#let them rot in their blind self-righteousness

[luciemiddleford]

Sorry not sorry, I've been binging all of TMA and I'm on s4 and heard some stuff about s5 and honestly?

Melanie, Georgie, ESPECIALLY Basira, can all go to hell

And Martin

I am. So fucking disappointed.

[cheekygreenty]

In My Head - The Darkling x Reader

Supppeer angsty and kinda sad?

The fire engulfed the golden kefta in a water-like rhythm. The cracks and sparks echoed in the open field amongst the silence that settled around all of you. Alina was exhausted, Zoya was grieving, the Ketterdam criminals looked shaken too. But you were unmoving, as still as a painting and not showing a single emotion. They had all witnessed your heartbreak as it fell and crashed the world around you, breaking every part of you. They watched as realization flooded you that you never truly knew Aleksander. They watched as he tore your heart from your chest and threw it into the depths of the Fold to rot.

Painted a picture,

I thought I knew you well

It was humiliating. Alina had tried to warn you but you played her off as selfish and unwilling to use her powers for the good of all Grisha. You told her she was stupid and foolish for loving an otkazat'sya when in reality you were the fool for loving a man that didn't exist.

You told her she was crazy, that Aleksander would never lie to you and that he was good because you knew him. In truth, you were no better than him. You blindly followed everything he said, completely ignoring the alarm bells in your head. You had grown used to them as weeks went by, to the point of the alarm playing a low comforting tune in your mind all day and all night.

There weren't enough apologies in the world to say sorry for the things you'd done and said to Alina and she'd insisted that no apology was necessary because it wasn't your fault, 'It's not your fault you only see the good things about people' she whispered to you before she left to change. But the good things about him weren't there; they never existed. It was all in your head, a mind so desperate for love it concocted a whole new Aleksander, one which you loved so much and would do anything for.

I got a habit of seeing what isn't there

'We were all fooled Y/N, Don't blame it all on yourself' Despite her grieving and sorrow, Zoya's hand rested on your shoulder briefly as a sign of comfort. Without her, you wouldn't have been here right now, alive and breathing.

'I don't blame myself. I hate myself for being so blind'

'Me too'

I thought that you were the one

But it was all in my head

------

You could feel the nothingness of the Fold threading through your hair even inside Alina's tunnel of safety. You stared at her shackled feet, pushing the guilt away and replacing it with a sense of righteousness. There was nothing else that could be done to keep her in check, if she wanted to escape and hide from her destiny forever then she would do so over your dead body.

The Fold needed to be gone and if chaining her to the skiff was going to be the only way she obeyed then so be it. Your mind quickly spiraled back to her hasty words back in the tent. She was panicked and desperate, clinging to your arm like a wailing child begging to be heard. Her lies were bizarre and abundant, no doubt the works from her long journey to the Stag but they were unbelievable. So extreme even a Fjerdan would laugh at their ridiculousness.

The skiff suddenly stopped, Novokribirsk visible in the distance with lines of First-Army troops standing in neat lines.

'Why have we stopped?' A dignitary asked and you wondered the same thing. You searched the skiff for anyone with an explanation, but everyone looked equally as confused but Alina looked mortified. What is going on?

'One more demonstration. You’ve seen what the Sun Summoner can do' You whipped your head around to him slightly moving away but his arm pulled you back to his side with an edge. You heard the loud jangle of Alina's chains as she tried to move. 'Now bear witness to what I can do… with her power.'

He pushed you to Ivan, who took no time in holding you back by the arms, caging you in his grasp. You resisted on the simple basis that you didn't know why you were being restrained just like Alina but the answer came all too soon. There was no time to shout or gasp as Aleksander raised his own hands and the black shadows of the Fold expanded into Novokribirsk, killing everything in its path.

You stood motionless as the horrible sounds of volcra swarming and humans screaming flooded the air. Alina's words came back to you again but you didn't listen. No, you didn't want to. Zoya seemingly came down from the mainsail and looked at the black void in a hypnosis-like stare but nobody dared say anything. There was a silence on the skiff while hundreds and thousands of lives ceased to exist in a matter of seconds.

The comforting tune in your head had suddenly turned into a blinding screech, rendering you frozen and flabbergasted. He did this, Aleksander did this. How could he do this? You tried to fight the heartrenderer off, squirming desperately in his arms to cover your ears from the slaughtering sounds. Your knees had given out by now and Alina was on the floor of the skiff, struggling to get up due to the heavy and awkward chains. I put them there.

'Today, we redraw all the maps. With the power of the Sun Summoner at my command, I control the Fold.' A sob erupted from your throat right at the minute you realized Alina was right. You didn't listen, this is all my fault. Ivan pulled you back up, roughly smacking a hand over your mouth to stop your pathetic cried of betrayal. You fought a little harder, trashing around in hopes of escaping his hold or at least getting someone's attention but nobody seemed to care. They all feared for their lives.

'All countries will answer to us. For who would oppose us now?' He briefly shot a look in your direction but spared you no emotion. It was then that you saw the real Aleksander, blood-thirsty for power and revenge. The Black Heretic.

Everything you are made you

Everything you aren't

The next five minutes were a complete blur. You somehow found yourself fighting for your life and those around you. Your head was empty of its usual whirling thoughts as survival mode kicked in. Kill or be killed. You stopped counting how many hits you got or how many bruises were forming on your body. It was primal and in your Grisha nature to protect those around you, and in that haste of battle you made your allegiance to Alina obvious.

There was no time to think about Aleksander. You weren't quite sure you wanted to think about him. He was on this skiff with you, on the opposing side that just murdered a town full of people yet the part of your brain, your imagination, craved to be by his side. To please him by obeying, to get his touch in return. You were addicted to the man who had ruined your innocence.

'You betrayed me' His voice was right behind you as was his hand, creeping up the side of your throat and forcefully pushing you against the barrier of the skiff, ready to throw you over to the unlit Fold.

'I betrayed you?!' Your shout was loud and hearty, overflowing with sadness and shame at being relieved for being next to him again. You clawed at his tightening hand, feeling your airways restrict and your vision become fainter and fainter. You would die at the hands of the man you loved.

'Look what you made me do Y/N, do you think I want to kill you?' Your head bopped but your stupid heart grasped at the sadness in his words, he still loves me. 'I don't want to. I really don't'

'Then don't' you chocked out, your hold on his wrists becoming limp. You felt the ever-so familiar touch of his lips grace your temple and then he retreated.

The world went dark but your body hit the deck of the skiff, not the soft sands of the Fold and your lungs abruptly filled with forced Squaller air.

Yes, I did it to myself, yeah

Thought you were somebody else

'What are you going to do now?' You still sat by the fire while everyone stood. Zoya had left your side and was talking with Alina but you filtered out the noise. Your head was too full of your own self-hatred to stand any more voices so Jesper's question to you went unnoticed. 'Y/N?'

You looked at him and shrugged. You didn't want to move, your body still ached too much from being dragged away from the brink of death to make your way somewhere safe.

You would never admit it around anyone, but as Alina spoke of the Darkling being dead, a wave of grief washed over you. It was cold and unpleasant; unwelcome. But you knew love didn't disappear overnight. You didn't know who saved you on the skiff, whether it was he who had let you go, or was it Zoya who battled to have you freed from his grasp.

As much as you had created the Aleksander you viewed, the foundations were all him, you had only added on or omitted the parts you did and didn't like. You prayed it was him who spared you, you prayed there was something real about your Aleksander, that that was a foundation.

The tears that fell down your face in a stream were assumed to be for the betrayal and the horridness of what the Darkling had done to you and others, when if fact they were for him. You cried because you would never see him again, you cried because the people who had helped you get out of the Fold were the same people who had killed him.

-------

When Mal caught your deathly stare in his direction, he had to do a double-take. You had the same look in your eyes as the General did when he fought him in the Fold, that exact replica of coldness and rage; revenge. But surely he was wrong. You were happy to know the Heretic was dead. He betrayed you the most out of everyone here and almost killed you. Why would you be vengeful?

He waved it off with a shake, it's all in my head.

------

Masterlist

Taglist (Tell me if you want to be added!)

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[righteousinadversity]

Wen Qing

Wen Qing. Wen Ruohan's favoured niece. The best doctor of the generation. The last of the Wen cultivators.

The one they tore from the world.

Brilliant. The Genius Doctor. Talented. Inventive. Protector.

How dare they. You were made of steady hands and heartbeats blooming under them. With all their righteousness, had they not killed hundreds too? And you, sun-bright healer, you who have never taken a life unless it was mercy, were reviled. How. Dare. They.

You are a sister. A healer. A leader. The sect leaders, who stood on their high mountain of born authority and self-righteousness, who could never understand what living under a tyrant feels like, who were they to spurn you?

But he wasn't always a tyrant, was he? He used to be a good leader, a kind uncle who raised you. Who let your talents shine. How did you react, fire-blessed one, when you found out his sadism, his bloodlust? Did your throat choke up with the feeling of a childhood lost to the winds?

Did you feel a little relieved when he died?

Your brother, sweet and innocent and so, very brave. You may have thought him braver, but he was only ever so because he knew you would catch him if you fall. And he loved you so very much. As you loved him, beyond reason, beyond righteousness.

People looked at you and thought iron and steel and strength. But you were gentle too, my dear, and so very kind. You were strong, but did you have a choice to be anything but that? You, who had to keep your people safe, first from your uncle-turned-tyrant, and then from the righteous clans who would slaughter the elders, the crippled and the young?

I grieve the woman who was gentle, who said, "Thank you, and I'm sorry" as the last farewell to the man who saved you. Who you saved. With whom there had been debts, and then a tentative friendship, and then love. Wei Wuxian, the one whose heart you pulled out when he begged you to. Wei Wuxian, who was enemy and then her only respite and then her cherished friend.

How dare they.

Who are they to have ripped your genius from the world? Who are they to have taken your gentleness and burned it to the ground? Do they know, without that kindness, they would all be dead? That without the kindness you gave, the sun would never have been shot, that Wen Ruohan would have crushed the sects under his tyrannical rule? That they owed you life debts, and they turned their back on it?

But your heart is of the sun, and you wore your flames with pride. And when they burned you, set you afire, you do not scream, because the fire had nothing on the blinding light of your soul.

How dare they.

They stole you, Wen Qing. Stole you from history, where you should have been immortalised in golden ink. Stole the lives you would have saved. Stole the medical Genius who was steady and confident and born to save lives.

Let them rot.

Don't fret, my sweet, for, in this world, your brother walks free again. Your little A-Yuan is bright-eyed and polite and talented and alive. Your dear friend is with the man he spoke of in the drunken nights, and he is loved and safe and free.

But if I could, I would dream for you a different life. A life where a steady heartbeats beneath your brother's chest. A life where A-Yuan learns the way of healing, just as he learns the way of the sword. A life where you and Wei Ying laugh as you talk about a man with golden eyes and about golden cores, as a new one thrums in his chest; you were the geniuses of your generation. Impossible had never meant anything to him, and she had always matched the sun in radiance. A life where you do not have to be so strong. A life where there is laughter from Granny and Uncle Four and Aunt Six. A life where they remember the QishanWen Sect's greatest prodigy- the healer with golden light spilling from her hands.

[yandere-society]

Day 11 | Santa Tell Me

Synopsis: You’ve always been strangely scared of Santa as a child. The thought of a stranger in heavy boots breaking into your home and rummaging through your stuff has always terrified you. And you felt that terror right now, in this instant, as you laid there with two men in bright green suits hovering over your pretend-sleeping form.

The 12 Days of Black Christmas Event Masterlist

Pairing: Vmin x Female Reader

Admin: @roses-ruby​​

Trigger warnings: Yandere themes, bad crack, attempted kidnapping, stalking, stupid jokes, joke about religion, swearing, bad mouthing Santa 

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You really hated Christmas.

You hated everything that had to do with Christmas. All the sugary deserts, the unhealthy binging, the fake family bonding and seasonal depression longing. The freezing weather that froze your toes and pipes, the blinding red and greens, otherwise known as holiday delights. The overzealous consumerism around every corner, the empty materialism that gave everyone boners. The deforestation and self-righteousness, the ugly sweaters and proud religious mess. You hated Christmas and its warping spider’s net and all the very, merry, happy, holy, holly, jolly shit that went along with it.  

It wasn’t like you ever had a good Christmas to change your mind. When you were six, every girl at school had the brand-new light up Princess Dolly sneakers for Christmas but thanks to your skinflint of a dad, you got the direct knock off; Princess Polly sneakers. Polly with a PUH. They didn’t even fucking light up. To this day you get nightmares from the bullying. At 15, you got typhoid fever before the big ski vacation and while everyone else got to go have the time of their life, you were stuck rotting at home with your weird cousin Sigil who collected the dead skins from snake sheds. And just last year, at an unbearably boring office party, your ex best friend and crush made out under the mistletoe for 15. Whole. Minutes. Last you heard of them, they were engaged.

Let’s not even start about your irrational fear of Santa Claus. Every bad Christmas could be traced back to him. You cried the first time you heard your dad describe the bearded old man. Your reaction confused the hell out of him but to you, he was the strange one. What kind of parent allows an overgrown, capitalist bear man who dresses in red and brainwashes elf and reindeer to come into their home using the chimney and spy on their kids throughout the whole year? Was he a sadist? When you were younger, you would wet the bed just thinking of him stomping around your house in the dark. Safe to say, you never left him any cookies. Now, you’re just glad you grew out of the phase of believing in such a horrid creature like Santa Claus. Finally, you could sleep happy knowing that no one would sneak into your house in the middle of the night.

So, while we’re on that topic…who exactly were the two men whispering in the dark inside your room if it’s definitely not Santa?

“We have to quickly get back before he notices we’re missing. QUICKLY, Taehyung.”

“I know, I know. Let me just untangle this rope, Jimin.”

