#naturally i have the most powerful urge to trespass here

[thistransient]

士林區

[nonbinaryeye]

Side by Side for the First Time

Written for @gortash-week

Day 3 - Battle

The Dark Urge has expected little to nothing of Enver Gortash, Bane’s co-called Chosen, in regards to his abilities and usefulness regarding their heist at the Hall of Wonders. To their own surprise so far they are intrigued by him.

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...

The Dark Urge is intrigued by the man. The Bane's Chosen – or so he claimed to be. They are not completely convinced about the Chosen part but he is Banite for sure. He carries himself with the arrogance of one. He believes that when he commands the world should fall down to his feet. A wanna-be tyrant who does not lack ambition nor conviction of his own importance. Whether he also has any real skills, still needs to be determined.

They will learn tonight as they accepted his help he offered for the promise of consideration of an alliance.

Nightfall enfolded Baldur’s Gate hours ago and the Dark Urge stands in dark corridors of Hall of Wonders lit not by torches but by strange artificial light powered by technology they are not familiar with. They feel weirdly out of place, like they are not in the city they grew so familiar with, but in some strange new plane of existence. Metalwork and cogs and all technological advancement proudly presented within these walls as a proof of Gond's worship. This building might be called a museum but it is as much a Gondar shrine as High House of Wonders, the Temple adjacent to this place. Luckily for them, they have no trouble trespassing on other’s god territory. Neither has their temporary ally, so called Chosen of Bane, Enver Gortash.

He is currently carefully examining tiles on the floor, playing with whatever mechanism he found underneath them and claims to understand and be able to better. The Dark Urge is willing to indulge him. For now. And so that is why they have time to look around, witness all the periocular little inventions put on exhibit from a gold-filigreed astrolabe that was carved from coral to a precision water-clock.

None of these artefacts are the reason for their after-hours visit though. Between all the silly toys and apparatuses, Gondians decided to put on display artefacts which belong to another god. Remains of their bhaalspawn siblings and the most unholy relics of Bhaal – ancestral torture racks. Without care, without any ounce of respect, they deemed the holy heirloom of another god a curiosity to be gawked at, written off as remains of the past long gone, nothing more than oddity to lure new visitors and tourists to the Hall.

And for that they must pay. That is why the Dark Urge is here to teach this city and all its pathetic worthless inhabitants a lesson in humility before those who hold the real power.  Soon enough this city will tremble in fear and then it will die for Bhaal in the beautiful unholy carnage he will bring upon this world.

“It should be safe here now,” Gortash puts the tile back on its place and carefully steps on it. Nothing happens and he smiles with satisfaction for a second, before the neutral facial expression returns to his face. He gestures for them to follow him and for now they deem the best course of action to do so.

“We must be careful from now on. We are getting near the main exhibition. There are traps everywhere. Follow my lead. Step only where I stepped and not even tile aside!” Banite orders them in a way that must come as naturally to him as murder comes naturally to them. He does not wait for the confirmation whether they have heard and understand him. And the Dark Urge does not give him any. Nonetheless they do not object and do as he says. He really appears to know what he is talking about since they have gotten this far completely unnoticed.

Gortash seems to prefer a more subtle approach which involves an awfully lot of sneaking around and following carefully crafted plans.  They do not like to charge into battles without giving it a thought – despite what one might think and what their new ally implied – though compared to preparation made by him, their approach might indeed appear like mindless slaughter. Banite led them here through some secret passage he learnt of who knows how. He had the entirety of the building mapped out, including the exact movement of guards and placement of traps together with a time schedule of when they should reach what point.

Thus far they are moving around unnoticed. Gortash keeps disassembling all the Gondian devices and traps with his own smart little toys and skilled fingers. Meanwhile the guards, both those keeping watch on their posts as well as those making rounds around the place, get killed in quick and quiet fashion thanks to the expertise of the Dark Urge. They eliminate them one by one and tuck bodies in some dark corner so they can proceed further into the heart of Hall of Wonders where their goal waits. They are unexpectedly effective, an unlikely team somehow working together way too well.

It is a strange tale how they even got to this point.

The Dark Urge and the Church of Bhaal do not usually care about the newest gossip going around in the city’s underbelly, the sewers and all its darkest parts where all the misfits and criminals live among the rats. They do not care about their battles for paths and territories and which patriars are easiest to blackmail or bribe. As long as the Guild, the Black Network and all the other organisations operating in the underground of Baldur’s Gate keep their distance from the city’s old ruins where the Temple of Bhaal is situated, they have no reason to target them any more or less than any other citizens of Baldur’s Gate.

That all said rumours regarding the reappearance of the Church of Bane naturally caught their interest. Afterall Bane is one of the old enemies and even older allies of his Lord and father who is to be feared and avoided to the same extent Bhaal is. There is no way the Church of Bhaal could ignore the presence of the Church of Bane. This city is not big enough for two of the Dead Three. It already belongs to them, to Bhaal!

Banites are trespassing on their territory therefore they need to be eliminated. Easy as that. And how the idea excited the Dark Urge. Yes, they are successfully rebuilding the Church of their father but the numbers of devoted acolytes are growing slowly and there is only so many ways one can kill and torture and vivisect a person before it loses at least part of its charm. But this could give them a new clear and quickly achievable goal again. They will destroy the competition; they will exterminate every single worshipper of the God of Tyranny. And what a magnificent offering it will be, how much will their Lord be pleased with them for crushing whatever plans Bane had in the Baldur’s Gate.

However, before the Dark Urge manages to even start their hunt, the Church of Bane seeks them out first. They received a letter, an invitation. They met this Bane’s Chosen with tongue sharp as their knives and no less dangerous. They have come fully intending to kill him and yet they left with Banite almost unharmed and with common plans. They do not know what to make out of his offer for alliance, if and for how long their plans truly might align.  But they allowed him to help them on this mission. To show off his skills and determination, to prove to them he is worthy to be anything more than another body sacrificed on their father’s altar.

Gortash made quite a good point in their discussion. Because whatever the result of any conflict between the Church of Bhaal and the Church of Bane could be, the one benefiting it the most would be the citizen of Baldur’s gate and all the gods who are allowed to have their shrines on full display and laugh at other deities that are deemed together with their followers dead apparently. The anger rises through them again. They wish to main and murder and destroy. They intend to let the Gondar faithful together with any visitor or guard to see that bhaalspawns are still walking among them, they are not just a scary tale from history books to scare little kids with and that it is not wise to show them such a blunt disrespect.

“You might have noticed there are much fewer guards that one might expect in place such as this. Gondians think their traps are good enough to do most of the work. They have no respect for the craft of other’s, they believe no one could ever match their inventions – as if their gatekeeping was not a real reason no one can catch up with them,” Banite seemed to be awfully fond of his own voice. He keeps filling silence with it, as he seems to have quite a lot to say about anything and everything.

“Hah, could you imagine we could dance through all the traps and around all their guards unnoticed?” The beginning of their excursion went smoothly, yes, but only a fool would let themselves be blinded by that. Another typical Banite trait, with only a hand cut off he is already planning how to cook entire body.

That all said, the Dark Urge could not help themselves but admire his approach, abilities and plans. At least a bit. They were willing to indulge him as they at first did not really believe his approach might bear fruit. They are genuinely surprised and maybe even impressed they have gotten this far unnoticed. They almost start getting worried Banite’s plan will work out exactly in the way he so smugly presented to them.

But their worries turn out to be for nothing and the luck of his so-claimed chosen ally appears to run out, his clever fingers finally making a mistake.

The alarm goes off.

Banite quickly starts fighting the noisy little mechanism it started coming from. The sound is gone almost as soon as it appears but apparently still not fast enough. The announcement of intrusion at their current point goes silent but chain reaction has already started and the ring of alarm goes off again in nearby distance. Soon the entire building is aware of their presence.

Gortash curses, first in common and for good measure he adds a few more swearwords the Dark Urge is familiar with only vaguely or not at all in some other languages. He frowns and they find themselves to be curious regarding what it is going through his head. Is he fighting panic, his little stealthy heist turning into a proper battle? Is he considering retreat, recognizing he took a bite a bit too ambitious for him to chew and swallow? Is he really ready for combat or was he only boasting that he has any skills beside his ability to sweet-talk?

Gortash takes a deep breath, they notice he murmurs a quick prayer to his Dark Lord under his breath before he turns to them, badly hiding how tense he has gotten.

“Well, here comes the part you were in no doubt excited for,” he takes off his crossbow from the straps with which it held attached on his back. “Ready for fight?”

“Always,” the Dark Urge grins, their blades already in their hands as they never bothered to put them away after their last kill. “Are you ready for the battle?” they ask and there is implied ‘do you even know how?’ not spoken out loud. The twitch in Banite’s eye suggests he has gotten the message anyway, loud and clear.

“Do not worry about me, I can take care of myself,” he summons a self-assured smirk on his face as he loads his weapon. Indeed, the Dark Urge does not worry about him. That does not mean that Gortash should not worry about himself though.

“Just don't get in my way and hope I will not forget you are on my side,” they step closer with a threat in their eyes. There is a reason why the Dark Urge prefers to handle things alone. It is not exactly that they are not used to fighting with allies by their side. Afterall sometimes a ritualistic sacrifice or a purge of heretics in their father’s name required assistance of their Bhaalist acolytes. They helped the Dark Urge maim and murder. And the blood of Bhaal’s faithful was spilled among the blood of Bhaal’s enemies and in no small number the one and only responsible for the entirety of the beautiful bloodshed was the Dark Urge and the Dark Urge only. Because it is hard to pay attention to who is friend and who is foe in the midst of a battle.

So maybe a more accurate description would be that the others prefer when the Dark Urge handles things alone and not the other way around. Bane’s Chosen of course could not know any of that. Annoying mask of confidence which appears to be permanently glued on his face discourages the Dark Urge from bothering to warn him twice.

“I don’t intend to,” Banite grabs his crossbow tighter, aiming in their direction. Is he such a fool as to try to repay their intimidation with a one his own? Before they can settle on whether they are tired of him already and whether they maybe should rip his throat out as a little warm up before the real fighting starts a shot flies out of his arbalest.

It completely misses the Dark Urge but apparently not its intended target. They hear the familiar thud of body hitting a ground and wet crackle of last breath unable to be taken. They turn around just in time to witness a few last desperate groans of agony of the guard a few steps behind them, their throats pierced by an arrow. The half-elf woman was nowhere near to reaching them, even as they were distracted by their ally, she could have never sneaked up on them. On the other hand, the distance only made his aim more impressive.

“Maybe you will be indeed able to offer more than just hollow long-winded speeches, Banite.” The Dark Urge prefers his kills more personal; they favour knives over long range weapons but they can give credit where credit is due, they do not look down upon anyone over their weapon of choice as long as they can yield it.

 “Try to pay attention to our enemies instead of me, Bhaalist,” Gortash ignores their teasing, putting another shot in, already more focused on the upcoming battle than on their bickering. Very well then, time to get serious.

The Dark Urge takes a deep breath. The scent of spilled blood fills their nostrils. The heartbeats of approaching guards sound to their ears louder than their hurried steps and even louder than the continuing alarm announcing their presence and inviting everyone to a fight. Their hands are itching for a kill, Bhaal’s unholy blood pulsing through their veins demanding sacrifice – and sacrifice it will get. They struggle to keep their vision clear, eyes already seeing the piles of bodies that will soon stack up at their feet. 

“Time for the fun part,” the Dark Urge smile and the combat may begin.

[devildom-drabbles]

I saw your request open and I'm here bring some hammer of angst. I hope this is not hard, the request is what happened if MC reborn back as a demon after they died, they're different from their usual human self and still trying to adapt as demon, they tried distant themself from the others because doesn't want to hurt them. Because they're still feral and still not in control of themselves. I hope you can understand me.

The character is Lucifer, Mammon, Satan and Solomon would do. They found MC in a very hidden area.

I hope this is okay.

Ooo, what an interesting concept! It’s not a problem at all, Anon. =) Some angst ahead and mentions of death, just to forewarn you all. Thanks for the prompt! Enjoy!

How would Lucifer, Mammon, Satan, and Solomon react to MC being reborn as a feral demon?

Lucifer had just gone outside to take a walk.  The weight of his heart from MC’s passing on top of his daily stresses and responsibilities were becoming too much for him to bear, so he desperately needed some air and a place to sit in silence, away from all the paperwork and the nosiness of his brothers at home.  Knowing that he’d be able to find his way back, he strayed from his usual path for a change in scenery.  The last thing he expected was to stumble across a familiar yet different-looking figure hunched over to drink from a pond in a secluded area.  His suspicions were proven true the moment they lifted their head enough for him to see their face.  Their name escaped Lucifer’s lips almost unconsciously, startling them when they finally noticed his presence.  Before they could make a hasty retreat, he commanded them to halt, casting magic to immobilize them like when they used to use their pact on him.  He then approached them and cupped their face in his hands to get a clear look at them.

“I knew it,” Lucifer confirmed, his expression stern.  “So, you’ve become a demon now, MC.”  He calmly studied their demonic features, along with the traces of physical toll this transformation has caused them.  “It’s not an easy adjustment, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.  Have you been struggling in this form all alone?”

With the magic slowly lifting, MC began to squirm in Lucifer’s hold while admitting that they were intentionally isolating themself because they were having trouble controlling their new urges and didn’t want to harm him or anyone else they cared about.

“Did you forget in your time away that I’m one of the most powerful demons in this realm?” Lucifer questioned them with a smirk.  “I’d be thoroughly impressed if you could lay even a scratch on me.  And naturally, that also makes me the most suited to help you learn to control your new form.  You’ll have nothing to worry about when you’re with me.  Now then, with that settled,--”  The Avatar of Pride’s gaze softened, his heart finally feeling light again as he soaked in the fact that the one he loved was truly here in front of him once more.   “--shall we go home, MC? My brothers have missed you terribly. ...As have I.”

Mammon hadn’t stopped sulking since MC’s death.  No matter what he did, everything reminded him of them in some way and made him miss them even more, if that was actually possible.  Whenever he felt especially lonely, he’d go to his and MC's secret spot--a place they’d go to get away from their problems and be in each other’s company without any intrusions.  It became like a routine for Mammon to visit that spot at least once every day by himself, and while he was there, he’d desperately wish that MC would appear next to him, flashing him that friendly smile that always made him feel warm and fuzzy inside.  Then one day, he was enraged to discover someone sitting in that spot that belonged only to him and MC.  He shouted at the individual to leave as he stomped toward them, only to stop in his tracks when they locked eyes with him.  Hold on, was that--?!  The trespasser hurried to their feet to scurry off, snapping Mammon out of his daze so that he could pursue them.  Since he was faster, he captured them in his arms in almost an instant.  There was a quick bout of protesting and thrashing between the two until Mammon yelled MC’s name, making them freeze in place.

“No way...” Mammon muttered, his eyes trailing over their form.  “You mean, you’re--?  MC, it’s really you?”  The sound of their familiar voice in reply put him on cloud nine like it used to, evident in the twinkle in his eyes but not in his gruff tone.  “How long have ya been like this?  And why didn’t ya come back to the House of Lamentation once ya got here?  No, wait, better question:  Why didn’t ya come to me?!  I mean, ya came to our secret spot, so I guess it makes sense to look for me here, but ya should’ve just went to see me in my room first!  Don’tcha understand how much I missed ya, MC?!  Why haven’t I seen ya ‘til now?!”

After taking a moment to calm down, Mammon stopped talking so that MC had a chance to answer his questions.  He felt guilty for getting worked up before hearing their side of the situation, and upon closer inspection, he could tell they’ve been dealing with a lot since their transformation.

“All right, the Great Mammon accepts your explanation,” he said once MC finished speaking.  “I kinda forgot about how crummy it was when my brothers and I first became demons, for more reasons than one.  The good thing is that ya get used to it after a while.  You’ve done well holdin’ up on your own so far, but now that I’m here, we’ll be gettin’ through this together.”  He cut them off when they started to argue. “Yeah, yeah, I heard what ya said, but there ain’t no way I’m leavin’ ya by yourself.  I’ve done this before, so I know how to help ya.  ‘Sides, if I can handle the worst of Lucifer’s punishments, I can definitely handle any of the wimpy attacks ya might accidentally throw at me.  So, don’t worry about a thing, got it?  And when ya need a breather, we’ve always got our spot here to come back to, yeah?”  Mammon grinned brightly, feeling as though he was full of life again with MC by his side.

Satan was in the midst of investigating the strange rumor he kept hearing among the students at RAD.  Supposedly, a feral demon who resembled the deceased human exchange student had been sighted on the outskirts of the city more than once, but when anyone tried to approach them, they’d flee deep within the woods.  The rumor felt like a twisting knife in Satan’s heart each time whispers of it reached his ears, like a constant reminder that MC was gone from his life forever.  As much as he wanted to crush the rumor out of existence for good, there was a small sliver of hope that maybe, somehow, some part of MC still existed in the living realm, and that’s why he found himself searching in the woods for them.  He was about ready to give up when he caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes watching him nearby.  He pretended to be oblivious to their stare by wandering around aimlessly until he was close enough to grab them.  After a short struggle, Satan pinned them to the ground, allowing him to finally examine their features under the moonlight.  His agitation dissolved immediately upon seeing their face.

“It is you, isn’t it, MC?” Satan inquired with a quiet voice.  His question was answered when he felt their body tense in his grip, bringing a surge of excitement to his chest.  “I can’t believe it.  You’re here.  You’re back!  You--”  He paused with a frown.  “--look a lot like I did shortly after I came into existence.  ...Are you all right?”

Satan moved to let MC sit up, but he kept a firm reassuring hold on their hand as he listened to them explain the issues and fears they’ve had from the moment they became a demon.

“I see...  I understand your concerns,” Satan remarked with a nod.  “I remember how difficult it was in the beginning for me as well to control not only my wrath but also my demon instincts.  It took some time, but I did it, and I know you can get there, too.  So, please, let me help you, MC.  I promise you won’t hurt me or my brothers, and I’ll teach you everything you need to know about living as a demon.”  He gave their hand a gentle squeeze.  “You can count on me.”

Solomon trudged through the forest far outside the capital city of the Devildom, on the hunt for some ingredients that were required for a potion he wanted to make.  He’d been experimenting a lot these days as a way to distract himself from the aching, empty feeling within him since MC passed away, and he reached the point where he needed to go out to replenish his supply of common ingredients used for magic.  He figured that a bit of exercise might help to take his mind off MC’s absence, but as he walked alone and in silence, the pain was still too strong to shake off.  He sighed as he knelt down in front of a bush of wild berries, planning to add them to his basket of ingredients.  As he reached to pluck the first berry, his hand suddenly brushed against another’s at the same time.  Solomon glanced up, realizing that he and the other individual were separated by a tree, making it impossible for them to see each other.  He poked his head around to directly apologize to them, but his words caught in his throat at the particular appearance of the demon, his eyes widening at his revelation.  They tried to escape before he could continue, but Solomon grasped onto their hand to keep them nearby.

“Is that you, MC?” he asked, doing his best to prevent them from fleeing.  “Relax, it’s okay!  You recognize me, don’t you?”

MC referred to Solomon by name as they begged him to let go, mentioning that they might not be able to restrain themself from attacking him due to their new form.  Acknowledging their worries, he cast a spell that sealed MC alone in a magic barrier--that way, they wouldn’t be able to hurt him or run away.  They struggled to maintain eye contact with him as he carefully stepped closer to the layer of magic that separated them.

“Ah, I probably look rather delectable to you right now, don’t I?” Solomon realized.  “It’s natural for demons to crave humans as a source of food, and that’s not something you’re used to.”  His expression saddened at their obvious distress.  “You don’t seem well either.  I can’t understand the exact feelings you’re experiencing, but I’m sure they’re painful and unusual.  Why are you hiding out here, though?  Lord Diavolo, Lucifer, and the others would be more than willing to aid you in your current state.”  

The crease between his eyebrows worsened from MC responding that they were afraid of hurting the others since they still couldn’t control themself.  “It’s that bad, huh?  But forcing yourself to try to adjust on your own doesn’t seem right either.  Hmm, what can we do...?”  He pressed the palm of his hand against the barrier, wishing he could hold their hand again.  “Well, I have two ideas.  The first is that I can bring you to the Demon Lord’s Castle anyway for Lord Diavolo and Barbatos to look after you.  They’re the strongest demons here, so I know all three of you would be safe.  The second is...we form a pact together.  It would just be so that I can help you control yourself until you’re able to do it on your own, then we could sever the pact if you wanted.  ...Although, I do suppose I have an ulterior motive for this option, since it would mean that we’d be together more than if I left you in Lord Diavolo’s care.  But either way, I want to help you, MC.  Because whether you’re a human or a demon, I care about you more than anything, and that won’t ever change.”

[astrowithkaro]

can you elaborate on the language of October 11th? I was born on that day :) I would appreciate it, thanx u

Language Of Birthdays: October 11 - Libra

The Day Of Gracious Ease

Those born on October 11 have vivid imaginations, like excitement, want to be at the center of what is going on and feel that they must play an important social role. However, their sensuous and pleasure-loving nature often holds them back. Finding their proper place in the world is of the utmost importance to them, and well it should be, since career is an area in which difficulties abound for October 11 people. In fact, they may have to change jobs with regularity until they find the occupation for which they are best suited.

Regardless of career, the bottom line for those born on this day is social involvement, for they are highly averse to an isolated lifestyle. Their fate is intimately tied up with that of their fellow human beings, so much so that they may perform well in the role of group or personal representative.

October 11 people can be too nice and easygoing. Part of the reason for their career indecision, or for their tendency to settle for whatever happens to come along, is that they do not have a whole lot of intense and directed (or for that matter, selfish) ambition. Because they do not enjoy complications, they may not choose to present themselves with challenges. Being basically comfortable and happy, developing a lifestyle where they may easily divide their attentions between their career, love life, family affairs, and forms of relaxation and enjoyment is fulfillment enough.

October 11 people enjoy working with others and being part of a team. Their likeable personality makes it possible for them to move freely from one social or work stratum to the next. They have a way of feeling at home with the highest or lowest level of society, and those who have had the advantages of wealth or education rarely appear snobbish or elitist.

October 11 people must not allow themselves to be imposed upon or manipulated by more intense, better directed types who know what they want and will do what they have to do to get it. Admittedly, those born on this day will generally give friends and even acquaintances a second (or third) chance when trespassed upon. October 11 people should perhaps examine their motives in this regard: if they do so from a position of strength, such accepting behaviour may not only be healthy but an indication of spiritual development; on the other hand, if there are masochistic urges working, changes should be made.

When October 11 people are truly satisfied with what they have, they experience a kind of bliss unknown to most people. Not having big problems with acceptance, however, does not guarantee that other areas of their spiritual life are so well developed. Therefore, they must summon the energy needed for self-understanding and personal evolution, or they will surely stagnate.

