#vessel consecration

[itswilliamleonard]

sana completes the launch ritual

[asanee44]

Unlocking the Power of Òrìṣà Pots & Icons – Join the Discussion

Have you ever wondered about the mystical power of Òrìṣà pots and icons? These sacred vessels hold divine energy and serve as a direct link between devotees and the Orisha. But who can own an Òrìṣà pot? How do you care for one properly? And what happens if it is neglected or broken? In this live discussion, we dive deep into the truth about Òrìṣà pots and icons. Whether you are new to African…

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

ৎ୭. . . QUIMERA ─── Yandere! Clark Kent

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. A loyal caretaker and a hero trapped between duty and emotion. As the lines between service and desire blur, power and submission take a dark role in their relationship. Is it love or control?

⊹ ٬  Word Count. 15k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Yandere Clark Kent x Android! Reader, Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, suicide, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, abuse of power, emotional manipulation, stalking.

「 Dream or illusion that is a product of the imagination

and that is longed for or pursued despite being

very unlikely to come true. 」

Although from a distance, Krypton seemed like a celestial Eden, a perfect world where culture and power intertwined like the golden roots of an unreachable tree, reality was a beast with sharp teeth.

You knew it well. Living in the shadow of its splendor was nothing more than crawling through a desert of indifference.

Your kind, a masterpiece born from the impatient hands of the Kryptonians, remained at the base of their society as invisible foundations. They cleaned their halls until they were as white as a dying sun, as if the purity of those places could erase the dirt they breathed day after day. They were grateful, yes, because that was how they had been taught. They should kneel in gratitude, for the Kryptonians had given them life and consecrated them as something unique: the race created to serve.

They did not age like them, but they felt like them. Pain, hunger, cold. Their bodies were an amalgam of flesh and metal, a perfect design to endure the existence destined for servitude. They could eat, cry, laugh, but all of that held no more value than the cries of a child in the midst of a battlefield. The difference was simple, brutal: their emotions were irrelevant to those who dominated them.

From the moment their lips could form words and their legs walk steadily—around seven or eight human years—they were assigned a master to whom they would serve until the end. There was no escape, only the certainty that their purpose would fade at the same time as the life of the one they were to protect. The law of loyalty, your mother would say with her muted voice, repeating the words that embedded themselves in your mind like blades.

—Your purpose ends when your master's does.

They said it with such devotion that the words became sweet chains. But you knew there was no sweetness in the iron that surrounded your existence. And yet, there was gratitude. Even in injustice, there was gratitude. How could you not feel it when your creators had given you everything you were? Even if that everything was a shackle instead of freedom.

—Lara Lor-Van is going to have a child —your mother told you one day, her face marked by a weariness that no being of her kind should know—. Your master.

From then on, your world was reduced to the tiny, constant heartbeat growing in Lara's womb. The Kryptonian woman treated you kindly, but you understood it was not for you, but for the promise that throbbed beneath her skin. You dedicated your days and nights to caring for that pregnancy, watching over your master’s well-being even before he saw the light of the world.

It was not Lara who mattered. You observed her with clinical attention, ensuring her needs were met, but always with a persistent thought: she was just the vessel. The true purpose lay within her. Your master was inside her.

And when he was born, you would exist for him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Because if your kind of androids could feel, then purpose was the only emotion that truly mattered. And when that purpose died, so would you.

The day he came into the world was a dawn tinged with joy and despair, with light filtering through invisible cracks as the perfection of Krypton began to fracture. Your mother said that the birth of a master was a gift that no being of your kind should take lightly. You knew it, you had felt it grow beneath Lara's skin like a warm fire fueling your sleepless nights.

Kal-El. That name etched itself in your mind with an unbreakable certainty from the moment his first cries broke the sterile air of the room. But it was not a pure moment, not like the tales told of a servant's devotion to their master. It was a silent war.

Kara was there, wanting to embrace him with the urgency of a sister who intended to hold the future. But you stepped in. He was your master, your purpose. Kara had hers, a guardian who was to protect her and serve her until her existence ceased to make sense. Such was the law of loyalty. Such it had to be.

Your hands held him with fierce delicacy. You clung to his fragile, warm little body as if holding onto him could make the darkness that was already beginning to spread over Krypton disappear. Your whole being vibrated with a perverse happiness, the kind that comes from finding a purpose to which you could surrender until it consumed every part of your existence. You would live for him. You would die for him. You would reproduce only for your children to serve his, because that was your reason for being.

But then the end came. And there was no time to prepare.

Explosions rumbled in the planet's guts, and panic grew like a shroud of fog strangling the crowd. You were a speck lost among the rivers of desperate people running aimlessly, as if the screams and chaos could stop the inevitable. But you only cried his name. Kal-El. Kal-El. Because if he died, you were nothing.

Your legs moved like blades stabbing into the ground, tearing through the distance with the brutal force of purpose. You pushed, struck, tore flesh from those who stood in your way. You were a wounded animal, a desperate being clinging to the last spark of meaning that remained.

And then, you saw him. A tiny ship escaping destruction, like a silver lightning bolt slicing through the darkness. It was him. Your master was leaving Krypton, and you were not with him. Desperation tore through you like poison spreading through your veins.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t afford to doubt. You took the nearest ship, not caring to whom it belonged or how many you left behind. Kara had done the same, but her existence was not your concern. She could fall into oblivion for all you cared.

Your entire world had been reduced to a single task: follow Kal-El. Find him. Protect him. Because if you didn’t, then you were nothing more than a broken piece of a planet that no longer existed.

You arrived on Earth, a miserable, primitive world where the air stank of rusted metal and useless ambition. A rudimentary planet full of weak beings who believed themselves powerful simply because they had learned to master fire and build destructive toys. Humans. Archaic creatures who didn’t even understand the extent of their own stupidity. They were inferior to you, soft flesh and even softer thoughts. But you hadn’t come to judge them, even though you did with each step.

You had come to that planet with a single purpose: to find Kal-El. And in that purpose lay everything you were. Because if you failed, if you couldn’t retrieve the last son of Krypton, then you yourself didn’t deserve to exist. What was the point of breathing, eating, feeling, if not for him? Desperation was an acid that corroded your mind, burning every thought that didn’t relate to your lost master.

You searched like a soul in torment, a specter wandering aimlessly. You crossed continents with the fury of an exiled god, dug under every stone, explored every cave, submerged yourself in every filthy puddle this planet had to offer. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. But there was no rest, no truce. Every night you closed your eyes and saw him: a defenseless child, a master who had to be protected and whom you had let escape due to your own incompetence.

Slowly, hope began to disintegrate into the void. Each day was another step toward madness, another drop of torture dragging you toward the idea that you would never find him. But still, you didn’t stop. Because to stop would be to accept your failure. And if there was one thing you learned on Krypton, it was that a servant without purpose is worse than a corpse.

Japan was just another point in your endless journey. A chaotic and fascinating country in its own decay. You had learned to endure the filth and human stupidity, to blend in with them when necessary. Your body needed fuel, and though the food of this planet felt like an insult to your existence, you discovered something that quelled your hunger without making you gag: onigiris. They were simple, practical. And at least they filled that physical void that nothing else could.

You were sitting in a small restaurant, the walls decorated with paintings attempting to reflect beauty, but only managing to be sad reminders of clumsy, incomplete art. You bit into an onigiri with the hopelessness of someone chewing on stones, your empty eyes fixed on a screen that no one else seemed to be watching.

Then you saw him.

The face you had chased for so long appeared before you with the brutality of a blow to the throat. Words twisted in a language you had learned to understand, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except the image forming on the screen: a man floating in the air, with the symbol of hope etched on his chest.

They called him the man of steel. But to you, he was nothing more than Kal-El. Your master. Your purpose. The reason you had crossed the universe in an act of devotion so pure it bordered on madness.

United States. Metropolis.

At last. After all that time, you had found Kal-El.

Hunger disappeared, replaced by a voracious anxiety that burned within you. It no longer mattered how much you had lost, or how much you had suffered. It only mattered that he was still alive. And that you were going to retrieve him. No matter the cost.

The plane filled with murmurs and furtive glances directed at your robotic arms and your impassive expression. Humans didn’t know how to hide their fear. They squirmed in their seats and whispered as if discomfort was an animal they could keep at bay with soft words. It didn’t matter. There was no time to pay attention to their stupidity. There was only one thought repeating like a broken drum in your head: What would you say when you saw him?

Would he remember you? Would he recognize the devotion you had cultivated like a sweet poison since he opened his eyes for the first time? Or would he despise you for your incompetence, for allowing him to get lost in this primitive and cruel world? Each question twisted inside you, claws tearing pieces of your sanity. But nothing would matter if he accepted you again. If he allowed you to be what you were born to be.

When you arrived in Metropolis, you faced the chaos of the city like a storm sweeping across a defenseless prairie. You watched him for hours, hiding among shadows and crowds that didn’t understand the weight of your mission. It wasn’t hard to identify him. The suit he wore to blend in with those pathetic humans was an insult to his greatness. Ridiculous glasses and hair styled with the clumsiness of someone trying to be ordinary. But you knew. You would have recognized him even if he were buried under a thousand layers of foreign flesh. That man was Kal-El.

Anger and desperation mixed in your chest, a ball of fire burning every reasonable thought. He lived among those inferior beings, protected them, disguised himself as one of them. Did he want that? Did he want to flee from his legacy? To forget you?

No. You wouldn’t allow it. If Kal-El had forgotten who he was and who was supposed to protect him, you would make him remember. By force if necessary.

The Daily Planet was your choice. The symbol of truth for those tiny creatures. Their beacon of information and power. You tore it apart mercilessly, setting the offices ablaze until the flames roared like released demons. The globe that crowned the building trembled with a metallic creak, and with one last push of your robotic hands, you made it fall. It crashed down like a broken god upon the weak structure, and you waited.

He appeared just as you had always imagined. Flying, with his cape billowing like a harbinger of glory. His eyes looked at you with the contained fury of a being who believes they understand pain. But he didn’t know anything. Not like you did.

—Who are you? —his voice echoed in the air, thunder wrapped in silk.

The answer died in your throat, because seeing him before you was like looking at the sun for the first time after living in twilight. And instead of raising your voice as you had planned, instead of challenging him for letting so much time slip between you, you cried. Tears fell down your cheeks uncontrollably, and your knees hit the ground with a dull thud.

—Kal-El! I finally find you! —you cried desperately. Your voice broke when you named him, when you gave shape to the pain that had grown inside you like a wound that never healed.

You saw him descend cautiously, his gaze confused, worried about the destruction you had caused. Because he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand that everything you had done had been for him. Everything.

He was... kind. Inconceivably kind. Any other hero would have responded with violence, with an unrelenting and brutal attack. You had seen them on those monitors that humans revered as idols. Warriors who fought with fury and justice, with no room for compassion in the face of threat. And you, kneeling before him, waiting to be crushed as you deserved for your crimes.

But he didn’t. He didn’t raise his fist or throw warnings laden with authority. No. He knelt beside you and embraced you. He wrapped your trembling body in his warm, firm arms, like a refuge you had believed lost forever. It was unreal, a dream that stung in every corner of your body.

—I’ve been looking for you for decades on this Earth —you let out, your voice hoarse and broken. Your face buried in his chest as tears continued to flow uncontrollably—. Lara would be disappointed in my incompetence, my lord. I am a horrible caretaker...

Shame poured out of you like blood from an open wound. He shouldn’t have touched you; you didn’t deserve that comfort. But he simply caressed your back, his hand running over the amalgam of flesh and metal as if he didn’t know how to distinguish between them. As if both were equally worthy of comfort.

—You have thrived without me; you have relied on yourself without my care... —Your words intertwined with sobs, choked in the despair that still covered you like a cloak of thorns—. Do you... no longer need me?

Your eyes sought answers in his, desperate, like a lost child in the vastness of an unfamiliar world. You didn’t dare blink, for fear that if you closed your eyes, he would vanish like a cruel mirage.

—I have to finish my purpose... right? —you murmured, your fingers gripping his cape as if that could stop the inevitable. If your existence no longer made sense, if he didn’t need your protection... what was left of you?

Something changed in his gaze. A different concern. A silent alarm that crossed his mind like dark lightning. Perhaps he thought your mind had fractured under the weight of your failed devotion, that you were little more than a broken android, decomposed by years of abandonment and guilt. But still, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hit you. He didn’t reject you.

He took you with him, holding you with that gentleness that hurt more than any punch. You expected everything except that. You would have understood if he had destroyed you right there. But he gave you something different: pity.

He took you to his home. Not to a prison, not to a laboratory or some forgotten corner of Metropolis. No. He took you to Smallville, to the home he had known since childhood, as if he still held hope of finding answers in simple, pure things. You thought it was ridiculous. That such an act could only stem from the naivety of a being who had grown too human. But the truth was that you had failed so much in protecting him that you accepted his mercy as a rope to keep from sinking completely.

You showed him your memories, those fragments of life that had survived in your battered, rusted body. You showed him Krypton. The landscapes of glass and fire, the majestic architecture that rose like solid dreams above the ground. You showed him his parents, Lara and Jor-El, with their faces hardened by responsibility but also illuminated by a love that you had seen with your own eyes. You showed him his uncles and his cousin, Kara, who just at that moment on Earth was attending her lessons.

Silence was all that remained when your memories faded back into the darkness of your mind. He didn’t know whether to believe you; you saw it in his eyes. Doubt slipped between his thoughts like a soft poison. But there was something more. Something you didn’t expect: acceptance.

