#like peace & love I cannot draw my faith or have it be influenced by my gender. like that is one of the least important things about me….

[stsebastiens]

it’s funny to think how I went from striving to embody ‘biblical femininity’ -> investigating & crafting a different model of biblical femininity that worked better for me -> pursuing Christlike personhood bc I realized my faith cannot be tied to my gender in order to give it significance and flavor. if I do that I’ll be miserable.

[leonbloder]

How Prayer Works

I saw an interesting post the other day on one of my social media feeds from an atheist influencer I follow.  

That last line might seem confusing to you, and you might be wondering why a Christian pastor would follow an atheist on social media.  The fact is, I follow a lot of atheist influencers, as well as a few atheist groups.

I do so for many reasons, most of which have to do with my own curiosity.  

First, I want to hear from people who don't believe the same things I do about faith and religion and to think more deeply about their beliefs and ideas that differ from mine.

Secondly, more often than not, I actually agree with them about several things.  

For example, their rants against the ills of bad religion and an imaginary, judgmental God who delights in eternal punishment for those who don't measure up are similar to mine.  Years ago, I fired that awful, angry, judgemental God.

But the post that caught my eye said, "There are all kinds of ways to pray... and none of them work."

I completely understand that sentiment.  There have been plenty of moments in my life when I have wondered about the efficacy of my own prayers.  

Not to mention, for many well-meaning Christians, saying, "I'm praying for you," is a platitude and not a practice.  We often offer up that phrase when we don't know what else to say.  

But I've come to understand that prayer is effective, and it works-- -just in a different way than many religious people believe it works.

To that end, do I believe that God is some kind of slot machine that we keep putting prayers into until we finally hit the jackpot?  Nope.  

But prayer connects us to the Divine in the world and within us.  I believe that prayer draws us closer to the heart of God and the purposes of God for us and others.  

And prayer changes us.  As we hear ourselves pray, we often discover that we might actually be the answer to our prayers.  We also tap into the Holy Spirit energy that connects all of us to one another.  

But sometimes, it does feel like our praying is falling on deaf ears---even if we are largely unaware that the deafness is our own.

In those moments, prayer can feel like an exercise in futility.  This is why a poem about prayer that I read once from the Irish poet and author Pádraig Ó Tuama resonated with me so profoundly.  

Or, even perhaps, you cannot remember the feel of the light, beloved. Oh heavens above. Oh chasm below. Hither and thither. Oh chaos composed.

So, spill out the tumble of your words. They might be all you have left.

And, Don't forget to use them deftly. In the absence of light baptise the void with a scapelsharp insight, and a name of your choice.  

This poem connects with me deeply.  Some days I try and fail to remember the "feel of the light."  Maybe you have days like that, too.  

But I love how the poet urges the reader to "spill out the tumble of your words" because "They might be all you have left."  

This is what prayer is to me at times--the spilling of words, an offering to the Universe, a collection of pleas, rants, and even simple statements that are all I have now.

And our prayers can become "In the absence of light," a baptism that offers some illumination in the void of our particular chaos, doubt, and even our heartfelt gratitude.  

So pray however you can and in whatever way you feel.  Say the words that come tumbling out of you, and say them out loud if you must.  Because the One to whom you pray is listening, but so are you.

May your prayers be heard and answered in surprising and insightful ways.  May you find a new connection to God that you never dreamed of.  May you find in your words a new name for yourself and a new way to go.

And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always. Amen.  

[moodyblues93]

Dear LGBTQ Community

I am so incredibly sorry is the only right way to start. This post comes from a lifelong conservative, homeschooled Christian. I never stood on a street corner with a sign that said ugly things about you, and whenever I met someone who was gay (or I suspected they were), I tried very hard to treat them the same as anyone else and not hold them at arm’s length; nevertheless, I made some disparaging remarks within my circle of likeminded people, and I most definitely saw you as being in the wrong. I didn’t hate you- I felt sorry for you, and found myself wistfully thinking how nice it would be if being gay wasn’t a sin, and we could all just get along then…but ultimately I had to shake my head and say, “well, the Bible says it’s a sin, so that’s the end of the debate.”

Having now been out of my (incredibly controlling and right-wing extremist) parents’ house for seven years now, I’ve made a lot of progress in finding what I believe is a proper middle ground for my beliefs and overall worldview. Every New Year’s Day, rather than make a resolution, I have a long talk with the Lord and ask Him to please make me more like Him in the coming year and draw me closer to His heart; I can honestly say that every year this prayer is answered, and I continue to become a more loving and understanding person (though I am far, far from perfect). This year I have become increasingly aware of how ugly a lot of my conservative, supposedly Christian friends behave at their cores, and how so many of the things they claim they’re saying in love sound a lot more akin to hate, pride, and bigotry. By May, I was so disgusted by their words and actions, I came back for a Part 2 to my prayer. I asked God to reveal to me the things in my beliefs that I had accepted as truths that are in fact lies- whether in part or in whole -and vice versa; I asked that He help me be willing to reconsider my stance on any and all issues where I was wrong, and to give me the courage to take the steps necessary to change.

I kid you not: within two weeks of praying that, I was struck out of the blue by a thought I had never dared even entertain in jest in my entire life. Why is being gay a sin? I froze in my tracks and my heart stopped. Having thought this forbidden sentence, my mind raced ahead before I could catch it.

Why should it be a sin?

I understand that the very first couple was a man and a woman, but they HAD to be in order to continue the human race.

If there’s one thing I’ve known from an early age, it’s that God is a God of logic. He has a reason for every commandment/rule, and usually that reason is very self-evident. Adultery is breaking a promise and brings devastating hurt to others and yourself. Stealing is taking something that you have no right to take, and again, you’re harming someone else one way or another. I already know AIDS isn’t the exclusively “gay cancer” televangelists claimed it was in the ‘80s, so I can’t even use that as the reason behind why gay relationships are forbidden.

I stood there in the kitchen, stumped. I could not think of a single actual reason why being gay could be considered a sin, aside from citing “because God said so,” which is not an actual argument; God never lays down arbitrary rules like that, and even the passages about “it is an abomination” suddenly didn’t make sense to me. Okay, but WHY is it an abomination? Circular reasoning didn’t sound like the God I’ve come to know so well over the years. The notion gnawed at me all day, and I could hardly focus on anything else. I prayed almost continually for the next two days on the matter: I asked that if my heart was deceiving me and I was being sucked into the “liberal Christian” mindset after too long away from the influence of a super strict church, that God would save me from my error and show me the why behind this commandment so I wouldn't stray. I also asked in no uncertain terms that if the church is in fact wrong and being gay is NOT a sin that God would give me peace about the whole matter and help me to find good, thorough resources that could dismantle the arguments I’d been supportive of all these years.

None of this stemmed from a guilty conscience needing to find justification for a beloved family member’s lifestyle, or even my own: as far as I know, everyone in my immediate family is hetero, and I myself am ace. Nor did this come from the desire to be as opposite of my strict parents as possible, to rebel and go nuts now that they no longer control my life. I am a person who always wants to know the why and how behind every rule and process, to understand as much about my surroundings as a human can, and to champion the truth in all things- even when that truth makes me uncomfortable.

I spent copious amount of time over several months researching this subject from multiple viewpoints, devouring articles and lectures, and praying for guidance with every new piece of information I uncovered. By the time I’d finished, I was left with a deep conviction that we have been wrong all this time; the arguments the church has used are based on a mix of mistranslations and cultural practices that are irrelevant to our society today (for anyone who wants to know more on this, I cannot recommend enough Walking The Bridgeless Canyon by Kathy Baldock, and God and the Gay Christian by Matthew Vines, because there isn’t room in this post to explain it all. You need to read both books for the full picture).

I’m sorry for how long this post is, but since you don’t know me, I’m trying to convey to you just how significant it is for someone like me to have come to this conclusion. I’ve been a dyed-in-the-wool conservative Christian my entire life; I literally don’t even remember my conversion because of how young I was when I came to faith. For those who are skeptics concerning if homosexuality and the like is a sin, I hope this has prodded at your conscience and will push you to start looking into this for yourself.

But my main purpose of this post is to address you, the LGBTQ community. One person’s apologies, no matter how sincere, cannot begin to make up for or repair the damage done to you. As I was studying all this, the more horrified I became as it hit me that there are countless souls the church turned away because they were told Jesus wasn’t interested in a relationship with them, and consequently, most of those people likely then didn’t want to have anything to do with a Jesus like that. The thought completely broke my heart for you, and all I want to tell you now is that regardless if someone has said to you that you cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven as long as you are a practicing homosexual/bisexual/etc. or anything else along those lines…PLEASE listen to me instead.

I love you. I accept you as you are and I am not going to ask you to change this aspect of your life. Far more importantly, Jesus loves you as you are and He wants to have a relationship with you. If the only thing that’s ever held you back from looking into Christianity is believing your sexuality won’t be accepted, know that there are churches out there who will gladly welcome you (Google ‘open and affirming church near me’).

I’m making an iron promise to you that I’m going to attend my local rally every June from now on; I’m going to hug you and remind you that it’s okay to be who you are without having to fear eternal damnation for it. I can’t say enough how sorry I am for everything that has been said and done to you, all supposedly in the name of love- a love that has been hideously misunderstood and twisted to fit a human agenda of our own making. Please give God another chance. Let Him show you just what love really and truly is, and I guarantee you will find it’s nothing like what you’ve been told.

I know you don’t know me, and you have no reason to believe me, but please take this as a hopeful sign for the future. If I can come to this conclusion, then surely the rest of the world can’t be far behind me. We will make this a safe and accepting place for you, where contemptuous glances and ugly words are no longer slung across the dividing line, because there will no longer be a line- it will no longer be an Us vs. Them, because there will only be Us. Thank you for your persistence through the decades to not deny who you are, because your endurance will help keep the door open for this and future generations to come to a true understanding.

I hope a lot of people see this. I don't know much about how Tumblr works, I'm hardly ever on here, but I sincerely wish for many people to see this and smile by the time they're finished.

Red and orange, yellow and green, blue and purple, black and white, we are precious in His sight.

[kmomof4]

Of Darkness, Vampires, and Soulmates

Ch. 7 Of Vampires

It is that time, y’all!!! Are you ready? It is time for vampire smut!!! Feel free to skip if its not your thing. Nothing happens until after the first scene change. We are nearing the end of this journey and I so hope that you enjoy what I have in store. Thank you all for coming along on this journey with me! It means more than I could possibly say!!!

If possible, I would heap all of the LOVE, HUGS, and EVERY good thing upon @profdanglaisstuff​ and @hollyethecurious​ for everything they did to help me in the crafting of this story, from betaing to being a sounding board and a fount of encouragement when I didn't know if I could continue. Thank you from the bottom of my heart ladies. Words are not adequate to express how thankful I am for you both!!!

Thank you to the ladies of the CSSNS and CSMM discords for all their encouragement, sprinting appointments, and help with a title.

And finally, to @spartanguard​. Kaitlyn, your talent continually ASTOUNDS me and it has been a TREMENDOUS blessing to be paired with you for this event. I am in AWE of everything you’ve done to bring this story to life, and I CANNOT express in words my gratitude!! Just loads and heaps of love!!!

Thank you all so very much!!!

Chapter summary: Vampire smut, Emma is turned

Rating: M (Violence and smut)

Words: 3456 of 41.5K total

Tags: Vampires, Soulmates, Reincarnation, Prophecy, Black Death, French Revolution, Magic, True Loves Kiss

Prologue | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ao3 chapter link | Ao3 fic link 

Tag list: @hollyethecurious​ @winterbaby89​ @snowbellewells​ @stahlop​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @jennjenn615​ @kingofmyheart14​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @thisonesatellite​ @branlovestowrite​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @flslp87​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ @kymbersmith-90​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @bethacaciakay​ @searchingwardrobes​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @teamhook​ @aprilqueen84​ @qualitycoffeethings​ @superchocovian​ @artistic-writer​ @donteattheappleshook​ @doodlelolly0910​ @seriouslyhooked​ @tiganasummertree​ @lfh1226-linda​ @nikkiemms​ @xsajx​ @klynn-stormz​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

It had been nearly a week since they’d returned to Killian’s estate after getting away from Rumplestiltskin. Emma had pretty much remained in the rooms that were prepared for her, finding plenty to keep her occupied, with computer access and a library that was unparalleled, only coming down for meals or to spend some time on the green lawns sloping down to the Atlantic. She knew that although it pained him to do so, Killian studiously avoided her presence to give her space and time to come to terms with everything that had happened and to make a fully informed and sober decision. That didn’t mean that he avoided her completely however.

The morning after they arrived back, Starkey arrived at her room with breakfast and a note written in a beautiful flowing script that she knew must belong to Killian. After he left, she helped herself to homemade French toast with scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee and settled in to read.

My darling Swan,

I hope this morning finds you well and that you had restorative and restful sleep last night.

Please know that you may count the estate as your home away from home from this day forward and that you are welcome to explore any area. Starkey prepares all the meals and you may enjoy them in your room or any other area of the house. May I recommend breakfast on the patio where we first met? Enjoying the meal as the sun rises over the ocean is my personal favorite way to start the day. This morning’s breakfast was your sisters favorite and I hope that you enjoy it as much as they used to.

As I said, please feel free to roam and explore anywhere on the estate. I would ask, however, that until we meet again face to face and you’ve made your decision, that you do remain on the estate for your own personal safety.

I do not want to exert any undue influence over you or your decision, so until you seek me out, I will remain here in the house, but away from you. Physical distance doesn’t mean that I’m not here for you. You may reach me at any time with any questions or if you just want to talk by phone or text. Again, this is only until you are ready to make a decision. I will never be far, even if we are not in the same room.

Until then, my Swan, I am forever your devoted and faithful soulmate. And you remain my dearest love.

Your Killian

She had to admit, she wasn’t thrilled about not being able to see him, but knowing that she could hear his voice and ask him any question about this entire bizarre situation was comforting.

Over the ensuing days, she had called him every evening, telling him about her day, hearing about his, talking long into the night. He had debunked many myths, that she had just assumed were fact, about being a vampire. He also shared the logistics of becoming a vampire with her. She had asked about when he knew her in the past and about his adventures. She heard the true story of the Rumplestiltskin fairy tale and about the Blue Fairy and everything she had done to facilitate his final downfall. She was especially intrigued to hear about his history with her mother. She felt herself fall that little bit more in love with him as he told her about her earliest years and Anna and Elsa’s antics before they had moved away.

After speaking with her sisters the day before and filling them in on certain aspects of her trip to deliver the letter, she arranged for a conference call between the four of them that evening. It was a joyous and heartfelt reunion between her sisters and Killian. The love between them all was crystal clear through the line as they talked all about their growing up years and what their lives were like now. She could only hope that they would all be able to meet again in person in the near future. She knew however, that that wouldn’t be possible until Rumplestiltskin was destroyed.

Killian had shared with her in one of their evening conversations that he was hopeful that killing his sire with the dagger would not only accomplish what he intended, but also destroy the Darkness that made him what he was. If that was true, Killian, and she, if she decided to become one too, would no longer be vampires and would be able to live out their lives, their natural lives, in peace. Until that happened, they decided it would be best to keep her sisters ignorant of Killian’s true nature.

But now, she was ready to inform him of her decision.

~*~*~

Killian had retired for the evening, awaiting his nightly call with Emma when he perceived soft footfalls at the other end of the hallway leading to his room. His heightened senses had been attuned to her ever since he brought her back after evading Rumplestiltskin so he had no problem hearing her from so far away. He couldn’t help the leap of joy in his heart at what this might mean.  

She stopped outside the door and he could clearly hear her elevated heart rate as she took several long calming breaths before knocking.

Opening the door, Killian beheld his pale and beautiful Swan. She wore only one of his old pirate shirts, leaving little to the imagination, although it hung about halfway down her thighs. She took a deep breath and met his eyes with her own veridian orbs.

She stared at him for a long moment. He held her gaze, hoping beyond hope that she could see everything he felt for her as he allowed all his love and devotion to flood his entire being.

“I’m ready, Killian.” Her inhale that time was much more steady and a calm assurance filled her eyes that he couldn’t help but respond to. He reached out and with the gentlest of touches stroked her cheek. She leaned into the tender gesture, before turning and placing a gentle kiss to his palm. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so cared for. “I’ve thought about everything. What this means for me, for our possible future. And I’m certain of one thing,” she professed, turning her eyes upon his again. “Two things, actually,” she amended, shrugging.

“And what are those, my love,” he asked.

“That I love you. And I belong with you,” she asserted. “I think I’ve known this since the moment we met.”

“Then come with me, dearest,” he requested, as he held his hand out to her. She placed her delicate hand in his larger one and allowed him to draw her into his bedroom and into his arms. “I’ll never hurt you, my beloved,” he murmured into her hair, gathering her to him.

He could hear her heart thundering in her chest, the blood that he longed to taste on his tongue thrumming through her veins. She raised her face to his, eyes filled with love and a profound trust that made him want to weep. “I know,” she replied.

He could hold back no longer. He gathered her closer and lowered his mouth to hers. The finest wine, the most decadent morsel couldn’t begin to compare to the sweetness he savored as his tongue requested and received entrance. She shivered in his arms and placed her hand over his pounding heart, its beat so accelerated that it nearly matched a human heartbeat.

