#they all married young and believe its sinful to not marry and that there are 'biological consequences' if a woman doesnt give birth ever

[bxdtime-ceai]

I truly believe a spirit cursed (or blessed) me with always being different than everyone in my family

[eratosmusings]

Loyalty (I)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: the king decides it's time for his brother to produce more targaryen heirs. who better than another hightower daughter to carry them?

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, dubcon smut in later chapters, arranged marriage, abortion allusion (moon tea), coercion, terrible parenting

word count: 2.3k

dividers

“I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Viserys asks with an air of frigid humor. “Who are you to deny your king what he has commanded?”

Otto seethes, decades of practiced court manners faltering under the demand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is my daughter. I will not have her married off to a man whose love of violence and debauchery trails him like a shadow. She is a pious child. To marry her to Daemon is—“

“A blessing. She will marry a prince and a valiant knight.”

The other men at the table are silent. They'd expected talks of reinforcing the kingdom's claim on the Stepstones or of quelling rumors that had cropped up of Daemon corrupting his young niece in a brothel a year prior. The king commanding a marriage between Otto Hightower's youngest daughter—his only child from a tragically short second marriage—is an unpleasant surprise.

"He is already married."

Viserys gives a taut smile. "Daemon's marriage to Lady Royce has been annulled. By royal decree and with the blessing of the High Septon. It is in the best interest of Westeros that the Targaryen line remains vast and strong and it has been decided your daughter will do what Lady Royce did not."

Otto's face falls in disbelief. He's heard nothing of it. This had been set up to corner him. "She is a child."

"She is nearly four years older than Alicent was when we wed. The queen has proven your daughters are strong vessels for Targaryen children."

"It is different. She is different. She is not as strong as Alicent."

The king shakes his head. "I will hear no more discussion of this. She will wed Daemon and this feud between the two of you shall end once and for all.”

Alicent’s touch is feather-light as she takes hold of your hands. Her eyes wander across your form, taking in the exquisite ivory gown. Its crimson embroidered dragon along the skirt a special request from your soon-to-be husband. “You look beautiful, sister.”

You can say nothing to your half-sister, barely able to retain the tears brimming in silence. A fortnight was all you’d been given to prepare to wed the vilest creature in Westeros. Daemon Targaryen was all you could have ever hoped against in a husband.

Your father stands tall behind Alicent, head held high. "The image of the Maiden herself."

A choked sob escapes you at his words. This marriage was punishment by the Seven for every sin you'd ever committed. For the impure thoughts you'd had of knights. The white lies you'd spoken to save yourself the wrath of Septa Agerrea. The gambling you'd participated in when you’d bet your favorite embroidery needle in a game of cards with Lysa Tyrell. Had you only followed the Faith more faithfully, this torture would not be yours to endure.

“I believe it is time to take your place with the king, Your Grace,” your father says.

Alicent hesitates with glossy eyes. She draws you into a tight hug and whispers an apology and how much she loves you. You have the faintest memory of her wedding to the king a few years before. The happy sister who’d spent hours braiding your hair when the handmaidens failed to do it properly disappeared into a hardened queen round with child seemingly overnight. The smiles and giggles you’d shared daily turned to fond, distant memories. She withdraws a moment later, wiping at her face.

When the door shuts your father moves behind you. You watch in the ornate mirror as he drapes the green maidencloak of House Hightower across your shoulders. The new burden's weight feels uncomfortable.

He returns to stand before you, his expression sorrowful. "I am sorry, my sweet child, for this atrocity. You deserve far better.”

“I could have saved myself this fate had I been less worldly and become a Septa.” Your palm wipes at the tear that had fallen.

He cups your cheek. “Perhaps. But we cannot lament on what we could have done. Indeed we must focus instead on your duty to the realm.”

“To be a good wife,” you state. It was what he had raised you to be.

“No, sweet child,” he says softly, “I fear that I must ask something far more difficult of you. For your duty to the realm must supplant your duty in marriage.”

The wedding takes place in a haze. You tremble, stumble over words, and can not meet the eyes of your now husband nor the Septon. Soon you would betray them both.

For the good of the realm.

You do not eat or drink through the feast. You barely speak. You think you might have danced, though all you remember of it is a blurring background and an embroidered dragon that matches your own. It had stared at you accusingly.

“Shall I call for the bedding ceremony to begin, brother?” the king slurs loudly. If there had been anything in your stomach, it surely would have come out now. It was one vile thought to have him touch you. But to have other men undress you as well?

Your hand is pulled from your lap, enclosed in another twice its size, callous and rough against your skin. For the first time that day you look at your husband. You’d never seen him this close. The lavender gaze cannot have been of this world. It’s too vibrant, too knowing. “Too many of the men here have wandering hands. I’d hate to spill blood on such a blessed day.” His lips brush against your hand. “My sweet wife should not have to endure such tragedy.”

The king responds dismissively. Something of disappointing guests, but to do as he pleases. Daemon takes it as a dismissal and pulls you from your seat. The last thing you hear is the call from many about bloody sheets.

Perhaps the Mother has decided to take mercy on you. For you cannot breathe as the doors to the prince’s chambers close behind you. Death can take you before he can.

He stands in front of the fire, pouring some drink into a goblet. The flickering orange light suits him. Like he was born for flames. “You must relax. There is nothing for you to fear from me.” A lie. There was much to fear from him.

A booming knock echoes through the room.

“Enter.”

Two servants carrying trays of bread and fruit enter. Then they are gone just as swiftly. The door closes once more.

“You must eat,” he says, taking your hand once more and leading you to a small table. You sit and a piece of bread is offered. You take it and, after an expectant nod, take a bite. It’s still warm and soft. You take another bite. And another.

It’s gone quickly. Too quickly for a lady. A bowl of berries clatters softly in front of you. You pick at it slower, though not as slowly as you’d like. They are sweet. Perfectly ripe.

“Would you like some wine?”

Despite the juice of berries coating your tongue, your mouth is dry as you speak for the first time since you’d said your vows. “Yes, please.”

“So well mannered.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he raises his goblet and sips. He reaches over and sets it down beside the half-empty bowl. “I forgot to have them retrieve another cup.”

The crimson red liquid ripples. A challenge.

“You are very gracious, my Prince. Thank you.” You lift it by the stem and drink. It was stronger than you’ve ever had before. The taste takes you aback, coughing as it soaks your tongue. Hastily you set the cup back down.

"I take it you don't often indulge in Dornish Reds."

"No, never."

His head cocks to the side appraisingly. "I suppose such a thing has never been offered to you before. Not within the confines of your father's authority. He has given you a rather sheltered life."

A prickly heat seeps up your neck. "My father did not confine or shelter me. He has only ever guided me to live as virtuously as the Seven wished for all their children to live.”

“How very kind of him to not let you endure the same vices as himself.”

You blink, his words sinking in. The implication that your father is a drunkard stings. He isn't, but you don’t fight his accusation. Selfishly, you do not wish to defend your father. Instead, you pluck a berry from the bowl, hoping to end the conversation entirely.

"Are the berries quite good?"

You nod, not wanting to speak again.

"Might I have one?" When you go to pick up the bowl, he stops you. "Pick me out the best one."

The best one? The bowl is still half full. Which berry was the best? Would he be disappointed if you picked one he did not like? Or one that was not ripe enough? Not sweet enough? What would he do to you if he disliked the one you chose?

It was the largest blackberry that you finally settle on, prepared to hear how terrible the choice had been as you hold it out to him. He doesn't simply take it. He leans over the table, taking the berry and your fingers into his mouth.

The act is heinously intimate. It leaves you frozen and breathless as he pulls away, his eyes alight in devious amusement. "I'm not sure which taste I prefer. The berry's or your's."

Fire spreads across your cheeks. You flinch away, embarrassed. In the escape effort your arm knocks against the goblet. To your horror, it clatters against the table. The liquid sloshes across your front, staining the white gown.

The crimson seems to seep from your womb, condemning you for something you had yet to do. You paw at the stain as the chair clatters on the ground from the force with which you'd stood.

Tears brim in your eyes as it continues to spread.

“There's no need to fret. It is only wine.”

“I have desecrated it.” The tears have not stopped falling and your hands have not stopped scrubbing at it with your fingers. “The stain will never come out.”

“It is only a dress.” He cups your face, encouraging you to meet his gaze. It searches for some understanding.

He would never understand.

“I am so sorry, my Prince.”

He shushes you softly and places a kiss against your forehead. This was the monster? The vile, unholy beast whose every action was an affront to the Seven? This man who had shown you nothing but kindness?

You cry harder.

He is not the monster.

You are.

You aren’t sure how long you cry. But he holds you through it all. He speaks little more than a few consoling phrases, but it is more than you deserve. His presence, arms around you, kisses on your hair. All of it more than you deserve.

You’re finally calm, only left with sniffles, when he says, “We should get the dress to the washwomen before the stain sets.” What good would it do? The stain can never be removed from your soul. Still you agree and turn for him.

His fingers are swift as they loosen the strings of your bodice. Practiced. He is practiced. Behind closed doors you assume, but there were numerous tales of his public debauchery. It has been gossiped that he prefers the thrill of open affairs and touches of multiple women.

“Why did you refuse the bedding ceremony?”

He pauses. “Did you wish to have one?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But given your…tendencies I…I thought…” A quiet hum has your words trailing off.

His work continues, though slower. “You are not a whore in a brothel.”

“Neither is your niece and yet...”

Air blows across your neck as he chuckles. “Has my pious little wife been gossiping about the chastity of the Crowned Princess?”

Your lungs seize at the realization of what you’d just said. It’s treason. Questioning her virtue is treason.

“Relax, jaesa.” His hands slip between the shoulders of your shift and the loose gown, pushing the sleeves down your arms. “I took you under my protection today. You may speak freely to me.”

“I,” you hesitate, freeing your hands of the garment, “I had heard that a year ago you snuck the princess from the castle and—“

He bunches the fabric at your waist and tugs. “Had my way with her in some brothel?”

“Yes.”

The gown struggles for a moment, snagging on the curve of your behind. Another tug and it is a pile around your feet. “My niece wished to see King’s Landing. I showed her and returned her to the castle, still a fair maiden like yourself.”

“Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, my Prince.”

"It would do a great disservice to our union to begin it with lies." He prompts you to turn and hesitantly you do. He is shorter than your father, yet his presence is as commanding. More so. It makes you aware of how thin the fabrics of your shifts were when his gaze drifts down. "My niece's heart belongs elsewhere. As do my desires."

His touch is gentle as he cups your cheek, but the feeling's it stirred are rough and uncertain. Bordering on traitorous.

“Shall I call a servant to fetch the dress?” The words waver. You wonder if they’re comprehensible at all.

They are, it seems as he rejects the offer and slips out the door himself with the dress. The reprieve from his watchful, astute eye is welcome. You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed and recite the prayer your father had taught you minutes before you’d been led down the aisle.

Warrior, give me strength for what I must do. It is for the good of the realm.

Mother, forgive me for what I must do. It is for the good of your faithful servants.

Stranger, lead my children to peace. It is for the good of their innocent souls.

a/n: all your thoughts and reblogs are appreciated 🌺

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[poppyfamily]

hello no one asked but i brainrotted a bit over a charashamangela church choir/youth group au bc of That games video. thoughts under cut.

tw: minor religious trauma lol

Chanse and Angela growing up in the church. Each of their parents pushing them to be more active in the church through children's choir. Chanse probably starts earlier, maybe like a month before Angela. Chanse is the type of kid who their choir director had to be told to stop riffing because the purpose of a choir is to sound the same, Chanse. But Angela takes to him immediately and they become best friends.

They are eventually invited to join the church's youth ministry and they get so into it, probably dancing to One Way Jesus very enthusiastically. It's a staple for them to play Joseph and Mary during Christmas plays and are like super chill when facilitating prayer sessions. (They understand that people aren't necessarily there for Jesus or w/e but believe that the spirit of the ministry is to find Christ in one another or some shit).

They stay for a couple of years and manage to drag in Arasha, who goes to the same school as them. She's not Christian and is just there because she was sick of inviting them to do shit on Saturday nights only for them to say no and also for the vibes and free food.

Amanda comes in a little later and is forced by her mom to actually join because she was frequently getting into trouble so she'd rather just know that her daughter is praising the lord (or whatever the fuck goes down in youth ministry) on Saturday nights instead of swimming in people's pools or some shit idk. Becomes besties with Chanse, Arasha, Angela.

Making this about Amangela bc I can't help the way I am: Angela welcoming Amanda to the ministry because it's her job as one of its leaders and Amanda is obsessed with her immediately. Probably constantly inviting her to sit right next to her for Sunday service, surreptitiously holding hands during the Lord's Prayer, going out for ice cream together once Amanda gets her driver's license. Something something horny something something repressed, they end up regularly making out (and more?) in Amanda's car without really talking about the implications but they know they feel SOMETHING. Lots of Catholic guilt - but not being able to stop because it feels nice, because it feels right.

And because I like angst - Something something tension because Amanda starts being deprogrammed from Church rhetoric at some point. She still sees Angela doing the thing to appease all the old church ladies and pastors who give her a sense of self because it's really all she knows and are willing to offer her a scholarship for college so there is Even More Pressure.

But Amanda sees all this and sees just how much she's hiding who she is, feeling like she can't really call her out on it because they are Not. Together. Amanda also sees how this is hurting Angela, but Angela is just so young and so confused and just wants to do right by her family, by God, etc... Amanda starts feeling pain and resentment about it.

In my mind, the older active church members think Angela and Chanse are gonna end up together, get married and all that shit. Chanse and Angela never saw each other that way.

Chanse quits out of nowhere and people speak of him like they're speaking the devil's name, basically erasing all history of his contributions (because he's gay.) Amanda soon quits after, and basically stops speaking to Angela. Amanda and Chanse run into each other months later, make comments about not seeing each other in church anymore, and then they reconnect and become besties.

Arasha doesn't quit, she just stops attending because she becomes busy with college. It's just not the same because Chanse and Amanda aren't there. She doesn't really have an obligation to do so, but she still keeps in touch with Angela.

Arasha and Angela become roommates in college. And because this is the first time Angela experiences independence, she goes on a SIN rampage - secular (lmao) theater, drinking, drugs, sex (lmao). All the things the church loves to police. And she has an identity crisis about it, crying to Arasha about it even.

Arasha, not knowing where the fuck all this Christian guilt is coming from calls Amanda and Chanse for backup and it's the first time they all see each other in a while. They all commiserate in the dorm room and bond and it's beautiful.

