#man shall not live by bread along

[lightfromthelighthouse]

Good Afternoon!☀

And thou shalt remember all the way which the LORD thy God led thee these forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldest keep his commandments, or no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to hunger, and fed thee with manna, which thou knewest not, neither did thy fathers know; that he might make thee know that man doth not live by bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the LORD doth man live. Deuteronomy 8:2-3

God is not as interested in our comfort as he is in our character. Godly character is rarely if ever, brought about by ease and smooth sailing. Instead, more often than not, it is forged in the furnace of difficulties, hardships, and setbacks.

To say it another way: gold is not purified by immersing it in ice or even hot water. Gold is only purified by intense heat, hot enough to melt the gold and remove the impurities, but not enough to destroy the gold. God sometimes allows intense circumstances in our lives not of our own doing for us to see ourselves and purify us from the things hindering us. Like the melted gold he wants to soften our hearts enough so he can then shape it the way he wants it to be. With a purified heart comes a purified life, one that can reflect his love and light unhindered.

Hear what the psalmist had to say:

Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now have I kept thy word. [71]It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes. Psalms 119:67,71

Seek to learn whatever God is trying to teach you through your circumstances. Know that his grace is sufficient to bring you through as gold tried by fire! (2 Corinthians 12:9; 1 Peter 1:7)

[bonbonly]

𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

���𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: let her taste the fires of hell, or let her be mine and mine alone! - the young chaplain, charles leclerc, cannot control his desires when the very object of sin crosses his path: you. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: this is a dark fic! you have been warned! do not read if you are not comfortable with dark fics or any of the following: noncon/dubcon, slapping/flogging, forced breeding, p in v, fingering, cunnilingus, carving, overstimming/edging, bondage, kidnapping 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.7k 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: based on the hunchback of notre dame and hilda furacao! also guys... this fic DRAINED me, i got too carried away with it i am so sorry!

chaplain!charles waited impatiently at the front doors of the cathedral. his brow arched at the bell ringers who passed by him to attend to the younger chaplains. he bit the inside of his cheek, narrowing his eyes at father gasly who had just received a basket of bread and eggs, enough to share for two; however, father gasly had already promised father ocon the week before that when the bell ringer delivered the next basket of groceries, he would share 30% of the goods with him. that left 60%, and charles had made it very clear that would only have 50% of the basket, never 30%. he would never settle for less, no matter the circumstances. his head snapped back to face the street at the edge of the staircase down below, eyes searching for his specific bell ringer. the items he had listed were very simple: bread, cheese and a pint of milk. yet, the imbecile - as charles would put it - made it seem as if the young chaplain had asked for the finest meal in all of the country. he saw the boy run up the staircase, panting heavily,

"forgive me, father leclerc," the boy heaved, struggling to catch his breath. he thrusted the basket into the hands of the chaplain, "i believe i've bought everything that you asked for."

charles peered into the basket, frowning when he noticed only the bread and milk. the cheese was not present. he glared at the young boy, eyes shifting to the sky as he inhaled, sharply, "lord, grant me the strength to not strike this young lad for his incompetence," his eyes traveled down to the boy once more, "where is the cheese?"

"w-what? i swear the lady in the market gave it to me!" he cried out, burying his head inside the basket. charles pushed his head away as the boy continued to rant, "i swear she did! i even paid for it with the alms that were given to you, father leclerc! she put something inside along with the bread and milk, i am sure of it!" he watched charles shift through the basket once more, his nimble fingers pushing the slices of bread around when he noticed a thinly shaped parchment tucked between two slices. he pulled it out, flipping it around to see that it was folded into four pieces and he tossed the basket to the boy before opening the paper.

"god is a lie, tell your beloved peasants residing in the church that their foolish words shall no longer have appeal, so long as i live!"

charles crumpled the paper and tossed it down the stairs, a snarl on his lips as he glared at the boy, "who gave you this basket? who would dare write such heresy to be given to the devotees of god here?"

"i-i do not know! maybe the baskets were switched!" the boy reasoned, and charles yanked the basket from his hand and stormed into the cathedral, barking at the other men that blocked his path towards his cell. he was stopped quite shortly by father bozzi who beckoned him towards the main altar,

"father leclerc, you are causing quite the storm today," he commented, instantly raising a finger to silence charles' arguable words. he brought a hand over the younger man's shoulder, guiding him to stand right before the holy cross, hung gloriously above for all to see. the light from the glass windows shifted towards the cross, as if god himself was asking of charles to redirect his attention back to the being that expected better of him. he swallowed, thickly, taking in a deep breath as he closed his eyes, letting the still air of the cathedral silence his restless mind. "you must learn to control your emotions. it is bad to let your tongue slither around, you must hold it as you must your anger. you are to set an example to the other chaplains. in a month, you shall become a chapter priest. i have put good word for you to archdeacon vasseur, he cares for you tremendously, you are practically his son!"

the golden child of the cathedral, charles knew what his situation was. yet the pressure of it all, to be better than the others, to see to it that one day he would be the archdeacon. it was all too much for him to handle, to understand the expectations. his heart swelled at the praise, but the nagging sensation of what he had read from the parchment continued to persist and he let his eyes fall to the holy cross once more, "with such a divine presence in our lives, it irks me that there is someone amongst our town preaching heresy to the people."

"heresy? are you sure, father leclerc?" father bozzi furrowed his brows, leaning in closer to ensure the commonfolk around them would not be able to eavesdrop. charles jerked his head to guide them both to a corner before whispering into the man's ear,

"i am positive. one of the bell ringers came to me with my basket of bread and milk and inside was found a parchment that emphasized how god is a lie," charles noticed the way father bozzi's hands flung to his ears, deafening himself to such disgusting words. he shook his head, crossing himself before turning to father leclerc,

"heresy is condemned here. it is imperative to find the man that is behind all this and have him burned at the stake for such insolence. i shall have a word with the archdeacon very soon, father leclerc. as of now, the archdeacon wished for me to tell you that a local hospital is in need of some divine intervention. the archdeacon wants you to go see if you can save the poor souls before he passes away." father bozzi took a step backwards, bowing his head before departing to his cell.

as per archdeacon vasseur's command, charles took his small, worn-out copy of his bible which was a testament to how devoted he was to the catholic church and his rosary, his fingers toying with the beads as he departed down the large staircase out of the cathedral. his foot kicked up the crumpled paper from earlier, and he scowled as his foot stomped it further into the dusty ground before walking off as if nothing had transpired. the hospital was quite the distance, and as he continued to walk he decided to utter a few bible verses to relax his mind. father bozzi was right, he had to control his mind and thereby his tongue. he could not let his emotions flood him, nor could he illicit such hurtful remarks to those that upset him. he had to keep himself in check, and he prayed that the holy father would guide him through the dark, treacherous path of the mortal world. as he turned the corner, he noticed a small, run-down stall of necessities and in front, leaning against the edge was you with your head thrown back, eyes closed as you basked in the sunlight. charles gazed at you in confusion, unsure as to why you were not behind the stall when a large crowd of men pushed past him to gather around your enchanting frame.

"well, well, well... frederick, i expect the usual?" you cooed, running a hand through your hair before letting it glide down your neck to rest on your scantily covered bosom. the man, frederick, let out a hearty laugh, moving to stand besides you as he picked up a pint of milk, tossing you some coins before gulping the liquid down. he let some of it splash onto the top of your breasts, and you squealed at the sensation, swiping the droplets with your forefinger before gliding it into your mouth for a taste. the men around you sighed, dreamily, at your action and as your eyes traveled around the crowd, it fell onto charles who snarled at the sight of debauchery happening in front of him. this was why he hated stepping out of the cathedral, there was so much sin lurking around. he averted his eyes elsewhere, realizing that he had overstood his time in front of your stall and trudged forward, muttering at how lust destroys humans, how it easily corrupts the innocent. he gave you one more glance, and unknowingly, his eyes drifted down your neck to the fullness of your tits, watching the way they bounced as you jumped, clapping your hands at the sight of some man making a fool out of himself just for your entertainment. his gaze roamed down to the way your ass curved against your skirt, sticking out for any man to grab. his eyes snapped down to see his hand reach out into the open air and he took a step back in horror at his own action. you had to be a witch, tempting him into sin! he growled under his breath, storming off to his duty.

you were waiting for him at your stall when he returned, drumming your fingers against the makeshift wooden table as he passed by you with the same scowl on his lips.

"father leclerc!" you stood up, and then you clapped your hands to grab his attention. sensing that he would not stop, you rolled your eyes and hollered, "charles!" the smirk that was on your face was quickly replaced with fear as he charged towards you, slamming his bible down.

"comment osez-vous !" he shouted, watching you cower onto the wall behind your stall, "how dare you address me by my name, you insolent wench! a god fearing woman such as yourself should know better than to..." his words are silenced at the sight of the slightest sliver of parchment poking from underneath the fabric, the raised hand falling down to his side as his eyes flashed in anger. he bit his tongue, remembering the words of father bozzi, "what have you called me for, young woman?"

"i was wondering if you liked your basket of goods this morning," you forced a smile, darting your tongue out to wet your lips, and charles' anger grew once more, but so did a different feeling. those lips of yours, he craved it. he sighed out loud, wanting to open a verse of the bible to school you when his eyes stopped at your barely-covered breast, the parchment hiding in the corner mocking him. his hand delved onto your tits, roughly groping away as you gasped out loud at the sudden intrusion, feeling his fingers roll against your hardening nipples. he roughly yanked out the stash of parchment, tilting his head up to reform your beliefs when in a second, his head snapped to the side as a burning sensation bloomed onto his left cheek. his eyes peered to the sight of you rubbing your sore knuckles, having backhanded him across his face.

"even a man of your supposed god is not free from sin," you whispered, and just as he was about to smash your head with the milk pints, father gasly had walked over to his friend with a smile that continued to die down with each step that he took.

"what has happened here, ami?" he questioned, staring between charles and you. when receiving no answer, he frowned and draped an arm around his friend, turning him around to head back to the cathedral. you were biting your lip in frustration at the fact that your parchments were seized by charles, and even worse, the sight of his dark glare boring into your soul pressed you to find shelter soon for your own safety. charles was bound to inform the church, and while the idea of burning at the stake was gruesome, you believed that death was not one you should fear, but one you should accept.

however, charles did not inform the other fathers about his discovery. nor did he go to confess his sin of having wrongfully touched a woman. in his mind, if he told the other fathers about his discovery, they would ask how he obtained it. he could never lie in front of them, and if he told them the truth, they would be horrified. and then, if he confessed his sin, father sainz would be considered for chapter priest over him. he could not risk such a move. he had to be quiet, but the turmoil swirling inside him forced him to his knees, hands crossed as the rosary dangled from his fingers. he couldn't shake the image of your round tits, the warmth that he felt on his fingers. to be near a woman, to be even able to touch her. he ran his hands over his face, hoping that your intoxicating scent was still alive on his fingers. he glanced up to the holy cross he had perched on the wall, mouth running dry. he glanced over to the pint of milk he had received from you earlier, placed right next to stash of your written poster of heresy. lost in a daze, he scrambled over to unscrew the milk and he remembered the sight of the man pouring it over your breasts, how you licked a stripe of the liquid from your delicate finger. he was drowning in the thought of you, unable to withstand the temptation of sin. he was cursed with having always letting his emotions get the best of him, but this was not an emotion. it was an obsession. he took a sip of the milk, savoring its taste before pouring it down his head, his tongue - now let loose - lapping at the liquid as it trailed downwards, spilling onto the floor. his face covered in your milk, and he envisioned it as it truly being your milk which only made him yearn for you more. he grabbed the stash of parchments, unfolding and placing them onto his face as if they were napkins, the paper soaking up the milk droplets. the warmth of your skin was still imprinted onto the paper, he could smell you off of them. he groaned out loud, wishing his hands were not bound from the constraints of his duty as a servant of god, to be able to bury his face in those tits of yours to sing praises of you out loud. another needy moan escaped his lips, and he pulled the papers off him to see your heretic cries, your hurdled insults. each page a different set of twisted words targeting his church, his people, his beliefs. the bitch had tricked him, she had ruined his once pure mind. he crawled over to the wall frantically, glancing up to see the cross once more as he begged for forgiveness.

he begged, and begged, and continued to beg as tears fell from his eyes, his cheeks all rosy from the woeful tunes he sang. you had destroyed him, changed him. he was meant to be chapter priest in a month, and would soon lead an enviable life. no, no, no, how could you do this to him? you, of all people, a heretic! he sobbed once more, clutching the rosary to his chest as he asked the holy father to pardon him.

"forgive me! punish me but please forgive me!" he cried out, arms outstretched into the air as he kneeled in front of the wall. his chest heaved with each sob that bellowed from his gut. he believed his prayers to fall onto deaf ears, and for penance, he decided to starve himself. no eggs, no bread, no cheese and definitely no milk. he would switch to eating soup even worse to punish himself. perhaps if he did so, he would be forgiven, he would be seen as the ideal role model that he always was. the golden child, the one that was meant to carry the legacy of archdeacon vasseur, to restore glory to the catholic church. most importantly, he would be the one to make sure you pay for tempting to him to sin.

the well-awaited carnival took place in the center of town, a spectacle to behold. the dancers, the food, the jesters, the royal family making an appearance because they loved to take part in the lives of their people. the chaplains had returned to their cells after prayer, their ears stirring at the music that floated through the halls of the cathedral. charles was sipping his bowl of soup, its contents pitiful, when he received word from father gasly that he was to go outside and convince the people to attend mass tomorrow and in order to do so, they must put an end to the carnival. charles grimaced, despising the thought of having to step out of the cathedral once more. he loved to stay inside, loved to sit in his cell and recite the verses that he memorized with such love and adoration. the thought of having to step foot into a place of sin, the thought of you possible being there. it disgusted him.

yet, duties had to be done and he once again found himself with his bible and rosary in hand, watching the village folk run around, laughing with rum in their hands. he snarled, electing to sit beside the king who had beckoned him over with a welcoming hand. you'll enjoy the festivities, you'll feel welcome, the villagers always love to celebrate every good event, the king rambled and charles tuned him out, still holding to his belief that this place was an extension of hell. he was just about ready to excuse himself when he saw you sauntering up to the center of the stage, an outfit that made him part his lips with a dazed expression. your shirt hung loose off your shoulders, the corset tightening your waist which pushed your tits upward as you grabbed hold of your skirt and began to dance, seductively. some of the men from below the stage hopped on to join you, twirling you around while skipping to and fro. your eyes were fixated on charles, calling to him like the siren that you were. he averted his eyes, his grip tightening around his rosary as he saw you approaching the royal family. you curtsied, bowing your head and offered a rose to the princess who beamed in joy at such a simple act. their joy was short-lived when they saw you stalk over to charles, curtsying enough for him to glance at your cleavage, before standing up abruptly. a tease, a temptation, a witch. quite suddenly, you grabbed onto his rosary and wrapped it around his neck, pulling him close to your face as your lips brushed against his nose.

"your tricks won't work on me, satan," charles whispered, breathlessly. his words spoke one story, while his eyes told another. you smirked at his reaction, shaking your head,

"and yet you fall every single time, father, strange isn't it?"

when you pulled away, you let his rosary hit the ground as you went back to dancing. the king laughed out loud, commenting that this must be the chaplain's first interaction with a woman in his entire life but charles wasn't focused on that. he was focused on his cracked rosary, now shaped like a jagged knife. if he had it his way, he would bend you over in front of everyone and show the entire village how much of a whore you were. you would be screaming for mercy, begging him to let you go, and all he would do is laugh. heretics never deserved mercy. they didn't believe in the holy father that would grant them such mercy, so why should he? charles' jaw clenched at the thought, and he stood up and departed the carnival with lust clouding his thoughts.

it was late at night, the chaplains were back in their cells fast asleep before sunday mass. yet, charles was out searching through the streets for something... else. he couldn't hold his desires anymore, he couldn't control his thoughts. your power over him, it was revolting! and the only way to relieve his struggles, was to let it out on some prostitute that would throw herself at him. he remembered when he had been very young how father vettel - who was later kicked out of the cathedral - had been secretly seeing woman for his own pleasure. charles had seen a woman on her knees in the confession booth, her lips wrapped around father vettel's member as he groaned out loud, hips snapping to meet her lips. charles remembered witnessing the sinful exchange and being tempted to try it out on his own. it took weeks of penance to cleanse his mind after, but he feared that in his present day, it was impossible now. nothing could make him forget you. he stopped in front of a small hut, a dull candle shining through the broken window as he pushed the door open to see a prostitute fast asleep on her bed. he shut the door behind him, bringing the cloak down before towering over her sleeping form.

she deserved no kindness, her job itself was that of impurity. he set his cloak on her small table, beginning to undress. the shifting of clothes and jewelry caused her to stir in her sleep and when she opened her eyes groggily, a hand clasped around her mouth as the bed dipped at the additional weight of charles climbing in.

"not a word from you. i shall pay you a handsome sum if you do your job," he hissed, yanking her top down to expose her breasts. his hands came forward to softly knead the flesh, her gasps spurring him on as he began to squeeze, pinching her nipples harshly as she let out a cry in pain.

"father l-lec-"

"no!" he slapped her across her face, remembering when you had done the same to him. it boiled his blood that you would dare raise your hand at him, and he sucked his teeth, "you call me charles. i want to hear you say charles."

she whimpered, nodding her head as he lowered his face onto her tits, burying his face between them as he groaned out loud. they were so soft, so warm and beautiful and he ran his tongue over her hardened peaks, flicking them around before beginning to suck. she moaned, quietly, arching into him further as he wrapped his arms around her waist to bring her closer. whoever this whore was, she was going limp in his arms as he continued to maul at her tits, marking her. his lips trailed up to her neck, biting on her skin harshly as he pulled away to stare at her, "i'll need your help. i'm quite inexperienced in... such... acts of intimacy, but i need it to relieve my anger."

"i can gladly help you father..." she paused, noticing the way his eyes narrowed at her and she gulped, before responding "charles." she let her finger trail down the side of his face, but he caught hold of her hand and scoffed,

"don't... touch me, she wouldn't be able to anyway," he ignored the way the woman frowned at his words, not following along but as long as she paid him, she was happy to fulfill whatever he asked for.

it was hours later when charles exited the hut, glancing through the window to see the woman completely passed out on the bed, not an ounce of fabric covering her form. he smirked to himself, bringing the hood of his cloak closer to mask his identity. he was walking down the street when he saw you, standing there with a disgusted expression on your face.

"for a man of god, you commit every sin in the world and yet you are pardoned. how would the church feel knowing what you have done? with a prostitute?" you questioned, which only darkened his eyes as he walked over to where you stood.

"prostitutes are necessary evils, they help control a common man's lust," he replied.

"common man? or every man? you clearly couldn't control your lust. did you see her at mass? is there an affair taking place?" you snapped, circling around him and he laughed, a dark rich laugh as he took off his hood to stare directly into your eyes.

