#wonder how xiv would be pronounced

[the-takosader]

Hey there, it's me again.

I feel like I should probably try and bump up the post average for the year, especially after the 3 month silence while I was working on the Lerxst post, so let's do that, with an update post on my scratch build.

The main question, of course, is where are we up to? Well, as of yesterday and/or today (not actually all that sure), the wood is ready to be glued together, after having chosen the pieces to be used on the Friday before last. Also, some might have been unaware, but I have had a long-standing specification sheet for this build, with my first saved iteration being last modified on November 3rd, but dating back all the way to October 12th.

So yeah, I've been real serious about this. Let's review, now that we're 5 months into the build. Keep reading under the cut if you want to.

Part 1: First Iterations

Where did we start? For that, we have to go back to September, when I was trying to figure out what the build was even going to be. At first, I was dead-set on building a Marauder Type II, albeit with some... modifications, such as a humbucker and a KAW Tri-Sonic instead of 3 Strat-style single-coils. But, on the last Friday of the month, when I went up to visit my aunt, more specifically when I was leaving, she posed me a question: do I really want to copy everyone else's design, or do I want to do something original? The specific wording was "do something original, don't copy someone else," but the question was clearly there either way.

Now, I do admit, that's a bit of a loaded question for me. I don't like copying, even if I do it quite a bit sometimes. Hell, I wouldn't have the TSR if I didn't do some copying. But this scenario was different. I wasn't working from a kit I could fuck around with and modify. I was contemplating a from-scratch build, out of what we believed to be actual, good quality mahogany. Nothing special like Honduran mahogany, and not entirely perfect stuff, because that would be old growth timber, and that doesn't generally get made into a door and frame, but it'd still be actual mahogany.

But here's the thing. All prototypes of the Marauder, types I and II, they were both made using alder, not mahogany. Why? Because it's cheaper. As I outlined in my post about him, Leo Fender was a cheap, frugal man who nonetheless still cared about quality. This is why people still get, want or have vintage Fender guitars - they're good quality for a relatively cheap price for a vintage guitar, especially when compared to, say, a vintage Gibson.

But that's getting off track. Back to my debacle, I spent the next week kind of mulling the idea over in my head. I started out simple on the ideas, looking at different guitars, seeing what I liked and what I didn't. My first idea was a mixture of the Gibson SGV and Burns UK Flyte...

...but I quickly nixed the idea. I thought about potentially doing something like the CS-336 (a variant of the ES-335 that has a single piece of mahogany carved into the back and sides), but also nixed that quickly, because it was far less "original", which was more and more becoming my aim. I kept coming back to the combination of Flyte and SGV, which I nicknamed "Squid Guitar with Demon Horns", but of course, this has defintiely changed.

I also had to figure out what join I wanted for the neck. There's a lot of stuff you have to consider, and there's 3 main styles for necks:

Bolt-on: screwing the neck on, using 3-4 large, long screws. Two subvariants of this style exist - neck plate, and threaded inserts. The former uses the neck plate as a distributed surface of pressure to clamp the neck into the pocket. The latter does much the same, except it stops the neck plate leaving an imprint in the finish.

Set-in: Using a type of glue to keep the neck in the pocket. The type of tenon can change the level of sustain that you get from the guitar, but needs to be done precisely to get the right neck angle.

Neck-through: there is no different between the neck and body. In effect, the neck is the body. The sides of the body are called "wings", and glued onto the sides of the body portion of the neck. This is also one of the hardest styles to get right.

At first, because it was going to be a Marauder recreation, I was thinking of making it a bolt-on, but then I moved to my current idea: a set-neck guitar. Partially, the idea was motivated by doing something original, but it was also the want of a new sound. I don't have a set-neck guitar, aside from my acoustic, and that's a sound unto itself.

So, by the midday of September 28th, I had my first idea laid out: the Squid Guitar with Demon Horns. It definitely didn't last, but it was the starting point I could work from. I knew I couldn't just do a neck-through guitar, due to the lack of material available to me, but that's all I had isolated, apart from the idea of a heel carve for upper fret access - quite like a Les Paul Axcess. Other than that, I couldn't think of anything for about a week.

I did some solid contemplation for the next few days, and on October 3rd, I came up with... this...

It... well.

I'm not proud of it, okay? It's shit. I know it is. What's shit about it? Well, let's go from the top - or rather, the headstock. It's a Firebird headstock, which is fine, and it's at least somewhat well-proportioned with the neck, though I cheated by actually taking the full neck of a Firebird. The fretboard is nabbed off of a Rickenbacker 360, because that's the inlay style and number of frets I wanted.

The pickups, meanwhile, are taken from 3 separate guitars: the neck pickup was a Wide Range humbucker snipped from the image of a Squier CV Starcaster on Fender's website, the middle pickup is from an MIK Burns Red Special, and the bridge pickup is nabbed from an image of an American Performer Telecaster. I later isolated the bridge pickup itself, but I already made the image, so I didn't end up using it.

My biggest fuck-up was using 3 different finishes. As well as using my entire brainpower to use the worst Strat-style body to ever exist, in Greenburst, of all things. God, that was fucking stupid. And if that wasn't enough, I positioned it against, of all things, a Burgundyglo Rickenbacker 4001. In case you don't know colour theory (and I'm not even going to talk about The Post), red is literally the opposite colour to green. And not only is it red against green, it's a black guard against a white guard. I'm actually impressed with how badly I fucked up with this one.

I also fucked up the body's proportions! If you want to have a frame of reference, I really give you one. The long and short of it is that it's too fucking long!!! I'd suspect it's like a metre long, aka Too Fucking Long. On the plus side, however, we fixed that with the template. But oh boy, I fucked it up something fierce at first.

I tried redrawing it, afterwards, at least.

Please note, I am a "luthier" (not cut a neck yet, I will remove these air quotes once I have), guitarist, and compsci nerd. I am not an artist. I can't draw. When I tried redrawing the guitar after this, my instinct was to go for tracing. The bits and pieces of images came in pretty handy for my redraw.

You can see here what my concept was for the electronics at first: a simple, 1 volume, 1 tone, with Red Special-style switches for each pickup. Yes, the Wide Range is 2-conductor only, that's why I chose it. I actually compared it to the Scarred Reaper that Trogly first designed by smashing a Les Paul and SG together like Ryan Jarman and Kurt Cobain smushed together the Mustang and Jaguar. If you weren't aware, the former, Jarman created the Musuar as a contrast to the design of the Jagstang done by the latter, Cobain.

Part 2: Deciding Specifications

From this point, I had my scale length nailed down: 25" flat, based on my recently newfound preference for slightly shorter scale lengths than I used to play, that being 25.5". That doesn't mean I don't play 25.5" at all anymore, the TSR is a 25.5", generally slightly more beef on the neck than your average Ricky. A Ricky generally has a 24.75" scale, so the TSR is slightly longer than a Ricky as well.

I also locked down a Very Important Detail: I knew I wanted a trem, because I don't generally like hardtail guitars, excluding the ones where a hardtail is the only option (like Telecasters, or 12 strings - both of which the TSR is), but I didn't know what to go for. I had multiple ideas, really, for what to use. From my playing of PRSes, I knew I liked that trem, but I had more recently played another of my aunt's guitars, a 1991 Hamer USA Centaura. The Centaura is a Superstrat (something I wanted to avoid in body shape, so I wasn't looking to it completely for inspiration) with a reversed headstock, sweet switch, HSS pickup layout, master vol and tone, and 24 frets with Floyd Rose trem.

This is what it looks like, by the way:

Quite refreshing to see this as opposed to a shitty composite and shittier drawing, eh? Floyd Roses are... A Thing. Okay, let me explain.

The issue with a Floyd Rose is that it's a double-locking tremolo system (that name stems from a mistake made by Leo Fender 70-something years ago), which means it's a pain in the ass to change tunings and strings. More to the point, it's also a floating trem. What that means is that you can't even quickly slip to drop D, you have to retune the entire guitar. Usually this means two or three runs through just to get the guitar in tune for drop D. Afterwards, if you want to get back to standard tuning, or go to a different tuning, you have to do those two or three runs again. And you have to do that every time you want to change tunings.

That soured the thought of using them specifically. That, and the cost to actually buy the systems in the first place. It costs at least £203 for a Floyd Rose Original. It's slightly cheaper to get a Schaller version, at £185. Kahlers, meanwhile, are right out, much like counting to 5 with the Holy Hand Grenade. Not only do they cost at least US$480, but due to being far less popular than Floyd Roses, there's not much in the way of a second-hand parts economy. It's a shame, because floating trems are really nice to play, and fun to mess about with. In this case, though, it's too much of a deterrent to actually be worth it, especially at those prices.

So that left me with 2 options: get a Kent Armstrong copy of a PRS trem, or get an actual PRS trem. Both would come with all the accoutrements for their fit and function, but one was in gold colour, and the other, nickel. The nickel one, funnily enough, just so happens to be the aftermarket Real Deal.

That was second to having the actual idea, and getting it down in proper form. But, what were the specs at first? Apparently. I was thinking some strange stuff, because the original variant had a 3-piece sandwich body of sapele-ash-sapele. With no weight relief. I swear upon my life, I don't smoke, especially not anything that would make me think of shit like that.

The updated spec sheet from November 3rd has little extra, but there are little specific details that differentiate it from the original. For one, I had sense to change out the central ash plank for a mahogany piece, as ash woods, including Fraxinus excelsior (European ash), are generally quite heavy with a lesser level of chatoyancy, with only an average of 12.8 using the Pisari-Zanetta-Codoro measurements. Yeah, that's peak nerdery there. People have developed a way to measure how figured wood can get. It's only an average, but it's a pretty damn good one.

Part 3: The Spec Sheets

So let's move onto looking at the spec sheets as they were when I saved them. V2 was last modified November 25th, so 4 days after the original Ideas Archive post. It's a damn sight cleaner as well, and was done mostly on the 22nd November, where I took a razor blade to the thing, and started making it cleaner by force. The 22nd is also when I did this:

This is the original cardboard version of the design. Yep, CAD (cardboard-aided design) was used in the making of this guitar. This also shows something slightly different to the first sketch: four switches. Now, why four switches? It could be something normal, like a phase switch, or like the sweet switch on the Centaura. However, if you've followed this blog for any length of time, you know that what I do is seldom called "normal".

See, I had An Idea. Dangerous, I know, but it's generally not good to dismiss it without hearing it first. Anyway, this idea was something... interesting: installing a piezo pickup into the guitar. Why a piezo pickup? Because I want to do weird and strange shit with this build, and a piezo seems perfect for that. So, the idea was that I'd end up getting a piezo kit for this as well, specifically a Graphtech Ghost piezo saddle set and electronics kit, so I can have the closest approximation to acoustic while also being able to play with magnetic pickups.

And this was decided at some point between the 8th and the 22nd, though I don't know if I did it mostly as a Shits and Giggles idea, which then turned into "...hang on, that actually seems like it could be good," or if I did it like "hey, this gives me acoustic sounds as well!" It could have been both. Might have been neither as well, which feels just as likely as both. Some decisions I make are really, really weird.

One such example is actually the next decision I made: instead of having the Tri-Sonic straight, I decided on going for it tilted instead, matching it with the Tonerider pickup I got given. Interestingly, I know what the winding direction and the polarity is on the Tonerider, but the Tri-Sonic copy I'm looking at doesn't have its polarity listed at all. Which is a shame.

Why it's a shame, I don't have to explain, because I explained it 4 months ago, when I added onto the Ideas Archive, talking about the idea of making an Electric XII. If you don't want to seek it out, here's the long and short - there's 2 main ways of wiring pickups, being series and parallel, and there's 4 main ways that a pickup can be constructed, being CNU (clockwise, north up), CSU (clockwise, south up), ANU (anti-clockwise, north up), and ASU (anti-clockwise, south up), meaning there's a total of 8 ways you can wire a 2 pickup guitar, which I'm not going to write down here, because that's a lot, and just only 2 pickups. This would, technically, have four.

Now technically it doesn't matter, because I'm not trying to do it across the entire guitar. I'm only doing it between the middle and bridge pickup, the former being that RWRP Tri-Sonic, and the latter being that Tonerider Broadcaster pickup. What I have to hope is that the Tri-Sonic comes constructed as ANU instead of as anything else, because if it comes as anything else, it's going to range from "challenging" to "why" to change it to ANU.

Long and short, I'm going to try and turn this four pickup guitar into a three pickup guitar, by wiring the RWRP Tri-Sonic and Tonerider bridge pickup in series to make 2 humbuckers, with the bridge being Hot As Balls. Halloween, Turkey and Christmas will not be involved, but the jury's still out on School, though.

Part 4: Slow Goings

Now, I mostly made incremental changes to each iteration of the spec sheet, as and when I went up to work on the guitar. Version 4 adds the volute (that's the extent of the Gibson influences, unless you count the first designs having a Firebird headstock instead of a Hamer 6-in-line), and the price list, where I jotted down what I wanted to buy, and where I wanted to get it from.

To be honest, it's interesting that I even have a price list down for this at all. For the most part, the fact of a price list even existing makes me surprised. Consider it like this: you're sketching out ideas, and you've got everything down. You don't think it's going to go anywhere, not straight away, at least. And yet, here we are, already with a price list and everything.

V4 was last modified in January of this year, though, so I'm actually somewhat not surprised. Specifically, it was last modified 6 days after making this:

Yeah, you remember me saying that I went for tracing after the last time I tried drawing it? That was about this. This used 6 different source images, as well as a pre-loaded pickguard. I could tell you exactly how and what I used, but I could, just as easily, show you the original images:

Small note: the Starcaster isn't the original source image I used, it's the one off of Fender's website. I chose the one off of the website because it's less clutter that way, as well as less space to scroll through if you're just reading and don't want to see the images. Also, side note, why does that pre-loaded pickguard have 6 switches. Yeah, I know it's to give you the same switching capabilites as on the Red Special, but he isn't the only guy out there who has used Tri-Sonic pickups. If you want examples, just look at everyone who's used a Burns guitar. There's plenty of examples right there.

Anyway, that was quickly transferred to a proper sketch pad, and coloured, with the results of both coming out like this:

It isn't going to end up like this, of course; I don't think it's going to be offset, for one, and there were spec changes after I made this. That comes later, though. Let's go back to the actual build - how's that going? Well, the week before making this sketch (aka January 3rd), we got up to some shenanigans and, through the use of 3 mugs of coffee and plenty of motivation, did this:

Yeah, see? Not an offset, and the return of Cardboard-Aided Design. Also the start of getting the MDF template sorted, which helps us with the production in ways that should be obvious. If not, the long and short of it is that, because this is a fully custom build, we can't entirely rely on prefab'd router templates, especially not for the body shape, which I could describe as "PRS But Wrong", or "Patrick Eggle Berlin Pro With Bigger Horn".

As you could guess, that Strat-style horn does wonders for the aesthetics. Related to that, you might want to know how we actually adapted that Monster of a design from earlier into something that actually looks like a guitar body. The answer is simple: we used guitars that my aunt has. That's actually where that shading came from on the cardboard version of the body - I wanted to mark that there was a comfort carve, but at the same time, it's just easier to know that there is one, because hey, I'm making this guitar!

Anyway, 2 weeks from that point, we cut out the MDF at about 0.5mm larger than the final size, which ended up looking like this:

That's my attempt at drawing the fret spacing (and failing the straightness by a mile because I did it from the edge rather than the centre line), with the headstock traced from her second custom scratch build (a Telecaster Deluxe styled like the Hamer she had, which got nicked; her new Hamer was ±6 on the serial number, meaning it was built less than ten guitars before/after her original one, and she did not know this when she first bought it).

Anyway, from here, my next aim was figuring out what I could use. I knew I wanted it to slightly look like a PRS CE24, but I didn't know if I wanted to have a full carved top (like a Les Paul), a flat top (more like a Strat, Tele or SG) or the hybrid of the two, like PRS does. It's a long long story, and half of this guitar has been in both complete full form in my head, as well as unknown flux in a mental quantum superposition unlike anything I've ever done before.

For example, I thought I could simply do a perfect, normal, 1 volume 1 tone, with 2 potentiometers, and run everything through those. If you don't know how the Ghost piezo's electrics works, let's get straight to the point: you can't do that. They separate the magnetic and piezo pickups' volume controls in the documentation, but they didn't show whether that also included the tone controls as well. To rectify this lack of knowledge issue, I asked them about it.

I got a simple answer, saying that I couldn't use just 2 potentiometers, and that I would need to use more pots to have both a piezo and magnetic pickups. I didn't have much issue with that, mind, because it's hard to enjoy playing a guitar you've built, when that build doesn't work due to a fundamental flaw in the electronics.

Now, I don't really like a mismatched number of volume and tone pots, which is strange, because I like Strats. I like Superstrats, quite obviously, I like playing that Hamer pretty well, and the fretless does at least see some sonic action, but the issue is that Strats are... odd, in their designs. The contoured body is fine. The issue is the electronics, really. The first editions, up to 1975, got a 3-way blade that basically acted like a toggle switch on any of the 300 series that were +10 or +15 of the base model, so for 21 years, players were trying to lodge the switch in an attempt to get the 2 pickup tones like middle and bridge, before Fender relented and did 5-way switches.

That's kinda why I like 2 pickup guitars, and why I think the Red Special's pickup selection method is so cool: you get to choose exactly what you want, in whatever phasing you want. Teisco guitars from the '60s are much the same, as far as I know, and the same goes for Jaguars, Bass VIes and Mustangs, albeit with different switching methods, with the former using purely slider switches (except on the rhythm circuit which has mini-pots as well), which are mounted into a metal plate on the treble side, which is the same with the Bass VI, while the Mustangs use a 3PDT (3 pole, double throw) switch, which allows each pickup to be turned off, on, or put out of phase with the other pickup as you see fit.

Anyway, I'm rambling, let's get back to the point. By January 31st, I'd figured all this out, including what I wanted to do with the neck, which had otherwise taken a backseat to the body, mentally. There had been some general ideas there, sure, but this was the first time I had something solid in my head. My idea started off as just "mahogany neck with 24-fret maple fingerboard" but I didn't know what inlay style, what frets, or where the heel would come out.

I think this is why V5 lasted all of a week, from January 28th to February 3rd; that's the fastest it's ever changed, while V6 is the longest any version's lasted, nearing the better part of 2 months. Really, it's only lasted this long because I've been sticking closely to it. It's allowed me to clock what I like and what I feel needs changing. For example, I first thought I was going to leave the headstock face as the bare wood, but through the iterations, I've figured out that I'd do a headstock veneer of some wood or another, and match that wood with what I'd use for the inlays.

