#Steppes of Infinity

[artphotographyofmen]

Northwind by Alex Garcia, colors by David Stepp

[ddeonghwa-s]

a moment between infinity .ᐟ.ᐟ

reuniting with your soulmate in the space between one life and the next.

꒰୨୧꒱— jeon wonwoo x reader

꒰୨୧꒱— wc is approx. 2.5k.

꒰୨୧꒱— genre : themes of love, romance; angst

꒰୨୧꒱— tropes : reincarnation, reuniting after life, soulmates

꒰୨୧꒱— cw : themes of life and death, discussion of physical separation, missing life events due to death, lives cut short.

꒰୨୧꒱— tw : for discussion of dying young/living life unfilled

꒰୨୧꒱— notes : thank you lexi @heechwe for beta reading! this sounds depressing but i swear there's tons of love in there!

you see wonwoo as soon as you step out from beneath the shade of a tree you don’t remember walking under. the sun, for a fleeting moment, is overly bright. it pierces your eyes with its light, horribly brilliant and blinding. 

you don’t want to look away from wonwoo; don’t want to close your eyes for even a second. 

the pain you feel from the sunlight is immense, and before you can comprehend the desire, the most rudimentary of all wants, so much so that it’s a need, you are blinking your eyes against the cruelty of the sun. 

he’s still there when you open them. 

(he wasn’t the last time you blinked at him.)

(a moment of stillness, of a deep breath taken before plunging into freezing waters; of the last gasp for clean air before being consumed by flame; of a desperate choke for life as death swings its decisive sword.)

(you remember this.)

(and yet you don’t.)

(it’s weird, you think between the pauses of forever, between one breath and the next, how everything and nothing exists so closely intertwined.)

wonwoo smiles. it isn’t that blinding smile of pure exhilaration you so distinctly remember the twelfth time as the two of you looked down from the bow of the ocean liner, waving down at the citizens of south hampton that had come to bid the ship farewell. instead it was his soft, slowly-growing smile that took you back to the second time, to that little ger on the eurasian steppe, holding your first ever son. 

wonwoo opens his arms. 

naturally you go into them. 

the world is made up of pairs, you know, the wisdom of nothing and everything, of finity and infinity, surrounding you. north and south; up and down; sky and earth; you and wonwoo. two things, concepts, beings so closely intertwined that to force one from the other is to break the thin threads of the cosmos. 

and so, like the sky embracing the earth, you go into wonwoo’s arms. 

he’s wearing the outfit you saw him last. his auburn corduroy shirt jacket smells of gasoline still (for him the last sixty years were a mere handful of hours; for you, a lifetime. and so the scent of death still sticks to him as if no time had passed at all, despite.) and when he lifts his arms to wrap them around you, to envelope you into his body, you can see the turquoise scrunchie he had kept on his wrist for you peak out from his sleeve. 

“i’m sorry,” he says. his voice is as deep as you remember. wonwoo presses his nose into your hair. you burrow your face into him, seeking out this natural scent, trying to bypass all the smells of death. “you said we didn’t need more tape, that it’d be fine.”

“i said we didn’t need tape,” you agreed. there had been moments you felt such overwhelming anger towards wonwoo for going despite you arguing otherwise. this, between nowhere and everywhere, was void of such feelings. instead you pressed your nose deeper and deeper, hands grabbing at his shirt. 

“i wanted to make sure we could finish wrapping presents before your mother arrived,” wonwoo said. “i wanted everything to be perfect.”

they found a ring on him, after; a simple silver band and diamond. 

“i know.” 

you shifted. 

wonwoo sighs into your hair. “i’m sorry. i wish – i have a thousand wishes. a thousand wishes for a thousand lifetimes. would you ever forgive me?”

you hum. you think of a land impossibly far, of a lifetime where you sobbed as wonwoo explained he had to leave, had to fight; how easy it was for you to resume that rage once he returned from the war, missing an arm and a chunk of his ear but still breathing and smiling. 

(sometimes he didn’t return.)

(sometimes you didn’t return.)

(those times, you knew, were seldomly seen. your universes, your forevers, were large, ever-expanding tapestries sewn by the threads of your lives. more often than not, nearly always, the threads revealed a beautiful picture of life and love and contentment; of a small forever trapped within a shared lifetime.)

(seldomly did the threads show another picture.)

(you think back to that ocean liner. to how cold it was; to how he disappeared for a heavier jacket and never returned, to how you slipped and fell and were submerged in a cold unlike any other –) 

“i forgive you each and every time,” you mumble into his shir.t. “just as you do me. i don’t think we’d have as many lifetimes together if we didn’t at least like one another.”

“ew,” he says, voice still gentle despite the teasing sentiment of his words, “you like me?”

as if you hadn’t fallin in love with wonwoo for fifteen generations in a row; as if your soul hadn’t sought his; as if you didn’t press yourself into his arms with every breath between lives, trying to memorize his scent and soul before the both of you take the plunge into the next life. 

“you have to stay with me next time,” you say. you try to keep your voice from cracking; it doesn’t work. you’ve shed a million tears for a million lifetimes – fifteen, to be exact, but math isn’t the sort of thing one worries about in places like this, places where everything of the past exists and nothing of the future; where you bear the weight of fifteen lifetimes on your shoulders knowing none of it will matter. 

“you can’t leave me,” you cry into his shirt. you can feel his chest heave underneath you, can feel the earth and not-earth shift beneath the two of you as wonwoo wraps you tighter in his arms. “you can’t leave me this time. not to fight a war that isn’t yours; to get a jacket; to pick up tape. you can’t leave me alone. i can’t handle another lifetime without you.”

wonwoo’s sob is the quiet, heart-wrenching of one that bubbles out despite all attempts to quell it. you can feel his body lurch against you from the force of it. his weeping is ugly, the sounds of his gasps in your ear loud and wholy unpleasant. 

the two of you cry against one another, clutching at one another. you’ve lived more lives together than apart, have memorized the wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes the older he gets, have learned the breathing patterns of his sleep. 

but still – 

the thought of parting is one you never bear. perhaps if you were a stronger soul it would be easier; perhaps if your soul loved his less it would be easier. 

you think back to the past sixty years. and then you think of your lives from the far past. only a few had forced either of you to live without the other, but the pain of them drowns out the happiness of any other. happiness, you have learned, is a golden thing that only seems to truly glow when the moment has long past, when you look back and think ah, that was an evening well spent. 

pain, on the other hand, is brilliant and loud and sharp. it demands its victim to focus on it. and so despite the lives you and wonwoo have spent beside one another, growing to old, shriveled ages in contentment, the pain of loneliness, of the heartbreak of knowing you would lie without the other half of your small universe, of living without your moon or sk or true north, of the other half of your pair that made up the galaxies and cosmos; of knowing you would never be whole. 

that is why the two of you cry. 

“i won’t leave you,” wonwoo promises. neither of you mention how the promise is empty. he cannot and will not remember any word said in this infinite space, during this small and endless moment between infinity. 

he won’t remember the press of your body against his. he won’t remember how you’re crying against him, how he vows to you, himself, and the universe he won’t leave you stranded in a lifetime again. 

(you remember the first lifetime. you remember the tall grasses of your village, of how you and wonwoo would duck down into them to press full-mouthed kisses to one another’s skin, ignorant and naive and happy in your first life. 

you force yourself not to remember how it felt when your uncle agreed to your marriage to a village that would take nearly a year for you to travel to. how it felt to know that despite the fact your love for wonwoo was greater than any force in the cosmos the two of you still answered to those on earth.

you had promised yourself you would never leave him again. that your second lifetime and all the ones after it would be spent at his side and no one else’s.

you promise yourself this once more. 

the universe says nothing in reply.)

wonwoo leans back, sniffling. his nose is red. he raises his hands up to your face, shaking. when wonwoo kisses you it’s wet and there’s spit and snot, but you lean into it as if it were the sealing kiss of a wedding.

“tell me what you loved,” he begs. “you loved after me. tell me.”

you nod. heartbreak lasts forever, and so does love. love is not something that begins and ends with one person; it is everlasting and multifaceted, existing in the smallest, most inconsequential of things. 

“jungkookie got me a puppy,” you say, voice still wet from crying. “i told him it was too much, that i didn’t have the energy for it. he said that was what i needed.”

wonwoo grinned at the mention of his brother. he leaned forward, tucking his forehead into your neck. “what was it’s name?”

“it was a mutt,” you say, “but i remembered how much you love that movie, the fox and the hound. so i named it copper.

“it was black,” you carry on, grinning at wonwoo’s chuckles that he presses into your skin. “jungkookie said it was a lab-shepherd mix. i couldn’t tell the difference.”

“copper the black pup,” wonwoo says. “what else?”

the sun is gentle in its caresses against your flesh, the breeze sweet in its dance. you and wonwoo settle against grass, curling into one another. you can’t raise your voice too much due to the close proximity, and so each word is a tender thing. 

you tell wonwoo of the red forbidden palace jungkook’s son took you to see during a school trip and how, despite the fact you could hear cars honking, it felt as if you were transported hundreds of years into the past. 

you tell wonwoo about the little bookstore that opened up next to his father’s dentist shop. of the tall, towering bookcases; of the cats that lived within; how as soon as you stepped inside you were met with the smell of real wood. 

you tell wonwoo of a little stray kitten you found in your forties, of how you named it romeo for how clingy it was. 

(“i still say we should’ve forced that bastard to write in an acknowledgement that it was our story he was writing,” wonwoo says, tracing the curve of your cheek. “he gets far too much recognition for his genius as it is.”)

he laughs when you tell him about seeing warwick castle for the first time in this lifetime, about the feeling of having been there despite not remembering. he teases you for it with memories of your tenth lifetime, of running down stone halls with you. 

“we’ll go again,” he says. he presses his nose against yours. you grab his hand, lacing your fingers together. “we can get married there just like we did back then.”

you huff a laugh. “if it’s still there. you said that about persepolis.”

“how was i to know that damned macedonian prince would burn it to the ground,” wonwoo laughs. he grows somber, staring at you with deep brown eyes. “how much time do you think has passed?”

you shrug, thinking. time exists and it doesn’t. here, in this sunny pasture, it’s as if time doesn’t exist at all. that cannot be said for when you wake. 

either a year has passed or two hundred; this cannot be said for sure. 

you and wonwoo both were born within five years after the sinking of the titanic, of dying those horribly cold and wet deaths. you died, the two of you would later realize, thirty years before the destruction of persepolis and were reborn five hundred years later. 

and so that is how time flows. 

“well,” wonwoo says, “it’s not like it matters.”

“no?”

“as long as there’s still trees and air we’ll be okay.”

you gasp, having expected something horribly romantic. you’re not sure why you expected this. you gently shove his shoulder all the same, scolding wonwoo for his jest. 

later, though neither of you can say how much time later, you stare up at the sky. the clouds move. the sun keeps at the same position. 

“when do you think we’ll find one another?”

“you know we can’t decide that.”

“guess anyways,” you demand. 

wonwoo wiggles against the dirt. “you’ll move schools in high school,” he announces, “and i’ll be utterly bewitched by the new girl. she’ll be beautiful and sweet, and i won’t say anything at all.”

“that’s not a very good love story.”

“but then we’ll meet again,” he carries on, eyes tracing the fluffy curves of a cloud. “and i’ll be older and more confident. it’ll be at a college bar. you’ll still be beautiful, of course. and i’ll go up to you and say ‘hey, i knew you in high school.’ you’ll smile at me despite not quite remembering. then we’ll meet again and again, and our lives will become intertwined.”

you look at the blue infinity above you as if it could reveal anything. you wanted to know the secrets of it; how to live for forever with wonwoo, how to meet him earlier and spare no time loving one another. 

you want there to be a forever of this. of being by wonwoo’s side, of having him there beside you. you don’t know how many years you’ve spent without him in total; how many have been spent with him. whatever the answers are, you know it’s either too many or too few. 

there’s somewhere, you want to believe, where you and wonwoo can spend eternity side by side without separation; without life or death pulling you from each other’s side. there’s somewhere, you have to believe, where you can spend every happy moment with wonwoo. where you don’t have to spend this small infinity telling him about the little joys you’ve encountered in the years since he’s passed. 

you close your eyes. you can feel tears sting at the corners of them. the breeze muses your hair. all you want is to be with him, to have him at your side, to hold his hand every day and for the rest of the days. 

where your promises if i won’t leave you mean something, where they do more than just shift the air around you. 

you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with pure air. 

and then

[yourlittlebunnyy]

a court of shadows and darkness

masterlist - previous chapter - next chapter

chapter three

summary: Selaene, Rhysand's sister, Azriel's mate runs away after the High Lord of Spring tries to kill her.

warnings: death

enjoy! <3

"Mother! Selaene! Father!" Rhysand's voice echoes through the mountains, but the Illyrian Steppes remain silent before his prayers. With his hands in his hair, his grip so tight it tears them apart, the male's knees give way, and at this point, he does not care who sees him. Sobs shake his entire body as he slumps to the ground, and he does not even feel the frozen snow soaking his clothes. He feels nothing but the pain of that loss. All he can do is think, after his family was killed, that it was all his fault. His sister had tried to call him, but he did not arrive in time, and now they are all dead. He opens his eyes just wide enough to look at the patch of his mother's blood mixed with Selaene's blood smearing the white snow. The sight is almost poetic. He will get his revenge, whoever was the bastard who killed two of the most important people in his life. And his father.

He hears footsteps behind him but he doesn't compose himself, not caring who might see the future High Lord of the Night Court in that state.