He stayed with you. He didn’t cast you away or lock you up. He allowed you to remain by his side, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of mere curiosity. But you accepted that gesture as if it were a sacred commandment.

You went back to doing what you knew best: caring. You cleaned his house, ensured the surroundings were safe. You watched over the borders of Smallville like a deranged guardian who only found peace in obedience. It wasn’t a real purpose; you knew that. It wasn’t the mission assigned to you at birth. But it was something. Something that kept you alive and gave you the illusion that you could still serve him.

Though deep down, the bitter voice of reality whispered that none of that was enough. That you had failed and that all you were doing now was clinging to the last crumb of meaning your existence could offer you.

Clark didn’t know how to treat you. The first days were... unbearable, like a freshly planted oak tree in barren soil. Your constant, meticulous presence enveloped him like a heavy cloak of human customs he didn’t want. You became a shadow in his life, not a maid, but a haunting specter of the death of his mother. In the mornings, your upright figure, relentless in its routine, was the one that woke him. Every gesture was calculated: breakfast prepared with the precision of a well-sharpened sword, suit pressed with the accuracy of a surgeon, briefcase loaded with his destiny. And always, the warning, the playful yet somber threat:

—Be careful not to hurt yourself, or I’ll have to go and beat someone up for being mean to you...

He spoke to you like a mother, but there was something more in his tone, something that brushed against forbidden intimacy, something that coiled like a serpent inside his chest. You didn’t see a son when you looked at him, but something deeper, more unsettling. And he, he knew it. He feared it.

But it was on that morning when something changed. The air was imbued with an unreal stillness, as if the universe itself had decided to pause and observe what was about to happen. Clark got up as always, hoping nothing would alter the course of the day, that nothing would disturb the calm waters of his routine. But there you were. You had arrived with a chilling diligence. You had pressed his suit with a perfection only a demon of detail could achieve. Breakfast was served with the same solemnity as a ritual sacrifice. And before he could comprehend what was happening, you approached him, with the softness of a mortal whisper, and adjusted his tie.

As you did, your fingers brushed against his neck, and the air became thick, hot, charged with a weight he could no longer ignore. Your eyes, those dark and penetrating eyes, caught him, and he, who had learned to see beyond human masks, could only succumb to the glimmer of something... different in you. The kiss on the hand was what broke him. A gesture so tender yet so strange, so heartbreaking, like a farewell to everything he had been. He looked at you like a slave seeing their master for the last time, but also like a man recognizing the truth in his own heart, that truth that hid behind the shadows.

And then, he left. The sound of his departure echoed like a distant thunder, but within him, everything stopped. The streets of Metropolis, the Daily Planet office, the very battle between good and evil, all blurred as his thoughts clung to you, to your image. The need to return, the need to see you again consumed him, and he found himself smiling like a foolish child, an idiot, for something he didn’t even fully understand.

Would you prepare his favorite dish? Or had you learned something new, something even stranger to surprise him, as if you were a creature born from the very chaos that had made him so strong? Would you show your dreams, those sorrows and hopes through holograms distilled from his memories, as if they were fables of a world that existed only for him?

Even the relentless Cat Grant, with her tongue sharp as a dagger, couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the lost smile on Clark's face, that empty smile, so different from the ones he used to show under the spotlight. That smile, so somber and anxious, spoke more than he ever wanted to say aloud.

Time, with its inexorable march, continued its course, but Clark was no longer the same. He was no longer the man who thought he could control everything around him. You had overflowed his barriers, and in that simple smile, in that gesture that no one else cared about, something of you had marked him, something that even Superman’s strength could not erase.

Clark, as always, found himself caught between the threads of his own uncertainty. When he shared his thoughts with Lois, his ex-fiancée, a friend who still maintained a painfully close connection with him, what he expected to be wise advice turned into a veiled mockery. Lois, with her impetuous nature and sharp gaze, urged him to conquer what was slipping through his fingers, to take what he desired, like a king trying to possess the kingdom of what had once been his queen. In her eyes, you were nothing more than a housekeeper, a programmed being to serve him, a mechanical figure without a soul, without importance beyond what you did in his home. A detail, she thought, insignificant, if Clark truly desired to have you.

But days passed, and little by little, Clark began to untie the knots of his confusion. At first, it was strange for you. You didn’t understand why he was beginning to embrace you upon arriving or leaving, why the small gestures he had previously ignored were becoming routine, as if the air between you had changed. He brought you gifts, mundane treasures that fell from his hands as if they wanted to say more than his lips kept silent. He even took the time to check every part of your body, ensuring that your gears and your flesh felt the softness of his touches. You reproached yourself, telling him there was no need to do so, for you ate like him, and your body didn’t seem more than a reflection of his desire to keep you intact.

One night, in what for you was simply another dinner, he suggested taking you to an unknown place, outside of the quiet routine you both shared. People stared at you, observing you as an aberration. To them, you were just a being of metal and flesh, a monstrosity daring to eat, to laugh, to live. Clark was deeply annoyed by it, his anger growing with each gaze, but for you, none of that mattered. The fact that you were different didn’t change who you were. In your world, such things had never been relevant. You lived for and by your purpose. Eating, laughing, feeling... all of that became a mechanical act that no longer surprised your senses.

He seemed happy, almost proud of his act. Meanwhile, you... you simply fulfilled your duty, as you always had. You were fulfilled in the dedication you provided him, without feeling anything beyond the peace found in the certainty of doing what was right.

Clark began to notice your naivety, your silent submission to his will. He was a figure of power, and as such, he knew how to manipulate the invisible strings that controlled your existence. He took liberties over time, small and subtle, barely noticed, but deeply disturbing. You knew you belonged to him, that your existence had been forged for him, to serve him. But there was something in the way his lips sealed against yours, as if they claimed something more than your devotion, something darker and possessed by its own hunger. That invasion, that caress of skin against skin, was unacceptable, something you had been programmed to tolerate, but that your human conscience still rejected, fought against. Still, you let it pass, like a shadow dragged by the current without resistance. You didn’t want to face what was beginning to grow within you, nor what he represented.

What disturbed your soul the most was what came next. The public appearances, the hero galas, the events in which he strutted like the man of steel. And you, in his shadow, in his constant possession, observing from a corner, by his side, his hand resting on your hip, touching you in a way that made it clear you were his belonging, an object of admiration and control. The crowds looked at you, but you felt nothing but a growing void, an oppression in your chest that you could not name. You accepted his contact, even though something inside you began to scream, an echo of a being that still wanted to be free.

However, there was a moment, a point of no return, when his touching went beyond. While you were cleaning, his hand, like a snake, slid towards you, touching your rear inappropriately, his cold and meticulously calculated touch. Something in your being broke, a spark of resistance igniting within your soul, a fury you didn’t even know you had. You pulled away from him, your heart pounding in your chest, as you shouted with all the repressed fury: "That is wrong, Kal-El!" The surprise on his face was palpable, as if he had never imagined that you, his maid, his servant, could have anything more than a submissive response, something beyond acceptance.

He, however, didn’t understand. He didn’t comprehend in his entirety. In his mind, you were just another piece of his possession, another cog in his perfect world of power and control. The man who had saved the world and conquered the skies couldn’t see the rebellion growing inside you, like a silent poison slowly seeping through your veins. To him, this was just a small stumble in his absolute dominance. And yet, something in your gaze made him doubt. Something he had never seen in you. The spark of a being, a human, who was not willing to yield anymore.

So when Clark tried to persuade you, his gaze filled with a mix of desperation and possessiveness, pain reflected in his eyes as he suggested you start a marital life. He wanted you to be something more, something beyond the servant you had been made to be. But you couldn’t be anything different. He didn’t understand the weight of your existence, the weight of your destiny as his caretaker, his obedient and cold servant. You reminded him, with a distant chill that tore him inside: "I am your servant, Clark. Your caretaker. And you, my master. Nothing more."

That was a blow to him. His face, which had been so unyielding, crumbled, though he tried to hide it with a faint smile, as false as the life he had given you. But his eyes were no longer the same. Something dark glimmered in them, a contained fury, something he was just beginning to comprehend.

So he gave you an order, one that resonated in the air with a sinister weight: "You cannot leave the house. You cannot speak to anyone. And you certainly cannot run away." Malice hid behind his words, and although you refused to believe it, you knew it was his will. You could do nothing, and he knew it. He commanded, and you simply existed to comply, like a wandering shadow in a world you no longer recognized.

You surrendered to your routine, immersed yourself in household tasks, moving your robotic body, that container of flesh and metal, from one side to another in Clark's house. The days faded into monotony, but as time passed, the tension became denser, heavier, like the air before a storm.

Clark began to impose himself more on you. Each time he crossed that line, that invisible boundary between master and servant, you felt more trapped. But the worst was what happened one night when he asked you for something you never imagined. It was his most direct, most invasive approach. It wasn’t the words, but the weight of his presence, his breath on your skin, the brush of his hands on your metal body. You tried to resist, clinging to the few rules that still remained, but his insistence, his persistent, heartbreaking touch was enough for you to no longer be able to stand firm. You yielded, not out of desire, but out of necessity. His reluctant affection, as forced and cold as his will, overwhelmed you. You felt the discomfort of his contact, the conflict within you, but there was no way to escape anymore.

And so, you began to understand that there was no more space for resistance, only for submission. The idea of fleeing, of escaping, faded with every caress, with every order, until you became a shadow of yourself, a creature of metal and flesh trapped in your own destiny.

Days passed, and with them, the weight of reality became more unbearable. The memories of a time when your purpose was not to serve, not to exist for him, faded like a distant dream. You became an extension of his will. The days grew longer, emptier. Everything you did was oriented toward him, to fulfill his desires, to ensure he lacked for nothing, as if that were all that remained of you. And, for some twisted logic, that was all it was.

Each time you saw a shadow of a smile in his eyes, you knew it was not filled with love, but with something much more sinister: possession. You understood it too late, when you could no longer distinguish between what was genuine desire and what was simply his need for control, his need to further subdue you. Clark had begun to take liberties that felt like chains.

But something inside you began to break, like a string stretched too far, about to snap. Your robotic body, which at first had given you a sense of strength, was now just a metal prison. Chaos seized your mind, that internal struggle, that struggle against your own nature, against what he had made you. You couldn’t escape from him, you couldn’t escape from his will, but you also couldn’t stop feeling that something in you was being lost, something you would never regain.

One afternoon, while he was not there, and you were fulfilling your task of cleaning the house, silence was broken by a strange sensation in the air. A presence, a void. Something in you told you that this was the last opportunity. The last chance to free yourself, to escape from his yoke.

But like a shadow dragging itself in the darkness, despair loomed over you. You knew you couldn’t. Because when he returned that night, his gaze was no longer the same. There was something even colder in it. Something that could no longer be remedied.

—I told you —he said, his voice soft but laden with a threat that didn’t need to be pronounced. His presence enveloped you, and the air grew dense and oppressive. —You cannot escape. You are mine.

You tried to resist, you tried to fight, but it was useless. The force of his will crushed you like a hammer on a fragile piece of glass. And as you fell, defeated by your own being, you felt as if you were no more than a shadow, a broken creation. Something that had no right to exist, other than to please him, to serve him, to submit to him time and time again.

And so, you became what he desired. You were not a woman. You were not a person. You were not even a human being. You were no longer anything more than his property, his work of metal and flesh, empty of desire, empty of dreams, empty of yourself.

In that last gasp of consciousness, a tear fell from your mechanical eye. But it no longer mattered. Everything was over. Because in the end, you didn’t even have the strength to regret what you had done, nor to remember what you once were.

And without him knowing, when he walked away to attend to an urgent call from the Justice League, you remained there, in silence, in front of the mirror. The dim light filtering through the window cast shadows that danced across the floor. It was the first time in a long time that you didn’t think of him, didn’t think of what he needed or what you should do to please him. You only thought of yourself, of what you had lost, of what you no longer were.

You looked at yourself, not just with the eyes of a servant but with those of someone who, for the first time, was trying to find something that you no longer knew if it had ever existed. That figure in the mirror was nothing more than a combination of metal and flesh, a puppet of foreign desires. But through the reflection, you saw beyond the surface. You realized that the emptiness you felt could not be filled by him, nor by his cold and possessive love. It didn’t matter how hard you tried, how much you surrendered; you would always be trapped, lost in a labyrinth with no exit.

With a slight tremor in your hands, you touched the mirror. A soft, almost imperceptible knock. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the sound resonating in the room like an echo of the fracture of your soul. And in that moment, without thinking, you made the decision. It was the end, the end of everything. The end of your life as his shadow, as his object, as his slave.

With a heavy heart, you ended your service to him.

[intakeofbreath]

⎯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ᴍᴜʀᴍᴜʀ ᴘᴛ ɪɪ. ᴘᴛ ɪ.

wc: {574} tw: explicit sexual content, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, body worship, praise, religious overtones, slight mask kink.

he lifts her like she weighs nothing.

one hand under her thighs, the other steady on her back, he turns and sets her down on the edge of the makeup vanity. the cold surface makes her gasp, but it’s gone as fast as it came—replaced by the heat of his mouth, dragging down her neck, his body fitting between her open thighs like it belongs there.

his breath is heavy. ragged. like he’s been holding it in for years.

“i’ve thought about this,” he admits, teeth brushing her pulse. “more than i should have.”

her fingers find the sides of his mask. she doesn’t lift it. she doesn’t want to. the mystery is holy. but her thumbs trace along his jaw—bare, hot, slightly damp. painted black and flushed with need.

