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brabblesblog · 2 months

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𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 5: What hath night to do with sleep?

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Moonlit conversations, nightmares, and revelations - it all could go very wrong, or so wonderfully right.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Commission from @abigailsins

Astarion’s trance was broken by the movement of sheets; the heavy duvet lightly draped over him stirring. He felt the bed shift as the weight lifted and he finally opened his eyes, a little irritated. It had been a good trance, the best he’d had in a while.

The room was bathed in moonlight. He quirked an eyebrow as his lips tugged down into a frown, confused as to why Ban had pulled the curtains back. He found her standing, staring at the mirror; it reflected nothing of note, of course, only the room and his own rather sleepy countenance visible.

“Ban.” His voice cut through the silence, rough with sleep. He tapped her side of the bed, a quick gesture to come back. When she didn’t respond he groaned and forced himself to sit up.

“Love. It’s very late, and I’d very much rather-”

The words died in his throat as he saw her shoulders shake.

“Nightmare,” she offered by way of explanation, voice wavering. Astarion wanted to press, then reconsidered; instead he spread his arms, offering sanctuary.

He noted her momentary pause, but before he could worry about rejection she moved, climbing up the bed and sliding into his embrace. They settled in, and he ended up with his head in the crook of her neck and his face pressed against the pulse there. Her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, a leg hooked over his hip.

Comfortable, he thought, fighting the urge to slip into trance again. Being tangled up with her was always pleasant, but it was incredibly tranquil when he was barely out of trance. He kept silent, trusting her to speak when she needed to. At least she’d stopped crying - he could tell from the way her breaths were slowing down; he pressed a kiss against the undead heartbeat in her neck.

“You can have some,” Ban offered, voice hoarse. Astarion paused, immediately on the defensive.

He didn’t want her to think that; he still occasionally worried she saw him as someone who uses her. Someone to fear. Someone to mistrust. That he was still just the Ascendant, try as he might to keep that side turned away from her. Try as he might to give her what she deserves: the soft core of him, her Astarion - not quite the spawn he was, and yet not completely the monster she’d perceived him to be. “That is not-” he began to protest.

“No, I know. But you can if you wish.” The answer was calm, unconcerned. Trusting.

Astarion reconsidered the offer. “Tempting, but I’ve tasted you once today, and that is enough.” Another kiss to that same spot, a small thank you.

Ban chuckled at the reminder. “That was rather fun. And I did appreciate it.” She smiled, almost shyly, and he fought the urge to tell her there was little need for it: she’d seen him at his worst and his best, and there was no cause to be embarrassed if he saw the same in her.

“It reminded me of before,” she continued, “back then. It was the same, but also different. Like you. Tonight you reminded me you’re both the man I loved before and the man I love now. I… needed that.”

A flood of warmth rushed through him and he wordlessly pressed a small peck to the tip of her nose. It was nowhere near enough to express the gratitude he felt at her words; he could only hope she understood.

He could sense she was about to tell him something else, however; the way her brow furrowed and her lips pursed were indicative. He patiently waited, head in the cage of her body, both of them bathed in moonlight. Astarion wouldn’t mind staying here forever. He covered her with the blanket, tucking them in. The coolness of her body dropped the temperature under the sheets, but he didn’t mind.

“I dreamt of you,” she said, and he tilted his head slightly, as much as he could without leaving the comfort of her embrace, meeting her gaze. He let one hand run up and down her side, fingers caressing cool skin, much like she had done when his had been.

“If dreaming of your husband makes you cry, love, I think we should be worried.” He kept the tone light, but his hand paused to pull her even closer so that they were almost fully flush against each other.

“No, not like that,” Ban clarified. “Not exactly. In fact, I’ve sort of been thinking of before, recently…”

As she trailed off, Astarion’s hand tightened on her waist. Thinking of before? What for? He took a long look at her face and took a stab at guessing, but was unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Not like you haven’t been thinking of it all along, haven’t you?” he snipped, aware that he sounded bitter. She’d spent this entire year vacillating between thinking he’d been compromised by the ritual somehow, to missing the person she thought he’d been at the start - never mind that it had always been a mistaken notion - to finally grieving for what they could have been had the rite not happened.

So which was it now? He realized he was exhausted; each time this conversation arose he was reminded of how he wasn’t quite what she wanted, even if she’d finally accepted him.

Her hand ran through his curls, scratching his scalp; despite his pique he leaned into the touch. “Well, true,” Ban acknowledged with a small sigh. “But I do think I understand better now.”

Astarion braced, heartbeat picking up.

“I’ve come to realize there isn’t really much to regret, other than the six months of… that, and well, I suppose the deaths of everyone unfortunate enough to be bound to the rite. You’re you, like you’ve always said,” she paused for a moment, brow furrowed in thought.

“You’ve always been enough, Astarion. More than enough, even. You are everything to me - from the moment you held that knife to my throat to the present. Always. The rite did not make you more, or even less. It happened - I let it happen - because you wanted it. That’s all it is for me; it was never a statement of your worth. What hurt me, though, what ruined us, was you hiding your heart from me - refusing to let me in. I see it now.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling roughly, relief and exhilaration suffusing him in equal measure. He also felt the need to be honest, however, and tacked his own thoughts onto hers. “Well. You also pulled away, if you recall. Stopped perceiving me. Seeing me.” He moved his hand from her waist to cup a breast, gently kneading it. “I’m not… seeking a fight, Ban; merely mentioning relevant information.” That he mentioned to waylay any chance of her withdrawing from him or taking what he said as a taunt, knowing she at times still took a rather less… charitable view of his words.

“I know,” came the reply. The hand in his drifted towards his ear, caressing the tip; he couldn’t help the slight shiver that ran through him at the contact. She didn’t do that often enough; he came apart every time she did.

“If that’s the case, what was it about dreaming of me that bothered you?” His voice came out breathy, the fingers now tracing the edge of his ear claiming more and more of his attention. “Ban-” he choked out, releasing her breast and reaching out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, stilling her hand. “I can’t focus if you insist on continuing that.”

In the moonlight she smiled, fangs glinting; he felt his heart swell at the sight. Still rare, smiles like that. Only for him, he knew - from the day they’d first met she’d saved smiles like that solely for him. How wonderful it had been to have that smile returned to him, to be worthy of it again. The smile grew wider, and he realized he was at her mercy should she choose to let things progress - not that he minded.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” she teased, keeping her hand on his ear. Astarion gave up, releasing his grip on her wrist. Another caress along his ear and he shuddered again; her fingers continued as she talked. “Well. I dreamt of you, but you were telling me my father was right. About me, about what I’m meant to be.”

Astarion frowned, the words proving enough to distract him from the pleasant sensation.

“That,” he scoffed, “is the silliest thing your mind could conjure up. I have talked to your father twice, both about the mirror. He isn’t even aware-”

“I know.” The leg hooked over his hip tugged him closer, pressing their hips together. “But I do think it’s a sign for me to finally tell you what you’ve been wanting to know.”

Belatedly, Astarion realized what Ban was trying to do. The touching, the pressing. Intimacy, because she felt too bare when talking about this, too exposed. That wasn’t an issue normally, but the way she was pressing their hips together told him she was attempting to escalate into sex. But right now that would be wrong; it would be sex used flippantly, without much regard for her own wants - much like he had done for centuries. The thought niggled in his mind, nebulous memories of his past slowly resurfacing.

“Very well,” he said, carefully weighing his words. “But if we’re to talk about this, don’t-” Astarion ground his hips against hers, once. A reminder. “Don’t do that, at least for now.” He understood the urge, more than she would ever know, but he wished for this conversation to be focused solely on what’s important. Her.

The memory resurfaces, unbidden:

Darling, what are you doing? This isn’t safe - you can’t trust him!

Ban, asking everyone to leave the boudoir, him included. He had wanted to fight back, had indeed said as much, snapping at her to not be stupid and to think it over, that he could protect her, could kill the hapless-

But she’d said no. That it would risk all of the House of Hope turning against them, that in the end it wouldn’t be so bad: it’s just sex, after all. The unsaid words had weighed on him, they did to this day. She’d been hurting, their relationship imploding in front of their eyes - she hadn’t cared what he thought. More importantly, she hadn’t seemed to care what happened to her.

And then there’d been the day, weeks later, the day the incubus had decided to use her body. Walking in the middle of Baldur’s Gate he’d heard her stifle a moan.

“I heard that moan. It’s the incubus, isn’t it? Enjoying your body?” He’d murmured, feeling lost, impotent - enraged. “Gods, though I’ve become untouchable, my precious treasure has been violated still.”

She hadn’t answered, merely spared him a glance. He’d forced himself to push on. “I know what it’s like to lose control over your own body. It’s a wretched thing.”

Words, effort. He had tried, and he thinks she’d seen it; for a moment they’d been just as they had before - connected. She’d smiled, a hauntingly hollow one that still plagued his mind from time to time.

“I may as well just try to enjoy it,” she’d replied, trying to go for lightheartedness and failing entirely.

Because wasn’t that what she’d been doing, with him, with their relationship? Even as their love wilted like flowers in a drought, she had stayed. Astarion had taken that chance to speak words he would never have allowed himself to say otherwise.

“I thought the same once. It didn’t last.” A bitter smile had crossed his face at these words, quickly replaced by furrowed brows and regret. “I know what’s done is done - you made your vow. But I’m sorry all the same.”

I’m sorry, to have done it to you as well, to have ruined you so thoroughly you’d think this acceptable.

That afternoon he’d left, citing some meeting regarding the palace’s deed of ownership. He’d slipped back into the House of Hope. For the first time, he and that mewling spawn had been in perfect accord - Haarlep had to die. It had surprised him how little effort it had taken to end their miserable existence. Unleashing the Ascendant for the first time had felt so right. The fierce, rabid joy of allowing his newfound power free rein, the exhilaration of being able to lash out with all that he had, to bring every ounce of his potential to bear on one who had so wronged his precious treasure… exquisite. He’d come back to see Ban on their bed, watching him with guarded eyes as always.

“You’ll never moan for Haarlep again,” he had said, euphoria and rage still roiling through him in equal measure. Part of him had wanted to take her into his arms and kiss that memory away, but the Ascendant, still intoxicated with the overwhelming feeling of power, had easily shoved that desire for tenderness deep down. Instead he’d growled. “You’ll never moan for anyone but me.”

He’d done it for her, and yet he’d never clarified his apology. He’d never allowed her to catch a glimpse of his old self, of his heart. He’d never fully shown her his regret.

Perhaps he should now.

“One more thing, if you’ll indulge me,” Astarion added quickly; he took her wrist again with a little more desperation, this time managing to pry her hand from his ear as she noticed the change in his tone.

“I’m listening,” Ban seemed more curious than anything else. He was sure the sudden nervousness was clearly written on his face, and he took a small breath, lacing their fingers together.

Before you fully let me in, you deserve to hear this.

“You’re not - you realize I know full well what this is, don’t you?” It wasn’t what he’d initially planned to say, the words coming out rather stern. He sighed, pressing on anyway. “You don’t do it often, but you do - enough - and you cannot hide it, least of all from me.” He squeezed her hand. Whatever the dream was, whatever she was bracing herself to tell him was obviously causing this response; he’d observed it in her once or twice before, back when their relationship was at its worst. He hadn’t bothered to do anything about it then - he vowed to correct that now.

“Astarion, I don’t-”

“This.” Another grind of his hips against hers and she fell silent. “I caused it - unintentionally, but that does not absolve me of it. I tried to win your affection back the only way I knew how, and somehow what you learned instead was to - to do this,” he spat out.

“So do me a favor, Ban, and stop. Please.” The seriousness in his voice finally got through to her and she nodded, unhooking her leg from his hip. They were still pressed close, but there was enough space between them that he could concentrate.

He nodded. “Good girl.” He pressed a small kiss to her lips, but pulled away before she even thought to deepen it. He crooked an elbow to rest his head on his palm, fixing his gaze on hers. She looked uncertain, seemingly anxious herself. Get on with it, he thought to himself; this was long overdue.

“I want to talk about what I did to you.”

His words were met with a groan; Ban untangled her fingers from his to rub her forehead. “Astarion, we’ve spent so much time talking about all of that. Must we really do this again?”

Astarion laughed, incredulous and more than a little miffed at her attempts at avoidance. “Indeed we have, and I still have yet to tell you the most important thing.” The one thing that could have fixed things earlier, he mused; but he supposes it’s better now than not at all.

“Mm.” Ban reached out; he felt her hand cup his cheek. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s all-”

“No.” He glared at her; the anger, however, was not aimed at her. “Enough of this, love. Stop granting me room to back out of it at your expense - I’m begging you.” Astarion clenched his jaw; it was already hard enough to get himself to say it. Having her keep providing him the chance to deflect only exacerbated the issue.

“I’m sorry.”

He managed to hiss it out, teeth gritted.

There. Everything else should be easier now.

Ban froze. He’d never said that before, and her reaction wasn’t surprising to him. “For ascending - to ensure my freedom, to keep you safe, to protect this - it was selfish.” He covered the hand on his cheek with one of his own, then lifted it off to hold it. “For all the pain I have inflicted on you.”

“Turning you - and yes, before you even mention it, I am aware you gave me permission - was more than just to save you from the ravages of time.” Astarion barely paused, stopping for a quick breath and rushing in headfirst before he could rethink it. “I didn’t want to see you perish against the Netherbrain or whatever else we encountered in our journey - gods - not when I could remedy that issue with a single bite.”

