#moving the belongings of the dead person is 'blasphemous'.

[hballegro]

me 4 months ago: what if BJ had a panic attack and him and hawkeye snuggled about it. wouldnt that be sweet? :]

me now: grief is an allegory for the divine and mourning is a form of worship

[jaguarys]

The first few weeks, the new one moves on autopilot.

Halcyon has seen it before. He's used to it, the ways in which their body moves while their brain is still waking up.

This one hadn't been dead for long. It made it easier, he was sure, to readjust.

He hadn't grown attached, not in the way Galatée had. He was all too used to following a lead their mother had set for them, only to abandon it once the timeline had changed too much, once it was no longer deemed important. Their mother's interest was like the sun and just as all-consuming, but as soon as it was pulled away it wouldn't return. And it had been centuries, after all. People didn't live that long, and points of interest didn't either.

Galatée was pleased to finally see results. She was glad to have another, or at least in the selfish ways they both were for company other than each other.

Halcyon couldn't quite say. In some small ways, he did find himself drawn to the newcomer.

They'd followed him so long. Halcyon was well past feeling in any small way guilty for interfering, pulling strings here and there to make sure this person was there, that person said that. If it led to Mother's goals, if it helped her, it was worth it.

And even still... Danaël was theirs. Perhaps he had not known them, but they knew him. It was a small reward, after all this, for him to know them.

Slowly, the newcomer woke. Slowly, he started to take it in.

>> 

Halcyon had been in their mother's service for so long, now, these thousands of years. He didn't remember what it had been like, to wake. He could hardly remember his death, after so much time.

He doesn’t know when he realized. When the fog cleared from his head enough to realize he didn’t quite know why this was so important, why Mother was so important, why he was following her at all.

The fog comes and goes. There are moments when it recedes, when it really and truly disappears and he hates it all. He had earned his death; he was, in the end, angry it had been taken from him.

Mother was an all-consuming force. She was their sun. They rotated around her like moons around a planet. Hiding anything from her, even just his own thoughts, felt blasphemous.

But he did. In some small corner of his mind, he hid the truth: that he still had thoughts at all.

He didn’t remember who he’d been. He wasn’t sure if any vestige, any tidbit of personality, any memory belonged to the man who’d died, or if like clay he’d been reshaped by his mother’s hands.

Suns can’t always shine. And so, slowly, over the centuries, he shaped his own clay and scraped together pieces of his mind.

He forgot much, after thousands of years. He always remembered Galatée, always remembered the thrill at having another. It was easier once she joined, pulled out of her grave same as he was his. Not just because Mother’s attention was divided—though that counted for plenty.

It took nearly a hundred years for her to pull out of her fugue. It took even longer for the two of them to realize they were the same.

Fighting their own brains was difficult enough, the compulsion to submit, follow, love. Mother was as much themselves as they were, pouring into each nerve and orifice and pulsing in their blood. There was hardly any space for each other, but they carved it out of themselves.

It was exchanged near silently, hideous, blasphemous words whispered against cold, undead skin. Lips pressed to cheeks in moments stolen between missions. Promises their minds were, in some small way, their own and each other’s as much as they were Mother’s. Promises her love was not all-consuming.

Slowly, in their orbits, they circled one another as much as their sun.

>> 

Galatée never gave up hope they would find a way out. She never said as such—that was much too far. But he knew, much as anything real they knew was silent.

Maybe that was why she took such a shine to Danaël. Maybe she hoped if he was the answer to Mother, he could be the answer to them, too.

He’d had thousands of years to hope, and he wasn’t the type for it, anyways. He didn’t dare. He didn’t dare think Danaëlwas the answer to anything at all.

>> 

Asgaroth was always different from the rest. That does not mean Halcyon didn't love him, much as he loved Galatée, much as he would come to love Danaël.

Maybe some part of him always knew Asgaroth was not real. He never truly knew, not logically, not as such. But his instincts knew.

Halcyon never spoke with Asgaroth in the ways he did with Galatée. He never trusted him in the same ways. He never bared his matching soul.

He never spoke the truth.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he just wanted to pretend he didn’t. It was much easier to love someone who wasn’t there than admit they weren’t.

>> 

It takes nearly a year until Halcyon is sure Danaëlis really, truly awake.

It’s new. It’s exciting. It’s been centuries since they’ve had another. No matter that skin is cold, clammy, undead. No matter the eyes are only just starting to feel like they belong to a real person. No matter Mother’s hold is stronger on their newest. He still belongs to them.

He hadn’t realized, the way that lack had grated. It had been the same, with Galatée, with Asgaroth. He never really notices how much he hates the absence until it's gone, like a leftover sort of pain, like an old wound.

The Dynaméis are limbs of a body, Mother's hands. They're parts of an entity. Their minds are facets of her own.

Halcyon stretches into Danaël like exploring a newly healed limb.

>> 

And he’s different. From the very beginning, he’s different. Or so Galatée says, anyways. Halcyon thinks it may just be confirmation bias and more of that damned hope.

At the corners of Halcyon's mind, he feels shiny, smooth, like the gold of their weapons and the glow of the halos above their heads.

He feels like surfacing after a dive, like suddenly clear vision after thousands of years. He feels like seaglass. He feels like polished marble.

Mother's influence feels even more stifling in comparison, newly suffocating in ways it already was before.

And maybe they grow too bold. Soon after they're sure he's fully there, Galatée starts pressing.

At first, it’s ignored. For nearly too long, nearly long enough that Halcyon’s almost convinced her to give it up before she catches Mother’s attention.

And then it's there. Then, Halcyon feels it, the subtle brush across his mind, Danaël's cold and gentle hand.

Danaël is theirs, much as anything can be theirs and not Mother's. Slowly, thought by thought, they steal him away.

>> 

            They tell Danaël, in stops and starts and whispers shared between them in every hidden moment, about it all. About Mother’s hands woven in the tapestry of his life.

            It is, of course, hard. Their minds are not meant to accept anything against her. None of them want to remember the truth.

            And so they repeat it. Over and over. Through hands in hands, through interlocked fingers, through whispers murmured in the night, they repeat it.

            Touch is theirs. Touch belongs to them. Even when their thoughts are stolen, when their hands are stolen, when their lives and deaths are stolen. And they give it.

>> 

Then comes the exodus.

As they get closer, Halcyon feels the tendrils curl tighter and tighter, feels Mother’s influence creep in even more. He feels his mind slipping away from him, devotion, love, obedience replacing any rational thought.

Halcyon is under no naïveté that it's anything than the last pieces sliding into the puzzle. He wishes they had any puzzle at all. He wishes they weren't pieces on Mother's game of chess. He wishes he wasn't merely a pawn cast off the board as soon as he was no longer of use.

He wishes, paradoxically, that they’d had more time. He wishes it weren’t nearing the end, now that it is.

[vogueinnie]

HEAVEN OR HELL ; part. 2 TEASER - PART 1 - PART 2 - (...)

       ━ WARNINGS ; demon!hyunjin, virgin fem!reader

if you feel uncomfortable with the mentions of religion, please don’t read this story cause there are a lot blasphem, mentions of Lucifer and Mammon (Lucifer’s son)

corruption kink, fear kink, humiliation (and not only in a sexual way), mention of killing a cat, pet name (angel), manipulation, mention of alcohol (wine), reader is ashamed of herself, sir kink, nipple play, clitoral masturbation, grinding, very slight choking, slight possessive kink, no penetrative sex

     ━ WORD COUNT ; 3.3k      ━ NOTE ; part 2!!! the smut part is kinda... soft? but the naaaasty is coming!!! also sorry for that cliffhanger at the end zjfhdzfz. feedback are so welcomed!!

The sinister forest in which you walked every morning now was very different from the glittering glade you were used to. The trees were whopping and if you looked at them for too long you can see red eyes forming in the wood. Or was it your imagination ? No one never knows. No beautiful tulips, no cute birds tickling your ears with their cute whistles, no bunnies jumping here and there. Just dead flowers and a mortifying dead silence.

Everything was dead.

All the love and joy living in your heart were starting to fade away. You can’t even remember for how long you were stuck in this place you don’t belong. The time seemed to be unfairly long. The days were all the same, empty, but tormenting in a certain way. You even started to forget how it was, in Heaven.

But in your misfortune you were lucky. Mammon chooses you. He was one of the most powerful of this world, after all. You were constantly watched, mocked by the people living here for being an angel. But what was wrong in being good ? Hyunjin was walking you everywhere like a trophy, or a dog, exposing you to everyone with the leather leash he used on you the first time you both met. They all seemed both amazed and disgusted by you. 

“Why did Mammon chooses her ? Is she that special ? She’s an angel, how can he spends his day with her ?” were most of the words you were able to hear when you were around the devilish creatures. And Hyunjin never answers one of those questions, but his legendary smirk wnever left his face. It was ever more painful for you to understand that you were nothing but a toy for him. But what did you expect ? To be fully accepted as a sweet person ? Bullshits.

The only time he left you alone was on mornings. That’s why you always ended up in that scary forest near the huge castle you were left. Well, alone was a big word.

Jeongin was following you everywhere. He was Hyunjin’s personal and favorite servant. A strangely gentle and obedient demon. He looked young and pure, his beautiful angular face was surrounded by his dark blue hair. And you found that there were bright shades of red waiting to sparkle in his eyes. He was tall, not as tall as Hyunjin, but tall enough to be impressive.

There was no in between in this world. Demons were either painful to watch or absolutely breathtaking.

You were walking in the dead grass with him next to you, breathing the fresh matinal air. A beautiful black cat presents himself in front of the both of you, rubbing against your legs and purring loudly enough for you to hear.

A smile finally draws on your feature and you kneel to pat his head and scratch his chin. 

“Look, Jeongin ! He wants hugs, poor thing... You’re probably hungry... Jeongin nods, looking straight ahead. But it’s the first time I saw a black cat... Are they common here ? You turn your face to look at him with a smile but still, his mouth stay closed. Hm, yeah, I see... You whisper softly, a little discouraged by his constant silence with you, making you realize that you were really alone here.”

Still without a words, he resumes his walk towards the castle, silently asking you to follow him. And you did, with the cute animal on your step. You were playing with him, walking fast or slow to see if he was still behind you. A laugh escape your mouth seeing the fluffy cat struggling to follow your speed. Not that you were fast but he was a little bit confused.

You bump into someone not on purpose and immediately your blood went icy. Respectfully, and especially cause you were too scared to look at the demon in front of you, you bow your body so low it was almost painful for your back. But you better hurt yourself than being hurted by someone else. Especially in Hell.

“There, there, there... What do we have ? This voice... I knew you were stupid but not to the point of not looking where you are walking. His words were painful but you didn’t move an inch, not wanting to bother him even more. The cat behind you was meowing and if you could you would see the confusion on the man’s face. What’s this ? Jeongin, kill it.”

“No ! No, no ! N-no...? Your voice had suddenly risen to end up being very low. You lift up your chin to finally see Hyunjin in front of you. He was only dressed in a black silk bathrobe embroidered with golden pearls, his long hair was half-tied in a low ponytail and he was holding a glass of wine in his right hand. He... He doesn’t mean you any harm, Sir... He just wants a friend...? His laugh was cold and heartless and he was scanning your body up and down with his piercing eyes.”

Suddenly, you felt a cold sticky liquid running through your face and you just understood that he literally threw the wine in your face. Your lips were parted in shock and that’s the moment you could hear vicious laughs behind him. Of course, Lucifer’s son always need his public. He drops the glass on the ground, glass shattering into thousands of pieces near your feet. 

Hyunjin grabs the back of your neck, bringing your face close to his. Close enough to let his tongue slowly lick your cheek wet with wine.

“Remember when we first met, angel... What did I say ? A lot of things, actually. But you didn’t answer and he grab a handful of your hair.”

“That you wanted me ! A-and... That I was a mess... That you hated dirty things, Sir... You answer quickly with a shaking voice. He lets go of your face abruptly with a wide smile, nodding his face.”

“Yeah that’s it ! And what did you just make ? He pointed your face nonchalantly, making you whisper A mess with a tiny voice. A fucking mess, I hate it, in the name of Lucifer... I hate it ! His pupils were all black, you couldn’t even see the white in it. And you knew you messed up.”

He was hysterical and the screams, laughs and encouragements from the lower classes encourages him to act even more crazier. He grabs your wrist merciless to the applause of the crowd and he leads the two of you in the part of the castle which belongs to him.

Faster than you would have liked, you were in his room. It was always cold, not welcoming and way too dark for your eyes in need of nothing but sunshine. Hyunjin stayed silent but the creepy smile on his face was enough to makes you shiver in fear.

It was crazy how easily he switched from being insane to quiet.

Once you were in his private bathroom he made you look at you through the big golden mirror in front of the black marble bathtub. And you could see the damage, the deep red liquid running down your face, some strands of your hair are wet and the front of your black lace dress is also ruined with wine. You feel your back burning from his stares, and it’s even more humiliating than your physical condition.

“I think my angel needs to take a bath, don’t you ? You nod slowly, playing nervously with your fingers. What are you waiting for ? Go ahead.”

You look up at him leaning against the door frame, panicked. He raises an eyebrow and you shake your head. No, impossible. You probably misunderstood. Or he misspoke. How can you get naked in front of him ?

“Need some help, maybe ?” 

Still through the mirror you can see him approaching you to stand behind you. Your body was frozen, not that you were afraid, but you were mostly intimidated. Your aura may be a pink pale tone but his own was... Like a dark shade of the deepest blue. The ocean itself is bright compared to what emane from this demon. 

He puts your hair on the right side of your neck to have a full access of the left side one. His breath against your shivering skin was hot, and it probably burns you in the best way. The warmth and the softness of his lips against your skin were painful and you couldn’t help biting your lips and squeezing your eyes.

The inner fight you waged against yourself scared you more. Do you really want to push him away ? Or can’t you wait to be naked for him ?

Slowly, his long fingers trail the curve of your body, from your shoulders, to your waist, your hips, but strangely... Never your intimate parts. And you swear, at that right moment, you needed that more than you could ever imagine. Your body was squirming against his and slowly he grabs your chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Look at you, angel. You open your eyes to see your back totally glued to his chest, making you blush in an instant. Don’t be shy with me, I told you. I’m your owner, there’s no need to be shy. You couldn’t stop looking at him and when he pushes his thumb against your lips you opened it to take it in your mouth and to start sucking it. He chuckles, nibbling your ear, his hot breath awakening all your senses. So nasty, are you really a child of God ?”

His last sentence makes you shiver. He was right. Did you deserve to be considered pure when you wanted him so badly ?

Hyunjin slowly untie your dress and the unknown feeling of being naked in front of someone was as arousing as scaring. Only his sharp eyes was touching you. As usual, he was looking at every details of your body and you can tell how badly he restrains himself to not put his hands all over your frame.

Why was he even nice ? He was almost hysteric few minutes ago. But the answer was evident... He was a demon, after all. They don’t need an excuse to act like crazy.

You didn’t move, looking shamefully at your body for reacting to every ones of his caresses, looks and words.

He takes you out of your mind, grabbing your wrist to lead you in the bathtub, hot smoke escaping from it due to the water. You put your body in it and you look at him undressing. He was as naked at you. His body was slim, his thighs and abdomen were muscular, his body was sculpted by the the God himself. 

How funny is it to think that when he’s the son of Lucifer himself.

It doesn't take long for him to join you, placing his body behind yours. You didn’t know if it was because of the water relaxing all of your nerves, or his strangely calm aura, but you felt good. Hyunjin grabs your shoulders to make your body leans against his, slipping his wet hands on your face to clean your features from the liquid that he himself threw at you. 

A little sigh escape your mouth and you allow yourself to pretend that you’re not in Hell. That you’re in your own room with all your green indoor plants surrouding you. You even have the impression that your favorite sugary smell is all over you, and you can even feel Felix scratching you neck and chin cause he knows how much you like that.

Wait... But you’re not in your room. And there’s no Felix.

Hyunjin started to kisses your neck slowly, licking your skin with the tip of his tongue, making you moan unintentionally. You open your eyes, ashamed of how pathetic you melt in the hand of the one and only Demon who can controls you. He probably feels your body tense and he starts to draw some invisible circles against your tummy.