A low moan came from the back of her throat as he leisurely sipped from his love’s mouth. He could drown in her kisses, and he would die happy. Lifting her into his arms, he felt her legs wrap around his hips as he walked them to his bed. “So beautiful, my Swan,” he praised, pulling back to look in her lust glazed eyes. He felt drunk off the aroma of her blood mixed with the scent of her arousal. He lowered her to the bed and hovered over her, eyes raking over her form. She arched herself toward him and reached out to draw him down to her.

Please, Killian,” she begged.

““Patience, my love,” he cajoled. “We have all night. We have forever.”

He lowered his face to hers and claimed her lips with all the passion that he had held back over the centuries. Hands roamed and made their way under clothing that kept their bodies shielded from one another’s eyes. When her hand wrapped around his hardness, he couldn’t hold back the moan she elicited from him as she began stroking him from base to tip. Burying his face in her neck, he inhaled deeply the fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon, along with the overwhelming redolence of the blood pulsing just below the skin. He remembered the very first time he had met Emma, how her scent nearly drove him mad with the blood frenzy. He couldn’t believe that they were finally here, after centuries of waiting. He had to be careful. Exercise perfect control over his baser instincts. What this night promised required the utmost care, the most careful execution, or all of his dreams would be reduced to ash.

Killian thrust himself into her hand, before placing a gentle kiss on her pulse point and rising above her once again. Her hands pushed his pajama bottoms over his hips, freeing his pulsing member. He stared into her emerald gaze, conveying with his eyes all the love in his heart.

He smirked at her aroused perusal of his body. Lowering himself down next to her on the bed, he began opening the buttons on the shirt she wore. He murmured endearments into her ear as he slowly made his way down her torso, revealing her creamy skin inch by glorious inch. Once he reached the end, his hand brushed her damp panties, the last piece of fabric hiding her from his sight.

“Ahhhhhh,” he cooed, “All this for me?” he inquired, dipping his long finger underneath the offending fabric and dragging it through her folds.

She moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head as she arched into his touch. “Yes, for you. All for you,” she affirmed before his lips claimed hers again. He thrust his finger into her heat, mimicking the action of his tongue. He added a second, and then a third finger when she began to ride them.

“So gorgeous, my Swan,” he murmured, watching her chase her release. Her eyes were closed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, sweat gathering in the hollow of her collarbones. “Come for me now, my love,” he commanded, curling his fingers inside her just right as he felt her walls start trembling around them.

She came with a scream of his name, and he nearly lost himself in the rich aroma of her climax infusing her blood. Killian buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply again and felt his fangs snap into place. He pulled away from her as she came down and opened her eyes. Trepidation filled him as he knew exactly what she would see. Red pupils, fangs exposed. He wouldn’t blame her a bit if she ran away screaming. Instead he beheld a face full of wonder, awe even. She lifted a hand to his face and caressed his cheek. He couldn’t help but lean in to the simple gesture just as she had earlier.

“I love you, Killian,” she said, bringing her other hand to cup the other side of his face. “Now that we’re here, there is nothing I want more than to be with you forever.” Her green eyes bore into his until it touched the deepest part of his soul. “Make me yours. Please.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” he breathed. “Now, you know what will happen.  Are you absolutely sure you want this?”

“Yes, Killian. A thousand times, yes!”

“Then yes, Emma, I’ll make you mine.”  His lips met hers again with all the renewed passion and longing that stole both of their breaths.

Holding her to him and rolling so that she straddled his hips, he never released her lips and plunged his hands into her hair, thrusting his hips into hers, creating desperately needed friction. One hand left her hair and moved with purpose toward her core where he found her still deliciously wet. She moaned into his mouth as he started to work her clit. She rose above him, giving him better access and threw her head back in ecstasy. His Swan’s long, luxurious hair brushed his thighs as he watched the flush from her cheeks reach down nearly to her breasts. He reached for one with his other hand, testing its weight, flicking her nipple until it was a sharp peak. Killian turned his attention to its twin, ratcheting up her pleasure as evidenced by the gasps and moans that poured from her lips.

Grabbing her hips with both hands, he lifted her up until she hovered over his throbbing member. Lining himself up, she looked down into his eyes as he pushed inside her heat. Twin groans escaped them as they became one.

“Gods, Emma,” he moaned, “You feel so good around me.” He thrust up into her even deeper, thrilling at the tight clench of her walls around him.

“Yes. Gods, yes, Killian,” she breathed, rolling her hips against his. Her head fell forward, her golden locks creating a curtain around them. He gazed into her eyes, pupils blown with lust and arousal, as he set an easy pace designed to slowly build the tension until they shattered in ecstasy.

“So wet, my love,” he choked out, “You fit me so well. Like you were made just for me.” After a few more thrusts, he pulled her down to him again and claimed her lips. Kissing along her jaw and down her neck, he rolled them again until she was on her back, wrapping her long legs around him.

Emma pulled him in even tighter, meeting him thrust for thrust, her passion matching his own. He could feel her walls beginning to tremble along his length, and the spike of endorphins flooding her blood. Her moans and breathy sighs told him she was close and when the throb of her walls signaling her orgasm pulled him even deeper, he sank his fangs into the vein that had been tempting him since she had stood outside his door. Her blood hit his tongue and overwhelmed his senses. She tasted of sunshine, wildflowers, spring rain, and new birth and he lost himself completely in her essence. Her climax continued along with the gasps of pleasure as he drank from her. His soulmate. His Swan. Her entire body tightened around him as he pumped furiously into her chasing his own release.

With a loud groan, his climax swept over him. He was dimly aware of the loosening of Emma’s limbs as her heartbeat began to slow. Continuing to pump into her as her heart rate slowed, he released her and raised his wrist to his mouth. The sharp sting of his fangs barely registered as his own blood began to flow. Holding his wrist to her mouth, he implored her, “Drink, Emma.”

After a few moments in which he could hardly breathe, Emma’s mouth latched onto his wrist and he felt the telltale pull of suction. After a few pulls from her, her eyes snapped open and locked on his. If he thought his connection with Emma before this was strong, there was truly no expressing in words their connection now. He could feel the gentle probing of her mind against his. He opened himself to her tentative explorations as she continued to drink from his wrist. Everything in his heart and mind was open to her. She’d be able to see all the memories as well as feel all the despair, anguish, and love that he had shared with her over the past week. The history of his family with the demon Rumplestiltskin, his love for his brother and devestation at his gruesome murder, his vow for vengence, the demon turning him into the very thing he hated, all the centuries he had waited for her, every connection, every miss, and finally the prophecy. Everything was revealed.

Killian searched her face as he waited for her eyes to open again. He could feel the intimacy of the connection in their minds confirming that she was turned and she was his. She finally released his wrist and stared into his eyes.

“It’s true. It’s all true,” she breathed. “We will defeat Rumplestiltskin. You’re the blue eyed prince and I’m the golden haired Swan. How did you know?”

“Your birthmark, Swan. And your blood.” He shrugged. “When I first met you in London, way back when, your blood called to me like nothing I’d ever known before. I wanted you more than I wanted to breathe, wanted to feed. I’d never felt a connection like that with anyone. Once I noticed the swan on your neck, I knew. It was like everything clicked. The prophecy, what it meant, how we were connected. It was also how I found you again and again, even if I was too late.”

He smiled as he saw her tongue touch her new fangs.

Delight danced in her eyes as her lips stretched into a grin. “So, I’m a vampire now?” she asked.

He couldn’t stop his chuckle. “Aye, Swan, you’re a vampire.”

“So, what do we do? Are we going after Rumplestiltskin now?”

“Not quite yet,” he said, bopping her on the nose, “We need to get you fed, then we’ll need to give you some time to adjust to this new life.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I didn’t say it’d take long. But we can’t go after him half-cocked,” he quipped, thrusting into her, testing her readiness for another round as he felt himself stirring again within her depths.

“Yeah,” she gasped, meeting his hips with her own, more than ready for round two. “Half-cocked isn’t a good idea. We definitely need a plan that is ship shape before we weigh anchor.”

He buried his face into her neck again, inhaling deeply the scent of her blood, sweat, and sex. He could quite happily drown in the heady perfume of their lovemaking. His hips met hers again in a slow thrust that took both their breaths away. Continuing with slow, deep strokes, he captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

“Emma,” he groaned. “I love you so much. You have no idea. I’ve waited so long for you to be mine. I just can’t tell you. There are no words…” he trailed away, taking her with harder thrusts as his passion overcame his control.

His hands plunged into her golden strands and pulled her head back, giving him access to the tender skin of her neck. He placed open mouth kisses along the cords as a shuddering groan passed her lips.

“I know,” she whispered, meeting his thrusts with her own. “I love you, too.” She forced her head back up and pulled his hair back, nosing at the cords in his neck. “May I taste you again?” she murmured into his skin.

“Yes,” he moaned.

No time at all passed before he felt her fangs pierce the skin of his neck. She latched on and drank deeply as their climaxes hit simultaneously. Her fluttering walls pulled him over into unadulterated bliss that continued on and on and on. Was this what she felt like when I fed from her? He pulled her leg up over his hip as he drove himself into her one more time, more deeply joined than they’d yet been.

Long moments later, he felt her release him and pull away, collapsing back onto the bed, fully sated. He looked down at his blissed out Swan with a lascivious smirk. “How about that, darling?” he drawled.

“Mmmmmm,” she hummed, contentedly, her eyes still mostly closed.

He slipped from her and rolled onto his side. Drawing her back into his arms so that every part of him was lined up with her, he nosed her hair aside and laid a tender kiss to where he had earlier drunk from her. “Sleep now, my Swan. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Emma’s breathing evened out and she relaxed even further into his embrace. She turned her face to his and he lowered his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. “Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight, my love.” She turned away and snuggled back into his arms as he fell into dreams.

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing. Only one more chapter, so you can probably guess what that means! See you next week!

[mahizli]

Urban Harmony (Bail Organa and Obi-Wan, 21 BBY)

Part 7 of ‘Sparks of Hope - A Star Wars Advent Calendar’

***

The soft notes of the trumpet circled the stools, dancing on tiptoes on the bar, laughing at the many aligned bottles as night grew dark as ink outside, and Bail smiled, closing his eyes.

It felt like a stolen moment from a long-gone time – shielded and refined, so very urban, yet there was purity in those notes. Purity and a sense of improvisation that allowed his mind to truly relax. Forgetting for a few minutes that they were at war, that Alderaan was far away and peace even more elusive – it was just music, a sense of pleasure and irony, and harmony.

“Forgive me”, he told Obi-Wan, once the song died away, soon replaced by another soft, musical tune. “I confess this piece always gets me.

- No need to apologize…”

His friend was smiling, fingers loosely circling his glass, waving ember circles with a small flick of his wrist. He had discarded his plastoid armour for their meeting at the Senate and simply wore his many Jedi layers, and his brown cloak – yet Obi-Wan did not seem out of place, sipping at Corellian Cardhu, something rare and peaceful shining through his grey eyes.

“I still can’t believe your Jedi tricks worked – they just don’t look at us, it’s as if we were just…

- Just people having a drink. Not worth more than a second glance. My suggestion exactly.”

Obi-Wan was smiling and Bail shook his head.

“And they just… believe it? If you were sitting there with someone else, and I were to enter the bar, would I fall for it as well?

- Well…”, Obi-Wan tipped his glass just so slightly, watching the Cardhu draw another small circle. “I’m not sure. For you, my friend, have a very shrewd and observant mind. I suppose I would have to argue very hard with your signature…

- Is that what you do, Obi-Wan?”

The trumpet raised another few defiant notes, and Obi-Wan looked up at him, shaking his head slowly.

“No, Bail. I only Force-suggest when I have to, and it usually works on bound, self-serving minds. It’s against the Jedi way to try and influence anybody, unless circumstances are dire.

- And you, my friend, have a true silver tongue. For you managed to make me feel very smart, before wondering how you define dire.”

Obi-Wan smiled, and they both took a sip, basking in the trumpet’s notes for a while. The Senate meeting had taken ages, and Bail was glad to have managed to convince his friend to follow him there – it seemed so long since they had talked of anything else than negotiations or strategics.

“Qui-Gon would have loved this”, Obi-Wan said, voice very low, and Bail hummed, softly, because his friend rarely indulged into that particular topic. “The music. The peace. The Cardhu, as well, of course.”

He had a soft, small laugh and Bail smiled.  

“He loved Summertime, you know. He used to hum it all the time. So did I, to be honest. But this… this is distilled wonder, Bail.

- The true essence of trumpet-playing”, Bail simply replied, taking another sip. “I come here whenever I miss Alderaan, and am never disappointed.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes softened, and he placed his glass back on the table.

“Do you manage to get home, Bail?

- Whenever I can… Every three months or so. Breha doesn’t come here often, so I suppose I am the one who needs to board the ship.”

His friend chuckled, but Bail could see the faraway look in his eyes that had never really left, ever since Obi-Wan had informed the Senate of his next mission’s goal.

“And what about your ship, tomorrow… For Mandalore? The Jedi Council seemed to imply you had spent some time there, years ago…

- Yes…”

His friend leant back in his chair, hand moving towards his glass again – features softening even more. He looked less like a Jedi and more like a man, suddenly, and though Bail knew Obi-Wan’s fierceness in war, and even sharper mind when it came to negotiations or battle plans, it seemed to him his friend was letting down his guard, slowly. For a few husky hours, shadowed by trumpet notes and confidences.

“I spent a year guarding the Duchess, when I was sixteen years-old, along with my Master. Until Sundari was safe and stable once more.

- And then?”, Bail asked, softly, and Obi-Wan had a small shrug, sipping at his glass once more.

“And then we came back. She became the leader of her people, and I… resumed my Padawan duties. Force knows our next mission was not long to arise…”

Just like now.

The words hung unspoken between them, and Bail nodded, slowly.

“Far from me to question the Jedi ways, Obi-Wan… But is it not a bit… heartless to send you there, of all people, given the current accusations against Duchess Satine? Or is it another clever trick?”

Obi-Wan smiled, eyes still fixed on the table.

“No Jedi trick. My friends suspected something, I suppose, back then. But only Qui-Gon knew. My Master was very gifted, you see, at acknowledging the losses I was yet too young to feel. He did not say a word. But… those months and years afterwards, he took great care to make me see that, though I could not have them, the Force was still helping me reaching out for them.

- Them…”, Bail repeated, softly, and it was no real question, but Obi-Wan still answered him, eyes dusky in the half-shadows.

“Children. What Jedi cannot have – yet we are all children of the Force, and those who have nothing have everything. As I so well know now, having to deal both with a reckless Padawan, and an intrepid Grand-Padawan.”

This time, Obi-Wan’s smile was genuine, and Bail smiled back.

“A last glass? For the journey… One can never know where it takes us.

- How very true, my friend… How very true.”

The trumpet let out a few soft thrills – telling of friends sitting together before parting ways once more, of love and dare, of dreams and wishes. Of understanding – of letting go, and smiles exchanged, contemplating the odd whims of life. And of faith – of music, and simple harmony.

[owlhart]

Half of my Heart

Half of my heart's got a grip on the situation, half of my heart takes time. Half of my heart's got a right mind to tell you that I can't keep loving you.

She doesn’t realise it at first - how she spends more time observing the other sorceress at summits and meetings, watching her cornflower blue eyes sparkle with warmth and light up in delight at the simplest things; how her dress clings to her curves in all the right places as she sashays across the ballroom, drawing all eyes towards her; how she keeps tabs on her ascension in the court ranks, pouring over countless reports on the Temerian court compiled by the Redanian intelligence.

It is mere curiousity and basic political astuteness, Philippa tells herself - a matter of being aware of every major player in the game, especially a sorceress of such capabilities. But it has been a long time since she has been so intrigued by another and she starts to notice the lingering glances and the twisting in her gut every time she encounters Triss Merigold, how she can’t help but hang onto her every word for something as mundane as trading pleasantries. She starts to notice the way her skin seems to tingle when Triss brushes past her, the way her mind keeps drifting back to pale skin, chestnut curls and cornflower blue eyes. 

Philippa fights to keep her emotions in check and her mind clear because she cannot allow her judgement to be clouded by something as fickle and unpredictable as infatuation. But Triss’ intelligence is captivating, her talent and potential boundless and her beauty intoxicating, and Philippa cannot stop thinking about her. 

She maintains her stoic and impassive facade and Triss is none the wiser, but Philippa cannot lie to herself - not when her heart skips a beat at the sight of her, when a smile curls her lips at the sound of her name. 

She is falling for her and Philippa doesn’t know if it is something she desires.

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

Half of my heart's got a real good imagination, half of my heart's got you. Half of my heart's got a right mind to tell you that half of my heart won't do.

"Are you in love with her?”

Triss stares at Yennefer in confusion.

“Who?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes in exasperation and changes the subject so skillfully that Triss doesn’t realise it until they have parted ways.

The next time someone implies something of a similar nature, albeit in a much more crude way, is when she returns to her shared quarters with Keira.

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“I was catching up with Yennefer.”

Keira arches a surprised eyebrow. 

“Oh, I thought you were with Philippa.”

“Philippa?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Why Philippa?”

Keira scrunches up her nose and flops onto the bed. “Exactly. Although I suppose she is very beautiful and from what I hear, amazing in bed.”

Triss stares at Keira with her mouth open, who shoots her a grin. 

“Tell me. Is it true?”

The grin widens as a myriad of emotions dance across Triss’ face, leaving Triss completely red in the face.