“But that isn’t-” she tried to interrupt; he cut her off, refusing yet another avenue for him to escape to. He pressed her palm over his chest.

“Oh, but it is selfish, Ban. Had you not turned I would have ended things. I would have rather kept you at a distance than have you and see you dead in my arms. Perhaps if there was no Netherbrain, no threat, I may have been more willing to wait; had things been less fraught between us, had I been more reassured…” he trailed off. Had he been braver, better, then maybe things would have been-

That wasn’t the point. They both know what he had been.

I’m doing this for you, too, you know. To make sure we’re both safe. Forever, for good.

Words he’d uttered in an attempt to persuade her about the ascension. Even as he’d said it he hadn’t been quite sure how much of it was truth and how much of it was manipulation. After the rite, there’d been little distinction between the two; the concept of their safety had been entirely warped.

“As it stood, however… I had to ensure everything I wanted and needed was mine to keep by any means necessary.” That, of course, had involved manipulating and lying. He fell silent, scanning her face, trying to read her response.

She pursed her lips momentarily. “And then when you had me - turned me - that need to keep me safe became the need to keep me caged. Subdued. You lied about what I am, and so many other things.” Surprisingly there didn’t seem to be much anger in her tone, merely resignation.

“You’re not wrong.” His jaw began to clench but he forced it to relax; he needed this to be said in a far calmer way than they had before. “I resented - no - loathed what we became. To protect and cherish you became to keep you, and to keep you was to ensnare you. To drag you down with me.”

I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, she had said that fateful day, as they’d prepared to face Cazador.

He had done so, he thinks; seven thousand lives had been the cost, but they had been as good as lost at that point - caged for years, starving, no doubt feral. Astarion was all too aware that this idea was hypocritical, that he was no better than them.

But some of them had hurt him, he’d reasoned further; he had suffered abuse at their hands. Part of him had asked if that was enough to doom the rest too, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had been lucky - blessed, even though he took no stock in deities - given the chance to be something better, surpassing even his maker. And whyever would he not seize the chance?

Because it would damn him? He’d already been there; there’s almost nothing worse than what he’d gone through.

Because it would be the right thing to do? An even weaker excuse.

No, if that was the cost of freedom, then it would be paid. He’d willingly given what little integrity he’d had for it.

What Astarion had not counted on, however, was paying for the rite with his heart.

She’d said she wanted what was best for him; indeed, she had been trying to dissuade him, but he’d figured when push came to shove she’d acquiesce. In this he had not been wrong.

But he had been wrong when it came to the most important thing - her love. He’d realized with dawning horror that he may have gone too far when he’d seen her expression as he’d carved Cazador’s back, when he could feel her fear, her judgment, through the tadpole.

He’d smelled the blood, the sick-sweet tang of it rousing his stomach for what was to be the last time, had heard his master’s screams - but none of that had mattered. What had mattered was the feeling that had passed from her to him. Her love, receding like the tide, replaced by a myriad of negative emotions: unnamed, fleeting, but all-encompassing; as if her love was so shallow, so conditional. The first choice he’d made against her wishes and he was punished yet again. She had stopped seeing her lover, then; she had seen a monster where he’d once stood.

Then a monster he would be, he’d thought, as Rhapsody sliced through Cazador’s back.

That sentiment hadn’t abated as he’d taken his rightful place in the rite, Woe in his grasp. Even as the power had surged into his veins, even as his heart had begun to beat faster, that thought had still been at the forefront of his mind.

Had he lost her?

No. She’d lost me.

Bitterness and anger had suffused him as surely as the newfound vigor of his heart and the rush of his newly-altered blood had. How dare she - how dare they, for he’d sensed the disgust of his so-called friends as well - wrest the joy of this moment from him? This was his moment of triumph, two centuries of pain leading to this, to what he deserves, what he is owed-

The very first moments as the Ascendant, each full of purpose and power and freedom; it should have been glorious. And it had been - or it would have been, if she hadn’t looked at him that way. If he hadn’t known exactly what she thought of him.

Thus the mask had gone back on, perhaps forever. What did it matter? The hunger was gone. He was-

“-free. I’m finally free! Oh it feels delicious.”

Ban had approached him, expression wary. “Not sure I like the sound of that.”

Immediately he’d wanted to snap at her, to scream. Freedom, everything he’d ever wanted, and she said that? Instead he’d smiled, cold and all teeth. “Oh don’t worry, darling. I won’t bite unless you ask very, very nicely.”

Please. Just accept the apology.

She was silent for a long moment, eyes boring into his own. He waited patiently, or as patiently as he could manage, anyway - he could feel his traitorous heart hammering beneath her palm.

“I knew all that,” she finally said, “but… hearing you say it is a relief.” Her eyes seemed to glisten, and Astarion worried for a moment that he’d hurt her again. But she smiled, and his shoulders dropped, his concern somewhat eased.

Seeing her reaction bolstered his resolve; he reached out to thumb away the burgeoning teardrops. “Allow me to provide you with more of that, then. You are no doubt aware of this, I am certain, but it bears repeating.” She’d talked about her regrets, and so he felt that it would also help for her to fully know his. “Or at least, you suspect it.” He offered her a pained half-smile. Don’t hate me.

“I don’t regret ascending. At certain moments, indeed, I came close,” he added, remembering when he’d let Vel’s spawn end their master themselves, remembers thinking that was what he should have done. The night he’d begged her to love him like she’d used to. When Ban had left him and he’d thought the ascension had cost him her love. “I regret the pain it caused you, the… sundering of our bond that happened as a result of it, very much so. But the act itself?” he shook his head.

“It freed me. You freed me, and I will never rue the day you gave everything back to me.” His eyes were now wide, soft, and he leaned in closer. Her breath hitched, and he smiled at the sound of it. “You gave me love. Freedom. This,” he added, his hand pressing down hard on hers, against his chest, emphasizing the pounding she could no doubt feel. “I have repaid you poorly, and that is something I will spend eternity making reparations for. But if refusing to lament everything that has happened makes me a monster, then so be it.”

Before she could reply he closed the gap, finding her lips. As his mouth met hers he felt the fingers on his chest curl, forming claws, digging into his flesh. It sent a low thrill of arousal through him, but one that he keeps at bay for now. Ending the kiss, he kept his face close to hers, breathing the same air.

“I don’t mind being a monster to the rest of the world, if I can be just Astarion for you.”

He’d always been one anyway in the eyes of many: an undead, unholy creature - one who had made the hero of Baldur’s Gate like him; who had ended thousands of lives in his quest for freedom. He would argue that each of those lives he’d extinguished were also monsters, just like him, slaves to sanguine hunger, a danger; or that a not insignificant number of them were decidedly not good people, or-

It matters not, he realized; only this does. Being here, kissing his wife, her hand on his heart, for only she matters, only her joy and her pain and her love.

Ban’s eyes were wide as Astarion finished speaking, not quite sure what to say for a moment. Her hand remained on his chest although her clawlike grip had eased. She could see her husband’s eyes glittering in the faint light; crimson irises boring into hers, awaiting her response. His expression seemed utterly calm, his body still, the rapid rising and falling of his chest the only evidence to the contrary.

She felt a stab of guilt at today’s events - at lashing out, at deliberately aiming for his soft, exposed heart and skewering it. He’d hurt her, yes, with poorly-planned and obviously harebrained attempts to unearth her past, but she understood why. He needed to know - he’d said as much, after all - to be able to comprehend her in her entirety, just as she had been allowed to for him. To be allowed that would be a gesture of faith, something her husband sorely craves, and sorely deserves.

“Astarion,” she began carefully, noting how his breathing stopped entirely as he hung onto every word. Ban traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, in what she hoped was a soothing gesture.

“Do you know how much I love you?”

How deeply, how helplessly. She loves him beyond all reason; she would do anything, endure everything for him. He haunts her every thought, he reigns over her dreams. She couldn’t help but want him, accept him, forgive him… love him, even at his worst. Her mind drifted back to that inescapable day.

All right, but what’s best for you?

Until the moment the rite had commenced Ban hadn’t been sure what the answer to her own question was, nor what she would do if push came to shove. She’d been able to see him struggling, the poisonous energy of the palace sinking into his bones, into his soul. She’d wanted to hold him, to tell him everything was going to be alright, that she would be by his side no matter what he chose.

The sight of the prisoners had unnerved her, and had seemed to unnerve him too, despite his attempts to downplay it.

“In another life,” she had said in an attempt to appeal to him, “you’d have led me to this crypt, and not that pretty clearing in the forest.”

She’d taken a deep breath. “Don’t avoid it. Face it. You would have killed me.”

She had hated having to do that, hated forcing him to confront the reality of it in the hopes of swaying him, but it had needed to be done.

“I would have killed you…” He had said, slowly, as if every syllable was being torn from his throat. Perhaps they had been.

She remembered the fight, of running, leaping, weapon in hand, rushing to free Astarion from the rite. There had been fear then, far more than she had ever felt in her life. Had she perished that day, she felt she wouldn’t have minded; it was him she’d worried for. Him, who deserved so much more than he’d ever gotten - if she’d lost her life giving him what he was worthy of, she would have died happy.

Ban remembered watching Cazador being dragged out of his coffin, that sweet surge of victory quickly shifting into discomfort when Astarion spoke.

“I am so much more than what you made me.”

Yes, she’d agreed-

But then he’d turned to her, pleading. “I can do this, but I need your help.”

The discomfort had shifted into apprehension. She’d tried to reason with him, to point him in the right direction.

Didn’t you hear him? If you complete the ritual, you’ll be consumed.

If I help you complete the ritual, it will kill all these people.

Words that had all fallen on deaf ears. She’d known he was terrified, overcome with bloodlust, desperate for power. For freedom. Ban had often wondered since that day if she was to blame, if in the end she hadn’t been able to talk him down because she hadn’t believed the truth of her own words. Not enough, anyway.

She’d always felt like she ought to be more revolted by the idea, but deep down she knew she didn’t really feel that way. The only thing she’d seen at that moment had been Astarion, needing her help, and everything else had seemed like background noise - secondary and easily discarded the moment he’d turned to her with those frantic eyes.

With that, Ban had uttered the words that would damn her, and him, and so many other souls along with them.

“All right, what do you need?”

Help me do this. Please.

She still told herself she’d been powerless to resist, that love had compelled her heart more than any spell ever could. She had heard that plea and had opened her mind to his, sharing her eyes with him so that he could proceed.

The apprehension had twisted into fear the moment Rhapsody had cut into Cazador’s back. Astarion had looked beatific, almost gleeful; those beautiful, skilled hands carving the runes into flesh without hesitation. She’d kept her eyes on his back, focusing on each rune as he’d copied them onto Cazador, equal parts terrified and focused. She should have expected it, she’d told herself; two hundred years of suffering under someone and you’d no doubt feel the same way. But the horror had still been there, at the sheer cruelty of it, his joy as he’d done it, at the idea that he would end seven thousand lives with a smile on his face. But he had been elated, and she had said-

I just want you to be happy.

It was the ugly truth; she would’ve burned the world into cinders and damned every single soul in it if it meant he’d finally be content.

But it hadn’t made actually doing it any easier.

Ban had stood by, held her silence, quelled the protests of their companions. She’d only been able to watch as her beloved had taken what he’d deemed rightfully his. She hadn’t thought to hide the naked horror on her face, the revulsion she’d felt at what he was doing, at the question of whether he’d always been like this, so cold and cruel and vile.

Never mind her own selfishness, her own love winning out over what she had known to be the right thing to do when the moment to choose finally came - that would come later. In the moment, her disgust had only come at the sight of the carnage, of his exhilaration, of the prisoners - now more real to her than the mere potential of ending so many lives they’d been before.The disgust had been quickly compounded by the horrible realization that if she ran her weapon through Astarion right then, she would save them all. But she would not. Could not.

Repugnant, her lover had become in those moments, just like her love. An illness she could never hope to cure. And so Ban had witnessed Astarion ascend, her mind buffeted with those swirling thoughts, her body frozen in place.

When he had finally approached her, he hadn’t sounded like himself, further cementing the idea that she had taken a very wrong turn. He’d been so different, so off, that she had believed the rite had fundamentally changed him.

“Come on, you’re still the same Astarion, just stronger.” Please. Please tell me I’m right. Please, tell me you’re still in there.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. The very composition of my blood has been altered…” had come the calm, cold reply.

She’d then spoken the last truly sincere words she’d utter to him until the day she left him.

“You’re starting to scare me…” she’d whispered, wishing for him to tell her it’s okay, I’m still me. I’m here. I’ve got you, like he’d always done.

But he hadn’t, and that had sealed their fate.

Her love for him had almost been lost in their darkest days, its fire dimmed down to nothing more than ash and a few dying embers. In the time since their reconciliation, however, it had been reignited, burning brighter than ever before - now that she understands who he truly is, both the shadow and the light, without any masks. But she still hadn’t given him the same openness.

In the moonlight, she watched her husband consider her words. The rising and falling of his chest had entirely ceased, the depth of his thoughts causing him to forget that unneeded facsimile of living. This, however, made the severity of his distress even more obvious; without the movement of his lungs his heart hammered under her palm without interruption.

“Well,” Astarion swallowed. “I know you love me, although you don’t say it nearly often enough for my liking.” He tried for a chuckle but it fell flat; he took a small breath before speaking again. “I am aware, I suppose, but at times it requires some… reinforcing.”

As for how much, he didn’t pry, which Ban found rather refreshing and gratifying.

