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the proper times.” Jesus said to them, “Did you never read in the Scriptures:

”The stone that the builders rejected    has become the cornerstone;    by the Lord has this been done, and it is wonderful in our eyes?

“Therefore, I say to you, the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that will produce its fruit.” When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they knew that he was speaking about them. And although they were attempting to arrest him, they feared the crowds, for they regarded him as a prophet.

Reflections (11)

(i) Friday, Second Week of Lent

Brothers don’t always get along very well. It is not unusual for siblings to go their separate ways in the course of their lives. In today’s first reading we have a somewhat extreme case of sibling animosity. Jacob had twelve sons, and his favourite was his youngest son, Joseph. Joseph’s brothers wanted to kill him and would have done so were it not for the intervention of one of the brothers, Ruben. As a result, Joseph suffered the lesser fate of being thrown into an empty well. It was jealousy that drove the antagonism of Joseph’s brothers. They recognized that he was their father’s favourite, his coat of many colours being a symbol of that favouritism. In the language of today’s gospel, Joseph was the stone rejected by the builders. Yet, that rejected stone went on to become the cornerstone. Joseph was eventually taken captive into Egypt. There his natural abilities resulted eventually in his having a very important position in the Egyptian civil service. When famine struck the land of Israel, Jacob sent his sons to Egypt for food, and who was the Minister for Food when the brothers arrived, only their brother Joseph. The one they had rejected became their saviour. The early church saw in the story of Joseph a symbol of the story of Jesus. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus clearly identifies with the son of the landowner who was killed by the tenants. He is the stone rejected by the builders. Yet, beyond his rejection, his crucifixion, he became, as risen Lord, the cornerstone of a spiritual building, the church. The story of Joseph and Jesus reminds us that God can turn even our worst instincts to a good purpose. God is always working to bring good out of the mess we sometimes create. That realization can keep us hopeful when we are tempted to get discouraged by the consequences of our own failings.

And/Or

(ii) Friday, Second Week of Lent

In this morning’s gospel reading Jesus quotes from the psalm, ‘it was the stone rejected by the builders that became the keystone’. Jesus, of course, is speaking about himself. He was rejected by the religious and political leaders but he went on to become the keystone, the foundation of the church. Jesus’ experience of rejection did not have the last word. God worked powerfully in and through that experience of rejection and brought great good of it, not only for Jesus but for all who believe in him. There may be times in our lives when we feel a little bit like the rejected stone. We reach out to someone and they spurn us or do not respond to us. We can feel hurt and upset, annoyed with ourselves for leaving ourselves so vulnerable. Yet, those painful experiences in life can contain the seeds of new life. The Lord can work powerfully through them for our ultimate good. The experience that we might have considered at the time as totally negative turns out to bear rich fruit in our lives. We learn something from it; we grow through it. What seemed like an experience of death becomes a moment of new life. The Lord can always transform the rejected stone into the keystone. What he did for his Son he can do for us all.

 And/Or

(iii) Friday, Second Week of Lent

There are a group of parishioners who meet every second Thursday evening to study and reflect on the Catechism. One of the gospel texts we were looking at last night, by coincidence, is this morning’s gospel reading. It is clearly a very appropriate reading for today’s feast, ‘The Chair of St Peter’. This is an ancient feast that has been kept at Rome since the fourth century; it celebrates the role of the Bishop of Rome as a symbol of unity for all Christians. In the gospel reading, Jesus identifies Simon as the Rock on which Jesus’ church will be built; as such, he is to be the focal point of unity within the church. Peter went on to become a leader of the church of Rome, and was martyred there during Nero’s persecution of the church. Successive Bishops of Rome, or Popes, continue that important role that Jesus entrusted to Peter of being the focal point of unity among disciples. The Bishops of Rome hold the church together, in communion with the other bishops, by interpreting the message and life of Jesus for us today. The Roman Catholic church is very large and is spread throughout the world, and yet it manages to hold together. In many respects that is down to the role of the Bishop of Rome or the Pope. This morning we give thanks for this great gift to the church, and we pray for the present Bishop of Rome, Pope Benedict, that he may be strengthened for his important work of watching over the church and keeping it united in faith and love.

 And/Or

(iv) Friday, Second Week of Lent

In the gospel reading Jesus quotes the text from the prophet Isaiah, ‘the stone rejected by the builders became the keystone’. He was the stone rejected who went on to became the keystone of a new spiritual building, the church. The one through whom God was saying ‘yes’ to us all, was the one to whom many people said ‘no’ in very emphatic terms. The one who proclaimed God’s acceptance of us was himself rejected. The story of Jesus alerts us to the very real possibility of our rejecting the messenger God sends us. Sometimes what we are prone to rejecting, whether in ourselves or in others, can turn out to be the means through which God is speaking to us. The experiences that we react against, that we say ‘no’ to, may be the very experiences that can reveal God most powerfully to us. What we see initially as a threat of some sort can turn out to be a blessing. This morning we ask God to keep us open to all of the ways he chooses to come to us and speak with us.

 And/Or

(v) Friday, Second Week of Lent

In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus tells a parable in which the son of a vineyard owner is killed by the tenants. In this way Jesus points ahead to his own rejection and death. Having spoken the parable, Jesus quotes from one of the psalms, ‘It was the stone rejected by the builders that became the keystone’. Here Jesus points ahead to his resurrection. Although he was rejected by the religious and political leaders of the day, Jesus rose from the dead and in so doing became the keystone of a new temple, the temple of the church, the community of those who believed in him. The experience of Jesus teaches us that what is rejected can often turn out to be of crucial importance. What we might be initially inclined to reject can be the means through which God may want to speak to us. Those aspects of our own lives that we may be prone to reject and slow to accept may be the very channels through which the Lord can work most powerfully in our lives and, through us, in the lives of others. The experience of Jesus also suggests that God always has a purpose for what is rejected. God is not in the business of rejecting. Although we can reject God, God never rejects us.

 And/Or

(vi) Friday, Second Week of Lent

The parable that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading is largely a story of rejection. The owner of the vineyard sends two lots of servants to collect the produce of the vineyard, but they are rejected, and some of them are killed. They he sent his son in the full expectation that the tenants would respect him, but he too is killed. Jesus was really referring there to his own experience of rejection by many of his contemporaries, a rejection that would eventually end with his crucifixion. He is the stone rejected by the builders that Jesus mentions in the gospel reading. Yet, rejection does not have the last word. As Jesus says, quoting one of the psalms, the stone rejected by the builders became the keystone. God raised his rejected Son from the dead and made him the foundation or the keystone of the church. Any little experience of rejection can leave us deflated; we can be tempted to give up. The parable suggests that God is not like that. In the face of rejection, God just keeps working away; he takes the experience of rejection, the rejected stone, and builds something new upon it. We are being reminded that God is always at work, even in the most unpromising of situations. The God of Jesus Christ is the God of life who works in a life-giving way even in situations of death. Our refusal to receive the Lord’s coming, the Lord’s presence, does not in any way diminish his energy to work among us for the coming of God’s kingdom.

 And/Or

(vii) Friday, Second Week of Lent

We have had some nice spring weather recently. People have been out doing some gardening. Various plants are being put in the ground; the good gardeners will look after them, making sure they are fed and watered, in the expectation that they will flower or bear fruit in the Summer. In the parable Jesus tells in this morning’s gospel reading, a farmer planted a vineyard and did everything necessary to ensure that he would be able to get grapes from the vineyard at harvest time. This did not happen however. The tenants responsible for ensuring that the farmer got the harvest that was his right turned against him in a violent way. The farmer did not give up. He leased the vineyard to other tenants in the hope that they would deliver the produce that his investment deserved. The parable suggests that God invests greatly in all of us and he looks to us to bear fruit that is worthy of his investment. When it is not forthcoming, God keeps working to bring that good fruit about. We cannot doubt God’s investment in us or his perseverance with us. It is our response that is in question. However, his repeated initiatives in our regard keep us hopeful. We may fail God. God does not fail us but keeps investing in us and gives us every opportunity to bear the good fruit he desires. Every day we have an opportunity to respond to the Lord’s investment in us.

 And/Or

(viii) Friday, Second Week of Lent

In the parable Jesus speaks in this morning’s gospel reading, the killing of the vineyard owner’s son was Jesus’ way of indicating his own forthcoming rejection and death. Using a different image, Jesus declares that he was to become the stone rejected by the builders. Yet, quoting one of the psalms, Jesus goes on to say that this rejected stone would become the keystone, the most important stone in any building. In this way Jesus was looking beyond his rejection and death to his resurrection when he would become the keystone of a spiritual building, the church. It is often the way that the rejection stone can turn out to have a crucial role to play at some future time. We can often reject something initially and over time come to see that what we rejected is actually something very important. We say ‘no’ to something, some situation, or to someone, and then realize that what we are saying ‘no’ to is, in reality, God’s gift to us and God’s purpose for our lives. Our first reaction is not always the best one. We often need time to recognize the good in what we had dismissed as of no value.

 And/Or

(ix) Friday, Second Week of Lent

As Jesus approaches the hour of his passion and death, he tells a parable about a vineyard owner’s son who is killed by the tenants to whom the vineyard was entrusted. Jesus must have seen in this story something of his own story that was unfolding, in particular, his death that was fast approaching. In his comment on the parable Jesus quotes a passage of Scripture which contained an image about a stone, a kind of a mini parable. The stone that was rejected by the builders as worthless went on to become the most important stone, the keystone, of a building. Again, Jesus would have recognized himself in the stone that was rejected by the builders, just as he recognized himself in the son of the vineyard owner who was killed. However, there is also a suggestion of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead in the image of the rejected stone that became a keystone. Jesus would be rejected in the most violent way imaginable. Yet, God raised him from the dead, thereby establishing him as the keystone of a new spiritual building, the church. The image of the rejected stone becoming a keystone is a powerful image of how God can work powerfully in situations of weakness, to use the language of Paul. For Paul, God worked powerfully through the weakness of Christ crucified on behalf of all humanity. God can turn our own rejected stones into keystones. God can work powerfully through those experiences in our lives which we reject as useless, worthless, of no value. As Paul declares in his letter to the Romans, ‘all things work together for good for those who love God’.