“I-what? How would I know? What? Why would you even ask me that?”

Keira simply shrugs. “I thought you two were fucking. Everyone can see the way you look at Philippa.”

Ignoring the misguided assumption that feelings of attraction automatically equated to two persons engaging in sexual activities, it’s all just a bit much for Triss to process at the moment.

She admires Philippa, greatly - the older sorceress is one of the most talented and powerful sorceresses in the Northern Kingdoms and one of the most beautiful people Triss knows - but love is an entirely different thing. But then again, is it really as farfetched as it sounded? 

She hears the things people say about Philippa - how she is manipulative and calculated, cold and ruthless; but politics is a murky game, splashed in shades of grey and behind her actions lies the simple motivation and determination to do what is best for her people, to protect the ones she cares about. And who could fault her for that?

It is something Triss understands.

It is something she respects.

The burden of carrying the fate of an entire kingdom on one’s shoulders, to bear the brunt of suspicion and disdain of men fearing her power and influence - it is tiring, it is lonely and it is a price few are willing to pay. But Philippa carries the weight with quiet determination and dignified strength - she bears it because she cares, even if other people cannot see it.

And it is the little things that give her away - it is in the odd question she asks and the curt response which says so little yet reveals so much; it is in the way her nostrils flare with frustration and her eyes flash with defiance when she is tasked with making an impossible choice; it is in the sharp inhale as she steadies herself to do what is necessary and in the quite exhale as she holds the pain and hurt close to her chest and buries it there.

And Triss realises she loves what the others cannot see, what they cannot understand.

She goes to bed, a haze of muddled thoughts clouding her mind and she dreams of featherlight touches and tender kisses, gentle hands caressing and exploring every inch of her bare skin. It leaves a trail of fire in its wake and elicits breathy gasps and needy moans from her, sending insatiable waves of pleasure that wash over her over and over and over again. And it is all a blur, melting from white hair and calloused hands to dark hair and onyx eyes, the coolness of metal and a distinctly male voice warping into the feeling of leather and soft sheets, a female voice whispering into her ear. And when the shadowy figure starts to come into focus, the colours bleed into one and she wakes with tears in her eyes.

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

Your faith is strong but I can only fall short for so long. Down the road, later on, you will hate that I never gave more to you than half of my heart.

No one looks at her the way Philippa does, smouldering and intense with a fire that ignites her soul, with tender care that is simultaneously layered with distant aloofness and with an honest love tempered with pragmatism. 

“I have given you everything I can give,” Philippa says in a low voice, face betraying nothing even as Triss stares back at her with tears in her eyes. “But I cannot give you everything I have.” 

She will never love her selfishly or embrace her without abandon because although Triss may have her heart, she will never own it. 

Triss knows this well, but a part of her has always held out hope that there could be more even as another part has always convinced herself that what she has is enough.

She should have seen this coming. 

There were the peaceful moments where they settle into comfortable silence, staring out at the setting sun, when Philippa makes her feel like she’s the only one she sees, like she is her entire world; there were moments of pure passion, maddening nights of ecstasy and innocent bliss. But it is the volatile ones that stick; where they fight, violently, viciously and vindictively, ripping into each other’s insecurities and tearing open old wounds. Philippa has always been able to cut where it hurt the most with nothing but a few words and Triss has always worn her heart on her sleeve, allowing her emotions to guide her.

“We both knew this would never last,” Philippa continues slowly. “You need more. You deserve more. And I cannot give you that.”

The unspoken apology is like a knife to her chest and the tears spill over as Triss chokes on a sob. Philippa sighs and wraps her in an embrace. And when the tears subside, she brushes them away with her thumbs gently and places a kiss on her forehead. Triss takes a shuddering breath, breathing in the familiar scent of her lover and they lean on each other, foreheads touching. She knows this is Philippa’s way of saying “I love you” and her way of saying goodbye.

“Take care, Triss,” Philippa murmurs and turns to leave.

Philippa cannot bring herself to look back and Triss cannot stop her heart from shattering.

But I can’t stop loving you with half of my heart.

[mst3kproject]

The Manster

Who has two thumbs and is back on terra firma with working wifi?  This MSTie!

As for my chosen subject this week… I don’t think I have to justify this one.  It’s called The Manster, as in a portmanteau of man and monster.  It was directed by a guy who mostly made cheap-ass jungle movies, and stars a bunch of embarrassed actors who don’t know how they ended up here.  It’s old and it’s dumb and it’s often pretty funny though never on purpose, and the perfect stinger moment comes very early in the film… you’ll know it when you see it.

So we have Dr. Robert Suzuki, who lives on top of a volcano.  When people have ‘Dr’ in front of their names and live in isolation with a bunch of blinky light machines, that’s usually a pretty good clue that they’re mad scientists. Tragically our hero, Larry Stanford, is not that observant (Larry’s obliviousness would have been a constant target for Mike and the bots and he would have deserved all of it).  He’s a reporter who wants an interview about Suzuki’s theories on the causes of mutations, but too bad for him, he arrives just as the mad doctor has run out of family members to experiment on.  Under the influence of Suzuki’s injections he’s soon devolving into an animalistic frat-boy, drinking, carousing, and murdering… oh, and he’s growing a second head. Will that be a problem?

So basically this is a werewolf movie with a fake mustache on… or perhaps a Jekyll and Hyde movie of sorts, as discussed in the denouement.  It wants to explore the dichotomy of good and evil in every one of us, using the very silly device of a two-headed man.  I have to say, I understand the metaphor, but it wasn’t put to nearly good enough use.  The movie would have been ten times more fun if we’d gotten to see Larry and his second head arguing over whether or not they’re going to kill somebody.  Not better, mind you, just more fun.

As far as just being a movie goes, The Manster is better than a lot of things I’ve watched for this blog.  The characters have names and look different enough that you can tell them apart, the story makes sense on its own terms and everything that happens is relevant to the plot.  Photography is honestly pretty good and the actors are competent.  All this happens to be in the service of a really silly story with awful special effects (I love Larry’s rubbery second head bouncing as he runs) but it’s engaging enough that you want to keep watching.

What I really like about The Manster, however, is that it offers a lot to analyze.  I’m not sure much of it is intentional.  The Jekyll and Hyde side of the story is elucidated in an ending speech, as Larry’s friend Ian tries to reassure Mrs. Stanford.  He says there was good and evil in Larry, and they’ll just have to wait and see which side wins.  This is not a very satisfying ending, really.  We’ve just seen Larry’s evil side plummet to its death into a volcanic crater… and the surviving good side is under arrest as a serial killer.  Dr. Suzuki and his assistant, the only people who could testify that Larry was not responsible for his actions, are both dead.  This guy’s going to jail.

The really interesting thing in the movie, though, is one that comes up by accident.  Dr. Suzuki’s work is on evolution – his theory is that cosmic rays can induce mutations, producing new species more or less overnight (this is called ‘macromutation’ or ‘the hopeful monster theory’, and lurked on the edges of the mainstream in the 40’s and 50’s) and he hopes to induce the same effect chemically.  When he tries, however, his efforts invariably produce monsters.  Emiko, his wife and former research partner, turns into something resembling the closet monster from The Brain that Wouldn’t Die.  Kenji, his brother, turns into a yeti, and a similar fate awaits Larry.  These mutants cannot understand human speech, and their behaviour is irrational and violent.

This implies a couple of things.  We hear vague mentions of Dr. Suzuki experimenting on fungi, but his heart is mostly in his human experiments.  That tells us that his goal is to speed up the evolution of humanity, and one presumes that this is intended to improve us somehow. Of course, this is not how evolution works.  Evolution does not make things better – this is why biologists have mostly dropped the descriptions primitive and advanced in favour of the more neutral basal and derived.  Dr. Suzuki’s quest is therefore quite misguided, as illustrated by his monsters. In no way could they be considered ‘better’ than humans – in fact, they’re significantly worse at surviving and reproducing (the thing natural selection selects for) than ordinary people are.

There’s another layer here, though.  ‘Evolution makes things better’ is a misconception that’s been around since Darwin, and dates back to even earlier ways of organizing the natural world.  When Linnaeus created the classification system for living things that we’re still saddled with today, he did it under the believe in the Great Chain of Being – the idea that you can order everything that exists into a hierarchy with mold at the bottom and god at the top, and that after god and the angels humans are the best thing that exists (as proved by our being the only creatures able to create classification systems).  It’s an idea that appeals to human vanity and to our need to impose order on the natural world, and it isn’t likely to go away anytime soon.

With that in mind, perhaps there’s another reason Suzuki’s experiments fail.  If you believe that humans are the best living thing around, particularly if you believe we are the image of god on earth, then maybe it’s not possible to improve on us.  Any change you make to people that takes them away from humanity will automatically make them worse.  This idea does appear to be manifest in the fates of Emiko, Kenji, and Larry, all of whom become more apelike, less ‘advanced’, as they change.

In that case, what does The Manster think makes for a good human?  We see a little of Larry before he starts to mutate, so we can compare that with what he becomes.  Rather surprisingly for a movie of this vintage, the fact that Larry is white seems to be pretty incidental.  He is a foreigner in a faraway place, but this serves mostly to drive a wedge between him and his wife Linda.  Except for a couple of rather troubling moments, the film does not present Japan in an exotifying light.  We do see things like a bathhouse and a geisha bar, but these represent Larry’s personal slide into debauchery, rather than the country as a whole.  We also meet normal working people among both the Japanese and the American expat community – reporters, police officers, and even priests.

There’s a very nice bit, actually, where Larry comes upon a Buddhist priest praying, and when he realizes this man doesn’t speak English, Larry takes the opportunity to unburden himself.  It makes him feel better to talk about his moral quandaries aloud, and the fact that the priest doesn’t understand him means he cannot judge him.  This is a very relatable and human moment, one of the best in the movie.

Unfortunately, it also segues into a couple of the most distasteful things in the film.  As I’m sure you’ve guessed, Larry does murder the priest, but before he does, he stares at a particular statue in the shrine – a representation of a three-eyed, fanged being that I am in no position to identify, although it looks a bit like Vajrapani.  Before Larry grows a full second head he sprouts an extra eye in his shoulder, and the implication is that the three-eyed statue draws his attention to the monster within himself. I don’t know much about Buddhism but I do not like the idea of casting another culture’s religious figures as symbols of monstrosity.  The west has done plenty enough of that.

But back to the question of acceptable humanity. We watch Larry get drunk, violent, antisocial, lazy, and promiscuous, which tells us that the ‘good’ man is the opposite of these things: sober, peaceful, friendly, hardworking, and chaste. The film pays particular attention to how Larry relates to women.  The fact that he’s been faithful to his distant wife is established early on, and one of the first symptoms of his devolution is his willingness to discard her.  First he makes out with a couple of girls at the geisha bar, and later he takes Dr. Suzuki’s assistant Terra (who has a tragic backstory but we frustratingly never find out what it entails) as his mistress. On the phone with his wife Linda at the beginning of the film, Larry tells her he loves her and promises to be home soon.  Later, when she comes to Japan searching for him, he shouts at her and makes a show of preferring Terra.

One conversation he has with Linda is particularly revealing.  He tells her he has no desire to settle down in one place and wile away his time drinking coffee and playing bridge when there’s a big wide world out there.  She asks him what about her plans, and he declares he will ‘put her in her place’ and ‘slap her down’.  Since this is when Larry is the opposite of what a good man should be, we can take from it that a good man respects his wife and takes her opinions and needs into account.  For the late fifties, this is actually kind of surprising – I’ve seen films from a decade or two later that were far more backward about this.  So hey, points for that.

All things considered, The Manster is a pretty well-made movie.  It’s dumb and full of clichés, such as the man scientist destroyed by his own creation, the femme fatale who sacrifices herself for the hero because she’s fallen in love with him, theremin music to represent the monster’s appearance, etc etc etc… but it’s competently put together and whether intentionally or no, contains a lot of interesting material. It’s the sort of movie I can watch repeatedly and always find something new in.  Definitely recommended viewing for the 50’s Monster Flick fan, although with the caveat that there is a scene in which one character urges another to commit suicide.

[tawakkull]

Forgiveness and Tolerance in Islam: Tolerance in the life of the individual and society: Part1

First of all, I would like to indicate that tolerance is not something that was invented by us. Tolerance was first introduced on this Earth by the prophets whose teacher was God. Even if it would not be correct to attribute tolerance to God, He has attributes that are rooted in tolerance, like forgiveness, the forgiveness of sins, compassion and mercy for all creatures, and the veiling of the shame and faults of others. The All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful, and the All-Veiling of Faults are among the most frequently mentioned names of God in the Qur'an.

The golden era when tolerance was represented at its apex was the Age of Happiness, and I would like to give some true examples from that historical time, events that extend in a line from that “period of roses” until today.

An Example of Forgiveness

As is known, in the historical “Event of Slander” the hypocrites made slanderous accusations against ‘A'isha, the chaste wife of the Prophet and the spiritual mother of all believers. 'A'isha has a special place among the pure wives of the Prophet because the Prophet was the first man she saw when she awakened to womanhood. In a period when she became fully conscious of her womanhood, 'A'isha became a member of the Prophet’s pure household and there she breathed only an atmosphere of chastity and honor. 'A'isha, an exemplar of chastity, became subjected to a planned slander campaign during this period. Both herself, her family and the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, suffered much because of this slander. However, the verse revealed approximately one month later declared 'A'isha’s unadulterated purity and innocence. However, her father Abu Bakr, who had been giving financial support to one of those who was involved in the slander, took an oath not to give any more support to this person. But, the verse that was revealed warned that the most faithful friend of the Prophet, Sultan of Tolerance, should be more lenient.The verse reads:

Let not those among you who are endowed with grace and amplitude of means resolve by oath against helping their kinsmen, those in want, and those who have left their homes in God’s cause: let them forgive and overlook. Do you not wish that God should forgive you? For God is the All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful. (An-Nur 24:22)

I want to draw you attention in particular to the expression at the end of this verse: Do you not wish that God should forgive you? For God is the All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful. In reality, the All-Merciful God Whose mercy is unequalled and compared to which all the mercy in the world is but a drop in the ocean, continually secrets Himself and, in spite of everything, forgives us, forgives everything, from the unbecoming words that enter our ears and darken our spirits to the filth that flows into us from the universe and back to the society that we have polluted. His question, Do you not wish that God should forgive you? directed at people like us who are always in need of purification, is very fine and sincere and worthy of being coveted. By means of this verse, God indicates that just as He forgives us, so too should we forgive one another for the mistakes we make, and this is illustrated to us as a Qur'anic virtue in the character of Abu Bakr.

Forgiveness and tolerance are given great importance in the messages of the Prophets, which are from divine and celestial sources.

A prophet has the duty of educating and training others. In order for the truths that he is conveying to influence the hearts of others, his own heart must beat with forgiveness and tolerance. When some faults that are the result of a person’s nature collide with the tolerant atmosphere of a person of truth, they melt and disperse like a meteor. Instead of splitting open someone’s head, the legions of light, which resemble the lamps lit on nights of celebration, will soothe the eyes and give joy to the heart. As I mentioned before, there is in actual fact such a divine virtue recommended in our Prophet’s hadith, “Take on the virtue of God."Does not God Himself always forgive those who deny Him? On the cosmic plane this crime is unforgivable murder and rebellion. But look at the vastness of God’s forgiveness and pardon. In spite of the ungratefulness of His servants, He says:

Without doubt My Mercy precedes My Wrath.

My Mercy extends to all things. (Al-Araf 7:156)

With His attribute of Mercy, without showing any bias, He nurtures and protects all human beings and, indeed all animate creatures, and He continues to give sustenance even to those who deny Him.

Here it is possible to view all the prophets from the same perspective and present some examples from all of them, but let it suffice to give a few from Prophet Muhammad, the essence of existence, peace and blessings be upon him.

Hamza was one of the Companions whom the Prophet loved most. He was not just an ordinary Companion, he was also the Prophet’s uncle and they had both been nursed by the same wetnurse. Suppressing his honor and pride, this lionhearted giant of a man entered the spiritual atmosphere of the Pride of Humanity, peace and blessings be upon him. Supporting his nephew and saying "I am with you” at a critical time when the Muslims were weak in numbers raised his value manifold. Thus, by demonstrating the qualities of his closeness on the spiritual plane as well as on the physical plane, he was able to reach what seemed to be an unattainable height of greatness. Of course, the loyalty of this great hero was rewarded by the Prophet. He was martyred one day while fighting at Uhud; his bloody murderers had sworn to raid Madina and to run every man and woman through. At the hands of his murderers, their hands, eyes and thoughts bloody, Hamza was chopped into pieces. His sacred eyes were gorged out, his ears and lips cut off, his chest was split open and his liver was torn out and bitten into. The Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, whose bosom was full of compassion and mercy, looked at this horrifying scene and his eyes filled with tears like clouds of rain. There were seventy martyrs at the battle of Uhud—twice as many again had been wounded—women were widowed and children were orphaned. When he looked at this scene with the compassion of a prophet, it was almost unbearable. The children of Hamza and the children of other martyrs appeared before the Prophet, shivering like newly hatched chicks. As related in his biographical works, no sooner than the thought “In retribution for what they have done …” had crossed his mind was the following verse revealed:

And if you have to respond to any wrong, respond to the extent of the wrong done to you; but if you endure patiently, this is indeed better for he who endures. (An-Nahl 16:126)

In this verse he was being directed to a horizon of understanding according to his level, and in other words he was told, “You should not think like that.” That sun of leniency and tolerance, peace and blessings be upon him, buried all the pain in his chest and chose the road of patience.