Strengths:

Charming

Secure

Accepting

Weaknesses:

Complacent

Passive

Stuck

Advice

Those born on October 11 may be prone to suffer from debilitating or diet-related disease due to a sedentary lifestyle. They must take care of their backs and kidneys if they sit for long periods, and make an effort to drink plenty of fresh water each day. They will have to beware of overeating and the addictive powers of tobacco, alcohol and caffeine. The pleasures of the bed and table are important to October 11 people, but they must remember the price of excess. Vigorous, but properly performed physical exercise is here highly recommended not only for its health benefits, but to help strengthen alertness, willpower and drive.

Beware of self-satisfaction; push yourself a bit more

Avoiding problems should not mean avoiding challenges

Seek to improve yourself daily

Desire is a part of living

Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground

[vegetacide]

TaG: Bloodlines (Part 7.. )

Veg • notables: Any errors in this are strictly my own

Ty to @gumnut-logic and @scribbles97 for the brainstorming help and the encouragement.

Previous: Part 1 | Part 2 Bit 1 & Bit 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Rating and General warning: Mature content head. If you are not a fan of medical issues of a female nature in relation to pregnancy please proceed with caution.

Characters: Virgil, Kayo, (V/K)  Jeff, Scott and Grandma.

Location: TaG-verse AU | Tracy Island

E N J O Y

8-8-8

Part 7 Kesalahan

The quiet tinny sound of music and a steady bass beat were the first things Kayo noticed as she started to drift in the land between wakefulness and sleep.

Grogginess sat heavily on her achy body but the comforting scents of home;  a pleasant mix of the sea and her husband’s aftershave, greeted her waking mind.

Opening her eyes just enough to peer through her lashes she was surprised to find the room still heavily shadowed with the exception of the table lamp set on low across from the foot of the bed.   

Its soft light spilled gently into the room and played over the form of her husband.   Casting a juxtaposition of shadows and light across his stubbled jaw and the little dent in his chin she loved so much.  

She wondered briefly who their child would take after.  Her husband’s strong handsome features or her Malay curves and angles.  Either way, she thought as she shifted her hand to cup the swell of her belly,  she would love the child with all she was worth. 

There was no way she was going to let this little go through the beginning of its life like she had.   Running and hiding from a mad man bent on destruction. 

Pushing those thoughts aside she turned her mind back to Virgil.  

He’d pulled up one of the arm chairs from their small sitting room to the side of the bed.  His bare foot was perched up on the side of the bed while he tinkered on a data pad that was resting on an upraised knee.   

He was awake, for that she was certain as he’d dawned a pair of headphones and he’s head was bobbing to whatever musical composition he was generating.   

Intent on whatever it was he was doing, Kayo just watched him.  Enjoying the play of light through his tousled hair and the way he nibbled his lower lip when he was concentrating.  A trait he swore he didn’t do.

It was a good five minutes before he looked up,  his brow shooting up into his hairline when he noticed she was awake. 

Setting the data pad down,  he pulled the headphones from his head.  It was obvious he’d been doing whatever it was he was doing for some time but the banded, depression the headphones had left across the top of his head.  

He smiled at her,  checking the time on the bedside chronometer and dragged a hand over his face as he stretched his shoulders out with a pop.   

“Hey,”  There was a huskiness to his voice that had she been in better shape would have curled her toes.  

“Hey”  She whispered back.  “What are you working on?”  

Virgil shrugged, glancing down at the pad.  “Nothing much,  just passing the time.”  

“Can I hear it?”  

“It’s not done and really it’s just fiddling.”  

“You don’t have to sit vigil.”  She said, holding her hand to him and hoping he would take it. “Doctor Coxley said I would be fine in a couple weeks.”   

“Yes, I do.”  His reply was matter of fact. “And he did but had I been watching you better we wouldn’t be here now.” 

“Virgil…”  Kayo sighed in exasperation, pushing herself up with some effort  so she could see him better.  She wasn’t going to have this conversation lying down like an invalid

Virgil came to her aid,  sliding his arm across her back and holding her steady as he propped her pillows up.  

“Thanks.”  She said, laying her hand on his cheek before he could turn away.  She wanted him to kiss her but she wasn’t sure if they were there yet.   

He put his hand over hers,  turning into her palm but he pulled away a moment later and sat on the edge of the bed.  

“You need anything?”  It was asked as a distraction and Kayo knew it well.  She’d used this trick a few times herself over the years.  

“Virgil,  look at me.”  

He did, reluctantly.  The fidgeting of his fingers against his knees as if he was running through scales told her he was uncomfortable and wanted to be discussing anything but this.  

“You’re not to take it all on yourself.  I am just as much to blame, if not more so for this.”  Kayo pointed at herself,  circle her index finger around all of her and then some.   

“I was the one that messed up with my pill five months ago.  I was the one that was pushing myself to do too much.  I was the one that withheld things from you.”

“Which you apologized for.”  He stated. “And five months ago I messed up just as much as you did.  I’m the one with the medical training and I gave you those antibiotics.”  

Kayo nodded, and fiddled with the edge of the sheets at her waist. “You did but at the time,  neither one of us was thinking very straight. Other things seemed more … pressing.”

That comment got a chuckle out of Virgil.  “Ya,  was kind of reckless of us. If Scott ever found out…”  

She smiled and nudged his backside with her covered knee.  “Who said he doesn’t know. He might be just too embarrassed to say anything to us.”  

He peered back at her over his shoulder,  a thick brow arched in curiosity. “What makes you say that?”

She only had to say one thing.  “Biometrics.”  

Virgil groaned and dropped his face into his hands.  “That would actually explain a lot.” 

“How so?”

Virgil pursed his lips in thought.  “Odd little comments that seemed to say more than they did.  The odd awkward silence.”  he gave a shrug.  “Like something was on the tip of the tongue but then the words never came..”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.  Kayo, languishing among her pillows and soft sheets.  Virgil’s warmth comforting and lolling her mind.  

She caught herself,  not wanting to fall back asleep just yet.   Enjoying this quiet moment as their bridge to each other healed.  

“What time is it?”

“Late or early.  Depends on which you prefer.”  He rolled his shoulders,  bracing his hands on his knees as if to get up. “Little after 4am. You’ve been asleep for about 5 hours.”  

“I’ve done nothing but sleep since we left Auckland.” 

“You needed it.”  He replied, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

“And so do you.”

“I’m okay.  Grandma will be up in a bit. She’s keeping taps on your vitals for the Doc.” 

She’d figured as much.  If not Grandma than her husband would be but considering how tired he looked it was probably a good idea that Sally was doing it.  

Stretching, he got to his feet.   Grimacing as his shoulder popped in the process, he rubbed at it absently. Obviously the way he had been sitting hadn’t agreed with the old injury and it was bothering him again. 

“Come to bed.”  Hand out, she reached for him.  “You need to get some sleep and by the way you keep massaging your shoulder it looks like your body agrees with me.” 

He hesitated a moment but ultimately the call to sleep won out.  

Grabbing the edge of his shirt,  he tugged it over his head.  Discording it lazily on the floor by the foot of their bed,  a mere four feet from the laundry shoot..Kayo resisted the urge to scold.   Men truly were lazy creatures, though Virgil for the most part picked up after himself there were times that she was reminded of that fact. 

His jeans followed and she rolled her eyes as they too ended up on the floor though the view more than made up for it.  She’d always been a sucker for abs and Virgil’s were … well, words could not describe or do them any justice. 

A thick brow arched at her as he came around to the other side of the bed.  “That is not going to help either of us.”  He pointed out, slipping under the covers and opening his arm to her.

She took the invitation with ease, snuggling into his embrace and settling her head on his broad chest.  “The next two weeks are going to suck.”

His chuckle rumbled through his chest and kissed her brow.  “You’re telling me..”

Scott read over the intel reports from security again and gave up three words in.  He’d already gone over it several times and each time he came up with the same conclusion.

It was quiet on all fronts.  Their unscheduled trip to the mainland had been completely unnoticed.  Not one word of sightings of the famed Tracy Clan in any of the usual media outlets.  Not even one captured image.... Nothing.  

He knew John and Eos cast a wide net when it came to protecting the family’s privacy but usually there was something out there.  A comment on one of the social media platforms,  a blip from the military junkies that loved to watch what sort of aircraft came in and out of various GDF bases despite the numerous no trespassing signs. And a personal jet with civilian tags would have garnered at least one comment somewhere… but there was nothing.  

Sighing, he dumped the reports on the desk and flopped into his seat.   He was being paranoid but when it came to the safety of his family what choice did he have. Looking for things in the shadows when it was a bright and cheery day had been a habit born out of necessity over the years.  And now that the Hood was at large… that habit had grown tenfold.  

The main reason for that was sitting in the lowered lounge going over stock reports and grumbling at some inventory issues at one of Tracy Industries aeronautical plants on the other side of the globe. 

The others were tucked away upstairs resting, he hoped.  Though knowing his brother’s penchant for worrying that was an unlikely case.   Kayo on the other hand had been sleeping on and off since returning to the island late last night so at least that was a blessing.  

Rubbing at his eyes again he contemplated tossing the whole lot at Penny and seeing what she could make of it.  

If he was being over the top,  she would let him know in her polite aristocratic way but he knew she had her hands full at the moment with Kayo being out of action and having to compensate for the deficiency in man power. 

Usually this sort of thing was Kayo’s domain. She was an expert at reading the nuances of what was between the lines.. Or in this case; wasn’t.  Seeing the patterns in the ebb and flow of people. Finding what was out of place or suspicious in a sea of normalcy.  

Being five months pregnant and now with complications put a wrench in that resource though and Scott didn’t dare take any of this to her,  she didn’t need the stress and he didn’t need Virgil coming for his head.  

When the Bear was in full on protective mode of his mate.. Well lets just say the ferociousness of it could even unnerved Scott.  

Most of the mundane day to day tasks Scott had redelegated out among the TI security team. A group of well trained ex-forces members that Kayo had personally hand picked and vetted.   

They were a trustworthy lot that had been with them for several years and had never let them down. Trained,  retrained,  drilled and put through their paces on a regular, they never complained and were well compensated for all their hard work.     

Kayo was a very hands on person,  taking on a lot of the nitty gritty daily duties that could easily be dispersed among the people at her disposal. It allowed her on one hand to get her finger on the pulse of what was going on around her and by extension her family.  On the other hand by doing so she freed up her staff to focus on the more important task of protection. 

Thinking about protection, he was probably going to have to call someone up from the ranks that they could bring to the island.  The security system’s here were in depth but there had to be someone they could use for the interim to maintain everything.. That was a job that he would have to prioritize over the next couple of days and another thing to add to his growing list. 

 His father cursing, roused Scott from his thoughts.  “Issues?”  He asked, in need of distraction as he came around the desk. 

“Just eye strain and stupidity.  I may need to make an appearance at the office to handle this personally.”

“Dad, I don’t think..” 

Jeff waved him off one handed. “I know.  I know but I may not have a choice.  The board is being unreasonably ornery with the current project projections and if the inventory issues aren’t sorted soon there is a real possibility of a delay on production…”

“This sounds rather familiar…”  Scott groused. “You could always have legal look into the contract, see what wiggle room we have.”

“I’ve got Tom working on that now.  It’s not something that is going to bankrupt us by any stretch of the imagination. It’s just a pain in the backside. “

“And the timing …”

“Exactly,”  His Father yawned, stretching out on the couch. “ It’s the  last thing we need at the moment.”

“What’s the last thing we need?”  Came a feminine voice from the other side of the room. 

Father and son turned as one and blinked.  

“Good Heavens,  Kayo you should be resting.” 

Kayo rolled her eyes and came further into the room.   She was dressed simply in a pair of yoga pants and a Denver Tech sweater obviously belonging to Virgil considering how it dwarfed her petite frame. 

She was pale but looked rested.  An air of calm surrounded her with no evidence of the fear that had been present the previous day.  She looked settled and the relief of it had some of the tension leaving Scott.  

Hair hair was down,  curling over and around her shoulders and by the whiff of jasmine he could pick up from where he was freshly from the shower. 

Scott looked past her expecting the large frame of his brother to be shadowing her.

“I convinced him to get some sleep.”  She said, catching the direction of Scott’s gaze.  “It was either that or I was going to sic Grandma on him. 

She toddled over to the lounge and Scott offered his hand to help her down the stairs. The look she shot him would have sent most people running for the hills but he wasn’t put off by it in the slightest.   

There was a silent war for but a moment until he arched a brow at her and she conceded.   Taking his proffered hand and alighting down the stairs with ease.   

“You shouldn’t be on your feet.”  Jeff spoke up, stepping to the side to offer her the closest couch. 

Her hand settled on the swell of her belly and she smiled with exasperation at Jeff. “I wanted to stretch my legs.  I’m not used to sitting around.“

Jeff smiled back in sympathy and took her elbow, urging her to take a seat.  

Kayo complied,  easing back in the soft leather with a mild wince of discomfort.  

Zeroing in on the flash of pain, Scott crouched before her.  “You alright?”

“Just a little round ligament pain. It will pass.”  

“You sure?”  His eyes darted up to his Father’s and Jeff reached for him comms.  

“Most definitely besides,” She held up her wrist, a band like that of a watch encircling it.  “Grandma has me wired up for monitoring. I am not to take it off even to shower so there is no hiding for me until this little stowaway decides it’s time to come out.” 

The hand cupped over her small rounded belly did a gentle sweep back and forth, Kayo seemingly unaware she was even doing it as she glanced at all the data pads on the table.  

So much love for the little one that hadn’t been planned. 

Scott was still in awe of the whole situation. So much had happened in the last eight months.  

They’d gotten their father back from the dead of space after eight long years. Whole and mostly healthy though there would be long term medical issues to contend with

The relationship that Kayo and Virgil had been trying to keep under wraps from the rest of them had been found out due to a nosy reporter when they’d been on scheduled leave. Luckily with the help of Eos and John the rumours had been smothered. 

They’d had a private wedding on the beach shortly after that.  Just the direct family,  and closest friends in attendance.

And not two months after that, they’d found out the couple was pregnant when the whole family thought the relationship was on the rocks. 

So much to process and Scott still had trouble wrapping his head around it. 

“So what’s this I heard when I came in?”

Crap,  Scott had hoped that had slipped her mind and he scrambled for an appropriate response.  One that wouldn’t raise her suspicions.  His father stepped in though before he could formulate a plan.

“It’s nothing to worry about.  Just some concerns with the board in the U.S.  I got it handled.”

“You sure?  I don’t mind looking into it if you need me too.”

Jeff shook his head.  “It’s alright.  I have legal doing the leg work already.  They can handle it.

“Really, it wouldn’t take me anytime at all if you need to go in person to set up a detail.”  She stated and shifted as  if to get back to her feet. 

“I beg your pardon” Came the voice of the family Matriarch that had off three of them freezing.  ‘Tanusha Kyrano Tracy, the last thing you should be doing at the moment is working. “

Sally Tracy whooshed into the room like a woman on a mission and beelined straight for Kayo.  “And secondly to that, you better not have been walking around the island unaccompanied, young lady.  You’ve barely been back on the island twenty four hours and you’re already getting into mischief. 

Kayo’s mouth snapped shut and she looked thoroughly chest fallen.   

“I know you hate not being able to help out but really right now you need to look after yourself and that baby. “  The retired doctor plucked a random tablet off the table, swiped whatever was on the screen away and pulled up the med-reader.  

Kayo’s bio-signs flickered across the screen,  Red lines blipping out a steady beat as O2 saturation levels and blood pressure blinked in the corner. 

Grandma didn’t need to say anymore on the subject as all the proof she needed was right there on the screen. Those blood pressure readings were far from Kayo’s normal levels and creeping towards preeclampsia just like they had been not even a day prior.

Grandma tutted and handed the data pad to her son.  There was a sternness in her gaze as she perched on the couch next to Kayo and patted her knee.  “I want both of you healthy and hearty,  you still have another twenty two more weeks before that little one should make an appearance.  The faster we get on top of this the better it will be in the long run.”

Their Grandmother softened when she saw that her message was getting through and she let up in the lecturing.   

“But since you’re up we might as well get you some food After which we can go for a little walk around the pool for some fresh air.” 

There was a mute nod in response and Kayo was assisted back to her feet. Grandma took her arm and smiled, looking rather pleased that she’d managed to wrangle the security specialist   

“Oh and luckily for you,  we are going to be having a visitor on the island soon.  Doctor Coxley suggested we consult a nutritionist that specializes in pregnancies so Lady Penelope is looking into some for us.”  

“Lucky for all of us.”  Jeff muttered and blinked when he realized he’d said that out loud.   

Grandma shot him a look while Scott coughed to hide his chuckle.    

8-8-8 

TBC

NEXT

[mrlnsfrt]

True to Myself?

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, And in sin my mother conceived me. - Psalm 51:5 NKJV

This post is not meant as an attack on anyone, it merely represents my current place in my personal journey. If you disagree with any of my points I am open to dialogue, I love to learn and grow. Once again, the views expressed in this post are my personal views.

Who am I?

I remember when I was in middle school I bought a paperback book entitled “who am I?” quiz book. I saw it in one of those Scholastic catalogs we would get at school and ordered it. I found the book and took a picture of it so you can see what I am talking about.

The book is divided into six parts.

The Inside Me

The Outside Me

What Are My Talents

How Do I Deal with Family and Friends?

How Do I Act with the Opposite Sex?

How Do I See the World and How Do I See Myself Fitting into It?

The back cover of the book says

“Here’s a book full of quizzes to help you find out all about the most important person in your life — you! Find out about the inside you, the outside you, your talents, and how you get along with your family, friends, and the opposite sex. Score yourself to find out how you measure up!”

Those of you who remember the early days of Facebook and even MySpace probably remember the quizzes people used to share. The quizzes would have titles like “Which Superhero Are You?” or something along those lines. Buzzfeed has quite the collection of useless quizzes to waste your time. But Buzzfeed would not waste time energy and resources in creating something completely useless. So why do they have so many quizzes about everything under the sun? My guess is that Buzzfeed does that for the same reason it does everything else, to get your attention, your time, and of course, your clicks.

So where am I going with this? Apparently, we are fascinated with ourselves and our mysteries. Many turn to their sign (astrology), their DNA, their family tree, online quizzes, personality tests, IQ tests, etc. We want to find out who we are, what we are like, what our strengths and weaknesses are, what we love and what we are good at among many other things. Clearly, I am in no position to point fingers since I spent some of my hard-earned money as an early teen buying a paperback quiz book that promised to help me figure out who I was.

I believe that there is value in taking time to figure ourselves out. I believe we should be familiar with what we enjoy and what we would rather avoid, what we are good at and what we struggle with. I believe that personality tests, etc. have their place. I am often concerned about self-improvement and I greatly value feedback. I understand that too much of this can be unhealthy, so I try to limit it to asking my leadership team to fill out a pastoral ministry evaluation form once a year. I want to know if I am improving, I want to know what I am doing well, I want to know what I could do better.

I guess this approach means I have a growth mindset. I do not believe that I am the best version of myself and that I can become better. I think I also annoy my wife a bit with this since I ask her how I could be a better husband fairly often. It is probably not very endearing to hear your significant other asking you, “So on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate my performance this last month?” “In which areas of the home life do you wish I was more involved?” etc.

I share all this as a way of recognizing my personal journey which shapes my view of life. I share this hoping that you can understand where I am coming from. This view of myself is deeply shaped by my personal theological views.

Fallen Human Nature

I believe that our core humans are not good, kind, and loving. I believe that at our core even our kindness is shaped by some selfish desire and only God can change that in us.

“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it? - Jeremiah 17:9 NKJV

One of the reasons we seek these quizzes is because who we are is not obvious to us. We can lie to ourselves, which also renders these quizzes inaccurate. That’s why the above passage from Jeremiah is so significant to me. The practical way that I apply this verse in my personal life is that I distrust myself. I seek God for guidance, strength, wisdom, and help. This understanding of my natural state, as one that is fallen, causes me to not look within myself for the solution, but rather to God.

Here are the two verses that come before the one quoted above.

“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, And whose hope is the Lord. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters, Which spreads out its roots by the river, And will not fear when heat comes; But its leaf will be green, And will not be anxious in the year of drought, Nor will cease from yielding fruit. - Jeremiah 17:7-8 NKJV

According to these verses, when I trust and hope in the Lord, everything will turn out okay. My trust should not be in humans, including myself, my hope does not come from what I see, but is ultimately established in God. When I look inward I find reasons to lose hope. I find the words of David recorded in Psalm 51 very appropriate.

Have mercy upon me, O God, According to Your lovingkindness; According to the multitude of Your tender mercies, Blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, And cleanse me from my sin.

For I acknowledge my transgressions, And my sin is always before me. Against You, You only, have I sinned, And done this evil in Your sight— That You may be found just when You speak, And blameless when You judge.

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, And in sin my mother conceived me. - Psalm 51:1-5NKJV

I strongly recommend reading the entire chapter. David wrote this when he was confronted regarding his sin of adultery and murder. David could have made excuses, he could have simply had the prophet who accused him killed, instead, he repented and recognized that he was sinful, he was guilty, and in desperate need of forgiveness.

One of the principles that jump out at me from Psalm 51 is that David did not blame God for his sin, or for the temptation that led to his sin. He could have argued that he was born that way, that he was attracted to the woman, and that he was simply following his heart, that he was simply being true to himself. Yet David recognizes that he should have controlled his urges, that he should control his attraction and not the other way around.

Look at what Paul had to say when he wrote to the Ephesians

And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins, in which you once walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit who now works in the sons of disobedience, among whom also we all once conducted ourselves in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, just as the others. - Ephesians 2:1-3 NKJV

What I take away from what Paul is saying here is that a life dedicated or guided by the lusts and desires of the flesh goes against God’s plans. What is this flesh? Paul seems to label our internal desire that goes against God’s will as being from the flesh or carnal, as opposed to being from God or the spirit.

True to Myself?

I will try to illustrate this by looking at a challenging passage from the Bible.

For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am carnal, sold under sin. For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. If, then, I do what I will not to do, I agree with the law that it is good. But now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me. For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.

I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good. For I delight in the law of God according to the inward man. But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!

So then, with the mind I myself serve the law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin. - Romans 7:14-25 NKJV (bold mine)

What I take away from Paul’s writing is that he is struggling. He wants to do things that he knows to be right, things that are in accordance with the law of God. Yet it feels like a battle because his body seems to want to do things he does not approve of, things that go against the law of God. I wonder if anyone reading this can relate to Paul’s struggle. You are aware of your duty, of what is right, but you don’t always feel like doing it. Sometimes you feel like being dishonest, choosing violence, not forgiving, getting revenge, cheating, stealing, lying. So what do you do in these circumstances?

If I want to be true to myself, which self do I choose? The self that recognizes God’s will or the self that rebels against God’s will for my life? If I insist that when I break God’s laws I am doing so in the name of being true to myself, does that make it okay?

Just to be clear, you are free to make your own choices. I am simply trying to convey that both choices or paths are not equal. Everyone is free to choose their own path. Any path is bound to have its share of struggles and difficulties. There is no easy path. But there is one path that God calls us to.

Here is how Jesus puts it:

“Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it. - Matthew 7:13-14 NKJV

Some seem to believe that the life of the believer should be one of ease where all problems and difficulties simply evaporate. But I have yet to see one Bible hero who had an easy life.

