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5lazarus · 3 years

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To the Victor the Spoils

In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain.

A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly.

As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it." Read on Archive of Our Own here.

The Inquisitor’s hand aches, and Solas is responsible, so he rouses himself from the Fade and dresses quietly. His erstwhile roommates, Varric and Dorian, snore away soundly. They came back late last night and may still wake up drunk. If this were not the third night in the row they had done this, he would be more sympathetic and leave a tincture for their headache. Alas, they must learn soon, or he will simply make a lot of noise waking up. There are healthier ways to cope with bad battles and beloveds’ deaths by drinking, however Varric wants to honor Hawke. Adamant has left them all aching. He would still like to sleep.

Outside Blackwall is running the new recruits through their basic drills. He is yelling at them about honor—another Adaman casualty. The children look like badly-plucked chickens in their ill-worn armor, shambling in the gray morning light. Solas would tell them to stand up straight and widen their stances, but here he does not need to play the drill sergeant. He leave Blackwall to his work and retreats into the main keep.

Morning prayer has just released and Leliana is wistful, her hood down. She pauses by Varric’s table and looks unseeingly at the stack of books. Then she sees him, and her face grows as porcelain-clear as a doll’s.

“Good morning, Solas,” she says. “You’re up early.”

The easiest way to answer is to obfuscate, and the best way to obfuscate is simply to say the truth. Solas says, “I enjoy the quiet, before Skyhold’s residents slip back into their daily routines.”

Leliana chuckles, and the porcelain visage warms into flesh. “Surely the Fade reflects routine too? The Hero of Ferelden told me she found me at my prayers, when we were trapped by a Sloth demon.”

You people dream such dull lives, Solas thinks but does not say, but of course I took the dreams away. He says, “There is disruption to be found on both sides of the Veil.” She watches him as he walks towards the cloister. He resists the urge to strut. Apostates, particularly those claiming to be hermits, do not walk with pride in their power and accomplishments. Many of the mages he has observed scuttle rather than stride. Solas has never tried to draw attention to himself; he cannot help being six feet tall and occasionally a redhead. Still, he tempers his walk.

In the cloister Elan’Vemal is buzzing around the felandaris like an angry wasp. Solas ignores her and walks towards the royal elfroot, pulling out his knife.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

Solas crouches down next to the bush. “I beg your pardon?” he says to the branches. The tips of its leaves are an electric violent. He can grind the stalks into a salve that will soothe the spasms in the Inquisitor’s hand and temporarily numb the spread of the Anchor. The leaves he will keep for himself.

“Inquisitor’s only,” Elan’Vemal says. “Unless you have a requisition form.” She looms over him, arms crossed. She’s a nasty little creature. The Inquisitor had not been pleased at her barefaced attempt at manipulation. Solas touches his own cheek, sans vallaslin, and does not even allow the thought to fully form.

He says, “I am making a salve for the Inquisitor.”

“A likely story.” Elan’Vemal is unimpressed.

Irritated, Solas says, “The stalk of this plant, ground into a salve with arbor blessing harvested wild and the stamen of the amrita vein, releases a numbing agent useful for treating Fade-inflicted wounds.” This is accurate enough, for her purposes. “We will be marching on Adamant in two weeks, and best be prepared.” He takes his knife and cuts only two branches from the stalk, when initially he had hoped to take three. Elan’Vemal watches him work. He is careful not to wound the plant. Grudgingly she remains silent as Solas ties the branches into a small bundle.

As he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees, she says, “And the leaves? What will you use that for?”

Solas says, “Getting high, of course. What else?”

Shocked, Elan’Vemal laughs. He smiles slightly and makes his escape, dodging Mother Giselle with a polite “good morning.” The salve will not take much time to prepare, but the day is barely long for all he wants to do. There is the basic sketch for his fresco of Adamant. He already has a sense of what the colors need to be, and so he need to requisition more cinnabar for the corrupted lyrium holding the City enchained. There are calculations to be run, as well, regarding the latest of his Veil accelerometers. They have reactivated enough for him to use the lodestone at Skyhold as a base and predict where the Veil is weakest. The Inquisitor ought to plan her next foray where the Veil needs the most attention; but first, he must soothe her hand, and let her know she is cared for. He cares for her. She knows that; but after Adamant, the reminder will help.

A man is staring at him, not unkindly, so Solas turns with a practiced mild expression.

“May I help you?” he asks. It has not been easy to fall back into the habits he developed as Mythal’s thrall, but he has never been one for ease.

Loghain says, “You fought valiantly at Adamant.”

The almost-king of Ferelden: even now he cannot help but trip into exalted circles. Solas takes him in quickly before responding. He has heard the Inquisitor complain about Loghain’s betrayal of the Night-Elves, the resistance force both the Dalish and the urban elves of Ferelden launched against the Orlesian occupation. Solas separates the personal dislike from the political necessity. Of course the Teryn could not keep the elves of Ferelden armed; he could not risked an armed and organized minority clamoring for land just after they had waged and won one foreign war. Factionalism is so easy to fall into; Solas knows this from experience. That does not excuse it, but one does what must be done. He has done similar and worse. He would have left Cailan to die at Ostagar, and the Wardens too—but he would not have been so obvious about it.

Loghain himself looks like a tired but brawny old man, much like himself nowadays. Blue rings his eyes, but he is clean-shaved and his armor is polished. If the darkspawn in his blood keeps him up at night, he does not let it taint his day. He still survives.

Why does he notice him? Why did he notice him on the battlefield? Solas is too old for flattery. What does he want from him?

Solas says, “Thank you. You as well.” Inveterate loser, he thinks. He does not know if he is insulting him or Loghain: both, this is your human kin, the Fade will press him into your archetype.

Loghain says, “I’ve fought with apostates before, when we faced down the Archdemon—Dalish and human too. But I’d never seen any mage move that quickly, or so competently bark orders at frozen soldier in the field. Have you served before? Ferelden, Tevinter, or Orlais?”

Solas, as practiced, recites, “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade, in ancient ruins and battlefields, where I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He smiles thinly. “One learns from their mistakes.” Yours and mine, he thinks and cannot say: I would have done what you did at Ostagar, but I would have made sure I was not blamed. So quickly one’s allies misunderstand the good one attempts to have wrought; so quickly it spirals out of one’s own control.

Loghain stares at him. “You dream on battlefields? And can see what had happened there?”

“I can watch spirits copy the strongest emotions felt there,” Solas corrects. “There is truth but she wears many faces.” Obfuscation via weak poeticism works so very well, though it marks him as more polished than most elves. “In the same blood-drenched patch of dirty a spirit acts and reenacts a soldier throwing himself to the ground in anguish as he sees his king overpowered. And then, in the same blink, another plays the role of the relieved foot soldier, glad to be spared a fatal charge in a battle of fools.” Perhaps bringing up Ostagar is not the most tactful, but he struggles to know the average quickling’s reference-point. His knowledge of history is vast, and time has slowed to a crawl. He does not know what else to reference.

Loghain presses his thin lips into an even thinner line. “Ostagar,” he says. “And before I’ve had my breakfast. Did you go there deliberately, or just…fall asleep?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Solas says simply. It is not an untruth. He had found Flemeth’s cottage first. The dreams came easy. “Battles that change the tide of history mark the Fade as much they do the waking world. It is difficult to dream anything else, north of the Korcari Wilds.”

Loghain stares into his eyes. Solas, of course, peers back. The man’s eyes are a clear, cold blue, more brilliant for the bruises under them. The former regent of Ferelden says levelly, “When I dream, all I remember is a fool’s death and a hard choice. And I’d make the same again.”

“As you should,” Solas says. “There is no time for regret. You have lived your life according to the demands of your honor: for your countrymen, and now, your fellow Wardens. If you regretted that choice—if you sought to deny it, to fruitlessly work against the tide of the history you have made, that would be dishonorable. But you are an honorable man, are you not?” He realizes he is perhaps speaking more passionately than he ought. This is not Blackwall, an easy mirror to his own sins. He must remember what he is in the world: an elf, an apostate, a dirty outsider—no matter that he keeps himself cleaner than Cassandra. Repressively, he says, “Forgive me. Adamant stirs up old memories in us all. I am marked by what I witnessed as well.”

Loghain says, “You know war. Of course, most of your people do. The Warden has told me what the elves face in Orlais and Tevinter. It’s not much better in Ferelden.” Solas stirs, irritated, wanting to deny—but he is an elf, he is stuck in these circumstances, and he does know war intimately. He could not help but speak first. He cannot snap back. Loghain may be held in dishonor; that does not mean an elf can talk back. “Your friends have spent the past two nights in the tavern, drinking, and when that lugubrious warden isn’t weeping into his ale, he’s drilling the recruits to exhaustion. At least that will make them sleep at night. But that won’t do away with the dreams.” He smiles thinly. “I find your description of the Fade comforting. It means no one can lie about the past. Whatever it is. It’s always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and sinks into our dreams. We wear it on our skin, and even the heavens are scarred with it. However history writes us.”

“To the victor the spoils,” Solas says.

Loghain burbles a laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, unexpected and a little hoarse. “Ha! And it’s my daughter who won. And right now—the Inquisition. The Wardens. Us. It’s easy to die for your cause. I could have claimed my redemption, if I need one, at Adamant. But it’s much harder to live for it, bearing the weight of the dead.”

Solas, surprised, says, “Yes.” He thinks, this is a lonely man, opening his deepest thoughts to a stranger, but aren’t I the same? Haven’t I been doing the same, with him, with Blackwall, with the Iron Bull and Varric and Cassandra and them all? He did not need the death of Wisdom as an excuse. He has found comradeship enough where he goes. He clears his throat, suddenly overcome. He thinks it through: I am upset, why? What has disturbed me? That this man carries his sins on his skin, and rejects the need for redemption. History has painted him the villain; I, also. Dread Wolf take you: what will they say about Loghain?

Loghain says, “It’s early in the day for this talk. I must be keeping you from your work.” The moment has passed; now they are awkward with each other, and not two soldiers who are harrowing a war. The man’s drawing into himself, embarrassed at the truth he told. Disappointed, Solas draws up to his full height and remembers: don’t hold yourself too tall.

He says, “Quite,” and holds up the pouch of royal elfroot. “Duty calls.” The Inquisitor’s hand is hurting and needs a salve. The quartermaster needs to order him cinnabar. Then there is the composition of the fresco to calculate and then sketch with charcoal, and more calculations, and sidestepping Leliana and Vivienne as to how he made those calculations. He saw it in the Fade. When he saw it, the Fade was everything, and there was no bleary waking. He leaves the courtyard and the almost-king, remembering and forgetting his words.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #dai #solas #loghain #character study #solas & loghain #elan ve'mal #leliana #adamant #ptsd #survivor's guilt

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sepublic · 3 years

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Coven Bindings- Even more restrictive than they seem?

@aguigenae and I were talking about how coven bindings would even work, going with the idea that Belos’ nine magical categories are purely arbitrary, and they came up with a chilling yet fitting concept;

What if witches with coven bindings can’t actually develop new spells, only learn and perform pre-established ones? What if witches are told to believe that all of the spells they can do are the full extent of that ‘category’, when in reality they’re not being excluded from other forms of magic, they’re actually having their magic turned off completely, save for a select list of spells that the bindings are programmed to include? And because experimentation and magic-mixing is discouraged, nobody realizes there are spells they SHOULD be able to cast according to how the coven bindings claim to work, based on alleged categories, but can’t- Because those categories don’t actually exist!

What Aguigenae suggested makes a lot of sense, it’d be easier to seal magic with a coven binding if it’s really just a list of spells you’re allowed to do, VS all magic banned except for potentially infinite spells of this one type. Witches are taught only to learn spells already pre-established in textbooks, not create and try different, new ones; Because then that will expose the limitations of coven bindings when witches inevitably run into them, and multi-track learning can put a hole into Belos’ claims.

The insistence on practicing only what’s been established is likely to hide the truth of how the coven bindings really work; Because if people realize how much smaller their options already are, and they’re already hesitant about the bindings in general, they might revolt! Like, a Plant Witch will discover a never-before-seen plant, but then realize they can’t recreate it with a spell- Because their magic isn’t banned EXCEPT for plants, it’s ONLY plant spells, but not EVERY plant spell possible, so to speak.

Suddenly, Belos’ system is even more insidious, because he’s not just dividing magic; He’s halting development of it entirely! It’s possible actual magical categories exist, but they subscribe more along elemental lines found in nature (hence Luz’s glyphs), not the fake categories that Belos devised, meant to fit in with societal roles and functions as part of a larger machine. And witches in covens can’t explore the height of their magical potential, because not only does that category not even exist technically (with the exception of the Plant Coven apparently), but there’s a specific set limit that Belos has secretly established, an invisible glass ceiling that nobody is even aware of; And if witches run into it, they’re gaslit into thinking it’s because they’re too weak to climb even higher, or some other propaganda.

This could even apply to the Coven Heads; Perhaps they don’t even HAVE coven bindings yet claim to do… And this allows them to perform and create new spells that other witches in their coven can’t, so long as those spells seem to fit within the category that Belos devised. If witches who have actual bindings can’t do the same spells, it’s actually because they’re just not skilled nor talented enough. It artificially maintains the power of the Coven Heads similarly to how the Emperor’s Coven does, but in a way arguably more insidious; Because people don’t even realize it’s because of their bindings that they’re not as strong, they just think it’s their own lack of ability!

And it makes the Coven Heads seem much more dedicated and skilled than they actually are, when in reality they’re given a hidden advantage from the very start. It’s an unfair system that’s cheating against you. It also adds to the illusion (not just for that one coven) that witches with coven bindings CAN innovate and create new spells, and it’s just your fault for not being good enough, nothing to do with a rigged system or anything…

This could tie into how the Coven System robs witches of abilities they naturally have, and treats them as privileges to earn back- Or even just earn in the first place! Belos won’t let people have what they already own, he steals it from them and forces witches to prove they’re ‘worthy’ to have it. There could even be spells that don’t quite fit into Belos’ nine categories, so either he arbitrarily places spells into types with no room for overlap (perhaps claiming Fire as Potions magic because it can heat chemicals, even if it has uses in many other covens), and/or he’s open about spells not belonging to any of the nine categories; These special spells are of course exclusive to only the Emperor’s Coven.

Even if all nine covens were to band against the Emperor’s Coven, they’d have a smaller range of spells to use than the covenscouts, especially since the Emperor’s Coven can actually invent new spells to begin with. A typical member of the Emperor’s Coven has more magical potential and spells to choose from, than a group of nine witches from each coven combined! Belos acknowledges spells that don’t fit into his nine categories, as just another privilege for the Emperor’s Coven to further inflate its power, and maintain a distance. Some students might try to learn these ‘exclusive’ spells in preparation/advance for joining the Emperor’s Coven, maybe even joining so they can hold onto these special spells as well- It’d just add another dark layer to how Eda probably only wanted to join the Emperor’s Coven to keep her magic.

