#praying with jane eyre

[teddyoverthinks]

Theme: forgiveness

Here is a prayer developed from a fanfiction excerpt, presented in three formats and as the original excerpt. Then a short essay on how the prayer might be used. For anyone new to my page, I then include an explanation of sacred reading and why I use fanfiction of all things to do it.

hopeful prayer format

Let me both create and earn forgiveness.

Let me rebuild and reforge anew, better than before. Let me remember that forgiveness isn’t something that just happens. It isn’t one decision, one moment captured in time with the eclipse of epiphany. Let me understand that forgiveness is something you have to choose, again and again, actively, freely. Let me understand that forgiveness is something you earn, something you build, brick by tedious brick, out of the broken remains of hurt and loss and betrayal. Let me achieve not the absolution of guilt, but the chance at a new beginning.

self-assuring affirmation format

I can both create and earn forgiveness.

I can rebuild and reforge anew, better than before. I can remember that forgiveness isn’t something that just happens. It isn’t one decision, one moment captured in time with the eclipse of epiphany. I can understand that forgiveness is something you have to choose, again and again, actively, freely. I can understand that forgiveness is something you earn, something you build, brick by tedious brick, out of the broken remains of hurt and loss and betrayal. I can achieve not the absolution of guilt, but the chance at a new beginning.

willful vow format

I will both create and earn forgiveness.

I will rebuild and reforge anew, better than before. I will remember that forgiveness isn’t something that just happens. It isn’t one decision, one moment captured in time with the eclipse of epiphany. I will understand that forgiveness is something you have to choose, again and again, actively, freely. I will understand that forgiveness is something you earn, something you build, brick by tedious brick, out of the broken remains of hurt and loss and betrayal. I will achieve not the absolution of guilt, but the chance at a new beginning.

original excerpt

Necessary Context: In this The Hobbit fanfiction, Thorin suggests they start over in order to achieve mutual forgiveness. Bilbo knows that isn’t exactly possible, but the idea gives them both hope. Bilbo self reflects that he thinks it is possible for them to both create and earn forgiveness, as well as:

“Rebuild and reforge anew, better than before, because forgiveness isn’t something that just happens. It isn’t one decision, one moment captured in time with the eclipse of epiphany. Forgiveness is something you have to choose, again and again, actively, freely. Forgiveness is something you earn, something you build, brick by tedious brick, out of the broken remains of hurt and loss and betrayal. Not the absolution of guilt, but the chance at a new beginning.”

—storyforsomeone, Something to Start With

prayer in practice

I love reading fics about forgiveness, accountability, and a relationship being built on mutual recovery. I romanticize healthy apologies and I love enemies to lovers. It really is a beautiful thing, when people can overcome harm and find love and understanding instead.

There are, hopefully obviously, levels to this which are acceptable in fiction yet not preferable in a real life relationship. I also think that in real life, many relationships built on mutual healing should stay far from romantic commitment. Furthermore, some conversations about accountability work better without any mention of forgiveness because it’s too associated with allowing bad behavior to continue. In this conversation, it’s impossible to drop the word entirely, and I don’t want to. It’s important to clarify, though, that when I use the term forgiveness here, I strictly mean a healthy forgiveness, one in conjunction with accountability.

That is how “forgiveness” is used in the excerpt. It is assumed by the speaker (Bilbo) that the forgiveness he and Thorin want is a healthy one. They will work together to earn it and build a shared, mutual forgiveness for their series of personal betrayals toward the end of their canon story. Working on mutual forgiveness is hard and deserves loads of discussion, but today I want to focus on the internalized part. 

We don’t need to work directly with the other person in order to both forgive and be forgiven. The whole process of forgiveness depends on the internal process of dedicating ourselves to “rebuilding and reforging” a better future. This internal process is always a step toward healing.

In some cases, the internal process is the only step accessible. Sometimes the other person in a conflict walks away entirely, and there is nobody to process with; nobody to apologize to; nobody to tell us they acknowledge and apologize for the harm they caused. Sometimes we have to do it all on our own. 

I’m going through a version of that right now. It’s hard. I have to heal from a failed relationship with people who I can’t talk to. I can’t ask if they’re sorry for their side of the failed relationship; I have to forgive myself for my side even though there is no way to know whether they have forgiven me. 

I try to begin, maintain, and end relationships with honest communication. It’s rare that this is how anything ends for me, especially such a significant relationship. I still spend long portions of my days wandering through the “broken remains of hurt and loss and betrayal”. There is a lot of guilt, shame, confusion, fear, anger, and grief that I have to sort through before I get a rare flash of relief or hope.

I think that’s what really spoke to me about the above excerpt. “It isn't one decision...you have to choose, again and again, actively, freely.” Every time I get stuck in a spiral of grief, be it a familiar one or one I haven’t seen before, I need to find a way out. 

Usually, my way out of the grief spiral is some form of forgiveness for myself or for my ex partners. Sometimes, it’s an entirely new angle of forgiveness—the exit from the spiral is one I haven’t previously found. Some other times, I find myself having the same internal conversations over and over again. 

I guess step one is usually taking a deep breath and letting go of the issue. I wouldn’t say I can set it free, but I can set it aside. I can interrupt that train of thought even if I can’t end the internal argument. The thing I use to interrupt that train of thought? I remember the “new beginning” I am creating. I ground myself in the present.

Then I come back to the bricks I’m laying for the future. I have a short list of concrete things I want to change in how I interact with people and how I let people interact with me. When I’m upset, it's not usually the time to work on that list in any active way. But I remind myself that it exists, that I have a blueprint for accountability and better habits.

You might have noticed that, unlike some of my other, shorter prayers, I don't claim to directly come back to this prayer in times of crisis. That’s mainly because it’s such a long one. I don’t have it memorized. It doesn’t make the easiest mantra, though I’m working a few of the phrases into my emotional vocabulary. I can’t just interrupt myself with it, though maybe somebody else could use it that way. Possibly someone could isolate the bolded first sentence of the prayers, which is a good thesis, if a prayer can have a thesis.

This is a great prayer as a whole, though. It’s been healing to write this and intentionally consider my internalized process of forgiveness. I’m going to come back to this regularly and read it aloud to myself. Internalization, in my opinion, is more important than memorization.

explanation of sacred reading, fanfiction prayers, and what I do...

In her book Praying With Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as a Sacred Practice, Vanessa Zoltan explains and demonstrates how she treats literature as sacred text. I highly recommend reading this book, as it’s incredibly interesting, helped me grow as a person, and explains the concept and process more thoroughly than I do here. 

In short, the idea is that sacred texts aren’t accessible to everyone—some of us have religious trauma, for example—but there are other ways to find spiritual expression. In Praying With Jane Eyre, Zoltan references scenes from Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, Little Women, and The Great Gatsby where most sermons would reference the preacher’s chosen holy book. I grew up hearing sermons that referenced Christian bible stories, and I’d get caught up in my discomfort with the text. In some ways, that protected me from internalizing the biases of the religious community. Yet it also kept me from taking comfort in the words that genuinely helped others through hard times.  

I feel the need to clarify that Zoltan’s process isn’t about forming religions around books not intended to be religious material. Instead of mentioning a story about how David faced Goliath, she mentions a story of how Jane Eyre faced her abusive aunt. Sometimes, she prays with a quote from the book by adapting the words of the text into a self-affirmation. Zoltan doesn’t assume that everything in the text is good—for example, she doesn't assume that the ending of Jane Eyre is a happy one (which would have troubling implications). She simply assumes that there's a lesson buried within the text.

Zoltan’s process works much better for me than any associated with the organized religion I grew up with, but I’m not as close to the text of Jane Eyre as she is. I also found myself uncomfortable with treating Harry Potter as sacred, so Zoltan’s podcast Harry Potter and the Sacred Text was, unfortunately, not for me. I decided to begin collecting quotes from what I do read—which, okay, I’m an English major, so I could have used folk tales or ancient epic poems or twentieth-century short stories, because I do read plenty of those. It would work fine with any of them. Sacred reading even helps me understand folk tales from the audience’s perspective. 

But I also read a lot of fanfiction, and I wanted to think about it in a new way. Fanfiction is a modern method of retelling stories. The act of retelling a story over and over is evidence that it is important to a great deal of people. Fanfiction is, legally speaking, not for profit. In this capitalist society that means people are telling these stories solely because they want to. That, in my opinion, creates an exponentially more spiritually honest work than one edited and sold to a publisher. Fanfiction writers, especially those who use the archive, trust that their target audience will find them. 

I don’t mean to put fanfiction on a pedestal. It has its pitfalls. Frankly, when I started, I thought I would get no more than a few good quotes, mainly from the really long fics. I didn’t expect my google doc of fic excerpts to grow to 200 pages and counting within a few months. But it did. Fic writers impressed me over and over once I began to look.

I wasn’t really sure what I planned to do with the quotes for a while, but I knew I wanted to share them with the world. Ultimately, I wanted to write sermons which pulled from transformative works as well as personal anecdotes—but this took time and practice. I began by simply sharing quotes that struck me, occasionally adding analysis in the tags. 

