#patron saint of customer service smile

[ddeck]

fox who is constantly bitchy and annoyed and has never even laughed in public through the entirety of clone wars is okay but fox who is all of the above but takes 0.2 second to change his entire personality to overly polite and helpful when talking to higher-ups

[cevansbrat0007]

On the Clock

Summary: Ari stops by for a snack while he's out chasing a lead.

Warnings: Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Oral Sex (fem rec), Finger Fucking, Ass Slapping, Ass Grabbing, Handcuffs (mentioned), Overstimulation (implied), Cursing, Pet Names, Minors DNI

A/N: Part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are sincerely appreciated.

___

“Oh God, I–Beast!”

Your fist slams down on the desk as your legs threaten to give out from under you. It was all too much. Between each sinful flick of his tongue, and the delicate precision of his thick fingers roughly pumping in and out of your dripping pussy… 

You weren’t sure if you were actually going to survive. 

“Gimme one more, Bird. Just one.” Ari’s free hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack echoing through your tiny stockroom and spilling out into the shop. “You can do it.” 

A muffled sob escapes as you cling to the cool, flat surface for dear life while that same hand delivers another blow – this time giving your cheek a hard squeeze after it lands. His punishing grip all but ensuring that you’ll be heading home with fresh bruises, although he has yet to hear you complain. 

Especially after he just got done telling you that all your sweet curves belonged to him anyway. A fact that you were no longer as interested in disputing as you once used to be. Maybe it was because you enjoyed wearing his marks almost as much as he enjoyed giving them to you.  

The filthy wet squelch of his fingers as they ruthlessly fuck your cunt, along with with the sounds of your desperate cries, has you feeling grateful that there’s no one around to witness just how pitiful you must look. 

Of course you have Ari to thank for that, whose quick thinking brought you to this very moment. 

Which involves him kneeling between your parted thighs, eating your pussy from the back. Devouring you as if his life depends on it. And for all you knew, it did.

Because when Ari had sent you a message at 11:57am asking if you were free for a quick snack, you’d had no idea that he’d been referring to this. But then again, you also hadn’t had time to respond, what with you trying to box up orders for several waiting customers. 

Which meant that you’d been just as surprised as anyone when he strolled through the doors of Baubles & Quills less than ten minutes later, with his badge displayed on his hip and a scowl etched across his ruggedly handsome face.

Confused by his sudden presence, you’d offered him a brief smile before suggesting that he might be more comfortable waiting for you in the back. Of course your bounty hunter had declined, muttering something about “being on the clock”. And then he’d stood off in the corner glowering at the small group of patrons that were steadily occupying your time. 

Precious time that was apparently reserved for him.

Shaking your head, you’d simply returned your attention to running your business. If Ari had questions that needed answering before you were slated to see him tonight, then he was going to have to wait his turn. Afterall, you had bills to pay for both this place as well as your own home. And providing quality customer service was one way to ensure that you would be able to do all of that on time and in full.

However, that’s not to say that you weren’t affected by his presence. It was almost impossible to ignore the weight of his heavy gaze. Especially since your body felt the need to respond accordingly against your own best interests.

From your quickening pulse and pebbled nipples, to your slightly shaking hands and damp panties, your bounty hunter was not the type to be so easily relegated to the background. Nor was he the kind of man who would allow himself to be forgotten either.

Which was why you then witnessed Ari escort your last patron, the lovely Ms. Greta Thurman who was also pushing 80, out to her car with all the patience of a saint. Only for him to return seconds later, this time locking the door behind him and flipping your sign around to signal that the shop was closed – without your fucking permission.

You’d opened your mouth, fully prepared to protest such gross mistreatment. Only to swiftly think better of it the moment you’d gotten a good look at his face. And then he’d motioned for you to join him back in the stockroom, which had been roughly twenty minutes ago. And now…

Now, you were growing increasingly convinced you were going to die. And yet, the Beast at your back had the nerve to keep demanding that you give him one more. Always just one more. 

“Poor little Bird.” Ari hums, sounding slightly out of breath. But he doesn’t let that stop him, especially when he feels you clench around his fingers when they strum over that special spot inside you. “You might be done, but your pussy wants more.” His pointed tongue goes back to rhythmically lashing at your sensitive clit. 

Again and again. It was enough to drive a woman crazy.

“It’s so good, Beast! S’good!” You mewl, your short, blunt nails scraping against the desk. “S’goo–fuckfuckfuck!” Your ability to form coherent sentences has long since abandoned you, leaving you a sweaty, blubbering mess as your body works overtime to process the intensity of the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“My greedy girl.” His harsh growl has your knees about ready to buckle. “Greediest pussy I’ve ever had.” Sensing you’re about to collapse, he removes his fingers from your wet heat, making you whine. And then he goes back to squeezing and kneading your ass, loving the way you rise up on your toes as he holds you open for his assault.

“Ari!” You continue to whine, wishing you still had his fingers buried deep in your cunt, even as your impending orgasm looms. He growls again in response, the heady vibrations pulsing through your entire overly stimulated body.

You try to run – attempting to climb over the desk in search of refuge – only for your bounty hunter to drag you back. 

“Try that shit again and I’ll cuff you.” Is the only gruff warning you receive before he goes back to lapping at your honeyed folds. The vulgar sounds he makes as he sucks and slurps at your heated flesh, demonstrating just how committed he is to his task.

And he positively hated being interrupted. Your vision blurs when he reaches around to stroke talented fingers along your swollen nub, taking special care not to send you over the edge until he felt you were ready.

Asshole.

Your hips continue to writhe and buck beneath his assault, but you don’t try to run again. And this time when your orgasm washes over you, it feels so good it hurts. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream as wave after wave of bliss sends your nerve endings buzzing. 

It was hands down some of the most exquisite pleasure you had ever experienced. 

Eventually Ari relaxes his hold, albeit rather reluctantly, before giving you a minute or two to get your bearings. “Thank you, baby.” He murmurs, the husky timbre of his voice sending another small jolt of white-hot electricity pulsing through you as he goes to stand up. “That should be enough to get me through.” 

“Huh?” Comes your weak reply. Frankly, he’s lucky to even get that. Right now you could barely function, let alone string together a damn sentence. But then it registers that he’s leaving. 

Even though he hadn’t –

“I really hate to eat and run, but I’m afraid I’m on the clock.” He winks at you, taking a moment to twirl your ruined panties around his index finger. “Just needed a taste of something sweet first.” He then tucks the garment into the back pocket of his jeans. 

At this rate, your entire underwear drawer was going to be empty before the month’s end. Which meant that you were going to have to put your foot down and demand he return them. At least a few pairs anyway. The brute wouldn’t be happy until you were walking around this town going commando. 

“Oh.” You mumble, feeling a pang of disappointment as you push your damp curls off of your forehead. “Um, okay.” But as quickly as it comes, it’s replaced by a fresh surge of heat in your belly when you finally notice the wetness still darkening his beard. Something he didn’t seem too worried about fixing.

“Aw, don’t look so disappointed, Bird.” His big hands go to frame your face, pulling you close to capture your lips in a heartfelt kiss that has you practically melting. And you can’t help the sliver of female satisfaction that slowly unfurls inside of you when you catch a hint of your warm, earthy scent on his skin. 

Because whether you realized it or not, you’d just marked your territory in a way no other woman could possibly compete with. This Beast was all yours for the time being. 

“There we go.” Grinning when you finally relax, your gentle giant pecks your lips one last time before stepping away from you. He winces slightly, adjusting his straining erection through his jeans, inwardly cursing the fact he had an appointment across town that he was probably already late for. “I’ll be at your place no later than 8:00pm with takeout from Mi Patron. Text me what you want and then be sure to call when you’re locking up, okay?”

“Okay, Ari.” You breathe, your teeth going to nibble at your bottom lip. “It’s a date.” On impulse, you raise up on your toes and wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him down for one last kiss – which he eagerly accepts without an ounce of fight. 

“Sorry.” Is all you say when you finally allow yourselves to come up for air. In truth, you weren’t feeling even remotely apologetic. But you did have an image to maintain so… “Must’ve lost my balance.”

“Right.” Ari whistles low, shaking his head as he pins you with a knowing look. “I’ll see you later. Behave while I’m gone, sweet girl.” With that, he turns on his heel and heads in the direction of your front door. Leaving you alone to make peace with the fact that you were falling for this man.

“I’m doomed.” You mutter, staring down at your bare toes while you debate your next move. On one hand, you supposed you could always skip town. But given his profession, you reasoned he’d be able to track you down with relative ease. 

Well, there went that option. With a sigh you bend down to pick up your capris so you can go about making yourself look presentable again, sans panties. The way you saw it, the only choice you had left was to go down swinging. Which made sense. And if that was the case, then…

“I’m taking you down with me, Levinson.”

END

___

Unofficial Tag List

@daykrisr99

@identity2212

[fluid-quartz]

Imagine you're a cashier in Big Eye Bay and some cunt is yelling at you and is about to take a swing, you barely notice the door opening because you're fucking terrified bc this bitch is built like Big Eye Ron next door and one good hit could take your head off, and you flinch but the impact never comes and you open your eyes and the person who was about to assault you is in a chicken hold on the ground with a sword to their neck and the guy standing over them; snow white hair, vest jacket the colour of swamp grass, mask obscuring the bottom half of his face, growls at them "if I catch you acting like this again I won't be so merciful" and he lets them up and they run out the shop clearly as scared as they'd just made you feel and the dude watches them leave, puts his sword away and looks at you kindly like

"hey, sorry about that. You alright?"

And he hands you a golden carrot and buys a shulker box of random shit, pays for it and then fuckin. Tips you a diamond block(?!) And just leaves with a smile you can see through the mask.

You talk with some other shopkeepers around the server and they tell you yeah that's Ethoslab. He's basically the patron saint of customer service workers

yeah that sounds about right ^^

id allow etho to stab karens in my store, definitely. as long as he doesnt make a mess id have to clean xD

[moonlightchess]

So this blog is mostly autumn/spooky/horror/chess/writing stuff, but I also have a #thoughts tag here that I was recently going through in light of my current coming into satanism as a personal path, and. I think I’ve always been a satanist, friends. Looking back on my past random thoughts, so much of what I’ve had to say over the years strikes me as profoundly in line with that I currently understand to be satanist thought, theory and ideal. Maybe I’m wrong, but here are a few examples.

• my look for the cold months is going to be gentle, weary nihilism. I’m too tired to care anymore that all of my youthful optimism and faith in humanity has dissolved like sugar in warm coffee over the past several years, people are shit and the world is shit and we’re all going to die and the universe doesn’t care about anything or anyone so I might as well care about myself instead. There are no benevolent higher powers and nothing matters, so what’s the point in suffering needlessly on this slow trudge toward death? I’m going to eat healthy and well, I’m going to take long walks and close books that start to suck midway through in favor of better ones. I’m going to stop stressing about how wrong I’ve been all this time about this supposed beautiful and compassionate world that’s been hiding behind all the bullshit, because it never existed and no one cares how much pain anyone else is in ever. Forgiving myself, being good to myself, they’re the only tiny rebellions I have left against the cold void of existence that has become exponentially clear to me.

• on days like these I wonder if maybe the whole rhetoric around worshiping the selflessly kind no matter how much of an asshole someone is being is a myth perpetuated BY the assholes of the world to ensure that there will always be smilingly patient people for them to abuse and bully. What if the world has the potential to be a much better place, but never will be because of those walking saints who take every sling and arrow with a smile? What if what humanity needs is a firmer hand, for all of us to learn to stand up and tell the world that they can respect us or go to hell. What if what we’ve always needed has been tough love amongst ourselves, demands for a better social contract as opposed to meekly aligning ourselves into the kickers and the kicked? I was one of the latter until it turned me into one of the former, and now I’m trying to figure out where I stand. I can never go back to being a people pleaser, anxiously eager to never make waves or speak my mind, but I can never go back to being the toxic, bitter, angry asshole I was ten years ago either. What if what we all need is to tell each other to shut the fuck up and stop hurting each other, instead of all our promotion of gentle, selfless patience for those who don’t deserve it?

• The idea that the best thing to do with an abusive, hostile piece of shit patron in any kind of customer service situation is to reward their shitty behavior with a friendly smile and “kill ‘em with kindness” or what the fuck ever is the most brainwashing bootlicker ass capitalist bullshit we’ve ever collectively succeeded in convincing an entire generation to believe.

• fuck a diamond ring cured in blood. If you want to marry me, buy me a lab opal born of science, buy me a Swiss moonstone I can wear around my neck and under my shirts where our love matters more than anyone else’s approval or opinion. Buy me a violin so I can finally get good enough to write music about how you make me feel. Plant me a garden overgrown with food we can harvest and cook together. Bring me your pillows and silence so we can sit and read tangled up in each other. Get on one knee and tell me that you understand that marriage is and only ever has been an institution of control and status quo, and then get the fuck up off your knees and let’s think freely together. Bring me mysteries and curiosity and spiders carefully deposited outside instead of killed, and I’ll be yours forever, whether our taxes are married or not.

• Hey, don’t let tumblr or anyone else make you feel like a bad person because your trauma has made you angry. Or guarded, bitter, distrustful, depressed, for that matter. I see so much blathering on here about how you “should not let the pain make you hard” and shit, but you know what? Sometimes you can’t “remain soft.” Sometimes you can’t keep on loving humans and being warm and friendly and optimistic despite whatever you’ve been through. If you can, great, but if you can’t, you’re not weak and you’re not a bad person. If you’re angry, if trauma has turned you into a pessimist, then no one gets to tell you that’s not as valid as the supposed angel in the corner shitting light beams and cupcakes simpering at you about how to “stay sweet despite the pain.” Your anger and pain and bitterness are all valid, and you are owed them. Heal on your own terms, in your own time, and don’t let tumblr’s stupid pseudo new-age approach to mental health make you feel bad about yourself.

• God, fuck a whole bunch of sensible self restraint and humility. My whole life has been a blizzard and hurting and need, I don’t feel guilty about my craving to drown in beauty and lush excess. Fuck all the “I just want to be comfortable and safe” rhetoric, we’re allowed to demand more than that for ourselves, especially if life has only shit on us thus far. I want drama and silk, I want violins and velvet. I want a life that’s about me and my needs, not dealing and healing with a mountain of trauma that’s turned me into someone I can’t stand. I’m allowed to want music and romance and fine wines and rich food, I’m allowed to insist upon angels and orgasms. Maybe it’ll never happen for any of us, but why the fuck aren’t we calling for it? We’ve earned it, goddamn.

These are just the most obvious examples that I’ve found on my blog, but I’m starting to suspect that for me, satanism isn’t the discovery of a new journey to take. It’s coming home from one.

[lady-stardust-writes]

Playing Favorites | Arthur Morgan

You worked at the saloon in Valentine as a barmaid. It was nice paying job that tipped well, although it did have it’s drawbacks it was nothing you couldn’t handle.

Of recent you’ve noticed that the town had been abuzz about some new people showing up, looking for jobs. You didn’t particularly care but would take note of it so you could keep an eye open for them.

Your shift was a quiet one as you cleaned the counters of the bar, enjoying the peace of not having to do much until you heard someone walk through the doors which made you look up to see who it was.

“One of the new faces.” You thought as you certainly would remember a good looking face like his.

You tucked your rag into apron before making your way over to him as he took a seat at the bar.

“Hello sir, what can I get you?” You asked with a smile. He had his hands in his hands and didn’t bother to look up as he order.

“Whiskey, please.” You grabbed a glass from the bar before pouring amber liquid in and sliding it over to him.

“Thanks.” Was all he said and placed down a quarter which you picked up and went back to cleaning again. You would look back over at him after a few minutes and saw he hadn’t touched his drink.

You got curious enough to go back over and hop up onto the bar next him. He could sense someone was near him but didn’t care to look.

“Sir if you don’t mind me asking but are you alright?” You questioned as you were worried that something was genuinely wrong. He finally turned his head towards you, which gave you a chance to see such nice eyes staring at you.

“I’m fine just a long day is all.” He responded. You could see that something was troubling him which brought out your caring side.

“I know all about long days but you seem to bothered by something so much that you can’t even enjoy a prime glass of whiskey.” Your statement made him glance at it before back over to you again.

“It’s nothing that should bother a pretty thing like yourself.”

“I’m a barmaid half the people in here bother me with their problems everyday,” you stated before turning around and pointing at a guy in a corner.

“For instinct that guy over there is cheating on his wife with the butcher’s wife.” you said making the gentleman your talking to raise an eyebrow and chuckle a little.

“Is this the service I can expect if I tell you?” He asked unsure if he could trust you or not.

“No because that guy’s an ass for cheating, you on the other hand seem like a good person.” You commented which made him shake his head in disagreement.

“Trust me when I say I’m no good person and that I’ve done worst things then that man could have ever done which I doubt you would want to hear about.” You looked the man in the eye before speaking about a old customer of yours.

“I’ve had a man come in here once and who told me about how he killed his father and feed his body to the pigs just for 10 dollars, so I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” You still held his eyes on yours when you finished your story so he could know you were all but to serious.

The man would begin to laugh, not because of the story but because you really wanted to hear his problems that you told stranger that you never met a story that terrible. You would join in with him as you to can see the funny side of it all also.

“Well I guess you’ve earned it, but I would like to know the name of the lady to hold accountable if I end up in jail.” He would say making you laugh a little more before sticking your hand out to him.

“(Y/N) (Y/L), a pleasure to met you.” He took your hand in his and gently shook it.

“Arthur Morgan, and the pleasure all mine.”

After that he told you about his life and how he was in the most wanted gang this side of the southwest which you found surprising but you promised not tell anyone as you didn’t want to see him behind bars, nor did you want be killed if you did.

He would continue to talk to you all through out your shift, ranking up a bar tab along with him, but it didn’t matter to him as he enjoyed talking with someone that he didn’t have to do something for or worry about being turned in.

He eventually would have to leave which sadden you but you were still grateful for the time you did have as he got up to go, but before he did he remembered his tab and went to pay it but you stopped him.

“This ones on me.” You said which surprised him but he still tried to hand you the necessary amount of money.

“No I’ll pa-“ you cut him off and grinned.

“I’m going to pay for regardless of what you say, just make sure to bring yourself back over once in a while to make it up to me.” You see would him struggle with what to do before smiling at you.

“You are a saint. I promise you I’ll be back.” You returned his smile before he left and went along with your day.

Surprisingly he came back only few days and bacame somewhat of a regular at the saloon, always making sure to come on the days you were working. You found yourself becoming very fond of the outlaw, as every time he came you would bond more and more that you were quickly calling him your friend.

You would be working a late shift at the saloon when Arthur walk through the doors and greeted you. This made you drop what you were doing to go attend to him.

“Arthur, good to see you, are you having the usual?” You asked already reaching for the glass.

“As always darling.” You blush slightly before grabbing the whiskey, pouring it in the glass and handing it over to him. He would thank you as he took a sip of his drink.

“So how have you’ve been, escaped the law of recent?” You asked while putting away the whiskey.

“Nothing but a couple of low grade bounty hunters and few new scars, nothing drastic but other then that I’ve been fine.” You frowned as you looked him over to make sure he was okay. He saw this and smiled in attempt to distract youu.

“Ah don’t look so grim, I’m fine besides I’ve got you something.” He said as he went to pull something out of his jacket pocket. You were honestly thought it was the money for all drinks you’ve paid for over the course of knowing him but you were surprised to see it was a ring instead.

You would nervously start laughing. You knew he liked you but you didn’t think he liked you this much.

“I mean I like you and all but don’t you think it’s a bit to early to be proposing.” You would joke making him laugh.

“I wouldn’t be against it that for sure, but no I just wanted to give it to you as a thank you for listening to me ramble on and all the free drinks.” He responded. He beckoned you to hold your hand out which you did and he slipped the ring on your finger.

You would look at the ring and smile. It was made of gold and small diamond in the center, it was absolutely beautiful to you but you couldn’t help but to wonder how he got it.

“How’d you get this?” You questioned him, wanting to know if you could wear it without the worry of being arrested for theft.

“It was a reward for saving a old lady from being killed, she told me to gave it to my wife even though I tried to explain I didn’t have one but she didn’t listen so I thought I might as well give it to the closest girl I have to it.” You intensely blushed from his words and smiled at him which caused him do the same as he gently held your hand in his.

“Well it’s very beautiful, thank you Arthur.” You said although you found yourself lost in his eyes instead of the ring. The moment was perfect as it seemed you two were only ones in the world as you felt him cup your face and lean in.

You could feel the anticipation swelling inside of you as you leaned in as well wanting nothing more for this to happen. But like most good things you have to wait for it, it was ruined.

“You whore! You been giving him free drinks just because your sleeping with him!” Your eyes widen when you heard this and quickly turned your head to see one of the regular drunks glaring at you.

“Sir I pay for those myself and what I do with my personal time doesn’t concern yo-“ the man cut you off not bothering to hear any of it as he consistently insulted you. It made you angry but you just turned your head to ignore him but you saw Arthur get up with nothing but hatred it his eyes.

“I best reckon you apologize to her if you want to keep what little teeth you have left.” He threatened the drunk. The man turned his glare to him now instead of you.

“What did you say, boy?” The drunk asked with vemon in his words. You tried to stop him but he didn’t listen as this man had dared to insult you.

“You heard me. Now are you going to apologize or am I going have to make you?” Arthur barked back. The man started to march over to him with no intention to do what he was told to do.

The man had barely had a chance to fight back when Arthur decked him once he was close enough and then proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. The drunk physically couldn’t fight as he mounted by a man who now had a full intent to kill him.

Other patrons at the bar started to cheer him on as they crowded around him but you could no longer watch as this happened. You ran over to him grabbed his arm and attempted to pulled him away from the man.

He would let up when he heard your voice and allowed you to pull him out of outside into the night air. You were mad at him but you were still grateful for what he was trying to do but he shouldn’t have done it regardless.

You opened your mouth to scold him but was stopped Arthur as he crashed his lips into yours. You would forget what you were about to say and just melted into the kiss. He tightly held onto you as the perfect moment finally played out.

The two of you pulled back, he rested his head against yourself. His arm was wrapped your waist as the other was entangled with your hand.

“I’m sorry for what I did…I just couldn’t stop myself when I heard what he was saying.” He apologized. You were easily going to forgive him but he continued before you could say anything.

“(Y/N) you mean so much to me, that I would do anything for you regardless of what it is,” He lightly tighten his grip on your hand and looked at you with admiration.

“Because you are single-handedly the greatest thing in my life, and I love you more then you could ever know just for being here with me.” You smiled after hearing that. The man that you’ve liked ever since meeting him loved you which was even more then you could wish for.

“Well isn’t that funny because I’ve felt the same way since our first meeting, Mr. Morgan.” You said wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling, this caused him to grin and hold you closer.

“Is that so, then I guess we’ve got making up for lost time.” Arthur said before kissing you once more in the moonlight with a new found love.

………………………………………………………………

Requests Are Open

[cruger2984]

Dankira and its Saints

When I heard of Dankira ended its service yesterday, I think it's about time for them to show their feast days in this latest installment to commemorate this occasion. So here it is.

