#not good politics but a very very interesting poet

[caracalla-dondus]

Suspicious Minds

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: A senator informs Geta about the rumors surrounding his wife

Author's Note: This fic consists of pieces I took out from a much longer fic I had written. After reading what I originally wrote I didn't really vibe with the whole thing and so I took out parts I liked best to create this fic. Idk if it's better or worse because things feel a bit rushed in this fic now and not as cohesive as before but it's good enough I think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was partly inspired by Fire & Blood where it says that some in court found Queen Rhaenys Targaryen suspicious because she spent time with bards and singers and they were sure she must be having an affair on Aegon I. Also the title is from the Elvis song of the same name because it popped into my head while writing this because it's similar to the plot lol.

~~~

The late afternoon sun streamed through the marble arches of the palace, casting shadows across the floor of the Emperor’s private chamber. Emperor Geta paced restlessly, his jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching. The rumors had come to him this morning, carried by a senator whose words had been carefully chosen, yet laced with venom.

“She is often seen in the company of poets and bards, my Emperor. Some say perhaps too often.”

The words echoed in Geta’s mind as he strode to the balcony. Below him, others strolled about, oblivious to the storm brewing in his heart. He had always known that his wife had a fondness for the arts. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. The way her eyes lit up when she heard the verses of a poem she thought was interesting, the soft smile that graced her lips during the final notes of a ballad. She was a woman of intelligence and charm. Perfect qualities to be his empress.

But now those very same qualities and interests had become the source of his unrest.

~

Geta finds his wife out in the garden. “I had hoped to speak with you my wife,” he said, his tone polite but firm. 

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer to him.

Geta studied her, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for some sign of guilt. But she looked as she always did, serene, composed, and beautiful. “There are whispers in the court,” he began slowly, “that your affection for music and poetry has extended beyond mere appreciation.”

His wife’s eyes widened, and then she laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t want to,” Geta admitted, his voice low. “But the court is not kind to a woman who spends her days surrounded by other men, no matter how innocent her intentions.”

Her smile faded, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Geta, these men are poets, musicians and artists. They speak to me about the soul, not the flesh. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But the thought of her laughter, her attention, her admiration being bestowed on another man gnawed at him. “Then why do others speak of you so?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Why do they say you adore Bacchus so much that you have embraced his indulgences?”

His wife stiffened, her hand falling away. “Do you question my virtue?” she asked, insulted that her husband would believe such nonsense about her.

“I question the company you keep!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.

She took a step back, her expression conveying her hurt and frustration. “You have always known who I am Geta. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the palace, just simply gossiping my day away. I find joy in the divine chaos of creation. If that makes me suspicious in the eyes of our court then so be it. But I will not apologize for things I did not do.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion. Geta clenched his fists, his anger warring with his love for her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer. “I do not wish to stifle you. But I cannot bear the thought of others questioning your loyalty or your love for me.”

His wife stepped closer, her gaze steady. “Then let me reassure you, my emperor. I am as sure of my love for you as I am about Sol bringing us the sun each morning. But if you doubt me, then tell me what must I do to prove myself?”

He sighed, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Let the poets and bards sing their songs without you for once. Let Bacchus have his revelry elsewhere.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “If it will ease your mind, my dear husband then I will stay.”

Geta pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to shield her from the whispers that sought to undermine them. But even as he held her, a shadow of doubt lingered, refusing to be banished entirely.

~

The grand halls of the palace echoed with the click of her delicate sandals against the marble floor. The weight of her husband’s arm on her shoulder was both reassuring and suffocating. For the past three days, Geta had not let her out of his sight. Where she went, he followed. Where he could not follow, he sent his guards to watch her every step. It was unlike him, and though his paranoia was silent, she could feel it in the way his fingers tightened around her arm, in the watchful, almost desperate glint in his eyes.

She had tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him of her loyalty, but it seemed no words could pierce through the suspicion that had taken hold of him.

During a feast, Geta watched his wife like a hawk as she entertained a visiting nobleman whose son had written a collection of poems. His wife listened to the man intently, her soft smile never wavering as the man recited a verse.

But Geta saw something else. He saw how the man’s eyes lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light up the room. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, his jaw tightening. Was it admiration? Was it mere courtesy? Or was there something more? The thoughts churned in his mind like a storm, dark and unrelenting.

When the man left, Geta wasted no time. He rose abruptly, crossing the room to where his wife stood.

“You enjoyed his company,” he said, his voice low but laced with accusation.

His wife blinked, startled by his tone. “He was reciting his son’s poetry, my dear husband. That’s all it was.”

“You smiled at him,” Geta pressed, his eyes narrowing. “You laughed.”

“Am I not allowed to smile and laugh?” she asked softly, though there was a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Must I always wear a sour expression to please you?”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “You are mine,” he said, his voice trembling - not with anger, but with something deeper, something more fragile. “Your smiles, your laughter, they belong to me and no one else.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the flicker of insecurity behind his harsh words. She reached up, covering his hand with her own. “And they are yours, Geta,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

His grip loosened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish. “I will not lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I cannot.”

~

For the next several days, Geta’s wife’s world shrank. Where she once wandered the gardens freely, now her husband walked beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. When she visited the library, he went with her. Her gatherings with poets and musicians were no more, replaced by dinners where Geta sat her beside him, his eyes never leaving her.

She tried to be understanding, but his constant scrutiny weighed heavily on her. One evening, as they sat together in their chambers, she finally spoke.

“Geta,” she began, her voice tentative. “Do you not trust me?”

He looked up from the goblet of wine in his hand, his expression guarded. “Of course I trust you, you are my wife,” he said after a long pause. “It is everyone else I do not trust.”

“You cannot keep watch over me forever,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “You are my wife,” he said firmly. “My empress. And I will not risk anyone else taking you from me.”

“Even if it means suffocating me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geta flinched, as if her words had struck him. He set the goblet down and rose to his feet, pacing the room. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I have enemies everywhere. We have enemies everywhere. They would use you against me. They would take you from me. Take your love away from me”

“Who could take me when I am yours in both heart and soul?” she asked, rising to stand before him.

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking, his carefully constructed armor of intimidation cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But the thought of losing you terrifies me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “Geta,” she said softly, “you will not lose me. I love you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

“I promise,” she said, though her heart ached at the desperation in his voice.

He pulled her into his arms again, holding her as if his life depended on it. She sighed softly, resting her head against his chest. She understood that his possessiveness was not born of cruelty, nor out of a need to stifle her but it was of a fear he could not truly voice, a fear he could not truly reconcile with, and it had consumed him.

And so she stayed, tethered to him by her love for him, hoping that soon his insecurities would ease and he would see that she was his, not because he demanded it, but because she chose it. But she was not sure how much she could take of this suffocating behavior. Of every move of hers and every interaction being heavily watched.

~

She rarely let her frustrations boil to the surface, but this time was different. As she sat across from her husband in their private chambers, the weight of the senator’s venomous words and their impact on her marriage gnawed at her patience. For days and days now, Geta’s suffocating possessiveness had taken over every aspect of her life, and she could no longer bear the thought that this rift between them had been instigated by a man seeking to undermine her, a man seeking to replace her.

She set down her goblet with a sharp clink, her hands trembling, not with fear, but with barely restrained annoyance and anger. “I’ve been thinking, my dear husband,” she began, her voice calm but carrying an obvious edge to it.

Geta glanced up from his seat, his brow furrowing slightly at her tone. “What is it?”

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic determination. “The senator who came to you with these baseless rumors. I believe he must be punished.”

Geta blinked, clearly surprised. “Punished? For what?”

“For daring to speak against me,” she replied, her voice firm, slightly exasperated that he did not already know what she spoke of. “For poisoning your mind with lies and causing this… this chaos between us. He sought to undermine your confidence in me, to cast doubt on my loyalty, to possibly destroy my reputation. That is not something we should let go unanswered.”

Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “You surprise me, wife. I thought you were above petty revenge. You have always counseled me against such rash decisions before”

“This is not petty, nor is it rash!” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “He sought to disgrace me, your wife, your empress. By doing so, he has disgraced you as well. How can you tolerate such audacity?”

Her words struck a nerve. Geta’s insecurities flared, his mind racing as he considered her argument. She was right. The senator’s insinuations had not only called his wife’s loyalty into question but had also implied that Geta was a weak ruler, unable to control his own household. The thought made his blood boil.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice low.

“Demote him. Remove him from his position. Let it be known that you will not tolerate slander against your Empress.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “And if others see this as an act of weakness? A sign that I am blinded by my love for you?”

“Let them see it as a warning,” she countered. “Let them know that your loyalty to your wife is unwavering and that you will not allow anyone to sow baseless discord in your court.”

Her words appealed to Geta’s pride, and she could see the gears turning in his mind. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. “Very well. The senator will be dealt with. I’ll ensure his removal will be public and soon.”

Relief washed over her, though a part of her felt dissatisfied about simply just having the senator removed from his position. The senator had meddled in her marriage, made her husband watch every move she made for days now, and he deserved to face more severe consequences for it. The senator has a daughter around her age, she felt certain the senator was likely hoping to get her pushed aside to potentially make way for his daughter to get close to Geta, for her to be the next Empress of Rome. Geta’s wife seethed silently at the thought of someone replacing her, of someone attempting to steal her position. She thought about paying Caracalla a visit and informing him of the treacherous senator in their midst. He would certainly give her the dramatic reaction she wants.

Geta rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand before her. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze softening. “You are right. I should never have allowed his words to poison my mind. You are my empress, my wife. No one will come between us again”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch and calming for a moment. “And I will always stand by your side Geta. But we must stand together, against anyone who seeks to divide us.”

Geta kissed her then, fierce and possessive, as if to reaffirm their bond. She let herself melt into the embrace, even as a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if she should push for more to be done about the senator. 

