#like.. he is just vessel in it's simplicity and without the 'divine' if you will.. simply just vessel

[a-s-levynn]

(source)

[bonmotx]

THE EXPLANATION OF IDENTITY - KAMA

Kama’s usage of pronouns differs on which manifestation she is under, and likewise, she uses different names as a different ‘application’ of her divinity. Gods have many names, and each is a different aspect, thus, Kama similarly will behave and associate different pronouns and with different names. They aren’t different identities; they’re more like roles.

To a being like Kama, pronouns are more a feeling than a manifestation of gender. For reference and simplicity, within each short description, ‘Kama’ is the accepted nickname for the ‘current’ Kama as she presents in Chaldea.

As a general rule of thumb, Kama defaults to she/her with names associated with her pre-burning, and defaults to he/him with names associated with her post-burning. They/them is the generally used default if Kama’s mood or manifestation is uncertain.

Kama themself typically has little preference or thought about pronouns used or at what times they are used. He would expect the Indian servants to use he/him but it’s more because he presented primarily using he/him in the past. Kama when holding a preference will generally only speak it to people who’s opinions matter, or, as is typical, as a way of snarking at people. Her pronouns and gender are far more unimportant to her, personally, than which name is used for her.

Swapping pronouns mid-thread is going to be avoided unless talked about or obviously relevant. When it occurs it will be marked by Kama’s pronouns being capitalized as She/They/Him for simplicity, as I know it can cause confusion. In posts or drabble scenes with him alone, however, these differences will will not be marked such.

Kamadeva

any pronoun

means “god of love”, but the root kama- can be read to make it mean more “god of desire”

One of the primary names Kama goes by and the most recognizable and used. Kamadeva is a distancing mechanism, one that separates the god from the mortals and separates the reluctant god from the ‘other’ ones. It’s a simple name, despite the weight it carries. It reminds him of his duties.

Enforcing it is a conscious distancing mechanism. Kamadeva means distance. Thus, it is generally used by her to try to cut off attachments. Kamadeva has many stars, yet few glow bright.

Mara

any pronoun

derived from the root mṛ meaning ‘causing death’ or ‘killing’.

While there are four Mara’s, Kama as Mara is specifically Devaputra-māra, the Mara of the sexual realm of desire. As  “the personification of the forces antagonistic to enlightenment”, Mara is a force that is more Beast than God, one who seeks not the destruction of humanity, but the soiling of them. She wishes to root them in eternal pleasure and thus eternal lamentation that they will never find enlightenment.

Calling Kama by this name… should be restricted towards the Beast III/L portion of them, lest results become undesirable. Their stars turn much closer to typical ‘fire’ and their body warms to a fever.

Madana

generally he/him

means “intoxicating”

The name used in the Madana-bhasma, where Kama is incinerated by Shiva for shooting him with an arrow of desire. This is his most loathed name as a result, and Madana will react with rage and terror to anyone insisting upon it. In addition, before those associated with Shiva, Madana is the first name he thinks to refer to himself with. It is a loathed name.

A more pink-hued galaxy, with almost rosy fingertips, like his arrows stained him, pink petals perpetually presented forth. Even his flames are almost innocent, almost beautiful.

Ananga

generally she/her

means “incorporeal”

Despite having a heavy amount of emphasis in Kama’s current manifestation, this one is her least favorite. Everything feels more sensitive as Ananga, her nerves on fire. Ananga is a result, an effect, more than a person. Kama becomes Ananga, becomes nothing, and thus as Ananga, is not anything but the remnant pain.

When referred to with this name, she feels far more hollow. The stars in her limbs glow brightest under this name.

Manmatha

generally he/him

means “one who agitates” or “churner of heart”

A name that Kama ties to his obligations as a love god, and thus, he spurns this name quite often. Manmatha is the one with the most ready arrows of all his names. If it must be used, it is to ‘agitate’ in the worst way, to cause trouble and misery, but…

…Manmatha was originally a fond watcher of the results of love and desire. The stars in his limbs now resemble petals and stir about in the breeze.

Atanu

generally she/her

means “one without a body”

Another name which refers to Kama’s state after Shiva’s incineration of her. Atanu is more specific than Ananga, and as such, Atanu tends to be rather see-through. Having a body is antithetical to her existence as specifically one without a body.

Atanu generally has the most transparent limbs of Kama’s manifestations, brighter around the end of the limbs, and is warmer on these parts of her body like a coal.

Ragavrinta

generally they/them

means “stalk of passion”

A neutral name that does not affect them much. They say that, but it brings a sort of confidence to hear themself called Ragavrinta. Images of dancing, the metaphorical stalk of passion. Of a time without pain, a time enveloped of love. A title that carries happiness and bitter nostalgia.

Stars collect within Ragavrinta’s feet more than any other place, dancing up their legs in odd patterns, leaving large gaps of empty space.

Ratikānta

any pronoun

means “lord of Rati”

The name of a husband, of one who was married and loving. (They miss her. They are the universe, they cannot be separated from the air, yet even though they are still living, she must pay respects, because they could not wipe away her tears.)

One whose limbs pool in the joints with stars, more abundant, like the desert, free of light, revealing the entirety of the Milky Way that human eyes can see. Beautiful in love, in lack of light allowing it to truly be perceived.

Manasija

generally he/him

means “born of mind”

A simple recognition of the circumstances of Kama’s birth. Not born from a womb, or even modelled from clay. Simply the personification of being created from the concept of thought. There is no real attachment, just an assertion of the simple fact that there is no family for Manasija.

(There is, however, family for Kama, family for the pieces of ash that were put in a human, and that is what makes Manasija have stars at all. That family that is not quite his, yet not not his, is the only presence that makes the space in his limbs have any life at all.)

Pushpavān

generally he/him or she/her

means “possessing Flowers” or “perfume”

Another of Kama’s past names, but he holds more fondness for this one. He would never ask to be called it, but as he is now, Pushpavān barely resembles himself. There were always flowers around him, a sweet and floral scent that was never too overwhelming, a kindness like honey, as warm as his offered hand.

These things are gone. She cannot be Pushpavān like she was in the past. But sometimes, she pretends the blue stars in her body are constellations of various flowers, and traces lines only she will ever know over them.

Pushpadhanva

any pronoun

means “cupid” or “love”

Despised. Move along. Never call them by this name. There is no more cupid, no more love bringer. There is no light soul with hopes for the best. All other names are ill-fitting, but Pushpadhanva is truly dead. The one who calls in desperation for Pushpadhanva, Pushpadhanva, save me, is the one who never receives an answer from god. The stars of this god leak from their limbs, leaving trails in the air.

(Yet even this is still something they wish, more than anything, to resemble once again. To go back to a ‘normal’ which has not been normal for eons. Is it going back to ‘normal’ when you have spent a longer portion of life ‘abnormal’ than ‘normal’?)

Sakura

any pronoun

means ‘cherry blossom’

That is not their name, but the name of their vessel. Still, out of respect for her, they will be kinder and more lenient to those who knew her in life. After all, she deserved better. (’Unlike them’ is the chaser.)

There is no tendency for this name to affect their appearance, as this name doesn’t belong to them… but some may notice her face looks softer, thinking about the girl whose spirit could meet their own on an equal level.

Kandarpa

generally she/her

means “inflamer of even god”

…a name tied to vengeful thoughts. A yelp of fear, that morphs to a scream, to “I was just doing my job! Why did you do this?!” He grows to love her but never is there regret in his eyes, she gets to always be loved and held so closely. Envy, rage, the isolation of being so spread out, Rati, her Rati, speaks to the stars and their burnt throat must whisper replies.

‘It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair!’ Those who repress Mara are devoured and they are the last of the pantheon, because how can you devour ashes so thoroughly spread out, how can you consume infinity?

The stars snake like flames up their limbs. Their arrow grows even more flowers and stems curl around it, and the point grows even sharper, divots stained with old blood, as she is one of few gods who remain.

Some day soon…

The one who inflames and evokes love in even the coldest gods will ready a single, ancient arrow.

[casmoments]

Marriage of Convenience; part 7

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

But you smile and lean forward, looking him over.

“Yes,” you say, “very much.���  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.  You can if you wish.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the beginning.”

“Tell me.”

He does.

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

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

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

Such unending chaos, unending hurt.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it did not last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean!” Sam hollered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you hold me?” you ask.

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

“Continue,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, they’re—”

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I apologize.”

He promptly fled the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They went out,” you replied.

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

“Uh, bye—”

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

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

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

Then he realized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You would be blushing again if you could.

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

“If I ever was, it caused guilt.”

“Guilt!  Why?”

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

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

“A fact I soon realized,” he says.

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

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

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

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

It was unusual to feel himself falling into something brighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kisses the top of your head then breathes out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

castiel x reader masterpost

[phykios]

the marble king, part 5 [read on ao3] [rated m for Adult thoughts]

“We sail East,” she said, indicating their direction on the crude map she had drawn in the dirt of Piraeus Harbor, “following the path of the Argo as it sailed towards Colchis. Once we have passed through the straits of the Bosphorus , then we shall turn North, hugging the western edge of the Pontos Axeinos as we travel to Olbia.”

Percy frowned, squinting, leaning in closer in his crouch so as to see better. “Olbia? I have never heard of that place before.”

“Few have,” she said. “It has been abandoned near on a thousand years, which will make it the ideal place for us to rest a while once we have arrived. From there on, we will travel upriver on the Danapris , for roughly three days' time, until we come upon the rapids.”

He started. “Rapids?”

“Yes, Perseus, rapids,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know, the portions of the river which are suddenly much faster than the parts surrounding it?”

“I do know what rapids are,” he snapped. Moreover, he knew how dangerous rapids could be, both within the river and without it. “You never mentioned that we would have to navigate through rapids.”

“What, are you so worried that your powers will fail you so far from the sea?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. Oceans were, certainly, more his forte, but he could more than handle a mere river. “I simply would have liked to know beforehand that I must sail through rapids.”

“I am telling you beforehand.”

He scowled. “How many?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?!”

