#the terror of sin

[tabernacleheart]

The word for sin is hamartia, which originally had to do with shooting and literally means a missing of the target. The man who refuses to accept Jesus as Saviour and Lord has missed the target in life. He dies with life unrealized; and he therefore dies unfitted to enter into the higher life with God. 

William Barclay

[trauma-bot]

sin eater

[synesindri]

it is genuinely very charming that he went from "i'm a self-preserving backstabber, boyfriend be damned" to "well i'm married now so i will use my self-preserving backstabbing tendencies more ambitiously in collaboration with my spouse going forward <3" to getting stabbed in the literal back with a literal knife by said spouse

[ratt-thing]

OF COURSE, SOMEONE MUST PUT DOWN THE BEAST.

_____

reference + unmasked vers.

[sunlaire]

But I do really believe that Irving is so repressed that he would do a lot of kink adjacent activities, some next level masochist or just bizarre stuff, deeply in denial about why he's doing it. And everyone around him is like "man, at this point, gay sex would actually be more normal."

[noughticalcrossings]

Lieutenant George Hodgson

Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[los-muertos-vivientes]

La única manera de oponerse al terror es demostrarle que conservas esa fuerza que pensabas que te había robado.

Angelina Jolie

[fanofspooky]

Movies of Robert Rodriguez

[tabernacleheart]

Whosoever, He said, commits sin, whether Jew or Greek, rich or poor, king or beggar, is the servant of sin. O miserable bondage! ...when wearied with the hardness of his tasks... whither does the slave of sin flee? He takes it along with him, wherever he goes; for his sin is within him. The pleasure passes away, but the sin does not pass away: its delight goes, its sting remains behind. He alone can free from sin, Who came without sin, and was made a sacrifice for sin. [With these truths,] Christ purposely alarms us first, and then gives us hope. He alarms us, that we may not love sin; He gives us hope, that we may not despair of the absolution of our sin. Our hope then is this, that we shall be freed by Him who is free. He has paid the price for us, not in money, but in His own blood: If the Son therefore shall make you free, you shall be free indeed. Not from the barbarians, but from the devil; not from the captivity of the body, but from the wickedness of the soul. [Now] the first stage of freedom is, the abstaining from sin. But that is only incipient, it is not perfect freedom: for the flesh still lusts against the spirit, so that you do not do the things that you would. Full and perfect freedom will only be, when the contest is over, and the last enemy, death, is destroyed. Do not then abuse your freedom, for the purpose of sinning freely; but use it in order not to sin at all. Your will will be free, if it be merciful: you will be free, if you become the servant of righteousness.

Saint Augustine of Hippo

[decepti-geek]

tbh an important part of my take on the 'don't be like Sentinel' question is that hours earlier D16 had very decidedly assumed leadership of the High Guard, after which any attempt at resolving his very understandable personal trauma via murder was also, on a wider affects-everyone/your-new-power-means-something scale, inherently going to count as a military coup.

yknow. the thing Sentinel did to assume power/hand it over to the quintessons in the first place

[p0rchc0ll4ps3]

something something, 'commander, this may be grounds for insubordination' <- the captain still willingly puts on the dress anyways (and then they both proceed to be cold as fuck)

great first contribution to this fandom LOL anyways idk i just had a need to draw them in pretty period accurate dresses. completely self-indulgent art. something about men with black hair in red dresses that really works out in my brain also something about um. complementary green hm what was that im losing my mind yeah thats ok this is normal i swear to god im normal

sketches trying to figure them out btw. not the prettiest bc well they're test sketches. but yeah ive been in disco elysium for 3/4 of a year, i figured i could draw 44 year old and 57 year old men (going by the actors' ages, idk how old they r). literally no big step up LOL. anyways i fucking LOVE drawing men. ok. the shapes. and the crinkles. it's just really fucking fun. and also different shapes bw them????? jf is taller (6 ft 1) but narrower and fc is slightly shorter (5 ft 10. it's literally jean and harry's height difference (from disco elsyium)) but he's broader. its SO COOL. ugh. good shit

[latinotiktok]

Historia espuki: Ningun pais de latam clasifica para el mundial (Plz que no pase eso)

[weirdlookindog]

The Blind Dead

by Chas Balun, 1988

[synesindri]

so admittedly i did think it was a little bit random when they started calling the mutineers a coven but i've seen the light now so here are my thoughts on this kickstarted by this description of a common 19th century british witch archetype:

literary representations of witches would also be underpinned by popular tales recorded by folklore collectors in most parts of Britain, which portrayed such people as utterly wicked, possessed of all too effective magical powers, and ending up brutally punished by death or injury

— ronald hutton, "Witches and Cunning Folk in British Literature 1800–1940," p29

1. "utterly wicked." i mean. no justification needed for this one probably.