 And/Or

(x) Friday, Second Week of Lent

The experience of rejection to be found in both readings today. Joseph is rejected by his brothers who were jealous of Joseph because their father loved him more than any of his other sons. They intended to kill Joseph, but, in the end, they threw him into a well and sold him on to some foreigners who were heading to Egypt. Joseph, the rejected one, rose to a very prominent position in Egypt. He went on to become the saviour of his brothers. At a time of great famine in the land of Canaan, later the land of Israel, his brothers had to go to Egypt for food and it was Joseph who was in charge of Egypt’s food supply at the time. The story of Joseph is an expression of the image that Jesus uses in today’s gospel reading, drawn from one of the psalms, ‘it was the stone rejected by the builders that became the keystone’. The parable that Jesus tells is also a story of rejection. The landowner sends his servants to collect the vine harvest from his tenants, and the servants are rejected and killed by the tenants. Finally, the landowner sends his son to collect the harvest, fully expecting that his son would be treated with respect. On the contrary, he is rejected in the most brutal way, thrown out of the vineyard and killed. Jesus must have seen himself in the person of the landowner’s son. He was thrown out of the city of Jerusalem and crucified outside the city walls. Yet, like Joseph, but to an even great extent, this rejected son became the saviour of those who rejected him. The stone rejected by the builders became the keystone. The crucified Jesus rose from the dead and became the keystone of a new community of believers which was open to all, including those who rejected him. Both readings suggest that God is always at work to bring good out of the suffering people experience because of the hostility of others. God works in a life-giving way in even the most unpromising of situations. This gives us hope as we try to come to terms with our own painful and difficult experiences of rejection and hostility.

 And/Or

(xi) Friday, Second Week of Lent

In the parable that Jesus speaks in today’s gospel reading, he would have recognized himself in the son of the vineyard owner who was killed by the tenants when he came to collect the produce of the vineyard. In his comment on the parable, where he quotes one of the psalms, Jesus would also have recognized himself in the reference to ‘the stone rejected by the builders’. However, whereas the killing of the vineyard’s son clearly refers to Jesus’ death, the reference to the stone hints at Jesus’ resurrection as well, because the stone rejected by the builders went on to become the keystone of the building. In the same way, Jesus who was rejected in the most violent way imaginably was raised from the dead by God the Father and became the keystone of a new spiritual building, the church. God brought great good out of the tragedy of Jesus’ death, not just for Jesus but for all who turn to him in faith. God saw to it that the rejection and death of his Son did not have the last word. God worked in and through that dark moment in human history for the good of all, including the good of those responsible for the death of his Son. That is how God and his Son, now risen Lord, continue to work today. In places of great darkness and death, the Lord is always working in a life-giving, life-affirming, way, and that is true of our own personal lives, of the life of the church and of the life of the human race. Our calling is to recognize the ways that the Lord is working for life, even at the heart of darkness, and to co-operate with this divine work.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Normally I don't like to ask stuff but I feel distressed. My mom is arguing about a preaching that she heard where it says that the antichrist will be gay. She quotes the book of Daniel, particularly Daniel 11:37. Her argument is that Daniel is a prophecy book therefore it must be true. It just really hurts that she'd say this to me and keeps making remarks about my faith. That I'm not a good enough Christian for not believing like her. Is what Daniel say true or is the interpretation wrong?

Hey there. I’m sorry to hear you’re distressed, and especially that your mom keeps making remarks about your faith. It is not right for any of us to judge another person’s faith like that! 

This is gonna get long, so for a tl;dr, after studying Daniel 11 and its surrounding context I can say pretty confidently that your mom is indeed wrong about how to interpret 11:37. If you want to explore just why with me, read on!

______________

So to start with, I disagree with your mom that everything in the Book of Daniel, or in any “prophecy book” of the Bible, must necessarily be “true” – or “come true” as if it were fortune telling. Biblical prophecy is not fortune telling or future telling. As I say in this post, biblical prophets were actually much more concerned about the present, about how the past had shaped that present, and about how the present could be used to shape the future! This is just a fact of how ancient Israelites viewed prophecy, regardless of how one interprets scripture (whether more fundamentalist / literal as I imagine your mom probably is, or more historical/contextual, etc.). 

Christians who get really into all the biblical visions of “the end times” and the rapture and stuff don’t want to hear this, because they want it to be somehow directly relevant to them and their futures (and that’s understandable), so the following paragraph is just some information for you rather than anything that’s likely to convince your mom:

Most biblical scholars say that most of the biblical prophecies aren’t about “The End Times” the way we conceive of it. The Book of Daniel’s prophecies do include some talk of the actual end of the world, but – like the Book of Revelation in the New Testament – the majority of his prophecies actually refer to kingdoms and intrigue going on in Daniel’s own time (or not so long before or after his own time). 

I have not studied Daniel’s prophecies, like, at all besides reading through them, so I can say more about how the Book of Revelation is less about “the end of the world” and more about “the end of the Roman Empire;” but Daniel follows a similar trajectory of being more about the fall of the empires that have oppressed his people than about the end of the whole world. If you have a Bible that offers footnotes about the historical context going on in any given passage of scripture, it will tell you all about that – that Daniel’s prophecies discuss the sequence of Babylonian, Median, and Persian rulers that oppress his people and criticize those oppressive kings. 

Thus when you go to look at Daniel 11 (and 10), you see that Daniel isn’t talking about “The Antichrist” in this passage – indeed, that title “Antichrist” is not used at all in this Book, or in any book of the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) at all! – but rather he is talking about a Persian king who is going to arise and oppress his people. The New Interpreter’s Study Bible suggests in its footnotes for 11:37 that the specific king Daniel’s talking about is Antiochus, who “grew exceedingly arrogant: He abandoned his ancestral gods and imposed the worship of Zeus Olympus” – hence 11:37′s statement that he “shall pay no respect to the God’s of his ancestors.”

Now that we’ve reached the verse itself in our discussion, let’s have a closer look at Daniel 11:37. The New King James Version reads, 

“He shall regard neither the God of his fathers nor the desire of women, nor regard any god; for he shall exalt himself above them all.”

The part of this verse that is used by some to claim that “the antichrist” (if you interpret this passage as even being about the antichrist, despite the context pointing to it actually being about a Persian king) is gay is, of course, “nor the desire of women.” 

But along with that seeming like a very random tangent for the prophet to mention in a verse that otherwise is about this king abandoning all gods, the issue with biblical Hebrew is that sometimes getting a precise meaning out of it is hard. Thus “nor the desire of women” is not the only translation into English that one can make from the Hebrew. I’ll list some other translations that have been made (and you can see tons more here):

KJV: “nor the desire of women”

NASB: “or for the desire of women”

NIV: “or for the one desired by women”

ESV and NRSV: “or to the one beloved by women”

New Living Translation: “or for the god loved by women”

CEB: “and the god preferred by women”

Now, there are many conservative Christians who believe that the King James Bible is never wrong, and therefore they’ll insist that the translation to “nor the desire of women” is the one “correct” translation. But even if that is the case, what exactly does “the desire of women” mean in English? Does it mean: 

that this guy doesn’t desire / isn’t attracted to women, as your mom believes? 

could it also mean that he doesn’t care if women desire him? aka he might still desire them, and doesn’t give a damn about whether they like him back

or does it mean that he doesn’t care what women desire/want – i.e., that he won’t listen to them about what they want, perhaps in regards to what gods he respects, since that’s what the rest of the verse is about?

Moving to look at those translations that translate it “the god loved/preferred/beloved by women,” some suggest that this meaning: just as the guy has no regard for “the god of his ancestors,” likewise he has no regard for the god[s] of his wives/concubines. There are examples in the Hebrew Bible of women having different gods from their husbands – Jacob’s wife Rachel takes her household gods with her into his house; Solomon’s many foreign wives convince him to worship their gods with them. So if the Hebrew here, hemdath nashiym, is translated something about “the god loved by the women,” that’s what it could be about – this guy won’t be swayed to worship any god, whether his own family’s gods or his wives’ gods. 

That above reasoning makes much more sense within the context of the verse than it being like “So this guy won’t care about his ancestors’ god, oh also by the way he’s gay or whatever, and back to the god thing, he’s gonna exalt himself over all gods.” It would be such a random tangent! 

_______

So that’s all the language and history stuff. Now let’s get hypothetical: 

so…what if your mom is right? So what if the verse is saying “this guy isn’t attracted women”? (and for the purpose of this hypothetical, let’s say the verse is about the antichrist though as I discussed above I do not believe that it is.) 

First off, just because he doesn’t desire women doesn’t necessarily mean he does desire men. He could be asexual and/or aromantic. That wouldn’t be much better, of course, because we’d be moving from homophobia into aphobia. Asexual and aromantic folks get vilified enough with the stigma that “oh you can’t ~~love~~?? you monster!” So I definitely do not like the supposition that the antichrist is ace/aro; that’s just as icky as him being gay.

But again, we’re in hypothetical land: so let’s say the antichrist is gay, or is aroace. ……..So what??

Gay people, aroace people, aren’t all perfect and good people. We can be badguys too, ya know? If the antichrist were cishet, it wouldn’t mean that All Cishet People Are Therefore Like The Antichrist – so if the antichrist were gay, why would it therefore mean that all gay people are like the antichrist? 

He’s just one person. A big bad person – but his sexuality isn’t necessarily a part of that. He’s not evil because of whatever his sexuality is or isn’t. 

I will close by offering some counterbalances to a supposedly gay (or aroace, or otherwise LGBTQA+) antichrist: there are also LGBTQA+ heroes in the Bible.

