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#Bidden or unbidden
momentsbeforemass · 6 months
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Present
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In my old office, directly across from my desk, was a sign that read “Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderit.”
It’s Latin for “Bidden or unbidden God is present.”
I put it there to help me. In the hope that when I looked up from what I was doing, I would be reminded of the big picture. And that I didn’t have to go it alone.
Sometimes it even worked. But sometimes it didn’t.
Because it’s easy to get tunnel vision. To let your day become little more than all the things that constantly clamor for your attention. To get lost in all of the “should’s” and “have-to’s” that create the stress and busyness of daily life.
To lose sight of the big picture.
Today is the feast of Saints Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the archangels. The Church makes a big deal about them because the archangels (and all the angels) are agents of God’s grace and power in our lives.
Because that’s the thing about God – God is always present.
Not just when we’re going to Church, praying, and trying to do our best to live in God’s will. But also when we’re not. When we’re drifting, lost in the busyness of daily life. And even when we think we’ve done too much and strayed too far from God. That changes nothing.
Bidden or unbidden God is present.
The point of the archangels (and all the angels) is that God isn’t present as a spectator.
Because you and I were never meant to do this alone. And we don’t have to.
God will never abandon us. God is present in our lives in grace and in power, waiting only to be asked to help His creation.
Waiting only to be asked – to help you.
So what are you waiting for?
Today’s Readings
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tavyliasin · 3 months
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Dom!Gale Drabble (2nd Person)
Just a short one, inspired by the reactions to a certain actor reading another character's lines~ I am rather fond of expanding on ideas that people are already keen to run away with. Now, I know there's none of the usual preamble context or aftercare here, but this isn't a problematic Gale, he's just trying something new in his own way~ and he would be so soft with aftercare...gods he would truly lavish affections upon his beloved. The devotion in that man is truly beautiful~ So, smut below the cut, and expect a little dominant energy from our favourite Wizard of Waterdeep~
"On your knees, darling." The words didn't seem right coming from the wizard, or they wouldn't, had he not spoken in such a commanding tone you were not used to. Following the command in an instant, a strained whimper left your lips unbidden. "Hush now, don't wake the entire city. I haven't even started, yet." He watched you closely, as you felt your consciousness might abandon you on the spot. "Eyes open, my love, I will not have you averting your gaze. Not when you look so pretty down there, with that sweet colour rising in your cheeks." Gale reached down, hooking one finger beneath your chin, bringing his lips a whisper's breadth from your own but denying the kiss you yearned for.  "Of course, if you do so insist on defying a simple order, there are a great many spells that can be more than persuasive." He straightened up, towering above you as he began to thumb through his spell book. "let me see here... Silence? No, no I should rather like to hear your voice crying out my name...ah, but here, Zone of Silence, that will ensure that your performance is for my ears alone. But what of your body, dearest? Are you going to do as you are bidden? Or will I be casting Hold Person?" You moved slightly, shifting on your knees, the thoughts flooding your mind as his voice sank through your ears lighting a fire within your body that would not easily be extinguished. "You're right, of course. If I were to use that one, I wouldn't be able to see you squirming beneath me. We can't have that, can we. Tentacles? Crude, but they would work... Or perhaps a simpler Entangle... Unless you would prefer I create some rope, and let you feel it slip across that beautiful skin of yours as I tie you up like a gift." He raised an eyebrow, looking over the book, eyes locking on yours and demanding a response. "Well? What will it be?"
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inquisimer · 1 year
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Helloooo hap Friday! For Loghain and whomever else of your choosing, "❛ i don’t think i’ve ever seen you smile. ❜"
hap friday sterling💜 it ended up Loghain & Merrill, which I did not see coming but feels right🥺
for @dadrunkwriting
wc: 844
~~~
Despite its distance from the blast, Kirkwall’s alienage suffered disproportionate carnage. There were any number of causes to point to, from the shoddy construction of their buildings to their exposure to the bay to the lack of income for repairs. But what mattered wasn’t the causes, but the outcomes.
Loghain grunted, bracing a fresh beam against his shoulder. Tendrils of green, vine-like magic snaked around its middle, supporting what his physical strength could not bear. Together, he and the elf hefted the beam into place, the last step before rebuilding the roof.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” gushed the older, gaunt-faced elf. His arm was in a sling and a gash under his eye bore stitches, but his lips curved upward as he clasped his hands together. His eyes sparkled with tears.
Two blond-haired elf kits with freckles and bright hazel eyes wrapped around his ankles, looking up at the new, solid wood with wide eyes.
“It’s nothing,” Loghain grunted, bestowing a rare, crooked smile on the children. “No trouble at all.”
He slipped off to other tasks before they could give him gratitude again.
“It’s not nothing, you know.” Merril snuck up behind him, moving nearly silent in her footwraps, deftly avoiding the splinters and burning embers on the cobblestone. “It is quite literally everything, for them.”
“I know.” Loghain took up a broom and swept shattered glass and assorted rubble to the side as he spoke. “But that is not what I meant.”
“Oh?”
“It is nothing—to me.” He grimaced, searching for the words, it was always the words. If there was somewhere that communicated in surly grunts and wrinkled brows, he’d go in a heartbeat. “You know, I assume, of my history with—“
He gestured about the corner of the alienage, not quite able to give voice to his missteps. The elf regarded him not unlike a puppy, head cocked to the side as she sorted out what to do with him.
“Anders had some stories,” she said carefully. “But—“
“But?” He raised one bitter eyebrow. “All due respect, but I cannot fix enough roofs or set enough bricks to undo the mistakes of my past.”
Merrill looked down at her hands. They were wrapped in bandages, disguising burns too severe for any magical healing. Her long fingers flexed and she quirked her brow at them like a particularly stubborn puzzle.
“None of us can undo the mistakes of our past,” she finally said, blowing a stray hair from her forehead as she looked up. “That’s not the point. It’s not a ledger where you make up for all the wrongs and you’re free and clear. It’s—you do the good thing because it’s right, and it’s right regardless of whether you’ve been good or evil.”
She gestured at the two little girls, who were now chasing each other about the Vhenadahl.
“They do not care about your past,” she said. “They simply know that you have given them back their home. That is how we move forward, ser Warden. That is what we are doing.”
Speechless, Loghain looked at the girls and their tree, then back at Merrill. Her eyes were wide, bright, with a bit too much understanding. There was a depth of loss and anger and he felt something in his gut unclench.
