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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 5 years ago

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Vampr Erik Origin

Okay so let me make a disclaimer:

I had to do a lot of research to try and create his back story in summary form. I basically learned a lot of shit that I didn’t know so with that being said, you guys can feel free to fact check me because I feel like this needs to be factual as far as the history of it goes. Also, Erik was born/reborn in an era that is very touchy. I mean, we go through crap as black people everyday but I used some very degrading words to represent how it was back in this time. If this is offensive, please feel free to let me know I will change it. I don’t want to offend or make anyone feel bad. So, here it is! This is the origin I came up with.

Erik Stevens is his alias but he was born Ricardo Dupoux. Erik was born in 1856 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Just 29 years before he became a vampire.

Erik’s mother was born in 1836. Her name was Fabiola Adonis and she is from Louisiana but her parents and family (Erik’s grandparents) are from Sainte-Dominigue which is now known as Haiti.

Erik’s father was named Jacques Dupoux. He was born in 1827 in Cuba and he migrated to Louisiana with his family when he was just four years old.

Both sides of Erik’s family originated in Sainte-Dominigue and began to migrate out during the black Haitian Revolution as free people of color. The Haitian Revolution was a successful insurrection by self-liberated slaves against French colonial rule in Saint-Domingue, now the sovereign state of Haiti. The revolt began on 22 August 1791, and ended in 1804 with the former colony's independence. It involved blacks, mulattoes, French, Spanish, and British participants—with the ex-slave Toussaint Louverture emerging as Haiti's most charismatic hero. The revolution was the only slave uprising that led to the founding of a state which was both free from slavery, and ruled by non-whites and former captives. It is now widely seen as a defining moment in the history of the Atlantic World.

Haitian Vodou, is an Afro-American religion that developed in Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade between the 16th and 19th centuries. It arose through a process of syncretism between the traditional religions of West Africa and the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. Vodou is an oral tradition practiced by extended families that inherit familial spirits, along with the necessary devotional practices, from their elders. In the cities, local hierarchies of priestesses or priests (manbo and oungan), “children of the spirits” (ounsi), and ritual drummers (ountògi) comprise more formal “societies” or “congregations” (sosyete). In these congregations, knowledge is passed on through a ritual of initiation (kanzo) in which the body becomes the site of spiritual transformation. Many Vodou practitioners were involved in the Haitian Revolution which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and formed modern Haiti. The Roman Catholic Church left for several decades following the Revolution, allowing Vodou to become Haiti's dominant religion. They referred to themselves as “serving the spirits” more so than using Voudou to refer to Haitian religion.

Jacques Doupoux and Fabiola Adonis were well respected within the Vodou community. Erik’s father was a hounsi bosale and Artisan. Hounsi is essentially a dedicated member of Vodou, an apprentice of priests. His mother, Fabiola, an Ounsi, oversaw the liturgical singing and shaking the chacha rattle which is used to control the rhythm during ceremonies. She had a voice that used to lull Erik to sleep. Jacques wanted Erik to follow in his footsteps and later become an oungan; a Vodou priest. He was born as a “child of the house” or a pititt-caye. Being an oungan provides an individual with both social status and material profit. Erik was present for his father's initiation when he was just a baby with his mother in a shared Ounfò; Vodou temple. There were four levels of initiation that Jacques Doupoux went through. That sealed Erik’s future.

The Ounfò was a basic shack in Bayou St. John. The main ceremonial space within the Ounfò is known as the peristil. brightly painted posts hold up the roof, which is often made of corrugated iron but sometimes thatched. The central one of these posts is the poto mitan or poteau mitan, which is used as a pivot during ritual dances and serves as the "passage of the spirits" by which the Loa; the spirits, enter the room during ceremonies. It is around this central post that offerings, including both vèvè and animal sacrifices, are made.

Free people of color owned the most property in Louisiana but of course, that didn’t go down in history because the whites didn’t like it. As for Erik’s family, his mother and father were free people of color that became sugar planters, for slave owners, and they also shared Haitian refining techniques to successfully granulate sugar. Erik favors his father more so than his mother, sometimes confused as his father’s younger brother.

The Colfax massacre and the Coushatta massacre happened in 1873. This sparked fear for Erik’s family and they held a certain Fete for Lwa which is a public ceremony. The drums beat, the congregation started to sing and dance for the Lwa. The Lwa came to the ceremony via possession. The Lwa prophesied, healed people, cleansed people, and blessed them and assisted them in resolving issues. Erik was 17 years old and he didn’t share this with his parents but he was running for his life from a group of white Southerners one day when he was walking the bayou of New Orleans. Erik ended up sleeping in Baton Rouge until the morning.

Erik often stays within the Ounfò, well into adult age. He became a hounsi bosale like his father, often participating as a ritual drummer or an ountògi. He would sing specific songs in Haitian Creole with some words of African languages incorporated in it. He was a Food Artisan like his mother. He admired her craftsmanship in the kitchen. Cheeses, breads, fruit preserves, cured meats, beverages, oils, and vinegars were some of her handmade specialties. This is one thing that attracted women to Erik besides his handsome features. He was Strong, tall, studly, rough around the edges and not afraid to challenge someone to a fight or a gun battle. Erik was charming, protective, heroic, funny, cocky which earned him the nickname “Big Ego Ricardo”. Erik was hard-working, religious, smart, sculpted, dependable, and an amazing lover in bed.

Long dreadlocks, whiskey-colored eyes, full, soft lips, and a smile with dimples so deep it charmed anyone. He wore fundamental ivory cotton band collar work shirts unbuttoned to show off his defined pectorals because he was proud of his body, sometimes paired the shirts with a vest, cotton brown or black knickers, riding boots, and a series of Vodou jewelry around his neck and on his fingers, some with symbols representing Papa Legba, La Sirene, Ogoun King, and Baron Samedi. During Vodou rituals, Erik would wear a cotton cloth around his head like a bandana, bare torso because of the amount of sweating he does during drumming to keep up with the dancers, Vodou symbols painted on his face to represent whichever Loa they were serving, white linen pants and bare feet.

He was obsessed with guns. He would often go down to the bayou to practice with stolen pocket pistols, shooting empty glass bottles and bean cans. He’s a protector, he did this just in case his family were in danger. The symbol of Vodou love on one of his ring fingers is what attracted his late wife, Justine LeBlanc to him when he was 27 years old. He was selling artisan bread one afternoon from an open shop window on Bourbon Street. Justine was six years younger than Erik. She was a Creole of color from Louisiana, like Erik, except her family were sent to Louisiana on slave ships from sub-Saharan Africa instead of Haiti like Erik’s family. She spoke a bit of English, and French with words from African languages. Erik spoke English and Haitian Creole with a little bit of Portuguese and Spanish.

Justine LeBlanc worked closely with Marie Laveau, who was rumored to be the granddaughter of a powerful priestess in Sainte-Dominigue, who began to dominate New Orleans Vodou that later became Louisiana Voodoo. These spiritual leaders served a racially diverse, mostly female, congregation. Weekly worship services took place in the homes of Voodoo leaders. Their sanctuaries were characterized by spectacular altars, laden with statues and pictures of the saints, candles, flowers, fruit, and other offerings. Voodoo ceremonies consisted of Roman Catholic prayers, chanting, drumming, and dancing. Vodou was brought of Haitian origin, however, the type practiced in Louisiana later in years is almost always known as Voodoo.

Erik was known to be a ladies man. He spent time flirting and fucking woman within his community. Pussy was practically thrown at him. Justine, however, changed all of that. They spent so much time together within one summer that Erik decided that he wanted to jump the broom with her which was symbolic of sweeping out of the old and sweeping in to the new to welcome a new household to the community. Justine lost her virginity to him the evening after their marriage and that’s when they started having children. Erik has two young twin girls; Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. After that, Justine couldn’t conceive anymore which she was often depressed about. Erik wanted to be fruitful because his mother came down very ill when he was five and she couldn’t conceive either. It was either her life or her ovaries so she had them removed.

Despite everything going on in America with slavery and racism, Erik; Ricardo, lived a happy life. He was feared and respected, a following of close male friends were like his comrades. They had his back, Erik had theirs. That all didn’t last very long. In June of 1884, when Erik was just 28 years old, things began to make a turn for the worst. Erik’s father, Jacques Dupoux, was lynched. With the 1880s dawning, a new era of violence ensued. White supremacy represented a central tenant of their platform and led to even greater levels of violence as they tried to reverse the advances made for African Americans during Reconstruction. They capitalized on rumors that black crime had expanded after the abolition of slavery. As a result, the number of lynchings soared across the South and hundreds of lives were being taken. Lynch mobs often justified their actions as attempts to defend white Southern womanhood from “libidinous” black males.

This angered Erik, causing him to gather a following of men who also lost family. Erik led the revolt to fight back white supremacy. They attached about 15 homes and killed between 55 to 60 whites throughout Louisiana. They also arrived on a local sugar and cotton plantation that often sought help from Erik’s own family for harvesting sugar cane. The revolt and about 20 slaves burned the plantation to the ground but that wasn’t before they hacked the entire family to death. Erik was made public enemy number one. His face was on wanted posters throughout the South but he was depicted wearing a scarf around his mouth and nose. Of course with Erik’s actions, some of his family and friends suffered. Vodou rituals were invaded and the members slaughtered. Marie Leveau and her following were protected but not Erik’s lineage.

Ricardo Dupoux AKA Erik Stevens returned home after successfully burning down another plantation and killing the entire family, including the children, execution style in 1886. Marie Laveau warned Justine that Erik was dangerous and he would endanger her and the children if she stayed with them. Marie instructed Justine to bring her something that belonged to Erik, something sentimental. Justine brought her Erik’s father’s ring that he wore around his neck. Marie performed a ritual that later informed Justine that Erik was in grave danger and this life as Ricardo Dupoux would soon come to a bloody, gory, gruesome ending. Marie told Justine that she couldn’t interfere because that could possibly go badly. Justine had to keep that big secret to herself to protect her children no matter how much she loved and adored Erik.

Erik wasn’t himself anymore. He became this angry, rude, vengeful man that killed without a backwards glance. He also turned to what is said to be evil magic in Vodou. Instead of becoming an Oungan, Erik became a Bokor and an occultist. A Bokor is a Vodou witch for hire who is said to serve the loa “with both hands”, practicing for both good and evil. Their black magic includes the creation of zombies and the creation of ‘ouangas’ talismans that house spirits. Bloods are usually chosen from birth but Erik was instead initiated in. He found the spirits, the orisha’s the Eruziles, not a priest in the flesh. The whites kept crossing the line in a spiritual and physical sense, it became Erik’s right to protect himself and his family with curses and hexes.

Erik caused moderate to severe suffering to those he seeked revenge on by hexing them and also using dark charms such as curses, the most heinous act on an individual; the worst kind of dark magic. He performed blood maledictions, a specific type of curse that may not kill the target but can remain within the victim's body, and be passed down as a genetic defect that can resurface generations later. Erik would inflict intense, excruciating pain on his victims, poison them, and cause flames called Move Dife which means “bad fire”, an enormous flame infused with dark magic to seek out living targets. Fabiola and Justine were afraid and they didn’t support Erik’s new choices. The light she saw in her son was indeed gone. He was of greatest fear within his community and within the Southern white community.

How did Erik meet his demise?

It happened in June of 1888, five months before Erik’s 33rd birthday. The White league and the Ku Klux Klan had been deactivated since the 1870s but some members worked closely together to hunt down and kill Ricardo Dupoux, soon to be known as Erik Stevens. He decided to use Erik Stevens as an alias since his name was so well known in Louisiana where he lived. No one besides the people close to him knew how his face looked since he wore it covered but his name however was remembered. If things didn’t go as planned for him and he needed to flee with his Mother, Wife, and children, he could have his name changed to Erik Stevens. A trusted friend named Augusto Richard’s wife named Beatrice Richard and her five children were held at gunpoint in their home. They found out where Augusto lives and used that as they way of finding Ricardo.

From what they tell him, Augusto’s family will be freed if he agrees to help the Southern white men capture and kill Ricardo Dupoux. At first, Augusto declined and said that Ricardo is a trusted friend of his. They punished him by beating his wife and threatened to hang her from a structure similar to a gallow. Augusto finally gives in, joining forces with the evil white men in exchange for his family's protection. Ricardo and Augusto have been friends since they were children. Augusto was sort of a co-planner with Ricardo to attack white supremacy and racists homes along with plantations. Augusto fabricated a new place to attack, suggesting that him and Ricardo go alone this time. Ricardo agreed without hesitation because he trusted Augusto. They arrived by horse outside of New Orleans near Maurepas Swamp……..

_______________

“Augusto...poukisa nou is it la?” Ricardo asked Augusto in Haitian Creole why they were there. He didn’t like speaking English just in case he was overheard. Ricardo’s eyes squinted suspiciously around him before he cut his eyes that looked black in the dark at Augusto.

“Mwen regrèt, frè,” Augusto spoke with a shaky voice, tears flooding his eyes. He told Ricardo that he was sorry.

Ricardo pulls out his pistol, aiming it at the shadows of the trees. He couldn’t believe he was being set up by someone that is supposed to be his friend. Ricardo told his wife and mother that he would be home safely and for them not to worry. He couldn’t trust anyone now. If he got out of this alive, he was going to cut ties with his followers.

“Well, well, well...look what we got here, a nigger with a gun!!”

Ricardo follows the source of that thick southern accent echoing in the night and finds a white man standing behind him with a gun pointed at his temple.

“Drop it, boy, or I will splatter this here swamp with ya monkey brains,” He threatened while making his gun click. Ricardo could see out of his peripheral more white men stepping out of the shadows. The moon light made the weapons in their hands shine.

“Listen to him nigger!!!” One yelled.

“AIN'T SO TOUGH NOW!!!” Another yelled while a series of laughter came soon after.

“Listen, I know ya can speak English, boy. Ya friend here told us everything. How ya niggers get a hold of books I wouldn’t understand,” He laughs before spitting in his face, “I’m gonna enjoy killing ya, just like ya enjoyed killing my friends ya fucking animal. This is how we’re gonna celebrate the ending of slavery...we’re gonna gut ya, and then we’re gonna throw ya filthy dead fucking body in the swamp so the gators can finish ya.”

The foul breath of this white man would have made Ricardo puke if it wasn’t for the gun pointed at him.

“Hey, Jenson, pass me my knife!” He yells, “I wanna Kill this one slowly.”

Like a swarm of stinky flies, the white men crowded Ricardo, some kicking him in his ribs, others in his face, bloodying him up. Ricardo didn’t drop to his knees willingly, he took each and every blow like a champion, even when his vision blurred from the blood trickling from a gash in his head from being pistol whipped. Augusto stood watching the entire thing. He was Disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen.

“Should we kill his wife? His mama? His little girls?!!!!” One of them punched him in the face while two men on each side kept him still since he’s so damn strong. It was almost inhumanly strong.

“AUGUSTO OU FUKIN TRÈT!!!” Ricardo yelled, before spitting out blood on the dirt covered ground. He called Augusto a fucking traitor, “Mwen gen yon fanmi! ti bebe mwen yo! ti bebe mwen yo! ou trèt!” Ricardo growled angrily with his deep fearful voice. He could only think about his family right now. What if some of these men were watching his house right now? They definitely were plotting something besides beating the living shit out of him in the swap.

“Kick this nigger down!!! It’s six of you and one of him!!!!”

A blow struck Ricardo’s spine so hard he felt it snap. He was on his stomach, his cheek hitting the dirt painfully. One foot was placed to the back of his head while angry tears fell from his eyes.

“Any last words? And say it in English before I slice your goddamn tongue off,” The man with the boot to his head spoke harshly.

Ricardo clenched his jaw while breathing in the dirt. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however, the asshole in him wanted to toy with them.

“...Which one of ya is da father of Helen Landry?” He asks.

It was silent for a second until the boot on the back of his head was gone, being replaced with a hand yanking him by his dreads, lifting his head from the ground. Ricardo smiles smugly, his bloody smile almost as sinister as the blood from the gash in his head flooding his eyes.

“Let me ax ya something...are ya the reason my little Helen is dying? Doctor says she only has three days left...ya poison my little girl with ya voodoo magic?”

“I CURSED ya little girl with my Vodou magic…” Ricardo spits his blood in his face, “And if I were ya, I would go check on her, Doctors don’t always tell da truth.”

Augusto flinched when he witnessed Ricardo being kicked in the face. His jaw had to be broken now. He was being lifted off of the ground again, a sharp whimper of pain escaping his mouth. His feet gave out beneath him and now he was being dragged. His chest and abs were covered in dirt just like his handsome, swollen, and bloody face. His busted lip drooped and leaked blood while his groggy voice tried to form sentences. The men laughed at him but all Ricardo did was look at Augusto with unblinking eyes, one of which displayed broken vessels.

“Anything else ya got to say, nigger?”

The source of the voice didn’t matter to Ricardo. All he kept thinking about was his family and how he failed them. His father was probably ashamed. Ricardo looked towards the sky. If only he could call on Baron Samedi or Maman Brigette. He wasn’t in the safety of his Ounfò either. He could only hope that at this moment his mother, Fabiola, was summoning the spirits.

“Guess not, hold him down.”

With a dull, jagged knife, Ricardo was stabbed in his stomach. He felt like he was punched. The impact pushed him back a little and he wheezed. A tearing sensation and a noise followed. The pain took a while to kick but he could feel the blood trickling. When it was finally withdrawn, he felt something hot and cold at the same time, pulling the skin with it as it's removed. Ricardo’s cry was a brilliant sound to them, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. His fists clenched and shook each time his skin was being torn to shreds. The knife rotated and the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, the white man jerked it all the way into his stomach, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside him and the black handle was pushing against his broken skin.