Ban couldn’t help a small noise of bitter amusement - she knew she’d been remiss in verbally telling him, perhaps even in showing him. In the months since they’d begun rebuilding their relationship, she hadn’t really made it a point to say those words often, merely stating them in moments that seemed appropriate, like when they held each other in post-coital bliss or in response to something he’d said or done. Her focus had mostly been on mending his behavior, and while she knew that was important, she recognized his dissatisfaction was valid.

There was no small feeling of resentment for herself, for still being stubborn about fully trusting him when he’d so clearly been trying his best for her. She had often refused to see it, but there was no shying away from it now - the pain, anxiety, and apprehension writ large on Astarion’s face, the piteous way he attempted to pass off his very legitimate concerns as a joke and nothing more. That insistent pounding under her palm, so much nervous energy bundled up and hidden, revealed nowhere else, but clear in every frantic heartbeat.

She steeled herself. Do better.

“I love you. I see all of you, and I would have you tell me every single thing you’ve ever done wrong so I can show you that I’ll love you anyway.” Said without a trace of hesitance; her hand settled on his chin, thumb brushing over his upper lip. “You’ve hurt me, broken me, and yet forgiving you is still a little too easy for my liking,” she admitted, a little shyly. “What more evidence could you ask for?”

A lot more, she was aware; but she was unable to keep that edge of defensiveness at bay.

A small smile broke through those beautiful lips; Ban traced them as they curved upwards, relief suffusing her. He took her hand, lifting it to press kisses on the back. She saw his eyes surreptitiously rake over her face as he did, studying it in that way he’d now become so skilled at. “Thank you,” Astarion smirked in a momentary bit of mischievousness that she wasn’t sure was genuine. “That was rather delightful to hear, and as much as I ought to say I don’t deserve it… well,” he shrugged. “I’m not going to refuse.”

Another kiss, on her wrist this time; he parted his lips to mouth at the vein, turning solemn again. “I don’t need evidence. Reminders are appreciated, however.” The last words were mumbled against her skin, as though he was embarrassed.

“It’s not a matter of who deserves what, Astarion,” Ban reminded. “We both deserve it. Happiness, comfort, trust. Love. We’ve both always deserved all of those.” She took one deep breath, then forced the words out. “I love you because I love you. I’ve done so from the day I first saw you, loved you even when it was killing me. I love you so much that it’s terrifying and I still don’t know how much, or how far it goes. It feels endless. I love you. Only you. Alright?”

The last word came out sharp, her need for him to understand coming through as frustration. She wished he could simply believe her words, but of course more is required. Action.

She didn’t hesitate, quickly enclosing him within her limbs, holding him close to her body. A quiet reshuffling of arms and legs later, the only noise the rustling of the sheets, and he was comfortably nestled against her chest. Ban pressed a small kiss to the top of his head. “You might say you don’t need proof, but I shall provide some anyway. Consider this: what I want to tell you, I’ve never told anyone before. I’ve never told you before. Not back when we were adventuring, not when you hadn’t ascended yet. This,” she emphasized, “I tell the present you, the you in front of me right now. Do you understand?”

It seemed to help. She felt him exhale and burrow deeper against her torso, hiding his face as a small, muffled sound of assent left him. He kept silent after that, awaiting her next words.

Ban braced herself. It was time, then, for another soul to know. Of anyone, she knew he’d understand best, however the old instinct to hide it had been overwhelming. There have been countless nights throughout their time together when she’d debated telling Astarion, but something had always stopped her. At first, she’d felt like she didn’t know him enough; then she had, but he had too much on his plate by then and the daily toil of fighting for their lives made it seem insignificant in comparison. The aftermath of the rite had completely eradicated the idea from her mind, turning it into just another way she would’ve handed him weapons to hurt her with.

In these months of rebuilding their relationship she knew he’d been wanting to know her more fully; it was exactly why he’d contacted the Glasscrafts, after all. It hadn’t felt like the right time even since the reconciliation, but after tonight’s dream and the resulting conversation she felt safe enough to at least offer up some information.

She let a hand run through his curls, watching them shine as though made of spun starlight. He tilted his head back, leaning into her touch, exposing his face and the delicate arch of his neck. She smiled down at him; seeing him like this made speaking seem almost effortless.

Ban opened her mouth, however, and found that the words refused to come forth.

“I-” she choked out, throat suddenly tight.

Hands cupped her cheeks - gentle, his touch so painfully light it didn’t feel quite real; the crimson gaze meeting hers anchored her in place. He spoke, softer than usual, tone almost reverent.

“You’re alright, my love. I’ve got you.”

With that, Ban nodded, and the words finally flowed.

“My father’s one true love is the shop,” she began, voice small and hesitant. “He was always there every single day without fail. The mirrors were my companions growing up; I was raised around them, learned to catalog them and take inventory, to be able to sell them in my sleep.”

Running amongst reflections of herself, hiding amongst the tall, thin frames of glass and wood as her brother tried to find her, her mother screaming at them to stop running around and what if you broke one of them?

Your father would be livid.

“He lived and breathed it, and wanted us to do the same.” Ban pursed her lips, thinking, and Astarion took the chance to pull away. He propped some pillows against the headboard, settling against them, patting his chest. The message was clear, and Ban couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips as she let her head rest over his heart, draping an arm and leg over him, a position they’d assumed nightly during their adventure.

Astarion tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “So a man consumed by his craft, likely neglectful of his children.” He’d gathered as much; it was obvious there was little love left between Ban and her family, after all.

She shrugged. “That would be a nice way of putting it, I suppose. He wanted more than just to have the shop. He wanted it to be bigger, more successful, and was willing to do it by any means necessary. No stone left unturned, he would say, just to ensure that the Glasscraft trade continues to the next generation.”

The next words were a bit harder to bring up. “He… he-”

Before she could continue, his arms wrapped around her, rubbing her back. “I’m here,” he whispered. “There isn’t any other soul here, my love. Just you and me.”

Bracing herself, she nodded. “To raise us right, to make sure we were obedient and did everything he asked of us meant… correction.” She winced, the memories of belts and hands slapping against her skin until she was raw and bleeding surfaced, as fresh as if it were yesterday. “He used anything he could get his hands on - his belt, his palms, that one rod he kept especially for this specific purpose - he’d slap, hit, punch, everything.”

Astarion’s heart contracted painfully at the words but he remained silent, his grip on her tightening protectively.

“My mother chose herself, most of the time. She encouraged it, said I needed to learn be strong as a woman. Aiden was spared much of it. He was the heir - he was favored; he listened to them most of the time, even if he hated them as much as I did. I-” she gasped, voice finally cracking, “I couldn’t fight back. There was no one to help me. No one was on my side. In the end, I gave in. I bowed. I listened to everything they said. I learned.”

Another deep, shaky breath; Astarion couldn’t help himself this time, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her head. He felt moisture hit his skin as her tears fell, cooling along the path they traced as they meandered across his chest. He thumbed a burgeoning tear away, giving her a soft, encouraging smile.

“Then I came of age. He had friends. Fellow merchants, all from the same neighboring villages. All with their own fortunes, all rich, all well connected. They helped each other - lent each other coin, invested in each others’ businesses, networked for and with each other. It only made sense, when one of them wrote to say they had a son of my age, to-” she stuttered, “to ask for my hand in marriage.”

Astarion groaned. The hand on her back moved up, stroking her hair absently. “And so your father attempted to sell you off like livestock, did he?” She felt his chest rise as he took in a sharp breath, seemingly trying to rein in his temper. “Did you ever consider drinking him dry, Ban? I would be very, very glad to do it for you.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Tempting, but he would taste vile, I have no doubt.” Ban shifted her head to look up at his face, meeting his gaze. He offered her a smile, comforting and gentle, but the hard edges of his anger were unmistakable.

“I’d happily deal with it if it meant ridding the world of his sorry existence, of course, but other options are also available. Daggers and poison, for instance,” Astarion drawled. He pursed his lips. “What else has this man done to you?”

Not that he needed to hear any more, but he wanted to know everything.

“Well, the thing about selling me off was that it was sort of expected the moment I was born,” she continued. “He started me early, grooming me for success, as he put it; he trained me specifically to know how to work my way around the business, but not just his - any business. He taught me how to navigate social events, to organize them, to scheme and manipulate my way through…”

Ban trailed off as she saw her husband’s stricken look; his breath hitched and the heart beneath her started to race again.

“When you said I was close to him, then, you weren’t exactly exaggerating,” Astarion managed to say, brow furrowed, gaze searing into her own and lips in a pout she would normally want to kiss away. “You-” he exhaled. “You’re wedded to your father.”

For an instant, Astarion wanted to run. The hand on her hair froze as the instinct took over. Was he hurting her by staying? Was he representative of something she’d rather forget, especially now, as they both hold court over the Crimson Palace? His mouth snapped shut, a preventative measure, lest he say something that would undo all the progress they’d just made. After all, she hadn’t said anything of that sort, had she?

But you do remind her of him. He remembered the words she’d used during their argument: Power-hungry. Manipulative. Self-centered.

“Astarion.”

He blinked as he heard her call for him, her hand splayed on his chest next to where her chin rests. “Yes, my love?” he answered, too quickly, automatically, his brain rushing to catch up with what she has to say as it still worked to ease his own panic.

Do I say something? Offer to leave her? No!

But is there more I need to do? She didn’t say anything - it may be best for me to keep my mouth shut - but would that be manipulative in itself? Selfish?

“You need to relax,” Ban said, pressing a kiss to his cheek; as she did he inadvertently turned his face to meet hers, a faux-curious Hm? already on his lips, another feeble attempt to dissuade her from looking too deeply into his mental state.

As a result their lips met instead.

It wasn’t unwelcome. Ban smiled into the kiss and deepened it; he returned it with a desperation he hadn’t felt in a while. He captured her bottom lip, sucking gently, wondering if he should push for more, if only to remind her of how he could be useful, could be worth something-

Stop, he told himself. She loves you.

With some effort he pulled away, a sad smile on his lips. “I may have gotten a little carried away,” he began, then shook his head. “No. I-”

“We were both doing what you called me out for trying to do a few minutes ago,” she teased; of course she’d understand. He nodded, a little embarrassed.

“Well. You did learn from the best, darling,” he murmured, a tad rueful. She smiled, another of those saved for only him, and settled back over his heart, looking away; giving him room to breathe and compose himself, he figured.

Grateful, he let his hand continue stroking her hair. She leaned into his touch, and that small movement did wonders at soothing him. “You’re not my father, Astarion,” Ban said. “You remind me of him sometimes, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“You did the same things he trained you to do,” he said, finding himself protesting before he could think better of it. “For me.”

Don’t, don’t! She said it’s fine!

“And I am everything you said he is,” he added. Astarion partially feared that he was digging his own grave here, but wanted - no, needed - it to be clear, as much for his sake as for hers.

“You are,” she mumbled from where she was nuzzling at his chest. “But you’ve always been those things, yet I’ve always loved you anyway. As for the scheming,” she waved a hand, “I can do it; you want to have some influence over Baldur’s Gate at the very least, even just the social sort. I’m not against the idea, so it’s fine.”

“You loved me because you thought I was better than that,” he reminded, a little rise to his voice, exasperated. He was irritated at himself for pushing this, he needed to stop lest it makes her realize something that would be detrimental to him. But he also wanted the truth - wanted to be sure he was what she wanted, that this newfound security was warranted. “Do you even like the parties, Ban? All the… dancing, talking, meetings?” He flapped a hand in the air.

She fell silent, seemingly considering the question. “Back then, no. Lately? It’s been rather fun,” she admitted. She was about to launch into an explanation when Astarion cut her off; evidently his concerns were firmly on the statement she hadn't acknowledged.

“I’m glad, but-” he said, a little curtly; he clenched his jaw, debating whether to ask her about it or not.

“Astarion,” Ban chided. “I love you because of who you are. I may not have seen all of you back then, but it doesn’t change what I feel now, nor what I just said.”

He felt himself relax. Not trusting his mouth, he nodded instead. There was enough proof, here, from her words to the fact that she was letting her walls down for him - not his old self, him. Signs of vulnerability from her were few and far between, slipping through only in the most intimate of moments.

A poisonous and rather spiteful thought crossed his mind, of how much he’d been made to open up, to fight two centuries of programmed behavior for her love, but she - what - simply got to choose when to say it, without any consequences? Not that he wanted to give her any, of course; it was just that it stung.

“I’ll accept that,” he made himself say; he knew he sounded a little stiff, “and your candor about your father is highly appreciated.”

He knew she’d noticed. The hand tracing circles on his chest stilled. “Now that you know,” she mused, “I think I might as well tell you what I’ve decided to do with… with the information you procured.”

Astarion glanced down at her, and as her eyes met his he realized she was guarded again, no doubt having sensed the edge in his tone just now. He sighed, then forced some mirth into his words.

“I’m all pointy ears, my love,” he drawled lazily.

The all-too-familiar words made her grin, breaking the tension.

“I think I should go see them.”

If you would like to see more of these two and their story, consider reading my other entries in the series "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."

I am happy to announce that 'Whither is thy beloved gone?' is getting professionally edited as well. I shall keep everyone abreast of when these changes go live. Thank you!

