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27moremoons · 3 months ago

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Hamas, October 7th, 2024:

In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

A Flood Towards Liberation

A year into the ongoing heroic Al-Aqsa Flood Battle:

October 7th marks a historic turning point in our struggle, representing a natural response to zionist schemes aimed at erasing our national cause, consolidating control over our land and sacred sites, Judaizing them, asserting dominance over the blessed Al-Aqsa Mosque, persecuting prisoners, and continuing the siege on the Gaza Strip. This heroic battle, led with unwavering faith, determination, strength, and capability, was carried by the Al-Qassam Brigades, alongside all Palestinian resistance factions, with the support of our people across the homeland and abroad. At the heart of this movement were the steadfast, patient, and sacrificial people of Gaza, standing at the forefront of the nation, defending the land and the holy sites.

Since October 7th last year, over the course of an entire year, this Nazi enemy has committed the most heinous crimes and massacres, launching one of the most horrific genocide war against our people in modern history.

This ongoing aggressive war, now marking its full year, has claimed the lives of more than 41,000 martyrs, the majority of whom are women and children, with over 96,000 injured. Thousands remain missing beneath the rubble, alongside the thousands of detainees, all from Gaza alone. In the West Bank and occupied Al-Quds, over 600 martyrs have ascended, a quarter of them children, with more than 6,000 injured, while around 11,000 of our people remain imprisoned, subjected to the most brutal forms of torture, persecution, and the slowest deaths in the occupation's prisons.

As we mark one year since the Al-Aqsa Flood Battle, we in the Islamic Resistance Movement - Hamas offer our prayers for the souls of our people’s martyrs, who ascended in our long struggle against the zionist enemy. We also pray for the martyr leaders who sacrificed their lives in this heroic battle: our brother, the martyr leader Ismail Haniyeh, our brother, the martyr leader Saleh Al-Arouri, and the caravans of the martyrs from our nation, especially from the support and defense fronts, led by the martyr, His Eminence Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, and the martyr leaders of the Islamic Resistance in Lebanon, whose blood mixed with the blood of our people on the path to liberating Al-Quds and the blessed Al-Aqsa Mosque.

We affirm the following:

First: The steadfastness of our great people in the Gaza Strip, their steadfastness on their land, their immense sacrifices, their rallying around and embracing of the resistance while remaining patient and steadfast for a full year, is the rock upon which all the occupation’s plans to displace us and eliminate our rights have shattered.

Second: The cowardly and criminal assassinations carried out by the fascist occupation against the leaders, symbols, and cadres of the resistance, both inside and outside of Palestine, and against the leaders of the resistance on the support fronts, only strengthen our resolve to confront the occupation and its aggressive schemes until it is defeated and vanquished.

Third: One year into the ongoing Al-Aqsa Flood Battle, we express our pride in the following:

1 - The legendary steadfastness of our great people in Gaza, who have written a glorious history for our people and our nation through their blood, suffering, hunger, and thirst, as they continue to defend their dignity, freedom, and independence.

2 - The bravery of the valiant resistance, including our victorious Al-Qassam Brigades, Saraya Al-Quds, and all resistance forces who have shattered the myth of the occupation and brought the despicable occupation closer to its inevitable end, offering the lives of their leaders and soldiers in the process.

3 - The heroism of our revolutionary youth and resistance fighters in the proud West Bank, who are confronting the occupation army and defending their land and holy sites against the enemy’s crimes, its hostile invasions of cities and camps, the rampages of extremist settlers, and their desecration of the blessed Al-Aqsa Mosque.

Fourth: The Movement has made and continues to make significant efforts to stop the aggression and end the suffering of our people, positively engaging with all initiatives while firmly holding to a permanent ceasefire, the full withdrawal, the upholding of our people’s rights and aspirations, and honoring the blood and sacrifices of our people.

Fifth: All the lies and black propaganda promoted by the occupation and its fascist government against our people and resistance have collapsed and have proven to be false. Likewise, all the rumors and psychological warfare have failed to undermine the popular support for the resistance.

Sixth: We hold the U.S. administration, a partner in this aggression, fully responsible for the continuation of these crimes and acts of genocide. We call on it to stop its biased support for the occupation and immediately act to halt this brutal genocide war.

Seven: The expansion of zionist aggression to include Arab and Islamic countries—Lebanon, Syria, Yemen, Iraq, and Iran—proves once again that it poses a real threat to the security and stability of the region, as well as to regional and international peace and security. Now, more than ever, there is a pressing need to deter this rogue entity, isolate it, boycott it, and shut down all attempts to integrate it into our nation or normalize relations with it.

Eighth: We highly value and appreciate the jihad and sacrifices of our brothers in Hezbollah, the Islamic Resistance, the Islamic Group in Lebanon, Ansarallah in Yemen, and the Islamic Resistance in Iraq. Their steadfast support, sacrifices, and participation in aiding our people and resistance during the Al-Aqsa Flood Battle are recognized. We call on all the forces of the Islamic Nation and its free people to join this heroic battle, gaining the honor of defending Al-Quds and the blessed Al-Aqsa Mosque.

Ninth: We renew our call to our Arab and Islamic countries to take urgent steps to stop the ongoing aggression and genocide war against our people. We also urge the implementation of the resolutions from the Arab and Islamic joint summit held in Riyadh on November 11th of last year, calling for serious action to break the siege, bring aid and relief to Gaza, and cut all forms of political, diplomatic, and economic relations with the zionist entity.