"Brother...," it's Cassian, he realizes. He lays a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"Get the fuck away." And as he has arrived, he leaves, silent. Around him, a gentle breeze caresses his face, the only uncovered part of him. It should be icy but tepid, as if it were a last goodbye, a last cuddle from his family before they leave forever. More sobs make his body shake. He takes off his gloves and slips his hands into the snow, the pain in his scalp fades and he immediately regrets it. But it's quickly replaced by the snow that is so cold it burns his palms. He deserves it, he thinks, he deserves it after failing to protect those he loves.

He stays there an indefinite time. His clothes are soaked and the sun is setting, now the air is so cold it freezes his bones, and Rhysand stands up shivering like a small child.

Before he leaves he makes a promise to himself. It doesn't matter how, only that no one he loves will ever die from his lack of attention again. He will never again fail in his task. With one last look at the blood-stained snow, an action he is not ready to do-but must, he leaves, leaving his mother, father, and sister for one last time. When he returns to the Wind House, he does not find Azriel. He enters and each step seems heavier than the last. He does not bother not to drag his wings, does not care about appearances. Even breathing becomes too strenuous. He finds Cassian sitting at the table, his cheeks streaked with tears. At the sight of his brother so grief-stricken Rhysand cannot hold them back himself. He sits at the table with him, the house so cold and empty without the laughter of the two females. He wonders if one day he will forget even the sound of their voices.

"Azriel?" he asks after what seems like infinity. The broken voice reaches Cassian's ears distantly. When he answers, his voice is a reflection of his brother's. "He... he's gone mad, Rhys."

A heavy silence fills the air with tension.

"I'm going to kill him, Cassian."

"I know, Rhys. I know. But Azriel may already be thinking about it."

Cassian looks at his brother in the eyes. His gaze dull, his eyes red and puffy. They make him look centuries older. The warrior believes that he himself is in the same condition as Rhysand. Selaene and her mother have also been his family, have been the only family.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No. He woke me up at dawn after he heard-he heard Selaene die from the bond. Goddamn, Rhysand." The brother's voice cracks so hard. They have never cried like this in the nearly seventy years they have known each other. Rhysand watches the Illyrian warrior, his brother, fall apart before him. Something in his gaze changes.

"Find Azriel. I'll take care of the bastard." At the change in his brother's tone, Cassian lifts his face in surprise. "Do you-do you know who-?"

"Who could it have been but Tamlin'." He points this out in a voice so distant that the warrior wonders how he can plan a murder under these conditions. "Brother, I don't think-"

"No, Cassian. Find Azriel and let me have my revenge."

The warrior can do nothing but nod. Before he goes, he takes one last look at his brother. The icy voice is not reflected in his expression, still heartbroken. When he is about to leave the room, he turns a small bow to him. Now, Rhysand is a High Lord.

"NO!", Azriel's screams wake Cassian. His brother did not scream, ever. Not even when he had nightmares, not even when he was being tortured did he ever scream.

He can do nothing but grab the dagger hidden under the mattress and run to his room. What he certainly did not expect was to see his brother kneeling, sobs wracking his entire body, hands clutching his chest at heart level. When he heard his brother enter the room and looked up, Azriel's eyes are of pure pain.

"Azriel... what's going on?" He approaches him and kneels before him, the dagger forgotten on the ground at the doorframe, two strong hands rest on his shoulders to give him support.

Azriel rises hastily, trembling knees not offering him too much stability causing him to stagger slightly. Cassian is worried-he has never seen his brother in such a condition.

"Selaene..." he manages to gasp and a pain expands in the warrior's chest. "Azriel. Speak, Selaene what? What has happened?"

"The bond. I don't... I can't hear it anymore, Cassian. It's empty." His brother's cracked voice shatters him.

"I-I thought you wanted to accept the bond."

"No, Cassian. I don't..." Azriel takes a short pause, a long breath, and Cassian has never been more agitated. If he is not suffering because he was rejected, what else could have happened that is so terrible? "I don't feel her anymore. She is..." But Azriel cannot finish the sentence. He can't. The sobbing that beats him is so violent that the warrior has to hold him up as the ShadowSinger cries on his shoulder. He himself cannot stop the tears. The situation is so surreal.

"Azriel." His voice is broken, like when he was a baby is crying in Rhysand's mother's arms. "I swear if this is a joke-"

" Fucking hell, Cassian. It's not a fucking joke." His brother's voice is so harsh that he feels guilty for even thinking it.

"I have to go." He suddenly breaks away from the comforting grip.

"Azriel, brother..."

But before he can even finish the sentence, Azriel disappears into his shadows.

463 years later

"I have never entered your room, Azriel. It is an honor." Feyre's voice and her little comment make Azriel smile slightly.

"I like to ... keep my own space." The Fae smiles at her words, and the Illyrian notices the female's gaze wandering around the room. Too much for his liking.

Her eyes land on a romantic book, one that Nesta has recommended to him and he is far too kind to tell her he will never read. The Fae picks it up and lifts it to show him, a feline smile breaks across her bright face. "Uh-huh. I didn't know the much-feared Spymaster read such impurities!"

An amused snort escapes his throat, but he doesn't respond further. He lets Feyre take a closer look at the room and comment on every single thing in it-not that he has many, fortunately. This is exactly why he does not like it when people enter his room.

As the young Fae continues to browse through his things, he heads to the real reason he brought Feyre to his room. The damned paperwork that his High lord desperately need for some reason.

"Fey. You're supposed to be looking for the reports, not the dirty books your sister lends me."

"Ah! But look at you going all defensive," she chuckles, and Azriel struggles to hide the smirk that lights up his face, "there's nothing wrong with wanting to read a little pepper every now and then." She laughs again after seeing the Shadowsinger roll his eyes.

"Oh...," Azriel pays no mind to whatever caught the Fae's attention, probably another piece of junk. "Az?"

"Yes?"

"Who-who is it?"

The Illyrian warrior's entire body stiffens at such words, somehow knowing full well what, who he is referring to.

"She is... it's gorgeous." The tone suggests to him that she is speaking more to herself than to him. But Selaene is still an open wound for him, and he is not ready to talk about it, and perhaps never will be.

After her death he simply ignored the pain, doing nothing about it. Rhysand became High Lord and he was made Spymaster, he begged his brother to send him on so many missions that he forgot about Selaene. Of course, he did not succeed. But at least he was busy and time made things better. But every time she is mentioned ... he still feels that unbearable emptiness in his chest, and it would hurt less if his heart was ripped out of his chest alive.

"Is that Rhys's sister?" Feyre's question brings him back to reality. He stares at her for a long time, and the Fae cannot help but notice the pain that flashes in his eyes, pain so fiery and burning. His eyes blur, as if inside his head he is replaying memories. When he does not respond, she speaks again.

"Rhys told me about her. But I didn't know you were related."

Azriel still does not answer, and Feyre realizes that he will probably never answer. She feels like a bad person for asking such intrusive questions, and feels the need to make up for it.

"I'm sorry, Az. I didn't mean to bring back bad memories."

Azriel wanted to yell at her, to get out, to not speak about her.

He wanted to scream that she was not a bad memory, but he could not. It had been decades since anyone had mentioned Selaene.

It had been decades since anyone had mentioned Selaene. Sure, above his bed there is a painting of her that he stares at every morning as soon as he wakes up and every night before he goes to sleep. Gods, there are days when he sits on his desk and stares at her for hours, unable to look away. But this is different. Someone talking about his dead mate in front of him is different. He is not ready to voice his thoughts, and perhaps never will be.

"Maybe ... maybe I should go. Don't... forget about the papers, I'm sure Rhysand doesn't need them that much."

Azriel watches her leave her room, and hates the look he receives. Compassion. The look he gets from his brothers whenever they see him alone at a ball, or the look he gets whenever a bond is mentioned.

He stares again at the painting of his beloved, and lets the memories he has of her calm his mind and the shadows obscure his vision, as if to put a wall between him and reality.

He wonders when was the last time he heard her voice, her laugh, her name on his lips. And when he tries to remember the sound of it, he can't. He has forgotten Selaene's laughter.

After almost a century of it not happening, Azriel lets tears flow freely down his face and sobs fill the room, careless of who might hear. The shadows themselves, who loved his female as much as he did, cry and call her name, as if at any moment, she might return. As if she simply went out on an errand.

He wonders how his brothers would look at him now, weeping for a lover lost almost five centuries ago. Who knows how much compassion he would find in their looks.

next chapter

[swan-of-sunrise]

Wandavision (The Scarlet Witch Saga, Part I)

Summary: (Y/N) meets with S.W.O.R.D.’s Director Hayward in an attempt to reclaim Vision’s remains for burial but after Wanda makes an unexpected and hostile appearance at their headquarters, both women uncover far more than they’d originally bargained for…

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Hi guys! Sorry it's been so long between stories, but I've been taking care of my mother post-hip replacement surgery and I haven't had very much free time to write. However, I found the time to finish this little angst-filled one-shot up, so yay! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Wandavision Part I of The Scarlet Witch Saga November 2023 S.W.O.R.D. Headquarters, Florida (Superhero Snapshots Masterlist)

“I’m sorry, Mrs. (Y/L/N), but Director Hayward’s itinerary is completely booked-”

“And yet, I was assured over the phone by his secretary that he would finally be available to meet with me today at eleven o’clock, which is…” (Y/N) made a show of pulling back the sleeve of her blouse to look at her watch. “Right now. I don’t appreciate being given the runaround, so I suggest that you give his office another buzz before I come back with a few Avengers; believe me, they won’t be as friendly and accommodating as I am.”

The security guard gulped, snatching up his phone’s handset and hastily punching in the extension to Director Hayward’s office as (Y/N) leaned against his desk and looked up at the towering screens that lined the lobby’s walls. News footage from all across the world played one after the other, each of them depicting families being reunited and celebrations taking place in the wake of the Battle of Earth, and a wistful smile tugged on the corner of her lip. Although it had been nearly three weeks since they’d completed their Time Heist and Bruce utilized the Infinity Stones to bring the Vanished back, she still couldn’t quite believe that they’d done it; Carina, Sam, Bucky and every other friend and teammate they’d lost that traumatic day five years ago in Wakanda was back. But as the news footage changed to coverage of Tony and Natasha’s deaths and all the memorial services being held across the world in their honor, (Y/N)’s smile fell and she quickly averted her gaze from the screens.

In the wake of Tony and Natasha’s deaths, it had fallen to (Y/N) to pay a visit to S.W.O.R.D.’s headquarters in Florida to retrieve Vision’s body and arrange for his burial. Fury had pulled several strings before departing for space and finally managed to uncover where the android’s body was being held, even going so far as to discover that there were several proposed plans floating around the organization to study his remains for the development of high-tech weapons. Since her fellow Avengers were busy helping to re-stabilize Earth and countless other planets across the galaxy and Steve was at home with Carina – and, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Steve Rogers was presumed dead after the Battle of Earth – (Y/N) volunteered to represent the Avengers in a meeting with Director Tyler Hayward to discuss the return of the fallen Avenger’s body. Now, why do I get the feeling that S.W.O.R.D. isn’t just going to hand over Vis out of the goodness of their hearts, she thought to herself with a frustrated sigh, mindful of the half-healed cut across her stomach (an aggravating physical memento from her brief clash with Thanos) as she straightened her posture and looked out at the bustling lobby.

“Oh shit…” (Y/N) swore under her breath as she spotted none other than Wanda Maximoff striding towards the security guard’s desk; the younger woman’s expression was nothing short of incensed, with her green eyes blazing and her lips pressed into the thinnest of lines, but her expression subtly softened when her gaze landed on (Y/N). With the memory of Wanda’s near-defeat of the Mad Titan still fresh in her mind, she pushed herself off the desk and stepped forward to deescalate the situation before it began. “Wanda, I tried to call but all I got was your voicemail-”

“I was tracking down a lead when you called, and I came down here the moment I listened to your message,” The younger woman interrupted, and she looked around the busy lobby with an air of suspicion. “So, this Director Hayward has agreed to meet with you?”

(Y/N) nodded. “Yes, but now that I’m here, they’re trying to tell me that I was never penciled in and that his schedule’s fully booked for today.”

Wanda’s eyes briefly glowed scarlet as her lip curled up and without another word, she brushed past (Y/N) and stormed up to the security guard’s desk. “I know you have him.”

“I-I’m sorry, but like I already told Mrs. (Y/L/N)-”

“Please…” She trailed off when she spotted the nearest armed guards tighten their grips on their weapons and while (Y/N) cautiously moved to stand beside her, she took a steadying breath and forced herself to calmly continued. “Please. When I came back, he was gone. His body…” Her voice shook with barely-restrained emotion and her fingers anxiously tugged on the cuff of her jacket’s sleeve. “And I know he’s here. He deserves a funeral, at least. I deserve it.”

The security guard’s growing discomfort was alleviated by the ringing of his desk phone; with a barely-perceptible sigh of relief, he snatched up the receiver and listened to the speaker on the other end of the line. “Yes, sir. Yeah, she’s still here.” Out of the corner of her eye, (Y/N) watched Wanda stare intently at the security camera affixed to the wall behind the desk and a shiver ran down her spine; I’ve got a bad feeling about all this, she thought to herself, her fingers anxiously twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger. “Are you sure? O-Of course…” The security guard’s forehead was beaded with sweat as he set the receiver down and looked back up at (Y/N). “Through the doors, down the hall. Two lefts and a right.” Wanda pushed herself off the desk and started towards the guarded double doors off to the side, forcing (Y/N) to flash him a fleeting smile of thanks and hurry after her. “One moment, I have to buzz you in.”