"you witch, you would know. if i had never seen you, my path would've stayed the same. but you... you!" he thrust his finger into your face, before wrapping his hand around your throat, "you disgusting whore, you've ruined me. you've destroyed everything i spent years working on! that prostitute was only meant to substitute you!"

he let his hand trail down to your arm, placing it behind you as he spun you around so that your back touched his chest. he inhaled the scent of your hair, murmuring praises as his lips danced down your neck. he stretched your shirt to expose your shoulder, the very one he saw in carnival earlier in the day and sunk his teeth, clamping your mouth shut to silence your screams. it was music to his ears. wriggling out of his grasps, you grabbed the rosary from his pockets and swung it at him. he groaned in pain, feeling a gash on his forehead as blood trickled down. when his eyes snapped upwards, he saw your form running away from him and he clutched onto the fallen rosary, seething in rage that you managed to escape him once again. mass would start in a couple hours, and he would pray to the holy father to let him have you, let him punish you for your wrongdoings and teach you how to behave.

charles was always gifted with music. it was one of his defining skills, and he was allowed to play the grand organ during mass. he finished his last drop of soup, shuddering at the foul taste that he created to punish himself and sank down on the cushioned stool, cracking his knuckles. he glanced down at his fingers, remembering the way they were knuckle-deep in the prostitute's cunt, the squelching of her juices as he kept thrusting them into her, his other hand rubbing her clit as she whimpered, telling him it was too much. he remembered slapping her, telling her to hold her tongue as he continued to work her to her climax. he curled his fingers inside her, watching her legs shake as they involuntarily spread further. he twisted his fingers inside her, her clit puffy from the way his thumb massaged it with fervor. her juices splattered onto him, and the wave of realization washed over him as his fingers delicately brushed against the keys. the buttons of music. he pushed them around, his eyes drifting to the ceiling of the cathedral as he played the first few chords he was accustomed to. the calling from god, the spirit that let his gospel be spread for the underprivileged that saw him as their savior. archdeacon vasseur was below near the main altar, welcoming in the devout christians that were attending mass. the organs above, the gold decorations shining in the light. they were curved, mesmerizing. they were you. he swore he saw you in the reflection of the organ, laughing and mocking him. berating, ridiculing, insulting, spitting at him. he felt an invisible force press down on the gash on his forehead, and he hissed as he stiffened, feeling the light above call out to him but the dark temptation pulling him back down.

unaware that the sermon had commenced below, charles smashed his fingers onto the organ, letting his emotions run wild as the chords become darker, more desperate. it was the call of a siren, the lustful whines of the devil that would not let him go. it wasn't his fault, it was never his fault! how could he resist you? the wench who had powers far greater than that of any man, it was hard! he was still young, still had much to learn and he screamed out loud as he felt his heart being torn to pieces, fingers still playing the ominous tune on the grand organ. it wasn't until father sainz and father gasly physically lifted and dragged charles away did his vision begin to clear, and he realized his mistake. no, he'd let archdeacon vasseur down. he made a fool of himself in front of everyone, he'd use his talent to procure something so evil! his despair was heightened when he was placed back in his cell to reflect and seek god to save his troubled soul as he sobbed in his bed, feeling like a disappointment. his tears cascaded down his cheeks, eyes searching for the holy father to lift him to heaven! he could not spend another second in this mortal world, as long as you lived. the parchment paper stash was on his desk, and he scowled at the sight of it, ripping it to shreds before exiting his cell and taking it to the fireplace just outside in the hallway. he tossed the pieces of paper inside, watching the way the small embers of the fire flickered and danced around, its orange tint glowing against the darkness surrounding it. The flame grew, spreading across the small piece of paper, the edges turning from a stark white to a dull charcoal. The visual haunted him, the flames reminding him of your hair, of your burning eyes, that desire that is eating him from inside. he needed you, he needed to have you in his arms. the smoke that emitted from the burnt papers swept over to him and he extended his arms, swiping at them to see if he could hold onto to it. when met with the air of his sins, he stared at the fire with tears in his eyes.

"elle sera à moi" he whispered underneath his breath, dousing the flames with the pot of water beside the fireplace.

the marketplace was rather quiet the very next morning. the men who would come in to have a chat with you found your stall empty, as if you had just left the entire town on short notice. the truth was, these men weren't lusting after you or trying to get a new deal. they were all part of your secret organization to preach athiesm. it was only a few of them anyway, and the trick with frederick a few days ago was part of your plan to gain the attention of a chaplain, any chaplain really, so that they could see god could not control every individual, their mind will wander and it's up to them to help each other to be better, not an invisible force. none of them would have predicted that the chaplain they strung the net for happened to be the worst one in the church. your presence missing sent fear in them, wondering if they would be hunted after by the catholic church for participating in these illegal activities. your friends assumed you to be dead, so did your poor, old parents and any of the bell ringers who brought their groceries from you.

"you should be grateful, mon diablesse," charles' words echoed through the empty corridor, his footsteps approaching your frame, "i could've easily turned you in, had you burned at the stake, stoned to death, flogged beyond recognition."

"death would be liberating," you spat at his face, the glob of saliva hitting the cut on his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, snarling at you, "you think you're so smart, so witty..." he paused, crouching down to face you directly, "so beautiful..." his knuckles brushed against your cheek tenderly, watching the way you recoiled under his touch, pulling your head far back as you could under the confines of rope that bound you to the corner. he had set fire to your house the night before, and when you fled out you had fallen right into his arms. your anguished screams infiltrated the cold, dead night and he grabbed a cane laying on the road to pummel against the back of your head. your body slipped into unconsciousness, and he carried you in his arms through the back of his cathedral. each step that he took up the staircase, his eyes watched your limp form, your tits brushing against his cloak, your hands hanging with your head thrown back, eyes closed as if you were in bliss. at the top of the staircase, he could see the holy cross from the opposite end of the cathedral, the light dimming, almost leaving him. he frowned, turning back to face you in his arms, "the devil is here, she shall be here until the holy father guides her to a righteous path, and then she shall be mine..."

his lips peppered kisses along your face, hovering over your lips before he let them envelop around yours. the softness of your lips, the way they warmed them. he could not resist the temptation any longer, he needed find a way to merge into you, to live inside you and have all this to himself. no one would ever touch you, speak to you or even look at you. you were his, all his.

your bounds were humiliating, having wrapped around your arms and legs and specifically around your tits to plump them up. they hurt at times, especially when charles would tug on the confines before slapping your tits, watching the way they were swollen and slightly purple from the lack of circulation. your arms were bound above your head, legs anchored to some weights that charles had found in father sainz's cell the other day. you would not escape him, you would not escape your destiny to understand the glory of god. this was your punishment for heresy, charles would see to it that he taught you everything, that you would understand why he was doing this. because he cared for you! he hadn't done anything to hurt you, yet. he was just fascinated, treating you like a child as he would spend hours every day reading the bible to you and explaining god's love for all beings, and strangely enough day by day, it almost felt as if the god he was referring to was him. your eyes should be on him, hands in prayer for him. not god, no charles should be your god. his desire for you was so strong, he selfishly assumed that even god shouldn't be able to cherish his finest creation: you. yes, you were broken and needed guidance, but perhaps thats why god created you! he wanted to spend extra time with you, and charles hated the thought of you with anyone other than him.

he had a flog in his hands, and every time your eyes would droop or you'd turn your head away, he'd instantly flog your tits harshly and grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him. not a fleck of dust deserved your attention. you'd whimper, feeling pain course through your blood as you tried not to cry. you knew you were stronger than this, that you could hold it out and find a way to escape. even if you wanted to grab the attention of the bell ringers, they'd know you as the girl who died. if you came back, they'd accuse you of being a witch and your death would be imminent. charles planned this all out, and you could tell with the way he looked at you that he never wanted you to ever leave him. on days when you would listen obediently, even asking questions for further explanations, he would reward you by loosening the bounds just a bit to let you breath better and he suck on your tits, rolling your nipples around as he watched you whine against his lips, growing needier as the days passed. you were becoming more reliant on him, the fraction of pleasure you would feel consuming your thoughts. you would recite verses and summarize what you learned just for him to reward you, to let you relax your sore limbs and the praise he gave you would go straight to your core.

"mon ange, you are doing so good," he cooed, kissing your cheek as his thumb ran along your bottom lip.

"chérie, look at you, all beautiful and basking in the light as the lord's prettiest creation," he stuck his finger into your mouth, watching you obediently begin sucking just like he had taught you the other day, eyes all wide and eager to worship him. he had you right where he wanted, devout to him so he could bless you with whatever you wanted. but, he should've known that your stubbornness was far greater than his love for god. in fact, it helped you clear your mind one day when you realized that you were acting like a cheap whore for him. you were better than this, stronger than this! you needed to escape, your mind was being twisted by him. after a very frustrating day where he was lectured by archdeacon vasseur about controlling his anger, he stormed to the hidden room to find you to help control his emotions. only to find you out of the confines with a stone rock that you had sharpened secretly, trying to climb through the window.

"espèce de fille insolente!" charles roared, yanking you by your hair as he tossed you to the stone floor. you groaned loudly in pain, your body still sore from having spent days bound like a present for him. he flipped you to your back, a hand on your throat as he brought you up, "how foolish i am to have thought that you were learning, that you were behaving well for me!"

"sometimes the lust clouds one's mind and some can escape, others such as yourself rot in it and becomes the very monster they sought to kill!" you hissed, and he tightened his grasp, watching you squirm, gasping for air. he lets go of you, letting your head hit the floor as he stands up and begins to undress.

"i was trying to be nice, so nice to you. i thought the devil had left you, it seems she is back and more dangerous than ever!" he tossed his belongings behind him and grabbed hold of the rope, pulling your hands to him as he began to wrap it around. he ignored your pleas, your whines at how your wrists were sore, how you would rather die than have to deal with this again and he slapped you across the face, silencing you instantly, "i should've done this the day i met you."

he fished through his discarded cloak for the broken rosary, letting it sway in front of your eyes. you gulped when you saw the jagged, sharp end. He let the broken rosary trail down from your lips to right between your breasts, and he licked his lips. slowly, he began to etch a cross into your soft, tender flesh. each line was precise, each stroke deliberate. he ignored the way tears fell from your eyes, trying your best not to scream in pain as his eyes watched the blood seep from your skin. as he carved, he leaned down and began to lap at the small beads of blood that welled up in the wake of the knife. his eyes never left yours, boring into your soul with deranged intensity. his tongue drifted down to your cunt, and he spit onto it, letting his tongue flatten on your clit before he began to move. thank god for that prostitute one night, she taught him so much. he bit down on your folds, flicking your clit around. his tongue delved into your inner walls, watching you arch your back as you cried louder, trying to push him off you but he quickly grabbed hold of your wrists, preventing you from leaving as he drank your delicious juice. he tilted his head upwards, your arousal glistening against his chin,

"if you want my forgiveness, recite to me one... at least one thing i taught you." he whispered, and you bucked your hips upwards,

"never. you are the very spawn of satan!" you hissed, which earned you a harsh slap on your clit, causing you to whine out loud. he bit the inside of his cheek, furiously rubbing your sensitive nub, your song of lust echoing through the cathedral as you cummed for the first time of the day. his thumb did not stop, instead he kept going faster while adding two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling them inside as you squealed at the oversensitivity.

"say one... say one verse," he spat, "one verse, putain."

"n-no!" you moaned, still feeling the burn of your skin from where he carved the cross on you. you would not give in, you would not let him take control of you again like he did last time. you knew better than this, you were one of the smartest women in the town before this monster took you. his fingers were relentless, scissoring into your cunt as you screamed, lost in the fog of your mind as you kept cumming and cumming around his fingers.

"say that im your god, say that you will only ever worship me, i am your savior, your idol, say it!" charles pulled his fingers away right when you were on the brink of another orgasm, and you let out a guttural scream, sobbing as your hips began to grind the air, searching for your lost release. you couldn't anymore, you couldn't hold back.

"y-you're my god... my savior... my idol," you whispered between whimpers, and a satisfied chuckle escaped his lips. he nodded his head before folding you into a mating press. your sore body was complying with his requests, your mind pounding as he hoisted your legs up to rest against his shoulders. his eyes hungrily soaked up the sight of the bleeding cross on the valley of your tits, and he rolled your nipples around, knowing how sensitive you were. this was the day he was waiting for, this was the day where he could finally claim you as his. he gave the shaft his throbbing cock a couple pumps, before sliding into you with a small moan escaping his lips.

"putain, tu te sens si bien," he whispered, rocking his hips against yours as you mewled out loud. he laughed at the sight of you, disheveled and worn out. even the devil could not be perfect at all times. he felt powerful, having tamed the devil and being the one whose cock was splitting you open. his thrusts became faster, your sobs becoming louder as he took what he believed to be rightfully his. he groped your tits, remembering his fascination with them when he first met you and leaned closed to latch his lips onto them again. the lewd sounds made you snap your head to the side, surprisingly feeling yourself growing wetter at the squelching of his cock inside your dripping pussy. "mon ange, the only way you will ever learn, the only way you will be mine forever is if you embrace what the holy father planned for your kind. bearing children and fearing him."

your glossy eyes flickered to him, a hint of fear at his words and he began to thrust harshly into you, your tits swaying as he began to pick up his pace once more, "a child will put you in your place. you will learn then. your tits will be swollen with milk, oh the thought of it...."

he leaned forward to bite down on your nipples, before sucking them and releasing them with a pop! "your belly will carry my child, and they will follow the virtuous path offered to them, not the words of a heretic who spreads her legs for a lustful man, no this is the union between two devotees in love with the creation of god." he pulled away to kiss your feet, running his tongue over your ankle as you moaned out loud, begging him to go deeper. you could feel your orgasm approaching, your mind telling you that this was wrong but you couldn't resist anymore. he let one of your wrap around his waist, letting his cock dig into your further. his finger brushed against the carved cross, applying pressure at some corners and the pain mingled with the pleasure, finally pushing you past the edge. your screams flooded the empty corridor as you squirted your release all over his relentless cock. he continued to thrust into you, letting your ride your waves of pleasure and with a soft whimper, his cock shot ropes of his cum in your walls. he continued to fuck you, hands on your hips as he wanted nothing to go to waste. when he pulled out, he stuffed his fingers into you, ignoring your wail at how sensitive you were. he was panting, making sure nothing leaked out of you. you would bear his child, you would denounce your heretic practices, you would stay with him forever and love god. you will worship him, and him alone.

the corridor is locked when he leaves, your body placed near a small fire-place as you slept. he draped you in his cloak for warmth, kissing your cheek lovingly before whispering how beautiful you would be as the mother to his children. when he returned downstairs, he was stopped by father bozzi and archdeacon vasseur who smiled at him, proudly.

"father leclerc, your virtuous path has inspired so many, we are seeing new people attend mass! it could not have been done with you," father bozzi grinned. both pair of eyes gazed at the archdeacon who clasped his hand on charles' shoulder,

"father leclerc, tomorrow is your ceremony to become chapter priest. and you will also receive the monsignor title!" archdeacon vassuer announced, and charles smiled, thanking for the honor.

charles stood in front of the altar, staring at the holy cross. he clasped his hands in prayer, smiling as he closed his eyes. he was being rewarded by the holy father for his good penance. he would stop eating soup, and eat good food again. he was being rewarded for his successful missionaries, for having converted previous non-believers into believers.

and most importantly, for having tamed the tempting devil.

[ddarker-dreams]

Chrollo tells you a story from his childhood centered around bread.

(Warnings for religious mentions and canon typical depictions of his hometown, Meteor City)

“Hm… how uncanny is that.” 

Knowing that he’ll continue speaking cryptic phrases until you express an interest you most certainly don’t have, you sigh, and rest your cheek on your fist. 

“What’s uncanny?” 

Please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread— 

“This bread loaf,” he inclines his head toward it, as if you couldn’t spot the table’s lone occupant, “It’s bringing up some memories.” 

He’s really going to talk to you about bread. Fuck.

“Meteor City, destitute as it is, was an attractive prospect for missionaries. My friends cared little for the religious doctrine they’d expound, but I always found the teachings fascinating. It wasn’t uncommon to go days without eating, so they’d come along with me on the sole condition that food was being provided. The priest, knowing this, had me relay the message that at his next teaching, there’d be fresh bread. Children overflowed from the tent that normally only I would occupy. He preached his sermon.” 

There’s a nostalgic air to him as he continues. “By the end, he presented us with a challenge: whoever capable of best verbally expressing their devotion to God could have the bread. Each child present wanted to be the victor. There was a great deal of murmuring and thinking. He had us form a line, where one by one, we’d give what we hoped to be the winning response. My friend Phinks was first. ‘If I’d been there, I’da stomped the shit out of that snake,’ is what he went with. As you can imagine, the priest kept going down the line. 

Eventually, he got to me. I’d been closely monitoring his body language and facial expressions. From what I could tell, no answer so far had even come close. I decided to take a different approach. From his theology, I could tell he was of the Roman Catholic persuasion. And so I suggested that to best prove our love, we should have mass. I thought that by focusing on the collective rather than oneself, I’d meet his unspoken criteria. He intended to keep the results to himself until everyone had spoken their piece, but no sooner as the words left my mouth did I know that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

After everyone had their turn, he brought the bread out for all to see. While we were all excitedly wondering who the lucky individual would be, he raised his voice and began admonishing us. He quoted Matthew, ‘It is written: Man must not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God’. With that, he left us there, so that we could ‘think about what we’ve learned’.” 

Your jaw practically hits the floor. 

“I intended to counter his points later that night to see if I could win the community the bread they were promised. While I was preparing, a few children happened by, eating the bread that was pulled from under our noses. I asked where they got it from — they said Uvogin. Apparently, he learned what had happened and was incensed. I went to go see him so I could ask how he convinced the priest to give him the bread. I didn’t find Uvo at the place he normally hung out at, but I did see the priest.

He was… shall we say, arranged in a way that’s strenuous on the body. All the while he kept chanting, ‘Pater, aphes autois, ou gar oidasin ti poiousin’, though he lay dying. It left a strong impression on me. Especially because his pronunciation was slightly off… but more than that, I thought it interesting he held firm to the belief which landed him in this position. A belief he didn’t even understand properly. He passed with a content expression. He must’ve fancied himself a martyr. It later became a popular joke that in the end, he did prove that you can’t live on bread alone, since it didn’t seem to do him much good.” 

“How… how old were you?” 

“Seven or eight, I believe.” 

You get up from the table. You can feel his eyes following your every movement, from the suite’s dining room to the living space it's connected to. The suitcase you’ve yet to unpack sits patiently as you rummage through its contents. Grabbing what you need, you return to the table, where Chrollo regards you with a curious countenance. 

Your antidepressants rattle inside a small orange container as you put it before him. How he gets the medication, you haven’t the slightest clue. It’s more convenient to receive them from your enigmatic kidnapper than an uninsured trip to the psychiatrist. He’s got one thing going in his favor, at least. 

“Do you already need a refill?” 

You shake your head. 

“Just… after hearing that story… I think you might want to consider getting some of these for yourself. High dose.” 

[lulublack90]

Prompt 27 - Hunter

@jegulus-microfic October 27, Word count 727

Did it turn into a series? Yes, it did. Honestly, I can't help myself.

Previous part First part

Regulus followed James inside. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. He’d seen James walk into the bistro and freaked out. He’d wanted to get there first, find a good seat, and check the menu and drinks list out, but then James turned up early, and his entire plan was in shatters. He’d turned down the alleyway and let his panic take him. 

But somehow, James had found him and made everything all right. 

“Tea, coffee?” James’s voice snapped Regulus out of his thoughts. 

“Erm— Tea is fine. Thank you,” He blurted quickly, embarrassed that he’d zoned out. James didn’t bat an eyelid and busied himself with the kettle. 

“Make yourself at home, everyone does,” James added, waving Regulus towards the living room. Regulus didn’t move. Maybe if he came back, he’d feel more comfortable, but right now, he wanted to stay close to James. 

He began to wring his hands together as he realised he’d walked willingly into a stranger's flat. He’d only med James once, for crying out loud. And even that had been fleeting when all he’d done was order James about as he drew him. “Do you think you could get some plates down for me?” James’s calm voice brought him back again. He flushed with embarrassment, but James just pointed at the cupboard directly behind him. “Please,” James’s smile made Regulus feel calmer. He tried to return a smile, but it fell short. He spun around and opened the cupboard.

“Big or small plates?” He asked nervously. 

“Two small ones, please,” James said as he opened the fridge and began filling his arms with food. “Follow me,” James said, before walking back into the living room. Regulus followed. James carefully laid out the food on the coffee table and directed Regulus on where to put the plates. “Sit down.” He told him. “I’ll go grab the teas,” And before Regulus could open his mouth, James was gone. “Sit,” James urged, as he came back through, and Regulus did as he was told.

James began piling food onto both of their plates: pork pies, tandoori chicken, mini scotch eggs, thick slices of crusty bread coated in butter that Regulus hadn’t even seen him get and of course, slices of cheese to make sandwiches with. James handed over the plate, and Regulus began to eat. “Sorry, I should have let you get your own,” James apologised around a bite of pork pie. 

“No, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” Regulus glanced up at him before returning his attention to his plate. Honestly, he was glad James had done it. He would have worried over how much he was putting on his plate otherwise, and this way, he could just enjoy himself. 

“Let’s put some noise on, shall we?” James said before picking up his TV remote and turning it on. He put on some mundane show about a ghost hunter who, with a team of other hunters, went to old properties and tried to find out if they were haunted or not. It was not something Regulus would have picked to watch, but after about ten minutes, he was laughing along with James when the presenters were all freaking out over nothing. 

They finished up their lunch and drank their tea and Regulus found himself quite relaxed. James gathered the leftovers and plates, taking them back to the kitchen. When he returned, he had a whole packet of chocolate hobnobs that he opened and offered to Regulus. Regulus took a deep breath and took one. “More tea?” James asked. Regulus nodded. 

