#of people who will stand at his grave and not weep. much like his ancestors' bad actions. one suspects.

[tortoisesshells]

[ezekielurquhart]

"I'm not I-" Ezekiel had lost them so quickly, one after another they'd fallen like dominos. Rhiannon, Hakan, and now Marcella. There was so much blood under his nails, it had mixed with grave dirt and Ezekiel wished he could say that any of it was his. "I'm not anything without you, without-" Without the father-figure he'd only just found, without the best friend he'd only just made. "Please, not another one not, not like this not-" It shouldn't have been possible for him to hurt anymore, but the pain that he'd felt from losing Hakan was nearly eclipsed by the agony that came from losing a progeny.

It was a common saying among mortals that parents were never supposed to bury their children. They were meant to be immortal, to stand at the top of the world together, forever. Laughing at the centuries as they passed them by, languishing in everything that being young, beautiful, and powerful for eternity meant. Gods at the dawn of their rebirth, Marcella and Ezekiel were only just getting their start... This... It wasn't just wrong or unfair, it was downright cruel.

"Please." Pleading as if hope and desperation was enough to bring the vampire back to life, like a single wish was all it would take to return his progeny to him. Rough, filthy fingers ran over her matted hair, moved the graveyard across her skin. Marcella's eyes had closed but she might as well have been sleeping; Ezekiel had buried her once and it had kind of been just like this. Back then he'd twisted her neck to an unnatural angle, and then bent it back so her transition was easier. He'd lifted the earth and used it to veil her like he'd been preparing Marcella to marry the night. Poetic, she'd called it.

At any moment Marcella would open her eyes again, Ezekiel cradled her face against his chest and rocked back and forth, he waited weeping for his progeny to return just like she had before. His eyes were fixed upon that headstone he'd had placed in her honour, Marcella's body was never intended to stay there but now she'd have a place next to Hakan's. Next to Hakan's amidst a sea of ancestors, witches who had the fortune of not seeing their home brought to ruin, their beloved city destroyed, and everyone they ever cared about ground under heel.

Once Ezekiel had buried her in shallow dirt, this time he brought her down six feet deep. He remembered a time on a lazy afternoon when there was still a beating heart in her chest, Marcella had sat with her feet up on his table, a history book perched on her lap. She had told him how romantic it was that some sires buried themselves alongside their progeny, that they awoke in their arms and dug their way from the grave hand in hand. He'd laughed at her, because what kind of sick, twisted bitch thought that shit was romantic?

Numb, Ezekiel wandered listlessly around the broken stones until he found wildflowers poking through the ruins of what might have been the old churchyard. There wasn't many, but there were enough so that when he laid her in this dirt that would be her tomb, he could decorate the raven hair that he spilled around her. Against his better judgement, Ezekiel laid next to her as if some bit of that old, macabre story had some hidden magic to it; Marcella's chest was hollow and empty but when he folded her pale hands upon the crevice it didn't look like anything but a trick of the dark. Shadows that had pooled and harmonized with the ichor that stained her skin.

"I never should have left you." They'd gone their separate ways, they shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have let her run off on her own. Hakan- Ezekiel crumpled again, his lip quivered as he held Marcella's hands over her gaping chest. Hakan had never wanted to be a part of this fight, he was here because of Ezekiel, and Marcella wouldn't have lingered in Rome if he hadn't given her a reason to stay. He'd spent his whole life looking for himself in other people, but one thing was painfully true: Rhiannon, Hakan, Hazal- Among them, Marcella had been the person to make him a man.

He whispered to her before leaving, "You were always the best of me."

Ezekiel climbed from Marcella's grave and buried his progeny before the grave marker that he'd place for her only a couple months prior. Now she and Hakan would rest side by side, forever.

Marcella Astrid Belanades November 17th 1995 - September 30th 2023 Beloved Daughter, Sister, Witch, and Friend Do not stand by my grave and weep Ezekiel Christopher Urquhart August 11th 1995 - September 30th 2022 Beloved Son, Brother, and Witch I am not there, I did not die

Person: @ezekielurquhart Location: Cemetery notes: oh no She'd been foolish, too distracted to look behind her with Ciro on the ground dead. Or he might has well have been, dying and he'd refused her blood, didn't want to take it. If those damn creatures hadn't descended upon her, she might not have even left his body, she might have stayed there to die with him. But she'd made a promise, she'd made a promise and so with tear stained cheeks and blood and gore clinging to her she'd shambled towards the cemetery. It's not something she ever thought about, how much blood she had to lose now before she died. Because as she'd been knelt over Ciro's body, something, she didn't have time to focus on what, had stabbed her clean through the chest from the back. It'd happened so quickly she swore she only felt it afterwards, when the creature had pulled out her lungs and a heart that didn't beat anymore nearly out of her chest. Marcella's right hand rested over the hole now, clutching what is left of the organ that's practically out of her chest. But even as she moves through the winding cemetery, no matter how fast she's still able to move, she knows it is not for long, that this is a death march. "Zeke!" She calls out and blood bubbles forth from her mouth, drips down her chin and she barely makes it to where their graves are before her knees are hitting the ground and she's doubling over, desperately trying to put things back where they're supposed to be. She's crying but she's been crying this whole time, already mourning Ciro, already mourning the future that she said she and Zeke and their little Pluto nest would have. Vaguely she thinks she hears him but everything almost sounds muffled, as if she's been put underwater. Her free raises to his face the moment he's beside her, marking it with her blood. Their blood, the one he'd given new life to in a way. If a progeny died, the pain was supposed to be unimaginable, she can't believe she'll put him through something like that when she's already had a hand in putting him through so much already.

"D-don't cry. Not for-" It goes unfinished, she's loosing too much blood now, her body is desperately trying to heal itself, she can feel it, but it can't heal organs outright being removed, there's no way. More tears are shed because it's not supposed to be like this and she knows this is the last thing she is ever going to tell the man who had once been a boy she'd thought foolish all those years ago, the one that had grown to be her brother. Mustering whatever is left of her strength, she thinks about the conversation they'd had here the time before she'd turned. When they'd talked of the afterlife. When she'd told him she didn't believe in heaven but knew that's where his soul had to be, somewhere safe, somewhere good, somewhere he could be happy.

"You are in the best place because y-you are the best, you're the best of u-us." There's tears and there's blood everywhere and her body is giving up but she's smiling at him. He had such ambition, such trust in his coven as a witch, when he was alive. He was always there, he'd been so kind and helpful that she had actually resented him for it. As a vampire that kindness had come about tenfold, she couldn't believe he'd help her after everything, that he would willing take her under his wing and not just turn her, but accept her in ways she feared no one else ever really would. She's smiling at him and then her hand falls limply from his face, leaving a trail of blood in it's wake. Maybe wherever her soul winds up, there's a slim chance someone will take pity on her and reunite her with Ciro one last time.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

21st March >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Fifth Sunday of Lent, Cycle B: - Proper Readings

(see also Lazarus)

(Liturgical Colour: Violet)

First Reading

Jeremiah 31:31-34

I will write my Law in their hearts

See, the days are coming – it is the Lord who speaks – when I will make a new covenant with the House of Israel (and the House of Judah), but not a covenant like the one I made with their ancestors on the day I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt. They broke that covenant of mine, so I had to show them who was master. It is the Lord who speaks. No, this is the covenant I will make with the House of Israel when those days arrive – it is the Lord who speaks. Deep within them I will plant my Law, writing it on their hearts. Then I will be their God and they shall be my people. There will be no further need for neighbour to try to teach neighbour, or brother to say to brother, ‘Learn to know the Lord!’ No, they will all know me, the least no less than the greatest – it is the Lord who speaks – since I will forgive their iniquity and never call their sin to mind.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 50(51):3-4,12-15

R/ A pure heart create for me, O God.

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness.    In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt    and cleanse me from my sin.

R/ A pure heart create for me, O God.

A pure heart create for me, O God,    put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence,    nor deprive me of your holy spirit.

R/ A pure heart create for me, O God.

Give me again the joy of your help;    with a spirit of fervour sustain me, that I may teach transgressors your ways    and sinners may return to you.

R/ A pure heart create for me, O God.

Second Reading

Hebrews 5:7-9

He learned to obey and he became the source of eternal salvation

During his life on earth, Christ offered up prayer and entreaty, aloud and in silent tears, to the one who had the power to save him out of death, and he submitted so humbly that his prayer was heard. Although he was Son, he learnt to obey through suffering; but having been made perfect, he became for all who obey him the source of eternal salvation.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Gospel Acclamation

John12:26

Glory to you, O Christ, you are the Word of God! Whoever serves me must follow me, says the Lord; and where I am, there also will my servant be. Glory to you, O Christ, you are the Word of God!

Gospel

John 12:20-33

If a grain of wheat falls on the ground and dies, it yields a rich harvest

Among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. These approached Philip, who came from Bethsaida in Galilee, and put this request to him, ‘Sir, we should like to see Jesus.’ Philip went to tell Andrew, and Andrew and Philip together went to tell Jesus. Jesus replied to them:

‘Now the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. I tell you, most solemnly, unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest. Anyone who loves his life loses it; anyone who hates his life in this world will keep it for the eternal life. If a man serves me, he must follow me, wherever I am, my servant will be there too. If anyone serves me, my Father will honour him. Now my soul is troubled. What shall I say: Father, save me from this hour? But it was for this very reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name!’

A voice came from heaven, ‘I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.’ People standing by, who heard this, said it was a clap of thunder; others said, ‘It was an angel speaking to him.’ Jesus answered, ‘It was not for my sake that this voice came, but for yours.

‘Now sentence is being passed on this world; now the prince of this world is to be overthrown. And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shall draw all men to myself.’

By these words he indicated the kind of death he would die.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Fifth Sunday of Lent, Cycle B: - Lazarus

(Liturgical Colour: Violet)

First Reading

Ezekiel 37:12-14

I shall put my spirit in you, and you will live

The Lord says this: I am now going to open your graves; I mean to raise you from your graves, my people, and lead you back to the soil of Israel. And you will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and raise you from your graves, my people. And I shall put my spirit in you, and you will live, and I shall resettle you on your own soil; and you will know that I, the Lord, have said and done this – it is the Lord who speaks.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 129(130)

R/ With the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord,    Lord, hear my voice! O let your ears be attentive    to the voice of my pleading.

R/ With the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption.

If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt,    Lord, who would survive? But with you is found forgiveness:    for this we revere you.

R/ With the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption.

My soul is waiting for the Lord.    I count on his word. My soul is longing for the Lord    more than watchman for daybreak. (Let the watchman count on daybreak    and Israel on the Lord.)

R/ With the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption.

Because with the Lord there is mercy    and fullness of redemption, Israel indeed he will redeem    from all its iniquity.

R/ With the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption.

Second Reading

Romans 8:8-11

The Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you

People who are interested only in unspiritual things can never be pleasing to God. Your interests, however, are not in the unspiritual, but in the spiritual, since the Spirit of God has made his home in you. In fact, unless you possessed the Spirit of Christ you would not belong to him. Though your body may be dead it is because of sin, but if Christ is in you then your spirit is life itself because you have been justified; and if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, then he who raised Jesus from the dead will give life to your own mortal bodies through his Spirit living in you.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Gospel Acclamation

John 11:25, 26

Glory and praise to you, O Christ! I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord; whoever believes in me will never die. Glory and praise to you, O Christ!

Either:

Gospel

John 11:1-45

I am the resurrection and the life

There was a man named Lazarus who lived in the village of Bethany with the two sisters, Mary and Martha, and he was ill. It was the same Mary, the sister of the sick man Lazarus, who anointed the Lord with ointment and wiped his feet with her hair. The sisters sent this message to Jesus, ‘Lord, the man you love is ill.’ On receiving the message, Jesus said, ‘This sickness will end not in death but in God’s glory, and through it the Son of God will be glorified.’

   Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, yet when he heard that Lazarus was ill he stayed where he was for two more days before saying to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judaea.’ The disciples said, ‘Rabbi, it is not long since the Jews wanted to stone you; are you going back again?’ Jesus replied:

‘Are there not twelve hours in the day? A man can walk in the daytime without stumbling because he has the light of this world to see by; but if he walks at night he stumbles, because there is no light to guide him.’

He said that and then added, ‘Our friend Lazarus is resting, I am going to wake him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he is able to rest he is sure to get better.’ The phrase Jesus used referred to the death of Lazarus, but they thought that by ‘rest’ he meant ‘sleep’, so Jesus put it plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead; and for your sake I am glad I was not there because now you will believe. But let us go to him.’ Then Thomas – known as the Twin – said to the other disciples, ‘Let us go too, and die with him.’

   On arriving, Jesus found that Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days already. Bethany is only about two miles from Jerusalem, and many Jews had come to Martha and Mary to sympathise with them over their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus had come she went to meet him. Mary remained sitting in the house. Martha said to Jesus, ‘If you had been here, my brother would not have died, but I know that, even now, whatever you ask of God, he will grant you.’ ‘Your brother’ said Jesus to her ‘will rise again.’ Martha said, ‘I know he will rise again at the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said:

‘I am the resurrection and the life. If anyone believes in me, even though he dies he will live, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’

‘Yes, Lord,’ she said ‘I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who was to come into this world.’    When she had said this, she went and called her sister Mary, saying in a low voice, ‘The Master is here and wants to see you.’ Hearing this, Mary got up quickly and went to him. Jesus had not yet come into the village; he was still at the place where Martha had met him. When the Jews who were in the house sympathising with Mary saw her get up so quickly and go out, they followed her, thinking that she was going to the tomb to weep there.