Daniel himself may well be one of them!!

To start with, Daniel is most likely a eunuch: after all, he has a position in the Babylonian court, and as David Bayliss notes, “it was customary for Mesopotamian kings in the first millennium BC to surround themselves with eunuchs as servants.” The Bible itself attests to this fact, in places like Isaiah 39:7 that talks about youths being taken from Judah to serve Babylon’s king as eunuchs. Along with those two facts, Bayliss continues with more evidence that Daniel was a eunuch:

Third, the fact that Daniel and the other captured Israelite youths were entrusted to the “chief eunuch” suggests that they were to become young eunuchs themselves.

Fourth, boys to be made into eunuchs were usually selected for their beauty, which is mentioned at the top of the list of selecting criteria in Dan 1:4.

Fifth, there is no mention of Daniel or his companions ever marrying (or having children).

Sixth, Daniel showed no interest in returning to Jerusalem after Cyrus the Great came to the throne (who allowed exiles to return to their homelands), which may have to do with his physical humiliation and the Deut 23:1 ban.“

Now, why’s it matter if Daniel’s a eunuch?? What’s that got to do with being LGBTQA?? Many queer scholars, myself included, have argued that biblical eunuchs share many similarities to gay people, or trans people, etc. I talk about the connection between biblical eunuchs and contemporary trans people in the section of this webpage titled “ ‘Better than sons or daughters’: Isaiah 56″.

(For other resources on eunuchs’ link to LGBT folks, see here, here, here, here.)

On top of that, some scholars have suggested a romantic/sexual relationship between David and the head eunuch under which he served, Ashpenaz. According to Daniel 1:9, Daniel enjoyed “the favor and tender love” of Ashpenaz. This could be a totally platonic thing, or it could be physical; the Hebrew is ambiguous. 

You might not be able to stop your mom from making her awful comments, but maybe being able to respond in your head to her “the antichrist is gay!” with “no, Daniel was gay” will help you a little. 

Please keep safe, and do what you can to keep your mom’s crap from getting to you (I know that’s much harder said than done). You are beloved by the God who made you, friend. And scripture is much queerer than hateful Christians want to admit. 

[forasecondtherewedwon]

What Can a Ravenclaw Learn from a Spider-Man? Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T (a lil’ swearing) Word count: 5343

Spideychelle Week Day 3: Hogwarts/Harry Potter AU

Summary: Michelle doesn't exactly know what a "Spider-Man" is, but from the wild footage she's seen of him on her grandmother's television, she does know he's not your average Muggle. Keen to learn more, she extends an invitation for Spider-Man to be the first speaker in Hogwarts' new guest lecturer series (a program of her own invention).

Her questions will be snappy. Her attitude, professional. Her crush when Spider-Man shows up without the mask? Instantaneous.

Michelle wondered if Hermione Granger would’ve done it. Hermione was an idol of hers, even though she’d been a Gryffindor while at Hogwarts. Well, no one was perfect. Michelle admired Hermione when she made purposeful shortcuts that took her through the trophy room (an excuse to ritualistically pick out each of the academic plaques that bore Hermione’s name as she crossed the floor), when she saw her picture in the Prophet for another career achievement, and, of course, when she read one of Hermione’s fastidiously researched books.

Yes, the woman Michelle strove to one day call a peer was an impressive, maybe unparalleled, intellectual, but as far as she knew, the idea of guest lecturers at Hogwarts had never occurred to Hermione.

Everyone knew Ravenclaws asked a lot of questions―Michelle also made a lot of suggestions. This one had landed, after her Head of House presented it to the Headmaster and the Headmaster said something like, “Can’t see why not!” (The leadership style had reverted to a Dumbledore-esque whimsy, from the biographical sketches Michelle had read of the man, after the sterner yet decidedly more upfront governance of Headmaster McGonagall.)

Indeed, they’d liked the idea, but there was still a certain air of ‘upon your head be it’ about the whole thing, which meant that Michelle was doing extra work to take on primary organization of the project, and a good share of the responsibility for its success or failure. Perhaps it would’ve been more logical to make her first selection of guest lecturers from within the wizarding community… Maybe there was a little of Hermione Granger’s Gryffindor-ishness in Michelle after all.

She wouldn’t say the word out loud beforehand and, when he arrived, she wouldn’t say it to his face, but Michelle thought of her invitee as ‘The Risk.’ His behaviour would be unpredictable, from the very nature of his biology. It wasn’t because he was a Muggle (being half-blood herself, Michelle had spent a significant amount of her childhood in the Muggle world)―although, actually, she wasn’t quite sure that he was a Muggle. The Wizarding world was full of labels, distinctions, and classifications, including those that were out of date and even disgustingly prejudiced, but Muggles were less precise. There was a name for what he was, a sort of childishly worshipful term for this risky guest and others like him, and that name was ‘superhero.’

Michelle was keen to observe any ‘super’ qualities, in the interest of improved quantification and qualification of extraordinary and exceptional traits both evolved and endowed, to be catalogued and studied hereafter. Oh, she didn’t mean to treat The Risk as a test subject, but questions had to be asked. The pursuit of knowledge demanded it. While on summer holiday, she’d passed a week with her Muggle grandmother and had seen footage of him in action.

Not usually one to vegetate in front of a television, Michelle’s fixation on the screen had, of course, been quickly misunderstood by her grandmother, who’d implied in all sorts of embarrassing language that the real object of fascination for her sixteen-year-old granddaughter must be the man’s physique. Ridiculous. She was a scholar, for Merlin’s sake! It was the death-defying leap from a high building, followed by a mid-air catch using some kind of rope (he seemed to create it himself, almost from nowhere―she was very interested in the properties of that as well) that had her heart pounding like a galloping Hippogriff.

Of course, it hadn’t aided her argument when her grandmother had caught her watching another clip the following evening. For the record, Michelle had not sighed when ‘Spider-Man’ was shown from behind, she’d yawned. It was bloody summer and the days were longer and she’d been out in the sun and she was tired.

And it was nonsense to suppose that she’d devised the guest lecturer series solely for the purpose of meeting Spider-Man. Nonsense.

Michelle hadn’t been the one to get in contact, not directly. It turned out that the Headmaster and Spider-Man had a mutual wizard friend, so it was all much easier than she’d thought it would be to arrange things with this superhuman New Yorker with the spectacular arse, ahem, arsenal of abilities. Magical and Muggle cooperation did wonders to make the world smaller in the most useful and unexpected ways.

Apparently, this other wizard, Dr. Stephen Strange, had arranged a portal (portal? Was this in any way similar to either Apparition or Portkey?) to transport Spider-Man from New York to Hogsmeade. Security measures being as they always had been―if not a little tighter since the infamous Battle of Hogwarts, 21 years back―Michelle’s guest lecturer could not be deposited directly onto school grounds. Actually, this was only an assumption, and she hated those. Perhaps when the man was making his return journey, she might have an opportunity to speak to Dr. Strange and initiate an understanding of the workings of portals and how their magic interacted with such spells as guarded the school, specifically whether or not they were able to permeate the wards, if this disruption was temporary, if it would leave any lasting trace or adverse effects… She’d start a list.

The opportunity to interrogate (Michelle had been told she didn’t question, she interrogated, and she was perfectly fine with the upgrade) the wizard on Spider-Man’s coming had passed, as the guest had arrived that morning while she was grinding her teeth in Arithmancy, wishing she could’ve been down in the village instead. Filch had been sent to escort him (the Headmaster having adjusted the protective spells to allow Spider-Man’s passage onto the grounds), really a dreadful alternative―if it wasn’t too self-important of her to note. Now Michelle just had to collect him.

She flew down empty corridors and hiked up the hem of her robe to take stairs three at a time with her long legs. Students weren’t often seen running inside Hogwarts unless it was to reach a bad-tempered professor’s class on time, and this general rule could stand, given that Michelle wasn’t seen. She only slowed as she cut across the trophy room, paying her voiceless respects to the accomplishments of Hermione Granger. The version of her idol that Michelle carried around in her head was full of encouragement.

Composing herself, Michelle straightened her tie before she made the final turn towards the Headmaster’s office, where she was to find her lecturer. She would be professional, she coached herself. She would pace her questions so as not to confuse or overwhelm him. There would be time to find out everything she wanted to know (plenty of time, if they developed a rapport―as she hoped―and entered into an ongoing communication that extended beyond this visit), so it was essential that Michelle contain her giddiness. With a fortifying exhale, she rounded the corner.

There was someone waiting for her in front of the gargoyle that concealed the office’s entrance. It wasn’t Spider-Man. It wasn’t any kind of man.

“Hey,” said a boy about her age. He waved the hand not clutching the strap of a battered rucksack.

Michelle approached him with all the composure of a seventh-year and a Ravenclaw (she was both). It was murder not to immediately ask questions.

“I’m Peter Parker,” he offered, along with his hand to shake, when she halted in front of him.

He had round eyes the colour of the new peat they used during transplantings in the greenhouse. Herbology was one of Michelle’s favourite classes―filling her notebook with plant sketches, hearing the soft tunneling of her classmates’ gloved hands in the dirt, observing change and growth each time she entered the greenhouse. Maybe that was the reason for the comfortable feeling that settled into her as she stared back at him, into those earthy eyes.

“Michelle Jones. MJ,” she said. She couldn’t say where the nickname had come from; she’d never asked anyone to call her that before.

They shook hands and it was unlike any handshake―any touch, for that matter―Michelle had ever experienced. Peter didn’t do the regular reflexive squeeze, no, it was more like he learned her hand and then adapted for optimal contact. Their palms moulded together like the structural soundness of their fit was establishing a critical foundation. His fingers wrapped around her hand with an easy security that assured Michelle they would neither hurt her nor struggle to hang on and pull her to safety should the entire castle collapse around them at that very moment. The motion of his thumb interlocking with hers nearly raised goosebumps; its slide across her skin was that tender yet assertive. This hand was a sophisticated instrument and she knew the other identity of the boy it belonged to before he confirmed it for her.