He nibbled on his biscuit while James made more tea. “So, do I get to see the finished drawing then?” James called through from the kitchen. 

“Erm, yeah,” Regulus picked his bag up from where he left it and took his sketchbook out. He’d just sat back up when the front door opened and a loud voice called into the space.

“Honey, I’m home!” Regulus looked up at the man in the doorway and felt his blood run cold. His brother Sirius Black stared back at him as a beaming James walked back through with two steaming cups of tea. 

“Hey, Pads, this is…” James started to introduce Regulus to Sirius, but Sirius cut him off. 

“Oh, I know exactly who he is. Hello Reggie,” Regulus swallowed, this was not going to go well.  

Next part

[viloxity]

ooooo you do yandere guilty gear stuff? Could you please make some headcanons for Ky? Thank you in advance!

Divine Love — Yan!Ky Kiske HC x Reader

A/N: finally had time to finish this—thanks for the request! been looking for an excuse to do yandere strive hehe. since there’s no general prompt I decided to wing my own idea—there was a lot on my mind so it stems away from HC into a mini-fic…oops? Anyway, hope you like it! feedback always appreciated. maybe sol or asuka next?

WC: 3.2k

- A prodigal swordsman in his youth, Ky Kiske was a polished gem that rose amongst the ranks in the Sacred Order of Holy Knights. His commitment to fighting alongside humanity to end the Crusades awarded him honor and nobility—he was a man who was recognized as a hero, a powerhouse that rivaled the Guilty Gear himself.

- Yet, no matter how much recognition he was given, that would never take away the burning images of horrifying expressions, unmoving bodies, and blood-soaked hands.

- The end of the Crusades was welcomed with open arms by humanity, and Ky Kiske could not help but consider society’s naivety. Their ‘peace’ was forged from mountains of corpses littering destroyed land, with some unable to be recovered. It was not only war that forged him, but war that shaped humanity, too.

- The joy, the celebrations that placed people like Ky at the frontier made him sick. As his name rung throughout the land of Illyria—thousands chanting his name to the heavens—Ky merely stared emptily.

- Then, the day he was crowned king, standing amongst his peers, he felt the knot around his heart trembling violently, as if the strings were snapping one by one.

- You are crowning a killer. You are crowning a killer that reaped more lives than could be remembered.

- The people Ky Kiske fought so hard to protect, the ones who he wanted to save so that they would never face a sorry fate that matched his mother’s, then threatened the life of him and his son.

- Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. Perhaps Ariels was right.

- It was on a whim that Ky, wrapped in ragged clothes and cloak, visited a small town in Illyria.

- His kingly life that adorned him with beautiful white coats and an egregious amount of riches came at a price of remembering civilization’s transgressions as well as his own. One day, those same nice white suits would be dyed red as he slayed more beings over and over and over and over—

- If the next war brewing came to fruition, would he remain the same?

- Where did he stand?

“Your suffering is not in vain—we hear you.”

Your words were soft-spoken as you handed a familiar woman a piece of bread and a bottle of water. She bowed as she took the food, tears welling her eyes.

“Bless you, bless you,” She repeated, hands clasped around yours.

“May all that is holy be with you in these trying times.”

The battles with Ariels was a reminder about war and its consequences. The fragments scattered just along the borders of Illyria suffered the most—which is where you exactly resided.

The capital is too engrossed in its affairs that happens within its imaginary wall that they never noticed how you and your people have suffered. To get help from them could take months, or years—that is why the Church acts in their stead instead.

And in their stead they shall, for they have already taken initiative in providing donations to the public in need.

Picking up another piece of bread, your eyes stray away from the others to a hooded figure standing a few feet away. As if they sensed you, cold, blue eyes match your gaze and you cannot help but shake slightly. They had been watching for awhile from a distance, yet they never moved towards the Church at all. It is with honest conviction that you stride forward with hands fully spread out to help those in need.

The blue eyes shake slightly, as if almost baffled by the action. They do not shift their gaze, and do not make a move for the bread.

You smile gently. “If you are in need of something, perhaps start with this?”

The person’s lips twitch and you can make out their nose scrunched from a little beyond the darkness veiling them. There was one beat, then two, before a voice finally graced your ears.

“I would like to ask a question.” The voice spoke, sounding gravely tired but of a sophisticated timbre that flowed through your ears like water.

You nodded encouragingly, hoping you successfully masked your surprise at the stranger’s sudden inquiry and manner of speech. Were you imagining the man’s formalities?

That didn’t matter, regardless.

“What value is there to life and certainty?”

You blinked, pondering for a few moments. A heavy question, indeed, but one that you were familiar with. After all, it had been contemplated so often that the answer came almost as second-nature to you.

“Life is an embodiment of various beings and things, encompassing the Divine One’s innovation and creativity. Life is infinite and therefore its value is inherently infinite as well.”

His eyes were fully entrenched onto yours, the beautiful blues reminding you of the vivid sky above the two of you.

“As for certainty… that is a question that will always be asked by us humans. Can I or can I not, or should I or should I not? Certainty can only be answered by beings whose beliefs are as rooted as the oldest trees that remain on earth.” You said, fingers gently curling and uncurling around the bread.

The man stared some more. You wished you could see his expression, to truly know the thoughts that plagued his mind and to reassure him of his doubts. He seemed troubled, so troubled, that your heart was aching.

“Beliefs… how does one root them?”

‘I’m lost and cannot find my way.’ Words, after all, never had one intended meaning.

“I cannot say whether there is an objective right way or not,” You said, eyes crinkling apologetically.

“But, do know this: salvation is paved by hope.”

“Hope?” The man repeated, wind swaying the hood of his cloak slightly to reveal beautiful blond hair.

You smiled knowingly, having once echoed that very same word. “Nothing can be done without hope.”

- it was after this encounter, perhaps, that sealed your fate.

- The hooded man quickly became acquainted with the Church where you resided, your eyes sweeping the room where it always eventually met the familiar torn material. For every prayer, recitation, and baptism he was in attendance and was seemingly engrossed in each activity.

- When you were in attendance, he would be present—whether you noticed or not.

That crawling feeling was back again. The one that made your spine tingle and welcomed a burst of cold wind that completely tempered your body’s homeostasis. It was after the Church’s weekly activity that you traced your uneasiness back to piercing bright ocean blues.

Your discomfort lingered as you made eye contact, yet you shrugged it off to be the nervousness from numerous gazes that buzzed around you. It ended up being a motivator to excuse yourself from the circle you were in to make strides towards the man that sat on one of the bench’s near the corner.

“Greetings,” You bowed, a small smile elevating your face at the man’s head perking up.

“Ah,” The man’s cloak shook, and your eyes noticed the gloved hands curling around the Rosary Beads.

“I am happy to see you becoming well-acquainted with us.” You nodded towards the Beads. “Has the difficulty of your journey towards belief alleviated at all?”

The man—regaining composure, you assumed, as he rubbed his thumb across one of the beads—hummed.

“It is clearer, but akin to observing a picture with an unfocused lens.” His voice was more lively than the last time—purposeful.

“If possible, I would like to learn more about faith.”

‘He is eager,’ you thought happily.

“Faith is one belief that concerns itself with following that of divine authority, such as the Divine One.” Your hand gestured towards the statue placed in the middle of the Church.

“It is a pledge to that which is holy to abide by One’s teachings. In having faith, one establishes trust with that which is greater.”

“Faith, then, is loyalty?” The man surmised.

“Correct. Loyalty is how we connect with divinity.”

The end of your teaching was followed by a few pastors requesting your presence. You quickly waved goodbye to the lonesome man, ignoring the sudden tenseness that swelled past your shoulders.

“Loyalty in following…” The man murmured, uncaringly burning his gaze into your backside.

Yes, the way your hair gently swayed as the wind blew and your sparkling smiles that enchanted his dark soul instilled a powerful sense that made his entire body tremble.

His legs shook and he willed himself not to bend his knees there and then as he greedily watched your rescinding silhouette.

- You received an invitation to visit the capital of Illyria on behalf of the Church at the request of an unspecified royal.

- The capital was big, beautiful, and bold—its inhabitants were nothing less than that.

- You, accompanied by a fellow male pastor, watched in awe from the carriage as you passed by various structures and villas.

- There would be initial greetings, then a grand party hosted by the Kings to celebrate another year of peace to the kingdom.

- Exiting the carriage and entering the palace was a different experience entirely—one that you could not fully describe

- As you continued to be enlightened, you eventually stumbled upon a blond man with bright blue eyes

Ah, wait, didn’t he look—

Catching your fellow company bowing from the corner of your eye, you quickly snapped your head down.

“My humble greetings to one of the Suns of Illyria,” Your companion—Peter—said, recovering swiftly.

There was a long, dreadful pause—an excruciating tremor passing through you at what you thought was the heat of the room. Your partner tapped your foot at the king’s silence.

“My humble greetings—and apologies—to one of the Suns of Illyria.” You were silently praying the noble in front of you did not pay attention to your lapse in formality.

“It is so wonderful to see you.” The king’s response came so quickly at the end of your words you couldn’t help but peek from underneath your eyelashes.

To say that Ky Kiske was simply a ‘Sun of Illyria’ was an understatement. The illumination of the room you were standing in was not of the photons transcending beyond the glass panels but of King Kiske’s exuberant smile. His golden hair reminded you of the daisies and sunflowers that lined the gates of Illyria and his blue eyes reflected the sky itself. The king’s posture, so upright and composed, rivaled that of the still lakes which oversee a multitude of beings underneath its tranquil waters.

Still, his smile did little to cease the burning stare into your body. And did little to quell your agitation.

King Kiske tilted his head. “What have you been up to since arriving?”

“Just—touring,” You meekly replied. A flash of pain pouring out of your head made you avert your gaze away from eyes seemingly tracking your every movement.

The king’s actions made you feel nervous, yet nervous over what? You silently prayed for strength, something that used to come easily to you under the roof your home’s Church.

“The agriculture and architect of Illyria is astounding.” Peter added, posturing in front of you to block his gaze.

The downturn of the king’s smile into a still-expression was immediate. It was almost as if he was just now registering the extra body beside you.

“I don’t recall asking for your input.” King Kiske’s voice was teetering beyond his collected tone, just enough for you to catch Peter flinch in front of you.

The king ran a quick hand through his hair, an expression you couldn’t quite catch now masked under an eerie coolness. Warning chimes rung through your mind as you gripped Peter’s hand tightly.

“Forgive us for the indecency but we must get going.” You said, already stringing along your companion. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Let us cross paths again soon.” You did not bother to look back, fearing you might get even more sickly over that saccharine smile.

Once out of sight, you let out a shaky breath you did not even know you were holding.

- You both traveled around for a while before the party, killing time and distracting yourselves from admitting that conversation ever happened in the first place.

- There was a sinking feeling, one that started from the surface but was melting all the way down to your gut.

- It was a feeling you strongly despised, one that you did not experience even as individuals reprimanded you for not giving enough food or losing your loved ones to Gears.

- When it came time for the party, it was nearly ten times more grand than you could have expected it to be

- The vitality encompassing the gala simmered your experience earlier but did not quite eliminate it.

- At Peter’s request, you both separated—wandering the room so that you may see everything.

- You were distracted, to the point where you did not notice the blond male slowly trailing behind you, even with the crowd he carried with him.

- When it came time to reunite with Peter, you spent quite the amount of time looking for him

- He, too, was looking around, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

- With the crowds seeming ever larger and your breaths drawing shorter, you stepped out into the palace’s garden.

The flowers, illuminated under the translucent moon’s gaze, looked even more invigorated than they were under the sun.

…The sun. The mere thought of it made you feel perturbed. It was like an itch you couldn’t scratch, a lingering feeling that drifted far out of your reach. An irremediable state of mind.

On nights where you felt the most… unlike yourself, you snuck back into the church. A small sin, perhaps, but praying under the statue was all you could do to relieve your conscious. Others felt the same, too, as you united from time to time with fellow pastors—a shared faith between you all.

Under the crescent moon in Illyria’s palace garden, there was no statue to turn to. But, when you find Peter then you cou—

A sharp shriek filled the air, startling you off a fountain’s marble perch you were previously sitting on. As the screams echoed, their tone was tinged with a familiarity that you used to find complacency in.

Within seconds you were running, towards thick bushes in the center of the garden that resembled border walls. Navigating through various greenery kept your mind occupied as you continuously prayed the shrieking was of your imagination.

The next shrill cry sounded fainter, and this time you knew it was real.

Reaching the center, your heart sunk at familiar white robes tinged with a dark, crimson substance. The man on the floor was trying desperately to breathe, clutching his neck as more crimson drew out. Your gasp of air as you sucked in a heavy breath felt like an insult as his eyes met yours.

“Peter!” You cried out, hand reaching for him.

Desperately, his hand reached for yours, shaking wildly as his fingers sprawled out. Although fear and panic painted his features, a small sliver of relief reflected in his irises.

A small shuffle of movement from beyond the shadows made you realize you two were not fully alone, the cries welling in your throat propagating a moment too late as a sword plunged straight through Peter’s chest.

The Thunderseal, one of the eight Sacred Treasures that burned away Gears in droves on the battlefield, had splatters of blood between its white and blues. The faint sparks that emitted around the blade as it slowly pulled out of the sunken man’s chest was subservient in the elimination of its foes. In truth, the one wielding the Thunderseal is the epitome of the ‘storm’ itself—the on bringer of destruction and endless ferocity.

Encased in cloudy blue orbs was an eerie coolness; a stillness that acted as a facade for the raging tide that plagued his mind. No longer was a ‘human’ in front of you, but perhaps the true form of the man who performed the role of a king.

“With this blade I have torn lives apart; too many, in fact, that each name and face are fleeting memories unveiled only when I dream,” Ky Kiske said, gloved hand raising the Thunderseal.

Its brilliance danced under the light yet looked dimmer around the parts covered by crimson. You wanted to look away, to pretend its history was not there, but that would never take away the tragedy it brought.

“I had a purpose for fighting but it withered to the point it was unrecognizable.”

For a moment, Ky stared at his hand, gaze longing for something he could not quite grasp.

You took a step back. There was something very, very wrong with your interaction back then and you wished you left. Not only for your sake, but for Peter. The regret and fear pooling your stomach made you want to vomit but perhaps there was a chance you could still escape this. With enough faith—

Ky smiled. “I like the look in your eyes.”

“Yes, it was you who gave me meaning.” He continued, legs slightly bending.

“It wasn’t Kliff, who gave me the Thunderseal, or Sol, who I’ve fight alongside all these years… but you.

“You gave me hope.”

Your eyes widened. “No—you?”

It made a lot more sense now, the small familiarities that were piling up. The similarities the two shared… it was all connected to the same person. But, back then, he was timid; someone who exuded strength but no reason to wield it. He changed so quickly that he…?

“This is absurd! After everything I’ve taught you, this was your answer?” You cried, finger pointing at him.

“Committing murder—that’s the biggest sin of all!”

“He got too close to you,” Ky snarled, “He turned from a nuisance to a parasite so I got rid of him. The mere idea of him being so close to you…”

He drew a shaky breath, running a hand through his slightly ragged hair. Ky resumed his kneeling position a few feet in front of you, and despite being farther, you felt like he would chase you with as much ease as walking.

“The day I met you, I pledged myself to you. You are the presence I have been looking for all this time, the taste of holiness that will cleanse me of not evil, but emptiness.”

“My Goddess,” He whispered.

Ky smiled—the genuine kind—a type of smile he thought he could no longer do.

His sword plunged into the ground, the sharp scraping and clattering stronger than when he pierced Peter’s chest.

“All I ask is to be your only knight and loyal follower.”

Ky raised his head and you could see the faint blush tinging his cheeks and turbulence swirling within his eyes.

“You’re too far gone…” You murmured quietly, heart held against your chest in an attempt to still its frantic beating.

“I could never agree to something like this, especially with words bespoken from that of such a monstrosity such as you.”

His entire body flinched and he was standing upright within a flash.

“Is there more competition? Is that it?” Ky asked, ocean blue eyes widened. There was a slight quiver in his voice and visible shaking surrounding his body, as if a loved one passed away.

Ky gripped his scabbard after a minute and the trembling vanished.

“…That is reasonable. I must prove my worth to Her Holiness.”

He flung the blood still encased around his blade, clots of red scattering on the ground.

“Shall I show you why they call me lightning?”

[queenlucythevaliant]

A while ago, @supreme-leader-stoat sent me an ask with a really interesting concept for a HHB AU. It’s taken me a while, but here is the story I came up with as a result. 

The Fisherman and His Boy

Six years after the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, word reached the fisherman that the prince of Archenland had been kidnapped.

Arsheesh lived many miles from the nearest city, and so it was common for news to take its time in reaching him. When the old queen of Narnia was overthrown by the demon lion worshipped in the north, Arsheesh did not know of it for two years. Smaller matters often did not reach him at all.

“You have brought me a poor catch today,” said a merchant in the village. “It is a shame you cannot pluck that barbarian prince from the seas.”

“What prince is this?” asked the fisherman with polite disinterest.

The poor day’s trading left Arsheesh in a sour mood. When he arrived home, he found that Shasta had not cleaned the nets as he’d been told to, but had only succeeded in thoroughly tangling them. Arsheesh grabbed the boy by the hair and made to strike him, but he stopped short. Shasta was barbarian-fair.  

Numbly, Arsheesh released his hold on the boy’s hair. Shasta scampered back, his face a blotchy mess of tears and snot. “Boy,” the fisherman said. “Clean thy face and let me look on thee.”

Shasta scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. He raised his head.

Certainly, the boy was either Archen or Narnian. He had been an infant five years ago, when the prince was supposed to have been taken. The dead man in the boat with him had been dressed like a foreign nobleman.

“Surely,” the fisherman said slowly, “surely the gods never fail to reward those who befriend the destitute.”

“’M sorry,” muttered the boy.

“No child,” Arsheesh replied. “Thou’st naught to be sorry for. I ought not have been harsh with thee. Has not one of the poets said, ‘Treat a child with care, that he may one day care for you?’”

It was obvious that the boy did not understand what was happening, but Arsheesh would not have expected it of him. He sold his boats that day and his hovel the next. He put the crescents he had gotten for them in a satchel along with a small bit of bread, a great deal of dried fish, and a few other necessities. He saddled the donkey for riding and made petition to Tash for good fortune. Then, with the child clinging to his back, Arsheesh the fisherman set off north.

*

The boy became swiftly accustomed to the knowledge that he would not be struck for displeasing his father, and soon enough his questions were endless.

“Where are we going, O father?”

“To Archenland, north of the great desert.”

“But how do we get across?”

“We shall book passage on a ship once we reach Tashbaan.”

“A ship? Are we going to cross the ocean?”

“Yes, boy. As I have told thee many times: we are going to Archenland.”

“But why?”

The whys were endless. Arsheesh did not care for them in the slightest.

*

When the lions attacked, Arsheesh urged the donkey into its fastest sprint. The donkey, which was rather frail to begin with and not at all made for sprinting, keeled over and died after it had scarce run a thousand paces.

Arsheesh and the boy tumbled from the donkey’s back and landed hard on the ground. The roaring grew louder as the seconds lengthened. The dratted boy’s lower lip began to wobble, and presently he was choking back sobs.

“Be quiet, boy,” hissed the fisherman. Yet Shasta only drew back from him when he said that and began to weep all the louder.

“Quiet!”

“We’re going to die!” wailed the boy. “We’re going to die, the lions are going to eat us, we’re going to die.”

Yet the lions did not eat the fisherman and his son. After a long time, Shasta’s wailing subsided into quiet sniffling and the roaring of the lions faded into the distance. Arsheesh regarded the carcass of the donkey and sighed very heavily. “We’d best begin walking,” he said.  

*

The boy proved willing enough to walk without complaining, but he was small and as such made poor time. Arsheesh looked down at the child dutifully trailing along behind him and sighed. “Come, boy. I’ll carry thee,” he said.

“’M not tired,” Shasta protested.

“Nevertheless,” replied the fisherman. He bent down and scooped the boy up in his arms. In the five years since he’d rescued the child, Arsheesh had held him very rarely. Yet Shasta was small and slight: not at all burdensome. Arsheesh shifted his weight very slightly and then continued on, satchel over his back and child in his arms.

Day turned to dusk and somewhere along the way, Shasta fell asleep. When Arsheesh made camp for the night, he roused the child only briefly in order to feed him, then tucked him away under his cloak beneath the stars.