“It’s funny how I want to protect you and ruin you at the same time. You bite your lips, gulping slowly just imagining the two situations. Yeah, it’s funny. How I want to take care of you, kiss you everywhere, makes you feel good. His words are accompanied by gentle caresses, he brushes your boobs with his fingertips, making you shiver and squirm against him. Even if he was behind you you can feel his gaze on your naked body exposed to him. How I want to hurt you in the goodest way, makes you beg and cry. He pinches one of your already hard nipple with two of his fingers and again, you moan softly. Isn’t it supposed to hurt ? Then why does it feels good ?”

He chuckles when he hear your voice, rubbing now your two buds in his digits. You can’t control your body and the sensation you’re feeling and quickly you came to the conclusion that you want more. You want to feel more, you want that heatness in your body to be more intense, to explode.

The back of your head falls against the crook of his neck and his strong woody smell makes you loose your mind. Hyunjin turns his head to put his forehead against yours while his fingers travel all around you naked figure against him. You can feel him everywhere and nowhere, it's like he can touch your whole body at the same time.

“Don’t stop looking at me. He whispers in a low voice, his eyes fixed on yours.”

You nod slowly even tho it’s difficult for you to stay focused when one of his hands glides along your exposed pubis. His other hand is still firmly gripped to your boob, massaging it in both a soft and harsh way. It was his power. To be gentle and rough.

Instinctively you open your legs. More, more, more. That’s all you can think about right now. And it seems that he exactly understand what you want. More. His long fingers run through your womanhood, wet because of the water, but not only. You can feel how burning it is, how good it feels when he slides them against your two intimates lips. More. You try to keep your eyes open as much as possible to not break the intense contact you’re sharing. A little oh escape your lips when he circles his fingers around that tiny, little, swollen bud. More, you want more.

“You don’t have that in Heaven, uh ? You never felt that good, did you ? You shake your head, half closed eyelids due to everything you’re feeling. That’s the real Heaven, angel.”

His wide black dilated pupils were magneficient, you couldn’t even think of looking away. He continues to rubs your most sensitive area and the hot water just help everything to be more soother and slicker. He teases your nipple, kissing the tip of your nose with a smirk drawns on his beautiful lips and you start to buck your hips up to feel more of the frictions he was offering to you. Slowly, you grip his wrist to push his hands even more against your intimate area. He chuckles, again, at your eagerness and soft moans crash on his lips when he taps your pussy. It was tickling, weird, but oh so good at the same time.

Slowly he grabs your waist to turn your body around so that you are facing him. And it’s even more intimidating to see Hyunjin with his eyes totally lost in the luxurious world. Almost automatically you stick your body to him, surrounding his waist with your legs.

If only you know that doing that made your pussy crash against his, you can really feel it, hard and pretty long dick. Your cheeks were now probably a bright tint of red. And you can see that he wasn’t in a better state.

“S-sorry ! I didn’t meant to do that, Sir !”

“Don’t be sorry, angel. Do it again, can you ? You nod slowly, pressing your two hands on his shoulders to give you a little bit of support. You move your hips slowly against his body, his hard-on hitting your core everytime you moved. Yeah, just like that, keep going... How does it feel ?”

Your only answer was to nod again and bite your lips. It felt too good to be real. Your two bodies stick together were hot and you swear, the burning flames in Hell wasn’t as hot as you. One of Hyunjin’s hand was grabbing your waist to help you move and grind above him while the other one found their way to your exposing neck. 

All of your body was covered with shivers and you didn’t know if the cause was his eyes on you, his hands gripping your throat without squeezing it, or your core sticking and rubbing on his rosy tip. 

“You’re mine. You can hear his hoarse voice whispering in your ear as he still grab your throat in a possessive way while his hand on your waist tighten it firmly. You’re mine. I choose you not only cause I know you were obedient... His hips buck up into yours, making the both of you crash your crotch together in a moaning symphony. Because I knew you were going to love it a lot more than you should.”

You felt light-headed for a moment. Hyunjin’s words was arousing, making you feel like the dirtiest angel. And it was too much. Too much new sensations for your body. The knot in your stomach were growing to the point that it was consuming you so you speed your own pace, helped by his hands, his breath, his moans, even his praises “pretty, hot, good girl” were the only words you were focused on. You felt enveloped by your devastating orgasm, your face leans back and a silent moan escapes your parted lips. It was difficult for you to keep your eyes open, your bordy starts to shake against his and you scratch his shoulders to hold on to reality. It was insanely good to be on cloud nine, a soft smile draws on your lip as every muscles of your body relaxed and tensed at the same time. 

You feel him chasing his own high, patting his veiny and leaking dick on your swollen and overstimulated bud. You wanted to escape his touch as much as you wanted him to keep doing that delicious feeling.

You let yourself totally go in his arms when the both of you come back down from your high. Hyunjin was as breathless as you and he rubs your back in slow caresses, kissing your temples with a little grin.

“I bet Felix never made you feel that way. You frowned your eyebrows, why was he talking about Felix now ? You lift your face to look up at him in a confused way. Oh, you probably didn’t know... You shake your head slowly. He was my servant. You both have the same disgusting sugary smell. ”

Your jaws dropped and you blink your eyes. Felix, the purest heart you have ever known was once... A demon ?

—————————————☠︎︎ —————————————

    ━ TAGLIST ; @sailorhyunjinz - @minholuvs - @that-anxious-bisexual - @ohmysparkle - @yuminsung - @minaamhh - @kittykatvenom - @bubblelixie - @imagineinnie - @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot - @etherealeeknow - @linours - @starry-jinnie @p0t4t0don14ll - @straytannies - @binnie-m00n - @formidxble - @skzcvre - @titleisyettobemade - @bythesunnotbythemoon - @nada-disso - @characha - @lizsvcks - @pxnidxjks - @ninjaleeknow - @solistired - @keloiu - @staaaaaa - @journalskz - @bubbl3gunz - @tinyminari - @hyuneytoast - @s4ilor-m4rs (if you want to be added to the taglist feel free to send me an ask!)

[davidgeorgevartanian]

III. Beatitude:

When a rich young ruler asked Jesus how to inherit eternal life, he replied with a reference to the 10 Commandments. Probably, because being rich and young is a combination given to lack of impulse control. That is what the commandments address. Their ethos is about creating order and containment, self-control and identity, which is needed to transition a person away from excessive behavior, aimlessness, and delusion that in Moses’ time characterized pagan religion and in our time emotional and spiritual immaturity. But these commandments only provide a lower level of spiritual consciousness, because it leaves room for our ego to center itself around hierarchies, status, and othering. That’s why Jesus started his exposition on the ethics of the gospel in the Sermon on the Mount with a complementary standard of righteousness, called the Beatitudes. This list of characteristics describing a blessed person are about embracing disorder and weakness by moving beyond the need for identity-reinforcing binaries and seeking self-validation through judging or controlling others. The inverse characteristics of the beatitudes are: ego-centrism; embracing compulsive behavior instead of healing; mistaking aggression for strength; confusing pleasure for fulfillment; being quick to judge and condemn; being double-minded or hypocritical; and being self-serving through divisiveness and domination. Does this not describe the world, your workplace, family, and sinful nature? Remaining stuck in this way of being is a curse. But fortunately, Jesus embodies all of the Beatitudes and shows us how our curses can be lifted.

Consider this: of all the sinners Jesus interacted with, whom did he punish? No one. And he only condemned blasphemers of the Spirit. When the Pharisees wanted to stone a women for adultery, Jesus called out their hypocrisy, and they immediately fled to protect the pride they had in their legalist and false selves. Jesus asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” “No one, sir,” she said. “Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.” With mercy, he called her to purity of heart, or single-minded devotion. Nothing makes our faith more pointless than glorying in God’s mercy and forgiveness, while continuing to delight in the pleasures of selfishness and sin. Jesus called that a being a white-washed tomb; James called it a dead faith; Peter called it nearsighted and blind; and John called it remaining in darkness. It is not enough to believe in redemption. Our humility and devotion should be allowing the Spirit to actual redeem us from sin and produce oneness with Christ in increasing measure.

His goal in discussing the sins of others was not to uplift himself and his apostles, but to offer people healing and opportunity to repent. His meekness and grace stood in high contrast to the Pharisees. Jesus often called himself the Son of Man, instead of the Son of God, and even refused to call himself, “good.” He expects us to be as humble, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to the poor in spirit, which is what he was calling the rich young ruler to be. When Jesus told him to sell and trade his wealth for treasures in heaven, his face fell down to the earth, instead of up towards a higher plane of consciousness with God. He did not receive this kenotic (ego-emptying) wisdom as good news, because following the Ten Commandments had given him a strong moral center, but had not taught him to value meekness and poverty of spirit above his worldly status. When Jesus challenged him, “If you want to be perfect…,” he provided an excellent preface to a moral command, because everyone wants to be perfect, or complete; or to at least be “good enough” (which often feels as impossible as perfection.) But our imperfections make us prone to hide behind masks (personas), projecting strength to others instead of vulnerability. The mask worn by the rich young ruler was his wealth and he was not prepared to ask himself: who was he without it? So much of the turmoil we experience within and in our relationships stem from insecurities and idols that we mostly hide from others for fear of judgement and rejection.

In response to this, Jesus offers us an enlightened path to spiritual maturity, as we walk in the light of our true maskless selves before God. Having been made in His likeness, our capacity to mirror the divine image remained veiled until Jesus and his Beatitudes revealed to us the transformative calling of his gospel. The mind-change and renewal that Jesus inspires us to surrender to feels like a series of losses and crosses, because the veil of our ego with it’s vain conceit must be stripped away. The wealth of our possessions, judgements, co-dependent relationships, and positions of authority must be submitted to Christ, so he can alchemize curses into blessings by turning possessions into tools used for service, and judgmentalism into discernment, and worldly relationships into fellowship or opportunities to love. While that process might sometimes feel like falling and self-abasement, Christ’s atonement gives us the confidence to “bear the disgrace he bore” for our sins in confession, in fellowship, and in continual praise (1 John 1:7; Hebrews 13:13-15). The family of believers should provide a safe and loving space for that inner work. The reason why the word adelphoi, “brothers and sisters,” is mostly used to refer to believers in the Epistles, and never mathētēs, “disciple,” is undoubtedly and simply because the church is not an academy, but a family. Family encourages, embraces, and supports; all things needed to compensate for the emotional pain we can experience when we walk in the light, exposing the shame of our sin and vanity. God uses the love of yokefellows to reconcile us to him. This ministry of reconciliation is a calling to perfection based on Christ’s covering up of our weaknesses and failures, producing the humility and heavenly wisdom needed to live a blessed life.

[its-always-sunny-in-forks]

The Playlist Series

Edward sneaks back into Bella's room for the last time, hiding all memorabilia of their life together. 'As if I never existed...'

Though the house was empty, he still climbed up its side to her window and slid it wide enough to slip through. The last time he would ever do so. He locked his jaw and stopped breathing, refusing to let himself take in her scent one last time as he climbed into her room. If he had, there was no way he would be able to stop himself from going back to the woods, taking her in his arms, and apologizing for the blasphemous lies he had told her. To look her in the eye and tell her that the most important person in his existence, his reason for survival, his soul, was something that he did not want—he stopped the thought in its tracks before he could spin out anymore. He imagined he had a few minutes before she traipsed back to the house through the wet forest behind it, so he got to work fulfilling his promise. As if I’d never existed. I owe her that much.

He gathered a CD from her player, the one he had carefully made for her of a few select piano pieces he had recorded. With his sharp eyes he saw the erosion of where the laser bore into the disk to read each track; it must have been played on repeat constantly for the short time she’d had it since her birthday. He replaced it with the first music they ever spoke about, some obscure death metal CD that Phil had given her. He’d asked her more about it those first few days during his Spanish inquisition. He focused on her expression, remembering the way her lips moved when she spoke and how her fingers curled around a rogue strand of hair, nervously replacing it behind her ear as if she was meant to be embarrassed for liking a band. He moved on before he got to the blush filling her cheeks.

Pictures from the camera Renee had sent her, gathered into a makeshift scrapbook; Bella’s scrawl below each picture narrating the people and places of her home. He flipped through pages of Forks friends who had commandeered the camera until he got to the sole picture of he and Bella together. He felt his cold, dead heart break just a little bit more when he realized the picture was folded back, Bella’s side facing down, himself on full display. A crude representation of how she viewed them both, willing to destroy her own life for his over and over again; viewing him as an angel in all respects, something he couldn’t be further from if he tried. And he was trying. He would go straight to hell for the mess he left her life in, he knew that undoubtedly.

He plucked his only other remembrance from the album, of he and Charlie in the living room, a smile not quite reaching his eyes. Rose and Emmett had already left at that point. Alice was packing the few closet essentials she refused to leave behind, her and Jasper due to leave in the next few days along with Carlisle and Esme. Alice was no longer speaking to him at that point, convinced he was in the wrong and making an irreparable mistake. The rest of his family were understanding, for the most part, even if they didn’t like the decision he’d come to. He would protect her even if it killed his undead heart.

He would never stop loving her, his psychology was simply unable to be reversed. As much as he wished to, he did not regret stumbling upon the love of his existence in this seemingly uninteresting town. He would be devoted to her until the day his consciousness was ripped from his stone cold frame. Staring down at the few material belongings commemorating the love they shared for such a brief period, he couldn’t bare to rip those from her too, the way he was ripping himself from her heart. He ran his thumb over his own token kept in his pocket, the only possession he’d be taking with him from his family’s home. It’s edges were rough, and the cyclical movement of his thumb along the rim gave him some semblance of calm. A symbol of one of the first times she’d given him a yes: the bottle cap from that first lunch with her. If only he were strong enough to have stayed away to begin with.

He pried a floorboard up from it’s place and it groaned at the intrusion. There he placed his CD, pictures, and the rest of his silent heart.

[constancecunningham]

Fetch Quest || Constance & Remmy

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @whatsin-yourhead & @constancecunningham

SUMMARY: Remmy tries their best. Constance learns about fetch.

CONTIAiNS: Implications of past abuse.

“Moose, fetch!” Constance threw the ball as far as she could. Without any body strength to speak of, it didn’t go very far. The dog caught it in mid air and dropped it just off of where Constance sat hovered in front of a park bench. Without Nancy to show her how to be calm in the world, she struggled to grab anything except in frustration. Every time she tried, she saw her disappearing into the air and rage blazed through her. She threw the stick again, scowling into the horition as Moose made a big circle around the grass to give himself a few more moments of joy before picking up the ball and delivering it the short distance to her. Constance stared at it. She had never been allowed a pet of her own, and whatever ‘fun’ this was supposed to bring was beyond her. “I think I spent too long in the ether” She said. Moose panted and wagged his tail, expecting something from the non-magical nothing in the air.

Mourning someone who was already dead felt strange, even to Remmy. They didn’t know how to properly mourn something like that, even for themself-- but perhaps they’d need to start finding a way. “What do you mean?” they asked when Constance spoke up again. This time, Remmy leaned down and grabbed the slobbery ball, tossing it a rather commendable distance across the park for him. Moose took off with the utmost joy and Remmy turned to look back at Constance. “Spent too long? Do you… remember what it was like there or something?” They’d pondered what it was like between life and death, wondered if that was a place they’d ever get to know, or if their undead life now meant they never could know. Was dying supposed to be peaceful? They didn’t know that answer either. Moose came trotting back with the ball but Remmy was still looking at Constance.

“Not really,” Constance shrugged. “I don’t see things when I think about it. But I feel...different. Wrong. In a way I didn’t before. Or at least, wrong in a way I don’t believe I was before, even in the ether. There’s just darkness over all those years, like one dark, dreadful sleep. Like when you know you had a nightmare, but you can’t recall of what.” She tried to unclench herself, finding ease in the air the way Nancy had been trying to teach her over the past few weeks, visiting the house, even staying some nights.

When Remmy didn’t throw the ball again, Constance reached for it, and watched in anguish as her hand fell though. Constance sulked back. “Do you remember what it was like? You must have been dead once, for a little while. Did it feel like a bad dream then, or am I the only one?” Again.

“I don’t remember being dead,” Remmy said quietly. The wind rustled through the valley and the only way they knew it happened was by the movement of their own hair. It had gotten so long again, nearly down to their shoulders. They drooped a little. “I barely remember dying in the first place.” They watched Constance’s hand sink through Moose’s ball, and they bent down to pick it up and hold it out to her to try again. “Sometimes I think not remembering is better,” they explained after a moment, “it...hurts a lot when I do. I had to have someone else tell me how I died because I guess my brain blocked the memories and I couldn’t, like, reach the memories anymore.” They glanced at her again, concern on their face. “What makes you feel wrong?”