Likewise, if you see new bard magic done by a covenscout, that you can’t do? That’s probably because it’s actually mixed magic, and/or you’re just not good enough! There could be spells discovered AFTER your binding was applied, and thus your binding doesn’t include it! To maintain the ‘illusion’ of the coven bindings and his magical categories, Belos probably has hidden updates to his coven bindings to include more spells; And it could create the illusion that later generations in his Coven System have more access to magic than previous ones, because the Emperor’s curriculum is ‘superior’. The Emperor’s Coven can’t admit the truth because it breaks their illusion of choice; Witches aren’t so much excluding themselves from certain spells, as much as they are binding themselves to a very select group that seems similar enough to fit within Belos’ fake taxonomy.

It’s even possible Belos plays into the holes of his claims, by passing it off as wild magic! Perhaps he insists that when the Titan created magic and blessed the Boiling Isles with it, it only devised a set amount of spells approved for common witches to utilize. Spells created or found beyond that approved list are a dangerous type of heresy, a usage of magic not within the Titan’s plan and design. Journeying into unpredictable territory can yield unknown consequences, such as Eda’s Owl Beast form- So Belos claims. As Aguigenae put it; You join a coven and can’t use one of your favorite spells anymore because you came up with it, even though it should fit your binding- Must’ve been wild magic, you shouldn’t have been messing with that!

Any spells not approved by the Titan are blasphemy, perversions of its magic that weren’t created with the safety of witches in mind, with no part in its hierarchy- An outsider’s magic. Only the Titan can create new spells and mix magic… And of course, its trusted few in the Emperor’s Coven- Who are skilled and loyal enough to be trusted with creating new spells, experimenting, and performing forays into unexplored forms of magic. Only they are proven to do what is dangerous or otherwise blasphemous for the common witch to do, because only the Emperor’s Coven has the Titan’s approval. The Emperor’s Coven is beloved and chosen by the Titan, to oppose them is to oppose its will! Experimentation is dangerous, and if a spell wasn’t approved for the common witch by the Titan, it was for a reason…

Again, that’s why experimentation and multi-track learning is frowned upon and even banned by Belos; Because people like Luz or the Detention Kids can show that new spells aren’t as dangerous and unpredictable as Belos claims them to be! Or at the very least, the benefits of experimentation FAR outweigh the cons, and it shouldn’t be restricted to a select, ‘privileged’ group- Especially if that groups exists to enforce a hierarchy and dictatorship on behalf of the Emperor. Even the Emperor’s Coven would discourage innovation, as only new spells that are relevant to its military interests and control would be researched.

It’s all, as Luz might put it, “Fiendishly clever”; It’s a philosophy that keeps witches even weaker than they’re led to believe, while discouraging them from experimenting… It artificially maintains a hierarchy with even more new spells for the Emperor’s Coven, all while gaslighting some into thinking that if they can’t do the same spells as their Coven Heads, it’s because they’re just not good enough; NOT because their Head Witch secretly lacks a coven binding to begin with, actually!

Again, this is all conjecture. If coven bindings weren’t “all magic banned except this type” and actually “all magic that fits into this made-up type”, it’d just prove the system to be even more corrupt and fake than it already is. It’d expose Belos’ lie, because the coven system doesn’t even let witches ‘focus’ on the type of magic they’re best, because they’ll never go beyond what he explicitly approved of thanks to his bindings… It’s stagnation everywhere except where Belos has control and can use it for himself, and it fools witches into believing in their own lack of ability. Even if they were to all band together and rise up, their magic would STILL be lesser than the Emperor’s Coven.

#the owl house #the owl house belos #emperor belos #covens #coven system #emperor's coven #speculation #theory

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

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Lamb

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Summary: In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

C/N: 18+ only; mythology AU; implied genocide; physical violence; self harm; bloody bloody blood

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Well, here I am again, and here we go again. Please take the content warnings seriously because I am not a nice girl; and herein, may lie not-nice-girl things.

This is my first foray into world building, and I welcome all feedback, critiques, and comments. :)

Special thanks to @kylorengarbagedump and @bexterbex for helping me develop this idea and get it ready for sharing.

***

In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

You ran your fingers over the intricate gold leaf pattern on the book’s cover, remembering your lessons as a child. This Scripture, your grandmother’s most treasured possession, was the only part of your life you’d brought on this crusade. It was the only thing you couldn’t bear to abandon, even in the face of certain death.

You exhausted every avenue before taking on this last of your options. You demanded justice from the law only to be told you should keep your mouth shut. You went straight to the throne, but it shut to your caste, your people too low to deserve even an audience.

Selling every item of value, you had barely scraped up enough for the one-person craft, but it served its purpose. You were here. You landed the shuttle on one of Chandrila's famed rolling hills, overlooking The Demarcation. You exhaled, shallow and nervous, and looked out over the horizon. The pilgrimage to this place, this day, was long and harrowing, but the sacrament itself would be quick.

Your fingers quaked as you shucked everything identifiable about yourself: blue pants your mother bought for your birthday; green shirt that belonged to your brother, found in the rubble of what was your family home; jade hair clip handed down from mother to daughter for generations. None of it would serve you now, and it would only be in the way. Trading the vestiges of civilization for religion, you donned your grandmother’s ample amethyst robe, lacing the silk ties that held it together, and grabbed up the athame she’d bequeathed to you at your initiation.

She enveloped you, your grandmother, and you buried your nose into her sacred garment to inhale the lingering scent. They were your world, lovely and loving, ground to dust beneath the machine of a war none of you pledged to fight. The Resistance descended upon your planet like a plague, and they left a great nothing, a slate wiped forcefully clean in their wake.

It was for them you made this trek, that you abandoned all logic and reason for faith. They raised you to share their doctrine, but it never served a single purpose for you in life. Your grandmother and mother believed everything they’d ever taught you about the Twin Fathers. They wove the fabric of their lives, and yours, around it; and now, you clung to their prayers, your last hope in the face of something horrible and wholly dismissed by the universe.

There was no one to remember them, their faithfulness and devotion, but you.

Fathers, we pray. Bless this our food to the nourishment of our bodies that we may be strong in your service. Bless these our hands that we may share your great instruction with those in need. Bless our hearts that we may find the balance you have so righteously set for us.

Their prayers spilled over your dry lips, the only eulogy they would ever receive, and every holy word strengthened your resolve.

Clutching book and blade in one hand, you punched a series of numbers into the keypad nearest the bay door, extending the ramp. When it finished descending, you issued another command, the tiny keys lighting up with each pressed digit.

“Self-destruct sequence initiated.” The robotic voice vibrated the tiny craft’s walls. “Confirm.”

“Confirmation,” you cast one last look around the shuttle that had been your home for a month, “Bravo Echo 2-4.”

“Countdown 2 minutes.”

Sunlight, warm and inviting, welcomed you as you stepped off the ramp. Squinting into its brilliance, you recalled the way your brother would read to you on lazy afternoons and how your family would picnic on similar grassy knolls. The beeping over your shoulder grew faster with each passing second, and you lifted the cumbersome dress around your knees, wasting no further time jogging down the hill.

You were out on the flat land for just a second before the shuttle exploded into a fiery ball. You watched the blast shoot debris and columns of soot into the perfect sky. In another life, it would have scared you, shying you away from the destruction. Silent, stoic, you tracked plumes of grey smoke and the fall of ashes, comparing it to the devastation you found after the Resistance found your planet.

Days after the attack, you roamed fallen buildings and picked through still warm rubble. You had been too late, too far away. Knowing you could have done nothing to stop the strike was empty consolation.

You could have died with them. You would rather have died with them. Now, all you could do was die for them.

On bare feet, you crossed the flowery field, taking in the array of purples and yellows. You lingered on the blue-green grass, feeling the soft stick of it underfoot, and you basked in the wispy clouds overhead. This was life, teeming with vibrant colors, but it all felt hollow, dampened. You wondered if everyone who came here felt this way, grateful that this beauty would be one of their last memories but unable to fully appreciate what they saw.

Pressing your lips into a determined line, you steeled your will and turned to The Demarcation, The Great Divide.

Grandfather Sky Walker tasked the twins with creating and maintaining The Balance. One would usher life; one would usher death; both harbingers of fate.

It was striking, a sudden upheaval of vitality in deference to darkness. Tendrils of fog mingled with melancholy dusk, and you spent a long moment admiring the space between one and the other. This spot, this one impossible convergence, was balance. It was what every man strived to achieve, and no man could boast.

On the other side of the billowing veil, where you were coaching yourself to go, was The Ren’s territory. People far and wide spun countless tales about the land and its Master. It was a bottomless hole, they said, that would swallow you up steps past the boundary. It was an unending bog, and all who journeyed there were lost. All of its structures were built from the bones of the dead, and The Ren was the vicious king of an unforgiving wasteland.

Your grandmother, however, believed The Ren to be a merciful father, wise and misunderstood. He was the bringer of ends who did not differentiate between rich and poor. No creature was safe from his touch, and that made every creature equal in his eyes.

Whatever that land may be, whatever The Ren may be, there was nothing on the other side of that shroud that could compare to what you’d already endured. It was the way forward, your only way, and you bid yourself to go forth on deliberate steps.

Mirroring the track of your life, a balmy day gave way to a wintry gloom as you moved through the gauzy curtain, passing from one kingdom to another. The living world fell away, replaced by slender black trees that shot up to winking stars and stood adorned with wide, scarlet leaves. A ghostly breeze blew, shaking the leaves to delicately fall and blanket the spongy ground. You trod upon them carefully, uncertain what might lurk beneath the crimson carpet.

You took your time on the winding path, drinking in every otherworldly detail. Light pooled from a clandestine moon, and the very air shimmered under its grace. Midnight-colored blossoms dotted the road, mingling with swaying ferns. The stars shone so bright you could almost hear the twinkle, a delicate song tapped out to echo against the trees. Every inhale was laced with morning mist and rich earth.

The stories were wrong. This was no forlorn place. It was luminous, hallowed. Absent the touch of civilization, this land had bloomed unharmed, untainted.

This world felt more real to you, more easily understood. Colored with variations of shadow, it was peaceful in its ashen palette.

Reaching the altar, you stared, both reverent and curious. How many had come before you to lay their lives down for The Ren? How many had died as a sacrifice? Surely, its ruddy color came from generations of blood spilled in offering.

It was a chalice to which you would soon be adding.

The stone was cold and damp, raising gooseflesh on your nearly naked form. It curved down in the very center, a macabre cradle for all those laid here. A blending of emotion and chill cast your skin in shades of flush and set every digit to trembling. It was as though the thing waited for you impatiently, its very existence demanding an offering.

Your skepticism at your grandmother’s faith dwindled when confronted with an exact duplicate of the altar upon which you’d taken your initiation rites. It was larger, but the ridges were the same. The slab of your childhood did not bear such a florid hue, but the sacrifices it received had been sugar, water, bread.

This shrine’s very construction felt haunted, a cauldron of souls made solid.

Hoisting yourself up onto the behemoth, you arranged your tools in the very center. You set the athame at your right and spread the weighty purple velvet over the shrine, laying the fabric and yourself out as you would for a lover.

Your lips trembled. Your knees knocked together. The cloak barely covered your body, and the little satin bows lent an air of innocence you could hardly claim as truth. You hoped, swallowed a handful of prayers, that The Ren accepted sacrifices as the stories told. Today, confronted with the reality of this place, you believed it more.

Tenderly, longingly, you ran your fingers over the tome once more. You lifted it and pressed a gentle kiss to its cover. It would lie beneath your head during this last of your chores and for however long your body would remain here.

Closing your eyes, you conjured memories of your grandmother bearing witness to so many dead over the years and how you, filled with doubt and agony and hate, had failed to do the same for your family, your friends, your people. It had been too great of a thing, too much sorrow to compact into a single prayer.

The words came easily now, having been swirling and growing in your chest for weeks.

Into thy hands, Great Fathers, do we commend this soul, departed from the body, in payment for the souls still yet to come. We pray that you welcome her, keep her, and enter her into the great Balance so we may again feel the light of her love.

Swallowing your grief, you gripped the wicked blade tight. You had no more tears to cry. You brimmed with an awful energy, this ceaseless anguish bubbling up from your very marrow.

“Dark Father,” you brushed fabric away from your right leg and sliced a deep gash into the supple thigh before you could change your mind. “Hear my prayer.”

You hissed at the burn but smoothed your features into a stolid mask. You would do this for your family and people, who received no warning, no choice to convert or flee. You would make your entreaty to The Ren; or, you would die here and reunite with them. Whatever the outcome, this was your end.

“I commit my body to your hands. As your brother has given it to me, I give it now to you to use as you will. Grant me the grace of your ear that I may plead my case.”

Your breath stuttered, and you fought back the roaring in your ears so you could concentrate and carry on. Fixing your eyes upon the trickle of blood, you watched it turn to a pool and hurried to match it with another slash at your left forearm. Benumbed, you tracked the redness as it crested and spilled in every direction.

The callous cold seeped into your very bones, and you fell back against the altar with a gasp, fingers grasping for the book’s corner. You blinked, heavy lidded, as your face fell to one side, staring into the great forest beyond.

In your delirium, you thought you could see them, smiling and holding each other. Tears you thought you no longer had rushed forth, and you shook. Weakness or acceptance broke open the gate on your heartbreak, releasing a torrent of sobs and screams. There was no one to hear, to care, to chastise you for its futility.

You heard her voice, your grandmother’s tone the same that had been soothing your fears since you could remember, rubbing over you like a comforting balm.

More than yesterday, beloved. Less than tomorrow. Find me in the Balance.

“Nona, I’m coming.”

Your fit rode your wounds and bled away to faint sniffles and glassy eyes. You stared up at what you felt had to be an eternally night sky and pushed your fingers through the growing sticky puddles.

This was death, and you welcomed it. You would slip away into a dreamless sleep here in such a place as you never knew existed. Fatigued, breathing slow, your face fell to one side, eyes unfocused but still dancing from beauteous flower to leaf to timber.

He was a charcoal smudge, nothing more. His movement was so subtle your addled brain took him for a tree, black clad and too tall to be a man. He stepped through the maze, and what little tenacity you had left drained away.

He came to sit upon the side of the altar where you lay dying, tilting his head to look at you. You stared, bewildered and confronted with the most beautiful man you’d ever seen when you had been expecting The Ren, the great storied monster. He passed his hand over your face, and the sting of your wounds abated. The heaviness of your limbs lessened, and the burden of your body eased.

Feeling and consciousness and awareness flooded back into your senses, and you bolted upright. Understanding dawned, and you gaped at him, struck dumb by every mesmerizing feature. Ebony tresses crowned him brilliantly, and he looked back at you with deep, glittering eyes. His fair skin was sprinkled with twilight constellations, and his lips were full, lush, slightly pink.

This was The Ren.