Now, this account also has several prayer sheets like this. I always include Zoltan’s self assuring affirmation format, as well as my hopeful ‘let this happen’ prayer format and willful ‘I will work to make this happen’ vow format. Personally, I cycle through all of them, because I think all three versions of the prayer are important to internalize.

I have also written sermons as well as essays with discussions of sacred reading and retold stories. If you like this, you might be interested in the rest of my page!

[notcatherinemorland]

i write a line in my jane eyre essay. i find a quote in my book and copy it into my essay. i write 2 paragraphs of the video game gay lawyers frolicking in a stationary cupboard. i analyse the quote from jane. i add visceral adjectives to my gay lawyer smut. this repeats. 

[grittyreadsfic]

my desire to make a funny joke about a fic vs my desire to not be perceived

[chippedcupwrites]

Sansa Stark & Sandor Clegane A Girl and Her Dog

♥ all gifs & image edits are made by me quote and painting attributions under the cut ♥

A Game of Thrones by George R.R Martin │ Herbert Thomas Dicksee, The Vikings Daughter │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x07 & Lord Byron │ Walton Ford, Gleipnir │ "One More Brevity" by Robert Frost │ A Feast for Crows by George R.R Martin │ The Secret of Moonacre (2008) and "Tuned Girl With Her Dogs" by Vivian Nguyen │ professor-pants │ John Everett Millais, The Crown of Love │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x06 │ "The Lonely Girl And Her Dog" by Justin Gildow │ Aesop's Fables Cigarette cards (Gallaher Limited), The Wolf and the Lamb & White Oleander by Janet Fitch │ A Storm of Swords by George R.R Martin │ Douglas Malloch │ Regency oil painting, artist unknown │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x09 & "Soap" by The Oh Hellos │ Pandemonium by Lauren Oliver │ A Change of Heart by Sonali Dev │ A Game of Thrones ep. 8x04 │ Edvard Munch, Love and Pain │ "Little Lost Pup" by Arthur Guiterman │ A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin & Edwin Henry Landseer, Saved │ "Little Lost Pup" by Arthur Guiterman │ A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin │ "Start Here” by Caitlyn Siehl │ The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh │ Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert │ A Game of Thrones ep. 2x07 & Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte │ A Clash of Kings by George R.R Martin │ Mufti Ismail Menk │ A Game of Thrones deleted scene │ John William Waterhouse, Tristan and Isolde with the Potion │ "Start Here” by Caitlyn Siehl │ A Game of Thrones by George R.R Martin │ William Chapman │ "Shrike" by Hozier │ Hans Adolf Bühler, Homecoming │ Gale Smith, Promise of Peace │ "The Taming Of The Beast" by Dean Meredith │ Walton Ford, Gleipnir │

[shakespearesdaughters]

What kind of books by Dark Academia do you suggest to me? At the moment I’m on Tolstoj but I wanna to know much

The Secret History by Donna Tartt anything by Donna Tartt (praying we get another book in the next 5 years)

Maurice by E. M. Forester

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

The Patrick Melrose series by Edward St Aubyn

Confessions by Kanae Minato

In the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Piranesi and Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Dead Poets Society by N H Kleinbaum

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

An Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

The Idiot by Elif Bautman

The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

Babel by R F Kuang

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Stoner by John Williams

The Queens Gambit by Walter Tevis

The odyssey by Homer

Carmilla by J Sheridan le Fanu

We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson

Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay

Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges

The October Country by Ray Bradbury

Inferno by Dante Alighieri

Just to name a few!

[criminalmindsgonewrong]

how I percieve Hotchniss:

as requested by @em-prentiss

emily:

tropes: action girl, blue blood, lady in a powersuit, back from the dead, brainy brunette, dark and troubled past, honour before reason, sarcasm personified, reckless and sexy

she/her

libra sun, scorpio moon, leo rising

bisexual 

born 12th october 1970

chaotic neutral

ENFJ personality type

cat person

only child - and very much gives only child energy

red is her favourite colour

body count: "private, thank you very much!"

her favourite movie of all time is 'Carrie' - but she can't resist a good old mystery novel

has some secret skills she doesn't really talk about or use until she needs them; plays the piano, did ballet until she was 15, can horseback ride.

her favourite book of all time is 'Jane Eyre'

dog ears her books to save her pages - either that or uses literally anything as a bookmark. argues that it makes her books look 'loved'

her favourite meal is a good cheeseburger (although she'll tell you its some kind of fancy pasta)

chews her nails when she's stressed

grew up in multiple embassies across the world including: UK, Iraq, Russia, Italy, France, Greece, Spain, and Egypt.

mommy issues galore although she'd never admit it

daddy issues, too, while we're at it.

absentee father who was 'working' all the time - only 'working' meant having affairs and avoiding their home as much as possible

her parents only put on the show of a functional, happy marriage for elizabeth's career, a charade emily was also expected to play a part in. she did so until she went away to college

her dad died when she was 23

nomadic lifestyle all her life due to her mom's job - finds it hard to settle down as a result

has a little box of mementos from each of the places she's lived, trinkets that would be of no value to anyone else but mean a lot to her

has a few small, discreet tattoos

multi-lingual but not a show off about it - sometimes dreams in italian

is also multilingual in sarcasm and often uses it to diffuse tense situations.

had an abortion when she was 15 - doesn't regret it but has always wondered. marks the day each year, even if it's just with a prayer. it's the only time she prays

✨️ religious trauma ✨️ 

rebelled against her mother as a teenager and their relationship has never really recovered

spoilt, privileged lifestyle 

likes her luxuries as a result and doesn't shy away from them 

never had too many close friends growing up - due to the moving around a lot

bit of a wild girl at college, there's not really a sexual position or an illegal substance she hasn't tried at least once (except the ones you inject, she's not insane)

still sneaks the occasional cigarette

cannot abide by any rule she considers arbitrary

loves a good horror movie, the gorier the better but the supernatural ones freak her out

has a secret passion for classical music when she’s stressed - particularly beethoven and bach

emily has a love for fine wine and is something of an amateur connoisseur, able to tell the difference between a good vintage and a cheap bottle. she and rossi bond over this.

her passion for coffee, however, is much more lax and she can drink even the roughest of instant crap. 

can also whip up a mean martini

she’s a cat person but never had a pet growing up due to all the moving around.

emily’s guilty pleasure is reality TV—she finds it oddly comforting and a way to unwind from the seriousness of her day-to-day life.

often doodles when she's on the phone—her notebooks are full of random sketches.

loves an indoor plant but finds it incredibly difficult to keep them alive

fucking loves technology and is slightly addicted to TikTok. has to limit her own screen time.

speaking of TikTok, she's totally on BookTok and loved the ACOTAR series.

loves spicy foods - often challenges herself to try the hottest dish on the menu.

bit of an adrenaline junkie, whether in her home or professional life. overly impulsive sometimes as a result

what she wears:

aaron:

tropes: badass in a nice suit, stoic leader, chronic hero syndrome, highest kill count, death glare, grumpy to her sunshine, deadpan snarker

he/him

scorpio sun, taurus moon, virgo rising

heterosexual

born 2nd november 1965

lawful good

ISTJ personality type

dog person

bodycount: 2

favourite colour is navy blue

eldest son, his brother, sean, is 11 years younger than him

his favourite book is 'one hundred years of solitude'

prioritizes his fitness and likes to take on fitness challenges to keep himself healthy

lonely childhood even though he had a little brother

abusive, drunk for a father

emotionally absent mother who was trying to deal with her own trauma

his mom died when he was 25

his dad is still alive out there somewhere but they're not in contact, and aaron has no intention of being

had to be the strong one for his little brother

comes from a pretty poor background, has built himself up to be and have everything he is and has 

always felt like more of a father than a brother to Sean because of their age gap, and the fact that he practically raised him

loves to go camping and be in the wilderness

a morning person - likes to get up and out of the house as early as possible

a very neat person - you'd be forgiven for thinking he was in the military (he never was) by the way he makes his bed and stacks his clothes

collected coins as a kid, something he never grew out of. has a very well organised collection he values greatly

keeps his books neat and tidy - always uses a bookmark

loves an old western, likes an action movie, horrors make him uncomfy and he's a secret sucker for a rom-com

reluctant green thumb and often ends up taking care of the plants that emily brings home and gives up on or gets distracted from

has a soft spot for old-school jazz and sometimes listens to it when he needs to decompress.

he's a surprisingly good cook, which is a skill he honed while having to take care of his brother, although the recipes were a lot more basic back then

still has his parents wedding rings, a fact about himself that he wrestles with since he doubts they were ever in love

prefers handwritten notes to digital reminders, is a very tactile person. never really fell in love with his phone.

