#my followers who are not into him or da in general must be praying for me to finally hit the post limit

[drakonovisny]

i need to go to sleep

[puspa-san]

Wooden Ring (Hektor x Reader)

Note: The story happens after Yuga Kshetra.

"Happy Birthday, Senpai!" Mash brought a birthday cake with candles on lit to you. You were astonished as you look at your Servants and Chaldea staff. Even after the whole world was bleached, everyone still remembered to celebrate your birthday. Without your realization, a few droplets of tears ran down your cheeks.

"Ah.. thank you guys... even after all of this you still remember... I.." As you broke down crying, Boudica rushed to your side and tried to calm you down.

"It's okay, Master. It's okay..." You can feel a gentle warmth as Boudica hugged you, sometimes she reminded you of your mother. After you feel better, you let go of her and said your thanks once again to the Queen of Britannia.

"No problem, big sister is ready to lend a shoulder to cry on, okay?" Her smile somehow lighten your mand you stopped crying entirely.

"Anyway, let's celebrate your birthday! I made this cake with Director. He was very eager to help me, you know?"

"Wait! I thought you promised not to-"

"Is that true, Director?" You stared at Goredolf in awe. You saw a blush creeped on his cheeks

"Yes, so what!? This is just my repayment for what happened in the Chinese Lostbelt and Tokugawa labyrinth incident, so don't get the wrong idea! Alright!?" You merely smiled at his excuse, as you expected Goredolf was a nice guy deep down. He wasn't as arrogant as you thought when you met him for the first time during the inspection.

"Yes, yes, I know. Thanks, Director. I'll make sure to work harder next time."

"You better be!"

"Anyway, let's blow the candles. Senpai, please make your wish!"

You approached the cake and close your eyes to pray for your wish. After you were done, you blew out the candles and everyone cheered and clapped their hands happily.

"What are we waiting for? Let's hit the party!" Fergus shouted and followed by a few Servants.

.

.

.

The party was lively. Kiyohime happily cut the cake for you, Fergus along with Drake and Blackbeard had a friendly beer drinking contest, Astolfo brought a lot of food for Sieg and insisted him to try every food that they brought, David played the guitar and Mata Hari was dancing to entertain others. Everyone was happy, you couldn't help but smile as you saw everyone enjoyed the party.

"Did you have fun, Master?" Your thought broke as a certain middle-aged Servant spoke to you.

"You can say that. I'm already happy to see everyone enjoying the party. But, how about you, Hektor?" You asked back. The General of Troy who was also your lover merely smiled solemnly.

"As I want to have fun, for some reason I can't." He took a sip of alcohol then continued, "When I was alive, I'm not a stranger to assassination attempts. They tried to kill me multiple times even when we have a party just like this."

"Sorry to hear that... It must be difficult as you're a crowned prince and politician."

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore. I worry about you more."

"Huh?"

"This old man is just an ordinary and plain Servant, I don't care what will happen to me as long I can fulfil my duty and responsibility, but...." Hector gave you a serious look, you can saw a tint of anger on his olive orbs.

"You're different, Master. You're just a normal human yet you have many enemies and they are willing to get rid of you for their own good. I still couldn't forgive myself for what happened to old Chaldea and the poisoning incident. Even if you don't blame me, I'm still guilty for failing to protect you."

You fell into silence as you were reminded of those accidents that almost took your life. You avoided eating cake after Koyanskaya attempted to kill you but after two months you were fine and didn't mind eating the cake that was served to you. But, Chaldea massacre? You were traumatized until now. The ruins of Chaldea and dead bodies haunted your memory permanently, your blood always ran cold every time you remember how Rasputin killed Da Vinci with that emotionless gaze.

"That's why..." Hektor placed his drink on the nearest table and took your right hand, he kissed the command spell gently. His hardened gaze became softer and the anger you saw back then was gone into thin air and replaced by determination.

"This time I swear to never leave your side until you can take back your world. This body, this heart, and the lance that I hold shall protect you."

You were taken back by his words. You knew despite his laid back and lazy attitude, he was very serious if it was about protecting someone and to do that he was willing to put his life at stake. That dedication led you to fall for him.

"Ah, Master that reminds me. I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" You raised your eyebrows in curiosity.

"I'll give it to you later. Come to my room when the party is over."

"That's unusual of you.... what's your plan, Hektor?"

"Well, it's no surprise if I tell you now, Master." Sometimes you forgot Hektor can be cheeky even to you. The middle-aged man merely chuckled when he saw you pouted, to him your expression was adorable.

"For now let's enjoy the party, shall we?" He grinned at you and once again sipped his drink.

.

.

.

The party was finally over. You decided to help clean up the mess first before heading to Hektor's room. At first, Boudica refused your offer because she thought you need to rest. but you insisted. She sighed in defeat and let you.

"Hektor, it's me. May I come in?" You gently knocked on the door as you ask his permission.

"Go ahead. Oh, don't forget to lock the door."

You became more anxious as you didn't know what exactly was on his mind now. Why did he ask you to lock the door? What did he plan? What did he want? Your mind is filled with unanswered questions. After you locked the door, Hektor asked you to sit beside him on the edge of his bed.

"So... what gift are you talking about?" You played with the bed sheet to ease your anxiety. Instead answered your question, Hektor just smiled at you and gave you a small black box.

"Open it." As his request, you opened the box. Your eyes widened as you saw a simple yet beautiful wooden ring decorated with an emerald gem lying inside of it. Your emotion suddenly went into turmoil. Confusion, excitement, and joy were mixed into one.

"Master, our relationship only lasts until Grand Order is over. But until then, I want to stay by your side no matter what. Even though we have to say goodbye in the future, I still want to ask you this..." Hektor stood up from his bed and then knelt on one knee. Your heart picked up its beat as you knew what those gestures meant.

"(Name), will you marry this old man?" Your eyes became tearing up in happiness as Hektor proposed to you. You wanted to answer it so badly but nothing came out of your throat, the only thing you can do were nod. Hektor's expression became soft as he saw your response, he took the ring and gently slide it onto your finger, the ring fits on you faultlessly.

"The ring fits on your finger, huh? That's good. Sorry if it isn't fancy, I'll make you better-" You cut him out by hugging him tightly. As your smaller figure snuggled on his chest, the familiar scent of tobacco and coffee infiltrated your nostril.

"I'll treasure this ring..." It may look cheap or dull in people's eyes but you didn't care at all. This wooden ring was made by himself, a proof of his love and dedication for you.

Hektor felt his heart flutter in happiness, he was very grateful he was loved and cherished by you. How can someone kind and wonderful person like you reciprocate love from an ordinary and plain man? He may never find the answer but that's fine.

"I love you, (Name)..."

"I love you too, Hektor..."

This was a story about a living human and a heroic spirit tied their love with a wooden ring.

[vrishchikawrites]

Could I have a prompt? 🥺🥺 So WWX is taking bath in the Cold Pond to heal from the wounds by the discipline paddle (which I assume he was punished being clothed in his Black robe or in his Gusu Lan disciple robes or Head disciple Jiangs robes whichever fits). Before going to CR, wwx is whipped by mdm yu and LWJ notices wwx’s raw red scars and many scars across his back kinda overlapping and not yet being healed because maybe MDM yu sealed his core or something. LWJ, or with LXC saw WWX’s many crisscrossing scars and realize they’re still raw and kinda risking for infection because when mdm yu unseals his spiritual energy before going to CR, WWX never thought of healing it. Cue LWJ and LXC gets horrified and ask WWX why he had many scars on his back (or other parts of his body can also be included!) no pressure 💕 I love your writing! ❤️❤️

Anyway, it is set during the period in which WWX studies at CR. Lån Qiren, who is obviously not eyeing Wei Wuxian just in case the boy creates some trouble ends up realizing that he is too non chalant about  not eating (because the food there is for rabbits) and WWX is like "Oh, yeah. Nah its fine, I've been worse".

This one has trigger warnings for child abuse, negligence, and issues related to eating habits. Keep that in mind before proceeding. Nothing graphic, but I wanted to warn nonetheless.

I've merged two prompts here.

Please remember that prompts are closed. Also, remember I do not write self-deprication. All prompts that require WWX to have low self-esteem are not going to be written, apologies but the subject is very uncomfortable for me and I don't believe it is canon accurate anyways.

On to the prompt fill.

"That Wei child is entirely too careless." 

Lan Qiren closes his eyes and prays for patience. That boy has been a menace ever since he stepped into Cloud Recesses. Brilliant but wily and mischievous with absolutely no regard for rules. 

"What has he done?" He asks gruffly, reading over the reports from the kitchen staff. Cloud Recesses always monitors the food intake of their guests to make sure everyone is well-fed and no one is consuming more than their due. It wouldn't do for young cultivators to fall ill in their care, after all. 

The primary healer, a matron of some age, had brought the reports instead of the kitchen manager, which was quite unusual, "He forgets meals. Goes without food for days. Survives on small bits of fruit."

Xichen, who has been working on his own reports, raises his head and looks concerned. 

Lan Qiren crosses his arms, feeling a growing sense of ire, "He dislikes our meals." He's not the first one to skip meals because he considers them 'bland' and 'boring'. It's likely the child has been sneaking down to Caiyi town to have more extravagant meals. 

"I checked with our ward team. When he goes days without eating, he doesn't make any trips to Caiyi town either."

Lan Qiren pauses and studies her. Lan Mingyun nods curtly, "When I first noticed this behavior, I immediately put him on my list." Her list of children with food-related issues, he assumes, "His eating habits are very erratic, erratic enough that I wish to assign one of our senior disciples to keep an eye on him."

"You're that worried?" Lan Xichen asks in surprise while Lan Qiren frowns. It isn't unusual to do so but he wonders if it is really necessary.

"As far as I know, the child lived on the streets for quite a few years," She says and Lan Qiren narrows his eyes, inwardly reprimanding himself. He had forgotten about that aspect of Wei Wuxian's history, "The link between early childhood trauma and behavioural problems are well known to us."

Lan Xichen frowns, "I'll ask Wangji to keep an eye on him."

He glances at his nephew sharply, "Why Wangji?" He demands because surely someone else would be better.

"From what I understand, Wei-gongzi will not welcome an assigned senior. He seems to be someone who brushes injuries or illnesses off. He likes Wangji and will be more willing to accept his company."

While the argument is reasonable, Lan Qiren is loath to involve his precious nephew in this. He's already so bothered by the boy. 

But.

He thinks of Wei Wuxian with his sharp eyes and lingering smile and nods. 

---

Wangji listens to Xichen patiently even as his fingers curl into fists under his sleeves. 

He doesn't like Wei Wuxian. The boy is too disruptive, too bold, too distracting-

Too beautiful.

He doesn't like him, but that doesn't mean he's content to ignore his well-being. When Xichen asks him to keep an eye on Wei Ying's eating habits and general behavior, Wangji agrees. 

It will be taxing for him, but he agrees.  

What he doesn't anticipate is… everything that follows. When he starts consciously looking for them, the signs are alarming. Wei Ying doesn't just skip meals whenever he gets too distracted, he picks at the food even when he is eating. While Wangji is comforted to know the boy frequently seeks something richly flavored at Caiyi Town, he doesn't do it often enough to compensate.

There are also some concerning behaviors in the Jiang contingent. Upon closer inspection, it is clear that while Wei Ying does break the rules, the other Jiang Sect disciples are often complicit. Including Jiang Wanyin. 

They not only let their da-shixiong take the blame for all of their actions, but also encourage it. Wei Ying seems disconcertingly accustomed to it. He makes a scene while being punished but seems alright within an hour. 

Jiang Wanyin encourages mischief and reprimands him in turns. 

Wangji doesn't understand this.

"Xiongzhang, I am concerned," Xichen looks up from his tea, his attention immediately on Wangji, unwavering and comforting, "Wei Ying," He takes a moment to form his thoughts, "I am uncertain. I believe he is in an unsafe environment."

Xichen sets his tea aside, "How so?"

"I happened upon a conversation," He grimaces because it is eavesdropping even if his intentions are noble, "Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang requested and encouraged him to get alcohol into Cloud Recesses. When he complained about the punishment, Jiang Wanyin said 'at least, it wasn't Zidian'."

His brother sucks in a sharp breath, "Zidian? Madam Yu? Spiritual weapon? A high-grade weapon typically used against enemies?"

Wangji dips his head. 

"I'll ask uncle to stop assigning corporal punishments." Lan Xichen says, "They won't have the desired effect in any case and we don't want to damage him permanently. Tomorrow, ask him to practice Cultivation in the Cold Pond as punishment."

Wangji nods, "I'll assign Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang proper punishment as well."

"Wait until we have a better grasp on the situation." Xichen says solemnly, "If we act too quickly, things will escalate and may cause more harm to Wei-gongzi."

Wangji is reluctant because his sense of justice is not satisfied. He remembers how the Jiang disciples encouraged Wei Ying to accept punishment on their behalf. And then to know Jiang Wanyin was also complicit…

"We must approach this cautiously, Wangji."

He nods.

---

Red, irritated, scarred.

Wangji swallows as he sees the state of Wei Ying's back as the Jiang disciple steps into the Cold Pond. There are so many whip scars on his back, so many that have barely begun to heal, that he feels nauseous. 

"Wei Ying," He struggles to keep his tone neutral, "Your back." He cannot imagine the agony that Wei Ying would've suffered when he took more punishment on it the other day. 

Wei Ying glances at him and grins, "Aiya, Lan Zhan, is that concern I see on your pretty face?" He asks, spinning around eagerly, "Concern for little old me?"

His back is out of sight and the way Wei Wuxian is leaning towards him is meant to distract and fluster.

Wangji… suddenly understands. Wei Ying is naturally playful and mischievous, but he uses his personality for disguise and manipulation as well. Not maliciously, but in a way that harms him.

"Wei Ying," Wangji refuses to be moved. There is a significant shift in his mind. He no longer feels annoyed by the person before him. If anything, he feels furious. 

He feels protective.

"Wei Ying, your back."

The Jiang disciple shrugs, "Punishment, you know how it is." 

"For what?" He demands, catching Wei Ying's elbow and turning him around. The willingness to touch him stuns Wei Ying momentarily, enough for Wangji to get a good look at the brutal devastation written on Wei Ying's back. 

Wei Ying clears his throat and shrugs, "It's more of a preemptive punishment? Madam Yu knew I would cause trouble here, of course." He chuckles.

"Preemptive punishment?" He asks softly, the very notion troubling him. 

Wei Ying shrugs again but doesn't attempt to explain when it is clear Wangji isn't willing to indulge him.

"Wei Ying,"

"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying starts to move towards the shore, "Don't worry about things that don't concern you. Your head will forever be burdened if you do."

Wangji feels something in him recoil at such a blunt dismissal. 

"Doesn't concern me? How can it not concern me?" He wants to ask but is unable to. 

Wei Ying has made him very uncomfortable with his forward personality and near constant teasing, but Wangji has seen the genuine offer of friendship underneath it all. 

He has always spurned it. 

As Wei Ying climbs onto the shore, his wounds red against his naturally pale skin, Wangji makes a decision, "Would you not feel concerned if it were me?" He asks but he already knows the answer.

He already knows this man enough.

"Of course," Wei Ying says and shrugs on his robes, hiding a wince but unable to help his body's reaction to pain, "But you and I are different." He glances over his shoulder at Wangji, "I consider you my friend," He says, "But you don't consider me yours."

His breath stills at the acceptance in Wei Ying's tone.

"And that's alright." The Jiang disciple waves and walks away, "Don't worry too much, Lan Zhan. This one isn't weak. The wounds will heal within a few days."

---

"The facts are these - Wei-gongzi is punished preemptively with Zidian, often enough that there are deep scars on his back," Lan Xichen explains, "I assume it is his Golden Core keeping him from sustaining permanent damage."

Lan Qiren is still bristling at the very thought of preemptive punishment. What a ridiculous notion! Of course, the child doesn't care about rules and upsetting people! He has already been punished enough to excuse everything but outright treason.  

How is such a method effective? How does it correct a child's misbehavior? 

"The Jiang Sect disciples are accustomed to their da-shixiong being punished in their stead. They actively encourage it. Jiang Wanyin has asked Wei-gongzi to sneak in alcohol. And he refused to come forward when Wei-gongzi was punished." Xichen takes a deep breath, "I believe any lingering issues he may have because of his early days as a street orphan-"

"Are ignored," Lan Qiren concludes grimly, "It is no wonder the child has such strong cultivation. He is facing strife constantly."

"Is there a way to rescue him?" Wangji asks after being grimly silent for the entire meeting, "Get him away from the Jiang Sect?"

Lan Qiren eyes him, "Wangji, the situation is complicated. He's still the Jiang Head Disciple and sects don't just part with their high ranking disciples."

Xichen smiles sympathetically, "We'll find a way to pressure Jiang-zongzhu into taking action. He'll lose face if the other Sects know how his lady is treating their Head Disciple." He shakes his head at Wangji's expression, "Let us think about it. Meanwhile, you just need to be there for your friend, Wangji."

Lan Qiren arches a brow, "Friend? Wangji, I thought you disliked the boy."

Wangji purses his lips, a stubborn light entering his eyes, "Wei Ying is my friend." He insists, resolve lining his every word. 

He looks at Xichen, who just looked amused, "According to Wei-gongzi, he considers Wangji a friend and will be very concerned if Wangji was in a similar situation," He huffs, "But Wangji doesn't consider Wei-gongzi his friend, so there's no need for Wangji to worry."

Lan Qiren closes his eyes and rubs his forehead in an uncharacteristic display of frustration, "That boy is a singular menace."

---

Wangji pursues friendship with all the dedication in his being. He learns to cook savory dishes and gives them to Wei Ying every day. Wei Ying, unable and utterly unwilling to deny, eats it all. 

He glares the Jiang disciples into submission whenever they attempt to draw Wei Ying into mischief. The Jiang Head Disciple is fully exempt from corporal punishment. Instead, he spends hours in the library either copying rules, rewriting classics, or transcribing Buddhist texts. 

All of these activities prove to be much more effective punishments.

Meanwhile, Lan Qiren attends a Discussion Conference and has word with Jiang Fengmian. 

The response is a gentle order from the Jiang-zongzhu for Wei Ying. He asks his disciple to remain in Cloud Recesses for Musical Cultivation training. He also mentions it is time for Jiang Wanyin to take up Head Disciple responsibilities and learn true leadership. 

Wei Ying eyes the smiling Lan Xichen and impassive Lan Qiren sharply but doesn't say anything.

In two years time, the distance between Wei Ying and the Jiang Sect grows. The distance between Wei Ying and Lan Zhan ceases to exist. 

Just like that, Wei Wuxian's destiny changes.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Life of St. Philip Neri by Fr. Bacci

OF THE MIRACULOUS PALPITATION OF HIS HEART.

This mode of life Philip adhered to for a long time; and when he was twenty-nine years old God gave him, among other graces, a miraculous palpitation of the heart, and a no less wonderful fracture of his ribs, which happened as follows: One day a little before the feast of Whitsuntide, he was making his accustomed prayer to the holy Ghost, for whom he had such a devotion, that he daily poured out before him most fervent prayers, imploring His gifts and graces. When he was made priest, he always said at mass, unless the rubric forbid it, the prayer Deus cui omne cor patet. Now, while he was importunately demanding of the Holy Ghost His gifts, there appeared to the saint a ball of fire, which entered into his mouth and lodged in his breast; and therewith he was, all suddenly, surprised by such a flame of love, that he was unable to bear it, and threw himself on the ground, and, like one trying to cool himself, he bared his breast, to abate in some measure the flame which he felt. When he had remained so for some time, and was a little recovered, he rose up full of an unwonted joy, and immediately all his body began to shake with a vehement tremour; and putting his hand to his bosom, he felt by the side of his heart a tumour about as big as a man’s fist, but neither then nor over afterwards was it attended with the slightest pain.