Also, neat tidbit about reverse headstocks: they need left-handed tuners! That means I'm far more limited on what tuners I can get, but I managed to find some (thank God that Fender sells aftermarket parts as well as instruments). Anyway, February was mostly spent figuring everything out, and getting ready to do shit. Amazingly, though, and I'm impressed it didn't get done sooner - it took until February 14th, a month and a half ago, to get the neck join properly decided on.

Y'know, one of the really integral bits? Yeah, took 4 months to properly decide on that. Now, the reason why we hadn't settled on it helps to make the amount of time look better, but the timescale is still ridiculous. So, the reason is that we had been going back and forth between neck-through and set-neck the entire time. The thing is, they basically act the exact same way; the sustain of one and the sustain of the other are basically negligible. This is the same reason why wanting one-piece necks is (and this is quite a controversial statement) a complete and utter waste of money.

Now, this isn't saying that they're not something to aspire for, it's just that they're not worth the effort you need to go through. People will say that the glue seam reduces the resonance and sustain of an electric guitar, which is why people want and covet those one-piece necks and bodies that were only possible years ago with such old-growth trees. The downside of such old and dense wood is that it weighs what can technically be described as An Imperial Fuckton (not to be confused with a Metric Fuckton, which is 0.984207 Imperial Fucktons).

But yeah, to put it in a way my aunt did, "if Paul Reed Smith can show me an oscilloscope reading of the differences, I'll agree, but until then, I'll just go with what makes it sound good". She's somewhat well-versed in the art of building guitars from scratch, having done it twice before. They sound good, as well, so yeah, I'm trusting her opinion on this one.

Anyway, the next time I went up was February 28th, which we spent just preparing wood for use in the guitar, separating small pieces from big pieces, and removing any mastic that might be on the pieces we want to use. As I think I've mentioned before, the wood that we're using used to be part of a door that got chopped up and separated into pieces of wood that we can use by my aunt. Main reason why I say "we" and not "I" is because she has her own idea for a build, but hasn't solidly nailed it down yet.

Anyway, it was at this point that we identified some of the wood as iroko instead of mahogany. Now, that's not an issue, the woods look similar, to the point of the former being used as substitute for the latter. However, that ignores the important differences between iroko and mahogany, which I left myself to figure out the next time I went up, on March 14th, 2 weeks ago.

2 weeks ago is also the point where the specs changed the most. How do I know? Because we couldn't find pieces of the mahogany door big enough to fit the MDF over without empty spots. However, this is where iroko comes to save us. I did some small research on iroko while we were getting bits of it straight and (somewhat) square, which leads me to my small tangent:

Mahogany vs Iroko:

Small thing for the image: the wood under the offcut is mahogany, the offcut itself is iroko, just to show you the wood grains themself. Now, as a preface, there's 3 main categories I looked at: weight, chatoyancy and hardness. The weight is measured in lbs/ft³, the hardness in lbf, and the chatoyancy, I don't know the units for - they just give a "PZC average". As far as I can find, there is no actual units, it just takes an average, so that's what we'll use.

You may be wondering how the hardness is tested. Weight is a matter of taking multiple samples 1ft³ in volume, and measuring each one's weight then taking the mean of those. Chatoyancy can be measured by checking a wood's appearance in the light. Those are the easy ones. But how do you test for hardness, when the division of hardwood and softwood is otherwise entirely arbitrary? And yes, I am serious about it being arbitrary. Hardwoods are from trees with leaves, softwoods are from trees with needles. This doesn't actually account for the wood's hardness, and would otherwise look back-to-front to someone inexperienced with woods.

The answer is the Janka hardness test. The test, created by Austrian-born American scientist Gabriel Janka, was possibly conceived as a way to measure a wood's resistance to denting and wear, though the exact purpose of the test is unclear. Its results do not act as final arbiter, merely as the layman's guide to whether one wood is harder than another. In case you were wondering, yes, balsa is at the bottom of the list - twice, in fact; its average is 70lbf, but has been known to go as low as 22lbf on one sample, squarely in the comfortable range of a person's ability to press with a finger. Much like Spiders Georg, though, this was likely an outlier and perhaps not counted for the hardness average.

Anyway, how do they measure the hardness? This is done through the embedding of a steel ball measuring 11.28mm, or ⁷⁄₁₆" in diameter, halfway (5.64mm/⁷⁄₃₂") into the sample of wood. This is done multiple times, then the force of each press is collected, and the mean is taken for each wood subjected. It's quite interesting, and you might find the results interesting too.

Here are the results for mahogany (Honduran for ease of research)...

Weight: 33.74lbs/ft³

Janka hardness: 800lbf

PZC average: 21.4

...and the results for iroko:

Weight: 41.2lbs/ft³

Janka hardness: 1260lbf

PZC average: 21.8

The result is, the iroko is heavier and harder, with slightly more dance on average, than mahogany. The weight of this guitar is likely going to get influenced by the half-inch ash strips running between each plank of wood. That's by the by. We ended March 14th with the result that we were doing the guitar using iroko instead. That's the big change I was on about, and have been alluding to throughout this entire post.

That's not to say nothing has happened with the wood while I've been absent. Because I only go up once every 2 weeks, my aunt offered to help with the sorting of the wood, which I took her up on, and she's been busy on it. As we can see right here:

This image shows the wood as it was last Tuesday, planed, square and looking a damn sight finer than it was the Friday before. Now, the guitar isn't going to use all this wood. That'd be selfish. The idea is that we can eke out two bodies from this wood, and we can build our own respective designs from this. Also, to sate your (probably non-existent at this point) curiosity, the ash I'm using is English ash, the same stuff that Morgan car frames are made of (yes, they use wood to make the frames; they're a luxury car brand, what do you expect).

She also sent me this on Monday:

Must admit, she's a better artist than I, so it's easier to tell what this is - this is the back of the guitar. More specifically, this is highlighting the positioning of the ash strips in between the two pieces. She sent me this to ask whether I'd want the one on the left (the more traditional one), or the one on the right (deviation from the norm), to which I chose the one on the right.

As much as I like sticking to more conventional things when it comes to guitars (I don't know why people try and keep reinventing the wheel when it comes to this instrument), the left feels like it might make it look too much like a neck-through. I know it's silly, it's my guitar and such, but I don't really want to confuse someone into thinking this is a neck-through when it's a set-neck, especially when I'm using wood from the same tree for both the neck and body. That'd get confusing real quick.

And, well. That's where we're up to, really. I'm off to do more later (it's 00:40 as I write this), so I'll leave you with a couple more photos, and see you in the next post. See ya!

[marianadecarlos]

Meet The Ambitious Wife of Charles II of Spain

Months after the death of Marie Louise de Orleans his beloved wife. Charles is forced to marry again. His second wife was Maria Anna or Mariana of Neuburg (she has the same name as Mariana of Austria, I wonder how they detour confusion every time someone pronounces their name)

Charles tried his best to respect her but his new wife was Selfish, ambitious, cold, and harsh. She cared more about her political ambition than Charles. She was only nice to Charles in public or when she needed something which led Charles to dislike her instantly. At times, Maria Anna’s insults to Queen Mariana get personal and Charles has to interfere to defend his mother from her. The worst part was the country at that time was not economically well and Maria Anna stole expensive jewelry and money from the Royal treasury which made both Queen Mariana and Charles furious. She demanded a higher pension. Her attitude was unbearable for everyone. She was forced to sell her jewelry for the loans she owed and to maintain her luxury lifestyle. As years passed by Maria Anna failed to be pregnant. She was claimed to be pregnant on different occasions but no she never did. Charles then gave up hope for a child. In 1696, Charles’s mother Mariana of Austria passed away devastating him. For his second wife, She was happy that no one would interfere with her plans or so she thought. With the death of Queen Mariana of Austria, Maria Anna now advanced into the political foreground. However, the Spanish court rejected her. 

After Mariana of Austria's death, she tried to distance Charles from his ministers and insert her own influence on him.

Charles and Maria Anna often argued regarding the succession. She wanted Archduke Charles (Leopold I's son)

Her policies were not great resulting in riots in Madrid. The rioters enter the palace hoping to see the KIng and address their situation.

She went to the balcony to address the people yet they did not listen to her. Charles calmed them down and stated he would do anything to fix it which he did. After Charles II died, she was exiled by Louis XIV in Bayonne. While exiled she encountered her niece Elizabeth of Farnese. Then returned back to Spain where she gets to spend the rest of her

 life.

Overall I feel kinda bad for her because she was blamed for not providing Charles an Heir. At the same time, I did not like how she treated people, especially Charles. The only thing I like about Maria Anna is Loyal to Charles and never sleeps with anyone else. She took care of him when he was ill.

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Heaven Hath No Fury: Two Endings

XIV. Their own free will.

Bowing was not in the nature of either the Minister of Wishes or Punishments, but the weight of each god’s guilt in the face of Miho’s admonishments was considerable.

“Make your choice,” Mieke growled, itching – it seemed – for them to resist so she could justify a bloody approach to their mission.

“We…” Leon began, but Zyglavis finished for him.

“… have bowed enough,” he stated carefully, and continued more quickly when the Goddess of Canes Venatici sharply lifted her chin, “but…”

He stepped aside, leaving Leon alone before the throne room doors.

“But,” Zyglavis repeated, “you are right. Punishment is long overdue.”

With deliberate ceremony the doors swung inward, and hand in hand, fingers entwined, Miho and Mieke stepped past Leon and Zyglavis into the throne room.

The greeting the they received was less than gracious, with not a word uttered before a sphere of light, large enough to engulf both goddesses, came barrelling toward them.

“Not unexpected,” Miho dropped, raising her free hand.

Just her palm touched, and a tingle raced through her body as the King’s energy began to diminish, shrink until it was little more than a tiny golden pearl dancing over her fingers.

“Have you nothing to say?” Miho asked, her voice a surprisingly restrained whisper.

“Let me rip an answer from his throat,” Mieke snarled, more eager for carnage than Miho it appeared.

“Then he’d be dead, his suffering short,” Miho pointed out, closing her fist around the bright bead of power.

Quick hiss.

A few sparks.

It was gone.

“I cannot be killed,” the King proclaimed haughtily, then flickered his gaze to Leon and Zyglavis who had moved up to Miho’s right shoulder.

“What’s this?” the King sneered. “Mutiny?”

“I may be the Minister for Wishes,” Leon declared, “but of all those you have wronged in your existence, she most deserves retribution.”

“Do you truly believe she will not steal your stars also?” the King questioned, holding his ground, but when Zyglavis added his piece, there was far less certainty in the celestial monarch��s eyes.

“For my failure to protect her, to stand up for her, to rescue her,” Zyglavis began, “my very own betrayal – I would give her my stars is she requested them.”

“Outrageous!” the King exclaimed.

“But it will be your stars I’ll be taking, Morthwyl.”

All but Miho and Mieke seemed stunned at the pronouncement of this name.

None had heard it before, and yet instantly they knew Miho had spoken the true name of the King of the Heavens.

In shock and horror he stumbled back against his throne, eyes bulging – for her knew the implications.

All confidence fled.

Miho had him exactly where she wanted him.

“Miho!” Karno shouted, he and the other gods running to join Leon and Zyglavis.

“Leave it,” Leon commanded. “It’s over.”

“Yes, it is,” Miho agreed, stepping up to the King, whose attempts to flee were quashed by Mieke.

“Morthwyl,” she said, a hateful word, “give me your stars.”

There was absolutely no hesitation, and just like that, Miho’s tormentor surrendered his power, his immortality, his everything.

And Mieke no longer needed to keep him from running. His body slumped pathetically to the floor at Miho’s feet, all the shine, the luminescence of his presence void.

Slowly, Miho turned to the now sizeable crowd behind her – not just the zodiac gods, but others who now peered at her, flabbergasted – and smiled as she inhaled.

“Now what?” Scorpio asked, blunt as ever despite his mortality.

“Now, I banish this miserable creature to a mortal life on Earth,” Miho replied in a strong, clear voice, looking from god to god, “give you all back your stars, and leave the zodiac gods to govern the Heavens in a way – I hope – that will not necessitate my returning here again.”

“What?” Krioff blinked, and everyone else was just as stunned.

“You’re not going to take the King’s place?” Ichthys blurted, and Miho raised a brow.

“Would you like me to?” she queried, and it was clear Ichthys didn’t know how to answer that question without digging himself into a hole. “I never desired power for power’s sake,” she explained, and there was silence but for the deposed King’s whimpering, “only what I needed to exact my revenge, and prevent this malevolent wretch from causing further suffering.”

“But,” Teorus began, but the rest of his sentence failed when Miho swept her arm in a dramatic arch, starlight floating majestically from her fingertips and coming to rest within the eyes of those to whom they belonged.

Perhaps now – if they all worked together – they could overpower Miho and Mieke and hold them accountable for their act against the King, but the crowd merely parted as Miho stepped toward the exit, Mieke behind her dragging Morthwyl by the collar.

“Where will you go?” Zyglavis asked quietly when Miho reached him, and she paused to look him in the face.

“Away,” she responded, “but never truly far. So don’t fuck this up.”

That was all the goodbye anyone got. The Heavens fell quiet, still, the calm before a storm of insecurity perhaps, but at least freedom from tyranny.

In the wake of their triumph, Miho and Mieke laid together, their legs entangled. Blissfully Miho raked her fingers gently through Mieke’s hair, savouring the silky sensation and the softness of her lover’s breath against her breast.

“Think they’ll come looking for you?” Mieke wondered aloud, before kissing against one of Miho’s nipples.

“In the afterglow of victory, you want to talk about them?” Miho scoffed, but her indignation was exaggerated.

“I just want you to be safe, to be free,” Mieke grumbled, tilting her head back to look up into Miho’s face.

“I think we’ve made a pretty good argument for leaving us alone,” Miho smiled, bring her lips closer to Mieke’s, “but if they’re stupid enough to disturb the peace, I’ll destroy them all.”

OR

XV. Made to kneel

Miho’s shadow cast a deep darkness across those at her feet. With their knuckles pressed to the glossy, marble floor outside the King’s throne room, Leon and Zyglavis found it impossible to rise, to move, to defy – though they had made their decision to stay loyal to the status quo.

Even though it was pointless.

“There was a time,” Miho said, eyes cast down at her brother, “I wanted to kill you, Leon.”

Her fingers slipped slowly through his hair, brushing his bangs up then tilting back his head so he could see her standing over him.

“A part of me still does,” she told him thinly, leaning down to whisper. “The ruination of a life, for the ruination of a life.”

“Miho, don’t,” Zyglavis barked, and her head snapped to him, her fingers curling in Leon’s hair and gripping tightly.

“Don’t what? Exact appropriate revenge upon the brother who handed me to a monster on a silver platter?” she growled, and it was echoed by Mieke snarling. “Do you know what he did to me, Zyglavis? How I held my heart so tightly bound because I didn’t want anyone to think for a second I used my power to steal away their free will for my own desire? That is what Leon did – snapped his fingers and had me sprawled, writhing beneath the furious thrust of the King and made me want it!”

Her exclamation was accompanied by the sudden rise of Leon’s body, and as if he was weightless, Miho flung him aside with such force his body cracked and imprint in the marble wall.

Before he could even let out a winded groan, other gods, including the enfeebled Karno, Krioff, Huedhaut and Scorpio came running down the wide hall in their direction. But they all slid to a swift halt when Mieke’s form bulked out into the celestial form of the Goddess of Canes Venatici, and snapped threatening jaws that barred their path.

“She will eat you,” Miho warned with a smirk. “Or at least chew you up and spit you out again; I don’t think she finds you any more tasteful than I do.”

“Miho,” Zyglavis entreated once more, redirecting her ire.

“He’s sitting in that throne room knowing full well what’s transpiring here,” she sniggered, glancing to the large doors behind Zyglavis’ back. “And he will leave you to languish at my mercy because he is a coward.”

It would have been the perfect moment for the King of the Heavens to burst onto the scene and prove Miho wrong – but he did not.

“Cling to that hatred you’ve developed for me, Zyglavis,” Miho began again, reaching for his cheek with her palm sizzling, “because…”

“Hate you?” he frowned, and it was not as a result of imminent pain. “What you’re doing is madness, but whether you believe me or not, I hate myself more for playing a part in what led you here.”

“Your self-deprecation is wasted on me,” she spat, enveloping him in flame and finally more formally announcing her presence to the King.

Zyglavis’ charred body cartwheeled through the immense doors, then skidded across the mirrored floor before slamming into a vacant throne.

The King stood beside it, and didn’t even look down at the smouldering body to his left. His pale eyes staring straight ahead and meeting Miho’s fierce gaze.

“That is quite enough,” the King’s voice rang out, and though his stance was strong, not a single soul missed the tremble in his voice.

“Oh?” Miho chuckled, stepping through the debris alone, while Mieke easily held any resistance at bay. “What now, my love? My greatest, deepest, desperate love? Enough? No no, not yet.”

As she cleared the crunching splinters of lacquered wood and crystal, the King began to gather his strength in blazing wafts of bright divine energy. It gathered from places older than anyone could remember, even the King himself had forgotten perhaps, but Miho seemed entirely unconcerned.

She stood, relaxed and waited.

“Majesty…” Zyglavis croaked, shakily raising himself up on one elbow, his uniform smoking, his skin charred. “Please… she…”

“She has NO power here!” the King roared in an absolutely unheard of display of raw public emotion.

“In one word, I will have all the power,” Miho whispered. “You will give me your stars as willingly as I once gave myself to you.”

“There is no such word,” the King growled. “And I will give you nothing but the end of your miserable existence,” he added arrogantly.

Though his voice had gathered some strength, there was still a kernel of doubt.

“Hmph,” Miho smirked, then admitted, “I nearly gave up. When I couldn’t find it buried anywhere in the Heavens, in no record or archive – then I realised you’d never have allowed it to be recorded.”

“Miho,” Zyglavis entreated once more, and in the split second her gaze shifted to him, the King launched a massive sphere of pulsating power at her.

For a second she was engulfed, muted by the potent luminosity, until tendrils of green flame wreathed in glittering, slithering, aqua shards broke through and revealed her unharmed at the centre.

“You knew if anyone ever discovered your true name,” she persisted unfazed, walking a slow, menacing path toward her target, “they could bring you to heel, and so I abandoned my fruitless quest to find it. Instead…”

“You have nothing!” he laughed, but Miho hadn’t quite finished her sentence.

“… I’m going to give you a new one.”

Any clamouring noise behind them died. All out in the corridor beyond Mieke, who still held back those who might defend the King, fell still and silent.

“Impossible,” the King gasped, readying another attack, greater fury building in his movements until Miho was but a few arms lengths before him.

“We shall see,” she smiled, eyes sparkling galaxies. “The former Goddess of Fate’s influence over what things are and will be, was the first thing I took – the power to re-write fate, after that.”

“It’s not…” the King actually stuttered, stepping backward.

“So I name you…”

All strained to listen, but only Miho and the King himself heard the name she whispered.