Troubled by the absence of death, you surveyed your situation, shaking both tense hands into fists. The ritual robe clung to the altar more than it did to you, swirling lurid with your blood. Blood that still flowed, you realized. Wide-eyed and amazed, you studied this unnatural phenomenon. The wounds at your thigh and wrist still wept; they should have killed you, but there was now a sanguine loop wrapping each injury around to feed into itself.

“Why have you called me here?” His voice was gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it in millennia.

“Am I dead?” It was a staggeringly stupid question, but it was the only clear thought in your head as you stared at the vermilion ouroboros around your wrist.

“If you intend to answer every question with a question,” his enormous hand shot out to capture the flesh just above your forearm laceration, “you will be soon.”

He squeezed the wounded limb until you shrieked and tried to tug away. Deciding that he would not let you go until you appeased him, you licked dry lips and worked your mouth into a measure of moisture.

“Why did you come?” Your query shocked even you, and you snapped your mouth shut hard enough to hear the clap of your jaws.

True to his word, The Ren’s hand connected with your throat so fast you couldn’t say for sure he’d moved. In one moment, idiotic inquiries filled your muddled mind; and in the next, you were choking at the end of his arm.

“Your howling,” his fingers tightened at your throat, thumb rubbing into the pulse almost delicately. “The next question will be your last. Why are you here?”

Licking your suddenly too-dry lips, you studied him, wrapping both of your small hands around his wrist. This man, this deity, was walking death, and that he sat here with his hands upon you changed the very foundation of everything you believed to be true.

“I-I came to ask your favor, Dark Father.”

He shoved you away and stood from his perch. Death’s gravity pulled you down again, and you whimpered, reaching for him as though it would prolong the inevitable. Your mouth worked on a plea, but none came.

“You’ve wasted your time. And mine.” He turned away and spat the rest over his shoulder. “Sparing virgins their lives or the lives of their lovers lost its allure long ago.”

Glancing back, he must have seen something, perhaps the abject apology in your face and on your outstretched fingers, because he snatched you from oblivion in a blink. You broke into wretched sobs, each lung-full of air quaking and painful.

“I came here so you’d come for me.” You dug bloodstained fingertips into your eyes to staunch the tears. “And to ask for your help.”

He was ethereal, his presence just a step out of sync with the rest of the universe, and it was difficult to look upon. You turned your face to one side and tried to compose yourself. You were battling the significance of your loss against the staggering truth that The Ren was real and here.

“You come to ask favors but cannot even look upon the beast?” He closed the gap in a blur, and you shrieked, leaning away. “How do you plan to beg if you will not even open your eyes?”

Crowding in aggressively, he leaned over and braced himself with both sturdy hands on either side of your head, an effective cage. His gaze traced over every curve of your face, and you couldn’t move under the oppression of his scrutiny.

“You think you will make demands of me?” His voice changed, dropping to a malicious whisper as he brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, tracing it to its origin in your hairline.

He would eat you; you were sure of it. Razor-sharp teeth hid just behind those beautiful lips, and he would tear you to pieces. Bolstering yourself, you drew in a shuddering breath and looked up into the galaxy-filled eyes. You had to say the words. You had to tell him what brought you here, but you weren’t sure you could do it.

“The dying lamb has no value to the shepherd.” His suddenly gentle tone belied his impatience and interminable power. “Tell me why you are here; or, I will leave you to die.”

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, losing yourself in his resplendent gaze. It was like staring straight into the sun, and every part of you felt branded by him.

Your reasons for coming here meant little to him, you were certain. You pictured your family again and the horror inflicted on them.

The tension in your body loosened as purpose flowed through your veins once more. Your trembling lips blew out a steadying breath, which seemed to please him. He traced your lower lip with the very end of his thumb, waiting for you to speak.

“Retribution.”

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #lamb #here we go again

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infantacarclina · 3 years

Text

𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑫𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺.

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?”

post type : self-paragraph.

word count : 2,911.

mentions of : religious devotion, illicit romance.

brief mentions of @joannaofportugal

“If the Bishop is dead, then who will be left to give him a Christian burial?”

There was no doubting that Abbot Antunyes’ death left a darkened cloud to linger over the Monastery of Santa Clara a Velha, and yet there was much preparation at hand to make way for the new Abbot, Father Henriques, who rode from Lisbon to fill his late predecessor’s role. Sister María’s look darkened to a glower as she knelt before Carolina and gathered a clump of soil in her hands, staining the dark sable of her habit in soot. This was the first inkling Carolina had been made aware of that things were going to be different from now on. Antunyes, who had prostrated himself before the royal purse and groveled before the crown, was dead.

“The monks will tend to him,” María explained, a hand lifting to wipe her brow and leaving a smear of dirt behind. “Come, Sister, your youth is invaluable.”

Her head spinning with speculation, the Infanta fell to her knees and dug her hands into the cool earth, digging the spot where Antunyes would be laid to rest. She worked like a broken puppet, movements rathe and uncoordinated, lumps of both clay and rock thrown haphazardly over her shoulder. She did not resist as Sister María instructed for her to hasten, a silent prayer lingering upon the crackled oxbow of her lips all the while.

In truth, Antunyes, aged and addled with gout and weakened with arthritis as he was, was more powerful dead than he was alive. Tales of the Christian people of Coimbra flocking to the late Father’s cathedral to smear themselves with the blood of their holy prelate, or to snip pieces from his bloodstained vestments as relics, traveled across the length and breadth of Iberia. Young and potent and charismatic though he was, Henriques would have a mighty role to double as. Soon, the townsfolk –– many of them who had only ever known one bishop to come to with their troubles throughout their lives –– would make claims that miracles had been taking place at Antunyes’ tomb.

Carolina pressed both hands into the ground, stretched across the courtyard low enough that her nose was nearly flush with the dirt, as a frigid trickle of sweat fell from the tip of her nose into the weeds that lay flat beneath the soil. What a sorrowful tomb it was, she mused, a wooden box lined with muslin, shoved into the ground without a Bishop to bless it. Though perhaps that had been Antunyes’ final wish: as unremarkable and ghastly as his resting place was, was that not where the majority of miracles were known to take root?

The Infanta gripped the rosary slung from her throat with muddied hands, another cold gust of wind stabbing sharply at her lungs.

“That will be well enough for the gravediggers. I will request a warm basin to be brought to your chamber.”

Three days after Antunyes had breathed his last, Henriques had still not arrived –– and yet Carolina’s mind was consumed by a missive that arrived from the Palace, inscribed by her mother’s own hand. She ran her fingertips across her mother’s decorative script, signed Crara the Quene, and brought the slip of parchment to her nose, breathing in its smell of leather and wax deeply. Her mother wrote of the triumph of the Lisbon Summit, and of her abiding longing for her two youngest daughters. Carolina had longed to attend the pageantry, and yet with the presence of so many conspiring guests, it was advised that she be sent someplace where she’d be safe.

Glancing around the lusterless, gray chamber, carved of slanted ceilings and stone walls, she released a careworn sigh. With what little stipends she was bequeathed by the monastery, she’d purchased her own parchment, quill and ink, and set about rejoining her mother without a moment’s notice. It was ironic that the woman who commissioned the great and ancient monastery had been a Portuguese Queen, alike her own mother, often called upon to make peace between warring kings and lords. She’d lived out her dotage under the sisters of Santa Clara’s care, though left no royal accommodations for Carolina and Joanna to relish. Only strict, monastic severity. Brick-hard beds and hearths too small to radiate even the little chamber Carolina had been billeted.

Many of the Infanta’s days were spent by lonesome. If not toiling away at duties –– which included farm-work, providing alms and fare to the poor, care of the sick, and education to boys being reared in the local church –– or indulging in rare moments where she could see her sister (for they were often instructed to remain silent and joyless as they passed one another in the corridors) there was a sense of distressing loneliness housed in her breast. Shut away from the world as they were, there was no shame in the humility that had overcome her livelihood. Required to wear, on some days, rough robes of sackcloth that had been smeared from ashes from a fire, in penitence for the world’s terrible sins, there was nothing, in the eyes of the sisters, that could ever truly expiate it.

Carolina reminded herself that she must simply go through the motions, and that she would join her mother and father and sisters’ at their sides soon. Monastic life was meant to be a gift, a test of both fortitude of piety and character, and if the grandmothers who had come before her could endure and resist the temptation to shatter, she would, too. She need only concern herself if Joanna could survive it all.

She thought it was a great pity that she could not, for a single moment, slip into the role of one of the Portuguese lords who had seen her mother coronated. The sight of her refined, majestic mother in her silk gown and gold coronet, enthroned in the Jeronimos Monastery, would have surely gladdened her morose heart and filled her imagination with splendour and wonder. She touched the limestone walls, the frosted over windows, the arch of the hearth, the worse-for-wear floorboards, the wooden door that creaked as she caressed it with the palm of her hand, as if to absorb the religious asceticism thrumming through the walls.

Yet, it was at that self-same moment that the hinges of the door gave, and rusted nails poured down upon Carolina’s gilded head as the door fell forward, and she tumbled after it. Prostrated on the floor, on her hands and knees before the black robes of a monk who’d passed by and now stood over her. “Sister Carolina –– do swear it to me you were not meaning to escape. You have all the subtlety of a circus cavalcade.”

The Infanta reached forth to grasp the hand of the monk who lifted her to her feet. “Brother Lourenço.” She shook her head, now acutely aware of her exposed hair, “no –– no. To escape religious order is to run headfirst...”

“...into Hell,” he larked in unison. “You’ve listened well to Father Antunyes’ teachings. God rest his soul.” Lourenço made the sign of the cross upon his chest. As he did so, Carolina worried at her fingertips, praying to the God that the floorboards swallow her whole or, for all her sins, por favor Deus, bestow upon her a reasonable excuse for her trespasses.

“The fire,” she suddenly sputtered, “the fire in my room extinguished. Please, if you could spare me another pile of wood I–I am like to catch a chill without it.”

His head canted thoughtfully, the morning sun illuminating the deep hollow of his cheek. “Very well. Come with me, sister.”

As they treaded the winding corridors of the monastery, they spoke of much –– of the palace and court in Lisbon, which Brother Lourenço took an acute, albeit distanced interest in; of his religious vows, upbringing and forays at a university in France; of his journeys from Calais to Dover, and as he remembered the choir that sang for her uncle King Edward in London, he smiled, turning to her and bestowing a compliment upon the rosary that laid flat on her chest. The sun had shined its magnificent glister upon the rubies encrusted within the crucifix she piously donned, reflecting upon the Infanta’s silvery skin –– reddened with unbidden flush.

She found that he was not without humour, either, and as he hit his head against the ceiling of her hearth as he lit another log to burn, they two dissolved into fits of laughter that trembled the walls of the gravely quiet monastery. It was not until several moments later that Brother Lourenço slipped away, promising her that he would continue to share more stories with her, more remembrances, leaving her with a throat that ached from laughter and a belly that panged with something indescribable. Somehow, in his wake, the chamber, now warmed with a merry fire, felt evermore lonesome.

Almost a week had past since Father Antunyes had died and been buried, now resting in the hill covered with earth that Carolina could see faintly from the vantage of her window. Spring was thawing into a humid summer, and soon a meadow would sprout and surround Antunyes’ meek headstone. Carolina knelt her head against the window as the brother’s haunting ensemble reverberated from the cloister below. The soulful chants of Deus misertus hominis echoed across the grounds, and the glass-pane of her windows seemed to quiver in response.

When nightfall blanketed the monastery, Carolina hastened after Sister María to engage in her devotionals. Ushered beneath the stone arches of the accompanying church, the sisters stripped of their gossamer veils and their shoes and their cloaks, and left only in their humble habits, Carolina could easily see her sister Joanna’s unmistakably fiery locks from across the assembly of pews. She silently fell before the altar and touched her cheek against the damp floor, breathing in the sweat and tears of the sisters. As she exited, she dusted her fingertips against the marble tomb of the Queen who’d commissioned the monastery –– perhaps a distant grandmother, or aunt, to the Infant –– and fell into step behind a throng of nuns. They stood beneath the arches of the church for what felt like hours to await the passing of the rains. Carolina’s hair was wizened with humidity by the time the now familiar pitter-patter of raindrops had ended, and yet the wait had seemed, in her eyes, well-worth it, for as she passed the cloister, allowed her toes to sink into the wet grass and become muddied and slick, she caught sight of Brother Lourenço. He winked at her (his eyes were fearsomely blue) and brought a single digit to his lips, as if to say, quiet now. You enter God’s house.

The next she saw of him was at a feast to (cautiously) celebrate Henriques’ impending arrival. As summer approached, the earth had warmed and become wet, and the Father’s travels were delayed by a fortnight. The sisters feasted upon ale and fish and each were given a slice of sweetened bread to break in the privacy of their chambers. Carolina picked at the red and purple berries embedded into the roll, and rolled hers in a snip of linen as she waltzed from the refectory with a belly full and cheerful. The skies were irritated with stars and the breeze was hot as she meandered the rectangular perimeter of the cloister, the mild airs caressing against her skin like the Almighty’s own touch. It brought an instant flush to her face, a glean to her forehead, appearing even beneath the veil she wore. Summer was here, which meant her time under the strict care of the monastery was coming to an unhurried end.

“Sister Carolina.”

It was his voice. She would have recognised it anywhere. The Infanta turned round to meet him, gesturing between the two linen wraps in their hands. “Is the bread any good?”

“After a while here,” he approached her, a smile slanting his lips, “any deviation from mead and fish is welcome.”

“It would be a great pity to break our bread by lonesome, then, Brother. How often does one celebrate the changing-of-hands of a monastery?”

“A great pity.” His smile brightened into a gleam, teeth on full-display. “Come with me to the river. I’ll show you my place of solace.”

Thank God Father Antunyes was dead, for while he had been alive, it would have been impossible for her to slip or sneak away under his hawkish, but well-intentioned gaze, even under the cloak of nightfall. Together, they sat beside the current of the Mondego river and broke their bread over rapidly flowing conversation. The river stank of brine and wet wool, but the night was pleasant. “I believe Father Antunyes’ words to be true,” she said after some silence had descended, “there is no godliness beyond these walls. In Lisbon, I mean, there are bishops as there is here, there are good men and women as there are here, and there is prayer and sacrifice, but it is...”

“A farce.”

“Yes, a farce. Merely a way to preserve the favour of God and country. There is no deeper sense of devotion. It is as shallow as...” Her hand wafted over the river’s gentle ripples, “as the bank of a stream.”

“That is why I left France,” he shared, “though I was a man of the cloth there as I am here, there was no one to share my fervor. I was anticipated to use my piety as a bargaining tool for brokering the late king’s favour. I could not fathom it. I had no option but to embrace order and tradition.”

“Is it true Father Henriques is dead?” Carolina wondered aloud.

Lourenço barked out in laughter at that, prying: “why would you ask that?”

“He is not here, and there has been no word or dispatch of news of his travels.” Her shoulders lifted into a shrug, “it is merely a suspicion...”