   Mary went to Jesus, and as soon as she saw him she threw herself at his feet, saying, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ At the sight of her tears, and those of the Jews who followed her, Jesus said in great distress, with a sigh that came straight from the heart, ‘Where have you put him?’ They said, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept; and the Jews said, ‘See how much he loved him!’ But there were some who remarked, ‘He opened the eyes of the blind man, could he not have prevented this man’s death?’ Still sighing, Jesus reached the tomb: it was a cave with a stone to close the opening. Jesus said, ‘Take the stone away.’ Martha said to him, ‘Lord, by now he will smell; this is the fourth day.’ Jesus replied, ‘Have I not told you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. Then Jesus lifted up his eyes and said:

‘Father, I thank you for hearing my prayer. I knew indeed that you always hear me, but I speak for the sake of all these who stand round me, so that they may believe it was you who sent me.’

When he had said this, he cried in a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, here! Come out!’ The dead man came out, his feet and hands bound with bands of stuff and a cloth round his face. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, let him go free.’    Many of the Jews who had come to visit Mary and had seen what he did believed in him.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

Or:

Gospel

John 11:3-7,17,20-27,33-45

I am the resurrection and the life

Mary and Martha sent this message to Jesus, ‘Lord, the man you love is ill.’ On receiving the message, Jesus said, ‘This sickness will end not in death but in God’s glory, and through it the Son of God will be glorified.’

   Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, yet when he heard that Lazarus was ill he stayed where he was for two more days before saying to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judaea.’

   On arriving, Jesus found that Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days already. When Martha heard that Jesus had come she went to meet him. Mary remained sitting in the house. Martha said to Jesus, ‘If you had been here, my brother would not have died, but I know that, even now, whatever you ask of God, he will grant you.’ ‘Your brother’ said Jesus to her ‘will rise again.’ Martha said, ‘I know he will rise again at the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said:

‘I am the resurrection and the life. If anyone believes in me, even though he dies he will live, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’

‘Yes, Lord,’ she said ‘I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who was to come into this world.’

   Jesus said in great distress, with a sigh that came straight from the heart, ‘Where have you put him?’ They said, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus wept; and the Jews said, ‘See how much he loved him!’ But there were some who remarked, ‘He opened the eyes of the blind man, could he not have prevented this man’s death?’ Still sighing, Jesus reached the tomb: it was a cave with a stone to close the opening. Jesus said, ‘Take the stone away.’ Martha said to him, ‘Lord, by now he will smell; this is the fourth day.’ Jesus replied, ‘Have I not told you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. Then Jesus lifted up his eyes and said:

‘Father, I thank you for hearing my prayer. I knew indeed that you always hear me, but I speak for the sake of all these who stand round me, so that they may believe it was you who sent me.’

When he had said this, he cried in a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, here! Come out!’ The dead man came out, his feet and hands bound with bands of stuff and a cloth round his face. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, let him go free.’

   Many of the Jews who had come to visit Mary and had seen what he did believed in him.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[kuriquinn]

Evil Author Day - WIP # 5

I’ve been planning a Tales of the Uchiha series for ages now. And I keep getting distracted by all the research that goes into it. On the off chance I never get around to it, here’s my early draft of the first bit, starring our Karma ‘Verse baby Uchiwa with special mention of big sis Nirami.

Enjoy!

[...]

[...]

[...]

Smoke blackens the sky of the battlefield, poisoning the air with the smell of charred flesh and burning bones.  

Uchiwa lies in the rubble of what was once a village, struggling to catch his breath. His chest aches as if it has been trampled upon by a thousand horses, and his face is sticky. Blood weeps from his eyes, but it doesn’t blind him to the carrion birds circling above him.  

Am I to become their next meal?

He is not the first of his family to die on a battlefield, but it seems likely he will be the first to die unburied. He wonders if that will make it more difficult for his spirit to find his ancestors.  

There’s a flicker of movement off to his left, a shadow rippling behind the billowing smoke.  

Summoning his strength, Uchiwa tightens his grip on his sword, preparing himself with his last breath to do battle with the god of death himself.

“Ōtsutsuki Uchiwa,” a familiar voice intones, echoing across the whistling wind. “You just don’t know how to die, do you?”

The smoke and fog disperse as the figure strides forward, and the owner of the voice takes shape. A tall man, muscular and weather-tanned, with hair like a bird’s nest and a familiar grin.  

“Tadashi,” Uchiwa whispers, the syllables searing his throat even as they herald gladness. “You survived.”

“You know I’m too stubborn to die,” the other man says, striding forward and looping his arms behind Uchiwa’s back.  

It’s embarrassing the ease with which he is lifted to his feet, and he tries desperately to hold himself up on his own once he’s standing. He manages for half a moment, before the wet, rasping cough racks his body again. He’d stumble if Tadashi didn’t reach out to steady him.

Uchiwa waves him away with one hand, the other covering his mouth. The gesture isn’t enough to hide the truth, however, because Tadashi’s grin fades into concern.

“Were you wounded?” he asks, scanning bloodstained clothing for a sign of torn flesh.

Uchiwa shakes his head, but this doesn’t alleviate the concern; if anything, it makes Tadashi look grimmer.

“Let’s go,” he tells him. “I’m bringing you home.”

“Home,” Uchiwa repeats, gazing down at his bloodstained palm.  

He wonders if he’ll make it.  

֍

They didn’t want him to leave.  

“It is a journey I must take,” Uchiwa stated calmly, emulating the same firmness his father had always used. There was an edge to it, one that warned against argument. “And it is one I must take alone.”

“Be reasonable, young master,” his brother-in-law, Tsuyoshi demanded, wild-eyed and sly-tongued.  

“I have to see this world with my own eyes, much as my father once did,” Uchiwa replied. “Only then can I know the true path to changing this world.”

“Yes, of course, that is not in doubt,” Tsuyoshi assured him, a little more harried than usual. “But without us? You must have some protectors with you. Your father’s enemies have allies beyond this place.”

“If you speak of my uncle, you know I have no fear of him, nor any of his line.”

“Easy words for a boy of fourteen,” his cousin Kaguyo snorted, despite only being a few years older than he was. “Even with your abilities, for you to go alone would jeopardise the Master’s teachings—”

“I am the vessel of my father’s teachings,” Uchiwa reminded him, tone quiet, but a red film bled into his eyes in warning. “And it is I who must discern the best manner to continue them. I cannot do that with your voices constantly in my ear.”

“Have a care, boy—we are the most loyal of your father’s disciples. He taught us his craft before you were even a thought!” Tsuyoshi cried. “You would be wise to learn by our experiences.”

“And you would be wise to listen to the Master’s son,” a lone feminine voice retorted. The crowd of relatives and villagers parted, revealing Uchiwa’s heavily pregnant older sister Nirami. “He alone received the last of my father’s teachings, and he alone knows his final wish.”

“This doesn’t concern you—”

“Mind your tongue, husband,” Nirami cut Tsuyoshi off, earning immediate silence from the older man. “The matter has been decided already.”

Low murmuring broke out within the crowd, the growing sense of unease still palpable despite Nirami’s commanding presence.  

A woman in her mid-twenties, she looked much older, prematurely grey and with eyes hardened by loss. Though everyone in the village looked to Uchiwa to succeed his father in doctrine, it was Nirami that had inherited his qualities of leadership.  

“Uchiwa must go,” she continued. “It was the Master’s wish, and it is his purpose that all of us serve. In fact, it is not just my brother who must leave this place. You others, who learned from my father. Your time has come as well

While the others argued back and forth, Uchiwa slipped away and headed for his family’s home. Now that he had made the decision, it would be best to leave as soon as possible. Delays might mean stronger objections, and the idea of saying goodbye to his sister…

“You’re not leaving without saying goodbye first, are you?”

He winced and turned around.

Nirami stood there, hands on her hips and smile sharp. “Did you truly think I’d allow that?”

“I thought it would be easier.”

“Easier for whom?”  

She moved forward, a little slower with her heavier girth, and seized him around the shoulders.  

“There were nine of us, once; now, you and I are the only ones who remain,” she told him heavily. “Your leaving is just as final to me as death.”

“Nirami…”

He expected her, of all people to understand; she had been the one to encourage him to leave as they both sat mourning by their parents’ grave. He can hear tears in her voice, and it’s exactly the reaction he was hoping to avoid.  

When he places a comforting hand on her shoulder, she waved him away.

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “It’s the baby putting me in an odd humour.” She reached up to brush his cheek. “Go. Travel the world. Seek out the weak and teach them to be strong. Pass on Father’s ways and make this world better. Become a legend so that his enemies tremble and that even here, we will hear stories of you.”  

“You are the only brother I have left,” she said quietly. “The only family. Mother and Father’s legacy runs through your veins. Protect it, even while you seek to do it justice.”  

“I will,” he promised.

֍

Hours, days and eternity pass.

Uchiwa is barely conscious for most of it, slipping in and out of delirium-filled dreams. He is distantly aware of water being fed through his cracked lips, and then only because it makes him cough wet and painfully.

Once he manages to open his eyes, and watches Tadashi pour water from his flagon into a rag. He uses it to mop Uchiwa’s face, and the cold is both refreshing and tortuous at the same time. The gesture itself is gentle, and that tempts him to smile.

“This is…not the sort of thing…I would have expected…from you,” he rasps, startling the other man even though his words are barely above a whisper.

Tadashi snorts. “Well, it’s your fault. Traipsing around after you all these years made me soft.”

They both pretend not to notice the rag comes away red.  

֍

Uchiwa wandered for years, carrying out his sister’s words and his father’s will.

He first sought out his uncle’s sons, the ones who had inherited the puzzling teachings of his grandfather, but the place where they once resided was empty and ravaged by fire. The trail they escaped with was too well-hidden for even his quick eyes to find.  

After that, he sought the weak but talented and taught them to be strong. From them he elicited solemn vows in return to spread the way of Indra across the continent and beyond.

The journey was not straightforward, of course.  

Human beings were not so easily given to change, and every land Uchiwa travelled to suffered under ignorance and tradition that did not wish to yield to new teachings. Especially not teachings that could potentially allow even the poor soons of a fdarmer to be equal to or greater in ability than the sons of the gentry.  

Lords and bandit alike would gather forces to challenge Uchiwa if he remained in a region for too long, and he would be forced to deal with them. He always did so with quick and ruthless efficiency, further securing his legacy. Before a full year passed, he had earned a reputation and a name: The Demon Uchiwa.

He never settled in any one place for very long. None of them offered a sense of belonging, or of…something else. The settlement where he was raised had always held comforting familiarity, in a sheltered kind of way, but he had never considered it home. There was something unnameable lacking that made it impossible to call it that.  

This same lack existed wherever he set foot.

It was just as well, he supposed. If he was to succeed in spreading his father’s teachings as far as possible, he could not remain tied down.  Life without connection, lived at a distance, that was his destiny.

At least that’s what he believed.

Something whispered at him from the beyond, chiding him that he was not yet where he was meant to be. That he had not yet found what he was seeking.

It was in his fourth year of wandering that he found his path blocked by a tall, scruffy-looking young man. He carried a giant sword and grinned at him with teeth that had been filed to points.

“So, you’re the Demon, huh?” he jeered, eyes flicking over Uchiwa’s form in a judgemental manner. “I’m starting to think the stories are all talk. You look about as threatening as a rice stalk.”

Uchiwa did not reply, instead taking a step to one side and beginning to walk around the stranger. Just because he could make quick work out of an opponent did not mean that he sought them out for not other reason than to test himself. He could tell that was this one’s prerogative.

Predictably, the man stepped aside as well, barring Uchiwa’s path. His grin widened.

“Let me pass,” Uchiwa said, voice soft and without threat, though his mouth tightened slightly.

“‘Let me pass’?” the other youth mocked. “That’s it? I expected at least a threat attached to that.” He hefted his sword on his shoulder, expectant, and then scowled. “Really? Nothing?”

Uchiwa once again tried to shoulder past him, but the man moved suddenly, swinging his sword out to its full length and once again barring the way. As it sliced down, millimetres from Uchiwa’s face, a single hair was severed.

Uchiwa narrowed his eyes. If the man’s control over the blade had not been more precise, it might have lobbed off his nose.  

His eyes trailed from the blade to the man’s face, levelling a glare at the wolfish grin.

As the strand of hair touched the ground, they both moved.

*ACTION SCENE*

Hours later, the two warriors faced one another, breathing raggedly.

“You have skill,” Uchiha admitted at last, the first words he had spoken since the encounter began. “I could have use for a man with such ability.”

“Heh. I’m not a joiner,” his erstwhile opponent replied, shoving his broken nose back into place with no more than a small wince. “And hokey religions aren’t my style.”

