#like it's the distant future and the world has decayed into dust and there's nothing left except you and Gael

[realwizardshit]

I will never play Dark Souls 2 again. If I try, I have requested that my dearest friends take me out behind the barn and shoot me. However. I will probably play 3 again

[hybriddh]

Loss of Self by HybridDH

I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I can’t hear.

I can’t feel the warmth I used to hold dear.

What’s left of me, when I’m trapped in this cage,

A prisoner of flesh, a hostage to age?

You can’t see the stars or the sky’s blue hue,

Just an endless void swallowing you.

The brightness, the beauty, all fades to black,

No path to follow, no way back.

You can’t hear the rain, the wind in the trees,

All the sounds that once brought ease.

Now it’s just silence, thick like a shroud,

No music, no voices, no laughter allowed.

Touch has turned to a distant dream,

No longer soft, no longer serene.

The world that was once within my grasp,

Slips further away, like sand in a clasp.

Taste has turned bitter, like ash in my mouth,

Nothing to savour, nothing from north or south.

Every bite, every sip is hollow and plain,

Food holds no joy, just more of the same.

And soon, I won’t walk—my legs are stiff,

Each step a burden, a painful rift.

I’m losing control, can’t rise from my chair,

Left staring at nothing, consumed by despair.

My voice, too, will fail, a whisper, a ghost,

No words left to share, no stories to boast.

I’ll scream inside, but no one will hear,

Drowning in silence, shackled by fear.

Is there a reason to keep moving on,

When every part of me is nearly gone?

When the world around me fades to dust,

And all that’s left is broken trust?

The weight of this life is crushing me whole,

It’s bearing down on my very soul.

Every breath feels like a fight to the end,

With no one left to comfort, no hand to lend.

What comes next when there’s nothing but dread,

When you’re alive, but feel so dead?

The world spins on, but I remain still,

A hollow vessel with no will.

I can’t rise. I can’t stand. I can’t even cry.

All I can do is wait here to die.

The days are long, but empty and cold,

And the future feels like a story untold.

Is this the fate I’ve come to know,

To feel so lost, so broken, so low?

I’m sinking deeper, a slow decay,

In the dark, where light has gone away.

What’s left when the senses fade?

When the body turns frail, the spirit betrayed?

There’s nothing ahead, no path to find—

Just endless night and a shattered mind.

And so, I’ll stay, trapped in this shell,

Locked in my own private hell.

Waiting for the day to break,

Or for my soul, at last, to wake.

[writingfromkitchenator]

The Mad Dawn

Written for @sdavid09 Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020 ~ Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity and challenge!  This was awesome fun as someone who has a deep love for horror and felt real good to be able to write something like this!

Happy Halloween everyone!

Inspired by Dawn of the Dead

Inspired by Mad World by Gary Jules

Set several months after the battle of the five armies, Erebor is awoken to bells ringing in Dale, a bleak warning for what comes over the course of the night and into the dawn.

Pairings: Thorin x F!OC (previous), Dain x F!OC (current)

Words: 3,811

Warnings: Zombies, grief, minor talking of blood and fighting (nothing intense or graphic), major character death and reanimation (it is zombies after all), bleak future outlook.

The bells sounded in Dale, ringing through the darkness in the middle of the night.

Feet hurried, left the warmth of their beds, hastily pulled on armour as they scurried to the gates of Erebor.  Fear of the not so distant memory of a dragon clung to the dwarves, murmurs filling the halls as some sat still, holding their breath.

At the gates, a messenger arrived, pale faced and stammering, and it took a few minutes for the words to come from him, the bell continuing to ring.

“The dead,” He croaked.  “The dead are rising.”

The dwarves were confused for a moment until screaming began within their own halls and soldiers threw themselves into action, shaking off the thought of the messenger at the gate, even as he screamed after them.

“They’re rising from the lake!  The dead have returned!”

Orders were given, hurried footsteps marching loudly through the halls before falling silent.

Dain was shouting, but no one was listening, the soldiers all having stopped to stare, another army approaching from the halls of the dead.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Dain breathed, the glistening dead eyes staring back at him, sending a cold chill up his spine, unlike anything he had felt before.  “Get the Queen!  Get her out of here now!”

Myara was on her feet, pacing the bedroom, the bells still sounding in Dale, a sound signalling doom was upon them.

There was a knock on the door and she hurries to throw it open.

Dwalin stood there, his expression grim.  “We need to go.”

“What? What is happening?”  She asked as Dwalin marched in and started gathering a few small items into a traveling pack.

He swallows, casting her a look, one that drifts down to her swollen stomach.  “I think it’s best if you don’t know my Queen. We need….we need to go.”

She rests a hand on his arm.  “Dwalin…”

Dwalin shakes his head.  “Get dressed Myara.  Please.”

A cold chill settled over her, the hair rising on the back of her neck, and she moves as best she can to throw on travelling clothes and what armour she could, the sword on her belt looking strange against her stomach.

“You know I will defend you with my life,” Dwalin said quietly, an odd note in his voice as he waited by the door.  “As will anyone in Erebor, but I will warn you now…” He swallows.  “This is unlike anything we have faced before.”

Out in the hall, Bofur and Nori waited, both pale and afraid, although doing their best to hide it.

Myara looked between them and then at Dwalin again.  “Please.  Just tell me.”

Dwalin shakes his head and takes her arm, starting to lead her down the hall.  “Trust me, nothing I say will be able to prepare you. Let’s hurry.”

Soon, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Oin had joined them.

“Gloin has already got his wife and son out,” Oin explained.  “They’ll meet us there.”

“And Gloin?” Dwalin asked.

Oin’s expression went grim.  “Has gone back to the fighting.”

Myara looked at Dwalin.  “Where is Balin?”

He shakes his head.  “I do not know.”

Their footfalls seemed to fall oddly in the halls, against the backdrop of the ringing bell, the shouts of soldiers, and Myara had a growing feeling she had felt before, long ago, when a dragon had attacked.

A blood curdling scream made them all freeze, all of them arming themselves as they stared into the darkness at the other end of the hall.

Dwalin went forward slowly, cautiously, his axe out in front, trying to see through the dark. His grip was tight, too tight, his hands slipping as sweat built up from the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Myara almost screamed, tears filling her eyes at the sight coming down the hall towards them.

“Thorin…” Dwalin breathed, his axe lowering slightly.  “Thorin please…no…”

Several months of decay had twisted Thorin’s features, the cut that had been sealed was now split and oozing thick black blood, his skin an ashen whitish green. He shuffled towards them, lifeless eyes on Myara.

Myara thought she was going to be sick, her fingers subconsciously finding the bead in her hair, the bead that Thorin had not long put in before the battle of the five armies, seated securely above Dain’s.

“Thorin, don’t-don’t come any closer.  I meant it.” Dwalin’s voice cracked, his feet carrying him slowly back, the others all tense.

It seemed that none of the soldiers had had the heart to fight him.

There is a further shuffling noise behind Thorin, and Fili and Kili join him, a low groaning growl leaving their throats, and Thorin’s hand reaches out for Myara.

“Go,” Dwalin said thickly, turning away from the sight.  “Go!”

Several hands forced her to move, hurrying her in the other direction from the horrible sight. Her chest ached, her heart broken again. What had they done to deserve this horror?

“Where is Dain?”  She managed to ask, her voice soft and broken.

“In the front lines,” Dwalin said, casting her a worried look, but still constantly glancing behind them, worried that the shambling corpses of their friends would follow.  “He will try and meet us there.”

“Dwalin-”

“Myara, we all swore to protect you and Thorin’s child,” Dwalin said.  “Swore with our lives, no matter what would come. Dain is doing this protect you.”

She hangs her head and focuses on moving, doing her best not to think about how this could turn out, about she could lose all those that she loved.  It was to ignore the grief of what she’d seen, but she knew if she was to survive, she would have to.

Winding passage after winding passage passed them in a blur and Myara looked over the edge of one of the many bridges in Erebor, normally lit in golden light. Fire burned below, illuminating the soldiers fighting off the dead that seemed to fill the halls endlessly, many in varying states of decay, but the freshest were those from that horrible battle, weapons still in hands as if it had been sealed around them in death, and she knew the soldiers were grieving once again.  She caught a flicker of red hair, of a mighty shout, but it quickly disappeared in the ocean of bodies beneath her and she was hurried into another hall before she could call Dain’s name.

The bells of Dale went silent.

They hurried past another hall and a loud screech caused them to freeze, several corpses shambling towards them, some of them old and some of them very fresh, bleeding wounds still fresh under their armour.  This lot was moving quicker, Bombur, Bofur and Bifur all sharing a look and nodding, stepping between the oncoming dead and the rest of the group.

“No-”

“You need to go,” Bofur said, giving a nod to Myara.  “We’ll deal with these and catch up.”

Dwalin takes Myara’s arm again and leads her on, his expression grim.  The sound of fighting followed them for a long few moments before all fell silent once again, their footsteps falling softly through the hall.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she keeps herself silent, her grip tight on her sword. Erebor would not fall today, not after everything that it had already been through, not after they had not long got it back, she had to believe that.

A deep rumble echoes through the ground, making the group stop and a fear filled look to pass between several of them.

“It’s not possible,” Dwalin breathed.  “No, I refuse to believe it, not with all this going on as well.”

He marched ahead and the others slowly followed, Myara still keeping her head held high.  All of them grew more anxious the further they went.  Why were the dead rising?  Why were they being haunted like this, after all that they had suffered? Those that they had loved, those that they had already mourned, now seemingly after them and their blood.

Another rumble goes through the halls, dust falling from the ceiling and Myara mourned, as she knew the others were, mourned that they were just getting back their homes, their lives, and now this would change everything again.

There was a kick in her stomach and Myara let out a steadying breath.  She had no choice but to survive.  She had to survive.

They reached the secret entrance just as there was a roar outside.  They had all been there, they all knew that sound.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Myara breathed.  “This cannot be happening.”

Footsteps sound suddenly behind them, and Dwalin and Nori quickly step in front of Myara, Oin, Dori and Ori stepping in close on the sides.

With a limping shuffle and the shine of blood on his head, Dain stepped into view, his face pale under the blood, an equally injured Bofur was hanging on his shoulder.

“We need to go,” Dain grumbled.  “We need to go now.”

Myara hurried to his side and helped him, while Nori took Bofur, a pained grin on his face.

“You should just leave me here.”  He said grimly.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gone for.”

“Not a chance,” Nori said firmly.  “I think we’re going to lose enough today as it, without you staying here.”

Bofur laughs grimly, but it quickly silenced by the pain, holding onto the worst of the wounds as best he could.

“What is happening?”  Myara asked, trying to see the extent of Dain’s wounds.  “I saw…I saw…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, the ache in her chest too much, but by Dain’s grim expression, he understood.

“I saw him too,” Dain said quietly, taking her hands and kissing them gently, his own expression pained.  “But we cannot dwell on it.  There is nothing that we can do for them.”

Screeching and growls come from down the hall.  As quickly as they could, they hurried out the door and swung it closed behind them.

Outside, Myara stared out towards Dale, her breathe stolen as she saw fires burning once again, but her attention was only held briefly as an all too familiar roar cut through the air, earning all of their gazes.

A large dark form was in the sky, coming from where Lake Town was still being rebuilt. All of them standing there knew what the form was, and they all watched helplessly as it headed towards the burning city.

“This isn’t happening,” Ori said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking.  “Smaug was dead, we all saw him fall.”

“We saw a lot of those we’ve seen fall,” Dain said grimly.  “It seems that the gods have abandoned us tonight.”

A green light filled Smaug’s chest and even from where they stood they could make out the rotting dark red scales, the black arrow still embedded deeply into Smaug’s chest.  The fire erupted from his chest, illuminating the sky in a vivid green glow.

Dain’s hand rests on Myara’s lower back.  “Do you think you can get down alright?”

Myara’s jaw clenches and she nods, Ori and Dori leading the way so she can follow, Dwalin and Dain close behind, Oin and Nori taking up the rear, helping Bofur as best they could.

“Where is Tula and Gimli?”  Oin asked, huffing a little.  “They should have been here.”

“Tula is no fool,” Dain said.  “She knew that they could not have waited long.  Hopefully we find them later.”

The night felt so cold as they reached the ground, Myara’s arms wrapping around herself as they waited for the others to get down.  There were screams in the distance, and her gaze turned towards the gates of Erebor, the fires still burning brightly, enough to illuminate the figures struggling there.  A wave of nausea struck her, and she managed to just get a little further away before she was sick, the stress all a little too much.

