#only the order does not want to uproot it cause getting to the root of their problems

[irrepressible-miracle]

The concept of a shared soul is very interesting to me, a shame we never got much of it

[palbabor-writes]

okkkk so how do you think this particular situation would go down, I desperately need to know bc your portrayal of tomura and your writing is just 😍but anywaYS what do you think would happen if someone from the league or Tomura himself killed the reader’s very close friend either on accident or as collateral damage of a big fight between the league and someone else?? And he has no clue who the person was & he didn’t care til y/n comes up to him completely destroyed like ‘did you kill them?’

eeeeeeeee.

in short, likely not too well. 

warnings: angst, death, mentions of blood and gore

You are clutching at your phone when you hear the hideout’s front door open and creak closed. 

It’s dark in your room and the only light is the electronic gleam of your cellphone. You can hear them all laughing, talking, dispersing, and no doubt giving themselves a pat on the back for another job well done. Fucking havoc and ruin managed, time to turn in. 

Tomura is usually the first to drift up the stairs and you can hear his footfalls, pacing heavily along the creaking wood. He pauses in front of your door, but someone calls to him before he can enter and he steps away, his footsteps fading into nothingness.

Good, you think, finally lowering your phone. You’re not ready to see him, you’re not ready to talk about this. No, talking about it would make it feel real, and making it real is going to be a problem.

Yes, you know that Tomura is a villain, fuck, a killer. You’re not stupid. You realize that none of this lines up with anything normal, anything safe, or anything right. But, the call you received a few hours earlier had shocked you.

It had been months, hell, years since you’d heard from her, or her mother.

Her mother’s voice was faint, broken and distant. She said she didn’t know who else to call. She knew you worked in the area, that you had...connections. She just wanted to know where her daughter was, where your friend was. Apparently, her last known whereabouts were around the Tokyo area, close to the UA campus, too close to where the last strike that Tomura had ordered had taken place. 

Nothing was confirmed. 

There wasn’t enough of the bodies left to do that. Most were identified by shattered bone remnants, teeth fragments, or bits of scraped up mitochondrial DNA. Some were charred, others beaten, and the last bunch were sliced into ribbons, marred with either deep cuts, or shallow, well placed nicks, designed to do the most damage, to cause the most blood loss. 

Nevertheless, it was the last place she had been seen and it’s the last major skirmish the League had participated in. There was no coincidence, no misunderstanding, no room for doubt. Your friend, one whom you’d known since childhood, was most likely dead. 

She had either been decayed, burnt, or mutilated. Either way, dead is dead and you can’t bear look at any of them, as they laugh and joke down below. You also can’t fathom how stupid you’d been, how naive. And you certainly don’t want to see him.  

You should leave. He’d likely let you. Make up some excuse and go far, far away, to wallow in your guilt and your uncomfortable denial. 

You hear his footsteps again and your head snaps up, your eyes bright with unshed tears. He pads past your room and you hear him open his own door. The others will likely be downstairs for hours, but you can slip out now, disappear before he even realizes that you’re gone. You stand and as you tug out your duffle another thought slips into your mind: Or, you can confront him. See if he denies it, see if he remembers seeing her, if he admits to killing her, if he fucking shows you any shred remorse. She was your friend and he likes to say that he cares for you. Let’s see if that’s true. Put it to the test, once and for all. Then, then you can leave, you bargain.  

Shoving the empty duffle bag onto your bed, you stalk out the your door before you can blink, feet whisking you to his familiar doorway, your fingers shaking as you twist the knob and yank, flooding his dim room with the weak light of the hall. 

He’s sitting on his bed, and his lean, bare, back is facing you, his dark shirt hanging on his forearms, half tugged off. He turns at the groan of his hinges and he blinks up at you, his eyes wide, red irises gleaming. 

“Figured you were asleep,” he remarks as you close the door, leaning heavily against the wood, steadying your breaths. He peers over you, his eyes softening as they linger on your face, and he flings his shirt away, discarding the dark fabric onto the ill kept floor. Once he processes your stony expression he pauses, his head lowering, a frown creeping over his lips. “What?”

You let his question hang and take one more gulp of air, wincing your eyes closed, and steeling yourself for the horrors that are about to wash over you. Ready or not, you’re going to ask.

“That mission that you did, the one by UA, how many people...I mean...w-was it it in a populated area?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to take place on a back street. The heroes shifted us onto the main road. Why are you asking this? I thought you didn’t want to know about--”

“So there were civilians involved? Everyday people? Normal people, going about their day? There were...they...” you can’t spit out your real question and you clench your fingers into your palms, indenting tiny crescents into your skin. 

“Yes. Civilians were there. Like I said, the heroes forced us into the open, we had to clear a pathway out. Again, why are you asking about this?”

A dark silence greets his query and that haze of tears is misting over your eyes again. Tomura, noticing your distress, stands and steps toward you, his fingers already reaching for you. Once those digits trace along your skin you bristle, jumping away and thudding clumsily into his side table, nearly toppling the surface and hissing in pain at the sharp sting. Your eyes lift to Tomura’s and he’s staring down at your half sprawled figure, utterly perplexed. 

“What the fuck? What’s wrong?” his voice is low, holding that familiar rasp, but there’s an edge of annoyance lingering there, too. 

“What’s wrong?” you spit, righting yourself and rubbing your throbbing hipbone. “What’s wrong? Oh...oh nothing. Just the fact that someone I know...fuck...knew...goddamn it...I knew her Tomura. She was my friend and now she’s...well they don’t know what the fuck she is. There’s not enough of her left. They’re having to identify with her DNA. There’s not even anything to bury. They’ll have to put an empty coffin into the ground. Her mother will... 

The last place she was seen was right outside that street. She was buying a...fuck, I don’t even know...but she was living her life and then someone...no...not someone...you, you took it from her. How...how...” your voice breaks and you crumple to the dusty floor, burying your face in your hands, your tears falling wet and hot as they drip through the cracks in your fingers.

Tomura is stock still above you, unsure and completely wrong footed. He doesn’t shift toward you though, no he remains and he watches, his fingers itching, palms tingling to reach for you. 

He doesn’t like this, no, he doesn’t like this one fucking bit. But what can he do? What did you think? Things happen. He didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know. He wants to tell you that, but it doesn’t undo the hurt, it doesn’t rewind the death. It’s too late. All he can do now is watch as a deep welling of self loathing passes over his mind, trickling up his spine and making every hair stand on edge. The true horror of the situation hits him like a freight train and he gulps heavily, trying to maintain his own composure. He’s going to lose you, you’re going to leave. He’s going to...you...you won’t...you’ll go. He’ll be alone...

After a few minutes, you steady yourself again, angrily brushing tears from your lashes, rubbing at your face until it stings from the friction. Your eyes flick up to Tomura, but he’s still rooted to the same spot, his eyes burning as he watches you. You fall onto your bottom, your legs splaying under you, fingers snatching at the edge of your shirt, balling and rolling the fabric, anxious and agitated. You start to shake, but you finally manage to press on, voice soft and whisper thin.

“I know you didn’t know...I didn’t even know she was still in Japan. I haven’t seen her in years. Her m-mother...her mother called me. I didn’t even realize until a few hours ago...I don’t know why I didn’t think...I know what you do. I know that there are always casualties in...whatever the fuck this is. War? Terrorist attacks? But fuck, Tomura, this isn’t changing anything. It’s just hurting the little people. The insignificant players. The ones who are trying to go about their day to day--”

“They don’t get a fucking pass just because they’re normal people, (Y/N),” Tomura growls, his tone taking on a ragged bite. “They live in this society, they prop up and support the systems. They wallow in their apathy and laziness, always thinking that the heroes will clean it up, the heroes will take care of it. Everything has a cost. 

What do you think we’re doing? What do you think you’ve been helping us with? Do you understand now? Do you see? Society can’t change unless it’s uprooted and destroyed. That’s not a blood less task. Yeah, I might have killed her. Dabi might have killed her. Or Toga, or Twice, or Compress, or Spinner, or a fucking mix of all six of us might have killed her. 

I don’t have time to hold up a picture of your loved ones before I engage in a fight. If...if you can’t...fuck. What do you want me to say (Y/N)? I can’t bring her back. Saying sorry does nothing and I’m not going to insult you with halfhearted apologies. I’m fucking not. So, if that’s what you’re wanting to hear--”

“I don’t know what I wanted. I don’t know what I expected,” you mumble, but Tomura stops his preamble at the sound of your voice, listening, waiting, knowing you’re about to wash your hands of the whole thing. 

Wash your hands of him.

Even if you leave, he won’t kill you. He can’t. You mean too much to him. Fuck, he thinks he loves you. He’s never said it, but he should have. Fuck, fuck. He should have said so many things, told you what you mean to him, given you more, listened more, held you more, but there’s no time now and anything he tells you to fill that gap will just sound hollow.

You lift yourself to your feet, legs unsteady and wobbling, propping your hand against the wall. “I’m going back to my room,” you tell him, slipping past his tense form and letting yourself back into the hall, your feet heavy and head lowered. 

You should pack, you think as you kick off your shoes and strip down to your underwear, sliding onto your cool sheets. You should be tossing everything you can into that duffle and disappearing into the night. But all you can seem to do is curl up on your bed, wrapping your cold arms around yourself, and sobbing out the last of your frustrations and hurts.

It’s late when your door opens and you don’t turn to look at him, you can’t. Still, you let him slip beside you, his warmth soothing some of the lingering tremors that are dancing along your spine, making you quake. He clings to you, pressing soft kisses against your neck, telling you that he’s glad you’re still here. He’s circumspect and quiet, but he won’t let you go, moving each time you do, keeping you tucked against him, his strong arms caging you close. 

Hours pass, and the only noise in the dark room is your shared exhales and distant heartbeats. Finally, as the sun slips over your shaded window, you lace your arms with his, silently accepting his unspoken regret and sorrow. He turns you to him and tilts your face up, lifting you and dropping gentle caresses on your lips.

He won’t change, you know that. It doesn’t undo the hurt. It doesn’t make him less of a murderer. But you can’t go. You can’t leave him. He...he means too much to you. You’re in this now, body and soul, and come hell, come death, come absolute destruction, you’ll stick by him.

(｡•́︿•̀｡)

[asmolbirb]

A Dandelion By Any Other Name

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: K Word count: ~3.7k AO3 link in the notes (as I’m not sure whether Tumblr is still hiding posts with external links from the search)

“Something’s wrong with him. I need you to fix it,” Geralt growls. He’s holding Jaskier by the back of his collar, and he pushes Jaskier forward now, in case Yennefer had any doubt who he meant. 

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier babbles. “A temporary affliction. I’ll be right as rain within the fortnight, don’t you fret.” He pauses. Then he goes limp in Geralt’s grip, causing Geralt to lose his balance for a split second. “On second thought, Geralt, I’m feeling quite weak, and also feverish, and there’s a strange ache in my right thumb. There’s nothing for it, I shall simply have to ride on Roach while I recover, though I warn you this illness is nigh incurable–”

“He seems fine,” Yennefer observes, speaking over Jaskier.

Geralt only shakes his head. He lets go of Jaskier, who crumples to the floor with a surprised cry, to shrug his pack off his shoulder and root around in its depths. After a moment, he pulls out something clutched delicately in a loose fist, and when Yennefer reaches out for it, he unfurls his fingers to drop a single dandelion into her palm. 

Jaskier has picked himself up off the floor by now. He brushes himself off with exaggerated gestures. He is conspicuously silent.

“He’s been coughing those up for at least a week. Maybe longer,” Geralt explains. “He won’t tell me when it began.”

Yennefer examines the bedraggled flower. Half of its yellow petals are missing, and the brown center is coarse to the touch. “He’s been coughing full blossoms for the past week?”

“He is right here, and he’s telling you, he’s fine,” Jaskier insists again. He is summarily ignored.

“Yes,” Geralt says to Yennefer. “Is it a curse?”

Yennefer huffs a laugh and rolls the flower between her fingers, watching as a few more petals detach from its center and float to the ground. “Some might call it that.” She turns her gaze to Jaskier, and Geralt does the same. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, a plea writ large upon his face. When he catches Yennefer looking, he shakes his head slightly. Whatever he is asking doesn’t seem to deter her, though, because she smirks and says, “Your bard’s in love. Rather desperately so, if the state of this blossom is any indication.”

“Fuck,” says Jaskier. 

“Love?” says Geralt.

“There is no cure,” says Yennefer. “At least, there is none that I can offer. The flowers feed on unrequited feelings; whoever he loves must return his feelings in order to starve the flowers of their fuel, and no potion in the world can force someone to love another. Now, I can offer a palliative measure--”

“No,” Jaskier says quickly, all humor gone from his voice. “I know the treatment of which you speak, and I don’t want it. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Geralt rounds on him. “You’re no healer,” he points out. “If there is a treatment, take it! Even a temporary reprieve may give you time to seek another cure.”

But Jaskier only shakes his head. “It isn’t that easy,” he says, and he sounds weary to the bone, stripped of all the pretenses he dons like a second doublet. “All magic comes with a price. Isn’t that right, witch?”

Yennefer nods. “The treatment temporarily removes the flowers by utterly eradicating the victim’s affections,” she explains to Geralt. “With nothing to root in, the flowers will wither. But the flowers are not uprooted entirely, and if he were to fall in love again, they would return, this time doubled in quantity. At that point, the only outcomes are true cure or death.”

“I would have to be a fool to willfully hasten my own death,” says Jaskier. Silence reigns for a long moment. Then Jaskier brightens, albeit with visible effort. “Do you both have cotton stuffed in your ears? As I’ve been saying all this time, this affliction is temporary, and this little detour was a complete waste of time. Come along, Geralt, you’ve got monsters to kill, and I, ballads to compose.” So saying, he heads for the door, leaving Geralt and Yennefer standing alone in the foyer of the abandoned cottage she has claimed for herself. 

“He will die without the treatment, unless he is able to eradicate his feelings himself,” Yennefer says as Geralt shoulders his pack once more. She holds the flower out to him, but he shakes his head in silent refusal, and she crushes it instead, releasing a shower of brown and golden dust. Geralt can just make out patches of faint yellow smeared upon her fingertips. “The disease starts with petals and progresses to full-stemmed flowers. For him to have been coughing blossoms for a week already… It would be kinder to put him out of his misery than let him suffer through the rest.”

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement. With a final nod of thanks, he turns to follow after Jaskier.

“Men and their pride,” he hears Yennefer sigh just before the door closes.

--

Jaskier refuses to stay with Yennefer, going so far as to threaten to steal away on Roach in the middle of the night if Geralt tries to keep him here against his will. 

“You could try,” Geralt says in a low tone. Nonetheless, he sets a course for the nearest town. It is a detour from the border they had originally been pushing toward, but Geralt would prefer to have a healer close at hand in case Jaskier’s condition deteriorates further.

If Jaskier notices Geralt nudging Roach further to the west, he says nothing of it. Instead, he keeps up a constant stream of chatter, pausing only to retch dandelions into the tallgrass every so often. They set up camp once the sun has sunk beneath the horizon, leaving in its wake a painted sky and a noticeable chill. As Jaskier works on setting a pile of kindling aflame, Geralt leaves to hunt down dinner; when he returns, wild fowl in hand, he catches Jaskier trying unsuccessfully to hide the growing pile of dandelion blossoms tucked in against his lute case. 

“Who’s the unlucky woman?” Geralt asks, stepping into the firelight.

Jaskier starts, dandelions spilling from his hands. He hastily brushes them away. “Gods, Geralt, must you always sneak up on me? This is why you have an image problem, you know. Don’t get me wrong, the whole tall, dark, and murderous vibe is fantastic -- really brings out the color of your eyes -- but the skulking tips you firmly into the realm of, well, somewhat unhinged.”

Geralt only glares at Jaskier, waiting for him to tire himself out, and sets about roasting the fowl.

“Anyway, killing my beloved won’t cure me,” Jaskier continues blithely, “so don’t even think about it. Not all problems can be solved by whacking away at them with those oversized butter knives you carry around.” He settles cross-legged next to the fire with his lute balanced across his knees and strums a few chords.

“Then how?”

Jaskier shrugs, picks out a quick flurry of staccato notes. It is not a melody Geralt has heard Jaskier play before, and with a flash of surprise, Geralt realizes Jaskier is nervous, is using the lute as a shield, seeking a familiar comfort in the midst of an uncomfortable conversation. “The same as any disease: by letting it run its course.”

“You mean to let it kill you.”

“Would you miss me?” Jaskier asks, and he sounds genuinely curious, as though he has no idea how Geralt might answer. “Would you think of me, from time to time? When you have to bathe yourself and can’t quite reach all the parts that ache, you’ll regret showing no thanks when I was there to handle such unpleasantries for you.” Jaskier clicks his tongue. “I can’t bear the thought of you downtrodden with guilt, wishing you had shown me proper appreciation while I was alive. For the sake of sparing you such a depressing fate, I shall fall upon the sword and graciously allow you to shower me with compliments. Go on, Geralt, do your worst.”

“How can you be so nonchalant about your impending death?” Geralt snarls.

Jaskier scoffs. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Geralt, you have, on multiple occasions, willingly waded into the cavernous maw of a selkiemore. You have lost all right to comment on the nonchalance with which I may or may not approach my impending death.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably. It’s different for him. Every bone in his body, every ounce of blood that flows through his veins, has been intentionally tailored to keep him alive even in the face of certain death. Jaskier, on the other hand, is indescribably fragile. Geralt could break him without expending any conscious thought. Quite a few things could break Jaskier without expending any conscious thought. Including, apparently, Jaskier himself. 

“Besides, this whole conversation is pointless, seeing as I won’t die of this,” Jaskier adds. “Feelings are ephemeral, as you well know, Witcher. These, too, will fade, and the garden in my lungs with them.”

“Then take the treatment. If you mean to cast off your feelings regardless, quicken the process and spare yourself this pain. This uncertainty.”

Jaskier smiles and strums another series of chords. Something about the notes infuses the air with a melancholy that lingers even after the song fades. “A fool’s errand. Have you ever been in love, Geralt?” He doesn’t wait for Geralt to answer. “You would find as many descriptions of love as creatures that have walked this soil. For a cuckolded husband, love is an empty promise, a harbinger of heartache; for the devilishly handsome man climbing out the window, love is sweeter than wine and indescribably more potent. And yet there is one overarching constant, and that is that love burrows into your soul. It builds itself a little house and plants its roots into your heart, until it is so intricately braided into the core of your being that to rip it out would be almost more painful than letting it tear you to shreds in the first place.” He looks up at Geralt, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. His fingers dance absently across the strings of his lute, repeating certain sequences once, twice, before tripping into another partial melody. “I would simply be trading one pain for another, don’t you see? It’s as much a part of me as all the rest. And what good is a life without the things that make it worth living?”

Geralt watches him in silence. In Geralt’s experience, the things that make life worth living only carry meaning if one is alive to enjoy them. “No love is worth dying for,” he says finally. 

With a loud gasp, Jaskier clutches his lute to his chest and shoots a scandalized look at Geralt. “He doesn’t mean it, darling,” he croons to the instrument. His eyes flutter shut as he presses his cheek to its neck. “You are worth the world to me. I would face a coven of succubi without fear to keep you free of harm.”

Geralt studies Jaskier: the tension stiffening his shoulders, the way his lips are pursed as though to suppress a cough. After a moment, Geralt decides to allow Jaskier the out. “And where would you find a coven of succubi interested in enticing you?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re a horrible friend, Geralt,” Jaskier comments, but there is no heat in his voice, and his shoulders loosen fractionally. He turns away to litter the ground with more dandelions, and Geralt has an unsettling feeling that he has only acquired more questions in his quest for answers. 

--

Jaskier wakes up with a rasp in his voice and dandelions clustered on either side of his bedroll, evidence of a fitful sleep interrupted by his need to periodically clear his airways of detritus. The yellow blossoms are interspersed with flecks of green from leaves and budding stems that have joined the mix. Geralt frowns at the sight. Despite Jaskier’s protestations, it is clear his disease is worsening. The realization sits uncomfortably in Geralt’s stomach, like days-old meat or sour milk.

They break down camp in companionable silence, with Jaskier pretending his sleeplessness was due to the rough ground and humid air and Geralt pretending he doesn’t see the flecks of blood painting the ground near Jaskier’s lute. Despite the obvious pain Jaskier is in, he acts as though nothing is amiss, and he spends most of the day working on a ballad to commemorate Geralt’s recent victory over a pack of drowners. 

It is easy to let Jaskier’s voice fade into the background as Geralt mulls over what little he has gleaned in the past 24 hours. Desperately in love, Yennefer had said, and yet Jaskier has given no indication of having fallen in love at any point in the past few months; he has not slipped away to engage in any clandestine trysts, nor has he bemoaned the abrupt and dramatic departure of a paramour. He has prattled about fair-haired maidens here and there, but never for long. Certainly never to the extent of suggesting someone had built a home in his soul.

Nonetheless, some such suitor must exist. If the flowers were not evidence enough, Jaskier had all but admitted it when he’d cautioned Geralt -- rather unnecessarily, in Geralt’s opinion -- against violence the night before. 

That must mean, then, that Jaskier is willfully keeping the identity of his beloved secret from Geralt.

The irritation churning in Geralt’s belly grows. Of course Jaskier owes Geralt nothing, not company nor gratitude nor his heart bared upon his sleeve, and it is his right to keep whatever secrets he wishes. But Jaskier has never been one for discretion, has in fact made a point of oversharing and bestowing upon Geralt knowledge he had never asked for, and Geralt doesn’t know how to respond to being locked out by the bard now.

Anger coils tight in Geralt’s chest, leaves the taste of wood ash ground into the backs of his teeth. Would Jaskier have ever told Geralt that he had fallen for someone if Geralt had not seen the flowers tumbling from his lips? Would he have waited until his throat was bloody from the violence of his coughing, until he was gasping for breath between bouquets of dandelions? Or would he have left Geralt to wake up only to find Jaskier cold to the touch, lute cradled delicately in his arms, chest still, a spray of dandelions peeking between his lips-- 

“Oren for your thoughts?” Jaskier says, breaking Geralt out of his reverie. “You’ve been quiet today, Geralt. Quieter than normal. Don’t tell me my melodic stylings have finally wooed you! I appreciate you coming to your senses, of course, but perhaps you could delay that epiphany by a day or two? This unfinished mess of a song is hardly a shining exemplar of my talents. It would be the height of embarrassment to have rendered you speechless with this.”

Maybe Geralt still feels a little wrong-footed by realizing Jaskier is a better actor than Geralt had thought, or maybe it is simply the nature of things that churn in the belly to come rushing back through the mouth, but Geralt blurts out, before he’s quite figured out the rest of what he wants to say, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Tell you what, exactly?” Jaskier asks slowly, sounding lost. “That the ballad is unfinished? I wouldn’t have thought you needed that made explicit, considering your two very functional ears and all.”

Geralt grunts impatiently. “Your disease,” he says. “You knew what it was from the start. Why did you hide it?”

That hunted expression is back, thinning Jaskier’s lips and hunching his shoulders and sending his gaze skittering sideways. “Because there was nothing to tell,” Jaskier hedges. “I’m simply a fool who has given my heart to another, and now I’m on a quest to retrieve it. It’s not really a team activity, is it?” His lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile.

A shadow passes over his face then, and he holds up a finger, says, “Give me one moment, please,” and disappears into the underbrush just as wretched coughs begin to wrack his body. 

Geralt nudges Roach to a stop and waits. Jaskier emerges some minutes later, breath ragged, a yellow floret clinging to his bottom lip. “What was I saying?” he asks.