Uchiwa frowned, both at the descriptor and the refusal. Those he fought either died, or submitted, begging him to teach his secrets.  

He could tell this man fell into neither category.

“Then this is where we will part,” he said, cautious.

“Seems so.”

Uchiwa nodded, feeling a little remorseful. He had to kill the man; if he did not become a follower of his teachings, he was a powerful potential enemy.

It will not be easy. This one individual may yet be my equal…

“Although,” the man said a beat later, a considering look breaking out on his face. “Now that I think on it, you must run into a lot of trouble. People who don’t like your way of doing things. I bet some of them even put up a hell of a fight.”

Uchiwa raised an eyebrow, not understanding the point being made. “Sometimes.”

“Well, I’m always up for a fight,” the man said, cheerful, and scrambled to his feet. Uchiwa wondered where he had found the energy. “Maybe I’ll tag along and see if there’s anyone else out there who might put up a fight.” He smiled coldly at Uchiwa. “At least until I decided whether to kill you or not.”

This tie, Uchiwa could not help the smirk tugging at his lips. “You still believe you can?”

“Who knows? But won’t it be interesting to find out?

“Interesting is a word for it.” Uchiwa got to his feet. “Very well. Though if you ever do decide to kill me, I would take it as a kindness if you did not attempt it while I sleep. I don’t like to have my sleep disturbed.”  

The man actually laughed this time. “Where would the fun be in killing you in your sleep? Listen, Demon, I can promise you that if I ever kill you, you’ll be awake, you’ll be facing me and you’ll have a blade in your hands.”

“Then I will extend you the same courtesy.” He bowed his head politely. “And my name is Uchiwa.”

“Tadashi,” the other youth said

[...]

[...]

[...]

[kayanne369]

Journal Entry: 18th of Last Seed

Given the events of the past few days, I’ve decided to keep a diary for the time being. Honestly, it was Gerdur’s idea. She said that since I was apparently one of only a handful of people to escape Helgen alive that I had a duty to record my experiences. I suppose she’s right in her own little way. By the grace of whoever was listening last night, many of the finer details of yesterday are already starting to fade from my memory. Helgen deserves more than that. It deserves to be remembered.

My only query is how to begin such a tale. With my own life? No. That’s not important. Not right now anyway. What’s important is Helgen, so for this story, I will attempt to stick to the facts and the facts alone. For credence’s sake my name, my name is Mahna Tileriak and this event took place on the 17th day of Last Seed in the year 201 of the fourth era. I have lived in this area for as long as I can remember and know it well. Know people. Names, faces. I’m a merchant by trade, although I’ll admit I do occasionally engage in a bit of smuggling from time to time. Nothing of any real danger of course. Just food, clothing, occasionally farming tools. Things that are difficult to acquire during timed of strife. I’m not, nor have I ever been affiliated with either the Stormcloak rebellion nor the empire. I simply buy and sell. I mention this because the Imperial soldiers that captured me at the border seemed somewhat oblivious of this fact act decided to execute me anyway. I’m honestly still not sure why. Ralof is adamant that this is just what the empire does and doesn’t see the need to question it any further. Personally, I'm slightly more inquisitive. There needs to be a reason. There's always a reason.

...

Well, whatever that might be, I found myself on a cart headed towards Helgen, and the executioner’s axe. With me were three men. Ralof, who at the moment of writing this is engaged in a game of chance with his younger nephew, a horse thief named Lokir and who I later found out was Ulfric Stormcloak himself.  

Lokir.

That pool soul never even made it long enough to see the city burn. He was frightened. Fear took over and he ran, only to be sniped by archers at the ready. He died running away. He died afraid.

…

That’s no way for a Nord to die.

I must remember to head over to Rorikstead and inform his family.

Sorry, I’m getting off topic. I was second in line to the block. The fellow before me shouted something about his ancestors smiling down on him and asked if his persecutors could say the same. Brave last words indeed. He died quickly. At the very least they had the decency to employ an executioner who knew what he was doing. I was called forward and lay my head on the block. I can’t remember my thought process exactly. I like to think I behaved stoically but honestly, I could have been sobbing hysterically for all I know.

Then…everything went black.

I can’t really explain it. A large black shadow eclipsed the sun and I was suddenly thrown to one side. All I could hear were screams and my vision was blurred and for a few brief moments, I honestly believed that I had died and that this was some kind of twisted realm of Apocrypha. The next thing I remember was being pulled off my feet and practically dragged forward by my still bound hands. I could recall someone shouting, which I’ve since been informed was Ralof telling me to get up but I couldn’t make it out at the time. Gasping for breath, I collapsed inside a small half ruined tower, where the Jarl of Windhelm was waiting, standing apparently just as bewildered as the rest of us. In all truthfulness, I was slightly awestruck by him. I’m no admirer of his, but the sheer absurdity of our situation was spellbinding. This man, he was the one that had started this whole war, he’d travelled with me, our hands bound, his mouth gagged (for some reason) towards what was supposed to be our deaths. Now we both stood captivated, eyes locked to the sky like frightened rabbits unable to comprehend the magnitude of our own mortality.

It was oddly humbling in its own little way. Certainly knocked whatever perception I’d ever had of him as an unshakable monster from my head. He was just a man. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Gods, I don’t even know if he’s alive.

Anyway, he and Ralof exchanged a few brief words about legends or whatever - honestly, I was barely listening - and I have ushered up a set of winding stairs. I’d barely set foot on them however when that damn lizard came crashing through the right wall. Ralof pulled me back and Ulfric stepped forward, his arms forming a pitiful protective barrier. Gods know what he was trying to do. I was unhurt, (what with the Dunmer skin and all) but Ralof had a nasty burn to his arm and Ulfric’s cloak was aflame. After a few seconds, we managed to put it out. Well, the two men managed to put it out. My hands were tied so honestly, I was slightly less than useless at this time. Ralof looked at me and pointed towards a large hole the monster had made in the wall.

“Jump”

I must have looked him as if he’s suddenly grown a second head, for he took me by the arm and led me up the staircases before I even had a chance to protest.

“Jump”

With that, he threw me out of the window with as much ease and one would throw a child into bed. I let out a scream and crashed feet first through the roof of the neighbouring building and landing in a heap on the bottom floor. My foot ached but I managed to stumble my way into the open. I’ve already gone into detail regarding what I saw and if you’ll allow me, I have no wish to recollect such sights ever again. Just rest assured they were not pleasant.

In the distance, I could see a child standing in front of a smouldering, still moving mass of flesh. The mass was screaming unintelligibly and hurtling a barrage of stones and debris at the child in what I can only assume was an attempt to get him to run. The dragon landed a few feet in front of him and for a few microseconds, I began to prepare myself for the eventuality of watching a child burn to death. However, just as an onslaught of flames began to tare its way towards him, a soldier darted out and flattened the boy to the ground. There was a scream from….somewhere and the next thing I saw was the boy being pulled out from under the now dead body of a legionnaire. The body of what I assume was his guardian was nothing more than a pile of charred bones.

Honestly, out of everything I saw yesterday, I think the look on that child’s face is something that will follow me to the grave.

I ended up following the soldier that pulled the boy to safety because…damn it what else could I do? The world was coming to an end. I can’t remember how we managed it, but eventually, we were able to make our way towards the keep, where we could escape into the tunnels that lead to the underground caverns and make our exit. I can’t recall his name. Hadvar I think. I don’t suppose it matters all that much anyway. I doubt he made it out alive. By some miracle, as soon as we reached the keep, Ralof came running up to us. I was so relieved to see him and all but ran to his side. Devines know how he managed to escape all that without injury. They two exchanged some rather tense words and Ralof and I headed into the keep, he practically pulling me along.

When we reached the keep, we both took a few minutes to catch our breath and clear the smoke from our lungs. Ralof smiled at me and introduced himself. I did the same and he managed to free my hands. His smile vanished when he spotted a fallen rebel on the other side of the room. He rushed over, whispered a few solemn words about meeting him again in Sovngarde then proceeded the rummage through his pockets. The contract almost made me giggle. He tossed me a worn pair of boots and told me to put them on. Said that the lad wouldn’t be needing them anymore. He offered me an axe to defend myself but I declined. I’ve always preferred magic to weaponry. Although I suppose I ought to invest in a dagger at least.

We managed to fight our way through the keep, or rather Ralof did. I did attempt to help but…oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been much of a warrior in all honesty. The walls seemed to be crumbling all around us and I was honestly more preoccupied with making sure that we both made it out before the whole keep came down on our heads that the legion of soldiers attempting to kill us. We made into a large underground cavern where we allowed ourselves to rest for a while. Ralof more that I to be honest. He resolute is truly amazing. We managed to find our way out before too long and stepped into the warm, sun-drenched air just in time to see that monstrous creature fly away into the distance. For a few moments we simply watched, then Ralof collapsed into a fit of laughter. Probably just thankful to still be breathing. I’ll admit, our luck seems almost impossible. We must have faced around twenty different ways we could have died in the keep alone. Yet here we stood. Battered, bruised and bloodied but breathing. Just us two. Us two out of thousands.

I still can’t think about it without weeping.

We travelled down the road to Riverwood. I know the town well. I’ve traded hear many a time. As a child, I would often play with the Nord that now runs the local inn. They know me here. I may not be “one of them” but I’m close enough. Ralof took me to see his sister, a brave, strong-willed woman called Gerdur. Practically runs the whole town honestly. They’re good people. They took us inside, gave us food and clean clothes and as much coin as they could spare.

These Nords are good people. At heart, I know this to be true. They are hard working and brave and stupid and warm and they will be the shield at your side if you let them.

I’m getting off topic. Although there is very little to say. I’m now sitting comfortably inside the home of Gerdur’s family. I plan on staying here one more day at the most. I don’t like to be a burden. Besides, Gerdur has requested that I inform the Jarl of Whiterun of my story. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t know already but I feel putting Gerdur’s mind at rest is the least I can do. After which….I must remember to head over to Rorikstead.

[dfroza]

the writings of Moses pointed to the Son

who is One with our Creator, our heavenly Father who made the majestic heavens and the universal garden of earth. and Hebraic History is of deep significance because by it we have a revelation of God.

and in Today’s pairing of a chapter from each Testament we read of this as well as when the people in Israel had turned away from the True God to worship Baal and the moon goddess, Ashtaroth soon after becoming settled in the land promised to them. for there are many spiritual paths in this world, but we only find God in the True illumination of the Son who is the only way for the heart to live forever.

[John 5]

Then Jesus returned to Jerusalem to observe one of the Jewish holy days. Inside the city near the Sheep Gate there is a pool called in Aramaic, The House of Loving Kindness. And this pool is surrounded by five covered porches. Hundreds of sick people were lying there on the porches—the paralyzed, the blind, and the crippled, all of them waiting for their healing. For an angel of God would periodically descend into the pool to stir the waters, and the first one who stepped into the pool after the waters swirled would instantly be healed.

Now there was a man who had been disabled for thirty-eight years lying among the multitude of the sick. When Jesus saw him lying there, he knew that the man had been crippled for a long time. So Jesus said to him, “Do you truly long to be healed?”

The sick man answered him, “Sir, there’s no way I can get healed, for I have no one who will lower me into the water when the angel comes. As soon as I try to crawl to the edge of the pool, someone else jumps in ahead of me.”

Then Jesus said to him, “Stand up! Pick up your sleeping mat and you will walk!” Immediately he stood up—he was healed! So he rolled up his mat and walked again! Now this miracle took place on the Jewish Sabbath.

When the Jewish leaders saw the man walking along carrying his sleeping mat, they objected and said, “What are you doing carrying that? Don’t you know it’s the Sabbath? It’s not lawful for you to carry things on the Sabbath!”

He answered them, “The man who healed me told me to pick it up and walk.”

“What man?” they asked him. “Who was this man who ordered you to carry something on a Sabbath?” But the healed man couldn’t give them an answer, for he didn’t yet know who it was since Jesus had already slipped away into the crowd.

A short time later, Jesus found the man at the temple and said to him, “Look at you now! You’re healed! Walk away from your sin so that nothing worse will happen to you.”

Then the man went to the Jewish leaders to inform them, “It was Jesus who healed me!” So from that day forward the Jewish leaders began to persecute Jesus because of the things he did on the Sabbath.

Jesus answered his critics by saying, “Everyday my Father is at work, and I will be too!” This infuriated them and made them all the more eager to devise a plan to kill him. For not only did he break their Sabbath rules, but he called God “my Father,” which made him equal to God.

So Jesus said, “I speak to you timeless truth. The Son is not able to do anything from himself or through my own initiative. I only do the works that I see the Father doing, for the Son does the same works as his Father.

“Because the Father loves his Son so much, he always reveals to me everything that he is about to do. And you will all be amazed when he shows me even greater works than what you’ve seen so far! For just like the Father has power to raise the dead, the Son will raise the dead and give life to whomever he wants.

“The Father now judges no one, for he has given all the authority to judge to the Son, so that the honor that belongs to the Father will now be shared with his Son. So if you refuse to honor the Son, you are refusing to honor the Father who sent him.