“A suspicion brought on by years of exposure to the viperous court of Lisbon,” he counseled, brushing a stray ringlet of hair from Carolina’s throat. She inhaled a sharp gust of air, whistling between her lips. Yet, as if on cue, pounding horse hooves alerted her to the arrival of newcomers to the monastery. From a distance, she could see the glow of torches lighting up the monastery’s entrance, and the coat-of-arms of the Braganza family rippling from a banner that hung like the gardens of Babylon from the intruders’ steeds.

“It is him,” She breathed, clambering to her feet, “it is Father Henriques. Quick, quick, we must go to greet him! I believe he will have brought me word from my mother, the Queen. Help me out of this muck.”

Lourenço rose to stand beside her, and for perhaps a first, she took into account his height. He loomed above her, all sharp angles, save for the little dip in the cleft of his chin, the curl of his hair around his forehead, falling in a middle part around his face, framing dark eyes, a crooked nose, mischievous lips.

He was not handsome, no –– older, too –– but fascinating. “Sister...”

“What?” She snapped. “I must go. Perhaps she means to send me back with his men. Perhaps they will bring Joanna and I back to Lisbon.”

“If you are to go, then give me this.” He joined their hands together and she accepted the touch readily, if not impatiently. Must he do this now? Now, when she could very well be readying her belongings for travel?

It had to be destiny, of this Carolina was certain. She was filled with a sense of it, coupled with the ardent presence of elation. God had led this man, this holy, embittered man, to cross her path; this man who had the power to strip her of her apprehensions, her misgivings and resentments, just as he held the ability to satisfy her longing for another’s presence, a man’s touch. He was wearing the same habit she had met him in, but he smelled of herbs and the river’s salinity and something uniquely fresh, clinging to his flesh as her hands clung to his. He crushed his lips to her forehead, urgent and as sweet as a plum. She took it upon herself to rise onto her tiptoes and bring their lips together, moving in fervent unison. Not a first kiss, but the first to cause her belly to feel molten, alive like the volcano that had covered Pompeii in fire and ash.

Lourenço’s strong arms folded around her, bringing her closer to his chest, as his fingers, rough with manual labour, tugged at her veil until it loosened and her blonde hair surged freely down her spine. She gave like-for-like in return, relishing him with the little flickers of her tongue, her mouth opening to his, exciting him with her hands at his shoulders, steadying herself, until he could bear it no more and broke loose of her spell.

“Does it burn you, too?” She breathed against his flushed lips. “This flame we are inventing?”

It was hours before she slept, and days before she set eyes upon Lourenço again. No longer did she call him Brother Lourenço, for he was something more in the eyes of Christ –– he was an amour. Or, at least, he might have been, had Father Henriques not handed her a letter that sealed her fate as the future Countess of Ourem. Her father had bargained well, and she was to be married.

#iiiiii ran out of steam so #it ends there #( 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅 É 𝖺 Ú𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗌𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈. ) / * HEADCANNONS .

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thepilgrimofwar · 4 years

Text

Deathseeker

The warped reflections of the statue hounds now yipped and snarled as they milled in the streets.

What had been a single heartbeat had become a dozen. A dozen flickers of orange hair through the shadowy streets and rooftops; a dozen clatters of boots over long-lost stone. Elleynah and her reflections moved the same, with the same strength and grace of limb; the same purpose, but each raced their own way.

The Moon had done her work well.

Sederis bowed his head briefly, paying a moment of respect to his fallen foe. Untwisted, proud, standing above him as a monument of stone. Then he turned his attention to the Moon-blessed girl, whose after-images scattered across all the rooftops of memory, and what remained of the warped hounds.

He stalked her pursuers, hounds that were still tenacious enough to give chase after the passing of their master. Like a Guardian Angel of Death he followed in the wake of each of her reflections, ending one rabid growl after another.

When none remained, he called out into the Dream for his friend. Loud, clear, and filled with doubtless purpose. “You’re in a Dream, Lifespeaker!” Sederis recalled his last foray into where the magic of the cards began. He assumed that he’d be met with distrust and suspicion. Hefting his weapon back onto his shoulder, he strolled down the widest streets of the realm.

She came on the edge of the ruins, into the expanse of sand and shadows that stretched beyond the Polis of Memories. Elleynah let out a breath, hiding in the recess of an archway, head laid back against the stone. In the ruins, the Moon-reflections ran, their eyes cast backward on the hounds… and then, on something else.

Elleynah paused.

She knew that voice.

Her fingers gripped tight to the fabric of her hood. If only it was a Dream. If only the Deal she had made in exchange for Zalin’s life had all been some nightmare, and not what it had become-- the endless hunt.

There were things so intimate-- so cruel-- to her that would know to use Sederis’ voice to try and catch her quick. They had tried before. Her heart ached from it, every false hope that had been dashed, every time she reached out for Sederis-- Lirelle-- Sedrix-- all those who had died and been lost… only for their faces to twist and the cruel hungers of death come up to try and sink fangs and claws in her living flesh. They had brought her to the edge of despair. She would not let them try again.

She drew another card, whose face was smudged and dark with many smears of blood, and dragged her thumb over it. “Please, please I need you, please don’t turn me away yet.” Her voice a whisper, she closed her eyes. The moon-reflections vanished in an instant; the hounds were let baying at nothing, and they-- and Sederis-- could sense the single, living heartbeat in the lands of death.

A gilded steed sprang to life before Elleynah’s eyes that seemed so much like her own living and breathing companion in the world above. The Chariot met her eyes with kindness, and she gripped the reigns as she pulled herself up into the saddle.

“Run,” she whispered. “We have to go.”

“There it is,” he said to nothing. Feeling her heartbeat radiate through the unfeeling cold. “So she lives.”

Flesh and blood in the realm of Shadows and death.

He called out once more into the cityscape. “I came to fulfill a promise I made long ago, in some other dark prison. I came to claim a lost soul for Lady Death-” Sederis let out a small laugh. “But it turns out, you’ve still got your soul in you. How are you alive Miss Stormsummer?” He appealed to other memories. When they were becoming friends, recalling spacious couches, laughter filled apartments and floating cities.

The sounds of hooves clattering upon stone echoed at some far corner of the city. Sederis knew he hadn’t convinced her, only wrenched open old wounds that hadn’t closed. If he did not stop her now, it might be another eternity before he found her again. For the first time since his passing- the peace that he held in his heart gave way to fear. Because he now had something to lose. A friend. And a chance to help, one last time.

“Elleynah,” he cried out. “I- I died-” Sederis cycled through the things tormentors would not have used. Nothing close to her heart. Nothing that could inspire hope- Nothing she could remember. “I’m- Surrounded by bodies. Soldiers of the Alliance. Men of the Heartlands. People I failed. It was cold. The Sunwell had been suppressed. Snow was falling.” He closed his eyes, looked within himself. “‘You’ve fought honorably. Your men have died honorably. Please. Surrender,’ she tells me. Dame Everleigh. And I hear them- All of them- Every soul I’ve commanded- Every soul I led to their deaths. They call me.”

Sederis paused, too lost in trance to stop. Too focused within himself to notice that the hooves, for now, had stopped. The phantoms in the fog from his memories had begun to manifest around him. “‘Lay down your arms. This is not the end,’ she says. But I see Lirelle. She looks perfect. I saw her go down moments before. Burning up like a star. I fought to be beside her. This is why I’m here. On my knees. Bleeding. One Final Sacrifice for Lady Death.”

He looked up, done at last with the reminiscing and his phantoms scattered like leaves behind him. Sederis watched as in their places, statues began to grow. Tall and proud. Standing guard like terracotta warriors of some dead God King. They lined the street and then continued onwards into the sands. Hundreds upon hundreds rose. Each with a face and a name that Sederis once knew.

“Then I was here. A patron for a God of my own creation.”

The city that was ruin seemed to buck under the weight of his memories, and from the flat sands Elleynah raced across, more buildings surged upward-- the city unburying itself to make real the visions of the Deathspeaker.

The Chariot’s hooves now clattered over stone-- over bone-- and the steed stumbled back, rearing up on hindquarters as the world became of Sederis’ memories. Elleynah gasped as she was nearly flung from the saddle. The ruins of Silvermoon replaced those of the unknown people of Memory-- the ruins of the places they had fought amongst, harbors and towns, the whole of the Phoenix Wars laid out around her in grey and shadowed stone.

No figment-- no twisted slip of him would be able to do this. This was… this was him. Tears sprang into her eyes as that gaping raw wound she called a heart seemed to swell again with that traitorous hope.

She released the reins, and patted the golden mane of The Chariot. “Go.” He turned into nothing as she slid from his back, and the cards felt wrung and heavy at her hip. If she was wrong… if this was another trap… she could not ask more of them for now. Her blood was only just powerful enough to call them, beseech them as they had beseeched her in the days of sunlight.

The city knew what was to come, and so it made the journey quicker than the flight-- Elleyah turned a corner, and there he was.

She met his eyes, and her own mismatched green-and-gold seemed to glow with the life within her; the witches blood pumped by a living heart.

“Sederis…” She spoke his name, and her voice broke.

He stood like yet another shadow wreathed thing amongst the ruins, his dull eyes meeting hers. “I am a man of my word. I keep my promises. Even in death.” Sederis smiled. It was an unnerving thing to behold, but brought forth hope- that this was no trick. Just an old friend from a bygone time. “It’s been too long Elleynah.”

It was then he made another promise, bound in shadow and blood. Just like the Wild God had said, he swore to see her from this dark place. He swore to return her to the land of the living. He swore to himself, and to another. One that he did not know had also crossed the threshold. Alive.

If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have had the future that I lived. Time spent amongst friends and surrounded by loved ones. I’d have died a Deathseeker in that Winter of Woe had you not spoken of worth. Made me believe it. So, I swear, I will now return the favour. A future for a future, Zalin.

-Fin-

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @curiouslich

#Epilogue #Deathseeker #Sederis

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satanickpanick · 4 years

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Top 5 Trek episodes!

Ooooof this is a hard one! Okay gotta look up some titles because I never pay attention to them. In no particular order:

-Amok Time: Our first real look into Vulcan culture, the introduction of T’Pring, and an increasingly great source of Premise material. (guest starring jim’s tits)

-Our Man Bashir: Deep, funny, Garashir! I could list almost all of DS9 here but this one stands out to me. Also Kira as Komananov? Beautiful.

-Journey to Babel: A foray into the extensive collection of weirdly human aliens that Trek offers, all the while bringing us Amanda, I’Chaya, and Sarek and one of the most questionably choreographed fights scenes in the entire franchise. The foundation of Song Trek!

-Macrocosm: The episode with delightfully dubious science that also blessed us with Kathryn Janeway in a tank top. With a gun. and the doctor being badass. !

-The Trouble with Tribbles: This fucking episode, guys. The humorous bits cover for it, the bar fight is, for lack of a better word, delightful. The underlying themes of Jim’s trauma over starvation and also his constant put-upon face. “You gave them to the KLINGONS?”

Most of these are TOS because that’s what I’m watching right now, and my brain doesn’t like to do things.

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aprincessofdaxam · 5 years

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So here's the thing. When the Supergirl S3 finale aired, I absolutely hated it. And it took me nearly a year to be willing to watch it again. Because not only was I just flat-out upset because I ship Karamel and because my two favorite characters were written off the show (although at least they have each other - wait, do you hear that sound? It’s the sound of Imra screaming from the 31st century as Mon-El and Winn drive her nuts) ...

But Mon-El’s final scene? With the speech about how for a minute he thought maybe, just maybe, this was his place? Gutted me. Absolutely gutted me. We all get set off by different things, and I kid you not, that scene gave me a wicked surprise attack of homesickness and I literally cried until 4 a.m. (sometimes I hate you and your emotive acting, Chris Wood).

(complete gifset from @the-karamel-blob here)

But you know what, a year down the pike? I don't hate it. Don’t get me wrong. I'm still pretty bitter about the Karamel bait-and-switch, I still miss our outer space stray puppy terribly, and I call total BS on the "it was always a two-year arc" thing, but I actually think it was a really beautiful and meaningful send-off for Mon-El in that moment.

And anyway, it's been awhile since I've written a literal essay about Mon-El and our space puppies so LET'S CHAT. Novel on the S3 finale beneath the cut, for dash prettiness.

(also included: Why I still think Karamel is endgame, why I think Mon-El will be back, what I really think went down behind the scenes, and what Winn's appearance in S5 might mean)

Tagging @peggystormborn and @facepalming-since-chernobyl because why the heck not, you all like character/plot analysis

When Kara first creates her superhero identity, she spends a LOT of time comparing herself to Clark. And others also compare her to Clark - and she internalizes all of it.

"What, Metropolis gets him, and what does National City get? Some rookie superhero?"

"It's funny - that was the first thing he did. Save a plane, I mean."

"If she's anything like him, she's a hero."

"What are you waiting for? Superman would've blown it out by now!"

"Why do you keep criticizing Supergirl for trying to save the city? When Superman started, it was he, he, he. Him, him, him."

"My cousin didn't have a get-out-of-jail-free card when he first started. Neither should I!"

"I was supposed to be the one saving him, not the other way around. How am I supposed to really become a hero if Superman has to keep saving me?"

"If I was in Metropolis, Clark and I could protect the city and keep each other safe. And there's still so much I want to learn from him."

Now, this isn't about whether it's valid to compare Kara to Clark, or about the layers of problems that come in when you start comparing women to men - that's a whole other essay. It's about Kara's feelings, how Kara defines being a hero, and the standard she feels she needs to live up to as a hero. And since this show is built around Kara, Kara's standard for heroism become the show's definition of it, and the standards the other characters in the show should be held to in their various pursuits of goodness in the world, as well.

And that creates a very interesting comparison between Kara's arc through the first two seasons of the show (S1-S2) and Mon-El's arc in the two seasons he's appeared in thus far (S2-S3).

When Kara starts out in her journey, at the start of S1, she is in this headspace where she is constantly comparing herself to Clark. But she learns so much and accomplishes so much and shows so much strength, that by the end of S2, they have moved her to this point in her hero's journey where she is Clark's equal or superior - not only in terms of physical strength (when she defeats him after Rhea brainwashes him with silver K), but in emotional strength, as she chooses the greater good over her own personal self when she has to let Mon-El go. And her status at that point is by Clark's own admission - the person she was trying to live up to all that time.

"I think it goes far beyond 'the right thing.' I couldn't have done it, Kara. I'm humbled by you. Yeah, I'd like to think that if it came down to a choice between Lois and the world .... but I don't think I could."

So how does that relate to Mon-El's journey? Because there are a lot of parallels between Kara's hard decision at the end of S2, and his hard decision at the end of S3. And if, at the end of S2, we're supposed to see Kara as a fully-realized hero, a true champion, then that's how he's sent off as well (I'd definitely argue that Mon-El showed brave and heroic qualities even in S2, even while on a steep learning curve, but go with me here, because the parallel is really meaningful when you get to it)

Just as Kara held Clark up as her bar for being a hero, Mon-El holds Kara up as his ideal and his definition of a hero when he starts off on his journey - to the point where he eventually founds the Legion in her image.