He’d come here at the behest of a memory. A commander he respected above all others, and whom he hadn’t spoken to in far too long. He knew where she would have gone and he’d followed as if bidden, straight to the alienage slum. She’d said something similar to him once, with a haunted look in her eye:
You do not need to be redeemed to go on.
Perhaps—perhaps—there was something else in him. Not goodness, nothing redeemable, but this: the inclination to go forward, ever upward. Not to be better, but to do better.
An unbidden smile curved the corner of his mouth as he swept the pile of debris into the dustpan Merrill held for him. When he looked up, she was regarding him with something akin to curiosity.
“What?” he asked gruffly.
“I…don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.” She graced him with one of her own, a bright, toothy grin, full of eagerness that belied what he knew of her skills. “It’s nice. I think—well. I think I see where Hawke is coming from, now.”
After all these years, Loghain thought he’d lost the ability to blush, but her simple, matter-of-fact declaration brought color to his ears like a schoolboy before a cleric. He cleared his throat and gestured for the dustpan.
“I’ll take that,” he muttered. Merrill handed it over, oblivious. “And my leave,” he added, angling for a swift exit.
“Of course!” Merrill chirped. She was already turning to an unsorted pile of clothing, on to the next task. Loghain took the dustpan, his revelations, and his burning neck and made his escape.
Luckily, there were plenty of fires he could put out until his ears cooled enough to return to the Keep.
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altrbody · 10 months
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"Rather than being seen by an unseen presence, we see an unseen absence.  Is this also then a form of resistance, a way to disperse the power of disciplinary society?"
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graywyvern · 1 year
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( via / "they're getting too powerful" via )
Photos found in an old chest in a abandoned apartment in Dzveli Tbilisi.
"FOOTNOTE
All of us who lived on Earth and all our loves and wars may not appear at all in the moon's memoirs."
--Bill Knott (via @TomSnarsky, via @ae_stallings)
Not at all creepy.
"The One Thousand Days
There is the mourning dish of salt outside My door, a cup of quarantine, saucerless, a sign
That one inside had been taken down By grieving, ill tongue-tied will or simple
Illness, yet trouble came. I have found electricity in mere ambition,
If nothing else, yet to make myself sick on it, A spectacle of marvelling & discontent.
Let me tell you how it came to this. I was turning over the tincture of things,
I was trying to recollect the great maroon Portière of everything that had ever happened,
When the first first stopped its transport & the weather ceased to be interesting.
Then the dark drape closed over the altar & a minor city's temple burnt to ground.
I was looking to become inscutable. I was longing to be seen through.
It was at slaughtering, it Was at the early stain
Of autumn when the dirt- Tinted lambs were brought down
From the high unkempt fields of Sligo, bidden. Unbidden, they came down.
It was then that I was quit Of speech, a thousand northbound nights of it.
Then was ambition come Gleaming up like a fractured bone
As it breaks through the bodiced veil of skin. I marry into it, a thistle on
The palm, salt-pelt on The slaughtering, & trouble came.
That the name of bliss is only in The diminishing--as far as possible--of pain.
That I had quit the quiet velvet cult of it, Yet trouble came."
--Lucie Brock-Broido in Daedalus
Sgurd.
"time for a blogosphere revival" --@tomtomorrow
Indigo.
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tellio · 2 years
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Black Ink, Black Paper
Black Ink, Black Paper
I have baked daily visits to my fellow internet travellers’ blogs. This lurking is difficult to track and note so I wrote a poem about it.   You don’t realize that I wriggle by both bidden and unbidden, a hummingbird moth in larval form nibbling and skulking, “I am here. I am here.” My silent inky maw writing away in the darkness. Black ink. Black paper.  
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catboyaesthetic · 8 months
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The words will come. They'll always come. They will.
Bidden or unbidden. They will come.
They are a curse. A blessing. All in one.
The words will come. They'll always come. They will.
They'll never be at moments opportune. They will arrive. You'll write them down. Or won't.
And with you, billions. Addled with this nonsense. That make of words such tapestries of want.
So wear them then. Make cloaks woven of poems. Sift through your often unused lexicon. Invent anew old turns of phrase beloved. Think boldly, write as brightly. Write like you.
Let muse grab hold, and Rake you with their talons. Let flow the words. Like vomit, let it out.
For poetry's a sickness. Know its symptoms. A bleeding heart. A weeping eye. A fool.
And now the words. They'll come to you. They will.
No seasons left for respite. Naught is safe. Perhaps you'll hate them. You'll resent their coming.
The words will come to you, still, All the same.
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starlightsearches · 2 years
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Can you give us some Hux hcs about him crying for the first time in front of you (or the first time he let you see him vulnerable) and how you comforted him? Pretty please?
Creature Comforts
Friend, it's like you read my mind! Literally I've been thinking of a scenario like this for WEEKS now and I was about to cave and just write it for myself when I saw your request. Thank you so much!
AN: Hurt/comfort, language, fluff 🥺
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He shouldn't have come here.
Not when he's feeling like this—skin drawn so tight around his eyes he's certain it'll tear away at the slightest brush, the contents of his chest crumpled like a bit of refuse dropped on the floor.
He could find a way to numb the pain on his own. There was plenty liquor in his quarters—expensive liquor—practically designed to erase any and all unease. He could let himself waste away on his couch with Milicent purring against his chest, could pretend that the animal pitter-patter of her heartbeat was yours (if he drank enough), limp fingers curled in her thick fur.
It would be mortifying, to be sure. But still less mortifying than this.
The door slides open just as he's about to turn back.
He catalogues the look of surprise on your face—one that surely matches his own—the bare skin of your shoulders, your torso, and the shape of your uncovered legs.
Fuck.
You're only wearing your leisure clothes: a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting top. He's never seen you like this, although the image should be familiar given how often in comes—bidden and unbidden—to his mind. He's often drifted away to the idea of peeling back the thick layers of your uniform, baring your skin, falling asleep at your side with his hands at your waist . . . so many parts of you his, and only his.
"Armitage," you say his name, and he can't help but melt a little, despite the effort it takes just to stay standing. "What are you doing here?"
He lets his mouth fall open, forms the beginning of a word. No sound comes out.
He's no good at this. It was already hard enough just getting to this point—the stifled confession, and sweaty-palmed dinners as he tried his best to endear himself to you, or the chaste kiss at the door of his quarters that left him feverish and dizzy, worse than a few nights with too little sleep and too much caff. And now he has to find a way to communicate that he needs you. Now. Badly.
"May I come in?" he says instead, and you nod with the slightest hesitance, stepping out of the way.