*

After the moon had set, yet while it was still dark, the fisherman heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. He glanced towards the boy (who had roused at the sound) and murmured, “Stay here.”

When Arsheesh stepped out into the middle of the road, he saw a mail-clad Tarkaan fast approaching. “My lord!” cried Arsheesh, waving his arms above his head.

The Tarkaan made no sign of having heard him, so the fisherman tried again. “My lord! Your servant is in distress, and I’ve a child in my keeping.”

Distantly, a shrill, girlish voice spoke. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

“No Aravis. Hush,” the armored figure replied.

“We should help them,” came the girl’s voice, more firmly than before. “Salma, you’re my horse and I say halt.”

The horse halted.

“Your servant is grateful, O my lord,” Arsheesh said at once. “Yesterday, lions perused my ward and me and our donkey perished in exhaustion. Might your servant render you some service in exchange for aid in reaching Tashbaan?”

“How funny!” exclaimed the girl (who Arsheesh could now clearly see was seated in front of the Tarkaan). “Lions were after us not two hours ago.”

“Indeed,” said the Tarkaan. “What business have you in Tashbaan, peasant? And where is this child of whom you speak.”

“The child is a ward of mine whose family are in Archenland. Your servant must return him hence.” Then Arsheesh turned round and called, “Boy!”

At once, the boy appeared beside him. “Here, father.”

“Didn’t I tell thee to remain where thou wert?”

The boy nodded once, but made no apology.

“Doubtless he’s of northern stock,” said the Tarkaan, inclining his head as if to indicate that he believed Arsheesh’s story. “As it happens, my sister and I go north as well, and we must not be prevented from going. An Archen child in our party would doubtless be a boon. If I may claim your story for my own, I will ride to the nearest village and return with another horse. Then we’ll all travel north together. Will that serve?”

“Certainly, it will,” said Arsheesh, who hardly dared believe his good fortune. “Your servant is grateful.”

“Good,” replied the Tarkaan. “Stay here and hide yourself. I’ll return before dawn. What shall I call you?”

“Your servant’s name is Arsheesh, and the boy is Shasta.”

The Tarkaan nodded. “Very good. I am Ilsombresh Tarkaan.” With that, he flicked the reigns and was gone.  

*

True to his word, the armored Tarkaan and the little girl returned just as the western horizon was beginning to grow hazy. The girl rode the same mare that they’d both been riding the night before (though she couldn’t have been much older than Shasta), but the Tarkaan was mounted on a grey dappled stallion.

“Arsheesh!” called Ilsombresh from the road.

“We’re here,” piped the boy, who till now had not spoken in the presence of the Tarkaan. “Are we going to ride that big white horse?”

“Are you a skilled rider?” Ilsombresh asked. “Is your master? I purchased this horse cheaply because it’s proven difficult to break. If you are not up to the challenge, then Aravis and I will ride him and leave Salma for the two of you. She’s quite gentle, I assure you.”

*

That evening, after a long day’s riding, Arsheesh dismounted the Tarkheena’s mare feeling sore and saddle-weary. He hefted the boy down and set him on the ground. When he turned round, he saw that Ilsombresh had at last removed his helmet to reveal a shockingly youthful face beneath it. The hair on his face was scarcely more than a few whiskers; not nearly enough to make a beard. Why, he was little more than a boy himself!

“If your servant might inquire,” began the fisherman.

“You may not,” replied the Tarkaan.

Once the horses had been tended to, Ilsombresh went into the brush and shot a rabbit with his bow. Arsheesh produced the dried fish from his pack, and he instructed Shasta to go find wood for a fire.

“I can come too!” the Tarkheena exclaimed at once.

As they supped that night, Ilsombresh said to the fisherman, “Supposing you tell us your story in full.”

Arsheesh regarded the boy Shasta for a long moment, wondering how much of the truth he ought to reveal. It is obvious, he thought, that the Tarkaan has his secrets too. Perhaps now is the time to speak truly.

“I am a fisherman, like my father was before me. Yet because of my poverty, I never married and have no child.”

From Shasta there came a sharp intake of breath. “You mean— you aren’t really my father!”

“Hush boy. Do not interrupt me.”

Shasta flinched away from the fisherman for the first time in several days. When he remembered that he was not going to be struck, he crossed his small arms and looked sullen. Arsheesh turned back to his audience.

“Yet in the same year in which the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, on a night when the moon was full, the gods saw fit to deprive me of sleep. Therefore, I arose from my bed and went forth to the beach to refresh myself with looking upon the water and the moon and breathing the cool air. And presently I heard a noise as of oars coming to me across the water and then, as it were, a weak cry. And shortly after, the tide brought to the land a little boat in which there was nothing but a man lean with extreme hunger and thirst who seemed to have died but a few moments before (for he was still warm), and an empty water skin, and a child, still living. I thought then that they might have escaped the wreck of a great ship, but I’ve come to learn of late that at that same time the crown prince of Archenland was kidnapped. I believe that this boy is that same prince and I’ve a mind to return him to the king and queen.”

“And doubtless fatten your own purse insodoing,” retorted Ilsombresh.

“I expect to be rewarded handsomely,” Arsheesh said, “but your servant is a man of tender heart.”

“Assuredly,” said Ilsombresh, though he sounded incredulous. “Well then. If we are stopped at any point before Archenland, I will say that I came to your hovel while traveling with my sister and that upon speaking with you I realized who the boy must be. I took you as my servant and we are all bound for Archenland together so that I can claim the reward.”

“You, claim the reward? Surely not. I’ve sold all I have in hopes of profiting thusly!”

Ilsombresh harrumphed. “So much for your tender heart. Yet you and your wallet need not fear; I’ve need of your excuses, nothing more. My sister and I are going north for our own reasons.”

The Tarkaan sat back and the fire popped. Shasta still looked thunderstruck, but he knew better than to try to press the issue.

*

They mounted up early the next morning, Arsheesh and Shasta on Salma the mare and Ilsombresh with his sister on the newly acquired stallion. They made good time, but there was unease in the air. Arsheesh still didn’t know why the Tarkaan was fleeing north with his young sister. Shasta had all but stopped speaking to him.

“Boy—Shasta. If you mean to curse me for speaking untruth, do it and quit your sullenness,” Arsheesh said when he had finally had enough. “Thou’ll thank me for my kindness when thou art old enough to appreciate it.”

The boy didn’t answer for a long time and Arsheesh began to wonder if perhaps he had fallen asleep. At last, he muttered, “Is Shasta even my real name?”

“It is the name that I gave thee. Doubtless thy true parents gave thee another, but I do not know what it is.”

“Is that why you always call me ‘boy’?”

“No,” said the fisherman. “It isn’t.”

*

The longer Arsheesh observed the young Tarkaan, the more Ilsombresh seemed less like a nobleman and more like an untried youth. “If it please my lord, what age are you?” he inquired cautiously.

“It does not please me,” replied Ilsombresh, raising his chin and looking proud. “Remember your place, beggar.”

A few feet away, where the two children were seated with their noon meal, the young Tarkheena leaned over and loudly whispered, “He’s fifteen.” A little gasping laugh burst forth from the boy. Arsheesh didn’t think he’d ever heard it before.

Arsheesh leveled his gaze at the young nobleman for a long moment. “One of the poets has said, ‘A boy in a time of peace is a man in a time of war.’ I’d wager the notion applies in the case of our noble patron.”

“Thou haves’t naught to wager,” muttered Ilsombresh, but his face looked smoother now.

The girl Tarkheena, however, was not so easily mollified. “But you haven’t been to war yet. That’s the whole—”

“Aravis! Mind your tongue. One of the poets has also said, “The price of careless talk is paid in blood.’”

“Sorry, ‘Bresh,” she chorused.

Shasta leaned over and whispered something else to the girl, who elbowed him firmly in the ribs. The boy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Arsheesh saw another smile beginning to take shape on his face. It tugged at his cheeks like a fishing line pulled taut.

*

The whole party rose later than intended the next morning, for the young Tarkaan had slept fitfully. As the children made up their bedrolls, Arsheesh went with Ilsombresh to go see about the horses (for although Aravis knew far more of riding than he did, she was nowhere near tall enough to reach all the buckles and straps involved in tacking up.)

“Tis a most peculiar thing,” mused Ilsombresh as he settled the saddle blanked over the stallion’s back. “I bought this fine horse for a pittance because he was ill mannered, yet now he seems as docile as a kitten.”

“No doubt a testament to your exceptional horsemanship.”

“Perhaps.”

*

The moon waned a little, and then the lions came again. Far from any village, Arsheesh was roughly roused in the dark part of the night. Someone was tugging at his bedroll.

Shasta was crouching over him. The child’s face was red and blotchy, but his tiny voice was level when he whispered, “Lord ‘Bresh says for you to get up.”

Arsheesh blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. Across the camp, Ilsombresh was hastily preparing the horses. Coiled around his right leg were the arms of his little sister.

There were lions roaring in the distance. Lions, again. Arsheesh stood and made to join Ilsombresh and the horses, but he paused for a minute before moving. “Are you afraid, Shasta?”

The child bit his lip. “Yessir.”

So Arsheesh scooped the boy into his arms before striding over to join the rest of the party.

Up close, the horses’ eyes were wild with panic, and Ilsombresh himself was little better. “Do they seem to be aware of our presence? Perhaps we ought not flee in haste,” Arsheesh volunteered.

“We cannot remain here. We cannot take the chance! I will not, do you hear me? My sister will arrive safe in Narnia, and if you refuse to go I will run you through with my sword and use your worthless carcass to ward the lions off.”

From her clinging place round her brother’s leg, Aravis choked out a sob.

Arsheesh knelt and placed Shasta down beside her. “Here now, Shasta. Comfort the Tarkheena, yes? That’s a good boy.”

The boy looked uncertain, but he nodded firmly at the charge. He tugged on Aravis’s plait and said, “Aravis. Aravis. Come here. Let the grown-ups talk.”

Slowly, painfully, Aravis released the grip on her brother’s leg and went with Shasta to sit by the bedrolls. Arsheesh turned his attention back to Ilsombresh and his flashing eyes.

“Peace,” he said firmly, placing his hand on the young Tarkaan’s shoulder. “I’ve no wish to see either of the children come to harm. If we must flee, so be it. I only mean to offer an alternative. If we move apace, will we not seem as prey?”

“They can smell us, can they not? If Aravis dies, I shall—”

“You needn’t threaten me further, I understand. Perhaps if we crossed the river.”

Ilsombresh seemed to consider this and Arsheesh breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let us cross the river and see what comes of it.”

*

The children, seeking to be helpful, had packed away the camp and sitting pressed together and whispering when their guardians finished their conference. “We will cross the river,” said Arsheesh, disentangling the children and hefting Shasta into his arms. “We must make no sound and no sudden movements, do you understand?”

They crossed in silence and dark, Arsheesh with the two children in his arms and Ilsombresh leading the horses (who were as quiet and obedient as anyone could have hoped.) His many years of fishing served him well; he navigated the currents and swells of the river and after ten agonizing minutes, he placed the children on the far shore and waited for Ilsombresh to follow.

The whole party stopped and listened, and presently the sound of the lions began to grow faint. “You see, my lord? They never knew of us.”

Ilsombresh cleared his throat. “I apologize for my rashness, Arsheesh. Your wisdom has availed us all tonight.”

“I am a man of many years, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

*

As the days went on, Shasta’s whispered conferences with Aravis Tarkheena blossomed into a full-fledged conspiracy. The smile tugged on his cheeks quite often now. When Arsheesh told him to gather kindling or to lay out the bedroll, he did it without any sullenness; almost with cheerfulness. It seemed, thought the fisherman, as though he was a whole new boy.

That, in itself, was troubling. Arsheesh had taken the boy in with the thought of putting him to work, and so he had done as soon as Shasta was capable. He was six years old, but he could untangle nets and scrape muck and oh, so many other things. Yet his fearful sullenness had made him inefficient. Arsheesh had gleaned long ago that Shasta could likely work faster if he did not double back and check his work so often for fear of punishment, but what else could he do? Without that fear, the boy would not work at all.

Now, in the face of Shasta’s newfound cheerfulness, Arsheesh was forced to concede that the child was capable of pleasantness and speed in whatever task his small hands were set to do, if only he might smile and laugh as he did it. Arsheesh watched as Shasta and Aravis diligently set about filling the waterskins; how they raced each other down to the river and tossed stones into the water while they worked and squealed with glee as they raced back. Perhaps, in the past he had been overharsh with the boy.

Yes. Well. As one of the poets had said, “A sluggard is he who desires nothing; let the man with a lazy servant discover what that servant desires.” Besides, the King of Archenland would likely prefer a son who laughed to one who only sulked.

*

One night as their party was nearing Tashbaan, Arsheesh woke to find the bedroll beside him empty and cold. Shasta was missing. At once he was awake, scrambling upright and looking round until at last he saw Shasta sitting cross-legged with Aravis beside him. Their heads were close bent together, dark hair and tow side by side in the moonlight, facing the makeshift hitching post and the two horses tied there.

For a moment, Arsheesh considered whether he ought to go to the children and usher them back to bed, but after a moment’s pause he decided against it. Let them have their midnight whispers. They were in no danger and certainly they would return to bed when they were tired enough.

*

“We come to Tashbaan in two days,” Ilsombresh said. The party was seated in a patch of grass, taking their midday meal in the afternoon sun. The horses grazed contentedly a little way off, and the two children were seated so close together that their elbows were touching.

“In two days,” the young nobleman repeated. “It is imperative that no one of our acquaintance should recognize Aravis or myself. To that end—”

“Perhaps the time has come for my lord to disclose what, exactly, he and his sister are running from.”

It was a very bold thing for Arsheesh to say to any of his betters, but he met the Ilsombresh’s gaze and held it nevertheless.

“Yes,” Ilsombresh replied, stroking his barely-whiskered chin. “Very well then. I’ll give the shape of it, at least. Thou hast earned our trust.”

“My father, and Aravis’s father, has lately married a wicked woman (having been bereft of our mother for some years.) She loves us not and covets our father’s inheritance on behalf of her own child, which she is carrying; thus, she arranged for my appointment to the army of the Tisroc (may he live forever), in a place of great peril and in the hope that I should perish. Likewise, she has arranged to send Aravis to dwell in the home of a distant relative, a man of many vices, until she comes of an age to be married. Therefore, I have taken Aravis and made to escape, that such evil things might not come to pass.”

Arsheesh stared, dumbfounded at his blunt admission to deserting the Tisroc’s army.

“Have you any questions?”

Arsheesh opened his mouth and shut it. Finally, “Thou art very brave, my lord. I shall do my utmost to ensure that no one knows of thee.”

A wide smile spread across Ilsombresh’s face at that. “I thank thee,” he murmured. “I have tried to do right. It has not been easy.” He cleared his throat. “And I, for my part, will ensure that thou art well rewarded for the discovery of the Archen prince, eh? North to freedom and fat wallets!”

“Freedom and fat wallets,” Arsheesh softly echoed.

“The plan then. Aravis and I will enter the city with our faces covered: I with my armor and Aravis veiled. We will go to the Foreigners’ Quarter, where we are unlikely to be recognized, and Shasta will remain with us in case we are recognized. You, Arsheesh, will go to the docks and secure passage on a fast ship in the name of your master, Alimash Tarkaan (that’s a cousin of mine). Then, you will sell the horses and return to the Foreigners’ Quarter to meet with us. We will lay low until the ship is to embark, then make our way to the docks and be on our way to Archenland. Is that acceptable?”

“’Bresh,” Aravis interjected, tugging on her brother’s sleeve.

“Yes, my lord. A fine plan.”

“’Bresh!”

“In a moment, Aravis. Now if we have need of Shasta as our alibi—”

“’Bresh, what did you mean about selling the horses? Salma and Bree are coming with us.”

“Bree? I was not aware that thou had named that stallion. I told thee not to, dear. Thou knowst that horses may not come on the ship. I’m sorry.”

“But ‘Bresh, the horses have to come—!”

“I know thou’rt fond of Salma, but I will buy thee a horse when we reach our new home. A better horse, yes?”

Aravis looked helplessly at Shasta, who himself seemed to be rather agitated. “Father, hadn’t we better take the horses? Perhaps we can give them to the King of Archenland.”

“’Please, ‘Bresh. Pleeeeeeaaaaseeee?”

It was at that moment that something miraculous happened.

“Excuse me,” said Salma the mare. “It seems to me that we’re all trying to get free of Calormen in one way or another. Could I—that is, I think it would be sensible if we all were to work together. So that no one gets left behind, I mean.”

Nobody breathed. Arsheesh could only blink at the Tarkaan’s horse, convinced that he was losing his mind. Then, when several long moments had passed, the stallion replied.

“Very well put, madam. Four of us have much better chances of seeing the foals safe in the North than you two have alone—and, I might say, a better chance of getting free ourselves.”

And then all Tash’s hell broke loose.

Ilsombresh drew his sword, but the two children leapt to their feet and raced over to the places where the horses were tied. “Bresh!” cried the Tarkheena. With his child’s fingers, Shasta untied the knot holding the stallion Bree in place. Bree lunged forward towards the young Tarkaan and Arsheesh saw the horses’ fierce hooves preparing to collide with his chest. Ilsombresh ducked and took a swipe at the horse’s feet with his sword, but now Shasta was untying Salma and she was free as well. Arsheesh strode forward and put his hand on Ilsombresh’s shoulder, but the youth roughly shook him away. Shasta crouched very near Salma’s back legs and Arsheesh now turned and moved towards him, meaning to scoop the boy up and at least remove him from harm’s way, but Shasta scooted away, closer to Salma’s legs. Now, Aravis was yelling and Ilsombresh was still brandishing his sword and Bree reared back and then—

Everything stopped. Everyone turned towards the deafening, unmistakable sound of a lion’s roar. It had heard them. It was coming.

Arsheesh recovered his wits first. “If you horses carry us true,” said the fisherman in a rush, “we will see you free in Archenland.” He whirled round to face Ilsombresh. “Yes?”

“On my honor,” Ilsombresh nodded and sheathed his sword.

The lion was at their heels in moments. Both horses broke into a run, but still it gained. Its roar was terrible: so much more fearsome than it had been at a distance, now that it was so very near. Like thunder on the sea, thought the fisherman. Like when a squall comes from nowhere. From in front of him, Shasta whispered something into the horses mane. Arsheesh couldn’t make out the words, but he felt the child’s skin clammy against him.

Bree was the faster horse, and so for all that Arsheesh had gotten the head start, the Tarkaan and his sister had soon outpaced him. He hazarded a glance behind and saw great, white teeth snapping not yards away. The creature’s breath on his back. Claws like bright silver and that thunderstorm-roar.

Shasta’s clammy hands. A squall on the sea. There was a kind of symmetry to it, Arsheesh thought. Perhaps one of the poets might have made some great tale of it, but for now his own mind was dumb with fear. If the lion took down Salma, Ilsombresh and Aravis would escape, but he and Shasta would die. If the lion took him—

“Mercy,” gasped his horse, and the thought came to Arsheesh like lightning.

He leaned low over both child and horse and to Salma he said, “Ride hard and get him to safety. Not Tashbaan: Anvard.” Then, to Shasta, “In Archenland, let Ilsombresh claim the reward. But—tell the King and Queen that I was good to thee.” With that, Arsheesh slid from Salma’s back and landed hard on the ground. The hoofbeats continued on, running at full tilt, and from his pile on the ground, Arsheesh thought, good. He shut his eyes and waited for the lion’s teeth.

*

Arsheesh opened his eyes. His muscles ached from the fall, and he thought that perhaps a few of his bones were broken, but he was not dead. That itself was very strange, and for a moment he dared to hope that the lion had left.

But no. A few paces ahead of him were two enormous golden paws. The claws were still extended, but the creature attached to them was so still that it might have been a statue. Arsheesh held his breath.

“Well then, my son,” spoke the lion. It had a heavy, rumbling voice that seemed to come from all around. “What would you have me do with you?”

Arsheesh flinched backwards and his old muscles complained. What was he to say? First, the talking horses; now the talking lion. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he had gone mad.

“Do—do you mean to ask how I want you to eat me?”

The lion inclined its head lower, so that Arsheesh could see his face. “That is not what I have asked you,” it said.

Thinking then of Salma’s gasping voice as she ran, the fisherman spoke the only word he could think to utter. “Mercy.”

“Mercy?” rumbled the lion. “Certainly, you shall have mercy in abundance; for you have asked for it.”