“And you will not have to sail through them; we will portage our ship around them, as the Varangians did.”

He stared, perturbed. That was her foolproof plan? To carry their boat from one end of the river to another? “You do know that will put us in considerable danger, yes? What is to stop us from being attacked by some wandering barbarian?”

Her lips twisting, he could sense that he had won a point in their little repartee, much to her frustration and chagrin. “As I have said,” she spoke through gritted teeth, as though he were an imbecile, “the river road has long since fallen out of use. We will just have to pray that we are lucky.”

Raising his eyes to the heavens, Percy was starting to wonder if Annabeth was not, as she claimed, truly a daughter of Athena. “We will have to be more than lucky,” he said. “You know that your route will take us straight through the heart of Ottoman territory.”

If they followed her plan, then as they sailed the Bosphorus, they would have to travel right past Constantinople and the Golden Horn--not only that, they would have to travel unseen and undetected, for Prosphorion was surely littered with Ottoman ships and soldiers. For all their talents and strengths, should they be spotted by an enemy sailor, the two of them simply could not hold back an entire navy.

“Then we will rest at Sigeion the day before,” she determined, drawing a short, thin line in the sand, “and proceed after sunset. Once we have traversed the straits, we can keep to deeper waters until we pass the mouth of the Istros .”

The Istros was quite far along up the coast, a fact with which, he knew, she was well acquainted. Did she expect him to be able to create fire on their vessel so that they could cook fish, in order to avoid making camp on unfriendly land? “This is insane,” said Percy. “Your plan is--lunacy, Annabeth.”

When she raised her head to look at him, his breath nearly caught in his throat.

He had, as of late, come to the unfortunate realization that the woman who traveled with him was quite lovely. More than lovely, in fact; she had always been rather pretty, but in the short time they had been together, he was beginning to truly understand just how beautiful she really was. In fact, though he would be loath to admit it out loud, for even though the gods had vanished, he knew all too well what the consequences of such a brash action would be, he would go so far as to say that she was, perhaps, even more beautiful than any of the sea nymphs whom he had romanced in the past.

The sea nymphs all tended to favor his own coloring, with deeply tanned skin and glossy black hair. Annabeth, by contrast, had long, blonde locks, which, even dirty as they were, shone gold in the sunlight, neatly woven and pinned up to the back of her head, stunning in its simplicity. Surrounding her face, little gilded wisps of hair would escape her braid in the oppressive humidity, tightly coiled. Her skin was smooth, her mouth a comely shape, her neck long and graceful as a swan, and he knew firsthand just how strong she was. Those slate grey eyes peered at him, ringed with long, soft lashes, such a strange counterpoint to the hardened desperation which shone from them, wrinkling her forehead.

“I know of no better way to Svealand,” said she, the breath almost barely leaving her body. “If we were to travel over land, we would still encounter the Ottomans, or the Latins, or the Franks, or whatever trouble the Fates would see fit to send our way. This way, on the Danapris, is the fastest, safest road I can imagine; well worn but out of fashion, we can follow the river all the way to the Northernmost seas, and then make our way to my father’s home. And,” she blushed, and Percy was once again transfixed by her visage as roses, red and soft, blossomed on her cheeks, winding their way down her neck. He swallowed. “I thought--I mean, with your skills at navigation, I assumed--”

She did this for him, he realized then. She had selected a route which she thought would not only remove as many obstacles from their path as one could possibly account for, but would also grant him some measure of comfort and power in this strange land and even stranger time. The dissolution of their rivalry, the end to their parents’ legendary feud, she had taken it to her heart.

He blushed in turn, his pulse racing. “Right,” he said, his tongue dumb in his mouth. “Yes. Of course. I can… yes.”

It was no longer a simple question of whether or not he could, but rather a question of how skillfully he would. Annabeth was counting on him to see her safely home, and he would be damned if he let her down now.

Though, he did have one additional concern. “Will our ship be able to sail upon the river?”

As one, they both looked towards the little monoxylon which bobbed in the harbor. The little ship, which Percy had privately taken to calling the Empress , was as crude as crude could possibly be, given that they had crafted it in a matter of days, helped along by some of their divine talents. It was, in all honesty, barely more than a dugout canoe, with a very primitive sail and rudder attached, but between the two of them, it had been solidly made. She was a sturdy ship, and fast, though that was, perhaps, more a function of Percy’s skill as a sailor than any testament to their combined aptitude for mathematics.

All water gave him strength, but no water sustained him more than that of the sea, which was at once his birthright and the source of his power, so despite any perceived bravado on his part that he may or may not have displayed, the thought of sailing so far upriver was… unsettling. He never liked to be far from the sea if he could help it.

“I don’t see why not,” she said, shrugging, seemingly unconcerned, though not well enough, as he had become so attuned to her body that he could see the tense line of her shoulders. “The Norsemen would sail their longboats back and forth with all of their crews and cargo; ours should be considerably less trouble, no?”

Well, she was not wrong. “Very well,” said Percy, standing up from his crouch, reaching for the sky as he stretched. With a satisfying pop of his spine, he sighed, dropping back onto the balls of his feet, looking down at Annabeth, who stared up at him, her cheeks still flushed. “Shall we proceed?”

Standing as well, with a swipe of her foot, she erased her map. “We shall.”

And thus, they were off.

***

With the wind at their backs, Percy was able to shave roughly a day’s time off of their return journey to Sigeion, though, as they did not have an estimated time of arrival, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things, it did not matter much. The only tangible outcome at this time was that it put them in the path of the Ottomans that much sooner.

As before, the sea was uncomfortably empty. Not still, for the water was ever flowing, the waves ever undulating, nor entirely devoid of life, for there was still fish a plenty to be found and eaten, but empty in the sense that some vital or integral component was missing from the whole. The winds and the waves were still there, but they felt incomplete, almost, the colors not quite as potent, the salty tang not quite as strong. It was as though he were left alone in someone else’s home after they had stepped out for a moment, a strange glimpse into a world in which he did not truly belong. All around him, the sea birds stood watch, gazing on him with cold, sightless eyes, watching impassionate as he passed beneath their gaze, heading ever eastwards.

With little fanfare, they passed over the spot where poor Helle had lost her life, as Annabeth was entirely embroiled with her weaving. He had not liked to watch her sulk, so withdrawn after they had departed from Athens, that he had given her something of a silly task to keep her occupied, and asked her to make them some more rope. Rope was never a thing to have too much of out at sea, and it gave her something to do with her hands. If he was being honest with himself as well, he would admit to enjoying watching her face as she wove, her furrowed brow, her pink tongue poking through her lips.

Making camp once again at Sigeion, Annabeth laid herself down for a nap in the shade of a tree near the shore, extracting a promise from him that he would allow her to take the night watch as they sailed that evening, for Percy had, by his own admission, been running himself somewhat ragged these past few days. The sea gave him power, yes, but he was not as infinite as he claimed, and even he required rest from time to time. However, as they cast off from shore that night, he found himself loath to wake her as she slipped into a deep sleep, for once not tossing and turning from the horrors that plagued her dreams, her face slack with exhaustion.

It was merely one more night. He would persevere.

And, perhaps, he thought she might not wish to see Constantinople like this.

Even in the dark, the broken walls were lit up with torches, the towers raised with poles of black horsehair, flying alongside red flags adorned with yellow crescent moons. It must have been time for evening prayers, for the singer’s voice carried past the walls of the city and over the still waters, hauntingly beautiful as always. How strange, he thought, that he could not find it in himself to hate this sound, even though the men who sang it had taken his city for their own.

It was well into the dawn when at last, Annabeth awoke, her eyes slowly fluttering open. “Good morning, your majesty,” he could not help but jest from his position at the rudder, injecting as much humor into his tone as he could.

“Percy,” she mumbled, sleepily indignant, as she rubbed her face. “You promised you would let me take the night watch.”

“I did,” he agreed, thinking quickly, for he did not want to show his hand, “but we caught an excellent wind last night, and I did not want to miss it. I swear to you, as soon as we sail into the Pontos Axeinos , I shall relinquish command and take my rest.”

“See to it that you do.” She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. “Where are we?”

“We are coming up on the end of the straits,” said Percy, adjusting the length of a rope. “If this wind continues, we should pass through to the sea within the hour.”

“Excellent.” Making her way from the other end of their ship, she came up beside him, leaning over the edge to peer at the water as it rushed beneath them. She adjusted remarkably well, he thought, for someone who was not used to sailing; on a vessel this small, people were prone to all manner of seasickness. “How fast can this thing sail, do you reckon?”

He frowned. “I am not certain,” he said. “Why?”

“We will need to make all possible haste if we are to survive the Symplegades ,” she said, with an unconcerned air.

“The Symplegades ?” he asked.

She fixed him with a strange look, but one with which he was intimately familiar; it was the look that she gave him whenever he had done something she found particularly foolish. “The clashing rocks?” she said, as though that offered clarity.

He did not recall such a thing, and he shook his head.

“Honestly, phykios , how is it that you were able to slay the Titan king, and yet you still somehow lack the most basic knowledge of our history?”

“Because I know that you will tell me of it,” he quipped.

Her face twisting, she turned away, reaching for her unfinished project. “Then allow me to enlighten you; the Symplegades are the rocks through which Jason and his Argonauts sailed on their journey to the court of King Aeetes.”

“And why, if I may ask, do we need to make all possible haste?”

“The rocks strike one another whenever a ship passes between them. The boats are either crushed between the stones, or they are smashed upon the beaches when they are caught in the monstrous waves.”

“How wonderful.” Now that she had said it, of course, he did start to recall the particulars of that story. “Jason escaped unscathed, did he not?”

“He sent forth a dove in his place to measure the speed at which they must sail, and then he matched it.”

“Excellent. And you have a dove, I suppose, tucked away in your skirts for this very purpose?”

She glared, harrumphing, her lips turned in a frown as she diverted her attention back to her ropes. “Legend holds that the rocks were permanently frozen after Jason made his escape, but you know as well as I how these things come round again. Monsters never truly die, and as the cycle must always continue, surely these perils will as well.”