Jesus also said,

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul? - Matthew 16:24-26 NKJV

Jesus poses some important questions. Essentially, you are free to do whatever you want with this life, however, just doing whatever you want, the selfish and easier road will not lead to the best possible outcome. Eternal life is a gift from God and He gives it freely to those who choose Him above all. That means choosing God even above our personal desires. Following Jesus means doing His will even when it is difficult, or especially when it is difficult. You can choose to live for yourself, you can chase all that you want and become very rich, but what good will all the wealth in the world if it costs your eternal life? As Jesus put it “ For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?“

People around you may be all about being true to themselves, but I would argue that we should be more concerned about being true to God. Jesus calls me to deny myself, but this does not mean I cancel myself out. This means that whenever I have to decide between doing what I want and what God wants I should always choose what God wants. What God did for us, what He does, and what He is willing to do cannot be compared to anything this world has to offer.

Here is how Paul sees it,

But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.

Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me. Brethren, I do not count myself to have apprehended; but one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. - Philippians 3:7-14 NKJV

My Truest Self

I would like to propose to you that we find our truest selves in Jesus. It may feel like our desires to rebel against God represent our true selves, because it feels easier, it feels more natural, and following God feels unnatural, feels difficult. But I would argue that the temptations feel natural because we live in a fallen world that is in a state of rebellion against God. However, God will one day make all things new, perfect just like they were before sin (See Genesis 1-3 and Revelation 21-22). So even though it feels like going against the current to be faithful to God, I choose to be faithful to God, by the strength He provides me through His Holy Spirit, because I know that God’s plans for me are much better than even the plans I have for myself.

For I know the plans that I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans for prosperity and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. - Jeremiah 29:11 NASB

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Six; Hopes.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Brief mentions of violence and gore in this chapter !!! 

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Hellford park was a domineering house. It was as proud as it was beautiful.

 A high and grand edifice of squared buff sandstone with the very same in all its trimmings. The roof is welsh slate. And the front of the house echoed it’s Palladian and baroque design. The Doric order pillars out front hold up a looming triangular outset to the building. There are three floors. Three towering floors all full of windows.

 The house sits vast in its horizon. Dominating. She had walked up through the woods from Pembleton. A good twenty minutes of walking down the front drive merely to get to the place. Through a resplendent wrought iron black gate that looked nearly eerie in the morning fog. The cawing of throaty crows echoed around the tall dark trees that nearly eclipsed the sun. She opened that creaking gate and slipped on through. Feeling like a doomed trespasser on Lord Ren’s land.

 When the walk along the paved road clears of the governing country nature, each side of her not now lined with massive oaks, and the dark wood thinned out, the sun shone down on her in speckles through the spreading tree tops.

 She listens to the cooing call of wood pigeons in the far off trees. The sizzle of wind ruffling the dead leaves on their branches. Sizzling and spitting and rattling in the air. And the cold bitter landscape seems buttery warm, the colour of dandelion sunshine lifts every facet of nature. Melts the snow. Makes the countryside all merry again. Thaws it from the unfeeling and cruel fingers of frosty winter.

 Though she can still see wisps of her breath flutter the air. And she tugs her rabbit lined gloves up her wrists to keep warm. Her soles crackle along the road in the misty frost.

 She’s on yet another errand this morning. In her battered blue wool coat, her quite hopeless brown boots. She hadn’t seen the need for a bonnet, and now her ears are feeling the price of such a poor decision. Tipped with icy pink.

 The dappling sun tangled in her hair. Where it’s scooped back off her face in a semi braided coiffure. She had her plain wool dress on. It was a boring shade of chowder grey pinstriped with white. But it did it’s occupation of keeping her warm better than her old pelisse did.

 She comes up to the view of the house. Admiring how vast and proudly it stands. Resolute even under the strong sun. The sky behind its roof is a net of crepe cotton blue splashed with smeared white clouds.

 From the vantage point on the road, where she is, far far far down below the humongous beast, the vast wall of windowpanes wink icy in the sunlight across at her. The huge pond to the front of Hellford Manor, is deep glass green, and navy skipped with gold from the mirrored reflection of the sky.

 Her steps rap sharply on the hard road, clapping off the house and bouncing back to her. Mingled in with sounds of the woods, of the birds and the trees and the wind ruffling through it all.

 She steps up to the cavernous entryway and the door that’s eight feet taller than she is. Doesn’t know if she’ll get a reply knocking here- she hopes she does.

 She knocks her gloved hand loud and clear on the door. Taps her knuckles loudly three times. Hears it ricochet off the house behind and in front of her. Probably drifting through that elegantly extensive marble foyer that was bound to be inside. Manor this grand was bound to have a colossal foyer for entertaining.

 She stares up at the great big white painted door in fervent hope. A few seconds pass. Nothing but the silence of her own anticipation.

 She’d brought Lord Ren some welcoming gifts that high society hereabouts has decided to bestow on him. The ladies and matrons of prominence are thankful for his mentioning he’d keep an eye open for the terrorising wolf on his land.

 Mrs Phillips sent him a box of Turkish dried fruits and sticky figs drowned in honey. Miss Smith sent a bottle of port and a selection of sweet meats. Her own mother had declined to send him anything.

 Iris was affronted at her sudden distant behaviour when days before she’d been clamouring for her daughter to prostrate herself at his mighty feet. So she snuck to the kitchen earlier and secreted away two dead partridge’s when she wasn’t looking.

 Cook was on her side covering for her. She’d spin Mrs Ashton a cunning tale that the cat got into them and she had to discard them. Let’s hope Iris’ mother didn’t decide to take action against the innocent tabby.

 She’d also put in some of cooks chutney and her famous jam. She was a crass red faced, battle axe Irish woman of stout size and many years. But she liked making sure the people around her were well fed. She was a kindly woman to Iris.

 Many times as a scolded young girl, belittled for improper behaviour, or something petty Caroline nitpicked over,  she’d find herself hiding from mama in the kitchen. Wedged between the stove and the butchers block. Red faced and sobbing tears.

 Cook - Mrs Murphy as she doesn’t like to be commonly known as - would crossly stop whatever she was doing. Whatever soup or sauce she was preparing, whatever un-plucked game bird awaited stripping by her hands, or whatever haunch of meat needed seasoning, she would stop.

 Wiping her hands on her grubby apron. She’d pour Iris a cup of chocolate, sit her by the open stove and put a warm rug around her shoulders. Tell her to dry her eyes on her handkerchief. She always had one to hand. “There now. Dry your eyes. Pet.” In her soothing County Kildare, Irish brogue.

 “Here’s to hoping the road rises up to meet you yet.” She’d always say. Her way of wishing all the pain and obstacles to her happiness be plucked free right out of her life. Mrs Murphy knew, even back then, what strain Iris was being put under to be the perfect daughter. Drowning under expectations at such a bonny young age.

 So when Iris went to her this morning, interrupting her making her brown onion soup and scotch collops ready for supper, she asked for some donations to a man whose been kind to her, and to the scared flustered hens of matrons in the village. Cook raised a brow. “I see.” She said cannily. With an all-knowing understanding to her tone.

 Steered Iris into the cold larder and gave the game, the jam and some other goods. “This wouldn’t be that infamous Lord I’ve been hearing whispers about, now, would it?” She asks with a hand on her hip. Iris blushes.

 “He’s- merely an acquaintance.” Iris insists sweetly.

 “Aye. And I’m the goddess queen of the upper Nile.” She smarts flatly.

 “Be off with ya now pet. Before your mother gives you what for.” She says gruffly. Plonking two rosy pink apples in her hands for her journey to Hellford park. Before jabbing her thumb the back door over her own shoulder. Continuing rolling out her pastry with sticky-flour and buttery hands. She watches Iris head out with the baskets. One on each arm as usual. She smiles when she leaves.

 A good girl she was- much rounder temper than her silly sisters. Cook loves Iris like a daughter. And in damn sure more of a maternal way than her dragon of a mother ever did.

 Surprisingly, Iris didn’t have to wait too long at Hellford’s grand oak door before it is shuddered open with a whine from the other side.

 The very pleasant face of Kylo’s butler greets her. A red dastar turban covering his head. His arrowhead shaped goatee was black shot through with silver. Straight as a yardstick. And oiled finely. He appears very well groomed and meticulous. A fine warm scent of lime blossom and something like citrus or oranges woven into his cologne.

 She smiles warmly at him. Hands across her calling card through the gap of the door. “Good Morning. I’m so sorry to disturb you- but I’m just paying a call to deliver some-”

 His warm face breaks into a warm beam. One of honesty and recognition. “He told me we should be expecting you, Miss Ashton.” He smiles gladly. Already apprised of her being here. Widening the door for her.

 “Please do come in...” He urges. Iris likes the warm cadence to his voice. The distinctive accent of his sounds like honey syrup or spiced cloves. Comforting and rich. A voice that promises nothing but warmth and friendliness in its offering.

 Where he widens the door, Iris catches a glimpse of the exotic threads of his clothing. Something akin to a silk coat covers his top half. Indigo ink silk with buttons that glimmered like raindrops in rain. It’s almost military style in its fashion. He is a lean, towering man with broad shoulders. Though not as powerfully foreboding as the man he serves. His coat covers most of his legs. His knees are clad in loose fitting black trousers of thin substance. Puffy at the knees. Tucked into impressively shiny black boots.

 The sun catches on a bangle on his right wrist when he moves. Hitting against the silk of his peacock blue sleeve. When she stopped in, she sees the coat is embroidered with twirls of silver thread stitched into vines. It was such a beautiful garment. She’s in awe of it.

 She steps in from the cold, thanking him, and the huge house engulfs her. It’s warm for such a colossal place. And she was right. The foyer is entirely marble.

 Marble pointed tile floor. Walnut panelled walls and wainscoting coat the house. Set with gilded gold frames resting on them, surrounding impressive paintings. Black votives of candles stand lit and flickering amber flame. A gigantic mouth of a limestone fireplace is directly ahead on the wall. It’s twice as big as her bedchamber, that one hearth alone. Roaring flames lit within. Around the neatest pile of logs that blazed. Not even a spec of ash was out of place. There’s no decoration. Hardly any vases or relics. That’s strikes her as odd.

 “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He bows his head respectfully and tucks his hands behind his back. “I am Raajaa Jomar. Lord Ren’s butler.” He introduces himself.

 “Pleasure to meet you. Mr. Jomar. I only called by to give Lord Ren a few tokens of gratitude from some local families.”

 He smiles and accepts the baskets from her. “Of course. How kind. Do follow me to wait in the parlour. I will see to finding his lordship.”

 He leads her through the impressive house. Walking her deeper into the expensive bowels of the place. She walks demurely behind him. Aghast at the display of wealth that lines every wall. It hangs in the dripping crystal and spotless chandeliers. The way the tiles underfoot gleam like they’ve been scrubbed mercilessly.

 Paintings ooze oil and grandeur dour wealth from their spots on the walls. Ancient portraits of powdered wigs and styles of the 1700’s. Robes a la Francaise and beauty spots on powdered faces and craggy noses, casting a disapproving eye out at her.

 He brings her to a double door entrance of a richly furnished parlour. Decorated with red and white. Fire roars in the pearl marble of the hearth. She steps onto the fine cushion of a scarlet Aubusson rug. Sees her reflection in the huge antique mirror above the mantel. The room is trimmed in old French antiques. Side tables and end tables around the garnet red settees that bleed gold gild at their tops.

 “Do please make yourself comfortable Miss Ashton. I will arrange for a tray of tea and refreshments be brought to you.” He bows his head politely again.

 She feels like calling out to stop him. She was only here to pay call delivering a basket after all. Which she now sets both things down on the immaculately polished low table, set before her. She sinks into the luxuriously soft settee. Plump velvet feather cushions catch her back and prop her up.

 She feels rather nervous. Here, in this grand place in her shabby coat and ragged boots.

 She’s looking out the white glass of the terrace doors into the finely trimmed dutch gardens. Neat shrubs arranged in symmetrical patterns with paths cutting through to the lawn. A fountain crowns the central spoke of the flowerbeds. Blooming waxy tulips in summer spring up there. In punching reds and fierce oranges.

 In no time whatsoever, a waify scurrying maid appears in the doorway. Thin arms laden with a silver tray of a tea service. She smiles a beaming polite grin over at Iris. Who bids her a good afternoon. She sets the tea and a plate of warm jam tartlets before her, and they discuss the weather. She bobs a cute curtsey when she’s done and nods a parting and a good afternoon at Iris.

 She found it slightly odd to have someone curtsey to her. Sat here in her shabby boots and too-small-pelisse. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Not in cruel jest to the sweet maid’s behaviour- just that in her household, she barely outranked their maids. She helped out with the cooking, the cleaning, as did her sisters.

 That didn’t seem to place her worthy of a curtsey. She had no title after all. Was likely never to bare a title or be among nobility.

 She drinks some of the excellent tea. A fine rich blend no doubt. She nibbles the corner of a sticky jam tartlet and listens as the carriage clock on the mantel strikes twelve. Dinging softly around the opulent room. Along with the crackling of the fire spitting spewing out embers and ash in the hearth.

 She idly awaits company- drains another cup of tea. And stands to better admire the frosted gardens from the big windows. Lifting the scarlet red curtain out of her sight as she admires.

 A different maid enters across the room. Clunking the heavy door. “If you please, Miss. I’ll take you to his Lordship. Mr Jomar says he’d do it himself only on account of him getting caught up chatting to the cook.” She explains.

 Iris leaves her baskets in the parlour on the table. She goes directly with the girl. Who leads her through the house and out across a courtyard, and points to a little track road down to the working stables. She apologised that she had to skip back to the kitchens to attend to some errands. Iris says it’s quite alright. She can find her way from here.

 She walks up the pea-shingle paved road. Seeing the U shaped courtyard ahead, under the stone arch of the gates leading into the stables. Stalls surround the shape of it. Running around the perimeter. She can smell hay and animal sweat and the stench of hops. As she walks closer a repetitive clunking noise rings in her ears. The clatter of wood tumbling onto stone. Coming from the direction she’s intended toward.

 She passes under the arch, cool shade of it tickles the back of her neck. She comes into the clearing of the cobblestoned courtyard. Horses stamp and shift in their stalls surrounding the walls. She spies Erland in his stall. Munching on something he’d recently been fed. Carrots most likely.

 She comes into plain view of the whole stable- and then she lurches right to a sudden stop. A gasp punched out her lungs. Chest seizing up.

 She’s now stood facing a very shirtless Lord.

 Chopping logs with a heavy axe. Blade of it glints wicked sharp in the sun as his thick arms swing it over, crossing it over his body to strike sharp down the centre of the log before him on the stand. The wood tumbled and clunked to the ground.

 Chest gleaming slipping shimmering with sweat from his exertions. Stood in his obsidian breeches and boots to match, even in the winter cool of the courtyard. His shirt lay discarded on the nearest stall door. Folded cotton crumpled there.

 She idly wonders as her eyes take all of his naked state in, why he was doing this himself when he probably had tens of hundreds of servants who could do it for him. She knows she not supposed to look. But she’s seen the bare beauty of him now and her eyes don’t wish to be rid of it-

 She didn’t have any concerns that his frame was in any way unimpressive. But seeing him in such a bare manner merely reconfirmed what she already knew. He is broad in the shoulder, wide at the waist.

 His chest doesn’t taper it remains a solid stack of muscle. His thick thick build of his arms flex. The trapezius lines slipping outwards from either side of his neck are intimidatingly big. As is the reach from his shoulders down over his pectorals.

 He is a hugely broad warrior of a man. Crude. Monumental.

 A few seconds have passed since she stumbled onto the sight of him. Though it felt longer. He raises his eyes to the movement of her. Though he hadn’t needed too. He could sense her walking up the front drive to come to him. Felt her presence here ever since she set foot on his land.

 He unsticks the heavy axe from where it lodged chipping into the wood block stand below the logs he’s cutting up. He lets it hang down by his side. Grins wickedly across at his guest. Wall of muscular chest panting. Abdominal muscles flexing. His breath spirits silver out his smile up into the bitter air.

 His smile is sinful and his eyes are shady with promiscuous motive. “Miss Ashton...” He greets her rakishly.

 Fully aware of what the sight of him will do to her. How much it will stir her blood, get her blushing. The potent effect of him enchanting her lust. Dazzling her weak mortal senses.

 “Your lordship. Do forgive me. I’d no idea you were-um. So-“ Her eyes flicker across to his chest again, darting away quick. But he saw her snatch a look through blushing hot cheeks.

 “Informally attired?” He finishes for her confidently.

 She gulps and nods. “Yes- I do beg your pardon.” She’s now turned three quarters away from him. Giving him a ample view of her profile. Looking rather like she wants to scamper back to the safety of the house. Those pink cheeks and her flustered breathing that pulses out her neck in a sudden unexpected rush of lust... It gets his temper straining at its hold when he senses it.

 It’s captured the side of him that she should absolutely not want to rouse.

 He lays the axe down. Standing it against the brick wall near the log shed. Shifts closer. She can hear his boots scrape on the cobbles. Dusted with hay and splintered wood chipping’s from his laborious work. His fine booted soles crackle and shift with it. He brings his shirt into his free hand. Leaves it folded down by his side.

 “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He seeks smugly.

 Her brain malfunctions. Caught on his choice of word. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure-

 She wills the impertinent thought away.

 Feels him coming closer. The way his eyes stab into her coat. Rake along the back of her neck like dragging flint knives being drawn along her skin. She tries not to shiver too much at the not-entirely-unpleasant sensation.

 “I just paid a call to deliver some tokens of gratitude from obliged Pembleton residents.” She offers.

“There’s um. Port and figs in honey. Some partridges. And some very excellent jam... Miss Smith, The Phillips and us Ashton’s all send our compliments.” She babbles.

 He chuckles warmly. Stepping ever closer. Sparing her blushes and gazes. He slips the rumpled cotton of his shirt over his head and lets it fall, untucked, down to his thighs.

 The open v neck tips to hang between his nipples. Dusky bronze discs of them. And the coarse smattering of dark hair brushes his chest too. She shouldn’t know that about a man.

 “That’s very generous of you. I’m very fond of partridge. Do be sure to thank your family for me. For such a thoughtful offering.” He insists in a drawl that gets her smile increasing.

 She chuckles. Feeling safer about meeting his eyes now. “Miss Smith was delighted. With your assurance of looking out for the murdering beast. She has decided to forgo the extra bolt on her bedroom door.” Iris explains.

 “I fear she’s now quite enamoured with you. She said she means invite you over to take tea, very soon.”

 Kylo raises a brow that instantly told Iris how very ridiculous and inconsequential her found the always-flustered Miss Smith.

 “I might accept the invitation on the provisory condition that you accompany me. To keep me from beating my head against the wall in sheer desperation.” He smarts.

 Iris chuckles lightly. She tries to swallow it down but she can’t.

 “She is a little trying.” She confesses. She was a harmless woman. Just admired the sound of her own voice rabbiting on too much. And she fretted about every beast, man, and creature put on this earth. Everything was cause for suspicion with Miss Smith.

 “She’s the most trying woman in all of the British Empire.” He declares lowly. His smile crooks up on one side.

 Iris thinks for a second. Looking down at her shoes. “I do so hate to disagree with you, your lordship. But I fear that title must instead be awarded to my mother.” She smarts.

 He chuckles rightfully loud. It’s warmer than all the winter sunshine that slopes down on them. Crinkles form near his eyes and his divots beside his mouth.

 “Anyway-“ She begins. “I should take my leave. I’ve lingered far too long. You must have matters to attend...” She smiles. Dipping into a short curtsey. Flicking her eyes back up to him after she does.

 “Nothing so urgent could possibly draw me away the honour of your visit.” He insists. Making unabashed eye contact with her. Face so open and genial. Eyes all melting honey and granite.

 “I wouldn’t wish to importune you.” She says crossing her hands and holding them in front of her.

 One ink brow curves up. “From my incredibly laborious and eventful morning of, chopping firewood?” He lets her infer her own conclusions.

 “Well. I do have errands to take heed of. Back at Westwell.”

 He smiles like the devil. Like he knew how Satan himself leers- which he very truly almost does. He’s seen the closest thing this earth knows to a demon, grin at him. White pearly smile so savage and handsome.

 “Defer them.” He presses nicely. “I promised you a tour did I not? Come take a ride of Hellford Park with me and Erland.”

 Iris swallows. “You wish me to- spend time with you, alone? unchaperoned?” She checks.

 His eyes glow with that savage glimmer once more. The one that makes his eyes look like the most melting shade of black imaginable. Oh yes he did.

 “I promise to be the very saintly soul of propriety.” He pledges. Cupping a hand over the black vacuum where his mortal heart once laid in his big chest.

 “I won’t stand for indulging in any behaviour on my part if it severely discomforts you.” He vows seriously. She believes him. He was respectful enough to let her truly escape this endeavour if she wanted. He would never inopportune a woman for the benefit his own comforts.

 Even if she stirs him up so violently like the way this woman does-

 She tries not to follow where his hand lay on his body with her eyes. Tries not to look at that divine sticky chest again. Her head swims with comparisons of marble Greek gods swimming in salty tepid seas. Emerging dripping from the cobalt ocean.

 She blushes. Yet again her silly female heart betrays her. She hesitates for a second- she should say no. A polite girl would be a shrinking violet and scurry away at such a bold suggestion.

 She should turn her back and apologise profusely, head on back toward the house. She should walk home, the cool air stinging at her hot cheeks. She should go and think about scrubbing their curtains back home. Or arranging flowers. Or donning her apron and helping cook on with peeling the maris pipers in preparation for supper.

 She looks at his eyes again. Words fly from her mouth before her brain comprehends how it came to an answer. He truly was an enchanting creature.

 “I’d be delighted.” She nods bravely.

 It wasn’t what should be done. But it’s what she so desperately wanted to do.

 Westwell has had 23 years of her looking after everyone and everything in it. They can miss her for a meagre few hours whilst she finally puts herself first.

 “Allow me to briefly adjourn and attire myself correctly. Then I’ll see to having the horses tacked up.” He excuses himself. Smiles all wicked, and turns to head for the doorway in the brick wall near the logs he was cutting up.

 She flushed and almost fell faint to a dizzy spell. Seeing his finely muscled back as it lumbered away from her. Slicked with sweat.

 She watched the savage blades of his shoulders, as sharp as that axe blade he’d been swinging. Her eyes stuck on the three slashes of scars that rake deep over the left jutting bone hill of his scapula. Where an animals claws had long ago cut and torn into his skin.

 If she knew just precisely how long ago- she’d faint.

 A time she can’t even comprehend. An age away. An age she’s only studied in books. An age he can moderately remember anymore. It was several centuries past him now.

 He remembers towering pine tree tops scraping at the sky. How bitter bitter snow blazed and churned between the tips. The ruddy tang of houses back then cast solidly out of timber and roofed with straw. The smell of the sticky sap bleeding out the wood. The ash from the open fires and the clog of acrid woodsmoke sunk into the fur pelt he wore around his shoulders. The beast that had scarred him on his back and left him to rot away with fever of the wound. Left Kylo clinging desperately onto life by his dirty fingernails.