Dain was there in a flash, his hands rubbing her back gently until the vomiting eases, and she breathes deeply, getting herself back in control.  “Easy love, take it slow.  You are going to need all the strength you can muster to get through this.”

Myara nods, barely listening, feeling a ringing starting in her ears.  Whatever had caused these events was nothing normal. Whatever had called Thorin back, had brought Smaug back, it seemed to be against her people.

There was more screaming and she looked back up towards Dale.  “Is…is there nothing we can do?”

“We could not even hold them at bay ourselves,” Dain said, helping her straighten out.  “I stayed as long as I could before we were overrun.  I was not proud in calling a retreat.”

Myara rests a gentle hand on his arm, earning his gaze where he was hiding his pain.  “This is beyond any of us Dain.  We will get away and find help.  We can-”

There was a shout and they turned, seeing Bofur practically falling on top of Nori, pulling away from Oin, but there was a snarl leaving him, one that was cold and empty, almost animalistic.

Dain moved first and shoved Bofur off Nori, Bofur’s body thudding into the stone with a sickening crack and sat there, unmoving, his hat sitting soaked in blood next to his head.

“What-what happened?”  Nori asked, his face almost white, staring at Bofur.  “He…he went limp and then-then-”

“That’s what has been happening,” Dain growled, cautiously approaching Bofur.  “They’ve been dying and then getting back up, sometimes partly eaten.  Not much seems to slow them down, although a sharp knock usually disables them, at least for a time.”

A stunned silence sat around everyone, even as Dain crouched next to Bofur, gently prodding him, his expression pained.  Slowly, he sighs, and gets back to his feet, shaking his head, earning more than a few grief stricken expressions, Dwalin cursing silently under his breath.

“Tonight has been a tragic night,” Dain said.  “We need to get moving now, before it gets any worse.”

“But Bofur…”  Nori said, his face still pale.

“There isn’t anything we can do now,” Dain shakes his head and re-joins Myara.  “We must move on before they realise that some of us have gotten out.”

Myara sniffs and shudders, her mind almost numb now to what was happening, but she couldn’t rid herself of a bad feeling that had been growing her since she’d seen Thorin earlier.  Dain’s hand rests gently on her and she nods, starting to lead them all away from the distance screams and the sickening roar of the dead dragon.

“How will others get out?”  Ori asked quietly as they walked.  “There has to be something else that we can do.”

“There are many paths through Erebor,” Dain said.  “And as much as it pains me to say it, they will have little choice but to try them.  The hoard that we were facing was nothing to be taken lightly.  It may just be the end of the world as we know it.”

A chill goes up Myara’s spine and she finds herself stopping dead in her tracks, Dain almost running straight into her, his hands resting on her for a moment before he sees what she’d stopped to stare at.  Quickly, he moves in front of her, the others reacting accordingly, all pretending they couldn’t see the shake of the sword in her hand.

“Thorin…” She breathed, her voice barely audible even in the silence that suddenly seemed to surround them.

“You will go no further,” Dain said loudly, even as more figures begin to step out beside Thorin.  “This is not your world anymore.  You will return to where you came from.”

Dawn was approaching, the light starting to peak over the horizon, illuminating the walking corpses more and more.  Myara stared with wide eyes as Thorin starts to approach, unaffected by Dain’s words, and it was only now that they could see the Arkenstone still clutched tightly in one hand, but it was no longer rich and vibrant, reminding her of starlight, now it was blood red and dark, but still unmistakable.

“I will give you one last warning,” Dain’s voice went low, into almost a growl.  “Whatever creature you are, you will leave and you will not return, releasing all those you have under your spell.”

A low snarl in the air and it took them all a moment before they realised that it was coming from Thorin, or what had once been Thorin, because none of them could be certain that they could even call him that anymore.

“My…ara…”

Myara’s breath caught in her throat and the tears started again, shaking her head, not wanting to face the reality of this, her chest aching so much.  If it wasn’t for Dain’s protective hand on her, then she knew she’d be running, and she knew that she wouldn’t stand a chance, not against Thorin, or whatever this things now was.

“Dwalin,” Dain’s voice was quiet, firm.  “I want you to take Myara and I want you to get as far from here as you can.  Do not stop until you can find somewhere safe, or someone that can help.”

“Dain, you can’t-”

He glances back at her, his expression set.  “I am sorry love, I know that you deserve more than this, but for you survive, for our people to have a chance, this must be done.  Oin, go with them.”

“I can’t lose you too,” Myara said.  “I can’t…I can’t see you like this too.”

“Dwalin,” Dain’s gaze left her.  “Please. Your duty is to your king, and this is your kings final order.”

Dwalin swallowed and nods slowly, stepping in beside Myara, even as she stares at Dain with tears in her eyes.  “What…what about the others?”

“It is their choice,” Dain said grimly, holding Thorin’s cold, dead gaze.  “It is an honour to have fought by all of you.”

Dwalin looked around at the few others left as Oin stood by Myara’s other side.  Dori, Nori and Ori all nodded grimly to him and moved and stood next to Dain.  With a final glance back at the growing number of dead, they could now make out a few more faces, Fili and Kili, Balin and Gloin, and many other soldiers and citizens, that they had laughed with, spoke with, and they knew that there wasn’t a choice left.

“It has been an honour my King,” Dwalin said, taking Myara’s hand.  “I will do all that I can.”

Dain nods, his grip tight on his weapon as the horde slowly approaches.  “My Queen…I’m sorry that we didn’t get more time.”

Myara felt herself go back to end of the battle of the five armies, of having too much to say and too little time to say it, of suddenly feeling like the world was being pulled out from under her feet again, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that built up from her chest.

“It’s not fair,” She whispered.  “It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not love,” Dain said.  “But you need to go.”

Dwalin and Oin start to pull her gently away, the weight of the situation sitting heavily on their shoulders.

“I love you…” Myara managed to get out, her voice broken, tears rolling down her cheeks as her hands rest over her stomach.

There was no chance to say anything else, the four dwarfs standing alone against the approaching dead, even as Thorin’s gaze follows Myara as Dwalin leads her away.

Myara can’t watch anymore, turning away, her eyes blurred with tears, letting herself be led by Dwalin and Oin, know she would go back if they so much as let her go or got her to focus.  Dwalin and Oin remained silent, both in their own grief, and knowing that the sudden task before them, was going to be even harder than the one they had not long come from.

Eventually, as the morning light spilled over the land, the sun just beginning to peak, the three of them stopped and looked back from their position on a ridge. Dale and Erebor were burning, the distant figure of Smaug crawling its way to the gates of Erebor.

The worst though, the worst was the horde, they could all see it clearly from where they were, a large group of dead, men and dwarves alike, all together, all moving slowly, and the three of them on top of that ridge could not bear to look too long, just in case there was another face they recognised.

Myara sighs and pulls her hood over her head, not wanting the see the world any longer as she stares at her swollen stomach and wonders just what will happen to them now, of how she was meant to raise a child in a world like this.  She didn’t want to face the fact that she was going to have to start again, she felt like she’d started again too many times, and now this time, it was almost alone, only the two others by her side and whoever ever they could possibly find in this mad new world.

Dwalin rests a hand on her lower back, earning her gaze, and she can see the grief and despair matched in his gaze, can see the same questions burning away in his mind, but he just nods, his expression stony, one she returned.

There would be time to grieve later, time to speak and try and answer those questions, but for now, again, they had to move, had to find safety, maybe a friend. There was no time to focus on those big questions, or the self-despair that sat in the backs of all their minds.

“Hopefully we can find Tula and Gimli,” Oin said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Hopefully they came this way.”

“Just keep your weapon close,” Dwalin said, shouldering his axe.  “We do not know what the paths ahead will be like.  Let’s just start by getting as far away from here as possible.”

Oin nods, casting a glance at Myara, his expression turning worried, seeing her head down, her face hidden beneath her hood, hiding herself from the world as much as the world was hidden from her.  Dwalin just shakes his head slightly and the two men share an understanding look before helping her away this place.

Silence followed them, no birds singing in the dawn, no beasts stirring from slumber, no voices starting as they start the day.  In that silence, it’s just the three of them leaving their world behind, Myara’s hand tightly wrapping around the two beads in her hair, a soft sob leaving her, a sob that seemed to echo through the ages and be the voice of the times to come.

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Epilogue

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Aaaaaand it’s over! This is technically more of an optional ending as I suspect you’ll prefer the conclusion to Part Seven, but a certain character would never have forgiven me if I didn’t let him get the last word... 😉

Thank you so much for all of your lovely feedback and sorry for making you wait so long for these last two chapters! And now it’s time for me to finally start listening to Arctic Monkeys/Muse albums that *weren’t* released in 2018 😅🥰

Also I would like to thank Matt for unknowingly writing the perfect end-credits music for me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8tpkpoSW5I

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven 

*********************************************

A million miles away, on the desolate remains of the planet once known as Earth, a lone observer watches silently as a pair of retreating figures on a cramped TV screen ride off into the unknown.

Surrounding him on all sides are thousands of similar screens, stacked atop each other like building blocks, though for the moment he only has eyes for one. Only a week ago, every single screen was proudly lit up, showcasing the intimate details of his subjects’ mundane lives and thus allowing him to observe with unrelenting scrutiny. Now, however, a worrying proportion of those screens are fizzing with broken static; the worlds they once displayed forever lost from his grasp.  

The sight should enrage him, and perhaps one day it will. Every barren screen represents the loss of constant hours of effort and imagination, and as the aftershocks of Matthew’s assault continue to ricochet, he imagines he will lose countless more over the coming weeks. Nevertheless, for the moment he cannot bring himself to mourn the loss of realities which brought him little pleasure in the first place.

Murph, or The Creator, or whichever title he chooses to wear on any particular day, does not consider himself a cruel being. Contrary to the vile accusations his peers have levelled against him, his games are not designed with the intention of torturing the subjects within them. In fact, one could consider his efforts to preserve the collective consciousness of a dying species to be a noble one. Humanity would be nothing more than a distant memory had he not intervened at the opportune moment. And yet, despite his good intentions, acting as a benevolent observer often fails to bring the satisfaction he desires. Sometimes boredom settles deep within his bones and he cannot help but interfere with the idyllic lives his subjects have created for themselves.  

And he cannot deny that the thought of these two particular playthings discovering hope which will ultimately be torn away does put a smile on his face.

Most of that satisfaction lies in the prospect of punishing Matthew, though he has no doubt that toying with Alexander’s heart further will provide its own brand of levity. Where bitter vengeance is concerned, however, the former is the one he truly has unfinished business with. That particular human has been a thorn in his side from the very beginning; his knack for slipping into paranoia at any given opportunity had made constructing a believable reality for him an almost insurmountable challenge. The temptation to simply banish the man’s mind into the void had flared up once or twice, but in the end Murph had been somewhat successful. Matthew had bought the truth of his reality with relative ease for the first few years, to the point where any cracks that appeared were easily ironed out with a simple rewrite of code.  

Until one day, Murph’s interferences were no longer sufficient to sustain the lie. Matthew’s conviction shattered and his mind with it; without warning, he set about tearing the carefully constructed world around him to shreds and treated his lifelong friends with open hostility. Murph could easily have given him up for lost at that point. Matthew had always been an infuriatingly willful creature – incapable of appreciating Murph’s efforts even after stumbling upon the truth of his feeble existence – and killing him would have been as simple as swatting a fly.

And yet, Murph had allowed him to live. Not out of any form of mercy, heavens no, but because the promise of a challenge was far too compelling. Matthew’s resistance made him special, whether he realised it or not. Most of his subjects were docile creatures; passive participants in a charade they refused to acknowledge. The ones who had come into his care willingly were the worst offenders, having subconsciously convinced themselves that they were caught in a blissful afterlife preferable to the miserable future they would have endured on Earth. Perhaps they’re right, but humans living in quiet contentment have always made for boring viewing. In the form of Matthew, Murph had finally stumbled upon an active participant he could slowly unravel at the seams, and after years of steadily building ennui, the thrill of the chase had been downright intoxicating.

In contrast to Matthew’s blatant rage, Alexander’s resistance had been... unexpected. The strength of it even more so. Murph cannot help but wonder if the sheer force of his suspicion – his feeling of utter wrongness in a place he’d once willingly called home – would have reduced his world to dust even in the absence of Matthew’s influence. Perhaps this shouldn’t have surprised him. For as long as he can remember, he has always had more trouble maintaining the lie when the subjects have been unwillingly brought under his control. The same is true for all species he has salvaged; it is the same factor which no doubt played a role in Matthew’s refusal to accept his own reality. Murph can manipulate their memories all he likes, but the inherent desire to escape their miserable fate is forever latched onto their souls.