“Perhaps you are right,” Constance said. “At least your body anchors you to this plane and the grass bows to your weight. You belong here. If you don't remember being different, you cannot confuse yourself by thinking otherwise.” She ran her hand through the ball again before deciding she didn’t care about it anyway. “It’s just a feeling. Mind, I was always told so, by everyone.” Well, almost everyone, but they had been liars and traitors, so what did that count for? “But I never felt half so wicked as they told me I should until I was returned here, as this. I feel as though this world does not want me. I feel as though there is something missing, and sometimes as though I might come apart, but perhaps that thing is merely my body. Or perhaps now that I lack it, I can see that they were right. I am wicked and wrong.” But she was also very powerful. And when she was certain she had the strength for it, she would continue, and she would win. Glancing sidelong at Remmy, she smiled and said, “Don’t trouble yourself about me. And don’t let me keep you from your fun. I can watch just fine.”

“I...don’t know if that’s entirely true, but I am grateful to be...whole, I guess,” Remmy mumbled. They’d already tried to talk to Nadia-- er, Cordelia-- about what it felt like being a ghost, and it sounded even more miserable than being a walking corpse that felt nothing. That remembered nothing of what soft fur or sheets or grass actually felt like. “You were never wicked, Constance,” they said, “and you still don’t have to be. You can move on, you know? Peacefully. Happily.” They let out a long breath and threw the ball again, watching it bounce as Moose chased it down loyally. “I trouble myself about everyone. I just want to make the world a better place, even if it’s just a tiny bit. Even if it’s just making one person feel better, or even just okay.” They picked up the ball once again, “that includes you. And people like you.”

“You don’t know who I was, Remmy,” Constance said. “How can you argue for such a thing when you have no clue? Do you not think me wicked for trying to kill your so-called friend? And I killed many a rat, bargaining with the heavens for small favors. I was desperate, and it was the only power in the world I had, but there are some who believe that it was no kindness or necessity. And those are only the crimes I meant to commit…” There were others, so many others. Constance saw that girl in the classroom with the bleeding head every time the shadows swirled in the corners, how her lifeless eyes had stared... “I was never a gentle person, even when I meant to do good. And I am so beyond happiness and peace, I cannot even make true meaning out of those words.” She sighed. “I am afraid we do not understand each other very well, Remmy. But I think it would have been nice to have known someone like you before.”

“Because I see who you are now,” Remmy answered simply. And it was simple as that. “You’re suffering, Constance. You’re suffering and things could be better if you just...let go of that pain. I know it’s hard...but the people who hurt you have long since died. Morgan isn’t the person who hurt you, she’s not even close.” They let out a long breath, rubbing hands through their hair. “I don’t think you’re wicked, Constance. I never did, even after…” they paused, “...and I guess if Morgan knew that, she’d probably hate me, too, but...I can’t find it in me to feel that way about anyone. Not you, not Lydia…” They tossed the ball, a bit harder this time, “For the longest time, I thought I was wicked, too. That I could never find peace, or happiness, or any of that feel good shit everyone always talks about. But the thing is...I learned it’s never just gonna happen. You have to go and find it.” They picked up the ball once more, and held it out. “Kinda like how Moose finds his ball every time I throw it.”

Constance scrutinized Remmy the whole time they spoke. She had never been able to tell when someone was lying to her before, but she thought if she squinted at their strange face, she might be able to tell for certain so she could stop wondering when this facade might come apart. “Her presence is an insult to my own in a way I don’t believe anyone in this time can understand. There is no sense of collective responsibility, nor legacy, scarcely any duty. But I suppose I shouldn’t be cross over you doing something that would make that ugly cow seethe. I should rejoice, if I had any sense. But you’re wrong, so it is only a bittersweet victory. Although maybe it doesn’t matter. If the heavens opened up and stamped me as a no-good heathen once and for all, I would still refuse to accept what was done to me, what was made of me. I would simply be dragging myself to hell with her. And maybe that will be something like peace, if it comes.” Around them, autumn was losing its grasp to winter, pointing with spindly fingers toward the gray-white horizon, as if something important might materialize from it. “Morgan doesn’t know you’ve been coming to see me, right? I’m a secret not to be shared?” She tried the ball again, and found that she gripped it with ease. She threw it before she could resent summoning the power because of Morgan Beck. But it was as she had said all along, wasn’t it? This was her purpose, no more and no less. “Will you still think such pretty things about me if I succeed? Even if I turn out to be right?” Moose came back with the ball and Constance threw it again, thinking this time on what the world would feel like after she had won. She imagined forgiving the sun for not making her warm, and the moon for casting no shadow on her. She imagined giving Remmy and Blanche one last smile, and saying that it was always meant to be this way, but she was sorry for making them sad. It wasn’t so different from this moment, she realized. And yet it felt so far. She threw the ball again. “Perhaps a better question would be…” She hesitated to speak it, the thought alone seemed blasphemous in its own way, “...what do you propose I do if I am wrong? All of you love to say ‘let go’, as if she were a ball I could throw. And I imagine if I could kill her by picking up her body and throwing it into the sun, I would understand perfectly. If I were to cut her throat, I would certainly let go of her body then. But that isn’t what you mean and I don’t understand how to entertain this fairy story you want me to partake in.”

Remmy thought and pondered quietly. They didn’t truly understand Constance’s line of thinking, but then again, she was from a completely different time. It must’ve been so jarring coming here, to this world of technological advancement and strange machines. “What’d they do to you?” they asked her quietly, after a long silence, in which Moose sat and waited patiently for them to throw it. They were preoccupied, though, and turned fully to face Constance and her fading form. “Well, yeah...if you continue to do bad things that hurt people, I’ll change my mind. But I still think that you’re worth saving and that you can be saved. But you have to let go of your anger. I know you didn’t choose to be here, but you can choose to leave peacefully. Don’t you want that? I want you to realize that revenge isn’t going to make you feel any better. I want you to realize that you deserve something good, Constance,” they muttered, “that’s all.” And they tossed the ball again, this time as far as their strength would let them.

“Which time?” Constance asked, smirking bitterly. “When my family was left to fend for themselves in caves, or when only one family would take me in as a servant because my mother was suspected of being a witch, and scorn was thrown on them for their pity, never mind anything else about me, never mind the power of true magic. How dare a woman fend for herself and bargain with a God that will hear what no human ear will. Or do you mean when that family, when Agnes--” The ball lifted on the power of Constance’s rage. The leaves drummed a skeleton tattoo on the ground. Constance whimpered and tried to calm herself. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t talk about it without… I don’t want to become lost and changed, like others say I will. I want to stay myself. I’m sorry.” She concentrated. She tried to remember how breath once soothed her, imagined lungs and veins moving in and out. “I don’t know what something good is. I don’t know if I have the time to find that out. Your Morgan is so determined to destroy me for my supposed crimes…” she shook her head. “I don’t think I was destined to ever find out.” The ball settled and Constance threw it to Moose, further than she had yet, smiling into the distance. After a silence between them she said, “If I were to believe you, if I were to...consider something else, would you help buy me the time it will take to learn?”

Remmy felt their heart sinking again. How were they supposed to have the power to fix something like this? The truth was, they didn’t. All they could offer now was their sympathies. “I’m sorry,” they mumbled, “I...think you would’ve liked it here, in this time. If you’d been able to be here.” They watched the ball rise, the leaves swirl. They winced a little. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, I know it hurt a lot. But…” they looked out and around at the park, “...there’s no one left in this world that deserves the anger you feel. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be angry-- there are things I”m still mad about that happened to me ages ago-- but you just...you can’t keep holding onto it. I wish I had more to offer than that, but that’s all I know how to do. All I know to offer. Is just...help letting go.” They held out their hand to her, knowing that they would not be able to feel it or truly hold it. “I would, yeah,” they said, smiling gently, “of course I would.”

Constance stared ahead, watching the ball come back and throwing it again. Perhaps her star had been crossed and cursed by time. Perhaps in a life in this new world, in Morgan Beck’s world, she would have found someone to suffer with. She didn’t know how to tell Remmy that they should be angry too, that they didn’t have to lay like a corpse and accept the wrongs done to them. They had hands that could grasp and break, feet that could crush, teeth that could tear. They could do so much. So much. But she could not imagine them doing so, even if another of their kind showed them how. She felt a strange pity for the zombie then, a kinship with the starving cats that roamed the streets, innocent and yet so full of potential. She put her hand through theirs, shuddering with longing that she couldn’t hold it. Theirs seemed like a hand that would be gentle, and it had been so long since she had felt that. “Thank you, Remmy,” she said. “And it isn’t much I ask for. I just need you to find Morgan Beck’s stash of exorcism magic and steal it.”

[littlelovelymemes]

(    *    & .    ---    ‘   YOU   ’   (   NOVEL   )   SENTENCE  STARTERS .

*   starters  from  the  2014  novel  ‘   you   ’   by  caroline  kepnes .   warnings  for  sex ,   violence ,   stalking ,   &   swearing .

‘  you  blush  and  i  could  love  you .  ’

‘  most  people  would  say  i’m  the  fuckup .  ’

‘  it’s  no  secret  that  most  people  are  fucking  idiots .  ’

‘  he’s  a  pretentious  fuck  and  a  liar .  ’

‘  you  need  an  escort ,  especially  if  you  want  to  dress  like  a  fucking  whore .  ’

‘  i  like  that  you  take  care  of  yourself  instead  of  filling  your  home  and your  pussy  with  a  string  of  inadequate  men .  ’

‘  you’re  a  sweetheart .  you  see  the  best  in  people .  you  complement  me .  ’

‘  who  can  sleep  with  you  in  the  world ?  ’

‘  i  will  take  that  balloon  and  tie  it  around  their  neck  because  who  the  fuck  can  cunt  out  over  a  balloon ?!  ’

‘  the  assholes  are  always  puzzled  when  the  order  of  the  universe  is  restored ,  when  they  are  held  accountable  for  their  cowardly ,  pretentious ,  loveless  ways .  ’

‘  some  guys  are  assholes  and  you  have  to  accept  that .  ’

‘  the  problem  with  books  is  that  they  end .  ’

‘  the  only  thing  crueler  than  a  cage  so  small  that  a  bird  can’t  fly  is  a  cage  so  large  that  a  bird  thinks  it  can  fly .  ’

‘  you  are  not  easily  rescued .  ’

‘  yeah , i  don’t  have  a  yale  degree ,  but  my  bullshit  detector  is  excellent .  top  drawer ,  even .  ’

‘  the  world  fell  out  of  love  with  love  at  some  point .  ’

‘  your  lips  were  made  for  mine .  you  are  the  reason  i  have  a  mouth ,  a  heart .  ’

‘  if  we  were  teenagers ,  i  could  kiss  you .  ’

‘  you  ooze  joy  and  she  is  an  open  wound ,  shrill  and  wan ,  unfucked  and  unloved .  ’

‘  she  knew  she  was  killing  me  and  she  knew  that  i  was  not  the  type  to  go  down  without  a  fight .  ’

‘  i  know  the  power  of  silence .  i  remember  my  dad  saying  nothing  and  i  remember  his  silences  more  vividly  than  i  remember  the  things  he  said .  ’

‘  happiness  is  believing  that  you’re  gonna  be  happy .  it’s  hope .  ’

‘  but  did  you  read  them ,  fuckface ?  ’

‘  if  people  could  handle  their  self - loathing ,  customer  service  would  be  smoother .  ’

‘  the  trouble  with  society  is  that  if  the  average  person  knew  about  us  --  you ,  alone ,  orgasming  three  times  a  night ,  and  me ,  across  the  street ,  watching  you  orgasm ,  alone  --  most  people  would  say  i’m  the  fuckup .  ’

‘  you  are  a  woman  and  i  am  a  man  and  we  belong  in  the  dark  together .  ’

‘  talking  to  you  is  like  traveling  through  time .  ’

‘  the  most  important  thing  i  know  is  that  i  want  the  possibility  of  you  more  than  the  reality  of  her .  ’

‘  my  middle  school  health  teacher  told  us  you  can  only  hold  eye  contact  for  ten  seconds  before  scaring  or  seducing  someone .  ’

‘  eye  contact  is  what  keeps  us  civilized .  ’

‘  love’s  a  marathon ,  not  a  sprint .  ’

‘  well ,  sometimes  you  just  want  to  go  where  it’s  dark ,  you  know ?  ’

‘  some  people ,  it’s  like  they  care  more  about  their  status  updates  than  their  actual  lives .  ’

‘  some  people  on  this  earth  receive  love ,  get  married ,  and  honeymoon  in  cabo .  others  do  not .  some  people  read  alone  on  the  sofa  and  some  people  read  together ,  in  bed .  that’s  life .  ’

‘  don’t  make  a  baby  if  you’re  not  capable  of  unconditional  love .  ’

‘  when  i’m  nervous ,  i  get  nasty .  it’s  a  problem .  ’

‘  that’s  because  every  day  is  the  only  day .  ’

‘  she’s  dead  inside ,  like  a  corpse .  she  instagrams  methodically ,  clinically ,  as  if  she’s  gathering  evidence  for  defense ,  like  her  entire  life  is  dedicated  to  proving  that  she  has a  life .  ’

‘  we’re  too  old  to  be  young .  ’

‘  full  of  disclaimers ,  you’re  like  a  warning  label  on  a  pack  of  cigarettes .  ’

‘  if  you  knew  what  i  went  through  to  get  into  your  home ,  that  i  messed  up  my  back  trying  to  know  you ,  inside  and  out ,  you’d  judge  me  for  it .  ’

‘  when  a  girl  likes  talking  about  you  more  than  talking  to  you ,  well ,  in  my  experience ,  that’s  the  end .  ’

‘  you  grow  through  love .  you  don’t  postpone  love  until  you  stop  growing .  ’

‘  you  know  they’re  all  pussies ,  each  and  every  one  of  ‘em .  ’

‘  most  kids  are  assholes ,  just  like  most  adults .  ’

‘  it’s  like  they  can  smell  the  public  school  on  me .  ’

‘  who  can  sleep  with  you  in  the  world ?  ’

‘  he’s  been  to  rehab ,  which  is  a  travesty  ;  you  can  tell  by  his  smug  face  that  he’s  not  capable  of  genuine  addiction .  ’

‘  there’s  emptiness  in  him  that  can  never  be  filled ,  emptiness  that  dressed  up  well  at  prep  school ,  where  a  lack  of  willpower  is  called  creativity .  ’

‘  what  a  shame  to  be  so  angered  by  what  you  don’t  have  that  you  treat  what  you  do  have  like  it’s  nothing .  ’

‘  i  think  that  all  children  do  better  with  happy  parents  than  married  parents .  ’

‘  brunch ,  a  meal  invented  by  rich  white  chicks  to  rationalize  day  drinking  and  bingeing  on  french  toast .  ’

‘  you  are  a  monster ,  deathly ,  solipsistic  to  the  bone  and  you’re  blasphemous  because  all  you  want  is  you .  ’

‘  is  your  twitter  bio  your  subtle  way  of  announcing  that  you’re  an  attention  whore  who  has  no  standards  and  will  give  an  audience  to  any  poor  schmuck  who  says  hello ?  ’

‘  you  miss  me .  and  i  miss  you .  ’

‘  i  cry  and  watch  pitch  perfect  and  sing  along  with  the  barden  bellas .  i  don’t  want  to  be  a person  who  knows  the  name  of  a  fictional  a  cappella  group  in  a  chick  flick  but  that’s  what  love  has  done  to  me .  ’

‘  it’s  amazing  how  good  50  and  sunny  feels  after  you’ve  been  bleeding  in  12  with a  windchill  of  go  fuck  yourself .  ’

‘  you  want  to  know  what  i  know  and  hear  what  i  like  to  hear .  ’

‘  you  relax  your  arms  and  lower  your  legs  and  when  animals  open  up  like  that ,  they  want  to  fuck .  ’

‘  i’ll  fucking  kill  hugh  grant .  ’

‘  life  isn’t  always  ideal ,  not  for  most  people .  ’

‘  what  makes  us  become  us ?  what  fucks  us  up  and  why ?  ’

‘  i  want  life  to  move  slowly  because  i  want  to  anticipate  you  with  all  my  heart ,  greet  you  with  all  my  heart ,  fuck  you  with  all  my  heart ,  and  miss  you  with  all  my  heart .  ’

‘  i  have  to  laugh  because  i  sound  like  a  greeting  card  but  i  deserve  this ,  you ,  joy .  ’

‘  i  hope  you’ll  ask  me  to  eat  you  out  in  the  bathroom  at  starbucks .  ’

‘  he  cheats  on  you .  a  lot .  compulsively .  ’

‘  it  means  you  covet  me .  maybe  even  more  than  i  realize  since  right  now  your  hand  is  heading  to  your  cunt  yet  again .  ’

‘  you’re  so  clean  that  you’re  dirty .  ’

‘  they’re  in  their  own  world ,  where  good  things  happen ,  a  quarter  mile  and  a  million  light  years  away .  ’

‘  night  moves  don’t  work  in  the  morning .  ’

‘  you  don’t  want  to  be  spanked .  you  want  love .  ’

‘  dear  girl ,  you’re  not  an  island .  be  populated .  be  welcoming  to  love .  ’

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Yet another one where I try desperately to make friends and tag people that don’t like me to read my work. @solas-disapproves @pikapeppa @scharoux @itsalexistrvlyn

Context: Solas ruminating on his relationship with my Lavellan. I just really love writing internal monologues instead of having my characters actually, you know, interact. (/o_o)/ 

I should also point out that my Lavellan is 24, despite Solas repeatedly referring to her as a child. When you’re 40+, everyone under 25 is a child. “Kids these days”, etc. Plus remember he considers the Dalish to be “children” across the board like an asshole.