 He found that creature. He sunk his knife into that brutes belly and gutted it. He wore that black pelt with savagely earned pride. The gloom of longhouse where feasts, battles, births and politics were celebrated. The place that reeked of ash, the stench of smoking meat and the sour reek of stale urine from the odiferous tannery, when the frigid wind blew and shuddered into the village in the right direction.

 Back breaking labour was crucial for survival. Farming and hunting and warring. Truer dignity in hard work than any of these perfumed dandies of the fashionable ton knew about.

 He’d been brought up in those freezing acetous lands. He’d farmed for oats and barley and rye in the summers. Then one winter, he trained as a soldier. Upholding the honour of his family and willing to go and to defend his people.

 Then he went to war- His fate was violently and horribly rearranged.

 He’d marched right on in to fight a battle from which he’d never return home. Never would he be the same man. He was offered instead, a sweet mercy of a deathless death. And he greedily snatched it with both hands- glutted himself on its chance.

 It was all so different back then. Life was so brutal. Compared to the pomp and ridiculous circumstances the narrow minded people in this village are governed ruthlessly by, by things they think matter.

 When he thinks of the contrasts to the two societies it makes him sick. All the stuffy airs and graces and endless bowing and scraping. Veiled insults cloaked as compliments. Velvet draped over daggers.

 He vastly preferred this world back when it was a more feral one. Atleast then he knew where he stood.

 When there were no falsehoods or lies floating out sugared words from simpering sickening smiles. Here, when one thing was said to his face, quite another was hissed behind his back when he turned. Maybe he was just a relic of a time long since over-maybe maybe maybe.

 He goes into the stable rooms, where he left his jacket and other attire earlier. Luckily there’s a washroom out here that was used on hunts if the work got bloody. He washes himself down from the basin and jug of cold water, and clears away the salt of his sweat. Pats himself dry and redressed in his fine jacket, white shirt and white cravat. Atop a burgundy waistcoat.

 When he steps back out, buttoning his thick wool jacket. Silver buttons blazing proud in the sun, he sees Miss Ashton at Erland’s stall. The stubborn animal nudged into her shoulder again as she strokes his handsome velveteen forehead. Remembering her. Thinking she had more treats to bestow.

 He comes across and chides his horse in the Bavarian tongue he was trained by. “Nett Sein. Erland.” Kylo barks across low at his horse as he walks over. Be kind.

 He then adds, chiding him, that he shouldn’t be disrespectful to ladies. Croons to him. Speaking fluently in his own language. Stroking his nose as the horse turns and nibbles at his masters coat shoulder and snuffles his hair with his hot, hay scented breath. Kylo pats the chunky meat of his solid corded neck.

 She strokes a hand over his silken mane. Hair harshly stiff and bushy under her gloves. Parted to one side over his neck and shoulders as the animal bows his head down for the handful of oats Kylo held out for him. Erland snuffles them up in a mere matter of seconds. Chews on the cud’s and almost headbutts his master for more.

 Miss Ashton laughs. “You were right about his stubborn blood. So I see.”

 “One of the most obstinate beasts on four legs.” Kylo promises with a grin.

 “Would you mind riding one of our mares, Miss Ashton? They are generally easier of temper.”

 “Not at all.” She accepts.

 He steps back and urges her over to the next stall. Here, a shimmering white horse awaits them. Brushed coat glistening the way untarnished snow lays sparkling in the sun. Bright and pure.

 This horses mane and snout is an ash grey. The same colour bleeds up past her fetlocks. There’s some dappled patches of pebble grey also on her flanks and rear. She was the sweetest mare with the softest temperament. She stays in her stall but gently cautiously seeks Kylo’s hand to eat the food her offered her. He strokes her neck fondly.

 “This is Kana. Shortened from the old Norse word for Birch tree.” Kylo’s introducing her. The mares ears twitch with her mentioned name. “So named, if I recall because her coat resembles the colours of the trunk.”

 “She’s beautiful.” Iris insists. Rubbing up the flag bone between her eyes. Kana appreciates the caress with an equine little snort.

 Across from them. The stable boy has brought Erland out his stable to tack him for their ride. Kylo and Iris stay stroking the sweet white mare. Stood at her stall.

 “Do you ride them out often?” She asks.

 “Every morning with Erland if I can manage it. Sometimes at night too. If sleep evades me.” He tells. Sleep always evades him. The one curse of immortality.

 “This poor old girl deserves as good a chance as any to stretch her legs.” He smiles.

 Another stable hand comes out and gently leads the white mare from her stall. She stands quietly as she’s tacked. Erland however? He pounded the cobbled floor with a scraping hoof and was twitching with excitement to be ridden. He bays and snorts and huffs until he gets his way.

 When his bridle and bit are slipped on, Kylo steps over and soothingly rubs his shoulder. “You, are an intemperate old beast.” He chides to his horse, as the stable boy lifts the fender to secure the cinch strap around Erland’s strong belly.

 After they’ve tacked her mare, the stable boys see to their other work. Bidding them a good ride. Kylo leaves Erland for a moment and steps around Kana to help Miss Ashton safe into the saddle.

 He takes her hand as she holds her skirts decently and levies herself up to her horses height via a handy wooden footstool. There is still a shimmering spark of contact when his hand closes around hers to hold. Even though they are both wearing gloves. The thrill of it is wilder and more potent than ever.

 She sets herself side-saddle. Takes the reins in her gloved hands. Gets used to the sturdy solid weight of the animal beneath her.

 Lord Ren heads back to Erland and hoists himself onto his strong back. In all his tall glory he didn’t need assistance into the saddle.

 He leads their walk out under the stone arch of the stables, and into the winter sunshine. He pulls Erland up flush to her and Kana’s side when the path widens out.

 They walk a to a slow paced trot through the dewy grass, that follows along the merry ash and taupe brown of the silver and white of birch winter woodland to their right. He was entirely correct about Kana. The sweet horse was gentle and unassuming in her nature.

 Iris sighs happily as she sees the sunlight cast an enchanting amber through all those pale trees. The waxy nectar of tulips drifting in the air from the Dutch gardens nearby. It was like something beautiful out of a dream.

 “You were right about the beauty of the ride. Your Lordship.” Iris remarks as she watches the amber stripes slope through the birches.

 He turns his head and catches that very same view she’d remarked on. He’d seen a million woodlands in his life. Over numerous centuries. And the place he spawned from was between tall pines and a ground eaten up thick with snow. He’s seen every copse of nature on every continent that exists. This view was stale to him. But he appreciates her admiration of it.

 “I suppose it is.” He says offhand.

 “What made you choose to settle at Hellford Park?” She asks him. “If that’s not an impertinence.” She adds. Smoothing her grey gloved hand over Kana’s neck.

 He smiles. “The house seemed of a decent size. The land holdings were vast. And I appreciate having my own space away from society. My worst nightmare is being wedged into a modern townhouse in London. With all the smog and the ton being rammed down my neck. I far prefer the country. The quieter pace of life.” He tells her.

 “Easier for hunting and sport...” He adds.

 “I feel easier knowing nature is on my doorstep. I need only walk out and be in it.” He explained.

 “I can’t bear the thought of a town life. I bless every year that my family haven’t the capital to rent a place in town.” Iris tells him. Probably not something she should admit. But she felt like her honesty was safe with him.

 “The most of town I’ve ever seen is a season in Bath when I debuted at sixteen. We managed to stay with my aunt and cousins. I thank heavens we’ve never repeated the experience.” He makes a firm sound of fond agreement.

 “I’ve seen the way you take to country life.” Kylo smiles at her. She nods across at him.

 “Same as you. Your Lordship. I appreciate the peace and quiet. Able to go and walk in the woods and be where my thoughts and wishes are my own. No one else’s expectations get forced upon me.” She says.

 “Nothing I like better to soothe my mind than walking around the Hampshire wilderness...” She comments as they head along a lane under a glade of golden elm trees.

 “I hope you don’t going adventuring out after dark, Miss Ashton. Even such tame country places can grow afoul after nightfall.” He warns her. Even in this genial little village he’s glimpsed the vile echelons of scum hereabouts.

 “Oh. I never run errands outside Westwell after dark.” She puts his mind at ease. “Mother thinks my evenings are best spent extensively reading of the Mirror of the graces and better improving my embroidery.” She tells him.

 He’s honest in his answering remark. Where most men she associated with would call her fine and sensible for indulging in etiquette novels. Kylo can’t think of anything more intrepid.

 “I can think of a million better ways in which I’d rather indulge my evenings.” He offers sincerely.

 “I don’t tell her that I often escape to my room to read my Johnathan Swift novel and to get a bit of peace away from her and my sisters.” She says with glad derision.

 Kylo smiles at her. “A far better use of your time, I’m certain.” He tells her.

 “Do you have any family?” She asks. And then she winces. “Sorry if I’m irritating you with nagging questions-“

 He smiles. He’ll answer any question she aims his way.

 “I did. A long time ago. It’s just me left now.” He imparts.

 She glances back at the gigantic house of Hellford. Save for staff, he had no one in it.

 “Doesn’t that ever get lonely?” She’s asking.

 “Don’t you?” He questions back nicely. Melting eyes catching hers. Sunlight spun them to amber glowing off dark walnut.

 She can’t help but nod. She doesn’t have many friends in this world. She has a greek harpy for a mother - talons, scales forked tongue and all. Her sisters were about as dense to understand as a Chelsea boot. Air headed and with no substance. And her father, loving though he is, is usually preoccupied in his study or being bullied down by mother. She doesn’t really have anyone.

 “I’ve never been left alone a day in my life. I’m permanently surrounded by noise and people yet- I’ve always felt... lonely.” She admits. Looking down to her hands where she held Kana’s reins.

 “It’s a privilege to finally have liberty to be able to express that to another living creature.” She smiles gladly at him.

 Kylo looks over at her. Brow furrowed. She does so many things for other people. She cares after every member of her dratted family. And she’s got this two tonne grey weight of sadness pressing down on her shoulders.

 It’s no secret he doesn’t care for the piddling and idle emotions of fleeting mere humans. But he so cares for her.

 “You never have to feel lonely if you don’t wish too.” He offers.

 “You have my confidence. And all that my acquaintance and friendship can offer to you. Miss Ashton.” Whether she likes it or not- she does. She has it. He firmly and fondly tells her so.

 “I’m very thankful for it. Vastly thankful.” She promises. “I could use a friend just now. With all the terrible circumstances happening in Pembleton.” She relays with a note of grimness.

 Erland snorts. Kylo pats his neck to sooth him. “Yes. The uh- madman Miss Smith raves about.” He recalls. “I’m sure it is the imaginings of her overworked mind.” He tells.

 Iris supposed that was a very accurate statement. Kylo had only met the awful woman once, too. And he already had sussed her flighty panicked character. That spoke volumes of her temperament.

 “Not to make mention of the supposed wolf thats said to be stalking these parts...” She adds.

 “An exaggerated tale, do you think?” He asks.

 “Well. I do subscribe to my fathers notion that wolves did die out centuries ago- but who knows? An animal that big and vicious, I’m all astonishment it hasn’t been spotted before now. This is a farming county. There’s poultry and livestock for the taking. Why would it bother with drunkards in the middle of the forest.”

 “Easier to stalk. And pick out- I imagine.” He smiles just a little. His gleaming eyes hold back his many dark secrets.

 He hears her inhale a shaky breath. He hears her throat pulsing next to him.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” He starts. “Of the alleged wolf. If, heaven forfend, there is one.” He surmised.

 “Why ever not?” She searches. Face pulled back. A little shocked.

 “Because wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them. The reason those men were attacked? They were half clumsy, gone on drink and weakly vulnerable.” He tells.

 Iris swallows. Brings Kana to a stop. “Lord Ren...” She gulps. “You talk as if you-“

 She takes a deep breath to fortify herself. “As if you know of such a thing...” She finally remarks.

 He stops Erland and doesn’t shy - from her glance or her question.

 “I know merely how wolves operate. Miss Ashton. Nothing more.” He says openly.

 Of course he does. She thinks stupidly. His home. Back in Bavaria. He said it was surrounded by wolves. He’s no doubt seen some people succumb to the packs of them.

 There’s silence for a minute as Kana and Erland chew at their bits. Clacking and shifting its crunch in the air. Erland leans his head over and snuffles Kanas snout. The creak of leather eases out in a squeak from The reins in Kylo’s hands.

 She nods. Cheeks beating. The shame of foolishness slithering up her spine. “Forgive me-“

 “I would if there was something to forgive.” He smiles.

 She ducks her head. Cheeks pink as she tips her chin to her chest. She sighs in bliss as she looks out at the open field before them. Before she gets a niggling flare of a brilliant yet stubborn idea in her head.

 “For once in my life...” She insists, almost angrily, Kylo’s eyes shift to how she shoves herself, adjusting on Kana’s saddle. She bunches her skirts. Leans back and he sees a flash of a white cotton chemise and pearly wool stockings as she swings her legs over, the both of them now astride the saddle.

 “I intend to do something completely and utterly dishonourable and unfeminine.” She says.

 Kylo’s smiling at the sight of her skirts draped up almost over her calves where she’s sat on the horse. He watches her adjust the reins in her hands and skip her feet into the solid stirrups.

 With a gentle kick into Kana’s flank she braces herself on the horse, as the mare proceeds to lurch into a gallop, breaking into the frosty meadow in front of them. Her blue coat flaps behind her. Kylo smiles after her lead. Adjusts Erland’s reins and spurs him on after her.

 For just that afternoon, for just those heart pumping minutes of uninterrupted bliss- Iris feels the sun bleaching onto her face, and the wind stinging and ripping at her hair. She feels her body and her soul stirring. For just those few minutes, she doesn’t feel like a trapped suffocating girl. Like a toy being manoeuvred in the dolls house that was her strict life.

 They gallop up the field and through another one. Coming up a trail that rises onto a hill in the sunny wood. She slows down when she gets to the top. Lord Ren catches up behind her. Erland could really get up a speed when he got going.

 She comes to a stop where the hill levels out. Looking across all the acres of Hellford park. She’s still winded from the ride. Sun and wind having kissed her cheeks a bright pink. Where she ducked past low branches in the forest, Kylo spies a green leaf nestled captured in her hair. Making her comparable to some frolicking wood nymph.

 He draws Erland up by her and Kana’s side. Listens to her panting as they take in the view of Hellford together.

 “Truly is a beautiful house, your lordship. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

 “A truly fine prospect.” He agrees. Looking out at all his wealth. All his grandeur and land.

 “Finest land holding in all of England I expect.” She smiles. Still panting for breath. He can hear how her blood beats like sweet syrup around her body. He can smell her skin and he is just- a man whose found heaven on earth.

 “Indeed it is. Nothing quite like it.” He admits. Iris doesn’t see how he turned to look and admire her rather than the view. Intoxicated by the tug and pulse of the artery her throat. It thunders her neck and it’s all he can hear or think about.

 Kissing her. Tasting her neck. Her skin. The subtle perfume of her body. Her caresses.

 He might aswell be a man half starved-wild at this point.

 They ride back to the stables. Slowly together. Conversing along the way. She changes back to side saddle as they get closer - didn’t wish for his stable hands to catch sight of her and remark on how unladylike she’d been.

 Kylo slips off Erland and hands him across to be untracked. He marches up to Kana’s side and takes Iris’s hand to help her slip down from the mares saddle.

 Only, fate seems determined to drive them into each other’s arms at every foreseeable opportunity. Her skirts snag on the pommel and this makes her fall onto her feet too fast.

 Kylo’s there to catch her. She’s once again, wedged now between Kana’s back and his chest. She thuds down to the ground with a soft “oof.” Escaping her lungs.

 That escalated when she looked up and found him so, brilliantly close. He towers over her, he’s twice her width in his shoulders alone. But he’s gazing at her so tenderly. His hand had shot to her waist to steady her outside her coat. The span of it reaches from her ribs almost to her hip.

 It’s somehow more dizzying to be nearer him now she’s seen what form lies under those clothes. The sheer immensity of this man.

 He looks up into her hair and smiles a tipped up curl of a crooked grin. His fingers reach up and skim away the leaf caught in her hair. She blushes and laughs a little when he shows her.

 She touched over the spot his fingers had skimmed. The skin still burned with heat and cold from the leather of his gloves.

 “I had the most pleasant afternoon.” She encourages. Swallowing nervously again. He can smell her hot throat. Her hot bare throat and it’s addictive- to be so close as this to his biggest temptation.

 “Thankyou very much for your hospitality, Your Lordship.” She adds.

 “And you for yours.” He thanks her for the baskets she’d bought. He breaks the trance. Turns back and calls to one of the stable boys to ready the carriage to take Miss Ashton home.

 “Oh, please. You needn’t bother. I don’t mind the walk.” She tries to fuss

 “I insist on seeing a lady safely home. It is all of five miles from here to Westwell.” He announces. She smiles in gratitude.

 He parts with her at the coach door, after it’s brought around. He holds her spare hand as her other clutches at her skirts and she steps up into the scarlet black box of it- to think on all that had passed between them since she first saw this coach mere days ago.

 If only she knew how much-

 He kisses her hand in parting. “A delight as ever, Miss Ashton. I do hope you visit Hellford again.” He urges.

 “As do I.” She beams back. Leaning forwards to look at him through the carriage door. He smiles before he steps away. Hands behind his back again. He nods to the driver, who cracks the whip on the horses and the coach lurches away. Takes her home. Safe away from him.

 She passes the ride to Westwell in his comfortable carriage, remarking with a sly smile to herself about the pleasantness of the afternoon. Looking out the window as the carriage shakes and cracks and tumbled speedily along the road, she noticed how the sun is dipping low into a evening sky. Misty purple and burnt peach copper. She wonders if she’s been missed at all.

 As soon and she alights the coach, thank’s the driver and slips inside Westwell’s front door. No sooner than she pushes the door shut, flat to her back on the wood to close it. And she is ambushed by her mother.

 The foyer is dark save for the amber fire. Daylight dies in the window frames. Here there is gloom waiting for her. Her crushing boa of a life wraps around her neck again.

 She is greeted with a pursed thin lipped glare of displeasure. Mother rips herself up to a stand from the armchair by the fire and snaps her book to slam shut. Loudly. Like a slap. Looking across at her daughter.

 Happiness shatters in her chest like a glass vase being dropped. The splinters and shards clog up her once happy heart.

 “Where in the devil’s name have you been?” She demands to know.

 “Paying call to Lord Ren.” Iris says. Moving into the house. Intending for the stairs. She doesn’t wish to be bitten by this poisonous viper. Not tonight. She’s had such a wonderful day to reflect on.

 “I beg your pardon?” Her mother remarks.

 “You heard me perfectly well.” Iris says flatly.

 “I dropped off the basket Mrs Phillips and Miss Smith sent to him in gratitude.” She adds in explanation.

 “I can’t think what gratitude they could possibly owe to that man.” She curses.

 “Why do you think so ill of him? What possible vexation has he caused you?” Iris accuses.

 “Pray tell why do you praise him so?” Her mother narrows her eyes.

 “He is a kind man. And he has the phenomenal benefit of having a working brain unlike all the preening idiots I usually have to comport myself in front of.” Iris explains.

 “I will not tolerate anymore stupidity. Think of our reputation to uphold. You were gone half of the afternoon. And I’d no clue as to where. And now you’re telling me you were in the company of a man, unchaperoned?” She shrills.

 “Yes I was.” Iris spits out plainly. “And there was no impropriety in it. Before you start accusing me of that.” She adds.

 Lifting her skirts and beginning to stomp away up the stairs. Mouth bitter and full of anger dashed with sadness. Mourning her beautiful day.

 “Do you have any idea what this could do to us? To our family name? Running around unsupervised with a man like that-”

 Iris turns back. Fuming. Hair wild. Eyes bright with rage. Glittering spitfire red from the hearth.

 “For once in my life, mother. I did not think! And I was glad of it! I did not need reminding of the fact you use me as a chess piece for this family’s hopes. Seizing my skirts and dragging me from square to square to make sure I catch a man of fortune and hale breeding.” Iris fairly yells. Voice scraping hoarse through her throat.

 Her mother stands in the foyer like some grim harbinger of doom in her plum muslin dress that looks black in the gloom. Her face sternly cross and icy at her daughters outburst. Her pale claw of a bony hand gripping the banister.

 “You will not associate with him again.” She tells stonily.

 “I wrote to Armitage Hux today. He travels back from London tomorrow and I’ve stated he is excessively welcome to come to tea.” She explains.

 “You will put on your best dress and make him welcome. And let him entertain the idea of a marriage match. Don’t be a fool Iris. A man like Lord Ren would never wish for your hand. Learn that now and be done with it. It’s time you took our family situation seriously.” She comments with finality.

 She takes her hand off the banister and walks away. Words ringing in her ears like knives stabbing at her brain.

 Iris’ pounding heart hardens over with grey nausea and glass shards that stab her lungs. Her eyes flood with quivering and filling up of silvery tears.

 She slips up the wooden stairs to her room and collapses into great fits of tears. Muffling her sobs with her hand. She wipes off her face and her stinging eyes.

 Kylo felt her dread, all those miles away at Hellford Park. He felt it like a punch to the gut. 

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~ 

[zombriekid]

Medium [Alucard/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hellsing

Summary: “…could I request where the reader uses their medium powers on a mission and Alucard begins to believe them?” victory usually tastes so sweet but not at the expense of the innocent

warning: vague mentions of violence against children

 Mediumship is nowhere near as glamorous as the entertainment industry loves to portray; it’s not all traipsing (see: trespassing) on ancient burial grounds and hurling invasive questions into the air in the hopes of something Otherworldly™ responding. You don’t often see apparitions- full body or otherwise- and it’s rare to hear much more than a single whisper, in fact the vast majority of the time your dealings with the dearly departed amounts to little more than just random surges or depletions of energy.

 This is not to say that your spirituality is weak, it’s just that… that’s what “ghosts” are- energy left behind by the living like an imprint of history, and this energy can be influenced by events, past or present, and passionate emotions, negative or positive, thus rendering any argument that they exist a hollow shot in the dark. Because you can’t prove what you (often) can’t see, not to others, especially in this day and age of technology with photo/video manipulation. And the fact that mediumship has a bad rep due to prior exploiters and frauds.

 But you purposefully leave that last bit out of the conversation cause even though He’s acting like He’s not interested, you know that Alucard is tuning in.

 Not that you can blame Him though. What else is there to do?

 From the moment your little menagerie of hunters stepped out of the Hellsing jet, absolutely nothing has happened. Nothing, zilch, nada. This might be ideal in other situations but you were promised a paycheck upon the eradication of a vampire who’s “more monster than man” and the subsequent purification of his/her hunting grounds, and goddammit you can’t let this mission stain your record! That and Mr. Tall Dark and Frightening is assigned as one of your partners.

 Well… more like you’re the one that’s assigned but yadda yadda fine details and all that.

 “So in other words…” Seras pauses with a drawn out vowel, “you feel ghosts rather than see or hear them?”

 You shrug in response before catching your boot over a pile of broken glass. It’s inevitable that you’ll trek through some before the mission’s end- hell before the night’s over because of friggin course a bloodsucker sets up shop in an old, forgotten hospital- however the less shards you have to pluck out of the soles later the better.