~~~~

reader can't take out her frustrations on Geta so she will take it out on the senator who started all of this instead lol

[astroyongie]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Random Astrology Observations 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Note: Since you guys have been requesting more astrology posts, I decided to make a small random astrology observations <3 I hope you guys like it! I might do more eventually!

⋆⁺₊⋆ Sun Scorpio 8th House

People with this placement are all that we can expected from a sun scorpio. they are deep, intense, and their personality is very adaptable to their environment. Often people either are super admissive or them, or hate them all together. They make such good listeners and most of them have good prospects in psychology. They have a good and strong intuition, unfortunately I have noticed they are also people who go through a lot of traumas that shape their way of being.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Moon Gemini 3rd House

They are people who are often addicted to social media or enjoy the thought of becoming an influencer of some short. Also these people are just so clever and they have talent in communicating with people. often extroverts. They are amazing writers, poets, artists in general. Moon swings tho are no kidding and can become issues

⋆⁺₊⋆ Mercury Capricorn in 10th House

Some people might not like them because they appear as super serious, super rigid and structured with their life but they are smart and complete. This placement makes people serious, with the capacity to become leader, specially in politics, business or just like ceo works In general. you can always count on them.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Venus Pisces 7th House

Their delulu is greater than anyones, the way they love is so soft, so deep, so idealistically. They enjoy people who are romantics, who are beautiful, deep eyes and also who have artistic sides (depending on other placements they can be themselves very artistic like). The downside I have noticed with these people is that they struggle with boundaries in their relationship, because the are compassionate and also unable to say no. they believe in greater good and fixing

⋆⁺₊⋆ Mars Aries 1st House

I never saw people more energetic than them, it's like they were born with charging in their butt. they are just very competitive and bold which often can make them easily go on fights or get in troubles for their behavior. Even if they are highly driven and never give up they are also so impulsive and their anger issue is no joke

⋆⁺₊⋆ Jupiter Sagittarius 9th House

They have a very interesting philosophy of life and despite being a controversial placement, they are quite interesting to hear and learn from. These people also love traveling, they are curious, they need to see the world, to live through new cultures. Honestly, they are probably one of the most interesting people.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Saturn Cancer 4th House 

I often noticed that people with that placement might have a very tough childhood (restrictive, lack or absence of a parent, divorces or other family issues that have disturbed the dynamics). Yet they are often responsible and their family becomes a responsibility to them. a lot of transgenerational trauma as well.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Uranus Aquarius 11th House

To me they are sooooo annoying because they see themselves as the typical "revolutionary thinker", they have a need to leave the social norms, to be extra open minded and progressive in order to find their place in the world. they often feel frustrated with their life. usually they are involved in activism or tech innovation.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Neptune Libra 5th House

Their talent I say opinion so underrated, they are such romantic at hearts and they often show their devotion through art (all types). they are creative, they are imaginative but also they are so damn beautiful? one thing I noticed too is that people with this placement often have affairs or struggle with affairs in their love life.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Pluto Virgo 6th House

hypochondriacs as they are sooo obsessed with their health, the way they look, their improvement and their efficiency. often they have low self esteem and tweak hard when they arent able to achieve something they worked toward. I noticed people with this placement often suffer from different types of OCD's and are psychorigide with their approach in life and their routine.

⋆⁺₊⋆ North Node Leo 2nd House

People with this placement are just so talented in different part of their life (depending on the Jupiter and Vesta placements). They struggle embracing confidence and finding their self-expression. If I have an advice is to tell you that with this placement, to achieve success and your life purpose, you need to step in the spotlight and build self worth through hard work

⋆⁺₊⋆ Chiron Taurus 12th House

People with this placement struggle a lot with three things. self worth, has they have often low self esteem and some even can develop unhealthy eating habits; material security as many can be in situations where money is a sensitive topics and finally, sensual pleasures as some of you depending on other placements, can use sex has a way to deal with trauma or hurt. Healing comes through spiritual practices, letting go of past pain, and learning self-acceptance.

��⁺₊⋆ Lilith Aries 8th House

Honestly, its such a powerful, intense, and magnetic presence and the people with this placement know it and they give femme fatal or dark romance like man. they may experience taboo desires when its related to their sexual life, plus they have a deep sexual energy. but that also makes them struggles in intimate relationships

⋆⁺₊⋆ Midheaven in Gemini

If you have this placement let me tell you that you could have such a successful career in the areas of communication, media, teaching and networking. these people are naturally adaptable and may have multiple careers or interests throughout their life which makes them versatile people.

⋆⁺₊⋆ Venus Leo 12th House

These people often have secret relationships or like relationships were emotions are a complicated topic when it comes to express themselves as they have a deep fear of being vulnerable. it also shows a deep need of being admired, of being loved which becomes tricky because the leo influence also makes them fearful of being truly see by a partner, and often leads with loneliness in love.