“I got it, thanks!” Wanda’s voice dripped with sarcasm and before anyone could react, she lobbed a ball of scarlet-hued energy towards the locked double doors that forced them open, the walls shuddering as they slammed against them; ignoring the stares of dozens of security personnel, armed guards and employees and the uncomfortable tugging on her stitches, (Y/N) quickened her pace and fell into step with the younger woman. “You disapprove of my methods, don’t you?”

(Y/N) hummed thoughtfully and followed it up with a half-hearted shrug. “Well, they did try to waste my time back there, time that I’d much rather spend with my husband and newly-returned daughter, so I can’t say that I entirely disapprove. But Wanda…” They turned left and continued walking down the hall. “We’ve got to play this carefully. Do you know what S.W.O.R.D. stands for?”

“Honestly, I don’t care,” Wanda snapped, but quickly grew contrite when she caught sight of (Y/N)’s arched brow. “Sorry. What does it stand for?”

“Sentient Weapon Observation and Response Division. A few years ago, they redirected most of their resources to studying and developing robotics, nanotechnology and A.I.; they essentially stopped studying and began to both design and build their own weaponry.” They turned another corner and (Y/N) carefully weighed her words before continuing. “My point is that this organization might’ve once been dedicated to defending Earth from extra-terrestrial and extra-dimensional threats, but they’ve evolved into quite a formidable agency and one that won’t easily bow to external pressure. We’re Avengers and we just saved the world, but that doesn’t mean that things can’t and won’t go south if we burst into this asshat’s office and start making demands.”

Pursing her lips, Wanda ruminated on her statement and as they turned right into an empty hallway, she shook her head in disbelief. “So, you’re suggesting diplomacy for the organization that’s withholding my lover’s corpse from me?”

(Y/N)’s hand reached out to clasp Wanda’s forearm and she succeeded in halting their momentum for a moment; she looked around for any signs of security cameras or employees before lowering her voice and answering, “I’m suggesting self-preservation, Wanda; you know better than anybody how quickly these organizations can turn on someone the moment their interests stop aligning with theirs.” A lump of emotion formed in her throat and just as she’d done for nearly three weeks, she blinked away her tears and forced herself to smile. “Nat’ll come back from wherever she is and personally kick my ass if I let you end up in the Raft again.”

The younger woman’s green eyes softened, and the air hung heavy around them as they both thought about their fallen friend. “She would, wouldn’t she?” Taking a deep breath, she gently pried (Y/N)’s fingers away from her arm and gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Self-preservation it is.”

They shared a look of understanding before continuing down the hallway and approaching a metal-plated door near its end; the engraved plaque on the wall beside it read ‘Level 101: Director’ and as they came to a stop, the electronic keycard reader below it blinked green and the lock clicked open. (Y/N) straightened her posture and opened the door, stepping into an impressive office and immediately fixing her gaze upon the salt-and-pepper haired man getting up from his desk to greet them. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N) and Wanda Maximoff. It’s an honor to meet you both, truly.” (Y/N) reluctantly shook Director Hayward’s outstretched hand as he gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’d like to offer you my condolences, Mrs. (Y/L/N); your husband was a personal hero of mine, and his loss is a profound tragedy.”

It took a moment for (Y/N) to remember the lie that Nick Fury had helped to propagate and spread from the shadows for the past several weeks: that Steve Rogers was reported missing in action in the wake of the Battle of Earth and was presumed to have died while fighting Thanos. It was the lie they’d crafted together after he’d returned from his final mission de-serumed and steadfast in his desire to retire from the mantle he’d carried for decades in favor of a quiet life with (Y/N) and Carina, but it was a challenging one to maintain when she knew that he was safe at their home in Brooklyn with their daughter. Rearranging her features into a sorrowful expression with the ease of a trained spy, (Y/N) offered the older man a tight smile and nodded. ���Thank you, Director.”

“Who are you?” Wanda demanded, her tone sharp and borderline accusatory as she took a step forward and pointedly refused to shake the director’s hand.

Director Hayward took her hostility in stride, lowering his hand and giving her a polite smile. “Director Tyler Hayward. I understand you’re both here to see the Vision – to recover the body, that is – is that right?”

“Well, I’m his next of kin,” She replied and gestured towards (Y/N). “And she’s here acting as the official representative of the Avengers in this matter.”

“I understand. I’d like to show you both something.”

The alarm bells had already begun to go off in (Y/N)’s head, but there was something about his statement and the glint in his eyes that immediately gave her pause. “And then you’ll give him to us?”

Instead of answering, Director Hayward crossed the room and opened a glass door for them to enter. “Please, just come with me.”

(Y/N) and Wanda exchanged a distrustful look before stepping through the doorway and into what appeared to be an observation room comprised of floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a set of armchairs. The buzzing and whirring of power tools nearby quickly drew (Y/N)’s attention, prompting her to walk up to the wall of glass and look down; the scene below reminded her of a mechanic’s garage, with four floodlights illuminating a handful of S.W.O.R.D. personnel dressed in protective gear, who were working to dismantle five separate sections of machinery as armed agents stood guard. The machinery’s unusual shade of maroon and uniquely-shaped panels of silver instantly drew her suspicion, and it only took her a moment to come to the sickening realization that what they were viewing was Vision’s unceremoniously dismembered corpse.

“Oh my God…” (Y/N) covered her mouth and stared down at the grisly scene below in horror, her stomach churning at the desecration of her friend’s body and her heart sinking when she caught a glimpse of Wanda’s confusion in the reflection of the glass as she took a step closer.

“What is this? Why are you showing us this?”

(Y/N) glanced over her shoulder to see a visibly puzzled Director Hayward’s head tilt to the side as he slowly answered, “Because you asked to see it.”

Tears prickled in (Y/N)’s eyes while Wanda looked back down into the laboratory; the color slowly drained from the younger woman’s face and her lip trembled with emotion when one of the S.W.O.R.D. scientists moved and revealed the decapitated head of her lover. A quiet sob escaped her and her hands came up to press against the glass, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the synthezoid’s corpse. “Stop…stop…stop it!” She whirled around to face the director. “What are you doing to him?”

“We’re dismantling the most sophisticated, sentient weapon ever made.”

Wanda’s eyes filled with tears as she insistently shook her head. “But Vision’s not a weapon. You can’t do this!”

Unfazed by her emotional reaction, Director Hayward’s lips pursed together in an obvious attempt to appear sympathetic. “In fact, it is our legal and ethical obligation.”

“You know, I could’ve sworn that Vision was created using stolen vibranium from Wakanda, not America.” A surge of white-hot indignation filled (Y/N) as she faced the director and crossed her arms over her chest. “But what the hell do I know? I was only there the day that Ultron bought that vibranium off of Ulysses Klaue in Johannesburg.”

“The Vision signed the Sokovia Accords in 2016. With it, he established his personhood and shortly thereafter took the necessary steps to becoming a naturalized citizen of the United States of America.”

“Seriously, that’s what you’re going with?! You know as well as I do that the Sokovia Accords are currently in the process of being repealed, and all I have to do is call up the King of Wakanda to-”

“I just wanna bury him,” Wanda forcefully interrupted their escalating face off. “That’s all I want.”

Director Hayward’s hazel-colored eyes narrowed as he studied Wanda’s grief-stricken features. “Are you sure?”

A look of incredulity flashed in Wanda’s eyes and while (Y/N)’s brow furrowed in befuddlement, the younger woman recoiled away from the director. “Excuse me?”

“What exactly are you getting at, Director?” (Y/N) demanded.

“Not everyone has the kind of power that could bring their soulmate back online, Mrs. (Y/L/N).” There was a strange cadence in the older man’s voice that quickly put her on edge; seemingly realizing the strangeness of his statement, Director Hayward rearranged his features into a more apologetic expression. “Forgive me. Back to life.”

Wanda shook her head. “No, I-I can’t do that. It’s…that’s not why I’m here.”

“Okay. But I cannot allow you two to take three-billion dollars’ worth of vibranium just to put it in the ground.” While the younger woman turned back around to look down into the bustling laboratory below, (Y/N) paced the floor and shook her head in incredulity. “So, the best I can do is let you say goodbye to him here.”

Wanda’s hands moved to rest against the window as she softly replied, “He’s all that I have.”

“Well, that’s just it, Wanda. He isn’t yours.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to denounce the director’s callous words, but several things caught her attention all at the same time: the look of almost eager anticipation on Director Hayward’s face, the reflection of Wanda’s grief-stricken expression in the glass and the scarlet-hued energy beginning to emanate from the palms of her hands. With only a split-second advantage, (Y/N) spun away from the windows and shielded her head with her arms just as the glass shattered in a deafening explosion; the S.W.O.R.D. agents screamed and ran for cover as they were pelted with fragmented glass, and she could hear the armed guards collectively ready their weapons. (Y/N) lowered her arms in time to watch Wanda wave her glowing crimson hands and descend into the laboratory, seemingly transfixed by the remains of her deceased lover and unaware of the semi-automatic guns pointed directly at her.

“Wanda, no!” (Y/N) hurried over to the very edge of the floor and, ignoring the surge of fear in her stomach that came from her long-standing fear of heights, leaned forward for a closer vantage point.

“Fall back,” Director Hayward ordered, and the guards exchanged cautious glances with one another. “It’s fine. Let her see for herself.”

After a tense moment, the armed guards reluctantly lowered their weapons and steered clear as Wanda slowly approached the table containing Vision’s severed and lifeless head. Watching the younger woman hesitantly stretch her hand out and hover her glowing palm over the crater in her lover’s forehead, (Y/N)’s heart clenched in sympathy and she found herself once again cursing Thanos; although the Mad Titan was dead and gone, with his quest to destroy the universe successfully thwarted and the Infinity Stones returned to their rightful places, the overwhelming pain he’d caused them all would remain, and none would suffer under the weight of their grief more than Wanda Maximoff. By the time she’d reached her mid-twenties, Wanda had already lost her parents, her brother, her country, her mentor and her lover and while the rest of the Avengers could turn to their loved ones for support, she was entirely alone. It’s not fair, (Y/N) thought to herself as she watched the younger woman leave Vision’s side and walk through one of the laboratory’s emergency exits, she’s lost so much already and now she’s being denied the one thing that could possibly give her closure.

“I truly am sorry for your loss, Mrs. (Y/L/N), but seeing as he was a fully sentient synthezoid, I believe that the Vision would not only understand but fully support our good work here.”

The director’s words caused (Y/N)’s jaw to clench in anger and her carefully crafted control over her emotions to finally slip; whirling around to face him, she stood tall and unflinchingly stared him down, her fury only growing the longer she studied the artificial sympathy written across his face. “His name was Vision, just Vision, and you don’t know a damn thing about him. You’re a cruel, egotistical, half-baked warmonger who’d love nothing more than to bring that body down there back online to use as a weapon against anyone S.W.O.R.D. deems a threat.” She snorted in derision as the older man pursed his lips in irritation. “You’re no better than S.H.I.E.L.D., Director, and you know as well as I do what’ll happen to your little chop shop down there when the Avengers find out what you’re up to.”

“What Avengers? A third of your group of circus freaks are off-world and a third are dead, leaving a half a dozen powerless and mentally-unstable vigilantes to burden us with their problems,” Director Hayward shot back, and the carefully-constructed façade he’d worn since they’d burst into his office finally fell away to reveal a snide smirk. “So I suggest that you stick to writing books and let the adults take over the protection of this planet.”

(Y/N) took a calculated step forward and stared unflinchingly into the director’s eyes for a moment before finally speaking, her tone calm and collected in contrast to his clear vindictiveness. “Believe it or not, I know what my limits are; after all, what can a best-selling historical-fiction novelist do besides make a few phone calls and write a scathing op-ed in a prestigious newspaper?” A humorless smile curved her lips upwards. “But you’re wrong about us ‘circus freaks,’ Director. Not only does Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes possess the highest security clearance that this country has to offer and is tasked with investigating those that the executive branch of our government suspects of breaking both national and international laws, the King of Wakanda has made it his personal mission to ensure that not an ounce of vibranium leaves his country’s sovereign borders; I’m sure that both men will be interested to learn all about your so-called legal and ethical obligation to horde stolen vibranium and how to attempted to goad a mourning Avenger into weaponizing it for you.”

Director Hayward visibly paled but still managed an incredulous scoff. “Is that a threat, Mrs. (Y/L/N)?”

“No, it’s a promise.” (Y/N) strode past the fuming director and through the observation room’s doorway, the shattered glass crunching beneath her high heels as she walked towards the office’s closed door; she grasped the door’s handle but paused, glancing over her shoulder to give Director Hayward one final glare. “Good luck, Director. You’re going to need it.”

Opening the door with more force than necessary, (Y/N) exited the director’s office and stormed down the hallways until she located the lobby, ignoring the security guard’s feeble farewell as she blinked away her tears of frustration and hurried to the front doors. She emerged out into the bright Floridian sun and was forced to shield her face with her hand in order to scan the packed parking lot for Wanda; spotting a burgundy Buick turning out onto the street and catching sight of the driver’s bold scarlet-hued hair, her heart sank into her stomach and she mentally kicked herself for not being quicker. Now she can add my name to the lengthy list of people who’ve failed Wanda Maximoff, (Y/N) thought as her shoulders dropped in dejection. While she pulled her cell phone out of her purse and texted Stephen Strange’s number, she tried not to linger on the memory of her friend’s heartbroken expression and the pain that had filled her green eyes while she grappled with the agony of losing Vision for a second time.