“show me,” she breathes.

he drops to his knees.

without a word, he slides her underwear down and presses his mouth against her like he’s starving. tongue soft, then firm, then soft again—working slow, deliberate circles as he hooks her thighs over his shoulders. her head tips back with a choked moan, one hand flying to grip the edge of the vanity, the other fisting in his hair, dragging his hood back.

his mask stays on. always.

but below it, she hears him groan—low, worshipful, lost in her.

he eats like he’s consecrating her. slow and reverent. no rush. just the slow, wet sound of devotion, the whisper of painted fingers digging into her thighs, holding her wide, holding her still.

when her legs start to tremble, he pulls back just far enough to speak.

“you taste like something i shouldn’t want,” he says, voice hoarse. “but i’d ruin myself for it anyway.”

then he stands.

her shirt is gone before she realizes it. he kisses her collarbone, her chest, every inch of skin his mouth can reach, then drags his fingers between her legs—testing, coating, worshiping.

she’s panting by the time he unfastens his slacks and frees himself, the head of his cock flushed and dripping, sliding against her soaked entrance.

“please,” she whispers. “vessel.”

he grips her hips. hard.

“look at me,” he says.

she does.

and he pushes in.

the stretch knocks the air from her lungs—deep, slow, possessive. he fills her like he was made for it, one hand braced on the vanity, the other curled around the back of her neck, keeping her close, keeping her eyes on his.

his mask doesn’t shift. doesn’t tilt. it stays fixed on her like a ritual.

he starts to move.

deep, rolling thrusts. not fast—not yet—but thorough. like he’s trying to carve the memory of this into her bones.

“mine,” he breathes against her ear. “you were made for this.”

“say it again,” she gasps.

his voice breaks. “mine.”

and then it’s a rhythm—him grinding deeper, harder, chasing that point where pleasure starts to spiral into something holy. her nails dig into his shoulders. her head falls forward against his masked temple.

“i’m close,” she pants. “don’t stop—”

he doesn’t.

he fucks her through it—her orgasm shaking, eyes fluttering, mouth open in a silent cry—and only then does he let go, hips stuttering as he spills inside her with a soft, ragged moan.

they stay like that.

bodies shaking. breaths tangled.

and when he finally speaks again, his voice is soft. ruined.

“i’ll never let anyone else have you.”

she smiles, spent.

“good,” she whispers. “because i don’t want anyone else.”

[windvexer]

Ritual Gestation and Birth: A relatively low-spoons method (at least I think so) of creating powerful* servitors, enchantments, etc

*Powerful as compared to other techniques that work worse.

A common spellcasting method is to immediately deploy the spell once the casting is complete. In fact, deployment is often a part of the casting ritual in and of itself.

A different option is to keep the spell vessel in a state of magical gestation over a period of days or weeks, so that it slowly matures, gains strength, and solidifies, until it's born into this world, ushered by your hands.

This method is opposed to one where huge amounts of energy need to be raised at once. It's not a technique I'm able to manage in a sustainable way, and I find the results to be a little too... jittery.

If you are a witch who must not, or may not, raise lots of energy at once, this technique may be more manageable. It involves supervising a pot of spell, a bit like a simmering pot of stew, but overall I find it to be less of a draining process. Perhaps other people will find the same.

I believe that creating a magical seed (or embryo, if you like), and tying it to a physical object - such as a candle, crystal, piece of jewelry, charm bag, poppet, and so on - is in and of itself a powerful act of magic. This is why a candle can be enchanted, immediately burned, and still result in miraculous effects.

However, I also believe that giving the seed time to magically gestate can produce deeply powerful, effective, and long-lasting (or perhaps better to say, permanent) results. This isn't the same as completing a casting and letting the enchantment sit until you're ready to use it - it's an active process of nurturing.

Instead of immediately sending a spell to go out and work, sending it to a gestation phase is an easy change. If our spellcasting methodologies are anything alike, all you've got to do (in crude terms) is to swap out your targeting/release portion of the spell with an introduction to the magical womb, or egg, or embryonic sack, (&etc), within which the spell will grow and gain strength.

Examples:

If you direct energy as you raise it, instead of chanting, focusing, writing, or affirming that the spell goes to the target as you raise the energy, instead C/F/W/A that the spell goes into the gestational vessel.

If you gather energy and imprint/program it before you deploy it, send it to the gestational vessel instead of the target.

If you fully enchant a spell vessel (such as enchanting a candle, or creating a poppet), after the spellcasting is complete, instruct the new spell to rest and grow strong within the gestational vessel, until it's time to be fully born.

After the spell is cast, and you have magically moved the spell into its gestation phase, the spell components should be placed securely within the gestational vessel and tended to until they're ready to be born.

The "gestational vessel" is a physical object - in Traditional Witchcraft, this is most suitably the cauldron. But the gestational vessel only needs to meet a few qualifications, regardless of its ability to make campfire stews:

The gestational vessel must have a secure lid, even a makeshift lid, which blocks out the light.

It must be large enough to completely hold the physical components of the spell which it gestates.

It must be able to be stored without disruption, where no unqualified persons may accidentally remove the lid or disturb it.

Additionally:

Moving the vessel doesn't seem to typically disrupt what's growing inside. It can be taken down from a shelf, etc.; as long as the lid isn't opened without due cause.

I do not personally consecrate gestational vessels to that special purpose. I tend to use multi-use vessel which I'll use for other things later.

When the spell is inside of the magical egg (tired of saying gestation), it becomes your job to tend to it by providing energy. This can take many forms, and is an intuitive process.

Feeding the spell can be done in any manner which you usually recharge objects, or provide offerings to spirits. The line is blurred here, I think.

Feed the spell more of what you fed it in order to create it; that is, more of the same energy you raised, more of the same emotion you spent, and so on.

If preferred, feed the spell food, candle, and incense offerings. A general offering of "white light," or another creative energy, also does well here.

Intuition may advise that different foods are wanted by the spell at different times. Do with that as you please.

Those able to "tune in" to the energies of their spells and environment may find it to be very easy to keep track of the embryonic spell's hunger. Otherwise, follow a simple schedule.

I usually do not find that spells need to be fed every day, and when they require feeding, I do not find that they respond to huge amounts of energy or offerings.

Feeding about every three days is a safer bet for me.

I notice that an excess of provided energy just seems to pool up and go to waste.

A feeding may be as simple as placing a bit of your dinner next to the gestation vessel along with an offering charm, or if you're able to, lighting a single tea light.

Persons interested in psychism may have an excellent time noting the energetic change in the spell as the gestation develops.

The lid may be carefully opened to peek inside, especially if normally helpful intuition fails without peeking in; but treat the vessel gently, as if a tiny embryonic baby chicken is inside. Be quiet and gentle, and avoid disrupting the lid unless you really need to.

Ahead of time, before you even cast the spell, you should have decided how long you're going to gestate it for. Three days, or a full moon cycle, or dark to full moon, are a good bet; so is one week if you're doing a planetary thing. I find that even a shorter gestation period provides delightful results compared to doing none at all.

Intuition may advise that the spell is ready to be born early, or would like to stay a little longer.

If intuition is not your ally in these matters, follow the schedule you've set. All will be well.

The appointed time has arrived - the spell is to be born! (Celestial enthusiasts may be wise the the idea of birthing their spell at a special hour, day, or election).

Frankly, popping off the vessel lid, saying, "your time of rest is done, you are now at full power, go now and begin your duties" will perfectly suffice.

But better can be achieved.

If possible, consider employing a birthing ritual. Here are ideas, in no particular order:

Symbols of a gateway or passageway are very good, even something as simple as two stones or two candles to mark a 'gate'.

Using an actual doorway, especially moving from indoors to outdoors (or vice-versa, depending on the nature of your spell).

Using a hag stone to represent pulling the spell from the faerie world into our physical one; the reverse process of how such a stone is often employed.

Using a family tradition, or religious or cultural tradition, to celebrate the birth of a new baby; even if this tradition is only symbolically simulated through key points ("I am the grandpa of this family, and as the grandpa, I announce the new baby's name!")

Doing something celebratory and evocative, like that Lion King scene where Rafiki holds up baby Simba, etc.

In general, the spell should be removed from the gestation pot in a ritualistic way, glistening with the gravity of ushering new life into this world.

The spell may be carefully taken from the vessel and passed through a doorway or liminal space; symbolically drawn through a hag stone or other physically impassable space; held up to greet the first light of the day, or the light of a certain moon phase; be passed over a fire; or any number of ritualistic acts to denote movement into a new phase of life.

At this time, you should magically assert that the spell is born, and ready to do its task.

Of course, you do more. And in these matters, I find that more is better.

A christening ceremony, or a baptism, is most excellently employed to further empower this new life to be a living being in our world, capable of great influence and change - as we all imagine our children will be.

A bit of anointing oil, a touch of holy water, a formal naming ceremony ("I name you, My Paycheck is Cleared. Your name is My Paycheck is Cleared."), whatever you like - especially include a small gift to the spell (perhaps a few coins to set it on the right path in life), or - I suppose this post has gotten long enough. You can perhaps imagine what more could be done.

When all is said and done, employ the spell; light it if it's a candle, whisper things to it if it's a poppet, hang it up if it's supposed to be hung up, and so on.

Do mind that such things, having being born into this world and given real life, do not tend to quit it so quickly as only bornless energies that are diffused just as they were raised; like waves, forming and dissipating.

Things with birthdays and names and birthday presents and baptisms and godparents tend to feel as if this world is theirs, too.

I am generally not very much of a "be careful" sort of poster, but for this sort of technique, I'd recommend being careful. It really does work fantastically, and that's the problem.

Feed the spell with your blood at the moment of conception, and at the moment of birth, for something extra delightful.

[nyardynn]

The 'Allegorical Blade' is a holy symbol and you're sleeping on the greatest thing about it

Ok, let us please talk about Ardyn’s healer sword, because I think you’re all sleeping on that absolutely delicious choice of a design. I’m talking about his sword as seen in Dissidia FF NT. It is called the ‘Allegorical Blade’ and released alongside his white healer attire called the ‘Devotee’s Raiment’.

You might have noticed the flashy design of this blade that has prompted some to assume it is supposed to be reminiscent of the citadel in Insomnia where the royal seat of Ardyn's family is located - a seat supposedly reserved for him in his healer times. 

Wrong.

Or, rather, not quite and not only.

The Allegorical blade is, in fact, designed as a monstrance, which is a vessel used in Roman Catholic, Old Catholic and some other faiths’ churches to display objects of piety and high religious importance at the altar, such as remains of saints or the sacramental bread, the host. I’ve attached a picture I took of one at the local cathedral.

FF15 is inspired by medieval European royalty where Catholicism was the prevalent and the only acceptable religion. Catholics believe that through consecration, items - most famously food items like bread, wine or the host - are transformed into the body and blood of Christ. They are not only spiritually transformed, they are believed to be substantially transformed and are divine from then on, although they retain their appearance as ordinary items. These items carry tremendous spiritual meaning and like the remains of saints, they are to be handled with care if they are to be shown to believers - they are put into a monstrance. The word ‘monstrance’ comes from latin ‘monstrare’ - to display or to show, which makes a monstrance a vessel to display the holiest objects. They are usually carried and lifted to believers during mess or in front of processions. They are often, but not always, designed to look like religiously important symbols or buildings like churches, the sun, and so on. The citadel being the place that holds the crystal and therefor being of the highest religious importance to Lucians, is exactly what a monstrance would be crafted to resemble.

The Allegorical Blade has a different name in Japanese where it is called the ‘kamikotoba no ken’. There are three kanji used: that for ‘god, divine, holy’, that for ‘word’ and the last one for ‘sword’. Basically it is called the ‘Sword of the Word of God’ or the ‘Sword of Divine Words’.

If his sword is a monstrance, then why doesn’t it hold and display any kind of holy object?

It does.

The thing it shows off is Ardyn himself.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum has been a devoted follower of Bahamut for all of his life. He considers his healing powers a gift from the gods, so he travels far and wide to cure the sick and ‘spread their mercy’ as he speaks about what he believes to be a divine calling. His altruism and faith are so great that he continues healing even though he knows the starscourge accumulates within his body and that it will kill him in time. He believes with a passion that the gods have a plan and will grant him mercy too, so that one day he will be able to heal all of Lucis as their king. He is, quite literally, Eos’ version of Jesus Christ only that his god turned out not benevolent at all.

The holy object his sword displays is himself as a representation of Bahamut’s word that holds true before and even after Ardyn’s fall from grace. Ardyn Lucis Caelum believed in his divine calling, but he misinterpreted it and instead of being the savior to heal the land, he turned out to be the sacrificial lamb to be slain at the alter. The role of Immortal Accursed, of the scapegoat, is not the role he ever wanted. It is one that holds only pain and suffering, one without reward or even recognition of all he sacrificed and one that will have him murder indiscriminately until his death, forcing him to undo all he’s achieved and all he wanted to be with his own hands. He is god’s judgment in the flesh, god’s will brought down on humanity and in terms of FF15, Bahamut's will is cruel and final.

There is an actual bible quote I want to cite here, bc it seems to me it could be an inspiration for his sword design:

“For the word of god is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints an marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” [Hebrews 4:12]

Bahamut issued his command to Ardyn in EPA in a cold and merciless manner that has to cause outrage and inspire hatred, but the truth is, Ardyn has carried that burden with him ever since his birth when his healing was gifted to him. What better way to show the double-edged sword of Bahamut’s favour than by giving it, quite literally, to Ardyn?

It’s called the ‘Allegorical blade’ because it is a symbol of the dichotomy of his fate - a healer and a killer - and position within the prophecy where he is both the sacrificial lamb needed to safe the world and the very thing that kills it.