[poison-breadth]

A few dissections of and studies on "In the Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound

by me

[carnivalls]

.

See the thing is. I know I'm good at writing. Like I have my weak areas or things I need to improve in, but it's not a skill I otherwise spend a lot of time feeling insecure about because a) if I don't believe in my writing literally who will b) if I want to publish my writing I ought to at least feel a resting level of good about it because editors and agents likely will not be cradling my face like a prize cat and telling me how talented I am while asking for their edits c) I've always had an audience for my writing even at its worst– I started sharing my original works online when I was around 16 & that really helped sell to me the idea of 'there will always be someone out there who likes what you do' d) untalented men never think this hard about the quality of their works and they always end up published anyway and e) I don't have many other thoroughly developed skills so why not have one I feel good about. Having said this. Awkward feeling to realize you're one of the authorial weak links in your postgraduate creative writing degree's social circle

[chandelier-still-flickering-here]

I'm in my "disillusioned with taylor swift" era.

[babypinkhearts]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

suguru is very cautious when getting to know you. he’s a nice guy, of course. just has a few walls to break down.

he’s sweet from the get-go. smiling politely (it’s a smile that teeters between being friendly and actually genuine), sitting beside you when you’re alone, or even joining you when you get a little peckish and crave food that isn’t bland campus cuisine.

he holds himself at an arm’s length, feeling you out silently. every word you say is particularly engraved into the linings of his brain, and he holds his cards close to his chest, responding in only the most deliberate of ways.

and, he finds that there is never a moment where he is turned away.

he learns that you’re quite authentic. not to say he expected less — but it’s nice that you’re truly meaningful. suguru knows he’s a good-looking guy. heads tend to turn towards him out in public, and he’s accepted the natural feat like normality, now used to the attention. however, it’s attention that not always comes from the best places of interest. personality is where he really shines, he believes. he’s a bit more than a being of attraction.

you seem to understand that. a little too well, in fact. perhaps it’s as the poets would say — he is half of your soul.

“feel good?”

his eyes are closed, so pleasantly he’s sure he might fall asleep. the hairbrush is gentle in your hands, he feels each bristle nicely tingling across his scalp. and your voice is so soft, it’s like you want him to send him into a coma of delight.

suguru’s head leans back a bit further in his seat, and he nods a little sluggishly. he smiles when he hears your laugh.

“okay, sleeping beauty.”

maybe you’ve trailed far too close to his heart, but god, domesticity feels wonderful. like a world full of color, served to him on the finest gold platter.

so, yes. it means a lot when you unravel him just for him. no ill intent. when you take time to learn all about him, when you’re so attentive to his every silent need, and much, much, later (at least, when he finally notices), when your eyes don’t constantly carry the looks of seduction that he’s so accustomed to seeing from other people. just pure adoration. love. stars that keep shining, a pool of light. the sight is so foreign, and suguru thinks he’s never seen anything prettier. he’s possibly the biggest lover boy ever, head over heels for you.

[genericpuff]

Hi, So one of my Characters was inspired by two goddess: Meilone and Despoina (Another Daughter of Demeter) and I've been trying to get more information on Despoina, I've used a Greek mythology site that I'm familiar with I even had some help from A.I search. Any tips?

Aahh, first tip, don't use AI ! At least in its current state, there's literally nothing it can factually offer you that normal Google searches can't. I know for some folks it's tempting because it kind of "summarizes" everything and makes the process of research a lot less intimidating, but the drawback to summarizing - especially through AI - is that it picks and chooses what information it thinks is helpful to you, not information that actually is accurate or true. And a lot of that information it presents to you is skimmed from other pre-existing sources that aren't necessarily accurate or true either - it skims from Reddit, Wikipedia, and other popular discussion sources to come up with an approximation of information, but approximations can and often are still made up of weak parts. Plus, at the end of the day, the AI is still pulling from things that exist, so even if it's telling you stuff that's factually true, it isn't anything you couldn't have found on your own.

The reason you're struggling to pull up anything on Despoina is because "Despoina" doesn't really exist, at least not as some concrete deity the same way Zeus and Demeter do. "Despoina" only has a handful of sources mentioning her, and a good chunk of them refer to her not as Demeter's daughter, but as an epithet.

Understand that sometimes not finding enough information isn't a fault of our own for "not looking hard enough" - sometimes it's because that information just currently does not exist, especially when it comes to the matter of ancient cultural studies, where what's available is strictly limited to what we've discovered and what's been made publicly accessible. In those situations, you really just gotta work with what you've got, and do your best in digging up information outside of the most popular sources, because you never know what you could be missing out on simply because Google decided not to show you.

I'm gonna go on one of my classic tangents here but it's a topic that's very interesting to me! So I'm just gonna dive into it, but I'll include a jump for those who don't want this clogging up their feed :>

-----

When you really get into the meat of studying Greek mythology - or really any cultural mythology - it's unfortunately not as cut and dry as reading up on lore or skimming a Wikipedia page. There are thousands of years of cultural interaction, trading of oral stories, re-interpretations through cultural adoption and/or colonization, political satirizing and/or re-tooling to suit specific sociopolitical views, and religious influence at play (among MANY other influences) which make up what we now understand as "Greek mythology" in its simplest terms.

Much of what we still study today is debatable as to what is truly "Greek", because of all the cultural mixing that was happening between the Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, Africans, etc. that resulted not only in its adopters creating new versions of older Greek stories, but "Greek myth" in and of itself being influenced by the societies that came before it. I've mentioned this before, but even Homer is a hot topic of debate, mostly discussing whether or not he was a real person, or if - like Despoina - the name "Homer" is just an epithet to refer to one or more poets whose works were preserved as culturally relevant interpretations of the stories and beliefs that were being passed around at that time. These are what make up the Homeric Hymns, but think about this - those hymns were in and of themselves retellings. Homer - whether one tangible person or many ambiguous voices as a collective - was simply putting stories that were already being told orally to paper, from their own perspective, which we managed to uncover and preserve over the course of thousands of years, during which we would continue to re-interpret it based on new translations and discoveries that would shift our context of knowledge.

With all that in mind, now think of all the stories that were lost, either because modern scholars haven't uncovered them, or because Homer just never thought to include them, or possibly didn't know of them himself. Think of all the stories that we assume to be true which could have had entirely different meanings when told as bedtime stories over the fire, or as epics of war to inspire soldiers, or as romantic poems sung to an audience.

I know everything I just said is a lot and is, in and of itself, wholly interpretive and subjective. But think about all that, and then understand why I'm so wary about using AI to do the work of the analysis for you. Not only does it remove so much necessary context from discussion that's already missing context in many areas, it undercuts the joy of discovery.

All that said, Despoina is, as far as we currently know, theorized to be one of two things:

1.) A daughter of Demeter who may or may not have been born during The Hymn to Demeter, who was worshipped as a deity within the Eleusinian Mysteries but - due to her nature as a deity of a secretive cult - does not have much evidence to support what she could have been specifically worshipped for, as her worshippers were sworn to secrecy. "Despoina" may not have even been her real name, just a name used to refer to her among cultists or anyone who wasn't a part of the congregation to ensure her true name was protected (similarly to Kore and Persephone, she could be a deity with "two names" that serve two different purposes and interpretations).