“Or, uh, Spider-Man,” he added sheepishly. “You can call me that too.”

Michelle was still coming to terms with the handshake.

“You’re not what I was expecting,” she explained after a delay in releasing his hand. That hold. She could feel it still, along with the hundred new questions it had seemed to imprint directly into her skin.

“Yeah, I was gonna wear the suit ‘cause, you know, back home nobody knows that I’m him and he’s me. Everywhere, really,” the boy rambled. “Even some people in space know Spider-Man now. But Dr. Strange said this place―sorry, Hogwarts―is, like, crazy secure―Mr. Stark is gonna freak when I tell him, he loves that stuff―so it shouldn’t really be a problem to come as, well, myself.”

Michelle was smiling broadly by the time Peter paused to take a breath. He was incapable of shutting up. He was perfect. Perfect to question, obviously. She wouldn’t have to pace herself too much after all.

“It’s not a problem, right?” he checked, expression suddenly nervous. Peter’s face was like his hands, performing an emotion or action completely. Except Michelle wasn’t about to reach out and hold his face just to feel the little dents above his eyebrows when they lifted.

“It’s not a problem,” she assured him, though that was really the Headmaster’s role.

“Ok, great, I was just kinda worried because you guys seem really into uniforms here. Makes me feel underdressed, but maybe that’s just my aunt May talking.”

As Peter shrugged, Michelle glanced rapidly down the length of his body, assessing his outfit. A t-shirt under a button-up shirt, jeans, and trainers.

“You look good to me,” she said.

Their eyes met and Peter’s mouth opened, but that was as far as he got in terms of a response for several long seconds.

“Uh, what’s the blue for?” he asked, pointing at the stripes of her tie.

“Ravenclaw. It’s my House.”

Peter squinted and Michelle sensed that he was trying to recall a piece of information. The expression was intimately familiar to her.

“I got some of the basics,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the Headmaster’s office. “Ravenclaw’s the one for really smart people, right? More or less?”

Michelle smiled at him again. She didn’t need the wisdom of her House’s founder to know that she and Peter Parker were going to get along.

\\\

Having Spider-Man in her charge―and he was Spider-Man now, appearing in uniform as they moved about the school and grounds―wasn’t supposed to mean getting an entire day off from classes, but that was how things had turned out.

After an endearingly self-deprecating introduction to Michelle’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class, Spider-Man had demonstrated battle tactics, adaptability, how to work with surroundings, and other skills that were useful whether or not one carried a wand. There had been a positive epidemic of hand-cramping amongst her fellow Ravenclaws, everyone struggling to record Spider-Man’s nonchalantly delivered details of violent encounters of varying success. The Gryffindors composing the other half of the attendance had effectively lost their minds with excitement as they watched Spider-Man shoot webbing from his wrists and climb the walls; a few Lions reluctantly left for the hospital wing after failing to execute one of the flips their guest did with such ease.

As Michelle exited the classroom with Peter at the end of the period, they were met with a small swarm of first-year emissaries, dispatched by professors to whom tales of Spider-Man’s abilities had already spread. Everyone wanted a visit from the guest lecturer. Normally, Michelle would’ve mentally hexed those bloody loud-mouthed Gryffindors for making her miss class to continue escorting Peter, but she was enjoying his company. She was even beginning to admit to herself that the boy’s carefree smile contributed as much to her enjoyment as his thorough answers to each of her questions.

Spider-Man was given the floor in a fifth-year Potions class, where the eyes of young Slytherins practically gleamed as they attempted to replicate Peter’s proprietary web fluid using the offerings of the ingredients cupboard. He won over a crowd of second-year Hufflepuffs in Care of Magical Creatures as he explained how his powers had originated from the bite of a radioactive spider; the little Badgers were very sweet, very sympathetic.

In fact, there hadn’t been a single negative reaction to Michelle’s lecturer, apart from a few envious looks that she’d observed, studying each audience as Peter addressed them. His reputation as an enthusiastic and engaging speaker meant more invitations to lecture than they were able to commit to that day. It would have to continue tomorrow. Apparently, a discussion on Muggle-superhero relations would fit well into the fourth-year Muggle Studies curriculum, so that class was going to be their first engagement the following day.

Michelle was quizzed throughout dinner, Ravenclaws skidding up to her along the benches at their House’s table in the Great Hall like Muggle baseball players sliding to home plate. Most nights, she knew herself to be a worthy conversational companion―the kind of thinker who could only stew in her own thoughts and theories for so long before needing someone to bandy ideas about with. Tonight, she hardly noticed the curious crowd around her. What she did notice was Peter (sans costume) sitting next to Professor Longbottom. Her Housemates might’ve perceived her distraction (as well as its focus) if they weren’t largely the sort to pay more attention to what was going on in their heads than in front of their eyes.

Peter and Professor Longbottom broke into giddy laughter and Michelle heard herself sigh (audibly!), which roused her from her mealtime fixation. With a long drink of water, she swiveled in her seat to face a little blond Scamander.

“Sorry,” she offered, spying the swing of the child’s bare feet beneath the table, “what did you ask?”

After dinner, Michelle felt as flighty as the symbol of her House, practically bobbing her head like a bird as she contended with the departing hoard of students in an effort to spot her Peter. Her lecturer. Peter. Suffering Helena, if the Herbology professor had gotten started on an impromptu plant discourse, Michelle might not see Peter again for the rest of his stay! (She adored Professor Longbottom, truly, but she felt the strain of separation from her guest as the minutes passed. It must simply have been a kind of withdrawal from newly introduced stimuli; she wasn’t going to concentrate on the reasoning at the moment.)

“Oh man,” said a voice from behind her. “I’ve done the big group dinner thing before, but this was insane. Have you ever had shawarma?”

Michelle spun around and nearly sagged in relief.

“No,” she told him with a smile and listened as he described it to her.

Peter barely looked up from the hands he was gesturing with, but he negotiated their way out of the Hall more smoothly than she’d ever been able to through so many people, even on her brightest, most bushytailed mornings.

“Whoa, wait a sec,” Peter requested as the staircase they’d mounted lurched into motion. “I’m lost.”

“I thought you were from New York, one of the busiest cities in the world,” Michelle teased, refraining from citing statistics about population, area, and traffic congestion. “Can’t tell your way around one building?”

“Hey, where I’m from, the streets don’t change! East 54th doesn’t suddenly come out on Orchard Street.” He glanced at her with playfully narrowed eyes. “And I doubt you had this place all figured out your first day here.”

She only smiled, unwilling to verbally own up to her eleven-year-old self’s directional failings. Peter leaned back against the bannister and shook his head at her.

“I know that look’s supposed to come off clever and mysterious, but if you think I’m gonna buy it… you’re right.”

He laughed at himself and Michelle joined in as their staircase jerked to a stop.

“Someone told you where you’ll be sleeping for the duration of your visit?” she checked, not moving yet.

Steps echoed faintly, several floors above, as other students made their way to common rooms or began Prefect patrol.

“Yeah, they said I’d be in the Ravenclaw dorms with you. N-not with you,” Peter fumbled, cheeks turning slightly pink. “Near you. Since you’re my… guide?”

“Yes.”

“Friend?”

She smiled. They had effectively spent the entire day together. It was an impressive thing that she could say she’d spent a day with Spider-Man, though what secretly thrilled her was that she’d spent a day with Peter Parker.

“Sure. And that’s right. A room’s been made up for you.”

“When you say ‘made up,’ you mean…”

“Created. Formed by magic. An extension of the existing dormitory.”

“Ohmygodthat’ssocool,” he breathed all at once.

Michelle stared too long at the wonder on his face, then startled herself out of it, passing him on the steps to reach the landing first.

“Let’s go,” she suggested, not looking at Peter. “I’ll show you how to get to Ravenclaw Tower from here.”

“That’s… that’s really nice of you,” he said, bounding up the steps and touching her arm before she could keep walking. “But if we go there right now, there’s probably going to be a bunch of people waiting up to ask me questions, right?”

“That’s a given. You fascinate… us.” That last word had been difficult to force out, wanting to manifest as something a bit more personal.

Peter huffed a laugh to himself, glancing at his shoes.

“I’m still kind of waiting for everybody to realize I’m not really that interesting.”

“What are you talking about?” Michelle tipped her head in confusion. “You’re incredible! What you can do―”

“―Isn’t anything that anybody here couldn’t do if they tried,” he said with a sad smile that encouraged her to agree (she wouldn’t). “Somebody made me a room out of thin air!”

“No. You’re here because―”

“I get it. I know people know about the Avengers, Spider-Man… I’m not ungrateful! The opposite! Being here is one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me, I’m just not sure, now that they picked me, that I live up to the, uh, hype.”

Michelle marched ahead, frustrated and mixed-up and searching her mind for solutions. She rounded on Peter abruptly, not ten paces later.

“I picked you,” she said, meeting his wide eyes.

“What?”

“I picked you. I saw you on television. I watched everything I could find. I developed and implemented the guest lecturer program so that I could get you here, so that I could…” Her mouth had completely run away with her, which never happened unless what she had to say was broken up by frequent question marks while her arm grew weary from being held aloft in class. “So that we could hear you speak and have the opportunity to learn. Now, you don’t know me well, but you should bloody well know I wouldn’t waste my time when it comes to acquiring knowledge.”

She was breathing hard, a fool.

“I care a lot about school too,” he said quietly. Her eyes darted to his. “Except what you’ve done makes me look so lazy. I would never have thought of anything like this.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been watching you all day and I think you’d probably have been sorted Gryffindor.”

“Will that be held against me?” Peter smiled.

“I’m certainly trying my best not to.”

They laughed. Michelle felt deeply thankful that he’d chosen to attribute the passion of her speech to her enthusiasm for knowledge. It had been atypically brash of her to lay things (feelings) on the line like that.