His eyes grew wide and the light around him shattered like glass then dimmed to nothing.

“Now give me your stars, you malodorous creature,” Miho hissed, pinching his chin harshly and pulling their faces close. “Then get on your knees and beg for your life.”

Tears touched the chalk of his cheeks, but with his true name on her tongue and in her mind, the King could not resist Miho’s command.

It was more of a slump that dropped him to the floor, shuddering and utterly pathetic in defeat.

“Please,” he murmured in a hoarse appeal, “spare me.”

Though he had done as she asked, Miho was still caught in the moment of receiving stars unlike any others she had stolen. Her senses expanded everywhere, every tiny little corner, and flooded her mind and heart with an almost overwhelming feeling of omnipotence.

“Spare you?” Miho parroted, her voice now carrying with it a dark reverberation. “No.”

As curt as the word itself, was the snapping of barbed, shadowy wires sprawling from Miho’s body and stringing the deposed tyrant up by wrists, neck and ankles.

A spectacle, a demonstration and a warning to any who might consider further overthrow.

“This era ends with you,” she snarled, biting the end off each word.

Then she tore him apart.

Whatever matter made up the former King of the Heavens was ripped asunder. Joints popped, bones broke, and blood sullied the regal décor of the throne room. Mushy piles of what could no longer be recognised as belonging to either man or god, hit the floor and quivered before melting into pools of silver that quickly evapourated.

Exhaling a slow breath, Miho closed her eyes – the moment had been such a long time coming, she wanted to savour it.

“Now what?” Scorpio called from beyond Mieke, the only one to raise his voice amid gods who still had their stars but were stuck dumb by what they had just witnessed.

“Mieke,” Miho dropped, and the huge dog returned to her human form before striding to take her love’s extended hand.

“What difference does it make to you,” Miho said, kissing the back of Mieke’s hand before drawing their bodies together, “if your puppet strings are pulled by a king, or a couple of queens?”

Staggering to his feet and clutching his slowly healing chest, Zyglavis peered at the entwined goddesses as they kissed – passionately, fearlessly.

“She really killed him?” Ichthys piped up, and Karno nodded slowly.

“Looks… like it,” he exhaled, sweeping his eyes to Leon whose head hung.

“What do we do?” a nervous god queried somewhere in the crowd.

“What do you do?” Miho laughed, her voice carrying to every ear in the Heavens. “You do exactly what you’re told, just as you always have.”

Grinning, Miho led her most loyal partner to the throne and sat, before the Goddess of Canes Venatici draped herself comfortably across a welcome lap.

“And,” Miho went on, sifting her fingers lazily through Mieke’s hair, “for you impotent zodiac gods, I have a whole host of ways for you to entertain me.”

“Can we have the King back now?” Ichthys whimpered. “Please?”

“Nope,” Miho snickered flippantly, lolling her head back, “but, little fishy, I guarantee that as each day passes you will wish for his return more and more.”

“And shame we control the wishes now,” Mieke added with a wide grin.

But it was Miho who had the final words.

“And the punishments.”

WHICH ENDING DID YOU LIKE BETTER?

[scottishvix]

Help Needed: iPhone speak screen

I’ve given up on being able to physically focus enough to read anytime soon (we’re on round 4 of trial and error to find something that works) but I discovered I could use this function called “speak screen” to have my phone read stuff aloud to me. Excellent! I can now get at the books that don’t have audiobooks/don’t have to pay for both versions anymore. And it would let me read all your wonderful fics again.

There’s a few teething problems. The “British” voices sound more human than the “American” ones. Unfortunately it seems like no one took the time to program pauses into the British voices sothetextisreadlikemy5yearoldnephewwhenhesexcitedwithnopausesforcommasorsentenceorparagraphbreaks. Okay, I’ll go with American robot, then.

But the thing that’s really annoying me and I’m looking for help with is how to teach it pronunciation. I was expecting American pronunciations (like the weird way you make the “h” silent in “herbs”). That’s cool. But some of it’s pronounciation decisions are just odd. Some of my favourites include:

BRU-sehs (bruises)

Fin-Kay (fiancé)

Un-kwin (unknown, though it can pronounce known just fine)

Pee-us (pious)

FAH-vur (favour)

Gin-AH (Gina)

I also tried it on a history book and it can not stick to one way of reading Roman numerals after names. On ONE PAGE it pronounced “III” as both “three” and “aye-aye-aye” and “XIV” as “iksvuh”. I can only guess how it would pronounce Thedas or Taldorei or anything within those worlds.

So, if anyone knows how I can teach it to do better please let me know. If not, I’d appreciate a signal boost.

[nitewrighter]

Of Blades and Broomsticks pt. XIV

(7 Minutes left on the clock!! Happy Halloween, Y’all!)

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 11, 12, 13

Witch AU on AO3

----

The doors to the temple library were heavy, and Mercy had to throw a significant amount of her weight against them just to get them open, her soft-soled monk’s slippers sliding slightly across the floor. The door opened with a rumble and opened into an only-marginally-better-lit-than-the rest of the temple library. It was cool and musty-smelling, lit by a great glowing green chandelier of black glass tendrils winding around each other like a tangled mass of kelp on a beach. Mercy’s breath went short in her throat as she ran her fingers along the cold spines of a few of the thousands of books lining the walls. “Incredible,” she said, picking a book off the shelf, “There must be centuries worth of--”

“Dreck,” she heard a familar voice and then a clatter of a book on the floor and followed its source. She walked between imposingly tall shelves.

“Hogwash,” the voice came again and another clatter.

“Keep this,” no clatter.

“Bunkum,” another clatter.

“Codswallop,” another clatter.

“Pointless smut--actually hold on to that,” no clatter.

“Esoteric frippery,” another clatter.

Mercy reached the source of the commotion to see Junkenstein surrounded by dozens of littered books strewn about the black stone floor, and the Monster standing behind him, holding an impressive pile of precariously stacked volumes in his massive hands. Junkenstein was glaring at the bookshelf, tapping his chin with his prosthetic hand thoughtfully.

“Making yourself right at home, I see,” said Mercy, smiling.

“Would that it were, but a place of a god is no place for a man of science, Gramercy,” said Junkenstein, picking up a book and leafing through it before setting it on the pile in his monsters’ arms, “We stand at an interesting point. We cannot return to Adlersbrunn, obviously. But how long can we stay here? And... your demon’s brother said something that’s stuck with me--He spoke like... like we set things into motion back in Adlersbrunn. Things that are going to have consequences far larger than we could ever dream of controlling.”

“We’re very far from Adlersbrunn,” said Mercy, “If the church sends more hunters after us, there’s not much of a trail for them to track with Zenyatta’s portals.”

"This goes well beyond the church, now, Gramercy, all it takes is one glance at the company we keep to know that,” said Junkenstein, looking back at his monster, “Speaking of which, how fares your demon?”

“He’s glad to be near his master, but this place puts him on edge like you,” said Mercy with a shrug, “But it’s mostly for my sake.”

“He is quite taken with you,” said Junkenstein, pulling another book off the shelf and leafing through it.

“He would have me believe he is taken with me,” said Mercy, putting her hands on her hips, “But he’s a demon.”

“Ah and you would have him believe you’re taken with him,” Junkenstein clapped the book shut and tossed it over his shoulder, “But you are a witch. It’s a dangerous game of cat and... other cat you two play,” he scoffed, “Come now, Gramercy, you think I don’t know you? You’re not putting up those haughty witch walls around yourself now, are you? The two of you have been through the fire together! Literally! There was a column of fire that burned a hole in the sky! We were there!”

“Jamison...” Mercy pushed some of her hair back.

“You’re always telling me to have a bit more faith,” said Junkenstein with a shrug as he and his creation gingerly stepped around the mess of books at their feet and walked down the narrow stacks.

“’If you can’t trust your demons, who can you trust?’” Mercy suggested wryly.

“In a sense, yes,” said Junkenstein as he and his creation set their pile of books with a thunderous clatter down on a stone table, “Our old home is well behind us, and we’re on the brink of an entirely new world---one we understand very little of, by the way---We need friends. We need allies.” He gave an affectionate pat to his creation’s stomach, “And you’re in even deeper with all this magical whatnot than I am.” 

“Good to see you’re actually calling it ‘Magic,’” said Mercy, smiling.

“Blame Squidface,” said Junkenstein, flipping open a book, and taking a seat, “It’s just one more thing for me to figure out isn’t it? That’s all science is, really.”

Mercy watched as Junkenstein’s eyes traced over the page.

“How long do you intend to stay?” said Mercy.

“Still figuring that out,” said Junkenstein, “Not too long, obviously. Though if your demon has any ideas on where to head next, you should check with him.”

“Are we to be traveling companions?” said Mercy with a smile.

“As if you’d last a second without me,” said Junkenstein with a grin. The creature gave a grunt behind him. “Us,” he corrected himself, “Last a second without us.”

“Oh, my heroes,” Mercy said with a smile, before walking off and leaving Junkenstein and his creation to their books.

Mercy lingered in the library a while longer, though Junkenstein’s words stuck with her. She knew she was no worshipper of Zenyatta, and part of the reason she was letting herself stay here was because it was the first place where she wasn’t feared or hated for being a witch--she was tolerated, but did she belong? No. She wondered if she would even know what it felt like to belong somewhere--if she would ever recognize the feeling. The question had previously depressed her, but now it trailed and tugged like a fishline to Genji. She remembered the words that fell out of her as they descended from the sky in what felt somehow both distantly long ago.

“I’m your witch, aren’t I? I’m your witch and you’re my demon.“

 In all the panic of that moment she had clung to that thought like a ship’s mast in a storm. 

She thumbed through a few tomes mindlessly. Pre-Babel scrolls in languages-before-language that she had no hope of translating since they sounded like everything and nothing, complicated histories of the cult with names of a pantheon that made her happy Zenyatta’s name was as easy to pronounce as it was. As she set a book back on the shelf, she heard a soft whisper. She was used to hearing a lot of whispers and tuning them out, but this whisper gave her pause. It sounded like the old woman. The Gramercy before her--but the words were indistinct, and they weren’t berating or scolding, but wondrous and soft. Mercy followed the source of the voice, but there wasn’t a source, she knew that much... nothing like the commotion Junkenstein had been creating with all his book-throwing. Still her feet walked and her chin lifted, listening, through she was half-sure the voice as only in her mind. As she walked some words formed themselves.

“--some point the chain was nearly broken, and much knowledge of its true potential was lost--”

The words cut out altogether.

Mercy stopped walking and found herself in those same narrow cathedral-like stacks. She looked around, not really sure what she was looking for. She was far at the back of the library. She puzzled at the spines of books on either side of her, then shrugged and moved to walk out from the rows of shelves when there was a clatter of a book hitting the floor behind her so sudden it gave her a start. A grubby looking steel-and-leather book was on the floor--no title, save for the word ‘Vitae’ written on it. She picked it up, dusted it off, and carried it with her out of the library. She would read it later, she decided. For now, she did have to find Genji and discuss their plans for the future. Once again with considerable effort, she was able to open the doors to the library, and with her vitae book under one arm, walked through the temple’s dark corridors.

She noticed, as she walked, a significant more amount of bustle by cultists going through the halls. Of course, usually it took only the slightest statements by Zenyatta to work them up into a tizzy. Still, she could feel Genji’s presence in her mind as she set out to find him--not actively talking to her, or seeking her out (though she could twist the hair lock around her finger for that) but the memory of his promise a presence in and of itself, like the whisper she would leave on her door when she left her cottage.That presence in her mind seemed to burn brighter as she pushed some heavy doors out to a covered walkway overlooking the temple courtyard. Down below, Genji was sparring with three cultists with staves.

 She smirked. Genji conjured all of his clothing from the selfsame smoke he used to shift his form--technically he could give himself a shirt, and it wouldn’t make him any sweatier like it would a human, but he did not. The scar from the Witch Hunter’s consecrated bullet still marred his shoulder like a raw pink star. Her eyes trailed to his shoulders as he fought, gripping a staff and spinning it around, deflecting blows from the monks’ own staves. She had seen him easily use his strength to disorient and subdue opponents, but here he fought more like a man than a powerful yokai... or was at least attempting to fight like a man. His leaps were graceful, his blocks of enemy blows either solid and unyielding, or gracefully redirecting the force of the blow. His scars spread and contracted across his skin as he moved, his red eyes sparking with a furious focus.

She was so involved in watching the acrobatics of his form and the dance of muscles on his back that she was caught quite off-guard when a cultist carrying large rolls of paper nearly ran headlong into her, but managed to catch themselves on impact, stumble with their armload slightly, then hurry on. 

“Just what is going on with them today anyway?” Mercy murmured, before turning her attention back to Genji. 

“There is to be a celebration,” a deep and tranquil voice spoke next to her and she nearly jumped right out of her skin from the surprise.

“How did you just... sneak up on me like that?!” Mercy managed to blurt out, gripping her chest with her heart thumping hard against her ribcage.

Zenyatta gestured down, and Mercy remembered that he didn’t really walk anywhere, but rather floated with his legs crossed in a lotus position.

“...ah,” Mercy brushed her hair back, moving to watch Genji again before catching herself, “Wait---A celebration? Of what?”

“Have you not heard?!” exclaimed one cultist, hurrying by carrying armfuls of something slimy and brackish-smelling that Mercy didn’t want to look too closely at.

“The Master Zenyatta in all his Generosity and love for our worthless pointless forms has declared that he shall stay in this plane for 200 years!” said another, hurrying by and carrying lanterns of black iron.

Mercy blinked several times and looked to Zenyatta.

“I don’t see what they’re so worked up about either, honestly,” said Zenyatta, “I’m only staying to see how the pattern of magical flux in this plane pans out. And...humans live, what, 15,000 years, don’t they?”

There was a pause. “They do not,” said Mercy.

Zenyatta looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh!” he said, “That was this plane’s sea sponges! I get you all so mixed up sometimes,” He gave a slight chuckle and the mass of tentacles forming the lower half of his face twitched and tickled each other, “But as they say,” he added, catching himself, “There is to be a celebration, tonight, possibly an orgy--they were unclear on the second part.”

“...good to know,” said Mercy.

“I know you are not a devotee, but as a companion and partner of my student, you are invited nonetheless.”

Mercy smiled. “Master Zenyatta, you and your followers have been so hospitable. I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“I am thankful to you as well, Witch Mercy,” Zenyatta addressed her in the same manner Genji did--treating ‘Witch’ as what seemed almost like an honorific, “You freed my apprentice from a prison and gave him more focus and direction than I have ever seen him have.” 

Mercy blushed a little, “Really?”

“I will admit, I previously saw you as a distraction he was overly invested in, but since you saved him, I see now that yours is a remarkable partnership. While I have felt the magic waning in your plane, I see now that it can flourish in the most unexpected places, shining brilliantly even in adversity.”

“Oh...” Mercy glanced down, but then found her eyes on Genji, still sparring, still scarred and sweaty down in the courtyard and found that that sight did not help her loss for words, “I---Thank you,” she managed, managing to tear her eyes away to look at Zenyatta.

“I know you intend to leave,” said Zenyatta, looking down at Genji, “He is bound to wander as well---but know that you will always find support and safety here. As much safety as this plane can allow.”

Mercy smiled, “If you ever require my help---” she started but Zenyatta put a hand on her shoulder.

“You cannot even begin to comprehend my dealings, but I shall keep your offer in mind, Bearer of the Flame of Creation,” he spoke warmly before floating off. 

Mercy turned her attention back down to the courtyard but found that the clack of staff on staff and the thud of blows landing and the shuffle of feet across stone had stopped. The other cultists were talking, some quietly nursing bruises, but Genji still stood out there, looking up at her. In that moment she knew. She knew he knew that she had been watching all that time. Her eyes widened and her mouth drew to a thin line as she hurried off to the interior corridors of the temple. 

She knew she meant to speak with him about where they would go from the temple, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it for the rest of the day. His presence in her mind was half an itch now, one she knew she could relieve just by going to talk to him, but her self control told her to treat it as was befitting itches: Leave it alone, and hopefully it would go away. The rest of the day was spent back at the library, with the Vitae book and Junkenstein’s skeptical side-glance upon her. He knew she meant to talk to Genji. He knew she didn’t talk to Genji. He knew her too well and she hated him for it and he was her best friend for it. The preparations for the celebration left her afternoon largely vacant--no bickering cultists meant no gashes or stab wounds to worry about. She let herself fall into an abyss of books, the hours wheeling away until a growling stomach and a setting sun finally managed to drag her from her reading.

 She had all but forgotten of the celebrations and was briefly jarred by the merry atmosphere in the temple refectory and the decorations dangling from the ceiling as the cultists all sat on their mats around a great carpet of countless plates of food. Mercy managed to find a seat and was able to sate her hunger on snails and samphire. A carafe of a bitter herbaceous spirit was being passed around, and Mercy filled her little clay cup with that as well and knocked it back. It was a celebration, after all, wasn’t it? She wasn’t quite sure when the music had started--maybe around the time the cultists were getting up from their mats and moving out to the very temple courtyard where Genji had been sparring earlier, but in that square of stone, Mercy saw a great bonfire with crackling green flames. And then there was the music. It bounced off the cold stones and seemed to thrum from her ears to her ribcage. There was a rain-like shake of some grain-filled gourd, two-stringed fiddle, flute, and some long loud wooden instrument that rumbled and croaked, and then the drums kicked in.

The cultists pulled each other into whirling dances, gripping each other’s wrists, hooking each others arms. There was a feverishness about the way they touched each other, like tidal pool creatures bracing for the impact of a wave. And then the music picked up and they were leaping, some lifting others over their heads and twirling them as their necks craned back in ecstasy. Mercy found herself almost hypnotized. The bodies, once previously shuffling around hidden by voluminous black robes were casting off their outer mantles, rendering themselves lithe silhouettes against the green glow of the fire. Even Junkenstein had managed to be pulled into the revelry, his creation tossing him in the air and catching him as Junkenstein swan dove and swept and danced as much as he could manage with a peg leg.

“Glad you could make it, Witch,” a voice familiar and casual, yet honeyed with charm managed to slip over the din of music and the thud of bare feet on stone. Mercy turned her head to see Genji. “I was worried you’d spend all night in that library,” Genji said with a smile.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” said Mercy, shifting where she sat a little.

“Ah yes, I gathered as much by your running away as soon as I made eye contact with you,” said Genji with that half-smile of his.

Mercy reddened and glanced off and Genji snickered before catching himself. “Apologies---What was it you wanted to speak of?”

“Leaving the temple---We don’t worship Zenyatta like they do and it’s bound to get us into trouble at some point.” 

“I am the one bound to your service,” said Genji, “Where do you desire to go?”

