#cannot decide what local creatures to adorn it with though

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer     Isaac Babel, Odessa, Soviet Union     c.1924

All the people in our circle—brokers, shopkeepers, bank clerks, and steamship office workers—taught their children music. Our fathers, seeing no future for themselves, came up with a lottery. They played it out on the bones of little people. More than any other city, Odessa was possessed with this madness. And it’s true—for decades our city supplied the concert halls of the entire world with wunderkinds. Mischa Elman, Zimbalist, Gabrilowitsch came from Odessa, and Jascha Heifetz started out in our city.

When a boy turned 4 or 5 years old, his mother took this puny, feeble creature to see Mr. Zagursky. Zagursky ran a factory of wunderkinds, a factory of Jewish dwarfs in lacy collars and little patent leather shoes. He sought them out in the slums of Moldavanka, in the stinky courtyards of the Old Bazaar. Zagursky offered the initial direction, and then the children were sent to Professor Auer in St. Petersburg. A powerful harmony lived in the souls of these starvelings with blue, bloated heads. They became renowned virtuosi. And so my father decided to follow in their stead. Even though I had long since exceeded the age of wunderkinds—I was over 13—my height and puny physique made it possible for me to pass for an 8-year-old. That was the hope.

I was taken to see Zagursky. Out of respect for grandfather, he agreed to charge one ruble per lesson—a cheap rate. My grandfather, Levi-Itskhok, was the city’s laughing stock and its adornment. He walked around the streets in a top hat and decrepit cutoff boots and helped resolve some of the most opaque arguments. He was asked to explain what a tapestry was, why the Jacobins betrayed Robespierre, how artificial silk is produced, how a cesarean section is performed. My grandfather could answer all these questions. Out of respect for his learnedness and madness, Zagursky charged us one ruble per lesson. And in fact, he made an effort with me, only because he feared my grandfather, because in fact there was nothing to make an effort with. Sounds slipped off my violin like metal shavings. These sounds sliced even my heart, but my father wouldn’t give up. At home all they talked about was Mischa Elman, whom the czar himself had released from military service. Zimbalist, according to my father’s information, was introduced to the British king and played at Buckingham Palace. Gabrilowitsch’s parents bought two houses in St. Petersburg. Wunderkinds brought wealth to their parents. My father would have reconciled himself to poverty, but he craved fame.

“Impossible,” whispered those who ate dinner at his expense, “it’s impossible that the grandson of such a grandfather …”

But I had something different in mind. While playing through some violin etudes, I placed books by Turgenev or Dumas on the music stand, and while sawing away, I devoured page after page. During the day, I told tall tales to the neighborhood kids, and at night I transferred them onto paper. Composing fiction was a hereditary occupation in our family. Levi-Itskhok, having gone off his rocker in his old age, had for years been writing a tale titled Man Without a Head. I took after him.

Three times a week, encumbered by my violin case and music sheets, I dragged myself to Witte Street, the former Dvoryanskaya, to Zagursky’s. There, along the walls, awaiting their turn, sat Jewesses, their hysteria flaring. They pressed to their weak knees violins that exceeded the size of the children who were expected to perform at Buckingham Palace.

The sanctuary door would open. Brainy, freckled children would emerge from Zagursky’s office—unsteady on their feet, necks thin as flower stems, a manic fervor burning on their cheeks. The door would slam, swallowing the next dwarf. Behind the wall, straining himself, the teacher would sing and conduct with a bow, reddish curls, and frail legs. The director of a monstrous lottery, he populated Moldavanka and the black cul-de-sacs of the Old Bazaar with specters of pizzicato and cantilena. Later old Professor Auer would propel these tones to a diabolical brilliance.

There was nothing for me to do in this sect. Though a dwarf like the rest of them, I detected a different calling in the voice of my ancestors.

The first step was the hardest to make. One day I left home, saddled with the violin, its case, music, and 12 rubles in cash—the monthly payment for my lessons. I was walking down Nezhinskaya Street, and I should’ve turned onto Dvoryanskaya in order to get to Zagursky’s place, but instead I went up Tiraspolskaya Street and found myself in the port. I was allotted three hours, and they passed swiftly in Practique Harbor. Thus began my liberation. Zagursky’s anteroom never saw me again. More important matters took hold of all my existence. My classmate Nemanov and I now took to visiting an old sailor by the name of Mr. Trottyburn on board the steamship Kensington. A year my junior, Nemanov had been engaging in the most elaborate commerce in the world since the age of 8. He was a genius of commercial operations, and he fulfilled all his dreams. He’s now a millionaire in New York, director of General Motors, a company as mighty as Ford. Nemanov dragged me around with him because I obeyed him without a word. He bought contraband tobacco pipes from Mr. Trottyburn. The old sailor’s brother in Lincoln handcrafted these pipes.

