#truly reflective of his divine radiance

[solarstalker]

I actually don't sleep, hahaha! I haven't really needed to sleep much for the past few days =)!!! But Lily is definitely the best!!! Even if you refuse to admit it. - 🌪️

... if you are having drug-induced insomnia issues, i would recommend you speak to Sermon about it. personally, i find Him quite sssoothing. :)

[postie974]

#🟦

“The Son is the radiance and only expression of the glory of [our awesome] YAH [reflecting YAH’S Shekinah glory, the Light-being, the brilliant light of the divine], and the exact representation and perfect imprint of His [Father’s] essence, and upholding and maintaining and propelling all things [the entire physical and spiritual universe] by His powerful word [carrying the universe along to its predetermined goal]. When He [Himself and no other] had [by offering Himself on the cross as a sacrifice for sin] accomplished purification from sins and established our freedom from guilt, He sat down [revealing His completed work] at the right hand of the Majesty on high [revealing His Divine authority],”

‭‭Hebrews‬ ‭1‬:‭3

HalleluYAH 🙌

REMAIN HUMBLE

TRUST IN YAHWEH ALWAYS!

BE READY AT ANY MOMENT

•

•

Accept Yahshua (The Word) as your MESSIAH & SAVIOUR, confess & repent from your sins believing in Him accepting His gift of Salvation. You WILL be saved through grace by faith in HIM!

•

I AM The Way👆

The Truth ��

And The Life 🙌

I AM... THE WORD 📖

•

SINNERS PRAYER

Yahweh,

I know that I have broken Your laws and my sins have separated me from You. I am truly sorry, I now want to turn away from my past sinful life and repent. Forgive me, and help me avoid sinning again. I believe that Your Son, Yahshua died for my sins, was resurrected from the dead, is alive, and hears my prayer. I invite Yahshua to become the RULER of my life, to rule and reign in my heart from this day forward. Send your Ruach haKodesh to help me obey You, doing Your will for the rest of my life. In Yahshua’s Name Amen.

The Hebrew names of our MESSIAH, ELOHIM and SAVIOUR

•

ELOHIM aka I AM aka GOD

YHWH aka YAHWEH aka Heavenly Father

THE WORD aka YAHSHUA haMASHIACH aka THE MESSIAH aka Jesus

RUACH haKODESH aka HOLY SPIRIT

— Brother Mark —

•

#creation #love #fourteeners #natsarim #theearlychurch #faith #mercy #grace #trustinyahweh #praiseyahweh #worshipyahweh #luni_solar_sabbath #metonic_cycle #creationcalendar #trinity #halleluyah #ruachhakodesh#ruachofyahweh #yhwh#yahweh #elohim #fatheryahweh #theword #yahshua #saviour #savedbyyahshua #discipleofyahshua

[nashunashunomnom]

Graves of Running Souls

Nash // @nashunashunomnom

Deep trenches of despondence ravished mine skin—it aches.

Clawing and clamping down once nail-bitten flesh; thus, swiftly

Re-opening what once was in the middle of the cloudless night.

Crimson light reflects and enhances the moon’s utter radiance—

“She is truly meant to be admired from afar,” a yearning whisper flows

Through the susurrates of the prophecies foretold; yet to be known.

Detrimental—pernicious—it has been to mine overburdened mind,

“How long has it been—” mine throat constricts amid the evidence

Of thy sins witnessed by flooded eyne; thus, it made me ponder…

Deceptions and lies, when did it begin? Was it the foundation and core of

Whatever this has been? Or were it my inert projections that caused such

Failures in seeing thy true spirit beneath such innocence: serial victims,

Buried within the moor and all its unmarked graves runneth thy pneuma,

“By your side is a life worth living…” echoes in reminders written in wills and

Testaments to embed the significance and impact within mine temporal lobe.

Greatest trickster—a befitting epitaph for thee—you long to remind promises

Centered on Genesis yet you ought to leave me for divine Revelation whilst

I was still journeying through the liberating Letters of Saint Paul to the Galatians.

“Liberation,” thou pleaded, “it’s not a reason to live a life of hedonism and chaos,”

In the now fading twilight, I now have an answer, “The innocent blood you shed

For your faith is murder all the same. With it, you’ve killed my essence, my soul.”

“You who I trusted for wisdom yet continued to dilute my yearning, restless mind.”

Now, atop the moor, I have lost the impulse to scream insults for your many fuckups,

For beneath the jealous Sun’s envious rays, my soul isn’t running above His grave.

[wisdomrays]

HEAVENLY or EVELATED REALMS: Part 3

'Âlam Malakut (The Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands)

Also called by other titles such as the Realm of the Initial Manifestation of Divine Commands, the Realm of Spirits, the Intermediate Realm, the Horizon of the Final Identification, and the Relative Spirit, the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands is the final and lowest order or level of immaterial entities, and it can be considered as the roof of the Corporeal Realm. This classification is according to the order or ranks of the manifestations of the Divine Essence, Attributes, and Names. It is not based on a decisive statement of the Qur'an and the Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings, but on spiritual discovery and observation and on interpretation and inference founded upon the fundamental, unchanging principles of the Religion.

The Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Attributes and Names, the Realm of Divine Commands, and the Realm of Corporeality exist as the inner or outer dimension of one another, or as one within or above the other. That is, if the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Attributes and Names is a separate realm, then each of the other two realms are dimensions of it. The first of these three realms is a realm of natures, and thus does not have an external existence. Everything exists in it as a determined nature, while it is clothed in a form—or in corporeal existence—in the other two, respectively.

All four realms being discussed are transcendental realms in which the exact divisions of place and time—such as top and bottom, above and below, front and back, in front or behind, day and night, and yesterday and today—are beyond consideration. Therefore, a heart that has developed or advanced far enough on the way of spirituality can experience yesterday together with today, and today together with tomorrow, transcending the boundaries of time.

The human rank or mission of vicegerency on the earth relates to the heart and its relationship with the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of God's Commands. Although humans belong to the corporeal realm with respect to their bodily existence, as far as the inner dimension of their existence is concerned, they belong to the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands. We can even say that human bodily existence corresponds to the Corporeal Realm, while the inner dimension of human existence corresponds to the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands. This same relationship also exists between the universe and the Divine Supreme Throne, and between the earth and the Ka'ba. A heart that is open to the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands is more spacious than the earth—while even a large body is more cramped than a cup. Human corporeal existence is the place where sensations are imprisoned and concentrated, but the spiritual dimension of existence is where human spiritual and intellectual faculties develop and expand. The gifts and radiance coming from the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands are the source of wealth and power for a spirit, and no one is thought to be able to remain indifferent to it. Anyone completely cut off from this realm has entered a way that will lead to complete loss and ruin.

Both the corporeal and incorporeal dimensions of existence have fully and most perfectly been manifested on the Master of creation, upon him be perfect blessings. With respect to his bodily existence, he is the most perfect; also, he is the incomparable representative of the spirit of Islam regarding the spiritual dimension of his existence, which is reflected in his conduct. His Ascension beyond the realms—as high as the insurmountable boundary between Divinity and servanthood—is the wonder or miracle and expansion of his spiritual existence. Truly, through the Ascension, he was favored with the full, unparalleled attainment of spiritual visions and observations, and he rose to the rank of being the pride of the inhabitants of both the heavens and the earth.

Vision of God, the Ultimate Truth, Who is beyond any concept of modality, has different ranks or degrees. The vision of Him from the horizon of belief in Him as the sole, ultimate Agent of all actions in the universe is of the first or lowest degree; the vision of Him from the summit of belief in Him as the sole, ultimate Owner and Giver of all the attributes that are shared by all existence is of the second degree. Experiencing the pleasure of the vision of Him from the peak of belief in Him as the sole, truly Existent Being is of the highest degree. However, there are veils in human nature that prevent these visions, from those which arise from the veils formed of feelings, imagination, fancy, and whims, to those which are produced by failing to observe the criteria of the Shari'a and the balances established by the Sunna and by making some utterances or assuming some attitudes incompatible with essential Islamic principles.

When the hearts that are not prevented by such veils from being elevated rise and are purified of the dirt of attachment to all things other than God, they become bright, polished mirrors to the various truths including even the Ultimate Truth of Truths. They reflect the lights of the Divine Essence and Attributes; they get in contact with the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands; they speak with the voice of the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Attributes and Names; they build relations or transact "business" with the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of the Divine Mercy and Compassion; and they reach a point where they are favored with reflections from the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divinity. As a consequence, the heart begins to beat with the messages of the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Commands, and the spirit starts inhaling the breezes of the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divine Attributes and Names, while the secret—the inner faculty that is more refined than the heart—commences experiencing feelings related to the Realm of the Transcendental Manifestation of Divinity. The first of these attainments is described as "the victory near," the second, as "the victory manifest," and the third, as "the victory absolute."

O God, O Opener of doors! Open our hearts and other outer and inner faculties and senses to belief, the practice of Islam, and excellencein servanthood to You, and enable us always to do what You love and are pleased with! And bestows blessings and peace on our master, Muhammad, who is honored with all virtues and faithfulness, and on His Family, and Companions.

[dfroza]

what i hope is conserved here is that people find their real treasure

(inside, Anew)

the purest “gold”

the wealth of earth has controlled nations on earth’s timeline, yet the wealth of the heart is the very Spirit of our beautiful mysterious Creator

garden earth fell into enemy hands long ago, bringing about the curse of sin and death that we all come to know, birthing evil into this world, but there is a promised healing of this (now waiting in the wings) and it begins with reborn hearts

(only baptism eyes can truly see this)

we will all be humbled by Love, eventually, but we have the option of choosing this before death, which is the real “crisis” that we all must face.

As the climate of earth has been slowly changing for thousands of years, ever since the global Flood and the resulting massive formation of ice that followed, with much of this melted since.

and earth will continue existing, but also there is a global Judgment coming that will shake everything to its core.

and the eternal King will return with the Church (the Body and Bride as the pure Queen and A new Eve) to live out the Sabbath millennium of 1,000 years before a new earth is made.

(Anew, genesis)

and so we do look forward to [metamorphosis] of body, in the “blink” of an eye, and (A secret elopement) for a heavenly wedding for those made ready (personally willing)

and in the meantime, we are here tending to earth and its “seeds”

and there are a lot of people to feed, which means using fossil fuels for energy is still quite necessary to accomplish this.

clean energy is better for the air we breathe, but getting there is a slow and expensive process, to be sure. and there is much disagreement over the process.

electric cars leave no dirty emissions, but they won’t save the world from what is coming.

we need to do the best we can in living out our temporal lives, providing safe (clean) water and food, clothing and shelter and healthcare, and loving those who are part of our lives, doing the various kinds of work we do, for however long our personal timeline exists. but this imperfect world is certainly not our “Home” as a place where we can stay, for those who “believe…” in a heavenly Home.

but of course we’re not meant to abuse the planet, doing things that destroy it and its natural resources. earth was created as the instrumental womb of the universe where our Creator made life to grow from seeds…

but it must be reborn.

(A grand end of time)

A post by John Parsons about inner Light

True illumination.

“And he (Betzalel) made the large basin of bronze and its pedestal of bronze from the mirrors of the women who served at the entrance of the tent of meeting” (Exod. 38:8).

====

At the entrance of the Mishkan (i.e., “Tabernacle”) a copper "laver" (i.e., wash basin or cistern) was built, the place where we wash and prepare ourselves to come before the Divine Presence (Exod. 30:18). The Torah says the basin was made from the mirrors of women who offered them to help build the sanctuary (see Exod. 38:8). Spiritually understood, the mirror was transformed from a place where we encounter our own appearance to a place where we encounter God. Instead of focusing on our superficial face – how it looks and how we esteem ourselves, we now see ourselves in light of God’s love, with our former self-image “sacrificed” or surrendered for the gift of a deeper self (2 Cor. 5:16). This is the "new self" cleansed by the Word of God, reflecting back the radiance of His Presence, as it says: “put on the new self (הָאָדָם הֶחָדָשׁ) created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Eph. 4:24).

The “sacrificed mirror” represents turning to face reality, to see ourselves as God see us... Because of Yeshua, we have access to the inner heart of God (Heb. 4:16). Know who you are in Messiah: “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Psalm 18:28 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm18-28-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page download:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm18-28-lesson.pdf

3.14.23 • Facebook

in this life we are standing in our faith and hope in Love. this is our bravery in the midst of a world of conflicting opinions.

we need Light to see

[scarletooyoroi]

"Ah?"

There's a timed pause that brings him to stillness at the very question. His heart bristles, as if being perceived by a hidden pearl of wisdom, the sort that specialize in discerning such elements.

What sears within his gaze in a sense of recognition. While the idle temptation to point out that can go for many, such deflection simply wasn't him. "Lately.. More than ever. With all the questions cooking inside of me.." His gaze tilts away from her radiance for a time, allowing his eyes to peer firm at the meld of divine energies that fixed the very sky above them.

...Should such whimsy be amused? There's a stir of hope, that faint flicker of purpose that's so painstakingly prepared to burn into an infernal blaze in the name of such drive. Yet, could the price of briefly saying goodbye to all he molded he truly be so easily done? No, again that's the wrong question.

Is he willing to grip that price and burn it into the strength for such a step?

"I would. Not for some divine answer or great figure for guidance. If anything, I want to see the me reflected within an even wider realm."

▸▸ [ @scarletooyoroi || eden starter call ]

─「エデン」─  " do you ever wondered what lies beyond the stars ? " the TRAILBLAZER seated herself upon the grass, loving the breeze and the smell of the earth entering her nostril. the other wasn't too far away from her, and she could feel that sense of warmth radiated from his very person. that was his element, wasn't it ? it was interesting. he was warm and nurturing, but at the same time, that flame had all the power to burn bright and hot. and, she recognized something akin to a wanderlust in his eyes, that was why she was asking.

                " and ... if you could get out of here, out of this world, and go beyond it. would you ? "

[covenlegacy]

What does a golden white aura mean?

A noble kind of yellow biofield is precisely this energy, which gives its owner purposefulness, efficiency.

The golden aura characterizes individuals with great patience and the ability to get out of the most difficult situations, ready to sacrifice in comfort for the realization of a secret dream. The extraordinary skills of these individuals are evident already upon acquaintance, and in the process of communication, their positive outlook on life and strength are transmitted to the environment.

Golden aura color: meaning Carriers of such a biofield have a set of leadership qualities. They achieve success even in the most daring plans due to their sincerity and charisma. The internal control of these personalities is at the highest level, they are as viable as possible, boundless in their happiness. The main thing for them is to set a high bar and always meet it. Everyone feels the energy of such a person.

The golden aura allows you to become an excellent leader who will be able to motivate subordinates and will be responsible for all processes at once.

However, some of the owners of such a biofield are gifted with creative talents and prefer to give them a way into life. In any case, it is important for them not to waste their potential on trifles, so they set their priorities almost from childhood.

Specialties in the spirit of an engineer, builder, architect are also good options for “golden” individuals, but they are revealed as much as possible only in large-scale activities, in government or scientific posts.

The golden hue is the highest manifestation of the yellow color. That is why a person in such an etheric shell has wisdom, high spirituality, and developed intelligence.

These individuals will be happy to share their knowledge and experience with the environment. In their behavior, these people are impeccable, they are respectable and harmonious.

There is an opinion that a person's golden energy can be obtained from a yellow aura with certain efforts. You can achieve this at any age, you just need to avoid bad thoughts and indulge in pure intentions. The natural stage of the evolution of the biofield is to first achieve a stable and bright yellow color, and then make the energy golden.

The light aura is very attractive because there is a reflection of something Divine in it. The temperament and strong will of such a person lead to discoveries both in art and in the technical sciences. There are a lot of ideas and projects in the head of the bearer of golden energy, fresh directions of activity are generated in a matter of moments. Truly, such a person is called the ringleader and the soul of every company.

In a working team, it is a real engine of progress, and at friendly gatherings it is a cheerful motor tuned to a cheerful spirit and positive.

These personalities will always be at the epicenter of any events.

There is a legend based on the claim of psychics that the bearers of the golden biofield have three guardian angels behind them at once. Each individual has the first two, they stand to the left and right of us behind our backs and leave once a year because of sins and sins. The third guardian of man is the messenger of the Creator. He comes to a person at a variety of life moments.

It is believed that such a bright and bright aura is present in many children.

At an early age, the owner of golden energy impresses his parents with his aptitude for mathematics or success in various creative fields. Over time, the individuality of such a person fades, it absorbs the ordinariness of the world and ceases to sparkle, and this does not directly depend on the influence of the environment or the peculiarities of upbringing. In such cases, the clairvoyant is told that the angel simply left the grown-up baby, so the abilities decreased, the radiance of the shell disappeared and the soul lost the possibility of supernatural experience.

It also happens that a person wakes up one day and realizes that everything has changed inside her. A golden aura began to surround the person. The significance of such a strange change of energy has not yet been revealed for sure, because sometimes such a turn of fate happens to previously not outstanding people.

The unexpected emission of golden vibrations by the aura may simply have been given by God.

In this case, a person receives an epiphany, the highest gift in some creative sphere, the joy of being and the upliftment of the spirit. His desires begin to come true, he is overwhelmed with happiness from every moment of his life. This surge of energy always becomes an incentive for art. The light of the awakened soul is sometimes provided by an angel who comes up, who becomes a messenger, a rare but long-awaited guest from heaven. He visits the personality for a short time, but if he lingers, a person with a golden aura can be considered a genius. And he gives his fire, his unconditional love to the whole world.

Sometimes the carriers of the light biofield face the problems of earthly life. Their dreams stop coming true, and they get lost on the way to their goal. In this case, these people should take a break, be alone, relax, return the spent strength and emotions. Only then you can start a new milestone.

“Golden” individuals are very demanding, so they tend to punish themselves for their mistakes and blunders. You should not do this, because every failure is a useful experience, a life lesson in mastering grandiose plans. You should never lose your mindset for large-scale deeds and achievements.