Geralt’s eyes are drawn instantly to the splash of yellow, such a stark contrast against the pink of Jaskier’s lips, the piercing blue of Jaskier’s eyes. He is no closer to knowing who has planted dandelions in Jaskier’s lungs, nor why Jaskier is running away from them instead of into their arms, nor what Geralt has done to lose Jaskier’s trust and confidence so thoroughly. But it is becoming glaringly evident that Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about this, least of all with Geralt, and Geralt refuses to push him on the only boundary he has ever set for the sake of slaking Geralt’s own selfish curiosity.

“Hmm,” he says after a moment, instead of what if you’re wrong, instead of what if you fail, and he pushes Roach forward so he won’t have to see Jaskier spitting blood into his handkerchief. 

--

Moonlight illuminates the planes of Jaskier’s face, highlights the bridge of his nose and the expanse of his forehead peeking out from beneath messy night-blackened locks. The fire has died down to a pile of glowing embers littered with the bones of their dinner, and in the distance, Geralt can hear a coyote calling. Geralt can hear a great many things, actually, even without having consumed the appropriate potion: the rhythmic chirping of crickets permeating every inch of the night, the whisper of wind rushing through the foliage, the way Jaskier’s breath rattles in his chest.

He traces Jaskier’s recumbent figure with his eyes and wonders how long Jaskier will be able to sleep tonight before the need to breathe wrenches him awake. Nearly every blossom passing through his lips now is anchored to a stem, though the stems extend only a few centimeters before tapering to jagged ends sticky with sap. Even without knowing when Jaskier first started coughing up dandelion petals, Geralt can see that Jaskier doesn’t have much time left, but the nearest town is still a day’s ride away, and a longer journey by foot.

Getting Jaskier to a healer quickly won’t matter, though, if Jaskier refuses the treatment anyway. Jaskier seems hellbent on throwing his life away, and for what? The thrill of butterflies in his stomach? Some poetic notion of embodying the same grandeur he romanticizes in his songs? 

Respect may not make history, but dead bards tell no tales. Or something like that. Geralt has never been good with words, not like Jaskier. 

That’s why Jaskier was the one to finally rehabilitate Geralt’s reputation, after all, and that, too, with only a single song. Geralt has no doubt he would have spent his whole life trying unsuccessfully to outrun the shadow Blaviken had cast upon him had Jaskier not chanced upon him in Posada. It is Jaskier who can sway whole courts in his favor while Geralt stands aside and watches, Jaskier whose coin pays for rooms in inns and bath salts and new clothes. Jaskier is the one with the ability to grasp at straws and spin golden tales from them. 

It is not a talent Geralt has ever wanted -- silence is a powerful weapon in its own right -- but it is one he has come to appreciate. He cannot deny it is easier to rend a wyvern in half when he has the prospect of a warm bath to look forward to, and Jaskier’s gentle hands washing the grime from his hair besides. It is easier to stomach three nights of tasteless wild game when he knows Jaskier’s songs will earn them flagons of mulled ale at the next tavern. It is easier to shrug away the insults still occasionally hurled his way, the fear and disgust that so often paint the faces of the very people who hire him, when he has only to look to Jaskier to find admiration and fascination and laughter and--

“Ah,” says Geralt, realizing quite suddenly that there is a warmth in his chest, as though someone has snuck into his heart and built a home there, a crooked little thing with a furnace that heats him through to his core. Somewhere along the way, Jaskier has woven himself indelibly into the tapestry of Geralt’s life, and the thought of untangling their threads no longer fills Geralt with the relief it once did. 

And then-- “Fuck,” says Geralt, remembering that Jaskier is desperately in love with someone who isn’t Geralt, so deeply that he is willing to die for them. Come morning, they will both be coughing up flowers, side by side. And isn’t that disgustingly poetic, to offer a garden to someone who already has one growing in his lungs? The both of them hurt, both of them hurting, wanting and unwanted, together and yet both so utterly alone. 

The story of Geralt’s life: It’s like something out of one of Jaskier’s ballads.

--

Geralt awakens to Jaskier’s face blocking his field of vision. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. It is a rare sight, as Jaskier has never been one to relinquish the comfort of a lazy morning without incentive, and Geralt immediately fears the worst. His gaze flies to Jaskier’s bedroll, where he prays he won’t yet see the long stems that signify the final stages of the disease. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t. 

In fact, he doesn’t see any flowers at all, only a handful of loose yellow florets scattered upon the ground, occasionally being shuffled about by the light morning breeze. 

“If you change your mind,” Jaskier says shakily, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him, “I’ll kill you. Not only for breaking my heart twice over, but for sentencing me to death by dandelion, of all the blasted flowers on the Continent. Do you know how few things rhyme with dandelion? I couldn’t have had roses or lilies or sage growing in my lungs, just waiting to be immortalized in song?”

“If I change my mind, I’ll give you the sword myself,” Geralt tells Jaskier, and drags him into a kiss that tastes of dandelion and desperation and something worth dying for. 

[davidjjohnston3]

The trees are straight and true here, and the help comes without seeming harpoons.  I considered some insane things which were ‘above my pay-grade’ and as is my wont reflected on the state and implications of my former profession and what old friends and pharons meant to me.  Right now think that my core goal in life is not to blow myself up.  As a former would-have-been SecState said, ‘I love so many people.’  I am only sad that trying as I did to uproot that carrot of love just now could have resulted in the demolition of an entire root-network, of at least my own excision therefrom.

‘Some people’ want revenge against life for not going their way or not being the color or fragrance or face shape they like or feel it ought to be - ‘no that is not what I meant at all.’  They will never hold a life reliable which doesn’t resemble their ideal, imago, or ‘soul-idol’ &c.  The meaning of the name ‘Cordelia’ as in King Lear is something like ‘heart’s ideal.’  I was driving and considering a novel that I feel touched absolute supreme greatness without knowing it or in a way that could mislead some readers Mrs. Mary HK Choi’s Yolk a novel I looked forward for a very long time.  I had all these references and fractal coreferences and forgot about actual birds, like what does the chick eat in the egg.

‘Blood is the life’ - I liked etymologies for a long time and my intellectualism caused me acute trouble in Confirmation Class at Morrow Memorial United Methodist Church in about 1998.  ‘Pastor’ Gretchen taught us the word root ‘consacramentum’ which comes from dipping the hand in blood in the concave of a Roman shield - those huge rectangular shields which could be used in formation as ‘testudo’ or turtle to stop projectile weapons and allowed soldiers to make pin-point stabbing attacks from a ‘matrix(?)’ of high protection.  I forget what kind of animal was killed to pool the blood in the shield but it might have been a rabbit.

I was reading ‘Revelation,’ I don’t recall what everyone else was talking about.  Some kind of community service project, interview your parents, buy a wedding-magazine and make a whole plan for how you would get married and how much it would cost (and while you’re at it describe how you would 1) restore a classic Shelby Cobra using newspaper and Krazy Glue 2) drive foresaid drop-top to the Moon).  

The Pastor was a pipe-smoker named ‘Painter’ who used the NY Lotto’s ‘Hey you never know’ slogan to describe sth like Pascal’s Wager; OTOH St. Paul teaches us that everyone is born knowing God exists (Romans).  The problem is that people fail or omit to glorify Him or subsequently ruin or betray their own best efforts through blasphemy, turning or falling away, cowardice, denial, attachment to certain sins or being ‘yoked unequally’ with non-believers.  

I reflected starting in 2008 that I was shy of my ‘first love’ (rather, the woman I fell in love with at 14); at the time I gloried or reveled in the shyness like a Wallace Stevens poem that ends, ‘And not to have written a book.’  I could’ve written a few books by now or walked away from book-writing or changed my mind / specified which kind of book I might have written and for whom.  

I remember always admiring the ‘magic’ of literature and feeling sad I had no characters or world of my own to work magic with.  Star Wars and my own life and later much else supplied ‘materia poetica’ and till the point that I began to think in fiction and became addicted to interpreting my own in ‘story-ideas’ although that is not to say that what happened around me didn’t happen.  

America is trying to become a better country in numerous valences, loving our neighbors, holding each other accountable.  ‘Justice’ with or without the marks is important.  It is a divine Judgment that Covid fell on the world even if eventually we all shall learn who devised the virus or leaked it or modulated its mutations.  I was eager to rejoin the world feeling I might overcome my mental illness but I mishandled specific questions and tests.  I ended up turning people against me and creating monsters more than ever as well as perhaps terminally sabotaging any chance I might’ve had of fulfilling a dream or making good on the past.  I have a lot of opinions on the CCP but should’ve focused on love and family and personal responsibilities as in the past or at least held to my long-standing feeling that Chinese people deserve better rather than associating myself with hard-liners and racists or those who would simplify issues in order to bring about ultimate victory without temperance or concern for the side-effects.

In Milwaukee where I lived for far too long everyone’s spirit - electric, intellectual, visory(?), informational et cetera seemed to be militating against everybody else’s.  There were fake vaccines, radioactive ice cream (or thermogenic ice-cream), gun-battles as usual, lines crossed, all kinds of scores that people tried to settle.  I also realized that the police were probably tracking for years my various attempts to obtain weapons from samurai-swords to handguns though the purpose was defensive and I can only trust at this point that some good lawyer will prevent the bad lawyers and cops from presenting the most damning circumstantial case they could.  People in Milwaukee own AK-47′s, automatic shotguns, probably all kinds of explosives, improvised chemical weapons and (’our Black brothers’ - Schopenhauer) biological weapons - the cops don’t stand a chance that I can tell and even the National Guard perhaps could get outclassed by retired military.  I had told myself for years that it was only the ghetto’s that bore witness to this paramilitary equipage and that the retired SEAL Team 4 member with the ‘Stop Socialism’ and ‘Jobs Not Mobs’ sign on his front lawn would protect me from the Maoist-Covid Night of the Long Knives but I feel I tempted God a lot in the past.  

I read all these books and took to heart that people thought I was just entertaining myself with but now as then I should’ve guarded my heart or not begged the question of what others thought about me or saw in me.  I literally felt of late ‘I am the anti-Christ’ - good-looking at times, preach world peace, ‘form of godliness,’ want to be friends with everyone, build bridges - and had to rack my brains to come up with an ‘anti-Christology’ and science / concept of the Whore of Babylon just to make sure it was more than me alone.  I also wished to simplify my past and help kids ‘get life right the right time’ doing battle with philosophies that opposed this consciously or otherwise but stepped into numerous minefields and also tried running when I should’ve flown over.  

Everyone’s trying to get rich and build back better and I profoundly admired the American President for doing, finally, apparently, what presidents had tried to decades even as I remember ‘Flowers 1881′ a poem that implies that basically teachers can do only so much before turning their kids loose in a world no one has yet fixed and which others keep breaking; from a California almanac that also instructed me that the same old debates and cross-fires and burdens plague teachers as always, not that it is an ‘impossible profession’ but honestly that God won’t let us establish Heaven on Earth or at least not me or at least not America or at least not teachers who savor the experience of being a teacher or the beauty of their students more than the outcomes or commitment or intrinsic value of the work or the confirmed identity / vocation / personhood of the instructor.  There are always new and old at any rate and different cultures all describe the teacher as needing to keep both alive; as do descriptions of higher education and scholarship.  

I questioned my qualifications / background and wondered about re-training but can’t afford tuition anywhere so I am trying to cling to the core of my capabilities / blessings.  ABC and XYZ.  The glory of the soul or souls.  

I kept theorizing Russian literature as well as weapons-systems and ultimate destiny, sailing ships, noble names, divisions, the flaming sword of Archangel Gabriel, the mission of Russia today with respect to the world order.  I am also simply trying to be healthy and stop for a while trying to parse out who was the love of my life or what it still left in terms of action or redemption or justice or surrender or mitigation or meeting new friends or propounding the kind of understand with carefulness I have believed in - ‘saving people from themselves.’  Driving up here I remember being distressed at a gas-station in California when I was about 5 or 6 since the pump was leaking, being very upset with my parents and family.  In those days I also disliked animal-cruelty though the world today seems so depraved and deprived with respect to human interests I would make no bones about neglecting most all animals outside of military or police use.  When I was about 3 I saw white kids set a frog on fire; my mother has a history of running over cats.

I dislike winging it and taking risks.  There is a song I call to myself ‘Run Away’ though its title is ‘Paradise.’  I am not a utopian communist for believing in secular justice and its instrinsic value... I wonder whether when I helped people in the past there were always strings attached or maybe I was just trying to close my case and discharge my responsibilities too rapidly without allowing others to gestate or make an abode in my heart besides and beyond what I could get out of them, glorifying myself, or tell others about.  

What is motherhood?  What is travail?  Is there a kind of problematic ‘female gaze’ as feminists talk of a ‘male gaze’ associated with sadism or fascination / fetishism?  It’s psychology which is not my first love at all since it appeared pretentious and distracting and retarding (in the literal sense of slowing down).

I also remembered reading various things about Victor Hugo whose ‘93′ is an important novel today due to its techno-utopianism, feminism or ‘new model egalitarianism,’ fusion of revolution and religion, etc.  But I had forgotten ‘Les Miserable’ with its themes of ransom or eventual recompense, genealogies, caution, and more none of which is to negate the various complains against me or death-warrant from China or my parents with their partial private readings of Proverbs (’Let’s stone David for embarrassing us / not doing precisely what we want’ - no mention of witnesses, tribunals, questions, mitigation-hearings, actual counsels of judges etc. but just American-German ‘coalitions of the willing’ ‘run and get my gun’ ‘team-building’ etc. which in my experience ends with tanks on the street and military dictatorships as when at the end of the CultRev PLA regulars were gunning down former justice-fanatics who’d been stripping women, kicking pregnant stomachs etc. as in The Vagrants).  Naturally having grown up in a family fascinated with Lee Kwanyew and Arnold Schwarzenegger and conflicted about ‘fascism’ I had reservations about the United States’ ability to suddenly dress up and ‘stand at perpetual moral attention’ but I guess my own problems are just that I am poor with a rich kid’s mind and no one really likes me except strangers and faraway friends who were easily spooked and/or just couldn’t be there.  ‘King of South shall attack and King of North shall crush them  with chariots &c.’ - in the end righteous will prevail whichever side of the line I end up on in the final assessment.  I also remembered today a novel called ‘The Old Capital’ about a bad artist father, a virgin daughter, straight and true pines.  Some other aspects of this novel are silly as well as criminally problematic and there's a lot of that going on in new-old old news America / Babylon or at least to quote my favorite lawyer / leave lawyering movie 'First let's get out of Milwaukee.'  Miss the land of June snow. 

[captain-azoren]

The Spirit Forged: A New Breed

Since I’m going to be kind of busy for the foreseeable future, I don’t know how much time I’ll have to actually write fanfiction. So for now, I’m going to post outlines for the stories I do have in mind.

This right here is a prequel story to my current Spirit Forged fic, detailing how my OC Raiga came to be. If you have the time, read it and leave me a comment. I might actually write it out in full.

-------

·         The story opens with a group of loggers in a forest at night; the trees are massive as they walk between them lit by lanterns. Deer-ox haul something massive on a cart, hidden by a tarp.

o   All the men are nervous as they hear a growl in the darkness. They scream as a large animal pounces on one. The carriage bolts as the rest of the men, wielding spears and earthbending, fight the creature, but are nearly defenseless in the dark.

o   The last man standing runs in terror as the creature watches him flee, eyes glowing sapphire in the dark.

·         Aang and Katara visit the Eastern EK for a vacation, one of the few places they had left to see.

o   They are there to see the Immortal Forest, one of the oldest and nearly unchanged wilderness areas in the world.

o   Toph is busy with the metal bending academy.

o   Zuko is busy being Fire Lord, with the Kyoshi Warriors still acting as body guards.

o   Sokka is spending time with Suki for his vacation.

·         Aang and Katara overhear a logger arguing with a businessman over how dangerous the forest is. The logger quits and the businessman, Shung, yells back that he’s replaceable like everyone else.

·         Aang and Katara learn about mysterious attacks happening in the forests outside a developing city and decide to investigate.

o   The attacks have either been on lumberjacks or on travelers who strayed too far from the main paths into the forests.

·         Some people claim it’s a spirit, others claim it to be bandits, some dismiss it as wild predators.

·         They go investigate and meet the Zhang tribe in the forest.

·         The Zhang claim it isn’t them behind the attacks, but there have been territory disputes between them and the city folk over a specific spot in the forest.

·         The Immortal Forest is rich with giant trees extremely suitable for lumber, but it is considered sacred. The Zhang believe only they are allowed in there, as this is their homeland. Anyone else who enters will be hunted down by Bao Hu Shou, the King of Beasts, unless they are brought in by a member of the tribe.

o   Bao Hu Shou is a lion-tiger spirit, one of the oldest and strongest, only surpassed by the likes of Raava and Vaatu.

o   Bao Hu Shou was the guardian deity of the Zhang in ancient times. It was said he protected the tribe from other spirits in the era before the Avatar and before bending.

o   Some legends say that Bao Hu Shou would grant his power to a worthy champion, called a Spirit Forged, who would aid in protecting the people and the lands from threats.

·         The Zhang debate allowing the Avatar into the forest.

o   One of the Zhang objects, a burly man in his mid-20s named Grola, but another one, Raiga, argues to let the Avatar help clear their names.

o   Raiga has light brown hair styled into a mohawk, hazel eyes, dresses in brown hog monkey skins and wields twin daggers. He also carries gear for climbing trees. He is in his late teens and has many scars.

o   Grola shouts at and belittles Raiga, but the Zhang elder agrees with Raiga.

o   They perform a ritual to bless them.

·         Raiga eagerly volunteers to be their guide. He is scrappy and hotheaded, but means well.

·         They journey with Raiga through the forest and learn a bit about him.

o   Raiga’s father was an outsider, possibly a Water Tribe warrior who left the South Pole to fight the Fire Nation, and his mother was a sickly member of the Zhang. For most of his childhood he was scrawny and weak, called a runt by the others, but he has persisted and grew into a nimble scout and hunter.

o   Raiga was there at the Great Divide, but none of the gang remember him.

o   He has so many scars because he keeps throwing himself into danger, even though he’s not a great warrior. He is a good climber and decent hunter though.

o   Raiga proves to be somewhat annoying and overbearing, trying way too hard to become friends with Aang and Katara, though he seems to mean well. This makes it very hard for Aang and Katara to have any alone time.

·         As night begins to fall, the group has an encounter with Bao Hu Shou. It knows they mean no harm, but tells them to leave anyway. It does not want any more humans in the forest.

o   Bao Hu recognizes Aang as the Avatar, and voices its disappointment; this is not the first time an Avatar has come to intervene. Humans have tried to exploit the forest for centuries, and Bao Hu has fought them off. Avatars in the past promised to keep humans out, but sooner or later humans would break the promise.

o   Bao Hu takes note of Raiga, who shows the spirit the utmost respect. Bao Hu allows them to pass through the forest for this.

o   Bao Hu is very old, and time has taken its toll on him. The shrinking of the forest and the loss of followers has caused him to lose much of his strength and power. Aang pleads to let him handle things, but Bao Hu ignores him and departs with one last warning to not linger too long.

·         The group sets up camp for the night. In the middle of their sleep, they are ambushed by bandits. There is a fight and Raiga discovers the bandits are other Zhang tribe members, the ones who bullied him and are led by Grola. They have abandoned their traditions in order to turn a profit;

o   The Zhang bandits have made a deal with Shung to act as guides and security through the sacred forest so that they can brings heavy logging machinery in and chop down the trees for lumber.

o   One logging machine is a large mecha tank on treads with a massive chainsaw.

o   They offer Raiga a chance to join in on their scheme, but he refuses and fights back, but to no avail.

o   Grola pushes Raiga down the side of a cliff, providing a distraction as they flee from Aang and Katara who go searching for him.

·         Raiga is fatally injured from the fall, but is found by Bao Hu Shou. Impressed by his audacity and determination, Bao Hu Shou offers to save Raiga’s life by merging with him.

o   Bao Hu knows that he has little time left on earth as the forests continue to shrink, but by merging, they can save both their lives and have the power to take back the forests.

o   With little else to lose, Raiga agrees, and Bao Hu Shou merges with Raiga, transforming him into a beast man with claws and fangs and a tail. Raiga’s body is healed, most of his scars vanishing, and he soon finds he’s been gifted with incredible strength, agility, and heightened senses.

·         As Aang and Katara search for Raiga, they stumble upon the logging camp. They try to confront the loggers, but a fight ensues.

o   The Zhang fight like Jet, able to nimbly navigate the trees to fight. Others use logging machines to fight, like chains and saws and axes. Some are Earthbenders, who use their bending to uproot the stumps left behind.

o   The trees hamper Aang and Katara’s ability to fight back; they don’t want to destroy any trees, but the trees get in the way of their bending.

o   Katara has little water to work with, the roots prevent any major earthbending without knocking the trees over. Firebending is out of the question, as it could easily start a forest fire. Aang’s airbending skills are effective, but they’re outnumbered and they can do little to stop the logging mech, which is piloted by Shung.

o   Eventually, both Aang and Katara are bound by chains and rope. Aang laments not learning metalbending, and he wonders if he needs to go into the Avatar state.

·         The tide of battle turns when Raiga appears in his new form, to the shock of everyone.

o   Raiga begins to tear apart the loggers and the Zhang bandits, easily able to catch the ones in the trees and take them out one by one.

o   He breaks the chains holding Aang and Katara with sheer brute strength.

o   The last opponent standing is the logging mech. It tries to grapple Raiga with its claw arm, but Raiga is able to overpower it.

o   Raiga rips the mech to pieces, but leaves the trembling businessman when he sets his sights on Grola who tries to get away.

·         High off the adrenaline and his new power, Raiga mercilessly attacks Grola, mauling him out of anger and vengeance for all the years of bullying he suffered.

·         Aang and Katara are able to pull Raiga away before he can kill the leader, but Raiga has gone berserk, the spirit of Bao Hu Shou beginning to overwhelm his mind.

·         Aang tries to calm Raiga down, but Raiga realizes what a monster he’s become and runs off into the forest, his roars echoing through the trees.

·         Aang and Katara clean up what’s left of the camp, and Aang declares that the sacred forest is completely off limits to all except the Zhang tribe, who promise to more vigilantly protect it.

·         The tribe asks about Raiga, and Aang explains what happened with him and Bao Hu Shou. They say that Raiga has become Spirit Forged, but at a price; he has lost a piece of his humanity.

·         Aang decides to try and find a technique to calm spirits. He will look to the past Avatars and learn of the toll Kuruk suffered from fighting spirits directly.

·         We see Raiga standing on top of a cliff looking at the stars. He lets out a roar before vanishing into the night. This is not the last they’ve seen of him.

-------

There you have it. I did consider having Sokka in this, but then I thought the fewer characters to juggle the better.

I might consider having more stories with Raiga set during Aang’s time as the Avatar. He’s basically immortal so he can show up at any time. Something eventually happens to him to make him go into the feral state he’s in by Korra’s time.

[mommymooze]

Group Wolf?

Felix is assigned a battalion

warning: foul language, fighting, war stuff, disgruntled swordsman

“No.”

Felix stands, adamant as an impenetrable fortress. He is a lone wolf. He works alone. He is not a babysitter.

The Professor is not one to be refused. They argue for quite some time. Felix refuses to back down. He fights tooth and nail, cursing and gnashing his teeth. At the moment he suddenly finds himself heading to the training grounds to meet his new Battalion leader.

He opens the door to find a corpulent figure dressed in leather and ringed armor loosely fastened over a green sleeveless tunic, heavy belt with a sword hanging to the left, black shorts and worn knee high leather boots standing back to the door, putting the last bits together of a training dummy. The figure stands about five and a half foot tall and looks to be 4’ wide at the shoulders, owing to arms and legs as thick as logs, dark hair everywhere. A long dark brown ponytail swishes left and right at the back of her head like a horse tail chasing flies. Tanned skin marked with scars far and wide having spent too much time outdoors and in battle shows beads of sweat associated with hard work.  Byleth calls out and the figure turns ‘round. “Kat! This is Felix.”