Taglist: @tavamarie @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decadentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind @pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann @wisteriaofthegraves @girlygmer-blog @midnight-musings-of-nyx @toni-winchester @icybluepenguin @beepersteeper @hereliesblackdragon

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theshitpostcalligrapher · 1 year

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Shits, you legend, I have been WAITING for this moment for months. Here’s a haiku I wrote in response to my friend’s epic 4 page poem about a tragic love affair between Hatsune Miku and Big Chungus.

Oh woe, for mine eyes

Hath perceived this blighted verse

I cannot unsee

woe woe

#calligraphy

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nenyabusiness · 7 months

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"Arda Unmarred"

Tolkien’s legendarium is full of unreliable narrators. “The Silmarillion”, for example, is based on the lore of the Elves, and “The Lord of the Rings” is based on a fictional book written by Hobbits. In these stories, Melkor, the fallen Vala who later goes by the name Morgoth, is the power-hungry being that brought evil to Middle-earth. According to the Elves, the Valar refer to the world as “Arda Marred” – a name based on the assumption that Ilúvatar’s original design, “Arda Unmarred”, has to have been free from evil.

I use the phrase “unreliable narrators”, because we don’t know for sure what Eru Ilúvatar was truly planning when he created the Music of the Ainur. Not even the Valar, who are described as being the offspring of his thought, could fully understand his vision. So, can we really say for sure that there ever was, or ever will be, an “Arda Unmarred”? Was Melkor’s initiation of the cycle of evil in Middle-earth unintentional, or was it a part of Ilúvatar’s design all along? Those are the questions that this short essay is going to explore.

The creation of the world is described in “Ainulindalë”. The story has gone through multiple changes over the years, but its foundations remain the same. Eä, the universe, is sung into existence by the Ainur. Melkor, gifted with the most power and knowledge of them all, tries to introduce his own ideas into the song, but Ilúvatar simply incorporates the discord into his Music. Melkor is incapable of creating anything of his own, since he is ultimately an offspring of Ilúvatar’s own thought. This is later stated by Ilúvatar himself.

“And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.” (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The statement is repeated again when the Ainur are shown the world that their Music has created.

“Behold your Music! This is your minstrelsy; and each of you shall find contained herein, amid the design that I set before you, all those things which it may seem that he himself devised or added. And thou, Melkor, wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory.” (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The Ainur learn much about this new world from Ilúvatar, but their god also withholds a lot of information, especially regarding his Children – the Elves and Men.

Yet some things there are that they cannot see, neither alone nor taking counsel together; for to none but himself has Ilúvatar revealed all that he has in store, and in every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling, for they do not proceed from the past. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

For the Children of Ilúvatar were conceived by him alone; and they came with the third theme, and were not in the theme which Ilúvatar propounded at the beginning, and none of the Ainur had part in their making. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

These statements prove that not even the Valar can be considered fully reliable narrators. They never saw the full design, and their knowledge of the fate of Elves and Men is ultimately limited.

Later in the chapter, we find out that there’s another layer of unreliability in this story.

For what has here been declared is come from the Valar themselves, with whom the Eldalië spoke in the land of Valinor, and by whom they were instructed; but little would the Valar ever tell of the wars before the coming of the Elves. Yet it is told among the Eldar that the Valar endeavoured ever, in despite of Melkor, to rule the Earth and to prepare it for the coming of the Firstborn; and they built lands and Melkor destroyed them; valleys they delved and Melkor raised them up; mountains they carved and Melkor threw them down; seas they hollowed and Melkor spilled them; and naught might have peace or come to lasting growth, for as surely as the Valar began a labour so would Melkor undo it or corrupt it. And yet their labour was not all in vain; and though nowhere and in no work was their will and purpose wholly fulfilled, and all things were in hue and shape other than the Valar had at first intended, slowly nonetheless the Earth was fashioned and made firm. (The Silmarillion: Ainulindalë)

The phrasing of this paragraph reveals that “Ainulindalë” is not a story told by an omniscient narrator – it’s Elven lore. Melkor is depicted as the culprit behind all of Arda’s flaws, but since we now know that it’s an Elven story, we also have to take possible bias into consideration.

Even here, however, is it clearly stated that Melkor was incapable of creating anything of his own, and that the Valar didn’t know every detail of Ilúvatar’s design. It’s also worth noting that it’s the will and purpose of the Valar that were never wholly fulfilled. This is also reiterated in a similar description of the formation of Arda, told in “The Annals of Aman”.

… And the shape of Arda and the symmetry of its waters and its lands was marred in that time, so that the first designs of the Valar were never after restored. (Morgoth’s Ring: The Annals of Aman)

At this point in the story, Ilúvatar is no longer an active participant. The Valar are acting on their own, based on the vast yet still limited information that’s been given to them. The greatest fears of Elves and Men – fading and dying – are blamed on Arda being marred by Melkor. This is clearly expressed in “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth”:

Now the Eldar learned that, according to the lore of the Edain, Men believed that their hröar were not by right nature short-lived, but had been made so by the malice of Melkor. It was not clear to the Eldar whether Men meant: by the general marring of Arda (which they themselves held to be the cause of the waning of their own hröar); or by some special malice against Men as Men that was achieved in the dark ages before the Edain and the Eldar met in Beleriand; or by both. (Morgoth’s Ring: Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth)

Valar, Elves, and Men alike believe that they live in Arda Marred, and that Melkor is the sole culprit behind the cycle of evil that plagues Middle-earth. As readers, we’re led to believe that this is true, but Tolkien does occasionally remind us that this is a story told by unreliable narrators. He himself considers Melkor a Lucifer-like figure, but he also recognizes the differences between his Catholic faith and the universe he created.

I suppose a difference between this Myth and what may be perhaps called Christian mythology is this. In the latter the Fall of Man is subsequent to and a consequence (though not a necessary l consequence) of the 'Fall of the Angels': a rebellion of created free-will at a higher level than Man; but it is not clearly held (and in many versions is not held at all) that this affected the 'World' in its nature: evil was brought in from outside, by Satan. In this Myth the rebellion of created free-will precedes creation of the World (Eä); Eä has in it, subcreatively introduced, evil, rebellious, discordant elements of its own nature already when the ‘Let it Be’ was spoken. The Fall or corruption, therefore, of all things in it and all inhabitants of it, was a possibility if not inevitable. (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien: 212.)

So, here we are again. Evil was created before Melkor descended into Eä. This raises even more questions about Ilúvatar’s original design – the supposed “Arda Unmarred”. There was evil in Arda before Melkor entered it. Does that mean that Ilúvatar knew that the world that he was about to send his Children into was already marred? Or was it a part of his design all along?

What we do know for sure is that there was always evil in Eä. We’re presented with another perspective in “Myths Transformed”, which puts even more emphasis on Melkor being a catalyst rather than the source of that evil.

Out of the discords of the Music – sc. not directly out of either of the themes, Eru's or Melkor's, but of their dissonance with regard one to another – evil things appeared in Arda, which did not descend from any direct plan or vision of Melkor: they were not 'his children'; and therefore, since all evil hates, hated him too. (Morgoth’s Ring: Myths Transformed)

Another important aspect of Melkor’s role in the supposed marring of Arda is the evil’s independence. As previously stated, the cycle started before his descent into Eä, and it continues after he’s been thrust into the Timeless Void at the end of the First Age.

One of the reasons for his self-weakening is that he has given to his 'creatures', Orcs, Balrogs, etc. power of recuperation and multiplication. So that they will gather again without further specific orders. Part of his native creative power has gone out into making an independent evil growth out of his control. (Morgoth’s Ring: Myths Transformed)

Yet the lies of Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest day. (The Silmarillion: Quenta Silmarillion)

When Melkor is defeated, Sauron takes his place, upholding the cycle of evil.

The servants of Sauron were routed and dispersed, yet they were not wholly destroyed; and though many Men turned now from evil and became subject to the heirs of Elendil, yet many more remembered Sauron in their hearts and hated the kingdoms of the West. The Dark Tower was levelled to the ground, yet its foundations remained, and it was not forgotten. (The Silmarillion: Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age)

This is where Tolkien decides to end his grand saga about Middle-earth. Sauron is defeated, but evil is not. Months before his death, however, he started a draft of a story taking place about a century into the Fourth Age called “The New Shadow”. He eventually decided to scrap it, but the parts he did write indicate that evil still lingers in Middle-earth after the end of “The Lord of the Rings”.

He halted in the narrow passage that ran through the house, and it seemed that he was wrapped in a blackness: not a glimmer of twilight of the world outside remained there. Suddenly he smelt it, or so it seemed, though it came as it were from within outwards to the sense: he smelt the old Evil and knew it for what it was. (Morgoth’s Ring: “The New Shadow”)

The cycle of evil continues, even though Melkor no longer has any influence over the world. The Arda we see in Tolkien’s universe has always been marred – always, or never. These texts show that the concept of “Arda Unmarred” was most likely an invention of the Valar, or possibly the Elves – unreliable narrators with a desperate need for an explanation for why their world is full of evil. Ilúvatar’s original design was known to him and him alone, and Melkor was always a part of it.

Arda is simply Arda.

#tolkien #meta #melkor #morgoth #lord of the rings #lotr #silmarillion #lore #atheist bias i know i know

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orthodoxadventure · 2 months

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Grace is not freely given to the person who has experienced spiritual arousal, who knows and senses what life in Christ is, and who has fallen into sin again. He must give something himself first. He must still be worthy and beseech. it is not enough merely to wish; he must work on himself in order to attract spiritual arousal by grace. Such a person, in recollecting his previous sojourn in the virtuous Christian way, often desires it again, but has no power over himself. He would like to turn over a new leaf, but is unable to gain self-mastery and conquer himself. He has abandoned himself to helpless despair because he previously abandoned the gift and reproached and trodden underfoot the Son of God. . .and hath done despite unto the Spirit of Grace (Heb. 10:29). Now he is allowed to perceive that this power of grace is so great that it will not be granted immediately. Seek and labor, and learn to appreciate how difficult it is to acquire.

Such a person is in a somewhat agonizing condition: He thirsts but is not given drink, hungers but is not fed, seeks but does not find, exerts himself but does not receive. Sometimes a person is left in this condition for a very long time, to the point where he feels divine reproach, as if God had forgotten him, turned away and betrayed His promise. He feels like the earth which drinketh in the rain that cometh oft upon it. . .but. . .which beareth thorns and briers (Heb. 6:7-8). But this slow touching of grace to the heart of the seeker is only a trial. He goes through the period of trial, and thanks to his labors and agonizing search, the spirit of arousal once again descends on him as it descends on others as a gift. This course of action of salvific grace shows us two things: First, the special actions of divine grace in arousing a sinner; second, the usual way of acquiring the gift of arousing grace.

-- Saint Theophan the Recluse: Path to Salvation; A Manual of Spiritual Transformation

#Saint Theophan the Recluse #Christianity #Orthodox Christianity #God #Religion

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seven-stars-in-his-palm · 6 months

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hi hi hi I hope I am approachable. i am august, he/him but sometimes they/them, and I talk about things (in the tags, though there may be an original post here or there). insane about good omens, likes gravity falls a totally normal amount, and if you made something and I liked it is 99.9% likely I’ve shoved it in my very cluttered queue. apparently an editor as well a fic writer now? inbox is forever fully open, though DMs aren't (for the public--mutuals can 100% dm! i reserve the right to be awkward however) and tumblr is my dopamine machine. I really like writing, reading, reccing, and talking :)

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fic masterlist (coming soon)

writing tag

art tag

current wip count: 5

tagging system is under the cut!

tagging system

i tag just the fandom and maybe the characters for my posts, though I do go all out for the writing updates. but i also have some unique tags, for the interested...

be heard - personal posts

hath are perceived - answered asks

maniac writing - fic updates/posts

maniac edits - one of my edits

maniac chicken scratch - my rare art 🔥

the guys (with a z!) - talking with the mutuals and happy interactions i have with other people <3

tag game - speaks for itself

ask game - also speaks for itself

dumped on my porch - posts where I’m tagged in (not a tag game)

add it to the bible - resources im saving ✨️

daily affirmations - also also speaks for itself

you said queue me (and you did) - queue tag! (for the gravity falls people: s2ep04 of Good Omens, The Hitchhiker)

anddd i have tags for my fic aus! here they are:

good omens

stars in a jar au - a ‘crowley moves into the bookshop post-s1’ au, but with canon compliant misunderstandings and pain first. a dear of mine ♥️

in a west-end town - a ‘the 1941 bullet catch goes wrong’ fic, where shit happens

iceburg adventures - a ‘crowley and aziraphale on the titanic’ fic, full retell, for my beloved mutual/friend @/frappe-the-peppermint. hi!

gravity falls

when life tases you down - a fic where ford learns about the “never mind all that” act the hard way, and he takes the town to court. angst ensues

dimension 18'\ - an au where ford is grievously injured into the fight with bill before ATOTS, and all the snowballing thereafter. currently on part two!

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sunshine-in-a-bottle · 4 months

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SUDSPOTS RECOMMENDS DREAM-CENTRIC FICS: PART ONE MAYBE

Sorted by shipping because I'm a multishipper.

Its about the PASSION its about the INTRICACIES its about the EMOTIONAL DEVASTATION.

If a fic you like isn't on here I demand you make your own recommendations post so I can reblog it and then we ALL must go insane. You Understand? You understand. Lets fucking go, lets LOVE THE PEOPLE IN THIS COMMUNITY RIGHT NOW AND TELL THEM WHAT GOOD FUCKING WRITERS THEY ARE

DESCEND INTO MADNESS. ITS FOR THE GREATER GOOD.