hums softly when he's concentrating, a habit he's more often than not completely unaware of, and emily finds it adorable

keeps a stash of chocolate in his drawer in the office - stocks it with emily's favourites

wears his grandfather's class ring. it's the only family heirloom he has, and sometimes he feels guilty for not giving it to sean

has a collection of old vinyls from the 70s

visits the same diner every saturday for breakfast. after getting together with emily, the visits become less frequent but they still go now and then. aaron says they have the best eggs. emily thinks they're just ok, but she likes to see him happy

aaron isn't a big drinker; he'll have a few beers on a night out, or a whiskey after work occasionally, but he very rarely engages in any binge drinking. emily's only seen him really drunk a handful of times throughout their relationship.

he is, however, partial to the occasional cigar and although emily sneaks her own cigarette now and then, she can't stand the smell of them.

what he wears:

Hotchniss:

the only time hotch is not a morning person is when emily is in his bed, then he never wants to leave the comfort of the covers and the warmth of her body

hotch will watch a horror movie with emily with a straight face, but hate it the whole way through. emily will pretend to be into his action movies, and doesn't let him know she's actually bored out of her mind. their middle ground is a good western or a rom-com.

their first big fight is over a clash between their idea of 'tidy' - emily is laid back, doesn't mind a bit of clutter. aaron is...borderline ocd. they fall out over her having left a towel on the floor...again.

they are very well matched at chess, and often their games can go on for weeks in between cases and life. currently emily is winning by two games.

aaron would rather to repairs around the house himself, where as emily is used to throwing money at a problem and making it go away. they try to compromise but they're away so often for work that more often than not, emily wins because aaron just doesn't have the time, but when he does take on a project he loves the manual labour, and emily loves to sit back and watch x

it was his dream to restore a classical care so emily bought him one for his 50th birthday and its his pride and joy. he painted it red just for her

emily reads before bed and aaron does the crossword, with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and emily thinks it's the cutest thing.

emily's love of spicy foods means that more often than not aaron has to resign himself to buying her two meals when the spiciest dish on the menu is just 'a little too spicy' - he doesn't mind, really

they're both incredibly competitive. emily gets sweary and loud when she's in competition, aaron gets smug and smirky and that drives emily up the wall. their second biggest fight, ever, was over a game of monopoly. it's been banned in their household ever since.

emily takes aaron to a ranch for one of his birthdays - to celebrate his love for an old western, and because she thinks he'll love it! turns out aaron hotchner is terrified of horses. emily spent the first day riding and trying to convince him to do the same, and after that they just enjoyed the views and each other's company, and the horses, but from afar.

emily often teases hotch about his love for organization and can’t resist occasionally hiding a few items just to see his reaction. he pretends to be frustrated but secretly finds her antics adorable.

surprisingly, when they go on vacation, it's emily who wants their days planned down to the moment so that they don't miss anything, and aaron who just - finally- wants to relax and 'go with the flow'. emily finds this version of her husband disconcerting.

emily loves to surprise hotch with impromptu weekend getaways. he pretends to grumble about the lack of planning and the expense of it all but secretly enjoys the surprises and the thought she puts into them.

financially, aaron and emily grew up in two very different places. aaron watched his mother scrimp and save every penny to try and provide for him and sean, when she was lucid. when she wasn't, he had to figure it out himself. he's worked since the age of 14. emily had everything in life given to her on a silver platter and, even now, occasionally spends out of her trust fund. aaron gets frustrated by spending that he sees as frivolous and emily has to remind him that they're well off - she still has her trust fund, even if neither of them were working. it's infrequently a source of contention between them, though.

they dated before emily's 'death', before paris. he visited her in paris, where their flame sparked again but when she came back to the team nothing happened. then beth happened. then emily left again.

they stayed in contact while she was in london and eventually realised they were miserable without each other. emily moves back to the states, returns to the BAU and they get back together.

they marry that same year. it's a really small ceremony, attended only by the team, jack and sean. neither of their surviving parents are invited.

they started a two-person book club where they choose a book to read each month and discuss it over dinner. they always donate one copy - whether to charity or a friend. sometimes both if they agree that the book sucked.

they create the 'hotchner cup' which is a trophy that they play for every family game night. it's an old, tarnished badge of hotch's with 'Hotchner' written across it super-glued to an old ballet trophy of emily's. it's currently in emily's possession...due to the chess situation.

emily's a cat person and hotch loves dogs. as a compromise, they have one of each.

when emily has their kids, they share the position of Unit Chief at the BAU and alternate shifts, so someone's always at home with the kids. it's their one rule; the kids never get left alone.

they have three kids together, ava, livvy and alex. jack is aaron's son from his previous marriage to haley, and emily loves him like her own.

they share a home office and walking into it is hysterical; there are two desks and it's immediately obvious whose is whose because aaron's is meticulously organised and emily's is a mess.

aaron always dreads his weeks 'on' at work, because he knows he's going into his desk being an absolute mess. emily is the same because she says whenever he cleans up, he puts her stuff away and she can't find anything. she prefers her 'organised chaos'.

even though emily is a luxury resort kind of girl, aaron forces the family to take an annual camping trip. every year, emily complains about it; alex and ava follow her suit. jack and livvy love the camping trip like their father. even though emily and the kids complain, they also secretly love it.

they take an annual family photo during every camping trip

every year they all celebrate haley's birthday together with a special meal; homemade lasagne followed by apple pie and ice cream, both favourites of haley.

when it comes to parenting, there's no doubt who's the strict parent. emily definitely takes a more relaxed approach than her husband.

however, when it comes to bullying or the kids being in danger, emily has to be kept in check. more than once she's threatened to pull her badge on a kid - or parent - at school. more than once, she's had to be talked down by her husband, and sometimes the kids.

when aaron eventually retires early, he takes up teaching at the academy. they still have lunch together most days.

after aaron retires, emily takes on the role of unit chief by herself and eventually progresses to section chief, which is more of a bureaucratic role than she ever imagined for herself, but it means she gets home to her family every night.

Hotchniss tropes:

grumpy x sunshine rich girl x poor boy he's her boss mutual pining will they/won't they jealousy trope friends to lovers 'touch her and you die'

Photos Aaron takes of Emily:

Photos Emily takes of Aaron:

Joint camera roll:

How Hotchniss text:

Hotchniss playlist:

[bethanydelleman]

The Narrator of Rebecca and Jane Eyre of Jane Eyre are so similar in some ways, but in one important thing, completely opposing.

Both come from poor backgrounds, they are women of the fringe of the gentry who must work to live, they believe themselves to be physically unattractive, they fall in love with a much older man, they come to a house haunted by that man's previous wife, and they have a rich imagination (Jane's paintings, The Narrator's flights of fancy). They are also both desperate to be loved.

But then the similarities stop. When Jane Eyre learns that Rochester has a living wife, she chooses morality and flees. She values her immortal soul over earthly love. The Narrator learns that her husband murdered his previous wife and love is all that matters to her. He never loved Rebecca, he loves her. She is willing to risk anything and everything to help him cover that crime. His confession brings her closer instead of tearing them apart.

"I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.” -Jane Eyre

Vs.

Our happiness had not come too late. I was not young anymore. I was not shy. I was not afraid. I would fight for Maxim. I would lie and perjure and swear, I would blaspheme and pray. Rebecca had not won. Rebecca had lost. -Rebecca

It's such a different worldview, and I also didn't feel like Maxim deserved such unlimited devotion given how he had treated her (I mean does Rochester either?), but as a Romantic love story I was down. If it was a real life choice, I have to run for the moors with Jane.

[man--eater]

from his lips, not words alone pleased her: chapter six

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Slow Burn, grey ace Alastor, demisexual OC, Hurt/Comfort, Cannibalism, additional tags to come as things unfold, think jane eyre but Alastor is also the madwoman in the attic, POV First Person, praying mantis OC, graphic depictions of cannibalism, Sexual Tension, between two mostly-ace hopelessly confused people, who don't know what they're doing, Biting, plus size OC, religious trauma, Found Family, Smut, Dry Humping, Bloodplay, threatened noncon Summary:

“I butchered and ate the last man who told me I should smile more,” I said quietly, unable to stop my raptorial claws from rustling in anticipation. “Ha ha! Don’t you threaten me with a good time!” Alastor said, beaming.

chapter six: of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue

Alastor steepled his long fingers together, eerily calm. “You go too far, Husker.” His smile widened, and Angel read the threat of vengeance in it as clear as day. Angel clenched his jaw; he dealt with enough dangerous, thin-skinned Overlords at work, he didn’t need this shit at home too. Charlie looked back and forth between them, miserable, still not comprehending. Lucifer was laser-focused on Alastor, watching him through half-lidded eyes, just waiting for him to make a move. Only Rosie appeared unaffected, sipping her wine as she watched the chaos she’d set off unfold.

read more at AO3

[sun-lit-roses]

Emily of New Moon Book Club Chapter 11

AKA Eeeee the return of Ilse!!!

Starting out strong with Emily imagining her death as punishment for Aunt Elizabeth again. I should really start counting chapters that occurs in as well as commentary on which realtions Emily resembles.

I mean, not that I disagree that Aunt Elizabeth is in the wrong here.