Tenth: We express our gratitude to the Republic of South Africa for filing a lawsuit, and to all the countries that have joined this case, against the zionist occupation at the International Court of Justice for committing genocide in Gaza. We also value all the official, popular, and partisan stances, initiatives, and activities in our Arab and Islamic world, and across the globe. We commend the mass mobilization by all free peoples and those with a conscience in capitals around the world, the union movements, popular protests, and student demonstrations in universities supporting our people's rights. We call for an escalation of solidarity activities in all arenas and fields, strengthening the boycott of the occupation, condemning its crimes, and pressuring countries, entities, companies, and organizations that support the genocide war in Gaza.

Eleven: We call upon the masses of our Palestinian people in the West Bank, Al-Quds, the occupied territories, and in refugee camps and the diaspora to escalate all forms of resistance and struggle against the zionist enemy and its schemes. We also call on all Palestinian political factions, movements, organizations, and national figures to unite, close ranks, and prioritize national responsibility, focusing all efforts and resources to confront this fascist aggression.

In conclusion, we affirm to the entire world that there can be no compromise on our people's legitimate right to resist the occupation by all means necessary, to establish our free and independent Palestinian state with Al-Quds as its capital, and to live a life of dignity, free from siege, bombing, threats, or foreign control—like all other peoples of the world. Our great people and valiant resistance will continue their legendary epic in the Al-Aqsa Flood Battle, standing firm against aggression and thwarting its hostile plans.

Mercy, glory, and eternity to the martyrs of our people and our nation, swift recovery to the wounded and the sick, and freedom to the prisoners and detainees in the enemy’s prisons.

It is indeed a jihad of victory or martyrdom.

Islamic Resistance Movement - Hamas

#Hamas #palestine

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 month ago

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🪓 Hewn and Sewn 🪡

I’ve been thinking a lot about Háma’s death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (it’s there in the books, and it’s not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasn’t right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I don’t know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.

CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and that’s here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.

Art by @ rinthecap

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A body is surprisingly hard to kill.

The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasn’t yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer — one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more — to see whether the body’s will to live can outlast the enemy’s will to kill.

Háma knows all of this now.

He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more.

These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and Háma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the king’s own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her son’s chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldn’t truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.

It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his mother’s words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldn’t relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of Béma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.

He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever.

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his éored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.

*****

Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.

Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of Háma’s youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in Háma’s face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word Háma later learned meant ‘please’ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.

One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of Háma’s sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of Háma’s blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying man’s chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own — a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.

The memory of that smile never truly leaves Háma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.

He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to Háma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlending’s eyes alone. Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing Háma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave.

Háma lives these years balanced on the knife’s edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a King’s Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.

*****

And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helm’s Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else he’d rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.

They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.

Final commands are given. Théoden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now — cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight — and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captain’s uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.

The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before it’s happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a man’s body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.

He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.

He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesn’t.

The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that don’t shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone else’s but is soon more his than not.

A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. Háma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boy’s fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isn’t enough, but it will have to be.

A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the King’s Guard.

A voice calls in a tongue that Háma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.

The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There aren’t enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek.

He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. Háma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that Háma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to Háma’s spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.

He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boy’s, for Háma has lived — not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four months’ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when she’d need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isn’t sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.

Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesn’t feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that he’s been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isn’t thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Brytta’s sweet voice calling his name and feels Hálwinë’s soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles.

#háma #my beloved #kind of dark and definitely has some blood and guts #which seems appropriate to the mood lately #but i swear i tried to find the uplift #he’s my number 1 favorite guy #and i just think he’s neat #lotr #rohirrim

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queer-ragnelle · 20 days ago

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Any books that shows us out right that Mordred could actually be a good, or at least capable ruler?

Hi! I’m gonna suggest medlit as well as retellings for you.

Medieval Literature

The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth

Modred is present here for only a little while, but he comes in hot. He’s considered “boldest of men” in his audacity against Arthur. He marries Queen Guanhumara [Guinevere]. Modred's army is huge in part because he welcomes Christians & Pagans to his ranks. He's skilled at war & although Arthur overwhelms him tp retreat repeatedly, he's quick to return the attack each time. In the end, he makes a final push to "either conquer or die." So a decidedly brave & savvy Modred if not a successful one.

Vulgate

Mordred has the most depth here of any medieval story simply because this gives him the most page time of all. He's very clever in his wording when he joins Agravain to tell Arthur of Guenevere's infidelity. He says, "We’ve concealed this from you as long as we could; but now the truth must be known, and we must tell it; and by hiding it from you for so long, we’ve been deceitful and disloyal to you. Now we’re doing our duty." Mordred's quick tongue continues to aid him even after all his brothers but Gawain had died. He ends up with Arthur's entire treasury plus an army of soldiers oath-bound to him. After falling in love with Guenevere, Mordred's people encourage her to marry him, saying, "We know of no knight more worthy to rule an empire or a kingdom, for he is a valiant man and a good and courageous knight." It's stated that many nobles "invested" in Mordred & provided him even more wealth as they believed in his cause. He also got Saxony to pay tribute, which Arthur had failed to do.

La Tavola Ritonda | Italian Name Guide

Mordarette [Mordred] is first shown to be really competent as King Artù [Arthur] makes him a viceroy, messenger, & army commander alongside his cousin Ivano [Yvain] in the same way Calvano [Gawain] was in the Vulgate. After that, while Artù & Calvano have run off to battle Lancelotto [Lancelot], Mordarette is left behind as "viceroy & king." He took that to heart & attempts to marry Ginevara [Guinevere]. It's stated that Mordarette's people "Swore to stay by him and never abandon him because of King Mordarette's great joyfulness and courtesy."