[Merry Panic]

August 20 - Sora Asahi

St. Bernard of Clairvaux: 12th century French abbot and confessor, and a major leader in the revitalization of Benedictine monasticism through the nascent Order of Cistercians. There he preached an immediate faith, in which the intercessor was the Virgin Mary. In 1139, Bernard assisted at the Second Council of the Lateran. He subsequently denounced the teachings of Peter Abelard to the pope, who called a council at Sens in 1141 to settle the matter. Bernard was the first Cistercian placed on the calendar of saints, and was canonized by Pope Alexander III in 1174, and Pope Pius VIII bestowed Bernard the title of Doctor of the Church. His major shrine can be found in Troyes Cathedral.

March 20 - Mahiru Hinata

St. John Nepomucene (John of Nepomuk): 14th century priest and martyr who was drowned in the Vltava river at the behest of Wenceslaus IV of Bohemia (Czech Republic). Later accounts state that he was the confessor of the queen of Bohemia and refused to divulge the secrets of the confessional. On the basis of this account, John of Nepomuk is considered the first martyr of the Seal of the Confessional, a patron against defamation and, because of the manner of his death, a protector from floods and drowning. He is the patron saint of the Spanish Naval Infantry.

November 24 - Reiji Yano

The Vietnamese Martyrs: The Vatican estimates the number of Vietnamese martyrs at between 130,000 and 300,000. Pope St. John Paul II decided to canonize those whose names are known and unknown, giving them a single feast day. One of the most prominent person of the group is Andrew Dũng-Lạc, who was born to a peasant family and is ordained a priest in 1823. Many years later in 1998, he and the rest of the martyrs were canonized by Pope St. John Paul II. Among the number of the martyrs, there were 97 Vietnamese, 11 Dominican missionaries from Spain, and 10 French belonged to the Paris Foreign Mission Society; 59 were lay people and the rest of them are religious and or members of the clergy.

[Étoile]

February 17 - Akira Shido

Seven Holy Founders of the Servite Order: The seven holy founders consisted of Alexis Falconieri, Amadeus of the Amidei, Hugh dei Lippi Uggucioni, Benedetto dell' Antella, Gherardino di Sostegno, Buonfiglio dei Monaldi and Giovanni di Buonagiunta. On January 1888, Pope Leo XIII canonized all seven of them, and their feast was inserted in the General Roman Calendar for celebration on 11 February, the anniversary of the granting of canonical approval to the order in 1304. In the 1969 revision of the calendar, 17 February, the date of death of Alexis Falconieri was judged to be more appropriate.

December 11 - Noel Gekkoin

Pope St. Damasus I: 37th bishop of Rome who reigned for 18 years. He presided over the Council of Rome of 382 that determined the canon or official list of sacred scripture, and spoke out against major heresies in the church (including Apollinarianism and Macedonianism) and encouraged production of the Vulgate Bible with his support for Jerome. He helped reconcile the relations between the Church of Rome and the Church of Antioch, and encouraged the veneration of martyrs.

June 27 - Kei Kagemiya

Our Lady of Perpetual Help (Our Lady of Perpetual Succour): A Marian title represented in a celebrated 15th-century Byzantine icon also associated with the same Marian apparition. The icon is originated from the Keras Kardiotissas Monastery and has been in Rome since 1499, and today, it is permanently enshrined in the Church of Saint Alphonsus, where the official Novena to Our Mother of Perpetual Help text is prayed weekly. In 1867, Pope Pius IX granted the image its Canonical Coronation along with its present title. The Redemptorist Congregation of priests and brothers are the only religious order currently entrusted by the Holy See to protect and propagate a Marian religious work of art. Due to promotion by the Redemptorist Priests since 1865, the image has become very popular among Roman Catholics, and modern reproductions are oftentimes displayed in residential homes, commercial establishments, and public transportation.

[Theater Bell]

May 12 - Seito Tsubaki

Bl. Imelda Lambertini: Italian laywoman, virgin and mystic. Her parents were devout Catholics and were known for their charity and generosity to the underprivileged of Bologna. On her fifth birthday, she requested to receive Holy Eucharist; however the custom at the time was that children did not receive their First Holy Communion until it reached the age of fourteen. On the day of the vigil of the Ascension, she knelt in prayer and the 'Light of the Host' was reportedly witnessed above her head by the Sacristan, who then fetched the priest so he could see. After seeing this miracle, the priest felt compelled to admit her to receiving the Eucharist. Immediately after receiving it, Lambertini went back to her seat, and decided to stay after mass and pray. Later when a nun came to get Lambertini for supper, she found Lambertini still kneeling with a smile on her face. The nun called her name, but she did not stir, so she lightly tapped Imelda on the shoulder, at which Imelda collapsed to the floor dead. Beatified by Pope Leo XII in 1826, she is the patroness of First Communicants.

July 20 - Soma Yagami

St. Apollinaris of Ravenna: 1st century Syrian bishop and martyr, whom the Roman Martyrology describes as 'a bishop who, according to tradition, while spreading among the nations the unsearchable riches of Christ, led his flock as a good shepherd and honored the Church of Classis near Ravenna by a glorious martyrdom.' A noted miracle worker, Apollinaris is considered especially effective against gout, venereal disease and epilepsy. His relics are at the Basilica of Sant'Apollinare Nuovo and the 6th century Benedictine Basilica of Sant'Apollinare in Classe, both in Ravenna and in Saint Lambert's church in Düsseldorf, Germany.

November 11 - Nozomu Miki

St. Martin of Tours: Confessor and the third bishop of Tours. One of the most familiar and recognizable Christian saints in Western tradition. Martin converted to Christianity at a young age and served in the Roman cavalry in Gaul, but left military service at some point prior to 361, when he became a disciple of Hilary of Poitiers, establishing the monastery at Ligugé. He is best known for the account of his using his military sword to cut his cloak in two, to give half to a beggar clad only in rags in the depth of winter. His shrine in Tours became a famous stopping-point for pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. He is the patron of beggars, wool-weavers and tailors, as well as the patron of the United States Army Quartermaster Corps even though he detested violence.

[Sanzensekai]

September 18 - Yukari Wakakusa

St. Joseph of Cupertino: Italian friar from the Conventual Franciscans, a branch of the Franciscan order. He was said to have been remarkably unclever, but prone to miraculous levitation and intense ecstatic visions that left him gaping. Canonized as saint by Pope Clement XIII in 1767, he is the patron of mental handicaps, examinations, aviation and astronauts.

June 13 - Mitsukuni Minamoto

St. Anthony of Padua: Franciscan Portuguese friar and priest who is noted by his contemporaries for his powerful preaching, expert knowledge of scripture, and undying love and devotion to the poor and the sick, he was one of the most quickly canonized saints in church history. Although he is known as the patron of lost items, his major shrine can be found in Padua, Italy. In January 1946, he is proclaimed a Doctor of the Church by Pope Pius XII, and is given the title of Doctor Evangelicus (Evangelical Doctor).

April 28 - Oboro Kiriyama

St. Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort (Louis de Monfort): French priest and confessor, who was known in his time as a preacher and was made a missionary apostolic by Pope Clement XI. As well as preaching, he found time to write a number of books which went on to become classic Catholic titles and influenced several popes, and he is known for his particular devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary and the practice of praying the Rosary. He is considered as one of the early writers in the field of Mariology. His most notable works regarding Marian devotions are contained in Secret of the Rosary and True Devotion to Mary. Monfort is canonized as a saint two years after World War II under the pontificate of Pope Pius XII.

[TOXIC]

October 9 - Ageha Kurenai

St. Louis Bertrand: Spanish Dominican friar, confessor, missionary, and religious brother who is known as the 'Apostle of South America.' After his ordination by St. Thomas of Villanova, he went to South America for his missionary work. According to legend, a deadly draught was administered to him by one of the native priests. Through Divine interposition, the poison failed to accomplish its purpose. There is a town festival, called La Tomatina in Buñol, Valencia, in his honor along with Mare de Déu dels Desemparats.

April 12 - Shiki Janome

Pope St. Julius I: 35th successor of St. Peter who reigned for 15 years and is credited with splitting the birth of Christ into two distinct celebrations (Epiphany and the Nativity) as well as asserting the authority of the pope over the Arian Eastern bishops. After his death in 352 AD, he is succeeded by Pope Liberius.

January 12 - Tsukumo Busujima

St. Marguerite Bourgeoys: French nun who is known as the founder of the Congregation of Notre Dame of Montreal in the colony of New France, now part of the province of Québec in Canada.  She is also significant for developing one of the first uncloistered religious communities in the Catholic Church. She was canonized in 1982 and declared a saint by the Catholic Church, the first female saint of Canada.

[Black Meteor Camp (B.M.C.)]

January 31 - Atago Rentaro

St. John Bosco: Italian priest, educator, confessor and writer who is popularly known as 'Don Bosco' as well as the 'Father and Teacher of Youth'. While working in Turin, where the population suffered many of the ill-effects of industrialization and urbanization, he dedicated his life to the betterment and education of street children, juvenile delinquents, and other disadvantaged youth. He developed teaching methods based on love rather than punishment, a method that became known as the Salesian Preventive System. John was an ardent devotee of Mary, mother of Jesus, under the title Mary Help of Christians. He later dedicated his works to De Sales when he founded the Salesians of Don Bosco, based in Turin. He also founded the Institute of the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians, a religious congregation of nuns dedicated to the care and education of poor girls together with Maria Domenica Mazzarello, and he taught Dominic Savio, of whom he wrote a biography that helped the young boy be canonized.

September 6 - Habashiri Ginko

Zechariah the Prophet: He was a person that can be found in the Hebrew Bible and traditionally considered the author of the Book of Zechariah, the 11th of the Twelve Minor Prophets. He was a prophet of the Kingdom of Judah, and, like the prophet Ezekiel, was of priestly extraction. The Roman Catholic Church honors him with a feast day assigned to this date.

August 4 - Tsubaki Kento

St. John Vianney: French priest and confessor who is known as the patron saint of parish priests. He is often referred to as the 'Curé d'Ars', internationally known for his priestly and pastoral work in his parish in Ars, France, because of the radical spiritual transformation of the community and its surroundings. Catholics attribute this to his saintly life, mortification, persevering ministry in the sacrament of confession, and ardent devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. His major shrine can be found in Ars-sur-Formans.

[dialux]

courage is the passport when your old world disappears

Hello @khrys, I hope you like this story! It started out as a Leap Year AU, but rapidly took a life of its own... to the point that it’s probably unrecognizable. Some notes for the fic that are hopefully unneeded, but enjoyable are available here. Hope y’all enjoy!

[Leap Year AU, where they’re completely human; with sand mafia, environmental terrorism, a Crowley who hates water and an Aziraphale who just wants to propose to his boyfriend.]

...

“Have a wonderful flight, love.”

“Mmm,” he says, and grins at Aziraphale, dry as white wine, before reaching for a kiss. “I will. And you- be careful. There’ve been some- ah- robberies going around. Apparently.”

“Oh?” asks Aziraphale. “You’d think they’d have realized minimalism’s in now.”

“Not with you it isn’t,” he says, before stepping away and shoving his suitcase in the trunk. “Which is why they’ll come for our flat first, what with a snowstorm on its way and all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Just careful.”

“As always.”

But Aziraphale smiles to take the sting out of the words, and kisses him goodbye one last time, and waves as the taxi disappears into the early morning fog, carrying his boyfriend with it. It’s only afterwards, after he’s sitting at his table, that he lets himself think it: always so careful, aren’t you, Gabriel?

It’d been a nice counterpoint from some of Aziraphale’s previous boyfriends, who wouldn’t have accepted responsibility if it killed them. For the first three years, Aziraphale had appreciated Gabriel’s brusqueness, his aura of control, his firm knowledge of right and wrong, the way he doesn’t act until he has all the needed information. It’s what makes him such a good PR consultant- he acts swiftly only once he’s got everything he needs.

Until now.

Four years of living together, and no further commitment from Gabriel’s end. It leaves Aziraphale a little worried: when has Gabriel ever not been decisive? And if he decides he doesn’t want Aziraphale anymore, what does Aziraphale have? A shop? His books?

No. It isn’t enough.

And Aziraphale doesn’t want him to leave. He wants a life with Gabriel, tucked in this part of London, warm and cozy and comfortable.

So here he is, sitting at his little kitchen-table, planning.

No.

Here he is: plotting.

...

A few hours later, Aziraphale packs himself off into a small taxi and takes off to the airport. It’s not a great day: the February morning is cloudy and cold, the promise of snow and rain heavy in the air, but Aziraphale has a very soft scarf that keeps his neck warm despite it. He gets a ticket quickly, though he has to suppress a shudder when the ticketing agent chucks his luggage- a proper antique!- into the check-in queue without any care about denting it.

It’s a good plan, what he’s come up with.

Gabriel is a staunch Christian. He knows all the saints. He knows all the tales. He knows the Bible back to front and front to back, and lives his life as staunchly by it as he can. And Aziraphale has always liked Saint Brigid, patron of scholars and printing presses. If he’s proposed to on the 29th of February, he’ll know the tradition Aziraphale’s invoking.

That, at least, Aziraphale is certain of.

What he isn’t certain of is Gabriel’s answer.

But still, four years is so long. Short in the larger scheme of things, yes, but long enough to know whether the relationship can last or not. And, Aziraphale thinks, if it ends here, if it ends like this, because Gabriel does not love him enough to wed him- then Aziraphale will walk away at least knowing that. At least this terrible uncertainty won’t dog his footsteps wherever he goes.

...

The flight is a small one; it always is for such short distances. Aziraphale doesn’t think much of it.

Not until the oxygen masks fall, at least.

...

“How is it,” asks Aziraphale, trying desperately to hold onto his temper, “that a plane from London gets blown further south?”

The lady behind the desk sighs. “I’m very sorry, sir. But the warnings about the snowstorm have caused emergency closures of all airports within the storm’s radius, and there is no-”

“Is there another flight to Dublin that I can take?”

“Sir,” says the lady. She looks very pale in the fluorescent lighting, and very tired, and about as incredulous as she can while holding onto her customer-service-mask. “There is a snowstorm that has grounded all flights in and out of Dublin for at least two weeks. If you’d like, I can put you on a flight to Spain.”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “That won’t be necessary.” He pauses. Tries to soften his voice, because it isn’t the poor woman’s fault, at the end of the day. “But do you have a ferry anywhere near here?”

“Nothing official,” says the lady. Then she takes in his face- the scarf drooping, the damp patches of sweat on his jacket, the visible dents in his- antique!- luggage- and sympathy visibly softens it. “But I think I can get a cousin on the line for you, if you don’t mind paying a bit extra.”

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale, fervently, and watches her face pink up a little in pleasure.

...

The boy the lady hires for the job is a young man, with a ruddy face and acne turning it ruddier, a shock of dark hair and limbs so long he looks more cricket than human. “Heard you need a ride,” he says, and his voice cracks cleanly through the middle, like a porcelain plate snapped in half.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, hauling his suitcase through the pier and onto the boat. “To Cork.”

“Dunno if we’ll get that far.”

The boy looks dubiously at the sky. It’s a strange yellowish tinge; Aziraphale isn’t certain if that’s from the sunset reflecting off of the clouds or if it’s a prelude to a storm, like in the accounts of hurricanes he’s read about from the Bahamas. But the wind is sharp and cold in his face, and it’s been so long since he ever felt something this wild, this uncontrollable. He has to stifle the strange urge to laugh into the teeth of the wind, giddiness turning his limbs light.

“Sooner begun, sooner ended,” says Aziraphale calmly, settling into the boat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Right,” says the boy, even more dubiously. “Hold on, then, I guess.”

...

Eventually, when the waves are almost completely swamping the boat, the boy seems to be aiming less for Cork and more for land, any land. They finally wash up on a rocky beach, the landing rough enough to jar Aziraphale’s back and cause it to ache.

“It isn’t Cork,” says the boy, but his sidelong look at Aziraphale tells him that it doesn’t matter even if Aziraphale tries to avoid payment, or promise more money. There’s no way he’s going to go out into the water again.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, and hides the disappointment as best he can before fishing out his wallet. “But a deal’s a deal. Do you know this town?”

“Not... well.” The boy hesitates, then pockets the cash. “But there’s an inn on top of that bluff, I think. If you want a place to stay the night.”

Aziraphale takes stock: the outer layer of his luggage is soaked through, and so is he, and the night is falling fast, the wind picking up with it. He thinks there’s an oiled cover in the boat’s supplies, but then the boy will probably use that himself. Which means that Aziraphale has no choice.

“Thank you,” he says, because for all his misfortune the lad doesn’t deserve to be on the wrong end of his temper, and Aziraphale can be courteous even if all he wants is fall into a soft, warm bed and sleep for a couple days.

He remembers: Gabriel, the ring tucked in his breastpocket. It’s going to be worth it. And perhaps, decades later, it will make for a good story when he’s telling people in a pub. The adventure he had, in going from London to Dublin.

The optimism lasts him right up to taking the suitcase up the bluff. Aziraphale doesn’t like exercise; Gabriel’s tried all sorts of methods to get him to go to the gym with him, from losing weight to sleeping better at night, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind either his figure or his insomnia, not really. He does regret not being in shape now, when there’s sweat making his shirt sticky and then immediately drying off under the freezing wind, and the hard edge of his suitcase keeps banging against his legs. There are going to be bruises in too many places to count.

By the time he gets to the actual inn, he is red-faced, cheeks chapped from the cold and flushed with the exertion, hair tamped to his skull and feeling wild-eyed with sheer desperation for rest. There’s a little bell that jangles when he enters- just another infuriating stimulus scraping away at his self-control- and he drops the suitcase with a huff in front of what he assumes has to be the reservation desk.

“Is there anyone here?”

“Yes,” says a cool voice behind him. “But please refrain from attempting to damage the floorboards. They’re new.”

Aziraphale turns on his heel and forces himself not to look too disbelieving of the man who’d just spoken. There’s absolutely no way these floorboards- which have more scars and dents than Aziraphale’s luggage- are newer than two decades. Probably between thirty-five and forty years, actually, if his experience in antiques is anything to go by.

But.

He needs a room, doesn’t he?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Are you the innkeeper?”

“Do I look like the innkeeper?”

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“Which is because I am the innkeeper,” says the man, and smiles at Aziraphale like he’s in on a joke. “Crowley, at your service.”

“Er. Right.” Aziraphale blinks, then nods once, sharply. “I don’t suppose you have any rooms I can let for the night?”

“I usually don’t take such late customers.”

“It’s not even eight!”

“Most of ‘em are online, nowadays,” says Crowley. “The reservations, I mean.”

“Are they,” says Aziraphale, flatly. “Do you even have any customers?”

Something closes off in Crowley’s face, and he leans back. “It’s off-season,” he says, and his voice has cooled off.

“Looks like it.” Aziraphale bites his tongue before he can say anything worse and get himself kicked out of the only place that can house him for- probably- kilometers on end. “Look. Can I have a room? I’ll pay upfront, in cash- I just need somewhere for the night.”

“Sure,” says Crowley, voice still flat. He taps at a screen in front of him- Aziraphale hadn’t known screens that large could be touchscreen, and certainly not when everything around them is so ramshackle and collapsing. “How many nights?”

“Er. One. I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow morning.”

“So soon!” he says, and the sardonic uptick of his voice almost makes Aziraphale twitch with what’s rapidly becoming Pavlovian reflex. Then Crowley looks up, and there’s a brightness to his gaze that makes Aziraphale relax against his will. He holds out an envelope. “Your room key. There should be ice down the hall, but if the machine doesn’t work don’t worry. Just give it a couple of solid thumps and it’ll set it to sorts. Complementary breakfast in the morning, make sure you’re down by eight!”

Aziraphale pays and heads over to the stairs that Crowley had gestured to, pausing only to flip the envelope over and look at the room number.

204 shines back at him, stamped dark and heavy.

The bastard’s probably given him the highest room in the entire inn.

Oh my god, thinks Aziraphale, before taking his luggage with both hands and striding up it. Think of Gabriel. This is all for...

...

...

Crowley watches through the carefully-arranged mirror as the man exhales sharply and sends a dark look back to the reception desk before taking the stairs. He grins; there’s something amusing in pushing polite people to the edge of rudeness and pulling away right before they tip over it.

Then he turns away to do his work for the night.

The inn is not doing well. Crowley’s acknowledged that in his mind, even if he hasn’t admitted it to anyone else. The man- Aziraphale- was right. The floorboards are mildewed in some areas and there are so many other problems- the bougainvillea he’d planted years ago is threatening to rip apart the wooden stakes of the roof, and the kitchen has such an inefficient stove that he’ll probably have a carbon monoxide poisoning sooner rather than later, and there’s a stone wall running behind the inn that’s grown so weak it’ll give way to a goat’s headbutt as soon as the farmers start taking them out to pasture. But to solve all of those, Crowley’s going to need money, and that’s the real problem underlying everything: he doesn’t have enough cash.

He’s scraped by these past few years by the skin of his teeth.

And to be fair, it is lean season; February to April are the worst months, with college students busy with studies and the constant threat of storms like this one currently banging his window shutters so wildly. But Crowley doesn’t have the padding of a good Christmas season because he hadn’t been in town then, and he’s paying the price for that risk now.

There’s nobody who’ll loan him the cash. Absolutely nobody. Not with Crowley’s history, which he hadn’t bothered to hide when he moved here because he’s so tired of hiding it; they’ll all shake their heads and look at him with glassy eyes, pity and scorn lighting them in equal measure.

Screw them. He’s got enough pride not to let on exactly how bad things have gotten. You’ll figure this out, Crowley.

Like he always has.

Even if he gets a headache from squinting at the numbers and trying to balance them- even if the only time he gets to do this is past midnight- Crowley will, because this is the one home he’s chosen for himself and the one home he wants, and that matters, and Crowley’s never let go of things that mattered in his entire life.

...

The next morning, Crowley lets Aziraphale into the outer dining hall. It’s a good morning; the sun is shining through the clouds, and the rain has washed all the dust off of the leaves and petals to turn the entire garden into a shining, brilliant vision. He offers a plate of a proper English breakfast- eggs, bacon, toast; coffee that comes from freshly roasted beans. And Aziraphale seems to appreciate it more than the average customer, too, because he hums deep in his throat when he tastes the coffee, and refrains from gulping it down like a thirsty vagabond, for all that he’d appeared a drowned one just a few hours previous.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Crowley asks silkily, keeping his tone even and pleasant.

“No,” says Aziraphale. He looks up at Crowley, then, and his eyes are not a very deep blue; they are lighter than that by far, like floes of ice, and colorless when the sunlight shafts across them at a particular angle. Something clenches in Crowley’s abdomen, and eases only when Aziraphale continues to speak. “But- do you know where the nearest train station is? I’m headed to Dublin, you see.”

“There’s no train station near here,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale pales, a little, and Crowley finds himself elaborating: “They were building one down to here, but it got diverted more inland so they didn’t have to worry about the cliffs. They’re quite unstable, so they’d need to build that too, and you know how the government is.”

“Cheap?”

“Penny-pinching bastards, the lot of them,” agrees Crowley.

Amusement leavens Aziraphale’s face a little. He leans forward, and studies Crowley. “I’ll need to go inland, then. Catch that train.”

“Wouldn’t make sense. They cancel them half the time, any which way you want to measure time. And anyhow, nearest train station’s twenty kilometers away."

“Ah.” He slumps back. “I don’t suppose you know of another method of travel out of here? I’m on a deadline- I need to be in Dublin by tomorrow.”

“Something important happening?”

“Leap day,” says Aziraphale. “I’m sure you know the tradition- I plan to propose. To my- ah- boyfriend.”