Aura of golden color: what does each shade mean The pure golden light in the energy speaks of the brightness of the mind. The combination of golden and yellow indicates the process of development of reason and intelligence in a person. The halo above the head in golden tones when viewing the etheric shell of an individual is a reflection of bliss. This sign also occurs in saints and mystics. The violet-gold tone of the human aura embodies the presence of the maximum degree of knowledge, perfect experience. A golden stripe in a green or blue aura speaks of love for a person on the part of his followers and students, as well as about the excellent spiritual qualities of the teacher himself. Any main background of the bipole can have a yellow-gold border in the shoulders and head area. This shows a high level of mental abilities. As spirituality is achieved and the heart is purified, a bright blue frame with glitter appears around this shade. It demonstrates the transition to spiritual consciousness for a long time. From the crown of the head (or, more precisely, from the point of the epiphysis inside the head), golden sheaves can enter the aura. This is an indicator of the activation of the third eye, work on clairvoyance. A thick golden hue, the darkened color of the sun or the presence of dirty stains indicate unseemly reflections of a person engaged in selfishness and vanity. At the moment of compassion, lights of a shade of red gold can escape from the heart of a person. The golden aura is the result of a holy way of life, gratitude from the Creator for preserving spiritual purity.

People with such a biofield have developed intuition, courage, and high self-awareness. They are able to heal themselves and the souls of others. Most often, such energy is found in experienced sages or very stubborn and successful students in something.

A noble kind of yellow biofield is precisely this energy, which gives its owner purposefulness, efficiency.

The golden aura characterizes individuals with great patience and the ability to get out of the most difficult situations, ready to sacrifice in comfort for the realization of a secret dream. The extraordinary skills of these individuals are evident already upon acquaintance, and in the process of communication, their positive outlook on life and strength are transmitted to the environment.

Golden aura color: meaning Carriers of such a biofield have a set of leadership qualities. They achieve success even in the most daring plans due to their sincerity and charisma. The internal control of these personalities is at the highest level, they are as viable as possible, boundless in their happiness. The main thing for them is to set a high bar and always meet it. Everyone feels the energy of such a person.

The golden aura allows you to become an excellent leader who will be able to motivate subordinates and will be responsible for all processes at once.

However, some of the owners of such a biofield are gifted with creative talents and prefer to give them a way into life. In any case, it is important for them not to waste their potential on trifles, so they set their priorities almost from childhood.

Specialties in the spirit of an engineer, builder, architect are also good options for “golden” individuals, but they are revealed as much as possible only in large-scale activities, in government or scientific posts.

The golden hue is the highest manifestation of the yellow color. That is why a person in such an etheric shell has wisdom, high spirituality, and developed intelligence.

These individuals will be happy to share their knowledge and experience with the environment. In their behavior, these people are impeccable, they are respectable and harmonious.

There is an opinion that a person's golden energy can be obtained from a yellow aura with certain efforts. You can achieve this at any age, you just need to avoid bad thoughts and indulge in pure intentions. The natural stage of the evolution of the biofield is to first achieve a stable and bright yellow color, and then make the energy golden.

The light aura is very attractive because there is a reflection of something Divine in it. The temperament and strong will of such a person lead to discoveries both in art and in the technical sciences. There are a lot of ideas and projects in the head of the bearer of golden energy, fresh directions of activity are generated in a matter of moments. Truly, such a person is called the ringleader and the soul of every company.

In a working team, it is a real engine of progress, and at friendly gatherings it is a cheerful motor tuned to a cheerful spirit and positive.

These personalities will always be at the epicenter of any events.

There is a legend based on the claim of psychics that the bearers of the golden biofield have three guardian angels behind them at once. Each individual has the first two, they stand to the left and right of us behind our backs and leave once a year because of sins and sins. The third guardian of man is the messenger of the Creator. He comes to a person at a variety of life moments.

It is believed that such a bright and bright aura is present in many children.

At an early age, the owner of golden energy impresses his parents with his aptitude for mathematics or success in various creative fields. Over time, the individuality of such a person fades, it absorbs the ordinariness of the world and ceases to sparkle, and this does not directly depend on the influence of the environment or the peculiarities of upbringing. In such cases, the clairvoyant is told that the angel simply left the grown-up baby, so the abilities decreased, the radiance of the shell disappeared and the soul lost the possibility of supernatural experience.

It also happens that a person wakes up one day and realizes that everything has changed inside her. A golden aura began to surround the person. The significance of such a strange change of energy has not yet been revealed for sure, because sometimes such a turn of fate happens to previously not outstanding people.

The unexpected emission of golden vibrations by the aura may simply have been given by God.

In this case, a person receives an epiphany, the highest gift in some creative sphere, the joy of being and the upliftment of the spirit. His desires begin to come true, he is overwhelmed with happiness from every moment of his life. This surge of energy always becomes an incentive for art. The light of the awakened soul is sometimes provided by an angel who comes up, who becomes a messenger, a rare but long-awaited guest from heaven. He visits the personality for a short time, but if he lingers, a person with a golden aura can be considered a genius. And he gives his fire, his unconditional love to the whole world.

Sometimes the carriers of the light biofield face the problems of earthly life. Their dreams stop coming true, and they get lost on the way to their goal. In this case, these people should take a break, be alone, relax, return the spent strength and emotions. Only then you can start a new milestone.

“Golden” individuals are very demanding, so they tend to punish themselves for their mistakes and blunders. You should not do this, because every failure is a useful experience, a life lesson in mastering grandiose plans. You should never lose your mindset for large-scale deeds and achievements.

Aura of golden color: what does each shade mean The pure golden light in the energy speaks of the brightness of the mind. The combination of golden and yellow indicates the process of development of reason and intelligence in a person. The halo above the head in golden tones when viewing the etheric shell of an individual is a reflection of bliss. This sign also occurs in saints and mystics. The violet-gold tone of the human aura embodies the presence of the maximum degree of knowledge, perfect experience. A golden stripe in a green or blue aura speaks of love for a person on the part of his followers and students, as well as about the excellent spiritual qualities of the teacher himself. Any main background of the bipole can have a yellow-gold border in the shoulders and head area. This shows a high level of mental abilities. As spirituality is achieved and the heart is purified, a bright blue frame with glitter appears around this shade. It demonstrates the transition to spiritual consciousness for a long time. From the crown of the head (or, more precisely, from the point of the epiphysis inside the head), golden sheaves can enter the aura. This is an indicator of the activation of the third eye, work on clairvoyance. A thick golden hue, the darkened color of the sun or the presence of dirty stains indicate unseemly reflections of a person engaged in selfishness and vanity. At the moment of compassion, lights of a shade of red gold can escape from the heart of a person. The golden aura is the result of a holy way of life, gratitude from the Creator for preserving spiritual purity.

People with such a biofield have developed intuition, courage, and high self-awareness. They are able to heal themselves and the souls of others. Most often, such energy is found in experienced sages or very stubborn and successful students in something.

The shade of purity, divinity and perfection is precisely this color of the biofield of a person with incredible spirituality.

The white aura refers to those rare energies that are not given to anyone from birth, they can only be earned by their constant development, growth, and knowledge of the truth. This biofield speaks of a high level of consciousness of the individual, his truthful inner voice, persistent principles of life and views of the world.

White aura: meaning The owners of such energy are remembered for their modesty, concern for other people, and mercy. These individuals want to serve the Divine, and they know how to do it with real dedication.

An immaculate soul, independence, wisdom and the endless development of intelligence are constant signs of the happy carriers of such a biofield.

The white background of the aura is considered ideal, because such energy surrounded Jesus. Therefore, people with such an etheric shell have a strong faith, they are truly religious. But even if such a person does not plunge into the forces of the Creator, she will find herself in the development of psychic skills, abilities in parapsychology. These people direct all their peculiarities in a peaceful direction, at the service of the highest ideals, among which they especially emphasize peace on the whole planet.

For people in white energy, it is customary to fluctuate from extreme to extreme, when they turn from the stage of sympathy into indifference, and a healthy lifestyle turns into the use of narcotic substances. Therefore, it is so important to stop them in time, to call for the true path of enlightenment and awareness of the environment.

Due to this uniqueness of the biofield, the question often arises, and for whom is the white color of the aura characteristic? A uniform and pure snow-white glow appears in those who have left worldly worries and troubles. These are hermits, monks, saints.

The white biofield becomes a consequence of spiritual achievements and cleansing practices.

Such people are very friendly and even lucky, because there are strong heavenly defenders and angels behind them. The owners of such energy are not afraid of magical interventions and ordinary life adversities. Numerous studies show that the white shell is formed after constant practice of transcendental meditation.

In general, the aura becomes white after the opening of all the chakras in a person. A personality with a snow-white biofield is integral and powerful. She has a strong connection with the cosmos, the energy of the Universe, which also protects her and gives her spiritual insights.

There is an opinion that a bright aura is present in newly born babies, because they have not committed a single sin and came straight from heaven. The angels themselves and the Creator have the same aura, because they have all the colors of the rainbow mixed into one, forming a pure white shade. Such a rainbow light is actually healing, and it heals not only the body, but also the soul.

“White” people are often considered ideals. They are absolutely in harmony with the world and themselves, balanced and able to determine where the falsehood is and where the truth is. There is no negativity in them, their consciousness is trusting and unclouded by the chaos of everyday life. These individuals are capable of self-sacrifice, they are carriers of unconditional love, higher knowledge and will. In some cases, during the transition to another life, astral and spiritual, a white border also appears around the biofield.

Taciturnity, calmness and the ability not to meddle in other people's lives are undoubted advantages that the white aura gives.

How does this energy affect others? People are happy to listen to the wisdom of bright personalities, are surprised at their delicacy when giving the necessary advice and determination. Such individuals are distinguished by sensitivity in everything, an open and honest look that looks straight into the soul. Fear is unknown to these subjects, they prefer a wide personal space where there is no external control, but only privacy is preserved.

White light consists of virtually all the basic shades. Therefore, it cannot be achieved with bad thoughts, constant conflicts and depressions. They strive for this aura, restoring all spheres of life in balance. It is necessary to raise the high energy level of the chakras for many years, only then the biofield will become crystal.

If a person suddenly has the ability to self-heal or treat loved ones, most likely, a white aura helps him. What does such an abrupt change of life mean? It is always a surprise and even a fright that needs to be subdued as soon as possible, continuing to work on its improvement. Closeness to God is the highest reward for such people for their work, although they are always in close communication with people. In fact, each person in the white halo of energy is a channel of spiritual energy that has passed into physical reality.

The thinking of such people is very fast, but the mind is not analytical, but intuitive. And all because cause-and-effect relationships and meanings do not matter to the transcendental consciousness, from where these individuals draw information. Nevertheless, the learning process for such individuals is easy, the data is absorbed into the head quickly.

Favorite activities of the owners of white energy are reading literature, watching movies, theater productions, exhibitions.

All these manifestations of art allow people to understand the meaning of life without interfering with diving deep into their soul.

“White” people are able to transform the energy around them, transferring it to a higher level. They are also able to tune in to the wave of their interlocutor, showing maximum empathy. What does a white aura mean in a person in this sense? It becomes the color of a chameleon, which, if necessary, tries on some style of behavior, thoughts, emotions, etc.

In the process of communication, such personalities do not like only assertiveness, they are also alien to mass gatherings of people. This is due, on the one hand, to the difficult process of interacting with reality, and on the other, to a fragile physique. Most of all, such people like a pleasant atmosphere with an abundance of free space. When such an individual loses his strength, he begins to adapt to the environment, becomes dependent on them.

To become a friend to such a person, you need to get closer to him in spirit, show yourself a peaceful individual who does not create danger. Among such personalities, however, there are still many self-sufficient bachelors, because there can be no competition in terms of intimacy with the Almighty.

The romantic sphere is also important to these subjects, they want to be loved enthusiastically, even through sex transmitting divine experience. In a team, these people take a place in the relationships of small groups, find themselves in duets. So they can separately tune in to the characteristics of each acquaintance.

Earning a living and taking care of primary needs is definitely not a goal for which an aura of white color is created, which actually means the need for a person who can take responsibility for the financial component of life. However, the “whites” still appreciate money, considering them as guarantors of security. At the same time, such people spend a minimum of bills on themselves, trying to be ascetics. Ideal professions for such personalities can be considered a doctor, guru, librarian, novice, psychologist, artist.

It is believed that the aura can turn white for a while. This happens after healing from a fatal illness or directly avoiding death. Only after the next following of life's temptations, the biofield returns the usual color color. This happens after about six months.

[xenteaart]

Black Tights and Other Things

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: It was initially insipred by a request about Five seeing Reader wearing a dress for the first time but I lost it, and also took the request in a completely different direction lol. I deeply apologize, I suck at writing requests honestly.

The actual summary: Five catches you dancing and has a little epiphany.

Warnings: this fic explores ideas of femininity and is very likely not gonna be a good read for gender non-conforming folks, so sorry about that.

GIF not mine! if u know the owner pls let me know so i can credit them

Note: it was mainly based on my own experience and i guess i just had to reflect on it smh and Five literally has more of a featured role in this ngl :’D

also yea it fits into my Commission AU so just a reminder, they’re both in their 20s.

P.s. ladies, dance in your underwear in front of a mirror, don’t deprive yourself of reconnecting with your inner,,, divine. lol i’m not in a cult i promise it just feels very good

The one thing you’d missed the most, apart from hot showers, fresh food and other obvious life-saving necessities, was music. During your stay in the absolute nightmare that your post-apocalyptic life was, you weren’t fortunate enough to stumble upon a record player or, in fact, anything that was even remotely fit to produce sounds resembling melodies. Sure, you did play tin cans and pieces of wood out of boredom, making very simplistic copies of actual instruments out of them, like drums or a xylophone, but it was barely enough to satisfy your craving for proper music.

So now, being a Commission recruit and having your own flat and access to the wonders of civilization, you couldn’t help but take advantage of all the things that you’d been longing for, one of them being music.

You and Five were having a very well-deserved day off and decided to reward yourselves with some nice filling dinner. Five volunteered to do the grocery shopping for the ingredients while you chose to stay indoors, and when he came back, holding bags full of goods in his arms, the image that he was met with stopped him dead in his tracks.

You were only wearing your underwear and a pair of black half-transparent tights, which sort of looked like you were getting dressed but got distracted halfway. The outfit itself, or lack thereof, wasn’t at all an unusual occurrence, considering how each other’s nudity and physiology hardly ever bothered either of you after years of doing whatever it took to keep the other alive.

It was your dancing that took Five by surprise. As he eyed your figure briefly, he took notice of how the line of your tights was sitting on your waist securely, framing your form in a flattering way and defining the curves that you got after gaining some weight you’d been desperately missing.

In your days in the apocalypse, you felt like your body was your prison. Or rather, you were a slave of your own body. It needed food, sleep and warmth to keep living, and your entire existence was narrated by the weak and needy vehicle that you had to take care of. There was truly nothing pretty about dull and brutal survival.

Right now, however, you felt yourself regaining control as you were no longer your body’s servant and instead it was yours. It was healthier, stronger, and it was complying to your every wish and command.

As your entire being, mind and flesh, surrendered to the raw ecstasy of your dance, you completely forgot there was anything at all in the world besides yourself and the music, the waves of which you were surfing so smoothly and naturally that the slight clumsiness and awkwardness of some of your movements were only adding to the charm.

There was no choreography behind the action; your every swing and turn being mindless and somewhat intuitive as you allowed yourself to dissolve into the tunes of the song you were dancing to.

As Five was looking at you silently, he was struggling to put his finger on what exactly was so special about what was happening but he knew there was clearly something.

You didn’t really think of yourselves as a boy and a girl, or a man and a woman. Back in the apocalypse, there was hardly anything left of the norms you’d learnt in your before life, which meant you were merely two human beings, completely stripped of their gender identity and expression, and it continued to be the way you perceived each other even after getting back to the normal (well, more or less, all things considered) world.

The concept of having some sort of intrinsic differences was getting more and more blurred as you saw each other as perfectly equal, which you totally were. Equal, however, did not mean the same, and that was exactly what you both tended to forget in your day-to-day life.

As Five was watching you move to the music carefree, he came to realize he was witnessing what he never knew was there in the first place.

It was fair to say that after spending so much time together Five basically knew you inside out. He knew you were caring and thoughtful. Outspoken, ill tempered and tough were a crucial part of the package as well, but right now he felt like he was getting a glimpse of this new unfamiliar layer, looking past everything he thought he knew about you before.

It was the unconditional femininity that was deeply embedded in the very fabric of your essence, burning with radiance like an exploding supernova, and the best thing about it was how blissfully unaware you were of its presence. Right in this moment, it seemed you didn’t have a care in the world and were simply dancing like no one was watching.

There was something so powerful about your inherent feminine nature mixed with how untamed yet tender and perfectly reliable you were, that Five didn’t even notice he’d been holding his breath.

He didn’t want to startle you and disrupt the flow you were so clearly lost in, literally immersed in some other dimension that he had no way of ever coming in contact with. It was yours and yours only, and it was beautiful.

Five was just standing there, leaning against the doorframe utterly mesmerized by how your body was seemingly guided and led by an invisible force. It took him a good couple of minutes to realize that this force was coming from within you, and the sheer unfiltered power radiating from your figure was, in fact, you all along. And he finally saw you for what you were. A woman.

“Oh, God,” he thought to himself, unable to deal with the sudden surge of feelings and thoughts that were overwhelming him all at once.

[scarletooyoroi]

"Hey baldy. You shine today. Care to share a few tips?"

Inuzuma’s eternal eminence found itself reaching a crescendo of change within these present moments. Entirely unwanted, entirely uninvited, for nary a single soul found the courage to even leave their humble wooden homes in lieu of the blight currently found itself heading through the streets. Wherever it went, it felt as if a mirror followed suite, allowing for one’s very soul to be reflected in the depths of someone who held their own brand of renown. Grown men were reduced to sniveling babies, shopkeepers didn’t hesitate to just slam their doors in people’s faces....

Exactly what could’ve prompted such an interesting reaction? Thoma for one, found himself clueless, figuring a future trip to either the Yashiro or Tenryou commissions were tantamount if there was any hope of solving this dilemma. Alas. Currently his attention was taken today and to fulfill the promises of those he deemed close always held a special candle.