With that, it bent its head nearly to the ground, where Arsheesh still lay prostrate, and breathed on him. A bright, tangy scent surrounded him, as though someone had peeled an orange very near his face. The fisherman sat up.

“Arsheesh, son of Altan. Give me an accounting of yourself. How have you treated the child I gave you?”

“You gave me? I plucked the child from the sea one night. There was no lion. I’d never encountered a lion in all my years until I set out on this thrice-damned journey to Archenland.”

There was a glint in the lion’s eye that Arsheesh might have taken to be a smile. “You know not what you speak. It was I who pushed the boat that held the child nearly to shore for you to find. I gave him to you, that you might bring him up and someday see him returned to his homeland. Have you done these things?”

A knot had risen in Arsheesh’s throat. There was no doubt in his mind (if indeed there ever had been) that the creature before him was the lion-demon that the Narnians worshipped. Yet for all the fear he should have felt, he did not really feel scared. It was guilt, not fear, which had lodged itself in Arsheesh’s throat.

“Shasta,” he whispered. The lion looked at him, and Arsheesh began to feel very naked. He wondered if the lion somehow knew how he had treated the child, and only wanted to hear him say it before it devoured him.  

“O Mighty Lion, I knew not of these things. They are too marvelous for your servant, who is but an old and greedy fisherman. I drew the child out of the water seeking only my own profit, raised him to be my slave, and only made to return him to his homeland when it seemed that I might be rewarded for it. If in confessing these things, I have forfeited the mercy you promised me, then do with your servant as you will.” For the second time that day, Arsheesh shut his eyes. Once again, the pain never came.

*

The fisherman Arsheesh arrived at Anvard on a cloudy day. His clothes were threadbare and he carried no supplies, but the gate opened for him as soon as the watchman saw him approach.

He had scarce made it to the courtyard when a young man came running out. He looked like Ilsombresh Tarkaan, but his hair was shorter and there were more whiskers on his chin then there had been two weeks ago. He was arrayed in the heavy furs of the Archen court, and his arms were outstretched.

“Arsheesh!” he cried as the two of them embraced. “You live.”

“Yes. I take it Shasta is here with his true father?”

Ilsombresh nodded. “He is Crown Prince Cor, and he and Aravis are playing with his twin brother in the nursery. The horses—Bree and Hwin—are here too. And now thee.”

“Yes, thanks to the fare that thou left for me at the docks. But come. I would like to see the child, and the King and Queen should know that I’ve spoken with Aslan.”

“Aslan?”

The fisherman laughed. “Oh, my boy. I’ve much to tell thee.”

[daisycraft]

(In Love With) Judas

I want to love you but something’s pulling me away from you. ♡

   It’s the end times.

It’s difficult to think of only the next and not the end, or the finale, or the moment when Martyn realizes that there’s no going back.

   Gear and courage is scarce when the remnants of the Red Army gather in the swamp. Food is passed around– and when they realize there’s not enough, then it’s split, and passed around again. Martyn watches Ren tear bread with his hands, passing pieces to Etho, BigB, before those red eyes fall upon him. Blood is still steadily dripping down the passage beneath the eye that tears would travel, along the dark ring before slipping off his cheek. 

Martyn takes his piece after a second. His own hesitation surprises him. Half-dried blood from Ren’s fingers rubs off on his own, stains his hand as he takes his torn bread, struggling to find the strength to bite into it. 

   He lost his appetite ages ago, beneath a full moon. Maybe before then, on a mountain top, beside a chest with three slips of paper within it. Maybe, even, in a room with a magic table, several people, and a fumbling business owner.

   He swallows.

Everytime he tries to think about the next, just about what will happen soon and not eventually, his mind keeps wandering. He can’t stop thinking about that altar.

   Ren told him back then that he had a chance to strike him down, take him out of the game for good, because he was naked and unarmed and vulnerable. Martyn looks to the other side of the fort as the scattered soldiers try to strengthen themselves, to where Ren kneels, wrapping the handle of the Skizzblade in thin strips of leather. His ears are pinned to his head, almost obscured entirely by his crown of golden thorns. Martyn looks and sees that same vulnerable man. 

   The grip he has on his own weapon tightens subconsciously.

   Next, Martyn tells himself as he moves outside, they will collect themselves. Afterwards, Martyn tells himself, they will march away from the swamp, move up the hill, and descend upon the besieged Dogwarts through the gates. Then… Martyn tries to think.

It’s hard to think when there’s a hand on his shoulder. A figure that smells of iron and wood stands at his side, rumbling idly with a growl that hasn’t faded in hours. Ren is there when Martyn spares a glance, that pale grey and red face turned away from him, instead staring forward solemnly towards the hill. Towards his kingdom.

   “Hand,” the Lord purrs.

   “M’lord,” the Hand responds.

The hand on his shoulder presses, massaging the muscle as Ren watches the horizon intensely. Martyn watches him. He wouldn’t call it intense, the way his expression stones and he stares at every minute shift of Ren’s face, but there isn’t anything better.

   “It’s our final day, I’m sure you can feel it,” says Ren, finally turning to him. Martyn’s jaw clenches, suddenly squirmish beneath his attention. “But we shall never go down without a fight. There is no better way to die than fighting for our home. Fighting for what we love, who we love.”

The hand squeezes. The Hand feels nauseous.

   Ren carries on, looking back to the hill as the sounds of Etho and BigB begin to gather behind them on the wool bridge. “This will be our final stand, laddies. Our final chance to show those filthy stinkin’ desert hippies what we’re freaking made of! And we are going to take back Dogwarts or die trying!”

   It’s hard to match Ren’s energy.

BigB grins and murmurs a casual response, as if he already knew that he was gonna live beyond the battle, though newly Red. Etho spins a little, patting all his pockets to make sure he had the most he could carry, before nervously agreeing.

   Ren’s eyes are on him. His lord has got a small, confident smile. Martyn wishes it’d waver.

He huffs out a laugh, patting Ren on the back and slipping away from the grip on the shoulder. He does his damnedest to smile back.

   “Aye,” Martyn says, without the heart of putting on his voice, “right, let’s get on with it.”

Get on with which part?

   Something within Martyn asks him. Asks himself? … Something within Martyn asks.

   Ren takes the lead. Of course Ren takes the lead. Martyn is not far behind, and neither are Etho or BigB. They expect their king to hold back, capture the field and patch of forest in front of the gates, but he charges through it, slicing through their sugarcane crop with the Skizzblade, and like wildfire, his Red Army follows after. Smoke will choke one of them later.

Do you wish to get on with the battle? You know you are going to die.

   Martyn fortifies the ground in front of the gates. They push through as projectiles rain from above and from within.

You tighten your hand around the grip of your sword. Who do you truly wish for it to fall upon?

   At first, it was Impulse, then Tango who fell to his sword. The leaves of their smoldering crops crush beneath his boots.

Look at him.

   Martyn looks. He scans the field to try to find Ren, and as he pulls himself up a hill, he sees him turn the corner of Renchanting. Scar is in hot pursuit.

What is it that you feel?

   He doesn’t know.

Rage that he’s being taken from you, just around that corner, out of sight? Envy, that it wasn’t you that killed him?

You wanted to kill him.

You wasted your chance on that altar. You should have killed him.

You waited too long. You waited for a fair duel.

Life isn’t fair, Hand.

   He couldn’t’ve. Martyn thinks long and hard in that fraction of time between when Scar goes behind the building and when he reappears, sans Ren and plus a whole lot more blood. He thinks about what Ren told him about life, and doing what hurts.

He was going to die, by you or by anyone else. He wouldn’t have laid a paw on you and you know it, you sick creature.

   He’s crying. He doesn’t know why. Martyn would have cried either way.

Scar is coming towards him, pulling an arrow from the quiver on his hip. Martyn is charging.

Rage?

Envy?

Don’t say it’s love. 

Don’t lie to him.

[albertfinch]

Scripture Of The Day - July 17, 2024

Psalm 100:4,5 - "Enter His gates with thanksgiving And His courts with praise. Give thanks to Him, bless His name For the LORD is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting And His faithfulness to all generations."

  Satan’s plan is to make us somehow accept, either through our upbringing, our experiences or through Church dogma that certain portions of the life of Christ are untrue or not valid in our case.  Every battle we face in life is over the word and whether or not we can build our lives upon the faithfulness and integrity of God.

Hebrews 10:23  - "Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is FAITHFUL;"

Do not fret because of evildoers, nor be envious of the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness. Psalm 37:1-3

In this Psalm, David is instructing the children of God not to fret when it seems like everyone around you is prospering, especially the unrighteous. The antidote given by King David for "fretting" is to feed on the Lord's faithfulness.

Like Psalm 27:13 says, "I truly would lose heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord," nevertheless, there are more times that the worries of the world knock us out. This is why it is crucial that we feed on His FAITHFULNESS.

Yet, how do we do that? One of the primary ways is to feast on His Word -- for it is written, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God" (Matthew 4:4).

RECALLING GOD'S FAITHFULNESS IN TRYING TIMES

In the third chapter of the Book of Lamentations -  the prophet Jeremiah, was suffering through God's chastisement along with his people. As a result of his distress, Jeremiah confessed that his soul was far from any peace, that he had forgotten what happiness was, and that his strength was gone. He felt that God shut out his prayers and had lost his expectant hope in the Lord through his terrible struggle.

Despite all his feelings of being forsaken, Jeremiah prayed again! He boldly said, "Remember my affliction and roaming, the wormwood and the gall" (Lamentations 3:19). The word for "remember" doesn't imply that God forgot His children.  The Hebrew word used here is zakar (Strong's #2142) and speaks of recalling something, meditating on it, purposefully pulling it up in your mind. Jeremiah was asking God to think on him, to focus His Divine intentions on him!

"My soul still remembers and sinks within me" (Lamentations 3:20). Yet, after praying again to God, something happened. Instead of thinking on his circumstances, he "turned to the Lord" and found hope. "This I recall to my mind, therefore I have hope" (Lamentations 3:21).

TURN TO THE LORD

"Recall" is connected to one of the primary words used for repentance, shuwb (Strong's #7725), and means to turn back or return. You see, Jeremiah was thinking on his distress and affliction, which was, in a sense PUTTING A SPIRITUAL DISTANCE BETWEEN HIMSELF AND GOD. All he had to do was turn his thoughts to the Lord, to return to Him.

 "Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Draw near to God and He will draw near to you..." (James 4:7-8).

Jeremiah went from thinking on his circumstances to thinking on God. -- Lamentations 3:22-26  - "The LORD’S lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, For His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness. 'The LORD is my portion,' says my soul, 'Therefore I have hope in Him.' The LORD is good to those who wait for Him, To the person who seeks Him. It is good that he waits silently For the salvation of the Lord."

He fed on God's faithfulness!  God uses ALL distress and affliction for His glory to produce character in us. "...tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope" (Romans 5:3,4).

Acts 16:25,26  -  "And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God:  and the prisoners heard them.  And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken:  and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed."

God's faithfulness is triggered by our faith, while praise brings us into His presence.  When we praise God, He raises us out of our situation.

When we find ourselves in trouble, we use praise as a key to unlock the "prison doors" of our circumstances.  No matter what is going on in our life -- we fill our mouth with the ADORATION AND GREATNESS OF GOD.

ALBERT FINCH MINISTRY

[darkmaga-returns]

On Dec. 28, 1732, at just 27 years of age, Benjamin Franklin published the first edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac. He went on to publish it annually for 25 years, and it garnered him wealth and fame. It also played a big part in elevating him to the status of “the first American.”

The Almanac was published under the pseudonym Richard Saunders and was the source of many pithy insights on timeless subjects related to human nature, many of which can be applied to government and the principles of liberty today.

It also served as a sort of guide for daily living, combining a calendar, and weather predictions, along with entertaining content. Each edition included practical features including tide charts, phases of the moon, and astrological observations useful for farmers and sailors.

Poor Richard’s was packed full of witty sayings, proverbs, and aphorisms meant to convey moral lessons and practical advice for living. Some of these sayings became “conventional wisdom” over time, including, “A penny saved is a penny earned,” and, “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” 

THE FIRST EDITION

The first edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac set the tone for future publications, including several sayings that dig to the root of human nature and that should be remembered when placing people in positions of power.

“Distrust and caution are the parents of security” 

“There is no little enemy” 

“Anoint a villain and he’ll stab you, stab him and he’ll anoint you.”

He also included several insights on life that remain well-known today, including, “Eat to live, and not live to eat,” and, “He that lies down with Dogs, shall rise up with fleas,” along with practical wisdom, including, “Hunger never saw bad bread.”

Poor Richard’s Almanac was first mentioned in the Pennsylvania Gazette on Dec. 19, 1732, as “just published.”

[jaxteller87]

Societal Standards

I was at work, on my lunch break, taking a bite of my sandwich when my phone dinged with a message from Amber. I’d settled in nicely in New York; life had been much easier than in Charming. The message was a meme that read, “A girl just wants to be bent over and banged like a screen door in a storm.”

I spit my drink out as I started to laugh. I reached for a napkin to wipe my face, and then another message came through: “I wanna rest my legs on your shoulders.”

I typed back quickly, “Trying to tell me something, sweetheart? You can rest your legs on my shoulders anytime ;)”

She replied, “No, I just thought it was funny and thought I’d pass it along.”

“Tease.” I texted back.

“Aw, I’m sorry. I just thought you’d get the humor in it.”

“Well, I most certainly did. My drink came out my nose,” I messaged back, still wiping up the mess I had made and chuckling through it.

“I mean, I’m not against doing any of that stuff, though…” she responded.

I wanted to call her a tease again, but I decided to hold her to her word instead. “Time and place, darlin’. You let me know when, and I’ll have your legs around my shoulders clappin’ those cheeks like a screen door in a hurricane.”

She started to respond, but nothing came through. I waited a few minutes, expecting a flirtatious reply or at least another meme. I got some water and a rag and wiped down the table to make sure I didn’t leave any sticky surprises for whoever sat down here next. When I was finished, I began to text her again. I got a few words typed out, and then I saw that she was finally responding.

“You son of a bitch. Your last message made me spit my drink all over the place then I dropped my phone on the floor and somehow managed to drop my coffee mug right on top of it. I had to take everything apart and put it back together! 😄 😄 😄”

Much later that evening, Amber and I were lying on the floor in the living room, grinning like fools. The dim light from the fireplace flickered, casting shadows around us.

“Okay, I didn’t tell the whole truth,” she said, staring up at me.

“Oh, I know. That’s why this just happened as soon as I got home from work,” I smirked, looking down at our bare bodies intertwined. “In my defense, you’re the one who asked to be a screen door.”

“Yeah…” Amber blushed and looked away.

“Honey, you need to stop being so nervous to ask for things in the bedroom or otherwise. I’m not going to say no. I mean, I get it; like we talked before, there are going to be times when I’m not in the mood. It’s only natural. But once you know I’m all in, so to speak, just say, ‘Hey, big papa, have your way with me. Slap my ass, pull my hair, whatever it is you want me to do— I’ll do it. ” I snuggled her a little closer.

“Yeah?”

“Of course! You wanna bang like a screen door or get stuffed like a turkey or even pounded like bread dough, just say the word. Think of me as your own personal sex genie and the wishes are unlimited. Whatever you desire, my lady, I shall make it so,” I said, lowering my voice to sound more like I thought a genie would sound. Amber smiled and let out a chirp of a laugh. But then, all of a sudden, she started to cry.

“Amber, hey sweetheart, what’s going on?” I said, pulling her even closer.

“I’m such a moron,” she mumbled, wiping her face.

“Hey, what have I told you about talking like that?” I took a hold of her face and gently made her look at me.

“I don’t feel like I deserve this,” she said, looking up at me. “Any of it, really.”

“Bad session with your counselor, I take it?” I asked, already knowing where this was headed.

“I feel like I don’t deserve this love, a man who loves me. I know it’s wrong, but it’s how my brain is wired. I mean, you hear something long enough, you’re gonna believe it. By society’s standards, people like me don’t need or even want this,” she said, glancing around the room.

“Fuck society’s standards. I’ve been telling you that for years. You deserve all the orgasms, all the kisses, and all the forehead smooches your little heart desires.”

“You deserve a badass biker outlaw to come home to,” I grinned, making her giggle too. “But until I can find you one, you’re gonna have to put up with me.”

“Okay, now you’re a moron,” she said, playfully slapping my arm.

“There it is, there’s that gorgeous smile,” I quipped, kissing her forehead.

“So if I really said, ‘Teller, strip to nothing but your work shirt, slap my butt while you call me your good girl,’ you’d do it?”

I thought for a moment and then nodded. “Well, I reckon I’d have to. Seeing as how I’m your sex genie and all. It’s kind of right there in the sex genie rule book.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Chapter seven, sub-article twelve, paragraph fourteen. If she asks for it, she must receive it.”

Amber laughed and shook her head. “You are fuckin’ wild sometimes, Jackson Teller.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Thank you for this, Jax,” Amber smiled.

“No need to thank me, ma’am— it’s all in days work for a sex genie.”

“Well, mister sex genie, I’m sure I had three happy moments a little while ago instead of my usual two,” she blushed, nuzzling her head into my chest.

“Well, I’m all about service,” I smirked, kissing her forehead again.

“I think it’s because I was overthinking. I was more in the moment than normal. I tend to get lost in my own head. I feel like sometimes I’m on the outside looking in like it’s a video game or something, and I’m all like: ‘Okay, I gotta get my body to do this or move like that.’”

“Like we talked before, I don’t mind doing all the work if need be. Hearing you say, ‘Fuck me, big papa,’ just like that— does it for me,” I admitted.

“I love you, Teller,” Amber wrapped her arms around my waist and held me tight.

Later that night, we were in bed, all snuggled up.

“So, let’s just say for round one, I wanted you to wear your work shirt. Then, if you were up for round two, you would wear your cut?” she asked curiously as we lay in the dimly lit bedroom.

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” I said, bowing my head and doing my best attempt at a curtsy.

“Oh!” Amber perked up. “We should get a clown costume!”

I instantly reared back and scowled at her. “Clown costume?”

“Oh yeah! You can do me in a clown costume, and right before you bust— you can honk your little red nose! What do you think?”

I just stared at her. “A clown costume?”

“Yep. Oh, wait. Do I have to wish for it? Is that how sex genies work?”

“No, not really—”

“I wish for you to bang me in a clown costume,” Amber interrupted. “Now you have to, right?”

Again, I just stared at her emotionless face. “I don’t know if you’re trying to kill the mood here or what, but—”

“I’m kidding!” She admitted. “I just wanted to test the limits of this whole sex genie thing.”

“I mean, I’ll do it if you want, but—”

“Babe, relax— I was seriously fuckin’ with you. I’m not a big fan of clowns, you know that.”

“Yeah, I did know that, but how was I supposed to know if your therapist suggested some extreme exercise to overcome it,” I admitted.

“What do you think my therapist and I talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s not usually sex, and it’s hardly ever clowns— I can tell you that.”

“Since we’re on the subject, would you say me wearing my grey sweats is like your version of lingerie?” 

“Oh, most definitely,” she laughed, kissing my bare chest.

“I love you, Amber. I’m so glad you’re mine.”

“Look, it’s snowing,” Amber said, pointing out the window.

I didn’t say anything; just smiled and kissed her forehead.

[phanhlee]

~First sight~

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

(This is a commission. Both I and the writer are not English speakers so there could be mistakes. However, this is the story I want to share, story about a devil in disguise and a devilish judge (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡)

Tag: Claude Frollo x male!oc

His name is Helzon, Helzon Sullivan.

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

Even when he was crushing gypsies with the sole of his shoes like they were nothing but mere bugs, Claude Frollo still believed he was never in the wrong. If anything, he’d only have to worry about dirtying his outfit. But the archdeacon couldn’t possibly cloud his thoughts with such mundane matters. He had been tasked with jobs that overlooked the entire archdiocese of Paris. As one who belonged to God’s land, he’d wish the challenges he gave to humans could slightly stop being so tedious. Carrying himself properly along the streets of Paris, Claude held his head high in pride and dignity. Throughout the streets of this archdiocese, his presence was hailed like that of a ruler.

Humans, vile as they are, were born with their sins weighing on them. Only those who want to repent at God’s feet shall receive his salvation, and this of course did not apply to the Parisien who just caused a commotion in one of the most crowded places of this archdiocese. Claude had to be as careful as he could, so as not to stomp on any bystanders with Snowball the horse. He didn’t want blood on his hands anyway.