That fist clenches in Crowley’s belly again, and he coughs to hide it. “Leap day,” he says, and knows his voice is too flat, the pleasant edge of it suddenly turning cold and sharp. “Doesn’t that mean a man who’s proposed to on leap day can’t say no?”

“Not without paying the person who proposed a fee. In the old times, it would have been the fur of twelve animals. Now... I suppose twelve books would be enough.”

“I didn’t take you for a gold digger,” says Crowley, staring at him.

Aziraphale flushes. “Excuse me?”

“What, just because he won’t marry he has to pay you to leave him alone? That sounds terrible. And cruel.”

“You don’t know him! Or me!”

“No, I don’t.” Crowley smiles, a flash of his teeth, and watches Aziraphale flush a little darker. “But I do know that there’s no way out of this town unless you drive. And there’s nobody who’s going to offer a taxi service.”

“They’ll do it,” says Aziraphale grimly, chin upturned and eyes flashing as he glares at Crowley. “For the money if nothing else.”

Money.

Rows of dark numbers flashes through Crowley’s mind, the dizziness of seeing them for so long that they lost almost all meaning. He’s not a greedy man, Crowley, but he’s a man who knows survival when he it dangles in front of him and stinks of bait.

“How much money?” he asks casually.

“I- don’t know.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “How much do you think it’ll cost?”

Crowley makes a rapid decision. “Five hundred pounds,” he says, and steps closer to the table, so he can better see Aziraphale. “Five hundred, if you want to go to Dublin. I’ll drive you there myself.”

“Oh!” For a moment, Aziraphale doesn’t answer. He’s looking for a way to decline, Crowley knows it. “I don’t think-”

“Take it or leave it,” says Crowley, folding his arms over his chest. He smiles, again, this time slow and wide. Debates on vocalizing the threat, but... he’s not a good man, and never has been, and he doesn’t think he’ll start just because he has a paragon of virtue or whatever in front of him. “And believe me, I know how to cut transmission wires on cars far better than I can drive them. So if you really want to get out-”

“How dare you!”

“Just the truth, angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t react badly to the nickname; he only pulls his eyebrows down and says, more petulantly than angry: “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t have to.” Crowley lifts his eyebrows. “Just pay me.”

Aziraphale taps his fingers on the table and studies the remnants of his breakfast. He looks deep in thought; like he’s trying to tease out some old, unknown truth instead of debating on whether he should take the expensive lifeline Crowley’s just offered him. Finally, he brushes a hand to his brow and looks up at Crowley.

“Oh, fine,” he says, and for all that it’s sullen and unhappy, it’s also an agreement.

Crowley will take what he gets.

...

...

The car Crowley comes up with is such an anomaly to his surroundings- well, it’s an antique, or so Aziraphale thinks, so not that much of an anomaly, but it’s shiny and black and long, the metal rivets gleaming and headlights almost larger than Aziraphale’s skull- and he can’t fathom where Crowley must have hidden it, because there’s nowhere around that should be capable of hiding it out of a storm or fell weather.

“Ready, angel?”

Aziraphale firmly- firmly!- ignores the twist in his chest at the name. The man’s only being sarcastic, and he’s only in this for the money, and Aziraphale has to remember that.

“You know my name,” he mutters instead, and drags his luggage the last few feet to the boot of the car. “Could you open it up? I’ll just-”

“-what is that?” asks Crowley, stepping out of the car and looking horrified.

“My suitcase.”

“It’s covered in shit!”

“Mud. From the rain.”

“Oh, so you can tell the difference between them, can you?” Crowley glares at him for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

He returns a moment later with a waterproof cloth, brightly decorated like the kind that Aziraphale’s seen adorning picnic tables for children’s birthday parties. Crowley spreads it over the backseat and insists on arranging the suitcase on top of it himself, so no part of it can touch his precious car, even by accident.

“You’ve gone mad,” says Aziraphale, before he seats himself.

Crowley slides into the other door. “I like my car,” he says primly; the dissonance almost makes Aziraphale laugh, though he takes care not to when he still doesn’t know how Crowley will drive.

Better not to antagonize him right before a relatively lengthy drive.

...

Only it seems that Crowley’s an insane driver, no matter what precautions Aziraphale might take.

...

“That is enough,” shouts Aziraphale, and reaches out, and yanks at the wheel Crowley’s currently spinning with far too much glee.

The car skids for a moment- Aziraphale’s stomach bottoms out in sudden, abrupt realization that he’s probably thrown them off the mountain they’re currently climbing- before it comes to a halt in the ditch on the other side, wheels caught in mud.

Crowley tries something that makes mud splatter all over the back windows of the car but doesn’t move anything, and then he swears loudly before turning to scowl at Aziraphale.

“Now look what you’ve done!” he exclaims.

“It’s at least half your fault, too,” says Aziraphale. “The way that you were driving- you were lucky you didn’t take us off the mountainside.”

“If you’ve ruined my Bentley,” he says, and it sounds like a threat, but there’s no actual threat following it up, so Aziraphale remains relaxed in his seat.

Crowley makes an inarticulate sound, high and furious, before slamming out of the car. The opening of the door brings a gust of cold wind and colder rain, and Aziraphale shivers as he hunches further into his coat, glad for the scarf around his neck. Crowley doesn’t seem deterred though; he stomps around, red hair clearly visible through even the pouring rain, and peers at the Bentley’s trunk and position for long minutes before entering the car once more.

“We’re stuck,” he says grumpily, ignoring the rain plastering his hair- once teased high as a fox’s tail with some product- to his head and dripping all over his precious seats.

He pulls out a phone, sleek and elegant, and taps something into it, bringing it to his ear before grimacing at the water still making its way down his face. Crowley looks at the rest of his clothes. None of them are any better off, and he’ll likely only make himself wetter by trying to touch any part of his face with his clothes. Wordlessly, Aziraphale hands him his scarf. Crowley jumps; he looks at Aziraphale with some strange look on his face before taking it and mopping his face.

“Yeah, Dagon?” Crowley closes his eyes and leans back, presses the cuff of his sleeve to his brow and drops it as soon as he feels its dampness. “It’s me. Crowley.”

There’s an explosion of sound from the other end.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, and he sounds tired. “I know, mate. I know. It’s been a while. No, I haven’t. Things’ve been... good.”

That inn, with half its doors hanging off hinges, with mold in the majority of corners, looking like it’s going to collapse on itself under a strong wind- that’s good? Aziraphale holds back his incredulous snort and tucks himself further into his jacket; Crowley’s cold jacket is making him cold, from the sheer difference in temperature.

“You still working in Kilkenny?” Another bit of sound, where Dagon is apparently either shrieking bloody murder or talking very loudly. Crowley coughs into his fist, rolling his eyes a little, and says, deliberately, “Kilkenny, Dagon. Yeah. Needed a bit of help. I- er- got stuck in a ditch. Long story, but I’m near the city, I think.” He pauses. Then, very loudly, “I cannot- d’you even remember that-”

The phone clicks off, and Crowley puts it down, and very slowly bends over his steering wheel to press his head against the knotted metal edge of the wheel. His hair flops down, longer than Aziraphale had imagined it without the product keeping it up, and the way his eyes close- Aziraphale feels warmth swell from his gut, all the way up to his throat, like he’s swallowed the first rays of spring sunlight.

“It’ll be a couple hours,” Crowley says hoarsely. He gets up and looks normal, for all that he’d looked completely exhausted just a few moments before. “For Dagon to tow, I mean. And we don’t have any connectivity. For calling a taxi.”

“Even in your fancy phone?”

“No. Not even in my fancy phone.”

Aziraphale nods and lets the conversation drift into silence. He looks out of the window; tries not to pay too much attention to the man beside him who looks like he’s half a minute from either punching something or crying. Mostly because there’s nobody else to punch in the vicinity apart from Aziraphale, and he doesn’t know how to handle anyone’s tears, much less Crowley, who’s bristly enough to put a porcupine to shame.

Then he sees Crowley’s face.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice pitched low so the alarm doesn’t worry Crowley, “are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Crowley turns slowly, like he’s one of those bobblehead machines that can move up and down but not side to side. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Your skin is- it looks- blue.”

“I... ah- well. I don’t. It’s quite... normal, I think that’s-”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snaps Aziraphale, leaning forward to touch his neck. He can’t quite help recoiling at the freezing temperature. “You aren’t alright. Not if you’re in shock already!” Crowley starts to furrow his brows, but unfortunately for him, Aziraphale’s patience has shattered under his worry about fifteen seconds previously. “Take off your clothes.”

Some emotion returns to Crowley’s face. “No,” he says, and sounds insulted. “Do I really look that easy to you?”

“You look half-frozen,” says Aziraphale, steely-eyed. “And like you’ll catch your death of the cold if you don’t handle yourself. Now, I think the jacket’s the worst off- and your shirt, too, but your jeans should be fine.” Mostly because he can’t imagine that Crowley has the dexterity to get the jeans off, and Aziraphale does not want to attempt to undo things plastered that close to the skin. “If you can get that off, I’ll give you my jacket, yes? And you should be better off. Warmer, at the least.”

They manage it after some shuffling around. In the end, Crowley stretches out in the backseat, stripped to the waist and shivering spasmodically- the shivers make Aziraphale feel a little better, because he remembers reading that shivering’s the body’s way of making itself warmer; the real danger is when that reflex stops- but it doesn’t seem to matter what configuration Aziraphale tries to shove him into. Crowley keeps shivering.

Where is that blasted friend when he needs to show up?

“Fine,” whispers Aziraphale. “Oh, fine. I suppose...”

It takes more maneuvering, with more dexterity than Aziraphale’s had to use in quite a few years. But by the end of it, he’s got himself pressed up against Crowley, his chest to Crowley’s jacketed back, one arm curled up at an unpleasant angle over the window and the other hanging over Crowley’s ribs.

This close, Aziraphale can smell Crowley from underneath Aziraphale’s jacket: it’s a strange scent, damped by the rain and vaguely reminiscent of a deep forest, full of moss and growing things. But that would make sense; Aziraphale remembers how lovely Crowley’s garden had been, rich and lush and verdant, full of bright plants and thick vines. They’d all looked under control, too, not the wild sorts of gardens that some places had, where they just let nature take its course. He can imagine it now: Crowley gardening, a cheek streaked with dirt and eyes shining with joy.

Slowly, trying to flex his now-numb arm, he lets it drop to Crowley’s head. Crowley doesn’t do much more than snort and shimmy, a peculiar movement that begins in his neck and carries all the way down to his calves. His hair is softer than Aziraphale had thought it might be, though that might because the product has mostly been washed out of it.

And it’s been a very long day. A long few days. If Aziraphale had known how much trouble he’d get into for just trying to go meet Gabriel, he wouldn’t have ever left Soho. But he didn’t and he has, and the car is- while not warm- strangely comfortable, and so he closes his eyes, and before he knows it, he’s fallen asleep.

...

...

Crowley jerks awake out of a dream. He usually does; he tends to thrash in sleep anyways, and moreso when he’s sleeping in unfamiliar places. There’s a thud and someone’s yelp, and he feels his heartrate pick up, the old panic rising up and threatening to drown him. One arm reaches out on reflex, a rabbit-fast punch that slaps against...

Leather?

His vision clears, and Crowley sees the shiny black leather of his Bentley. The rain-crusted window. A flash of cream on his chest, and another on the floor, and he chooses to roll slightly to see-

“What the fuck,” he says.

Aziraphale, who’d apparently been spooning him- which, again, what the fuck- looks up at him, and has the gall to look a little wounded. “You were cold,” he says. And sounds accusing, the bastard. “And kept shivering. I thought you needed some way to keep warm.”

“And you didn’t think of turning up the heat?” asks Crowley, flabbergasted.

“I'd break that thing as soon as get the heat up,” says Aziraphale. He lifts his eyebrows, and looks far too put-together for lying on the floor of a Bentley, hair and clothes all askew. “I didn’t think you’d like that very much.”

“Right.”

Crowley decides that he cannot deal with the implications of that statement just yet, and sits up, swinging his legs carefully to avoid hitting Aziraphale. He has to figure out what’s going on: the rain has pretty much stopped, but he can’t know when it’ll pick up again, not in the middle of a storm cell like they’re currently in. He grimaces at the feel of his damp jeans still on his legs. It’s going to take him ages to get those off now. Then he reaches for the handle.

“Where’re you going?” asks Aziraphale, sounding alarmed.

“Outside,” says Crowley. He lifts an eyebrow back to him, some of his humor restored. “Don’t worry, angel. I won’t just abandon you here.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, some of the apprehension fading. “I just meant that you don’t seem to handle the rain all that well. You did almost go into shock.”

And I’m liable to do the same again if I don’t have time to regroup. So. Picking the best of two evils, really, between the cold and sitting here with you.

“It’s stopped raining,” he says instead, and doesn’t wait to hear Aziraphale’s protest before stepping out.

Outside, the cold air is bracing and freezing on his open chest, but the rain has stopped. Crowley takes a few deep breaths of it, lets it settle in his lungs, lets it settle his brain. Runs a hand through his hair, and grimaces at the floppy feel of it.

It’s been a very long time since he slept with his back to someone.

Not since... No. I am not going to think about that. Not now, of all times.

Four years he’s gone without remembering that night, and now he’s just going to give it all up? Because he got cold?

No. Aziraphale doesn’t know anything, really. He still thinks it’s the cold and the rain that turned Crowley into that half-catatonic mess. Best to keep him thinking that way. And also for Crowley not to think about how warm his hand had been, how soft; how it had felt, to have that kind of kindness, unthinkingly given. Aziraphale’s going to go back to his fiance and his London life in less than a day, and Crowley cannot forget that. Cannot afford to forget that.

Another breath. Two.

Then he reaches for his phone and pulls up Dagon. The idiot could’ve at least provided him with an update if he wasn’t going to show up.

“Hello?”

“Dagon,” says Crowley, and lets his voice drop into the lower register he rarely uses anymore. He might not like threatening people, but he’s half-certain that Dagon’s scared of him anyways, and if it’ll get him out of these goddamn jeans, Crowley’s not going to hesitate. “Where’s the truck?”

...

“He isn’t coming,” Crowley says, returning to the car.

Aziraphale blinks. “But you-”

“Not tonight, at least.” Crowley closes his eyes briefly, but then he opens them. God. Today’s been one disaster after another, hasn’t it? “He says he’ll try tomorrow, because it’ll be Thursday and he should have the day off. But he can’t make it tonight.”

The idiot isn’t in Kilkenny. He’s driving around Kilkenny, but he won’t be able to make it until tomorrow. Which, if he’d just said-

But Crowley’s not in the habit of crying over spilled milk. He looks at Aziraphale, and smiles, and reaches for as much calm as he can manage.

“So what’re we going to do?”

“You found my inn yesterday,” Crowley tells him. “If we make our way down the mountain, we should find another. A bed and breakfast, or a pub at the least.”

They get Aziraphale’s luggage out, and Crowley takes the moment while he’s occupied to pull on his wet shirt and jacket and hand Aziraphale’s back to him.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s cold,” Crowley tells him, and ignores the violent shudders snaking down his spine. It’s just rain, not sprinklers. And it’s only damp, not soaking. He isn’t going to have a panic attack, not now. “You’re going to need it. Really. I’ll be fine.”

“Right,” says Aziraphale dubiously, but he takes the thing anyways, so Crowley is going to chalk it as a win.

They make their way downhill, Crowley’s backpack pressing uncomfortably wet cloth against his shoulderblades. It’s probably... just before sundown, which is why they have some light to see by, even if it isn’t a lot.

“Is Dagon your friend?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley cuts him a look sharply, but there’s no mockery in Aziraphale’s face; he’s concentrating on not tripping over the sharp stones in the path. And it would make sense: how could he know of Crowley’s past? Nobody does. It isn’t that nobody can, only that Crowley’d got a taste of how it felt to not have a past years ago, and he ran with it like nobody could have imagined.

“It’s... complicated,” he says aloud. Looks up to the sky, which is still scudded with clouds but clearing a little, just enough that the sliver of the moon is visible. “We were friends, for a long time. Colleagues, I think, would be a better name for it.”

“Oh.”

“Surprised?”

“He sounded like he was surprised that you were calling him.”

“He was.” Crowley kicks at a stone; feels the sweet ache of it in his toe. “I haven’t spoken to him in- Christ- five years.”

“What happened?” asks Aziraphale, voice soft, inviting. Without any hint of the maliciously curious edge that Crowley’s spent years searching for, dismissing people for.

“I left,” he says. “The company we worked for, I mean.”

“And that was- bad?”

“Worse than that.” Crowley laughs, once, shortly, humorlessly. “I was working in a construction company, see, and it had ties- all over the world. Global construction company. And I got the job by a fluke- it was a recommendation by someone who shouldn’t have ever given it, who wouldn’t have given it if they knew I’d get the job- but I was good at it. Really fucking good at it.”

Not for very long, maybe, but long enough. It’s definitely left its mark on him.

“Only...”

“Only the higher I got, the weirder people were acting. So I did some digging. And I found out that they were stealing sand.”

Aziraphale comes to a complete halt. “Stealing sand?”

“Doesn’t sound like much, does it?” Crowley shakes his head. “Only it was. They can ruin rivers with it. Beaches. Entire ecosystems. I didn’t know a lot about it, though, not until there was news a few days later- literal days- about entire towns being washed away in India.”

“Oh my god.”

“Seven people died.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

“So you... did what?”

“Went to the police,” says Crowley dully. “I showed them what I had. They put me in the protected person service while they were working on it, and it turned out that it was a bigger deal than I’d even known.” He snorts. “Proper sand mafia.”

“You’re not still in that service, are you?” asks Aziraphale, a little nervously.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I can hold my secrets for one day,” he says. Usually takes me the third date to spill all my secrets, but you’re a special one, aren’t you? He can still feel that hand, large and soft, pressed against the space between his ribs. “But it isn’t one, so it doesn’t matter. I got put in the protection, and then they got the worst of the people, and I got out. But I couldn’t go back to London after all of that. Didn’t want to.”

“Ah. I wondered, you know, why you don’t have an accent.”

“Because I’m not Irish.” Something similar to amusement bubbles in Crowley’s belly. “You could’ve just asked, you know that? I don’t mind questions.”

He might choose not to answer, but he’s never not liked questions. And he certainly won’t be offended by someone asking them. It’s the underlying currents that he’s never liked: the cruelty of it, the careless tribalism. The breathless desire for gossip, not for information.

“Gabriel never liked too many questions.”

“That,” says Crowley, very neutrally, “is the first time you’ve told me his name.”

Not neutrally enough. Aziraphale turns around to look at Crowley, wide eyes shining. Again, there’s that twist in his gut.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” says Aziraphale. “So many years. I just... want him to be mine. You know?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley. “I do.”

“You had someone?”

“No.” Crowley swallows. “Not like... that.”

But he can understand, better than Aziraphale can probably hope for. The possessive, jealous edge to his thoughts. Crowley does not like sharing things. Or people. If he ever fell in love, he’d probably scare the person off with how much he loved them; it’s a design flaw he’s accepted that can’t be changed.

Still. Better not to tell Aziraphale that, he thinks.

“But you said-”

“-yeah. Never had time for it, really- I didn’t have the best childhood.” He looks up to the sky. He’s always liked the stars; how they keep spinning, on and on and on, even when his life feels like it’s stuck in bog peat. “Streets, violence, the whole lot. Never had time before I got the job at the company. Never really wanted to, after. But I can get wanting a family.”

Aziraphale is looking at him. Crowley can feel the regard of that gaze, the sympathy, and it twists him up like a piece of paper braided together, too thick to tear but too flimsy to remain unfrayed.

“Gabriel and I,” he says, finally, when Crowley remains silent. “I always admired his ability to be careful. To wait for the right time. To do the right thing. There’s so much I wasn’t sure of when I met him. He gives me that certainty.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“What more could I want?”

“I don’t know. Love?” 

Aziraphale inhales sharply, like Crowley’s just punched him, and Crowley sighs. Another fuckup. I really need to warm up. He usually has better control on his tongue, or at least he does when he’s warm. 

“Yeah, no, that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to,” says Aziraphale, but he sounds a little weaker on the protest.

Crowley waves a hand. “Look, just because I don’t understand...” He trails off and stares at the sky. His throat hurts, a little, like the beginning of a cold just sneaking up on him. “I don’t get romance. Not really. So. That’s on me, not you.” Crowley sends him a smile, small and thin. “I think we’ve established that I don’t know anything about relationships.”

“I don’t think you don’t get romance,” says Aziraphale cautiously. “You did mention love, you know, and not, like, money.”

“Yeah.” Crowley turns, slightly, and sees a flash of light. “Is that- I think-”

Relief brightens Aziraphale’s face. “Yes,” he says. “It looks like an inn. Can we please-”

“Yes,” says Crowley, and they quicken their paces to get into the inn as quickly as possible.

...

...

The owners of the inn are rather older, but they look nice; Aziraphale feels himself relax, at the warmth of the little cottage, at the softness of their gaze.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, shoving a little in front of Crowley. “Our car broke down up the mountain, and we got caught in the rain, and-”

“-and we need a room for the night,” finishes Crowley.

“Oh, you poor dears!” The woman bustles forwards, takes in their damp clothes; her face creases in sympathy. “Yes, yes, we have a room. Right lucky you are, the both of you. Someone came in just an hour ago! Wanting a room!” She lowers her voice. “They weren’t even married. Admitted it straight out!”

Aziraphale is aware of Crowley opening his mouth, so he speaks quickly. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet you, then!”

Crowley freezes in his peripheral vision, shoulders almost seizing up to his ears. Aziraphale forces himself to keep going. 

“We aren’t married, actually,” he says, smiling with as little nervousness as he can manage. “But- ah- I just proposed. To Crowley.”

Crowley’s muscles, somehow, tighten further. Then he seems to make a decision, and flows forwards, one arm coming up to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders heavily. “I,” he says, “am so happy.”

Aziraphale makes a point of turning, just enough that he can shove his elbow into Crowley’s gut. 

“Call me Crowley,” he says, and barely sounds winded. But he’s smiling now, and it doesn’t look forced at all. “He’s Aziraphale.”

The woman’s eyebrows rise, a little. 

“A mouthful, I know,” murmurs Aziraphale. 

“You shouldn’t blame a son for his parents’ bad choices,” says Crowley virtuously. 

A pale flush of anger blooms in Aziraphale’s throat- Crowley doesn’t know who he is; doesn’t know Aziraphale’s parents; doesn’t know anything- but he doesn’t say anything. He’ll get this bed and hot bath today if it kills him.

“No, indeed,” says the innkeeper, hand clapping over his wife. He smiles at Aziraphale, wide and honest. “Why, Mary, we had that couple down from Glasgow- those two lads-”

“-true,” says Mary. Her eyes measure them closely, and then she’s smiling too. “Come on, then. You’ll need to get out of those terrible clothes soon enough.”

...

The room, however, has only one bed.

“I am not sleeping with you again.”

“Believe me,” says Aziraphale, “I don’t want to get punched either.”

“So who gets the bed?”

“Flip of a coin?”

“Fine by me.” Crowley holds up a coin from somewhere, glittering between his fingers. “Heads I win, tails you lose.”

“Sure.”

He flips it, and holds it out to Aziraphale. “Heads. I win.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be in the shower.”

...

The shower is not much- not really separate from the room, just curtained off by something that’s sheer enough to be translucent. But the water is hot, and Aziraphale isn’t going to complain when he hasn’t had a proper shower since getting soaked in that ill-fated boat ride. 