Kat drops the hammer and throws her right mitt up, grabbing the Professor’s tiny and delicate right hand in a merc’s handshake while slapping the much smaller woman on her right shoulder, knocking her a bit off balance. “Lassie! It’s good ta see ya!” the matronly figure laughs.

Felix’s face looks like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. This is a woman? The crone looks older than Manuela, probably close to 40 and has more facial hair than all the male students added together. Her cheeks have a dusting of thin dark hairs, she definitely has a mustache and a very thin beard on her neck. Her muscles put Raphael to shame.

Kat sets her eyes on the young male student. “Felix, eh? We’re goin’ to teach ya how to cooperate. How to work a team.“ She scowls at him, in return he gives the woman a disgusted look.

“Heard yer a lone wolf. Sometimes that works for a man, but yer gonna need ta figure out how ta play well with others. That’s where I come in.” She smirks, dark eyes piercing him like swords. “We’re gonna be joined at the hip for a while lad, so get used ta seeing my smiling face.“ She grins widely, offering her hand to the disgruntled swordsman for shaking. When he makes no effort to move, she grabs his right with her left and forces his hand to meet hers, shaking the hand and the rest of him heartily.  Felix jerks his limb down, bringing his hand to a fist at his side while mumbling “disgusting” under his breath.

Kat looks at Byleth who is rolling her eyes. The small mountain of a woman smiles widely and gives a little wink. “Go on now with ya, we’re gonna introduce ourselves right properly here.”

Byleth snickers, leaving the training grounds. Kat follows her to the door, bars it from the inside, and turns back to the young noble. “Let’s see how well ya kin fight.”  Marching to the stand of wooden training swords, she tosses one at Felix. His jaw is set, arms crossed, as he stands and frowns. Refusing to look her in the eye, he lets the sword bounce off of his chest and clatter to the ground.

---> x <---

Felix fights until he can’t hold a sword. If he doesn’t fight, he gets the crap beat out of him. When he fights, the swords or fists hit him less often. He’s battered, bruised, and can’t think of one spot on his body that doesn’t hurt. Still, she makes him fight. Still, she makes him move. Again. Pick up the sword, strike or be struck. Again. He can’t remember if 4 or 6 hours have passed. Suddenly the constant barrage stops. His eyes glaze over, his breathing is weak. He begins to collapse as she catches him and hefts him onto her shoulder, carrying him to his room like an old rug. She sets him down at the door, and he balances himself, then tries to slide in so he can slam the door in her face. A huge shoulder easily keeps the door blocked open. He grabs fresh clothes and she takes him to the baths. While he undresses, she runs the water and prepares the bath with soaps and oils. He is too tired to move. She finishes stripping him down and gently lowers him into the tub. Sinking in the water, that is the last thing he recalls of that day.

Felix wakens with a shock. He had slept. When was the last time he just slept? He can’t remember. There was not one nightmare.  He hasn’t been that tired in a long time. He then recalls …her. He sits up, too quickly, his head spins, he winces as the pain causes him to fall back on the bed. He sighs heavily. Trying again, he rolls to his side, carefully placing his feet on the floor, sits up, cognizant of Kat’s eyes piercing into him.

“You’re staring. Get dressed, we have a busy day.” She turns around, looks back down at her notepad and jots a few more notes.  She doesn’t look behind her as he makes a flurry of offensive gestures directed at the back of her head.

“You’re rude and stubborn. You’re also a big boy, you can dress yourself eh?”

Felix grunts, getting out of bed, to find everything neat, clean. His boots are polished and ready at the bed, soiled clothes set in the laundry, fresh clothes laid out. He grabs them with an exaggerated motion that painfully reminds him he is still sore from yesterday. He gingerly gets dressed. With every bit of strength he has left, which isn’t much, he storms for the door and heads out. Blasting down the hall, down the stairs, he heads toward the classrooms. A large arm wraps around his shoulders and he’s now heading to the dining hall. If his feet try to take him in the wrong direction, a hand in the back of his shirt lifts him from the ground and points him in the proper direction. Felix smolders angrily.

Brows furrowed, jaw set, the fuming male gets in line with his shadow queueing next. Grabbing a plate of eggs, bread & butter, and cheese, he slumps at a table.  The behemoth sits next to him, placing an apple and a glass of milk next to his plate and a folded vellum with some powder. He raises an eyebrow, staring at the unwelcome additions.

“Yer a growing boy. Drink yer milk. Not an option. The other is to knock the pain down a notch or two.” A nod at his tray, she takes a bite of her eggs, waving at him to eat.

He glares at her. He should leave. Recalling the events of last night, he knows she will hold him down and pour the milk down his throat like she did the healing potions.  He doesn’t need everyone staring at him here. Maybe he is a bit hungry. He eats quickly, starts to get up, hears a grunt, meets her eye and sits back down. When she finishes her meal, they clear the table and head to his first class. She leaves his side once he passes through the doors to the classroom.

“Who is your girlfriend?” Sylvain taunts the indigo haired man. The redhead is rewarded with a swift kick to an ankle that makes him yowl. He did learn a few new spots to inflict quick pain yesterday, may as well put them to use.

Class proceeds uneventfully. He manages to give several evil looks to the professor. At the bell, he knows ‘she’ waits for him at the door. There is only one exit to the room. Damn. He stomps out, she falls in with him as they head to the dining hall again. She leads him toward a table full of mercenaries. She slows to advise him, “These are my boys. You’ll greet ‘em properly. Noble or commoner, courtesy is free and expected.” The table of young men looking to be 16-30 years old boisterously greet the pair. Handshakes and introductions are exchanged, with Kat only having to give Felix one or two nods of encouragement. Plates of food are already there for the two that have just joined. One of the guys approaches Felix and puts a small jar on the table in front of him. “Name’s Roy. Heard ya like spicy foods.  Enjoy.”

Felix’s eyes get a bit wide. “Uh, thanks” he mumbles. He opens the jar, the reddish brown powder smells like some kind of peppers, making his nose tingle. He sprinkles some on his stew. The teen observes the others as he eats.

The conversation around the table settles to a low roar. He wants to be anywhere but here. They are all talking to him. He feels exhausted answering their millions of questions about nonsense, favorite foods, worst foods, did you ever eat this or that, ever been to one place or another, what weapons have you used. Felix gives short answers to every question an elbow in his side inspiring him to comply. He gives a side eye glance at the beastly thing sitting next to him. He can feel her nod whenever he’s said enough to satisfy her. Why the hell does he have to know these people? Don’t you just point, they go, and that’s it? Giving orders, that is what commanding is about. He shakes his head. This is a waste of time.

Lunch is complete. The table is cleared by the battalion. They stand and look at Felix and Kat. She stands, informing the group as to their plans. “We got a bit of a chore before we can let ya go, come on.” The bear of a woman gets up and heads out towards the front gate. The company falls in behind the pair. Heading outside, they walk along the walls surrounding the campus. Following a well-worn path along the exterior walls where patrols monitor the grounds at night, they see a large uprooted tree. When it fell, the roots lifted a large mound of earth and created a hole in the stone wall surrounding the monastery making quite a mess. This breach in defenses needs to be addressed quickly.  

Kat hauls herself up on one of the stones that have fallen from the wall. There must be 15 that fell loose, they are huge. Whole stones are at least 2 foot tall, three foot long and a foot or more thick, laying akimbo on the ground.

Kat directs her words at Felix. “A battalion is an amazing show of what teamwork can do ta get things done. One man, if he’s lucky, kin lift a stone. A team of ‘em can move mountains. You need communication, clear and to the point. Resolving conflicts. Problem solving, decision making, persuasion and influencing skills, rapport, reliability and recognition.  No prob, eh Felix? Since I’m in a good mood, I’m gonna start ya off.”

She addresses the battalion. “We need the stones moved and stacked here.” Kat walks to a spot, shoves a stick in the ground that is about 20 foot from the wall and to the right of the toppled stones.”

“We gotta fill the hole left by the fallen tree. That’ll keep patrols from falling and breaking somethin’ when they’re policing the walls at night. If there’s time, we need to get the fallen tree away from the wall so there’s room to maneuver.”

Felix is hauled up onto the rock as Kat jumps down. “You get to tell us what to do and how to do it.” She folds her arms across her chest and stares straight into his eyes.

The young man stands there dumbfounded. What the hell does all of this have to do with fighting? Why is he even here? He wants to jump down and run. His mouth is getting drier by the second and his fists begin to shake.

A merc with sandy brown hair sticking out of a flat cap tips his head up. “Oy. We’re all here mate. We can help, just ask. We’re a team ya know.”  Nods and grunts of agreement surround him.

“Who has done this before?” Felix hears his voice croak. He calls out to the 2 that answered to give their account of how the job was completed. He starts to catch his breath. He asks the group again, any other suggestions? One of the men suggests keeping people that are really short together and really tall together, makes for better lifting. Felix feels his hands relax, he nods. His glance flits to her. She is bowing her head and nodding.

“Those are great ideas. Useful information. Uh. Anything else?” he coughs.

One man raises a shovel, the end of Felix’s mouth curls up a bit. “What tools do we got here?” A count of shovels and axes is provided as well as a smaller wagon and some ropes in the inventory.

Felix starts dividing them into teams. He gets the best axe users separated from the best with shovels and the best in heavy lifting. He begins sending them out. “Axe users, clear up the area the stones are to go to. Make a clear path. Knock those roots off then start on lower branches.”

Felix stands at the stones. Lifters are in 2 teams of 4, 2 front 2 rear. “You 4, carefully move the top stone, let me know if anything shifts.” They are able to get the stone free from the pile and a couple feet away, but it’s difficult to make any distance. Felix calls a couple axe users over. He  has the front 2 lift, they can get an axe handle under the stone and with 2 more in the center lifting using the ax handle to support the weight in the center of the stone, and allowing those two to stand farther out so they’re not arms and legs all over each other. On the count of 3 they lift, and the small team readily moves the stone to the destinated clearing that is now ready. Felix grins, then catches a look on Kat’s face, she’s mouthing “thank you.”

“Great job men. Well done. Take a minute to breathe, get the next team ready.” Felix awkwardly says. He heads back to begin again. When they’ve cleared the immediate area, the first team is ready to start on the next block.

Felix orders the shoveling workers to begin to fill the hole closest to where the stones lay, making it easier to access the rest of the fallen wall and make better stepping ground.

Felix sets the axe wielders working on the high point of the root ball of the prone tree.  They work together and plan to knock the roots off and dirt, lessening the weight at the base of the tree and freeing more dirt for fill.

The academy student runs between units, helping lift here, steadying there, helping stomp a shovel in the ground, making sure the teams keep clear of each other, are aware of their surroundings. He thanks them with a slap on a shoulder a nod, a word. He stops a stone lift in progress, hearing something shift. The group stands back as a stone that was still wedged between others 10 feet up the wall, falls to the ground where they had been standing. Worried smiles and grateful thanks are shared for a moment, then work resumes.

Kat begins sorting the broken stones while the larger ones are moved by teams. She tossed smaller chunks in holes as fill, carrying the ones that could be reused to the end of the neatly stacked rescued wall blocks.

“Hey Felix!” hollers a merc with a scar cutting through the left side of his face, he’s Vaughn, right? “We’re done with the stones.”

“Great job,” Felix remembers to say on his own, no reminder needed.

The swordsman eyes the tree. It is very thick at the base, but as it had grown, branches grew out on the side away from the wall. He discusses with the axe wielders the best place to cut the trunk base from the rest of the treetop, what branches have to go so the remaining trunk can be rolled over to give the needed room for patrol runs. Those that are not chopping are dragging away the freed branches to make room to work and keep the path clear. The huge stump is ready in no time. All hands together, they roll it far from the wall. The ground behind is nearly flat except for where they run out of earth to fill the hole. They drive some branches in the ground about 3 or 4 feet tall making a fence around the pitfall to prevent any injuries.

Kat holds her hand out and Felix grabs it, accidentally feeling a smile on his cheek that he has to fight back down to a more neutral position. Kat whoops heartily and the battalion joins in with thanks, waves, slaps on the back, and claps on shoulders, as each is recognized for their work.

“Tank, finish the clean up, gotta get our student back ta class” The battalion leader says as she gives him a firm hug and ruffles what little black hair he had on his head.  Major tasks are accomplished in a short time. Not unlike a mountain being moved.

The two walk alongside each other toward the gate leading back into the Monastery. “If I was yer teacher, I’d give ya a B+.  I thought you were gonna stand up on that rock and turn to stone yourself for a minute there. I kin tell you’re not much on communication. Talking and listening. Lemme try to tell ya in a way you can connect it. Say you’re fighting another sword slinger. He’s coming at ya. You’re watching his style, how he’s holdin’ himself. How he moves is talkin’ to ya. He’s telling ya how he’s coming, where he plans to hit.  Yer anticipating what he’s gonna do. Then he feints, dodges, pulls back and whips it to a backhand twist. You react, you change yer plans, tell yer body to adjust so yer eyes shift, hand takes a different grip, feet move to shift your weight to counter and set your attack. You’ve been waving that sword so long you don’t think about that any longer, you just react.

“Your battalion is another weapon. One you haven’t used before. Gotta learn how to wield it. Think of it as a man and his sword. To get them to move, ya talk to em. Figure out how best to work em, how hard to push, keeping it in balance. Use em to protect ya from danger, take out enemies. Mold ‘em into the tools that are gonna get the job done. When you’ve worked with ‘em long enough, they know what ya want, anticipate it.”

They have arrived back to just outside the classroom. She slings an arm around him in a half hug. “Ya done okay boy. Come meet us in the dining hall after class.”

Felix walks in, catching the professor’s eye with a smug look on his face as he gives a fist pump. Byleth’s head tips back and her eyes go a bit wider.

After class, he meets his battalion in the dining hall. His plate is already there. He checks with Tank, “Cleanup go okay?”  The merc gives a nod and thumbs up with one hand as he is holding a turkey leg to his mouth with the other. The swordsman can’t help himself and asks several of the men in the battalion if they want to spar.  A few guys accept the invite, but tonight they are drinking. They invite him to town to join them, and he will soon, just not today.

Once the student finishes his vegetables, Kat lets him head to the training grounds. She brings one of the mercs with her to find him sparring with Dimitri. Once the students have finished their rounds, Kat pulls Dimitri over, and Roy heads to Felix.

“Hey blondie, lemme show ya a few tricks to take down the porcupine over there.” She says slapping the prince on the shoulder.

“What? Who the hell’s side are you on anyway?” Felix snaps angrily.

“Whadda ya mean what? Yer gonna learn how to counter it, I’m keeping ya on yer toes boy.”

Roy grabs a training sword. He’s a bit taller than Felix, with short brown hair and brown eyes. They square off. Roy goes in for the first attack. He’s nowhere near as smooth as Felix, but he’s got a lot of strength behind his hits. “Do your worst, and I’ll pay ya back.”

The indigo haired student does not hold back. Roy and Felix go at each other for nearly an hour. Felix has the finesse, but Roy has guts and determination. Roy finally yields with a sword at his throat.  

Standing up, the prickly victor bends over and grabs his gut. “You kicked the crap out of me. Damn.” He laughs.

Roy has caught his breath. “Use all that ya got, there ain’t no rules when you’re fighting for your life.”

Kat hands out a couple vulneraries. Dimitri excuses himself as he has other duties to attend to. He doesn’t escape without getting a handshake, a thanks for the workout, and a pinch on his cheek. “See ya, cutie pie.” Kat grins.

The student helps his former opponent off the ground. They shake hands and share thanks. The merc heads out, going to town to join the group for drinks. He shakes his head as he gets no takers.

Kat invades Felix’s space, taking control his life for well over two weeks. Every day they have a new project to complete, every day he sits next to a different member of his battalion and every day he spars with someone else. Sometimes they teach him new techniques, sometimes he is teaching them. He knows all of their names, where they are from, what are their talents. His entire free days are spent with them.

Kat guides him, pushes him to work on building the team, getting them all together in the same mindset. Stressing the need to be able to rely on each other. It always goes both ways. Felix is instructed on persuasion and influencing. One cannot simply order someone to do things differently, you have to explain the why and how it benefits them, generally and directly. After meals she pulls him aside to discuss rapport building and listening. Everything is based on communication.

After sparring she marks battlefields in the dirt of the training grounds, pointing out scenarios for the best use of the battalions, and when not to use them. What tactics give advantages. Gambits, useful for them as well as for you, can give you time to observe the battlefield and adjust your strategies. All the time she is touching Felix. Patting him on the back, on the head, messing up his hair punching his shoulder. He notices one day that he doesn’t flinch at it any longer. He expects it, and he would never tell another soul, but he looks forward to it.  

Felix really learns how to listen. Not only to what they say to him, but what is said to Kat, how it is done. The group relies on her to keep them together. Some of the guys even call her mom or ma. She’s not their mother, but takes care of them like one. He even asks her why she lets them do it. She explains that this is her family and wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves them all, and they belong to her and she would do anything for them, they would do the same for her. Life’s too short to be holed up in a room or being off by yourself all the time.

The day has come. Felix and his battalion are ready for battle. Demonic beasts have been spotted outside the monastery walls and he goes out with the Professor and the Blue Lions to defeat them. Kat puts an arm around the swordsman, telling him he’s ready to do this. They run out to the woods to battle.

Before he would have run straight out to the beast himself, taking it on alone if he had to, but today is different. He has his battalion that he is responsible for, an extension of himself, a weapon at his disposal to be used properly and not ignored. He sends them forth in a gambit at the beast, sending the monster into mass confusion. As his team gathers back, preparing for another attack, he strikes the beast on his own. He is shocked at the cheers and encouragement coming from Kat and his men. It is inspiring and reassuring. A couple rounds later he sends them in again for another gambit. This gives him the opportunity to survey the remainder of the battle area. He and his men strike the beast a final time and it falls. He’s already leading them further down field to take on a knight with his own battalion surrounding him. Felix calls out to individual members of his group, getting the placement of his fighters best matched against the enemies. Their movements together work smoothly, the swordsman is reaping the benefits of working together with these fighters for weeks, knowing their abilities and weaknesses like his own. They plow through the battlefield as one, bringing down the enemies quickly.

When the battle is over, Felix is congratulating the team, handshakes, slaps on the back, everyone rewarding each other with reaffirming touches and positive energy. Kat has the biggest grin on her face as she hugs him until he almost can’t breathe.

“Yeah, you can be a lone wolf, but there is nothing quite as awesome as running with the pack.”

Felix puts his arm around her in a half hug. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re right.”

[ficcrimes]

Roots

Fandom: Tangled Characters: Hector, Varian A/N: an AU commission for @pennumbra! i am so sorry this took so long, but i hope it was worth the wait! Summary: When Hector travels to Corona, intending to head Adira off and put a stop to her treason, he finds Varian instead. With Quirin trapped in the amber, and seeing himself as Varian’s next of kin, Hector does the only thing he can do: he takes Varian in. However, the son of Quirin is nothing quite like what he had expected him to be.

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Word comes back to him that Adira has actually taken up her fool’s pursuit of the sundrop. He can understand her desire and the desperation to save the Dark Kingdom; some part of Hector wants for the same end. The Dark Kingdom is his home, after all, and seeing it become this ruined, corrupted wasteland has never sat well with him. But Edmund gave the Brotherhood very specific orders, and Hector has made it his life’s purpose to uphold the integrity of those words.

Was it not enough that Quirin, too, had gone soft over the years? The last he had heard, Quirin had started a family of his own, in the very kingdom where the sundrop flower was said to have bloomed. Hector sometimes liked to give the other man the benefit of the doubt and believed that Quirin was, in his own way, upholding King Edmnd’s wishes.

But if Adira has finally taken action of her own, then Hector feels compelled to put a stop to her. The idea of leaving the Great Tree unsettles him, but he also knows that the Tree can take care of itself. Even his bearcats seem hesitant to leave, but they follow him loyally and without much of a fuss.

The journey from the Tree to Corona will not be a particularly quick one, but he considers it well warranted, if it means putting a stop to Adira’s treachery.

If only she had left well enough alone.

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He arrives in what used to be Old Corona just a few weeks shy of Zhan Tiri’s storm. The village is nothing quite like what he had expected, wrought and ruined by the black rocks. There are no signs of life, though he can’t really blame the locals for having gone elsewhere. The Dark Kingdom’s people evacuated when the infestation grew out of control, too. Whole lives had been hastily and haphazardly uprooted to start again somewhere new and safe.

He doesn’t expect to find much as he makes his way through the disheveled village. As far as he can tell, Adira has not found her way this far yet. Though, with the literal pathway of black rocks leading to and from this old, ruined village, he doesn’t doubt she’ll find her way soon enough.

And he’ll be right here waiting for her, he decides. She has to go through this village to get to the kingdom, after all.

As he makes his way through the village, he finds his way toward one house in particular. The black rocks have pierced it’s stoop, and even the walls and roof have not been spared. It’s not in the best condition, but it’s in better shape than the rest of the village. In terms of temporary shelter, and a place to wait Adira out, he supposes he can’t really complain.

He kicks the door open, and though he’s confident there should be no life inside, he still takes a moment to peer in cautiously. One bearcat enters, and then the next, and he watches them both as they sniff at the air. One snorts, catching the scent of something that doesn’t settle well with it. It doesn’t back out, but it doesn’t quite press on, either. The other follows suit, hanging back and turning to look at Hector over its shoulder.

Hector raises an eyebrow, and moves in behind the two animals. There’s no denying that even he can smell something in the air. It’s faint, but acidic, sulphuric in its own way. Idly, he wonders what could be the cause, but he assumes as he moves further into the home, he’ll discover the source.

However, before he can get much farther, he’s greeted with a tripwire. The tripped trap sends a decently sized purple sphere toward him, but both he and his bearcats are quick to dodge it. There’s a small cloud of smoke as the sphere shatters on the floor not too far from where he had been standing. When the smoke clears, there’s a puddle of some sort of a strange purple substance.

One bearcat tentatively sniffs at the puddle, and then recoils at the smell of it. Whatever it is, the scent is too unnatural, too chemical for their liking. Hector wrinkles his own nose at it, and steps over the spill. A curious trap, but he doesn’t think much of it.

There isn’t very much to see as he moves deeper into the home - until he comes across a lab of some sort. There’s a multitude of vials and beakers and burners spread across a few tables, and the walls are covered in parchment full of scrawls that make little sense to Hector. But even more curious, is the formation in the middle of the room, hidden under a tarp. At first glance, he thinks that maybe it’s a cluster of black rocks that’s been covered, but then he catches a glimpse of something brighter.

He steps closer, and takes a fistful of the dark, heavy material, pulling it roughly away from whatever it was hiding. As the tarp falls away, Hector isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at - not at first, anyway. He sees the mass of amber, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. But even more shocking than the jagged and angry chunk of amber, is what’s inside it.

There, within the amber, is Quirin. There’s a page of parchment caught in one hand, and a cluster of black rocks is also encased in the amber with him. Looking around now, Hector can see a desk caught up in the amber’s tendrils, and a multitude of broken weapons littering the floor.

Hector likes to think that he’s very good at reading situations, that’s it come from years of serving the Dark Kingdom, and living in the Great Tree. But there isn’t much sense to be made of this predicament for him.

The bearcats creep closer to the strange mass, sniffing at it and trying to understand it themselves. They don’t recoil from it the way they did the purple goo, but they’re still cautious. Their inspection doesn’t last long, however, as another sound catches their attention. The bearcats give a low snarl, but Hector quiets them with a one-handed gesture. He’d heard the sound, too, and he suspects it to be nothing more than a lowlife making the best of a bad situation. Despite the state of this village, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were looters picking up whatever had been left behind.