Whence this swelling proceeded, and what it was, was manifested after his death; for when his body was opened, the two upper ribs were found broken, and thrust outward, and the two sides standing wide apart, never having reunited in all the fifty years which Philip lived after this miraculous event. It was at the same moment that the palpitation of his heart commenced, which lasted all his life, though he was of a good constitution, a very lively temperament, and without the least tendency to melancholy. This palpitation only came on when he was performing some spiritual action, such as praying, saying mass, communicating, giving absolution, talking on heavenly things, and the like. The trembling which it caused was so vehement, that it seemed as if his heart would break out from his breast, and his chair, his bed, and sometimes the whole room, were shaken. On one occasion in particular he was in St. Peter’s, kneeling on a large table, and he caused it to shake as if it had been of no weight at all; and sometimes when he was lying upon the bed with his clothes on, his body was lifted up into the air, through the vehemence of the palpitation. Whenever he pressed any of his spiritual children to his breast, they found the motion of his heart so great, that their heads bounded off from him, as if they had received a smart shock from something, while at other times the motion seemed like that of a hammer. Yet notwithstanding the shock, they always found, in being pressed to him, a wonderful consolation and spiritual contentment, and many found themselves in the very act delivered from temptations.

But while upon this matter, I must not omit to relate what is affirmed by Tiberio Ricciardelli, canon of St. Peter’s, who served the Saint out of devotion for four successive years. “While I was serving the father,” he says, “there came upon me a temptation to impurity, and after I had conversed with him on the subject, he said to me, ‘Tiberio, come here, close to my breast;’ and taking hold of me, he pressed me to his bosom, and I was not only freed at once from the present temptation, but it never returned afterwards; and besides this I felt such an increase of spiritual strength, that it seemed as if I could do nothing but pray.” Marcello Vitelleschi, canon of S. Mary Major, and also one of Philip’s

spiritual children, declared that he had repeatedly been freed from temptations, especially of the flesh, by the Saint’s pressing him to his bosom and very often, when Philip knew that he was suffering from such temptations, he used to take hold of his head and press it to him, without uttering a word and in no case was this done without immediate release from the temptation.

In his side Philip felt so great a heat, that it sometimes extended over his whole body, and for all his age, thinness, and spare diet, in the coldest nights of winter it was necessary to open the windows, to cool the bed, to fan him while in bed, and in various ways to moderate the great heat. He felt it so much in his throat, that in all his medicines something cooling was mixed to relieve him. Cardinal Crescenzio, one of his spiritual children, said that sometimes when he touched his hand, it burned as if the Saint was suffering from a raging fever; the same was also perceived by abbot Giacomo, the Cardinal’s brother, himself tenderly beloved by Philip. In winter he almost always had his clothes on and his girdle loose, and sometimes when they told hum to fasten it lest he should do himself some injury, he used to say he really could not because of the excessive heat which he felt. One day at Rome, when a great quantity of snow had fallen, he was walking in the streets with his cassock unbuttoned and when some of his penitents who were with him were hardly able to endure the cold, he said laughingly that it was a shame for young men to feel cold when old men did not. This heat, however, the Saint felt more particularly during prayer or other spiritual exercises, and application to divine things. In the time of Gregory XIII. when the order was given that all confessors should wear surplices in the confessional, the Saint went one day to the Pope with his waistcoat and cassock unbuttoned: his holiness marvelling very much, asked him the reason of it: “Why,” said Philip, “I really cannot bear to keep my waistcoat buttoned, and yet your holiness will have it that I shall wear a surplice besides.” “No, no,” replied the pope, ‘‘the order was not made for you; do as you please.”

This palpitation of the heart often affected his body in very different ways, and his various physicians used to administer remedies which he knew would not be of the slightest service. But he used to make game of them very playfully, and say, “I pray God that these men may be able to understand my infirmity,” not choosing openly to discover that his infirmity was not natural, but caused by the love of God. Hence it was that in the fervours of the palpitation he was wont to say, “I am wounded with love;” at other times, considering himself as it were imprisoned in this love, he broke out into those verses:

Vorrei saper da voi com’ ella è fatta

Questa rete d’ amor, che tanti ha preso.

“I would know from you how that net of love is made which has taken so many.” At other times when he could not stand upon his feet, he was obliged to throw himself upon his bed, and languish there, so that his own people were accustomed to say, that those words of the Spouse were verified in him: Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo. When he was surprised by these affections, he used to quote the case of a Franciscan of Ara Celi, named Brother Antony, a man of most holy life, who though he did not macerate his body by any great austerities, was always crying out, Amore laugueo, amore langueo; and languishing in this way, through love of God, he wasted slowly away till he died. But on the other hand the Saint, to hide the real cause, pretended that all this was bodily infirmity, or a custom which he had had from his youth. He almost always kept his handkerchief in his breast on the side of his heart, in order that no one might perceive the tumour. He did not, however, deny, when speaking once to Francesco Zazzera, that for the most part his infirmities proceeded from this palpitation of his heart.

The whole appears still more wonderful from the fact, that the motion of the palpitation was in his case perfectly voluntary. He mentioned this to Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, his most intimate and devoted friend, telling him that it was in his power to stop the motion by a simple act of the will. But in prayer he did not apply himself to do this, because of the distraction; and that the palpitation was so far from being painful, that it created a feeling of lightness and joyousness. This, however, did not always happen, nor did it exactly observe any general rules. Many physicians, who attended him in his illnesses, considered this palpitation as miraculous and supernatural. This was the opinion of Alfonso Capanio, Domenico Saraceni, and others. Neither was this opinion without reason; for, first of all, the Saint had no sensation of pain with the palpitation, but rather the contrary; and besides that, he only experienced it when he raised his mind to God, for it was greatest when he was in contemplation, and grew less in proportion as he drew his thoughts from prayer. In proof of this Andrea Cesalpino, Antonio Porto, Ridolfo Silvestri, Bernardino Castellani, and Angelo da Bagnarea, have written particular treatises upon it; and all agree that God had wrought in him that fracture of the ribs, so that the heart might not be injured in these violent beatings, and the neighbouring parts be the more easily dilated, and the heart kept sufficiently cool.

When Philip had received this great and remarkable gift from God, he frequented the Seven Churches with still more ardour. There he was often, surprised in his devotion with such affections, that he was unable to support himself. One day in particular, when he could not stand on his feet, he threw himself on the ground, and feeling himself actually dying through the liveliness and impetuosity of spirit, he cried out vehemently, “I cannot bear so much, my God, I cannot bear so much, Lord! for see, I am dying of it.” From that hour God gradually mitigated that intense sensible devotion, in order that his body might not become too much weakened by it. It was on this account, that in his latter years he used to say, “I was more spiritual when I was young, than I am now.” But although Philip received from the Lord such an affluence of heavenly sweetnesses, he nevertheless always admonished spiritual persons, that they should be as ready to suffer dryness in devotion as long as God pleased to leave them in it, and without complaint, as they were disposed to enjoy the relish of divine things.

[gunnerpalace]

(These asks were reordered from bottom-to-top to top-to-bottom for clarity.)

Alright, so the first thing I want to say in response to this is actually best summarized in the form of a song:

You are somebody that I don't know But you're takin' shots at me like it's Patrón And I'm just like, damn, it's 7 AM Say it in the street, that's a knock-out But you say it in a Tweet, that's a cop-out And I'm just like, "Hey, are you okay?"

And I ain't tryna mess with your self-expression But I've learned a lesson that stressin' and obsessin' 'bout somebody else is no fun And snakes and stones never broke my bones

So oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh You need to calm down, you're being too loud And I'm just like oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh (oh) You need to just stop Like can you just not step on my gown? You need to calm down

I would like you to seriously reread what you’ve written here (and copy-and-pasted to others) and tell me that it doesn’t come across as more than a little obsessive and psychotic. "This may seem like hate, but it's not," you said anonymously, before going on a rant to strangers on the internet whom you had nominated as the representatives of "you guys." Sure, okay, Heather.

Well, regardless, let’s go through this. First, you don't understand 685/686. I've been over this before several times, but I will go over this one final time, as simply as I can. That said, I can't guarantee that you will understand it when I do. I was unable to successfully tutor 1st graders how to do addition because my perspective was, "Either you understand it or you don't," and I don't have the background in math to make such a simple concept exciting. The same might be true of this, because there is no way to critically analyze these chapters more succinctly than this, and so you still might not get it.

The point of 685/686, thematically, is that absolutely no one got what they wanted.

Renji wanted to surpass Byakuya. He remains Byakuya's Lieutenant and has to settle for being under his sister (figuratively and probably literally too) who now also outranks him as a Captain.

Rukia wanted to reform Soul Society into a more humane institution that protects all souls. It is the same as it ever was, and if anything has doubled down on its practices by rebuilding the Soukyoku (on which it tried to kill her) a hundred times larger, and she is one of its main wardens.

Uryuu wanted anything but to be a doctor, ever since he watched his mom being autopsied by his dad. He is now a doctor, and all alone at that.

Chad promised his grandfather to never hurt people with his fists. He is now a boxer, doing exactly that for money.

Orihime wanted to go out and have several different exciting careers. She is instead a stay-at-home mom.

Ichigo wanted to save a "mountain full" of people, be Superman, leave Karakura, and be a Shinigami. He instead appears to run Isshin's clinic now.

So, yes, you are correct: Kubo chose that Ichigo wind up with Orihime. It is exceedingly clear, from the context, that this is absolutely not a good thing.

That point is further reemphasized by Yhwach’s threat to come kill Ichigo and everyone else when they are at their happiest. And when does he reappear?

When Ichigo saw Rukia again.

Not when Ichigo asked Orihime out. Not when they started dating, officially or unofficially. Not when they were married. Not when she gave birth to his son. Not when his son said his first words.

Not when anything happened with Orihime or Kazui, but when he saw Rukia again.

That is your “Kubo-sensei” telling you directly that the happiest moment in Ichigo’s life was just simply seeing Rukia again, and not anything involving Orihime in any capacity whatsoever.

All of that should tell you that Ichigo and Orihime’s relationship is not exactly the stuff legends are made out of, because them winding up together is explicitly portrayed as a downer ending. A bad ending. 

If you cared at all about the characters—if you cared at all about their desires, or their happiness—or if you cared at all that IchiHime was presented as even merely good, let alone destined or fated or whatever else, then you would be offended by this ending too. 

Because the ending is “Kubo-sensei” straight-up unequivocally telling you that IchiHime is bad and tragic. It is something that one must demonstrate “courage” in the face of. It requires stoicism. It is a bad ending, but that’s life. That’s what the ending means.

He did you dirty too. You just don’t want to see it, because you are so obsessed with the concept of “winning.” Well, this was mutually-assured destruction: everyone lost. Especially you.

Moving on: no, Kubo doesn’t really get attention or money from us. I’m not really sure where this idea comes from.

I’m not an expert on Japanese intellectual property rights and licensing, but I know enough about them in general to know that very little if any money goes to Kubo personally from ongoing Bleach merchandise sales. For example, KLab more than likely has a contract with Shueisha (representing Kubo, hence why they’re put together on BBS’s title card), TV Tokyo, Dentsu, and Pierrot, wherein they pay those entities a fixed amount to license Bleach per year or per contractual term. It’s not like Kubo is making money off of every orb purchase or every figurine sold or something. These things don’t work like that.

As for attention, he’s still hiding from social media (for reasons of his own, unrelated to the fandom), and the people who give him attention are... you. People like you. “True Bleach fans” who can’t stop treating all his shit like it’s solid gold. We have made it fairly clear we don’t need him or care what he thinks.

Regarding BBS, maybe you haven’t noticed, but the majority of the imagery they use is IchiRuki-focused. The last title screen was IchiRuki. The Guild button is IchiRuki. The Events button is IchiRuki. The Chronicle Quest button is IchiRuki. Here, I’ve helpfully highlighted this for you:

While they do occasionally toss IH a bone, the last January event also ended on an IR note despite the ridiculous crowing about it being IH. While I’m at it, even the current supposedly “IH” title screen is anything but.

It doesn’t take Michelangelo or Da Vinci to figure out the composition here is not terribly suggestive. While Rukia is indeed off to one side, the fact Uryuu, Zangetsu, and the title card are between Ichigo and Orihime (and they’re looking in different directions) makes it pretty evident that they’re not being visually associated together. It is at best a “general” title screen. Uryuu is showing more visual interest in Ichigo than Orihime is.

I’ll come back to “the anime” in a minute. Let’s talk about their “tag-team move.” Do you mean the one that ended like this?

This one that didn’t work whatsoever?

This one where Ichigo wasn’t concerned at all that Orihime might be dead or dying as she lay there on the ground?

This one where he absolutely gave into despair?

How romantic. Truly, what an excellent battle-couple they make. Their combat effectiveness and synergy is just astounding. I for one would love to see it animated.

(Let’s not forget that later, Orihime can’t repair Zangetsu without some nonsense shenanigans from Tsukishima either. Just like how her healing abilities are useless against any sufficiently strong residual reiatsu. Ah, but that would require reading the manga closely...)

Finally, on to the idea of the anime returning. Here’s the thing: news about a trailer also doesn’t really mean anything. Sure, it could be TYBW. Or it could be The Honey Dish Rhapsody. Or it could be a thousand other things. I neither know, nor particularly care, what it actually is, on top of my explanations as to why animating TYBW would be a dumb business decision.

Here’s why: even if it is a TYBW anime, it will have to be an adaptation of TYBW. They will still have to follow the plot of TYBW. And TYBW was a pile of shit. It wasn’t just a pile of shit for IR, it was a pile of shit in general, and a pile of shit for IH in particular.

Perhaps you don’t recall that Orihime spends most of the arc off-panel, having been ditched in Hueco Mundo for most of it (chapters 500–586)?

Oh, but just think, you wouldn’t just get to see the Ichigo-Orihime “tag team” attack totally and utterly failing! You’d also get delights like:

Orihime and Chad utterly failing to believe in Ichigo! (Just like in the Xcution arc where it was demonstrated that Byakuya was a truer friend to Ichigo than either of them!)

Orihime being reduced to a pair of tits, each bigger than her own head!

Ichigo totally ignoring Orihime!

And who can forget the delight of Orihime selling out her dignity to dress slutty at Kisuke’s suggestion to try and get Ichigo’s attention, only for it to not work at all?

Yes, truly, TYBW would be a fantastic arc for IH that would surely win over the populace and convince everyone of the chemistry between these two characters!

Except it wouldn’t. Because they have no chemistry. And they didn’t. See, what’s really funny is that not only did TYBW not give you anything, but it was just following up on the Xcution arc not giving you anything.

Because ORIHIME VISION was played for laughs, just like say, Shuhei constantly is.

Because despite Chad and Orihime being about as important to Ichigo, he couldn’t even bother to say bye. 

Because he just didn’t have time to deal with her bullshit.

I could go on, but this post is already long enough.

You see, you’re real keen to dismiss "all the scene or poem shit or parallel or the hell else thing," but the truth is, that’s all there is to a manga. It is panels of art and text on a page. The rest is just in your head. And it is from those panels of art and text that animated scenes and spoken dialogue would be created. And the funny thing is... there are no IH moments in these arcs. They simply don’t exist.

So really, what you’re hoping and praying for is not just for TYBW to be adapted. Given your evident thirst, I doubt that the perhaps 5–10 minute epilogue of 685/686 at the end of 4–5 seasons would be enough for you. You’d need the animation team to decide to sprinkle in a whole lot of IH filler along the way too.

That didn’t work out so hot for the Xcution arc. How did that one end again? Oh, that’s right: they made up their own (better) ending for it. Are you really willing to bet your money on a TYBW anime going out of its way for IH, if you even get it? Or would you really be satisfied with those 5–10 minutes? Are you really so sure you’d even still get them?

Ultimately, I don’t care. You’re blocked. But, I will say this: in a way I almost kind of pity you. It seems really sad being a militant anonymous IH, desperately and eternally craving outside validation. You have so very little to cling to. It must be hard.

Good luck with that, Heather.

[godsporncollection]

Sunday GC Sessions Summary

(long version) (personal commentary in parenthesis)

M Russell Ballard

List of how the second coming is described followed by a huge list of the very obvious things wrong with the world right now. 

We pray for you. 

Remember to pray. Pray lots, and for lots of people, because the leaders of the world need divine inspiration. 

Quotes the lord's prayer. 

Pray for everyone, even people you don't like. 

(Do deaf people sign their prayers, when praying alone? What about when they pray in small, maybe family, groups?) 

Prayer will help us by making feel better. 

Pray everywhere you go. 

Personal story of being in pain from a surgery on the hand; prayer helped the pain.

Lisa L Harkness

Story of a child jumping into a lake and feeling she needed help, even though she was safe. Sometimes we do this too, because we can't see that we are safe with god. 

Biblical story of JC falling asleep in the boat that entered a storm and the disciples got scared and asked him to save them. 

Recent events can leave us feeling lost and afraid, but we should have faith in god.

Ulisses Soares

Seek JC in every thought and follow him with all our heart. 

Metaphor of magnet + metal object. Magnetic force holds objects tightly, but looses that power when the object is far away. 

Temptation will fade when we continue to resist it. 

JC told JS when in prison "let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men and women, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughths unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of god. The holy ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth." 

If you fall into temptation, there is hope. 

Story of friend who fell into temptation. He was sad. 

Prodigal son story.

Carlos A Godoy

I believe in angels. They're important. Some are here on earth. I'm gonna talk about those. 

I converted at 16, after two angels (sister missionaries) introduced me to the gospel at a church activity. 

I met another angel at youth conference. Her squad became my squad. 

Then I met two other angels; my seminary teacher and young men president. 

"Thanks to all these angels and many others I encountered during those important early years, I received enough srength to remain on the covenant path as I gained a spiritual witness of the truth." 

"Please, please do not give up on your efforts to be part of this big family. It is the true church of JC. When it comes to your happiness and salvation, it is always worth the effort to keep trying. It is worth the effort to adjust your lifestyle and traditions. The lord is aware of the challenges you face. He knows you, he loves you, and I promise he will send angels to help you."

Neil L Andersen

Jc's resume. 

"A recent study revealed that in the last 10 years, 30 million people in the US have stepped away from believing in the divinity of JC. Looking worldwide, another study predicts that in the decades ahead, more than twice as many will leave christianity than those who will embrace it." 

Use the correct name of the church and talk about JC more. We have to talk more about JC because the world is talking about him less.

Russell M Nelson

'Israel' means 'let god prevail'. 

Israel's descendants stoned the prophets. (...) 

My grandkid's wife was sad that her father was dying, but I told her she was being near-sighted. She felt better after looking at the big picture of god's plan. 

I greive for black people. 

(I can't listen to any more of this asshole, sorry.)

AFTERNOON SESSION 

Henry B Eyring

"My hope is to give encouragement when life seems especially difficult and uncertain. For some of you, that time is now. If not, such a time will come." 

Personal story of pulling weeds as a child and the frustration of the weeds breaking instead of coming out. Mother said "oh, Hal, of course it's hard; it's supposed to be. Life is a test." 

Story of us choosing to come to earth and satan disagreeing and getting followers. "Now, he tries to cause as many as he can to turn away from god during this mortal life." In the spirit world, we must have decided that whatever hardships we were going to face, "the forces of good would be overwhelmingly greater." 