Peering over the edge of their boat, it did not look as though the water were any more or less dangerous than at the other end of the passage, held in the grip of the Ottoman navy. Nor did he hear any odd sounds, no noises which were not the gentle susurrations of the waves, or the cries of seabirds, or the billowing of their sail. If there were enormous, thundering rocks at the mouth of the Bosphorus, he could see no evidence of it.

Before very much longer, the coasts surrounding them began to widen, edging away from their craft as the land gave way to the mouth of the Pontus Axeinos . Annabeth lifted her head from her weaving, making her way to the bow of their boat. “Here,” she said, “we shall soon be upon the rocks.”

She gave no order for him to speed up or slow their pace, so onwards they continued, steady, serene.

“Any moment now,” she murmured. “Any moment.”

Percy tensed, preparing himself, Annabeth’s strong rope twisted in his grasp.

“Be ready!” she called back to him, all her attention focused ahead.

“On your mark,” he replied. Whatever their animosities, at this time he would happily defer to her command.

They sailed onwards.

They met no resistance.

Confused, Annabeth looked back, glancing behind them. Percy looked as well--they were well past the mouth of the straits, heading unimpeded in the open waters.

“Shall I turn North?” he asked.

“I…” Disturbed, nearly pale despite the warm dawn light, she looked back and forth, from bow to stern, searching for a solution which simply did not present itself. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “North.”

“Very good.” And he pulled the rudder, changing their course.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Where were the rocks?”

“Well,” Percy said, slowly, unwilling to upset her further, “you did say that the rocks were stopped. Perhaps they never came back to life.”

She fixed him with a look he could not bear to see on her face; bewildered and hurt, desperate and angry, a mosaic of sorrow and confusion crossed her lovely features. “Have you ever known a monster to stay dead?” she asked. “Any one at all? Pasiphae’s son returned to fight for the titans. The Furies chased you across the peninsula, even after death. Why should the Symplegades be any different?”

With nothing but a thought, he commanded the vessel to sail itself for some time, for he was very tired, and he had been promised a rest. “I do not know,” he said, settling down on the least lumpy pile of their supplies for a morning nap. “My father’s court deserted, your mother’s temple neglected--who is to say that the monsters have not abandoned us as well?”

Hearing no answer, he closed his eyes, letting the motion of the waves rock him to sleep. As he drifted off, he thought he heard the strangest sound--a mighty boom , like the crack of thunder, though he could not sense any storm on the horizon. Perhaps, however, he was merely imagining things.

***

Percy had never traveled so far North in his entire life, and he did not enjoy it. The air seemed colder, almost, and harsher, the sun beating down on them, and yet providing no warmth nor comfort. Even the stars at night were strange, for while he saw the constellations of his youth-- Chelae , the claws of the scorpion, Cynosura , the dog’s tail, and, of course, the Huntress herself--but he could not see them as clearly as he once had. As the words on a paper scroll or a wax tablet, the stars would rearrange themselves before his very eyes, forming shapes he could not identify, until his vision swam and his heart would ache too deeply to continue looking.

All that, and the ever-present threat of the Ottomans, of course.

Yet Annabeth was right, as she often was; once they passed the mouth of the Istros, the Ottoman presence noticeably dropped, until, after an entire week had gone by without a single hint of another ship in the horizon, Percy had to admit that they were well and truly out of that particular danger, though he could not even begin to imagine what might lie ahead.

It was many days until they reached the ancient settlement of Olbia. He had tried to keep count, but the days slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving him adrift in the sea of time. Perhaps it had been months since the fall of Constantinople, or merely days. He could no longer tell.

That night, once again, they made camp in the long shadows of an abandoned city. Their fire flickered against a squat stone wall built into the side of a hill, its vaults and ceilings long since destroyed. Percy took one corner, and Annabeth the other, sharing their meal of bread and fish. They had been sailing for so long, even he was beginning to feel it, his muscles so sore and aching that he almost could no longer feel them. When he glanced at Annabeth, she looked very much the same, staring into the heart of the flames with an almost empty, vacant gaze, the flickering lights reflecting dully off her golden hair. She was exhausted. They both were.

“Some water?” he asked.

She shook her head, so minutely that were it not for the flames, he would not have thought she moved at all.

Several days earlier, they had put to port in a town along the coast, a little seaside trading post with a white castle resting on top of the nearby cliff, a town which Annabeth had thought was called Mavrokastron or Moncastro or something similar to that. Having not heard Italian in several weeks, it had been something of a shock to the system to hear it spoken this far from Constantinople, though he was pleased to see that his rudimentary language skill had not yet been forgotten, as he was able to purchase a few more supplies for the road ahead. Being the son of a very famous fisherman, Percy could very easily be relied upon to provide the two of them with meat should they require it; things like bread and cheese were somewhat more difficult to procure on their own when constantly on the move. Acting on a whim, he had, with his leftover funds, purchased some dried fruit as well, something to save for a particularly hard day. Looking at Annabeth now, it seemed her hard day was well upon her.

“Here.” He passed her the food parcel, laying it at her feet. “Help yourself to some figs.”

She did not pick it up. Were it not for the fact that he could very clearly see her breathe, see her blinking, she may as well have been a statue, propped up against the wall.

Percy looked down to the shore, where he had tied the Empress to a nearby tree. She bobbed sweetly against the gentle tide, her sail fluttering in the nighttime breeze. “I think,” he said, carefully, for he knew from past experience that suggesting things contrary to Annabeth’s grand plan could result in disaster, “that we should take one more day here.”

No response.

“Just one, mind you. I could do a few more repairs on our ship, catch some more fish--and I can almost certainly promise you that we will need more rope.”

Still, she said nothing.

“Very well,” said Percy. “I shall take your silence as assent, and shall begin work on the morrow.”

“Fine,” said Annabeth, her voice barely more than a puff of wind.

“Oh, so she does speak! And here I thought that you were so repulsed by my very presence that you could not bear to engage me in conversation.”

“I am not ignoring you,” she said, “I am merely tired.”

He snorted. “Indeed. You must be exhausted after all that sailing you did.”

At any other time, Annabeth would have seized upon the chance to trade barbs with him, unable to resist the siren song of taking her mortal enemy to task. But not tonight, it seemed.

“What is it?” he asked.

An Annabeth who would not rise to his bait was a disturbing sight, indeed. He would rather have a traveling companion who would not cease in her berating, her irritation with him, her constant, acerbic comments towards his parentage and his intelligence, than this corpse who sat before the fire.

“I thought…” she murmured.

“Thought what?”

With a sigh, she tipped her head back against the wall, watching the smoke rise. “I truly hoped she would be in Athens.”

“Your mother?”

She nodded. “I--I think I knew, deep in my heart, but I did not want to believe it. When you told me of your father’s empty halls, I had this… sinking feeling, in my chest, this feeling that something was wrong.” Bringing her hand to that offensive spot, she closed her eyes. “I did not realize what it was until we had passed through the clashing rocks unharmed.”

“Realize what?”

“That you were right, Percy. The gods, the monsters; they have all of them abandoned us.”

She had admitted that he was right; once upon a time, he would have thought there could be no greater reward, but now he would have given much for her to take it back. “You do not think it to be a coincidence?”

“I do not see how it could be otherwise,” she sighed, folding her legs beneath her. “I cannot remember the last time I went so long without encountering a monster of some manner or another. The two of us, together? It should, in theory, present an irresistible target. Do you not remember our first quest together?”

Despite the myriad and multitude of terrors that they had encountered as children, thrown together by a cruel twist of fate, time had transformed a few of the horrors into fond memories. “How could I forget? We had barely left the borders of camp before the Kindly Ones descended upon us.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but he thought he saw her lips quirk up in a smile. “And we destroyed that poor man’s wagon.”

“Smashed it to bits,” he confirmed. “The first of many.”

Annabeth, almost reluctantly, chuckled. “We have shared many an adventure, haven’t we?”

“And once again, we find ourselves on another epic quest.”

“But it is not merely another quest,” she said, her face once again sad and drawn. “There is no hero’s reward waiting for us at the end this time.”

He raised his water skin at her, in toast. “Here’s to your safe delivery, then, as that is all the reward that I shall require.”

“Well,” she said, reaching for the parcel of food at her feet, “my father is not without money. Should he still live, I am certain he would be happy to provide you with some measure of compensation.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps by the end of our journey, I will divine what to do with it.”

She hummed, thoughtful as she nibbled on a bit of dried fig. “What will you do,” she asked, “after we reach Svealand?”

Laying out his sleeping roll, he shrugged. “Become a sailor, I suppose,” he said, “if I cannot find Chiron and his students. Or perhaps I shall make my way to Aachen after all; Iason and Reyna promised me I would always have a place with the Legion.”

“You and your precious Legion,” she scoffed, though there was something darker underlying her tone, something cruel, and hateful.

“What you have against the Legion, I shall never understand,” he said, resting his head on the grass. “They are a good people; what’s more, they are our friends and allies.”

“The Legion were the ones who stole the Parthenos ,” she said, bitter as sour fruit. “Just one of the many, many insults they have levied against my mother over the years.”

“Those men have long since passed,” said Percy. “Whatever your feelings towards them, the Legion of today is a far, far cry from the men and women of Troia .”

Her brow furrowed, she shook her head, incredulous. “They stole you , Percy.”

“They did not steal me, they found me,” he corrected. “Were it not for them, I would have died a thousand times over.”

“And as thanks, you begged them to brand you as a slave, I am sure.”

In truth, he had not had much of a choice in that matter. It all had happened so quickly; one moment, he had fended off an invasion of giants, and in the next, their augur had grabbed a hold of his arm, and the mark had appeared in a flash of light and pain, indelible proof of his service to Rome. In time, he had come to accept it as part of him, and to ignore it as such. “This is just their way, no more or less strange than our yearly talismans,” he said, though he had a feeling such a weak argument would do very little to convince her.

“It is not the same,” she insisted. “A necklace can be removed. You are marked for life, and as a romanus .” And at that hateful word, she spat into the dirt.