“Die Coon!!!” They yelled in unison before celebrating with loud hoots.

“Look at him choking! This ugly motherfucker is bleeding out! Let’s take him to the water!”

Ricardo could feel his body falling to the ground. His hand clutched his wound but blood seeped between his fingers. He felt weak, his eyes opening and closing. Augusto stood there spewing apology after apology while crying hysterically.

“As for ya,” the white man that stabbed Ricardo multiple times drops his knife in the dirt, reaches in his back pocket with his bloody, cut up hand and pulled out a gun, “what? Did ya really think we were gonna let ya go free? Ya just another disgusting nigger too, and ya nigger bitch, ya nigger kids? Dem dead too.”

Ricardo watched with low eyes while Augusto took his last breath before being shot in the head, point blank range.

“Wastin’ all dese good bullets,” the white man pocketed his gun again, “Hall em’ up! Let’s take em’ swimming!”

_____________

Crowded tabletops with tiny flickering lamps; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smoke-darkened lithographs.

This is where Ricardo Dupoux rested upon a makeshift bed surrounded by oil burning candles. A sulfurous rotten-egg smell that is often associated with marshes and mudflats occupies the room. His entire body ached and the sharp pain prickled his scalp. Licking his dry lips with his equally dry tongue, Ricardo tried looking around with his sore eyes but the discomfort caused him to close them. It felt damp and gloomy around him, clearly nothing is quite what it seems to be. Ricardo could feel a powerful energy surrounding him, if only he could move his body. A few rickety floorboards creaked like someone was sneaking up on him and it made Ricardo jumpy. He wasn’t physically able to help himself.

“Ricardo Dupoux, ki sa yon sipriz bèl eh?”

A seductive voice of a woman spoke to him in Haitian Creole. This wasn’t a pleasant surprise exactly.

“Kiyes ou ye?” His voice was so hoarse and his throat felt raw.

“Who muh? Well...I’m yuh rescuer of course, handsome.”

“Kisa...ki kote sa a?” Ricardo coughs painfully. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Well, don’t Yuh sound sexy speaking deh Creole to Mama Dalma. Yuh in muh shack, Ricardo.”

“Mama Dalma? Prètès Vodou a?” He spoke with astonishment.

“So, muh assumin’ yuh heard stories about muh from way back when...what else do yuh know bout’ me?”

“...Nothing.” He finally speaks English.

“Yuh know so much about muh voodoo mystic powers in the Caribbean 175 years ago…I’m honored.”

Finally, standing above his shell of a body was Tia Dalma herself. Tia Dalma was a practitioner of voodoo, a hoodoo priestess with fathomless powers that was perceived as a legend. Supposedly, she has uncanny powers to foretell the future, to summon up demons, and to look deep into men’s souls. She’s mysterious and beautiful with delicate patterns accentuating her hypnotic eyes, long but slender dreadlocks like him, deep melanin skin so smooth and unblemished, and lips painted black. She wore a sheer black dress that showed off her nudity beneath it, so many curves that looked delicious, and a mystical necklace dangling between her small breasts. Ricardo could feel her seductive energy enticing him into a tangled net. She playfully giggles while stroking Ricardo’s bare, sweaty chest with her long black nail flirtatiously.

“Poor baby, him carve yuh up?” She spoke with her Jamaican Patois. Mama Dalma looks Ricardo up and down like she wanted to mount him. She was so happy she couldn’t hide her beautiful smile.

“Did ya heal me, Mama Dalma? I thought I was gon’ die by a white man’s hand.”

“I’ve seen yuh fight big brawla, I’ve seen yuh cap a shot, I’m impressed wit’ yuh...haven’t seen a man deh brave in a while...queng dem white boys.”

“...ya been watching me?” He squints his whiskey colored eyes,“who ya for ya to be watching me?”

“Mhm, I been watching yuh, handsome...It’s because I want to save yuh...give yuh a better life than this.”

Ricardo was shivering, his skin pale and cool, difficulty breathing, mentally confused, and his blood pressure kept dropping. His chest was rapidly moving from breathing too fast, heart rate beating so fast it was almost painful, and he felt like he was running a fever.

“Easy nuh, yuh going into septic shock.” She takes her hand to pet his dreaded hair like a baby with the back of her hand.

“W-what?” His lips trembled. He was numb.

“Awoah. Muh herbes are keeping yuh stable but if I take deh herbes away...yuh die.”

Ricardo closes his eyes.

“Unless...yuh have two options, handsome.”

“One’s that I should trust? How do I know ya not poisoning me? Hm?”

“I’m gonna ignore deh...here are yuh options. Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality.”

“Imòtalite? Baron Samedi?” He almost choked on his own spit from trying to speak.

“Better than the power of a Loa...yuh be immortal until meeting deh true death. Yuh have superhuman physical abilities, senses, flight, and healing.”

“What power is dat?” Ricardo’s eyes are glossy. He didn’t have much time. Mama Dalma was cunning, she could have healed him with her voodoo but what’s better? Healing him with the possibility of him dying again or turning him into what she became 175 years ago back in her little shack in a tree in Cuba, hanging onto her last breath. Ricardo was perfect in every way and she wanted to walk the earth with someone close to her...someone attractive and strong.

“Yuh ain’t got much time...make a decision, Ricardo Dupoux,” Tia strokes his face, “It could all be yours…”

Ricardo’s eyelids fluttered before he nodded his head. Anything to stay alive. Anything to get revenge. If he was going to come back stronger and immortal, he could wipe out every single one of them. He needed to get off of that table. Mama Dalma was convincing. Maybe it was her magic that persuaded him but none of that mattered.

“I’m glad Yuh agreed.”

Sharp, fangs extended from her teeth while she looked at him excitedly with hungry eyes. She came down on Ricardo with superhuman speed like a blur, causing his eyes to grow wide with surprise. It was almost painless, more like a pinprick considering how his body felt at the moment. The sharp points sank into his flesh like a knife to soft butter. His body twitched as his blood pooled around the back of his head, dripping to the floor of the shack and seeping between the wood. He started feeling even more woozy and lightheaded. She was really applying pressure with her fangs. He could feel his body going cold and then it felt as if his soul had left his body. Ricardo didn’t know how long this went on but it felt like forever.

Mama Dalma retracts her fangs, lifting her face from the crook of his neck slowly before staring down at Ricardo with her enchanting eyes. Her fangs pop out again and now she bites her own wrist before placing it over Ricardo’s mouth. He hesitated at first but Mama Dalma opened his mouth for him. Ricardo tasted his own blood before from his busted lip or if his gums were bleeding. He even tasted blood during a sacrifice at a Vodou ritual. It was vile with a salty metallic taste. However, Mama Dalma’s blood was surprisingly sweet, and scrumptious. Just that small amount dripping on his tongue gave him the effects of alcohol consumption.

“Deh is enough, Ricardo,” She tells him, “Ricardo...deh is enough.” She says with a more stern voice.

Ricardo wraps his hand around her wrist, applying pressure to keep it there. He could feel his body changing for the better already. Her blood...he couldn’t stop. He grunted, growled, and moaned from the taste. His tongue swiped her wrist and his own teeth tried to bite her for more but he was still so weak.

“Ricardo, deh is ENOUGH, no more!!!!!”

Mama Dalma yanked her wrist away speedily, her eyes staring down at her wound healing before her. She gave Ricardo a cold look, one that has him wishing he would have listened.

“When I tell yuh to stop, yuh listen,” She spoke with a spiteful tongue.

“It was so good,” Ricardo spoke with a weakened voice, “I want m-more.”

“Soon, muh child…” Mama Dalma kisses his lips, “Now we go to rest,” Mama Dalma wraps her arms around Ricardo and then with her superhuman speed they were out of her shack and laying in a dug up ditch. The soil was cold against Ricardo’s back. Mama Dalma places him in a wooden coffin, the moonlight creating a halo around her. His eyes drooped shut and he could feel his body shutting down like his organs were no longer working. Mama Dalma crawled into the coffin with him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping a single leg around his waist.

“When yuh wake, muh child, yuh will be Erik Stevens now...Ricardo Douboux died tonight.”

Mama Dalma kissed his cold cheek before she shut the coffin so they could finally rest until tomorrow night when Erik Stevens will finally be immortal.

#killmonger #Erik Killmonger #black panther killmonger #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

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imjeralee · 4 years ago

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Comfort in Despair: Chapter 25 - The Exorcist

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

NOTE: ok so Genshin Impact has consumed my soul and I updated this on Tumblr a bit late sorry!!! There’s several warnings here to be shared with you all:

WARNING 1 - this chapter contains a real exorcism prayer and you should not read this prayer out loud unless you are a catholic priest.

WARNING 2 - I've never used an ouija board and I don’t plan to. You’re welcome to share with me your ouija board stories if you have tried one before but I myself don't know if they're just board games or really a gateway to let things in. Anyway people say exercise with caution so please do so should you ever decide to use one for whatever reason.

WARNING 3 - there is mention of blood, I toned down the exorcism here

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell here is the latest update

The Exorcist

…

[Legend of the Void:

(Ezra's version, which introduces concepts such as the merging of two universes to explain the origins of man + pokemon subservience to humans)

Before the concept of time existed, before anything existed, there was Something, and you may as well say this 'something' was a god, a divine being or interdimensional entity, and this entity created a Universe under the right circumstances and conditions, and he would proceed to create humans.

And for a while, the Creator of Man was happy until he saw the evil ways of humanity and he saw this evil run rampant in his world. Regretful and upset, he decided to destroy the very thing he created with a flood.

However, the Creator of Man didn't choose to restore this world. After he destroyed it, he left and found another Universe - a Universe that was similar to his own, except it was inhabited by strange creatures which we know as pokemon. Now they already had a creator, and their creator was called Arceus, who emerged from a void after our Creator did. And our Creator saw that this Universe was just as peaceful and beautiful as his previous one.

He decided to give his creations a second chance so he made humans all over again and placed them in this world. But mankind are a destructive species, the human heart is filled with evil intention and it always will be, and the humans began creating devices to enslave the pokemon race in order to utilise them as tools.

My notes: According to the Church of Circhester, this 'version' is completely unorthodox. It is 'baseless fabrication and blasphemy' and Ezra was condemned as a misanthrope.

Sometimes I wonder where Ezra gets his theories from because this is highly controversial. It's fascinating that to this day and age, scientists are actually still trying to figure who caught the first pokemon, what was the first pokemon caught, and why (ie, how did early humans gain this knowledge, who told them and/or did anyone tell them, what prompted them to capture a pokemon?), and how did they manage to do so in the first place.

Could the discovery of catching pokemon be similar to coincidences that happened throughout history, such as how cavemen discovered fire, how Newton discovered gravity?

(edit: there is a myth that Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to humans. For his transgression, he was to undergo eternal torment as punishment - ie, bound to a rock and have his liver eaten out everyday, only for it to re-grow hence an ongoing cycle. He was freed by the hero, Heracles).

Interestingly enough, flood myth also exists in many cultures albeit with different variations (pls refer to: The Epic of Gilgamesh).

Also, I'm pretty sure Team Plasma advocated that pokemon were oppressed and should be liberated from their trainers but then again they were also being led by a psychopath with his own selfish motives.]

…

A few years ago.

The weather is thunder and lightning, coupled with intense spitting rain.

And he was sure he locked the cemetery gates before he left but now they were hanging loosely from the chain.

Ezra grumbles to himself, eyes narrowing.

It can only mean one thing: an intruder.

The rickety gates squeal on their old hinges as he pushes them open and steps inside. His heavy footsteps plod through the old, withered path of Greyson’s cemetery as he heads for the mausoleum. That’s usually where they are.

Absol trots beside him, her jaws clamped over the tarnished iron handle of an old lantern; she keeps it dangling in front of her, lighting up the path though it’s not much use to him. He lives in a world of darkness, and he's used to it.

It should have been a normal night, which would have been nice because he wanted some peace and quiet for a change considering how busy he had been for the past few weeks. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts and he wanted to enjoy a pack of beer and cigarettes.

Not tonight, it seems.

He will tell those pesky young lads to go play elsewhere.

But wait, it’s something else.

Absol has been somewhat agitated the moment they approach the cemetery, but now she cannot stop growling.

“What is it?” he asks, but it doesn’t take too long to figure out what it is. “Goddamnit.”

This is just what he needed.

He delves a hand into his pocket and whips out a thin strip of paper covered in sprawling red symbols. Bringing it to his lips, he murmurs a quick enchantment under his breath before it bursts into flames and a smoky smell permeates the air. A bright, glowing light illuminates the symbols and he promptly tosses it high into the air.

Despite the wind, it flutters limply in the breeze for a second and then the impossible happens; the glowing symbols daintily lift themselves off the surface and float in the sky. They thoroughly increase in size, the symbols imprinting the air before they vanish into wisps of smoke.

The talisman proceeds to burn up and all that is left is a crinkly ball of fire which bursts into long and thin lines of flames that zips effortlessly through the air and stretches all the way past the graveyard’s borders.

“That should do it,” Ezra murmurs before he rubs at his aching hip. “C'mon, let’s go.”

He wanders further into the graveyard with his pokemon, pondering to himself what he might find though he is aware the answer to that is essentially nothing remotely good and along the way, a few ghost pokemon emerge from the tombstones and watch them worriedly.

They’re aware of the disturbance tonight but can do little to stop it, unfortunately as it requires human intervention, and is literally out of this world.

A few Haunters point him to the right direction but he doesn’t need their help because he can sense where this unwanted and hauntingly powerful presence is. He may have lived in darkness for a long time but he can see it as clear as day: a twisting, coiling mass filled with nothing but malice.

It is also not alone for Ezra can also sense another human being; a warm and kind but very tired and exasperated soul, about to be devoured.

He hopes they’re not too late and Absol leaves his side and he can hear her padded paws bounding away from him against the pebbly path; she leaps off the ground and snaps her jaws at this person.

There is a brief howl and something weighty slams over the ground.

Absol has subdued the culprit.

Ezra arrives and his hip is still acting up but nevertheless, he limps over and he sees this little warm and pure soul squirming helplessly on the ground as it is slowly being enveloped by the dark presence.

Whoever it is, they cannot even speak, reduced to a gurgling, rasping mess.

He uses his foot to nudge at this poor, unfortunate individual that is writhing helplessly on the floor of his cemetery though he knocks over this thick, wooden plate of some sorts at the same time and there is the sound of a glass rolling.

An Ouija board.

“Help!” a girl screams. “Oh god! Help- aaaghh!”

Morbid wailing follows as she’s forced to contort under the demon’s influence and a few bones snap and she begins crying but the sound lodges in her mouth and she emits a guttural rasp, her throat rattling violently.

The old ex-priest grabs a talisman from his pocket and smacks it over her forehead which ceases her violent fits for temporary.

“Hey, kid. Sit tight, I’m gonna get it out, you hear me?”

“O-okay!” she squeaks, and though he’s surprised she can even respond, she returns to the incoherent snarling and growling. As he tries to grab her, she makes several routine attempts to bite him.

Avoiding her as much as possible, Ezra bends down and lifts her into his arms with the help of his pokemon who helps nudge her into his arms.

“Steady now,” he says as he carries her into the mausoleum, which isn’t too far ahead.

He hears her croaking and choking, fighting the entity within as he settles her into the huge stone chair inside. Absol closes the door behind them and then trots over with a thick coil of rope which she collects from one corner.

He thanks her and begins strapping the girl carefully and securely into the chair with rope, keeping her wrists and ankles bound as she kicks and flails, hurling curses and obscenities at him, screaming and roaring and shrieking in a feral manner.

His pokemon stands watch as the girl starts slamming the back of her head against the stone, growling raucously.

But Ezra remains calm and lights various rows of candles that line the walls, pulls his silver cross out and clutches it tightly in his old hands and kneels in front of the altar, his weak knees hitting the dirt. Since his vision failed him, he hasn’t moved the statue or the water trough anywhere else.

He chants a prayer under his breath and dips his fingers into the water. God bless him. God save her soul. He does the sign of the cross and then heads over to the duo and blesses his pokemon as well, which she appreciates by purring affectionately.

Grabbing an old brush, he dips it into a bucket of old red paint in the corner and begins painting a sigil on the ground as quickly as he can around the chair.

Once he’s finished, he dumps the brush to the side. He moved to stand in front of the girl who has ceased her wild shrieking in favour of hissing spitefully at him.

“Be silent,” Ezra commands in a loud, booming voice, before he tosses some of the water over her.

And so it begins.

“In nómine Pátris, et Fílii, et Spirítus Sancti. Amen,” Ezra chants with his silver cross in hand which he proceeds to thrust in front of her face, “Exsúrgat Deus et dissipéntur inimíci ejus: et fúgiant qui odérunt eum a fácie ejus. Sicut déficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a fácie ígnis.”

Outside, the muffled clap of overhead thunder can be heard, the wind howling.

He continues, “Sic péreant peccatóres a fácie Dei-“

“If you think that will stop me, you’re wrong," says a deep voice.

Dabbing his entire hand into the trough of holy water, Ezra steps forward and smears it all over her forehead before he presses the rest of his palm firmly into her face. The demon shrieks and withdraws.

That’s what you get for interrupting me, Ezra thinks to himself but ultimately cannot say aloud: he must continue the exorcism prayer regardless of how long it could take.