“Gentlemen,” Trottybarn would say to us, “mark my words. One should make babies with one’s own hands … To smoke a factory-made pipe is the same as putting an enema into your mouth … Do you know who Benvenuto Cellini was? … Now that was a great master. My brother in Lincoln could tell you about him. My brother doesn’t get in other people’s way. But he’s convinced that one should make babies with one’s own hands, not other people’s … We cannot but agree with him, gentlemen.”

Nemanov sold Trottyburn’s pipes to bank directors, foreign consuls, rich Greeks—with a 100 percent markup.

The Lincoln master’s pipes breathed poetry. Each of them was invested with thought, that small drop of eternity. A yellow eye shone through their mouthpieces; their cases were lined with lustrous silk. I tried to imagine the life of Matthew Trottyburn in old England, the life of the last master of tobacco pipes, he who opposes the progress of things.

“We cannot but agree, gentlemen, that one should make babies with one’s hands …”

The heavy waves breaking against the sea wall separated me further and further from our home, redolent with onion and Jewish destiny. From Practique Harbor I relocated to the breakwater. There, on a scrap of a sandy bar, kids from Primorskaya Street hung out. From morning till night they refused to pull on their pants, diving under the scows, stealing coconuts for lunch, and waiting for the time of year when flat-bottomed vessels loaded with watermelons would start coming in from Kherson and Kamenka, and you could break the watermelons open against the moorings right there in the port.

Knowing how to swim became my dream. I was ashamed to admit to those bronzy boys that I, even though born in Odessa, hadn’t even seen the sea until the age of 10 and at 14 still couldn’t swim.

I had to learn such necessary things so late! As a child, nailed to the Gemara, I led the life of a sage; having grown up, I started climbing trees.

Knowing how to swim turned out to be unattainable. Fear of water on the part of all my ancestors—Spanish rabbis and Frankfurt money-changers—pulled me down to the bottom. Water didn’t hold me up. Whipped up and down, soaked with salt water, I would return to the shore—to my violin and music. I was tied to the weapons of my crime and lugged them around with me. The battle of the rabbis with the sea lasted until the moment when a local water God took pity on me. He was the proofreader for the Odessa News, Efim Nikitich Smolich. Empathy for Jewish boys lived in this man’s athletic chest. He reigned over swarms of rickety starvelings. Efim Nikitich collected them in the bedbug-infested cellars of Moldavanka, led them to the sea, buried them to the neck in the sand, did calisthenics with them, took them diving, taught them songs, and while they were roasting in direct sunlight, told them stories about fishermen and animals. Smolich explained to adults that he was an adherent of natural philosophy. Smolich’s stories made Jewish children explode with laughter; they squealed and nuzzled up to him like puppies. The sun sprinkled them with creeping freckles, freckles the color of lizards.

The old man silently observed my struggle with the waves from the sidelines. After seeing that there was no hope and I wasn’t meant to learn how to swim, he added me to the permanent residents of his heart. All of it was there with us; his merry heart never condescended, was never greedy or anxious … With his copper shoulders, the head of an aged gladiator, with his bronze, slightly bandy legs, he would lie among us behind the breakwater like a lord of those watermelon and kerosene waters. I grew to love this man the way only a boy suffering from hysterics and headaches could love an athlete. I stayed by his side and tried to ingratiate myself to him.

He said to me:

“Don’t worry … Work on strengthening your nerves. Swimming will come to you naturally … What do you mean the water doesn’t hold you up … Why shouldn’t it hold you up?”

Seeing how I felt, Smolich made an exception only for me among his disciples. He invited me to his clean, spacious attic covered in jute rugs, showed me his dogs, his hedgehog, his tortoise, his doves. In exchange for these treasures, I brought him a tragedy I had just composed.

“I just knew you dabbled in writing,” said Smolich. “You have that look … More and more you’re looking nowhere …”

He read my compositions, shrugged a shoulder, ran his hand through his tight grey curls, walked across the attic.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he drew out, growing silent after each word, “if you had a divine spark within you …”

We went out onto the street. The old man stopped, struck the pavement with his stick, and set his gaze on me.

“What is it that you lack? … Youth isn’t a problem, you’ll get over it with time … What you lack is a feeling for nature.”

He pointed his walking stick at a tree with a reddish trunk and low crown.

“What kind of tree is that?”