As he makes his way through the home again, he expects to find some sort of rugged ruffian picking and choosing their way through whatever is left of Quirin’s life here. What he finds, however, is not even close to that.

The boy can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, and when he sees Hector, his eyes widen considerably and a strangled yelp leaves his mouth. There’s some scrambling as he tries to grab for something nearby; Hector assumes he’s looking for some sort of weapon. He isn’t given the chance, though, and Hector is quick to reach out and too easily pluck the boy up off the floor by the collar of his shirt.

“Who are you?” Hector demands. “And what are you doing here?”

Gloved hands are clawing desperately at Hector’s wrist, but the older man’s grip isn’t faltering in the slightest. Maybe answering his question will loosen it.

“Varian!” Hector’s captive says quickly. “My name is Varian! And I live here!”

“You live here?” Hector repeats with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nobody lives here, boy. This village is dead.”

“I live here!” Varian argues, and in all of his squirming and efforts to get free, he catches a glimpse over Hector’s shoulder of the bared amber. His eyes widen again, and his efforts seem to double as he tries to get Hector to let him go. And it’s not so much that Hector is overpowered by him, but the reaction to the sight is curious, and so Hector lets him go. He all but drops Varian, and though the teenager struggles for a moment to gain his footing, he shoves his way right passed Hector and makes a beeline for the amber.

“No, no, no,” Varian mumbles, struggling to flip the discarded tarp back up and over the mass. “What do you want here?!” he asks soon after, and his voice cracks in a way that strikes Hector as curious.

“I’m waiting for someone,” is Hector’s reply, and then he nods toward the amber. “Do you know him?” He assumes Varian must; no stranger would be so concerned or protective.

“He’s my father!” Varian snaps back at Hector, turning to look at him once the tarp is in place again. He’s glowering, but Hector doesn’t seem to notice or particularly care about the boy’s upset.

“Your father?” he questions. He had known Quirin started a family of his own, but this boy isn’t quite what he expected as a son of the Brotherhood.

Varian doesn’t feel the need to repeat himself, and so he doesn’t. Instead, he finally takes in the sight of this stranger in his home. The longer he stares at him, the more unnerved he becomes, though he tries not to let it show. Whatever composure he managed to hold on to is gone the moment he finally sets eyes on the bearcats, though. He stumbles back, pressing his back to the covered amber. The bearcats, though curious, remain obediently behind Hector.

“Who are you?” Varian asks after a moment.

The answer to this question, Hector realizes, is long and complicated, and he doesn’t particularly care to go into those details right now. He returns Varian’s scrutinizing gaze, and finds himself sighing heavily. There had been no bad blood between himself and Quirin before they were made to leave the Dark Kingdom, and with the other trapped or worse, he feels almost obligated to at least try and help his son. It’s the least he can do.

“A friend of your father’s,” Hector says.

Perhaps using the word ‘friend’ when describing his relationship with Quirin was not in his best interest. That word alone had triggers an eagerness in Varian that Hector doesn’t expect. The boy’s hostility ebbs some, though Hector can still tell that he is on guard, and he can’t be blamed for that. Hector supposes that if he was in the boy’s shoes, he wouldn’t drop his guard completely, either.

However, that doesn’t stop Varian from asking him question after question. He wants to know how Hector and Quirin knew each other, for how long, and why hadn’t Quirin ever mentioned him before. And these are all very good questions that Hector, unfortunately, has no real desire answering at the moment.

Instead, he veers the conversation into, what he deems to be, a more suitable direction. He manages to hush Varian long enough to ask him what happened here and to Quirin. The question brings the rigidity back to Varian’s posture, and a hardness to his gaze as he looks anywhere but at Hector. He explains briefly, as to the point as he can manage.

A gloved hand is pressed against the amber when all is said and done. “It’s my fault,” he admits, but there’s hesitancy in his voice that’s hard for Hector to miss.

Hector isn’t a particularly kind man, but maybe it’s the ties that bind him to Quirin, and subsequently to Varian, that urge him on.

“Regardless,” he says, and he speaks slowly, carefully choosing his words, “I don’t think it’s in your best interest to stay here.”

“But - ” Varian starts to argue, but he’s cut off by a sweeping motion from Hector.

“These black rocks are dangerous, and there’s nothing you can do about that,” he says and nods toward Quirin’s encasement.

“No - no, that’s not true,” Varian counters, brow furrowing. “I just need more time to figure out what works, and...”

“And you can do that away from this place,” Hector insists.

Varian is reluctant, but he agrees. Hector makes a valid point when he says that things are only going to get worse for Corona, that staying put will do Varian more harm than anything. There’s also a stinging truth in that Quirin isn’t going to be going anywhere, either. Varian can, and should, work in a safer environment and return when he’s sure of a solution. Hector can tell that he doesn’t want to leave Quirin, but it’s a relief that Varian seems to understand. However he’s been surviving since this happened to his father, it can’t have been good for him.

When Hector informs Varian to be ready for a few weeks worth of travel at the very least, he’s more than a little surprised when the alchemist insists on making and packing them ham sandwiches.

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The sandwiches don’t last very long. They’re gone within a day and a half, and Hector is mildly impressed a spindly thing like Varian can eat so much. It goes without saying, though, that come dusk, any additional food needs to be caught or foraged for.

“I don’t expect you’d be any good at hunting?” Hector asks, and Varian offers him a sheepish sort of grin, shrugging one shoulder.

“I’ve never really had to before,” Varian admits. He can’t say whether or not he’d be good at it if he’s never actually gone hunting before. He likes to think that maybe he’d be a decent tracker. The thought of actually killing an animal, though, doesn’t settle too well with him.

Hector rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think so,” he mumbles, shoving his way passed the smaller body. “Stay put. I’ll be back soon.”

Varian watches Hector and his bearcats as they wander away from the path they had been on and into the woods nearby. He doesn’t really know how long they’ll be, but for the time being he takes a seat on a nearby boulder. He’s never been this far away from Corona before, and he has to wonder where they are. There are no signs on the path Hector has chosen for them, and so all Varian really knows is that he’s neither here nor there.

In a way, it’s kind of exciting.

Getting away from home and from Corona as a whole, Varian realizes, has been and will be good for him. It hurts to leave Quirin behind, but it would have hurt more to stay there with him, just as stagnant, and festering in his own misplaced anger. Those feelings haven’t gone away entirely, not yet, but he’s had some time at least to understand that Rapunzel isn’t really at fault. Any initial resentment he had been feeling has begun to draw back.

And while these are bridges that will eventually have to be crossed, Varian isn’t quite ready to fully process and unpack the whole of that situation just yet. He’s already spent enough time mulling it over, and decides it’s probably best to distract himself somehow. Not that there’s a whole lot to distract himself with at the moment, but he does his best, wandering away from the boulder to inspect some flowers and shrubbery nearby.

Not a moment later, one of Hector’s bearcats pokes its head through the brush, and Varian lets out a shameless yelp as he tumbles back. Either Hector hunts very quickly, or he had spent more time lost in thought than he realized. He doesn’t question it, and instead focuses on trying to regain his composure as the bearcat walks passed him.

Hector soon follows, and gives the boy an eye-roll, snorting inwardly. “You’re going to have to get used to them,” he says.

Varian doesn’t reply, only lets out a little huff of his own while he stands up and brushes off the seat of his pants.

“Here,” Hector speaks and gets Varian’s attention again. “Make yourself useful.”

Varian doesn’t have time to answer before there’s something being tossed toward him. His instinct is to catch it, and he does, but he wishes he hadn’t.

There, in his hands and haphazardly pressed up against his chest, is a freshly killed rabbit. There’s blood on the poor thing’s fur, though he can’t quite tell where it’s coming from. Not that it really matters much, because he can feel his grip on it failing already.

The catch slides right out of his hands and to the ground with a thump. Varian’s knees give out a moment later, and he sinks to the ground with a weak groan.

Hector eyebrows raise and his mouth is slightly agape as he takes in the sight of the boy, crumpling to his knees and bracing himself against the ground. He doesn’t quite pass out, but he certainly looks like he’s on the verge of doing so.

Before Hector can ask what’s wrong, Varian manages a brief explanation of: “blood.”

Hector rolls his eyes again, and one of his bearcats collects the rabbit from the ground near Varian, bringing it back to its master.

“If blood bothers you that much, I suppose you’d want to know you got some on your shirt, then.”

“My shirt…?” Varian echoes, and against his better judgement, looks down at his chest. Sure enough, there’s the smallest smear of rabbit blood there.

And that’s all it takes.

Another whimper, and Hector can actually see Varian’s eyes flutter and roll back before he faints.

After this, Hector takes care to dress any game away from the camp. Or, at the very least, well out of Varian’s line of vision. Had Varian been anybody else, though, he would not have been so thoughtful. To make up for the slight inconvenience, Varian decides that the least he can do is forage and gather wild edibles. Ruddiger helps, some of the time.

Sooner rather than later, Varian also takes it upon himself to cook for them. Hector may be a very good hunter, but his cooking skills are less than desirable, in Varian’s opinion. And if he’s going to be travelling with this man for who-knows-how-long, he’d at least like to have food he can swallow, let alone stomach. Once the catches are skinned and cleaned, handling the raw meat isn’t too bad. No different than the cuts they had back home. Cooking over an open fire on a less than impressive skillet isn’t exactly what Varian’s used to, but he’d be lying if he were to say it isn’t any fun.

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Once, Hector catches himself watching Ruddiger as the raccoon rolls an apple along the ground. His contribution to Varian’s findings today, Hector supposes. How he has managed to withhold any comments on the animal thus far is beyond even him, but his patience is growing thin. Ruddiger doesn’t bring anything to the table, besides companionship for Varian.

And Hector doesn’t think that’s enough.

He grabs the apple away from the raccoon, ignoring the surprised and then dismayed chittering coming from the poor thing.

“Where did you even find this thing?” Hector asks, and nods in Ruddiger’s direction when Varian turns to look his way.

“Ruddiger?” Varian asks, oblivious to the apple thievery that had just taken place. “It’s kind of funny, actually. Back home, we had a bit of a… ” Here he pauses and offers Ruddiger a small and apologetic smile. “A pest problem. So, I set some traps, and I eventually caught him.”

Hector’s eyebrow is raised, so Varian knows he’s listening, but he looks less than thrilled by the story. Admittedly, it isn’t a very exciting one.

“Kinda couldn’t get rid of him after that,” Varian laughs a little, shrugging one shoulder. “But, he’s good enough company, so I can’t really complain.”  

“What good is he to you, though?” Hector asks, and pointedly takes a bite of the apple. Varian, still oblivious, doesn’t seem to notice the almost-scowl the raccoon gives the older man.

“What good…? Well, like I said, he’s good company, and - ”

“Besides that,” Hector rolls his eyes, and tosses the apple aside. It has a bite out of it, but that doesn’t stop Ruddiger from following after it. “What actual good is he?”

Varian’s brow furrows a little, trying to read Hector’s expression and intention. A knot starts to form in his stomach, but he tries to ignore it.

“He doesn’t have to prove himself to me or anything, you know. He’s just - he’s fine, just the way he is.”

Hector stands, and sneers visibly as Ruddiger comes trotting back with the apple in his mouth. “If you’re going to put in effort of handling a wild animal and keeping it as some sort of companion, why not aim for something more impressive, and let this fat little thing go free back into the wild?”

“What…?” Varian asks, and the knot is getting bigger, tighter. “No, I can’t do that.”

“I’m telling you, you’ll appreciate an animal of bigger and stronger stature, who knows how to do more than sleep and eat.”

Varian’s brow furrows, and he gestures vaguely toward Hector’s bearcats, laying not too far away from where they are right now. Their heads are raised and they’re watching this argument gradually unfold, but know better than to intervene. For now.

“I don’t - I don’t need something like them,” he says, and his gaze drops for just a moment down to Ruddiger. “He means a lot to me, and that’s what matters.”

“You say that now,” Hector scoffs, “but your tune may change when you learn that he’s of no real use to you.”

What happens next, happens so quickly that neither Varian or Hector really realize what’s going on until it’s over. But very suddenly, Hector is on the ground, and Varian is standing over him, arms outstretched and palms held up. He can still feel the fleeting, phantom sensation of Hector’s chest against them.

Even the bearcats can’t bring themselves to move right away.

Ruddiger, on the other hand, decides now is a great time to climb up to Varian’s shoulders, still holding onto the apple.

“He is of use to me,” Varian says in a tone Hector’s never heard him use before. It’s serious and stern, and there’s something of an edge to his voice that piques Hector’s intrigue.

He doesn’t necessarily understand Varian’s attachment to such a useless creature, but he decides it’s best not to question it any further.  

While the subject of Varian training another animal of any kind is never brought up again, Hector can’t help but notice how the boy seems to be warming up to his bearcats. It also doesn’t escape him that his bearcats don’t quite seem to mind a gentler form of affection.

When this journey had first started, Varian had been fairly wary of the animals, which Hector could understand. They were not the friendliest of beasts, and they were certainly no Ruddiger. The bearcats had only remained civil and respectful of Varian because Hector had clearly taken a shine to him. They weren’t normally so trusting of strangers, but they trusted Hector’s judgement. Though, as the days have bled into weeks, both Varian and the bearcats have gradually begun to gravitate toward one another.

Hector thinks the deal may have been sealed that first time he caught Varian feeding the bearcats scraps. They should have known better than to accept, but they certainly hadn’t refused then, and they don’t refuse now. No matter how many times Hector tells Varian not to do that, it’s very likely that he’ll catch him doing it again.

Worse things could happen, Hector supposes.

When Hector comes back to camp after hunting one evening, he’s more than a little surprised to find his bearcats already asleep. More surprising than that, though, is the way Varian is propped up against the two of them, Ruddiger in his lap. Both the boy and his raccoon are sound asleep, too.

Hector sighs and shakes his head, the faintest of smiles tugs at one corner of his lips. He lets them sleep, and walks away from the pile they’ve all made to skin and clean the catch of the night.

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Hector isn’t an introspective man. He sees things for what they are, and doesn’t often feel the need to delve much deeper than the surface. Even so, though, he finds himself watching Varian every now and then, typically Varian’s attention is entirely elsewhere. The boy is clumsy and a little bit more emotional than Hector had expected from Quirin’s son, but he’s also incredibly smart, and there’s no denying the loyalty to his own cause. He also finds himself appreciating Varian’s affinity toward animals; the boy spends more time with Ruddiger and the bearcats than he does with Hector sometimes. Hector can understand that.

Sometimes, Hector catches himself thinking that Varian reminds him of himself. Not a whole lot, but the few similarities they share are the ones that count. It makes relating to Varian a little easier.

Some of the time.

“When we get to the Dark Kingdom, do you think we’ll find something there that can help my dad?”

Hector’s lip visibly twitches and his eyes roll, but Varian’s back is to him so the alchemist doesn’t see. During the time they’ve been travelling together, Hector has had more than enough time to ponder Quirin’s problem. There’s a good chance that he’s still alive, simply in some sort of suspended animation. There’s an equally good chance that he’s suffocated and his corpse is being preserved in that unbreakable amber. He knows and he understands Varian’s drive to free him, but he wonders if the boy’s considered the grimmer of the possibilities at all.

“Hector?” Varian presses, and when Hector focuses his attention back to him, he realizes that Varian’s facing him now, and a lot closer than he had been earlier.

“In the Dark Kingdom itself, or in the Great Tree,” Hector says, brow furrowing as he speaks. “But are you really sure that’s what you want?”

Varian’s expression falls, and his brow furrows some. “Well, of course. Why wouldn’t I want to help him?”

“How long has he been in that amber, Varian?”

There’s a pause, and Hector watches as Varian visibly struggles with this question. It gradually dawns on Hector that Varian really hadn’t considered that Quirin may have already been dead.

He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m just saying, all of this may be for naught.”

“W-what - ?”

“He may already be dead.” Hector has never known how to be anything but blunt, and he doesn’t consider Varian’s much fragiler emotional state.

“No,” Varian says, and his voice cracks and Hector’s brows raise as he watches Varian’s eyes become glassy and wet. It doesn’t take long at all before the tears are rolling freely down his cheeks. Hector glances downward, if only because he notices that the other’s hands are clenched tightly into fists at his sides. By the time he looks back up to Varian’s face, his chest is heaving just a little as he tries to control his breathing.

One hand lifts, and Varian digs the heel of his palm into his eye, scrubbing tears away while dropping his own gaze.

“He’s not… He’s not d-dead, okay?” Varian mumbles, stumbling over the word ‘dead’ in a way he never had before. Death has always been unsettling, but he’s tried so hard not to think about Quirin that way.

Hector sighs inwardly, and he can’t quite bring himself to see things Varian’s way. Not to say he hasn’t been wrong before, but until proven so, there’s not much that can change his mind.

But Varian doesn’t need to know that.

He reaches out, dropping a heavy hand onto one of Varian’s shoulders. “Okay,” he agrees, and then uses that same hand to cup Varian’s cheek, giving a gentle pat. “Okay.”

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Just because Hector chooses the roads less traveled, does not always mean that they are safer. They manage to go for nearly a month without incident, but of course it’s only a matter of time before they run into some sort of trouble.

It comes in the form of a duo of would-be bandits. Varian’s walking a few feet ahead of Hector, and so they spot him first. They come out of the trees on either side of him, effectively halting him in his path. Thus far in their journey, they haven’t really run into any problems like this, and Varian is admittedly less than prepared. He has a few vials of chemicals in his satchel, and the small explosions their shattering would cause might buy him some time.

However, he doesn’t have time to reach for them, and the bandits, in turn, have hardly any time to advance. Hector makes himself known, stepping into their view, along with his bearcats.

“Is there a problem?” he asks.

Varian wastes no time in backing up, even bumping into Hector as he does. Hector does little more than encourage him to step to the side, so that he can step forward.

“There don’t have to be,” says one of the bandits. The other reaches into one of his pockets, producing a dagger with a crooked and nicked blade.

Hector’s brow raises as he eyes the dagger, hardly impressed; mostly amused. “And I suppose you’re going to use that to ensure there’s no problem?”

“Consider it a sort o’ persuasion,” the bandit with the dagger replies. He gives it a little toss into the air, catching it by the handle expertly. Hector thinks that maybe he’s supposed to be impressed. He isn’t.

“Don’t give us no trouble, an’ we don’t give either o’ you any, either,” the other bandit coaxes.  

“No trouble at all, I assure you,” Hector says, and unsheathes the blade from his wrist. The bearcats begin a gradual approach, too.

The bandits look taken aback by the blade, and a little unnerved by the animals coming closer, but they stubbornly stick it out. This doesn’t surprise Hector; men like them are not often very intelligent. Their need for money and valuables often outweigh logic and reason.

Before either bandit can lunge or lash out, Hector moves forward, as do the bearcats. Varian watches in nothing short of awe as Hector too easily gets the upperhand on both of these men, knocking the dagger from one’s hand, and throwing the other to the ground. The bearcats help pin the downed man, and Hector presses the very tip of his blade to the other’s throat while holding the collar of his shirt with his free hand.

He cocks his head to one side, and gives the man a crooked grin. “Like I said, no trouble.”

“N-no t-trouble,” the man agrees, trying lean away from the blade as much as he can. Hector’s grip is tight, though, and doesn’t allow for much room. Common sense seems to kick in, and he realizes if he struggles too much, Hector could easily pull him forward.

“Good,” Hector says, and shoves the man back, retracting his blade and calling his bearcats off with a single snap of his fingers. Hector doesn’t need to tell them to leave, they scramble away as quickly as they can manage.

Sighing, Hector turns back toward Varian, looking the boy over. He’s all wide-eyed and fish-mouthed, and Hector wonders if maybe the spectacle frightened him. In their time together, Varian hasn’t even seen Hector hunt, nevermind actually fight. And, granted, if Varian hadn’t been there, the men wouldn’t have been lucky enough to be able to run away.

“Are you alright?” Hector asks, eyebrow raising.

Varian nods, and then slowly breaks out into a wide smile. “That was amazing!” he gushes, even flailing his arms a little. “You’re just like Flynnigan Rider - well, almost. Close enough!”

“Who?” Hector asks, brow furrowing.

Soon enough, he clearly wishes he hadn’t. Varian has a lot - perhaps too much - to say about this Flynnigan Rider character. He goes on and on about the books he has at home, and even how excited he had been to meet someone who used to go by that name. At one point, he even lets it slip that he had nothing short of a shrine full of Flynnigan Rider memorabilia, including wanted posters and even the man’s boot.

Hector, personally, can’t see any similarities between himself and the fictional man, or the one who stole the name. What he does get from all of this hero-worship nonsense, though, is that Varian certainly has a flair for swordfighting, as highlighted by the way he picks up a stick and starts to carelessly swing it around while he speaks.

And that gives Hector an idea.

So, when Hector offers to teach Varian how to use a real sword, Varian would be the first to admit that his expectations were nothing like the reality of the situation. The sword Hector procures for him is much heavier than any of the ones at home, even the one he had rigged with tubes and vials. It takes practice to even be able to hold the thing properly. Doing so without his arms getting tired is another story all together.

Once he’s able to actually hold the sword with some sliver of confidence, Hector quickly moves on to teaching how to use it. And, of course, Hector’s teaching method is very hands on and no holds barred. More often than not, Varian is left bruised and sore after their lessons. The flair he had for swinging a stick around doesn’t transfer over well to actual swordsmanship, but he’s determined to learn at the very least.

Over time, Varian’s hand becomes steadier, his footing more reliable. His movements don’t quite mimic Hector’s when all is said and done, but what counts is that he can finally match and block them when he has to.

He’s nowhere near besting Hector, or even just knocking a sword from his hands, but progress is progress and Hector is proud nonetheless.

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Left to his own devices while Hector hunts, Varian usually finds one way or another to pass the time, assuming he has no actual chores to tend to. Sometimes he sketches or scribbles in a journal. Other times, he’ll busy himself with Ruddiger, or practice with his sword against a tree. Today, however, he finds that he’s idly drawn to the idea of Hector’s face paint. It’s something that’s always intrigued him, even though it’s such a miniscule detail when compared to everything else about Hector.

He uses some of the things he’d already had gathered and some fresh clay, grinding them up into a reddish sort of paste. Once that’s ready, he uses his sword as a mirror while he figures out just how to apply it to his own face. Carefully, he starts by painting a thick band across the bridge of his nose.

Pleased with that, and deciding it couldn’t hurt to experiment a little more, he splits the alchemical symbol for tin under each eye. The left gets the upward curve, the right gets the down.

The longer he stares at his reflection, the more he thinks he likes it. Maybe he’ll adjust the height and width of the band, but overall, he’s pleased with his handiwork. So much so, that he doesn’t even notice peering over his shoulder and smirking at his reflection until its too late. The fingertips Varian had pressed to his cheek jerk, and he ends up smearing the paint across his nose and down along one cheek as he fumbles his way around to face Hector.

Hector snorts, the closest to a laugh Varian’s ever heard from him. He squats down and grabs the boy by the chin, turning his face this way and that, admiring the work - even if it is smeared.

“It’s a good look for you,” he comments, before letting Varian go and standing. “Try not to smudge it next time.”

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It takes a few weeks more for the pair and their animals to reach the Tree, but when they do, Varian is in nothing short of awe.

“This is where you live?!”

“You’ll get used to it,” Hector replies as he leads the boy inside. “For now, don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Hector can practically see Varian’s excited energy radiating off of him. The Tree is impressive, but it has long since lost that charm for Hector. It is kind of amusing, though, to see someone else so genuinely thrilled by its existence.