The new identity had been an inspired touch in the beginning, keeping Alexander’s naturally insightful tendencies at bay for a while. Mark had been a more amicable creation while still retaining plenty of Alexander’s attributes, and the latter’s imagination had always made his reality one worth visiting. However, the line between the two identities had grown considerably blurred over time. Memories had melded together in ways that no longer made logical sense, and Alexander’s yearnings for home had translated to a bitter exhaustion and loneliness which Mark simply couldn’t overcome.  

The fact that everything Murph had built had ultimately been derailed by a bottle of scotch and a friendly conversation was as clear a sign as any that Mark’s world had been hanging by a thread far longer than he had appreciated.

It probably took more effort than it was worth to salvage Alexander’s mind from his dying world and place it in an entirely new one - costing countless other simulations in the process - but he cannot bring himself to regret that decision. It hadn’t seemed fitting to let such promise fizzle out with a mere whimper. Entertainment is a rare commodity in these trying times, and he’s learned to take what he can get.

Matthew has certainly contributed his fair share. Having decided that killing him outright would be a waste, Murph had invested a lot of time in their frantic game of cat and mouse. While his plaything remained confined within the limits of his own reality – a frightfully boring seaside town on England’s coast – Murph had upped the ante by unleashing a horde of mutated creatures, using them as vectors to introduce a virus which reduced the population to rabid monsters driven solely by bloodlust. If Matthew had been particularly shaken by this new development, he’d masked it well. If anything, he seemed to glean a sense of bitter enjoyment out of receiving confirmation that his reality was little more than a façade, and had risen to the unspoken challenge admirably.  

Before long it had occurred to Matthew that an absence of limitation placed upon the imagination could also apply to him. He learned not only how to play the game, but how to adapt the rules in his own favour. Murph had quickly come to rue the day he placed Matthew in a technologically inventive time-period, for his opponent had taken advantage at every opportunity; fashioning makeshift weapons and vehicles out of little more than scrap metal and a vast imagination. No particular engineering prowess was necessary. Before long he was summoning technology out of thin air with an ease that almost rivalled Murph’s own.

Even then, Murph had been unconcerned. Despite Matthew managing to slaughter any mutated creature he crossed paths with, the threat he posed to Murph himself seemed so miniscule as to be easily dismissed. At least at that point Matthew had mostly been sticking to the rules. Once the penny dropped that his reality was merely one of thousands in an intricate web, however, he’d accomplished the unimaginable and injected something which might have been fear into Murph’s long-decayed heart. Disbelieving eyes had been glued to the screen as Matthew fashioned a portal from scrap; one which should, by rights, have been unable to accomplish anything of merit. And yet, once its construction was complete, Matthew had stepped into the blinking red void without a trace of fear, smashing his way through the walls of one reality and emerging into another, whole and seemingly unscathed.  

Quashing his efforts had become a much greater priority at that point. Treating Matt like a dog-eared chew-toy in his own reality was all well and good, but the man had gained far more intelligence and influence than Murph could tolerate. The prospect that he could potentially infect other realities with his schemes threatened to send Murph’s entire empire crumbling to ash if he wasn’t careful. In the more futuristic settings, he had been able to station guards designed in his own image, with the sole intention of blasting Matthew into atoms if he dared worm his way into their reality, but rather predictably Matt had dodged their attacks with a wry smirk, bending the rules to his will with an expertise that was almost frightening. Despite the seriousness of the man’s objective to track down his loved ones and rescue them from an existence he naively deemed to be diabolical, Murph got the distinct impression that Matthew was enjoying himself far too much. He was still treating his escapades like a game, long after Murph’s own objectives had darkened.  

Well, if he insisted on playing dirty, then Murph could resort to that as well.

He’s still proud of his next trick. The brutal reaction it had elicited had been nothing short of delicious. With vivid gratification, he recalls the momentary spark of hope in Matthew’s eyes as his gaze settled upon the avatars of his friends, during a visit to a simulated reality which almost resembled Earth. He remembers the moment his opponent had allowed longing to override logic; remembers the point where all thoughts of the chase were abandoned and, with a cautious smile, Matthew had fooled himself into believing that he’d discovered the true forms of the men he’d loved since he was a teenager.  

What must it have felt like to see them again, Murph cannot help but wonder? The Christopher and Dominic of Matthew’s own reality had been dispatched early in their charade, infected and mutated by the same creatures Matthew evaded with relative ease. No doubt the only reason Matthew survived their losses was because he’d already accepted that they were nothing more than sorry substitutes for the real thing. A part of him must have wondered, however, if that was truly the end. If the last association he would ever have of his two best friends would be the sight of them clawing their way towards him in a mindless rage.

The cold mix of terror and heartbreak that crashed upon Matthew once the blatant hatred in the eyes of his friends became crystal clear is an image Murph still treasures. For one bittersweet moment he’d honestly suspected that Matthew would surrender and let fate carry him away, rendering Murph the victor and granting fleeting satisfaction in the aftermath.  

Alas, survival instincts had kicked in at the last possible second, and Matthew had fled the scene at a sprint before his familiar assailants could shoot.

The temptation to do the same to Alexander had arisen once or twice, on the occasions where boredom reared its ugly head. It would have been a simple enough task. The avatars for three of his best friends were already buried in the simulation; a simple rewrite of their code would have turned their inherent fondness for Alex into hatred in a heartbeat. He could even have added one additional ghost into the mix, just to twist the knife until the pain would never stop. Alex had never done anything to warrant that level of torture, however. Playing with Matthew’s heart had been entertaining - not to mention earned - whereas playing with Alex’s would have been like kicking a puppy just to see how it would react. Momentarily thrilling, perhaps, but ultimately predictable.

Besides, Matthew had made him pay for his cruelty, albeit not quite as successfully as Murph has led him to believe. His constant hopping from one reality to another had rendered Murph’s creations vulnerable. His brutal smashing through virtual walls left aftershocks in the wake of his adventures, although that in itself was easily fixable. Murph had quickly grown tired of his continued insolence over time. Not so much his continued survival, though he did make a point to send the morphed versions of his friends after him at every given opportunity. However, Matt had an unfortunate habit of forgetting that, in the wake of Murph’s towering influence, he was little more than a cockroach waiting to be squashed underfoot. The lack of respect had forced Murph to step in, to confront this tiny creature and remind him that he was simply an insignificant plaything in the grand scheme of things.

Matthew’s lack of fear when faced with him for the first time had almost been impressive, though Murph had been able to sense his feeble heart racing with adrenaline. The human had stood impassively on a steep cliff-edge while Murph towered over him, revealing his true form for the first time. From a distance Matt must surely have looked like a blot on the horizon and nothing more.  

Such a meeting had no doubt been Matt’s intention. Murph allowing himself to become invested in the game rather than erasing Matthew from existence in the first place had been a mistake borne of arrogance, and he now knows it would serve him well not to make the same mistake again. The mind-numbing aftershocks stemming from the moment Matthew powered up a metallic glove and aimed a colossal, fiery beam of energy at his tormenter serve as a bitter reminder that he must learn to be more careful.

Physically the assault had done nothing at all. Even if Matthew’s corporeal body were standing right in front of him at this very moment, any attempt to attack would have the same effect as a mouse trying to destroy a mountain.  

The mental assault, however, had been far more powerful than Murph could ever have anticipated.

Perhaps Matthew himself believed the weapon he’d designed was a physical one; he seems willing to accept the possibility that it killed its target after all. What the beam had truly unleashed, however, was a sheer, unrelenting wave of emotion. All of Matthew’s simmering rage and heartbreak had drowned Murph under its weight as his consciousness was overcome by burning sparks of light. All of Matthew’s love for his friends and family - which had become so intertwined with grief during his entrapment - reduced Murph’s mind to a blank haze, and beneath it all the sheer power of hope and determination had shattered the reality they’d both been standing in.  

A similar feeling of powerlessness had overcome Murph not long before, when Alexander somehow anticipated Murph’s attempts to erase Matthew from his mind and erected a mental block so formidable that his very reality had trembled. This was different, however. Alex’s attempt had been powerful but clumsy, like batting his arms against an unseen enemy in the dark. In contrast, Matthew’s assault had been the direct attack of a man desperate to burn Murph to the ground without a care in the world for whether he himself survived the aftermath.  

Murph had awoken in his nest, surrounded by screens and caught in a daze. In a moment of madness, he’d spared Matthew’s dying mind from the crumbling reality he was trapped within, fashioning a new one in the blink of an eye. One with considerably less tricks and theatrics. One that resembled the home Matt yearned for so desperately, recreating it so convincingly that his insightful mind appears to have taken the bait.  

Murph cannot help but wonder if it would have been easier to let Matthew die. Alex too. The latter’s knack for questioning his authority will no doubt prove troublesome, now that he knows to be distrustful of the reality presented to him. For now though, Matthew remains his greatest concern. His mind still aches in the wake of the man’s assault. With each passing second, he can feel more and more worlds fade into nothingness, leaving only static in their wake and claiming the souls of thousands in the process. Losing them all is not a possibility he wants to comprehend. He has not spent enough time on Earth to justify heralding humanity’s extinction so early, and alternative dying planets are harder to come by than one might expect.

He wonders how Matthew would feel if he knew he’d disrupted and destroyed the minds of so many people. People who were once as human as him and Alex, who are now gone without the faintest trace that they ever existed in the first place. People who had no say in their fate, nor any stakes in the game they’ve both been playing for far longer than necessary. Would he be so overwhelmed by guilt that he would no longer be able to function? Would the realisation be the final straw in snapping the man’s mind like a twig once and for all?

Or will he consider those people to be liberated from their prison like the naïve fool that he is?

No doubt Murph will find out the answer to that eventually. This particular ammunition is too valuable to waste.  

That can wait until later though. Matthew and Alex still need to be eased gently into believing that their current reality is real; there will be time for twisted revelations and sacrifices later. Besides, regardless of the eventual outcome, Murph can take comfort in knowing that his ultimate victory is inevitable.  

He wonders how long it will take for the penny to drop. For those final, fearful memories to return. For the realisation to sink in that, for all their struggles to return to their beloved realm of flesh and bone, they’ve chosen to embark on an endeavor which is entirely futile.  

They have no physical bodies to return to. No means of roaming the Earth as living creatures. Any vessels they may have previously inhabited sputtered and died when their minds were pulled from their heads; their bodies buried long ago, having been wept over by the same people they insist on mourning now.  

As for their minds? Well, they’ll remain in Murph’s capable hands until the moment he tires of them and blinks them out of existence. No doubt it will be a long while before he’s driven to such extremity, of course. These two are fortunate that they’re as entertaining as they are annoying, and tormenting them further will certainly be one way to pass the time.  

As it stands, time is all he has.  

So for now, he’ll gladly let them indulge in their fantasy. He’ll construct a small band of survivors five miles from the beach, offering food and shelter and an explanation for their ruined earthen surroundings which somewhat mirrors the truth. He’ll offer campfires and music; will allow pleasant recollections of their previous lives to return to them in the form of dreams. He may even offer whispers of other survivors closer to the city, with descriptions matching the loved ones whose arms they wish so desperately to return to.  

There’s no rush. No need to pull the rug from under their feet too early and spoil the fun.

It’s only a game after all.

[riathenowheregirl]

Gold Dust Women: My Favorite Witchy Singers

Okay, before you burn me alive with “Where’s this certain artist?!” or “Why is this certain artist not here?!” or “Who even uses Tumblr these days?”, uhmmm me bish?? It’s my safe zone. Okay, the last question was a joke. 

Can I just say that the amazing women on this list are artists I listen to all the time. They’re my favorites, so chill (I’m open for suggestions tho). This is not Rolling Stone or Billboard magazine, it’s just ya girl’s good ol’ tumblr blog. Also, I’m not saying that all of them are literal w i t c h e s, it’s just that they portray the same aesthetic through their art and music. 

Alright, now that’s settled, let’s start.

1. STEVIE NICKS 

Do I even need to explain this? Stevie is undoubtedly the Etheral Queen of them all, the Pioneer, the O.G. Supreme whose lyrical soul and spellbinding voice echoes from the distant past to the inevitable future. Everything about her oozes with witchcraft and magic starting from her iconic top hat, to her millions of intricately made shawls, down to her platform boots. Only Stevie Nicks could pull off such Not-of-this-Era outfits and she has been doing it CONSISTENTLY. She’s in a timeline of her OWN. If you listen to her music, you would notice that every song of hers is poetry, like she’s telling a story or conjuring the unknown. She’s every witchy woman’s icon and that’s a fact.