All I can think of is @mayusteapot calling this 'Jane Eyre fanfic.' Galaxy-brained take, it's so spot on! This is also where it could have taken a turn in that gothic rendition that was also being posted about 😂

Ilse!!❤️❤️❤️

It's interesting that Emily started off with an Anne-like view of friendship - vowing to go through life together and praying to die on the same day - but had that idyll shattered, unlike Anne with Diana. Now her approach to Ilse is 'offhand,' determined not to commit in the same way again.

Off topic I suppose, but it makes me think of Aunt Elizabeth, who also holds people at arms length with an air of indifference or reserve. What led to her even greater distancing from others?

Now I'm comparing Emily to her relatives. It's catching!

I think I've posted or replied to a post on the topic of Ilse's validation of Emily before. That, even though her bar of adult discerning judgement lies later in her life, she values Ilse's opinion as she never did Rhoda's. Rhoda 'giggled' at her writing, but Emily considered that an indictment of Rhoda, not her work. Ilse, she trusted to be honest.

This scene really sets the bedrock for their relationship: Emily wants someone who's honest. Ilse wants someone who likes her for who she is. And (mild spoilers for later books) that relationship is steady as a rock unless either of them turn away from those two central premises.

Dear Aunt Laura! The more I read this time around, the more I desperately want a prequel of the aunts.

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Days to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none :)

wanna start from chapter one or read more? here’s the table of contents!

enjoy this last happy chapter, the whole story goes downhill from here (im so excited)

part twenty

❝ BECOMING A WAYNE? ❞

SATURDAY — 9:00AM — DAY 77

BENTLEY WOKE UP TO QUIET MUSIC FLOWING THROUGH THE MANOR. His room was glowing a bright gold, and he glanced at the clock — 9:03am. He’d slept through breakfast again. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

Over the two weeks after Dick’s nightmare and the thunderstorm, there had been a lot of developments. Cass had continued to teach him sign language, and now he could string together (mostly) intelligible sentences. He had the whole sign alphabet memorized. He hardly even talked to Cass anymore, they only signed to each other, and he liked it a lot more than trying to speak.

He realized he spoke the least in stressful situations, like Dick’s nightmare, or the thunderstorms, and that he was slowly starting to talk more without his father’s constant terrifying presence. At the Wayne Manor, his words didn’t have consequences. (Unless he decided to blow up and scream at someone like Damian and Tim did to one another periodically, but even then Bruce was hardly mean and usually took more of a talk-to-me-about-it approach. Bentley had reason to believe Bruce would be extra gentle on him if he ever started screaming at someone, partly because he’d been treating him like a priceless antique the whole time. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it. His father was much, much harsher.)

Bentley fully utilized ASL in those rare occasions where he was stressed out. For example, on day 67, another thunderstorm decided to pound the Manor at two in the morning and he was sent staggering down the hallway toward Jason’s room, hoping and praying he was the one at home that night. (He was, coincidentally.) When he opened the door, instead of trying to force out words and decide what exactly was best to say, he simply used the sign for afraid. Jason let him into the room and they finally finished The Outsiders. (He chose not to think about the way the door opened hardly a second after he knocked, or how the book was suddenly on his nightstand instead of in the library, or how he’d heard Alfred chuckling the next morning about Jason promptly showing up ‘when the forecast was grim.’)

He’d gone to a real public library with Tim to find a book that they didn’t have in the Manor library (Although Bentley was sure there were enough books in there that there couldn’t possibly be one missing.) They spent a few hours perusing the aisles for one specific title that Bentley could hardly remember, and the quiet atmosphere gave him yet another excuse to use ASL, and he found out that Tim was nearly fluent in it. To make up for the time they spent there, they went to a little ice cream shop on the way back to the Manor. Bentley decided Tim was basically his best friend after that.

He’d been invited to an art show at Gotham Academy by Damian, whose work was being displayed in the gymnasium. (He didn’t share his work a lot, according to Dick, who was unsurprisingly ecstatic.) Bentley agreed, but when it came to time to leave, he realized that only Dick and Bruce were attending with them. No Tim, no Jason, no Cass, Steph, or Duke. It made him realize that, apparently, he was high enough on Damian’s good list that he didn’t mind letting him in on something a little more personal. 

It may not have been a big deal to anyone else, but it was a big deal to Bentley.

He played intense card games with Bruce and Alfred (that he definitely shouldn’t have won, but they let him, anyway.) and did ASL lessons with Cass, and let Duke give him a rundown of his science class every day after school, and played outside with Damian and the dogs, and started a new book with Jason (this one was called Jane Eyre, which Steph had insisted she had to sit in on because it was her favorite book) and Bentley was pretty sure he had never been happier in his whole life. 

But a rose always comes with thorns, and for Bentley, the so-called thorn was actually a brand new layer of anxiety. 

He was still afraid of his father, yes, and what would happen to him when he got home (because surely his father wouldn’t just leave him alone, even if Bentley completed his plot.) Yeah, he was afraid of thunderstorms, and nightmares, and all of those things, but something new was joining the conglomerate. 

He was afraid the Waynes were going to hate him once everything came to light.

Because, there were only so many ways this could go. Bentley could go through with it, and help his dad destroy them, after which he’d be taken back home and thrown right back into his old life. Or he could fail. If he failed, his father said he’d come get him (probably beat him half to death) and take out the Waynes himself.

Or he could… tell them everything. They were superheroes, after all.

The potential of them hating him came with every possible route, and he didn’t want to think about that, so he stuck to pretending everything was fine for the time being.

He pulled himself out of his bed and quickly changed into more presentable clothes (aka a hoodie and joggers.) The music coming from outside his door had a voice accompanying it, a low baritone. Bentley smoothed his hair down and swung his door open.

“I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas-” Was what the voice was singing. As soon as he stepped into the hall, it sounded like it was coming from every direction. (Tim had once told him the Manor had surround sound built in, but he hardly knew what that was.) 

Bentley shivered at the word Christmas, a not-so-distant memory resurfacing of his father’s crooked smile paired with a sinister Merry Christmas, Bentley as he slammed the closet door in his face (and left it closed for so long the kid threw up from being so empty.) The memory echoed on repeat for all the years his father had shut him away. (Roughly four consecutive years.) He never failed to lock him in the closet for Christmas Eve and Christmas day, at least, sometimes longer.

He hoped it wasn’t Christmas. 

He thudded toward the stairs to find a big green garland already wrapped around the banister, completed with holley, lights, and ornaments. It looked sickeningly similar to the garland his father had the decorators put on their staircase each year.

The Waynes weren’t his father.

It sounded like a messed up nightmare, for his father to decorate the Manor after flattening every family member and waiting for Bentley to come downstairs and see the carnage.

He counted his fingers. He was awake.

With a quiet breath, he continued down the stairs. He was met with a brightly smiling Dick Grayson on a step-ladder, who was hanging garland above the windows. “Hey, kiddo!”

“Hey,” Bentley replied. His socks slid a bit at the bottom of the stairs, but he compensated — he’d grown used to it. He’d also grown used to the creaky eighth and fifteenth stairs that he’d skip if he was trying to be extra quiet.

“Steph drug all the Christmas stuff out since it’s the first of December and insisted we put it up. You’re lucky you were still in bed when she was dishing out jobs,”

First of December. Bentley was fairly sure Christmas Day was in, like, the twenties or something. It was day seventy-seven, give or take, and if Christmas was in the twenties, then… his hundred days would be over before Christmas.

He’d be locked up again, this year.

Apparently he showed the realization on his face, too, because Dick was soon abandoning his step-ladder and coming toward him. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

Bentley froze in his spot at the bottom of the stairs. He said nothing as Dick approached, and looked down at the hardwood as he continued: “Did you have a bad dream?”

“No…” He muttered. He wanted so badly to tell him nothing was wrong, but he didn’t know how much use it would be since Dick could see it on his face. “I’m okay.”

Dick brushed a hand over Bentley’s head. “Are you sure?”

No, he wasn’t sure, he was actually pretty positive he was going to cry about it in his room later, but he needed to put on a strong face for now.

“Yeah,” He replied. Dick didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he let it go anyhow.

“I’m pretty sure Alfred saved some breakfast for you,” He continued, backing away and climbing back onto the ladder. “Just avoid Steph on your way to the kitchen or you’ll end up tying ribbons all over stuff.”

Bentley smiled lightly and headed to the dining room, toward the ajoining kitchen. Jason was already sitting at the island, arms crossed and shaking his head. Steph was standing across from him in a huge Christmas sweater and green yoga pants, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail with a red ribbon.

“C’mon, you do it every year!” She insisted.

“Which is precisely why I’m not doing it this year,”

Bentley spotted Alfred across the room, and the Butler perked up when he saw him. “Master Bentley. I will retrieve your breakfast.”

He nodded slightly, drifting toward the island, to the stool next to Jason. “Thanks…”

“Bentley!” Steph exclaimed, pivoting toward him on her heel. “I think-“

“Nope,” There was suddenly a weight on top of him, and he glanced up to see Jason’s elbow resting on his head. “Kid’s mine, go get your own.”