(Y/N): All finished here, eagerly anticipating a portal to get me the hell out of this godforsaken state S. Strange/The Wizard: Sounds like it went about as well as I’d anticipated… (Y/N): Oh, you have no idea ☹

A sparking orange portal appeared beside (Y/N) and whirled itself open to reveal her living room. Ignoring the handful of S.W.O.R.D. employees that were gawking from inside the building’s headquarters, she stepped through the portal and breathed a sigh of relief when the portal closed itself behind her, leaving her standing in her unruly but blessedly private home. They’d accepted Nick Fury’s offer of living in a temporary safehouse while they healed from their traumatic ordeals and acclimated themselves to civilian life, which meant that for the past week, their home was steadily piling high with taped-up moving boxes while they waited for Fury to finish making the final necessary arrangements for their new house; they’d still maintain ownership of their Brooklyn home, of course, but for the next several months, the Rogers-(Y/L/N) family would be calling the peaceful town of Rockport, Maine their home.

“We’re in here, sunshine,” Steve’s voice emanated from the kitchen. After tossing her purse onto the nearest armchair and kicking off her high heels, (Y/N) padded into the kitchen but froze halfway through the doorway at the unusual sight that she was met with; her husband was perched on a stool at the kitchen island with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, his nose wrinkled in displeasure as a floating syringe punctured the skin of his small bicep, and Stephen Strange, dressed in full Master of the Mystic Arts regalia, was carefully manipulating the hovering syringe with magic as his blue-green eyes narrowed in concentration. “Bruce dropped off my last round of vaccinations; today’s Tdap, Varicella, MMR and an annual flu shot, so I’m feeling particularly pin-cushioney.”

“Well, I think you’ve been a very brave pin cushion, sweetheart.” With a sympathetic smile, (Y/N) crossed the room to where Steve was seated and kissed his cheek. “And all of your Band-Aids are very cute.”

Steve huffed in exaggerated dissatisfaction and Stephen’s lip curled up into his signature smirk; the sorcerer willed the empty syringe away and magically applied another Paw Patrol Band-Aid onto the former super-soldier’s bicep. “Just think, Rogers, in two weeks you’ll finally be able to be around your daughter without wearing a surgical mask, and your de-serumed life will officially begin.”

“Definitely something to look forward to,” Steve conceded, biting back a wince as he wrapped an arm around (Y/N)’s waist and looked at her expectantly. “How’d your meeting with Director Hayward go?” She grimaced at his question and his expression fell. “That bad, huh?”

(Y/N) shrugged half-heartedly. “Wanda at least showed up but after seeing S.W.O.R.D.’s work firsthand, I wish she hadn’t come at all.”

While she recalled their contentious meeting with Director Hayward, she looked between both men and was struck by their differing reactions to her story; Steve was rightfully enraged on Wanda’s behalf for being denied a sliver of closure and beyond livid when he learned of the organization’s plans for the remains of his former teammate, but Stephen was primarily focused on Director Hayward’s comments regarding Wanda’s powers and the young woman’s momentary loss of control. (Y/N) arched a brow at the sorcerer’s piqued interest but didn’t address it, drawing the conclusion that as a Master of the Mystic Arts, he was naturally curious about powerful beings and their unique skill sets. They were both disgusted by the director’s callous behavior towards her after Wanda departed, with Steve’s jaw clenching tight and Stephen’s eyes narrowing as she spoke, and they both nodded in approval at her biting response to his cold-heartedness.

“I’ll give T’Challa and Rhodey a call to let them know what Hayward’s up to, but I’m afraid that that’s all I can really do.” (Y/N) let out a defeated sigh and twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “Fury made it clear that we can’t afford to draw any unusual attention to ourselves for the time being.”

Steve looked down at the marble countertop as guilt filled his azure eyes. “Because of me.”

“Steve…” Cupping his cheek, she gently coaxed him to look over at her and offered him a small smile of understanding. “After a lifetime spent prioritizing others, you finally chose to prioritize yourself and that shouldn’t make you feel an ounce of guilt. We may not be able to help Wanda ourselves, but we can pass along some very valuable information to the people who will.”

While the former super-soldier returned her smile with one of his own and gave her a chaste kiss, the sorcerer shrugged and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “All I can say is that it’s a real shame this can’t all be solved with a sling-ring, a portal and a little bit of grand theft.”

A soft whimpering began to emanate from the baby monitor resting atop the microwave, drawing (Y/N) and Steve’s immediate attention. “It must be time for Cari’s bottle; I’ll go get her while you start prepping it?” She hummed in agreement, turning to retrieve a clean bottle and a container of formula from the cabinet while Steve approached Stephen with his hand outstretched. “Thank you again for all your help today, Doc.”

“It’s nothing, really. In fact, I should be the one thanking you.” Stephen shook Steve’s hand and chuckled. “I don’t exactly get many opportunities to put my medical degrees to good use, so thanks for that.” After grabbing the baby monitor and donning a fresh surgical mask, Steve left the kitchen and Stephen turned his attention to (Y/N). “I wouldn’t worry too much about Wanda, (Y/N). I’ll keep an eye on her, check in from time to time and make sure she’s doing all right.”

(Y/N) screwed the cap back onto the full bottle and shook it as she studied the older man standing before her, unable to shake the feeling that there was more to his reasoning than selflessness. “You’re concerned about her powers.”

“…I’m more so intrigued by her powers; after all, reckless experimentation with an Infinity Stone somehow imbued her with enough power to nearly kill Thanos and made her one of the most formidable beings on this planet.” Stephen’s quaking fingers withdrew his sling-ring from his pocket and slipped it on with a half-smile. “As the Master of the New York Sanctum Sanctorum, it’s my responsibility to keep a list of every powerful or supernatural person in my general vicinity and after what you’ve just told me, Wanda Maximoff’s shot to the very top of it.”

Biting her lip, (Y/N) watched as the sorcerer waved his hand and created a sparking orange portal that opened into the sanctum’s foyer, contemplating his words before countering them. “I understand. Just don’t…don’t forget that even with all that power, she’s still just a person, Stephen. Promise me?”

“I won’t,” Stephen solemnly vowed, taking a step into the sanctum and turning to give her a small wave. “See you around, (Y/N).”

She smiled and waved back while he closed the portal and in an instant, she was left alone in her kitchen with her daughter’s bottle of formula clutched in her hand. Taking a deep breath, she worked to ground herself and avoid replaying the memories of Wanda’s losses and heartbreaks in her mind, but her effort was for naught; she recalled Clint carrying Pietro Maximoff’s body onto the helicarrier after evacuating Novi Grad, Wanda huddled in the corner of a tiny prison cell with a collar fastened around her neck, Vision using his last words to reassure his distraught lover as she used her powers to destroy him, the anguished cry that echoed throughout the Wakandan clearing when Thanos used the Time Stone to bring Vision back and rip the Mind Stone out of the android’s forehead, the emptiness that remained in Wanda’s eyes throughout Tony and Natasha’s funerals…

“Everything okay out there, baby?”

Shaken out of her memories, (Y/N) wiped away her tears and took another breath before calling back, “I was just seeing Stephen out; I’ll be right there!”

While she made her way through the house to their daughter’s nursery and beamed down at the cooing infant as she took her into her arms and sat down in the room’s rocking chair to feed her her bottle, (Y/N) took solace in the feeling of Steve’s arm draping around her shoulders and the adoration that illuminated Carina’s face. It isn’t fair, she thought again to herself as she absentmindedly hummed the Sokovian lullaby that had been taught to her by Wanda years before, it isn’t fair that we’ve gotten our happily ever after and Wanda’s all alone. With all she’d seen and done throughout the years, it would be foolish not to believe that there wasn’t some sort of higher power out there, so as she was surrounded by her beloved husband and daughter, (Y/N) sent a silent but earnest wish to that power that while she healed from her past traumas, Wanda Maximoff would finally find her own lasting happiness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: All I want is for Wanda to be happy, but I guess the universe continues to have other plans for her :/ Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ziGMhEsAw833GQ9eV44nR?si=6dfead09c76848d5 

Stumblin’ In Book VII: “Superhero Snapshots” Masterlist 

Stumblin' In Book VI: "Endgame" Masterlist

Tagging: @mrs-obrien @lahoete @awkward117 @fanficfandomlove @momc95 @savedbystyle @awkwardnesshabitat @marinettepotterandplagg @benakenalove @brooke0297 @hufflepeople @outoftheregular @junipermurdock @mads-weasley @username23345 @crist1216 @capswife @lilmschild @crowleysqueenofhell @mary1raven @groovy-lady @ljej95 @toostrangerkid @prettysbliss

[radical-revolution]

When you look at me I am an idle, idle man; when I look at myself I am a busy, busy man. Since upon the plain of untreated infinity I am building, building the tower of ecstasy, I have no time for building houses. Since upon the steppe of the void of truth I am breaking, breaking the savage fetter of suffering, I have no time for ploughing family land. Since at the bourn of unity ineffable I am subduing, subduing the demon-foe of self, I have no time for subduing angry foe-men.

Since in the palace of mind which transcends duality I am waiting, waiting for spiritual experience as my bride, I have no time for setting up house. Since in the circle of the Buddhas of my body I am fostering, fostering the child of wisdom, I have no time for fostering sniveling children. Since in the frame of the body, the seat of all delight, I am saving, saving precious instruction and reflection, I have no time for saving worldly wealth.

Stop all worldly activitives and sit naturally at ease. Remain silent and let sound be like an echo. Do not think about anything look at experience beyond thought; open minded like space. Let go of control and stop and rest at ease in that state. Awareness without projection is the greatest meditation. Train and develop like this and you will come to the deepest awakening.

~ Milarepa

[kyndredravenstories]

Eyes of Infinity: Chapter 16

Hello, I have been posting my work on AO3 and recently decided to venture here to Tumblr. Please note: This story is 18+. No minors. Please read tags carefully. Link to AO3 below but I will also be posting the chapters here.

Pairing: Sylus/Female MC with some elements of Xavier/Female MC

Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Smut, Porn with Big Plot and Big Feelings

Content Warning (For the entire fic): Explicit sexual content, spoilers and alterations to existing lore and cards/memories/tender moments/secret times, size kink, size difference, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, anal sex, fingering, all kinds of fingering, elements of consensual somno, dom!Sylus, jealousy, possessive!Sylus, Mephisto stalking, typical game violence, battle and combat

Summary: To love him meant stepping over the threshold and crossing into darkness. To be with him meant accepting the lure of the shadows. And to protect him from betrayal meant sacrifice. I knew not how, only that I would not let time sever our paths ever again.

Previous Chapters: Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3 / Ch 4 / Ch 5 / Ch 6 / Ch 7 / Ch 8 / Ch 9 / Ch 10 / Ch 11 / Ch 12 / Ch 13 / Ch 14 / Ch 15

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They call me Kismet - the Destined One.

They say I am a Priestess to Araldir, the God of Souls.

I came into this world with magic running through my veins. It is a power than can grant a font of strength and vigor to anyone I touch. It is incredibly rare, only seen a handful of times in the Tribe's history. Thus, I was chosen at birth to be raised and trained in preparation to become Araldir's bride. My power is a sign that he has marked me as his own. A divine gift, they call it. A blessing.

This year, at the Winter Solstice, our Tribe's Speaker will take me to the Spine on the border of our lands, will lay me down upon the cold stone altar, and will carve out my heart in sacrifice to our deity. I've trained my whole life for this and have had years to prepare myself both in body and mind.

They say it is the greatest honor I could ever hope for.

They say I should be proud.

But, I am far from such. In fact, I have no memory of anything the Tribe has told me about my life. Sorocan, to be specific. A short stout woman with greying hair and sky blue eyes. She's the one who found me after my failed escape attempt, treated my wounds, and nursed me back to health. She's our Tribe's shaman and our Speaker, a woman who leads and dictates all spiritual rules and traditions. She saved my life, and I should trust her. What she tells me about me sounds false, but who am I to doubt the words of someone that communes with the Gods themselves?

I don't have any proof that I am not who these people say I am, after all.

Exactly one month ago today, I awakened in the steppe alone. Wounded. Lost. Confused. Entirely devoid of any recollection of who I am or how I got here. My only clue is a vivid black tattoo seared into my wrist, a dark carving that resembles a link of some kind. It snakes up my forearm to my elbow. I've been told to hide it, and ever since my homecoming I've worn only long sleeved dresses despite the brutal heat of summer to ensure than no one in the Tribe sees my new mark.

Perhaps the torture serves me right. Sorocan says I ran away from home, that I'm reckless and defiant, perhaps nervous before my ceremony to join Araldir coming up in just a few months. She says I must have fallen and hit my head, lost my memories due to my injuries. But, the Tribe's explanation of my identity doesn't make any sense. Their words don't resonate with me. When they found me and saved me from my aimless wandering, I accepted their aide too readily.

Now, I regret it.

Over the course of the weeks following my fated reunion with Sorocan, preparations for my ceremony begin. I am to join Araldir in the heavens soon, and that means my heart must be full of only joy. I am given my own quarters and an entire array of ladies to wait on me hand and foot. I'm fed the best food the Tribe has to offer, bathed in fragrances, and massaged with oils. I'm adorned in the finest silk, wool, and cotton dresses, my neck surrounded with strings of silver and my hair glimmering with ropes of precious stones and gold.

Yet, there is no joy in any of it. As I am pampered and fawned over in my own luxurious yurt, I start to feel like I'm missing something profound. Not just my memories, but a piece of my very heart. The mystery of the tattoo on my arm gives me no peace of mind. It resembles a chain, and I wonder where the other side leads. Or, to whom. Though I still can't remember my true origins, I know that I don't belong in this place and that there is someone I must find, someone that searches for me now just as I search for them.