Two quotes that say that god will be with us, and will help us, even in our darkest hours. 

God occasionally shows me the next couple of steps, but never a glimpse of the far future. 

Also, we need to help others. 

Another story of mother, who "all her life, she felt effects of the trials of illness. In her last 10 years of life, she required multiple operations. But through all, she proved faithful to the lord." "The last speaker [at her funeral] was elder Spencer W Kimball. After saying something of her trials and her faithfulness, he said essentially this: 'some of you may wonder why Mildred had to suffer so much and so long. I will tell you why. It was because the lord wanted to polish her a little more."

Jeremy R Jaggi

My youngest brother died two years ago. "We found comfort in the words of elder Neil L Anderson in general conference the week before Chad died: 'In the crucible of earthly trials, patiently move forward, and the savior's healing power will bring you light, understanding, peace, and hope.'" We'll be with him again, but losing him hurt. 

James 1:2. 

We thought 2020 would be all joy. Shit happened, but we're determined to see joy in this year anyway. 

Chapter 6 of 'Preach My Gospel'. 

"Blessed are the meek (etc)". 

Many unsourced quotes saying that the more you seek/follow/believe in JC, the happier you will be. 

Daughter, Emma, is a missionary. "[Emma] asked us to connect [online] with friends she was teaching [in the Netherlands]... We invited them to join our weekly online... study... All have become our friends." They've all converted. 

Nelson recently said "Voluntary fast offerings from our members have increased, as well as voluntary contributions to our humanitarian funds." 

"My brother Chad's passing came just a few months after our release from presiding over the Utah Ogden mission... Of all the 417 missions we could have been assigned to, we were assigned to... a 30-minute drive to Chad's home. Chad's cancer was diagnosed after we received our mission assignment. Even in the most trying circumstance, we knew that our heavenly father was mindful of us."

Gary E Stevenson

I was serving a mission in Japan. Kimball was speaking in Tokyo. I wanted to go. It was a long commute, so the mission president said no, but the rest of the branch went, so we were alone. Kimball announced a temple in Tokyo. I was disappointed to miss it. 

This is like the even deeper disappointment people today experience due to covid. 

How do we move forward? Consider the first verse of the BoM. 

Wife and I met online with many missionaries who still managed to do lots of ministering, despite covid restrictions. 

Think of "JS, languishing in Liberty Jail, feeling abandoned and forsaken, then hearing the words of the lord: 'these things shall be for thy good' and 'god shall be with you forever.'" 

"We, too, can draw parallels, as individual members and as a church, in the way in which we have been highly favored of the lord during the challenging times we have encountered during the past several months." 

"Let [these examples] strengthen your testimony of the seership of our living prophet, who prepared us with adjustments before any hint of a pandemic, enabling us to endure the challenges that have come." 

List of ways that we have been told to prepare. 

Story of a young woman who was just barely able to go to the temple right before leaving for her mission.

Milton Da Rocha Camargo

Gave his entire backstory before getting around to the topic: prayer. 

"An important part of heavenly father's plan is the opportunity to communicate with him anytime we want." 

"Every one that asketh, receiveth (etc)." 

"Recording our impressions is an important part of receiving. It helps us recall, review, and re-feel what the lord is teaching us." 

I like it when I have strong feelings after praying, but, more often, we're likely to hear the "still, small voice of the lord whispering to our mind and heart, 'I am here. I love you.'" 

"Revelation often comes when we are in the act of doing good."

Dale G Renlund

Can I be a better person? 

And "how can I, as a flawed person, qualify to 'dwell with god in a state of never-ending happiness'?" 

"Good deeds are not sufficient. Salvation is not earned... Left to our own devices, the prospect of returning to live in god's presence is hopeless. Without the blessings that come from heavenly father and JC, we can never do enough or be enough by ourselves... Because of and through JC, we can become enough." 

"We can be redeemed and stand clean and pure before god" by the ordinances of the gospel. 

"Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy god." 

*Jewish appropriation* 

Story of someone who had to remind someone "Dr. Jones, you became a physician to care for people and work to heal them. You didn't become a physician to judge them [on a self-infilcted wound]. If you don't understand the difference, you have no right to train at [Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore, MD]." 

Don't think you're above others. 

"To be christlike, a person loves mercy... gracious, kind and honorable. These individuals treat everyone with love and understanding, regardless of characteristics such as race, gender, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, and tribal, clan, or national differences."

Kelly R Johnson

Story of daughter who set the microwave to cook [instead of timer] for 30 min. It caught on fire. This is because microwaves need something in them to absorb the energy. 

"Our entire microwave went up in flames and burned because there was nothing on the inside. Likewise, those who have faith and the word of god deep in their hearts will be able to absorb and overcome the fiery darts which the adversary will surely send to destroy us." 

(As someone raised with a fire extiniguisher in the kichen, I feel the sudden urge to suggest this to anyone with children) 

(I have no idea what else he said because he used the word 'power' 34 times in his short talk, and it lost all meaning)

Jeffrey R Holland

Covid sucks and it's going on too long. 

We want to know when our struggles will be over. 

I'm now speaking about "those who would like to be married and aren't or who are married and with their marriage were a little more celestial. I speak of those who have to deal with the unwanted appearance of a serious medical condition, perhaps an uncurable one. Or face a life long battle with a genetic defect that has no remedy. I speak of the continuing struggle with emotional and mental health challenges that weigh heavily on the souls of so many who suffer with them and on the hearts of those who suffer with them. I speak of the poor, whom the savior told us never to forget. I speak of you, waiting for the return of a child no matter what the age, who has chosen a path different from the one you prayed he or she would take." Plus economic, political,and social concerns. 

Your prayers "are heard and they are answered, though perhaps not at the time or in the way that we wanted." They'll be answered when and how god thinks they should be. 

We shouldn't ask for a stress-free life; struggles make us worthy to live with god.

Russell M Nelson

"We live in a glorious age, foreseen by prophets for centuries... Despite the world's commotion, the lord would have us look toward the future with joyful anticipation... The gathering of Israel moves forward. The lord JC directs the affairs of his church and it will achieve it's divine objectives. The challenge for you and me is to make certain that each of us will achieve his or her divine potential." 

Let JC be your 'new normal' by "repenting daily. Seek to be increasingly pure in thought, word, and deed. Minister to others. Keep an eternal perspective. Magnify your callings. And... live each day so that you are more prepared to meet your maker." 

Six new temples: Tarawa, Kiribati; Port Vila, Vanuato; Lindon, Utah; Greater Guatamala; Sao Paulo East, Brazil; and Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

[lambs-rest]

Keeping the Flame Alive

Track: VILLAIN - K/DA (Spotify | YT)

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

The sudden shift from Ishgard’s frigid weather to Thanalan’s dry heat was jarring. It stole the breath from her lungs for a minute, when she arrived at the Camp Drybone aetheryte, and caused her to lean on one of the low walls while she took the time to reacclimatise.

It was a bright day – obnoxiously so. Granye found herself quickly detesting the heat that beat down over her.

She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be anywhere south of the Coerthan border.

But the plight of the Flame General demanded it.

There had been a couple of days of peace after the trial – after knowing Ishgard had Ascian’s stirring the pot – that Tataru came rushing into the manor to tell them of the awful rumour that had reached her ears at the Forgotten Knight.

“General Raubahn is to be executed for crimes against the sultanate!”

Granye’s brow creased into a scowl at the memory of the news, the foul expression chasing anyone nearby to continue on their way. Alphinaud’s proposed plan of action had only furthered her ire that day.

“Accordingly, I have agreed to meet with her that we might discuss how best to proceed. Naturally I told her to expect us both.”

“Why?”

He had balked. She wouldn’t forget the startled confusion in his eyes as she hissed the question. He had floundered, blinking.

“I’m nae goin’ anywhere near Limsa, or Gridania.”

“Granye, I know there is some manner of bad blood between you and the Admiral, but surely you can put it aside for this?”

“They left us there, Alphie! Ran like dogs while Raubahn got his bloody arm cut off!” she had seethed, pacing angrily at the memory. “I’ve got nothin’ to say to Bloefiswyn, or the Seedseer.”

Alphinaud hadn’t pressed the matter, to his credit, and Granye had given her word that when the time came to act, she would be there. So, when the call had come over their linkshell network, Granye had prepared to return to Thanalan as promised.

She stood up, steadied, and made for the underground training ground southwest of Drybone, forgoing the use of a chocobo. She was sorely tempted to creep into Ul’dah and retrieve Palankwehn from the Flames’ stables, but resisted. The bird was safer and more comfortable there, and Granye had no doubt her Squadron members would be taking care of her.

She spotted Alphinaud easily, his white hair sticking out like a sore thumb in the dry brown environment of Eastern Thanalan. It was the Doman shinobi at his side who noticed her first. The warmth and relief she saw in Hozan’s eyes quelled her sour mood, and she couldn’t help but smile at him as she approached. It was good to see one of the Domans hale and whole. Though Yugiri had assured them at Camp Dragonhead that her people hadn’t been harmed by the Crystal Braves, nothing was better than confirming it with her own eyes.

Alphinaud noticed Hozan’s distracted stare and followed it, watching Granye. She was oblivious to the fact that is eyes stayed on her longer than normal, watching as she clapped Hozan on the shoulder and greeted him warmly, briefly asking after Homei and Yozan.

“I did not expect her to come, Master Alphinaud.”

“Your timing could not be better, my friend.”

Hozan’s voice rattled Alphinaud from his mulling.

“Moments before your arrival, the traitor Ilberd arrived and entered Halatali. This confirms that General Raubahn is being held within, and that we must act without delay. The General may be executed at any moment. You must enter Halatali and free him from his captors.”

Granye peered out from behind the ruined stone gate there were hiding behind, narrowing her eyes at the half-dozen people in the bold azure blue uniform of the Crystal Braves scattered about the entrance to Halatali. “So why’re we waitin’?” she asked quietly, looking back at Hozan.

Her answer came a second later, with a blur of dark cloth falling to the floor beside them with barely the faintest of footfalls, and a gentle woman’s voice.

“Pray forgive me my lateness.”

“Yugiri!”

“Lady Yugiri!” Both she and Alphinaud called out softly, muffling their excitement.

The Raen smiled slightly, her eyes settling on Alphinaud. It pleased her to see him in a better state than the last time they had met, in Camp Dragonhead’s intercessory.

Precious little time was wasted on chit-chat before Hozan vanished, and the shinobi lured the Crystal Brave turncoats away from the entrance, clearing the path.

The Coliseum’s playground was barren at the entrance – a fact that disquieted Alphinaud. Granye took point automatically, Rosenbogen out and an arrow nocked. It didn’t take long for them to run into the first of many Crystal Braves that would bar their path. Between the three of them, though, each cluster of Braves was quickly dealt with.

As they approached the Hall of the Crupellarii, a small dome of bright blue light met them, right at the back of the arena, and Granye squinted from their distance warily. Until she saw the figure of a familiar man, subdued and on his knees.

“General!”

She sprinted up the incline, and Raubahn slowly lifted his head, bleary-eyed and plainly exhausted. The blue dome stopped her from reaching him properly, bubbling him in its cold glow and highlighting his terrible state.

He’d been stripped of his armour and bruises mottled his dark skin in darker patches. A filthy bandage stained black from dried blood was wrapped around his stump and dirt. There was dirt and grime all over, staining skin and cloth alike.

“Where are his captors? I mislike the look of this.” Yugiri said quietly, scanning the arena like a hawk. Alphinaud joined Granye as she reached out to touch the barrier’s smooth, unyielding surface, before banging her fist on it.

She knew its kind of shield well. One similar had proven invaluable during her second excursion into Halatali, after the Coliseum had reclaimed it as their training ground. It had protected her from the thousand tonze swing of the horned cyclops, Pyracmon. There would be no breaking it by brute force.

Raubahn rasped, staring at her. “You…came…”

“’course we bloody well did.” Granye muttered, scowling at the device chaining him. “D’ye think we’d ‘ave left ye in the dirt?”

Yugiri reached her side and inspected the device. “Magitek. We should not force it, lest it be booby-trapped.”

Alphinaud made a disgusted noise as he shut his tome and let it sit back on his hip. “The Braves confiscated some such machines, but that they would employ them… Come, one should possess the key. We shall split up and find it.”

“That will not be necessary.”

A snarl made its way onto Granye’s face without her control at the voice that prickled her skin. They turned, and saw Yuyuhase’s small blue-clad figure at the gate, smiling.

“Pray do not take it personally, my friends. You are the victims of harsh economic conditions.” The lalafell said sweetly.

Granye took one step forward, and then another, marching step-by-step toward him, teeth bared. “You traitorous sack o’ goblin shite! I’m goin’ to punt ye to the bloody Sagolii Desert!”

Unfazed by her threat, he continued his sickly spiel. “Happily you will not suffer for long. This poison will convey you swiftly unto the bosom of Thal, where I hope to join you…after the passing of many prosperous years.”

Yuyuhase’s smile was unflinching as she stormed closer, as the aether crackled around her and Oschon’s Embrace was replaced by a set of Ironworks gear, metal knuckles adorning her fists. Granye lunged with a shout, about to barrel into him, when the metal gate suddenly dropped in front of her face. She instead crashed against it with a loud metal clang before hissing, gripping the bars and shaking it violently as he turned away and green fog filtered into the area.

“Farewell, friends. Oh, and do try to relax. They tell me struggling only makes it worse.”

“Traitor!” Granye shouted once after him, before returning to the others. Yugiri was shaking her head, distressed and Raubahn was already coughing and spluttering, the poison mist affecting him the swiftest.

“The mist stifles my healing!”

“Leave me… Save yourselves…”

“Like hells. Ye think we came in ‘ere just to ditch ye? Alphie, what’s the- Alphie?” Granye turned when she didn’t see him by her side anymore.

Alphinaud was already hurling spells at the gate. He was trying to force it.

Granye let out a short exhale and wordlessly joined him, tightening her grip on her knuckles and rolling her shoulders, feeling Fists of Fire imbue her with offensive strength before she wailed on the gate, aiming for places she could see rust and weakness in the bars.

“Agh!”

Alphinaud’s sudden, revolted cry behind her caused her to turn sharply. A green blob of slime had appeared from nowhere and assaulted him. “They’re drawn by the mist! Don’t worry about me, just focus on the door!” he shouted.

Reluctantly, Granye resumed her assault. Admittedly, he was better suited to walloping the slimy beast – they always seemed more susceptible to magic, in her experience. It didn’t stop her from grimacing at his disgusted shouts whenever the slime got too close.

When the gate finally groaned and a section of the bars warped and buckled under her powerful punches, she turned to help with the slime. “Alphie, ‘ere’s a weak spot! Blast it open an’ let me finish up with this!”

The switch was flawless, and Granye felt a touch of pride that they could fight in such a way – sharing objectives and swapping targets on the fly.

The slime was more like a puddle when she heard the blast. Alphinaud had blown a sizeable hole in the gate, tearing it wide open.

“Quickly, we cannot let them escape!”

“I shall tend to the General!” Yugiri shouted after them, Granye just noticing a sad, defeated green puddle at her feet. “Pray see to the mist and the key!”

---

After a whole lot of running, coughing, wheezing and punching they found the device pumping the foul mist into Halatali, and Granye smashed it into pieces while Alphinaud covered her back from the slimes. The hunt for the key was simple enough – it was found in the possession of a group of Braves the next room over, a room free of poisoned air, where she and Alphinaud took a moment to catch their breaths.

Granye switched back to her Bard gear. “Peloton fer the run back.” she explained at his curious glance, holding up the white flute. “They dinnae make this simple, aye?” she added with a sigh before playing the familiar short melody. A delightfully refreshing breeze spiralled out from her, invigorating their steps back to the Hall of the Crupellarii. Yugiri was working on healing Raubahn now the mist had failed. Granye strode to the magitek device, peering for the keyhole and pushing it in once she spotted it, turning the damnable entrapment off entirely.

The locks on Raubahn’s manacles failed at the same time as the barrier, metal restraints clinking open and falling off his wrists as the blue light faded.

“My…thanks-” he broke off into a coughing fit suddenly.

“Slowly, General. You are yet weak from your ordeal. Take a moment, then we shall quit this place.” Alphinaud said, voice twisting into a bitter tone at the very end.

“I should have known.”

Granye narrowed her eyes, this time refusing to turn like Yugiri and Alphinaud.

“What are clever contrivances to the Warrior of Light? …Well done, hero.”

“Ilberd.”

Alphinaud’s seething voice conveyed how they all felt. Granye saw Yugiri draw her daggers out of the corner of her eye, and mentally braced for a fight.

“You mean to struggle on then? Very well. If you would stand in my way, I will cut you down like all the rest. Come, Scions – let’s get this over with!”

Alphinaud fired off the first attack, slamming an orb of Ruin into one of the Braves bowmen’s chest and sending them staggering back, unprepared for the ferocity of the assault.

Granye turned on the spot, unhitching her bow and nocking an arrow in one smooth motion, firing a Heavy Shot into the same bowman, pinning him in the arm at debilitating him almost at once. A split second later, she realised there was a conjurer that deserved that opening volley a lot more, and she made to pin them down and take them out of the fight.

Her shot, however, bounced off a large steel shield. When the shield lowered, Ilberd stared back.

He charged at her, ignoring Yugiri and Alphinaud entirely and leaving them to Yuyuhase and Laurentius. Granye took off, intent on keeping distance between his blade and her, leading him on a chase around the outskirts of the ring and peppering him with shots. He was quickly growing aggravated and decided to change tactics, bouncing back on his heels and taking up a stance against the fence of the arena.

Granye could sense the aether gathering to him and suspected what was to come. Instead of wasting time trying and failing to close the gap and get into a blind spot, she turned on the conjurer, firing a Venomous Shot and Bloodletter at them. She didn’t get to see where her arrows landed before a violent wave of red aether slammed into her, like the lash of a giant whip, and knocked her back a few steps.

Ilberd was on her barely a second later, brandishing his blade while she was still rattled by the blow. She sprang back at the last moment, Repelling out of the way of his strike, but her landing was messy and she stumbled before falling down to one knee, head still spinning.

“I have you now!” Ilberd sneered.

“ILBERD!”

Alphinaud’s scream was livid, and it came a moment before a particularly strong orb of Ruin slammed into the traitor’s unprotected side and sent him careening off his course before he could reach Granye. She took the chance to recollect herself and glance over the fight. Her aim had been true with the conjurer – the lalafell was sprawled on the floor. All the Braves were, in fact, save Yuyuhase – who was dealing with Yugiri – and Ilberd. His token force had been quashed quickly and efficiently.

Ilberd curled his lip at Alphinaud in a sneer.

“Oi, Il-bred, ye stinkin’ heap o’ chocobo shite!”

He turned just in time to see Granye loose an arrow. The blow bounced off the steel lip of his shield, ricocheting, up past his cheek and barely missing his flesh.

She stood, fully recovered and ready to give him her undivided attention.

A sickly smirk spread across his face. That black look in her eyes – the vaunted Saviour of Eorzea didn’t gleam nearly as bright as she once had, and it brought him cruel satisfaction. Her constant jokes and light-hearted attitude was something he quietly detested from day one. ‘Saviour of Eorzea’. The title was a joke. She had no idea about the struggles gripping the rest of the world. She didn’t care. As long as her little sphere was sunshine and flowers, she was happy to go on, skipping through life.

But the way she glowered at him, with hate and vengeance – both burning bright and true – told him all he needed to know. She’d finally had a taste of reality.