This spirited housekeeper’s arrival literally could not be missed. As he approaches, it seems as if the orange-ish, periwinkle skies of this eternal land would find themselves upped in scale, nearing a ivory color while the surroundings instantly found themselves hotter.  In fact, a few passerbys hadn’t hesitated in dropping their dango, horrified screams ripping free as one pair within the crowd’s eyes begin to smolder and smoke, literally frying inside of their skulls while they escaped.

Then arrived Thoma. Confusion fresh upon his features while raw iridescent ignited clear from his cleanly shaved head. The very Heavenly Principles were singing their due praises as finally, one of these humans found the true route to divinity unparalleled, light itself reigning so prominent that even the very golden gates of Celestia itself shuddered in possibility.

To think Barbatos here never failed in first finding the world shakers.

"Baldly? Don’t be silly- the soul of my hair is a never ending melody itself, flowing strong as we speak--”

“STOP, IN THE NAME OF THE LAW! AREN’T THOU-- OOH!?” Away from the conversation of these main characters, two police samurai had immediately stepped into the scene, only for horror befitting for the dark deities that plagued their land to be now utilized. Their blades! Just drawing their blades had been met with an instant counterattack! Just from the refractive properties of that bald head...

Their blades were proceeding to melt right from their hilts, resembling a substance closer to silver mercury compared to anything else.

As the jade eyed man took a moment to rub the side of his head, just the mere brush led to another odd phenomenon as the lights seemingly concentrated to a further pinpoint to a wider berth, alternating between nauseating levels of heat or minimized lasers so potent, that with a single touch, their heated fury caused nearby homes to immediately combust. Still, Thoma found these odd string of events to be oh so odd.

What exactly was happening with Inazuma now days?

“Anyways the name is Thoma! And how about we exchange hair care over some tea? If you’re looking for radiance..” Pride is clear within his expression before he squints towards the dear bard.

“Then I do believe I have some tips that’ll truly let your light ignite as well.”

@adularye

[prophecy-is-inevitable]

Indulgence of Divinity: Chapter 1

Michael Langdon x OFC

Four months after the events at Outpost 3, Michael begins to grow restless in the Sanctuary. His powers continue to grow seemingly without a purpose, and the Cooperative is clamoring to know his next move. Help arrives from an unlikely source that changes everything Michael thought he knew about being the Antichrist.

Rebuilding the world requires a delicate balance-destruction and creation, death and life, dark and light. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Chapter Warnings: Mild Language (we’re just warming up)

Word Count: 3846

So excited to finally have the first chapter posted! Hope you enjoy! (Also posted on AO3 under the same title.)

------------------------

Chapter One: Court of the Divinity

Water droplets traced the lean outlines along his torso and thighs while others collected in the hollow at the small of his back. The aqueous kisses briefly reminded him of caresses that yearned to memorize each dip and swell of a lover’s form. His eyes drifted closed as he tipped his head back, lips drawing apart to pass contented sighs, in an attempt to savor the sensation. How long it had been since it was more than an illusion… His head lulled with a deliberate slowness to feel the tension ebb and flow from the corded muscles across his shoulders, up the base of his skull, and down the center of his spine. A delicate floral note occasionally touched his senses that he couldn’t quite place as past or present, simply familiar; nonetheless, it momentarily quelled the chaotic swarm of thoughts plaguing his mind. Even kings deserved a reverie now and again.

Michael’s gaze flitted about the room as he stood from the bathing pool and retrieved his towel hanging from the decorative iron gate.

Flickering candles lined the stone alcoves and shelves carved centuries ago out of the grotto rock and filled the room with a serene luminance. Their reflections danced and swayed on the surface of the water only to writhe in the wake of his languid movements. The sheer array of burning wicks had produced a surprising warmth in the chamber–a warmth that drew memories from the rugged stone and imparted the scent of incense from pilgrimages long-forgotten into the air. A shrine to the Lord and his archangel Michael that once stood proudly at the front of the holy cavern had been reduced to nothing more than an opulent light fixture. It brought him a sense of satisfaction in no small measure, and a smug curl of his lips accompanied the thoughts of sacrilege.

‘How fitting that the Sanctuary of Saint Michael Archangel, his oldest shrine in Western Europe and a holy destination for centuries, would become the seat of power for the Antichrist of the same name. The Sanctuary of the Apocalypse,’ Michael mused while patting himself dry. The infernal heat thrumming through his veins made short work of any dampness left to his skin. The grotto he stood in had once been the location of a church. Since coming into the possession of the Cooperative, the pews had been removed to make room for a stepped recess to be carved into the floor and filled with water in the style of an ancient bath–an extension of his personal chambers. ‘Someone clearly thrives on irony.’ Of course, it was not to be lost on him and his smirk of satisfaction only grew as he pulled on the sleek black fabric of his pants.

The journey back to his rooms saw the return of Michael’s incessant thoughts of uncertainty. The existence of the Sanctuary had been somewhat of a surprise even to him. Then again, the best lies were always built from a foundation of truth. What had begun as a ruse to incite panic and chaos amongst survivors was apparently very much an actuality. An actuality that he had been living in for the last four months.

Outpost 3 had been the last for…liquidation. Once the task was completed, the Cooperative had sent him a communication informing him of an automated jet waiting to take him to a “safe place”. They didn’t want to risk the use of Transmutation, despite his ever-growing powers. The flight was long and turbulent from the dramatic air currents and storms swirling in the wake of the cataclysm. A coastal mountain topped with a medieval structure loomed outside the window as the plane started to descend. The Sanctuary.

Noticeable architecture and the few remaining geographical features alluded to a location somewhere most likely Mediterranean. Michael’s lips stretched into an open-mouthed grin, and his eyes burned from how widely they were opened as he looked at the landscape of his making. Previously turquoise oceans undulated in new scarlet waves onto a gray shore. Bare branches strained against the raging wind–their leaves decimated long ago. Armageddon had truly come, and it was by his hand. Sure, he had seen first hand the result of his handiwork in America, but the satisfaction of seeing the effects clear across the world… Michael remembered the way his chest swelled and his shoulders straightened with pride.

That had been four months ago . Fucking hell… What great accomplishments had he achieved since those glorious days of revelation? Once again, he had been left to do his father’s will with no direction, no help of any kind. The remaining Cooperative members were breathing down his neck like hellhounds, either trying to curry favor with absurd and depraved behavior (which he may or may not have accepted on occasion) or hovering for a command. How could he lead his people when he had no means of navigating the future himself? Even the stars were silent behind the eternal midnight cinders cloaking the sky.

He dropped onto the lush mattress and draped his forearm over his eyes. In times of stress, Michael’s mind conjured up images of a world that no longer existed and perhaps never had. The sense of familiarity surrounded him once again as he stood amongst the tall pines and colorful oaks. He remembered these woods. Birds trilled happily above as if pleased by his return. His blood no longer marred the earth in a ruby pentagram; sprigs of white bell-shaped flowers sprung up from the circle and perfumed the air with their sweetness. They were larger than last time. Michael crouched to slowly reach out a hand, palm up, to cradle one of the drooping blossoms.

“Do you like them? I’ve been practicing.” A soft voice reached his ears just as the scalloped tepals dusted the tip of his middle finger. The uncertainty in the voice made his brow crease. He turned his head with a frown to face the shimmering specter, their radiance shrouding any distinguishable features aside from their feminine figure. She was always there, stood in the same space his frantic young mind had hallucinated an angel while begging for his father’s aid.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” It was much more a statement than a question. Had his own imagination turned against him, too? Was this a subconscious manifestation of his own doubt?

“White and delicate isn’t exactly your style,” the figure said. Her tone had relaxed a bit at the sound of his disappointment.

“Perhaps that’s all the more reason for me to like it. A palate cleanser to the world before my eyes every other minute of the day.” The flowers captured his attention again when they began to bob in the breeze. “Beautiful,” he breathed. He couldn’t see a smile, but he got the distinct feeling of happiness from his companion. Curiously, his own heart beat a bit easier as the aura permeated his space. Michael straightened again to take in the full effect of the flowers and surround woods.

“Something’s bothering you, Michael. You’re never here otherwise,” she mused. The light shifted as she moved to sit on a mossy rock. He titled his head to look at her without turning his body. Long strands of golden hair fell over his shoulder and framed his face in the sunlight. A shrug tugged at his shoulder as he spoke.

“What comes next? Have I done all I was meant to do?”

“Is fire, blood, and chaos all you were born for?” A tight nod answered her question. “Doubtful.” She rose and stepped into the ring of flowers with him. The hair hanging in his face was pushed behind his ear by misty tendrils he perceived to be fingers. A slight chill tickled his cheek from the contact and caused the hair at the base of his neck to rise. “With each breath, you grow in strength and purpose.” One of the flower stems was placed in his hand. “Why do you think these have flourished? As you grow stronger, so do I. It would be pointless to give you more power with no purpose behind it, especially since you already hold more power than any being left in the world.” A dark chuckle bubble in his throat at that. Her words satisfied him when similar grovels from those in the Sanctuary would find his ire.

“Then why -” The presence of a frosted hand directing his gaze back towards the glowing woods stopped him short.

“Patience, Michael. Having power does not mean you have to be omniscient. It simply means you will be more than capable of whatever is required in time. You’ve given them what they wanted–there’s no reason to believe you would fail at that in the future.” Phantom fingers slid up his cheek and into his hair in a gesture of comfort and Michael closed his eyes with a sigh. “Patience, my king.”

The stone ceiling of his bedroom greeted him when he next opened his eyes. Goosebumps still prickled his skin as a reminder of his dream. For a few moments he did nothing but stare blankly, wondering if he could close his eyes again and return to the simplistic visions of his mind.

“Patience…” he grumbled, dragging a hand down his high cheeks and chiseled jaw. Could the Antichrist possess such a heavenly virtue? Michael couldn’t remember any recent time he was met with less than near-instant gratification. Several soft yet pronounced raps on the door put an end to his wishful thoughts of mental escape. That would be Ms. Mead, and he certainly didn’t want to keep her waiting. It wouldn’t do to treat the one person here that was truly on his side so poorly, and certainly not after she’d undergone such extensive repairs from the events at Outpost 3.

A rare, genuine smile graced his full lips when he pulled the door open to reveal the woman. The deep furrow of her brow and the shift of her eyes promptly removed the carefree expression from his face.

“You’re needed in the great hall.” The muscles around Michael’s eyes twitched in scrutiny. Only incredibly important or special occasions called for the use of the great hall, and he certainly hadn’t issued any grandiose decrees. She wasn’t pleased to be ignorant about whatever situation had arisen, either.

“I will be with you shortly once I’ve made myself presentable.” Michael acknowledged her request with an elegant incline of his head. Ms. Mead nodded quickly and turned on her heel to await him outside his chambers.

Michael quite enjoyed catering his looks to maximize the effect of his presence. Without knowing the purpose of this engagement, he would have to work with what previously resulted in the most success. Within three minutes, he was walking through the halls with Ms. Mead and rather pleased with his appearance. He had donned his usual black dress pants and tucked button-up, the buttons of the cuffs trailing well up his forearms. A luxurious black side button dress coat accentuated his broad shoulders and lean stature; Michael enjoyed the feeling of the fabric conforming so perfectly to his body.

Many survivors admired the thought that went into the Sanctuary’s design each time they walked the halls. Displays had been embedded into the mountain walls where the builders encountered the fossilized remains of prehistoric flora and fauna–lingering reminders that all origins were followed by the same undisputable end in time. Rivers of fire ran down trenches parallel to the walkways for sufficient lighting. Without access to the outside world, they set the fire to cycle intensity and mimic the path of the sun. At night, minerals were added to the oil to make the fire burn blue in homage to moonlight. Large fireplaces dotted the hallways for added warmth and light in the deeper parts of the mountain.

Today, residents of the Sanctuary that had found themselves a partner were happily clinging to each other in alcoves or corners. Some exchanged gifts they’d either made or traded for tied with red ribbon. Someone had poorly scribbled hearts decorating their package, and Michael’s eyebrows jumped momentarily in realization. Of course. It was February. Many of the survivors had chosen to observe the old holidays in a vain attempt at normalcy. If it gave them reason to remain happy and kept morale high, then he would allow them to cling to their absurd traditions. They smiled and waved, some bowing their heads in respect, as he passed them. An occasional brave soul wandered his way with the intention of handing him chocolates or paper flowers. Michael held up his hand to stop them with a small, appreciative quirk of his lips but shook his head.

“There’s no need for that. Your loyalty and support are enough.” They held eye contact for a moment until the person scampered away to a cluster of others standing by a fire pit. Almost immediately, Michael’s jaw squared and returned his expression to simmering annoyance.

“Ms. Mead,” he drawled, “why am I on my way to the great hall for an obligation that I can’t seem to recall arranging?” Her head shaking slightly was barely visible off to his side.

“This wasn’t arranged at all. These…people–Court of the Divinity they called themselves–just showed up and wanted to see you. Wouldn’t say what for, but I recognized the man in charge as a member of the Cooperative. Some high ranking clergyman or some bullshit.” Ms. Mead continued to shake her head and gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know where they get off thinking they can make such demands of their king. It’s impertinent if you ask me.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratory level. “We shouldn’t trust them.” Michael’s head tipped back with a pleased laugh.

“Oh, not to worry, Ms. Mead. We must attend to the needs of our people.” Michael stopped outside of the oversized mahogany doors and turned to the older woman. His hands came to rest on her shoulders as he fixed her with a pointed gaze. “And if they waste my time, it will be the last time that they do so.” Ms. Mead returned his look with a smile and watery eyes, one of her hands reaching out to delicately stroke the long curls resting over his collarbone before she replied. The pride rolled off of her in waves nearly as strong as the electronic pulses of her fabrication.

“That’s my beautiful boy.” Michael would always hold her affection in highest regard. With a deep breath, Ms. Mead returned to the moment and smoothed down his hair. “You go in ahead. I’ll retrieve your guests from the auxiliary hall. My king.” She left with a bow and beaming smile so Michael could take his rightful place in the extravagant throne chair at the front of the hall. He certainly cut an imposing figure. One leg rested crossed over the knee of the other, his elbows firmly on the arm rests to allow his steepled fingers to remain steady in front of his chest, and his jaw clenched with a minute grinding the longer he waited.

Several minutes passed before the heavy doors were opened and Ms. Mead, now wielding a stern expression, led in a bizarre group of men. Michael couldn’t help leaning forward a fraction in interest. Each man was dressed in different holy garb. A Buddhist lama, a Hindu sadhu, a Jewish rabbi. Those were only the ones in clear view. Still more troubling, not one of them did he recognize beyond the cardinal standing at their front. He had worked as the Cooperative’s source inside the Vatican for decades under the guise of a faithful God-worshipper. Michael lifted his chin out of habit at the man’s approach, heightened even more as the small congregation bowed before his dais.

“Cardinal Vicente Santori.” The name dripped off Michael’s tongue like saccharine wine. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your audience? For your sake, I would hope it’s something of the absolute utmost importance.” The cardinal bowed again. The tone in their king’s voice left no conflict regarding his displeasure.

“My king, as you know, we are more than 20 months through your prophesied reign,” Santori began. Michael’s intrigued gaze turned to that of ice, and he brought his chin to rest on his bejewelled fist.

“I am aware. So…what is this?” He opened his palm up towards them inviting silent answers. “As you said yourself, we are beyond the halfway point of the Apocalypse. It’s a bit late for any religious intervention.” Michael’s patronizing chuckle reverberated in the vaulted room, “Especially from you, Cardinal.” The man quickly shook his hands to brush away those notions.

“No. No, we are here for quite the opposite.” The slight tilt of the king’s head drew the cardinal’s attention before he continued. “You have done well in cleansing the stain of humanity from the world. You’ve also grown stronger since coming to the Sanctuary, haven’t you, my king?” When he did not receive a denial, Santori delved into further explanation. “We are the Court of the Divinity, tasked with a special purpose. We have the answers to that phenomenon: there is still more work to be done. Work that you cannot be expected to complete on your own. What we have experienced is only the beginning of your father’s great plan. Preparation of a canvas about to become your greatest masterpiece.”

“What would you know of this ‘work to be done’?” His father had refused to answer his own questions, yet these heretics claimed to have knowledge of his purpose? All Michael had ever wanted was answers. Would it be washed-up clerics that gave them to him? Michael ran his tongue over his teeth. The most irritating aspect of it all was that not a single one of them held a lie within their heart or mind.

“Satan was cast into the fire and chained amidst the burning lake against his will. Would you wish to remain in a prison for all eternity? Is that what you would base your greatest wish from? It is one thing to condemn others to share your fate, but it’s something else to rise above it. There has always been a deeper longing for Paradise, and what better way to secure his claim on Earth than by his son creating something that surpasses that of God. However, you will not succumb to such hubris as God, my king, for you won’t be alone.” There was a pause in the cardinal’s ramblings to let the information settle. Silence hung heavy in the air for so long that some of the men began to shift uncomfortably. Even Ms. Mead seemed to be holding her breath off to Michael’s side.

Their king stood, each vertebra aligning themselves one by one, until he reached his full height. His descent from the dais was marked by the crisp, measured knocking of his heeled shoes on the stone floor. Arms clasped elegantly behind his back, Michael approached the cardinal and looked him up and down. The older man was in his choir dress for what he must have deemed a special occasion; vibrant scarlet cassock with matching scarlet trim, red elbow-length cape over the lace-trimmed white rochet, and a red cleric’s skullcap. One item was notably missing; Cardinal Santori no longer burdened himself with the symbol of the cross. Michael stopped directly in front of the man to give him a sardonic smile.

“Will it be you, Cardinal, and your men that seek to help me with this task of surpassing God? The one you once promised to worship and honor with every breath and whom you have now forsaken?” They were so easily swayed by a little show of power. Michael had won their faith by hardly lifting a finger. The cardinal stepped aside and issued a beckoning wave back to the others. The group parted, three men on either side, to form a passage for the remaining associate at the back of their cluster.

“Unfortunately, the act of creation has always been a divine gift. We have never been blessed in such a way, though we have been given the honor of upbringing for the one who has. Our glorious purpose.” Soft heels clicked across the thin carpet runner approaching the dais. “God failed because there was no balance, which he now knows. There cannot be creation without destruction, no life without death, no light without the dark. To force one into extinction is to condemn the other. Someone once called you ‘the Alpha and the Omega,’ correct? Well, they were halfway right.” A slim hand settled into the one the cardinal left outstretched.