"And whether we're together or not, being near her, it makes me a better person. It makes me the person that I want to be."

"I think we could all stand to be a little more like you. More optimistic and brave."

"I mean, you do that every day. I don't even understand it. You make it look so easy to do the right thing that you wouldn't even guess that it's that hard. But it's hard. You sacrifice a lot for everyone else, and I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken record here, but I admire you.

"I promise I'm going to be the man that you thought I could be. I promise."

You inspired me. So when I founded the Legion, I chose to use you as an example of what we could be. Of what we aspire to be."

"We base the entire philosophy of the Legion on Supergirl. Have you considered that she might have the right approach here?"

And just as Kara faces that harsh decision at the end of S2 that she needs to give Mon-El up for the greater good, Mon-El faces an identical decision at the end of S3. And, just like Kara (who made a decision Superman himself says he couldn't have made, who is a true champion), Mon-El makes that hard call.

And just as Clark told Kara when she made that hard call that he was humbled by her, validating her admiration of him, Kara gives Mon-El her hero's blessing of his decision, too. Now, I don't think these writers are particularly clever or good at continuity :P But they use the word "admire" so consistently between Karamel that I have to believe it's a deliberate choice. Mon-El tells Kara throughout S2, as he's learning, how much he admires her. And his journey takes him to a place where Kara is able to return that word to him, sincerely and meaningfully.

"There wasn't much to inspire me on Daxam." "What about the prince?" "He wasn't worth admiring. But I wanna be."

"I mean, you do that every day. I don't even understand it. You make it look so easy, to do the right thing that you wouldn't even guess that it's that hard. But it's hard. You sacrifice a lot for everyone else and I know I'm beginning to sound like a broken record here but I admire you."

"You wouldn't be the man you are, if you did. The man I admire so much."

(Tacking on to this because there’s plenty of other things to read and link to here - there was an excellent discussion we had a long time ago about Kara’s emotions and reactions during this scene where @emarasmoak and @i-am-aci01 had some great catches)

The other thing that strikes me as a parallel between Kara and Mon-El in those two season finales is the dissonance between the two of them, who have made the hard, heroic choices, and everyone else.

At the end of S2, everyone seems happy except Kara, who proceeds to isolate herself. Alex and Maggie get engaged. J'onn and M'gann are (temporarily) together. Winn and James are currently successful in their vigilante superhero forays. Clark goes home to Lois.

And at the end of S3? Mostly, our characters are happy. Kara says she's decided where her true home is, but knows her mother is safe. Winn is setting off to the future, where he knows he's important and needed. Imra has her sister back. Alex has her new role and plans to pursue parenthood. J'onn has lost his father, but is setting off on his new path. James reveals himself as Guardian. And Mon-El makes a decision out of duty that guts him. @sweeter-than put it very well: "Everyone else in this episode got an optimistic season’s end coda. Meanwhile, Mon-El is leaving the love of his life to go fight a dangerous war. ... [He] is the only character framed as being separated from his ideal destiny, where the destiny and the obligation have no middle ground."

Now we've talked about what this show wanted to tell us here. Are they saying you can't have it all - which, in Kara's case, is an inherently more complicated discussion because she's a woman? That heroes are always doomed to sacrifice? That work-life balance is a joke?

I think what's MORE IMPORTANT though, and the real message, is what Cat tells Kara (and hell, the title of the S2 finale itself). It applies in both cases. It really applies.

"You, my dear, are on a hero's journey. And yes, you have hit an obstacle, but you will soar right over it."

That's the message.

MOVING ON!

.....

I think that applying that statement to Mon-El is part of why I feel so strongly that his story isn't over yet. Because he's on a hero's journey. The story the show was telling with this character was someone evolving into a hero, someone who is a sympathetic character, someone we're supposed to root for. And how could the final picture of him we have at the moment, where he's so sad and so weighted down, be our final picture of that character? Yeah, the innermost cave, belly of the whale, whatever you want to call it, is part of the hero's journey. But just as Kara goes into those depths and then emerges to find triumph and happiness again, I have to believe they're not going to leave another character they spent so much time investing in that unhappy. We're going to see him again, and they'll give him a happy ending. Or, if they can't work out another appearance for him, because we're talking about real people with a lot of moving parts, we'll get some sort of confirmation he's happy (more on that in a second). They're not going to leave him at loose ends if they can help it.

Now when I talk about them investing in the character - think not just about the storytelling, with this slow burn they had going with Karamel throughout S3, but about the level of promotion during that season, especially the back half. They had Mon-El in the CW midseason sizzle reel, and in a number of promotional posters/photos. They built up to the red-and-blue suit SO MUCH, and why do all of that if it was something you were only going to use for a literal handful of episodes? Some of those pieces of evidence, plus the slow burn/abrupt shift storytelling, plus how open-ended they left things with the relationship, makes me call TOTAL BS on the "it was always a two-season arc thing," and makes me keep believing Karamel is still endgame.

IMHO, Karamel has always been written with that endgame-ish type of storytelling - enemies-to-lovers trope, true love's kiss, spending so much time re-building the relationship between them, etc, etc, etc. You all know what I'm talking about. ((And please note, even though this could be another essay entirely, just because I think they're endgame doesn't mean I think neither character should ever be in another relationship again. I think you LEARN things from every relationship you're in, and Mon-El and Kara were both relatively inexperienced relationship-wise when they got together - Mon-El came from a planet of hedonists where he had flings, not relationships, and Kara had crushes that she couldn't really act on because broken noses, amirite? There were things I genuinely loved about Mon-El and Imra. And I'm not freaked about the possibility of a midgame LI for Kara - it wouldn't lessen my feelings about this being endgame))

Anyway - the story they were telling throughout S3 pointed to Karamel reuniting. They really dialed it up through the final episodes with the robot-cockblocked conversation on Argo (actually everything on Argo - Mon-El with the kid and Kara's heart eyes, the double date, etc, etc, etc), Mon-El pulling out the necklace at opportune moments to remind the viewers he never forgot her, Kara’s multiple conversations with Alura about him (there’s a cut scene from the finale, as well, where Alura tells her that love stories are never simple), Mon-El’s conversation with Winn about not being able to lose her again. They point at it, and then do an abrupt about-face in the finale. I really think that they were heading toward a reunion. We’ll never know exactly what happened behind the scenes, and I know people have different theories, but my gut feeling is that they were discussing behind the scenes whether or not Chris would be back for S4, the writers headed toward their planned ending (a Karamel reunion and a relationship in S4) while hedging their bets with the slow burn, and Chris ultimately made the decision to leave late in the game, and so the writers threw the switch in the finale.

Again, this is entirely me speculating, but I think that Chris made the call to leave not only because he's a multifaceted person who had other behind-the-scenes things he wanted to pursue in the field, but because he walks the walk with his own mental health, and we all know there is a LOT of bullshit that flies around with this show on social media, etc. I'm reading a LOT between the lines here, but the S3 finale aired on June 18, 2018, so I'm assuming they were doing some editing and locking down of the things in May. Chris posted this the first week of May 2019. Excerpts -

"Well look at that: it’s Mental Health Month again! And what interesting timing for me, personally… let’s talk about it. This year has tested me in so many ways." "And while you’re at it, use this occasional toxic and negative platform for something positive and good." "Sending love and kindness to everyone, even the trolliest of trolls out there."

BUT ANYWAY.

Faced with the resources they had and the information they had, the writers still chose to leave things SO OPEN between Karamel. The original draft of the finale - which was shared by @emarasmoak + @snarkymonel ages ago, had a line from Mon-El, “Part of me will always mourn that our paths did not align … But I will always cherish knowing you.” That, to me, suggests a much more FINAL goodbye - and that line was cut, in favor of what we got - where there wasn't really a goodbye, because it might not be one. And the ring and the “In case you ever need me” is definitely a door left WIDE the hell open. The ring is a deus ex machina in case they ever want to use the character again.

My gut feeling - and again, with no inside information - is that Chris didn't want to be a regular anymore, for a number of reasons, but that he didn't leave on bad circumstances, and that he'd be happy to do a guest appearance because he wouldn't be walking into an ONGOING shitstorm (especially if it was something toward the end of the series run).

And regarding the other news we're starting to get about S5: I don't think the fact that Winn and Mon-El left together, and we've heard about Winn coming back but not Mon-El, means he WON'T be back. They could be dribbling out information a bit at a time to keep people interested as a marketing strategy - the Crisis crossover is the most ambitious thing they've EVER done, and you know they'll want to keep ramping up the excitement up all the way from now until December. They could have finished negotiating with Jeremy first while they're still working on Chris for that, or for another event down the line. Supergirl has a lot of "big event" potential coming up, between the crossover, the milestone 100th episode, Melissa's debut as a director, and they've got to be thinking ahead down the line to the eventual end of the series. All of those are things they'll want to really build up excitement for and maybe have some familiar faces around for.

I DO believe that Winn's appearance will tell us something about if, or how, they intend to use Mon-El again at any point, however. Look, the two of them are close. I wasn't that cranky when Brainy didn't mention Mon-El much last season - I got the impression they were more coworkers than friends, things were tense between them for a solid chunk of time over Brainy's role in Imra's secret plan, and then there was some SERIOUS snark thrown between them in the S3 finale in a cut scene (as for Brainy's one mention of Mon-El and his comment about "microagressions," we all dissected that here). I will be cranky if Winn, who has always been a close friend to Mon-El and is coming directly back to the story from working with Mon-El, doesn't mention him. But again, I think that mention will tell us a lot about the future of the character. He could tell the Superfriends (and thus, the audience) that Mon-El has reconciled with Imra, or has moved on to someone else (side note - in the comic canon, Mon-El's pet name for ShadowLass is "Shady" and I think that's adorable). He could even have some sort of tragic news about him, which seems less probable to me, because why go through the trouble of bringing him back from the dead in the S3 finale and then leaving things so open-ended if you were going to kill him offscreen? On the other hand, if Winn tells Kara Mon-El says hey, or he misses you (she misses him too!) or if they have some sort of heartfelt conversation about him, then that's obviously a positive sign.

I mean, who am I kidding, I have epic trust issues from their bait-and-switch with this story and I don’t trust any of the writers/showrunners as far as I can throw them and I am about three inches from FLIPPING OUT over this entire situation :P But I don’t feel so bad after some deep analysis.

#mon-el #mon-el defense squad #otp: comets #karamel #chris wood #supergirl #supergirl speculation #and all that jazz

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mmsreturnsseason1 · 4 years

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Ragini MMS Returns 2017 Hindi S01 All Episodes Download AltBalaji

Ragini MMS Returns (2017) Hindi S01 Complete x264 WEB-DL 1080p 720p AltBalaji Exclusive Download Ragini MMS Returns Season 1 Watch Online GDrive Direct Links

Ragini MMS Returns (2017) Quality : WEB-DL Resolution : 1080p,720p Size : Variable, 2 GB IMDb : / 10 Release Date : Genres : AltBalaji Exclusive | Horror | Web Series Stars : Divya Agarwal, Gaurav Alugh, Nishkarsh Arora Language : Hindi

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Smoking Sunny can be seen in the first episode of the second season of Raghini MMS, a new TV series, Altaalaiji.

The web series is currently premiering and is a collaboration between Balaji Motion Pictures and ALT Entertainment, who have developed films and web. Ragini MMS (M MS) is the first of its kind in India and one of two film series released in 2011 and 2014 respectively.

The popular Ragini MMS series started in 2011 with its first season with Kainaz Motivala and Rajkummar Rao. Returns Season 2 is out now and there's a long-awaited announcement of their return in the form of a web series.

Indian teen sitcom and TV series directed by Ekta Kapoor and her daughter Kya Mast Hai Life, the brainchild of the managing director and co-founder of Eros Media Limited, the company she runs. She recently posted a photo of the first season of Ragini MMS on her Instagram profile and fans went wild.

Karishma Sharma stars in Ragini MMS Season 1, in which she also experiences many hot and bold scenes that cause a sensation on social media platforms every night. The series focuses on the life of a young girl in her first year in high school and her relationship with her best friend. While viewers have been eagerly awaiting the remaining episodes of "RaginiMMS Returns," the wait has finally come to an end, as the new episode of the popular Horrex series will now be streamed exclusively via the ALTBalaji app and website.

Fans of the horror genre have been waiting a while for the next "Ragini" series. When Ragini goes to a new college, she does not know that she is entering a realm where horror lurks on every corner.

ZEE5 "s" ALTBalaji "has finally launched its second season, the first of its kind in the horror genre. The team released the trailer on October 5, which is said to be an ominous date.

The web series starts on September 18 on ZEE5, the streaming start is on September 18. It will also only be available in Hindi, English, Hindi - language and English - as well as English and Hindi.

ZEE5 and ALTBalaji have created a special 10-minute VR clip to take fans of Ragini MMS into their world. According to the trailer, the story revolves around the journey of a girl celebrating the birthday of her best friend and her new boyfriend.

Then Ragini meets the hotel's owner, Rahul (Varun Sood), and instant chemistry blossoms from there. Ragini MMS Returns Season 2 features the return of Sunny Leone as the title character and Raghini's best friend. To make matters worse, she also plays a paranormal expert in season 2.

The story begins when Meena Sharma (played by Sunny Leone) goes into the villa, but things start to slip away when she discovers something is in the wrong place. Sunny takes the audience on a journey of discovery and discovery of the mystery behind the mysterious disappearance of Raghini and her best friend. The final student, played by Divya Agarwal, is also given the role of Raghini's best friend Varsha, an older pupil at the same school. She marries her closest friend and goes on a girls' trip with her girlfriends to celebrate a bachelor weekend.

Varun Sood quipped: 'I'm happy to share the screen with Divya in a full-fledged acting project. I feel blessed to make my first foray into the world of acting with such a fantastic cast and crew, "he said. This is my dream debut as it's the biggest horror franchise in India and I'm very excited.

The Dhamakedar duo has just released the first episode of the long-awaited horror franchise "Altaalaji." We had a lot of fun And I'm really excited for the next chapter of this horror franchise.

The creators have also developed a number of special effects to take Ragini MMS fans into their world, such as the iconic "Ragini Dhamakedar" sound effects and "Gangnam Style" music.

The story of the first Ragini series is about the life of Simran and Ragini, and the series stars Divya Agarwal, Anurag Kashyap, Manoj Tiwari, Ravi Kishore and Anil Kapoor. The trailer gives an insight into the lives of the graduating students, who are played by Divya and Agarswal.

But things get suspicious when they notice an eerie haunt in their old college and things around them that are as eerie as the haunt in the old colleges. In terms of content and boldness, Ekta Kapoor's new web series is unsurpassed enough to excite the senses. This is the first season of Altaalaiji, developed by Balaji Motion Pictures and ALT Entertainment. Stay up-to-date on Twitter, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram with the latest news and updates on Altalaji's first season.