2.) An epithet, meaning "mistress", to refer to one or several different women, usually fertility goddesses, including Demeter, Persephone, and even Aphrodite and Hecate. This doesn't necessarily mean that "Despoina" as a goddess didn't exist, just that the word "Despoina" can also be used to refer to goddesses within the cult to keep their names a secret. And if Despoina did exist as her own deity... again, we don't know her true name, just the title that was used to refer to her, whoever "she" was.

The thing is, there is tangible material that supports either or both arguments. And even if more evidence came out to support one over the other, it doesn't invalidate either of them - this is just how it is with mythologies and religion, different cultures and tribes and groups would hold different beliefs, and the beliefs that reign supreme are often determined by the highest power. This is obviously why so many Roman interpretations of the Greek gods are now the "default" interpretations, because Rome was a very powerful empire that had the ability to absorb other mythologies, create their own adaptions of them, and then enforce them as the natural order. The popularity of Catholicism as an organized religion is owed to the Roman Empire, and even it still has its divided subgroups who have separated from the main doctrines of Catholicism due to having different beliefs.

Even think of the Bible, which many people hold up as the "gold standard" despite never having even read it. They subsequently don't understand that what we know as "the Bible" is a curated library of works that were preserved over hundreds of years, first documenting the trials and tribulations of the Jews and the building of Israel, and eventually leading to Jesus Christ and his fellow fandom mutuals (the apostles) coming in and deciding "nah that Old Testament blows, let's make a new one! No more circumcisions! Bread and wine and bacon for everyone!" (<<< I am obviously paraphrasing here for the sake of efficiency and a little bit of levity lmao) This is why, to this day, we get so many people still arguing over whether or not Jesus hated gay people, because some point to specific scriptures written by apostles like Paul and Matthew, while others point to scriptures from the Old Testament which pre-existed Jesus by centuries.

As much as we may refer to a "canon" within Greek mythology, those commonly known facts are still based on previous interpretations that in and of themselves were constantly debated and fought over. People even went to literal war over this shit, because it turns out, human beings haven't really changed all that much - we're loyal to our most favorite fandoms, and crucify anyone who disagrees with our established canons. And none of that is to patronize the cultural, spiritual, and political importance of these stories - more so just to point out why it's so hard to track down clear cut information for certain myths, because how legitimate those myths even were within their own context and time is unsubstantiated and debatable.

-----

TL ; DR: If you're making characters inspired by an ambiguous deity who doesn't have a lot of evidence to support them, just do what you can to find the evidence that exists, and maintain your own level of understanding and transparency that you can't possibly accurately depict a character who's either directly based off a Greek myth deity or simply inspired by one when what is and isn't accurate is still often up for debate by people who are actually trained and paid to debate these things. On the one hand, it means someone will likely be bound to argue with your interpretation and it may leave you searching for ways to improve upon any misrepresentations; on the other, know that this is just passing on the torch of a tradition that has been practiced by humans ever since the first cave drawing and we are all, by and large, doing what we've always been naturals at doing - expressing our views and perspectives of the world that make sense to ourselves, and then getting yelled at when it doesn't make sense to others LMAO

Be earnest and humble in your attempts to tell a story that feels true to you, and remember that the process of discovery - the research - is half the journey, and half the fun :> Even if you get things wrong, be willing to take ownership of it and view it as an opportunity to learn even more. Therein lies the true joy of creating - the endless potential for discovery.

[seeingivy]

at this point i know you know it’s gonna be eren. x fuck you if i can't have us. but what if it’s like a criminal minds!au and y/n x eren are coworkers and in a forbidden relationship (at this point my fingers are just crossed u like criminal minds too and get that i am YEARNING for a spencer reid x i can see you type of thing) omg this is so fun u are a genius btw

sending you roses and kisses and hugs

fuck you if i can't have us x eren jaeger

**part of my tortured poets concert event

--

“do you have any fun plans this weekend?” 

you swivel back from your computer, abruptly stopping the speed of your chair with the heels of your shoes to catch sasha and connie draped across the closest desk desk – two fresh, steamy cups of coffee in their hands. the looks on their face betray the innocent imposition and you shoot the two of them a polite smile, before shaking your head. 

you can tell the not so innocent question has now piqued the interest of eren, who’s sitting three desks away, and very indiscreetly peeking over the monitor of his computer.  you shoot him a look of recognition, one that has his head ducking back under the monitor, before you turn back to the two of them. 

 “are you free on saturday?” connie asks. 

“i could be. depends on the plan. the company…” 

connie narrows his eyes at you, beckoning for an explanation. 

“the company?” connie asks. 

“that’s right.” 

“who said anyone else is going to be there?” sasha asks.

you click your pen in your hand twice, before twisting it between your fingers. 

“you’ve approached me hours before the end of my shift and inquired about my weekend plans. the last three times you’ve done that, you’ve inadvertently tried to set me up with your friend – jean, was it? – in a series of group hangouts, where i’ve somehow been isolated with him alone for at least an hour. two of those times, he was the one to drive me home, in which he spent a painstaking amount of time asking me about myself, far outside of normal curiosity. now that you’ve settled on what i’m assuming is your version of an easy introduction, at least enough to pique my interest, you’re now going to propose that i go out to dinner with him alone.” 

connie lets out an unwavering groan, accompanied by sasha’s boisterous laugh, as you lean back against your desk. 

“i’ll do twenty bucks that you were going to suggest italian.” you add. 

“how could you possibly know that?” connie groans. 

“that’s why i’m the detective and not you.” you offer. 

sasha gives him a consolation pat on the back, one that he immediately shoves off in disgust. 

“i’ll go one step further. our beloved junior detective here has zero interest in your friend – jean, was it? – but just entertains whatever weekend plans you seem to spring on her from a lack of good, stable friendships in her life.” 

you turn towards eren, who has now materialized at your side, a stray hand strewn across the back of your chair, and an unmistakably pleased look on his face from the chuckles he’s earned from sasha and connie from his comments. you narrow your eyes at him.

“really?” you ask. 

eren shrugs. 

“all signs point to yes. the only reason that you’ve been free three weekends in a row, to entertain such plans, is because you haven’t had any other ones. and loneliness spurs us to entertain even the most tiresome pursuits.” 

you roll your eyes at eren, unnerved by the very pleased look in his eyes, as you turn back towards connie. 

“well, the latter part of that statement i can actually agree with. i’ve had far too many tireless pursuits recently.” 

you watch as eren’s eye twitches, something you silently relish in, before turning back to connie. 

“you can tell jean that i’m free for italian at seven tomorrow. he can pick me up from my apartment.” 

you can feel eren’s grip on your chair tighten, certain that he’s trying to mitigate his immediate reflex to go slack jawed at your words, as connie and sasha rush out of the room, presumably running for their phones. the second they’re down the hall, you look up at eren – who’s shooting pinpoint needles into your forehead – his glare steely. 

“what the hell?” 

“i have a lack of good, stable friendships. far too many tireless pursuits. i could at least go for a free dinner. maybe get a kiss at the end of the night if i’m lucky.” you murmur. 

you watch as eren darts his eyes around the room quickly, before bending down and pressing a swift kiss to your lips, just long enough for you to feel the warmth simmering off of his cheeks. you’re quick to push him off, before reaching up and smearing the glitter of your lipstick off of his face. 

“i do recall you telling armin and mikasa that i was an arrogant virgin two hours ago.” he notes. 

“do you want to get fired? erwin is three doors down.” you whisper. 