I didn’t know.

“What’s growing on that bush?”

I didn’t know that either. The two of us were strolling through a little park on Alexandrovsky Prospect. The old man aimed his stick at every tree, he grabbed my shoulder when a bird flew by and made me listen to different birdcalls.

“What bird is singing now?”

I couldn’t answer his questions. Names of trees and birds, their division into genera, where birds flew, from which direction the sun rose, when dew was heavier—all of that was unknown to me.

“And you have the audacity to write? … A person who doesn’t live in nature, the way a stone or an animal does, won’t come up with two decent lines in his entire life … Your landscapes resemble descriptions of set designs. For God’s sake, what have your parents been thinking about for 14 years? …”

What have they been thinking about? … Disputed IOUs, Mischa Elman’s mansions … I never said this to Smolich; I held back.

At home, during supper, I didn’t touch my food. It wouldn’t go down my throat.

“A feeling for nature,” I was thinking. “My dear God, why hadn’t I thought of it before? … Where would I find a person who would interpret birdcalls and names of trees for me? … What do I know about them? I might have been able to identify lilacs, and only when they were in bloom. Lilacs and acacias. Deribasovskaya and Grecheskaya Streets were lined with acacias …”

Over supper, my father told a new story about Jascha Heifetz. Before he got to Robin’s, he ran into Mendelsohn, Jascha’s uncle. The boy, it turns out, takes in 800 rubles for each appearance. Calculate how much it comes to with 15 concerts every month.

I calculated—it came to 12,000 a month. Multiplying and carrying the four in my head, I looked out the window. Striding across the narrow cement courtyard, his Inverness coat gently fluttering in the wind, reddish ringlets jutting out from under his soft fedora, strode Mr. Zagursky, my music teacher, leaning on a cane. One couldn’t say that he discovered my absence too early. More than three months had already passed since the day my violin had been deposited on the sand beside the breakwater … Zagursky approached the front door. I dashed to the back entrance, which had just the day before been nailed shut as a protection against burglars. Then I locked myself in the water closet. Half an hour later, the entire family gathered outside the door. Women cried. My aunt Bobka rubbed her fat shoulder against the door and burst into a fit of sobbing. My father was silent. Then he spoke more quietly and distinctly than he had ever spoken in his life.

“I’m an officer in the army,” said my father. “I have a country estate. I go hunting. The peasants pay me rent. I placed my son in a military boarding school. I don’t need to worry about my son …”

He stopped. Women were sniveling. Then a terrifying blow shook the water closet door. My father slammed his whole body against the door; he kept throwing himself at it.

“I’m an officer,” he wailed. “I go hunting … I’ll kill him … The end …”

The hook snapped off; there was also a latch, but it held by one nail. Women rolled on the floor. They clung to my father’s legs; enraged, he pulled away. My father’s elderly mother heard the noise and got there just in time.

“My child,” she said to him in Yiddish, “our sorrow is great. It is boundless. The last thing we need is bloodshed in our home. I don’t wish to see bloodshed in our home …”

My father groaned. I heard his departing steps. The latch barely hung by the last nail.

I sat until nightfall in my fortress. When everything settled, my aunt Bobka took me to grandmother’s. It was a long walk. Moonlight froze in unfamiliar bushes, in trees without names … An invisible bird whistled and expired, perhaps falling asleep … What bird was that? What’s it called? Is there dew in the evening? … Where’s the Big Dipper in the sky? From which direction does the sun rise? …

We walked along Pochtovaya Street. Aunt Bobka firmly gripped my hand so I wouldn’t run away. She was right. I was thinking of escape.

—Isaac Babel, “The Awakening” 1931 (Translated from Russian by Maxim D. Shrayer)

[snowstcrm]

LONG MAY SHE REIGN - 02

Summary: Daenerys had always set her eyes on the Iron Throne when she had been destined for something far greater from the start. With a second chance at life, the Targaryen queen decides to abandon Westeros and sets her focus on the origins of her ancestors. She woke dragons from stone and would raise an empire from ancient ruins.

Chapter warnings: uncomfortable religious ramblings

01 - 02 - 03

--> link to ao3

The free city of Volantis looked beautiful from above with the sun beginning to set, far different from the cities in Westeros and much more familiar with what she had known her entire life. The air was hot and humid which was such a stark contrast to the cold, dry climate she had experienced during her weeks in the north. She breathed it in, her lungs coming alive and for the first time in many weeks she was able to truly feel an ounce of happiness. Daenerys couldn’t even be bothered with the sweat that was building up beneath the furs she wore, though she also couldn’t wait to adorn lighter clothing. It was something she had taken for granted before leaving Essos. She missed the heat now.