His movements are mechanical and stiff, every ounce of his mental capacity used to put one foot in front of the other until he stands in the middle of your living area, arms clasped behind his back like he's performing a routine inspection of the ship instead of visiting his . . .
Well, he's not exactly sure what to call you. He's not sure if there's a word out there that could convey how much you mean to him.
Armitage considers his surroundings as you step into the separate sleeping area, calling out that you'll just be a moment. There's a little plate of food on the table in front of your loveseat, a well-loved book laid flat to save your page—it's spine worn and creased white from repeated readings—and a steaming cup of deychin tea, the swirling tendrils of steam scenting the air.
He hears you rustling around in the closet, and then you emerge wearing a thick sweater, a hand nervously traveling up and down the sleeve covering your arm.
Armitage's face grows hot. Had you noticed his staring? He hadn't meant you to; normally you didn't catch him off-guard like this. He let's the meat of his thumb dig into the inside of his wrist, hoping the pain might keep a blush from his cheeks.
"I didn't think I'd see you for a few days at least, after your last message," you say, curling up on the couch and patting the space beside you, "come sit."
That's what he had meant when he sent that message, although it did shoot an atypical pang through his chest. A few days without your company had felt manageable; he'd survived long enough before all this. But then there was Ren. And Snoke. And a million other embarrassments and annoyances that made him long for the cool, unyielding silence on the other side of an airlock.
He should explain himself, or apologize for interrupting your night off—but it's been hours since he last stopped, even for a moment, and you look so comfortable. He wants a taste of it.
He'll allow himself a taste of it.
"I should be getting back to my office," he says, as he sits on the far edge of the sofa, hands folded in his lap and facing straight ahead, "but I wanted to see you first."
There's a smile on your lips as you lean in closer. "Any special reason?"
His heartbeat accelerates, picking up speed with every centimeter that disappears in the space between your face and his.
"No." The word hardly comes out as a whisper—his walls broken beneath your proximity. He's just so tired. Exhausted. He doesn't have the energy to pretend he's not.
Your grin falters; you must notice the fractures spreading in thin lines across his features, the weight of the circles beneath his eyes. "Is everything alright?"
For a moment, he thinks you might cry. That tender mouth turned sorrowful at the corners, eyes shining in the light. The thought of worrying you is abhorrent.
"Of course," he says, doing his best to rid you of any pity he certainly doesn't deserve. It's not convincing at all, and he clears his throat before trying again. "Of course."
You shift closer, and he stiffens at the press of your knee against his thigh, takes in the sound of his name on your lips like he needs it to live.
"Armitage, I know that this is all new for both of us, but we're . . . together now. I want to be here for you."
He swallows. Together. What an irresistible word—a word so lovely it would make even the grave taste sweet. He thinks of moments like these multiplied by the thousand, of pains turned dull by the inevitable comfort of your presence. He thinks of endless mornings tangled in your sheets, thinks of the brutality he'd willingly commit if it meant he could spend one night at your side. He thinks of your hands pressed to his cheeks—the absolution he would come to find in the depths of your love, if you granted it.
"Come here," you whisper, sensing the shadows of these thoughts behind his eyes, and his lungs ache when your hand meets his shoulder, pulling him against your chest.
You lean back, letting him use your body as a pillow. One hand cradles his cheek, thumb stroking soothing patterns across his skin, and you adjust your legs on either side of him, pressing your thighs in close around his torso until you're both stretched out across the length of your little loveseat, entwined.
He's moments away from coming undone.
You shush him quietly—like some feral animal you've taken it upon yourself to rescue—and that's how he feels, out of his mind at the brush of your fingers carding through his hair, the smell of your soap and the heat of your skin.
"It's okay," he hears you saying, feels the soft rumble of the words as they build in your chest. "You can let go."
It rips from him like thunder—that first, wretched sob—and the acrid burn of tears follows soon after. The last dregs of strength crumble to dust in his fingers, and he collapses into you, burying his face in the soft material of your sweater.
He's been shouldering lifetimes of grief for as long as he could remember. He's been carrying it on his own. And you've asked if you could lighten the load.
He grips at your waist in tight-clenched fists as his body is wracked with sobs, afraid you might vanish from beneath him, afraid he might wake up alone, afraid—always afraid—that he'll push you away without meaning to.
He's waiting for the moment he becomes too much, but nothing changes. You stay beneath him, your solid presence unwavering despite everything he's unleashed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask calmly, fingers drifting across his neck. He shifts his face from the shelter of your sweater, staring at the soft line of your jaw, the chill air brushing against his last remaining tears.
"No," he says with a slight sniff, cheeks heating at the thought of how he must look after all that, "no. Thank you. I should be getting back to work." The muscles in your arm tighten, keeping him in place.
"You need to rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
He doesn't have the strength to fight you, and he'd never want to regardless, sinking back against the soft cushion of your chest. For a moment, he forgets the burden of his title, the weight of so many lives and so many deaths that sit unending on his shoulders. For now, he can be with you—just a man, in the arms of someone he loves too desperately to lose.
Hux Tag List: @tartheanmaid, @thembohux, @writingletterstothefire, @catboykenobii, @evarinaandlat, @sitherin-mxschief, @imafatassmess, @toasterking, @rosevon7975, @pradahux, @armitages-galaxy, @dark-lord-of-the-simps, @daughterofaries, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @aramanna, @theold-ultraviolence, @mrs-ghuleh, @lemongingerart, @isthisheaven5, @trash-queen-af, @generalthirst, @tobealostwanderer, @huxxoxo, @theoriginalannoyingbird, @liceforlunch, @g3n3ralhux, @mylifeisactuallyamess, @superunkn0wn, @therealnoex, @luna-is-on-mars, @xxinvisiblexx, @fear-prism, @serenaisavillain, @a-literal-no-name, @fresa-luna, @masterjedilenaaa, @bespectacledhuman, @daydreamsofren, @zillymaz, @randomawesomeperson102 @kingdombreakmyhearts, @fictionlandslanddreams
Join my tag list here!