DRUNZ WORKS BELOW

-non-explicit fics section-

our eternal love by janies_not_here. (Rated T)

Punz and Dream being in love and their last few moments together before the destruction of the server.

Personal thoughts: I love them. I would die for them. I care them so much.

Suffering by Airrec (Raichett). (Rated T)

“I,” Punz repeats, “am doing this one. You did lung removal, I’ll do heart.” They look at Dream squarely, determined, though their eyes are tight around the edges. No one likes dying, but they both know how important it is to know.

Personal thoughts: how to murder me emotionally. Its about the Intricacies its about the Unethical Science Murder Experiments.

science for sweethearts by silversandstone. (Rated T)

“His name is Punz?” “Yeah.” “I know him!” Sapnap exclaims, and he sounds entirely too excited for Dream’s liking. “He’s on the basketball team with me. Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes? Looks a little bit like he got thrown in the laundry by accident?” “He’s pretty,” Dream agrees miserably.

Personal thoughts: I am always a slut for modern AUs. I am bapping them with my little paws. Please kiss.

with arms unfolding by silversandstone. (Rated T) (series)

but here i am with arms unfolding i guess it isn't quite the end old partner in crime i'm going to try to fall in love with you again

Personal thoughts: PUNZ FINDING OUT ABOUT THE TORTURE. YESGOODPERFECT. THEM CARING ABOUT EACH OTHER. AAAAA

c!drunz living happily ever after by theendpoem. (Rated T) (series)

c!drunz headcanon written into short stories that follow them running away from the smp together and living happily ever after in a cabin

Personal thoughts: exactly what it says on the tin. I am a feral cat biting it biting it biting it

deadlines and commitments by sunnyscribe. (Rated G)

Dream doesn't know what he's looking for, but he finds it in Punz.

Personal thoughts: please imagine that gif of kermit spinning in a water fountain. They're taking a little nap together. They are in love.

i hope i don’t murder me, i hope i don’t burden you by nightdaydream. (Rated T)

Dream is dangerous, an enigma of a man. “So, what do you say?” Roses bloom in Punz’s lungs. They take a breath, choke them down, and return the grin that they’re sure Dream wears beneath his mask. “I’m in.” aka. punz suffers through hanahaki. it gets a lot worse before it gets better.

Personal notes: FUCK OFFFFFFFFF<=== is personally very emotional. Don't perceive me.

by his side where he belongs by ammizukii. (Rated T)

c!Dream shyfully proposes to c!Punz.

Personal notes: oh.

Just A Dip by Icechild. (Rated G)

It was meant to be just be a bath. It was supposed to be refreshing, healing, calming. It wasn't supposed to be Punz watching Dream pant and groan in pain. It wasn't supposed to end up with them realizing a blade was poisoned after it was too late. OR Punz and Dream have a bath time after a fight with the SMP and take care of each other and things go a little south.

Personal notes: I am eating concrete. I am throwing things. ITS ABOUT THE TRUST AND LOVE AND FEAR AND

love, like death, hath all destroyed by dumbgirlfriend (thelightwoods). (Rated T)

Punz and Dream have a quiet last meal before the end of the world, and Punz wants him.

Personal notes: dies a death (x40) hahahaha I love them what the fuck...

Steam by Airrec (Raichett). (Rated T)

There’s something almost ritualistic in the way Punz lathers soap onto Dream’s skin, their touch gentle but firm as they thumb at his flesh, their clipped nails dragging a little across his too-thin skin, careful not to worry at scabs or sores, but touching them anyway, keeping them clean. --- Or: post-Pandora, Dream's physical state is a bit too fragile for him to be able to bathe alone. Enter, stage left, Punz.

Personal notes: you think I'm normal right now but I'm actually clawing at the bars of my cage. Let me out I won't bite.

red slush and citrus shampoo by shamefulfroggos. (Rated T)

“Okay.” The two sit in silence for a few more beats before Punz drops his hand down to twist the keys and coax the engine back to life. It rumbles, faintly, and Dream watches from the corner of his eye as Punz puts the car in reverse and brings his arm up, his hand gripping the shoulder of Dream’s seat. His head turns so he can look through the back window as he pulls the car out of the parking space he turned into mere minutes ago. Dream tries not to stare. He doesn’t try very hard. -------------- or Dream has been in love with Punz for too long, Sapnap and George are tired of his shit, and Punz is a cinnamon roll who is trying to convey his feelings but failing

Personal notes: hnnnnnnn I'm gonna be honest with you I reread these fics before I put them on this post and this is making me go insane. They're so fucking in love shut the fuck upp

Not to Me, Not If It’s You by ranababamboo. (Rated T)

“Stop fussing over me.” “I will when your fever breaks,” they replied. They gestured to the stew, untouched aside from the near-spill. “Should eat that before it goes cold.” Dream rolled his eyes at the nagging. “What, gonna sit here and watch me until I do?” Punz merely raised an eyebrow. “...you’re the worst.” ——— Stubborn refusal of injury won’t slide in this household.

Personal notes: I hate them (I love them so much I am actively dying)

even when it’s raining by navyhurricane. (Rated T)

“You want to dance—” “In the rain,” Punz finishes for him, almost in a rush as though the idea has him breathless already. “C’mon, you can’t say that you have never in your life thought of it before.” Dream shakes his head softly. “Can’t say it’s high on my bucket list.”

For ruined plans and an opportunity saved, Dream has never known a love as soft as this; he knows that while he needs Punz, the other wants him in all the same ways.

Personal notes: hey do you ever feel like the chemicals in your brain just fucking change and shit while you read something because its good.

i wish to reclaim the rising by Airrec (Raichett). (Rated T)

Dream is quite happy with his life, despite his lack of memories, the scars and frailties of his body, and the numerous questions both raise. Then Punz, one of the gods of this world, saves his life, and it becomes clear that there is more to this - to them - than what can be seen on the surface. --- Or: it's a whole new world, and everyone deserves a chance to move on and make the most of the future. Punz has been waiting for theirs for... a long time.

Personal notes: I really wish I could just post memes and images instead of typing because I don't know how to communicate to you the level of Feral I am rn.

i miss the way you made me feel by WinterEnchantress. (Rated G)

Technoblade broke them up because duty always comes first, and he knows that the pain will never lessen, but at least he had the certainty that Dream was also...suffering. Because he's a selfish and petty man, deep inside, and he doesn't want to be lonely in his pain. Up until Dream found someone else. Up until Dream starts to heal, and all Techno can do is watch from the sidelines as Punz carefully puts broken pieces back together. All he has left is regret. or sad techno and broken up dnb + punz/dream being sweet as techno pines and suffers (:

Personal notes: !!!!!!! well thats fucked up and sad. fuck yeah lets go !!!!!!!

starshine after the longest night by voidofthestars. (Rated T)

They say almost, because there's so much missing from him, from weight loss from starvation to blatant mutilation, ears slashed and even tagged. And gods knew what else lies beneath his torn and ragged clothes. The moment Dream collapses into their arms and they close around him he keens, low and hurt like a dying animal in a cage. It's all Punz can do to keep them both upright even as Dream shakes in his arms, damaged hands scrabbling across his back and shoulders like he was afraid Punz wasn't actually there. "Holy shit, starshine, I've got you, you can't drop on me yet we're not safe yet." "Punz! Punz you're actually here! Haha, oh my god, I can't believe it!" Dream's voice cracks from emotion and disuse. It's painful to listen to, in more ways than one.

Personal notes: Don't fucking look at me don't perceive me I don't want to talk about it.

last cup of coffee by Luciddreaming_ (LucidDreamLight). (Rated T)

Local barista crushing on the cute college boy.

Personal notes: I don't have braincells anymore. Only them.

or should i walk by again? by Anonymous. (Rated T)

After Sapnap accidentally triple-books himself, he leaves his friends Dream and Punz to entertain each other at a boardwalk. This quickly spirals into a bet: Can you fall in love in one day?

Personal notes: what if... they kissed<=== absolutely deranged

green strings of magic by nightdaydream. (Rated M)

“You just work with him for money,” Quackity states, looking at Punz, and they want to laugh at how wrong the statement is. At first, sure; Dream was their client, and they were a mercenary. But as time passed, and they got closer, they came to trust Dream. And eventually, the golden ring on their finger and the matching one on the chain around Dream’s neck, hidden below his hoodie, came into play. “So, if he’s dead, which everyone else here wants anyways, you have no reason to carry out what he wants.” aka. Dream gets killed. Punz brings him back, because they’re a good partner like that.

Personal notes: they're MARRIED they have RINGS what if I shed my skin and became a skeleton.

Keep it Together by orphan_account (Rated T)

/Don’t react. Don’t react. Stay calm. Stick to the plan./ They spent hours, standing on a grassy hill, staring at the prison. /Keep it together./

Personal notes: His One Attachment his Most Important Attachment Shut The FUck

sunlight through my window by oopsie_daisyy (Rated G)

Dream and Punz are comfortable enough together to just walk into each other’s room and be. But when Dream asks him an unfinished question, Punz can’t get the implications of it off of his mind.

Personal notes: biting my own arm. Themb!!!!!! Them,,,,,

Bunker Pasta by dyinginlava (probablyaceok). (Rated T)

When Punz meets Dream after he escapes from Pandora’s Vault he notices how bad Dream looks and makes a decision.

Personal notes: They love each other did you know that. did you know. they love each other so much

Ground Zero by Oceanbreeze7. (Unrated)

Canon Divergence- what if the entire confrontation went a little faster- and they all had time to leave before the nuke impacted?

Personal notes: its barely there, but Its There and its important To Me.

Even Now by TastesLikeBakingSoda (Rated G)

Punz tries to coax Dream to bed, post-prison.

Personal notes:..........

lets take a rest by TastesLikeBakingSoda (Rated G)

Dream comes home after fighting the slime clone army and Punz gives him tickles and kisses

Personal notes: I'm being persecuted, held at gunpoint even.

-EXPLICIT FICS-

forever and always by applpudding

Dream slips his hands from Punz’s grasp and slides one around the cradle the back of his head. “Punz. Look at me.” The softness of his voice coaxes Punz’s eyes open and oh. He’d forgotten how stunning Dream’s eyes are in the daylight, brilliant viridian irises shining bright and honest, settled between soft golden eyelashes. “I don’t know if I can say it back yet,” Dream says, and for a moment Punz feels his heart sink. “But,” Dream continues, “that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I do, I really do, I promise you that.” Punz leans forwards and knocks their foreheads together. “I’ll wait,” he whispers. “However long you need, I’ll wait."

Personal notes: they need to be happy its so fucking important to me

radio lust by navyhurricane

A messy turn of events leaves Dream without a car in the middle of a rainstorm. He knows Punz is made of nicotine and bad ideas, but Dream's curiosity over Punz’s passenger seat is addicting.

Personal notes: hi they are absolutely infatuated with each other. they told me so themselves.

losing the bet by Anonymous

“Oh, I see. You wanted to lose,” Punz said in a low voice, dropping in volume, and Dream’s breath hitched in his throat. “You made that bet assuming you’d lose, huh? You wanna be my bitch that badly?” “Fuck no,” Dream spat back even as his eyes locked onto Punz’s lips. They looked surprisingly soft, pink. Dream swallowed hard. “I’m just a man of my word. I promised you, you win, you use me as you want.” “Just seems like an odd thing to offer to someone you’re not attracted to at all.” Punz stepped closed again, practically chest to chest, and he grabbed Dream by the jaw. His grip was tight, practically bruising, and he pushed Dream’s head back against the lockers. “Deny it all you want, but I think you wanted to end up here. You liked the thought of mean ol’ Punz shoving you into the lockers, huh? You want me to fuck you right here?” Dream whined, unable to speak with the hand clamping his jaw shut, and Punz huffed a snort of amusement. “You’re cute when you’re pathetic, princess,” Punz purred.

Personal notes: shaking them. they are stupid and full of kink. I cherish them deeply.

Observant by Toasted_Poison

Dream and Punz are roommates and Dream is very observant of Punz's recent behavior.

Personal notes: the comment I left on this fic probably shows how insane I am more than any words I could type here.

if you’re the reason why it’s empty, spin the fucking bottle by oopsie_daisyy

"I was about to leave when you asked me to play spin the bottle, actually,” Dream explains with a knowing smile, one that Punz reciprocates easily. “But yeah, it’s fine. Just a regular boring party, nothing too special.” “I could make it special.” Dream rolls his eyes. “I know you can. Why else do you think I would stay at some shitty party?"

Personal notes: RAAAAA WHY ARE THEY SO DUMB I CANT FUCKING STAND THEM (is holding them so very closely)

Shatter you by Anonymous

The payment is given. The plan should start any minute now. Punz wouldn't say he'd changed his mind. He never truly agreed with this plan anyway. It's good that Dream is in a good spot for listening. Alternatively: Punz is an Ender Dragon hybrid who likes gold but likes his shiny employer better so he decides to keep him. Dream's a brat and needs to be taught his place.

Personal notes: go away leave me be. I have to be really abnormal about Ender Dragon Punz. (you hear the sound of someone eating paper)

A Goat & A Coyote by ConscientiousMonster, Melpomene_Muse_of_Tragedy

A coyote pack leader finds a goat spellcaster that's been tied up in ribbons and left for death by vultures. This is furry-flavoured Drunz porn.

Personal notes: I'm not a furry but five dollars is five dollars<===this is a reference. I'm actually probably a furry.