Who the fuck were Taeyoong and Jimmy and what the fuck were they doing in your house? That’s what you were thinking as you laid on your bed pretending to be asleep, absolutely still in the complete dark. Of course, you had a break in on the night of Christmas because why the fuck not. What made you think this one year, your Christmas day would turn out okay?

You were stuck even further because you lost the window of opportunity to wake up and startle the intruders and perhaps scream for help because since the moment they snuck in (3 minutes ago) you did nothing but lay there listening to their banter like the idiot you are. Maybe you could pretend all their ‘noise’ woke you up, but then again you weren’t too fond of your acting skills.

But honestly, who were they? What did they want? Why did they keep mentioning returning before this ‘he’ found out they were gone?

As you were pondering your crisis, someone blew straight into your ear. You shot up from the bed with a scream and immediately turned on the lamp beside you. Two men in strange green tunics and stockings, pointy ears, and tall hats with a bell stare back at you with an equally horrified expression.

They were dressed up as…elves?

“See, I told you she was awake.” The one on your right, resembling a small animal, possibly the bastard who blew in your ear, chirps.

“Wow, you really do have night vision, Jiminie.” The taller one behind the edge of your bed, the one holding a rope says, while staring at you in a daze.

“Who the fuck are you both? How did you get in? What do you want?” You shout, bringing your comforter to your chest.

All they do is stare at you with lovesick eyes to which you scowl. Hold on, why were your potential murderers so hot?

“_-___,” The one on the right calls you carefully. He had round and soft features with a sharp jaw. Slender eyes and bright pink hair matching his rosy cheeks on his otherwise cute pale face. “It’s an honor to finally meet you…my name is J-Jimin.”

“I’m Taehyung.” You turn to the man with the rope. His features were extremely well proportioned and downright lethal. A devilishly handsome face, beautiful golden skin and dark brown mopy hair. He appeared and sounded like a mature sugar daddy but stared at you like a 12-year-old pervert.

You sat silent after the two men’s greetings. What were you supposed to say after intruders introduced themselves? Nice to meet you? And how did they know your name?

“…O-Okay…Jimin, Taehyung…why are you in my house.”

“We’re here to kidnap you.” Jimin smiles, his eyes turning into crescents.

“E…Excuse me?”

“Yeah! We’re here because we love you and we want you for ourselves, so we have to take you from your home.” Taehyung says, stretching the rope in his hands.

“WHAT?” You couldn’t believe your ears. Did you perhaps start hallucinating after your edible once again? Because that would explain this crazy ass dream you were having right now. Since when did you have an elf kink though?

“So you see,” Jimin begins walking to stand beside Taehyung so now they were both in front of you, “We’re Santa’s elves. We were the ones assigned to watch over you, see if you were naughty or nice.”

“Pfft, you’re very naughty~” Taehyung giggles, blushing like crazy. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“And over the years,” Jimin continues, “We came to fall in love with you to the point of obsession. So now we want to kidnap you and take you to the north pole where we three will live in a polyamorous relationship and only me and Taehyung will get to be with you.”

“We’ll fuck every day.” Taehyung chimes in proudly, earning a smack to the back of his head from Jimin who mutters ‘not yet.’

“Ahahaha, what Taehyung meant was…of course any sexual relationship would be consensual. No means no, after all.” Jimin winks awkwardly

You just sat there, mouth wide open as your brain refused to process all the information that was just presented to you. So not only were your intruders dressed up as elves, but they were also clinically insane.

“I’m calling the cops.”

“W-wait! We can prove it to you!” Jimin jumps, rushing back to your side. “When you were 10, you really wanted a MayaMaya doll collection set didn’t you? You didn’t tell your dad about it because you thought he would get you the knock off; the Papaya doll collection. It was the first and only time you were okay with Santa coming into your house, so you didn’t even set the bear trap in the fireplace like you did every year.”

He was right. What the fuck.

“W…how did you know that?”

“We saw you.” Jimin says, eyes soft and smile tender, “You were wishing so earnestly that Christmas Eve, it almost made me cry.”

“W…wait so…Santa is real?”

“Of course.” They sang in unison

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, time out.” You huff, “He’s been real this whole time, yet he’s never gotten me what I wanted for Christmas?”

“Oh, my love.” Taehyung strides up and sits on your side of the bed, taking your hand in his. “It was out of our hands…we tried to get you on the nice list, but he could sense your bad vibes…also I’m pretty sure he was salty you never left him cookies. He is sort of petty.”

“So you’re telling me that hippy bitch Claire really did deserved that large purple dollhouse more than me?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, she hasn’t been on the nice list for a long time now…all she asks for are sex toys.” Taehyung stares off into the distance.

“How long have ya’ll been watching me?”

“We are supposed to stop once a kid doesn’t believe in Santa anymore...but we were just always rooting for you. Before we knew it, we were watching you way into adulthood...and then slowly we started falling in love with you.” Jimin blushes

“...Have ya’ll seen me-”

“Naked? No...but we really want to.” Taehyung bites his bottom lip.

“I can’t believe this…” You groan, placing a palm over your forehead.

“Hey now, Jesus didn’t die today for you to be full of despair.” The taller elf rubs your hand with his thumb

“No, you idiot. He was born today…I think.” Jimin tsks

“Oh…well the point still stands. Don’t be sad my love. We never want you to have a bad Christmas again.”

“Anyway, we should hurry before Santa notices we abandoned him. That ass-kisser Jin also tagged along so we don’t have to worry too much about our portion of the presents since he would love to show off how competent he is to Santa all by himself. We can just say we ran a bit late because some kid almost woke up.” Jimin tells Taehyung to which he nods, getting his rope ready.

Oh right, this was a kidnapping. You forgot.

“___, just stay perfectly still and we’ll easily load you into the bottom of Santa’s gift sack. That thing is huge, no one will notice but us.”

“Guys, wait.” You say to which they freeze. “Let me think about this.”

They look at you with pleading puppy dog eyes and you start to contemplate it. Should you go with the two elves that barged into your house and tried to kidnap you and possibly turn you into a sex slave?

…

What were the pros and cons?

If you go to the North Pole, you’d basically be stuck with everything you hate about Christmas all year round. But could it be that bad seeing how smoking these two elves were? They could easily keep you warm. Were all elves this hot? Wait…could Santa possibly be hot? Your mouth watered thinking about it. Is this an enemies to lovers AU after all?

Whatever it was, it was interesting and more importantly you had a lot of unfinished business with the man in red. You could see it now, forming a mutiny with all the elves. Killing Claus and taking over his empire. Then it would be you who rules Christmas and boy, do you have a few changes you wanted to make like the beginning of this story states. Finally, all your wishes will come true. This time you WILL get the light up Princess Dolly sneakers and MayaMaya doll collection set.

And so, with a sinister plot forming in your head, you smile at the two eager elves in front of you.

“Alright boys, let’s go.”

Maybe this Christmas won’t be so bad after all.

[warwaged-archive]

On my first reading of Shadows Rising, I had liked Nathanos quite a lot. Going back to his part in the book after revisiting past content (Dark Mirror and Before the Storm, specifically, as they are both relevant to his character and to recent content, coming from Legion and BFA, and supposedly then, at least the later should be somewhat related to his current arc and what he’ll be up to in Shadowlands), I don’t really like it though. 

On the surface, I’d say it looks like he’s doing what he always does --- whatever it takes to achieve Sylvanas’ goals --- but on closer inspection, his feelings and indeed his very approach to this ‘doing what must be done’ isn’t really how we’ve had it before.  

Before Shadows Rising is not one of mindlessly following her decisions, but to look at them, sometimes disagree with them and even outright question why she’s doing what she’s doing, and stick with her nonetheless. Nathanos’ relationship with Sylvanas is looked at more closely in Dark Mirror, both in past and present (that would then be Legion), and it establishes a few important things: his unwavering loyalty to her, her loyalty to him, and how undeath took from them everything, and even then not all of their feelings were lost. Back in Dark Mirror, there’s still a struggle with it, a denial. 

It also establishes they had a relationship before, in life, and I think that’s important too in regards to their dynamics then. In life, Nathanos is already unwavering loyal to her. His first concern is what their closeness does to her reputation in Quel’thalas, for example, when they are discussing why he had kept some distance from her homeland.

"Let those rumormongers say what they will about me. But you are their leader and can ill afford to lose their respect."

But when Sylvanas calls him back to her side, his decision is that she’s more important to him than anything else. That while personally he’d be happier with a quieter life, he wouldn’t be happier without her, and if to be with her he had to suffer some things he loathed and leave behind what he would have preferred, it was still worth it.

He thought for a moment about the incessant politics of Silvermoon, the disapproving sneer of Lor'themar Theron, and the shadow of the encroaching Horde. Part of him longed for a quieter life, one spent working the land as his father and grandfather had before him. He could resign from the Farstriders and live out his days here at the stead. At home. But that would require sacrificing something far more precious to him than his position as ranger lord.

 As his feet began to follow the well-worn path to the house and the warm hearth that awaited him inside, he knew his choice was decided. Damn the politics. Damn the world! He had made a promise to Sylvanas, and nothing would keep him from her side. 

It isn’t a one-sided relationship, though. Sylvanas goes all the way from Quel’thalas to Marris’ Stead after him, to bring him back to her, and even when her words speak of duty, her actions speak of more than that.

Sylvanas brushed a few stray strands of auburn hair from Nathanos's eyes. "As ranger general, I have a duty to receive reports from my scouts in the field. And since you sequester yourself here in the wilds of Lordaeron rather than serve in Quel'Thalas, I am obliged to check on you from time to time." 

And sometimes, her words speak of their relationship being closer than just a work relationship too kjasndkfansd

"When will you leave?" he asked at last. 

She granted him the slightest of smiles. "On the morrow, I should think. It is late, and you owe your ranger-general a meal... and your company." She began walking toward the house. As she passed, her fingertips brushed against the back of his hand. 

Before the Storm also speaks of their past relationship, in a positive light and in Sylvanas’ point of view, as she is the one to remember it.

She was unarmed, but he carried a bow and bore a quiver full of arrows. The only human ever to become a ranger, he was a superlative marksman. It was one reason he was the best bodyguard Sylvanas could possibly have. There were other reasons, too, reasons that had their roots in the distant past, when the two had connected under a bright and beautiful sun and had fought for bright and beautiful things. 

Dark Mirror reaffirms that dynamics in some way in how they meet when Sylvanas break Nathanos free from the Lich King’s mind control. She goes back for him specifically. There’s another undead when Sylvanas and her dark rangers find Nathanos, and they just kill her, but act to incapacitate him in order for him to listen, instead.

As he tensed to leap forward, the middle target barked out an order. In unison, the flanking pair took aim and sent a rain of heavy, blunted arrows thumping into his legs. He fell hard to the ground. Each time he tried to rise, more arrows pummeled him back down. Damnable creatures! He did not pause to reason why the cloaked figures hadn't ended him as they had the woman. 

You know why? Because, once again, she went looking for him herself, to call him back to her side.

His eyes drifted down to the mottled skin of his gnarled fingers, stained deep red by his recent kill. A rush of shame banished the thrill of his reunion with Sylvanas. The thought that she would see him like this, a decrepit, nightmarish mockery of his former self, filled him with disgust. Almost of its own volition, his forearm rose to hide his rotting face. 

"Sylvanas," he rasped through parched lips. His voice sounded foreign, and he realized it was the first word he'd spoken since his death. Conscription to the Lich King's service had never required him to speak—only to kill.

"I have come for you, Nathanos, to call you back to my side." 

He was not worthy to stand with her. To even look upon her. Yet her strength, her power, enthralled him, compelling his arm to fall away so his eyes could meet hers. "You see what I... have become," he growled. "Why would you want such a monster to serve you?" 

Sylvanas waved her hand as if dismissing the bits of pulpy corpse strewn about the ground. "I am building a new kingdom, Nathanos, made up of the Forsaken dead freed from the Lich King's thrall. You will become my champion, and together we will call down a blight of suffering upon him. Arthas will answer for his crimes!" 

See. She’s acting, out of her own volition, going back for him while showing disregard for others, to call him back to her side. Again. And Nathanos is the one who feels unworthy of her, who declares himself a monster and questions why would she want him by her side when she’s seeing what he is, but her answer is to dismiss what he’s ashamed of as unimportant, and to reaffirm that she wants him by her side, that she wants him as her champion, that she wants him to fight with her and get back at the one who caused them so much torment. And by the end of it, Nathanos reaffirms his loyalty to her once again.

[...] Anger and hatred still consumed his heart, but his will was again his own. 

No. Not his own. 

It was hers, just as it had always been. 

The dark rangers attending Sylvanas tensed as Nathanos rose to his feet. He took a step forward, then bowed his head. "I am yours, Dark Lady. For all my days."

And this is all very important because it establishes that Nathanos’ loyalty, while deeply entwined with his love for her, is also an answer to her loyalty to him. He is devout to her, always, in life and death, and he has no trouble swearing himself to her time and again, but it is Sylvanas who actively reaches for him more than once, when he tries to stay away. 

Dark Mirror examines his choices a lot, and how he’s always willing to sacrifice for her, but it differs greatly from Shadows Rising in that they are still his choices. That isn’t Nathanos looking at what Sylvanas wants done and simply acquiescing because she wants it, it’s Nathanos looking at it, often feeling for it, and still choosing her, because his choice is her even when that’s terrible, but it isn’t blind, it isn’t mindless, and it most definitely isn’t shifting the blame to her and saying things were her choice and he just went along with it. There’s a direct callback to Dark Mirror in Shadows Rising through Stephon, but the way that is revisited changes considerably in regards to Nathanos and choice.

Dark Mirror, first:

As he peered down at his cousin, helpless before him, a wave of something unfamiliar rose up in Nathanos's chest. Pity? No, he knew he was incapable of that. But he didn't hate the paladin, not the way he hated other living men. It was pride, he realized. Part of him was actually proud that Stephon had fulfilled the dream he'd clung to as a boy. Even if that dream was about to be undone. 