“Júdica Dómine nocéntes me; expúgna impugnántes me. Confundántur et revereántur quaeréntes ánimam meam,” he murmurs, “Avertántur retrórsum et confundántur, cogitántes míhi mála. Fíant táamquam púlvis ante fáciem vénti: et Ángelus Dómini coárctans eos.”

The door suddenly flies open and the brutal, icy wind swirls inside, wiping out all the flames of the candles in a split second. Absol glances around in high alert but Ezra remains still. Raindrops batter his back as the door slams in its frame repeatedly.

The walls tremble from several wicked blows as though an unseen assailant is rampaging outside, circling the mausoleum whilst repeatedly slamming a hammer against the stone, yet Ezra remains calm.

“Fiat via illórum ténebrae, et lúbricum: et Ángelus Dómini pérsequens eos. Quóniam grátis abscondérunt míhi intéritum láquei sui: supervácue exprobravérunt ánimam meam.”

Realising the priest is undeterred, the monster unleashes an unearthly howl and a glass shatters somewhere. It’s bellows and roars reverberate throughout the walls and resonates thoroughly in Ezra’s ears.

Since he lost his sight, his hearing amplified; the shrill sounds of nails scraping against the stone and the chaotic tugging of the rope rises to inescapable volumes as the demon furiously struggles against its bonds.

Ezra continues his prayer, “Véniat illi láqueus quem ignórat; et cáptio quam abscóndit, aprehéndat eum: et in láqueum cádat in ipsum-”

He briefly picks up the coppery stench of blood and very soon, a wet substance splatters over his lips and cheeks and eyelids. It laughs, and another splodge hits the side of his ear.

Raising a hand, Ezra wordlessly smothers the blood away with the back of his hand. “Ánima áutem mea exsultábit in Dómino: et delectábitur super salutári suo. Glória Pátri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto.”

Then he presses his cross over the demon’s head, forcing it to shriek uncontrollably. It kicks and screams, quaking fiercely against the restraints. He applies more pressure, the cross is warm under his grip and steadily growing hotter.

To his utmost surprise, the little warm light he had seen earlier is beginning to return and it is fighting back, growing larger and larger as the seconds pass.

“Come on, kid, I know you’re still in there. You can do it!” he yells.

She keeps growling and snarling, foaming at the mouth. Gnashing her teeth repeatedly, she emits a deranged howl, struggling viciously to reach him.

“Come on! Fight it!”

The walls of the mausoleum quake violently, the ground underneath his very feet trembles. Absol starts growling, leaping around in alarm.

Ezra listens to the excruciating sound of cords straining and eventually coming undone; her fist shoots out and her fingers, sharp as claws, stabs into his gut, and twists.

He grunts with pain, but does not let go.

Easing his other hand into his pockets, he pulls out another talisman; it glows faintly from the enchantment which he promptly slaps over her forehead and with a powerful bark of “Relinquo!", a dark shadow shoots out from her body and into the air with a bloodcurdling shriek.

Freed at last, the girl keels over, her head dipped low, blood gushing from her mouth.

And Ezra stumbles backwards, lifting a bleeding hand off his stomach. He sighs heavily before he feels his head growing light, his body weightless, and he promptly collapses over the floor.

…

When he wakes up, he can feel warmth all around.

He is lying on something soft.

A bed.

He has not slept in a bed for a long time.

It smells like lavender and jasmine.

He despises it.

"You're awake!" exclaims a voice.

It's the girl from the cemetery.

Purring sounds can be heard near his bed and he reaches over; a fluffy head affectionately plops itself under his palm and rubs itself against his callused skin. Ezra grunts under his breath, groaning as he shuffles around under the blanket and attempts to reach for her, though his limbs are weary.

“Cassie,” he utters, and Absol climbs onto the bed, sprawling over him. He gently pats her head and strokes her snowy white fur.

The room is silent until he hears the legs of a chair screeching against the floor and the girl does her best to quietly leave the room. She returns in roughly half an hour however, after he’s had a check-up.

By then, he’s exhausted and wants to rest.

He hears the door squeaking open and she pokes her head in, then steps inside the room and closes the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?" he asks tiredly.

"I needed to see that you'd be okay," she says, "I thought you were dead. I'm…I’m really sorry."

"It'll take more than that to kill me."

"Thank you for saving my life."

"As long as I'm around, nothing's gonna happen to you, kid."

"Thank you, sir. Um...Can I ask you a question?"

"About what?"

"About the...demon.”

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. I want to know if it was the one who took my sister and my father. And if it was, I want to know why it did it and I want to get them back."

“Listen, kid. Don't dabble in stuff you don't understand, especially this."

"I know and I'm so, so sorry. But…can you teach me?"

His unfazed expression doesn't change.

"Please teach me.”

He hears the chair legs squeaking again coupled with a lot of fumbling; she’s flat on the ground before him on her hands and knees. How troublesome, he thinks to himself with a sigh.

"You want to learn how to exorcise demons?" he grunts.

"Yes."

“You?”

“Yeah.”

Utterly astounded, he takes a while to reply and rubs the back of his neck. "Do you hear the kind of stuff that is coming out of your mouth right now?" he growls and she looks up, confused. "You're saying something along the lines of 'I want to destroy a creation of the universe'. Do you know how impossible and crazy that sounds? Do you?"

"A creation of the universe? Are you talking about Arceus? Why would Arceus create something like that…do you mean it’s an undiscovered pokemon of undiscovered type???”

“Hell no. Goddamnit, kid, I mean it came before Arceus.”

“What do you mean, ‘before Arceus’? Arceus came from an egg and before the egg, it was a void of nothingness-“

He sighs heavily. “There was something before Arceus, before the void. You always explain one event as being created by some earlier event, right? So before Arceus, there was some kind of infinite period where time did not exist but during this period, there was something there…do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“…Not really.”

“Exactly. You’re obviously still in shock and speaking nonsense. Go home, kid. Go back to your family.”

Yawning loudly, he pulls the blanket closer over his body and turns round in his warm and cosy bed, his back to her. He’s careful not to lie on his stomach though.

"But I'm serious," she says.

"So am I," he replies.

...

After he’s fully healed and discharged, he returns to the cemetery; the Corviknight taxi drops him off a few metres away and he taps his way across the Wild Area with Absol and his cane.

When he arrives, he realises the girl is also here.

At first, he ignored her and let her be. He did his daily caretaker duties, watering the plants, pulling weeds and sweeping the tombs.

He didn't know what she was doing here - she probably observed his daily regime - and one day she brought some cleaning supplies with her and began assisting him with the upkeep of the cemetery, especially with some of the heavy lifting.

Today, he’s forcibly awoken when he hears her sweeping the area around the mausoleum and shoving dust everywhere and he grumbles sourly under his breath. He had already told her a few times to go home but she keeps coming back. She keeps coming back to clean, to lurk around the graveyard, to help him.

“Stop that,” he snaps at her, “you’re disturbing them, and I already swept it yesterday.”

She stops dusting at some tombstones. “Sorry, I thought-”

Ezra grumbles, scrubbing at his mangy face with a dirty palm. Reaching for a beer by his calf, he grasps blindly for the can and lifts it to his mouth, downing a sip. “Get over here, kid.”

He hears her stepping towards him and he glances up, looking at this annoyingly bright light before him.

“You really wanna learn that badly, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to be so formal, my name is Ezra.” With a heavy sigh, he dusts himself down and stands up, using his cane to support himself. “And I am…or was, the pastor of the Church of Circhester. I was also a member of the International Association of Exorcists. Do you understand who and what you’re dealing with?”

“Yes, sir – I mean, Ezra.”

“Now, tell me who you are and why I should teach you.”

He hears this little gasp of awe before she tells him her predicament. She tells him her name, who she is, where she came from, how old she is.

She rambles at some point and he has to occasionally steer her towards the focal details and periodically, she’ll become flustered, especially when speaking about the night when she saw her father and sister devoured by a Dusknoir. Once she’s finished recounting her tale, he nods.

“It was a demon, right?” she says, though she sounds unsure.

“Probably. Didn't your family have any pokemon?"

"...Sableye and Haunter went missing, and Cutiefly and Sinistea were in PC boxes," she says, "Please teach me. I want to learn."

He studies her quietly, then holds his index finger up in the air. “Fine, but I must warn you: my teachings are difficult and I’ve had several idiots coming up to me just like how you did and they’ve all failed-”

“I'm not an idiot and I won’t fail you.”

“-Yeah, let’s see about that, kid.” Holding up two fingers now, “Second, if I’m to teach you, I want you to swear to me you will take no retribution against Dusknoir. I don’t mind if you want to research one or whatever, but do not take your grudge with the pokemon. It’s nothing to do with it.”

“I understand.”

He moves on to hold up three fingers. “Third, that being said, you cannot use what you learned to harm humans or pokemon in any way. You must use it for good. I can tell you have a gift and under my guidance and training, I believe you will reach your full potential.”

“Okay.”

“Four, I will teach you with the utmost effort and I also expect to receive full commitment from yourself. I will not make do with time-wasters or mediocrity. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“And lastly, promise me you will not in either way, attempt to summon entities for any reason. Do not use Ouija boards, do not dabble in sacrifice, do not try to open any portals. Hell, do not attempt any of those things.”

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“Now, some of my teachings are limited. I can teach you how to protect yourself and protect others. Are you happy with this, knowing that there are limitations as to what I can teach you?”

“Yes, I am.”

Ezra studies her again before he nods to himself.

He’s said quite a lot but he knows she understands. “Good,” he murmurs.

“So…when do we start?”

“We start now.”

He disappears inside the mausoleum and re-emerges with a dirty rucksack; he pulls out a tattered old journal along with an old, portable cassette player which he hands to her.

“Your first task is to read this and listen to the tapes. Learn the symbols, learn the prayers. Come back whenever you’re ready and show me what you got.”

“Got it.”

She comes back in five days, which was a lot earlier than he had expected considering his previous ‘disciples’ either came back in a week or two, and some barely returned in person, opting to hand his book and tape back by leaving it at the gates.

He hears her approaching and sits up whilst Absol sleeps in a corner, and she says, “I finished it.”

“What did you think?”

“It was interesting.“

“...You didn’t think it was disturbing?”

“No.”

There is a brief silence.

“Hm…not sure if that’s a good or bad thing,” he murmurs under his breath.

The tapes were full of recorded exorcisms, consisting of unearthly screaming, howling and shrieking courtesy of the victims.

He says, “Recite Saint Michael’s prayer to me.”

She does so, with almost near-perfect pronunciation.

Ezra listens intently and nods when she’s finished. “Not bad. Now let’s hear Signum Crucis.”

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancta-“

“Sancti,” he corrects her.

“Sancti,” she repeats.

“Not bad. Again.”

She recites the short prayer once more, this time with no errors.

“Gloria Patri,” he grunts out next, grabbing his beer and flipping the lid off.

And they continue going through some prayers until it’s almost sunset and she’s a little exhausted and he’s finished his pack of beer.

“You did well, kid. Come back tomorrow.”

“Really???”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you!!”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll be testing you on the symbols and their meanings. Then there’s a final test.”

“Okay!” she exclaims excitedly, and after exchanging some short words, she bids him farewell and he hears her leaving, her footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet graveyard.

The next day, she returns and passes the symbols assessment with flying colours as he had expected considering how quickly she’d picked up the Latin prayers.

And the next day after that, he teaches her how to use talismans.

As the weeks roll by, he continuously subjects her to tests on latin prayers and symbology. Then he teaches her some blood magic.

Soon, weeks turns to months, and she’s picked up a lot of his teachings in a short period of time, which impresses him greatly.

She begins to accompany him on exorcisms which undoubtedly at the beginning, does disturb her a little but the more she sat in and watched (and sometimes assisted with), the more she began to see such things as a normality and he also allows her to work on her own cases albeit under some guidance.

Before he knows it, he has transformed this little girl into an exorcist.

“Well done, kid. You’ve exceeded all my expectations. I’m proud of you," he says with a nod of his head.

She cheers, but then remembering her tutelage, she bows deeply with gratitude, eyes closed. “Thank you, Ezra. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for you,” she replies, “what’s the final test?”

“Final test?”

“Yeah, you mentioned it a while ago.”

“….Hm, so I did,” he says, before he gets off the steps, dusting at his palms and weak knees. “Let me show you something. Come on, Absol.”

He motions her to follow him and he heads to two marked graves near a statue of a weeping angel which is covered in a sparse layer of moss.

She joins his side and she scans the names etched on the stone. One name in particular stands out. “Cassie??” she murmurs, before she casts a glance to the pokemon that stands by his side.

Absol looks up, and regards her with its steely blue eyes.

“My wife and daughter,” Ezra murmurs, his white gaze staring emptily into space. “This is a dark path. There will always be death. This is my final warning to you: if you choose to walk this path, be prepared to lose everything. Is this something you can do?”

There is a brief silence until she says, “Yes.”

Ezra hesitates; she observes him for any noticeable reaction but he is immobile, standing stiffly with his hands clasped together in front of him.

“...Very well," he utters. "Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

He hasn’t left the cemetery other for reasons than to go to the soup kitchen or to buy his beer and cigarettes, so he asks her to call for a Corviknight taxi since he doesn’t have a Rotom phone.

When the taxi arrives, he asks the driver to take them to the Dusty Bowl and they’re dropped off at the outskirts.

“Why are we here?” she asks, but he ignores her and begins to head for the desolate path.

She trails after him and despite being blind, she’s stunned to see that he seems to be aware a great deal of where he’s going. A sandstorm begins to rage but Ezra is unaffected and continues to wander down the plains, using his cane to avoid any obstacles such as rocks, trees or tall grass. Whilst she tries to cover her eyes, blinking through sand and grit, she helps him along the way of course, but he doesn’t seem to require her assistance at all.

Occasionally, wild pokemon will peek at them from behind the dry and crusty grass but they don’t dare to approach.

She glances around with much wariness as he leads her further and further away from the winding path, the barren wastelands, the dead trees and soon, he has led her into oblivion.

The sandstorm worsens and as she looks left, right and up, she cannot see a single damn thing in front of her; if she did not keep her gaze pinned on the ghostly silhouette of her mentor tottering in front of her a short feet away, she was certain she would have lost her way.

“Ezra, be careful!” she yells above the loud winds and the whirling sands.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, though his voice is hard to hear.

Her nerves begins to eat at her and they’ve been walking for seems like an eternity and she isn’t even sure if they’re still in the Dusty Bowl or the gym challenger’s path anymore, perhaps they’ve moved onto the Giant’s Mirror or the Stony Wilderness, but the sandstorm is endless and she calls after him once more.

“Ezra, where are you taking me?”

“Keep moving, we’re almost there,” he grunts at her in response.

Her question is finally answered when he stops in his path and grows still, holding out his arm.

“Wait.”

She watches him, listening, but nothing happens.

“Okay, come over here.”

There is a bad feeling in her gut as she sidles up to him and to her utmost surprise, the sandstorm begins to subside, revealing a large cenote before them.

Her eyes widen.

He’s standing at the very edge, his foot shoving some rocks and dust into the large pit before them; if he had taken one step further, he would’ve fallen inside. She looks around in shock. The sandstorm had disappeared in a blink of an eye, instead it had been replaced with a lingering misty fog that surrounded them. She knew the Wild Area was erratic but this weather was abnormal to the extreme.

Her shocked gaze strays to the blind man. His glazed eyes are focused in front of him, oblivious to the deep.

“I want you to go in there,” he says.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he mutters. “You can take the stairs.”

He nudges his head to the right where a spiralling ‘staircase’ consisting of huge, mismatched slabs of rocks sticking out from the walls of the pit appear to offer a way down inside.

“Do you wish to turn back?” he asks, sensing her hesitation.

“No.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

She nods and steps towards the first rock, which is dusty and covered with yellowing grass, and she uses one foot to test out the footing, giving it a few stern prods with her toes. The rock seems stubborn enough and once she deems it safe, she makes her way down.

It’s steep and she carefully tackles each step one by one, having to hold onto some dry vines that dangle and stick out of the edges of the wall until she arrives at the bottom of the pit.

Looking up and around, the sky is painted a strange and ethereal purplish, blue glow… perhaps from the aurora borealis, though she’s never seen it warp into this sort of shade before. Usually it is a streak of colours in the night sky…neither a star can be seen in sight either.

She also realises the pit isn’t as deep as she thought. She’s fairly certain gym challengers would never find this place nor would anyone in the right mind would even want to go in here.

She steps closer towards the middle of the pit, her feet crunching under gravel and stones, and stares at the walls of the pit.

There is an entrance, resembling a zigzagged slit in the wall. It’s big enough for a lone individual to slip inside but that’s just about it. She cannot see what’s inside; it is far too dark.

“Is this a pokemon den?” she asks, gesturing to the entrance.

“No.”

Her mentor’s voice sounded very close; she promptly turns to see Ezra hobbling behind her. “That was quick.”

“Give me a second,” he mutters as he brushes past her and steps towards the large and gaping hole in the wall, stopping just a foot or so away. “Stay there and don’t move, don’t make a sound.”

She goes silent, and she did not dare to peel her eyes away from the cave entrance where a figure is emerging from within.

A withered-looking Lucario with a greying muzzle and dirty golden fur steps outside and into the pit, wielding a wooden staff that is as tall as itself. It's what trainers coin as a 'shiny' pokemon, and these pokemon are extremely rare, especially in the wild. Puzzled, she watches as the pokemon greets her mentor.

Ezra's mouth moves but she cannot hear what he’s saying.

Then he stops and Lucario nods, and the man and pokemon turn to glance at her direction.

She strains to hear what they could possibly be conversing yet there is nothing, not even a pokemon cry, not the slightest rustle of the wind. Nothing.