“I can show you something, if you’d like. Use up a little time in the hopes of fewer of my Housemates in the common room when we get there.”

“That sounds great,” he said with an easy smile, already following Michelle as she chose a route that didn’t lead to the dormitory. “Are we allowed to be wandering around though?”

“Wandering,” she scoffed, tossing Peter a wry look over her shoulder. “Please. I don’t wander, and I don’t get caught.”

Michelle led him higher and higher, sometimes glancing back because his footsteps were so silent that she thought she may have left him behind. He was always there, giving her a questioning look, not expecting her to doubt that he was right on her heels, moving like they were one person, one unit, in the darkness.

The Astronomy Tower―her goal―was mythic, even in a place as storied as Hogwarts. It had borne witness to the Dark Mark and the death of Albus Dumbledore, but as Astronomy class continued to be held there (it was still the highest tower and therefore offered the best vantage for telescopes), the spot’s solemnity had mellowed with time. Most rumours swapped about the Tower these days involved strange and fantastic things past students had glimpsed in the night sky. Michelle’s favourite modern legend was about Harry Potter himself, and how he’d smuggled an illegal dragon to freedom.

Not one of those tales had been her inspiration for bringing Peter here.

He was smiling, slipping out of Michelle’s shadow to stride to the railing at her side and peer into the night beyond. She was watching him more than it as she wove her hair into a quick braid; it was windy here, a little exposed.

“Whoa,” Peter breathed as he scanned the view.

Michelle grinned in satisfaction. It gave her great pleasure to teach someone something new, but the opportunity to show someone something new was exceedingly rare. Every nook she found, every passage, every thrilling belvedere had been discovered first by a Gryffindor. That was inevitable, with their questing natures. She didn’t enjoy those places any less, but she’d never felt ownership (even temporary) of them as a result. Standing here with Peter, in contrast, was an act of ushering him into her world and offering to share it, all at once.

“I know you saw some of the grounds when you came up to the castle, and when we dropped in on the Care of Magical Creatures class, but…”

“Not like this.”

“Not like this,” Michelle agreed.

She gave him another minute to just look, remembering what he’d told her classmates today about his enhanced senses and wondering how far Peter could see as the sky darkened from the hazy blue-grey of evening.

“I thought it might… remind you of New York. In a way,” she offered awkwardly.

Peter leaned far over the edge, making her extremely anxious.

“I see what you mean. We’re really high up.”

“Terrific. Why don’t you step back a little?” Michelle replied, tense. She wasn’t afraid of heights, but she wasn’t about to put herself in danger unnecessarily either.

He turned with a chuckle that threw his shoulders forward; again, Peter’s whole body participated in enacting an emotion. It caught her off guard, how his delight riled giddiness in her.

“Even if I fell, I’d catch myself,” he assured her, though he did move in her direction towards the middle of the Tower. “You know that, you’ve seen me on TV!”

“I saw Spider-Man on TV,” she corrected with a grin.

“And this is why I can leave knowing I didn’t blow my cover!” Peter joked. “Everybody’s already forgotten me and him are the same guy!”

Michelle rolled her eyes and tentatively crossed to the railing, propping her elbows there. He joined her. He was close enough that her heart sent up an alarm, doing a secret knock on her ribcage.

“I’m not so sure,” she said. “You did come to dinner as yourself in front of the entire population of Hogwarts.”

“Maybe,” Peter shrugged, “but you were the only one watching.”

They glanced sideways at each other at the same moment and Michelle felt her cheeks go red. She spent half a second trying to internally convince herself it was the wind’s nip. No good.

“Uh, have you ever been? To New York?”

Peter blurted it all out, ruffling his hair with a nervous hand. Why was he nervous? Was it her making him nervous? He’d already made it clear that it couldn’t be their distance from the ground.

“I haven’t,” she looked at him quickly, throwing out a fleeting closed-lipped smile.

“You should go sometime. If you’re not busy doing something amazing here.”

“It would definitely be a change of scenery.” Michelle swept her hand at the landscape before them, the sky riddled with stars.

“For sure. I mean, you gotta see the Empire State Building. Central Park, Radio City―”

“The Avengers?”

He laughed.

“Come on,” she insisted. “I’m sure superheroes are a tourist attraction. Your city should be offering each of you a royalty.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t laugh,” Peter said, suddenly and unusually (for what she’d seen of him) serious. His body twisted towards her, though he kept staring at the far off treeline. “You could definitely come over and meet the Avengers. I think you and Dr. Strange would have a lot to discuss. And Mr. Stark? Boy, he loves getting to talk about his work―sometimes it’s more like bragging―so I bet you could ask as many questions as you wanted.”

“I was actually thinking about you.”

Now he looked at her, surprised.

“Going to see you,” Michelle went on, amazed at herself. “Just you.”

“But you haven’t even met…” Peter was obviously baffled. “When you see what they can―”

“You really think I didn’t see the others on television?” she asked, sarcasm softened from its regular strength. “I’m sorry to inform you, but there isn’t an all-Spider-Man channel. At least, not that I know of.”

“You saw Thor? And Falcon, with the wings? Wan― I mean, the Scarlet Witch? Iron Man?”

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Peter.” It felt good, saying his name. “You’re my favourite Avenger.”

“Then you’re my favourite Ravenclaw,” he responded firmly, gripping the rail. She couldn’t laugh―he was too earnest. “My favourite witch,” Peter professed. “Including Wanda. Shit, forget I said her name.”

Michelle had to laugh that time, but he frowned in return.

“You don’t know enough witches to say that,” she said, straightening up. “I haven’t even told you about Hermione Granger.”

“Well, you don’t know enough Avengers,” he cut in, bungling her chance to educate him.

“I don’t need to,” Michelle shot back, taking a step towards him whilst properly shocked to hear herself arguing against acquiring knowledge.

“Neither do I!”

Peter kissed her before she could point out the weakness of his regressing argument. The wind whipped up and snatched at her braid, but Peter grasped it and trapped it between his palm and her neck, his thumb resting lightly on her throat.

She hadn’t felt like this since her wand had chosen her at Ollivander’s. There was a satisfaction to scoring high on exams or refining a transfiguration, but those were a certain type of accomplishment. In fact, almost all of her accomplishments were that same type. Michelle reflected, as she kissed him back, that she might’ve been due for a broadening of horizons.

There was nothing precise about kissing Peter and letting him fold her body into his arms (she half-wished he could fold and fold and fold her, then stow her in his pocket so she could travel to New York against the thump of his heart), but it had as fair a claim to the title of ‘perfection’ as any other action she had performed.

He helped considerably, of course. Just another thing Peter did with a care and adeptness that truly made Michelle marvel. It felt as though he were holding her exactly right―one hand between her shoulder blades, the other still pinning her braid. And his lips were equally thorough. The heat of her face, when she stepped away with a smile, held off the increasing coolness of the air.

Peter exhaled with humorous over-exaggeration.

“Be nice if all my fights ended like that,” he said, starry-eyed even without the reflection on the sky shining in his brown irises when he looked at her.

“Do they not? I assumed that was how you managed to apprehend so many criminals, drawing them out with that Siren call.”

They laughed, but it faded as they both realized Peter was playing with the end of her braid. Cautiously, Michelle shifted closer until they could rest the sides of their heads together, looking out. His arm was secure around her back.

“We weren’t really fighting,” she felt the need to clarify after a long, still moment.

“Debating?”

“Not quite. You’d have known if we were debating. I never would’ve let you cut me off.”

Peter chuckled.

“That’s one more thing I need to see while I’m here then.”

“Well, we can try to find room for it tomorrow,” Michelle offered, “in between your showing off.”

“I haven’t been showing off!”

She turned her head and gave him a dubious stare when Peter drew back.

“Ok, maybe a little,” he conceded, “but that’s why you asked me to come!”

Michelle saw fit to practice her technique of not responding when he was correct.

“If I’m going to be accused of showing off, then I’m going to have to actually do it so you can see the difference. For your records.”

This boy was full of shit. She grinned at him.

“And what is it you’ll be doing, Spider-Man?”

Peter glanced down the side of the Tower again, then slowly looked over at her. His face was all mischief.

“You’re not climbing the Astronomy Tower.”

“I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow if it makes you feel better. Do it in daylight.”

“There are plenty of towers at Hogwarts, why not begin with a shorter one?”

“MJ, I can handle it. We’ll start at the bottom,” Peter pointed, hand sliding to her waist, “and go up. Easier to set you down if you freak out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Michelle hedged. “This is not a ‘we’ activity.”

“Sure it is. Don’t worry, I’ll get a good grip on you.”

She laughed anxiously.

“Absolutely not. You will be the main attraction and I will stand safely in the background, as we’ve done since you arrived.”

“Aw, you’re more of a risk-taker than that, I know you are!”

“You won’t goad me into this,” Michelle warned him, though it wasn’t lost on her that she’d been thinking of him as the risk she’d taken all along, “I’m a Ravenclaw.”

“And I’m an Avenger,” Peter declared. “In the words of a guy I know back home, I can do this all day.”

“It’s night.”

“That’s a cheap out, MJ.”

She found him charming and rolled her eyes, leaning into his side as he welcomed her with a friendly expression.

“Just an observation.”

“Are we debating yet?” Peter wondered.

“Don’t change the subject.”

They stood there until they began to yawn, at which point they sat instead (Michelle pulled her wand from her pocket and cast a warming charm). She guided Peter’s gaze through the visible constellations while he enacted his flawless hand-holding magic. The night was so good that she never thought to speculate on whether Hermione Granger had ever had a night like this. Michelle didn’t guess and she didn’t compare. She’d brought Spider-Man to Hogwarts, and she’d snogged him.

She was her own idol.

[lamiasluck]

When Faith Breaks

(A story inspired by the game Faith and priestiplier content)

Summary: Damien has accepted God's calling and went to pursue his new role as a humble servant of the Lord. His life as a priest has been a rewarding one thus far, but it hasn't been without its hardships. The Devil taunts him to test his faith, tempting him to fall into darkness. 