When he steps out of the shower, Crowley’s laying on the bed. He’s stripped off his jeans. He’s wearing a towel over his hips, but his legs poke out from under it, long, ankles hanging off the bed like little chicken claws, something graceful and awkward all at once in the slender bones.

“Crowley,” asks Aziraphale, though he keeps his voice pitched low. He doesn’t want to wake him, not when he looks so peaceful. “Crowley, are you-”

He jerks awake. Crowley’s eyes meet Aziraphale’s, and he wonders at the blind panic in them, shielded quickly before Aziraphale can do much more than identify it. 

“Mm,” he says. “Didn’t think I was so tired.” Rubs at his jaw, then nods to Aziraphale. “Mary said that dinner’d be ready in a half-hour.”

“You’ll need to change into something for that.”

“Yeah. You’ll head down now?”

“Was thinking about it.”

“Be careful,” Crowley tells him wryly. “Best not let them trip you up with all the stories you’re telling.”

“I’m a good storyteller!”

“Ah, but are you a good liar?”

Yes.

“That is none of your business,” Aziraphale tells him, and Crowley laughs aloud, loud and uninhibited.

Still smiling, Aziraphale leaves the room. 

...

The dinner smells wonderful. There are quite a few people downstairs already- a couple from Italy; another few on a visit from America; and, of course, the innkeeper and his wife. He makes smalltalk with a hiker who’s also from London, a woman with hair chopped short enough that it keeps falling into her eyes and she keeps shoving it out of them. 

Then Crowley comes down.

He’s wearing sweatpants and slippers, and a shirt that could only be called acceptable for a party by the biggest stretch of the word acceptable. But his hair’s also been slicked back again, teased up and high, and his face looks a lot livelier than it had been in the dim light of their room.

“Hello, angel,” he says, and quirks a smile at the hiker. “Making new friends, I see.”

“She’s a very accomplished hiker,” Aziraphale tells him.

She laughs. “Not very accomplished, I’m afraid, or else I wouldn’t have gotten caught out by this storm.”

Aziraphale goes to respond, but the dinner bell rings and everyone goes to their seats- assigned seats. Crowley mutters in his ear, “Feels like grade school, innit,” and it takes all that Aziraphale has not to snicker in Mary’s face.

And the food is-

Good.

Aziraphale would’ve been happy even if it wasn’t this good- the hot shower’s done wonders for his mood- but the stew and homemade bread’s making his day even better. The wine that the innkeeper has set out is sweet, pairing wonderfully with the heavy food. 

“So what did you say you did, Aziraphale?”

“I’m a book-owner,” he says pleasantly. “I own a shop in London. Mostly antiques.”

“‘s that why you stared at my floorboards like that?” Crowley whispers in his ear.

“I stared at your floorboards because I was afraid I’d puncture something,” Aziraphale whispers back, and bites his lip not to smirk at Crowley’s disgruntled face.

“And you, Crowley?”

“Innkeeper, like you.” He leans back in his chair, wineglass spinning in his hand. The candlelight from behind him catches on the blocky tips of his hair, and it shines red as a sunset. “A little bit further south. Near the coast.”

“And you’re heading to Dublin?”

“Yeah. Bit of a work thing, for him.” He tilts his head. The gleam of his eyes- the humor in them, the laughter that Aziraphale hasn’t had in so long, because Gabriel doesn’t like ridiculous things, and Aziraphale has decided it’s easier to accept his quirks instead of constantly fighting him- leaves Aziraphale’s tongue dry. “Setting stuff up for when he moves in with me.”

The wine swilling in his mouth goes down the wrong pipe. Aziraphale coughs, hard, and stares at him.

“That is not true,” he says sharply. Crowley lifts an eyebrow at him, the epitome of innocence. “We still haven’t decided that!”

“I’ve got my inn, though,” he says, and there is a smirk there, hiding in the very corners of his lips. “Nobody uses inns in London, do they, angel? People read books everywhere, though.”

You fucking bastard, thinks Aziraphale, even as he feels the outrage drip away like a leaking sink. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m planning to leave,” he says, arching his eyebrows back at Crowley. Then he turns to their hosts, who look a little startled, though altogether more convinced about their relationship now. “As you can see, we still aren’t completely in accord.”

“Ah, a lover’s spat!” Mary claps her hands together, warmth leaking out of her every pore. “Well, you’ll need to heal it the old way then, won’t you?”

Crowley’s fingers tighten, immediately, on his wineglass. “What do you mean?” he asks, in a voice that Aziraphale supposes ought to be neutral, though it leaps far, far past that into something that sounds frightfully threatening. 

What had he said? Bad childhood. Yes, Crowley’s good at appearing sophisticated and shallow, like every bit of him is visible at the beginning, like he’s nothing more than a sarcastic, selfish person who doesn’t care about anything other than himself. But such a man would not have given up his job because it hurt people thousands of miles away, and would not have apologized to Aziraphale on his opinions of romance either, hours and hours after the fact. Crowley’s got some unplumbed depths. Aziraphale’s... relatively certain of that.

“A kiss!” exclaims Mary, and Aziraphale’s entire body snaps to attention when she says it. 

Crowley’s a rigid line beside him, wineglass almost dangerously close to shattering in his hand.

“Ah, um, no,” says Aziraphale, weakly. “That isn’t really necessary, is it? We’re-”

“-nonsense, you’re newly engaged! You must!”

“Yes,” says the hiker, and she’s smiling, and Aziraphale makes a note to kill her slowly. Or at least scold her for not having his back. “You simply must.”

“I don’t think-”

A gentle touch on his elbow. Aziraphale turns, ready to roll his eyes, and Crowley swoops close, presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s.

It tingles up his spine, that touch. Especially when Crowley keeps doing it, even when Aziraphale’s still too frozen to respond, his lips soft and hot and strangely hot, in more than just temperature. It pools in Aziraphale’s belly, like skeins of gold. 

Slowly, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley. Touches the very tips of his fingers against Crowley’s jaw, that lovely, too-sharp jaw, leaning in. Skims it back to his hair, the cowlick that apparently can’t quite be smoothed down, and that richly colored hair.

It bubbles through him, warm, warm, and it’s been so long, because-

Gabriel.

Aziraphale pulls away, breathing just a little too hard. Crowley does, too, and his cheeks look pinched red, though that could just be the candlelight reflecting off his hair. Aziraphale looks away and throws back all of his wine, mouth drier than a desert. His fingers itch, ache; he can’t quite get the memory of Crowley’s skin out of his mind, that skin that was soft and dry, and gave so fetchingly, pressing back against his bone when Aziraphale pushed.

Gabriel, Aziraphale reminds himself firmly. I will not forget why I’m here. For anything.

“Well, that’s that,” says Crowley, voice sounding a little strange. “Happy?”

“Yes,” says the hiker, still smiling. “Of course. We were just worried about you, you know.”

“Never thought otherwise,” drawls Crowley.

Aziraphale can feel the pressure of his gaze. But he refuses to look back at him. Refuses to make things worse. He’s in this to get to Gabriel and surprise him, and Crowley is in this for the money, no matter how soft his lips or kind his words are, and Aziraphale cannot- and will not- forget that.

...

...

“You utter demon,” hisses a voice out of the dark.

Crowley turns blindly, limbs twisted up in the bedding. “Um. What?” Some old fear flickers through him, but it’s far and distant, lost in the comfortable weight of sleep. 

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

Something hits him. Then it hits him again, and again, and again.

“Okay,” he says, struggling awake. “Okay, okay. What d’you want?”

“Heads I win, tails you lose,” Aziraphale bites out. 

Oh. 

“Wondered when you’d get it,” snorts Crowley. 

“Out! I’m taking the bed!”

“I,” he says, with as much dignity as he can inject into the words, “am not moving.”

“I’ll drag you off,” threatens Aziraphale. 

“I’d like to see you try.”

“You utter cheating-”

“Just come in,” Crowley tells him, rolling to the other side of the bed. 

He hesitates, but the bed is warm, and the air outside is unforgivably cold. Crowley can just imagine the temptation of it. 

“You aren’t going to punch me,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley makes a mush-mouthed sound, waving an arm. “Get in or don’t,” he mumbles.”But do it quickly, yeah?”

A moment later, the bed creaks, and Crowley feels the warmth of Aziraphale’s body against his back. He closes his eyes, burrows further into the blankets, and lets sleep wash him away.

...

The sun is shining the next morning. Crowley wakes up to it, to the warmth of it making him sticky with sweat, and something even warmer pressed against him, from nape to ankle. He turns, slightly, just enough to confirm: it is Aziraphale. Star-haired Aziraphale, with a tongue like a knife and a gaze like ice and a heart warm as a blazing bonfire.

With lips, soft as a flower.

Crowley’s got nowhere to go: his back is to Aziraphale, and in front of him is the wall. Just a few days ago- just one day ago- he’d have told anyone that he’d never accept this kind of restraint on his movements. Panic attacks would’ve been the least of his worries. 

But now he’s comfortable, relaxed, soft with sleep and lazy for it. He closes his eyes and lets his breath even out again.

...

Crowley wakes up again, and this time Aziraphale is gone from the bed- he’s brushing his teeth- so he takes the time to stretch his arms and roll his spine. Aziraphale turns at the movement; smiles at him. 

“Sleep well?”

“Better than I expected,” says Aziraphale, gimlet-eyed. “It would’ve been better if not for your wiles.”

“Oh, it was funny. Don’t try and tell me it wasn’t.”

“To you, maybe.” 

“That’s who I was talking about, yeah.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and steps out of the bathroom, fully dressed, taking his jacket from the seat back he’d carefully arranged it on the night before. 

“Mary told me that there’s a train that leaves at five,” he says. “You’ll want to get ready at noon, though, because that’s when we’re getting a ride there. Or else you’re walking to the station.”

“What’s the time now?” asks Crowley, yawning.

Something glints in Aziraphale’s eye. “Half past eleven.”

...

Aziraphale gets the tickets for them both at the train station, but the train’s been delayed to six. And he’s not going to just sit around and stare at a wall grow moss for six bloody hours.

“I’m going to the church,” he tells Aziraphale. “It’s nearby, I checked, and I’m not going to sit here contemplating the meaning of life for you. Honestly, I’d rather die.” Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley holds out a hand and stops him. “If you make me stay, I’ll make you want to die, too.”

Aziraphale ducks his head, then just nods and lugs his suitcase higher so he isn’t blocking Crowley’s path. “Lead on, then,” he says, in a suspiciously mild voice.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Right. Out with it. Why’re you smiling like that?”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d like churches.”

“I’m not.” Crowley shrugs. “But apparently this has been abandoned for centuries, so it’s more just a small castle than anything else.”

...

It’s overgrown with moss and peat, and at a steep incline, so they need to go up quite a few stairs. Crowley doesn’t mind much, but Aziraphale does. He starts complaining about halfway there, and doesn’t stop, not even when Crowley tells him that he can go back to the station if it’s that difficult for him. 

“I’ve already done half the hard work,” he says, pushing some hair out of his eyes and glaring up at it when it doesn’t stay put. “So. Upward and onwards.”

“Your funeral,” mutters Crowley.

...

It’s a lovely church, even if it’s been abandoned. The cloisters are all ruined, of course, the wood rotted from the rain, and the roof’s long since fallen to pieces. But there is a flight of stairs that leads up to a room with stained glass shattered over the entire floor, and the wind that comes in is tinged with the faintest hint of salt. And at the nave, where once a pulpit must have stood, there is a cairn, stacked high with white, water-smoothed stones.

“It’s beautiful,” murmurs Crowley.

“Things like this are always beautiful,” says Aziraphale. Crowley turns to look at him, startled; Aziraphale sounds almost bitter. “It’s the possibilities that we love. We look at ruined things and think that they could be so much better- but when we try to fix it, it’s never good enough. Reality’s never quite as good as our imagination.”

“No,” says Crowley. “But it’s real, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He looks at the cairn, the stones stacked so neatly, so lovingly, and there’s something pained in his beautiful eyes.

“I- whenever I see them, I think of Gilgamesh. You’ve heard of him?”

“Some ancient tale, right?”

“Yes. From Sumeria. The oldest literature we have to date.” He inhales, and slowly levers himself down to sit next to Crowley, legs splayed out in front of him on the dirty stone without a care. “In the story: Gilgamesh is the king of a city in Sumeria, but he’s cruel to his people- he’s more god than human, so he is stronger than them, and because of his strength, he does not understand sympathy, or empathy, or kindness. So his people ask the gods to save them, and they send down Enkidu, who is Gilgamesh’s equal and his counter.”

Crowley lifts his eyebrows when Aziraphale suddenly smiles at him. “Enkidu’s a wild man. Nature, taken to its heights. And so because he is so strong, he can push Gilgamesh to be kinder; he pushes him to civilization; he says no to him. They fight. But they are twinned, and equal, and so they are necessary for the world.

“They have many adventures. They become so close- and then, Gilgamesh angers Ishtar, the goddess of love, by refusing her, and she demands that one of them die. And the gods choose to kill Enkidu.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, very quietly. 

Aziraphale doesn’t even look like he’s telling the story to Crowley anymore; he’s lost in his memory. In the story he’s weaving for Crowley, with his fluttering hands and bright, shining eyes.

“Gilgamesh mourns Enkidu’s death. He denies the death, for more than a fortnight, and it’s only when the corpse starts to rot that he accepts it.” Aziraphale’s eyes close, briefly, then open again, and they trace over the cairn with such longing that it thrums an ache in Crowley’s on chest. “Before he does anything else, he kneels on the beach where Enkidu lay, and he builds a cairn for him of sand.”

“That sounds- slow.”

“But he didn’t stop, not until it was over.” Aziraphale turns to Crowley, and his eyes blaze fiercely, and it takes everything inside of Crowley not to recoil. “The first cairn in the world, built by a man who could not bear the love he bore another man, his equal, sent to him by the gods. That’s what I always wanted, you know. That kind of love from someone. And whenever I see them- these cairns- I just think, all I can think, is who’d build a cairn for me?”

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, stepping forwards, alarm flitting through him. “You can’t-”

“I don’t have a family,” says Aziraphale quietly, clearly, calmly. “My parents are long gone. No siblings. I don’t know if I like Gabriel very much, but- something is better than nothing, is it not? I’d rather not be lonely than lonely. Have someone to build the cairn for me. Even if... even if I don’t think they’d ever mourn me like that.”

Crowley understands that desire. The need for skin, more than anything else, and the terror of abandoning it. He knows it intimately. How lonely has he been since leaving London? It’d been the thing that almost stayed his hand, time and time again, when he knew things and loathed the way they were but still had a good home, a good job, a good life; why should he be the one to lose all of that, all for defeating the barest drop in the ocean of humanity’s wastrels and sins?

But he’d chosen the higher road, the lonelier road, when he walked away from London, and he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t dare let himself regret that.

“Yeah, but you can be lonely and married,” says Crowley slowly. “Just because you marry him, it doesn’t mean you’ll be perfect for each other. Doesn’t mean you’ll understand each other.”

“So that’s your choice then? To be lonely?”

“To wait,” says Crowley firmly. “Until someone comes along who I’d like to spend my life with. Because I’m a casino’s dream, you know? I’d rather take the whole pot than just break even. And what would I do if I found someone better after I settled for somebody else? I’d always be thinking about that other person. I’d always be unhappy.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I’m happy by myself, angel,” says Crowley, reaching a hand out to him. “Don’t need people constantly around to make me feel better. And I think we should head back.”

“It isn’t six yet.”

“No, but it feels like it’s going to rain.” Aziraphale keeps frowning at him, and Crowley huffs a sigh. “I’ve got a sixth sense about these things. Can we please make a move on?”

He’s right. He’s also wrong, because his sense clearly isn’t much of one; they’ve made it just a few feet out of the church by the time it starts pelting them with heavy rain, the kind that’ll make it difficult to see anything two meters in front of them.

“Twice in two days,” mutters Crowley. “Someone up there really fucking hates me.”

Then he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, and runs.

...

...

They leg it all the way back to the train station, but not quite quickly enough. Aziraphale’s head and chest are completely sodden, the water soaking straight through his coat, vest and shirt. But at least he has a change of clothes in his luggage. While it may not be the clothes he’d want Gabriel to find him in- Aziraphale can just imagine the snide commentary- he also doesn’t think they’re too egregious either. 

And he’s thankful to the rain, really, because he’d felt like he’d just peeled away some awful part of his skin, bared some terrible, maggoty secret when he told Crowley about the cairns. Who wants someone to mourn their death like that, with hair-rending and screams? He knows what Gabriel would say: the best people don’t want their loved ones to suffer. They want to pass quietly, serenely, peacefully into the night, and the world will keep turning around them. To think otherwise is to be prideful beyond measure.

But Aziraphale still wants that. He wants to know he has become inextricable from at least one person’s life. And he knows, just as well, that Gabriel will never give him such depth of love or control. It is not in Gabriel to give that to some living thing; he’s already sunk it into his job. His first love, he’d told Aziraphale, when they first met. His first love and his largest love, but if Aziraphale could accept that...

And he could, for four years.

So what’s changed now?

At the station, Aziraphale excuses himself to the toilets so he can change. He takes the privacy to try to get his balance back. When he returns, it’s almost time for the train to return.

And Crowley looks strange again, face white and lips pressed so tight together they’ve almost disappeared. He’s motionless on the bench, knucklebones clenched tight on the strap of his backpack, sticking out from his palms like the church ruins from the rest of the grass. 

“Crowley?” asks Aziraphale. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he hisses. Really, properly hisses. 

Aziraphale takes a precautionary step backwards. “Um. Right. D’you want-”

“No,” he says flatly. Aziraphale blinks, and Crowley elaborates, through clenched teeth. “I don’t.”

“Okay.”

He sits down gingerly, settles against the bench, and focuses on listening for the train whistle. If Crowley doesn’t want to talk- and Aziraphale's fairly certain that it’s not because of Aziraphale’s comments, mostly because he can remember how soft Crowley’s voice had gotten, and the hand he’d held out to Aziraphale as soon as he realized what Aziraphale was saying, unthinkingly kind- then Aziraphale won’t force him.

But.

Just because he’ll bite his tongue doesn’t mean he’ll forget. And when Crowley’s ready, he’ll confront him, and get the answers he deserves.

...

Even when the train comes, Aziraphale has to chivvy Crowley up into the carriage, and Crowley looks like he’s about one short word from snapping someone in half. Aziraphale takes a chance on dropping his scarf into Crowley’s lap as the conductor arrives- he might use it to dry off if he had some wits about him, and Aziraphale certainly hasn’t missed how much Crowley’d liked the softness of the cashmere before- and also ensures he answers for both of them, shielding Crowley as best he can from the man’s gruff questions as he punches their tickets in.

Then he turns back to their compartment, and Crowley has looped the scarf over his shoulders, peeling off his sweater and depositing it on the seat next to him with a moue of distaste. The conductor makes a breathless sound of protest, but Aziraphale doesn’t bother to look back or address him again as he closes the compartment door behind him.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead, approaching Crowley carefully.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, voice low. He leans back, eyes closed, face white and still taut with some tension. 

Aziraphale debates with himself on his next action. He doesn’t know how Crowley will react, and he’s afraid that he’ll pull away further, especially when he’s in this snappy mood. 

Slowly, very hesitantly, Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley’s wrist, right below the cuff of his long sleeves. Where the veins lie under his pale skin, blue, returning to the lungs to pump more oxygen to his body. The skin is soft and cold, and Aziraphale can feel the faintest thread of a pulse if he presses down. 

Or maybe it’s his own heart, beating harder at this single point of contact.

Crowley twitches a little, eyes slitting open. Aziraphale makes sure his voice is comforting, not confronting.

“Are you sure?”

“I will be,” says Crowley. But some further tension leaches out of his body. “It’s a- thing. Not the cold. The. Er. Rain.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. 

Crowley turns, wrist nudging further into Aziraphale’s grasp almost by accident. “I didn’t tell you that bit,” he says quietly. “When we were walking down the mountain.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Mmm.” He sighs. “Was a long time ago. After I contacted the police. They sent me to this small village in Ireland once they realized my life was in danger- gave me a new name, new history, told me not to keep in touch with anyone from my old life.”

“Your life was in danger?”

“Sand mafia, angel,” says Crowley wryly. “They didn’t like me going about spilling their secrets. They really didn’t like me being responsible for putting a good portion of them in jail.”

“But you aren’t in that protected persons program anymore, that’s what you said.”

“No. After their bosses got locked up, there was really only one leader that came up- and his only agenda was to get me to pay. And after I got rid of him, the whole mafia imploded on itself, apparently.”

“You got rid of him?” demands Aziraphale, sharply.

Crowley smiles, thin as a blade of grass. “Sent the fucker to jail, yeah.”

“Crowley-”

“Not on purpose. But. Er. When the police’d told me not to keep anyway contacts from my old life, I didn’t listen. Never have been good at that.”

Hair stands up on Aziraphale’s neck. “What did you do?”

“Kept a phone. And I went to check a PO box every couple months.”

“And they figured it out.” Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Of course.”

“They figured out it was in my name,” corrects Crowley. “They started sending letters. Threatening ones. And I was good at ignoring them! But then they told me that they’d blow up my building. Gave full details on their plan, and the date, too, and promised they’d do it if I didn’t go there on the day of the bombing.”

“Tell me you went to the police.”

“I did,” says Crowley wearily. “They told me to ignore it. Said they were investigating. Only, I had a friend on the force, and he said they were all tied up with a murder investigation.”

Yes, Aziraphale vaguely remembers that. The police force had nearly doubled, and they’d warned everyone in Soho not to walk around past midnight, because of...

“The serial killers? From Scotland?” asks Aziraphale.

Crowley inclines his head. “Cop killers, too. So they were caught up in that issue. But I had to do something. So I went back to London, and...” He lifts his hand and rubs at the top of his skull very lightly. “I had a plan. A good plan. Then I realized they fuckers had booby-trapped my flat to blow, not remotely, and it’d probably take out my neighbors as well, if they weren’t careful- and like hell was I gonna think the people blowing up my flat would be careful enough for that.”

“Fuck.”

“Believe me, that’s what I said the entire ride back to London.” 

“So what did you do?”

“Got there. And then, I pulled the fire alarm,” he says softly. “Evacuated the entire building. Only thing was that when I tried to take the stairs, those bastards were waiting for me. I couldn’t take the lift, because it stopped working when the fire alarm went, and I was stuck on the thirteenth floor. Sprinklers everywhere, that goddamn alarm- I had to find someplace to hide, and hide, and it was so fucking wet. And loud. And wet.”

Aziraphale can imagine it. The wail of the sirens, the cold water of the sprinklers. How Crowley must have tried to fold himself into the smallest possible space, and prayed that he wouldn’t be found. The terror of it. 

The bravery of it.

Really. Underneath all of Aziraphale’s latent fear- for Crowley, of course, and not of him- runs a ribbon of admiration. No. An ocean of admiration. For so long Aziraphale has accepted that Gabriel knows what is right and wrong; he’s bitten his tongue, he’s looked away. He’s avoided fights, when he thought that Gabriel might not understand why Aziraphale felt certain things, and he’s avoided those fights for a thousand tiny, petty reasons. But here is Crowley, tired, exhausted, frightened five years after the incident and still refusing to suggest anything close to regret.

Aziraphale has a choice now. He can taste it. To speak of that admiration, or to stay silent and speak on it later. To make Crowley more comfortable, or less.