Bracketed parts are what I’m personally debating whether to keep, or else contain text that needs to be replaced with a more appropriate equivalent.

------

She kisses with innocence and an earnest desire to please. He quietly damns himself all the while, but his mind cannot help but dredge up the whisper of a memory from long ago, of similarly wide-eyed and precocious young slave girls gifted to him like furniture. In his youth he acted as much of the part of the rakish black sheep that the Evanuris required of him. [The question that still remained unanswered after all this time, however, was whether he became the character in this particularly decadent play, or if such power afforded him to simply allow such tendencies to flourish unrestrained.]

Whatever the case, it had not been an uncommon occurrence for him to offer the comforts of his bed to two, three, four women on any given night. Servants, slaves, merchants' daughters (and wives).. all eager to please, all determined to curry his favor or catch his eye in the hopes that they would receive a blessing, and what ever that implied. They tried to ply him with distractions--music, art, dance; lewd and debauched scenarios to be acted out for his amusement; as the nights wore on and the wine flowed like a river in his veins, he called for them to submit to more embarrassing requests or risk being permanently ousted from his ever-revolving circle of beautiful nymphs.

Even at his most drunk and at the highest peak of ecstasy, he never lost sight of their motives. To them, he was a meal ticket, a refuge from the painful drudgery of everyday living, a shield from yet another night of painful servitude to his more [visceral] colleagues.

He did not begrudge them: Arlathan swallowed up innocence as readily as a debutante would her first cup of red grape wine. Even the youngest and most inexperienced of his partners still possessed an idea of what to expect from him, either from rumors spread among those beyond his abode or through personal demonstration with a captivated audience.

No, no one was innocent, he had long since been taught, but its absence did not necessarily translate to knowledge. And what he instructed those girls was not wisdom as he once proudly thought, but a functioning form of shrewd cynicism. One did not deserve praise for recognizing the follies of a system they continued to benefit from, and hadn't he benefited from their desperate need for acumen? Indeed, it had always been a secret thrill of his to watch the glimmer of recognition sparkle in someone's eyes, the bittersweet understanding that, ultimately, [knowledge] held as many rewards as it did caveats.

[But as he stared down at the fidgeting ingenue beneath him, he found his heart stir alongside his loins. A crude, blasphemous combination was what he originally thought. [[I have no idea what to do here. This sentence throws off the tone of sincere love but what the fuck do I write]]] An unfortunate side effect of being interred in the Fade for countless centuries. To taste precociousness and sincerity on a person’s skin after all this time..

He was surrounded by shades who unknowingly haunted a false world. Its destruction was imminent, he had resolved that to be its ultimate fate, had accepted that his commitment to the lonely path must continue. He would live, in the loosest sense of the word, among these dead souls, but only for a short time. That was what he had told himself, and in his haste, he had extended the time in which he must dwell in this unbearable purgatory and somehow chained himself to a barely-whelped shadow of his People who now wielded a fragment of his power with as much finesse as a young mage with a training wand. 

Still, he would endure. Cordiality where it was required and expected, fleeting pleasure in the spirits he could still approach and the sweet desserts that thankfully never vanished from the imagination, temperance in all else. Another trial, another penance to be paid. 

But a self-inventory summarily revealed] that his heart now thrummed with a quiet music not unlike the layered echoes resounding from a strummed harp. Sentiments built like a scale. He closed his eyes and listened, and to his surprise he discovered it whispered the name of the Inquisitor, and in the next breath  urged him to recall the moments in their involuntary alliance that shook him from hypnotic stoicism.

Pity, pity for this Dalish girl, this innocent who was to have their life drastically torn asunder by yet another one of his mistakes.

Compassion, compassion for an unprepared child to be enlisted in a cause filled with those just as resolute in condemning her as they were in deeming her a necessity. Like a helpless babe tossed to wolves, she did not so much as whimper for fear of reprisal by forces she could barely comprehend.

Uncertainty, uncertainty at how such a skittish, stuttering, nervous da'len would be able to survive the trials set before her. She lacked understanding in the finer points of what moved the hearts of men. Her shyness intensified when in the company of human nobility to the point that her thoughts were rendered unintelligible. She commanded no presence, projected no confidence, [rested no worried hearts ]. When she spoke it was with a habit of editing her own thoughts in a messy and redundant manner.

Fondness, fondness for the way she listened to him like a child engrossed in a yarn regaled by an elder. The questions she asked, the desire to know and understand the foreign, intangible world he had come to call home long before her grandfather's grandfather's grandfather had been born.

Paternity, paternity because she struggled so very hard with her tremendous self-doubt, her [flagging] sense of belonging, her poor intuition in everything but the art of the bow. The others teased her as colleagues were wont to do but they did not see, as he and Cole saw with such painful clarity, that their words were as damaging as a sharpened knife against the bark of a new tree. That her face was in a near-permanent flush not because of the heat or sun damage but [perpetual embarrassment] at the thought that *she was truly a fool made to be mocked and [unloved]*.

But he kisses back. He kisses back and silently wills that these good intentions--Truly, they were good. Truly, he loved her in every sense of the word. Truly, he now cannot imagine a life having never known her--would leave similar indelible fingerprints on her heart as she has done to him.  

When they part, his eyes rove over the glassy sheen of gray eyes holding back nervously-happy tears; the disgusting, artfully-inked crow of Dirthamen marring her full flushed cheeks and child-like upturned nose and soft sweep of her constantly furrowed brow, he is struck by the desire to cherish her for all time. Hold her and kiss her and pour all of his devotion into her ears until she was reduced to a quivering mess. It would be better for her, so his fantasy narrated, because she is too pure for this world as it is, too good.

She was, the rational side of him agreed, but ignorance was not the proper path toward true happiness. Balance, balance and understanding and righteous action were.

[madamlaydebug]

18 LESSONS OF THE LAW OF ONE

Ma'at (The Kosmic Order)

And The "Universal Mother"

The Advancement of Human Consciousness is evidenced by the development of a Kosmic structure that the Ancient Egyptians called MA'AT. This system was handed down from the Gods to Man and the Pharaoh was the personification of MA'AT.

MA'AT is the Egyptian Goddess of the Physical and Moral Law of Egypt, of ORDER and TRUTH. The aim in Ancient Kemet (Egypt) was for a person to become One with the Goddess. The path to the development of Goddess-like qualities was through the development of specific Virtues.

Each Soul was judged in the Hall of MA'AT (depicted in the 'Book of The Dead' and Book Five of 'The Book of Gates') when they died. The Heart (conscience) was weighed against the feather of MA'AT (an ostrich feather) on scales which represented Balance and Justice. If their heart was heavier than the feather because they had failed to live a Balanced life by the principles of MA'AT their heart was devoured. If, however, the heart Balanced with the feather of MA'AT they would pass the test and gain Eternal Life. At certain times it was ASAR/AUSAR who sat as Judge in the ritual, and many other Deities were involved in the ceremony, but the scales always represented MA'AT.

In the weighing of the wrongs done in this life against the INTENT of the Heart, MA'AT makes a distinction between SINS and TRANSGRESSIONS. A sin was considered a violation of the Laws of the Gods and Goddesses. That is, Laws pertaining to the Ordinances and Requirements which the Gods and Goddesses had given for their worship. Transgressions on the other hand, were offenses against fellow mortals, their possessions, or the Earth -- or that portion of the Earth on which we live. Therefore, sins were against God or Goddess, but one's transgressions were against mortals. All transgressions may be forgiven, but not all sins.

MA'AT is also the God of Balance, Rythm and the Cycles -- the Primal Laws of the Universe that SUPPORT CREATION and prevent it from falling into chaos. The Good and the not-Good moved the Cycles of the Universe. The Good and the not-Good came out of the Same Source, the Void, the Sekhem, the Source of Infinite Potential and Love.

In this crucial role She stands for BALANCE and HARMONY. Her power was beyond the Pharaohs' who declared themselves Beloved of MA'AT and upholders of Her laws. There were Seven Cardinal Principles/Virtues of MA'AT to achieve human perfectibility.

These principles are:

TRUTH

JUSTICE

BALANCE

ORDER

COMPASSION

HARMONY

RECIPROCITY

Woman is the LAW-GIVER and Man is the LAW-ENFORCER.

MA'AT as a Spiritual Principle, is more than Justice, it is DIVINE JUSTICE, personified in the Goddess, (NTRT) MA'AT, who exemplifies the ETERNAL LAWS of the Universe as, RIGHT and TRUTH.

These Virtues encompass all of the following:

(1). Control of Thoughts

(2). Control of Actions

(3). Devotion of Purpose

(4). Have faith in the ability of [your] [teacher] to Teach [you] the Truth.

(5). Have faith in [yourself] to Assimilate the Truth

(6). Have faith in [themselves] to Wield the Truth

(7). Be free from Resentment under the Experience of Persecution.

(8). Be free from Resentment under the Experience of Wrong.

(9). Cultivate the ability to Distinguish between Right and Wrong and

(10). Cultivate the ability to Distinguish between the REAL and the UNREAL.

MA'AT transcends specific Ethical rules (which differed according to different times and different peoples) and instead focuses on the NATURAL order of things. That being said, certain actions were clearly against MA'AT as they increased the effect of chaos and had a purely negative effect on the world.

In addition there are 42 Negative Confessions also called, "42 Declarations of Innocence" or "42 Affirmations of MA'AT." They were 42 in number because there were 42 "Nomes" (called districts/states today) in Kemet at that time.

These principles have been termed "Negative Confessions" because they usually begin with the negative, "I have not." However, these principles of Right and Truth, are in fact AFFIRMATIONS of what one has not done in this life to live by MA'AT.

I have not done iniquity.

I have not robbed with violence.

I have not stolen.

I have done no murder; I have done no harm.

I have not defrauded offerings.

I have not diminished obligations.

I have not plundered the Neteru.

I have not spoken lies.

I have not uttered evil words.

I have not caused pain.

I have not committed fornication.

I have not caused shedding of tears.

I have not dealt deceitfully.

I have not transgressed.

I have not acted guilefully.

I have not laid waste the ploughed land.

I have not been an eavesdropper.

I have not set my lips in motion (against any man).

I have not been angry and wrathful except for a just cause.

I have not defiled the wife of any man.

I have not been a man of anger.

I have not polluted myself.

I have not caused terror.

I have not burned with rage.

I have not stopped my ears against the words of Right and Truth. (Ma-at)

I have not worked grief.

I have not acted with insolence.

I have not stirred up strife.

I have not judged hastily.

I have not sought for distinctions.

I have not multiplied words exceedingly.

I have not done neither harm nor ill.

I have not cursed the King. (i.e. violation of laws)

I have not fouled the water.

I have not spoken scornfully.

I have never cursed the Neteru.

I have not stolen.

I have not defrauded the offerings of the Neteru.

I have not plundered the offerings of the blessed dead.

I have not filched the food of the infant.

I have not sinned against the Neter of my native town.

I have not slaughtered with evil intent the cattle of the Neter.

The 77 Commandments of Ancient Kemet (Egypt) and the 42 Affirmations are the original source of the 10 Commandments of the bible, and the Lesser Commandments of the Books Deuteronomy and Numbers.

They are known as "The Divine Code of Human Behavior".

Thou shall not cause suffering to humans

Thou shall not intrigue by ambition

Thou shall not deprive a poor person of their subsistence

Thou shall not commit acts that are loathed by Gods

Thou shall not cause suffering to others

Thou shall not steal offerings from temples

Thou shall not steal bread meant for Gods

Thou shall not steal offerings destined to sanctify spirits

Thou shall not commit shameful acts inside the sacro-saints of temples

Thou shall not sin against nature with one’s own kind

Thou shall not take milk from the mouth of a child

Thou shall not fish using other fish as bait

Thou shall not extinguish fire when it should burn

Thou shall not violate the rules of meat offerings

Thou shall not take possession of properties belonging to temples and Gods

Thou shall not prevent a God from manifesting itself

Thou shall not cause crying

Thou shall not make scornful signs

Thou shall not get angry or enter a dispute without just cause

Thou shall not be impure

Thou shall not refuse to listen to words of justice and truth

Thou shall not blaspheme

Thou shall not sin by excess of speech

Thou shall not speak scornfully

Thou shall not curse a Divinity

Thou shall not cheat on the offerings to Gods

Thou shall not waste the offerings to the dead

Thou shall not snatch food from children and thou shall not sin against the Gods of one’s city

Thou shall not kill divine animals with bad intentions

Thou shall not cheat

Thou shall not rob or loot

Thou shall not steal

Thou shall not kill

Thou shall not destroy offerings

Thou shall not reduce measurements

Thou shall not steal properties belonging to Gods

Thou shall not lie

Thou shall not snatch away food or wealth

Thou shall not cause pain

Thou shall not fornicate with the fornicator

Thou shall not act dishonestly

Thou shall not transgress

Thou shall not act maliciously

Thou shall not steal farmlands

Thou shall not reveal secrets

Thou shall not court a man’s wife

Thou shall not sleep with another’s wife

Thou shall not cause terror

Thou shall not rebel

Thou shall not be the cause of anger or hot tempers

Thou shall not act with insolence

Thou shall not cause misunderstandings

Thou shall not misjudge or judge hastily

Thou shall not be impatient

Thou shall not cause illness or wounds

Thou shall not curse a king

Thou shall not cloud drinking water

Thou shall not dispossess

Thou shall not use violence against family

Thou shall not frequent wickeds

Thou shall not substitute injustice for justice

Thou shall not commit crimes

Thou shall not overwork others for one’s gain

Thou shall not mistreat their servants

Thou shall not menace

Thou shall not allow a servant to be mistreated by his master

Thou shall not induce famine

Thou shall not get angry

Thou shall not kill or order a murder

Thou shall not commit abominable acts

Thou shall not commit treason

Thou shall not try to increase one’s domain by using illegal means

Thou shall not usurp funds and property of others

Thou shall not seize cattle on prairies

Thou shall not trap poultry that are destined to Gods

Thou shall not obstruct water in the moment it is supposed to run

Thou shall not break dams that are established on current waters

MA'AT is at the Heart of understanding Ancient Kemet Civilization in its entirety, and is the foundation of its longevity. It is bound to and fused with Ethics (including Justice and Truth) and Universal Order (Kosmic Order, Social Order and Political Order).

However, they also understood that it was not possible to be perfect, just BALANCED. The Universe is ORDERED and RATIONAL. The rising and setting of the Sun, the flooding of the Nile and the predictable course of the Stars in the Sky reassured them that there was permanence to Existence which was central to the Nature of ALL things. However, the FORCES of CHAOS are always present and threaten the BALANCE of MA'AT.

Reciprocity -- often called the Golden Rule -- simply states that we are to treat other people as we would wish to be treated ourselves. To apply it, you imagine yourself on the receiving end of the action in the exact place of the other person (which includes having the other person's likes and dislikes). If you act in a given way toward another, and yet are unwilling to be treated that way in the same circumstances, then you violate the rule.