His greatest test of faith will soon be upon the priest. The Devil has tempted his sister and made her fall to darkness, and it's up to Damien to save her soul.

Characters: Damien, Celine, and William

Tags: Priest Damien, demons, religion and other religious symbolism, demonic possession, character death, angst

Words: 2372

Read on AO3!

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My flesh and heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and portion forever.

- Psalm 73:26

Damien clutched his rosary closer to his chest as he stepped through the remnants of what used to be Celine’s house. Unsturdy floorboards creaked beneath his feet, the stone walls cracked and threatened to fall onto the growing piles of rubble. Through the sounds of settling destruction and his laboured breathing, he heard her. He heard Celine.

“En nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He did the sign of the cross as he began his blessings.

He knew he shouldn’t have left her on her own. He knew he shouldn’t have listened to her insistent cries for him to follow his call from God, that he should move out as soon as possible to teach his preachings. He had always discouraged her and her… work. Her blasphemous rituals to a chaotic entity. What she did was dangerous, but he didn’t know it was this dangerous.

It all happened so quickly. At one moment, Damien was conducting his usual ceremonies, then before he knew it, he was being pulled aside to be informed of the unfortunate news of his only family.

The devil works with servants.

To say that the ministry discouraged his mission would be an understatement. This case was so grand, after all. Reports said the house nearly blew up and crumbled completely. Having the church’s youngest priest on the case would surely cause trouble, so they had scheduled their best to work on the house at noon. Damien went by himself at nightfall the day before. He needed to help, this wasn’t just another case. It was his sister, it was Celine.

Why didn’t God heal her?

Damien shook those thoughts out of his head. It wasn’t the Lord’s fault, it was his. He should have guided Celine to the light while he could. He should have prohibited her actions. He should of… he should of…

“I will say of the Lord: He is my refuge and my fortress…” Damien murmured. His knuckles were white as he gripped his rosary tighter, the cross digging into his skin. The very air lingering around the house felt… wrong. Damien breathed in the Devil’s breath, but exhaled the Lord’s blessings. “My God, in Him I will trust.”

Childhood memories began to mix with the Good Book as Damien blessed the remnants of the halls he and Celine used to skip through. Their childhood home, ruined by the Devil’s touch. Though a home is where the family is, and Damien wasn’t going to let the Devil take her too.

“Damien~ I can hear you…” A familiar voice echoed through the house, alluring in its tone. Damien shuddered as an unseen energy rippled through his body. Tempting him to stop, tempting him to give in. He continued to walk closer nonetheless.

“I shall not be afraid of the terror in the night-”

“Your words hurt!” Her voice shrieked as he drew closer. “You’re hurting your big sister, Damien! How dare you?!”

“N-Nor the… the evil that walketh in darkness…” He couldn’t stop his voice from trembling. He bit back the tears that threatened to fall alongside the rumble.

Why her? God, why take everything I have? Is this a test of my faith?

Soon enough, Damien stood before a door that glowed a vibrant shade of red and blue. Celine’s seance chamber. Compared to the rest of the house, the surrounding walls and door stood strong as if they weren’t holding back the wrath of the Devil.

Have I not proven myself worthy thus far?

“Because I have made the Lord my refuge…” Damien hesistanted. He could hear her laughing. As he gripped the doorknob, he could have sworn that it made his skin burn at the touch. “Because I have set my love upon Him… Therefore will He deliver me.”

The second Damien swung open the door, the air was knocked out of his lungs. His eyes instinctively shut closed as he stumbled back at the shear force of magic pushing him back. Eyes slowly blinked open and Damien tried to steady his quicken breathing to no avail. All of the seer’s ritual ingredients were spread out around the room. The mark of the Devil, a pentagram, was neatly drawn onto the ground with chalk. Celine stood in the middle of the circle, tall and proud. Her smile was too wide, predatory eyes staring down Damien like a coyote to a deer. This wasn’t his sister.

May God guide us to the light.

“Celine…” Damien stepped into the room. The golden cross on his rosary made his sister visibly flinch. “Celine… what did you do?”

“I did what I had to do.”

“I shall call upon Him, and He will answer me.” He raised his rosary against the demon with a trembling arm. Various rites clearly agitated the demon, but Celine still stood strong. She hissed a foreign tongue at her brother's cross. “You don’t belong here, demon. Release her!”

“What do you mean, Damien? I’m right here.” Celine sounded like a horrid parody of herself. Alongside her comforting tone was an underlying echo of something primitive. A gravely inhuman voice spoke alongside Celine’s.

The priest’s chest ached as he stared at the shell of his sister. Surely, her pride wasn’t still telling her that she had everything under control? Surely, the wicked smile that dawned on her face was the work of the Devil.

The Lord’s words didn’t seem to be affecting her.

“He will be with me in trouble. He will deliver me and honour me.” Damien touched the sides of his face with his free hand and noticed they were wet with tears. A broken sob made it past his lips as Celine tauntingly laughed at him.

“What’s wrong with my baby brother? Do you still need your sister to coddle you?!”

The door slammed shut behind Damien. He instinctively flinched back at the sound, only for Celine to grab him and throw him into the corner of the room with inhuman strength. Damien clutched the rosary tighter as his back hit the wall. The cross pierced his skin and a small, steady stream of blood dripped from his palm. Celine’s smile only grew wider at the display before her.

“Vade… vade post me, Satana,” Damien spoke the word of the Lord with a shaking voice.

May my blood and tears be a sign to give me strength… please, Lord, give me strength…

“Exaudi Domine Patri.”

“Your God is a false prophet! Just listen to me… listen to me…” Celine swayed like a puppet on a puppetmaster’s strings. “You’ll be powerful, just like your big sister.” Celine stared Damien down with the fires of hell within her eyes, her body glowed a vibrant shade of red. She clenched her fists and her seance materials began to levitate off the floor with the same red glow surrounding each object.

“Ce-Celine…” Damien stared at his sister’s glowing eyes, desperately looking the compassionate emotion she used to look at him with. He found nothing but anger. “Let me help you!” Damien shrieked. He closed his eyes, letting his tears and blood fall onto the floor. Celine stared at the ground where drops of his blood stained in a small pool of red.

For a brief moment, it was quiet.

The objects dropped to the ground with a synchronized thud.

For a brief moment, there wasn’t a horrid glow surrounding Celine.

Damien raised his rosary against his sister once more. Her cruel smile weakened to a puzzled expression.

For a brief moment, Damien saw a warm compassionate look within Celine’s eyes.

But it was only brief.

As quickly as Damien could blink, the anger returned. Celine smiled down at Damien before she started giggling. Soon enough, Celine was laughing hysterically at the priest, clutching her head in her hands as she doubled over in laughter.

“Oh, Damien… of course you can help me.” Were her tears shed because of her laughter? Or were they tears shed by her true self? She stepped closer to Damien, watching as he cowered into the corner in a tight ball. The priest muttered to the Lord frantically. He could beg, but would anyone answer his calls?

The Lord is supposed to answer my call.

Celine grabbed a fistful of Damien’s hair and tugged it harshly, forcing him to look at what she’s become. Damien screamed at the pain, hyperventilating in a silent plead for mercy. The Devil’s breath was suffocating.

“You’ll help me… you’ll help all of us…”

“Celine, what are you doing?!” The seer glowed once more and Damien felt his body burn from within, convulsing with the strength of the deepest pit of hell. “S-Stop-! Please, Celine you’re - It-It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts - Please stop! I - I, Please God help me-!”

Damien’s screams were never answered.

The Devil works with servants, each soul taken willingly or by force.

The ministry mourned the loss of their youngest prodigy, but they never found his body. However, the twisted seer’s body was found yards away from the house in a forest, assumedly after she took the life of her brother. Having left a trail of mutilated woodland creatures in what looked like a final tribute to the Devil. They arrived too late. There was a scheduled dismantling of the cursed house after they spewed their rites to the Lord.

Unbeknownst to the ministry, the seer breathed life into a new creation. She created a sin against God, only to throw him into the world with his new identity. Soon after, she left the world to join her chaotic deity. Her creation, her brother, wandered aimlessly as the very creature he swore to destroy. Without purpose, without dignity.

Damien felt out of place in his own body.

The Lord blessed him in the light, but the Devil cursed him to be surrounded by monochrome. His body cracked and ached continuously, his eyes fully black with the Devil’s void. Yet, he continued to search for answers through his torment.

God can still save me. I must keep faith in Him.

Even mentioning the Lord’s name added onto his perpetual pain. But he still continued to pray, he still continued to beg. His rosary was still clutched close to his chest, the beads made his skin burn with a dull reminder of his state.

“Vade post me, Satana… Exaudi Domine Patri…” The voice of the Devil echoed alongside his own. Each preaching made his throat sting as the words left his mouth.

He thought about returning to the ministry and begging his former superiors for help. Then he remembered how they treated demons like him. Demons deserved to be killed. Word would spread around quick, he’d rather die in isolation than bring more shame to his family’s name.

He prayed that Celine’s spirit found the light in the afterlife.

For now, Damien wandered without a destination. Spending weeks in what seemed to be an endless cycle of praying and pain. There was no rest for the likes of him, for where would he find peace in? His own family cursed him to an eternal limbo between worlds. Who should he be more afraid of: humans or demons? At this point, Damien was too afraid to learn the answer.

I’m sorry for my cowardice, my Lord. I’m sorry for my blasphemy.

Every so often, Damien would snap and go against God’s teachings. The sheer amount of power he was cursed with was strong enough to destroy villages. A simple priest like him couldn’t control the unsteady aura. His image would flicker between blue and red in a dangerously beautiful pattern, and his image would shake like a venomous snake warning off any life around it. There was barely time to process what was happening before he collapsed onto the ground in a fit of cries and screams. A powerful aura thrashed around him, breaking whatever, or whoever, in its wake. After the carnage, Damien would be forced to realize what he did. Time and time again.