She circled above the massive city harbour, already hearing the distant yells and shouts from sailors below. Daenerys needed to gather her strength and make the Volantenes, especially the nobles, know who she was and know that their time was limited. She did not forget that Volantis was one of the conspirators that supported the Sons of Harpy, nor did she forget that there are five slaves for every free man in the city. While she may have many supporters in the form of religious servants and the enslaved, the powerful masters in this city would want her dead-- just like Meereen. Just like everywhere else.

The masters would be dealt with in due process, however for the time being she was in search of the temple of R’hllor. Though she wasn’t too familiar with the religion itself, years ago she had read and knew of its roots in Volantis when she studied the history of the city.  

Drogon roared before swooping lower, flying across the city to announce Daenerys’ presence in a display of power. As she approached the east end, a massive wall of dragonglass stood in her way as a means to protect the oldest part of Volantis, though it didn’t serve as much of a barrier when Drogon shot upwards and over to the other side.

A temple that rivalled the size of the Meereenese pyramids came into view, massive pillars and domes and buttresses displaying incredible design. At the tip of the temple was a large fire burning with ferocity, making it obvious to whom this site was dedicated to. There was a crowd of thousands gathered at the front of the building and she heard the screams mixing with shouts of awe as she landed Drogon on the steps leading up to the temple. Her eyes scanned the crowd, watching as even those that had been frightened began yelling and cheering in the city’s Valyrian dialect. This was… a surprising yet reassuring reaction. A reminder. Westeros may not want or need her, but there were many that were desperate for a change in their circumstances. Remember your roots. Remember why you always did what you did. When she was a child she had been yearning for a change, to be freed from her chains, and she had wanted to give that freedom to everyone else that sought it too.

“Volantene!” A voice shouted above the rest and Daenerys looked over her shoulder towards a man standing at the top of the steps, his face covered in tattooed flames. He must have been preaching before her arrival. “The Lord has finally led Azor Ahai reborn to us! Daenerys Stormborn, the champion!” Flames leapt from his fingers as he roared, and she was almost taken aback by his display of magic. “Her fire will be the one to drive the darkness out of this world!”

Cheers and yells were certainly not the way she had been expecting to be welcomed, but it was something that she needed though she dare not admit it. This was what it had always been about. She wanted to give people hope. She wanted to help. It had been an earnest and good desire before it became twisted by grief.

The evening had turned into night by the time Daenerys said her farewells to the Volantenes gathered outside and followed the high priest through the large temple doors for a more private conversation. As they entered her eyes were greeted with massive pits and golden stands, the orange light of their fires danced across looming statues and illuminated ancient artwork on the walls.

She almost got lost in looking at the interior of the temple, but she finally looked at the man and said, “Your name was Benerro correct?” She spoke in High Valyrian and noticed that the priest could alternate between the local dialect and the old form when needed.

“It is, your Grace.” The tall, spindly man had an almost off-putting presence, his appearance gaunt. “I am a high priest of R’hllor. I first saw your visage in the flames many moons ago. You are his chosen champion, the one that will push back the darkness.”

“The darkness was defeated-- I thought it was, at least. But I saw… things. Visions. I don’t know what to think of this talk anymore.” She replied, brows furrowing as she glanced over at a large fire contained in a metal pit in the center of the open hall. “Your god brought me back to rebuild Valyria, to have magic and dragons return to the forefront of the world-- or so I was told by the priestess Kinvara. I know that I can do it, but I’m not sure that I should. If it’s right. If I’m the one that should do it.”

He walked over to the burning fire she had been starting at, watching the flames as if gathering information while he spoke, "You were travelling down a path that might destroy the world, but you were also the one who helped saved it. You may think yourself a monster, but the world isn’t changed through soft-spoken words and caresses. That is the reality, and many innocents are unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We already knew that non-believers would be cleansed by the thousands.”

She felt the sting of tears threatening to fall from her eyes but she willed them not to. How could he be so indifferent? Is this how she had sounded to Jon? “It was wrong.” Her voice had a slight shake, “What I did.”

“It is also reality.” He repeated the sentiment. “You cleansed the land of its immorality just as the mountains cleansed Old Valyria. Though I believe it was already written in stone, I see that it eats away at your spirit and I pray that you find peace with it. My words may seem insensitive to you but I simply see things as small parts of a grander destiny for us all. What you did brought you here, and that’s all that matters.” There was a change in his tone when he finally said, “There will always be creatures that lurk in the darkness. Fire made flesh is the only thing that can keep them at bay. That’s why you are alive today."