Angela wakes up. Amanda, Chanse and Arasha remind her that she's worthy of love no matter what. Once Angela finally internalizes that, she unpacks all the ways she hurt herself and how she's hurt others. Angela and Amanda finally talk about the shit that went down between them. They apologize for hurting each other, and decide to try again with a better understanding of themselves.

And they all live happily ever after. The end.

[giorno-plays-piano]

House of Chains

Part VI

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x mage!reader

Warnings: noncon, yandere, obsession, canon-typical violence, chase scenes, death of minor characters.

Words: 1.4k

Summary: In return for help to come back to your home world, you have been faithfully supporting the Greens to put Aegon on the throne. But when your promise is fulfilled, neither Otto nor Aemond are keen on letting you go.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

P.S. Finally, the long-awaited twist!

_________

At first, Daemon's face betrays nothing as if he hadn't heard you. You think he might consider it a joke as anyone else probably would: you don't look like a lunatic, asking to be burnt by a dragon. Hell, you went as far as travel to Dragonstone, to the lair of your worst enemy, for this, somehow evading soldiers and Rhaenyra's supporters on your way. Daemon surely thinks there is some catch.

"So dramatic," he muses, making an imperative sign with his hand to make Caraxes quiet, the dragon restless behind his back, eager to have you between its teeth. "There are enough dragons in the Red Keep. Why mine?"

You feel yourself trembling, droplets of sweat sliding down your back from fear and pressure. No, no, you can't. You must stay firm, or it'll all go to Hell. Daemon should believe your lies.

"I am pregnant with Aemond's child," you declare, loud, the sound multiplying and echoing deep in the cavern, and Daemon's face finally changes, eyebrows raising. "He forced himself on me. His payment for all I've done for him and his brother, I suppose. And I better die in flames than work for him again."

Luce whimpers softly against you, a bit of blood staining his grey collar.

Before Daemon can ask you questions and ruin your story, you continue, "Why should you care? Because you don't want me alive. You know I'm not truly a Hightower, don't you?"

There's a recognition in his eyes, and Daemon bows his head mockingly as you draw a deep breath, griping the blade harder so it won't escape your sweaty palms.

"I am behind the murder of the White Worm and most of her spies," you smile, baring your teeth at him like an animal. "I killed Ser Harrold Westerling when I found out he supported Rhaenyra's claim, and many others who thought they could fake their promises to King Aegon II. I've been spying, torturing, and killing your wife's friends in the Red Keep for more than 2 years. But Hightower betrayed me, and I'd rather die than give birth to Aemond's child."

The more you talk, the more Daemon's face twists in cold fury, his hand clenching a torch like it was a sword. Does he believe you? It is, perhaps, difficult to trust a word of a woman who looked too young and too feeble to do any of those things, but you have arrived to the Dragonstone undetected and even took Lucerys hostage despite the castle being full of guards, lords, and servants. It isn't a coincidence, and Daemon has always been too suspicious of you, a girl appearing out of nowhere and serving the Queen with too much vigor.

The anger and a thousand of other emotions in his eyes give you some hope.

"Burn me, Daemon Targaryen." You exclaim loudly, trying to make him act, your hand trembling. "Send my charred remains to Aemond as a gift. I'm sure it is a fair price for the sins I've committed."

"Why going such a long way?" The man suddenly asks, and you freeze, afraid you won't answer his question. "You could have jumped from the balcony and killed yourself instantly."

You lick your lips nervously. "I could, and Aemond would grieve me. But when he knows I prefer to go to his greatest enemy and have my body burnt rather than marry him, he'll be enraged."

Finally, you see a ghost of a smile on the Rouge Prince's lips. Yes, this is violent, resentful enough, a good reason for him to believe you. Mysaria's murderer wouldn't want to die like a faint lady-in-waiting. She'd want revenge. She'd want her betrayer to hate, not mourn her.

Daemon makes a move with his hand, and Caraxes crawls closer. There isn't much for him to lose.

"Let the boy go, and I'll burn you," he simply says, and you are ready to burst from the surge of adrenaline, your heart beating wildly.

He said yes. Daemon said yes, and you'll be going home.

"But please, burn me for long!" You almost cried out, too excited to keep calm and almost releasing your grip on the boy. "Burn me till there are only bones left."

Lucerys weeps in your grasp, but you don't hear him. You don't even feel the handle of the dagger in your own hand, eyes on Daemon as he smirks, recognizing a fellow monster he thinks you are, a daring creature dressed in white cloaks's robes and armor that don't even fit you. It is impossible to not recognize a woman in men's clothes, and yet no one asked questions when you boarded the ship. No one saw anything suspicious when you landed. No one demanded an explanation why a woman was marching in the Dragonstone castle among the Kingsguard. No one saw you kidnapping Rhaenyra's son.

Perhaps it is true you murdered Misariya and her spies. He knew somebody did. You are sure he thought of Larys, the slippery bastard, but tracking down so many spies in such a short time seemed very unlikely for him without someone's intervention.

Someone who could point at the right people as if by magic.

Truly, you are a creature he would never understand, but Daemon is not a fool. Leaving a dark horse like you alive is too much of a luxury when you are conveniently asking for death right in front of him.

The man nods, and you gigle like a madwoman.

"I'll let Lucerys go on the count of three," you announce, and Caraxes steps closer, his monstrous, clawed feet leaving giant imprints on the ground, and you feel the earth tremble a little. "Shoot the flames then."

It's a horrifying feeling, but you are electrified, every part of your body filled with magic you saved for the last incantation. You are going home. You will be back to the Tower, free to join your teacher and family. No more gloomy stone castles with their ice-cold chambers and pesky kings. No more swords, heavy armor, pretentious dresses, and silly jewels. No more spying and murder.

No more Hightowers and Targaryens.

"I'm sorry, kid," you whisper to the boy before you start counting. "One. Two."

Luce stills against you, color drained from his face.

"Three."

You drop your dagger, and he dashes to the side, holding his neck as if it bleeds profusely, but you don't look at him. Your eyes are on Caraxes and how it unclenches its massive jaw, fire building up inside its throat like in a forge of a blacksmith. It should be enough. Caraxes is not a young dragon, and his strength might rival Vhagar's. It will be enough.

When it unleashes its flames, the words of the incantation are ready on your tongue, and you feel the glow filling you up like hot air fills a giant balloon. It's working. Caraxes' fire is enough.

You chant, and you chant, and you chant until the world starts spinning around you, and the cave, the dragon, and the men finally blend into the great nothing.

________

Subtle wind plays with your hair.

You stand in the midst of the dead gardens of Babylon, surrounded by hollow grey trees that had dried up a thousand years before you were born. Their crooked forms don't scare you: you are far too familiar with the view, wandering here after each of your trips to the other worlds. On the contrary, if anything, it is comforting.

You have arrived safely back to the world of the Tower. You can even see it from here, its tall, proud form making you tranquil and nostalgic.

Unbelievable. You are home.

You have to wipe away the tears with your dirty hands before you can take a step towards it. You've made it. Soon, you'll be sitting on the red and yellow pillows in the great hall, listening to your teacher berating you for such a dangerous journey, eating barley soop and garlic bread, and wearing a long embroidered tunic and your many necklaces and rings. You will never see Westeros again. You won't even step out of the Tower before you feel whole again, pulling your old self back piece by piece before you remember nothing of the stupid, cruel world you have been a prisoner for two long years.

You are free to do as you like.

But when you make a step towards the Tower, you hear someone's sigh behind your back. And when you turn your head, you see a man dressed in black leather who sits on the trunk of a fallen tree.

__________

Aemond Targaryen stares back at you, a crooked smile spread over his face.

Part VII

Tags: @heavenly1927 @yazzzmints @devils-blackrose @lost-and-founds @kennafild

[silverskye13]

talks to u

You will regret talking to me I'm very very sorry

So recently my sister has been reading out loud to me [it is very fun I wish I had someone to read out loud to] and the book she picked was Haunting on the Hill. This book was an absolute minefield of a read because it was advertised as a spiritual sequel to Haunting of Hill House and HOHH is probably one of the books I've been the most emotionally invested in ever. Mostly because I see people take the book and Try To Do It Better constantly, and they do it wrong over and over and over again. I don't know how this became My Hill To Die On, but no one can do a remix of the genre right, especially those that pretend like they're trying to.

Hell House, for example, a book that I hate with my entire being, was a very intentional stab at HOHH. It took the trope of four people -- one a slightly older gentleman who is doing research on the property -- two women -- who is a lonely homebody, and one who is a (implied) bisexual psychic -- and one younger man about their age who has some Obvious Substance Abuse Problems, and sets them in a haunted house to try and figure out why its haunted. The author then spends the rest of the book punishing those characters for obvious perceived societal slights. The old man's sin is being old, and dies because he isn't virile and strong enough to withstand the house [unlike the young male protagonist]. The psychic is punished for believing she is psychic, being a confident woman who lives alone, and being implied bisexual [this is evident in the nature of her death, which I won't share here. It's fucking bad]. Then after these characters die, the white male savior comes back, something to do with the old owner of the house haunting it with his willpower, in a closet with a glass of water? It made no sense. But the metaphor the book was obviously leaning towards was, the Good Guy can win and get the girl if he has strength of mind, is vaguely psychic [but better than the psychic lady obviously] and fucking stands around long enough while his friends are killed.

House on the Hill, which should have been marketed as a reference to Hill House and not as a spiritual successor, is a passable haunted house book that attempts to remix the story by making all of the main characters theater kids. There is an older lady who has been ousted from her community for being too old, the young woman main protagonist who is the Ellie parallel, the Theadora parallel is her girlfriend, a bisexual actress who is maybe a little too full of herself, and their single male character has a substance abuse problem involving cocaine instead of alcohol, like Luke from the original book. The author even seems to have grasped some of the original intention of HoHH as a conversation about isolation and loneliness. However about halfway through the book, it takes a turn and seems to punish Theadora for being the character she was written as, in the same way Hell House punished its Theadora allegory character. The rest of the book proceeds with a lot of standard haunted house tropes -- not a bug exactly, but they don't reinforce any extended metaphor. They're mostly there to be spooky. Which would be fine for a standard haunted house book, but not for a haunted house book that claims its the sequel to HoHH.

You see, Haunting of Hill House, and by extension, Shirley Jackson, the author, have a very subtle but also deeply impactful metaphor about loneliness going on in the background, and everything from the haunted house to the fallout of the characters reemphasizes this theme.

Ellie, Eleanor, is an exhausted housewife-style woman in the 1960s, whose never gone anywhere or done anything with her life, because instead of marrying and moving across the country somewhere, she stayed home to take care of her ailing mother. Now that her mother is dead, she lives with her sister and brother-in-law, and believes herself to be a general tax on the family. She fills stuck, alone, unloved and unwanted. The story is in her point of view, and you quickly realize her way of coping with her trapped feelings involves fantasticizing the world around her. She dreams of who she would be if she just lived over there in that little cottage, how differently her life would turn out if she had a cute little life in that one room house. Etc. When she accepts the summons to Hill House, she steals her brother in law's car and drives there on her own, her first trip alone anywhere in her entire life.

Theadora is a psychic who, if I'm remembering right, lives alone and owns a flower shop. She lives a much more interesting lifestyle than most women in the 60s, in a big city with many different friends and lovers coming and going, completely independent. There is an implication that she has trouble keeping interpersonal relationships -- she's a little too flighty -- and really a woman who can't settle down with a man is a red flag.

Doctor Montague seems fine on the surface, if a little jaded. He's a professor at university who is being slowly pushed out of his scientific field because he believes in the supernatural, and wants to prove it using empirical evidence. You find out his wife is very supportive in this venture -- too supportive. He thinks all of her contributions are nonsense, and so is she. His loneliness is self inflicted. He has a fan club right there with his wife, if he gave two shits about her opinions.

Last is Luke, an alcoholic, and the person in line to inherit Hill House. His loneliness is that he, doesn't want the fuckin' house. But because of his alcoholism and gambling problems, the family has decided he, as the cursed child, gets to take care of the cursed mansion no one else wants to touch. So Luke, ostracized from the family and a little shitty about it, decides he might as well rent out the place for some extra cash to fuel his various addictions. The family is going to be cutting him off soon anyway...

These four characters, over the course of Hill House, become haunted by the house, not because of tragic deaths there, or because the house is alive in any literal sense of the word. But because the House has the quality of an overbearing mother, smothering its children with its expectations. Any piece of furniture moved in the place is replaced as soon as they leave the room. Any door opened to allow air or light inside is shut the minute they walk into the next. The house rights itself back to a self-inflicted perfection that is unlivable, and it wants to isolate you too, to be like it. Hill House tells you exactly what it is and what it wants to do in the first paragraph: And all who walk there, walk alone.

Shirley Jackson wrote this very intentionally. As a woman in the 60s trying to have a successful writing career, none of her books were taken seriously. She was pigeonholed into mother and housewife first. Articles that wrote about her works at the time held the patronizing tone of someone congratulating a child who found a new hobby -- not a serious writer wanting to make poignant stories. Her books are lovely now, the few that were published. But Shirley Jackson lived a life that was full of anxiety and agoraphobia, in a world where she felt belittled and token. Her books are written the way they are for a reason. There is great loneliness in being shoved in a box.

I really love that exploration. I love how the people in the book descend into the box of Hill House, the expectations they place on each other, and the way all the women feel tonally dissonant in their token roles. And that's why I hate so many modern adaptations, or inspired-bys, or spiritual sequels. Hill House is a metaphor before it's a ghost story -- and that is why it succeeds as a ghost story! It is scary because you get invested in the characters' wellbeings, their doomed qualities, their individual, very subtle, madnesses. Watching new writers read the book and punish those characters over and over again for not acting right [especially Theadora, Jesus Christ.]

In fact, since I'm already ranting, I'm going to give you a quick rant in defense of Theadora.

Theadora breaks into the book as a very bright star in Ellie's world. She is, literally, everything Ellie wishes she could be. She lives an interesting life, alone, without being too cripplingly lonely. Theadora, used to a little bit of flirting and over friendliness, falls in with Ellie and Luke immediately. She is charming, and bright and beautiful, and Ellie, who's character flaw is romanticizing everything, falls head over heels for her. They get scared together. They comfort each other when the ghosts start acting up. They get haunted together. And Ellie decides, in the way of someone romanticizing something, when all this is over, she would like to live with Theo. But when she tells Theo this, Theo laughs it off. "This is just a holiday, Ellie dear. We will have to get back to our lives eventually." It's unfair to say this is a game for Theadora. I feel like her feelings in the book, all her charm and her flirting, are genuine. But they're genuine in the way of someone going on vacation and flirting around with the people they meet -- she has a normal life she enjoys that she plans on getting back to. Ellie, who is incredibly alone, and who feels like she has only just tasted happiness now that she's come to Hill House, doesn't want to go back home after this. This is the happiest she's ever been.