Alliterative Morte Arthure

Iconic. This is the prime example I think of when I consider capable ruler Mordred. Arthur has gone all around the world wielding Excalibur to battle & acquire more & more territory. He leaves Mordred behind to essentially rule in his place, even though Mordred begs to come & win himself honor. Arthur leaves & is gone so long that Mordred just… assumed the kingship. He & Guinevere marry, have children, & Guinevere shows Mordred where to find Arthur’s other sword, Clarent. Eventually it comes to blows but Mordred's following is exceedingly loyal as it's been so long that Arthur's return feels like an invasion! Mordred had appointed all new dukes & earls that were loyal to him, & filled out his army with Pagans that Arthur had previously shunned. The ending battle is epic & really showcases what a great fighter Mordred is. He leads his men by example.

Retellings

Mordred: A Tragedy by Henry Newbolt

Mordred play of all time. After Mordred reveals to Agravaine that he’s Arthur’s son, he manages to get all 4 of his elder brothers to support his claim to the throne. He speaks of freedom & truth—he really thinks he’s doing the right thing, & successfully canvasses his case to many. He rides this mindset all the way to the end with an army equal to Arthur’s, they each lose the same number of folks on each side, despite Mordred jumping between them to try & prevent the charge. Incredible piece of literature. Wish I could see it on stage.

Arthur The Bear of Britain by Edward Frankland

The oldest Welsh-inspired retelling I have & likely a huge inspiration for much of what came after. Medraut is just a year younger than his uncle Arthur, not as big or strong as Arthur, Kai, Bedwyr, or Gwalchmai, but he's cunning, & a skilled harper who uses music for political gain. He falls in love with Gwenhyvar & fantasizes about what a better husband he would be to her, & in turn, a better guardian of the land. (This book has by far the most Gwenhyvar of all the Welsh-inspired retellings on the list, so that's a huge bonus.) Medraut has contrasting ideas about how to handle the Saxons & Engels, as he sees they have integrated into society & had children with Britons, so he reckons to fight them is to fight themselves. Arthur disagrees & wants to see them all slaughtered or expelled. This causes a rift that worsens throughout the story & culminates in their split, with Medraut amassing an army efficiently as Arthur can combat him.

The Queen's Knight by Marvin Borowsky

Mordred is a warlord & the major opponent of Arthur as he rises to power. Many fear Mordred because of his military prowess & successful campaigns. He's formidable & clever. Later in the book, after a peace agreement, he basically goes sleeper agent & pretends to be chill for many years biding his time until he can land the final blow against Arthur & be king. Fascinating character & I love the writing style. Content warning for pederasty between Mordred/youth.

The Great Captains by Henry Treece

Medrodus or Medrawt is the "younger brother" of Artorius, the Count of Britain, who doesn't receive the legendary sword Caliburn from Uther. Medrodus is by rights entitled to the role that Artorius has won for himself, but ends up his confidant & a general alongside Cei & Bedwyr. After being initiated into the Celtic way of life, Medrawt, as he's then known by, slowly learns of war from his superiors & wrestles with his conflicted feelings about Artos's position, believing him both capable & incompetent, cruel & kind as a leader. His harbored doubts fester over the years until Medrawt at last makes his move with the skills & allies he accumulated in that time. The "brothers" eventually clash as is expected but nothing can prepare you for the ending. Content warning for incest between Artos/Gwenhwyfar.

The Green Man by Henry Treece

Treece loved Arthurian legend so much, that 10 years after The Great Captains, in the year of his death, he published his final book The Green Man, which tells the whole story over again but differently. Medraut is a son of King Lot of Orkney & nephew of Arthur the Bear. Instead of Roman, he's Pictish. But Medraut's once again subordinate to Arthur, distrusted by Kei & Bedwyr One Hand, & harbors a dislike for Arthur's leadership. I don't know whether I like this one better than The Great Captains, but it shakes things up, as Gwenhwyvar is Medraut's aunt by blood, his mother's sister, so Arthur is his uncle by marriage. This changes the dynamic considerably as the animosity between them stems from seeing Arthur as an outsider, rather than competition as in the first book. Medraut is on his same routine here making allies behind everyone's backs & plotting. He's a pro.

The Wicked Day by Mary Stewart

Mordred is shockingly normal considering the circumstances of his birth. His first impression of Arthur is when he's picking out a new puppy from the litter descended from Cavall. Arthur accepts him as his son immediately, but Mordred is haunted by the prophecy which dictates he'll inevitably be Arthur's "bane." Despite his legitimate respect & even love for his father, things spiral out of control, & Mordred is forced to take up arms against Arthur. Devastating resolution I fear I'll never recover.

The Book of Mordred & The Last Knight of Albion by Peter Hanratty

Mordred is introspective & philosophical. He's not incompetent as a fighter, but certainly of a stronger mind than body. The first book follows him from childhood as his worldview is shaped & corrupted by his treatment from Arthur's inability to handle his own son. The second book follows young Percival in the aftermath of Camlann. Mordred is in it but not as much of a focus, although Percival is determined to track him down & finish what the other knights of the Round Table started. Getting an outside perspective of Mordred is interesting. These books are a great example of unreliable narration.

A Camelot Triptych by Norris J. Lacy

Mordred in the third story in the triptych but all three together really paints an interesting picture of him as a person. He's a tortured soul who believes he meant well & ultimately became the evil thing everyone always believed him to be. The final portion is Mordred raving right before the battle of Camlann where he expresses his feelings regarding Arthur's tyranny & that he intends to martyr himself to save his country from it. Written by the guy who was head editor of the Vulgate so you know it's good.

That's what I got for ya!

There are definitely other examples I could squeeze in here. But these are the books I found most compelling and followed the story through to the conclusion so we get to actually see Mordred as a leader. This list offers a variety of interpretations, some drawing more heavily on on Welsh mythology while others pull lore exclusively from the French Vulgate. Honorable mention to Phyllis Ann Karr's Idylls of the Queen, which doesn't show Mordred as a competent leader, but sets up his motivations in a fascinating way. It's also just a damn good book.