He knows well which he’s going to choose.

“Ah.” He leans a little closer, nudges his shoulder into Crowley’s, and smiles. “Well, that makes sense.”

Crowley rolls his head so he’s peering at Aziraphale through one eye, brows arched. “What makes sense?”

“Why you looked so terrible. I was wondering if a bit of Ireland rain could actually be colder than the Arctic, you know, because it takes half an hour for people to actually start acting like you did in the car. Either the rain was unique to Ireland, or you were cold-blooded.”

“Like a snake,” snorts Crowley.

“Is that the only cold-blooded animal you know?”

“No,” he says. 

“I think it is,” says Aziraphale, nudging Crowley again.

He laughs, once, a high-pitched thing that more breath than sound, and warmth sluices over Aziraphale like a hot sunbeam on his face, heating that part of his body even as the rest of him remains cool. Then Crowley turns and faces Aziraphale, and there’s affection in his gaze, not all-consuming but unconsciously offered up, sweet as honey for it.

“Shut up,” he says.

Aziraphale’s fairly certain that that’s not what what Crowley meant to say, but he doesn’t bother disagreeing with him. Just pats Crowley’s arm, then settles against the plastic seat, shoulders pressing together, a line of warmth even through the layers of clothes. He can’t quite quell the smile or the giddiness bubbling under his skin. He’s not sure if he wants to.

...

...

“Right,” says Aziraphale.

They’ve finally arrived at the lobby of Gabriel’s hotel, and Aziraphale has everything arranged at his feet: his suitcase, his jacket, folded neatly over the handle, a book he’d extracted from his luggage and read while Crowley dozed on the train.

He holds out an envelope. “Your fee. For a true adventure over these past two days.”

Crowley folds his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels. He thinks about everything that he’s told this man, this stranger; things he’s never said aloud before, things he’s never even considered saying aloud before. He thinks about Aziraphale’s face when he looked at the cairns. He thinks about courage, and laughter, and how the truth of his past doesn’t feel quite so heavy when he’s told it to somebody.

“Nah,” he says. “Keep it.”

“What- but I couldn’t possibly-”

“Tell you what.” Crowley nods to his pocket. “D’you remember that coin? The one that we flipped for the bed?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes. But-”

“Hand it over, and I’ll call us even.”

Slowly, Aziraphale’s head drops into a nod. He brings it out- a shining two pounder- and drops it into Crowley’s palm. Then he unwinds the scarf from his neck.

“For you,” says Aziraphale steadily, eyes gleaming like the heart of a flame in a blowtorch, cool and blue and hotter than the casual eye could expect. “To keep warm on the journey back.”

Crowley takes it wordlessly, finger rubbing over the softness of it. The warmth. The way the weave dips between his fingers, like something just a little heavier than air but twice as smooth. 

“I’ll try not to get soaked,” he says, quirking a smile.

Aziraphale pats his hand. “I’ll miss you, dear boy.”

“And I’ll miss your complaints, angel.” Crowley hesitates for a moment, then decides: fuck it. He’s always been very good at being flamboyant, and making grand gestures. He bows, doffing an imaginary hat with a wide, sweeping wave of his arm, and looks up at Aziraphale through his lashes. “I hope he’ll be your Gilgamesh. You deserve that.”

There’s a pleased flush to Aziraphale’s face, at least until someone calls from the vicinity of the lift: “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale turns slowly, and Crowley sees a man approaching them- tall, maybe even taller than Crowley, definitely broader than Crowley, with horse-brown hair and the jovial kind of face that looks good on soap ads for fathers facing midlife crises.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, reaching for Aziraphale. 

There’s a pleased but slightly confused look on his face, and resentment hits Crowley like a piledriver. This man does not deserve Aziraphale’s kindnesses, or his love. Aziraphale all but admitted it to him in that church, but Crowley wouldn’t have needed that to know it now- Gabriel is very different from Aziraphale. Irreconcilably different. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. He sends Crowley a little glance, then turns back to Gabriel. “I, ah, missed you, love. I couldn’t bear the idea of a week without you. And I had some book-tradings in Dublin anyways, so I thought... well. Surprise!”

“Aziraphale,” says Gabriel. He sounds startled, and a little displeased for it; Aziraphale flinches at the tone, muscles in his face pulling taut that Crowley wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been paying such close attention. But then that dark look crumples too, and he reaches out, reels Aziraphale into an easy hug. “I’ve missed you, too. Of course I have.”

Crowley swallows, hard; makes an involuntary motion- some flail of his arms. Gabriel glances at him. 

“Hello,” he says. “Do I know you?”

“This is Crowley!” Aziraphale jumps in. “He, ah, took care of me. Brought me up to Dublin when my flight blew me off course.”

“Well. Nice to meet you.”

Crowley nods, and backs away; it’s clear that Gabriel doesn’t want him there- or thinks he’s intrusive, which is definitely more likely- and Crowley doesn’t want to be there for Aziraphale’s proposal. He’s not entirely certain why his heart is pounding like it is, or the way his muscles are trembling like he’s going to leap into a sprint very soon, or the way his head feels wrapped in white wool. But he does have the feeling that it’ll get better if he walks away.

Or it’ll get worse, but in the long run he’ll be better. Has to be better. He’s been alone for long enough, hasn’t-

Two steps back, then three, almost past the lounge area- and he hears Gabriel say, loudly, “Would you marry me?”

Crowley turns, and sees Aziraphale’s face for one last time. The sweet, round curves of it. The hands, large and warm. Those blasted eyes. He swallows hard, again, and turns on his heel. The door to the hotel lobby hits him, and the wind rushing outside drowns out Aziraphale’s answer before he can hear it. 

...

It takes more than a day to fall in love with someone.

Doesn’t it?

...

On the train ride back to his inn, Crowley can’t help but keep looking at the coin that Aziraphale gave to him. The train’s lights flash off the metal, turn it shining one minute and then normal grey the next. Crowley remembers the calm twist of Aziraphale’s face when he handed it over, and then the lingering warmth of the scarf- the scarf he’s wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. 

The truth is, he has money.

He’d made a good amount with his job, and invested soundly enough that it had only grown in the past few years, even if he hadn’t overseen it closely- or at all. The protection service had told him to move out all his assets- he’d had a few days of warning- but Crowley hadn’t obeyed that either. Instead, he’d maintained an automatic payment transfer of funds for his monthly rent, and taken the opportunity at the bank to set up further accounts. He’s fairly certain that’s how the mafia had traced his flat. 

But then that night had happened. 

The long ride to London, hands white-knuckled over the steering wheel. The damp stick of clothes to his spine as he hunched in the deepest part of his closet, praying the string of locked doors would be enough to discourage them from entering. To this day, Crowley doesn’t know how long he stayed like that- all he remembers is the panic, and the fear, and the certainty he’d die like that: either by the mafia’s guns or by drowning via the sprinklers.

He fled London as soon as he could. Went back to the town the protection service had set up for him, and chased away everyone who came to tell him he could go back to his life. Changed his name back to Crowley, ignored the town’s gossips about who and what he was, and maintained the inn as best he could.

It’s why he wasn’t in town during December: the protection service wanted more information, wanted to know what had happened. It took him a good few days to convince them that he hadn’t wasn’t in league with the mafia, and another few days to calm himself down, and by then New Year’s had come and gone, and with it, the chance to pad his coffers.

But.

Aziraphale’s gaze. His scarf. He hadn’t known how he’d be treated by his shitty boyfriend, but he’d come this far, hadn’t he? He was used to creature comforts, but he hadn’t wept over the cold water in Crowley’s inn or the saltwater on his luggage, and he’d done what he wanted to do. He got what he wanted, even if he wasn’t certain he wanted it.

That means something. Crowley isn’t sure what, exactly, but he was certain that he admired it.

He rubs his thumb over the coin one last time, then draws the scarf up so it rests on his neck instead of looping down his shoulders, and tips his head back so he can sleep. Crowley’s got work to do when he reaches home; he’ll need his energy for it.

...

It takes a couple weeks. He needs to get his car back, and ensure he can leave the inn for a few days, and book a hotel as well. 

But then he returns to his flat in Mayfair, and it doesn’t stink of water like he’d feared- well, anymore than a flat in London can avoid the rain pouring outside- and his breath eases out of him in a rush, and Crowley doesn’t need the hotel after all. 

This is his home, too. He’d just... forgotten that, for a while.

...

As he’s fixing up the plant wall- it’d fallen into disrepair, though surprisingly not dead; new plants had come to roost; the natural sunlight of the room and the drip irrigation he’d installed illegally from the roof to channel the rainfall had helped an astounding amount to survive even in his absence- there’s a ringing at the doorbell.

Crowley takes his time to answer.

He pays enough for the reception desk downstairs to deal with salesmen. But the salesman doesn’t seem to understand that Crowley’s going to ignore him; he keeps ringing away, and the annoying hum of it grates over Crowley’s ears until he finally snarls under his breath and goes to fling the door open.

“I am not interested,” he bites out, only to falter when he realizes who’s at the door.

“Hello Crowley,” says Anathema, hair chopped short and swinging about her shining, large eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

...

...

Aziraphale floats on a cloud of happiness right up until they arrive in London, and he sees his bookstore. 

The glass window’s been shattered. Clearly shattered. It’s taped over now- one of the neighbors must have taken it upon themselves to do that- but the view still leaves his heart pounding, and when he enters, it gets worse: thieves have managed to take off with some of the books he’d promised to an auctioneer from Aberdeen. 

They haven’t managed to steal the most prized possessions; the oldest manuscripts and original, signed editions are still hidden in the backroom, with its heavy number of locks that took even Aziraphale, with his years of practice, more than a half-hour to unlock. But it’s going to be a tough year, because those books- and the auction- would’ve brought good money, money Aziraphale can recoup, but only with more aggressive merchandising. 

And he hates merchandising. 

Sales strategy has never been his forte.

“Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?” he turns, to see Gabriel running a single finger over one of Shakespeare’s leather-bound plays, with a peculiar look on his face. But then, Gabriel has always found Aziraphale’s job odd, and more than a little undesirable. “Yes?”

“Oh. I checked- your neighbor must have swept up the glass, so you don’t have to worry about cutting yourself. The window’s also airtight.”

“It’ll last, I hope,” mutters Aziraphale. “I’ll call the plumber. See if he can’t help out.”

“The plumber?” asks Gabriel, the look on his face deepening. “You don’t have a handyman?”

“He’s taken off for a week while his missus gives birth,” Aziraphale tells him patiently. “But the plumber should have the seals, I think, and-”

“-if you’d just move out of here, you wouldn’t have these problems, you know that-”

“-do you really want to have that conversation now?” Aziraphale asks levelly.

Gabriel pauses, looking taken aback. It’s an ongoing disagreement between them, and Aziraphale usually lets him rant about it for at least a few minutes before cutting him off. But he isn’t in the mood right now. At all.

“I have a meeting in Trafalgar,” says Gabriel stiffly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Gabriel’s back as he walks away. Only Gabriel could find something to be offended by when it’s Aziraphale’s shop that’s been robbed. Only Gabriel could simply... not offer any comforting words, just the barest practicalities of the situation, and turn it all back into an old argument.

You chose him, Aziraphale reminds himself.

He lets himself have a long minute of weakness, though, one hand pressing against the book spines, the scratchy texture strangely comforting, and the other balled up in the fabric of his coat, his mind remembering Crowley’s grand, chivalric gesture in the hotel lobby, arm sweeping up and out, dipping into a princely bow, and the shivering sensation in his belly as he saw it.

Then Aziraphale shakes his head, and goes back to cataloging everything that’s been taken.

...

It’s a quicker job than Aziraphale had expected; he finishes almost an hour before he’d thought he would, so he decides to go to Gabriel’s flat a little earlier than he’d hinted he would and surprise him. He even buys a bottle of wine as an apology, though Gabriel isn’t likely to be too impressed; Gabriel doesn’t like alcohol, doesn’t like anything with extra- or unhealthy- calories in it. Still. Aziraphale isn’t going to buy him an energy drink for an apology. Now that, he muses, would be ridiculous.

Still lost in his thoughts, he nods to the doorman. Aziraphale’s come by often enough that they all know him and don’t bother ringing up any longer, either. He lets himself in- Gabriel gave him a key years ago- and can hear Gabriel talking in his study, most likely on a conference call. He heads to the kitchen to store the wine.

Only to pause when he hears his name.

Frowning, Aziraphale cuts back across the living room, to the balcony that neighbors Gabriel’s study. Gabriel always leaves the window open, no matter how cold it gets, and always stands beside it to talk, because he thinks that’s the only position he’ll get a clear signal.

And, of course, he’s always had a loud voice.

“-think so,” he hears Gabriel saying. “I mean, I’ve tried.” A pause, where the other person must be talking, and then he continues: “I’ve explained it to you already! He just won’t listen. Doesn’t matter how nicely I tell him, he’s so careless!”

Me? Aziraphale swallows through a dry mouth. What is he talking about?

“I warned him before I left. I told him. I keep telling Aziraphale, over and over and over again, Soho isn’t safe, there’s robbers around, he needs to be careful- and he’ll nod and pretend he’ll listen, and then he’ll do shit like this!”

Like what? Like coming to Dublin to see you?

The first part of the sentence filters through then, and Aziraphale feels anger burst into life in his belly, like wind stoking over hot embers. He cannot be blaming me for getting robbed. Gabriel isn’t that insensitive. Surely not.

Somebody says something- Aziraphale can hear the tinny hum of the phone’s microphone- and then Gabriel says, quietly, “I had to, Michael. I don’t know why. Four years is a long time, isn’t it? And Aziraphale’s a good man. Maybe it’ll get better when-”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to hear anything else. 

Doesn’t wait to hear anything else.

He puts the wine down gently, on the coffee table, and his key besides it, so there’s no noise when the metal hits the glass. There’s a small part of him that’s very cold, but another part of him feels strangely light, like he’s a bear that’s shed its winter coat a few days too early, and doesn’t know how to handle the chill of spring apart from bearing through it.

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” he whispers at the door, hand resting on the doorknob. 

He remembers Crowley’s gaze, golden and shimmering, as he said, You deserve that. A Gilgamesh. Someone who loved him, and would mourn his loss to the world, and care.

Aziraphale turns the doorknob, and doesn’t look behind him as he walks away.

...

It hurts.

It’s hard work.

Aziraphale has to fix up his shop those first few months, and work to make up for the loss of those books. Which means more aggressive discussions with people to sell his books and get others at cheaper prices, and better merchandising, and not leaving London for a little Irish village, no matter how much he’d like to. And then, of course, it’s summer, which is the busiest time of year for him- and for Crowley, too, certainly- so Aziraphale lets himself get sucked into chasing sticky-fingered children away from his books and welcoming potential clients with a smile and ignoring the heat.

But September does, eventually, roll around. 

It’s raining again, when Aziraphale charters the boat from Aberporth, but not the wild storms of February. Just gentle sheets, catching on his lapels and sliding down his oiled raincoat and tamping his hair to his skull. His luggage is the same luggage, dented and mud-stained as it is, but it holds memory now. And he has a new scarf, of the lightest blue, keeping him warm.

He makes his way up the main road, luggage bumping behind him. Screeches to a halt when the inn comes into view.

It’s new. 

There’s fresh paint gleaming on the face, and what looks like an awning stretched out over low tables, perfect for a cafe; the vines threading through the roof and the flowers that had both lent it a cottage air and posed a threat to its Health and Safety certifications have been ripped out; when Aziraphale finally steps inside, he sees that the wooden floorboards have been ripped up and replaced with new ones, a shining chestnut. But what’s most startling is how much he has to fight to get inside, because there’s a crowd around the cafe, inside and out, bustling about, more people than Aziraphale had ever thought lived inside the town.

“Can I help you?” asks a woman. 

She’s got dark hair, mostly straight but with the faintest hint of a wave to it, and eyes like burnished copper. She’s very beautiful. 

“Is- is Crowley around?” Aziraphale asks, just managing to keep his voice even.

“Yes.” Her face shifts, looking grumpy, before she calls out, loudly: “Crowley, darling, there’s someone here who wants to meet you!”

Darling. 

The word feels like a slap to the face. He’s too late. Had this been how Crowley felt, when Gabriel proposed to Aziraphale? Of course Crowley would fall in love, would find someone. Of course Aziraphale would be cowardly enough to wait, and wait just a little too long.

He turns, dazed, chest airless, and stumbles outside.  

Aziraphale isn’t certain where he ends up, or how he gets there; he finds himself grinding his palms against a low stone wall, waist-high, and trying, desperately, not to gasp under the weight of disappointment.

And shame, and anger. Name what you feel, Aziraphale. Don’t let that take you by surprise.

So fine then. Disappointment that this future was taken from him. Shame at his procrastination. And anger, at his weakness. He’d known this was a possibility from the start, and he’d discounted it because... 

Because he’d thought that he could rely on Crowley.

Then: “Aziraphale!”

No. But as if in a dream, Aziraphale turns, and he sees Crowley running up to him. No, no, no.

“When’d you come?” asks Crowley, looking delighted. “You could’ve sent me an email! I had no idea you were planning a vacation!”

“I,” says Aziraphale, helpless.

“How long are you here for?”

“Not... long. But I wanted to see you.”

A shadow crosses over Crowley’s face. “To invite me to your wedding?”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “Er. That isn’t going to happen. I broke it off. Months ago.”

“Oh. But-”

“I wanted to see you,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “You’re doing so well! The inn looks like you rebuilt it from the foundations.”

“Does it?” Crowley asks. He sounds pleased. “I was planning on it for a while, but then Anathema came last week to help, and she’s been so good at it- bringing people in, and being a good hostess- I’m dreading when she goes back to London.”

“She’s going back to London?”

“She’s my neighbor,” explains Crowley. “I, ah, decided to go back to see my flat in London after I left Dublin. I mean. Five years is a long time. And Anathema met me there.” He rolls hie eyes. “I’ll tell you, her husband’s been a blessing with the murals inside- but the funny part’s when I had him doing the bulbs, but he broke four of them in ten minutes. I have no idea how he did it.”

Her husband.

“Four bulbs?” asks Aziraphale, amusement replacing the despair like sunlight following clouds. “Surely he understood he should stop at the second one.”

“Ah, but not everyone can be as quick on the take as you, angel.”

Aziraphale darts him a look and sees the smile; quick, there-and-gone, like moonlight flashing off raindrops. The rainstorm has stopped, he sees, entirely, and the clouds have lifted to reveal the sunset, and the splendid red of the light throws Crowley’s face into sharp relief.

Slowly, he reaches up, and presses a palm to Crowley’s face. Slots his fingers against Crowley’s temple, and the base of his palm against his jawbone. Crowley closes his eyes, canting into the touch the faintest bit.

“I missed you,” whispers Aziraphale. “All these months. I missed you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes open, and he steps closer, presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, one arm coming up to rest on his shoulders. Aziraphale lets his own eyes slit with the pleasure of it, of Crowley’s warmth, of Crowley’s goodness. 

“So did I,” he says, so quietly it’s a puff of breath against Aziraphale’s lips. “More than you’ll ever know.”

He leans down, then, and kisses Aziraphale. 

And for all of Aziraphale’s plotting, for all of Aziraphale’s plans and debates and discussions- he doesn’t think any longer. He just leans up, like a sunflower to the sun, and lets himself drown in the sweet, singing joy.

[dietaku]

Writing Prompt: Fantastic Circus

So, this is a new step for me! I got my first writing prompt! From Anonymous, they wished to see a “Fantastic Circus.” I think I may have gotten carried away, but here we are. I had a lot of fun doing this, but I relearned the difficulties of imposed challenges lke this. In any case, I hope you enjo it Anonymous, and you all enjoy it as well!

It was in the days of the Seventeen Powers reigning in the Heavens, and the rampage of Lugale Banda upon the earth, that God's Judgment walked into the dusty city of Ehr-Falhaan on the crescent separating the lands of the Backhriin Khuuz and the Solar Kingdom of Kheim. Into this sandy desert city, ambled a  lanky teenage girl. Wearing a bright blue robe and matching traveling cloak, at odds with her brown curly hair and olive skin, her plainness was downplayed by her bright blue eyes and infectious smile. As she walked along, several paused to return her waves and friendly greetings, for this was the way of Saint Tezzina. Walking along the road's side, enjoying the people, she soon caught the spirit of excitement streaming along the masses of people. Pausing at a baker's stand for a piece of bread, she asked,” Everyone is so excited! Is there a celebration happening?”

“Oh, Holy One,” the baker grinned, eyeing the Tulip rosary at her hip,” This is Carnival Season! On top of this, the Tyrant opened the gates to a circus! An act known from sea to sea! A rare treat, especially considering that Lugale Banda appeared not two Lunar months ago!”

Tezzina narrowed her eyes at the sound of her old foe,”Lugale Banda. Correct. Well, far be it from me to dissuade your local customs. May the Holy Tulip bless you.”

Giving the peddler the sign of the Tulip, she continued on her way, deep in her thoughts.

“So, this city was beset by Lugale Banda as well? I suppose the Godhead's  blessed intuition was correct after all,” she thought,” Oh, Blessed Lady, please save these people from further suffering!”

Deep in her own thoughts, she nearly ran into a small girl, the youngster yelling at her loudly.

“Oi! Big sis! Watchit! You in a trance or something?” she asked. Looking down at her, Tezzina arched a brow. Dangerously pale, with long raven hair, a dark gown matching her locks accentuated with daring goggles, the girl took a drag on a cigarillo as she shoved a piece of paper into Tezzina's hand.

“Here! For payment for running me over, you'll take one of these! You gotta be careful, Sis! This isn't the steppes, you'll run in front of a cart if you're not careful! How can o see me perform then?” she asked, as Tezzina snatched the cigarillo out of her hand.

“Good girls shouldn't smoke,” she chastised as the little girl growled profanities, jumping in vain for her lost smoke.

“C'moooon! C'moooon!” she wheedled, as Tezzina merely shook her head,” Well, then at least read my note, you meanie!”

Dropping the smoke to the ground and extinguishing with her heel, Tezzina quizziacally looked over the flier, finding it to be a garishly drawn sign, written in crude Helliin

The Celestial Circus

Come One, Come all!

Watch in Awe as Those Blessed with Magic and Divine Strength Perform!

Come see the Climax! The Great Ballista Event with Our Own Daring Celeste the Dart!

“See, see? That's my event there!” the girl gushed,” Well, if you don't get run over, I expect to see you there!” the girl ran off with a wave, as Tezzina chuckled.

“That would be quite pleasant. I just wonder if I have enough to afford it,” she asked, reaching for her coin purse. However, her pocket was unusually empty. Fear shot down her spine, as her mind zeroed on the obvious suspect. Scanning down the streets, she swallowed as her heart sank. The little girl Celeste was nowhere to be found.

“Blessed Tulip, please bestow your wisdom upon me! Where did the thief of my coin purse go?” she asked, clutching her hands together in prayer. As if on cue, the street to her right shone in a dim sparkle, as she bowed,” Thank you, Tulip!”

Rushing down the proffered direction, she passed many people. No longer traders, workers and those seeking honest folk, these were a more haggard, craven dint. Not that Tezzina cared. It wasn't her first time among the truly destitute, and it wouldn't be her last. However, as she she ran through the dark alleys, she turned a corner into an open courtyard, with the signs of recent renovation strewn about, nearly running into a wall of men.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, Little Sister?” one called.