MeMercy thought for a few moments. “You know... I suppose Zenyatta’s portals leave our options far more open than I’ve been thinking--truth be told my world has been so limited by the wood and my old village and Adlersbrunn... it’s hard grasping the idea that I can be somewhere else--even here,” she looked at the dancing cultists. Genji watched her wistful expression, the reflection of the green flames shining in her gray-blue eyes, making them glitter like an unearthly sea. “It’s almost dreamlike....” her voice softened a little, “It wasn’t like the old woman and I could join in on harvest festivals... I’ve never been able to get this close to people dancing before---or even see people dance like this.” 

“Beg pardon?” said Genji, his eyebrows raising.

“Oh--it’s nothing, it’s not important--” Mercy started.

“You’re telling me you’ve never danced!?”

“I’ve danced!” Mercy snapped, “Just... in rituals, you know.” 

Genji promptly stood up and held a hand out to her.

“Genji--” Mercy started, nervously running a hand through her hair, “I--we still need to figure out where to go from here.”

“As your demon, I must say that your wellbeing is paramount, and as such it is imperative that we dance.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Mercy, smiling.

“I managed to get trapped in the same tea leaf pot twice. I’m well aware I’m ridiculous. But this is important,” said Genji, still holding his hand out.

Mercy took his hand and he pulled her into the whirling storm of bodies leaping and dancing around the bonfire. She started out awkwardly bobbing to the music, but Genji took her hands in his and twirled her around, lifted her as if she were light as a feather. She noticed he wasn’t wearing the mask nearly as often these days, nor was he bothering to hide his scars as much. He made her feel light on her feet, redirecting her weight around him easily. She easily lost herself in the dance, just as much if not moreso than her abyss of books. The satisfaction of flow, the feeling of “Yes, this is what I ought to be doing” that was so ingrained in the pursuit that the feeling and the pursuit were one and the same. She only regained her senses with the brief flush of adrenaline brought on by Genji sweeping her out of the path of a cultist who was railing and dancing like a maenad. 

“Are you just avoiding helping me pick where to go next?” said Mercy.

“We can multitask,” said Genji, picking her up in a twirling lift that forced a spill of giggles from her, “As you said, with Zenyatta’s portals greatly expand our horizons--Perhaps somewhere with white beaches and warm seas? I don’t know how well you can swim...perhaps a port city, somewhere treasures are being traded daily...”

“Perhaps we should find Satya,” said Mercy.

“There’s a plan,” said Genji.

“I don’t know if there’s anything more she can teach me about the flame, but it wouldn’t hurt to try--even if we have no idea where to start.”

 “She has her own path, as well,” said Genji, “Even there is nothing more you can learn, the things I’ve seen you do are breathtaking, Witch.”

Mercy smiled and glanced down, “I was terrified and had so little idea of what I was doing,” she said quietly, “Have you thought about it since then? That night in the cave?”

“Of course,” he said easily. His answer caught her off-guard, “I’ve been puzzling over it, trying to remember more of it, but I was delirious from my true form and my injuries so...” he trailed off, “I remember you,” he said quietly, “You were holding something sharp and black and then you...” he trailed off, took his hands about her waist and pulled her close--the movement wasn’t a sudden jerking of her against him, but a steady pull, in-step with the music. He took her hand and looked at it, studying it for a scar.

“It’s fine,” said Mercy, letting her hand break from his grip and putting it against the side of his face. His eyes on her softened at her touch.

“Still not sure how you did it,” murmured Genji, leaning in, studying her face.

Magic,” Mercy smiled, bringing her other arm around his shoulders.

“I never would have guessed,” said Genji closing the distance between them. Mercy tilted her head to him, her hand on the side of his face guiding him towards her, the bonfire crackling green behind her. Genji drew a breath, taking in the scent of that herbaceous spirit that had been handed around at dinner, moved to drink in more of the scent.

“West,” Mercy suddenly said. The word threw Genji off.

“Pardon?” Genji snapped out of the haze.

“We should search for Satya in the lands west of Adlersbrunn. They probably expect us to flee east---deeper into the forest, they won’t be looking for us in the west.” 

“Clever,” said Genji, bringing a hand up under her chin, “See? I told you we could multitask.”

“The task you had in mind seemed to demand most of your attention, demon,” said Mercy.

“It had your attention too, if memory serves,” said Genji as her fingers wove into his hair. Their lips had only barely brushed against each other when they broke apart at the sound of fabric ripping and the music now ratcheting up to a thunderous din. 

“What was--?” Mercy looked over to the source of the sound and saw the bare back of one of the cultists, who was now in a writhing mass of bodies. More fabric ripping. Tatters of cultist monk robes flew up like large violet autumn leaves. Mercy’s jaw dropped. While she was no stranger to skyclad rituals, the suddenness and intensity with which the cultists set upon each other was jarring. With all Genji’s talk of cultists stabbing each other there were a few panicked seconds where she expected the frenzy to be violent, but it wasn’t, well, literally violent.

“Ah. So there was an orgy,” said Genji, as Mercy slapped both her hands over her eyes as more tatters of cultist robes fluttered out from the mass of writhing bodies, some falling into the blazing green fire, “Really wish Master was more clear on these sorts of things.”

“Genji!” Mercy’s face was burning, her hands still covering her eyes. She split her fingers apart only briefly to peek through, saw a mass of limbs in what seemed almost reminiscent of the mass of tentacles forming Zenyatta’s face and wondered, briefly if this too was a form of worship of Zenyatta for them, Then she saw that one of the cultists had even further escalated the situation with a summoning circle, then clamped her fingers tight again.

“Yes, I know, we’re leaving, don’t worry,” said Genji, taking her up into his arms.

“Tell me when it’s safe to look--woah!” Mercy cut herself off as Genji leapt, with her in his arms, up to the temple walkway that bordered the courtyard. Genji walked into the interior of the temple and set Mercy down on the stone floor. “It’s sa--” Genji caught himself, “Wait--”

“Wait--? Wait for--?”

Genji lightly kissed the knuckles of Mercy’s hands covering her eyes.

“...ah.” she said.

[swishandflickwit]

Deckerstar — chasing cars 1/1

Summary: In which Chloe returns a gift to where it rightfully belongs.

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 666

Warnings: Post-reveal.

AN: One week left. Here we go.

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

The Devil’s Lucky Number series: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIV | XX | XXI | [ XXII ]

He’d been having trouble sleeping.

Voices, he said. So many voices.

But even if he hadn’t told her, she would have known. It was in the tremble of his hands whenever he poured himself a drink. It was ubiquitous in the tense set of his shoulders and the deep lines on his face, when he turned to her with a smile that no longer touched his gaze.

(Could you hear mine? she wondered. Can you hear how sorry I am?)

The Morningstar, she had read in her quest to better understand him, in the aftermath. Lightbringer. How God might’ve laughed. If He ever bothered to check in, anyways. Then He’d have known how darkness had taken root of His son.

And leeched the light from his eyes.

I’m sorry, she told him so many times—kept telling him, really. And every damn time he’d give her that hollowed look and that blank smile, tell her in overly-saccharine but ultimately empty pronouncements, Whatever for?—accompanied by a flippant wave—No need for that.

Spoken like an irrevocable truth. Like he had always expected it. Like she had a right to be repulsed by him.

Like he deserved it.

And in the wake of that, he was just… dimmed. So gaunt with the void of effulgence yet burdened with the unrest his demons toiled upon his mind.

Demons she had unbridled with her careless rejection.

And no number of apologies would make that right. No words, in any language—and he knew them all—would make this right.

So she thought about what she could do, instead.

“Lucifer?” she called from his bedroom. They had been steadily thrumming to a nascent rhythm. One redolent of the scales of their earlier partnership but interspersed—given her recently-appointed maestro status on her knowledge of him—with new beats, such as retiring to his penthouse for a drink or two before he took her home.

But Chloe was ready to weave a fresh, if familiar, harmony now.

Her back was to the entrance, so all she had to go on to indicate his arrival was the sharp click of Louboutins against Italian marble and his confused, “Detective?”

After all, it wasn’t every day she was stood at the foot of his bedstead, drowning in one of his ridiculously expensive, black robes.

“What… what’s going on?”

With quivering fingers, she untied the knot at her hip, and slipped first one sleeve of a shoulder—

“Detective,” he said through strained, yet warbled, articulations.

—then the other.

“Chloe,” he warned.

Silk pooled at her feet, and then there was no hiding.

“Turnabout is fair play,” she parroted. “You showed me all of you.”

She turned to him wearing nothing but a small smile.

And a beloved chain clasped around her neck.

“Now it’s my turn.”

His breath truncated when he inhaled the sight.

“You—”

“Are sharing with you who I am. Who I want to be,” she averred. “And that’s with you, as you are. Wings—Devil face—and all,” she chuckled, even as droplets stained her lashes. “If you’ll still have me?”

For a while, she could hear nothing but her wild heartbeat. He moved to stand before her, giving her body a cursory glance before staring, just staring.

At the bullet nestled comfortably between her collarbones.

Then he was pressing his forehead to hers, till her cheeks were wet with tears she could no longer separate between his and her own.

But he was warm, so warm, a gleam in his eyes when he grasped her biceps and asked her, oh so timid but tender… innocent.

“Will you lie down with me? Just… just lie down.”

Hold me, she heard his plea.

So she did, the reassuring weight of him in her arms feeling faintly of forgiveness... the sensation of his skin flushed against hers resonant with the soft glow of love.

Light flared behind her closed eyelids.

And they were both lost to the quiet oblivion of a peaceful slumber.

AN: I know I promised lighter, fluffier things but ugh, I watched Endgame this morning and have just been crying on and off all. freaking. day. I fell asleep around 4pm then woke up at 7 to write this for about two hours. Sorry if it's sucky :\ Ildy did mention we would get a bullet necklace scene and I've highlowkey been wondering where it's gone to because I know how much it meant to Lucifer, to both of them, to have Chloe wear it. In the aftermath of Endgame, I needed a bit of healing and reconciliation myself. Thus, this was born.

Story also inspired by the song Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.

The Devil’s Lucky Number series: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIV | XX | XXI | [ XXII ]

[randomoranges]

Amnesia au

Part 52

“You didn’thave to come,” Étienne said as a ways of greeting when he opened the door forEdward – Edward rolled his eyes and side stepped his friend, walked inside andclosed the door behind him; he toed his shoes off and headed for the livingroom, not waiting for an invitation; Étienne followed after a beat, realisingthat there was no use arguing with Edward over the matter, “I’m glad you didthough,” He finally admitted, sitting next to him on the couch and Edward gavehim a self-satisfied smile.

“Good, I’mglad, because you sounded like shit on the phone and I wasn’t going to be ableto get any sleep anyways; so misery loves company and all that jazz, right?” Aghost of a smile appeared on Étienne’s face and Edward noticed the dark, purplemarks under his eyes – they seemed more pronounced than last time and Edwardwondered, not for the first time, when the last time Étienne had properly sleptwas; worried as he always was for his friend, he placed his hand on top ofÉtienne’s, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture and readied himself forwhat would probably turn into a long night, “So, what’s this about anoperation?”

Étienne letout a long sigh and then proceeded to explain, “The doctor said there’s aprocedure they can do on my leg to try and fix some of the nerve damage – itshould help with the pain and should make me able to walk longer distances, orat the very least, function a little better… but another operation means morephysical therapy, it means learning how to walk, again, having to heal from anotheroperation and that’s without the new scar I’ll have or the fact I’ll haveanother cast, I’ll lose whatever little muscle I’ve gained back in the leg andthere’s no guarantee it’ll actually work – plus the new medications I’ll haveto take after the operation, as if I don’t have enough to take,” He let out inone breath, as if he’d been holding back and now that the dam was open, therewas no stopping his flood of words; Edward remained silent, listening to hisfriend, letting him evacuate what had been bubbling inside of him, “I’m sickand tired of these Band-Aid solutions, but it’s never time for the amputation –the doctor keeps saying I’m not ready for it, and honestly, at this point, itdoesn’t feel like I’ll ever be ready for it and I can’t keep going on like this– I can’t.”

———————-

Part I, II, III, IV, V,VI,VII,VIII,IX,X,XI,XII,XIII,XIV,XV,XVI,XVII,XVIII,XIX,XX,XXI,XXII,XXIII,XXIV,XXV,XXVI,XXVII,XXVIII,XXIX,XXX,XXXI,XXXII,XXXIII,XXXIV,XXXV,XXXVI,XXXVII,XXXVIII,XXXIX,XL,XLI, XLII,XLIII,XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, L, LI, LII, LIII

[silverfootstepswrites]

title Devoted summary It’s the unspoken promises that matter most. pairing itasaku, tobisaku, hot messes

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii (here) | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)

“I’m going to get breakfast.”

Sakura only stirred when she felt a kiss press to the back of her neck. And then her shoulder blade. The bed shifted. She listened to Itachi’s belt buckle clink. The shift of fabric as he dressed. She cracked open one eye. Her phone sat on the nightstand where she had left it. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Itachi said. 

When Itachi returned, she was sitting on the bed. Gold Desert Eagle aimed at him as soon as he walked into the studio apartment. When she saw that it was just him, she lowered the firearm. Tossed it back on the mattress. She had thrown on a robe hanging in the wardrobe. The light purple fabric was dotted with flowers at the ends of the sleeves. 

“Good morning to you too,” he greeted her, wholly unperturbed. He set the bag down on the counter as he added, “I’m not wearing kevlar at the moment. So it would ruin my day if you shot me.” Sakura huffed, trying not to laugh. Running her hand through her hair, she slipped into the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. And when she emerged, he was leaning against the counter, reading the back label on a carton of milk tea.

“I’m afraid it’s convenience store food,” Itachi said as he unpacked the bag. 

“Reminds me of my twenties,” Sakura remarked. She pulled herself up on the counter. He unwrapped and dropped one of the onigiri into her waiting hand. Salty cod roe filling in the middle. 

Itachi leaned his elbow on the counter as he bit into his own onigiri. It looked like his had a stewed seaweed filling. They ate in silence. Even when Sakura found a grain of rice on his face, she flicked it off without a word before she resumed eating. 

It was only while Sakura gulped down her milk tea that Itachi spoke. 

“You seem...annoyed? Worried? It’s hard to tell, honestly.” 

Sakura took her time finishing her drink. She set the empty carton down on the counter. Licking the backs of her teeth before she spoke. 

“Both.”

“Both?” repeated Itachi.

“Annoyed because I’m sore,” she began. And Itachi looked a little chagrined. “But worried too. For... business purposes.”

Itachi’s hand rested on her forearm. Thumb stroking over her skin. “Is there anything I can do to ease your burdens?” he offered. 

Sakura sighed as she eased her body into the hot water. She wasn’t particularly picky about the apartments she bought. But a soaking tub was always a must. She stretched her neck this way and that. Listening to her bones crack as she moved. Her head drooped to rest against Itachi’s shoulder. Back nestled against his chest.

“You know,” he said, lifting her left hand out of the water to inspect it, “You’re surprisingly easy to please.” His thumbs trailed over the two circular scars on her knuckles. Cigarette burns. Faded by the years. 

“What are these?” he asked. Rubbing the strange circles. Sakura opened one eye. Closed it again.

“Ah, that? From when I used to be a karaoke hostess. A customer got mad at me,” she answered. Itachi said nothing. 

“He was actually going for my face, but I-” Sakura clapped her hand over her eyes. And Itachi could imagine the sizzle against her skin. The blisters that would have formed over the hurts. He took her hand again. Pressed it to his temple. She traced her pointer finger over the back of the dragon twisting up his right arm. It had taken hours and hours of painstaking work to get each scale right. To shade it crimson and gold. Like the undulating body was really reflecting light.

“I’m meeting with Madara tonight,” she told him. 

His voice was sharp. Like she had expected.

“What?”

She was glad that he couldn’t see her face. She was sure that her smile wouldn’t help his irritation. 

Grasping his wrists, she pulled his arms over her shoulders. He begrudgingly folded them across her chest. Hands resting against her collarbones. 

“I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t go alone. I’ll have Tenten with me,” Sakura assured him. He grunted. Only sounding fractionally less unhappy. 

“And normally, I wouldn’t invite you along. But I feel like this might be a meeting you want to sit in on,” she then added. His fingers twitched. 

“Does this have anything to do with why I’ve suddenly noticed the Sarutobi’s and the Inuzuka’s getting along?” he queried.

“Probably,” she sighed. 

“Yamanaka Inoichi is dead, by the way,” he told her. 

“Oh?” she replied, genuinely surprised. She hadn’t heard anything about that.

“He was going behind my back and dealing drugs to the Inuzuka’s to make extra money on the side. And I hear he was trying to get into my uncle’s good graces so that he would exchange sake with him,” explained Itachi. 

“Ah. I always forget. You yakuza are so strict with all of that stuff,” she muttered. She rolled her shoulders a little. And Itachi released her so that he could knead his fingers into the tense muscles there instead. She let out a sigh, head lolling forward so that he could reach her neck better. 

“Is it different for you?” asked Itachi. 

“Hm...it is. For example, the 24K doesn’t really get along with the Huang Group right now. Which, by the way, should be ‘Wong’ if they’re trying to fit in in Hong Kong,” she went off on a tangent. Itachi’s fingers slowed. And she could tell that she had lost him. She glanced over her shoulder at him.

“I speak Cantonese, right? Well, they mostly speak Mandarin on the mainland. So the same last name might be pronounced differently depending on whichever you’re speaking,” she explained. “So ‘Huang’ should have become ‘Wong’. ‘Zhao’ becomes ‘Chiu’. By not changing their names, they’re basically advertising that they’re outsiders.”

“Do they not get along because the Huang’s are from the mainland?” Itachi asked. 

“Initially, I suppose. But the Huang’s are vicious and they made a lot of enemies along the way. I’ve got a good relationship with their Dragon Head at the moment, but who knows when he’ll turn on me,” Sakura mused. Because while Fatboy Huang did like her, she never forgot that he was the same kind of animal she was. Wild.

“At any rate, Hashirama despises Fatboy Huang. But I can do business with the Huang’s as long as I make money. Our biggest rival is currently the Suns. I can’t fucking stand them, but I’ve made a few deals with some of their less idiotic Red Poles,” she stated. 

“Sounds like there’s a lot of flexibility within the ranks,” observed Itachi.  Sakura nodded. “As long as you don’t piss off the Dragon Head, you’re fine, in theory.” She winced when he dug into a particularly stubborn knot . He rubbed his thumbs into it.

"The only thing is that since it’s sort of a free-for-all, you sometimes get in-fighting from people squabbling over territory or dealers. So we establish a  pecking order,” she added. 

Itachi’s hands slid off her shoulders. While it wasn’t perfect, a lot of the pain that had twisted up in there was gone. Her hand rested on his knee as she stretched. 

“Where are you in this pecking order, Jing-Mei?” Itachi queried. 

