#the truth of the silver millennium

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood - Danse Macabre

(The next grisly step in Blood of My Blood.)

The moon shines on a holy rooftop and a bloodstained street.

The music rises to a grim crescendo.

And a last dance is shared.

Ao3 link is here.

Time turned fickle for him after the first century.

He had not expected that. In truth, it had never occurred to him as he laid the foundation of his planned eternity. Irony distilled: A man chasing immortality without once thinking of how to pass the time. Even in his prime, he had been a child. Conquest was his only prize to chase until, as his men reminded him that they were only flesh, and his enemies smeared together under his hunger, and the sounds of steel and screaming blurred in the mad whirlpool that was his brain warring with itself for control, he had blinked. And suddenly he was a solitary shadow sitting in a ruined castle in the mountains he had blighted into his genius loci. Had a century passed by then? Had two? He had thought to ask one of the servants, only to realize there were none. No one in his retinue. No confidantes.

It was only him. A glutted Thing of power beyond human scale, huddled in its cave and desecrated earth. Alone.

There was no recalling how long or short the time was before he stole the first of his women away. A fair girl, almost as flaxen as—no. He would not think back to that. Forward, old devil, forward. Yes, he had snatched up the First in haste. Desperation. Someone to be a man for rather than the peasants’ monster. Then another. Another. A hoarder of pampered cats. But he had loved what they were, if not the women themselves. His pets. His pretty faces. His musical noise to fill up the castle halls with laughter, even if he was its target. And why not? He had let the malaise catch him. The ennui that even his instructors under the Mountain had warned him of.

Time turned into fumes for him in that period. The only thing that kept him aware of the calendar was playing the role of Count. A nobleman still had his duties to the swatch of country that was his and vice versa. Endless busywork and ever-increasing mountains of paperwork to slap him awake lest the wrong attention be drawn to the Dracula estate. Oh dear, has the old bastard finally croaked? Have his endless chain of lookalike descendants? No, not to worry. Still here. Always here.

Always. Always. Always.

Time rushed. Time crawled. Time turned to snowmelt between the itineraries.

Nights were his allies, at least. Those he could count on to stretch for him in his domain. An hour in Transylvanian darkness was three hours anywhere else. And the days! Oh, what a coward the sun became when his rule claimed the land! Sunrises limped and sunsets sprinted.

Tonight he wondered if time had done the same here. The night stretched and spilled like tar. Yet the notion brought him no comfort.

The night was going on too long. His senses reassured him that sunrise did still exist and it was coming, but for the first time in almost half a millennium of undeath, frustration made him suspect the dawn was purposefully withholding itself. At last the sun was taking its revenge by refusing a reprieve that would force himself and half the players of the night’s farce back into sleep. There would be no more intermissions, no more pauses. Tonight was to be an end or a beginning and nothing else, bar an ever more irritating slew of highs and lows. Every victory in the battle was chased by a fresh needle to the eye.

The woman had flung the sky—his sky!—at him. A stalemate until he struck her down with a fortunate shot. The boy was going to her aid now. Him and the freshly minted nuisance of a bride. But before he could go to congratulate the happy couple?

 Him.

A silver-white blur and a streak of red to mark his eyes. There was not even half a second to dwell on his wonder at the change in this creature. His thrall, his friend, his runaway beloved. Not before the Thing that had been Jonathan Harker was on him like a hound seizing a wolf. Not one of the lordling’s insipid pups, no; those mockeries of breeding were good only for rending rats and rabbits. If Jonathan Harker were any animal, it was a dog bred for hunting whatever beast looked at its sheep or its master.

And was he not that still? Was he not Master of the dog’s Mistress?

He tried to prove as much for an instant with his mind flung out to the woman only to be thwarted. His strike had done too much and her mind was too deep in blackness even to be stirred to his aid, let alone to pull Jonathan’s leash. Being caught in this revelation was what let his friend land the first blow. His Master struck him back. This earned him two strikes more and a startling view of the interior of the man’s mouth as it tried to bite his throat out. He’d never been on the opposite end of the surreal maw his conscripts wore. Sometimes the jaws of a bat, other times a wolf. Jonathan’s seemed to double up in a hideous way, bristling with teeth enough to fill an anglerfish’s mouth.

They grappled and tore, bit and struck, around and around in brute parody of a waltz. There might have been room in him to spit a comment to that effect, but for the boy’s darling wife. Her and her damned—ah, the burn declared otherwise!—blessed pistol. She was what was called a ‘crack-shot’ back on the lordling’s balcony. So many new holes had been made in his head. He had soothed himself to think that he had been starved, aged, distracted, her shots pure luck. It had not even occurred to him to bother with a trance.

Now he was fed back to his prime, she was perched atop the church, and his senses prickled in warning of what she wielded. The damned pistol had been replaced with something worse--a blessed martyr's weapon. He did not doubt that his speed and the girl's hesitance to strike Jonathan would be enough to thwart her aim. Probably. Still, there was no point in extending the risk.

“I’m afraid you must pardon me, my friend. The young lady is due for a meeting with her father-in-law.”

Crack.

Jonathan’s head broke the brick, but the wall had its revenge in a starburst of blood. His friend wobbled, but caught his arm and clamped it into solidity before the mist form could finish. How..? 

“I do not dismiss you,” Jonathan hissed. The whites of his eyes had gone rosy. “You have kept the Reaper waiting too long.” Was there something in the words or the will of his friend that anchored him? It must be so. He wouldn’t have suffered his next few injuries otherwise. It was only when Jonathan made a grab for the kukri that he left himself open.

Crack. Crack. Crack!

More broken bricks. Jonathan lay broken with them, groaning in a pillow of rubble. The white of his hair stained to crimson.

“Do not trouble yourself, my friend. I will tend to the children tonight.”

He was gone like a gust. An aching, bleeding gust, if one too quick for the little would-be markswoman. Nor could she dare to waste such precious ammunition on a gambled shot as he melted into the dark. The waning wedge of the moon was an admirable light on the scene, and aided twice over by the streetlamps. But mortal eyes could only strain so far. Pity.

His form congealed as he rose, the head of a dragon arching up to devour. His laugh turned the young couple's heads. It tickled to see how their faces went white before the sight of him. “My congratulations to you, newlyweds. I must have lost my invitation t—,”

Bang!

There went a holy bullet. And with such true aim! Yet it was a pointless shot, traveling through the cloud of him with no more effect than a pebble flung through fog. Even as it stung upon exit, he laughed again while his daughter-in-law chewed back a curse.

“I had assumed your gilded gnat of a father would have taught you the rules, girl. For shame.”

 As he hoisted himself to further educate on the matter, something drew tight around his ankle. Then pierced it. So quick and so tight that it tore through his Achilles tendon.

He snarled and twisted, glare aimed down, only for a sudden wave of horror to douse his rage. Anger drowned to that strange shuddering fear he had not known until that faraway day in Piccadilly. Back when he had seen the flash of steel and hollow burning eyes as his good friend gave chase to carve him open. Despite the familiarity of the dread, he did not recognize the figure crushing his ankle as Jonathan Harker. So much blood had fallen over the face and the face had so distorted with the rictus of its grin that he thought he was seeing a visitor from his years under the Mountain. Possibly one of his own tutors come to collect its due for the Lessons learned and the bodies piled. Or else something older. Colder.

Death leered up and spoke in his friend’s voice, “No more running. No more hiding in the mist.” The iron hand tightened again, this time cracking bone. Red rivulets painted Jonathan’s knuckles. “Twenty years of feeding cannot be washed away with a few nights’ gluttony. Blood of my blood,” he hissed, his fangs doubling in the open jaws, “your time has come.”

Jonathan tore them from the building’s side in a tangle of limbs and snapping teeth. A tangle that was impossible to be extricated from even when they landed in the churchyard and thrashed back to the street. There was not a half a second to be won without his friend pouncing again, ripping him out of the beginnings of fog form and back into the churning state of physicality. Injure, heal, injure, fight, injure, curse, injure, injure, injure. To his credit, he struck as many blows as his opponent, perhaps more. Each strike was given more venom than the last with his aggravation.

The girl was no doubt following them with the barrel of the gun, waiting for a clear shot in the whirling rush of them to make a new hole in him. An opening that became all the more likely as his friend kept hold, anchoring him to tangibility even as his flesh bruised or split. This, when Jonathan himself suffered damage upon damage, and that with but a scant dose of lifeblood in him. Even undead, his Harkers did so fuss about their meals. Such caution with the mortal chattel left his poor friend depleted. His healing grew slower and slower as his once and future Master beat him back for every blow struck.

And yet there was no shaking him. Jonathan cackled at the fact, sounding like so much shattered crystal. Undeath or lightheadedness had fully chipped through the silence that had once pinned his tongue when the man was called upon for violence. 

“Count, I am hurt!” he chided. “Why do you insist on leaving the floor? Is this not what you wanted? Here we are at last! In England, enjoying our overdue dance. Come, let me have your hand.” Jonathan’s bear trap mouth lunged out and would have torn said hand off by the wrist were his Master a half-second slower.

“Have it then.” His fist flew. Jonathan ducked and reached for— “It is my turn to be stung. I thought this was a gift.” He had to fight for evenness in the words. It was another battle in itself to keep Jonathan’s hand from swinging down with the kukri blade straining for his neck.

“It is! Only you must wear it closer.” Jonathan turned them as they spoke, trying to bare his Master’s back to the enemy. “A new brooch to have at your throat.”

The words turned some flagstone over in his chest and sent a hundred blind and bitter vermin running and biting through his heart. Strength surged. So did the clouds. A curtain was drawn back over the freshly-emerged moon just as the streetlamps doused all along the block. No audience from above to spy now. In the same tide of will, he finally tore the kukri free of his friend's hand. It rang against the street as it was flung aside, metal on stone. Jonathan lost a moment in throwing his attention after it in the new gloom. A moment was all it took.

He seized his friend in both hands and drove him down into the pavement.

Crack!

A heavier sound than what had come from the brick. Jonathan’s eyes rolled blearily in their sockets, but his hold remained steady. One hand gripping, another swiping for his Master’s face.

Crack!

“Stay down.”