Nathanos looked up at Sylvanas and met her gaze. Was this the true test? Did she suspect that love for his cousin might move him to betray her? Did she wonder if he, in the moment of decision, might give up everything in one final, desperate glimmer of humanity? 

But of course there was no choice. The whims of a man long dead could not sway Nathanos Blightcaller from his oath. 

"Let us be about it, then," he barked as he made his way to the empty altar. 

"The Light will save me!" Stephon called out, but the desperation creeping into his voice made him a liar. 

"The Light cannot find you here, boy," Nathanos answered, eyes fixed upon his queen. "Together, we will embrace the darkness."

There’s a whole lot to unpack there, and that Nathanos clearly doesn’t. He feels proud of Stephon still (he cares for Stephon still), even after Stephon shuns him for what he has become, like everyone else (other than, you guessed it, Sylvanas). Nathanos being proud of him for what he became, for fulfilling his dream and becoming a paladin, it really does speak of lots of things he buries, including that his disregard for righteousness and the living isn’t entirely how he truly, sincerely feels deep down (but it isn’t that he hides it as much as it is he refuses to acknowledge those feelings exist at all, and embraces instead anger and bitterness). 

But my point right now is choice, and how clearly this is Nathanos’ choice. He thinks there is none, but that isn’t even really how he feels. He is clearly making a choice there, considering that this is precisely what Sylvanas places in front of him, that she wants him to accept this ritual that includes using someone who was his kin (and who he was close to, someone he loved) as fuel to keep him by her side. And Nathanos is not oblivious to it being his loyalty to her put to test, that in this moment he has to choose between remaining loyal, between her, and between whatever humanity he has left, between someone he also loved. Yet even though he says there is no choice, there is. And his choice is to go through with it and act like he’s unbothered and try to convince himself he’s unbothered, even if clearly is not, even if he’ll have to battle the hesitation within him as the ritual starts, even as he looks back on it later with regret when it’s done. 

It isn’t her choice, though. It’s very clearly framed as his --- moved by her, yes, visibly so, to the point his eyes remain on her as that choice is made, as if to remind him of why it is worth it, instead of looking at what he’s sacrificing. It’s far from blind, though, and although Nathanos later feels regret, he not once shows any inkling of resent towards Sylvanas after the ritual is done. He shows nothing but the usual care and loyalty. He feels for Stephon, but he doesn’t waver in his choice -- her -- because of that. As he examines his own change, he thinks of her.

[...] Like a child unwrapping a gift, he yanked the glove from his left hand and stared in awe as he flexed his fingers. 

There was no protruding bone. No dangling flesh or torn muscles. Not a living hand, but it was whole and strong. 

A hand worthy of the queen's champion, Nathanos decided.

"You will vanquish a thousand demons in your queen's name!" she proclaimed. 

His instincts told him she was right. His newfound strength would serve her well in the war to come. And after their victory, if he was very, very lucky, they would die their true deaths and welcome damnation together.

Even though he does struggle with his choice, it’s never framed as not his. Even though it’s framed and fueled by Sylvanas and what she means to him, it’s never suggested the choice is hers.

Then it struck him that the visage he looked upon was not entirely his own. He turned toward the second ritual table, empty save for a bit of ash and a few stains of oily residue. The paladin's armaments, once diligently polished, lay scuffed and strewn about the floor. Nathanos told himself they were merely the detritus of a fallen enemy. Only that and nothing more.

And, very importantly, the whole thing shows it did push his loyalty to her to the limit, but he still chose her. It’s not a choice he’ll ever be in peace with, though, and that’s very clear with the ending, but it was still his choice. 

[...] He moved a few pieces aside to reveal a finely wrought breastplate that was clean and well-maintained. His thoughts drifted back to the ritual, to the empty altar next to his. To a choice. 

For the briefest of moments, he felt the touch of something foreign, unsettling. A sensation absent since the day he died. A weakness of mortality that had imperceptibly stalked him and had, at long last, found his throat. 

Nathanos felt regret.

It evidently impacts him more than anything he’s done for her so far, but it still isn’t blamed on Sylvanas. He regrets that, yes, but he feels regret because ultimately the choice was his. Stephon’s death is on him, because he decided his loyalty to Sylvanas was more important than anything else.

Compare to the revisiting of that in Shadows Rising:

Stephon Marris was long dead, ending as little but a greasy smear on a table, his body the raw materials that built Nathanos anew, and in Stephon’s image. 

My one regret. 

“Why did you let her do it?” Stephon asked softly. “I was your cousin, Nathanos. I looked up to you, I wanted to be you, but not like that. Not like this.” 

His body had been ripped to shreds by an abomination, and then he had risen as a thrall of the Scourge, a mindless ghoul until Sylvanas freed him from that fate. The process had left him renewed in undeath, but in a mangled body that grew ever weaker. Sylvanas sought to repair that crumbling form. 

And used Stephon to do so. 

“I had no choice,” Nathanos replied, unable to meet his cousin’s eye. “My bones were falling from their sockets, my sinews torn and useless, I needed a new body…” 

“When you stole my flesh.”

Nathanos flinched. “Sylvanas made that decision. I could not be made whole without the sacrifice of a family member.” 

Stephon shook his head sadly, regarding Nathanos not with rage or disgust, but pity. “And yet still you serve her. After what she did to me. After what she did to our family. I am the only ghost that moves you, but how many ghosts have you given others? How many men now live, tormented by the loved ones you murdered in service to your vicious queen?”

To have Stephon haunt him is only coherent. He is Nathanos’ one regret, and I don’t think he will ever be rid of it. Stephon being a vision crafted by Bwonsamdi in this context, it makes every sense he’d accuse Nathanos of letting Sylvanas do it. I think all of that is coherent, and good. I love that Stephon would haunt him, because, indeed, he is Nathanos’ ghost in every sense, and one he can never be rid of whenever he sees his own reflection. 

It’s when Nathanos shifts the blame to Sylvanas that I don’t agree with this part and what’s going on here. It was a choice he made well aware, and in spite of his regret, it feels very out of character for Nathanos to just lay the blame at Sylvanas, to say the choice was hers, even if he’s unwilling to face the consequence of a choice that was his. Bwonsamdi has no reason to argue that point, because his intention is clearly to seed doubt and make Nathanos question what he’s doing, and how far he’s going for Sylvanas, but given how the scene in Dark Mirror plays out, and given how Nathanos is always portrayed, I see very little sense in him saying ‘it wasn’t me, it was Sylvanas’.

And that’s what bothers me about him throughout the book, that he’s constantly portrayed as ‘this isn’t me, it’s her’ when previously Nathanos was portrayed as ‘this is me, my choice, and I choose her even when it makes me a monster’. Before, he deliberately puts Sylvanas before himself; here he simply does it, because it’s her will, as if he had no will of his own. 

Our queen has determined you will serve her best here, and it is not our place to ponder such decisions.

No, we are most useful here, that is her determination and so we shall carry out her will.

Only the mission mattered, only the queen’s vision.

Nathanos took no delight in it; this was simply what was required.

“I had no choice,” Nathanos replied, unable to meet his cousin’s eye. “My bones were falling from their sockets, my sinews torn and useless, I needed a new body…”

“When you stole my flesh.”

Nathanos flinched. “Sylvanas made that decision.[...]”

“I will return to the Marris Stead, my lady, and await your orders.”

And hey, if it wasn’t clear enough the book has other stuff that could be taken as pointing to how mindless a follower he is, how he always just do what he’s told without questioning, both in a more direct way with the whole Sira criticizing his attitude with complying and how immediately defensive he gets, because in the author’s own words this is his thing, this is what he does and Sira is questioning it

Was this the badge recognizing as much? Though his eyes always pulsed with the same steady crimson glow, Sira saw that dim for a moment, fading just like the old, etched memento. “What are you doing?” Sira whispered. “We cannot simply give in to every demand and roll over like trained dogs. They will think you weak.”

At that, Nathanos curled his lip, eyes now as hot and bright as his flaring rage. He seemed to collect himself, breathing hard. His strength, it seemed, was not to be questioned. Sira nearly recoiled, but he only pushed the hair back off his forehead, his gaze burning into her with the same furious intensity. “You will learn the value of silence, or I will teach it to you.”

Or in what could be read as a parallel, in Apari’s relationship with Tayo, her second in command, who follows her loyally until Apari is no longer recognizable to her and stands up to Apari, unlike Nathanos who continues to supposedly follow Sylvanas blindly because he has no mind of his own I guess.

“She’s just a child!” Tayo clamped her hand around Apari’s wrist, the one holding the powder. She twisted and pulled, and the weak, septic Apari had no choice but to let go. Tayo threw the pouch in an arc, sending it splashing into the swamp, lost. 

At once, Apari struck her across the face. She didn’t have much strength left, but the slap left Tayo stunned. “I am on the very precipice of death, zagota. I will live. I will live just to see Bwonsamdi and Talanji fall. Nothing, not this girl, nor you, will stop me.” 

Whatever “zagota” meant, Nathanos didn’t fancy it was anything friendly. Tayo marched away, back toward the Zo’bal Ruins. Dark ranger Visrynn moved to follow. 

“Let her go,” Apari muttered. “She will come crawlin’ back. She always does.”

But Tayo does leave and turn on Apari, and while she still cares enough to plead a merciful death for her, she refuses to follow someone twisted by hatred beyond recognition, no longer who she once was.

“My name is Tayo,” the troll spoke quickly and clearly, without a hint of fear. “I served the witch Apari.”

“Served?” Talanji pressed. “I can serve her no longer.” The troll, Tayo, sighed. “She is not the leader I knew. The leader I admired. This—this cruelty is not her, and I cannot follow this Apari. Her hate for you, ya majesty, is all she has.”

And that might be meant to further establish that difference between those two followers to two women changed by resent and hate, or it might be indication of a future path they intend Nathanos to follow, who knows (I’ll talk about it in a bit kasjdnfkjanf).

All of that characterization that has him as mindless minion who just follows and never questions and never stands up for himself and apparently has no will of his own also clashes with how he’s characterized in Before the Storm, which takes place well after Dark Mirror (so arguing their relationship has shifted towards what it is in Shadows Rising since then doesn’t really work). There, Nathanos always speaks his mind to Sylvanas, be it to give his opinion on a situation, even if it goes against hers and he actively makes an effort to change her mind on a decision

Sylvanas shook her head. “This cease-fire is a mistake. It will only lead to pain for my people. They cannot be human, and to dangle this temptation of reunion with loved ones will result in them growing discontented with who they really are—Forsaken. They will deteriorate to heartbroken shells, wanting something they can never have. I have no wish to see them suffer so.” 

Again, she thought of her own attempt at connection with the living and how all it had done was stir up old ghosts best left resting in peace. 

“You could use this to your advantage,” Nathanos said. “Vellcinda said that many Forsaken wish their next death to be their Last Death. They do not wish to keep existing. And one reason commonly cited is that they want to be with those they loved while they lived.” 

Sylvanas turned her head to him slowly, considering his words. 

“If you authorize this experience—this reconnection with people they loved in life—and present it to them as something that you have generously granted them, perhaps they will be more amenable to accepting your solution: finding ways to keep the Forsaken as a race from going extinct.” 

“It is fraternizing with the enemy,” Sylvanas said. “Letting them interact with life and the living.” 

“Perhaps. But even so, it is only for a single day. Give them this hope, this moment with people they thought they’d never see again. Then—” 

“Then I hold the power to their happiness, at least in this aspect,” she finished. “Or they might decide they hate the living and be all the more devoted to their Dark Lady.” Either way Sylvanas would win. 

He nodded. “At the very least, it will demonstrate to them that you are listening to their concerns. I truly believe the Desolate Council to be ultimately harmless. They’re not radical traitors. Give them this chance, once. If you see benefits, you can determine if you wish to repeat it.”

Or when it’s a disagreement he doesn’t feel as strongly about

“[...] He could have planned an attack on his own people with an eye to blaming us for it. Then he would be seen as a strong leader to declare war on us. The ultimate protector of the helpless.” 

“It is possible, my queen.” 

She gave him one of her rare, wry smiles. “But you think otherwise.” 

“With respect, such a thing sounds more like a strategy you would employ,” he said. 

“It does,” she said. “But not today.[...]”

Or when he’s outright questioning what the actual fuck she’s doing, and Sylvanas has to make the effort to argument in favor of her actions.

“My queen, what are you doing?” 

Sylvanas heard the shock in her normally calm champion’s voice. She chose to overlook it. On the surface, what was unfolding below—the firing of arrows, the screams and pleas of the Desolate Council as they tasted their Last Deaths could seem perplexing and disturbing. 

The only thing I can do and still hang on to my kingdom as it is,” she said. “They were defecting.” 

“Some were running back here, to safety,” he replied. 

“They were,” she agreed. “But how much of that was fear? How tempted were they until that point?” She shook her head. “No, Nathanos. I cannot take the risk. The only Desolate Council members I trust are the ones who returned to me early on, broken and bitter. Truly Desolate. All the others…I cannot allow that sentiment, that hope, to grow. It is an infection ready to spread. I have to cut it out.” 

Slowly, accepting her words, he nodded.

And all throughout BFA, that characterization is maintained even as Sylvanas’ character suffered some (terrible) changes. He knows of her plans, her real plans, the entire time. He knows where she goes to after the mak’gora, he knows her intentions, he meets her in Windrunner Spire, and their goodbye suggests he is not only fully committed but reassuring her, and that by that point, there is indeed a romantic bond between them again.

Nathanos: As do I Dark Lady, but when the time comes there can be no hesitation.

Sylvanas: There won’t be. Safe journey, Nathanos.

Nathanos: Safe journey, my love.

And Shadows Rising kind of just throws all of that away, both in Nathanos personally and in their relationship as a whole, when by the end of it Sylvanas simply Does Not Care for him like she doesn’t care for anything else, the Forsaken never mattered, the Horde is nothing etc etc.