“Well, leng zai, let’s just say that the people who peck at me often lose their beaks.”

After the bath, Sakura saw Itachi to the door. His hair still just a little damp, even after she had dried it for him. He wrapped his scarf around his throat. Caught her staring at him. His gloved hand touched her cheek. 

“When you look at me like that, it makes it hard to leave,” he told her. 

“Like what?” she retorted, frowning. 

“Ah. There she is. Although, I wonder what everyone would say if they knew how cute Haruno Sakura can be in private,” he teased. Just a bit. But her expression darkened. She grabbed the front of his coat. Yanking him down to meet her eyes.

“If you do, I’ll kill you.” No laughter there. Her gaze glacial.

Itachi kissed her forehead. “Relax. Because if everyone else knew, I’d have to kill them. And that seems like too much work.”

While she was unguarded, he pressed a kiss to her lips too. The touch soft and brief before he pulled out of her grasp. 

“I’ll be by the club tonight. Around 10, you said?” 

Sakura nodded. And Itachi slipped into the hallway without another word. She bolted and chained the door after him. 

That night, Sakura sat at the bar. Sai had flown in from Hong Kong on a red-eye flight. And with some espresso and eye drops, he worked behind the bar. Flipping bottles of vodka and chatting up the hostesses with that easy smile. Tenten stood at the opposite end of the bar organizing the beers in the refrigerated drawer under the counter. 

Sai reached for Sakura’s empty glass but she pulled it away. 

“You’ve been in a good mood lately, Mama. Something nice happen?” he asked. One of the waiters dropped off an order, passing the paper slip to Sai before he hurried off. 

Sakura ran her fingers through her hair. The ruby ring on her pointer finger glittering, just like the snake necklace wrapped around the base of her throat. And then she adjusted the black blazer over her shoulders. Although it was cold outside, the inside of Twilight Dreams was toasty. The blazer was more to cover her tattoos. Although everyone knew that Twilight Dreams received some unusual guests, rumors were much different from the mama running around with tattoos bared for the world to see.

“Have I, Sai? I hadn’t noticed,” replied Sakura. A half-smile lingering on her lips. 

The bell attached to the front door jingled. With the cold air came Charlie Lau. The tip of his nose bright red. He was freezing as he paused to greet her. 

“Good evening, Mama. It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he huffed, rubbing his hands together. His glasses fogged up as the warm air clashed with the frozen glass. Sakura laughed as he pulled his glasses off. Shoving them into his pocket.

“It really has been a while, Chojuro-kun. How have things been?” she asked. 

“Ah. Same old. It’s been so quiet without you, you know,” he responded. Slipped between the lines of their banter, Sakura received the message. Nothing unusual to report. She nodded. And he went off, searching for his favorite hostess.

Not long after, Tommy arrived. His teeth and hair both gleaming. He paused to press a cool kiss to Sakura’s cheek but said nothing. He didn’t have to. The tight line his jaw made said everything. He squeezed her hand, slipping something inside as he moved past.

“Deidara-kun!” Moegi exclaimed when she spotted him.

“Moegi-chan! I brought daifuku!” he matched her tone, holding up the box in his hand.

Sakura turned her hand just enough to peer through her fingers. It was a tiny plastic bag. Inside were a few powdery white pellets. Sodium cyanide, just like she had asked. But that’s what she liked about Tommy. He always delivered. She pretended to adjust the front of her dress, dropping the bag into her cleavage. 

A few more customers trickled in. Their suits wrinkled after a long day of work. Some of them came in groups with their coworkers. They dipped their heads to her as they walked past. The cool air whisking over her until the door shut again.

Sakura closed her eyes. She liked listening to the hum of conversation. The women’s voices rising and falling, dissolving into giggles. The men laughing too. The occasional swell of guffaws as someone told a particularly good joke. The pop of a cork squeezing from the mouth of a champagne bottle.

The bell above the door tinkled. 

“Ah. Mama, your special guest,” Ayu called. 

Sakura opened her eyes. 

“Should we set up your table in the back?” Ayu went on.

“No need, Ayu,” Sakura replied, waving the hostess off. And before Ayu could ask why, the door opened again and one of her regular customers walked in. 

Itachi took off his hat. Plastic crinkled. He placed a bouquet of carnations onto the bar. The petals were pale pink, almost white. But the edges were dark purple. A striking combination. She touched one of the soft petals with her pointer finger. He leaned against the bar. 

“Good evening, Mama,” he greeted her. 

And only then did she tilt her head to look at him. 

“Good evening,” she replied. 

“Am I too early?” asked Itachi, glancing down at his gold watch. Sakura shook her head. 

“He’s always late,” she corrected. Itachi pulled his card out of his wallet. Handed it to Tenten. 

“Dom Peri for Mama. And a vodka tonic for me,” he said. Tenten paused, arching an eyebrow. Sakura’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze flickered to him. Uchiha Itachi wasn’t known for his love of hard liquor. 

“Rough night?” Tenten asked. She reached to pull out two clean cups- a skinny flute and a highball glass. Itachi leaned his forearm against the bar.

“It’s about to be. I can’t stand my uncle,” he sighed.

“Hm. That makes two of us,” Sakura mused. 

They said nothing else. Only clinking glasses together when Tenten pushed the drinks to them. 

When Madara finally arrived, it was through the front door. Thankfully. 

One of the newer girls went to go greet him, but Sakura grabbed her hand. Stopping her. She shook her head, not looking up from her drink. 

“Go see if Moegi needs any help,” Sakura directed. Her voice calm, but firm. The girl blinked a few times and then she went off. It was rare for Mama to give absolute orders like that. 

Sakura set her glass down on the bar. In the center of the coaster. Watching the little bubbles fizz to the top of the drink. She heard Itachi let out a sigh. 

And she she felt Madara’s arm slip around her shoulder. Something nudged against her lower back. From the shape of it, it felt like maybe a revolver. 

“Where’s my brother?” he hissed into her ear. 

Sakura knocked him away with an impatient noise. She drained the rest of the champagne. 

“He’s upstairs. Which is where we’re going,” she replied.

Tommy had ordered a champagne tower the moment Madara walked in. Amid all the cheering and the staff carting out bottles and glasses, it was easy to slip away unnoticed. Further into the club. Up the wooden stairs. Tenten following a few moments later. 

In the middle of Sakura’s office sat Obito. Zip-tied to a chair. Madara eyed his brother’s fine clothing. He chuckled.

“Did you dress him up?” he asked. Sakura sat on the edge of her desk, shedding her blazer. Underneath, she wore a cream-colored dress. The fabric glittering when she moved.

“I also paid for the surgery to fix the hole in his gut. So pay up,” she retorted. 

Itachi took off his coat, hung it neatly by the door, along with his hat. He stared Obito in the eyes as he walked past but said nothing. And then he sat in one of the black sofas by the window. His face glowing pink from the neon signs blinking outside. 

Madara walked over to Obito. Rubbing a rough hand through his hair.

“Looking pretty good,” he chuckled. Obito glared up at him. 

“I also fed him. So you have absolutely no reason to bitch at me tonight, Madara,” Sakura then added. She gestured to Tenten who pulled a box of cigarettes out of her pocket. She offered one to Sakura, who placed it in her mouth. Sakura’s thumb flicked over the wheel of the lighter a few times before the flame caught. The paper sizzling quietly as smoke curled around her lips. 

Their eyes met. Tenten’s upper lip curling. Sakura almost snorted.

Madara pointed at Itachi, his smile as insincere as could be.

“Well, one reason to bitch,” he corrected her.

Sakura’s gaze flickered to Itachi, then back to Madara.

“None. He’s here because he needs to be,” she stated. Enunciating each syllable. Precise. Crisp.

She blew a ring of smoke out. Watching it drift up toward the ceiling.

Sakura slid off the desk, heels tapping. She settled into the leather armchair facing away from the window. One leg crossing over the other. Her eyes gleaming. 

“Have a seat, Madara. Let’s have a nice chat.”

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii (here) | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)

[occasionalfics]

Cross the Stars, part XV

part xiv, part xvi

A/N: I’m not sure how to word a trigger warning for this part, but it does get a bit disturbing.

Summary: The meeting with the Krylorians spares Peter Quill, but at Indriza’s expense.