Jonathan clung. His blood held, his hand held, he was trying to rise again, to—

Crack!

“Stay down!”

Crack!

“Why do you do this to me?”

Crack!

“Why do you make me do this when we both know how this ends?”

Jonathan sprawled dazedly in the rubble. His hands and his blood still gripped their Master. Scarlet streams ran from pained eyes. An image rose up of that childish night of gluttony inflicted to taunt the woman. His friend slumped, mauled and sluggish, dreaming traitorous thoughts of a flight from the window.

“You think you know…” Jonathan croaked in the present, “…but I see it. Tonight is where it ends. All of it. No victories. No conquest. None of us are yours anymore, Dracula.” His smile was not bitter. It was the tired curl he had seen the last night they had all lived in the castle. Ghoulish and sad and beautiful. It trickled until the lips blazed like red lacquer. “We never will be again.” 

“You are all mine,” his Master insisted back. His own hands tightened on the leaking heap of his friend. “The woman, our boy, you. She may have bled into you, but it is still my gift. Or do you think just because your Mistress sleeps for the moment, that you shall remain free of the leash I shall see her strangle you with? This is only where we start, my friend. We all have eternity before us. And all of it under my will.” It was his turn to smile. He tried to sharpen it, but found it creaked on his face until it was a mere desperate baring of teeth. “Undeath ends in but one way. Over 400 years of attempts and empty prayer have failed to deliver that end to me. You and the children and the thieving Jackal shall do no better. There is a Lesson waiting to be learned in that. A long one. But you will learn it. Or I will cement her in a wall for the next hundred years.”

To his shock, there was no horror on Jonathan’s face. Not even anger. There was only melancholy. His lips quivered, fighting not to part. Then:

“Or we could leave them,” came the whisper. “I was ready to, all those years ago. I think I may even have sold my soul at the time. There’s no telling for certain, but…yes. I think I must have for things to have gone this way. Before I ever became a Judas for my love, I was ready. I am still prepared, if that’s what it takes to free them from us.” One hand on his Master’s arm. The other clutching weakly at his lapel. “We need not chaperone or stain the family any longer. Let us go now. While they do not see.”

Either blood loss or the deeper weakness his friend had been seeding for twenty years almost paralyzed him.

For one starving instant, he caught himself imagining it. He pictured himself snatching Jonathan’s ragged form up in his arms and darting away into the night. His will was still supreme. He could sever the woman’s mind from his own and hide them in some secret corner of the world. If her mind wailed for her beloved to come running like a hound after its whistle, he could silence it. No amount of stolen sorcery could unmake that contract of their condition. Was it not how he planned to puppeteer the world from the beginning?

He could do it.

They could do it.

But no. He could have laughed or screamed as he felt Jonathan’s fingertips trace along his sternum. The claws growing and aligning. Oh, his dear Scheherazade and that magic tongue.

“Come. Hell is waiting for us, balaurul meu.”

Before Jonathan’s hand could drive forward and tear out the ancient heart—the metaphor made flesh—his Master seized the plotting fingers in his own crushing grip.

“No, my friend. No Hell. Only home.”

“Two names for the same place,” Jonathan grated. He was struggling again. Grasping, trying to rise. And still holding his Master solid. The fight would never overbalance in his favor without his fog or his focus. He had to. He had to… “We made a vow, she and I.”

“Jonathan—,”

“We will die before we return to you,” the gore-streaked face spat. “We will die before we let you have our son.”

“Yes. You will.”

CRACK!

Stone and skull fractured against each other. It was one of many sounds he had enjoyed over the centuries: The fragility of the human frame echoing in his ears. This time the noise was a knife in his chest.

Jonathan Harker slept in the crater with his eyes open. A corona of blood grew from his head in a monstrous halo as one hand fell away and the other hung limp in his Master’s fist. In the shattered skull, no thought or life paced. There was only quiet.

With a shudder, he squeezed the cold hand once before laying it aside. His fingers worked gingerly under what was left of his friend’s head, cupping blood, bone, and brain as one might try to save the yolk in a mangled egg. He knew the man was dead when he pressed lip and tongue to the slack mouth and felt no resistance. His last kiss went to the stained brow, cradling the corpse against him with a sigh.

“I am sorry, my friend. No, do not scoff. I mean it. I wanted none of this. We could be home right now. Our diavol safe and strong. Time wearing your compunctions smooth. No matter how long the Lesson, how harsh its teaching, time would win. And some night, this century or the next, happiness would find you. Misery breaks like bone under enough pressure. Joy is in its marrow. Was that why you did it? Why you betrayed me and our bliss to come? Was the thought of happiness in my arms so awful?”

Jonathan did not say.

The silence was answer enough.

He laid the carcass gently in the bed of pavement and swept a curtain of hair from the puckered brow. Even death did not bring serenity to the man’s face. He had watched his friend sleep more than once and had never come upon him without the look of a penitent begging Morpheus in his dreams for mercy or punishment. That such still existed in him as a vampire was as much a pain as a marvel. Undeath itself could not temper the martyrdom in him. It would need extracting like a tooth.

Perhaps. But first he needs a piece added. He left it behind so carelessly.

His thumb traced the bright stone at his throat before fishing out its mate from a vest pocket. The brooch glowed with internal fire under the waning moonlight, eager to return its rightful place. He closed Jonathan’s shirt collar and bowed to set the pin before a thought occurred—

Moonlight moonlight the clouds you lost focus the clouds are open and the street is visible she can—

— too late.

Bang!

A lance of fire shot through his hand. Blistering torture erupted there and made the injuries collected thus far feel like the nipping of insects. It had wounded more than flesh.

In his fist, snapped shut in pain, there was mere crystalline dust. That and a crumpled setting of ornate gold. Nothing more.

What clouds were left bayed anew with thunder as he snapped his head around. He found the lordling’s daughter taking aim again.

No more.

“No more,” he intoned to the air and to the hateful girl with her toy. He did not have it in him to relish the spasm of comprehension as the trance pierced her eyes and wrenched her rebelling brain into an obedient knot. Not even when he ordered her to lift the gun until it was level with her own temple. His son bleated once in horror—

“Lu, no!”

—thinking his Father meant to throw away a bargaining chip so foolishly. So painlessly. No, no. Nothing so easy for her. For any of them. Ah, and it seemed the boy’s cry was enough to rouse the limping mother at last. His will cracked at her like a whip:

Hold him.

A flare of fury from her, then another baffled cry from the boy. Good. Wonderful.

He looked again at his friend. His friend stared blindly at the stars. He paused long enough to slide the eyelids shut.

“Sleep, draga mea. This will be over soon.”

The promise made, he dashed down the street to retrieve the fallen kukri. He turned to mist a moment later and raced off to the climax of the night. Perhaps if he had turned back a final time, he would have reconsidered.

He might have hesitated in his return to the roof. (He did not.)

He might have stopped to examine his friend, the better to be certain he was dead. (Mr. Harker was.)

He might have wondered, just for an instant, if he did not feel Time’s seemingly infinite sand dwindling to its last grains in the hourglass. (If so, he would not admit it.)

But he did not turn and so did not see his friend’s face.

Dead and dismissed from the rest of the night's pending acts, Jonathan Harker was still. With the exception of his head. It had slumped to the side and its eyelids had slipped open. A proper corpse could do no more. If one could interview such a cadaver, he might have admitted that he had nothing to do with it. But something did.

Gravity? The final mindless motions of a dead body? Certainly.

Yet they had acted under a guidance that ensured the body stared in the direction of the church, of the ex-Master, of the eastern horizon made jagged with rooftops. And they had left the glazed eyes open for whatever audience might watch things unfold through the windows of a dead man’s unblinking stare.

If only to be sure that what was left of Jonathan Harker and Itself might witness the end of the dance.

[msdearlylovers]

Dream is someone...curious...since he was born with the eyes of the lunar millennium, a blessing that made his eyes look like small portable moons, so beautiful and glamorous!, but that was not his only function: since there were rumors about him

Those silver eyes could subject someone under the control of the wearer, forcing them to tell the truth and hypnotizing them with their gaze.

That's why dream always wore emerald green lenses, he didn't want to use his blessing for evil or for someone to take advantage of him.

Techno met dream and they fell in love, the piglin loved dream's beautiful eyes above all things, even though he said they were dangerous... he was he boyfriend!, he partner, life partner and future husband... Techno would always love every part of it even if it were dangerous...

[zponds]

Queen Serenity

Recently, I had a discussion with @sorakazeno about Queen Serenity, who’s the mother of Serena/Usagi from her previous life.

Sailor Moon (season 1) - Queen Serenity guides Serena/Usagi and explains what happened at the silver millennium.

Sailor Moon R (season 2) - Serenity gives Serena/Usagi her new broch to transform, and the broch is what she uses to transform into Sailor Moon.

Sailor Moon S (season 3) - as Serena and Rini are preventing Amara (Sailor Uranus), Michelle (Sailor Neptune) and Trista (Sailor Trista) from killing Hotaru without knowing the truth… the truth being that Hotaru is under the control of the Death Busters… Queen Serenity shows up to help in helping Serena/Usagi and Rini/CHibiusa in getting through to the outer senshi.

Sailor Moon Super S (season 4) - As Zirconia, talking to the 9 Super Sailor Guardians through their own reflections, is starting to manipulate the 9 Super Sailor Guardians (Moon, Mercury & Uranus, Mars & Neptune, Venus & Pluto and Jupiter & Saturn) with their biggest desires, Queen Serenity shows up and brings the 9 Super Sailor Guardians back to their senses, thus ruining Zirconia’s manipulation attempts and allowing the 9 to resume their mission of saving Super Sailor Mini/Chibi Moon and beat Queen Nehelenia (for now…).

Sailor Moon Sailor Stars (season 5) - In episode 172, Queen Serenity shows up physically and joins the 10 Eternal Sailor Guardians in thawing Queen Nehelenia’s ice-cold heart and rehabilitating her, especially since it was Serenity herself that defeated and banished Queen Nehelenia to the dark side of the moon long ago.