“Please let me pass, I must capture a thief who stole my coin purse!” Tezzina pleaded, as the men chuckled darkly.

“Oh, don't worry about that, Little Sister. Why don't you come play with us, and we'll pay you whatever you lost? We'll make it worth your while,” their leader grinned as the cackles of laughter broke among the crowd.

Tezzina shrank as the crowd circled around her,” I apologize, but I must decline! I am annointed solely to the service of my patron. To betray my covenant to her would be a grave sin.”

“Oh, that's a shame. Still, isn't the Tulip a benevolent deity? I'm sure she'll forgive you for livign a little,” he crooned, grabbing her hand, as her other land whipped out and grabbed a nearby ladder. Immediately her body glowed as a brilliant halo blossomed around her head. Spinning the ladder about like a makeshift flail, the first row of the crowd about her scattered as she threshed them like fully grown grain.

“Master Ocelot taught me this skill: Yakuub's Ladder!” she beamed, as an assailant behind her slammed her to the ground. Undeterred as the crowd resorted to kicking her as she lay on the ground, she shielded her head, and spun about, sweeping her attackers away, leaping to her feet.

“God's Judgment isn't so easily deterred!” she roared, as the crowd paused in their violence.

“Bullshit! No way, God's Judgment can be a little thing like you!” one cried, as Tezzina rolled up her sleeves, revealing the divine brands down her limbs denoting her as the Chosen Instrument of Divine Justice.

“That doesn't matter! She surely can't be God's Judgement!” the leader cried, as Tezzina stepped before him.

“Believe what you want, but know this mantra, wayward child,” she called.

“What's that?” he growled, grabbing a piece of the ruined ladder.

“Roses are Red/

Tulips are Blue/

The Godhead/

already forgave you.”

“HUH?” he managed, before Tezzina hammered him with blows, finishing with a right hook slamming him to the ground. Staggering back to his feet, he felt his heart free from a weight he never noticed before.

“Hahaha! Your little punches did nothing, Gir--” He gagged, as a black tar wept from his every pore,” What is this?”

“That is the Evil in your heart, leaving you. Be free and sin no more,” she bowed, as he collapsed to his back. The rest of the crowd looked at Tezzina's victim and hurriedly fled, leaving the broken remains of her handiwork, unconscious men and the ruined ladder.

“YAH! Master Ocelot, I did as you taught!” she beamed, as she glimpsed her teacher in the corner of her vision.

“Yeah, sure, Kid,” the hallucination shrugged, leaving Tezzina alone among her handiwork. As she stood there, unsure of what to do next, a small whimper rose from behind a nearby pile of rubble. Peering over the rubble, Tezzina found Celeste cowering in a corner.

“Come now, what's the matter?”

“You're the Judgment of God!” she whimpered, as Tezzina giggled.

“Oh, come on, I'm not that scary--” she gently grasped Celeste's arm and understood her fear.

“You-you're undead. What did you do to deserve the curse of undeath?” Tezzina  demanded.

“I didn't do anything!”

“Of course you didn't,” Tezzina glared, raising her hand, wreathed in holy light,” Any last words, Sinner?”

“Please! I didn't do anything, I promise you!” Celeste stammered, raising her hands before her in supplication.

“Say your prayers, then,” Tezzina growled, as Celeste sighed.

“Okay, okay. If that's how it's got to be, then fine. However, can you let me at least me finish this performance, then? Then, I'll let you finish me off,” she mumbled, pointing at Tezzina's flier.

The Saint glowered at the little girl, but after a small eternity of deliberation, she lowered her hand, extinguishing its light.

“Very well. Take me to this celebration, then we can get this over with,” Tezzina muttered, as Celeste nodded.

“ Okay,” she mumbled. Leading the Saint on to a large forum, where a impressive tent was erected. Workers rushed this way and that, carrying goods and supplies. Tezzina ignored them, keeping her attention solely on Celeste, as she wove through the crowd, reaching a willowy woman dejectedly. The woman stood before them, a pillar of nobility with her flowing gown and porcelain skin, a haughty expression as painted on her face as the crimson gloss on her lips. Her expression brightened as she spied Celeste, chuckling herself as Celeste stopped before her.

“My dear, why the long face? Did you hand out all the fliers like I asked?” she purred in a a sing-song accent unknown to Tezzina.

Celeste nodded glumly,” I did, but then I was found out by this one, and, well...”

She looked up at Tezzina meekly, as the leder woman nodded,” I see. Run along, then, Sweetheart. Mummy and this one needs to talk.”

“So, you're the one who resurrected that girl. Do you know the consequences of reversing the proper flow of Life and Death?” Tezzina asked darkly.

The woman nodded slowly,” That I do. A fact that one of your seniors told me under no uncertain terms. Indeed, she was the reason I am like this.”

She smiled as a dark glow enveloped her. Tezzina stepped back in alarm as the woman spoke up,” This is the mercy of your God. Eternal Life and fear of exposure and expulsion from any and all community I lead to. And for what? Some little exorcist to threaten me and mine?”

“I'm not just 'some exorcist!' I'm God's Judgment!”Tezzain protested.

“And I'm Florin Renault. A Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, if we're going to duel to the death, then perhaps a change of locale will be in order.”

Tezzina raised her hand,” Before we do so, tell me, what did you do that caused your curse?”

Florin smirked,” If you must know, I was seeking to save my people. The village I was born and raised in was taken by a plague. Just as this happened, a drought hit the village, as if the gods decided they hadn't cursed us enough. There, I was stuck, delirious with fever, trying to help everyone around me. Then, as I put down yet another  child who breathed his last, I decided to do something. My grandmother was a witch of no little skill, and she left me her grimoire. I read over its pages, followed its directions, and arrived at a solution; the rye of everlasting life. Handing it out, I felt supreme accomplishment in what I did. I saved my village. However, in my jubilation, I neglected to recognize the terms of this spell; in order to fuel the spell, life must be given. In order to save the village, I gave up my life. However, I lived still. My body lived on, ironically thanks to the power of my own spell, raised as a revenant of the night; a Crimson Noble. I sometimes wonder if it was your gods that mocked me with such an outcome, or if it was an intentional part of the spell,. Either way, I don't know, but this is the way I have been for over a hundred years.”

“Then what of your little daughter? Is she the product of your predations as well? An after-thought you regretted?”  Tezzina demanded.

Florin smirked,” Not exactly. I saw her abandoned on the side of the road. I used my blood to revive her. However, since she was not the recipient of my curse, her revival is not permanent it seems.”

“Regardless of your intentions, you have sinned greatly,” Tezzina growled, as Florin smirked.

“That may be, but I don't want you to get ahead of yourselves,”Florin nodded<'I suggest you do some thinking before you act. Take it from me, even with your youthful vigor, don't rush to something you'll regret.”

“You,” Tezzina growled,” Then what do you want, then? Me to just leave?”

“Mm, just take a look at he rowdy band I have gatered here. If they're not up to your liking, then go ahead and take my head. I won't resist,” Florin replied, as Tezzina snorted.

“Fine. I'll be back to settle this,” she muttered. Stomping off, she pausing, whipping about, as Florin cocked her head.

“Problem?”

“I just thought you might attack me when my back was turned,” Tezzina snapped, as she marched into the circus tent. Inside she spied swarms of workers readying the stands and stage, with a variety of odd figures about. Immediately before her stood two willowy athletes, decidedly unhuman with their pale skin, thin eyes and pointed, lobeless ears, as they wordlessly passed whirling blades from one to the other.

“Drakekin!” she thought nervously, looking over the pair, they paused in their performance.

“Hullo, Miss. What are you doing here?” one asked.

“I am the Judgment of God. I am here because your mistress is walking abomination. I am merely humoring her before I send her screaming to the Tulip,” Tezzina barked, as the pair chuckled.

“I doubt she'll worry much. She is not the godly type,” one posited, as the other nodded.

“You dare mock the Tulip?” Tezzina growled, cracking her nuckles.

“No, no! Peace, young lady! We respect the Heavenly Tulip! Please, stay your hand!” He cried, hands raised in deference.

“What? What do you mean, you respect her?” Tezzina demanded.

“We respect her the same way we respect the Deep Wyrms, our progenitors, like Lord Hosgue Rra, Lady Astralleza and others,” he explained, as the other nodded enthusiastically,” I apologize, perhaps my human speech isn't good? How humans view gods and we view our honored progenitors was the same, or so I thought.”

“I...see,” Tezzina relented. Retreating from the pair, she paused by a cage where a tall woman inside, reading a book. What Tezzina initially thought were a costume were actually canine ears twitching upon her head, and dark tail wagging behind her.As she got a better look at her, Tezzina secretly wondered if her ashy skin wasn't actually a costume, either. Spying the eavesdropper, the woman leaped her to her feet, pacing back and forth as she looked Tezzina over from all angles.

“Are you going to throw peanuts and insults at the Warcur, too?” the caged girl asked.

“Why would I do that? What even are you?” Tezzina asked.

The girl shrugged,” I've been called lots of names. “Hey You. “Cementy”, “Nigh-Ah-See,”” I don't know what any of those mean. I was sold from my mother when I was little. You can call me Rimu, though. You smell nice. Are you sure you're not a tourist?”

Tezzina shook her head,” No, I'm here seeing if your Mistress is really so bad. Do you really need to be trapped in the cage?”

Rimu shook her head, walking to the cage's edge and casually lifting it up, and walking out.

“It's nothing like you think. Unlike what people say, I don't go insane and attack people. The cage is for, um, what did Ms. Florin call it....Oh, yes! Marketing! People have expectations when they see me, and I don't always have enough large things to lift.”

“Lift?”

Rimu beamed,” I may not look it, but I'm pretty strong.”

“I-I see. And Florin doesn't punish you?” Tezzina ventured, as Rimu giggled.

“She does sometimes. Only when I did do wrong, though, I have had worse. The man who owned me before had me fight dangerous beasts all day. Honestly, as fun as that was, I think I like this life better,” Rimu admitted.

“Very well. Thank you for your time,” Tezzina said, bowing, as she noticed the workers setting things aside, as trickles of people slowly worked their ways into the tent. Retreating beside Florin, Tezzina resolved herself to end the farce she found herself in once and for all.

“Have you come to a decision?” Florin asked, as Tezzina snorted,” What was that?”

“According to your workers, you're not all bad, it seems. Still, you Crimson Nobles have terrifying magicks. You may have bewitched them,”Tezzina said,” Although before I kill you, what is going on with all these people?”

“Oh, I guess it is time. These are my patrons, getting ready for the performance. I'd suggest you kill me soon, otherwise there will be too many people to ask questions.”

“I-I” Tezzina paused. In her mind's eye, she saw dozens of children staring at her with wide eyes. She couldn't kill this woman. Not now. God's Judgment could never become such a heinous villain in the eyes of children!

“I'll let you live for now,” Tezzina grumbled,” At least till your performance is over. Enjoy this time and get your affairs in order.”

“Your generosity is as always, appreciated. Why not come watch? I'm sure it will be a fun time for you,” Florin offered, as Tezzina grunted her ascent, eyeing her warily as she made her way to an empty seat. Sitting down, as the lights dimmed and the perfoamcne began, Tezzina's mood darkened as she suspected would play before the flash of fireworks and flashy performances by the Draekin pair, as they cavorted about, passing knives between them with ease belied by the speed and danger of their toys. After several minutes, they bowed to the applause of the crowd, and as the performances and exhibitions went on Tezzina began to get into the mood of the crowd, gasping with them as acrobats spun this way and that, and when Rimu hefted a boulder the size of a wagon, she clapped along with the crowd. Tezzina got swept up in this spectacle, all until she felt the point of the knife in her back.

Gasping, she jerked back, as a hand covered her mouth.

“Don't say anything, don't move,” the voice rumbled, their grip on Tezzina;s face tightening,”This little knife is such a little thing, but even the Judgment of God will die if a knife is in her kidney. On top of that,” the sneer of this assailant's voice fell clearly on Tezzina's ears,” This little knife is made of Soapstone. Any magical defenses will fail.”

Tezzina gasped at this revelation. Soapstone? A common enough material, but if treated, the ore became a potent occult tool, able to 'scrub' off Dahman, the source of occult power from a person.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered, as the voice cackled quietly.

“Because, my dear, you roughed up me and my men before. Lo and behold, I bought this knife, trying to find you, and where do I find you but enjoying yourself. Now, get up, slowly.”

Tezzina complied, but as she did so, her mind raced as she thought of any way to escape. However, in that moment she felt the knife shift off her back as the man rose himself, she acted, Reaching behind her quickly she spun her attacker about, throwing him forward. As he threw him away, she fell forward with him; in his surprise, he grabbed her collar, bringing both crashing down to the stage down below. Jumping to her feet, she charged the man as he groggoily rose to his feet, flooring him with a barrage of punches. As he collapsed with a groan and a thud, the crowd cheered wildly, rising at the impromptu display, as Tezzina turned, her face burning with nervousness and embarrassment at the sudden attention thrust upon her.

“Thank you, thank you,” Tezzina called, as she retreated to the exit. Turning around just in time to see Celeste hurtle though the air and out of sight, she gasped at the sight, as Florin sidled up to her.

“So....Is the Judgment of God going to take her due now?” she asked, as Tezzina slowly shook her head.

“You may be undead, but you are not the blight I initially thought,” Tezzina said.

“Oh? So, is that your final verdict?”

Tezzina smirked,” God's Judgment isn't just punishment, but also forgiveness. Live free and well, Florin. As for me, this is a big city. I'm sure others could use my services.”

[tipsycad147]

Gemini May St Dunstan’s Day

By shirleytwofeathers

Traditional weather lore has it that St. Dunstan was a great brewer who sold himself to the devil on the condition that the devil would blight the apple trees to stop the production of cider, Dunstan’s rival drink. This is said to be the cause of the wintry blast that usually comes about this time.  (May 19)

Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then, indeed, he would have roared to lusty purpose.

~A Christmas Carol

This piece of folklore seeks to explain the late May frosts, known as ‘Franklin Days’ in the West Country, which often hit between 17-19 or 19-21 May. The tale was apparently particularly popular in Devon in the 19th and 20th centuries and goes thus:

Dunstan had bought some barley and made some beer, which he then hoped to sell for a good price. Seeing this the Devil appeared before him and offered to blight the local apple trees with frost (the tale is presumably set in Somerset, perhaps when Dunstan is Abbot of Glastonbury). This would ensure there was no cider and so drive demand for beer. Dunstan accepted the offer but stipulated that the frost should strike from the 17-19 May.

Stories About St. Dustan and the Devil:

According to legend, St. Dunstan had a number of encounters with the devil. The most famous story, which entered popular folklore, tells how he pulled the devil by the nose with his blacksmith’s tongs.

The story goes that while he was living as a hermit in a cell at Glastonbury, he occupied himself with various crafts, including metalwork. Against the old church of St Mary he built a small cell five feet long and two and a half feet deep. It was there that Dunstan studied, worked at his handicrafts, and played on his harp. It is at this time, according to a late 11th-century legend, that the Devil is said to have tempted Dunstan.

One day, as evening was coming on, an old man appeared at his window and asked him to make a chalice for him. Setting aside what he was working on, Dunstan agreed to the request and set to work. But as he was working his visitor began to change shape: one moment he was an old man, then a young boy, then a seductive woman.

Dunstan realised that his guest was the devil; but, pretending not to notice, he went on with his task. He took up the tongs from among his tools and laid them in the fire, waiting until they were red-hot. Then, pulling them out of the fire, he turned round and seized the devil by the nose with the tongs. The devil struggled and screamed, but Dunstan held on until at last he felt he had triumphed. Then he threw the devil out of his cell and it fled, running down the street and crying “Woe is me! What has that bald devil done to me? Look at me, a poor wretch, look how he has tortured me!”

St Dunstan stood in his ivied Tower, Alembic, crucible, all were there; When in came Nick to play him a trick, In guise of a damsel passing fair. Every one knows How the story goes: He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.

~Lay of St Dunstan, 1840

Many people heard and saw this, and the following day they came to Dunstan and asked him what had happened. He said to them, “These are the tricks of devils, who try to trap us with their snares whenever they can. But if we remain firm in the service of Christ, we can easily defeat them with his help, and they will flee from us in confusion.” And from that time he dwelt safely in his little cell.

The story was of course retold in other forms, as here in playful fashion in the South English Legendary:

þe deuel he hente bi þe nose & wel faste drou; He twengde & ssok hure bi þe nose þat þe fur out blaste. þe deuel wrickede here & þere & he huld euere faste, He 3al & hupte & drou a3en & made grislich bere. He nolde for al is bi3ete þat he hadde icome þere! Wiþ is tonge he strok is nose & twengde him euere sore, Forte it was wiþinne ni3te þat he ne mi3te iseo namore. þe ssrewe was glad & bliþe inou þo he was out of is honde And flei & gradde bi þe lift þat me hurde into al þe londe: “Out, wat haþ þis calwe ido? wat haþ þis calwe ido?” In þe contreie me hurde wide hou þe ssrewe gradde so. As god þe ssrewe hadde ibeo habbe ysnut atom is nose, He ne hi3ede namore þuderward to tilie him of þe pose.

He seized the devil by the nose and pulled very hard; he tweaked and shook him by the nose so that fire burst out. The devil wriggled here and there, and he still held fast. He yelled and hopped and pulled away and made a horrible commotion. He wished for all the world that he’d never come there! With his tongs Dunstan yanked at his nose and nipped him very sore, until night came on and he could no longer see. The villain was glad and happy indeed that he was out of his hands, and fled and cried out so it was heard all over the land: “Alas, what’s this bald one done? What’s this bald one done?” It was heard far around how the wicked one cried out. The villain had got such a good tweaking of his nose, he never hurried back there again to heal his cold!

On another occasion, when Dunstan was praying alone, the devil appeared to him in the likeness of a wolf with a gaping mouth, snarling and baring his teeth. Dunstan would not be distracted from concentration on his prayers, so the devil suddenly changed himself into a little fox, trying to get Dunstan’s attention by jumping about, contorting himself and trying to get Dunstan to laugh at him.

But, smiling a little, Dunstan only said, “You are revealing how you usually behave: by your tricks you flatter the unwary so that you can devour them. Now get out of here, wretch, since Christ, who crushed the lion and the dragon with his heel, will overcome you by his grace through me, whether you’re a wolf or a fox.”

Another legend regarding the Devil and St. Dunstan also occurred in Mayfield when the convent there had just been built. The Devil appeared to St. Dunstan and said that he was going to knock down all the houses in the village. St. Dunstan bargained with the Devil and got him to agree to leave standing any house with a horseshoe on the outside. At that time, the custom of nailing horseshoes to doors for luck wasn’t well known so the Devil agreed but St. Dunstan managed to nail a horseshoe to all the houses in the village before the Devil could get to them so the village was saved.

The Devil managed to get some measure of revenge against St. Dunstan by repeatedly setting Mayfield church, then built of wood, off its normal East-West axis, leaving St. Dunstan to repeatedly correct it.  According to the lore, this was accomplished by pushing the church back into the proper east-west alignment with his shoulder!

Another church is involved with yet another St. Dunstan story. This time it is the steeple of the church in the village of Brookland, just over the border into Kent. The Devil took the steeple and was chased by St. Dunstan who caused the Devil to drop the steeple near Hastings by application of the tongs mentioned in the Mayfield story.

According to one version of the story, the injured devil flew off from Mayfield to cool his nose in the springs of Tunbridge Wells, and that’s how its famous waters got their reddish tint (don’t let anyone tell you it’s because of the iron in the water). Alternatively, he flew away with the tongs still attached to his nose, and they dropped off in the place near Brighton which is now called Tongdean (for, I hope, obvious reasons).

About Saint Dustan:

Feastday: May 19

Patron of armourers, goldsmiths, locksmiths, and jewellers

Born of a noble family at Baltonsborough, near Glastonbury, England, Dunstan was educated there by Irish monks and while still a youth, was sent to the court of King Athelstan. He became a Benedictine monk about 934 and was ordained by his uncle, St. Alphege, Bishop of Winchester, about 939.

After a time as a hermit at Glastonbury, Dunstan was recalled to the royal court by King Edmund, who appointed him abbot of Glastonbury Abbey in 943. He developed the Abbey into a great centre of learning while revitalising other monasteries in the area. He became adviser to King Edred on his accession to the throne when Edmund was murdered, and began a far-reaching reform of all the monasteries in Edred’s realm.

Dunstan also became deeply involved in secular politics and incurred the enmity of the West Saxon nobles for denouncing their immorality and for urging peace with the Danes. When Edwy succeeded his uncle Edred as king in 955, he became Dunstan’s bitter enemy for the Abbot’s strong censure of his scandalous lifestyle. Edwy confiscated his property and banished him from his kingdom.

Dunstan went to Ghent in Flanders but soon returned when a rebellion replaced Edwy with his brother Edgar, who appointed Dunstan Bishop of Worcester and London in 957. When Edwy died in 959, the civil strife ended and the country was reunited under Edgar, who appointed Dunstan Archbishop of Canterbury. The king and archbishop then planned a thorough reform of Church and state.

Dunstan was appointed legate by Pope John XII, and with St. Ethelwold and St. Oswald, restored ecclesiastical discipline, rebuilt many of the monasteries destroyed by the Danish invaders, replaced inept secular priests with monks, and enforced the widespread reforms they put into effect. Dunstan served as Edgar’s chief adviser for sixteen years and did not hesitate to reprimand him when he thought it deserved.

When Edgar died, Dunstan helped elect Edward the martyr king and then his half brother Ethelred, when Edward died soon after his election. Under Ethelred, Dunstan’s influence began to wane and he retired from politics to Canterbury to teach at the Cathedral school and died there. Dunstan has been called the reviver of monasticism in England. He was a noted musician, played the harp, composed several hymns, notably Kyrie Rex splendens, was a skilled metal worker, and illuminated manuscripts.