“no. let’s get italian. tomorrow. i know you’re free.” he jests. 

you shake your head at him. 

“no can do. i have plans.” 

eren reaches for your wrist, his fingers warm on your pulse point, as he beckons for you to lean against him. 

“sweetheart.” 

“oh?” 

“i was teasing. you know that.” 

“so you can dish it but you can’t take it back?” 

eren narrows his eyes at you. 

“it’ll be funny if you promise me that you won’t go to dinner with whoever this jean character is.” 

“well, i’ll do that when you actually decide to take me out instead of doing…whatever this is.”

eren squeezes your wrist in his grasp, eyes uncharacteristically earnest, as he pulls you immediate closer, enough to teeter your balance. you place your hands out in front of you, firm on your shoulders as you narrow your eyes at him. 

“eren.” 

“how serious are you being? if you recall, we’re not dating because of you.” he murmurs. 

“well, i’m dead serious now. i…i just get tired of sneaking around. i got over the fact that our job is dangerous, that it ties us together in ways that aren’t good sometimes. and i like you, i don’t know how you feel about it, i just…” 

“i like you.” he interrupts, almost demanding. 

“then, do something about it. i’m tired of doing this in between thing, i understand why we do, but…i’m willing to take the risk. otherwise, i don’t know.” 

eren gives you a thoughtful nod. 

“and if i don’t?” he whispers. 

you shrug. 

“well, fuck you if i can’t have us.” 

--

“y/n. this is hitch.” 

you look up from your computer, quickly closing out the last of your tabs, to find eren peering over your monitor, a short girl standing at his side – with an almost bored expression on his face. 

“is this the girl from the sequencing lab?” you ask. 

eren shakes his head. 

“she’s from human resources.” eren states. 

you narrow your eyes at him. 

“are you filing a complaint against me as a joke?” you ask. 

eren shakes his head. 

“you just need to sign….” 

eren pauses, before quickly taking the papers from hitch, and pointing to the three highlighted lines on the paper. 

“there, there, and there. we can’t go on a date, in good faith, before declaring our relationship to hitch first.” 

“you’re serious?”

“sign them quickly. you can question my intentions at dinner because the office closes in…eight minutes.” 

you put your hands up in defense, quickly signing all three lines, before eren takes the papers – shooting hitch one last smile – before running down the hall. hitch shoots you a polite grin, before crossing her hands over her chest. 

“i leave work early on fridays. and i was on my way out, before your…boyfriend over there gave me a very impassioned speech about italian food and seizing the moment and then offered me a giftcard to the coffee shop on the corner to stay here and draw up the papers. he’s very keen on doing things right, not jumping through hoops and all that. it would be very adorable if it didn’t mean i had to push my own dinner plans.” 

you shoot her a smile, one that barely conceals your own excitement, before reaching for your own purse. you can find a similar gift card, one that eren spared you two weeks prior as a gift, and extend it out to her. 

“i’m sorry. he can be very razor focused when he sets his mind to one thing. here’s another gift card.” 

hitch shoots you a smile, as she takes the card. 

“i can tell.”

[mysanaf]

༄ "Weekly" Fic Round-Up ༄

This is inspired by @captainkirkk's weekly fic round-ups which I've found many a good fic from. This is also a collect of fic from all of December as well as this first week of January, but perhaps future round-ups will be more accurately named.

Fandoms: Batman, Batman X Marvel Crossover, Nine Worlds Series by Victoria Goddard

Batman

reset by Valkirin

Black Mask hires Circe to keep Red Hood out of his way for a week. Circe's spell will only last a week and she doesn't think Batman will notice or care that she placed a time-limited memory spell on a minor criminal. Fifteen-year-old Jason Todd wakes up in a future he doesn't understand.

No pressure by Valkirin

Tim starts his night trying to calm down a graduate student with a ray gun. He has no idea that he is part of a time loop. Future Tim (which will be him in three minutes) won a second round of the Titans Tower fight and managed to put Jason on the path to coming home. Past Tim didn't do much other than think he was dreaming when he met a much calmer Jason. Future Tim decided that three minutes was plenty of time to figure out just get everything right and stabilize a time loop on the first try. No pressure.

best laid plans by Valkirin

Tim Drake knows that Batman needs a Robin. When Bruce and Dick aren't interested in what he has to say, Tim makes his way to the cemetery to say a few words to the boy he's trying to replace. Tim has the chance to say far more than he expected when Jason digs himself out of his grave that night. Tim does his best to get Jason home to Bruce. The League of Assassins finds them first.

Redrawing the Lines by BirdChild

Dick finds out that Damian cut Tim's line.

To Be a Bandaid by something_dog

Tim Drake never actually wanted to become part of the Robin-Batman-vigilante outfit. No, really. But the last Robin up and died, and now Batman is going crazy, and no one else is doing anything about it, so...Tim decides to become Robin. He might as well, right? At the very least it'll give him something to do while his parents are gone. Still, Tim's not taking up the mantle until he can put a couple of things in order. Step one? Making sure the Joker can't get it into his head to kill another Robin. Not ever again. (Good thing Tim's not the one with a 'no killing' rule.) And then after that? Well, after that it's only just a matter of keeping Batman from learning Tim's identity and subsequently chasing him off. Not until Bruce can get back on his feet and pick a new Robin, a real one this time. Easy-peasy. Sort of.

just me against the sky by magneticwave

Tim Drake stops stalking Gotham’s nocturnal wildlife when she goes to college. Unfortunately, they don’t return the favor.

A Request:

If anyone has any Cassandra Cain focused fics they love please send them my way, I haven't found any and I'm starving 🥺

Batman X Marvel Crossover

Shake the Devil Out of Me by thepartyresponsible

The first time Jason sees Phil Coulson, he sees him in the soft, flickering light of a warehouse fire. It’s romantic, he thinks, later. Like candlelight.

Do Every Stupid Thing by thepartyresponsible

Jason doesn’t mean for the Winter Soldier to be a present for Tony Stark. The youngest Stark isn’t supposed to be involved at all. The plan is simple: intervene before the Winter Soldier can murder Howard and Maria, tranq the Winter Soldier until he’s sufficiently incapacitated, and then drag him off for further study and let the Starks carry on with their fraught, bourgeoisie bullshit.

Nine Worlds Series by Victoria Goddard

the long way home by ariex09

If Cliopher had to sit around twiddling his thumbs he would lose his mind. “I’m going to legalize the rest of Fitzroy Angursell’s poetry,” he said, without entirely meaning to. To Aioru’s widened eyes and Ludvic’s raised eyebrows, he said, “I need a project, it’s non-essential to government functioning, and he’s Zunidh’s poet laureate now. Having half of his works be illegal for sedition is absurd.” - A political crisis in Nijan prevents Cliopher from retiring after the landslide and reuniting with Fitzroy. What it can't prevent is Cliopher and Fitzroy being ridiculous about each other from worlds apart.

[vintageaurelia]

knitting club (Thomas Thorne x Reader drabble)

note: hi fellas. this is my first time writing something like this and POSTING it. I'm a little nervous ngl! But just bear with me I swear I'll improve 😊. anywho! feel free to shoot some silly little requests my way!

Also! apologies if you don't have any clue about knitting, I personally do and I based this off a singular Thomas quote LOL.