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ladyfawkes · 4 years
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A Eugene and Dark Queen Reunion - Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 3 - Angst
Meanwhile, back in Gothel’s tower..... Rapunzel was desperately trying the healing incantation even though her magical hair was now gone. But Eugene couldn’t allow her the chance. Already too much had been taken from Rapunzel during her life and he wasn’t going to take any more from her. Not even to save himself….especially not to save himself. Eugene summoned his last tiny bit of strength with Herculean effort. “Rapunzel,” he insisted, pulling her face to him. He had to tell her. “What?” she whispered at last. The effort cost him dearly, left him gasping. “You were my new dream,” he breathed, as Rapunzel laughed through her tears with bittersweet joy. Whatever the price, it was worth it to Eugene just so he could hear the sound along with her next words. “And you were mine,” she replied with loving sorrow, fervently wishing she could just hold Eugene here in this moment with her forever. At least…..at least she could put a smile on his face before he slipped away for good. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Eugene was swiftly awoken and bidden to stand by a mysterious brunette with long flowing hair. She quietly stood next to him, dressed in an elegant white gown, and looked up at him serenely. He briefly wondered if she were an angel before reminding himself he didn’t believe in such nonsense.
He couldn't really pay much attention to her at first....as upon standing, he had turned around and was jolted by what he saw. Eugene’s gaze was instantly glued to the scene playing out before him. It turned out he was still in the tower. Rapunzel, now clearly resigned, despondently finished the healing chant he had so stoutly refused her and wept openly over his dead body.
"Oh no....." Eugene fell to his incorporeal knees in anguish. “No!” Eugene had thought dying would be the saddest thing to happen to him. Yet he’d been sorely mistaken. "Rapunzel, I...."
"She can't hear you, son," the brunette said softly. She came up behind him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I can promise you, however, she will not be sad for much longer." At the moment, Eugene felt anything but reassured.
"Who....who are you?" demanded Eugene of this...this interloper, in spite of himself. For the moment, he just wished to be alone with Rapunzel and their shared grief. The mystery woman seemed to have sensed Eugene’s reluctance to her presence and carefully moved away a few paces. She now stood opposite him on the other side of Rapunzel as she cradled Eugene's body.
"Well, I did call you 'son' for a reason, you know," said the woman, with an impish twinkle in her eye.  "Wuh--" Eugene nearly choked on his own tongue as he stood up in a rush, trying to get the words out, finally settling upon, "--Mother?" He gaped at her, openly searching for any signs of his own features within hers.
"That is one of my many titles, yes," replied the regal lady, smiling enigmatically in front of him, “and my personal favorite.” All at once he noticed she was wearing a black tiara with purple jewels. It seemed all the more stark against her crisp white dress. Eugene’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Alas, there is no time to discuss them all, though. You need to go very soon."
"What?" Eugene protested. "Go? But didn't I just get here? Wherever here is? How can it be that I already have to leave again?" "Observe," said his mother, gesturing to his prone self on the floor. A tiny starburst of golden sparks showered his cheek where Rapunzel's solitary tear had fallen, only to travel further down toward the mortal wound in Eugene's side. As they watched, the garish gash began mending itself closed amidst a thunderclap of bright spiraling magical tendrils that grew to encompass the entire tower. "What is happening?" Eugene cried over the thunderous roar of healing magic, shielding his vision against its brightness. "I should think that much would be obvious," his mother replied with what was now characteristic vagueness, once again wearing her Mona Lisa smile. Eugene groaned in exasperation and he found himself getting mildly annoyed with her cryptic amusement. It even reminded the young man a little bit of....himself. So that's where I get it! he marveled as realization dawned. "This time, the Sun Drop chose you, Eugene," his mother was looking him right in the eye now. "Chose me?" Eugene echoed skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together. "Why ever would it choose me? It's Rapunzel who's into this whole 'destiny' business." His mother laughed throatily and it mesmerized him; he was completely enchanted by the sight and sound. "Come here, Gene." He was utterly taken by her use of his diminutive name as he walked around to meet her. He almost couldn't ask. It seemed too surreal. An orphan wouldn't dare to hope....but he gestured to her tiara. "Are you...." She slipped an arm sideways around his waist, pulling her to him. He couldn’t help but notice how tall she was as she replied, "Yes, I was royalty when I was alive, which means you have royal blood too. And as long as you keep putting your faith in and keep choosing this young woman, you will find all of the answers you've sought about your family -- past, present, and future. And sooner rather than much later. However, I fear right now it’s time we take our leave of one another." "Now?? But--but I have so many questions!" Eugene pleaded. His mother put a quieting finger to his lips and patiently said, "In due time, dear son of mine. The only thing I want you to have on your mind during this present time is you….and her.” She reached up and lightly tapped his forehead three times and bade him into her loving embrace. Still somewhat unsure of her, he accepted, eventually melting into her arms as she stroked the back of his hair. She hummed an old German lullaby, the same way a young mother would soothe her small child. Hot tears sprang to Eugene’s eyes, completely unbidden. Just how could this song sound so familiar?? his mind cast-about wildly. He was both amazed and bewildered, yet he felt far too overwhelmed to speak.
Eugene felt himself fade out into soft white nothingness while in his mother's warm embrace. Then before he knew it, Eugene’s eyes were fluttering open again, as if he'd briefly fallen asleep and taken an unintentional nap somewhere. Immediately, his mind filled with thoughts of….
"Rapunzel?" he said breathlessly. Back! He really was back within his own body! Mentally, Eugene checked himself over.....he could breathe easily again. No more aching stab wound in his side. He remembered passing out…. Somehow Rapunzel had actually done it!! “Eugene??” gasped Rapunzel hopefully above him. Her hands reflexively held him closer. The way she whispered his name sounded like a little prayer. His eyesight was gradually returning, as he blinked and saw the blurry figure above him coalesce into his newest dream.
"Have I ever told you that I've got a thing for brunettes?" he kidded breathlessly, to let his love know that he was indeed all there for real.
"EUGENE!!" cried Rapunzel in exultation, throwing her arms so joyously about his neck that she nearly pulled him back to the floor with her. He caught her in a one-armed embrace, holding her as tightly to him as he dared. Never before had such a remarkable woman loved him so fiercely. Eugene had scarcely dreamt it was possible. A lilting voice filled his mind, But if something's not impossible, it's not worth doing... he dismissed it as his own fleeting thoughts playing tricks on him....until the same lilting voice confirmed outright his next thoughts: Yes, you really are just that lucky to have Rapunzel. And yes -- you will remember our little meeting here when the time is right.
Then Rapunzel grasped the sides of Eugene’s doublet in both of her fists and literally took his breath away with the ferocity of their first kiss. Eugene enthusiastically responded in kind. And although Eugene never completely forgot his memories of the very brief encounter with his mother, in light of recent pressing events, those memories completely faded to the back of Eugene’s mind as if it were a dream. For the greater part of two years, he was pretty certain he had hallucinated them anyway. That is, until this very moment.....