“I speak to you an eternal truth: if you embrace my message and believe in the One who sent me, you will never face condemnation, for in me, you have already passed from the realm of death into the realm of eternal life!”

“I speak to you eternal truth: Soon the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who listen will arise with life! For the Father has given the Son the power to impart life, even as the Father imparts life. The Father has transferred to the Son the authority to judge, because he is the Son of Man.

“So don’t be amazed when I tell you these things, for there is a day coming when all who have ever died will hear my voice calling them back to life, and they will come out of their graves! Those who have done what is good will experience a resurrection to eternal life. And those who have practiced evil will taste the resurrection that brings them to condemnation!

“Nothing I do is from my own initiative, for as I hear the judgment passed by my Father, I execute judgment. And my judgments will be perfect, because I can do nothing on my own, except to fulfill the desires of my Father who sent me. For if I were to make claims about myself, you would have reasons to doubt. But there is another who bears witness on my behalf, and I know that what he testifies of me is true.”

“You have sent messengers to John, and what he testified about me is true. I have no need to be validated by men, but I’m saying these things so that you will believe and be rescued.

“John was a blazing, burning torch, and for a short time you basked in his light with great joy. But I can provide a more substantial proof of who I am that exceeds John’s testimony—my miracles! These works which the Father destined for me to complete—they prove that the Father has sent me! And my Father himself, who gave me this mission, has also testified that I am his Son. But you have never heard his voice nor seen his face, nor does his Word truly live inside of you, for you refuse to believe in me or to embrace me as God’s messenger.

“You are busy analyzing the Scriptures, frantically poring over them in hopes of gaining eternal life. Everything you read points to me, yet you still refuse to come to me so I can give you the life you’re looking for—eternal life!

“I do not accept the honor that comes from men, for I know what kind of people you really are, and I can see that the love of God has found no home in you. I have come to represent my Father, yet you refuse to embrace me in faith. But when someone comes in their own name and with their own agenda, you readily accept him. Of course you’re unable to believe in me. For you live for the praises of others and not for the praise that comes from the only true God.

“I won’t be the one who accuses you before the Father. The one who will incriminate you is Moses, the very one you claim to obey, the one in whom you trust! If you really believed what Moses has written, then you would embrace me, for Moses wrote about me! But since you do not believe what he wrote, no wonder you don’t believe what I say.”

The Book of John, Chapter 5 (The Passion Translation)

[Judges 2]

The Eternal’s messenger traveled from Gilgal to Bochim.

Messenger (to the people of Israel): I rescued you out of the land of Egypt and brought you into this land that I had promised to your ancestors. I said, “I will never break My covenant with you. As your part of this bargain, you shall not make a covenant with the inhabitants of this land. You must tear down the altars of their gods.” But you did not do as I commanded. Do you realize what you have done? Now I tell you, “I will not drive them out before you. The people of the land will irritate you, and their gods will ensnare you.”

When the Eternal’s messenger spoke these words to Israel, the people wept bitterly. So they named that place Bochim, which means “weeping,” and there they sacrificed to Him.

When Joshua sent the people away, each tribe of Israel went to gain possession of its territorial inheritance. The people served the Eternal as long as Joshua lived and through all the days of the elders who outlived Joshua—those who had seen all the great works that the Eternal had done for Israel.

Joshua, son of Nun, the Eternal’s servant, died at the age of 110 years and was buried within the borders of his inheritance at Timnath-heres in the hills of Ephraim, north of Mount Gaash. Now that whole generation, the generation that had walked with Moses—the generation that saw the walls of Jericho fall—that generation passed on, and another generation grew up after them, a generation that did not know the Eternal and had not seen the great works He had done for Israel. Consequently this new generation served the gods of Canaan—the Baals as they were called—doing what the Eternal God considered evil. They abandoned the Eternal One, the True God of their ancestors, who brought them safely out of Egypt. Instead, they began to serve the gods of their neighbors, the Canaanites, bowing low before their images, causing the Eternal to burn with anger.

The Israelites abandoned the worship of the Eternal One and turned to serve Baal and his consort the moon goddess, Ashtaroth. So the Eternal’s anger burned hot against them, and He caused them to be overcome by those around them, using their enemies to plunder them so that the Israelites could no longer stand against their enemies. Whenever they marched out to battle, the hand of the Eternal One was raised against them in evil, as He had warned and promised them, and they were in anguish.

But the Eternal appointed judges among them, leaders and liberators who rescued the Israelites from their enemies who plundered them. Even then the people of Israel did not listen to their judges, but instead passionately pursued other gods and bowed down to them. How quickly they turned from the faithfulness exhibited by their ancestors in obeying the Eternal’s commandments. This younger generation did not follow their ancestors’ example.

Still, whenever the Eternal appointed judges among the Israelites, He was with each one, saving the Israelites from their enemies as long as that leader lived, for He was moved to compassion by the groans of His people when they were persecuted and oppressed. But when the judge died, then the people would fall away from their faithfulness, and the next generation behaved even worse than their ancestors, pursuing and serving other gods, and bowing down before them. They would not change their bad habits but clung to them stubbornly.

So the Eternal’s anger burned hot against the people of Israel.

Eternal One: Since these people have violated the covenant I gave as a commandment to their ancestors and no longer listen to My voice, I will no longer drive out from their path any of the nations who still remained in this land when Joshua died. I will put My people to the test to see whether or not they will walk the faithful way of the Eternal as their ancestors did.

So God did as He promised. He left those pagan nations in the land of Canaan. He did not drive them away immediately, nor did He give them into the hands of Joshua and his armies.

The Book of Judges, Chapter 2 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, August 27 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about the nature of truth:

Truth matters. I don't mean “opinion” here, but real, objective, hard-core truth. Truth reveals reality. Aristotle defined it this way: “To say of what is that it is not, or of what is not that it is, is false, while to say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true” (Metaphysics). Genuine knowledge (γνῶσις), as opposed to illusion, depends on truth, since knowledge constitutes true belief, whereas illusion (and opinion) does not. The Greek word for truth is aletheia (ἀλήθεια, from α[not] + λήθω [to hide]) which implies being awakened to the revelation of being. The Hebrew word for truth is emet (אֱמֶת), which is related to the idea of fidelity or correspondence with reality (אָמַן).

How you think about life has implications. You are responsible to think clearly. God's hidden attributes are clearly apprehended by the mind so that people who deny spiritual reality are without excuse (Rom. 1:19-20). If you think a map will faithfully guide you to the right place, you will use it; if you think it leads to an opposite end, you will not. Thinking one way leads you to success, whereas the other way leads to failure. The Scriptures state: yesh derekh yashar lifnei ish - "there is a way that seems right to a person," ve'acharitah darkhei mavet - "but its end is the way of death" (Prov. 14:12).

Truth (אֱמֶת) apart from God who is Alef (א) leads to death (מֵת). Sincerity of conviction is no test of truth since you can be sincere and sincerely wrong. How many have perished in this world because they believed they were on the right course when in fact they were not? Yeshua made bold the claim that there was no way to know the heart of God apart from him... there is salvation is no other. Either he spoke the truth or he did not; either he can be trusted for the direction (תּוֹרָה) of your life or he cannot; either he expresses the Salvation of God or he does not. The issue of truth demands that we must choose whom we will serve... [Hebrew for Christians]

8.26.20 • Facebook

[iraqistruggle]

So, we are who we are, as the Mississippi flows, and what remains from yesterday is still ours- but the color of the sky has changed, the sea to the East has changed. O white master, Lord of the horses, what do you want from those making their way to the night woods? Our pastures are sacred, our spirits inspired, the stars are luminous words where our fable is legible from the beginning to end if only you'll lift up your eyes: born between water and fire, reborn in clouds on an azure shore after Judgement day... Don't kill the grass any more, it possess a soul in us that could shelter the soul of the earth. Tamer of horses, teach your horse to ask forgiveness of nature's soul for the way you've treated our trees: O Sister tree, look how they've tortured you the way they've tortured me; never ask forgiveness for the woodcutter whose axe felled both your mother and mine... The white man will never understand the ancient words here in spirits roaming free between sky and trees. Let Columbus scour the seas to find India, it's his right! He can call our ghosts the names of spices, he can call us Red Indians, he can fiddle with his compass to correct his course, twist all the errors of the North wind, but outside the narrow world to his map he can't believe that all men are born equal the same as air and water, the same as people in Barcelona, except that they happen to worship Nature's God in everthing and not gold. Columbus was free to look for a language he couldn't find here, to look for gold in the skulls of our ancestors. He took his fill from the flesh of our living and our dead. So why is he bent on carrying out his deadly war even from the grave? When we have nothing left to give but a few ruinous trinkets, a few tiny feathers to embroider our lakes? All told, you killed over seventy million hearts, more than enough for you to return from slaughter as kind on the throne of a new age. Isn't it about time, stranger, for us to meet face to face in the same age, both of us strangers to the same land, meeting at the tip of an abyss? We have what is ours and we have what is yours of the sky. Yours air and water, such as we have. Ours pebbles, such as we have, yours iron, such as you have. In the shadow domain, let us share the light. Take what you need of the night but leave us a few stars to bury our celestial dead. Take what you need of the sea but leave us a few waves in which to catch our fish. Take all the gold of the earth and sun but leave the land of our names to us. Then go back, stranger. Search for India once more! Our names: branching leaves of divine speech, birds that soar higher than a gun. You who come from beyond the sea, bent on war, don't cut down the tree of our names, don't gallop your flaming horses across the open plains. You have your god and we have ours, you have your religion and we have ours. Don't buy your God in books that back up your claim of your land over our land, don't appoint your God to be a mere courtier in the palace of the King. Take the rose of our dreams and see what we've seen of joy. Sleep in the shade of our willows and start to fly like a dove- this, after all, is what our ancestors did when they flew away in peace and returned in peace. You won't remember leaving the Mediterranean, eternity's solitude in the middle of a forest rather than on the edge of a cliff. What you lack is the wisdom of defeat, a lost war, a rock standing firm in the rushof time's furious river, an hour of reverie for a necessary sky of dust to ripen inside, an hour of hesitation between one path and another. One day Euripides will be missing as well as the hymns of Canaan and Babylon, Solomon's Song of Songs for Shulamith and the yearning lily of the valley. What you white men need will be the memory of how to tame the horses of madness, hearts polished by pumice in a flurry of violins. All this you will need, as well as a hesitant gun. (But if you must kill, white man, don't slay the creatures that befriended us. Don't slaughter our past.) You will need a treaty with our ghosts on those sterile winter nights, a less bright sun, a less full moon for the crime to appear less glamorous on the screen. So take your time as you dismember God. We know what this elegant enigma conceals from us: a heaven dies. A willow strays, wind-footed, a beast establishes its kingdom in hollows of wounded space, ocean-waters drench the wood of our doors with salt, earth's a primordial burden heavier than before but similar to something we've known since the beginning of time. Winds will recite our beginning and our end though our present bleeds and our days are buried in the ashes of legend. We know that Athens is not ours and can identify the color of the days from puff clouds or rising smoke. But Athens isn't yours as well, yet we know what mighty iron is preparing for us for the gods that failed to defend the salt in our bread. We know that truth is stronger than righteousness, and that times changed when the technology of weapons changed. Who will raise our voices to the rainless clouds? Who will rinse the light after we're gone? Who will tend our temples, who will safeguard our traditions from the clash of steel? "We bring you civilization," said the stranger. "We're the masters of time come to inherit this land of yours. March in Indian file so we can tally you on the face of the lake, corpse by corpse. Keep marching, so the Gospels may thrive! We want God all to ourselves because the best Indians are dead Indians in the eyes of the Lord." The Lord is white and the day is white. You have your world and we have ours. What the stranger says is truly strange. He digs a well deep in the earth to bury the sky. Truly strange, what the stranger says! He hunts down our children, as well as butterflies. O stranger, what promises do you make to our garden, zinc flowers prettier than ours? Fine. But do you know that a deer will never approach grass that's been stained with our blood? Buffalos are our brothers and sisters, as well as everything that grows. Don't dig any deeper! Don't pierce the shell of the turtle that carries our grandmother the earth on its back! Our trees are her hair, and we adorn ourselves with her blooms. "There's no death on earth," so don't break her delicate formation! Don't bruise the earth, don't smash the smooth mirror of her orchards, don't startle her, don't murder the river-waisted one whose grandchildren we are. We'll be gone soon enough. Take our blood, but leave the earth alone: God's most elaborate writing on the face of the waters, for His sake and ours. We still hear our ancestors' voices on the wind, we listen to their pulse in the flowering trees. This earth is our grandmother, each stone sacred, and the hut where gods dwelt with us and stars lit up our nights of prayer. We roamed naked and walked barefoot to touch the souls of the stones so that the spirit or air would unfold us in women who would replenish nature's gifts. Our history was her history. To endure our life go away and come back. Return the spirits, one by one, to the earth. We keep the memory of our loved ones in jars, like oil and salt, whose names we tied to wings of water birds. We were here first, no ceiling to separate our blue doors from the sky, no horses to graze where our deer used to graze, no strangers bursting in on the night of our wives. O give the wind a flute to weep for the people of this wounded place, and tomorrow to weep for you. And tomorrow to weep for you. Tending our last fires we fail to acknowledge your greetings Don't write commandments from your new steel god for us. Don't demand peace treaties from the dead. There's no one left to greet you in peace, which is nowhere to be seen. We lived and flourished before the onslaught of English guns, French wine and influenza, living in harmony side by side with the Deer People, learning our oral history by heart. We brought you tidings of innocence and daisies. But you have your god and we have ours. You have your past and we have ours. Time is a river blurred by the tears we gaze through. But don't you ever memorize a few lines of poetry, perhaps, to restrain yourself from massacre? Weren't you born of a woman? Didn't you suckle the milk of longing from your mother as we did? Didn't you attach paper wings to your shoulders to chase swallows as we did? We brought you tidings of the Spring. (Don't point your guns at us!) We can exchange gifts, we can sing: My people were here once, then they died here... Chestnut trees hide their souls here. My people will return in the air, in water in light... Take my motherland by the sword! I refuse to sign a treaty between victim and killer. I refuse to sign a bill of sale that takes possession of so much as one inch of my weed patch, of so much as one inch of my cornfield even if it's my last salutation to the sun! As I wade into the river wrapped in my name only I know I'm returning to my mother's bosom so that you, white master, can enter your Age. Enter your brutal statues of liberty over my corpse. Engrave your iron crosses on my stony shadow, for soon I will rise to the height of the song sung by those multitudes suicided by their dispersion through history at a mass where our voices will soar like birds: Here strangers won over salt and sea mixed with clouds. Here strangers won over corn husks within us as they laid down their cables for lightning and electicity. Here's where the grieving eagle dived to his death. Here's where strangers won over us leaving us nothing for the New Age. Here our bodies evaporate, cloud by cloud, into space. Here our spirits glow, star by star, in the sky of song. A long time will have to go by before our present becomes our past, just like us. We will face our death, but first we'll defend the trees we wear. We'll venerate the bell of night, the moon hanging over our shacks. We'll defend our leaping deer, the clay of our jars, the feathers in the wings of our last songs. Soon you'll raise your world over ours, blazing a trail from our graveyards to a satellite. This is the Iron Age: distilled from a lump of coal, champagne bubbling for the mighty! There are dead and there are colonies. There are dead and there are bulldozers. There are dead and there are hospitals. There are dead and there are radar screens to observe the dead as they die more than once in this life, screens to observe the dead who live on after death as well as those who die to lift the earth above all that has died. O white master, where are you taking my people and yours? Into what abyss is this robot bristling with aircraft carriers and jets consigning the earth? To what fathomless pit will you decend? It's your to decide. A new Rome, a technological Sparta and an ideology for the insane... but we'd rather depart from an Age our minds can't accept. Once a people, now we'd rather flock to the land of birds. We'll take a peek at our homeland through stones, glimpse it through openings in clouds, through the speech of stars, through the air suspended above lakes, between soft tassel fringes in ears of corn. We'll emerge from the flower of the grave. We'll lean out of the poplar's leaves of all that besieges you, O white man, of all the dead who are still dying, both those who live and those who return to tell the tale. Let's give the earth enough time to tell the whole truth about your and us. The whole truth about us. The whole truth about you. In rooms you build, the dead are already asleep. Over bridges you construct, the dead are already passing. There are dead who light up the night of butterflies, and the dead who come at dawn to drink your tea as peaceful as on the day your guns mowed them down. O you who are guests in this place, leave a few chairs empty for your hosts to read out the conditions for peace in a treaty with the dead.