Hope you find some stories among these that resonate with you. Many Mordreds to choose from! I'd love to hear from anyone who reads these and enjoyed them. Take care. :^)

#arthuriana #arthurian legend #arthurian literature #arthurian mythology #welsh mythology #sir mordred #mordred #medrawt #medraut #ask #anonymous #my post

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katerinaaqu · 7 months ago

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Odysseus and Menelaus

So saying he drew the mighty spear of wise-hearted Socus forth from his flesh and from his bossed shield, and when it was drawn out the blood gushed forth and distressed his spirit. But the great-souled Trojans, when they beheld the blood of Odysseus, [460] called one to another through the throng and made at him all together. But he gave ground, and shouted to his comrades; thrice shouted he then loud as a man's head can shout,1 and thrice did Menelaus, dear to Ares, hear his call, and forthwith he spake to Aias that was nigh at hand: [465] “Aias, sprung from Zeus, thou son of Telamon, captain of the host, in mine ears rang the cry of Odysseus, of the steadfast heart, like as though the Trojans had cut him off in the fierce conflict and were over-powering him alone as he is. Nay, come, let us make our way through the throng; to bear him aid is the better course. [470] I fear lest some evil befall him, alone mid the Trojans, valiant though he be, and great longing for him come upon the Danaans.” So saying he led the way, and Aias followed, a godlike man. Then found they Odysseus, dear to Zeus and round about the Trojans beset him, as tawny jackals in the mountains [475] about a horned stag that hath been wounded, that a man hath smitten with an arrow from the string; from him the stag hath escaped and fleeth swiftly so long as the blood flows warm and his knees are quick, but when at length the swift arrow overpowereth him, then ravening jackals rend him amid the mountains [480] in a shadowy grove; but lo, God bringeth against them a murderous lion, and the jackals scatter in flight, and he rendeth the prey: even so then did the Trojans, many and valiant, beset Odysseus round about, the wise and crafty-minded; but the warrior darting forth with his spear warded off the pitiless day of doom. [485] Then Aias drew near, bearing his shield that was like a city wall, and stood forth beside him, and the Trojans scattered in flight, one here, one there. And warlike Menelaus led Odysseus forth from the throng, holding him by the hand, till his squire drave up the horses and car. Hom.Il. 11.456-488

This is probably one of my favorite moments in Iliad for it shows the brutality of war and at the same time the power of comrades and forgetting one's differences.

For starters I love the fact that it shows how strong Odysseus is in battle. Modern media tend to picture him as a generally not as good warrior that has to get down to tricks to win the battle but that is far from it as in Rhapsody 11 he is seen wounded by a spear in the stomach and fighting off around 20 Trojans by himself and holding on pretty well against them. At the same time though shows the difference between Odysseus and other characters. Odysseus is not stupid. He knows his limits and he knows he won't hold out forever so the way he yells three times for ANYONE to hear him and send assistance shows the desperation of the situation

And Menelaus is the one to hear his cry and actually call for the most powerful warrior in their army to come to his assistance and he clearly states that if they lose Odysseus then things would be tough for them. He recognizes both his strength and his value in the war. He knows that people like Odysseus are irreplacable and the way he actually helps him off the battlefield by supporting him is literally one of my favorite moments! The way we also see that he later on is one of those who speaks with the most outmost warmth for Odysseus and names him as his dearest friend and comrade when he speaks of him to Telemachus (Even Aias who is not particularly fond of Odysseus and vice versa, forgets his personal grudge and rushes to his assistance)

I think that the friendship between Menelaus and Odysseus is not talked much (obscured maybe by the scenes between Odysseus and Diomedes and for good reason maybe) and I think it is a shame. And it is another reason why I loved art such as @thehelplessmortals depicting some tender moments between Menelaus and Odysseus. And also this is another reason why I made them interract in my fanfiction Guilt given that Menelaus is probably the one who appreciates more than many the capabilities Odysseus has; both his brain and mind and his battle abilities

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pedroam-bang · 1 year ago

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Valiant Hearts: The Great War (2014)

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middle-earth-mythopoeia · 2 years ago

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There are about a million reasons why I love Faramir and Éowyn’s relationship and why I think it’s one of the most romantic relationships that Tolkien wrote, but do you want to know what isn’t talked about enough?

‘Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?’

A lot has already been said about Faramir’s confession that he would still love her if she were the Queen of Gondor—and rightly so, because he’s basically saying he’s so hopelessly in love that nothing could ever change his feelings—but what REALLY does it for me, even more than that, is Faramir saying that she is VALIANT. He admires her bravery and her accomplishments in battle, and he says she has won RENOWN. Yes!!! YES!!!!!!!!!

Look, part of the reason Éowyn doesn’t want pity is that she doesn’t want to be looked down upon, and that’s what she associates with being pitied. But this isn’t really about another person’s pity—this is about how Éowyn sees herself. All her life, she’s been held back from participating in battle and from doing great deeds. In her conversation with Aragorn at Edoras, in one of my favorite scenes in the book, she delivers these searing lines: ‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.’ Aragorn asks, ‘What do you fear, lady?’ And Éowyn replies: ‘A cage. To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.’

But at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, she DOES great deeds! She and Merry slay the Witch-king of Angmar, Sauron’s MOST POWERFUL SERVANT. When you think about the power of fear that the Nazgûl had over most mortals, it’s absolutely astounding how brave this was for them to do. But even afterwards, Éowyn doesn’t appear to know the value of what she’s done. Part of this may be her grief for Théoden, and part of it may be the Black Breath, but the point is she doesn’t know what she has achieved. Because in the Houses of Healing, she says to Faramir, ‘I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.’ Éowyn still does not believe she has won honor—and so she does not have peace.