Ellie informs Theo she is going to follow Theo home, and Theo turns very, very mean. She starts hitting much harder on Luke [something that makes Luke uncomfortable, but something he never really stops, because Luke also likes the attention he's getting] and belittling Ellie and her wild fantasies. She pushes Ellie away. It isn't kind, but what else can she do? She told Ellie she doesn't want to be followed home and Ellie, trapped in her daydreams, doesn't listen.

The rest of the book unfolds. Hill House isolates Ellie, and makes her feel like she can have no happiness outside its smothering walls. She gets taken by it.

In every book that takes on the mantle of trying to tackle the themes that made Hill House great, I would like to ask you all this: Why do they always punish Theo?

Hell House straight up kills its Theo allegory in a very brutal, overt way, implying she deserves that brutality for her promiscuity. The House on the Hill kills its Theo for being too full of herself, for believing she was entitled to greatness.

Why?

You can make a case for the queer aspects of her probably. Or for misogyny. Or for infidelity. Or for the fact that she appears to choose Luke over her relationship with Ellie. But I notice none of these books punish their Ellie allegory for also falling for Theo. For also aspiring to be something other than a stuffy housewife somewhere. For also falling for Luke, and wanting him to be a part of her happiness fantasy.

In honesty, I really think these authors read Theo and think she's the antagonist. So they write their stories to punish the angry woman who was mean to poor, lonely Ellie. But, here's the kicker, Theadora isn't the antagonist. The house is. Loneliness is. The house leads Ellie to a perfect world, and Ellie, who is the way that she is, cannot fathom a world where that perfection is broken, so she ignores it. So she scares people with her over-attachment. So they try to send her away, because whatever is going on with her, it's not safe and it needs to stop. So she decides she would rather die than leave.

Theadora is only "the bad guy" because she's the one that reminds everyone that the fantasy of this perfect house must break eventually. The Doctor will have to go back to his university that doesn't take him seriously and his wife who takes him too seriously. Theadora will have to go back to her shop with her rotating friends who aren't as close as she'd like, but whom she can't force to stay. Luke will have to go back to his place as the unwanted, failing heir and Eleanor --

Well. Eleanor doesn't leave Hill House.

Everyone gets so mad at Theodora because of Ellie's investment in her. Because Ellie is lonely, and sad, and relatable. The first time I read Hill House, some of Ellie's lines made me want to cry they hit so close to home. All her assertions that when she spoke to people she said too much and was too stupid, she would be better tomorrow. All her quiet chastisements that she needs to be more interesting. All her attachments and how scared she is of being spurned. All her wonder when she looks around at the world and tries to imagine a better life. But it's not Theodora's fault that Ellie doesn't get that. It's Ellie's fault for becoming too attached to something that isn't there, and it sucks, and if this were a story with a happy ending, she would realize that and grow past that, but she doesn't. That's not how the story is written.

On one of the nights when the haunting happens, Ellie and Theo are sharing a room. They are laying in bed and holding hands while the house comes alive around them. Knocking on the walls. Slamming doors. Claws, and whispering, and scraping and screaming. Ellie and Theo hold each other's hands tightly. She hears the torturous sounds of a baby in the other room, a child in pain, screaming for its mother, and she's terrified and she's holding tight to Theadora's hand.

And finds, when the haunting stops, that Theo was out of reach the whole time.

Ellie asks, who's hand was I holding?

[The Haunting of Hill House is a metaphor.]

One of these days I'm going to sit down and write the Haunting of Hill House remake in my head, that I am just egotistical enough to believe I could do well. I would find a more modern metaphor first. Something to do with the loneliness of an infinitely interconnected world. Something to do with how boxed in we all feel, how trapped, and how so many people blame it on computers, even though they should be able to connect us more.

I would build a Hill House where the four characters meet on a forum, the first time they've found someone with similar interests. They would meet in person for this haunting expedition. They too would take in the oddness of a house that rights itself on its own, pretends they were never there. They two would fall in love with each other, and bond, and find community in a group of people who are constantly isolated and are glad to finally find someone they relate to.

They too would have to dear with the objective, lonely horror of realizing this doesn't magically fix their problems. That they were alone in the rest of their lives not just because the world isolated them, but because they're bad at forming connections. They would get catty, and disagree, and worry about the lives they need to go back to, and complain about spouses and partners. And one of them, as is Hill House's tithe, wouldn't be able to cope.

One of them, as is Hill House's tithe, wouldn't be able to leave.

Anyway, not sure where exactly this rant was going. Uh. Nice Sunday we're having anon. Got any niche special interests you've been meaning to unload recently?

[fangsforiris]

Chasing Shadows

Prompt: Another Love a Lifetime Ago, Dearest Dead, Mourning.

Person: Yui Komori x Female

HC’s:

TW: Talks of Pedophilic Behaviours, Stockholm Syndrome, Abuse, Neglect, etc.

If you are uncomfortable, exit out please !!

🕰️ Before the house, Yui had a crush/situationship/relationship with a girl.

🕰️ Yui definitely suffers from comphet.

🕰️ She’s a lesbian suffering from comphet, or at least a bisexual— leaning preference towards women and very little men.

🕰️ However, based on all the routes with all the boys, and her only developing an actual romantic attraction due to Stockholm Syndrome (mainly by a purely psychological approach to her conditioning, then eventual development— as well as the heavy abuse she as placed under to get to the select boys’ character development,) I’d say she’s a lesbian.

🕰️ Her entire life she was surrounded by men who asked a lot of her, and controlled her day to day routine.

🕰️ Her father canonically neglected her a lot when she was a child, leading her to gather household skills by a young age to sustain herself.

🕰️ She has an iffy relationship with her father, as she tries to speak well of him. However his sketchy— borderline pedophilic— behaviours towards her are questionable at best.

🕰️ She was heavily conditioned her entire life, unknowing of what her truth was other than what happened to be force fed to her.

🕰️ Yui would question her religion in secret. Mainly because of her conflicting sexuality, and Seiji’s influence.

🕰️ She’d find herself conflicted, as she’s never once had a crush on a man. Never felt the feelings the nuns would present to her. Nothing.

🕰️ Instead, it’d be for a woman. Which would instantly throw her for a loop.

🕰️ Cue the HEAVY Religious Trauma.

🕰️ Yui would pray to be ‘normal’ because she was afraid that she was cursed.

🕰️ She’d been told her entire life what happened to be ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ So why was it now, that her happiness was considered a sin in the eyes of the lord…?

🕰️ It would take a ravenette woman to change that, or at least allow Yui to understand that it’s okay, and normal.

🕰️ She’d meet her beau whilst in the alley ways in Romania after sneaking out.

🕰️ Yui would tell you that, that night was the first time she felt truly alive.

🕰️ Her heart pounded, adrenaline to it’s all time high, her cheeks stained in a pinky-blush.

🕰️ I’d like to think that Yui has anxiety, or just high stress and ability to stress easy— but hides it well.

🕰️ Hence, nicotine.

🕰️ Yui 100% smokes, especially when she’s stressed. Even more so when suddenly moving in with the vampiric families she’d find herself acquainted with.

🕰️ So, there Yui was, smoking in the alleyway, when she meets her.

🕰️ Long black hair, reaching hip length and curled at its ends. Lime green eyes that stopped rooms and froze even the largest of crowds. She was beautiful, she was ethereal— coming out of an old 1950’s vintage movie, Yui knew she was home.

🕰️ Some would say that the woman fell first, and Yui fell harder due to her dwindling faith. But Yui would say otherwise. They both knew otherwise.

🕰️ Yui fell first, and then fell even harder.

🕰️ The woman? As she laid eyes on the blond, she knew she would be sticking around.

🕰️ Yui was never one for love at first sight, as all her given descriptions were supposed to be with a man, she could never gaslight herself to find the appeal.

🕰️ But that night… Yui couldn’t tell if it was the way the moon shone down, or the way the woman looked like an ethereal being from the heavens and hells. But one thing was for certain. For once, she believed.

🕰️ Yui knew that she’d love this woman for this life and the hundreds of other ones they’d share.

🕰️ She would wait, despite her reservations of her faith, she knew that she would never love anyone the way she loved this girl.

🕰️ Yui didn’t want to find another, not when the one she’d marry was right in front of her.

🕰️ It didn’t take long for them to share the cigarette Yui was casually taking in. And it didn’t take long for Yui to become a giggling mess at the woman’s jokes.

🕰️ Time stopped, and perhaps it was that, that made the two’s meetups become more frequent.

🕰️ They’d go to the late night carnivals, walk alongside the alleyways, and go on small dates— all in secret of course.

🕰️ In fact, on one late night carnival date, the two would find a photo booth, where they’d share their first kisses.

🕰️ Yui still keeps the pictures with her.

🕰️ The woman would play the piano for Yui, and even teach her a few songs.

🕰️ They would always gift each other flowers on their late night dates. Always surprising each other with what they came up with.

🕰️ Even going as far to see who’s bouquet of flowers matched the theme of their date the best.

🕰️ It would go on for a few years, with them meeting around when Yui was 13, and until Yui was 15-16, would they stop.

🕰️ The reason? The woman would get killed by the church, all on Seiji’s orders. As if to teach Yui a lesson.

🕰️ She’d be exorcised. A formal exorcism to be taken place in one of the church’s basements. And by Seiji’s orders, would Yui be forced to watch.

🕰️ The woman would smile at Yui, despite the pain, and Yui would stand there, next to her father, as the love of her life was killed.

🕰️ Yui’s Lovers’ last words were simple, sweet, yet soul crushing.

🕰️ “You’ll do wonders, Yui.”

🕰️ After it was done, Seiji would pass Yui by, before muttering one last remark at her.

🕰️ “Understand, that this is what shall come to pass when you entertain the devils sin. You, too, shall be cleansed.”

🕰️ To this day, Yui could never fill the hole in her heart. The place that the woman left was infillable. She didn’t want anyone to become the next.

🕰️ In fact, Yui partially blames herself. For not being too careful, for letting her pride get the best of her. For choosing herself for once.

🕰️ The night before her lover would be killed, she suggested to run away. Just the two of them. It was still in the alleyway where they first met, and would they still share a cigarette and more.

🕰️ Yui would be hesitant. Especially about her father and other underlying factors.

🕰️ Yui would live with that regret for the rest of her days, constantly replaying that moment in her mind.

🕰️ To this day, Yui wishes she ran away. At least then, her lover would be alive and well, and they’d be happy. Hell, she’d be happy.

🕰️ I’d like to this the woman Yui was far too in love with for her own good could’ve been a human, or possibly a vampire.

🕰️ Thus making her first experiences with vampires lighthearted. And something to want and care about.

🕰️ Unlike the current, she’d reflect on the woman and not care as much as she’d realize that vampires and those of the supernatural can be good and are like any other people with goals, motivations, and aspirations.

🕰️ I’d also think that the vampire lover would be an aristocrat, further pushing how Yui can see the good in others and how her lover was different.

🕰️ it was ironic though, as what is a mortal to do when their immortal lover is dead and gone. Buried in an unmarked grave.

🕰️ Normally, it’s the immortal lamenting, so Yui always finds ways to mask the pain with this idea.

🕰️ Yui would constantly place white chrysanthemums on her lover’s grave. Which represent mourning, love, and eternal rest.

🕰️ Along with white babys breath, which symbolize everlasting love.

🕰️ I suppose it goes to show that even in death, Yui will mourn and love her immortal or mortal lover.

🕰️ Yui was the sun, and her lover, the moon.

[pinkestlittlebutterfly]

Chapter 136 is out and while it’s generally smart to wait for a translation to say anything Deep about it I’m just Not Going To Do That and simply put a disclaimer right here at the beginning of my ramblings to tell all of you that everything I say might be incorrect and to please take it with a grain of salt. 

Anyways among the many, many things this chapter reveals I want to talk about Lily’s preferences regarding Puccini’s operas. 

Again provided that my wonky attempts at understanding didn’t fail me, in these panels Lily tells Misono about how Mikage used to take him to see Puccini’s operas, and how, allegedly, Mikage liked “Madama Butterfly”, but Lily preferred “Turandot”. Strike Tanaka loves their literary references, of course, and I love talking about Lily, so let’s take a look at those works. 

Summarised very shortly, “Madama Butterfly” is the tale of Ciocio-san, referred to as Butterfly, married to an American at a young age, who desires her for her beauty. When he abandons her for three years, she holds onto her love for him, until he returns with his new, American wife, which prompts her to kill herself in despair. “Turandot”, on the other hand, tells of the cruel, cold-hearted princess of the same name, who swore an oath to only marry a man who solved her three riddles and have those who fail beheaded. Over the course of her story she is challenged by a young prince who answers her riddles but ultimately places his life in her hands, until she eventually falls in love with him. 

Both of these stories are much more complex than that, of course, but summarising them properly would go way beyond how long I wanted this post to be and I will just recommend you check them out if you haven’t yet. The point I want to make is that both “Madama Butterfly” and “Turandot” are, at their core, stories about love: Butterfly believes in love with her whole heart but finds hers empty and worthless, while Turandot rejects love until she sees it at its most strong and gives in to it, granting her a happy end. Love is misery and grief to Butterfly, but salvation to Turandot. 

In chapter 136, Lily also talks about love when Misono calls him out on how he is not being very true to his name “All of Love”, suggesting that despite his stance of “everyone is born to be loved” back in volume four, he never really believed in love in the first place and only ever stood for loveless lust. 

That is, again, assuming I read this part correctly. 

But Lily prefers “Turandot” to “Madama Butterfly”, he prefers the story of a love so warm and true it melts the princess’ ice heart to that which – at least with how he presents himself in this chapter – should be much closer to how he feels about it all. And it might just be mentioned in a throwaway line, but I think it was placed in this chapter on purpose. I think that Lily, like most of us, likes stories that are not about how he thinks the world is, but how he wishes it to be – Lily wants to believe in a love like that Turandot experienced, even as he tries to deny it. 

This is also not the first time that “Turandot” is brought up. “Turandot” is the name of the spell Lily is using to keep himself and Misono trapped on the chess board; the first technique that Misono developed upon becoming Lily’s Eve. In a way, the princess Turandot becomes reminiscent of how Lily positions himself in the game the two of them are playing – a cold-hearted creature, unyielding to love, and cruel in how he rejects it. 

But I think there’s a little Butterfly in him as well.

We don’t know a lot about Lily’s backstory yet, and I am really mostly speculating at this point, but as it’s been with Kuro and Ildio and Hugh, to become a Servamp one’s body must be primed by sin. Like Butterfly, I think Lily has been the victim of loveless lust once – it’s just that he didn’t get the luxury of dying. He became Turandot, somewhere along the way, and how it happened is (hopefully) for the coming chapters to reveal. 