Steph eyed Jason coldly.

“Or we’ll read the next four chapters of Jane Eyre without you,”

“Fine, fine, I’m going to find Damian,” She held her hands up in surrender, retreating from the kitchen and muttering incoherent things to herself about the working class or something.

Jason’s arm left his head. “Just saved you, you’re welcome. I’m pretty sure she was looking for someone little to decorate the twelve miniature Christmas trees she put near the front gate.”

Bentley snickered lightly and climbed up on the stool next to him. Alfred whisked around the kitchen a few more times before placing a plate of bacon, eggs, and some kind of casserole in front of him.

“Thank you,” Bentley muttered, and Alfred nodded.

“You’re welcome, my boy,”

Alfred drifted away to do something else, and Bentley was left in the kitchen with Jason. He nibbled on a piece of bacon absentmindedly.

“Hey! I saw you!”

Tim suddenly ran into the kitchen. He jogged to the opposite side of the island and crouched next to Bentley’s stool, extending a hand palm-up and putting a thumbs-up on top of it, pulling the gesture toward him. Help me.

Steph reappeared in the doorway, glancing skeptically between Bentley and Jason. “Did Tim come in here? He’s shirking his Christmas tree duties.”

Jason stayed quiet, so Bentley pointed to the exit on the left side of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” She muttered, disappearing through the massive doorway. After a moment of silence, Tim stood up with a huff.

“She’s been chasing me around all morning,” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “It’s like she has Christmas tunnel vision.”

“More like Christmas psychosis,” Jason suggested, rapping his knuckles on the countertop. Tim hummed in agreement, retreating to the nook in the kitchen that held the coffee maker.

“Oh, Bentley!” Steph’s voice bounced into the kitchen from the other room. She reappeared in the doorway with a measuring ribbon in her hand. Her eyes only landed on him for a second before flicking to Tim, narrowing coldly. “Timothy.”

Jason crossed his arms again. “Take Tim as offering and leave the poor kid alone.”

“I can’t be sacrificed yet, I haven’t even had coffee,” Tim whined.

“I’ll come back to you later, I just need to get Bentley’s measurements,” She replied, strolling into the kitchen with the measuring ribbon in her hands. Bentley watched as she made her way to him and wrapped the ribbon around his torso. He saw Jason roll his eyes as Steph muttered a number to herself and moved on to measuring different parts of Bentley’s upper body. Tim slinked out of the kitchen with a steaming coffee cup while she was distracted.

“Geez, you’re a good three sizes smaller than Damian. I didn’t even think that was possible,” 

“I heard that, Brown!” Damian’s voice emanated from somewhere else in the house. 

“Seriously, you’re like the size of a six-year-old,” Steph stated, and Bentley saw her make a sheepish face before promptly closing her mouth. Bentley assumed it was because of Damian. (He didn’t see the way Jason was glaring at her from behind him.)

“Okay, thanks!” She exclaimed, retracting the measuring ribbon and trotting out of the room again.

Bentley blinked. She was weird.

“Grayson, remove that ridiculous thing from Titus immediately,”

“Oh come on, Dami, it’s Christmas time!”

“Tt,”

The quiet tap-tap of Titus’s claws clicked into the kitchen, and when Bentley glanced over at him, he had a massive green, red, and silver wreath hanging around his neck.

“Oh, Titus,” Bentley snickered, scratching the dog’s head when he rested it on his knee. “You look great.”

“He looks ridiculous,” Damian replied as he made his way into the room, reaching for the wreath. Titus moved before he could grab it, running around the island and back out of the kitchen.

“He likes it,” Bentley stated with a faint smile. Damian sighed as he followed the dog out. 

“It seems that way,”

After Bentley had finished two pieces of bacon and an infinitesimal amount of eggs, he got off the stool and slid the plate toward Jason. (Bentley still couldn’t eat very much without feeling sick, and Jason hated when food was wasted, so he usually donated it to him when he was finished. Alfred always gave him significantly less food than everybody else, but even then he hardly ever finished it.)

He drifted back into the entryway where Dick was, and now every curtain rod had decorative garlands on them to match the stair rails. Dick was now helping Tim (who looked very unenthused) click every individual branch onto a fake Christmas tree that was probably fifteen or twenty feet tall.

“Bentley!” Steph’s voice came again. Without a Jason to protect him, Bentley turned on his heel. She was standing down the hallway near the library. “Wanna come help?”

He approached her quickly, and she went back into the library. “I need you to open some of these boxes and look for stockings.”

There were probably twenty black totes spread around the room, half with lids on, half with lids off. The curtain rod and mantle of the fireplace already had shiny garland, and the bookshelves had been lined with Christmas lights. There was a fully-decorated tree in there, too.

Bentley twisted his hands together in front of him. “Uh, what… is a stocking?”

Steph glanced over at him with only minimal offense on her face. “You hang them up, and then on Christmas they get filled with goodies. You’re basically looking for really big socks.”

Bentley was a bit confused by the really big sock part, but he started looking through the boxes nonetheless. 

“There should be ten of them. Oh, and three small ones,” She stated from where she was adding lights to the mantle.

He shuffled around in a few boxes. Most of them were full of tree ornaments, both tiny and as massive as Bentley’s head. They reminded him of his father’s Christmas tree. It took him about six boxes before he found a pile of big socks.

“Found them,” He said. Steph stepped back to look at the mantle. 

“Great — you can bring them over here,”

He did as he was told, gathering all the socks and carrying them toward her. They were a mix of green, white, and red, and they all had names embroidered on the front.

“Brilliant,” She stated, grabbing a few from his hands. She started hanging them on the mantle in order from oldest to youngest — Alfred, Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Steph, Duke, and Damian. Then she hung three smaller ones on the far right end with the names Titus, Ace, and Alfred. There was a space and a hook left between Damian and the pets.

“Oh snap, there should be one on the den table in a box. It just arrived this morning. Can you go grab it?”

With a small nod, Bentley retreated out of the library and into the Den. It was also decked out in holiday decor with a tree of it's own. He spotted a little brown box on the table, already open, so he assumed that’s what he was looking for.

He pulled the flaps open and grabbed the sock thing from inside. It was green with a white fold at the top, and on the white fabric, embroidered in red, was something that made him freeze.

It was his name.

The fireplace was full of names, each one a Wayne, not necessarily by blood. Their last names were all different; Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain — Damian was the only one in the house that shared Bruce’s actual surname, but the rest were just as much a Wayne as he was. The fireplace was a physical testament to family residing in something deeper than blood, and they wanted to add Bentley’s name to it?

He stood there dumbly and stared at it for a solid thirty seconds. Maybe longer.

“Do you like it? Bruce ordered the one that matched Dick’s because he’s, like, your best friend,” Steph’s voice came, and she made her way into the room behind him, brushing her hair over her shoulder. 

It took Bentley a moment to find his voice, but when he did, he answered: “…Yeah. I do.”

“Really? Because we can have another color here in, like, twelve hours. I have Christmas shipping coupons,”

“I do,” He repeated, running his thumb over the silky fabric.

“Good. You can hang it on the mantle,” She stated, ruffling his hair a bit like Dick did.

They returned to the den, and he approached the mantle, hanging the sock with his name on it between Damian and Titus’s.

“Perfect!” Steph stated, clapping her hands together. “And the library is all done.”

He was too busy staring at the fireplace to respond. Alfred, Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Steph, Duke, Damian, and Bentley. 

“Hey,” Bentley turned around to see Bruce sticking his head in the door, unabashedly wearing a massive, fluffy Christmas bow on his head. “Alfred just finished his gingerbread. You have, like, five seconds before the bloodhounds find out.”

Bentley couldn’t help but chuckle at the bow on his head as he and Steph made their way out of the room. Bruce rubbed his back lightly as he passed.

“Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m going out of town next week for work. It’s only a couple days, but it coincides with Alfred’s sabbatical, so Dick will be staying with you and Damian. Is that okay with you, or would you rather me stay?” He questioned, and he stayed in step with Bentley as they trailed down the hallway.

“It’s okay with me,” He replied. Spending a few days with Dick was basically Bentley’s favorite thing to do anyways.

Bruce smiled at him, and his blue eyes shined similarly to Dick’s. “Thank you for being so understanding. You remind me of Jason when he was a kid.”

Bentley cocked an eyebrow. He was pretty sure his father’s file called Jason the black sheep of the Wayne family, and said that he’d tried to kill Tim on multiple occasions (for taking his spot as Robin while he was dead, but Bentley didn’t think too hard about that.) It had allegedly taken a while for Jason to warm back up to his once-family enough to stay at the Manor without causing a fight, and honestly, Bentley hadn’t even considered that he could’ve been a good kid. 

“Oh, yeah,” Bruce replied to Bentley’s skeptical expression. “He was the best kid I had. He just liked to read and cook and be calm and nice — Dick nearly killed me growing up. He wanted to swing from chandeliers and punch people.”