“My king.” Michael’s eyes quickly darted to the speaker when they stepped into his view, dipping into a low curtsey.

She was his opposite in every way. Delicate feminine features and form contrasted his strong, masculine bone structure and build. Her lustrous amber eyes met his aquamarine, and both pairs widened at the sudden jolt they received. Fire and ice. Twisting. Turning. Climbing from earth to sky. Something about her called to him. Something quietly familiar. Michael stepped forward with a creased brow while she allowed him to continue his observation. He swept a wave of her silken obsidian hair over her shoulder. Her breath shuddered momentarily, but her smile widened when their gaze met again. She waited patiently, allowing him as much time as he needed. After all, she had been patient long enough in waiting to meet him, and this gave her an equal opportunity to drink him in as well. His skin held the warmth of the fire he was born from in both color and temperature. She, on the other hand, seemed to be risen from the first winter snow. Could it be true that he wouldn’t be left to rebuild the world alone? Their proximity caused a breeze to weave through the room that centered around them. Years of waiting and begging and training…would this be the beginning of their purpose?

Clothed in flowing white, the crystalline vine embellishments captured the firelight to give her a glowing illusion. Chiffon draped from her shoulder straps and down her back in a delicate cape veil that did nothing to obscure the expense of her open back. More of the gentle fabric was braided across her chest to protect her dignity. A large portion of the bodice remained sheer except for more sparkling embellishments designed in the same intricate vine pattern. In place of a slit, the sheer fabric continued from the bodice, over her left hip, and down the entire left side of the otherwise modest, floor length skirt. It was a look meant to make an impression while still conveying the purity within her body and blood. Sensual yet sinless. She wanted him to be pleased, to be intrigued. And he certainly was in both respects. Cardinal Santori’s voice broke through Michael’s considerations.

“This… is the Divinity.”

[alexandralyman]

Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read on FF.net here or on AO3 here

                                            Part Twenty-Four

The Sistine Chapel - May 6, 1527

The long train of her gown made a faint whispering sound against the floor as she glided the length of the chapel, the heavy gold satin rippling and flowing in waves over the fine marble and intricately laid mosaics. They would have been a showpiece in any other cathedral, but here they paled in comparison to the splendour of a thousand years' worth of papal wealth that surrounded them. A few lanterns were still lit in the niches and alcoves set into the walls but the light was dying, flickering and growing even more dim with each step she took further and further into the shadowed heart of Christendom. It was in this place where a new pope rose upon the death of the old, crowned and gowned and bequeathed the Keys to the Kingdom as he ascended upon Saint Peter's seat.

The ancient throne lay empty and abandoned on this night.

Her hair was a loose spill down her back and she wore no hood or veil to conceal it, normally an unthinkable breach of protocol for a woman entering the sacred site and a grave offence to the Church. But there was no one left to bar her entry, not that any mortal man could actually stop her from passing through any door to any room in this place, where even the holiest of relics, the priceless texts of scripture and verse, the sacred hearts of saints, the swords carried into battle during the Crusades, all paled in comparison to her.

Not a single candle was left burning by the altar where a figure was just visible in the gloom, garbed as a monk in sober dark robes. But he was no more a lowly cleric labouring anonymously in the depths of the Vatican in his humble attire than she was a wealthy Roman noblewoman in her rich gown and while her head might be uncovered, it was far from bare. She wore her own diadem above her brow, it was made not of gold or gems, but of an unbroken circle of Heavenly light. Divine radiance illuminated her path while the astonishing frescos that the Florentine master, Michelangelo, had laboured over for the better part of a decade looked down from the ceiling above, now silent witnesses left behind when everyone else had fled.

Almost.

"His Holiness has left in the company of the Swiss Guard and the Emperor's army is about to breach the walls. Rome will fall to the wolves and it will fall tonight, it's too late to stop it now."

Emma delivered the news to the figure's back, as still as any of the painted prophets and saints that surrounded them. For several long moments he didn't move and if it was anyone else she would have thought he didn't hear her. But he heard everything, and when he finally turned the hood of his monkish robe fell back to reveal one who was both prophet and saint, known by many names and titles in different languages and traditions. In the chronicles of noble knights seeking the glory of the Holy Grail he was the mysterious and powerful Merlin, possessor of magic and esoteric knowledge beyond that of mortal men. In truth, he was a Prince of Heaven in his own right, an Archangelus, the patron of healers, lovers, and guardian angels and one of the highest ranked of the Blessed Ones along with his brothers Michael and Gabriel.

The Archangel Raphael.

Like all angels he was captivating to look at, with a face that Michelangelo would have given his own soul to capture in marble. Strong brows, full lips, and large, liquid eyes that were fixed firmly at some point in the distance before his attention turned to her. Pleas for salvation were echoing in the back of Emma's mind like a thousand hands all reaching out from the shadows to clutch at her train, while the Pope had been spirited away to safety many innocent souls had been left behind, unarmed and completely defenceless against the rampaging horde of soldiers about to descend upon them.

Raphael spoke in a low voice as his gaze drifted again, to the shadows that veiled the splendor around them and grew more with each passing moment. "Yes," he exhaled, and painted heads turned as his breath gave the little figures miraculous life. "They will come from the north...an army sent to expand an empire and lay waste to all who stand in the way...cities fall one by one and there will be death and destruction and war."

An exasperated huff escaped her lips. "Will be? War is already here!"

He shook his own head, his hair as close-cropped as any monk's in place of the flowing locks usually depicted in the many portrayals of him that adorned chapel walls and illuminated texts. The shapeless robes stirred about his legs, lifted by a cool breeze that swept through the nave and made the lanterns flicker and the frescos cower. The light dimmed even more with it and didn't recover, more faint, misty glow now than illumination.

"No, I don't mean this. What is to happen tonight will fade from history and be all but forgotten within a generation, though the effects will linger. This is not war, this is two mules eyeing each other balefully over the same pile of hay.

Only an angel would openly refer to the two most powerful men in Europe, the Supreme Pontiff Clement VII, who held dominion over all Catholic souls, and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who ruled most of the land those souls resided on, as nothing more than humble pack animals fighting over a mouthful of feed. But the description was an apt one, it was their mutual stubbornness and refusal to cede any ground that had led to an army the Emperor could no longer control poised to lay waste to everything in its path and the Pope abandoning Saint Peter's throne to flee like a thief in the night instead.

"Charles and Clement may be nothing more than mules, but even a mule's kick can be fatal," Emma argued back. "And when a Hapsburg aims for a Medici, he doesn't just strike his rival. Tell the people of Rome that this is not war when they're burned from their homes and slaughtered without mercy in the street."

Raphael sighed and statues wept. "His Majesty and His Holiness are not the only ones possessed of an excess of stubborness. Now is not the time for debate about the constitution of war, it's long past time for you to go home, beata Emma. The army is not the only wolf howling at the gates tonight."

Emma lifted her chin, not giving quarter even to an Archangel. "And the innocents will suffer all the more for it."

His voice was firm and the warning in his tone was clearer than any bell. "The darkness will always seek to snuff out the light, in every form. Always. We can't save them all, Emma, and we are not meant to. He gave them the freedom of their own will be they prince or peasant, and as such they are capable of so much beauty and so much ugliness in equal measure. That potential they all hold within is His gift to mankind and we must allow them to choose their own path. You can not interfere in this mortal quarrel and if you stay, it is inevitable that the darkness will seek to find you."

She knew what would follow the soldiers in once they descended like locusts from the plagues of old and began to pillage the city. Even in the very heart of the Vatican itself she could sense them faintly in the distance, just beyond the seven hills.

Waiting.

Damnate Infernum.

The Damned of Hell.

"I do not fear the darkness."

Her voice didn't rouse the frescos or move the carvings to tears as his did, but her voice was steady and her shoulders were squared back in her elegant gown. She carried no sword, no heaven-forged blade like the one that had made it into legend alongside Raphael's tenure as Merlin appeared in her hand with which to repel back a demonic horde, but she couldn't leave, not when so many voices were out there and calling to her with their pleas for salvation.

"You do," the Archangel intoned with a raise of his brow. "Oh, you are brave and your heart is pure, but no one, not even an angel, is immune to fear."

He smiled then, a breathtaking sight that eclipsed even the glory of the grandeur that surrounded them. Emma felt her own lips lift in response and the candles that had been left unattended at the altar all ignited, filling the air around them with the scent of beeswax and sweet oil. Raphael's smile turned melancholy, his pupils twin golden flames from the reflections but also flickering with something else, beyond what Emma herself could see. The Merlin of tale was a prophet and that wasn't the fanciful imaginings of a twelfth-century cleric, Raphael had the divine gift of prophecy as all the Archangels did and in truth, Emma was afraid to ask what he saw when he looked at her now.

Another breath of wind swept through the chapel, cold, and decidedly unnatural. It licked a shiver down her spine and the candles went out again from the force of it, wisps of dark smoke curling up to the ceiling in serpentine ribbons. All save for one long, pale taper that continued to burn alone in defiance of the attempt to snuff it out. Raphael looked at it for a long moment and then he nodded once, as if in acknowledgement.

"A single light remains. If you truly wish to stay through what is to come, I won't forbid it. But Emma, you must keep in mind that the most divine of gifts can also become the heaviest of burdens. To listen and stay silent is not easy, you can find yourself longing not to hear them at all when you can't answer. Perhaps even for eternity."

She couldn't imagine even considering such a notion, one that trod so dangerously close to a path that led away from Heaven and only a few had chosen to follow since He first separated the light from the darkness as painted above.

"Is your gift a burden, beatus Raphael?"

His handsome face shifted, becoming softer and more wistful at the question. "My gift is wonderful. And terrible. I see such marvels to come, each more astonishing than the last as they continue to embrace art and science and learning, even when they stumble along the way. Then there are the horrors that have yet to be as well, when they fall into ignorance and loathing. But that is the future and as pleasant as it might have been to be gifted with visions of only the former and not the latter, without both, I would be blind in one eye."

With that, he made a motion with his hand and the candle that still burned lifted from the altar on unseen wings, crossing the bit of distance to float between his cupped palms. The little flame grew even stronger and for a moment that was an eternity unto itself the whole chapel blazed with light. Frescos acted out their stories in miniature, Passion Plays in pigment and plaster. The First Man reached to his Creator, the waters rose as the Flood washed over the banks and the Serpent hissed in triumph as the Forbidden Fruit was consumed and Man fell from grace.

Raphael offered the taper to her and she accepted it, his hands closing over hers so they both formed the ancient gesture of prayer. When he pulled away the flame returned to nothing more than a tiny spark, the painted figures were still and his eyes no longer reflected that which fate had hidden to all but him.

"They will follow you by this light, beata Emma."

She dipped her chin. "Gratias tibi ago."

The Archangel Raphael stepped back and folded his hands solemnly in his sleeves. A papal audience would conclude with the kissing of the fisherman's ring, but angels wore no jewelry. Her own fingers were bare of any adornment despite the richness of her attire. Still, she recognized she was being dismissed and she turned, satin gown rustling with the movement.

The candle illuminated the path back out of the chapel and no more, saints had retreated into shadows and all that remained of the dazzling splendor was a solitary angel. A glance back revealed what she already knew, Raphael was gone and she was alone.

It had already begun, Emma could hear the hue and cry quickly spreading across the city in advance of the army. She picked up her skirts and started to run, flying not with her wings but on her faith instead, trusting that it would take her where they would find her, whoever *they* were.

When she reached the closest set of doors that led outside they opened into the darkness of the night, the sky above indistinguishable from the ground below even with the candle in her hand burning bright. The space between the ornately carved wood gaped like a maw, and she could smell the smoke in the distance as her own prophecy came true and the fires were lit.

Rome had fallen.

When she reached the threshold the finely laid mosaics abruptly stopped, giving way to the drop where the Pope would slowly descend to the cheers of the waiting masses come to pay him homage in His name. Adoration had turned to debasement, cheers to screams, and as the floor fell away from beneath her feet Emma didn't ascend.

She leapt straight into the storm instead.

Lower Saxony, Germany, 1943

Bright sunshine shone down on the tall stone walls of the medieval Schloss, an imposing structure that dominated both the surrounding countryside of forests and fields and the picture postcard village nestled in the valley below, all nearly unchanged from how it must have looked centuries ago when the Hapsburgs still ruled this part of the world with absolute power not as mere kings like in France and England, but as emperors anointed by Rome.

Killian stepped out of his car and tilted his head back to take it all in, squinting into the light. It really was like stepping back in time, his was the only vehicle he'd seen on the winding road that connected castle and village and, unlike in every other city and town across Germany, there was no hint of the current turmoil to be seen or heard. No armed checkpoints on the roads, no soldiers posted at the town hall, not even the distant roar of the Luftwaffe in the sky overhead that was ever present now in even the most remote provinces far from the hive of furious activity that was Berlin. It would be curious, if Killian didn't already know exactly who was currently residing behind the ancient walls, someone who was far older and had the power to keep everything that was going on at bay.

For now, at least.

Inside, heavy damask curtains were drawn tight across every window and he was plunged directly into the darkness upon entering what was almost certainly enemy territory. It would have been disconcerting to anyone else, but Killian could see perfectly in the dark and his eyes adjusted at once with a flash of crimson to take in the artwork that crammed every inch of the walls in ornate frames. Far from an unusual sight in a castle, but these weren't the expected solemn-faced portraits of family scions or middling landscapes by unimportant artists like the one Emma had been so enamoured with before the French decided to give their entire aristocracy the same treatment as Herod gave to John the Baptist. Killian recognized the unmistakable hand of Titian in a red-haired siren and Caravaggio's signature chiaroscuro in the depiction of a saint, there was a Rembrandt that, as far as he knew, belonged to the Dutch royal family, currently exiled in Canada, and a half-finished sketch that he would wager a literal king's ransom was a Da Vinci. It was a veritable Aladdin's cave of priceless treasures, and none of it was owned by the noble family who had given their name to both the Schloss and the village and were now conspicuous by their absence. War had redrawn the European borders once again and, like the sacking of Rome by another German army four centuries prior, spoils had been taken and even more innocent blood was spilled. As Damnate Infernum, a Demon of Hell and corruptor of human souls Killian had seen it all before, he'd been standing on the hill when the city gates were finally breached on that May eve long ago and the holy city itself started to burn, but this conflagration was the closest he'd ever felt to the End of Days and the war destined to eclipse all others.

The Final Battle.

The artistic splendor was marred by the presence of an imp, lounging on an antique chaise in an insolent sprawl with one leg slung over the back and a grin that revealed a mouth packed with too many teeth.

Killian detested imps.

"Corruptor," the lesser demon practically purred, drawing the title out like it was a juicy treat. "What business have you with the illustrious Dark One? Have you come to make a deal?"

He would sooner be tortured by the Inquisition again than make a deal with Rumpelstiltskin and he bared his own teeth at the imp, white and far sharper than they looked.

"Tell your master that I'm here to speak with him, and that he needs to keep his pets on a tighter leash. I've heard what you've been up to when he lets you run loose. Bad form, even for an imp."

The rebuke in his voice made the imp's head snap back hard against the padded velvet, but instead of being chastised, it let out a high-pitched giggle that quickly melted into an obscene moan.

"Do it again!"

Killian grit his teeth, trying to keep his hellish temper in check. As much as he would have liked to teach the imp a painful lesson in the proper amount of deference owed to a higher demon, he was here for something far more important and anything else was a distraction.

Besides, the infernal creature would probably enjoy it.

"Fetch. Your. Master," he repeated, each word snapping in the air like the crack of a whip.

The imp stood and gave a mocking salute, clicking its heels together and bending its knees like a ballerina doing a plié. Killian didn't return the gesture, despite the uniform he was currently wearing.

"Aye, aye, Kapitän."

He felt his eyes narrow at that as the imp disappeared down the hall, dancing and whistling a jaunty tune through those piranha teeth as it went. The sound seemed to echo long after the imp was gone until Killian realized he was hearing someone else instead, his head turning in the direction it was coming from and following on silent feet until he found the source.

A pair of narrow doors stood ajar with a sliver of light peeking out and through the gap he saw that it was the castle's library, tall stacks rising right to the ceiling and filled cheek by jowl with leather-bound books. He gave the door the tiniest of nudges and it swung open fully, revealing that the curtains were tied back in heavy swags unlike in the other rooms he had passed, letting in the sun. The reason why quickly became obvious, there was a ladder attached to the bookcases to allow access to the higher shelves and perched on it was a soman, her back to him as she dusted along a row of books and hummed to herself in a sweet voice. Unlike the imp she was mortal, entirely human, her petite figure clad in a modest blue dress and her chestnut hair falling down her back in thick curls. Killian supposed she was Rumpelstiltskin's chambermaid, but strangely for someone in a demon's employ there wasn't a whiff of corruption about her. As one whose entire purpose was to corrupt and defile he could always detect it, to him it was like the scent of overripe fruit about to spoil. It clung indelibly to those falling away from the Light as their souls blackened and shrivelled like the half-eaten apple left behind in the Garden, so perfect and unblemished on the Tree until temptation proved too much for Mankind to resist. Whoever the woman was, she was still innocent, and curiosity had time taking a step closer because he was never one to resist temptation in any form.

The doors both slammed shut in his face before he could cross the threshold, with enough force to make his teeth rattle and the sweet humming was abruptly cut off, replaced by the harsh scrape of a lock being turned.

"Corruptor."

His demonic title was spoken from behind him in an oily voice and Killian turned smoothly on his booted heel, away from the library and the woman now locked within.

"Dealmaker," he acknowledged.

Rumpelstiltskin's thin lips went even thinner, but he couldn't fault Killian for addressing him in kind and not by his preferred moniker. He was attired in current fashion from the knife's-edge part in his hair down to his two-tone loafers, but he still carried the silver-tipped cane that Killian remembered from Paris, in the midst of another time and another war. The handle was shaped like a reptile's head, fitting for an ancient demon with such a cold-blooded disposition. The ebony tip rapped sharply against the floor when he turned and started to walk back down the hall without another word, not bothering to check if Killian followed. The dealmaker was more arrogant than any king in his newly acquired castle, and Killian rolled his eyes behind the self-styled Dark One's back before falling reluctantly into step to the metronome of the cane against the polished stone, each strike echoing loudly in the silence.