“But - wait a minute,” Varian says suddenly, brow wrinkling. “I thought we were going to the Dark Kingdom?”

“Eventually,” Hector tells him, motioning for him to keep walking along behind him. “For now, we wait here.”

“Wait? Why?”

“I’m expecting someone,” Hector replies, and leaves it at that. He’ll offer no more and no less, Varian can tell that by his tone.

“Alright,” Varian says quietly, and Hector can tell there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice. He can’t blame the boy; he had promised to take him to the Dark Kingdom, and now here they are, playing a waiting game in the Great Tree. They will get there, though. Varian just needs to work on his patience.

“You know…” Hector starts, and his voice is a lot quieter than Varian is used to hearing. It piques his interest, but he waits quietly for Hector to continue.

“You’ve come a long way. Literally, and otherwise. And it may have been a long time since I’ve seen your father,  so I may not be the best judge of character, but…”

There’s a small pause, and Varian wonders for a moment if Hector is going to finish the thought. His eyes search Hector’s back frantically, as though it somehow holds even a hint of what the other could be thinking.

He steps closer, until he’s walking at Hector’s side, and able to peer up at his face.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. “But… What?”

Hector’s expression is soft for only a moment. “I think he would be proud of you.”

[scionofchaos]

Withstanding Suffering

Today, I would like to talk to you about a practice I have spoken of once before. In our lives, we have to endure great hardship in order to make ends meet. The more strain your physical body is under, the more this is reflected in your Consciousness, your memory, and your ongoing thought life. I cannot teach you how to regenerate, or how to become invulnerable, but I can teach you how to withstand suffering.

It is easy to look at a physical ordeal as being an entirely physical matter, but the truth is that your body will quickly recover. Human bodies are extraordinarily resilient; they hurt in the moment, but only to tell you that you need to relax and recover. Once given ample opportunity, your body will do exactly that (barring some existing condition that makes it harder for you to recover). The real harm is non-physical. When you are uncomfortable or in pain, you fixate on the feeling. When your mind can't handle that anymore, it finds something else to gripe about, as a way of deflecting the pain onto something else. Maybe a sound that you presently find annoying, or a flashing light that irritates your eyes. Maybe you find that you don't like the way someone dresses, or the way they talk.

Now, because of your own suffering, you feel inclined to make others feel worse, and make other people change your environment to appease your senses. If this is allowed to continue, your mind has nowhere to retreat but into itself. Nothing more can be changed externally, so the changes must occur internally. Your mind will sit and burn its limited resources on changing its shape, changing its behavior, into something that feels the pain less. When it cuts itself off enough, you will lose that sense of togetherness with other living beings, lose your spiritual awareness. Soon your expulsion of harmful behaviors will become so dense that no one can reach you. Their pleas to help you, to comfort you, or break you out of this rut, will only reach the malicious shell of a person you've created. Once a being reaches that point, they are not savable; the only thing that can change is the construct of negative Karma they created external to themselves. It will take a powerful transformation to bring them around and help them to see the light.

Any experience that is causing you physical discomfort or pain can be broken down into parts. There is a part that has to do with your body itself, maybe an injury or just general wear and tear. That is not something you can do anything about during the experience; wait until you have time to relax and recover, and then seek help. But the second part is sensory. Your body will communicate to you through feelings of awkwardness or confinement, feelings of heat and cold, and the sensation of pain, but these are not accurate; they are general warning signs. My gallbladder had to be removed in 2016, and when it acted up, I thought something was wrong with my intestines or appendix. Much lower than gallbladder. You may also receive synesthetic bleed-through -- effects upon your sight, hearing, smell, and taste, which warp your perception because of your pain. Most often, this is just increased agitation as a result of surrounding stimuli, and not a full change of what is sensed. People in pain become intolerant of even the smallest thing getting their attention. By manipulating your Conscious essence, you can weaken these sensory effects and put that essence to use somewhere else.

There are also psychic signals. Fight-or-flight signals that make you want to hurt something, go somewhere, or even harm yourself, in false pretenses of making the pain go away. Fear signals that something more severe could be wrong with you. Anger signals generally directed at your clumsiness, your weakness, or at someone you believe caused the pain. There may even be psychic signals that in turn generate hallucinations, making you think or see things in a way other than the real. Like the sensory experiences, you can manipulate your Psychic essence to weaken these signals and redirect the essence. Force your mind to think about something else, or to enter into a calm, thoughtless state.

Then there are vital patterns. These are scars of your vital essence, which are forcing you to adapt to the pain, to change as a result. If allowed to proceed, these patterns can be the hardest to fix in the long run. You will want to assume control of your life, and remove or alter these patterns. Pain is there to keep you informed; once the stressor is over, you will not want the pain to change who you are. If you have chronic pain like I do, the worst thing you can do is let ongoing physical suffering decide who you are. Erase the patterns it creates, and shape your vital essence into something more reflecting a calm, healthy being in control of your life. If you become your pain, then you risk changing into a creature that only understands the world through the lens of suffering, and seeks it rather than seeking your betterment.

The most effective method for dealing with these problems takes inspiration from the simple practice of weeding. If you pull weeds so that they break, the root will regrow the plant from its base. That is why you take the whole root system out. With your pain, trace these sensory experiences, psychic signals, and vital patterns down to their base form -- the waves of Causality communicating discomfort between you and the world. Find them, identify them, and prepare a plan for how to send your own waves. Muffle the existing ones and force Causality to bear the message you decide. The waves are telling you that something in your body, or something in your environment, is going to harm you. But you will tell Causality that you are strong, that you recover quickly, that you are safe. These signals will work to repel harmful things from you, but more importantly they will communicate to your body a more realistic impression of your experiences. This will help you to avoid suffering over a tired back or worn-out knees, where a simple, quiet "Hey, this needs rest," would suffice. Just because your feet need a break does not mean your body has to send torture signals.

Once you have uprooted these sensations and patterns, work upward from Causality, into the Physical and the Conscious. Send your physical essence into the places that need reinforcement. Send your conscious essence to inform your body that you are safe, and that you will rest soon; that it needs to flush out the lactic acid and dead cells, and replace them with healthy structures. Proceed into the psychic, and order your mind so that it will not dwell upon the painful experience, but focus on more pressing, long-term issues -- like your prosperity and getting to a place where you can be happy and content, regardless of your physical situation. When your mind is at peace, proceed into the vital. Harmonize with the life around you; rely upon their strength, but do not draw heavily upon them; only rely on them for comfort and support.

People may not be consciously, or financially, able to support you in this moment; but all life forms are connected, and all are there to be leaned on in the realm of Life itself. Take care that, when you have stripped the suffering out of your being, that you do not leave the space empty. Keep it filled with renewed physical strength, supported by diet and rest, and enrich that physical essence with Conscious essence. Instruct those base essences how to comport themselves, with the motion of your Mind and the commanding presence of the Vital. Remain mindful of the changes, checking back in frequently to ensure new pain does not supplant your work.

[dalisaid]

✎ . ♟

          nobody :           no one :           literally no one at all :

          me :  so sam is / can be lowkey self-absorbed at times  &  i wanna talk about why because it fascinates  &  saddens me greatly  :D

          now,  when i say  ❛  self-absorbed  ❜,  i mean it in the literal sense of the word  a.k.a.  ~absorbed~ in himself,  within his inner landscape,  how he relates to the world  &  how it relates to him,  etc.  when things happen ( as they do lol ),  he seems to instinctively think about it in terms of himself  &  what it means for him,  in relation to him specifically.  of course,  as a kid,  this is a given ;  all kids are self-absorbed in a way ( more so than all of us inherently are anyway ),  it’s to be expected,  but sam especially  &  especially in his environment growing up,  his level of self-absorption  &  prioritization,  even,  makes complete sense.  his mental / emotional / physical well-being was disregarded at every turn to the point where at a very young age,  he had to prioritize it himself in order to just survive because couldn’t rely on his own parent to do it for him.  arguably,  how much he could trust even dean with this could only go so far with sam knowing that no matter how much dean loved  &  cared for  &  put his little brother first,  he still ultimately wanted ( as far as sam can tell anyway ) to live the life their dad was paving the way for,  still put himself (  &  therefore sam,  if he wanted to be a part of this family ) in the line of fire on the regular.  so to a very reasonable degree,  sam’s independence / personal ambition / ~absorption~ in himself  &  his own desires ( NEEDS ) is very apparent in flashbacks  &  season 1 especially.  in fact,  it was VERY necessary if one wants to live a safe  &  normal life away from monsters  &  the possibility of death around every turn,  as the average person usually does,  &  sam of course falls into this majority.

          sam also comes across as an introvert,  which entails a lot if introspection  &  self-inspection,  which can often be interpreted (  &  of course sometimes turn into,  depending on the person ) as a form of self-absorption on top of the reasons above.  BUT,  i wanna talk about the more deeply-rooted reason he can come across as self-absorbed,  a reason that would remain no matter if he could escape his toxic environment growing up or not,  a reason that stays with sam until later seasons,  but just expresses itself in different ways as he grows  &  matures  &  changes.

          as we see throughout the entire series,  sam believes deep down to the very core of his being that he is EVIL.  every period  &  shade of his life,  he believes this in some way,  shape,  degree,  or form,  always.  he believes his very existence constitutes pain  &  problems  &  obstacles in those around him,  in the very WORLD ITSELF at times ( literally ).  to him,  his existence is at best an inconvenience  &  at worst an active  &  essential component to the suffering of others.  even as a child,  it’s revealed he felt this sense of wrongness in him,  this impurity,  this weight,  that he was a burden,  a problem,  a stain unable to be washed from the world or from his family’s life.  throughout the years,  he learns this was for a reason ;  because this wrongness literally runs through his veins,  is a part of him he can’t just salt  &  burn away,  run from to live a normal life  &  pretend it doesn’t exist because it is always with him,  forever  —  because it IS him.  during season 1  &  2,  sam almost seems like he WANTS to be proven a monster in his doggedness to pull on azazel’s strings,  despite it also being something he’s obviously deeply upset by.  due to sensing this for years  &  witnessing a correlation throughout his life of trauma after trauma  &  trouble after trouble caused to his loved ones,  caused by his very proximity to them at times ( from his perspective ) ;  circumstantial evidence at best,  but this is confirmation bias at work,  as he’s sensed something evil in him since he was a kid,  &  even subconsciously,  he’s looking for explanations  &  new pieces to fit into this theoretical puzzle of his.  

          because of this  —  this confirmation bias,  this belief that he is INHERENTLY BAD for the people around him,  &  even the world as a whole,  that’s only reinforced by his coincidentally fucked up life that seems to follow him around like it’s tied to him instead of the other way around,  whenever something goes wrong in his life or even just close to his general presence,  he INSTINCTIVELY thinks he has something to do with it.  this,  of course,  is technically quite self-centered of him ;  to just assume these things correlate to him,  as if he’s the center of it all,  of this whole web of his  &  his loved ones’ reality,  but when   ❛  these things  ❜  a.k.a.  bad things,  are like 90% of his life,  as the winchesters lead very troubled lives filled with bad to the absolute brim,  it leads to a situation where sam attributes pretty much most of what goes on around them to himself.  

          hence,  self-absorbed.

          he genuinely believes he is the cause ( directly or indirectly ) of most if not all the bad things in his father’s,  brother’s,  even jess’s life,  &  generally,  any things that happen around him are bad things that happen around him,  &  therefore to the most important people in his life.  he is PARANOID of this from the start ;  the pilot itself,  as soon as the nightmares he’d been having actually come true  &  he gets his first concrete signs that his suspicions in childhood might actually have tangible merit.  he is constantly hyper-aware of the possibility  &  probability that his mom’s clearly similar death was just as much his fault as his girlfriend’s,  just as much connected to HIM.  &  if that’s the case,  the whole of his father’s life after,  his own  &  his brother’s,  all this fighting  &  running  &  hurting,  because of HIM.  it’s on his mind 24/7,  it’s his world at the time,  these possibilities  &  probabilities  &  questions of the implications of his very existence itself,  that the very fact that he was even born could have caused his mother to be brutally killed over her own child,  his father to spiral into a tangle of miserable vengeance  &  grieving paranoia,  &  his brother to sacrifice practically everything just to ensure his family’s unity  &  safety.

          it could be said that early seasons sam has a tendency to  ❛  make things about him  ❜  half the time,  but given the context that most things are bad things that he insists on blaming his inherent badness to match,  as well as the context of his entire character arc  &  theme  &  storyline,  this makes perfect sense.  it’s not selfish of sam to do this ;  to a.)  prioritize his own health  &  well-being over his father’s vendetta growing up,  &  to later b.)  associate anything bad with himself because he sees his very existence as something problematic  &  wrong for anyone to exist alongside,  believes the misery following his family around to be proof of this  —  his self-absorption / centered-ness is NOT a selfish act by any means at all,  &  i hope people never equate them as such.  though,  it’s a little late for that,  as i’m very aware there are plenty of people who aren’t the biggest fans of this particular aspect of sam.

          i think all of this is very closely linked to how dramatically losing his loved ones can debilitate him.  whether it’s after dean goes to hell or after he goes to purgatory,  sam’s reality seems to uproot,  to shift on its axis,  &  even his entire direction as a character in a way.  he believes most if not all his existence can offer is bad  &  wrong  &  EVIL,  but he also knows ( can’t deny ) that it offers his brother solace in a way nothing else can.  he may not ( doesn’t ) understand it,  but he can’t deny it in the face of all that his brother’s done for him  &  so he works with it,  works with this ONE THING he can’t deny he apparently does RIGHT  &  not wrong,  GOOD  &  not evil.  but even this soon proves to crumble,  by circumstance or admitted by dean himself in some way or another,  it proves to be something he just fucks up again  &  again at the expense of the person most important to him,  to the person who finds him just as important in return.  sam believes he draws in these problems like a true north,  at best causes his brother pain  &  at worst actual death.  once he loses the one single thing he thought he could do right,  whether it be by making mistakes or by losing this person entirely,  he loses any reason to go on,  any defense he had of justifying his continued existence ;  that even if he fucks up everything else,  he at least had this one redeeming reason he was even born,  &  to lose that is to lose any form of stability in living whatsoever.

          &  DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON HOW MUCH DEAN’S CONTINUOUS SACRIFICES FOR HIM AGAIN  &  AGAIN THROUGHOUT FOREVER REINFORCES THIS ENTIRE WAY OF THINKING OK ( this is in no way a knock at dean but i won’t get into it now ofc because i already spewed enough sleep-deprived rambles for a day but wowie )

[tinkerli1]

Bitter Beauty: Prologue

Morning light flickered in the curtains, causing streams to dance on the sleeping couple. An arm flew up to block the glare and groan escaped pitifully, causing a chuckle from another.

"Morning, Love," Hermione whispered dreamily against his chest.

Ron curled into his wife, back facing the light. "Morning, Beautiful."

The two curled into each other, enjoying the quiet of the morning. Hermione was thankful to have him home after a week long mission tracking down their latest sightings of Fenrir's followers. Their two-year-old daughter, Rose, was currently staying at the Burrow to allow her parents some privacy. Hermione was all too happy for the opportunity. Merlin knew, two months from now there would be a second bundle of joy to dote on.

"When does Mum expect me?" he asked.

"Around 10, I suspect. I have to be at work in an hour, so you have the whole day to spoil her like a princess," she responded.

He snuggled in, "Like you'd have it any other way," he quipped.

"How about dinner tonight and extra dessert?" Hermione whispered against his chest.

"Sounds delicious, Mione," he said, as his fingers stoked her shoulders and protruding belly.

Her kissed his chest and shoulders before asking, "My maternity leave begins in about six weeks. No more missions until after the baby is here, right?"

"Harry has assured me that he and the team can handle them. I'm restricted to paperwork and court dates until our son is two months old. Perks of being a war hero, eh?" he chuckled into her hair.

"Speaking of your son, he needs a name, ya know." she sighed.

"I still want Hugo," Ron replied, laughing.

She groaned, "Fine. Hugo. But Hugo what?"

"I let you decide the middle name. I'll take a win when I can, Love," he relented.

She made to swat him, but gripped her belly instead, gasping loudly. Ron kissed her forehead, while massaging her hip.

"Bloody hell, I detest these false labor pains," she groaned. She sighed heavily before leaving the warmth of their bed and waddled to the bathroom.

"Merlin, that's a rather fanciable sight. Mione, I do believe I hit the jackpot," he flirted, eyes glued to her naked form.

She disappeared into the bathroom, but not before flipping her curls flirtatiously, winking, and beckoning him to join her in the shower. The ginger flipped out of the bed, chasing his wife. Echoes of giggles and moans filled the hall and bedroom.

Later that morning

A little girl ran from the fireplace, her doll at her side. Flaming red, wild curls bounced around her beautiful face, as her blue eyes sparkled.

"Daddy, Granddaddy gave me this really cool toy that flew across the room if I pulled this stick. He told me it was holo...holocepper," she prattled.

Ron followed her inside, smiling at the toddler as he sealed the floo. "Helicopter, sweetheart," he corrected.

He took a step, and instantly bristled at the atmosphere. Something was off...deeply wrong.

"Rosie," he called. He tried to keep his voice level, hoping to keep his daughter calm. He knew it was imperative to get her out as soon as possible. He quickly sent a distress patronus to Harry and the rest of team, hoping they would be there momentarily.

Rose stood frozen at the kitchen door, eyes wide with horror, unshed tears gleaming in them, and scream threatening to pierce the air.

"Rosie, baby, come to Daddy," he urged.

Her lip quivered, and she gasped as a shadow emerged from the corner. She ran to her father, hiding behind his legs. Ron stood face to face with the very demon he had spent his adult life hunting.

"Heard you were looking for me, Weasel. Delicious smelling spawn. I'm sure she'll make an excellent snack later," a cruel voice rasped, before cackling.

"Fenrir, you filthy bastard!" Ron seethed.

The werewolf sneered and licked his lips, as he inhaled deeply. Ron's fingers grasped his wand tightly, ready to protect Rose, no matter the cost.

"Boys, take the young lass for a play date. I'm sure she'll behave until I return," Fenrir growled.

Four pack members stood behind the auror, crouched and prepared to pounce. An illusion charm sparkled in the air, giving their position away. One boldly approached the child, and Ron silently blasted him against the wall. The man collapsed against the wall, neck broken and limp.

"Touch her and you will suffer the same fate," her father snarled. He flicked a shield around her and she was instantly surrounded by an impenetrable bubble that would last until he cast the key spell or it would dissolve in the event of his death.

"So you want to play, do ya? Bad choice, boy!" Fenrir roared.

Hexes began flying, destroying the Granger-Weasley home. Rosie's bubble evaded the jets of light, as she watched her father battle against the four invaders. Ron swiftly takes out two of them, resorting to brute force to snap the neck of one. He was now up against Fenrir and his last lackey. His chest was heaving and blood and sweat blurred his vision from the various slicing curses that struck him. Fenrir launched himself at the exhausted wizard, toppling over the overturned furniture. Ron tried to blast him away, but he was struck with a cruciatus curse from the other wolf.

Rose shut her eyes and covered her ears, as her father's agonizing wails bounced along the walls.

"Daddy!" she screams, hot tears raked across her little face.

The auror writhes on the floor, until he is able to gather his strength to fight the boiling torture in his veins. His raw magic bursts from him, ending his pain as Greyback and his lackey are flung across the room.

The demon crouches once more, the lunges once more. Ron dodges his attack, but is blind to the other behind him. Greyback's follower transfigures four broken table legs into steel stakes and crucio's his prey once more.

Ron collapses to his knees, convulsing from the electricity frying his body. He tries to fight off the seering pain, but the blinding agony coursed through his soul, ripping him apart. Darkness threatened to overtake him, but he forced himself to stay aware of the situation at hand. His daughter was at stake. A sickening blow was delivered to his skull, knocking him unconscious.

Fenrir laughs cruelly as the toddler cowers behind her shield, wailing distraughtly for her Daddy to wake up.

"Harper, drag him over there and prop him up nice and straight. I want that little pup of his to see him perish," he ordered.

The wolf obeyed his alpha's command, propping the auror against the far wall. Fenrir prodded the protection shield, eliciting a series of electric surges.

"Must admit, the bitch of his had a hand in this. Our toy is very protected by this," he said, enjoying the terrified expression of the child before him.

Ron stirred groggily, blood rushing over his ears and face, soaking his shirt and jeans. He instantly remembered his predicament and reach for his wand, only to find it missing.

"Na ah ah..." Fenrir tutted. "We're going to have little chat, you and me."

"Like hell we are!" Ron gritted.

Fenrir smirked, then swiftly kicked his prisoner in the abdomen.

"Respect, surely your mother taught you better." He began pacing the room, relishing in the pained breaths and whimpers of his prisoners.

"Now, you are going to tell me how you and your team somehow got so close to your goal of arresting me. I have been uprooted from my home and hunting grounds for the last ten years, thank to you and bloody fucking team. I am aware that you pitiful excuses are clever, but never that clever. You had locations of acquaintances of mine and my moles were suddenly being snuffed out. Now you will tell me your sources, and maybe I leave only infecting you daughter with my gene, understood?" he threatened.

"Over my dead body," Ron growled darkly.

A sneer ran across the werewolf's face, "Harper..." he said simply.

The wolf took on of the steel stakes and drove it in Ron's left thigh, nailing it to the floor. Ron roared from the pain, as dark red stained seeped into the carpets below. Rosie clung to her doll, wailing uncontrollably.

"I'll ask, again. The name of your source...who is it? I do not like to be kept waiting, Weasel!" he roared.

Ron gagged, but he only glared at the alpha. He refused to reveal their mole and inside man. A decade of trust rode on this and he would not betray them. Fenrir grew impatient at his silence, and nodded to Harper once more. Harper drove a second stake in his left thigh, essentially rooting the auror to the floor. Agonizing roars bounced off the walls, as Ron vomited from the blinding pain. His chest ached dangerously as he gasped through the waves.

"Close your eyes, Rosie," he rasped. "Daddy is going to be fine," he called, "Just close your eyes, baby girl."

"Awww...how utterly weak," Greyback taunted, before nodding his head once more to Harper.

Fire lit inside his veins once more. He seized against the walls, legs rattling against the stakes, and arms curling inward instinctively. He eyes rolled back as the electric current threatened to take his sanity. He tried not to scream, but lost the battle, as a fresh wave of torture overtook him. His chest pain became unbearable and he though his heart might burst from the abuse. His body began to flail uncontrollably, until the last waves ran their course. He instantly spewed vile down his shirt and coughed blood up before spitting on the floor.

His eyesight was blurry, but he still remained determined to keep his oath and protect his daughter. He was no fool. No matter the outcome, Fenrir would kill him the moment he received the intel. Ron knew his daughter's only chance at survival was his survival and he could not crack.

"The name, blood-traitor!" Fenrir roared.

"Go fuck yourself, dog!" Ron spluttered.

Fenrir clawed Ron's chest open to drive his claws into his slashed skin. Ripped flesh hung, as battered, torn muscle was exposed and destroyed. Ron's raw magic threatened to burst once more, but Fenrir delivered a harsh, bone crushing blow to rib cage, piercing a lung. Ron began to gasp for air, fighting off the darkness that loomed over him.

"Clo-ose...eyes...Rose. I lo-ove you, ba-" he gasped.

"Daddy! Noo...leave my Daddy alone, monster-man! NOOOOOOO!" Rose screamed hysterically.

A green flash erupted from Ron's stolen wand, leaving the slumped form of the father behind. The shield faltered and disappeared, betraying the small child.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Now to enjoy the reapings!" Fenrir whispered.

A screech of horror escaped Rose as she clambered away from the demons in front of her. She couldn't understand why her daddy was no longer moving, talking, or why his eyes no longer blinked. She screams for her mother, hoping for her safe embrace.