To this Faramir says, ‘It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting.’ It’s important that Faramir doesn’t tell her she’s wrong for wanting to go to battle, only that she must heal, and battle may still come for them yet—and he says WE must wait. Éowyn didn’t want to be left behind to wait for the men to return, but with her and Faramir both waiting, it no longer has that meaning.

This is all important context for the confession. Because days later, in the most romantic conversation of all time, Faramir says these magic words: ‘For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten.’ LISTEN TO ME, IT IS SO IMPORTANT THAT HE SAYS THIS! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT ÉOWYN NEEDED TO HEAR. It’s the FIRST THING HE SAYS IN THE SPEECH! Before he says she’s beautiful, before he says he loves her, he tells her she is valiant.

This is it. This is why this scene is peak romance to me. Because Éowyn desired to do great deeds and to win honor in battle, and she actually HAS DONE SO, but she doesn’t know it. And Faramir understands her, and not only that, he ADMIRES HER! ‘For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten.’ I don’t know about you, but that line ALONE would make me fall in love.

#eowyn #faramir #lotr #tolkien #my writing #men who would like to court me: please take notes

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ahamasmiyodhah · 4 months ago

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Something on Arjuna and Subhadra? If you are taking requests from the Mahabharata, that is. ✨️

Subhadra was numb.

Subhadra sat motionless, her heart frozen in a numbing ache that seemed to paralyze her very soul. Before her, Abhimanyu's lifeless body lay on the battlefield, covered with a thin shroud that could barely contain the evidence of his valiant struggle. The scent of the earth, now tinged with the iron tang of blood, clung to the air, mingling with the smoke and ashes of war. But Subhadra's senses were dulled; all she could perceive was the stillness of her son’s form, the same body she had cradled as a baby, now cold and unyielding.

Her gaze drifted over Abhimanyu's face, and in that lifeless visage, she saw not the warrior who had been felled in the thick of battle, but the child who once played in the courtyards of Indraprastha, laughing with boundless joy. She remembered how he would run to her, his tiny feet pattering on the marble floors, his voice a melody that called her "Maa!." How he had clung to her sari, his little hands tugging as he demanded to be picked up. The memory brought a faint smile to her lips, though it was more of a reflex than a true expression of emotion, for the weight of her grief was too heavy to allow any genuine feeling.

Subhadra recalled the countless nights she had spent telling him stories of heroes and kings, his young eyes wide with wonder. How he would gaze at her, asking if he, too, could be a great warrior like his father, Arjuna. "Yes, my son," she would say, brushing back the curls from his forehead. "You will be the bravest of them all." But now, those words seemed hollow, almost cruel, as she sat before the silent proof of his bravery.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she remembered the day Abhimanyu had taken up arms for the first time, the pride she had felt mingled with a mother's fear. She had blessed him with trembling hands, whispering prayers for his safety. He had smiled at her then, that same radiant smile that always managed to soothe her worries, and promised to return victorious. But now, that promise lay shattered like the remnants of the battlefield.

Subhadra's mind then turned to her elder Brother, her dear Dau, Balarama and her elder Brother Vasudeva Krishna, who had trained her and Arjuna's son in the arts of war, guiding him with the same discipline and care he had shown to his own brothers. Krishna had been both mentor and a father figure of immense strength and wisdom in Abhimanyu's eyes. She had often watched them train together, their bond growing stronger with each passing day. Baldau and Krishna had been preparing him for greatness, but not for this. Never for this.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. She looked up to see Arjuna, his face twisted in a mask of rage and grief, his eyes burning with a fury she had never seen before. He marched toward her, his steps heavy with purpose, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

"Jayadratha," he hissed, the name seething through clenched teeth. "I will avenge our son. He will not escape my wrath."

Subhadra felt a surge of fear for her husband, knowing that the fury in his heart could drive him to his own destruction. But before she could speak, before she could reach out to him, Arjuna had already turned away, his focus singular, his resolve unshakable.

The heavy silence of the night hung over the tent as Subhadra and Arjuna sat together, each lost in their own grief. The dim light of the oil lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the walls, but neither of them noticed. Subhadra's eyes were red-rimmed, her tears long since dried up, but her heart ached with a pain that was too deep for words. Across from her, Arjuna sat with his head bowed, his hands clenched into fists as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions raging within him.

For a long time, neither spoke. The weight of their shared loss pressed down on them, making the air in the tent feel thick and oppressive. Subhadra could see the strain in her husband's posture, the way his shoulders were hunched as if carrying the weight of the world. She wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort, but she hesitated, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of grief that separated them.

Finally, Arjuna broke the silence, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I failed him, Subhadra. I failed our son." His words were laced with self-recrimination, each syllable heavy with the burden of guilt. "I wasn't there when he needed me the most. I couldn’t protect him… my own flesh and blood."

Subhadra's heart twisted at the pain in his voice. She knew the depth of his anguish, knew how much Arjuna had loved Abhimanyu, even if circumstances had kept them apart for much of their lives. She herself had often felt the sting of Arjuna's absence during those long years of exile, raising their son alone, but she had always reassured herself with the thought that one day, they would be reunited as a family. Now, that hope was shattered, and all that remained was the cruel reality of their loss.

"Arjuna," Subhadra began softly, her voice gentle but firm, "you cannot blame yourself for what happened. Abhimanyu was a warrior, just like you. He knew the risks, and he fought bravely, with all the skill and courage you taught him." She reached out, placing a hand on his, her touch warm and steady. "You gave him the strength to face the world. You made him the man he was."