Turandot found love to soften her heart in the end, and I think Lily will be able to do the same. He already has a prince to challenge him, after all. I don’t think he’s being all that honest with Misono, I think he’s trying to rile him up, to inspire hate and rejection, but Misono has grown strong and smart enough to figure him out. And I honestly can’t wait to see it. 

[karatekels]

Solar Flare – Prologue

Hey y’all – welcome to the Valek fic that I’ve been wanting to write since all the way back in August of last year! I’ve been polishing up the ideas and developing some new characters (this is my first time writing an OC as a love interest!) as well as looking forward to some returning characters (*eyes Cassandra*), and I’m hoping this will be the fic that gets me back into the writing frame of mind. With that, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: As vampires become a growing problem and the number of Slayers dwindles, the Catholic Church decides to perform another ‘miracle’, attempting to create a weapon that will be able to find the despicable creatures in any and all shadows that they may hide. Similarly to the botched exorcism of Jan Valek, the experimental ceremony that Rose Hanlon undergoes doesn’t go exactly as intended, and she escapes the city with a set of abilities she doesn’t even understand.

TW: [this chapter] relatively vague descriptions of violence and abuse

TW: [for the fic; may change as I write] blood-drinking and other vampirism fun, graphic violence, graphic sex, abduction, abuse, threats

---

Solar Flare

Prologue: Syzygy

---

From the journal of Father Killian…

July 27th, 1998

We’ve received news that yet another team of Slayers has been decimated, torn apart and massacred just north of Sicily. Our numbers are dwindling like never before, and the clergy have become desperate for a solution. The Diaconate of Monteriggioni has spent countless hours researching, trying to determine a solution that will allow us to hold them off while our numbers return; we need more soldiers to wield God’s Light. The Archbishop has granted permission to use any means necessary to fend off these attacks, and their leading suggestion certainly pushes that permission to the limits of His clemency.

It began with research into the Old Rites. After all, the Primogen of their monstrous ilk, Jan Valek, was a result of a misbegotten exorcism – why not pursue a similar avenue to try to atone for the sins of our past? This train of thought led our scholars to a series of old Germanic texts, the eldest of which preceded vampirism by several decades, and to a binding ritual intended for relics. Such a blessing would allow for relics to be traceable should they be stolen, so that we need not live in fear of losing these precious symbols of our faith. It was one of the youngest parishioners that suggested the ritual be performed on a human, allowing them to seek out evil like a beacon and lead our Slayers right to their nests.

The peak of the Perseid meteor shower in two weeks’ time will be the ideal time to perform the necessary rites according to Father Lorenzo. The Tears of Saint Lawrence returning to Earth every summer is already a celestial blessing, and with the shower’s radiant approaching Cassiopeia more than it has in centuries, this will only strengthen the binding of this blessing to its vessel.

All that remains now is to find one.

---

August 10th, 1998

The past days have had Monteriggioni in a frenzy. Staving off attacks, finalizing the plans for the ritual, and finding a vessel… This last step proved by far the most difficult, as they needed to be descended from the Crusaders, grown but not an active Slayer, someone useful for the role but not expendable should things go… awry.

Jeremy Hanlon came to me a week ago with an option, just when we were starting to think that all hope may be lost. Hanlon, a fifth-generation Slayer with both family lines tracing back to the Crusaders, suggested his daughter as the vessel. The young woman, Rose, has long posed a problem within the city’s walls and to her family, rejecting the tenets of our community and refusing to train as a Slayer or to marry a man of similar lineage to continue the bloodline. Hanlon has spent the better part of her lifetime trying to atone for the sins of his daughter, and believes that this opportunity is the road to her salvation as well as our own. Despite the woman’s violent reluctance, we have run out of time to pursue other avenues, and as an unmarried woman, her father has retained custodial rights as is customary with our laws, and has agreed on her behalf.

Fortunately the ceremony is to take place tonight, during the peak of the Perseid shower. The sunset can’t come soon enough; the intensity of her ire rattles the very stones of the vestry in which she is being kept.

---

August 16th, 1998

The ceremony was performed, and we have spent a week with the vessel in relative isolation as Rose continues to be… resistant. At the very least, it has allowed us to gradually determine the success of the ritual and the limitations of her new abilities.

On the second day, we were able to use a captured thrall to conduct an experiment, moving the vile creature into the rooms surrounding her own. Without fail, she was able to detect what room the vampling was located in through a feeling she described as an itch that needed scratching. This bodes well for her intended purpose, and it is expected that a more aged or powerful vampire will elicit a stronger sensation, thereby enabling the Slayers to identify the most imminent threat during a pursuit.

A more serious issue arose yesterday. Rose is compelled to obey a direct command from a member of the clergy, as enforced by the use of certain runes during the ceremony, and this has held true for the most part. She will perform simple tasks and answer questions asked of her as instructed, but it would appear that there was a mistranslation with the runes that has led to her obeying vampires as well. The same thrall used for her previous days’ training was brought into her cell to test Rose’s capacity to destroy the foul creatures. Initially she attempted to fight off the compulsion to serve her purpose and exterminate the abomination, but looked to be conceding until the thrall asked her for help.

We lost three good priests last night; she tore into them like they were made of paper. Her strength and speed have definitely been elevated beyond a normal human’s capacity, though not to the level of the vampiric. There is some concern amongst the Scholars that a vampire would be able to supersede our own commands if they knew it would be effective, but if we can make her amenable to our pursuits, it should not pose a legitimate threat in practice.

In the name of the Father, let her soul settle into this new role, so that she may guide us to our Salvation.

---

August 19th, 1998

She’s gone. Rose has escaped.

The security tapes showed her clearly trying to commit suicide to no avail – she has been made to endure, after all. Furious, she tore a leg off of the bedframe and pounded her way through the hinges on the door. Further cameras had shown her tearing through the halls and disappearing into the catacombs without a trace.

We have sent for one of the strongest remaining regiments of Slayers from their base in New Mexico; they are our only hope of retrieving Rose so that we may make the necessary adjustments to her blessing and stand a chance against the ever-growing threat of the vampiric race.

Not only do I fear for the vessel and what she represents, but for the girl as well. We cannot be certain that we have seen all of her abilities at work, or identified any newly created weaknesses, and she could be in greater danger than she knows. Should a lesser man of the cloth – or, God forbid, a vampire – stumble upon her and learn of their powers of persuasion over her, I shudder to think of what fate might befall her.

Our Lord works in mysterious ways; let this turn of events be a blessing in disguise.

---

Syzygy refers to three celestial bodies appearing in a straight line – In this case, we’ve got Valek, Rose, and Jack!

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 / 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 : 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎         ━ Triggering Content Ahead: Please Proceed with Caution ━

As the firstborn son to Bran and Palila Baudelaire, Robin was born on the fateful day of June 28th, 1788, amidst torrents that drenched Suffolk ( it was, after all, the wettest day ever recorded in the city). However he was not to stay here within the bustling world of man but in the quietude of a small, unnamed town in the open fields of Northumberland. The world was the same as it always was, and men like Bran rarely found the comforts of family; the Baudelaire household was an oddity to say the least. It was even more infrequent for men of Bran's occupation to ever settle and marry; Sin Eaters were the dredges of society after all — vilified but needed — a necessary evil in the eyes of many within the Northern English countryside. Most would not want to marry a monster. Yet the boy's days were painted with the colors of nature and the woodland — gardening beneath the watchful eye of his mother, hunting in the trees along his father's side, and nurturing a bond with his siblings, Wren and Linette. He did not understand, in his young age, why the world gazed upon them with such scorn.

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently dead person, thus absolving the soul of the person. Many funerals were attended by a professed "sin-eater," hired to take upon him the sins of the deceased. By swallowing bread and beer, with a suitable ceremony before the corpse, he was supposed to free it from every penalty for past offences, appropriating the punishment to himself. Sin Eaters were not often the study of academia due to their shrouded and often reviled existence; Abhorred by the superstitious villagers as a thing unclean, the sin-eater cut himself off from all social intercourse with his fellow creatures by reason of the life he had chosen; he lived as a rule in a remote place by himself, and those who chanced to meet him avoided him as they would a leper. This unfortunate was held to be the associate of evil spirits, and given to witchcraft, incantations and unholy practices; only when a death took place did they seek him out, and when his purpose was accomplished they burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption. ( Funeral Customs by Bertram S. Puckle ; 1926 )

As was tradition, Robin Altus Baudelaire learned his destined profession at the tender age of innocence, when his eyes were still round with light and his cheeks like apples. Bran was a man of unwavering faith and often spoke of the virtues of piety and mercy, imparting the belief that to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others mirrored the divine compassion of Christ. Martyrdom became a beautiful thing to the boy, and while the townsfolk remained blind to their struggles, Robin's heart held firm to the conviction that when the world crumbled beneath time's weight, they would understand the grace that had granted them passage into Heaven’s hold. Perhaps then they would be able to look upon the family without such reckless hate. A lofty dream. Still, despite the leers and glowers, nestled on the fringes of a quaint village, their small home stood as a refuge against the wild forests just beyond the horizon of the ebbing grass sea, of their neighbors' contempt.

Life was peaceful, despite its hardships, and Robin's heart never emptied, even if some days his stomach would. However, a brutal winter in 1800 swept through, and with it came an unseen terror — almost certainly the greatest calamity of his time — riding upon the winter winds was Father Death cloaked in white. One night, Linette, Robin's beloved sister, coughed blood across her pillow. It was the beginning of the end. She would be the first to fall, and as the silver moon waxed and waned, the Baudelaire family succumbed one by one to the relentless grip of the disease, decaying from the inside out. All except their eldest son, who was now tasked with the perilous journey into the town they served — a place buzzing with life and commerce, and worst of all, man. He was instructed by his father to venture forth to the apothecary to fetch cod liver oil and turpentine, remedies with the potential to stave off consumption. For as long as it could, anyway.

But aged only twelve and without the ability to read the delicate labels of the vials lining the shelves, Robin found himself at a loss when crossing through the apothecary's aisles — and in a moment of desperation, he asked the owner for help. But the moment he spoke, the atmosphere shifted and icy fingers crawled their way up Robin's spine. The Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, their hair shimmering like moonlight-woven thread, and as such horrible rumors clung to their presence and haunted their steps. Chatter coursed through the two other clerks quickly, suspicion twisting their gazes as they recognized the boy’s lineage. Unease simmered; for now the question was why the Robin had truly traveled into town. His kin oft came in the wake of death; so what foul omen was he? Fear was always eager to fester within men when confronted with the unknown, and upon hearing the medicines he requested, it ignited within the shop and spread like flame to dry grass. The apothecary provided the boy with the necessary ailments, as he'd very politely asked, but not without paying a heavy toll. For now the men within the village knew that Father Death loomed over the Baudelaire home, ready to ride their gasping moans further into the town and poised to claim what was rightfully His … and such things could not be ignored.

Ultimately, their home was a mere transient stop on the Grim's remorseless journey — a stepping stone marked by the stench of a lingering malevolence; they were diseased rats who had come to chew festering wounds along the shire's wintry and pale pastures.

During one cold December night, the young Baudelaire bairn awoke with a start — but not due to the chill. No, no, something was wrong; he could tell that much, but the specifics were lost on him in the dark. However, a ghostly whisper tugged at his consciousness, urging him to listen closely and to keep quiet, and in his panic, he did.

Outside Robin could hear the hushed and hurried murmurs of men echoing through the thick veil of night, mingling with the soft rustling of hay. He couldn't make sense of it at the time, and being a polite young lad, he quietly went to greet these sudden strangers — but panic seized him when he realized the door was barred. Something, or rather someone, had jammed it shut, but once again … why? A tender chide of the same voice from earlier told him to flee, nevertheless cruel and ravenous flames began to snake around the doorframe, their flickering tongues illuminating the planes of Robin's young face as he recoiled in terror. Each crackling ember seemed as a thousand eyes to reflect the devil's wickedness, soon rolling together to transform the entrance into a gaping maw eager to consume everything within its reach.

Hastily he dashed to his family, trying to rouse them from their infected dreams, but they remained ensnared in a slumber far too deep to wake now. Only little Linny opened her eyes, and Robin practically threw himself at her to try and lift her out of her blankets. Yet, as he grasped her frail form, the weight nearly crushed him. He was not a strong boy — and he struggled, weak and trembling … what little strength he had waned as the choking smoke filled his lungs. With a final, desperate effort, he dragged her halfway from the bed, only to slip and fall to the floor, where the searing heat began to lap at his hands and ignite the fluttering edges of his nightshirt.

The bright orange beast roared to life, and Robin's will to live fought to bring him to his now calloused and bubbling feet; with one final glance towards his weeping sister, he left her screaming and reaching for him. Each step was walking on embers, and the sharp sting of her cries were glass shards in his ears, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and summoned every ounce of endurance he had to reach the rear of the house. His bloodied fingers clawed nothing short of a frenzy on the splintered window frame of the storage room, his nails breaking and his hands raw from the relentless struggle against the cruel timbers blocking freedom from this hell. Each jagged edge tore at him, but in his mindless adrenaline fueled high, he carved a path out, determined to escape the fiery grasp of doom lingering just behind. With each wooden creak Robin felt the delicate breath of winter kiss his scorching skin through the cracks, and with a final surge of will, he shattered the remaining glass and tumbled into a world blanketed in pearlescent shimmer. Each snowflake swirled like a thousand daggers against his burning skin, and the merciless cold gnawed at him and nearly stole his life away, but his body forced him to stand once more — to finally flee from this wretched place. The towering trees looming ahead offered a haven from the hunting dogs and their whistling owners; there were far too many trees and dense underbrush to bother … And so once everything fell silent, Robin went the only way he could: forward.

But for all of his determination, Robin had seen too few winters to withstand the savage bite of the icy chill and decided instead to quietly nestle within the dense thicket, content to surrender to the exhaustion that clawed at his aching limbs and burned in his weary eyes. As the frost crept insidiously into his flesh and bones, he felt a warmth beckoning him, a promise of rest that whispered sweet and soft. Teetering upon the brink of sleep, the familiar comfort of his mother’s arms enveloped him, lifting him up as she had done in his childhood and cradling him against the safety of her chest. The ground beneath him transformed into a soft bed of snow, each flake a delicate touch against his numbed skin, inviting him deeper into dreamless slumber. Yet, a gentle sound stirred the soupy lull of his brain, and the world blurred around him as Robin urged himself to peel open his heavy lids. When he finally managed to lift his gaze, he saw what he thought to be a cloaked man seated on a horse emerging from the swirling white. Fear and fatigue battled within him, but he could no longer run nor resist, and with nothing left, he closed his eyes.