It is silent.

The silence is suffocating to say the least and eventually, Lucario nods his head after the prolonged period of stillness. The pokemon turns and returns into the cave, disappearing into the darkness.

Placing his cane on the ground in front of him, he balances his palms over the handle. “Lucario has granted you entry.”

“…What?” she asks, a little anxiously.

Inhaling silently, Ezra replies, “There are greater things in our universe, greater than you and me. Even greater than pokemon.”

“What’s going on? What is a Lucario doing all the way out here? Where’s his trainer?”

“He doesn’t have one. This is his home,” Ezra mutters. “Now listen carefully. This is Gossamer Cave. A relic can be found here. A long time ago, I used it to destroy a demon that terrorised my wife and child. However, it is a highly dangerous weapon and you have to be ready to wield it, to understand its power and origins. If this is something you want, then you must go inside and fetch it.”

There are questions buzzing aplenty in her mind. “What does it look like?”

“You’ll know when you see it. My question for you is, do you wish to wield such a weapon? You might not like what you find out.” He mutters, before stepping aside, allowing her entry regardless of her response, regardless if she goes in or not.

She bites down on her lip anxiously but he does not offer any further words, no further advice or warning. She ponders to herself briefly, thinking about her parents, her sister and how they are all depending on her. Although she is nervous, she must cast aside these sinking feelings and surpass. She must be brave when no-one else is, when no-one else can. She must do it for them.

"I'm going in," she declares, and she passes him and enters the cave without further ado.

It’s dark.

She's greeted with the hypnotic splash of water dripping from the ceiling onto the floor and the marauding howl of the wind from outside that echoes and slips through the cave.

Lucario sits on a large rock to the left with the wooden staff balanced over its paws. It’s eyes are closed, deep in meditation. As she passes by, it does not acknowledge her presence.

Expecting Zubats or some other types of cave-dwelling pokemon, she’s stunned to see it is devoid of any other critter except from the aura pokemon.

A linear path lies ahead but she hits a dead-end.

Confused, she pats the wall in front of her, looking up and around. She checks for any cracks, any hidden passages. She checks every nook and cranny and leaves no stone upturned. She raps her knuckles over the walls, hoping for a hollow thud, a secret trap door perhaps?

There is nothing.

Disappointed and perplexed, she returns to the entrance.

“There’s nothing there," she says.

“I see. Then it’s not time yet. You still need more training, kid. You have a long way to go.” Ezra replies, unsurprised.

“I really don’t understand.”

“When you hear it, you will.”

“Hear what?”

“Tell me when you do, okay?”

Frustrated, she says, “Stop being so cryptic! What’s in the cave? What’s this relic?”

“You’ll find out when you’re ready. For now, forget what you saw and focus on your training. Focus on getting better, then you can come back.”

“Fine.”

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his withered coat, he begins to leave. She follows him with a sigh, mostly out of exasperation. Before she leaves however, she tosses a quick glance over her shoulder towards the abyss.

She was expecting to see something, maybe a shadow or a little flicker of light, maybe Lucario would come out again.

However, there is nothing.

...

Present.

You’ve grown quiet.

Leon watches as your brows scrunch with confusion, your expression souring. “What’s wrong?”

“Gossamer Cave,” you utter, before you grab his arm and exclaim loudly, “Gossamer Cave! That's it, Leon!"

Releasing him, you stand up, rush up the stairs and towards the bookshelves; he follows, watching you stop at a random shelf before you speedily skim through the books on the shelf, inspecting the titles quickly.

“Aha,” you murmur under your breath, pulling out a thick and burly red book from its place; it is an atlas of the Wild Area.

You beckon him over as you open the book, unfolding it to its full proportion over the floor. It’s not the most updated map but it’ll do for now.

Leon squats down beside you as you flip through the pages.

“Ezra took me to a place called Gossamer Cave ages ago. I can’t believe I forgot all about it. We took a Corviknight taxi, got off at the Dusty Bowl and we walked for a long time and there was a sandstorm, and then all of a sudden he stopped at a large pit. I’m supposed to tell Ezra when I start hearing things. He was so cryptic I didn’t understand what he meant back then but now I do. I can understand Gengar; I can hear what he says. That’s what Ezra meant. Leon, I’m ready.”

“Ready?” he murmurs, as you finally pinpoint the location on the map and begin scouring the page.

You nod. “I’m ready to face it -- whatever it was that took my family away. I can fight it now. I just need to find Gossamer Cave.”

Leon’s expression is a conflicted one. “When the officials mapped out the Wild Area for the gym challenge, they never found any place called Gossamer Cave.”

“It must be there, I saw it with my own eyes. It was a cenote, but there was this entrance that led to a cave and I went in. It was guarded by a Lucario, and a shiny one too,” you reply, “I need to find it. There’s something there, and it will help me.”

…

Meanwhile, in Greyson’s cemetery, Absol has been biting and tugging at his coat all night, in a vain effort to force him to get up and leave. She has sensed something. However, Ezra merely chills on the steps, drinking his beer and she gives up, having grown rather weary, and has settled to curl up next to him. It’s then his ears pick up the sounds of footsteps a distance away.

The footsteps stop; a lone individual stands a foot away from him.

“Hello, you must be the exorcist of Greyson’s cemetery,” says a distorted, muffled voice. "Remember me?"

The voice is unrecognisable. Ezra inhales deeply, scrunching the beer can under his fist. “…Something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” the voice leers. “You can die right here and now!”

A massive unseen force promptly smashes the steps of the mausoleum in half, sending stone and debris flying into the air; it stands, retracting its claws with a grin as the dust clears away, before peeking left and right.

Ezra has disappeared.

“Where are you,” it hisses with a chuckle as it lifts up rocks and debris, flinging them to the side and digging its claws into the earth, cackling with mirth, “Where are you, exorcist?? Come out, come out, wherever you are. I won't hurt you - much.”

A growl emits from behind and captures its attention; as it turns, it is swiftly knocked off its feet as a white and black blur slams into its body and sends it flying into a cluster of tombstones. Absol lands on her paws with a growl as Ezra appears from behind the fountain, unharmed.

“Good job, Absol,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing at the entity that struggles to get up. “Percutiet.”

Sending a talisman at its direction, the little paper automatically attaches itself to the entity’s head and administers a painful shock. The entity roars with pain briefly before erupting into a fit of hoarse, mocking laughter.

“I know it’s you, Spiritomb,” Ezra says. "Use Slash.”

Absol’s attack connects with a loud thump and all goes still. Shortly, a harrowing shriek of pain shatters the silence. Ezra recalls the talisman; it disappears into thin air in little wisps and the man sprawled over the tombstones grunts and groans as he sits up, rubbing his injured chest in agony.

“Huh? What…? Where am I? What happened…? Um, what am I doing here…?” he mutters, disoriented.

...

#jeralee #fic #fanfic #reader #reader insert #leon x reader #thank you!#leon x you #leon #dande #pkmn #pokemon #pokemonsword #pokemonshield #pokemonswordandshield #pokemonshieldsword #pokemonshieldandsword #Comfort in Despair #archive of our own

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sanders-sides-fic · 5 years ago

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Member list of the royal council

Earl Janus de Dévoiler

Janus is a long-time friend of Remus. He is almost always composed and takes great care of his appearance - both socially and aesthetically. The silver-tongued man usually makes sure there are no uprisings or problems with the newly enforced rules. His younger brother Remy can be a true life-saver as the kingdom’s most talented spy. Who would ever suspect the sassy, snarky, bastard-son to work for the princes when he was disowned and his brother got moved up two ranks?

Janus has the left side of his face covered by a silver mask at all times. Whenever he is asked about it, he answers with a different reason. People call him two-faced as a joke.

They also say that his loyalty was wavering, that he was like a flag in a storm: always turning. It’s not true, of cause. He’s just good at pretending that he’s on your side - until he doesn’t need to anymore. But at the end of the day, he’s only loyal to Remus, himself and his brother. And maybe he’s warming up to the other members of the council a little. No one knows for sure.

Virgil

Virgil is a dragon-kin who was hired by Remus as his court magician. That in itself is scandal enough, but when he gets appointed a seat at the table of the royal council? Let’s just say Janus worked overtime for a few months. But Virgil knows his stuff, and he knows the streets and the underground better than himself. All the ugly truths, the things hiding in the shadows and problems underneath the surface. Virgil himself says his life on the streets has made him careful. Everyone else says he’s an anxious mess that learned how to trust. How Remus of all people managed to accomplish that is a mystery, to Remus and Virgil as much as to the rest of them.

Virgil doesn’t know his last name or if he even has one. That didn’t help him get accepted by the nobles in Remus’ court much either, but none of them dared to go against the duke. He knows the people in the royal council won’t hurt him like other humans have done before, and he trusts them more than anyone else, but he’s still careful not to let his mask of indifference slip as much as he can help it and mostly stays quiet, until Roman gets him to engage in friendly banter. He does however feel comfortable enough to be seen flying around from time to time.

Patton had the hardest time convincing Virgil that he didn’t hate him, though, because it was hart to believe to Virgil that a priest of all people would find it in himself to accept a demon-blooded council member. In the end it worked out fine, though.

Pater Patton Bluemoon

Patton was born, raised and educated in the church. He never used to leave and was appointed the priest of the castle right when his training ended. Before that he would volunteer in the soup kitchen for the poor and later in the orphanage. He loved all the children dearly, too dearly. Because of that, Patton knows that people have it bad, but he’s still sheltered and somewhat naive. Virgil is, ever since he convinced him that he didn’t have anything against demon-kin, very protective of and worried for him.

Patton built the first public school ever inside an old chapel, after a design and idea Logan had had. The two of them are the only teachers there as of now, but he doesn’t mind getting to spent extra time with the children. On Logan’s request, he makes an effort to teach children a bit of reading and basic math on his tours through the country. He’s the most comfortable in the castle with Roman and king Thomas, though.

Patton’s main objective is improving the standard of living for everybody. His secondary objective is to keep all his friends well-fed with home baked cookies. Especially Virgil. Virgil may not live on the streets anymore, but he is still way too thin for his own good from back then… Oh. And peace. Patton is also voting for peace as much as he can.

Lord Logan Night

Logan is the only son of the Night knightdom. He, for one, is very tired of the constant jokes about his family name. He has generally grown tired of puns since spending more time around the young priest. If anyone needs to find him, chances are he’s in the library or in the astronomy tower. He didn’t want to become a knight, if he was being honest, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He’s glad Roman appointed him into the council, where he could spent his time pursuing knowledge rather than fighting wars.

Logan is generally known as stoic and cold, but those who know him well know that he only has a hard time showing his emotions. He’s actually pretty sensitive. Logan, valuing knowledge and logic above all, usually tries to built a better educational system. Or any public education, rather. He doesn’t believe anyone should be denied the right to learn, no matter their origin. Together with Patton, he built the first public school ever inside an old chapel. He and Patton are the only teachers there as of now, but he hopes that’ll change soon.

Another thing Logan contributes to the royal council is his strategic ability. Surprisingly, his strategies are usually quite brutal. He has a strict moral code and he will not stray from that, but playing fair in a war obviously isn’t a part of that. Usually Virgil has to check his plans over a few times, not just to calm his own nerves but also to make sure there aren’t any unnecessary risks involved. Because Logan’s upbringing sometimes makes it hard for him to tell when a risk is really necessary.

Duke Remus Sanders and Prince Roman Sanders

Roman appointed Logan and Patton, Remus appointed Janus and Virgil. The two of them live separately since coming off age and usually don’t get along too well. But they are still brothers at heart and would jump off a cliff for each other. Well, Remus would jump off a cliff for fun. Virgil knows. Oh, how much Virgil knows that!

If you want to know more about the twins, read the introduction to the au.

AU-masterpost: here

Taglist: @gattonero17

#sanders sides au #sanders sides #royal council au #tell me if you wanna be tagged #this is mainly a one shot au #so feel free to sent requests

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meta-squash · 5 years ago

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Brick Club 1.2.3 “The Heroism of Passive Obedience”

Apparently I had more observations about this chapter than I first thought.

Valjean enters the scene in Hugo’s usual way, as a mysterious man who is then revealed to be Valjean! Only this time, unlike the last chapter, Valjean introduces himself. But, the same as last time, his name is immediately connected to his criminal record; he says “My name is Jean Valjean. I was a convict.”

When Valjean learns that M. Myriel is not an innkeeper, but a priest, he seems surprised, both that he didn’t notice he was speaking to a priest and that Myriel doesn’t want his money. He gives a little bit of context to this surprise a moment later in this monologue:

“Because you’re an abbé, I want you to know, we have a chaplain in the galleys. And then one day I saw a bishop; Monseigneur, they called him. It was the Bishop of la Majore, from Marseilles. He’s the curé that’s over the other curés. You know--sorry--I say it so badly, but for me, it’s so far off! You know what we are. He said mass in the middle of the place on an altar; he had a pointed gold thing on his head. It shone in the sun. It was noon. We were lined up, on three sides. With guns and lighted matches in front of us. We couldn’t see him too well. He spoke to us, but he wasn’t near enough, we didn’t understand him. That’s what a bishop is.”

Valjean’s monologue serves two purposes here: as a continuation of G---’s monologue in 1.1.10, and as obvious and heavy-handed symbolism regarding religion’s (or religious dignitaries) treatment of people who are the lowest of the low.

Valjean first mentions that there was a chaplain in the prison. I’m sorry if I get this wrong, I grew up non-religious and my knowledge of Christianity is mostly confined to bible verses for literature classes, but as far as I can tell, a chaplain is kind of like a religious social worker for various industries. They’re just regular laypeople, rather than people with large responsibilities within the church; they’re basically the lowest rung of the church hierarchy. We know from later on that Valjean and religion don’t really mesh when he was incarcerated, so I imagine he didn’t really have much to do with the chaplain when he was in prison anyway.

All this means that a bishop is a very important person to regular parishioners, and some untouchable, strange, distant thing for prisoners (as Valjean says, “it’s so far off”).

This scene continues G---’s monologue about bishops, confirming that Myriel is an exception and again displaying bishops and other dignitaries of religion as men treated like princes, who use their money for their own good and act lavishly in the name of Jesus and are inaccessible to the common people. (Hugo certainly has Opinions about the church hierarchy.) The bishop Valjean saw was lifted up on an altar, wearing gold. What common man can relate to that? What prisoners can relate to that?

Valjean doesn’t really explain where he saw the bishop preach, but I imagine it was in either a church or a square somewhere, with many other civilians. Everyone else is free to surround the Bishop, to get up close and hear him speak. But the prisoners are not only kept far back, they’re also threatened with readied guns.

It’s a threat, and also a message: “You can have a glimpse of religion, but you can’t have it like everyone else. This man will never speak to you as he speaks to his parishioners, and you will never be able to hear the word of god as these civilians do.”

Valjean says “he spoke to us,” but the bishop wasn’t speaking to the prisoners. The bishop was speaking, but the prisoners were just there. You cannot speak to people who cannot hear you. The bishop was not near enough, and the prisoners couldn’t hear him.

This is a pretty obviously heavy-handed metaphor on Hugo’s part, but it works. Religion cannot reach those that it refuses to meet on equal footing. Valjean and his fellow prisoners didn’t reject religion because they were sinners or heretics; they rejected religion because it was inaccessible, because they had no way of identifying with or connecting with a man in gold on an altar high above them, preaching words they could not hear about a morality they couldn’t believe in because their conditions were the exact opposite of that morality. It is only when M. Myriel meets Valjean on equal footing, treats him like a human being, treats him with respect, that his view on religion begins to change.

And that treatment by Myriel continues with Myriel not only calling him “monsieur,” but also asking him to tell his story, feeding him a real meal, and treating him as a guest in his house. I do think that Valjean being able to talk about his experiences with someone who treats him kindly is very important; it’s literally the only time he speaks to someone about his prison experiences until the end of the novel. (I don’t think his lecture to Montparnasse counts, as Montparnasse clearly was not very receptive.) So his ability to tell someone about what he’s been through and have a verbal confirmation from someone else that he has “suffered a great deal” is really important.

Also, the way that Valjean rambles in this chapter, as if he hasn’t spoken to anyone interested in listening to him in a very very long time, reminds me of the way Eponine rambles to Marius. They both chatter on, telling their listener random pieces of information that the person probably doesn’t need to know, and asking multiple questions in a row before moving on to make more comments without waiting for the other person to give a real response. Post-prison Valjean is probably the most talkative, and has the longest spoken monologues until the very end of the book; between these moments with Myriel and the monologues to Marius and Cosette at the end, most other “monologues” by Valjean are narrated by Hugo as internal thoughts rather than spoken aloud. I’m not really sure what to make of the rambling at beginning and end with reticence in the middle. It’s just interesting to note how talkative Valjean is here and then at the end of his life, and he says so little in between.

Here, also, is the moment Myriel kind of reveals the two choices Valjean has in terms of a reaction to his incarceration:

“But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you are leaving that sad place with hatred and anger against men, you deserve compassion; if you leave it with good will, gentleness, and peace, you are better than any of us.”

In the next chapter, we get Mlle. Baptistine’s point of view of the dinner table conversation, and she points out that Myriel doesn’t attempt to preach to Valjean. I think the above moment is the only moment of preaching, and it’s interesting that it’s not included in Baptistine’s POV. Instead, we have this very brief instance of preaching (or something akin to preaching), where Myriel presents Valjean with two choices: allow the trauma and pain to consume you and fill your heart with hatred, or turn to religion and god and turn your suffering into good will. If Valjean, a sinner, chooses repentance and turns his trauma and pain into gentleness and good will, he will be more respectful and more good than any priest.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #jean valjean #les mis #les mis meta #brick club #lm 1.2.3

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yukiwrites · 6 years ago

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Their Joyous Marriage

Thank you so much for the support again, @reirevan! I’m weak for marriages and now it’s DIMILETH’s turn!!