Sources:

Almanac.com

A Clerk of Oxford

Catholic Online

https://shirleytwofeathers.com/The_Blog/pagancalendar/category/may-holidays/

[rawenews-blog]

The Seven-Fold Yoke And The Cabal That Own Nigeria (Northern)

THE SEVEN-FOLD YOKE AND THE CABAL THAT OWN NIGERIA ( Northern ) Permit me to share a scholarly, revealing and I daresay disturbing intervention which was sent to me by a friend. The author wishes to remain anonymous. He wrote as follows: "The disruptive power of the Hausa-Fulani (Northern) cabal is a structural reality and will only get worse, no matter where the President of Nigeria comes from. It is a seven-fold yoke which we must break for the sake of our children. 1. THE POLITICAL YOKE: Globally, out of the 16 Federal Republics in the world, Nigeria is the only federation where land mass is used as a primary criteria for creating federating units. NO Southern leader (civilian or military) has ever had the guts to create any federating unit; all the federating units have been created by Northern military adventurers. 20 federating units were created from only one region (North), while 17 federating units were created from 3 regions (East, West and Midwest). Competent leaders are easily filtered off by the rigged political structure. At every election, the evil and corrupt Northern cabal needs only a few Southern collaborators to impose any presidential candidate upon the two foremost political parties, only for the electorate to formalize one of the candidates with votes. That's why Nigeria has been having such mediocre leaders as President, in a country awash with extremely capable presidential materials. This also explains why since 1960 no Southerner has ever led Nigeria except by accident. The FIRST coming of ALL 3 Southern leaders - Aguiyi-Ironsi in 1966, Obasanjo in 1976 and Goodluck Jonathan in 2010 - followed the death of Northern incumbents! The fourth and only other Southern leader was Ernest Shonekan and his coming followed the forced "stepping aside" of a northern Head of State in 1993. He lasted for 3 months after which he was toppled and replaced by another northern military Head of State. For 2019 the presidential contest is being set for Atiku vs Buhari- two Fulani representatives of the Cabal. 2. THE ECONOMIC YOKE: Nigeria is the only oil-producing country where oil wells are allocated to individuals. The Hausa-Fulani cabal allocated over 80% of the oil blocks either to the Northerners or to their Southern fronts/allies. The names of these oil block allotees are in the public domain. 3. THE RELIGIOUS YOKE: No other faith is mentioned in the Nigerian Constitution, except Islam. For instance, in the 1999 Constitution, Christ, Christians and Christianity are not mentioned even once; whereas Islamic signposts are strewn all over the Constitution - Sharia is mentioned 73 times, Grand Khadi 54 times, Islam 28 times , Muslims 10 times, etc.. That Constitution was written SOLELY by one Muslim Fulani Jihadist named Prof. Auwalu Yadudu (Special Adviser to Abacha on Constitutional Matters). While the 1979 Constitution emphasized Nigeria’s secularity, the 1999 Constitution of Yadudu is a de facto Islamic Constitution, and the Cabal ensured that Yadudu was there to fight that position at 2014 National Political Conference. Subsequently, during Obasanjo's govt, the same Northern cabal formally adopted Islam as the State Religion in the core Northern States. Obasanjo refused to even discuss the issue, except to state that it would 'fizzle out'. He knew fully well that it would not 'fizzle out' but was afraid of confronting the cabal. 4. THE CULTURAL YOKE: The Sultanate forms a major pillar of the Hausa-Fulani cabal. As permanent President-General of the Nigerian Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs (NSCIA) the Sultan is the permanent leader of all Muslims in Nigeria (whether they are Northerners or Southerners). As the Permanent Chairman of National Council of Traditional Rulers of Nigeria (NCTRN) the Sultan is the permanent leader of all traditional rulers in all 36 States of Nigeria & Abuja. By the way, the current Sultan was the Brigadier-General Commanding 241 Recce Battalion Kaduna. Many public policies are determined only with the tacit approval of the Sultanate of Sokoto and the Emirates. For instance, when the Gender Bill was introduced in the National Assembly, the Sultan 'killed' the Bill simply by criticizing it publicly. Even Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (the world's most revered monarch) would never criticize Parliament publicly, because that would be an abuse of royal privilege. 5. THE ADMINISTRATIVE YOKE: Nigeria is the only African country that built a new capital from scratch (using resources from the oppressed, deprived and degraded Niger Delta/South East ). The Cabal claimed that the location of Lagos by the ocean was a security risk, but this was just an excuse to Northernize national public service. A careful look at the map of Africa shows that only 2 nations have central capitals. The most common location for African capitals is at the coast. London (United Kingdom) is situated at the edge of England on the River Thames. Washington DC (USA) is located along the Potomac River on the East Coast of USA. Paris (France) is located at the edge of France in the north-bending arc of the river Seine. When Lagos was capital the Governors of Lagos State were from East, West and North. Since the Capital moved to Abuja, NO Nigerian leader has ever had the guts to appoint a Southerner as substantive FCT Minister. The FCT Minister must be a Northerner, preferably a Muslim (the current FCT Minister was appointed while he was Executive Secretary of the Hajj Commission). 6. THE DIPLOMATIC YOKE: Any Christian leader who questions Nigeria's membership of the two main international Sharia-driven bodies (OIC & D-8) faces the wrath of the Hausa-Fulani Cabal. So far, only Cdr Ebitu Ukiwe has ever had the guts to seriously question Nigeria's involvement in these Islamic bodies and as a result Ukiwe was summarily dismissed from office. 7. THE MILITARY/SECURITY YOKE: Nigeria is the only Federation in the world where all MAJOR security agencies are headed by only one section of the Federation and only members of one faith. Army – Northern Muslim. National Security Advisor – Northern Muslim. Minister of Defence – Northern Muslim. Minister of InternalAffairs- Northern Muslim. Airforce –@ Northern Muslim. Police – Northern Muslim. Economic Financial Crimes Commission- Northern Muslim. National Civil Defence Corps – Northern Muslim. Department of State Security – Northern Muslim. Immigration– Northern Muslim. Prisons Service– Northern Muslim. Federal Road Safety Corps – Northern Muslim. Nigerian Customs Service – Northern Muslim. Chief of Defence Intelligence – Northern Muslim. Director of Military Intelligence - Northern Muslim. Fire Service – Northern Muslim. National Emergency Management Agency – Northern Muslim. Nigerian Ports Authority- Northern Muslim. No southerner has been made substantive Comptroller General of Customs in 30 years. Even with all his braggadocio, Olusegun Obasanjo dared not break the jinx in all this years as Nigeria's President. Again no southerner has ever been appointed as the Chairman of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission since the day it was established in 2003. Make Real Money This Year Finally the only southerner that was EVER appointed National Security Advisor was killed after he was unceremoniously removed from office by Goodluck Jonathan after the cabal blackmailed and arm-twisted him and told him that if he wanted peace he must appoint a northerner back to that post. The above multi-faceted enslavement to the Hausa-Fulani Cabal is not an accident. Read the book by Harold Wilson which clearly states how and why the British laid the foundation for the Hausa-Fulani hegemony in Nigeria. The principle guiding the Cabal was clearly set forth by the cabal's patron saint, Sir Ahmadu Bello who said to the media: "The new nation called Nigeria should be an estate of our great grandfather Othman Dan Fodio. We must ruthlessly prevent a change of power. We use the minorities in the north as willing tools and the south as a conquered territory and NEVER ALLOW THEM TO RULE OVER US and NEVER ALLOW THEM TO HAVE CONTROL OVER THEIR OWN FUTURE." – (The Parrot Newspaper, October 12, 1960). Freedom from the Cabal is NOT about "North versus South". In fact, the greatest victims of the Northern cabal are the Northern masses themselves. The struggle entails "Northern Cabal versus All of Lovers of Freedom". Nigeria is structurally unworkable and MUST EITHER BE RESTRUCTURED OR BROKEN. The Hausa-Fulani cabal will resist this with their blood, but there is no other way out of the enslavement for us and our children. We cannot continue 'suffering and smiling' in this un-restructured zoo called Nigeria. The words of Harriet Tubman are relevant here. She said, 'I freed a thousand slaves: I could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves' ". The author of this brilliant intervention has given us plenty of food for thought. He argued the matter in a detailed, succinct and concise manner and he stated the case very well. Though there were one or two omissions, his research is outstanding and his analysis is factual, insightful and incisive. The truth is that he has said it all. Sadly many in Nigeria do not know that they are slaves to the cabal because they cannot feel the yoke or see their chains. Yet slaves they are and it is time that we opened their eyes, broke their yokes, cut their chains and free each and every one of them. That is precisely why yours truly, and millions of others, insist on restructuring our country or, failing that, dividing her and going our separate ways. May God help us! See what Omololu Olunloyo told Awolowo decades ago Read the full article

[topfygad]

No bishops, no captains: Rio Carnaval vs the Far Correct

This year’s Rio de Janeiro carnaval parade, which will choose location on February 23rd and 24th, demonstrates sings of becoming a person of its most political ever, as voices of Rio’s black populace increase up in opposition to the spiritual, social and economic persecution of the suitable wing extremist Jair Bolsonaro governing administration

By Gabriel Deslandes

In 1929, a team of faculty teachers jokingly labelled their street carnaval drum group, Deixa Falar, as a “Samba School”, the name caught on and started out a tradition which grew into the nation’s biggest annual live tv event, with millions of viewers glued to their screens for two 12 hour nightly broadcasts of enormous parade groups from Rio’s favelas and suburbs dancing as a result of the Oscar Niemeyer-designed Sapucai samba stadium. For the next 12 months in a row, most of the parades are focusing on political criticism . Rio’s major Samba Schools are criticizing the nation’s intricate sociopolitical conjuncture with themes of resistance towards authoritarianism, prejudice and social inequality. 10 of Rio’s 13 most important samba colleges will have political parade themes criticizing people today like President Jair Bolsonaro and Rio mayor and neo-pentacostal bishop, Marcelo Crivella.

Political protest is a prolonged custom in Rio’s avenue bloco parades, where by occasion goers use irreverent costumes and sing tracks ridiculing politicians and political situations, but this criticism usually bypasses the Rio carnaval stadium party. But from the time that the first samba college parade competition began in 1932, themes of delight and exaltation have been much more common than criticism. This is because of to a lengthy tradition of samba faculties performing to maintain great relations with Point out establishments as a survival strategy.

In accordance to the historian Luiz Antônio Simas, samba educational institutions, which are based in very poor suburbs and favelas and fashioned mainly by Afro-Brazilians, have historically used carnaval to legitimize by themselves to dominant electricity brokers in order to survive by means of several years of social marginalization. On the other hand, the socio-financial and the political problem in Brazil has degenerated to the issue that it has become extremely hard to steer clear of addressing it in Brazil’s “greatest demonstrate on earth.”

Jesus of the inadequate and Mangueira’s stations of the cross

Estação Primeira de Mangueira, which gained carnaval final calendar year honouring murdered metropolis councillor Marielle Franco, is clearly the samba faculty that has captivated the most interest for its 2020 carnaval theme: Jesus Christ. Mangueira – one of the oldest and most conventional samba schools in Rio – will not portray a conservative and ecclesiastical determine of Christ. With the concept “The reality will make you free”, the university will exhibit a combative Jesus Christ who was born poor and black in Mangueira favela. This Christ go throughs from poverty and social exclusion, embraces the marginalized and fights in opposition to the hypocrisy of religious leaders and all forms of discrimination.

The lyrics of Mangueira’s parade music say that Christ has a “black facial area, Indian blood and the overall body of a woman”, they are a road urchin and the son of an unemployed carpenter. The track tells of a Christ, hung on twine and wonders if the folks comprehend the information. 1 line of the tune goes “There is no future in the favela without having sharing / No Messias with a gun in his hand”.

Mangueira’s composer, Luiz Carlos Máximo, says that “Messias” (“messiah” in English) is meant as a wide reference, not simply to President Jair Messias Bolsonaro. The lyrics had been composed with his wife, Manu da Cuica, who says that the track portrays a historically realistic Christ. “He focused his lifestyle to the struggle for sharing, for justice, for tolerance and equality. He fought and was tortured and killed by the Condition for this. This is a Christ which is significantly from the graphic that he is known for – the picture that was appropriated by that of a blond, blue eyed European,” she says.

“The strategy is to glance at Jesus as a political and historic figure who is vital for understanding Christian contemplating, which has been appropriated by proper wing extremist political leaders and spiritual fundamentalists,” suggests parade coordinator Leandro Viera. He says that in Mangueira’s parade, Christ does not have a Eurocentric impression. “Man was built in the graphic and likeness of God, so Jesus has various faces. He is the brother of individuals of quite a few faces. In Brazil he is Indigenous, Black, female way too. Our Jesus does not have a gender. It is a character with our confront, our likeness. And we have several faces,” states Viera.

This humanist interpretation of Chris has drawn the ire of conservative spiritual teams versus Mangueira, and the faculty is being attacked by a wave of fake news. In texts and films unfold by suitable wing Catholic and evangelical fanatics on the web, Mangueira has been accused of blasphemy, of advertising the discretization of the Christian faith and even of portraying Christ as a communist. A pretend news rumour has been intentionally distribute across WhatsApp that the parade will portray Christ as a drug dealer. Leandro Veira claims he envisioned the attacks. “In a specific fashion, this only demonstrates that we are proposing anything relevant to the present discussion. The character of Jesus has develop into a motto for just about anything. But while some existing a violent Jesus, other individuals can show him in a different way.”

No Bishops, no Captains

Political criticism has also taken hold at the oldest Samba Faculty in Carnaval, the extremely standard Portela, which is basing its parade on the extensive battle of indigenous peoples. With a parade song entitled, Guajupiá, Terra sem Males, the university will notify the story of the Tupinambá Indigenous folks who lived in Rio de Janeiro ahead of the arrival of the colonizers. The parade will portray the social, cultural and political lives of the first inhabitants of Rio.

Brazil is going through a resurgence of assaults against indigenous people, because of to lenience and encouragement from the Bolsonaro federal government. In response towards this existing mood of hatred and violence, the lyrics of Portela’s new parade song have currently taken keep of the general public imagination throughout the direct up to carnaval because of to the oblique criticism of politicians, “Indians question for peace, but can struggle. Our reservation has no bash or faction, we have no bishop and bow to no captain.” In this song, “Bishop” refers to Rio mayor Marcelo Crivella, who is an “bishop”, in the Universal Kingdom of God prosperity gospel church. “Captain” refers to President Bolsonaro, who is a retired army captain. “The place is that there is no authoritarian religious chief or armed service commander that indigenous people today need to have to subordinate to,” states Rogério Lobo, a single of the composers of this many years Portela parade music.

President Jair Bolsonaro will also be the issue of a immediate assault through São Clemente samba school’s parade. It’s parade track this yr, O conto do Vigário, will reference recent controversies in Brazilian politics, this sort of as the income laundering allegations from associates of Bolsonaro’s previous PSL occasion and the use of fake news in the 2018 presidential elections by means of lyrics like, “Brazil, shared, viralized, and went blind – the total country sambaed this way and fell into bogus news”. São Clemente’s carnaval samba was composed by comic and actor Marcelo Adnet, who will dance in the parade dressed up like Jair Bolsonaro.

Paraiso do Tuiuti samba college will base its parade on Rio de Janeiro’s social difficulties like poverty and violence. It will tell the story of the each day battle of the poorest of the very poor, as a result of invoking the patron saint of Rio de Janeiro, St. Sebastian, and it is parade samba is entitled Cidade das mazelas (town of ills). Unidos da Tijuca will also sing of Rio’s absence of urban setting up with the parade, “onde moram os sonhos” (where desires dwell), about architecture and city planning, which will criticize the precarious housing stock in Rio’s favelas by means of lyrics like, “a tear rolls down the hill/chainsaw cuts down forest/kills the purity/Rio yells for aid/guy mistreats the earth.” The refrain of the samba is, “dignity is not luxury or a favour.”

Nearly each individual samba faculty parade will criticize racism. Elza Soares, diva of Brazilian new music and one particular of the greatest symbols of resistance for Afro-Brazilian girls, will be honoured by her favorite Samba School, Mocidade Independente de Padre Miguel. For the duration of its tribute, Mocidade will notify the tale of a black female who, with her powerful voice, “gags oppression”. One particular portion of the the music goes, “Brazil, forget about the evil that consumes you. Children of world hunger, really don’t shed the hope in your tune.”

Racism will also be a theme of other samba faculties. Salgueiro will honour Benjamin de Oliveira, Brazil’s initially black clown, as 2020 marks the 150th anniversary of his beginning. “The struggle produced me majestic, in the skin, the tone of braveness, getting what comes, smile and resist.” Grande Rio will honour one particular of the most crucial figures in Candomblé faith with a information versus spiritual prejudice of Afro-Brazilian religions. “For the love of God, whose really like favours no faith, I respect, your amen, respect my axé.”

On February 23rd and 24th, all through the middle of nationwide road parties, these courageous functions of resistance in opposition to Brazil’s soaring weather of fascism will be transmitted  to an anticipated audience of 30 million.

  If you worth the work Brasil Wire does, you should assistance preserve us jogging with a donation. Our editorial independence depends on our visitors assist.

  Relevant

source http://cheaprtravels.com/no-bishops-no-captains-rio-carnaval-vs-the-far-correct/

[afrorojo]

              The Blue Bed

Blue Bed Aitken Galleries British Period Rooms

    Mary’s Burning Heart.  I Zipporah Jephthah’s Daughter yield her confessions and present to you Memoirs of a Cubist Odalisque.

  https://dancingpalmtrees.com/2014/08/03/memoirs-of-a-cubist-odalisque/

  Cupid’s Broken Arrow Mandala of the Wishful Flâneuse

  Filled with millions of flaws, faults and Failures.   Mismatched flavors like sardines and sugar. A Goddess in Training. A Fierce Sirocco  Haboob Harmattan   Simoon of Swirling Tornadoes. Mother Earth has lost her Skeins. She is no longer threaded together with care. For her Arboreal stakes, ropes and roots have been ripped from Earths bosom.

Harmattan courses through my weather beaten soul.  From a burning bush fire in the Harmattan ~~ Changlings are birthed.

  Cleansing. Purifying. Grace.

  I wrapped my cloak even more closely tighter around my head hopelessly shielding face against powerful tint razor sand sharp dust particles which still manage to find a way through any slight opening of fabric.  I must decided whether to keep moving or take shelter for the night.  For the protection and safety of my menagerie of camels, goats, mules and donkeys laden with merchandise fit for Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe & Apothecary, I carry the hopes, dreams and visions of cities past present and future.  I Be the cure and prevention of untimely death.

  I battled my way forth towards the dimly lit designated rest stop for weary travelers.  There I stash my merchandise aside me in the post stamp tent whilst my animals are boarded, sheltered and given rations to sleep shelter through the roaring night skies. I too arrange my bedding with the carpets, quilts, tapestries, rugs and blankets before extinguishing lanterns and candles Good Night.  Dreaming of Ghosts sailing the sand.

  I Zipporah Jephthah daughter bid you sweet nightly visions of an imperfect past and unknown future.

  Each night sky twinkling stars become a beacon to millions of distant galaxies each demanding that my secret wishes be spoken.  Where will I find my Justice or shall I return to the red rich clay from whence I came?

Still in the dawn of a new day in a misty foggy night She remains an Ogre.   A misshapen princess wrapped in precious silks, damasks,laces, crinolines, royal robes sewn with golden stitches, glittering silvery threads, bedecked in precious gems and jewels.  Clothing that titillated the mind and soul.  The Fitting Glory of Majesty on an unfitting freakish frame.  Luxury frocks, tunics and garments.

Pomp. Ceremony. No Core nor Substance. Clothing that conveys complete superficiality.  Fitting for Kangaroo Courts  For who is real as opposed to Who is Mere Invention?

It was a long way from the brothel and the Town and the Villagers who betrayed me..

  Sophie’s Origins

  My Name is Zipporah Sophia.  I am from the once favored Kingdom Clan of Jephthah whose bad choices and decisions cursed my clan throughout the region.  Curses which rained down on and were absorbed by me while I was being formed within my mother’s womb rendering me a dismember Odalisque.

Odalisque in Grisaille Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (French, Montauban 1780–1867 Paris) and Workshop

  I came to this Bordello from a rural backwater village that held onto the 19th Century in custom, culture and values long after its demise, after a disastrous arranged marriage. From my birth I was considered “Damaged goods”.  My twin Niaema predicted to be a great beauty became my inadvertent protector and guardian.

Upon first seeing me after I was born my father was ready to throw me to hyenas and rabid dogs that fed on discarded garbage in the town dump.  My mother, grandmother and aunts stayed his hand. So ashamed of me was him I called father that he kept me within the compound as much as possible and I was only allowed outside on infrequent shopping excursions with my female relatives for food, house supplies and to buy enough fabric to make clothing which would covered the misshaped hump that dominated my form. Niaema quickly became his pride and joy.  Many was the time that Niaema intervened to prevent yet another rage fueled beating that became my lot in life.  However a few weeks before Niaema’s 12th birthday Niaema turned to mother one late evening pitch black night said I Go to Sleep now Mama and promptly passed away.  Father’s wrath and rage seemed to know no end as he cursed the gods and the universe for taking away his sweet favorite leaving him with rejected misfit myself.

Around the ages of 15 and 16 when most young women were making suitable marriages I had no suitors. Every young man in the village knew of my deformity though I rarely made an appearance in town.  Bad news travels fast.  My family was fairly well off and we lived quite comfortably so I had a somewhat considerably dowry, yet I still had no takers.  No man wanted to love me.

Eventually as I approached my 25th birthday having resigned myself to being an Old Maid my father finally found a match in a far flung outpost where no man knew my embarrassing truth.  Negotiations began. A Wedding date was set and I was delivered to my betrothed.  The Festivities nearly two days and my future husband was eager to retire to our luxurious tent to consummate our union.

But there was no consummation because once my betrothed removed my clothes, he screamed in disgust that he had been saddled with a hunchback for a wife.  He refused to do his husbandly duties and angrily return me to my father’s tent.  My father ashamed and now disgraced in not one but two villages sent me packing out from our tribal home into what I perceived as an unknown and dangerous wasteland.  So great was his fury and so hurried his dismissal that I hurriedly left with only the clothes on my twisted back and what few personal possessions I could carry, rushing to escape his stormy anger.

Good Fortune did smile on me as I traversed pock marked, poorly lit, rubble strewn road leading away from the only home I had ever known.  Angels in the form of my mother, aunts and sisters had extinguished my father’s fiery rage through liberal applications of wine spiked with sleeping potions. They then saddled horses from his stables and intercepted my wilderness journey.  We hugged, cried, and mourned the passing of me, Jephthah’s daughter cast out like Hagar from those she loved traveling who knows where.

They had also bargained with the disgruntled groom and his family to win back half my dowry which gifted me along with one strong but sway back donkey, an animal who mirrored my disability and fortitude.  I a prodigal daughter who had committed no sin in my youth and innocence only to be rescued by the House of Sin…………………………………

Gumby Lovers

  “I Know that I’m not much to look at but I used to be the Crown Prince of Manhood, the Courtier of Cum among Royal Lovers.”

This laughable boast came on an exultation of foul and fetid breath akin to human waste lying in the bottom of a sewer emitting from this wizened and emaciated corpse like figure with a red bulging knobby doorknob on the end of a shriveled pecker. How it managed to stand at attention was a miracle from the saints or gods of nonstop porn.  His face was a veritable road-map of lines, wrinkles, valleys, pitted scars with a bird beak blue veined appendage masquerading as a nose jutting forth from sunken cheeks.  Above the beak nose were two rheumy eyes topped by beetle brows which looked more like two warring caterpillars wrangling for domination of an egg shaped skull sprouting tufts of errant hairs growing from the beak nose, elongated ears and the various moles on his scrofulous person.

Then it began. I closed my eyes and did my best to disengage all my senses as this old bag of bones began his pitiful assault upon my body.  I tried to drown out the sound of the Click-Clacking of false teeth in rhythm with hurried asthmatic prods that gradually became more pathetic and feebler though he put his hairy back best with his pecker pushing.  Thankfully he was done in under four minutes.  The way he panted and gasped for air I thought he was having a heart attack and about to cum and go at the same time!

Four minutes of torture and hell. Because I have Scoliosis I had to deal with the runts of the litter. Yup I get all the Gumbys and Pokeys.  Though we are fed, housed, clothed and housed like Renaissance Odalisques there is still a pecking order of beauty.  My face, my sun-kissed umber skin, my small perfectly round breasts and long curly wavy chestnut locks got me a reprieve from just being another filthy dirty street urchin but this curvature of the spine has relegated me to servicing the worst of the many Geezer patrons who pass through these palatial doors.

The soldiers, sailors, traveling merchants or other Spew head Jimmy’s as many of the Ladies were want to call them rarely came my way unless they too suffered from a disfigurement of the mind and/or body which they saw reflected in me.  As is said Like attracts like so Freaks of Nature recognize one of their fellows.  It was a rare and delicious opportunity to bed any head bangers who set you into spasms of delight Orgasms so intense that your eyes rolled up back into your head while head set a rhythm with the bed’s back board.