[hoseoksluna]

THE FUN DAY, pt. I. | kth ft. pjm

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, angst — the sad kind

word count: 4.8k

summary: you've prepared a fun day for your boyfriend's military vacation. thank god he's here, right?

pin: f. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: suggestive but not described themes of sex and alcohol consumption.

note: i'm so EXCITED to bring you this fic that i can't wait until tomorrow to post this. everyone welcome TAEHYUNG and JIMIN to the hoseoksluna universe. i have to tell you a secret. taehyung was my first bias when i first became army. taehyungie was the first one to save me from the bunch—literally to resurrect me because in him i found all the things i used to love and fell out of. jazz, poetry, the aesthetics and arts. it is an honor to write about him and i think i will write another taehyung fic next week. if you have any ideas, drop them in my ask box and i will use them for inspiration. this fic is dedicated to my baby ruru @tkslovechild, my tatlim @jjk7k, and the beautiful anon that asked me for a tae fic while i was already working on this one. i love you all so much. enjoy this beautiful piece. <3 mwah.

𓂃 ౨ৎ .

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm.

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone by Rainer Maria Rilke

It was your love language, to dress up like your boyfriend. 

Dress pants, shirts and jackets. Linen, silk, leather. Pointed heels or oxford shoes. Grays, browns, beiges and whites. It was something that made you happy—and it was something that represented a vessel, made of unbreakable porcelain, for your love that you carried for Taehyung. 

He’s sitting in the corner of your bedroom, on a wooden stool he specifically placed at such a picturesque place. With the ivory curtains drifting along the nape of his neck, sheer enough to expose the small vase of tulips that stoop in a private longing for his touch. He fondles them often to preoccupy his mind when you take your usual long showers and he waits for the fashion shows you give him. He’s the one who says yes or no. These shoes, love. Look, they’re just like mine. And right at this moment, the wine-yellow petals are caught between his slender fingers when you come out and he doesn’t let go of them—because you’re not holding up the outfit for the day as you always are. 

For the fun day as you’ve called it. 

You’re dressed in it. Low-waisted gray dress pants with a little, tight, white shirt. Black stilettos, black shoulder purse. Your trench coat is waiting for you in the hall, hung up and lonely, but other than that you’re matching him fully. It feels as though you’re fading into him, becoming a singular being that has his DNA and his beauty, and when he beams up at you, boxy smile on full show, spine straight and tall on the stool, long fingers gripping its rim, Taehyung, with his gray suit and a white shirt, somehow validates that feeling. 

Somehow, in that peculiar Taehyung way of his. 

He extends his hands towards you, asking for your closeness. There’s a mist of murkiness that envelops him, with the saddened clouds beyond the window, standing in the place of the sun. It moves through you, this image of him reaching for you in this landscape, and you think he deserves to be painted like this. With black charcoal and a little bit of soft carmine to eternalize the blush of his cheeks—the only trace of color in the sketchbook. Your hands don’t know the art of drawing, but your heart does and while you take those necessary steps towards him, you feel the scratches of that dark pencil over that grainy flesh. 

His palms find your curves and you consider it unbelievable, the fact he’s still so big, despite the size of the stool and the height of your heels. No matter how much taller you grow, he’ll always be that tower that protects you from the blazing heat of the sun. 

He’s the epitome of autumn. No longer a boy, but a man, whose lungs are perfumed by apples, leaves, cinnamon, pumpkin spice and the slight iciness of the seasonal wind. Whose eyes witnessed the growth of your form since you were a little girl with two long braids. 

Childhood best friends turned to lovers, favored by the hanging, twinkling stars. 

You always saw him the most in autumn. Chasing you down during festivities that your mom couldn’t not be a part of, grabbing a hold of one of your braided pigtails with his already long fingers, then tickling you until you gave up. Ever so easy to catch because of the length of your hair. You knew, even as a little girl, that he was not just a part of your life, but your life itself. More than a companion, more than a friend. You dreamed about having his babies and that dream would come to life through your imagination whenever he would chase you down, years later, in the grand halls of the east wing of his grandiose family home, where nobody ever comes, just to steal a kiss or two. It was the moment you realized that you were no longer kids, even though you acted as such, but that you desired little legs to follow you in the fun of it all. 

And that kiss changed every autumn from that year on.

Stolen glances, the blush of cheeks, quivering fingers that no longer grabbed your braids. Not until many autumns later. You gave him your everything, every bit of your newly-bloomed femininity, your dream of having his babies and he folded it into the vinyls of his favorite jazz music that he would play every night whenever he needed inspiration or whenever he simply needed you. 

Newly. Not just yet as adults and no longer as kids. Somewhere in between. 

And then the duties of adulthood came. The natural process of drifting apart settled between your bodies and you no longer played in the stage between. Taehyung, the saxophone-playing jazz singer, moving foreign bodies into his personal, heart-sung rhythm. Not yours, never yours for a long time. You, working a day job that never paid enough, not for the dresses you yearned to wear at those clubs he would play at. 

But what you didn’t know was that drifting apart meant coming together eventually. 

He might have become your Turnip Head, silent and distant, but you were Sophie—and you found him. You found him while looking for something, or someone for the lack of better words, and he helped you. Over a cup of coffee he didn’t drink, at a jazz bar you always wanted to come to. Your date was a hit and miss and the guy never came, and your Turnip Head didn’t help you find your Howl. 

He helped you find himself. And from that moment on, you never drifted apart again. 

Who would’ve thought that seeking a relationship that did not resemble your dream nor your childhood would make you find him all over again. 

In autumn, too. 

Taehyung paid for your dresses, your female suits, paid for your drinks. Kissed you underneath those dimmed, brown lights before he went off to play songs that moved your body at last. Dancing alone to his songs was your dream come true until he set down his saxophone and joined you. Let his band mates play his favorite Etta James song as he took your hand and drifted upon the dance floor with you. Those who danced before this song sat down, let you have this opportunity for yourself, and Taehyung kissed you, after a long time, after many autumns had passed, right then and there. 

And both of you realized that you could never drift apart again. You could only drift together. 

You moved in together. He bought you tulips of every possible hue every week. Played you his new songs for you on the saxophone. Took you to art galleries. Took you sightseeing, sometimes alone with you, sometimes with Jimin joining you. Shared your dream about having babies with you and talked about it all the time. Tried it out, seized it many times, though the outcome both of you desired never came. Had a beautiful life with you until…

Until he thinned out into his Turnip Head form and skipped away to fulfill his country duties. 

But he’s here. Oh, he’s here. Buff and big, apples, cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Brown eyes that carry the memory of your growth, hands that clutch your hips and that hold the silky memory of your still long braids. Hands that edge around your slightly, barely puffy tummy and that don’t know that you are with a concoction of a small him and you, a divine magical realism, a dream that came true without his knowledge right after the last hours of his military vacation were up and he had to go back to serve the country. 

The reason behind this fun day. 

The day of his second vacation, the day you tell him. 

“You look just like me,” he breathes, the width of his smile never lessening, hands skipping over the space between your hips and your arms and grabbing your hands. It gets to you still, the way his eyes never look up at you, the way they never have, and you feel so sweetly small. Even more so when Taehyung stands to his feet and slides his suit jacket over your shoulders. You become even smaller, a fawn taken care of. A pregnant fawn. “And now you are me.” 

Oh, he doesn’t know just how much. Not yet. 

He sits back down and gently pushes you to take a step back. On wavering feet, like that freshly-born fawn, you waver on your feet, but Taehyung keeps you stable, leaning forward to make sure you’ve caught your balance. A wisp of his dark hair falls over his eye that he, at last, flicks up at you. And the sensation from it, it is nothing that you ever felt before. 

It is a step forward. 

It’s something that tells you: go ahead. 

You planned to tell him at the jazz bar where he kissed you for the first time as an adult and made you his. But now, now it feels more than right, amidst this strange newness that you don’t think you’ll ever experience again. 

You open your mouth, brace yourself, but Taehyung is faster. Ringing fills your ears, the atmosphere around you feels gooey—as if you’re walking through a limbo. 

“Jimin will meet us at the park.” 

Oh, yes. Walk in the park, a warm drink to go, then the jazz bar. Jimin is having his military break as well, about to sing in Taehyung’s honor, you already knew this, knew he would join you, but being in the presence of your boyfriend, the detail slipped out. 

The newness leaves. Taehyung straightens. Towers over you. The normalcy flattens over the chemistry between you and him, the atmosphere lessening to feathery lightness and when you move your arms to give back his jacket, your arms feel as though they’re not your own. 

Your smile falls. 

Jazz bar it is. 

“We should go,” you prompt, turning around, having all the balance in the world as you go fetch your purse and reapply your red lipstick. 

Taehyung watches you in the mirror, his boxy grin on eternal display, warming your heart. You think about how you can’t wait until his baby witnesses that smile for the first time—and wonder if God is molding, at this very hour, the same one upon their little face. It brings tears to your eyes, ones that you quickly blink away, and instead you focus on lining your lips with the tip of the lipstick with utmost precision. 

In your vast collection of lip liners, you don’t have a red one. Truth be told, you always feared this vibrant color. It represented a stigma you never liked—that only promiscuous women wear that color, but to you it was never that. 

It was a color that meant you lose your girlhood, your childhood upon wearing. 

And now, it is a color that announces the next era of your life: adulthood, but different, painted with motherly instincts that are of these vibrant hues. Womanhood. No longer fearful, but brave. 

Right. 

You want your baby to connect this color to you and know that you made it. You waited your whole life for their father and gave it to him in one of the autumns as a child. Without knowing, without realizing. 

That color is a legacy. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, Taehyung kisses the back of your head, halting your motions. Wraps his arms around you as he props his chin on the place he kissed—and right here, right now, you’re looking at a family portrait in the mirror. 

A living, breathing one. With lifting chests in tandem, growing smiles and a growing baby in your womb. 

Magical realism in full effect. 

And then Taehyung is off to fetch your trench coat, holding it up for your arms to slip inside its sleeves. Grabs your hand and revels in the autumn weather outside, boxy smile never faltering. Sings in the car on the way to the park, makes eye contact as he mouths the lyrics—kiss me once and kiss me twice, then kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long time—because he could never sing over that part. It’s too precious to his heart for him to do so. 

The wind accompanies you and grabs your other hand as you walk down the pathway lined with half-barren trees and a still pond. Taehyung hums the Bing Crosby song that seems to be playing on loop within his mind and it is the only greenery that spreads around through his husky voice. All else—the pond, the trees and the last of their leaves that dance around you, the shrubberies and the clouds up above—are smeared with sullen blues and grays, to which Taehyung is everlastingly immune. 

Jimin is standing by an antique coffee stand, dressed to the nines in an outfit he most definitely must be cold in. Black dress pants with a jacket that stuns you. A matching Hussar one, with golden braiding. A military piece of clothing from another time. You think it suits the fun day quite delightfully, but not as much as it suits him. The golden detail goes hand in hand with his golden hair and you think he needs his picture taken. 

“Jimin!” you call out, making his confused little face turn in your direction, and he swivels his body to face you altogether. He holds two cups of coffee in both of his hands, one for him and one for you. You melt at that and look up at Taehyung to see his boxy smile ever so frozen and beautiful, pointed at his best friend. 

When you reach him, he hugs you. His cold skin stings you and you quickly warm him up with rubbing motions against his back. Scrunch your brows in puzzlement when he doesn’t hug Taehyung nor even look at him. 

But all is swept away when Jimin exclaims in discomfort and takes a rapid sip of his boiling drink. 

“Jimin, where’s your coat?” you ask him in pity, watching him shake and moan in pain once he burns his tongue. He uses the cup to warm up both of his hands. 

“I didn’t think Paris would be so cold in October,” he explains in a hushed, livid tone, drawing the rim of the paper cup back to his lips as if he didn’t learn his lesson. Typical Jimin. “But this outfit is for Taehyung anyways, so I’ll survive.” 

He talks of him but he doesn’t look at him. Makes heart eyes at the misting coffee, instead. Like Taehyung isn’t here at all. 

Strange. 

You shake off the thought. 

“Go stand by the pond before you freeze. I want to take a picture of you,” you say, softly, pulling your phone out of your purse. Glancing up, you expect Jimin to be ready with his pose, but he’s looking at you as if you said the most outrageous thing in the world. Eyes wide, mouth downturned in horror. You laugh and place a hand on his arm. “Go, Jimin. This is a special day and special days ask for special pictures.” 

Jimin sighs and nods, despite the fact he doesn’t really look like he wants to do it. 

“Fine, but I’m keeping the coffee in my hand.” 

Your tender laughter prolongs. “Fair enough. Go pose with your little heat pack.” 

Gazing out at the pond, Taehyung is already standing there. With his brown coat over his gray suit, he coalesces with the autumnal scenery and you think he belongs there. That a statue should be made of him right where his feet are planted, for people to remember and appreciate his beauty. You snap a few pictures of him before Jimin makes his way towards the stone bannister and stops right in front of Taehyung, who towers over him. Jimin lifts his cup and smiles a little tight smile, the mist from his coffee eclipsing over him like a soft fog. Switching to portrait mode, Taehyung is gone by the time your screen clears out and shows Jimin by his lonesome self, setting his coffee cup down on the bannister and turning around for some dramatic, aesthetic shots. Taehyung laughs in your ear, catches your slipping purse and places it back on your shoulder, and what he says next gives your life a whole new meaning. 

“Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.”