Father Death had come … He should have known better than to run.

He reached neither Heaven nor Hell that day, and by the following evening the boy’s fatigued body, once frozen stiff, began to thaw like the first light of dawn breaking through dense clouds. He awoke to the soothing purr of a small cat snuggled against his chest, and Robin's eyes fluttered open and stared into the glow of a crackling hearth — relaxing as he saw its contained and crumbling state. For a fleeting moment, a fragile hope blossomed within him which momentarily banished the thoughts of despair threatening to stain his mind. Perhaps, he dared to dream; all of his trials were nothing more than a cruel fantasy — a nightmare he was glad to be free from. But as reality seeped back in, it bore the weight of bittersweet truth: his father’s familiar silhouette did not grace the threshold of the room in greeting, and as his vision cleared, he was soon to find that he was not in his home. Still, Robin could not bear to lift his body from its resting place, and with a reluctant heart, he gave in to the gentle lull of his surroundings and let the veil of sleep wash over him again.

It was here, amidst flickering candlelight and aged parchment, that Robin's life would change; whether for better or worse, one could not yet say. The lost child was nursed back to health by that same figure who had found him in the woods that day. His name was Abel. He was a compassionate young priest with a gentle heart who had just come to town to bring a new dawn to the church. Upon his trek through the forest, he had miraculously spotted the boy collapsing into the nearby brush, and once he had bundled the bairn up in his extra jackets, he took him home. Robin learned that he was tasked with filling the shoes of their beloved but long-retired clergyman, and he also learned that Abel's wisdom and kindness knew no bounds. Many people warned the priest of his ward, of the cursed blood in his veins, but it mattered little to Robin's new guardian. He saw the Sin Eaters not as devils but as souls burdened by suffering, deserving of understanding and redemption.

To give oneself for another was Christly.

Under Abel's dark and watchful eyes, Robin found refuge and purpose over the long span of ten years, and he blossomed into a learned young man. He stood proudly beside Abel, acting as an acolyte and loyal aide, delivering assistance to the townsfolk who came seeking guidance from them. To hear their sins and forgive them, but he never once heard anyone over those ten years confess of that night. Regardless, those fickle villagers were touched by his dedication and began to see him not just as a cursed boy raised in the church’s shadow; he was even invited to birthday celebrations!

For once in his life, he truly felt human. For one decade Robin dwelled in peace; he thrived under the azure skies and reveled in the patterns that led his daily duties. The laughter of children oft bounced through the town like a chirping bird, bountiful harvests painted the fields in hues of amber and crimson, and the caress of breezes stirred the vibrant blooms adorning every garden. It was perfect. It should have been perfect, but the Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, and one evening, when the setting sun drenched the sky in a shade of lavender, Robin had to wonder if his nightmares had crawled to life. Winter had come again and brought with it the worst thing to ever meet his ear. It was a soft interruption, something that would not usually stir such dread, but for the Baudelaire boy, it brought him back to being small and scared.

A cough.

With one simple sound, Robin's vibrant world began to fade into a haunting echo of its past glory. As the weeks dragged on, Abel's illness deepened, and the villagers were quick to recall that strange family that had vanished into the woods long ago. Gossip fluttered like moths around the village hearths, spreading tales that spoke of an insatiable White Death. Consumption had come again, and it seemed that even with Abel's blessings, Robin would never be able to escape the horrors festering in his own blood. This was his fault … and he knew he would never reconcile what he had done; he had betrayed Abel to his death, and all those who had given him kindness were, surely, deceived. As that darkness seeped into him, Robin grappled with the agonizing truth: hope was a distant shore, and forever he would wade alone on an empty sea of sullen waters.

On the night of Abel's passing, Robin felt a piece of him die too — and he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.

Mercifully, the church granted him one week to pack his things and go — for another priest had come, and this one was eager to reignite the strict mortal ethics of the time. Abel's leniency had caught the eye of the papal, and now it was time to return to proper teachings. The heavy mahogany doors that once swung open to greet him now stood resolutely locked, leaving him in a world of shuttered windows and drawn curtains. Through the streets Robin went, and he spoke to no one; he ventured from the village's edge into the depths of the forest alone. No one even asked where he was going. The only willing company the tears in his eyes and the weight of Abel's rosary that hung around the pale column of his throat. His feet moved instinctively along a well-trodden path, winding through the underbrush until the ground under his soles felt familiar and his body carried him to its desired mark. The very place his mind had begged to not be forced into for the rest of his days; yet here he stood.

A soot-covered monstrosity whose wooden edges jutted out like the waiting claws of a great beast; its looming presence instantly lifted a warning in Robin's heart as he gawked in its great shadow. For ten long years he had avoided this forsaken place in both the realms of his dreams and God's blessed green earth. Nevertheless, he beheld its unwavering grim loyalty as if it were waiting for him to return all this time. It welcomed the Baudelaire heir inside peeling, rotting walls. Within this loneliness he stayed, allowing misery to fester and act as a poison to slow his heart; light drained from the world, and in the hues of each lonely dusk he could see the reflections of his old life. But hunger, in its stark apathy, stirred him from his sorrowful reverie to remind him of his mortality, and he knew there was only one path left to tread if he wanted to continue living. And so, Robin damned himself to don the mantle left behind by his late father, a heavy cloak of duty he was sure to suffocate under.

This was to be his fate: ever to dwell underneath the fading trees bound to his mourning, ever to rot.

But fate seemed uneager to arrive. Despite how swiftly his world had turned to sorrow and despair, Robin clung tenaciously to his duty — his silent vow to survive, to continue on. And soon enough the heavy grief that had shrouded his existence so heavily began to lift, and shortly thereafter he found an unexpected vibrancy in the new world around him. Just as in the days of his childhood, Nature's indifference welcomed him; finally there was a place to rest from judgment.

Cool water greeted him in the sweltering grasp of summer, gentle breezes carried the sweet fragrance of wildflowers in spring, autumn draped itself in golden magnificence, and even dark and cold winter seemed to offer him a reluctant mercy. Status mattered not there, where the rabbits looked upon him no differently than they did the petunias in his garden. He was not without burden, however, for when the Death Knells summoned him to town, Robin shuddered and shook. It was a difficult thing to travel into that place and be amongst those people … The world of men had become somewhat lost to him in his seclusion, and their murmurings in his presence brought little in the way of comfort. Robin ignored them, or tried to, in order to remain steadfast in his mission to the deceased. While not undimmed by bitterness or resentment that would otherwise cloud his purpose ( yet ), he did find a strange fear of those he served. Nonetheless, he knew that judgment was not his to wield; it belonged solely to their heavenly Father; and once his duty was fulfilled, he would retreat back into the forest — now quite content with the lack of visitors.

So one could imagine Robin's jolt of shock when, without warning or letter, a stuttering knock hit his door. If it had been only once he would have assumed it to be a trick of the wind, but twice, thrice! Each one more insistent than the last! Curiosity piqued and caution tossed aside, Robin rose swiftly with a racing heart to open the door — perhaps a foolish decision, but the earlier mead with his dinner evinced itself to be very talented in lowering his inhibitions. Now to deal with the fallout of such an action: for standing on his doorstep was a ragtag group of young men from the village. Maybe four or five in number, with movements unsteady and huffing breath like taxed horses. Anxiety skyrocketed, and without thinking, he began to take a step back. One of the boys, his words slurred and tangled, began to explain how they had lost their way, but Robin’s senses were overwhelmed by the cloud of whiskey-laden breath that had wafted toward him. It curled into his nostrils, sending a thousand shivers racing up his spine; he'd never liked the smell and now was not proving to be an exception. He had no idea what to say to remedy how awkward everything had become; and frankly, he was afraid he would gag if he tried to speak.

However the drunken lisps dwindled into a whisper before fading entirely, leaving behind a suffocating silence that summoned the Sin Eater’s attention back. Surely they had not intended to trespass upon his land, nor had they come to him with benevolent hearts; those were reserved for their intended host, which he was most certainly not. As Robin's gaze swept over the group, he became acutely aware of the transformation that had overtaken them. Their eyes, once sparkling in their delirium, now widened in disbelief, reflecting a dawning horror as if they had gazed upon some grotesque abomination from the depths of a sickly nightmare. Mouths hung agape and faces drained of color, each man now a canvas painted with shades of ashen pallor. In that instant, Robin found himself no longer being looked at as a fellow human being, but a manifestation of their most profound fears — a creature born from the dark recesses of Lilith's mind, a descendent of snakes and demons! Robin wished to reach out, he had once known each of them by name, to bridge the yawning chasm of misunderstanding that lay between them but ...

In their eyes, he caught the unmistakable reflection of their revulsion; a mirror to his own self-loathing, for in their horror at him he, too, found reason to recoil.

In the crisp dark night, he stood within the doorway of his weathered home, half bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight behind him that danced across his hair and skin. The golden firelight crackled a warning, transforming his moonlit-touched locks into a halo wreathed in a shriek of hellfire. But, o' his eyes, it was his eyes that truly unsettled. They glowed like sickly green lanterns, piercing through the darkness with an unnatural sheen that belied their hollow depths. It was now of little wonder to him why the townsfolk spoke of him in hushed murmurs and chided their children to stay close and avoid the woodland.

Everything was quiet between the accidental gathering, and Robin's soul yearned to escape this suffocating atmosphere; he wanted to leave, to break free from their unrelenting stares, but he found his feet rooted to the spot. He didn't know what to do; he didn't even feel as though he could breathe! With a heavy heart and trembling fingers he silently reached for the door, the brass handle suddenly felt so cold and foreign in his grip. Robin turned the handle, the creaking of the door echoed like the mournful wail of a lost soul, and shut out the uninvited throng that had rendered him a husk. He did not sleep that night, nor would he likely ever rest comfortably again. The weight of the gazes that had followed him pressed down atop his weary shoulders, but he supposed he could not cast too much blame upon them. He now saw that he was too far removed from humanity to seek refuge in companionship.

The next few days offered him no solace from his maddening delusions. Each rustle of a branch, each flutter of a bird, felt like a portent of doom, little reminders of the unseen eyes lurking just beyond the tree line, ever watchful, ever patient. With every reluctant step away from the welcoming hearth of his abode, a frigid tendril of dread tightened about Robin's heart, constricting with a merciless grip that threatened to squeeze the very life from his lungs. Unable to ignore his heart's thrumming admonitions that cautioned him not venture too far; for to do so would invite the abyss, and he would never come home again. Every sun-drenched afternoon melded into endless loops of fevered paranoia. Visions of the men from the night prior loomed large in his mind, their faces twisted into malicious grins as he replayed the encounter in his head over and over again. Were they still out there, ensconced in the shadows, biding their time? Robin found himself checking the handle frequently; once at night and once in the morn, grateful for each time the door was not barricaded. His fingers held too many scars already.

Still, with winter fast approaching, it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain his isolation while the persistent rumble of hunger echoed in the cavern of his stomach; it was the only companion in his solitude. The passing weeks had turned into a monotonous cycle of silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of distant frost, but the sinking dread never left. All the same, that fateful morning had to arrive; an inexplicable urge stirred within him, something far beyond mere hunger, igniting a glint of determination that had long lain dormant. It was a call that resonated deep within, reverberating through the very marrow of his bones — he could not hope to resist it. So, with that single stride, he left his home behind and stepped into the murky depths of a thousand towering trees.

And Robin Altus Baudelaire never returned.

[forkingandcountry-if]

Hi! I really enjoyed the prologue and I'm very impressed with your worldbuilding so far. I was wondering if you'd be willing to tell us more about the Church? What are its virtues (other than charity and compassion)? What does it consider to be sinful? Does it have any rules or guidelines with regards to clothing? What's its priesthood like? Is it gender restricted? I hope you have a lovely day! :D

I can tell you about the Church, I have far too many details about this:

I'll start with the clergy, it isn't gender restricted, while there once was a historical precedent for it being male-only that was quickly overturned by the Redeemists in the process of doctrinal evolution where they assert that the Words of our Faith call for all men (as in mankind) to prepare the world for His eventual return.

That doesn't mean that the Church is gender-balanced or even close, but there is no official reason why a woman couldn't become the Pontiff.

The Clergy in modern day—much to the chagrin of the Congregationalists—is formed of a highly educated, very wealthy, quite young cohort of priests and priestesses with the majority of them following quite a similar career progression.

They are born as not the heir child to a vassal house or into some well-off yeoman family, they spend the first few years of their lives as Scholar Postulants where they are educated at their local chancel or convent or priory. Then if they have enough money and don't particularly want to be stay as a Parish Priest for the rest of their lives, they go to a Theological University, once they graduate they usually are parish priests or priestesses for about two or three years before being parachuted into a Scholar Archivist or Scholar Priest in the capital. Those who are particularly talented at theology or networking with noble houses become bishops, some become archbishops and the very best becomes the Pontiff.

In regards to clothes there are uniforms for all members of the church, generally there's an expectation of modesty for men and women but the church doesn't place much emphasis on austerity, should you be wealthy enough to get your clothes tailored and made of fine fabrics you are entirely allowed to.

As you might be able to tell there are two distinct sort of religious factions in the Church namely the Redeemists and the Congregationalists.

Redeemists believe in the Churches' central authority and are mostly focused on textualism and theological rigour, if they can't find evidence for it in the texts they don't believe it should be enforced or banned by the Church and so they end up being the more 'liberal' or 'permissive' social force.

Congregationalists however believe that the central church is deeply corrupt, see how nearly all of its officials are very wealthy and very urban and very liberal, and that it is disconnected from the beliefs of ordinary people. They also claim to be textualists but the text they believe in, is simply a set of the doctrines laid out in the early, very conservative days of the Empire. They are the other big social force in the Empire.

A lot of the stuff you'll see in the story that you think, hey that wouldn't be fine usually in such a setting is thanks to the Redeemists: homosexuality, them. Transgender issues, them. Gender-non conformity, them.

That doesn't however mean they aren't deeply suspicious and reactionary for example as a homosexual, the Church will allow you to get married to the same sex but if you refuse to have children and cannot provide a good enough reason why as a noble? They will annul your marriage and say it's fruitless and hence stagnant and must be cleared away.

The virtues of the church are different by region and what faction they align with more but besides Compassion and Charity which are two very big ones a lot of it is quite esoteric, theological rigour, justice, morality, fruitfulness, restraint & mercy, scholarliness, consensus.

The Church has the power to hold its own trials outside of the powers of the King's Justices of the Peace and while they technically have coercive religious power very few kings have refused to sign an arrest warrant requested by the Pontiff.