 “Depends. I hear Pip just fine, and on occasion he visually manifests himself for me, but that’s only cause of his connection with you. Uses your energy.”

 This seems to satisfy the young vampire for she gives you a quiet hum in acknowledgment with nothing else to follow. Silence hangs over your small group as the three of you inch down the hall, briefly turning your attention into every passing doorway and you specifically avoiding stepping on to jagged scraps of splintered wood and dusty glass; these two might be immune to pathogens but that doesn’t mean you are.

 “So you sensing energy… you mean that literally?” She asks.

 “Yes ma’am.”

 “Then riddle me this, revenant,” Alucard’s voice disrupts the conversation, chases away any semblance of peace and echoes into every dark corner of the walls around you. The fine hairs all up and down your skin suddenly stand to attention with the intrusive introduction of His baritone. It’s not as if you forgot that He’s there, or even that He’s eavesdropping, you just didn’t expect Him to vocalize His opinion. Should’ve known better, it’s friggin Alucard after all. “Do you ‘sense the energy’ of our target?”

 That’s the thing.

 You don’t.

 You can pick up both of your companion’s energies easily- Alucard’s is oppressive and dark and just plain inhuman while Seras’s is warm and jovial, but scarred, reticent, as if she has a blanket of secrets weighing down her back until she aches. That’s the best way you can describe it at least.

But there’s no other energy nearby.

 Now you’ll always be the first to admit that there are certain limitations to your spiritual sensitivity- for instance you wouldn’t be able to sense someone in the parking lot from this deep in the complex- and there are many factors outside of your control that contributes, with species acting as a major contender. After all, man eating monsters tend to amass a surplus of energy with every soul they devour, human or otherwise.

 So why can’t you feel the target’s energy? Sir Integra herself described them as “a gluttonous, beastial affront against the Lord with a deplorable appetite for children”; loss of humanity, depraved morality, the murder of kids… merely one of these would be sufficient enough for you, let alone all three, so this should have ease akin to your breathing offending Alucard in some way.

 Then why…?

 “I’m callin’ it,” Seras huffs before her boots cease their trek, which (shockingly) causes your other vampiric squadmate to pause as well. No need to single yourself out, strength in numbers as the saying goes, so you do the same. “They’re not here.”

 “I agree, but why not ask Hellsing’s residential medium? After all they’re supposed to be able to sense this thing’s energy.”

 The walls quickly sprint by in your vision as you snap your attention to the right, and you channel every poisonous thought and cutting emotion into the glare you fix the back of His head with. Alucard feels the weight, you know He does, just as you don’t need to see it in order to know that there’s a self satisfied grin stretching across His face.

 God, He’s such a petty bitch.

 Then again so are you.

 “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you could use the energy of your soul to sense someone else’s!” You spit out through a clenched jaw, but you’re not yet done. Now for the zinger. “Wait! That’s right. You can’t cause you don’t have o-”

 Cold.

 A plume of icy chill kisses your pebbling skin. Fine hairs rise. Your spine straightens. Instincts, or a sort of magnetic pull to your right. Not Alucard though. Further.

 Over your shoulder.

 A winding stairwell.

 Energy. Young. Scared. On the same floor. Your floor. The first stair.

 There’s a-

 “Murray?” You hear someone ask but you quickly shush them.

 Because there’s a ghost at the base of the stairwell in the little passage off to the group’s right; it’s not strong enough to create a perfect visual, or rather much of a visual at all, instead you’re graced with an opaque silhouette vaguely humanoid in shape. You can make out where the head and shoulders are supposed to be, though the legs dissipate below (presumably) the knees, and judging by the relatively small size you can almost safely assume that this spirit comes from a child.

 An assumption that dries out the roof of your mouth, tightens the muscles in your throat until it hurts to swallow; child ghosts have always proven to be the most harrowing in terms of purification, if nothing else because of the implications of their demise. No one cherishes the idea of dead children, after all.

 It’s in the nature of your job, unfortunately, and it’s time to get to work so first thing’s first: is this ghost related to the mission?

 “Do either of y’all know any history about this place?” You ask in a voice that practically toes on screechy, and yes you’re aware that your drawl is a touch thick right now. “A children’s hospital, maybe?”

 Seras stumbles over her words, likely a result from your behavior considering this is the first she’s bore witness to this side of your role, but she quickly regains her faculties with a throat-clearing cough.

 “N-no, it’s umm.. was just a general hospital. Mostly used during one of the World Wars.”

 Your kneecaps ache- cold, sharp, it bites at the crevices between your joints and it slinks down both shins until your toes start to feel chilly. A sort of rolling, hollow loftiness churns the pit of your stomach, and your head seems far too heavy to be sitting on such a stiff neck, and a dusting of salty tears sting the fleshy corners of your eyes. A scream tears at your jaw.

 But you don’t panic, there’s no need to because this reaction is not yours. The pain in your legs, the woozy light headedness that’s sapping your energy, the involuntary urge to sob and shriek until the lining of your throat feels like sandpaper? None of this belongs to you. This is your body reacting to the stimuli from the child’s ghost.

 Or as you like to call it: minor possession.

 “Why do you ask..?”

 A vampire with a preference for younger victims.

 “Murray?”

 The shade of a terrified kid, silhouette incomplete, and everything from your knees down plagued with an icy burn.

 …there’s no denying it, what you’re currently staring at, subsequently what’s burrowing into your bones and siphoning your energy, is a casualty of this mission’s target.

 You hear someone call your name, more specifically your first name, but with so much metaphorical cotton stuffed in your ears you can’t really determine who so you instead lift a pointer finger towards the spirit; perhaps crawling through mud would be easier. God you feel so weak.

 Seras is the first to respond.

 “Wha’ is it? I don’t see anything.”

 Through your teeth you manage to bite out: “g-ghost.” And that is perhaps the worst thing you could’ve said or done because the shrill gasp that she unleashes is nothing short of jarring, and she bounces from one foot over to the next and back again as her red eyes widen and glimmer with what you could only call excitement.

“Where?! Where is it, where do you see it?!”

 These questions gush out of her like a broken spout with many more to follow, but you can’t help but to tune them out cause this? What she’s doing right now? Yeah this is the exact reason why you prefer to tend to spirits by yourself; the fascination that borderlines fetishization that most carry with their individual worldviews often leads to disrespecting those who have long since passed. Hence your profession boggled down with money-grubbing charlatans, and entire programs dedicated to ghost hunting- ah, your apologies, you mean “paranormal investigating”. It’s distasteful, it’s tacky, and it’s downright insulting, and it etches itself deep into the lines between your brows and the downward tug of your frown.

 This… must convey your message perfectly for the young vampire’s delight gradually bleeds into something more somber.

 Maybe if you weren’t so tired you’d find it in yourself to let it go? “That’s one of our target’s victims, Victoria. Try to show some respect?”

 At least she has the decency to look ashamed, unlike her master whom you can feel the glare He levels you with behind the orange tint of His glasses. Any other time and the weight of His ire would intimidate you, but you honestly don’t care right now.

 The child’s spirit rises and bobs up the stairs, as if it’s simulating the act of walking, and with it goes the sensation of ice and pain and fear out of your joints. From beside you, on your right, you can barely make out Seras quietly saying “I think I see something.” It rounds the sharp bend in the stairwell before it continues its ascension until you can’t see- or sense- it anymore.

 And then something dawns on you.

 “I think he/she wants us to follow.”

 Alucard scoffs from somewhere behind you. “Is it going to lead us to the target?”

 A nod is all that you give Him. He in turn allows a single barking laugh to rip from His throat out of derision, judging by the sound in the way it’s meant to curl around your cheeks until they feel hot, however you’re rather confident in your assessment. In fact you’re very nearly absolutely certain that that is what’s going to happen: follow the ghost and you’ll find the target.

 Which brings you to your final conclusion, one that Seras seems to be grasping at herself. “Wait. If this ghost genuinely is a victim, then it really shouldn’t… exist per say, yeah?”

 “Yep. Man eating monsters, especially vampires, essentially absorb souls as a means to substitute what they’ve lost.” You glance at her in your peripheral. “Which means one of two things. Either my hunch is wrong and this spirit truly is an echo from the past, or…

 “My hunch is right, the spirit is a casualty, and our target’s already dead.”

 Silence picks up where your sentence ends; the nothingness of the quiet permeates through one ear and out the other, and it presses down on the bones of your shoulders until your spine shivers. There’s a tension in the air not unlike a rubber band being stretched from both ends, you can feel it in the cavity of ribcage, and though you could easily attribute the stress to the hospital’s atmosphere or the very real possibility of your estimate holding true, your instincts- built from some odd months worth of experience and adversity- place the blame on something else.

 Or rather someone else.

 Alucard.

 Because His opinion of you, and of your work, is coated in an acidic venom, and He’s very open about this with every sharp word and barbed look that He deems worthy of His time. Yet He hasn’t said anything else, hasn’t done anything else since His last outburst of sarcasm, and it makes you hyper aware of Him. As if He’s going to attack at any moment, physically or otherwise. Does He disagree? Is He biding for time until the finale where He can deliver yet another calamitous blow to your already scarred ego? … Is He actually considering that you may be right about this?

 Not possible. His pride is greater than His hatred for your existence.

 And on this dismal thought, you decide to not dedicate any more energy in to solving the enigma that is Alucard and you take a few strides towards the stairs before you mumble out a “only one way to find out.” You don’t bother waiting for your companions.

 Not twenty minutes later the three of you are provided with a definite answer to your theory.

 But you don’t gloat, there’s not even a hint of desire to. Because, after all, no one cherishes the idea of dead children.

_______________________________________________________________________

a/u: had ta repost this bitch cause i done messed up a-aron, which in turn meant tumblr pissed in my coffee and not showed it in ANY tags sooo... presto here we are again! once more with feeling: thank you to the anon who requested this, and thank you to everyone who reads <3 if ya liked my scheisse then please tickle the heart, leave a comment, and reblog it so other peeps can enjoy it too -3-

[kingdomheartsfaq]