Sailor Moon Cosmos (season 6) - Queen Serenity explains to Serena/Usagi that the eternal powers of her and other 9 Sailor Guardians have deeper meaning and deeper potential than initially thought. Serenity encourages Serena/Usagi to discover the true power and meaning of the eternal forms of her and the other 9 Sailor Guardians.

[deicidis]

Come Wander With Me

Morpheus x f!reader

Status: Completed one-shot, requested by anon 

Wordcount: 5.1K 

Warnings: light smut, religious trauma

Summary:  Morpheus finds the reincarnation of his former wife in the house of god. He tries to find out whether they could be each other again.

—

He came from the sunset

He came from the sea

He came from my sorrow

And can love only me

—

In that cool evening, when he sits in the park he frequents with his sister, The first sight of her binds his chest in a shrinking rope. 

Her laughter is the same tune from centuries ago. Millenniums. A familiar smile plasters on her face, laughing along with children, small fingers grasping her calf-length skirt, begging to go home. A silver cross hangs on her chest, winking under the sun. 

He is rooted to where he sits. Fear made him so. If he so much as blinked, twitch a finger, let out his tears, she could be taken from him and it all would just be an illusion. 

She walked away with a toddler on her arm and a boy no more than 7 hanging on to her hand. 

—

She dreams of a silver cage with a restless serpent trapped inside. She dreams she lays bare inside that cage, voiceless and decaying inwards. 

Morpheus is the king of dreams. Every creature that sleeps he knows them all. But this, watching her dreams, quenching his thirst with slivers of imagery feels like a violation because she bears the face of his long-deceased mortal wife taken too soon by his sister. Some ages ago when mankind’s hubris offended god that he decided to converge their speech in other variations. 

The curse of the endless is that every aspect of themselves is also endless. His contempt is everlasting, his rage stretches for centuries. His love eternal. Nada, Calliope, Kilalla, (y/n). Each of them unequivocally holds a part of him. But his dear (y/n)... half of his being, the only one who could take him completely has gone. Her shadow is the only part he has of her, carved on the marrow and the spine of the dreaming. 

If he could take the chance to recover what was…

He rises from his throne and sets himself to where she dwells

  —

The convent she lives in is on the same grounds as the church. A small one that had only been thrice renovated despite being 3 centuries old. 

He pushes through the double-lidded door, and he finds her figure in a black habit lighting a prayer candle before a stained glass that depicts a saint on the wall to his right.

He steadies his heart. Swallows the heaviness in his throat. His feet carry him to approach her. 

“Will you tell me about this saint, sister…” He trails his voice in hope that she would catch his meaning. 

He sees her hesitation. 

“(Y/n).” her voice throws him to his days as a husband, and he feels slightly lightheaded. The ground feels unsteady under his feet. 

Even her name is the same. 

“Saint Anthony of Padua.” She shifts her gaze to the stained glass. Her face glows with light refractions in arrays of blue, red and purple. 

“Patron saint of lost items, lost people, lost causes and souls.” she continues. 

Morpheus silently clears his throat. 

“Should one pray to this saint, will my lost one be returned to me?”

“If God wills it.” Her voice is low and quiet. If he was a mortal being he would not hear it. But he hears her clear as day. The growing strands of her hair and her decaying cells if he wants to. 

There is nothing more to say. The truth is he doesn’t know what to say. 

She walks away from the room and he merely watches her. 

Morpheus takes an unlit candle, burns the twine in the fire she lit moments ago. 

—

He comes to pray beside her before the saint the next day. The next, and then the next. He attends Sunday mass and shed his coat in the summer to blend in with the congregation.

He still doesn’t know how to properly make conversation with her for she doesn’t seem to have the inclination to make small talk with him either. She seems to be—understandably—wary of new people. 

He really can’t just say hello, you are the carbon copy of my dead wife and I want to get to know you.

All he manages to say is formal pleasantries that she meets with polite nods or few syllable answers. Then she returns to pray before the Saint. 

He finally summons the fates and asks if she is truly her wife in some form of rebirth he doesn’t understand, and the fates confirm that she is the direct descendant of the same family tree. She might be her very own reincarnation, but that answer would cost him a higher price to pay. 

“What is it that you gain by putting her in my path?” sometimes the thought of her pierces him a little too hard, unbalances his breathing. The fates are cruel creatures he knows of this, but to play with his dearest one like this—

“Dream, you speak as if your brother is not Destiny itself.” The maiden wears a coy smile. 

—

When he visits the church again (y/n) is not to be found. He asks Sister Siobhan—the matronly old woman who always greets him kindly—and informed him that she had fallen ill. A sudden fever struck her and she resides in her room

“Would it be alright to pass her my well wishes?”

Sister Siobhan hums as she rests her arm on the tip of her broom.

“What do you have in mind?”

He sends her large bouquets of flowers and some sweets she might like with a get-well-soon card. Then he visits her dream that night. 

Trapped bare in the cage with a sleeping Serpent, (y/n) lays on its scales. Her hand rests on her stomach. Her breathing rags. 

As if she understands his presence is not conjured from her subconscious, her eyes are probing him, wrings his inside with little thrill, the eyes that used to bloom flowers in the Dreaming in its image. 

“What are you doing here?” she rasps. Morpheus has no words to answer that question. 

—

He waits for 3 days until he visits her again. Relieved when she sees her figure praying in front of Saint Anthony. 

“Thank you for the gifts. You didn’t have to do that.” She says when they’re standing side by side.

“I do.”  

“For what? You barely know me.” her brows crease slightly.

“I… would like to get to know you.”

She laughs. He swallows, it reminded him that laughter used to linger in his throne room, his library, his chamber… 

“I am married to god, Morpheus. My spouse is a jealous man.”

“I- enjoy your company. As a friend nothing more.” Morpheus doesn’t know whether his words are true. What it is he hoped to unearth within her. The soul of his former wife, a memory he hoped she’d remember, it all seems foolish but he had to try. 

 I want to know whether my wife is inside. 

“It’s funny, I saw you in my dream a couple of days ago. It feels… it feels like we’ve known each other for a long time.” 

Her words slightly tremble his hands.

“Perhaps an age ago we did.” he manage to say. 

“Perhaps.”

—

The life of a nun is bound by Christ, it requires her to be away from worldly endeavours. Morpheus know and understand this, he becomes patient with this fact. (y/n) doesn’t go outside much except for taking the orphan kids to the park or helping in the soup kitchen. He meets her on both occasions apart from visiting the church. 

“What do you do, Morpheus?” (y/n) asks after she swallowed a slice of Tangerine they currently share. The peel settles at the bottom of her net bag, along with 2 bottles of water for the orphan children after they stopped playing.

He ponders for a moment. 

“I’m a creator.” he takes another slice of Tangerine. 

“What do you create?”

“Everything.”

She chuckles at the ambiguity of his answer. 

“That’s a little vague.”

“One day I promise I will show them to you.” he gives her the last slice of the fruit. She puts it in her mouth, smiling. 

“Alright, I’ll be waiting.”

  —

What traces left of his wife he found is merely in her physical appearance, name and gestures the mortal eyes can easily be missed. Where his wife was an exploding cacophony of exuberance, (y/n) is quiet and talks as gently as winds of spring. 

He finds himself sinking deeper into her when she sits beside him watching the children play. A content look graced her lovely face. When her wilful kindness and her sense of duty come to act to help those who need help. When her patient voice would always come to her little orphan kids, to the needy. Her endless devotion to them. He can’t help but stand beside her to ladle soup into the bowls with her. He tries to wear the same warm smile just like her for the people who say thanks after each bowl. 

“There’s not much to know, this is all i am.” she says one afternoon when he walks her back to the convent from the Soup Kitchen.

“What you are is extraordinary, all of you.” he replies. He notes the little bashful smile she tries to contain. 

When they say their goodbyes at the gate of the church, Sister Siobhan stands at the doorstep, she gives him a knowing smile and look. 

Morpheus hides his own bashful smile as he walks away. 

—

“Why do you become a nun?” Morpheus asks at one point. Sitting beside her in the afternoon watching over the children play. Her leg crosses on top of the other. 

“I have a very religious family. I’m just following their footsteps.” she says quietly, in the tone only he could hear. 

“Do you believe in him?”

“God?”

He nods.

“i- hope he doesn’t.”

He waits for her to continue.

“I have many friends that would… that would…”

She trails, her eyes darting around the park. 

“He made parts of them that he rejects in his book. I almost hate him that way.” she finally says. 

“I understand. He can be fickle and obtuse.” 

“You made it sound like he owes you money.”

A smile creeps on Morpheus' face.

“Do you?” she returns. 

“No. He exists, but he is not of my belief.”

“And how do you know he exists?”

Morpheus turns his body towards her, drinking in the beauty of her eyes.

“Because he owes me money but lives in a mansion somewhere in Las Vegas.”

Gentle laugh breeze from her lips like winds of spring. Morpheus’s heart quickened slightly. The featherlike tingles on his stomach are something entirely new, relentless. 

—

Every week he looks forward to meeting her. There is not a second that passes that she stopped lingering in the crevices of his mind. A month turns into three, then six, and a year they develop a kinship with one another.

Her, this new form of his long-deceased wife that is in fact an entirely different being, eclipsed what he tried to find. Puts him to shame for his false pretences. 

He realised at one point when they prayed before the saint, when the refraction of light landed soft on her face, altogether he stopped looking for something that doesn’t exist. He chose to cherish her as a friend, her irreplaceable presence that comforts him in their routine. Her dearest (y/n). 

But lately, when he meets her, her eyes are sunken ever slightly. Her silence seems to be that of wariness instead of contentment. 

“You are troubled, (y/n).” he nudged her knee with his knuckle as they sit in the park again once they take the children home. An unusual request from her. 

Only her silence meets his observation.

“Are you alright?”

She focuses her eyes on the horizon instead of answering his question. 

“You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine.” she snaps at him. Morpheus closes his mouth. Fall silent in resignation. But as moments pass he can feel her agitation, see her thumb digging into her palm. Notice the film over her eyes, an indescribable sort of anguish. 

“I’m sorry.” she sighs.

“Don’t be.” Morpheus assures her.

I used to…” she breathed. Hesitating for a moment. 

“I used to teach at the elementary few years ago. I remember that it was hard work, and the hours are long. But I never felt that sense of purpose in my entire life. It was all I wanted to be.”