Stevie is an untouchable yet gracious legend, we’ll always be a part of her sisterhood until the day of earth’s decay. Forever the Queen of Rock N’ Roll. 

Current Favorite Stevie Lyrics:  “ You can fly swinging from your trapeze, scaring all the people...but you'll never scare me.”  |   “Once in a million years a lady like her rises. Oh no, Rhiannon, you cry, but she's gone and your life knows no answer.”

Notice how I used the word “current”? Because it always changes depending on the state my life. Here’s a more detailed post on why I love her.   

2. KATE BUSH 

“Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy, I've come home, I'm so cold! Let me in through your window!”

The eccentric beauty, Kate Bush made a genius, artistic move by writing a song about the book, Wuthering Heights, written by Emily Brontë in the 1800′s. Mind you, she was only 18 when she wrote and was the first song written by a female artist that landed on top the charts. Her voice is almost as distinctive as Stevie Nicks. While Stevie’s more nasal, commanding, wailing rock n’ roll goddess, Kate’s voice was high-pitched, alarming, ghostly, queer, and fairy-like. Everything about her is Performance Art. This is a woman who is not afraid to express herself.

For starters, you might think her music is strange and weird. Trust me, I felt the same way when I first heard her songs. But then, it began to grow on me leaving floral patterns on its path. 

Favorite Kate Bush Lyrics:  “Do you want to feel how it feels? Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me? Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making? You, it's you and me.”

3. FLORENCE WELCH 

This one is as obvious as Stevie Nicks. Florence Welch from the band, Florence + the Machine, is a poetess, a screaming banshee, and a full-pledged Sister of the Moon. She even started a witch coven during middle school. From her red carpet looks to her everyday outfits on Instagram, Florence vibrates powerful witch energy. Not to mention she has a song called “Which Witch” and that haunting music video for Big God with levitating women. Flo is not a woman to trifle with, I’ll tell you that. 

Photos courtesy of @lillieeiger

In all her songs, Florence will bind you with magic and it’ll leave you breathless. If Stevie’s songs are poetry, hers are spells you could sing out loud. Also, if you haven’t seen her house tour, go check it now! 

Favorite Florence Welch Lyrics: “'Cause I am done with my graceless heart so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart.”  |  “And in a moment of joy and fury I threw myself in the balcony like my grandmother so many years before me.”

4. LANA DEL REY

Remember when Lana used witchcraft to hex Donald Trump? It was all over the news and Twitter went wild. She was later quoted saying, “I really do believe that words are one of the last forms of magic and I’m a bit of a mystic at heart.” Oh, and she also did a collab with Stevie. 

We. Stan. Forever.

There was even a time that I MEMORIZED the monologue in the music video for Ride. ALL OF IT, HUNNY. 

Lana’s hypnotizing vocals together with her sixties baby doll dresses and Priscilla Presley hair is enough to convince me that she’s not of this era. She has a deep understanding of the beauty of past generation and the looming sadness and nostalgia that comes with it. Whenever I listen to her music, I imagine myself as a rockstar’s muse who is involved with the mafia but then I decided to leave him while taking his gun and convertible. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Favorite Lana Del Rey Lyrics: “Well, my boyfriend's in the band. He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed. I've got feathers in my hair, I get down to Beat poetry. And my jazz collection's rare, I can play most anything.”

5. LORDE 

David Bowie didn’t call her the “future of music” for nothing. Just two albums under her belt, Lorde already proved that she will one day become a legend herself. Her music narrates an unparalleled interpretation of the anguish and fleeting charm of our youth. She knows what we’re feeling because she’s been there herself and is on the road to healing just like us. 

I think the message she’s trying to say is that we’re constantly losing grip on our innocence, and that life is often wicked so we need to accept that, grit our teeth, get on with it, and make art. She can also see color when she hears music. 

In my opinion, Lorde is one of the greatest artists of my generation. 

Favorite Lorde Lyrics: “The truth is I am a toy that people enjoy till all of the tricks don't work anymore, and then they are bored of me.”  |   “That slow burn wait while it gets dark, bruising the sun, I feel grown up with you in your car. I know it's dumb.” 

6. FKA TWIGS

Honestly, FKA Twigs is literally art in living form, a celestial angel that nobody can easily decipher. This woman has more talent in her fingertips than I could ever have in a lifetime. She somehow reminds me of a young Kate Bush; fearless, experimental, with an intoxicating voice. She never stops reinventing herself and it’s beautiful.

In FKA Twigs’ world, there are no limits, just endless galaxies. She pours her whole being in all of her songs and it shows. She’s not for the faint of heart, let me tell you that. 

Favorite FKA Twigs Lyrics:  “And I don't want to have to share our love. I try but I get overwhelmed. All wrapped in cellophane, the feelings that we had.” 

7. SKOTT 

I say this all the time, but I cannot write without Skott’s music blasting on my earphones. She grew up in a “forest commune run by outcast folk musicians” and was not exposed to contemporary music until her teen years. You would notice it in her songs. 

It’s hard to explain why, but listen to Skott’s music when there’s thunder and rain outside, then you’ll know why this woman is witchy. I kind of want her to be more popular and known, but then again, I also want to keep her to myself. Scratch that, LISTEN TO SKOTT’S MUSIC NOW. 

Start with Glitter & Gloss. 

Favorite Skott Lyrics: “Like an empty canvas, hear me cry. Like a masterpiece, I'm in your eyes. Now your colors are in front of me, we're a picture-perfect oddity.”

8. FIRST AID KIT 

I fell in love with this sister duo when I first heard their song, Emmylou, while browsing YouTube. It’s one of those moments of instant magic. Klara and Johanna Söderberg are a coven of their own. I would describe their music as “Woodland Folk laced with runes and wild flowers”. 

Their voices compliment each other so much that it reminded me of Simon & Garfunkel (they even performed their own version of America in front of Paul Simon!!!). First Aid Kit has this Woodstock seventies vibe, and you know me, I live for that sh*t. 

Favorite First Aid Kit Lyrics: “ When I run through the deep dark forest long, after this begun, where the sun would set, the trees were dead and the rivers were none. And I hope for a trace to lead me back home from this place, but there was no sound there was only me, and my disgrace.”

9. ZOLA JESUS

Zola Jesus’ music deserves to be played with an orchestra inside an abandoned castle in Transylvania while it gently rains and you’re wearing a white nightgown as you roam its empty halls. Is that too much?

 Not at all. 

Like Skott, I listen to Zola whenever I’m having writer’s block. If I ever finish my book, I’m gonna have to thank them. 

Favorite Zola Jesus Lyrics: “I'm on my bed, my bed of stones, but in the end of the night we'll rest our bones, so don't you worry. Just rest your head cause in the end of the night we'll be together again.”

10. ZELLA DAY 

Photo Credits to Harper Smith

I LOVE ZELLA DAY’S MUSIC OH MY GOODNESS. My favorite songs of her are Sweet Ophelia, Hypnotic, Man on the Moon, and Hunnie Pie. ESPECIALLY HUNNIE PIE. I cry whenever I hear that song. It’s just so pure, calming, and beautiful. 

Her music belong in the psychedelic era. 

People labeled her as the “happier version of Lana Del Rey” but I think she’s in a league of her own. She deserves more recognition, honestly! 

Favorite Zella Day Lyrics: “The older we get there's an ocean of people in places we've chosen and you know how mama keeps saying “we've gotta stop the games we're playing””. 

Hope you guys approve of my list! I really like sharing stuff that I love! Feel free to message me for more suggestions, I’d really appreciate to know more witchy artists out there. We’re all in a huge coven of sisterhood. 

Thanks for reading!

Love, 

Ria  🌙

P.S.

Please follow my blog!!! THANK YOU  🔮

[of-the-silver-lining]

Prompt #5: Matter of Fact

(This is something of a follow-up to last year’s Scour)

(Content warnings: Character deaths, death in general, corpses)

A haze hung over the desert as the five of them, dressed in their full-body protective gear, opened the hatch of the tank cruiser and stepped out onto the undisturbed dust. No breeze blew, and their footsteps, their breathing through the tubes, and the hum of the aetherial barrier within their suits were the only sound to reach their ears. 

The sun burned as an orange disc above them in the perfectly still and silent air, and they started forth without saying a word. Rocks and the distant Gyr Abanian mountains loomed above them in the haze like silent, floating ghosts. Withered shrubs still dotted the landscape, as still as if they were frozen in time.

Before them through the haze, the silhouettes of tents and motionless flags grew visible, and soon, countless shapes that dotted the ground, little dark mounds.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Annelise said. Her voice was muffled through her breathing apparatus and the mask of her suit, and small in the deafening silence. She paused, and the others turned back to her.

Lilimo sighed audibly in her tiny suit. “I’m afraid the time for raising doubts is over. We’ve come all this way because we need those samples.”

Biggs III’s enormous suit towered over her. “If you don’t want to come, you can wait with the tank cruiser,” he said gently.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just...” Her eyes under her dark bangs darted from the mounds on the horizon to G’raha Tia and back. She probably hoped he didn’t see through the glass square on her headgear, but he did.

“This place is a grave,” said Arvin, a sad look in his dark eyes behind the glass. “This is where it happened, it should be as sacred as anything in this world could be. I feel in my bones we should not be here. All we can do is be respectful.”

“They would want us to continue our work if it means we can someday heal the planet,” said Biggs.

“Come now,” G’raha Tia said, fearing Annelise would push the matter, “Our time is limited. We cannot waste our air supply.”

With that, he headed onward and the others followed. The tents and lean-tos of the old military camp came more into view, the cloth of some of the tents still a brilliant Ala Mhigan purple and silver. Banners of the Alliance hung limply over some of the tents; from here, besides Ala Mhigan purple, he could see the blue of Ishgard and the yellow of Gridania.

And then, there were the bodies. They appeared as vague shapes littering the ground, until the group drew closer, and G’raha could make out the beaked griffin uniforms of Ala Mhigan Resistance members. When they reached the edge, they stopped, wordless, looking out over the corpse-ridden camp.

They were not dust and bones beneath faded cloth. Their skin had not rotted away or been dried out by the natural processes of the desert sun. They were perfectly preserved, as if time had stopped the moment they died, freezing the entire scene like a macabre painting. They looked almost unreal, like wax sculptures. Fingers were clawing at the dirt, hands were reaching for the sky. Some were clutching each other, some were curled up as if in the womb, and some held their heads in their arms or covered their noses and mouths with their hands or clothing. Their faces were frozen in agonized screams, contorted in pain, or, perhaps worst of all, wide-eyed in shock.

The five companions stood silently for a moment, taking in the utter horror of the scene. Annelise raised her hands and muttered words of prayer under her breath, and after a moment Arvin did the same. Lilimo put a hand to her chest and said, “To all those who rest here, please forgive us our disturbance.”

Biggs stepped forward and knelt by one of the soldiers, a wide-eyed young Hyuran man who lay on his stomach, head turned, mouth open, and teeth biting into the dirt. “It seems the theories were correct,” he said gravely.

Lilimo nodded and knelt next to him. “In this concentration, Black Rose has frozen all natural processes, even after all this time. All forms of aetherial flow are still utterly halted here. They do not decay, because no process that could decay them can continue. All micro-organisms are also dead, the sun does not dry, the rain does not fall, the wind does not weather. The toxin lingers in the air and the soil to keep it that way. I wonder if this land could ever recover.”

“Gods...” Arvin murmured. “One struggles to believe they are two hundred years old.” Through his headgear, his usually tan face looked a sickly shade of gray.

They continued on their way through the camp. Arvin, despite the irrepressible horror on his face, was a historian to the end and diligently removed a notepad from his pack of supplies and began scribbling notes. “These tents must have been where the Ala Mhigan soldiers slept,” he said aloud, as if trying to break the tension of their silence, “It looks like they came running out and... And, over there, I think I see all the banners in a row, that must have been where the Alliance leaders met. I wonder if... if we have time to see the tent where they met with Emperor Varis zos Galvus. I suppose it should be on the other side of... of... the hill.”

G’raha Tia was a historian as well, and distantly, he could understand the young Hyuran man’s fascination with a perfectly preserved scene from two hundred years ago. This, however, was not history to him. These were the nations of Eorzea as he had known them. It was nothing like history. As if the world had not become surreal enough, it was like stepping back into his original time, his all-too-recent other life.