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When after he sees this portrait....
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And a light of familiarity appears to dawn in his eyes.
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It has always been my theory (well, I s’pose it’s wish fulfillment now -- since all the series episodes have been broadcast) that even all of Eugene’s old wanted posters wouldn’t have been enough to convince him to turn away from Rapunzel. It had to be something more....something huge. If Eugene had a visual confirmation of who his mother is prior to seeing this portrait because he’d recently already seen her during the 1-minute-40-second interval that he was dead in the tower.....then I postulate that this is why Eugene was convinced to go against Rapunzel, if even for a few hours.
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momentsbeforemass · 1 year
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Present
In my old office, directly across from my desk, was a sign that read “Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderit.”
It’s Latin for “Bidden or unbidden God is present.”
I put it there in hope that whenever I looked up from what I was doing, I would be reminded of the big picture. And that I didn’t have to go it alone.
Sometimes it even worked. But sometimes it didn’t.
Because it’s easy to get tunnel vision. To let your day become little more than all the things that constantly clamor for your attention. To get lost in all of the “should’s” and “have-to’s” that create the stress and busyness of daily life.
To lose sight of the big picture.
Today is the feast of Saints Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the archangels. The Church makes a big deal about them because the archangels (and all the angels) are agents of God’s grace and power in our lives.
Because that’s the thing about God – God is always present.
Not just when we’re going to Church, praying, and trying to do our best to live in God’s will. But also when we’re not. When we’re drifting, lost in the busyness of daily life. And even when we think we’ve done too much and strayed too far from God. That changes nothing.
Bidden or unbidden God is present.
The point of the archangels (and all the angels) is that God isn’t present as a spectator.
Because you and I were never meant to do this alone. And we don’t have to.
God will never abandon us. God is present in our lives in grace and in power, waiting only to be asked to help His creation.
Waiting only to be asked – to help you.
So what are you waiting for?
Today’s Readings
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darknessandbeyond · 4 years
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WORDS TO LIVE BY
And as the night drew itself upon Cain and the Fallen Angel, Satan shared his philosophies with his disciple. 
“Listen to these words, for they come from all the souls which comprise my being. The words are simple, yet they hold power. Abide by them and they shall serve thee well.” 
And so Cain listened… 
Do unto others as ye wish to do unto them. For this is thy right as a being of free will. Thou may treat thy neighbor good or ill, as per thy will. But remember this: He also is free to respond according to his will; and it would do thee well to temper thine action with judgment. 
Thou shalt not kill out of anger, lust or evil. Yet to protect that which is important—self, family, liberty—kill swiftly and without mercy. If thou art not willing to do this, ye shall lose all that matters to thee. 
Worry not of covetousness, for thoughts are free and difficult to rein. Work, rather, on restraint in thine actions. 
Worship not idols, symbols, gods nor men. Worship only knowledge, freedom and thine own self. 
A man may do all that he wishes to do. Yet it may not always be wise for him to do so. 
Listen to the opinions of others and weigh their merits, for others may see options ye have not. Yet follow thine own heart for the final decision. If thou art not willing to do this, then take heed: Thou hast delivered thy destiny into the hands of strangers. 
Truth is beauty, yet beauty is not truth. Knowledge is power, but power is not knowledge. Keep thy logic in its proper sequence. 
Faith is the greatest force within this universe. With it, ye may do all that is possible, and even that which is not. Yet ye must channel this energy within thine own soul: keep faith in thy hopes, faith in thy dreams, faith in thyself. 
Within thee lies the power of the gods. To gain it, strive for understanding: of the firmament, of thine earth, of others, and most importantly, of thyself. 
Seek the philosophy within thy soul, for others cannot reveal it nor dictate it to thee. Neither god nor man may lead thee to thyself, for only the individual soul knows its own path. 
No one may control thee or manipulate thee unless ye allow it to be. Thee and thee alone art thy destiny’s master. 
Thy path in life must be thine own, let not others choose it for thee. If ye wish a chance at greatness, follow thine own path. If it should lead to misery, so be it. At least is it a misery of thine own choosing. And remember, ye may always try again. 
Curse not others if thy life is disordered, for the choice of direction rests ultimately with thee. If ye must curse, then curse thine own self for allowing it. Yet this degradation serves no purpose. If thou art wrong, state it plainly, then work toward its correction. 
He who liveth without purpose liveth without life. If thou art without goals, then ye shall accomplish nothing. Know what ye would like in life, then seek it out. It is that simple. 
Death comes to all, bidden or unbidden. Accept this, then live as if it were untrue. 
Thou shalt always have choices in life. But this does not guarantee that they shall be favorable choices, and, at times, the best ye may do is choose the lesser evil. 
Nothing is impossible. Thy limits are without limit. However, if ye do not believe this, ye shall find thou art correct. 
If thou findest an inequity, ye must correct it. If thou art witnesses to injustice, ye must not stand idle. If ye come upon pain, then give relief. For if the lot of Man is to improve, the seer must be the doer. 
Judge and let thyself be judged. For it is thy right as a being of free will. Yet live a goodly life so that ye may judge fairly. And, should ye be falsely judged by others, it shall matter not. 
Hear the instruction of thy mother and father, for experience was their teacher. Start with these teachings, then add thine own learning, and change that which must be changed. 
If thou followest the philosophy of others and add nothing of thine own, then thou art no more than a beast of the field and have wasted thy soul. 
Carry not the sins of thy father with thee, for thou art thine own person and accountable only for thine own actions—not the actions of thy father, thy brother, thy tribe or thy race. 
Allow thy children to live, think and feel freely, for the mother and father know not all things. 
Believe in thine own self, and serve no other, for others know nothing of what is best for thee. Yet do not shut out opposing philosophies, for at times their teachings may be clearer than thine own. 
There is no sin. Do that which is right for thee, for only in this shall ye find happiness. Yet remember always: thine earth is a shared space. 
Let morality guide thee, but not out of fear. Rather, follow it for thine own sake. 
Trust thy judgment with all thy heart. If ye can do this thing, then, truly, ye shall not be forsaken. 
Believe in thine own free will. Listen to its dictates and not to the dictates of others. In this and this alone shall true happiness be found. 
Blessed is he who findeth wisdom and seeketh knowledge, for these are more precious than gold; and the gain thereof shall be the immortal universe itself. 
Friends are precious; keep them near. But thy family is sacred. One may treat them ill, slander them and do them evil. Yet when thy need is greatest, they shall always be with thee. 