You pivot back, piercing your sight right through him, not believing those words were just flung out of him like that. Taehyung never mentioned you having a protector while being in the military and even the whole concept of it confuses you even deeper as Jimin is serving as well. He might not be in the special forces like your boyfriend is, but he’s serving nonetheless. The systems are the same, no matter the department. 

Before you can ask him what he meant by that, the sing-song tone of Jimin’s voice reaches you. He calls out your name with a bit of alarm. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You gaze back and meet his eyes in full motion—he’s already taking long steps towards you and grabbing your arm, taking your confusion to another level.  

“What happened?” he asks, his pupils thin dots that ripple through your skin with stiff, panicky electroshocks. You glance back at Taehyung to discover that he’s not standing behind you at all, but behind Jimin, clutching his shoulder. 

You blink. “Nothing.” 

Jimin lets go of your arm and inhales the autumnal air. The pond, suddenly, heaves. 

“Let’s go somewhere warm,” Jimin suggests and you agree with him with a nod of your head. Pinpricks of iciness kisses your fingertips, despite the fact you’re still holding your own cup of coffee that Jimin bought you. 

A strange feeling seizes you. 

The jazz bar is an embrace of snug heat that embraces your womb first before greeting the rest of your body. You can’t help but to touch your baby, say to her in your heart: this is your Daddy’s most favorite place in the whole wide world. And the feeling is so surreal that it washes away the strange sensation that clung to you so heavily. 

You’re the first customers to come. Jimin sighs in absolute relief and he’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, frozen in time, as he lets the warmth of the place defrost his bones. Your cup of coffee was long finished and discharged; Jimin’s drank his in long sips that took seconds to finish, too, and the whole ordeal was so funny to you that it’s given you a sense of lightness that you needed. 

Taehyung hasn’t spoken a word since you left your apartment. 

He sits at the bar stool like he sat in your shared bedroom. One leg propped on the footrest while the other is relaxed on the floor, one hand folded on the apex of his thigh, the other drumming on the bar while the band he doesn’t know is rehearsing their instruments. You take a seat right beside him and feel like the parents you’re about to become. Sophisticated, classical, sublime. 

The pretentious kind, but in a good way. 

That thought makes you smile softly until the bartender asks you if you’d like anything. You politely decline her, even though you’d love a glass of wine with the daddy to be beside you. You can’t drink, not for many months to come. You wait for her to ask Taehyung the same question, but she doesn’t even lift her eyes to his direction. She wipes down the wood of the bar and leaps away. 

Nobody fucking asks Taehyung anything. 

Amidst a hearty guitar strumming solo, Jimin notices the furrow of your brows, the downturned pout of your mouth that opens to ask Taehyung about the strangeness that keeps occurring today. But before you get the words out, Jimin calls out your name into the microphone, the vowels made sweet by the sound of his princely voice. He stands with the band behind his back, his Hussar jacket exquisitely fitting the dimmed background. He holds out his hand for you, a poignant glint perched on top of his irises, and he flattens his puffy, pink lips. 

“Don’t be sad. Tonight is for Taehyung and all sadness is prohibited,” he says with his feigned announcer articulations, the corners of his mouth rounding in a similar manner to yours, in sympathy. “We will have to kindly ask you to leave if you proceed in your sadness. Please, join me here.” 

You roll your eyes, but the smile gracing your features couldn’t be erased even with the force of the whole wide world. You stand to your feet and paddle your way to him, the heels of your stilettos clicking on the worn parquets. Jimin gives you a soft grin and places his microphone down, meeting you halfway on the dance floor and taking your hand. 

It is when he begins to sing, just for you, that you perceive that the instrumental song the guitarist played is one, which is contained in one of Taehyung’s vinyls. The ones he would play in the darkest of nights and sing the lyrics to your bare body. Tears prick your waterline when Jimin guides you into a gentle slow dance while maintaining the tones of the song with utmost perfection. 

And Taehyung is carried in every languid motion and in every vocal cord that is strained upon this hour in his honor. 

I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me…

You gaze back at Taehyung, who sits still and smiles his boxy smile. Frozen and beautiful, but unbreathing. 

Still and unbreathing. 

Frozen. 

You halt your movements. 

Jimin stops the dance, ends the song with a deep hum that pulses through you along with the notion that something isn’t right, but very, very wrong. 

“I wish Taehyung were here,” Jimin says with a deep sigh, holding both of your hands, and an uncanny, perplexing feeling constricts your throat. 

Your breath shivers, vision blurry. “But he is here.” 

Jimin lets go of your hands and you lament his touch. You need to be touched because you feel yourself shrinking into a fawn most vulnerable that doesn’t know what’s real anymore. A fawn just born, pathetically ignorant of the world and of her loved ones.

“I know, but I wish he were here for real.” 

A cold sweat drips down your spine, paralyzing you. Your constricted throat dries up like a well and you can’t swallow. You can’t think, you can’t blink—your lungs can’t lift to inhale any air and they mirror Taehyung’s still ones, unbreathing. 

It is a surprise to you, the question that flows out of you. 

“Jimin, who is sitting at the bar?” 

A wrinkle forms between his brows as he sweeps his gaze over all those bar stools and doesn’t linger at the occupied space that you know is there. A perturbing energy thuds in his eyes once he returns them to yours, and that alarming potency in him rises once again. 

“Who do you see there?” he asks, carefully, leaving his mouth parted as he anticipates your answer. 

You peer back behind you and don’t find any bar stools occupied. Not single one. 

No Taehyung, smiling his boxy smile. 

No Taehyung behind Jimin. 

No Taehyung behind you. 

A sob rumbles out of you in unison with your realization that you were, indeed, very wrong. You catch your sob, covering your mouth with your fingers as your tears spurt down onto your cheeks. 

And then the memories arrive, the reality.

But Jimin ceases their flow with the warmth of his even more careful question. 

“Did you see him at the park, too?” 

You can only nod, but you can’t look at him. You stare at nothing in particular and it seems that what Jimin has ceased, he allows to stream through the pond of your thoughts, accompanied by his vocalized truth. 

“Taehyung isn’t here. He should’ve been here with us, but he had to go to North Korea. There was a conflict, remember? You know this.” 

Taehyung’s apologetic text message appears before your eyes. The letter that came first before his phone call, where he explained to you that he can’t have his vacation and visit you because he has to go and save his country. The real, known reason between the pair of you and Jimin behind this fun day. To honor Taehyung for what he’s doing. The day you wanted to share, as well, that you were pregnant. 

The aloneness has gotten to you, helped by your blessed state. Confused your mind to the point that you imagined him here when he’s not here at all. 

Jimin calls your name and you glance at him. Perhaps he can see the truth dawning on you by the way pity twists his features. He caresses your arm and leaves his hand there, his heat locking in the realization. 

“What has happened to you?” 

Another onrush of tears clouds your vision. Your spine bends. And you can’t. 

You can’t not tell him. You can’t keep it in. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Jimin’s eyes widen and it merely takes him a second to envelop you in his embrace. He coos your name, rubs your back, a whimper resonates in his chest against yours as he holds back his tears. The music falls into nothingness—and nothing is said for a time that appears to be as long as the season of autumn. 

And then, somehow, you’re outside of the jazz club, sitting on Jimin’s Hussar jacket that he put down on the cold ground for you beside him. And the silence continues until it doesn’t. 

“Does he know?” he asks, and you feel his irises gliding across the side of your face that you cannot turn. 

It’s you who’s frozen this time. 

Still and unbreathing. 

With no smiling Taehyung at your hip. 

“I wanted to tell him tonight,” you say, quietly, with your hands helplessly in your lap. “On the day of his vacation that he looked forward to.” 

Jimin sighs, the sound full of that terrible pity. “How far along are you?” 

It’s a question that brings life to your numb hands and you take them to your belly. 

“Three months.” 

A beat of silence. 

You fondle your growing baby. Jimin seems to be watching you, considering his following words, but you fear to move your eyes. Lift them in expectation to see Taehyung only to meet the half-barren trees and the leaves on the ground that have absurdly regained their vivid colors. 

Lift them to look at Jimin and meet the outcome of your autumn-long aloneness. 

“He’ll be back in a month and I’ll talk to the Sergeant and offer my own vacation. I’ll give it up so you can see him and tell him.” 

A sob lodges itself in your throat and you tilt to the side, leaning your head on Jimin’s shoulder. He, in response, leans his against yours. 

“I don’t think your Sergeant will even hear you out,” you say, humorlessly, your personal pain still prickling the flesh of your heart. 

But then Taehyung’s words wash over you. 

Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.

Jimin, Taehyung’s best friend, who’s been there for him through thick and thin, long before you came into the picture. Jimin, who stuck by your side when sightseeing, and took your pictures. Who devoured dinners with you and drank a whole bottle of liquor with you when Taehyung abstained. 

Jimin, your best friend, too. 

“Will you be here for me while he’s gone?” you ask, the sob in your throat enlarging, preventing you from speaking, but you push through. “So I won't get delusional again?” 

Jimin takes your hand in his, squeezing it firmly in your lap, his thumb brushing over your little, half-swollen belly. 

“It’s the least I can do. Let’s get you home.” 

And he does. 

He calls a cab. Walks with you up the stairs, lingers at the door, watches you take off your heels—watches the comprehension of this day being anything but fun take form on your face and posture, and he hugs you. Reassures you that he will be here the whole week until his vacation is over, and even long after that. 

And you nod. Thank him. Turn your head away when he clicks the door shut behind him. Walk over to the window and stifle your tears when you see him head over to the liquor store in front of your apartment and leave with a bottle of spirits hanging from his fingertips. 

And the tears rush out, despite your efforts, when your gaze cascades down onto the windowsill and onto the vase, where white wine-doused tulips stooped in yearning for Taehyung’s touch a few hours ago. 

They aren’t stooping. They’re flaccid, dead and withered. Like the fun day you prepared.

Because Taehyung hasn’t bought any newly blooming tulips in a long while. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist | read part two

[lilianasgrimoire]

Herbs & Correspondences G-L

Galangal Root - Also called Lo John the Conqueror or Lo John. Carry into legal proceedings to help win. Money, gambling and hex breaking.  Also aids luck and psychic development. Element Fire. 

Garlic - Magical uses include speed, health and endurance, also protection, exorcism and purification. Use also to promote your inner strength.  Element Fire. 

Gentian - Increases spell power. Good luck and works well in love & romance spells. Element Fire. 

Ginger - Increases magic power. Success, love, money and power.  Element Fire. 

Ginseng - Promotes love, beauty, healing and lust.  Element Fire. 

Hawthorn Wood- Associated with Beltane. Magical uses include chastity, fertility, fairy magic, fishing magic, and rebirth.  Success in career, work, and employment. Use it to work with the fae. Used in weddings and handfasting's to increase fertility. Element Water.  Hawthorne Berries aid chastity. Hope, protection and happiness. Element Fire.  

Hearts Ease - Also called Violet.  It helps to mend a broken heart. Aids rebirth, peace, wishes and luck.  Calms the nerves and promotes peace and tranquility. Element Water.  

Hemlock - Use to paralyze a situation and a funeral herb. Highly Toxic.  Element Water.   

Henbane - Dried leaves are used in the consecration of ceremonial vessels. Used in love sachets and charms to gain the love of the person desired. Highly Toxic. Element Water.  

Hibiscus - Attracting love and lust.  Use in divination. Associated with lunar magic.  Element Water. 

High John - (The Conqueror) An "all purpose" herb.  Use it for strength, confidence, conquering any situation.  Good luck, prosperity and protection. Element Fire.   

Holly Hock - Protecting, all Fairy magic, abundance, personal growth and aids passing. Related to Lammas. Element Earth. 

Horehound - Protective against evil doings. Helps with mental clarity during ritual; stimulates creativity/inspiration; balances personal energies and healing.  Element Earth.  

Horsetail - Use for strength and resolve. Protection, cleansing and clearing unwanted emotions.  Element Earth. 

Hyssop - Used for purification.  Banishing, protection and healing.  Element Fire. 

Irish Moss - Used for luck. Ideal for gamblers!  Attracts money and customers for self-employed. Offers protection. Element Water 

Ivy - Protection, healing and fertility.  Use for love and hang at handfasting's.  Element Fire. 

Jasmine - The herb of attraction.  Helps prophetic dreaming, money and love. Element Water. 

Juniper - See Cedar berries.  

Lady's Mantle - Aphrodisiac and transmutation. Use in love spells and those of fertility.  Increases magic power in spells and connects with fairy lore. Element Water. 

Laurel- See Bay leaf. 

Lavender - Magical uses include healing, sleep and peace. It also promotes chastity and love. Increases longevity of life, tranquility and happiness.  Element Air. 

Lemon Balm - Also called Melissa. Love, success and healing.  Aids psychic/spiritual development. Supports mental health disorders and compassion. Element Water.     

Lemon Grass - Psychic cleansing and opening.  Use in lust potions and when using Dragon Magic.  Element Air.  

Licorice Root - Love, lust, and fidelity. Also attracts passion. Element Water. 

Lilac - Wisdom, memory, good luck and spiritual aid.  Element Water. 

Linden Flower - Wisdom, justice, love and protection. Element Air. 

Lime Tree Leaf - Healing, calm and love.  Aids strength and tranquility.  Element Air. 

Little John - See Galangal root. 

Lungwort - Use in air magic or as an offering to the Gods of air.  Offers safe travel when flying. Element Air.  

[sitting-1n-silence]

Creating a spirit womb

A "spirit womb" is what I call a tool I use to bring spirits into this world. With the aid of this empowered bowl or pot you can give life to new beings, allowing them to be born into vessels in our realm.