“There is much worse that I could be than a soldier of Rome, Annabeth,” he said, quietly, for that was what he was still, was he not? Though he no longer fought with the Legion, he had spent his last years as a soldier for another relic of the once great empire.

She tilted her head, almost curious, were it not for the mocking gleam he could detect in her eye. “What would they offer you to betray the Hellenes , hm?” Folding her hands in her lap, she leaned forward, a cruel smile stretching across her pretty face. “A province to govern? A seat in the Imperial Senate? Or perhaps a pretty Roman bride, awaiting you in your villa in Aachen? On your return from Svealand, will you find Reyna at your hearth, or any other Roman lady?”

It was not an unfamiliar accusation. Similar taunts had been levied at him before, by his less understanding comrades at camp. “No,” he said, dully, “I am not interested in a Roman bride--nor is a Roman bride interested in me.”

Her brows shot up. “Now that,” she said, “I cannot believe. You mean to tell me that you spent so many months among the Legion, and yet not one girl thought to snap you up as a husband?”

As a child of the elder gods, Percy was set apart from his peers in a few small, but rather distinct ways. There were certain powers he possessed, certain tricks and charms that he could utilize, and certain statuses that he would not claim that he did not enjoy, from time to time. Unfortunate as it was, for womenfolk, they often found themselves in the unenviable position of having to secure for themselves a good man for a husband, one who could provide status and comfort both, and all the women Percy knew were very, very clever. They knew what to seek in a partner, and they tended not to be shy about their intentions. More than once had Percy been approached by one of his fellow campers, who thought that she might cultivate quite a match for herself, as surely a son of Poseidon and a hero of Olympus should make for an excellent husband. Alas, once they had discovered that he had little more to offer than a mortal fisherman could, they elected not to pursue him further.

On the whole, he did not mind it terribly. He did not speak of it often, but he had always wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps, and marry for love, rather than for politics or protection. Had he been married to a woman he did not care for in that manner, he predicted that he would be a poor husband indeed. It would not be fair to either of them, he thought, unless he was as truly devoted to her as she was to him.

“I was no more a choice for a woman of the Legion than I would have been for a woman from the agoge ,” he said finally, after some time. “And there is none that I have known, either.” He smiled, indulging in a memory.

She raised an eyebrow. “You have never lain with a woman?” she asked, voice dripping with ill-concealed contempt.

“No mortal woman, no.” For he had had the good fortune to romance a nymph or two, a goddess here or there. There had been Calypso, on the island of Ogygia; Thetis, in the court of his father’s palace; a nereid or two with particularly pretty smiles and delicate wrists. The immortal women he had known did not require much of anything from him beyond his time and his affection, which he was more than pleased to provide… and occasionally his tongue, as well.

“But a mortal man?” asked Annabeth, well and truly curious now.

He froze.

Percy was not ashamed of much in his life, and he was most assuredly not ashamed of the time he had spent with Iason. He had been a good man, handsome and strong, and he had found Percy equally as beguiling as Percy did him. Theirs had been more than a mere soldiers’ romance, and he held no shame in his heart at the things that they had done to each other. Yet for some reason, he did not wish to divulge this information to Annabeth. It was not, he knew, because he thought she might shame him for his choice of sexual partner; at the agoge it was quite common to hear of a man lying with another man, or a woman with a woman. As their ancestors had done, mighty names such as Achilles, or Sappho, or even the gods themselves, so too did the half-divine children of the Hellenes not always limit themselves to the opposite sex.

No, he did not wish to share his name, because he did not want to hear her heap further scorn on his Roman allies.

“Yes,” he said. “I have.” And that was all the information he shared.

“I see,” said Annabeth, coloring lightly. “You are one of those sorts of heroes, then.”

He started, something hot bristling in his stomach. “How do you mean?”

“Like Achilles and Patroclus,” she said. “Or Alexander and Hephaestion.”

Who would feel shame, to be included among such vaulted company? Certainly not Percy. “And if I am?” he asked, raising his head. “Would that present a problem for you?”

If it did, perhaps she would get her wish, and would leave her to travel alone after all.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said, with a withering glare. “Of course not. I simply… did not realize.” She was flushing again, visible even against the dim firelight. Annabeth, he had noticed, tended to blush with the whole of her, her body curling in on itself, crossing her arms and looking away from him. “I--find it difficult to believe, is all.”

“What?”

“That you did not pursue a relationship with Rachael.”

Confused, he sat up, frowning. “You know she is obliged to be a maiden, yes?”

“I meant before then.” Beneath long lashes, she glanced at him for a single, sweet moment. “I know you two were close before she became Apollo’s priestess.”

They had been, the summer of the great prophecy. Struggling beneath a burden to rival that of Atlas, Percy had sought some measure of escape from the camp and from his destiny, an escape which Rachael had provided to him. She had granted him a dream and a fantasy, a small sliver of hope in a time when all those around him had been sure that he would perish come summer’s end. Even Annabeth would sometimes look at him as though she were preparing to weave his funeral shroud once more.

That summer, things had been very strange between the two of them, Percy and Annabeth. She had been struggling, he knew, to come to terms with the deep betrayals that Lukas had committed, and she had not been as kind to Percy as, perhaps, she had meant to be. He had forgiven her for it, of course--he in turn had not always comported himself so properly--for they had both borne their respective weights, and had not always supported each other as friends and allies should. More simply put, Rachael had been there for him, when she had not.

“No,” he said. “We had considered it, but…”

But Rachael had been cleverer than he, and had eventually turned him away, with a knowing grin, bidding him instead to seek out someone else.

Someone whom he had known since he was a boy. Someone who had weathered all sorts of storms by his side. Someone who had defied her mother and declared her allegiance to him, should the gods ever force their children to fight against one another. Someone who even Rachael could see that he had long admired.

Lying back down, raising his eyes to the stars, he said, “I did not feel for her as she did for me,” a simple summation for a complex time, and one which he prayed she would understand, and then leave it be. “And so we remained friends.”

And, well, he had thought, after the war, after the funeral games for those who had fallen in battle, once peace and serenity had returned to their borders… he had wondered. Perhaps he had even hoped.

Unfortunately, not four months later, he had gotten entangled with the Legion. By the time he made his way back to Chiron and the Hellenes , it appeared that Annabeth had grown to hate him even more strongly than she had when they had been children. For her, the Latins were an even more hateful enemy than the children of Poseidon; one could, apparently, be overcome, but both together? Unthinkable, in her eyes. And so these two, thrown together by circumstance, had been pulled apart, until the distance between them was so great, he had been sure that Annabeth had been lost to him forever, and had thus let her go.

Then, of course, the Fates had seen fit to bring them together again--though, for what purpose, he could not possibly imagine.

For a few minutes, there was silence between them, no sound save for the crackling of the fire, and the quiet movement of the waves.

Then, Annabeth said, “Hm.”

Percy turned his head towards her. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” With efficiency, she spread out the remains of their fire, so that it would burn itself out while they slept, and set about unrolling her own bedroll. “I was merely thinking that I would have won the pot, is all.”

Oh, he did not think he liked at all what she was implying. “The pot?”

She stilled, her bedroll unfurled halfway. “I’ve said too much.”

Unfortunately, she did not need to say much else. “The Stolls, I presume?”

Annabeth smiled at him, though it reminded him more of a pained grimace.

Rolling his eyes, he flopped back down.

“It was a very eventful summer,” she said. “You cannot blame them for attempting to lift our spirits with a little harmless fun.”

“Need I remind you that everyone was under the impression I would not survive the war?”

“And yet, here you remain.” A little ungracefully, she stretched out next to him, giving a great, massive yawn, and he turned towards her. “A gift for which the men of the Legion were very grateful, no doubt.”

His eyes widened. “How did you--”

She glanced at him with familiar contempt. “If you had lain with someone from the agoge ,” she said, as though she spoke to a simpleton, “everyone would have heard about it before breakfast the next morning.”

Ah, the children of Athena. Impeccable logic, as always.

“Very well,” said Percy, his cheeks heating up. “Since I have divulged such personal secrets, it is only fair that I am privy to some in return, no?”

Snorting, she turned over on her side, away from him. “I agreed to no such terms.”

“Come now, Annabeth,” he whined. “That’s not very sporting.”

In truth, he had spent many years wondering what sort of man had caught her fancy, after the likes of Lukas, whose appeal Percy understood all too well. He’d spent too many years in her orbit to not want to know what kind of a person could win her heart. Now that they had reestablished their acquaintanceship, would anyone blame him for mere curiosity?

“Give me a secret worth sharing, then.”

The moon, bright and beautiful, hung low in the sky. By the light of the fading fire, her hair shone like copper, her shawl settling around the curve of her shoulder, her hip, fabric folds like the stars of a constellation whose shape he had only just discovered. For one single, delirious second, he thought--he considered telling her the truth, a truth so deep and powerful, yet unknown to him until this very moment. The truth, that his youthful admiration had become his first love. The truth, that though it had faded alongside their friendship, it had never truly gone away. The truth that now, in this moment, as he lay next to her on their bed of grass and earth, it blazed with more passion than anything else he had ever known.

He swallowed.

“If you had asked me to, I would have followed you to the Morea,” he said, “and supported your claim to the throne.”

After a second, she rolled over to look at him. Her eyes were dark and piercing in the moonlight, her gaze enchanting and unreadable.

“Is that sufficient?”

He may as well have just come out and told her that he loved her. It felt like he was admitting the same thing.

Her mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “And they all claimed that you were no strategist,” she said.

That was… not the reaction he had expected from her. “How do you mean?”

“Ingratiating yourself to your future empress; very clever indeed, Perseus.”

“I am being sincere,” he said.

“And I do not doubt it. You would have pursued an action that you know would have resulted in a great reward, had we succeeded.”

Frowning, he lay down on his back, closing his eyes. “That is not why I would have done it.”