Summary: Precisely because Dimitri and Byleth held the highest positions possible for anyone to hold in Fódlan, their marriage was one that would need months of careful planning. Ah, but to finally be able to swear their love in front fo the world... anything would be worth it.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

_______________________________

Even before they returned to Fhirdiad, Dimitri and Byleth already considered themselves a married couple by the eyes of the goddess. They had exchanged their vows at the Goddess Tower and consummated their wedding, but that was all in between themselves. Their own private wedding, so to speak.

In reality, they would still need to go through many a preparation before they could swear their love in front of the world.

First and foremost, Byleth could not go to the capital of the United Holy Kingdom of Faerghus with her beloved just yet -- as newly appointed Archbishop, she had certain duties to attend to at Garreg Mach monastery, just as Dimitri had his duties as King back in Fhirdiad.

Holding their ring hands before parting ways, they promised to meet again back at Byleth's new home: Fhirdiad. She would do everything she could to transfer all of the routes of information of the Church to the capital, where she was going to make permanent residence of. She was the new Archbishop, but that did not mean that she had to live in Garreg Mach to fulfill her duties.

She was going to be Queen of the new Unified Fódlan as well, after all. Accumulating both positions required her to be as close to the capital as possible -- more precisely, right beside her King, at the Royal Castle.

... Of course, those were all the official responses she sent to the allies of the Church throughout Fódlan. Byleth's true, deepest desire was to be kept beside her husband at all times.

Such tall amount of work would surely take a few months to complete -- to meet with the highest-ranking representatives of the Church around the continent not only to introduce herself but to discuss the best routes they would need to take to deliver information; to hear the plea of the people and spread the doctrine of the goddess she knew of, the Sothis Byleth had housed for the largest part of her life... She was about to reform the entirety of what it meant to be a follower of the goddess, basically.

However, she would leave that bold approach to the faith for when she would be properly installed at Fhirdiad -- for now, she only needed to tackle the most pressing matters required of those in a transition of power.

Besides, there was a detail that kept nudging the back of her mind: As Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, Byleth quite literally outranked every kind of priest that existed in their faith. Who would be able to bless her and Dimitri's unions in the name of the goddess if Byleth herself held the highest position?

Of course, Rhea would be the most obvious choice as the previous Archbishop herself, but due to the continuous mistreatment she went through for five years after the fall of Garreg Mach monastery, she was barely able to give her position away before retiring to a deep slumber at the Holy Mausoleum.

Briefly before falling asleep, Rhea had finally revealed to Byleth the truth of her birth, her origin and the reason why she had housed the consciousness of the goddess inside of her. Finally understanding herself for the first time in her life, this new knowledge only spurred Byleth further into longing to be near her husband for as long as time allowed her to.

Which spiraled back into the question of who could officiate her wedding with the Savior King -- two public and named as 'legendary' figures by the folk such as themselves couldn't be united by a simple priest, not even if said priest were the one officially residing at the capital specifically for such occasions.

Seteth wouldn't do either. Although the right-hand man of the previous Archbishop, he was never seen presiding masses outside Garreg Mach, not to mention officiating marriages.

Byleth sighed, exasperated, as she went through a pile of documents. Resting her head on her fist, she peeked under each sheet of paper to see what it was about; sighing each time she did so.

Meeting, meeting, meeting, public speech, class on how to preside a Mass, public speech, meeting with the eastern church, meeting, visiting one, two, three, seventeen villages-

"Wait a moment." She blinked as she finally focused on what was truly written on the papers. "The eastern church... What does this say, again?" She mumbled to herself as she scrambled through the documents to find the letter from the newly appointed Regent of the Leicester region, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, as he liked to call himself at the beginning of each letter. He asked for Byleth's presence in this endeavor of uniting the Church itself under one same banner much like before, so it could follow the example of the continent.

Well, that was what Byleth had planned from the beginning, but what if... A sly smile started to creep on her lips, making her regain the vigor she had lost as she dove into the endless pile of documents.

One priest or Bishop wouldn't do to officiate the Archbishop's marriage with the Savior King, but what if there were two Bishops from two previously warring factions of the same church?

Byleth was going to have a long and strenuous talk with the representatives of the Eastern and Western Church both, so they could bless her marriage! That would not only be appropriate in terms of rank, but also in terms of unification -- if Byleth managed to bring two known enemies together under the same roof to once again unite their faith in the same goddess, she would have given a full stride towards the direction she wanted the Church to go from now on.

A new glint shining in her eyes, Byleth dunked the tip of her feather pen in ink, bracing herself to write letters all day long.

The first one was to her husband, of course. To let him on her plans for their union as well as to ask him to check what the situation was around the Western Church beside the Rowe territory. In more than a few occasions, Byleth had exchanged blows with them under Rhea's orders, so approaching them with nothing to give but her words would prove difficult.

The second and third ones were for Lorenz and the Eastern Church's Bishop, Deacon, respectively. She also wrote a check list of things she wanted the Knights of Seiros posted at House Edmund's territory to check out once they went out in patrol. She would also send a similar list to the ones posted in Arianrhod so they could keep an eye on the Western Church's movements.

There was a steep, uphill road ahead before she could finally climb up to be married to her beloved, but by Sothis she was going to prevail. She WAS going to marry Dimitri by the end of the year or her name wasn't Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd!

... Well, it wasn't yet, but it was going to be!

Dimitri had to cover his face with both hands to hide his blushing cheeks the moment he read the end of his beloved's letter. On a whim, she had signed it as 'Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd', almost literally killing him instantly. "Oh, but I cannot wait to see you again, my light." He whispered to his hands as he tried to regain his breathing.

He peeked at the letter once again, heat immediately flushing his face. He could see by her handwriting on how boldly she had started it, surely filled with determination after a long time of pondering. The first line, written with such a strong penmanship the ink leaked and stained a bit read as 'My Lion', killing him instantly once again.

"I might frame this," he contemplated as he bonked his head on his desk, a giddy feeling bubbling in his chest. He could barely bear to read it without wanting to giggle like a schoolgirl, his entire body heating in embarrassment and fondness at the same time. Slowly did he reach for the letter to reread it one more time, clutching his chest with his free hand. "No, this is for my eyes only." He pressed his lips into a thin line as he opened the locked drawer of his desk. He would keep it there, close to him whenever he was hard at work.

It would help him cope with her absence, alongside with the ring he proudly wore on his finger. His eyes falling to it, the King smiled fondly, his cheeks still flushed with pink. Dimitri raised his hand to his lips, kissing the ring lovingly. "Separated as we may be, we do this so we can stay together until the end."

Byleth herself could barely be found at the monastery -- she took it upon herself to travel to the most distinct churches of the faith as well as to gather information regarding the opposing factions. Knowing that approaching the Western Church without hearing back from her husband would be a tad too risky, Byleth tackled the Eastern Church first.

Deacon, the Bishop of the Eastern Church, was a meek and reasonable man. His predecessor had died during the war with the Empire, though not because of it, since they couldn't be further from the frontlines. Whooping cough or some other ailment.

The previous Bishop had taken the Eastern Church's mistrust on the Central Church to the grave, apparently, since the negotiations went down so smoothly it shocked Byleth and the Knights she had brought from Garreg Mach. The ones posted at Edmund territory weren't nearly as surprised since they had written as much in their reports, but it was still hard to believe without witnessing it firsthand.

However, despite that tremendous win -- Deacon had agreed to bless Dimitri and Byleth's marriage alongside Abbot, the Western Bishop -- the real fight was still to begin: to convince Abbot himself to go to the ceremony.

Or so Byleth thought. The moment she received word back from Dimitri and the Knights at Arianrhod, she realized that the situation might be easier to tackle than she initially thought.

Of course, the deeply rooted mistrust that described the Central and the Western churches' relationship couldn't be so easily erased, but Abbot, the Bishop appointed to lead the Western Church since the incident back in 1180, had actually been working towards mending that. After the fall of Garreg Mach at the start of 1181 he had put a stop to those plans simply so they could survive through the war, but once Byleth started to make a name for herself inside the Central church after they freed Faerghus from the Empire's hold, Abbot had decided to once again merge the Western Church with the Central one.

Surprisingly good news, really! Even if it took a longer while to convince their respective followers, to have the support of their leaders was a surefire way to fostering understanding between them.

And great timing, as well: Byleth had planned all of her voyages with the goal of having the Western Church be her last stop before moving to Fhirdiad permanently. She had already informed her friends of the former Alliance of her marriage so they would be prepared to leave a month open once they arranged everything. She also wrote a few advance letters to the ones she couldn't visit -- Bernadetta, Ferdinand, Dorothea, Caspar... While her business didn't take her to the former Empire region, Byleth still wanted her companions to be there during the most important moment of her and Dimitri's shared life.

Overjoyed but exhausted to the point of being burned out, Byleth returned to her temporary quarters in Arianrhod to rest, her heavy body contrasting with her light soul and heart. She was just one step closer to being with Dimitri again after five long months or running here and there.

"Just one more step," she mumbled as she finally tucked herself in her bed -- a lonely, too big of a bed. "Then we can be together forever," she sighed longingly, her eyes so heavy she barely made an effort to fall asleep.

Unbeknownst to her, Dimitri had stolen away from the capital in a blind eagerness to finally meet his wife again -- according to Dedue, his known accomplice in letting the King escape from his duties, Dimitri had been so antsy as of late he was barely useful in whatever he did.

If only Byleth had stayed awake for another hour, she could have met Dimitri in the flesh, but alas, the moment his exhausted horse arrived at the gates of the fortress, the Archbishop had already given in to fatigue.

"Your Majesty! If you'd given word of your arrival, we would've prepared your quarters-" A knight from House Rowe scrambled to find the words to direct to the sudden appearance of his King, but Dimitri could barely hear him.

"No matter, good soldier. Just direct me to where the Archbishop is- where the future Queen is located." He almost ran inside, knowing that Byleth would be at the noble wing of the fortress, though relying on the man to point which door he should open to finally meet his beloved.

"Future-" the man stuttered, freezing in place. "A-at once, Your Majesty! This way! B-but the Archbishop has already retired to sleep-"

"No matter, I said," Dimitri almost skipped, making the poor knight struggle to keep up. Once the proper way was pointed out, the grand smile on his face almost made it impossible to speak. "Thank you, good soldier. You are dismissed." He said softly before quietly opening the door, disappearing inside of it.

Ah, there Byleth was, wrapped under the covers... And it wasn't a dream, not this time! She was there, she was real; they finally met again!

Barely containing his excitement, Dimitri felt his eye burn with tears, faltering in his steps to the bed. He silently took off his mantle and jacket, placing them over a nearby chair. Then, he took his boots off without even sitting down, bending only when it was time to climb on the bed.

His whole body trembled to the point of worrying that the sound of his thundering heartbeat could wake his beloved up -- how tired she looked! How ragged, how exhausted- how terribly, wonderfully beautiful!

Ah, to gaze upon her features again! Dimitri sniffled with emotion, quietly slipping under the sheets as he laid by his beloved's side. He took a few strands of hair from her face, unsure of what he wanted to do -- to hug her, obviously, but he also wanted to gaze upon her throughout the night, to hear her calm breathing and finally take it in that she was there, with him.

In his un-decision, he decided to simply gaze upon her beauty until either sleep claimed him or left her, whichever came first.

Dimitri thought he would be able to stay up all night as he did many a time before, but simply being with Byleth again made his whole body relax and fall soundly asleep like he hadn't done properly in the past five months.

In the morning, Byleth groggily snuggled into her beloved's chest, her mind still far from catching up with what had happened. She simply dug her face into the familiar warmth, wrapping her arms around his solid build.

Realization hit her so fast it made her jump out of his arms. "Who is- Dimitri?!" She gasped, "what- how-"

Startled by his wife's start, Dimitri sat up almost immediately, although his face was still in the land of dreams. "Hu- Byle- my light-" he shook his head, quickly remembering what had happened. "Oh, My Light, you are finally awake!" Wasting no time, he dove into his beloved's lips, claiming them to himself like the both of them wanted for so very long.

"Mmph...!" Byleth rolled her eyes in pleasure, forgetting how many times she wished for that to happen. To taste his kiss again and be tenderly held by him- oh, what joy!

Once the fog of exhaustion lifted from her mind, she could mostly guess how her husband had found her there, but she was too busy indulging herself into his kiss to speak at that moment.

Finally reunited, the couple could at last work together in preparing for their marriage -- they sent proper invitations to their friends from in and out of Fódlan. Byleth mentioned wanting her dress to be decorated by Hilda, Dorothea and Bernadetta, remembering how good the three of them were with sewing.

It would be special to her to have her former students -- now her allies and friends -- to have an active role in the preparations. She would never have won the war by herself, after all.

Dimitri had bashfully asked for his childhood friends Sylvain, Felix and Ingrid to be his best men and woman, expecting rejection of at least a third of the party. But Duke Fraldarius had actually agreed to it, though his letter sounded rude as always.

"'Don't make me regret it', huh?" Byleth giggled as she read Felix's reply, lying on her husband's lap as they arranged this or that detail of the party inside their quarters.

Dimitri smiled bashfully, "that truly does sound like him, does it not? I am glad that deep down he is still the same boy I befriended as a child."

"Both of you changed," Byleth held two different kinds of sample of laces for the details of the tables overhead, close to Dimitri's face. "But your bond will always be unbreakable, I'm sure of it."

Dimitri chose the lace on the right, nodding as Byleth put it on the 'chosen' pile. "Indeed."

As the big day approached, so did the guests who came from farther away -- Claude arrived with Hilda and Lorenz, bringing gifts and good news from Almyra. The trio never failed to make Byleth laugh with their interactions, bringing warmth into the Queen-to-be's heart.

Bernadetta arrived a few days after, quickly latching onto Byleth's arm. "I-I came to a new place on my own, see!" She stuttered as she followed her former professor around like a duckling. "Although you're here with me as p-promised."

"Thank you for braving through this trip for me, Bernie. I hope I didn't ask too much of you in helping with a few touches on my dress."

"O-oh, don't be sorry, Professor- umm, should I still call you that? You haven't been my teacher in over six years and I'm sure I should be calling you Your Majesty? Maybe Your Holiness? I'm-"

Byleth chuckled. "Just call me Professor if that's easier for you, Bernie. Don't worry too much about it, okay? I called you here because I wanted you to witness this important moment."

Bernadetta lowered her head, blushing slightly. "O-okay. Thank you, Professor. I'll do my best to help with the dress! B-but don't blame me if looks terrible in the end, okay? It probably will..."

"Hah! It's going to be fine!"

It felt as though Byleth had spent the entire year running around from place to place -- which was actually true. She had barely had time to breathe in preparation for the big day, but she couldn't be happier. She was overcome with emotion the first time she tried on her dress, allowing a few tears to escape before sniffling them all back in. Once she saw Dimitri in his outfit testing, she was unable to keep her emotions in check, however.

He looked so radiant and full of life -- so unlike the unhinged man she had found during the war. He was still the same man inside, she knew of it, but witnessing his recovery from this up close was so breathtaking it took the strength out of her body. How she loved him!

Dimitri giggled as Byleth jumped in his arms to steal a kiss, his own emotions overflowing through his eye.

In a blur, time flowed quickly -- soon it was time to walk down the aisle: the cathedral of Fhirdiad was packed with guests from all over Fódlan, the Bishop dual awaiting at the feet of the goddess.

Byleth wore a bright white dress, its ruffles and sleeves skillfully modified by the three young ladies who already sobbed quietly at the front row of the altar. A flowy, lace cape covered her slender shoulders, matching her pair of long gloves as she slowly made her way through the red carpet.

Gustave walked her down the aisle, proud to be the one to hand his new Queen's hand to his King. Once their hands met, Dimitri and Byleth smiled ever so softly it brought tears to that old man's eyes.

"Hey, you're not crying, are you, Felix?" Sylvain whispered by his friend's side as they stood a ways behind Dimitri as his best men.

The Duke flinched, quickly turning his face away from his friend. "What? 'Course I'm not. Go get some glasses."

Ingrid stepped on both of their feet. "Do you want to ruin this ceremony?! Quiet!" She whispered gravely, about to pull their ears.

Abbot glanced at the trio before clearing his throat to start his matrimonial speech while Deacon gestured for all of the guests to be seated.

"We are here beneath the feet of the goddess to bless this couple in marriage..." Abbot started, being followed by Deacon.

"The couple that unified not only our continent, but our faith under a single banner once more."

Dimitri and Byleth exchanged glances, their fingers intertwined into a firm hand hold. "I love you," Byleth mouthed as the Bishops kept on with their speech.

His eyes blurry with tears, Dimitri squeezed his beloved's hand just a little before bringing it to his lips. "I love you, too." He mouthed back, stealing a few 'awww's from the guests who were at the front row.

"... and now, for the Solemn Promise." Abbot finished his part of the speech, raising both hands towards the sky. "Would the couple- ah, you're already holding hands, I see."

Byleth and Dimitri once again glanced at one another, their emotional smiles never leaving their faces.

Deacon extended his hands to the couple, inviting them to place their hand hold over the altar. Once they did, Deacon held them within his own. "Do, Byleth Eisner, consent to this union in taking Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd as your husband, in sickness and health, in poverty and wealth?"