She fired a shot, aether coiling and squeezing around him threateningly. All he could do was block the incoming Wind and Venomous Bites. He knew her tactics. Mage’s Ballad was already at play, fuelling and replenishing her energy to fire successive Bloodletters. His best course of action would be to close the gap. And yet, he knew that she was well accustomed to working around the handicap of her long-range style of fighting. She had excessive stamina and resilience and had she specialised in a more close-combat style, he would have been in serious trouble in a one-on-one fight.

He had one thing on his side: his Sanguine Blade technique. It was already proven to work well against her and even if she managed to evade the shot, the safe zone would put her within direct striking distance of a debilitating shield bash.

Yuyuhase was keeping the brat and the shinobi occupied, and Laurentius, though useless as ever in a fight, had served his purpose as chaff to drain their energy.

So he took the gamble and prepared himself to lash out once more with his hate and anger, funnelled into a blow. That was Sanguine Blade, the technique he had forged over years of blood, sweat and tears spilt while fighting for the freedom of his homeland.

When he sprang to the edge of the arena again, she knew what was to come and sprinted for him. No way in hell was she taking another blow like that front-on.

The red slice of Ilberd’s Sanguine Blade shot across the arena, biting into Yugiri and Alphinaud and making them falter in their attacks. Granye had just barely reached the safe zone behind Ilberd when he turned on her, spinning on his heel and crashing his shield into her with a grin. She staggered back and Ilberd lunged.

It was Raubahn, knelt and helpless on the floor, who called out her name – his feeble shout that immediately drew Alphinaud and Yugiri’s eyes as Yuyuhase fell back, exhausted and debilitated.

Rosenbogen clattered to the floor.

Ruby droplets fell to join it, slowly drip-dripping onto the stone.

Everything stilled, the momentum of the fight grinding to a jarring and unsettling halt.

Ilberd’s steel had found flesh, biting into Granye’s waist. But the wound was shallow. The dripping blood came from her hand, from where she recklessly held the blade in place, crimson rivulets staining the steel.

He would have moved if he could – would’ve worked to drive the blade into her deeper – had the grip on his windpipe not choked him to a standstill.

Granye had sacrificed her weapon for a more hands on approach. She had allowed Ilberd to play his gambit – to strike while she was close – and she had struck back just as fiercely. Her grip was an iron claw, crushing his throat in a vice, holding him hostage to his own plan.

“What’s the matter? Nae willin’ to play yer trick through to its end? You traitor.” Granye seethed. Malice and anger boiled her blood. Holding his life in her hands was a well-deserved recompense for all the suffering he had caused-!

“Granye…”

Alphinaud stifled the uncertainty in his voice. Twelve, the look on her face-! Had he been confronted with such an expression in any other setting, Alphinaud felt he may well not have recognised her at all, with her eyes nearly glowing with anger, lips pulled back and teeth bared in a snarl…

Ilberd’s arm shook slightly, a quiet wheeze escaping his lips. She was choking him. She was going to kill him.

“Granye! Get a hold of yourself!” Alphinaud shouted. “This is not who you are.”

“He deserves it. Fer everythin’ he’s done! E’ryone he’s hurt!”

“Ilberd will be brought to justice for his treachery, but not at the sacrifice of your own standards!”

Alphinaud’s words seemed to take effect on her slowly, as Ilberd’s vision began to blur.

She slowly pushed his blade-arm to the side, pulling the sword out of where it cut into her body with hiss. Granye let go of his throat suddenly, and Ilberd slumped, gulping in air, before abruptly receiving a solid and unexpected kick to his middle that sent him careening back away from her.

Laurentius was just wobbling to his feet, holding his shoulder tenderly when Ilberd was sent reeling back to join him. Yuyuhase groaned and slowly rolled onto his front, pushing himself up.

“This…changes nothing!” Ilberd spat, still winded.

Alphinaud placed himself closer to Granye, standing between the two. “Your ploy is ended, Ilberd. Lay down your arms and face justice.”

“Justice!?” he scoffed. “Justice for what exactly? ‘Twas not I who assassinated the sultana, boy!”

Granye flashed her teeth, wanting to slap back at him the words he used to goad Raubahn at the banquet, but Alphinaud didn’t give her the chance.

“Ere we debate who is responsible for the assassination, I would ask whether an assassination took place at all.”

Granye blinked, startled at Alphinaud’s doubt while Ilberd muttered under his breath, too quiet for them to hear. But he made no refute, and that shook her more than anything. Could Nanamo really be…? Her hope was waylaid by the stare she felt from Ilberd and her lips curled back into a snarl when she met his stare.

“If you think you fight for justice, lass, you’d best wake up.” he spat, readjusting himself and gesturing at her with his blade. “The truth is, you fight for whoever bloody well tells you to! Or who doesn’t.” he added, glancing toward Alphinaud. She narrowed her eyes, fighting to hide the grimace her face wanted to make, but Ilberd could see through her paltry attempt.

“Can you not see you’re being used!? By the Scions, the city-states, even the Crystal Braves. They none of ‘em care a whit what you want – only what you can do for them!”

Granye let out a pained breath, finally putting her hand to the gash in her side and breaking her stare. He pushed further. She prided herself on being a champion for the people, and he knew it.

“You know how I know this? Because I was the same – a pawn to be used as my masters saw fit.”

Ilberd realised he’d misjudged her when she snapped her gaze back to him, scowling.

“You are nothin’ like me!”

“Oh, I might not have your gifts, but aside from that, you and I are very much alike, lass. All I ever wanted was to liberate my homeland, and I ate dirt to make it happen! But what have I achieved after all these years in servitude? Nothing! Not a bloody thing!”

Granye shook her head, revulsion marring her features. “If ye think I’ve got anythin’ but disgust fer you an’ yer merry band o’ money grubbin’ traitors, yer an idiot. How dare ye stand ‘ere in the same bloody room as Raubahn an’ complain!? He ‘ad the same shite background as you, aye!?” Granye stepped forward. “But he crawled to a place o’ power an’ made a change! He sets an example the Flames fight an’ die to follow!

“And in turn he’s chained like a dog to the orders of the Syndicate and the Sultanate.” Ilberd hit back. “Like you. Beholden to every bloody whim that passes under your nose! I did what I had to, to be free to take the steps I must! If we ourselves are not free – free to think and to act – how are we ever to reclaim our homeland!?”

Granye reeled back, plainly disgusted. “You did what ye had to? Ye were given a place o’ respect, where ye could’ve done somethin’ real, an’ ye spat on it! Ye saw the shiny gold pie an’ sold yer integrity fer a slice o’ it. Yer already rotten to the bone, Ilberd.”

Their dialogue fell silent. Granye had nothing more to say, short of curses and threats. Ilberd sheathed his blade, and the tone with which he spoke his words sent a shiver down Granye’s spine.

“Know this: there is nothing I would not give to take back Ala Mhigo. NOTHING!”

He moved quickly, throwing something on the floor that burst and blinded them without warning, and when Alphinaud’s vision returned, he could make out three blue-clad figures running from the hall – Ilberd and his most loyal lackeys.

“You’ll not get away!”

Yugiri barred his path before he got two steps forward, striking her hand out and earning a bewildered stare from the boy.

“Now is not the time, Master Alphinaud.” She looked beyond him and his eyes followed, landing on Granye who had turned away, but still pressed her hand to her side. The blood was seeping between her fingers. He pressed his lips flat, brow hardening, and nodded. They should spare no time to linger in the bowels of Halatali, not with Granye wounded and the General in such a terrible state. His speculations would have to wait.

-----

Granye’s pain had eased by the time they passed through Horizon. Alphinaud had applied the best of his healing magic to the wound in the carriage, despite the amount of times she tried to tell him it was fine. The bleeding had stopped, and her wound shut.

“I’m afraid my healing leaves something to be desired by way of efficacy.” Alphinaud apologised. Granye stared blankly. “It will leave a scar.” He reiterated quickly.

She loosely wrapped her arm around him in a half-hug. “Oh, tha’s nothin’ new, Alphie.”

“Wait! Your hand, let me see it.” he insisted suddenly, snagging her wrist and trying to get a look at the cut on her fingers and palm. Granye surrendered her hand with a mock sigh as he fretted, applying a small dose of healing to the cuts in lieu of a bandage.

When he was done, she fondly ruffled his hair, grinning at the surprised, muffled squawk he let out.

Raubahn watched them both with a heavy heart. To have learned that all but some handful of the Scions were missing, or worse… No small amount of guilt plagued him for their situation. Had he only kept his temper, not risen to Teledji’s bait, things may well not have turned out so bleak.

Yugiri’s eyes shifted subtly between the three of them, and then to the front of the carriage.

“We have arrived, friends.”

Her words came moments before the hooded man peered his head back into the carriage and told them the same.

Granye never though she would miss the sound of the sea lapping against the walls of the Bay as much as she did when she stepped out the back of the carriage and saw the sapphire blue ocean stretching out into the distance like a glittering carpet.

She put herself at the back of the group, flanking the General as they quickly filtered into the Waking Sands, Alphinaud leading the way into the basement.

Déjà vu hit Granye unpleasantly. Something about coming back to the Waking Sands when the Scions had been crippled-

Cold stone wrapped in darkness, stained blacker than the gloom. Limp sacks of cloth and flesh scattered like debris-

“Granye?”

She blinked, inhaling sharply and looking for the source of the voice. Yugiri stood at her side, where she had frozen in the door. Granye flashed a smile. “Sorry, I blanked out fer a minute.”

Yugiri accepted the excuse and stepped to the side, ushering Granye in so she could shut the door. The shinobi watched Granye’s back for a moment, the only sign of her concern, a slight furrowing of her brow. She was no stranger to the look Granye’s expression had taken in those moments; the thousand-malm stare that delved into something only her eyes knew; the quietly quickening breaths that had caused her chest to rise and fall in erratic, but brief, puffs of air.

“My dearest friends! Praise be unto the Twelve for delivering you from- Oof!”

“Angel!”

Yugiri’s worry faded when she saw Granye run at Urianger gleefully, wrap her arms around his waist and spin the poor man around on the spot.

Alphinaud hid his grin behind his hand as she put Urianger back on his feet…before hugging him again, words of relief tumbling over themselves. Urianger tried desperately to soothe her, but getting more than two words out before she starting bombarding him with fretting and questions of her own was nearly impossible, and he eventually gave up.

The door opening once again cause them all to turn and watch. The man who had offered the mysterious carriage had returned, this time behind the steps of a lalafellan woman with a tall, pointy cone hat and small, circular rimmed spectacles.

Raubahn stood from where he had knelt beside Pipin, staring at the newcomer. “You…”

“It was I who arranged this gathering. And judging by your perplexed expressions, it would seem introductions are in order. I am Dewlala, the head of the Order of Nald’thal, and member the Syndicate.”

Granye stepped back from Urianger, unable to repress the sickly, curling feeling in her gut. She knew there were two sides to the Syndicate – two sides of the big coin that ran Ul’dah that was stamped with Nanamo’s face, though her control was minimal in reality. The Monetarists – whose likes included Teledji and Lolorito – and the Royalists. The most prominent members of the latter were in the room with her now. She had no idea where this woman stood.

Words had been exchanged, while Granye was lost in her own mind, in deciding how she would size up this stranger. And then she realised Dewlala was staring right back at her. Granye flinched back, blinking, and Dewlala took it as a sign to direct a question to her.

“Young lady – I understand you were with the sultana when she drank from the poisoned goblet and collapsed. Would I be correct in assuming that you did not personally verify Her Grace’s vital signs?”

Granye frowned. “Wasnae like I got the bloody chance with that snake an’ ‘is lackeys pullin’ me away.”

Dewlala’s expression shifted only in that she pursed her lips, unimpressed at her language.

“No, I didnae.” Granye repeated curtly.

“Why ask, when ‘tis plain you know the answer!” Raubahn blurted in frustration.

“Calm yourself, General, and let me finish. The truth is not as you imagine it. You are all victims of a most ingenious ruse – a ruse conceived to eliminate the threat posed by Teledji Adeledji.”

Dewlala continued, unfolding her explanation behind the events of the bloody banquet. It was like all the pieces clicked into place: the lady-in-waiting, the way Lolorito had jumped so quickly to side with Teledji’s accusations, and the fact that Nanamo’s ‘death’ hadn’t been announced in the weeks since the banquet.

“I will never forgive Lolorito for his part in this!”

“Aye, ye can say that again.” Granye agreed with the General, scowling as she leaned back against the wall opposite Yugiri.

“Though Lolorito’s hands are far from clean, they did pluck Her Grace from the jaws of death. That must count for something.” Dewlala offered.

Granye flashed her teeth, staring at the floor. “Aye, counts fer me not puntin’ him into the sun like a bloody cabbage.” She muttered.

Pipin dared to glance up with a stifled smile. “Easy, Captain.” he said quietly.

She sighed and closed her eyes, working on calming herself down. The fight with Ilberd still had her on edge, and now just thinking about Teledji and Lolorito was making her angry. It was less the memory of the two snakes and more about the fact that Scions had been shredded in the crossfire of their selfish, mad scheming for power. They had lost everyone. She had lost everyone…two-by-two, until even Minfilia…

Granye looked up, staring at Alphinaud, and then Urianger. Not everyone. Tataru was safe in Ishgard. Raubahn was rescued, and they had allies in Yugiri and the Domans. It wasn’t like before.

…But in some ways, that made it all the worse. When Livia had attacked...there had at least been bodies. Casualties. An Echo. Proof. But this time…they had nothing. No news. No bodies… And certainly no help from Hydaelyn. Not that Granye wanted to deal with that lump of ornamental uselessness.

“As for the more worldly kind of wealth, I am content to let Lolorito help himself to whatever Teledji Adeledji left behind.”

Granye lifted her head sharply at Dewlala’s words.

“I’m not!” She spoke up loudly, scowling, her outburst drawing all eyes on her. “One slimy bastard’s gil dinnae need to go into the pocket o’ another slimy bastard. Cannae the Syndicate or somethin’ seize it, redistribute the funds to causes that need it, like say, oh, I dinnae ken, yer chokin’ refugee problem?”

Dewlala slowly slid her impassive gaze to Granye.

No words left her lips. Her eyes said it all. And who are you?

Suddenly, Granye knew that if she stayed there any longer, she was going to do something she would regret.

“Nobody, aye, I get it.” Granye muttered, her face falling into an ugly scowl. She pushed off the wall. “Alphie, I’m goin’ back to Ishgard, ‘fore I do somethin’ stupid.” She added under her breath.

He tried to protest, even as she clapped Raubahn on the shoulder – gently, mindful of his state – in farewell, then doled out another hug to Urianger, nodding at Yugiri and receiving one in kind.

She turned down the corridor and vanished with a flash of blue light.

——————————-

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[mzees-fate-ideas]

Daedalus

An idea for a five star caster servant that I’ve been toying with over the past couple days. Partially inspired by tumblr user erinye for the Icarus stuff.

Below the read-more is his appearance, personality, skills, and a few of the supposed my room interactions with other servants. Feel free to send an ask requesting an interaction with any other servants that I didn’t do (I’m also open to doing ones for fan servants).

History:

The greatest inventor of ancient Greece, and architect of the labyrinth that would contain the bull of King Minos. He is a man who might have completely changed the face of Greek history if not for the tragedies that befell him.

Upon completing the labyrinth, Minos imprisoned Daedalus and his son Icarus in a sealed tower. Putting his great mind to work: he created two sets of entirely functional wings using nothing but candle wax, and any birds he could lure down to the window, and using these wings the two of them made their escape.

History would record the death of Icarus as an act of fatal hubris, but in truth the tragedy was one born of foolish love. Icarus had fallen in love with the sun god Apollo, and despite Daedalus’ repeated warnings for him “not to get too close to the sun”, Icarus followed his heart as high as his wax wings could take him, before plummeting into the ocean below. It is highly unlikely that Apollo intended such an end for Icarus, but it was nonetheless his flames that were to blame for the boy’s fall.

(And just in general Apollo getting romantically involved with mortals is a bad move. I mean seriously the amount of attempted romances with him ending in the mortal getting turned into a plant alone is staggering. Don’t bang Apollo kids you might end up getting turned into a cactus.)

Daedalus, his life having been ruined by king and god alike, swore vengeance on both, and entered a mad frenzy of plotting and inventing of the means he would bring the downfall of authority. His plans were not to be however, as he died from overwork before they could come to fruition.

Appearance:

Daedalus is summoned in his sixties, this being the point at which he was constructing his most earth-shaking creations for his vendetta against the gods. His first ascension has him in a set of grubby clothes and a leather apron, much like you would expect a smith or sculptor to wear in their workshop. His second ascension has him don a set of sleek bronze armour, the design of which being something along the lines of where ancient Greece meets iron man. His third ascension has his armour take a more dented and patchwork look, as numerous modifications have been made to it without any care for consistency or aesthetics.

Personality:

Daedalus' moods can range from calm and methodical, as he carefully calibrates his newest device to microscopic perfection, to borderline hyperactive, as he starts haphazardly working on a dozen completely unrelated projects at once, seemingly at random times. When fresh inspiration strikes him he can’t help but throw himself full force into whatever new idea just struck him, often to the detriment of his countless unfinished projects. He has also been banned from setting foot inside Chaldea’s kitchen after disassembling the microwave without permission in order to see how it worked.

When not working on some device, he is a kind and grandfatherly individual who is always available should someone require assistance. He regularly holds classes on various subjects for the younger servants (or anyone who wishes to show up). These classes rarely stay on the intended topic for their whole duration, but are never boring.

He does however feel uneasy around divine servants and royalty. Despite knowing in his head that almost all of them had absolutely nothing to do with what befell him, emotions are sadly rarely rational.

Skills:

AAABQ deck Blueprint Consultation: Daedalus reviews his current plans, charging his NP gauge and buffing his noble phantasm for a turn.

Plotting Divine Downfall: A party-wide buff to arts, with a further self-buff against divine servants and servants with the “king” attribute. A skill born of his unceasing grudge.

Fortress Construction EX: A party-wide defensive buff.

Noble Phantasm: Promethean Spear (arts)

A weapon built specifically to strike down Apollo. While a flaming spear might seem like an ineffective weapon against a sun god, when activated this weapon reaches temperatures beyond that of the sun itself, and Daedalus created it out of the desire to inflict the same pain on Apollo that Icarus must have felt when his wings were set ablaze.

In-game it does massive damage to a single target and inflicts a burn debuff.

Interactions with other servants: Orion: “Is that.... Artemis??? She is extremely different from anything that I might have expected. Well... ignoring that issue for now, my grudges are less important than your mission so I will not cause any conflict with that goddess, despite her sibling. If possible however, I would like to avoid being partnered with her in battle.”

Asterios: “.............I was told I was constructing a prison for a monster. I never knew until now that the one being thrown into my labyrinth would be an innocent boy.... Minos! You’d better pray I never track down your place in Hades’ realm, for the horrors of Tartarus will pale in comparison to what I will do to you!”

Da Vinci: “The face of the renaissance! Both literally and metaphorically! Ah, what I wouldn’t have given to have lived during such an age. It is unfortunate that her schedule is so busy, but hopefully we can find time to collaborate on a work. Together we will make a wonder the likes of which the world has never seen!”

Babbage: “Incredible! To think that his body is powered by nothing by super-heated water! The wonders of the ages that came after mine never cease to impress! Do you think it would be a bit too forward if I asked if I could take him apart?”