Without End by JanetBaby99

“We’re equals aren’t we? You and me no matter what,” Punz assures. “You don’t control me and I don’t control you.” Dream lets his words wash over him, taking them in and analyzing each one. … Even after all of this, seeing how weak Dream has become, seeing how he’s fallen, Punz still sees him as an equal on this godforsaken server. ___________________ After Dream escapes Pandora's Vault, he goes to Punz who helps him through the worst of his injuries, and assures Dream that he would love him no matter what.

Personal notes: HNNNNNNNNNNNNNN THEY ARE IN LOVE,,,, THE ANGST CAN'T DEFEAT THEM,,,

all your ivory glory by eleostomercy

“You’re a cockslut.” Dream’s eyes flick up. He’s sure he makes quite the sight, knelt at Punz’s feet, knelt over a baby blue dildo, and dripping between his thighs with a hand on Punz’s cock. “What about it?” or, where dream has an idea and a need to be between punz's legs.

Personal notes: clapping and cheering and blowing the building up because its what they deserve.

twisted on my tongue by eleostomercy

I know what a sex machine is,” Punz mutters, unsteady on his feet as he rights himself by the refrigerator; the revelation is surprising, sure, but his own astonishment at Dream’s hidden possession is nearly gone. “I just didn’t think that—” “What?” Dream’s embarrassment has melted away by now, and it leaves in its place a sharp grin and gleaming eyes. “Didn’t think I would own one?” or, where dream reveals a well-kept secret and punz decides to give it his own gleaming review.

Personal notes: hey did you know that they're in love. Did you know that I'm throwing shit and maiming because they are in love.

their hungry thirsty roots by consumptive_sphinx

Punz, somewhere above him, sighs, and then there’s a flowering vine in his face and he can’t fucking breathe. His knees hit the ground again and this time Punz wraps an arm around his chest and doesn’t let go, combs through his hair with their fingers while he coughs until his eyes water. “Sorry, man,” they say, and “I know,” and “it’s alright.” Something’s fucking happening while he coughs and Dream doesn’t like drugs under the best of circumstances— they make him slow, they make him stupid, they make him off his game and he can’t be off his game— but the alarm is leeching away. It’s like trying to cling to water. By the time he can breathe again his legs feel too weak to move on.

Personal notes: hnnnn Egg fics.... my one (1) weakness....

pleasure in death by bugginmate

“Here’s how this is gonna work, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing Dream’s too long hair out of his face. “You’re going to do what I say. I’m gonna get you all worked up and begging for me. Then when- or if- I decide to let you feel good, I am going to kill you. Do you understand?” Dream and Punz are brainstorming ways to die for their limbo research.

Personal notes: two bros, chilling in their lab, fucking around against OSHA regulations.

Scour and Scorch by FraustiButBad (FraustiNoSnowman)

“Is everything about numbers to you?” He retorts. It’s a weak one, at that, not because it doesn’t mean anything to Punz, but because both of them know that it’s almost a hundred percent true, and Punz is proud of that fact. “Yes,” the lighter blonde admits. His thumb rests on the front of Dream’s chin, and he pulls Dream’s head down to eye level; Dream has to grip the table for him to not punch Punz in the face, or throw on his jacket and leave. “It’s all numbers to me. And where does that take me, sweetheart?” Punz does everything for numbers. • Dream and Punz, musicians, classmates, enemies, friends with benefits, are everything that could be set fire to.

Personal notes: the unreliable narrator that is Dream. also kink. peoples two favorite things.

Red Sweater by Typical_Kiwi

Punz really has to go to work and Dream's making it exceedingly difficult. (Punz isn't blameless.)

Personal notes: THEY CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER. SO MUCH. SHUT UPPPPPPP

Home for the Holidays by Toasted_Poison

"So, where am I sleeping?” Dream asked, looking around the large room, the couch did look quite comfortable. Punz shook his head, opening his suitcase to unpack, “Are you playing dumb? In bed with me.” “Oh! Are we going to explore each other's bodies?” Dream teased. The dirty blond kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket, placing it on the couch before his gloves joined it. He didn’t expect an answer from Punz, who was staring down at a blue shirt in his hands before looking up and smiling at Dream with a cock of his eyebrow. “If you’d like."

Personal notes: (you see an image of goofy floating in a fountain)

Play To Win by angeIofsmalldeath

He likes his roommate, he really does. All things aside, they’re relatively close and spend a decent amount of time together. Punz keeps his space neat, they split dish duty, and his rent is always on time. He’s not a bad roommate in the slightest. That does not change the fact that this is not the first time Dream has found himself incredibly annoyed on behalf of Punz and his stupid video game. Dream is sick of his roommate playing video games loudly all night long. So, they make a bet.

Personal notes: Listen. Listen. Listen. Actually Don't listen. Have you considered the benefits of shedding your skin and becoming a skeleton

i'll be unclean, i'll be obscene (you be the rest) by staged

“I wanna choke you.” Punz leans down to say in Dream’s ear, dragging his teeth against the lobe and pressing a wet kiss to his jaw. “Do it.” Dream pleads, rocking back on a harsh thrust. His eyes flutter, meeting Punz’s gaze with a forest of vulnerability, thick with desperate want. “What if I kill you?” Punz mouths down Dream’s neck, licking around the space between his fingers. It’s spoken like a suggestion, a sadistic fantasy that they want to play out. “Then bring me back.”

Personal notes: Theyre so wonderfully fucked up I would Die for them.

I miss ya, and our rendezvous by froghatter

Five times Punz and Dream made bets together and only once does Dream lose.

Personal notes: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Transactional Satisfaction by TastesLikeBakingSoda

Punz takes his payment.

Personal notes: Don't look at me go away.

candy games by Royal_Stars

Dream wants to play a game. Punz obliges. Why wouldn't they, when they get kisses out of it? It leads to a bit more than the two of them bargained for, but hey, neither of them are really complaining.

Personal notes: I am slowly sliding them both together. then they kiss. then they kiss. then they

but the damage has been done by Anonymous

After weeks upon weeks of exhaustive experimentation on the nature of life, death, and revival, Punz and Dream are both tired. One of them was bound to break. But Punz is not going to let it be Dream.

Personal notes: they are full of mental illness and so am I.

Sublime by cosmicskies

Punz will make him food. He knows what Dream needs right now. Soft touches and to be showered in attention even though he scowls and tries to send the other away every time. During the moments where Dream can think without being shouted at by his own mind, he’ll tell Punz about the things he wishes he didn’t think. How sometimes, asking to be held is the scariest thing of them all. But they’re both touchy people.

Personal notes: (you hear explosions in the distance)

#suds soapbox #LISTEN TO MEEEEEEE #LET THEM BE IN LOVE FOREVER #RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #Mild disclaimer just. This is about fics that Make Me Happy #not about whatever has the most notes or whats the most popular. If the fic is popular thats very cool!!!!!! If its not #well I think we should all go insane about the fic and make it more popular.#You Know What You Must Do

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demonic-dorito · 1 year

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I know some people say that at the end of DA2, Justice becomes Vengeance and while that’s not true given vengeance demons aren’t a thing, I think spirits of Justice would rarely become vengeance demons.

Spirits don’t have particular demons they always become. In Inquisition, Solas says spirits are purpose, and demons are purpose perverted. I think the demon a spirit becomes is dependent on the situation that causes them to become demons. A spirit of Love can easily become Desire or Hunger or Rage (hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, anybody?), for example.

In DA2, Anders says he feels he somehow corrupted Justice because Anders was too angry… but that doesn’t make sense? A key aspect of Justice (as a concept) in general is anger- Justice exists with a righteous fury. I think rage is too naturally a part of the concept of justice for spirits of justice to become demons of rage.

My theory: spirits of justice become either pride demons or despair demons. Pride demons are the most obvious, imo. A large part of the philosophical discussion of justice is who has the right to enact it. If someone is in a position of power, they can feel they have a right to enact justice on whoever they deem unjust regardless of mercy or compassion. With that, a danger of justice is dogma. There is no room for deeper understanding or compassion with dogmatic beliefs because dogma is always incontrovertible. Even questioning it instead of accepting it blindly with the upmost faith challenges it. Think of how Meredith perceives her position and actions.

Now, that is justice when given to people who already have authority- what does justice look like to those who are oppressed? Anders is a good case study as to why spirits of justice would often default to despair imho. Circles are obviously unjust and Anders dedicates his life to fighting it. But even with Anders constantly helping with the Mage Underground and writing manifestos, what can Anders actually do? Circles have existed in Thedas for millennia, and they are controlled by the Chantry. The Chantry has been propagating anti mage sentiment that entire time- even the Blight is blamed on the mages (mages became the darkspawn when they corrupted the throne of the Maker with their hubris, turning it into the Black City). The closest thing Andrastian has to the devil are mages. Anders can’t kill a few templars and save his people. The oppression of mages is an institution in Thedasian (idk if that’s the right word) society. This is widespread injustice- what can one single man do to dismantle an entire system of oppression? Even with all his work in the Mage Underground, he is still only able to help individual mages. This isn’t liberation- true justice- for his people. And he’s in Kirkwall of all places. Even by Circle standards, Kirkwall is notoriously bad. I don’t think Justice becomes Despair (I don’t think spirits bonded with people can become demons at all), but it is this chronic powerlessness, the entire notion of “no matter how much I do, it will never be enough”, that leads Anders to the chantry explosion. It wasn’t done out of rage or vengeance- it’s a logical conclusion made from desperation after years of trying everything else. The real question is whether or not such a drastic measure is worth it in the end.

Also this is why contrasting him with Fenris as foils isn’t exactly accurate. Fenris is against Danarius while Anders is against an entire system. Fenris can kill one man and be free, while mages are at risk most everywhere they go for their entire lives. Whether or not DA writers knew it, this is likely a fundamental reason Anders is frustrated with Fenris. It’s not until Fenris goes back to Tevinter as the Blue Wraith that I think we can actually compare them.

#sorry if this is all over the place I’m just rambling on my phone rn #Anders was right #Anders #dragon age #da2 #da analysis #my post #fade talk #Fenris #Fenris and Anders

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greedandenby · 9 months

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Seems I was right about that one!

Also: LEVAN HATH PERCEIVED ME!!!

*proceeds to lose their ever-loving shit*

Original post on tumblr

#i'm fine #i admire that man so much i can't keep it together rn #levan akin #iwtv #interview with the vampire #iwtv season 2 #filmmaking

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thetravelingtyper · 1 year

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Feuerkopf ft. König (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Tall! GN! Reader)

Pt 3 of the Spitfire Universe

When you get captured the 141 comes to your rescue, with an interesting surprise...

Warnings: angst, violence, happy ending. Possible OOC of characters

Part One, Part Two

The dust settled in a room before it all erupted. The door blows in and the muzzle of a rifle sweeps the room. Then a wraith enters with a swirl of dust and ash. He is death incarnate. Behind him, demolition and fire followed, an angry enraged blur of muscles and biting teeth. Then a cool shadow unmasked, hat forgotten, and eyes a wild murmur. Intelligence placed your last location here. Hell hath no fury as the 141 scorned. Price had brought you undercover yet some vile eye had caught a detail in your disguise. The men found Price, a little battered but alive. Gaz cut him loose and the man stumbled up, the look in his eyes focusing.

In this cell all was clean, but outside had been bloodshed, like a Doberman, the minute the masked man had touched your Captain you’d gone rabid. They found the video and the sounds of fury and the crash made Ghost turn.

The butt of a pistol missed your head but battered your shoulder. But with your adrenaline you didn't feel it, instead yanking up your only weapon, a sharp shattered aluminum shard, and went on the offensive. Your hands had no protection except for a layer of a shirt. The enemy had none.

Three were dead in a bloody mess before one man managed to restrain you. He had tackled you, and your yells and screams rose Price who yelled after you to get out. You refused, managing a sharp elbow to the man but he disarmed you and threw a hit that knocked you out. Price yelled after you until he went hoarse.

“Fuck!” Soap slammed a fist down against the table. He seethed, a poison that gathered at their feet. Gaz kept collected as he revived Price. Ghost was loose and lithe, Price's eyes watched him. After that Christmas party something had shifted in Simon, he stood closer to you. Impercievable but noted by the 141. That had been last year, and progress, Price wanted to sigh in some detached way, had been slow. But as Ghost turned to his Captain, Price stood straighter. The abyss that is Simon Riley is its own circle of hell and fire burned in his eyes. He was beyond rage, fury loosened all tension as he moved effortlessly as a predator, and Ghost had taken point. But it was Simon that burned the world down, it was his muscle, his scars, his blood that broke on his tattered lip. Passion had burned into gnashing possession.

Ghost’s moved silently through glass and viscera, Price's hand went to Gaz’s wrist to pause him. All eyes turned to Ghost. He turned the room, tracking lines, red fate threads spinning the room. Intel of months and months passed in a heartbeat. His shoulders rolled as he paused eyes catching a point.

His knife left its holster, then in a blink, a falling paper was pinned. All of the old papers had been tacked meticulously in but in haste, the men had attempted to slip a sheet of critical points. The uproar in the room rustled it and Ghost’s had caught its hardly perceivable flutter. He stepped forward as they watched, crouching down and releasing it. He scanned it. Then his eyes moved up to Price, waiting.

The air stilled, dust freezing in anticipation. Price considered it, testing his body, it was recovering, so he could follow. The Captain looked to Soap and Gaz, they understood. Whatever would be happening would be messy, Price nodded, and they fell in line, weapons up and ready to fire.