KH3 Secret Reports

By completing Battle Portals 1-13 in KH3, you can obtain thirteen secret reports!  I couldn’t find a transcript of those reports online so they are listed below.

~~~SPOILERS~~~

Secret Report #1:

Recollections—

Am I alive?

I awoke in a cell, alone until the researchers came with their tests and their prodding to uncover my identity.

I had no answer to offer them.  Four friends, and a key… that is the sum total of my memory.  I could not even recall my name.  I was simply called “X” there.  My only solace was the time I spent talking with the two boys who would visit from time to time.

One day, A man came to take me from the prison.  I could not see him for the darkness, save that he wore an eyepatch.  Even now, years on, I feel no closer to understanding who or what I am.

May my heart be my guiding key.

—Unknown

Secret Report #2:

Mark of Mastery Journal—

Some days have passed since I set off on my journey to prepare for the Mark of Mastery examination.  Eraqus asked for leave to undertake the same pilgrimage, but apparently I am to be first to tour the worlds written of in the old fairy tales.

Until a few short years ago, I’d known only my own world, a spec of land surrounded by sea.  But how I’d dreamed of, reared for the World beyond… And, granted guidance from the future, I left that nest behind.  As I treaded the path to my master’s side, I came in contact with darkness in many forms.  I knew even then, as by instinct: terrifying as its power was, it could be harnessed.  Mastered.

Eraqus is a blue blood, descended from the very first masters in the age of fairy tales.  But I did not come this far to indulge in adulation.  I will be his peer.  His equal.  And to do that, I must learn to wield the power born from both darkness and light in proper balance.

—Xehanort

Secret Report #3:

Experiments of the Heart

Notes on Subject X, Excerpt 1—

Subject was found in the central square shortly after dawn.  Female, approximately fifteen years old.  After seven days’ observation, she spoke her first words, but could not provide a name.  Subject exhibits signs of profound amnesia, and displays concern about which world this is.  Her words suggest that she departed her home world with others, though she cannot recall the names of her erstwhile companions.  All efforts to explore those memories have been met with a rejection response.

After his initial experiments on me, Ansem the Wise ceased his research into the heart, his hand stayed by some fear I cannot fathom.  Yet this new subject is like me: devoid of memories.  She is the perfect sample upon which to continue my master’s work.  She, too, could benefit from it; by traversing the heart, we have a direct path into memory.  I myself have begun to reclaim my lost past thanks to these very experiments.

Who is she?  Whence has she come?  These are questions no scientist could ignore.  And the words she muttered, “May your heart be your guiding key”…

—Xehanort

Secret Report #4:

Experiments of the Heart

Notes on Subject X, Excerpt 2—

Subject’s memories have not returned, and our conversations remain less than lucid.  What fragments can be gleaned evoke a bygone world, like one out of fairy tales.  As improbable as it seems, the question may not be where she has come from, but when.  If she truly has crossed through time, the prospects of probing her heart is all the more compelling.

My pilot studies used a handful of subjects, but none possessed the fortitude to endure them.  Ultimately, all suffered mental collapse.  I knew it would be a heavy blow to lose a subject as unique as she.

Upon discovering the tests I’ve been conducting, my master demand that I cease my work immediately and destroy what research I have compiled.  Worse still, he ordered the release of my remaining subjects.  She is gone.

Where is Subject X now?  Has “wise” Master Ansem hidden her away?  Whatever the case, I will not be deterred.  I will take her place as the first subject in the grand experiment to come.

—Xehanort

Secret Report #5:

Memoirs, Excerpt 1—

That castle was a wonderland to us children.  Within its walls, Ansem the Wise conducted his research, and the fruits it bore allowed everyone outside to live in peace and happiness.  That alone was enough to stoke our interest, though not all of the rumors that escaped its walls were so benevolent.  By night, the muffled sounds of human wails emerged.  There was talk of dangerous human experimentation.  Lea and I couldn’t help but hatch a plot to steal inside and sate our curiosity.

The two who stood guard at the gates were researchers themselves, though you wouldn’t think it to see them, massive and barrel-chested as they were.  And slipping past that duo was only the first hurdle.  It proved one not easily cleared; we were found and tossed out on our ears, time and again.

On the day we finally secured our entry, we descended the long spiral stair at the heart of the castle to find a dark space below it, lined with cages.  There wasn’t light enough to see if they were inhabited, and we were in no position to call out to any occupants within.  Yet we could feel it.  A definite presence, there in the black.  Terror washed over us, and we immediately regretted coming.  But just as we turned to flee, we heard the faintest of voices.  The urge to run was nigh overpowering, but someone or something beckoned us on.

There, framed by a tenuous sliver of light, we found her.

—Saïx

Secret Report #6:

Memoirs, Excerpt 2—

It was too dim to make out her features.  We spoke to her in hushed whispers.  Who was she?  Why was she imprisoned here?  She had no answers for us.  Had no memories at all.  She was an enigma, but I knew I wanted to help her.

And so we continued our infiltrations, most of them stopped short at the castle gates.  When we did manage our way inside, we spoke with her.  That was all the comfort two children like us could offer.  But Lea had other ideas.  He was determined to free her.  We slipped into the castle that day knowing only that we wanted, with all our hearts, to save her.

But we did not find her inside on that day or the next, or any of our subsequent visits.  Had she been moved?  Had we simply imagined her?  Lea and I knew there was only one way to be certain.  And so we stand before the castle gates today, not as trespassing children but in order to become Ansem the Wise’s newest apprentices.

—Saïx

Secret Report #7:

On the Replica Program and Reanimation—

Following my erasure and my recompilation as a human, I did not awaken right away.  Perhaps the damage was exceptionally grave.  Even after waking, I remained in bed, pondering my next course of action.

In my work on the Replica Program for the Organization, I produced some twenty vessels.  Most of the early results were failures, not one of them granted a number.  The first success to emerge from that early lot was the Riku replica.  Subsequently, Xion (No. i) was essentially indistinguishable from a natural human, though she became unstable due to the influence of others.  Using those two as my foundation, I worked to construct a number of nigh-perfect replicas, but just as they neared completion, my efforts were cut short.  I suspect Xehanort aims to use both the initial lot as well as the unused replicas from my later work.

I arose today and decided to walk out to the square, my first outing in some time.  Yet my stroll was interrupted when a surprising visitor appeared with an unexpected offer.  Though younger than me, he’d risen to become Xemnas’s right hand.  I accepted his terms and became a Nobody once more—easier to gain access to the old Replica Program that way.

Whatever it takes to atone.

—Vexen

Secret Report #8:

The “Real” Organization—

Xehanort seeks to gather twelve vessels, which—together with his true, actual self—he considers the “real” Organization XIII.  Now that he has the numbers he needs, Demyx and I are being treated as reserves.

Several others who served Xemnas in the old Organization have followed the same course as mine, electing to abandon their newly restored humanity and rejoin the “real” Organization as Nobodies.  But not Xemnas.  Xemnas cannot exist in the present because there is already a Xehanort here: the old man in charge.  The old man’s humanity prevents his Heartless and Nobody, others vanquished in the past, and his younger self from being denizens of this time.

To circumvent this, Xehanort is using the prototype replicas I created in the past as containers, plucking his other selves’ hearts from the time they existed.  Xehanort ordered me to refine the prototypes, to make them closer still to the real thing.  Perfecting my creations so they my house true, flesh-and-blood humans suits my own purposes as well.  All that remains for my atonement is to devise a way to pass on as many of the vessels as I can to those who truly deserve them.  

—Vexen

Secret Report #9:

Ansem Code Conspectus, Excerpt 1—

I have pored over the data my master entrusted to Riku.  Here, I offer my preliminary conclusions.

Within Sora’s Heart are three compartmentalized “boxes,” each containing the heart of another.  One box holds Roxas.  Another holds a second heart that has been with Sora nearly as long.  The third has held its heart for much longer.  These hearts have melded with Sora’s and no longer have voices of their own.  Any attempt to mechanically extract them could prove as dire for Sora as what caused him to become a Heartless in the first place.

First, a vessel for each heart must be readied.  Then, a spark of some sort is required to induce its waking.  Obviously, the ideal solution is to restore each heart to its own body, but (whatever the case for the two unknown individuals) Roxas possesses no such thing.  The same is true for Naminé, who we believe resides in Kairi’s heart.  Still, if alternate bodies can be secured for them, all their hearts require to be awakened is that “spark”—people they cared for and who care for them, who can show them the way home.

Complete and perfect digitalization of the heart is impossible.  We can only hope to partially reconstruct it.  Thus, I see no way forward but to extract the hearts we so desperately need directly from within Sora.  Fortunately, the data stored in Twilight Town contains a near-perfect record of the memories of those who lived there—and for Roxas and Naminé especially, this is crucial.

—Ienzo

Secret Report #10:

Ansem Code Conspectus, Excerpt 2—

As for how to contain their hearts, the only conceivable option is the replicas.  If we transfer in the digital memories from the Twilight Town archive, the replicas should be able to reconstruct each individual’s human appearance with near-perfect results.  Then, their hearts need only the right spark to wake them, so they may find their way out of Sora and Kairi and into those newly made bodies.

The Replica Program was truly revolutionary, but it was incomplete at the time of the old Organization’s Dissolution.  Without Even, how are we to further the research?  We need at least three replicas: one for Roxas, one for Naminé, and one for the unknown stowaway within Sora’s heart.

These are difficult quandaries, but as I work through my master’s data, I find myself remembering the taste of ice cream.  When I was a boy, he would bring me some when we took walks together.  There will be time to regret my betrayal later.  For now, my focus must be on restoring Roxas and Naminé and proving my master had good intentions.

—Ienzo

Secret Report #11:

Observations, Excerpt 1—

I have seen it through; the Keyblade War unfolded exactly as written on the Lost Page.  Now, the Keyblade the Master enticed to me must be bequeathed to another.  Five Union leaders have been chosen from the surviving Dandelions.  I will pass the Keyblade to one of them, and then continue watching the future unfold.

Yet it seems that someone has pulled the old switcheroo.  One of the Five is an imposter, someone the Master did not choose.  They represent a virus in the program he so carefully wrote.

The virus has begun a strange undertaking: a reckless plot to allow the Five to escape into another worldlines.  Surely such a thing can’t be possible?  We’re talking about the same trick that allowed the Dandelions to transfer to other worldlines after the Keyblade War.  But these children are no Masters.  They haven’t the means… unless, of course, a certain lady of magic summoned here from the future knows more than I do.

The whole Union leader thing was supposed to be by the books.  Are these new events just another phase in the Master’s grand plan?

—Unknown

Secret Report #12:

Observations, Excerpt 2—

Even on a worldline with no Keyblade War, peace is but a dream.  In the absence of us and our Master, a “darkness” arrived—one that shall surely lead the World to yet another demise.

Amid the chaos, I bequeathed my Keyblade to one of the Union leaders, just as the Master instructed.  I watched as the Five were sent to another worldline—at no small cost—ensuring the line of Keyblade wielders will live on.  And now, Keybladeless, I must depart this land to fulfill my final task.  This means casting my own body aside and sojourning my heart in vessel after vessel—as many as it takes.

But I will continue gazing upon each passing era, one unto the next.  In time, be it years or decades, centuries or millennia, I will meet the Five once more.

Somewhere in this cyclical history of bequeathings, a chosen one will appear and reenact the Keyblade War.  

When this scapegoat arrives and takes my Keyblade in hand, that will be the time to take the stage and finish my role.

The Lost Masters will awaken.

—Unknown

Secret Report #13:

Observations, Excerpt 3—

It seems this body, this name will be my last.  The lives I have lived over the ages could fill volumes, but for now I must focus on what matters most.

The Keyblade has been successfully passed down, generation to generation, and it seems a Keyblade Master devoted to the darkness may finally arise.  Until now, I have watched over the course of events from a distance.  Perhaps the time has come to intervene.  I need only play the role of a fool desirous of the Keyblade’s power.  I will don the mask of his ally in order to keep watch over my Keyblade from close by.

The Gazing Eye: A Keyblade forged from the eye of the Master of Masters.  He passed it to me, as I have to others, and through it he can see the future—all that will ever come to pass.  Spanning the ages in body after body, life after life, my task has been to keep vigil over the Eye as it passes from hand to hand.  It has been a long time.  Longer than I can express.

But now at last the Keyblade War has begun, and Kingdom Hearts will open—a true and complete Kingdom Hearts, born of the clash between darkness and light.  I will soon be reunited with my old companions, and in that moment my long vigil will reach its end.  He will return…

—Unknown

[argyrocratie]

Malatesta on Regicide

Translated from “La tragedia di Monza,” Cause ed Effetti, 1898–1900 (London), September 1900. This was a one-off publication that meant to provide an anarchist perspective on the killing of King Humbert I by the anarchist Gaetano Bresci, which occurred in Monza on 29 July 1900. The title translates as “causes and effects,” and the date range that follows provides the key to the title: 1898 was the year of the bread riots that tragically ended in May with the cannon shots by which the troops of general Bava Beccaris killed hundreds of workers in Milan. A few weeks later, King Humbert conferred a decoration to the general for his services rendered “to the institutions and to civilization.” That was the cause. Bresci’ s bullets, by which he avowedly intended to avenge theMilan bloodshed, were the effect.

Another act of bloodshed has come along to cast a pall over sensitive souls... andto remind the mighty that placing oneself above the people and riding roughshodover the great precept of equality and human solidarity is not without its risks.

Gaetano Bresci, worker and anarchist, has killed Humbert the king. Two men: one prematurely dead, the other condemned to a life of torments a thousand times worse than death! Two families plunged into grief!

Where does the blame lie?

Whenever we criticize established institutions and point out the unspeakable pain and countless deaths they cause, we never fail to caution that such institutions are harmful, not just to the broad proletarian masses thrust into poverty , ignorance, and all the other woes that spring of them, but also to the very privileged minority that suffers,physically and morally , from the tainted environment that it conjures up and that lives in constant fear of the people’ s wrath making it pay a high price for itsprivileges.

Whenever we look forward to redemptive revolution, we are always talking about the benefits for all men without distinction; and we mean that, regardlessof the competing interests and party loyalties by which they are divided today ,they should all set aside hatred and resentments and join as brothers in sharedstriving for the well-being of all.

And every time that capitalists and governments perpetrate some extraordinarily criminal act, every time that innocents are tortured, every timethe savagery of the powerful erupts into bloodshed, we deplore that fact, notmerely because of the pain it directly generates and for the trespass against our sense of fairness and mercy , but also on account of the legacy of hatred it leaves in its wake and the seed of vengeance it plants in the minds of the oppressed.

But our warnings go unheeded; on the contrary , they are used as a pretext for persecution.

And then, when the pent-up anger of protracted tortures bursts into a storm, when a man driven to despair or a generous soul moved by the suffering of his brethren and impatient for sluggish justice to arrive, raises an avenging arm and strikes at what he reckons is the cause of the woe, then the guilty parties, the ones responsible… are us.

It is always the lamb that gets the blame!

Nonsensical conspiracies are concocted, we are fingered as a threat to society; they pretend to believe—and maybe some actually do believe—that we are bloodthirsty criminals whose only choice should be between the penitentiary andthe criminal asylum...

Besides, it is only natural that things should be so. In a land where the likes ofCrispi, Rudinì, Pelloux, and all those who have slaughtered and starved thepeople can live free, are powerful and are feted, there can be no place for the likes of us who protest and rebel against massacre and famishment!

But let us leave the incorrigible police personnel to one side; let us leave to one side the interested parties who lie in the full knowledge that they are lying; let us leave aside the cowards who turn on us in order to ward off any blows that might land also upon them—and let us reason for a moment with people of goodfaith and common sense.

***

For a start, let us bring things back into proportion.

A king has been killed; and since a king is, for all that, still a man, that fact is to be deplored. A queen has been made a widow; and since a queen is, for allthat, still a woman, she has our sympathy in her loss.

But why all the brouhaha over the death of one man and over the tears of one woman when the fact that so many men are being killed on a daily basis and so many women left to weep because of wars, accidents at work, revolts crushed bygunshots, and thousands of crimes spawned by poverty , spirit of vengefulness,fanaticism, and alcoholism is accepted as natural?

Why such an outpouring of sentimentality over one particular misfortune when thousands and millions of human beings are perishing of starvation and malaria, to the indifference of those who might have the wherewithal to stop this?

Perhaps it is because, this time, the victims are not vulgar workers, not some nondescript man and woman, but a king and a queen? …

Actually , we take a greater interest in the case and our grief is more poignant, livelier , more authentic, when we are dealing with a miner crushed by a landslide while working and a widow left behind to perish of hunger with her little children!

Nevertheless, the sufferings of royals are human suffering too and are to be deplored. But lamentations are pointless if one does not look into the root causesand try to eliminate them.

***

Who is it that provokes the violence? Who is it that makes it necessary and inescapable?

The entire established social order is founded upon brute force harnessed for the purposes of a tiny minority that exploits and oppresses the vast majority; all of the education delivered to children boils down to an unrelenting paean to brute force; the whole atmosphere in which we live is an unbroken parade of violence, a continual incitement to violence.

The soldier , which is to say the murderer-by-profession, is revered. And most revered of all is the king, whose most distinguishing feature, historically   has been that he commands soldiers.

By brute force, the laborer is obliged to suffer the theft of the product of his labors; by brute force, weaker nations are robbed of their independence. The kaiser of Germany urges his troops to give the Chinese no quarter; the British government treats Boers who refuse to bow to the foreign bully as rebels and puts their farms to the torch, hunts down housewives and even pursues noncombatants and re-enacts Spain’ s ghastly feats in Cuba; the Sultan has the Armenians slaughtered by the hundreds of thousands; and the American government massacres the Filipinos, having first cravenly betrayed them. Capitalists send workers to their deaths in the mines, on the railways, in the paddy fields by refusing to make the necessary expenditure on safety at work. They summon in soldiers to intimidate and, if need be, gun down workers calling for better conditions.

Again we ask: from whom, therefore, comes the incitement, the provocation to violence? Who is it that makes violence look like the only way out of the existing state of affairs, the only means whereby one may not be eternally subjected to the violence of others?

And in Italy , things are worse than elsewhere. The people are perennially hungry; our lordlings are more cavalier than during the Middle Ages; the government competes with the property owners, bleeding the people in order to line the pockets of its favorites and squandering the rest on dynastic ventures; the police have the power of yea or nay over citizens’ freedom, and every cry of protest, every stifled lament is strangled by gaolers and smothered in blood by soldiers.

The list of massacres here is a lengthy one: ranging from Pietrarsa to Conselice, Caltabiano, Sicily , etc.

The king’ s troops massacred the defenseless people just about two years ago; just days ago the king’ s troops afforded the landowners of Molinella the support of their bayonets and their conscript labor against famished, desperate workers.

Who is to blame for the rebellion, who is to blame for the revenge that erupts from time to time: the provocateur , the offender , or the man who denounces the offence and seeks to banish its cause?

But the king is not responsible, they say!

We certainly do not take the farce of constitutional shadow play seriously . The“liberal” newspapers, which now contend that the king is not accountable, were well aware, when it came to themselves, that above parliament and ministers there was a powerful influence, a “higher echelon,” that the king’ s prosecutors would not countenance to be alluded to too bluntly . And the conservatives currently looking forward to a vigorous “new age” from the new king, indicate that they know that—in Italy at any rate—when it comes to identifying responsibility , the king is not the puppet they would have us believe. And besides, even if he does not do the harm directly , any man who fails to prevent it, though is able to do so, is still answerable for it—and the soldier commanding king can always, at the least, stop his soldiers from opening fire on the defenseless populace. And is still responsible if, unable to prevent evils being done, he allows it to be done in his name rather than abjure the benefits of his office.

True, if factors such as heredity , education, ethos are taken into account, the personal responsibility of the mighty is greatly attenuated and may well evaporate altogether . But then, if the king is not answerable for his actions and his omissions—for the people’ s being massacred in his name—and allegedly had to remain in the highest office in the land, why on earth should Bresci be held to account? Why on earth must Bresci pay with a lifetime of unspeakable suffering for one deed that, no matter how wrong-headed one might like to think it, no onecan deny was prompted by altruistic intentions?

But this business of tracing responsibility is of mediocre interest to us.

We are not believers in the right to punish, we repudiate revenge as a barbaric notion; we do not mean to be either executioners or avengers. The calling of liberators and peacemakers strikes us as a holier , nobler , more productive calling.

We would gladly reach out our hand to kings, oppressors, and exploiters just as soon as they made up their minds to be again men like any others, equals surrounded by equals. But for as long as they persist in revelling in the existing order of things and defending it by the use of force, thereby leading to torment, brutalization, and death from exhaustion for millions of human creatures, we need and are obliged to meet force with force.

***

Meet force with force!

Does that mean that we revel in melodramatic conspiracies and are always in the throes of or bent on stabbing some oppressor?

Nothing like that. As a matter of sentiment and principle, we abhor violence and always do whatever we can to avoid it; only the necessity of resisting evil through suitably effective means could induce us to have recourse to violence. We know that such singular acts of violence, in the absence of sufficient preparation by the people, remain futile and indeed, by triggering backlashes against which one cannot stand, they generate incalculable injury to the very cause they were intended to serve.

We know that the essential, incontrovertibly purposeful act lies not in the physical killing of a king but in killing all kings—from courts, parliaments and factories—in the hearts and minds of people; meaning the eradication of belief in the authority principle worshipped by so many of the people.

W e know that the less ripe revolution is, the bloodier and more uncertain it proves to be.

We know that, violence being the font of authority—indeed, at its core, one and the same as the authority principle—the more violent the revolution turns out to be, the greater the risk that it may spawn fresh forms of authority. And so, before deploying the ultimate arguments of the oppressed, we strive to acquire that moral and material strength that is needed to minimize the violence needed to bring down the system of violence to which humanity is presently subjected.

Will we be left in peace to get on with our propaganda work and our organizing and preparations for revolution?

In Italy , they prevent us from speaking, writing, and associating. They ban workers from joining together to struggle peaceably , not just for emancipation but also for the slightest improvement in their uncivilized and inhumane living conditions. Prisons, domicilio coatto, and bloody repressions are the means deployed not just against us anarchists, but against anyone who dares to contemplate a more civilized state of affairs.

Is it any wonder if, having lost all hope of fighting successfully in their own cause, ardent spirits let themselves be swept up into acts of vengeful justice?

***

The police measures that always victimize the least dangerous; the zealous search for non-existing instigators, which looks grotesque to anyone with the slightest grasp of the spirit that prevails among anarchists; and the thousands of farcical extermination schemes advanced by dabblers in police work, all of these serve only to highlight the savagery lurking inside the heads of the ruling classes.

If a bloody revolt by the victims is to be utterly ruled out, there is no course of action except the abolition of oppression by means of social justice.

If eruptions are to be reduced and disarmed, there is no recourse other than to allow everybody freedom to propagandize and organize; for the disinherited, the oppressed, and the discontented to be left the option of civilized campaigning; for them to be afforded the hope that, albeit piecemeal, they might secure their own emancipation by bloodless methods.

The government of Italy will have none of this; it will carry on with its repression... and it will carry on reaping what it sows.

While we deplore the short-sightedness of rulers who make the contest unnecessarily harsh, we shall carry on fighting for a society without violence, in which all will have bread, freedom, and science, and where love is the supreme law of existence.

[squirrel-moose-winchester]

I’m Giving You a Choice

Title: I’m Giving You a Choice

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam, and God

Word Count: 2956

Warning: Angst, Out of body experience, Sad Dean, and idk…

A/N: I just want to let everyone know before hand that I can’t angst. Like I am horrible. So please tell me what you think about it. How can I improve? What could I have done better? I need your feedback so I can angst properly, or angst a little better. LOL. Once again, you’ve been warned… I can’t angst.

You were suddenly standing in front of a tall run down building. It looked oddly familiar but you just couldn’t place your finger on it. It looked like an old power plant, neglected and abandoned. It was a little eerie but there was something inside of you telling you to enter… so you did.

It was not what you expected at all. It was amazing, immaculate even. It was like a secret lair. Old and ugly on the outside to ward off other people but well-lived in the inside. It was dimly lit as you descended the stair case. The more you saw the more unbelievable it all was. But there was something in the back of your mind saying that none of this was new, that you’ve been here before.

Shaking off the thought, you wandered further into the structure. Everything was clean and neat aside from a few spots here and there. The table with a map had a few bottles of beer on top. You noticed that they were all empty. Trotting more into the living space, you found yourself in what seemed to be a library, books strewed across the table.

The books were strange, almost like occult books, but it didn’t seem to phase you as you thought it should. It almost seemed normal to see these kinds of books. They were books on witch craft, sleeping spells, demon deals, every topic that should be sending a signal warning ringing through your ears but it wasn’t. You weren’t scared, you were the opposite.

Wanting to explore more of the bunker you headed down through the halls. You peeked into different rooms but didn’t linger too long, however you did spend a few minutes in the kitchen, as a familiar feeling washed over you.

Further through the halls you came across a room that seemed to draw you in. Stopping in front of it, you spent some time gazing at the numbers. Double ones. Room number eleven.

Slowly, you opened the door, an overpowering scent filling your lungs. Your senses were sent on overdrive, feeling so many different emotions. The scent made you feel warm. It gave you some sort of comfort. It was familiar.

Stepping fully into the room, you admired the décor. It was simple with guns mounted on the walls. There was a desk caught that caught your eye. There were pictures, one particular man a common factor in every single one. He was incredibly handsome. In a few pictures with him was a woman who didn’t seem to be much younger than him. Maybe by just a few years. You assumed that she was his girlfriend. With a little tinge in your chest, you left the room and wandered a few doors down to a room whose door was wide open.

Without hesitation you stepped into the room. Everything about it made you feel like… like… it was hard to explain. It made you feel possessive? As if this room and everything inside it was yours. It appealed to you. Bits of green scattered around the room, something about the color drawing you in. Artwork posted on the walls that made you feel proud, and a giant bed that made you want to dive right into it’s warm, fluffy, memory foam nest of relaxation, so that’s what you did.

Rolling around the sheets in pure bliss, you heard a slam coming from somewhere in the bunker. You sat up straight in fear, scurrying out of the bed and trying to fix it as best you could. You were about to leave when you turned your head to take one last look at the room. When you spun forwards to run out, you came face to face with a man. It was the same man who was in all the pictures, except he looked a little different. He seemed a lot more tired and beat up. He was staring right at you and you panicked. He didn’t say anything, probably waiting for some sort of explanation to why you had broken into their… home?

“Uh, um, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to trespass, I just…” you stopped speaking when he didn’t react or give any sort of acknowledgement, and that’s when you noticed. Something was wrong. He wasn’t’ actually staring at you, he was staring past you? His eyes seemed lost, as if he was merely zoning out, but even so, you were sure that any normal human being would have responded in any kind of way once they were to see you. So what was the matter with this guy?