Mahmoud Darwish - Speech of The Red Indian

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Dreams

Series: Bynhilda’s Saga

Warnings: Violent Imagery, disturbing dreams

           Dagmar’s prediction almost comes true. Brynhilda barely clings to life during the winter months. Her wound starts healing with little trouble, but an infection settles into her lungs, things spiral for the girl there. All winter long she lays by the hearth, coughing, shivering, barely keeping food down. Eysteinn keeps a careful watch over her. It irritates Dagmar. They should just throw the girl out and leave her to the wolves. Wasting all their precious resources on someone who won’t live to see spring is a foolish thing to do.

           One night, as she and her husband are lying in bed, tired after love making, she says as much to her husband. A bad mood as settled over their home thanks to Brynhilda, so his resultant growl to her quip is no surprise. “Hush woman! For once, feel with your heart rather than think with your head.” Dagmar merely sniffs and rolls over. Eysteinn begins to kiss her shoulders, trying to soothe his irritated wife. “The gods walk with this child.” He explains. “They are testing her, seeing if her will to survive is strong enough. Great plans have been set in motion for her. It is our duty to help her.”

“Oh? And how do you know the gods watch over her so carefully?” She snaps. “Do you not know who lies in our home Wife?” Eysteinn continued to argue. She stays silent. “I do, the last time I went to the village I asked about the army that set up in our forest all those weeks ago. That was the Army of King Boggvir. He was one of the last Kings to stand against Harald.” Dagmar sits up, looking at her husband in disbelief.

“Yes, we have Boggvir’s own shieldmaiden in our home.”

“Impossible!” Dagmar hisses. “Brynhilda can’t be killed, she is deathless.”

“Just because one is deathless doesn’t mean they can’t come close to death. Even the All-Father has suffered.”

“I don’t believe you.” Dagmar says, settling back down into the furs. “It can’t be Brynhilda. She is with Boggvir, they are planning their next raid. Boggvir wouldn’t be so stupid as to sacrifice his best warrior. The girl will die in a few days, and I will be accepting your apology.”

“Come Spring,” Eysteinn says, laughing, “I will be accepting your apology.”

           Brynhilda continues to flow in and out of consciousness. Her dreams are ever changing, ever terrifying.

She’s in Helheim, having succumbed to the sickness ravaging her body. Hel points and laughs at her as Brynhilda sits at a table with the old and infirmed. Everyone mills about. Looking so dispassionate and bored. Her will to fight has left her being, so she does nothing more than sit about. A wraith surrounded by rotted foods.  

           She is back on the altar, hands tied to the arm rests made of antlers.  This time, her king manages to finish the job. She is so close to the Gates of Valhalla when she cries out. The Gates shut before her, she spends eternity on Midgard, weeping, looking for those gates. The gods laugh at her for making such lofty vows, then failing.

The one that terrifies her most is the one that serves as her motivator. She is buried again. This time, it’s a proper burial. Her weapons are laid at her feet, the gold she acquired through her lifetime spread all around her. She is dressed in the best funerary garb, the Knot of the Slain sewn plainly onto the chest of her clothing. She knows instinctively that the knot isn’t meant to signify her death, but to prevent her from rising from the grave. The Sleep Thorn is carved into oak and laid underneath her head as well. A spell to keep her asleep forever.

Boggvir and the Jarls stand around her grave, sending silent prayers to Odin to keep her in the ground. She smiles, they’re fools. The magic behind the symbols is weak, her will too strong. She will rise despite the precautions taken.

She watches as the month’s pass, her body is rotting under the dirt. Winter buys Boggvir time, allows him a false sense of security. He forgets about Brynhilda, settled into his life, with a wife and a child.

           When the snow begins to melt, she begins to stir. This is where the dream turns terrifying. The skies turn an unnatural black, it rains for many days and nights, wetting the dirt. This will make it easier to come out of her grave. The winds whipping about have a magic about them, someone is calling her to task. This time, there is no suffocation, no struggle as she rises.

           Boggvir has made yet another mistake. He has buried Brynhilda in a mass grave. It is centuries old, but filled with the bodies of warriors’ past, all angry at having been wronged by someone in their lives. Her own anger reaches out to them, and they begin to stir as well.

           For a moment, the ground seems to be its own entity, alive with activity from those below. Bodies start to burst forth, fully armed and armored with rusted metals. As the storm rages on, and her army gathers, Brynhilda is aware of a chant beginning. It’s one word; kill. There’s nothing melodic about it, but as it reaches a crescendo, she feels her anger and pain well within her, until all she can do is let out a fierce scream. The others scream with her.

           The rain stops as suddenly as it began, the clouds part, and the sun begins to shine. She looks at herself and the army behind her. Despite the rotted flesh falling from bleached bones, the maggots and beetles crawling about the walking corpses, she recognizes these people. Two of them step up, and place their hands on her shoulders. Her parents. She turns to the army behind her. Her ancestors, enraged on her behalf walk with her.

           She awakens with a gasp. Half expecting to be covered in mud, she thrashes about and whimpers in terror. “Hush little one.” Someone says above her. She panics, begins to scramble to get up. “No, no, please, you’re weak and you’ll hurt yourself!” The voice says. She doesn’t listen. It’s hard to get up, there’s something binding her torso, it’s clunky and throws her balance off. She manages to stand for a few seconds, before falling back on her ass. She cries out in pain, but shuffles away from the person until her back hits a wall.

           The woman just sits there, looking at her slightly amused. “Are you done child?” She asks. “Who are you?” Brynhilda demands. “I am Dagmar, wife of Eysteinn, the man you owe your life to.” Brynhilda looks about the small hut. There’s nothing remarkable about it. A bed is shoved into the corner, there are various jars on a shelf. It’s a normal looking hut. “I,” She starts, eyes swinging back to Dagmar. “Thank you,” she means it, dying in the dirt had seemed her only option last she remembered.  

           “Don’t thank me, thank that fool husband of mine. He’s the one the insisted we keep you alive through the winter.” Dagmar motions for her to get back. “Now I owe him an apology. And you owe us food.”

“I have no food, or money.” Brynhilda explains. “You can work, can’t you?” Dagmar says. “You’re still healing but you’re well enough to scrabble about my home like a crab. Come here girl and let me change your bandages.” Brynhilda does as she’s ordered. Dagmar begins unwrapping the binds, as soon as all is settled, taking out the sticks layered in between wrappings carefully. “Someone did a number on you girlie.”

“Yes,” Brynhilda admits. “Spent the whole winter sick and healing. Fever nearly killed you.” Brynhilda remains silent. “You look foreign too. What were you, a slave?”

“I was never a slave,” Brynhilda snaps. “Nothing wrong with being a slave.” Dagmar mutters. “You’d do well to remember that. One must do what one must to survive.” Brynhilda turns to look at the old woman. “Turn back around.” Dagmar orders. “And stay still. Your back still has a long way to go, we had to cut some of the flesh off when it got infected. Your bones healed proper though. My husband saw to that.” There’s pride in Dagmar’s voice as she talks about Eysteinn. “Said the gods were intervening personally with you. I wanted to throw you out into the snow. Eating all our food stores like that. Then you didn’t have the decency to keep them down.” She gives a hmph.

           Brynhilda wants to snap at the woman, but reigns her temper in. These people helped her, however reluctant they were to do it. “The gods intervening with mortals, have you ever heard of such a thing? They only intervene with King Ragnar. They say he and his family are descended from Odin. Even his wife is descended from the famed Sigurd the Dragon Slayer and Brynhilda the Shieldmaiden.”

“I know.” Brynhilda says. “My father told me the stories.” Dagmar finishes unwrapping Brynhilda and lays the bandages to the side to be burned. She dips a rag into a bowl of warm water and begin to wash Brynhilda’s skin. “And you, are you descended from the gods?” She eventually asks. Brynhilda remains silent. Dagmar doesn’t seem to mind, she continues to talk. “Even if you aren’t, my Eysteinn is convinced you’re being watched over by them. He says Odin himself has his eye on you. You seem to be blessed.”

           At this, Brynhilda scoffs. “Blessed? I am cursed. My entire family was murdered, my king has betrayed me, now I have to listen to some old woman prattle on about how she wanted to leave me to nature.” Dagmar chuckles. “Then Odin is truly testing you.”

“How, by taking everything I ever loved, leaving me alone in the world? Leaving me with nothing?” Brynhilda can’t fathom why she’s even talking to the old woman. Maybe it’s the stress, maybe the fever has touched her brain. Whatever the case, she feels like oversharing. “Odin will reward you in the end.” Dagmar assured her. Brynhilda gives a derisive snort.

           When Dagmar is finished washing Brynhilda’s back, she walks over to the shelf with the jars and pulls one down. Walking it back over to Brynhilda, the girl gets a whiff of the contents. There’s no mistaking it, it’s a healing paste. Brynhilda grunts in pain as Dagmar smooths the paste along her back. Halfway through, the door to the cabin opens. Brynhilda cranes her neck to see an older man walk in. He’s carrying rabbits around his midsection. “You’re up!” He says jovially. “Dear wife, it’s the first day of spring, and it looks like our guest has pulled through.”

           “Yes, I am sorry for doubting you husband.” She growls. Eysteinn laughs. Bending over to kiss his wife, Brynhilda watches as the old woman smiles and blushes. She’s envious of the love between them. She can only hope to have a love like that in her life one day.

           “So, young one, my wife doesn’t think you’re watched over by Odin. I think otherwise. Will you settle the debate for us? Are you Brynhilda? The one who was Blood Eagled by Boggvir?” There was no sense in lying to them. Before she answers she looked for possible weapons in their home. They were old, but she knew better than to underestimate the elderly. There was a reason they reached old age. The couple might not take kindly to the Shieldmaiden of Boggvir in their home. “I am,” She says. Eysteinn’s eyes glitter with excitement. “That’s two point for me wife.” Dagmar snorts. “Who’s keeping score?” She wipes the last bit of paste stuck to her fingers onto a rag.