Life seems as perfect as a dream, but one day you realize that someone has been watching and knows the secret. Kiyaan Roy is a young man with a secret life, a life full of dreams and his own dreams.

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manicpixiedreamjew · 5 years

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ok i rewrote and revised my letter! let me know what you think

2/9/19

Rabbi Randy,

As our Into class comes to an end, a lot has been on my mind. My spirituality, my values; how my perception of the world has changed as I solidify my Jewish identity, especially as a young woman. I spent a few hours poring over journal entries dating back all the way to 2016 this Shabbat, and a consistent theme stood out in all of them: an overwhelming, genuine urge to live an authentic Jewish life. I read, thrown back into the innocent curiosity, the puppy love, the childlike fascination with Jews and Judaism that began with a book. The Chosen, the very first Jewish book I read, and I’m sure I’ve told you this story before; I’ll spare the details.

Anyway, those first inklings of interest, say, early 2016, were academic. I was a vehement atheist born to a family of atheists. Then again, who has a nuanced understanding of religion and people-hood at sixteen? My atheism was an obstinate, cynical world view triggered by traumatic experiences with Christianity. When I picked up The Chosen, though...I was slapped right across the face. Judaism was the first thing that challenged my philosophies; it forced me into an entirely foreign universe I never thought I’d know, need or understand. It taught me empathy foremost, in those early days...studying Judaism exhorted me to bear the burden of others, to feed the hungry (a MAZON seminar comes to mind), comfort the weary. Looking at my journal, an entry dated 3/3/17 elaborates on the effects of antisemitism in America, and next to that a newspaper cut out of a Magen David. It wasn’t quite personal then, but it was something I wouldn’t have looked twice at a few years earlier. It disturbed me deeply.

Then, mid-late 2017. The journal entries shifted, as you’d expect; I’d been exhaustively involved in reading and researching by then. I see a lovingly inscribed entry detailing, religiously, my first Kabbalat Shabbat at CRC. 7/1/17. The smells, the melodies, my friends, the birthday celebration of two elderly men who loved baseball. “A deep, riveting admiration for something ancient and pulsing with life.” That puppy-love stage was in full effect, my love of Judaism and its personal implications blossomed over the springtime, although its fragrance wasn’t entirely sweet: I was forced to confront my identity and ask myself that looming question. Do I want to become a Jew?

That question threw me for a loop. It was an emotionally intense time. I confided to my closest friend that, although it may sound absurd, converting to Judaism was something I was interested in. I remember crying myself to sleep some nights because the decision was so massive, so heavy, so entirely suffocating for someone with no background in religion, no sense of community or family. Eventually, though, my fate did not seem so dire, and I came to my senses: I loved Judaism. I loved it, I love it. One of the first things that stood out to me and comforted me was the Jewish emphasis on family, something I never experienced. I clung to it: how someone’s always there for you; how you’re adopted into world-wide support network called the Tribe. How no matter where you travel, anywhere in the world, someone will enthusiastically invite you over for Shabbat lunch. How, because you are Jewish, you will never suffer alone.

That, then, began my serious resolve to be Jewish, do Jewish and live Jewish.

Ever since I met with you on 11/21/17 (I have an entry for that, too!), my life has been a foray into Jewishness. You told me to start observing Shabbat and Yom Tov, and I did so with vigor: I bought a chanukiah, acquired the shiniest candlesticks I could, and read every book the local library had regarding proper observances. I look back on my first few holidays and laugh now, playfully admonishing myself for my mistakes and mishaps. But that’s the fun, right? If I learned anything from this week’s Parsha (Terumah), it’s that the means are more much important than the end, the intention more meaningful than the actualization. Late 2017 to early 2018 was all that: learning, doing, experiencing, interacting, existing with a fat dose of humility. Organizing a basic Jewish vocabulary, and through Shabbat services and working with the community, pinning down what it means to live a Jewish life.

Enter 2018! This was, perhaps, the most frustrated and chaotic year on my Journey to Jewish. To start, it was my last semester of high-school. Everything, and I mean Everything, was dependent on my graduation—most saliently my own happiness and sanity. My synagogue attendance was dwindling, my ambition and motivation was all but absent. I’ve always suffered from depression and severe anxiety, but its clutch tightened horribly those first few months. I managed to attend a Kol Nidre service in early September—and, it remains one of my most beautiful and cherished memories to date. December, I know, was the hardest. Between my Catholic father making crusade jokes and my Jesus-obsessed mother spewing casual antisemitism, between unending loads of coursework and no free time, I felt my spirit literally withering. This never weakened my resolve to live Jewishly, but some days I just couldn’t bring myself to enact the values I knew I held in my heart. Some days Judaism felt like a beloved friend, and others Judaism felt like a stranger. Nevertheless I continued to live as Jewish a life I could, but even kindling the Chanukah candles felt joyless. I was like Tevye standing in the middle of the woods, anguished, as his horse refused to budge. Through all of it, though—the sadness, numbness, friction—I was never, ever, once deterred. That’s how life is sometimes. But to be a Jew, as our own Reb Tevye zealously insisted, you must have hope.

And I did. This is when Judaism became real to me, when I realized it was a part of my life and etched into my very being. If I could live Jewishly, study, be a part of my community and find solace while also dealing with these hardships, this was clearly meant to be. I’ve been using “us” and “we” pronouns for a few months now, referring to myself as Jewish even though I’ve yet to immerse in a mikveh. When our class visited the Holocaust museum, the loss and heartache I felt was profoundly intimate...a personal loss, the loss of family I never had the opportunity to know and love. I had never experienced anything like that before, and it continues to haunt me. I’ve been the target of hateful and ignorant remarks. People have glowered at my Magen David; they’ve called me names and insulted me. “Christ killer, money hoarder, dirty Jew.”

But, and I’m a bit weepy remembering this, living Jewishly (and loudly at that) is a blessing. Maybe two summers ago I catered to an older family for their son’s graduation party. An uncle approached me, blinked at my Magen David and muttered “bless you.” I was visibly shaken; I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Later in the evening the grandmother touched my shoulder and asked, “are you Jewish?” I told her I was a conversion student. She embraced me, dug out dreidels from her kitchen drawer, and told me that she was separated from her Judaism during childhood. That it was too dangerous for her to practice, that she wanted to go back to synagogue now that she was safe. I encouraged her daughter to finally have her bar mitzvah. My heart was full. Another memory I’m fond of: wishing a stranger chag Pesach sameach and Shabbat Shalom on the street. He was wearing a kippah. The smile on that man’s face was unforgettable.

Those moments, to me, were godly. Actions are a conduit of holiness; I’ve learned that over the years. To act with intent and sanctify the mundane is second nature to us. A bracha, a kind word, charity, song...everything is a vessel for godliness.

Fast forward a bit: 2019. As I grew into my adult identity, so did I into my Jewish identity. I had my 18th birthday, graduated, passed my driving test. I began to wrap my hair on Shabbat, meditate on the Sh’ma swathed in a tallit, give tzedakah. Often times I sat in the little CRC classroom and pondered on the application of my learning: how it translated into my everyday life, how it reconciled with my values as a progressive woman in today’s society...but mostly, I think, I thought about how at home I felt. I walk into CRC and immediately feel at peace; a part of a family, the member of a loving household. I walk into the sanctuary and about a dozen people are ready to greet me with big, heartfelt smiles. It melts me every single time.

Alright, I’ll quit boring you with all this schmaltz.

I’m not sure that there was one definite moment when I knew, for sure, that being Jewish was the right choice for me. In fact, to assume all that soul searching could fit into one tiny, fleeting, ephemeral moment is ridiculous...as you know from the absurd length of this letter, which is only a minute fraction of my story. Seriously, I could go on, and on, and on; but I digress. Sitting at our Sukkot celebration and dancing with all the other people, looking up through the sukkah and marveling at the hanging plants and leaves. Baking challah on Friday morning and realizing that somewhere, other Jewish women are doing the exact same thing. Feeling warm summer wind on my face, seeing fireflies flicker through the bushes and knowing that HaShem is there. Touching my siddur to the Torah for the first time and bristling, feeling as though something breathed new life into me. Group Aliyah, a guiding hand on my shoulder as we chant the brachot in clumsy unison…

Each moment (and many more, and yet more to come) reaffirmed the fact that Judaism is my home. Ruth said it more succinctly and eloquently than I ever could: Your people shall be my people, and your God shall be my God.

Randy, I never thought I’d be doing this. Ever. Looking back at the learning and growing I’ve done, reading those journals and reminiscing on my journey, I can firmly say, if you agree, I’m ready to enter this Covenant officially.

Thank you for everything, as always,

Zoë

#oops its 5 pages #save

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pocketseizure · 6 years

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The Legend of the Princess, Chapter 28

The Legend of the Queen

In which Zelda makes a courageous decision to live happily ever after.

This is the last chapter. Thank you to everyone who’s followed this story – I could never have written it without your kindness and support!

This chapter has an illustration (link) by the brilliant @lightsintheskye!

(Chapter 28 on AO3) (Story Tag on Tumblr) (Cover Illustration)

* * * * *

Zelda stood at the window of her bedroom as the sun set over the western mountains.

She looked down at Castle Town, watching the activity in the streets as people came and went. The roads were filled with travelers, as were the canals. The city’s population had grown steadily during the past ten years. Soon there would need to be wider roads, as well as another bridge, and the walls surrounding the city would have to come down to make room for new construction. In a way, Zelda mused, the damage caused by the riots may have been a blessing in disguise. Now there was finally an excuse to redesign the city’s layout, something she had been discussing with her counselors since her earliest forays into the administration of the kingdom.

Zelda crossed her arms over her chest. She was already laying out a timeline in her head as she assembled a list of priorities. It was good to have a moment to herself to do nothing but think in silence. She was usually forced to occupy herself with her clothing as soon as she returned to her private quarters, either to change into something formal for court or to extract herself from one of the gowns she felt obliged to wear, but at the moment she was comfortable as she was. After returning to the castle from the Temple of Time, she’d ordered that one of her riding outfits be tailored into a military uniform. She was pleased with the results. She looked good in pants and a jacket; it suited her. A princess carefully reviewed petitions and made subtle suggestions, but a queen commanded armies.

Zelda looked past the city and out to the hazy line of the far mountains that marked the border of Gerudo territory, remembering what Tetra had told her about the division of political power. “Delegate,” Tetra said, and that was exactly what Zelda intended to do.

At dawn she had stood on the balcony overlooking the front courtyard and delivered a speech to everyone in the castle, soldiers and invaders and guests and courtiers alike. She pardoned everyone who had participated in the riots and promised to use the royal family’s own funds to rebuild what had been damaged, but then she surprised everyone by proposing an equal council of territories. The monarchy had been in existence for so long that she had only the most nebulous ideas concerning how a republic would work, but she would have time to figure that out. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Zelda’s coronation ceremony was supposed to have begun an hour ago. Given the circumstances, plans had changed. Her father still hadn’t woken, so she had simply stepped in as the reigning monarch in his absence. She had thus become a queen without a grand ceremony. This was probably for the best, as resources were scare at the moment. At least the food prepared for the celebration hadn’t gone to waste.

Makar vanished back into the forest, and Darunia stayed with the king, but Ruto and Nabooru had remained at her side throughout the day. Impa had as well, for which Zelda was grateful. Link convinced Barghest to stand with her as she addressed the people who had invaded her city, and he was surprisingly civil as he accommodated her request. Zelda had to take care to treat him not as the former stablemaster but as the leader of a small army, but it was easier than she expected. She had been trained for such things, after all, and he cut an imposing figure.

She sent Ganondorf to negotiate with the Moblins and Lizalfos who had set up camp in the training grounds, asking him to convey her goodwill to them. It was convenient that Ganondorf could speak their language, and it was even more useful that they were willing to listen to him. As far as she could tell, no one in the camp said a word about Ganon, but she would have to monitor the situation. The irony of the faith she placed in Ganondorf not to take advantage of his position was not lost on her. She had made the decision to trust him when she allowed him to claim a piece of the Triforce, however, and she saw no reason to regret her judgment.

Zelda raised her hand to look at the golden triangle on her skin. She reflected on what Tetra said about how the Triforce had split before the flood. It was curious that she, the ostensible reincarnation of the avatar of divine wisdom, had ended up with the Triforce of Courage. Link had been granted the Triforce of Power, while the Triforce of Wisdom went to Ganondorf. This was a surprise to them all. She wondered if the Triforce had somehow chosen its bearers, or whether they chose for themselves, unconsciously asking for what they had wanted all along.

Perhaps one day she would have time to think back on all of this, but it was currently of utmost importance that she take action. Most of the visiting dignitaries would leave the castle soon, probably within the week, and Zelda was looking forward to setting out from the castle herself. Even if she hadn’t been properly crowned, it was the duty of a new queen to tour her kingdom. Or rather, if the talks during the next few days went well, it would be her duty as the provisional leader of Hyrule to make diplomatic visits to the various territories of the republic. Daphnes would stay here and recover, and she would have space to think about how to rebuild their relationship during her journey. He was her father, and she loved him, but she would never be able to forget what she had seen him do, all the while claiming that his actions were to save her.

Considering what had happened to her mother, Zelda was anxious about traveling to the desert. Still, she knew it would be politically exigent if that were the first place she visited. If nothing else, it would be an interesting experience to be a guest in Ganondorf’s court. It amused her to imagine him doing his best to be appropriately courteous and polite to her in public.

There was a knock at the door. Zelda was annoyed, thinking that it was still too early for anyone to come fetch her for the evening assembly, especially since she had specifically asked not to be disturbed. “Come in,” she said brusquely, making her irritation clear in her tone. As a princess, she had taken special care to be gracious and kind, but she was beyond such niceties now.

She waited for the door to open, but she couldn’t hear anything behind her. A moment later she realized how odd it was for someone to have knocked on the door to her bedroom instead of the main door to her quarters. Whoever was at the door had already passed through the rooms below without alerting her. Zelda was immediately on guard. She slowly withdrew a short blade from the inside of her sleeve and turned swiftly while flipping the knife into her hand.

She came face to face with Ganondorf. Her blade was almost touching his throat.

“Good evening to you too,” he said in a flat voice.

“My apologies.” Zelda withdrew the knife and placed it on her dressing table. “I thought perhaps you’d come to kill me.”

“That would be somewhat anticlimactic.”

“Perhaps it would, but it would also be more efficient to murder me in private.”

“Is that what you say to every man you invite into your bedroom?”

“I don’t recall inviting you,” Zelda replied. “Speaking of which, why are you here? I seem to remember asking for a report on the negotiations with Barghest, but surely that can wait.”

“I came because of a more pressing matter,” Ganondorf said, withdrawing a lacquer box from an inner pocket of his robes. He smiled as he offered it to her. “Happy birthday.”