To apply the Golden Rule adequately, we need KNOWLEDGE and IMAGINATION. We need to know what EFFECT our actions have on the lives of others. And we need to be able to imagine OURSELVES, VIVIDLY and ACCURATELY, in the other person's place on the RECEIVING END of the action.

With Love, Light, Knowledge, Imagination, and the Golden Rule, we can progress far in our moral thinking. The Golden Rule is best seen as a CONSISTENCY Principle. It doesn't replace regular moral norms. It isn't an infallible guide on which actions are right or wrong; it doesn't give all the answers. But it does prescribe consistency -- that we DO NOT have our actions (toward another) be out of HARMONY with our desires (toward a reversed situation action). It is a test of our moral coherence. If we violate the Golden Rule, then we violate the Spirit of Fairness and Compassion.

The Golden Rule is well suited to be the standard to instill ORDER against the chaos that otherwise permeates the Universe. Rather than a Code of Justice, MA'AT is the BALANCE to be applied in order to restore HARMONY to Society , and thus to the Universe. The basis of the Golden Rule's equality is summed up by a simple explanation of MA'AT that the Egyptians attributed to the Creatress-Creator: "I made every man like his fellow."

Humanity's evolution of CONSCIOUSNESS is hereby illustrated. MA'AT is not based on what one did that was wrong during one's life, but on one's INHERENT EQUALITY.

Each of us is duty bound to RESTORE and defend MA'AT.

The way of MA’AT was to Act out of the Center of Consciousness, the Heart. Acting out of the Heart is called the Virtue of Love.

As one progresses in Knowledge on the Service To Others pathway, the more he or she incorporates the Principles of MA'AT into his or her life. It is the FOUNDATION of Human Life and is about the promotion of Sanity, Order, Balance, Harmony, Peace, and Justice among Human Beings.

The excellent condition of the Ancient Egyptians was attributed to their application of these Metaphysical Realities in their daily life -- in other words -- TOTAL COSMIC CONSCIOUSNESS.

"As above, so below, and as below, so above."

.

[unpack-my-heart]

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex @violetreddie @mrs-vh @eds-trashmouth

The Tozier residence was nestled in the belly of a small hill at the edge of the village. It was small, rickety, and, in high winds, almost always looked like it was about to collapse. Despite this, though, the sounds of laugher coming from within the small house could be heard for what seemed like miles away. As Edward approached, three small children were playing with sticks in the plush grass, and Wentworth Tozier was chopping firewood with a large axe.

“Hello, boy!”

“Hello, Sir”

“How is the best alchemical apprentice this fine summers evening?”

“I am well, Sir, thank you, Sir”

“Come with news about my boy?”

“Um – well, in some way. I’ve come to ask if you could send Richard back with me, Paracelsus asks that –“

“What do you mean back with you? Is he not still at your workshop?”

“No, Sir, he left about four hours ago”

Wentworth Tozier stopped chopping wood, and gently threw the axe to the ground. He wiped the back of his hand across his glistening forehead.

“I haven’t seen Rich since this morning when we sent him over to Paracelsus. Why do you need him to return?”

“It’s nothing – I mean, it is definitely something but it is nothing to be concerned about. When Richard returns home if you could pass on my message I would be most grateful. Thank you, Sir” Edward babbled, before turning swiftly on his heels and marching down the road.

Wentworth Tozier shrugged, and continued to chop.

He is dead in a ditch.

He grew dizzy and fell off the bridge on his way home.

He succumbed to the illness and is now one with the Earth.

He’s ran off to fetch the chief constable to accuse Edward of witchcraft.

Various catastrophic scenarios swam around the murky soup of Edward’s brain like fish, darting in and out of his attention. Nervousness bubbled in his stomach like acid as he walked aimlessly around the village, wildly hoping that he’d bump into Richard, or spot him in one of the ale houses.

Richard wasn’t in any of the ale houses, nor was he in the church. He wasn’t lurking around the canal, and he wasn’t watch the fish swim in the parish pond.

He was nowhere, as if he’d vanished from the village entirely.

– X –

Sarah Blundy was minding her own business when a glittering light at the outermost edge of the forest caught her eye.

A tree.

A tree that … seemed to be gradually turning to gold.

The first few meters of the tree were solid gold, and more and more of the tree seemed to be turning to gold, as if the gold was consuming the bark, and eating the leaves.

Staring at this transforming tree, Sarah Blundy fainted.

– X –

After three days of searching, Edward gave up searching for Richard, resigning to the fact that wherever he was hiding, he did not want to be found.

However, three days after Richard had gone missing, Paracelsus shook Edward awake.

“Have you heard about the trees?”

“The trees?” Edward yawned, sitting half up in bed, the scratchy blanket falling around his waist.

“The golden trees!”

“Golden… trees?”

“Eddie, I love you like you are my own son but you are a fool,” Paracelsus scolded, lightly smacking Edward over the head.

“Oh, Hell! Richard!”

“Yes! Now you understand. Richard must have disappeared to take cover in the forest. I suppose it is hardly surprising. What this does mean, though, is that he is probably rather easy to find”

“And I suppose I must go to fetch him?”

“Who else would you send?”

“Perhaps… you?”

“Am I the one that gave the Tozier boy the powers of a mythical King?”

“… No, Sir”

“Who did give Richard the powers of a mythical King?”

“… Me, Sir”

“There, you have your answer”

“I will go and look at first light”

“Very good. The poor boy is likely to be scared out of his wits, so be gentle with him”

“Of course”

When Edward arose from his slumber several hours later, Paracelsus thrust several parchments at him.

“These will explain to Richard what I think has happened to him, and give him my personal reassurance that you are not a witch and he is not cursed. Hopefully they’ll convince him to go with you. Now, the first golden tree was spotted near the Cooke residence”

“The house with the broken chimney?”

“That’s the one. If you cannot find him, please do return before sundown. I do not want to have to come looking for you”

“Yes, Sir!”

Edward wolfed down his breakfast of a lump of cheese, two slices of bread and scrambled out of the workshop in less than half an hour. The walk to the edge of the forest was pleasant, the sun was rising towards the top of the heavens, and there was a light breeze moving the air just enough so that it wasn’t too hot. Eventually, the dusty path that winded through the village stopped abruptly, and an empty, lush field stretched on in front of him, a dense forest bordering the field at the opposite end. Edward hopped over the fence, and walked through the field. When he’d gotten about half way, he noticed a mass of people standing beneath an oppressively large, completely golden Oak tree.

Picking up the pace, Edward all but ran to join the people.

“Pardon me, Sir, but do you know what happened here?” Edward asked the nearest man.

“It’s the work of an angel, my lad. God is smiling down at us and he has sent us these miraculous golden trees as proof of his excellence. Praise Him! Rejoice in Him!”

“Thank you” Edward replied dutifully, moving to the front of the crowd to get a better look.

The golden tree at the edge of the forest was just one of many entirely golden trees in the forest, stretching back in a sea of shimmering metal as far as Eddie’s eyes could see.

One peculiar thing, though, was the fact that all of the trees were in a perfect line.

Richard must have come this way.

Without further delay, Edward pushed his was past the crowd and began walking down the path.

“Hey! Boy! You, HEY!”

“What do you think you are doing!”

“You cannot follow the sacred path!”

“Blasphemer!”

“Oh, He’s the alchemists apprentice. No wonder he’s defying God – TRAITOR!”

Edward ignored the frenzied shouts of the crowd, walked through the forest, following the trail of golden trees. The trail continued on for some time, in a perfectly straight line. The further into the forest he went, Edward started to notice the less gold the trees were. Some trees were gold except the very tops, and some trees only had golden trunks, the branches and leaves still illuminated in technicolour by the sun.

Odd.

Suddenly, the trail stopped.

The last tree in the trail was barely golden at all, only the bark a few inches off the ground had turned.

Odd.

The trail had stopped in a grassy clearing, long reeds rustling in the summer breeze. However, as Edward walked towards the centre of the clearing, he noticed that it wasn’t … all grass. There was a large patch of churned up mud, like someone had purposefully attacked the ground with some sort of tool, an axe perhaps. This was surely done on purpose, Edward mused, and recently, too. The mud had not solidified in the sun, and was still soft and malleable to the touch. Edward squatted in the dirt, and sifted it through his fingers. Tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them blades of grass fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Grass doesn’t thud.

Edward looked down, and on the floor by his feet lay five golden blades of grass. The only golden blades of grass in the clearing, Edward noticed, as he scanned about.

Odd.

Edward picked up the golden blades of grass and weighed them in his fingers.

“There must have been more of this,” he mused aloud.

There was no reason that Richard should have specifically chosen to turn these few blades of grass into gold, not when he’d turned dozens of trees to gold on his journey to this clearing. He must have turned great clumps of grass into metal, and someone must have taken the rest.  

Edward looked at the mud. Firmly indented in the soft surface were footprints.

Huge, wide footprints. Footprints that looked vaguely human, but the sheer width of them sent shivers of fear down Edward’s spine.

Scattered among these inhumanly large footprints, though, were footprints that surely must have been made by a regularly sized human. These footprints disappeared suddenly after the patch of mud. If these footprints belonged to Richard, it appeared that he had walked to this clearing, to this exact point, and then vanished entirely. The larger footprints did not disappear, though, and Edward followed the winding trail further into the forest. When the trail showed no sign of ending, and the sun was hanging heavy and bloated in the sky, threatening to disappear behind the hills, Edward decided to return to the workshop to gather supplies.

“Who has taken you, Richard?” Edward asked the air that just wailed in answer.

– X –

“Another golden sculpture?” Edward asked, sceptically, “Where are you getting these from?”

“From a master sculptor in Wandermere, my good Sir. His hands are guided by the lord, and he creates these golden trinkets as an expression of his faith”

The man stood before Edward was pale, and unfortunately deformed, with a large, bulbous forehead and pointed nose. He stood several feet taller than Edward, but walked with a hunch, bones creaking under his pallid, and thin looking skin. Blue-ish grey veins snaked across the merchants arms, as he lifted box upon box out of his small cart. He lifted beautiful golden chalices with perfectly etched intricate patterns, golden knives with solid metal sheaths, and even, to Edward’s curiosity, intricately carved golden books out of the boxes, and displayed them on a small table. The books, in particular, piqued Edward’s interest. They were perfectly rendered in smooth, faultlessly thin sheets of metal. The golden books are … too perfect. Too perfect to have been crafted by the flawed hands of man using tools and manual labour.

“So you say these books were crafted by a goldsmith, by hand?”

“Yes”

“He was able to make this many in such a short space of time?”

The stranger stuttered, eyes flashing with a curious kind of panic.

“As I said, he is a master sculptor”

“How did he get the text so neatly onto the golden leaf? It looks as if it was drawn with just a quill and ink, not etched with cumbersome tools”

“Enough with the incessant questioning,” the stranger snapped, snatching the golden book from Edwards grasp. “Do you wish to purchase anything, or not?”

“I do not think I do, thank you”

The stranger said nothing, but his lip curled wolfishly, revealing a set of unnaturally sharp teeth. Teeth that would look more at home in the mouth of a beast than a man. Edward could feel his blood turn cold. Wordlessly, the stranger began to stack the boxes back into his small cart, before clambering into it himself. The small, morose looking donkey attached to the cart heaved itself onto its feet, before slowly plodding away, out of the village and down the dusty track towards the golden trees.

Without thought, Edward followed them.

– X –

“Can I come out, yet?”

“No! It is not safe, a mortal could see you”

“But it smells like something has died under here”

“You are smelling your own breath”

“Shut your mouth, Patrikos, or I shall stopper it with your own heart”

“Children! All of you. No better than mortal children”

“I still do not understand why you are in charge”

“Erebus decreed it, Victilios, I have told you of this before”

“We have not seen Him for centuries, is there no opportunity for a change in power? Perhaps he would not notice”

“Do not question His motivations or he may smite you down. Not that I would complain, of course”

“Henrion, have we fed the Midas child in recent days?”

“I do not remember, Reginas, though he has not died yet so we must have”

“DO NOT TOUCH ME WITH YOUR WITHERED HAND YOU KNOW HOW IT DISTURBS ME”

– X –

The small cart bounced along the dusty track, past the grassy clearing where Edward had found the golden blades of grass, and journeyed deep into the forest. The trees became dense enough to block out the sun. Only one man sat upon the cart, the stranger who had been selling the golden wears in the village for several days, but Edward could hear four voices floating through the air as he followed the cart several feet behind.

Nimbly, Edward darted from tree to tree, never taking his eye from the small cart. They continued on for several hours, and Edward's legs grew wearier and wearier, until, without warning, the cart vanished. Edward watched in horror as it appeared to be swallowed whole by darkness, as it disappeared down into ... nothingness.

After waiting for several seconds, Edward sprang forward. He ran towards where the cart had disappeared, and found himself face to face with the entrance to an underground passage way. Edward stared into the void, and the void stared back at him.

[ifridiot]

WoW Fic: Edible

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World of Warcraft Rating: Mature Warnings: Aftermath of Violence Relationships: Tal Runetotem (Tauren OC) + Bynx (Forsaken OC) Characters: Tal Runetotem, Bynx Additional Tags: Cannibalism, Vomit, Practical Decisions not Panning Out Summary: Tal hates waste, and he figures his undead buddy Bynx has a good idea when it comes to finding food after a battle. 

Bynx (actually named Daniel) belongs to @thats-so-ravenholm. This fic is like 7 years old, but I just found a flash drive with all my old WoW writing on it lmao.

---

As was common among his people, Tal abhorred waste. When he killed game, he used everything he could, even saving bones on occasion to use for carving. All that could be eaten, was, or at least was packed up for later consumption. Skins were collected, generally to be sold, as he’d only ruin them making anything himself. Tendons and sinews make good cord, and while his braiding was often clumsy at first, he found himself utterly capable of making solid rope from twisted strands of animal sinew. Everything in an animal’s body was a gift from the Earthmother, and it was blasphemous to squander such things.

So, despite knowing that most people loathed it, he very quickly came to appreciate Bynx’s occasional consumption of their fallen foes. They were always humanoid, and Bynx only seemed to eat those who had wounded him worst, but other than that the act seemed spontaneous, not malicious or profane.

In a way, Tal understood where the disgust came from, to the average person seeing a Forsaken dine in such a way. Especially those with a more sympathetic build to those being dined upon. There was something about it, a certain graceless voracity; it was messy and crude, just as all desperate battlefield meals were. If you were, say, a blood elf, watching a forsaken devour the flesh of, say, a night elf – or even a human – wouldn’t it be easy to image one’s own corpse treated in such a way? Indeed, even orcs and trolls shared enough basic features with Bynx’s intermittent meals for Tal to understand why they might reel away at the sight.

What Tal saw was an unconscious acknowledgment of the Earthmother’s ever-present gift. Perhaps if ever he saw a Forsaken munching on a Tauren corpse, he too would feel his guts revolt in disgust, but somehow he doubted it. Mostly he was just curious as the regulations of this strange ritual – what drove Bynx to it at such seemingly random intervals, what were the precedents for how much he ate and when? What was the meaning behind the act?

They had been traveling together just long enough for Tal to feel comfortable talking casually with the smaller male, but not long enough for him to even consider voicing a song as they walked. It was hard to work up the nerve at an appropriate moment to ask. There was a distinct chance that, had his wits always completely been about him, he never would have.

But after some time, there finally came a day when, having barely fought their way out of a mob, Tal stood leaning against his axe and panting as he watched Bynx curl over a corpse and begin to claw hunks of meat into his mouth, hot and raw. The smell in the air was foul, between the stench of death and Bynx’s wounds, the enormous Tauren couldn’t even smell his own blood, racing out of him from several rather serious wounds as it was, and he was dizzy and tired enough not to really give much thought to his mouth.

“Ey, Bynx… why does that, huh?”

The Forsaken paused, hand against his mouth as he raised his eyes to regard the larger male. Swallowing thickly, he wiped at the blood on his face, smearing gore more than removing it, before hissing out, “Do what?”

Gesturing vaguely at his companion and the corpse that had suddenly become dinner, Tal offered a shrug. “Eat him. Didn’t eat last time we fought here.”