Tesla: “HA! What I wouldn’t give to see Zeus’ reaction to this! Those great lightning bolts that he was so proud of being harnessed for use in common appliances. Bravo sir! Bravo!”

Moriarty: “This man seems about as untrustworthy as any individual can possibly get. I must admit however, that beyond that I do feel some level of kinship with him as an intellectual and as a father.... Huh? What do you mean he has no children? Then why was he calling himself “papa” when he thought no one else was listening?”

[renee-writer]

Hitman Chapter 7 A Date?

The next morning, he exits the lift to find Claire sitting in his waiting room.

‘’Good morning Mr. Fraser.’’ She stands when he walks in.

‘’Good morning Miss Beauchamp. How may I help you?’’ He hopes treating her like any other person who comes in his office and not like the lass that haunted his dreams, would cover what she is doing to him.

‘’I thought I would save you the postage and just pick up Frank's, or should I say Uncle Lamb’s book, as I have discovered that Frank stole the research from him. I wish to return it to him.’’

‘’Of course,’’ he leads her back into his office, ‘’ in that case I wouldn’t publish anyway. I've high standards.’’ He invites her to sit. ‘’Can I get you anything?’’

‘’A coffee please.’’ He nods and rings for his assistant, ‘’ Milk and sugar.’’ His assistant enters and he hands him a five pound note.

‘’Go get Miss Beauchamp a cup of coffee with milk and brown sugar.’’ He nods and heads out. ‘’So Miss, err Claire, Frank stole your Uncle’s research?’’

‘’Yes, Uncle Lamb, gave Frank some of his research to look over but he used it without crediting him. He just used it as his own.’’

Jamie’s assistant came in and handed Claire the coffee. They continue the conversation and she tells him he wasn’t only cheating with the book. She tells him about discovering his many girlfriends. Jamie is careful too keep his face a mask. He knew all this. It was part of the reason the bloke had to die. But she is just finding out.

‘’And, a strange thing happened that night, the call wasn’t from the hospital. I stayed because they got busy. Oh, I need to apologize to you Jamie. I wasn’t at my best the first day we meet. Frank had forced me to come along. I didn’t wish to, nothing against you, I just don’t like to be forced into things.’’

‘’I understand. Don’t worry about it. I knew something was wrong but it wasn’t my place to inquire about it.’’

‘’You are a true gentleman. Unlike, ‘’ she sighs and fingers the manuscript he had handed back to her. ‘’well, I must be off. Thank you for the coffee and for listening.’’ She stands up to leave and he stands with her, habits his parents had long instilled coming back in her presence.

‘’Claire, when will you be back?’’ He knows she is heading to Oxford to return her uncle’s work.

‘’In two days, but then working until the weekend, why?’’

‘’I just thought you might want to see the rights of London with me.’’

‘’That would be lovely. I really haven't taken the time with everything else going on.’’ She gives him her number and he walks her to the lift. ‘Thanks for everything Jamie.’’ He stands and watch’s the numbers count down to the ground floor before walking back into his office. Why had he did that, asking her out. He doesn’t take women out. He just pays to take them as a brute when he has need. Shaking his head at himself, he enters her number in his phone. Later in the day, he text her and made sure she had made it to Oxford okay. She had and thanks him again.

Later he looks on the dark web for any other jobs. Oh, that is interesting. He was being hired to take out himself! Hired by his crazy stalker. Well, that will never do. He copies the information, removing any trace of where it came from and sends it to the Yard. The next day he finds out she had been arrested. His sister calls in a panic.

‘’Jamie, oh God, I didn’t know she was that crazy! Are you alright lad?’’

‘’I am fine,, Dinna fash. You couldn’t have ken'd. She is locked safely away now.’’ He reassures her even as he thinks of the lass his heart yearns for. It makes no sense but even as he talks to Jenny, he is texting Claire to make sure she is okay. His relief at her, ‘ yes. Home now. See you this weekend.’ Is more then he feels for his own safety. It is crazy. He is a killer, the killer of her husband.

That Saturday, they meet at the London Eye. They walk towards Waterloo bridge and the Convent garden and some bistro's Jamie knew there. It is close enough to the hospital that if she gets called in, she can easily head back.

‘Do you like living in London?’’ He asks after they are seated. It is a bit cold to be seating outside but it is so pretty.

‘’Yes and no. I lived in Oxford before Frank and I meet,’’ she runs her hand over her left hand, bare now where her wedding ring used to be, ‘’we then moved to Boston. But, after his death, well I needed to be near family. Uncle Lamb helped me see, or is helping me see that Frank's death wasn’t my fault.’’

He is shocked that she would blame herself. ‘’Why would you think it was?’’

‘’I am a doctor Jamie. A doctor and my husband passes of a coronary and I am not there to help.’’

‘’You were at the hospital, aye?’’

‘’Yes just.. The police checked, especially with his parents deaths. Yes. I was. I found out about his adultery later. It wasn’t a motive. We weren’t fully happy. He would say I was working to much. Wanted to start a family. Oh, and then I find out he already has. One of his mistresses is expecting.’’ She starts to cry as she continue, ‘’ I was embarrassed, the wronged women everyone was whispering about. I needed to be where people didn’t know me.’’ Her tears are freely falling now. Jamie feels helpless. He longs to comfort her but taking her in his arms would be his undoing.

‘’Dinna cry lass.’’ He softly says. ,’’He was in the wrong not you.’’ She pulls herself together and her phone rings. A deep breath and a wiping of her eyes before she answers.

‘’Yes. I see. I will be right there.’’ She rings off. ‘’I am sorry but I must go.’’

‘’I will see you to a cab. Text me later if you wish.’’

‘’I will. You are a wonderful listener Jamie.’’

He places her in a cab and pays the driver. He then stands routed to the spot watching her ride off. Now what? He is uncomfortable. He feels strange, at lose ends. He, when he has felt this needy, he knew how to handle it. But the thought of another woman made him feel a bit nauseous. He hurries back to his flat and changes into workout clothes. He runs to the gym and has a brutal workout. He is trying and failing to exercise her out of his brain.

She is beautiful, smart, and sassy. Vulnerable and needy. He is the darkness that should stay away from her light. But he is drawn to it like a moth to the flame. Now what? He has never been here before. He wants her and can’t take her. She is a new widow and he is such bad news.

His phone binged with a text message alert.

‘’I am off. Would you like some dinner with me. I will cook.’’

The smart thing to do would be to run the opposite direction but. ‘Can I bring anything?’

‘Whisky and wine.’

That he can do. A bottle of Fraser's special and a good bottle of wine from his uncle's collection. A shower and shave and he heads to her house.

She comes to the door with a huge smile. It lights up his world. Christ, he is in trouble.

‘’Hello there. Come in.’’ he follows her in. Her home is simple but elegant. Her. He knows what their Boston home looked like from photos he found on the dark web. This was lighter with more her. ‘’Let me get you oriented. Bedrooms upstairs,’’ she says as she places the bottles he had handed her on the counter, ‘’ there is a bathroom on this floor.’’

‘’You have a big home.’’

‘’Well, my uncle and his wife have a 10 year old son, Fergus. I wanted him to have room and space here. He will be coming up next weekend to see the sights. I will take him to winter wonderland.’’

‘’I would be happy to come with you, to keep you and the lad safe.’’ He offers before he thinks. She laughs and he feels it soul deep. That laugh! He knows he would do anything to hear it again.

‘’He is ten and has a ton of energy. Another adult would help.’’

A timer rang in the kitchen and he follows her that direction. She pulls out a roast with potatoes and carrots.

‘’Wow! You made that?’’ She laughs again. She is determined to kill him.

‘’No. My housekeeper did. But, I did cook it. She worries that I don't eat enough.’’

‘’Do you?’’ She shrugs

‘’Come, let's eat and talk.’’

She tells him she had been working hard to keep her marriage and career together. That since his death she had slowed down.

‘’Still a surgeon but went from trauma surgery to consultant in general surgery. Less insane hours. I hardly every have to work weekends now. The irony is Frank would be pleased.’’

He tells her about the publishing world. That it wasn’t near as glamorous as it seems. ‘’A lot of reading bad manuscripts. Oh, there was one about a woman traveling through time to meet the love of her life.’’

That giggle again. ‘’Did you publish it?’’

‘’Nae it wouldn’t have sold.’’

The clean up together after they meal. ‘’I will get some glasses for the whisky.’’

‘’I pray you like it. It is from Lallybroch, my family's estate. It isn’t on the market. Made by my da for our family.’’

‘’Oh nice.’’

They take seats on her couch. Jamie is careful to seat far away from her as the couch allows. But as they drink they move closer. Before he can react, she is pressed close to him and is kissing him. It is just a peak but it is enough to fire his blood. It also throws him into a panic. He freezes for a minute. Now what? His body reacts as his mind struggles. He takes her lips in a frenzy. Now what?!

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: Your New Life.Part2

Showing Gratefulness to Allah for His Guidance

A Muslim owes Allah the Almighty a great debt of gratitude for helping him repent of the sins he has committed and for guiding him to the truth. The following are the best things a Muslim can possibly do to express gratitude to Allah for such blessings:

1) Holding Fast to Islam and Patiently Enduring Hardships that Come One’s Way

It goes without saying that if a person has a priceless treasure, he will undoubtedly do his best to protect it. Islam is undeniably the best gift to mankind, for it is not a mere set of abstract ideology, nor is it a hobby which a person may practise whenever he feels like it; rather, it is a religion and a way of life which governs a Muslim’s life in all its aspects without exception. Commanding His Messenger May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him to stubbornly hold fast to Islam and the teachings of the Qur’an, being on the right path, Allah May He be glorified and exalted says in the Qur’an, “So hold fast to what has been revealed to you. You are on a straight path.” (Soorat Az-Zukhrf, 43:43)

A Muslim must not feel sad if he experiences any form of hardship, for it is part of Allah’s wise plan to test His servants. Allah May He be glorified and exalted even tested His prophets and messengers, who are far better than us, and the Qur’an tells us how they encountered untold suffering at the hands of relatives and enemies alike, without losing heart, weakening in their faith or wavering under adversity. The great hardship a Muslim faces due to his dedication to the truth is one of the ways Allah May He be glorified and exalted tests His servants’ faith. Therefore, live up to your lofty principles, try your best to pass the test, adhere to the truth under all circumstances and constantly pray to Allah to keep you on the right path, just as the Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him himself did. Repeat the supplication: “Yaa muqallibal-quloob, Thabbit qalbee‛alaa deenik” (O Allah, Controller of hearts, make my heart adhere firmly to Your religion). (Sunan At-Tirmidhee: 2140)

Allah May He be glorified and exalted says in this context, “Do people think that once they say, ‘We believe,’ they will be left alone and not be put to the test? We certainly tried those who have gone before them, so Allah will certainly distinguish between those who are truthful and those who are lying.” (Soorat Al-‛Ankaboot,29:2-3)

2) Doing One’s Best to Call to Islam with Wisdom and fair Admonition

Engaging in da‛wah work (calling others to Islam) is undoubtedly one of the best ways of expressing gratitude to Allah as well as one of the most effective means to remain constant in faith. If a person recovers from a life-threatening disease which has caused him a great deal of suffering and misery after discovering the right cure for his disease, he will certainly spread such a remedy amongst people, particularly amongst his relatives and closest friends. This point is elucidated as follows:

Calling Others to Islam (da‛wah)

Virtues of Calling Others to Islam

Engaging in da‛wah work is indisputably one of the best deeds in the sight of Allah and is highly commended in the Qur’an and the Prophet’s Sunnah. Evidence to this effect includes the following:

1) Da‛wah is the means to success in this life and in the hereafter, as the Qur’an states, “Let there be a group among you who call others to good, and enjoin what is right, and forbid what is wrong: those who do this shall be successful.” (Soorat Aal ‛Imraan,3:104)

2) No one has a better speech than that of those who engage in da‛wah activities. Commending such people, the Qur’an says, “Who speaks better than one who calls to Allah, does good works and says, ‘I am surely one of the Muslims.’?” (Soorat Fussilat, 41:33) It is clear, therefore, that there is no one whose speech is better than that of a person who calls people to the truth, for he is their guide to their Creator and Lord and the one who takes them out of the darkness of misguidance into the light of faith.

3) Engaging in da‛wah work testifies to one’s compliance with Allah’s command: “Call to the way of your Lord with wisdom and fair admonition, and argue with them in the best manner possible.” (Soorat An-Nahl, 16:125) A person who dedicates himself to such a noble task must invite others to Islam with wisdom, making sure that he knows the personality of the people he wants to call to Islam so as to choose the best possible method to carry out the task, all the while arguing with them in the kindest, most gracious manner which appeals to them.

4) Engaging in da‛wah work was the very task carried out by all of Allah’s messengers without exception, foremost of whom was Prophet Muhammad (saw), whom Allah sent to all mankind as a witness over people, giving news to the believers of immense reward in the hereafter, warning the unbelievers against severe punishment and spreading his light to all mankind. The Qur’an says, “Prophet, We have sent you as a witness, as a bearer of good news and a warner, and a caller to Allah by His permission and a light-giving lamp. Convey to the believers the good news that they will receive immense favour from Allah.” (Soorat Al-Ahzaab,33:45-47)

5) Inviting people to Islam is the source of unlimited goodness; for each person you invite to Islam, you will get the same rewards for his prayer, worship and teaching others. What a great blessing Allah bestows on those who engage in da‛wah work! The Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him said, “Whoever calls to guidance will have a reward similar to that of those who follow it, without the reward of either of them being lessened at all.” (Saheeh Muslim: 2674)

6) The reward Allah has in store for those who invite others to Islam is far better than all the enjoyments of the present world, for such a reward is from Allah Himself, the Most Generous, who will recompense them abundantly for such a noble endeavour: “If you turn away from me, remember I ask no reward from you. Only Allah will reward me, and I have been commanded to submit completely to Him.” (Soorat Yoonus, 10:72)

The Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him also said in this respect, “If Allah guides one man through you, this will be better for you than possessing red camels.” (Saheeh Al-Bukhaaree: 2847; Saheeh Muslim: 2406) Camels were considered the most valuable property in ancient Arabia and the red variety was the most prized of all.

Requirements of the Correct Manner of Inviting Others to Islam

Allah May He be glorified and exalted describes the correct manner of engaging in da‛wah work as one which is characterised by certain qualities which distinguish it from others. These qualities are as follows:

1) Insight and Knowledge

A caller to Islam (daa‛iyah) must be knowledgeable about the truth to which he invites others, clearly presenting divine instructions to them, based on clear evidence: “Say: This is my Way: I invite to Allah, on the basis of a clear proof, and so do those who follow me .” (Soorat Yusuf, 12:108) He does not have to know many things before he starts calling people to Islam. Whenever he learns something new, he has to teach it to others. For instance, If he learns about the necessity of not associating anyone in the worship of Allah, he ought to convey this information to others. Likewise, if he learns about some aspects of the beauty of Islam, he must convey this to them. To put it in a nutshell, he must convey anything he learns about Islam, even if what he has learned is one single verse of the Qur’an, as the Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him once ordered, “Convey what you learn from me [to others], even if [what you have learnt] is one verse of the Qur’an.” (Saheeh Al-Bukhaaree: 3274) This was the very practice of the Prophet’s companions; they would learn the principles of Islam in a few days and then they would go back to their people to call them to Islam and arouse their interest in it, especially through their high moral character.

2) Wisdom

The Qur’an says, “Call to the way of your Lord with wisdom and fair admonition, and argue with them in the best manner possible.” (Soorat An-Nahl, 16:125) Wisdom is the ability to make sensible decisions and give good advice at the appropriate time and place because of the experience and knowledge one has. Given the differences between people regarding their character and level of understanding, a caller to Islam must choose the appropriate method to engage in da‛wah work and wait for the appropriate opportunity to win them over. He must approach them with gentleness and compassion, and engage in a calm and balanced dialogue which does not instigate ill feelings and inflame hatred. It is for this reason that Allah May He be glorified and exalted reminds His Messenger May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him of the favours He bestowed upon him by making him gentle with people: “It is by Allah’s grace that you deal gently with them; had you been harsh and hard-hearted, they would surely have deserted you.” (Soorat Aal-‛Imraan, 3:159)

Inviting Family Members and Relatives to Islam

A person who has been guided to Islam must do his best to call his family members and relatives to this religion, because they are the closest and dearest people to him. He ought to endure any harm he may encounter patiently whilst doing so. He should also use all possible means in order to show them the truth. As the Qur’an states, “Instruct your family to offer their prayers, and be steadfast in observing them yourself.” (Soorat Taa Haa, 20:132)

Some callers to Islam may find that people to whom they are not related favourably respond to the invitation, whilst their closest relatives refuse to do so, which causes them a great deal of distress and disappointment. A successful caller to Islam, however, never gives up hope; he tries his best to guide them to the truth, using various methods and techniques and praying to Allah to guide their hearts, even under the bleakest of circumstances. The Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him did just that with his Uncle Abu Taalib. He left no stone unturned in calling him to Islam and continued doing so until the last moments of his life. When Abu Taalib was on his deathbed, the Prophet May Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him begged him, “Dear uncle, say, laa ilaaha illallaah, (There is no god worthy of worship except Allah) so that I may be able to intercede for you on the Day of Judgement.”(Saheeh Al-Bukhaaree: 3671;Saheeh Muslim: 24)AbuTaalib, however, declined to do so, and so he died a polytheist. It was on this occasion that Allah May He be glorified and exalted revealed the following verse: ‘‘You cannot guide whoever you please: it is Allah who guides whom He will. He knows best those who receive guidance.” (Soorat Al-Qasas, 28:56) A new Muslim, as soon as he embraces Islam, must build a strong and healthy relationship with his relatives and acquaintances, Muslims and non-Muslims alike. He must also observe high moral standards when dealing with them, for Islam is not a call to isolation and withdrawal from social life. Indeed, showing kindness to people and observing high moral standards when dealing with them is the best way to introduce them to this great religion with which Prophet Muhammad May He be glorified and exalted was sent to perfect noble character. Observance of high moral standards and good treatment must start at home, amongst family members.

[starswornoaths]

5. Show of Hands

By default, Merlwyb was not a morning person.

As those directly under her command could attest, the Admiral was not to be approached for anything short of full scale war before she consumed, at the bare minimum, two cups of black coffee. Any fool who dared attempt approaching before that, unless it was to offer her more coffee would be met with a glare dark enough to engulf the Mother crystal Herself.

So when Slafyrsyn brought her a missive from one of the ships away on a cargo route, his heart might have given out for the sheer animosity in her tired gaze were he of a lesser constitution. As it stood, he simply gave a polite bow and presented the missive as though it were her breakfast.

“I presume this is urgent.” She said, her voice still gravelly from disuse and a lack of coffee both.

“Aye, Admiral,” Slafyrsyn affirmed. She took the report and began reading, though her severe expression did not soften. “It does not, on the surface, appear urgent, but I assure you—”

“Ghosts, Slafyrsyn?” The Admiral snarled, tossing the report onto her desk and redirecting her ire back at him. “Am I now meant to fight a ghost?”

Well aware that were she more awake, she would be cackling in delight at the mere thought of swashbuckling a specter, Slafyrsyn cleared his throat to hide an amused chuckle; it had been enough years serving under her that he knew where the line was between plucky friendship and the plank.

“Not...fighting a ghost, Admiral.” He gently corrected. “And...and not technically a ghost, either.” He gestured to the discarded paper. “Please, read the entire missive, I promise all is explained within.”

Merlwyb narrowed her eyes but returned her attention to the report. Her frown turned thoughtful as she continued, the coffee oiling the gears of her mind to work for the day.