More incredible art adorned the walls on either side of them, one long corridor was completely lined in fourteenth-century tapestries that were somewhat faded with age but remarkably intact, depicting a typical medieval hunt. Killian had participated in his fair share of them under his many different noble aliases, he immediately recognized the scenes. The elusive quarry managed to evade the hunting party for several panels, leaping through glens and peeping defiantely at them through a copse of trees just beyond their reach. It almost slipped away, but the pursuers were determined and the freedom of the forest was fleeting, as the tiny woven arrows landed straight and true at the end.

Rumpelstiltskin came to a halt by another pair of doors where the imp was waiting, bowing like a well-trained footmen when he approached, fawning and obsequious now in the master's direct presence instead of mocking and impertinent. Rumpelstiltskin lifted the tip of the cane off the floor and used it to raise the imp's chin, forcing the creature's head back at what on anyone else would be an unnatural angle.

"Wait for me outside the library. It's currently locked, and it stays that way."

The order was clear and the imp ran off again, not bothering with any theatrics this time to scuttle away like a cockroach instead. Killian watched it scurry down the hall, his interest piqued even more while Rumpelstiltskin entered what looked like an ordinary sitting room. Tufted chairs, a wireless in a walnut case, and a china tea set left on a side table, nothing unexpected at first glance. A closer look told a slightly different story, there was a copy of the current evening edition of the London Telegraph folded next to the flowered cups, even though it wouldn't be out for another two hours across the Channel. There was no picture of Der Führer hung in place of pride or copy of his odious book on display as there were in every patriotic German household, and even ensconced as he was deep within the dark heart of the Glorious Reich, Killian suspected that Rumpelstiltskin had his long, grasping fingers stuck in all sorts of pies.

"Did the local count bargain away both his Schloss and das Mädchen?"

Killian sat down in the tallest chair without waiting for an invitation, pulling out a silver cigarette case engraved with his monogram and flicking it open. He lit one without a match, inhaling deep and blowing out not a mere smoke ring, but a smoke serpent that rose in the air and hissed right in the other demon's face until it dissipated from an equal flick of Rumpelstiltskin's finger, his expression clearly unimpressed by the showy display.

"She made her own deal with me and is therefore off limits to you, Corruptor," he said. "Don't think I've forgotten the last time you interfered in my affairs."

Killian hadn't forgotten it either, and he couldn't say he felt any remorse for assisting the courtesan Maleficent settle her affairs behind Rumpelstilskin's back. The letter she had written had been delivered safe to her daughter while the daughter's husband was away from the house and unable to confiscate it, Killian had made sure of that. It hadn't been a deal, not exactly, just an offer made to give the woman a bit of comfort with none of his usual strings attached because he felt like being magnanimous. Besides, he'd always enjoyed Maleficent's elegant salons. He took another drag on his cigarette and did his best to look contrite, even though they both knew it was completely insincere.

"Speaking of which," Rumpelstiltskin continued, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "what happened to that angel you were so damn adamant about? I heard rumours that an angel finally smited that irritating succubus Zelena in Paris and yet by some miracle you appear to have walked away from that encounter completely unscathed. How curious."

Killian hadn't forgotten the Dark One's interest in his angel either, an interest he had no intention of encouraging. Emma hadn't fallen, not yet, and until she did and he could claim her openly for his own, she was fair game to any demon that crossed her path. He was certain that he was the only one who could seduce her, but the others would be all too eager to attack a Blessed One and try to destroy her. Including the demon who sat across from him now.

He needed to tread very carefully.

"She flew beyond my grasp," he said, blowing out another lungful of smoke that turned into an image of Zelena's face, rendered as delicately as any of the paintings on display. Her mouth split open in a silent pantomime of her final, agonized scream when another breath of smoke spilled over it just as the holy water had in life. "Zelena thought she could take an angel on herself, if she had stayed on her back where she belonged and out of my way, then maybe she wouldn't have ended up as nothing more than effluent in the Paris sewers alongside the contents of every royal bowel loosened by the steel kiss of Madame Guillotine. But I can't say I mourned her untimely passing, not after she spoiled my plans and let the angel escape."

Zelena's image finally melted away just like the succubus herself when he stubbed the cigarette out into a crystal ashtray, leaving behind a smear of ash as dark and thick as her infernal blood had been when it spilled over the blade of his iron knife. Rumpelstiltskin's gaze followed the movement, unblinking even through the eye-watering haze of smoke that now filled the room.

"Indeed. Perhaps you'll have another bite at that particular apple, one day. Although it's already been what, a hundred and fifty years? Taking the definition of eternity rather literally, aren't we now?"

Killian knew it was a jab at his apparent failure and he let his expression twist into a scowl. Little did the Dark One know of all the nights since then when he'd succeeded in "capturing" Emma, her wrists pinned fast by his grasp that could so easily become shackles from which she'd never escape, caging her with his body while she was wound in his sheets, close, so close to surrendering to him fully and not just to his carnal temptation. He'd savour his other victories privately until then, how he'd coaxed out her name the night they met, worked to gain her trust over the centuries, her confession that she could hear him, each far more valuable and rarer than any painting or tapestry Rumpelstiltskin could acquire.

He'd get what he wanted, in the end. Patience might be a virtue, but he was willing to be virtuous for this, and he'd rub Rumpelstiltskin's nose right in his success whether it took ten years or a hundred. Losing a little face now was a small price to pay.

Turn the other cheek, as it were.

"I'm sure it didn't take you nearly as long to accumulate your little treasure trove, did it, Dark One? And all strictly for the glory of the new German empire, I'm sure."

There was a flash of amusement on Rumpelstiltskin's face at the sarcasm in Killian's tone.

"I've held up my end of all the bargains I've made on behalf of the empire. What you see here are merely a few trinkets kept for my private collection."

Killian thought that "looted" was probably a more apt description than "kept" for the fortune crammed onto the walls, but he didn't say it out loud. And he was the one who'd once been called a pirate. Still, the dealmaker's penchant for trinkets was the whole reason why he'd come and he made a photograph appear, held delicately between his fingers like the cigarette before he set it on the table and slid it over.

"Is this one of your new acquisitions like the artwork and the decorative young girl, perhaps?"

The image was grainy, a faded sepia and foxed at the edges from age. Rumpelstiltskin looked down at it and while his expression didn't change the blue haze in the air from the cigarette smoke rippled around him, like a stone dropped in a still pond.

"It's called the White Hilt," Killian began, watching the other demon carefully as he spoke, "among other names, and was said to have been made from a remnant of the sword wielded by the angel who drove the First Man and First Woman from the Garden, where it was cleaved in two by their sin."

While the photograph was badly faded, the object pictured was still recognizable and had even retained a bit of gloss, forever reflecting the flash that had gone off when the image was captured for posterity. It was a blade, long and narrow and oddly shaped. Both sides were curved several times along the edge, so that it resembled less of a knife and more like a lick of flame made metal. Despite the name the actual hilt wasn't white, it was so dark in the picture that it was probably black or nearly to it, and was studded with what looked like a large jewel at the top.

"There was legends about it, like those about the Holy Grail and the Spear of Destiny, but they fell out of fashion and out of history and only a few scholars have even heard of the White Hilt now, including those that Der Führer has combing every pilfered record he can get his hands on thanks to his new obsession, the occult sciences."

Rumpelstiltskin gave him a contemptuous look. "Spare me the lesson, I'm far more versed in these tales than you, Corruptor. More than one soul has tried to barter with me for holy relics, thinking it will bring them power and glory. A blade forged from Heavenly light is an attractive idea, especially to one who has styled himself a Saviour of the people."

"While he exterminates those who don't fit his definition of the term," Killian added.

It wasn't spoken of openly, but people knew where their absent neighbours had gone. Yellow stars were left behind on the lintels of empty houses, paint flaking away in the elements and the sin cut deeper than any knife.

The other demon lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Sieg Heil."

As before, Killian didn't return the sentiment. He gestured to the photograph instead. "This was taken sometime before the Great War, in this very castle."

He flipped it over and revealed the writing on the back, done in an old, copperplate hand. There were only three lines, the name of the Schloss they were currently sitting in, an illegible signature, and below them both was a word written first in German, and then, perhaps more tellingly, in Latin.

Dagger

Rumpelstiltskin eyed his uniform, one that gave him near absolute authority in the name of the would-be king. "I suppose you've come here as the knight on a noble quest?" he asked, tone still laced with contempt. "Shall I address you as Sir Killian instead of Corruptor then, collecting shiny tribute for your new master?"

Killian ignored that jab as well and focused on what the dealmaker might have just accidently let slip instead.

"So it is here?"

He met Rumpelstiltskin's gaze head on across the table. It was like staring into a well, his eyes were fathomless black depths that seemed to ripple from deep within. A mortal soul would fear what lurked unseen at the bottom and glance away from it, as Damnate Infernum in his own right, with power far beyond what the rank on his collar granted him, Killian didn't blink.

When Rumpelstiltskin spoke again it was through teeth gone serrated as a crocodile's. "I don't answer to you. Or to Der Führer. You think I'm somehow unaware of his more esoteric interests and attempts to collect such objects? Napoleon went to Egypt in search of Biblical treasures to strengthen his laughable claim, Charles V sent his troops to Rome to seize Saint Peter's throne, and now Adolf Hitler seeks a broken sword with which to rule the world. An emperor in all but name, and like those who came before him, doomed to inevitable failure. Just as you've failed in your pathetic attempt to intimidate me."

He started to rise from his seat then, cane in one hand and clear dismissal in his voice. "You can see yourself out now, Corruptor."

Killian remained where he was, idly examining his rings. The large, square cut ruby that he'd owned for centuries sat on his finger and winked up at him, he refused to don the honours that went with the uniform and wore his favourite pieces in their place instead. He rubbed his thumb over it and admired the fire within before rolling his wrist and snapping his fingers without looking up.

"Even in this modern world, I find that some still cling rather stubbornly to the old ways, don't you, Dealmaker? Especially those who used to hold power. They still style themselves with the titles they lost in the last war in the hope they'll regain them one day, prince, duke, count, and they still arrange marriages for their children. Marriage is a sacrament, and there is nothing more sacred to these people than money."

Rumpelstiltskin snatched up the papers that had appeared on the desk at Killian's command, his face a mask of utter fury as he scanned them and obviously realized his error. The marriage contract was clear, the bride's wealthy family had provided a considerable dowry to the impoverished but noble groom, on the condition that she be granted sole ownership of his ancestral seat and all the contents within upon the wedding, a hedge against a future divorce. Furnishings, carpets, silverware, there was a complete inventory right down to the number of teaspoons.

Including; "an antique jewelled dagger of unknown provenance."

"I confess I may lack your level of expertise," Killian continued, acting as innocent as a virgin at Mass, "but I do know that you can't put up what doesn't belong to you as collateral. Your contract was only with the husband. Mine is with the wife."

Her signature was next to Killian's own on the document the Dark One now held, granting him possession of the castle and surrounding estate. Marriage was a sacrament, and adultery was his favourite sin. He lit another cigarette from his silver case, filled as much with smug satisfaction at having pulled the rug out from under Rumpelstiltskin as the smoke he drew into his lungs. Another demon couldn't interfere directly once a bargain was struck and they both knew it. But Killian hadn't, since the deal was never valid to begin with. "Good faith" was not a doctrine demons followed, and Rumpelstiltskin had no choice but to accept that his own carefully wrought deal was now completely null and void.

"You don't answer to me, that's true. But you do answer to the Fallen One, so if you care to argue this further we can always take this little disagreement to him for a final ruling, if you desire."

The papers fluttered back down and spread across the table in an untidy heap while Rumpelstiltskin's dark gaze went sharper than any dagger. Despite his easy posture with the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, Killian was inwardly as tense as a bowstring. They were both bound by the same rules that called for the other demon to acquiesce, however unwilling he was to do so, but he looked to be on the verge of breaking those rules completely and refusing to relinquish his claim. If he did it would come at a considerable cost, and Killian's entire plan hinged on the Dark One being unwilling to pay it.

"That's twice," he said at last. "Believe me, there won't be a third time."

With that, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his cane and slammed it back down on the floor. The sound was like the strike of a match flaring to life, only magnified a thousandfold and everything in the room rattled from the force of it. For a split second Killian could see what lay beneath the unassuming countenance that had slithered unnoticed and forgotten throughout history for so long, the Beast without his human form to conceal him. He braced himself for the attack that was sure to follow, fingers tightening on the arm of the chair and ready to leap up and fling the lit cigarette right into the demon's face.

It never came. The Dark One was gone instead.

His boots made no sound when he stood up from the chair and walked around the table, the tip of the cigarette flaring crimson as he took another deep inhale. A chasm had opened in the floor like a sinkhole, right where the cane had struck. Killian crouched down to examine it, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette into the hole and watching it fall end over end until it was swallowed up by the darkness. The chasm was deep, impossibly so, and for a moment he wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had decided to appeal to Lucifer after all and returned to Infernum itself to do so, as the Fallen One rarely left his kingdom below. He waited a few moments, but there was no summons under his skin that compelled him to follow and a check of the castle revealed that most of the treasures had been removed as well. The walls where the tapestries had hung were bare, the exquisite paintings were gone, furniture was draped in dusty cloths and there was an air of disuse and neglect as if everything had been shut away and left untouched for months. A check of the hall outside the library revealed the imp was nowhere to be found, and now that he'd established himself as master the door opened as soon as Killian touched the knob.

It was empty.

Not just the maid, a lot of the books had vanished alongside her. There were holes on the shelves that hadn't been there before and a few of the ones left behind had toppled over completely without the others to hold them in place. Rumpelstiltskin had withdrawn in silent acknowledgement that he'd been outmaneuvered, but he'd obviously taken everything from his other deals along with him. Using that much power at once could nearly cripple a demon, even one as powerful as the dealmaker.

When he returned to the sitting room he saw the rent in the floor had sealed itself back up and all that remained where it had been was a small black mark, perfectly round, left by the tip of the cane. His shoulders dropped with relief under the tailored wool of his jacket that his gamble had paid off, in truth, Killian hadn't wanted to involve the Fallen One either and the invocation of his authority had been a bluff.

The edge of the photograph peeked out from underneath a page of dry German legalese, Killian picked it up and read the words on the back again. If the White Hilt truly existed, then it was a holy relic of the highest order and one he would not allow to fall into Nazi hands. That madman in Berlin could make do with the ramblings of false prophets and the bones of apocryphal saints to fuel his insane crusade, anything genuine was exceedingly rare and he had his own reasons for searching such objects out, reasons he didn't share with those who only thought the commanded him. Just as it had the last time he'd been part of a German army, it was to serve his own purposes and not the other way around.

"Find it."

He didn't have any imps at his disposal so he sent his shadow to begin the search instead. The dark shape moved along the wall of its own volition and sank into the stone like water sinking into the sand, if the dagger was secreted somewhere within the Schloss then he'd find it no matter how well it was hidden. If it turned out to be a medieval copy then he'd return with it to the capital and graciously accept the Reich's accolades, but if it was real, then his coded dispatch would report that the legend of a blade forged from a sword once wielded by a holy angel was just that, a legend, and nothing more.

Night had fallen by the time Killian went outside for some air, frustrated by what appeared to be a fruitless search. There was no jewelled dagger anywhere to be found and he couldn't sense the presence of anything holy. He'd known the odds were exceedingly slim to begin with, and yet for some reason a part of him had believed that not only did the White Hilt exist, he would find it here. Learning that Rumpelstiltskin had chosen this of all the estates he could have had for a wartime headquarters had only increased that belief, it was too much of a coincidence that the demon who coveted power above all else could be sitting unawares on such a prize.

A single line in an inventory that had been prepared years prior and a photograph even older still. It could be real, or it could be nothing more than a wild goose chase and there was no way to tell without the dagger itself. He'd know immediately, just as he'd known that Emma was an angel. The damned always recognized the divine.

A light appeared high in the sky above and drew his attention up. It wasn't the holy light that had drawn him closer on that night in Rome when war had raged unchecked and the city burned, it was the Luftwaffe, flying on steel wings to rain fire in the form of the bombs dropped nightly across the Channel. A falling star streaking across the heavens with a deafening roar, and as it passed overhead he felt the disturbance in the air even from the ground.

The feeling didn't go away after the plane was gone, if anything it increased, hairs on the back of his neck rising and a prickling under his skin that usually meant one thing. Something else caught his eye, a tiny bit of movement that was nothing but a pale smudge against the deep indigo at first. As it grew closer Killian saw that it was a bird, a dove, with something held in its beak.

Not an olive branch, it was a note, falling straight into his hands while the dove flew away. There was only one who correspond with him in such a fashion, and it wasn't another demon. When he unfolded the square of paper letters appeared as if by magic in gold script, addressed at the top in a familiar hand to, "Damnate."

Killian quickly scanned the lines, his brow creasing with a frown. Once he'd secured control of the castle his plan had been to keep following the trail of the White Hilt if it wasn't there, he had some other leads and records that pointed to where it might have gone and the war was the perfect cover for his pursuit. Now that the Dark One knew of his interest, it was even more important that he maintained his cover and moved as quickly as possible. He wasn't bound to answer the summons he held in his hands, the promise he'd made could easily be broken.

"...as you once agreed to give me safe passage I ask that assistance again of you now…"

"...I need you…"

"...please…"

It was signed at the bottom with a single initial in lieu of a name, E, and he brushed his thumb over it.

His answer was silent to all but her.

Belgian Countryside, 1943

"Someone's coming."