Bentley chuckled lightly at the contrast, because he thought surely Dick would’ve been the best kid. Apparently he and Jason swapped personalities halfway through or something. 

They made their way to the kitchen, where everyone in the family shared gingerbread, and after lots more decorating, Christmas music, and a nice dinner, then they settled into the den to watch a movie Dick insisted on called Polar Express. Bentley had taken up a spot on the couch between Tim and Dick. Alfred (the cat) was curled up in his lap. Damian was on the other side of Dick with Titus, Steph was on the other side of Tim, and Jason, Bruce, Cass, and Duke were taking up various chairs spread around the room. And they watched the movie with the addition of Dick’s constant commentary and Jason, Tim, and Damian telling him to shut up, and Bentley loved every second of it, making sure to glance at his own name on the mantle of the library one last time before he went up to bed.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💛

—

tag list (ask me and i’ll add you!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @cademygod

[teddyoverthinks]

Theme: Accepting Love; Trusting Joy; Moving Past Pain

Here is a prayer developed from a fanfiction excerpt, presented in three formats and as the original excerpt. Then a short essay on how the prayer might be used. For anyone new to my page, I then include an explanation of sacred reading and why I use fanfiction of all things to do it.

hopeful prayer format

Let me accept love and compassion, when they finally come to me. Let me turn my back on the old pain and loneliness. Let me trust in the new comfort comfort and joy. Let me move on.

self-assuring affirmation format

I can accept love and compassion, when they finally come to me. I can turn my back on the old pain and loneliness. I can trust in the new comfort and joy. I can move on.

willful vow format

I will accept love and compassion, when they finally come to me. I will turn my back on the old pain and loneliness. I will trust in the new comfort and joy. I will move on.

original excerpt

Necessary Context: In this The Hobbit fanfiction, dwarves have a tradition of saying “our friend deserves a song”. This takes the form of a song of comfort, a song to uplift the spirit, a song of solidarity, et cetera. Bilbo thinks this is lovely, and he wants to be included, but he isn’t. 

Passage:

“Thorin’s hard hug and husky whisper of how wrong he was warms him until he thinks his entire body is aflame, but…but—

—there is no song for him after, and now he thinks there never will be.

Is he truly such an abhorrent thing that they begrudge him friendship and the songs that come so easily from their lips for any other companion?

He gave his word and his heart to their quest, but the quiet, softly hurt place inside him hardens, bitter inside like a kernel. Perhaps it would be just as deadly if he prodded it. There will be no songs for me, he vows, and leaves the kernel of pain alone.

---

“I would sing for you here,” Thorin whispers into the back of his neck when they lie cuddled beneath a blanket that night. “Would you like that?”

He should. Bilbo’s chest leaps with surprise and pleasure, but the next moment, his eyes fill with tears. Shocked, he turns his face into his rough pillow (Thorin’s cloak, still smelling of smoke and Dwarf) to hide it. He would sing only here, not in front of everyone. What have I done? Have I even earned friendship from the Company?

---

“Bilbo,” he says, “oh, Bilbo, you should have said something.”

The kernel pierces him from inside at that. Bilbo wipes his face on his sleeve. “I…I didn’t want to have to ask.”

Thorin kisses the tip of his ear. “Then you will not.”

---

It is a clear, cold morning when Thorin emerges from the tent after he has healed enough to walk without buckling at the knees. “My betrothed deserves a song,” he says simply to the gathered Dwarves, Men, and even Elves, and begins a ballad in Khuzdul and Westron about a King and his consort, a song thousands of years old.

The tears in Bilbo’s eyes are tears of joy this time, and he can feel the hidden pain dissolving after so many months of hurt. Yet as the kernel slips from him, it pokes him one last time with a thought that brings a pang. 

What if he only sings before these people because I made him? 

No. 

He shakes his head and holds Thorin’s hand all the tighter, and smiles at his Dwarf when he is done.”

—seashadows, I Never Had a Single Song

prayer in practice

There is so much about this excerpt that I think about. I could write a whole other sermon about Bilbo’s coping mechanisms. There is a lot to think about, earlier on. (He allows himself to believe he is not worthy, rather than ask for the dwarven reasoning for not offering a song, or even try to guess it). I could also write about the importance of these community love languages. But the really, truly outstanding part of this piece is the healing that occurs at the end of the passage.

Bilbo’s decision to ignore that final thought impresses me every time. That kernel of hurt that he’s carried with him for so long is powerful, but he refuses to believe what it tells him. 

Sometimes we carry hurt with us to protect ourselves from more hurt. We desensitize ourselves to it. We think this helps, but it doesn’t. There comes a point when we are surrounded by comfort and we still don’t trust it. It is so important to choose to change that.

I remembered this excerpt because my friend was talking on the discord server about how nice it is that we have silly, fun roles. If you don’t use discord, roles are a practical feature so you can tag everyone with a certain role (like, you can tag all of the writers if you have a writing prompt). We have practical roles, but all active sever members end up with a few that are inside jokes and little descriptors of who we are.

@beatle411: “When I was a little and in a roleplay amino server, I was always so,,,, like the other 3 people there gifted each other roles all the time and never me. And I felt so left out, eventually I had to ask for roles and that didn't feel nice. So this is very nice, to have friends who just give them. And such funny ones at that.”

Because they’re a fellow Tolkien nerd, I immediately asked to send them this excerpt. I’ve been wanting to post about it for a while, but I was struggling with what to say about it. Our conversation really helped me narrow down what’s so cool about it. So, many thanks to Eddy. Also, a big shoutout to the server buddies for being such a lovely group. 

Anyway, the point is that this prayer applies to situations where we find ourselves healing and we notice that kernel of hurt. Maybe it’s fading, maybe it isn’t yet, but either way it is an opportunity to choose to have faith in something happier.

explanation of what you just read

In her book Praying With Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as a Sacred Practice, Vanessa Zoltan explains and demonstrates how she treats literature as sacred text. I highly recommend reading this book, as it’s incredibly interesting, helped me grow as a person, and explains the concept and process more thoroughly than I do here.

In short, the idea is that sacred texts aren’t accessible to everyone—some of us have religious trauma, for example—but there are other ways to find spiritual expression. In Praying With Jane Eyre, Zoltan references scenes from Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, Little Women, and The Great Gatsby where most sermons would reference the preacher’s chosen holy book. I grew up hearing sermons that referenced Christian bible stories, and I’d get caught up in my discomfort with the text. In some ways, that protected me from internalizing the biases of the religious community. Yet it also kept me from taking comfort in the words that genuinely helped others through hard times.  

I feel the need to clarify that Zoltan’s process isn’t about forming religions around books not intended to be religious material. Instead of mentioning a story about how David faced Goliath, she mentions a story of how Jane Eyre faced her abusive aunt. Sometimes, she prays with a quote from the book by adapting the words of the text into a self-affirmation. Zoltan doesn’t assume that everything in the text is good—for example, she doesn't assume that the ending of Jane Eyre is a happy one (which would have troubling implications). She simply assumes that there's a lesson buried within the text.

Zoltan’s process works much better for me than any associated with the organized religion I grew up with, but I’m not as close to the text of Jane Eyre as she is. I also found myself uncomfortable with treating Harry Potter as sacred, so Zoltan’s podcast Harry Potter and the Sacred Text was, unfortunately, not for me. I decided to begin collecting quotes from what I do read—which, okay, I’m an English major, so I could have used folk tales or ancient epic poems or twentieth-century short stories, because I do read plenty of those. It would work fine with any of them. Sacred reading even helps me understand folk tales from the audience’s perspective.

But I also read a lot of fanfiction, and I wanted to think about it in a new way. Fanfiction is a modern method of retelling stories. The act of retelling a story over and over is evidence that it is important to a great deal of people. Fanfiction is, legally speaking, not for profit. In this capitalist society that means people are telling these stories solely because they want to. That, in my opinion, creates an exponentially more spiritually honest work than one edited and sold to a publisher. Fanfiction writers, especially those who use the archive, trust that their target audience will find them.

I don’t mean to put fanfiction on a pedestal. It has its pitfalls, especially when it comes to elements of craft like visual description and reliance on clichéd tropes. Frankly, when I started, I thought I would get no more than a few good quotes, mainly from the really long fics. I didn’t expect my google doc of fic excerpts to grow to 200 pages and counting within a few months. But it did. Fic writers impressed me over and over once I began to look.

I wasn’t really sure what I planned to do with the quotes for a while, but I knew I wanted to share them with the world. Ultimately, I wanted to write sermons which pulled from transformative works as well as personal anecdotes—but this took time and practice. I began by simply sharing quotes that struck me, occasionally adding analysis in the tags.

Now, this account also has several prayer sheets like this. I always include Zoltan’s self assuring affirmation format, as well as my hopeful ‘let this happen’ prayer format and willful ‘I will work to make this happen’ vow format. Personally, I cycle through all of them, because I think all three versions of the prayer are important to internalize.