  Missy Elliott – Get ur freak on

  Sam and Dave – Hold on I’m Coming

    Stepping from the filthy foul smelling streets men were ushered into exotic elaborately decorated quarters decorated with expensive Persian rugs, medieval tapestries, silk draperies hung upon windowless walls, tables adorned with Tiffany lamps. A subtle scent of incense permeated the airways. The decorations seemed incongruous yet harmonized together in an irregular yet pleasing manner. Palatial taste a bit ostentatious like a Renaissance bordello. The furnishings were highly articulated and faceted Baroque/Rococo objects, many with deep gouges and gashes suggesting transparency and interior penetration. This room and much of the house as well as the street urchins who passed through seemed to us an Orientalist fantasy. At the far end of the living room hung a painting of a Minotaur coupling with a Centauride.

I saved my favorite costume for my only true Lover.  For him.  The Bringer of Pleasurably pain.

  It was a beautiful blood red silk satin with lace trimming with velvet calf length skirts. However as joyful as I was when I donned the frock what pleased me even more were the Bordello Shoes—Red Velveteen Victorian button-up Boots with a two inch heel. My long thick wild curly Chestnut hair was caught up in a chignon I captured the Bohemian spirits of long gone Flappers.  She be the Flâneuse of Golden Gilded Age.

      Rag’n’Bone Man – Bitter End (Mahogany Session)

      Zipporah Jephthah’s Daughter Mary's Burning Heart.  I Zipporah Jephthah's Daughter yield her confessions and present to you Memoirs of a Cubist Odalisque.

[jeancharlotblog-blog]

Social rituals

Customs

In general, the life in the United States is informal. Americans usually dress casually and most of the time, tend to treat everyone equally no matter the age, title, or status. Activities such as picnics and outings to historical sites are good opportunities to learn about the American way of life and make friends with people.

When you are invited to a specific event, it is polite to respond with a definite answer. If you agree to attend and later find that you are unable to go, it is expected that you notify the host as soon as possible. If you plan to bring someone else who was not invited, ask for your host’s permission first.

Americans are very time conscious, When you are invited somewhere or when you have to meet someone at a designated area, it is very important that you arrive exactly on time or even a few minutes early. Most Americans have little patience for people who are late.

It is proper to shake hands when introduced with both men and women, looking them in the eyes and smile. Greetings such as « How are you ? » and « What’s up ? » should not be taken literally. These expressions mean the same as « Hello ». Also when people say « See you later », they really mean « Good bye »

Tipping : it is customary to leave a tip after receiving most services, such as eating in a restaurant, buying drinks in a bar, getting your hair cut, and riding in a taxi. It is expected that you will leave a 15% tip in a restaurant, but if the service is very good, you should leave 20%.

National celebrations

Halloween - October 31 People traditionally dress up in costumes for parties. Children go from house to house to « trick or treat » for candy and others goodies. The traditional colors are black and orange.

Veteran’s Day - November 11 A special day to honor the courage and patriotism of all men and women who have served in the United States military.

Thanksgiving Day - November 24 Celebrates the arrival of the early immigrants, the pilgrims, to Massachusetts. People traditionally join with family or friends for a large meal, usually include turkey and apple or pumpkin pie.

Martin Luther King Day - January 16 Honors Dr. Martin Luther King Jr who led the struggle for civil rights in the 1960’s. This holiday is used to celebrate diversity in the US.

Saint Patrick’s Day - March 12 Originally honoring Saint Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland, it is now primarily a celebration of the Irish contribution to the United States. On this day it is traditional to wear green, the color of Ireland.

Easter Sunday - April 16 Christians celebrate the death and rebirth of Jesus Christ. Some Easter traditions include searching for decorated eggs.

Memorial Day - May 29 A day to honor the memory of the people who died fighting for our country. People often decorate their ancestor’s grave with flowers and flags

Independence Day - July 4 The birthday of the United States of America. The day when the Declaration of Independence was adopted by the Continental Congress on July 4, 1776. Most people celebrate through picnics, barbecues, parades and fireworks

Cultural habits

Americans are often enthusiastic and always manage to find the good side of things. Even in the worst moments. American way of thinking is definitively optimistic. Most of time, they do not judge and accept difference. The history of the United States being based on immigration, there is a great diversity with many different communities, cultures and religions. As a result, the differences are rather well accepted.

They also like to discuss. Americans can very easily engage the discussion with strangers in the streets, at the supermarkets, and discuss about their lives without any problem. They are always ready to help you to find your way when you look lost, even when you don’t ask. Americans have a casual look, they wear large pants or shorts, and sporty and tight-fitting outfits for women. They don’t pay attention a lot to the clothes they wear except when they go out for the night.

Americans work a lot, they do a lot of hours, some have to do two jobs to live, and they do not have a lot of vacation. The culture of work is very strong in the US. For students, it is common to work more than 25 hours a week in addition to classes work. In the US, people are very patriotic and proud of their country. Many houses have the American flag on the facades. They don’t criticize the government policy as much as we do in France. Obviously, this can’t describe all Americans because there is also US people who challenges the government choices.

Events

One of the main attractions during the summer is the Waterfire show. One Saturday a month, plenty of braziers are lighted alongside the canals and transform Providence into a glowing work of art. Bonfires sparkle above the water that snakes through downtown Providence, Rhode Island, illuminating the buildings. This very popular event began in 1997 during a new year eve when a wealthy guy organized Watefire to revitalize the center of Providence. It was so successful that Providence people decided to settle this event every year. Waterfire also feature live music, art and food vendors.

Rhode Island Robot Block Party. This event includes hands-on-activities, demonstrations and exhibits of robots used in research, education, work and play. Created by Rhode Island Students of the Future and the Humanity Centered Robotics Initiative and the Department of Computer Science at Brown University, the Robot Block Party highlights the innovation of the Rhode Island robotic community, bringing together industry and schools.

Family habits

American families are not really different than French ones, most American families consist of a mother and a father with an average of 1 or 3 children. It’s usual in most families that both of the mother and the father are employed full time and are at work while their children are at school. 

There are a large number of families in United States that consist of one single parent and children as a result of divorce. In most families, when the child has become a teenager and graduated from high school, he leaves the home and start to work, or go to university. Most families, no matter where they are located, will all get together to celebrate family occasions such as weddings, birthdays, Thanksgiving or Christmas.

[topfygad]

No bishops, no captains: Rio Carnaval vs the Far Correct

This year’s Rio de Janeiro carnaval parade, which will choose location on February 23rd and 24th, demonstrates sings of becoming a person of its most political ever, as voices of Rio’s black populace increase up in opposition to the spiritual, social and economic persecution of the suitable wing extremist Jair Bolsonaro governing administration

By Gabriel Deslandes

In 1929, a team of faculty teachers jokingly labelled their street carnaval drum group, Deixa Falar, as a “Samba School”, the name caught on and started out a tradition which grew into the nation’s biggest annual live tv event, with millions of viewers glued to their screens for two 12 hour nightly broadcasts of enormous parade groups from Rio’s favelas and suburbs dancing as a result of the Oscar Niemeyer-designed Sapucai samba stadium. For the next 12 months in a row, most of the parades are focusing on political criticism . Rio’s major Samba Schools are criticizing the nation’s intricate sociopolitical conjuncture with themes of resistance towards authoritarianism, prejudice and social inequality. 10 of Rio’s 13 most important samba colleges will have political parade themes criticizing people today like President Jair Bolsonaro and Rio mayor and neo-pentacostal bishop, Marcelo Crivella.

Political protest is a prolonged custom in Rio’s avenue bloco parades, where by occasion goers use irreverent costumes and sing tracks ridiculing politicians and political situations, but this criticism usually bypasses the Rio carnaval stadium party. But from the time that the first samba college parade competition began in 1932, themes of delight and exaltation have been much more common than criticism. This is because of to a lengthy tradition of samba faculties performing to maintain great relations with Point out establishments as a survival strategy.

In accordance to the historian Luiz Antônio Simas, samba educational institutions, which are based in very poor suburbs and favelas and fashioned mainly by Afro-Brazilians, have historically used carnaval to legitimize by themselves to dominant electricity brokers in order to survive by means of several years of social marginalization. On the other hand, the socio-financial and the political problem in Brazil has degenerated to the issue that it has become extremely hard to steer clear of addressing it in Brazil’s “greatest demonstrate on earth.”

Jesus of the inadequate and Mangueira’s stations of the cross

Estação Primeira de Mangueira, which gained carnaval final calendar year honouring murdered metropolis councillor Marielle Franco, is clearly the samba faculty that has captivated the most interest for its 2020 carnaval theme: Jesus Christ. Mangueira – one of the oldest and most conventional samba schools in Rio – will not portray a conservative and ecclesiastical determine of Christ. With the concept “The reality will make you free”, the university will exhibit a combative Jesus Christ who was born poor and black in Mangueira favela. This Christ go throughs from poverty and social exclusion, embraces the marginalized and fights in opposition to the hypocrisy of religious leaders and all forms of discrimination.

The lyrics of Mangueira’s parade music say that Christ has a “black facial area, Indian blood and the overall body of a woman”, they are a road urchin and the son of an unemployed carpenter. The track tells of a Christ, hung on twine and wonders if the folks comprehend the information. 1 line of the tune goes “There is no future in the favela without having sharing / No Messias with a gun in his hand”.

Mangueira’s composer, Luiz Carlos Máximo, says that “Messias” (“messiah” in English) is meant as a wide reference, not simply to President Jair Messias Bolsonaro. The lyrics had been composed with his wife, Manu da Cuica, who says that the track portrays a historically realistic Christ. “He focused his lifestyle to the struggle for sharing, for justice, for tolerance and equality. He fought and was tortured and killed by the Condition for this. This is a Christ which is significantly from the graphic that he is known for – the picture that was appropriated by that of a blond, blue eyed European,” she says.

“The strategy is to glance at Jesus as a political and historic figure who is vital for understanding Christian contemplating, which has been appropriated by proper wing extremist political leaders and spiritual fundamentalists,” suggests parade coordinator Leandro Viera. He says that in Mangueira’s parade, Christ does not have a Eurocentric impression. “Man was built in the graphic and likeness of God, so Jesus has various faces. He is the brother of individuals of quite a few faces. In Brazil he is Indigenous, Black, female way too. Our Jesus does not have a gender. It is a character with our confront, our likeness. And we have several faces,” states Viera.

This humanist interpretation of Chris has drawn the ire of conservative spiritual teams versus Mangueira, and the faculty is being attacked by a wave of fake news. In texts and films unfold by suitable wing Catholic and evangelical fanatics on the web, Mangueira has been accused of blasphemy, of advertising the discretization of the Christian faith and even of portraying Christ as a communist. A pretend news rumour has been intentionally distribute across WhatsApp that the parade will portray Christ as a drug dealer. Leandro Veira claims he envisioned the attacks. “In a specific fashion, this only demonstrates that we are proposing anything relevant to the present discussion. The character of Jesus has develop into a motto for just about anything. But while some existing a violent Jesus, other individuals can show him in a different way.”

No Bishops, no Captains

Political criticism has also taken hold at the oldest Samba Faculty in Carnaval, the extremely standard Portela, which is basing its parade on the extensive battle of indigenous peoples. With a parade song entitled, Guajupiá, Terra sem Males, the university will notify the story of the Tupinambá Indigenous folks who lived in Rio de Janeiro ahead of the arrival of the colonizers. The parade will portray the social, cultural and political lives of the first inhabitants of Rio.

Brazil is going through a resurgence of assaults against indigenous people, because of to lenience and encouragement from the Bolsonaro federal government. In response towards this existing mood of hatred and violence, the lyrics of Portela’s new parade song have currently taken keep of the general public imagination throughout the direct up to carnaval because of to the oblique criticism of politicians, “Indians question for peace, but can struggle. Our reservation has no bash or faction, we have no bishop and bow to no captain.” In this song, “Bishop” refers to Rio mayor Marcelo Crivella, who is an “bishop”, in the Universal Kingdom of God prosperity gospel church. “Captain” refers to President Bolsonaro, who is a retired army captain. “The place is that there is no authoritarian religious chief or armed service commander that indigenous people today need to have to subordinate to,” states Rogério Lobo, a single of the composers of this many years Portela parade music.

President Jair Bolsonaro will also be the issue of a immediate assault through São Clemente samba school’s parade. It’s parade track this yr, O conto do Vigário, will reference recent controversies in Brazilian politics, this sort of as the income laundering allegations from associates of Bolsonaro’s previous PSL occasion and the use of fake news in the 2018 presidential elections by means of lyrics like, “Brazil, shared, viralized, and went blind – the total country sambaed this way and fell into bogus news”. São Clemente’s carnaval samba was composed by comic and actor Marcelo Adnet, who will dance in the parade dressed up like Jair Bolsonaro.

Paraiso do Tuiuti samba college will base its parade on Rio de Janeiro’s social difficulties like poverty and violence. It will tell the story of the each day battle of the poorest of the very poor, as a result of invoking the patron saint of Rio de Janeiro, St. Sebastian, and it is parade samba is entitled Cidade das mazelas (town of ills). Unidos da Tijuca will also sing of Rio’s absence of urban setting up with the parade, “onde moram os sonhos” (where desires dwell), about architecture and city planning, which will criticize the precarious housing stock in Rio’s favelas by means of lyrics like, “a tear rolls down the hill/chainsaw cuts down forest/kills the purity/Rio yells for aid/guy mistreats the earth.” The refrain of the samba is, “dignity is not luxury or a favour.”

Nearly each individual samba faculty parade will criticize racism. Elza Soares, diva of Brazilian new music and one particular of the greatest symbols of resistance for Afro-Brazilian girls, will be honoured by her favorite Samba School, Mocidade Independente de Padre Miguel. For the duration of its tribute, Mocidade will notify the tale of a black female who, with her powerful voice, “gags oppression”. One particular portion of the the music goes, “Brazil, forget about the evil that consumes you. Children of world hunger, really don’t shed the hope in your tune.”

Racism will also be a theme of other samba faculties. Salgueiro will honour Benjamin de Oliveira, Brazil’s initially black clown, as 2020 marks the 150th anniversary of his beginning. “The struggle produced me majestic, in the skin, the tone of braveness, getting what comes, smile and resist.” Grande Rio will honour one particular of the most crucial figures in Candomblé faith with a information versus spiritual prejudice of Afro-Brazilian religions. “For the love of God, whose really like favours no faith, I respect, your amen, respect my axé.”

On February 23rd and 24th, all through the middle of nationwide road parties, these courageous functions of resistance in opposition to Brazil’s soaring weather of fascism will be transmitted  to an anticipated audience of 30 million.

  If you worth the work Brasil Wire does, you should assistance preserve us jogging with a donation. Our editorial independence depends on our visitors assist.

  Relevant

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[topfygad]

No bishops, no captains: Rio Carnaval vs the Far Correct

This year’s Rio de Janeiro carnaval parade, which will choose location on February 23rd and 24th, demonstrates sings of becoming a person of its most political ever, as voices of Rio’s black populace increase up in opposition to the spiritual, social and economic persecution of the suitable wing extremist Jair Bolsonaro governing administration

By Gabriel Deslandes

In 1929, a team of faculty teachers jokingly labelled their street carnaval drum group, Deixa Falar, as a “Samba School”, the name caught on and started out a tradition which grew into the nation’s biggest annual live tv event, with millions of viewers glued to their screens for two 12 hour nightly broadcasts of enormous parade groups from Rio’s favelas and suburbs dancing as a result of the Oscar Niemeyer-designed Sapucai samba stadium. For the next 12 months in a row, most of the parades are focusing on political criticism . Rio’s major Samba Schools are criticizing the nation’s intricate sociopolitical conjuncture with themes of resistance towards authoritarianism, prejudice and social inequality. 10 of Rio’s 13 most important samba colleges will have political parade themes criticizing people today like President Jair Bolsonaro and Rio mayor and neo-pentacostal bishop, Marcelo Crivella.

Political protest is a prolonged custom in Rio’s avenue bloco parades, where by occasion goers use irreverent costumes and sing tracks ridiculing politicians and political situations, but this criticism usually bypasses the Rio carnaval stadium party. But from the time that the first samba college parade competition began in 1932, themes of delight and exaltation have been much more common than criticism. This is because of to a lengthy tradition of samba faculties performing to maintain great relations with Point out establishments as a survival strategy.

In accordance to the historian Luiz Antônio Simas, samba educational institutions, which are based in very poor suburbs and favelas and fashioned mainly by Afro-Brazilians, have historically used carnaval to legitimize by themselves to dominant electricity brokers in order to survive by means of several years of social marginalization. On the other hand, the socio-financial and the political problem in Brazil has degenerated to the issue that it has become extremely hard to steer clear of addressing it in Brazil’s “greatest demonstrate on earth.”

Jesus of the inadequate and Mangueira’s stations of the cross

Estação Primeira de Mangueira, which gained carnaval final calendar year honouring murdered metropolis councillor Marielle Franco, is clearly the samba faculty that has captivated the most interest for its 2020 carnaval theme: Jesus Christ. Mangueira – one of the oldest and most conventional samba schools in Rio – will not portray a conservative and ecclesiastical determine of Christ. With the concept “The reality will make you free”, the university will exhibit a combative Jesus Christ who was born poor and black in Mangueira favela. This Christ go throughs from poverty and social exclusion, embraces the marginalized and fights in opposition to the hypocrisy of religious leaders and all forms of discrimination.

The lyrics of Mangueira’s parade music say that Christ has a “black facial area, Indian blood and the overall body of a woman”, they are a road urchin and the son of an unemployed carpenter. The track tells of a Christ, hung on twine and wonders if the folks comprehend the information. 1 line of the tune goes “There is no future in the favela without having sharing / No Messias with a gun in his hand”.

Mangueira’s composer, Luiz Carlos Máximo, says that “Messias” (“messiah” in English) is meant as a wide reference, not simply to President Jair Messias Bolsonaro. The lyrics had been composed with his wife, Manu da Cuica, who says that the track portrays a historically realistic Christ. “He focused his lifestyle to the struggle for sharing, for justice, for tolerance and equality. He fought and was tortured and killed by the Condition for this. This is a Christ which is significantly from the graphic that he is known for – the picture that was appropriated by that of a blond, blue eyed European,” she says.

“The strategy is to glance at Jesus as a political and historic figure who is vital for understanding Christian contemplating, which has been appropriated by proper wing extremist political leaders and spiritual fundamentalists,” suggests parade coordinator Leandro Viera. He says that in Mangueira’s parade, Christ does not have a Eurocentric impression. “Man was built in the graphic and likeness of God, so Jesus has various faces. He is the brother of individuals of quite a few faces. In Brazil he is Indigenous, Black, female way too. Our Jesus does not have a gender. It is a character with our confront, our likeness. And we have several faces,” states Viera.

This humanist interpretation of Chris has drawn the ire of conservative spiritual teams versus Mangueira, and the faculty is being attacked by a wave of fake news. In texts and films unfold by suitable wing Catholic and evangelical fanatics on the web, Mangueira has been accused of blasphemy, of advertising the discretization of the Christian faith and even of portraying Christ as a communist. A pretend news rumour has been intentionally distribute across WhatsApp that the parade will portray Christ as a drug dealer. Leandro Veira claims he envisioned the attacks. “In a specific fashion, this only demonstrates that we are proposing anything relevant to the present discussion. The character of Jesus has develop into a motto for just about anything. But while some existing a violent Jesus, other individuals can show him in a different way.”

No Bishops, no Captains

Political criticism has also taken hold at the oldest Samba Faculty in Carnaval, the extremely standard Portela, which is basing its parade on the extensive battle of indigenous peoples. With a parade song entitled, Guajupiá, Terra sem Males, the university will notify the story of the Tupinambá Indigenous folks who lived in Rio de Janeiro ahead of the arrival of the colonizers. The parade will portray the social, cultural and political lives of the first inhabitants of Rio.

Brazil is going through a resurgence of assaults against indigenous people, because of to lenience and encouragement from the Bolsonaro federal government. In response towards this existing mood of hatred and violence, the lyrics of Portela’s new parade song have currently taken keep of the general public imagination throughout the direct up to carnaval because of to the oblique criticism of politicians, “Indians question for peace, but can struggle. Our reservation has no bash or faction, we have no bishop and bow to no captain.” In this song, “Bishop” refers to Rio mayor Marcelo Crivella, who is an “bishop”, in the Universal Kingdom of God prosperity gospel church. “Captain” refers to President Bolsonaro, who is a retired army captain. “The place is that there is no authoritarian religious chief or armed service commander that indigenous people today need to have to subordinate to,” states Rogério Lobo, a single of the composers of this many years Portela parade music.

President Jair Bolsonaro will also be the issue of a immediate assault through São Clemente samba school’s parade. It’s parade track this yr, O conto do Vigário, will reference recent controversies in Brazilian politics, this sort of as the income laundering allegations from associates of Bolsonaro’s previous PSL occasion and the use of fake news in the 2018 presidential elections by means of lyrics like, “Brazil, shared, viralized, and went blind – the total country sambaed this way and fell into bogus news”. São Clemente’s carnaval samba was composed by comic and actor Marcelo Adnet, who will dance in the parade dressed up like Jair Bolsonaro.

Paraiso do Tuiuti samba college will base its parade on Rio de Janeiro’s social difficulties like poverty and violence. It will tell the story of the each day battle of the poorest of the very poor, as a result of invoking the patron saint of Rio de Janeiro, St. Sebastian, and it is parade samba is entitled Cidade das mazelas (town of ills). Unidos da Tijuca will also sing of Rio’s absence of urban setting up with the parade, “onde moram os sonhos” (where desires dwell), about architecture and city planning, which will criticize the precarious housing stock in Rio’s favelas by means of lyrics like, “a tear rolls down the hill/chainsaw cuts down forest/kills the purity/Rio yells for aid/guy mistreats the earth.” The refrain of the samba is, “dignity is not luxury or a favour.”

Nearly each individual samba faculty parade will criticize racism. Elza Soares, diva of Brazilian new music and one particular of the greatest symbols of resistance for Afro-Brazilian girls, will be honoured by her favorite Samba School, Mocidade Independente de Padre Miguel. For the duration of its tribute, Mocidade will notify the tale of a black female who, with her powerful voice, “gags oppression”. One particular portion of the the music goes, “Brazil, forget about the evil that consumes you. Children of world hunger, really don’t shed the hope in your tune.”

Racism will also be a theme of other samba faculties. Salgueiro will honour Benjamin de Oliveira, Brazil’s initially black clown, as 2020 marks the 150th anniversary of his beginning. “The struggle produced me majestic, in the skin, the tone of braveness, getting what comes, smile and resist.” Grande Rio will honour one particular of the most crucial figures in Candomblé faith with a information versus spiritual prejudice of Afro-Brazilian religions. “For the love of God, whose really like favours no faith, I respect, your amen, respect my axé.”

On February 23rd and 24th, all through the middle of nationwide road parties, these courageous functions of resistance in opposition to Brazil’s soaring weather of fascism will be transmitted  to an anticipated audience of 30 million.

  If you worth the work Brasil Wire does, you should assistance preserve us jogging with a donation. Our editorial independence depends on our visitors assist.

  Relevant

from Cheapr Travels https://ift.tt/38Lsipc via https://ift.tt/2NIqXKN