Anything else in particular you'd like to hear about regarding it?

[isadomna]

The triangle Constance of Castile, John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford

Part One

Katherine Swynford and John of Gaunt met whilst she was in the service of his first Duchess, Blanche, as a chamber servant. During this time, the two women were on close terms, for Katherine’s own daughter, Blanche Swynford, was placed in the same chamber as both Philippa and Elizabeth – the daughters of Blanche of Lancaster – and Gaunt was appointed as her godfather. Katherine was married to one of Gaunt’s retainers, Sir Hugh Swynford, who held a manor in Kettlethorpe in Lincolnshire. Hugh Swynford suddenly died, whilst serving John of Gaunt in Aquitaine. He left Kettlethorpe in the possession of Katherine and his son and heir Thomas, who was four years old. Hugh Swynford’s land and house were part of the Duchy of Lancaster, and as his Lord, John of Gaunt dutifully ensured the welfare of his family. He employed Katherine in his household as a ‘maistresse’ – a governess – to his daughters, and appointed her sister Philippa, the wife of Geoffrey Chaucer, to serve Duchess Constance.

In spring 1372, shortly after John of Gaunt paraded Constance through London, he gifted Katherine a generous sum of money. This is the first record of his direct association with her, and it is likely that around this time she became his mistress. Katherine’s conveyance of the news of Princess Catalina’s birth to the King suggests that she had been in attendance; having borne at least four children of her own at a young age, she would have been able to reassure and support Constance through her ordeal. But as soon as her own pregnancy became obvious, a pregnancy that could not have been her husband’s doing, she would have been obliged to resign her post and return to Kettlethorpe.

In 1373, the first son of the lovers couple, John, was born and given the surname Beaufort. Following his birth, John of Gaunt granted Katherine more money as well as a lucrative marriage agreement for her daughter Blanche. John Beaufort’s early years were probably spent at Kettlethorpe. The pattern of John’s grants to Katherine, some of them concerning its refurbishment, some of them handsome gifts, may indicate the dates of birth of their other children, and certainly suggests that the manor was being made a fit place for them to be brought up in. Kettlethorpe was a remote village with a tiny population, an ideal setting for discreet confinements and the raising of royal bastards whose existence was better kept secret – at least for the present.

Certainly the lovers were discreet, at least to begin with – had they not been, the world would soon have known of their affair, and we would not have to rely on inference and speculation in determining the circumstances in which it began. Costain argues that it was Katherine who insisted on secrecy in the early years of the liaison – she was, after all, newly widowed – but there were political imperatives to be considered too: John would not have wished to openly dishonour his new wife when all his hopes were centred on claiming the crown of Castile in her right. Thus the need for discretion was probably mutual, and it ensured that for some years to come, his affair with Katherine was conducted in secrecy and with great circumspection.

Sadly for those romantics who would prefer to believe that the Duke stayed true to Katherine within the limits of their adulterous relationship, there is some evidence that he had fleeting sexual encounters with other women during the course of it. In 1381, he was publicly to confess that he had committed the sin of lechery with Katherine herself ‘and many others in his wife’s household’. Probably John’s amours were fleeting and purely physical – and made no impact on his obviously deep feelings for Katherine Swynford.

Yet it appears that the Duchess’s Castilian ladies were already aware in 1373 that Katherine was John’s mistress. Their gossiping so annoyed the Duke that he packed them all off to Nuneaton Abbey, hoping that the Abbess would teach them discretion. If her ladies knew what was going on between the Duke and Katherine, the chances are that Constance did too.

By 1375 Katherine's position of influence with the Duke was becoming public knowledge. Although there are very few known instances of her exercising any powers of patronage, the Leicester records show that she occasionally used her influence for the benefit of others, while there is evidence to suggest that if she did ask favours from the Duke, it was usually for her own family members.

The public and liberal relationship that Gaunt and Katherine enjoyed after 1377 was due to Gaunt’s shift in position after the death of Edward III. He was the uncle of King Richard II, the most powerful noble in the country, a Prince, and even a King himself; he was powerful enough to conduct the affair without fearing the consequences. Katherine accompanied John of Gaunt that summer as he toured his extensive Duchy lands – the towns and villages where he was most at ease and felt confident in the love of the people. It was certainly at the request of John of Gaunt, within weeks of Richard’s ascension, that Katherine was granted two wealthy manor estates for life, in exchange for Gaunt’s county of Richmond. This generous gift – at the cost of his own property – is testament to Gaunt’s respect and love for Katherine Swynford in the late 1370s.

Sources:

Alison Weir, KATHERINE SWYNFORD: THE STORY OF JOHN OF GAUNT AND HIS SCANDALOUS DUCHESS

Helen Carr, THE RED PRINCE: THE LIFE OF JOHN OF GAUNT, THE DUKE OF LANCASTER

Images from youtube's video:

[renaultphile]

Hello! I liked your observation about Ralph in your post about Edmund Gosse’s memoirs. It made me think of this comment of Ralph’s when he is talking about his mother: “Her [italics] parents were Plymouth Brethren”. MR must have had something specific in mind here. From your readings, do you have any insights about this and any other thoughts you’d like to share about Ralph’s upbringing in a “ Christian household”?

Thank you so much for this ask @eclare1000, sorry, it’s a long one! I warmly recommend ‘Father and Son’ in its own right, I loved its compassion, humour and insights into childhood, and for me there are many resonances with Ralph.  We get so little, don’t we?  Just the reference to the cruelty of ‘good women’, the PB reference and the bit about Laurie not being brought up in a ‘Christian home’ which is so bitter and angry.

I feel the emphasis with ‘her parents’ suggests his maternal grandparents are distant in some way, perhaps they cut off his mother when she ‘married out’?   It could mean his mother is no longer PB (doesn’t feel likely though)?  Or, it could mean that his father was PB too, but a convert, not born into the faith.  I suppose it means her upbringing was very strict, and it left her at a loss to cope with something perfectly natural (two pre-pubescent children showing curiosity about their bodies).  So he says ‘She couldn’t help how she felt’, as if she’d been programmed and couldn’t just be humane.  I’m struck by her inability to articulate what she felt, which I think is such a major theme in the book. 

In the Gosse, there is a very strong theme, particularly with his mother, of fatalism and letting God decide, a lack of agency.  I wonder if that plays a part, and that’s why he is so bitter, because she abrogated responsibility.  She failed to recognise perhaps that her religious upbringing was urging a kind of un-Christian cruelty on a helpless child.  Is that why he feels so responsible, because religious faith let him down and he has taken all of it on himself? 

I get the feeling that his father came from a less strict (but still Christian) background but went along with whatever his mother wanted to please her, and did the beating for her and the rather clichéd exhortation to ‘learn a clean life’. 

I also wonder if completely unrealistic expectations were loaded onto Ralph as a young child (another theme in the Gosse), making the crimes of 6-year-old Ralph all the more heinous.  And of course there is a similar fall at 19 – his expulsion being all the more scandalous for his immense prestige (as Laurie puts it).

There are some other resonances for me that are fascinating.  I had already started to wonder about Ralph’s love of language and facility for making up stories and telling lies to get out of trouble.  There are also several references to Laurie thinking he is just making things up about himself to please him!  I wondered about the idea of fiction being a ‘forbidden thing’ in a religious household, and was amazed to discover that Edmund Gosse’s mother believed fiction a ‘sin’ and kept it out of the house – he did not have access to literature for much of his childhood.  I sometimes feel that Ralph might have discovered the joys of telling stories relatively late, and relished their power.

Another thing that fascinates me about the Plymouth Brethren is that they are essentially rebellious – they were formed in defiance of organised religion.  So Ralph’s mother grew up in a ‘rebellious household’ but was indoctrinated with ideas from a young age that she couldn’t properly articulate.  Then she ‘rebelled’ on some level.  For me this ties in with that very contradictory aspect of Ralph, that he is desperate to be part of a community, but he also makes up his own rules.

And related to this, bible-study is the key – PB do not accept intermediaries telling them what to believe.  Gosse describes the way his parents spent hours discussing biblical texts together.  I feel Ralph did this as a child, and when he discovered the Phaedrus, I imagine him reading it with the same fervour, poring over every word looking for a moral code he could live by – working up what he was into a religion.

I just checked that bit again about ‘good women’ and found this: “Suddenly he seemed to remember the text of his earlier sermon” Wow!  Ralph is sermonising, but now he has found a new religion!  PB were big on converting people and in ‘Father and Son’, Gosse refers to being expected to ask strangers he meets if they are saved.  Hitherto I have felt that Ralph is in ‘Head boy’ mode or ‘school debate’ mode when he is arguing so forcefully with Laurie.  But now I am seeing a passionate and fervent preacher.  He is a proselytiser all right.  Perhaps Mary wanted to give one of her most attractive and powerful characters a bit of religious fervour when stating his cause.  After all, why should religious people have the monopoly on the right to be a decent human being?

[basicsofislam]

BASICS OF ISLAM: Fasting: What are the spiritual benefits of fasting?.Part4

g. Fasting protects a person against sins

Committing sins is a kind of inner depression, perversion, and contradiction of the natural disposition. The sinners are wretched and miserable and they submit all their faculties and talents to Satan and thus expose themselves to the pangs of conscience. If they go on committing sins, then they will lose control over their body and soul and will be able neither to resist Satan nor to renew themselves.

There are thousands of different kinds of sins in everyday life. They are like snakes that wait for a chance to strike. It is very difficult to avoid sin in a world full of evil. Only will power, if it is as strong as steel, can help to resist Satan and protect one’s purity. Otherwise, it is easy to predict that a person will stray off the right path and end up in a pit of fire.

In fact, fasting is a precaution and a guarantee against such a threat. For some people it is a shelter against deviation. It is warning against Satan and all kinds of evil. It protects the person fasting like armor and becomes a gateway to Paradise on the Day of Judgment and a blessed friend who offers bowls of water from Kawthar—the sacred fountain in Paradise. The Noble Messenger, peace and blessings be upon him, recommended that young people who cannot afford to get married fast in order to diminish their sexual desire and thus refrain from engaging in illegal sexual relations.

Fasting is a training that enables the believer to resist the carnal desires. A person who is trained through fasting can suppress their fleshly desires not only when fasting, but also when they are not observing the fast.

Fasting is far more than being hungry; it is also a form of training for the various elements of body, such as the emotions, senses, eyes, ears, and heart. These aspects of the human body observe fasting as well, and thus they are trained to avoid blasphemy.

Allah’s pleasure and consent becomes the pivot of the whole life of the believer; a person who fasts does so with all the parts of their body and with all their senses. Surely, a person who is fasting in this manner will be given a most rewarding life in Paradise.

Here is evidence from the Prophet’s tradition:

“Whoever can guarantee the chastity of what is between their two jaw-bones and what is between their two legs (i.e. the tongue and the private parts), I guarantee Paradise for them.“

The most effective way of protecting the chastity of the tongue is to observe fasting. All the organs of the body work energetically when the stomach is full. Therefore, the strength of fleshly desires is at its peak and at such a time it is difficult to refrain the tongue from blasphemous talk and backbiting, which are threats for the eternal life. The only way of taking the tongue under control is to reduce the strength of the desires of the carnal self and the only way of doing this is to observe fasting.

Abstinence is emphasized in a tradition as:

“If one of you is fasting, they should avoid sexual relations with their spouse and quarreling, and if somebody should fight or quarrel with them, they should say, ‘I am fasting,’” “Whoever does not give up forged speech and evil actions, Allah is not in need of their leaving their food and drink (i.e. Allah will not accept their fast).”

To conclude, the best fast is that which is observed by various parts of body in addition to the stomach, such as the eyes, ears, heart, mind, and intellect. That is, fasting is observed best when sins and profanities are avoided and when the stomach, the biggest factory inside the human body, is taken under control and thus decreases the strength of the other faculties; this is the best way to reach this goal.

[veronicaleighauthor]

Levin and Kitty

Leo Tolstoy wrote the multi-faceted novel, “Anna Karenina” as somewhat of a cautionary tale. The romance between Anna and her lover Vronsky was ill-fated from the start, yet since the novel was published, the passion between the two has been glorified as “true love.” Somehow committing adultery and abandoning your spouse and child and living in exile with a lover is romantic. Anna Karenina refuses to give up her lover, despite her husband’s threats and eventual forgiveness. She leaves her husband and son behind and runs off to be with Vronsky. Her choice is not without its consequences. Anna is ostracized by society, whereas Vronsky is free to go where he pleases. Feeling isolated, she falls into a deep depression and when her love for him is no longer enough to live for, she throws herself in front of a train.

Though Anna Karenina’s storyline was true to life, I could never quite connect to it. I had sympathy and understanding for her, but it wasn’t what drew me in. There was another part of the novel that fascinated me.

Levin and Kitty.

Levin and Kitty play second-fiddle to Anna and Vronsky, however, it is their love that stands the test of time. While their romance is smiled upon by society, maybe considered boring” by the world’s standards, and has its ups and down, theirs embodies the notion of “true love” in its purest form.

Konstantin Levin had known the Shcherbatsky family since he was young and wanted nothing more than to be a member of it. Overtime he falls in love with the youngest Shcherbatsky daughter, Kitty, and though there is an age gap, contrasting religious beliefs and opposite temperaments, their differences complement each other. Unfortunately for Levin, Kitty’s head has been turned by the handsome and charming Alexei Vronsky…the same Vronsky who seduces Anna Karenina (he may be charming and good-looking, but I can’t stand Vronsky). Vronsky flirts with Kitty, leading her to believe that he feels more for her than what he really does. And Kitty, being young and naïve, fancies herself in love.

When Levin does work up the courage to propose to Kitty and she turns him down, he is devastated and retreats from society, secluding himself to his farm. Kitty expects a proposal from Vronsky and is confused when he pulls away and takes up with the married Anna Karenina. Her disappointment leads to sickness…heart sickness. She soon realizes that she had turned away a good and honest man, one that she could have had a future with.

Levin is determined to hate Kitty for refusing him, but his love for her won’t allow him. He comes to understand that perhaps he had not been the most dedicated suitor, distancing himself at times when he should have made his intentions clear.

Stiva, Levin’s friend, intervenes and does a little matchmaking, which leads to Levin and Kitty socializing once more. Through a game of letters, Levin relays his love to Kitty and proposes once more. This time Kitty accepts. However, the course of true love mirrors real life, as it does not run smooth for these two. Levin feels he must be honest with his future wife about the more sordid details of his past and shows Kitty his diary. Although upset, Kitty forgives him of his sins. On the day of the wedding, Levin gets cold feet and is about to call it off when Kitty convinces him that she loves him and wants to marry him. The wedding goes on without a hitch.