I think the change with Nathanos isn’t... always easy to see, because ultimately what he does doesn’t change. He’d do anything Sylvanas wants, anything for the missions she gives him, but I think it’s very different to have that as ‘mindless minion’ and ‘ride or die, I know I’m damned but I’m doing this with my eyes open and I’m glad so long as we face whatever hell we go to together’. In regards to his relationship to Sylvanas, I think it’s only a consequence of them making her into standard villain who cares for nothing other than herself and having power so she has to answer to no one anymore, but it still feels odd when even when turning against the rest of the world, she kept Nathanos by her side. 

It’s impossible to argue she was keeping him around to use him the entire time, and that she was manipulating his feelings and Never Actually Cared, when you have previous stances that show she did, and beyond those I already mentioned, stuff as recent as Before the Storm, in scenes that are clearly framed from her point of view, such as this one:

She was unarmed, but he carried a bow and bore a quiver full of arrows. The only human ever to become a ranger, he was a superlative marksman. It was one reason he was the best bodyguard Sylvanas could possibly have. There were other reasons, too, reasons that had their roots in the distant past, when the two had connected under a bright and beautiful sun and had fought for bright and beautiful things. 

Death had claimed them both, human and elf alike. Little now was bright and beautiful, and much of the past they had shared had grown dim and hazy. 

But not all of it. 

Although Sylvanas had left behind most warmer emotions the moment she had risen from the dead as a banshee, anger somehow had retained its heat. But she felt it subside to embers now. She seldom stayed angry for long at Nathanos Marris, known now as Blightcaller. And he had indeed been about her business, visiting the Undercity, while she had been saddled with duties that had kept her here in Orgrimmar. She wanted to reach for his hand but contented herself with smiling benevolently at him. 

“You are forgiven,” she said. “Now. Tell me of our home.”

She says not all of their past is lost to what grew dim and hazy with undeath, that she seldom stays angry at him for long in spite of how easily angered she can be and how strongly felt that anger is, and she’s not only quick to forgive him, she want to hold his hand. None of that really apply to someone you’re purely using and never really cared for, you know?

“Go where you will, Nathanos, but do not be idle. The loa knows the Shadowlands well, I expect you will return to me with means to prevent his meddling.” Sylvanas flicked her fingers, as if ridding herself of a speck of muck. “My path lies ahead.” 

And so it did. And so she continued, for power sought power, and she would have more of it, not for its own sake, but to wield it. The unjust ladder of their lives must be dismantled, not rung by rung, but all at once. All of it. She had been the plaything of a self-righteous cosmos long enough. The Jailer, too, understood what must be done. She did not know if or when Nathanos left, it mattered not—she had merged entirely with the shadows there already, part of the darkness at last.

And ‘flicked her fingers, as if ridding herself of a speck of muck’, or ‘she did not know if or when Nathanos left, it mattered not’ really does speak of him being unimportant and disposable to her, enough so that this failure of his means he can die in a ditch, she doesn’t care. I get she’d be angry (it’s a very very different situation from the one when she claims to never be angry at him for long, this is a major goal, Bwonsamdi a relevant obstacle to her plans, so of course she’d be angry and frustrated that he failed her in something so important), but what she shows there really isn’t just anger, or just being upset at his failure.

It’s just really really different of how Sylvanas’ feelings towards him were shown before, you know? And not only how he saw them.

"I haven't seen the Dark Lady this pleased in a long while. The moment she realized the Val'kyr were capable of such a ritual, she called for you." 

"Our queen is wise," he answered with a nod. "This body better allows me to serve her." 

Anya chuckled, a sound that raised the hackles on his neck. 

"You disagree?" he snapped. At least his temper hadn't been altered by the Val'kyr. 

"It's not that." She shrugged. 

"What, then?" He all but shouted the words, for the dark ranger seemed far too pleased with herself for his liking. 

She sighed. "Yes, the queen now has a mightier champion. But that wasn't what she most desired." 

He stopped walking and faced her. Nathanos narrowed his eyes, infuriated by her evasiveness. "Say what you mean." 

The corners of Anya's lips rose in a brazen curl. "Sylvanas defied a kingdom to name you ranger lord. She scoured the Plaguelands to reclaim you from the Scourge. And today she drew upon her most precious resource to restore your strength. Think upon these things, Blightcaller, and tell me how someone so cunning can be blind to the simplest of truths."

(me, looking at the ending of Shadows Rising and every other previously mentioned stance when Sylvanas was shown to care for him: *taylor swift vc* one of this things is not like the others)

I know this is already very long but askjfksjnd just a bit more: what I think this is leading to. I think Shadows Rising made a clear effort to establish Nathanos and Sylvanas to fall apart, in that it sowed the seeds in him to question what he did for her and it showed she doesn’t care all that much (or changed things so that this is true now). I’m not against it. It’s not what I’d choose to do, but I think there could be something very interesting in making him go through that arc that mirrors the Forsaken and become something more from it, even though I hate that it’d be reliant on this characterization of Sylvanas that I just really deeply dislike. 

Ignoring that for a moment, I think it could be pretty nice that he’d look back to it to see his choices, to see how far he chose to go for her, how loyal he chose to be to her, and that she didn’t meet this loyalty in kind. That she left him, regarded him as disposable and unimportant (like the Forsaken), and that he has to find his own path without this figure that has always kinda been the center of his world (like the Forsaken), and that this would leave him in a pretty interesting position if he became their leader, because his arc would mirror theirs (as scourge, mind controlled by Arthas, freed by Sylvanas, loyal to her, betrayed by her, and having to make a new, better path himself). Nathanos is clearly capable of good, much more so than he’s willing to acknowledge, and in this situation he just might, because he’d face his regret and reexamine everything. Nevertheless, it relies so much on changing things that were up to now fundamental to his character and his relationship with Sylvanas, and it’s done pretty poorly in my opinion, that’s without saying how reliant it’d be on a characterization of her that, to me, is pretty meh, and that for him to be a leader we’d have to overlook all the shit he did and honestly I don’t think that’s possible kansdfkjsndf He doesn’t fit the new ‘the Horde is wholly good’ thing, and he’s backed up Sylvanas for far too long for anyone to be willing to let it slide, I think. Which makes it even worse, in my opinion, because instead of at least having an arc I think could be interesting he’ll probably just end up dead because he’ll be on his own. 

[anonwriter27]

Sweet Dreams Chapter 10 :)

I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting! It has been a cray few months and during I started to lack confidence in my writing. Hopefully this chapter will make up for my absence, i hope you enjoy!

War, it is a gruesome and bloody ordeal. Some enter the battlefield with a surge or righteousness, self assured that the blood on their blades drip with honour and pride. Others walked onto the field with an arrogance that welcomed death, knowing they would give it their best shot but not naïve enough to think it will be enough to save them. Then there are the few who tremble as the sword is placed into their sweaty palms; their bones shake with fear at their likely deaths, trembling in a body that has not yet lived. In the lavender field where our romance started, a battle was about to take place. Jaime Lannister walked his army onto the field; they ranged from noble knights to stable boys, but despite these differences they all had one thing in common. You see Jaime Lannister had told the tale of his niece’s imprisonment. His hands moved enthusiastically as he told his men how the dark King of the underworld dragged Myrcella into the Underworld kicking and screaming. He stood on a table and yelled to all who would hear that Greywind would eat his victims before Myrcella’s very eyes. Jaime even shed a tear as he confessed that his niece had been defiled by the King of the dead. Every man who heard the Lion of Lannister’s tale all had one thing in common, an urge to kill the King of the Underworld. Jaime strode into battle on the back of a white horse, his gold armour glistening under the dying beams of the sun. His brother Tyrion rode beside him on a chestnut mare, and while his brother was confident of the battle to come, Tyrion was apprehensive. “As much as I admire your bravery Jaime, I’m not entirely sure you’ve thought this through.” Jaime looked to his brother, “What is there to think through Tyrion? We fight for our niece’s honour by defeating the man who took her from us.” Tyrion had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “Be that as it may, we only have two scenarios that will play out, and neither are good.” Jaime continued to look at him confused, Tyrion sighed and continued to enlighten his brother. “We are going into battle against the King of the Underworld, he sentences souls to death on a daily basis, and I do not think we will be an exception to that.” Jaime shook his head, “Ah, but that depends on if we lose. If we win…” “Then we will have killed the love of Myrcella’s life and she will never forgive us.” Tyrion interjected. Jaime scoffed and looked straight ahead. Despite her best efforts to convince them otherwise, no one but Tyrion believed Myrcella when she said she loved Robb. Tyrion would not let the issue go, “She did not see us off this morning…” “She locked herself in her room out of anger, once she has calmed down she will see that we have saved her from a life of misery.” Jaime stated with a tone of finality, he clearly wanted Tyrion to drop the subject. Little did either of them know, Myrcella was long gone, they were fighting to protect a girl who had already run away in the dead of night. Jaime rode on ahead to meet with his commanders leaving Tyrion to watch him go. “Oh my foolish brother, I do not think you know what misery is.” ………… Jaime and Tyrion sat side by side on their horses waiting for the opposition to arrive. Little was discussed when Jaime declared battle on Robb. A letter had been sent and the only reply was a date and location for the battle. As the light of the sun weakened, a bone shivering wind replaced its warm rays. While the soldiers were too focused to notice this change, it didn’t go unnoticed by Tyrion. It was the middle of summer, the midday sun should have been burning brightly. Tyrion looked around him, a cold mist was spreading throughout the field, the once vibrant violet of the lavender petals began to crisp under the mist’s cold touch and shrivel into a black ball. Tyrion turned to his brother, a fear setting in him. “Jaime I fear we are not fighting against ordinary soldiers.” “Quiet Tyrion.” Jaime scolded in a harsh whisper. Before Tyrion could speak further the distinct sound of footsteps pierced the silent air. The frosted ground crunched under the weight of the steps. All light from the sun had vanished now, the pale grey of the clouds was the only light that surrounded them. As they walked out of their hiding place behind the trees, fear shot through the spine of every soldier. It was as Tyrion feared, these were no mere men. They were White Walkers. They were an army of the undead, ghostly white and cool to the touch. The commanders of the army came out on horses, their manes mangled in frozen blood and their bones visible under a tight layer of skin. Their were hundreds of them walking slowly towards Jaime and his army. Hundreds of vacant expressions, hundreds of limbs dragging on the floor behind them, and hundreds of piercing blue eyes that would haunt a man even in the most peaceful of sleeps. Though it would have gone unnoticed by the untrained eye, Jaime’s calm exterior faltered; Tyrion noticed. “Brother, it is not too late. Command your army to turn back.” He urged. “No. We can win this.” Jaime replied stubbornly; his eagerness to kill Robb had blinded him to reason. “Look around you Jaime..” Tyrion spoke harshly, and his brother did just that. As Jaime looked around him he saw the fear of his men. Grown, battle hardened men had reverted back to young boys, staring at death for the first time. Without allowing himself time to second guess himself, Jaime spoke the word he regretted as soon as it left his lips. “Charge!” ………… It was a battle that would go down in history, not for it’s easy victory, or acts of gets bravery, but because of its unrelenting sense of despair. Jaime had learned early on in the battle that it was near impossible to kill these beasts. He would swing his sword right through the middle of one and it would continue fighting in two parts. He would decapitate one only for its body to still charge at him while its head would bite at his ankles. He would stab one right through the heart and it would pull the sword out and claim the weapon for its own. Tyrion watched his brothers turmoil; Jaime fought blindly cutting at everything that moved while he searched for Robb on the battlefield. Tyrion had to think fast, ‘how does one cut down a monster as cold as ice?’ And then it clicked, fire. “Light the torches!” Tyrion yelled at the men. As they did he stormed down on the back of his horse along with the remaining soldiers and set fire to everything in their path. The creatures cried out in guttural screams that made the soldiers ears bleed. It took hours but the strong hoard of White Walkers had diminished into a pile of ash. Jaime stood up from under a pile of rotting corpses, fire in his eyes. “Where is he?” He spoke but his soldiers did not respond. “Where is he!?” Jaime bellowed. He looked crazed, his hair disheveled while his green eyes shone with wrath. “M’lord!” A soldier called, his arms securely wrapped around a surviving commander of the White Walkers. Jaime walked up to the beast, his face mere inches from the creature as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Where is your King?” The creature twisted its head, its bones cracking at the movement. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Speak!” Jaime yelled, his voice dripping with venom. The creature smiled a twisted grin, “At his wedding of course.” ………….. Yes, War is a gruesome and bloody ordeal. Some cause death with the promise of it being for the greater good. Others welcome death as though it were an old friend. Then there are the few whose hands tremble throughout the entire battle. But on very rare occasions there is one who smiles at the start of the battle, before the first drop of blood has been spilt. And as Robb spoke his vows and kissed his beautiful wife he revealed such a smile, because he knew he had already won.

[pennie-dreadful]

Pursuant to this post, considering that Ross (and I don’t believe for second Ross didn’t spearhead the whole thing) was Bruce’s antagonist in Incredible Hulk,  because he wanted to control Hulk and make more Hulks for the US military…and Tony McFreakin knew that??? And still decided to trust Ross and take his supposed change of perspective at face value??? Bruce would have smacked Tony upside the head for even considering it. I honestly don’t understand how anyone thought the Sokovia Accords were meant to be anything other than shady as fuck. Like. Sure, make a set of rules, a charter for them to follow; Steve would have been okay with that. He was ready to sign until Tony called Wanda a weapon of mass destruction and reminded him that THAT’S what the Accords were really about, not setting some rules trying to protect people, but signing over their autonomy and thereby turning themselves into weapons to be used by the world’s top governments.