Today, the uproar was caused by a lowly thief, who was said to be an orphan who lived in the slums among the dirtiest waste. Claude’s nose could barely contain the foul smell of peasants, but it was his duty to reprimand the thief. Chasing the criminal throughout the streets of Paris with the guards going before him, Claude silently cursed his luck. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the men of the church to capture their prey. The boy, who dared to lay his filthy hands on a piece of white bread, was cornered by Claude’s stern and calculating eyes. Injustice, he thought. The poor are always the cause of misdeeds in this city. No matter how many charities and donations are made for them, they would go back to their roots as lazy, unapologetic men who will not work a day as long as they can still play under the sun. More than once, have they been late with the payment of their taxes; being an establishment for worshiping God, the church literally had no means of income, and they had to rely on taxes. The nobles were too busy partying, and Claude had no interest in bothering those bluffing, blithering idiots. As he was busy chasing down and correcting those who called themselves God’s children undeservingly, an unexpected presence appeared in the corner of his eyes. He was standing in the way of Snowball, so Claude had to try his best to calm the horse down, so as not to stomp on him and cause an unwanted casualty. Even though everyone around him was scurrying around the busy marketplace, the man with cold silver eyes remained in his place. Calm but deep, his gaze was like the Seine flowing throughout Paris, but it was somehow piercing at the same time. As if his air was taken from him, Claude Frollo had to steady his breath, but that didn’t help much as the other figure towered over him. Determined to make himself look like he could stand a chance against the much bigger man, Claude frowned, his brows furrowed deep. With his cold and unforgiving voice, he demanded:

“Speak, brute. What makes you think you have the right to stand here? You’re in the way.”

The bloke, however, didn’t budge. His eyes intently stared, as if his gaze could match a thousand blades piercing through anyone who dared to look directly at him. It was a different kind of look from anything Claude had gotten used to. He seemed to be far from the other low-life Parisiens, but in the end the man could be anything but different from the crowd that Claude had so much disdain for. A sonorous voice, deep as the ocean, commanding like the voice of a god, grumbled from the man’s stomach. One may even think he was not used to speaking. Only a few precise, meticulous words came out from him, that Claude could have sworn they sounded like “monsieur de Paris”.

A gentleman of Paris, was what he called himself. A foreign-looking man, who did not fear the gaze of Judge Claude Frollo, who stood tall in the presence of the authorities. Oh how Claude despised this defying bloke who thought of himself to be greater than others! Arrogance was one of the greater sins for men to bear, and yet this person who didn’t even want to speak of his name was full of it. With a cane in his hand, Claude lifted his chin up. But his cane slipped, hitting him in the face. It appeared as though the man’s eyes narrowed in a heartbeat, but it was probably just Claude’s illusion. Somehow, it terrified him, even though his gesture towards Claude showed no malevolent intention. Quickly, he left, leaving Claude speechless with his henchman trying to get him back to his senses.

“I want to know… who that vile bloke is. Who does he even think he is, daring to oppose me like that.”

Back in the chapel of the Notre Dame, Claude tried to keep his composure as he ordered his underling to do his deeds. The trusted henchman scurried away with his orders. Alone in the chapel, Claude walked around impatiently. He could’ve sworn he borne nothing but disdain towards the bastard, but something different had sparked in him.

“My Lord, I have returned.”

“Then tell me, boy… what do you know about him?”

“From what I’ve managed to gather, his name is Helzon Sullivan.”

“That sounds quite foreign. Do you know where he came from? Corsica, is it?”

“Sir… It doesn’t seem to be Corsica. I asked all over, there was little to no information about him.”

“Really? What is he doing in Paris?”

“It remains a mystery still, sir. He does not seem to disclose his personal life to anyone, nor does he get close to any citizen. Oh but, it is quite likely that he is a soldier, who had made himself a frequent customer at the grand tavern.”

Indulgence, Claude thought. A grave sin of men. He specifically sought God’s light of guidance because he did not want to fall under the sinful ways most men indulge themselves in. Women, alcohol, money,… all temptations are earthly bonds that imprison one’s spiritual being to the earth, bringing them closer to hell than to God’s kingdom.

“So he… is a drunkard, you say?”

“On the contrary, sir. He could control himself very well, and he is… popular with the ladies. Though, it seemed like he only frequented such places for some drinking activities, not for the purpose of… coitus.”

“That, I did not need to hear. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Claude did not realize he was taking his first steps into his own hell. Instead of ignoring the peculiar man, Claude found himself drawn to him. Nothing but fate’s cruel grand scheme bound them together. Just as the archdeacon thought he had escaped his silvery eyes’ grasp, he happened to see the brute again.

It was Lent when their next encounter happened. This time, he was donning a military uniform, standing alongside other brutes. That was just like the information that the judge received from his henchman. But as Claude was watching him on the way down from the belltower of Notre Dame, he seemed to be in a hurry. It was probably orders from the higher-ups that forced his presence to be at the archdiocese, guarding the church for this occasion. All the while, the archdeacon went on about his day, as usual. Or that was how he made it seem. Claude played his role perfectly, but that was his job. The people of God cannot rest well if they knew their leader was unwell. In the confines of the glass windows, he stood to catch a glimpse of the silver-eyed man. The way his wavy black hair draped over his shoulder was bewitching, and although Claude called him “brute”, the way he moved was far from that. His elegance reminded him of a noble, and he was sure that eye color was also very uncommon for vermin to have. Sure, he’d seen his fair share of dirty grey eyes like a mouse’s coat, but this was pure silver.

The brute, whose surname Claude remembered to be “Sullivan”, stayed guarding Notre Dame for about a week until Lent was over.

Claude did not realize he was deliberately looking for the man at every turn of the corner. But he did, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. The hellfire was scorching through his veins, burning away every last bit of his being. Alas! For a man of God to bear such thoughts with another man, he was to be punished. Going against God’s will was unthinkable for him. He should not lay with another man, per the holy words of the bible. His mind was once pure, unclouded by lustful thoughts. But in the shadows of this wretched man, he was obsessed. As he took a peek into his own reflection in the mirror, Claude was horrified to find himself changed beyond his imagination. His ashy gray hair framing his face, sunken eyes of a clergyman who’d devoted all his life to serve God that he even neglected his health. At least, he didn’t neglect the task of grooming. But Claude was conscious that he had become unrecognizable from the image of himself that he’d drawn in his head, every morning as he opened his eyes and led the way for Catholic Parisians like a bunch of loyal dogs who tremble in fear in his presence. He was not loved, but feared. Right. That ugly, wretched, poor Quasimodo probably feared him as well.

....

But the man with those silvery, mercury-like eyes that could pierce through one’s heart was… different. He did not fear him. That alone had made him stand out from the rest of the crowd, apart from his astonishing height of course. He was immovable, like the pillars that held the establishment Claude was standing on. Hecouldn’t forget about him, even if he tried to. He’d imagined the devil residing in a gypsy’s heart, and in the hearts of sinners, unsightly preposterous sinners. The man he’d seen carried himself with an air of poise and grace so rare that Claude could swear he’d only seen a handful of those people throughout his miserable life. No one had ever dared to oppose Claude, let alone planting the seeds of eros in him. How could I be led astray by that tramp, Claude thought to himself.

Unless, that was his salvation, sent by God?

Claude couldn’t do anything but pray. He prayed and prayed, asking God for peace of mind. At a point where this self-righteous man had found himself to be shaken by the thoughts of another man, he felt as if the ground under his feet could crumble at any time. Claude had never thought of serving or devoting himself to anyone other than God, ever since he was a young pastor, an inquisitor, a church boy. His life had been all for the Bible studies, for his acts of service for God and Mother Mary, who looked at him from high up above. He had never had a taste of love and affection with another person of his peers. Climbing his way up the hierarchy of the grand church was an unforgiving process that allowed him no friends. Allies, yes, probably, but everyone aimed for their own good in this world. He was used to being alone, fighting his battles by himself.

But it was precisely his loneliness that triggered the downfall in Claude’s image of the perfect man, one that he crafted for him to aim for. The imaginary hands on his shoulders of Helzon Sullivan were warmer than anything he’d ever felt. It made Claude’s entire body shivered in a sense of unwanted joy and shameful yearning. He did not want to yield himself to desires - Claude Frollo was known to have a mind of steel. But just with these thoughts, he was already deeper in this painful yearning more than he ever wished to.

Alone in the chapel of Notre Dame, Claude stared outside, dreading. The clouds have pulled themselves down like dark, thickened cobwebs covering the sky. A storm was coming, and it was coming his way.

(me too lazy to color or draw a new one so I'm gonna an old one)

[msmorningstaarr]

Holy and Heathen - Chapter 1 (Embrace your duty.)

Pairing: young!Oberyn MartellxF!Original Hightower Character

Word count: 7.5k

Chapter warning: emotional incest DEAD DOVE

ao3 | masterlist

SUMMARY: Lady Melara Hightower is the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower and has a distinct, serious and pious personality. She is sent to serve the Faith as a Septa, but her destiny suddenly changes once she becomes betrothed to the heir of Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell. She sees herself living in a land far from hers with distinct habits, dealing with many divergences and a husband far more wild than she could ever expect. Would she be capable of lighting the way of her mind and heart?

(Except for Melara Hightower, all characters do not belong to me but to George RR Martin, author of the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' book series.)

Divider’s credit: @dingusfreakhxrrington

Melara

Another morning. The light of the dawn invaded her chambers and birds sang all along outside Melara’s window, announcing another day to begin. The young girl made her bed and immediately dressed up, ready to do her chores. Her attire covered her body minutiously and made her look as holy and modest as if Melara embodied the perfect definition of the Maiden. She wore a grey wimple, a cover for her long, bright blonde hair. The former lady did her morning prayers and began her day, helping to organise breaking the fast of an Old Septon getting set up, for she was designed to take care of him. 

The life as a Septa in training was not easy, that was true. However, Melara could only embrace her fate since all her marital prospects never really developed well. Surprisingly, being the youngest daughter of eight siblings was quite the lonely experience, despite being rather close to her sister Lynesse. Her mother taught her valuable lessons about womanhood and being a highborn lady but barely shared some bonding with the girl and her siblings seemed to have other aspirations in life. Once she had a blank space in her heart, Faith was a form of consolation and the Septas and Septons became a very close figure in her life, educating and showing the aspects of religion, one of the biggest legacies of House Hightower. Melara knocked at the Septon’s door and slightly opened it with a tray filled with some fruits and bread for the old man.

“Septon Lowan, good morning,” she said, placing the tray on a small table for him. Then, she helped him stand up and change his clothes for the day. 

“Good morning, Lady Melara, it is too early for you to be here. And rather inappropriate for a lady to be in a man’s private chambers.” he said, forgetting that she chose to no longer be a ‘lady’.

“Only Melara, please Your Holiness,” the girl replied, gently. The Septon was on his final days, delusioning and getting weaker and more and more dependent on help. “I am soon to be no longer a lady, for I shall take my definitive vows and become a Septa.” The older Septas in the order designed Melara especially for this job, trying to test the girl and check if she is really willing to take a sacred vow of poverty and follow the faith seriously. The task was hard but even with a confused mind, Melara could learn a great deal from the old Septon.

“You are too little to become a Septa, Lady Melara,” The Septon said, while she settled his attire. His eyes seemed to be numb and lost. “Lord Leyton will certainly be enraged for your boldness, my lady.” Melara remained serious, but tried her best to be kind to the old man.

“I am no longer little, this I can assure you.” she replied, now helping him to get on the chair by the table. She smiled at the fact that the Septon thought she was a child escaping from her castle.

“One day, my lady, when you grow as a woman you will be married to some Lord of great bravery, you will give him many children.” Lowan said, ignoring all the statements the novice made. Melara sighed and tried to send away her sorrowful thoughts about marriage. The novice did not thrive in social life and being the youngest daughter was a major factor to justify the lack of spotlights on her. Melara had no skills to be curtsy, always oblivious to the subjects related to social life, the girl barely left the castle to see the wonders outside Hightower and when she left, there was no one who would dare to come near her, for she always maintained a stern look on her face. Melara could not help but to wonder if there was something wrong with her. Her beauty was quite noticeable, but her devotion to the Seven and bitter behaviour marked her as almost untouchable.

“I shall be a Septa, Your Holiness,” the novice replied while feeding the man. 

“Such a small child knowing so much about yourself,” Lowan replied, mocking the girl after eating another berry. “Go back to Hightower, Lady Melara. Your Lord Father must be searching for you.”

Melara gave up trying to explain her new role to the old Septon, who knew her since she was a babe on a crib. Septon Lowan married her father to her mother and saw her and her siblings getting born, one by one.

“Very well, Septon Lowan. I shall return to Hightower once you are properly fed and dressed, your chambers are cleaned and your pot is empty.” she assured him.

“But that is no chore for a lady!” he immediately replied, shocked. “If Lord Leyton finds out…”

“Lord Leyton will not know, Septon Lowan.” Melara cut his words before the man could get in a spiral of angsty, for believing that she was still a child from House Hightower who would never do such things as cleaning or emptying someone’s pot. “Let us keep it as a secret.” she finalised, making a shushing sign with her fingers on her lips. The man agreed, reluctantly.

“I do not seek any troubles, my lady…” he said, still concerned.

“Do not fret, Your Holiness, for my father will not be in acknowledgement of such things I have been doing at the Sept.” Melara reassured him. “Now that you are properly fed, I must clean your bed. Seems like you peed in it, am I correct?” she asked rhetorically, taking his bed sheets off the bed and putting it in a small basket. The mattress was rightly cleaned alongside other novices and the Old Septon got back to his bed so he could rest. “Now you drink this, Septon Lowan.” the girl said, giving him the milk of the poppy.

“What is this, my lady?” he asked, confused.

“Something to ease your mind, Your Holiness.” she replied simply, watching him drink the liquid. 

To gain his trust was no hardship, since he knew her for a long time. However, as the days passed by, Lowan was getting a bit difficult to deal with and pain was taking control of his body. The milk of the poppy helped him not feel any of these things and made him rest, waiting for The Stranger to pay its visit and take Septon Lowan with him. After that eventful morning, Melara left for her lessons where she would do her daily practices, involving learning about its rituals, history, theology and join the Septon responsible for the Sept order she joined to clean and organise the place, making sure there is fire to light a candle, a match to lead the fire and a solace words for anyone who needed it.

“Have you heard the news, sister?” asked Saranella, another novice, whispering at Melara while both the girls took old candles to pour them out and place new candles in disposition in the Sept. Melara looked at her with confusion.

“What news, sister?” Melara asked back.

“Lady Lynesse Hightower got married at the end of the tourney in Lannisport,” the novice whispered. Melara raised an eyebrow, but internally cheered for her blood sister. “They say she had no consent from her father, but ran to the nearest Sept and married the man who crowned his Queen of love and beauty, leaving to Bear Island against her father’s will” the woman said, playfully smiling.

“I am sure that Lady Lynesse is a dutiful and pious woman,” Melara said, trying to cut any kind of ill gossip about her family. 

“Apparently not very much so, sister.” Saranella mocked. “I heard she was to marry Prince Oberyn Martell… and Bear Island is not his seat.”

“Let us remember this is a Sept, a holy place, sister. Make sure to keep your thoughts clean, away from vile words against an estimated Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.” she finished, throwing daggers at Saranella for those provocative words. The other novice could only notice how those news affected Melara.

“Such a strange coincidence, an estimated lady being so well defended by a simple novice,” the woman provoked. “Are you truly our sister, Lady Melara? Or do you still hold feelings for your home castle and kin?”  

Melara turned her gaze to Saranella and did not show any kind of emotion.

“My place is here now, sister. Any different word is untrue.” she said and walked away from the other girl. Those news certainly hit her in a different spot, since she knew her father had different plans for Lynesse. His biggest goal was to increase his power and alliances, bringing Dorne closer to the Reach and make the beautiful Hightower sister be the next consort Princess of Dorne. The novice thought about how furious her father must have been furious with this escapade that put House Hightower in ill comments across the realm. She also thought about how Lynesse’s former family betrothed reacted to the escaping bride and how outraged Prince Oberyn must have been, for a bride was promised and an oath was broken.

*******

At night, Melara was drained for all her exhausting day, but it was not at its end. The girl had to serve supper to Septon Lowan and change his clothes to prepare him to sleep. Once more, the girl got into the old man’s chambers with a tray, now with a soup full of well cooked vegetables and grains for him.

“Good evening, Your Holiness,” said Melara, placing the tray over the table near his bed. The Septon looked at her, a bit concerned with her presence.

“Who are you?” he asked, completely aloof from her presence.

“Novice Melara, Your Holiness.” she replied, helping him get up. However, the man immediately rejected and tried to stay away from Melara.

“You are not Lady Melara! You are inventing such a story!” Screamed the man, delusioning.

“Trust me, Septon Lowan. It is me, Lady Melara of House Hightower, remember?” she tried to calm him down, using fragments of his memory in her favour. Melara was utterly tired and a tantrum was not in her plans.

“Lady Melara returned to Hightower! Liar! I shall call the guards!” he screamed once more. Melara remained quiet and tried to immobilise Lowan to make him look at her.

“Look at me, Septon Lowan. It is me, Lady Melara Hightower.” she started, still free of any expression on her face. “I joined the Faith and I will take my vows to become a Septa officially. I was designed to take care of you here, do you remember it?” she asked once more and slowly, the man came to reason.

“Lady Melara, such a nice surprise to see you!” he said, swiftly changing his mood to a warm and gentle one. “It is too late for a lady to be here. Perhaps you should go home.” 

“My home is here now, Septon Lowan.” she replied, sitting the man on his bed to eat.

“You belong in a Castle, because you are a Lady of a great House.” Lowan said, while she placed the tray in front of him and got a spoon with a bit of soup for him. “No, my lady, I cannot accept you doing such job. I must call a proper Septa for this.” the old man tried to leave the bed, but Melara quickly forbade him.

“I will allow no such thing, Your Holiness,” she said, quickly. “I need you to remember I am no longer a lady, but a novice.”

“I am afraid you are not telling me the truth, Lady Melara.” he said to her, reluctantly eating the soup she was giving him.

“You have no need to call me ‘lady’, Septon.” she reassured him. “If it serves as any kind of assurance, my father, Lord Leyton Hightower knows I am here and consented that I join the order.”

After swallowing another bit of his soup, he smiled kindly at the girl. “I remember you as a child and not giving anyone a single smile, the exact opposite of Lady Lynesse.”

Melara sighed and agreed. She was well aware of her seriousness and lack of smiles but that did not bothered at all.

“It is just not my strength to be curtsy, Your Holiness.” she said, pointing the spoon to his mouth.

“It should be. Your Septa must have taught you that you must be curtsy to gain affections of your future Lord Husband.” Lowan fell into his delusion once more, making Melara sigh again. She gave up and just tried to assuage her mind and his too, making him believe she was a lady escaping her castle.

“I shall listen to your advices, Septon Lowan.” she just replied, quietly.

“I am afraid your future husband must call a jester to take a smile from your face,” mocked the elderly man. 

“I assure you there is no need for it, Septon Lowan.” and Melara gave him another spoon of his supper. “You seem to be quite insistent on this subject.” 

“What subject, my lady?” he asked, after swallowing his soup.

“My marital prospects.” Melara replied, wiping his lips.

In a moment of silence, Septon Lowan seemed to be choosing his words more wisely and stared at the novice for a while, before speaking. Then, lucidity seemed to hover on his mind.

“The Gods are good, Lady Melara. Trust me,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“I trust you and the Seven, Your Holiness.” she replied, earnestly.

“Good, my lady. You shall be a light at your future castle.” he replied, finishing his supper.

“Your words honours me, Your Holiness. But I shall remain here, remember?” she reminded him. “I will take my vows in a fortnight.”

“Have your father allowed you to join?” he asked once more, forgetting all their past conversations. Melara sighed and squeezed the ancient man’s hand.

“Yes, Your Holiness. He is aware.” she explains. 

After his supper, Melara gave him the milk of the poppy so he could sleep properly. She changed his clothes and made sure she would only leave after he fell asleep. Then, she headed to her quarters, where she finally could wear a mild white night shift and finally take off her wimple and see her hair on full display. She did her nightly prayers and prayed to The Crone to give her strength to follow her journey until the day she would finally take her sacred vows. Melara had joined the order for nearly six months and at her first days she wanted to give up and return to her castle to live as a spinster for the rest of her life, the weight of taking such decision was taken as a whim for many people in the order, that knew how wealthy her family is. Now that her final day to take her definitive vows was arriving, she seemed more certain that her fate was sealed and that made her feel comforted by this future. 