The silence stretched between them, long and empty. She must have fallen asleep, he thought. He could open his eyes and see for himself, but he stubbornly kept them shut. For whatever reason, he could not disturb the fragile space between them, every hard won inch, he knew, so easily shattered by a misspoken word or an imprecise countenance.

So softly, he thought he might have imagined it, he heard her say, “Clarice.”

Slowly, he turned to look at her.

She lay on her back as well, her gaze pointed squarely at the stars. The fire had nearly burnt out, but her skin and hair still shone in the moonlight.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“The first person I had relations with was with Clarice.”

He blinked. “Clarice.”

“Yes.”

“The daughter of Ares.”

“The very same.”

Of all the revelations he thought she might share, he had not been expecting that one. “You know I have to ask.”

The corner of her lips quirked up in a smile. “She was stronger, but I was faster. Her hands, however--very big.”

Percy had seen Annabeth throw men twice her size across the arena. He had seen Clarice shatter shields with her magic spear. The thought of the two of them, together, in that manner, was…

He shifted, attempting to find a new and more comfortable position for his hips. “Athena and Ares,” he murmured, half in a daze. “Who would have thought?”

“And not just her--Yekaterina as well.”

“Really.”

“Mmhmm.” He could not see in the dim light, but he thought she might have been blushing again.

He chuckled to himself, smiling. As she knew him of old, he knew her, and he knew that she was not one to divulge such details so lightly. Despite his pride and his self-assurance, it was always a deep, deep comfort to know that there was someone else who enjoyed the company of men and women both. To think, despite all their differences, how similar they were in their fundamentals still.

“Thank you,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

And without much further ado, he turned over, and he went to sleep.

Immediately, he knew he was dreaming.

No longer in the shadow of the ancient stone wall, now he lay upon rich velvet rugs and brilliantly ornate pillows, woven with thread of gold and silver, the fabrics dyed deep blues and purples. All around him was the scent of saffron, mint, and honey. And the woman next to him… the woman next to him…

On the top of her golden head rests an equally golden crown, studded with precious gems of red and blue and green--the tiara of the Basileia , he knows it to be. She smiles at him with her silver eyes, her ruby lips and pearly teeth, lifting a delicate hand to him. Just below her ears, from which dangle a pair of lustrous, jeweled earrings, her hair comes down in two long, thick, even plaits, over her shoulders and her breasts, which Percy now realizes are bare. He and the mighty Roman Empress Ana Zabeta, for that is surely who she is, lay side by side, she entirely unclothed save for the crown on her head.

“My love,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers up his arm, “why do you hide yourself from me? Do you regret this time we have together?”

“No, my lady,” he finds himself replying, not in control of his actions in this fantasy. “Of course not.”

“Then come closer, phykios , and kiss me.”

And he would not refuse an order like that.

Her lips taste of wine and honey, her skin is smooth as marble. Acting on an instinct he did not know he possessed, he brings his hands to her small breasts, rolling a nipple under his thumb, and is rewarded with her ardent sigh, a deep, throaty moan which vibrates into his own mouth. Braver now, he crawls on top of her, and knows he has done the right thing by the smile which presses itself to his chin. Then he is the one who is kissing her neck, and he travels further down, a road map of her body, kissing every inch of her he can reach.

“Yes,” she whines, so sweetly, the further down he goes. He kisses the skin at her hips, squeezing the soft flesh of her ass, and she moans again, sweeter than any music. “Yes, Percy,” she cries as he brings his mouth above her center, pressing his nose into the beautiful golden curls there, and breathing deep. “Percy,” she groans, “Percy, Percy--”

“Mm?” He muttered, his face mashed into the dirt.

“Percy.”

He blinked, the cold sunlight streaming directly into his eyes, disorienting. “Wuh…”

“Wake up.”

Raising his head a little, he was greeted by the Annabeth more familiar to him, who was busy starting up their campfire, her curls thrown wildly by the morning wind. “You said that you wished to make repairs to the boat this morning, did you not?” she asked.

“Ahm--yes, I--let me just…” It came to his attention, suddenly, that he was quite erect, his cock pressing into his bedroll, and he was liable to try to make love to this cloth if he were left alone with his thoughts for a minute longer. “Let me… relieve myself. Yes.”

She grunted, entirely absorbed in her task. Thank the gods for the gift of half-blood focus, he thought.

With an odd sort of waddle, he made his way over to a small group of trees. When he was certain she could neither see nor hear him, he freed himself from his trousers, working quickly to bring himself to completion, among the sounds of morning birds, the scrape of his fingers on tree bark, his choked, bitten off groans as he fought for his silence.

It did not take him very long.

[ask-de-writer]

IDOL TIMES (1 part), a Classical Fantasy

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Classical Fantasy

IDOL TIMES

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

1988 words

written 2003

copyright 2013

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan activity, cosplay, stories, music, plays or skits or anything else is actively encouraged.

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“The thieves of Istar are a bunch of lowlife cowards,” declared Rumol, as he snagged a beer from a passing server’s tray. The server noticed the theft, so he tossed a copper fluket onto the tray.

“That’s the kind of talk that gets folk from Kelin beat to a pulp in Istar,” replied Durson mildly from the next bench. “We’re as brave as any thieves that you will find.” He reached over and took a swig from Rumol’s beer. “Now, suppose that you clear up that claim that you made.”

“Simplicity itself,” retorted Rumol, retrieving his beer. “Look about you. You see thieves on hard times. The whole country is in a depression. Nothing to steal that’s worth the theft, you say. Nonsense! The temple of the Chained One stands ripe for the plucking! It’s a whole orchard of treasures and you are starving! I rest my case.”

“You tell us nothing new. Where does the cowardice come from?”

“Why,” said Rumol indignantly, “if you know about a prize like that, and you don’t take it, what other reason can there be?”

“You might try prudence. We are not as stupid as you think us. The Chained One’s temple is guarded day and night by vigilant priests with pike and spear. The treasures cannot be had - bribery has been tried and failed.”

“Perhaps you have not noticed that the temple is only locked, not guarded, on the night of the full moon. The priests retreat to tightly locked quarters. There is a large round hole in the nave roof. It is the perfect time to make a small expedition, using simple skills, for great reward.”

“You are out of what passes for your mind! The Chained One is unchained on that night! Other thieves have tried what you suggest. None has returned. The Chained One is always in a different position after the full moon.”

“It will be safe,” scornfully stated Rumol. “See this?” He held up a chip of stone, smooth on one side. “It came from the Chained One̓s reverend rear, this afternoon. Common stone, very well worked, it is true, but stone nonetheless. If folk disappeared, they must have left a priest hidden inside the temple. We need only take a crossbow and pick him off through the hole in the roof.”

“None of us will help you,” replied Durson. “You still haven’t explained how the Chained One moves.”

“Preserve me from fools!” exclaimed Rumol. “The figure is probably jointed. The priests sneak back through a tunnel and rearrange it.”

“And the live pony that they leave for a sacrifice?”

“You just heard me say that they have a tunnel. They lead it out and sell it, or save it to use again.”

“Well, you have a glib answer for everything. We have lived here all of our lives. We will not risk it.”

“Then you confirm my first statement - you are cowards. I will see to the treasures myself. Don’t expect any share from me,” declared Rumol. “The local guild can do without my dues if I can’t get help.”

Rumol stood, a bit unsteadily, and strode out of the tavern. A few blocks down the street, on the way to his lodgings, he ran into some “friends”. Guild enforcers. One took his arms from behind, while the other faced him. “Heard some talk about a little rat not payin’ his dues,” he said through his Guild mask. “This may help you to reconsider.” He hauled back his arm for a mighty blow to the stomach.

Rumol erupted. He let the man who was holding his arms support him while he lashed out with both feet. As he connected, he straightened his back and smashed backwards with his head. Both men went down, taking Rumol with them. The fall broke the grip of the man holding him; he got up quickly and, leaving them on the ground, ran to his room.

He paused only long enough to gather his few possessions and go out again, without, of course, paying the landlord. “I’ll avoid the guild’s enforcers by camping in the jungle outside the city for the next few days, until the full moon,” decided Rumol.

Two days of shooing serpents out of his sleeping roll and swatting bugs made him wonder if any job was worth this.

The night of the full moon found Rumol, dressed in black, alongside the Chained One’s temple. Sunset and moonrise were nearly the same time and sun was just gone. He had to hurry. He had attended the ceremonial Unchaining only two hours ago. What he had seen had confirmed most of his plans.

Checking his equipment, he made sure that he had his small crossbow, a grapnel, rope, jimmy and a variety of bags for packing loot quietly away. Swinging the grapnel, Rumol heaved it at the top of the wall.

If there were any gods (Rumol had his doubts) they were with him. The hook caught on the coping at the first cast. He was up the rope like a serpent up a vine. Pulling the rope up after him made him reasonably safe from the city watch. The moon began to rise in a nimbus of orange glow at the horizon as he crept in a leisurely way across the roof to the large round hole. Spaced about it were plinths, each supporting a representation of a major moon phase.

Testing these for security, Rumol looped his rope about one. He tied it by wrapping the rope twice about the shank of the grapnel and letting the rope fall between the hooks. Simple, secure, and to be unfastened in an instant, if need be.

With owl’s eyes Rumol searched the temple for hidden priests. Seeing none, he let down the rope, with the bags tied to it as a decoy. Still nothing. Taking no chances, he cocked his crossbow and carried it in the crook of his left arm, as he lowered himself to the floor. The pony whikkered hopefully.

Rumol strode over to where the pony was tied, for his one minor last-minute change in plan. He stroked the pony’s nose and gave it a carrot. That attended to, he set about his work.

All of the altar-ware had been put away in stout cabinets. A few minutes’ work with his jimmy laid the cabinets open to his gaze. There, before his eyes, was the wealth that those fools were afraid to come for. So far, the job had been absurdly simple. Carefully packing each gold or silver vessel into its own smaller sack, he then put them all into a large bag. He left the candlesticks. They were brass.

His next target was the vestry where the jeweled robes, miters, censors, and other priestly gear were kept. The several services that he had attended told him which door to attack. It had only a small spring lock which broke at once under his educated assault. The cabinets where the priestly goods were kept fared no better. Soon, all were looted and their contents resided in Rumol’s bags.