Please stop pretending Steve was against the Accords because he was blinded by self righteousness, when he has a literal lifetime of experience showing him that governments do not always know best and do not always act for the greater good*, and that Tony supported the Accords for any reason other than that he felt guilty over Ultron. He was breaking the Accords and defying Ross less than 36 hours after signing them, that was the strength of his conviction that “we need to be put in check”.

*let’s see, the government turned him into a super soldier and then decided he was useless because he was the only one, then had him selling war bonds instead of fighting

*the World Security Council (and remember in The Winter Soldier, it was revealed none of the WSC were Hydra), an ostensibly non fascist international ruling body, decided nuking a civilian population was the first resort in an alien invasion

*Speaking of The Winter Soldier, Steve found out the US government recruited Nazi scientists after WWII, thereby planting the seeds of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s own destruction; he had to have realized that he likely played a part in Hydra destabilizing the world while he was working for S.H.I.E.L.D., “cleaning up Fury’s messes”, which has to make him feel horrible on top of all the other reasons he has to feel bad

See how I haven’t even mentioned Bucky at all? But sure, let’s talk about how when he was in custody, Bucky, a U.S. citizen, was denied by his own government his civil right to an attorney--so what were the odds he would even be given a trial, much less a fair one? How much more likely was it he’d just be thrown in the raft to rot and be forgotten, with no one bothering to investigate what really happened? So yeah, add that in to the reasons Steve has to severely doubt the wisdom of relinquishing his agency.

In my AU that I was never actually pissed off enough to write, there was no Civil War; some Avengers opted to (ostensibly) retire–Tony for sure, and the others to go underground–Cap, obviously. I’m undecided as to who followed who. Well, Wanda probably went with Steve, but the point is Tony would still be feeding Steve info and tech on the down low. Honestly, living in this headcanon and ignoring CW is the only way I can still like Tony. But from Civil War on? Canon Tony lost all respect from me.

Honestly this whole diatribe plus the Infinity War shenanigans has convinced me that The Winter Soldier was a fluke and that whole creative team is garbage through and through, they just managed to get lucky once.

[madewithonerib]

Separation from God

Isaiah 59:1-21 | Separation from God Surely the arm of the LORD is not too short to save, nor His ear too dull to hear. But your iniquities have built barriers between you & your God, & your sins have hidden His face from you, so that He will not hear.

For your hands are stained with blood, & your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, & your tongue mutters injustice.

No one calls for justice; no one pleads your case honestly.

They rely on empty pleas;

they tell lies; they conceive mischief & give birth to iniquity.

They hatch the eggs of vipers & weave a spider’s web.

Whoever eats their eggs will die; crack one open, & a viper is hatched.

Their cobwebs cannot be made into clothing, & they cannot cover themselves with their works.

Their deeds are sinful deeds, & acts of violence are in their hands.

Their feet run to evil; they are swift to shed innocent blood.

Their thoughts are sinful thoughts; ruin & destruction lie in their wake.

The way of peace they have not known, & there is no justice in their tracks.

They have turned them into crooked paths; no one who treads on them will know peace.

Therefore justice is far from us, & righteousness does not reach us.

We hope for light, but there is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in gloom. Like the blind, we feel our way along the wall, groping like those without eyes.

We stumble at midday as in the twilight; among the vigorous we are like the dead.

We all growl like bears & moan like doves.

We hope for justice, but find none; for salvation, but it is far from us.

For our transgressions are multiplied before You, & our sins testify against us.

Our transgressions are indeed with us, & we know our iniquities: rebelling & denying the LORD, turning away from our God, speaking oppression & revolt, conceiving & uttering lies from the heart.

So justice is turned away, & righteousness stands at a distance. For truth has stumbled in the public square, & honesty cannot enter.

Truth is missing, & whoever turns from evil makes yourself prey.

The LORD looked & was displeased that there was no justice. He saw that there was no one—He was amazed that there was no one—to intercede; so His own arm brought salvation, & His own righteousness sustained Him.                    _____________________________________________________

Charles Ellicott Commentary (1819 –1905)  | Isaiah 59:1-21

[1] Behold, the Lord’s hand..—The declaration is an implied answer to the complaint, like that of Isaiah 58:3, that the glorious promises had not as yet been fulfilled.

The murmurera are told that the hindrance is on their side.

murmurera: third-person singular future of murmurer

                    _____________________________________________________

Joseph Benson Commentary (1749 –1821)  | Isaiah 59:1-2

Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened — He is not grown weaker than in former times, but is as omnipotent as ever He was; neither His ear heavy — Or dull of hearing: He is not like your idol gods, that have hands & cannot help, & ears & cannot hear.

But your iniquities have separated — Have been as a thick wall, between you & your God — And have set Him at a distance from you, Proverbs 15:29.

Proverbs 15:29 | The LORD is far from the wicked, but He hears the prayer of the righteous.

“The reason of the continuance of your calamities is not any want either of power in God to deliver you, or of goodness to hear your prayers: but your own iniquities make Him a stranger to you, interrupt the correspondence that used to be between God & His people, & stop the course of His blessings.” — Lowth.                     _____________________________________________________

Matthew Henry Commentary (1662 -1714)  | Isaiah 59:1-8

If our prayers are not answered, & the salvation we wait for is not working for us, it is not because God is weary of hearing prayer, but because we are weary of praying.

See here sin in true colours, exceedingly sinful; & see sin in its consequences, exceedingly hurtful, separating us from God — not only from all good, but to all evil.

>> Yet many feed, to their own destruction, on infidel & wicked systems.

Nor can their skill or craft, in devising schemes, as the spider weaves its web, deliver or save them.

No schemes of self-wrought salvation shall avail those who despise the Redeemer's robe of righteousness.

Every man who is destitute of the Spirit of Christ, runs swiftly to evil of some sort; but those regardless of Divine truth & justice, are strangers to peace.

                    _____________________________________________________

Albert Barnes Commentary (1798-1870)  | Isaiah 59:1

Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened - On the meaning of this phrase, see the notes at Isaiah 50:2.

Isaiah 50:2 | Why was no one there when I arrived? Why did no one answer when I called? Is My hand too short to redeem you? Or do I lack the strength to deliver you? Behold, My rebuke dries up the sea; I turn the rivers into a desert; the fish rot for lack of water & they die of thirst. 

Neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear - On the meaning of this phrase, see the notes at Isaiah 6:10.

Isaiah 6:10 | Make the hearts of this people calloused; deafen their ears & close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, & turn & be healed.”

                   _____________________________________________________

Jamieson-Fausset-Brown Bible Commentary (1871)  | Isaiah 59:1-21 The People's Sin the Cause of Judgments: They at Last Own It Themselves: the Redeemer's Future Interposition in Their Extremity.

The reason why Jehovah does not deliver His people, notwithstanding their religious services [Isa 58:3];

Isa 59:1-8, is not want of power on His part, but because of their sins;

Isa 59:9-15, contain their confession;

Isa 59:16-21, the consequent promise of the Messiah.

Isaiah 58:3 | “Why have we fasted, & You have not seen? Why have we humbled ourselves, & You have not noticed?” “Behold, on the day of your fast, you do as you please, & you oppress all your workers.

1. hand … shortened—[See Isaiah 50:2].

Isaiah 50:2 | Why was no one there when I arrived? Why did no one answer when I called? Is My hand too short to redeem you? Or do I lack the strength to deliver you? Behold, My rebuke dries up the sea; I turn the rivers into a desert; the fish rot for lack of water & they die of thirst.

Sin separates between God & us, Isaiah 59:1-2.

Murder, theft, falsehood, injustice, cruelty, Isaiah 59:3-8.

Calamity for sin, Isaiah 59:9-15.

Salvation only of God, Isaiah 59:16-19.

The covenant of the Redeemer, Isaiah 59:20-21.

The Lord’s hand is not shortened; He is not grown weaker than in former times, as omnipotent as ever He was: hand is symbol for strength, thus it is applied to God in His bringing Israel out of Egypt, Psalm 136:12.

Psalm 136:12 | with a mighty hand & an outstretched arm. His loving devotion endures forever.

Neither His ear heavy; or thick of hearing; He is not like your idol gods, that have hands, & cannot help, & ears, & cannot hear.

This phrase is appropriated to the double cavil [petty/unnecessary objections], or quarrel, that the Jews might have with God; as

Surely if God were not heavy or hard of hearing, He could not but hear those strong cries that we put up in the days of our fast; or,

If He did hear, certainly He could not help us; & thus it may have respect to the beginning of the 58th chapter.

Or the words may be by way of confirmation & establishment, to let them know that if they sought Him as they ought, & was before prescribed, He was not inexorable, but willing to hear, & able to make good all promises that He had made from verse 8 to the end.

The sum is, to show that the fault was not in God,

their fasts & cries were not regarded, for His ear was quick to hear;

nor their services rewarded, for His hand was as able to help as ever;

but the obstruction lay in their sins, which is positively asserted, Isaiah 59:2, & a more particular account given of them in the sequel.                     _____________________________________________________

John Gill's Exposition of the Entire Bible (1746-1763)  | Isaiah 59:1 Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save,....

It is not for want of power in the Lord, that He has not as yet destroyed the enemies of His people, antichrist, & the antichristian states, & saved them out of their hands, & made them to triumph over them; or brought on the glorious state of the church, & fulfilled the promises of good things, suggested in the latter part of the preceding chapter.

His hand is as long as ever, & as able to reach His & their enemies in the greatest height of power, or at the greatest distance, & to do every good thing for them; His power is as great as ever, & not in the least abridged or curtailed.

Neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear: the prayers of His people, their cries unto Him on their fast days, of which He seemed to take no notice, complained of Isaiah 58:3, this is not owing to any want of attention in Him, or of readiness to hear prayer made unto Him; for He is a God hearing & answering prayer, & is ready to help His people in every time of need, who apply to Him in a proper & suitable manner; His eyes are upon them, & His ears are open to their cries.

And this is introduced with a "behold", as requiring attention, & deserving notice & consideration of His ppl.

Targum: "behold, not through defect of hand [or power] from the Lord you are not saved; nor because it is heavy to Him to hear, that your prayer is not received.''                     _____________________________________________________

Donald Spence Jones, Pulpit Commentary (1881)  | Isaiah 59:1-8 A GENERAL REBUKE OF ISRAEL FOR ITS MANIFOLD SINS

The command given to the prophet in Isaiah 58:1 to "show God's people their transgression, & the house of Jacob their sins "

 - partly executed in Isaiah 58:4-7 & 13  - is now further carried out by a scathing denunciation of various forms of wickedness, more or less prevalent in Israel, the effect of which has been to separate between Israel & God, to "shorten God's hand" & "make His ears heavy."

The passage has many analogies with Isaiah 1:2-23.

Isaiah 1:2-23 | Listen, O heavens, & give ear, O earth, for the LORD has spoken: “I have raised children & brought them up, but they have rebelled against Me. The ox knows its owner, & the donkey its master’s manger, but Israel does not know; My people do not understand.”

Alas, O sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a brood of evildoers, children of depravity! They have forsaken the LORD; they have despised the Holy One of Israel & turned their backs on Him.

Why do you want more beatings? Why do you keep rebelling? Your head has a massive wound, & your whole heart is afflicted. From the sole of your foot to the top of your head, there is no soundness—only wounds & welts & festering sores not cleansed or bandaged or soothed with oil. Your land is desolate; your cities are burned with fire; foreigners devour your fields before you—a desolation demolished by strangers. And the Daughter of Zion is abandoned like a shelter in a vineyard, like a shack in a cucumber field, like a city besieged.

Unless the LORD of Hosts had left us a few survivors, we would have become like Sodom, we would have resembled Gomorrah. Hear the word of the LORD, you rulers of Sodom; listen to the instruction of our God, you people of Gomorrah!

“What good to Me is your multitude of sacrifices?” says the LORD. “I am full from the burnt offerings of rams & the fat of well-fed cattle;

I take no delight in the blood of bulls & lambs & goats. When you come to appear before Me, who has required this of you—this trampling of My courts?

Bring your worthless offerings no more; your incense is detestable to Me—your New Moons, Sabbaths, & convocations—I cannot endure iniquity in a solemn assembly. I hate your New Moons & your appointed feasts; they have become a burden to Me; I am weary of bearing them.

When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide My eyes from you; even though you multiply your prayers, I will not listen.

Your hands are covered with blood. Wash & cleanse yourselves. Remove your evil deeds from My sight.

Stop doing evil! Learn to do right, seek justice, correct the oppressor, defend the fatherless, plead for the widow.”

- God is not less able to help than of old; His "hand" has lost none of its power. - That He does not help is owing to the iniquities of His people, which have separated between Him & them - It is the same fact which has made His ear heavy.

He cannot hear prayers that are not sincere - not from the heart.

[militant-holy-knight]

When Libtards Take the Terrorist Side

Leftists used to champion women and LGBT’s rights. How long until they are okay with wife-beating, hand-chopping, child marriage, FGM, slavery and polyandry?

I used to believe that those in the PC culture sphere that identify themselves as “democrats”, “Labour”, “liberals”, “leftists”, “communists” or whatever that have consistently rebuked anyone who dares to criticize Islam have done so out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness mixed with ignorance. But at this point, we can’t remain blind anymore that some self-described “liberals” are now malicious in their intent, and makes me wonder if the same Left who used to champion women’s and LGBT rights will soon say its fine for Muslims to throw gays off buildings, for women to cover themselves up or they will be splashed with acid, for Christians to pay protection money or be crucified.

I am not necessarily putting the “Left” or “Muslims” as a whole under the same blanket, I will get to this later on, but I refer to an specific alliance between far-left activists with a genocidal hatred for anything “conservative” (anything to their right-wing, including liberals who disagree with them) and those who genuinely believe ISIS was completely justified and they want to repeat the same process in the West. And worse, this rot is seeped deep into politics for anyone who sees it. The more recent examples I could think of are:

A Canadian resolution that would have recognized the persecution of Assyrians, Yazidis and Shias by ISIS as genocide was blocked by Justin Trudeau’s Liberal Party. 