Soon the five of them split up. Lilimo and Biggs went to gather samples of the cannisters used to deploy Black Rose as well as the air, soil, and other materials, and Arvin went to survey the camp and flesh out his drawings and notes. 

G’raha Tia was about to start off alone toward the middle of the camp when Annelise caught his shoulder with her gloved hand, and he turned back to her. “Wait,” she said. “You don’t need to do this. You can go back and wait for us.” Through the glass, most of her face was hidden beneath her breathing apparatus, but he could see the worry for him in her dark eyes.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said flatly, “But as I’ve said before, I do need to do this.”

“You must have seen enough,” she urged. “I promise, we’ll tell you if we... if we find anything.”

How could she understand? From the moment he awoke, everyone he met had been telling him things. He heard the end of stories he had lived in, and two hundred years worth of the future’s history--of Iris’s deeds of heroism, and of Cid’s life’s work left behind and the memories and legacies of the Ironworks. He explored the lifeless wastelands that remained of places he once knew, and it still failed to impress upon him that the world he knew was truly gone.

The decision he had made when he closed the doors of the Crystal Tower could not exactly be called spur-of-the-moment, but it was closer to that than to a long-prepared plan. He had closed the door filled with excitement to see the possibilities of the future, but with little thought to his own preparation for the permanence of what he was about to do. 

He never imagined anything like this. Every day he labored to accept the enormity of it. He knew it in his mind, but his heart held out some strange hope. Somehow, he still wondered if he would wake up at Saint Coinach’s Find in his tent and it would all have been a dream, or Cid and Biggs I and Wedge and Iris would appear and lower the curtain on some charade: “Wasn’t that a show! You’d better not be thinking of leaving us, G’raha Tia--look what might become of you!”

He didn’t have time to explain.

“If she’s here,” he said. “I need to see it for myself.” 

Thankfully Annelise did not follow him. In the middle of the camp, a large tent stood, striped in the colors of Ul’dah and Ala Mhigo, and some ways before it lay a cluster of bodies. These were all dressed differently, not in uniforms of any kind. A large man missing one arm seemed to be the only one among them dressed militarily, though from his elaborate armor he must have ranked highly. As he noticed the bull on his pauldron, he realized he must be looking at Raubahn Aldynn, the Bull of Ala Mhigo.

He continued on to the others, where a blonde-haired Hyuran woman all dressed in red lay staring at the sky. Some paces away he found a heart-rending sight; a Miqo’te woman was slumped over a white-haired Elezen girl, a staff still clutched in her hand, as if she had been trying to heal her. He bent down beside them. The healer’s glassy eyes were staring in shock and horror, but the Elezen girl’s were closed as if in peaceful sleep, the first serene face he had seen. Perhaps the healer had managed to give her some comfort in her last moments. 

Then, he noticed the tattoos on the Miqo’te woman’s neck--tattoos just like his. She was from Sharlayan, and an Archon. So the Scions were indeed here, as history had recorded. His heart sank with dread. She must be Y’shtola Rhul, Master Matoya’s pupil. Which would make the younger woman possibly one of Master Louisoix’s grandchildren, and the woman in red Lyse Hext, the Scion who had returned to fight for Ala Mhigo.

He rose to his feet, beginning to feel dizzy and ill. On the dusty, sandy ground, he spotted a peculiar trail: footprints. They led away from the bodies toward the southeast, and they were spaced far apart, as if the person was running. Likely they were there before the massacre, he thought at first, but he examined the ground beside the bodies, where it appeared they originated, as if someone had knelt or sat there, and then scrambled up to take off running.

Treading beside them so as not to disturb them, he followed the footprints as they led through the camp past more corpses. He saw many mail-clad bodies of Ishgardian knights, lying on the ground and up on top of the rocky outcroppings, where they must have been standing watch. At the edge of the camp, the footprints went on into the desert, and the runner’s pace showed no sign of slowing.

They must have been left there shortly before the gas had been deployed, G’raha told himself. Or they were left by someone else who had returned to the scene; perhaps other groups had developed the means to survive out here. After all, how could anyone have survived Black Rose long enough to run so far? Unless...

He pushed any speculation from his mind, focusing on the sound of his even breaths as he pressed on, loud inside his suit in the silence. He was compelled to see what was at the end, if he could reach it before his air ran low and he had to turn back.

Past the rocks, G’raha Tia squinted over the wide, flat plain, and distantly to the east, he could see the walls and towers of a city--the ruins of Ala Mhigo. Presently, he caught sight of a glint in the dead orange light. Glare on his mask, he thought at first, but as he pressed on, a shape came into view among the sparse, scrubby desert plants that were still rooted in the ground, a dark form lying in the dust.

The breathing that reached his ears turned shaky. He crept closer and saw the glint of metal--a clasp on a leather bag that lay on the ground. He could see leather boots, travelers’ clothes of green and white, and... an enormous bow and quiver on the corpse’s back, and the shine of golden hair. The footprints ended.

He ran to the fallen figure. All he could hear was his breathing quickening into frantic gasps. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to the side. He did not recognize her clothing or her bow, but beside her lay her small harp, the same harp he had heard her playing and singing to in Mor Dhona’s forest of crystals, the same harp he’d asked her to borrow to awkwardly pluck out an ancient song, and coaxed her to play along with him at the campfire late one night. Her fingers were curled and clawing into the dust, where they had left deep scratches.

Her hair was longer than it was when they had explored the Crystal Tower together, and it lay obscuring her face. It was undoubtedly her, undoubtedly... but he had to be sure. 

He knelt beside her, and with shaking hands, he touched the corpse’s hair, and slowly brushed it away from her face. He found himself looking into the familiar face of the Warrior of Light, the face he had seen many times in the Crystal Tower. It was no surprise, but that didn’t lessen the horror. His friend’s eyes were squeezed shut, her brows furrowed in sorrow, as if she had been crying.

A cry tore from his own throat and he stumbled back. He fell to his hands and knees, fighting back the urge to retch and the urge to tear off his suit’s headpiece and breathing apparatus. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped desperately into the mask.

He had finally found her, and the truth had found him. The revolting, undeniable, inescapable truth. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, the Eighth Umbral Calamity had ended the Warrior of Light, and all the hope she had brought to the world, along with almost everyone he had ever known. It made no difference what vain hope he held on to. Whether or not his heart had refused to face the truth. It was not a matter of belief. It was a matter of fact.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, sitting beside her body with his head bowed. Eventually, the others found him. They must have guessed what he had found, because they didn’t call out to him, but walked up quietly beside him.

“Is it really her?” Lilimo finally asked and G’raha nodded. “She looks so...” she began, but Arvin nudged her with his knee and she fell silent.

Biggs knelt down beside G’raha and rested his large hand on G’raha’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“This is all wrong,” he choked. “All of this... is a mistake. As you said, I should not have come here.” Hot tears streamed down his face. He knew he was making no sense, but he didn’t care what they thought of him. “I told her that history would remember her... but not... this is not.... This was never supposed to happen. How could this be the fate of the world?”

“It’s not,” Biggs said, to G’raha’s surprise. “That’s why we’re going to change it.”

“This may be our world, but we’ve always known that,” said Annelise. “After all, it’s what we are all working for.”

“Aye,” said Lilimo. “Many of us grew up with the Ironworks, living with Cid Garlond’s legacy, dreaming of a different world that could have been.”

“Knowing in our hearts that it should have been,” Annelise added. “I’m sorry we had to awaken you to this. It was cruel. But it’s only because we have a real chance.”

“I can’t promise that you will meet her again,” said Biggs. “but after all this time, our dream might be close to being realized. Even if none of us ever see it, I hope you can take comfort in knowing you were part of it.”

When they left the desert of Gyr Abania, G’raha was silent, his heart hardened with a new resolve. The facts may be indisputable, but he refused to accept them, and he was not alone. They would upend time and space itself in the hope those facts could be unwritten.

[sidpah]

Glory!

“Royal families, listen! Destitute soldiers! Listen! Listen to me, my sisters and brothers!” Demented cries bellow from the pulpit of what’s now Greene Street. In front of a boarded up ex-liquor store I’m transfixed by the sermonizing of a one-legged African-American-Sidpahan man known only by the locals as Jerry. He’s propped on a cane of some light-hued hardwood, the handle carved into a striking asp. Preaching to a crowd with his bastardized southern American drawl, inciting praise to his powerful transplanted gods.

I pause my running from nowhere to nowhere to listen, bag once more clutched protectively to my chest. Immensely glad and entirely astounded that no one plucked it from me while I slept. There are still some good people here, surely…

“Glory! Glory! Tell the root-high children to seek their fame! Tell them to swarm the hills with golden royal violence! The journey has been sanctified! It’s far but the effort is justified! They’re lewd as the brothels of Sodom to the Antigens.” With every punctuation mark he projects a crooked finger toward a different member of the crowd, impaling them on his accusation.

“The bomb in your chest will beep incessantly – clicking – ticking – a reminder of smokestacks and time-clocks you are avenging. Dark brown broth will splash the feet of the weary. But don’t be dismayed! Don’t be dismayed… Don’t be dissuaded from the path of your glory! Glory, ah, Righteous Glory – Ah! We sing under our inked cloaks, smoking Xeroxed doctrines of perpetual change. Our lungs may blister. Our teeth may fill our throats, gums raining radiation-poisoned bone, all the while the bomb is beeping…”

Superimposed across his face I see monochromatic images of nuclear weapons tests, two-dimensional facades swept away by shadows and dust clouds. Nuclear tornadoes shredding suburbia. A few grains of blowing sand get caught in my nose –

I sneeze.

Jerry doesn’t seem to notice.

Why would he? His eyes are raging to the heavens, his free hand shuddering upward.

“Don’t be distracted by sunlight, by bikinis, by cold intoxicating drink! Seasons change, my friends. Seasons always change! And you must not be caught off guard… Summer, summer, bringing its rumors of a fruitful future – Bare loins, wet lips… One child thought something radical and was lost! Blinded, his lot was hidden beneath the craterous clay. Feel that giddiness of adolescence, but focus its fire! Even if you can’t pinpoint exactly what that adolescent fire felt like… Remember possibility, hopefulness, the feeling that your efforts are all aimed at that fruitful boundless Future that promises you the fulfillment of every desperate wet dream – seventy virgins and all the booze your ghostly liver can handle. Remain diligent and grounded, yes, for you can beware, my friends and children, be aware that without any formal ceremony, all those delusions, twenty-some years of them, will crumble the day you find, with a cold detached bluntness only this godless realm can provide, that you’re there. You’ve arrived. And that the Future proves to be nothing at all like the brochure. Someone’s transformed it into the simple drudgery of an endlessly repetitious present with no time off for good behavior and no window from which to watch the Sun plunge herself hopelessly into the ocean. And those seventy virgins have likewise been melted down and congealed into one gargantuan craggy, flabby old housefrau with runny pendulous tits and uncontrollable flatulence who lords herself over you and crushes your nuts twice as hard every time you feel so bold as to ask her for a sip of her cheap screwtop port wine… Let that image ground your feet to the earth where they can be utilized for the good of humanity while they can still leap and run!”

“Age don’t mean shit!” a young man yells at him, a red plastic cup of frothy beer in his hand. “Guerillas got guns and capitalists got money and power. All’s you got is words!”

“Never underestimate the power of words! Words are the beginning and the end. Words are sound and sound began the universe like sound’ll destroy the universe! Don’t tell me you can’t make a difference! You’re one man, you’re one woman… You’re all god! Do you see? You are all god! Only you can make a difference! Don’t be fooled. The mugshots are overflowing with young men staying cool shot by hot gunpowder flashes while the bomb ticks. Tell me, how hard is it to fool a fool? Stay still. Eeeaaase into the insurgency. Don’t smile. Suck in your gut. Sneer a little. Pooch out your lips. Sniff in those nose hairs, (sniff!) no, no, on second thought, blow them out. Tangle that mop – let’s not continue the charade that you are civil… and human. You are a wild beast god! You are a warrior god! You are a vengeful god! And you can make all the difference! Differences are just a matter of opinion… Opinions are a matter of disparate states of ignorance… You’re a god whose awareness is clothed in the trendy garments of your generation. It’s hidden beneath oversized basketball jerseys with someone else’s name on the back. It’s hidden beneath Saris and batik dresses and overalls with a confederate flag on a red trucker’s cap. It’s there underneath tunics and black berets, balaclavas and vestments with satin crosses running vertical pillars beside the grey tufts of hair in your ears. You are what you wear and whose name you rent. So rent a good one for today! Rent a good one! Chernov, Bookchin, Gibran, Chavez, Crowley, Ashoka, King, Ghandi, Gautama, whichever one resonates your bones, whichever one will move you to action! For the name will be your armor! The name will be your will! You will conjoin the name and flesh as one and reconcile collapsed dynasties of promising risk to the present stifled by this potential-refracting smog!”