The whispered announcement made everyone freeze for a moment before they hurried to the dusty windows in a flurry of palpable dread, dousing the old gas lamp they'd been using for light and pulling the tattered curtains back to peer out into the gloom on the other side of the glass. Outside it was pitch-black for miles around and silent as a tomb across the barren fields and empty roads that made up the ancient Flemish countryside, with not a soul to be seen nor heard from in days. Or it had been, at least. Now there was a distinctly mechanical hum in the air, quiet and barely audible at first, but growing louder and louder and a collective gasp echoed around the room when the long drive to the abandoned farmhouse where they'd taken refuge suddenly lit up with twin oblong lights. As yellow as the predatory eyes of a serpent poised to strike and moving even more quickly, they were unmistakably headlamps, from a large vehicle that was making its way directly towards them at breakneck speed.

"Soldiers!"

"Germans!"

It was a single cry of alarm that was taken up at once by the rest of the ragged group, white-faced and trembling with both exhaustion and fear. In the shadows Philippe and Richard shared that kind of unguarded embrace that would send them straight to the camps as sexual deviants alongside Isaac and the other Jews who sought shelter under her wings, while the Mother Superior had her arms wrapped comfortingly around little Gretel, as thin and delicate as a baby bird fallen from the nest.

Emma forced herself to her feet despite her own utter fatigue and lurched towards the door, tossing a hurried, "Stay here," over her shoulder as she went.

"Emma, Emma come back!"

"Emma, wait, no, it's too dangerous, you don't know who's out there-"

She heard them, but there was another voice that was even louder and she didn't heed their warnings, already on the sagging porch with her shoes scarcely touching the ground as she practically flew down the steps and flung herself headlong into the path of the oncoming car. The light found her immediately and there was an ear-splitting squeal of metal as the unseen driver behind the wheel slammed on the brakes. Gravel flew from under the tires like shrapnel and the car skidded to a halt scant inches from where she stood, so close that Emma could feel the searing heat from the engine, a shocking contrast against the cooler night air. A door opened and a tall figure emerged, standing just beyond the pool of light with his face hidden under the brim of his hat. His appearance elicited another shriek of fright from behind her when they caught a glimpse of his uniform, the glint of silver on his collar and the armband red as blood. Her little flock hadn't listened and had followed her outside, staying close to their shepherd and bleating in fear like orphaned lambs in the dark. Their presence pulled at her to return while his pushed her back, his damnation attempting to repel away her divinity and she swayed back and forth where she stood, caught between warring instincts until he stepped into the light and there was nothing except him.

"Engel," Killian murmured when she threw herself at him, straight into his arms and burying her face in his shoulder. His voice rumbled through her, equal parts amused and concerned. "Oh blessed one. What have you done now?"

There was a shuffle of footsteps behind her and she felt him stiffen, his attention shifting to the small group she'd guided from the Dutch border and across half of occupied Belgium. Emma knew she should pull herself away and try to come up with an explanation as to why she was embracing what appeared to be a Nazi officer who'd just appeared out of nowhere in a car more suited to a film star than a soldier. It must look like their shepherd had delivered them straight to the wolves instead of the safety she promised and she should step back, reassure them, ease their worry...but her head was too heavy, weighed down with innumerable unanswered prayers that flickered behind her eyes in an endless loop. People were suffering, starving, dying, and it was too much for even her wings to carry. Her fingers curled into the dark wool of his jacket and when they called her name again it seemed to come from very far away. His voice was among them but she couldn't answer, her hold loosening and her knees giving out, buckling like an ancient tree gone hollow with age and unable to withstand the force of the wind any longer.

"Killian."

His name fell from her lips in a whisper and she was falling with it, the hard earth below rushing up to meet her and the heavens above, dark, and devoid of stars.

The demon caught her before she hit the ground.

[hydrangeasimagination]

Loosely, Gently

Pairing(s): Todoroki Enji / Endeavor X Gender Neutral! Reader

Summary: It was something he hadn't considered before, even the years of being so close to you all the time. How easily you were able to push past him defenses, step into line with him without being deterred by his arrogance or pride. Before the fall of All Might, you were nothing more than someone in passing... Afterwards, he wasn't sure what you were...

Warnings: Slight manga spoilers! Mentions of Abuse. Blood Mention?

A/N: I’ve never actually written for him until now since I wanted to get the anime to get caught up with the manga and some of ya’ll aren’t believers in Endeavor’s redemption. I hated him too at one point. Only to become neutral after seeing how he behaved after Toshinori’s retirement. Which again changed to akin to understanding as the manga progressed. Horikoshi handles this issue well and I commemorate how he tackles everything.

I can only hope I can attempt and handle such issues with as much grace as he does.

You do not have to read this. Nor do you have to come in and begin an argument, just remain civil and move along.

I do not condone what Enji has done.

But I think he’s beginning to make up for it.

By showing his remorse, by reflecting that he is sorry based upon his actions as opposed to his words because we know how bad he is with those.

Drawing on my experience and the experience I’ve seen own loved ones go through. I stand by what I’ve said; no one has to forgive their abuser.

Written with TBT in mind and by association and an original character specifically... IDK if Beacon can float tho since this was supposed to be a little bit of a surprise. But it coincidentally also happened to be their creator’s birthday!

So birthday wishes to @starchaser-the-prophet​ !

Happy day of birth fam ❤️

Images were something that had always appealed to Todoroki Enji, something he's held onto tightly, like a vice.

Whether it be his own or the thoughts floating in his head.

There was always a plan after he became number two.

"Surpass the number one, surpass All Might!"

It consumed him in the end.

Wrapped him and his...

Family...

He didn't deserve to call them as such.

Wrapped them all in an entangled web of pain, of trauma....

Of abuse.

Everything that he had done, was all for naught.

The shattering of those that he should have loved, should have protected!

Cherished.

But what is he to do now?

The overwhelming pressure in his chest never lessened.

Even after the scar on his face healed, after he had given Rei and his children a new home as he lived in the cold residence of the Todoroki manor.

Even while he signed the divorce papers.

It just grew.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Flooding his mind with the images — the godforsaken images — of the sobbing and terrified faces of his family.

The feeling of guilt was never so stifling.

But he deserved this.

He did this to them.

So many horrible and awful things.

So many deplorable and...

His thoughts were screaming.

... He didn't expect their forgiveness.

He shouldn't expect their forgiveness

His pain is nothing compared to their's.

The dried stains of their blood on his hands is a testament to that.

These images will never stop, the images of the damage inflicted on his family.

... But as of late, something else had been occupying his mind.

"Oh, Enji, it's nice to see you again!"

Baked pastries and sugary treats suddenly flooded his senses, the warmth he felt was unmatched to his flames.

A pair of glimmering gems peered at him betwixt snow caught lashes, a sunny smile close to melting it all away.

Close, but not too close, floating on the chilled air.

You.

He really shouldn't have been staring, your radiance was something unimportant not too long ago. It was unfair of him to believe that it was appropriate in any shape or form as he’d treated you not too differently from the other heroes that had attempted to strike up a friendship with him.

He’d recently made you cry too, over the scar on his face no less.

It was truly hard not to allow his gaze to linger as you were nothing short of breath-taking, you always had been.

Enji was unfortunately just blind to it for the longest time.

Distracted by chasing titles and old flames.

Since you were starting out.

He spoke your last name with hesitation, head bowed in respect.

It makes the words of his youngest son’s significant other ring in his ears.

"Oh, come on, I've told you already!" The huff of vapor from your mouth dissipated quickly, timed with the downturn of your lips. "Just call me by my given name, we've known each other for nearly a decade now."

His mouth tightening into a thin line, the flames licking up the sides of his face doing well in covering the color flooding his cheeks, eyes narrowing as his back tensed.

He didn’t deserve this either.

Any bystander watching would have assumed that you’d upset him, that you had incurred the wrath of Endeavor. That you'd soon be someone that'd be losing their job and credibility.

The ruthlessness of his reputation plagued him, the eyes on his back never stopped.

So he was thankful when the smile returned to your features, thankful that you could read him. Even if he was to deny everything you had ever told him about himself in the past, a habit that also came in the present.

These thoughts in the back of his head became less glaring, though lingered in the reaches of his skull.

"Like I said, it's fine."

Quieter still at the sound of your sweet voice.

Soundlessly, your feet touched the floor and you held up the bag, steaming and smelling divinely despite the sour taste that lodged itself in the back of his throat.

"Cream bread?"

He felt his shoulders slowly fall, even if it is just slightly.

His expression changed.

Crystals of snow melted into drops before they had the chance to reach him, his warmth unchanged to the weather.

Sapphires hues gazed at you, a softness that was seen to few.

The curl of his lips, stretching of his scar nearly unseen...

It was such a serene expression.

Your heart gently beats against your sternum, only quickening as his impossibly warm, large hand dropped low.

Lower.

Images were something that had always appealed to Todoroki Enji, something he's held onto tightly, like a vice...

He no longer wants to be suffocating.

So he holds this new image as though it’s able to slip through his fingers.

As you look at him, with wonder and flushed features, he feels like he's doing something right.

Delicate fingers lock his in place, the pressure in his chest lessens.

While that same smile that had been unnoticed for nearly 10 years catches his attention again.

"Lead the way." His voice is low.

The squeeze of pressure around his palm in his wipes his doubts in this, tugging him along the snowy sidewalk.

All the while, your hands never part, holding one another's.

Loosely, gently.

[yanara126-writing]

Sweet Azalea White Rose and Yellow Zinnia

Favaen mourns the loss of her god and comes to a decision.

-

Read here or on Ao3. (2585 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

In your eagerness to celebrate the spring, do not forget that winter is needed to prepare for it.

Those had been His last words to her, spoken with the same warm fondness she’d known since childhood, without a trace of rebuke or censure, only a soft reminder. At least that’s what she had thought at the time, now she was not so sure anymore.

Knowing now what had occurred in the former colony, the words suddenly seemed a lot more ominous, a warning for the world as a whole, rather than the gentle hint she’d taken it for.

Favaen sighed and stared down at her most recent project. It was a silver ring; the frame was already finished and now there was only the filing and polishing left to do, the fine work that was always the hardest for her. Later she would fit a small adra stone into it as well, but for that she would need equipment which she didn’t have here. Thoughtfully she turned the ring over in her hand and watched the weak candlelight reflect from it.

Winter… a fitting word, for she hadn’t ever felt so cold before. There was a vast emptiness whenever she tried to reach out to Him, cold, foggy, and seemingly endless, where once there’d been warmth and comfort and understanding. She wanted to be brave, to reach further into the darkness and drag Him back out of it, but every time she tried, she froze in fear. What would she find there? What would she do if there was nothing in the silence? If they were right and He was gone…

With a huff she turned back to her ring and forcefully filed away at the metal. No, certainly there was not nothing, but perhaps she just wasn’t the one meant to find Him again. He hadn’t come to her after all, he’d come to a Readceran farmer. And it really wasn’t surprising, she was hardly the epitome of purity and forgiveness He deserved. It was fine. It was fine. She was fine.

Favaen stopped her work again when her hands started shaking too much for the delicate work. Wet droplets pearled from the silver in her hands, glittering with a mockery of His divine light. She certainly felt like a mockery herself, sitting in her room in the dark of night and envying a dead man. Distantly she knew her shoulders were shaking, but if from the constant cold she was feeling or the tears she couldn’t say nor care about.

It hurt. It hurt so much, and there was no one now to sooth that pain. Only the deafening silence and the secrets her god had taken with him to the grave, his own or his avatar’s.

The still sharp edges of the ring were starting to bite into her skin, and for a second, she thought about pressing even harder, perhaps the blood would wash away a little of her pain. But as soon as the thought came, she knew it was a bad idea. Hurting herself wasn’t going to make anything better, all it would do was make mother even more worried.

Slowly Favaen opened her hand, the movement a bigger struggle than she had expected. Again she reminded herself that there was nothing to be had with this, and besides, the ring was supposed to be gift for mother once she was finished, so sullying it with blood would be even worse.

Quickly she slid the ring into her pocket and wiped her still shaking hands on her grey work tunic that she hadn’t bothered to change out of after a day spent fixing up some damaged furniture from the Children’s Sanctuary. Sleep would not come, so why bother. Somehow, she felt filthy, even without having bloodied her hand. The walls of her small room were beginning to close on her, feeling suffocating in the way they only had started to recently.

When she couldn’t take the pressure on her soul anymore she shot up from her chair, breathing heavily, causing it to dip backwards and crash to the floor with a thump that broke the silence of the night jarringly. Favaen flinched. Nervously she looked to the door, but no sounds followed from outside, the noise seemingly having gone unnoticed by the rest of the temple.

She couldn’t stay in here. Her breaths were coming in short bursts and the slowly creeping feeling of suffocation was only worsened by her still coming sobs. Making a decision, she scrambled to the window, fumbling with the ledge a bit and then finally throwing it open, gulping in the fresh air. Without throwing a look back she climbed outside, not bothering even to change out of her dirty tunic and leggings. There would be no one to see her, and even if, Favaen had never bothered much with appearances.

Nimbly she climbed up the wall outside, using subtle nooks for footholds and pulling herself ever higher with the experience of someone who had done the same many times. A slight wind tugged on her hair, determined apparently to blow it before her eyes and trip her, but the breeze was no match for Favaen’s desperation to make it to the top. Of course she could have taken the stairs up to the roof, but she didn’t want to risk waking anyone. The idea of talking to someone was far more frightening right now than the climb up.

It didn’t take long, and she reached the ledge. Grabbing it with stiff fingers she dragged herself up and over it, rolling onto her back and no doubt dirtying her clothes even more. Her hands hurt, her eyes stung, her bare feet were rubbed open in places, but none of that mattered as she stared up into the night sky.

How many times had she been up here? Sometimes with other acolytes, sometimes with mother, sometimes alone. She had felt so many things on this roof, under this sky, under these stars, be it awe, happiness, frustration, contentment, but nothing compared to her feelings now, the fear, shame, and desperation. She looked up and didn’t see the many lights and waymarkers to whatever future you wished for from before. Instead she saw shards, broken pieces of a whole, scattered through an unescapable void of darkness. It felt like drowning in His corpse.

She tore herself around and away from the sight so violently that she hit her head against the roof under her. With a pained groan and closed eyes, she sat up, pressing her face into her hands and pushing down the resurfacing tears. Coming up here was a mistake, but else was she supposed to? Where would it be better if everything was a reminder?

Perhaps she wanted to look for answers out there, perhaps she just wanted away from her own thoughts again, or perhaps it was something completely different, but she pulled her hands away again and opened her eyes. What Favaen saw then was different from before, but yet oddly the same, the comparison and contrast giving her pause like few things did these days.

She saw the city under her. The small lights coming from the lanterns on the streets and out of the occasional window mirrored the stars above, dots of brilliance embedded in a blanket of blackness.

It didn’t make the hurt go away. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t suddenly make everything better. But it did keep her gaze. It struck something within her, something she couldn’t define yet but felt nonetheless.

And so she didn’t flee back down, but stayed. Minutes and hours passed by, as Favaen sat on that rooftop alone, knees drawn to her chest and arms slung around them, just watching these different and yet similar lights shine both in solitude and harmony. Occasionally a baby would cry, a bird would call, a lone person would hurry along the streets beneath, but the general air of quiet and isolation remained unbroken through the night.

Favaen sat and watched in silence, with only one thought that kept returning. Was this how it felt to be a god? Detached from the world, only observing but never taking part, not truly. Was that why He’d done what he’d done? Had He been lonely?

Time kept passing, but Favaen noticed none of it. The world, empty and cold, flickered past her, nothing more than a passing moment, even as it was the only thing she was aware of.

Until the world started changing. Slowly the lights all melted together, no singular one remaining and all becoming brighter for it, flooding the city with a blooming radiance. Favaen, being so thoroughly drowned in her thoughts, doubts, and feelings, took a few seconds to understand what she was seeing. The sun was rising.

She had spent the whole night up on the roof. Not far away the temple’s bells heralded morning mess, which she was clearly going to miss. The panic that usually accompanied the realisation that she was late failed to appear this time. What was the point if He was gone? She was just so tired.

The sun rose higher, the air warmed, and only then did Favaen notice how cold she’d become in her short work tunic. It was designed for the heat of the forge after all. As the sun inched higher into the sky, slowly but surely filling the world with warmth and light, Favaen found her eyes and attention glued to the skyline. Most lanterns in the city still burnt, as the people were only starting to wake up, and though the sun overshone each and everyone of them, they still shone with the same splendour as when they’d been alone.

Favaen had expected the dawn to hold the same pain the stars had held for her, but as she watched them pale and merge together, just like their brethren on the ground, there was a sweetness to her pain. There was the awe and wonder and oh so painful hope that had accompanied every dawn since she had found her calling.

She couldn’t make sense of what her brain was racing to tell her, what her soul yearned to believe, not yet at least, but in the pale morning light she lifted her scraped hands, only half aware of her actions, and muttered a prayer. A soft light enveloped her fingers, warmth spreading through them, and when the light receded the cuts and bruises had vanished, leaving behind unmarred skin.

Her cheeks were wet. It wasn’t raining. She had to be crying again.

She was, but this time it wasn’t desperation that had forced the tears to flow. She didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t so bad. The tears blurred her sight of the dawn, but that wasn’t so bad either. This way she could almost pretend He was here, His hands on her own, softly scolding her because she had been so careless with herself again.

That carelessness had gotten her scolded many times, from not only Him, but also her teachers. For a long time, she hadn’t understood what it mattered to them. Scrapes and bruises happened, and she was hardly going to die from them. Only her master at the Abydon temple, the closest to a father figure she ever had, had ever bothered to explain it to her. Back then he’d asked her why she always took care of her tools. Favaen had told him the very same thing every student was told over and over again until they remembered, that even the tiniest fracture could have disastrous consequences. In return he’d asked her why she thought it would be different with herself. That lesson had stuck, and though she didn’t always remember, from then on, she made an effort to at least patch herself up afterwards.

Tools… the memory sparked an idea in her mind, and she looked over the city with different eyes. She was a tool, they all were, tools to be shaped by Abydon and then wielded by themselves to carry on his teachings. They were hammers, sickles, chisels, and nails, and everything else, there was use for everyone somewhere. That was a base believe in the faith of Abydon, and one she had always found comfort in. Perhaps it wasn’t so far fetched to apply the same believe to Eothas, if maybe in a different form.

The lanterns. The stars. The candles. All the small lights that shone the way until the next dawn. Each different, but each with the same purpose.