Labour’s Jeremy Corbyn has consistently called terrorist organizations like Hamas as “friends”. Hamas is an terrorist organization dedicated in turning Israel into a Islamic state and has systematically implemented Shariah law in the Gaza Strip.

Muslim Labour member Aysegul Gurbuz have been suspended praising Hitler on Twitter.

Linda Sarsour is an activist that has been embraced by American feminists for criticizing Donald Trump but has a history of promoting Sharia law and saying Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

Her fellow Women’s March Tamika Malory got into hot water for praising Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan and refusing to say Israel has a right to exist.

Iranian feminist Masih Alinejad condemned female SJWs for using the hijab in solidarity after campaigning so hard to be free in the Iranian regime.

Despite factual evidence to the contrary, ABC’s Matthew Douwd believes Muslims in America are far persecuted far more than Christians worldwide.

That last point is the key issue the Western left has when it comes to perspective. Recent statistics show that liberals seem to be completely divorced from reality when comparing the genocide of Christians in the Islamic world when compared to the “persecution” of Muslims in the West.

Fifty-six percent (56%) of Democrats, however, believe most Muslims in this country [America] are mistreated, a view shared by only 22% of Republicans and 39% of voters not affiliated with either major party. Fewer Democrats (47%) think most Christians are mistreated in the Islamic world, compared to 76% of GOP voters and 64% of unaffiliateds...Women are more likely than men to think most American Muslims are mistreated here but less likely to believe Christians are mistreated in the Islamic world. Nearly as many voters under 40 think most Muslims are mistreated in America (51%) as think most Christians are mistreated in the Muslim world (57%).

It's worth noting that the overwhelming majority of Muslims persecuting Christians are not "terrorists" (at least not formally), but rather come from all rungs of Muslim society. Take Egypt, for example (the 17th worst nation according to Open Doors, an organization that tracks persecution of Christians world wide). According to the report, along with "violent religious groups," two other segments of society are "very strong[ly]" responsible for the persecution:  

"non-Christian religious leaders" — meaning Muslim clerics, sheikhs, imams, and the rest — "at any level from local to national" 

"normal citizens (people from the general public), including mobs."

Similarly, "officials at any level from local to national" are "strongly responsible" for the "oppression" of Egypt's Christians, particularly "through their failure to vindicate the rights of Christians and also through their discriminatory acts which violate the fundamental rights of Christians." Now, compare all this to the supposedly worse — in liberal minds — "mistreatment" Muslims suffer in America. According to a November 2017 Pew report: "In 2016, there were 127 reported [Muslim] victims of aggravated or simple assault." In the preceding decades, assaults on Muslims averaged around 50 a year.

Even if this number were accurate, it pales in comparison to what millions of Christians — not 127 — are experiencing under Islam. But the fact is many of these anti-Muslim hate crimes are later found to have been fabricated or grossly exaggerated. Note, for instance, how the Pew report conflates "assaults" with "simple assaults" — even though the latter "does not involve physical contact with the victim."

Moreover, Muslims in America do not experience institutionalized persecution — that is, persecution at the hands of governments, authorities, and police — as Christians under Islam do...Nonetheless... all these actual facts have little to do with what a significantly large segment of the American voting population — mostly liberals and Democrats... believe. Why they are so misinformed becomes apparent when one understands that the liberal media is dedicated to maintaining liberal narratives at all costs: in this case, that Christians are always the aggressors, while Muslims always the misunderstood victims.

Hamed Abdel Samad is an Egyptian political scientist and a former Muslim who made a scathing remark about the Western left when it came to cuddling up to Islam:

"The beginnings of the European left included principles like criticism of religion… Karl Marx was the first leftist, and he said that religion was the opium of the people. The left founded feminism and fought for women's liberation. Nobody fought for freedom of expression more than the left. The left said that nobody is above the law, and that nobody – not Moses, nor Jesus, the queen, the king, or any celebrity – is above criticism. They criticized, drew [cartoons], and made comedies about all of them. Nobody defended homosexuals more than the left, and the same is true of women's rights. But when it comes to Islam, the left morphs into the conservative right. You can draw [cartoons] of Jesus, of Moses, of anybody, but don’t draw Muhammad, because that's racism… Why is it racism? When you say that the immigrants have problems in their neighborhood, the [left] says: 'Don’t talk about the immigrants. They are victims of the West.' Man, the [immigrants] are killing one another. Their neighborhoods have become dreadful. No, you cannot criticize the immigrants, or else you are labeled racist and Islamophobic. They picked up the term 'Islamophobia' from the Muslim Brotherhood in the West, and they keep talking about Islamophobia all the time.”

"In Denmark, when a Muslim kid comes to school with bruises on his face or neck, nobody says anything. They leave him alone. But if they see bruises on a white Danish kid, they report it to the police and the social services, so that they will come and investigate his family. But when the Muslims beat their kids, it is viewed as part of their culture. This is a despicable leftist approach. I call it the racism of low expectations. They look at a Muslim and say: He will never be like us. He cannot be expected to uphold human rights, to accept criticism, or to accept dissenting views. They view Muslims as barbaric savages. I saw to my Muslim brothers: Don't be pleased that these people are defending you. They are looking down on you. It's true that I myself criticize you and your religion, but I respect you and your intellect. I want you to be better and to gain your rights. I don't want you to be satisfied by someone who pats you on the back.” (...)

"The [leftists] have a psychological complex towards their Western countries. They hate capitalism. They hate America. They hate the West. They see the West as the worst thing in the world, and they embrace and defend anything that is anti-West. They always wanted to defend the working class, but there are no working classes in the world anymore. (...)

With the working class gone, the leftists were looking for someone to defend, so they got us the 'Third World' – our beloved people of the 'Third World,' who are persecuted by colonialism, imperialism, and whatnot… Bring me a 'Third World' to defend… But the 'Third World' is no longer what it used to be, and nobody uses that phrase, so along came the immigrants, especially the Muslims ones. They come to the West... How nice! Come, I will defend you. Be quiet, and let me defend you. Don't say a word, and I will get you your rights. Some Syrian refugees who come here to Germany are young and eager to work and learn German. They want to make something of themselves before it's too late. They know that things in Germany might change, and they would be sent back, just like that. If economic or political conditions change, or if a right-wing party comes to power… So the young want to start… But you see that the leftists who help them say to them: 'You are still traumatized. You are still affected by the war.' Traumatized? They want to work. But they are told it’s not time yet. They want to keep them in the role of the victim. They want to keep them in a jar or in a zoo cage, like monkeys.

"This is the left that deals with the Muslims. These leftists defend the hijab and make a hijab-clad Barbie doll. The leftists are very happy, even though the company did it for gain: 'How wonderful. They made a Barbie doll!' I will dedicate an episode of my show to this subject. I will talk about how they are promoting the hijab in Europe these days. In the past, they would say that the hijab represents modesty. But the Muslim Brotherhood realized the West would not go for that modesty business, so they changed their rhetoric. They began to say that the hijab symbolizes freedom, self-determination, and emancipation. Now they are saying that the hijab means empowerment of women. Seriously?! The hijab means empowerment of women? To hell with this deception. And the leftists willingly buy anything the Muslim Brotherhood sells them. They are oppressed… They are all victims of the West… I should dedicate an entire episode to this psychological issue. The European left has created a hierarchy of victims. The best victims are the victims of the West, of Israel, of imperialism, and of capitalism. But a Muslim who kills his wife is a 'poor little thing'… The West drove him to this…

"When a terrorist says in his message that he is killing infidels because he was told to do so by the Prophet and the Quran, and that he must cleanse the land from abomination and corruption, and he even quotes Quranic verses in support of his point of view – the leftists say to him: 'No, you didn’t do it because of your religion. You are marginalized. You are a victim of the West. You are a victim of racism. You are a victim of colonialism. You probably applied for a job and was rejected by the West. You must have tried to become part of society, but was rejected.' [The terrorist himself] cites the Prophet Muhammad and the Quran as the reason, and in his last testimony, he writes that he did it because of his religion, because he wants to break bread with the Prophet Muhammad in Paradise… But it’s to no avail. The left has him pegged as a victim. For the leftists, any Muslim or African is a victim of the West. That's pure racism. It means that they do not see Muslims or Africans as people responsible for their own lives. No, the leftists want someone to defend. They like to play the role of the advocate. They have a sort of 'mother complex' and want to protect someone – even if it is from the leftists themselves."

It hasn’t been no surprise that our biggest academic institutions have been funded by Saudi petro-dollars, which gave an open space for Islamists to infiltrate it and disseminate their ideology. The most moderate liberals are usually indoctrinated into believing that past Islamic societies were more advanced and progressive than the European West, which is why they frame things that we would consider discriminatory like the jizya and dhimmitude as some kind of enviable status where religious minorities are protected and respected when it was factually untrue.

The most shrewd of these far-leftists see this as an game against their political opponents and Islamists like Muslim Brotherhood members make the more natural allies since they share one thing in common: being control freaks. They work side by side to ensure their power base, say liberal memes in public to rally the useful idiots and the public with their media as propaganda arm. This way they can hope to get people they disagree with de-platformed, silenced or maybe even killed.

Case in point, Islamist apologist (and possible terrorist sympathizer) Omar Aziz has recently penned an article in response to the Christchurch attack denouncing atheist author Sam Harris for having emboldened the NZ terrorist into carrying out his attack. Harris pointed out that Aziz’s article is dishonest because he is aware of Harris’ political positions as someone who opposes fascism and identity politics of any kind, yet writes such an article wasn’t tailored at refuting his points, but to discredit him in the eyes of the masses who don’t know anything about Harris. Aziz is even more dishonest by the fact the terrorist manifesto doesn’t mention Harris once the whole time, but since the public will be discouraged from reading it (and it constitutes as an crime in New Zealand), its very fortunate into misleading the audience.

The most frustrating thing about this is that Muslims and liberals themselves that disagree with the collective are rebuked and persecuted by their own rather than by “the other side”. I can’t keep keep track of the number of Muslim reformers (adherents or atheists) that are criticized by the left such as Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Maajid Nawaz, Mohammed Tawhidi, Ed Hussein, Zineb El Rhazoui or Tarek Fatah, I don’t even dare Google them to see what is the latest hit piece written by some leftist retard. On a even more serious note, some of these might actually have their lives in danger.

Zineb El Rhazoui was a writer in the Charlie Hebdo magazine who survived the 2015 massacre due to receiving a Holiday extension and being at her home in Casablanca when the attack took place where twelve of her friends were killed including Charb. After the massacre, extensive security routines became a part of Rhazoui's life. She avoids eating at restaurants, taking the train and later moving from place to place because Islamists have issued fatwas calling for her death. 

Somali-born Ayaan Hirsi Ali used to be a Dutch politician before having to move out of the country after her close friend Theo van Gogh was assassinated by a Moroccan Islamist for making a movie about the mistreatment of women in Islamic societies.  Considering that two years before van Gogh’s death, Dutch politician Pym Fortuin (a gay Catholic mind you) was also assassinated by an jihadist, Ali’s safety could not be ensured in the Netherlands and she had to flee. 

Tarek Fatah is a liberal Indian Muslim who advocates for secularism, gay rights, opposes shariah law and other things. He regularly clashes with Canada’s Muslim community and in 2017, has been nearly assassinated by a man hired by Muslim mafioso Dawood Ibrahim.

Rather than drawing condemnation for, the left has been at best silent or ignorant, or at worse unsympathetic if not downright cheerleading for their deaths to happen:

When van Gogh was killed, Rohan Jayasekera made light of his death for “overusing his freedom of speech” to criticize Muslims (yet, Jayasekera gave a platform for Holocaust denier David Irving).

Former Charlie Hebdo employee Oliver Cyran said his former employees brought their deaths on themselves and also accused Rhazoui of being anti-Muslim racist, without revealing her name or gender to give the impression everyone in Hebdo were all white bigots. She further goes to own him by saying that (from Wikipedia):   

if she were raped "the websites that posted your article will definitely say I was asking for it because I don’t respect Islam," she observed that Cyran himself had implicitly endorsed all of this by embracing the "whole moralizing discourse about how one must 'respect Islam,' as demanded by the Islamists, who do not ask whether Islam respects other religions, or other people.”

How are we supposed to expect the people to uphold liberalism that can’t even protect their own free-thinkers and politicians who dare to speak out against Islamic radicalism, are going to protect the average individual. I live in Brazil where no-go areas are a sad reality of our lives, but when I look at what happens in places like Europe (specifically Sweden), I get terrified. Our drug dealers are really crazy, but none are willing to go as far as carrying out bomb attacks or are that much in a rush to get into Heaven.

And if you think the creation of Islamic states backed by the Left is unlikely, you are sorely mistaken. Islam makes up only 3% of the population in the USA, mostly concentrated in Minnesotta, yet the local politicians want to enforce blasphemy laws in response to the Christchurch attack. Minnesotta, the same state where Ilhan Omar came from and is buddies with Linda Sarsour. The people reading this and believing it to be pure paranoia would have been shitting bricks if a evangelical Christian conservative was making similar prepositions. 

The first people hurt by this of course will be liberals themselves; surely they have already been. Maria Ladenburger for example was the daughter of an top European Union official who was raped and drowned by an Afghan asylum seeker who was already arrested before for trying to rape a Greek woman and admitted in prison to have raped a girl in Iran even before that. More recently, two Scandinavian girls Louisa Vesterager Jespersen and Maren Ueland were beheaded while in a trip to Morocco by ISIS militants. Several people on the far-right were specially unsympathetic, specially in the latter case it surfaced  that the girls were pro-migrants themselves.

It’s easy for certain heartless individuals on the right-wing to say “they had it coming” or “burn the coal? Pay the toll” with glee, but this is an symptom of Western liberal pampering where women in particular are raised to believe everyone will be as open-minded as they were. Even though Morocco is sure a nice to place to visit, its far from an ideal place to live if you are a Christian, a woman or specially a Scandinavian liberal. I’ve seen Scandinavians saying that liberal virtue-signalling is just an natural and innocent thing to do in their countries in order to fit in better. 