Zelda was taken aback. It was indeed her twentieth birthday, but no one had mentioned it at any point during the day. This was understandable, Zelda reasoned, given the current state of the castle. In fact, she had almost forgotten it herself.

Since she didn’t move to take the box from him, Ganondorf placed it in her hands before lifting the lid to reveal two golden hairpins. They gleamed softly in the light of the setting sun.

“These belonged to my mother,” Ganondorf explained. “They were given to me on my own twentieth birthday, but I had no use for them. I used to wear my hair long like all Gerudo men, but that was the day I decided to break with tradition and cut it short. This is something of a secret, but I happen to know that these hairpins were originally given to my mother by your own. I thought you might like to have them. As a memento, of sorts. Of our mothers, and the friendship they allowed us to enjoy when we were younger.”

“They’re beautiful,” Zelda said, genuinely touched.

“Would you like to wear them?” Ganondorf asked.

Zelda nodded, closing the box and holding it to her chest as Ganondorf moved behind her. He carefully inserted the pins into the bun she wore, using them to tie the ends of her sidelocks back so that they framed her face like wings. He turned her toward her mirror and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

“They look good on you,” he said. “They bring out the gold in your hair.”

Zelda met Ganondorf’s eyes in the mirror, assessing him. He seemed content and comfortable in her presence. She suspected that they wouldn’t have the opportunity to be alone together like this often, and she didn’t want to enter into the same sort of painful relationship that their mothers had struggled with for so many years. I need to break this off now, she resolved.

“I’ll accept this as a gift of friendship from the King of the Gerudo,” she said with a thin smile. “It will help me to remember you fondly once you’re back in your own city.”

“About that…” As Ganondorf’s words to trail off, he pressed his thumbs into the stiff muscles between her shoulder blades and began to massage her back. Zelda wanted to tell him to stop, but she had been on her feet all day, and what he was doing with his fingers felt wonderful.

“I’ve been thinking about your decision to initiate a republic, and I’ve made my own decision to abdicate the throne. To tell the truth, it’s something I’ve been considering for some time now. If I hadn’t been born, the position would have gone to Nabooru, and she knows this as well as anyone. I’ve discussed it with her, and I believe she’s amenable to the idea. I’d like to remain in Hyrule as an ambassador.”

“It’s been some time since we had a formal ambassador from the Gerudo,” Zelda said cautiously.

“It’s been some time since you had a formal ambassador from the Rito as well, and it goes without saying that you’ll want to maintain a good relationship with the Darknuts and Moblins. I could help facilitate that.”

“I suppose you could,” Zelda agreed. “How generous of you.”

Feeling self-conscious, Zelda walked to the window and looked out over the mountains, not wanting Ganondorf to see her blush.

“But I should tell you that I have a selfish reason for wanting to stay,” Ganondorf continued as he followed her. “I’ve always loved Hyrule, ever since I first came to your castle with my mother. I’d like to spend more time here, if you’ll have me.”

Zelda thought of the flowers he kept in his rooms, and her mind wandered to the terrible old man in his garden under the Great Sea. By this point she knew Ganondorf well enough to know that he did nothing without reason, but she also knew he was telling the truth about his affection for Hyrule. Perhaps it would fade, in time; perhaps he might one day grow nostalgic for his homeland and long to return. But he was here now, telling her that he wanted to stay with her.

She turned to face him. That would be nice, she wanted to say, or something equally inane, but instead of speaking she reached for him, and then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. She opened herself to him, and he cupped the back of her neck to pull her closer. She tasted him in her mouth, the sweetness of his breath and the spice of his tongue.

A part of her expected to hear Tetra’s voice in her mind, chastising her for allowing Ganondorf to take advantage of her. Was he really giving up power by abdicating, or did he still have an ulterior motive for wanting to remain in Hyrule? Was this part of a larger game he was playing?

If this man is a threat, Zelda thought, breaking the kiss, then I welcome the challenge. But she was done doubting Ganondorf’s intentions, and she was finished with maintaining her silence.

“I’m going to have to tell you something,” she said.

“Good,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “I want you to tell me everything from now on.”

“You seem to think that Ganon is a cycle, or somehow related to the seal held in place by the Master Sword, but I agree with my father, and I agree with our mothers. I think Ganon is real. I’m worried that you will become Ganon, eventually. As long as you stay in Hyrule, I’m afraid that’s always going to be a danger.”

“None of this changes who I am,” Ganondorf assured her as he kissed her forehead. “I will always be on the side of the men who opposed Hyrule. I’m still angry about what happened to my mother, and I’m still angry that your monarchy has lasted for as long as it has. I will always be angry, and my anger will always be dangerous to you. But would you really want me to be gentle?”

“It would make me happy if you could be yourself,” she answered, relaxing into the strength of his arms.

“You want me to be myself? After everything you’ve seen?”

I’ve seen more than you can possibly imagine, Zelda wanted to tell him. She thought of the man who had cut down each of the leaders of the tribes of Hyrule as gracefully as he had once danced with her in the Great Hall, even as he told her that Hyrule would burn, and she thought of the man with a lined face and stooped shoulders who tended flowers in his garden in the underwater courtyard outside a forgotten library. In the Temple of Time Zelda had realized that Ganondorf loved fighting, that it satisfied a physical craving within him. Or perhaps he needed a form for the violence that raged within him. Zelda had seen Hyrule as Ganondorf must have seen it, passing through one life after another, staggering through a fantastic landscape of disaster and pain, floating under overbright moonlight on the waves of his own darkness.

“I will take control of your violence and exhaust it,” she promised him, meeting his eyes. “I will take you to the end of the world and see that you arrive safely.”

Ganondorf murmured her name and kissed her. He was fervent and urgent as he pressed himself against her, exploring and revealing her, consuming her with his hands and mouth even as he stiffened at her waist, earnest and sincere in his desire. The joining of their bodies was perfect, and they fit together as if they had been made for one another. If it was their fate that their union would only lead to disaster, then so be it. We abandon kingdoms because we want more than kingdoms, Zelda thought, and in his arms she knew it was true.

“You saw something I didn’t,” Ganondorf said as he held her. Zelda nodded, her head against his chest. She waited for him to continue, but he was silent. It occurred to her that, for all the questions she had asked Ganondorf, he never once asked her to explain her own actions. He was never one to ask questions, and she understood now that he was simply waiting for her to reveal herself on her own terms.

“You want to know why I destroyed the baton my father was holding?”

“You said something about seeing Hyrule flood.”

“I did,” Zelda confirmed.

“You said you saw me as well.”

“I did. You were… older. And unhappy. It wasn’t a good future. For you, or for anyone.”

“Did I become Ganon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Was I still as handsome as I am now?”

“Of course,” she lied.

“If I didn’t see the vision, then it must have been real. You managed to move through time.”

“I’m not sure if that’s exactly what happened, but it felt close enough.”

“That should be impossible.”

“As impossible as the way you move through space?”

“The consequences of moving through space are minimal. You changed the entire reality of our world.”

“Yes, and you should thank me.”

“Would you do it again?”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“You destroyed the artifact the king was holding. What will you do with the ocarina?”

Ganondorf’s body was still warm and pliant against her own, but his voice had become dangerously quiet and still. A part of her had been afraid of him all this time, and with good reason, but she was beginning to realize that he had been afraid of her as well. And with good reason. Still, she was hurt that he couldn’t yet bring himself to trust her.

“I tried to destroy the ocarina earlier,” she admitted, offering the truth without prevarication. “I used the same silver arrows, but they had no effect. That magic only came to me in the presence of the Triforce and the Master Sword, so it may not always work. I think it might be possible that no one person can destroy the ocarina. But…” She paused to collect her thoughts as she tried to remember the shape of Tetra’s pendant. “I think there may be a way to split it into pieces. We should probably ask Link for help.”

Ganondorf’s body tensed, and she pulled away from him. “What?” she asked. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I don’t like it that you had a child with Link.”

Despite herself, Zelda couldn’t help laughing. “I saw the end of Hyrule, with you trapped in an underwater castle for who even knows how many years, and that’s what you’re upset about?”

“Are you still opposed to having children?”

Oh my, Zelda thought. What a thing for him to ask. “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said, still smiling. “I haven’t agreed to allow you to remain in Hyrule.”

“How bold of you to assume that it would be my children you’d be having.”

“I’ve found that I’ve become bolder since I received the Triforce of Courage. Do you feel any wiser?”

“Wiser? No. Although perhaps a bit more… imaginative.”

Ganondorf grinned and tilted Zelda’s chin up to meet his mouth. She welcomed his kiss, and her hands roamed over his robes as she traced the contours the body hiding underneath. Imaginative, indeed. She didn’t mind admitting that she’d been imagining a few things herself.

A faint sound caught Zelda’s attention, and both she and Ganondorf turned toward its source. Someone was knocking at the door to the sitting room downstairs.

“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called out. “We’ve come to help you prepare for the evening.”

“I should leave,” Ganondorf said, starting to pull away, but Zelda gripped the fabric of his sleeves.

“Stay,” she insisted. “I have no desire for it to be a secret that I allow you to visit me here. I’m a queen now. I can do whatever I want.”

“Is that so,” Ganondorf muttered, his grin widening. “Then what do you want, Your Majesty?”

Zelda gave herself a moment to envision a future in which none of this had happened. Hyrule hadn’t flooded, the Triforce hadn’t been split, and she hadn’t shot the king. She had never seen Link with the Master Sword in his hand, and she had never confronted Ganondorf. She imagined a world in which she had never been visited by nightmares of a raging beast crashing over the kingdom, and her coronation ceremony had proceeded as planned, with the future stretching in a straight line in front of her as far as she could see. But everything had changed, and she no longer knew what to expect.

“I’m not entirely certain at the moment,” Zelda admitted. “For the time being, I want you to redo my hair. I want to show off those hairpins you gave me. Do you think you can handle that?”

“With pleasure,” Ganondorf said, tucking one of her sidelocks behind her ear.

“I also want you to go downstairs and dismiss my staff, if you wouldn’t mind. Please tell them that I won’t be wearing a gown this evening.”

“Is there any reason you can’t tell them that yourself?”

“No, there’s no reason at all, except that I want it spread around the entire castle that I’ve had a private audience with you. In my bedroom. I want them to think I’m currently too preoccupied to meet them.”

“Too undressed to meet them, you mean.” Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning?”

“I’m getting get the gossip out of the way before it becomes a problem.”

“I question the wisdom of sending up smoke where there’s no fire.”

“Who said there’s no fire? The evening isn’t over yet.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Zelda looked into his eyes and smiled, happy that she was finally able to speak exactly as she wished. “Yes,” she said. “It’s an invitation.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Then I’ll consider it accepted.”

Ganondorf gazed at her a moment longer before heading downstairs. He opened the door this time, rather more loudly than was necessary.

Zelda let out the breath she had been holding and walked to the basin placed next to her dressing table. She splashed her face with water and then regarded herself in the mirror as she patted her skin dry. All things considered, she didn’t look half bad. She would look even better once Ganondorf plaited her hair. Her mother once wore her hair in a style that she’d claimed had been inspired by the Gerudo queen, and Zelda was certain Ganondorf would know how to recreate it. She imagined his fingers in her hair and shivered with pleasure.

“May the goddess grant me wisdom,” she said to herself, blushing at the thought.

Zelda brushed a spot of dust from her trousers and straightened the sleeves of her jacket as she waited for Ganondorf to return. She may be the descendant of a goddess, but she wouldn’t let that stop her from becoming the master of her own fate.

She selected one of the rapiers mounted on a stand beside her bed and belted its scabbard across her hips. The weight of the metal felt good on her thigh. Zelda was only a novice swordswoman, but there would be plenty of opportunities for her to develop her skill once she left the castle. Perhaps Ganondorf could teach her a thing or two – and Link could as well, if he chose to accompany them.

Zelda raised her hand and watched as the golden triangle revealed itself, shining in the sunset. This would be her first night presiding over her court without her father, but Impa and Nabooru and Ruto were waiting for her, and Link and Ganondorf were to be her escorts. Zelda was filled with anticipation. She tightened the straps holding the sword at her waist and prepared to meet her destiny as the newest leader of Hyrule.

#Princess Zelda #Ganondorf #Zelgan #The Legend of the Princess #Zelda fic #my fic

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blackmysticinfinite · 5 years

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(first off: happy new year!) secondly: do you think i should still call myself a christian witch if i hate going to church and can't connect to the bible? i love God so much, but i just don't feel a connection with Them...

Hello!~ A blessed New Year to you as well

For as long as I can remember, it has been hammered into me that “Christianity is not about feeling! It’s about believing even when you don’t feel anything!” Which--okay, sure, that might be part of the whole faith thing. BUT--humans seem to naturally desire connection, some sort of relationship, some sort of meaning. And if something just isn’t doing it for us, usually we move on.

That being said, what to do when the feelings aren’t there? Even, or especially, when we wish they were? I can’t tell you what to do, but hopefully these thoughts might be helpful! (I’m a bit of a rambler, so this post will be kind of long.)

1. Sometimes, you end up taking a beak from church. For about 4 years, I couldn’t go to church. Panic attacks, sensory overload, feeling unsafe--all of these contributed to me having to take a break from church. Not to mention the resentment and anger I felt the moment I walked in the door. I still loved God, still desired a spiritual community, but I felt like I needed to take a personal time out.

2. Ask God to help you feel more connected with Them! I figured that my Sundays were better spent asking God to show/ help me how to deal with all of that bitterness instead of sitting in a pew, hating my neighbor and lashing out at God. I sincerely doubted if that anger would ever leave me. I often wondered if I could still call myself a Christian--something that I am still figuring out. If I felt no real draw toward going to church or reading my Bible, if K-LOVE or other Christian radio stations made me want to vomit--could I still call myself one?

3. You’re probably going to have to wait. If you wonder if God hears you, if you’re not sure if your prayers are working, if you don’t feel anything different--either right away or even after you’ve been praying for a long time--God might be working behind the scenes for a surprise you’ll discover later on. 2014 was about the time that I wanted nothing to do with church stuff or Christian stuff. I didn’t read my Bible. And I honestly feared for my soul. I remembered what it was like to feel close to God--and that didn’t mean sunshine all the time. I remembered wrestling with some of the worst things I’ve been through, but knowing God was there. And then it just felt like silence, like distance, no matter how much I prayed for God to make me “more Christian” again.

4. Consider new ways to connect with God. Around 2015 or so, I started to explore “high church”, formal liturgies, and more concrete forms of worship. This was the beginning of my intentional foray into the realm of craft and practice (witchcraft, magic, etc. for lack of a better term). To be honest, I still felt over my head with these and it just wasn’t working for me. But at the same time, I started to embrace parts of myself that I had never known I could love and celebrate before. I explored my gender identity, my sexuality, my romantic interests. I put a lot of thought in the type of person I wanted to be, in the types of relationships I wanted to have. Honesty, openness, forgiveness--these were things I wanted to extend toward others, and which I was learning to allow for myself as well.