Words: 2,922

~~~

The Krylorian clothes that the concierge brought up for the meeting are tight, itchy, and dull. Indriza hates the way the skirt flows out from her knees but causes her thighs to rub together whenever she moves. The top is ill-fitting - the President has, apparently misjudged her measurements. The cropped bottom of the monochrome top sticks itself far into her midsection when she sits, as does the top of the skirt. Thankfully, the shoes that had been brought from her are so far from the right size that she was forced to wear her boots - her only other consolation besides her hair. To offset the discomfort the outfit gave her, as well as the heat of the planet, Indriza decided to put her hair in a coiled bun on top of her head, pinned into place as carefully as she could manage.

Yondu looks twice as uncomfortable in his suit. It seems to be made of the same terrible fabric her outfit is made of, but at least it’s not quite as tight. It covers more of his body, though; the sleeves come all the way down to his wrists, the trousers all the way down to his ankles, and his undershirt seems to be three times as thick as anything else he normally wears. It’s clear that he is not used to going undercover, and while Indriza hasn’t done it in a while or ever did it frequently, she can at least draw from experience to appear comfortable.

The board room is long, with a single table down the center of it and windows at one end. The President sits facing the windows, her advisors and counsellors on her right. Yondu is directly to her left, Indriza beside him, Kraglin and Tulk next to her. They are the only four from the crew dressed for the meeting, but only a few others are present, standing by the doors at ease. Peter is back at the penthouse; Indriza insisted he be left with two guards inside the room and two outside.

She knows why she is there, even if the rest of the crew doesn’t. Kraglin does, Yondu does, it’s possible that Tulk does, but otherwise, the rest of the Elector men most likely wonder why she takes precedence over them. They don’t know that that is by request of the Krylorians, not Yondu himself. It was the Krylorians, after all, who provided her the uncomfortable costume, who wanted her genes and biology to create clones.

“Thank you for joining us,” the President says to no one in particular. “I believe we have a deal to broker?” She looks directly at Yondu then.

He is sitting too straight, and his hand in Indriza’s is too tight. She lets it be, though, because she knows he needs the subtle support.

He clears his throat and nods. “I believe so, Madam President,” he says, going slowly to pronounce each word carefully. “We been led to believe you might have technology that could help us out.”

The President nods. “I mean no offense,” she says, “but I wonder why a ravager, like yourself, did not first try to take the technology for yourself. We on Krylor are not accustomed to benevolent ravagers, after all.”

“My men follow my orders,” he responds.

Indriza wonders how much he’s thought this through. Clearly more than she’d given him credit for.

“They go where I tell’em. Due to recent circumstances, I’ve not been able to...freely leave my ship as I would like. I’ve not been given the opportunity or the intel to make the trip out here for the technology myself, and so neither have my crew.”

The President nods politely. Her advisors sit still and inquisitive.

“For what it’s worth, I appreciate the honesty, Yondu Udonta,” she says. “But now that you have heard the rumor of our technology, I wonder why you need it, and what your terms are for its acquisition.”

He looks at Indriza briefly. She smiles softly at him and squeezes his hand, reminding him that she is there for him, should he need her to intervene. So is Kraglin, and even Tulk if they needed him.

When he turns back to the President, he says, “We - myself and Indriza, here - are fugitives.”

He pauses, and Indriza waits for the counsel to react. They make no sign of emotion. The President, however, takes in a sharp breath and looks at Yondu with wide eyes.

“Stakar Ogord, the leader of the United Ravager Factions, wants us. We’ve been in hidin’ for months. We wan- need your technology to grant ourselves freedom from his bounty.”

“A bounty?” the President asks.

Indriza’s heart sinks. She forces herself to focus on her breathing, but her mind is racing with thoughts of betrayal. Images of Omara from her nightmares appear before her - there she is, across the room, blaster pointed at Indriza, a ravenous look in her dark, terrifying glare. But Indriza blinks, and she is gone. Yondu squeezes her hand.

He nods. “Been after me fer some time, I have’ta admit.”

“But- why?” the President asks.

Indriza stares at the side of Yondu’s head, hoping her glare will come across to him. He cannot tell the President about Peter. They are the only two souls that know the whole story, and it needs to stay that way. Forever. For Peter’s sake.

“I’m an exile of the United,” Yondu admits. “Made some bad mistakes in my past, and now I’m payin’ for ‘em. Indriza just chose to believe that there’s more to the story than she heard is all.”

“Is there more to the story?” the President asks.

Yondu shrugs. “Maybe not enough to have a bounty over her head,” he says. “We wanna disappear as we are now. We want freedom.”

“And what price are you willing to pay for freedom?” the President asks.

Indriza sighs. Yondu looks at her, and she knows he expects her to say the words. She nods.

“We’ve heard Krylorians are interested in harvesting genetics of rare species, with the hopes of conserving and even recreating those species,” she says, resisting the urge to shift in her seat.

“We are,” the President says. “Though we find few specimens are willing to endure our tests and experiments.”

Yondu chuckles, but says nothing. He shakes his head, but is largely ignored.

“Perhaps you haven’t found specimens as desperate for freedom as we are, Madam President. Yondu and I, and the child, we’ve been cooped up for too long. None of us are creatures who survive long in one place, when we have a crew to support.”

“I can’t imagine that the Elector is easy to tire of, given its size,” the President says.

“Perhaps, to someone who has somewhere else to go at the end of the day. Or week. Or month, in our case. Madam President, Yondu and I are... willing to submit to your experiments in exchange for disguises that will outlast our bounties. Three of them, of course, though we ask that Peter not be notified of the terms or subjected to experimentation.” For more than one reason, she thinks. She can only imagine what would happen if the President were to find out he was born of a Celestial.

“We do not often find two people so willing to take the responsibility of another in exchange for our services,” the President says. “But we also do not believe in subjecting children to anything too dangerous. You want three disguises, one for each of you and one for the child, and you expect us to take payment for two?”

“I’ll take Pete’s place,” Kraglin says beside Indriza.

She turns to look at him and wants to shake her head, but doesn’t. Not when so much already hangs in the balance.

“There are plenty Xandarians in the galaxy,” the President says. “What do you have to offer us?”

No one has an answer. Kraglin shrugs. Indriza is reminded of just how young he is. His pride, his loyalty to Yondu, and his youth are speaking for him, she knows. She’s seen Omara be there before. But it will get them nowhere.

“Madam President,” someone says.

Indriza looks across the table to see one of the counsellors bent forward, facing the President.

“We have before us an opportunity, I believe, to study the genetic makeup of our ancestors,” they say, turning then to glance at Indriza.

So does everyone else in the room. She wants to groan, but holds her breath to keep from making noise. That just has to come up, doesn’t it? she thinks.

The President nods just slightly. “That still does not make up for three disguises,” she says.

“Does it not?” another counsellor says. “Think of the possibilities her biology bring, Madam.”

Indriza grasps Yondu’s hand as tightly as she can manage. This is exactly the kind of thing she wanted to avoid. They are giving the Krylorians all they need to have control of the Axion rebirth so that they may hide from her sister. Her stomach hurts; her head is hot and spinning; her throat is dry and she feels about to burst.

Think of Peter, she tells herself. He was so happy to see a pool - something so trivial in the grand scheme of the galaxy, but so important to a child who’s been locked on a metal hunk for months. He could have the childhood she desperately wants to give him for the price of allowing the Krylorians to do as they please with her genes.

The President lifts her head and lets her smile spread. “Of course,” she says. “We’ve been waiting almost two decades for an Axion to happen upon us, with the hope that we may be able to recreate the race.”

Indriza can’t tell if the President is being too honest on purpose or not. She wants to run, to get back on the Elector and live out her days in bed with Yondu and Allura, not worrying about anything else ever again.

“I suppose I cannot turn down this offer,” the President says. “Three disguises for two willing specimens, one Axion. Yondu Udonta, you have yourself a deal.” She holds her hand out to him.

He doesn’t smile back as he shakes her hand. The counsellors stand and cheer, but the ravagers are quiet and demure.

Indriza lets go. Of everything. She stands from her seat and leaves the boardroom, heading for the magnetic lift. Her mind is blank except for thoughts of her sister, her mother, her father, her brother - her whole family, large and mostly gone. Their shadows follow her as she steps through the lobby of the hotel, their mouths wide as if to scream at her, but no sound comes out. She knows that they’re calling her a traitor to her people in any case.

She steps on the hem of her skirt, stops, and bends to examine the awful fabric. The end is ripped from where her boot tore it, so she continues the rip all the way up to her mid-thigh, then continues her walk. The lift is open, as if waiting for her, so she steps in, goes to the back, and waits for the doors to close before turning and leaning against the wall. Then she bends forward, for she hears the screams of the shadows now, in this small room with no windows and only one sliding door that won’t open until they arrive at the penthouse.

She covers her ears. The screams are so loud, reverberating off of the metal walls around her.

HOW DARE YOU

TRAITOR

PIRATE

EXILE

YOU’VE SOILED THE AXION NAME

YOU’VE TAINED THE AXION BLOOD

UNGRATEFUL MISCREANT

DISGUSTING EXCUSE OF A RAVAGER

That last one is in Omara’s voice, high and piercing. She falls to the floor, but Omara is everywhere.

YOU LEFT ME

YOU LEFT THE UNITED

FOR WHAT?

THIS FILTH, THIS UNWORHTY BASTARD AND HIS TRAITOROUS PLANS

HE WANTS TO DESTROY AXION

HE WANTS TO TAINT US

YOU LEFT ME

YOU DESERTED ME, INDRIZA

HOW COULD YOU FUCKING DO THAT

Indriza is screaming now, too. She doesn’t know the doors have opened. She doesn’t know they won’t close until her weight is gone. She doesn’t know that Peter is in the room with his guards, listening to her glass-shattering screams, running to find her. She doesn’t see any of them, doesn’t here Peter calling to her as she’s lifted out of the lift by one of the guards. She doesn’t feel their rough hands on her as they carry her back to the penthouse, or the gentle leather as they lay her on the couch. She is writhing, but Peter is holding her as still as he can. She doesn’t notice him lay on the couch with her and wrap his arms around her. She doesn’t feel him constricting her movements, but she does stop moving. Her screaming does not cease, however.

“Driza!” Peter yells, but nothing stops her.

“I’M SORRY I’M SORRY I SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT I SHOULD HAVE WATCHED I SHOULD HAVE STAYED I SHOULD HAVE REPENTED I’M SORRY,” she yells to no one and everyone.

And then, without warning, her ears are assaulted. No, they’re covered. Soft, spongy material is over them, and then music is coming through them into her head, driving out her family and their terrible noises. Her own yelling stops abruptly as she lets the angry music fill her. Her throat hurts. The sun is out, still. The room is bright and there are freckles in her line of view. She is breathing heavily when she looks down at Peter, his hands around her again, his headphones on her head.

He gives her a few minutes to calm down. Before the song has ended, Peter removes one of the headphones and says, “It’s called Cherry Bomb. It makes me feel better when I’m angry.”

She isn’t angry. She’s terrified and disappointed. She hates herself for what she’s done, but when she looks into his eyes, she remembers that she’s done it for him. For Peter. He is defenseless without the crew, without her and Yondu. They did what they had to do to protect him, just as Yondu has always done.

She closes her eyes and sighs, removing an arm from his grasp. With it, Indriza wraps him in her embrace and holds the child to her chest. She feels like crying, but doesn’t. She’s not sure what he’s seen of her, but she knows he doesn’t need to see more.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him, placing a kiss on the top of his head.

Peter cuddles up to her. He is warm now, too, the comfortable warm she loves. His breaths against her skin are slow and calming, and he is alive. Soon, he will be free. She will, too. And Yondu. They will be the family she wants them to be, and they won’t have to worry about Omara or Stakar Ogord.

Indriza falls asleep that way, with Peter in her arms, his music blasting in her ears. She doesn’t know when Yondu comes back, or when he moves her to the bedroom they mean to share, or when it gets dark, but eventually she wakes, just briefly enough to see him holding her.

Someone has changed her into night clothes. Her head is against his chest, his arms around her. He’s not sleeping - she can tell by his uneven breathing, the clicks of his tongue every so often.

“I’m sorry, Driza,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want it to go that way. Ya knew it would, and I let it happen anyway.”

She puts a palm against his stomach. “We had to,” she says. “For us. For Peter. He is so good, Yondu. Much better than us. He needs this.”

“I know,” he says. “Just wish things were differ’nt.”

“How?” she asks, looking up at him. “If you’d taken Peter to Ego, he’d be dead by now. Or worse, since we don’t know what Ego was planning. Or is.”

“Maybe I could’a taken’im to Stakar,” he says. “Maybe he’d’a understood.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But you thought you were doing the right thing by hiding him. If too many people know about him-”

“Stakar might know ‘nyway. Yer sister knows. She could’a told ‘em.”

She is frozen for a moment then. He is right. When they’d first met, when she’d made her first mistake, so had he. She thought she could lure him into a trap for more units, and he’d spoken far too easily about Peter’s heritage. But there was no going back. She knows that, too.

“We’re the only family he has, Yondu. We have to do anything we can to keep him safe.”

She wonders how foreign this must be, as a concept, to Yondu. Indriza grew up with a family, and had tried to keep it in tact for as long as she could. She’d led the Axion faction with compassion in her heart. Her mission was to spare those that needed sparing and steal from those who could afford to lose. But Yondu… He led one of the most cantankerous factions in the galaxy. He was ruthless - he had to be, to keep his men loyal to him. He had to show very little emotion, had to care very little for anyone but himself. Except around their family.

“I know,” he says, then kisses her. “Just wish it was differ’nt, is all.”

[pamphletstoinspire]

THE PROPHECY OF Habacuc or Habakkuk - From The Latin Vulgate Bible

Chapter 2

INTRODUCTION.

Habacuc was a native of Bezocher, and prophesied in Juda some time before the invasion of the Chaldeans, which he foretold. He lived to see this prophecy fulfilled, and for many years after, according to the general opinion, which supposes him to be the same that was brought by the angel to Daniel, in Babylon, Daniel xvi. (Challoner) --- He might very well live to see the captives return, as only sixty-six years elapsed from the first of Joakim, when he began to prophesy, till that event. He retired at the approach of the Chaldeans, and afterwards employed himself in agricultural pursuits. (Calmet) --- The sins of Juda, the coming of the Chaldeans, and the relaxation of the captivity are specified; and in the canticle, the appearance of Christ, the last judgment and eternity, (Worthington) are mentioned in the most sublime style. (Haydock)

Chapter 2

The prophet is admonished to wait with faith. The enemies of God's people shall assuredly be punished.

1 I will stand upon my watch, and fix my foot upon the tower: and I will watch, to see what will be said to me, and what I may answer to him that reproveth me.

Notes & Commentary:

Ver. 1. Will stand, &c. Waiting to see what the Lord will answer to my complaint, viz., that the Chaldeans, who are worse than the Jews, and who attribute all their success to their own strength, or to their idols, should nevertheless prevail over the people of the Lord. The Lord's answer is, that the prophet must wait with patience and faith; that all should be set right in due time; and the enemies of God and his people punished according to their deserts. (Challoner) --- The prophet speaks, waiting for a further revelation, (Worthington) not seeing before the reasons of Providence in permitting the wicked to prosper. (Haydock) (Psalm lxxii. 17. --- He is informed that the kings of Babylon, (ver. 5, 8.) Juda, (ver. 11) Tyre, (ver. 14) and Egypt, (ver. 18) and all who trust in idols, shall suffer, ver. 19. Hereupon the judgments of God are pronounced just. (Calmet) --- Tower. Aquila, &c., "circle." The ancient Jews say Habacuc formed a circle, out of which he would not stir till he was satisfied, (Kimchi) as Popilius did. (V. Max. vi. 4.) (Daniel xi. 29.) (Calmet)

2 And the Lord answered me, and said: Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables: that he that readeth it may run over it.

Ver. 2. Over it. It shall be so legible (Haydock) any one may hear or take a copy. (Calmet)

3 For as yet the vision is far off, and it shall appear at the end, and shall not lie: if it make any delay, wait for it: for it shall surely come, and it shall not be slack.

Ver. 3. Slack. That which happens at the time fixed is not. (Worthington) --- Hebrew, "the vision is for an appointed time." Habacuc might live to see the conquest and downfall of Nabuchodonosor. Many think that the first and second coming of Christ (Hebrews x. 36., and Romans i. 17.) are here insinuated, as the dominion of the aforesaid king represented the slavery of mankind under the devil, and the liberty granted by Cyrus was a type of their redemption. The felicity of the Jews is the last event which the prophet specifies, and this is here the literal sense. (St. Cyril) (Calmet)

4 Behold, he that is unbelieving, his soul shall not be right in himself: but the just shall live in his faith.

Ver. 4. Unbelieving. Protestants, "lifted up." (Haydock) --- The king's vain projects shall fail. Roman Septuagint, "If he withdraw himself, my soul shall not have pleasure in him. But my just man shall live by my faith." Others read with St. Paul, "my just man shall live by faith," Hebrews x. 38. (Calmet) --- The source of content arises from faith, (without which this life would be a sort of death, as the apostle and St. Augustine, Trinity xiv. 12., &c., observe) because it is the beginning of life by grace, which the works of the law could not otherwise confer, Galatians iii. (Worthington) --- The Hebrew will admit the sense of the Septuagint and we ought rather to shew this in passages which the authors of the New Testament quote, than to excuse them. Here their version seems preferable to that given by moderns, ecce elata est, non recta anima ejus in eo, the drift of which who can guess? Beza has acted unfairly, "at si quis se subduxerit non est gratum animo meo;" whereas the text speaks of the "just man," as Theophylactus observes. "Hence all who know his theological opinions, may see how suspicious his translation must be accounted." (Pearson, pref. Sept.) (Haydock)

5 And as wine deceiveth him that drinketh it: so shall the proud man be, and he shall not be honoured: who hath enlarged his desire like hell: and is himself like death, and he is never satisfied: but will gather together unto him all nations, and heap together unto him all people.

Ver. 5. As wine deceiveth, &c. viz., by affording only a short passing pleasure, followed by the evils and disgrace that are the usual consequences of drunkenness: so shall it be with the proud enemies of the people of God, whose success affordeth them only a momentary pleasure, followed by innumerable and everlasting evils. (Challoner) --- Hebrew, "but as the proud man prevaricates in wine, he shall not succeed." Baltassar's reign was short. (Vatable; De Dieu.) --- Nabuchodonosor saw himself reduced to the meanest condition. --- Hell. He is insatiable, Proverbs xxx. 16. (Calmet) --- Æstuat infelix (Alex.) augusto limite mundi. (Juv.[Juvenal?] x.)

6 Shall not all these take up a parable against him, and a dark speech concerning him: and it shall be said: Wo to him that heapeth together that which is not his own? how long also doth he load himself with thick clay?

Ver. 6. Parable. Literally, "marvel," or wonderful speech; parabolam. --- Dark. Protestants, "a taunting proverb;" (Haydock) when Nabuchodonosor became like a beast, and his empire was soon after divided. (Calmet) --- Clay. Ill-gotten goods, that like mire both burden and defile the soul. (Challoner) --- Gold and silver are only a sort of earth, Job xxvi. 16., and Zacharias ix. 2. Habacuc does not even name riches, out of contempt. Some think (Calmet) that he alludes to the grave. People prayed for their deceased friend: Sit tibi terra levis. (Drusius)

7 Shall they not rise up suddenly that shall bite thee: and they be stirred up that shall tear thee, and thou shalt be a spoil to them?

Ver. 7. Bite, like worms in the grave. Cyrus will overturn the kingdom. The Rabbins pretend that Evilmerodac caused his father's body to be cut in pieces for the crows, lest he should return again. (Calmet)

8 Because thou hast spoiled many nations, all that shall be left of the people shall spoil thee: because of men's blood, and for the iniquity of the land, of the city, and of all that dwell therein.

Ver. 8. Blood. For cruelty, avarice, &c., the Chaldeans shall be ruined. (Worthington) --- City, different from that land of the Arabs, who dwell under tents. This city may denote Jerusalem, Babylon, &c.

9 Wo to him that gathereth together an evil covetousness to his house, that his nest may be on high, and thinketh he may be delivered out of the hand of evil.

Ver. 9. Wo. This is commonly understood of Nabuchodonosor; but it seems rather to designate Joakim, (Jeremias xxii. 13.) whose injustice scandalized the prophet. (Calmet)

10 Thou hast devised confusion to thy house, thou hast cut off many people, and thy soul hath sinned.

Ver. 10. House. Thinking to establish thy family for ever, thou hast proved its ruin by avarice, &c. (Worthington) --- This is applied to Nabuchodonosor, but may be as well explained of Joakim, who oppressed his people, and was cast out like an ass. (Calmet)

11 For the stone shall cry out of the wall: and the timber that is between the joints of the building, shall answer.

Ver. 11. Timber. Hebrew, "caphis (Septuagint, the insect kantharos) from the wood shall answer." (Haydock) --- The signification of the Hebrew term is unknown. It was customary to place beams of wood after some courses of stone, to strengthen the building, 3 Kings vi. 36. (Calmet) --- The crimes were so crying, that if men were silent the very stones would publish them. (Menochius)

12 Wo to him that buildeth a town with blood, and prepareth a city by iniquity.

Ver. 12. Wo. This might be explained of Nabuchodonosor; but we rather understand the king of Tyre, whose pride was intolerable, Ezechiel xxviii. It seems useless to repeat so often the same threats against one king. (Calmet)

13 Are not these things from the Lord of hosts? for the people shall labour in a great fire: and the nations in vain, and they shall faint.

Ver. 13. Things, &c. That is, shall not these punishments that are here recorded come from the Lord upon him that is guilty of such crimes? (Challoner) or, are not these riches from the Lord? The king of Tyre thought himself a god, Ezechiel xxviii. 2. (Calmet) --- People; enemies of God's people. (Challoner) --- The riches of the Tyrians shall perish, so that the troops of Nabuchodonosor shall find nothing worth their trouble. Thus all were justly punished.

14 For the earth shall be filled, that men may know the glory of the Lord, as waters covering the sea.

Ver. 14. Sea. The land and naval forces attacked Tyre. (Calmet) --- Vast multitudes came against Babylon. (Menochius) --- The punishment of the wicked will cause many to adore and to fear the Lord. (Haydock)

15 Wo to him that giveth drink to his friend, and presenteth his gall, and maketh him drunk, that he may behold his nakedness.

Ver. 15. Wo. All this may refer to the king of Egypt, who deceived Joakim, Sedecias, &c. (Calmet) --- Septuagint, "O, he who giveth drink to his neighbour, a cruel overthrow, and who maketh," &c. --- Nakedness. Septuagint, "caverns;" deluding him, so that his places of retreat become useless. (Haydock) --- The Jews relate that Sedecias was intoxicated, and then acted with indecency. (St. Jerome) --- But these accounts deserve little credit.