"I do." She replied solemnly, never breaking eye contact with her beloved.

"Do you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, consent to this union in taking Byleth Eisner as your wife, in sickness and health, in poverty and wealth?"

"I do... no matter what comes our way." He replied, his voice cracking.

Both Bishops nodded, Abbot joining the hold with his hands. The both of them spoke at the same time: "May the Goddess in Her magnanimous will strengthen your consent and fill you both with Her blessings. What the Goddess has joined together, let no man put asunder."

"Forever," Byleth's lips trembled as she lost herself in her beloved's eyes.

"Forever." Dimitri mirrored, his hands shaking slightly.

"You may kiss the Queen now, Your Majesty." Abbot and Deacon let go of the couple's hands, each patting on a royal's back.

Dimitri was sure he would be bashful in sharing a kiss with his beloved in front of so many people, but he wasn't. He was so focused in her emerald eyes, glistering with tears; in her peach colored lips just waiting to be kissed... He closed his eye as their breaths intertwined, their lips brushing slightly before they pressed against one another.

Forever. They thought in unison as they embraced for the first time as official husband and wife.

#dimileth #dimitri fire emblem #byleth #fire emblem three houses #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #my writings #yuki's commissions #spoilers

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marginalgloss · 5 years ago

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the republic of heaven

Back in 2000 when The Amber Spyglass came out I feel like there was not so much news in the world. At the turn of the millennium we seemed to be entering a more optimistic time. Tony Blair was elected in 1997 at the head of a liberal Labour government, and while it may be true that Blair would never be so popular again as he was in the opening years of his premiership, the Tories seemed hopelessly outdated by comparison. They were still the nasty party of old, while the country was ambitious, outward-looking, internationalist. Explicit racism and homophobia were no longer tolerated. We were Europhiles, but we weren’t part of Europe. There seemed to be a lot of money about.

At home there were occasional horrors — the murder of Jill Dando, the homophobic pub bombings in London, Harold Shipman — but they were somehow isolated, disparate, inexplicable. They were exceptional. There was the war in Kosovo, which set a template for liberal interventionism in years to come. The economy was trucking along; unemployment was low; for the first time there was a national minimum wage. I skim the headlines today and it seems like such a comfortable time by comparison. Perhaps I am remembering it wrong. But when the years to come would bring a spiral of endless war, recession, and one of the most significant declines in relative generational living standards, I’m not sure there is any need for rose-coloured glasses.

Into this comes The Amber Spyglass, which is basically quite an optimistic anti-authoritarian novel. It was also the book which, for a handful of reasons, really brought Philip Pullman to the world’s attention. It was this which ensured that his name still lurks around the list of authors most frequently ‘banned’ in America, and which in the years after its publication would attract scores of avid cheerleaders and detractors. Inevitably most of those had no interest with engaging with the substance of the book itself. Instead, it became a sort of battleground: on one side, those convinced that religion was under attack from an educated elite; on the other, those who were committed to reducing the role of religion in public life, discourse, education, and so on. It is worth revisiting this typically excitable interview and profile by Christopher Hitchens for an example of how these novels were talked about.

To call the novel ‘optimistic’ might seem surprising, because much of it is shrouded in scenes of gloom and suffering. But when I think of the tone of the novel as a whole, it is pastoral. When the world isn’t tearing itself apart the language seems more lyrical than in either of the two preceding books. Some of that is to do with the perspective, which now has at least three (and sometimes more) main characters to follow. This means that a sense of distance, of floating high above the many worlds of the story, becomes necessary. But it’s also that the reader has a sense that this book is going to be about the promised war against the heavens outlined in The Subtle Knife, and it’s likely the reader will also understand that this is a war that must be won.

It feels like a world of binary opposites. Even characters who seemed villainous in the previous novels are here redeemed (at least in part) so they can be mustered against the ultimate figure of the ‘Authority’. A certain amount of good versus evil is likely in any book for children, but here things are now cast explicitly in terms of these two sides squaring up against each other. And taking sides is a matter of decision, not of belonging. This is a book where angelic figures can decide to fight alongside men, and where demonic harpies can be convinced not to consume the souls of the dead because they want to hear their stories instead. It’s plausible in terms of oldest storytelling traditions, where it is possible to talk one’s way out of anything — where the role of storyteller gives a person the ultimate kind of authority.

Is the capital-A ‘Authority’ in these novels intended to be absolutely synonymous with God? I’m not sure. The book is explicitly anti-religion in the sense of being anti-church, but the forces of the Authority (and the being himself) do not seem to represent any kind of absolute power in the universe. The Authority is not omnipotent nor omnipresent, nor is he very much of a creator or a father-figure any more — he is a despot, but he is also somehow irrelevant. Like a shrivelled relic, he is vastly reduced when we finally meet him. The worst aspects of his regime seem like the calcified remnants of decisions long since made and now barely remembered, like the afterlife that has become a giant prison camp. In fact it’s the abolition of the afterlife, not the death of its creator, that’s the only really significant consequence of the fall of the Authority.

So if God isn’t in the Authority, then where is he? In spite of the tendency for atheists to want to claim the author for one of their own, it seems like the heart of these novels is not in pure humanistic rationalism, but in a broader sort of pantheism. The idea of ‘Dust’ is the closest thing to a true divine presence here. It could be characterised as something akin to a spirit which moves through all things. It is ‘conscious’, and though it’s hard to determine what this means in practice, we know that it is not indifferent to humanity. It’s not like a host of little thinking homunculi (although Mary did have a whole conversation with it on a computer back in The Subtle Knife). But it wants to persist. It would seem to be the force that drives the Alethiometer. It has intentions.

The counter-argument to this would say that Dust isn’t divine at all — it exists at the bleeding edge of science, and has nothing to do with faith. It’s a material thing. It’s not a spirit. But I don’t know that this is especially convincing. The books often try to equate Dust with quantum mechanics, but this doesn’t entirely seem to add up — these are particles which are somehow small enough to slip through gaps between universes, but big enough to see with the naked eye. Everything about Dust seems too convenient from an authorial perspective. It’s as though someone took everything indefinable and unique about evolved human (and non-human) consciousness and made it into a quantifiable thing and then said: there, without this thing we are no longer what we are. It’s an easy solution to the hard problem.

It the article linked above, Hitchens described the Alethiometer and Will’s knife as ‘tools of inquiry and struggle, not magic wands’. This is only half-right. Clearly they aren’t tools like a microscope or an X-ray machine. Both items are bonded to their owners through an innate sensitivity that has little to do with rational enquiry or rigorous method. The Alethiometer is even compared to the I Ching at various points. It seems wrong to mistake ‘inquiry’ here for the scientific method; it has much more in common with ‘negative capability’, a term which is actually quoted in The Amber Spyglass — the ability to pursue truth and beauty via one’s innate sensibility, to ‘see feelingly’ through a fascination with a sort of natural mystery, and not to depend exclusively on reason and knowledge.

This leaves the reader in an odd sort of no man’s land between the armies who supposedly either adopted or despised this novel. A hypothetical arch-rationalist might find it difficult to accept all of what they find here without rolling their eyes at some of it. Negative capability does not sit comfortably alongside the scientific method as a tool, but nor does it have much to do with priests and popery. And yet it is a sort of inspiration, and in that respect I think it comes closer to a religious experience than it does a rational one.

The problem with this is that it is not possible to get any sense from this novel of what it means to be religious, or to believe in a higher power, or to be ‘spiritual’ (choose your own euphemism). There is Mary Malone, but while I like Mary’s story here, her account of her early life in cloisters and later conversion/defection is unsatisfying. We have no sense of doubt, of anguish, of guilt — it is an all-too-straightforward seeing of the light. Will is arguably more complicated, more conflicted, but for the most part he never seems to have to make any difficult compromises. If he ever loses out on anything by abandoning his mother to travel through a whole set of alternate universes, we aren’t told about it.

What if Will made the wrong call? What if he weren’t so trustworthy? He is, in a way, the lynchpin of the whole story. For all Lyra’s good intentions and inner strength, if it weren’t for Will, Asriel would have failed and nothing would have changed. So Will must be made to work. Yet it often seems as though he doesn’t want anything for himself, except perhaps to be with Lyra. It’s interesting to wonder what might have happened if Will weren’t quite so faithful (for want of a better word).

But it’s inconceivable in the world of these books that anyone could possess negative capability and then use it for anything other than a pursuit of — well what exactly is being pursued, anyway? What is Asriel’s goal, above and beyond the overthrow of the Authority? There is vague mention of something called ‘the Republic of Heaven’ — a heaven on Earth, as it were — but today that phrase can only make me recall the idea of ‘Outer Heaven’ in the Metal Gear Solid games. It’s difficult to discern any latent irony lying in wait for the reader in this case. Will whatever replaces the Authority be just as bad, eventually? Perhaps, but again, the vibe of optimism in this novel is so strong it feels odd to impose doubt on it from elsewhere.

The paradox of The Amber Spyglass is that while the explicit ‘moral’ of the novel is set against organised religion, it cannot help but describe the world in terms originally set by religion. (A very basic reading might declare the novel invalid for this reason, for much the same reason as a socialist might be declared hypocritical for buying a smartphone.) It isn’t just that there are angels, or that the story of Adam of Eve is central to the thing. It is the journey through the world of the dead and back. It’s the arc of redemption and overthrow.

At times it feels like this book is re-fighting a battle that was begun hundreds of years ago in the English reformation. In the pursuit of humanistic knowledge, a godlike figure is re-cast in the guise of an Authority who can be overthrown, and cast out of our land, and even killed. And all for the sake of nothing especially certain, nothing at all new in political or ideological terms, except a sense that we would be more free — that we would be better off without. Is it better to eject the columns of the dead into a kind of oblivion than to consider any improvement to their position? I don’t know. Perhaps things seemed simpler twenty years ago.

#books #philip pullman #the amber spyglass

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unfolded73 · 6 years ago

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How Do We Get Back (9/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

Rated explicit. This chapter 4k words. (ao3)

This chapter is a sad one, but hang in there... (putting everything below the cut due to spoilers in the first few lines)

_____________________________________

Chapter 9

The sun was shining the first morning David woke up into a world without his sister in it.

He might’ve expected it to hit him afresh as he surfaced from fitful sleep, the fact that his sister was dead. But it had suffused his sleep, invaded his dreams — there was no escaping the knowledge even in his subconscious. As he awoke, he mostly just felt numb and hungover from crying.

David had rehearsed this kind of thing in his head a hundred times. All the times that Alexis had come back from a long trip abroad with a story about fleeing the Yakuza or being held captive by a sultan, David had played out in his mind a vivid scenario in which Alexis didn’t escape and one of them got a middle-of-the-night phone call with terrible news. He told himself that these morbid fantasies were his way of preparing for the worst. That allowing himself to imagine all of it — how he would behave, what his parents would do, what kind of details would need to be arranged — was a mental insurance policy against the thing actually happening.

None of that was true. It hadn’t prepared him in the slightest.

David emerged from his bedroom and wandered downstairs, keeping his eyes averted from the family portrait in the great hall. He found his father in the kitchen, staring out the window as his assistant, Mallory, sat implacably at the kitchen island and ticked items off of a checklist. He marveled that his father’s ever-capable assistant had come prepared with a checklist of funeral preparations.

“Do you want to go with me to select the casket?” Mallory asked gently.

Johnny stirred himself, looking over at her as if he was trying to parse her question. David suspected he hadn’t slept at all. “You can pick it. It doesn’t really matter what her casket looks like.”

“Mom might care what it looks like,” David said, his voice raspy.

“Your mother isn’t in any state to go casket shopping,” Johnny said.

David threw his hands up. “What, are you just letting her overdose on sleeping pills? Are we going to have two funerals this week?”

“No, I’m not letting her…” Johnny shouted, but quickly ran out of steam. “I don’t think she’ll be ready to leave the house today, that’s all.”

“I’ll go with you to pick out the casket,” David said to Mallory before he went back upstairs to check on his mother.

He expected to find her in bed but Moira was up, sitting at her dressing table and staring at herself in the mirror. David lurked in the doorway for a moment, unsure if he should go in. She had on no makeup, and she didn’t like people to see her with no makeup, even her son. His mother looked old, David thought for the first time in his life.

“Hi, Mom.”

Moira didn’t turn. “Oh, David. John said you were here.” Her voice was low and quiet, lacking its usual expressiveness.

David walked into the room and sat down on the chest at the foot of his parents’ bed. He’d sat here so many times as a child, watching his mother modeling a new piece of couture or trying out a new wig. In a relatively lonely childhood, those were among his fondest memories.

“We’ll need to pick something to dress her in,” Moira said. “I was thinking about that Stella McCartney gown that she wore last Christmas.”

David imagined Alexis’ dead body being bent and stretched like an oversized Barbie to get it into that dress, and suddenly he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“Sure,” he said.

“I mean, is that what Alexis would have wanted, do you think?”

“Pretty sure what Alexis would have wanted is to not be dead,” David shot back, almost with the hope that it would get a negative reaction from his mother. Tears. Screaming. Something.

Moira didn’t even blink.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Alexis loved that dress; it’s a good choice.”

“I can’t remember the last time I told her I loved her. My own daughter,” Moira said, her voice finally breaking on the last word.

“I’m sure she knew,” he said, although he was sure of nothing of the sort. “We aren’t really a family who says that to each other.”

“And we should have taken better care of her. Not let her jet off to anywhere and everywhere like we did.”

“She was a grown woman; I’m not sure what you could have done to stop her.” For that matter, before she was a grown woman, when she was twelve and ended up in Hong Kong, for example, he wasn’t sure anyone could have ever stopped Alexis from going where she wanted to go when she wanted to go there.

Maybe if she’d been raised in a warm and loving home, and not in a place where the nursery was in a separate wing of the house, maybe then she’d have stayed home more. Maybe then she’d still be alive. Then he closed the door on those thoughts. There would be time later to blame his parents for this. Right now, he needed to be supportive.

“Mallory wants someone to go with her to pick the casket. Are you all right with me doing it?” he asked his mother.

Moira nodded. “I’m sure you’ll pick something tasteful.” She picked up a bottle of foundation and shook it, then set it back down, staring into space.

“I’ll check in on you when I get back, okay?” David said. Moira didn’t respond.

David wasn’t prepared for how heavy the grief would be, how it would weigh him down like a yoke on his shoulders, how stupid and yet somehow crucial all the things about planning the funeral would feel. How he would cry so hard sometimes that he made himself throw up, and other times he’d be so numb that he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel true feelings again. His parents were like strangers to him, like shells of their former selves ghosting around the house, and it made him want to smash things and scream and make them acknowledge that all of this was real. Make them take care of him, instead of the other way around.

The night before the funeral, David went to bed early, a part of him hoping he could just sleep through all of it. Sleep until the grief was a little bit lighter and easier to carry around. When his phone started to ring, it took all of his energy to pick it up and see who was calling.

Patrick.

“Hello?”

“David, it’s Patrick.” After a brief pause, he continued, “From—”

“I haven’t forgotten you,” David blurted out.

“Listen, I saw the news online. I’m so sorry about Alexis.”

Fresh tears filled David’s eyes, and he closed them. “Thanks.”

“I know I don’t have any right to… call you or whatever, but I wanted you to know that if there’s anything at all I can do…”

David wiped at one cheek. “I appreciate that. There’s nothing.”

“Is there a service? If you’d be willing, I’d like to come to the service. But only if—”

“You don’t have to do that.” Patrick was just a hookup, David told himself, there was no reason for him to offer to do something like come to his sister’s funeral.

“I know I don’t have to, but…” He sighed. “Listen, if me being there would only burden you, then I’ll stay away. But if you think it would help even the tiniest bit, then I’ll be on the next plane.”

David allowed himself to imagine it. Patrick; solid Patrick who could be relied on to make tea in a time of crisis, being here. Standing with him at the service. Holding his hand, maybe. Suddenly David wanted that fiercely.

“It would help,” he managed to choke out.

“Then I’m going to book a flight.”

“No, you must have work or something—”

“Let me worry about that. When and where is the service?” Patrick asked.

David gave him the information, and at the end of the recitation couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure?”

“I’m buying the plane ticket as we speak,” Patrick said. “I’ll basically need to leave for the airport in…” he paused, “three hours and drive through the night so that I can get the 6:30 a.m. flight out of Toronto, but I can do that.”

“Patrick… thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, David.”

~*~

The church was surrounded by paparazzi, and Patrick was late, and there was a security guard manning the door. But when Patrick gave his name to the guard, he was allowed in and told to take a seat in the back. He shook his head, thinking there was something appropriate about the fact that Alexis Rose’s funeral had an exclusive guest list. Craning his neck, he could just make out David’s black hair at the front of the church.

A priest who even Patrick could tell had never met Alexis was speaking, expressing vague platitudes that probably came out of the manual on funerals for people who die tragically before their time. After that, some women stood up and sang a song that seemed inappropriate as a memorial to a dead person. An aunt got up and told a sepia-toned story about Alexis as a little girl. Then David stood up and approached the lectern. Patrick drank in the sight of him, looking pale and exhausted, clutching a journal against his chest. He hadn’t expected David to be delivering a eulogy. Perhaps his parents didn’t have the strength to do it, and it had fallen to David as the only other close family member.

David cleared his throat and opened his journal and began to speak. “When I first started planning what I was going to say today, I thought about how I would describe Alexis. That she always knew exactly who she was. That she was fearless. That she was unfailingly optimistic about everything. That she had an unquenchable lust for life. But I don’t know if any of that is true.