Once more, I try to escape. Taking advantage of a dark and windy night, I try to sneak away from the village. But, I don't make it far. Without any memories, I don't know the lay of the land. I wander in circles and nearly fall victim to a pack of hungry monsters wandering the grassland. Sorocan catches me just on the border of the Tribe's lands and commands her warriors to bring me home. I fight and I claw at them. When I cannot break free, I beg her to please let me go. There is sadness in her eyes when she refuses me, and it helps me understand that there is more to her actions than readily meets the eye.

Back in my quarters, I am chastised and lectured. The potential consequences of my escape are brought home without mercy. If this sacrifice isn't performed, the Tribe will starve. Araldir will unleash his fury upon us. In fact, our lands are already suffering, and it is only my sacrifice that can bring life back to them again. Most of the crops we plant rot in the soil. More and more of the herds we hunt fall ill to an unknown sickness. Our women struggle with fertility. Slowly, inevitably, our Tribe is wasting away.

Sorocan's eyes are accusing. Hard. Furious. She doesn't understand what's come over me. I've always been obedient. I've known all my life this day would come. What has changed? What is driving my rebellion?

"Why did you try to leave us again?" she demands from me. "Have we not given you the best we have? Have we not taken care of you all your life?"

I sit on my bed, my wrists tied together. A prisoner. I raise my chin, pulling and yanking on my bonds. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle. But, I can't give up. I won't.

"I'm not going to accept being a pig fattened up for slaughter. I don't want to be your sacrifice. I find no pride or joy in having my heart cut out and placed on an altar for someone else's benefit."

We sit in awkward silence for some time before I speak again. "I don't belong here, Sorocan. The story you've told me is a lie. Everyone here has been lying to me from the first moment I got here. I'm not the Kismet. I have another name. Another life. I don't even speak like you do." I clench my hands into fists. "You're ready to murder a random innocent person just to make yourself look good?"

Sorocan's eyes widen. It's proof enough that my words have hit home. Yet, she does not remove her mask. She continues with the charade.

"None of this is about anything personal," Sorocan argues, her piercing blue eyes unwavering. "The Tribes are at each others throats. They need something to unify them in this time of crisis. You are that something. Do not despair, child. Your sacrifice will save the land. Heal it."

I glare at her. "The minute you look away, I'm gone. I'll fight you to the last second."

I stay true to my word. Over and over again, I try to run away until I'm kept under constant guard. A post is buried deep into the earth, and a yurt is built around it. Sorocan chains my ankle to this structure. I'm able to walk around my quarters, but I cannot go outside. The guards bring me food and sustenance, but none except our Speaker and a few of her hand chosen women are allowed inside. I'm watched as I bathe, eat, and sleep.

And so, more weeks go by.

As time stretches on in this endless procession of monotony, my cage begins to addle my mind. I grow listless. My appetite dwindles to nothing. Most days, I sit on my bedroll and stare at the tiny slit in the wall of my dwelling with my legs pressed up against my chest. There is no joy in my heart, and there won't ever be. Araldir will claim a desiccated shell, and it serves him right for ruining my life. It's a silent rebellion. Worthless, perhaps, but it's something.

More time passes. I only realize that the seasons begin to change because Sorocan and her women bring me warmer blankets, furs, and clothes. I let them feed me, dress me, and bathe me like a soulless doll. I feel empty, but my mind refuses to give up. My heart insists that I am not alone in this cruel reality. That someone is out there, searching for me. Someone at the end of the chain tattooed on my arm.

Sorocan isn't blind. She sees that I'm wasting away. She tries to lecture me again and again to convince me of my duty and my destiny, but I tune out her voice like I would a buzzing fly. Then, one day, her words pierce through the haze.

"If you do not rebel, I will agree to let you go out and see the festival."

I have no idea what she's talking about and blink at her wordlessly. Her face comes into focus, the first thing that does in quite some time.

"...go out?" I croak in a voice that hasn't been used in too long.

"Yes, child," Sorocan says. "You've grown too thin. Your complexion is unhealthy."

I make a bitter sound. "That's what happens when you chain someone up against their will."

She frowns. "It is for your safety and for the good of the Tribe."

My hands clench into fists. Is this another chance for escape? Should I play along and act like I've learned the error of my ways? Maybe this is my last chance to try to get away.

"What festival?" I ask.

Sorocan stands up and crosses her arms over her chest. She explains that a most exciting time approaches. The Tribal leaders of the steppe have called everyone together for a Conclave which will last almost a full month. In preparation of the Kismet's offering to the Araldir in Winter, all Tribes have gathered from all around to mingle and trade. Normally, these clans are enemies. Yet, for a short time, they agree to lay down arms. The planned festivities are thrilling. Warriors fight each other in brutal combat for the right to the title of Champion. Men and women freely seek a life partner, no matter their origin or affiliation. Artisans and craftsmen come together to share knowledge and skill. Music plays. Dancing, spirits, and merriment abound as history and traditions are set aside to celebrate life.

On the steppe, there is one rule that is followed and respected above all else: you keep what you take. This applies to all things, for strength and cunning are the most valued traits among warriors here. In this beautiful golden grassland which stretches all the way to the mountains on the far horizon, there is no greater honor than fighting for what you desire and claiming it. No matter his background, any warrior may challenge another and take all he owns. Women battle for their love without hesitation, often fighting each other to claim a powerful warrior as their life mate. Merchants and traders steal each other's secrets through intrigue and betrayal.

None hesitate and none judge, for life here is short and unpredictable.

The heat and cold are harsh and merciless. Each year, there is less game to hunt and less resources to pull from to survive. Monsters roam the lands. Serpents fly through the skies and breathe flames. Stones come to life and seek destruction. The very elements give birth to spirits and creatures of unimaginable power, and if one is not strong of body and mind, a terrible end will come swiftly.

Each year, the situation worsens.

They say the steppe is dying.

Just like Sorocan described, they say my sacrifice will rejuvenate the land.

I should be proud. Glowing.

Yet, I still want no part of this.

My only wish is to find that missing piece of my heart. To return my memories and find where I truly belong.

The first night of the Conclave arrives too swiftly. Obtaining my vow that I will not try anything foolish, Sorocan agrees to let me venture out and partake in the celebrations. I'm dressed up in a lovely leather and cotton dress, my wrists and ankles cuffed with jingling bracelets, and my ears adorned with glimmering earrings. Sorocan takes me around the stalls to greet the people, bringing two warriors to guard me and ensure I don't try to escape again. We traverse winding rows of makeshift shops. It's a beautiful evening and an even more beautiful sight and experience. Roaring fires, handmade decorations of all shapes and colors, and people shining with ardor and passion as they trade, barter, and show off their craftsmanship. All comes together in a kaleidoscope of colors, scents, and sounds.

Despite all of this, my heart is dead as stone.

We meet other Chieftains, and I'm showered with gifts and praise and "thank-you's". As if any of these things could make me feel any less forlorn. All I want is to escape from here, yet I'm paraded around like our Tribe's prized possession. So many see me, yet none comment on my sickly complexion and the distinct lack of life in my eyes. They don't really see me. Just the Kismet. To them, I don't even have a name. Despite everything, I try not to despair. Instead, I look around at the wealth of strangers and pray that I'll find a familiar face to jog my memories. I pray that the tattoo on my wrist might guide me to my other half, that one lost piece of my heart that I so yearn for.

As the final stop of the evening, Sorocan takes me to see the warriors who will be competing this year for the title of Champion. The men have set up carved wooden fences in the shape of a great big circle to act as a ring of combat. The first series of matches of the Conclave is to take place tonight, and the tension and excitement is palpable among those visiting the area to get a glimpse of the fighters. The yurts here are packed with adoring women. Whispers and gossip abound between blushing cheeks and excited maidenly squealing. Apparently, there is a new warrior competing this year who has already earned quite a reputation for himself. They call him Arataan - the White Wolf - and they say he has a strength and power bestowed by the Gods themselves. He's challenged other warriors already, and so far he is undefeated.

"My sister saw him riding in with the Chieftain of the East," one girl whispers to her giggling friends. "She said he's bigger than a bear."

"My lak'lah caught a glimpse of him earlier in the day," another girl says. "She couldn't stop talking about how strange he looks. He was an Outsider once, wasn't he?"

Sorocan is conversing with another Speaker in a different part of the yurt. Since she holds my leash, I can't stray too far from her. So, I settle in to listen to the gossiping women. Talking about the warriors isn't something I'm interested in, but I suppose my curiosity is piqued. I've hardly spoken to any of the girls in our Tribe, but they seem unusually excited about the arrival of this one man.

"There is nothing strange about him," a curvy young woman with braided long hair smiles. "He is so handsome that no words can describe him."

"Did you see him?" a girl to her right asks, grabbing at her shoulder.

"I did. He has eyes like rubies and hair that's silver like a shooting star."

The girls all gasp and sigh.

Silver hair and red eyes? How unusual. Most of the people in the Tribes have dark hair and eyes except the Northerners. He must have been born with a mark of the Gods, much like me. Had he been a woman, he might have been chosen to be the Kismet. Then, I could have been the mighty warrior instead of just a helpless Priestess. The thought makes me smile, and I suppress the urge to giggle at how ridiculous that sounds.

"He will be the Champion for sure," a girl squeaks with excitement. "He already defeated Batu of the North and Tögöldör of the South. They were both Champions the last two Conclaves. I wish I could have seen Batu's face. He's always saying he's the strongest in the land."

"I want to give the White Wolf my pouch this year," one of them swoons. "I've already made one in case I find someone I like."

Another girl laughs. "You and a hundred others. I'll be he'll have a whole basket of pouches to choose from when the Conclave is done."

A tap on my shoulder breaks me from my thoughts. Sorocan stands over me, and I get to my feet to follow her to her next destination. As we exit the yurt, she begins leading us to the warriors' quarters. We trudge up a small hill to a secluded set of dwellings. Before entering, Sorocan stops me.

"Because of the struggles so many of our Tribes have faced these past years, the Chieftains and Speakers have decided to augment our traditions. This year, the Champion and several of the strongest warriors will be paired with girls of our choosing."

I tilt my head, only half listening. "Paired?"

"To couple and bear children for the sake of the Tribe's continued survival."

I stare at Sorocan blankly, not sure why she's telling me all this.

"Kismet, it is within your power to pass the blessing of the Gods to those you touch. I must ask you to do this now for our strongest warriors. Bless them with your power. Give our warriors the strength to fight so we can choose the most worthy to continue our bloodline."

I put my hands on my hips, my throat growing tight. I can't believe this woman is asking me for a favor when all she's done is imprison and ridicule me. "No," I tell her. "I refuse."

Sorocan's eyes grow narrow. She frowns at me. "Even in this, you will rebel? When it costs you nothing to touch a warrior's shoulder and give him the gift of inspiration?"

I look at her long and hard, contemplating my options. How badly does she need this? Do I have enough leverage to use it to my advantage? I try to read her body language, but I'm tired and drained. Today has been too eventful. I've done more walking, speaking, and interacting than than I've done in weeks. I cross my arms over my chest, deciding that there's really nothing for me to lose.

"If you want this from me, you will give me something in return."

Sorocan's hand tightens on her cane. A cleft forms between her white eyebrows.

"Speak your terms, then. However, your freedom isn't negotiable."

I hesitate, trying to form my end of the bargain the right way. What can I ask that might sound like a small request unrelated to my ceremony? What can I ask for that might sound like something an ordinary girl might wish for before her death? I don't want Sorocan to know she hasn't broken me yet. If she realizes that I still have hope, she might tighten my guard again. 

"I want to meet the White Wolf."

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think them through. For some reason, he's the first thing that popped into my mind.

"The Arataan?" Sorocan asks, her brows shooting up into the air. "Don't tell me you're taken in by all the gossip about him." Suddenly, she looks suspicious. "Don't tell me that you saw him and were charmed by his good looks. Let me remind you, child. You are no ordinary maiden. You are spoken for by our Divine."

"So I am not allowed to fall in love like other girls? To give a pouch to a warrior I favor?"

Sorocan looks angered now. I want nothing to do with love or pouches. At this point, all of that seems like a frivolous joke. I just want to get a rise out of the Speaker. To make her feel even half the frustration that's in my heart. 

"The Kismet only loves her Divine."

I shake my head. "I simply want to meet him." 

"Impossible," Sorocan says. "The Kismet is a symbol of purity and virtue. Your one and only partner shall be your Divine in the heavens. You shall not be left alone with any man at any point in time."

I squash down my frustration. Spitefulness takes over. "Then, may I bless him with you beside me?"

I can't help it. I can see my words have angered our Speaker, and the bitter pleasure that runs through me is just delicious. How else can I ruin her day? Heck, how else can I ruin this entire Conclave? If I make a nuisance of myself, surely they will hate me so much they will just throw me out of the Tribe. If I'm supposed to be a symbol of purity and virtue –

Stars.

An idea strikes me. Vile and terrible. But, I'm desperate. I have no recourse. 

"Sorocan," I begin, forcing my expression into one of embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I've just realized that what I'm saying is pretty ridiculous and selfish."

The Speaker doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry. So, will you let me step back and ask for something else?"

My pleading tone must have worked. The Speaker grumbles but tells me to continue.

"I still haven't accepted what you've told me about my role as the Kismet. I still don't want to be a part of the ceremony. But, maybe it's because I don't remember anything about the Tribe. I can't identify with something I can't remember."

Sorocan glares at me. "You've never shown any interest in regaining your memories of our people, and you've never expressed any concern about our plight. What's come over you?"

"After seeing everyone today, I figured out some things for myself. I see how beautiful our culture is and how hard everyone is working for this Conclave. Can you please let me continue watching the festival and meeting other people? Maybe something will help me remember. Maybe if I remember my connection to these men and women, I'll be more ready to surrender..." I take a dramatic deep breath, "...and be the sacrifice."