She says quietly. Morpheus waits for her to continue.

“And I fell in love, you know, with one of the teachers there. She’s brilliant. And kind. She has a way that makes your insides just- melt into mush. I had the best summer holiday with her before my father found out.”

There is a yearning smile. Morpheus notes the tears gathered in her eyes. 

“He is a bigot and wealthy. There are no more dangerous traits than those combined in mankind.” she says then laugh bitterly.

“You took your vow unwillingly.” The realisation hits him.

“All because I love men and women equally.” she mutters bitterly.

“The sisters are kind enough to let me see you regularly, even sister Siobhan fought with my father for my release. They know that this life… it’s bleeding me dry.” 

Then there is nothing but hollowness in her eyes. All the rage and yearning and restlessness dissipate in a blink. In turn, he feels it tenfold.

“I could give you another.” he offers.

“You don’t know how powerful my father is.” she whispers. 

“I can assure you that would pose no problem for me.” 

“He’ll find me even at the edge of the world.” 

“I’ll make sure he won’t even so much as think of you.”

For a moment she looks hopeful, but the light is doused quickly.

“Leave the convent. Break your vows. You shall not be disturbed by your father.” 

“Please Morpheus. You’re being foolish.” irritation laces her words. 

“Trust me i-”

“Enough. No more, please.” she pleads. 

Desperate, Morpheus uses a last resort as he takes her hand. 

“You dream of a serpent trapped in a silver cage. Tonight you shall dream that she is free.”

“What?”

“Please. Trust me. I shall be with you when you walk away.” 

She contemplates his words, her eyes never leave his. Then she tips her face to the moon. To the horizon in the distance. She mulls over it for almost an hour, Morpheus is there beside her every second. 

—

Morpheus stands at the gate of the Church as he watches the sisters tearfully say their goodbyes to her on the doorstep. (y/n)’s eyes do the same thing, filmy and wet. She wave one last time and blow her kisses. But once she reaches the gates and walks away with him, her tears never fall. The usual cloud over her brows is replaced with something else, something light and easy. 

Hob Gadling is kind enough to let her stay at the New Inn upstairs. She settles there quietly. Resumes her teaching as a private tutor to the children of the parents who frequents the church. Resumes her service in taking the kids to the park and participating in the Soup Kitchen.  

Once they meet at the park again, when the last traces of sunlight sink in the horizon and the sky wear its dark blue, she asks him a long overdue question. 

“What did you do, Morpheus?”

He falls silent. For if he open his mouth, he fears that everything would pour from his lips and the truth would drive her away. The omission of truth lies heavy within him. But he could no longer do such a thing. 

She notes his unnatural silence. Her inquisitive eyes burn his profile as he rests his arms on his knees.

“What are you?” she whispers once more. 

Morpheus straightens his form. Then look her in her eyes.

“There are no words that would suffice to tell you what I truly am. I can only show you.” 

He offers her his hand. She eyes it cautiously, faint crease forms between her brows. But she takes his hand nonetheless.

—

She takes him so readily. Her eyes take in the Dreaming unflinching. Takes his nature without fear as he explains. There is even wonder twinking in her eyes. The part of her mouth in Awe of his Dreaming. Morpheus can’t help but preen under her marvel, never felt more proud of his creation.

Then he saw Lucienne’s bewildered face as he takes (y/n) to his throne room. It must be quite a sight that the ghost of her queen wanders the halls beside him. 

“My lord.” Lucienne greets him. Rigid and strained. 

“Lucienne, this is (y/n). My friend.” Morpheus notice the even widened eyes of the Dreaming’s librarian. 

“Welcome to the dreaming, Lady (y/n).”  Regardless of Lucienne’s bewilderment, she can’t help but give (y/n) a warm smile.

“Please, just (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”  (y/n) returns Lucienne’s smile.

“Of course, (y/n).” Old habits die hard, Morpheus think of Lucienne. The title was used affectionately. After all, they were as close as any sisters could be when his former wife reigned beside him. He notes something of nostalgia in Lucienne’s eyes. The longing. The daze. Morpheus can imagine Lucienne’s feelings upon it, remembers he’s the one who felt it first. 

“Come, my friend. There is something I want to show you.” Morpheus beckons her to a hallway that leads to his chamber. As they walk through the stretching floor, on the wall to his left are the windows overlooking the sea of the Dreaming. On the wall to his right hangs all manner of paintings from all genres. Tonalism, Realism, Abstract and more. Subjects from still-life, animals, historical, vistas to portraiture. 

Morpheus stops at a portrait wedged between an abstract of Joan Miro and the tonalism artwork of Angel de Cora. He awaits for her response. 

“Who’s- who’s that?” she stumbles upon her words

“My former wife. The queen of the Dreaming.” In the style of Naturalism, he depicts her in draperies of white Muslins surrounded by bushes of her favourite flowers, smiling softly as her hands folded on her lap. He painted the portrait with his own hands, when his longing was too unbearable that he doesn’t know how to relieve that burden. 

“You are the descendant of the same family tree as her. Her name was (y/n).” The truth bursts from him. The guilt weighs too heavily. 

There is only silence. The slight labour of her breathing. She leans on the wall, trying to catch her breath. Morpheus paces to support her but she pushes his hand away.

“I want to go home.” she mutters under her breath. Refusing to look him in the eyes. 

“My friend-”

“Take me home.” She speaks with a finality in her voice. Morpheus understands whatever he would say after that point would be of no use to her well-being. So he nods and grants her wish. He commits her form, her face engulfed by sand as he watches her disappear. Not knowing if she truly lost to him once more.

—

The subjects of the Dreaming know that their king is in a state of agitation. They can feel it in the constant changing of the weather every hour. Some parts of the Dreaming plunges into sandstorm then rain, dry clear skies, drizzles of snow then sandstorm again in no particular order. The sun is quivering from one into three then four, as does the moon. 

Morpheus waits and waits and waits, until the second week passes and she calls his name. He appears outside of her room before she could finish mouthing all three syllables. 

She asks if he would like to accompany him to the park when she opens the door, at the very second of that midnight. 

They sit in silence. Barely illuminated by the white light with a tinge of pale blue from the lamppost in the distance. Neither knows how to start the conversation, Morpheus more than her. 

“What are you doing here Morpheus?”

He recognises her allusion. What is your intention with me?

“Do you wish me to be her?” there is a hint of fear in her voice.

“No, (y/n). I do not.” he muster earnestness as best as he can. 

“Do you pity me?”

“No. never that.”

“What are we doing Morpheus?” she whispers.

He falls silent.

“It’s true I approached you because you bear my former wife’s face. But I found myself comforted merely by your presence. I found myself thinking of who you are constantly, not who you’re supposed to be. I can assure you that you are far from what she was.” He says, his throat heavy.

She nods. Recognise the sincerity in his voice. Her quiet exhale sound that of relief. Then she takes his hand, he tangles his fingers around hers as he counts her tears dripping one by one. His own heart aches at the sight of it. 

“Thank you. For everything.” she whispers once more. His grip bound tighter. His whole being sinking into the pools of her irises. 

—

In no time, her list of students is growing, her lives are busier. Bountiful. Her smiles and laughs are lighter and airy. In several months she moves out of the Inn and lives in her own apartment she rents. And Morpheus is in every step she takes, admires how smart and sharp she is, how it is in her nature to be kind and gentle. How dear she becomes to his heart that it almost hurts. 

He would always be there whenever she needs him in any way, even so far the only thing she asks is nothing but his company, he would always give her more. Inspire her with the sweetest dreams. 

He frequents her apartment with all sorts of gifts. He’d bring her favourite flowers, her favourite takeout, books she might like, his own favourites, and her preferred brand of wine. 

This time he brought her a necklace forged from the stone of fiddler’s green that bears the same colour as her eyes. The stone is no bigger than her fingernail but she claims she never seen a stone so beautiful and otherworldly. So stupefying when a direct light hits it. She conveys her thanks and sheepishly turns on her back to let him clasp the necklace around her skin. His breath brushes her nape, he hears her heart beating erratically. The hairs on her arms stretching on ends. 

Now the jewellery dangles between her collarbones. 

He wishes his fingers could linger on her skin a little bit more.

“Pasta or Roast chicken?” she flutters away to the kitchen with his answer, her necklace winking under the afternoon sunset filtering through her apartment’s windows. 

Morpheus can’t help his own smile, strangely feeling mortal-like in their routine. He cherishes their routine.

—

  “This sounds like the bowels of Tartarus.” Morpheus says as he listens to one of her favourite records playing on the turntable, an Oratorio sung in Baritone integrated with gentle synths and Cellos, composed by a recently deceased composer that makes her cry the whole day when it happened. She lets him comfort her that day. 

“No fucking way, the Pantheons are real?” 

“Not just them, The Vanirs, Aesirs and their kind, the Sumerian gods and all.”

“Wow…”

He can’t help his smile spreading as he watches her eyes, drooping lovely by the wine they currently share on the dining table side by side. The cores from eaten Strawberry Apple stacked on the bowl. 

“So… he’s real too?”

“Unfortunately.” Morpheus sip the wine from his glass. 

“Fuck. I just know I’m going straight to hell.”

“No. I’ll not let that happen.” Morpheus says it earnestly, she chuckles and gives him a lazy grin.

“The perk of befriending a god, huh?”

His smile grows wider. 

“I’m not a god.”

“To me you are.”

He pauses. His heart picks up slightly at the words. Feel the heat creeping to his neck.

“You’ve done more for me than he ever did.” she continues. Her fingers search for his, memorising the texture of his nail with the pad of her finger. 

“Do you worship me?” Morpheus leans inch by inch. Brushes her hairline. Twirl the necklace between her collarbones. 

“I know you heard my prayers.” she gravitates forward towards him. 

“I do.” 

(y/n) tilts her head to the side, drinking in his features. He recalls her prayers whispered quietly at midnight. The words trembled his hands on that night. Burns his chest with euphoria. 

“Your prayers, your recent dreams, I witnessed it.” he almost says breathlessly. Heat pools in his stomach. 

“Does it reflect your desire?”

“Yes.” she whispers. Her own voice strangles by desire’s hands. 