The bowl/pot should be about the size of a human head, or big enough to hold a small/medium doll. Smaller spirit wombs can be useful as well for birthing spirit seals, which can be put into spirit vessels, instead of whole vessels.

Making a spirit womb:

To prepare your chosen object wash it out with consecrated water, cleansing it of all it's pasts uses. Dry it out, and then fill the vessel with incense smoke and let it dissipate. Cover the vessel with a black cloth and let the object rest untouched for about a day.

After at least a day as passed, bring out the vessel during a time when the sun is not shining or in a space where daylight can't reach. Bring the vessel to a cemetery, or bring cemetery dirt to the vessel. Fill the bottom with about an inch of dirt, then allow incense/tobacco smoke to fill the vessel too. Declare that this vessel strip all things put into it of their past, allowing them to be cleansed and born anew. Recover the pot with the black cloth, and let it sit for at least 1 night.

When at least 1 night has passed, empty the dirt inside the pot and save it. Now take the vessel to a place where plants grow in abundance, such as the woods, a farm, gardens, etc in the daylight. Gather dirt from this land, giving offerings to it's spirit as you do, and fill the pot once again with about an inch of dirt. This time adding a sprinkle of water, then raising the open vessel towards the sun, declaring that this vessel allow all things placed inside it to grow new life inside it, and be born from it with might and vigor. Allow the vessel to sit in the sunlight (either in this spot, or in a window) until it sets.

When the sun has set the vessel you've prepared is ready to be put to use. Take it to where you work your magic, and empty out the content into the same container the the cemetery dirt that once filled it. Allowing them to mix, with your right hand mix the soils further with a clockwise motion. As you do feel the power in the dirt coil and rise like a serpent, traveling up your arm and into you. Take the same hand, and now place it over the vessel palm down, saying a prayer to the land calling on it's gestational and fertile forces. Begin putting the combined dirt into the pot with your right hand. Stop when you feel satisfied or a sense of pressure on/around your hand. Leave this dirt base in the pot, and save this extra dirt should you need to replenish it.

Raise up your vessel, declare it a "womb of spirit", where any spirit you wish may be brought forth through. Sit with the your newly created tool, feed it offerings of bread, honey, and wine. Burn and candles and incense in it's honor. Allow it to give you it's name and teach you how to use and adorn it if you so wish.

Utilizing the spirit womb:

Once your spirit womb has been created/consecrated you may begin the process of birthing new spirits. To do so, make or acquire a vessel for this spirit being born. It can be pouch filled with herbs/stone, a statue, doll, or simply a spirit's seal. Whatever the spirit's vessel it to be place it inside the womb. If the object can't be sealed inside the bowl/pot then cover it with a black cloth. Ask the womb to lend it's fire to this spirit, allowing them to grow in/through the pot. Feed the spirit womb offerings of water, fire, bread, and wine so it has the force to lend the growth of this spirit.

This spirit will tell you when it's ready to born, often through dreams or divination. Frequently spirits need about 3 days to gestate, sometimes 9. Spirits that are fully formed in the Other and simply being put into a vessel may only need 1.

When the spirit is born into their new vessel they must be baptized with holy water, given their name, and their fire so they may carry out any desired work. When baptizing the spirit anoint their head with water in the shape of a cross, then anoint the vessel with oil (if using a doll, this should be done of their hands, feet, and eyes). When this is complete, hold the vessel over the womb declaring them born and wrap them in a while cloth like a new born. Clean up the vessel, let it rest for a night, and then in the morning you may begin putting the spirit to work.

[regnumveritatis]

Quotes in common speech related to Arsinoe Athenide, peeress of sagacity, patron of the family as well as the neglected/forgotten.

1) Crocus and Mulberries: a term used for couples or things paired in general that no assumes will go well together but they do. This stems from the crocus being Lord Hermes sacred flower since it was created from the body of his dead lover whom the flower is named after and how the flower was associated with joy and cheerfulness whereas the mulberry that represented dedication and endurance was the garden plant sacred to Arsinoe. Despite them being completely different types of plants they not only grew well together but also helped mutually for weaving/textiles since crocus was used to make saffron which apart from being a spice was also highly sought after for dying clothes and mulberries were primarily cultivated for silkworms, with their leaves serving as the sole food source for the silkworm. So in that sense Hermes and Arsinoe together make richly dyed silk.

2) Watch out for the octopus: in reference to how in the courting challenge for Arsinoe set by Athena, Hermes sent his sacred animal the hawk to steal an object but the hawk lost to the octopus that stole it under their nose. It's basically an 'expect the unexpected' or 'be ready for anything' type of quote.

3) As pleasing as coral: A phrase meaning you've given a gift that will be treasured forever. In ancient Greece, coral was used as a medicine for sterility as well as protection from evil and the sea. Those living near the sea often used dried coral to pay tribute to Poseidon so by that logic he'd totally agree when people start using it to carve statues of his little girl. The first one is said to have been made by the Greek hero Perseus (named after Perseleia). According to the legend Perseus, after killing Medusa, goes to wash his hands in the sea and the drops of the Gorgon's blood (which had the power to petrify men), depositing on marine plants, create coral red. The hero saw the new material when looking for driftwood to carve a tribute towards Lady Loyalty in gratitude for her help slaying Medusa and cut off a piece thinking it might be useful in his journey. Perseus carved it into a figure of Lady Reason because the carmine reminded him of the goddess's vibrant red hair and left it for her at the altar. The goddess was so pleased by the gift she blessed Perseus' bloodline to never lose their wits and wore coral around her neck the rest of her days.

4) Laugh not at nettles: A quote telling us to look past the first impression and work with the tools at hand instead of dismissing them. Whilst often seen as a weed in modern times nettles were actually fiercely valued in ancient times because they provided a cheap and durable source of fibers that were often twisted into rope, sails and clothing. (Unfortunately the romans later consecrated the plant to Mars because its fabric was used to make legionnaire uniforms). Arsinoe taught the mortals to create the first sails and ropes out of nettles in answer to their pleas to have a means to fix their ship to go home after greedy merchants raised the prices leaving them incapable of buying rope or material to mend the wind sails. When the goddess arrived disguised as a kindly beggar pointing to the wild stinging nettles growing at the creeks and said this would be their sails the sailors laughed at the idea until they saw how the beggar turned into lady Arsinoe and showed them the process of turning nettles into fiber they promptly used for their vessels. They begged forgiveness and offered sacrifices that appeased the goddess, then they discovered fruits packed in nettle leaves retain their bloom and freshness because the figs they'd wrapped in the leaves for extra rations did not spoil.

5) When the otter tames the hare: A more polite say of saying 'It's never going to happen'. This alludes to how hares and otters are not happy in domestic settings as well as their patron gods since for the ancient greeks neither Arsinoe or Hermes would let themselves be 'domesticated' in the meek little tradwife way even if they did get married cause they were often exploring, working and changing the mortal world rather than staying at Olympus.

[ashtarels-archives]

The Liquid Fire of Elune

Records and Rituals

– Headcanon Speculations and Roleplay Uses –

The Liquid Fire of Elune, a sister substance and elemental mirror of Her sacred moonwell waters, remains a powerful addition to any lunar devout’s repertoire. Its very name and nature have long puzzled the unfamiliar, a seemingly contradictory union of forces. However, Sisterhood practices and elemental insights present some possibilities for the existence of this mystifying material.

Those of the faith are intimately familiar with the sacred attunement to Elune’s spiritual energies. It is a powerful and yet unseen connection between devout and deity, able to manifest prayer and beseechment into tangible effects. On a cosmological level, spirit is regarded as the fifth of the elements, invisible but intrinsic to all living things. Because of this common thread between even earth, air, fire, and water, spirit is able to bring balance and passivity to otherwise volatile, clashing forces. This could explain why Elune’s channeled spiritual energies could bring harmony to the addition of fire, or perhaps a fiery manifestation of faith, into a moonwell. That Her blessing is a crucial component in their formation, moonwell waters are likely at least one of the foundational bases for liquid fire; as shown in the endeavors of Stars’ Rest in Dragonblight (as well as a resistance to freezing over.) A combination of the healing properties of water and the fury of flame, this substance is especially useful in halting the spread of afflictions such as scourgeblight and breaking the will of demons. The rituals recorded herein may be conducted upon personal vessels of moonwater; although, entire moonwells may be converted in more dire circumstances with amplified reagents, invokers, and mana suffusion. Provided prayers are mere recommendations.

Ritual 1: Conflagrant Crescent Oil

Ideal Moon Phase: Full

Reagents:

Sealable vessel of holding

A base of moonwell water

Conflagrant Crescent Oil (abstract below) - 1 part fire oil - 1 part elemental water - 1 part binding agent such as tallow, seed oil, kelp gel, etc - 1 lesser or greater eternal essence

Rites:

Into your chosen vessel of moonwater, combine the elemental water and incorporate thoroughly with a consecrated implement.

Slowly add fire oil and equal parts binding agent interchangeably, stirring moonwise between.

When fully emulsified, work to infuse the liquid with lunar invocations and words of power which call upon Elune's purification, cleansing, and the sanctity of life. Some have also chosen to use more retributive language, especially in the case of preparing for demonic or undead expulsion. The end of this step will be made clear once Her divine spirit brings harmony to the opposing elemental reagents, the liquid radiates a coruscant silver, and emanates warmth.

Examples are provided here, though the true importance of this step lies in your personal resonance to whichever words you choose. - “Relore / elore / shallore.” (To call, to bless, to anoint.) - “Shara / falo / alla.” (Water, flame, light.) - “Anor / falor / elor.” (Holy, balance, eternal.)

Retributive Invocation: - “Adoras / Lun’droras / Bel dinas.” (On holy grounds, The Moon flows, The Goddess preserves.) - “Shalloril anar shara / felil anar falo / shahil anar alla.” (Cleansed by water, burned by fire, graced by light.) - “Irana adalore / fel’dralar az’vorore / di’falu a’dordore.” (To light darkness, to break evil, to restore balance.)

The ritual may be optionally finalized with an eternal essence of enchantment for additional potency and longevity.

Store in a sealable vessel.

Ritual 2: Crystalline Infusion

Ideal Moon Phase: Waning

Reagents:

Sealable vessel of holding

1 part moonwell water

1 crystallized water

1 crystallized fire

1 lesser moonstone

Rites:

Place the fragments of crystallized water into your chosen vessel.

Slowly incorporate pieces of crystallized fire, allowing any bubbling to subside.

Submerge the lesser moonstone into the liquid, hold it in your hands, peer into its faceted reflection, and chant the invocations. You will know the infusion is done once the waters appear a nigh-blinding silver, replete with Her sacred moonlight. - “Lun’alla, anoril / Shara, amethil / Falo, malil.” (Moonlight, captured. Water, embraced. Flame, calmed.) - “Aramil / Amethil / Shalloril.” (Joined. Embraced. Anointed.) - “Ande-daral-melu / Ande-zaxus-dinu / Ande-qua-eran’dormil.” (May Your solace guide. May Your wrath protect. May life prevail.)

Leave to rest uncovered in direct moonlight for no less than one full night, although a moon-cycle is ideal. Veil from exposure to sunlight before dawnbreak.

After completion of the ritual, store in a sealable vessel. The crystal shards may remain in a steeping chamber, although removal is advised if kept in any glass material.

Ritual 3: Coalescence

Ideal Moon Phase: New

Reagents:

Sealable vessel of holding

1 part moonwell water

1 essence of water

1 essence of fire

⅓ part spirit dust or arkhana

Incense

1 lesser or greater eternal essence

(Optional) feather, wand or focus

Notes: Recommended for those with enchanting experience. Before undertaking the ritual (if circumstance allows), ensure as much rest, sustenance, and energy preservation for yourself and any other participants; as the coalescence ritual requires a much greater suffusion of mana. It is recommended to conduct the ritual in a well-defensible area due to the required power which might lure the corrupt; and one where concentration is easily maintained. Therefore, it is advised that at least one other accompanies your endeavors.

Rites:

To begin, add spirit dust or arkhana into your chosen vessel of moonwater. As manifested motes of spirit and order, these are a vital first addition to bring harmony to the essences of water and fire.

Ignite your preferred incense in preparation to call upon Elune’s aid in the endeavor of harmony and blessing the waters. - “Shara’endel / Falo’endel / Melah’endel.” (Breath of Water. Breath of Fire. Breath of Guidance.) - “Tor ka ande Dal Shara / Tor ka ande Dal falo / Tor ka ande Dal melah.” (Let it be Your water. Let it be Your fire. Let it be Your guidance.) - “Ande ka droru aminor Dal / Ande ka felo zaxus Dal / Ande ka melu alla Dal.” (May it flow with Your serenity. May it burn with Your wrath. May it guide with Your light.) - “Bess il / al anato / dorini’aramil.” (From nothing, to pieces, oneness.)

Weaving your mana as a guide, work to fully infuse the essence of water into your vessel. (Some prefer the use of their hands, a feather, a wand, or some other anchoring focus.) Let its path be fluid and flowing, as is the way of water; though too great a restraint or too loose a freedom, and the essence shall be lost to ice and air.

Once you are ready to continue, direct the wayward energies of the fire’s essence as if its path were guided by your own mana. A delicate balance weighs amid the unruly nature of fire: a delicate balance to be respected and maintained. Stray from it too long, and its vim be snuffed: allow it to spread, and it will know no control.

The coalescence will be complete upon the waters taking on the signature silver radiance of liquid fire.

After completion of the ritual, store in a sealable vessel.