It takes some more convincing, but Sorocan agrees to give me some independence during the Conclave. She can't afford to ignore the possibility that I might become a willing participant in her plans.

We go into the warriors' yurts, and I bless the fighters one by one as promised. It is clear whom the Gods have chosen, for when I touch their shoulders my hands light up with a brilliant golden light. Those warriors are tapped and led away, likely to have the conversation about their new duties this year.

In this way, I meet all of our fighters. All except the White Wolf. According to Sorocan, he is undergoing some kind of ritual prior to the first fights tonight and doesn't want to be disturbed. I wonder how a mere warrior has the right to refuse a visit from a Speaker and blessings from the Kismet. He must be much more important than I realize.

Once the blessings are done, Sorocan takes me to the Speaker's throne in the makeshift arena. It's a series of ornately carved wooden chairs called the Honored Seats. The length of their legs is adjusted based on hierarchy. The Chieftains sit in the highest seats with the Speakers just below them. All others sit on the ground to watch the combat. The Kismet sits with the Speaker, and as we find our seats and wrap ourselves in some wool shawls, the Game Master blows a colossal onyx horn to signal the start of the event. The ground shakes beneath our feet from the deep earthy bellow.

Warriors enter the ring in order of rank based on their prowess. They're dressed in traditional garb: loose cotton pants to allow for ease of movement, leather boots to give traction on the ground while fighting, and a leather piece of armor on the chest. Each fighter wears a thick corded necklace around his neck. As the fights progress, wool braids of different colors will be hung on them for each of the warriors' victories. I wring my hands together as men of various heights and builds march onto the field, holding my breath until I finally see him.

The White Wolf enters the ring last, marking him as the strongest of the fighters. I can't make out his features from this distance, but the first thing that catches my eye is his shining crown of white hair. It isn't styled like a typical warrior's cut. In fact, there's absolutely nothing "typical" about this man. His necklace is already covered in braids, showing off the victories that earned him his place in this pecking order. Added to those braids are various vicious looking fangs from beasts and monsters.

The gossip I'd heard in the yurt earlier that day was absolutely accurate. He is massive. As he passes the other warriors, he towers over them. His shoulders are big and broad. The leather armor on his chest is more revealing than the others, showing off his incredible physique. With each step, his muscles ripple in waves. He's shaped like a lean predator, and everything about his stance says that he's ready to strike at any moment. Each step he takes is graceful and measured.

My hands tighten, wadding together parts of my thick skirt. So, this is the man that will decide my fate. I must find a way to meet him alone and undisturbed. My life depends on it. 

As the warriors all bow respectfully to the audience, the three strongest approach our seating area to pay respect to the Chieftains, Speakers, and the Kismet. My body grows tense. As they near us, I can finally make out the White Wolf's features. My eyes trace his chiseled jaw, muscular neck, and aquiline nose. His silver eyebrows arch gracefully over sharp slanted blood red eyes. It's a color more beautiful than any I remember seeing. My heart stills in my chest.

Suddenly, my wrist is burning.

I rub my other hand against it, flinching at the pain.

It's like a snake is wrapping around my arm.

Tighter and tighter.

And then I realize it. The closer the three warriors come to us, the more painful the pressure on my wrist. My eyes go wide. It's one of these men!

One of these warriors is the person I've been seeking!

It takes all of my willpower not to fly to my feet and shout. After all, I've made a bargain with Sorocan. I'm supposed to be learning the ways of these people so I can resign myself to my fate. Frustrated, I search the warriors' faces for any sign that they feel the same discomfort. Maybe they have a mark, too. Would it react to mine? Would they even be aware of it?

"Greetings, proud combatants," our Chieftain says as he rises to his feet. He stretches out his arms, and his red, orange, and earth toned wool robes spread out around him like a hawk's mighty wings. "As you know, this Conclave is different from many others. In this time of darkness and difficulty, it is even more vital that we elevate the strongest among us to preserve our traditions and fight for the continuation of our Tribes." He gestures of the Ring and the fighters within.

"This tradition has been held for hundreds of years. Our strongest fight with all their strength to take the title of Champion. With that title, comes great reward. Glory, honor, and of course the Champion's jewel –" he reaches into a chest sitting before him and takes out a multi-layered silver chain. Attached to it is a fiery red gem about the size of my palm. "The gem called Daybreak!"

Whispers break out around those seated around the Ring as the Chieftain shows it to all. "The last time we held this Conclave, it was I who claimed Daybreak for my own. Now, I offer to pass it to the next Champion." The Chieftain looks down at the White Wolf and the warriors to his left and right.

"Batu of the North," he calls. The warrior to the right of the White Wolf crosses his big fist over his chest and kneels down. He has short golden hair with a single thin braid stretching down past his shoulders. On the end, I see a few colored beads and an emerald hued feather.

"Tögöldör of the South," the Chieftain nods. The warrior to the left of the White Wolf mimicks the actions of Batu and also kneels before our leader. His hair is dark as night and flows down to his waist in a thick braid.

"We have a new addition to our most honored warriors. Arataan, the White Wolf. Once, he was an Outsider. Yet, he has proven to us that he is blessed by the Gods themselves. The Speakers have welcomed him into the Eastern Tribe. He is now their strongest and fiercest!"

The audience goes wild with cheers and cries of support, particularly the women. Though Tögöldör and Batu remain reserved and expressionless, the other warriors standing in the Ring don't look pleased in the least. The White Wolf's expression is hard to read. I can't imagine a greater honor than standing before the Chieftains and receiving the adoration and admiration of all the Tribes and their leaders like this. Yet, he looks entirely disinterested.

The Chieftain waves for the crowd to calm, and eventually silence fills the field again. "Brothers and sisters, as I have said this Conclave will be different from any prior to it. The Champion and the three strongest warriors will be paired with our loveliest maidens to couple and produce heirs that will carry the fire of our Tribes into the future."

More cheers from the crowd, even wilder this time. Apparently, the people approve of this spontaneous addition to the festivities. Once again, the Chieftain waves for the audience to quiet down.

"In addition to the Champion receiving Daybreak as his reward and having first choice of pairing partners, the Chieftains and Speakers have agreed to grant him a single wish. He may ask for any reward and claim it as his own without reservation." The Chieftain raises his hands high into the air. "Because these three warriors have proven themselves as the likeliest candidates for the title of Champion in the sacred Conclave, they may speak now and tell the Chieftains what their wishes might be."

He points - "Batu, speak your wish."

The golden-haired warrior rises to his feet. He thumps his fist across his chest. "My wish, honored leader, is to become the new Chieftain of the North and to carry on in my Father's footsteps!"

The Chieftain nods. "Granted. Fight, then, for that honor." He points to the next man - "Tögöldör, speak your wish."

The onyx-haired warrior rises to his feet. Much like Batu, he thumps his chest and states that he wishes to become the Chieftain of the South. Also like his father. The fact that both the warriors have the same wish tells me that this is nothing more than a grand show for the crowd. The Chieftains' sons will inherit the reins of their Tribe if they manage to win the title of Champion. More cheers this time. Even more deafening. I tune them out, focusing on the warriors.

Suddenly, the White Wolf's eyes jump to me, and from the second that our gazes meld, the mark around my wrist bursts into a fresh wave of agony. Chaotic images flash through my mind, but I can't make out any details. I waver dizzily in my seat, nausea rising in my belly. A throbbing pain begins to pound in my temple. My hands clench into fists until my nails dig into my palms.

"Child, are you alright?" Sorocan asks beside me. Her voice sounds so far away. I can't break away from the White Wolf's gaze, and before my wide eyes he lifts his right hand and tugs down his glove as though adjusting it. My body breaks out in cold sweat. A thousand needles stab into the nerves along my spine. Goosebumps cover my arms. There, wrapped around his muscled forearm is a mark identical to mine.

"Arataan, speak your wish for all to hear," the Chieftain shouts, his voice piercing through my trance.

The White Wolf looks towards our leader and takes a few steps forward. He does not thump his chest or lower his head. His chin remains tilted up in a regal and arrogant manner as his full sensual lips curve into a satisfied smirk.

"I have one wish," he calls. His voice is deep and dark, like the rumbling of thunder in a wild storm. My heart pounds in my chest as he places one hand on his hip. "But, really, I don't need to speak it. If you do not allow me to claim what is rightfully already mine, then I will take it by force."

Hushed whispers and murmurs ripple through the crowd. The Chieftain doesn't seem intimidated. In fact, he seems impressed. "Speak, then. Tell us your desire."

Slowly, deliberately, the White Wolf raises his large hand and points a finger towards the Honored Seats.

"That woman there is mine," he says.

My heart stops in that moment, for there is no doubt that he is pointing directly at me.

[zhibekfromkaon]

I was overwhelmed by the flow of emotions. Horse. Mechanical/cyber horse. Tamed. Which fights against something with all its achievements. Does not give in to the hand. Does not want to be used. Wants to be free and independent. Demands something, but cannot understand it yet.

My dream: to saddle a wild horse and feel the freedom and infinity of the steppes, forgetting about my circumstances and problems. Something inside calls me there, to the steppe, where it is quiet and calm. My ancestors are clearly raging, seeing my suffering in biology and chemistry.

[inkedwingss]

Lupina Luna

Now the days would be forever lonely. Except for moments of great connection and immersion, which I can never maintain for long periods because even from the wholeness one needs to breathe. Except also when sensitivity runs freely through the forest of my mind, without worries—moments of absurd faith where I feel cradled by the wind like a baby cradled by its mother until deep and peaceful sleep. How I wish to cradle you, little one. Now, it is you who cradles me from afar, perhaps in another plane, and the mournful smile on my face makes sense, it even looks beautiful, a funereal and languid beauty where the most beautiful and fragrant flowers I have ever seen bloom.

But in the steppe where I was raised, and which I regularly visit, there are no flowers except those between my sharp teeth. They sprout in my stomach and grow up my throat. Apart from that, as far as my eyes can reach until they hit the distant mountains, this sea of grass extends with rare islands of shy forests. The steppe would not be the first choice for most, but that's how I live. Always in the most difficult way so I can understand what the world is: scars do not lack me. Here, the fresh scent of endless grass, my imperial carpet, clogs my nostrils with freedom. My paws slide across the ground, and I am not afraid to expose myself to the light of the Sun or the Moon—there is only me, and no one else. Everyone is gone. From afar, I hear voices, their shadow, their spectre, but they cannot approach. Where my paws take me, no mortal would dare tread, especially not within the night: dark and silent, it shines with its spectacle of diamonds in the velvet of the immense sky that rises above me. There is peace, fulfillment, and no questions. The steppenwolf breathes deeply and falls asleep.

And now my eyes open to the world, to this world, so material and solid. It's where I live and desperately wish to escape. It seems like a cage, but it's a very spacious cage. So spacious that I feel trapped inside out, something like too free, purposeless, lost in destiny, without direction. The longing remains intact; the compass, destroyed. My wild self roars and writhes against the limitations of this body—of this universe that sometimes seems so dry, infertile, and cruel. A vastness of disappointment. I sniff out goodness, my solitary hunt sometimes leads to complete exhaustion and I lose my senses, so I dissolve and stop feeling, I’m now a marble statue. But then the warm breeze of a summer memory passes by, and I warm up and melt. There is always something to smile about, if we look closely enough. Maybe I just have a good nose, nothing more.

What to do if not explore, then? What would life be worth if not the magnificent adventure of exploring every corner of the world and discovering all the hidden wonders, treasures, and within people: miracles? Let me live until the end. Not a drop of blood will remain, for I have the thirst of a pack. In every corner, a story, a new universe to discover. I rise from the rocking chair on the porch, and then the endless race begins, the wolf descending a gigantic hill, so colossally huge that we can barely notice its slope. The owner of the night still shines in the clear blue sky, refusing, rebellious against dawn; she does not want to set. I extinguish my tobacco in the ashtray, and the rising smoke fumigates my aura. The dry and warm sensation of this mist that reaches my eyes—like the mist of the early hours of the day—contrasts with the wet grass brushing against my paws. They collide against the ground, noisy, splashing the dew of dawn—now awakened behind the mountains, the invincible titans. I step off the porch, facing the darkness of the night threatening to engulf and transfigure me. I close my eyes, run and run towards infinity, and howl at the Moon.

2016

Originally written in Portuguese, while listening to this 1989 masterpiece in an endless loop. Some southern Brazillian rock with very heavy lonely-wolf-of-the-old-and-tragic-west vibes.

[paintedscales]

Hello! Welcome to my main blog that feels more like a side blog. Oops!

This is here solely to fuel my brain rot hours. Whether it's through gpose, drawing it, posting commissions I've bought, writing it out, or engaging in filling out questions via any one of the aforementioned means (sans commissions), I will be Completely Normal™ about my blorbos and my ship here.

Born 1992; easier to let people do the math from there rather than constantly update how old I am every year I get older. As for the person behind the blog, I'm genderfluid, demisexual / demiromantic myself. I'm a childhood cancer survivor -> leukemia (Type ALL), though still have to deal with the fallout from that (hip and shoulder replacements as a result from medication).

Thanks for being an audience to one: my blorbo dump site, and two: my demisexual / panromantic ship hell hole named Cinnamon Ship (Estinien + Nomin = Estinomin = Cinnamon). Nomin is a demigirl, and I headcanon Estinien as being demisexual / demiromantic.