She didn’t know why Eothas had done what He did. Perhaps she would never know. But she knew her purpose, she knew what she had to do until He returned. And He would return, she was sure of that now. Until then she would be a light the world needed. She would be the tool to prepare for His spring.

Perhaps she wasn’t innocence incarnate. Perhaps she didn’t have the endless patience of her peers. Perhaps she wasn’t as merciful and gentle as she should be. But maybe that wasn’t what He needed right now. Maybe that wasn’t what the world needed right now.

Favaen was stubborn. Favaen was confident. Favaen was resourceful. And Favaen had experience that others of her faith didn’t.

Looking towards the dawn, her cheeks still wet but eyes full of determination, she made a vow to herself, to Eothas, to Woedica, to all would hear it. She would weather the winter. She would shine through the night, as brightly as she could, and pave the way for all who would follow. And when He returned, when the next dawn rose, when the winter ended, she would be there to greet him. And the dawn each morning would be her reminder of this vow, to never forget it as long as she lived.

The solemn yet hopeful moment was broken by children’s laughter floating up to Favaen’s hide out. It seemed mess was already over and the school day for the temple children was about to start. Favaen smiled at the sound of shuffling feet, the thumps of small, running boots, giggles and shouts of protest alike. The world was moving, and she would do well to remember that.

A yawn forced its way out her mouth, and without any conscious choice of her own she found herself sprawled across the roof on her back. With the adrenalin and desperate melancholy finally gone, her muscles apparently refused to keep holding her up, the many sleepless nights at last catching up to her. The roof wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it also wasn’t awkward enough to warrant the effort of moving either. The slowly spreading warmth of the day almost made it cozy, and her brain even more sluggish. In her sleep deprived and already halfway dozing brain, the warm sunlight almost felt like a blanket.

Any fight she could have put up against her overworked body would have been doomed from the beginning, so she didn’t even try. The temple would survive without her for a few hours.

Curled up on the roof she was gently lulled to sleep by familiar words, sung in the slightly off key chorus of children’s voices.

Rejoice all ye who dwelleth in the shadow, who are broken and beaten. The winter soon comes to an end. Spring shall rise, bringing light and life to the world. Radiant light, radiant life, and thy soul shall find warmth in his arms.

[dfroza]

what do you think about the True nature of beautiful earth?

always writing in question marks (?)

@savetheredwoods

Redwood Creek Trail near Orick. In the snow. #cawx #casnow

2.24.23 • 4:38pm • Twitter

And a reflective post by John Parsons:

The nature of beauty has been an enduring mystery to artists and philosophers over the millennia, and various attempts have been made to define it. For example, some have defined beauty as an order, arrangement, and harmony of some kind (understood either as objective qualities inherent in something beautiful, or as a subjective sentiment of a person experiencing something that is esteemed as beautiful, and most often as a combination of both). In other words, something is regarded as beautiful because it possesses a certain arrangement of qualities that evoke pleasure or satisfaction in the mind or heart of a person.

The Scriptures teach us, however, that beauty is part of the very composition of things; the design and form of whatever exists, and that the revelation of beauty attests to the glory of God. Beauty is not simply "in the mind of the beholder," but is objectively real, as part of the very structure of reality. Consider, for example, the flower that blooms, the bird that sings, the star that shines, and the sunset that suffuses the evening skies. "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims his handiwork; day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge" (Psalm 19:1-2).

The beauty of the natural world is grounded in the mind of God, since God actively created and designed creation for his purposes and pleasure (see Gen. 1:1, 31; Rev. 4:11). The creation bears witness to the brilliance of the Creator, and the imprint of God's handiwork is evident in the concinnity, order, and marvels of the natural world itself. This is particularly evident in the case of man, who is endowed with a conscience, or an intuitive "moral compass" that discerns the demands of justice and understands right and wrong. The conscience serves as an inner witness that speaks peace, harmony, and goodness when the moral law is observed, and unhappiness, disorder, and evil when it is disregarded or suppressed. As I've mentioned before, the ancient Greek mindset regarded what is beautiful as what is good, whereas the Hebrew mindset regarded what is good as what is beautiful. The difference is one of orientation. Doing our duty before God, obeying "the moral law within," is what is truly beautiful, not merely appreciating symmetry, order, harmony, and so on. Beauty is a type of the good, in other words, and justice expresses the truth of the good in relation to oneself and others. Beauty is also a type of truth, since what is truly beautiful expresses and reveals truth, whereas what is not truly beautiful expresses what is false. The spirit of man attests to the reality of the Creator and realizes its ontological indebtedness to God (Rom. 1:20).

Theologically, the "beauty of the LORD" (נעם־יהוה) can be understood as the effulgence of God’s manifold perfections, everything about his heart and character that evokes ecstatic wonder, solemn awe, and irresistible attraction in his conscious creatures. It is the brightness and loveliness of God, the "charm of his unsurpassed excellence," his perfect justice and infinite compassion for his creation. The LORD is "the Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are justice. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and upright is he" (Deut. 32:4). The beauty of the LORD is likened to the purity of Divine Light, the radiance and splendor that is incomprehensibly mysterious and good. The New Testament says "For God, who said "Let light shine out of darkness," is the one who shined in our hearts to give us the light of the glorious knowledge of God in the face of the Messiah" (2 Cor. 4:6). Yeshua is the Divine Light; the Radiance and Beauty of God manifest in the flesh (1 Tim. 3:16). "He is the radiance of the glory of God (הוּא זהַר כְּבוֹדוֹ) and the exact imprint of his nature, who upholds the universe by the word of his power” (נוֹשֵׂא כל בִּדְבַר גְּבוּרָתוֹ; Heb. 1:3). "All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made" (John 1:3).

So how do we wake up to the beauty of the LORD? How do we come to “see the invisible blessing” that pervades all things? How may we encounter the truth that "the whole world is filled with the irrepressible glory of the LORD" (Isa. 6:3)?

Frederick Buechner once described a "holy hush" that came over a boisterous crowd of people when they first encountered the giant redwood trees at Redwood National Park. As the people began to take in their surroundings, everything seemed to change - the loud chatter faded; the light, the atmosphere, and especially the awe of being in the presence of these enormous and ancient trees (some of which had been standing since the time of Jesus), induced a sense of smallness and humility before the glory that surrounded them.

You may have experienced this sort of awe also, perhaps while observing the starry night sky, or while watching the sun set over the mountains or upon the rim of the Grand Canyon, or when witnessing the birth of a baby, or when listening to music that touched your heart and brought tears to your eyes, and so on. Such experiences are sometimes called "self-transcendent," since they move us outside of our ordinary consciousness in an encounter with something great, breathtaking, wonderful, and sublime...

Encountering the glory of the LORD evokes conflicting emotions within the heart, a powerful combination of fear and attraction that is sometimes called the “numinous.” The LORD our God is beautiful beyond anything we can imagine, yet were we to directly encounter him we would be so overwhelmed that we would "fall to the ground as one dead" (Rev. 1:17); nonetheless he puts his hand upon us and says, "Don't be afraid; for I am with you." By his gracious touch, then, we are able to look upon the radiance of his presence, to receive the vision of his majesty and transcendent beauty and loveliness. And the amazing thing is that this is what he wants; this is the very desire of his heart, after all, the prayer to the Father that we should behold his glory (see John 17:22-24). And this, I believe, is part of what is meant when it is said that we are made temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 3:16). " You yourselves are like living stones being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Yeshua the Messiah (1 Pet. 2:5).

This topic relates to our Torah reading for this week, parashat Terumah. As we are drawn by God’s grace to love the Lord and to understand how truly beautiful and wonderful and kind he is to us, we will be willing to worship him and celebrate his loving glory. To be alive before God is to be alive to his beauty. Your heart will flutter in joyful excitement to sing: "Give unto the LORD the glory due unto his name; bow down to the LORD in the beauty of holiness" (Psalm 29:2). We sanctify the LORD God within us by affirming his superlative beauty, his infinite goodness, the greatness of his power, the perfections of his justice and truth, his unfathomable kindness, and his unsurpassing and everlasting love. The recognition of the beauty of the LORD is the awareness of his holiness, wherein our heart will esteem his sacred glory as our most precious and extraordinary gift. The beauty of the LORD our God is the heart of love and life and wisdom and truth, the Supreme Being of which no greater can be conceived, for ever and ever. Yehi Shem Adonai Mevorakh. Amen.

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

­========

Psalm 90:17 Hebrew reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm90-17-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm90-17-lesson.pdf

2.24.23 • Facebook

[seadeepywrites]

When the River Meets the Sea

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 3490 tw: death, violence/gore, body horror

1. Our Souls Will Leave This Land

Fathom isn’t afraid until the moment his Heal spell fails him. Like a sword parrying in a clash of steel, like a rubber ball rebounding off a stone wall, the magic that is supposed to close his wounds slips free of his grasp, reflecting back on him. As the sudden, breathless darkness of necrotic damage leaches his strength, Fathom feels it: a flicker of fear.

Fathom is occasionally anxious and frequently surprised, but true fear like this is vanishingly rare for him. He has faced vampires and corpse-stealing fiends from Hell and suture-scarred fleshy mutants that should never have existed in the first place. He has healed injuries, raised the dead, and climbed out of his own grave. He has walked between planes, traveled backwards through time, and spoken to gods.

Today, for the first time in his several lives and deaths, Fathom considers the idea that Melora’s blessing may not be enough to save him.

The illithid-lich shrieks without sound, and even aware of what’s coming, Fathom can’t stagger out of the way quickly enough. Its psychic scream blasts his mind free of his body, into some hazy place where the real-time consequences of combat don’t seem to matter. Fathom knows, on some level, that he is standing here in front of the illithid and its creations, flat-footed and slump-shouldered. But most of him is absent, drifting through a blurry infinity of vague concepts and disconnected thoughts. Not unlike being extremely high, actually.

Next to Fathom, the eye sockets of a dozen skulls light up with the same eerie green glow that pervades this lair. Their jawbones seem to widen and vibrate with silent laughter — or maybe that’s just Fathom’s vision swimming. Fathom isn’t present enough to be concerned as his soul begins to prise itself from his body, attempting to wriggle free of his flesh like a snake shucking its skin.

It is only the sigil inked across Fathom’s collarbones that prevents it, the Death Ward flaring in one final, desperate attempt to keep Fathom alive. Even when he himself isn’t fully aware of it. Even when blood slips slick over his upper lip and his neck, running like water from his nose and ears. Even when he sees — sees but cannot make himself react — sees the illithid floating down from its dais.

The illithid reaches out toward him with one hand, whispering in its breathy voice. Fathom can’t quite parse the words over the thunderous roar of his pulse crashing in his ears. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? The illithid’s slender tentacles reach out too, impossibly long and serpentine, and wrap themselves around Fathom’s head.

Melora, Fathom thinks. He would say it out loud, if he could. If he could shape his lips to breathe it out, he would want her name to be the last word he says. It is a prayer and it is a plea: Please. Help my friends where I’ve failed. Give them the power to defeat this evil where I cannot.

The only thing in the world that Fathom truly, deeply cares about — the only thing he will ever live and die for — is his goddess. He would go to his death gladly — placidly allow the illithid to drink his brain like so much beef stew — if he could know for sure that he hasn’t disappointed her. But he isn’t sure of that at all, so Fathom’s heart stutters and his blood freezes to ice as the illithid’s tentacles smother him, obscuring his vision.

Melora, he thinks again, with desperation and heartbreak and terror.

And then the pain begins.

**********

2. The Winds of Time

In the darkness, Fathom hears the sound of ocean waves. He knows the Material Plane and several others by now — the Astral Plane, the Feywild, Orthrys, the Plane of Time, and Pandemonium among them. This place is none of those. This is maybe not a place at all but a feeling, a moment between breathing in and breathing out. It holds him like the fuzzy apathy from the illithid's Mind Blast did, but a thousand times more transient, more ineffable.

Fathom is alone here — until he is not.

He learned a long time ago to see beyond the sight of his eyes, to sense beyond the flesh that covers his bones. It’s that ability now that tells him who surrounds him.

First is the clicking of goat hooves and an uncanny chuckle, a presence as mysterious and mercurial as a dream. The glint of sharp teeth smiling, and a shimmer like a heat mirage. Fathom recognizes the unpredictable, long-limbed, goat-eyed Archfey-in-the-form-of-a-man who scraped him off the rocks of the Feywild and brought him back to life the first time. The Entertainer. The Twilight Walker.

Second comes the rustling of midnight-black wings, which bring an endless field of stars in their wake. This void is hers, as is the longbow the halfling wields and every inch of Tanazil's new human body. Fathom has passed through her domain several times now, but only discovered recently that she was once a person like him. A friend of the party's, once, until she sunk into a slumber from which she would never wake. Umbra, the Raven Queen. Keeper of the boundary between life and death.

Fathom actually tastes the third presence in the back of his throat, the sweet and heady burn of alcohol mid-swallow. If he had a face right now, he'd smile, because it's a familiar sensation. It reminds him of the wild nights of carousing he's participated in over the years and, more rarely, the sheer bloody joy of splitting knuckles and breaking furniture in tavern brawls. There's an energy to this presence, careless and defiant. Appropriate for one of the youngest gods, whose reign over his twin domains of strength and luck is just beginning. Cayden, proprietor of the Drunken Sailor until his recent removal from the Material Plane.

Fourth is another brand-new god, one whom the party itself assisted in his ascension. With him comes the clicking of tiny gears and the whisper of sand through an hourglass that now only exists in memory. He is a god of brilliant ideas and science precise enough to navigate through the stained-glass labyrinth of the Plane of Time — and while Fathom respects him, he does not understand him in the slightest. Fathom will keep his own slow thoughts and poor reading comprehension, and leave the worship of this god to the more intellectual party members, like Curt. Fizzlewick, once a gnome artificer who spliced together various realities. Now so much more.

Fifth is the reason they are all here, an overpowering feminine force who is both beautiful and terrible. Like Umbra, her wings would engulf all if Fathom could see them, but he has already witnessed their burning white radiance. He’s got his suspicions about Trox's allegiance, because he's seen the bug man's shell light with the same bleached-bone color. Amidst the chaos, Fathom can hear the thrum of the threads of Fate as they dance between her fingers. If she has a name beyond the mistress of such things, he does not know of it.

Last and most beloved is the taste of salt and the scent of ozone, vast and untamed ever-changing. Fathom's loyalty to her is as boundless as the waters she rules over and as fierce as the violence of the tempest. She has been in every breath he takes since the day he was brought into the world, and he will follow and fight for her long after he leaves it. Melora, goddess of sea and the wilderness. Fathom has pledged himself to her before, and would do it a thousand times again.

There are other gods here too, ones Fathom has heard of from the many faithful he's met in his travels. But these are the ones Fathom knows, the ones Fathom has actually met personally and spoken to. They surround him with their awful, unspeakable power — if Fathom were still alive, this much divine energy in one place would undoubtedly blow him into tiny pieces or melt his eyes right out of his skull.

"Hi," Fathom says, or tries to. "What's up, guys?"

It is Fizzlewick who answers him, voice gleaming gold against the blackness that surrounds them. His words resonate in Fathom's mind, deafening and omnipresent in a way they never were in life. WE ARE WAITING, he says.

Fathom considers this. "Waiting for what?"

WAITING FOR A CHOICE, Fizzlewick says, and does not explain further.

"Aren't you the god of time?" Fathom asks, skeptical.

YES, Fizzlewick replies, and is it just Fathom's imagination, or does he sound a little bit cranky? THAT IS WHY I AM GIVING HIM THE TIME TO CONSIDER IT.

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

Several ideas connect suddenly in Fathom's head, in that lightning-flash and logic-less way he processes concepts:

Curt, invisibility spell broken, screaming himself hoarse in a way Fathom has only heard once before. Although that time he’s been a version of Curt from a future where the illithid had triumphed, and then after the screaming stopped he wasn't Curt at all.

The sound of a vial uncorking. The screaming suddenly cut short.

A gift that Curt was given weeks earlier, when the party visited Fate's domain, in faint disapproval but also in consolation. A promise that the gods had not given up on the young wizard entirely, not yet.

"Huh," Fathom says.

So he settles down to wait in the way he does best: aimless, serene, equivocal. Just vibing. The pain and terror that accompanied his death seem very far away, like faded colors or muted sounds.

At some point, the waiting ends. Was it half a second, or was it forever? It could have been either. Fizzlewick speaks again, and Fathom's soul rouses itself to respond.

HE CHOSE CORRECTLY, Fizzlewick says.

"Cool. So what happens now?"

NOW, Fizzlewick says, I SEND YOU BACK TO HELP MY CHAMPION.

That's new information, actually — that Fizzlewick now has a champion — but it doesn't take a genius to figure out who Fizzlewick's talking about. Which is good, because Fathom definitely isn't one.

The void, the gods, this in-between place — all begin to dissolve, in the same rhythmic way that waves erase footprints in the sand. Instead of divine presence, Fathom becomes aware of a ceaseless wind that carries the whispers of insanity along with it. As the sound of the wind — which somehow, mysteriously, continues to blow indoors and underground — increases, so does another sound: a rapid, clicking whir. Like the hands of a pocket-watch, spinning forward. Or backward. Or both.

Fathom can see again: golden light, bright enough to sear through his closed eyelids. More to the point, he's back in his body, in his deeply cursed plate armor, with his arm made of water and his silver trident at his fingertips.

He is alive, and he's pretty sure his brain is firmly inside his skull, which are both things he never thought he’d experience again.

Fathom's eyes flutter open to a scene that would look really strange if it wasn’t the one he'd been seeing just before his untimely death. Trox and Tanazil are hacking at the illithid, both wielding enormous axes and foaming with berserker's rage. The halfling's elk is there too, rearing up with its wickedly sharp front hooves to contribute to the damage. The giant translucent pods up on the dais seem to have increased in number, which is odd, but it is not the oddest thing here by far.

As Fathom clambers to his feet, he realizes he doesn't just feel alive — he feels great. Better than he ever has in his multiple lives, maybe. The glow that haloed him is already fading, but there is another god's power present here, crashing inside him like thunder and breaking surf. Fathom feels almost limitless. Renewed. Reinvigorated.