He would leave without any witnesses. Frightened communities have officially began a hunt for his head. He didn’t blame them.

“Forgive me Father, for I am a sin…”

The demon cried tears of obsidian, kneeling before the almighty Lord. He prayed the beads on his rosary through the dull burn. The shine of the golden cross was unaffected by the harsh grey the Devil surrounded Damien in. But the light never purged him of his impurities.

“The Good Word hurts me, yet I beg for the light.”

I beg for mercy.

Quiet, but present footsteps made their way closer to Damien. He let them draw closer as he closed his eyes. Maybe an act of mercy would be to kill him. He wondered if death would hurt, though nothing could hurt more than this torture.

“There you are, Damien. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Damien heard a man speak from behind him. How did he know his name? A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, but he still gasped and tensed under the touch. Through laboured breaths and closed eyes, he waited for the harsh pain of death. However, the man never hurt him.

“Kill me.” Damien didn’t want sympathy, he was tired. The man hummed with amusement, never removing his hand and instead massaging reassuring circles. Damien shuddered at the touch before an echoed sob rippled through him. “Please… it hurts…”

“Curious little thing.” The man spoke in a chipper tone, with an odd slur to his pronunciation. He has heard about a mysterious demon with the power of twenty men, but he didn’t expect this display of weakness. Razor sharp teeth scowled at the cross Damien was holding, claw-like hands digging into the smaller man’s shoulder. Surely that poisonous object was the reason for the other’s pain. “Why don’t I help you?”

“Please…”

Damien lays within the Devil’s grasp, begging for answers. He begged for a reality where he wasn’t depending on one of the Devil’s servants to help him. He wanted his family back, he wanted his life back.

God never saved his damned soul. He condemned him.

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 3

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The Yiga Clan leader sat in his chair with his feet on the table. His backside hung off the edge of the chair, his legs splayed open. Kohga’s hands rested on the sizable girth of his belly. It must have been the most undignified way of sitting Astor had ever seen.

“I’m not going to hold a conversation with you sitting like…. That! Show some deference for the Calamity’s chosen disciple.”

Kohga grumbled and sat upright.

“Good! Now we can proceed… Lord Ganon has revealed to me the purpose of the other Guardian. And, just as I suspected, it is a threat to the Great Calamity's revival. Consider yourself informed on what must be done.”

Kohga gave a dismissive wave of his hand. Astor moved past the two Yiga leaders, seeing that his harbinger had resumed its place on the altar. “My harbinger, show me your will...”

The harbinger sounded and once again a vision spread out in front of them. The Princess, the young knight, and the royal advisor were moving through the desert canyons that led into Gerudo Desert. The Princess was dressed in her usual field attire that day, for when out conducting research. Her blue and white corseted blouse resembled her royal attire, but she wore a pair of soft figure-hugging pants with it.

The seer’s yellow eyes flickered over the princess and then looked away, pushing all mental commentary down and away, substituting the ones that made him feel in control.

Behind him, the two Yiga leaders started to talk among themselves. “Looks like the princess and her entourage are on their way. That can only mean that she will meet with the chief.” Master Kohga mused. 

“Now would be the perfect time to attack. Our men have reported that Chief Urbosa is away on an errand.” Sooga suggested.

Kohga practically jumped out of his chair. “Sooga! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I apologize, but I don’t follow-” 

“I can disguise myself as the chief, assassinate the princess, and no one will know the Yiga clan was responsible, and Urbosa will be the one blamed.”

“Yes, good thinking. I’ll inform everyone else of this.” Sooga and Kohga got up to leave, and then Kohga looked over his shoulder, seeing the prophet standing serenely and completely immersed in the vision. “Hey, Prophecy Man! Get your mind out of the rotten banana pile!”

Astor jolted back to awareness. “You know nothing!”

“Trust me, I can read people’s innermost thoughts. Secret technique passed down from my father’s mother’s father.” Kohga said in a teasing manner. “Anywho, she’ll be dead soon anyway. We’re leaving!”

“And you are testing the limits of my patience! But yes… she will be… It has been willed by Ganon, and we must make sure fate follows its proper course.”

Kohga’s teasing observation left the prophet exasperated. How dare this slovenly lump suggest that he was wavering in his devotion for the Calamity. In the beginning, Astor had just passed it off as a sick sense of humor, but the more Kohga ran his mouth the more it was taking root in the prophet’s psyche. Just the other night, his mind had regurgitated Kohga’s observation referring to the two egg-like Guardians as twins.

I am looking forward to using him as a blood sacrifice for the Calamity...

“Geez, touchy. I didn’t hear a denial there.” said, Kohga.

“I will not dignify that with an answer!” Astor ended the vision there. “Just go, and do not disappoint me. She is, after all, the foremost threat to Calamity Ganon.”

oOo

The Princess held tightly to the Sheikah Slate as they made their way to Gerudo Town, the sands crunching and shifting under her knee-high boots.

She hadn’t seen Urbosa in many years now, which bothered the princess that they hadn’t remained in close contact. Now was the perfect opportunity to reconnect with her old friend.

“Look, Your Highness!” Impa brought Zelda’s attention to the figures of three approaching Gerudo warriors. The three vai were armed with tridents and were rushing towards them.

As the Gerudo got closer, it became clearer that they were hostile. Zelda braced herself, motionless, trying to make sense of the situation. 

“There she is, grab her!” Shouted one of the Gerudo, motioning to the princess.

Impa and Link moved to shield Zelda, weapons drawn.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Impa shouted at the Gerudo who were now surrounding them.

“Chief Urbosa knows of your scheme to seize our lands,” said one of the vai, apparently a Captain.

“What? I would do no such thing! I’m here to -” This couldn’t be right. It had been a long time, but Zelda never imagined Urbosa would believe such nonsense or worse, act on it. The princess was discouraged, but there was no way she’d turn back.

“She’s lying. Grab them!” The Gerudo Captain said to the other two.

“Run!” Impa shouted, picking up the small Guardian. Link hung back for a moment, ready to hold off the Gerudo Soldiers.

“Link! Don’t fight them. Something isn’t right here! Just run!” Zelda shouted. Not wanting any harm to come to the Gerudo soldiers over a misunderstanding.

Zelda ran as fast as she could, nearly tripping at some points, her boots not well suited for the sandy terrain. She was nearly out of breath from sprinting when Link directed them to stand behind a rock outcropping. Zelda put her hand over her mouth to stifle her labored breathing, and the extremely arid environment wasn’t helping. 

The sounds of footsteps in the sand receded. Impa peeked over the top of the rocks, only to come back down fast as the last of the three women passed by.

“We just need to find Urbosa….” Zelda said quietly. And then she came up with a solution. “Advancing directly on the town will be difficult. Let’s go around the south side.”

Impa nodded. “Yes, good thinking, Your Highness.”

Zelda braced herself to start running again, but when they came out from behind the outcropping they were horrified to see a whole army of Gerudo warriors standing between them and the town.

oOo

The princess, her knight, and her royal advisor were marched into the chief’s throne room at weapon point. Zelda’s hopes fell through when she observed Urbosa’s severe expression.

“Urbosa! Why? What is all this?” Zelda entreated her dear friend.

Urbosa met Zelda’s eyes with a cold, murderous gaze uncharacteristic of the Gerudo Queen. She addressed the princess in a tone she had never heard from her friend before. “Thwarting your destiny of course,” the Gerudo Chief said, raising her scimitar. “Princess Zelda…”

She really means to kill me...?

A deep hurt and confusion immobilized the princess. Zelda braced herself as Urbosa charged, scimitar in hand. Link and Impa moved to block, but it wasn’t necessary. A loud SNAP resounded throughout the room and Urbosa became electrified. The electricity buzzed, Urbosa sputtered and fell to the floor. The Gerudo guards in the room stood silently, horrified to see their leader in such a position.

“I came back as quickly as I could…” Urbosa said casually as she strolled in.

Zelda turned. “Urbosa?” The princess cast another glance at the fallen Urbosa on the floor. 

An imposter?

“Not exactly what I expected to find,” Urbosa said, shaking her head at the figure lying in a heap on the floor. “I hope you’re not hurt….little bird.”

Zelda breathed a big sigh of relief, beaming.  “I’m not!”

“Then.... who is this?” Impa said, looking at the fallen Urbosa.

A gruff male voice groaned as the figure lying on the floor began to stir. There was an explosion of smoke and the imposter revealed himself.

“You’ve got some nerve thinking you can go toe to toe with…. MASTER KOHGA! I’ll show YOU…” The Yiga Clan leader clapped his hands together and started to chant, summoning several Yiga footsoldiers.

Link, Impa, Urbosa, and the Gerudo guards readied their weapons, taking a defensive stance around the princess.

Kohga struck a dramatic pose. “YIGA ASSEMBLE! Me excluded of course,” Kohga said quickly, before making his escape in a puff of smoke, leaving his minions bewildered and cross.

“We can’t let him get away. Locate Kohga at once,” Urbosa instructed, running out of the throne room, scimitar in hand. Zelda, Link, and Impa followed only to see all chaos breaking out between the Yiga and Gerudo forces in the streets of the women-only desert town.

Seeing the others taking on the Yiga,  Zelda activated the Sheikah Slate, determined to help in the fight just as she had done the other day when they had fought monsters and malfunctioning Guardians on the way to the Royal Tech Lab. Eventually, the Yiga were chased out of the town, fleeing to the desert outside the town walls, Urbosa and the others pursuing them.

“There is a beast in the north that will keep them busy if we can lure it out of hiding. It’s sensitive to noise, so if the sound of battle rings loud enough....” Urbosa called out to the others.

“Sensitive to loud sounds? What about an explosion? The Sheikah Slate’s remote bomb rune just might work.”

“The Sheikah what?” Urbosa asked, casting Zelda an intrigued look.

“I’ll show you later.”