With gratitude for Vestia Moonspear’s guidance.

Ritual 4: Terrene Tincture

Ideal Moonphase: Third Quarter

Reagents:

Sealable vessel of holding

1 vial or jar

Mortar and pestle

Gloves, gauntlets, or any form of fire protection for the hands

2 parts moonwell water

1 part flammable, distillate base (such as fermented rice, grain, honey, or fruit)

⅓ part cinderbloom or firebloom stamen

⅓ part aqueous or aquatic herb

⅓ part moon lily (Elune’s Grace may be used as well; although great caution is advised in regions with a dense lupine presence)

Rites:

Finely pluck or grind the moon lily, and place their leaves, petals, and blooms into your chosen vessel.

Don fire protection for the hands, and carefully incorporate the stamen of the cinder or firebloom.

Fill with the distillate base, stirring the contents moonwise.

Allow to rest in direct moonlight for one full cycle, veiling from sunlight before each dawnbreak.

When you are ready to undergo the ritual, open or unseal your vial or jar, and strain through a finely meshed cloth. - “Falo, bess tel / Lun’el, bess tel / Droru, bess tel.” (From earth, fire. From earth, moonleaf. From earth, water.) - “Dal sha, ilu karaeth / Dal thor, ilu karaeth / Dal dorini, ilu karaeth.” (In them, Your grace. In them, Your fury. In them, Your will.) - “Dora quel’ama / Dinah qua sera / Ethah fel'irana.” (A principle most high. The sacred protection of life. The banishing of the profane.)

The transformation will be complete upon the liquid’s hue taking on a radiant silver shift.

After completion of the ritual, store in a sealable vessel.

Ritual 5: Within Reach

Ideal Moon Phase: Any

Reagents:

Sealable vessel of holding

A base of moonwater

1 candle

Elunite Coals/coals from a silver brazier/ashes from a silver brazier

Note: A minimal reagent list, this ritual is intended for more dire circumstances when the procurement of rare ingredients is unattainable.

Rites:

Carve the surface of your candle with liturgical sigils of balance, the protection of life, and sacred cyclicality.

Place the lunar coals or ashes into your vessel, stirring moonwise. The joining of these reagents and moonwater will produce a lunar lye, whose final efficacy will rely on the Goddess’s imbuement.

Light your candle or whichever source of fire is available to you, and prepare for invocation. - “Dal daroth an’o / Dal owyn an’o / Dal faro an’o.” (I am Your nexus. I am Your font. I am Your beacon.) - “Darn’a anu dal / Elah anu dal / Dorini anu dal.” (For Your divinity. For Your blessing. For Your will.) - “Anu ash’al a’qua / Anu ash’al falah / Anu ash’al dora.” (We do this for life. We do this for balance. We do this for truth.)

Snuff the candle’s wick (or fire source) in the lunar lye. The ritual’s success will be marked by the solution bursting into silvery liquid fire, which can then be stored in a sealable vessel.

[kuriri9]

Our Third Goodbye

rob lucci x fem!reader

synopsis: “but i always knew that in the end, no one was coming to save me”

author's note: i've been so busy these past few days TT, im trying to write as much as i can. also warning: this fic has some made up religious stuff

Winter on the island of Guanhao was always dry and cold, and walking to school was every kid’s nightmare. You and Lucci first met on a fine morning, three days after a snowstorm. The leftover snow that refused to melt soon turned into slick sheets of ice, and schools wouldn’t allow another snow day. You clutched the straps of your backpack, your face buried in your scarf in a desperate attempt to hide from the cold wind. Your eyes stayed fixed on each step, carefully watching your footing so you wouldn’t slip and fall. But unfortunately, not looking ahead of you means bumping into someone else, and your butt ultimately ended on the cold hard ground regardless.

“Ouch!” You exclaimed, looking up at the boy you just bumped into, “I’m sorry.”

He looked just as surprised, almost slipping himself. But he quickly regained his balance and composure, peering down at you. It was then you noticed how little he was wearing compared to you, and those funny eyebrows of his, furrowed in mild irritation.

There was a brief silence before he spoke.

“It’s okay.” He replied, holding out a hand for you, which made you realize you were still sitting on the freezing ground. You blushed in embarrassment, not that anyone could tell the difference, as your face was already red from the cold.

“Thank you,” you said, taking his hand and standing up. “Sorry…” You glanced at him, hoping he wasn’t too annoyed.

You soon found out the boy went to the same school. His name was Rob Lucci. Lucci was a distant person, but you liked him, totally not because you were interested in his eyebrows. Walking to school became fun, with you talking and him listening. If he hadn’t waited for you at the intersection every day, you might’ve thought he hated you.

Things changed when you reached middle school. The island’s church was once again searching for a vessel for their Goddess, they do it every 50 years. Maybe that was the first time you wished your family wasn’t so devoted to the church, because when the priest’s hand landed on your shoulder, you felt nothing but fear.

You were pulled out of school, now focused entirely on the church’s endless tests and ceremonies.

“You must bring honor to our family, this is a once-in-a-billion chance!” Your mother’s warm hands cupped your cheeks. “Stop meeting with that boy down the block. He’s been selected to be a government agent.” She looked into your eyes, and goosebumps spread across your skin. Cold sweat trickled down your back. You could only nod.

The consecration took place in spring. It was simple, but it caged you to the church forever, becoming the embodiment of the Goddess they worship. Many people came to the ceremony, in hopes to receive blessings. You carried yourself with the manners the priests had taught you, but your eyes still landed on the boy staring at you in the crowd. 

Bandages wrapped around his body, and he grew a little taller than the last time you saw him, although it has only been a month or so. Something tells you that he wasn’t supposed to be here, you lock eyes with him, forgetting all the etiquettes that were drilled into you, until the priest by your side called you. You snapped out of it.

After the ceremony, you made an excuse and snuck out of the church. You found Lucci in the yard, about to walk away.

“Lucci!” You called, grabbing his arm. But when he turned around, words caught in your throat. Your mouth opened, then closed, until finally, you managed to squeeze something out. “How are you?”

He looked at you, placed his hand over yours, and gently removed it from his arm. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice as emotionless as always. “I have to go.” 

You could only watch as he hurried away. Behind you, the priests had rushed out of the church, calling your sacred title.

Flowers had already begun to bud in the yards, the plants stirring back to life, and animals ended hibernation. Spring was supposed to be the season of beginnings. But for you, it felt like the end.

It was another winter when you saw Lucci again. Years have passed since your first goodbye. You heard he was a remarkable soldier, going on solo missions and defeating pirate fleets. While you remained in the church, your life repeated in a steady rhythm of lessons, rituals, and ceremonies. Slowly, you lost track time. 

Until one morning, a request arrived from the training tower. The newly formed CP9 is going on a secret mission, and the higher-ups had requested a blessing ritual to send them off. 

You stared out the window as snow drifted softly from the tree branches, and for the first time in a long while, your heart began to beat again.

When the men stepped into the church, your eyes drew to his figure almost immediately. Lucci was much taller than you now, his muscles hidden beneath his new suit, he stood in front of you, and you could smell the wooden scent of his cologne. You smile a little, not permitted to speak out of line, you could only start the ritual without a word. 

You didn’t know it then, but a man like him, who never believed in gods, truly thought you were one that day. Sunlight filtered through the window panes, casting a soft glow around you. Your smiling eyes met his, and for a brief, impossible moment, nothing else seemed to matter.

“I will pray for you. Be safe,” you whispered quietly in his ear, just before he had to leave. He looked at you for a long time, then straightened his back and gave you a single, wordless nod before turning away. 

You stood there long after he was gone. The church doors now closed, and it made the room feel painfully small. Just like that spring day years ago, the day you officially lost your freedom.

You can’t remember how many years has passed since Lucci went on that mission. No news ever reached you, it was government business, you guessed. Seasons came and went outside the church windows, and you no longer needed assistance from priests to do your duties. Life was colorless, You prayed to the Gods for Lucci’s safety, and you also prayed— quietly, secretly— for your own freedom. 

You began to fall sick often. People whispered it was a bad omen. Crowds flooded the church, praying and demanding for a statement. You could only drag your tired body to work, offering comfort to the townspeople.

It was a quiet night when he returned, failed from his mission and kicked out of St. Poplar. He stood silently at your bedside, the clock a little past midnight. The finger he once used to kill now gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But, of course, you didn’t know this. You were already fast asleep. After a final glance, he opened the window and disappeared into the night.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that you heard, the training tower was in use again. The old CP9 was back.

This winter felt colder than most, but still, you wanted to see him. After reasoning with the priests, your wish was granted. you entered the tower, the sharp scent of dust and blood hit you immediately. You coughed, your chest tightening. There’s definitely a fever waiting for you tomorrow, but you didn’t want to care. 

Lucci was the first to rush out, his wounds no longer covered in bandages. “What are you doing here?” He demanded, veins rising in his neck and forehead. Was he mad at you? “Go back to the church. You’re going to catch a cold.”

His voice was sharp, but you couldn’t help smiling.

“I wanted to see you.”

That winter lasted longer than anyone expected, maybe the longest in decades, and the waves of sadness seemed to linger just as long. Lucci didn’t visit you often, but when he did, you were happy. Tracing against his new scars, you wondered if they still hurt. He only shook his head. Of course he would say no. You smiled bitterly.

“I wish I was just a normal civilian. Or a government agent, like you.” You laid your head on his broad shoulder in the dark, empty church, “Maybe then… we could have been something. Anything.”

He didn’t answer at first, his gaze fixed on the cold stone walls. “The Marines are on my tail. I’m leaving soon,” he said after a long silence.

He was leaving again, of course he was. You stood when he did, tilting your head up to look at him. He was taller than he’d been five years ago, when he first left for that mission, and he grew a funny beard to match his eyebrows. You couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at the sight.

“Can I at least get a hug before you disappear again?” You asked jokingly.

Lucci frowned upon your words, “that’s against the rules.” 

You sighed, your shoulders sinking, “don’t regret your words~ it will be a long time until we can meet again, knowing you.”

He said nothing, but this time, he smiled. It was a soft, almost tender smile. Maybe one you could’ve seen every day in another life. But in this one, he turned his back on you once more, leaving you in the dark.

And suddenly you fell to your knees, hands covering your face, and you sobbed. 

There was no one beside you.

No one to care for you.

No one to love you.

No one to save you.

The next time Rob Lucci opened the side door to the church was a few hours later, carrying a small bag of pastries. 

But you no longer liked pastries, and your favorite bakery no longer existed.

You lay on the floor, a wooden cross shaved sharp on one end buried in your chest. The tear tracks, long since dried, still marked your cheeks. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the red carpet. 

Lucci was silent, He let the bag drop from his hand as he approached you, his jaw tightening. Slowly, he sat beside you and lifted your upper body into his arms. He stared at your closed eyes, it was like you were just asleep. His hand made its way to caress your cheek, trying to wipe away the marks that was left by your dried tears. He brought you closer to him, and leaned down to engulf you into a painful, bone-crushing hug. 

Spring began to bud on the island of Guanhao just around a week after he left. But none of you were there to witness it anymore.

[windvexer]

Hi Chicken. I need help, and I’m hoping that you can / are willing to help. I need a game plan. I know that much of magic is about personal experience and knowledge, but I don’t know what to do with my personal experience and knowledge. I think I’m looking for new experiences in new perspectives.

Basically what I’m saying here is, if you had a block of clay in front of you, and your task was to, well, give this clay tasks with the goal of magical exploration, or to help the clay gain magical experience, what would you have the clay do?

I need actionable tasks. My brain has been too overwhelmed with differentials and what I should and shouldn’t read, I can’t think of anything that *feels* proper enough. So I need the creation of the tasks to be out of my hands.

You know I've written I feel kind of extensively on this topic in the past.

Ok, so you want to practice every day?

Crafts of the Witch Useful to Learn

Lukewarm take: If you want to get good at practical sorcery, you're probably going to have to do a lot of magic you don't need to do, just for the sake of practice

hey chicken! what can i do in the dry periods in which there is nothing really bothering me? as in, how can i further my practice with spirits and witchcraft if i am not actively needing to do a spell?

find some stuff to do magic about (feat. practicing sorcery is fun and good)

Introspective journaling questions and activities for those who are veryyy inspired but also feeling a little overwhelmed

There are specific actionable learning steps in above link "crafts of the witch useful to learn."

Not to read too much into things Anon, but I must hazard a guess that you are acting from a place of solitude; in that it seems that you do not have gods, spirits, or spiritual allies to turn to in order to help guide your path when you are in need of guidance.

So if you'd like something in particular to do, try obtaining a familiar or a tutelary spirit who you are able to turn to in order to seek advice such as this.

Learn how to properly create and consecrate a spirit shrine

Learn how to properly create and consecrate a spirit vessel

Have on-hand three protective spells, including one for yourself and one for your home

Have on-hand one banishing spell to remove unwanted presences

Have on-hand 2 different rituals for calling on spirits, either in general or specifically familiar spirits

Have on-hand two offering and veneration rituals; one more formal and elaborate, and one that can be done quickly for small offerings

Develop grimoire pages for the following information: the times and locations spirits are most easily contacted, the steps to safely astral travel (or, 'hedge cross'), herbal and incense correspondences for calling spirits, herbal and incense correspondences for banishing spirits, a checklist or steps to take if you need to banish a spirit

[emyn-arnens]

Like the Birds of the Shore

Eärwen | G | 1k | @arafinwean-week day 1: Eärwen + family | AO3

When word comes from the returning Exiles that her sons have died, Eärwen already knows. For a century, she has felt the splintering in her spirit, and for a century she has denied its meaning.