            Levin and Kitty are generally happy, though their union isn’t perfect. Levin is used to a solitary life while Kitty wants to spend all of her time with him and is more social. Their love is put to the test when Levin learns that his brother is on his deathbed. He has no intention of bringing Kitty, but she insists and is a comfort when his brother passes away. Their struggles are rewarded with the birth of their firstborn son. Though frightened by the prospect of being a father, Levin falls in love with his child.

He has personal troubles, including an identity crisis. He struggles through his own bouts of depression and searches for the meaning of life. In the past he was a skeptic of God and of the Russian Orthodox Church. But he eventually makes peace with God and finds his own happy ending with his family.

Levin and Kitty’s romance best illustrates 1 Corinthians 13:4-8:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 

It’s Levin and Kitty’s romance that gives me hope. It’s a love story of second chances – and that’s what we all need from time to time. A second chance.

[biblicallyaccuratepigeons]

Ok! I'm doing this now!

Beneath the cut is a ramble/rant/essay about why I think every church should have a resident atheist. It's informed by my grew-up-in-Texas, pastor's kid, average ofa 1.5 churches every year by 17, now 20, and deconstructing but not apostatizing, worldview.

Read at the risk of everyone involved, especially me, and most importantly, have fun!

*deep breath* I should first start by explaining what I mean when I say that every church should have a resident atheist. Which means I'll have to define what church is, both biblically and colloquially.

Let's go.

The Bible doesn't really talk about a church until the New Testament. The chronologically earliest mention of it that I'm aware of is Matthew 16:18, wherein Jesus establishes Peter as the rock (that's "foundation" for you normies) upon which He'd build His church. Peter does eventually go on to become a major leader in the Church--but what does that mean?

In the book of Acts, Luke describes some of the history and common activities of the early Church. They meet in houses mainly, or by rivers for baptisms. They're hunted by the law, and their leaders are often slaughtered in horrifying and painful ways. They share everything with each other, and take care of the poor, the orphans, and the widows. When something goes wrong, they gather and pray. They're God's instruments for His miracles, as if it's normal.

In other words, they have very little in common with the Western church, despite our best efforts.

In Romans 12, Paul the Apostle describes the Church as a body with many distinct parts, each with its own function, and Christ as the head. In 1 Corinthians, he explains more about the different functions and spiritual gifts (that's "conditional superpowers"). In Ephesians, he describes what it should look like if Christ is truly our head; and in Colossians, he describes why Christ is the head in the first place.

The Church is also described as Christ's bride in many places--including in the Old Testament (I'm presently too tired to look up any addresses; I plan to do so tomorrow if I can. In short, it just means that He loves and takes care of us, and in return we love and follow Him. Human marriages are supposed to look like this, but when one or both parties are dysfunctional, it falls apart).

All of this, taken together and summarized in one sentence, means that biblically, the capital-C Church is a nation of people who all love Jesus, consider Him the living God, follow Him, and are actively trying to be more like Him. (Think the ABC's of... idk the rest of the phrase, I'm young ok: Admit guilt of sin, Believe that Jesus is Lord, and Commit one's life to Him)

And now... the colloquial definition. *sigh*

If you're on the internet and/or live in the West, you're already familiar with at least one or two depictions of the Church. If you're reading this, it's likely that you've either been some flavor of Christian before, or never even heard until this point that there was a difference between the capital-C Church and a lowercase-c church.

A lowercase-c church is made up of- wait let me start over. Church history is riddled with schisms. It's very complicated, and I don't have a degree in history, so I'll just skip to the end, which is now, where we have a lot of different denominations, except not really because a lot of them are basically the same but they popped up in different places. Also, if you ever go to a church that says they're non-denominational, they're not. Non-denominational is a denomination now.

Anyway, different denominations have different ways in which their church governments function. "But wait," I hear no one saying. "Church governments weren't really as much of a thing in the early church; it was just a bunch of people helping each other be more like Christ, with a few older, married or widowed, virtuous men all taking care of their disputes, like how it used to be with Israel before they demanded a king like the other nations."

Yep.

Anyway each denomination has a different-enough way that they handle their church governments. I don't pretend to know the complex innerworkings of any of them, but I can tell you that a church unit, aka lowercase-c church, is run by one Big Executive Pastor, a Board of Elders, and perhaps a few smaller Pastors (remember in 1 Corinthians where Paul says pastoring is a gift? Yeah that's not a commonly talked-about thing in the Western Church. Over here, a Pastor is a guy or gal who gives sermons every Sunday. Sometimes they might pilfer from the offerings, and very rarely they rape kids. It's great, I have such positive opinions of the Western Church).

*clears throat* So, in short, the colloquial definition of the word "church" generally refers to the building in which a church unit, or lowercase-c church, meets.

And now that we've gone so far off the rails that we've started to circle back, I'll restate my original statement (wowie diction sure has the hots for me this night): I believe that every lowercase-c church should have a resident atheist.

Obviously, an atheist cannot be considered part of the capital-C Church, and thus cannot be considered part of the body nor one of our siblings in the same way; however, it's my fervent belief that it takes all kinds. A little yeast leavens the whole loaf, yes; but that's true no matter who the yeast is.

I mentioned above that some church leadership has been up to some shady business. I promise you, if there was a resident atheist at the International House of Prayer, none of that would have gotten very far. Christians tend to have this uncanny ability to blind themselves to each other's faults and red flags--especially if we're talking about people in leadership positions. Atheists don't tend to have that problem, in my experience. You get someone with integrity and no strings attached, and you've got someone you can trust.

I also think that all these denominations could use a good middling agent. Some of them care way too much about the letter of the law; others don't care nearly enough. If they all had an atheist attendee from the opposite end, the world would be better off, I think.

Anyway that's all my brain has in it for tonight. I hope you enjoyed, and I'm probably gonna cringe at how incomplete this theology is tomorrow.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Rio Veradonir

As most of us understand it, social justice is a good thing. Definitions vary, but the common thread is a belief that society should actively work to expand access to social goods for all people, regardless of race, sex, or other immutable characteristics. Like all decent people, I support that noble goal. So it worries me that a vocal minority of extremists with dangerous ideas and toxic tactics have abused the concept in recent years, throwing it into disrepute. A cadre of activists today push a radical ideology in the name of “social justice,” one with none of its liberal principles. Because its proponents intentionally manipulate language to evade criticism, I will use the terms Liberal Social Justice (LSJ) and Critical Social Justice (CSJ) to distinguish between the original version and the new one.

Growing up in a Cult

My elementary and high school education took place at a private religious school, Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) to be exact. The SDA Church is a fundamentalist, Protestant Christian denomination that began in the United States in the mid-19th century — an era during which many separatist cult-like movements sprang forth out of American Christianity, the most famous being Mormonism. The SDA Church was born out of the Millerite movement whose early believers predicted, based upon an esoteric reading of the Bible, that the world would end on October 22nd, 1844. When that day passed, offshoots of the movement formed based upon one or another justification for the miscalculation. To this day, SDA Church doctrine states that we are living in “The End Times.” I was instructed by teachers who had no qualms informing students that Armageddon would probably come “during our lifetime.” Despite that certainty, some of those elders have since passed away without the pleasure of experiencing the end of the world.

Apart from being a bit kooky, that kind of eccentricity seems harmless enough. But beliefs invariably influence other beliefs. I was taught Young-Earth creationism — in Science class no less — and that anyone who tried to persuade us otherwise, even with credible evidence, was a tool of Satan sent to damn our souls. My early schooling was about two years ahead of public school in some subjects — but 200+ years behind in science.

Some of the indoctrination inevitably took root. I was a skeptical but otherwise upstanding SDA kid. I had no objections when my friends casually stated that they would never marry outside the Church. We were discouraged from even associating with non-Adventist kids. I remember taking an odd pride in that, like outsiders were beneath me. This went on well into my teens. Then something changed.

Escaping the Cult

My sexuality was pivotal to my relationship with the SDA church. I was aware from early adolescence that I was attracted to both boys and girls. At first, I thought little of it, but over time it began to cause cognitive dissonance. The Bible, as we were taught it, stated explicitly that homosexuality (and by extension bisexuality) is a sin. Did this mean I was supposed to resist temptation and just marry a nice SDA girl when I grew up? Perhaps. We were also supposed to follow other strict rules, such as not engaging in “secular activities” on Saturday. The truly devout would never eat pork or shellfish. Many were even vegetarian. In that context, everything seemed equally arbitrary — as illustrated by the common answer adults gave to pesky questions: “Because God says so.” By sixteen, I had outgrown it. I’d had enough of the hypocrisy and the dismissal of my skepticism. So, I tested out of high school early and started college.

Most of my SDA friends went to private Adventist universities where their indoctrination continued unabated, but I dove headlong into the belly of the beast: public community college, then a public state university. I flourished in that new environment. Whereas my skepticism and curiosity had been frowned upon by religious instructors, outside it was welcomed — even encouraged. For the first time, I felt free to fully explore the world of ideas, unconstrained by dogma. I quickly realized I’d been led astray not only in science, but in history, and even the arts, where only the most Christian-friendly material was covered. My intellectual experience had been filtered through the lens of a single subculture. It was a pedagogy built upon circular reasoning with the goal of reinforcing faith in SDA doctrine.

To compensate, I spent the next ten years immersing myself in a broad education — changing majors four times. In contrast to my prior schooling, these public institutions were founded on Enlightenment values — where critical thinking, logic, and evidence ruled — not blind faith. It’s not that tradition was disrespected; I was exposed to philosophical and religious traditions from all over the world. It was a breath of fresh air — life-giving. I appreciated my newfound intellectual freedom all the more because I knew firsthand what it was like to be arbitrarily constrained. My experience had fine-tuned my dogma-radar, and when secular education institutions began falling to a different but equally stultifying set of dogmas, red flags went off.

Warning Signs

It was in an advanced literature course in the late 2000s that I was first exposed to a school of thought called Critical Theory, which we used as an approach to literary criticism. I remember the professor saying, “The author’s intent doesn’t matter,” which meant that it was considered acceptable to attribute meanings to a work even if the author had explicitly stated that they never intended such. That rubbed me the wrong way. It begged the question “By what standard can we judge which interpretations are correct, or is it just anything goes?”

As the semester wore on, however, I gained a new insight: that language is an imperfect tool for communication, because “signifiers” (such as words) can only be defined by other signifiers. There is no way to directly access the “signifieds,” which are different for each speaker and listener because they are informed by our different experiences. In other words, it is never possible to ascertain exactly what the speaker means, only an interpretation of it, because we all have different associations with each word or phrase. That collectively adds up to substantially different readings of a given work.

I was mesmerized. It made sense. Applied to art, it resulted in more dynamic and interesting criticism. Besides, this was just one perspective out of many I studied at a school that had earned my trust by exposing me to a variety of differing perspectives. Little did I know, Critical Theory would escape its confines and expand well beyond literary criticism.

Queer Liberation

Southern Oregon University, the last school I attended, has repeatedly been recognized as one of the most LGBT-friendly colleges in the US. Still, I remember anxiously walking into the campus’s Queer Resource Center (QRC). Anybody who saw me might assume I was gay. What if people looked at me funny? I wasn’t ashamed of my bisexuality, but the fear of being judged by my new peers brought back latent insecurities from my childhood. The girl at the help desk was kind — and cute! After some flirtatious pleasantries, I asked her, “How do I meet other LGBT people around here? I’d really like to find a circle of bi folks.” She invited me to a dance put on by the QRC. I went, and I had a great time. Everybody was friendly and supportive. Nobody had anything to hide. It was another world, a freer one, compared to the insular and judgmental atmosphere of my youth.

After school, I got engaged and moved to Los Angeles with my fiancé, now my wife, so she could pursue her master’s at the USC School of Cinematic Arts in — notably — Critical Studies. We got involved with a wonderful social club for bi people called amBi. I’d finally found that bi circle! It was healing to be surrounded by tolerant, open-minded people — yet another liberating chapter in my life. Before long, we made a name for ourselves as event organizers, and then as volunteers at Pride parades and festivals. In time, I was invited to work for a nonprofit called The American Institute of Bisexuality. I readily accepted.

The organization, also called The Bi Foundation, shares the liberal Enlightenment values that helped me escape the indoctrination of my youth. But as it turns out, they are something of an outlier. The vast majority of LGBT orgs now take a different, illiberal, counter-Enlightenment approach. I would soon discover that the world of contemporary queer activism could not be more different from the liberal arts education I received in the 2000s or from the carefree bi social club I had since come to love. Instead, it was much more like the repressive environment in which I had grown up back in the 90s. It came to remind me of a fundamentalist cult, with a lot of the same qualities.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

The first bi-related conference I attended was BECAUSE (Bisexual Empowerment Conference: A Uniting, Supportive Experience), in the Twin Cities, Minnesota. It began as a way for bi activists to network with one another. Upon checking in, I was asked to put on a name tag with my pronouns. I didn’t think much of it. I was asked to fill out a survey with questions about my personal history, including my preferred label to describe my “bi+ and gender identities.” That felt a little strange. Regardless, the conference was a positive networking experience with engaging speakers. There were early warning signs, though. The discussion groups were rife with virtue signaling. It reminded me of the religious one-upmanship of my SDA days, and the pride in perceived victimhood.

In 2016 I attended an LGBT event in DC hosted by the Obama administration as an invited bi activist. I didn’t know what to expect. I was hoping for something productive. What I witnessed was anything but. There was virtually no discussion of policy ideas that might make a real material difference in the lives of bi people. It was nothing but grandstanding. Panelists were competing in the Oppression Olympics, obnoxiously vying to portray themselves as both the most virtuous and beleaguered. Every speech began with a recitation of the speaker’s intersecting oppressed identities. The more intersectionality points, the more street cred. Poor chaps who had the misfortune of being born white, male, and/or heterosexual (and who weren’t trans) were admonished to “Check their privilege,” which meant that their opinions were worthless. The quality of one’s ideas didn’t matter, not that anything concrete was being discussed anyway. Instead, the political strategy amounted to nothing but endless shouting about how American society was irredeemably awful and needed to be torn down. It felt like the White House invited us so we would feel listened to, even though it served no other practical purpose. Of course Obama was not in attendance — I’m sure he had more important things to do — but I wondered what he would make of the weird, illiberal theater I’d witnessed. I thought back on his speech, delivered after attacks on his association with the radical Reverend Jeremiah Wright:

“… We’ve heard my former pastor ... use incendiary language to express views that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate both the greatness and the goodness of our nation; … they expressed a profoundly distorted view of this country — a view that sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America...”