Arjuna shook his head, his expression twisted in grief. "But I wasn't there, Subhadra. I didn’t see him grow up, didn’t guide him as a father should. I was away, fighting battles far from home, while our son… our son was left to fend for himself." His voice broke, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Subhadra felt her own tears threatening to spill over again, but she fought them back, knowing that she needed to be strong for him. "We did what we could, Arjuna," she said, her tone resolute. "We cannot change what has happened. But Abhimanyu would not want you to be consumed by guilt. He would want you to honor his memory, to continue fighting for what is right."

Arjuna’s face hardened as he met her eyes, the sorrow giving way to a fierce resolve. "Jayadratha," he spat, the name dripping with venom. "It was he who blocked the way, who ensured that our son was trapped, surrounded, and slaughtered like an animal. I will not rest until I have avenged Abhimanyu’s death."

Subhadra nodded, recognizing the fire in his eyes. "Then do what you must, Arjuna. But remember, you are not alone in this. I am with you, always."

Arjuna took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "I swear, Subhadra," he vowed, his voice low and intense, "before the sun sets tomorrow, I will kill Jayadratha. And if I fail… I will enter the fire myself. I will not return to you without fulfilling this oath."

Subhadra felt a cold dread settle in her chest at his words, but she knew there was no stopping him now. She could only pray that the gods would grant him the strength to succeed, for the thought of losing him as well was more than she could bear.

As Arjuna stood and prepared to leave, Subhadra rose with him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. "Come back to me, Arjuna," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Come back to me."

Arjuna held her close, his grip fierce as if drawing strength from her. "I will, Subhadra," he promised, his voice softening for a moment. "I will return, and I will make sure that our son's sacrifice is not in vain."

With one last, lingering glance, Arjuna turned and walked out of the tent, leaving Subhadra standing alone, her heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope. She watched him go, silently praying for his safety, even as she knew that tonight will be the last night Jayadratha will laugh and celebrate his victory which burned her whole world.

Request by @desigurlie ✨

@harinishivaa @mahi-wayy @yehsahihai @houseofbreadpakoda @blossommoonart @myvarya @zeherili-ankhein @warnermeadowsgirl @krsnaradhika @desigurlie @ramayantika @mrityuloknative @thegleamingmoon @sumiyxx @chaliyaaa @stxrrynxghts @sambaridli @sanskari-kanya @ulaganayagi @voidsteffy @krishna-sangini @nidhi-writes @kaal-naagin @thecrazyinktrovert @sada-siva-sanyaasi @chaanv

#yes I am gonna kill you all with angst #the angst #arjuna #subhadra #abhimanyu #mahabharat #mahabharata #Mahabharata fiction #arjunasubhadra #arjuna x subhadra #desiblr #hindublr #sanatana #itihaasa

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iwantjaketosullyme · 2 years ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝, 𝐢'𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞

…but, big spoon, you have so much to do and i have nothing ahead of me.

➺ pairing: jake sully x omatikaya!reader (fluff/angst) ➺ summary: seeing jake was easy, seeing toruk makto not so much. (w/c: 2.8k) ➺ warnings: minor mentions of war & death a/n: inspired by mitski's 'your best american girl' nd dedicated to our fav all-american boy <33 na'vi dictionary at the end !! gif credit goes to @/worldofpandora

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Seeing Jake was easy.

It was shirking clan chores in favour of being held in the safe cocoon of his capable arms on a lazy afternoon, the two of you splayed out on the forest floor as it welcomed you into its clutch, soft grass embracing you, gentle breeze lulling him to sleep. As he slumbers you trace his features gently, eyes first, then nose.

You coast over the worry line that creases just like that when he senses a formidable threat, like the rogue palulukan that strayed a little too close to camp the previous week (or the persistent Omatikaya child that insists on having you braid his hair exactly when Jake’s sat down for you to rebraid his, meaning a rushed job and less scalp scratches for him).

Cautious fingertips are guided by the smattering of tanhi that litter his face, a map provided by Eywa, tiny stars aligning to lead you to your final destination - your favourite destination – his lips.

Being Seen by Jake was even easier.

- flashback -

Two weeks have passed since the fateful day your people reclaimed your ancestral home from the Sky People. The injured have been treated and deceased loved ones have been mourned and committed to Eywa. Now, the clan must celebrate.

Young ones chase after each other's tails (knowing the mood is good enough for them to escape chastisement from their parents), potential lovers dance around their feelings as they dance around the communal fire and elders thank the Great Mother for the privilege of witnessing another night like this – too many eclipses have passed since the clan could revel in shared joy like this.

The evening’s jubilations wind down as eclipse approaches, but the air is still charged with a sense of collective anticipation; you are yet to do what you do best. Gathered clan members form a blue sea, bioluminescent tanhi a mirror image of the stars in the skies above as they seat themselves on fallen logs.

Deep inhale, shoulders rolled back, head held high and gaze cast over young and old alike, you open your mouth and sing. Entranced, Jake looks up from where he was refilling his cup of pongu pongu (after falling victim to a particularly wily adolescent Na’vi bartering for the drink reserved for adults of the clan) and his amber gaze settles on you as he listens to the legend of a valiant Omatikaya warrior made song. His legend.

His song rolls off your tongue, volume ebbing and flowing like the waters of the Eastern Sea, reaching ‘ahhs’ and throaty ‘oohs’ conveying the highs and lows of his Pandoran alterlife. Sweeping peaks and troughs in the notes you belt out paint the picture in his mind of the mountains climbed and valleys traversed on his quest to find his humanity in a Na’vi body. Dulcet tones undulate from the soft pillows of your lips into the attentive ears of every clan member gathered around the fire, demanding the rapt attention of all that can and will listen.