He watches the expansion of her pupils. Hears her heartbeat pace quickly when he focuses on it. 

“You will have me?” he asks. 

“Yes.” she licks her lips. 

“I am wholly yours.” he claims when their faces are close enough they could count each other's eyelashes. He brush away the one that fell on her cheek, then caress her jaw with his fingers. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. Her hands fists on his chest as she presses her lips to his cheeks. 

Morpheus sighs in pleasure. A thrill of shiver runs along his spine, his hand circling her back as the other takes her jaws to kiss her on the lips. She kisses him hard enough to turn him inside out, to make her a god if she asks for it. 

That night, every being that sleeps dreams of her glistening skin against his, of her lips chanting his name. Her eyes and her satiated sighs. Her tears of pleasure. Morpheus swallows everything he could. 

—

“Hello little brother.” Death's warm voice calls to him. He turns from the waterfall and meets her warm smile as she opens her arms to receive him, Morpheus return her gesture. 

“It’s been quite some time since you summon me to your realm.” She says as she takes in the beauty of Fiddler’s green.

Morpheus stays silent because she knows the answer to that statement. The last time she was here, Death took the queen of the Dreaming. And the dispute after that, the calamity he wrought after their fight can be felt even upon the waking world. 

An altercation that he believed was a betrayal. She took centuries to mend their relationship into what it was. 

“So, what is it Dream?” Death squints slightly under the sun of the Dreaming. 

He remembers last night, when (y/n)’s half asleep from euphoria after their intercourse, his dearest said the words that stir him with complete devotion. That fills his stomach with dread and reminds him of his duty as an Endless. I love you, Morpheus. I would do the unthinkable for you.

“You know what this is about.” he firmly says. 

Death’s mouth twists into a faint grimace. But she nods.

“Promise me, Death. Promise me.”

He sees Death’s throat swallow. 

“What affection you have for me as your brother, promise me this. Do not betray me again.” He rasps. His chest feels the heaviness on that day.

“Please, Morpheus, I did not betray you. It is only the rule that binds, little brother. Our duty” she takes a step towards him. Her hands reach but he pulls back. 

“You owe me.” he whispers. His tears sting the back of his eyes. 

Death's lips are pursed thin. Her gaze remorseful and rue.

Death takes a deep breath. 

“Make her an Endless then. I will help you.”

Her words stun him into silence. A proposal that is painstakingly leviathan in nature he never thought his dutiful big sister would ever offer him. A proposal that is to be made in such a short time and the risk would be insurmountable for both siblings. 

And he couldn’t think of someone more worthy to be an Endless. 

“I will help you before it’s too late. After that, we’re square. Deal?”

He nods. Unable to find his words for a moment.

“Agreed.”

—

“Hi!” She giggles with glee when he circles his arms around her as she’s preparing the ingredients for dinner on the counter of her kitchen. 

“You’re early.” she turns and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“I couldn’t wait.” he murmurs as he buries his eyes on her shoulder. 

“I can tell.” She teases. But when he is silent, he takes his face in her hands. Search for his evading eyes. 

“What’s wrong Morpheus?” she gently calls for him. Concern between her brows. 

“There is something I must ask, (y/n).” he says restlessly. 

“Of course.” she replies. 

He takes her to the dining table and sits side by side. He explains what it is to be an Endless. How one of their great weaknesses is bound by the ancient rules that predate even their creation. One of them, the Endless can not fall in love with a mortal and prolong their affiliation, or the Mortal’s downfall would soon follow. 

A tear slips from her eye. 

“You’re leaving me?” she asks, strikingly calm even through her tears. 

“Without the alternative, I must, (y/n).” he caresses her jaw. His own eyes smarting. His chest weighs heavily. 

“And the alternative?”  she takes his other hand to anchor herself down. The numbness in her legs became too much. 

He feels her pulse quickening on her wrist. 

“Understand this. I was blinded by my foolishness, it was not my intention to put you in this precarious position and I assure you I never wanted to jump into your life to just leave-”

“Just say it Morpheus.” she whines. 

“Will you become an Endless?” he blurts. 

She stares at him for a moment as if he grows a second head. Then quickly realises the gravity of his question, the unsaid pleading in his eyes, his inability to beg her because he does not want to pressure her into compliance but his heart—rending eyes, his bright—sharp eyes, the colour of a brewing storm, says it all. She wants to weep for those eyes. 

She takes his face in her hands. Kisses him on the lips. She feels the tension lining his shoulders melt away. His hands slither to grip her waist, washes her body in pleasure. 

“Yes. Make me a god.” she says when she pulls away. 

His wide smile could replace the sun. She realised, in a heartbeat, that she would do anything and everything just so she could see that beautifully divine smile for the rest of her life. Would do the unthinkable for him. Devote her life to her Dream. Devotion and Dream, that is all she needs. Devotion and Dream for eternity until the universe erodes and blinks away. 

—

Taglist: @aurorarevenclaw1927​

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

A Good Name is More Valuable than Great Wealth

1 A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold. 2 The rich and poor meet together; the LORD is the maker of them all. 3 A prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass by and are punished. 4 With humility and the fear of the LORD come riches and honor and life. 5 Thorns and snares are in the path of the froward; he that doth keep his soul shall stay far from them. 6 Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. 7 The rich ruleth over the poor, and the borrower is servant to the lender. 8 He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity, and the rod of his anger shall fail. 9 He that hath a bountiful eye shall be blessed, for he giveth of his bread to the poor.

10 Cast out the scorner, and contention shall go away; yea, strife and reproach shall cease. 11 He that loveth pureness of heart: for the grace of his lips the king shall be his friend. 12 The eyes of the LORD preserve knowledge, and He overthroweth the words of the transgressor. 13 The slothful man saith, "There is a lion without! I shall be slain in the streets!" 14 The mouth of a strange woman is a deep pit; he that is abhorred by the LORD shall fall therein. 15 Foolishness is bound into the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. 16 He that oppresseth the poor to increase his riches, and he that giveth to the rich, shall surely come to want.

17 Bow down thine ear and hear the words of the wise, and apply thine heart unto my knowledge. 18 For it is a pleasant thing if thou keep them within thee, that they may indeed be ready upon thy lips. 19 That thy trust may be in the LORD, I have made it known to thee this day, even to thee! 20 Have I not written to thee excellent things of counsel and knowledge, 21 that I might make thee know the certainty of the words of truth, that thou mightest answer the words of truth to them that send unto thee? 22 Rob not the poor because he is poor, neither oppress the afflicted at the gate; 23 for the LORD will plead their cause, and despoil the soul of those that despoiled them. 24 Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man thou shalt not go, 25 lest thou learn his ways and get a snare for thy soul. 26 Be not thou one of them that strike hands or of them that are sureties for debts; 27 if thou hast nothing to pay, why should he take away thy bed from under thee? 28 Remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set. 29 Seest thou a man diligent in his business? He shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before men of low estate. — Proverbs 22 | Third Millennium Bible (TMB) Third Millennium Bible, New Authorized Version, Copyright 1998 by Deuel Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 21:9-10; Genesis 41:46; Exodus 22:26; Exodus 23:6; Deuteronomy 7:25; Deuteronomy 19:14; 1 Samuel 25:39; Job 4:8; Proverbs 1:22; Proverbs 2:6; Proverbs 2:10; Proverbs 3:5; Proverbs 6:1; Proverbs 8:6; Proverbs 10:7; Proverbs 11:3; Proverbs 13:24; Proverbs 14:31; Proverbs 15:18-19; Proverbs 26:13; Proverbs 31:20; Ecclesiastes 12:11; Matthew 5:8; Luke 1:3-4; Ephesians 6:4; James 2:6; James 2:13; 1 Timothy 4:8

[usamamoweek]

UsaMamo Week 2020 Works

To give some inspiration and give readers some additional stories to check out before official entries for UsaMamoWeek 2023 start to get posted, we thought we would do a few posts highlighting some stories and works from prior years.

Stories:

5 Years - @tinacentury

"A yearly glimpse into Serenity and Endymion's relationship over the course of 5 years. An experimental Silver Millennium AU."

UsaMamo Week 2020 - @allyunabridged

Stories collections based on daily prompts - (special callout for Something Old, Something New - one of @random-mailbox 's favorite stories that will hopefully get completed at some point because it's awesome)

Memories - @floraone

"A series of snippety ficlets exploring Mamoru's very own Usamamo-memories throughout time. From Silver Millennium to Crystal Tokyo. Written for Usamamo Week 2020 on Tumblr."

UsaMamoWeek2020 - @over-roaming-waves

Stories Collection based on daily prompts

Save me - @ellephedre

"What if, after Mamoru broke up with her, Usagi decided to make him jealous? Would it break his heart too? Would Usagi have the strenght to go through with her plot? Happy ending guaranteed, after a lot of angst."

Obligation & Desire - @uglygreenjacket

"Set in the Silver Millennium, this story aims to be the ultimate SilMil soap opera, with all the period intrigue, drama, fluff, politics and sexiness you could imagine."

If only I belonged to you - Beej88

"What if the Senshi defeated the Dark Kingdom without triggering the reveal of the Silver crystal and Serenity and Endymion's memories? My fic for Usa/Mamo week 2020! Aged up, AU/Canon-divergent with tons of reveals and a-probably-going-to-be angsty-because-I'm-incapable-of-pure-fluff Mamo-Usa fic."

Truth Serum - @idesofnovember

"Just once Sailor Moon wanted to be on a rooftop alone with Tuxedo Mask when neither of them were injured, panicked, or needed back in the battle. This time was at least two for three."

Art:

@nari20 - Day 2 Sairlor Moon + Tuxedo Mask, Day 4 Crystal Tokyo, Day 3 Usagi and Mamoru , Day 1 Silver Millennium

@hellomomo - Day 4

Moodboards:

@flourishfox - Day 6 Free Day ,

@koheiri-neko - Day 4 Crystal Tokyo , Day 7 Mix and Match

Playlists:

@hellomomo - UsaMamo Playlist

@nopenname22 - SM + TM The Mixtape, UsaMamo - The Mixtape, Crystal Tokyo The Mixtape, AUs The Mixtape

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[aemcroberts]

🔥 New Chapter Release: Silver Millennium: Forbidden Bonds 🔥

Is Mars your favorite character? 🔥💫

🌟 Chapter 8: Doom Foretold 🌟 features Mars and Jadeite as they preform a sacred fire ritual to get much needed answers. But Mars gets more than she bargans for when the fire reveales two shocking truths.