The former lady was tempted and teased for a time, being taken as a ‘spoiled little lady’ that would never fit in such a simple and hardworking way of life. Surprisingly, people were being proven wrong since she enjoyed all the labour and did all her chores, even the most degrading ones, such as cleaning the Old Septon’s shit in his bed or his pot with ease and no complaining, being very patient to people, albeit people related to her severity, worthy of a Septa. Being a burden to her parents was something that consumed her soul deeply, once the girl had no desire to be another situation for her mother and father and felt like she wanted to do something with her life, something that would compensate for the fact she could not hold such power in catching some Lord’s attention like her sisters did. 

Melara had eight siblings: Baelor, Malora, Alerie, Garth, Denyse, Leyla, Alysanne and Lynesse. However, she grew up more closely to Lynesse for them to be the youngest children in the House. Malora, even being the firstborn daughter was not even close to be considered as a suitable partner for any man, due to her mentally odd state of mind. Lynesse is a true beauty though and quite close to Melara due to their similar age, but her sister was rather involved in playing with other ladies, singing songs, dancing and playing the ‘kiss game’. Lynesse was an eye sore and of that Melara had no doubt. Still, she could not avoid comparing herself to her sister, with her sensitive and outgoing nature, with her ability to bond with people and enchant whomever crossed her way, a skill Melara lacked in her personality.

Baelor is tall, handsome and gentle, qualities that many ladies would cherish dearly. His smile was wide and his nickname was “Baelor Brightsmile”. He was about to arrange a betrothal with Princess Elia Martell, accomplishing the hard task it was being approved by her eldest brother, Prince Oberyn of House Martell, but it did not went well once the dornish prince started calling her brother “Baelor Breakwind” when he accidentally let go a flatulence around the dornish princess, that could no longer hold her laughing whenever she saw Baelor. After this occurrence, Baelor ended up marrying a fine lady from House Rowan.

In the end, most of her siblings were properly married and continuing their bloodline, giving procedure to House Hightower lineage. there was only left for Melara to arrange something that gave her life purpose. She was taught her whole life she would be a lady of a castle somewhere, but Melara somehow felt that the Gods had prepared her path to be different and now everything seemed to be true. The novice felt a certain unease sometimes, for she thought about experiencing being loved by a husband, having children and getting married with a beautiful Ivory dress, spending days and months making her cloak for her groom to put her under his protection and wear the sigil of his House to be his dutiful wife. But the years kept passing and many houses rejected her. In the Reach, her reputation as a deeply quiet, bitter and serious woman spread all across the country. In the Stormlands, she thought about the idea of marrying Stannis Baratheon once she saw him at the tourney in Steffon Baratheon’s favour, since she saw how quiet he was and somehow related to him, even if from afar. However, he was fastly betrothed to Lady Ceryse Florent. Some Frey Lords made a marital proposal to the Hightower, but Lord Leyton rejected the idea, since he had expected better proposals for Melara. 

The novice reflected about all these aspects of her life and she would wonder every night how life would end if in the end she turned out to be a lady. She enjoyed the simple life she was taking and had no intentions of coming back to her old home, but her mind every night caught her with these ruminations. With so many troubled things going on in her mind, she could finally get some sleep after a long day.

*******

— Present —

In King’s Landing, the air stinks and the streets are full of commoners, whores and street urchins. Oberyn loathed to be at the capital and hated that his sister was now part of the Game of Thrones. For the Prince, no one could ever be good enough for his beloved sister Elia, not even the ethereal Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Their wedding match was taken as a victory to House Martell and his mother, Princess Ysilla, but as a loss to himself. 

“You look marvellous.” Oberyn said to Elia, admiring his sister. Elia smiled widely at her brother.

“Thank you, brother.” The princess replied, with eyes fluttering with happiness and leaned her forehead on his, allowing them to look at themselves more closely for the last time. Elia rejected one half of her suitable husbands while Oberyn rejected the other part he found simply distasteful; she only stopped in King’s Landing, leaving her position as Princess of Dorne to assume the role as Princess of Dragonstone besides Rhaegar. On her wedding day, Oberyn would walk her to the altar and deliver her to her future husband, accomplishing his task as the only male in their household. “You should be first, but unusually will be next. I want to see you putting on the cloak to protect your future princess.” she mocked. It was indeed unusual to have a younger daughter marrying before the heir of the family, but Oberyn managed to postpone his own marriage and Elia’s wedding was practically all set up, so there was no turning back.

Outside the chariot, the smallfolk cheered their new princess and wished her good fortune. Some of them wanted to see her in person, her wedding dress or her olive skin tone. Oberyn squeezed his sister’s hands, kissed her ear slowly and chuckled at her last words.

“I do not wish to get married, little sister.” he replied, arrogant as always. “I don’t believe in such things and therefore I will wed no Lady.”

“Oh, but you will. For you are the heir of Dorne, the next Prince.” Elia caressed his jawline and tenderly brushed one of his curls falling on his face. “Whomever she is, will be a fine lady wife for you.”

Oberyn sighed and chuckled. “I am sure she will never be a better company than you.” he says, looking at his sister’s eyes. “And I believe you are in acknowledge that Lady Lynesse Hightower is happily married already, unfortunately, not with me.” sighing and faking a sorrowful expression, he told the truth to his sister, which raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Did you make the girl fall in disgrace because you do not wish to marry her? ” she asked, looking at him suspiciously, her brother smirked. “ Oberyn…”

“No need to be nervous, my dear sister. This is your day.” he said, caressing her cheek. “But I would be happier if you took my place as the heir instead of me, albeit being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms fit you quite too well, my princess.” 

“I could only rule Dorne with you by my side.” she caressed his face once more, with a slight smirk.

“Then allow me to take you back to Sunspear and wed yourself to me, you could rule in my name while my duty is to keep you happy.” Slowly, Oberyn kissed her fingers and interlaced it with his own fingers. His gaze was lingering on hers.

Elia giggled and looked through the window of her chariot once it stopped in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. The tension increased fastly, but none of them seemed to care. “I belong here now, and you belong to Sunspear with a suitable wife. Embrace your duty as I embrace mine.” 

Oberyn looked at her in silence for considerable seconds and kissed her cheeks and forehead again, caressing her chin. “I shall miss you dearly, Elia.” he said, kissing her fingers once more.

“I shall miss you too, Oberyn.” Elia said, kissing his fingers. Her faces were close and foreheads touching each other, their fingers gently caressed each other’s,  but quickly broke the moment once they realised what was so close to happen. Outside, the knights of the Kingsguard awaited for her and her sibling to leave the transportation. Oberyn left the chariage first and helped her come out of it. Many peasants screamed her name and Elia smiled and waved at her future subjects, being the nice and tender person she was. 

The now princess of Dragonstone walked with majesty besides her brother on the Sept, wearing an white dress, long with a tail full of embroidery detailed with the suns of House Martell. Her attire had no sleeves, except for pieces of silk involving her arms with small details and strings of gold on her waist and shoulders, always proud of her Dornish origins. As for the jewellery, she wore a golden small tiara with rubies in it and on her neck a golden necklace with the sigil of House Targaryen and House Martell, honouring her husband’s household, besides her earrings and fingers full of rings as well. She looked like the personification of the Maiden coming to life walking towards Rhaegar. Once Oberyn delivered her to the silver prince, the ceremony started by the High Septon.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” and so did Rhaegar, putting the ancient cloak from House Martell around Elia, who could not stop smiling. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

They join hands and the Septon ties their hands with a ribbon, uniting the new couple. “Let it be known that Princess Elia of House Martell and Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days.

Those words echoed on Oberyn’s head. He lost his Elia to Rhaegar for life, from now on there was no turning back. His sister was the most beautiful woman, the kindest, the most lovely person he has ever met. The Prince watched them consolidating their vows and it made him wonder what his future could be now that his freedom had its days counted. He had given little attention to this, because he did what he wanted, it has always been this way and when he saw, things changed swiftly and he felt like he had so little control of his life, which made him grow sad and angry. However, he could only hope Elia could be happy and Rhaegar loved her as he loved her. Watching his sister finally kissing her husband and listening to the cheering all over the Sept, he also watched his mother smirk and smile in relief after succeedingly marrying his daughter to Rhaegar, after Lord Tywin Lannister despised them and rejected her marriage proposal.

“Do you believe Elia will be truly happy in this place? Surrounded by these power hungry cunts?” Oberyn asked his mother.

“I could only hope for this, my son.” Princess Ysilla said, quietly.

Being the heir of his House was certainly a misfortune for Oberyn, who despite being well aware of politics and ruling, was simply not interested in it. He wanted a life full of pleasures and freedom with no attachments to a family, a dutiful wife or administrating Dorne, he wanted Elia to inherit, once he thought she fitted much better than him. At the feast, Oberyn and Ysilla sat by the Royal table alongside Queen Rhaella and Rhaegar. King Aerys refused to pay for his appearances at his own heir’s wedding.

“And the cunt of the King didn’t even have the balls to appear at his son’s wedding,” Oberyn said, with a cocky grin. “I have heard the man is growing mad, don’t even trim the hair of his face or cunt.” he mocked.

“Speak lower, for the walls in King’s Landing can hear you and the wind send your secrets to unrequited ears.” his mother said, almost whispering.

“Fuck the walls.” Oberyn immediately replied, staring at some blank space.

“Brave of you to say it, but as your princess I command you to watch your mouth.” Ysilla said, holding her laugh. “We can talk about it once we return to Dorne.”

Oberyn was chaotic and restless, impulsive and quick to anger, traits that made him lead Dorne to chaos. Once he became known as ‘The Red Viper’ after poisoning Lord Yronwood, Princess Ysilla had a hard time trying to make amends and repairing all the damage he did in dornish politics. In King’s Landing, she was making sure he would not kill or ruin anything to Elia with his temper.

“Gods, that motherfucker old lion must be dying inside knowing our Elia sits beside Rhaegar now.”

“I would kill a thousand men just to see the look on his face.” Oberyn laughed after whispering his words. He looked at Rhaegar and Elia, eating cake from each other’s plates and smiling with fondness. A wave of jealousy hit Oberyn right on his chest and his expression grew bitter.

“I know what you did.” The woman beside him was beautiful even at a mature age. Long, dark curls falling over her upper body and contrasting with her tanned skin, big eyes with small wrinkles at the side of her eyes, expressing her age along the years that passed by. Ysilla, being the current ruler of Dorne, had no time to waste and she did not enjoy to be taken as a fool, especially from her own kin.

“I am afraid you need to develop this thought, mother.”

“In Lannisport. A lady, promised to be your wife, ends up being married to the man who crowned her his Queen of love and beauty,” Ysilla gave him a bitter laugh. “I kept this to myself since the tourney, waiting for you to tell me the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?” he asked, playing naive.

“That you helped your former betrothed to escape.” 

Oberyn chuckled and drank his wine. “This wine is distasteful and tastes like piss.” he said, making a disgusted expression. “I will not deny your statement.”

“You must think of yourself as the boldest of men for going against your princess and ruler's wills,” Ysilla said, sternly. “You will take a bride to call yours.”

“You gave me a bride I did not choose,” he replied, with a sarcastic smirk.

“The bride you chose in your heart you cannot have.” she said, looking at Elia, that had a jolly expression on her face from afar with her husband.

“If she and I were Targaryens, no one would say a word on this subject.”

“Yet, you are a Martell from Dorne.” 

“And very proud of it.” he said, facing Elia as well.

The princess mother yearned to send Elia away. Not because she had no love for her daughter, but because she always noticed how the siblings looked at each other, the small touches and the unhealthy jealousy Oberyn nurtured for Elia. To her and her passed husband, that was borderline incestuous. 

“I know that you are,” she said, drinking her own wine. “I ran all across the Seven Kingdoms and I gave you the opportunity to pick a bride of your choosing and yet no one seemed to be worthy of you. I was running out of patience and in need of heirs.”

“I understand your reasons, mother. No need to worry about making me understand it. Although I do not regret making Lady Lynesse leave this betrothal. We return the dowry to the Hightowers and right on time I shall find a perfect bride for me, since my ideal wife is already taken by this cunt of a prince.”

The princess mother looked at her son with a brow raised.

“I learned my mind I am not capable of holding you down, my son,” she said, finally looking at Oberyn. “But I am a stubborn woman.”

The Princess ruler had a hard time birthing her children. She had stillborns, infants that died in early infancy and uncountable miscarriages. When Oberyn was born, she cared for him as if he was the most rare piece of thing in the world, no one could come near him. However, as the years went by, her little Prince was showing to have an unique charisma, a natural talent for fighting and a fire in his heart, full of desires and lust for life. 

The prince, intrigued, narrowed his eyes and his smirk faded.

“Speak plainly, mother.” he said, trying to avoid his concerns.

“There is no such thing as returning the gold that was given to ourselves, a bride was promised and a bride you shall have. You will get married and put a babe on your wife’s belly.”

“I already have two babies of my own.” 

“I do not care if you have your two girls. I love my grandchildren dearly,” the princess mother said, clearly annoyed by the laughing on his face. “But they are bastards.”

Oberyn undeniably loved Obara and Nymeria dearly and wanted them to be extensions of him, his perfect warriors and great human beings. Even at a young age, he seemed also to be very interested in raising his children and people in Sunspear also were delighted by the infants. The lad looked at his mother and faced Elia once more, watching her interacting with people around. 

The prince raised his gaze and stopped drinking the wine from his goblet and fixed his posture on the chair and started eating some potato on his plate. His mouth kept shut listening to his mother for a time.

“They are my daughters and once Rhaegar ascends to the throne, which won’t take quite long since… you know,” he mocked and laughed. “Obara will be legitimised and my heir and I will not be in need to be wedded.”

“You find it amusing, I suppose. To send away your bride in secret as if it wouldn’t bring mockery over our family.” she said, looking at a blank spot away from them while the music played loudly at the wedding feast. “I can understand how you demand perfection for your bride, after all, she will be your consort after I pass,” the princess started. “Still, I cannot avoid the feeling I am getting running out of time and as your Princess and your mother, I must confess I keep my alliances.”

“Keeping alliances?” He raised an eyebrow, knowing what she is talking about but wanting to listen to the words coming out of her mind.

“Yes.” she replied, mysteriously. 

“If I remember well, all the daughters from House Hightower are wedded or unable to marry,” 

“Not really, son.” she said. “Tomorrow, we depart from this shithole back to Dorne with your new betrothed.” 

The distaste in Oberyn’s face was visible. Truth be said, the marital prospects for him were at difficulty either, not something he would complain about. Dorne was quite mysterious and open for imagination for the northerners, who could only wonder what happened at the sultry mountains of sand and high heated streets of Sunspear. The reputation Oberyn built for himself across the country did not help him either, with expensive taste for people and fathering bastards to take them as his children. Inside Dorne, many lords were not in favour of Oberyn’s claim to inheritance especially after his duel with Lord Yronwood and therefore, not so many lords offered their daughters in marriage due to his ruthless fame. Still, an unlikely alliance was born from a Lord of an ancient house of the Reach and Ysilla did not intend to let it go. He thought of Elia and leaving her behind with Rhaegar because he would marry another woman. Oberyn wished he could take Elia as his wife, once she was the only woman he saw as worthy of his affections.

“No matter how many times you pout like a little child, no one walks away from me, Oberyn,” said his mother.

“I am not walking away from you, mother.” he said, annoyed.

“Then great! You are to be wedded as soon as we return to Dorne,” Ysilla caressed his jawline with her fingertips in sarcasm. “You are no longer a boy, you are twenty and it is time for you to support your house, to support your mother.”

During her reign, Ysilla could understand and recognize that Dorne needed to enforce its alliances, no matter how unbowed, non bendable and unbreakable they were, a country politically so distant could be rather dangerous. Joanna Lannister, one of her dearest friends arranged a betrothal between their children but it went all dismissed after her death. Ysilla sighed and fiddled her fingers, standing up to socialise with people alongside Oberyn, walking around the wedding feast, after curtsying some lords and ladies, an infamous company approached the prince and princess with a wide smile.

“Princess Ysilla,” Queen Rhaella smiled and gave a curtsy to her old friend. “Prince Oberyn, how grown you seem to be.” The Queen looked at Oberyn with sympathy, even having sad eyes.

“My Queen,” mother and son bowed and said in unison. 

“I must say you look exquisitely divine, Your Grace. Clearly the finest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.” Oberyn leaned and kissed the back of Rhaella’s hand with his flirty nature. The Queen’s cheek flushed with Oberyn’s flirtatious look, something he used to do involuntarily. 

“I have missed you, Your Grace.” Ysilla said, holding Rhaella’s hands. She noticed how Rhaella seemed to be downcast, the rumours about the King’s behaviour towards her made justice to her face, that only looked jolly and jovial. Still, she was undoubtedly beautiful.

“Oh, I miss you too, Princess,” Rhaella said, with a soft smile. “Good times of our youth when you were my lady-in-waiting.” 

“Good times indeed,” his mother said. “But now you have a piece of me here, to keep you company.” and they turned their gaze at Elia and Rhaegar.

“I am sure she is a delightful addition to our family, and so do you,” Rhaella said, kindly looking at the dornish mother and son.

“We are more than happy to join our families by marriage, my Queen.” Oberyn said. “Such a shame that Our Grace the King could not make his acquaintance today.” And once he said it, Rhaella lowered her gaze and had a disguised sorrow in her eyes.

“My husband does not feel well enough to make his presence, but he is heartbroken he’s not present here today, my friend.” Rhaella reassured, Oberyn raised his eyebrow with a clear sarcasm on his face. “I have heard you are to be wedded too, my Prince.”

“Oh, but he is. Lady Melara Hightower.” Her name was revealed to Oberyn. If he remembered well, the girl was promised to the Faith to become a Septa.

“I never saw Lady Melara in person, but I believe she must be a fine lady. Albeit I know her family is here,” Unusual or not, Oberyn felt a rush on his spine. “And will make a fine princess consort too.” Queen Rhaella said and Ysilla smiled in curtsy at her friend. Oberyn disguised a smile to the Queen and got a goblet of wine for him.

House Hightower is as rich as the Lannisters and very close to the Faith of The Seven, since the seat of the religion is located in Oldtown, homeland of House Hightower. Lord Leyton, head of the house and Melara’s father was a man that yearned for power, trying to bring and increase his power with all he could take, his sons would clearly be a pawn in his game. With reluctance, he allowed his daughter to join the order, however, his schemes never stopped. He had plans for his last remaining daughter.

“It is a shame she is known to be a prude. I preferred her sister but the Gods sent me their vassal.” Oberyn mocked, Ysilla’s expression went sour immediately for his behaviour in front of the Queen.

“She shall be a light to your castle, Prince Oberyn.” Rhaella tried to reason, noticing the tension between the Martells. “Have you met the girl yet? She may surprise you after all.”

“Briefly, my Queen.” Oberyn responds in a gentle tone, for the Queen had been nothing but kind to him and his mother. “I must confess to you I was hoping our Princess would inherit Dorne. But she certainly fits well besides Rhaegar too.” he said, looking at Elia, who smiled at him with her husband by her side. Rhaella giggled for the first time and Oberyn smiled at the Queen, noticing how pretty she was and thought about the waste she was being locked with a man who treated her poorly. Everyone knew what he did to her and yet no one had the balls to save the Queen, that infuriated him and made him question if they would treat Elia truly well.

“Oberyn says nonsense things from time after time. He is more than thrilled to wed his future bride.” Ysilla spoke, trying to ease things on Oberyn.

“Oh, my Queen. I wish my mother was right, for I have no intentions to marry nor have any desire to hide this feeling.” he replied, with a bitter grin. Rhaella seemed to care very little for it. “If the two of you don’t mind, I would like to enjoy my last breath of freedom.” he said bowing at his mom and the Valyrian Queen. Oberyn walked towards his sister, who danced with Rhaegar.

“Prince Rhaegar, if you excuse me,” Oberyn said, smiling playfully at them and extending his arm to Elia dance with him.

“Of course, Prince Oberyn. My love, ” he delivered Elia’s hand to her brother and they started dancing. Ysilla watched everything with a displeased look.

“My love?” he said, leading Elia while they danced.