I have also written sermons as well as essays with discussions of sacred reading and retold stories. If you like this, you might be interested in the rest of my page!

[eventual-ghosts]

tag game

tagged by: @overnighttosunflowers, hihi

last song listened to: I'm in SUCH a music rut right now, and sick of all my spotify recs, but my cousin sent me Last Night (Beer Fear) by Lucy Spraggan, and it's an absolute bop.

currently reading: Mara: Daughter of the Nile which I loved in fifth grade and am seeing if it holds up. So far....kind of...but oh boy was this a book set in ancient Egypt written by a white lady in 1953. Vaguely alarming how little my taste in romance have changed lol. Also Harrow the Ninth, after @overnighttosunflowers and @lurkinglurkerwholurks and another friend badgered me about it aggressively for years. they were right, it is a masterpieces. I deeply apologize for showing up so late to the locked tomb party. I pray it never opens. (spoiler: o wait, it kinda did...)

currently watching: we're barreling through our CR backlog right now, and it feels great to actually watch the episodes we're on finally move up in number. I've also watched an obscene about of costume dramas in the last couple of weeks, including P&P (2005) which (in my controversial opinion) is mid overall but the pining is 10/10, Jane Eyre (2011?), and Sense & Sensibility (1995?).... @rhytons will have me rewatching Phantom Thread sooner rather than later, but I might to Emma. (2020) again first or actually get myself to the theater for The Taste of Things.

currently obsessed with: not really anything and I need to brainrot something, plz send recs. Closest is probably HtN, but I read slowly.

[malina-33]

I want an AU where Alex is a pastor somewhere in the vastness of England in the 19th century, during the time of Jane Eyre, and Miles is a new parishioner. First he goes to church to pray, but then to watch Alex

[cuteteacakes]

I have a list of dark academia reads in my drafts and I've read 6/22 9/22 of them. I feel the need to increase that number...

(in case anyone is wondering what they are... here's the list I found under the cut) and if anyone has any more dark academia suggestions I'm all ears! I like classical novels personally uwu

The Secret History by Donna Tartt anything by Donna Tartt (praying we get another book in the next 5 years)

Maurice by E. M. Forester

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

The Patrick Melrose series by Edward St Aubyn

Confessions by Kanae Minato

In the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Piranesi and Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell (I watched the show but I want to read the book) by Susanna Clarke

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde ✔️

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley✔️

Dead Poets Society by N H Kleinbaum

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

An Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

The Idiot by Elif Bautman

The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

Babel by R F Kuang

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte✔️

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte✔️

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Stoner by John Williams

The Queens Gambit by Walter Tevis

The odyssey by Homer✔️ (three times actually!)

Carmilla by J Sheridan le Fanu

We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson

Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay✔️

The October Country by Ray Bradbury ✔️

Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges

Inferno by Dante Alighieri ✔️ (I've read the whole Divine Comedy in high school hhhh)

An Education in Malice by S. T. Gibson (suggested by @s1lxcs)

A Study in Drowning by Ava Reid (suggested by @s1lxcs)

A Dark and Drowning Tide by Allison Saft✔️

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

The Cloisters by Katy Hays

[ssukidesu]

Inextricably Knotted (an Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 3]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

tag list: @heynikkiyousofine @xanthippe-writes

Chapter 3: Gregarious and Communicative

The next morning came quickly. With its master home, the house stirred to life a full hour before it normally did. The very air seemed lighter, and servants who had before made a habit of breakfasting with fearful nighttime stories now bustled happily down corridors and fluttered in and out of rooms. Kagome wasn’t sure how Mr. Taisho's presence would alter her operations with Shippo, but she expected it would at least somewhat. 

However, to her surprise, she did not lay eyes on him once during the day. Shippo was particularly restless and fidgety during his lessons, but the master did not come to see him. Or her. She supposed his ankle may have kept him relatively bedridden, so she didn’t allow herself to wonder about it for long.

But just as Kagome prepared to retire herself and Shippo for the night, Kaede sent for them to come to the drawing room. 

When she and the boy arrived, Kagome was surprised to find Mr. Taisho standing—his back to her and his hand braced on the mantle over the fireplace. His ankle did not appear wrapped. Demonic healing, she realized.

Kaede was the one who greeted them; a cup of tea was anxiously flung her way, and Shippo was given another small box, no doubt containing more goodies from wherever in the world a man like Mr. Taisho gets presents for a ward he seems to so apathetically provide for.

Shippo, never the one for subtlety, did not read the wired atmosphere. “Does Miss Higurashi get a present, too?”

Kagome’s head whipped from Mr. Taisho’s solemn back to Shippo’s gloriously idiotic face. She wanted to run away.

The master did not turn. “Does Miss Higurashi like presents?”

Shippo and Kaede both looked her way expectantly, and it took her a moment to realize that she was supposed to respond to his impossible question.

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Presents have many faces to them, do they not?” She prayed this response would satisfy him enough to allow her quick retirement. 

He did not oblige. “Indeed. Some less innocent than others. You are right for wishing to inspect them all before accepting.”

Again, two pairs of eyes waited for her continuation.

“Life very seldom gives gifts with no cost.”

These words finally stirred him to turn toward her. The firelight behind him, his front was shrouded in shadows, the mute lamplight hardly enough to allow the observation of her mortal eyes. She wondered if he forgot her human limitations.

His voice was gruff. “Keep me company for a while, if you would. It has been a long time since I’ve been home, and listening to the chittering of children and old maids sounds like a terrible pastime.”

Unable to help herself, she answered sardonically, “And since I am conveniently between the stages of childhood and old maidhood, I am temporarily deemed an appropriate alternative?”

His lips twitched. “Temporarily.”

I’d have it no other way, Kagome thought. She approached the fireplace and took a seat in one of the luxurious leather armchairs. She did not use the armrests; instead, she kept herself at the edge of the seat. She would not let him think her comfortable.

After commanding Shippo to play in the far side of the room, Mr. Taisho moved to take the seat beside her, his chair identical to hers. After a moment, he grew agitated. “Well, speak.”

Kagome raised a brow. “How could I know what topics would entertain you?”

“I don’t give a damn what you talk about. Just chase away the silence,” he said, hooded eyes flicking to her. At her stiffness, he seemed to remember himself, though his expression remained hard: “I don’t mean to speak in such an imperious manner. I’m used to telling others, 'Do this,' and it is done. I’m not used to conversing via mere requests—but I assure you it is one.”

“And yet I assume if I sit here in rebellious silence, you will find some way to punish me for insubordination?”

His head tilted to the side—rather like a canine, she noticed—and he faced her more fully, black brows now holding confusion alongside severity. “No. But I may punish you by calling you to me like this more often, if only to see you squirm until you finally acquiesce. All I want is your free conversation.” By the end of his speech, the corners of his lips had risen slightly.

“You do see, sir, that if every ‘free’ conversation is preceded by my summons and ended by my dismissal, you cannot blame me for perceiving it an order, no matter your assurance of the opposite.”

“Is that so? You may claim that, but I doubt you’ve ever responded to any of your previous masters' orders in such a… liberal way.” He was fully smirking now.

Kagome looked away, blushing. “You asked for me to give my thoughts as an equal, so I’ve given them.”

“I would hate to see how you speak to your inferiors,” he joked.

Kagome poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “I treat my inferiors perhaps better than I treat my own friends.”

He sipped his wine, relaxing further in his chair, though his eyes remained locked onto hers. “Kaede told me you received your education at Shikon school. Did you have friends there?”

Her next breath was shallow. “Just one.”

“And where is she now?”

Kagome picked at her nails, breaking his gaze. “Dead.”

A beat passed before his response. “I’m sorry. I heard of a terrible typhus outbreak at that school around seven years ago.”

“There was, but she died of consumption.”

“I apologize, Miss Higurashi; in asking you to chase away the mire of my thoughts, I didn’t intend to make you sift through your own.”

She swallowed. “Shadows, you called them.”

Mr. Taisho tipped his wine glass at her before bringing it to his lips for a long sip. She watched his mouth curve along the glass, remembering that if he were to open it only slightly more than he had thus far while talking, she would see the points of those fangs. 

She took a sip of her still-steaming tea. “I assume then that it would defeat the point to ask you about that.”

“One would assume,” he said, redirecting his golden eyes to the fire, their color blooming to life. 

“Alright, then,” said Kagome quietly, “What is your relationship to Shippo?”

“Ah—a question about a result of my previous methods of distracting myself. At least my new methods are less consequential,” he chuckled dryly.

“Shippo is a… consequence of you pursuing distraction?”

“You could say that. At least, indirectly.”

Kagome waited expectantly.

He sighed. “I suppose I’ve no right to ask for another change of topic when you’ve done so beautifully in accommodating me.”

Kagome had to school her grin. “No, you don’t.”