Dive into this emotional and gripping chapter on Wattpad, fanfiction.net, and Archive of Our Own. 🌙✨

[acourtofthought]

Idk what it will take for people to realize that there is NO CONNECTION between truth teller, the Starsword and The Dusk Court because the tale of those weapons creation, theft from Fionn and the disappearance of the Starsword happened before any of the courts existed.

It would take a major retcon on SJM’s part to make that fan theory true. That’s not to disparage all Dusk Court theories bc I think many of them are cool, but I feel like people treat truth teller - Dusk Court as canon when it’s not. I know there are people proud to have not actually read Silver Flames, but it’s never more blatant then when this topic comes up. The history of the Starsword is PRE Courts. The history of truth teller is PRE COURTS. The disappearance of the sword, and the trove, is PRE Courts. When will it click that we cannot make those connections until SJM gives us more history on the creation of the courts, let alone confirmation of dusk?? Like who is the author here ??🤦🏿‍♀️

You bring up an excellent point.

Everything we learn of Theia and the Starsword in CC is based on her time in Midgard, a place she entered during the crossing. But she had a life before the crossing. The sword had a different history before the crossing:

"one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts.

"But at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other's throats, on the brink of war."

"Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had."

"Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been a leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline's most powerful and precious weapons".

"and for a while, with that sword, peace had reigned. Until he had been betrayed by his own queen and his fiercest general, and lost the sword to them, and the lands fell into darkness once more."

“No one has been able to create a magic sword in more than ten thousand years,” Amren said. “The last one Made, the great blade Gwydion, vanished around the time the last of the Trove went missing.”

The Starsword was created thousands of years before the land was divided into rough territories. One of those rough territories was probably where the Dusk Court would have officially been had the crossing / tear in their worlds not occurred and my guess is that particular rough territory is where Theia ruled.

And though Amren was in the prison during Fionn's death, she was around for when Gwydion was first made:

"From what I’ve gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former masters’ race."

Amren was around for Fionn's defeat of the Daglan so I'd say out of all the sources we've got of that time in history, she's the most credible.

It was after Fionn's death, Fionn who did not live with his Queen in what would have probably been Dusk if it had the time to form into an actual court, that some of his "most powerful and precious weapons" were stolen and taken to Midgard.

It really doesn't sound like the Starsword ever really belonged to just Theia and it doesn't sound like it ever spent time in the unofficial Dusk Court since it was stolen then lost (in the crossing).

Some keep saying ACOTARs history is wrong but why would ACOTAR have it's own history wrong especially when they don't have beings like the Asteri hiding the truth from them? How would someone from Midgard, a completely different planet, have a better idea of what happened with Theia when she lived in Prythian, a world they don't even know about? That's like Feyre telling Bryce she knows more about Midgard history than Bryce herself.

And if ACOTARs history is wrong.....how is it going to be corrected by Bryce? Even with Bryce being able to use the Starsword because it recognizes her as "kin", she's not realistically going to be able to say "oh by the way, even though this is the first time I'm learning about your existence, Fionn probably didn't lead your people into battle with Gwydion and it actually belonged to his Queen so it's time to rewrite your history books." "Amren, I know you were alive during that time but everything you think is false". Amren may have been in the prison during Fionn's fall but she arrived before Gwydion arose and did not go into the Prison until they were hunting down the last of the Daglan which means she knew of Gwydions origin and was around for Fionn to originally defeat the Daglan in battle.

And yes Aidas, "Snarled. That sword belongs to Theia's female heir. Not the male offspring who corrupted her line" but Aidas was in love with Theia, a Prince of Hel (is he really the most trustworthy source?). And he's basically saying the general who killed his beloved passed on the sword to his lineage versus it rightfully belonging to Theia's daughters. But again.....he's talking about Theia as he knew her on Midgard and as an angry ex lover who hates Pelias. Talking about her as she was when she came over with the sword.

Do we have any idea of Aidas knows the origins of Gwydion and who it truly belonged to?

And while the sword responds to Bryce:

"the Starsword had recognized her, not as a royal worthy Fae, but as kin. Kin to those WHO HAD FORGED it so long ago."

(Gwydion was MADE when it was dipped in the Cauldron - like calls to like and as Amren said, sometimes Made weapons have a mind of their own and they decide when they are going to "show" themselves).

It kind of sounds like the Starsword / Gwydion would respond to anyone "made" or descended from those who were made once it wanted to be found and isn't ACOTAR sort of hinting that all the original super special fae and Illyrians were "made" by the Daglan? Possibly using the Cauldron?

Is it not possible the Starborn were "made" and that's why both Ruhn and Bryce were able to possess the sword (with it responding differently to Bryce because her specific Starborn light has nuances to it:

"I hadn't realized they'd have individualized starlight. I always thought mine was only ... brighter than yours". "I guess it makes sense that there could be nuances to the light amongst the fae that got interbred"

There's obviously missing gaps in all of this, where the Starborn and Illyrians came from, the angels, etc. which I think SJM is about to reveal in CC3.

And the characters in Prythian obviously don't know what happened to Gwydion once it was lost or the "Queen and general that killed Fionn". And Bryce can help them fill in those gaps.

But I just don't believe that Bryce's arrival is going to completely erase ACOTAR's history of Fionn and Gwydion's origins. I think what we're going to see is a merging of the two for a more complete picture and Rhys / Amren, etc. are going to explain what they know of Gwydion before it passed into Theia's hands.

Ok....I'm done. I'm sorry I completely spiraled there 😂

[niennawept]

Scars of Silver and Gold

An Adar x OC Second Age Romance/Adventure

Palariel has been a healer stationed in the Southlands for nearly a millennium. When an uruk is gravely wounded, she must hold to her oaths and heal the speaking peoples of Middle Earth -- including him. As she gets to know these battle-hardened people, an understanding of the depth of their suffering and their need for a healer grows. And all the while, her regard for their enigmatic leader, Adar, deepens.

At the site of every disaster, there are those who stay to help rebuild, but what will it cost?

Chapter 30: Alone is out now!

Summary: Grugzuk's injuries become known and Palariel must face some difficult truths.

[valkyrieassassin]

Az, Rhys sister and Lucien are all Ruhn’s family. Hear me out.

11:30pm theory, acotar, tog, cc

What if the mating bond wasn’t given to Az from Elain because Azriel already had a mate. Had. We know that Rhys sister was one of the only females that Azriel in his teen years new. What if Azriel’s mate was Rhys sister. Hear me out I know there is this theory but not with this weird piece that in my head creates a picture.

We know that Ruhn looks like Rhys. But that also means his sister. And his magic is very similar to Azriel and Rhys. So also Rhys sister.

A lot of places and names for the world of Crescent City are very similar to those in Throne of glass. So this part is very weird but what if Prythian, hybern, and the continent was once Erilea. And due to magic and courts fighting and power breaking loose the land began to split. Or it just shifted apart. And created Prythian. But many years in the future there is another Valg war and some of the fae, human, witches, and other breads run and create a city for safety and that city is Crescent City. We only know what the city looks like not the rest of the land mass it is on.

Crescent City became technical and even more of a safe haven for fae and other creatures to live in peace. And this millennium after the events of silver flames.

Circling back to the beginning what if Azriel and Rhys sister were mates. What if they had a child and that child had a child and so on. Until Crescent City was made, and one of the descendants took safety there. And due to the limited people magic was mixed creating the Starborn. He still kept some of his great how many you can choose grandparents magic. The telepathy or as we see Rhys calling it Daemati, and the shadows are striking similar to Az’s. Both the telepathy/weak Daemati and the shadows were past down from Ruhn’s mother.

So if this theory works Ruhn was named after the mountains of there once lost home. That his mother found in an old familiar journal that was written by Az and his mate. It mentioned the mountains of the old kingdom. (This is just a weird thing that doesn’t really matter) and Ruhn’s father is one of Lucien’s descendants seeing as he is the son of the LoA and Helion. He was the autumn king but he past on the day magic in the form of the Starborn.

The war that is mentioned repeatedly though CC2 (I didn’t want to look it up) is the third Valg war. When Bryce falls into Prythian she falls back into time to before the third Valg war. Before Crescent City was created.

When she is there she has Ruhn’s sword that is the twin to truth teller. A family heirloom. It also make sense why she mistakes Rhys for Ruhn because Ruhn is his what ever many greats uncle. And the old fae language is in all of SJM’s books. So it makes sense that it is the same language.

Why is it the third Valg war? We know that in Tog we learn that witches are half fae and half Valg. In Acotar we see witches as a almost extinct species. So the moving of the continents must have killed most of them. But in CC we get more witches which means more Valg and fae coming together again.

What about the gates. The gates that the keys were returned to at the end of KoA were three. There is also three legs of the cauldron. What if the keys were reshaped to be the legs of the cauldron and from that reopened the portals. The gates in Crescent City are a play on the portals so that they could never forget there past.

This also explains how the walking dead and the book of breathings and a lot of other books the references other characters are there. It also explains Aelin falling though because she was also time travelling and seeing the future. Prythian the Crescent City.

I have covered the land, the whole background war, the magic and looks. Just to make the point the Ruhn is related to Az and Rhys sister on his moms side and Lucien in his dads side. Also all three worlds have some form of three face goddess or something similar.

This went from a short ten minutes theory to an hour later. Just to prove a stupid theory that Az, Rhys sister and Lucien are all Ruhn’s family. I might write a fic on this. Is there anything I missed or messed up.