“The truth is that Alexis could be shallow and self-involved. She forgot to pay attention to the feelings of the people around her. She made bad decisions. She also could be child-like, and enthusiastic, and she knew how to cut right through my bullshit. She was a complicated person who I didn’t always like very much, but who I did… who I did love.

“The truth is also that Alexis was lonely. The truth is she had to grow up way too fast. The truth is that Alexis was always jetting all over the world because she was chasing something that I don’t think she ever found in life: actual joy.

“I had a dream last night that Alexis and I were sharing a tiny little bedroom. Which is pretty funny, because Alexis and I never shared a room in our lives. We would have despised sharing a room, because she was such a slob…” He seemed to choke up at this, and paused for a few seconds to collect himself before continuing. “But the thing is, in this dream she was happy in a way I never really saw her in life. She was content. I hope that wherever my sister is, she’s found that contentment.”

David walked away from the podium and retook his seat, and Patrick could feel the stunned hush of a crowd who hadn’t expected anyone to say anything like that. Nothing that raw and honest. The priest also seemed surprised as he stood up and welcomed the next speaker, one of Alexis’ friends who seemed more interested in visibly crying in front of a crowd than in saying anything meaningful about Alexis. Patrick understood why David had said his sister was lonely if this was what her friends were like.

When the service was over, Patrick went outside to sit on a bench and wait. He wasn’t sure what to do now — he wanted to go to David and be near him to provide any support he could, but he also recognized that as a selfish impulse. David had his parents to worry about, he didn’t need the guy he’d gone to bed with two months ago hanging around. Suddenly, the fact that Patrick had shelled out hundreds of dollars for a last-minute plane ticket and a rental car struck him as insanity.

“You came.”

Patrick looked up from the paving stones he’d been staring at to see David, sunlight haloing his hair. Standing up, Patrick tried to offer a supportive smile. “I said I would.”

David shrugged. “People don’t necessarily do what they say they’ll do.”

“I do.” Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off of David. After two months, seeing him felt like seeing a mirage.

“So, I have to go to the gravesite now for the burial, which is just family,” David said, indicating a waiting limousine.

“Oh. Right, of course.”

“But people will be coming to the house afterwards. Can you come there? I think I sent you the address before.”

Patrick nodded, relieved. “I’ll be there. David, I’m so, so sorry.”

The corner of David’s mouth turned down, and he shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

Uncertain what to do, Patrick got in his rental car and drove to a nearby McDonald’s. The past twelve hours of travel had screwed up the rhythms of mealtimes, and other than a bagel at the airport and a meager bag of pretzels, he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Sitting down with his tray, he stared at his unappetizing burger and wondered why he’d ordered it. He ate a fry, eyes trained on the acrylic tabletop.

When he figured that enough time had gone by, Patrick got back in the car and drove to David’s parents’ house. The gate was imposing enough (where again he had to give his name to be admitted), but the mansion that was revealed as he drove up the long driveway was even more so. He turned his car key over to a valet, wondering what it had been like, growing up in a place like this. Another piece of the David Rose puzzle slotted into place.

The house was filled with mourners, drinks and small plates of food in hand, talking in hushed tones. Patrick stood in the middle of it and stared up at the family portrait that dominated the great hall, trying to see the man he cared about in the haughty version of David Rose in the painting.

After some wandering, Patrick finally found David in the kitchen, giving instructions to the caterers.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” David said, his eyes still flitting around the room, his focus on oversight of the food.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’m glad you’re here.”

An older woman came into the kitchen and picked up one of the trays of finger sandwiches to carry back out to the guests.

“Adelina, you don’t work here anymore; you don’t have to do that.”

“I have to do something,” she said. “And you don’t get to tell me what to do, mijo.”

David rolled his eyes. “Fine. Just don’t stay on your feet too long, please.”

Adelina muttered something in Spanish and left the room with her tray.

“She practically raised us,” David explained. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Of course,” Patrick replied, following David through a back door of the kitchen up some utility stairs to the upper floor of the house. David led them into a tastefully-decorated bedroom that was about half the size of the house Patrick had grown up in.

“Is this your childhood bedroom?” he asked.

“Yeah,” David said, sitting on the bed. “Listen, I’m sorry for the way I behaved when you left New York—”

“Please don’t worry about that now.” Patrick sat at David’s side. “I don’t want you to have to think about that now.”

“No, I was an asshole,” David said. “We hadn’t made any plans or promises, it’s not like you were—”

“Believe me, David, I wanted to stay.” Patrick laughed uncomfortably and looked down at his hands. “Two nights with you and I was…” He stopped, unable to admit the way he’d been feeling. The way he was still feeling. “I’ve thought about you a lot, the last two months.”

David cleared his throat. “I can’t help but notice you aren’t wearing your wedding ring.”

“I told Rachel everything the day I got back. We’re separated.”

“Oh. Well, that must be very hard.”

“It is, but it’s also…” Patrick clutched his hands together, worrying the webbing of skin between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve also never felt more free. I came out to my parents and the world didn’t end. So even if I never saw you again, I would have been forever grateful to you for being the instrument of this change in my life. And then I saw what happened to Alexis, and I just… I had to call, even if you wanted nothing to do with me.”

David looked up at the ceiling like he was trying not to cry. “I’ve thought about you a lot these last two months, too,” he whispered, and then David was leaning in and his mouth was on Patrick’s, insistent and everything Patrick had been dreaming about.

Except David had just lost his sister, and as soon as Patrick gained some control of himself, he pulled away. “David, is now really the right—”

“I just need to… not think about being sad for a while, okay? Can I… can I just have a few minutes where I’m not thinking about what happened?”

Patrick put his hand on David’s cheek and nodded his head. “Of course. Of course you can have that.”

Their mouths met in a frantic press, teeth clacking together as they both tried to deepen the kiss. David’s hand was already unbuttoning the buttons of Patrick’s shirt, trembling, and Patrick did his best to shrug out of his suit jacket while their mouths were still fused together.

When he brought his hands up to resume caressing David’s face, Patrick’s fingers came away wet, and he broke the kiss again. “David—”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” David said, but he clearly wasn’t. His hands were shaking and the tears were starting to flow more freely now, so Patrick pulled the other man into his arms. That made the dam break, and the sound of pure grief that tore from David’s throat in that moment shattered Patrick’s heart.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Patrick murmured, holding David as he sobbed into Patrick’s shoulder.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, David’s tears soaking into Patrick’s shirt as Patrick rocked him gently and murmured quiet words into David’s hair. He wasn’t even sure what he said. Patrick supposed this was why he had come, although he couldn’t have expected David would be willing to rely on him as a shoulder to cry on. And yet somehow Patrick felt like he had known he was needed here, even as all reason and logic had said that it was a mistake to come.

When David’s tears dried up, when he finally let go of his death grip around Patrick’s torso, Patrick reached out to run his thumbs under David’s eyes. “Do you need to go back to the people downstairs?”

David shook his head. “I’m not going back out there.”

“Do you want to try to get some sleep? Or do you want me to go get you some food?”

“Sleep,” David said. “If you’ll… stay?”

“Of course I will.”

~*~

Patrick woke up to the sound of water running in the bathroom, and then David emerged, walking over and getting back into bed.

“What time is it?” Patrick asked.

“1:15.”

Patrick rubbed his face, trying to orient himself in space and time. Between his complete lack of sleep the night before and falling asleep in the early evening with David, he felt hazy and disoriented. “Are you okay?” Patrick asked.

“Just a nightmare about Alexis. I’m getting used to them.”

Patrick reached out and touched David’s back, feeling the way sweat had soaked through his t-shirt. “It might feel better to change your shirt.”

He could just make out David nodding in the dim light before he got up and went over to a large armoire, pulling off his shirt. Patrick watched as David took everything off and put on a fresh shirt and underwear before coming back to bed.

“I keep seeing her drowning in my dreams,” David sighed, getting back under the covers. Patrick put an arm around him and David put his head down on Patrick’s chest, his arm draped across Patrick’s midsection and their legs tangling together. It was nice. It was scary, how nice it was. How well they seemed to fit together, like they’d been sharing a bed for ages.

“And I don’t know what to do now that the funeral is over,” David continued. “It was easier when I had a list of things to take care of. Now it just seems like an endless amount of time stretching out in front of me with nothing in it but grief.”

“Maybe focusing on your gallery will help?”

David shook his head, his hair brushing against Patrick’s nose. “I’m going to close the gallery.”

“Why?”

“Because according to my father’s business manager it’s hemorrhaging money, and the family can’t really afford to keep it open any more.”

“David, I’m sorry.” He tightened his grip on David’s shoulder. “Maybe I can help? I can look at the books?”

“That’s a very kind offer, but even I can understand that if I don’t sell any art, it doesn’t make financial sense to keep the gallery.”

“You don’t sell any art?”

“Not lately. And to be honest, since Alexis died I don’t know if I even care anymore. For that matter, I don’t care if I even stay in New York. Maybe I’ll sell the apartment too and make a fresh start somewhere else.”

Patrick pressed a kiss against the top of David’s head. “Okay, David, I don’t want to second guess you here, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to make these kinds of huge decisions when you’re grieving the loss of someone close to you.”

David’s breath hitched, and Patrick feared he might have triggered another crying jag, but when David spoke, his voice was even. “Okay, maybe I’ll hold off on selling the apartment. But… I need a change of scenery. I need to get away from everything that brings back memories of my sister, at least for a little while.”

“Come home with me,” Patrick said, and then his mouth dropped open with shock that those words had come out of his mouth.

David raised his head from Patrick’s shoulder and looked at him. “Come home with you?”

“No, I mean… if you’re looking for a change of scenery you could… I just got a new apartment and you’re welcome to stay with me for a few days if you need to.” He chuckled nervously, wishing David’s leg wasn’t pinning him down because he felt a sudden need to put some space between them. “There’s nowhere less like New York than my hometown.”

David moved his head around for a second before saying, “Okay.”

“You actually want to come stay at my place? Because I should probably warn you, the restaurants where I live leave a lot to be desired.”

Meeting his eyes, David said, “I wouldn’t be going with you for the night life.”

Patrick kissed him then, just a gentle peck on the lips, but it felt significant. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Chapter 10

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek ff #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #hdwgb fic #my fic

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spell406 · 6 years ago

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So, a friend of mine basically forced me to watch at least one episode of Netflix Castlevania.

(Disc - I am new to tumblr and had a little problems with posting this thing correctly. Sorry for spam)

So I watched one. And then another. And another… When I finished it was 3 a.m., my eyes were burned out, my brain fried, and my soul forever forfeited, but whatever, who need it anyway.

I am new to the universe, and I know that I am something like 10 months late to the review party, so instead I decided to just share a bunch of thoughts of mine. [UPDATE – Because I am extremely heavy procrastinator and it took me almost two weeks to write this thing I am already at 50% of SoTN right now I’ve finished SoTN by now]

First of all – Castlevania looks like anime, but shares almost nothing common with it. It was a relief, to be honest, as I was a little afraid of show being just another shounen with specific set of clichés and similarities that might quite not bad (or even enjoyable), but I’ve seen them too many times before – better or worse executed – to watch without a mild nausea another Bleach/Naruto in a darker scenario.

I would never demand a fantasy world to be realistic. Like, who would do, fantasy world is supposed to be… fantasy, right? I am fine with lack of realism but I can’t say the same about lack of common sense, and there is a matter of logic that I personally find quite funny. When you are about to fight in close quarters with someone, with both of you lives on stake you’ll want to use every possible advantage. In general there are two kinds of battle armors – first one is focused on providing maximum protection (like typical medieval plate armor) and second one designed to grant freedom of movement especially critical in usually legwork-heavy duels. And here are our “battle” priests in gowns. Gowns, that manage to provide neither aforementioned advantage and downsides of both. Heh. It just bothers me too much, honestly.

I really love the flow of narration; the way that every character including antagonists has its own set of motives and reasons, even Carmilla has her own background that is convicting to justify her bitchery (Well, she has seen it before, right? And Dracula wasn’t even trying to hide his apathy, so why would she like to watch as dead man wages his hollow war)(Is it only me or Dracula shows typical signs of severe depression? Apathy, lack of strength to take any decision, not taking care of himself, loss of interest – even in his own war – well, to be honest he has a good reason to do so).

Animations. Ah, that one is unquestionably excellent, although you Powerhouse Animation guys could have make use of an additional 4-5 fps – from time to time I had a feeling that there is a cat sitting on my keyboard’s space bar, pausing and starting show over and over - it happened something like two or three times. If it comes to favorite scenes – for me, it would be first meeting and fight between Trevor and Alucard. The dialogue and music is so good at reflecting rising pressure and tension between those two – let put oneself in Trevor’s boots – just day before he was rather concerned about getting some food/drink and move on and now he is standing against something that he now considers to be last boss of his life, or perhaps not, he doesn’t even know how does Dracula looks like and he doesn’t seem to be openly aggressive, or perhaps yes, he is obviously vampire and he seems to doesn’t like Belmont name, on the other hand even lesser vampire might be not so easy foe and he is kinda out of practice, and Sypha doesn’t feel like helping out, at least for now… It is all just perfect, and the sound track alone is stuff of legends. (Season 2 OST on Spotify WHEN??”)

Second best would be first phase of Dracula fight – the way which they are team working fluently to not let eachother get killed pleases my inner maniac in best possible way, although the 1 vs 1 part is kinda downgrade - but still ok.

But there is one thing that really stands out in best possible way from things I’ve seen before and that’s utilization of facial expression and body language. Like seriously, this combined with really outstanding voice acting bring interactions between characters to another damned level. (Unfortunately, national translation and voice acting is so awful that I couldn’t bear myself to finish even first season). There are few thing I consider more important in creating credible character than combining overall expressiveness and voice acting, the ability to tell words without actually using any (Finding Ciri cinematic in Witcher 3 is perhaps best known to me example) - and Castlevania does it just soooo good.

Dracula generals. When they were shown for the first time I was like “oh boy he has summoned generals, (Generals! Master tactician, the artists of war!) the oldest, most cunning and powerful beasts from entire world, now things are going to get rough.” And how did it turned out? I can understand that Dracula tasked his forge masters with overseeing the war (Although his reasoning was kind of ok, good job Dracula for nominating for executives two people, that knew least about proceeding war) Did they were incompetent so much? Then how did they managed to get their titles, if they were just a bunch of endlessly whining mischief-makers? They were supposed to know how war looks like, and how to do one, but instead they did literally nothing for war effort! If you ask me, that is at least one risen eyebrow. Excluding Godbrand, the only member of council that did anything more than grate his teeth in silent anger, killed some civilians and got taken care of quite effortlessly. Also, Godbrand wasn’t made to be the sharpest knife in a closet, but he still was bright enough to ask himself “What will we do when we’ll win a war?” Also, he managed to notice that there were no real plan to follow... That is +1 to you Godbrand, I’ll miss you my vikingy boi. In the end, if they were meant to be just a background, they did get a little too much of screen time, and if they were not, they got faaaaaar from enough of it.

By the way – not sure if it’s only me but I personally think that Trevor might be keenest (or – at least – not dumbest) of protagonist trio. He might lack classic education, but he is careful watcher (he noticed fresh oil in torch and overall state of Alucard’s hideout), he correctly chosen and quite successfully executed strategy at Gresit square (isolate, divide and destroy) and quite steadfastly shrugged off Alucard bickering (well, most of times). Also, his plan for battle with vampire generals was quite logical – avoid close quarter cause humans are in general more fragile than vampires, and Alucard as frontline. My inner maniac was most pleased.

As I said before, I really enjoy Castlevania’s overall character design but with an exception of bishop of Gresit. There is no reason for his work, I know that he is insane and reasoning usually does not apply to those like him but I feel like there is no reason in villainy (this entire talking about making a God’s own country – well, I don’t buy it), aside of being genuinely baaaaad, which kinda stands out in negative way in comparison to the rest of characters.

To highlight the issue, lets do some roleplaying here:

The night creatures are ravaging the land that you had sworn to protect in unholy war against humanity, killing women, men even your subordinates alike. The citizens are growing restless, and demand taking an action. How do you proceed?

a) Find the last descendant of family known for their prowess in fighting those beasts; but be wary – he doesn’t seem to like you very much after you branded him as heretic, exterminated his entire family and burned down his home (probably with some of aforementioned family still inside it). However, if you nicely ask for help, reverse the curse, apology for making mistake and return the estate it actually might work. (to be honest that could be quite interesting moral choice for Trevor, to help people of Wallachia and let bishop take all glory or decline the bishop proposition and screw people over in the process)

b) You can fight them, you are the Holy Church after all. You have access to unlimited supply of holy water, relics, you have enough money and authority to arm and train people’s militia properly. Your knowledge of those beasts might be as wide as Belmont family, but at least should be sufficient to minimalize the damage. Killing the Dracula, however, might be impossible for you.

c) You spent most of your time on biting, trashing, or looking for anyone to cast entire blame upon; it doesn’t matter who is that poor bastard as long as it is not you. In addition, you…

AAAAARGH I CAN’T CONTAIN MYSELF ANY LONGER! BROTHER, I DON’T FEEL LIKE I AM WICKED ENOUGH! I REQUIRE TO SEE SOME SUFFERING OF INNOCENT TO FEAST UPON! WHAT DO YOU SAY, BROTHER? I CANT HEAR YOU OVER RAGE BOILING IN MY VEINS! WHAT, SPEAKERS? OF COURSE THEY WILL DO RAAAAAARRGARGAJGIOGJIHKBYIUOL

Oh well.

Well, looks like I am done here. By the way, sorry for my English, I am not a native speaker (If I’ve commited any spectacular crime against vocabulary/grammar let me know on priv).