"Come here, ya little brat!" he commands.

"No! Daddy wake up!" wailed the girl.

Fenrir grew tired of the game and nodded to Harper to restrain the girl. The wolf gripped the child harshly, causing her to panic. Wild, raw magic burst from her as she screeched in distraught room instantly erupted in a blaze that engulfed the entire house. Broken glass and charred flesh filled her nostrils. She searched for her father, but the smoke and flames made it difficult to see or breathe.

Faintly, she could hear someone calling her name. She tried to crawl closer, but her arms shook to much, and her legs seemed frozen in terror.

Sharp claws dug into and a bloody hand smothered her scream. She felt herself ripped from her home, twisting into the air, and taken captive by the very monster that left her father slumped against the wall.

"Rosie! Ron! Rosie, sweetheart! Unc-" Harry called, before stumbling over debris.

His eyes focused once more to find the lifeless form of his best friend, beaten, tortured, covered in blood and deep purple bruises. Aurors were storming the remains of the home, wiping the memories of the neighbors and extinguishing the flames.

"No! No no no no NO! Ron wake up! Fuck! Hermione is going to fucking lose it!" he cried, his chest constricting painfully with grief.

"Potter! We found this," said the investigator.

Harry took the ragged item from him, flipping it in his grasp. He wiped the soot from the surface to find a familiar doll in his hands. He instantly scanned the room for the remains of a small child. He found relief and grief to discover Ron's daughter absent.

"Find Rosie! She's two years old with bright red curls that resemble her mother's. Find her!" Harry ordered.

"Sir, the other bodies are confirmed to be members of Fenrir Greyback's pack. Should we expect the worst?" asked an auror.

"Fenrir?" Harry croaked.

"Missing, Potter." they answered.

Harry became all too aware of the reality of this nightmare: Ron was dead, Rosie was missing and possibly abducted by the most dangerous and notorious werewolf, and he must be the one to tell Hermione. His heart sunk his chest as he nodded his understanding and collapsed to the floor, holding the tattered doll to his chest.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12302830/1/Bitter-Beauty

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9160762

[cyb-by-lang]

Shell Game (21/?)

Kei has some important conversations while the Sports Festival goes on in the background.

Kayama-sensei ordered everyone who’d made it through the cavalry battle qualifier to gather in the middle of the stadium, forming a fair-sized crowd of UA gym uniforms in front of her podium. Forty-two kids all gathered together, all looking up at the big digital screen. Behind them, the imported American cheerleaders were trying their best to get the crowd hyped for the next event. All around, the students who hadn’t made it past the obstacle race were helping event staff roll out game equipment for the “recreational” events.

“Come closer and draw lots to see who you’re up against,” Kayama-sensei said brightly, holding a box braced against one hip. “Then enjoy the pleasure of the recreational games before we start. The sixteen finalists have the option of participating in these activities or sitting out to prepare for battle.”

Kei already knew what she was going to do. She needed time to meditate, not perform like a trained seal.

She shifted her weight slightly, making sure Monoma was within eyesight. It might’ve been a bit judgmental, but being caught unawares by his Quirk just once was enough. Giving Isobu an actual excuse for direct violence would be one of the last mistakes of somebody’s life.

“I’ll start with the first place team,” Kayama-sensei went on.

One by one, the kids picked up their numbers.

The brackets shook out like this:

First up, Midoriya and Shōda. Both of them went sickly pale when they realized they made up the first match, and Kei couldn’t blame them. She leaned toward rooting for Midoriya on the whole, if only because a kid whose fighting style drew so heavily from the Black Knight probably needed to get a pro’s attention and train himself up differently. She’d wave a foam finger for Shōda anyway, though. If she had one.

The second match: Todoroki versus Sero. While Kei thought the tape-using kid seemed nice enough, Todoroki could punch nearly in Kei’s weight class with his ridiculous ice Quirk. If it wasn’t a one-shot fight, she’d be surprised. Few people could overmatch Kei’s Water ninjutsu so easily, at least since she’d properly practiced and learned to work together with Isobu.

The third fight would be between Kaminari and Ojiro, and Kei already knew who she was rooting for there. And it wasn’t the human stun-gun, despite the power output he’d showed earlier. Hopefully, Ojiro would manage to close the distance before getting lit up like a Tesla coil. Outlasting Kaminari seemed easy, as long as the first attack wasn’t a total knockout.

Fourth: Iida and Hatsume, whom Kei had finally identified as a member of the Support Course. She’d been under the impression that the pink-haired Hatsume could be another strange Quirk user from General Studies, because after seeing engine exhaust pipes growing out of Iida’s legs anything seemed possible. Apparently she was just a less successful Tony Stark, but with binocular zoom built into her eyes.

Kei’s half of the brackets started with the fifth match: Shinsō versus Ashido. She seemed friendly enough, so Shinsō’s Quirk ought to be effective. If not, well, he’d get some use out of what self-defense tricks Kei’d managed to instill. While hopefully not getting melted horribly, because some people’s appearances and their Quirks were hardly on speaking terms.

After that, Tokoyami was up against Yaoyorozu. Having seen neither of their actual fighting styles but plenty of their Quirks, Kei didn’t really know what to think. She couldn’t stop looking at Dark Shadow and seeing a shape Isobu might like to take someday.

Kei’s own match would be second to last, facing off against 1-A’s Kirishima in what’d have to be either the longest brawl ever or a very straightforward use of her “Quirk.” Worse, she wouldn’t be able to throw the match convincingly to the kid whose deal was turning his body into a rock. Her friends back home would absolutely give her shit for losing to Kirishima even on purpose.

The very last match of the first round? Uraraka versus Bakugō. Once again, Kei knew fuck-all about one of the Quirks in that fight and plenty about the other. While she suspected explosions would turn out to be pretty hard for Uraraka to fight, Uraraka deserved to win as far as Kei was concerned.

Midoriya made a noise like a mouse being stepped on, his eyes darting back and forth between his and Uraraka’s matchups.

“This’ll be fun,” Shinsō said, rubbing the back of his neck as he scanned the crowd for Ashido.

Kei nodded distractedly. Isobu’s temper thrummed in her chest like a second heartbeat, keeping her on edge. By the time the recreational games began, Kei was forced to bid Shinsō a brief goodbye to “prepare for the tournament.”

He accepted that excuse, and probably went off to practice zingers suited for Ashido.

Retreating to the prep room instead of sticking around to watch the “fun” felt a little like she was trying to become a hermit, but Kei did it anyway. Even if she didn’t need a few minutes to calm Isobu, she definitely wanted a chance to recover some of the massive amounts of chakra she’d expended inside of an hour. Throwing around that many Water Dragon Bullets, one Water Wall, two Hidden Mists, and one Great Waterfall on top of her other general enhancements was the kind of drain that would’ve been incredibly wasteful from the perspective from any ordinary shinobi. Especially because not one of those ninjutsu had killed anyone. The pride of many a dead Kiri-nin howled for blood.

Kei only really cared about the turtle monster doing the same in her head.

This prep room’s only occupant was Midoriya, with Shōda nowhere in sight. Maybe it was for the best—she’d known Midoriya a little longer, and the kid had a tendency to get caught up in his thoughts worse than a fish in a net. She could keep to herself here and be left alone.

Midoriya raised his head when she entered, waving weakly, before going back to his muttering once she acknowledged his presence with a nod. Probably going over what he knew of the other boy’s Quirk and trying to think around it. By the time Kei pulled up a chair and slumped over the far table with her head pillowed on her arms, he was mumbling about needing his fingers.

She left him to it. Midoriya didn’t need her help. Isobu did. Therefore, Kei set an alarm on her phone and closed her eyes to drop into her and Isobu’s shared mindscape.

The formerly-tranquil cliffside beach was a wreck of disturbed coral, rock, and uprooted palm trees strewn all across white sand, and the cause of it all sat in the middle of a brand new inlet with his forelegs folded to the sides. When Kei’s mental avatar floated down to his face, he turned it as far away as he could and closed his good eye.

“I am not sorry,” said Isobu, at once in her head and to her face. “I will never be sorry for defending us.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask you to be,” Kei told him, drifting closer until she sat on one of the spikes jutting forward from his head. His entire body shifted so he sat lower in the water before she could entirely settle, sending waves so high they nearly touched Kei’s toes. “You wanna help me clean this place up?”

“No demands to change my behavior?” Isobu asked, though he dragged himself farther onto the beach. His huge digits dug into the gray-white sand and started shifting debris.

“No demands, no,” Kei said, swinging down from his spikes one-handed. Her feet crunched onto the beach sand, strangely warm under her toes. It was all an illusion, but it was still comforting. “I remember what we agreed on, and I remember the thing with Inosuke. And Madara, and Kakashi, and with the butterflies, and like…I get it. Scolding you won’t change anything.”

“It will not.” Isobu shifted a bit, allowing Kei to stoop and pick up coral fragments from under the side of his shell. As she started gathering fish-shaped mental projections and hucking them back into the water underhand, he said, “Of all the ways we could be attacked…”

“I know,” Kei said, brushing her fingers against his shell. As he rumbled, she went on, “It’s awful. I don’t—if I didn’t know it was all just kids messing around during a school event, I’d…probably have reacted a lot like you.”

“How much experience do either of us have with such a situation?” Isobu wrenched a flattened palm tree out of the sand and hurled it out to sea. “Even the most childish of the ‘games’ you have recently lived through could end in dismemberment or death for all participants. And if it was the case, you could have died without knowing what killed you.”

Kei nodded, even as she flung another fish into the surf. “I know.”

“And?”

“And he’s a kid. Messing with powers because it’s what he does,” Kei told Isobu. She sighed and leaned back, staring up at the artificial sun far above their heads. “I am and was angry, and I get why I was angry even before I get to how you influence my mood, but that was dangerous. If me being unable to keep my head is going to mean you’re about to start killing people, we need to talk about this.”

Isobu’s rumble became less contented and more threatening, like an impending landslide. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart. Only one of them had a literal heart, but Kei would argue that Isobu’s emotions ran, if anything, more intensely in him than a lot of people.

“I know what Shinsō’s Quirk is like,” Kei said, “even if I don’t remember being under it. Next time, maybe instead of trying to pop into V2 cloak and losing our collective shit, you could try just like…” Kei paused, then held up an arm so Isobu could see. In here, Kei wore her jōnin uniform instead of either of the UA sets, and Isobu’s gold-on-red eye laser-focused on her. “Punch me in the face. Just grab my arm through our chakra coils and sock me right in the jaw.”

“…I could also just do that when I want to,” Isobu said, instead of acknowledging the practicality of Kei’s plan. For him, it must’ve been easier to just tease her.

“If it works to get us out of a genjutsu…” Kei trailed off. She hadn’t been truly caught by a genjutsu for a while now, and many of the stronger ones hardly allowed movement. Some couldn’t be broken by pain, either. Still, it was something approaching a plan. “Same principle.”

Isobu made a noise like “hmph,” but scaled up tenfold. He abandoned his attempts to clear the beach, but the false debris was already starting to fade into dream-stuff. Before he disappeared into the waves, he told her, I will think about it.

Kei waved to his retreating tails, and all three of them waved back.

Then her phone alarm beeped.

Kei checked whether she’d drooled onto the table before she sat up. Once she’d determined everything was still more or less as she’d left it, minus one Midoriya through a still-swinging door, Kei got to her feet and decided to head for the stands. She checked her phone, of course—Obito had a knack for spamming the hell out of a groupchat that was difficult to tear her eyes from.  

GreenThumb: now we have brackets

GreenThumb: i saw youre up against rock kid

GreenThumb: dont lose to him

GreenThumb: im sure youre thinking about it

GreenThumb: a whole afternoon of not doin anything

GreenThumb: but splodey kid is RIGHT THERE

GreenThumb: and purple kid versus pink kid too

GreenThumb: i dunno how thats gonna go but

GreenThumb: tell shinsō hed better not lose

GreenThumb: i spent too much time gettin used as a trainin dummy

GreenThumb: so

GreenThumb: COME ON AND WIN THIS ヾ（＾ヮ\\)ﾉ

Defib: Or throw the match and save yourself the further attention of a rabid media-focused world. You don’t need to be in the finals to accomplish your goals. Or on television.

Defib: Aren’t you supposed to be more subtle than this?

TMNT-TNT: Probably.

GreenThumb: excuse me

GreenThumb: but this is team awesomeness only

GreenThumb: no killjoys allowed

Defib: Better a killjoy than dead.

GreenThumb: +ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+凸(◕‿\\✿)+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

TMNT-TNT: Aren’t you two literally right next to each other? Within punching distance?

Obito didn’t send any more messages after that. Neither did Kakashi.

Kei tucked her phone away and headed up toward the stands.

The student sections of the audience were divided by class, though as far as she could tell there was no actual ban on visiting the other groups. 1-A had one smattering of benches, while 1-B was next to them, and so on. It was pretty similar to their arrangement within UA’s halls, only there weren’t any massive sliding doors. Walls between the sections were high, though, and few people were already in their seats. Kei stuck her head in two of the doorways just to make sure the Hero course students were where she expected them to be, then wandered to 1-C’s spot.

“Gekkō-san, hello!” said Homura, her hair and eyebrows blazing away with excitement.

“Um.”

Kei stood there, a little stunned, as Homura took both her hands in hers and said, “Congratulations on getting as far as you have. I mean, I know you were always a strong student, but right now you’re representing our whole class. You and Shinsō-kun!”

“Thank you?” Kei managed, still blinking in surprise. Dang it, now she felt bad for thinking of throwing her match in the tournament. She still would, but it’d be less funny.

And she hadn’t even been particularly nice to any of these kids.

“It’s nice to know I have your support,” Kei said, not entirely sincere because she wasn’t fully certain of Homura’s motives. Some of the other 1-C students weren’t looking her in the eye, and that was certainly not a new development. “Make sure you tell Shinsō-san the same, okay?”

“As soon as I see him, you can count on that!” Homura promised. She let go of Kei’s hands and peered behind her, as though expecting to see Shinsō following her. “Nobody’s seen him for a while, though. I asked Shingetsu-kun already.”

Shingetsu’s head spun around at the sound of his name, though his torso kept pointing in the direction of the pointy-eared kid he was lecturing. “Sorry, did someone say something?”

Homura’s fiery eyebrows dimmed somewhat. “Have you seen Shinsō-kun?”

“Not since the last time you asked.” And then Shingetsu was back to telling the other students why throwing popcorn was bad manners. Or something like that.

“I haven’t seen him either.” Kei scratched the base of her scar. “Mind if I go look?”

“The matches will be starting soon, though,” Homura said, though she wasn’t actually telling Kei not to do what she would.

“Be right back, then,” Kei said, and darted back into the building. It was as much to find Shinsō as to get away from her classmates. As she left, she heard Shingetsu tell Homura something along the lines of “you scared her off,” but didn’t stop to ask.

Weird they were choosing now to put aside their fear of her and make nice.

With the first match so close to starting, Kei wasn’t surprised to find the hallways nearly empty of spectators, students, and everyone else. Not for the first time, she took a second to curse the total lack of chakra available to sense in the general area, which would have made finding people a snap. She ended up effectively circling the stadium twice through the halls and stairways, finding only Midoriya and Shōda up and about (and still quite nervous, despite each getting a quick pat on the back from her), before deciding to search outside the building. She could afford to miss the first match.

The stadium was set at the end of a long cement pathway, but there was a forested park jammed up against the back of it. While trotting along in search of Shinsō, she passed Todoroki leaning against the building and remembered just in time what a terrible mood looked like, so she gave him a wide berth. Tokoyami was up in a tree, his animate shadow keeping an eye out and waving down at her as she passed. It took a little longer, until she was almost on the far side of the trees, before she spotted Shinsō sitting on a root with his back against the tree trunk.

“There you are,” Kei said, relieved. She came to a stop next to him.

“What’s with that look on your face?” Shinsō asked, sitting up. One purple eyebrow went up. “You look spooked.”

What went unspoken was probably along the lines of, “And I’ve seen you literally being held hostage before, so what the fuck?”

“Our classmates were trying to be nice.” Kei shook her head slowly. “To me. Not in general. But also in general.”

Shinsō stared at her.

“Or at least Homura-san was,” Kei added, somewhat defensively. “It was weird.”

Shinsō sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Took them long enough.”

“…What?”

“To get over themselves,” Shinsō said, a bitter look crossing his face. As she sat down in the grass across from him, he rested his chin in his hand. “You’re standoffish, like a cat, so everyone’s been tiptoeing around you trying to figure out what to do. Only now you’re doing well without them and it’s giving them ideas.”

Kei thought this was all rather cynical, but, as a cynic, waited patiently for the next part of the explanation. It was only polite.

“When people weren’t wondering when I’d turn into a villain or avoiding me, they’d act like my Quirk was super special. Like they were my friends.” Shinsō rolled his eyes. “But the second they found out I wasn’t going to use it to manipulate anyone because they were ‘so nice to me’ and asked me to, they went right back to spreading rumors.”

“I’m not,” Kei said, once he’d finished.

“Not what?”

“Not using you to get ahead,” Kei told him. She leaned back, bracing her hands against the grass to keep her balance. While a muscle in Shinsō’s jaw jumped and he fought not to interrupt, she went on, “I fully admit to not being a super nice person. I don’t know how people like Midoriya-san do it, to be honest. But…as awkward as that was, I think Homura-san was trying.”

Not particularly effectively, but there was effort behind it.

“I don’t tend to give people much of a chance.” She found herself scratching the lower end of her scar and stopped once she noticed. “I ignored almost everyone at the beginning of the year. But Homura-san seemed like she meant well. It’s not her fault if the rest of the class isn’t gonna follow her lead.”

Shinsō didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he pried at a scrap of loose bark and peeled it off, a pensive look on his face.

“So, what’re you doing this far from the stadium?” Kei asked.

“Meditating. About the only thing I can do now.” Shinsō started tying the strip of bark into a knot. “It’s not really working. I’m still nervous.”

“I think that’s normal,” Kei told him. “But like you said, you’ve made the top sixteen. The parts that wiped out basically everyone else are over.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Shinsō sighed again, tossing the bark into the manicured lawn. “How’d you keep calm? During that match your brother talked about?”

Kei paused. Visions of losing her temper as badly as she’d ever done before Isobu, and then having to frantically apologize for ruining Gai’s apology, flashed through her mind. Not her finest moment. “Um, you probably don’t want to know.”

Kei knew the instant Shinsō’s brain caught up with his mouth. He paled a little further, likely recalling the scraps of information Hayate had let slip. “…You know, I think you’re right.” He got to his feet. “Might as well stop putting it off.”

“And maybe our classmates will surprise you,” Kei added, as they headed back to the stadium.

“Maybe.” It wasn’t a no, at least.

[thecloserkin]

book review: Helen Oyeyemi, White is For Witching (2010)

Genre: haute literature masquerading as gothic magical realism

Is it the main pairing: no

Is it canon: no

Is it explicit: no

Is it endgame: no

Is it shippable: not really

Bottom line: if they’re not in love what even is the point? i feel like this story is a collection of twincest tropes someone slapped together without bothering to inject any chemistry

Twins Miranda and Eliot Silver inherit a haunted house from their lately deceased mother. Their father converts the house into a bed-and-breakfast, except the staff keep quitting because GHOSTS, and then Miranda goes missing. That’s the mystery at the center of the book. Where did Miranda go? What happened to her? Well to begin with Miranda was a very troubled girl:

My sister turned seventeen in a mental health clinic; I brought our birthday cake to her there.

Miranda has an eating disorder that has rendered her an ethereal sack of bones. Her father refuses to buy her new clothes; he insists she must fill out enough to fit into her old ones. She’s not interested in food but she’s got an insatiable hunger for materials like plastic and rubber and her go-to, chalk:

She took some chalk out of the pocket of her dress. When she offered Eliot a stick of it he looked surprised, but took it and stuck it in his mouth, pretended to smoke it like a cigar while she ate.

That’s beautiful, isn’t it? Sad but beautiful. The two of them sitting in companionable silence, Miranda chewing on a piece of chalk and Eliot not judging her at all.

when we were ten I always knew the meaning of the sounds she made, even when they were unsuccessful

The implicit contrast between when we were ten and now (late adolescence/early adulthood) is the yawning gap that has opened up between the twins—they no longer share every waking thought. This is them moving to Dover from London in the wake of their mother’s loss:

Miri and I conferred and decided we liked the tallness of the house … We liked that the passageways on each floor were wide enough for the two of us to stand beside each other with our arms and legs spread, touching but not touching.

I’m not even sure when he says they conferred that they were using words, you know? It’s entirely possible that telepathic communication came as naturally as breathing to these two. You have to remember the two of them were experiencing seven different kinds of upheaval and displacement—uprooted from their neighborhood, their classmates and friends and routines; motherless; plunked down in the middle of a new town; inhabiting a restless house that’s trying to inhabit them.

Miri is good at making friends, and I am good at tagging along on expeditions and acting as if the whole thing was my idea in the first place … Actually, when we were sixteen Miri gave me the task of telling Martin that he didn’t stand a chance with her.

Of course she delegates the task of rejecting a suitor to her brother lol. In addition, what this passage tells us is that they ran in more or less the same circles. They had the same friends. They were inseparable and they probably thought they would remain so from womb to tomb. Such sweet summer children they were.

She said, “You’re applying to Cambridge?” Uncertainty worked his mouth. She thought she had wobbled in her seat, then realized she hadn’t moved at all; the thought don’t go had flashed through her like a swarm of pins. Eliot was one of those boys that made girls go quiet. He was so beautiful that it seemed certain he was arrogant or insensitive or stupid … His bone structure was scary and unnatural and flawless. Besides that he was her knight.

Cue Miranda flashing back to when they were kids role-playing King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Of course she applies to Cambridge too, not in the expectation that she’ll actually get in but because she can’t cope with the idea of being apart from Eliot. She’s never been apart from Eliot. In one of those ironic quirks of fate she gets in and he doesn’t, and he watches her and all their friends go off to university while he takes a gap year in South Africa, during which his radio silence causes Miranda no end of anxiety. She thinks he is punishing her. They go from this:

Eliot lay under Miranda’s elbows, reading Moby-Dick while she used his back to prop up her collected works of Poe.

and this

Miranda was so cold in her bed that she knew she couldn’t survive it and knocked on the wall between her and Eliot’s rooms. With minimal grumbling, he came and climbed into bed with her and let her lie with her head on his breastbone, his arms around her

to this:

She thought of Eliot. He anchored her mind, a troublesome weight, reassuring.

She’s never learned how to be without him.

In addition to the Miranda POV there are three first-person narrators of varying degrees of unreliability: Eliot, the house itself, and a girl Miranda falls in love with at Cambridge. All three of them want different things from Miranda, and it’s impossible to discern who the “real” Miranda is or what she wants because she’s constantly being pulled in different directions.

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

So the house. It is perhaps not correct to characterize the house as the antagonist of the story, but the thing certainly lies at the root of Miranda’s mental health struggles. The house is sentient. The house is the repository of the souls of Miranda’s ancestors in the maternal line: her mother and grandmother and great-grandma, all of their personalities absorbed into a kind of mind-meld …. and you better believe that the Borg is coming for Miranda too. The house taking over Miranda’s body actually explains many of the gaps in her memory, and the fact that she looks like a completely different person from pictures taken only a few years ago. Eliot and Miranda’s father has a recurring dream where he’s trying to get into the house but the doors and windows are all boarded up, he’s hollering for the twins’ mother and there is no one to let him in. Eliot is afflicted by the same dream, only it’s Miranda he’s calling for, Miranda who won’t let him in. I bring up this parallel in order to observe that Miranda stands in the same relation to Eliot as their mother does to their father, and isn’t that interesting. It isn’t that the twins don’t have love interests, but these never seem to last: Eliot gets himself a girlfriend and it doesn’t work out; Miranda gets herself a girlfriend, brings the chick home for the holidays, and the poor girl is driven out of her wits by the toxicity of the house and its possessiveness of Miranda.