[ladykikyo1792]

1,2,7,8

1. Longest Work in Progress: “The Truth of the Silver Millennium,” coming in at around 300,000 words or so (31 chapters).  2. Shortest Work in Progress: “College Reunions,” coming in at around 8,800 words (2 chapters).  Both CR and TTOTSM are “Sailor Moon” fanfics. 7. Do you outline before writing?  If so, what is your outlining process like? I used to, but not anymore.  Funny story- I have a VERY old outline for TTOTSM’s original draft that I stuck to til about Chapter 9 (I want to say)? Then the characters just went AWOL.  I still have the old outline, but looking at it is wild because the plot just totally went off the rails from how I imagined it.  After the failed outline experiment with TTOTSM, I decided not to use them and just go with the flow. 8. Describe your current WIP in a sentence. I’ve got three, so: a. Dark Paradise: Dark romance/horror where the traditional attributes of “good” and “evil” are brought into question as the author shamelessly tries to fix all the plot points she hated about OUAT Season 3. b. The Truth of the Silver Millennium: Tragic romance/fantasy (book one) detailing how the sailor senshi actually got their powers, how the empire of the Silver Millennium happened, and how the Jewel of Four Souls came to be.  c. College Reunions: pure unadulterated fluff that is Senshi x Shitennou to help balance out the tragic aspect of the prior fic.  Thank you for asking!  Also, not to fangirl, but you are one of my all-time favorite fanfic authors, so I literally squealed when I saw these asks came from you.  <3 Thank you for sharing your work with us!

[biblenewsprophecy]

Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?

Islam tells of a deceiver arising called the Dajjal, whom Muslims tend to equate with the Beast that rises from the sea in Revelation 13:1-10. Whereas they tend to use the term Dabbatul-Ard for the Beast that comes out of the earth in Revelation 13:11. While both are 'antichrists,' the False Prophet of Revelation is the final Antichrist, consistent with 1 John 4:1-3. Do biblical and Islamic prophecies point to the time of the greatest tribulation in history coinciding with the reign of these beasts? Do Islam and the Bible tell of any who will be spared, "from the hour of trial which shall come upon the whole world, to test those who dwell on the earth"? (Revelation 3:10). Will gold be valuable after the start of the great tribulation? Might the Beast and Antichrist use wealth to gain support? Will 666 use Artificial Intelligence and digital/electronic currencies, like a CBDC, to control buying and selling? Why might gold and silver become worthless for a time? Will the European King of the North defeat the King of the South of Islamic lands? Do the Bible and Nostradamus point to Turkey betraying the King of the South, who some may consider to be the Imam Mahdi? Do Greco-Roman private prophecies tell of cross-bearers persecuting those who do not wear crosses? What did Herbert W. Armstrong say was the seal by the angel for the 144,000? Have Greco-Roman Catholic and Protestant leaders declared that the cross is their mark? Did the Cathari, Sir Isaac Newton, and others point to the cross as the 'mark of the beast'? What is the 'Chrislam Cross'? Did Pope John Paul II warn of an invasion by Islam into Europe in this millennium? Did Anna Katrina Emmerich point to a persecuting rider on a white horse with others killing people who do not wear crosses? Could a Habsburg be involved in the defeat of Muslims? Is a prophetic naval battle in the Mediterranean coming? Will the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the United Kingdom be defeated and conquered? What did 'Zachary the Armenian' prophesy? What lands does the Muslim Brotherhood want? Will there be a militaristic confederation of nations in the Middle East and North Africa? Dr. Thiel address these issues and more in this fourth part of a multi-part sermon series.

A free online book of related interest is available titled 'Islamic and Biblical Prophecies for the 21st Century'

Sermon series:

Part 1: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes

Part 2: Imam Mahdi, Women, and Prophecy

Part 3: Terrorism, Iran, and Fatima

Part 4: Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?

Sermon Youtube video link: Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?

Related Items:

Islamic and Biblical Prophecies for the 21st Century This is a free online book which helps show where biblical and Islamic prophecies converge and diverge. Here are links to related sermons: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes. Imam Mahdi, women, and prophecy., and Terrorism, Iran, and Fatima, and Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?

Audio and video Sermon series:

Part 1: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes

Part 2: Imam Mahdi, Women, and Prophecy

Part 3: Terrorism, Iran, and Fatima

Part 4: Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?

Why Terrorism? Is Terrorism Prophesied? What does the Bible teach? Which nations may be affected? Here is a link to a related sermon: Terrorism, Christianity, and Islam. Here is a shorter video: Afghanis: Potential terrorists?

Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes This article has information from the book, Islamic and Biblical Prophecies for the 21st Century, as well as from the old WCG and other sources. Here is a link to a related sermon: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes.

The Plain Truth About Gold in Prophecy. How Should a Christian View Gold? What About Silver? What do economists and the Bible teach about gold? Gold and silver may drop in value. Inflation/deflation? What do Christians need to know about gold and silver? Two videos of related interest may be: Germany, Gold, and the US Dollar and Silver, Science, and Scripture.

Beliefs of the Original Catholic Church. Did the original “catholic church” have doctrines held by the Continuing Church of God? Did Church of God leaders uses the term “catholic church” to ever describe the church they were part of? Here are links to related sermons: Original Catholic Church of God?, Original Catholic Doctrine: Creed, Liturgy, Baptism, Passover, What Type of Catholic was Polycarp of Smyrna?, Tradition, Holy Days, Salvation, Dress, & Celibacy, Early Heresies and Heretics, Doctrines: 3 Days, Abortion, Ecumenism, Meats, Tithes, Crosses, Destiny, and more, Saturday or Sunday?, The Godhead, Apostolic Laying on of Hands Succession, Church in the Wilderness Apostolic Succession List, Holy Mother Church and Heresies, and Lying Wonders and Original Beliefs.

Preparing for the ‘Short Work’ and The Famine of the Word What is the ‘short work’ of Romans 9:28? Who is preparing for it? Will Philadelphian Christians instruct many in the end times? Here is a link to a related video sermon titled: The Short Work. Here is a link to another: Preparing to Instruct Many.

Who Gave the World the Bible? The Canon: Why do we have the books we now do in the Bible? Is the Bible complete? Are there lost gospels? What about the Apocrypha? Is the Septuagint better than the Masoretic text? What about the Textus Receptus vs. Nestle Alland? Was the New Testament written in Greek, Aramaic, or Hebrew? Which translations are based upon the best ancient text? Did the true Church of God have the canon from the beginning? Here are links to related sermons: Let’s Talk About the Bible, The Books of the Old Testament, The Septuagint and its Apocrypha, Masoretic Text of the Old Testament, and Lost Books of the Bible, and Let’s Talk About the New Testament, The New Testament Canon From the Beginning, English Versions of the Bible and How Did We Get Them?, What was the Original Language of the New Testament?, Original Order of the Books of the Bible, and Who Gave the World the Bible? Who Had the Chain of Custody?

Proof Jesus is the Messiah This free book has over 200 Hebrew prophecies were fulfilled by Jesus. Plus, His arrival was consistent with specific prophecies and even Jewish interpretations of prophecy. Here are links to seven related sermons: Proof Jesus is the Messiah, Prophecies of Jesus’ birth, timing, and death, Jesus’ prophesied divinity, 200+ OT prophecies Jesus filled; Plus prophecies He made, Why Don’t Jews Accept Jesus?, Daniel 9, Jews, and Jesus, and Facts and Atheists’ Delusions About Jesus. Plus the links to two sermonettes: Luke’s census: Any historical evidence? and Muslims believe Jesus is the Messiah, but …

Hope of Salvation: How the Continuing Church of God Differs from Protestantism The CCOG is NOT Protestant. This free online book explains how the real Church of God differs from mainstream/traditional Protestants. Several sermons related to the free book are also available: Protestant, Baptist, and CCOG History; The First Protestant, God’s Command, Grace, & Character; The New Testament, Martin Luther, and the Canon; Eucharist, Passover, and Easter; Views of Jews, Lost Tribes, Warfare, & Baptism; Scripture vs. Tradition, Sabbath vs. Sunday; Church Services, Sunday, Heaven, and God’s Plan; Seventh Day Baptists/Adventists/Messianics: Protestant or COG?; Millennial Kingdom of God and God’s Plan of Salvation; Crosses, Trees, Tithes, and Unclean Meats; The Godhead and the Trinity; Fleeing or Rapture?; and Ecumenism, Rome, and CCOG Differences.

The MYSTERY of GOD’s PLAN Why Did God Create Anything? Why did God make you? This free online book helps answers some of the biggest questions that human have, including the biblical meaning of life. Here is a link to three related sermons: Mysteries of God’s Plan, Mysteries of Truth, Sin, Rest, Suffering, and God’s Plan, and The Mystery of YOU.

Universal OFFER of Salvation, Apokatastasis: Can God save the lost in an age to come? Hundreds of scriptures reveal God’s plan of salvation Will all get a fair chance at salvation? This free book is packed with scriptures showing that God does intend to offer salvation to all who ever lived–the elect in this age, and the rest in the age to come. Here is a link to a related sermon series: Universal Offer of Salvation 1: Apocatastasis, Universal Offer of Salvation 2: Jesus Desires All to be Saved, Mysteries of the Great White Throne Judgment (Universal Offer of Salvation part 3), Is God Fair, Will God Pardon the Ignorant?, Can God Save Your Relatives?, Babies, Limbo, Purgatory and God’s Plan, and ‘By the Mouth of All His Holy Prophets’.

Is God Calling You? This booklet discusses topics including calling, election, and selection. If God is calling you, how will you respond? Here is are links to related sermons: Christian Election: Is God Calling YOU? and Predestination and Your Selection. A short animation is also available: Is God Calling You?

Christians: Ambassadors for the Kingdom of God, Biblical instructions on living as a Christian This is a scripture-filled booklet for those wishing to live as a real Christian. A related sermon is also available: Christians are Ambassadors for the Kingdom of God.

The Ten Commandments: The Decalogue, Christianity, and the Beast This is a free pdf book explaining the what the Ten Commandments are, where they came from, how they develop love, how early professors of Christ viewed them, and how various ones, including the Beast of Revelation, will oppose them. A related sermon is titled: The Ten Commandments and the Beast of Revelation.

The Gospel of the Kingdom of God This free online pdf booklet has answers many questions people have about the Gospel of the Kingdom of God and explains why it is the solution to the issues the world is facing. Here are links to three related sermons: The World’s False Gospel, The Gospel of the Kingdom: From the New and Old Testaments, and The Kingdom of God is the Solution.