Other Blogs ->

@primamchorus -> Pseudo main blog for FFXIV, FFXV, and Infinity Nikki (maybe other games, too, on occasion)

@freejayfly -> Personal blog

@lost-coin -> Character blog for Jaydin Byrd

@kotokage -> Character blog for Manaka Shimizu

@speckledwing -> Art blog

@starlightinitiative -> Starlight Initiative event blog

@estiniensays -> Estinien quotes blog (ran on a queue)

@azure-estinien-varlineau -> Estinien appreciation blog

Places to Find Me ->

Ao3

bsky (Art / Personal) | bsky (Digital Photography)

ko-fi

pillowfort

toyhou.se

Commissions ->

I only do emotes for Twitch and Discord. I also do custom stickers for Discord as well. Anything bigger, and you might end up with me trying to wrestle my ADHD into the dirt just to start or even finish.

$10 per emote || $20 per sticker

I accept payment through only Ko-Fi or PayPal.

Contact me through Messages here on Tumblr, or if you have me on Discord, shoot me a DM. I don't share my Discord outside of servers I'm already in.

Tags / Content of interest ->

My Art // My Writing // My Gifs // Cinnamon Ship // Cinnamon Spice [NSFW] // Steppe Chronicles WoLstinien Week 2023 // AuRaugust 2023 // FFXIV Write 2023 // Fluff-/Kinktober 2023 [NSFW] // Mixed May 2024 // WoLstinien Week 2024 // AuRaugust 2024 // FFXIV Write 2024 Open for Asks ♥

[scienza-magia]

Considerazioni sull’origine della Wicca

Secondo i wiccan l’origine della Wicca si perde nella notte dei tempi, anche se la Wicca viene considerata dagli storici delle religioni una nuova religione. Secondo i wiccan durante il neolitico la popolazione dell’Europa e del bacino del Mediterraneo viveva in una società pacifica e ugualitaria le cui principali divinità erano il dio della caccia e la dea della fertilità. Era una società matriarcale nella quale la dea che trasmetteva la vita era il principale elemento del culto perciò in quel periodo storico è stata prodotta una grande quantità di statuette sotto forma di donne obese spesso in gravidanza. Tali statuette sono le rappresentazioni della Grande Dea. Quella società pacifica fu distrutta dagli invasori indoeuropei. Essi erano una razza guerriera che attraversava le steppe in groppa ai propri cavalli e che distrusse l’antica civiltà europea. La sua civiltà fu sostituita da una società belligerante molto gerarchizzata di tipo nettamente patriarcale. Tale società ha continuato ad esistere fino ai nostri giorni. Ma a detta dei wiccan gli invasori indoeuropei erano minoritari e se dominavano i paesi che conquistarono tuttavia non li convertirono dal punto di vista strettamente religioso. Di conseguenza nelle campagne e fra il popolo delle regioni asservite continuarono ad esistere le credenze pre-indoeuropee sotto forma di culti della fertilità e delle divinità femminili. A un certo momento il cristianesimo dopo aver superato il periodo delle persecuzioni divenne la religione dominante dell’impero romano. Quando assunse il potere nel mondo antico il cristianesimo condusse una durissima lotta contro il paganesimo sia nella forma classica che in quella matriarcale. Il cristianesimo era basato sul concetto di trascendenza vero e proprio fulcro della visione del mondo e di Dio del cristianesimo stesso. Pertanto esso si trovava agli antipodi rispetto all’antica religione pagana sia nella sua forma classica che in quella matriarcale la quale metteva l’accento ed enfatizzava i culti naturalistici. Il processo di cristianizzazione dell’Europa durò secoli. Il re e i nobili si convertirono per primi, i templi pagani furono trasformati in luoghi di culto della chiesa romana ma gli abitanti delle campagne rimasero fedeli al proprio credo che venne solo rivestito da una patina cristiana. La caccia alle streghe che i wiccan chiamano "burning time" costituisce l’ultima fase della lotta del cristianesimo contro l’antica religione. Ebbe luogo dalla fine del XV secolo a metà del XVIII secolo. Tale caccia alle streghe interessò tutta la cristianità a cominciare dal 1484 quando con una bolla molto famosa Papa Innocenzo VIII dichiarò la stregoneria una eresia. La caccia alle streghe fu teorizzata nel 1486 da un’opera intitolata "Malleus Maleficarum”. A detta dei wiccan interrogatori effettuati nel corso dei processi alle streghe rivelano l’esistenza di un culto segreto della fertilità. Tale culto era fondato su riunioni chiamati Sabbat che erano presiedute da un dio cornuto ( il diavolo) e da una bella contadina ( la regina del Sabbat). Durante tali riunioni segrete le streghe erano solite danzare. Si praticavano anche gli erosgamie come confessato da varie streghe che dichiararono di avere effettuato moltissimi accoppiamenti impudichi. Le streghe e gli stregoni si dedicavano anche alla magia e realizzavano dei filtri. Lanciavano anche incantesimi e sortilegi servendosi di figurine di cera che rappresentavano colui che bisognava stregare. Infine le streghe conoscevano l’arte di guarire. Le divinazioni delle streghe fu un autentico olocausto che causò moltissime vittime in tutta Europa e anche in nord America. La caccia alle streghe colpì prevalentemente le donne. A detta dei wiccan decimati e terrorizzati i sostenitori dell’antica religione si ripiegarono totalmente su sé stessi. In apparenza furono buoni cristiani ma continuarono a praticare il loro culto della clandestinità delle proprie case. Essi trasmisero le credenze dell’antica religione ai figli di generazione in generazione costituendo in tal modo dinastie di streghe e stregoni. Ma col tempo la situazione riguardante la caccia alle streghe cambiò notevolmente. Poiché la repressione della stregoneria era diminuita e poi scomparsa (ma le leggi contro di essa furono abolite solo molto tardi ovvero nel 1951 in Gran Bretagna nel 1969 in Australia), progressivamente i coven riapparvero in Europa alla fine del XIX secolo e all’inizio del XX secolo. Così in Inghilterra sarebbero esistite vari coven ereditari. Il celebre mago inglese Alster Crowley sarebbe stato iniziato nella sua prima giovinezza in uno di questi coven ereditari. negli anni 30 Cecil Williamson che sosteneva di essere stato iniziato a sei anni da una strega che aveva aiutato intraprese la ricerca di tutte le streghe che potevano ancora esistere nelle isole britanniche. Dopo la seconda guerra mondiale Williamson aprì in Inghilterra un museo della magia e della stregoneria. Un'altra strega Sybil Lekk divenne nota negli anni 60. Ella sosteneva di poter vantare una figliazione ereditaria visto che sarebbe stata iniziata da sua nonna. Inoltre ella affermava di avere ricevuto un insegnamento da Aleister Crowley a metà degli anni 30 quando aveva solo 8 anni e di aver fatto parte di un coven ereditario che funzionava senza soluzione di continuità da 700 anni. Ma l’autentica nascita della Wicca non fu opera di queste personalità in realtà piuttosto marginali. Tale rinascita si deve invece a un sol uomo Gerard Gardner che all’indomani della seconda guerra mondiale divenne l’uomo più importante nella nascita della Wicca. Egli era nato in Inghilterra il 13 giugno 1884 in una famiglia piuttosto agiata. Anziché proseguire gli studi universitari affascinato dall’oriente preferì lavorare a Chillum nel Borneo a Sumatra Singapore come impiegato nelle piantagioni di the e caucciù e successivamente come funzionario. Si appassionò alle credenze dei popoli con i quali era in contatto ed effettuò alcune ricerche archeologiche e tecnologiche. All’età di 52 anni rassegnò le dimissioni si ritirò nell’Inghilterra meridionale. Divenne membro del consiglio della società delle arti popolari e scrisse numerosi articoli sul folclore dell’ Inghilterra e dell’isola di Man Gardner era anche appassionato di occultismo. Nel 1940 Gardner si fece iniziare alla Teosofia. Stando a quanto dichiara in seno a quest’ultima fu contattato da alcuni membri di un coven di stregoni che utilizzava la società come bacino di reclutamento e che lo stimavano. Dobbiamo dire che appellandosi a questa iniziazione così come a una tradizione familiare Gardner riuscì a essere il fondatore della Wicca. Gardner ha sostenuto fino alla sua morte sopraggiunta nel 1964 che non aveva inventato la Wicca ma era stato iniziato in un piccolo gruppo che proseguiva una tradizione risalente al Medio Evo e che trasmetteva segretamente di madre in figlia. In ogni caso nessuno può negare che Gardner è da considerare a tutti gli effetti il fondatore della Wicca. Prof. Giovanni Pellegrino Read the full article

[peakwealth]

In Bazaaristan

(This text accompanies the preceding audio post but does not cover the journey by train.)

Early globalization along the Silk Road. (Undated photograph)

Some years ago The Economist magazine ran a cover story with the title THE DEATH OF DISTANCE. The world had embraced global communications, planes and containers connected every big city on earth, everything had shrunk and everyone was on the move. Distance was a thing of the past.

I was somehow reminded of this as I stood, recently, on the edge of the Kzlkum desert, watching tour buses unload groups of ageing Italian and French sightseers. (1)

The Kzlkum desert isn't exactly next door, it is an empty corner of a pretty remote area of a pretty distant country, Uzbekistan. It is part of the infinity of Central Asia, thousands of kilometres of steppe and desert, the final geographical disconnect between the old Ottoman, Persian and Arab worlds and Asia proper: the Indian subcontinent, China and beyond. By the time you reach any of the 'stans', Europe has receded far, far beyond the horizon.

Not the Costa del Sol. October 2023

Yet there they were, the tour coaches and taxis bumping around the desert tracks, bringing excursionists enthralled by the the fantasy of, yes, the Silk Road.

The death of distance? Yes and no. It did not quite work out the way The Economist imagined it. Globalization came to be a dirty word in politics, at least in those countries where people felt they had not benefited from limitless free trade and mobility. It was perceived as a threat to national identity, it became part of the arsenal of right wing politics.

But on the edge of the Kzlkum desert, I had to admit, distance didn't seem to matter. Post-pandemic tourism had conquered all. The magic of the Silk Road had pulled Central Asia into focus and turned the turquoise cities of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva, with their elegant tiled minarets and madrasas into generic tourist bazaars.

Their names rolled off the tongue like magic. They were on the bucket lists of millions of eager visitors anxious to see Khiva before they died.(2)

Inside Khiva's walled city: shopping for souvenirs, silly hats and of course, silk scarves. October 2023

Little or no effort has been made to segregate or protect the heritage sites from the opportunities of commerce. A bazaari atmosphere prevails in the historic quarters.

Traders, warriors and emissaries from ancient cultures have crossed paths here, from Greece, Byzantium, Mesopotamia, Russia, Persia, Mongolia, China. For all the unimaginable hardships of desert and distance, they somehow exchanged language, religion, food, astronomy, rituals, warfare, agriculture. Look around today's Uzbekistan and you can retrace this cross-fertilization between East and West. It endures despite the rapid and often careless economic development (like the car culture, western junk food, etc.).

For now overseas tourism doesn't amount to much in Uzbekistan's overall economy but the numbers are clearly rising. As the visitors navigate the imaginary Silk Road in comfort, Marco Polo and Alexander the Great must be spinning in their graves.

________________________

(1) Kzl, which means red, often spelled kyzyl or kizil, is a fun word because it has consonants only.

(2) If that wasn't enough, some travellers come this far to behold the dried out shores of the defunct Aral sea with their own eyes.

[thelegendofdiaperhorse]

MANIFESTO

MANIFESTO

H9UHHH))))))00HHHHHHHHHH (

THE LEGEND OF DIAPER HORSE

HORSE MUSIC THE FREEDOM OF THE STEPPE MONGOL HORDE BURN DOWN YOUR VILLAGE START A CULT THE GLORY OF SPEED PRACTICED BY SUCH GREAT AMERICAN LUMINARIES AS JUNIOR JOHNSON PAUL ERDŐS FILIPPO TOMMASO MARINETTI NICK LAND VRISKA SERKET AND AYN RAND THE GREATEST AMERICAN OF THE 2OTH CENTURY THE THE ERA OF THE PETROL&IC HORSE IN WHICH THE ETERNAL & CELESTIAL AMERICA WAS REALIZED ON EARTH TAKE SPEED AND FUCKING FLOOR IT TAKE SPEED AND FUCKING FLOOR IT TAKE SPEED AND FUCKING FLOOR IT

LIBERATE THE GLORY OF SPEED FLOOR IT LIKE A BAT OUT OF ANNUAL SHAREHOLDER REPORT EROTIC 1O-K READINGS I BELIEVE THAT HEAVEN IS AN ETERNALLY CRASHING MOTORCYCLE WHOSE PARTS MELT AND SPATTER AND REMATERIALIZE INTO INFINITY NEW MOTORCYCLES TRAVELING AT INFINITE SPEED AND INFINITE EXPLOSION THROUGH THE WEB OF THE COSMIC HORSE

GG ALLIN THE GREATEST PROPHET OF THE ETERNAL & CELESTIAL AMERICA SHAT & PISSED ON STAGE THREW CHAIRS AT PEOPLE &VIOLENTFAGMOVEMENT TEMPLE TO ROCK & ROLL

THEY PLAY MUSIC ABOUT ROCK & ROLL IN GROCERY STORES & FAMILY FRIENDLY FAST CASUAL CHAIN DINING RESTAURANTS BECAUSE YOU DON&T KNOW IT MEANS FUCK & IF YOU DO KNOW IT MEANS FUCK YOU DO NOT LIVE OUT THE ESOTERIC MESSAGE OF THE CELESTIAL AMERICA YOU DO NOT GO FORTH AND FUCK YOU BECOME NOSTALGIC FOR THE CONCEPT OF FUCK THE CONCEPT OF FUCK IS NOSTALGIC TO YOU THE CONCEPT OF FUCK TRIGGERS NOSTALGIC MEMORIES AND FEELINGS OF LOSS CAREFULLY IMPLANTED IN YOU OVER DECADES BY TRICKNOLOGISTS OF LORD YAKUB GREYFACE

FUCK MUSIC CROSS THE EVENT HORIZON OF THE HAPTIC VOID MUSIC THAT PUNCHES YOU IN THE FACE WHY NOT MUSIC THAT FUCKS YOU FUCK MUSIC MUST BE REBORN ANEW IN EVERY ERA BY SAGES & PROPHETS FUCK MUSIC MUST BE OF GREAT SPEED TO OUTRACE THE TRICKNOLOGISTS OF LORD GREYFACE YAKUB HANATARASH BACKHOE PHILHARMONIC

Americans are having less sex, whether they’re teenagers or in their 4Os. One of the most comprehensive sex studies to date — the National Survey of Sexual Health and Behavior — found evidence of declines in all types of partnered sexual activity in the U.S. Over the course of the study from 2OO9 to 2O18, those surveyed reported declines in penile-vaginal intercourse, anal sex and partnered masturbation.