“Nor did we almost die.” Bynx grumbled, digging his claws into the corpse and scratching up another palm-full of meat. He brought it to his mouth, glanced back up at the Tauren, and seemed to sigh in exasperation upon noting that the other’s curious stare hadn’t wavered at all. “Flesh for flesh,” he grudgingly said, eyes boring into Tal as he spoke. “I eat the flesh of the dead and heal my own.”

Comprehension was a little slower in his wounded state, but after a moment of mulling the words over, Tal’s eyes glinted in understanding. It wasn’t a ritual at all, but it made sense – if he could eat a wheel of cheese or a joint of venison and regain stamina and health, then did it not serve that any meat would do? And what were their fallen enemies then, as he had already noted, but so much meat?

He took a few steps toward the other, the motion shambling and filled with a pronounced limp. He had run out of potions long ago and they’d yet to make it anywhere to restock. As for food, he’d have to kill if he wanted to eat… and yet, it struck him, wasn’t that exactly the problem Bynx was solving right now?

“Ahh, always got a smart thing, you,” he said, looking at the bodies in a new light. One man’s arm had been severed at the elbow, and with the armor gone, the lone limb looked like nothing so much as a scrawny knuckle of meat. Holding onto his axe for balance, worried he’d fall otherwise, he bent to pick up the arm. It surprised him to feel the sharp sting of something striking his outstretched hand; he glanced at his companion, saw the knife that had been slapped against the back of his hand and the serious expression on the other’s face, and furrowed his brow in confusion. “I say ’sa good idea, and I like to try a thing for myself.”

When he moved again to take the arm, the flat of the blade slapped him once more, too fast for the eye to follow. It stung, even through the leather of his gloves. “Not for you.”

Straightening up with a low chuckle, the Tauren shook his head. Forsaken had never seemed territorial, but every race had its proclivity when it came to sharing meals. Especially with newer comrades. Using the axe like a walking stick, thanking the Earthmother for letting him find a weapon with such a stout handle, he limped toward a different body. “There, no need ta make like its theft. I got my own, killed my share and keep to mine then.”

“Tal,” Bynx hissed, his voice a low, unhappy growl, “This is a bad idea. Your people do not eat what mine do.”

Grasping the edge of a life-ending gash in the chest of a dead human soldier, Tal smiled to himself and shook his head. He’d eaten many things that most Tauren – honestly, most people in general – would shudder at. As a warrior and a young bull out on his own, he’d been stuck out in the field with no game to be had but wolves, had eaten bugs when there was nothing else. He was no stranger to raw meat, and while it certainly wasn’t his first choice, there were worse things to eat. He twisted his wrist as sharply as he could, pulling the flesh from the body. In his weakened condition, it took three tries, three sharp jerks, to finally rip the meat free. The rough sound of tearing flesh was incredibly unappealing, as was the stink of human blood and death lingering thick this close to the ground. But here before him was a means to soothe his aching wounds and heal some of his hurts.

He brought the limp, tepid meat to his mouth, trying not to breathe the stink of it, and ignored Bynx’s warning not to be an idiot. At this point, it was almost a matter of stubborn pride; he’d said he would, and by the Earthmother he wasn’t a liar or a coward. Closing his eyes, he opened his mouth, shoved the chunk of meat in, and chewed. The flavor was coppery and gamey and pungent, blood having been allowed to cool in the body before being carved, but it wasn’t all around bad.

Still, it made his guts churn, the unfamiliar sensation of nausea crawling up his throat, but he swallowed it down with the meat and opened his eyes to look at Bynx. It was something of a surprise to find the Forsaken staring intently at him, looking almost anxious. “Not a good meat, but passable in a pinch.” He said, ignoring the way his stomach was still fighting the raw, strange food thrust upon it. “Sure not somethin’ to make habits about, but…” he grumbled, reaching down to rip another chunk of flesh up.

Whatever else he might have said was lost as he bent slightly forward, trying to get better leverage to pull the meat free. His stomach gave a final roil, the sudden pain of a cramp lacing through him, and he opened his mouth with a low moan. Saliva pooled in his mouth, throat working in anticipation as his stomach heaved; his grip on the axe faltered and the weapon clattered over the corpse as he fell to the side, arms wrapping instinctively around his guts. He managed to roll to the side, getting his less-injured arm under himself to push up on hands and knees, before he lost the contents of his stomach on the bloody ground.

Having rarely in life been sick, the experience was novel, in a grotesque way. The vomit was alarmingly red, and the sight and sensation of that foul meat spilling out of him only worsened the nausea; he gagged again, coughing when his stomach finally ran out of fuel to expel. He shuddered, the arm supporting his weight feeling weak and jelly-like, but the thought of ‘jelly’ made him think in a weird way of the soft, seemingly innocuous meat he’d just eaten, and he gagged again, spitting bile.

The careful touch of boney fingers on his bare shoulder surprised him, but he didn’t trust himself to look over his shoulder at his friend. He could tell by the astringent stench of the other’s wounds that it was Bynx; the smell of his vomit mixing with that particular odor causing him to gag again, and he gave a weak, unhappy sound as he tried to swallow back a fresh wave of nausea.

Letting that sharp hand guide him back, he pushed himself to a kneel, up away from the worst of the stink. “I told you it was a bad idea,” Bynx said softly, somehow not making the words sound like a jibe or gloat. Tal could only manage another low moan, nodding his shaggy head because, obviously and as usual, Bynx had been correct. “Get up, away from your mess. C’mon.”

Forsaken were surprisingly strong, but even in this state Tal refused to put any weight on his small companion, instead carefully getting to his feet on his own. As he stood, Bynx’s hand slid from his shoulder to his elbow, and finally off him entirely. He disappeared from the Tauren’s view for a moment, returning with Tal’s axe dragging behind him. Hefting it awkwardly, he thrust it into the other’s hand, before moving to point at a boulder a little ways away from the site of their battle.

“Go sit. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Not willing to argue, probably honestly incapable of it, Tal leaned against his axe again and made his shaking way to where he’d been pointed. Behind him, he could hear Bynx return to his feast. Part of him expected to feel a sharp return of his fading nausea as the sound of tearing flesh, but even when he thought about what Bynx was doing, he only felt the lingering misery of his mistaken meal. For Bynx, such was natural behavior.

For a Tauren, obviously, it was not. Just as some plants were poisonous to man but not the birds of the area, so too, it seemed, were some meats poison only to some. Human was, obviously, on the list of things inedible to him.

It was kind of shame, he thought as he sat, curled miserably over his cramped, aching stomach. The meat was so easy to come by and so often went to waste.

[kagetsukai]

Osric Cadash: Day 2 - New Groups

This ficlet was salvaged from when I first tried to do a challenge with Osric. If it sounds familiar, that's why.

Also available on AO3

For the nth time that day, Osric wondered if this was what dreaming felt like: the disconnect, the disorientation, the panic. He stood at the end of a large table inside of a building dedicated to a deity he was unsure existed, and the four humans that stared him down in four different ways made him want to turn around and run. He did not belong here.

“No,” he finally said, his voice strange and distant in his ears. “I won’t do it. I just can’t.”

Commander Cullen’s face folded into an even grumpier expression, Lady Josephine Montilyet looked disappointed for a brief moment before she settled on a mild interest mixed with concern, while Cassandra Pentaghast showed her displeasure in the most obvious way she had.

“Ugh.”

The only person Osric couldn’t read was Sister Nightingale and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. As an enforcer for Carta, he had learned quickly the intricacies of emotions and how quickly they could turn to your disadvantage. Not knowing what the spymaster thought or felt was yet another reason why he didn’t want to stick around.

“You are free to go, of course,” Leliana said in her level, pleasantly accented voice. “Nobody will stop you. But do keep in mind that the world outside of Haven wants you dead. They think you a heretic, a blasphemer who killed our beloved Divine and threw the world into chaos. How long could you stay alive on your own?”

Longer than you assume, thought Osric. These people clearly underestimated his ability to survive against all odds, but he wasn’t about to announce his skills to any first human he came across. These four were clearly desperate to keep him around, to use the strange magic in his left hand to whatever advantage they thought they could get.

That’s when the mark flared up again; it sparkled and fizzled and hurt in a way that put fear and uncertainty back into Osric’s young heart. If he had been the same person before this blasted Conclave put him at the center of attention, he could have returned to being a nobody, a dwarf in the background. With a magical beacon permanently attached to his hand - and possibly killing him with every passing moment - his options were limited at best.

“I don’t trust you,” he announced, more to Leliana than anybody else in the room.

A pleased smirk creased her face.

“Most people don’t,” she replied. “Sleep with a knife under your pillow, if it makes you feel better, but we mean you no harm. We want to save this world and you are our only hope of doing so.”

The last thing Osric wanted to do was to sign up for some hero’s quest to save a world that didn’t care about him, but his options were limited. He was also exhausted and needed something solid in his belly.

“Fine.” It was a resigned sort of an agreement as Osric closed his eyes and pressed fingers against his eyeballs. “I’ll do it, even if I don’t know how.”

Cassandra moved beside him and he slowly opened his eyes - slowly enough to watch her slam a large, complicated-looking tome onto the table.

“Don’t worry, we have a blueprint.”

[houseki-no-suffering]

Words: 3053 Genre: humor, college AU, nerds being nerds and idiots being idiots  Characters: Cinnabar, Phosphophyllite Summary: AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES!

A/N: i’m super sorry this is so late. I had everything ready to post this on time but life got in the way and then nano did too. But here it is, at last! Cinnaphos comedy! Also, of course this is not betaed, who do you take me for

Among all the things they had expected from college, their new roommate barking orders and insults at them wasn’t one of them. Usually, people gave Phos a chance before they started insulting them. Even Cairngorm had conceded them a couple of hours of trial.

Phos would mumble an apology if they weren’t utterly speechless. And terrified. And they would at least try to look apologetic, even if they had no idea what about, but their face was frozen in a petrified frown. The rest of their body was struggling not to let go of the unruly pile of belongings that they had been hoping to drop on the floor of their new room.

“No snoring, no talking in your sleep, don’t overstep here, this part of the room is mine, if I catch you with so much of a hair near my stuff you’re dead. Don’t touch my things: never touch my things.”

Their tried to nod while what they had hoped would be their new friend went on some more house rules. What was the name again? Shi-Ci-Cinnabar? Gosh, Phos would never call them by name until they weren’t certain. Also, they were not quite sure that all of their stuff would fit into the corner that Cinnabar designated as their own side of the room, but there was no way they could just mention it without risking their own head be bitten off.

So they tried to start small. By some miracle, they wiggled one of their hands free, unquestionable proof that they had been a juggler in a past life, and offered it to their roommate.

“So, uhm, my name is-“

“Oh yes, one last thing,” Cinnabar said, sparing half, or better, a quarter of disgusted glance toward Phos’s hand, “Don’t. Talk. To. Me.”

--

When Phos found enough courage in them to ask around about Cinnabar, they had been expecting tales of roommates being murdered under the pale moonlight, not what looked like the description of a very, very selective cat.

A “cutie,” Padparadscha’s words. A cutie that had helped them with calculus, apparently. Which implied a lot of interesting and contradictory inferences. Like the fact that Papda had spent a considerable amount of hours in the company of Cinnabar, that Cinnabar had softened their bark enough to explain things to them, that those things were math, and that Cinnabar had been patient and good enough a teacher to succeed where even Rutile had failed. All without killing Padparadscha or even injuring them a little.

But Padparadscha didn’t count, Phos thought: everybody liked Padparadscha, it didn’t mean anything. So Phos went looking for their horror stories elsewhere.

Now Cinnabar went from “cutie” to “friend,” which sounded even stranger because it implied an even longer period of interaction and shared space. They were quite sure that Diamond even added the words “for years” next to “friend.”

Of course, Dia had a nice word for everyone, but by the time Bort seconded their opinion, adding tales about the one time they baked German sweets for Christmas rather than how they helped Cinnabar hide a body, Phos was very confused.

Cinnabar was a selective hatred-inflicting mystery, and Phos loved a good puzzle. As long as it didn’t mean ending up six feet under, but judging from their roommate’s meager if anything body-count, it was a risk they could dare take.

Like most things in Phosphophyllite’s life, they didn’t plan it. They waited for the universe to align in a position favorable for minding someone else’s business. And the universe delivered on a sunny October afternoon, in the form of a Cinnabar leaving their laptop open and unguarded on their bed when they went to the toilet.

As it was due, Phosphophyllite thanked the universe, tasting the sweet, forbidden flavor of danger in their mouth as adrenaline started rushing through their body. They were alone, and they would be alone for a few seconds at least, so they steadied their heart and did the unthinkable.

They stepped into Cinnabar’s side of the room.

They world went still. Phos imitated it standing immobile as if the walls around them could crumble at any moment. As if Cinnabar had only pretended to leave their laptop unguarded, like they would ever make such a mistake. They were testing Phos. Their sadistic, evil kitten personality was testing Phos’ loyalty to the fear they had worked so hard to elicit in them that first day. And all the days after that.

But like most times in Phosphophyllite life, Phos ignored their common sense, opting instead for the decision that would elicit the least foreseeable outcome. Which happened to also be the stupidest.

They made another step.

Was it their imagination or the air in the room was getting colder? Shinsha’s side was definitely inhabited by the ghosts of their former roommates.

The forbidden object was now so close that Phos could venture out to touch it. Would that leave any fingerprint on the black, shiny, vampiric surface though? Would those fingerprints be easily attributable to Phosphophyllite? That was the whole point of fingerprints, if Phos was not mistaken.

So they made another step, their legs now dangerously close to the bed, to the point that they could feel the soft consistency of cotton sheets against their shin. They had never felt closer to death before and thus had never felt so alive. And so determined to stay alive.

That’s when they decided that they must have a death wish. They moved their head forward, casting their eyes impossibly close to enemy territory, and stole a glance at Cinnabar’s laptop, enough to capture the image they had set as wallpaper.

And Phos brought both of their hands to their mouth and suffocated a loud, elongated scream.

Cinnabar.

Cinnabar “if you talk to me you’re dead.”

Cinnabar “I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color.”

Cinnabar “I have never tasted the sweet flavor of happiness.”

That Cinnabar had a picture of kittens as desktop wallpaper.

Little, cute, fluffy fur balls with a big sign with words of encouragement written on it.

And Phos wasn’t screaming, or trying to prevent themselves from doing so, because of the kittens. Because everybody had a right to live their emo life in any way they so preferred. Even if 2008 had come and gone ten years ago. Even if it meant walking around with eyes so empty they could suck you in like a singularity point while still using a freaking picture of kittens as desktop wallpaper.

No, Phos would never judge someone else’s aesthetic, however contradictory. It would have meant judging their own first of all, and they enjoyed feeling the power surge of entropy as they went about their day in mismatched colors and sandaled socks.

No. Phos was screaming, or trying to prevent themselves from doing so, because of the sign. A huge, fully saturated red monstrosity that hurt their aspiring graphic designer’s eyes, but still not quite as much as the font.

There it stood, on Cinnabar’s pitch-black laptop, surrounded by the naïve cuteness of kittens. There it stood, the forsaken font, in all its cursed glory. Desecrating, insulting, violating, blaspheming the blissful and yet beautiful contradiction of emo kittens.

If they didn’t hear Cinnabar’s footsteps approaching from the corridor, Phos would have suffered from a Comic Sans-induced heart attack right on the spot. In Cinnabar’s side of the room.

They had just enough time to contemplate if that was Cinnabar’s preferred method of killing unsolicited roommates before they plunged into their own bed with a leap worthy of an Olympic qualification, like their life depended on it. Because, quite frankly, it did.

With their heart beating fast both from the near-death experience and the horror provoked by their discovery, they grabbed a book, the first book they could find, and shoved it in their own face the moment they landed on the mattress, exactly 0.2 seconds before Cinnabar’s figure stepped through the doorframe.

They had a large, steaming cup of coffee in their hand and a murderous stare in those bottomless, blood-red pits that people around campus insisted on calling eyes.

All the cuteness and tenderness they could have felt after discovering about the kittens disappeared as Phos tried to decipher if that glance was directed at the world or at them in particular.

Their heart was marathoning a full 50km at the speed of a sprinter. And it was being loud about it. So loud. Phos knew that Cinnabar could hear it.

As if in response, Cinnabar’s head shifted imperceptibly toward Phos’ side of the room. Not enough to make out their eyes from beneath Cinnabar’s red, tangled mess of a mane, but definitely enough to have Phos question all of their life choices so far.