Where is the True Christian Church Today? This free online pdf booklet answers that question and includes 18 proofs, clues, and signs to identify the true vs. false Christian church. Plus 7 proofs, clues, and signs to help identify Laodicean churches. A related sermon is also available: Where is the True Christian Church? Here is a link to the booklet in the Spanish language: ¿Dónde está la verdadera Iglesia cristiana de hoy? Here is a link in the German language: WO IST DIE WAHRE CHRISTLICHE KIRCHE HEUTE? Here is a link in the French language: Où est la vraie Église Chrétienne aujourd’hui?

Continuing History of the Church of God This pdf booklet is a historical overview of the true Church of God and some of its main opponents from Acts 2 to the 21st century. Related sermon links include Continuing History of the Church of God: c. 31 to c. 300 A.D. and Continuing History of the Church of God: 4th-16th Centuries and Continuing History of the Church of God: 17th-20th Centuries. The booklet is available in Spanish: Continuación de la Historia de la Iglesia de Dios, German: Kontinuierliche Geschichte der Kirche Gottes, and Ekegusii Omogano Bw’ekanisa Ya Nyasae Egendererete.

CCOG.ORG Continuing Church of God The group striving to be most faithful amongst all real Christian groups to the word of God. There are links to literature is about 160 different languages there.

LATEST SERMONS

[zrune01]

Viking Warrior Canada

Journey into the world of Viking warriors in Canada and uncover the truths about authentic Vikings. Learn about their history, culture, and legacy at z-rune.com Viking Warrior Canada

About Company:-

Viking art, also known as Norse art, predominantly consists of intricate and captivating designs. The Vikings possessed a remarkable ability to transform everyday objects, such as bone and wood, into stunning pieces adorned with mesmerizing zoomorphic carvings. Furthermore, their mastery extended to metalwork, with bronze and silver being the primary materials used to craft exquisite jewelry and ornate artifacts.

One fascinating aspect of Norse art lies in its deep historical roots, reaching back to the prehistoric times of the 6th to 5th millennium BC. During this era, snakes and serpents held great significance and were revered as companions and protectors. They became closely associated with the Mother Goddess, the earliest deity worshipped by ancient European farmers.

As dedicated researchers, we are actively engaged in projects centered around the preservation and recreation of ancient artifacts. This field, known as experimental archaeology, grants us invaluable insights into Viking technologies and techniques. Drawing upon our understanding of Norse art motifs, we strive to create historically authentic Viking-style artifacts while also embracing the opportunity to innovate and produce unique contemporary pieces inspired by this rich cultural heritage.

Click Here For More Info:- https://z-rune.com/

Location:-

Warsaw office: Sejmu Chteroletniego 2/8,02-972 Warsaw, Poland

Kyiv office: Peremohy 89a/73 03-115,Kyiv, Ukraine

Social Media Profile Links:-

https://www.facebook.com/zrune.workshop/

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[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Israel's Stubbornness

1 "Hear ye this, O house of Jacob, which are called by the name of Israel and have come forth out of the waters of Judah, who swear by the name of the LORD and make mention of the God of Israel, but not in truth nor in righteousness; 2 for they call themselves of the holy city and stand themselves upon the God of Israel--the LORD of Hosts is His name: 3 I have declared the former things from the beginning; and they went forth out of My mouth, and I showed them; I did them suddenly, and they came to pass. 4 Because I knew that thou art obstinate, and thy neck is an iron sinew and thy brow brass, 5 I have even from the beginning declared it to thee; before it came to pass I showed it thee, lest thou shouldest say, Mine idol hath done them, and my graven image, and my molten image hath commanded them.' 6 Thou hast heard; see all this, and will not ye declare it? I have shown thee new things from this time, even hidden things, and thou didst not know them. 7 They are created now and not from the beginning, even before the day when thou heardest them not, lest thou shouldest say, Behold, I knew them.' 8 Yea, thou heardest not; yea, thou knewest not, yea, from that time that thine ear was not opened; for I knew that thou wouldest deal very treacherously and wast called a transgressor from the womb. 9 "For My name's sake will I defer Mine anger, and for My praise will I refrain for thee, that I cut thee not off. 10 Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction. 11 For Mine own sake, even for Mine own sake, will I do it; for how should My name be polluted? And I will not give My glory unto another. 12 "Hearken unto Me, O Jacob and Israel, My called: I am He; I am the First, I also am the Last. 13 Mine hand also hath laid the foundation of the earth, and My right hand hath spanned the heavens; when I call unto them, they stand up together. 14 "All ye, assemble yourselves and hear. Who among them hath declared these things? The LORD hath loved him; He will do His pleasure on Babylon, and His arm shall be on the Chaldeans. 15 I, even I, have spoken; yea, I have called him; I have brought him, and he shall make his way prosperous. 16 "Come ye near unto Me; hear ye this: I have not spoken in secret from the beginning; from the time that it was, there am I; and now the Lord GOD and His Spirit hath sent Me." 17 Thus saith the LORD, thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: "I am the LORD thy God who teacheth thee to profit, who leadeth thee by the way that thou shouldest go. 18 O that thou hadst hearkened to My commandments! Then had thy peace been as a river and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea. 19 Thy seed also had been as the sand, and the offspring of thy loins like the gravel thereof; his name should not have been cut off nor destroyed from before Me." 20 Go ye forth from Babylon! Flee ye from the Chaldeans! With a voice of singing declare ye; tell this, utter it even to the end of the earth; say ye, "The LORD hath redeemed His servant Jacob." 21 And they thirsted not when He led them through the deserts; He caused the waters to flow out of the rock for them; He cleaved the rock also, and the waters gushed out. 22 "There is no peace," saith the LORD, "unto the wicked." — Isaiah 48 | Third Millennium Bible (TMB) Third Millennium Bible, New Authorized Version, Copyright 1998 by Deuel Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 22:17; Genesis 24:48; Exodus 17:6; Numbers 24:7; Deuteronomy 4:20; Deuteronomy 5:29; Deuteronomy 9:7; Deuteronomy 9:24; Deuteronomy 32:26-27; Joshua 21:45; Nehemiah 9:30-31; Isaiah 11:2; Isaiah 13:4; Isaiah 41:2; Isaiah 42:9; Isaiah 44:8; Isaiah 57:21; Acts 7:51; Romans 2:17; Romans 4:17; Revelation 1:17; Revelation 18:4

[acim-ed-ortsac]

Blessed Creatures

 How long has it been for you, walking on this mortal world endlessly, watching every age, every evolution, every human race, every species of animal, every type of plant, you watched it all be born, grow, then fall. The humans deduced that the Earth is around a thousand years old, but you knew the truth since you’ve been walking on it for millions of years.

        You’ve had many friends whom you watched die from old age or from wounds too great or who have been unlucky and caught an illness with no cure. You’ve had many loved ones, all of who decayed with only you left standing. You wonder when is it your time to die since your life refuses to falter.

        You watched the last rays of the bright morning star that was bursting with light and heat before it cooled on the cold darkening waters that entail evening has arrived, now a wash of cool cobalt blue soon to turn its midnight shade. You took a bite of a corn cob you brought from one of the vendors in today’s farmer's market, “ Humans are very stubborn creatures, aren’t they?”

        Nothing responded to you, only a gust of wind decided to blow onto your skin and give you the shivers, despite the jacket you wore. The building you sat on was high enough to give you a great view of the land, it was a mural of little people and buildings that bustled with life, ready to turn in for the night.

        Suddenly, from one of the many shadows that the building formed, came a clawed hand stretched out to you, dark tattoo marks decorated it like warrior paint. From the grey clouds, the moon makes its appearance as it decided to reveal the intruder in your peace, 

        “Indeed, my little lamb,”

        You glanced at the now unveiled man, his mischievous smile of teeth laced with cruelty, his skin flickering from different skin tones; one moment he was of African color before it changed to a golden tan, finally, he decided on the ivory skin tone that only highlighted his black marks. They curled around him like snakes climbing a tree, swirls and swirls of it surrounding his body until it stopped past mid-neck, where a dark choker with the demonic pentagon was snuggly wrapped around.

        His blood-red eyes flickered in amusement as his stance was relaxed, shifting most of his weight on one foot. Pale blond strands tied into a small ponytail that flitted around in the wind. His dark grey muscle tee wasn’t thick enough for the cold, yet he seemed unbothered.

        “It’s been a good while, snake,” you said, patting beside you for him to sit.

        He took your offer.

        “Why the same look? I thought the Europeans were trying to make amends with the Indigenous. Or is it the Americans who made the African people into slaves?” you asked.

        “Well, there’s not a major evil running around right now. And any race can be evil at this point, also I like this look,” he said, grinning a bit.

        “They're not bad enough,”

        “Yet it’s those people who are shown on media, especially that Donald Trump guy.”

        “Touche,” you directed your eyes to the silver moon, shining whatever borrowed light it can have from the sun, “ Although, the world has become mixed in intentions, hasn’t it?”

        “It sure has,” his eyes glazed over to you,” How about you? Being the living representation of what’s good, your appearance hasn’t changed from centuries ago.”

        True, you haven’t changed your appearance since the last race that has been in need and were innocent, which were the native people of the colonized countries. You let a small smile lift your lips, you took the hand that was beside yours and lift it to your lips, “Well, representation of what’s evil, walking on this Earth for all these millenniums have made me somewhat. . .”

        A hand cupped your face, tilting it until you face his own that was unusually filled with love, something that no evil thing should feel, “What, my lamb.”

        “. . .Numb, I feel numb.”

        He pulled you to him, wrapping an arm around you and into his side, an embrace if you will. His breath tickled the hair that was there on your head, spreading warmth to your forehead, “I don’t blame you, walking this Earth for so long only to watch the rise and fall of every human race can be boring.”

        “. . . It makes me quite envious, actually,” you tilted your head into his neck, “ While they get to rest when their mortal bodies decay, we are made to walk on this Earth, not knowing when our time is.”

        “ I suppose,” he kissed your forehead, “Human, stubborn but blessed creatures.”

        You looked at your arms, seeing the white tattoos that littered your arms. When will you rest?

note: i made this while listening to digital dagger's 'still here'