------

The club meetings Alison was hosting in the home proved to be bothersome for some of the ghosts, annoyed at how many people were visiting the house every day. Between the AA meetings and just the most random topics you could ever think of being discussed, it was something not everyone was entirely interested in. Though everyone loved to tune into the AA meeting every once in a while, for some juicy stories. 

You on the other hand? You stuck around for all the art based clubs, it reminded you of when you were alive and could do all this work with your hands.

The knitting club proved to be one that you could watch for hours, it's one of the hobbies you missed a lot. Looking around at all of the cute creations everyone was making and talking about their families and different stories they had from the day filled your soul with a sort of warmth. 

As this week's meeting began, you sat on the old beat up couch, watching all the young, old, women and men fill the seats, excited about what progress they made over the week. Unbeknownst to you though, a certain poet was walking past the room to see you sitting in there alone, with the group that had no idea you were there.

Thomas was never really fond of the knitting club, he felt it was boring and it wasn’t worth his time to sit and watch other people knit while talking about their grandkids or their in-laws. But maybe he could learn to like it? Maybe just for you?

He walked into the room silently as you were enchanted by all the people getting ready to start the meeting. “Good evening dear (Y/N),” Thomas greets you with a slight bow and a polite smile on his face. You light up and wave to him “Hi! Are you here for the knitting club? I thought you didn’t like them?” Thomas freezes up before responding with a quick agreement. “I just thought I might’ve judged them a little too hard at first, so I thought I would give them another chance,” this makes you smile and you go back to watching the group. 

He had to admit it's not as boring as he remembered, but it still wasn’t super enjoyable for him. But boy did it make him gleam seeing you get up and tell him what everyone was making and why.

By the end of the meeting, he learned one of the older women was making a blanket for her new grandson, and a young man was making a hat for his wife as a Christmas gift. Part of him wished he could do something like that for you, just because he realized how excited you get about this stuff.

“Say (Y/N), did you know how to knit when you were living? You seem to know quite a bit.” You nod, “It was a big hobby of mine. I spent a lot of time and money on blankets and hats, which now thinking about it, probably paid off. Because now my family has something handmade to remember me.” You smile, but it hurts to think about sometimes. 

Thomas reads you like a book, he realizes how emotional you are getting. He places a supportive hand on your shoulder. 

You both lock eyes, getting lost with one another. Thomas soon breaks eye contact to glance over at the people knitting mindlessly.

“I know that being stuck here isn’t ideal, and not being able to do the things you love isn’t ideal either. But isn’t it splendid you can still appreciate it? Even if you cannot do it, isn’t the true gift appreciation?” He states, so matter of factly you can’t even begin to argue. “That was actually very poetic.” Both of you smile at each other. 

“I also appreciate you, Thomas.” 

“I feel the same exact way, my dearest.”

-----

I hope you all enjoyed! Probably not the best work ever, but I thought it was cute :)

[npookie0]

mc x actual devil ronin?

The Saint Becomes the Sinner.

Satan, Devil, the creator of all that's filthy and sinister.

Those were only few of Ronin's many titles given by humans. He found it funny, how they all acted so scared of him, praying to God for protection and still sin, turn to desires, wealth. Oh how pathetic the little humans were to him.

He even decided to mix between them, played a serial killer, got rid of abusers who deserved the greatest punishments. He found their fear and cries for mercy so amusing.

One day, when he was coming back from his work, he spotted an interesting sight. A human. A human with the soul as pure as white, as clean as an angel. It felt so interesting to him. Humans other than children with pure souls were a rarity, and he wanted to destroy every soul like that.

Corrupt it with filth and dirt, make it so utterly disgusting that the saints would cry about their lose while he would dance devilishly and laugh in their faces.

He was following the soul's owner around for a while, watching them very closely. They were a poet of sorts, pouring their feelings into poetry, or into prayer. Ronin found it pathetic. The gods won't answer either way, they never do. He saw it all, people begging gods to save their children, help them, protect them. Yet, their prayers stayed unanswered, ignored, tossed aside.

It took Ronin weeks to learn the human's patterns. Their routine wasn't too complicated, their life was rather boring. Maybe that's why they managed to stay so pure? Oh, then breaking that pureness will be even more enjoyable. Seeing how he can shape this mundane human into something absolutely destroyed will be an experience worth the wait.

Since his day to day job as a human was a mechanic. he decided to maybe sabotage the human's car so they could get a more or less natural way of meeting for the first time.

"Good afternoon sir, I'm so sorry to bother you, but the battery in my car died."

There they were. The star of the devil's little puppet show. All innocent and polite. He had to stop himself from grinning or he would ruin his chances with this human.

He turned to look at them, wiping the motor oil from his hand into a cloth. He approached them, slow and calculated steps.

"This thing is yours?"

He looked at the car. Acting like it's the first time he sees it.

"Yeah, I got it from my dad, he will kill me if I break it."

They chuckled, he answered with a small smile, oh yeah the human jokes. He never understood their jesting over the eternal demise. Maybe they feared it so much that they wanted to laugh at it? He will never know.

"I'm sure I can make this baby live again."

He used his more flirtatious tone, he had to amour them in some way after all. And as the snake sly games wre his speciality.

The human bought into his little game. Smiling a little as they looked away sheepishly.

"I sure hope that you do, who know maybe I'd like a coffee with my hero?"

Here it was. Humans are so easy. One provocative gaze, the right words, tone, body language and they are all wrapped around his finger. He didn't even try too hard to make the move, maybe it were the days of watching, or how well he knew the human nature by now.

Time flew by. Ronin spent quite some time with the pure hearted individual. Feeding their mind with filth when they were too focused on his facade.

Watching as their soul was getting tainted with more darkness, with this chaos. Oh, what a beautiful sight for sore eyes it was. A true spectacle.

Every time the human and him indulged in more dangerous, or intimate activities, he could feel their soul giving in to his darkness. Living in it, loving all of it. He felt this strange attraction for this human.

Maybe it was how they looked? Or maybe how the effects of Ronin's hard work was showing in their behaviour? The looks full of desire, the fire burning deep in them. They were almost as devilish as him.

Their passion felt hot, heated even. The sin they were committing was almost beautiful. After all, loving the sin itself was the worst thing any being could do.

Ronin couldn't even begin to count how many angels lost their lives for loving him, and he? He felt satisfaction. Destroying the holy laws was his favourite game, watching the world burn was his dream.

And perhaps, this new little lover of his might've joined that dream. Side by side, watching the world fall. An alluring vision indeed.

Maybe the Devil got a little too into that game of his.

[scotianostra]

On August 15th 1771 Sir Walter Scott the poet and novelist was born in Edinburgh.

Walter survived polio as a toddler which left him with a limp and he used a cane the rest of his life. He was the first author to have international fame in his lifetime and is credited with inventing the historical novel.

Scott used the great storytelling tradition of the Highlands to help bring back the Scottish identity that had been cruelly crushed by the British. His Waverly novels were very popular in Europe and America starting Romanticism and influencing American writers such as Thoreau and Twain.

As well as popularising the historical novel, his books more or less invented tourism in Scotland. A family holiday to Loch Katrine inspired Scott to write the epic narrative poem The Lady of the Lake; a romantic, stirring tale of secret identity, love and loss. It was a publishing phenomenon and readers flocked to see the landscape Scott had described. Thus when travel entrepreneurs such as Thomas Cook began selling packaged railroad tours in the 1840s, Scotland was one of the most popular destinations. Victorians who had grown up on Scott’s Waverley novels, and now technology made it possible to reach these areas

Scott was a prolific writer, publishing two novels a year. Readers around the globe devoured his tales of historic Scotland and its noble, heroic people.