Now I’m going back to rewatching show and torturing SoTN

No TL:DR, just read it if you want, it is not an entire book, you know.

#castlevania #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #alucard

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writingsomestupidshitlovelies · 7 years ago

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FMA AU; The Small Difference

I have this FMA AU where Ed saves a town from this whole big conspiracy that involved the town’s local church-- think the whole “Leto” situation except escalated times 100 and with a mini-civil war breaking out across this no-name area that the military has been neglecting. The whole area is kind of barren: food shortages, unreliable water source, crackpot doctors giving incorrect prescriptions, the whole shebang.

Anywhoot, when he’s done Saving Lives he gets up on this stone-pedestal type thing and stands before the crowd of people waiting for answers, and tells them what was happening and things he did/could do to help. Like he has a very basic knowledge of medicine/medical alchemy (he has automail and knows how to do basic maintenance on that, he and his brother had to do some pretty serious research on the human body to do the transmutation, and Ed healed himself after being impaled-- no matter how poorly or enhanced, he still had that basic knowledge.) and changed the acidity of the soil so things could grow better/ grew some of the crops faster, fixed the water filter, etc.

But while he’s giving this speech and telling people what he did and now what they should do, he inadvertently positioned himself so that the statue of their Goddess/messenger of their Goddess is directly behind him, so it looks like he has these huge stone wings. Their Goddess is one of truth and healing, and what has this boy done? He has healed their people from greed and illness and starvation, and he has unveiled the lies that were being fed to them. It helps that their religion has this well-known story of the Sword and his Shield, believed to be two parts of their Godess’ whole: Edward is more abrasive and blunt and honest but also caring and passionate (just like the truth should be); meanwhile, Alphonse is sweet and hopeful and determined (his mere presence can be healing at times). They see Al’s armor and it reminds them of this story: the person made of armor and the person that was completely made of metal/gold aside from his piercing eyes (Fullmetal, anybody?) and how the two were borne from man’s transgressions but the Goddess whispered to them and they became the most human of all. (Sorry for going into a bit of a rant here I am super interested in my made up religion lol)

So it doesn’t change anything. At first.

When Ed is on the run with Greedling they don’t do nothing. Greed does primarily want friends, and he knows Ed has to stay under the radar, but he is still Greed: he still wants power and fuck does he want to thrive after he beats down Father and his so-called siblings. So first they get disguised: Greed just wears his tacky clothes and, when not in their more animal forms, Heinkel and Darius just look like very confused and gruff dads. Ed needs to change: he gets some sort of haircut but Ed is Ed so he gets it in a bob or pixie cut or something super edgy. He disguises his automail by adding unnecessary flourishes to it: snakes or vines with flowers and skulls-- people associate him with the sleekest, newest models, now it looks like his arms are art pieces. Without the cloak and the hair and the different automail, most people don’t recognize him. Greedling’s group ends up saving a few towns and recruiting some more people: Ishvallans from slums, human chimera that are in hiding, hungry children without a home. As much as the entirety of the group try to pretend otherwise, the four and-a-half (does Greed-Ling count as two people??) original members are huge softies.

And while they’re doing that? The town that Ed saved have been whispering. They see the wanted posters and frown. Because this boy saves lives. Because they’ve been following his misadventures and he’s helped so many people. Word of mouth lets them know that Ed and Al frequently help homeless people, pay off others’ debts, sit down and talk to someone on the knife’s edge, give thieves money and a stern talking to, help rebuild and feed and protect (without alchemy) in the Ishvallan districts. Edward is good, and they won’t believe this bullshit. They don’t believe that Ed is their Goddess, or even that he’s an angel of some sort, but there is this quiet belief that the Goddess crafted the Elric brothers herself, that she made them to save lives and bring goodness. They start rumbles of discontent. Contact people in towns the brothers had saved. It’s a quiet rebellion, but a rebellion none-the-less. People recognize Edward as the Fullmetal Alchemist and turn a blind eye, don’t call the authorities. They protest against more laws and officers than ever before. Something is stirring.

Ed and co. start a smear campaign against military officials they know are in on the whole “immortality” thing. With alchemy, the right lighting, and a camera, there isn’t a lot Ed can’t do. Scandals about officers sighted being at brothels or hitting a child are reported, mostly in gossip magazines, but the talk has started. Ed pays two little thief girls to cry and make say that this officer pushed them or threw their ice-cream money in the sewer or slapped their mother. He starts rumors about Lab Five and greedy old men that would take the lives of a whole country just for power and about a ruthless dictator who only acts innocent. He encourages haunted ex-soldiers to talk to newspapers about the atrocities they were forced to commit. Anonymous women speak about how often the old men come to “see” them. Ed is thankful that Ling is part of their group because he never could have done this himself. Mustang is thankful because people in positions of power are weakening and he manages to pass a few laws and get a few people fired and get himself lined up for a promotion.

It all builds up when Greed remembers a base of operations full of fake philosopher's stones and chimeras and weapons. In order to take it out, Greedling needs a distraction. Ed, who has been hiding in slums and hanging out with the outcasts of Amestrian society, knows exactly what to do. He makes a monument. It takes a few days to set it up, but then he’s got it. It’s almost in the center of the city he’s in and it is covered in names. Designs of foreign desert plants line the oddly-rounded building. Ed has been speaking to survivor’s for months. He’s asked them if he could do this. It is the names of all the Ishvallan victims he has read and heard about. A statue of the Rockbells fitting a tired man with a new arm, of a now-dead Ishvallan with his arms and mouth open and beseeching eyes, of the real heroes of Ishval are scattered about. There’s a statue of Wrath, pleasant expression on his face and one hand on his sheathed sword and the other holding a leash. Collared to the leash is Kimblee, sadistic elation on his face and one armed stretched, crackling with alchemic energy. In front of him is an Ishvallan priest, face firm and determined, arms linked with Ishvallans that are faceless aside from piercing red eyes. Signs are in front of names and statues, giving estimated death tolls and heroic acts and anti-military sentiment. Of course the place is stormed. But people are already gathered around and inside. Ishvallans link arms just like in the statue around the monument because this is theirs, because they’ve given up so much but to finally see an acknowledgment? To see real stories and real names and the blunt, harsh truth? They won’t give in. They didn’t before and they won’t now. Guns are pointed at them, and the hesitation to shoot isn’t even there. Hate crimes done by the military are a constant, no one will even look twice at this. But then, a woman runs in front of them, eyes hard and mouth thin. She’s Amestrian. “My mother,” she begins, “died for something she didn’t believe in. She died in your dumb war so that my little brother wouldn’t be drafted. I won’t let you kill anyone else. Not again.” And she’s crying, but her arms are spread and she means it. “Move.” One Amestrian woman could be a scandal, but swept under the rug. The soldiers stand firm. “No.” says one of her friends, standing besides her and linking arms like the Ishvallans behind them. “We let this happen once. We will not let history repeat.” And her friends join. The crowd thins as Amestrians stand in front of Ishvallans, arms linked, a silent but loud promise: You have to go through us to get to them. They use their privilege to protect, this once. They are all scared, terrified, but seeing the names and reading the stories somehow makes it all real: genocide. Not a war, genocide. One soldier points his gun, finger on the trigger, and Ed decides he’s done hiding. “Instead of killing innocent civilians, why not pick on someone who can fight back? ‘Course, you’ll need a hundred more of you canon fodder to beat me.” He leads them on a wild goose chase throughout the city. He gets hurt, of course he does; they’re going for the kill and, just like with Kimblee, Ed is still going for the mercy blows. People see this. Officers notice. Something, again, stirs. Greedling gets the stones, recruits the chimeras, and blows that base to kingdom come. They’ve been destabilizing the military for awhile now, and Wrath has been unable to help in the preparations for the Promised Day because his main job is keeping the military afloat; without the military, the whole plan crumbles. People rally, calling for officers to be discharged. For Bradley to resign or explain himself. There are riots in the streets and abuse against high ranking military officers by civilians. Ed becomes the face of a revolution. With all this focus on him, Mustang and his team can act a bit more freely, despite being separated. Laws are almost absently passed or remade or taken down entirely. Winry is giving poor people automail those people turn around and help others; they all realize that the military should not have abandoned them, that they have to help each other, and they are all angry and begin planning attacks of their own. Greedling makes several bases of their own, full of “minions” (hungry children and lab experiments and amputees and those with disfigurements. A home for the homeless. A war base and safe place for the oppressed.) and with the focus on Ed, manages to launch attacks of his own. Greed has been alive for centuries, although he has forgotten much of it, and Ling grew up in politics with assassins and war, they fight the government like they were born to do it.

It’s a civil war; unlike in Liore, it is no longer one sided. The civilians fight their dictator, military officials fight from within the system.

This is all I have for it, so far. It’s very ramble-y but vgadhbjnfk I refuse to believe that for about 6 months Greedling and co. sat around and goofed off like Ed has a saving people thing and Greed is antsy and wants (to know) things and Ling wants power and he wants it now. Ed is like pure chaos in a five-foot bundle like you can’t tell me he sat around and didn’t even try to do what he could from the outside?? He is a literal genius smh

Also, you might have noticed that I mentioned the Ishvallans a lot and that’s because there needs to be more about and with them. The manga/anime does handle it pretty well but there is so much potential that isn’t used. Also I am a culture-nerd and love learning about different religions and cultures and architecture so I need this ok???

#fma au #Edward elric is chaos #weird au #ramble #Edward elric fights back #au where ed actually does something in those six months #Greedling #I didn't mention Alphonse purely because I forgot what he was doing at the time #everybody loves ed #everybody loves Edward Elric #big au #long post #fam rebellion au #fma revolution au #I need more of these aus dammit #ishvallans #I need more ishvallans too btw #also more about automail and Ed's disability in general thanks #I spent an hour writing this instead of doing my history work lol

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preevelynn-blog · 6 years ago

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ManyVids Interview

Tell us about your cult:

I am the High Priestess of the Cult of Yith. We are a cult that is dedicated to learning all there is about consensual sexual perversion and deviancy. We accept every kind of gender identity and expression and sexuality. The main goal of our cult is to collectively have as many different kinds of sex and orgasms as possible for the sake of knowledge. We only condone fully consensual sexual interactions and fully condemn any kind of nonconsensual sexual act. The Yithians collect data on all the different kinds of sexual activities that our cult members are a part of and they add it to their grand libraries that hold knowledge from infinite places and times.

The Yithians are a species of highly evolved extraterrestrial (and sometimes terrestrial) beings who can swap their consciousness with individual creatures through not only space, but also time. A Yithian living on prehistoric planet earth could potentially swap bodies with Genghis Khan, or Abraham Lincoln, or a random person living in the year 2045. They can swap their consciousness with creatures and beings from anywhere in the universe at any time. This is how I first came into contact with them. They must have taken control of my body in the past because I now exist in strange dreams that involve them. I understand that all they seek is knowledge and I’ve always seen knowledge as power, so I’ve created the Cult of Yith to use my own talents as a sexual deviant to help the Yithians gain knowledge about human sexuality. It’s very convoluted, I know. The bottom line is that if you join the Cult of Yith and you have interesting, fun, consensual, and unique sex eventually when the Yithians come back to Earth and claim their rightful place as rulers of the planet, we will be given the role of librarian in their grand libraries for our contributions. Plus your life will just be better with a religion that fully supports your odd kinks.

What role does music play in your life?

Music plays many different roles in my life. The biggest role music plays in my life is that of a way for me to communicate. Music is also a friend, an enemy, a religion, and many more things. I am almost always listening to music unless I am sleeping and I create music every single day. It has a near constant presence in my life. I create music for all the porn that I make. It may not be very good, but it’s something I made and that makes me proud. My favorite art has always been art that is provocative and socially conscious. I think in American society right now we need to be pushing for sex work to be more protected, socially and legally, and music is a great medium to do that. Music can be a wrapper for a message that makes a message an easier pill for humanity to swallow. I love to make music that focuses on and is influenced by sex work, intersectional feminism, and the rights of genderqueer people while theatrically wrapping it all up in a recognizable package, such as the imagery of a religion or cult. *hint hint nudge nudge* Music, and all art forms that I indulge in, are a way for me to unapologetically say what I want to say.

What do you see as the major issues facing the LGBTQ+ community in adult entertainment?

I think one of the most glaring issues faced by LGBTQ+ people in adult entertainment is the remaining stigma around trans and gay performers and the silence of many cis industry members about this topic. Performers and managers steer away from gay and trans people for a lot of different reasons and some of these reasons are direct reflections of a past that’s already been thoroughly gutted and exposed as idiotic and queerphobic. There are some very stark differences between how cis and trans performers in the adult entertainment industry are treated. For example, segregation between cis and trans women is alive and well on MyFreeCams to the extent that MyFreeCams doesn’t allow trans women to perform on their site even though they are supposedly a “women only” cam site. In their rules and wiki there is a lot of trans exclusionary language. On their wiki it says “Natural-born women” only and on their official site rules they say nothing about disallowing trans women, but they do say “No men.” So if a trans woman can get through the background check (Which I did because they don’t ask for a picture of your genitals) and gets banned from the site, what rule did she break? It’s pretty safe to assume she only broke the “No men” rule even though she isn’t a man. MyFreeCams won’t address the issue at all and when I got banned from their site my account was deleted, they took all the money I had earned during my show, and I never got a response as to “why” I was banned. Their silence protects them.

This is a really important issue because MyFreeCams is probably the biggest cam site in the world and they sponsor so many huge events and conventions related to sex work. So you’ll have safe spaces and events for MyFreeCams models that are essentially spaces and events for women, but trans women are excluded. MyFreeCams is a huge part of the industry and they should treat all women equally, we should demand better from the large companies that represent the different aspects of sex work. Just a reminder to all cis models on MyFreeCams, 40-50% of your hard earned money is going to supporting this behavior. I understand you might not have the privilege to leave, but that’s not stopping you from emailing MyFreeCams asking why trans women aren’t allowed, or from putting them on blast on social media. On other issues too, we should not be silent. When MyFreeCams is transphobic we need our cis allies to call them out and be loud because they don’t care about what trans people think. If you’re an ally and your manager is being homophobic don’t be silent, call them out. Homophobes and transphobes don’t care about queer people, they will mostly only listen to other cisgender straight people. Power structures are torn down from the top, not the bottom. Please help.

What are your favorite fetishes? Are there any you got into thanks to making content? Any you keep for your private life and don’t film?

I think my favorite fetish is blasphemy targeted at Roman Catholicism. I got into blasphemy from doing private shows for ministers and active church goers who wanted me to really dig into their religion and basically replace their God with myself. I was raised Roman Catholic and I find the King James version of the bible to be very problematic and anti-queer, so I revel in the opportunity to tackle something that often puts me down. Whenever I do one of these shows I often start by detailing to my submissive the passages in the bible that condemn me as a trans woman, specifically the ones in deuteronomy, and explaining how their God wanted me to be in league with the devil by creating me this way. Then I will go on and explain how Satan and I are converting God’s own angels and humans against him by helping them to see the light of sexual deviancy. Then we do all kinds of naughty things in MY name instead of God’s name.

I find it refreshing and empowering to fight against something much more powerful than myself that actively oppresses me and people like me. The Catholic church is one such force and I revel in the opportunity to not only voice my opinions about the Christian mythos, but also to get someone who is a part of it to realize how anti-trans their own book can be. It is beneficial and positive for both me and the submissive and every single submissive I’ve done a blasphemy show with has returned more times than I can remember for the same experience.

Who are your: musical heroes, adult entertainment heroes, and political heroes, and why?

I don’t really have many heroes. I think some of my biggest influences when it comes to music and porn are Marilyn Manson and Natalie Mars. Marilyn Manson’s provocative style just really makes my inner goth girl squeal, and I think Natalie Mars is just so gosh darned physically talented. I wish I could take the things in my butt she does.

What is the most heartwarming thing you’ve ever seen?

That scene at the end of the Witch where the girl talks to the goat.

What is the most annoying question that people ask you?

It’s not a question, but I hate when guys want to talk about how they are straight, but they would still fuck me. Like, yeah… duh… if you were gay you would probably want to fuck a man?

What is something that a ton of people are obsessed with but you just don’t get the point of?

Ariana Grande

What sexual fantasy would you like to make a reality through making an adult vid?

I would love to recreate the exorcism scene from the Exorcist, but instead of Regan and two male priests I’ll be possessed and two sexy female nuns will fuck the devil out of me.

Say something to your fans:

I appreciate you all and if you respect and support me I respect and support you. <3

Fast 10:

The Best Topping/Ice Cream Combination Is:

Spaghettieis from Germany

One piece of entertainment I wish I could erase from my mind so that I could experience it for the first time again is:

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion

If I could have an orgy with anyone on Earth it would be the following people:

Marilyn Manson (1994 version), Katie Marovich from CollegeHumor, and Peter Steele (Also 1994 version).

If you wanted to talk dirty to me you should say:

Describe giving me oral sex and then cuddling me.

The sexiest outfit I own is:

A lace bodysuit that one of my biggest supporters of the name Ser_Koopa bought me!

This sex toy I love and this sex toy I dislike:

I love my fleshlight and I’m not a fan of plastic prostate massagers.

If I could time travel I’d visit this era:

1994 for the metal or some time in the future when I’m not living way below the poverty line and I’m comfortable.

The best way to start the day is:

Yoga!

One thing I wish I knew more about is:

Stocks and investments

The one major sex tip I have for people is:

Communicate. It’s always a good idea to ask someone if they are ok during a sexual experience.

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