2. "possessed of all too effective magical powers." not directly, but hickey is weirdly unaffected by sickness and starvation and exposure and exhaustion compared to the others (a lot of his off-the-rails behaviors/mentalities later on do map on reasonably well to symptoms of lead poisoning and other things going on, but like, he isn't bleeding or losing teeth and i would sell my soul for my skin to look the way his does even during the very worst of everything, so). he also clearly has a lot of power over many of the men, in an understandable leadership way that is more reliant on charisma, bribery, planfulness, and situations than magic, but it does seem kind of magical at times

3. "ending up brutally punished by death or injury." hard to get more brutally punished than literal bodily bifurcation. the rest of the "coven" likewise meet brutal ends.

4. devil shenanigans. lots of focus during this time period in british lore on witches and devil worship. obviously the tuunbaq is not a or the devil and it is troubling to suggest as much (even in its role as a fabricated entity that does not actually belong to the culture it has been inserted into). nonetheless, it is presented fearsomely in a way that seems likely to be understood as demonic or hellish by a christian crew such as the men of terror and erebus (it might even be described as such canonically? i don't remember specific examples and i haven't checked). certainly everyone has a good christian "avoid that thing" reaction to the tuunbaq — everyone except hickey, who finds it appealing and sees an opportunity to seek power through it, much as folkloric and literary witches of the era were depicted as doing through the devil.

5. christian inversions and rejections. the mutiny arguably really kicks off with the murder of lt. irving, the most outspokenly christian person in the group. christ symbolism through the "punished as a boy" scene through framing and posture. as lt hodgson so kindly spells out for us, cannibalism and (catholic) communion both involve the consumption of human blood and flesh. at mutineer supper time i was briefly convinced they were about to say grace (totally subjective on that one but whatev). hickey going up the hill to listen to his thoughts was very prophet-like imagery. hickey's final speech rejects god and religion. probably there are more examples but i think that's enough for this post that is already longer than i planned for it to be.

6. sexuality part 1. witches of the time and place were associated with non-normative sexual practices (including homosexuality, promiscuity, femdom, sexual coersion, so on and so forth). hickey is directly depicted in a sexual and romantic relationship with another man (who is also the one who first suggested mutiny in the first place, solidifying the narrative importance of the connection between gay people and mutiny. be gay do crimes but for serious). idk what the stance in general fandom scholarship is about the hickey-tozer dynamic, but i would say that is plausibly depicted as at least being implied to be not 100% heterosexual, which is particularly notable because that has important potential effects on how the power structure of the mutineer camp works — a chaste rank-based collegiality has a very different vibe than a situation where the main guy in charge and his second in command might be fucking (or kissing, or holding each other's faces in a sort of tender pseudo-religious way, or whatever else they might have been getting up to together) — this is getting a bit off from witchcraft but certainly there are many comparable depictions of witches coercing powerful men to do their bidding by using sexuality (see my non-existent au i just thought of just now that's based on lewis's the monk, i guess???)

7. sexuality part 2. witches also were notorious for doing castration to people. sorry, irving.

8. sexuality part 3. perhaps most notably witches were regarded as having sexual relationships with the devil. none of the mutineers ever gets it on with the tuunbaq obviously (although i feel confident that some adventurous fic writers out there have probably made this a subject of their study), but it is KIND of attempted symbolically. i talked about this already but it bears repeating here that the tongue is an erogenous body part generally, and there is possibly some mild extra narrative emphasis on that symbolism for hickey specifically, so the metaphorical self-castration of him cutting out his own tongue and offering it to the tuunbaq is a little bit giving weird sex. it's also giving nun/priest/monk-like disavowal of the potential for (at least a few types of) sex with human beings in favor of pledging oneself to a deity.

9. human sacrifice. common trope with witches, and the clear point of hickey's dragging everybody up that hill with him when he goes also to attempt to sacrifice part of his own human self to the tuunbaq.

10. identity. this is a little less solid but there's often kind of a sense that witches aren't who they claim to be? see lewis's the monk again, with (spoilers, i guess) the character of monk rosario revealing himself actually to be matilda, a seductive witch, who eventually does a double reveal that she's a demon. the "i'm not really cornelius hickey" reveal is giving that, a bit.

[saints-who-never-existed]

In a weird sort of inescapable, Schrodinger-y mental loop at the minute where I don't think that Hickey was worthy of forgiveness in the end, but I also don't think that Crozier was worthy of thinking he could deny Hickey forgiveness either...?