“Dean, hey, you okay?” Another voice interrupted, making you jump. When a taller male appeared, with long brown hair, you noticed that he too didn’t seem to recognize your presence. It was strange. You didn’t understand.

“Dean,” you said out loud, wanting to feel the way his name rolled off your tongue. It oddly felt natural, as if you’ve said that name many times before.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry Sammy, I just…”

“Sammy…” you said aloud, the name also familiar. “Dean, Sammy, can any of you hear me? See me? Hey!” There was no response at your attempt to make yourself known.

“Hey, it’s okay, c’mon let’s get to the hospital,” Sammy patted Dean on the back.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice was rough and barely a whisper. Something was definitely wrong with him? The both of them. How could they not see you? Was this a dream?

Despite the possibility of this being a mere illusion induced my sleep, your curiosity urged you to follow them, and realizing that they couldn’t see you, you used it to your advantage to figure out what was really going on. What was wrong with Dean and why couldn’t he or Sammy see you?

You followed them through the bunker and back to the outside. The sun had gone down since you arrived, casting orange and pink hues mixed together in the sky. It was pretty but it felt a little chilly. While you were distracted from your thoughts, the sound of a car door slamming caught your attention. You rushed over to get into the back seat, just as Sam shut his own door at the driver’s seat. Anticipation churned in your stomach as the slick black car came to life. Who knew what kinds of answers would be waiting for you when you arrived at the hospital.

When Sam pulled in the parking lot of a hospital, you read the words on the building as he parked. You were in Lebanon. Lebanon, Kansas? The first word that popped into your head in association with the location was home. Home? It was strange. The feeling was like a distant memory.

When you started thinking, you began to realize that something was weird. If fact, everything was weird. Something was very wrong. Your memory… you had none. You couldn’t even remember your name. Things only looked and sounded familiar, but you had no recollection of anything. Who were you, why were you here, and who is Sammy and Dean? Something wasn’t right. Fear crept in and you suddenly felt cold, a throbbing pain coming from your head. Wincing at the sudden feeling, you tried to add pressure to the spot until it reluctantly disappeared. It was at that moment you knew something was terribly wrong and panic started to set in.

Sam exited the car, you following suit. He walked over to the passenger side and opened the door for Dean who just sat there, his eyes carrying that dazed look he had earlier back at the bunker. What was up with him? Did he have some sort of mental issue?

Sam helped Dean out of the car as you stared at him trying to conjure any sort of answers. There was a darkness in his eyes, as if there was a lot on his mind. His dull green eyes shifted to the hospital building, tears glossing them over and pooling on his bottom lids.

“Dean, it’ll be okay. She’s fine,” Sam comforted him, but got no reaction. He let out a deep sigh and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, she’s waiting for us.”

Your brows furrowed wondering who they were talking about? Was this girl the reason why Dean was so out of it?

Walking through the hospital doors, you saw the nurse give them a sweet yet apologetic smile. They must have been here before. There was a sort of familiarity between them.

“Hey Joyce,” Sam greeted.

“Hi Sam, Dean. Y/N would be happy that you guys came to visit,” she smiled.

“Thanks,” Sam replied, pain swirling in his hazel orbs.

“Y/N,” you said the name out loud. The name suddenly made you feel nauseous. You couldn’t understand why. Who was that person? You were sure you’ve heard that name many times before but nothing came to mind. You didn’t know who it was or where you’d heard it. You were becoming increasingly more frustrated.

Sam lead Dean down the white sanitized hallway, making multiple turns until they stopped in front of a room door. The numbers 114 on it, and the anticipation built drastically within you wanting to see who was behind the door, but at the same time terrified of what you were going to find. There were so many emotions swimming around inside you. It felt too real to be a dream.

The door squeaked ajar and you held your breath. Just as Sam opened the door all the way, Dean rushed in taking the seat beside the bed. Sam entered next, sighing in exhaustion. You peaked in to see who it was but Dean’s body blocked your view.

“Y/N, hey, it’s Dean. I’m here baby, please wake up. Sammy’s here too, we miss you so much.” Dean’s voice shook, a firm indication that he was crying. Sam remained silent, listening to his brother and staring at the person laying on the hospital bed.

Not daring to enter just yet, you let your eyes roam the room, observing the monitors and IV bag that was most likely hooked to the patient. The beeping from the monitor was steady and consistent, making you believe that the girl should be okay and her healing coming along.

“Hey, Y/N. We’re waiting to take you back home, all you need to do is wake up,” Sam muttered, his voice dropping down to a whisper half way through his words.

“God, baby I am so sorry. I’m so sorry I let this happen to you,” Dean croaked.

“But it wasn’t your fault,” the words just slipped out of your mouth. You were a little surprised not knowing why you suddenly said that.

The sharp pain you had experienced early in your head shot through you suddenly. You groaned stumbling forward, bumping into the door before falling to your hands and knees. Both men snapped their heads in the direction of the noise, witnessing the door move. You were a panting mess, clutching the side of your head. When you opened your eyes the pain was gone.

“What was that?” Sam questioned before getting up and walking past you, scanning outside of the little room. “There’s no one around,” he muttered.

“Do you… do you think it’s Y/N?” Dean’s voice raised into a panic.

“Dean, the doctor said she’s fine. We just need to talk to her and she’ll wake up eventually,” Sam assured.

“And what if she doesn’t Sam!” Dean shouted, frustration getting the best of him. “I did this to her! It was my fault that this happened. I should have been there; I shouldn’t have let her come on this hunt!” Dean clutched her hand and lowered his head against it just as you stood up from the floor.

Your body froze the moment you saw her face… it was the woman in all those photos with him. A switch inside you flipped and you suddenly knew who she was. It was you. Your eyes widened in panic and shock, not knowing what to believe. What the hell was going on and what the hell were you doing laying on a hospital bed?!  How could you be standing here right now and also be laying there! Were you dead?! Were you a ghost right now?

“What’s going on?!” You shouted. Sam and Dean unexpectedly whipping their heads in different directions, searching franticly around the room.

“Did you hear that?” Dean questioned, his eyes wide as they landed on Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam responded. “It was faint, but I definitely heard it.”

“It sounded like…”

“Yeah, it did.”

“Y/N?” Dean called.

Out of nowhere, as gust of wind surrounded you and your memories came rushing back. It was a hunt. You were fighting against monsters, a gang of ghouls who had taken form of your friends. They masqueraded as Bobby, Charlie, Kevin, Jo and Ellen. You remembered the feeling it gave you when you saw their faces. You remember fighting, and then you remembered being thrown into the air, hitting your head hard on a tombstone before seeing Charlie hovering over you, punching your face repeatedly until she was ripped away from you. You vaguely remember Sam coming up to you asking if you were okay until everything went black.

“What the hell is happening?” Your words coming out strangled.

“You’re dying,” a voice sounded from behind you. Jerking around, your eyes widened, not expecting to see him again. “You’re currently in a coma in which you’re slowly fading away.”

“G-god?”

“Hey there, Y/N, it’s been a long time,” he smiled.

“What the hell? If I’m dying, then why didn’t I have my montage of happy memories?!” You spat, unable to believe him.

“Because I’m giving you a choice. You are a part of ‘Team Free Will’ after all.”

“What are you trying to say, Shurley,” you demanded.

He let out a sigh, “You are definitely a member of the Winchesters, such a short temper,” he shook his head. “And I just said it, I am giving you a choice.”

“A choice to live? A choice to remain a spirit? Or a choice to go to heaven or hell or where ever the hell I’m supposed to go? What is it?”

“Oh, that’s what you meant!” God laughed, causing you to roll your eyes. “I’m giving you a choice to live. They need you, Dean needs you, but if you’re done, then I can bring you home.”

Home. The thought of home raked through your mind. The bunker was home, Sam was home, Dean was home. The only home you wanted was where ever Dean was. Dean. You wanted to be with Dean.

“Dean,” was all you managed to say.

“Good choice. He’s definitely lost without you,” God smiled. “You’ve suffered a great head trauma and had been in a coma for two months and he still hasn’t recovered. Good luck, Y/N. Be careful out there,” Chuck said before disappearing.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Are you here?” Dean was shouting at your sleeping form while Sam scanned around the small hospital room for any sort of sign of your presence.

A small cough came from your lying form on the sterile bed. Dean and Sam getting whiplash from how quick they turned their attention to you. Both men took a sharp breath in shock and relief. Sam shot up from his seat running out to call a doctor while Dean gently lunged himself at you, cupping your cheeks in his hands before pressing a hard and deep kiss on your dry and chapped lips. The feeling of him brought warmth through your body, loving the feeling of being alive.

“Dean,” you whispered, your voice raspy and dry.

“Baby, I’m right here! Thank God you’re okay! That you’re awake!”

“You really should be thanking God,” you coughed.

Sam came rushing back with a half full glass of water, his hand soaking wet. You attempted to laugh but your throat was too dry. Sam passed the glass to Dean who glared at him. Sam shrugged before Dean pressed the glass to your lips, tilting it forwards allowing you to lubricate your rusty throat.

When Dean retracted the glass away, you finally let out a soft laugh, causing both Winchesters to smile. “What’s so funny?” Dean asked.

“Sammy, how fast did you run here?”

“What makes you think I ran?” He grinned down at you with brotherly adoration.

“Your hand is all wet,” you chuckled.

Sam’s cheeks reddened at being caught. “I just wanted to get back here as soon as possible. The nurse should be on her way.”

Just then the nurse entered with a clipboard in hand smiling at you before shifting a glare towards Sam who shrunk at her accusing stare. “You left a little mess behind Mr. Winchester,” she scolded.

“Sorry, I just wanted to get back here,” he apologized, the nurse’s face softening.

“Miss Y/L/N, how are you feeling? I’m hoping he was able to get some of the water back here for you to drink?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I had some water, and I’m feeling alive,” you responded.

The nurse did her routinely dismissal check ups. After an hour or so, she came back handing the paper work to Dean. “Well, that settles everything. Mr. Winchester, all you need to do is fill out these forms and bring them to the front desk. Y/N is all set to leave. Just take these vitamins twice a day until you run out and everything will be fine,” she announced.

“That’s it? It’s that quick?” Dean asked?

“It’s that quick,” Chuck rounded the corner, entering the room. “The three of you, along with Castiel, have work to do.”

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[pilgrimbenham]

Sola Gratia / Sola Fide

Are we truly saved by grace through faith—or do we need to do something to qualify ourselves for salvation?

In church history a man arose on the scene by the name of Pelagius. Pelagius was a British monk who arrived in Rome and saw the city’s dim view of morality and began developing a reputation for being a spiritual advisor who urged people to reform their behavior and live upstanding lives as moral citizens.

Pelagius rejected the doctrines of original sin, substitutionary atonement, and justification by faith. Instead, he emphasized unconditional free will and the ability to better yourself spiritually apart from grace. The Pelagian heresy lives on within us and specific movements within Christianity today that really don’t grasp the concept of Sola Gratia (grace alone) and Sola Fide (faith alone)—two of the five solas of the Protestant Reformation.

Augustine—the 5th Century Bishop of Hippo in North Africa—had a contention with Pelagius’s arguments.

Pelagius vs. Augustine

Pelagius said sin gradually corrupts. Augustine argued that mankind is born into Adam’s sin. Pelagius said that humans have a clean slate. Augustine said that’s wrong—humans are dead to sin. Pelagius argued that voluntary sin makes you wicked—whereas Augustine proved that man is born wicked. When Pelagius stated that our good works merit heaven, Augustine correctly pointed out that Christ’s atonement alone merits heaven. Pelagius developed the idea of the unconditional free will, and Augustine pointed people back to God’s sovereignty. Thus, in Pelagius’ system, there is no need for grace. Augustine reminds us that there is a desperate need for grace in the heart of every human sinner.

Thus in 529 A.D. at the Council of Orange, Augustine argued for the doctrine of grace, and Sola Gratia was understood, even in the Catholic Church for centuries, and the Pelagian heresy was denounced.

“Grace” defined by Catholics & Protestants

In our salvation—the Reformers argued—God is the initiator and we are the responders. We are saved by grace alone through faith alone. This is where Catholics disagreed. In fact, the National Catholic Register says this (Feb. 5, 2018):

Grace is primary in the whole process, so in that very real sense we can describe our system as “saved by grace alone” -- whereas we can never say “saved by faith alone” (i.e., with works playing no part at all in salvation) or “saved by works alone.” The true Catholic position will always include the works alongside grace and faith. We teach neither sola Scriptura, nor sola ecclesia, nor sola traditio.

However, that’s not what the Bible teaches. Protestants tacitly disagree. In Holman’s Treasury of Words, this is how God’s grace is explained:

“God in His grace has saved us and given us grace and we are the ones who have received it. Grace is the gift of God. It is expressed in God’s actions of extending mercy, loving-kindness, and salvation to people. Divine grace is embodied in the person of Jesus Christ (John 1:14, 17). God’s grace manifested in Jesus Christ makes it possible for God to forgive sinners and to gather them in the church. During His ministry, Jesus repeatedly offered forgiveness to a great number of sinners and extended God’s succor for a variety of desperate human needs. Through teachings such as the father’s forgiveness of the prodigal son and the search for the lost sheep, Jesus made it clear that He had come to seek and save those who were lost. But ultimately, it was His redemptive death on the cross which opened wide the gate of salvation for repentant sinners so that they have access to God’s forgiving and restorative grace.”

Saved by Grace, through Faith

Essentially grace was spoken about by Paul more than any other biblical writer, about 100x. We can’t essentially understand Christianity apart from a proper understanding of the grace of God. Apart from grace you are either prone to legalism or antinomianism. You either believe you must keep the law to earn God’s favor, or that God’s law should be completely cast aside. So grace steps in and says, “No, I can’t earn or deserve justification because it is a GIFT. It is freely given, freely received, available to all, efficacious in its design, and reaches both the moral law-keeper and the aggressively sinful lawbreaker.

Ephesians chapter 2 explains our condition, and where faith comes in: 1 And you were dead in the trespasses and sins2 in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience—3 among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind.

So our resume has us dead, following the world and the devil. We were by our very nature called “children of wrath”, “sons of disobedience”, and those who reside in the passion of our flesh. Not looking very good! Then we get to verse 4:

4 But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, 5 even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved—6 and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus,7 so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.8 For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God,9 not a result of works, so that no one may boast.10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.

Sola Fide

This verse reinforces the idea of “Sola Fide” (faith alone). Sola Fide was one of the most controversial aspects of the Reformation, and truly the hinge on which the Reformers built their theological movement. Sola Fide affirms that I am saved by grace through faith, and that Christ’s imputed righteousness has been put into my account without accounting for my merit or good works or ability or worth. It is all by His grace, and I receive this by faith ALONE.

Now Catholics would also argue that they believe in justification by faith. But the problem is that we aren’t using the same words. When we talk about Christ’s righteousness, the Protestant would say it has been imputed to us, whereas the informed Catholic would say it has been infused into us. That means that the believer must cooperate with and assent to that gracious work of God and only to the extent that Christ righteousness inheres in the believer will God declare that person Justified. Protestants disagree, pointing to the critical difference between infused righteousness and imputed righteousness. Sola Fide affirms that you are Justified on the basis of Christ’s righteousness for us which is accomplished by Christ’s own perfect act of obedience apart from us not on the basis of Christ’s righteousness in us.

And that is glorious good news.

Glorious Good News!

That means that you weren’t saved because God saw something in you that He knew would qualify you for salvation. He didn’t know who would respond and who wouldn’t so He chose the ones who would respond. That would mean He justified you because of your faith. We aren’t justified for our faith, we are justified BY our faith.

John Frame powerfully points out: Grace is not like a box of candy that you can send back if you don't want it. Grace is divine favor, an attitude of God's own heart. We cannot stop him from loving us, if he chooses to do so. Nor can we stop him from giving us blessings of salvation: regeneration, justification, adoption, sanctification, glorification. His purpose in us will certainly be fulfilled.

Praise God for His wondrous grace!

Pastor Pilgrim

Want to learn more? We are celebrating the Five Solas this Saturday night at 6pm at our “Night of Reformation” at The Port. Click here to RSVP!

[snowsheba]

iron-willed are the ascended

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chapter 2 (part 1 of 3) - together in fear and despair

She is wondrous and terrifying in her beauty, and Genji is deathly afraid of her just as much as he is drawn to her.

For now he stands at her side, silent as he watches her speak with the stablemaster, coaxing a laugh from the gruff woman with a few charming words and soft smiles. Angela takes the old woman’s hand in hers and he only sees the gold light because he knows to look for it, and then minutes later they walk away with two strong mares at a discount and Genji is in awe, is in fear, is in –

“The woman’s name is Ana,” Angela murmurs, stroking a hand down the neck of her mare; “Her only daughter has been drafted, so it is just her and her husband, now. They have so little left – she’s thinking of signing on again just to be close to her family.” A soft sigh. “I eased her pain as best as I could.”

She is so selfless. Genji remembers just hours ago when he had tried to kill her, and the mark on his pulses bright and holy against his skin and he can’t lift a finger against her now, couldn’t even if he tried.

“You did not have to do that,” he says, and though it’s not phrased as a question, they both know better.

“I heal hurts,” Angela says simply. “Mercy may not always agree, but with power comes responsibilities. And I – ” and here she mounts her mare, laughing with her blue, blue eyes as she looks down at him – “do not shirk my responsibilities.”

“I could not have guessed,” he says, swinging onto the back of his own horse with practiced ease. “So that is what you did back in the capital?”

“One of my primary duties,” Angela says, settling in as Genji took the lead. Her horse pulls up alongside his, just a touch behind, as she says, “Healing comes naturally to me – both physical, emotional... and I am particularly good at mental illnesses.” She hums an unfamiliar song and she knows so many and he wonders what they do, for she sang and gave him Mercy’s blessings and her voice is smooth and lovely like a river. “It was good. Helping others is a calling as good as any.”

“You liked it, then?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Angela says, quiet and iron, and when she rounds those blue eyes on him he almost freezes. He had felt Mercy’s touch when she had blessed him, the soft warmth that trailed gold across Angela’s back (he knew this because he had seen them when she had flown beside him, he knew this and it makes him afraid because Hanzo can’t win against this, can’t win against her), and he knows enough to be certain that Angela would never harm him – and enough to be certain that Angela is the most dangerous person in the entire world. “And you?”

“What about me?” he says, and gods, he used to be good at this, any other person and any other day he’d flirting and playing – but with her his words dry up to nothing, and he wishes his mind would stop focusing on Her and on her.

“What do you do? Back home.”

He laughs. He can’t help it. She had seen through his every fear and every shattered dream when she had touched his temple back in her room in the capital, and here she asks a question that she no doubt has an answer to already.

“I doubt you would be interested,” he says once his laughter has subsided. Irony is cruel and it hurts him, clawing and dark.

“You have tasted – no, lived a freedom the likes of which I have only dreamed,” Angela says, and there’s a soft longing in her voice. Is she ignorant of the pain she inflicts? “I am more interested than you could possibly know, prince.”

(Prince, prince, prince. He is Genji, or otoutu, or young heir or younger brother or young master but never ‘prince’. He doesn’t correct her. He tells himself it’s because it’s a new title from a new person, but in reality he is simply too afraid to tell her how little he matters, how he could easily be smashed to bits in the cogs of Shimada’s machine.)

“I did not spend much time at home,” Genji says presently. He licks his lips, heart thrumming in his chest. “I found more pleasure outside of its walls.”

“Pleasure, yes,” Angela says with the gentlest of laughs, and he ducks his head, face flushing pink, a prickle in the back of his throat; “Let me rephrase. What did you do that made you happy?”

When is the last time he has been happy, beyond spending time with his brother, practicing his swordsmanship, laughing with friends who are no longer friends? Back when life was simpler and he was dumber and didn’t know what lay in wait for him at the end of the tunnel, and he says, blurts really, discomfort apparently, “Climbing.”

“Oh?”

“Acrobatics, I suppose. Showing off. That kind of thing.” He ruminates on that for a few moments, past the irritation humming in his blood, but it’s the honest truth; he enjoys having the physical ability that makes Shimada warriors so famed and feared, and he enjoys being particularly talented in it. “Other things, but – if I was not, you know, or... whatever, then I was climbing.”

“I see.” His sentence had made entirely no sense but Genji knows, somehow, that she’s telling the truth. “I would like to learn how to do that, someday. Perhaps if we get out of this alive.”

“If we get out of this alive, we will return to our homes,” Genji reminds her. “There will be nothing after this ends, one way or another.”

“So little faith,” Angela says with a laugh, and it’s jarring, how she truly doesn’t know about him despite what she’d done to his mind in her chambers. “I do not believe in leaving things to fate, but you and I, prince – Mercy will always be by your side, no matter how far you will go.”

And so will you, Genji thinks, and is startled by how vehement and certain the thought had been when he does not even know whether it is true.

“Did you not receive training in how to rule?” Angela asks him. “Surely you did not spend all of your time outside of your home.”

I do not shirk my responsibilities, she had said, and here was he, her polar opposite, by choice and his brother’s urging. Perhaps that is why his heart beats with the surety of promise, that tomorrow he will be with her and the day after and the day after, even when her words cut into him like knives, and he is honest when he says, “I ran off often enough. Whatever princely duties I did learn were forced down my throat.”

“Why?”

“You said you know what my father did to us – to me, to anija, to mother,” Genji says, and the memories pass by blurrily as he shoves them away; there’s the tearing at his chest again, a constriction of his throat, and now the irritation leaks into his voice bit by bit. “Hanzo protected me until he couldn’t protect me anymore, and now I am here and why did you have to ask when you already know?”

She is taken aback, as Genji had guessed. It doesn’t ease the prickle at the corner of his eyes. “I did not – ”

“Is Mercy not kind? Were you not supposed to heal hurts and not cause them?” Genji demands, and he isn’t sure where this dark, intense anger is coming from but it wells up from somewhere deep, somewhere hidden. His voice rises. “Mercy is said to be gentle and loving and you do this to me, you flip through my memories like they are a list and you use them to break me, and you – ”

“Genji – ”

“They say you live up to Her, your Goddess, that she is your actions and your thoughts and your life is devoted to carrying out Her will and She is good and grace and then you invaded my head, where is the kindness in – ”

“Mercy is not kind.”

The iron is there again, in her voice. His words get stuck in his throat, dread dripping cold down his skin. He stops talking and stares at her profile, sees the proud press of her mouth.

“Mercy is not kind,” she says again. She is expecting a quick response; little does she know that he is far too afraid to give one, and so she continues unabated. “Mercy is black and white, right and wrong, yes and no. Do not mistake understanding for kindness.” Her expression, when she turns to look at him, is haunted. “Everything She can do comes with a price, prince. I carry out Her will and do as She bids, yes, yes, you’re right – but you must understand that nothing comes for free.

“For me, the exchange is pain, physical and emotional. I endure and I heal because it is what I do, and sometimes that is neither kind nor fair but it is what I do and I cannot change that.” She breathes out; a beat passes, and she confesses, quietly, “I should not have asked, but I did not know. All I knew is that your father beat you, and I did not know why, only that it hurt you deeply enough to leave a scar.

“Do not blame Mercy for this. She is not like you or me; She does not easily discern that more than one factors plays into an action. For Her there is only right and wrong, and that is why I did not see the nuances when I felt your hurts.” Genji stares, unbelieving, terrified and also still angry, somehow, and it must show on his face because Angela sighs. “She let me see what tore your scars into you, and that is all. Nothing more, nothing less. That is why I asked.”

“You should not have done that in the first place,” Genji manages, fury and fear making his voice shake. “You read me like a book, without even asking – ”

“It was terrible of me to do so without your permission, I know,” Angela says, and the iron frosts with ice, now, and he is so afraid but she would never hurt him, at least there is that, “But you know just as well as I do that in my place, in that situation, you would have done the exact same.”

She is right. It grates no less, and Genji says, breathes really, “Do not do it again.”

“You do not control my actions,” Angela says with a sharp shake of her head. “If it is necessary, I will not hesitate. That is all I can promise you.”

“That was not – ”

“ – your intention, I know.” Angela stares at him now, eyes blazing. “I will respect your boundaries as long as you give me no reason to trespass. Will that do?”

A pause, wherein his heart flutters with panic. “It will have to,” Genji says, and he can’t quite disguise the fear in his voice, not this time.

Her eyes continue to bore holes into his skull, fierce, fiery, fire. He is too afraid to look away, she could crush me in her fingers and I would let her, and he would, wouldn’t he? He has no reason to go home, no reason to pretend this plan of theirs will work, has no idea what waits for him in the darkened halls of the Shimada estate; and yet here he rides with her at his side, her with her azure eyes that burn with cold stars and to think he has a valkyrie at his back, ready to fight the world on his behalf.

And then she looks away, and then she rasps, voice raw, “I apologize,” and there is the pain she spoke of – the price she pays – as she whispers, “Sometimes Mercy gets the better of me.”

There is a prickle across his back at her words; the dragon awakens, however briefly, and murmurs something he doesn’t quite pick up. It is not the first time the ink across his back has stirred for something other than when he is in danger, but there is a finality to it that puts Genji on edge. The dragon does not speak for just anyone, and the murmuring slowly becomes louder and more distinct the longer Genji looks at her.

“It is not your fault,” Genji says distantly, and the dragon whispers, The world will burn for her and you would help her start the flames.

“Perhaps not,” Angela says, pressing a hand against her chest, right above her heart. Her clothes are thick but there is a golden glow on the back of her neck, ink fine and thin and shining even in the dawn’s light. He wants to see. “Still. I am sorry.”

There is a revolution coming, the dragon whispers, and you will be there to see it through, and Genji says, “I am sorry as well.”

“Then we are even,” Angela says, smiling, and the dragon falls blessedly silent and Genji burns with knowledge he feels like he shouldn’t have. They’ve only just met, and he thought this had been his choice, to follow this woman to the end of the world on nothing but blind faith and hope – and yet it isn’t, for the dragon is never wrong and now, now it seems both the dragon and the Goddess of Mercy are on their side. This war is so much larger than the two of them and yet – “Are you alright? You are staring at me.”

“Gomennaisai,” Genji says automatically, averting his eyes, aware of the blood rising to his cheeks. He’s good at this, he – used to be good at this, but Angela breaks all the rules and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, not yet.

“That is – sorry, yes?” Angela waits until he gives her a nod before continuing, “It is fine. I was more curious than not; you are very pale.”

“It is nothing,” Genji says, waving away her concerns, and he doesn’t know if she knows he’s lying, but it doesn’t matter. Silence falls between them until Angela begins to hum in the back of her throat, soft and soothing, and Genji is grateful that she seems to sense his reluctance to talk, now.

He doesn’t know how she does it, but he understands how eliminating her would have been optimal to Shimada’s plans: one way or another, people rally themselves around her, and now he, too, has been caught in her song.

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[superbtheoristcollective-blog]

NOTES ON THE ORDER OF THE PRINCE: DOES IT STILL EXIST? 

The Order of the Prince is an ancient organization whose main focus is the protection of human society against threats of a magical nature that everyday authorities aren’t always trained to fight. Their objective lies upon the elimination of major threats to ensure the survival of their kind.

The Order was originally formed centuries ago, and its members thought to be mainly those descending from the families that were a part of it back then: ancient, royal families usually, who are famous now only in name, and often have no real power. Becoming a member of the Order is a generational tradition and a way of life for those that belong to said families. Though many of these same families dismiss their families’ ties to the Order and have since distanced themselves from such rumours. 

Because of such things, along with shifting attitudes toward magic, the true scope of its ranks, locations and secondary activities are scarcely known to the general public as well as scholars, given how much the organization values the protection of its privacy and secrets.