Throughout the years, I have learned that my feeling close to God isn’t so much measured on how often I go to church or read my Bible. For me, I am better able to measure it by asking myself, How do I think of others who are similar or different from me? How do I react when I come across information that points to my being wrong, in thought or action? How easily can I be gracious toward myself, or am I intent on punishing and hating the person God made me to be? I feel closest to God when I am able to love myself and love others. Not by how much scripture I have memorized, not by how much theology I know, not by having perfect attendance every time the church doors are open.

5. Did I mention you would have to wait? Or that the answers might not make sense? In December of 2017, I felt a strong push from the Spirit. Take your spiritual life seriously. That voice was unmistakable. But what would that look like? I didn’t go to church, didn’t do daily devotions. My understanding of myself and my identities was fairly stable. I knew who I was and what I was about. But I still didn’t feel like I had a way to really express my faith. And hadn’t I been asking God for years to help me with this, anyway?

I went into 2018 hoping to be more intentional about my prayer life, about my attitude toward others. I still didn’t feel very close to God. I was overwhelmed by job searching, graduating, moving--and feeling close to God would have been nice. The church I had been away from for several years--since mid 2014, actually--did a summer series on “Bring Your Own Bible.” The goal was simple: to give people a way and a reason to open their Bibles just a bit more often. I attended that series fairly regularly.

Although I read my Bible a little more, I eventually stopped. I didn’t feel like I could really grasp anything from those words on the page. Add to that a growing despair over financial obligations and gallons of discouragement after being turned down for so many jobs, I felt like I had let God down.

6. The answer is always both/and. This is something I tell myself, something I have come to recognize when reflecting back on my own journey. Whether that’s my faith, my mental health, my physical health, or how my day went--it’s good and bad, all the time. What I mean is that there will be times when you don’t feel anything, and that’s okay. There will be moments when you are full of emotion, and that’s okay.

On this third day of 2019, God has shown me enough for me to keep moving forward on my path. God has taught me to see Them in ways, times, and places I had never imagined. I feel close to God when I see certain shades of green, when I drive through the city at night with my windows down and radio up, when I eat a really great meal, when I laugh with my family or friends, when I wash dishes and cook and do laundry, when I read a great book or binge a show on Netflix or watch my favorite movie for the thousand and millionth time.

One of my spiritual goals for this year is to cultivate a habit of morning and evening prayer. I didn’t feel like praying this morning. When I prayed last night, I mostly felt like I was fumbling around in the dark. Sometimes I avoid talking about my path and what I believe because I feel like I’m lying. I feel like I don’t make sense, and like I don’t have any evidence to prove that I am what I say. But God has nudged me, time and time again. God tells me to look over my shoulder, to examine my journey, and will highlight all the ways that the connection has been there.

So, let me ask you--What helps you feel connected to God? Are you open to exploring new ways of experiencing God? Church attendance and Bible reading are only two measures--and not very great ones, in my opinion--of how “Christian” you are. God reveals Their beauty and might and majesty in so many glorious ways. I would encourage you to search and explore, to challenge yourself “How can I see God today? Where can I find God?” My journey of faith often feels like a hide-and-seek adventure with the Divine. But I am found in God every time, and God shows Themselves in more ways than I can keep track of.

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dfroza · 3 years

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what does it mean to you to love God and others?

Love is the fulfillment of God’s law.

and even though no person is perfect enough to do this perfectly, yet grace is still available to perfect the heart in our Creator’s eyes which humbles the heart & mind.

people choose either Light or darkness to live inside where desire begins.

and we will get nowhere in the absence of humility before our Creator. we have to see ourselves as daughters & sons of eternal Light.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 15th chapter of the Letter of Romans:

So now what? We who are strong are not just to satisfy our own desires. We are called to carry the weaknesses of those who are not strong. Each of us must strive to please our neighbors, pursuing their welfare so they will become strong. The Anointed One Himself is our model for this kind of living, for He did not live to please Himself. And as the Scriptures declared, “When they insult You, they insult me.” You see, everything written in the days of old was recorded to give us instructions for living. We find encouragement through the Scriptures and a call to perseverance that will produce hopeful living. I pray that our God, who calls you and gives you perseverance and encouragement, will join all of you together to share one mind according to Jesus the Anointed. In this unity, you will share one voice as you glorify the one True God, the Father of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One, our Liberating King.

So accept one another in the same way the Anointed has accepted you so that God will get the praise He is due. For, as I am fond of saying, the Anointed One has become a servant of the Jews in order to demonstrate God’s truth. Effectively this confirms the promises He made to our ancestors and causes the non-Jewish nations to glorify God for His mercy. As the Scriptures say,

For this I will praise You among the nations

and sing praises to Your name.

Again the Scriptures say,

Nations, celebrate with His covenant people.

And again,

Praise the Lord, all nations.

Raise your voices, all people; let your praises flow to God.

Again Isaiah says,

Then, the root of Jesse will emerge—

He rises to rule all the peoples of the world

who come to Him for guidance and direction.

In Him they place their hope.

I pray that God, the source of all hope, will infuse your lives with an abundance of joy and peace in the midst of your faith so that your hope will overflow through the power of the Holy Spirit.

My brothers and sisters, I am ultimately confident that you are full of goodness, knowledge, and the ability to help and instruct one another. I have written to you with unflinching honesty on many topics because I do not want you to ever lose sight of the tremendous grace God has given me. His grace makes me who I am, a minister of the Anointed One, Jesus, called to serve the nations.

The good news of God is the focus of my priestly work. In effect, these nations have become an offering to God, totally acceptable, indeed made holy by the work of the Holy Spirit. So in Jesus, the Anointed One, I have reason to celebrate the things I do for God. I don’t want to be presumptuous, so I will restrict myself to what the Anointed has accomplished through my words and actions, which has culminated in the obedience of the nations. My words and actions have been rooted in Spirit-empowered signs and miracles. The upshot is this: I have been able to preach the good news of the Anointed One in city after city from Jerusalem all the way around the Mediterranean to Illyricum. I have dreamed of preaching the gospel in places where no one has ever heard of the Anointed so that I do not build on a foundation laid by anyone else. But as the Scriptures say,

They will see Him even though they’ve never been told about Him;

they will understand even though they never heard of Him.

Because of many issues, I have not been able to visit you in the city of Rome. But my time to serve those here is coming to an end, there’s no room left for me in this region, and I have longed to come to you for many years. So I plan to visit you on my journey to Spain. I am hoping that I will not only see you face-to-face, but that you will assist me in the journey west after I have enjoyed our time together. But right now I must make the journey to Jerusalem to serve the saints there. Those in Macedonia and Achaia decided it was a good idea to share their funds to help the poor among the saints in Jerusalem. I must tell you that they were thrilled to be able to help. They realize that they are indebted to the believers in Jerusalem. If the nations share in the Jews’ spiritual goods, then it’s only right that they minister back to them in material goods. When this work is complete and the funds we’ve collected are delivered, I will make my way to Spain through your grand city of Rome and enjoy some of your hospitality. I’m sure that when I come to you I will come as a blessing and as one fully blessed by the Anointed One.

My brothers and sisters, I urgently plead with you by the name of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed, and by the love of the Spirit to join together with me in your prayers to God for my success in these next endeavors. Pray that I will be rescued from those who deny and persecute the faith in Judea and that my service in Jerusalem will meet the approval of all the saints there. If that happens, then my journey to you will be filled with joy; and, if God wills, I can rest and be refreshed in your presence. I pray the God of all peace will be with you all. Amen.

The Letter of Romans, Chapter 15 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 34th chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah that points to an act of God’s Judgment upon wickedness:

Gather around, everyone. All peoples take note!

The earth and everything in it,

The world and all that comes from it should hear this, too,

For the Eternal One is furious with all the nations. He has had it with their armies.

He has marked them for destruction, and has given them over to slaughter.

Their blood will run like rivers down the mountains,

their corpses tossed out, heaped up, and randomly piled in a great stinking mound.

All the stars in the once-vibrant heavens will vanish:

and the sky will be rolled up like a scroll.

All the starry hosts will wither and fall,

like grape leaves crisped by fall or fig leaves shriveled by winter.

Eternal One: For once my sword has had its fill in the heavens;

I’ll set it against Edom, those people who despise My own.

I have marked Edom for judgment and destruction.

The Eternal One indeed has a blood-gulping sword.

It drinks up fat and blood from the innards

And flesh of lambs, goats, and rams—the sacrifice.

And now the Eternal is coming to sacrifice the Edomites—

A great slaughter in their capital Bozrah,

And great wild cattle will be slaughtered

along with them—bulls, oxen, and steers—

Until their land is soggy with blood and oozes with their fat.

For the Eternal has determined a time for retaliation,

a time to vindicate Zion, ravaged by Babylon and Edom.

Edom’s waters will be made thick and black as oily pitch.

Its dust will turn to brimstone, and the land will ignite with burning pitch.

Edom’s fiery judgment will burn day and night for all time;

the smoke from it will ascend forever.

For generations to come it will be a wasteland,

and no person will make it their home ever again.

Desert owls and screech owls, great owls and ravens

will take up residence in that bleak place.

When God measures the land,

desolation will be its width and chaos will mark its length.

The land will be known as No Kingdom.

No nobles are there to name a king. Its line of princes will cease.

Its great towers will be covered in thorns.

Nasty nettles and thistles will overrun its strong cities.

Wild jackals will slink around the premises,

and ostriches will make themselves at home.

Among the howling and hissing wild creatures and demons,

Lilith herself, demoness of the night, will call Edom her haunt,

A place to recoup and rest between her devastating forays.

Owls of all sorts will take up habitation there,

nesting and laying their eggs.

They will hatch their young and cover them beneath their wings.

Vultures and their mates will gather there.

You can look for it and read all about it in the book of the Eternal One.

None of these creatures will be missing and none will lack a mate

Because His voice has given the order

and His Spirit has gathered them in that place.

He has determined where they should live;

He has handed it over to them and it will be theirs for all time.

They will live there, one generation after the next, forever.

The Book (Scroll) of Isaiah, Chapter 34 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for monday, july 12 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that points to the significance of documenting Torah, as well as all of Scripture since what it all reveals is the True illumination of the Son:

Shavuah tov, friends. This week we begin reading the concluding book of the Torah, called Sefer Devarim (ספר דברים), so named from the phrase eleh ha’devarim (“these are the words...”) found in its opening verse (see verse below). In our English Bibles, Sefer Devarim is known as the Book of “Deuteronomy,” from a Greek word meaning “second (or repeated) law” (i.e., δευτερονόμιον), a term used to translate the phrase mishneh ha-Torah (i.e. משׁנה התורה, “copy of the Torah,” in Deut. 17:18). Generally speaking, this book represents Moses’ “farewell address” to the people of Israel before he died wherein he reviewed the history and the laws given to the people and repeatedly warned that obedience would bring blessing while disobedience would bring disaster. The series of personal discourses (or sermons) in this book all have the tone of rebuke and admonition, and indeed some of the sages have said it resembles a sort of “deathbed blessing” not unlike Jacob’s blessing given to his sons...

Our Torah portion (פרשה) for this week, called parashat Devarim (פרשת דברים), is the very first reading of the Book of Deuteronomy – which begins with Moses recounting the journey from Mount Sinai to the edge of the promised land. Moses mentioned the difficulty of personally governing the people and recalled how he had set up a system of judges to help him administer justice among the various tribes. He then reminded the people of the sin of the spies and the rebellion of the people at Kadesh Barnea which led to God’s decree that no one of that generation would live to enter the land of Canaan (except for Caleb and Joshua). Moses then provided an outline of the 38 year exile of the Israelites back toward the Sea of Reeds, into the desert regions, and then back again until the subsequent generation was ready to enter the promised land. For more information, see the links listed below. [Hebrew for Christians]

7.11.21 • Facebook

and another about the space of the inner life:

The inner life of the self can be one of tranquility and peace, or it can be one of turmoil and struggle -- as we sense forces within our own hearts that seek to pull us away from what is good... What is hidden within can become a destructive force, ready to erupt in unexpected moments. We have to be careful to "take every thought captive" before the presence of God, since otherwise our thoughts can lead to chaotic thinking and unrestrained emotions. If we allow ourselves to self-indulgently murmur or envy, for example, such thoughts may surreptitiously become a fixed part of our character.

As C.S. Lewis once said: “Hell begins with a grumbling mood, always complaining, always blaming others... but you are still distinct from it. You may even criticize it in yourself and wish you could stop it. But there may come a day when you can no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood or even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself, going on forever like a machine. It is not a question of God "sending us" to hell. In each of us there is something growing, which will be hell unless it is nipped in the bud.” (Great Divorce)

We can find deliverance from our inner conflicts by humbling our self and opening our heart to a trusted friend, as it says: "Confess your faults one to another and pray for one another, that you may be healed" (James 5:16). A good friend will make time to quietly listen to the story of your struggle and to then extend grace, compassion, and forgiveness, serving as a priest for your heart, revealing God's kindness and mercy in your darkest of moments... The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it (John 1:5). [Hebrew for Christians]

7.12.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

July 12, 2021

The Right Man on Our Side

“Behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat: But I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not.” (Luke 22:31-32)

Satan wanted Peter to fall, and fall he would (v. 34), but Christ had prayed for him that victory would come. The second verse of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” reflects our vulnerability on our own and our invincibility on His side.

Did we in our own strength confide,

Our striving would be losing;

Were not the right man on our side,

The man of God’s own choosing:

Dost ask who that may be? Christ Jesus it is He,

Lord Sabaoth, His name, From age to age the same,

And He must win the battle.

After revealing many thrilling blessings, Paul asks: “What shall we then say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). Furthermore, neither “principalities, nor powers” nor any thing else in all creation is “able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39). With Him, Satan cannot win the battle for our minds or destinies. But on our own, we cannot win.

The term Sabaoth is the Hebrew word for “hosts,” in particular the “host of heaven.” The term Yahweh Sabaoth or “Lord Sabaoth” occurs some 300 times in the Old Testament and constitutes a most majestic name for God. “For thy Maker is thine husband; the LORD of hosts is his name; and thy Redeemer the Holy One of Israel; The God of the whole earth shall he be called” (Isaiah 54:5). This is none other than “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever” (Hebrews 13:8). Creator (Colossians 1:16), Sustainer (v. 17), Redeemer (v. 20)—He must win the battle. JDM

ICRscience: ✝️ Could someone who doubts God's existence interpret the Bible correctly? Yes, because the Bible's words are clear.

#TheBibleIsTrue #GodIsAlive

@randyguliuzza

7.12.21 • 2:15pm • Twitter

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: Today, we're highlighting a Bible portion in a language from east-central Tanzania with approximately 269,769 speakers.

Do you know what language this is? Comment below with your guesses.

7.12.21 • 12:00pm • Twitter

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