--

The scene kept replaying every day before Phosphophyllite’s eyes.

Their forbidden gesture, the way they had bolted to the bed, the way they had grabbed a book and pretended to be reading, the way Cinnabar had come back to their room and had looked at them, the way they had sat down on their bed without saying a word.

The way they had started using their computer as if nothing had happened, the way Phos had cast a panicked glance in their direction and the way they had discovered, upon closer inspection, that they had been holding the book upside down.

Cinnabar didn’t mention any of these things. Not that day, nor the day after that. It was like they hadn’t noticed anything amiss in Phos’ behavior. And that was what made Phos so suspicious.

Phosphophyllite knew about their own chaotic attitude towards life. They knew they would never commit the perfect crime, because they could easily find a needle in a haystack but would totally miss a sperm whale in a coffee cup. Phosphophyllite knew. Everyone knew. Cinnabar knew.

And Cinnabar was waiting for them to break down.

It was already happening. Guilt and anxiety and horror mixing up in an uncontainable cocktail in Phos’s stomach, dangerously close to overflowing.

Could Cinnabar hear the pounding sound of Phos’ heart every time they were alone in a room with them? Had Cinnabar noticed that something was wrong with their laptop where Phos’ eyes had dared taint it with their glance? Did Phos leave any traces of their irresponsible trespassing?

The silence kept stretching on between the two of them, heavier and more loaded with murderous repercussions than usual. And with it, the growing repulsion of that one, cursed sign, disfiguring the amenity of emo kittens. It must have been ironic, Phos thought, it must have been. Or it could have been another test for Phos. If so, how should they respond to it?

They realized that they were staring at Cinnabar again, ready to anticipate possible attacks.

Cinnabar was sitting on their bed, black clothed legs hugging their black laptop while long, black sleeves clad their arms and hands, fingers intently typing some mysterious something. It was probably a list of the reasons why Phos had failed the test and how Cinnabar could get rid of them and make the world a better place.

Cinnabar pressed enter one last time, a single, swift movement of the finger.

It was all Phos needed.

They knew. Cinnabar knew. It was in the satisfaction with whom they had pressed enter and made their list of ‘1001 ways to kill Phosphophyllite’ a reality.

And the emotional brew that had been fermenting inside Phos’ stomach broke free.

“I’m so sorry please don’t kill me!”

If Phos thought that Cinnabar had been considering them up to this point, they were definitely unprepared to bear the weight of their undivided attention. Because, yes, Cinnabar’s stare was now definitely murderous, and yes, all of that murderous intent was directed at Phos exclusively. Success.

They arched one single eyebrow in Phos’ general direction.

Phos felt their heart sink. Catching what could very well be their last breath, they realized they should fight for their life. Because Cinnabar spat the next word as if it was disgusting for the sole reason that it was directed at Phos.

“What,” they said.

Phosphophyllite could see their chances of survival physically dimming before their eyes.

“Y-your laptop, I’m sorry, I swear I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, it happened, I looked at it!”

“You what?”

“I was just curious,” they blurted out, a curious mix of shame, relief and desperation lining their voice, “you never talk to me and you look super scary, but everyone else said you’re actually pretty nice and I didn’t know, I didn’t know what to do, I don’t know what kind of person you are so I thought I’d look just for a tiny second, please, please, please forgive me.”

Curiously enough, Cinnabar didn’t look murderous anymore. They looked perplexed.

They arched another eyebrow and that was when the magic happened because, rather than making them even scarier, that one gesture changed the expression on their face completely. They lost intimidation points, the second eyebrow easing some of the dangerousness from their face and replacing it with a new emotion that wasn’t gloom or anger or angst, or any of the emotions that Cinnabar had displayed in Phos’ presence.

Cinnabar looked surprised.

And it looked cute on them.

And did Phos just think ‘cute’ and ‘Cinnabar’ in the same phrase? They were definitely going to die today.

“You looked at my computer?”

“I did.”

And here was when the magic kept on happening. Because Cinnabar kept looking surprised. And, as such, kept looking less dangerous than they were cute.

“You- but why-“ even more: Cinnabar looked almost calm now, as if their disbelief had been enough to kick out anger and murder from their head, because there wasn’t enough room for all three of them. For a brief second, the thought that maybe, just maybe, they would live to see another day crossed Phos’ mind.

And then the thought crossed their mind again for a longer second, because Cinnabar’s face was an adorable frown of perplexity while they tried to make sense of their first experience of Phos’ incongruous lifestyle. If Cairngorm were here, they could help them through the process. It was less traumatic when there were two people instead of one to acknowledge the hopelessness of Phos’ case.

“Why?” Cinnabar managed to ask in a tiny, childish voice that Phos would never have believed could belong to them. And they destroyed it with chaotic pragmatism.

“I don’t know! I was just curios!”

Cinnabar’s eyes were back on them, their gaze significantly less cute now and Phos contemplated the option of pleading for their life once again, but they were on a rampage and couldn’t stop the words that come out of their mouth. So they uttered them at the speed of light to make up for it.

“Also please tell me it’s ironic!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The font!” what else? Was this another test? “The cursed one! The pic was super cute but you can’t ruin it like that! It hurts the kittens!”

“What the actual fuck. What’s your problem?”

“Gosh, I can’t believe this!” and wielding as a weapon that specific brand of courage that comes from an equal mixture of foolhardiness and spite, Phos did the unthinkable again.

They stood up and walked two oblivious steps into Cinnabar’s territory. And a third one toward Cinnabar’s bed. They bent down over their computer, dangerously close to Cinnabar’s face and blissfully unaware of the defensive way in which they were drawing back.

“That thing!” they said once again, pointing a finger at Cinnabar’s desktop, “gosh, I can’t even say its name, you used comic sans. Like, you used comic sans!”

“Stop staring at my computer, you creep,” Cinnabar protested, and shut the machine as a sign of defiance.

“How can you call me a creep? Look what you did to your kittens!”

“What the hell, go away, go back to your side of the room.”

“They don’t deserve this, and that red too, they don’t deserve this pain.”

Phos was so absorbed in their graphics-induced indignation that they almost missed the fierce, deep red that was dying Cinnabar’s cheeks. And they almost missed the way Cinnabar was no longer barking threats but tilting their head to the side and looking at them with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. Because Phos was ranting about designer’s stuff to a math grad. A math grad who knew about technology only the bare necessaire to write a couple of papers in which the quantity of numbers beat words 5 to 1, and who liked it that way. So Phos missed the exact moment in which Cinnabar’s irritation for their outrageous breach of privacy and personal space muted into defensiveness.

“’twas a gift. From my Sensei.”

“Uh?”

“The thing, I didn’t make it, it was a gift. It was nice of him. He said it was t-to bring me good luck.”

And suddenly the weight of all the things they had missed while they were ranting about gestalt and the faults of sans serifs hit Phos in the head with the violence of a very, very hard frying pan. And then they felt like shit.

“Oh. Oh! Shit, I mean, gosh, and how- how old is your Sensei?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like, more than sixty?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Alright, alright, gosh,” Phos ran a hand through their hair, they gazed at Cinnabar from beneath the teal and found them staring back at them, anticipation and worry on their face.

They were several years older than Phos, and several shades more bitter. And yet, they looked so tiny. A fragile, red-headed thing with adorable little freckles and what looked like a half-pout. In that exact moment, Phos understood how Padparadscha could call them a “cutie.” Padpa was never wrong about people, after all.

“Okay, listen. He was nice, but you both need to be enlightened about stuff,” so they put their hands on their hips in the cheap imitation of a power pose and donned their most charming smile.

“Therefore, I, Phosphophyllite, will help you out. I’m going to make you the best kitten wallpaper. The one that only you can use.”

And then proceeded to be smacked in the face by a skillfully thrown cushion.

[plurdledgabbleblotchits]

Some Limericks, by Norman Douglas, 1928

One of the most often pirated books of all time. At one time, it was considered obscene; but it is also quite amusing.  Not for the easily offended, puritanical, overly pious, uptight, humorless, doctrinaire, the soi-disant highbrow, or simply too young -the author suggests that a reader should be older than 10. In America, I would suggest older, prob 18. Do not click on the link if ribald content is upsetting.

I find the long introduction by the author remarkable. One blogger (Jildy Sauce here) puts it eloquently thus: “In his introduction and commentary to the limericks, Douglas strikes a certain kind of pose: magisterial and magnanimous, mock-authoritative and understanding, bullet-proof as far as being shocked or outraged is concerned.  It is a stance that gives rise to a definite and delightful frisson when set beside limericks that are salacious, scatological and blasphemous – or all three together, a rare treat.  Douglas’ Geographical Index is a helpful pointer toward his choicest and wittiest remarks, for example: ‘Manchester, waggishness of mill-hands near’.”

“INTRODUCTION He must be a quintessential fool who does not realize that the following fifty limericks are a document of enduring value. And I beg leave to say that the collection has been made not for such people, but for those who can appreciate its significance. I may be abused on the ground that the pieces are coarse, obscene, and so forth. Why, so they are; and whoever suffers from that trying form of degeneracy which is horrified at coarseness had better close the book at once and send it back to me, in the hope that I may be simple enough to refund him the money. As to abuse—I thrive on it. Abuse, hearty abuse, is a tonic to all save men of indifferent health. At the same time I am fully convinced that nobody under the age of ten should peruse these pages, since he would find them so obscure in places that he might be dis- couraged from taking up the subject later on, which would be a pity. Ten, and not before, is the right age to commence similar studies; a boy of ten is as sagacious and profound as one of eighteen, and often more intel- lectual. Ten was the precise age (see page 39) at which I began to take interest in this class of literature, and it has done me all the good in the world. There was a time when one collected butterflies, or flowers, or minerals. But the choicest specimen of (say) precious opal can be replaced, if lost. Now if these limericks are lost, they cannot be replaced; they are gone for good. You may invent new ones, as many as you please. Such new ones, however, will inevitably have another tone, another aroma, because they belong to another age. The discerning critic will detect a gulf both in technique and in feeling between most of the limericks of the Golden Period and those of today, and naturally enough, seeing that the poets, and not only the poets of the Victorian and the Georgian epochs have an entirely different outlook. Precious opal remains the same yesterday, today, and fifty thousand years hence. That is why lately, with increasing intelligence, I have taken to garnering what future collectors cannot hope to possess without my aid—perishable material such as the Street Games of London children, or the blas- phemies of Florentine coachmen. It would interest me to know what proportion of those thousand-odd Street Games are still played, and which of them have died out in the short interval since my little book on the subject was written. In that book itself I predict their decline, and give reasons for it (page 119-121). And it is the same with the swear words. I caught the old ones in the nick of time. A good half of them have already grown obsolete and are unfamiliar to the new generation of such men. Why is this? Because these men, being no longer cab-drivers but chauffeurs, are afflicted with the neurasthenia common to all such mechanical folk; they lack—their distemper makes them imagine they lack—the leisure which is essential to the creation of original works of art, however humble; they forget the ripe old blasphemies and have not the wit to invent a fresh supply. How shall good things be generated if, instead of sitting over your wine and cheese, you gulp down a thimbleful of black coffee and rush off again? Mechanics, not microbes, are the menace to civilization. A writer in the New Witness (Dec. 9, 1921) once suggested that this collection of swear words should be privately printed. That cannot be done; it will never see the light of day. But I shall now permit myself, for reasons which will be apparent later on, to reproduce the few words of introduction which I wrote for it in the year 1917: "Nor is there much bad language to be found in Romola. Perhaps the Florentines did not swear so horribly in those days. Perhaps their present fondness for impious inveftice is likewise a reaction from Savo- narola's teaching (I had been discussing Savonarola's puritanism). For Tuscans of today are pretty good blasphemers. They have many oaths in common but, unlike others, they pride themselves upon an individual tone in this department. A self-respecting Florentine would consider his life ill-spent had he not tried to add at least one blasphemy of his own personal composition to the city stock; it survives, or not, according to its merits. Of how many other art-products can it be said that merit, and merit alone, decides their survival? "Adventures are to be adventurous. "I have begun to make a collection of these curses, imprecations, objurgations — abusive, vituperative or blasphemous expletives: swear words, in short. It already numbers thirty-eight specimens, all authentic, to the best of my knowledge. Most of them, I regret to say, are coupled with the name of the Deity. That cannot be helped. I propose to treat the subject in a scien- tific spirit—from the "kulturhistorischen Standpunkt", as the Germans say. I did not invent the swear words, and if the reader dislikes their tone he may blame not me but Savonarola for generating this pungent reaction from his bigotry. Violence always begets violence. "Why not interest oneself in such things? Man cannot live without a hobby. And this is folklore, neither more nor less; an honorable hobby. Furthermore, unlike stamp or coin collecting, it costs practically nothing; a seasonable one. It has the additional advantage that the field is virgin soil and the supply of material very considerable—unlimited, I should say. Moreover, the research leads you into strange byways of thought and causes you to ponder deeply concerning human nature; some of these oaths require a deal of explanation; a philosopher's hobby! Unexploited, unexplained, unexhaustible—what more can be asked? And, as aforesaid, absurdly economical. "There is yet more to be said in its favour. For while these swear words are as genuine a flower of the soil as Dante or Donatello and every bit as character- istic, they happen to be up to date. A live hobby! They portray modern Tuscany with greater truthfulness than any other local product. Indeed, it will not take you long to discover that they, and they alone, are still flourishing in this city. For the rest of Florence is dead or dying. The town decays, declines; it shrinks into a village; grows more provincial every day. Pol- itical life has yielded up the ghost; art and literature and science, music and the state—they gasp for breath. There is no onward movement perceptible. It either stands still, or moves actually backwards. The oaths alone are vital. In lightning flashes, and with terrible candour, they reveal the genius loci." Are not these words, most of them, applicable to a collection of English limericks? A curious parallel! "A self-respecting Englishman would consider his life ill-spent had he not tried to add at least one limerick of his own personal composition to the national stock; it survives, or not, according to its merits"—how true! And what shall we write instead of Savonarola? We can write puritanism; indeed, we must. This verse-form is a belated product of puritanical repression. That is why Latin races cannot appreciate such literature. If you tell a Frenchman: II y avait un jeune homme de Dijon, Qui n'avait que peu de religion. II dit: "Quant a moi, Je deteste tous les trois, Le Pere, et le Fils, et le Pigeon" — he will look at you  in a dazed fashion, wondering whether he has heard  aright, while Spaniards are pos- itively shocked when  you translate for them a lyric such as: There was a young girl of Spitzbergen, Whose people all thought her a virgin, Till they found her in bed, With her quim very red, And the head of a kid just emergin'. They regard these things as dirty. Now tell them that all such "dirt" is the outcome of protestant theories of life, and that the poets of the Restoration expressed the same reactionary spirit in other metres, and they will suggest that you become a convert to the R. C. Faith which, they declare, is based on notions that are both cleaner and saner. "We don't require such ambiguous outlets," they say. It may be true. They may not require them. But they need them. For what have they not lost, these Latins, with their Catholicism! One limerick is worth all the musty old Saints in their Calendar. Saints are dead—they have died out from sheer inability to propagate their species; limericks are alive, and their procreative capacity is amazing. (One would like to know how many new ones are born every day.) The cult of Saints is mediaeval affectation; the cult of limericks, as I shall presently show, is a Bond of Empire. No doubt malnutrition plays a part, and Southern races are apt to be underfed. Limericks are jovial things. An empty stomach is hostile to every form of joviality; it can produce nothing like the generous and full-blooded lines already quoted. Our own half-starved classes are a case in point: they know not these poems. The well-fed youngsters of the universities and the stock exchange, commercial travellers for good houses, together with a wise old scholar or two—these are the fountain- heads. It is gratifying, meanwhile, to have captured a few specimens of what, historically speaking, is a protest against protestantism, and strange to think that our little ones would never have learnt to babble about the "old man of Kent, whose tool was remark- ably bent," or "the young man of Fife, who couldn't get into his wife," but for Luther's preaching and the victories of Naseby and Dunbar. Whatever may be thought of speculations such as these, there is no denying that limericks are a yea- saying to life in a world that has grown grey. That alone justifies their existence. They are also English —English to the core. Of how many things can that be said? Take only our other poets: can it be said that Milton, or Keats, are English? They may have been born in England, and they certainly write the lan- guage of that country—quite readable stuff, some of it. But how full of classical allusions, what a surfeit of airs and graces! Open their pages where you will, and you find them permeated by a cloying academic flavour; one would think they were written for the delectation of college professors. The bodies of these men were English, but their souls lived abroad; and the worst of it is, they carry their readers' souls abroad with them—abroad, into old Greece and God knows where, into the company of Virgil and Ariosto and Plato and other foreigners. There is none of that continental nonsense here. Limericks are as English as roast beef; they, and they alone, possess that harmonious homely ring which warms our hearts when we hear them repeated round the camp- fire. Wherever two or three of our countrymen are gathered together in rough parts of the world, there you will find these verses; it is limericks that keep the flag flying, that fill you with a breath of old England in strange lands, and constitute one of the strongest sentimental links binding our Colonies to the mother- country. Indeed, I should say that their political value is hardly appreciated at home, and that the Colonial Office might do worse than install a special department for the production and export of ever-fresh material of this kind (I have reason to think that such a department is already in existence). These planters and Civil servants, the cream of our youth, might often suffer from the irritation produced by living lonely lives in lonely places; they might often be at loggerheads with each other, but for the healing and convivial influence of limericks that remind them of common ties and com- mon duties and a common ancestry, and make them forget their separate little troubles. Or do you fancy they discuss art and politics in their leisure moments? If so, you have never lived among them. Can you hear one of them reciting cosmopolitan effusions like the Ode to a Nightingale or Paradise Regained? Let him try it on! When we consider the popularity of limericks wherever our tongue is spoken, it is surprising how few of them can be traced to a definite author. In no other branch of literature do we find so great a num- ber of anonymous writers, writers of talent and industry, sometimes of genius, whose labours have received no adequate reward or even acknowledgment. We hear of the Unknown Soldier: what of the Unknown Poet? Is he never to have his memorial? I have done my little best in dedicating to him the following pages. Another appropriate inscription would have been to Queen Victoria, under whose reign these verses achiev- ed their highest development. Edward Lear has been fruitful and suggestive. Yet it is open to doubt whether he was the actual inventor of such poems, as Professor Saintsbury {History of Prosody, III, p. 389, note) seems to imply; the verse must have existed before his time, but he popularised it and fixed the epigrammatic form. We have now abandoned his tiresome canon by which the last word of the last line is identical with the last word of the first; the chief difference, however, is that ours have a deliberate meaning, while his are deliberate nonsense. Limericks alone would have made the Victorian epoch memorable. That was the Golden Period. We are now in the Silver Age, the sophisticated age, the age of laborious ornamentation, such as: There was a young girl of Aberystwith, Who went to the mill they grind grist with, etc. or There were three young ladies of Grimsby, Who asked: "Of what use can our quims be," etc. or There was a young girl of Antigua, Whose mother said: "How very big you are," etc. or (a less familiar example of this exotic school) There was an old man at the Terminus, Whose b__h and whose bum were all verminous. They said : "You sale Boche! You really must wash Before you start planting your sp___ in us." Some of these baroque things are not without charm, but one gladly returns to the Aeschylean simplicity of the earlier period. I said that limericks were English; I should have said, English and American. Whatever one may think of America's achievements in other fields, it must be admitted that in this one she is a worthy competitor with the old country and that her productions are all that could be desired in point of structural excellence and delicacy of imagination. Not for nothing did the Mayflower sail westwards. And thank Heaven the cabin-passengers were puritans and not catholics! If, later on, these good people in- dulged in a little amateurish witch-burning out there, they have now made amends by the non-amateurish quality of their limericks. This verse-form, as we all know, is of yesterday, but, once imported into the New World, it struck its deepest roots into the soil most congenial to such a growth—the soil of the Eastern States. The New England regions are by far the most productive, and such examples as are here given have been garnered one and all by an assiduous lady-collector of Boston in the immediate vicinity of her home. Though dealing with different parts of America and of the world they are without exception a local product; so she assures me. I am sorry to have been able to include only a few samples from her richly varied store; sorrier still not to be able to thank her in this place for her kindness in allowing me the use of these specimens. She has made it a condition that her name shall not be mentioned in connexion with them. And this would bring me to the final and pleasant task of acknowledging my debt to a number of other contributors, mostly of a still youthful age. I find my- self, however, in a serious dilemma; none of them— no, not a single one—will permit me to print his or her name. Never did I have so many ardent collabor- ators, and never such modest ones! Their unanimity in the matter is both rare and praiseworthy, and yet I must be allowed to say that even such a commendable trait as self-effacement can be pushed too far, when it leaves another man in the awkward position of being unable to perform what he considers his duty. Modesty is no doubt a charming characteristic of youth, but I never knew what that word really meant, till I embark- ed on this little undertaking.”