As he emerged into the nave, he saw that the moonlight was partway up the idol. Its two lower eyes glittered green. Emeralds of that size would never happen, but they might be peridots or beryl. Any faceted stones that large would be worth a king’s ransom.

Never one to leave a job half done, Rumol began to climb the idol. Placing feet on huge haunch, thence to paunch, forearm and then to shoulder, he finally straddled the mighty muzzle. The Moonlight clearly showed the two lower eyes to be set in a cement that matched the stone perfectly. It was modeled to resemble eyelids. In a few moments the moonlight would reach the third eye, too. Rumol set to work on the lower right eye.

Just then, the moonlight came to the third eye, and the muzzle tilted as the great head shifted. The eyes blinked. A deep soft voice rumbled, “Please get that thing out of my eye.”

Hanging on for his life, Rumol squeeked in fright, “Let me down! I didn’t know that you were alive! I’ll just get my things and leave you in peace.”

“You do that,” the deep voice said. Great paws set him gently on the floor.

Quickly, he gathered his loot and began to climb the rope. The huge paws seized him gently but irresistibly, and separated him from the rope. “You said that you would take your things and go. Those things are mine.”

Rumol almost squeaked in fright, “Don’t eat me! Please!”

“Eat you?” the idol answered in surprise, “I would never do that! Where ever did you get that idea?”

“Everybody says that you eat a pony - and any thieves - every moon.” Rumol shook his head, “I didn’t believe them.”

“Well, the pony is my dinner, that’s true,” the idol held him closer to its eyes which were now thoroughly lively, “but I don’t often get a guest to talk to. The priests never stay anymore. They know that their spells keep me from escaping this room as long as my body is stone, which is not likely to change anytime soon.” The idol paused in thought and a devious expression came and went from its massive visage.

“You went to a great deal of trouble and danger to get these things, didn’t you?”

Enfolded in the mighty paws of the idol, Rumol contented himself with a nod of agreement.

The Idol set him down in front of the altar. It carefully emptied out all of Rumol’s booty. “I see that you have even taken the lunar divination die of silver and ivory. If you will stay and talk, I will give you a chance to win some or all of the of these things. Let us play for what you have taken. Each of us will roll in turn. The one whose phase is closest to full wins. Waxing phase is higher than waning. The blank new moon always loses. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

The game progressed swiftly. Sometimes the advantage was with Rumol, sometimes with the idol. Eventually, chance alloted all the loot to the idol. Rumol stood dejected.

He brightened when the idol proposed, “One more pass? All or nothing?”

“Certainly. You’re the best winner that I have ever known. Anyone can be a good loser. Graceful winning is the test.” Taking the die, Rumol threw a waxing gibbous moon. The idol promptly made its throw. A full moon came up. The idol took Rumol gently and said, “You lose. As you have nothing else to give, look into my third eye.” Rumol did as he was bidden; he really had no choice.

Rumol felt a great disorientation and confusion; there was the impression of something dark going up, near him. His right eye hurt. He felt hungry and felt a stiffening all over. There was an intense urge to get up on the altar. As the moonlight faded, he got stiffer and the urge to get onto the altar got stronger, until he could not resist it any longer. Gazing longingly at the pony, he got up on the altar. With the last of the moonlight, consciousness waned on the thought that he was going to be very hungry by the next full moon.

The next morning the priests were surprised at what they found. A young acolyte exclaimed, “This is terrible! The Chained One has refused the pony! Look, there he stands. I pray you, lord priest, what does it mean?”

“Use your eyes, young man,” the priest replied sonorously. “See you not the bags, the jimmy, the broken cabinets? Another fool has tried to rob us.

“Now, while we priests replace the chains, you acolytes clean up the mess. Be sure that things are put away properly and then run get a carpenter to fix these cabinets.”

-THE END-

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Classical Fantasy

This completes Idol Times. If you enjoyed what you just read, please go to the Master Story Index for links to all of the stories that I have posted on Tumblr.

[joeys-piano]

This wip intro is a response to a very sweet anon who wanted to know more about the fantasy fic that I’ve been working on for the past week. It’s hard to believe that on Monday, I only had a vague idea of my Kitsune & Seer concept/AU. And now on Saturday, I’ve compiled a huge word document of worldbuilding and character development. Thank you, to anon and to everyone who had expressed interest in this idea. Your enthusiasm is like a hug after a very long, exhausting day.

Title → Catching Fire & Chasing Smoke Rating → Mature Genre → Dark Fantasy, Folklore, Adventure Content Warnings → Adult Themes & Suggestive Undertones, Implied/Explicit Descriptions of Violence, Dubious Morality & Ethics

Chapter One → When Darkness Falls ETA → Late August, 2019

Year → 1287 (mid-Kamakura period)

    → Context: The story is set a few years after the second invasion-attempt by the Mongols where a heavenly, divine wind (a typhoon) wiped out the foreign fleet and protected the island nation. In the aftermath of the Mongol war, there was a significant drain on the Japanese economy and new taxes were levied on the people in preparation for future defensive measures. Political and economic instability and distrust in the Kamakura bakufu (military government) were soon apparent if the increase of roving bandits and rōnin were not enough. This time period could best be described as an internal, warring period as eventual civil wars ravaged the lands to restore imperial authority. For the sake of this story, I’m mostly focusing on the internal conflicts between politics and the economy for simplicity.

General Idea → The story of Catching Fire & Chasing Smoke revolves around a kitsune and seer, who’ve been driven out and viewed as outcasts to others of their own kind. The spiritual and literal journey that these two characters embark on illustrates the alchemy of truths and lies, of sorrows and regrets, of life and purpose, and of searching for a land overflowing in laughter and alcohol. Ultimately, this is a journey of finding a place where they could truly belong and of finding peace and acceptance for who they are. In the midst of their travels, they encounter a striking array of both humans and youkai who’ve found the answers to these difficulties for themselves.

Catching Fire & Chasing Smoke is written in an episodic-format, where every chapter is its own short story and follows the slice-of-life approach of the kitsune and seer along on their journey. While the chapters can be read as standalones, they are connected via overarching themes, progressions, and threaded storylines.

Characters

Oda Sakunosuke | Seer (Capnomancy) When the gods of the land asked him of what he desired most in this world, Oda responded with the mere breath of his voice. If he were his previous-self, he’d desire the power to destroy all of those who’d harm the people he cared for. However, the decision wouldn’t reflect the changed man he had become. Because of the children he was caring for, Oda was able to keep his hands clean for as long as he did. To dirty them, once more, would only insult the memory and of how much the children meant to him. As an alternative, Oda asked the gods of the land to grant him one simple request: the ability to protect people from the dangers they had yet to know.

Dazai Osamu | Four-Tail Kitsune Legend has it that tragedy follows the heels of a four-tail kitsune and that the youkai is forever on the move unless it wants the tragedy that’s following it to come true. By the same thread, superstition has dictated that four bears the misfortune of death. Woven across the tales passed by man, if a kitsune were to cease in its roaming and beckon tragedy to unravel across the land, what would follow would be all the deaths of those that the youkai had held dear. Fortunately or unfortunately, some kitsune have held doubt as the heart of all philosophy and that there was no such thing as an absolute truth. The matters of virtue or saving people from an inevitable demise were as foreign as trading bandages for wings. Death was merely an extension of a part of everyday life. Without an imminent threat of its arrival, how could one capture the full significance of what it meant to be alive? Such a threat would be a glorious thing, Dazai was sure, and he’d want nothing more than the leisure and euphoria of his own demise if he could.

Ace | Exorcist Just as words are poison when poured into another’s ears, close proximity with Ace has led to the deaths of those who’ve been esteemed so dearly. He is a man of indulgences and desires, content to trade his soul an hour before the Devil knows it has lost it. But if he’s to renounce himself as a monster to this world, Ace makes it certain that no one ignores the one growing inside of them. For in each and every individual, there lies the truth that one is simultaneously a human, yet a monster. None can be exempt from either.

Karma | An Apprentice yet Servant Of all the things he had learned during his time in Ace’s household, whether it was specifically from the man or not, the questions that couldn’t be answered were what taught him the most. Rather ideal for his position, Karma could pick apart a situation until he found what he had been looking for. Without a trial, it was nothing more than giving him a fact to memorize. But give him a question with hardly an answer to, and that was how Karma found his footing amongst those in the household. The harder the question, the harder the hunt for what he needed to find. The harder the hunt, the more he realized that the simple truths of this world were nothing more but just lies.

Nakahara Chuuya | Vessel for Arahabaki Having bounded his existence and his soul to Arahabaki, Chuuya straddles the line between man and kami. Referring to him as a demigod would seem appropriate, but the man held no pleasure in being called that. Simply, if he were to describe himself, Chuuya would say that he’s a humble messenger to those that ask of his assistance.

Ozaki Kouyou | Courtesan (Oiran, ranked: tayū) Kouyou is a woman of dignity and grace, of poise and of nobility, of benevolence and ferocity, and as cruel as she is kind. Kouyou did not ascend to where she is with a soft heart. No, her heart is that of ivy and stone. However, if one were to ask what her greatest strength was, Kouyou would respond that her greatest strength originated from love. And if one were to ask her of what her greatest downfall would be, Kouyou would respond that her greatest downfall would be because of that love. Neither a stranger to care or violence, she’s aware of what she brings to the table and doesn’t mind if she’s to dine, alone.

Izumi Kyouka | Lady in Waiting Like phantom threads, woven through the kimono that she often wears, there were a set of truths that Kyouka kept near. She kept them near for they were one of the very things that could ground her to this earth. But if she were to be honest, Kyouka did so to understand the truest nature of what she didn’t know. For, by her own words: ‘Fear is what we create on our own, and it’s the fruit of all of our inhibitions. My imagination dictates the size of my fear, so I’ve chosen to not be afraid anymore. The only thing I’m worried about is what remains hidden in the dark after all the lights have turned on.’