Your voice betrays you, wavering slightly when you make sudden eye contact with Jake. He gawks at you unashamedly, his expression reminding you of the awe and excitement of a child watching kenten unfurl their luminous fans for the first time. Inwardly, you curse the power that this vrrtep has over you; you never get distracted! No doubt Ninat would be teasing you about this mishap til Eywa calls you home. That skxawng always liked to argue that she’s the better vocalist.

Final note lingering in the air and resonating in the hearts of those around you, you graciously accept the compliments offered. Soon after, you make a swift break for your marui, unaware of your newly acquired shadow following after your hurried steps as if still woefully caught in the spell your voice had cast upon him.

You flit about the marui, humming under your breath as you search for the herb and nectar concoction Tsahik gave you after overhearing you complaining to Neytiri about putting your vocal cords under too much pressure. An appreciative hum leaves your parted lips as the mixture soothes your throat, before a male, gravelly and obnoxious “Ah, shit!” cuts through your minute of peace, followed by the clang of a pot falling.

A stunned squeak escapes you before you have the chance to stop it, eyes widening as your ears fold back and your brow muscles raise in shock before furrowing in confusion. A moment passes.

You slowly crane your neck to look behind you, chancing a glance at whatever, whoever it is that managed to sneak into your marui and elicit such an embarrassing reaction from you. The fallen pot is still rattling on the floor as you lock eyes with the perpetrator and your upper lip raises into a sneer. Of course, you think to yourself, as if the vrrtep has not bothered me enough tonight he has come back for more!

“Oel ngati kameie,” Jake greets awkwardly, eyes shifting between your defensive posture and the offensive pot that he had tripped over in his dazed stupor. He brings his fingertips to his forehead before extending them towards you in a gesture of respect, and for a moment you are pulled from your derisive train of thoughts as your eyes follow the raised veins on his hands and you feel an unfamiliar feeling flutter in the pit of your stomach – much like the kindling of a new flame. Your examination of his anatomy comes to an abrupt stop when your eyes hone in on his outstretched fingers. Four fingers. Alien fingers.

“What is it that you want?” You throw the words at him, eyeing him up and down in an admittedly pathetic attempt to intimidate him. You are well aware of his prowess as a warrior; you’d only spent the latter part of the evening waxing poetic about it. Despite this, you cannot help but feel as if you must prove yourself to be a formidable threat to him, to this man who was once a tawtute imposter in a Na’vi body and has now made himself an imposter in your home.

He inches towards you cautiously, arms outstretched by his sides and palms open, intending to communicate his lack of malintention as he clears his throat and opens his mouth to answer you. Your eyes remain vigilant, ears pointing up, alert and awaiting his response. A series of unintelligible noises is all you hear, his mouth opening and closing in such a stupid way that you almost find it endearing. Almost.

Further incensed by the lack of answer, you jerk your head towards him, tail lashing behind you, impatient, “What is it then? Speak!” You begin to pace in front of him, agitated and expectant of an explanation. “Or do you only know how to stare?”

As if jolted back to reality, Jake blinks blankly before retorting “Damn, you sound just as good when you talk, pretty girl”. Astounded, your pacing comes to a halt, allowing you to baulk at his insolence – there is a notable pause as you compose yourself once more. His lips pull back into a self-satisfied smirk as he greedily absorbs your reaction, and there is a dangerous glint in his eyes, eyes too small to belong to a native Na’vi, that calls to you. You decline the call decisively.

“You still have not answered my question, Jakesully,” you attempt to regain control of this odd interaction, remaining firm in your affronted demeanour. “Speak!”

He lets out a huff of laughter under his breath, made bashful by the reminder of his inexplicable attraction towards you. “Well…I guess I heard ya singin’ out there and I-” he shakes his head, looks down and brushes a hand over his face, lips puckering to blow a gentle whoosh of air as he exhales. You feel his breath waft over your face and refuse to register the way it stokes the flame within you.

“I knew I gotta tell ya that you sound amazing, heavenly, even, unlike anything I’ve ever hea-” his reverent rambling is cut short by your cackle that pierces his ears that had perked up in delight while he sang your praises. He looks up to observe you doubling over in sarcastic laughter and waits, confused as ever, for you to explain yourself.

“Skxawng,” you rebuke, “do not insult my intelligence by suggesting you understood a single word other than your name. Neytiri has told me of your incompetence,” you lower your voice and let the venom seep into your tone, “Jakesully.”

He meets your narrowed eyes with a challenge in his stare, his right eyebrow, yet another tawtute feature, quirking up. “You’re wrong y’know,” he tilts his head to the right and nods as if still contemplating your rude interjection. In spite of his shock, he does not appear deterred in any way and for a moment you fear that your attempt at resistance is futile. Perhaps you have grossly underestimated his proficiency at your native language and have embarrassed yourself.

He continues, “I understood you calling me a skxawng just now.” A cheeky smile creeps onto his face as he basks in his ability to rile you up. “But I figure that might as well be my name with how many times Neytiri’s called me that”.

Insistent on finding a fault in his words, you give him an incredulous look and respond, “Now you dare to criticise the tsakarem?” A disbelieving scoff leaves your lips. “Impertinence!” Your words, however, do not have their desired effect as he remains unbothered by your jabs, seeing through them completely.

“C’mon pretty girl,” Jake tries to reason with you, “y’know that’s not what I meant.” Encouraged by the involuntary huff of defeat that leaves your body that has grown weary from the night’s activities and this back and forth that is honestly fraying your nerves, Jake perseveres with the determination of the Marine that he is. “Now stop deflecting ‘nd take the compliment.” You relent, albeit reluctantly. “Call me crazy but the way you sang out there…it felt like I knew exactly what you were sayin’, even with my thick Jarhead skull.”