---

You woke in a haze, mouth dry then aching in your shoulder that had you hissing. Lacerations littered your arms. Some ‘local men’ you thought.

“Bullshit.”

The dry voice came out before you realized it as you took in your surroundings. You had gone from a fortified hidden concrete building to some rag-tag wooden cabin. You were hog-tied to a solid wood beam near a window, testing the ropes you found them secure, your arms around the pole.

“Damn it.”

Your head drooped, you hoped Price was alive, a bitter tear stung your dry face, dust gathering. As you turned your head you took in the cabin. It was a hasty setup, a lone laptop open with munitions scattered on a lone wooden table. You breathed thanks that it wasn’t winter anymore. Here this high in the Alps nights still got cold. But a wood fire stove burned.

Footsteps, your head dropped body going limp. You played possum.

The door opened in anger, what you assumed to be your kidnapper entered, muttering in a different language. Your German wasn’t perfect, but you could make some out.

“...made a mess…released…need to call in signs of others 15 klicks…” There is a loud snap from outside. The boots turn and you risk an eye-opening under your messy hair. Ugly is bruised nastily on his forearm from your elbow. You mentally smirk. You take in a deep breath, sents of the forest, fire, gunpowder, the air. You close your eye taking in your surroundings.

Ugly moved to the door, it locks with a clank, and the sound is now muffled. Fire crackle, heavy footsteps, a tap, wind on the window, a tap. You pause mentally, a tap, between sounds from the steps of the man, it is imperceivable to his heavy boot steps, but at your position, by a closed window, you can hear…

Tap, tap, tap…

They are measured, careful to pause when the man's footsteps are near as he moves around. He takes a heavy seat at the table, back to your perceived prone form and he starts muttering in German, his groans and grips cover the taps even better. Your brow wants to shoot up as you mentally flip off the man. You turn your head to the side to peak at the window behind you.

There are only trees, then a light tap. You look around, then loud voices from the laptop, and you can barely perceive the taps. They shift. Then stop, Then a flash hits your eyes from the tree, you blink, then it aims down, mindful of your eyes. You shuffle silently, getting an idea. Your foot twitches, the reflection disappears, and you assume, watches.

You move your foot up once shortly then back down, then you hold it up. Dot and line, rough but you got the morse code.

The reflection replies.

Identify.

You pause, the reflection repeats then elaborates,

Prisoner - not target - identify

A German curse, you go still and crumple, and the reflection disappears. Ugly settles back in.

You reply honestly.

American - Codename Spitfire - Task Force 141

The light goes out, you add…

Friend or foe

The person considers.

Friend not 141

You tilt your head to the window with a smile, brow rising surprised. Your guardian scope apparently had your back.

Intel

It replies

Negative

You think

Name

It flashed like a physical dot dot dot, and the show tempers down your anxiety.

Yours

You risk it, by signing back your name.

You ask again

Name

The light stays steady as you feel bare to the light

König - KorTac.

King.

Your brain flashed. You had heard the whisper of the name Kortac before. PMCs, out to the highest bidders.

Others

König replies:

Alone others come mountain 3 hours

Your heart drops head knocking back against the beam. You were still bleeding, you felt a headache pulsing and your shoulder throbbing. You manage a weaker signal.

Injured weapon?

The light flashes quicker than before in reply, you squint as it shifts. The lessening light outside hits it'll be dark soon, and new fear builds.

No guns too loud

It adds a breath later

Stay down pull in close turn behind the beam

I'm coming

You pause and the light goes out. You take a breath and pull your legs painfully up to your chest. Your back aches but you start quietly shuffling around the beam. Wood splinters painfully into your cuts. You have to bite your tongue, tears pooling. You brace against the pillar, Ugly none the wiser. You are tucked between the window wall and the beam when a massive shape passes in the gathering dusk.

You freeze, some primal fear at his massive size as the man, König, regards you under a streaked sniper hood with pale blue eyes. He seems like some woodland demon, then he tilts his head, eyes sharp, and a finger to his mouth over the mask. You hold his stare, unnerved but bravery unflinching. He nods with a wicked grin under his mask. You were a surprise treat, having passed your carnage he tracked the loose end here. Some strange insurgent movement had leaked into KorTac territory, it was convenient that these fools stumbled into his path and brought a gem like you. You were tall and fiercely loyal to your commanding officer, a useful asset. But you were not for the taking, not yet at least. König respected you.

He vanished to the right with a nod.

You heard a shuffle behind you and a rough hand grabbed your arm and yanked you.

“You! What are you looking at!” A quick flick of a blade cut your aching arms apart and in surprise, Ugly yanked you by the bleeding arm and threw you to the side towards the center of the room. You yelped tumbling and landing on your back, your head knocked hard against the floor. Your vision blackened a bit and swirled as nausea and dizziness struck,

Ugly loomed over you and gave your crumpled form a kick. You groaned in pain. Trying to move didn’t work, your shoulder finally gave in, probably dislocated in the tumble. You hissed blinking back tears as you fought and lifted your head to glare at Ugly.

“Fuck you.” You spat at his feet.

Ugly cracked his knuckles and laughed in accented English.

“Forget orders, you will be fun…” He produced a hunting knife from his pocket and crouched down. A shimmy from behind him and you smiled, Ugly paused confused.

“Hinter Sie.”

Ugly turned slowly but a large gloved hand grabbed him by the back of his vest and the behemoth of a man that was König lifted him in the air. He started lashing out but the knife just grazed his body armor, bouncing harmlessly off.

König laughed.

“Hier sind Sie, kleine Ratte.”

Pale blue eyes looked down at you, and you managed a tiny wave. König’s head inclined. Effortlessly he threw Ugly to the beam, his body hitting with an audible crack and a loud yell of pain. The man lay, enraged and in pain yelling curses in German and slurred English, but he was slow getting up. König, unbothered and ruthless crouched down to you, and gentle hands traced your face, then your shoulder.

His voice softened.

“It’s dislocated Feuerkopf.”

You caught fire in his name for you, head tilting back down to the floor with a pained chuckle.

“Ghost will kill me.”

König lifted back up with a mission, turning to Ugly, he produced a strong cord from his vest. Approaching like a wolf, König easily silenced and tied Ugly as he had you, leaving the man alive but in pain and unconscious as a prize for you. He turned back to you and your bleeding. While you were tempting, he contemplated, you needed help first and he was not equipped. Searching the room König found thick quilts and he layered them on the table as night finally fell. He lifted you effortlessly and set you on the padded table then stripped you carefully of your gear.

Laying in your pants, boots, and a short sleeve shirt König’s eyes scanned over your form. He admired your strength but frowned at the collection of bruises and the lacerations from defending yourself. He saw your dog tags, and a gloved hand flipped them taking in your info.

You were becoming tired and a warm hand went to your face. You leaned into it with a groan and opened an eye taking in your strange ally.

“Danke schön.”

König chuckled, he would concede today if only to build connections, his mind reminding of the approach of a wrathful team. Curiosity won out.

“Sleep Feuerkopf.” and you did as König respectfully tended to your wounds.

---

The 141 came upon the lit cabin in the dark, Ghost split the team up, injured Price taking point and scanning while Soap watched a window and Gaz the other. They could make out your form, patched up with bandages in the light. Ghost sensed something, as did the others, the cracked door was a clear invitation, and Ghost under cover of three scopes took it with a calm heart.

König moved out from a hidden corner as the reaper entered. Blue eyes were cold as he stood open but poised for movement. Ghost's rifle held him at point, eyes snapping to your form behind him.

His voice came out deeper and gruff.

“Identify”

König’s masked head tilted, and he gave a step back in concession, massive arms raising in peace. He replied, Austrian accent deepening.

“KorTac, Operator, Call sign,” He opened his arms out like a greeting, 6’10 from dwarfing Ghost as he stepped forward to the muzzle of the rifle, “König.”

Ghost did not fire, it was a test.

König shot forwards in a well-motioned minute, trying to grapple Ghost. But the Brit was faster. Ghost dropped down, using his rifle for leverage and he spun, König did not stumble but he shifted, grabbing the rifle. Ghost then let go and König stepped back an inch in surprise.

It was enough time, he was pinned in place in the middle of the room with a sharp knife to his neck. His pulse quickened as both men froze in place, three red dots focused on König’s chest.

His laughter rumbled then tumbled out. He patted twice on Ghost’s arm. You roused, then shot up with a groan, your eyes cracking, then opening.

“König” Your vision was a little hazy in the low light. Ghost released him on the confirmation. The Lieutenant rose up, and as he put his knife away the dots disappeared.

“All clear, bogey is safe and Spitfire is wrapped.”

Your eyes shot over.

“Ghost!” You made a movement to get off the table but König stepped over and put an arm on your good shoulder and gently pushed you down.

“Nein Feuerkopf.”

You groaned, and Ghost took the following step to approach your other side.

Simon was relieved to see you alive, and a familiar gloved hand ran over you checking for injuries. There was a sound, and Soap entered gun raised, followed by Price and Gaz.

“All clear Sargent.”

“Steaming Jesus” Soap’s exclamation made you giggle, then groan with pain.

“Aye hush Love.” Soap set his rifle aside and rushed to your side, disregarding König. Gaz and Price examined the man. König watched but made no hostile movement. A groan alerted all of you to the waking of your prisoner.

Ugly moved to speak but a knife implanted itself above his head. Eyes shot to Ghost as he walked over, crouched down, and murmured words that turned Ugly white.

“Simon.” Price stepped back into command and you pulled yourself up to sit despite the pain.

“Captain!” The man joined Soap at your side he carefully ruffled your hair.

“Good job Spitfire, you did well…” Your arms wrapped around him as tears streamed down your face, worry finally breaking through as you sobbed. Soap rubbed your back and Gaz circled the room and took intel from the walls.

“We got a laptop, Captain.”

“Bring it. We’ll head down the mountain,”

König spoke.

“Nein, there is an ambush set down. I will lead you to the peak for a clear signal to call for evac.”

Reaper eyes considered him, a swift fist knocking Ugly out as Simon seethed. But the calm of Ghost conceded, and he stepped forward to you looming over as you cried. You felt his eyes and ducked your face out. König watched as Ghost ran a hand to your cheek and dried a tear, then he and Price rotated, and you tucked your head into his tactical vest.

König rose a brow but stepped down.

“We must go now, you may have him,” he pointed to the prisoner, “KorTac will be in contact, 141.”

König made move to leave to scout but you called him, his head turned to regard you.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him.

Under the mask a blush then finally crept up his face, his eyes traced your form and your eyes, then a chill, Ghost’s brown eyes turned in the shadows of the room, guarded but violent.

König smirked, but it would be another day,

“Always Spark. Until next time,”

König’s german came out steady and then the man exited the room to scout. Ghost's hand came to the back of your head possessively, fingers brushing out tangles. It was a steady comfort of the throbbing of your head. Arms went around him, and you hummed.

“Thanks, L.T.”

He murmured more to himself, but you caught it as the other men cleared the room and rounded up Ugly,

“Always” your name a sweet promise on his lips.

#cod mw2 2022 fanfic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 2022 #fanfic #spitfire universe #konig mw2 #gender neutral reader #konig x reader #könig x reader

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Commentary on the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ according to St. Mark – Chapter 4

St. Mark, the disciple and interpreter of St. Peter (as noted by St. Jerome.) according to what he heard from St. Peter himself, wrote at Rome a brief Gospel at the request of the Brethren (fellow Christians), about ten years after our Lord's Ascension; which when St. Peter had heard, he approved of it, and with his authority he published it to the Church to be read. Baronius and others maintain, that the original was written in Latin: but the more general opinion is that the Evangelist wrote it in Greek.

First, Christ tells parables: first, about the sower; second (v. 21), about the lamp placed upon the lampstand; third (v. 26), about the seed; fourth (v. 31), about the mustard seed. Second (v. 37), while He is sleeping a storm arises at sea; awakened by His disciples, He commands the winds and the sea and calms the storm.

And again he began to teach by the sea side; and a great multitude was gathered together unto him, so that he went up into a ship, and sat in the sea; and all the multitude was upon the land by the sea side. 2 And he taught them many things in parables, and said unto them in his doctrine: 3 Hear ye: Behold, the sower went out to sow. 4 And whilst he sowed, some fell by the way side, and the birds of the air came and ate it up. 5 And other some fell upon stony ground, where it had not much earth; and it shot up immediately, because it had no depth of earth. 6 And when the sun was risen, it was scorched; and because it had no root, it withered away. 7 And some fell among thorns; and the thorns grew up, and choked it, and it yielded no fruit. 8 And some fell upon good ground; and brought forth fruit that grew up, and increased and yielded, one thirty, another sixty, and another a hundred. 9 And he said: He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. 10 And when he was alone, the twelve that were with him asked him the parable. 11 And he said to them: To you it is given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God: but to them that are without, all things are done in parables: 12 That seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not understand: lest at any time they should be converted, and their sins should be forgiven them. 13 And he saith to them: Are you ignorant of this parable? And how shall you know all parables? 14 He that soweth, soweth the word. 15 And these are they by the way side, where the word is sown, and as soon as they have heard, immediately Satan cometh and taketh away the word that was sown in their hearts. 16 And these likewise are they that are sown on the stony ground: who when they have heard the word, immediately receive it with joy. 17 And they have no root in themselves, but are only for a time: and then when tribulation and persecution ariseth for the word they are presently scandalized. 18 And others there are who are sown among thorns: these are they that hear the word, 19 And the cares of the world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts after other things entering in choke the word, and it is made fruitless. 20 And these are they who are sown upon the good ground, who hear the word, and receive it, and yield fruit, the one thirty, another sixty, and another a hundred. 21 And he said to them: Doth a candle come in to be put under a bushel, or under a bed? And not to be set on a candlestick? 22 For there is nothing hid, which shall not be made manifest: neither was it made secret, but that it may come abroad. 23 If any man have ears to hear, let him hear. 24 And he said to them: Take heed what you hear. In what measure you shall mete, it shall be measured to you again, and more shall be given to you.