The group lured the Yiga clan members deep into the desert, coming to a stop where Zelda sensed the sand was less packed and more disturbed; as if something was living within. Zelda looked to Urbosa.

“Yes, this is it!”

Urbosa crossed blades with the Yiga masses once again only to electrocute them while their guard was down.

Zelda activated the remote bomb rune on her Sheikah slate, laying down several bombs on the loose sand. 

“Good thinking, little bird.”

Within seconds the remote bombs went off, sending a massive shockwave into the sand. Urbosa stood back, waiting for the telltale sign that the molduga had been awakened. 

Urbosa called out to the others cautioning them. “Wait for it…. Wait for it…”

And then the ground beneath them started to quake. The footsoldiers looked around in confusion, but it was slowly starting to dawn on them what had been summoned. At last, the enormous whale-like creature erupted out of the sands, jumping high into the air and then diving back down into the depths with its wide-open maw coming in fast. The Yiga members shouted and scattered, escaping one by one into a multitude of bursts of smoke before they could be devoured and dragged into the sandy deep.

Urbosa gave a resounding laugh. “I almost pity the Yiga scum.”

“I’m kind of disappointed I didn’t get to see molduga make a meal out of them,” Impa replied, laughing.

“Well, nevermind that. We’ve still got to find Kohga. That voe has been a thorn in my side ever since I took the throne and this is my last straw with him.”

The party arrived at the Yiga outpost, Urbosa spotted Kohga hiding behind some large wooden boxes.

“I suppose my nimrod foot soldiers WANT me to croak. Looks like I will have to end you myself!”

Urbosa scoffed. “Not a chance! I will banish the Yiga Clan once you’re out of the way.” Urbosa charged the Yiga leader, meeting him in battle, scimitar against sickle.

Kohga summoned an oversized spiked iron ball. It hovered over Urbosa, but the Gerudo Queen leapt out of the way before Kohga let it drop. She snapped her fingers, hitting Kohga with a bolt of electricity in retribution, frying the Yiga Clan leader for the second time that day. As the Clan leader regained his bearings he was dismayed to see the party had surrounded him. Kohga gulped, waiting for the Gerudo queen to strike. 

Urbosa brandished her scimitar. “This is it, Kohga. You’ve lost. This is your last chance to surrender. I wouldn’t want to have to spill your guts in front of Her Highness.”

Zelda could see Urbosa hesitating, although the warrior queen’s determined expression never faltered. A mistake she would soon regret as Urbosa was momentarily distracted by an imposing figure, RUNNING down the pillar that Kohga was cornered against. The large Yiga bodyguard unsheathed his dual blades and went for Urbosa, who blocked his attack with her scimitar, pushing him back with some effort. Sooga landed in front of Kohga and then charged at the group again, this time crossing blades with the princess’s knight and Urbosa once again. The two blocked but had the air knocked out of them by an immense magical attack that manifested from Sooga’s dual blades.

“Master Kohga, are you hurt?” Sooga resheathed his twin blades.

“Sooga, you’re late! I was nearly peeled like a banana.” Kohga said, at his wit’s end, but still all too relieved by the perfect timing of his right-hand man.

Sooga ignored the verbal lashing, simply hoisting the rotund man over his shoulder effortlessly, Kohga giving only a sound of surprise.

“Forget these cowards. It’s time to retreat”

“I think not!” Urbosa rushed forward, but before she could engage the two, Sooga disappeared into an explosion of smoke, taking Master Kohga with him. Urbosa shielded her eyes as she ran straight into the blast.

Kohga’s taunting laughter echoed through the outpost, Urbosa grunting in frustration as she regained her bearings.

Urbosa turned back to the group. “Forgive me, little bird. Next time I will show the Yiga no mercy.”

“No worries, Urbosa…” After everything Zelda had been through today, the Yiga clan leader getting away was the least of her anxieties.

oOo

Zelda approached Vah Naboris, trying to figure out how she would phrase her request for information as casually and discreetly as possible. On the way back from the Yiga outpost, Zelda had quietly pulled Urbosa aside and asked if they could meet later and alone. Urbosa had given the princess a concerned, but conspiratorial look, and agreed, telling her to meet her by the Divine Beast.

Oh, come on Zelda. You have a perfectly good reason to ask if she might know who he is… You’re just asking because you want to know how he figures into the Calamity...

Zelda was feeling high strung. Urbosa had always been able to discern the princess’s motivations and raw emotions before, but...

Oh, just get it over with, Zelda scolded herself. Urbosa had never said or done anything to make Zelda feel foolish, unlike her Father.

Urbosa met her gaze, giving her a warm smile. Zelda took a deep breath and smiled back, feeling more at ease.

“Urbosa, thank you for meeting me here.”

“Of course. Anything for you, little bird. I trust you didn’t ask me to come here only to recruit me to pilot the Divine Beast.”

Zelda nodded, pulling out the Sheikah Slate from its pouch on her belt, powering it on.

“Just the other day… a strange Guardian appeared in Hyrule field. We took it to Robbie and Purah and they were able to extract some visual data from the Guardian’s memory and transfer it to this.” Zelda held the Sheikah slate between herself and Urbosa, showing her the pictures of the destroyed Hyrule. “As you can see, these images show what will happen if the Calamity awakens.”

Urbosa frowned, paying rapt attention to the pictures and what Zelda was telling her.

“And then there’s this…” She scrolled to the image of the mysterious individual. “Some of his jewelry looks Gerudo in nature. Do you know who this man might be? I believe he has some connection to the Calamity, but I can’t be sure... I’d like to locate him so I may question him.” Zelda spoke as matter of factly as she could manage.

Urbosa gave the mysterious man on the Sheikah Slate a hard look. “No… I’ve never seen him before. But yes, the jewelry does look Gerudo. Sorry, I could not be of more help.”

Zelda breathed an inner sigh of relief. It was disappointing to have come to a dead-end, at least for now, but any secret ambitions seemed to have flown right over Urbosa's head. Zelda shut down the Sheikah Slate and put it back in its pouch.

“However I am able to support you, I will. Just say the word.” Urbosa gave Zelda a reassuring expression. “We’re going to figure this out, and we’re going to stop the Calamity.”

Zelda smiled and gave a simple nod of her head. “Thank you, Urbosa...”

A comfortable silence passed between the two. It was like they hadn’t been apart all those years.

oOo

Astor sat at the table with his arms crossed, glaring daggers at Master Kohga, seated at the other end. “So you turned and fled, is that it?”

Even Sooga who was more competent than Kohga seemed complacent about their failure, which deeply irritated the prophet.

“Well… You’re the prophet. You should have seen it coming.” Kohga was sitting in his chair sideways, humming and moving his fingers to the beat.

Astor glowered at the man across from him and spoke as calmly as possible. “It seems that, as low as my expectations of you were, I was overly optimistic.”  Astor got up from the table.

Kohga finally turned to him, taken aback. Sooga’s hand went to his blade at his hip, ready to protect his master should the need arise. 

Kohga stood, raging. “Who are you to talk that way to us, when WE were the ones to go and stick our necks out!? What have YOU done besides hang around MY hideout, order us around, eat our food and complain about it? I could have been killed today if it wasn’t for Sooga!”

Astor was unruffled. “Well, no matter… I am the Prophet of the Calamity. I interpret Lord Ganon’s will and you are the Calamity’s hands.”

“You are a coward, seer. I sense it so clearly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Astor challenged, his voice steady.

“It is my duty to protect Master Kohga, even if it costs me my life, but I wonder, seer, would you give your life for the revival of the Calamity?”

Astor was caught off guard by the question, but maintained his calm demeanor, simply giving an aloof grunt of annoyance.

“I thought so…” Sooga said. “And that's not all… You’re fearful of that girl, or more specifically the power she could wield.”

“Are you not? Why do you underestimate the ruin she could bring to Lord Ganon?”

“Do you know what her court says about her?” Kohga asked the prophet. “Our Yiga spies have heard them say that she is heir to a throne of nothing but failure.”

Astor considered this. He knew better.

As if reacting to Kohga’s words, the harbinger sounded. The three stood at attention, and Astor approached the altar, wondering what it had to communicate to him.

He held out the ancient orb, wordlessly.

This time the vision that spread out before them was of the Hyrule from before. There was an atmosphere of despair and ruin, and Astor recognized the location, Blatchery Plain near Fort Hateno. In the vision, the princess was dressed in a muddied white dress. The young knight he’d seen at Zelda’s side in recent visions appeared wounded and was barely able to stand upright. A standard sized Guardian approaches the pair and towers over them, targeting the knight. The princess screamed in protest and stepped out to shield him, raising her hand high. A brilliant flash of light erupted from her hand, creating a dome of holy power that laid waste to several Guardians at once. The malice departed from the Guardians and they clattered into the mud, broken down. 

Astor’s yellow irises constricted as a wave of crippling emotion foreign to the prophet mixed with hatred washed over him. If he thought he understood hatred before, then he was wrong. This… This went so much deeper. And he couldn’t begin to comprehend why he felt that way. Sure the princess had unlocked her power, but she found it because of the knight? Did she… have feelings for him...? He couldn’t decide who he wanted dead more. But these were all limiting human grievances that were getting in the way of his purpose. If he didn’t suppress them, how long until Lord Ganon deemed him unworthy? The prophet convinced himself that it didn’t matter how the Princess found the power. All that mattered was that this was fated to occur, and meant the Calamity could be bound, if not sealed away forever if he did not act.

The two Yiga leaders behind him were silent as well. He could sense them staring, waiting for him to break.

Finally, Kohga spoke. “H-hey, three eyes, you gonna be alright?”

And without missing a beat the Prophet of Doom tossed the entire bowl of mighty bananas, sending the fruits raining down onto the floor.

The two Yiga in the room gasped, Master Kohga scrambling to his feet to collect the fallen bananas, while Sooga bowed his head to say a silent, sorrowful prayer.