Actually, the Prophet interwove the whole of his life, not only that moment, with tolerance. The polytheists did not spare him any torture or trouble. They drove him out of his homeland, formed armies, and attacked him. But even after the conquest of Makka, when the pagans were anxiously waiting to see how they would be treated, as a sign of his vast compassion and mercy the Prophet said:

I speak as Joseph spoke to his brothers: There is no reproach for you today (because of your previous acts). God will forgive you also. He is the Most Merciful of the Merciful. Go; you are free.[ Ibn al-Athir, Usd al-Ghabah, 1:528-532. ]

The Qur'an is the source of leniency and tolerance, and because these concepts have flowed to us like an exuberant stream from the Conveyor of the Qur'an, peace and blessings be upon him, we cannot think any differently on this matter. Any contrary idea would mean that we do not know the Qur'an and God’s Messenger. From this perspective, because tolerance derives from the Qur'an and the Sunna, it is a Muslim’s natural virtue and, because of the sources it is derived from, it is permanent. The covenant that the Messenger of God presented to the Christians and Jews is truly worthy of attention (the original text of the covenant is preserved today in England). Compared to the principles that our Prophet put forth, humanity today has not attained his level, neither with the declarations of human rights put forth in The Hague or Strasbourg nor that in Helsinki. That Man of Great Forbearance lived together closely with the People of the Book in Madina. In fact, he was even able to find points of agreement with the dark souls who, even though they said, “We are Muslims,” continuously caused friction everywhere and tried to play those with clear consciences one against another. He embraced them by means of forbearance. Upon the death of Abdullah ibn Ubayy, who had been a lifelong enemy, the Prophet even gave his shirt as a burial shroud. Saying, “As long as there is no revelation forbidding me, I will attend his funeral,” and he showed his respect to the deceased.There is no message similar or equal to the message given to humankind by Prophet Muhammad. Thus, it is not possible for those who try and follow “the Most Beautiful Example” to think differently from what he thought.

In this respect, it is not possible to think of tolerance as something that is separate from us; it is a different color and tone of our feelings and thoughts. From this time on platforms for tolerance should be developed in our society. Tolerance should be rewarded, it should be given precedence at every opportunity, and those who behave with forgiveness to others should have a chance to express themselves.

[jeanandthedreamofhorses]

Eren the Free, Part 1: Response to linkspooky’s ‘Eren the Slave’

Thanks for asking for my response, anon, because it has allowed me to string together and articulate my own thoughts on Eren’s character at this stage of the story.

Needless to say, I have several interpretive, philosophical disagreements with @linkspooky‘s ‘Eren the Slave’ and these are expressed in my ‘Eren Jaeger – Who Freer than the Tyrant?’ meta, so please read that first. The purpose of this post will be to argue against specific claims made in linkspooky’s meta and tackle what I believe to be logical flaws in my opponent’s argument. This meta is in two parts not to flex but because my computer had an aneurysm trying to load the whole post.

Well, if the Defence in the trial of Eren Jaeger may take the floor, my opening statement is thus: Eren is no slave, and has pursued the path of freedom further than any other character.

Narrative and Personal Narrative

linkspooky draws a distinction between the Narrative of the manga and Eren’s Personal Narrative, the story he tells himself. They argue that people who have faith in Eren’s self-conception fall into his personal narrative.

But is his story not a Narrative? It is quite natural to expect character development from characters in a story - it could only rightly be called a mistake when it comes to real life. And do Eren’s detractors not themselves fall into the Personal Narratives of Armin, Mikasa and Zeke? They have repeatedly made the statement that Eren is not free, that he is being controlled by Zeke or Grisha, and every time he has proven them wrong.

There is indeed an authorial Narrative separate from the characters’ Personal Narratives which can be detected through symbolism and the course the story takes. I find that the course of the story thus far lines up far more with Eren’s Personal Narrative than it does with those of his detractors. We can tell this from how he has disproved Armin, Mikasa and Zeke’s accusations of manipulation and also how, in the last chapter, he symbolically rips free of his chains.

There is also the fact that we the readers are more in the dark about Eren’s thoughts and intentions than we are about any other character. How could we be seduced into a Personal Narrative we know next to nothing about? And why would the story deliberately hide from us the very perspective that is meant to deceive us? I think it is far more likely that the reason Eren’s intentions have been shielded from the reader is because they take the nature of a terrible truth that must be dug up with bloodied hands.

Whenever Eren opens up about his thoughts and feelings, the meta unfairly dismisses them as mere lip service despite Eren having no reason to lie to Reiner and Falco as two people he intends to kill.

Rather than our side of the fandom being deceived by Eren’s Personal Narrative, I find that the opposing side dismisses it out of hand because they have no intention of listening to Eren’s side of the story. Why is Eren’s perspective less valid than anyone else’s, especially when he knows more than every other character by virtue of his ability to literally see the future?

The only explanation I can find for this attitude, if I may be forgiven the presumption, is that people approach the topic with the automatic assumption that what Eren is doing has to be wrong instead of questioning their own morals - which is, after all, what Attack On Titan is all about.

Armin even says that he no longer understands Eren. I don’t think we should trust the perception of a character as being authorial Narrative when he explicitly makes a statement like this. linkspooky does have an explanation for this scene, however, which I shall address in the next part.

Armin and Mikasa’s Perceptions of Eren

linkspooky claims that the reason for Armin’s confusion is that his romanticised view of Eren is falling apart, which indeed it is, and the same is true of Mikasa. However, I don’t think it’s right to claim that their new perception of him is an accurate one, since they still haven’t heard anything from Eren himself apart from what both I and linkspooky agree are lies to distance himself from them.

While they both once focused excessively on the positive in Eren, now they focus excessively on the negative, not considering the reason for Eren’s actions that I believe we have received hints of in the last two chapters.

linkspooky and I both think that Eren wants to protect his friends - in my case I most definitely see it as his primary motivation. If Armin knew this about Eren, I do not think he would condone him, but I don’t think he’d so roundly condemn him as he does here either.

So I don’t think it is right to consider Armin’s words the straight truth here, given the lack of information he’s working with, and that indeed, the fandom is working with. Because Eren is doing the most morally questionable things, and because we are seeing things more often from Armin’s perspective than his these days, there is perhaps an impulse to put faith in Armin’s words over Eren’s. But in this series, nothing is ever so black and white.

In Mikasa’s case, her treasured memory of the scarf is now being being challenged by the memory of Eren murdering the kidnappers - but we know from 121 that Eren places special value on the scarf as well, instead of just the murder.

Rather than trying to paint Eren in a white or black light, they need to see Eren as he really is: like the freedom he represents, a force beyond good and evil. 

Enemy of the World

One of linkspooky’s arguments is that being the ‘Enemy of the World’ is just Eren’s fantasy as he frequently relies on others. However, linkspooky also mentions how Eren manipulates everyone close to him. I would argue that the person who manipulates you is, in fact, your enemy, and that Eren is the Enemy of the World not because he never relies on help but because he is entirely on his own side.

Indeed he knows that assistance from others is necessary even just to activate the Founder’s power, and he also refers to the Survey Corps as his friends, or even comrades, depending on your translation.

This is why he manipulates them - and the reason he manipulates rather than relying on them is because he feels that his Will contradicts the Wills of everyone around him. There is no-one who desires the outcome that Eren desires, not even Floch and the Eldian nationalists, I believe: I think even they will baulk at the scale of destruction Eren intends. Historia is the only character I think may be an exception to this rule as the other bearer of the ‘enemies of mankind’ moniker. 

This otherwise total isolation of intention is what makes Eren the Enemy of the World. Because he fights for his freedom, he rebels against peace.

I think this panel is another example of why the authorial Narrative itself supports the idea of Eren being an Enemy of the World. The positioning of the speech bubble and outside text was entirely the decision of Isayama and his editor, and is not a thought bubble from Eren’s head. He has never actually addressed himself as ‘the Enemy of the World’: Historia calls him the enemy of mankind and Willy says he rebels against peace, but while Eren has said he “might just destroy the world” and only in response to Willy’s words, he is still not ascribing himself a title or role.

Eren’s Individualism

linkspooky claims that the scene in the FT arc, where the Levi Squad is slaughtered because Eren didn’t rely on his power instead of theirs, is misinterpreted because Eren also lost the fight on his own. However, this is where I think this meta falls prey to one of its greatest weaknesses: the omission of the Uprising Arc from the analysis of Eren’s character, wherein his most pivotal transitions take place.

The event that caused Eren to trust in his own strength over the strength of others was not his fight against Annie, but when a similar situation repeats itself in the Crystal Cave.

In this circumstance, Eren is able to protect all of his friends by relying on his own strength, when they would have died had they attempted their risky manoeuvre. Eren has become strong enough to protect them on his own - this was the first inkling of that realisation.

I say ‘first inkling’ because Eren does say this afterwards, which seems to influence Armin towards his current ideology. Such an idea seems at odds with what I believe to be Eren’s current aim to genocide those different to him as a wholly antagonistic force, like the bullies in Armin’s memories who Armin now wants to make peace with.

I believe this is because Eren soon learns that those differences between people are simply too great and too much of a threat to his freedom. People are stronger together, but only if he can be confident that they will follow his Will, which is how he learned to manipulate his allies. The differences between him and Levi in the Serumbowl nearly caused the loss of his best friend, and then, when he receives Grisha’s memories and learns of Marley’s treatment of Eldians, he learns just how deeply divided humans are and loses faith in overcoming those differences.

Far from character stagnancy, this is the development I see in Eren that has led him to this individualistic conclusion.

I would also like to address what I think is a fallacy in linkspooky’s analysis of the fight Eren loses against Annie. Eren loses both with his comrades and without them - how does that make the former path any better than the latter? Eren was actually doing very well in his fight against Annie, and only lost when he realised her identity from her fighting stance.

What I think Eren really took away from that fight is the lesson he is applying now - he cannot show any mercy to his enemies.

Levi Parallelism

I find the parallels drawn between Eren and Levi quite interesting and am not necessarily opposed to it, but personally I find that Levi has more parallels with Mikasa than Eren as two Ackermans driven by their love for others (though of course this is a big part of Eren’s motivation as well). Mikasa realising she can’t protect Eren or always be by his side is more in line with Levi accepting that he can’t save everyone imo.

Those Who Push Themselves into that Hell

linkspooky draws attention to Eren’s use of language to indicate that he is not free, such as in the following scene: 

They argue that the ‘something’ pushing Eren along means he is not moving from his own will.

However, I find this claim to be contradicted by the distinction Eren makes within this very scene. He differentiates between those who are pushed into hell by their circumstances and those who “push themselves into hell”, clearly putting himself - at least as he is now - in the latter category. So I find that Eren is articulating that, because his whole past and future are manifestations of his own Will (as I argue in the attached meta), he is freely choosing to enter this arena rather than being forced to do so.

I Just Keep Moving Forward

linkspooky also argues that the reluctance in the line “I just keep moving forward’” suggests a lack of freedom. I would argue that continuing to fight for your goal even though you are frightened is a sign of strength of will rather than the reverse.

They also argue that, because those words are remembered as Reiner is about to kill himself, they are portrayed in a negative light. But this omits the crucial follow-up to that scene, where Reiner does not kill himself and finds a reason to live after hearing Falco express his desire to protect Gabi. Reiner is saved by that will to keep moving forward.

They further argue that Eren takes these words from Hange and twists them to suit himself.

But this is untrue. As they pointed out themself, Eren first heard these words in his training days from Reiner where it did mean what he thinks it means. Furthermore, there is no panel showing Eren having any special reaction to Hange’s words. He is shown with the other key Serumbowl players before Hange says them, but not afterwards, where the focus is solely on Mikasa.

I believe Isayama has Hange say Eren’s tagline because it is a key phrase in the themes of the story, and not because it has any special effect on Eren.

I Didn’t Have Any Other Choice

Lines such as “I didn’t have any other choice” and “Is there another way” are similarly argued to be indicative of Eren’s enslavement to a single course of action.

But this is just the conflict between long and short term gratification – enduring hardship to obtain your goal is an example of a strong will, not an enslaved one. Even if he is enslaved to circumstance, this is the case for everybody else as well, and it is an enslavement he seeks to permanently free himself from by crushing his enemies for good. After that, he and Eldia can do whatever they will.

Born This Way

The lines “I’ve always been that way, ever since I was born”, and “It’s probably been like this since the day we were born” are argued to be a form of enslavement to one’s sense of self. I cover this in my attached meta, where I argue that it is rather an affirmation of his own Will and right to exist.

One specific point I’d like to address is the claim that Eren saying those words after Reiner tries to take personal responsibility for his actions is evidence that Eren is running away from his guilt, and is therefore not at peace with his actions, and is therefore not free. But rather than in denial or frustrated, Eren appears to be in a state of sad serenity.

Eren does not say these words in immediate response to Reiner, but only after he hears Willy say “Because I was born into this world”. I think that here Eren is simply recognising that Reiner was simply following the unique nature of his Will - doing it because he wanted to, not because he had to, which is indeed what Eren is doing - and acknowledging that it is something he cannot criticise him for, but also something that he cannot spare him for. That is the command of Eren’s unique Will.

As for Eren not being at peace with his actions meaning he is not free, refer to the short/long term gratification point I made earlier.

Jealousy of Mikasa and the Need to be a One Man Army

linkspooky claims that Eren is still trying too hard to be as strong as Mikasa and Levi, but once again the meta suffers due to a lack of consideration for the Uprising Arc. In that arc, Eren got over his jealousy of Mikasa and Levi and explicitly stated as much.

This, I think, is also sufficient evidence against a persisting desire on Eren’s part to be a One Man Army (as opposed to freedom, which he does have a desire for). His words here make it clear that he wishes to fight alongside his friends if possible. He has simply learnt that, to achieve his goals, ruthless manipulation and rugged individualism is necessary.

Need to be Special

This is also something Eren overcame in the Uprising Arc. He thinks of himself as a normal person, the son of a special father, that he never needed to happen.

He is not doing all of this to be special. He has simply become special by pursuing his birthright: not a birthright of exceptionalism, but of the right to exist, something I shall explain further in the ‘Meaning of Carla’s Words’ section in the next part.

As with the One Man Army, it is a matter of necessity rather than desire. I cover this more in my attached Eren meta, but Eren’s character has developed in a perfect loop. Though his actions remain the same, his understanding of them has increased dramatically: that is to say, he has come to understand himself.

Indeed, people are not naturally special. But can one really argue that special people do not exist at all? To say such a thing would be to argue that there is no difference between Daz and Erwin. People become special -  Supermen, to reference Nietzsche - because they relentlessly pursue their Will to Power, their driving force to actualise their desires.

linkspooky also argues that the reason Eren’s change is the most dramatic after the time-skip is because in actuality he hasn’t changed. My argument is that it is simply the result of having the most explicit and tumultuous development in the story up to now, and crucially, the ability to see a future no-one else can.

Read the rest in Part 2 here!

[ftpthemovement]

Strengthen the Believers

Nails 

1st Degree: 3 Nails Pendant - (Learning Gods Sacrifice)

What Christ did for you. (Forgiving others, making peace, riding vices, self reflection) 

Chapter Reading:  

John/Acts/Galatians/ Ephesians/ Philippians

Document notes of chapter reading in journal 

Actions

* Ask for forgiveness to as many as you remember wronging. Retrace past events and try to arrange meetings or phone conversations to make amends.

*Ask 12 elderly people what they would do different if they could start back young and do life over. Write down the answers and share them with your overseer. 

* Take two days devoted to spending time with a watchmen. If your group is new, take two days decayed to spending time hanging. Out with your group getting to know each other.

Document what you have learned, and share it with the overseer, or with your group as a collective.

Cross

2nd Degree: The Cross Pendant- Denying self (sacrifice of following Christ)

Calculate the cost

Chapter Reading: Luke/Romans/1 Peter/2nd Peter/1st Corinthians/2nd Corinthians 

* Give what you don’t have to give.

Everyone is different and according to their own heart let them find Gods answer. God himself will lead them them In the direction they should go. For others, this is a time of prayer, do not try to create influence from your opinion or what you choose. Allow them time to walk in relationship with God, and he will make it known to them the direction they should take.

Eagle 

3rd Degree: The Eagle Pendant - Trusting God

Provision. (Getting out of your comfort zone, trusting Gods supply)

Learning to step out and trust God. Learning patience and endurance, Getting over the spirit of offense, learning to overcome people falling away from you. Learning to endure persecutions and misunderstandings. Learning to draw on Gods supply and not the worlds supply. Freeing yourself if expectations.

 *Set up an outreach of generosity personally requesting people to join

*Go evangelize in the city and invite a team with you, proclaiming “The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!" Explain to them repentance is turning from your ways and seeking Gods way. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give.

* Start a prayer book for your brothers and your family. Take a binder and write the names of as many people as you can think of and pray over that book daily.

*Privately perform a selfless act of Generosity 

Chapter Reading: Mark/Hebrews/Colossians/

1 Thessalonians/2nd Thessalonians

Hook

4th Degree: Fish Hook Pendant 

(The great commission in action)

Walking out the great commission through action and in truth. Learning how to share your testimony with others. Inviting people to come and participate in your weekly group gatherings.