Sakaguchi Ango | Wandering Priest Words from the mouth were such peculiar things. At times, they were destined to die upon another’s ears. Yet, at different times, these words would find their way into another’s heart and survive. For the past two since, since he abandoned his former-life, a single piece of advice had never perished within Ango’s heart: ‘One’s past doesn’t necessarily dictate or define who someone is for the rest of their life. How they move forward after realizing what they’ve done is significant and shouldn’t be ignored.’ If one were to ask who he had heard this from, how many would scoff that such words had come from a youkai?

[poetrynwords4thesoul]

THE DREAMER;THE STORY

ALTJERINGA : The Dreaming. Air The universe is nothing but a beautiful symphony A Love ballard with everyone playing a note without being phony There is nothing but sublime unity and oneness Where everyone vibrates with Loving kindness Being an advanced species is not about technology But the return to Unity and that is the irony Every note played is unique and different Everyone appreciated for their unreplicated contribution With the music blending to a heavenly fusion For spiritual Heirerachy is a human concept and temperament There is only Love reverence All are equal in sentience and value Whatever size or existence avenue The Cosmos is full of Creatures of beauty, Stars ancient like Methuselah still carry on Loves duty Water kingdom in that distant enchanted place And Source experiencing itself as a Flower in that timeless space The delicate balance of Life Forever distancing in the illusion of time There must be darkness for Light to Shine There must be Blackholes for Quasars to exist Perfection in balance, the Cosmos insists For every Ying and Yang There is a spiritual lesson to be had The invisible nourishment that comes from our breath Demonstrates the humility of the Air we take for granted Seldom heard and rarely seen, You connect all in the Cosmos with sheer glee The simplicity of your Cosmic power Comes from that simple garden Flower I behold the awesome mystery of the universe With Love I peel back the layers like an onion Observing the clusters from Caffau to Orion And Im overwhelmed knowing this Love I dont deserve From the depths of my heart to the farthest reaches of the Cosmos: Thank You. It is a beautiful fellowship. Earth Your beauty astounds me, Your Love incomprehensible Beautiful daughter of Light,Earth, Water and Air My heart yearns to embrace You with fragile Care Abused you have been, totally reprehensible I hope its not too late To change our bleak fate You are joyously alive, feel every breath and wind Someones beautiful daughter, indeed supremely a Loved being Im privileged to walk on your presence And retreat, delicately leaving no foot prints And watch you going through many changes You are a mother and a daughter, the blind cannot see Yours is a joyful innocence A Love frequency in the truest sense A mother patiently waiting on her children Most live in harmony with Gaia except one Whose tragedy is their lack of clarity They dont see divinity and unity But believe in separation and chance They refuse to see oneness and believe in intellectual superiority And this spiritual inferiority, Has resulted in a possession obsession But Gaia has Her own protectors, That Love her unconditionally That will not tolerate the abuse for much longer continously The Elohim will not allow plunder for gold Watching her tears for profit be sold The rain, the river and the seas The mountains, the sands and the trees All bear witness to your beauty exceptionally Beautiful colours, Blue from afar Like rainbow pouring straight from a jar You swirl, dance and sing Like a happy child in Love and free All universe is in awe of You Teach us Light, Love and Forgiveness Unity, Oneness and Uniqueness So that in that moment of Truth It is You I will forever Choose While I am here dear Mother I just have to be frank and say You are my first Love, I dare say I am forever grateful To that pale Blue dot In the vastness of space That is ever so cheerful That place I've called home Whose Love will never age. Water Alpha and Omega, where it begins it also ends, The circle of Love, a universal trend. Came back with a body suit as black as the night, Stealthy as a thief,in the middle of the night , A people blind sided, hoping for a silver knight, Instead, a messenger calling himself Knight Looking up in the sky waiting for miracles and fire, Compassion and Love in their hearts lacking and dire Love manifested in a form neglected and derided Only among the rejected did he feel truly invited, The drama of cosmic humour and creation's spiral Cannot be limited by human perspective and that is final. Messengers sent and Useless rules written Messages ignored and vessels of Truth worshipped instead Ignorance and Arrogance begets results horrid, It is our consciousness we render morbid, Walk with Wisdom and Truth on the path of humility, And in your Creators arms you will find profound tranquility The messages are a just a guideline, Love is central and the only way home Love for all divine creation,all other rules will fall and be gone You are Love manifest Truly Loved and limitless My Soul, your Love is like honey Beautiful and sweet, flowing like golden rivers Joyously and consciously experiencing Life in this adventurous journey Your Love never relenting Your shenanigans makes me laugh and sends pleasurable shivers Thank You for being me Thank You for arranging this Thank You for just being For I know Im a Loved Being And when Im home and done Fill me up, I extend my ever empty cup With the boundlessness of your Love Unity of the body, mind and soul One must strive for the union of the whole Raise the frequency and vibration to Unity Do not be complacent in conformity For free will, Independent thinking is your Soul's duty Search for the Truth within For the Creator will guide you indeed Greatest gift is your free will To create, explore , expand and build To marvel , revere and with great awe Realize this a journey for all You are a co-creator and One with the All Thank You my Higher Self You have shown me not to be ashamed That the only permanent thing in Life is change Remembering the lifetimes and lessons I have nothing to say but be Thankful For this is one tough school Yet, You remind of my guide: Water Ever sustaining, ancient, wise and Divine Always non-assuming but impossible to Divide Individual and yet in perfect unity An ancient being full of purpose and Clarity A clear conscience and zero ego You hear that, my ancient hero You lead the way, I will follow Though light in presence but never hollow Show me to walk humble and my ego swallow, I embrace your sentience with no shame, Heed my Love,my wonderful friend and carer Fill my cup, old Mate, For I am your bearer. For one day in that timeless place We shall meet in true form once again. Light Some call You Angel, Some call You Gabriel, An extention of the Creators Light I call it a conspiracy of Love A timeless tale of Love's might You are my teacher of Truth For that reason I call you Blue I call it a tyranny of of Compassion Dear Blue, my silent guide Your wise counsel, Ever so kind A Creature of sublime wisdom Ours is a joyous union Many lifetimes of wealth and chains You provide insight of the Love to gain Chains and pain to Grow Health and wealth for passion Light needs dark to Glow Love and Empathy birth Compassion You show that forgiveness is a must, That Divine Love is Just A currency that never gets old For all shall come to pass, even gold My Beloved Blue, You leave Love's clues, Even when I'm in my deepest blues You conspire to teach me Love Inspire my Higher Self to be Just Sent me to Love's school A play replete with drama To lay repeat the message of Love's karma That to give a Compassionate kiss, Invites heartfelt Bliss, To sow the seeds of Unity Brings to Creation ultimate Beauty You have walked in these shoes, Each has their own path to Truth Thank You for being a guide A tireless friend and Lover Even when I grow weary and wild You remind me to never fear My mission in this lifetime ever so clear Not to add to Earth's tears To see the Truth's Light That we all share in Her plight Undo the wrongs for her to be right Surround her with Love as her peers Heal her with Joyful cheers Be her kindred Be Love's children Dear old friend Blue, You know my heart desires not, To be anyone's master nor Lord, The only True realization The only sins are those against Creation To commit crimes against Nature, My desire is only to be a Teacher, A Healer, my second nature Like the shamans of days old and gone, I desire not to be a champion, But to be Truly natures companion From Dusk till Dawn.

Your Truly,

SENANDA

-7even

-QK.

[thebewisepodcast]

The Story Continues...PROLOGUE (PART 2)

Their sleek transportation flew along the air, zipping beside the bevy of birds which flapped away from the vehicle. The impressive craft soared through the bright blue morning sky, fresh and alive with the same mix of grace and force as a hawk or falcon. The matte black craft absorbed the sun's rays, bursting through the clouds and cutting the wind like the dullest blade through warm butter. Harrison was noticeably and superbly giddy. 

   As the man sped the vehicle elevated by magnetic propulsion along the designated air-way, he smiled a hearty smile that his wife consistently found deeply irresistible. In all of their years together, her abundant affection for his specific look of jubilation had not changed nor rotted. She could see that he wasn’t thrilled by the flight, spending time with her, or his upcoming award. Not in the slightest. Yes, in his mind bounced around something much more pleasant to her husband: he couldn’t wait to get home from the ceremony and finish his beloved work. In his mind, he was no doubt already there. The joy of the journey propelled him through the blue sky, but it did not hold him there. Nothing could.

   Amy could be nowhere near upset that his mind was in constant travel, going places that she could hardly fathom. This only exemplified her favorite quality about him, which was his considerable dedication to his work and the planet’s people. In her own foolishness, she wanted him to take a well-deserved break. Such a break would allow himself to be appreciated for everything he had contributed to the world at large. What a fool she was, thinking he’d love to be appreciated.

   “I imagine that you aren’t wearing that smile on your face because of the ceremony or your award,” she teased, watching him navigate through the sky with the supreme skill of a pilot. 

   “Amy, we’re going to make life a thousand times easier for the rest of the world.” 

    We? There it is again. That precious "we" word. 

   For some bizarre reason, her husband always used the word we whenever he discussed his inventions and plots for humanity. It was in his nature to include them both in the things that even she sometimes did not understand completely. This was a phenomenon that she never asked him about regarding the nature of their relationship. Why inclusion here and not elsewhere? This had been the case ever since they met in the University all those years ago. Amy’s own almond-shaped blue eyes veered away from her husband’s excitement for a second, positing them out of the tough duraglass window of their helicar. 

   Together, so high above the world, she felt as close to omnipresent as humanly possible. As close to divine as humanly possible. The husband and wife hovered above like deities, flying and observing, finding new ways to serve the people below them to the best of their abilities. Above the masses she could see the bustling city through the clouds, looking down upon the many grand things her husband had a hand in designing. 

   Beside them appeared fellow helicars, soaring to their left and to their right, popping in and out of sight, cutting through bundles of other clouds in the sapphire heavens. With a steady hand and a just mind, the world, lead by her husband’s brilliance, had long begun to construct something truly beautiful amongst the infrastructure of a formerly crumbling society. The world was coming together, tethered by a common thread of inclusion and ingenuity. Science and innovation were the backbones of the New World.