When their mother was alive she was really big on drawing BOUNDARIES between the twins. She tried to make Eliot understand that:

my pressing my lips to Miri’s nine-year-old heartbeat was not the same as feeling the blood move in myself.

But once they lost their mother they grew closer. This is the money quote:

everyone thinks that twin brothers and sisters grow up magnetized towards each other, the prince at the foot of Rapunzel’s tower before the tower is even built, the lover you can get at all the fucking time, the one who is you but a girl, or you but a boy, whose bed you know as well as your own. How could you endure that without falling in love? The question is, were they born in love with each other, these twins, or did it blossom? At any rate it’s already happened, the onlookers agree. It must have. Ask them when they fell. The brother and sister say no, no, it’s nothing like that, but what they mean is they can’t remember when.

!!!! Excuse me while I commission someone to engrave these words on a 24-karat gold plaque and hang it up in my living room. The book was worth reading for this quote alone. The Rapunzel reference!!!!!! Why the hell did Helen Oyeyemi not write a novel about incest in fairy tales:

A pair of hands slipped over her eyes and rested there, heavy and warm. The screwdriver fell. “Hello Gretel,” her brother said in her ear. She heard the screwdriver roll across the floor and knew he had kicked it … “Hello Hansel.” She laid her own hands on his wrists; he kissed the tip of her ear. “So we’re in a fairy tale … I knew it,” she said, as he led her out of the laundry room.

….instead of the book she actually wrote which obviously fell short of my expectations lol.

[militant-holy-knight]

Thousands Of Christians Form An Army, Stand Their Ground, And Drive Out ISIS From Entering Their Lands

Thousands of Christians in Lebanon have formed an army to combat ISIS. The militias are driving out jihadists groups like ISIS and al-Nusra, and have prevented Lebanon from becoming another Mosul. One of Christian militia leaders, Rifaat Nasrallah, said:

If it weren’t for us, it would be another Mosul for the Christians in Lebanon… We will never stand to not hear our church bells ring… That will never happen here.

As one report explains:

Nasrallah, a veteran of Lebanon’s civil war, first organized his local militia after fighters with Jabhat al-Nusra, al Qaeda’s affiliate in Syria, began staging incursions into his town over the summer, ransacking local businesses and kidnapping residents. Since then Nasrallah says his men, most of whom he says also fought in the civil war, have managed to do what the Lebanese army had been incapable of: Secure the border with Syria just outside Ras Baalbek.

Just a few months later in August, only a few miles to the south of Ras Baalbek, the Syrian border town of Arsal was overrun by militant rebel groups including Jabhat al-Nusra and ISIS. The fighters attacked government buildings and took more than 20 Lebanese military and security personnel hostage. Since then, two have been beheaded by ISIS and one has been shot by Jabhat al-Nusra. The Lebanese government is still engaged in ongoing negotiations aimed at securing the soldiers’ release.

Nasrallah says it’s thanks to his men that something similar hasn’t happened in his town. But this small Christian militia isn’t acting alone; they coordinate directly with Hezbollah, going on joint patrols, and receive supplies and training from the group. Recently, as ISIS fighters joined the fight along Lebanon’s border, the Lebanese army has also begun working with Nasrallah’s men. But, he says he doesn’t receive nearly as much support from the military as he does from the Shiite militant group.

True love is never settled by compromise, but through bloodshed. Christ said,  “Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.” (John 15:13) And the Christian militias who have risen up to fight the torrent of the Islamic sword that seeks to destroy their friends, their brethren, these are the ones who exemplify this eternal passage in the purest fashion.

These Christians are part of The New Militia, or the militia that foreshadows The New Crusade that is to come, in which Christendom will revive and destroy the enemies of God and the haters of the Cross, and establish the holy light over the wretched shadow of Satan’s darkness.

The Christian militias in Lebanon, Iraq, Syria, and other lands inflicted by the violent inflictions of Islam, are truly pioneers that cause us to foresee the advent of the most holy Crusade, in which nations of mighty Christendom will revive themselves, pick up the Cross and with Christ as their General, destroy the armies of the Antichrist.

We recently had an opportunity to speak with one of these militant pioneers, named Tony Elias. He is a young man, in his early twenties, filled with zeal and vision for the Christian Faith, and he has joined the Christian militia in Lebanon to combat the Islamic expansion that wants to completely overthrow the government and wipe out all of the Lebanese Christians.

Truly is he a modern day Crusader, even identifying himself as one. Unlike the fake and empty Christians of the modern world, he does not hide in shame of the Crusader history, when Christians were actually militant and fought for orthodox truth. He says:

I am not ashamed to be called a crusader.

The militia sent us a number of photos of themselves, with crosses and guns:

Elias is part of the Maronite Catholic Church, the oldest Christian order in Lebanon’s history, and they are the first Christians, and only Christians, in Lebanon,who have combated the bloody Islamic tempest since the earliest days of Islam. Elias explained to us that the struggle between Christian and Muslim in Lebanon goes all the way back to Islam’s advent, saying:

Just when Islam started, they [the Muslims] started to attack Christians and other minorities to make them Muslims. The history teaches us that not all Christians were strong enough to handle these battles, some turned into Muslims and some stayed Christians by force. We actually use the reason that our grandfathers used to make us stay here, by asking ourselves that if they didn’t do that, would I now be a Christian? …No! …now in Lebanon Muslims are gaining many numbers and they enforce their political superiority over the Christians

The ancient Maronite Christians fought against the earliest Muslims who tried to conquer their country. Some may object to this, and may use “turn the other cheek” to justify cowardice, and allow the Muslims to invade, but if these ancient Christians did nothing, all of their later generations would have been Muslims, and would have ended up in hell, without salvation. Elias himself told us this:

They do say that you shouldn’t fight, but if my grandfathers did not fight for the Faith, they would have converted to Islam, or their children would have converted to Islam, and by that I would have been Muslim and I would have ended up in hell. People argue and they say that you go to hell for fighting, because it is not Christian to fight, but what sends people to hell is not fighting, because those generations afterwards would end up Muslim and end up in hell.

Truly it is an expression of Christian compassion to fight evildoers who expand their wicked heresies, for to not fight, and thus allow them to deceive whole societies, will send entire generations into everlasting fire.

From the very beginning Islam wanted to destroy the Cross that stood firmly in the earth of Lebanon; from the very first years of their existence did the Muslims slaughter and pillage to uproot the Church in this land, and replace it with their devilish crescent idol. With this in mind it is quite profound that the symbol of the militia is a Cross with a sharp end, declaring that, like a sword, it will be forever posted into the ground of the earth of Lebanon. As Elias explained to us:

We have a cross that is sliced from the bottom so that it becomes like a steak because the Cross will always be a steak chiseled inside the ground of Lebanon, and it will always be there.

Now the devils are returning to rob what does not belong to them, now they come to flood the land and replace the light of God with the darkness of Lucifer. ISIS forces are striving to break into Lebanon and wipe out Christianity, and this is where the pioneering holy militia arises, to defend the Church and the nation. As Elias explained to us:

“Now in this year we have seen the rise of the Islamic State by Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, and we have seen how it started to get its land in Syria and Iraq, and how Christians there have fled their homes and are suffering. So, based on that, because Lebanon is not so far from Syria and Iraq (and from the Middle East) families here started to think of a way to defend themselves, if something happened to us. … We have our weapons but I want to say that we all agreed to not use them only if a real danger happened to us

The militia functions through scouting, with men each night looking after the borders to see if any approaching jihadists are trying to sneak into any of the villages. As Elias told us:

Every night some men go and just look after the borders of our village … We scout on the border to make sure ISIS is not coming on the border, and if ISIS is coming in the border we let the authorities know, or the Lebanese military know, and we are always prepared and ready to defend ourselves because we think the danger is right around the corner.

Another Christian militant named Abu Tony, a militia member of the town of Qaa, said:

With the Syrian war next door, we have many troubles, many suspicious people come here, we have to be on high alert. We have to defend our land from terrorists, from ISIS and Nusra Front [al-Qaeda branch operating in the area

Abu Georges, a Christian militiaman from Qaa, explained how Muslim terrorists try to enter the border through a certain mountain, and how in one battle the Christians slaughtered most of the jihadists:

Behind this mountain there are militants and they always try to infiltrate here. Last time, just five days ago, we fought with them and killed most of them

Elias actually foresees that the jihadists will overpower the Lebanese military, and that when this happens, they will be ready to fight,

They’re power will vanish, we will be ready and we will not face what Christians in Syria have faced, or in Iraq.

Through combat do these men illustrate their love for God; through fighting do they put their lives on the line for their friends, and through the strength of militancy do they love the Lord their God with all strength. Elias explained to us that the militants partake in the battle against the terrorists to love God with all mind, spirit, heart, soul and strength, saying:

The Christians are always commanded to love God with all of our hearts, with all our might, with all our wills, in every way. …In this case we are working on the strength part.  

This was truly amazing to hear, for I was hearing the theology of Christian militancy being said by an actual militant, whose soul is rooted in one of the most ancient churches in Christianity. Everything that I have been writing in my articles was being said by someone who actually carries the sword and defends the Faith.

He applied the first commandment of Christ, that “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30) to holy war. This very passage of Christ was applied to warfare in the Scriptures, for after Josiah killed off the pagan priests, destroyed the houses of the sodomites, and purged the land of witchcraft, the Bible says, “Now before him there was no king like him, who turned to the Lord with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his might, according to all the Law of Moses; nor after him did any arise like him.” (2 Kings 23:25)

This is the same application that I have been teaching for quite some time, and it was very enlightening and refreshing to see someone who is actually in a Christian militia, and involved in an actual fight, use the same application. When we asked him what theology is behind the militia, he quoted the passage of Christ from the 15th chapter of the Gospel of John:

There is no bigger love than to give yourself for your friends.

This is a most orthodox application, for St. Cyril, when speaking on the Christians defending themselves from the persecutions of the Muslims, said:

Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends” [John 15:13]. And we therefore submit to the insults that our enemies cast at us individually, and pray to God for them, but as a group we defend one another and lay down our lives for one another, so that you wouldn’t, by enslaving our brothers, take away their souls along with their bodies and kill them off completely.

Even the body is esteemed as a gift to be used for fighting, seeing that God did not make anything in vain, and it is to be used for holy combat against the devil and his followers. As Elias told us:

God did not give us anything in vain, we have to use it. The Lord gave somebody 5 talents and he multiplied them to 10 talents. We are not suppose to be hiding our talents under the ground, we are suppose to invest our talents.

While there is the “good and faithful servant” who has “gained five more talents besides them”, and who shall be “ruler over many things”, there is the “wicked and lazy servant,” who “hid your talent in the ground.” (Matthew 25:20-24) These are the useless people who call themselves Christians, but do nothing to fight against evil, and not only that, but also assist the enemies of the true Christians. The useless Christian is the first enemy, and the cause of all evils. Elias himself told us this:

I want to say also that the first enemy of us, isn’t Islam, the first enemy for us is the weak Christians that do not have the courage enough to spread the Bible

This militiaman understands that the war between Christian and Muslim is not secular, but one of religion, between those who uphold the Holy Trinity, and those who want to replace it with the antichrist unitarian god. As he himself explained:

We all know that Muslims don’t believe in Jesus as we believe in him. [They] don’t believe in Him as God. They believe in Him as a prophet who accepted that a man would die in His place. Thats not the Christ we believe in. Those Christians who are losing their Christian identity, are our first enemy.

And what of “turn the other cheek”? These militiamen do not follow the superficial and weak interpretations of the modern theologians and the heretics, but the teachings of the orthodox and ancient Church of holy Christendom. Elias told us:

My point of view on turn the other cheek, is not to be weak, but to show him that I am strong enough to take the other slap. … The strength in me is to accept that second slap, and that will may make him ashamed of what he did, and if he doesn’t feel ashamed, then its my turn to act.

He then went on to say a very fascinating explanation, that in the time of Christ the Jews loved fighting for fighting’s sake, and that Jesus, in teaching them to come back to the Law of God, was bringing them to the precept that fighting is not an end unto itself, but a means to an end. That end is victory over evil. As Elias told us:

The Jews attended a point where they fought for the love of fighting. Jesus came and He fixed what they were thinking, telling them that not fighting itself is important, but the reason for fighting is important. Thats what He did; He fought death and He won.

Christians do not kill for the sake of vengeance, or for the pleasure of bloodshed, but for the advancement of justice. In the words of Augustine, Christ told us “‘We are not to resist evil,” lest we take pleasure in vengeance which nourishes the soul on another’s wrong, but we are not to fall short in correcting men.” (Augustine, Letter 47, trans. Parsons)

At times, to correct others is to kill them. This should be the case of those who come to attack churches, rape women and slaughter Christians. To kill such people will not be a wicked or selfish gratification of the flesh, but a selfless act of righteousness vanquishing the attempt of the demonic and the sinister.

To fight is not an evil unto itself, it is to become militant for the want of pillage and plunder that is evil. To use the words of St. Ambrose, “to be in the army is not a crime, but to be in the army for the sake of pillaging is a sin.” (Ambrose, Sermon 7, in Bellarmine, On Laymen or Secular People, ch. 14)

These militias of God — how valiant and worthy of emulation are they! — teach us the Gospel through their actions: they put their lives to the sacrifice to fight the devil, as Christ sacrificed Himself to “destroy the works of the devil.” (1 John 3:8) By fighting, and exerting all of their energies to protect their churches, their priests, their monks, and their people, they put their lives near the gates of death, willing to combat the slaves of the devil till the entrance of life’s end is opened. Upon their their hearts the words of the holy Apostle:

“By this we know love, because He laid down His life for us. And we also ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.” (1 John 3:16)

It is because they place themselves in the intensity of battle, the moribund position of holy combat, that these men exemplify the highest point of love: sacrificing themselves. They are amongst those who, in the words of Deborah, “offered themselves willingly with the people” (Judges 5:9) to fight off the pagans who approach them to destroy Christianity, and thus are they amongst those whose love for God is like “the sun when it comes out in full strength.” (Judges 5:31)

These Christian militiamen choose fighting and death over slavery and servitude to a false religion. Christ said, “whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will save it.” (Luke 9:24) And surely do these Christian militiamen, who put the Holy Cross above the idols and heresies of Islam, have eschewed selfishness, and have chosen to lose their lives for the sake of living everlastingly. In the words of St. Ambrose:

Here, then, is fortitude in war, which bears no light impress of what is virtuous and seemly upon it, for it prefers death to slavery and disgrace. (Ambrose, Duties of the Clergy, 1.41, trans. Romestin)

It is now time for the Christians, in the advancement of Christendom, to rid the land of mosques and all other pagan temples, and establish the Light of Orthodoxy over the tyranny of heresy and paganism.

In the words of Augustine,

the pagan shall not stand against the Christian who has taken away his labors by despoiling or giving away the temples of the idols, but the Christian shall stand against the pagans who took away his labors by laying low the bodies of the martyrs. (Augustine, Letter 41)

As the Christians fight the internal war against the flesh with the spirit, do they fight those who seek to destroy the Church and uproot Christianity. In the words of St. Gregory,

Just as the Lord of victories made your excellence shine brightly against the enemies of war in this life, so it is necessary that the same excellence is shown against the enemies of His Church with all vigor of mind and body (St. Gregory, epistle 74, in Bellarmine, On Laymen and Secular People, ch. 14)

Some may argue that these Christian militias are unbiblical, because they are not government personal, or an army of the state. To clarify, Maronite militias work with the official Lebanese Forces in fighting ISIS, so it is not as though they are some ragtag band of criminals or vagabonds. Moreover, ask yourself, was Abraham a part of an official state when “he armed his three hundred and eighteen trained servants who were born in his own house, and went in pursuit” against the enemy (Genesis 15:14)?

Was he a part of a government when he “divided his forces against them by night, and he and his servants attacked them and pursued them as far as Hobah, which is north of Damascus” (Genesis 15:15)? No. Abraham fought against a government. While he had his own militia, he combated a tyrannical state. When he executed the force of his army, and unsheathed the sword against the wicked, and acted as “an avenger to execute wrath on him who practices evil” (Romans 13:4), the Lord did not curse him or reprimand him, but instead fought alongside Abraham, for the priest Melchizedek “met Abraham returning from the slaughter of the kings and blessed him” (Hebrews 7:1) and declared to him that God “delivered your enemies into your hand.” (Genesis 15:20)

Therefore, Christian militias who fight for the cause of justice against tyranny, light against darkness, and who fight for God over the wiles and despotisms of the devil, are righteous, and not wicked, just as Abraham was not pernicious when he assembled his militias to fight the pagan tyrants. Christ is “a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek.” (Hebrews 7:17)

Thus, Christians are of the same priesthood of the one who blessed Abraham after he slaughtered through the sword of his militia, and therefore can the Church conduct its own militias to fight off the wolves who prey on the sheep. The emulation of Abraham’s use of a militia did not leave in the advent of Christianity, but continued on in the Church. For, in the words of St. Odo of Cluny, one of the pioneers of Crusader theology,

For some of the Fathers, and of these the most holy and the most patient, when the cause of justice demanded, valiantly took up arms against their adversaries, as Abraham, who destroyed a great multitude of the enemy to rescue his nephew (St. Odo of Cluny, Life of St. Gerald of Aurillac, 1.8, trans. Sitwell)

Some will object that since now we are in the New Testament, that the wars of the Old Testament are no longer worthy of our emulation, but even St. Paul saw the gallant and heroic actions of the Hebrew warriors as great illustrations of faith, when he wrote in his epistle to the Hebrews:

And what more shall I say? For the time would fail me to tell of Gideon and Barak and Samson and Jephthah, also of David and Samuel and the prophets: who through faith subdued kingdoms, worked righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, became valiant in battle, turned to flight the armies of the aliens. (Hebrews 11:32-25)

When the glorious Apostle speaks of those who “turned to flight the armies of the aliens”, he is speaking of the Hebrews who fought off the pagans, and what are the jihadists of ISIS but aliens trying to invade a Christian land?

St. Clement, of whom St. Paul himself wrote as one of those “who labored with me in the gospel,” (Philippians 4:3) and was called by the Apostles to be the Bishop of Rome, praised the feats of Judith in her beheading of the general of Nebuchadnezzar, Holofernes, in his attempt to conquer Israel, as an example of how one should be charitable,

many women, being strengthened by the grace of God, have done many glorious and manly things on such occasions. The blessed Judith, when her city was besieged, desired the elders that they would suffer her to go into the camp of their enemies, and she went out, exposing herself to danger, for the love she bare to her country and her people that were besieged; and the Lord delivered Holofernes into the hands of a woman. (St. Clement, Epistle to the Corinthians, lv)

Judith was not a member of an official army, but a true militant who, not being a member of any official force, denied herself and took it upon herself to do that which was right to defend her land against the invading Babylonian pagans. St. Ambrose praised the ancient warriors of Israel, Joshua and Judas Maccabees, for their valiancy and determination to take up the sword and defend their brethren:

But how brave was Joshua the son of Nun, who in one battle laid low five kings together with their people! … But the Maccabees thinking that then all the nation would perish, on the Sabbath also, when they were challenged to fight, took vengeance for the death of their innocent brethren. (St. Ambrose, Duties of the Clergy, 1.40)

Militancy never ended with the coming of Christ, it was only continued by the Church, and it is done through “the Mediator of the new covenant” (Hebrews 9:15). Was it not Christ who visited Joshua and told him “See! I have given Jericho into your hand, its king, and the mighty men of valor” (Joshua 6:2)? Elias, a modern day crusader of Lebanon, told us that the Law of God was never gotten rid of, only fulfilled, saying:

“‘Am I going to make null the law? No, I came to complete (fulfill) the Law.’ [Matthew 5:17] That means that Christ Himself was the God of the Old Testament.”

I was quite enthusiastic upon seeing how the Christian militant of the Middle East thinks, as opposed to what we have been hearing for years in the West, and how he still believes in the Law of God in regards to holy war, that it has never ended, and should never be thrown out. Elias was very pleased to see that we, as Americans, and the followers of Shoebat.com, are supportive of the cause of the Christian militias. He said:

I was pleased to see Americans that aren’t against Christians who fight for their cause. Because what the media shows us is that Americans or European countries, or maybe Christians outside, do not encourage what we are doing in the Middle East. But actually we are the ones being killed, not them. We are the ones suffering, not them.”

The story of the militias brings my mind to the most glorious story of St. Theodore the Recruit, a great pioneer of Christendom. Years before Constantine came to power, and the Roman Empire became Christian, and years before any Christian army was formed, the pagans slaughtered the Christians if they refused to make libations to the gods and to their idols.

St. Theodore was a soldier in the Roman military, and when he was ordered by a judge to make a pagan sacrifice, this holy warrior exclaimed, “I am a soldier in the service of my God and of his Son Jesus Christ!” The judge, like a Muslim who denies the sonship of Christ, said, “So your god has a son?” To this did the saint firmly respond, “Yes!” The judge asked, “Might we know him?” and Theodore said, “Indeed you can know him and come to him!” Theodore was given one night to think of his decision, to sacrifice or not to sacrifice.

He did not hypocritically say to himself, “I must submit to the government, therefore I will sacrifice.” Nor did he say, “My weapons are not carnal, but spiritual, therefore I will do nothing.” What did he do? He entered the temple of the pagan goddess Cybele by night, and burned it to the ground with fire. He was caught, and before the judge was asked, “Theodore, do you want to be with us or with your Christ?” Theodore declared, “With my Christ I was and I am and I will be!” A fire was set and he died in the flames, yet it is said that his body was not injured through the fire, but that he simply gave up the ghost. (Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, 165, trans. Ryan)

St. Theodore, amongst the earliest of the Christian militants, taught us through his actions just how militant Christianity is; for so hot are the flames of militancy within the Christian Faith, that he, without any government approval, rose up himself and attacked and destroyed the temple. The temple he set ablaze was the temple of Cybele, a goddess who was worshipped as a meteorite idol.

And so the Christian militias of today fight and defeat the Muslims who, just as the pagans of old, worship a meteorite they call the Baitullah. It is the same war, with different names; the same holy struggle, but with an enemy who continuously changes his titles. The Apostle Paul fought against “the great goddess Diana, and of the image which fell down from Zeus” (Acts 19:35), and so the Christians today, through arms and through arguments, combat Allah and his image which fell front the sky.

This holy land of Lebanon was touched by the divine feet of Christ, and was illuminated by the divine presence of the Savior, and from the very beginning did the devils wish to take it, knowing that it would soon be enlightened by “the true Light which gives light to every man coming into the world.” (John 1:9) It was in this land that a woman once told Christ, “My daughter is severely demon-possessed.” (Matthew 15:22), and it was in this very land that Christ told the wearied mother, “’O woman, great is your faith! Let it be to you as you desire.’ And her daughter was healed from that very hour.” (Matthew 15:28) And great is the faith of these Christian militias who remain in this same land, and cast out the devils through the sword, vanquishing the followers of the demonic and defending their sacred nation.

Awaken, holy Christendom! Blossom with your beautiful pedals in the spring of the holy fray! Take your inheritance, O holy Christendom, From the pagans who stole it away! Conquer with Cross and Sword! Fight for Heaven and Your Lord! Drive out the Muslim! Drive out the Sodomite! Drive the devils away with all your might! With zeal we fight for God And all the saints of holy martyrdom For the blood of glorious martyrs Awaken, O Christendom

[rgvhaulingjunkmoving]

Best Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services and Cost in McAllen TX |RGV Hauling Junk & Moving More information is at: https://junkremovalmcallentx.org/dead-tree-wood-removal-service-near-me/

Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: Are you looking for the Best Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX? RGV Hauling Junk & Moving, We can also efficiently remove tree roots and limbs that may be cluttering up your property with professional tree cutting services Cost? Free estimates! Send us a message or call us today. Best Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services around McAllen TX. We serve McAllen TX and other areas. Get a Free Quote Now!