*Do 8 outreaches focused street evangelism and prayer 

*One Outreach or other event held by you 

*Address your brothers of your intentions of wanting to become a watchman 

Chapter Reading: Matthew/1st Timothy/2nd Timothy/ Titus/Colossians

Watchmen

5th Degree: The Watchmen Pendant 

(Teach others through action and Truth) 

Chapter Reading: 1st John/2nd John/ 3rd John

Jude/Revelations 

 *Wash each disciples feet of your group   

* Help in homeless or prison ministry

*Commit to tithing to FTP The Movement, so we can continue to expand across the nations, providing refreshment in our local communities, and communities throughout the world.

A large army is hard to move. It has many minds, and many motives, and is extremely hard to please. But a highly trained group of 6-12 men who have been commissioned, are unified in body and mind, have proven to be the most strategic, effective groups in the world.

This approach to discipleship is an absolute game changer. This is the way to bring men who are far from Christ to Christ, and walk his will out through action and truth. Don’t ever forsake the assembly. It’s the very thing that spurs us into action, to represent Christ in a lost and dying world, and to bear much fruit! Never settle for a watered down gatherings again. Instead be encouraged and commissioned with willing brothers and sisters who are there to walk your faith out through the transparency of love, care, generosity, forgiveness, and compassion.

I have been in leadership for sometime and have seen many stages of what gatherings look like. From traditional church gatherings, to social circles, to groups that gather to complain about their problems and feel better, but never take action to change them. To this I say, when you gather, it should no longer be about what others can do for you, it’s about what you can do for others. Pay special attention to those who are in need, lead them by example. You will find when you belive right, you will love right. Correctly addressing your attention to your savior, and not your sin, making you effective, and not ineffective for the kingdom of God.

When you gather, take communion with one another in remembrance of the Lord. “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.” Gather together and ask how everyone has been, and if ther is any prayers needed. Then read scripture to build each other up, and plan out your missions into your local community to provide refreshment. You should be as active as possible in the community, looking to provide refreshment to as many as possible, using your various giftings.

When you do this, your group may continue to grow. When this occours, carefully, and prayerfully appoint leaders. If appointed as leader, do fall victim to pride or the mindset of leadership, it’s a vain pursuit. You who seek to lead, must be the servant of all. If it is your gifting from God, rely on the Holy Spirit to walk boost in the position, above reproach, exhorting, edifying, and correcting, with all authority. Seek out everything in scripture on the topic of overseers, Timothy, Titus, etc.

Never let groups get larger than 25, twelve is the preferred size. To keep overhead to a minimum meet in places like homes, garages, shops, etc. If meeting in public, speak only words that would edify others if they were to overhear your conversation. Be a light in dark places at all times.

Gatherings should always be about discipleship, and taking action in your local community. Bring all of your tithes and offerings to the storehouse. They should always be donated to FTP THE MOVEMENT INC. through FTP app, Venmo, Cash App, or check via mail. Do not make cash donations to the local group unless specifically raising money outside of tithes and offerings. The tithes and offerings are collected and distributed towards advancing the gospel, providing funding for evangelist in the mission field, and refreshment through wholesale outlets so that each group can bring refreshment to their local community. When we pool our resources together as a collective, we are much more effective in our provisions and overall mission, which is the expansion of the gospel to all nation’s!

Each new group that feels a prompting in their heart to start should have at least two or more people coming together dedicated to consistently. You should decide on a name for your group. Each group will be considered a battalion. Each battalion is given a number. Upon starting you must submit the name of your group, names of each person in that group, their phone number, email, and specific talents and skill trades. When you gather have a sign in sheet of who is in attendance and submit it to us@ftpthemovement.com.

This information is collected to keep our non profit status, tax write offs for donors, and to meet specific needs in your particular areas. For example: Say an old lady needs Sheetrock repair in Savannah, Georgia, and Tim Rogers has the time, and knows how to repair it. It allows us to give our members the opportunity (not obligation) to help meet the needs of others, in accordance to Gods will.

FTP does not belong to you, you cannot take ownership of it because it is an ideal. The ideal comes to all nations as a symbol of hope, a lifestyle, that when seen in action is the living unified body of Christ in motion. Do not be attracted to numbers, be attracted to the dedication of action, and the continuous expansion of the gospel.

This is bigger than the ego, bigger than a denomination, bigger than any one contributor could do itself. This is the reformation of the church in the last days. It’s my heart cry that each individual, only through the prompting of the Holy Spirit, take careful and prayerful consideration in joining with us. It’s not for everyone, but we do belive that it is for you. Search your heart men of God. Put to side the differences that seek to cause division, and let’s leverage every opportunity, and resource we have to bring the body of Christ back to the forefront of humanity. Let it be such a loving force of Christ that it cannot be ignored.

““ ‘In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams. Even on my servants, both men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy. I will show wonders in the heavens above and signs on the earth below, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord. And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.’”‭‭Acts‬ ‭2:17-21

“Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it. “If you love me, keep my commands. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever— the Spirit of truth. The world cannot accept him, because it neither sees him nor knows him. But you know him, for he lives with you and will be in you. I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and keeps them is the one who loves me. The one who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love them and show myself to them.”

Jesus replied, “Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them. Anyone who does not love me will not obey my teaching. These words you hear are not my own; they belong to the Father who sent me. “All this I have spoken while still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”‭‭John‬ ‭14:12-21, 23-27‬ ‭

This is a calling to arms, this is for leaders across the nation to search their spirits, and to step forward In mission. Let’s create an infrastructure of resources no longer dedicating funds to stagnant over head cost. Let’s combine our time, talents, and resources to make an impact like never before. There’s much more I want to say to you concerning these matters. My heart burns with the fire of The Holy Spirit as warriors of God cry out “Amen” to these very words. That forgiveness be found with all. All debts be cleared, all animosity and resentment melts to the wayside. Let all division be crippled this very moment in Jesus precious and Holy name. No calloused hearts, no anger amongst men, just the body of Christ in action to the end of age! God be with us always, and protect your families as you make him your refuge and dwell in the shadow of the most high. If you have any prayer requests, specific questions, or want to start a battalion; contact me if you have my number, if not email me directly at us@ftpthemovement.com. We will respond as quickly as possible. Much more will be written especially in each ranking and the messages to come for each. Even without them you can succeed Holy start today and create disciples like never before.

Remeber, people are in need. It’s our opportunity to go out to them the same way Christ did, meeting them where they are at, not wait on them to come to us. It’s time to fly only one banner, and that banner is Christ and Christ crucified. I love you with all of my heart FTP. You have been sent, will you answer the call?

“And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!”

From the front lines, ES

[webcricket]

Paradise

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Jack Kline and the Winchesters Word Count: 1764 Summary: Before he was born, Jack Kline showed Castiel a vision of the future; in it, the seraph saw paradise. Returning to you and Jack after a hunt with the Winchesters, Cas apprehends that the future is now. Please note, this is written with early season 14 powerless Jack in mind. Introspective angel. Fatherly fluff. Family.

“I saw the future. I saw a world without pain or hunger or want. I saw the world that this child… that your child… will create. And it is a world without fear and without suffering and without hate… I saw paradise.”

[Castiel, 12X23 All Along the Watchtower]

***

Interconnected by a network of river-like asphalt crevasses threatening to part and swallow a mis-stepping wanderer seeking sanctuary from the stormy night whole, inky rainwater ripples a sea of potholes spanning the parking lot. Swirling about a motel – the building a comparatively sunny island oasis in the murk – whose pallid green peeling façade has been moldering since it’s late 50s interstate-side family-fun road tripping hey-day, an ethereal fog faintly reeking of highway exhaust and weighted with the musk of damp earth rises from paved ground where the heat of day absorbed by blacktop thwarts the cooling effect of the downpour. Oily darkness seeps unhindered into the perimeter of pock-marked pavement; the crimson glare of a vacancy sign and choked yellow light blurring the nicotine-tinted windows of the motel’s main office fail, for the most part, in their combined effort to keep at bay the incursion of night; the artificial gleam coalesces – eerie influence heightened now and then by lingering lightening lashing the horizon – to illumine Castiel’s aspect with a celestially subversive hellish hue.

Hands pushed into his pockets out of habit more than to protect against the dank atmosphere, the rain-spattered host of Heaven treads carefully, pausing to let pass a plump earthworm making its way across the roughened concrete walkway; the simple creature toils – a ringed tube of muscle pulsing as its body stretches opaquely pink then contracts again to the color of mud – to Chuck only knows what terminus; and Cas, knowing we all have somewhere special we long to be on tempestuous nights such as these waits so as not to impede its slimy progress.

Standing thus, sodden chestnut curls crushed into the permanent tracts of worry etching his brow, the angel glances upward to determine the source of a steady streamer of droplets smattering his trench coat lapel. Focus following the roof edge, he tarries for a few of his vessel’s heartbeats to appreciate the rhythmic drip-drop-drip sputter of an overworked gutter; the mournful bellow of a fly-by-night tractor trailer interrupts the melodically and moistly saturating song.

That, and the argumentative tones carried in the muggy air of two brothers as they plod, battle-weary and bloodied, bickering over who called dibs on a shower first. The younger concedes to the elder with a sweepingly derisive gesture indicating defeat on account of sheer exhaustion. The elder, ever happy to accept a win – any win – grunts in smug satisfaction and flashes his teeth.

At the sight of them safe – unperturbed, presently anyway, by anything supernatural – the angel permits the subtle softness of a smile to smite some of the usual seriousness squaring his jawline; he keeps an affectionately tempered watch on the men until they reach their destination.

The humidity-swollen door of suite 11 gives way to the ungentle nudging of Dean’s shoulder; the pitch within engulfs his bow-legged form.

Trailing behind his brother, Sam braces a palm to the threshold. Swiping the other across his forehead, he smears at the wet of rain and caked sweat collected there that trickles to sting his vision. Sensing the concentration of a gaze at his back, he turns to peer at the sentry-like seraph situated along the opposite row of rooms; he offers him a tired smile and a courteous nod, the micro expressions a summary of thankfulness they made it through another day – together, and mostly unscathed – and a sincere wish for a goodnight.

Cas lifts a hand from its pocketed confines to acknowledge Sam’s unspoken sentiment before the hazel-eyed hunter, too, disappears from view. Gaze falling to his water-specked boots, seeing no sign of earthworms laboring near the soles, he shifts his attention to the closed door at his right marked 23.

The door appears utterly unremarkable, like any of a thousand other doors; and yet, the two beings lodged behind the wooden barrier – a soul resplendent with a love he strives in all he does to deserve whose fitful breathing pattern he recognizes for one of tenuous slumber over the din of a television left on for distraction in his absence, and a son, not of his conception, but nonetheless his progeny by providential circumstance, choice, and a reciprocal devotion too deep to be anything less than a bond between father and son – are to him of paramount importance.

Superficially speaking, he notes the paint eroded around the knob with repeated use – a once bold hue faded to grey; studying the lock scarred by countless misaimed keys, he sifts through his trousers to locate the puzzle piece of notched metal required to garner entry. Key eluding him, likely long lost in the late kerfuffle with several lately departed demons, he concentrates his intent on the bolt and flicks two fingers to free the mechanism; the latch relents to its divine undoing with a muffled click and the door swings inward.

Warmly caressing the two precious sleeping figures within, a rush of sultry air surges along with the seraph’s irrepressibly welling grace – an angelic greeting of sorts he cannot suppress that swathes your bodies, reassuring him directly of your well-being. Irises sparkling blue, their shining surface reflecting the black and white Western ambling across the television screen, fix on Jack in the nearest bed, and you beyond, curled into yourself and clutching a pillow in lieu of your preferred bed partner, as he endeavors to quickly re-secure the door without disturbing the prevailing peace.

Feeling the familiarity of his grace smooth every inch of your skin, a small sigh of delight escapes your lips as your respiration settles to a restful regularity; even in unconsciousness, you sense the seraph’s energetically charged arrival and respond with relief.

Carpet discoloring where it drenches beneath his feet as though he is a vagabond washed ashore by the tide from a long and aimless voyage at sea, Cas divests himself of his signature – and by convenient chance, weather appropriate – coat, casting it aside to dry on a chairback, before drifting further into the room. Fingers slackening the knot of his tie and unfastening the topmost buttons of his shirt, each initial step inward liberates boots and socks and lightens his heart with the emotion of a homecoming where you discover what you remember with especial fondness endures outside the bounds of time itself. It matters not to him that only a few meager hours have passed apart which may seem to some no time at all; the iterant angel cherishes every minute fortune blesses him with a family; and not just any family – his family – the one he forged and fights for on an unshakeable foundation of faith and fidelity.

Rounding Jack’s bedside, Cas’ regard lands on a comic book loosely hanging from the boy’s grasp; the colorfully graphic pages poise in a precipitous gravitational battle between insensate fingertips and the floor. He collects the comic, reads the title of Constantine plastered across the cover, and stares for a moment at the sight of the trench coat clad centric-character. The soft smile Sam caught a glimpse of earlier eases roundness into the angel’s cheeks and fractures the flesh cornering his blues in a charming chaos of creases.

Setting the comic on the side table for safekeeping, Cas reaches down to lightly comb the hair from Jack’s cloistered eyes; stooping, he tenders a kiss to the bared forehead. “Sweet dreams, my boy,” his lips brush the gravelly murmured hope into the Nephilim’s mind, crowding out the doubt Cas knows dogs him therein; knowing well that very same pain, it hurts the angel’s heart witnessing Jack struggle to find his way in the world – between worlds – just as he did. Cas is grateful he’s here to help him navigate, to pick him up with unfailing belief and forgiveness when he falls down because he understands from experience that is what it takes to go on when it’s so much easier to give in.

A static tingle of awareness runs his vessel’s spine, climbing all the way to pill the hair peppering his nape, a sure indicator of clandestine observation. Steeped in sentimental thought, he missed the signs of you rousing. Straightening, moving with deliberate slowness of action to relish in the escalating uptick of your heartbeat as you eagerly wait for him to turn, he tugs the blanket over the boy’s shoulders and tucks him in.

As soon as the angel’s chin slants in your direction, your eyelids squeeze in a mockery of sleep; you cannot, however, repress the waking of the smile curving your mouth. Swiftly, he’s on you. Arms caging, lips seal over yours to quiet a giggle; unable to subdue the gladness of greeting where mouths meet, the shared smiles meld into something even sweeter.

It’s you – always you, human frailty an affront to the unending potential of angelic passion – that begs mercy for a breath first; pardoning yourself from the kiss to pant into the collar of his shirt, you embrace him round the neck, demanding with gentle insistence he join you in the bed.

He surrenders to the promise of loving comfort without struggle; clambering over you to collapse on the vacant side of the mattress, he notches himself in the welcoming fold of your arms.

Fingers tangling his still damp hair, you draw his head to rest on the cushion of your bosom.

Serenity, safety, and love sheltered within these walls, evenness of your breath calming, he gives himself permission to fully relax. The spectral silhouette of wings unfurling dances upon the wall in the TV's undulant light; blanketing you, the feathery tips stretch across the gap between beds to shroud, too, his son. Contentment hums in his throat.

“You guys take care of those demons?” The hushed query echoes through the laddered rungs of your ribs and into his ears.

“Mm-hmm.” He vibrates in answer.

“Sam and Dean, they’re okay?”

“They’re Sam and Dean,” he teases, volume equally low so as not to wake Jack, “they manage to be fine in spite of themselves and just about everything else that tries to prove otherwise.”

Your chest bounces in a silently contained laugh. “And what about you, angel?”

The question needs no consideration. He’s never been better. This is the future – the paradise – Jack showed him once upon a time: a present without the pain of doubt, the hunger to belong, or the want of purpose. Castiel sees now that paradise isn’t a place you go to, it’s the people you’re with – the people you love and who love you in return. Outside a storm rages and darkness forever encroaches; in here, he nestles nearer, tells you he’s, “Good,” and means it.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @roxy-davenport  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy    @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity  @honeybeetrash  @bucky-thorin-winchester  @superwholockz   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders  @gill-ons  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @marisayouass  @stone-met   @castiel-savvy18  @samualmortgrim  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx  @moon-and-stars-cas  @mandilion76  @rockfairy  @peaceloveancolor  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @aditimukul  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove  @uninspirationalsonglyrics  @gray-avidan  @mishascupcake   @mishapanicmeow   @praisecastielamen  @roseyhxnt  @jessikared97  @let-the-imaginationflow  @warriorqueen1991   @sebastianstanslefteyebrow   @hisnameisboobear  @kristendanwayne  @fuschiarulerinthebluebox  @coolpencilpie  @jenabean75  @luciathewinchestergirl  @morganas-pendragons  @heyitscam99  @fangirl-and-stuff  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade  @splendidcas  @pointlesscasey  @i-larb-spooderman  @thewhiterabbit42  @thelostverse  @castieliswatchingoverme  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick  @jtownraindancer   @carowinsthings  @passionghost  @sherlockedtash88  @futureparent  @gabbie7-11  @myfandomlife-blog  @dreamerkim  @shamelesslydean  @earthtokace  @neaeri  @justanormalangel  @lone-loba  @supernaturalymarvel  @lilrubixx  @wings-and-halo  @thehoneybeecastielfollows  @musiclovinchic93  @81mysteriouslyme  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss  @jaylarkson  @iminlokisarmysofi  @pixiedusts  @spookysculderfiles  @laqueus-ludovicus  @missjenniferb @lexininja  @jessiekay2010   @skrratata  @rhiannonj79  @calicat79

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CLAUDIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO with a FC change to Chadwick Boseman. Admin Minnie: Claudia. Wow, Claudia. This application won me over. I got extremely excited in a matter of seconds just from your first paragraph alone — just ask the other admins, I can even send you a screenshot of my message: “ok i've read one paragraph and im in luv”. From your clean and precise analysis of his core (”learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive” YOU DID THAT) to the incredibly story you weaved in your para sample... you completely won me over. And so did your Othello. I cannot wait to see your plot points come to life, because I’m positive that you’re going to bring a storm to Verona. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Claudia

Age | 23

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 7

Timezone | GMT+11

How did you find the rp? |  I’ve known about DiVerona for a while now but it’s been some time since I was active on the rpc scene. Stumbling upon it again after all this time and seeing Othello open feels a little like serendipity.