25 For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, that also which he hath shall be taken away from him. 26 And he said: So is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed into the earth, 27 And should sleep, and rise, night and day, and the seed should spring, and grow up whilst he knoweth not. 28 For the earth of itself bringeth forth fruit, first the blade, then the ear, afterwards the full corn in the ear. 29 And when the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come. 30 And he said: To what shall we liken the kingdom of God? Or to what parable shall we compare it? 31 It is as a grain of mustard seed: which when it is sown in the earth, is less than all the seeds that are in the earth: 32 And when it is sown, it groweth up, and becometh greater than all herbs, and shooteth out great branches, so that the birds of the air may dwell under the shadow thereof. 33 And with many such parables, he spoke to them the word, according as they were able to hear. 34 And without parable he did not speak unto them; but apart, he explained all things to his disciples. 35 And he saith to them that day, when evening was come: Let us pass over to the other side. 36 And sending away the multitude, they take him even as he was in the ship: and there were other ships with him. 37 And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that the ship was filled. 38 And he was in the hinder part of the ship, sleeping upon a pillow; and they awake him, and say to him: Master, doth it not concern thee that we perish? 39 And rising up, he rebuked the wind, and said to the sea: Peace, be still. And the wind ceased: and there was made a great calm. 40 And he said to them: Why are you fearful? Have you not faith yet? And they feared exceedingly: and they said one to another: Who is this (thinkest thou) that both wind and sea obey him?

Commentary: Saint Mark - Chapter 4

Verse 10. And when he was alone. In Greek καταµόνας, the Vulgate, singularis, i.e., “solitary, by Himself”. The Arabic translates it “alone, away from the crowd”; Syriac, “when He was alone.” Thus the idea of alone and “separated from others” is expressed in Latin by the word singulus, derived from sine angulo, “without angle,” because things that are solitary and alone cannot constitute an angle. From the word singulus then comes singularis, meaning solitary and alone. Hence Cicero says (Academ. quaest. lib. 4), “I omit Aristotle, who in philosophy is almost singular [without peer].” Compare Cæsar(lib. 4 de Bello Gallico): “When they saw individuals [singulares] coming (alone) off the boat, they attacked those who were hindered by baggage on horses at full gallop.” Hence, too, the psalm verse, For thou, O Lord, singularly hast settled me in hope (Ps. 4:10).

The twelve that were with him (Jesus) asked him. The Greek, Syriac and Arabic have “with the “twelve,” meaning that the seventy disciples, who, with the twelve Apostles, were followers of Jesus, asked Him what was the meaning of the parable of the sower and the seed. Thus Euthymius.

Verse 21. Doth a candle come in (i.e., is it brought into a house or a room), to be put under a bushel or under a bed? That it should be hidden under a vessel? No! but that it should be set out in public, and give light to all. By this parable Christ signified that it was not His will that the mysteries of this parable and the other doctrines of the gospel should be concealed and hidden, but rather that His disciples should unfold them at the proper time, and communicate them to others who at that time were not yet able to receive them. It was His will that they should not keep them secret, but rather publish and preach them openly. Thus S. Jerome, S. Bede, and others, and this is plain from what follows.

Verse 22. For there is nothing hid, which shall not be made manifest (Latin,manifestetur, a categorical use of the subjunctive): neither was it made secret, but that it may come abroad. This is the Greek and Latin reading. “Although the doctrine of the gospel and My deeds and words are as yet hidden and secret, I do not wish them always to remain so. At the opportune time they must be openly proclaimed by you, O My disciples, and presented and preached to all.” So SS. Jerome and Bede. This is what Christ says in Matthew 10:27, That which I tell you in the dark, speak ye in the light: and that which you hear in the ear, preach ye upon the housetops.

Verse 24. And he said to them: take heed what you hear. The meaning, says Euthymius, is, “Attend to the things which ye hear of Me, that ye may understand them, and commit them to memory, that when the proper time shall arrive ye may put them into practice and communicate them to others.” And He gives the reason: “That none of My words may escape you,” says Theophylact. Hear Bede, “He teaches us carefully to hear His words, in such manner that we should carefully digest them in our hearts, and be able to bring them forth for the hearing of others.”

In what measure you shall mete, it shall be measured to you again, and more shall be given to you. Meaning: If you widely and abundantly communicate and preach My doctrine to others, I also will abundantly impart to you far more understanding and greater wisdom, grace and glory, as a recompense and reward to you. Thus fountains, the more they pour out above, the more they receive from below.” Therefore, let teachers, catechists, preachers, etc. learn from this saying and promise of Christ, that the more pains they bestow in teaching others, the more grace and wisdom they will receive from Christ themselves, according to the words, He who soweth sparingly shall also reap sparingly: and he who soweth in blessings, i.e., bountifully, shall also reap in blessings (2 Cor. 9:6). (See commentary.)

Verse 25. For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, that also which he hath shall be taken away from him. Hath, that is, “uses,” and shows that he hath by using. For such a one hath indeed, but he who useth not a gift or grace hath it but in name only. This is what theologians say, that he who uses his grace hath it in a second act; but he who uses it not hath it only in the first act, that is, in power and possession. (See commentary on Matth. 13:12 and Matth. 25:29.) The meaning, therefore, is, to him who uses learning given him by God, by study or by imparting it to others, an increase of learning shall be given; but from him who uses not his learning, shall God take it away, as something idle and useless. For Christ here is urging the Apostles to preach the gospel diligently and fervently, promising them, if they do so, a greater influx of His wisdom and grace.

Verse 26. And he said, So is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed into the earth. This is another parable, different from that of the sower, which precedes it (v. 3). Both, however, are derived from seed, but differently applied and explained. Moreover, by the seed, as S. Chrysostom, S. Bede and the Scholiast in Jerome’s works rightly explain, both here and in chapter 13 of Matthew, is signified evangelical doctrine; by the field, hearers; by the harvest is meant the end of the world or each one’s death.

Verse 27. And should sleep (that is to say, the man who sowed), and rise, night and day, and the seed should spring, and grow up whilst he knoweth not. Some refer the words rise night and day to the seed, so that Christ, by way of explanation, would go on to say and (they understand the word and here to be διηγητικὸν [having a narrative sense], explaining what went before; they think that it can be taken to mean “that is”), the seed should spring, and grow up whilst he knoweth not, “he,” meaning the sleeping man.

According to this reading, the seed cast upon the ground by the farmer sprouts and grows continuously, night and day, and even while the farmer is not thinking about it, but is resting and sleeping. Thus Bede, the Scholiast in S. Jerome and the Gloss.

More obviously, S. Chrysostom, Theophylact, Euthymius, Maldonatus, Franz Lucas, and others refer the words, rise, night and day, to the sower, and not to the seed, so that night pertains to the word sleep, day to the word rise. According to this interpretation: As the farmer who has sowed is sleeping idly in the night and, having risen, is employed in various occupations during the day, and thinks not about the seed and the field, nevertheless that seed is germinating by its own innate force, and is growing up whilst the husbandman knoweth it not. So also it puts forth first the blade, then the ear, and then the full corn in the ear. So it is likewise with the doctrine and preaching of the gospel. They were sown by Christ and His Apostles, that is, they were preached from small beginnings. But continuously, by degrees, they grew insensibly into the mature and mighty harvests of the faithful, while Christ was, as it were, unaware and sleeping in heaven, in that He permits the Jews and unbelieving nations and tyrants to rise up against His Apostles and the gospel, and persecute and kill them. It increases, I say, and propagates itself gradually, until it fills the world, when, the harvest being ripe, the corn, that is, the elect, shall be gathered into the granary of heaven, which shall take place at the end of the world on the day of judgment.

By this parable, then, is signified the power of the gospel, which by degrees has pervaded the whole world, and is converting it to itself and to Christ. Tacitly, also, it signifies that apostles and preachers of the gospel must not glory in their preaching, as though they were converting the world by it. For, as the Apostle saith, “Neither he that planteth is anything, nor he that watereth, but God that giveth the increase (1 Cor. 3:7). On the other hand, Christ intimates that preachers ought not to be downcast if they see small and tardy fruits of their preaching, because God will, by the few converted by them, gradually convert many more. So S. James, by means of seven, or, as some say, by nine, whom he converted to Christianity in Spain, converted the whole country.

Verse 28. For the earth of itself bringeth forth fruit; first the blade, then the ear, afterward the full corn in the ear. Arabic, Because the earth alone bringeth forth fruit, first the blade, and after that the ear; then the ear is filled, and when the fruit is perfect, then the sickle is applied, because it is harvest.” So likewise, by the preaching of the gospel, the Faith of Christ and His Church grew by various degrees of increase—grew, I say, both in virtues and also in its propagation throughout all regions.

Morally, expositors adapt these three expressions, blade, ear, full corn, to a three-fold increment of virtues and merits. For the earth of our heart germinates, firstly, the blade, when it conceives and begins good desires and good works within it; secondly, the ear, when it proceeds to earnest working; thirdly, the grain, when it brings its works and virtues and merits to full maturity and perfection. Thus Theophylact says, “The blade is the beginning of good; the ear is when we resist temptations; the fruit is perfect work.”

Listen to S. Gregory (hom. 15 in Ezech. and lib. 22 Moral. cap. 14), “To produce the blade is to hold the first tender beginning of good. The blade develops an ear when virtue conceived in the mind leads to proficiency in good works. The full corn fructifies in the ear when virtue becomes so proficient that it is capable of strong and perfect work.” Therefore, it is not enough for salvation, says Victor of Antioch, that we “put forth leaves by obedience, but [we must] also learn a manly fortitude and, like the stalks of corn, remain upright without minding the winds which blow us about. We must also take heed to our soul by a diligent recollection, that, like the ears, we may bear fruit, that is, show forth the perfect operation of virtue.” Christ here intimates that the Apostles, and those who work for the conversion of souls, ought to await with long-suffering the fruit and harvest of their labors, as farmers do. They ought to cherish those who are tender in the faith, and gradually lead them on to the height of virtue by teaching, admonishing and exercising them. “Let no one, therefore,” says Bede, “who is regarded as being of good purpose in the tenderness of his mind, be despised, because the fruit takes its rise from the blade, and becomes corn. Symbolically, the Scholiast in S. Chrysostom says, “The blade was in the law of nature, the ear in the law of Moses, the fruit in the gospel.”

Verse 29. And when the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the sickle. In Greek ὅταν δὲ παραδῷ ὁ καρπὸς, that is, “when indeed the fruit has brought itself forth” or when the fruit shall be produced; for fruit is here in the nominative case. Hence some translate, “when the fruit shall have come forth.” Euthymius: “when it has matured.” The Syriac has, “when it has become fat”; Arabic, “when it is perfect.” This is a Hebraism, for in Hebrew, verbs in the conjugation Hitpael have a passive meaning, or a reflex action, by which the agent receives the action in himself, so that the agent is the same as the recipient of the action. Hence some codices read, “when the fruit has produced itself.” Maldonatus explains it differently, “When the fruit, that is, the seed itself, which was the fruit of former seed, shall have brought forth, that is to say, other seed from itself.”

Verse 33. And with many such parables He spoke to them the word, according as they were able to hear. That is, insofar as they were worthy to hear, as Maldonatus says, citing Bede, Euthymius and Clement of Alexandria (lib. 1 Strom.). According to this reading, Christ spoke clearly, without parables, to the Apostles, who wanted to understand and believe, so that they might understand more and more; but to the scribes and the Jews who did not want to believe and understand, He spoke somewhat obscurely and parabolically, so that, even if they wanted, they nevertheless could not understand. More simply and plainly, Theophylact and Franz Lucas (in loco), as well as S. Chrysostom (in Matth. hom. 45) explain that Christ spoke with such, i.e., common and easy parables, which all could understand, not with abstruse examples unknown to the crowd; so that they might take in their substance, and perceive that there was something heavenly and divine lying beneath the surface, although they did not comprehend each particular. Nevertheless, by what was known of the parable they were inspired and encouraged by Christ to investigate and search out the unknown thing that lay hidden beneath it.

Verse 36. Even as he was in the ship. Meaning: The disciples took up Christ upon the deep sea, that they might cross over it with Him; Christ, I say, as He was in the ship, namely, sitting and teaching the people standing on the shore. This is plain from verse 1, for afterward (v. 38) it appears that He changed His position, sleeping in the ship. It marks the ready obedience of the disciples, and in turn Christ’s easy accommodation of Himself to their promptitude, so as to avoid the tumult of the thronging multitude. Franz Lucas interprets somewhat differently: Even as he was in the ship, he says, means “before anyone got off the ship where He was.” Hence the Syriac translates “when he was in the ship,” and the Arabic, “they took him aboard the ship.”

And there were other ships with him. It happened by the counsel of God that the many persons who were carried in those ships should be spectators and witnesses of the miracle very shortly to be wrought by Christ, namely, the calming of the tempest.

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