History is not a fixed thing. Although the event may remain constant, the interpretation is ever fluid. And the interpretation is all: for a grown man will look back upon a childhood act and see his guilt, where earlier he saw only vindication. Change the mind and change the past—and with it, the present and future. 
Be not the hedonist, seize not the day without an eye to the morrow. Yet enjoy the flesh, for it is thy legacy. 
Thou hast within thee gifts without measure and powers beyond comprehension. Ye need but use them. Take pride in thy gifts, pride in thy power, and pride in thy accomplishments. 
Seek not the praise of others and heed not their condemnation—for within thee and thee alone lies the power of self-fulfillment. 
Thou art neither better nor worse than thy neighbor, no matter how much more righteous or evil he may be. 
Hope maketh the heart stronger, where desire unfulfilled maketh the heart ill. Hope for fulfillment and work toward its achievement. And if thy goals go unmet, ye shall still find peace, for within the journey does the true goal lie. 
Error and forgiveness are the traits of humanity, fear and condemnation the traits of gods. Strive to be human; strive not to be gods. 
Subjugate thyself not to God nor man, for subjugation knows no honor. Why should the Father wish His children to kneel in fear before him? Better to die free than to live as sheep. 
There are those who understand reason and those who understand violence. Reason is wasted on the violent man and violence is wasted on the reasonable man. If thou wishest one to hear thee, speak in his language or speak not at all. 
Ye may speak truth or deception, according to thine own free will. But to thine own self, know the difference. 
If a man wrongs thee, look to thyself to see why thou hast allowed the transgression. Learn from it, then seek vindication or reconciliation, as ye see fit. 
Others may lead thee to temptation, but only by thine own hand can ye partake of it. If thou later seekest to lay blame, seek thyself. 
In life, some have more and some have less. Yet what matter? Peace and happiness stem from within, not without. 
Do what ye will with thy life. Give freely, love freely and expect nothing. In this shall ye find true happiness, and there will be no reason for disappointment. 
If thou desires an action to come about then bring it about. Ye may fail, but, then, ye may not. 
There is knowledge in all things, in all actions, in all places. Learn from all things. It may come from the mouth of a child as easily as from the wisest of men. Always listen, always learn: Knowledge is all around thee. 
Knowledge is a painful thing, for it always bears a price. Accept the risk and pain, for life without risk or pain is not life. 
Look not to the Lord God for direction; look not to Satan. Look, instead, to thine own self. 
Live each day as if it were thy last day. Yet live it also as if it were not. 
If thou wishest to die, then thou art dead already. 
Thou art stronger than ye can ever know, search for the strength that wells within. It is there. It is waiting. And somewhere out there, someone needs you more than you can ever imagine. 
Life and hope are one. Seek thy gifts and share them. It is for this reason that thou art truly here. 
If thou wishest life in death, then ye must live in life. 
That which ye can touch and hold and lose is of little importance. The greatest thing in life cannot be taken. 
It comes to this: by design, the Race of Man is half man and half beast. Thou art not beings of reason, but, rather, beings capable of reason. There is much difference between the two. Exercise thy capabilities. 
Thou art a being of free will. Ye may follow the instincts of the beast or the reason of the man. The choice has been forever yours. Yet know this: a life ruled by the beast shall lead thee to subjugation and destruction, for it is the beast that is in thrall to the Lord God. 
For everything there is a time: a time to live, a time to die; a time for peace, a time for war; a time to create and a time to destroy. Learn to tell time. 
The flesh is a vessel, a conduit to the immortal. If thou learnest from thy travels, the destination is assured. 
It is in thy nature to take the familiar for granted. Strive against this. Question always, question often, in this shall ye keep what is most important. The price for thine immortal soul is constant vigilance. 
Seek to understand the unknown. Expand thy thoughts and seek out knowledge, for in this shall ye become as One in death. 
The answers to all things are always within thy grasp. Ye carry within thee all that is needed to comprehend the infinite. And it is waiting for thee to find it. 
He who knows himself knows others, for a piece of ourselves dwells within every other. 
If ye have not known hate, pain, greed and cowardice then thou hast not known love, pleasure, generosity and courage—for they are all degrees of the same ideal. Accept both the good and the bad within thee, for there is no separating the two. Without one, the other has no meaning. 
Until life has given thee its worst, thou hast not been at thy best. 
All has been brought to bear against thee. Thine instincts were bred into thee; thy laws created for they could not be kept. Question all, for this is the path to Oneness. Heed not the beliefs, laws and actions of others unless they suit thee. And be prepared to die for this. 
Fear of the Lord is the end of Knowledge and of Reason, and these two pursuits are the keys that shall free thy soul. If ye sacrifice these philosophies, then ye shall cease to grow in spirit. And there shall be no life in death. 
And so it ended, for it was enough. 
“Remember what has been said here,” Satan concluded. “For the salvation of the earth is contained within the simple words thou hast heard here this night.” And Satan said, “For one with no soul, Cain, ye art wiser than many. Take the life ye have been given and make it purposeful, regardless of what hast befallen thee. We are remembered for what we do and how we live: make yours a goodly remembrance.” 
“I say again to thee, Cain, take what I have given thee this night. Thou art a tiller of soil: take the seeds of wisdom I have placed within thee, plant them, tend them, see that they take root.” 
“Remember this always.” 
“Yes, I see the truth in what Ye say, Teacher,” Cain replied. “And of all things, one must learn to recognize the truth.”
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village-skeptic · 4 years
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The lovely @justcourbeau tagged me in a shuffle meme a few eons ago - so here we go!
the rules of the game: you can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to! put your favorite playlist on shuffle and list the first 10 songs, then tag 10 people. no skipping!