“He is my husband, brother. It is only logical,” the princess replied, spinning along with him.

“I hope he treats you the way you deserve.” 

“He is very kind and sweet, ‘tis I can assure you.” 

“He is not me.” Oberyn said, squeezing her hand.

“You occupy a different position in my life, brother . Besides, I am married now.” she said, clapping her hands and following the dance steps. “And your bride is right there, waiting just for you.”

“I am not jealous, my dear sister.” he replied, grinning. 

“Ask her for a dance and get to know her.” Elia said, trying to change the subject.

“I am more interested in dancing with you, my beloved sister. I’m concerned about your well-being after noticing the state of your mother by marriage.” he said, discreetly looking at Rhaella talking to their mother while they danced. 

“Rhaegar is not his father.”

“This cunt of a King was nothing like he is now. At his first sign of madness you send me a raven and I shall rescue you with an army behind me.” 

“Brother, you are overreacting, for my marriage has only started.” she said, looking at Rhaegar who now spoke to their mother.

“And I wish for you to be happy and safe, my sweet girl.” 

“I am no longer a girl,” 

“‘Tis I know,” he replied, grinning. 

Elia laughed along with her brother and caressed his face with tenderness. “Go dance with your betrothed. You haven’t spoken to her yet, but I have.”

“You have?”

“I have. She is as serious as she was when we were in Oldtown, but very polite.”

From afar, Oberyn watched the Hightowers of Oldtown. He had been in their presence before once or two times, one when they visit Hightower and another time at the Lannisport tourney where he was supposed to take Lynesse as his wife, but he helped the girl to escape with a northerner lord she fell in love with during that tourney. However, he had never seen Melara very closely, at least had not paid any attention to her. 

She was thin and blonde like his former betrothed, with a long and half braided hair on the top of her head, a typical Southern hairstyle. Her blondness shines under the sun reflecting on the solar of the Red Keep and Oberyn found her to be stunning at first sight, even much more than Lynesse, his former bride. Her gown was a strapless light blue dress, showing off her collarbone with a golden necklace on display, with emeralds and diamonds carved in it. However, the girl was far more serious than her sisters. Melara never opened a smile, one single bit and seemed to be uncomfortable around all these people, an outsider and Oberyn could feel it from miles away. Still, she looked beautiful, almost as beautiful as Elia.

“Very well,” he said, stopping the dance. “Only because you asked to.” and then, the Prince took his sister back to her husband and noticed that Melara looked at him from afar as well. Her eyes were blue as the sea and skin as pale as a Valyrian woman, Oberyn thought she resembled too much of Queen Rhaella, even the melancholy on her eyes, the shadow of seriousness on her pretty face and lack of words coming out of her lips. Yet, her eyes spoke for herself, he thought. 

The look on her face seemed to be too profound and full of words, thoughts and feelings but at the same time emotionless, Oberyn knew that from now on his life has changed by her. Melara knew that from that day her life would change for him and by him.

[orthodoxydaily]

SAINTS&READING: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5, 2024

september 22_october 5

THE HOLY PROPHET JONAH (9th c. B.C.)

The Holy Prophet Jonah lived in the eighth century before the birth of Christ and was a successor of the Prophet Elisha. The Book of the Prophet Jonah contains prophecies about the judgments on the Israelite nation, the sufferings of the Savior, the downfall of Jerusalem, and the end of the world. Besides the prophecies, the Book of Jonah relates how he was sent to the Ninevites to preach repentance (Jon. 3: 3-10).

Our Lord Jesus Christ, addressing the Scribes and the Pharisees who demanded a sign from Him, said that no sign would be given except for the sign of the Prophet Jonah, “As Jonah was in the belly of the whale three days and three nights, so also shall the Son of Man be in the heart of the earth three days and three nights” (Mt. 12: 40). From these words the Lord shows clearly the symbolic meaning of the Book of the Prophet Jonah about Christ’s death on the Cross, descent into Hell, and the Resurrection.

Reproaching the lack of penitence and recalcitrance of the Jews, the Lord said, “The Ninevites shall rise in the judgment with this generation and will condemn it, because they repented at the preaching of Jonah; and one greater than Jonah is here” (Mt. 12: 41).

ST PETER THE TAX COLLECTOR OF CONSTANTINOPLE (6th.c)

Saint Peter, Former Tax-Collector, was the chief collector of taxes in Africa in the service of the emperor Justinian (527-565). He was a cruel and merciless man.

One day he threw a morsel of bread to a beggar who annoyed him by incessantly begging alms. In a vision Peter saw himself as dead and how the holy Angels weighed his deeds on the scale of the righteous judgment of God. On the side of good deeds nothing was placed except a morsel of bread, thrown at the beggar, but this prevented the opposite side from being pulled down by his vicious deeds.

Peter pondered the meaning of the dream, and thought that if one loaf of bread, thrown involuntarily, was of such help to him, then he might receive much more help for good deeds performed with compassion and from the heart. He repented and completely changed his life. He liberally distributed alms to the needy, and fed and clothed many.

One day, in a dream, Peter saw Jesus Christ. The Lord was dressed in clothes which the saint once gave to a beggar. Peter then distributed his substance to the poor and ordered his slave to sell him into slavery and to give the money to the poor. The slave reluctantly carried out the orders of his master.

For many years, Saint Peter worked diligently and humbly for his master. One day, he was recognized by tradesmen to whom he had been known earlier. They told the master who his servant was. Having overheard this conversation, the saint quickly fled from the city. In departing, he worked a miracle: the gatekeeper, a deaf-mute slave, was ordered by Saint Peter to open the gates in the name of Jesus Christ. He fulfilled the command and at once received his hearing and speech. He rushed around everywhere to tell his master and added that when the saint commanded him to open the gates, fire came forth from his mouth, touching his face, after which he began to hear and speak. Everyone went to look for Peter, but the search proved in vain. The saint hid and remained hidden until his death.

The life of Saint Peter was passed along by Saint John the Merciful, Patriarch of Alexandria (November 12), who in turn knew it from a man personally acquainted with the saint.

Saint Peter is commemorated on January 20 according to Greek usage.

1 Corinthians 4:17-5:5

17 For this reason I have sent Timothy to you, who is my beloved and faithful son in the Lord, who will remind you of my ways in Christ, as I teach everywhere in every church. 18 Now some are puffed up, as though I were not coming to you. 19 But I will come to you shortly, if the Lord wills, and I will know, not the word of those who are puffed up, but the power. 20 For the kingdom of God is not in word but in power. 21 What do you want? Shall I come to you with a rod, or in love and a spirit of gentleness?

1 It is actually reported that there is sexual immorality among you, and such sexual immorality as is not even named among the Gentiles-that a man has his father's wife! 2 And you are puffed up, and have not rather mourned, that he who has done this deed might be taken away from among you. 3 For I indeed, as absent in body but present in spirit, have already judged (as though I were present) him who has so done this deed. 4 In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, when you are gathered together, along with my spirit, with the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, 5 deliver such a one to Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that his spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.

Luke 4:31-36

31 Then He went down to Capernaum, a city of Galilee, and was teaching them on the Sabbaths. 32 And they were astonished at His teaching, for His word was with authority. 33 Now in the synagogue there was a man who had a spirit of an unclean demon. And he cried out with a loud voice, 34 saying, "Let us alone! What have we to do with You, Jesus of Nazareth? Did You come to destroy us? I know who You are-the Holy One of God!" 35 But Jesus rebuked him, saying, "Be quiet, and come out of him!" And when the demon had thrown him in their midst, it came out of him and did not hurt him. 36 Then they were all amazed and spoke among themselves, saying, "What a word this is! For with authority and power He commands the unclean spirits, and they come out."

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread

1 The Lord said to Moses and Aaron in Egypt, 2 “This month is to be for you the first month, the first month of your year. 3 Tell the whole community of Israel that on the tenth day of this month each man is to take a lamb for his family, one for each household. 4 If any household is too small for a whole lamb, they must share one with their nearest neighbor, having taken into account the number of people there are. You are to determine the amount of lamb needed in accordance with what each person will eat. 5 The animals you choose must be year-old males without defect, and you may take them from the sheep or the goats. 6 Take care of them until the fourteenth day of the month, when all the members of the community of Israel must slaughter them at twilight. 7 Then they are to take some of the blood and put it on the sides and tops of the doorframes of the houses where they eat the lambs. 8 That same night they are to eat the meat roasted over the fire, along with bitter herbs, and bread made without yeast. 9 Do not eat the meat raw or boiled in water, but roast it over a fire—with the head, legs and internal organs. 10 Do not leave any of it till morning; if some is left till morning, you must burn it. 11 This is how you are to eat it: with your cloak tucked into your belt, your sandals on your feet and your staff in your hand. Eat it in haste; it is the Lord’s Passover.

12 “On that same night I will pass through Egypt and strike down every firstborn of both people and animals, and I will bring judgment on all the gods of Egypt. I am the Lord. 13 The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are, and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike Egypt.

14 “This is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord—a lasting ordinance. 15 For seven days you are to eat bread made without yeast. On the first day remove the yeast from your houses, for whoever eats anything with yeast in it from the first day through the seventh must be cut off from Israel. 16 On the first day hold a sacred assembly, and another one on the seventh day. Do no work at all on these days, except to prepare food for everyone to eat; that is all you may do.

17 “Celebrate the Festival of Unleavened Bread, because it was on this very day that I brought your divisions out of Egypt. Celebrate this day as a lasting ordinance for the generations to come. 18 In the first month you are to eat bread made without yeast, from the evening of the fourteenth day until the evening of the twenty-first day. 19 For seven days no yeast is to be found in your houses. And anyone, whether foreigner or native-born, who eats anything with yeast in it must be cut off from the community of Israel. 20 Eat nothing made with yeast. Wherever you live, you must eat unleavened bread.”

21 Then Moses summoned all the elders of Israel and said to them, “Go at once and select the animals for your families and slaughter the Passover lamb. 22 Take a bunch of hyssop, dip it into the blood in the basin and put some of the blood on the top and on both sides of the doorframe. None of you shall go out of the door of your house until morning. 23 When the Lord goes through the land to strike down the Egyptians, he will see the blood on the top and sides of the doorframe and will pass over that doorway, and he will not permit the destroyer to enter your houses and strike you down.

24 “Obey these instructions as a lasting ordinance for you and your descendants. 25 When you enter the land that the Lord will give you as he promised, observe this ceremony. 26 And when your children ask you, ‘What does this ceremony mean to you?’ 27 then tell them, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and spared our homes when he struck down the Egyptians.’” Then the people bowed down and worshiped. 28 The Israelites did just what the Lord commanded Moses and Aaron.

29 At midnight the Lord struck down all the firstborn in Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh, who sat on the throne, to the firstborn of the prisoner, who was in the dungeon, and the firstborn of all the livestock as well. 30 Pharaoh and all his officials and all the Egyptians got up during the night, and there was loud wailing in Egypt, for there was not a house without someone dead.

The Exodus

31 During the night Pharaoh summoned Moses and Aaron and said, “Up! Leave my people, you and the Israelites! Go, worship the Lord as you have requested. 32 Take your flocks and herds, as you have said, and go. And also bless me.”

33 The Egyptians urged the people to hurry and leave the country. “For otherwise,” they said, “we will all die!” 34 So the people took their dough before the yeast was added, and carried it on their shoulders in kneading troughs wrapped in clothing. 35 The Israelites did as Moses instructed and asked the Egyptians for articles of silver and gold and for clothing. 36 The Lord had made the Egyptians favorably disposed toward the people, and they gave them what they asked for; so they plundered the Egyptians.

37 The Israelites journeyed from Rameses to Sukkoth. There were about six hundred thousand men on foot, besides women and children. 38 Many other people went up with them, and also large droves of livestock, both flocks and herds. 39 With the dough the Israelites had brought from Egypt, they baked loaves of unleavened bread. The dough was without yeast because they had been driven out of Egypt and did not have time to prepare food for themselves.

40 Now the length of time the Israelite people lived in Egypt was 430 years. 41 At the end of the 430 years, to the very day, all the Lord’s divisions left Egypt. 42 Because the Lord kept vigil that night to bring them out of Egypt, on this night all the Israelites are to keep vigil to honor the Lord for the generations to come.

Passover Restrictions

43 The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, “These are the regulations for the Passover meal:

“No foreigner may eat it. 44 Any slave you have bought may eat it after you have circumcised him, 45 but a temporary resident or a hired worker may not eat it.

46 “It must be eaten inside the house; take none of the meat outside the house. Do not break any of the bones. 47 The whole community of Israel must celebrate it.

48 “A foreigner residing among you who wants to celebrate the Lord’s Passover must have all the males in his household circumcised; then he may take part like one born in the land. No uncircumcised male may eat it. 49 The same law applies both to the native-born and to the foreigner residing among you.”

50 All the Israelites did just what the Lord had commanded Moses and Aaron. 51 And on that very day the Lord brought the Israelites out of Egypt by their divisions. — Exodus 12 | New International Version (NIV) Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved worldwide. Cross References: Genesis 15:14; Genesis 17:12-13; Genesis 24:53; Genesis 39:21; Genesis 47:11; Exodus 3:8; Exodus 4:23; Exodus 4:31; Exodus 6:1-2; Exodus 6:26; Exodus 10:2; Exodus 10:9; Exodus 13:3-4; Exodus 13:5; Exodus 13:9-10; Exodus 16:1; Exodus 16:19; Exodus 29:13; Numbers 9:4; Deuteronomy 11:20; 1 Samuel 5:12; Psalm 51:7; Matthew 13:33; Matthew 26:17; Mark 14:1; Luke 2:41; Luke 2:43; John 19:31; John 19:33; John 19:36; Acts 7:6; Acts 7:36; Acts 13:17; 1 Corinthians 5:8; 1 Corinthians 10:10; Hebrews 9:14; Hebrews 11:27-28; Jude 1:5

The Passover

Key Passages in Exodus 12

1. The beginning of the year is changed 3. The Passover is instituted 11. The import of the rite of the Passover 15. Unleavened bread 29. The firstborn are slain 31. The Israelites are driven out of the land 37. They come to Succoth 41. The time of their sojourning 43. The ordinance of the Passover

[paula-of-christ]

22 [m]The next day, the crowd that remained across the sea saw that there had been only one boat there, and that Jesus had not gone along with his disciples in the boat, but only his disciples had left. 23 [n]Other boats came from Tiberias near the place where they had eaten the bread when the Lord gave thanks. 24 When the crowd saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into boats and came to Capernaum looking for Jesus. 25 And when they found him across the sea they said to him, “Rabbi, when did you get here?” 26 Jesus answered them and said, “Amen, amen, I say to you, you are looking for me not because you saw signs but because you ate the loaves and were filled. 27 Do not work for food that perishes but for the food that endures for eternal life,[o] which the Son of Man will give you. For on him the Father, God, has set his seal.” 28 So they said to him, “What can we do to accomplish the works of God?” 29 Jesus answered and said to them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in the one he sent.” 30 So they said to him, “What sign can you do, that we may see and believe in you? What can you do? 31 [p]Our ancestors ate manna in the desert, as it is written:

‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat.’”

32 So Jesus said to them, “Amen, amen, I say to you, it was not Moses who gave the bread from heaven; my Father gives you the true bread from heaven. 33 For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

34 So they said to him, “Sir, give us this bread always.” 35 [q]Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst. 36 But I told you that although you have seen [me], you do not believe. 37 Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me, 38 because I came down from heaven not to do my own will but the will of the one who sent me. 39 And this is the will of the one who sent me, that I should not lose anything of what he gave me, but that I should raise it [on] the last day. 40 For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life, and I shall raise him [on] the last day.”

41 The Jews murmured about him because he said, “I am the bread that came down from heaven,” 42 and they said, “Is this not Jesus, the son of Joseph? Do we not know his father and mother? Then how can he say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” 43 Jesus answered and said to them, “Stop murmuring[r] among yourselves. 44 No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draw him, and I will raise him on the last day. 45 It is written in the prophets:

‘They shall all be taught by God.’

Everyone who listens to my Father and learns from him comes to me. 46 Not that anyone has seen the Father except the one who is from God; he has seen the Father. 47 Amen, amen, I say to you, whoever believes has eternal life. 48 I am the bread of life. 49 Your ancestors ate the manna in the desert, but they died; 50 this is the bread that comes down from heaven so that one may eat it and not die. 51 I am the living bread that came down from heaven; whoever eats this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give is my flesh for the life of the world.”

52 The Jews quarreled among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us [his] flesh to eat?” 53 Jesus said to them, “Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you. 54 Whoever eats[s] my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. 55 For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. 56 Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him. 57 Just as the living Father sent me and I have life because of the Father, so also the one who feeds on me will have life because of me. 58 This is the bread that came down from heaven. Unlike your ancestors who ate and still died, whoever eats this bread will live forever.” 59 These things he said while teaching in the synagogue in Capernaum.

The Words of Eternal Life.[t] 60 Then many of his disciples who were listening said, “This saying is hard; who can accept it?” 61 Since Jesus knew that his disciples were murmuring about this, he said to them, “Does this shock you? 62 What if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?[u] 63 It is the spirit that gives life, while the flesh[v] is of no avail. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and life. 64 But there are some of you who do not believe.” Jesus knew from the beginning the ones who would not believe and the one who would betray him. 65 And he said, “For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted him by my Father.”

66 As a result of this, many [of] his disciples returned to their former way of life and no longer accompanied him. 67 Jesus then said to the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?” 68 Simon Peter answered him, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. 69 We have come to believe and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.” 70 Jesus answered them, “Did I not choose you twelve? Yet is not one of you a devil?” 71 He was referring to Judas, son of Simon the Iscariot; it was he who would betray him, one of the Twelve.

John Chapter 6, the Bread of Life Discourse

[princepsfianna]

I obsess over two poems

"The drum pounds to the step of the Vreton And in fearless combat, Arthur will return!" This part got me, the same faith and honour in the ultimate ideal. But the next part is what got me the most.

"The soul of the (Celtic) race resounds in our hearts, And the Celtic spirit, she can not be wrong to us! Nevenoe and Kadoudal calls us to the moorland The French, frightened as they see us to go to battle!"

And such a simple refrain at the end, "For our life, bread, freedom and peace! To build the foundations of a better world!"

And the end, a great rallying cry. "Arise, victory will be ours if we endure the pain. THe old enemy, shall suffer with great harshness! The holy sunlight will illuminate the beautiful day ANd we will gain justice for the Vreton State!"

I love this song so much, I don't speak Vreizh so I couldn't really follow along but I do speak good enough French, and this video had french subtitles and then it closes with a picture of two Vreton men showing their national pride, I love it!

Every Celtic nation must have this spirit, the Celtic spirit is not wrong to us either! We must gain justice for the Albannach state and make the false Saxon reel again. The Vretons are an inspiration to me. Such a faitful and patrotic nation, we are lucky to be their brothers. If we can ever create a Pan Celtic nation, which I faithfully believe in, we must include them!

It kinda reminds me of a favourite song of mine, til Ungdommen, or "to the youth." Which is my favourite song in human existence.

"Besieged by enemies, walk the path of your time Under a bloody storm, commit yourself to war!"

It starts strong, commit yourself to a war! And your only sword is the faith in humanities worth, that's what I love about this song. And then comes the victory, "Quietly conveys the grenades rolling belt, stop their drive for death! Stop them with spirit!" War is contempt for life, peace is to create! Throw in all your might and death will lose! Love and enriched is that dream, everything great that was! Go for the unknown, wrest for her answers! Uninhabited power stations, unknown stars Create them, with spared lives, you bold (youthful) brains! Noble is man, the earth is rich! If distress and hunger is found here? It is because of (fraternal) betrayal! Crush it! In life's name will injustice fall! And sunshine, bread and spirit, owned by all! Then drop the weapons, powerlessly down If we create respecte for life, we create peace."

This is the meat of the poem, in my opinion and it's peak. The beautiful imagery, the hope, the unbridled pure hope. Naive though it may be, it's hope, pure, unadulterated hope and faith in our common goodness to create a better world. A world where no mother mourns her son, where no one goes hungry, this faith and hope dashed just a few years after but still resounds in our hearts. Listening to it just fills you with human pride, human desire and human warmth. Ack! I am gushing again, I must stop myself, oh well

The man who wrote this poem would be sadly murdered during the war. He became a Marxist and became a Norwegian soldier. He fought bravely, he fought unconquerably and defied the fascist scum. What a hero, what a god damn hero.