Flexing his clawed fingers on the armrests, Mr. Taisho began slowly, “About sixteen years ago, I was abroad acting in full delinquency… I don’t suppose it appropriate to give you the details, but I will give you enough to empower your strong imagination, which I know you have. I met a beautiful fox demoness, and she was my…” his eyes glazed over in something like abhorrence, “…distraction. Before you think it, no—Shippo is not my son. Anyone with eyes can see he has none of my bloodline, as he is a full demon. But he is her son.” He filled his lungs with breath, and she couldn’t tell if he was trying to force a smile or trying to smother a grimace. “His father was a moronic aristocrat of little consequence other than his exposure of my lover’s infidelity.”

“You discovered them?”

“In my own hotel room. I knew she was there—as she had been for two months—and I meant to surprise her with my early return, so I trod silently. I heard them speaking and giggling through the door.” He picked up his glass again, but instead of sipping it, he merely swirled it a few times. Something to busy his hands. “What was it she called me? An ugly abomination too stupid to realize she’d made me her spoony?” 

Kagome flinched. Her grip tightened on the leather, her pale knuckles turning impossibly whiter. “How cruel,” she whispered.

“You’ve never felt jealousy, have you, Miss Higurashi? Of course you haven’t—for that would require that you experience love, first. When the day finally comes that you feel the prick, you’ll learn that one can only feel jealousy when the person usurping your love is truly better than you. When I saw who the man was after barging through that door, all jealousy was replaced with mere disgust—for him, yes, and also for her, as I saw her sophistication evaporate in light of the type of man that she truly desired. I saw her for who she truly was, her unintelligence and frivolity, and I was glad to be rid of her.”

Kagome considered his revelation, but could find nothing to add about it; he was right—she had no experience. “So if Shippo is not your son, then why do you have him?”

“His mother is dead—developed a tumor only a couple of months after his birth—and his father is a good-for-nothing whose death or life I have no way of discovering. While she was dying, she sent me a letter claiming that he was mine, but I knew she only said it to increase the odds of me caring for him after her death. I agreed regardless.”

“Why?”

He leaned forward in his chair and turned his head to see Shippo playing quietly by himself in the corner. A toy train, she realized. “His parentage isn’t his fault. Plus, I regained a spirit of repentance for my wildness after that experience, and I saw my caring for him as a way to partly redeem myself.”

“So… this life of repentance—what does it entail?”

He stretched his neck to lean his head over the back of the chair, a strange, self-loathing grin spreading across his face. His furrowed brow cast a dark shadow over his golden eyes, snuffing out their color. “Much inward turmoil, I’m coming to find out.”

Kagome said nothing, and he craned his neck to look at her, the glint in his eye mysterious. He continued, “Can I paint you a picture this time, Miss Higurashi, for you to analyze? Imagine yourself a young man, barely out of boyhood, and a decision is offered to you by your own family with only positive outcomes articulated. You would benefit personally, and the family would gain, as well. You accept—only to find out almost immediately that you had been deceived by all parties, and you were left with intolerable suffering while they distantly enjoyed the benefits. You flee your home country to escape these consequences of error—it was an error, not a sin, I must emphasize—by seeking refuge in the bosom of heathenish distraction. You acknowledge your wrong and return home, intent on bearing the burden for the rest of your days—only to find that, every moment, you are tempted again by a robed spirit of light that claims to be an angel. It is telling you, ‘Seek happiness, child of Man, for it is ever more in your reach.’ What would you do? Would you embrace the angel, or condemn it as Satan’s finest devil?”

Kagome hung on his every word. His eyes had arrested hers, molten and scorching. She cleared her throat, “And you’ve… tried every avenue of undoing the decision?”

“There is no earthly method I have not researched and attempted. All in vain.”

“You said that the decision itself was not a sin. But would the undoing of the decision be one?”

“Many would say so. But I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Other people are not my concern; would God find it a sin?”

He stayed silent, returning his gaze to the fire. 

“If that is a yes, then I can assure you that your ‘angel’ is indeed a devil in disguise. If making the decision had consequences you did not foresee, would making a deal with a devil in turn prove any different?”

He looked at her again, his face troubled and sullen. “So, were you shaped by your little school to think that suffering was noble? Would your teachers tell me to find meaning in my suffering and consider it honing for heaven?”

“I did not like the teachers at Shikon, sir, and what they thought of divinity often went against what I found in my scriptures. But I can tell you what I have done during my most courageous moments: I stopped looking for an earthly solution or hope, and remembered the greater Source, who is said to identify with my sufferings on earth. I cannot say that it removed the suffering, but it gave me the strength to bear it better.”

"But the instrument—" he began, suddenly desperate, “God, who gives the strength, ordains the instrument. Can that not be delivered through an earthy medium?”

Kagome did not like the direction of his meaning; not because she could not understand it, but because she did not have a rebuttal in her arsenal when she knew that there was one, somewhere. “I’m afraid I cannot imagine any further, sir. I fear the conversation has gone past me, and any additional attempt to converse will likely lead to my talking nonsense—and I don’t wish to give you bad counsel.”

He scoffed. “You’re a perfect little fairy, aren’t you? So careful with your words—one would think you’d burst aflame for saying something you didn’t feel in your heart was true. Can’t a man seek a word or two of encouragement, even if it has a tinge of dishonesty?”

Kagome offered him a sympathetic smile. “If you want idle affirmation, I suggest rethinking your prejudices against children and old maids.”

He laughed outright at that—three strong laughs that jostled his broad shoulders. “I suppose I should.”

Silence overtook the room, and Kagome wondered if he would dismiss them. Moments before she got the courage to ask, he clicked his tongue, echoing the crackles of the fire. “You claim that you resented Shikon, Miss Higurashi, but in many ways, its burdens and chains still cling to you. You never laugh,” he mused, reclining his head. “But there is something beneath your direct gaze that seems to peek through, like a little bird spying through the bars of a cage. What lies beyond, it wonders? It tells itself it is content to sit and sing as it is bid—but if those doors were to swing open…”

He paused, and Kagome realized she was holding her breath. She could not wrench her eyes from his, which were so intensely piercing that she felt blinking would be an affront. 

“…then the bird would break free in a moment, and it would soar—cloud high.”

Mr. Taisho did dismiss them after that, and Kagome felt shrouded in a strange fog as she undressed and crawled into bed. Her mind was consumed by their conversation—particularly his final words.

She craned her neck to peer out of the window beside her resting place. The moon was high and bright, gracing the terrain with a faint pale glow. Her eyes began to flutter closed, long blinks blurring her vision as the forest slowly came out of focus.

But the glimmer of a small point of light peeked through the trees, growing larger and closer by the second. A ghostly croon invaded from the small crack of her window, and Kagome’s eyes opened fully. She rose into a sitting position and rubbed her eyelids. When she reopened them, she nearly shouted in surprise to see that the creature had breached the tree line and was now flying—yes flying—right toward the house. 

Its body was like that of a snake, its head like that of an eastern dragon mixed with a fish. It seemed the embodiment of moonlight, and it moved as in a dance of swaying and slithering. 

It seemed to charge right for her window. But as it came close enough for Kagome to see that its size was at least fifteen feet in length, it wrenched itself to turn sharply upward, to where the third floor was.

As soon as it left the view of her window, its spectral sounds halted completely, leaving an equally phantasmal silence in its absence. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waited, waited for a scream or crash or quake—but nothing came. 

Kagome knew it was not a dream. She had heard the servants mention witnessing strange lights in the woods, and she had no doubt that this was the creature responsible. She wondered if there were more than one.

It took nearly an hour for her heart to calm enough to attempt sleeping again. She spent most of that hour mulling over whether to ask Kaede—or anyone—about what she saw. Mr. Taisho had all but told her that creatures lived in those woods; she supposed there was no reason to feel so surprised, and there was no true evidence that the creature was even dangerous. Kagome set her mind to not worry so much about it; living in the house of a demon would likely provide worse surprises than this in time, and asking too many questions might bring her into trouble.

The sooner she accepted it, the easier her life here would be.

[goldnrry]

Some points id like to make

How tbey have the guts to keep pushing the white walkers and the promise queen/king when the war lasted literally one night and they did what they did to daenerys and jon went on him eat pray love journey???????

Aquela capitã é a cara do rafael portugal

Sir simon strong the diva you are ily

Darmon?????????? I thought he was going to put up on a bigger fight but i guess thanks you miss rivers??? Bended the knee really fast

I feel bad for jace

Ulf is like you but you are annoying

I feel like hugh will betray rhaenyra i dont trust him and sadly he got the biggest dragon

What do we thing that daemon’s dragonless daughter will do now that she finally got the sheepstealer??? Because she has to have resentment from being rejected her whole life

Also her jane eyre on ther moors moment????

alicent little plan will go sooooooo wrong when they arrive the red keep and aegon is not there to have his head cut, rhaenyra will think she played her

Healena i love you queen

“The queen who never was” 😭😭😭😭 corlys you are the last romantic of westeros

Literally no one wants to be your heir bro

Will alicent’s younger son be a psycho too?

I like gwein’s or whatever his name is facial expressions

I dont want the dragons to die ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️