Composers in particular found inspiration in his work, among them Gaetano Donizetti who was inspired to write the tragic opera Lucia del Lammermoor based on Scott’s novel The Bride of Lammermoor.  Franz Schubert was similarly moved, setting text from The Lady of the Lake to music to create his much-loved work Ave Maria.

When King George IIII visited Edinburgh in 1822 Scott was put in charge of the festivities. This was the first time a reigning monarch had made it north of the border in over 200 years and Scott masterminded a spectacular Scottish show in his honour.

He created a romantic - and, some argued, and still do argue, an unrealistic - vision of the Highlands on the streets of the capital with parades, gatherings of clans and swathes of tartan on display. King George himself lapped up this romantic symbolism, dressing in a kilt for the occasion and, like a 19th century influencer, prompting others to wear it too. It marked a turning point in the way the world saw Scotland, and the return of tartan to fashionable society following a ban enforced by the government in the aftermath of the Jacobite rebellion.

Scott’s influence in society allowed him to lobby on causes he held dear.Sir Walter Scott got involved in a number of political issues. Particularly, his interested in issues where the government was trying to impose things on Scotland. For example, the Bank of England wanted to withdraw the right of Scottish banks to print bank notes, it's testement to the man that he features on bank notes not just today, but going back to the days of smaller nbanks, like the Linen Bank in Scotland, The Bank of Scotland range of notes still carry his portrait. Scott He stirred up such a furore that the government backed down, so you have him to thank that your not carrying English bank notes around with you, imagine a life where we Scots couldn't have a good old moan about businesses in England refusing to take our money as payment!

Scott’s popularity as a poet was cemented in 1813 when he was given the opportunity to become Poet Laureate. However, he declined and Robert Southey accepted the position instead.

Having suffered a stroke in 1831, which resulted in apoplectic paralysis, his health continued to fail and Scott died on 21st September 1832 at Abbotsford, I hope to read and post more about Sir Walter Scott in just over a months time.

[1mlostnow]

A young man stands in his bedroom. It just so happens that today, the 27th of July, is this young man's birthday. Though it was years ago he was given life, it is only today that he will be given a name.

What will the name of this young man be?

•

•

•

🐸 The Basics :

Name : Evan

Pronouns : He/Him

Age : A minor!!

Gender : Male

Sexuality : Gay

Nationality : American

Star Sign : Leo

MBTI : INTJ-T

I love nicknames, call me whatever.

I’m usually around from 8AM to 1AM CDT.

Music sideblog : @evan-radio

🐛 My Resume :

Loser CEO, the ‘weird kid’ since birth, Professional Ghostbuster, Supervillian, and Midwestern Cowboy (the fun way, not the cop way), Lab Experiment #0727

🪲 My Music :

AJJ, boygenius, Bug Hunter, Cage The Elephant, Car Seat Headrest, Crywank, Lemon Demon, Lord Huron, Los Campesinos!, MCR, Noah Kahan, ODO, Pat The Bunny, Radiohead, Rex Orange County, Seb Lowe, Sleep Token, Tally Hall, Tame Impala, Teen Suicide, TFB, The Smiths, Vundabar, Weezer :/, Will Wood/WWATT, Wingnut Dishwashers Union, and more.

🐢 Tags :

# evan speaks -> I talk. A lot. // # evan rants -> I tend to be very emotional // # evan’s memories -> nostalgia mode // # evan can’t vote -> US politics // # evan draws -> my art // # EvanRadio -> my sideblog for music // # i love my mutuals -> typically multiple mutual appreciation posts per day

🐍 Rules & Boundaries :

I’m a minor!! Don’t be weird!!

Obviously, any form of discrimination is off limits.

Cringe culture is dead, all are welcome, and I’m always open to learning.

Asks and anons are open, notifs are off so feel free to spam, but I can’t promise I’ll see it right away. Absolutely feel free to interact and ask, I will have full convos w/ you through reblogs. I answer DMs on a case-by-case basis. If you are over 18, please do not DM me.

🦎 Fandoms and characters ->

★ Dead Poets Society

★ House MD

★ Supernatural

★ Sherlock

★ Ghostbusters

★ Homestuck

🦖 Incoming fandoms ->

★ Hannibal, Good Omens, Saw

🐊 Backseat Fandoms ->

★ IT, Stranger Things, Over The Garden Wall, Scooby-Doo

🦚 Fandom Graveyard ->

★ Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Creepypasta

🦜 Kinnies ->

★ Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock)

★ Egon Spengler (Ghostbusters)

★ Castiel (Supernatural)

★ Steven Meeks (Dead Poets Society)

★ Richie Tozier (IT 2017)

★ Rory Keaner (My Babysitter’s A Vampire)

🪛 Other Movies :

The Truman Show, Stand By Me, Velvet Goldmine, Jaws, The Goonies, Breakfast Club

🐉 Other Interests :

Reading, writing, art (drawing, painting, digital and traditional), etymology, science, history, math, forensics, biology, marching band (alto sax), sharks

🔋 Other Facts :

- I love my car like it’s my child #TOMATER SUPREMACY 🦚

- Richard Cameron Defender for life (see here)🐊

- Blog theme changes frequently 🦖

- i LOVE doing little doodles and drawings of my friends 🐢

- I love my mutuals and you guys are my best friends btw 🐍

- More mouse bites!! This vexes me! Medicine drug!! 🦎

- ADHD 🪲

- I’ve got a bad habit of viewing notifications but never responding to them, if this happens please just tag me again 📗

🦠 A Note :

I am very indecisive and this post will be edited very often (see counter below)

🧪 Dead Poets Society :

@pingunaa @ghostboyhood @wordssricochet @meekspeaks @poetsinnyc @wilsons-three-legged-siamese @midwest-quill @apparitiongnostic @de4d-poet-kisser @yourfavvgal @asclexe @lv3buzzz

If I forgot someone/if you want to be added just lmk :)) if I forgot you I’m so so sorry

Edited - |||| ||

[pumpkinsy0]

iraqi two-bit hcs.....please.... i burst into tears

iraqi two bit???? tell him i said whats up,,,,,is he free anytime soon,,,,hmu,,,

ONCE AGAIN, tell me if i say something wrong, im not from this background😭😭

•his family mostly comes from najaf, does he know tbis??? no, hes never rlly asked questions about what its like in iraq

•in iraqi culture children live at home till they marry, so while to everyone else its a bit odd that two is just, at his moms house not trying to move out #leavethenest, to him thats just pretty normal, he doesnt see anything wrong w it at all!! same thing when it comes to the idea that “ur 18 u can do whatever u want”, in his culture thats just like not the case, lmao

•iraq is partially known for their poets so while he isnt interested in poetry, pony sure as hell is!!! thing is pony only rlly knows more western poets, so two bit introduces pony to other poets from iraq, everyone thank two bit for widening ponys perspective

•its also known for its sculptors, and two is into sculpting!!! is he any good???? not rn, GOD no, but he has some clay he likes to mess around w and his sister paints the finished product!! their mom has em as decorations in the house

•in his culture its polite to accept everything offered, but honestly, he was gonna accept those bad boys regardless, he will take EVERYTHING given to him, he has no shame about that, i PROMISE u he doesnt

•as a kid, his mom has allwaaayyyss told him to leave a bit of food cause its a sign of respect that he was fed enough, but loooookkkkkkk. two bit is a HUNGRY hungry guy he wants to eat alllll his food, when he went over to the curtis house for the first time and nobody got on him for eating all his food ik he went crazy w the seconds

•everytime he tries to speak arabic, he chokes on his spit along the way, his arabic truly isnt the best, his sister laughs at him hard for it (she cant speak it that well eitherl), their mom shakes her head at both of em

•he tries to cook some foods from iraq, but my god is he not trusted around fire, only thing he can mostly cook is kofta, which the gang RLLY likes so that makes up for it. they have it every few days!!