He takes a breath before more words tumble out of his mouth. “I know you were singin’ about me. I never thought I would mean enough to the Omatikaya people for someone to write a song about me.” He surprises you by laughing self-deprecatingly – in the short time you have interacted with him you have become used to his natural bravado. “I never thought I would be enough for anyone to write a song about me.”

Jake wants to tell you more. He yearns to speak of the cosmic force, the pull he felt towards you the moment he heard your voice for the first time. The pull he feels tugging at his heartstrings now, plucking away at them, composing a tune to accompany the siren song of your voice. For a moment he thinks he might just really believe this Eywa shit now.

But he doesn’t tell you. For once in his life he holds back. Instead, he moves even closer to you, every inch of his eight foot figure towering over you as he encroaches on your personal space. Your eyes widen, pupils dilating as you take him in. All of him.

Spurred on by your favourable change in expression, Jake reaches forward to place a warm hand on the snug of your neck. His other hand’s forefinger and thumb frame your dazed face as he caresses your cheek with a reverential tenderness you would have never attributed to him. He shifts his grip down to your chin and tilts your face upwards, so that eye meets eye.

As your steely resolve weakens into something soft, something pliable, you are rendered boneless against your own will, putty in his hands – carbon fiber-reinforced bones be damned. He is held captive by the unexpected, soft trill of your laughter, spirited away by the light breeze that has entered like the melody of a windchime. Eyes of molten gold bore into your soul and he sees you. He Sees you.

- end of flashback -

Seeing Toruk Makto, however, was anything but easy.

You smile to yourself as you recount how you and Jake met, but are quickly sobered by the realisation that no other clan member would even fathom speaking to Jake so disrespectfully – speaking to Toruk Makto so disrespectfully. And so you are forced to confront the reason why you could not stand the man, even if he ensured your clan’s survival by bringing an end to The Great Sorrow.

You fiddle with the purple tassels of your breast covering, made up of the fallen strands of a tawtsngal plant that you had painstakingly braided to be in likeness to the whispering tendrils of the Utraya Mokri. The Tree of Voices.

To the ignorant tawtute that threatened to populate your beloved Eywa’eveng like pests it was simply one of the many flux vortex hubs that rendered their alien inventions useless, stripping them of their ill-perceived superiority and reminding them that they do not belong here. But to you, it was an awe-inspiring wonder that was the source of many a song composed by you and crooned into the ear of a fussy baby, sung to soothe an ill elder or belted out to relay the ballad of a beloved fallen warrior.

With the stories whispered in your ears by the ancestors, you weave the tapestry of the clan in song form. It is for this reason that Jake had taken to affectionately calling you ‘parrot’, explaining to you that they were birds that once lived on Earth and repeated what was said by others.

Your garment was not only of totemic value, symbolising your role in the clan as an esteemed singer, but was also a love letter to the sacred place that birthed your passion for the art of song - and in doing so established your roots in the intricate network of the clan.

If only you had known of what was to come, you lament. That a day would come when the very roots of the tree that planted you firmly within the clan would be so easily uprooted by the wretched Sky People and their demon machines. On that day, you felt as if your place in the clan was uprooted with it; you had lost your communication channel with the ancestors, and therefore your muse.

You sit up and detach Jake’s arm, limp with sleep, from your waist. As you look upon his face you try to reconcile all the affection he has extended to you with the fact that he once was a Sky Person, working for their destructive cause.

Before you can stop it, the familiar feeling of resentment stirs within your belly as you question why the Great Mother would choose to allow your life’s joy to be so mercilessly taken from you and yet bestow the revered title of Toruk Makto on such a man as Jake.

How could she turn her back on you? Strip your pride from you? Replace you with a man born not of Na’vi, but of the immoral tawtute? You cannot help but feel that Jake is more Omatikaya than you ever will be now, as you think of what you long to be.

His mate.

Mate to Toruk Makto, rider of last shadow, yet unworthy to stand with him, even in his shadow. The honour of being under this dark, ominous, yet protective shroud was reserved for a select few - the chosen ones. Proven warriors who have sacrificed their lives, their existence on this terrestrial plane for Toruk Makto, like Tsu’tey, or dutiful daughters who have overcome prejudices born from murder for Toruk Makto, like Neytiri. Not for glorified parrots. Not for you.

You heave a gentle sigh, banishing those thoughts with a soft shake of your head and rest your head back on Jake’s shoulder. Tense shoulders loosen as you shuffle back into the warm comfort of his body. Your finger begins tracing again, up, up, up his arm before a tentative hand opens up to grasp one of his larger ones.

Curious eyes explore the network of veins that branch out along his hand like the roots of a tree, like the roots of the Utraya Mokri. You feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you reminisce the first time you had been in such proximity to the veins on his hand and the feelings they aroused in you back then.

Perhaps, you muse, you could find solace in him the same way you once did in your sacred trees. You lean in, pursed lips relaxing to place a tender kiss on each of Jake's fingers, all four of them. The same fingers that once instilled a deep rage within you. The same fingers that held you with a love that can only be Eywa-given. The same fingers used to tame the mighty Toruk. A part of you, no matter how distant or small, knows that in these capable hands you can rest easy.

So yes, your struggle to See Toruk Makto may yet prevail, but Jake? Jake you would always See. It is with this conclusion that your hold on his arm slackens, and half-lidded eyes flutter close. You slot yourself into the space within his body that is made for you. Two bodies mould into one. Little spoon into big spoon.

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

na’vi dictionary

palulukan - thanator // tanhi - na’vi bioluminescent freckles // pongu pongu - na’vi alcoholic beverage // kenten - fan lizards // marui - tent // oel ngati kameie - I see you // skxawng - idiot // tsakarem - tsahik-in-training // tawtsngal - purple pandoran flower // tawtute - sky person, sky people // eywa’eveng - na’vi word for pandora

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