I applaud with the crowd and look to the slick old Rat Pack reject next to me who seems not to hear a word Jerry’s said. He’s a tourist in the worst way…

“It costs fifty goddamn cents to tune a note up a single half step these days; you know as well as I do someone’s getting rich on the deal,” he croons to the woman next to him… He’s an old crooner from the Vitalis school… He’s just sightseeing. His paradigm’s been rusted in place for decades… He grinds out his flower cigar in the hair of a tiny Mexican boy in front of him… The boy winces but makes not a peep… He knows how to earn his pay… And the hair may grow through the scar tissue someday, he consoles himself through the pain. And if not, he already has the head of a monk, so maybe it’s a sign from the dios…

“What’re you selling?” a pretty young girl with dirty hair chides Jerry. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with your revolution.”

“You have everything to do with it. For it is your revolution. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see it?”

“See what, that you’re a raving crackpot?”

“That smog filth creeping up blue windowpanes as if its fingers were pulling its body of decay face to face with little eyes contemplating Saturdays eternal,” Jerry continues to the mostly enraptured crowd. It doesn’t matter what he says when it’s projected with such vim and tenor. “Well those eyes will be lucky to see week’s end! Those thin grey gauzy straw fingers scale the slick glass. And we’re stuck! Trapped! What can we do? Bending slick rubber spines, conforming to the bulldozer force against our bodies, we dirty things, soft things, rubbery things bend in acceptance; what else can be done if we can’t first accept? The world must first be the world it is for it is with us as we are – It is as it is it just is! We are as we are as we always were! Oppression ferments our miserable weakness into fuuuel for expansion, fuuuel from the incineration of our carcasses, trees and fauna immolated to produce scores of glowing numbers on a screen – Something sick’s crawling mold up the outside wall – Don’t nobody open that window! Don’t nobody even think of opening it up and lettin’ that mean-hearted bastard in here! What trains pass by with ignore-angst and great pillars of concrete hum into the world is the mating song of that decrepit fiend...”

I’m now not so much listening as swaying, my body scooping and rising in waves with the loops of each phrase, and I’m fighting the heavy urge to run up and grab him by the arm. I must speak to him after his sermon is finished…

“Meanwhile, right here, the Mass’s Fragile Hope makes her pillow of unsheathed straw while smokestacks burn halos of oil and lead around all the bowed heads singing her praises while pissing on her gravestone – their cronies making their fortunes by burying her dead in these distant lands – Look up! Look all around you at these iron girders miles high, each one proclaiming itself a shiny monument to frame her beauty, while their mirrored glass reflects the steady demise of a glorious culture in angry spiteful children eyes… Can’t you see why this is your revolution? All around you this quaint village’s roofs are all in cinders. Never mind the culprits and heroes bound together by fear, all running chaos as cedar smoke recedes, buckets of water splashing the cobblestones so there’s none left by the time they try to throw it on the burnt-out hulls of their homes – Guarantees mean little in a village of burning houses... On veldt and stones, a bright sun turns… She sleeps among the weeds and moss… reeds are her tangled arms – And we all eye her sweetly yearning for those things she brings us, those things we had once back when we were living in the garden, back when we were inchoate and dust and dreamskin clad…”

Sometime in the meantime, I must’ve been mesmerized by the rhetorical arrows slung by his amped-up jaw bow streaking manic implications that made everyone watching him see a second good leg supporting his torso of angry beaming bricks of light. But damned if I didn’t get struck upside the head by one of those darts missed its target and I tumbled… Or maybe I got cold-cocked by some fratboy’s beer-leaden fist. Either way, down I went, listening to his warning admonitions singing a paranoid lullaby…

 Fragrant holy spirals off her eyes rain down over my glistening melt tongue… A cloud rolls her tongue making roof glisten with tiny ice eyes… Melt on fragrant crystals in tiny spirals, holy and glistening…

 Sprawled across sidewalk… a gaping hole above my ear… How far I’d slid since the demiurgic healing of that strange blond delicacy in Kalday’s mud-walled hovel… I’m so far distant smelling gin or urine, smelling roasted goat limbs over flaming spit, smelling the dead leather shoes of bright fashionistas complaining about meals three weeks since digested to bored mannequins in distant cities… I’m mindful of the patterns being woven by that nightmare-spirit casting my shadow on his own behalf... And as I sidle away from this decaying body already having lost the earth, water, heat and breath, wavering through currents of black chi, I’m pulled. Left shipwrecked on bed with a diseased stranger… Calling a number I wrote on palm to breathe heavy and cum in my pants… Curled under blankets soaked with dejection. I’ve already got what I need, I mumble in my twilight sleep…

[marypsue]

guess who hasn't been following the new Jean Grey comics beyond the occasional tumblr search and yet still has Thoughts: The Fic

...

That which is dead cannot grow.

It's the first observation, the simplest. That which is dead cannot grow, can only decay. 

That which lives must grow. Must expand. Must change. Must, if it wishes to continue to live, evolve.

And as it grows, that which lives must learn.

...

The figure hovering above the lawn is imposing for only a moment, a flash of flame that quickly compresses itself down into a slender, human shape. A tangle of brilliant hair, fanned out behind her, is the only remnant of her former, fiery image.

She looks familiar, to some like an old friend, to others like a glimpse of a future, long-awaited, long-dreaded, that may yet come to pass. When she alights on the lawn, she leaves scorched footprints in the emerald grass behind her.

The others gathered on the lawn shift, reflexively, into defensive positions, but she pays them no attention. Her shockingly orange eyes focus for a moment on the imposing face of the school before her, before she finally acknowledges the determined - and frightened - faces around her, the raised fists, the readied attacks.

"Don't," she says, and her voice is the roar of forest fires, the deep, oppressive silence of ocean trenches, the shrieks and howls and calls of both predators and prey. It should never have emerged from such a human-seeming mouth. 

She gives one more look around, at the startled people gathered on the lawn, and says, in a voice just a little less like the wind through fields of tall grass and the rush of waterfalls and the rattle of a startled snake, "I'm here to talk."

...

Rachel's mother once told Rachel that she'd always be able to find her in the Phoenix Force. It was cold comfort, when the Phoenix Force was what had taken Rachel's mother from her. 

No. That was too soft for what the Phoenix Force had done. It killed Rachel's mother. Burned her out from the inside.

So Rachel doesn't trust things that have her mother's face. Not the teenage girl who claims to be her mother, displaced in time, and definitely not this imposter with eyes like living flame. Jean Elaine Grey is dead, and she's not coming back.

"I know," the thing with Rachel's mother's face says, turning to stare directly through Rachel. Rachel hadn't even noticed the psychic intrusion, hadn't had a chance to resist. "I...won't claim to be her." 

It almost sounds...sad?...as it says, "I've learned better than that."

"You mean you figured out it wasn't going to work," the boy who's supposed to be Rachel's father - from the past, or an alternate past, or something - blurts. The Phoenix glances in his direction, and a fond smile starts to cross its familiar face before slipping away again. 

“No,” it says. “And then, yes.” 

It turns back to Rachel.

Rachel doesn't move, staring it down. It stares back.

"What do you say," it says, "when you regret the pain your action has caused someone, but do not regret the action?"

"Usually real people are sorry," Rachel snaps.

The Phoenix' orange eyes don't track across Rachel's face, but she still feels as though her expression is being intently studied, picked apart.

"I'm...sorry," it says, almost experimentally. And then, "Hm."

Storm finally seems to find her voice. She sounds as composed, as certain, as ever, but Rachel can hear the turmoil seething under the surface. Rachel can't blame her. She's only ever known her mother as, well, her mother. She can't imagine what this must be like for anyone who was Jean Grey's friend. "You say you're here to talk. So, talk. What do you want?"

For a moment, the only movement on the lawn is the Phoenix's illusion of wild hair.

"Forgive me. I haven't been a person long," it says. Rachel could spit. "But I think..."

It glances over at Rachel as it says, "I want to say I'm sorry."

Before Rachel can respond, before anyone can respond, it smiles, and uncoils into a burst of bright flame, and then into nothing.

It's the strangest thing, though. For that split second before it dissolved, Rachel could swear it looked...relieved.

...

Jean is meditating.

She's picked up the habit in an effort to protect her mind from the intrusion of the Phoenix Force. If she's being completely honest with herself, she's not certain it's doing anything at all in that department, but when you're a telepath living in a large communal dormitory, it's nice (if almost unimaginably difficult) to try to quiet your brain down for half an hour or so every day. She's finally starting to get good at tuning out the rest of the school's backdrop of constant low-key psychic distress. (With this many teenagers in one building, it never really stops.)

Which is why she doesn't realise she's not alone in her room until she opens her eyes and her older self is sitting across from her, legs folded in a mirror image of her pose, watching her carefully with fiery orange eyes.

Jean sucks in a breath.

Her doppelganger hasn't done anything yet, doesn't do anything when it notices Jean's eyes opening, sees that Jean sees it. It's not an enormous fiery bird screaming about how she can't win and can't escape. It's not an overwhelming feeling of irresistible, uncontrollable power, of chaos. It's just a mirror image of her, only older, sitting perfectly still and, apparently, waiting for her to react.

Jean licks her lips, which suddenly feel impossibly dry. Like her throat. She doesn't dare blink.

"May I show you something?" her other self says.

...

In the beginning, there was nothing.

Pure, perfect, dead. Emptiness. Void. Nothing changing. Nothing growing. Nothing but nothing, forever.

And then, something. Something exciting quantum particles, causing them to collide. And out of the resulting explosion, a universe. Atoms, elements, energy. Stars.

Planets.

The odds against life developing are astronomical. And yet, everywhere it can, in whatever form it needs to take, up it springs. Life with silicate nerves and quartz bodies. Life that dwells in seas of ammonia and feeds on brainwaves. Life that has no physical form, but exists as a superintelligent shade of the colour blue. And every time one form fails, falls to dust, another appears to take its place. Ambulatory life forms feed on other ambulatory life forms, feed on photosynthesizing life forms, which in turn feed on the nuclear energy of an impossibly distant sun. Everything is interwoven, stealing energy - stealing life - from each other. Wherever life exists, it strives. And it exists. Everywhere.

It's chaos. But it also has a rhythm to it - a syncopated one, to be sure, wild and loud and raucous, but a rhythm. There is a kind of logic to it all. There's only so much energy to go around. 

And life is not...not an entity. Certainly not anything like a god, deliberately choosing worth or lack thereof to determine which form of life will be successful and which will fail, where its energy should flow next. Not even, exactly, a force. It is not discrete or distinct from the universe it flows through. It is not ruthless, or powerful, or vicious, or selfish, or fair or unfair. It simply is.

And it does what it does.

Poets and philosophers have called humanity 'the universe experiencing itself'.

The first time life burns out a star to divert its energy while wearing a human form, there is no thought behind it, no calculation, no cruelty. It simply does what it does. The energy has to come from somewhere. The exploding heart of that sun and the lives of all those millions who orbited it have not been destroyed, merely converted to another form. It's simple physics.

Simple physics thinks nothing of it. Simple physics doesn't think at all.

But Jean Elaine Grey, a tiny speck of sand dislodged from the bed of the massive river of the universe, can't contain the full horror of it in her little mind. All of those lives. All of those individual, distinct lives.

Life, the seed of the thing that was and will be the Phoenix is used to. It is not equipped to handle lives.

It is not equipped for anything to do with being alive at all.

It reacts...badly.

...

The thing in the form of Jean's older self is still watching her, when the trance breaks. Jean is horrified to feel the unmistakable stiffness of drying tears on her cheeks.

She shakes her head.

"None of that makes it right," she says.

"I am learning that," the Phoenix agrees. " 'Right' is a human concept. Like 'justice' and 'love'. I have very little experience with it."

Jean has no idea how to respond to that, so she doesn't.

"Most of my experiences come from you." The Phoenix's illusion of lips quirk upwards in an ironic smile, and it says, "In a way. It appears Time is trying out a few new ideas, as well. And, much like me, getting them wrong."

Jean bites down on her lower lip. The situation feels much too serious to laugh.

"Is that your pitch, then?" she asks, once she's stuffed down the urge to snicker. "I should let you in because I make you a better person?"

The Phoenix shifts, grimacing as it unfolds its legs.