Since I don’t really do playlists, here are 10 recent songs from my ambient environment, bidden or unbidden (but mostly bidden) from over the last few days:
No Doubt, “Ex-Girlfriend”
Squeeze, “Up The Junction”
Oasis, “Don’t Look Back in Anger”
Soft Cell, “Tainted Love”
The Carpenters, “Superstar”
Caamp, “Peach Fuzz”
Sixpence None the Richer, “There She Goes”
Vampire Weekend, “Harmony Hall”
Fleetwood Mac, “I’m So Afraid”
Lizzo, “Good as Hell”
I’m going to continue to be a rebel and tag fewer than 10 people, but I know that @sullypants is often up for a good shuffle meme; I’m excited to see @yavannie‘s face back around these parts; @stirringsofconsciousness has been expanding her musical taste lately in ways that make me smile; and @fantasticalnonsense18 has tagged me in a few things lately, and I’m delighted to return the favor! (P.S. if you wanna do this; consider yourself tagged. <3)
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laurenesegarra · 4 years
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Honey and Salt
A bag of tricks--is it? And a game smoothies play? If you're good with a deck of cards or rolling the bones--that helps? If you can tell jokes and be a chum and make an impression--that helps? When boy meets girl or girl meets boy-- what helps? They all help: be cozy but not too cozy: be shy, bashful, mysterious, yet only so-so: Then forget everything you ever heard about love for it's a summer tan and a winter windburn and it comes like your face came to you, like your legs came and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands-- and nothing can be done about it--you wait and pray. Is there any way of measuring love? Yes but not till long afterward when the beat of your heart has gone many miles, far into the big numbers. Is the key to love in passion, knowledge, affection? All three--along with moonlight, roses, groceries, givings and forgivings, gettings and forgettings, keepsakes and room rent, pearls of memory along with ham and eggs. Can love be locked away and kept hid? Yes and it gathers dust and mildew and shrivels itself in shadows unless it learns the sun can help, snow, rain, storms can help-- birds in their one-room family nests shaken by winds cruel and crazy-- they can all help: lock not away your love nor keep it hid. How comes the first sign of love? In a chill, in a personal sweat, in a you-and-me, us, us two, in a couple of answers, an amethyst haze on the horizon, two dance programs criss-crossed, jackknifed initials interwoven, five fresh violets lost in sea salt, birds flying at single big moments in and out a thousand windows, a horse, two horses, many horses, a silver ring, a brass cry, a golden gong going ong ong ong-ng-ng, pink doors closing one by one to sunset nightsongs along the west, shafts and handles of stars, folds of moonmist curtains, winding and unwinding wisps of fogmist. How long does love last? As long as glass bubbles handled with care or two hot-house orchids in a blizzard or one solid immovable steel anvil tempered in sure inexorable welding-- or again love might last as six snowflakes, six hexagonal snowflakes, six floating hexagonal flakes of snow or the oaths between hydrogen and oxygen in one cup of spring water or the eyes of bucks and does or two wishes riding on the back of a morning wind in winter or one corner of an ancient tabernacle held sacred for personal devotions or dust yes dust in a little solemn heap played on by changing winds. There are sanctuaries holding honey and salt. There are those who spill and spend. There are those who search and save. And love may be a quest with silence and content. Can you buy love? Sure every day with money, clothes, candy, with promises, flowers, big-talk, with laughter, sweet-talk, lies, every day men and women buy love and take it away and things happen and they study about it and the longer they look at it the more it isn't love they bought at all: bought love is a guaranteed imitation. Can you sell love? Yes you can sell it and take the price and think it over and look again at the price and cry and cry to yourself and wonder who was selling what and why. Evensong lights floating black night waters, a lagoon of stars washed in velvet shadows, a great storm cry from white sea-horses-- these moments cost beyond all prices. Bidden or unbidden? how comes love? Both bidden and unbidden, a sneak and a shadow, a dawn in a doorway throwing a dazzle or a sash of light in a blue fog, a slow blinking of two red lanterns in river mist or a deep smoke winding one hump of a mountain and the smoke becomes a smoke known to your own twisted individual garments: the winding of it gets into your walk, your hands, your face and eyes. Carl Sandburg, 1953.
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bornpariah-a · 5 years
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😘 >:))
It starts, as it often does, with death.
The death of monsters, to be precise, though the truth of it all is that MONSTER is far more subjective than some may wish to believe and while the enemy has a human face and human hearts there is something doubtlessly monstrous about them, nonetheless. Dorian has killed far more than most would bother to believe, so coddled and spoilt he was ——— his life will be book ended by death, its beginning and end in Death’s arms. He wonders, in the abstract sense of wondering, if Geralt is the same on some level / in some way.
It starts with death and a corridor and blood seeping through the cracks and the crevices and him : examining the bodies / feeling the souls depart / hearing the spirits scream. A standard scene, a usual scene, and within one breath and the next he finds his attention enraptured with a DYING MAN and then, suddenly, THE LIVING MAN CHASING DEATH.
Himself? Geralt? Who knows, truly.
It starts with death and a corridor and blood and a mirror, in the metaphorical sense. And the literal sense, as there is one hanging on the wall that he views the Witcher through for a beat of his heart and the another and his mouth parts and / it starts with death and / a sardonic smile and / a smear of red on his cheek as he approaches the fearsome Witcher and there are monsters and there are them.
( there’s something in his eyes, the set of his mouth, the paradoxical way in which he holds himself that’s eye catching / that has caught his attention time and time again and the dead can wait, can’t they? )
And, with his hand splayed innocuously ( ironic, he thinks, and so very false too ) across Geralt’s chest and a wall to his back and a distance between their bodies that lingers along the precipice of indecent, their mouths meet. Close-mouthed and lingering in the abyss that lies between severity and something like endearment and gentled by the tilt of his head and the slow and measured exhalation that he gives. There are monsters and there is ——— him. And a pulse / and a thud / and there is the space between them as he pulls away.
❝ Your pendant senses magick, ❞ a dry observation if nothing else, one made out of the desire to SPEAK and therefore he does, words bidden and unbidden in the gravity that forms between them. Talking : about this and that and the other and drawing nearer to each other / lest it’s simply the necromancer growing closer to the Witcher / or the other way around ——— all equally plausible and absurd in turns. Oh, the absurdity of it all !!
It’s a delicate dance, always, one that he knows well and falls into with ease and he looks up at the man, their difference exacerbated by their nearness and, truly : the absurdity of it all. So much so that he reaches out and touches the pendant, this pulsing thing, an electric point of contact with no beginning nor end and fleeting in its nature. ❝ Or is it danger? One in the same, perhaps? It doesn’t much like me, either way, ❞ the gall of him !! Yet magick thrums beneath the surface of his skin and radiates from him and he makes no effort to stifle nor lessen it. Such an act would be heresy, insofar as he’s concerned.
And he remains close, in spite of his observation. After all, he poses no true threat to the Witcher in the here and now. A fact they both know, and one he doesn’t begrudge him.
It starts with Death / and he can feel Its lingering as his magick sparks, and there is yet things to do. ❝ Shall we continue? ❞ A raised brow and a double entendre and a richness to his tone and he can sense them, just beyond the precipice, walking into the arms of DEATH.
He remains close / and he doesn’t / the egocentric inconsistency of man.