"Now that's more like it," he says with satisfaction.

He sends a fragmentary thought through the telepathy rings, just enough to tell the nameless halfling he is alive. Her joy radiates back at him, warm and wonderful.

Then Fathom hefts his shield and his trident, and prepares again to fight.

********** 

3. That Sweet And Final Hour

Melora takes him home. Or rather, Melora takes him back to the only place that has always been there for him, a place that has taken from and given to and blessed and cursed him. Melora takes him back to the place that has always been hers, and now is a little bit Fathom's too.

Melora clasps his hand and pulls him between planes with a lurching tug he has come to recognize, not unlike free fall or the sudden drop of a ship's deck below his feet. And then he is with his goddess on the cliffs of Cherat, in the very spot he once stood and whipped up a storm, looking out over the wind-roughened gray expanse of the sea.

Fathom turns to Melora, unashamed of the tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, breathing deeply. "It's good to be home."

"Yes," Melora says somberly, looking out across the water.

They stand there for a moment side by side, saying nothing because they have said all there is to say already. The world has been saved. The tapestry of Fate has been re-woven. Fathom's friends, the little dysfunctional adventuring party he has kept alive at all costs, have gone their separate ways. Fathom's journey is, in so many ways, all over.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it here," Fathom confesses, scratching idly at his darkness-beard. He shrugs. "But I figured I'd try anyway, you know?"

Melora shakes her head, smiling, her long hair rippling as it shifts against her bare shoulders. "I know," she says plainly. "I wasn't sure you would either."

"That makes three times I've died," Fathom muses. "Can't say I want to make it a habit. That last one really hurt."

Melora winces. "Fixing that was Fizzlewick's doing. I couldn't— There's only so much I could do, when—"

"I know," Fathom says quickly. He isn't sure if a goddess feels things like awkwardness or embarrassment, but that's certainly the image Melora projects when she stumbles over her words like this. It delights him, actually, the thought that he's spent enough time with her now to recognize the habit.

"I'm glad," Melora says, relaxing slightly. "That you survived. Or, well. That you're alive now."

Fathom tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sea breeze mist across his already-damp skin. "That makes two of us," he says. After a moment, he adds, "'Cause now that I've done the save-the-universe thing a couple times, I just want to chill for a bit. And I feel like hanging out on the Material Plane would be weird if I was dead."

"Weird, yes," Melora acknowledges with a nod. "Also sort of forbidden by Umbra and her followers."

"Ha. Wouldn't want Tanazil coming after me. That axe of his is pretty sharp. Though..." Fathom brushes his fingers against the hilt of his trident. "I kind of feel like I could take him."

"Hmm. Maybe." Melora's smile is amused, maybe a little indulgent.

"Curt seemed to think he'd be able to do it," Fathom continues. "But Curt has a pretty big head when it comes to his own powers." He pauses, voice softening. "He made the right choice, though. When it counted."

"That he did." 

Fathom shakes his head, sighing. "Imagine fighting the illithid and all that because it was the right thing to do. A moral compass, or whatever."

Melora makes a little noise of objection.

"What? I know damn well I'm not that selfless."

"And what do you call your help in the whole matter then?"

Fathom stares at her. Surely she is just teasing — surely she must know. "My lady," he says, frowning. "That was all for you."

Melora blinks, a slow sweep of her lashes, her eyes glistening gray-blue-green-black-gold. Then she smiles, reaches across to pat Fathom on the shoulder.

"My champion," she says fondly.

Fathom shuffles his feet and squints out at the water again. There is silence between them for several long minutes, though of course it is never really silent here. The waves hiss and crash, and above their heads gulls screech and circle. The sky is a boundless blue, darkening to slate where clouds encroach at its edges.

Fathom is like a grain of sand on this beach, a tiny part of something much larger. His soul sings with it, with the connection to the land and the sky and the sea. He is suddenly quite certain that if he wanted to, he could step into open air and soar. Could fly upward towards the bright, alluring heat of the sun until his lungs lost their breath. Then he'd tumble downward head over heels to meet the sea under sunlight, and it would welcome him into its salty and eternal embrace.

Melora has entrusted him with part of her domain, and Fathom thinks this is one of the few things he’ll be able to carry with him for the rest of his life. One of the sole responsibilities he'll shoulder and never ever grow tired of, never seek restlessly to move on and walk away. He's left so many people and places behind, but this — this he can keep.

"So," Melora says after some unknown amount of time has passed. "What's next? Mushrooms?"

Fathom tilts his head. "Do you mean going to visit Toad like we planned, or the kind that makes you hallucinate? 'Cause I'm down either way."

"Yes," says his goddess, and offers him her hand again.

**********

4. Epilogue: The Almighty Sea

Fathom Tidechaser lives his life.

He spends two weeks with Tanazil in silent retreat and contemplation, drinking in the richness of the ancient, mossy forest, perfectly at peace. But while it’s a haven of relaxation and redemption for Tanazil, Fathom can’t linger. He’s never been able to settle down, not even for a few months. The power Melora has blessed him with guides him onward like he’s a ship sailing toward the horizon, pointing into the bittersweet unknown.

The halfling and her fey patron are always able to find him no matter where he travels, and it becomes something of a game between them all: to play pranks on Fathom, to get their tricks past his uncanny awareness of his surroundings. He catches them as often as they succeed, and it’s always a joyful reunion. The once-nameless halfling introduces herself these days with the name the Entertainer has given her. It suits her.

Curt turns twenty, which is a surprise to everyone who thought he'd get himself killed long before that. Technically he has, several times, but Fathom figures that any debt Curt built up from Fathom's resurrections was definitely repaid when Curt asked Fizzlewick to revive him. So they are equals now. On an even footing. Fathom has zero interest in the school of magic Curt is establishing on the moon, but he can recognize the bright-eyed whip-smart type of adventurer who would thrive there. He frequently sends Curt new recruits, and along with them his best wishes, but visits rarely.

Fathom travels as he always has. Now, though, he can raise and quiet storms at his command. He can also fly without a spell, skimming over the surface of the ocean for miles until he finds a ship and scares the hell out of its crew by landing on the rigging like a gigantic shiny albatross. When he is addressed as a minor deity, he scoffs, but then he wonders: are the frightened sailors that far off the mark? 

Fathom dies — finally, permanently, for good — at a much younger age than most, but that's hardly surprising. He is powerful enough to face almost any creature on the Material Plane, and several more planes besides, but the one person he can't resurrect is himself. It isn’t a dramatic sacrifice, nor is it a gentle and peaceful passing. It is simply a death — ugly and brutal and fast.

He greets Umbra as a friend, only exchanging a few words with her. Because they both know where he’s going, of course. Melora is one of the few deities with no astral domain, choosing instead to wander the cosmos eternally. So this is less of an ending and more of a transformation — from one way of being to another, like a wave breaking and returning to the water. Fathom’s soul still travels, still soars over the sea, still stirs up storms in thunderous magnificence. 

Fathom Tidechaser dies, and serves his goddess long past his death, until his name is mentioned in the same breath as hers. Things change, as they always do. Fathom dies, but he lives on.

[jewlwpet]

Girl Alchemist Egg--Tale of the Rose track 1, translation

As far as I know, nobody else seems to be translating J. A. Seazer’s latest Utena album, which came out in August, to English (please correct me if I’m wrong)... so the job falls to me.

This is track 1,  知恵の竈(アルデル)実験祈祷室, or “Aludel of Wisdom Experimental Prayer Room”. An aludel is a kind of pot used in alchemy; it goes in a furnace (this is significant).

EDIT: I accidentally left out the romaji for one verse and missed a reference in the title; the version with all corrections (at least for now) is here.

EDIT 2: I changed my translation of the title to “Wisdom’s Aludel Oratory-Laboratory”. See here for my explanation as to why that’s a better translation.

金より不純物を除き それを純粋な形と成し それをうまくなし遂げる者は かくて、 賢者の石を作りえよう それは偉大な力の「石」であり 「石」と呼ばれていて石ではない 

To remove impurities from gold To shape that into a pure form The one who successfully accomplishes this, By this means, can create the philosopher’s stone  It is a Stone of great virtue  And is called a “Stone” and is not a stone.[i]

 錬金術師たち

Renkinjutsushitachi

The alchemists

ああ、永遠の知恵の錬金術   ああ、永遠の知恵の実験室   ああ、永遠の知恵の竃劇場

Aa, towa no chie no renkinjutsu Aa, towa no chie no jikkenshitsu Aa, towa no chie no kamado gekijou, gekijou

Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s [ii] alchemy Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s laboratory Ahh, eternal  wisdom’s furnace theater, theater

夢ではなく現れるドラゴン 世界創造の始めに 波の上を漂っていた神の如し

Yume de wa naku arawareru doragon Sekai souzou no hajime ni Nami no ue wo tadayotteita kami no gotoshi

It was not a mere dream; it materialized, the dragon![iii] Like unto God, who in the beginning created, Hovering over the surface of the waters.[iv] 

蒸留、昇華、煆焼、煮煎  反射、溶解、下降、凝結

Jouryuu, shouka, kashou, shasen Kansha, youkai, kakou, gyouketsu

Distillation, sublimation, calcination, decoction, Reflection, dissolution, descent, coagulation[v]. 

すべて水のなか 黒そのものより さらに黒 そして ルビーの燦然たるいろの耀き その間に発生する ああ、祝福される緑 万物芽吹かす緑

Subete mizu no naka Kuro sono mono yori Sarani kuro Soshite RUBII no sanzentaru iro no kagayaki Sono aida ni hasseisuru Aa, shukufukusareru midori Banbutsu mebukasu midori

Everything within water[vi], A blackness  still more black Than blackness  itself[vii], And, too, The ruby’s  brilliantly-colored radiance,[viii] All the  while: generation, Ahh, happy  green, Which dost  produce all things[ix]!

神の霊気の緑 カバラの緑 渦巻く宇宙 秘術師よ緑のライオンを 哲学者の火 賢者の火 鞴よ 錬金炉アタノールの火を熾せ

Kami no reiki no midori KABALA no midori Uzumaku uchuu Hijutsushi yo midori no RAION wo Tetsugakusha no hi Kenja no hi Fuigo yo Renkin ro ATANOORU no hi wo okose Behold!

The green of God's mysterious presence, The green of the Kabbala[x], The spiraling cosmos, The Magus, the Green Lion[xi]. The fire of the philosophers, The fire of the sages![xii] The bellows! Light the fire of the alchemical furnace, the athanor.

見よ 哲学の竈||実験室 宇宙の竈||実験室 散らかり放題の 貧乏吹き屋の実験室

Miyo Tetsugaku no kama no jikkenshitsu Uchuu no kama no jikkenshitsu Chirakari houdai no Binbou fukiya no jikkenshitsu

The philosophical furnace--the laboratory! The cosmic furnace--the laboratory![xiii] Scattered unrestrainedly, A poor smelter’s laboratory

われら 価値ある人間たらんがために 価値を目指す 錬金術師

Warera Kachiaru ningentaran ga tame ni Kachi o mezasu Renkinjutsushi, renkinjutsushi

For us To have value as humans To aim for value Alchemy, alchemy 

それは一月十七日月曜日正午頃、私の家で、立会人はぺるネル一人だった。人類救済一三八二年の年である。私は水銀に投入を行い、それを約半ポンドの純銀、鉱山のものよりも良質の純銀に変化させた。その後、やはりぺるネル一人の立会いのもとに私の家で、同僚の水銀に赤い石を用いて同じことを行い、四月二五日夕方五時、本当にほぼ同量の純金に変成した。普通の金より確実に良質でより軟らかく、よりしなやかであった。これは真実である。私と同じく理解していたぺるネルの助けをて、私はこれを三回実現したのである。 二コラ・ヴァロワ

Sore wa ichigatsu juunananichi getsuyoubi shougogoro, watashi no ie de, tachiainin wa PERUNERU hitoridatta. Jinrui kyuusai sen sanbyaku hachijuu ni nen no toshidearu. Watashi wa suigin ni tounyuu wo okonai, sore wo yaku han-pondo no jungin, kouzan no mono yori mo ryoushitsu no jungin ni henkasaseta. Sonogo, yahari PERUNERU hitori no tachiai no moto ni watashi no ie de, douryou no suigin ni akai ishi o mochiite onajikoto o okonai, shigatsu nigonichi yuugata goji, hontouni hobo douryou ni junkin ni henseishita. Futsuu no kin yori kakujitsu ni ryoushitsu de yori yawarakaku, yori shinayaka deatta. Kore wa shinjitsudeari. Watsahi to onaji rikaishite PERUNERU no tasukeote, watashi wa kore o sankai jitsugenshita nodearu.

The first time that I made projection was upon a Monday, the 17th of January, about noon, in my house, Pernelle only being present, in the year of the restoring of mankind, 1382. This was upon Mercury, whereof I turned half a pound, or thereabouts, into pure Silver, better than that of the Mine. And afterwards, following always my Book, from word to word, I made projection of the Red Stone upon the like quantity of Mercury, in the presence likewise of Pernelle only, in the same house, the five and  twentieth day of April following, the same year, about five o'clock in the evening; which I transmuted truly into almost as much pure Gold, better assuredly than common Gold, more soft and more pliable. I may speak it with truth, have made it three times, with the help of Pernelle, who understood it as well as I. --Nicolas le  Valois[xiv]

[i] The last two lines of this verse are from Les Cinq Livres or La Clef des Secrets, by Nicolas le Valois, a French alchemist rumored to be the deceased Nicolas Flamel, supposedly using an alias after attaining immortality through the Philosopher’s Stone. I don’t know of any English translation of this text, but the original French is online at https://alchimie.000webhostapp.com/cinq_livres_valois.html. It’s likely that the first lines are also from alchemical texts; I just haven’t been able to identify them

[ii] Eternal wisdom—a phrase from Heinrich Khunrath, used in the title of his book The Amphitheater of Eternal Wisdom. There is an English translation by Peter J. Forshaw, but I have not yet been able to find it; I have, however, contacted the translator inquiring how to obtain it.

[iii] Carl Jung, Psychology and Alchemy: “The dragon is probably the oldest pictoral symbol in alchemy of which we have documentary evidence. It appears as the Ouroboros, the tail-eater, in the Codex Marcianus, which dates from the tenth or eleventh century, together with the legend 'the One, the All'. Time and again the alchemists reiterate that the opus proceeds from the one and leads back to the one, that it is a sort of circle like a dragon biting its own tail. For this reason the opus was often called circulare (circular) or else rota (the wheel). Mercurius stands at the beginning and end of the work: he is the prima materia, the caput corvi, the nigredo; as dragon he devours himself and as dragon he dies, to rise again in the lapis. He is the play of colours in the cauda pavonis and the division into the four elements. He is the hermaphrodite that was in the beginning, that splits into the classical brother-sister duality and is reunited in the coniunctio, to appear once again at the end in the radiant form of the lumen novum, the stone. He is metallic yet liquid, matter yet spirit, cold yet fiery, poison and yet healing draught - a symbol uniting all the opposites.”

[iv] This is a clear reference to Genesis 1:1-2. “Like unto God” recalls the story of the Garden of Eden; Adam and Eve were forbidden to eat the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil because it would make them like God. Alchemists were also seeking knowledge that would make them like God, although the authors quoted in this song emphasized that one could not attain it without God’s blessing.

[v] These are all names for different techniques in the chemical process. Most are still used in chemistry today (only the terms “reflection” and “descent” are no longer used, as far as I know).

[vi] Valois explains that “water” means something different in alchemy. Basically, this water is a truly universal solvent, capable of absorbing anything into itself. He uses an interesting metaphor for this: “It's this Maid Beïa, which has not yet been corrupted or lost its liberty, to marry infirm and ill-shaven bodies, as captives are, who can never leave their filthy prisons without the help of men. Thus preserving liberty with its integrity, we see in a philosophical manner this luminous star making infinite circulation turns, until it came in some reign.”

[vii] Putrefaction, the nigredo, the black stage in the alchemical process. The idea is that there must be sacrifice to facilitate new growth.

[viii] The philosopher’s stone is sometimes called the “celestial ruby.”

[ix] These two lines are from The Rosary of the Philosophers; however, I used the translation of the quote found in the translation of the Exposition, rather than the original text, although that can be found in English too: http://sociedadquimicamexico.org/rosarium.pdf. Here, it’s given as, “O blessed greenness, which engenders all things.”

[x] Many alchemists, both Jewish and non-Jewish, drew on the Kabballah (Jewish mystical texts), although how well they really understood it is questionable. I myself am not at all well-versed in this, but it seems that in the Kabballah, the color green represents healing and harmony.

[xi] The Green Lion typically represents the same thing as the dragon. E.g. The Glory of the World mentions “the Green Lion that imbibes so much of its own spirit.”

[xii] The author of The Glory of the World wrote of “indelible, living, or Divine fire, of that kind which God has placed in the Sun; and wherein God Himself burns as with Divine love for the consolation of all mankind... This is the fire of the Sages which they describe in such obscure terms, as to have been the indirect cause of beguiling many innocent persons to their ruin; so even that they have perished in poverty because they knew hot this fire of the Philosophers. It is the most precious fire that God has created in the earth, and has a thousand virtues -- nay, it is so precious that men have averred that the Divine Power itself works effectually in it. It has the purifying virtue of Purgatory, and everything is rendered better by it. It is not wonderful, therefore, that a fire should be able to fix and clarify Mercury, and to cleanse it from all grossness and impurity. The Sages call it the living fire, because God has endowed it with His own Divine, and vitalising power.”

[xiii] Different names for the athanor, a kind of furnace. The alchemists viewed their work as the creation of a microcosmos, a “petite universe” if you will. “Cosmic furnace” doesn’t seem to have been common in English, but one does find the French version, fourneau cosmique.

[xiv] This passage is adapted from Exposition of the Hieroglyphical Figures. By attributing it to Valois, Seazer continues in the tradition of claiming him as part of the legend of Flamel. We can infer from this passage and its attribution that the two voices we hear singing this song are meant to represent Nicholas and Per(e)nelle, Flamel’s wife, purported to have been an alchemist in her own right.