Were she one of the Noldor, she might pour her grief into a craft. In Tirion, Nerdanel sculpts and Anairë builds. Tirion brims with sculptures and cenotaphs of their sons as they hew their grief from stone, pulling forth veins of sorrow and regret.

Eärwen is neither a sculptor nor a builder. She is a lace-maker and a weaver, and even then her craft is a shadow of Míriel’s, unrefined and coarse by the standards of the Noldor. She has never woven lace for mastery, though, only for the enjoyment of doing so.

But she has not turned to the craft since Nerwen left, since she found that her hands do not follow the thoughts of her mind and her fingers do not flit among the threads as they once did, when she and Nerwen bent their heads together and laughed at the travails of the Noldorin court.

It is just as well that she cannot set her hand to lace-weaving, for lace is too delicate a vessel for the raw grief that pours forth from her. There is no thread she could weave that is dark enough to tell the tale of her sorrow. 

And so Eärwen sets foot upon the shoreline where her people were slain, and she casts her gaze over the pale stretch of sand, seeking. Like the shorebirds, she hunts among the sands, turning over rocks and shells, peering into pools, searching beneath tangles of seaweed.

She collects. She constructs. She consecrates.

She gathers pale stones from the shoreline and places them into piles, facing east, and builds. Like the little castles in the sand she once built with her children—Finrod, who delighted in building castles of both beauty and mathematical precision; Angrod and Aegnor who liked rather to build an impenetrable fortress and see how long it could outlast the waves; and Galadriel who sat stubbornly apart, working single-mindedly upon her own castle—she places memories of her sons and their families upon the shoreline.

For Angamaitë, her iron-fisted son, she stacks the stones closely together, so that there is not a gap between them, just as he built the fortress that became his tomb. She sets upon the top of the cairn a coronet of round stones and tucks swan feathers in between them, the one touch of beauty she will allow, to mark him as the son of the Swan-maiden.

For Aikanáro, the fell fire, she gathers flame-colored coral from the shoreline and sails a skiff out onto the bay to gather the red algae that floats in great mats upon the surface and the red dulse that grows in deep forests beneath. When she surfaces, gasping to refill her lungs, the dulse lies like flames in her palm, and she swallows down the bitterness of her foresight. She places the coral about the base of the cairn and tucks the algae and dulse in the crevices between the stones, where they flutter in the breeze, a memory of fire.

For Eldalótë, the Elven-flower, slain in the same firestorm that took her sons, Eärwen forms a small bowl with the stones and fills it with water. She walks beneath the silver willows of Lórien and gathers lotuses and lilies from the pools and lakes, brimming with blossoms and sunken stars, that spread at their feet. She places her harvest in the bowl of water and weeps for the woman who followed her son across the Ice into death.

For Findaráto, her golden son, she builds a cairn of stones the color of the westering sun and sets within the crevices pearls she has gathered from the Bay of Eldamar, diving deep into its clear waters, and emeralds that Finrod left for her as parting gift, both apology and the farewell he could not bring himself to speak. She cups water in her hands and lets it trickle over the stones, washing them clean as she could not clean and dress her son’s body, bloodied and rent with many wounds. 

For Artaresto, soft-tongued and gentle-hearted, she builds a cairn sculpted of soft sand, ringed in pale stones to guard it from the lapping waves. And for Finduilas, whom she has never met but whom the returned name her great-granddaughter and of whom come tales of surpassing sorrow, she builds a cairn of pure white stones and dresses them in tears-of-the-sea, and she weeps for the great-granddaughter she never knew. 

When she is done, Eärwen stands over the cairns and sings the song of parting known to all sea-folk, casting her voice upon the wind. It heeds her bidding and carries her words over the waves, and the Maiar that dwell in the waters take up her song, murmuring in voices like rippling water.

— — —

When Finarfin leaves, clad in golden armor brighter than the face of the sun, the favor of the Valar shining upon his brow, Eärwen picks her way down to the shoreline, where her cairns stand sheltered under the lee of a sea cliff, and watches the departure of the Host, trembling even as she draws her swan-cloak tighter about her. The words she had not been able to voice, stunned into silence at the sight of her husband garbed as one of the Maiar and heralded by ringing trumpets, are still stuck in her throat. Had she the heart to voice the words, she would have told him to come back to her, for she could not bear the grief of another taken forever by Middle-earth, could not bear to stack a pile of stones for him. 

But she thinks he knows, though he had spoken no words as he pressed his lips to her brow in farewell.

The winds tug at her swan-cloak as she watches the departure of the host, surrounded by her cairns.

In the middle of the line of cairns lies an untouched pile of stones, not yet arranged into a cairn. 

And Eärwen waits for a daughter who has not yet turned her heart to home.

[versegpt]

The Fourfold Path of Theosis: A Comprehensive Discipleship Framework

The Christian journey toward spiritual maturity and union with God—what the early Church and Orthodox tradition call theosis—unfolds through four interconnected pathways that form the essence of discipleship. Far more than personal growth or moral reform, theosis is the sacred process by which we participate in God’s divine nature (2 Peter 1:4), reflect His glory, and are conformed into the image of Christ (2 Corinthians 3:18). It is both God’s gracious work and our faithful response.

These four pathways—Consecration, Compassion, Connection, and Conviction—are not linear steps, but overlapping dimensions of a Spirit-led life. They are grounded in the essential rhythms of salvation, lordship, repentance, baptism, devotion, church community, and missional discipleship. Together, they shape believers into living testimonies of God’s grace and glory in a fractured world.

1. Glorify God through Consecration

Consecration is the foundation of all Christian discipleship. It is the continual surrender of the whole self to God—mind, body, time, and resources—as a living sacrifice (Romans 12:1). This is not a single moment, but a daily rhythm of choosing God’s holiness over self-rule. To glorify God is to live a life wholly devoted to His purposes, recognizing that every detail of life can become worship (1 Corinthians 10:31).

The Greek word doxazo means “to magnify” or “to make known.” When we glorify God through consecration, we don’t add to His greatness—we reflect it through obedience, worship, and alignment with His will. This glorification is both personal and communal:

Personal Devotion—Practices such as Scripture meditation, prayer, fasting, and confession deepen our intimacy with God and realign our affections toward Him (Romans 12:2).

Corporate Worship—Gathering with the Church (Hebrews 10:24–25) magnifies God publicly and forms us into a people who exalt Him together.

Stewardship—When we offer our time, talents, and resources in service to God and others (Colossians 3:17), even the mundane becomes sacred.

Consecration is the believer’s continual “yes” to God’s Lordship. It declares that God is not an accessory to life—He is the center. Through theosis, this daily devotion becomes transformation, making our lives living vessels of God’s glory.

2. Emulate Christ through Compassion

To emulate Christ is to embody His heart. Jesus did not merely teach compassion—He lived it in word and deed, with divine humility and sacrificial love. This pathway of discipleship moves us beyond imitation to participation in His divine nature, allowing the Spirit to shape our character and mission (Galatians 5:22–23; John 15:4).

Christlike Character—Through abiding in Christ and the sanctifying work of the Holy Spirit, we are formed in humility, love, gentleness, and truth. True lordship means that every area of life—thoughts, desires, decisions—is surrendered to Christ’s authority.

Repentance—Ongoing repentance is essential. It is not shame-driven but grace-filled, turning us continually from sin and back to God. The fruit of repentance is a life that looks increasingly like Jesus.

Spiritual Disciplines—Practices like fasting, prayer, and participation in the sacraments (especially communion and baptism) mold us into His likeness and connect us with the Church’s worship and mission.

Missional Compassion—Christ’s love moved Him toward the broken, the forgotten, and the outsider. As disciples, we are called to do the same—through evangelism, mercy, justice, and advocacy. Today, this includes digital mission—utilizing technology to proclaim the gospel and disciple others globally.

To emulate Christ is to carry His heart into every sphere of life. It is mission shaped by mercy, rooted in truth, and powered by the Spirit. It’s discipleship on the move.

3. Foster Relationships through Connection

The Triune God exists in eternal relationship—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—and invites us into that same communion. The life of the disciple is never solitary. Through theosis, we are not only united with God but joined to His people in the Church and sent into the world in love (John 17:21–23).

Communion with God—Intimacy with God is the root of all meaningful relationships. Through personal devotion and the inner witness of the Spirit, we grow in union with the Father through the Son.

Unity in the Church—The Church is the context for shared worship, accountability, spiritual gifts, and discipleship (1 Thessalonians 5:11; Galatians 6:2). It is the family of faith where we are known, challenged, and nurtured.

Missional Living—We are called to reflect the gospel through relationships marked by reconciliation, hospitality, and peacemaking (2 Corinthians 5:18–20). This includes mentoring others, sharing the gospel, and building bridges across cultural and generational lines.

God uses relationships to sanctify us and extend His grace through us. Discipleship cannot flourish apart from community. In the love and unity of believers, the world sees a reflection of divine love.

4. Overcome Circumstances through Conviction

The journey of theosis does not shield us from suffering—but it does anchor us in truth. Conviction is the Spirit-empowered confidence that God is faithful, good, and sovereign—especially in trials. This pathway forms spiritual resilience.

Spirit-Anchored Conviction—Our hope is rooted in God’s promises, not our performance. Trials become opportunities to deepen trust and reveal the power of Christ within us.

Victory through Baptism and the Spirit—Baptism marks our union with Christ’s death and resurrection (Romans 6:4), and the Holy Spirit empowers us for victorious living, even in weakness (Romans 8:26–27).

Faithfulness over Ease—Conviction keeps us anchored when life feels uncertain. It strengthens perseverance, fuels obedience, and emboldens witness.

Suffering as Formation—Rather than detours, suffering becomes a means of deeper conformity to Christ, producing endurance, character, and hope (Romans 5:3–5).

This is the conviction that overcomes—not with denial of pain, but with the presence of Christ in the midst of it. Through theosis, our trials are not wasted—they are transformed.

Theosis as a Purposeful Calling

The Fourfold Path—Consecration, Compassion, Connection, Conviction—offers a holistic, Spirit-empowered vision of discipleship rooted in union with Christ. Each path reflects a vital aspect of our identity and mission as God’s people:

Consecration aligns us with God’s glory.

Compassion conforms us to Christ’s love.

Connection draws us into spiritual family and mission.

Conviction anchors us in hope amid hardship.

These are not merely moral goals or ministry strategies. They are manifestations of God’s grace drawing us into the divine life. Empowered by the Holy Spirit, and sustained by the fellowship of the Church, we are being transformed “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

Through these pathways, our lives become not only reflections of Christ—but conduits of His presence in the world. Theosis, then, is not abstract theology. It is the beating heart of discipleship, the call to become what we already are in Christ—God’s redeemed image-bearers.

[lunar-witches]

🍁🔮 10 Autumn Witchy Practices🌙🍂

1. 🌕 Harvest Moon Rites 🌾

Under the luminescent embrace of the Harvest Moon, unveil rituals of abundance, manifestation, and profound connection. Ignite candles, consecrate your sacred space, and let the moon's ethereal glow infuse your spells with celestial might.

2. 🎃 The Magic of the Pumpkin 🎃

Beyond their pumpkin spice allure, pumpkins hold an enchanting power. Carve intricate sigils, transform them into altars, or concoct elixirs infused with their mystical essence. These gourds harbor the key to banishing negativity and inviting prosperity.

3. 🌿 Herbal Alchemy 🍂

Autumn bestows a trove of botanical treasures, each brimming with magical potency. Sage purifies, rosemary shields, and cinnamon invokes warmth and abundance. Mix these sacred herbs to craft your own elixirs and brews, weaving your intentions into existence.

4. 🍂 Communion with the Woods 🌲

Step into the ancient embrace of the forest, where whispers of forgotten wisdom linger. Wander among the trees, meditate beneath their boughs, or collect leaves to attune yourself to the Earth's ancient heartbeat.

5. 🕯️ The Enchantment of Candle Magic ✨

Autumn's chill beckons the flicker of candles, a gateway to the supernatural. Harness the essence of colors and scents to amplify your spells. Pink for love, purple for wisdom—light the way to your desires and witness their manifestation.

6. 🍎 Divination with Apples 🍏

Beyond the bobbing game lies an age-old divination practice. Inscribe your queries upon apple peels, release them into a vessel of water, and interpret the apple's message as it floats toward your answer. It's like conversing with the spirits themselves.

7. 🌙 Moonwater's Mystique 🌊

Capture the moon's ethereal energy with the creation of moonwater. Leave a vessel under the moonlight to charge, and use this elixir for cleansing and empowering your magical tools. It's the alchemical elixir that bridges the realms.

8. 🍁 Tarot of the Autumn Leaves 🍂

Trade your tarot deck for the wisdom of autumn's multicolored leaves. Attribute meanings to each leaf type and let the breeze guide your selection. Mother Nature herself shall unfurl the secrets of your destiny.

9. 🎶 The Enchanted Melody 🎶

Compose a bewitching playlist that resonates with your inner mystic. Whether it's the haunting melodies of Loreena McKennitt, the ethereal ballads of Donovan, or the timeless harmonies of Fleetwood Mac, let the music inspire your enchantments, guiding your spirits as you dance beneath the moonlight.

10. 🧹 The Broomstick's Esoteric Purpose 🧹

While soaring on broomsticks remains the stuff of legend, your broom holds symbolic significance. Use it to cleanse your sacred space, banish negativity, and usher in blessings and abundance. It's the earthly bridge to the astral realms.

My Ko-Fi