16 Thou art filled with shame instead of glory: drink thou also, and fall fast asleep: the cup of the right hand of the Lord shall compass thee, and shameful vomiting shall be on thy glory.

Ver. 16. Glory. Egypt shall suffer at last, Isaias xix. 14., Jeremias xliii., &c. It was customary to hand the cup about, Jeremias xxv. 17., and Matthew xxvi. 27. (Calmet)

17 For the iniquity of Libanus shall cover thee, and the ravaging of beasts shall terrify them, because of the blood of men, and the iniquity of the land, and of the city, and of all that dwell therein.

Ver. 17. Libanus. That is, the iniquity committed by the Chaldeans against the temple of God, signified here by the name of Libanus. (Challoner) --- Egypt had persuaded the governor of Cœlosyria and the Jews to revolt, and then abandoned them. --- Beasts, which were adored in Egypt. Those who explain all of the Chaldeans are much perplexed, understanding the army of Cyrus, or the oppressed nations, or subjects to be meant. (Calmet) --- And of. Hebrew, "land of the city," as [in] ver. 8.

18 What doth the graven thing avail, because the maker thereof hath graven it, a molten, and a false image? because the forger thereof hath trusted in a thing of his own forging, to make dumb idols.

Ver. 18. Thing, Protestants falsely, "image." (Haydock) --- This is addressed to all idolaters.

19 Wo to him that saith to wood: Awake: to the dumb stone: Arise: can it teach? Behold, it is laid over with gold, and silver, and there is no spirit in the bowels thereof.

Ver. 19. No explanation given.

20 But the Lord is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before him.

Ver. 20. Temple. Hebrew, "palace," or heaven. House is generally put for the temple. --- Silence, out of respect, &c. The guards of the eastern princes observe the utmost silence and modesty. God is very different from idols. He is the arbiter of life and death. (Calmet) --- Silence often denotes subjection, 1 Machabees i. 3. (Menochius)

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Die Revolution ist wie Saturn, sie frißt ihre eignen Kinder. (Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.) — Georg Büchner (1813–1837), German dramatist, revolutionary This well known pronouncement occurs in the German dramatist’s play Dantons Tod (Danton’s Death), and refers to the rapid destruction of a succession of leaders of the French Revolution:  Jean-Paul Marat, assassinated in his bathtub in 1793; Georges Danton, guillotined in April 1794;  Maximilien Robespierre, executed in July 1794. It is sometimes applied to the aftermath of the Russian Revolution, and the destruction of Grigory Zinoviev (executed 1936), Lev Kamenev (executed 1936), Nikolai Bukharin (executed 1938), Leon Trotsky (assassinated in exile, 1940), etc. Or it’s applied to the Chinese Revolution, and the political fates of Peng Dehuai, Liu Shaoqi, Lin Biao, Deng Xiaoping, etc. (These were not executed but merely purged; Lin was shot down over Mongolia in 1971 as he tried to flee to the Soviet Union.) It’s too big and dramatic a concept to apply to the electoral triumph of Donald Trump (surely not a “revolution” in a world-historical sense but nevertheless a shock to the world) and its pathetic aftermath. Still, the passage keeps occurring to me as I observe the new president’s already conspicuous penchant for humiliating, insulting and dismissing his subordinates. Having no party apparatus firmly behind him, he sees himself as the leader of a mass movement whose dreams are embodied in his person, empowering him to act recklessly. The sudden announcement via tweet that the U.S. military would no longer allow transgender people to serve, throwing the Pentagon, which has unproblematically implemented the new rules has thousands of transgender people in uniform, into consternation. (Surely there are generals who agree with Trump, and they love the free license he gives them to bomb Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria using their own discretion—because they are “wonderful”—but they may find it disturbing that the man makes these announcements without real consultation.) (Breaking news: Joint Chief of Staff chair Gen. Joe Dunford just announced that JCS had not been informed in advance about the surprise announcement, and would, in fact, make no changes as a result of the tweet, until further instructions.) Louis XIV is alleged to have declared, L’état, c’est moi. (I am the state.) Trump has said more outrageous things, like he could shoot down people on Fifth Avenue and get away with it (because people love him so much). Just his strange sense of humor, you say? He is in any case ignorant of the bounds between his mind (due to those good genes he boasts of, and his awesome education) and the state. He seems confused about the division of powers established by the Constitution. His tweets support the thesis one psychiatrist has publicly asserted: he is not merely a narcissist, which is quite obvious to all, but a malignant one. Trump’s attacks via tweets on Jeff Sessions, his own choice for Attorney General leave the latter’s survival in his post in serious doubt. He may well be replaced by someone who’s pledged personal loyalty to the president and agrees in advance to fire special prosecutor Robert Mueller, who’s investigating the “Russian election hacking.” Tim Wiener says this would produce a “Saturday Night Massacre” à la Nixon’s firing of Archibald Cox in October 1973. Now, having brought in Anthony Scaramucci as White House Communications Director, an appointment opposed by his press secretary, that tragicomical Sean Spicer, now driven out, replaced by Sarah Huckabee Sanders, who cannot stay long at the job. SNL will savagely satirize her for taking up press conference time to read letters from 9-year-old boys to Trump, praising him. Scaramucci—not to be confused with the figure Scaramuccia (“little skirmisher”) in early modern Italian theater—is now openly revealing that the West Wing is divided, and that some people are leaking to the press. He even suggests Trump’s chief of staff, Reince Priebus, might be leaking. Think of the prospect of the White House Communications Director driving out the White House Chief-of-Staff. What does this tell you about Trump the executive’s personnel choices? Does he hire people to fire them because it gives him pleasure? (Arguably that’s what his Apprentice reality show was all about. Him firing people, receiving mass adoration for his tough decision-making. A businessman, role model and hero for the humble! I liken the appeal of that show to the appeal of register counter tabloids which induce normal Americans to concern themselves with details of British royals’ lives. A fascination with power by the powerless, seeking some sort of mental escape.) Meanwhile inter-familial conflicts are perhaps emerging. Both son Don Jr. and son-in-law Jared—vital props to Trump practically and psychologically, and with Ivanka the main mediators between him and the world outside the Tower—are being questioned about that June 6 meeting last year. Jared states he never read the email from his brother-in-law with so routine a subject line as: “Re: Russia – Clinton – private and confidential” but just attended the meeting at Junior’s invitation. What if their testimonies conflict? What if Kushner, unlike Don a White House official, comes under renewed scrutiny, forcing his father-in-law to fire him? How would his inseparable Ivanka respond to that? What will Trump’s supporters think if the shriveling Trump Revolution devours his own children? Don’t get me wrong. I’ll be happy if the Trump regime implodes due to its internal contradictions. I suppose it would be followed by an extremely unpopular Pence administration that will have even less support, at least from youth. In the meantime, a combination of factors have weakened the U.S. ability or inclination to wage war on North Korea, provoke confrontation in the South China Sea, ratchet up tensions with Russia in Ukraine and Syria, provoke Iran, or determine the futures of Afghanistan and Iraq (which have diversified their partnerships). The world would be a more dangerous place had Hillary won. For the moment, let Trump be Trump.  And let him devour his movement’s children in full public view. Two, three, many Spicers! Some will love him all the more for this. (They will reason: it shows strength to fire people, even to drive out serving military because of their sexual identity.) Caligula and Nero were, after all, both popular among the Roman masses; they gave them games in the Colosseum, with lots of bloody spectacles, and infrastructure projects like public baths.  You can be cruel and mentally ill and still maintain your political base. But maybe more people will see his hiring and firing decisions, the bedrock of his media personality, as alarming and strange, indicating an unhinged, dangerous personality. 42% of those polled by Politico last week are already supporting impeachment, matched by 42% who oppose it. Most people respond instinctively against the abuse of power to sadistically intimidate subordinates. As the house of cards falls apart, more people will (perhaps) realize how delusional it was from the beginning. The worst thing would be the ascent of a Napoleon in the wake of regime collapse, and righteous war on the world to “defend our freedoms” or something. http://clubof.info/

[francetaste]

One of those serendipitous moments happened recently as I wiped down a new old sofa and otherwise puttered in the apartment that overlooks the courtyard.

In order to not lose my mind–actually to lose myself inside my mind–while doing uninteresting or unpleasant tasks, I listen to podcasts. No amount of mindfulness is going to make me all zen about mopping the floor or sorting laundry or running (or sewing!). I want to get the job done with minimal pain, and the best analgesic is one that makes me think about something else, the more esoteric, the better. Sometimes I do not want to focus on what I am doing. At all.

The first to entertain me was Lauren Bastide, with the most wonderful, we’re-there-in-the-room conversation with Amandine Gay (“La Poudre“).  I was riveted by pieces about the new movie “Tower” and the decline of Lancaster, Pennsylvania (both on “Fresh Air,” which has the greatest interviewer ever, Terry Gross). I discovered Lady Lamb (thanks to “On Point”). People talked about medical mysteries (TED Radio Hour). But then I had no more podcasts left in my feed.

So I switched to the NPR One app, which is like a slot machine for podcasts, except that you never lose. They themselves call it Pandora for public radio–more PG-rated than a slot machine. First I got the founders of Kate Spade talking about how they got started (on “How I Built This“)–a logical progression because both Ted Radio Hour and How I Built This are hosted by Guy Raz, who has the most unbelievable name ever. Then the app decided I needed to hear a show I was unfamiliar with, called “Stuff You Missed in History Class.” WTF? HOW DID THEY KNOW????

I was mostly an A+ student, but I have no idea how  I pulled it off in history (my only non-A’s were in gym class–C. “She never makes trouble” was the only nice thing the gym teacher found to say about me, year after year. Yes, I saw my old report cards not long ago). Those dates…they just wouldn’t adhere to my brain cells, even though I am a math lover and have no trouble memorizing zip codes and country dialing codes. However, it didn’t work with history. And it’s too bad, because I have come to love history, though I still don’t remember the dates. I treat dates in history the way I treat recipes–approximations are good enough. Freudian analysis would probably figure it out, but that would take too much time and effort. And anyway, all I really care about are the stories.

The history podcast was about another momentous women’s march–on Versailles! And there I was, on my knees, rubbing an ammonia solution into a Louis XVI sofa to strip it of all traces of its very charming former owner. Louis XVI! The one getting marched on in that very podcast!

An aside here to discuss the fine lady who was getting rid of her sofa. She was suffering from back pain and was going for an operation any day now, though that didn’t stop her from grabbing the coffee table and rolling up the carpet in front of the sofa–the Carnivore and I were going nuts trying to stop her but she was as quick as butter on a hot skillet. She stood about to my shoulder, which, considering I’m short, is nothing. I bet she didn’t weigh 40 kilos. A wisp of a woman.

As the Carnivore manipulated our neighbor’s camionette (a kind of enclosed pickup that’s very common in France) into her driveway, I chatted with Madame about life. The conversation quickly turned to death. She explained that she was keeping one of the armchairs that matched the sofa because it had been her mother’s, who had lived with her before dying. She then segued to her husband, who died suddenly, in his sleep, not long ago (which might have been a few years, I wasn’t sure). Trying to comfort her, I told her that my parents had died recently, relatively quickly, and in light of what I’d seen, I think the quicker the better. I am not alone in this. When I was leaving my post as a teacher in Africa, my students collected messages for me, and one sweet student wished me “a happy family, a happy life and a quick death!”

Madame grasped my arm and said, “Chut!” (Shush!) But then she went on anyway, and we talked about how a slow death does prepare the survivors for the idea that the loved one would be no longer, while a quick death is probably nicer for the person dying but a shock for the family.

This lady was selling some things in her finely furnished (“j’étais décoratrice!”) little house in order to move in with or near to her daughter, who had married an Italian and had followed him to Milan (she contorted her small, thin face at this, as if she had bitten into a spoiled fruit). First an operation on her back in France, then a new life in Italy. I felt sorry for her, abandoning all the stuff that reminded her of happier times–for some people, stuff is an end unto itself, a way to achieve some kind of status, but for others it is a totem of people or memories of happy times, and, though I knew her but for less than an hour, I think that, even if years ago she was in the former category, she now was in the latter). Plus, the weather in Milan is pretty crappy,  compared with Aude.

Back to the furniture. The sofa is, obviously, a reproduction of Louis XVI. He’s better known as the husband of Marie Antoinette. I say “obviously” because it’s a sofa-bed, a technology that came somewhat later than the late 1700s. Madame said she bought it in Revel, which is a hub for marquetry and fine furniture making. Considering how heavy it is, I believe her.

Louis XVI came after 15 other Louis (Louises?), the first of whom appeared in 814 A.D. The first Louis had a tough act to follow: Charlemagne. There were LOTS of other kings before the first Louis (who was known as both “the pious” AND “the debonaire”!!!!! How did he manage that?), but they had names like Chilperic and Childeric and Chlothar and Dagobert. (You should know that in some places–like Belgium–a dagobert is not unlike a Dagwood sandwich, giving the mitraillet a run for the money.)

The later Louis (Louises?) became known for their interior décors. We won’t spend time on the earliest ones. Louis II, aka “the stutterer”!! Too bad he didn’t see “The King’s Speech.” There also were Louis the Fat (they really weren’t politically correct in those times) and Louis the Young and Louis the Lion and St. Louis (the IX–9th–who built the “new” town of Carcassonne around 1260).  Then Louis X, aka the Quarreler; Louis XI, aka “the prudent, the cunning, the universal spider.” Sorry, but that one is The Best!!! Being Prudent, Cunning AND a Universal Spider? OMG. What a MAN! Or was he a superhero? But that was from 1461-1483. They don’t make them like they used to. Or maybe they do, except for the prudent part, and we are like flies stuck in a trap.

Louis XII was the “father of the people,” followed by a number of other-named monarchs, including Henri II, whose style was much-copied later.

Louis XIII (13th), aka “the Just,” was in the first half of the 1600s. We know that our apartments existed in 1624, though they might have been there earlier. (I will try to get to the bottom of this one day.) His style is known for lots of twists (torsades) and straight lines, which seems like a contradiction, eh?

Louis XIV was known as Louis the Great or the Sun King. Hard to beat that (though his great-grandson, Louis XV–“the Beloved”–seems to have). Fourteen ruled from 1643-1715 and built Versailles. Think glam.

And then we get to Louis XVI (we’re up to 16 here–seize in French, pronounced “says”), the “restorer of French liberty,” who ruled from 1774 to 1792. Note those dates! What happened just two years after 1774? Hmmm! An era of foment all over the place.

Marquetry

Having read “A Tale of Two Cities” (“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Sidney Carton: “It’s a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Did you, too, have to memorize that in high school?) and Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables” (“It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.”), I had an impression of the French Revolution as having been a bloody affair directed by perhaps well-meaning but vicious people like Madame Lafarge, Javert, Rousseau and Robespierre and that the revolution was at full swing from the moment the people stormed the Bastille on July 14, 1789, until the day Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette lost their heads on the guillotine in 1792. But in fact, the revolution started earlier and the king hung on for several years. Talks happened, spiced up by marches, including by nasty women.

Among the problems at the time, as “What You Missed in History Class” explains for us, were bad harvests, government deficits, over-taxation and illiquidity. It boiled down to the masses starving.

You must listen to the podcast to get all the details, but basically, people were fed up with not being fed. Call it a minimum wage issue. The podcasters express doubts that Louis XVI was actually evil incarnate or even just callous but instead suspect that he was way over his head and incompetent. In any case, a revolution was born.

Despite all that bad blood, Louis XVI’s style remains much-coveted today. OK, coveted among people who think that IKEA is great if you are 20 years old and on a small budget but then you should buy furniture that will last more than three years, and that proves it by having lasted already more than 100. Coveted by people who do not want to sit on backless benches at dinner. Who do not think that plastic chairs, even Eames, are chic or comfortable.

But how to keep your Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis straight? (And Louis is pronounced like Louie, not Lewis.) First of all, FirstDibs has a great explainer of the different Louis (Louises?). If you are just starting out, start here. Another great resource is the Metropolitan Museum of Art with essays on French chairs and 18th century French furniture more generally.

As the Louvre explains (and they should know), you have Louis XIV and the Regency from 1660-1725, then Rococo from 1725-1755, then classicism and the reign of Louis XVI from 1755-1790.

When I lived in Brussels and Paris was much closer than from where I am now in the deepest corner of rural France (which actually used to be Spain), I always partook of Les Journées de Patrimoine, in which many buildings of historical significance are opened to the public. Sometimes they are museums that drop their usual ticket charges, but the best are government or private buildings that otherwise are strictly off-limits. Once, I toured the Banc de France–like the Federal Reserve, especially because I visited before the euro–and was in a group of very well-dressed, impeccably coiffed, middle-aged Parisians. The kind of people known as bourgeois, or if younger as BCBG—bon chic, bon genre. I saw a couple, in nearly matching tweed suits (her in a skirt, him in trousers whose crease up until that moment had been razor-sharp), on their hands and knees looking at the underbelly of an antique gilded demi-lune console. It’s true there were amazing antiques in every direction, with computers and papers plonked on top.

Fit for a throne

The Carnivore is very sensitive about Louis (Louises?), and is partial to No. 16. He searched high and low for a toilet-paper holder that was in the style of Louis XVI. Even though according to this, toilet paper didn’t get cheap enough for the masses until much later. Far more impressive is the history given by ToiletPaperWorld, which mingles Stephen Crane, money and defecation. “French royalty used lace.” No wonder there was a revolution! (The delicacy of the terms the sites uses is an impressive exercise in euphemisms.)

I have seen references around the Internet to “Louis chairs,” to which I think, WHICH Louis? This alone should qualify me for French citizenship. But which Louis matters only if you’re paying top euro for what’s supposed to be the real thing, in which case, you had better know better. For everything else, “Louis” means something sorta French-antique-looking, probably Louis XVI.

All the same, I have seen how the French teach their young to know their Louis (Louises?). From the time our kid was in the equivalent of second grade, the whole memorize-your-kings thing started. Which is probably why, on a different tour during les Journées de Patrimoine, the docent told us the story of a beautifully painted stucco ceiling in the Marais of Paris, and several of the tour-goers objected vociferously to the dates and kings cited. I was dumbstruck to be in the middle of a heated argument about something that had happened 400 years earlier. At the same time, I was full of admiration, because I absolutely cannot remember such dates.

As for serendipity, what is one of the most beautiful and joyful words in the English language (in French, it’s “happy luck,” not nearly as fun a word as serendipity), algorithms and artificial intelligence are snatching it away from us. Serendipity is opening a newspaper and happening to spy something interesting and relevant. Serendipity is walking into a shop and finding just what you need on sale. Serendipity is running into a friend you haven’t seen in ages someplace unexpected (I once bumped into an old dance buddy from NY in the line for the opera in Rome). Now our news is filtered based on what we like, we shop online for things that are pushed to us, and we know where everybody we’ve ever met is at any moment.

Some of my greatest “aha” moments have been when I have read or listened to things that on the surface didn’t interest me in the least. But they were in publications or on programs that I knew did good work, so I gave them my time. And I was rarely disappointed. I never would have sought out “Stuff You Missed in History Class.” But it came to me, with a story that touched exactly on what I was doing.

Serendipity rules.

Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis One of those serendipitous moments happened recently as I wiped down a new old sofa and otherwise puttered in the apartment that overlooks the courtyard.

[marianadecarlos]

I came back for more habsburg talk . as usual ) not actually invested in spanish habsburgs but i really like the austrian ones .

Opinions about Maria Anna of Neuburg ? I actually really love her sister Eleonore Magdalene ( mainly known as the wife of Leopold I ) , she was so cool

Are you into Habsburgs apart from the classics™ . My favourite one is Francis II and Joseph II ... but eh i just guessed you were more into very early modern monarchs only ?

His second wife was Maria Anna or Mariana of Neuburg (she has the same name as Mariana of Austria, I wonder how they detour confusion every time someone pronounces their name)

Charles tried his best to respect her but Maria Anna was Selfish, ambitious, cold, and harsh. She cared more about her political ambition than Charles. She was only nice to Charles in public or when she needed something which led Charles to dislike her instantly. Maria Anna bonded with Mariana of Austria at first but that relationship quickly soured. These two have opposite views in terms of politics and personality. Maria Anna was jealous of her sister Eleonore Magdalene, She expressed her jealousy in her letters and complained to her parents how she wanted a bigger dowry, especially after finding out that Marie Louise of Orleans received a higher dowry than her. Her parents responded by telling her that Marie Louise had a bigger dowry when she was alive because her family is more powerful than theirs and if she wanted a bigger dowry, she must have a son. Maria Anna liked Leopold the first and always complimented him in her letters. The country at that time was suffering economically because of the Little Ice Age resulting in failing crops. Maria Anna stole expensive jewelry and money from the Royal treasury which made both Queen Mariana and Charles furious. She demanded a higher pension. Her attitude was unbearable for everyone. She was forced to sell her jewelry for the loans she owed and to maintain her luxury lifestyle. As years passed by Maria Anna failed to be pregnant. She was claimed to be pregnant on different occasions but no she never did. Charles then gave up hope for a child. Maria Anna’s and Queen Mariana's fights got worse, To the point that they personally insulted one another. In one of these fights, Maria Anna jabs personal insults at Queen Mariana, Queen Mariana responds by reminding Maria Anna that she became queen because of her. That fight was so heated that Charles had to interfere to defend his mother from her. In 1696, Charles’s mother Mariana of Austria passed away devastating him. For Maria Anna, She was happy because no one would interfere with her plans or she thought. With the death of Queen Mariana of Austria, Maria Anna now advanced into the political foreground. However, the Spanish court rejected her. After Mariana of Austria's death, she tried to distance Charles from his ministers and insert her influence on him. Charles and Maria Anna often argued about the succession. She wanted Archduke Charles (Leopold I's son) Her policies were not great resulting in riots in Madrid. The rioters entered the palace hoping to see the King and address their situation. She went to the balcony to address the people yet they did not listen. Charles II went to the balcony and the people apologized and asked him for forgiveness. Charles II responded "I apologize to you for not knowing your suffering much former"