Current/Past RP Accounts |  Here and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello. And if I could please request a faceclaim change to Chadwick Boseman.

What drew you to this character? |

Othello is a study in dichotomies – a man torn between polar extremes. Between savagery and nobility, brutality and kindness, love and war.

His very existence was borne of a war waged between his mother’s warmth and his father’s cruelty. He grew up in a house that felt more like battlefield than home, learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive. He feels everything: deeply, intensely, like an open wound half-healed; it’s his greatest strength and it will be his ultimate downfall. Odin is a man capable of a vast and terrible rage. There’s brutality sunken deep in his marrow, something black and rotten in his birthright, an ancient violence. He feels it in his blood like a beast that’s slept dormant all these years, lying in wait, watchful, preying on his worst instincts. He hears it singing in his veins, can taste it climbing into his throat, when he sees a guilty man’s blood spilled on fresh dirt. He thinks he sees glimpses of his father in the mirror, sometimes, when his mind is adrift and steeped in shadow. His eyes, soulless and quiet, his knuckles blooming with bruises.

Suffice to say, I love this broken, conflicted, contradiction of a man. There’s nothing more compelling than a tragic hero and the thing about Othello is that he has every inkling in him of someone who could so easily be tipped over the edge into monster. I love that discrepancy, I live for that sliver of doubt, the seduction of l’appel du vide and the terrifying realisation that he has everything in him to slip beyond that edge.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

ONE MORE SUCH VICTORY WOULD UTTERLY UNDO ME  |  Odin has survived the maelstrom of scandal and ruin that would have meant a fall from grace and high standing, the destruction of all that he has built for himself. And in doing so, he’s lost the only thing he has every truly loved in this life: Delilah. All of the love and devotion and pleas for understanding could not deny the rage and ruthlessness that came with her infidelity. With the heartbreak of knowing the one person he’d let into the deepest parts of his soul, who’d seen him bare and unstripped of all artifice, had betrayed him. He’s burned all their bridges, performed triage to save his reputation and his pride, but what of the love that still sickens him when he thinks of her and how she’s suffering? He has set fire to all traces of her inside his heart but it isn’t so easy to burn her out of his mind or his dreams. These are the places where man has no dominion. And what of the peace he knows he will never find again without her by his side? What of the treacherous slivers of doubt beginning to eat away at him that till now, he has tried to kill and smother with green-eyed reason? He couldn’t possibly be wrong, could he? He couldn’t have abandoned his happiness and his honour with the one woman who has loved him for all his flaws and vices at the turn of a whispered deception?

AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER?  |  Ivan is the closest thing Odin has to family. To blood. Ivan has stood at his side through everything, his left-tenant, his confidante, his greatest source of comfort and familiarity. Call it a blind spot, a weakness, but Ivan has earned his faith and unquestioning trust. It was Ivan who came to him when he first heard of Delilah’s betrayal, and it was Ivan who gave him the strength to do what had to be done. But now he has lost his greatest love, and his brother seems more and more a stranger to him by the day. Ivan has always been smarter, sharper, hungrier, hiscunning forged out of necessity and survival. It is the flicker of doubt, the silhouette of something far more treacherous and unforgivable that stains his dreams like nightshade. He is not a man of halfway, or half-done. Odin absolutely cannot abide the grey area of hesitation. If there is more than speculation to the idea that Ivan has somehow exaggerated, or misconstrued Delilah’s transgression… There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose.

WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF  |  Despite his well-crafted attempts at appearing to the contrary, Odin walks a finely wired tightrope between chaos and control. His ego is bruised and battered, and his heart is worn thin with humiliation. He was once a man that wore the hearts of Verona’s people on his sleep. Now, a whisper follows him everywhere he goes. A whisper that becomes a murmur, rising and spilling into a crescendo of rumour and disgrace that hounds him day and night. Odin is quicker to anger, more belligerent and unruly, a humming drum beat of shame and dishonour ringing in his ears every time he turns away and pretends not to hear the outrageous lies they spin. And with his beloved gone, cast out of his heart and soul, there is so little left to keep his worst instincts at bay. All it would take is one bad day. One simple push is all it would take to plunge him down the path into darkness. A push, or a drip of well-timed poison in his ear.  

PROMETHEUS’ GAMBIT  |  Before Odin swore himself to the Capulets, he was a man of the people. A hero. A saviour. Someone who fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, who strove to uphold the law and to push for reform when, at times, it failed to protect Verona’s people. Why, then, would such a noble, virtuous man like Odin Bello, choose to fall in with the mob? Odin is idealistic, but pragmatic. War and injustice have taught him that the law is not enough. Verona runs on blood and money, and if that is what it takes to wield the power and influence in this city necessary to do genuine good, then so be it. Becoming a Captain of the Capulets was an act of necessity, and political savvy. He is a man of his word, and therefore loyal to their cause. But if there ever comes a day when he must choose between the Capulets and the life of an innocent, Odin’s sense of justice may cause him to waver.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |  Absolutely. Preferably in some manner of tragedy and disaster befitting the very embodiment of tragic irony.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

It is always the same dream.

The same endless plunge into nothingness, a black chasm void of any light or air or sound. It could be sinking, or rising, and Odin wouldn’t know the difference between the sky and the ground. Suffocating. Drowning. Either way, it is a slow, and terrible way to go.

The vice around his neck, coiling tight around his throat, tighter with every breath, crushing any frenzied hope of salvation. He scrabbles wildly at the noose (not a rope but smooth, sleek to the touch, and cold), knuckles paling with desperation as his lungs scream. He fights. But the end is always the same. The hand (when did the noose become so clearly defined? Are those fingers?) clenches around his throat, grinding down against his windpipe with unrelenting pressure. It metastasizes – liquefying with the metallic consistency of blood, or perhaps smoke, as it fills his mouth and his lungs and his chest, pouring into his ribcage and filling every fissure and crevice inside of him.

It tastes like death. It tastes like inevitability.

He drowns like this, suspended in time between shadow and purgatory, for what feels like an eternity. And then either his mind snaps, or the dream does, and he’s released, hurtling into reality with the speed of a sniper bullet.

—

He wakes like a dying man drawing his last, shuddering breath.

In his dream state, his sweat-streaked brow tightens with the anticipation of a brush of warm, soft lips. Ah. But she’s gone now, isn’t she? She is gone and he has carved her out of his chest like a pound of flesh he still holds clutched in his bloodied fist. The proof of her betrayal beating in his palm, visceral and raw as a slaughter.

Odin wakes from sleep every morning like he has survived a death. He moves as if his body is exhausted to find itself alive and begrudges him the audacity of enabling the very breath in his lungs. But years of military regimen has been beaten into him like sandstone worn smooth by a millennia of moon and tide. He drags himself out of bed, dresses, makes his bed squared with perfect angles, shaves, slips his gun out from beneath his pillow and into his holster. The barely risen sun casts everything in a dull tinge of faded indigo like day old bruising. He pads through the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps winding down and down the stairs.

A rap of knuckles upon his door splinters his reverie, his attention snaps to the entryway. Sharp. Alert.

It’s Katarina. She swirls through the door, out of uniform but armed to the teeth, gaze chilled as black ice.

“It’s the rat,” she hisses, eyes flashing like chips of steel in the dark.

The word has an affect akin to an electric shock: he’s awake.

“What did he do now?”

Katarina’s gaze narrows in disdain. “What rats are wont to do: lie and squirm and betray.”

“And what’s the word from Sloane? Rafaella?”

“Dispose and send in the cleaner.” Casual murder, discussed just like that. It’s not even seven in the morning yet, a time when normal, human citizens of Verona could be having their first cup of coffee.

“No use disposing of a rat if we can’t get something out of it first,” Odin deliberates. “Catch him for interrogation.”

Katarina snorts indelicately. “Shouldn’t be too hard, the way he’s been hitting The Dark Lady every night like the world is ending.”

The barest smirk toys at the corner of Odin’s mouth. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as we thought then.”

Those that lie to the Capulet Mob are usually exactly as slow-witted as they appear on the surface. Lying and betraying the Capulets is akin to signing one’s own death sentence in blood.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Katarina drawls, the syllables velveteen on her tongue.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock in The Orchid Room. You can handle getting him there on a work night?”

“Can I get a Veronesi police officer to slack and indulge their vices at a glorified whorehouse? Please.”

“Alright, then.” Odin gives a small nod, a subtle seal of approval.

“Well, I have to go see a gentleman about an exterminator.”

There is something to be admired in how efficiently a malvivente can get away with murder. The science and precision it takes to orchestrate a killing floor, a crime scene, a clean-up. In many ways, Cosimo Capulet is a virtuoso of his craft, if homicide could be considered an art.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate disappearing bodies from the precinct? Remind me to recommend that we accept external transfers only from now on.”

Katarina flicks him a smile sharp enough to cut through bone. “Here’s hoping third time’s a charm.”

––

The city is restless with fevered boredom. A sinister hush before a summer storm. Odin is alone on patrol this morning; Bellamy has begged off their shift with some falsified story about an elderly neighbour in crisis. In other words, a convincingly tedious tale to spin to cover the tracks of covert Montague business.

Odin doesn’t pry; there will be a time to play his cards and reveal his hand but today is not the day.

A crackling comes on over the radio, a standard 10-62 from dispatch. When he arrives on scene on the very outskirts of south Verona, it’s to an unsettling quiet. He steps out of the car, hand slipping cool over the grip of his gun. He heads round the back of the building, passing soundlessly down the winding cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance. His second cause for concern comes with his discovery that the door has been left unlocked. A push of the frame sends it swinging open. Odin’s hand flexes instinctively, curling tighter around his gun as he moves, barrel-first, into the house. With a slight exhale through his teeth, he raises his fist and hammers it into the peeling wood.

“Polizia,” he cries out. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

No signs, even, of a breaking and entering.

He releases his fist, and heads cautiously on into the house. He clears one room after the other, swiftly and methodically, finding no signs of forced entry or illicit trespassing. The only remaining room left to scour is on the upper floor facing northward. Odin steps forward and reaches to open the door.

Of all the things Odin could have anticipated finding here, the rat they’ve have been hunting for over a week wouldn’t have made the list. But here, in the center of the room, sprawled on the floorboards like a tableau vivant, is Luca Salvatore. His nose and upper lip are smeared with quicksilver, and there’s powered gold, faintly gleaming, dusted around his collar. Ambrosia and il sangue di Faerie. An ironic harmony of Montague and Capulet – perhaps the only time the two sides have ever known true balance. How bittersweet, Odin muses as he lowers into a crouch to expect the body, he betrayed the Capulets and yet it is Montague poison that helped to seal his death. The foam gathered at the corner of Salvatore’s blue-tinged lips glimmers in the light, specks of chrome and liquid gold catching the sun seeping in from the window. Someone made damn sure they shoved enough fae blood and ambrosia down this man’s throat that he’d never live to draw another breath.

Odin sighs, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he pulls out his phone to send a message: Our rat’s been poisoned.

“Dispatch, 10-45D. I’ve got a body.”

Whatever secrets this man was harbouring, whatever danger or temptation drove him to fuck the Capulets, dying of borderline madness was a mercy.

Fool them once, they’ll kill you twice.

––

The night spirals on an endless loop at the The Dark Lady, time and space wrapped around a mobius strip of warped deception and illegality. The walls always look like freshly painted blood from the shadows of the lowlit stage. Unlike many of his fellow Capulets and officers – men are all the same, honourable or not, noble or not – Odin has never been seduced by the promise of The Dark Lady and her Sparrows. So long as his wife held his heart, he was hers in mind and body and endless soul.

Now, he is unchained. Adrift. But the thought of another woman, in her place, whispering the words she once whispered in his ear, physically sickens him. And perhaps it’s pathetic that the very idea of being unfaithful to his cheating ex-wife is anathema to him. Foolish, ignorant, blindly loyal Odin. That’s him. Besides, his purpose here tonight lies with business, not pleasure. If anyone knows who would have the most probable cause to poison their little rat, it’ll be the illustrious queen of the Sparrows. Of course, she’s kept him waiting. Her word and will is law within the dark walls of this establishment.

From his vantage point at the bar, he sees everything clearly through the haze of lust and debauchery. Men reduced to their base, animal selves, led by beautiful Sparrows with their fingers wrapped around their wallet. Gambling, prostitution, solicitation – technically, being here at all goes against the premise of his very existence as an officer of the law. The Dark Lady is one of the most profitable businesses on Capulet territory for good reason, however. Even if it weren’t for Odin’s interference, Mona has her hands in the pockets of every high-ranking officer within the police force. Or around their throats, with the numbers of untold secrets she has in her gilded arsenal.

He’s close to calling it a night and returning in the morning to reschedule when the piercing shatter of glass cuts through the music and hushed conversation.

“Jesus fuck, now look what you’ve done.”

A Sparrow, one of Mona’s girls, her long scarlet hair spilling loose down her shoulders, gives a soft yelp as she’s yanked from her position in a patron’s lap. Like the bird of her namesake with a broken wing, she’s tugged by the force of the man gripping at her wrist. Hard enough to bruise by the judgement of the man’s sheer height and build.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man hisses venomously, brushing furiously at his pants and the patch of wetness growing from spilled liquor staining the left leg. His grip on her tightens, the effect immediately visible from the lance of pain that flickers across her face, pointed and urgent.

The world goes very quiet, and very still. Odin tenses, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The walls here are red, the little Sparrow’s hair is red – vermillion, the colour of a sunset on fire, Bordeaux wine – and his vision bleeds red.

Odin moves without conscious thought: one moment he is at the bar, and the next his arm is slamming into the man’s gut, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to release the Sparrow out of shock. His hand, formed in a knuckled fist, fingers wrapped around thumb and the ring on his fourth finger that he keeps fucking forgetting to take off (or burn, or throw into the river, or melt down into scrap metal), swings forward in a brutal uppercut. It makes contact with a resounding snap of bone and cartilage, blood spraying forth in vivid, violent streaks of red.

“You crazy fucking bastard,” the man howls, staggering on his feet as his hands fly up to clutch at his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There is one and only one rule in this club.” Odin widens his eyes a fraction. “Are you an idiot, or just in the mood to be skinned alive fully conscious?”

The man’s face twists into a snarling contempt. Naturally, he ignores the question entirely. “I know you,” he says, voice low and lascivious, swaying precariously on his feet. “You’re Odin Bello.”

Odin’s mouth flat lines, unimpressed by the drunken display before him.

“The man whose wife has fucked half the city.”

After, the reports will say that the man was found near dead: 6 broken ribs, dozens of broken, fractured bones, internal bleeding, contusions on his chest, arms and face, comatose.

After, they’ll say that Odin Bello lost his mind.

(Have you seen him? He doesn’t look like someone stable.

His wife was cheating on him for months with every member of his precinct, the poor fool. Who could blame him?

Bello’s insane. He’s completely lost it.

Did you hear the man he attacked is in a coma? Who knows, maybe he deserves it. Maybe he was asking for it.

I feel bad for the wife. Good thing she got out while she still could.)

––

After, Mona finds him in the alleyway with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his hands and arms soaked in blood to the elbow. He smells like the inside of a slaughterhouse, and ash. She stalks over on stiletto heels sharpened to a knife point and slaps a black dossier against his chest. The Dark Lady’s insignia is debossed, an imprint, a shadow of an elegant swirling sigil.

“This isn’t a favour, Bello. I expect repayment in full, and then some.”

Her hand shoots out to grip him by the chin, manicured fingernails digging into his jawline as she drags his face down towards her eye line.

“You pull that shit in my club again and I’m blacklisting you for life.”

Odin shakes her hand free like her touch is nothing but air and straightens, presses the cigarette back to his lips and lets the smoke coil and spiral from his fingertips. Even the smoke tastes of something raw. Like fresh blood, metallic and veined with rust. There are flecks of it clinging to his cheekbones, splattered across his shirt like an abstract impressionist rendering of violence. The afterimage of it seared into the black and white negative of his silhouette. He looks like an old god, covered in the grime and filth of modernity. A bloodied relic of an ancient religion built on the altar of human sacrifice. He inhales, black smoke swirling in his lungs, the faint glow of eyes like ritual fire as he turns to face her.

“Do you think she knows?”

Bewilderment, then disgust as understanding dawns on Mona’s face. “How the fuck would I know, Bello?”

Odin watches her, unblinking, utterly motionless, his gaze deadened and hollowed like the heart of a black hole. A yawning abyss of unending nothingness with no horizon.

Am I only a monster if she knows what I’ve done?