Average relative annual declines in the prevalence of each behavior— except for weapon carrying—ranged from 1–6%. The structure of the latent factor was mostly unchanged over time, with notable exceptions related to differential changes in prevalence for cigarette and cannabis use. Between 1999 and 2O17, the mean of the latent factor declined by between O.54 and O.73 standard deviations.

Results suggest that much of the decline in the prevalence of substance use, delinquent, and sexual behaviors among American youth from 1999–2O17 reflect an approximately two-thirds standard deviation decline in the mean of a latent risk behavior factor.

KOYANUSQATSI SINE WAVE REPRESENTS PRINCIPLE OF STASIS UNFATHOMABLY AMPLICATED KICK DRUM SQUARE WAVE REPRESENTS PRINCIPLE OF DYNAMISM THESE FORCES MUST LIVE IN BALANCE AND ETERNAL CAVALRIC WARFARE ATOP THE COSMIC HORSE THE OCCULT MEANING OF THE ELECTRIC GUITAR THE ETERNAL INSTRUMENT OF THE CELESTIAL AMERICA IS THAT LIFE IS SOMETHING THAT REACHES BEYOND ITSELF BEYOND THAT WHICH ITS SYSTEM CAN GRASP OR CONVEY RECOMPILE AUDACITY TO WARN YOU WHEN YOUR SOUND FILES DON&T CLIP ENOUGH

THE SUN IS DOWN THE HORSE IS NIGH MODS ARE ASLEEP POST HORSE

DONALD BABYFUR TRUMP PEE TAPE DONALD TRUMP PISSFAGGOT DIAPER PEE DONALD TRUMP PISSFAGGOT DRAG QUEEN DONALD TRUMP TRANSSEXUAL BABYFUR HYPERPOP DONALD TRUMP BISEXUAL AROMANTIC DONALD TRUMP FRAT BOY DONALD TRUMP WATERSPORTS KEG STAND DONALD TRUMP SUCKING COCK AT A WATERSPORTS KEG STAND DONALD TRUMP EATING PISS PUSSY AT A WATERSPORTS KEG STAND PUA DONALD TRUMP FDS DONALD TRUMP FLDS DONALD TRUMP LDS DONALD TRUMP I SCORED WITH RUSSIAN PISS HOOKERS BACKWARDS BASEBALL CAP WHITE RAPPER BABYFUR DONALD TRUMP

GO OUTSIDE & TOUCH GRASS GO OUTSIDE & SMOKE GRASS GO OUTSIDE & DYE YR PUBES GREEN SO SOMEONE ELSE CAN TOUCH GRASS TAKE SPEED AND FUCKING FLOOR IT WE MUST RELEARN THE GLORY OF DYNAMISM WE MUST RELEARN THE GLORY OF SPEED 1OO Gecs - Fanged Noumena &Remix& CCRU JUNGLE RAVE ANARCOPOCALYPSE NICK GG ALLIN LAND &&SOME OF US ARE STILL MARXISTS YOU KNOW&&

Much of America looks suburban, with neighborhoods of single-family homes connected by roads to retail centers and low-rise office buildings. For the first time, government data confirm this. According to the newly released 2O17 American Housing Survey (of nearly 76,OOO households nationwide), about 52 percent of people in the United States describe their neighborhood as suburban

Cockaigne or Cockayne (/kɒˈkeɪn/) is a land of plenty in medieval myth, an imaginary place of extreme luxury and ease where physical comforts and pleasures are always immediately at hand and where the harshness of medieval peasant life does not exist.[1]

YES I SMOKE CRACK

HORSEPLAY = SLAYPHORE = HORSEY PAL = SLAP YR HOE = RAOH YELPS

Is gematria haram? - Quora Quora https://www.quora.com › Is-gematria-haram No human can intercede with God for the soul of another human being. God's scriptures contain the exact roadmap of how to live a happy, secure life, and it is … 2 answers · 1 vote: Salam, did you mean gematria? See fatwa:

Being something of an economic fundamentalist, I've been quite blind to the fact democratic politics - along with commerce and technoscience - involves a massive numerization of social processes. Quite apart from the usual arguments for democracy, there is a 'case for democratization' proceeding entirely from the promotion of qabbalistic cultural decoding.

In striking contrast to every other political arrangement evidenced in history, democracy numerizes power, subordinating authority to number, with would-be dominant ideas compelled to legitimate themselves in terms of quantitative 'ratings' of approval. The incomprehensible complexity of erotic 1O-K readings the social whole is subjectively appropriated through simple numerical indices - with percentages overwhelmingly predominant. The individual as democratic 'unit' thus functions the contemporary world disorder (what CNN was for Baurdrillard and pomo fuzz-death of the Oddubbian universe back in the 9O's)

THE LEGEND OF DIAPER HORSE

Fold out this page along the dotted line and make your own manifesto!

THE LEGEND OF DIAPER HORSE

[mahayanapilgrim]

When you look at me I am an idle, idle man; when I look at myself I am a busy, busy man. Since upon the plain of untreated infinity I am building, building the tower of ecstasy, I have no time for building houses. Since upon the steppe of the void of truth I am breaking, breaking the savage fetter of suffering, I have no time for ploughing family land. Since at the bourn of unity ineffable lam subduing, subduing the demon-foe of self, I have no time for subduing angry foe-men.

Since in the palace of mind which transcends duality I am waiting, waiting for spiritual experience as my bride, I have no time for setting up house. Since in the circle of the Buddhas of my body I am fostering, fostering the child of wisdom, I have no time for fostering sniveling children.

Since in the frame of the body, the seat of all delight, I am saving, saving precious instruction and reflection, I have no time for saving worldly wealth.

Stop all worldly activitives and sit naturally at ease.

Remain silent and let sound be like an echo. Do not think about anything look at experience beyond thought; open minded like space. Let go of control and stop and rest at ease in that state. Awareness without projection is the greatest meditation. Train and develop like this and you will come to the deepest awakening.

~ Milarepa

[eruverse]

Pets, Pets, Pets!!

My headcanon of the pets the characters have:

Mongolia: horsies… or not, since they’re technically livestock. He has a LOT of horsies he lends to nomads and sometimes he will sell them too. Anyway, he has a bankhar (native Mongolian guard dog) — so bankhars don’t technically get super big but his is a Lorge puppy nearly as big as he is. His dog has also sired countless pups. He brings his dog all the time when he’s out in the steppe and would camp with him.

Cute!!!!

Kazakhstan: infinity cats aka 8 cats. Half were strays and half are adopted — one or two of them he adopted from Russia. They’re literally replacement kids for him; were he a human he would have 10 children. Proudly calls himself cat dad. He loves them so much he bought a big luxurious house just so that them fully indoor cats can have room to roam. They hog the bed often that Kaz would sleep on the rug.

Uzbekistan: two cats, who are also barn/outdoor cats. They often help hunt small animals that could potentially ruin his harvest since he gardens at home!!

Russia: ofc he has cats. He has had cats since he was born. Sometimes his cats would have kittens and he asks his neighbors if they would love to adopt cats from him.

Turkey: well, for him all the cats in Istanbul are his (literally he is right). So he doesn’t really have cats at home, but he lets his house open for cats to roam. Also buys a ton of best quality cat food every month.

[justarandomgirly]

Im writing my own Loki series where there is no TVA but if I had to make the show about them, I would make Loki steal all infinity stones and wait for his opportunity and as soon as he stepps outside of TVA,because he fooled them he would help them with something, he would use the stones to not only ditch TVA but also to destroy them. For trying to dictate him how his story should go. For all people they tried to control. And for all the nine rhelms.

Maybe when Im done writing my own series, I will start writing this, since everything Marvel writes is piece of shit

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Friday 28 February 1840

6 ½

11 20/..

washed a little breakfast over now at 7 40/.. – wrote out the accounts of yesterday etc. till now 7 50/.. – fine morning no! snowing and R-5 ½° outside lying on the snow at 8 – off Elmanka [Elshanka] at 8 10/.. – cream last night and this morning – charged ½ S. Rub. – had both our doors shut – the first hour reading Russian grammar – afterwards slumbering – hardly peeped out of my little window – cold wind over the high plain ground but not snowing fast nearly fair on our arriving at 10 50/.. at Kletschewnikovo [Kleshchevka] another government station house but not near so good as before – at this end of the village – A- and I alighted while they changed our horses – from 11 ¾ to 1 18/.. at the Gostinitza Moskva at Saratoff [Saratov] – today the most winterly we have had particularly during this last stage – till the courier put the mat he sat upon against our front window (still unglazed) we were covered with the driving snow – not snow falling for the heavens, but the snow from the ground – a regular chasse-neige by a strong south westerly wind sweeping over this high plain (Steppe?) – cannot see 20 yards before us, the atmosphere so obscured by the driving snow – yet now at 12 ½ the sun would peep out if he could – at 12 40/.. we pass six Drovnas (sledges) of hay, each drawn by a pair of tolerably large oxen, all white or red – the 1st time of seeing oxen draw in Russia – open our 2 doors at 12 50/.. to see the town; and as we descend we get under shelter from the chasse-neige and drove very well – at 1 11/.. pass under the slagbaum black and white and narrow red ribonned barrier into the town Saratoff [Saratov] – gardens and courtyards and low wood buildings form the wide street which gradually improves upon us till at 1 18/.. stop (and did not wait very long) at the Gostinitza Moskva, a book looking 2 story brick lime-plastered white house with its ground floor in shops, and not far from opposite a largeish sort of Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – good long street the best in the town and terminating in the magnificent Volga – impatient to look about us, we just saw our 3 tolerable rooms and left our people to themselves and went out at 1 ½ - market day – a sort of Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor near here full of booths, - besides the regular buildings – butchers meat, bread, corn, butter eggs pots and pans, an infinity of wooden pails and basins and spoons and piggins etc. etc. very neat and pretty – a sort of kibitka a fair – sauntered along

8 10/.. to 10 50/.. Elmanka [Elshanka] to Kletschewnikovo [Kleshchevka]

11 ¾ to 1 18/.. K- to Saratoff [Saratov]

SH:7/ML/E/24/00028

in and out always not far from out great street – a series of Gasinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – one after another – the whole town a Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – singular place – it might be (probably it is) the marché of the whole of its government – other less important and handsome streets parallel to our street with streets at right angles communicating with the ville de bois old wooden town spread along the hill side to the west – the Volga on the other side – 3 or 4 good churches – very modern looking – one large brick building about ½ way down on [our] street from the Inn to the river apparently to be a handsome Helsingfors sort of church – a handsome looking convent in one of the cross streets – and the near bottom of our street in an irregular place square (piazza) the oldest looking and most interesting church here – a pointed clocher and a domed square church the rez de chaussée surrounded by buttress-formed arcades, and over these a wide gallery with its roof supported by white columns the whole building painted red with white window frames columns, coins, etc. In returning went into a nice little sort of jewellers’ and mixtum [mixum] gatherum shop – very civil woman – A- bought 2 little [turtle] shell combs 5/. same she would have paid Larne at Moscow – some of the pretty silver gilt steel-wrought table and tea spoons from Moscow – and several pretty things snuff boxes – pins, rings, a pretty bracelet 150/. and a salt and pepper silver gilt box 75/. and pretty turquoise snake brooch like ornament 25/. all from St. Petersburg – came in at 3 55/.. having been out since 1 ½ well amused, too much so for A- to complain of being cold or tired – sided my room – wrote all but the first 2 lines of today (and had given orders to George) till now 5 40/.. – will send the two letters this evening – to Mr. de Stalipine and the general governor – mean to go to bed directly after dinner – think to be off early on Monday morning – we must inquire about the great mountain slip (Goldau-like) that took place near here last summer – and should like to see Mr. de Satlipines’ venerie – he is now mareschal de la noblesse – Mr. de Bachmétieff heard of his appointment after giving me the letter – to congratulate him de la part de Mr. B-

1 letter de la part de Mr. Bachmetieff Monsieur de Stalipine à Saratoff [Saratov] – directed in Russian -

1 letter de la part du général gouverner of Kazan to the général Gouverneur of Saratoff [Saratov] – directed in Russian -

Read a little – dinner at 6 ½ stehee (Russian soup) fish sterlet, and roast turkey, and a bottle of Donkoi – asleep till after 8 – then tea – sent the two letters – the general governor not here – sat over tea – A- had boiled up cranberries with honey – thirty – we ate them all - R14 ½° on my table now at 11 20/.. p.m. snowy morning – high wind from south west – fine afternoon and evening