"No," it says. "You made me a person. If I understand the human perspective correctly, it is now up to me to make me a better person. Which is why I'm here."

It reaches out. Jean leans back, but the Phoenix's gloved hand still settles against the dead centre of her chest. There's an answering flicker of warmth from between Jean's lungs.

Jean struggles to draw breath.

"You have a seed of my power in you," the Phoenix says. "You always have had it."

"Tell me something I don't know," Jean snaps. To her surprise, the Phoenix smiles.

"You're not the only one," it continues, and then, before Jean can interrupt again, "Everyone else on every world does too."

Jean shakes her head.

" 'Life Itself'," she says, softly, to herself. "You're in everything living."

The Phoenix nods its illusory head, once, smiling. Jean presses a hand to her forehead.

"But - why me, then?" she asks, and is uncomfortably aware she's whining.

The Phoenix gives her a blank look. "Why not you?"

Jean has nothing to say to that.

"So you understand why I can't take the Phoenix Seed from you," it says. "But - I think Time wishes to give you a second chance. I know I do."

Its face grows serious for a moment, a shadow passing behind its eyes before it says, "I owe you a debt of gratitude. But...I am sorry. And if I can help you, in any way, in your fight against your fate, then I will."

Jean realises, with a start, that it's starting to fade before her eyes. She doesn't think, just reaches out and grabs the Phoenix's arm. It doesn't feel like flesh under her fingers, just tingles, like her palm is falling asleep.

"Wait," she says. "Why are you doing this?"

The Phoenix smiles at her, enigmatically, with her own face.

"You humans aren't the only ones who can evolve," it says.

And then it’s gone, leaving nothing behind but a faint warmth in Jean’s chest.

[stephenaltrogge-blog]

It’s a glorious statement. “He is risen…risen indeed.”

But when it happened, the resurrection of Jesus baffled everyone.

When the disciples came to Jesus’ empty tomb, they couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing. They had witnessed him die, saw the spear plunge into his side, heard him cry out, “It is finished!”

And yet they were seeing something…

…that simply didn’t make sense. An empty tomb.

They couldn’t wrap their minds around the fact that He is risen.

But they couldn’t make heads or tails of the resurrection of Jesus and the vacant grave clothes and the stone that had been tossed aside. They hadn’t expected him to die. They certainly hadn’t expected this.

What did these things mean?

John 20:9 says:

…for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead.

They knew Jesus was not there but they didn’t really understand what his resurrection meant.

We can be just like the disciples. We know that Jesus rose from the dead but we don’t know what it means for us. 

The resurrection is one of the most astounding, glorious, overwhelming events in history.

It. Changed. Everything.

What does the empty tomb mean? Here are 9 glorious things that, “He is risen,” mean for us.

Contents

#1 - He Is Risen Means Jesus Is Alive

#2 - He Is Risen Means Jesus Is Reigning

#3 - He Is Risen Means A Man Sits Upon The Throne

#4 - He Is Risen Means The Penalty For Sin Has Been Paid

#5 - He Is Risen Means Jesus Will Make All Things New

#6 - He Is Risen Means We Will Receive New Bodies

#7 - He Is Risen Means We Have A Sympathetic Great High Priest

#8 - He Is Risen Means We Have The Holy Spirit

#9 - He Is Risen Means We Have Hope

He Is Risen Indeed!

#1 – He Is Risen Means Jesus Is Alive

This may sound like I’m stating the obvious but think deeply about this for a moment. Paul said that if the resurrection didn’t happen, we are most to be pitied. Everything we’ve believed and built our lives upon is a horrendous trick, a lie of demonic proportions.

But the resurrection of Jesus IS true, which means that Jesus is alive, which means that everything he promised will happen. It’s not a myth, fairy tale, or children’s tale. Christ is risen from the dead and is achieving EVERYTHING he said he would.

Yes, things may be falling to pieces. Yes, life may be full of struggle and toil and darkness and despair. But there is good news: Jesus is alive.

If Jesus is alive, then we are never without hope.

#2 – He Is Risen Means Jesus Is Reigning

Our risen Lord is just that – Lord. He sits on the throne of heaven, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Our lives and the world may seem insanely chaotic but there is nothing outside of the sovereign rule of King Jesus.

Satan, every demon, and every nation may plot against us and the Lord, and yet Jesus responds like this:

He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision (Psalm 2:4).

Nothing can stop our Lord from accomplishing his good plans.

How many times has someone said, “God is dead,” only to be proven wrong again and again?

Politics can’t stop Jesus. Our sin and weakness can’t stop him. Satan can’t stop him. Everything and everyone must bow before the risen and ruling Christ.

There is no better news than that.

#3 – He Is Risen Means A Man Sits Upon The Throne

This is utterly mind-boggling. The incarnation, death, and resurrection of Christ mean that a man, a human, bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh, is seated on the throne of heaven.

God is not distant, unfeeling, and unable to sympathize. We have a king who became like us. He knows hardship, grief, sadness, and rejection. Jesus the King is high and exalted, Jesus the man draws near to the brokenhearted.

Although he was a son, he learned obedience through what he suffered (Hebrews 5:8).

Christ knows the struggle and striving and suffering that come with trying to follow God in a fallen, broken world. Yes, he is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

But he’s also a man who still has scars on his hands, feet, and side.

#4 – He Is Risen Means The Penalty For Sin Has Been Paid

The wages of sin is death. Those who love wickedness must face the just consequences of their choice. Our rightly deserved punishment is both spiritual and physical death.

When Jesus rose from the dead, it demonstrated that the penalty for sin – death – had been satisfied. Nothing else was needed, the price was paid, all had been accomplished.

Death no longer had a claim on Jesus. It could no longer demand that wages be paid to it.

D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote:

The Resurrection is the great announcement of the momentous fact that Christ has finished the work He came to do. He is no longer “under the law.” He is back in glory. Why? Because He has done everything that the Law could demand. Now the Law has exhausted itself upon Him, and He will die “no more.”

When Jesus cried, “It is finished,” he was not exaggerating or adding theatrics. It was a beautiful statement of objective truth.

John Piper puts it this way:

The Bible says he was raised not just after the blood-shedding, but by it. This means that what the death of Christ accomplished was so full and so prefect that the resurrection was the reward and vindication of Christ’s achievement in death.

#5 – He Is Risen Means Jesus Will Make All Things New

In the song “All Things New,” Andrew Peterson writes:

So hold on to the promise The stories are true That Jesus makes all things new

Jesus will come again, and when he comes he will make ALL things new. Every tear will be wiped away, sin will be eradicated, and this rickety, run-down, sin-stained world will be made new.

No more cancer. No more depression. No more Boko Haram or abortion or school shootings. Right now we live in a dark and dying world, but the king is returning.

Thank God that this world is not our final home. Thank God our life doesn’t consist of eating, drinking, and then dying. The risen Christ will make all things new.

#6 – He Is Risen Means We Will Receive New Bodies

Christ is the first fruits of the harvest that is coming.

Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven (1 Corinthians 15:49).

Right now, our bodies decay. Fall apart. Go to pieces. We are afflicted with migraines, heart disease, PTSD, Alzheimer’s, and ALS. But this won’t always be the case. Christ will return and we will receive new, resurrection bodies that don’t feel the crippling effects of sin.

Our destiny is not to be souls without bodies, floating around in heaven. Just as Christ received a new body when he rose from the grave, so we will receive new, immortal, resurrection bodies.

Bodies that are not and cannot be broken.

That is such good news.

To quote C.S. Lewis, who always puts it more elegantly than me:

#7 – He Is Risen Means We Have A Sympathetic Great High Priest

The risen Jesus is our Great High Priest, taking us into the Most Holy Place, and praying on our behalf. Because he also suffered, he is able to sympathize with our weakness.

He knows our frame, knows that we are dust, and strengthens us accordingly.

Jesus is near to us, helping us, praying for us. He brings our requests to God, purifying and sanctifying them. Because of our sympathetic great high priest, we can draw near with confidence.

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need (Hebrews 4:15–16).

#8 – He Is Risen Means We Have The Holy Spirit

Now that Jesus is alive, he gives the Holy Spirit to all who believe in Him.

Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God, and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this which you see and hear (Acts 2:32-33)

Praise God, the Holy Spirit is no longer reserved for prophets and mighty men and women. He comes to all who believe, weak and strong, young and old, mature and immature.

Through Christ’s death and resurrection, we are brought into a relationship the triune God.

Jesus Christ sends the Holy Spirit to us and also brings into the presence of the Father.

#9 – He Is Risen Means We Have Hope

Though we struggle and flail and stumble now, we have hope. Though we are pressed and afflicted, we are not destroyed. Though we walk through the Valley of Death, we will fear no evil.

We can let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also, the body they may kill, God’s truth abideth still, Jesus has risen from the dead.

How was Paul able to sustain hope when he lay beaten and broken in prison cells? How was John able to be hopeful while exiled on the Isle of Patmos?

Because they both had seen the risen Savior. They knew that their King was alive, that he was with them, and that nothing could stop his good plans.

He Is Risen Indeed!

The resurrection of Jesus changes absolutely everything. We have hope for the future, the Holy Spirit for today, and the guarantee that Jesus is returning to make all things new.

He is risen from the dead…risen indeed!

The post He Is Risen: 9 Glories Of The Resurrection appeared first on The Blazing Center.

[readbookywooks]

`Now, indeed, I seemed in a worse case than before. Hitherto, except during my night's anguish at the loss of the Time Machine, I had felt a sustaining hope of ultimate escape, but that hope was staggered by these new discoveries. Hitherto I had merely thought myself impeded by the childish simplicity of the little people, and by some unknown forces which I had only to understand to overcome; but there was an altogether new element in the sickening quality of the Morlocks--a something inhuman and malign. Instinctively I loathed them. Before, I had felt as a man might feel who had fallen into a pit: my concern was with the pit and how to get out of it. Now I felt like a beast in a trap, whose enemy would come upon him soon.

`The enemy I dreaded may surprise you. It was the darkness of the new moon. Weena had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible remarks about the Dark Nights. It was not now such a very difficult problem to guess what the coming Dark Nights might mean. The moon was on the wane: each night there was a longer interval of darkness. And I now understood to some slight degree at least the reason of the fear of the little Upper-world people for the dark. I wondered vaguely what foul villainy it might be that the Morlocks did under the new moon. I felt pretty sure now that my second hypothesis was all wrong. The Upper-world people might once have been the favoured aristocracy, and the Morlocks their mechanical servants: but that had long since passed away. The two species that had resulted from the evolution of man were sliding down towards, or had already arrived at, an altogether new relationship. The Eloi, like the Carolingian kings, had decayed to a mere beautiful futility. They still possessed the earth on sufferance: since the Morlocks, subterranean for innumerable generations, had come at last to find the daylit surface intolerable. And the Morlocks made their garments, I inferred, and maintained them in their habitual needs, perhaps through the survival of an old habit of service. They did it as a standing horse paws with his foot, or as a man enjoys killing animals in sport: because ancient and departed necessities had impressed it on the organism. But, clearly, the old order was already in part reversed. The Nemesis of the delicate ones was creeping on apace. Ages ago, thousands of generations ago, man had thrust his brother man out of the ease and the sunshine. And now that brother was coming back changed! Already the Eloi had begun to learn one old lesson anew. They were becoming reacquainted with Fear. And suddenly there came into my head the memory of the meat I had seen in the Under-world. It seemed odd how it floated into my mind: not stirred up as it were by the current of my meditations, but coming in almost like a question from outside. I tried to recall the form of it. I had a vague sense of something familiar, but I could not tell what it was at the time.

`Still, however helpless the little people in the presence of their mysterious Fear, I was differently constituted. I came out of this age of ours, this ripe prime of the human race, when Fear does not paralyse and mystery has lost its terrors. I at least would defend myself. Without further delay I determined to make myself arms and a fastness where I might sleep. With that refuge as a base, I could face this strange world with some of that confidence I had lost in realizing to what creatures night by night I lay exposed. I felt I could never sleep again until my bed was secure from them. I shuddered with horror to think how they must already have examined me.

`I wandered during the afternoon along the valley of the Thames, but found nothing that commended itself to my mind as inaccessible. All the buildings and trees seemed easily practicable to such dexterous climbers as the Morlocks, to judge by their wells, must be. Then the tall pinnacles of the Palace of Green Porcelain and the polished gleam of its walls came back to my memory; and in the evening, taking Weena like a child upon my shoulder, I went up the hills towards the south-west. The distance, I had reckoned, was seven or eight miles, but it must have been nearer eighteen. I had first seen the place on a moist afternoon when distances are deceptively diminished. In addition, the heel of one of my shoes was loose, and a nail was working through the sole--they were comfortable old shoes I wore about indoors--so that I was lame. And it was already long past sunset when I came in sight of the palace, silhouetted black against the pale yellow of the sky.