Extras:

ORIGIN: Standing at 6’5” since he was 18 years old, Odin cuts a striking figure. His presence commands gravitas without him ever having to speak a word: a simple nod, a tilt of the chin. Soldiers fall silent when he speaks, higher-ranking officers defer to his cool judgement and lateral insight. He is a man born for leadership, marked for authority and the steady ascent to power. They say that those who deserve power do not want it, and in Odin’s case, at least to begin with, this is true. He enlisted at 18 to find an escape, a lifeline. A pathway to an existence free of his father and the brutal legacy he’d built for him — the only thing his father had ever given him other than his name. It was of little surprise that being primed and honed for war came easily to him. Odin rose swiftly through the ranks, impressing his superiors with his discipline, resolve and relentless potential. If anything, he was a little too disciplined, a little too resolute. Too intense and dead-eyed even when his fellow recruits were pushed to the brink of physical and mental collapse. Odin never seemed to tire, never seemed to even approach a tangible breaking point. He was utterly in his element: consistently ranking first in all his classes and dominating thr basic training activities with his physical advantages. But he was also charismatic, distinctly likeable, and always willing to help and shoulder someone else’s burden if he saw them struggling. As much as the other recruits would have preferred it, he was impossible to hate. At 24, he was promoted early to Lieutenant and led a squad of nine men who were willing to fight and die at his word. Out there, in the desert, they would have walked open-eyed into a minefield if he had given the order. Five years later, he was honourably discharged with the end of his tour. At least, that’s what his official military transcript says. What the transcript doesn’t say is that Odin Bello was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic insomnia and major depressive disorder following his return. This will do you good, the Lieutenant Colonel had said. You’ve fought this war for long enough but now it’s time for you to go home, to find a little peace for yourself. He returned to the country, battle still burning in his blood and his head full of quiet demons, and immediately left in search of a place that did not feel like a graveyard. So he found, Verona, wartorn, streets red with blood, a monster lurking behind the face of every man, and felt for the first time in a very long time, at home.

HEART: Odin has a great love for animals and small children. When he was young, he would feed what little food he had to the local dogs and strays. They followed him around the streets like a loyal pack of guard dogs and one time even chased off a gang of older children harassing him for non-existent money. Odin was a single child but he often played with the other children in his town and helped to look after the youngest ones when needed. His heart is most visibly softest when he’s around children. To this day, he ensures that a significant portion of his pay – as a law enforcer and Capulet – goes to the local orphanage of Verona. He spends at least one day a week in his time off-duty feeding the stray creatures of Verona – be they beggars, street ruffians or stray dogs.

SOUL: It’s a hypocrisy of the highest order to be an officer of the law, and yet a Capulet. The Capulets are the source of half the rife and warfare in the city, the beating heart of the black market that funnels contraband and weaponry through the illicit networks of the underground. The Capulets liken their legacy to that of Robin Hood, a legendary tale of David defeating Goliath. Now, however, the Capulets are fat and glutted on their gold and wealth. Just as filthy rich and corrupted as the aristocrats they overthrew in the name of liberty and equality. Joining the Capulets was a means to an end for Odin, an opportunity to oversee the inner workings of the Capulet crime family, and to use it for his own quiet purposes. A thief that slipped away with the life savings of a dozen families he swindled could be dealt with in shadow and silence. A rapist plaguing the city with no proof to his accusations but the blood and tears of his victims could be found dead in the morning, his throat slit in retribution. A murderer could be caught, and punishment dealt in a manner befitting his crime, not by the corrupt, unjust systems of the court. It does not sit entirely well with the balance of Odin Bello’s soul, that he works for the Capulets and paints his hands in blood for them. But as long as the good he can do outweighs the evil, then he is willing to stretch his soul a little thinner in the name of what must be done.

HAMARTIA: Odin does not do anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he hates his father with the very same heart. He has never known a middle ground. The love he knows is a double-edged sword – all-consuming, and therefore, destructive. For Odin, there is no other way to love than to give everything of himself until here is nothing left. Even if it means his ruin. He gave everything to Delilah when he swore himself to her – his heart, his name, his soul, his life. He would have ridden into hell for her and beyond, if she had asked. He would have plucked the moon from the sky and given her the stars to light her smile, if she had asked. At the time of her betrayal, he had believe his rage equal to his love. Burning like wildfire from inside of him until it consumed all the good and warmth he had associated with loving her. Grief, he has since realised, outlasts rage. He placed Delilah on a pedestal and made her his god. Casting her out of Eden meant leaving behind a hollowness nothing else could fill. So he clings to the only other person who has ever worn the shape of love in his life – his comrade-in-arms, his brother, Ivan. Ivan, who has never abandoned him or given him cause for pain or doubt. Ivan, who has always understood his rage and darkness, and stands by him in the light nevertheless.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Silent Song, Chapter 25

I swear, I will fix this. Please don’t kick me out of the blanket fort of comfort and please don’t take the cocoa away. 

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24

Masterlist

Chapter 25

For Tony, the world ended in that moment. Nothing mattered to him as he watched the red stain spread and cascade over her side. As his knees gave out he felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. There wasn’t enough air in the room. His lunges struggled as he gasped for air but it never felt like he was getting enough.

Reaching out he grabbed onto the first person he found. It probably wouldn’t have mattered to him if it was a friend, a guard or a Zealot in that moment. They could plunge a blade into him and he probably wouldn’t have felt the pain or even noticed. He probably wouldn’t have cared.

Dr. Strange supported Tony’s weight the best he could even as it caused pain to flair in his hands. When his hands ached too much, he helped the distraught man to the ground as best he could. They had their issues but he would not let him fall after all he had been through. Strange worried about Tony’s breathing. It came in short, ragged gasps.

Tony looked up at the wizards eyes. “Turn back time.”

“I cannot.” It was a simple answer but worthless.

“You can. You can save her. You can give us another chance. You have to. You have to.” Tony clutched at Strange’s robes as his pleading gave way to choked sobs.

“It was the only way.” Strange kept his voice steady, strong. It wouldn’t do any good to allow Tony to see any weakness. “It had to happen.”

Strange looked up from Tony to the body laid out on the alter. It hurt less to look at her than it did to Look at Tony or at Loki’s back as he stalked forward. He knew that if the God didn’t contain his rage, contain his power he’d likely spend every ounce of energy he had on obtaining vengeance at the expense of his own life.

Strange knew because he had seen it. He’d seen it all before and this was the only way. It was something he had to have faith in. Events had to be allowed to pass. If events carried on as they should, if all the chips fell in the right places there was hope. He dared not speak it for fear that it would not happen.

Vincent chuckled at the God who stalked toward him with murder in his eyes. He was not scared of Loki or the mighty Avengers. He feared no man. With a smile still on his face he turned to give the God his full attention after taking in the sight of Iron Man on his knees, as he belonged.

“We thank you for your sacrifice.” Clasping his hands together as he spoke, Vincent hoped he looked regal. “It could not have been accomplished without your aid.”

“How long do we have?” Clint came up behind Strange. “How long until she becomes one of their monsters?”

“It depends on how well they executed the spell.” It was a safe answer. In truth, he really couldn’t say. They had to wait and see. He had to wait and see.

“What do you mean?” Someone asked Vincent and Loki couldn’t focus on who the voice belonged.

His mind was in a fog of rage. The only thing that would clear it was blood. A lot of blood. He would start with the monster in front of him and once he was finished he would see to it that every single member of the so called Zealots would have their blood spilled for having dared to harm her. Once this room was cleared of the cult he would dedicate his life to hunting down every remaining member. Not a single member would survive for the crime of daring to touch the one he loved.

“She was the key.” He spoke as if it was obvious. “Dear Hotaru Stark will be mother to a God. I shall be it’s father!”

Vincent smiled down at the body on the alter. Her body. It ignited rage anew in the team. How dare he look at her. How dare he even speak of her. They stalked forward slowly, carefully. They had no way of knowing where the beast would materialize and had to be aware.

“Don’t you dare look at her!” Rage colored Tony’s voice.

“What a power was locked within her. Who knew the Stark family had a spark of magic running in their blood?” Vincent spoke as if he had not heard them. Turning, he gave Tony his attention. “Should I break you? Would you like to birth a God yourself? No, I think I’d rather kill you for the lives you’ve taken. They were good men. Loyal followers. The Gods will reward their faith.”

“The Gods want nothing to do with your lot, you can trust me in this.” Loki’s voice dripped with venom.

A powerful blast of nearly pure power smashed into Loki’s side, drawing both his blood and his attention. What concerned him more was the near instant way the power tried to alter his already fragile mental status. It took much effort to keep himself grounded in reality as his mind fought to keep his dreams separate.

They were dreams. Nothing more. Just dreams. Only dreams. Did it matter? She was gone. She was dead. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they needed to pay for what they had done. They needed to pay. What could have been didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Loki faced the woman and snarled not unlike a beast at her. Her eyes gave a hint of the power she had dancing within her. This woman had the power to influence thoughts and memories, he could see that clearly as her power surged through his mind.

It didn’t take much for him to cast her power out of his mind. Yet he didn’t have much power to work with and such effort left him feeling more drained than he wished to admit. He was more drained than he was comfortable with.

What horrors could this sorceress have tormented Hotaru with? Surely she had hurt his Light the same as she tried to hut him. Her blood needed to bath the ground. Something wild and primal within him demanded it. The beast within would not be denied. He would not be denied the satisfaction of her blood.

She was everywhere and nowhere. The pain was gone. She could think. She could remember. It was as if she flowed through the space as water carried on currents of air. There was peace in her mind that she had never known. Her heart felt light and at ease even as she flowed through the room that contained such painful memories.

Returning her attention to the alter, she looked down at herself. It was odd to see herself in such a way. It was the first time she could see what she had become without bias. She simply saw.

Skin stretched tight over bone in some places. She’d lost weight but still she wasn’t as thin as she was when they had found her the first time. The red of her blood was so pretty against the dirty gray of her dress. For a moment she admired it as time moved on around her.

Drip, drip, drip it fell to the floor. Her dark hair was draped over the edge of the alter and she remembered the way it showed the caramel and auburn colors in the sun as she brushed it in her room. The colors of her hair were truly pretty. It was a shame the firelight didn’t show the colors as well.

Her skin was pale but that was alright. She’d not gotten much sun. Somehow she knew that had she gotten a chance to tan she’d have a slight olive tint but it didn’t matter. She remembered and that was what had mattered. She knew and that was what had mattered.

She remembered everything. She knew everything. It took no effort to picture the warm gray of her mother’s eyes or the deep chocolate of her fathers. She knew her Brother shared his eyes and that as a girl she had been jealous of it. How she had loved her father and brother both. They were so smart and while neither had any time for her she knew they could both do anything.

Her attention shifted to Loki as another blast left the woman’s hands. It was easy, so very easy to simply make the blast fizzle into nothing more than a rush of air as it moved over Loki. She didn’t even have to think about how to do it. Like it was nothing, she surrounded the ball of energy and simply made it into nothing but air.

She admired how the leather armor clung to his frame as he faced the woman. She knew the woman with the bright eyes had changed her mind, changed her thoughts and dreams to become horrible lies. The woman had tried to do the same to Loki but even in the depths of madness his waking mind was too strong.

Firelight danced over his hair as he lunged at the woman with the bright eyes. She watched as the woman was ripped apart. She listened as the woman’s screams filled the air. He needed to extract vengeance. It was obvious to her that he knew what the woman had done to her. While she had forgiven the woman, she knew Loki needed to let out some of the anger and so she simply watched as he did.

The woman’s blood was pretty, just as her own blood was. Loki looked handsome even as he had drops of red decorating his face. Yet he was sick, she knew. He was broken, just as she had been.

“Come forth, My God!” Vincent yelled as the air shimmered with threads of blue across the room. She was everywhere at once and she felt the faint pull of his call. “Serve your Master!”

The team held their breath as they prepared for it to happen. They’d never seen the moment the beasts came into existence but feared the result. One beast had left them banged up enough. If the new creature was even nearly as strong none wished to think of what could happen or if they could survive.

Loki knew well that he wasn’t in a position to battle much more. Thor was bloody and tired from his battle with the first beast. They were overall in no condition to take on another. It would be a mercy if the beast that was summoned with her life was weak. Yet if the beast was weak it would feel as if a waste of her life.

It was an amazing feeling to be everywhere at once. It was amazing to remember everything. She felt free. She felt whole. No, not whole. Almost. She wasn’t sure what she was or if she could have him but she wouldn’t let them hurt Loki anymore. They would not hurt her brother, her family ever again. The pain had to stop.

As easy as that, it was decided. They would never hurt another again. None would be left. None would live. None deserved to live. The masters did nothing but hurt people. They didn’t deserve to keep living. Yet she couldn’t bear to cause pain. She forgave them for the pain they caused her, it was they who made her what she was- whatever that was.

The Master called to her and she ignored it. He wasn’t worthy of her. She was her own being. She was her own master. Never again would she cower. Never again would she do as he ordered. Never again.

In a flash of blue threads of light, the Zealots and guards both were cut down. The only one left alive was Vincent, Master. They would never harm another. Confusion colored his face as the threads of light pulled themselves tight around him.

“No! I am your Master!” He yelled.

“You are master no longer.” Her voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper on the air. She was everywhere and thus her voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

Loki and Strange locked eyes for a moment before he looked to Tony. Something was happening that they didn’t have a hold of. None dared to breath for fear that the threads would change target and cut them down. None knew what to expect, what to trust.

“Hotaru?” Tony whispered.

“You are forgiven.” The voice said as the threads pulled tightly around the man and cut him down swiftly into many pieces.

It was messy. The room was bathed in blood. The sight and smell of the carnage pleased Loki very much. He wished he had caused it but still it pleased him.

“Is everyone okay?” Nat called out.

“The team is accounted for.” Steve looked around as he answered.

There was not a single guard or member of the cult left standing. No captives lived. Save for the team, the room was empty of living things. The silence was maddening. It felt as If time stopped for a short moment and no one moved. They knew the summoned beasts would attack them and so none were sure if they could trust the threads of blue light.

While each was trying to think of what to do now they felt the swelling of the power. Looking to the alter they each waited for the beast to be born. Surely they couldn’t get off that easy. Surely the battle could not be over.

Threads of blue collected together and became a ball of light that turned in on and around itself. It was beautiful but the sorcerers in the room were each keenly aware of the sheer amount of power contained in the ball. They could only hope that in manifesting in a physical form the beast would lose some power. As it stood they would likely forfeit their lives trying to defeat it.

“Go back to her.” Tony choked as he stepped forward. “Heal her. She needs to live. We need her to live. I need her to live.”

Loki watched silently while Tony pleaded for his sister’s life. All he could do was watch. He didn’t have the strength to beg. She was gone. It was over. She was dead. He failed. Nothing mattered beyond that failure.

Tony turned on Strange, “Bring her back! Take us back. You can do that. We can try again. We have to-”

“There is no way that would have saved her.” Strange spoke calmly, not taking his eyes off the mass of power. “I am sorry.”

There was a flash of calming blue light and the threads shattered into a million blue fireflies. They flew through the room while whispers of forgiveness seemed to settle in their ears with no identifiable source. Calm seeped into their minds and hearts as the team looked around, at each other for some sort of explanation.

Then, just like that the fireflies and the whispers where gone. No trace of power lingered in the room.

“No.” Loki shouted in protest as his legs finally began to move.

He hated the calmness in his heart. He hated the calmness in his mind. The madness that largely weighed in his mind was nearly gone. The thoughts that plagued him were nearly silent. He felt peace and he hated it. It was a gift from her, he knew but it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t want it. He’d cling to his madness if it meant he could have her for even a little longer.

By the time he climbed up the alter he was nearly running. Tony was following but wasn’t nearly as fast. Loki cried out in protest again even as he pulled her lifeless body from the alter. Tony came to his side as his knees gave out and he fell to the ground with her clutched to his chest.

Loki rested his back against the alter without giving so much as a fleeting thought to the blood that coated his leather covered back from doing so. He could just feel the coolness of the wet blood as he held her. She was limp in his arms as he drew his knees up and curled himself around her.

“No.” Loki repeated quieter. “Come back.”

“Is she…?” Tony knelt in front of them.

Loki swallowed hard before answering with a nod. Tony didn’t move to take her from him, though he wanted to. The truth was plain to see. Loki’s love for her was plain to see. It wasn’t something he could choose to be blind to any longer.

“Come back to me, my light.” The Dark God pleaded with his nose buried against her hair.

It hurt them to see this the most. The team who couldn’t be bothered to reach out to Loki with so much as an olive branch were confronted by the raw human emotions they told themselves so often that he couldn’t possess. Loki sat before them holding a lifeless body, wet eyes lit up by the torches and they saw him for what he was.

Tony saw him for what he was. For all these last few weeks Loki was nothing more than a broken man who had fallen in love. Why had that been so hard to see before? Why did it take something so drastic for them to see. It occurred to them that she had opened their eyes. None needed to say it but they each realized that was her parting gift to them. She gave them the strength to open their eyes and forgive.

How different things could have been for them all. What could have been didn’t matter. Tony ran his fingers over her dirty hair as he tried to understand. Strange said it was the only way and Tony wanted to hate him for it. Every time he tried however he’d picture the blue fireflies.

Somehow it was over. Somehow no beast come. Somehow with her death she saved them. Somehow there was no other way. They had to accept that. Even as she killed those that had hurt her so, she had forgiven them. It was her blessing. It was her gift.