@cigydd // KISSES !! ( of which i’m always accepting, really )
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mitch--douglas · 5 years
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NO MATCHES FOUND || mitch & cambie
@cambieandrews
For better or for worse, Mitch Douglas was someone who could only be described as desperately nostalgic. Unfortunately for him, in a post-apocalyptic society where everything about life could and often did change with a relentless and unforgiving regularity, this frequently trended towards the “for worse.” It made it exceedingly difficult to exist as a person mired too thoroughly in their past. Mitch imagined himself relatively adaptable for his age and the circumstances, but this was one true hangup he had some difficulty getting past.
Not long after Echo and its database had been implemented, Mitch developed a relationship with searching it that could only be described as… moderately unhealthy. Borderline obsessive, even. A lot of the time it’d taken the shape of searching the names of his former students, and survivors popped up just frequently enough that he was able to breathe a sigh of relief and reassure himself that this searching wasn’t as unhealthy as it could be. A plausible case couldn’t, however, be made that searching for his ex-wife was any kind of healthy. It was an endeavor largely motivated by guilt, and a misplaced guilt at that. Even if Mitch could admit that to himself -- which he did, eventually -- he still couldn’t quite help it. On a more anxious day he would check every free moment he had, and almost never went more than eight hours without.
As the years wore on and the rate at which new names entered the list slowed to a trickle, though, Mitch began to look for her less frequently. A weekly check turned biweekly, biweekly turned monthly, and every now and then he’d even manage to forget for a month. The impending holiday, of course, made forgetting difficult. Made forgetting a lot of things difficult.
After a late dinner his footsteps had carried him to his office instead of straight back to Calyset and his suite, having remembered that he’d left his Echo-pad perched on his paper- and journal-littered desk. Gathering some notes to fold and slip into his pockets, Mitch paused before he pulled back his chair and sank into it, eyes fixing on the blank screen of his Echo where it sat. He eventually pressed his thumbprint where was needed to bring the screen to life and gave his hands a tentative flex, muscles and joints still stiff with the chill that’d seeped into them over the meandering walk he’d taken to get here. The moment stretched on as he stared at the slow blink of the database’s search box cursor, long enough that it eventually became impossible to keep blaming the hesitation on his numb fingertips.
Finally and with a quiet exhale, his hands moved to type out a name: Adelle Kühn.
It stung a little less to type than it used to. Her maiden name. What he assumed she’d gone back to after the divorce. As the search function spun Mitch stared at those four simple letters and couldn’t help but remember how excited she’d been to take his name after their wedding. “It’s not because I belong to you now, so don’t get any ideas,” Adelle would joke with an irresistible spark in her eyes. “It’s just going to be so much easier for people to pronounce. And spell. And everything else. ‘Douglas.’”
The database chimed just loudly enough to drag Mitch back to the present, which was merciful except for the NO MATCHES FOUND scrolling mutely across the screen. He ran a hand over the bottom half of his face, scraping across a couple days’ worth of stubble before he pressed cool fingertips against one eyelid under his glasses. Mitch knew as well as anyone that a no match didn’t necessarily mean deceased; as useful as it might be to have a list of the confirmed dead he couldn’t fathom the time and energy it’d take to compile as a secondary database, not when people had more pressing matters to attend to. So circumstances were confined to “survived” and “question mark.” Schrödinger’s status. Neither dead nor alive.
The subsequent few search attempts came with less hesitation, now that he’d started. Adele Kühn likewise yielded no results; neither did Adelle Kuhn or Adele Kuhn.
“It’s Adelle with two ‘l’s, Kühn with an umlaut. I don’t see how that’s so difficult for people,” her voice echoed in the back of his head, with a tone that endeavored to make light of it. Mitch knew her well enough that he’d always heard that fuzzy edge of frustration.
“Now I can just say ‘It’s Adelle with two ‘l’s, and Douglas as in...’ well, Douglas. Only one ‘l’.”
His PDD chimed with a notification that startled him out of his reverie: Cambie. His hand moved to hover over the device in indecision for a moment before dismissing the alert, without opening the message and with a measure of guilt. She’d sent him a notice earlier when he was out walking that he’d similarly left unanswered, the usual desperation to spare her an instance of doom and gloom overriding his typically punctual responses. Mitch made a mental note to send off an apology once he was back to the privacy of his own suite and returned his attention to the Echo-pad.
He typed in one last name, and this one still stung as much as it used to. Mitch couldn’t imagine it’d ever yield any results, but some part of him couldn’t let go of the ‘what if,’ not to mention the off chance he wouldn’t find her if that actually was the name she chose to register and he didn’t bother to search it.
The cursor spun; the same result eventually filtered back.
It didn’t surprise him, but it exhausted him. Slipping his glasses off and setting them aside, Mitch buried his face in his hands, taking a deep breath in that he held to a count of five before letting it out again. This was the sort of thing that might’ve caused a lapse in control a couple of years ago, would’ve had the potential to tip a precarious stack of journals or send papers wafting to the floor with half a wayward thought. As it was nothing moved, bidden or unbidden, and Mitch resigned himself to the blanket of quiet in his office. He didn’t have the capacity left to reminisce or even think, but at this point, maybe that was a blessing. He sank into the naggingly persistent exhaustion instead and, folding his arms onto a stack of papers to pillow his head, let a restless doze take over.
The Echo-pad’s screen didn’t time out, declaring its results to the ceiling: Adelle Douglas: NO MATCHES FOUND.
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beware-my-sting · 6 years
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Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Doctor Who RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alex Kingston/Matt Smith Characters: Alex Kingston, Matt Smith Additional Tags: RPF, rpf guilt so strong, Long ass fic, Mattex Summary:
“Alex, be careful.” Matt warns, “I don’t want you to fall.”
“Tried careful once,” Alex smiles at him a bit sadly, then turns her head to peer over the edge of the glass partition, “And with no TARDIS to catch me this time.” She turns back to face him and at his stern look, she laughs, “Darling, it’s fine.” She smirks, letting a bit of seduction find its way into her face as she presses her weight against the partition, testing its durability experimentally, “We could probably shag right up against it and it’d be no worse for the wear.”
Matt chokes on air, the images coming unbidden—or quite bidden, really.
"God, Alex.” He says, shaking his head as a smile spreads slowly across his face.
She chuckles, shrugging, “Sorry, darling.”
He barks out a laugh, “You’re not.”
She eyes him and purses her lips, grinning, “You’re right, I’m not.” She sighs, “Not for that, anyway.”
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