           “Odin has saved you then? For great purpose, I imagine.” Eysteinn sounds thrilled with the idea. “I like to think so.” Brynhilda admits. There’s no other way to account for her good luck so far. Dagmar begins wrapping a new set of bandages around Brynhilda’s middle. “Odin only interferes in the lives of those he considers worthy. You must be a tremendous person of importance.” Eysteinn continues. Brynhilda purses her lips. “They say Boggvir rewarded you well for your services to him.”

“He betrayed me!” Brynhilda snarled. “I made that man king and he tried to sacrifice me on the word of his whore! Why would Odin want such a sacrifice? He knows I will enter Valhalla when I am good and ready.”

           Eysteinn is smiling at her, mirth evident in his eye. “You are angry, that will serve you well in the times to come.”

“What do you know about the times to come?” Brynhilda snaps. “My husband dreams,” Dagmar said. She’s done with everything now, and moves to sit on the other side of the fire. She brings out a knife to begin gutting the rabbits Eysteinn brought home. “He sees things, senses things.”

“Plus, the ravens ever present outside our home gives it away.” He says. “Are you descended from the gods?”

“My father says we’re descended from the god Freyr and his wife.” Brynhilda says. Dagmar laughs outright at this. Brynhilda’s face gets hot with her laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one.” The old woman teases. “Descended from Freyr and his wife, I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I didn’t say it was true,” Brynhilda defends quietly. “I said that’s what my father told me.” She brings her knees to her chest, and looks longingly into the fire. Dagmar and Eysteinn sense the conversation is over for now. “Rest, young Brynhilda,” Dagmar says. “Tomorrow, you begin to work for your keep.”

[notapaladin]

harmonic orchestra gen fills (pt 3)

I am SUFFERING but it is DONE

ao3

-

1 (teomitl – we are all hungry and so is the tide)

He is standing on dry land, the heat of the sun baking his limbs, but behind his eyes he's drowning. Behind his eyes is the slosh of lake water hitting the sides of the canals, the shallow green algae-choked depths where the axolotls swim, the hidden sharp rocks and currents that exist to pull the unwary under. In his ears are the dry, chittering songs of the ahuitzotls.

In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds…

We are hungry, they say. Eat.

He opens his mouth, and his teeth are fangs.

-

2 (acatl & teomitl – not too shabby)

"I'll row," Teomitl said, and Acatl—who had two perfectly good working arms, thank you very much—winced as they got into the boat. He'd seen Teomitl's rowing. He'd had the...experience of having been in a boat with Teomitl rowing. Generations of his peasant ancestors rolled in their graves every time his noble protege took up an oar.

As he expected, the boat rocked dizzyingly as they pushed off from the pier, and Acatl fought the urge to close his eyes. Traffic on the canals was always something to be contended with, and even the slow pace of a collision wasn't enough to save you if you fell in and got a mouthful of what, for charity's sake, he had to call "water." He'd need to be on his guard; Teomitl would have his hands full just keeping them on a straight course.

So he watched the other boats, and he watched Teomitl, and after a while he felt the anxiety under his breastbone start to ease. He's been practicing. The boat still swerved, and once or twice they bumped the edge of the canal hard enough to jar them both, but at least they were getting to their destination. "Teomitl."

"What?!" Teomitl snapped. He didn't turn around to look at him, but Acatl could feel his glower anyway.

Expecting a reprimand, he realized. If he'd been able, he would have clapped him on the shoulder. As it was, he smiled and called, "You're doing very well. Keep it up."

Teomitl's blush spread all the way over the back of his ears and across his shaved head, but he said nothing. As he turned to check the oncoming traffic at a crossing, Acatl caught the edge of a broad grin.

-

3 (teomitl – before the sword)

Tomorrow, there will be war. He will march at the head of the Triple Alliance to claim new lands for the Empire, to crush foreign cities' temples under his sandaled feet, to put their warriors to the sword and offer their hearts to the Sun.

That's tomorrow. Tonight he prays, and it is not to the Southern Hummingbird for victory in battle or the Jade Skirt for her favors when they reach the rivers between them and their goals. No, tonight he sheds his blood for the favor of any god who will listen, and he thinks of Mihmatini and Acatl and all their nieces and nephews—all the people he'll be leaving behind.

Please, he prays. Keep them safe. Don't let Acatl overwork himself, don't let Mihmatini make any powerful enemies—please. I won't be able to protect them while I'm gone, so please keep them safe for me.

-

4 (acatl – even if it wasn’t meant to be)

His parents had wanted both their sons to be warriors. Neutemoc was their golden boy, the one who won fame and glory on the battlefield, who had risen from a peasant boy to a man entrusted with the regalia of a Jaguar Knight. He had made them proud. And Acatl? The second son, the disappointment? He had been strong once, too—strong and clever and his parents' pride, the one who'd went off to study with nobles' sons and could, if he'd applied himself, become just as skilled as his brother.

Instead he became a priest, and neither of them had forgiven him. Priests held the world together, gave honor to the gods—but they were not warriors. For them, there would be no glory, no renown. Acatl had thrown away all chance at that when he'd joined the priests of the Dead, and everyone around him knew it just as soon as they looked at him.

They didn't look deeper. They forgot that even in the calmecac, boys were trained to fight, and when you were reed-slender as your name and lacked the backing of rank and power, you became resourceful.

In short, it shouldn't have been a surprise that, when Quenami put his fists up, Acatl kicked his legs out from under him and went straight for the squishy bits.

-

5 (teomitl & tizoc – freeze frame)

"You are my brother," Tizoc says, and with the last of his strength he grabs for Teomitl's hand.

Teomitl pulls away. Looks down at him. Remembers a sneering laugh, that peasant's daughter, the clergy of Tlaloc penned like animals as they died weeping blood. Remembers the black edge of an obsidian blade at Acatl's throat. But Tizoc is right, even now—this man, twisted and withered as he's become, is still his brother. For a moment, he hesitates.

(It could have been different. It should have been different. It should never have come to this. If he could choose another path…)

There is no other path. He turns and walks away, and lets his brother die.

-

6 (mihmatini, nezahual, & teomitl – high school au)

If Nezahual kept poking her between the shoulderblades with his pencil, Mihmatini was going to rip it out of his hand and shove it right in his fucking eye. He was a year younger than her and shouldn't even have been there, but he was in all advanced classes, set to graduate in a few months just like the rest of them, and never let anyone forget it for a second.

"Hey," came the hiss from behind her. "Hey."

Without turning around, she muttered, "What?"

"Your brother. Is he single?"

She didn't have to ask which brother he meant, even when Nezahual jerked his chin forward as though she could possibly miss Acatl setting up another slide on the overhead projector and launching into the next part of the lecture on pre-conquest history that they were all supposed to be taking notes on. "...Yeah. Why?"

"Oh, no reason."

And because he sat behind her, she missed him turning to where Teomitl sat in order to flash him a shit-eating grin and a thumbs'-up—but when Teomitl flipped him off in response, she had a pretty good idea why. She felt like doing the same thing; just because Teo's crush was doomed didn't mean he had to rub it in.

-

7 (teomitl & nezahual – irises)

They're both Revered Speakers now—and both at least three-quarters drunk, since Nezahual thinks laws don't apply to him and Teomitl's always felt limits are for the weak—so that's what finally gets him to lift his head from the pillow, blink owlishly, and ask, "So what's up with your eyes, anyway?"

Nezahual blinks back. "What do you mean?"

Teomitl waves a hand in the vague direction of his cousin's face. "They're green. Your parents didn't have green eyes. Your siblings don't have green eyes. Nobody has green eyes."

"You do," he points out in a tone that's probably intended to make him sound wise but instead comes out as snippy.

"Only sometimes, with Jade Skirt's magic! Yours are like that all the time." He's actually always sort of wondered if maybe Nezahual's mother looked at a frog too long when she was pregnant, or ate too much sun-dried algae, or made a deal with a witch just so her son would have creepy eyes.

Thinking, apparently, is taking some effort. "...The Feathered Serpent," he finally says. "A mark of Quetzalcoatl's favor."

Teomitl hums. He'd liked the algae theory better.

-

7 (the high priests, teomitl & tizoc – everything’s worse with zombies)

Quenami, showing the first shred of good sense he'd ever displayed in all the time Acatl had known him, was backing away. Unfortunately for him, he didn't do it fast enough, and the hand slamming against the wall next to his head was enough to stop him in his tracks. He swallowed visibly, clearly striving for calm. "I did say there might be side effects—"

Acatl was going to kill him. "He eats brains!"

"So?" Acamapichtli, alone among all of them, looked unruffled. "It's hardly as though the sacrifices are still going to be using theirs afterwards."

Acatl would probably need an extra pair of hands if he wanted to strangle both of them at once, and even though Teomitl would definitely help—his student had been looking both nauseous and horrified ever since he'd seen what they'd brought his brother back as—it would still cause too much trouble in the long run. Accordingly he stepped back, let Quenami act as though he hadn't just been publicly menaced by a man half a head shorter than him, and took a deep breath. "Right. Our Emperor eats brains. And we're just—just going to live with this, then, is that it?!"

"Not for long," Teomitl muttered.

Acatl thought about the star-demons. He thought about waiting; maybe Tizoc's reign would stabilize. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad.

Then he remembered what he'd seen in the Emperor's chambers, and hoped Teomitl would act quickly.

-

8 (quenami & acatl – a welcome interruption)

Quenami held his ground, smiled in Acatl’s furious face, and mentally calculated his odds of surviving the next half-hour without incurring any major injuries. They didn’t seem promising. Of course Acatl had no real backers at court aside from Teomitl and knew it, but he was so angry at Quenami’s latest venture—really, how naive, the renovations to the Great Temple had been so long in coming that it was ridiculous to divert funds for something as minor as feeding the peasants—that if Quenami said the wrong thing, it could very easily end in blood.

He just had to figure out the right thing. “I’m sure we’ll find room in the budget for—”

“People are starving in our provinces,” Acatl snarled, and oh, that had definitely not been it.

“Acatl!”

Teomitl’s voice. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Well, Acatl, I suppose you’d best see what he wants.”

Acatl turned and stalked away without another word, and he counted it as a victory.

-

9 (teomitl – if you’re going through hell, keep going)

The Tlaxcalans were eyeing their borders like a pack of starving coyotes, three border provinces had singularly failed to deliver any of their taxes, and on top of that—as though Teomitl did not have quite enough to deal with, thank you—his brother was gearing up for another war. Not the yearly flower wars, mind you, but a full-scale re-invasion of Meztitlan, entirely as if he'd forgotten the way that city had handed them all their own asses during his coronation war.

Teomitl took a deep breath and rubbed his temples to stave off his building headache. It didn't help. Two more years, he told himself. We'll get through this, Tizoc's reign will stabilize, and then when I take the throne it won't break under me. He just had to be patient. He'd get what he wanted eventually.

He just had to make sure it stayed in one piece until he did. Grimacing, he bent over his supply lists again.

-

10 (chalchiuhnenetl & teomitl – do you really believe everything you’re told?)

Her sweet, strong, foolish little brother says, "Acatl-tzin told me that I should wait. That trying to take the throne now will break us, worse than anything Tizoc's ever done." He's not looking at her, and though he stands straight as an arrow his voice has the faintest hitch of emotion in it.

She smiles and rises from her seat, gently tilting his head with a hand on his jaw until he's looking her in the eye. "And do you believe everything Acatl-tzin tells you?"

Teomitl turns a dull and unhappy brick red. "He doesn't lie."

"Mmm, no. But he doesn't respect you, does he? He sees only his precious little student, not a man who can make his own choices. He won't realize how wrong he is until we show him." She lets her smile grow. "And we will, won't we?"

When he nods, she knows she has him.

-

11 (acamapichtli – the joy of a summer storm)

Every year, he sacrifices. Every year, he prays. And every year he hopes—that this will please the Storm Lord, that the blood and maize and precious lives fed to Him will bring the rains they need to strengthen the crops, that never again will He withhold His favor and see them starve and die for lack of water. The canals run so low this time of year that boats are sometimes stuck in the mud, and he searches the skies desperately for rain.

When dark clouds hang thick over the lake, he breathes a little easier. But it's not until the sky breaks in a crack of thunder—until rain's pouring down in sheets so heavy that he can barely see his own hand in front of his face—that he strides out, beaming, to join his priests and give thanks to their patron for His blessings.

-

12 (acatl – an ordinary courage)

He's only just started to rebuild his relationship with his brother. It's been years—years—since he's spoken to any of his married sisters, and Acatl's honestly not sure he can do it. They have their own lives, their own families, and they certainly never shied away from telling him just what they'd thought of his decision to join the priesthood instead of taking up a profession that would support their parents in their old age.

And yet here he is, standing in front of his sister Icnoyotl's house with gifts of fruit and fine cotton cloaks. Another step, and he'll be past the threshold and into the courtyard. If he's brave enough. If he's not the coward they've always thought him, spine turning to water at the very idea of being thrown out again.