Maria Anna and Charles contracted an illness resulting in them having to shave their heads and wearing wigs.

After Charles II died, she was exiled by Louis XIV in Bayonne. Louis XIV exiled her because Louis did not want her to have influence on Felipe V. She negotiated with Archduke Charles during the war of Spanish succession. Her years of exile are filled with loneliness. Maria Anna during those years felt alone. During her exile, she encountered her niece Elizabeth of Farnese. Her friendship with her niece was nice to read. She would give Elizabeth Farnese advice and express her concerns in letters. This friendship resulted in her returning to Spain where she gets to spend the rest of her life. Overall I feel bad for her because she was blamed for not providing Charles an Heir. At the same time, I did not like how she treated people, especially Charles. The only thing I like about Maria Anna is loyal to Charles and never sleeps with anyone else. She took care of him when he was ill.

2. I am into Habsburgs apart from the classics my favorites are Maria Theresa of Austria (Marie Antoinette's Mother), Marie Louise (Napoleon's second wife), and Joseph II (Maria Theresa's son, Empress Elizabeth or Sisi

[pamphletstoinspire]

EPISTLE OF ST. PAUL, THE APOSTLE, TO THE HEBREWS - From The Latin Vulgate Bible

Chapter 5

PREFACE.

The Catholic Church hath received and declared this Epistle to be part of the Canonical Scriptures of the New Testament, though some doubted of it in the first ages[centuries], especially in the Latin Church, witness St. Jerome on the 8th chap. of Isaias; Luther and most of his followers reject it, but the Calvinists and the Church of England have received it. Others, who received this Epistle in the first ages[centuries], doubted whether it was written by St. Paul, but thought it was written by St. Barnabas, or by St. Clement of Rome, or St. Luke, or at least that St. Paul only furnished the matter and the order of it, and that St. Luke wrote it, and St. Paul afterwards read it and approved it. It was doubted again, whether this Epistle was first written in Hebrew (that is, in Syro-Chaldaic, then spoken by the Jews) or in Greek, as Estius pretends. The ancient writers say it was written in Hebrew, but that it was very soon after translated into Greek either by St. Luke or St. Clement of Rome, pope and martyr. Cornelius a Lapide thinks the Syriac which we have in the Polyglot to have been the original; but this is commonly rejected. See Tillemont on St. Paul, Art. 46, and note 72; P. Alleman on the first to the Hebrews, &c. St. Paul wrote this letter about the year 63[A.D. 63], and either at Rome or in Italy. See Chap. xii. 24. He wrote it to the Christians in Palestine, who had most of them been Jews before. This seems the reason why he puts not his name to it, nor calls himself their apostle, his name being rather odious to the Jews, and because he was chosen to be the apostle of the Gentiles. The main design is to shew that every one's justification and salvation is to be hoped for by the grace and merits of Christ, and not from the law of Moses, as he had shewn in his Epistles to the Galatians and the Romans, where we many observe this kind of difference: To the Galatians he shews, that true justice cannot be had from circumcision and the ceremonies of the law: to the Romans, that even the moral precepts and works of the law were insufficient without the grace of Christ: and in this to the Hebrews, he shews that our justice could not be had from the sacrifices of the old law.

Chapter 5

The office of a high priest. Christ is our high priest.

1 For every high priest taken from among men is ordained for men in the things that appertain to God, that he may offer up gifts and sacrifices for sins:

Notes & Commentary:

Ver. 1. Every high priest. He speaks first of the office of priests in general, before he speaks of Christ's priesthood. A priest is chosen and preferred before other men, as qualified for the divine ministry, to offer up gifts, oblations, sacrifices, in order to obtain forgiveness for his own sins and those of the people, who, by the experience he has of his own infirmities, may compassionate others who offend through frailty or ignorance, every priest (excepting our Saviour Christ) being a sinner. Nor must he take upon himself rashly and inconsiderately, for temporal motives, this sacred ministry, formidable (says St. Gregory) even for the shoulders of Angels; he must consult God by prayer, follow the advice of his spiritual guides and pious parents; by these means to know whether he has a call from God to this ministry, as Aaron had. (Witham) --- The priest and pastor should never forget that he is a man and a sinner; that he is honoured with this divine ministry, to offer sacrifice both for his own sins and for the sins of the faithful; that prayer should be his delight, the altar his centre, and the sacrifice of the body and blood of Christ his supreme felicity. "This sacrifice of the Eucharist," says St. Augustine, "has succeeded to all the ancient victims that were immolated of old, to signify the future sacrifice." (lib. 10. chap. xx. de Civit. Dei.) As to the word mass, it was in use to signify this holy sacrifice of the altar above thirteen hundred years ago. See the second Council of Carthage, canon 3.; St. Jerome upon the Prov. chap. xi.; St. Ambrose, lib. 2. ep. 14. Missam facere cœpi; I began to say mass. It was introduced into this country [of Great Britain] with Christianity itself. See Ven. Bede's history, chap. xxvii. & b. 4. chap. xiv.

2 Who can have compassion on them who are ignorant, and err: because he himself also is encompassed with infirmity:

Ver. 2. No explanation given.

3 And therefore he ought, as for the people, so also for himself, to offer for sins.

Ver. 3. No explanation given.

4 Neither doth any man take the honour to himself but he that is called by God, as Aaron was.

Ver. 4. See in 3 Kings xiii.; 2 Paralipomenon xxvi.; and 1 Kings xiii. the manifest punishments of the Almighty on laics that impiously and sacrilegiously attempted the ministry of priests. In the Christian dispensation, archbishop Cranmer, the very soul of the pretended reformation, dictatorially pronounces, "he that is appointed to be a bishop or priest, needeth no consecration:" words quoted by Dr. Stillingfleet from his own handwriting, in his Irenicum, p. 391, 2nd ed. But the Catholic Church has given a very different decision, which is confirmed by the testimony of Scripture, apostolical tradition, and the unanimous consent of the Fathers. See Acts vi. 6. and xiii. 3. and xiv. 22.; 1 Timothy iv. 14. &c. See in the history of Socrates, who lived in the fifth century, how the usurpation of Ischyras, in taking upon himself the name and office of a priest without receiving holy orders, was reprobated as a crime worthy of death. (lib. 1. chap. xxvii. Ed. Val.)

5 So also Christ did not glorify himself to be made a high priest: but he that said to him: Thou art my Son, this day have I begotten thee.

Ver. 5. So also Christ, as man, did not glorify himself, by assuming this dignity of high priest, but had it conferred upon him by the divine decrees of his eternal Father, who said to him: Thou art my Son, and thou art a priest forever, &c. (Witham)

6 As he saith also in another place: Thou art a priest forever, according to the order of Melchisedech.

Ver. 6. Some may perhaps wonder why St. Paul does not dwell more in this epistle on the eucharistic sacrifice; but until the Hebrews understood the bloody sacrifice on the cross, they could not be supposed to understand the unbloody sacrifice of the altar. The holy Fathers observe, that the sacrifice of Melchisedech, (Genesis xiv. 18.) offered in bread and wine, prefigured the unbloody sacrifice offered by Jesus Christ at his last supper. See Clement of Alexandria, lib. 4. Strom. chap. viii.; St. Cyprian, lib. 2. ep. 3. ad Cæul.; Eusebius of Cæsarea, lib. 5. Dem. Evang. chap. iii.; St. Jerome, ad Marcel.; St. Augustine, ep. 95. ad Inn. Pap.; St. Ambrose; St. Epiphanius; St. Chrysostom; &c. apud Bellarmine, lib. 1. de missa. chap. vi. Hence it follows, that the holy Eucharist is truly and properly a sacrifice as well as a sacrament, as the paschal lamb or passover of the old law was both a sacrament and sacrifice. For either our Saviour offered sacrifice at his last supper under the forms of bread and wine, or he cannot be called a priest forever according to the order of Melchisedech. For the different orders of priests are chiefly distinguished by their sacrifice; (see ver. 1.) and if it be supposed that our Saviour only offered a bloody sacrifice, he would with more propiety have been called a priest according to the order of Aaron, and not of Melchisedech. See St. Augustine, lib. 16. de Civitat. Dei. chap. xxii.

7 Who in the days of his flesh, offering up prayers and supplications, with a strong cry and tears to him, that was able to save him from death, was heard for his reverence.

Ver. 7. Who in the days of his flesh, of his mortal and suffering condition, even with strong and fervent crying out, and tears, offering up as man, prayers and supplications to him, to God, who could save him from death; to wit, in the garden of Gethsemani, and on the cross, yet with a perfect resignation and conformity of his human will to the divine will, was heard for his reverence.[1] I leave this translation, which is in the Rhemes Testament, very literal from the Latin Vulgate, and which cannot be said to be any ways disagreeable to the Greek. As to the sense, there are two expositions in the best interpreters. St. Chrysostom and many others understand, that he was heard as to every prayer that he made absolutely, and not conditionally only, (as when he prayed that the cup of his sufferings might pass from him) and he was heard for that reverence, reverential regard, and just consideration which the eternal Father had for him, who was his true Son. This interpretation agrees better with the Greek text, in which is left out the word his. Others by his reverence, understand that he was heard on account of that reverential fear, that respectful submission and piety, which he always had towards his eternal Father. And if it be asked in what Christ was not heard, and in what he was heard: he was not heard when he said, let this cup of sufferings, or this death, pass from me, because it was not what he asked and prayed for with an absolute desire, but only thereby expressed the natural fear which, as man, he had of death, and therefore presently added, but not my will but thine be done, expressing what he knew to be the divine will. And to shew this, St. Chrysostom on these words, brings all those sentences by which our Saviour, Christ, had declared that he had power to lay down his life, and power to take it up again; that no one taketh it from him, but that he laid it down of himself. See John x. 18. and St. Chrysostom, hom. vii. p. 475. But Christ was heard in all he prayed for with an absolute will, according to what he said to his Father, I know that thou always hearest me. (John xi. 42.) He was heard as to all that he asked with an absolute will, either for himself or his Church. (Witham) --- What excellent dispositions these of Jesus Christ in his sacrifice, which we learn from his apostles. How truly worthy are these tears both of our love and our adoration! Hence it appears, that Jesus Christ in his prayer both in the garden and on the cross shed tears, though the evangelists are silent on this head. (Menochius)

Note 1:

Ver. 7. Exauditus est pro suâ reverentiâ, eisakoustheis apo tes eulabeias. Even the last Protestant translation, though much more exact than any of the former, puts, and was heard in that he feared. If the Rhemes translation, which I have not changed, be obscure, I much doubt whether theirs can be better understood. I will not suppose that they mean with Calvin, that Christ was so abandoned on the cross as to be driven to despair, and that he feared and felt the punishments of the damned, from which he begged to be freed, and was heard. Beza, says Calvin, was the first author of this exposition, that is, of this blasphemy. I will rather suppose that the Protestant translators only meant, that Christ, as man, feared death. How then was he heard in that he feared? not so as to be freed from death, which he willingly underwent, but was heard so as to triumph over death, and shortly after to rise and ascend triumphant into heaven. Dr. Wells, in his amendments to the Protestant translation, has changed it in this manner, was heard so as to be delivered from his fear; and in his paraphrase expounds it thus, namely, by an Angel sent on purpose to strengthen him; so that he expounds this text of the fear and prayer of Christ in the garden, from which fear he was freed at the appearing of the Angel. (Luke xxii. 43.) I pretend, notwithstanding, that the Protestant translation, was heard in that he feared, though we take it with the additions made by Dr. Wells, was heard so as to be delivered from his fear, is far from being exact, nor can it be looked upon as a proper and literal translation from the Greek text, apo tes eulabeias. First, where is there any thing in the Greek for he feared, or his fear? or that he was delivered from his fear? This is to add in the text itself a particular exposition, which at the same time is contrary to what divers interpreters take to be the literal sense of these words, apo tes eulabeias, who by eulabeias understand that great respect and regard which was in the Father towards Christ, because he was his Son. St. Chrysostom understood the force of the Greek text as well as any one, and this seems the meaning of these his words: (log. e, p. 475, linea 20. Ed. Sav.) tosaue en autou e eulabeia, os kai apo toutou aideisthai auton ton theon. Nor does the Latin translator of St. Chrysostom, Mutius Scholasticus, in the edition of Fronto Ducæus, seem to have mistaken the sense of St. Chrysostom, where we find, (hom. viii. p. 1478) tanta fuit ejus reverentia, ac pietas, ut ideò eum revereretur Deus. Others indeed expound it of the reverential and godly fear, or piety, that was in Christ, as man, towards God, his Father, and that his prayers were heard on this account: but this will not justify the Protestant translation, that he was heard in that he feared, not the paraphrase of Dr. Wells, so as to be delivered from his fear, as if by eulabeias were understood merely a natural fear and apprehension. I find Mr. Legh, in his Critica Sacra, on the word eulabeias, says that the Syriac version has from fear: but he is mistaken, as may be seen in Walton's Polyglot: the Syriac has only, he was heard, without any mention at all of any kind of fear, which is left out. Mr. Legh says, Nazianzen[St. Gregory of Nazianzus] and Theodoret follow this sense. He cites not the words nor the places. It must be again his mistake. Theodoret has nothing like it in his commentary on this passage, nor St. Gregory (orat. xxxvi.) where he cites these words of St. Paul. It is true eulabeias, especially in profane authors, has sometimes the same signification as timor, or metus. It is, says Scapula, timiditas circumspecta; but also, even in profane writers, the same as, religio, pietas in Deum. See also what examples Scapula brings on eulaboumai and eulabes; on which he says, apud Ecclesiasticos Scriptores, et in Test. Novi libris, circumspectus et cautus circa ea quæ ad cultum divinum pertinent, religiosus, pius, ut Luc. 2. I know also, that in Hebrews xi. 7., it is said of Noe[Noah], metùens, in the vulgar Latin, for eulabetheis; and in Acts xxiii. 10. Tribunus timens, eulabetheis; but neither do these two examples shew that in this place, where mention is made of our Saviour Christ, eulabeia can be properly and literally translated by fear, or that the sense is that Christ was heard so as to be delivered from his fear. For first, this exposition of fear and apprehension of death agrees not with the common exposition of the ancient Fathers, neither with St. Chrysostom and those who follow him, nor with the others, as I have shewn already. Secondly, this translation agrees not with the Protestant translation in other places. As for the substantive, eulabeia, it is only found in one other place in the New Testament, to wit, Hebrews xii. 28., meta aidous, kai eulabeias, where the Protestant translation has with reverence and godly fear; and for the adjective, eulabes, where old Simeon is called eulabes in the common Greek copies, (Luke ii. 25.) they have translated, a devout man. In Acts viii. 2., the men that buried St. Stephen, andres eulabeis, are translated devout men, as also in Acts ii. 5. Thirdly, the ancient Arabic version signifies propter reverentiam ejus, and the Ethiopic ob justitiam ejus, as they are in the translations of Walton, which agree with the Latin Vulgate, but not with that sense in which the English Protestants have translated the Greek. In fine, it must be observed that apo here, according to these versions, bears the sense of ob or propter, and not of ab or ex, of which signification see many examples in Estius. (Witham)

8 And whereas indeed he was the Son of God, he learned obedience by the things which he suffered:

Ver. 8. He that was truly the Son of God, and knew all things, learnt practically, and taught us perfect obedience in suffering and dying a cruel death on the cross. (Witham)

9 And being consummated, he became the cause of eternal salvation to all that obey him,

Ver. 9. And being consummated, or perfected as man in all kinds of virtues, and at the same time true God by his divine person, became the author of salvation to all those who both believe in him and obey him. (Witham)

10 Called by God a high priest, according to the order of Melchisedech.

Ver. 10. There is but one eternal Pontiff, one universal Priest given by God all others are his vicars, but not successors, whom he associates to his priesthood, to continue those same functions on earth which he himself exercises in heaven, and which had been prefigured in Melchisedech.

11 Of whom we have great things to say, and hard to be intelligibly uttered: because you are become weak to hear.

Ver. 11. Of whom, i.e. of his high priesthood, according to the order of Melchisedech, we have mighty things to say, and very hard to be expounded or understood by you, at least many of you, who, though you ought to be masters after the gospel hath been so long preached, and even by the apostles of Christ, yet you are weak as to understanding it; (the Greek also signifies slothful and negligent) you stand in need of being taught the first elements and principles of the Christian faith, like children, who are rather to be fed with milk than with more solid meats. How many are there now in the like condition, who are for reading and expounding all the holy Scriptures according to their own way of thinking? (Witham)

12 For whereas for the time you ought to be masters; you have need to be taught again what are the first rudiments of the oracles of God: and you are become such as have need of milk, and not of solid food.

Ver. 12. No explanation given.

13 For every one that is a partaker of milk, is unskilful in the word of justice: for he is a little child.

Ver. 13. No explanation given.

14 But solid food is for the perfect: for those who by use have their senses exercised to the discerning of good and evil.

Ver. 14. No explanation given.

[pamphletstoinspire]

THE HOLY GOSPEL OF JESUS CHRIST, ACCORDING TO ST. MATTHEW from the Latin Vulgate Bible

Chapter 26 - Part 9:

56. Now all this was done, that the Scriptures of the prophets might be fulfilled. Then the disciples all leaving him, fled away.

Ver. 56. All leaving him, fled away. Yet Peter and another soon followed after at a distance. St. Mark says (xiv. 51,) that a young man followed with nothing on but a linen cloth. Perhaps it was some one that upon the noise came hastily out of the neighbourhood; and when they catched hold on him, fled away naked. It is not known who he was. (Witham)

57. But they holding Jesus, led him to Caiphas, the high priest, where the Scribes and the ancients were assembled:

Ver. 57. To Caiphas. Our Saviour Christ was led in the night time, both to Annas and Caiphas: and first to Annas; (John xviii. 13,) perhaps because the house of Annas was in their way; or that they had a mind to gratify the old man with the sight of Jesus, now taken prisoner and bound with ropes. (Witham) --- After the chief priests had bribed Judas to betray Christ, they bring him to Caiphas, not as to his judge, but as to his enemy, to insult over him: and then they began to examine him concerning his doctrine and disciples, that they might find some heads of accusation from his answers: thus they shewed that they acted contrary to common justice, in apprehending a person before they had any thing to lay to his charge. (Jansenius) --- Josephus relates that Caiphas had purchased the high priesthood for that year; although Moses, at the command of God, had ordained that a regular succession be kept up, and the son should succeed the father in the high priesthood. It is no wonder then if an iniquitous judge passed an iniquitous sentence. (St. Jerome)

58. But Peter followed him afar off, to the high priest's palace. And going in, he sat with the servants, to see the end.

Ver. 58. Peter followed. To wit, to the court of Caiphas, where a great many of the chief priests were met. --- And another disciple. Many think this disciple was St. John himself. (Witham)

59. Now the chief priests, and the whole council, sought false witness against Jesus, that they might put him to death:

Ver. 59. No explanation given.

60. And they found not, though many false witnesses had come in. And last of all there came two false witnesses,

Ver. 60. False witnesses. But how were these men false witnesses, who affirm what we read in the gospel? That man is a false witness, who construes what is said in a sense foreign to that of the speaker. Jesus Christ spoke of the temple of his body. Our divine Saviour had said, Destroy this temple; and they affirm that he had said, I am able to destroy. Had the Jews attended sufficiently to our Saviour's words, they would easily have perceived of what Christ was speaking, from what he there says: and in three days I will raise it up. (St. Jerome) --- These words of Jesus Christ are only mentioned by St. John ii. 19, who marks on what occasion and in what sense there were spoken. (Bible de Vence)

61. And they said: This man said, I am able to destroy the temple of God, and after three days to rebuild it.

Ver. 61. This man said: I am able to destroy the temple of God. These men that gave this evidence, are called false witnesses. They relate not the true words of Christ; which were not, I can destroy, but destroy you this temple, &c. 2. Christ spoke of the temple of his body, and they of the material temple. 3. It is not unlikely that they made other additions, as well as false constructions, omitted by the evangelists. (Witham)

62. And the high priest rising up, said to him: Answerest thou nothing to the things which these witness against thee?

Ver. 62. No explanation given.

63. But Jesus held his peace. And the high priest said to him: I adjure thee by the living God, that thou tell us if thou be the Christ, the Son of God.

Ver. 63. I adjure thee by the living God. They hoped this might make him own himself God; for which they were for stoning him. (John x. 31.) --- St. Luke tells us, (xxii. 66,) that this question was put to Jesus, when it was day. St. Augustine thinks it was put to him first in the night, and again the next morning. We must not forget that when Christ was examined by the high priest, one of the servants standing by gave our blessed Redeemer a box on the ear, or on the face. See John xviii. 22. (Witham) --- Our divine Saviour as God knew perfectly well, that whatever he said would be condemned; and therefore the more Jesus was silent to what was alleged against him, the more did the high priest try to extort an answer from him, that he might have some accusation against the Lord of glory. Hence he exclaimed in that violent manner: I adjure thee, or I command thee by the living God, Exorkizo se kata tou Theou zontos. The law for witnesses is to be found in Leviticus v. 1; where the witness is pronounced guilty who should suppress the truth, after he has heard the phonen orkismou. This is the true meaning of that law, so very ill understood by many. See also Menochius, who on these very words of Leviticus says: if any one shall be called upon to say what he knows of a point that another has confirmed by oath, he shall carry his iniquity, i.e. the punishment of his iniquity, which God will inflict. (Menochius) --- See 1 Kings xiv. 24. 27; Numbers v. 19; 1 Thessalonians v. 27. The confession or denial of a person thus interrogated was decisive. (Calmet)

64. Jesus saith to him: Thou hast said it. Nevertheless, I say to you, hereafter you shall see the Son of man, sitting on the right hand of the power of God, and coming in the clouds of heaven.

Ver. 64. Thou hast said it. Or, as it is in St. Mark, I am. According to St. Luke, Christ in the morning, before he answered directly, said to them: If I tell you, you will not believe me, &c. (Witham)