I am sad to say that its not just exclusive to Scandinavia. Ever since 9/11, vast portions of the Western Left have disgraced themselves by their failure to acknowledge the threats posed to security and social cohesion by radical and fundamentalist Islam, and a craven willingness to align with Islamists in opposition to American foreign policy, entangled in an obscurantist web of moral relativity, postcolonial theory, identity politics, anti-Zionism, and general moral confusion. Even back then, many leftist ideologues argued that the World Trade Center attack was a “justified” action because of the USA for supporting Israel and their actions in the Gulf War, never mind those weren’t related - bin Laden repeatedly used the sactions against Iraq to rally Muslims against the West but never had any love for Saddam Hussein and Ba’athism. The most infamous incident was an essay made by Ward Churchill where he basically called the 9/11 victims “little Eichemanns” (in reference to Adolf Eichemann, one of the architects of the Holocaust) because they were bureaucrats working for the “genocide in the Middle-East”. Not a very wise move.

I am for one sick and tired of their collusion, but I am afraid this won’t be the last time I write about such topic. While the outrage against Brunei applying sharia law appears to show that liberals will draw a line at somewhere, I don’t think this will amount to anything and I personally find their outrage hypocritical. I close this off with something for you to ponder: if you think the Muslims you know personally are moderates just ask them if they would like Sharia law to be legally enforced, then you will discover the truth about how moderate they claim to be.

[bakurapika]

I believe we got off to a sour start, you and I.

Yes, yes, I’m fully aware of how you learned the story of the Beast. A ravenous monster eager to devour the spirits of lost children in his evil lantern, correct? A bogeyman devised to frighten little ones into safety, for even if there was no Beast in the woods, there was yet starvation, and wolves, and sharp teeth and rocks and other humans who might take advantage of an innocent.

Perhaps I began that way. I hardly remember, but then, is it so odd not to recall the moment of one’s birth?

As bogeymen go, I’m relatively harmless. Laugh all you like. It’s true. I lure the lost into eternal sleep, but the forest is what breaks their spirit, grinds them into the ground, and lets them rot. Their bodies are destined to be food for the forest, be the tree oak or edelwood.

But I won’t bore you with justifications. It’s true, after all; my beautiful garden is made fertile by the suffering of lost souls. I know you won’t believe me no matter how much I extol the benefits of submission to an inevitable mortality. Prolong your suffering all you like; all will fall in the end.

So long I wandered the trees, their slavish caretaker. I could not exist without the edelwood, and they could not flourish without me. I was alone, only acknowledged by those who recognized the creaking of my lantern as a beacon of death. Yes, that symbol, the fire of my soul itself, acted as a lighthouse to some of the lost souls: a warning to leave lest they dash themselves against a rocky cliffside and sink into oblivion. Often they did not need my encouragement to die.

Still I sang to them. What can I say? I’m a creature who prides himself on efficiency.

I got my fill of entertainment by watching the human denizens of the forest, though they be few and far between. A woman lived here, a few generations ago; she joined my forest, of course. But a relative moved in much later, bringing along her husband and daughter. Their mundane day-to-day activities were all I had to watch, and it’s true, I craved their spirits in my lantern.

I do not like the daylight. I do not like being seen. It causes me physical pain. And the wretched husband was a superstitious man, hearing of the Beast once and never again allowing his family to enter the forest at nighttime.

But I am patient. Like the forest, I am eternal. I had all the time in the world to wait, and watch, and listen.

And there is no word of man that can restrain a woman determined.

She was mine within weeks. I could only injure, but the darkness of the forest had entered her veins. The husband himself planted her seed in my forest, where the stump now stands beside a flimsy handmade headstone.

Fear kept the family in their cabin for years. No matter. My flame burnt brightly. Edelwood oil lasts a long time if you use it correctly, and the dead woman’s tree, like her spirit, had grown strong and tall before I began to strip it of limbs for to grind.

The daughter grew older, inheriting her father’s superstition and her mother’s stubbornness. She heard my song as she grew. The forest beckoned her. One night, she listened.

I did not make her part of my forest that night or any other. I am not all-knowing; I cannot see everything that occurs in my forest, and I cannot grasp souls who will fight to be alive. I can only encourage those who are ready to die.

But she left things behind in that forest. Her axe, sharpened and at the ready. Her cloak, red and identifiable. Enough things for her father, hurrying into the darkness behind her, to believe that she was already mine.

I have no need of living humans. I did not design to trap him. You may choose to believe me or not, but I speak the truth: my deceit was in self-defense, done only in the interest of self-preservation.

Blinded by parental rage, the man took up the axe and struck me. If I’d known what was to happen, I would have kept my grasp on the lantern’s handle sure, no matter how much I would bleed--but I had never been so attacked, and I let it fall.

I shouted. I begged. I had never spoken to a man so, but with his foot resting on the glass of my lantern, grinding his heel against my very soul, I had no alternative. He remained intransigent, righteously angry in thinking I’d killed both his wife and daughter.

I told him the truth: that the lantern housed a soul. I told him a lie: that the soul was his daughter’s.

He could see the human-like form inside the flame. He believed me.

He refused to return the lantern to me.

This foolish mortal man was now in sole possession of my soul and had murderous ill will against me for both good reasons and bad ones. If my deception was ever to be revealed, I would be dead. But I would also flicker and die if the fool did not fill the lantern properly. So I struck a deal with him: I would teach him the way of the edelwood. He would allow me to supervise him, to make sure the lantern stayed lit at any cost.

I cannot fathom what he thought of my reasoning. Why would I stalk the night, seeking souls to hide inside a single flickering flame? But perhaps it made as much sense to him as my cultivation of the edelwood would have. It did not matter. He never asked.

Our partnership was born of a mutual desperation and this was the only commonality we shared. It was not always miserable. It was not always pleasant. More than once, he decided he wished to be free of the shadowy Beast haunting him from the roadside and he tried to flee. More than once, I yearned to leave the cantankerous mortal for good and tried to snatch the lantern if unattended. Neither of us prevailed.

The woodsman isolated himself, fearing what I would do to any other children of man he met, and he blamed me for his loneliness. He collected the oil in glass bottles, clumsy fingers spilling precious drops, but always fulfilling his end of the deal. And so we lived until those two children came to the Unknown--the two that became my undoing.

I cared not for the woodsman’s company. They were not primed to submit to the forest yet, and I paid them no heed until it became evident how they were really, truly lost. There was no one in this realm who could give them escape, no way for them to reach their home, and thus without any intervention on my part they were nearly mine already. The woodsman knew this and issued a warning. But warnings from deluded old men rarely are heeded.

I have a few friends in the forest, though they be far between. I pulled a few strings, so to speak, and the two were nearly mine with their guardian left hopeless besides. My friend failed, her plans gone up in smoke, and the children escaped. Not unscathed, though. His time quickly ran out.

And yes, the eldest, Wirt, was mine.

Gregory, the youngest, found his own way to speak with me, and once again I was thrust in the position of faustian bargain-maker. He wished to take his brother home, healthy and intact. I could not offer this, of course--perhaps Wirt could escape the sapling edelwood, but I could not send the boys home. But young Gregory ignorantly was offering me his own soul, for the probability of his hope being lost while speaking to me was high. Should I trade Wirt’s edelwood for the possibility of getting both children?

Essentially, Gregory asked me, “double or nothing?” I was intrigued. I accepted.

I gave the boy three impossible tasks. He completed them in true heroic fashion, bending my words until they fit the possible. I improvised then, asking one last riddle of a task: the sun in a china cup. Gregory figured out the trick nearly immediately, and sat down to wait to complete his work well done.

The temperature was very low. Few grown men could have survived a night like that no matter how many furs they bundled themselves in. The child stood no chance.

My own tasks were complete; I’d planted a few more seeds. The woodsman observed my handiwork and became upset, as he so often does. He tried again to fight me, but the shadows of the forest kept me safe from his axe. It was nothing we hadn’t done before, but with one key difference: he left the lantern, and someone picked it up.

The moment another touched my lantern, the woodsman’s deal with me was broken. He must have realized it the same moment I did, or perhaps he truly cared that much about the dying boy in the edelwood, because he fell easily, distracted.

I attempted the same lie as before. I should have known not to push my luck with such a flimsy pretense. In the intervening years, I should have come up with a better one.

But none of my quick thinking could save me. Not once the boy handed the woodsman my lantern, my soul.

And he blew.

…

That is the end of it, is it not? Yet here I am, speaking to you.

I will share with you a secret, and this one is no lie.

The Unknown is a place of forgotten stories. Tales of the supernatural or mundane, people who once existed or once nearly existed, who have since been lost to time as I myself was.

But I am here now, and this is not the Unknown. I died in the land of the forgotten, and so I am here in the world of the remembered.

In a way I cannot explain, for I cannot know it, Wirt and Gregory returned home.

In their memories, in their dreams, they have brought me with them.

And just as you are seeing me now… they will see me, and my flame will not be so easily snuffed.

One way or another, I shall make them both mine again.

[mgmks]

Self-indulgent Gay Bullshit ft. Destroya’s Decaying Corpse

(P.S: Missile Kid changes pronouns for no apparent reason)

The sun is brutal.

Is brutal, has been brutal, will be brutal until they start getting closer to their final destination. When. If. It’s like chasing a dream every time they try to find it, a literal mirage. The closest thing MG’s had to a home since he stumbled blind out of that nightmare white room.

The two of them walk arm in arm towards the angel’s resting place, through the haze of heat blurring above the cracked earth. A sight, for sure, MK’s face is totally obscured by a hot pink gas mask she doesn’t even need. MG is covered up by his ski goggles and the ratty green scarf that’s pulled over his mouth and nose to keep the fumes out. 

His face and wrists are still raw with the removal of the duct tape the crows they’d killed earlier had deployed. Stung like a bitch to get off, as per. But those buggers are gone now, blown straight off the map. In the outer rim without a helmet. All that’s left of them after that pretty little clockwork device MK had cooked up last time they’d stumbled into civilization was a splatter of blood on her dusty boots and a tacky black tie pulled tight around MG’s neck. Over his t-shirt, over the black marker scrawl. 

WHOS AFRAID OF THE BIG BAD WOLF???    

MG’s throat is raw, from screaming as they forced him down in the chair, from talking all through the process of MK picking bits of ‘crow skull out of his hair. From the noxious gas residue of whatever grisly battle had taken place in this god-forsaken zone a million lifetimes ago, when the wars were still raging. The scarf is a good look, but it’s a piss-poor method of keeping shit out of MG’s lungs. 

Long term health detriments be damned, that’s his motto! The two of them had barely made it out alive today- he doesn’t have forty years for this fuckery to really start digging into his system and bending him clean out of shape. Might not have five. Probably won’t even have one, at the rate they’re going, they could very well be cannibal-fodder by the end of the week. It’s not a scary thought anymore, just an inevitability. Life’s a lot easier when you embrace death as more of a casual fishing buddy than a rogue trick-or-treater who won’t stop screaming at your front door until she’s gotten what she wants.  

MK’s humming a tune as they go, something the two of them came up with together the other night as they were sprawled out under the stars. MK’s more in tune with this stuff, sees music like the stars intended, solar winds crashing into the atmosphere and running along the magnetic field. Patterns in the sky, alignments that MG will never be able to pick out. She says the cosmos whispered the bassline to her just as she was powering down. Stars. Sirius, in particular, because you can always count on the dog star to churn out the sickest fuckin’ basslines on this side of the universe. 

“What’s this?” They’re drumming the bassline out on MG’s arm, voice muffled by the mask. 

Four? Four. Four run-ins. Four jives. Four times they’ve almost gotten curb-stomped by Dracs. In how long? He can’t say. Since they saw another living soul last. That’s how they measure time. It’s been a long time.  

Would life be easier in the long run if there was more than two of them to run around with? Probably. But Mad Gear doesn’t fuckin’ roll with anyone else, under any circumstances. It went to fuckin’ Antarctica last time, and he doesn’t repeat bad songs. He smashes those records and moves on with his life, so here they are, the two of them. Two of them, four near death experiences. MG holds up four fingers to the sun, closing one eye as he looks up. 

“And where’s this?” MK looks up with him. Nothing to see but the sinking sun. Not a toxic fuckin’ cloud in the sky. 

“The path to righteousness,” he says, laughing when they growl and hit his arm. “The road to the Angel’s Graveyard, honeybee.”  

So it is. The sun is sinking low soon as the sheet metal spires stab through the horizon, and they thank whatever invisible god that’s out there that they went the right way. Getting lost in the desert this far out is a one way ticket to death’s door, and as cool with that as MG’s become, he’s got some things he wouldn’t mind completing before he kicks the bucket.

It’s only confirmed when MK sighs in relief, because MG can’t trust his own eyes sometimes. Some things are mirages, some things are the direct result of too much gas getting into your head. This isn’t his favourite place to go, the resting place of his only friend’s greatest heroes.Great for shelter, though. Great for stories. Not many people can say they slept in the eye of the hollowed corpse of the destroyer of worlds.  

Sweet, huh?      

The giant robot’s hand sticks out of the dirt and they stand there on its palm, squinting up at its rusted ruined face. MK presses a kiss to the pillar of its thumb and they stand in silent remembrance for one who could have set them free. One of the originals who walked out here long before anyone thought of raising a gun to Better Living’s head.

MG pulls his scarf tighter and pushes his goggles up off his face, and they approach.

“This feels wrong,” MK says quietly, lowering her voice as if she might wake the sleeping giant. They always do this, and MG has no idea why. The dead don’t hear, he can confirm that.  

Instead of spouting nonsense about the dead not having ears, MG just hikes his bag further up his shoulder and presses on. “My continued existence feels wrong, but you don’t see me complainin’.” 