(I edited two words )

[the-firebird69]

Since Trump and Mac are so bold to have Trump come by and threaten my mail and me with Bob birdie is another stupid s*** damn go down to the Antarctica take some saucers up and I'm going to bring dinosaurs up and supersize my creatures and father will follow suit they say and grab the rest of the saucers of Will and Bill and blame Trump as it is he's in giant format so you see and he didn't plan to do it but he's going to and last night this morning we used them to birth the harvester race and the race of bando and sando we just don't have super sized yet we will

Zues Hera

And by the way we're making you pay Trump for your stupid fresh potty mouth and with money and stuff unlike what you always say we are but you cover us up before you can even do anything about it and even your thoughts betray you so we're going to go ahead and take tons of stuff from you cuz you're a big pork her mouth and they're going to think it's you they're going to go after your idiots I don't think it's Mac using his cover we do appreciate your service your free service

Thor Freya

And we'll try and steal it as we are doing it so what so what you don't have any power when you have no brain attached CAA says okay so we have no brain attached so she can't move your body stupid oh

Trump

You're the Smoky a****** that walks around saying you control the robots no matter what now I have to tell you that when you're running these nights and weights and satin as you say you do you're not really doing a great job because they went through your territory many times I want you dead you're stupid you're too stupid to rule and too stupid to run things

Daniel

I don't care what you say I control...

Trump

He's not one to have an organized life or to control anything really cuz out of control himself his disorganized and he doesn't even follow goals throughout the day he runs around chasing me to have me do his job and I will say all of it doesn't look that obvious because I don't want it to but he won't stop threatening me so it's become an emergency where we have to get rid of his and we're using them up as I say because it's mandatory is required by him and he's going fast and is providing food and fuel for my kju when they're growing and there's a huge war in battle over the technology that's going to wage while they're going ahead and growing and we're using those who die on ships those feel as well it's really really obscene what Trump does and what he doesn't a daily basis is obscene and it's an obscenity towards Max and s and towards us he blasphemes everything makes fun of everything and is a turd himself with absolutely no value except he's a parasitic person he does almost nothing himself his character is copied for crying out loud so I need the needless to say I want him gone and it's going and I hear the numbers are there and he'll shortly be out fully

Zues

You have no life to ruin your piece of dog s*** you give up so many businesses and you hardly even notice you're after other stuff thinking of power because you're not a smart person in any way Trump

Hera

We're going to abolish the race from the Earth they're disgusting in their subhuman and they don't belong here they don't have a will to have a decent day if someone paid them her son does and he's underdress all the time you're constantly mean to him unendingly mean and Mac you're doing it blindly and he hates you for it you won't stop and she's assholes encouraging you this is way too many of them we have fancy at rhythm and we're going forwards with them and we can use them as food for arcade you as planned we have tons of cages to grow and feed and yeah there's tons of buried all over the place huge numbers and we'll raise the army now and defeat you we have many balls together and we're going to do it and one more thing you're a moron

Olympus Corky has control over Delaware and New Jersey and New York City and he is going ahead and unbearing one of the Black ships all over the place tries to get here and can't many times he gets repelled and he causes trouble all over the world and usually for his own because he's a previous f** and a coward eventually ends up in South Africa he lives there trying to refuel they won't and abandons it and what they find inside it is a message and that message is going out about a probe so people think there's a probe that had something to do with the comment and man I said it was following the comment and the crew I could read the dashboard

[fear-god-shun-evil]

Can Man Be Saved After the Baptism?

We believers in the Lord have been baptized. Does it mean that we have gained the approval of the Lord and been saved after the baptism?

I Stepped Onto the Path of Believing in God

I believed in Bodhisattva with my mother when I was very young. After marriage, my husband suffered from depression, which always threw the whole family into confusion. At that time, I thought it was no use believing in Bodhisattva or Buddha. I was in a bad mood all the time. Later, I met an old auntie persuading me to believe in the Lord Jesus. The auntie told me that the Lord Jesus is the true God who can not only create the heavens and earth and all things, but also can bring the dead back to life and transfigure the living. I was moved by her words. I expected that the Lord would be my ever-present help and my support after I believed in Him. So I had great drive to believe in God. Every weekend I went to the church to have meetings with the auntie, and I didn’t want to miss even once.

I Was Baptized Into Christ

Several months later, the church informed the brothers and sisters who would be baptized to attend the training. Hearing “baptism,” I found it new. I felt so curious that I asked the auntie what baptism was and why we should be baptized. She answered, “Receiving baptism looks like a ritual, but it is a necessary process of following the Lord. After being baptized, we will become members of God’s family. God will help us in big or small maters, and He will care for us wherever we are. Although you have believed in the Lord now, you are still outside the house of God because you haven’t been baptized.” From her words, I knew that being baptized was very important. I thought to myself, I want to be baptized and become a member of God’s family. I don’t want to be an outsider. So I had got prepared ever since, eagerly looking forward to that day.

The day came at last. When I arrived at the meeting place early, there had been a dozen people waiting in line to be baptized. I looked around to see how to do it. Then the pastor preached and read a verse: “Go you therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatever I have commanded you: and, see, I am with you always, even to the end of the world” (Matthew 28:19-20). He also stated the significance of receiving baptism for Christians. And then the baptismal service began. Because there was no river in the city, the service seemed very simple: There was a basin of water, a towel, a pastor, and an assistant. As a sister was kneeling on the floor, the pastor stood beside her and another person carried the basin of water before him. The pastor called the sister’s name, and she replied. Then the pastor said, “I baptize you into the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” While saying that, the pastor scooped up some water with his hands and sprinkled it onto the sister’s head. The assistant wiped the water off quickly. This was the process of the baptism. When the pastor baptized me, I felt unspeakably happy and excited at the thought that I was going to become a real Christian—a member of God’s family.

The little service made me understand receiving baptism is the Lord’s demand on all believers. And it shows believers identify with Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection. In the service, our immersion in water means that we die in sins, and our emersion out of water means that the clean and holy life comes through the Lord’s salvation. Romans says, “Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4). Since we have accepted Christ and died together with Jesus, sins will no longer have dominion over the dead, because the Lord said: “For I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more” (Hebrews 8:12). And a verse in 2 Corinthians says, “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

I Firmly Believed That I Who Believed and Was Baptized Would Be Saved

I felt very happy after the baptism. From the moment that I was baptized, my life would no longer belong to sin, to evil force, or to myself; instead I would be cared for and protected by God and have His presence. For God had forgiven us and our sins. Moreover, the Lord said: “He that believes and is baptized shall be saved” (Mark 16:16). Therefore, in the following daily life, I paid more attention to practicing according to God’s words. Sometimes my husband scolded me in a bad mood. I felt painful and didn’t want to care whether he had food to eat or whether he was hungry. I made up my mind not to speak any word to him again. But the Lord taught us to forgive others seventy times seven. And the Bible says, “Be you angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down on your wrath: Neither give place to the devil” (Ephesians 4:26-27). When I thought of that, I would first spoke to my husband and still looked after him. I often helped a sister nearby who had difficulty in living. In festivals I would give some money to her to improve her family’s living condition. Usually, if any sister was in hospital, I would take some nourishment to visit and prayed for her with other sisters. No matter how busy I was, I would go to take the holy communion every month, because I firmly believed that since I had been baptized, the Lord would not remember my sin. Even though I committed sins, the precious blood of Christ would cleanse my sins repeatedly through partaking of the holy communion. I would certainly be sanctified in Christ. When the Lord Jesus comes into His kingdom, I would surely be raptured into the kingdom of heaven.

A Sister’s Words Suddenly Made Me Awaken

I considered my baptism as the proof of my salvation. Furthermore, the Lord promised: “He that believes and is baptized shall be saved.” So I firmly believed that I would be raptured first into the kingdom of heaven when the Lord Jesus came again to take His believers. Later, Sister Xia came to our company. Once when I chatted with her, we talked about believing in the Lord. I knew she had believed in the Lord with her mother since she was very young. Now she was a preacher. I confidently told her my thoughts. But she said, “It’s true that the Lord Jesus has forgiven our sins. But it doesn’t mean we have no sins, free from the shackles of sins to be holy.” She asked me, “The Lord Jesus has forgiven our sins. What do the sins mean?” I answered, “Resentment, murder, jealousy, and …”

Seeing that I couldn’t answer her question, Sister Xia went on, “Committing adultery, stealing, and all that go against the law, the commandments, and God’s words are sins. All behaviors that resist God, condemn Him, and judge Him are sins. Blaspheming Him is sin all the more, and is an unforgivable sin. The Lord Jesus came among man. He was crucified in the flesh to be the sin offering for us mankind. As long as we pray to the Lord, repenting and confessing our sins, we will not be condemned or put to death. That is to say, God will not consider us as sinners. And due to His forgiveness of our sins, we can pray to the Lord to enjoy His grace. This is the real meaning of the forgiveness of sins. Although our sins have been forgiven because of the Lord Jesus’ sacrifice for sins, it doesn’t mean that we will no longer commit sins to resist God. This is because our sinful nature still remains within us, and we still resist God, betray Him, and make an enemy of Him. Through the redemptive work of the Lord Jesus, our sins have been forgiven, but not our corrupt dispositions. The satanic dispositions such as arrogance, selfishness, greed, and craftiness still remain within us. These corrupt dispositions are something deeper and more stubborn than sins. They are also the root of our sinning and resisting God. If these satanic corrupt dispositions are not resolved, we will often sin, even judge and condemn God relying on our conceptions and imaginations. In persecution and tribulation, we will deny God, and even betray God like Judas. We will even set up our own kingdom to oppose God when attaining status. Some will steal offerings and then they will be condemned and destroyed by God because of offending His disposition. … So it’s impossible for these people to be taken into the kingdom of heaven. For Jehovah God said: ‘You shall be holy: for I the LORD your God am holy’ (Leviticus 19:2). And the Lord Jesus said: ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, Whoever commits sin is the servant of sin. And the servant stays not in the house for ever: but the Son stays ever’ (John 8:34-35).”

Hearing this, I was surprised at her thorough and deep words, and I admitted what she said was the fact. The pastors in our church often judged and attacked each other for the things about the church with endless jealousy and strife. I was often overcome by transgressions living in sins too. For example, whenever my husband willfully made troubles, I hated him and brushed him off. I knew a relatively cowardly sister. She had houses in the city and she didn’t need to worry about food or clothing. So I became jealous of her and even looked down upon her…. When I reflected on myself carefully, I found that I indeed was not holy. How could I be eligible to enter the kingdom of heaven? It seems that being baptized is not the prerequisite for entering the kingdom of heaven. Only when I rid myself of sins and become holy, can I be worthy of entering the kingdom of heaven. Thus, I awakened somewhat.

After Studying Some Verses, I Saw There Would Be Judgment of the Lord in the Last Days

From then on, I no longer considered being baptized as my capital or imagined being taken into the kingdom of heaven by the Lord. Every day, I read the Bible and prayed carefully. And I shared the testimonies with other sisters when getting together. One day, I read a verse casually, saying, “For the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God” (1 Peter 4:17). Then I thought of many verses in which judgment is mentioned. So I found some and shared them with Sister Xia. I asked her how she understood them. She said sincerely, “I used to think like you that we would be saved since we had been baptized into Christ, and then we would be taken into the kingdom of heaven when the Lord comes again. Later, I read the verse, saying, ‘So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and to them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin to salvation’ (Hebrews 9:28). After reading it, I realized the Lord Jesus hadn’t finished His work. When He appears to us for the second time, He will judge us humans. But the judgment is to work for saving us instead of condemning and destroying us….” Hearing these words, I felt astonished. I couldn’t believe it was true. But the verse tells so clearly that I had nothing to dispute. I couldn’t help crying to God in my heart, O Lord, may You reveal Your will to us. When will You come back to execute judgment? Your child is looking forward to the coming of the day….