No, he thinks. I can do this.

He takes one step, two, and calls his sister's name.

-

13 (quenami & tizoc – skewed priorities)

"My lord..." he says as diffidently as he dares. If he's obsequious enough, flatters Tizoc-tzin's vanity enough, he can get away with criticizing him when he really has to—such as when the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, in his infinite wisdom, proposes a certain renovation to the Great Temple that would leave Coyolxauhqui's prison exposed to moonlight even for a moment, giving her a chance to break out and destroy them all. "Might I suggest postponing the start of construction for a week or so? The supplies you requested…"

"Ah, yes!" Tizoc's eyes light up. "You've reminded me. Tell me, have the goldworkers received their orders? I want the top of Huitzilopochtli's shrine to shine like the sun, so that He will know I hold Him in the highest esteem."

Quenami takes a slow breath. Yes, he'd been the one to help Tizoc onto the throne. Yes, he'd been the one to bring him back to life. But after all...this, he's starting to have second thoughts. Maybe having young Teomitl as Emperor wouldn't be so bad after all.

-

14 (acatl & teomitl – role swap)

A novice priest of Huitzilopochtli and the Emperor’s least warlike (and therefore least favored) brother are as far apart as an ant is from the moon, but now a priestess has gone missing and it’s not as though Ciquacen Acatl can ignore that, not when everything he sees in the stars says a great calamity is coming, so off he goes to the calmecac to find someone who might know more than the useless scraps of gossip he’s picked up from his brothers. He doesn’t find anything so useful as an eyewitness, of course, but when Ceyaxochitl hears he’s on the case she bids him wait while she fetches someone she insists will want to help.

“This,” she tells him as she ushers in a young priest, “is Teomitl. He’s swearing there’s been foul play and we’ve arrested an innocent man.”

“You have,” the boy snaps. He can’t be more than eighteen, proud in the way of the young, and he barely bows at all to Acatl-tzin. “My lord,”—the respect is honest enough, at least—”I saw Elueia before her disappearance, and I don’t think the Jaguar Knight came to kill her. Not with the way she was acting.”

He gestures for someone to bring him paper and ink and a reed pen. He’ll want to take notes. “Tell me everything you saw.”

-

15 (acatl & neutemoc – I know there’s better brothers, but you’re the only one that’s mine)

Things between them hadn’t been good for over a decade, not since Acatl had joined the priesthood and crushed their parents’ dreams, but he’d thought they’d been getting better. He thought they’d been getting better. They’d been speaking, at least, and Neutemoc had been fighting alongside him. There had been space for something new to grow out of the shattered remnants of what had been.

And now he was lying in the mud, cold and still and not breathing why wasn’t he breathing—

Teomitl’s presence at his side was a bonfire in the drizzling rain, but his voice was as careful as a man picking his way through obsidian shards. “I can bring him back, I think,” he murmured. “He’s not so far gone. But...there will be a price.”

Acatl sucked in a sharp, painful breath. “I’ll pay it.” His voice hitched on what was almost a sob. “I’ll pay it, just—please—he’s my brother—”

Teomitl closed his eyes. “Alright.”

When he opened them again, they were jade from end to end and Chalchiuhtlicue’s voice echoed from his lips. Yes, there would be a price, and Jade Skirt was a cruel and capricious goddess. But Neutemoc was curled over and throwing up stagnant lake water, so Acatl would worry about that later.

-

16 (acamapichtli & acatl – this ain’t no place for no hero)

The really sad thing is, he can see where it all went wrong; Ceyaxochitl should have taken Acatl more fully under her wing, teaching him the ins and outs of his role before unleashing him upon the court as the new High Priest for the Dead. There is a time and place for a man to be earnest and self-sacrificing, but Acatl’s long past that. Someone should have made sure he realized it before now—before his naivety found him here, in this cage, with Tizoc trying once again to see him dead.

Well, he’ll just have to drive the point home. Acatl’s all snarling anger and a feral sort of common pride, even now that he’s been thoroughly beaten and locked behind stout wooden bars on ground that’s slowly but surely sapping his strength. If he wasn’t so pathetic in his useless determination, Acamapichtli would feel bad for him. He takes a step forward, knowing that the bars are the only thing protecting him, and murmurs, “Foolish Acatl. You think you’re a hero, don’t you.”

Acatl spits at him. It falls short. “Go fuck yourself,” he snarls, and goodness, Teomitl has been a terrible influence on him.

He sighs, shaking his head. “You should have stayed in Coyoacan. Tenochtitlan’s no place for a man like you.” And then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Teomitl won’t be able to save you from this.”

If the bars weren’t in the way, he’s quite sure Acatl would kill him with his bare hands.

-

17 (teomitl – ambition, anxiety, adrenaline)

He just barely made it into the tunnel through Tlalocan before he broke down completely. He’d held it together well enough talking with Mihmatini—it had been emotional on both sides, yes, and there had been tears of rage and grief in both their eyes—but he’d managed to keep himself under control until she’d left. (Probably forever; there was no way she’d ever forgive him, but they were at least talking. From there all other things could start.) But then she’d walked away and he’d been standing there alone and he’d taken one more breath—

And it had struck him like a tidal wave. She and Acatl had been injured, had been fighting for their lives, and he’d stood in front of them with his warriors and his blinding lust for the crown and almost—he’d almost—

Gods, what have I done?

At least in the tunnel, he was alone. There were no witnesses as he crumpled to the ever-shifting ground and lost the battle against his tears, no one to hear as they burst out of him in wrenching, painful sobs. He’d wanted to be Revered Speaker, to save the Empire from his brother’s clutches, to lead it to glory. He’d wanted it so badly that, with his sister’s venom in his ear, he hadn’t cared who stood in his way. Mihmatini had just slain a king’s ghost for the sake of the Fifth World—she’d still been bleeding as they talked!—and she’d shown every inclination to slay him too for the same reason, and he would have deserved it. And Acatl...

Steady eyes. A firm, calm voice. “I’m asking this as one man to another.”

Well, he thought bitterly, at least I know he respects me now. He wanted to throw up. If there’d been anything in his stomach, he might have. He’d finally gotten what he’d wanted from the man, and all it had taken was the near-destruction of everything else he loved.

(He could have killed him. Worse—Acatl could have hated him. Teomitl kind of hated himself.)

He sucked in a breath—come on, Ahuitzotl, no more tears—and choked on another wracking sob. No, he wasn’t fit for company yet. But when he was, he had some apologies to make.

[dailychapel]

Lord, I don’t know what lay before me today, but I commit it all to you. Please give me strength and courage to get through the joys, challenges and happenings of the day. I thank you for my life and for all that I have; I commit this day to you. No matter what happens, I know you have me in the palm of your hand. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.

[Psalm 89:1-52 NLT] 1 A psalm of Ethan the Ezrahite. I will sing of the LORD's unfailing love forever! Young and old will hear of your faithfulness. 2 Your unfailing love will last forever. Your faithfulness is as enduring as the heavens. 3 The LORD said, "I have made a covenant with David, my chosen servant. I have sworn this oath to him: 4 'I will establish your descendants as kings forever; they will sit on your throne from now until eternity.'" Interlude 5 All heaven will praise your great wonders, LORD; myriads of angels will praise you for your faithfulness. 6 For who in all of heaven can compare with the LORD? What mightiest angel is anything like the LORD? 7 The highest angelic powers stand in awe of God. He is far more awesome than all who surround his throne. 8 O LORD God of Heaven's Armies! Where is there anyone as mighty as you, O LORD? You are entirely faithful. 9 You rule the oceans. You subdue their storm-tossed waves. 10 You crushed the great sea monster. You scattered your enemies with your mighty arm. 11 The heavens are yours, and the earth is yours; everything in the world is yours--you created it all. 12 You created north and south. Mount Tabor and Mount Hermon praise your name. 13 Powerful is your arm! Strong is your hand! Your right hand is lifted high in glorious strength. 14 Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne. Unfailing love and truth walk before you as attendants. 15 Happy are those who hear the joyful call to worship, for they will walk in the light of your presence, LORD. 16 They rejoice all day long in your wonderful reputation. They exult in your righteousness. 17 You are their glorious strength. It pleases you to make us strong. 18 Yes, our protection comes from the LORD, and he, the Holy One of Israel, has given us our king. 19 Long ago you spoke in a vision to your faithful people. You said, "I have raised up a warrior. I have selected him from the common people to be king. 20 I have found my servant David. I have anointed him with my holy oil. 21 I will steady him with my hand; with my powerful arm I will make him strong. 22 His enemies will not defeat him, nor will the wicked overpower him. 23 I will beat down his adversaries before him and destroy those who hate him. 24 My faithfulness and unfailing love will be with him, and by my authority he will grow in power. 25 I will extend his rule over the sea, his dominion over the rivers. 26 And he will call out to me, 'You are my Father, my God, and the Rock of my salvation.' 27 I will make him my firstborn son, the mightiest king on earth. 28 I will love him and be kind to him forever; my covenant with him will never end. 29 I will preserve an heir for him; his throne will be as endless as the days of heaven. 30 But if his descendants forsake my instructions and fail to obey my regulations, 31 if they do not obey my decrees and fail to keep my commands, 32 then I will punish their sin with the rod, and their disobedience with beating. 33 But I will never stop loving him nor fail to keep my promise to him. 34 No, I will not break my covenant; I will not take back a single word I said. 35 I have sworn an oath to David, and in my holiness I cannot lie: 36 His dynasty will go on forever; his kingdom will endure as the sun. 37 It will be as eternal as the moon, my faithful witness in the sky!" Interlude 38 But now you have rejected him and cast him off. You are angry with your anointed king. 39 You have renounced your covenant with him; you have thrown his crown in the dust. 40 You have broken down the walls protecting him and ruined every fort defending him. 41 Everyone who comes along has robbed him, and he has become a joke to his neighbors. 42 You have strengthened his enemies and made them all rejoice. 43 You have made his sword useless and refused to help him in battle. 44 You have ended his splendor and overturned his throne. 45 You have made him old before his time and publicly disgraced him. Interlude 46 O LORD, how long will this go on? Will you hide yourself forever? How long will your anger burn like fire? 47 Remember how short my life is, how empty and futile this human existence! 48 No one can live forever; all will die. No one can escape the power of the grave. Interlude 49 Lord, where is your unfailing love? You promised it to David with a faithful pledge. 50 Consider, Lord, how your servants are disgraced! I carry in my heart the insults of so many people. 51 Your enemies have mocked me, O LORD; they mock your anointed king wherever he goes. 52 Praise the LORD forever! Amen and amen!

[Luke 6:20-36 NLT] 20 Then Jesus turned to his disciples and said, "God blesses you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours. 21 God blesses you who are hungry now, for you will be satisfied. God blesses you who weep now, for in due time you will laugh. 22 What blessings await you when people hate you and exclude you and mock you and curse you as evil because you follow the Son of Man. 23 When that happens, be happy! Yes, leap for joy! For a great reward awaits you in heaven. And remember, their ancestors treated the ancient prophets that same way. 24 "What sorrow awaits you who are rich, for you have your only happiness now. 25 What sorrow awaits you who are fat and prosperous now, for a time of awful hunger awaits you. What sorrow awaits you who laugh now, for your laughing will turn to mourning and sorrow. 26 What sorrow awaits you who are praised by the crowds, for their ancestors also praised false prophets. 27 "But to you who are willing to listen, I say, love your enemies! Do good to those who hate you. 28 Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who hurt you. 29 If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other cheek also. If someone demands your coat, offer your shirt also. 30 Give to anyone who asks; and when things are taken away from you, don't try to get them back. 31 Do to others as you would like them to do to you. 32 "If you love only those who love you, why should you get credit for that? Even sinners love those who love them! 33 And if you do good only to those who do good to you, why should you get credit? Even sinners do that much! 34 And if you lend money only to those who can repay you, why should you get credit? Even sinners will lend to other sinners for a full return. 35 "Love your enemies! Do good to them. Lend to them without expecting to be repaid. Then your reward from heaven will be very great, and you will truly be acting as children of the Most High, for he is kind to those who are unthankful and wicked. 36 You must be compassionate, just as your Father is compassionate.

Prayer for Others

Lord’s Prayer Our Father Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen

Go forth into the world in peace; be of good courage; hold fast that which is good; render to no one evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak; help the afflicted; honour everyone; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit; and the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always. Amen.

[callowsermons]

Plain Thoughts-Turning

Not too long ago two documentaries were released covering the fraud of the Fyre Festival.  One was called Fyre Fraud, the other called Fyre Festival: The Greatest Party that Never Happened.  A small app for booking talent publicized a music festival on an island in the Bahamas they claimed used to belong to Pablo Escobar, the drug kingpin.  They put together a snazzy ad, and paid a bunch of popular people on social media to spread it around.  If it weren’t for how everything turned out the episode would be a case study in successful marketing.  