However, I have gathered as much as I can from the oldest records of the Order, along with letters and diaries that belonged to known members of the organization. Hopefully, the information provided here might answer some of the unanswered questions regarding one of Great Britain’s own secret society. 

HISTORY:

In the land of England, years before King Arthur rose to power along with his adviser Merlin, there lived a group of powerful knights that took it upon themselves to protect the land from invasion and magical threats. They were well-known for responding to magical emergencies, such as creature attacks and the trespassing of mundus lands. They did it in the name of their King, hence the name.

Their anti-magick policies and noble status made them a rather reliable force against those that would attempt to rise up or otherwise attempt to damage mundus or their traditional way of life.

As views of the people began to change with the rise of Arthur, the group of knights was eventually forced to change their way of being and was rumoured to have been disbanded not long after. The truth was, however, that they began operating secretly. Their goals were still very much the same, but the noble families that made up the order urged to keep their ways secret if the world was to be protected from the powerful threats of magic that would surely come thanks to the new-found image of magicks in the land. They named themselves The Order of the Prince.

As the years went on, the Order operated in secrecy. Only known to the members, they would celebrate meetings and events in what would come to be known as their Guild Hall in London. Crafted through the efforts and budget of the families devoted to the Order, the Guild Hall served as their secret meeting place and a training space as well, where they could hone their craft and research into the creatures they were bound to protect humanity from.

Meanwhile, each family had its own devoted training ground, scattered across Great Britain. Correspondence between families suggest that families often hosted squires and knights (those who are training for the hunt) from other families for training sessions to generate good will and give a boy a well-rounded education. Most of the time, these were disguised as “internships” that boys take during the summer with a family’s business to learn another’s trade. 

It must be noted that the location of said Hall has always been shrouded in mystery and rumour, and has actually changed several times over the years depending on the family in charge. All that is known is that its most probable location is within the city of London.

In recent years, there is much evidence to suggest that the views of the Order against Magicks has relaxed. Instead of discriminating them all equally, they have established a hierarchy of threatening creatures that may or may not be hunted and taken down in the name of protecting society and humanity. As a matter of fact, allegiances with certain Magicks, primarily powerful, old fairy families, have proven to be successful for them and have allowed their knowledge to develop further than they originally hoped. However, they still would not ever consider a Magick for membership of the organization, and the act is still strictly prohibited in their guidelines.

THE HIERARCHY OF THE ORDER

King: Once every 7 years, one family becomes the new King of the order following a tourney; the patriarch of that family (eldest male) becomes the reigning King. It is up to the King to move the Guild Hall if he wishes it and host most of the celebrations and rituals.

Queen: the King’s second-in-command and in charge if the King cannot attend or is harmed.

The King’s Council: Comprised of the King, his Queen, and the eldest member of every family in the order. Each is afforded one vote.

CELEBRATIONS AND RITUALS (taken from the diary of a knight in the 1700s-- traditions might have changed)

Rituals

Initiation: All boys at age 14 go through this ceremony to become a squire.

Dubbing: If a boy has passed the first stage of his training by age 16, he is “dubbed” a knight and permitted on hunting parties.

First Blood Hunt: The day after a boy’s 18th birthday, he embarks on his first solo hunt (class D or higher). Many knights don’t slay a creature their first time, and will have the opportunity to take up another blood hunt after they are either nominated by a Prince or request it (and it is approved).

Coronation: After a knight has successfully conducted his first solo hunt (i.e. successfully slayed something), he is crowned a Prince.

The Passage of the Arms (Pas d’armes): This tourney happens once every 7 years. Each family can nominate one Prince (sometimes the Patriarch, but not always) to represent the family in a series of duels to determine the new King of the Order. If the Patriarch does not represent himself, his son/nephew/cousin etc fights for him. Only the oldest member of a family can become the king.

Unicorn Hunt: A unicorn hunt is a rare, special sport for Knights and Princes and usually they happen spontaneously since unicorns can’t really be tracked. Slaying a unicorn is considered a gift to the Order because of all the useful materials it brings such as:

Unicorn hair: woven into bands and ribbons that never break, these are usually beautiful gifts for the ladies of the Order.

Unicorn horn: The horn has many uses. Ground into a powder, it can heal or be used to forge weapons into unbreakable swords and daggers etc.

Proposals:

The process to propose to a Lady of the Order is a long and complicated one. There are three steps:

Courtship: Usually begins at the Ball or Promenade with permission of the woman’s father. They must attend the year’s events together before a proposal is considered.

Presentation of the Family Ring: When a man decides he wants to propose marriage, he gets permission from the woman’s father. Then he presents the woman with the ring of his family. The woman is not allowed to accept the proposal then and there but must take the ring. She must wait at least thirty days before giving an answer, but often times the time is longer and in fact, the longer it takes for the woman to respond, the more likely it is she is to say yes-- because she’s busy working on a sword.

The Forging: If a woman decides she does not want to marry the man, she returns the family ring to him (burn). If she does, she must craft him a sword in her family’s forgery and present it to him. This serves as her acceptance.

Celebrations

The Melee of the Squires: During this tourney over several days, families introduce their newest trainees and they participate in duels, jousts, and other competitions. Boys are usually 14-15 and fight with their brothers/cousins in teams.   

The Joust of the Knights: During this tourney over several days, polished Knights +Princes gather for a series of competitions, one on one. Brothers/cousins etc can be pitted against each other during this joust.  Boys must be 17 to enter the Joust.

Winter’s Ball: A celebratory event that gathers families together in the Guild Hall for a night of food, wine, and relaxation. Often families try to pair up their daughters and sons for this event.

Summer’s Promenade: The beginning of summer ushers in this casual sporting event, hosted by a family nominated by the King (it is seen as a great honor). Families gather for hunting, cricket, golf, and music and an evening of dance. The ladies are allowed to participate in a horse race (women only!) Once again, this is a good time for families to pair up their daughters and sons.

WOMEN AND THE ORDER

Women are not allowed to train as knights, go on hunting parties, or learn how to fight but they are still an important part of the Order and are often responsible for plenty of tasks within it, including upholding the reputations of the families in public life (often by becoming influential businesswomen, lawyers, politicians, philanthropists and/or socialites) and planning the rituals. They are also, of course, the caretakers of the family, which means not only running a household but keeping a Prince’s weapons sharp, armor strong, etc and be capable of caring for wounds.

Most importantly of all though, women are seen as the keepers of the Order’s history. They are responsible for teaching it to the children and recording the stories whether in verse or song

A woman’s education in the Order, besides learning its rules, rituals, and about the monsters that the men hunt include:

Blacksmithery

Armory

Potion-making/alchemy- only women are allowed to handle the magical aspects of armor and weaponry since women are already impure; think Garden of Eden.

Horseback riding

Music

Public speaking

Archiving

Medicine

CLASSIFICATIONS FOR MONSTERS (ooc: this wouldn’t be known to the general public):

Class A: Really Big Dragons, Sea Monsters (Krakens, Sea serpents, Colossal Squid, Hydra), Giants, Basilisks -- considered the hardest to slay based on sheer size and danger, knights often have to work together in massive hunting parties to take down these beasts.

Class B: Vampires, Sirens, Succubi, Incubi, Sorcerers and other Abusers of Magic, Shapeshifters like the Vaagh or Kitsune, Changelings-- these creatures are often slippery and smart with disguises, skills and spells of their own. Therefore, they require great cunning and strategy from knights to corner and kill...and not fall under their spell themselves.

Class C: Mountain and Forest Trolls, Werewolves, Ogres, Gryphons and Hippogriffs, Hell Hounds, Sphinx, Giant Spiders, Escaped Demons (like Mor’du), -- these creatures are often brutally strong and fast, though a well trained knight can often take one on by themself. Usually knights, for their first solo hunt, go after creatures like these.

Class D: Kelpies, Mermaids (esp carnivorous ones), Chimeras-- though lesser in size and strength, other aspects of these creatures (like a mermaid’s beauty or a chimera’s poison) still make these trickier kills. Some knights do hunt these as a solo hunt.

Class E: Dwarves, redcaps, some species of troll (stone trolls), Unicorn most other miscellaneous creatures fall into class E. Most of these creatures are used for training young knights before their solo hunt.  

Class Zero (magicks unharmed by the Order):

Fairies

Celtic and Nordic Elves

Gifteds-- as long as Gifteds have not harmed other Mundus (for example, Celia would be left alone until she has stoned someone; then she’s considered worthy of being hunted. Same with Chester. Same goes for elves rly).

FAMILIES OF THE ORDER

Blackwood 

Dunbroch

MacDonald

Dingwall

MacIntosh

MacGuffin

Andersen

Hightower

Westergård

Slayer

Charles

[millercrystal]

A Covert Operation

Fandom: The Flash

Cynco week 2017 - 4 June: Flashpoint!Cynco

Warnings: 1 fight scene near the end, not too graphic though, tagged just in case. If you need anything else tagged, feel free to tell me.

Rating: mature children

Genre: drama

Word count: 2091

—

Cynthia is exhausted, as she lately finds herself ending up more often than not after turning in criminals.

The newest breacher to catch is extremely evasive, so a top-notch collector is to be sent. Cynthia has just wrapped up a case and had been hoping for a few days of break. However, with other senior collectors busy after other breachers, the Council has decided to send her for this retrieval.

By the laws of Earth-19, all interdimensional travellers would expect to be hunted by collectors. Naturally, most are desperate to hide their tracks, the most common method being transmorphing their appearances.

This particular escapee is in a league all of their own.

Not only are they in possession of a facial transmogrification device, but they are also highly skilled in science. If they only had a transmogrification device, Cynthia could trace them down on other Earths by monitoring their vibrational frequencies. However, with their superb scientific skills, they can easily invent various gadgets for concealing their identity.

As a matter of fact, preliminary investigation shows that this trespasser has prototyped a device to align their own vibrational frequencies with that of the dimension they are in, thereby rendering vibrational frequency monitoring useless. The prototype is by no means fully functional yet but it may soon be, meaning the fugitive is pressed for ground-breaking technology readily available from a state-of-the-art scientific research facility. What better way to access a continual supply of advanced machine parts than to join one as a researcher?

The latest leads indicate that the breacher is on Earth-1.

Usually Cynthia would be excited about field duty, but going undercover is more effective in tracking this particular target and it makes her slightly anxious. Seriously, her reputation is for hunting criminals, not doing spy work. Though, if spy work is what it takes, then that is what she will do.

—

It turns out that Ramon Industries is currently the hottest scientific research lab on Earth-1 USA and their security division is hiring. With experience as a former ‘police’ and Earth-1 appropriate documents, Cynthia breezes through recruitment in no time, signs on as a security guard and gets assigned on patrol rotation covering the whole facility.

The head of the security division quickly befriends her, citing the lack of females in the division warranting them to bond and look out for each other. Cynthia does not get that logic but she goes along with it, it is always good to have a willing ally. Even if that ally does not have much idea about her real background and has roped her into training together after work weekly. Especially when that ally is a former bodyguard with a lean frame and a constant cheerful smile, who does not give out the impression that she is on guard - certainly an advantage you want on your side for discreet work.

Friday evening finds both women sparring in the employee gym, with Cynthia resisting the urge to use her powers and thus exposing her cover.

‘So, why did you become a cop?’ Priscilla throws a punch at Cynthia’s jaw.

She sidesteps quickly, but not quick enough and the punch lands on her shoulder. ‘My… close friend was murdered right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t stand sitting around doing nothing to catch the guy, so I applied for police academy.’

‘I’m sor-’ Cynthia swipes at the older woman’s feet and lands a success. ‘Ooof!’

She offers a hand to help the groaning woman up and is waved off with a grin. ‘Yeah, thanks. Why did you become a bodyguard?’

Priscilla lies down on the mat puffing. ‘Being brought up Chinese means your family expects you to work as hard as you can academically, but I’m not good at school like my sister. I lounged at any opportunity to get away from the expectations and the first I came across was bodyguard training from a careers fair.’ she breathes in deeply, ‘Gosh, I’m out of practice.’

‘Wanna go for another round?’

‘If we’re getting dessert afterwards.’ Priscilla stretches like a cat and takes the offered hand this time.

—

Cisco has been walking past the employee gym on his way to the helicopter pad, when he notices his head of security being swept off her legs by a petite woman.

There is a fierceness in the woman’s eyes, bordering on wildness. Is she fighting for her life? Or perhaps fighting to protect? He stops just out of sight beside the floor-lengthed windows and observes the two women spar, noting that the wavy haired woman exchange blows and jabs with mesmerising elegance not unlike a dance.

He takes his cue to leave when both women start packing up afterwards.

—

The following Monday, Cisco requests for a meeting with Priscilla.

‘Mr Ramon, is there a security problem?’

‘No, not at all, Ms Tam. I just think it’s time for me to start having a bodyguard; with the influx of talents, the Industries is on fast-track to become one of the top research labs in the country.’

‘And you’re starting to become a target.’ Priscilla deduces.

‘Yes.’ Cisco looks out of his office window. ‘One bodyguard at work should be enough for the moment, we can review if I need more bodyguards or longer coverage later. The woman who you trained with after work last Friday -’

‘Reynolds.’ Priscilla supplies helpfully, secretly wondering when he walked past and watched them spar without being seen by her.

‘Reynolds.’ Cisco enunciates her name and decides he likes how it rolls off his tongue. ‘Does she have bodyguarding experience?’

‘No, but she was a cop. If you want someone with bodyguarding experience, Sans Souci, Bridge or Rothstein would be good.’

‘Send me their employee records and I’ll confirm with you soon.’

—

Cynthia has patrolled through the entire building for a month but still has not made much headway in identifying the breacher. She has not sensed anyone that vibrates at a different pattern, not even after she sends out low intensity vibes to disrupt any vibrational frequency alignment device. The Accelerated Man has sent a message asking for updates and she has been procrastinating to reply, dreading to admit out loud the lack of progress and debating to request for a partner to assist the mission.

Understandably, she is distracted when Priscilla tells her over lunch about her transfer to Ramon’s personal bodyguarding team from the following day, but soon perks up at the chance to screen for her target among the senior staff around Ramon.

—

‘Mr Ramon, they are Cynthia Reynolds and Mason Bridge, your new bodyguards. Reynolds, Bridge, Mr Ramon.’ Priscilla gestures towards each of them. ‘If there are security issues, call me on the intercom.’

Ramon stands and shakes Cynthia’s hand. She gets a vibe immediately - no facial transmogrification, no dimensional travelling, but a mug of coffee and him shooting a sonic blast. When she returns to the present after a second, Ramon has a concerned expression but shows no sign of coming out of a vision. She vibrates his hand slightly to test him.

He looks confused.

Oh, boy, he has no idea on what he can do.

—

‘Cynthia-’

‘Reynolds.’

Cisco sighs and starts again. ‘Reynolds, you can sit down, you know. That armchair is comfy. Bodyguarding me doesn’t mean you gotta be a robot.’

‘But I still need to be alert, Mr Ramon.’

‘And I’ve told you to call me by my first name. We’ve talked about this for a week already.’

‘Sure, “by my first name.” ’

‘That’s… some progress. We’ll work on it.’

Cynthia smirks as Cisco turns his attention to the intercom, telling his secretary to let Dr Thomas in.

‘Dr Thomas! I hope you have good news on the rapid transport system you’re working on? I’m beginning to think you’re hoarding the transport tech team for other projects.’ Cisco jokes.

‘Yes, I have some up-’ Thomas stops abruptly upon seeing Cynthia.

‘Oh, she’s my new bodyguard. Now, the update?’

Cynthia crosses her arms as Thomas stares at her for one more beat before recovering and filling Cisco in. She probes Thomas with low intensity vibes and instantly senses a change in his vibrational frequency. Jackpot.

Thomas glances at her warily as he leaves Cisco’s office, quickening his pace when he meets her eyes.

—

After passing the shift to Bridge, Cynthia asks for Thomas’ office location and directions from the HR division. Checking to see her stun gun is strapped to her leg, she marches to his door.

He is working on a flattened device - likely the vibrational frequency alignment device. Seeing his back turned to the door, she opens a portal and jumps just inside the office.

‘Well, well. Look who’s here, the legendary Cynthia Reynolds, coming to apprehend me. What did I do to have this honour?’ Seeing a bright light, Thomas turns around.

Cynthia blasts him in the chest with her trusty stun gun. ‘I bet your name isn’t Thomas.’

He trips and scrambles behind a bench. She stalks towards it cautiously, feet muffled by her boots, and shoots the shelf behind the bench to force him out.

As the shelf shatters, he crawls towards another bench and Cynthia aims another sonic blast at him. It misses him narrowly.

Neither of them hear the door open until a voice sounding suspiciously like Cisco speaks up. ‘Dr Thomas, do you have a model of - Oh, looks like it’s not a good time?’

‘Ramon? Get out! He’s a threat!’ Cynthia roars at Cisco while firing at the bench Thomas is currently hiding behind.

‘OK you know what, I have a bad boy you can use.’ Cisco pulls out his phone and types a string of commands rapidly. A minute later, 2 drones fly into the workshop and laser target Thomas, chasing him out into the open. He runs towards Cynthia and tackles her to the ground, punching her jaw while she blasts his chest successively to no obvious effect. He must be wearing a suit that diffuses the shockwaves.

Cynthia is rapidly losing advantage while being pinned down.

Before she can open a breach and surprise Thomas, a sonic punch enters her field of vision and blows him off of her. Cisco, she realises.

She rolls away swiftly and simultaneously pulls out her stun gun to finally knock Thomas out on the forehead. Then she slaps a pair of handcuffs on him.

When she looks up, Cisco is gawking at his own hands. He is startled when she addresses him.

‘You ok?’ she grunts.

‘Yeah… and you?’

‘Yep, thanks to you.’

‘Good.’ Cisco takes a deep breath. ‘Did you really shock him with sonic waves generated from your hands? Did I really punch him with a shadow fist?’

‘Hey, listen, I know you’ve loads of questions, but I have to bring him in. How ‘bout you go home and get some sleep? I’ll explain everything tomorrow.’ she opens a portal straight to Earth-19 and pushes the unconscious Thomas into it, herself following.

—

When Cynthia shows up in Cisco’s office the following day, she walks in thinking she is prepared for the barrage of questions but soon finds out she has underestimated his curiosity and determination in understanding their powers.

The more she explains, the more questions he raises. After talking and demonstrating for the whole afternoon, she is worn out and frankly ready for home.

Apparently he still wants her to be his bodyguard.

‘Well, this is awkward. But I’m not allowed to…’

‘Why? Who’s not allowing you to?’ he frowns, uncomprehending.

‘See, this post here is my cover to catch Thomas…’

‘But do you want to stay?’

She meets his eyes and cannot bring herself to lie. ‘Yes, yes I do. But I have my duties with the police and exciting investigations are waiting for me.’

‘I still need to learn to control and use my powers. Will you train me?’ his warm brown eyes simmer with hope.

‘I suppose so. We can train regularly with you practising on your own. Here,’ she draws out a phone-like device and briefs him on how to operate it. She chooses not to tell him it is an interdimensional phone - there is no need for him to be aware of interdimensional communication and travelling just yet. ‘It’s programmed to contact me directly. You can text me, but only call me if it’s urgent - I’m usually in the field.’

With that, she turns and treads through a portal to her flat on Earth-19.

Cisco stares after her long after the portal disappears, already anticipating seeing her again.

[maychorian]

A Bow in the Hand

Platonic VLD Week Prompt 7: Free/AU

Words: 1858 Characters: Shiro & Keith, Lance & Hunk Summary: Robin Hood AU. After months of recovery, Shiro is ready to try the bow again. Notes: I don't know where this came from, but here it is.

AO3 @platonicvldweek

"How do you fare?"

Shiro looked up from where he sat on a fallen log, thoughtfully flexing his right arm up and down, feeling the give and pull of every muscle, every sinew. "It feels well. Back to full strength, I think."

"Are you sure? Your injuries were extensive." Keith sat down next to him, staring unabashedly. Shiro resisted the urge to roll down his tunic sleeve and hide the scars away. Keith had seen them already; he'd already seen everything. So had the rest of Shiro's band. It didn't make it any easier, sometimes. When he spent too much time thinking about it, when everything felt fresh again.

But right now, Shiro was sure. "Come along, Keith O'Scarlet." He stood up and clapped his young kinsman heartily on the shoulder. "I want to try the bow again."

Keith grumbled, but he hopped lightly to his feet and followed Shiro back to the main camp.

It was the middle of the day, deep in the middle of Sherwood, and most of the camp was drowsing. Little Hunk sat by the cookfire and stirred a simmering pot, and Lance-a-Dale rested against a trunk nearby, idly strumming his lute and humming tunefully to himself while Hunk bobbed his head in appreciation. When they saw Shiro striding determinedly across the camp toward the area that had been set up as a target range, both stopped what they were doing and jumped to their feet to follow.

"Is it happening?" Lance asked, fingers tripping over the lute-strings with less than his usual skill. "You're going to try the bow again?"

Shiro nodded, his eyes focused ahead, though Keith frowned. It was Keith's nature to be protective, so Shiro did not blame him. But it was Shiro's nature to be decisive and firm, and he had made up his mind. He was going to take back what had been stolen from him by the usurpers who currently held this country in thrall.

Some of Shiro's scars had been earned in the Crusades, fighting in Alfor the Lionhearted's army, and Shiro was not ashamed of those. But when he had returned home, only to be immediately taken captive as a trespasser on his own land by Sheriff Sendak... Well. Things had changed.

It burned Shiro's heart to think of the corrupt monsters who had seized his ancient homestead in his absence. Shiro's father had died while he was away at war, which was grief enough, but then the local Sheriff had declared that Shiro was dead, too, and with no legal heir, his property was forfeited to the state. Shiro's mother and sister had been evicted, his loyal servants driven off. Shiro’s remaining family was safe in London now, but he hadn't been there to help them find safety. Shiro's hand clenched into a fist as he imagined their panic and grief when they were forced onto the streets like homeless beggars.

When Shiro returned from the long war, knowing nothing of this, and tried to access his home, he was arrested as an imposter and tortured to make him confess to his crime. They had done the worst to his right arm, knowing his fame as an archer. Sendak had thought they could make him break by threatening the most valuable thing left to him. The wicked sheriff had vowed more than once to cut it off, to mangle it and crush it so Shiro would never recover. Somehow, Shiro had avoided that fate. Divine intervention, he could only guess.

Friar Coran had helped him escape more than three months ago. Since then, Shiro had swiftly gained a reputation in Sherwood under a new name, Robin Hood, as he attacked government officials and complacent envoys swathed in a green cloak with a hood drawn tight to hide his face. Soon, other disaffected men wandered in to join him, and now Shiro had quite a merry band.

Till now, he had been forced to fight only with sword, staff, and fist. His wounded right arm was not strong enough to draw a bow, and the recovery process had been long and tedious. The lack of archery from "Robin Hood" had been useful to obscure his identity, since no one connected the new outlaw in Sherwood with the famed archer, Takashi Shirogane. If Shiro needed something attacked from a distance, his men, most notably Lance-a-Dale, handled it with ease.

This wasn't about being effective in combat. Shiro, as Robin Hood, could fight very well in melee and close combat, and he could strike fear into any enemy's heart with the power of his voice and the strength of his convictions. He didn't need to be able to shoot again in order to continue this fight.

But he wanted to. He wanted to draw his old bow, as tall as he was and just as strong. He wanted to hit the target with all of his skill, to split an arrow in twain from fletching to point. This was something he needed to take back from the vicious cur who had dared to try to steal it from him.

At the range, he snatched up his personal longbow, so long ago set aside with no one powerful enough to string it. He took up a waxed string and slipped the loop into the bottom nock, then pressed down with his weight and bent the bow far enough to string the top nock as well. He stood with the bow in his left hand, feeling it sing with tension. It felt right there, the solid wood steady and firm against his palm.

Lance and Little Hunk cheered and clapped from the sidelines, and Keith brought him a handful of arrows, freshly fletched and balanced by Lance's careful hand. Shiro knew the work at the glance, familiar as he was with his men and their abilities. He took the arrows from Keith with a grateful nod, then stuck them point down in the ground at his feet in a clump of grass. He lifted one arrow and nocked it on the string, then stood facing the target, fingers braced on the bowstring, holding the arrow in place.

This was it. The test. Shiro drew a breath, then let it out. He hadn't been able to do any shooting for well over half a year. The last time had been at a resting point somewhere along the road back home, and it had only been for fun. He hadn't done any serious practice for longer than that. The last time he had shot a good hundred arrows, he had been surrounded with dust and sand.

But no more. A new time was beginning now. Shiro felt Keith's tense stance on his right, his fierce concentration, his desire for Shiro to succeed and his determination to be there even if he failed. He felt Lance and Hunk's eager excitement on his left, their easy confidence in their leader, no fear, no doubt, simple certainty that he could do anything he put his mind to. Their simple trust in him made him tremble, at times, with the weight of such responsibility. Now, though, it made him strong.

Slowly, carefully, Shiro drew back the string to his ear. His hands held steady and strong, no wobble in his grip on in the pull. He could feel the remaining weakness down deep in his muscles and knew he didn’t have many of these in him, not yet. He needed to do much more exercise with his right arm before he would be able to shoot his old numbers of arrows.

But at least he could pull the bow, even once. A few weeks ago, he hadn’t even been able to do that. And the arrow was steady on the string, not even a waver. Shiro focused forward again, his heart beating fast. He looked at the target, seeming so far away, remembered when he had been able to send arrows to whatever distance he chose like birds on the wing.

If he let go of the string, the arrow would fly. Where? Would it go where he told it to? Shiro wasn’t sure, though he kept only certainty on his face. Again, he took a moment to listen to Lance and Little Hunk, to feel his new companions’ trust and confidence in him. He felt Keith’s tension at his side, his unwavering support.

For as long as he held the string at his ear, Shiro could luxuriate in not knowing. He could believe that if he let the arrow go, it would find the target as of old. If he chose, he could relax the pull, set the arrow down, and tell his men that he would try again later. But if he let the arrow go, he would know for sure just how badly his skills had atrophied. If he missed the target, by inches or by yards, Lance and Hunk and Keith would all see it. They would know how far he’d fallen. Would it affect their faith in him, their ability to obey his orders without hesitation?

No matter. Shiro could no longer stand the uncertainty. He needed to know, one way or the other.

He held still, watched the breeze, waited for his moment. Then he released his breath and at the same time, the bowstring. The arrow flew from his fingers, speeding away like the best messenger in all of God’s green earth. And it struck the target.

Not quite a bullseye. Not quite his old level of skill. Shiro still had work to do to regain that, he could see that well. But he’d hit the target. All was not lost.

His shoulders fell down, and he stepped back, relief pouring over him and slumping his shoulders, loosening his grip on the bow at last. Beside him, Lance-a-Dale and Little Hunk were cheering like madmen. They had linked elbows and were skipping around each other in a circle, yelling at the top of their lungs in repeated huzzahs. Much more of this and they would rouse the camp, and Shiro didn’t know whether to tell them to be quiet or let them do it.

He looked to the other side and saw Keith watching him still, a small smile on his face.

“You did it.” Quiet, proud. Shiro and Keith had only reconnected recently, after a childhood and adolescence of misunderstandings and missed opportunities, but already Keith O’Scarlet, he of the quick temper and the quicker blade, seemed to know Shiro almost better than he knew himself.

Shiro smiled back. “I did.”

His skills were returning to him, slow but steady. More men were gathering to their side by the day. After escaping Sendak’s prison, Shiro had been almost frantic with despair, unable to see an end to the insurmountable battles that faced him. He had fought anyway, because it was not in him to surrender. But only now, at last, did he see a chance of fighting through to the end of this.

He tightened his grip on his bow, lifted it, looked to the target. He took another arrow from the ground. And he shot again.

Notes:  Yes, Allura is Maid Marian, and Pidge is her loyal lady-in-waiting who is exceedingly good at sneaking away and carrying messages to the merry men. Eventually the two ladies will join them in the woods, and after that they'll be unstoppable. Prince Zarkon, the phony king of England, is going down.