Still...Slafyrsyn could tell the moment she read the end by the way her eyebrows met her hairline.

“Why is Captain Arcbane referenced in this report?” Merlwyb asked. “How did this cargo vessel run into her in the open waters? She’s currently on vacation— I signed off on it.” She narrowed her eyes. “She took two months off— she made for Ishgard the second I approved it!” She straightened in her seat a moment, her expression suggesting that a thought suddenly and violently occurred to her. “...Get me Flame General Pipin and Lord Commander Aymeric on the line. Now.”

Less than an hour later, she stood looming over her desk, various reports strewn out for her to scan over. The linkpearl in her ear let out two soft ding noises, one after the other to signal that two people were entering the call line she had opened. She tapped it, her focus still honed in on four reports in particular.

“If this is anyone but General Pipin and Ser Aymeric, kindly sod off.” She said gruffly.

“Good morning, Admiral,” she heard the Lord Commander say diplomatically.

“Well, won’t this be an interesting conversation.” Pipin said, sighing.

“I will be brief,” Merlwyb said, her hand reaching out for one of the reports— the earliest dated one she had suspicions was related to this ghost. “Ser Aymeric, can you confirm that Storm Captain Serella Arcbane arrived to Ishgard following her approved leave?” She offered him the start date, and she could her him confirm on his calendar.

“She arrived here that same day,” Aymeric answered. “Though given you are looking for her now, I will tell you that she left after staying a week.” The sound of a book being shut was faintly heard. “She mentioned a fishing trip with her brother, and that she would return here when it was done.”

A fishing trip. Merlwyb would have laughed if she was not so furious.

“Uthengentle mentioned much the same, actually.” Pipin spoke up. “He’s on leave, too, come to mention it—”

“Did either of them happen to mention where they were going ‘fishing?’ Or what it was they were trying to catch?”

“Storm Captain Arcbane gave no indication.” Aymeric answered, ever the diplomat.

“Flame Lieutenant Arcbane didn’t say much either,” Pipin replied. “Just that he was looking forward to his fishing trip with his sister.”

“Did either of them,” Merlwyb began slowly. “Ever mention that they were going to create a mythical ghost to ‘catch’ Imperial slavers?” She only barely fought down the urge to shriek the more she thought about it. “Was that mentioned by any chance?”

“...Forgive me,” Aymeric said, and even through the faint static of the linkpearl, the Admiral could hear his bafflement. “Perhaps my reception is poor— did you say they created a ghost story to scare Imperial slavers?”

“Sounds more like they made themselves the ghosts.” Pipin said, though sounded infuriatingly unsurprised.

“General Pipin has the right of it,” Merlwyb snarled. “We just received a boat full of people— of captured people that have been missing for months— with no captain, no crew, but a letter with the Maelstrom Captain’s seal requesting that these people be cared for.” She snarled. “And from the way the rescued people talk, a wraith descended upon the Imperial ship in fog and slaughtered their captives.”

“And given an officer of the Eorzean Alliance is involved, that might complicate things.” Aymeric supplied.

“Two. I can confirm Ul’Dah has received a similar boat of missing people with the Flame Lieutenant’s seal on a letter requesting these people be returned to their homes.” Spoke Pipin.

“That this is how those two fools use their vacation time astounds me.” Merlwyb grumbled, rubbing at her temples to try and stave off the migraine she was already beginning to feel press against her eyelids. “I intend to hail Storm Captain Arcbane and bring her into the call.”

“Shall I step out, then?” Aymeric asked. “I fear there is little more I can assist with—”

“Oh, no,” Merlwyb said in the same way one chastises a child for misbehaving. “You stay. I would confirm the use of an appropriated Dragonkiller on top of everything else.”

“Forgive me, a WHAT—”

Merlwyb ignored Aymeric’s baffled sputtering and dialed her Captain’s personal line. After a few tense moments, there was a soft ding.

“Hello?” Serella’s voice called out through the heavy static on her end— she must be rather far out to sea, then.

“Storm Captain,” Merlwyb snarled. “Where are you at this very moment?”

“...Fishing.” She said after a pregnant pause.

“Oh, ‘fishing?’ And what exactly are you trying to catch, Captain?” Merlwyb pressed.

“Oh, you know,” Serella did not immediately answer. “Things one tends to find out on the open sea—”

“You mean Imperial slavers, Captain?” The Admiral demanded.

“...In my defense, you do find them out on the open sea.” Serella countered. “I didn’t lie about it.”

“You are on vacation,” Merlwyb began. “Hunting slavers with your brother using a modified Dragonkiller as the figurehead of your ship—” she cut off her own rant as another thought occurred to her. “Is that ship a part of the Maelstrom fleet? Is it even a registered ship?”

“Technically registered— but only by the Knights of the Barracuda.” Serella admitted like her arm was being twisted. “We rebuilt Da’s ship— the Serpent’s Sting? Is that...is that a famous ship? I dunno, now that I’m thinking on it—” it was Serella’s turn to cut herself off. “Wait— did you say a modified Dragonkiller?”

“I will admit, this part interests me, as well, Storm Captain.” Aymeric spoke up in his most unamused tone.

“Oh, you’re here, too?” Serella asked. “Hello! I’m still on that fishing trip!”

“Clearly.” Aymeric drawled. “How did you manage to steal a Dragonkiller?”

“You wound me!” Serella gasped. “I’ve stolen nothing! I went to the exhibit on the history of weaponry— that exhibit they did following the Dragonsong War on different styles of weapons used—”

“Get to the point, Captain.” Merlwyb snarled.

“Sorry, sorry.” Serella hastily apologized. “They had a blueprint of an older model of Dragonkiller— and I sketched it out, but then I compared it to newer models, made some adjustments. Handed it to Uthengentle— have I mentioned he’s brilliant with weapon modification? — And he had the idea to change the lance at the head of it into a battering ram that opens into a claw! Now it’s a Hullkiller!”

“At what point,” Merlwyb asked slowly, her patience utterly spent. “Did you decide that a ghost ship was how you were going to fight slavers?”

“The beginning, if I’m being honest.” Serella said, and the Admiral could see her shrug. “We wanted to build something that wasn’t about ‘the Warriors of Light’ or anything. We wanted a boogeyman to kind of cover our bases.”

“So you took a two month vacation to have a costume party on your dead father’s ship?!” Merlwyb screeched.

“Listen,” Serella said, clearly unmoved by the Admiral’s outburst. “If I want to become a sea cryptid on my own time, that’s my business, Admiral.” Distantly, they heard shouting on her side of the call. “Ooohh, an Imperial Galleon—”

“Captain Arcbane, so help me—”

“The fish are biting, Admiral! I’ll write soon!” Before anyone could demand that she explain herself, her line cut off.

“...Well.” Aymeric spoke up in the tense silence. “At least they are not using stolen Alliance equipment.”

“And not technically done anything illegal to boot.” Pipin added. “Though I doubt that will mean the end of paperwork for us, at least it’s all above board...I think?”

“We will have to determine that at the time of their return.” Merlwyb said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I’m not even attempting to contact Flame Lieutenant Arcbane until they’re ashore.” Pipin admitted, sighing. “...He tends to just hang up on me anyway.”

“This discussion is over.” Merlwyb said. She could feel her eye twitching. “I thank you both for your time.”

“Pray do not outright murder the Warriors of Light, Admiral.” Aymeric entreated her with a sigh of resignation. “I imagine a great deal of chaos would only come from their demise.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” She snarled.

“Have a drink, Admiral.” Pipin said, defeated. “Gods know I’m opening a bottle of brandy over this.”

The call ended without preamble, which was well— Merlwyb had one more thing she needed done before resuming her duties.

Taking the lift to the Drowning Wench, she felt the eyes of every patron and worker in the bar fall upon her— good, she thought. Less shouting for their attention.

“Show of hands,” she called out, and she must have looked as near-insane as she felt, if the way the crowd seemed to jump. “Who among you aided the Arcbane siblings in supplying and manning a ship?”

Nearly every hand in the bar went up.

“Not manning, though.” Baderon reluctantly spoke up from the back. “They were insistent no one else join...but we supplied ‘em.”

“And you all kept quiet because…?” Merlwyb demanded.

“...They traded us barrels of personal stock liquor for the trouble?” Baderon said with a shrug. “And it was good?”

Deciding she had spoken to enough fools for one day, Merlwyb threw her hands up in the air in exasperation, did an about face, and just went back to her office. Slafyrsyn, knowing the oncoming storm, was already brewing coffee upon her return. If she felt as though she could trust her staff not to rebuild a two decades old ship just to harass slavers under the radar, she might have considered giving him a vacation for his efforts.

[schoolcalidity]

Better to be Jews than Christians

Better to be Jews than Christians

Anton de Montoro and the Spanish Converts

By Jeffrey Gorsky

(adapted from a chapter in my history: Jewish Blood, the Tragedy of the Iberian Jews.)

The 15th Century Castilian Anton de Montoro was the most representative poet of the Spanish "conversos". A convert to Catholicism, he flaunted his Jewish heritage. He dramatized the plight of his fellow converts, victims of discrimination and violent persecution. He wrote about something unique in Jewish history—a community of thousands brought into Catholicism through force or compulsion, trying to fit into their new Christian world.

The conversions came at the end of one of the most successful Jewish periods in human history. For centuries, during the "convivencia", Jews prospered from unprecedented, if limited, tolerance from Muslim and Christian rulers. The Jews exploited new opportunities for power, riches, and cultural and scientific encounters. Their success led them to call their land Sepharad, a name from the book of Obadiah that implied that Spanish Jews were the successors to the Jews of Israel.

This world ended in 1391. A rogue priest named Ferran Martinez incited mobs to riot throughout Spain with the slogan "Convert or die". When the violence ended, further State and Church repression followed. After 20 years of repression, a third to half of the Spanish Jews had converted.

These "conversos" quickly achieved enormous success. They obtained high public office, rose to the top of the Church hierarchy, and married into the aristocracy. But their success bred resentment. During 60 years of civil war and instability, they became handy scapegoats. They inherited the hatred and resentment traditionally directed against Jews. This led to violent anti-Convert riots, mostly centered in Southern Spain.

By the reign of Enrique IV (half-brother to his successor, Queen Isabella), most conversos had been Christian for two generations or more. This new generation had much less solidarity as conversos than their previously converted forefathers. The instinct of Jews and early conversos to side with the King for protection led the first generation to side almost unanimously with King Juan II and his principal minister Alvaro de Luna—but Luna sold them out. When Juan's son Enrique inherited both the throne and civil unrest, conversos were on all sides of the new civil wars: some stuck by the King, some sided with his brother Prince Alfonso, while others supported the untrustworthy minister Don Pacheco even after he showed he could be as treasonous to conversos as he was to the King.

The new political loyalties of the conversos reflected their assimilation and adoption of Old Christian manners. But while the conversos rejected Judaism (whether through free-will or compulsion) they were still distrusted and discriminated against by Old Christians. This blocked full assimilation. Conversos developed their own perspective and customs. This soon became an important force in Spanish art and culture.

The converso perspective first erupted through humor. The court jester, or truhan, became a feature of the Court in the 15th Century. The jesters were largely or wholly conversos. This may have been in part due to the Jewish cultural acceptance of humor. It also reflected the conversos marginal status—it was easier for Old Christians to make fun of these former Jews, and they in turn could look more skeptically and satirically at Castilian society.

A school of poetry developed during this period, with the poets called the Cancieneros, or songsters. While these poets wrote in a wide variety of styles, much of their poetry was burlesque, jester poetry written to entertain and gain the patronage of the royal court and grandees.

Many if not most of these poets were conversos. Among them, Anton de Montoro stood out as the cancionero poet who most openly admitted to his Jewish heritage. He dramatized the plight of the converso, and protested the killings and discrimination conversos suffered in Castile.

Born a Jew around 1404 in or near Cordoba, Montoro probably converted around the time of the anti-Jewish legislation of 1414. His Jewish name was Saul, and his mother remained Jewish.

He became known as the "Ropero", or clothes peddler. Trade had a low status in Castilian society, and this trade was particularly low. A tailor could service the aristocracy, and anyone with money would have clothes made-to-order. A seller of used or ready made clothes only serviced those too poor to buy fashionable wear.

He became known as a poet late in life. His first known poems date from the 1440s, when he obtained the patronage of the dominant aristocrat of Cordoba. He became one of the most successful poets of his day, engaging in poetry duels or correspondence with other well-known poets, and leaving a reasonably substantial estate.

Montoro may have stressed his low class and Jewish background partly as a pose. Like jesters, the comic cancioneros poked fun at themselves. Juan Baena, for example, a prominent converso poet, pointed to his physical ugliness and short-stature.1 Montoro's low-class occupation and Jewish background allowed, like a physical defect, for self-deprecating humor.

Montoro often satirized his Jewish descent. In a poem to his wife, he notes that they were well matched as conversos, and that he won the match because she was considered unworthy for any reputable Christian:

"You and I and to have but little worth, we had better both pervert a single house only, and not two. For [wishing] to enjoy a good husband would be a waste of time for you, and an offense to good reason; So I, old, dirty, and meek, will caress a pretty woman."2

As a comic poet of his era, he could be bawdy even by our standards. One of his poems is called, To the Woman Who Is All Tits and Ass (Montoro a Una Mujer Que Todo Era Tetas Y Culo)3. In Montoro to the Woman Who Called Him Jew, his response to what a woman meant as an insult is to refer to her as a sodomite, implying that the mouth that sent out that insult was used to perform oral sex.4

In several poems, without entirely abandoning the satiric voice, he bitterly protested the mistreatment of the conversos. After the attacks on the conversos in Carmona, he addressed King Enrique IV: "What death can you impose on me/That I have not already suffered?"5

The massacre of conversos in his hometown of Cordoba elicited a lengthy and complicated poem to Alonso de Aguilar, the aristocrat who after befriending the conversos deserted them during the attack and then allowed them to be exiled and barred from public office: "Montoro to Don Alonso de Aguilar on the Destruction of the Conversos of Cordoba". The poem begins as a fulsome panegyric to Aguilar, possibly reflecting Montoro's need to continue to live under Aguilar's protection in Cordoba. Only after eight verses of praising Aguilar does Montoro turn to the massacre, noting that after this disaster "it would serve the conversos better to be Jews than Christians."6

By verse 19, he praises the Grandee, and abjectly begs mercy for the conversos: "We want to give you tributes, be your slaves and serve you, we are impoverished, cuckolded, faggots, deceived, open to any humiliation only to survive." In the next verse, Motoro describes himself as "wretched, the first to wear the livery of the blacksmith" (the man who started the anti-converso riots). He pleads for the grandee's mercy, while he remains "starving, naked, impoverished, cuckold, and ailing."7

It has been suggested that this poem is an ironic attack on his former patron. Yet there is no apparent irony in the poem. The main attitude seems to be helpless despair in wake of the destruction of his fellow converts.

His best-known depiction of the plight of the conversos comes in his poem dedicated to Queen Isabel:

"O sad, bitter clothes-peddler [ropero] who does not feel your sorrow! Here you are, seventy years of age, and have always said [to the Virgin]: "you remained immaculate," and have never sworn [directly] by the Creator. I recite the credo, I worship pots full of greasy pork, I eat bacon half-cooked, listen to Mass, cross myself while touching holy waters-- and never could I kill these traces of the confeso.

With my knees bent and in great devotion in days set for holiness I pray, rosary in hand, reciting the beads of the Passion, adoring the God-and-Man as my highest Lord,"8 Yet for all the Christian things I do I'm still called that old faggot Jew.

The epitath at the end of the verse, "puto Judio" is a generic insult, not an imputation of homosexuality—it is the worst insult in the language: "behind the sodomite, bearer of pestilence, is the outline of the converso. They are joined in the worst popular insult that could be hurled: 'faggot Jew!.'. 9 "The English translation of "puto judio" cannot fully convey the pejorative sense of this masculinization of "puta," which figures the Jewish male subject both as a whore and as the passive partner in the homosexual act. " 10

The poem ends with a chilling prediction of the soon to be established auto-da-fe: He asks Queen Isabella, if she must burn conversos, to do it at Christmastime, when the warmth of the fire will be better appreciated.

Montoro evaded the Inquisition. He died soon after writing the poem, probably before the Inquisition came into force. He showed his lack of respect for the Church by leaving it only a nominal sum in his will. His wife was not as fortunate: she was burned as a heretic before April, 1487.11

As an artist, Montoro represents both a dead-end and a harbinger. He was a dead-end because with the imposition of the Spanish Inquisition and the purity of blood laws, conversos after him could no longer proudly point to their Jewish roots. That attitude would lead to being burned to death as a heretic. Converso artists turned instead to secrecy and indirection. It is no coincidence that the two most important works by conversos, La Celestina and Lazarillo de Tormes (both classics of world literature), were both initially published anonymously.

He was a harbinger in that the attitudes he and other cancioneros embraced: irony, irreverence, and the use of low class characters to attack the pretensions of the higher classes, would soon inspire a much more important genre. Picaresque literature came out of the cancionero tradition.12 The picaresque novel, in its turn, was to become part of the foundation of modern literature.

1

Francisco Marquez Villanueva, "Jewish 'Fools' of the Spanish Fifteenth Century",

Hispanic Review

, V. 50, No. 4 (Autumn, 1982), P. 393.

2 Yirmihayu Yovel, "Converso Dualities in the First Generation: The Cancioneros", Jewish Social Studies, V.4, N. 3 (1998), P. 4-5.

3 Montoro, Antón de. Poesía completa. Ed. Marithelma Costa. Cleveland: Cleveland State University Press, 1990., Poem No. 12

4 Ibid, poem No. 10

5 Marquez Villanueva, P. 403.

6 Montoro, Antón de. Poesía completa, P. 23

7 Ibid, P. 29-30

8 Yovel, P. 5-6

9 Barbara Weissberger "A Tierra, Puto!", in Queer Iberia, (Duke University Press, 1999), p. 294

10 Ibid, P. 316

11 Marquez Villanueva, P. 397

12 Victoriano Roncero Lopez, "Lazarillo, Guzman and Buffoon Literature", MLN 116 (2001), P. 237.

This article is adapted from a chapter in my draft history: Jewish Blood, The Tragedy of the Iberian Jews, about the Spanish Heine, Anton de Montoro, who dramatized the plight of the forced converts in 15th Century Spain.

[multiverseanimecrossover]

The next day; Barnaby was at the orphan visiting a boy and the boy helped out Barnaby. During all this, the boy walked down carefully but then he almost tripped when Doug caught him, “You all right kid?” He asked. Barnaby was stunned to see him. “Thank you mister, you helped me out.” The boy said. “No problem, I was just passing through. Hello Barnaby.” Doug greeted. Later when the boy was gone; Barnaby approached Doug. “What are you doing here?” demanded Barnaby. “What? I was just passing through.” Doug quipped with a shrug. “Are you following me?” asked Barnaby. “I told you, I’m an investigator.” Doug said. Barnaby looked irked, “Hmph…so anything on that Bamboo Man?” He asked in a low voice. “Nothing, sorry.” Doug muttered back. “Well, there’s nothing on our end. I hope you’re not going to intervene.” Barnaby warned. “Don’t worry; Double Decker’s got your back.” Doug said. “And pray tell, what is Double Decker?” Barnaby asked. “Double Decker is about a detective work where we have nicknames.” Doug explained. “Ah, I see.” Barnaby said. “You may think it’s strange but it’s like you heroes with your hero names.” Doug said. Barnaby’s lips upturn a bit, “Let me notified you with one thing…I don’t have a hero name.” He clarified. Doug smirked back, “Is that so? What about ‘Bunny’?” He reminded. Barnaby glares at him, “Only Kotetsu calls me that.” He reminded. “You mean the Old Man.” Doug replied. “I don’t call him that anymore.” Barnaby said. “All right, but don’t think we’re different than you heroes of HeroTV. We’re not that different, we’re all fighting on the same front lines.” Doug said. Barnaby considered it, “Maybe, but there’s another difference…us heroes have superpowers…You don’t.” He verified. “Hmm, harsh but it’s the truth.” Doug said. Barnaby sneered, he turns but held his hand up. “See you around…Veteran.” He called. In the meantime; Kaede pulls her dad to the artwork. “Can I open my eyes sweetie?” Kotetsu asked, covering his eyes. “Almost…and….ta-da!” Kaede said, presenting. Kotetsu drops his hand and looked amazed. “Oh honey, it looks nice.” He praised. “Thanks, I practiced in those classes I took.” Kaede said. She looks to the side, “Dad, someone’s waving at you.” She said. Kotetsu was distracted, “Hmm, maybe it’s just someone else.” He replied. “That looks nice.” A voice said. Kotetsu froze, “Aw no, is that…?” He thought. He turned to see Kirill standing there. Kaede blushed, “Ohh…hi~!” She said nervously. “What is this clown doing here?” Kotetsu thought. “You made this?” Kirill asked. “Sure did, heh. Oh, dad! He’s so nice, he was waving at you…do you know him?” Kaede said. “I don’t think so, he must be confusing me for someone else—Scuse us for a moment!” Kotetsu said brightly, pulling Kirill away. Kaede was confused but she realized, “Hmm….I have a feeling he knows him.” She mumbled. Once alone; Kotetsu glares at Kirill, “What are you doing here?! How did you know where I was?!” He demanded. Kirill was smug, “I did some sleuthing, not to worry I’m not blackmailing you. That would seem so wrong of me in my general character.” Kirill teased. Kotetsu narrowed his eyes, “What are you up to?” He asked. “Come on, it’s my job as a constable.” Kirill replied. “You’re a CONSTABLE?!” Kotetsu exclaimed. Kirill shushed him, “Will you keep it down?” He rasped. “Hmm?” Kotetsu looks over to see a few people giving him weird looks. “You need to take your voice down for a couple of volumes, no need to bring attention here all right?” Kirill whispered. “Fine, sorry.” Kotetsu mumbled. “Just remember, Double Decker’s got your back Tiger.” Kirill said with a smile. “Double Decker?” Kotetsu inquired. “Double Decker is about a detective work where we have nicknames.” Kirill explained. “Weird corporation.” Kotetsu noted. “Says you.” Kirill uttered. That’s when his phone rang and he answered: “Yeah…Uh huh. All right, I’ll be right there.” He hung up and smirked. “Be seeing ya.” Kirill said, he turns and walks off. He stops and smirks, “One more thing! Tell your daughter I said, ‘keep up the good work’.” With that, he turned and sprinted off. Kotetsu was irked, “Son of a…Kaede! Gotta get back to her!” He said, he turned and went back to his daughter.

Meanwhile; Kirill researches on Kotetsu AKA Wild Tiger: Kotetsu has a very traditional view of being a hero, concerning himself primarily with protecting civilians and making sure justice is served. In short he represents the pure ideology of heroism from real world comics. As a result he often charges off and does his own thing, regardless of Agnes's instructions to boost ratings and much to Barnaby's exasperation as it either costs them points or gets them in trouble. This also tends to cause a lot of property damage, much to the dismay of his sponsors and company. He dislikes doing things like photo shoots and interviews when he could be out in the field, and is shown to adore former hero 'Mr Legend', often watching recordings of him when he's feeling down. Mr. Legend inspired Kotetsu to become a hero, telling him that NEXT powers can be used to protect those they care about; Kotetsu lived by those words ever since, often telling others the same. Despite believing that heroes should worry about the people first and shouldn't be recognized, he dislikes it when people disregard him and dislikes not getting some points though people's lives still come first. He can be stubborn and at times a little slow, though there are times when he can think analytically and will sacrifice himself if it is for the better good. Though Kotetsu often acts bumbling, goofy and playful and is shown to be a klutz, he is actually deeply troubled by his personal circumstances and often tries to drink his sorrows away. He can be clueless of the feelings of others and a little rude at times, but means well. He can also be irresponsible, often breaking promises with Kaede due to his superhero business. Despite this, he is generally proactive and positive thinking, if not a little naive at times. Though Kotetsu takes great pride in his career as a hero, he gets very little respect from both his co-workers and the public and is often overlooked or flat-out ignored. Nonetheless, Kotetsu acts as a self-proclaimed senior to the rest of the heroes and shows an almost fatherly concern for the younger ones in particular. Kotetsu does often have genuine wisdom and advice to offer, and always tries to do whats best for the group. He is a kind person who thinks about the wellbeing of others before himself. He keeps his true feelings bottled up in order to avoid troubling others and is always there to help a friend and provide them support. This earns him the respect of his co workers, most notably Barnaby, as the series progresses. As stated by Barnaby, once he commits, he will never let a person down. Though Barnaby appears to be more intelligent than Kotetsu, Barnaby relies on intellect while Kotetsu relies on instinct, Kotetsu can be quite perceptive. When a bomb threat was issued against Fortress Tower, Kotetsu was able to quickly deduce the location of the bomb based solely on the strange behavior of the elevator maintenance man. He was also the first one to figure out Jake Martinez's second power which is to hear the thoughts of others. Kotetsu realized this after Jake called him by his civilian name even though he never revealed it to him. Because of his superhero duties and his dedication to them, he is often forced to spend time away from his daughter, who resents him in the beginning of the story as he never visits her or keeps his promises to her. Despite this, she loves him and grows to respect him once she finds out the truth, even encouraging him to follow his heart the way his late wife did. He dearly loved his wife who in fact was the inspiration for him being a hero, as she encouraged him to help others. He still loves her and thinks of her fondly. “Hmm, that’s sweet.” Commented Kirill. He proceeds his research: Wild Tiger became a super hero at the age of 10, he was present during an attempted bank robbery which was foiled by the veteran hero Mr. Legend. One of the criminals took Kotetsu hostage and the latter activated his NEXT powers out of stress and fear, sending his captor flying across the room with a punch. Kotetsu believed that anyone near him while his power was active would be hurt, but Mr. Legend convinced him otherwise and told him that his power was meant to save people. This encounter with Mr. Legend inspired young Kotetsu to later become a hero himself. During his high school years, Kotetsu became known for never having lost a fight, which drew the attention of Antonio, a then-gang leader from the next town over. Though Antonio repeatedly called Kotetsu out to fight him, it wasn't until the members of his gang kidnapped Kotetsu's classmate Tomoe to use as bait. Kotetsu was surprised to discover upon arriving at the gang's location that Antonio was a NEXT, but the two fought regardless. After a while, having reached a standstill, it was revealed that Antonio hadn't known of Tomoe's kidnapping and both boys demanded to know where she was being kept. The warehouse pointed out by the gang members suddenly burst into flames, and Kotetsu used his powers to rescue Tomoe. When Antonio asked why Kotetsu hadn't used his powers during their fight, Kotetsu stated that he had decided only to use his powers to save people, like a true hero. The encounter led Antonio to choose a similar path - deciding only to use his powers to protect people - and the two met repeatedly after that, still trying to determine who was stronger while also becoming fast friends. Tomoe would later go on to become Kotetsu's wife, and they had a daughter named Kaede years later. However, Tomoe passed away five years prior to an illness, leaving Kotetsu lonely.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Life of St. Philip Neri by Fr. Bacci

OF THE MIRACULOUS PALPITATION OF HIS HEART.

This mode of life Philip adhered to for a long time; and when he was twenty-nine years old God gave him, among other graces, a miraculous palpitation of the heart, and a no less wonderful fracture of his ribs, which happened as follows: One day a little before the feast of Whitsuntide, he was making his accustomed prayer to the holy Ghost, for whom he had such a devotion, that he daily poured out before him most fervent prayers, imploring His gifts and graces. When he was made priest, he always said at mass, unless the rubric forbid it, the prayer Deus cui omne cor patet. Now, while he was importunately demanding of the Holy Ghost His gifts, there appeared to the saint a ball of fire, which entered into his mouth and lodged in his breast; and therewith he was, all suddenly, surprised by such a flame of love, that he was unable to bear it, and threw himself on the ground, and, like one trying to cool himself, he bared his breast, to abate in some measure the flame which he felt. When he had remained so for some time, and was a little recovered, he rose up full of an unwonted joy, and immediately all his body began to shake with a vehement tremour; and putting his hand to his bosom, he felt by the side of his heart a tumour about as big as a man’s fist, but neither then nor over afterwards was it attended with the slightest pain.

Whence this swelling proceeded, and what it was, was manifested after his death; for when his body was opened, the two upper ribs were found broken, and thrust outward, and the two sides standing wide apart, never having reunited in all the fifty years which Philip lived after this miraculous event. It was at the same moment that the palpitation of his heart commenced, which lasted all his life, though he was of a good constitution, a very lively temperament, and without the least tendency to melancholy. This palpitation only came on when he was performing some spiritual action, such as praying, saying mass, communicating, giving absolution, talking on heavenly things, and the like. The trembling which it caused was so vehement, that it seemed as if his heart would break out from his breast, and his chair, his bed, and sometimes the whole room, were shaken. On one occasion in particular he was in St. Peter’s, kneeling on a large table, and he caused it to shake as if it had been of no weight at all; and sometimes when he was lying upon the bed with his clothes on, his body was lifted up into the air, through the vehemence of the palpitation. Whenever he pressed any of his spiritual children to his breast, they found the motion of his heart so great, that their heads bounded off from him, as if they had received a smart shock from something, while at other times the motion seemed like that of a hammer. Yet notwithstanding the shock, they always found, in being pressed to him, a wonderful consolation and spiritual contentment, and many found themselves in the very act delivered from temptations.

But while upon this matter, I must not omit to relate what is affirmed by Tiberio Ricciardelli, canon of St. Peter’s, who served the Saint out of devotion for four successive years. “While I was serving the father,” he says, “there came upon me a temptation to impurity, and after I had conversed with him on the subject, he said to me, ‘Tiberio, come here, close to my breast;’ and taking hold of me, he pressed me to his bosom, and I was not only freed at once from the present temptation, but it never returned afterwards; and besides this I felt such an increase of spiritual strength, that it seemed as if I could do nothing but pray.” Marcello Vitelleschi, canon of S. Mary Major, and also one of Philip’s

spiritual children, declared that he had repeatedly been freed from temptations, especially of the flesh, by the Saint’s pressing him to his bosom and very often, when Philip knew that he was suffering from such temptations, he used to take hold of his head and press it to him, without uttering a word and in no case was this done without immediate release from the temptation.

In his side Philip felt so great a heat, that it sometimes extended over his whole body, and for all his age, thinness, and spare diet, in the coldest nights of winter it was necessary to open the windows, to cool the bed, to fan him while in bed, and in various ways to moderate the great heat. He felt it so much in his throat, that in all his medicines something cooling was mixed to relieve him. Cardinal Crescenzio, one of his spiritual children, said that sometimes when he touched his hand, it burned as if the Saint was suffering from a raging fever; the same was also perceived by abbot Giacomo, the Cardinal’s brother, himself tenderly beloved by Philip. In winter he almost always had his clothes on and his girdle loose, and sometimes when they told hum to fasten it lest he should do himself some injury, he used to say he really could not because of the excessive heat which he felt. One day at Rome, when a great quantity of snow had fallen, he was walking in the streets with his cassock unbuttoned and when some of his penitents who were with him were hardly able to endure the cold, he said laughingly that it was a shame for young men to feel cold when old men did not. This heat, however, the Saint felt more particularly during prayer or other spiritual exercises, and application to divine things. In the time of Gregory XIII. when the order was given that all confessors should wear surplices in the confessional, the Saint went one day to the Pope with his waistcoat and cassock unbuttoned: his holiness marvelling very much, asked him the reason of it: “Why,” said Philip, “I really cannot bear to keep my waistcoat buttoned, and yet your holiness will have it that I shall wear a surplice besides.” “No, no,” replied the pope, ‘‘the order was not made for you; do as you please.”

This palpitation of the heart often affected his body in very different ways, and his various physicians used to administer remedies which he knew would not be of the slightest service. But he used to make game of them very playfully, and say, “I pray God that these men may be able to understand my infirmity,” not choosing openly to discover that his infirmity was not natural, but caused by the love of God. Hence it was that in the fervours of the palpitation he was wont to say, “I am wounded with love;” at other times, considering himself as it were imprisoned in this love, he broke out into those verses:

Vorrei saper da voi com’ ella è fatta

Questa rete d’ amor, che tanti ha preso.

“I would know from you how that net of love is made which has taken so many.” At other times when he could not stand upon his feet, he was obliged to throw himself upon his bed, and languish there, so that his own people were accustomed to say, that those words of the Spouse were verified in him: Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo. When he was surprised by these affections, he used to quote the case of a Franciscan of Ara Celi, named Brother Antony, a man of most holy life, who though he did not macerate his body by any great austerities, was always crying out, Amore laugueo, amore langueo; and languishing in this way, through love of God, he wasted slowly away till he died. But on the other hand the Saint, to hide the real cause, pretended that all this was bodily infirmity, or a custom which he had had from his youth. He almost always kept his handkerchief in his breast on the side of his heart, in order that no one might perceive the tumour. He did not, however, deny, when speaking once to Francesco Zazzera, that for the most part his infirmities proceeded from this palpitation of his heart.

The whole appears still more wonderful from the fact, that the motion of the palpitation was in his case perfectly voluntary. He mentioned this to Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, his most intimate and devoted friend, telling him that it was in his power to stop the motion by a simple act of the will. But in prayer he did not apply himself to do this, because of the distraction; and that the palpitation was so far from being painful, that it created a feeling of lightness and joyousness. This, however, did not always happen, nor did it exactly observe any general rules. Many physicians, who attended him in his illnesses, considered this palpitation as miraculous and supernatural. This was the opinion of Alfonso Capanio, Domenico Saraceni, and others. Neither was this opinion without reason; for, first of all, the Saint had no sensation of pain with the palpitation, but rather the contrary; and besides that, he only experienced it when he raised his mind to God, for it was greatest when he was in contemplation, and grew less in proportion as he drew his thoughts from prayer. In proof of this Andrea Cesalpino, Antonio Porto, Ridolfo Silvestri, Bernardino Castellani, and Angelo da Bagnarea, have written particular treatises upon it; and all agree that God had wrought in him that fracture of the ribs, so that the heart might not be injured in these violent beatings, and the neighbouring parts be the more easily dilated, and the heart kept sufficiently cool.

When Philip had received this great and remarkable gift from God, he frequented the Seven Churches with still more ardour. There he was often, surprised in his devotion with such affections, that he was unable to support himself. One day in particular, when he could not stand on his feet, he threw himself on the ground, and feeling himself actually dying through the liveliness and impetuosity of spirit, he cried out vehemently, “I cannot bear so much, my God, I cannot bear so much, Lord! for see, I am dying of it.” From that hour God gradually mitigated that intense sensible devotion, in order that his body might not become too much weakened by it. It was on this account, that in his latter years he used to say, “I was more spiritual when I was young, than I am now.” But although Philip received from the Lord such an affluence of heavenly sweetnesses, he nevertheless always admonished spiritual persons, that they should be as ready to suffer dryness in devotion as long as God pleased to leave them in it, and without complaint, as they were disposed to enjoy the relish of divine things.

[overwatchladieslover]

Night out with Sombra

“ Sombra, can you please hurry up ?”You groaned, banging on the bathroom’s door, already fully dressed and ready to go.

“Give me five more minutes!” You sighed, she had been saying that for the past forty minutes.

You sat down on the sofa. It was hard to believe that you had been dating Olivia for two years now. You thought back on your first meeting, on the battlefield. How she had been kind enough to spare your life. You also remembered her knocking on your door in the pouring rain, asking you for help.  

Extracting Reaper, Sombra and Widowmaker hadn’t been easy, but you managed, with Lena’s help.

Lost in thoughts, you hadn’t heard your lover exit the bathroom.

She cleared her throat, and turned to look at her.

You knew her body, her every nook and angle, every scar and beauty mark. But seeing her like this, made you fall in love with Olivia all over again.

She was dressed in a purple dress, quite revealing of her generous cleavage, with a cut mid-thigh, showing off her advantageous musculature. She was sporting a pair of black heels, her legs seemed endless and inviting.

But her face, oh Lord above, her face. A Dia de los Muertos skeleton face, which accentuated her feature and lit up her eyes. You were simply speechless.

“Amor, are you with me?” She slowly made her way towards you, swaying her hips suggestively.

You got up, your eyes never leaving her wonderful face, you pulled her close, holding her by her generous hips.

“You are…” No word, no matter the language, how extensive the vocabulary, no word could qualify her beauty. Her beauty not only resided on the highness of her cheekbones, the ampleness of her bosom, the white of her teeth, but in her laugh, her smiles, her silences, in her very soul.

Speechlessness itself is no trouble, so long as you know to show what you cannot say.

Your lips slowly made contact with hers, as if you were afraid of smudging her makeup, you felt her smile against you. She tasted of strawberries, of home. Her arms were around your shoulder, you lift her up with ease. You felt her laugh against your lips. You gently let her down on the sofa, careful not to tear or smudge anything, before your tongue glided against her coloured lips.

She opened them with eagerness, and Olivia’s intoxicating taste invaded your mouth. It was wonderful, how the two of you were lost in a sea of sensation. She moaned, and you couldn’t help but grasp her thigh, placing yourself between her legs. She slowly rocked her hips against you, eliciting a sigh from you. Your lips left hers to place kisses on her neck, gently nipping at the sensitive skin, as she wrapped her legs around you.

“I want you. Now.” She whispered, as she threw her head back, giving you a better access to her neck.

You were about to reply when a series of three knocks echoed on the door.

“If we pretend we’re not here, d’ya think they’ll go away?” You asked, still busy with littering your girl’s neck with kisses and soft bites.

 “Oli, Y/N, you better get your asses out of this flat before I come in!”  Growled a dark voice from behind the thick door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Gabe.” Cursed Sombra, obviously frustrated.

“We’ll have plenty more time to catch up, Oli, don’t you worry about it.” You shrugged, placing a chaste kiss upon your lips, before offering to help her up. She gladly took your hand, lifting herself up quickly, her body ending up pressed against yours.

Her hand gripped your butt, appreciating it.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, amor.”

“Hurry!” Groaned Gabriel, followed by the sound of someone getting smacked on their head.

“Take your time my darlings, we’ve enough time, although we would all appreciate getting there in time!” Spoke Moira, and you guessed that she probably brutalised Gabriel again.

You both sighed, before heading out with your friends.

 You were driving. It was better than Olivia and Gabe’s reckless driving, Amélie’s endless stream of insults or Moira’s purposeful murder attempts on the road. And Jesse was not to drive. Ever.

“If you put ‘gasolina’ once again I WILL sue you for racial insensivity!” Yelled your girl to a cackling Moira.

“Despacito, perhaps?”

“Fuck off!” Said the group in unison.

You giggled smugly, as you put on “Drunken sailor”, winking obnoxiously at Moira.

“How the tables have tabled!” Laughed Amélie, who had a bit too much to drink.

“Wheeeen do we get theeere?” Sighed Jesse, sitting on Gabriel’s lap.

Gabe smacked him on the head, to which the cowboy responded with a ‘aw, da’, full of resentment, which was quickly forgotten has he chugged on his coca-cola.

“You guys are hopeless.”

You had finally arrived, the lights in the distance and the sound of cheers and singing could be heard.

“Finally!” Whooped Jesse in joy, while Gabriel was trying to get him not to mess up his outfit.

“Here we are, my love. Dia de los Muertos.” You smiled, looking at the marvellous sight that as unravelling in front of you. People were dancing in the streets, exchanging treats, having a lot of fun. The bass was thundering in your ears, along with the screams of joy.

You exited the car, Reaper was stunning in his mariachi outfit, with Jesse as his partner, Moira looked like a Disney villain, which suited her quite well, whereas Amélie wore a long dress, her hair was dyed white, and she looked like an undead version of Marie Antoinette post decapitation.

 Your girlfriend snapped you out of your reverie with a playful kiss on your cheek, before putting her mask back on.

“I know it looks great from here, but it’ll be even better in the crowd.”  You nodded, she grabbed your hand, and led the way.

Your girl sure could dance, but thankfully, she had taught you a lot of moves.

You weren’t exactly sure of how many drinks you had, of how much you had danced, but that didn’t matter. Pressed against you was Olivia, having a blast. The crowd smelled like alcohol, sweat, and sweets, but you just couldn’t mind.

All you could smell was her. A subtle fragrance of perfume, you would go as far as describing as spicy, but with a subtle note of sweetness in the aftertaste.

Gosh, you could marvel in your girlfriend’s smell and talk about it as if it were the best wine you had ever tasted.

All around you, people wore masks, it was impossible to know whom was whom, to Gabriel’s delight, the man could finally go out and have fun with his edgy owl mask.

After what seemed like a full night of dancing, you finally took a break, and excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

Amelie was there, fixing her makeup in the slightly cracked mirror.

“It’s tonight, isn’t it?” It didn’t exactly feel as if she asked, more like a statement. She didn’t even wait for your answer.

“You’re the one for her. You are the only one who can keep up with her… côté déjanté.”

“Must be because I’m pretty darn crazy myself.” You chuckled, as you washed your hands.

“ ‘Darn’? Seigneur, you spent too much time around Jesse.” She rolled her eyes, as if spending time with the cowboy was a sin.

You checked your watch, it was time.

Amélie watched you bracing yourself against the sink, and put a cold hand on your forearm.

“It is time.” Stated Moira, entering the bathroom, as pristine as ever.

She held out a glass of something that smelled strong. The gun in your back never felt so heavy.

You grabbed the drink and swallowed it down like water, before heading to the roof.

 The party was wilder than before, you could still catch the form of your girlfriend, dancing along with Jesse.

You lifted the gun into the air, and pulled the trigger.

A bright purple flare invaded the sky, drowning the seemingly infinite horizon. All heads turned towards you, as the music stopped.

The masked DJ threw you a mic, thankfully you were able to catch it, no need to make this embarrassing.

“Listen up, everyone!” Everyone’s attention was already on you, you saw your girlfriend’s eyes widen through her mask, she was most definitely not expecting you, of all people, to deliver an impromptu speech on top of a roof, during el dia de los Muertos.

“Today, is a very special day indeed. It’s someone’s birthday!” You pointed your finger at Olivia, who gasped, as wishes of happy birthday in Spanish rained upon her.

You refused to speak to Olivia for a full week when you had learned that she didn’t tell you the right date about her birthday. But now, now was the time to make it right, to make her think that her birthday was worth celebrating again.

“But it’s also a very special day to me. See, this woman, she literally came out of nowhere into my life. And let me tell you: she changed my whole life. Never have I felt so love, so cared for. This woman, is the woman of my life. I know it now, I do not want anyone else but her.” As the crowd cheered, you looked at her straight in the eyes.

“I do not want anyone else, but you.”

You loaded another round into the flare gun.

This time, the smoke was not only purple, but purple and your favourite colour, soaring through the sky, it seemed as though they danced together, intertwining.

You were lucky to be in Overwatch with the people you cared for and loved.

And thankful for having friends obsessed with bombs and fireworks, as well as an actual pilot.

Tracer’s aircraft flew across the sky, fireworks booming everywhere.

You heard someone run, you turned your head just in time to catch your girlfriend.

“I swear to Dios, you are insane! I love it! I love you!” She couldn’t stop smiling, her mask probably fell on her way to you. You couldn’t help but kiss her quickly on the lips.

“Look at the sky.” As she turned around, you got down on one knee, and prayed that Winston did supervise the Junker’s work.

 Thank God, he did.

A beautiful ‘Will you marry me’ erupted into the sky, your favourite colour and purple, and this time, they were as one, they looked like smoky clouds, colouring the sky.  

Olivia turned around, her hands against her mouth. Her eyes were full of tears, and for once, they were not tears of dread, of pain or sorrow. They were blissful tears.

You lost count of how many times she said si, yes, and I love you, but each time, you felt your heart beat a little faster, a little louder. Till it was like a symphony, synchronized with the cheerful claps of your audience.

You smiled, and put your thumb up, as the masks came off.

They all came. Your friends, your family. You could hear Olivia repressing a sob in your shoulder, but you certainly didn’t mind, as you felt tears prickling at the corner of your eyes as well.

 “You told me you never liked your last name. Well, I suppose Olivia (y/l/n) sounds simply amazing.”

“Astounding, amor.”

[iamsaha]

Lodestone

Author’s Note: In Malazan Book of the Fallen, there exists individuals known as Shield Anvils. I found that concept interesting and felt like writing a story based on it. While the original concept belongs to that author, I have changed aspects of it and the characters, events, and overall world you are about to read about are all mine. 

The setting sun was at Paari’s back. It warmed him with what light it had left, like a campfire on the verge of dying. The emerging dark before him, with its star dusted black tinged with the sun’s purple, brought him chill. He continued on, caught between light and dark, between warmth and cold. No clear border could be found between the two sides of the spectrum, yet Paari found himself there. 

Slowly, the light of the sun left Paari. The moon offered him the sun’s bastard reflection instead. Not enough sight could be gained from moonlight, not with his human eyes. Especially not when the moon was in its waning crescent phase. Two stars twinkled near the crescent, turning that sliver of the sky into a smiling face that offered no brightness and no warmth. 

Paari came upon a caravan that had come to a rest for the day. The four wagons had been maneuvered into a wide circle and the merchants had placed their very own sun in the middle of it all. A scruffy haired child tended to it with a self-satisfied grin. Paari noted it and exhaled, softly, through his nose while smiling knowingly. This caravan wasn’t his destination but he needed to stop for the night anyway. And people who could make a child feel important even when doing a simple chore would likely be good company.

“Ho, traveler.” A woman wearing a long shirt and khaki pants came over to him and his horse. With a thumb in her thick, leather belt, she greeted him with a nod of her blonde head. Her other hand gripped the hilt of a sword. She didn’t loosen it from its scabbard, but her grip was firm. 

“Good evening.” Paari spoke his first words in two days. He had drank plenty of water but his mouth felt dry anyway and the words felt wrong coming out of his lips like he was pronouncing them incorrectly. “I’ll be off before sunrise. I would like some company until then, if you and your companions are willing.” He patted his pack. “I have my own food and water.”

“I see no sword on you.” The woman said. 

“I have none.” Paari said. “Nor do I have hidden daggers.”

“You’re a fool to travel alone without protection.”

“I have my own protections, merchant.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Conjure up some company for yourself then, mage. Why seek it with us?”

“Ah. My protections are not in that realm either.” Paari shook his head. “But I will not press upon your hesitation, as you have a child to protect. Safe travels.”

The woman stopped him as he took his horse’s reins into his hands. “Wait. You’re old enough to be my father. I’ll think of you as him. Please.” She took her hand off her sword. “Join us. Eat our food and drink our wine, Da.”

Paari looked at his hands and saw that they were no longer supple with youth. Wrinkles had arrived and both his hands shook as they hadn’t before. The last town had been too much, evidently. Paying no further heed to this development, he led his horse to where the others had been tied before sitting down at the campfire. The scruffy haired child came running to him with a wooden goblet, splashing most of the wine to the ground. He offered it proudly to Paari. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, blessed one.”  Paari laughed as he took it. “Tell Oda your name.”

“Hamish!”

“Manners.” The woman smacked the back of Hamish’s head as she walked by. She set up a cast iron pot to be heated over the fire. 

Hamish rubbed at his head and obeyed. “My name is Hamish, Oda.”

“Hamish. Strong name, blessed one.” Paari said. “And your Ma and Da’s name?”

“Ma’s name is Ina.” Hamish sat down. “Da’s name is Aros.”

A large man climbed out of the back of the wagon closest to them, bringing a sack with him. He was his wife’s age, likely at least a year older if they followed tradition, and had thick arms and legs that looked to be enough to pull a wagon all on their own. He deposited the sack next to Ina, then came to greet Paari. “Evenin’, Da.”

“Evening.” Paari left out honorifics despite being younger than the man in front of him. If they all thought him to be old, he would be old. “Aros? Hamish has your eyes.”

“Aye, sir.” Aros sat down beside his son. Unlike the boy, who was captivated by a line of ants, he sat with his legs crossed and his back straight.

“Strong name. Very strong name. Like a sun to your wife’s moon.” Paari said. “Ease up. I don’t have the strength to bend the likes of you over my knees and spank ya for lack of respect. Nor would I, if I did.”

“Thank you, Da.” Aros relaxed, his back bending and tanned face showing how tired he actually was. He took his cap off to scratch his prematurely balding pate before telling Hamish to get him some wine. “And don’t water the grass with it like you did for Da. Slow and steady, son, slow and steady.”

“You can call me Paari.” He noted the hesitation shadow Aros’ eyes. “Or not. I leave it to you.”

Aros nodded. “Where are you headed all on your own, Da?”

“The city of Odos.” 

Ina turned at that and Aros frowned deeply, clefts forming on either side of his mouth. Ina spoke. “Why would you do that, Da? No place for decent folk such as yourself to go.”

“Aye.” Aros grunted. “The plague hit it hardest for a reason, Da. Punishment for their ways. Don’t think it’ll change’em. People like that don’t change for anything.”

Paari nodded slowly and sighed, long and slow like a bereaved man, then hung his head so his chin touched his shirt. “I’ve got children there, son. What’s a father to do?”

Ina glared at Aros and he silently took the chastisement for his extra commentary. Ina looked at Paari. “Forgive my husband, Da. He often speaks too much. ”

“No harm was done.” Paari waved the apology away. “You’ve got quite the small party.”

“It’s not just us, Da.” Aros said, taking a half full goblet from Hamish’s sticky hand. “My grandmother is resting. And my sister and her husband have gone off out of earshot.” He chuckled and added, “Newlyweds, you see.”

“I will give my congratulations to them when they return. And wish them a blessing to arrive precisely when it’s meant to.” Paari said. “By resting, do you mean to say your grandmother is asleep? I would like to go convey respect if she is awake.”

��Omma is probably awake.” Aros pointed to the wagon closest to the horses. “She likes listening to the beasts.”

“A soft heart, then.” Paari stood, grunting and sighing like a father of middle-aged children. “Without doubt, respect must be given.”

Paari left the man to be scolded, in rapid whispers, by his wife. An old woman was lying in the wagon with her head close to the wagon bed’s entrance. Her white hair was splayed out, some of it hanging off the wagon bed. “Are you awake, Ma?” Paari asked softly. It felt odd to not say Omma to a woman this old. 

The frail woman’s answer came in the form of a sigh and a whimper. Paari frowned and looked closely at the woman’s face. Even in the dim light, the grimace was obvious. He put the back of his hand on her forehead and found that she wasn’t hot or sweaty. A bad dream then. Extremely common among her generation. The charred bead bracelet on her right wrist confirmed his guess. 

He made a gesture to Aros that the woman was sleeping. The man nodded, motioning to Paari to leave her as is. Paari nodded, then went to his horse as if he was checking on the beast. He mindlessly rubbed Rashi’s muzzle and neck while reaching his heart out to the woman in the wagon. The woman’s memories crashed into him like storm waves onto a seawall.

Running through a meadow while the horses grazed. Laughing. Cheering. Tripping over a boy laying in a flower bed and giggling at his shocked face. Paari took sugar cubes out of his pack. A wedding. The boy was older now. Broad shouldered. Thinning hair that she liked for some reason. Bright red beads being tied on her left wrist. Paari fed Rashi a sugar cube, smiling at the horse. In a large, luxurious room. Pregnancy. The husband gone. Off to fight a war that wouldn’t end. His promise repeated in song to her swollen belly. Paari gave Rashi another sugar cube. Red beads being thrown into a fire. Charred beads retrieved from smoking embers and pushed onto a shaking wrist. The right one. Paari looked at the wagon the old woman was in while listening to the cries of her confused toddler son. They were just echoes but Paari felt their full force. Moving constantly. Unable to find work. Refusal to remarry. The war carries on. Paari fed Rashi the last sugar cube in his hand, then leaned his forehead against the horse’s neck. The horse did nothing. The war carries on. Crippled and forgotten homeless everywhere. No employment for women. Paari did not shudder. None of this was new. Different names given to the same story. But to the woman in the wagon, it was a tale she had lived. And for that, he mourned. Stories like hers were tragedies purely due to them being familiar. Employment found. Unplanned pregnancies. Unwanted abortions. The toddler son growing older and understanding what his mother did. The mother knowing that her son knew. Neither saying anything. Paari silently lived through her story, feeling every sob, every blow, every penetration, every hungry night, every laugh, every break, every... Everything. When it was done, when her tale came to present time, Paari did not return her wounds. 

Her memories were given back. Along with every lesson. But not the pain. Not the wounds that continued to reopen and flog the woman and bleed her dry. He kept those to himself deep within his iron heart among the rest. As he passed the wagon, he looked into it. The old woman was relaxed and breathing softly.

“Sleep well until your time comes, Ma Izbeth.” Paari said softly. “I pray that won’t be until, at least, Hamish finds a love of his own. You’ve more than earned the right to see that joy.”

“Must be a good horse, Da.” Ina said when Paari returned to the campfire. “For you to give her that much attention.”

“A very good horse.” Paari nodded. “Her name is Rashi.”

“Rashi.” Ina repeated with approval. “You look starving, Da. Don’t worry. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“I’ve had a long day.” Paari chuckled, patting his stomach. “You may regret offering to feed me.”

“Nonsense. There will be plenty for all.” Ina smiled.

Aros’ sister and brother-in-law returned in time for dinner. They welcomed Paari and smiled happily as he gave them his blessings and well wishes. He held back an awkward chuckle as they fell to his feet for more blessings and gave them like he had the standing to do so. The meal itself was a quiet affair as everyone was too hungry to fill their stomachs with words instead of food. A covered bowl was placed in Izbeth’s wagon for her to eat when she woke up. Aros commented that he had never seen his grandmother sleep so soundly.

“Where are you all headed?” Paari asked. 

“North to Waytory.” Aros’ sister, Lila, said. “Omma wanted to see her hometown again.”

“Beautiful town.” Paari said. “And its meadows were spared from the war. Hamish will have fun running amidst its flowers.”

“Have you been there, Da?” Aros asked.

“Yes. Not long ago.” Paari said. “And I’m headed East. What luck for our paths to intersect.”

“The best luck.” Aros raised his goblet to toast Paari. “Odos isn’t far, Da. Not even half a day on foot. You’ll make it in no time at all with a horse like Rashi.”

“You’ve an eye for horses, Aros?” 

“Somewhat.” Aros shrugged modestly. “I know enough to feel some envy at her not being one of mine. But knowing she belongs to a man such as yourself puts the envy at ease.”

“I will sleep very well with that compliment.” Paari laughed. 

Despite his hosts’ insistence, Paari slept outside beside the fire. Saying that he slept better with the stars above him convinced them, along with their need to show respect outweighing their need to be good hosts. They all said goodnight, and then goodbye since Paari reminded them he would be gone before they woke up. He added that he was eager to get to his children before they could insist that he at least stay for breakfast.

Paari arose two hours before sunset. He rolled up the bedroll he had been given and leaned it against the wheel of Aros and Ina’s wagon. Then he retrieved parchment and a charcoal pencil from one of his packs. To Aros and Ina for your generosity. Rashi likes sugar cubes but give her too much and she’ll be too spoiled to listen to you without them. She is good with children, so Hamish can learn to ride on her. From Da. Paari assumed that at least one of them could read. If they couldn’t, it was a wonder they were able to manage as merchants. He rolled the parchment up and carefully tied it to Rashi’s reins. 

“Goodbye, dear friend.” Paari whispered, kissing the horse on her nose. “I leave you in good hands. Treat them well.”

She nuzzled him.

Paari took a single coin from his coin purse, for passage, then set off east to Odos with all that he owned left with Rashi. Just as Aros said, Odos was just a few hours away even on foot. He refrained from jogging though he feared Aros or one of the others riding out to him to refuse his gift. Instead he chose to trust in their willingness to accept a gift from an elder. That thought made him laugh. Aros, my friend, Paari thought, if only you knew that I can’t be more than a younger brother to you. Despite that, my blessings were earnest.

Paari arrived outside Odos an hour before noon. The walled city was at the bottom of the valley, a wide road winding down from where Paari stood. He took in the sight of massive stone walls and buildings amidst verdant green trees before breaking off the road and into the forest. The city remained to his left as he walked, occasionally visible through breaks between the trees. Eventually he came to an overhang he could sit on while overlooking the city.

He placed the coin on his tongue and clenched his mouth shut. The sun was directly overhead now, shining with full force onto the plague ravaged city. The stench of torment was strong, staggering him before he even reached out with his heart. He steeled it in preparation, and began. 

If Izbeth’s memories were storm waves against a seawall, this was the full might of the ocean unleashed on a single point. Paari was battered into paralysis by the onslaught. Unlike flotsam lost at sea, that was tossed this way and that by roiling waves, Paari was still. With forces of equal power and fury pressing on him from all sides, Paari could only take it and not move. The pressure did not allow him to open his eyes or draw in breath. It did not allow him thought of his own. The only movement in Paari was the cascade of agony he took from every citizen of Odos. No discerning eye was cast upon the souls he was relieving. All hurt, sinner or victim, was taken deep into Paari’s heart.

Over 800,000 people lived in Odos. Paari learned every name and the story behind each one. He cried, with no tears to moisten the wrinkles on his face, at the sheer familiarity of it all. Nothing he felt was new. No betrayal, no impassioned murder, no rape, no desperate gamble, no revenge, no escapist alcoholism or drug addiction, no bloodthirst, no illness, no... Anything. Every tragedy dealt to humanity could be found in Odos and all of it had been seen before. All of it would be seen again. On and on until humanity was gone. This awareness hadn’t escaped Paari. It nearly beat him into apathy. But Paari held on because that wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter that it had happened before and that it would happen again. What mattered was that people in front of him had been tormented. And Paari could, at the very least, relieve these sorry few.

The cascade of souls stopped at midnight. The new moon gave nothing to the land below. Not even a barren sliver of a smile for the desiccated husk sitting in the cold, spine bent to its limit. Wind came from the south, sent to play through Odos and revive what it could find with its fresh breath. The husk was taken by the wind, pushed off the overhang along with the fallen leaves it was sitting on. It tumbled down the valley without surcease until the bole of a tree finally stopped it.

And there it lay, embraced by roots.

Unwitnessed.  

-Saha