But as it turned out they put out the advertisement before they had even secured the island, let alone paid the musicians.  They were renting villas they knew they had no access to.  They didn’t even have a plan to get enough bathrooms. By the time all was said and done, they flew their marks to Great Exuma during the Island’s most popular weekend, and plopped them in a gravel pit with FEMA tents.  There was no music.  There was hardly any food.  About the only promise they could keep was the obscene amount of booze they passed around.  Everyone left angrily, the whole fiasco became a punchline, and the person who organized it is now in jail.

What a tremendous turnaround.  Before the festival was under way they had put up every appearance that they had it all together.  They had put up every appearance that ticket holders were about to have the time of their lives.  They put up every appearance that they were rich and beautiful and that anyone who joined them would be rich and beautiful as well.  But it turned out all these appearances was built on nothing but lies.  They had hardly any money that wasn’t acquired by fraud.  They had no plan.  And there was never any organic excitement online, everything was bought.

The story of the Fyre Festival is spectacular in its outsided hubris.  It also illustrates a deeper truth that Jesus points us to this morning in his Sermon on the Plain.  Appearances are deceiving.  The works and pomps of this world are but straw.  If you look for security in wealth and food and laughter you will find none of it.  All wickedness is set in slippery places, and no matter how high and mighty you might be in this world you cannot escape death.  But God sides with the poor and weeping.  God sides with the poor and weeping because they alone put their full trust and confidence in God.

I’m reminded of the death of Josef Stalin.  Stalin consolidated power in the Soviet Union through strict control of the Communist Party.  When he had the slightest inkling of resistance he ordered a purge.  Millions died at the whims of this one man.  Millions more were led to believe that their lives depended on Comrade Stalin’s wise rule, and that he spent every waking moment building communism.  His officers and comrades lived in abject fear of this short Georgian.  So much so that when he suffered a major stroke no one entered his room in time, for fear of repercussions.  When it became clear that he was deathly ill, no one worked to resuscitate him for fear of what he might do when he came to.  And so, Stalin died alone.  He had all power, all wealth, everything any human being in this world could dream of.  But when you have everything, then you’re afraid you might lose it.  And in his paranoia and insecurity he led his associates to let him suffer needlessly when death came.

“Woe to you who are rich!” Jesus says, “for you have received your consolation.  Woe to you who are full now! For you will be hungry.  Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep.  Woe to you when all speak well of you, fo that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.” Jesus in his ministry comes proclaiming a great turning, the great reversal.  Jesus comes to expose the pomp and delusion of this world.  No, it is not the rich, the full, the laughing, or the well liked who are blessed.  They only seem to be blessed.  Rather Jesus says, “Blessed are you poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God.”

The poor belong to the Kingdom of God because the poor lack the riches and status that would lead them to believe they have no need of God.  God especially love those who are poor because they may fully trust in him.  “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord,” Jeremiah tells us, “whose trust is the Lord.”  God alone should be our strength.  God alone should be our consolation.  In God alone can we find all riches.  It is by God alone that we may join in Christ’s victory over the grave.

How often do we come to a crisis in our lives, whether it be family issues, financial issues, problems at work, conflict with friends or whatever, and we don’t turn to God?  Sometimes we may think “oh I can handle this.”  Or other times, our minds don’t even give God any thought.  But that is not what God wants of us.  Maybe we might imagine ourselves as the kid on the playground who goes to tattle to the teacher.  And the teacher tries to get us to solve our own problems.  God is not like that.  It was Benjamin Franklin, not the Bible, who said, “God helps those who help themselves.”  The very idea is contrary to Scripture.  No, God wants us to turn to him because there is no other secure place to stand.  God alone can bring blessedness.  God alone brings peace to our troubles.  And God earnestly desires that we come to him, and that we offer to him truly what’s on our hearts.

So the temptations of idols, the temptation of riches and fame and security, the temptation of our own competence, why that’s all an illusion.  As much of an illusion as the spell that was cast by those who sold the Fyre Festival.  In the end it all amounts to nothing.  In the end it cannot save.  But God alone saves.  And God saves those who this world has given up on.  God saves those who this world counts as nothing, as refuse, as surplus population.  The poor, the weak, the outcast, the marginalized.  Those who are hungry, those who are weak, those who are despised.  To them the Kingdom belongs, because they have no one to rely on but God.

Questions for Reflection

When have you been let down?

Have you ever been the victim of a scam?

Why do you think God wants us to pray?

What should “blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God” mean for our church’s missions and ministry?

[terrorpenned]

#something something roger collins dismissing vicki's sighting of a ghost in the last episode; something something roger's inability;#to recognize the wages of his monstrous actions. if monstrous actions have not created monsters; they have certainly created a number;#of people who will stand at his grave and not weep. much like his ancestors' bad actions. one suspects. via @tortoisesshells

[dfroza]

betrayed and arrested. even to be denied by a friend.

this is the True story that is read in Today’s chapters of the Scriptures beginning with these lines from the book of Mark in chapter 14:

The signal they had arranged was a kiss. “Watch to see whom I kiss; He’s the One,” Judas had told them. “Arrest Him, and take Him into secure custody.”

As soon as they arrived, Judas stepped forward.

Judas (kissing Jesus): My Teacher.

Immediately the soldiers grabbed Jesus and took Him into custody.

Now one of the disciples standing close by drew his sword and swung, cutting off the ear of a slave of Caiaphas, the high priest.

Jesus (calling out): Am I a thief or a bandit that you have to come armed with swords and clubs to capture Me? I sat teaching in the temple every day with you. You could have taken Me at any time, but you never did. Let the Scriptures be fulfilled.

When they saw the armed crowd take Jesus into custody, the disciples fled.

continued later in the chapter:

While Peter was waiting by the fire outside, one of the servant girls of the high priest saw him.

Servant Girl: You were one of those men with Jesus of Nazareth.

Peter: Woman, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

He left the fire, and as he went out into the gateway, [a cock crowed.]

The servant girl saw him again.

Servant Girl: Hey, this is one of them—one of those who followed Jesus.

Peter: No, I’m not one of them.

A little later, some of the other bystanders turned to Peter.

Bystander: Surely you’re one of them. You’re a Galilean. [We can tell by your accent.]

And then he swore an oath that if he wasn’t telling the truth that he would be cursed.

Peter: Listen, I don’t even know the man you’re talking about.

And as he said this, a cock crowed [a second time]; and Peter remembered what Jesus had told him: “Before the cock crows [twice], you will have denied Me three times.”

He began to weep.

The Book of Mark, Chapter 14:44-50, 66-72 (The Voice)

to be accompanied by Today’s Psalms that deal with much of the same in the injustices of this world and the hope of things being made right by Love (by God) at some point in time.

[Psalm 10]

Why, O Eternal One, are You so far away?

Why can’t You be found during troubling times?

Mean and haughty people hunt down the poor.

May they get caught up in their own wicked schemes.

For the wicked celebrates the evil cravings of his heart

as the greedy curses and rejects the Eternal.

The arrogance of the wicked one keeps him from seeking the True God.

He truly thinks, “There is no God.”

His ways seem always to be successful;

Your judgments, too, seem far beyond him, out of his reach.

He looks down on all his enemies.

In his heart he has decided, “Nothing will faze me.

From generation to generation I will not face trouble.”

His mouth is full of curses, lies, and oppression.

Beneath his tongue lie trouble and wickedness.

He hides in the shadows of the villages,

waiting to ambush and kill the innocent in dark corners.

He eyes the weak and the poor.

Ominously, like a lion in its lair,

he lurks in secret to waylay those who are downtrodden.

When he catches them, he draws them in and drags them off with his net.

Quietly crouching, lying low,

ready to overwhelm the next by his strength,

The wicked thinks in his heart, “God has forgotten us!

He has covered His face and will never notice!”

Arise, O Eternal, my True God. Lift up Your hand.

Do not forget the downtrodden.

Why does the wicked revile the True God?

He has decided, “He will not hold me responsible.”

But wait! You have seen,

and You will consider the trouble and grief he caused.

You will impose consequences for his actions.

The helpless, the orphans, commit themselves to You,

and You have been their Helper.

Break the arm of the one guilty of doing evil;

investigate all his wicked acts;

hold him responsible for every last one of them.

The Eternal will reign as King forever.

The other nations will be swept off His land.

O Eternal One, You have heard the longings of the poor and lowly.

You will strengthen them; You who are of heaven will hear them,

Vindicating the orphan and the oppressed

so that men who are of the earth will terrify them no more.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Voice)

[Psalm 49]

For the worship leader. A song of the sons of Korah.

Listen up, everyone!

All you who reside in this world, give an ear!

Everyone—rich and poor,

young and old, wise and foolish, humble and mighty—

My mouth will overflow with wisdom;

the reflections of my heart will guide you to understand the nature of life.

I will tune my ear to the words of a proverb;

to the sounds of a harp, I will reveal my riddle.

Why should I be afraid when dark evils swirl about me,

when I am walking among the sin of evildoers—

Those who depend on their own fortunes,

who boast about their earthly riches?

One person can’t grant salvation to another

or make a payment to the True God for another.

Redeeming a life is costly;

no premium is enough, ever enough,

That one’s body might live on forever

and never fear the grave’s decay.

Everyone knows that even the wisest ones die,

perishing together with the foolish and the stupid.

For all die—beggars and kings, fools and wise men.

Their wealth remains behind for others.

Although they wish to dwell in fine houses forever,

their graves are their real resting places.

Their homes are for all future generations,

yet for a while they have named lands after themselves.

[No one, regardless of how rich or important, can live forever;

he is] just like the animals that perish and decay.

This is the destiny of those foolish souls who have faith only in themselves;

this will be the end of those happy to follow in their ways.

[pause]

The fate of fools is the grave, and just like sheep,

death will feast on them.

The righteous will rule over them at dawn,

their bodies, their outward forms, rotting in the grave

far away from their great mansions.

But God will reach into the grave and save my life from its power.

He will fetch me and take me into His eternal house.

[pause]

Do not be afraid of the rich and powerful

as their prestige and honor grow,

For they cannot take anything with them when they die.

Their fame and glory will not follow them into the grave.

During their lives, they seek every blessing and advantage

because others praise you when you’ve done well.

But they will soon join their ancestors, for all of time,

among the tombs of the faithless—a place of no light.

Anyone who is rich or important without understanding

is just like the animals that perish and decay.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 49 (The Voice)

[Psalm 14]

A David Psalm

Bilious and bloated, they gas,

“God is gone.”

Their words are poison gas,

fouling the air; they poison

Rivers and skies;

thistles are their cash crop.

God sticks his head out of heaven.

He looks around.

He’s looking for someone not stupid—

one man, even, God-expectant,

just one God-ready woman.

He comes up empty. A string

of zeros. Useless, unshepherded

Sheep, taking turns pretending

to be Shepherd.

The ninety and nine

follow their fellow.

Don’t they know anything,

all these impostors?

Don’t they know

they can’t get away with this—

Treating people like a fast-food meal

over which they’re too busy to pray?

Night is coming for them, and nightmares,

for God takes the side of victims.

Do you think you can mess

with the dreams of the poor?

You can’t, for God

makes their dreams come true.

Is there anyone around to save Israel?

Yes. God is around; God turns life around.

Turned-around Jacob skips rope,

turned-around Israel sings laughter.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 14 (The Message)

to be concluded by wisdom in the Proverbs that leads the heart in truth:

Hatred fuels dissension,

but love calms all rebellions.

Wisdom lives where insightful words are spoken,

but harsh punishment awaits the senseless.

The wise store up knowledge as a safeguard,

but the meaningless chatter of fools means that chaos is near.

The wealth of the rich is their powerful fortress;

the poverty of the poor reduces them to rubble.

The reward of those who do right is a satisfied life,

but the profits gained by those who do wrong is used to sin.

Those who accept instruction are travelers on the road to a meaningful life,

but those who refuse correction wander off and pave a path to ruin.

Lips that lie cover deep-seated hatred,

and whoever spreads a libelous rumor is acting as a fool.

The more you talk, the more likely you will cross the line and say the wrong thing;

but if you are wise, you’ll speak less and with restraint.

The speech of those who do right is of greater value than the finest silver,

but the thoughts of wrongdoers are worthless.

The right-living teach many,

but fools die with no clue how to live well.

The blessing of the Eternal is what makes someone rich,

and He doesn’t add pain to it.

Mischief is the sport of fools,

but wise actions bring joy to a person with insight.

Whatever wrongdoers fear the most will happen to them,

but those who do right will receive what they long for.

After the storm passes, the wrongdoers are blown away,

but those who do right are safe and sound on their firm foundations forever.

As vinegar vexes the teeth, and as smoke irritates the eyes,

so a slacker annoys his boss.

Reverence for the Eternal makes for a long and peaceful life,

but a wrongdoer will have years taken away.

The hope of those who do right is joy and celebration,

but the only prospect for those who do wrong is futility.

The way of the Eternal offers safety to those who love justice,

but it destroys those who perpetrate evil.

The right-living will never have their land taken away,

but wrongdoers will be uprooted.

Wisdom flows from the mouths of those who do right,

but tongues that twist the truth will be cut out.

The lips of the right-living understand what is proper,

but the mouths of wrongdoers twist and pervert the truth.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10:12-32 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, november 10, the 49th day of Autumn and day 314 of the year: