#where are the divine silence = divine grace = divine absence = divine love understanders | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

basicsofislam · 4 years

Text

ISLAM 101: Creation: Part 8

Why does one creature’s life depend on the death of another?

Just as the day replaces night, spring follows winter, and autumn takes the place of summer, death follows life. The Creator, Who governs everything, does nothing in vain. He creates the most beautiful and intricate beings out of the lowest, seemingly unpromising, materials. Since it is the very nature of His creation to bestow freshness and novelty continually upon His creation, and since He sets on and motivates everything to mature and develop, risings and settings necessarily succeed each in this world.

Before going further into the subject, let’s define death.

Death is not final exhaustion of nature, an annihilation that operates of itself, or a total extinction into a void. Rather, it is a transformation, a change of place, state, and dimension; a completion of service, a release from its burden, to attain peace and ease. For every living thing, it is a sort of retreat or transition to its own essence and truth. For this reason, death is as desirable as life. It is as pleasing as meeting friends, and a blessing as great as acquiring immortality.

Materialists who do not grasp death’s meaning and truth always see it as horrifying and so compose gloomy odes to it. All such people have seen and felt the same things about death, and have made the same complaints about it.

Since death is a separation from life and living, it affects our minds and those sentiments that make us human. It is impossible to deny such an influence, to silence the heart in the face of death. Death arouses considerable tumult in our hearts and minds, though it may be short-lived. Belief in the Resurrection causes all such sorrows to be forgotten, for it is like presenting a kingdom to a person who has lost everything or assuring a person about to be hanged of eternal life and happiness.

According to those who understand the real meaning of death, death is no more than a release from service, a change of abode, and a journey to where most of one’s friends have already gone. Those who do not understand this see only its horrifying surface meaning: death as an executioner, a gallows, a bottomless pit, a dark passage into the void.

When believers begin to experience death, the beauties and rewards of Heaven begin to appear before them. When unbelievers, who are deprived of this pleasure of faith, think of death, they begin to feel the torment and fire of Hell that they nurture within their conscience. Their suffering is not just limited to their own feelings, for in their hearts they also feel the grief and suffering of all those with whom they share interests, pleasures, and concerns. Their suffering and loss of happiness increase the burden of grief for whoever regards death as a final end.

Believers consider death a release from service and life’s burdens and hardships and know that everything continues to exist in other realms (in its identity as form and idea). Thus, they view death as an advancement, a perfection, an acquisition of a higher essence and nature. Since death carries the fruit of eternal existence and bliss, it is also a great blessing and a Divine gift.

However, every advancement and perfecting, every blessing and acquisition of it, must pass through preparatory stages: close examination, molding and purifying. Spiritual progress and the subsequent advancement to higher levels come only through such trials and purifications. For example, crude ores perish in the purifying furnace before they yield the pure metal. Until the ores are processed in this way, they continue to exist in soil and rock, without the metal ever being tested and then presented in its true form.

If we accept this analogy, we can understand that while death appears to be a cessation, a passing into extinction or nothingness, in reality, it is passing into a higher, more elevated mode of being. When every non-sentient particle appears to move with an eager animation toward its apparent extinction, it actually is running toward the perfection prescribed for it. When oxygen and hydrogen atoms combine, they die in their separate identities only to be reborn as water, which is essential to the vitality of all living forms. Thus we can say that death is a changing of place and form, not an end or extinction. From the tiniest particles to the greatest compounds within the universe, all changes, transformations, and decompositions result in what is most beautiful, fresh, and excellent. That is why we define death as the movement of beings to a higher mode rather than as their extinction.

In another respect, death is the time when one being resigns and hands over its affairs to its successor(s). This is enacted in the sight of Him Who has sovereignty and dominion over all things. Each creature is charged with presenting itself in a unique parade before the presence of the One Who gave it existence. Just before its parade is over, and the picture or record of it made and stored, the parade of its successor(s) begins, which relieves the parade ground of sameness and refreshes the scene with new and active beings. Each being acted out its role and moves aside so that others may appear, act out their roles, and show their skills. The freshness, liveliness, beauty, and excellent diversity is seen in creation is the result of these comings and goings.

Death also may be understood as silent advice, in the sense that nothing is self-existent. In other words, nothing can survive by itself or has permanence. A fading and ultimately dead light indicates a source of light that is unfailing and eternal. For those who grieve and complain about the transience and perishing of all things, this is a good lesson on how to mature and attain true happiness. Whatever or whoever captivates our hearts will leave us one day, which causes us to yearn for an eternal being to love and to be loved by. In our transient world, such a yearning is the first stage of moving toward or attaining eternity. Death is the mysterious uplifter that raises people to that dignity.

Given this, we can liken death to a healing hand, one that nurses to full health, that hurts us only as a doctor would hurt us: by giving a necessary inoculation or lancing, rather than a grim sword or sickle laying everything to waste. Considering death as a merely utilitarian way of making room for new generations is mistaken, for death is not absolute annihilation or extinction. Rather, what disappears does so only from within the horizons of our limited understanding, for the identity of every particular (as form and idea) continues to exist in our memories, in the Preserved Record, and in God’s all-encompassing knowledge. They also exist in different dimensions and in realms beyond those dimensions, beyond corporeal understanding. For example, seeds and flowers bloom and die, but their identity as form and idea continues in the many seeds and flowers that will bloom after them.

Consider the subject from another angle. If there were no death, would we not live in a hell of unrelieved terror as we faced an endless existence without a break or relief? How could we measure the worth or value of anyone or anything, conserve or concentrate our energy, make or carry out an intention, if time was limitless? If such a situation existed, those who now mourn the fact of transience and death would mourn their absence. Moreover, we would not experience creation’s inexhaustible variety, with all the prompts and images it gives to the human mind of beauty, freshness, and loss with renewability. How, in the absence of such a panorama of novelty within stability, could the human mind be inspired to contemplate that which lies beyond and sustains the visible world? How could we seek and worship the One who creates and provides for the whole.

Let’s deal with the subject from a different angle. If everything depended on life instead of death if beings continued to live through calamities, and if all events and life followed one direction forever, what could have happened? What could happen mean?

Basing ourselves on what we said earlier, death contains blessing and wisdom. Life without death would be such an absurdity and horrible disaster that, if such a situation could be fully described, people would cry and mourn about staying alive instead of dying.

If nothing died, neither a fly nor a human being could have lived in the early ages of this world, for ants and varieties of ivy would have invaded and occupied the entire planet. Nothing else could have survived or thrived. And later on, if no ant or ivy ever died, there would have been thick layers of them covering the Earth. As such statements cannot be disputed, we can see what a great blessing death is, and the great wisdom in allowing dead things to decompose.

How much of the Earth’s enthralling beauty and splendor could be seen with such a huge number of ivy plants and ants? What would this world, created to exhibit the splendor and magnificence of His art, be if such a situation prevailed? How could we witness the power, might, knowledge, and grace of the Creator and Owner of this world?

The absence of death also would give rise to another problem: The magnificent wisdom and order in the rule of this universe show that nothing in it was created in vain. The Absolute Owner of the physical and spiritual domains creates the most worthwhile things out of what may appear to us the most worthless, making the valueless into the priceless. New and excellent creations are engendered from the cells serving as bodily forms for His servants, especially those making up the human souls that God has recalled and holds in His realms. If the bodies, which He valued so highly that He “breathed” human souls in them, were allowed to decompose into nothing, the Creator’s Omniscient Wisdom would be contradicted. Any such notion is absolutely contrary to His Divine Honor, and so cannot be entertained.

In conclusion, all of creation, its balance, and order, the control, and administration by which its complex harmonies are sustained, is so magnificent that it inspires all people whose hearts and minds are open to the beauty and pleasure around them. The dividing, combining, and moving of atoms; the growth of plants and trees; the gushing of rivers to the sea; the oceans’ expanse, grandeur, and incalculable power; the evaporation of saltwater and its return as life-giving rain—everything races ardently from one stage to another, higher and better.

5 notes · View notes

seasaltmemories · 5 years

Text

You Say You Wanna Go to Heaven, But You’re Human Tonight

Rating: T

Summary: And so, Alm added idolatry to the list of his sins.

The morning after Duma was slayed, Celica rose at dawn to pray.

The first time, Alm saw this, he had wondered if in her half-awaken haze she had somehow forgotten the events of yesterday. Such a theory might sound crazy at first glance, but some mornings he imagined himself back in Ram Village. Memories took a long time to die, so rather than inflict her any pain, he had faked slumber and let her go along her day, before “properly” waking up himself.

In time, he thought, they would both learn to accept the present. Morning lies always faded away in the afternoon’s bright light.

But as the days turned into weeks and then months, still she continued to pray. Ignorance nor denial could explain her actions. She spoke of Mila’s and Duma’s demise with as much certainty as anyone else. Yet as busy as they were with rebuilding Valentia, she continued to find time to converse with those who would never answer her.

It would have been easy to write it off as madness, a quirk she had picked up to survive. Most of them had strange habits of their own--like how Mathilda always carried a knife up her sleeve, even when the battlefield was far away and she was decked in her court finery, or how Valbar refused to be placed anywhere besides the front-lines, even when he looked ready to pass out from so much marching in his heavy army. Everyone found their own way to cope, and the polite thing to do was turn away and pretend you didn’t notice anything.

But then Alm’s own idiosyncrasies made that difficult to do. Like a voyeur, stealing away a moment of intimacy, he woke early to spy on her prayers. He never let on that he was awake, rather he silently studied her closed eyes and clasped hands, searching for the method to it all.

It seemed faith had little to do with the gods themselves.

It wasn’t as if Alm had ever disliked religion. Growing up, he had done everything expected of him: attended every religious holiday with a proper tribute of wool in tow, said his prayers to thank Mila for the year’s harvest, even as they dwindled with each famine. But unlike Faye, whose eyes had sparkled with purpose when she had donned the clock and pledged herself to be Mila’s personal tool, Alm had never been able to understand such devotion. He couldn’t give himself up for a being he had never even seen before.

The hypocrisy didn’t escape him. It was because of Duma’s blessing, Valentia had deemed him their Saint-King. Without Mila’s mercy, he would have been powerless to save Celica, forced to kill her by his own hand. However it was those very boons that caused him to chafe against the concept. Because if Duma had cursed him with his dying breath, if Mila had deemed Celica a proper sacrifice that must be made, was he supposed to have just step aside and bend to their will? Was he supposed bleed himself dry for creatures whose talons had shed so much blood in the first place?

Even if the gods hadn’t been mad, hadn’t deserved to finally have some peace, he knew he would have slaughtered them still if it meant saving the life of one of his loved ones. He couldn’t understand Celica having done the near opposite. When they had discussed such matters in the dead of night, huddled together and whispering secrets against the other’s skin, her words might as well have been spoken in another language.

“Of course I rather live a long and happy life, but Valentia is much bigger than just you and me.” Her red curls had tickled the crook of his neck and she settled in. “It’s our birthright to take care of it. My one life was hardly a price if it had really meant peace would return.”

There was no point in arguing with her when the matter was all said and done, but despite their physical closeness she seemed so far away in that moment--so virtuous and good that she was untouchable. And later on it seemed as if he wasn’t the only one to feel this way. Already many former clergy members had taken to preaching her as Mila incarnated as a human. While most days he was glad for her, during lonely, selfish nights the devil inside would want to cut her wings, pin her to the earth, and never let her go.

“She promised herself to me, and me alone! I’m sorry, world, but you can’t have her!”

Each time such a thought came to him, he followed the same routine. He imagined himself picking up the thought, examining it thoroughly, and then locking it inside a black chest, never to be considered again. Such a route was dangerous to travel, placing his love for his own desires over his love of Celica. Still whenever the box rattled and screamed, he cracked it open just one inch. He allowed him to steal that one moment of privacy with what remained of the gods.

In the last week or so, Celica had finally scheduled a meeting with her new acolytes. It was useful to have such loyal allies during a change in power, but it was tricky business to keep such a following from getting distorted into an actual cult. Still it was the first time they had been separated from the war. Despite knowing she was safe and doing important work, it was difficult to calm his nerves.

She was due to return in the early morning, so he tried to get some sleep. Still he tossed and turned throughout the night, getting little rest. He must have dozed at one point, because he ended up waking with a start when he heard the door to his quarters open.

“Hello, darling,” Celica whispered as she entered. “I’m home.”

“Celica...what are you wearing?” It was a pitiful response, bu the outside light haloed her body provided just enough illumination for him to make out that she was wearing a saint’s garb. Such a choice perplexed him so, he lost any greetings he might have offered up.

“It’s a long story, but the Church of the One Kingdom offered me a promotion,” She padded across the room to sit at her dresser. “Even though technically priestesses can’t qualify as saints...I must look ridiculous, don’t I?”

Ridiculous was far from the truth. She looked radiant, holy, every bit of the heavenly angel they believed her to be. It made his heart ache like nothing else.

“It’s late, so feel free to go back to sleep. I’ll tell you about my day in the morning proper.”

“I’m not that tired, I don’t mind staying up longer.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t miss a thing. I”ll make sure it’s the first thing I do.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence seized the two of them. Shame compelled Alm to turn away. He didn’t deserve to look at her after such a blasphemous slight, but there was some enthralling about the sight of her staring at him like that. Celica had removed her makeup yet still remained gowned. It was if she was caught between the divine and the earthly.

Slowly, she removed the pins from her hair. It fell like a curtain across her shoulders. “You’re right. I guess I’ve gotten used to white lies in my time away. The things they expect of me...”

“You’ve earned your stunning reputation though.” Alm insisted. “No matter how difficult it is, you’ll always choose the right choice.”

“I guess, absence truly makes the heart grow fonder.” She undid the tassels flowing from her sleeves before taking off her gloves. It was strange how much beauty seemed to linger in such a simple motion. “Although we must be living proof of it.”

“There’s something tantalizing about what you can’t have.” He was trying not to concentrate on the heat pooling in his belly, but he couldn’t stop his breath from hitching as she unfastened her breastplate. Still he could not look away.

“Where did you get the idea that I am not yours?” Celica laughed. She made a show of sliding her hands down the curves of her body as she removed her skirts. “You usually wear green with more grace.”

How odd. He felt more like a heretic to be called out for his jealousy of the gods than he did after slaying them with his own hands. “I’m just a fool chasing after a girl too important for his little dreams. Didn’t stop to consider my competition until it was too late.”

“You of all people shouldn’t put me on a pedestal.” She shucked the last of her clothes until only her small-clothes remained. “I’m too flawed to survive up there.”

“You don’t think you’ll resent me for dragging you down?” You didn’t tame envy by fanning its flames, but oh if he could be allowed this moment of weakness. She had already shed so much of her celestial exterior for him. He didn’t want to be her world forever, only for this night.

Instead of responding, she slide off the last of her modesty. From the foot of their bed, she crawled on all fours until she was perched in his lap. Faintly her tongue traced the shell of his ear. “As long as you know how to worship me properly.”

And so, Alm added idolatry to the list of his sins.

A.N. Religion is fascinating to me, especially in the context of Celica’s arc where her devotion remains yet she kills a god (and later gets imagined as one in her ending), I also for a dreamwidth event got challenged to write a story with a striptease in it, and this Bastille song has been in my head, so as usual I set about trying to weave together differing elements

#fire emblem echoes #celicalm #celica #alm #fe echoes #my lame writing #otp: I'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home #ships and deserts and swamps oh my #As always I try and add a million things to one fic

17 notes · View notes

webcricket · 5 years

Text

Looking Glass

Chapter 26 - The World Ender

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1312

Summary: Castiel is left floundering when fate finally catches up to team free will in the form of a three-letter word. With some reflection, he learns endings are also beginnings. Final chapter for the series. Thanks for joining me on this journey! On to the next!

Miss a chapter? Masterlist Link:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/175727716145/looking-glass-masterlist

What they say about hindsight is true; if you knew, caught up in Castiel’s arms in the kitchen, bodies drawn so close together room to breathe barely existed as you comforted one another in the aftermath of Maggie’s death, that the tender moment would signify the beginning of a rapid and calamitous downward spiral of misfortune to befall the bunker and your seraph, you might have insisted on holding on to him just a smidgen longer.

Not long ago, your world ended; your life too – nearly. Providence interceded in the form a Winchester ferrying you here to find renewal of hope; a place wherein you embarked on a fresh start rooted and flourishing in an angel’s empathy and a rewriting of every experience, conception, and recollection you once wielded as a universal shield of truth to survive.

You couldn’t know, clasped head to chest, sniffling against the silk of his tie, tears darkening the navy cloth almost to black as your fingers sought the well-muscled slope of his spine and skimmed upward until they found the sensitive spot at the base of his shoulder blades eliciting a soft moan from his lips where they lay in a lingering kiss upon your scalp, that your very same savior’s rebelliously carved niche in this one, the sanctuary of support he welcomed you into, a family fixed to each other by bonds – not solely of blood, but of self-made fate, fierce loyalty, and love – was about to be torn asunder.

Not that any mediation could have occurred to alter the outcome. Once a rift is opened, in flesh or between two divergent worlds, flow of blood seemingly staunched by a ripped band-aid of spell work, the canvas of unseen space is weakened forevermore; there’s no mending it without leaving scars.

Naive, deafened to words of reason by a smoldering rage and guilt, Jack needed to be led astray by Lucifier’s lies – a lesson of greed for power learned too late leaving the Nephilim cosmically impotent.

Nor can destiny itself be fully caged, although the details, like the plot of a story, may be altered in revision – a showdown of apocalyptic proportions between two sets of brothers was ordained by God to occur in Detroit, and so it did in the shadow of a church alter in darkness flattered faintly by the fragmented glow of stained-glass and violently unbridled grace.

And Dean, well, the righteous man was always going to say, “Yes,” to Michael; Fate deigned that archangels must be defeated by a designated sword, and she can be forestalled for only so long.

So much of who Castiel is, what he fell for, fought for, and believed in dwell on the foundation of free will. Sam and Dean served proof to him of one’s ability to defy fate and choose their own destiny time and time again. Emulating the brothers’ boldness, choosing humanity over Heaven, doubt dogged the angel’s every step; but through the doubt, the concept of having choice seemed certain to him until now.

Now, he wonders if Dean ever had a choice at all; or, if the march of years merely delayed the inevitable. The weight of death, destruction, pain – emotional and physical – the blood shed in the name of choice washed from his vessel’s hands yet nonetheless staining the calloused surface crimson as he stares down at where the palms limply spread in supplication on his knees, and the heavy regret muffling every beat of his angelic heart crumple the seraph’s frame where he sits on the map room stair.

“Cas?” The flutter of a black feather on the grey concrete floor at your feet, disturbed by your guardedly creeping movement around the corner, steals your focus as you peer into the library from the hall leading to the garage where you retreated with Mary and Bobby at Cas’ unyielding request when Michael stormed the bunker door.

Stooping, you pluck up the bedraggled plume in your fingertips; spying a bloodied mass of pulp at the end of the quill, you flinch and shrink back, fright tightening your throat. “Cas?” you repeat in a fear-stifled shout; glancing wildly beyond the strewn carnage of traumatically extricated feathers, books thrown from their shelves, and toppled tables and chairs, you see the angel’s silhouetted and unmoving figure slumped against the threshold. “Cas!” Lunging forward, tripping over a few stiff-spine tomes, you forget caution in favor of panic.

He stirs to look sideways as you near; stumbling down the stairs, you sink ungracefully next to him. You ignore the corpse of Michael’s meat suit in reclining repose against one of the far most pillars; it’s a sight that should be a relief, but nothing about Cas’ dampened blues and vacant gaze hollowed of hope remotely suggest a sense of relief; neither does the notable absence of the Dean.

The angel’s regard shifts slightly over your shoulder, chin somberly shaking at Mary and Bobby’s questioning faces where they followed in your frantic footsteps. You all half-hoped after Sam’s phone call saying he and Jack were alive, Lucifer was dead, and they couldn’t be sure of Dean because he disappeared with Michael, that perhaps against all odds Dean somehow returned to the bunker. The two hunters retreat in silence to give you space.

“What happened?” Reaching up, you brush a collection of unruly chestnut curls from Cas’ brow and compel his concentration to you.

Already pale lips crush into a taut line and blanch. Wet lashes lower and a subtle shiver of pain courses his vessel.

You mold a palm to the cool pallor of his cheek, swiping a thumb soothingly over the prickly skin.

He swallows the guilt girding his throat before speaking. “Dean said, ‘Yes.’ He let Michael in,” he pauses as if saying it aloud makes the reality infinitely more painful. Carrying blame for himself, his jaw tenses around an admission of defeat, “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t-” Leaning into the warmth of your touch, eyes closing, his voice chokes in grief, “I couldn’t even follow him.”

You suddenly understand the scattering of feathers and disarray of a struggle; Castiel tried to follow his friend in flight – tried with his whole heart in defiance of the damage to his wings, and failed. “Oh, angel.” Curling your fingers around his neck, you ease his head onto the pillow of your thighs. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault,” you reassure, softly whispering as brine freely brims his lids.

“Everything we worked for,” he says between sobs, “it was all for nothing. It’s impossible to escape fate. Dean is lost. This world … it’s lost.”

Tenderly cradling the angel, showering him in light caresses so he knows he isn’t alone, you let his emotion drain, waiting until the jagged shallow jolt of his breath quiets with deeper regularity. Gaze drifting to the high ceiling of your new home, the angel you love lying on your lap, a reflective smile cavorts your countenance at a thought which undulates your tongue in speech. “I used to believe a lot of things were impossible – alternate realities, loving angels, second chances – then I met you and all that changed.”

Shifting at the curious statement, he straightens to peer into your aspect.

Smile stretching, you continue, “Nothing is impossible, it just seems that way until a door you didn’t know was there opens and you see what’s on the other side. We’ll find the right door, Cas.”

“You really believe that?” The question is moot, divine being or otherwise, he intuits your conviction without asking.

“You’re my proof.”

Gloom-dim irises glide searchingly between your fondly smile-creased eyes and the mirror image of himself reflected as evidence within their lustrous pupils. Seeing his echo afloat in a soulful sea of belief, leaning in to trace salt-laced lips over the smiling swell of yours, he can’t help but begin to believe too.

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel reader insert #spn x reader #castiel x y/n #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #reader x castiel #you x castiel #castiel fanfic #castiel fanfiction #spn fanfic #castiel x au!reader #cricket writes cas

41 notes · View notes

tigerlo · 5 years

Text

what is there left to fear?

A little Sansa x Dany interaction with a hint of Sansa x Margaery mention.

The new GoT trailer had given me some serious Sansa Stark feelings and I’m not sure where this came from but here you go...

Daenerys finds her on the outward facing wall as dusk creeps over the castle. It’s always dark now that winter has set its teeth into the land but Sansa still feels the weight of night when it comes just the same, even in the total absence of light.

The blonde queen is quiet; just like Sansa is and her mother was, just like her sister is, and she wonders whether Daenerys was born quiet like she and Catelyn or whether she’s had to learn the discipline of it under a firm hand like Arya.

She can hear the great wings of her dragons beating somewhere above. They’re never far from Daenerys, never, almost as though they can sense the imminent danger waiting, creeping slowly, slowly, towards them in the dark.

The thump, thump, thump of the black comes closer; Drogon, Sansa has heard him called, and he lands on the frozen earth in front of them some hundred feet away. He roars his greeting to his mother before he takes a few thunderous steps forward, sniffing the stone of Winterfell’s armour before he picks himself up with a great effort and takes to the sky to join his brother once more.

He truly is Balerion the Dread reborn, this creature, just as Arya keeps telling her with a wondrous awe every time she sees them fly by. He’s death personified, a dark shadow of the tales Old Nan used to tell them as children that Sansa always scoffed at. She knows better than that now though, she knows the things that linger in the night of fairy tales - dragons and giants and white walkers - are as real as her brothers used to wish them to be.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Sansa says by way of greeting as Daenerys finally approaches her, setting her gaze out beyond the castle wall.

She doesn’t trust Daenerys, not yet. She knows she has the blood of a true Targaryen flowing through her veins and not just her father’s madness, but she’s not yet ascertained whether there’s more to her than simply fighting for a country she knows nothing of beyond their history of crowning a usurper. Jon trusts her though, and that is not an insignificant feat, even though his trust is blinded by desire.

She needs to seek her sister out, Sansa thinks to herself, if she can find her. She fears Arya still, or the soul that came back from across the sea in her place, but she knows she can spot a traitor and a liar better than Jon can.

“Good evening, Lady Stark,” Daenerys returns politely, clasping her hands in front of her as she takes her place close to Sansa, tipping her head to the sky to watch the dragons circle the desolate field in front of them. “Thank you again for taking us in,” she says with the practised neutrality of a ruler, not turning her gaze.

“Jon has sworn us to you,” Sansa says simply, not unkindly but pragmatically. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

“Yes, but that did not mean your men, or sister, had to allow us through the walls,” Daenerys replies with a tiny smirk, a gesture that lightens Sansa somewhat too. “Can I ask you a question?” Daenerys adds after a few moments silence.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa nods, turning briefly to face her, watching as Daenerys smiles at her rigid formality.

“I have seen battle-worn men lose their minds in fear at the sight of my children,” Daenerys says with a tight line drawn across her lips. “And rightfully so. They listen when I speak to them, but I do not control them, nor they do not abide by the laws of men. Drogon preys on whatever he chooses; men, livestock…children too, if he desires. A dragon is not a slave, after all, and they will do what they wish.” She pauses to look at Sansa thoughtfully. “I have watched you watching them, though, and I’m yet to see you cower in their presence. Are you not afraid of them, Lady Stark?” Daenerys asks her, tilting her head to one side.

“The dragons?” Sansa questions, frowning as she looks out to the specks on the horizon, circling each other almost playfully before Daenerys looks at her almost quizzically as if to say, what else.

This is a test, Sansa understands, although, for what, she isn’t certain.

“They are terrifying, Your Grace,” she says honestly. “Truly. They could raze Winterfell to the ground in one breath if they wanted, I’m certain.” Sansa pauses, breathing in the cold air that makes her feel more alive than the heat of fire ever will. “But,” she says carefully, “but, I have seen and endured far worse monsters than your children. If they choose to end my life or the life of my people, I do not imagine it would take long. There are far worse things after all than a quick, hot death.”

She can see the spectre of her grandfather and uncle on the wall sometimes, watching the dragons, wishing their own death by fire was at their hands and not Daenerys’ mad father instead.

She sees Margaery there sometimes, too. Not as frequently as she wishes she would, but it makes some divine sense to her that Margaery would appear in terms of her own making, not simply at Sansa’s beckoning.

She dreams of her often; of how different their present might have been if Sansa had made it to Highgarden with her and her brother, to disappear amongst the roses and find shelter behind the thrones. Whether Margaery would hold her hand in the gardens that she was born into as she once did in King’s Landing. Whether her hand would find the small of Sansa’s back there, too. Whether she’d kiss the space beneath Sansa’s ear that her breath used to caress when she’d whisper a secret to her as Lady Olenna held court in the distance. Whether she might have taken Sansa to bed, led her by the hand and kissed her into oblivion like the stories she used to recite by memory that made Sansa blush like the maiden she once was.

Of how different things might have been in her bed, and not Ramsay Bolton’s. How sweetly Sansa’s skin might have tanned in the eternal summer of the Reach and the warmth of Margaery’s attention.

She would have loved the dragons, Sansa thinks. She would have held her ground as well as Sansa does as her eyes filled with wonder like Arya’s do. She would have known exactly what to think of the stranger beside her, too.

Daenerys smiles sadly, almost softly as she considers Sansa’s answer and not for the first time Sansa wonders how much of her past her brother had revealed to this woman; this once child-Queen of an army of savages. She wonders whether Daenerys can see the scars of Ramsay’s torture as strongly as Sansa feels them all over her skin, or whether they’re as invisible to her as they are to everyone else now that he is dead and gone. She doesn’t know exactly what this dragon-queen has lived through but Arya has told her of the Dothraki; of their brutality, of their violence, of what they would have done to her, child or not.

Daenerys grins to herself before she answers, surprising Sansa, laughing under her breath. “Jon said his sisters were stronger than his brothers. Stronger than him too, and that I would do well to respect that if I was to gain your trust. I’m beginning to understand what that means.”

The dragons screech in the distance, the sound chilling Sansa’s bones before she realises they’re only playing still in their patrol. It’s not a sound of alarm, as she has dreaded since Jon returned with word of what was coming for them. They’re still safe. For now.

Daenerys shifts in the snow next to her, bringing her back to herself. She turns to face Sansa fully when her eyes leave the giant forms in the distance, singing through the sky with a heavy elegance.

“As for seeing and enduring the wrath of monsters, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys sighs almost painfully, the light leaving her eyes briefly like Sansa knows it does hers when her memories overwhelm her. “I understand that too,” Daenerys replies quietly; as Sansa understands. “Just the same as you.”

#sansa x daenerys #sansa x dany #sansa x margaery #game of thrones #a little bit of nonsense #i just love sansa stark with all my heart okay #and i'm a sansa x margaery stan forever but when canon fucks that up for you it's okay to dream a little bigger if you need #my fic #Sansa Stark #daenerys targaryen #margaery tyrell

14 notes · View notes

365news · 5 years

Text

How COZA Pastor, Biodun Fatoyinbo raped me – Timi Dakolo’s wife alleges

Busola, wife of music star, Timi Dakolo, has made some explosive disclosure about COZA Pastor, Biodun Fatoyinbo. She accused the cleric of raping her when she was still very young. Busola, a mother of 3, in an interview with Y-TV, narrated how Pastor Biodun allegedly raped in the morning hours in her home and afterwards made her take in a soft drink. Timi Dakolo had accused Fatoyinbo of taking advantage of women in COZA, and leaving them emotionally broken afterwards. Excerpts of the interview are as below: Busola Dakolo was born and lived most of her early life in Ilorin. The first time she left Ilorin was for secondary school at Suleja and that time away allowed her really find her Christianity. She joined and rose to become the vice-president of the Gifted School Academy Suleja’s fellowship and embraced a conservative approach to Christianity, growing to become distrustful of churches and fellowships that tried to copy worldly trends as a way to reach people outside the church. She returned home for the holidays to find that her sisters had started attending a non-denominational ‘youth club’ that embraced all kinds of people and focused on worship and fellowship over doctrine and legalism. It took a while but her sisters convinced her to go by telling her she needed to meet different kinds of people, especially former prostitutes and cultists that have given their lives to Christ. Busola reluctantly joined her sisters for the youth club, but she wasn’t comfortable there, partly because of the way they worshipped and because I was the youngest person there. After the service, there was a first timers call, and Busola stood up and introduced herself, explaining her initial skepticism and how their worship had changed her mind. After the service, the pastor of the club, a much younger Biodun Fatoyinbo came looking for her after the service. Pastor Biodun wasn’t yet married ( though he was engaged to his current wife) and the Commonwealth of Zion Assembly (COZA) wasn’t yet a church, it was called Divine Delight Club. He expressed his surprise at how bold she was for someone so young and encouraged her to keep speaking up for herself. He also managed to convince her to sing at their next meeting before she left back for school. To sell this idea, he offered to personally rehearse with her, mentioning that he played the keyboard. This was before mobile phones and internet, so Busola’s sister had to take her to Fatoyinbo, who was living with his parents at the time. Though Busola remembers the song they rehearsed, their rehearsal was uneventful, and at the next meeting she performed, her performance moving enough that a former cultist who was attending the club public renounced his past and embraced Christianity. After, the members of the club affirmed her and Fatoyinbo convinced her through gifts of books and cassette tapes to keep attending their club when she was back home from school. Returning to school and the more conservative worship environment she was used to was harder than she had anticipated. For the rest of her secondary school year, she struggled with guilt, shuffling between her role in the conservative Fellowship of Christian Students (FCS) and the more liberal world of Fatoyinbo’s COZA. She felt she was living a dual life. Eventually she graduated and returned home to find that Divine Delight Club had grown into a church headed by Fatoyinbo, and her sisters had convinced her family to join the church. It felt like the only option she had to join as well. A YEARNING FOR UNDERSTANDING LEADS TO RAPE Busola had embraced conservatism because she’d grown up in a polygamous family and she wanted some control over her own life in service of something bigger than herself. Her father was largely absent in her life and her mother had tried to shield them from the financial difficulty that came with parenting her and her sisters alone but she saw and it affected her deeply. Conservative Christianity gave her purpose and the structure she desperately craved. She joined the choir at COZA as a way to integrate into the church and rid herself of the discomfort she felt towards the church. Being in the choir made her visible and eventually Fatoyinbo would take an interest in her, inviting himself to her home under the guise of getting to know her better. The first time he visited, he asked if she’d join him on an errand run. Her mother was concerned but didn’t really push when Busola insisted that she wanted to go. They drove in his white Mercedes Benz and finally spoke for the first time. Though she was normally guarded around men, Fatoyinbo was charming, using his knowledge of her family and the absence of her father to gain her trust. Before long, he was visiting the house regularly, engaging her in ways her unavoidably distant sisters weren’t. Fatoyinbo showed up at her house unannounced. It was a Monday morning early enough that Busola Dakolo was still in her nightgown. Her mother had traveled with her sisters and were absent at service the previous sunday. He didn’t say a word, forcing her onto a chair, speaking only to command her to do as he said. It took Busola a while to come to terms with what was about to happen, and it was why she didn’t struggle or make a fuss when he pulled down her underwear and raped her. She remembers he didn’t say anything after, left to his car, returned with a bottle of Krest and forced her to drink it, probably as some crude contraceptive. She remembers him saying. “You should be happy that a man of God did this to you.” At this time, his wife had just given birth to their first child, Oluwashindara. AFFLICTION STRIKES A SECOND TIME Busola spoke up because her husband, the singer Timi Dakolo put up a social media post on Instagram accusing Nigerian clergy of condoning rape and sexual assault. People had approached him anonymously about Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo targeting underage girls for sexual relationships and he felt obligated to publicly speak up on their behalf. His posts had created intense backlash and support and sparked rumours about who the subject of his post was and who the victims were. This wasn’t the first time Timi Dakolo had spoken up about sexual assault and he was aware of what had happened to her from the beginning of their relationship. What motivated her to speak up about her rape was a social media post from an anonymous account that had insinuated that she had been promiscuous as a teenager and had affairs with pastors when she lived in Ilorin and questioned the paternity of her children. The reality was, rather than the fabricated promiscuous teenager, Busola Dakolo was an isolated girl, terrified of Fatoyinbo whose salvation story heavily featured his past as a cult member. She was too terrified to tell her sisters or mother about his violence, stewing in silence for a week. Her sisters were active in the church, and to avoid suspicion she followed them to church the next Sunday. She remembers he spoke about grace during the service and after, Modele Fatoyinbo asks that she come to help her with her new baby, something she had never done before. It was normal for church members to come serve at the pastor’s house so her sisters allayed her protests. Feeling she had no options, she went to her pastor’s house, Fatoyinbo tried to isolate her later that night from his wife and their daughter by insisting she slept in the family’s guest room. She managed to thwart his plans, appealing to the pastor’s wife to let her sleep in their master bedroom. “No one ignores me.” He would tell her this the next morning, smacking her butt. It was an ominous enough statement that Busola became apprehensive and tried to leave for her house once it was past twilight. It was the first of many threats she would get from the flamboyant pastor. Fatoyinbo would insist on dropping her off at home, even though she protested several times. Instead of dropping her off at the junction as he had promised, he detoured, driving her away from safety and towards a secluded spot. He threatened her the entire drive, making proclamations about how he owned her and how he was angry that he had thwarted her the night before. He opened the car, pulled her out of the passenger seat and raped her a second time in the space of a week. First behind the car, then moving her to the bonnet for ease of access. She didn’t fight, she had lost all her will to. She’d protected her virginity for so long that having it forcefully taken this way broke her. He guided back into the car when he was done, and told her he loved her, speaking of how he’d told his pastors that men of God raped women, that there was nothing special about what he did. He dropped her off outside her home as though everything was normal. She bathed immediately after and didn’t leave her room for three days, but while her siblings were worried about her, no one made any connections between her sudden mood and her married pastor. Busola’s family was a ‘church family’, a family so involved in church activities that their home was routinely used as a hostel for visiting ministers and guests of the church. Fatoyinbo had exploited that, and did it again when he showed up the next Sunday, to ask why she hadn’t gone to church that Sunday. She was afraid of drawing attention to herself, so she went to church the next Sunday, and kept going, even though she left the choir and began to voice her dissent towards Fatoyinbo. THE BEGINNING OF RELIEF A dream was the catalyst for Busola opening up for the first time about Fatoyinbo raping her. Her elder sister had relocated to Lagos, and she pleaded to visit, drained from avoiding the pastor. In Lagos, her sister who she believes has the Sight, told her about a dream she had had, where she’d seen Busola crying, blood on a chair and Fatoyinbo smiling. She asked her pointedly, breaking months of silence and starting a flood of admissions about the rape and everything that had happened. Her sister convinced her to return to Ilorin and together they told her other sisters and her brother, who was studying at the University of Ilorin. Her brother flew into a rage, grabbing a pocket knife and taking her to Fatoyinbo’s house. He was able to intercept them before they reached his house, and together with Wole Soetan, who she suggests is now the pastor of the COZA Portharcourt branch, convince them to return home and that Fatoyinbo would follow. The pastor and two of his church members would eventually come to pacify her family, blaming the devil and Soetan even promising to leave the church to show how little tolerance he had for promiscuity. After Soetan would confide in Busola that he couldn’t leave the church because he felt Fatoyinbo was ‘weak’ and needed spiritual guidance and support. He convinced her siblings to keep the rape and assault from her mother. Numb to all emotion, Busola pretended to concede and after two weeks of constant visitation from the pastors and the unspoken implication that Fatoyinbo was an alleged reformed cultist with a lot to lose if news of her rape went public, she returned to the church to protect her family and project normalcy. It was clear to her at this point that she would never feel comfortable within organized religion. Fatoyinbo continued to target Busola in the intervening months, organizing prayer sessions and specialized deliverance sessions with guest pastors to help ‘repair’ her ‘bondage’ and suggesting to her that the violence he had meted towards her was a problem they both had in common and needed communal deliverance, Busola would find out that Fatoyinbo had been telling church members that she wasn’t ready for a relationship when the pastor’s cousin befriended her. Their time would eventually develop into a relationship and she would confide in him about what had happened to her. Read the full article

0 notes

anastpaul · 7 years

Photo

Blessed and Holy Feast of Corpus Christi! 18 June 2017

“The solemnity of Corpus Christi originated within a very precise cultural and historical context. Its aim was to proclaim openly the faith of the People of God in Jesus Christ’s real, living presence in the Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist.”

Pope Benedict XVI explains the history of this feast, which dates back to the 13th century, as follows:

St Juliana of Cornillon had a vision which “presented the moon in its full splendour, crossed diametrically by a dark stripe. The Lord made her understand the meaning of what had appeared to her. The moon symbolised the life of the Church on earth, the opaque line, on the other hand, represented the absence of a liturgical feast (…) in which believers would be able to adore the Eucharist so as to increase in faith, to advance in the practice of the virtues and to make reparation for offences to the Most Holy Sacrament. (…)

Jacques Pantaléon of Troyes was also won over to the good cause of the Feast of Corpus Christi during his ministry as Archdeacon in Lièges. It was he who, having become Pope with the name of Urban IV in 1264, instituted the Solemnity of Corpus Christi on the Thursday after Pentecost as a holiday of obligation for the universal Church.

Until the end of the world

Detail of the reliquary containing the corporal with traces of the Eucharistic miracle that occurred in Bolsena in 1263. It is kept in the Cathedral of Orvieto, Italy.

In the Bull of its institution, entitled Transiturus de hoc mundo, (11 Aug. 1264), Pope Urban even referred discreetly to Juliana’s mystical experiences, corroborating their authenticity. He wrote: “Although the Eucharist is celebrated solemnly every day, we deem it fitting that at least once a year it be celebrated with greater honour and a solemn commemoration.

“Indeed we grasp the other things we commemorate with our spirit and our mind but this does not mean that we obtain their real presence. On the contrary, in this sacramental commemoration of Christ, even though in a different form, Jesus Christ is present with us in his own substance. While he was about to ascend into Heaven he said ‘And lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age’ (Matthew 28:20).” The Pontiff made a point of setting an example by celebrating the solemnity of Corpus Christi in Orvieto, the town where he was then residing. Indeed, he ordered that the famous Corporal with the traces of the Eucharistic miracle which had occurred in Bolsena the previous year, 1263, be kept in Orvieto Cathedral — where it still is today.

While a priest was consecrating the bread and the wine he was overcome by strong doubts about the Real Presence of the Body and Blood of Christ in the sacrament of the Eucharist. A few drops of blood began miraculously to ooze from the consecrated Host, thereby confirming what our faith professes.

Texts that move the heart

Urban IV asked one of the greatest theologians of history, St Thomas Aquinas — who at that time was accompanying the Pope and was in Orvieto — to compose the texts of the Liturgical Office for this great feast. They are masterpieces, still in use in the Church today, in which theology and poetry are fused. These texts pluck at the heartstrings in an expression of praise and gratitude to the Most Holy Sacrament, while the mind, penetrating the mystery with wonder, recognizes in the Eucharist the Living and Real Presence of Jesus, of His Sacrifice of love that reconciles us with the Father and gives us salvation.

In the words of St. Thomas:

“How inestimable a dignity, beloved brethren, divine bounty has bestowed upon us Christians from the treasury of its infinite goodness! For there neither is nor ever has been a people to whom the gods were so nigh as our Lord and God is nigh unto us.

“Desirous that we be made partakers of His divinity, the only-begotten Son of God has taken to Himself our nature so that having become man, He would be enabled to make men gods. Whatever He assumed of our nature He wrought unto our salvation. For on the altar of the Cross He immolated to the Father His own Body as victim for our reconciliation and shed His blood both for our ransom and for our regeneration. Moreover, in order that a remembrance of so great benefits may always be with us, He has left us His Body as food and His Blood as drink under appearances of bread and wine.

“O banquet most precious! O banquet most admirable! O banquet overflowing with every spiritual delicacy! Can anything be more excellent than this repast, in which not the flesh of goats and heifers, as of old, but Christ the true God is given us for nourishment? What more wondrous than this holy sacrament! In it bread and wine are changed substantially, and under the appearance of a little bread and wine is had Christ Jesus, God and perfect Man. In this sacrament sins are purged away, virtues are increased, the soul is satiated with an abundance of every spiritual gift. No other sacrament is so beneficial. Since it was instituted unto the salvation of all, it is offered by Holy Church for the living and for the dead, that all may share in its treasures.

“My dearly beloved, is it not beyond human power to express the ineffable delicacy of this sacrament in which spiritual sweetness is tasted in its very source, in which is brought to mind the remembrance of that all-excelling charity which Christ showed in His sacred passion? Surely it was to impress more profoundly upon the hearts of the faithful the immensity of this charity that our loving Savior instituted this sacrament at the last supper when, having celebrated the Pasch with His disciples. He was about to leave the world and return to the Father. It was to serve as an unending remembrance of His passion, as the fulfillment of ancient types — this the greatest of His miracles. To those who sorrow over His departure He has given a unique solace.”

“Eucharistic springtime”

I would like to affirm with joy that today there is a “Eucharistic springtime” in the Church. How many people pause in silence before the Tabernacle to engage in a loving conversation with Jesus! It is comforting to know that many groups of young people have rediscovered the beauty of praying in adoration before the Most Blessed Sacrament. John Paul II said in his Encyclical Ecclesia de Eucharistia: “In many places, adoration of the Blessed Sacrament is also an important daily practice and becomes an inexhaustible source of holiness. The devout participation of the faithful in the Eucharistic procession on the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ is a grace from the Lord which yearly brings joy to those who take part in it. Other positive signs of Eucharistic faith and love might also be mentioned” (no. 10).

In remembering St Juliana of Cornillon let us also renew our faith in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. As we are taught by the Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, “Jesus Christ is present in the Eucharist in a unique and incomparable way. He is present in a true, real and substantial way, with his Body and his Blood, with his Soul and his Divinity. In the Eucharist, therefore, there is present in a sacramental way, that is, under the Eucharistic Species of bread and wine, Christ whole and entire, God and Man” (no. 282).

Dear friends, fidelity to the encounter with Christ in the Eucharist in Holy Mass on Sunday is essential for the journey of faith but let us also seek to pay frequent visits to the Lord present in the Tabernacle! In gazing in adoration at the consecrated Host, we discover the gift of God’s love, we discover Jesus’ Passion and Cross and likewise his Resurrection.

Source of joy It is precisely through our gazing in adoration that the Lord draws us towards Him into His mystery in order to transform us as He transforms the bread and the wine.

The Saints never failed to find strength, consolation and joy in the Eucharistic encounter. Let us repeat before the Lord present in the Most Blessed Sacrament the words of the Eucharistic hymn Adoro te devote, “Devoutly I adore Thee: Make me believe ever more in you, Draw me deeply into faith, into Your hope, into Your love”.

BENEDICT XVI, General Audience, November 17, 2010

(via AnaStpaul – Breathing Catholic)

#corpuschristi #artcorpuschristi #june182017corpuschristi #solemnityofcorpuschristi #popebenedictxvi #catholic #catholicism

16 notes · View notes

soldier-poet-king · 3 months

Text

wild manic energy bc i finished old job and am starting new one tmrw, was listening to the witness for the dead on the bus again

GUESS WHO JUST SPENT AN HOUR AND A HALF WORKING ON THAT WEB WEAVE ON DIVINE SILENCE

#gonna post it in the next 20 min or so #just finishing up the sources #LITERALLY INSANE TIMES HERE. AFFECTIONATE #i am SO proud of it #it's been cooking since november #i never self rb but i am GOING TO THIS TIME #i need ppl to see #i need ppl to UNDERSTAND MY VISION #where are the divine silence = divine grace = divine absence = divine love understanders #WHERE ARE THEY #it's all the same thing and it's all emptiness and it's all overflowing and it's all burning. and all of these things are true #and it is still despair under it all. burning agonizing despair

14 notes · View notes

popeofmars · 1 year

Text

There are no words in even the root of this language for the depths of love and fulfillment that you do inspire in my heart. Nor for the ceaseless and ethereal beauty you grace my unworthy presence with each day that means more to me than life itself.

Too say I believe this to be true would be an insult unforgivable by any God foolish enough to call itself your equal. For one can only place belief in the hand of the unknown, and the only thing in this reality unknown to me in regards to you is if I will ever earn or deserve this passion this fire I keep for you in the hole where once beat before I placed it into your welcoming hands.

I have so often in my life written of love and lust and desire in the way preacher practices sermon. With an intensity that inspires any who hear and a folly only those who speak of things speak of the divine can have.

So shocked was I to find my life's work, the ideals I held so close, the love of an unexperienced idea in my mind to be shattered that you with that half smile and glowing eyes left me a poet, a writer, in a fugue state miles beyond speechless.

Absent of thought, lacking of breath, and totally void of the capacity to process the entirety of the idol before my undeserving eyes that I openly wept, knowing those rivers of my emotions falling from my face to be a better placeholder in my expression of devotion than my weakened and broken voice you hear now.

I do not love you in the way a two people love each other after hardship shared, or spoueses claim to love one another after years together. I love you in the way the rose the loves sun after a long winter has locked them apart. I love you in the way a gust loves a birdsong after a season of silence.

I love you the way a pod of whales loves the first breath above a wave after a long dive into the deep dark of the oceans they call home.

I love you in the way skin loves oil and water after a month under blazing sun and terrible sand. I love you in the way a lake loves the glacier that feeds it when winter returns and they meet again after a high summer has melted their embrace.

I love you in the way the sky loves the auroras, with a dance so brilliant and vibrant all who can witness are struck with awe.

All of this I say in hopes you can begin to understand I am your lake, your presence my glacier. My heart is the sky, dancing to the auroras that is your every glance. Your touch is my water, my oil, my Burns are the pain of your absence vanished with each embrace.

My mind is a gust of wind dormant and morose without the brilliance of the birdsong that is notion of your visage.

I hold my breath even now with these words flying from my lips as my hands shake from anxious worry making the roses I've brought for your sway with the wind of worry. Worry misplaced for time and time again you have declared such love for me is equally reciprocated even though I find it inconceivable that anyone can hold such love for someone as fractured and flawed as I yet here we are, two lovers Paramores and muses to one another.

I only hope that this moves you the way it has me for I can think of nothing sweeter, than to watch tears of joy roll down your perfect face and give life sustaining water to the buds and blossoms I extend toward you now.

#authors #love poem #poetry #sapphic #spilled poetry #writing #heartfelt

0 notes

orpheus-vault-blog · 7 years

Text

— the fire sermon.

topic: how the pied piper came to be. who: orpheus ahulani; hermes ahulani; joseph & katherine ahulani; theodora moreau. when: birth (1979) - the present day, more or less. where: the streets of verona. triggers: blood; murder; violence; fire.

“There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create.”

(T.S. Eliot -- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

[one] - O R I G I N ;;

He wailed when he was born.

Howled and howled until his lungs should have given out, until his throat should have been scraped raw and hoarse from the effort of so much crying. He drowned out the other infants in the ward, filled the ears of all the parents and nurses with the ringing sound of a baby’s squeals. He cried until it drove the paediatrician a little insane, until the man snapped and ordered the dark-haired terror moved away from the other children and into his mother’s room, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Suddenly, the babe that had spent the past two nights caterwauling so loudly that it almost cracked the hospital windows lay serene, peaceful, content. Suddenly, the nurses, stepping closer in perplexed relief, realised just how angelic this little cherub was, how beautiful his forest-coloured eyes were. Suddenly, Katherine’s hospital bed was constantly surrounded by a teeming crowd of well-wishers, passers-by with wide eyes and enraptured faces who cooed at the little boy clutched in her arms, who complimented her and her husband on having made something so perfect. They were not intelligent enough to understand him, these fools entranced by pretty eyes and an oddly magnetic aura, but as they looked into that tiny face, his parents comprehended the truth of their son’s existence, knew exactly what to name him to best capture this infallible gift that the gods had blessed him with. He would captivate the world over, they knew, could lead all the citizens of Earth to a watery grave if he only asked them nicely, and so they gave him a name befitting of such power, named him after the greatest, most captivating soul the mythological world had ever produced. Katherine and Joseph knew precisely who their son was, and what he could one day grow to become.

He wailed when he was born, but it was not wailing borne out of hunger, or fear, or absence, like most infant crying is. When he was born, Orpheus Ahulani cried because even then he knew that he didn’t want to be surrounded by other children, that the place he would receive the most adoration was in the arms of his dear parents. Even then, he knew precisely what he wanted.

And from then on he made sure he always got it.

[two] - F O R T I F I C A T I O N ;;

He wasn’t given anything as a child.

It was not for lack of love, because his parents reminded him constantly that they were impressed with the man he was becoming, and even if this wasn’t always made explicit Orpheus learned early on how to read the signs. No, he wasn’t given anything because such an upbringing formed an essential part of his tuition, because his parents wanted to form him into their master thief, their ideal conman, as early as they could, because they believed firmly in legacy and knew that their first son would be the one who carried that torch forward.

As soon as Orpheus was old enough to comprehend what stealing was, his father sat him down in a sunlit room and told him that this was his life, now, that he had to learn that if he wanted something, he had only to reach out and take it, and that the only thing to remember in this new life he was entering was don’t get caught. If he wanted a toy, his father pointed him in the direction of a rich little boy or girl who wouldn’t miss it. If he fancied a new item of clothing, his mother ushered him into a clothes shop without any money or a credit card on hand and made it clear that they wouldn’t leave until he’d lifted exactly what it was he desired. It was in no way a conventional childhood, but it was the perfect one for the kind of little boy Orpheus was, and the kind of man he hoped to be, because ever since he was young enough to really think for himself Orpheus knew that this was the life he wanted, knew that even if his ancestors had not been thieves he would have sought out a life of illicit activity for himself.

Orpheus was five years old and already he didn’t believe in excess, believed in taking exactly what you wanted so that you had enough to get by, that surrounding yourself with trinkets and empty vanities would not make you feel as alive as the rush of taking something that should never have been yours. He stole the toys or books he wanted, and when he was finished with them they were gifted to those he saw as being in need, those who made his otherwise static heart throb with a beat of compassion, and once the charitable deed was done that compassion evaporated, replaced with a burning desire to seek out the rush of theft again. His parents, his grandparents, stole and conned for that rush alone, but as he grew Orpheus felt a new sensation coursing through his blood when he stole, a sense of indomitable power, of control. He learned that he could dictate the emotions of others by doing something as simple as slipping his little hands into their bags or pockets, could make even the most arrogant man crumple and weep for what he had lost. Orpheus was six years old when he realised that, whilst his relatives saw themselves as something akin to demons when they stole, that some distant part of them regretted that they had not been granted the wherewithal to be more honest, when he stole he felt like GOD. He was only a little boy, and already he saw himself as a divinity, possessed that unique, self-affirming grace that obliged people to love him so much and blinded them to the truth of the power in his heart.

He was nine years old when his brother was brought home to him, when his parents pulled open the door to his room and presented the bundle of limbs and baby hair to him with beatific smiles and luminous eyes, and Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief because Joseph and Katherine finally had the child they needed to fill the hole that had been present in their hearts. He looked at his infant brother and knew that they would both be perfect sons, in their own way. Hermes was the son to love and be loved by, who would fill their home with laughter and warmth and shower their parents with gratitude and appreciation for their efforts in building a family. Orpheus had never been that son to them, it was made clear from the moment of his birth that he was not the child who would inspire happiness, no. Orpheus was the son to be proud of, the son who would pick up the Ahulani mantle and fortify the legacy his parents endeavoured to build, and such a momentous destiny could not be hindered by something as banal as love. Katherine and Joseph looked at the two boys sat by each other one day and knew in their hearts that Hermes was the son who would inspire love, but Orpheus, Orpheus was the son who would move MOUNTAINS.

This cavernous expanse of difference between the two brothers was made abundantly clear at every turn. “What do you want for your birthday, my boy?” Katherine asked her sons in July and November.

“To go to the zoo!” a three year old Hermes giggled, stretching out chubby little arms towards his mother’s neck, knowing that even though he was too old for her to carry him around in her arms she’d lift him into the air anyway, laughing in the way that only a child of the sunlight can as he pressed his face into her auburn curls.

“A better mark,” mused a twelve year old Orpheus, gaze sharp as a laser and expression almost defiant, focussed, seeking bigger and better challenges wherever he could get them. His last task had been to rob some elderly lady; hardly a challenge. He was twelve and fired up and knew exactly what he should be doing with his life. His mother looked distant but proud and he was rewarded suitably for his enterprise, and when he walked away from the jewellery store on his birthday, pockets full and alarm blazing uselessly behind him, Orpheus knew that he had finally been gifted the freedom to go about his business unhindered, that the time had finally come for the phoenix to rise from ash and cover the world in fire.

He tried his best to teach his brother the life of a con artist, to instil in Hermes the same fervour that hurtled through his veins at the speed of a freight train, but knew from the very beginning of his tutelage that his little brother was ruled more by his heart than by his head, that he was too passionate, too flighty, to ever truly excel. He should have celebrated the difference between them, should have been tolerant of this diversity, but the callous part of Orpheus looked at his brother and saw only a problem, a weak point, the tremor that could cause the entire house of cards to come tumbling down. He looked, and he listened, and he evaluated, and like any good problem solver he came to an uncompromising solution.

He was sixteen now, freshly tattooed and even more independent than he had once been (if such a thing were possible), and knew that his family could all let him down, with their emotions and their happiness and the familial bliss they seemed content to wallow in. There was potential to build a kingdom from their enterprise, to raise up palaces of iron and stone out of the dirt and to make themselves indomitable, but the Ahulanis had grown stagnant and lazy. For them, the things they had stolen until now had been enough, but Orpheus was never one to settle for sufficiency. He recognised that his family were resources, that if put to good use they could help him in his quest for immortality, and so like any chess grand master confronted with a board of uncooperative pieces Orpheus set about manoeuvring his nearest and dearest into position. He became prince and general to them all at once, an emperor to lead his troops into battle, to make ten men and women feel like ten thousand. If his relatives were shocked they did not know how to express it, and instead merely allowed this boy-king to manipulate them, knowing in their heart of hearts that he had already surpassed them both physically (he towered over everyone he met, and the breadth of his shoulders inspired both awe and apprehension) and metaphorically, intangibly, that his ambition and his drive were unparalleled and would likely never be seen again in any of their lifetimes.

”Why do you steal things?” Hermes asked him one day, nine years old and completely devoted to his older brother, ready to obey his every command without fail, overexcitable and unflinchingly loyal, firmly convinced that Orpheus was the most magnificent person in the entire universe.

Orpheus was eighteen now, officially a man (although he hadn’t been a boy for some time now) and didn’t care much about his younger brother’s devotion, saw it only as a useful weapon to be wielded, the perfect way of exercising control.

“Because it’s what I was born to do.”

[three] - P E R D I T I O N ;;

He should have known that it couldn’t last, that no kingdom could be erected from nothingness without a few complications, without the inevitable pitfalls and setbacks, but Orpheus saw his success and revelled in it, and in his revelry he allowed his eyes to fall blind to the dangers that lurked at the fringes of his accomplishments. But all fortresses have their weak spots, and weak spots are only discovered through the most bitter of tragedies, so that the castle can be redesigned, made ten times stronger.

He was out drinking when it happened, celebrating the latest in a long line of successful cons (everyone had told him that the Mary Jane couldn’t be pulled off by only one person, but as ever he’d proved his detractors bitterly wrong, and the look on that pompous dickhead’s face as he’d realised that he’d frittered away his ill-gotten life savings had been priceless), was enjoying his customary mix of expensive whisky and cheap cigarettes when his world shifted slightly on its axis, when its orbit fell out of sync for the briefest of moments.

His brother was seventeen and stupid like Orpheus had never been, and the latest in a long line of petty fights he’d gotten himself into (over a girl, no less) had taken a darker turn than usual. No one bothered to call the paramedics (rich people were too paralysed by centuries of inherited inaction, and too closely bound by a desire to protect their own), but even if they had there was nothing that anyone could have done.

Hermes Ahulani died ignominiously in the middle of one of Verona’s piazzas, hands, face and neck cut to pieces by shards of glass from the bottle he’d been attacked with, choking slowly, grotesquely to death in a pool of his own blood while his family looked on in horror, eviscerated by the sensation of their own utter helplessness.

It had all happened in a matter of mere seconds, too fast for anyone to process it, too fast for Orpheus, normally so perceptive, so quick to react, to leap out of his seat and intervene as he had done countless times before. They had all ignored the conflict brewing between the two youths, had passed it off as nothing more than adolescent males trying to burn off some excess testosterone. None of them had anticipated the rich brat’s cowardice, had foreseen him using that damned bottle of wine too expensive for its own good to cut Hermes down. One moment he was standing tall, buoyed up by surging adrenaline and the cockiness of teenage boys, and the next he was on the ground, crushed underfoot like the flower he had been, so much vitality spent in no more than five minutes. Orpheus had tried to stop the bleeding, had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones and clasped his hands around his brother’s throat, a futile effort to plug the seemingly endless leaks, and watched in what he dimly recognised as horror as his brother’s life-force leaked out between his fingers, staining his hands and the pavement below a tragic crimson.

As they watched the rich boy run away, face contorted into an expression of disgustingly entitled horror, no doubt seeking the protection of his parents and their wealth, Orpheus felt the walls of his heart close up completely, so that no feeling could ever again be let through. He shouldn’t have cried, for rulers never wept at the demise of their subjects, merely strode out amongst the common people and found new followers to take the place of the fallen, but the eldest and now only Ahulani brother allowed himself to shed a single tear that day. He hadn’t loved his brother in the conventional way, in the way that families are supposed to love one another, but he had felt something akin to his own brand of affection.

Hermes had never been much of a thief, had always been impulsive, loud-mouthed, capricious, all qualities that Orpheus manifestly disliked and had eradicated from his own personality. He laughed too much and stopped far too little, never waited to check what was around the corner, told his deepest secrets to just about any stranger with a kind enough face, and couldn’t hold his drink. They were polar opposites, these brothers, and Orpheus should have disdained his younger brother utterly, should have shown him nothing but contempt - after all, that was how he treated others whom he deemed unworthy. But the bonds of family are a strange thing, and whilst Orpheus cared little for his parents and grandparents, seeing them only as tools to help him build the world he craved, Hermes had always represented the people for whom he was trying to build this better world. Orpheus had never exhibited much kindness or goodness but he recognised its abundance in his younger brother, and despite himself he felt the need to see that goodness preserved, felt an obligation to create a realm in which his brother could lead the life that he deserved. Of all the people that he knew, and of all the people he would ever meet, Hermes was the only one Orpheus Ahulani had loved, and he didn’t deserve to have met his end before he’d even become a man, at the hands of a coward who had nothing to show for his life but money.

Before that fateful fay he’d been happy to let the elite lead their own gilded lives, as long as they didn’t get in his way, but as he watched his brother die Orpheus realised that the wealthy didn’t deserve to be ignored. They deserved to be BURNED, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it happen.

But the path to vengeance is never smooth, and for the first (and only) time in his life Orpheus was careless enough to let his rage cloud his better judgement.

It played out like a scene from an Oscar-winning film about the callousness of the wealthy, and the Ahulanis were all too crippled by their mourning to look up and see it coming. First the coroner ruled young Hermes’ death as accidental, having the gall to call the brat’s selfish action self-defence. Then witnesses began to fall curiously silent, saying that they hadn’t seen a thing, that all they had seen was the young poor boy picking a needless fight, that perhaps he deserved what he got, each of them singing to the rich family’s tune. The police were similarly uncooperative, muttering about the prevalence of crime in poorer neighbourhoods, the victim’s prior pattern of behaviour, the fact that he was known for being violent. One by one, each piece of the puzzle slid into place, until Hermes’ case was encircled by an impenetrable wall of bodies itching to exonerate Raffaello Brazzi at the behest of his parents. Outrage spread through the Ahulani ranks like wildfire, fuelled by a desire to see their son’s memory preserved, and when an emissary from Giuseppe Brazzi came knocking, offering the family their weight in gold if they were willing to chalk their son’s death up to a tragic accident, if they would just let bygones be bygones, Joseph Ahulani told the man exactly where he could shove his bribe. Orpheus had wanted to raze the Brazzi family to the ground from the beginning, to make sure that none of them ever drew breath again, but his mother, still on a perverse quest to reform her once criminal life, begged him to let them do things the right way, to try and build a legal case, and against his better judgement Orpheus ceded to her demands.

They must have banked on them all being home that day, must not have foreseen the possibility of Orpheus going out as soon as each new day dawned to search for new evidence. The fire was already out of control by the time he returned home, and he watched amber flames as tall as trees surge through the old building, a deathly cavalry tearing everything to pieces, a ravenous monster leaving no life in its wake. Had Hermes still been alive, had his brother been in the burning structure, Orpheus might have thrown caution to the wind and run inside to save him, but now he stood rooted to his spot, watching mutely as firefighters attempted to combat the unconquerable blaze, watching and watching and feeling nothing in his heart but anger.

Orpheus Ahulani was twenty-six years old and in the space of three weeks had lost all the family he’d ever known, and knew as he watched his childhood home, his ancestry, go up in flames, that he had been right all along, that his mother’s utopian desire for justice was untenable in a world such as this one, where the wealthy elite did nothing but take, smashing up people and things in their way without a second thought.

He wasn’t a religious man but in that moment he thanked whatever deity it was that had kept him alive, that had given him this purpose, and knew that no matter how far they ran or how well they tried to hide, the Brazzi family had signed away their lives the minute his brother had drawn his final breath. The wealthy were not afraid of anything except damaging their reputations, but Orpheus knew that his destiny was to make them experience real fear.

Orpheus was twenty-six years old, and he was coming for them.

[four] - R E T R I B U T I O N ;;

They didn’t run. It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, given that they thought their secret had been burnt to a crisp with the Ahulani home. A more patient man would have plotted his line of attack, would have ensured that there was no way for them to harm him, but Orpheus knew that he was indomitable, that the fact that he was the last Ahulani left alive made him untouchable by human hands. Ever one for boldness and grand gestures, he strode through the front doors of the Brazzi mansion with a machine gun slung over his shoulder and seated himself at the head of their dining table, and let the members of the family he hated most in the world crawl to his side, quivering like frightened sewer rats. He made no verbal or physical threats, didn’t utter a single word, in fact, merely sat there with his assault rifle lying on the table for all to see and cleaned his nails with a pocket knife.

The implication was clear.

Giuseppe Brazzi hid behind his wife’s skirts and shook with fear, and after what felt like a century of petrified silence his voice, cracked and weedy, echoed across the empty room.

“We’ll give you money,” he stammered, “more money that you could ever dream of.”

(He was wrong, because Orpheus had never been a dreamer but he could dream up quite a lot.)

“How much do you want?”

The silence as they awaited his reply was deafening, the response even more so.

“All of it.”

“All of it? You must be joking. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Orpheus didn’t even deign to look at the old man, merely laid his knife on the table. His terms were simple.

“You took everything from me, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.” Expression as blank and unfeeling as slate, he picked up the gun, caressing the trigger with a macabre kind of reverence. “All I have to do is squeeze.” Finally, he made eye contact with the Brazzi patriarch, and the fire burning in his green eyes made the man visibly wilt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

They should never have underestimated him. He was Orpheus, the last Ahulani, he walked in shadow and in flame, the prince who would one day rule the criminal underworld which had shaped him. He was the Devil’s advocate, his messenger, his brother, the same blood pulsed in his veins as had once flowed through the body of the first fallen angel. Marianna Brazzi hurled a litany of curses at him as he stripped her husband of his entire fortune, damned him a thousand times to the fiery pits of hell, and as Orpheus walked away from that house with all the money in the world he smiled Satan’s smile because he knew that her words had no power over him, that if there was damnation to come he would welcome it with open arms and an open heart. The Brazzis hoped fervently that it would be enough, that their riches would be enough to pacify the beast, to fill the void and guarantee his distance from them (his silence had been guaranteed long ago, the minute they chose to set his family ablaze). They should never have underestimated him.

It was not enough, Orpheus knew that from the moment they offered him the money. It would never be enough. He was not the kind man that so many of Verona’s poor made him out to be, he was not their saviour, their symbol, their martyr. The only pyre he would ever throw himself on was his own, and only when he was ready to leave the world that he had barely had the chance to make his mark on yet. It would never be enough. There was only one punishment that befit this crime, only one way to repay the bastards that had taken everything from him. He was good at stripping people of everything they held dear, of everything they loved, and this would be his magnum opus, his greatest theft. The Brazzi family had played with fire, and it was FIRE that would let them know the magnitude of their mistake.

Orpheus wouldn’t just fiddle whilst Rome burnt. He would conduct a whole fucking orchestra.

He came with darkness as his cloak, ensuring that the whole family was in one place before he acted, making sure that he didn’t make the same mistake they had. Once again, he strode in through the front door, but this time he had no gun on him, only a box of matches and a knife and the Devil’s hellfire in his heart. There were nine of them in the house - parents and seven children, and they all paid the price, because the question of their innocence had been rendered utterly void when they did everything they could to sweep his brother’s life under the carpet.

He made them bleed that night, stained the walls and the floors and the priceless antiques with vermillion and crimson and every other shade of red imaginable. He was an artist, like Jackson Pollock splashing the surface of the world, with the Brazzi home as his canvas and their blood as his paint. He took his sweet time with each family member, carving his rage and his revenge into their bodies, making sure that they were all awake to see the look in his eyes as he killed them, so that his face was the last thing they saw on this earth. Almost poetic, in a way; the most lyrical Orpheus had ever been in his life.

Raffaello was the last to die, a fate he had sealed for himself the minute he chose to raise his hand and end Hermes’ life. Orpheus let him crawl from his bedroom into the corridor, watched him leave a trail of blood behind him as he tried to drag his body away, and felt nothing more for the teenager than he would feel for a slug that had crawled into his path. The last thing Raffaello ever saw was the slow approach of Orpheus’ black boots and the twisted expression of macabre determination on his blood-flecked face. Lying there, surrounded by his own blood and the blood of his relatives, Raffaello Brazzi, murderer and coward, started to cry, and amidst his sobs he looked up at Orpheus and begged.

“Please, please, please, God, have mercy!”

“Mercy?” All Orpheus could do was laugh, the sound bitter and piercing in the mansion’s cavernous halls, lips contorting into an expression of pure disgust. “My brother might have shown you mercy. No, the only thing I can give you, the only thing you deserve, is my name. I am ORPHEUS AHULANI,” he proclaimed, raising the knife one last time. “Never forget it.”

[five] - E N D U R A N C E ;;

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, one fire for another. Orpheus torched their mansion to the ground, obliterating their family from the face of the Earth and making sure that no one by the name of Brazzi would ever darken the streets of his city again. He walked away from the burning wreckage with his head held high, proud frame silhouetted against a background of embers and flame, knowing that he would never face judgement for the crime he had committed (although he didn’t see it as such - to him, his actions were entirely justified, completely necessary, for there had been filth in his life and it had been successfully purged). Anyone who knew anything about Hermes Ahulani’s murder and the subsequent cover-up believed that he was dead, thought his whole family had been erased in order to let a killer go free simply because of his wealth. Orpheus knew that he was untouchable, and that finally the stage had been cleared for his life’s greatest work to begin.

He began slowly but confidently, disseminating news of his survival throughout the streets on which he had grown up. The paupers of Verona had been mourning their fallen prince, had feared the demise of their Robin Hood at the hands of the wealthy he stole from, and they were overjoyed to hear that their hero had been preserved, claimed that it was his virtue that had rescued him from the deadly inferno that had stolen his beloved family from them. Orpheus could have laughed at the irony of being presumed to be virtuous, but he let the rumour spread, let the streets ripple with rejoicing and relief, knowing that this jubilation would raise up a horde of soldiers for him. He whispered in all the right ears, smiled at all the right people, and used the outrage that had spread through the community upon the death of his family to galvanise the loyalty of every woman, man and child he laid his eyes on. The fortune he’d acquired wasn’t spent on himself, instead he began to dip into the pot of the vast wealth he’d suddenly accumulated to further magnify the people’s adoration, making sure that his charity was never too overt, that nothing more was ever said about his power than the odd whispered phrase. It was better this way, to be king from the shadows. It made him stronger.

He was only twenty-six and already more powerful than most men could become in five lifetimes, let alone one, and the whispers about him grew louder and louder, sparks that eventually ignited a forest fire of speculation, of mystery. Fires demand to be seen, to be heard, and one by one the influential figures in Verona began to take notice. Many approached him with offers of treaties and alliances, hoping that by taming Hades they could make his Underworld dance to their tune, but Orpheus knew the value of the kingdom he was poised to rule and the music that he wanted it to play, and so he turned each of them away, these men and women who claimed to be powerful, seeing through their charades of lies and always wanting something more.

It was a rainy day in October when Cosimo Capulet requested a meeting, and as he strode into the Cathedral, hair damp from the deluge outside, Orpheus knew that the right offer had finally come knocking on his door.

It was the first time he’d been into church to do anything other than steal, although equally illicit deeds were about to be performed under the Lord’s watchful gaze, bargains between the dark and the even darker, a treaty between two black kings who had each removed the white knights who threatened to stand in their way. Cosimo was shorter than Orpheus had expected, and with something of a wry smile he imagined that his brother would have informed the Capulet boss of that fact before he’d even sat down.

“Mister Ahulani, good of you to come.”

Orpheus acknowledged the pleasantry with a brief cant of the head, but didn’t bother to respond.

“Let’s make one thing very clear: if you’re here to offer me some hollow alliance, a way to take what I’ve built and sweep me to one side as soon as you get the chance, I’m walking out of here. The streets are no place for a man from your background, and you will never be able to control them like I can, no matter how much money or how many guns you have. We both know that you need me a lot more than I need you, Mr. Capulet, so go ahead, make your offer. I know you’re a smart man.”

Cosimo had to smile at that, knowing that his instinct about this young man had been correct. “My offer is simple, Orpheus, if I may call you that...” he trailed off, then, pausing to savour his triumph. “A good name you’ve got there. I like it.” Suddenly, he remembered himself, still smiling. “Yes, my offer is very simple: I want to give you the keys to a kingdom. Your kingdom. You can rule the underworld of Verona,” he intoned, sounding every inch the emperor he was, “you can rule it — with my hand to guide you.”

Outside, he could see the city lights sparkling through the stained glass. The rain had all but stopped, and Orpheus felt like he was flying.

“So what do you say?”

They’d both known the answer to the question the minute they’d laid eyes on one another, but Orpheus felt triumphant enough to say it anyway.

“Yes.”

[six] - C O M P L E T I O N ;;

And so Cosimo Capulet opened the gates that Orpheus had been longing to see open for as long as he could remember. With the might of the Capulet name behind him, he acceded to the throne that he was always born to sit on, knowing that Cosimo was intelligent enough to keep his distance, that he would never interfere. But even the king of kings could not know the extent of the ambition that lurked in Orpheus’ heart, a volcano of energy and zeal that was lying safely dormant, waiting for the perfect opportunity to erupt. For all the bullets in the world, he had weapons that were just as powerful - passion, emotion, the kind of burning fanaticism that only those who have nothing can muster. He accepted backing from the Capulets, played their game when they wanted him to, all the while conducting his own ruthless chess match in the shadows their eyes could not reach.

One day, he knew, he would build up the force to throw off the shackles of Verona’s elite, and so he bided his time, content to play the long game until such a time as it felt right to act.

But can a king ever really rule without someone by his side, without an ally of sorts, another half? Orpheus had had many lovers and companions throughout the course of his life, but none had captured his fancy for more than a fleeting instant, none of them could ever be considered worthy, and then he met Theodora Moreau in a hotel bar one night and the final piece of the puzzle seemed to have fallen into place.

It was not love that drew them together across a crowded room - love was for children, and idiots - but necessity, a flame that danced and sparked and seemed to hypnotise them both. He had heard them spoken of throughout the underworld and indeed above ground, had been privy to many whispers of the street kid who had risen beyond the stars, and the rumours had piqued his interest. He was in a corner booth at the bar in the Hotel Emelia, enjoying the low lighting and the whispered secrets that floated over to his ears from neighbouring tables, when he felt eyes on him and saw that they was standing directly in front of him. “You want to have sex with me,” they informed him curtly, lips pursed and head tilted contemplatively to one side, and Orpheus had to allow himself a laugh at their brashness. They were even more perceptive than he’d imagined. He had been watching them for most of the evening, out of the corner of his eye, allowing his gaze to drift with pleasure over their perfect form and that face, those eyes that were far more intelligent than he suspected many gave them credit for, finding himself drawn like moth to flame.

“Yes,” he answered, responding to openness with openness, quite enjoying this game to which they both seemed to know all the rules, “but a name would be nice, first. We are civilised people, after all.”

They looked him up and down with a hint of disdain (and damn, he was sold already), clearly thinking ‘well I, at least, am civilised, whether you are or not remains to be seen’, but seemed to deem him worthy of more than just an anonymous fuck in the hotel bathroom and sat down at his table instead. “Theodora Moreau.” They didn’t offer him their hand but he took it anyway, enjoying the way they shivered slightly as he brushed a kiss against their knuckles.

“Orpheus Ahulani.”

“It’s a pleasure,” they responded, withdrawing their hand back to their side, and for the life of him Orpheus couldn’t figure out why they were doing him the courtesy of such trivial pleasantries, but was mightily, mightily glad that they were.

“No,” he responded, taking a sip of his red wine and grinning, cat-like, in the half-light. “The pleasure is all mine.”

#( stories; )#d: the fire sermon #i know this is my para sample lol sue me but i wanted it on my blog #my navi page was looking woefully empty #title from t.s. eliot's 'the waste land'

2 notes · View notes

araitsume · 4 years

Text

The Desire of Ages, pp. 809-817: Chapter (85) By the Sea Once More

This chapter is based on John 21:1-22.

Jesus had appointed to meet His disciples in Galilee; and soon after the Passover week was ended, they bent their steps thither. Their absence from Jerusalem during the feast would have been interpreted as disaffection and heresy, therefore they remained till its close; but this over, they gladly turned homeward to meet the Saviour as He had directed.

Seven of the disciples were in company. They were clad in the humble garb of fishermen; they were poor in worldly goods, but rich in the knowledge and practice of the truth, which in the sight of Heaven gave them the highest rank as teachers. They had not been students in the schools of the prophets, but for three years they had been taught by the greatest Educator the world has ever known. Under His instruction they had become elevated, intelligent, and refined, agents through whom men might be led to a knowledge of the truth.

Much of the time of Christ's ministry had been passed near the Sea of Galilee. As the disciples gathered in a place where they were not likely to be disturbed, they found themselves surrounded by reminders of Jesus and His mighty works. On this sea, when their hearts were filled with terror, and the fierce storm was hurrying them to destruction, Jesus had walked upon the billows to their rescue. Here the tempest had been hushed by His word. Within sight was the beach where above ten thousand persons had been fed from a few small loaves and fishes. Not far distant was Capernaum, the scene of so many miracles. As the disciples looked upon the scene, their minds were full of the words and deeds of their Saviour.

The evening was pleasant, and Peter, who still had much of his old love for boats and fishing, proposed that they should go out upon the sea and cast their nets. In this plan all were ready to join; they were in need of food and clothing, which the proceeds of a successful night's fishing would supply. So they went out in their boat, but they caught nothing. All night they toiled, without success. Through the weary hours they talked of their absent Lord, and recalled the wonderful events they had witnessed in His ministry beside the sea. They questioned as to their own future, and grew sad at the prospect before them.

All the while a lone watcher upon the shore followed them with His eye, while He Himself was unseen. At length the morning dawned. The boat was but a little way from the shore, and the disciples saw a stranger standing upon the beach, who accosted them with the question, “Children, have ye any meat?” When they answered, “No,” “He said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find. They cast therefore, and now they were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes.”

John recognized the stranger, and exclaimed to Peter, “It is the Lord.” Peter was so elated and so glad that in his eagerness he cast himself into the water and was soon standing by the side of his Master. The other disciples came in their boat, dragging the net with fishes. “As soon then as they were come to land, they saw a fire of coals there, and fish laid thereon, and bread.”

They were too much amazed to question whence came the fire and the food. “Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught.” Peter rushed for the net, which he had dropped, and helped his brethren drag it to the shore. After the work was done, and the preparation made, Jesus bade the disciples come and dine. He broke the food, and divided it among them, and was known and acknowledged by all the seven. The miracle of feeding the five thousand on the mountainside was now brought to their minds; but a mysterious awe was upon them, and in silence they gazed upon the risen Saviour.

Vividly they recalled the scene beside the sea when Jesus had bidden them follow Him. They remembered how, at His command, they had launched out into the deep, and had let down their net, and the catch had been so abundant as to fill the net, even to breaking. Then Jesus had called them to leave their fishing boats, and had promised to make them fishers of men. It was to bring this scene to their minds, and to deepen its impression, that He had again performed the miracle. His act was a renewal of the commission to the disciples. It showed them that the death of their Master had not lessened their obligation to do the work He had assigned them. Though they were to be deprived of His personal companionship, and of the means of support by their former employment, the risen Saviour would still have a care for them. While they were doing His work, He would provide for their needs. And Jesus had a purpose in bidding them cast their net on the right side of the ship. On that side He stood upon the shore. That was the side of faith. If they labored in connection with Him,—His divine power combining with their human effort,—they could not fail of success.

Another lesson Christ had to give, relating especially to Peter. Peter's denial of his Lord had been in shameful contrast to his former professions of loyalty. He had dishonored Christ, and had incurred the distrust of his brethren. They thought he would not be allowed to take his former position among them, and he himself felt that he had forfeited his trust. Before being called to take up again his apostolic work, he must before them all give evidence of his repentance. Without this, his sin, though repented of, might have destroyed his influence as a minister of Christ. The Saviour gave him opportunity to regain the confidence of his brethren, and, so far as possible, to remove the reproach he had brought upon the gospel.

Here is given a lesson for all Christ's followers. The gospel makes no compromise with evil. It cannot excuse sin. Secret sins are to be confessed in secret to God; but, for open sin, open confession is required. The reproach of the disciple's sin is cast upon Christ. It causes Satan to triumph, and wavering souls to stumble. By giving proof of repentance, the disciple, so far as lies in his power, is to remove this reproach.

While Christ and the disciples were eating together by the seaside, the Saviour said to Peter, “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me more than these?” referring to his brethren. Peter had once declared, “Though all men shall be offended because of Thee, yet will I never be offended.” Matthew 26:33. But he now put a truer estimate upon himself. “Yea, Lord,” he said, “Thou knowest that I love Thee.” There is no vehement assurance that his love is greater than that of his brethren. He does not express his own opinion of his devotion. To Him who can read all the motives of the heart he appeals to judge as to his sincerity,—“Thou knowest that I love Thee.” And Jesus bids him, “Feed My lambs.”

Again Jesus applied the test to Peter, repeating His former words: “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me?” This time He did not ask Peter whether he loved Him better than did his brethren. The second response was like the first, free from extravagant assurance: “Yea, Lord; Thou knowest that I love Thee.” Jesus said to him, “Feed My sheep.” Once more the Saviour put the trying question: “Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me?” Peter was grieved; he thought that Jesus doubted his love. He knew that his Lord had cause to distrust him, and with an aching heart he answered, “Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee.” Again Jesus said to him, “Feed My sheep.”

Three times Peter had openly denied his Lord, and three times Jesus drew from him the assurance of his love and loyalty, pressing home that pointed question, like a barbed arrow to his wounded heart. Before the assembled disciples Jesus revealed the depth of Peter's repentance, and showed how thoroughly humbled was the once boasting disciple.

Peter was naturally forward and impulsive, and Satan had taken advantage of these characteristics to overthrow him. Just before the fall of Peter, Jesus had said to him, “Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat: but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not: and when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” Luke 22:31, 32. That time had now come, and the transformation in Peter was evident. The close, testing questions of the Lord had not called out one forward, self-sufficient reply; and because of his humiliation and repentance, Peter was better prepared than ever before to act as shepherd to the flock.

The first work that Christ entrusted to Peter on restoring him to the ministry was to feed the lambs. This was a work in which Peter had little experience. It would require great care and tenderness, much patience and perseverance. It called him to minister to those who were young in the faith, to teach the ignorant, to open the Scriptures to them, and to educate them for usefulness in Christ's service. Heretofore Peter had not been fitted to do this, or even to understand its importance. But this was the work which Jesus now called upon him to do. For this work his own experience of suffering and repentance had prepared him.

Before his fall, Peter was always speaking unadvisedly, from the impulse of the moment. He was always ready to correct others, and to express his mind, before he had a clear comprehension of himself or of what he had to say. But the converted Peter was very different. He retained his former fervor, but the grace of Christ regulated his zeal. He was no longer impetuous, self-confident, and self-exalted, but calm, self-possessed, and teachable. He could then feed the lambs as well as the sheep of Christ's flock.

The Saviour's manner of dealing with Peter had a lesson for him and for his brethren. It taught them to meet the transgressor with patience, sympathy, and forgiving love. Although Peter had denied his Lord, the love which Jesus bore him never faltered. Just such love should the undershepherd feel for the sheep and lambs committed to his care. Remembering his own weakness and failure, Peter was to deal with his flock as tenderly as Christ had dealt with him.

The question that Christ had put to Peter was significant. He mentioned only one condition of discipleship and service. “Lovest thou Me?” He said. This is the essential qualification. Though Peter might possess every other, yet without the love of Christ he could not be a faithful shepherd over the Lord's flock. Knowledge, benevolence, eloquence, gratitude, and zeal are all aids in the good work; but without the love of Jesus in the heart, the work of the Christian minister is a failure.

Jesus walked alone with Peter, for there was something which He wished to communicate to him only. Before His death, Jesus had said to him, “Whither I go, thou canst not follow Me now; but thou shalt follow Me afterwards.” To this Peter had replied, “Lord, why cannot I follow Thee now? I will lay down my life for Thy sake.” John 13:36, 37. When he said this, he little knew to what heights and depths Christ's feet would lead the way. Peter had failed when the test came, but again he was to have opportunity to prove his love for Christ. That he might be strengthened for the final test of his faith, the Saviour opened to him his future. He told him that after living a life of usefulness, when age was telling upon his strength, he would indeed follow his Lord. Jesus said, “When thou wast young, thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest: but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not. This spake He, signifying by what death he should glorify God.”

Jesus thus made known to Peter the very manner of his death; He even foretold the stretching forth of his hands upon the cross. Again He bade His disciple, “Follow Me.” Peter was not disheartened by the revelation. He felt willing to suffer any death for his Lord.

Heretofore Peter had known Christ after the flesh, as many know Him now; but he was no more to be thus limited. He knew Him no more as he had known Him in his association with Him in humanity. He had loved Him as a man, as a heaven-sent teacher; he now loved Him as God. He had been learning the lesson that to him Christ was all in all. Now he was prepared to share in his Lord's mission of sacrifice. When at last brought to the cross, he was, at his own request, crucified with his head downward. He thought it too great an honor to suffer in the same way as his Master did.

To Peter the words “Follow Me” were full of instruction. Not only for his death, but for every step of his life, was the lesson given. Hitherto Peter had been inclined to act independently. He had tried to plan for the work of God, instead of waiting to follow out God's plan. But he could gain nothing by rushing on before the Lord. Jesus bids him, “Follow Me.” Do not run ahead of Me. Then you will not have the hosts of Satan to meet alone. Let Me go before you, and you will not be overcome by the enemy.

As Peter walked beside Jesus, he saw that John was following. A desire came over him to know his future, and he “saith to Jesus, Lord, and what shall this man do? Jesus saith unto him, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? follow thou Me.” Peter should have considered that his Lord would reveal to him all that it was best for him to know. It is the duty of everyone to follow Christ, without undue anxiety as to the work assigned to others. In saying of John, “If I will that he tarry till I come,” Jesus gave no assurance that this disciple should live until the Lord's second coming. He merely asserted His own supreme power, and that even if He should will this to be so, it would in no way affect Peter's work. The future of both John and Peter was in the hands of their Lord. Obedience in following Him was the duty required of each.

How many today are like Peter! They are interested in the affairs of others, and anxious to know their duty, while they are in danger of neglecting their own. It is our work to look to Christ and follow Him. We shall see mistakes in the lives of others, and defects in their character. Humanity is encompassed with infirmity. But in Christ we shall find perfection. Beholding Him, we shall become transformed.

John lived to be very aged. He witnessed the destruction of Jerusalem, and the ruin of the stately temple,—a symbol of the final ruin of the world. To his latest days John closely followed his Lord. The burden of his testimony to the churches was, “Beloved, let us love one another;” “he that dwelleth in love, dwelleth in God, and God in him.” 1 John 4:7, 16.

Peter had been restored to his apostleship, but the honor and authority he received from Christ had not given him supremacy over his brethren. This Christ had made plain when in answer to Peter's question, “What shall this man do?” He had said, “What is that to thee? follow thou Me.” Peter was not honored as the head of the church. The favor which Christ had shown him in forgiving his apostasy, and entrusting him with the feeding of the flock, and Peter's own faithfulness in following Christ, won for him the confidence of his brethren. He had much influence in the church. But the lesson which Christ had taught him by the Sea of Galilee Peter carried with him throughout his life. Writing by the Holy Spirit to the churches, he said:

“The elders which are among you I exhort, who am also an elder, and a witness of the sufferings of Christ, and also a partaker of the glory that shall be revealed: Feed the flock of God which is among you, taking the oversight thereof, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind; neither as being lords over God's heritage, but being ensamples to the flock. And when the Chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away.” 1 Peter 5:1-4.

0 notes

soldier-poet-king · 3 months

Text

*ps5 voice* SEE MY VISION BOY

#okay jokes aside that was a labor of love and also intense religious despair! they are the same thing!!!#truly #where are the divine silence = divine grace = divine absence = divine love understanders #it is text heavy i KNOW but i am word creature #i love visual art #bbut it is the words that haunt me at night and roost in my heart and infect me

7 notes · View notes

365news · 5 years

Text

How COZA Pastor, Biodun Fatoyinbo raped me – Timi Dakolo’s wife alleges

0 notes