No, President Obama would not have approved. He is a liberal, like me, who shares Martin Luther King Jr.’s vision of inclusion as a pathway to integration and treating people the same, regardless of any immutable trait. I got into LGBT activism in service of that dream. Isn’t the whole point to bring about a future where everybody is treated as an individual, rather than stereotyped on the basis of superficial qualities? Shouldn’t we be working to break down barriers, instead of fomenting perpetual divisions for tribal warfare? Why were these activists, among the most privileged people in society, so full of disdain for the Enlightenment values that rest at the foundation of all that is good about this country and for the liberal values that made LGBT rights possible? Didn’t they understand that replacing one form of bigotry with another was not real progress? I reassured myself that this was probably just an eccentric group. It was just one day, after all. Surely most LGBT activists shared my liberal values. They had to, right?

I returned to DC to attend training sessions with a leading expert on social media strategy. A friend and colleague, who happened to be a cis white male, committed the cardinal sin: stating an opinion contrary to the Critical “Social Justice” (CSJ) dogma. When asked explicitly to give feedback, he expressed sympathy and understanding for the ideas presented, but dared convey concern that some of the more extreme language being used might alienate allies. He was brutally pilloried by several fellow students in the class, who claimed that his words had triggered them and amounted to “actual violence”, and demanded that he rescind his statement or be expelled. I was flabbergasted, and my friend was fighting back tears, which only elicited more yelling and taunting. We’d made real sacrifices to be there. It felt wrong.

Over the following years, we attended many more progressive conferences, including Netroots Nation (attended every year by Democratic lawmakers). They all had the same toxic culture — and it got worse by the year, especially after Trump took office. Eventually, almost every discussion group, presentation, or speech seemed narrowly focused on this emerging, illiberal ideology. With it, came more obnoxious behavior. Attendees who spoke up in defense of traditional liberal values were protested, shouted down, and disinvited. I witnessed outright racism against white people, sexism against men, and cisheterophobia — all coming from the movement that was supposed to be standing for equality and human rights. Even SSSS (the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality) eventually succumbed to the dogma. They were pressured into releasing embarrassing statements denying biological sex, reinforcing the irrational worldview of CSJ and undermining their scientific mission. There had to be an explanation. I needed to understand the motivations behind this trend.

The Cult of “Social Justice”

I looked to my better half for support. With her MA in Critical Studies, which was somehow related to this convoluted landscape, I knew my wife Talia could help me decode this riddle. She explained that Critical Theory, the obscure academic philosophy I encountered in a literature course, had expanded to become the dominant political principle and epistemology of modern progressive politics.

Madness! How did a single perspective of limited practical application come to capture half of Western political thought — and so quickly?! It wasn’t just the US Democratic Party — it had spread to the global left. I needed to research it further. I compiled a reading list of figures influential in cultural-left thought, including Hegel, Marx, The Frankfurt School, various postmodernists, and their contemporary successors. The common thread was a mode of thought much less grounded in rationality than the analytical, pro-Enlightenment thinkers I preferred. It was like going back to religious school all over again!

Religion, like social justice, is hard to define. Superficially plausible descriptions such as “A belief in god(s)” fall short, because not all religions have such beliefs. Scholars tend to prefer broader, less parochial definitions like “A particular system of faith and worship” or “A pursuit or interest to which someone ascribes supreme importance.” Contemporary thinkers have argued in all seriousness that some apparently secular ideologies can be regarded as religions. In “Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World”, theologian Tara Isabella Burton argues that the “social justice” phenomenon has all the key components of a religion: it provides believers with an all-encompassing worldview, meaning and purpose, clearly defined communal boundaries, and powerful self-actualizing rituals. Linguist John McWhorter’s “Woke Racism: How a New Religion Has Betrayed Black America” maintains that a blind faith in systemic oppression (despite evidence of unprecedented progress) is a kind of fallen creation myth. Cisgender, heterosexual, white, and/or male people are “born in sin” and can never purge themselves of it — they can only endlessly atone by saying the right words and performing the right self-flagellations. Biologist Richard Dawkins, a notorious critic of religion, has come under fire for making similar invidious comparisons in his attempts to defend his own scientific field from related gender essentialism and science denial. Political Theory Professor Joshua Mitchell has argued that the boundaries between politics and religion are breaking down, and that CSJ has strong structural parallels with Christianity. Entrepreneur Vivek Ramaswamy, in his book “Woke Inc.”, wrote that CSJ beliefs arguably “Meet the legal definition of a religion” and thus employers would be well-advised not to force these views upon their employees. Among others, CSJ shares with religions the qualities of blind faith, circular epistemology, self-referential exegeses, cynical apologetics, sacred testimony, indoctrination, authoritarianism, holier-than-thou attitudes, hostility to science and rationality, and the persecution and excommunication of heretics.

In Christian school, “faith” was the convenient get-out-of-jail-free-card for authorities who had no real answer to valid questions. Every dogma is reducible to an article of faith, which means that it requires no evidence to back it up. If there was evidence, then there’d be no need for faith. What matters is that we prove our loyalty to God and the Church by choosing to believe despite the dearth of evidence. The less evidence, the more faith is required, and the more noble and virtuous it is to believe. This creates a self-reinforcing, perpetual motion machine of irrationality. It would be harmless enough if people were content to keep those beliefs to themselves, but a great many religious people see it as their calling to force those beliefs onto others through indoctrination and even legislation. The Cult of CSJ is no exception. If someone asks heretic but otherwise perfectly reasonable questions calling for evidence-based answers, they are told that logic and science are tools of the oppressor. It is a symptom of our privilege (sin) that we have these doubts. In other words, we are supposed to take the central tenets of CSJ on faith.

Of course, that doesn’t mean proponents never attempt to offer logical reasons or evidence for their ideas. They often do, but it comes in the form of pseudo-evidence that is reducible to faith. In Adventist school, appeals to science and reason were selectively made only when the apparent facts aligned with the dogma. Any argument or evidence that did not was conveniently ignored or explained away as the devil trying to deceive us. But that isn’t how rationality and science work; you don’t get to pick and choose when their standards apply. Without consistent and universally applied principles, appeals to logic and science are insincere. Does this argument or data point seem superficially compatible with my cherished belief? If yes, then it is true. If no, then it is false. It’s just confirmation bias. Years of working in CSJ-dominated spaces have made it quite clear that this kind of dishonesty is baked into the ideology.

The same circular standard applies to sacred texts: At Christian school, it was the Bible, among other SDA writings. In CSJ circles, it’s the approved canon of scholarship. Religious schools teach a process called exegesis, whereby the sacred text is interpreted. You start with the assumption that the text is the infallible word of God (or one of his prophets), and you proceed from there. If something about the text seems inaccurate or incoherent, you must be misreading the text. After all, you’re a fallible human being — so who are you to judge God’s word? Any apparent failings of the text are thus explained away as user (reader) error. This is exactly how believers in CSJ defend their own core canon. If critics point to logical errors, claims contrary to evidence, or self-contradictions, CSJ defenders are quick to accuse you of “misunderstanding” the material. There’s nothing wrong with Theory — only you’re too dense to comprehend its wisdom. It’s the same tactic.

In religious traditions, apologetics is a discipline where practitioners known as apologists devote their lives to making excuses for the irrationality and immorality of their chosen faith. Is your church engaging in the systematic cover-up of child rape? No problem — put out a ten-thousand-word essay explaining why Catholic tradition is blameless nevertheless. CSJ apologists include academics with pro-CSJ dissertations that lay out the philosophical basis for the practice, and journalists or public intellectuals who apply them in defense of the faith. The underlying principle is blind devotion to the dogma. It’s easy to excuse bad behavior done in its name (or deny that it happens at all), because CSJ is The Truth. If you’ve felt gaslit by people telling you that your concerns are totally misplaced, that cancel culture isn’t real (or it’s a good thing), or that rioting, looting, and arson in the name of CSJ is justified, you’ve been in the company of a religious apologist.

Another form of “proof” used by the religious is sacred testimony. In my Christian school, much fanfare accompanied the testimonies of the “born again.” The testifier would recount negative life experiences such as drug addiction, criminality, or sexual deviance, and how coming to faith in the salvation of Jesus Christ our Lord saved them from a miserable, meaningless existence. Of course stories such as my own, where escaping the church was the liberating experience, were not allowed to be discussed. CSJ’s “lived experience” is the same thing as sacred testimony. We are told we must respect the lived experiences of oppressed groups, and that only oppressed bodies are qualified to discuss issues related to their oppression — which as it turns out, conveniently encompasses all issues. If the “lived experience” in question is compatible with CSJ dogma, it must be believed, and any skepticism is pure bigotry. But if the lived experience does not reinforce CSJ dogma, into the trash they go (even if the speaker is a member of the oppressed group). My experience as a bi person, triggered by the cult-like behavior that brings back childhood traumas doesn’t count for anything at all — because it makes CSJ look bad. Similarly, the lived experiences of black critics of CSJ, like John McWhorter, are also rejected. There are no real principles here.

Just as with religion, people are not born believing dogmatic ideologies. They are indoctrinated into these beliefs. In my childhood, that was accomplished by a curated revisionist history and science curriculum. The CSJ cult uses taxpayer-funded public schools. Every subject must be reworked to ensure students are only permitted to see the issue through a CSJ lens. Ideologues always prefer indoctrination to genuine education that teaches students how to think instead of what to think, because critical thinking, rationality, skepticism, debate, and free speech are the tools that dismantle nonsense. By contrast, dogmatic belief systems shut down criticism by punishing the critics and silencing free speech. Liberalism, with its preference for open and universal inquiry, is seen as dangerous because it steers people away from the virtuous path. According to “social justice” pedagogy, not only are there ‘stupid questions,' there are evil ones. The very act of questioning CSJ is “literal violence” that must be shut down — by punishing the student (or teacher) who does so.

This ideology is consuming every academic subject. It began in the humanities, but it is now infecting even the hard sciences and mathematics. Universal, objective standards for success in these fields are derided as oppressive. Science and mathematics are now “One way of knowing,” no better than any other, and perhaps even inferior — since they are the preferred tools of Western culture. Those who disagree with its tenets are pressured, intimidated, silenced, or exiled as heretics. Professors like former Portland State University professor Peter Boghossian and even administrators like former Harvard President Lawrence Summers are run out of academia; employees like former Google engineer James Damore and even executives like former Roivant CEO Vivek Ramaswamy are forced out of corporations, and in the nonprofit world I’ve seen the same play out over and over again — especially in progressive spaces like LGBT activism.

Give Me that Old-Time Religion

Religion satisfies a deep need for many people, and it is not my place to take it away from anyone. But religion has boundaries. The world’s first liberal democracy was founded by Enlightenment thinkers who understood that the best way to respect religious freedom was to separate church from state. The establishment clause of the 1st Amendment to the Constitution was devised to serve that purpose, as eloquently explained by Thomas Jefferson in his Letter to the Danbury Baptists:

“I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should ‘make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,’ thus building a wall of separation between Church and State.”

That wall must apply to all religions, theistic or otherwise. Believers of Critical Social Justice have every right to hold their beliefs. But the freedom of religion also means freedom from religion. Just as they must be free to believe as they wish, we must be free from having their beliefs forced down our throats. Taxpayer-funded schools should not teach the tenets of CSJ, and their ideas should not be applied to the pedagogy or curriculum of public schools. Corporations and nonprofits should have no more right to discriminate against employees based on CSJ beliefs than upon traditional (religious) ones. A liberal society should tolerate differences of opinion and allow ideas to compete fairly in the marketplace of ideas. CSJ cannot be granted special status, because that road leads to totalitarianism. The debate over CSJ isn’t likely to be settled any time soon, but we should be able to come to a consensus about its place in the public sphere. We need only choose between the liberty afforded by secularism or the tyranny imposed by theocracy. I know which I prefer. As a bi man who was liberated from religiously-induced self-loathing by exposure to a more secular environment, I can attest that liberalism and Enlightenment ideals are the path forward for our movement. Tethering ourselves to illiberal ideologies like CSJ is not.

“Social Justice” is Not Just

At the outset, I explained that I distinguish between two conceptions of Social Justice: the liberal one (LSJ) and a newly ascendant illiberal one (CSJ). Liberal Social Justice is the vision that has given us the progress we’ve made on civil rights; it is one based on the liberal principle of equal treatment for all individuals regardless of their membership in any identity group. It’s what was championed by the original feminists, LGBT activists, and anti-racist leaders. By contrast, Critical Social Justice, in the name of Neo-Marxist “equity” (equal outcomes), advocates for intentional systemic discrimination against historically “oppressive” groups. This is because you cannot have that kind of “equity” without violating the liberal principle of equality. The most informed and honest of its adherents will admit this if pressed.

A collectivist conception of “justice” breeds tribal warfare and tyranny. CSJ proponents are correct that there is a history of oppression against marginalized groups. But that oppression wasn’t in the name of liberalism; it was in the name of different illiberal ideologies: pre-liberal feudalism, mercantilist slavery, theocratic homophobia, and fascism. For a group that claims to value nuanced critiques of issues, CSJ proponents seem to miss a key fact about the West: we are not and never have been perfectly liberal. Progress has happened gradually, always slowed and sometimes reversed by various illiberal alternatives that have animated segments of our society all along. And, yes, the early liberal and Enlightenment thinkers were not perfect exemplars of their ideals. Nobody ever is. But this is to be expected. Utopia isn’t possible, which is why we channel inevitable human conflicts in productive directions through institutions like capitalism and democracy. Beware the cult that sells you a utopia, because any dictatorial action can be justified by such a false vision.

It wasn’t Critical Social Justice that liberated me as a bi person. It was Liberal Social Justice. For any individual to be liberated, they need a conception of justice that values individual liberty. CSJ proponents aren’t going to liberate anyone. They are merely justifying a new kind of prejudice by appealing to an old one. This is why they must deny that we’ve made progress on civil rights in the West. If they were to admit it, they’d lose their excuse for that power grab. Liberals should not be taken in by this con. CSJ isn’t the new frontier of civil rights. It’s just one of liberalism’s old enemies resurfacing and rebranded with a trendy 21st-century pseudo-woke veneer — one of many illiberal ideologies vying for the power to tear society down and seize control for itself. Given liberalism’s proven track record of progress on civil rights, we’d be unwise to ally, even temporarily, with a movement that opposes those ideals. We need an awakening, but a liberal one — which celebrates real progress and views collective action as voluntary arrangements between individuals. We need a new Enlightenment, not just another deluded cult. It’s time liberals wake up to the fact that Critical Social Justice is an oxymoron, a mockery, and a Trojan horse. CSJ might just as well stand for “The Cult of ‘Social Justice.’”