   No matter what his insane yet brilliant ideas consisted of, he always made it a point to include all of the people around him, shirking either the heavy burden of failure or the reward of optimum credit altogether. These days she was all that was ever around him, so as of late they have shared an abundance of praise as a pair. Harrison was the leading mind on the micro-magnetic particle arrays and nanites which allowed the vehicles to zip through the clouds as opposed to meander along the ground, but to him, it was always time to push further. Even then he avoided the press and praise as a whole. She did most of the speaking in those instances, but the people knew who really built the tech. She was merely his mouthpiece, a vessel. Micro-magnetic arrays and magnetic nanites were something he had been working to perfect since their University days.

    As long as Amy had known Harrison, he had been the most perfect marriage of simplicity and brilliance. Both adulation and financial recompense were deathly last on his complex agenda. As a result, long ago she stopped trying to coerce him to accept either in return for his work. These days all she wanted him to do was put on his goggles when he used his damn electro-prongs; which he also invented, gave away, and sought no payment for. Maybe it was time to add revenue to their list of needs; if they ever wanted to start a family.

   “Truly, without an ounce of sarcasm, I mean this: I don’t think that there is anybody as beneficial for humanity as you are, Harry.”

   Harrison looked at his wife. His measured face was still as though awaiting a sculptor to recreate his visage in the moment. Light features and full of love, his striking countenance laid beneath a thick pair of glasses that hadn’t changed since they met in that engineering class nearly a decade ago. Her father had loved him deeply, regarding his most precious student as a son. Harrison had a rugged handsomeness to him which he never clung to and a daring wit which he favored more. He held on tighter to other things outside of aesthetic beauty. The excitement on his face from a moment ago slightly faded, but he still held court with a timid smile. 

   “The search for adulation halts true progress, Amy.”

   “Another reason why you’re the ideal savior, Harrison.”

[atrayo]

Jewels of Truth Statements: How the Divine Sanctuary Is Located In The World

Hello All, A Happy Easter to all Christians today! As Jesus the Christ reminds many on this day of his miraculous feat of resurrection over the world itself by means of the cross. We must also by example lift ourselves off of our crosses that we bear in the world. Be they figuratively or literally in other cases in how we approach our troubles. By seeking ways that heal the situation involved versus just maintaining a dysfunctional status quo. I may have been born Roman-Catholic making it as far as my 1st communion as a teenager. Although now having been exposed to the unconditional love of God in my life with an informal spiritual practice since 1986. I have evolved into adhering wherever God has loved absolutely upon benevolence in the world that is simply my faith. So I adore and respect all religions, spiritual traditions, and secular philosophies that advocate goodwill equally.  As Gandhi once stated that "God has no Religion". And, so I worship God with a cosmopolitan all inclusive compassionate stance towards spirituality coupled with the angelic frame of reference I have as an oracle. Those that dismiss others that believe in all faiths stating they believe in nothing. Often forget that life is a living paradox and the opposite of nothing is absolutely everything. As God is the whole living paradox of Creation as nothing and everything simultaneously absolutely forever. Amen. Today's "Jewels of Truth" angelically channeled spiritual wisdom statements are on the topics of Gateways 2439 (Longhand); Love of God 2412 (Meme), 505B (Assorted); Love 506B (Assorted); Oracle 507B (Assorted); Souls 2409 (Meme), 508B and 509B (Assorted); Royalty 2409 (Meme), 510B (Assorted), and finally on Angels 511B (Assorted). Noting that the topics of Souls and Royalty are both excerpts from the identical overall statement 2,409 as two separate memes. With today's entry offering 11 statements across 7 topics altogether for your reflection spiritually. May you be as enriched in whichever faith tradition you practice as I have in channeling them by all of our angels in heaven.

Gateways: 2439) To reach heaven on Earth love truly by the examples of countless spiritual and religious giants before our present era in time. To love with the pure magical innocence of a child with joy and a minor streak of mischievous playfulness. Opens up such a portal for heaven to reach your heart and cleanse you of the fears of this world. Not to forget the painful lessons incurred but to heal them holistically with character building forgiveness. Heaven is discovered by a remarkable glee that exceeds mere joy. A constant tidal wave of wonder that all float in the direction of the flow of good fortune. More than plain luck but as an awakened divinity that crystallizes the impossible as common every moment occurrences. When you yield deeply to the holy illumination with humility all shimmers with a renewed glow in unison of exaltation. Simplicity is the grand master connecting comprehension elegantly beyond dumbfounded complexity. To step into this realm of paradise as a mortal only occurs if such an archway is discovered on any number of life-giving worlds such as the Earth. Although feeling as intuition is undeniable as a sensor to gauge euphoria and goodwill if one is near such a heavenly portal of a gateway vortex. The opposite is also plainly true if a hellish gateway is discovered with a despicable foreboding that creates vileness as hatred in your common midst. Only the idiotic, the brave, and the fallen usually dare to proceed to such condemned portals of what is often deemed to being a metaphysical underworld. By any other means those that seek miraculous healing attempt such a journey to find holier ground. Such as Fatima, Portugal for an angelic intercession of the Holy Mother Mary of the angelic choir of cherubs by God's grace. There are many other idyllic enlightened realms on this Earth akin to limbos of pure being where pilgrims of higher dedication soon find by destiny. As Heaven and Limbo on Earth are found by any number of spiritual moderate pathways of faith. Not at the extreme fringes of good and evil which anything that is limitless outside of moderation in the world soon finds zealotry as fanatical on the horizon. Which have led many of the good intentioned astray seeking unconditional good without balance or without moderation soon creates an uneasy quandary of chaos. Only moderation with a contrarian unconditional practice unites the paradox of the world as a complete detached circle of pure blessed life. This is the fabled eye of the needle in order to find the salvation of the holiest ones by faith in the Holy Spirit of God. No matter if the presence is heart to heart or mind to mind it all is governed by the spirit within as the doorway of faith in the divine. Amen.                                                                                          ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. Love of God:

505B) The Life essence of the divine is God him / her / itself in all its exalted glory. Many come to understand that the powerhouse of our very souls is the engine of Creation itself. The golden film of heaven embodied as everything imaginable and quite unknown as the mysterious in all its grandeur. The essence that first sparked countless Universes beyond our local one out amongst the stars. Has also sparked countless unimaginable realities that cup our understanding of this reality into place.

Many are the vessels of the divine nature of God to reach into our lives. Be they triumphs well into the chasm of tragedies that we are given a choice to climb out of the pit of despair. Our mind's, heart's, and spirits are but unique avenues for the Will of God to reunite himself with his equal facets of himself to abide in its remarkable glory. As we recall these sublime truths our lives feel the empowering grace holding our lives in place. Ever all so gently with the smile of God as the warmth of our very souls expanding all throughout the world. Amen.                                                                            ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Love:

506B) Be the expression of a truer love in the world and so the fulfillment of the refined graces of the Angels expands to impact those in deepest need. 

Oracle:

507B) I often find that both science fiction and history itself as two excellent forms of being a bonafide Oracle. Meaning predicting in a generalized to a specific manner what is to come upon us all. Not necessarily the whole context of what is being displayed but just slivers of it as slices of our reality of this our human condition. A catalyst to remembering what is and what could be again, since we are the ancient souls of God reborn from across eternity. Amen.                                                                                                   ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Souls: 

508B) As we are perceived many souls we are actually the singular Soul of God echoed continuously throughout paradise and everywhere else in between. A soul is merely a repository of the delightful presence of God in totality as a vehicle to experience the multiplicity of life in its audacious variety. No matter if it is experienced as real or fantasy it is all with the intended purpose to evolve beyond goodness, benign neutrality, and evil into what is a singular pristine Enlightenment of Divine Being.

The route is up to the spirit for each entity to explore by trial and error what is best for them individually and collectively as a species of amazing possibilities. Our Soul of God we all share equally is simply playing a role upon the performance of our reincarnations. Humanity adds the drama at its own discretion, however, the heavens adds the redemptive qualities in order to overcome the world. Amen.                                                                            ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. 

509B) We are each sharing equally the One Supreme Soul of God there is no such thing as separated isolated spiritual entities. 

Royalty: 

510B) We are all the Angelic children of God reborn some are affectionately referred to as Earth Angels and certainly, all innocent newborns are given such a remarkable honor in truth. God sees us as his darlings no matter if we are newborns to elderly centinels in the world we are the babes of paradise given a renewed lease on mortal life. As we are the macro representation of the One Soul of God(dess) makes us collectively as his infinite brood his marvelous Omni-Presence through all Creation(s) as One family metaphysically.

For God doesn't create subpar anything and so we are all collectively as spirits we are human, creature, or the Earth itself as the Kings and Queens of the afterlife. No matter if we venture from Heaven, Limbo, and the tortured ones from Hell. All living entities are the Omnipresence of God reborn to please the union of his Supreme authority and purpose of maturing through his / hers / its creations. We herald far and wide some native to this world in rebirths and others as visitors fulfilling the Grandiose Will of God's Mighty Benevolence Everlasting. As the Kings and Queens of Paradise, we are the spiritual minor baby gods and goddesses of ancient yesterdays, modernity, and countless tomorrows come full circle once more. Amen.                              ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. Angels:

511B) We the Infinite Children of God as heirs of totality only through God in faith we are the Angels reborn as godly beings in Image and Likeness. Amen. 

Ivan "Atrayo" Pozo-Illas, has devoted 21 years of his life to the pursuit of clairvoyant automatic writing channeling the Angelic host. Ivan is the author of the spiritual wisdom series of "Jewels of Truth" consisting of 3 volumes published to date. He also channels inspired conceptual designs that are multi-faceted for the next society to come that are solutions based as a form of dharmic service. Numerous examples of his work are available at "Atrayo's Oracle" blog site of 11 years plus online. Your welcome to visit his website "Jewelsoftruth.us" for further information or to contact Atrayo directly.