•he cant tie ANYTHING for the life of him, but especially a shemagh, he always does it too lose and his mom has to help him w that

•two bit is a pretty humble guy, at least compared to everyone else hes around, and part of that is bc of how generous he was taught to be, same thing goes w family!! he was taught to b very loyal to his family and he sees the gang as his family, would give any of them anything they wanted from him

•the reason y he doesnt exactly show off his body much like most of the rest of the gang is bc he was encouraged to dress more conservatively, which hes fine w, like i said hes generally humble and even if he wasnt encouraged i dont think he would, just not who he is as a person. how he thinks however is a different can of worms for another day, i think hes only conservative in the way he dresses

•he was alsoooo taught to respect his elders and he rlly took this seriously as a kid cause when he met the curtis parents, dally thought he was being a kiss ass. hell, other greasers thought he was being one too, but he didnt care much, he would giggle at kids giving him a stink eye

•im not saying he cant handle heat at all, he lives in tulsa, to some degree he can, but maybe not the heat in iraq, he would b so sick of it if he ever visited there

•i dont think his mom is religious, but she does things that r influenced from islamic traditions!! one of those things being teaching her kids to pass things w their right hand and not left, bc left is considered rude. bless two bit if hes left handed bc he would forget that rule sm

[pommedepersephone]

You Say Potato, I Say Excellent! Or blocking, dialogue and legacy of morality tales in ‘The Resurrectionists’ minisode PART I

Alternate title: how Aziraphale’s naivety in this episode was supposed to make you a bit outraged

I have to shout out to @bowtiepastabitch for their AMAZING historical analysis of this minisode - it prompted me to finish this long ramble that has been drifting in my notes. Anyway, I have a major obsession with the ways blocking and dialogue interplay in Good Omens - you can check out my analysis of the blocking in the flashbacks in S1. But The Resurrectionists is really something special. This got so long I am splitting it into two parts. See Part II here!

I should start with three important caveats that brought me to this analysis -

If we accept that S1 is narrated by God, then I propose that S2 is being told from the viewpoint of our Ineffable Man Shaped Beings - and they are NOT reliable narrators.

All three minisodes share a feeling of being… stories. They feel like a slightly exaggerated version they might be told between two old friends sitting in the back room of a bookshop, soused off wine and whisky. Like a journal entry that you don’t actually expect outsiders to see.

All three minisodes have some relation, in style and structure, to film and literature. I'm focusing on the lit aspect here. A Companion to Owls is very illustrated bible. Nazi Zombies from Hell is a pulp fiction master class. So what is The Resurrectionists? A morality tale.

My first thought when we opened on the romantic graveyard date in Edinburgh was “OH it’s like a penny dreadful!” but it didn’t take me long to reassess. Morality tales are a genre of children’s literature that was extremely popular in the early 1800s where the minisode is taking place. But THIS morality tale itself is a more nuanced version of these stories, more along the lines of what an author important in the Good Omens universe would pen. So, first, a little bit of history behind morality tales and a very important author to know, then we get to the blocking and dialogue!

Morality Tales for Children

There had long been differing views in European circles of thought about the nature of children - were they born innately tainted by Original Sin, or were they born as blank slates? In the late 1700s to early 1800s, the view of the blank slate was winning with the help of highly influential educators like Friedrich Froebel (who coined the term kindergarten and emphasized the importance of play in learning.) 

At this same time, there was a rise in literature produced specifically for children. One of the most popular children’s genres? The morality tale. These stories showed Good triumphing over Evil and the importance of leading a respectable, Christian life. The stories were extremely binary, black and white in their presentation of morality, something which deeply influenced many authors who were raised reading them. Authors like G.K. Chesterton.

G.K. Chesterton 

Over his career, Chesterton wrote several plays, 80 books, 200 short stories, 4,000 essays, and several hundred poems. He’s an interesting guy, but suffice to say for our purposes - he was deeply Christian, and his work contains a lot of religious themes and symbolism which he used to write serious commentary on politics, economics and philosophy. If you haven’t read the book, you should know that it the dedication reads thus: 

The authors would like to join the demon Crowley in dedicating this book to the memory of G.K. Chesterton. 

In fact, Crowley says in the book that Chesterton was “The only poet in the twentieth century to even come close to the Truth." So it is probably relevant that Chesterton had opinions about children’s morality tales. He once wrote -

Many people have wondered why it is that children's stories are so full of moralizing. The reason is perfectly simple: it is that children like moralizing more than anything else, and eat it up as if it were so much jam. The reason why we, who are grown up, dislike moralizing is equally clear: it is that we have discovered how much perversion and hypocrisy can be mixed with it; we have grown to dislike morality not because morality is moral, but because morality is so often immoral. But the child has never seen the virtues twisted into vices; the child does not know that men are not only bad from good motives, but also often good from bad motives. The child does not know that whereas the Jesuit may do evil that good may come, the man of the world often does good that evil may come.

In summary, we know that children’s morality tales were supposed to teach important lessons about Good and Evil. We also know that later authors like G.K. Chesterton were aware of this genre and it influenced their writing (which in turn informs the Good Omens universe). So why pick this framework for this minisode? Because it is FRUSTRATING to watch, on purpose. We are meant to be annoyed with how Good has so little relation to right, to see how complicated doing real good can be, and it lays out a strong case for the complete inadequacy of black and white world views - and not just religious ones.

So (grabs gloves and a knife) let’s dissect the blocking and dialogue, shall we?

Part II: Blocking and Dialogue

[queenlucythevaliant]

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

The Fisherman and His Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’M sorry,” muttered the boy.

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

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

*

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

“Where are we going, O father?”

“To Archenland, north of the great desert.”

“But how do we get across?”

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

*

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

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

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

“Quiet!”

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

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

*

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

“’M not tired,” Shasta protested.

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

The horse halted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy nodded once, but made no apology.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

“Arsheesh!” called Ilsombresh from the road.

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

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

*

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

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

“You may not,” replied the Tarkaan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush boy. Do not interrupt me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” said the fisherman. “It isn’t.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, ‘Bresh,” she chorused.

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

*

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

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

“No doubt a testament to your exceptional horsemanship.”

“Perhaps.”

*

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

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

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

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

The child bit his lip. “Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you any questions?”

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

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

“Freedom and fat wallets,” Arsheesh softly echoed.

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

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

“Yes, my lord. A fine plan.”

“’Bresh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Please, ‘Bresh. Pleeeeeeaaaaseeee?”

It was at that moment that something miraculous happened.

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

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

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

And then all Tash’s hell broke loose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aslan?”

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