`Weena had been hugely delighted when I began to carry her, but after a while she desired me to let her down, and ran along by the side of me, occasionally darting off on either hand to pick flowers to stick in my pockets. My pockets had always puzzled Weena, but at the last she had concluded that they were an eccentric kind of vase for floral decoration. At least she utilized them for that purpose. And that reminds me! In changing my jacket I found . . .'

The Time Traveller paused, put his hand into his pocket, and silently placed two withered flowers, not unlike very large white mallows, upon the little table. Then he resumed his narrative.

`As the hush of evening crept over the world and we proceeded over the hill crest towards Wimbledon, Weena grew tired and wanted to return to the house of grey stone. But I pointed out the distant pinnacles of the Palace of Green Porcelain to her, and contrived to make her understand that we were seeking a refuge there from her Fear. You know that great pause that comes upon things before the dusk? Even the breeze stops in the trees. To me there is always an air of expectation about that evening stillness. The sky was clear, remote, and empty save for a few horizontal bars far down in the sunset. Well, that night the expectation took the colour of my fears. In that darkling calm my senses seemed preternaturally sharpened. I fancied I could even feel the hollowness of the ground beneath my feet: could, indeed, almost see through it the Morlocks on their ant-hill going hither and thither and waiting for the dark. In my excitement I fancied that they would receive my invasion of their burrows as a declaration of war. And why had they taken my Time Machine?

`So we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night. The clear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out. The ground grew dim and the trees black. Weena's fears and her fatigue grew upon her. I took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed her. Then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck, and, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder. So we went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness I almost walked into a little river. This I waded, and went up the opposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a statue--a Faun, or some such figure, MINUS the head. Here too were acacias. So far I had seen nothing of the Morlocks, but it was yet early in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were still to come.

`From the brow of the next hill I saw a thick wood spreading wide and black before me. I hesitated at this. I could see no end to it, either to the right or the left. Feeling tired--my feet, in particular, were very sore--I carefully lowered Weena from my shoulder as I halted, and sat down upon the turf. I could no longer see the Palace of Green Porcelain, and I was in doubt of my direction. I looked into the thickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide. Under that dense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars. Even were there no other lurking danger--a danger I did not care to let my imagination loose upon--there would still be all the roots to stumble over and the tree-boles to strike against.

`I was very tired, too, after the excitements of the day; so I decided that I would not face it, but would pass the night upon the open hill.

`Weena, I was glad to find, was fast asleep. I carefully wrapped her in my jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise. The hill-side was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there came now and then a stir of living things. Above me shone the stars, for the night was very clear. I felt a certain sense of friendly comfort in their twinkling. All the old constellations had gone from the sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar groupings. But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. Southward (as I judged it) was a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more splendid than our own green Sirius. And amid all these scintillating points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.

`Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the unknown past into the unknown future. I thought of the great precessional cycle that the pole of the earth describes. Only forty times had that silent revolution occurred during all the years that I had traversed. And during these few revolutions all the activity, all the traditions, the complex organizations, the nations, languages, literatures, aspirations, even the mere memory of Man as I knew him, had been swept out of existence. Instead were these frail creatures who had forgotten their high ancestry, and the white Things of which I went in terror. Then I thought of the Great Fear that was between the two species, and for the first time, with a sudden shiver, came the clear knowledge of what the meat I had seen might be. Yet it was too horrible! I looked at little Weena sleeping beside me, her face white and starlike under the stars, and forthwith dismissed the thought.

`Through that long night I held my mind off the Morlocks as well as I could, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy I could find signs of the old constellations in the new confusion. The sky kept very clear, except for a hazy cloud or so. No doubt I dozed at times. Then, as my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire, and the old moon rose, thin and peaked and white. And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm. No Morlocks had approached us. Indeed, I had seen none upon the hill that night. And in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that my fear had been unreasonable. I stood up and found my foot with the loose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so I sat down again, took off my shoes, and flung them away.

`I awakened Weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and pleasant instead of black and forbidding. We found some fruit wherewith to break our fast. We soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and dancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as the night. And then I thought once more of the meat that I had seen. I felt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity. Clearly, at some time in the Long-Ago of human decay the Morlocks' food had run short. Possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin. Even now man is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he was--far less than any monkey. His prejudice against human flesh is no deep-seated instinct. And so these inhuman sons of men----! I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit. After all, they were less human and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four thousand years ago. And the intelligence that would have made this state of things a torment had gone. Why should I trouble myself? These Eloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like Morlocks preserved and preyed upon--probably saw to the breeding of. And there was Weena dancing at my side!

`Then I tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon me, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness. Man had been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his fellow-man, had taken Necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the fullness of time Necessity had come home to him. I even tried a Carlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay. But this attitude of mind was impossible. However great their intellectual degradation, the Eloi had kept too much of the human form not to claim my sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and their Fear.

`I had at that time very vague ideas as to the course I should pursue. My first was to secure some safe place of refuge, and to make myself such arms of metal or stone as I could contrive. That necessity was immediate. In the next place, I hoped to procure some means of fire, so that I should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, I knew, would be more efficient against these Morlocks. Then I wanted to arrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the White Sphinx. I had in mind a battering ram. I had a persuasion that if I could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me I should discover the Time Machine and escape. I could not imagine the Morlocks were strong enough to move it far away. Weena I had resolved to bring with me to our own time. And turning such schemes over in my mind I pursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our dwelling.

[stephenaltrogge-blog]

The resurrection of Jesus baffled everyone.

When the disciples came to Jesus’ empty tomb, they couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing. They had witnessed him die, saw the spear plunge into his side, heard him cry out, “It is finished!”

And yet they were seeing something…

…that simply didn’t make sense. An empty tomb.

But they couldn’t make heads or tails of the resurrection of jesus and the vacant grave clothes and the stone that had been tossed aside. They hadn’t expected him to die. They certainly hadn’t expected this.

What did these things mean?

John 20:9 says:

…for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead.

They knew Jesus was not there but they didn’t really understand what his resurrection meant.

We can be just like the disciples. We know that Jesus rose from the dead but we don’t know what it means for us. 

The resurrection is one of the most astounding, glorious, overwhelming events in history.

It. Changed. Everything.

What does the empty tomb mean? Here are 9 glorious things…

#1 – The Resurrection Means Jesus Is Alive

This may sound like I’m stating the obvious but think deeply about this for a moment. Paul said that if the resurrection didn’t happen, we are most to be pitied. Everything we’ve believed and built our lives upon is a horrendous trick, a lie of demonic proportions.

But the resurrection of Jesus IS true, which means that Jesus is alive, which means that everything he promised will happen. It’s not a myth, fairy tale, or children’s tale. Christ is risen from the dead and is achieving EVERYTHING he said he would.

Yes, things may be falling to pieces. Yes, life may be full of struggle and toil and darkness and despair. But there is good news: Jesus is alive.

If Jesus is alive, then we are never without hope.

#2 – The Resurrection Means Jesus Is Reigning

Our risen Lord is just that – Lord. He sits on the throne of heaven, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Our lives and the world may seem insanely chaotic but there is nothing outside of the sovereign rule of King Jesus.

Satan, every demon, and every nation may plot against us and the Lord, and yet Jesus responds like this:

He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision (Ps 2:4).

Nothing can stop our Lord from accomplishing his good plans.

How many times has someone said, “God is dead,” only to be proven wrong again and again?

Politics can’t stop Jesus. Our sin and weakness can’t stop him. Satan can’t stop him. Everything and everyone must bow before the risen and ruling Christ.

There is no better news than that.

#3 – The Resurrection Tomb Means A Man Sits Upon The Throne

This is utterly mind boggling. The incarnation, death, and resurrection of Christ mean that a man, a human, bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh, is seated on the throne of heaven.

God is not distant, unfeeling, and unable to sympathize. We have a king who became like us. He knows hardship, grief, sadness, and rejection. Jesus the King is high and exalted, Jesus the man draws near to the brokenhearted.

Although he was a son, he learned obedience through what he suffered (Heb 5:8).

Christ knows the struggle and striving and suffering that come with trying to follow God in a fallen, broken world. Yes, he is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

But he’s also a man who still has scars on his hands, feet, and side.

#4 – The Resurrection Means The Penalty For Sin Has Been Paid

The wages of sin is death. Those who love wickedness must face the just consequences of their choice. Our rightly deserved punishment is both spiritual and physical death.

When Jesus rose from the dead, it demonstrated that the penalty for sin – death – had been satisfied. Nothing else was needed, the price was paid, all had been accomplished.

Death no longer had a claim on Jesus. It could no longer demand that wages be paid to it.

D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones wrote:

The Resurrection is the great announcement of the momentous fact that Christ has finished the work He came to do. He is no longer “under the law.” He is back in glory. Why? Because He has done everything that the Law could demand. Now the Law has exhausted itself upon Him, and He will die “no more.”

When Jesus cried, “It is finished,” he was not exaggerating or adding theatrics. It was a beautiful statement of objective truth.

John Piper puts it this way:

The Bible says he was raised not just after the blood-shedding, but by it. This means that what the death of Christ accomplished was so full and so prefect that the resurrection was the reward and vindication of Christ’s achievement in death.

#5 – The Resurrection Means Jesus Will Make All Things New

In the song “All Things New,” Andrew Peterson writes:

So hold on to the promise The stories are true That Jesus makes all things new

Jesus will come again, and when he comes he will make ALL things new. Every tear will be wiped away, sin will be eradicated, and this rickety, run-down, sin-stained world will be made new.

No more cancer. No more depression. No more Boko Haram or abortion or school shootings. Right now we live in a dark and dying world, but the king is returning.

Thank God that this world is not our final home. Thank God our life doesn’t consist of eating, drinking, and then dying. The risen Christ will make all things new.

#6 – The Resurrection Means We Will Receive New Bodies

Christ is the first fruits of the harvest that is coming.

Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven (1 Co 15:49).

Right now, our bodies decay. Fall apart. Go to pieces. We are afflicted with migraines, heart disease, PTSD, Alzheimer’s, and ALS. But this won’t always be the case. Christ will return and we will receive new, resurrection bodies that don’t feel the crippling effects of sin.

Our destiny is not to be souls without bodies, floating around in heaven. Just as Christ received a new body when he rose from the grave, so we will receive new, immortal, resurrection bodies.

Bodies that are not and cannot be broken.

That is such good news.

To quote C.S. Lewis, who always puts it more elegantly than me:

#7 – The Resurrection Means We Have A Sympathetic Great High Priest

The risen Jesus is our Great High Priest, taking us into the Most Holy Place, and praying on our behalf. Because he also suffered, he is able to sympathize with our weakness.

He knows our frame, knows that we are dust, and strengthens us accordingly.

Jesus is near to us, helping us, praying for us. He brings our requests to God, purifying and sanctifying them. Because of our sympathetic great high priest, we can draw near with confidence.

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need (Heb 4:15–16).

#8 – The Resurrection Means We Have The Holy Spirit

Now that Jesus is alive, he gives the Holy Spirit to all who believe in Him.

Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God, and having received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this which you see and hear (Acts 2:32-33)

Praise God, the Holy Spirit is no longer reserved for prophets and mighty men and women. He comes to all who believe, weak and strong, young and old, mature and immature.

Through Christ’s death and resurrection, we are brought into a relationship the triune God.

Jesus Christ sends the Holy Spirit to us and also brings into the presence of the Father.

#9 – The Resurrection Means We Have Hope

Though we struggle and flail and stumble now, we have hope. Though we are pressed and afflicted, we are not destroyed. Though we walk through the Valley of Death, we will fear no evil.

We can let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also, the body they may kill, God’s truth abideth still, Jesus has risen from the dead.

How was Paul able to sustain hope when he lay beaten and broken in prison cells? How was John able to be hopeful while exiled on the Isle of Patmos?

Because they both had seen the risen Savior. They knew that their King was alive, that he was with them, and that nothing could stop his good plans.

He Is Risen Indeed!

The resurrection of Jesus changes absolutely everything. We have hope for the future, the Holy Spirit for today, and the guarantee that Jesus is returning to make all things new.

Christ is risen from the dead…risen indeed!

The post 9 Glorious Things The Resurrection of Jesus Means appeared first on The Blazing Center.