BEST DEAD TREE & WOOD REMOVAL SERVICES IN MCALLEN TX

MCALLEN DEAD TREE & WOOD REMOVAL

Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: Dead Wood Tree Removal in McAllen TX services Services Include: ● Complete Tree Removal ● Stump Grinding ● Top Soil & Lawn Repair ● Trimming ● Plant Healthcare Management ● Pest Control

Tree Removal Services

Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: Residential tree branch removal with decades of tree removal services under our RGV Hauling Junk & Moving. Have all the experience, equipment and man-power necessary to help remove any size tree throughout McAllen TX.

Reasons for Tree Removal

Although we’re nature lovers at heart, sometimes tree removal is the last option available. There are many reasons why trees may need to be removed, these include: ● Tree is dead, diseased or dying ● Tree is leaning towards people or property ● It’s outgrown its growth area ● Branches are rubbing up against roofs, windows or power lines ● Roots causing major disturbance to walkway areas (driveway, sidewalk) ● Storm Damage residential tree cutting from bucket truck ● Open Cavities ● Fungi ● Cracks in the wood ● Loose or dead bark ● It’s in the way (New construction-vanity purposes)

Reduce Your Liabilities

Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: Tree log removal equipment worker whatever the specific reason may be for your tree removal, it should never be performed by you or a non-professional. There’s a certain criteria you should look into before hiring someone to remove your tree. To start, the particular company should have all of the proper credentials. This includes being licensed by McAllen TX, Insured and bonded. Experience is also of the utmost importance. If one wrong thing goes bad, you could be in a heap of trouble.

Tree Removal Services We Provide

Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: Full Tree Removal: We don’t just handle shrubs and baby trees, although we are happy to remove those with barely a trace left behind as well. We have no problem taking care of your adult trees weighing 50 pounds or more. We can also efficiently remove tree roots and limbs that may be cluttering up your property with professional tree cutting services. Our team also specializes in removing dead trees to help enhance your property's appearance.

Stump Grinding: The tree is gone, but the stump remains. But not for long, when you hire Dragonetti Brothers. We have the tools and techniques to perform fast, effective, complete Grinding of Your Leftover Tree Stumps.

Same-Day Emergency Tree Removal: If you discover you have a tree threatening your home, perhaps one that has been partially uprooted by severe weather, for example, there’s no time to waste. You need to safely remove that tree before it lands on your house, car or worse. That’s why we offer same-day emergency tree removal for storm damaged trees.

Tree Planting Service: Out with the old, in with the new. We can replace your old, poorly located, damaged or sick tree with a brand-new, young tree that will look great, have great growth potential, and be located in just the right spot to be an aesthetically pleasing addition to your landscape.

Landscaping: Speaking of landscaping, if you’re worried about how your lawn or yard will look once that big tree is finally gone, talk to us about our landscaping services. We’ve built our reputation on them and will be happy to design a great landscape plan for you.

Quality Tree Removal Services

Dead or Diseased Tree One of the primary reasons we are called to remove trees is because a tree is dead. We may also remove trees if they are severely diseased. If the tree is only partially infected, we can often trim or cut individual branches to save the tree.

It’s essential to remove dead trees because they will eventually begin to fall apart. This poses several risks for you and your family. It can also end up damaging your house.

New Construction Tree Removal Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX:  In many cases, a tree may need removing if you’re planning on building a new structure. We often receive tree removal requests because of new houses, fences, garages, and more. In some cases, removing a tree can also help you kill off roots that may be obstructing construction. If you’re planning on building a new structure, make sure to contact the most qualified tree company in the Bronx to discuss your options. RGV Hauling Junk & Moving Tree Care is your first choice in McAllen TX tree removal.

COST

Tree Removal Cost Dead Tree & Wood Removal Services near McAllen TX: The average cost to remove a tree ranges from $100 to $1,800 with most homeowners spending about $700. For small trees up to 30 feet high you can expect to spend $250, for trees between 30 and 60 feet prices range from $300 to $700, and to cut down large trees over 60 feet costs between $700 and $1,800. Pricing depends on the height, diameter, condition, location, and the type of tree.

Cost To Cut Down a Tree The average cost to cut down a tree is between $355 and $1,110 mainly depending on the height of the tree and the complexity of the job. The reason for the variance in work and costs involved is because of the unknown elements in the tree’s condition and how it will respond in the event of being cut down.

Tree Removal Cost Per Tree The average cost of tree removal is $700 per tree. Tree removal is based on a price per foot, with average costs being $12 to $13 per foot.

Tree Removal Cost Calculator The biggest aspect of tree removal cost is based on a tree’s height.

Small Tree Removal Cost The average cost to remove a small tree up to 30 feet tall is $100 to $300. Small trees will be the easiest (and least expensive) to remove, and in the case that you just want the tree off the property, it should only take one person. Examples of small trees include: ● Apple trees ● Hawthorn ● Corkscrew hazel ● Silver birch ● Ornamental pear ● And other fruit trees

Medium Tree Removal Cost It will cost approximately $300 to $700 to remove a medium tree ranging between 30 to 60 feet in height.

Large Tree Removal Cost The average cost to remove a large tree reaching 60 to 80 feet in height is $700 to $1,100, being more expensive to remove because of the additional high-powered machinery required for its removal.

Very Large Tree Removal A very large tree can be over 80 feet tall, costing $1,100 to $1,800 to remove. As the tree height increases, your specialist will add more people to the team, with some of the taller trees needing four people onsite to do the work.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Does My Tree Removed?

This is a common question in the tree service industry. Many homeowners are not sure if their tree is dead, dying, diseased, treatable, or hazardous. For this reason, they ask this question. The answer varies, unfortunately. It will require a professional inspection to assess the condition and location of the tree in order to determine whether or not it needs to be cut down. If your tree is showing signs of fungal growth, shoots growing from the roots or base, foliage loss, leaf discoloration, thinning, or any other unusual symptoms, it may need to be treated or removed.

Do I Need a Permit to Remove a Tree Myself?

Although it varies from county to county, in most cases, you do require a permit to remove a tree. This is why it is better to trust a licensed tree care company to provide tree removal services, safely and efficiently. They retain the proper tools, equipment, and training to carry out a safe and professional project in a convenient time frame.

How do I know a tree is dead?

There are some clear signs that a tree is dying or dead. It will not have healthy leaves or buds on the branches. Bend the branch if it snaps without bending first and seems dry, then the limb is dead. Then, scratch the trunk of the tree. The layer underneath the outer bark should be green in a healthy tree but will be brown and dry in a dead one.

Why is removal important?

Dead tree removal, A dead tree is ugly to look at and dangerous for several reasons. They are no longer strong, so they may topple in high winds or under the weight of snow. This could harm any person or property nearby. A dead tree also attracts pests like termites to your yard.

How is it done?

To eliminate it safely, a professional will make cuts on the tree from top to bottom, cutting away sections at a time. Depending on the size of the tree, they may use cranes to lift it, so it won’t fall onto the ground. They also use specialized tools such as chippers to grind the tree down.

Can I cut down one close to the house?

If a tree close to the house is dying or dead, you need to have it taken down quickly before it drops branches or falls onto the house. A professional and experienced tree removal service will take it down without putting your home at risk. It will simply require some extra planning.

Will My Property Be Safe If I Have A Tree Removed?

Here at RGV Hauling Junk & Moving, we take all necessary precautions to ensure that your property is fully protected when we come out to remove one or more trees. We work hard to ensure that you don't sustain any damage to your home in the removal process, and do everything in our power to minimize the impact the removal has on your surrounding landscape.

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[cfijerusalem]

KEEPING OUR EYES ON THE WHEAT FIELDS

Another parable He put forth to them, saying: "The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field; but while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat and went his way. But when the grain had sprouted and produced a crop, then the tares also appeared. So the servants of the owner came and said to him, 'Sir, did you not sow good seed in your field? How then does it have tares?' He said to them, ‘An enemy has done this.' The servants said to him, 'Do you want us then to go and gather them up?' But he said, ‘No, lest while you gather up the tares you also uproot the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest, and at the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, First gather together the tares and bind them in bundles to burn them, but gather the wheat into my barn Matthew' " 13:24-43.

Our learning today is about the most important of the Seven Species of the Land: wheat. In Hebrew we say ‘chi-ta’. The sound that is transliterated does not exist for ‘ch’, so try the throaty sound “h” from the back of the throat. From wheat comes bread-food for the hungry. The Hebrew word for tares (weeds) is ‘esev rah’ which need to be controlled in any field from taking over the wheat. I used to watch my father when I was a child walking his wheat fields pulling out the weeds from their roots so that his field would be clean. He had to be careful to not uproot the wheat.

At Passover time in Israel we do not eat bread with ‘hametz’ (symbolic of sin). As my Jewish friend and I study the Bible we are looking at more meanings behind the words. It is interesting that Jesus (Yeshua) tells us that we are to let the wheat and tares grow together in the end times. In Genesis 1 and 2, God created the universe. He said His creation was “very good” (‘tov meod’ in Hebrew). On the third day when He created the plants such as wheat, He said “very good” again because He knew the wheat needed to do its duty to produce bread. However, when Adam and Eve sinned and it was seen in Heaven, the wheat no longer produced only wheat but it was found growing with tares (because of sin). It is thought that the roses were without thorns before the sin of Adam and Eve. Everything changed, animals began eating one another, and the wheat was growing with tares. Jesus is saying that the first couple in the garden sinned, the tares began to grow and will continue, until He arrives to fix all that went wrong. Before eating the fruit, both man and woman were of pure mind and heart. This is what Jesus desires for His Kingdom which is coming to the earth, pure hearts and minds. We see Jesus teaching us that tares and wheat “look” pretty much alike, but the Lord will determine at that time whether He truly knows each believer or not. “But I will reply, ‘I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God’s laws’” (Matthew 7:23). When He comes, He will solve the problem of sin mixed with those of pure hearts – He will judge. All creation needs the Lord since Adam and Eve. When He comes He will gather into His “barn” (His Kingdom) pure bread for the Kingdom, without “hametz” (sin). May our lives show us daily whether we still have some “hametz” in our hearts toward others, motives and behavior in our walk with God. 

Let Us Enter the Throne Room of Grace

Pray for rain for the Land. Even without the expected winter rainfall, the Land is very beautiful and the Sea of Galilee very full; however, we do need the seasonal rain in order to maintain the amount of rain in the Sea of Galilee and other smaller lakes and reservoirs. Amidst Covid, the Land remains beautiful to behold in the valleys, hillsides and vales. “I will send you the seasonal rains. The land will then yield its crops, and the trees of the field will produce their fruit” (Leviticus 26:4).

Intercede fervently for Israel’s government leaders that God would give the system He wants and which is right for Israel. May the Biblical concept of leadership emerge among the present candidates. As God separates the wheat and the chaff now more than ever before, wherever there is darkness ruling, let it be exposed, and may Godly leaders emerge. “You shall appoint for yourself judges and officers in all your towns which the Lord your God is giving you, according to your tribes, and they shall judge the people with righteous judgment” (Deuteronomy 16:18).

Thank God for more Muslim believers in the Middle East countries but pray for the persecuted Christians in Iran, Iraq, Syria and around the Middle East. “Do you remember what I told you? ‘A slave is not greater than the master.’ Since they persecuted me, naturally they will persecute you. And if they had listened to me, they would listen to you” (John 15:20).

Beseech God to remove from the United Nations the hateful nations that are passing many resolutions against Israel (many in 2020) than any other nations. “His words are as smooth as butter, but in his heart is war. His words are as soothing as lotion, but underneath are daggers!” (Psalm 55:21).

Proclaim His Word that “every jot and title” which the Lord told us would come to pass in the Torah will do so in these end times, bringing Israel through all of her struggles and giants that face her and bringing her back to Him with not one atheist in the House of Israel. “I tell you the truth, until heaven and earth disappear, not even the smallest detail of God’s law will disappear until its purpose is achieved” (Matthew 5:18).

Rejoice in Him that we are getting closer to His Return. Now as He sat on the Mount of Olives, the disciples came to Him privately, saying, "Tell us, when will these things be? And what will be the sign of Your coming, and of the end of the age?” (Matthew 24:3). Today we have more signs each and every week confirming His Soon Return.

Ask God to change hearts as Hamas lead its first-ever joint military exercise with Gaza terror factions recently making their plans against Israel. “Call your councils of war, but they will be worthless. Develop your strategies, but they will not succeed. For God is with us!” (Isaiah 8:10).

Close in prayer with asking God to help us all “Watch and Pray” as He asked us to do as we near the Coming of the Lord and His Kingdom rule. We must remember that the antichrist kingdom is also rising. We must be ready for whatever comes as we live day-to-day, one day at a time, waiting for His Return. With His Return will be the “rising of Israel” to enlighten the entire world. “But take heed to yourselves, lest your hearts be weighed down with carousing, drunkenness, and cares of this life, and that Day come on you unexpectedly. For it will come as a snare on all those who dwell on the face of the whole earth. Watch therefore, and pray always that you may be counted worthy to escape all these things that will come to pass, and to stand before the Son of man” (Luke 21:34-36).

May the Lord bless each of you wherever you are. Many use the Watchman’s Prayer Letter around the world. It is a privilege to write and be in touch with all of you. Thank you for including Christian Friends of Israel in Jerusalem and around the world in your prayers, that God will sustain us, strengthen us, expand the vision and cause us to be more fruitful than ever before, even in dark times. With your help and prayers, we will move through tough times together.

Working Together for Him,

Sharon Sanders

Christian Friends of Israel - Jerusalem

[beenheresinceforever]

https://caravanmagazine.in/politics/dalit-obc-devotees-in-ayodhya-oppose-attempt-to-displace-them-for-tallest-ram-statue

Residents of Majha Barhata, a gram panchayat in Uttar Pradesh’s Ayodhya district, were elated with the Supreme Court’s judgment to construct a Ram temple at the disputed Babri Masjid–Ram Janmabhoomi site in November 2019. But their joy turned into despair in late January 2020, when the office of Anuj Kumar Jha, the district magistrate of Ayodhya, released a notification stating that 85.977 hectares of land at Majha Barhata was being acquired for constructing a statue of Ram. Further, according to residents of the area, in August that year, seven or eight administration officials visited the gram panchayat and told them that more land from Majha Barhata than what was previously delineated in the notification would be needed for constructing the statue. Residents said that based on what the officials told them, it appeared that the statue would effectively subsume four areas in the panchayat locally referred to as Nyoor ka Purva, Nyoor ka Purva Dalit Basti, Dharmu ka Purva and Chhoti Mujhniya. 

Almost one year before the Ayodhya judgement, Ajay Singh Bisht, the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, had announced the plan to erect a grand statue of Ram. Initially, the state government had selected Meerpur Majha, another village in Ayodhya, for this task but the plan did not materialise—locals reportedly protested against the proposal and a technical audit team of the Ayodhya administration gave the location a negative report. By July 2019, the media reported that the proposed Ram statue would be the tallest in the world, with a height of 251 metres. Bisht, popularly known as Adityanath, envisioned the statue premises to be a tourism hub which should have a “digital museum, interpretation centre, library, parking, food plaza, landscaping based on the theme of Lord Shri Ram.”

The January 2020 notification stated that the selected land, a part of Majha Barhata, was situated between the national highway and an embankment of the irrigation department. It said that this land will be “bought” with “mutual consent.” But residents of Majha Barhata said there was no mutual understanding, only confusion about the matter. They told us that even though the administration officials who visited them in August had said that land beyond the notified 86 hectares would be acquired, they had not been given any document in this regard. The residents said they could not identify the officials, but knew that they came from a “survey department.”

According to Arvind Kumar Yadav, a resident who filed a case against the acquisition in the Allahabad High Court, the move will impact a thousand families. Most of them are extremely poor, from backward-caste groups and work in the agriculture sector. “When a grand temple of Ram is being built now, what is the need for this statue? Is it okay to uproot farmers from their work?” he said. “We will do jal samadhi”—submerge ourselves—“like Ram, but not give our land.” 



A farmer works at a field in Majha Barhata. Sanjay Kumar Yadav, another farmer in the village said, erecting the statue at Majha Barhata by displacing poor people was unnecessary. “We are already oppressed,” he said. “There are anyway several issues that people from backward castes and farmers face.”

 SHAHID TANTRAY FOR THE CARAVAN

Majha Barhata is about ten kilometres away from the Babri Masjid–Ram Janmabhoomi site. Everyone we spoke to said that they had been rooting for a Ram temple to be built at the site of the Babri Masjid. Arvind said he was 12 years old when karsevaks, or religious volunteers, had reached Ayodhya in 1991 to dismantle the Babri Masjid. “Our school used to shut down for months at a stretch. We used to go to Ayodhya to shout slogans,” Arvind said. “At that time, thousands of karsevaks lived in our village. They would stop by, and we would arrange refreshments for them. No karsevak would sleep hungry.” Arvind said that when the Supreme Court verdict in the case was announced last November, “Drums and dhols were played. We celebrated with gulaal”—coloured powder—he told us. “But now that the temple is being built, we are being destroyed,” he added. “If we give our house land to this statue, then what will our children do, how will they live?” 

Arvind appears to be leading the fight against the statue now. Shortly after the notification was released, he approached the high court. On 28 January 2020, the Allahabad High Court directed the state government to act in accordance with the Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act of 2013, relying on a precedent set by an order passed in a similar matter last year. The July 2019 order had said, “In case no consent is arrived, respondents will take recourse as provided in Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act, 2013.” The 2013 act states that compensation for land is decided on a host of factors, including market value and how the acquisition would affect the original land owner’s earnings. Based on this, Arvind said, “We should be given a house in exchange of house, land in exchange of land. And the residents who are landless, they should get a job.”

Arvind said that a case had been registered against him and fourteen other villagers for holding a sit-in protest about the matter on 14 February. The first-information report in the case mentioned that 200 others were also present at the protest in violation of rules invoked under Section 144 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, which allows certain administrative officials to pass orders imposing restrictions on the assembly of persons. A second FIR was lodged against Arvind and Avdesh Kumar Singh, another resident, in September. The two were booked under four sections of the Indian Penal Code, pertaining to intentional insult with intent to provoke breach of the peace, punishment for assault or criminal force otherwise than on grave provocation, assault or criminal force to deter public servant from discharge of his duty, voluntarily causing hurt to deter public servant from his duty. Arvind said the police told him, “We will get the administration to lock you up,” “We will get you killed an encounter.” 

Residents said that they had lived on this land for decades. Arvind told us that his ancestors had taken this land during the British Raj. He said till date, the administration had not resolved other issues that the residents were facing concerning their land. “Our land-record operation has been pending since 1984,” he said. “The Sita Rampur village,” in Basti district, ���is next to us—even our border is not demarcated. How will they manage to take the land?” 



Vimala Devi, a member of the Chamar community, a resident of Majha Barhata, shows her “patta”—a land document—of her house. Referring to Adityanath, she said, “He does not have children, which is why he doesn’t understand the value of these patte.” 

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Multiple people from the Dalit community told us they got the land as a result of the Bhoodan movement of the 1950s, which urged communities and individuals to give some of their lands to the landless. The land distribution that began then carried on over the coming years. Ramjit Gautam, a member of the Chamar community, was among the people who received this land. “We were given the patta”—a land document—“for this land during Indira Gandhi’s time, in 1976. The Modi-Yogi government wants to dismiss this. The administration is believing that ‘These Dalits will not be able to do anything,’” Ramjit said. He told us he thought that the government intended to dislocate them without adequate compensation—this could be possible as they did not originally purchase the land, it was donated to them in the Bhoodan movement. “They want to occupy it, for free. This is an upper-caste government. They are not thinking of us,” he said. “They want to drive away Chamars and Yadavs.”

Residents told us that erecting the statue at Majha Barhata by displacing poor people was unnecessary. Sanjay Kumar Yadav, a resident and a sugarcane farmer, was one such resident. “Now when the temple is being built, there is no justification to install a statue also. It will not be worshipped either. His face will be placed so high that he will not be visible properly,” Sanjay told us. “We are already oppressed,” he said. “There are anyway several issues that people from backward castes and farmers face. Farmers get paid for sugarcane years later.”

Villagers said that the administration had ignored several other locations which appeared to be viable for erecting the statue. Arvind said, “If the administration wants land, it should first take the thousands of acres of non-agricultural land lying with sants and bhagato”—referring to saints and their followers. “If you want land, many matts have more land than us,” he said, referring to monasteries. According to him, the akhadas—ascetic orders—in Ayodhya are also known to own a lot of land. “If that is not enough, we will give our land,” Arvind added. Anara Devi Yadav, a resident, also said, “There is a river embankment nearby. There is an empty piece of land there, they can install the statue there as well.”

Lack of clear communication by the administration appeared to be fuelling residents’ anxieties. Anara said that the administration is not willing to give any clarity about whether the 86 hectares of land which was mentioned in the notification was being acquired or more. “No one from the administration is even talking to us, or telling us anything properly—if they will take our house or land or what,” Anara said. “They don’t talk to us. Even if old people ask them, they scold them and drive them away.” Sanjay reiterated that there was a lot of confusion about the administration’s plan. “Sometimes they say our farmland will be taken, sometimes they say both our land and house with be taken,” he said. “A new notification should be issued saying neither our house nor our land will be taken.” 



A portrait of BR Ambedkar at the home of a resident of Majha Barahata. Vimala said that the government is ignoring the residents’ concerns. “This is a government for upper castes,” she said. 

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Anara emphasised that the residents did not have any say in what happened to their land. She told us when the officials came to the village to measure the land, “Hundreds of families were standing here, with folded hands, saying, ‘Do not measure our house.’” Last year, Majha Barhata was made a part of the Ayodhya Nagar Nigam, or municipal corporation. Anara said, “There was no hearing. Our village was made a part of the Nagar Nigam by force.” We emailed a questionnaire about the villagers’ allegations to Jha, the district magistrate of Ayodhya, and Deepak Kumar, the Deputy Inspector General/Senior Superintendent of Police, Ayodhya, but did not receive a response.

Anara said that it was a struggle for her family to live in Majha Barhata. “No drain has been made in our village, no bulb has been installed till date. This government has done nothing for us,” she told us. “Whether foreigners come here for tourism or a temple is built or a mosque is built, what benefit will we get?” she said. “Drowning with our families would be better than this. After that, they can put up this grand statue.” Her despair did not appear to shake her resolve to stay put in Majha Barhata. “I was married into this village, and I will die here,” Anara said. 

Shivnath Yadav, another resident, said that three generations of his family had lived in a thatch hut in Majha Barhata. “If we leave that also, what will we be left with?” he said. “The statue is of no use to us. Had they planned it on some barren land, then maybe our children could have gotten jobs nearby and earned a living.” He added, “We are not getting any support from Modi and Yogi. They want to see us homeless. By removing the entire population of all four areas, how much development will you be able to do?”

Vimala Devi, a member of the Chamar community, said that the government is ignoring the residents’ concerns. “This is a government for upper castes,” she told us. Referring to Adityanath, she said, “He does not have children, which is why he doesn’t understand the value of these patte. Aren’t we Ayodhyawaasi?”—residents of Ayodhya. “Don’t we worship Ram?” Vimala added, “We will all die, but we will not leave our home.”

SUNIL KASHYAP is a reporting fellow at The Caravan.

SHAHID TANTRAY is an assistant photo editor at The Caravan.

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