“You complain all the time.” MK sits down, rooting through xeir bag. “You complained seven times today.”

“That’s not a lot for me.” 

“You think people are around here?”

“I think the ghosts keep them away.” MG sits himself down, pulling his scarf off and fanning it out. It’s sort of dusty in here, but it’s safe. No noxious gas- the giant doesn’t breathe anymore. Nothing to harm them. Just the dust and the air. Sand trickles down through cracks in the metal like an hourglass, but time doesn’t exist in this place.  

There’s explosions from somewhere far away. Or maybe it’s fireworks, or firecrackers. Or bombs. The thought makes MG feel bad, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he usually ignores. He shakes his head to clear it and sighs, brushing off the memories of people and places he’d rather forget off him like dust. “You ever wonder why they want us dead so bad?” 

MK looks creepy in the light of the flare, perfect teeth gleaming as her face stretches up into a grin. “I wonder why you want them dead so bad.” 

“Circle of life, baby.” He’s not sure when things became this way, but he’s not sad about it. If he’s rotten to the core, that’s fine with him, he’s always been that way, just now he screams when things go bang.

There’s work to be done now.  

Far as MG is concerned, no Scarecrow deserves a proper funeral. They shouldn’t be touched once they’ve been dispatched, no matter who they were in their life. They’ve taken a lot away from the community, every single one of them, but desecrating holy ground won’t stand. 

Someone left a mess in here, a couple of ‘crows a hothead greenhorn must’ve killed. Honest mistake, thinking their holy savior is a hunk of metal for hoarding dead ‘crows. MG won’t hold it against anyone but if this happens again someone’s getting stuck with a switch.  

The two drag the bodies out of the robot and sit them in discarded lawn chairs to rot in the sun for a while, or maybe to serve as a reminder to the next ‘crows who come by that this isn’t their property, that the ghosts will chew them up and spit them out if they trifle with forces they don’t fuckin’ understand. Forces they misunderstand. Not that MG’s more than a man, not that MK stopped being a nurse droid soon as they got out here, just that there’s a certain je ne sais quoi about Killjoys that gets the fuckin’ job done. 

“Marco,” MG calls, his voice echoing through the robot’s hollow insides. the sunlight is dying, slipping through cracks in his chest. MK is standing, looking up through closed eyes. Angel’s graveyard has a profound effect on those who can still believe in something, as much as MG wants to believe this giant robot is going to rise from the sand and storm the city in a blaze of glory he can’t forget everything he’s seen, the things that flash behind his eyes when he closes them. 

Being realistic isn’t a bad thing, Tommy told him once, probably the only smart thing he’s ever said. Because that’s where you get when you’re too realistic, you’re Tommy Chow Mein in your fancy suit, a hollow shell of the person you used to be. 

MG stood by and watched all the fight leak out of him like a balloon there in the trenches all those years ago, watched a(n admittedly decent) man become a case for a dead brain and some bad attitude. That’s what you become after all of that, if you’re not crafty. You’re this robot. Everyone thinks you exist but you’re empty on the inside and your eyes are vacant. MG hasn’t seen himself in years, but he’s almost certain he’s still kickin’ somewhere in his own head.   

“I’m sleepy, bunny, let’s go say goodnight.” MG holds out a hand, breaking MK out of her trance. He never touches them unless he’s sure that’s what they want, so he hangs back, and they look from him to the sky again.  

MG believes in things that exist, and the universe is out there. The stars were something to hang on to all the time he’s been out here, since the wars. Even when they were covered in angry clouds of smoke and spitting bombs down from the clouds, they were still up there, waiting. Watching. Ready to get his messages to where they needed to be. 

It’s a tradition now. He used to whisper messages to the stars to send to MK, but now they’re here with him, so he closes his eyes and tries to think of people who might need it. 

“Got anything you wanna say?” She tucks herself into his side, looking up. “I wanna say thanks for the bassline.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be getting more in your dreams tonight.” 

MK smiles. It’s something that still catches MG off guard, makes his chest tight in a way that tells him he’ll never love anything else in the entire universe this much. It’s scary. Sort of comforting. “I’m sure. What are you gonna say?” 

“Good luck, I guess.” He shrugs, because there’s not a lot more you can say to someone. “Sionara? May the witch help you home?”

“Be serious?” 

“Be safe,” he tells the stars- no, he tells some sorry sucker sleeping on the ground out there somewhere, someone who’s praying that they’ll make it through tomorrow, who doesn’t know the world yet. Who can’t see the strings holding them all upright. “I’ll see you soon.”

MK tilts his head back for just one more moment, mouthing something at the sky above before turning back to his companion. “What a great way to make friends.” 

It worked with her, MG thinks, as MK tugs his hair and heads back into the corpse of her forefather. “Hey,” he calls back, “I love you!” 

Because he’s waited a long time to say that, crawled through trenches and run through gunfire to say that face to face. Some meaning not even the cosmos can convey. Something that still sets off the butterflies in his stomach, puts a smile on his face.

“That’s GAY,” they yell back. It makes more sense, these moments, how people can believe in immortality. Maybe if this feeling will never die, there’s a chance this robot will pick itself out of the sand and save them all. 

Until then, Mad Gear will try his best. 

[fuckasfem]

Jefferson Bethke Lyrics "Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus (Spoken Word)"

What if I told you Jesus came to abolish religion What if I told you voting republican really wasn't his mission What if I told you republican doesn't automatically mean Christian And just because you call some people blind doesn't automatically give you vision I mean if religion is so great, why has it started so many wars Why does it build huge churches, but fails to feed the poor Tells single moms God doesn't love them if they've ever had a divorce But in the old testament God actually calls religious people whores Religion might preach grace, but another thing they practice

Tend to ridicule God's people, they did it to John The Baptist They can't fix their problems, and so they just mask it Not realizing religions like spraying perfume on a casket See the problem with religion, is it never gets to the core It's just behavior modification, like a long list of chores Like lets dress up the outside make look nice and neat But it's funny that's what they use to do to mummies while the corps rots underneath Now I ain't judging, I'm just saying quit putting on a fake look Cause there's a problem if people only know you're a Christian by your Facebook I mean in every other aspect of life, you know that logic's unworthy It's like saying you play for the Lakers just because you bought a jersey You see this was me too, but no one seemed to be on to me Acting like a church kid, while addicted to pornography See on Sunday I'd go to church, but Saturday getting faded Acting if I was simply created just to have sex and get wasted

See I spent my whole life building this facade of neatness But now that I know Jesus, I boast in my weakness Because if grace is water, then the church should be an ocean It's not a museum for good people, it's a hospital for the broken Which means I don't have to hide my failure, I don't have to hide my sin Because it doesn't depend on me it depends on him See because when I was God's enemy and certainly not a fan He looked down and said I want, that, man Which is why Jesus hated religion, and for it he called them fools Don't you see so much better than just following some rules Now let me clarify, I love the church, I love the bible, and yes I believe in sin But if Jesus came to your church would they actually let him in See remember he was called a glutton, and a drunkard by religious men But the son of God never supports self righteousness not now, not then Now back to the point, one thing is vital to mention

How Jesus and religion are on opposite spectrums See one's the work of God, but one's a man made invention See one is the cure, but the other's the infection See because religion says do, Jesus says done Religion says slave, Jesus says son Religion puts you in bondage, while Jesus sets you free Religion makes you blind, but Jesus makes you see And that's why religion and Jesus are two different clans Religion is man searching for God, Christianity is God searching for man Which is why salvation is freely mine, and forgiveness is my own Not based on my merits but Jesus's obedience alone Because he took the crown of thorns, and the blood dripped down his face He took what we all deserved, I guess that's why you call it grace And while being murdered he yelled "Father forgive them they know not what they do." Because when he was dangling on that cross, he was thinking of you And he absorbed all of your sin, and buried it in the tomb Which is why I'm kneeling at the cross, saying come on there's room So for religion, no I hate it, in fact I literally resent it Because when Jesus said it is finished, I believe he meant it

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNxQ1ZFNIXc

[chante626-blog]

Jefferson Bethke Jesus > Religion.

What if I told you Jesus came to abolish religion? What if I told you voting Republican really wasn't His mission? What if I told you Republican doesn't automatically mean Christian And just because you call some people blind doesn't automatically give you vision?

I mean, if religion is so great, why has it started so many wars? Why does it build huge churches but fails to feed the poor? Tells single moms God doesn't love them if they've ever had a divorce But in the Old Testament, God actually calls religious people whores

Religion might preach grace, but another thing they practice Tend to ridicule God's people; they did it to John the Baptist They can't fix their problems, and so they just mask it Not realizing religion's like spraying perfume on a casket See, the problem with religion is it never gets to the core It's just behavior modification, like a long list of chores Like, "Let's dress up the outside, make it look nice and neat" But it's funny that's what they used to do to mummies while the corpse rots underneath

Now I ain't judging; I'm just saying, quit putting on a fake look ‘Cause there's a problem if people only know you're a Christian by your Facebook I mean, in every other aspect of life, you know that logic's unworthy It's like saying you play for the Lakers just because you bought a jersey See, this was me too, but no one seemed to be on to me Acting like a church kid while addicted to pornography See, on Sunday I'd go to church, but Saturday getting faded Acting if I was simply created to just have sex and get wasted See, I spent my whole life building this facade of neatness But now that I know Jesus, I boast in my weakness

Because if grace is water, then the Church should be an ocean It's not a museum for good people—it's a hospital for the broken Which means I don't have to hide my failure; I don't have to hide my sin Because it doesn't depend on me; it depends on Him See, because when I was God's enemy and certainly not a fan He looked down and said, "I want that man." Which is why Jesus hated religion, and for it He called them fools Don't you see so much better than just following some rules Now let me clarify—I love the Church, I love the Bible, and yes, I believe in sin But if Jesus came to your church, would they actually let Him in? See, remember He was called a glutton and a drunkard by religious men But the Son of God never supports self-righteousness—not now, not then

Now back to the point—one thing is vital to mention How Jesus and religion are on opposite spectrums See, one's the work of God, but one's a man-made invention See, one is the cure, but the other's the infection See, because religion says "do"; Jesus says "done" Religion says "slave"; Jesus says "son" Religion puts you in bondage, while Jesus sets you free Religion makes you blind, but Jesus makes you see And that's why religion and Jesus are two different clans

Religion is man searching for God; Christianity is God searching for man Which is why salvation is freely mine, and forgiveness is my own Not based on my merits, but Jesus' obedience alone Because He took the crown of thorns, and the blood dripped down His face He took what we all deserved—I guess that's why you call it grace And while being murdered, He yelled, "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do." Because when He was dangling on that cross, He was thinking of you And He absorbed all your sin, and He buried it in the tomb Which is why I'm kneeling at the cross, saying, "Come on, there's room" So for religion—no, I hate it; in fact I literally resent it Because when Jesus said, "It is finished," I believe He meant it

[half-blood-princesss]

JESUS>REGLIGION

What if I told you, Jesus came to abolish religion? What if I told you, voting republican wasn’t his mission? What if I told you, Republican doesn’t automatically mean Christian? And just because you call some people blind, doesn’t automatically give you vision. I mean if religion is so great, why has it started so many wars? Why does it build huge churches, but fails to feed the poor? Tells single moms God doesn’t love them if they’ve ever have a divorce. But in the old testament, God actually calls religious people whores. Religion might preach grace, but another thing they practice. Tend to ridicule God’s people, they did it to John the Baptist. They can’t fix their problems, so they just mask it. Not realizing religion is just like spraying perfume on a casket. Because the problem in religion is that it never gets to the core. It’s just a behavior modification, like a long list of chores. Like let’s dress up on the outside, make things look nice and neat. But it’s funny that’s what they do to mummies, while the corpse rots underneath. Now I ain’t judging, I’m just saying be careful putting on a fake look. Because there’s a problem if people only know you’re a Christian by your Facebook. I mean in every aspects of life you know that logics are unworthy. It’s like saying you play for the lakers just because you bought a jersey. But see this is me too, but no one seemed to be on to me. Acting like a church kid while addicted to pornography. See on Sunday I go to church, but Saturday getting faded. Acting as if I was simply created just to have sex and get wasted. See I spend my whole life building this facade of neatness. But now that I know Jesus, I boast in my weakness. Because if grace is water, then the church should be an ocean. Because it’s not a museum for good people, it’s a hospital for the broken. Which means I don’t have to hide my failure, I don’t have my sin. Because it doesn’t depend on me, it depends on him. See when I was God’s enemy and certainly not a fan. He looked down and said, “I want that man!”. Which is why Jesus hated religion and called them fools. Don’t you see he’s so much better than just following some rules? Now let me clarify, I love the church, I love the bible, and yes, I believe in sin. But if Jesus came to your church, will they actually let Him in? Remember He was called a drunkard and a glutton by “religious men”. But the Son of God never support self-righteousness, not now, not then. Now back to the point, one thing I think is vital to mention. How Jesus and religion are on opposite spectrums. See, one is the work of God, one is a man made invention. One is the cure and the other is the infection. Because Religion says DO, Jesus says DONE. Religion says SLAVE, Jesus says SON. Religion puts you on bondage, while Jesus sets you free. Religion makes you blind, but Jesus makes you see. That’s why Religion and Jesus are two different clans. Religion is man searching for God, Christianity is God searching for man. Why is why salvation is freely mine and forgiveness is my own. Not based on my merits, but Jesus is obedience alone. Because he took the crown of thorns, and the blood dripped down his face. He took away all deserve, I guess that’s why you call it grace. While being murdered he yelled “father forgive them, they know not what they do.” Because when he was dangling on that cross, he was thinking of you. And he absorbed all your sin, and he buried in a tomb. Which is why I’m kneeling at the cross now saying come on there’s room. So for religion, know I hate it, in fact I literally resent it. Because when Jesus said IT IS FINISHED, I believe he meant it,

-Jefferson Bethke