Their deaths where swift, quick and painless. Only Vincent had even a moment to fear and even then his death was quick and without pain. She forgave everyone. In their hearts they knew she forgave each of them even as they knelt around her body. They were forgiven for their failings. They where forgiven for failing her. Their forgiveness was painful in a bitter sweet way. They each would rather have her smile than her forgiveness.

It was in her forgiveness that they must find strength now. They had to be strong for her. They had to be strong for all those who they would save in the future. More than anything, they needed to be strong for each other. They needed to be strong for Tony and Loki who would both feel her lose in such sharp way.

Tony swallowed as the tears fell freely from his eyes. Steve placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and Tony clutched at it with the hand not stroking her hair as if it was a lifeline. He took a handful of deep shaky breaths as he tried to gather his strength. He had to be strong.

“Lets take her out of here.” Natasha spoke softly from where she knelt.

“She doesn’t belong here.” Clint added.

“Brother?” Thor sat at Loki’s side with his eyes locked on the crown of her head and how her dirty hair cascaded over Loki’s arm.

It hurt more to look at Loki. It had occurred to Thor that he had a hand in setting the events of today into motion months ago. He should have not pushed. He should have taken care.

Without uttering a word, Loki stood with her in his arms. They were right, this was no place for her. His light didn’t need to be here in the darkness any longer than needed. As he walked, he didn’t look back. He walked with back straight and head held high. Each breath brought a wave of pain to his chest that threatened to take him to his knees. Tears fell from his eyes and dropped onto her but he paid them no mind.

He loved her and she was dead. He would be assured she was afforded every respect for the place she held even now still in his heart. Though he loved her dearly, she could never have been a Lady in life. He would see to it that in death she was given an Asgardian funeral fit for the woman he would have taken as his wife had he been blessed with even the slightest chance to do so now. She would be given every respect, sent off to Valhalla with a queen’s rights. If Thor was unwilling to give him this, he would see it done himself.

Tag list- @bambamwolf87, @dangertoozmanykids101, @theoneanna, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @purplekitten30, @redryderdesigns, @excuse-you-dickwad, @sometimesiamhere, @missaphrodite23, @yougotakillyourmind, @insert-cool-and-edgy-title-here, @alexakeyloveloki, @paanchu786, @fairlightswiftly, @j-u-s-t-4

As always, want in on the tag list just drop me a word. Also, We are approaching the end quickly so let me know if you want to stick around and be tagged in future works. I write for Loki, Tom, Steve, Clint, Strange and whoever the hell else decides to catch my damn attention. 

[loveofyhwh]

Remain in Christ the True Vine

New Post has been published on https://loveofyhwh.com/remain-in-christ-the-true-vine/

Remain in Christ the True Vine

What does it mean to Remain in Christ?

Remaining in Christ is one of the fundamentals of our Christian faith. We cannot leave our lives apart from Jesus Christ and His basic message.

If you remain in the Son(Jesus), you are automatically connected to the Father. In fact the closer you get to Jesus the more your life will transform into the better: God will change you.

“No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws them, and I will raise them up at the last day. John 6:44

No matter how hard and far we may look for it, there is really no peace or true joy outside Christ.

The more you remain in Christ the more He draws you closer to God. When you draw closer to God, God does not look at your age, status or gravity of your sins, as far as you wholeheartedly dedicate yourself to Him, God will use you for ever greater things. Even our love is affected by how close we are to God: When our relationship with God was distorted, it affected our relationships with each other. If you truly love God, you will also love the people around you.

True Vine

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”

John 15:1-2

Jesus put emphasis on the word “true”, meaning that there may be other “false vines”, but Jesus is the one and only vine that you can depend on.

There are unfortunately so many false teachings and prophets in these days, who are slowly distracting us and keeping us away from the basic message of Christ. They do that out of selfish and carnal desires.

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.

You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?

So, every healthy tree bears good fruit, but the diseased tree bears bad fruit.

A healthy tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a diseased tree bear good fruit.

Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

Thus you will recognize them by their fruits.

Matthew 7:15-20

Please let us endure and stick with Christ, no matter what and at the end the result will be glorious.

My brothers and sisters, God is calling us to bear fruit today. He sees your potential and wants to see the best you can give Him. Do not be worried God takes care of every branch that is providing fruit, but branches that take nutrients but provide nothing will be cut off. Any time that we are cut off (live our lives apart from Christ) we wither, because we cannot receive the nutrients that the vine is providing. Jesus is calling us to have an intimate relationship with Him, so that every aspect of our lives are influenced by Him. We should strive to be constantly connected to the vine.

We cannot do what Jesus has done for us through our own strength. It must be done by the Holy Spirit. The Spirit is enabling us daily. He is changing and transforming us, and making us more like Him.

Final Thoughts

There is no middle ground. Either you are in Christ, or you are outside Him. We can only be in Christ if our attitude and lifestyle reflect that we are in Christ.

The Devil and the world may oppose you or tempt you to do what is wrong, but if you Remain in Christ you will receive the crown of Glory at the end!

[wisdomrays]

FORGIVENESS AND TOLERANCE IN ISLAM : Tolerance in the life of the individual and society.Part1

First of all, I would like to indicate that tolerance is not something that was invented by us. Tolerance was first introduced on this Earth by the prophets whose teacher was God. Even if it would not be correct to attribute tolerance to God, He has attributes that are rooted in tolerance, like forgiveness, the forgiveness of sins, compassion and mercy for all creatures, and the veiling of the shame and faults of others. The All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful, and the All-Veiling of Faults are among the most frequently mentioned names of God in the Qur'an.

The golden era when tolerance was represented at its apex was the Age of Happiness, and I would like to give some true examples from that historical time, events that extend in a line from that "period of roses" until today.

An Example of Forgiveness

As is known, in the historical "Event of Slander" the hypocrites made slanderous accusations against 'A'isha, the chaste wife of the Prophet and the spiritual mother of all believers. 'A'isha has a special place among the pure wives of the Prophet because the Prophet was the first man she saw when she awakened to womanhood. In a period when she became fully conscious of her womanhood, 'A'isha became a member of the Prophet's pure household and there she breathed only an atmosphere of chastity and honor. 'A'isha, an exemplar of chastity, became subjected to a planned slander campaign during this period. Both herself, her family and the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, suffered much because of this slander. However, the verse revealed approximately one month later declared 'A'isha's unadulterated purity and innocence. However, her father Abu Bakr, who had been giving financial support to one of those who was involved in the slander, took an oath not to give any more support to this person. But, the verse that was revealed warned that the most faithful friend of the Prophet, Sultan of Tolerance, should be more lenient.The verse reads:

Let not those among you who are endowed with grace and amplitude of means resolve by oath against helping their kinsmen, those in want, and those who have left their homes in God's cause: let them forgive and overlook. Do you not wish that God should forgive you? For God is the All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful. (An-Nur 24:22)

I want to draw you attention in particular to the expression at the end of this verse: Do you not wish that God should forgive you? For God is the All-Forgiving, the All-Merciful. In reality, the All-Merciful God Whose mercy is unequalled and compared to which all the mercy in the world is but a drop in the ocean, continually secrets Himself and, in spite of everything, forgives us, forgives everything, from the unbecoming words that enter our ears and darken our spirits to the filth that flows into us from the universe and back to the society that we have polluted. His question, Do you not wish that God should forgive you? directed at people like us who are always in need of purification, is very fine and sincere and worthy of being coveted. By means of this verse, God indicates that just as He forgives us, so too should we forgive one another for the mistakes we make, and this is illustrated to us as a Qur'anic virtue in the character of Abu Bakr.

Forgiveness and tolerance are given great importance in the messages of the Prophets, which are from divine and celestial sources. 

A prophet has the duty of educating and training others. In order for the truths that he is conveying to influence the hearts of others, his own heart must beat with forgiveness and tolerance. When some faults that are the result of a person's nature collide with the tolerant atmosphere of a person of truth, they melt and disperse like a meteor. Instead of splitting open someone's head, the legions of light, which resemble the lamps lit on nights of celebration, will soothe the eyes and give joy to the heart. As I mentioned before, there is in actual fact such a divine virtue recommended in our Prophet's hadith, "Take on the virtue of God."Does not God Himself always forgive those who deny Him? On the cosmic plane this crime is unforgivable murder and rebellion. But look at the vastness of God's forgiveness and pardon. In spite of the ungratefulness of His servants, He says:

Without doubt My Mercy precedes My Wrath. My Mercy extends to all things. (Al-Araf 7:156)

With His attribute of Mercy, without showing any bias, He nurtures and protects all human beings and, indeed all animate creatures, and He continues to give sustenance even to those who deny Him.

Here it is possible to view all the prophets from the same perspective and present some examples from all of them, but let it suffice to give a few from Prophet Muhammad, the essence of existence, peace and blessings be upon him.

Hamza was one of the Companions whom the Prophet loved most. He was not just an ordinary Companion, he was also the Prophet's uncle and they had both been nursed by the same wetnurse. Suppressing his honor and pride, this lionhearted giant of a man entered the spiritual atmosphere of the Pride of Humanity, peace and blessings be upon him. Supporting his nephew and saying "I am with you" at a critical time when the Muslims were weak in numbers raised his value manifold. Thus, by demonstrating the qualities of his closeness on the spiritual plane as well as on the physical plane, he was able to reach what seemed to be an unattainable height of greatness. Of course, the loyalty of this great hero was rewarded by the Prophet. He was martyred one day while fighting at Uhud; his bloody murderers had sworn to raid Madina and to run every man and woman through. At the hands of his murderers, their hands, eyes and thoughts bloody, Hamza was chopped into pieces. His sacred eyes were gorged out, his ears and lips cut off, his chest was split open and his liver was torn out and bitten into. The Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, whose bosom was full of compassion and mercy, looked at this horrifying scene and his eyes filled with tears like clouds of rain. There were seventy martyrs at the battle of Uhud—twice as many again had been wounded—women were widowed and children were orphaned. When he looked at this scene with the compassion of a prophet, it was almost unbearable. The children of Hamza and the children of other martyrs appeared before the Prophet, shivering like newly hatched chicks. As related in his biographical works, no sooner than the thought "In retribution for what they have done . . ." had crossed his mind was the following verse revealed:

And if you have to respond to any wrong, respond to the extent of the wrong done to you; but if you endure patiently, this is indeed better for he who endures. (An-Nahl 16:126)

In this verse he was being directed to a horizon of understanding according to his level, and in other words he was told, "You should not think like that." That sun of leniency and tolerance, peace and blessings be upon him, buried all the pain in his chest and chose the road of patience.

Actually, the Prophet interwove the whole of his life, not only that moment, with tolerance. The polytheists did not spare him any torture or trouble. They drove him out of his homeland, formed armies, and attacked him. But even after the conquest of Makka, when the pagans were anxiously waiting to see how they would be treated, as a sign of his vast compassion and mercy the Prophet said:

I speak as Joseph spoke to his brothers: There is no reproach for you today (because of your previous acts). God will forgive you also. He is the Most Merciful of the Merciful. Go; you are free.[ Ibn al-Athir, Usd al-Ghabah, 1:528-532. ]

The Qur'an is the source of leniency and tolerance, and because these concepts have flowed to us like an exuberant stream from the Conveyor of the Qur'an, peace and blessings be upon him, we cannot think any differently on this matter. Any contrary idea would mean that we do not know the Qur'an and God's Messenger. From this perspective, because tolerance derives from the Qur'an and the Sunna, it is a Muslim's natural virtue and, because of the sources it is derived from, it is permanent. The covenant that the Messenger of God presented to the Christians and Jews is truly worthy of attention (the original text of the covenant is preserved today in England). Compared to the principles that our Prophet put forth, humanity today has not attained his level, neither with the declarations of human rights put forth in The Hague or Strasbourg nor that in Helsinki. That Man of Great Forbearance lived together closely with the People of the Book in Madina. In fact, he was even able to find points of agreement with the dark souls who, even though they said, "We are Muslims," continuously caused friction everywhere and tried to play those with clear consciences one against another. He embraced them by means of forbearance. Upon the death of Abdullah ibn Ubayy, who had been a lifelong enemy, the Prophet even gave his shirt as a burial shroud. Saying, "As long as there is no revelation forbidding me, I will attend his funeral," and he showed his respect to the deceased.There is no message similar or equal to the message given to humankind by Prophet Muhammad. Thus, it is not possible for those who try and follow "the Most Beautiful Example" to think differently from what he thought.

In this respect, it is not possible to think of tolerance as something that is separate from us; it is a different color and tone of our feelings and thoughts. From this time on platforms for tolerance should be developed in our society. Tolerance should be rewarded, it should be given precedence at every opportunity, and those who behave with forgiveness to others should have a chance to express themselves.

[anastpaul]

Thought for the Day – 11 July – The Memorial of St Benedict of Nursia OSB (c 480-547)

Excerpt from the Homily of Pope Benedict

General Audience, 9 April 2008

“Today, I would like to speak about Benedict, the Founder of Western Monasticism and also the Patron of my Pontificate.

I begin with words that St Gregory the Great wrote about St Benedict:  “The man of God who shone on this earth among so many miracles was just as brilliant in the eloquent exposition of his teaching” (cf. Dialogues II, 36).   The great Pope wrote these words in 592 AD.   The holy monk, who had died barely 50 years earlier, lived on in people’s memories and especially in the flourishing religious Order he had founded.   St Benedict of Nursia/Norcia, with his life and his work, had a fundamental influence on the development of European civilisation and culture.   The most important source on Benedict’s life is the second book of St Gregory the Great’s Dialogues.   It is not a biography in the classical sense.   In accordance with the ideas of his time, by giving the example of a real man – St Benedict, in this case – Gregory wished to illustrate the ascent to the peak of contemplation which can be achieved by those who abandon themselves to God.   He therefore gives us a model for human life in the climb towards the summit of perfection.   St Gregory the Great also tells in this book of the Dialogues of many miracles worked by the Saint and here too he does not merely wish to recount something curious but rather to show how God, by admonishing, helping and even punishing, intervenes in the practical situations of man’s life.   Gregory’s aim was to demonstrate that God is not a distant hypothesis placed at the origin of the world but is present in the life of man, of every man.

Throughout the second book of his Dialogues, Gregory shows us how St Benedict’s life was steeped in an atmosphere of prayer, the foundation of his existence.   Without prayer there is no experience of God.   Yet Benedict’s spirituality was not an interiority removed from reality.   In the anxiety and confusion of his day, he lived under God’s gaze and in this very way never lost sight of the duties of daily life and of man with his practical needs.   Seeing God, he understood the reality of man and his mission.   In his Rule he describes monastic life as “a school for the service of the Lord” (Prol. 45) and advises his monks, “let nothing be preferred to the Work of God” [that is, the Divine Office or the Liturgy of the Hours] (43, 3).

However, Benedict states that in the first place prayer is an act of listening (Prol. 9-11), which must then be expressed in action.   “The Lord is waiting every day for us to respond to his holy admonitions by our deeds” (Prol. 35).   Thus, the monk’s life becomes a fruitful symbiosis between action and contemplation, “so that God may be glorified in all things” (57, 9).   In contrast with a facile and egocentric self-fulfilment, today often exalted, the first and indispensable commitment of a disciple of St Benedict is the sincere search for God (58, 7) on the path mapped out by the humble and obedient Christ (5, 13), whose love he must put before all else (4, 21; 72, 11) and in this way, in the service of the other, he becomes a man of service and peace  . In the exercise of obedience practised by faith inspired by love (5, 2), the monk achieves humility (5, 1), to which the Rule dedicates an entire chapter (7).   In this way, man conforms ever more to Christ and attains true self-fulfilment as a creature in the image and likeness of God.

Benedict describes the Rule he wrote as “minimal, just an initial outline” (cf. 73, 8);  in fact, however, he offers useful guidelines not only for monks but for all who seek guidance on their journey toward God.   For its moderation, humanity and sober discernment between the essential and the secondary in spiritual life, his Rule has retained its illuminating power even to today.

By proclaiming St Benedict Patron of Europe on 24 October 1964, Paul VI intended to recognise the marvellous work the Saint achieved with his Rule for the formation of the civilisation and culture of Europe.

Having recently emerged from a century that was deeply wounded by two World Wars and the collapse of the great ideologies, now revealed as tragic utopias, Europe today is in search of its own identity.   Of course, in order to create new and lasting unity, political, economic and juridical instruments are important, but it is also necessary to awaken an ethical and spiritual renewal which draws on the Christian roots of the Continent, otherwise a new Europe cannot be built.   Without this vital sap, man is exposed to the danger of succumbing to the ancient temptation of seeking to redeem himself by himself – a utopia which in different ways, in 20th-century Europe, as Pope John Paul II pointed out, has caused “a regression without precedent in the tormented history of humanity” (Address to the Pontifical Council for Culture, 12 January 1990).

Today, in seeking true progress, let us also listen to the Rule of St Benedict as a guiding light on our journey.   The great monk is still a true master at whose school we can learn to become proficient in true humanism.

Here is a PDF of the Rule for downloading:  http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/03d/0480-0547,_Benedictus_Nursinus,_Regola,_EN.pdf

St Benedict, Pray for Europe, Pray for the World,

Pray for the Church, Pray for us all!

(via Thought for the Day - 11 July - The Memorial of St Benedict of Nursia OSB (c 480-547))