A silence hung over them as Daenerys stared at the side of his face. For a moment she could understand why Jon chose to do what he did, and the thought crushed her already scarred heart. She could not bring herself to trust this man, but he was her best ally for the time being. Her face solidified, void of vulnerability as she replied, "If I am to rebuild Valyria I will need many hands."

"The servants of the Lord of Light will support your cause, as will a large portion of the slaves in Volantis if given the option. They've been waiting to see you in the flesh for years. Stories of your liberating have travelled across the Free Cities and the triarchs of Volantis have been fearing their fall ever since. They’ve even tried to destroy the temple because we preach in support of you." He spoke with almost a scoff.

Her focus stayed on the flames, beginning to see visions in them. Vague images of mountains crumbling and falling away, fire raining from the skies, and clear waters becoming dark and smoking. "I cannot promise a peaceful life here in Volantis if they revolt and kill their masters. Revolution always threatens destabilization. I learned it in Meereen and the other cities. What I can promise though, is that every slave of this city has a home in Valyria if they so desire it. Whoever kills their master can find sanctuary under the dragon and never be harmed again. The hands that build Valyria will be those of free men."

He watched her with a look she couldn’t quite decipher. It was almost a look of relief, as if he had been waiting for this moment for ages. “The triarchs of Volantis will fall. Every night I’ve preached to thousands that have been burning for a change but have held back over the fear of being left stranded once on the other side. You’ve given them a choice now, and many will take it. His fire will cleanse this city like it did the others.”

She finally turned away from the flames, looking over at Benerro, “There’s a problem though isn’t there. Are the servants of this temple not bought as slaves or taken in as offerings? I don’t understand why you so strongly support my cause when your temple ranks will fall apart as well.”

"They are. As am I.” He gave a small gesture to the tattoos covering his face. “There were many that were bought to serve the temple, and many that willingly came and sought refuge in these walls. Our temple does not condone slavery, but we have had to speak the language that the city and its people understand. We’ve bought many servants, but they are not slaves to any living man. The lord’s servants have all been waiting for the chance to overthrow the triarchs. If any of the high priests were slave masters we would have never supported you."

Daenerys had always been uncompromising with slavery so she could not fathom his approach. There were thousands in this city that loved and believed in this man though, so perhaps she could be willing to understand his methods. Not everyone had dragons or an army large enough to take a city through force alone. "It doesn't matter the circumstances. Every single man, woman, and child will be free in Volantis, including the temple’s servants. You will give them the option to leave their servitude and allow them to take it without any retribution."

"As his champion wishes." He chuckled. “I promise you with the lord as my witness. I am on your side. Volantis will join the Bay of Dragons and adopt its policies.”

For now she could only trust in his word. She still held a healthy skepticism for the man, but he also gave her enough reason to believe in his motivations. She nodded in understanding before reaching her hand out, offering it to seal their alliance, “May it be done with fire and blood if necessary.”

He nodded, his hand meeting hers halfway, “Fire and blood.”

She was offered a place to rest in the temple that night but opted to stay with Drogon outside of the city. She changed into clothes that were offered to her however, ridding herself of the winter furs unfitting for Essos while keeping her ever present riding pants and boots. Before leaving the temple she had put on a deep red gown with billowing sleeves, cuts in the thighs, and a deep scoop neck. A large sash of the same colour was wrapped from her waist up to her shoulders and served as a head-covering.

Valyria was not too far off from here and she was already preparing herself for the task ahead of her. Like many others she had heard awful stories of what lurked in the ruins of Valyria. She heard of living shadows, strange creatures, bubbling waters, red skies, and stone men. Everything was telling her that the land would be revived and built anew-- the priests, the flames--  so she had the confidence that it would come to pass. It was just a matter of how… Was the heart of winter that Kinvara spoke of enough? Would the red priests and priestesses be enough to clean and control whatever magic that had been free to roam the abandoned ruins? She could only keep pushing forward and then deal with any barriers in her way once she reached them.

The rebirth of dragons… She dreamed wistfully. There was nothing that could every replace Viserion and Rhaegal, but to bring new dragons into the world… Whenever she thought of it her heart was set ablaze with bright fires. They called to her blood.

Benerro wasted no time in implementing his plan. He sent hundreds of servants out into the night to send whispers across the city, letting them know that Daenerys Stormborn that had conquered and freed the Bay of Dragons from its masters has come for the triarchs of Volantis next with the words of fire and blood. By early morning the streets were red and fires were set to ancient buildings belonging to the Old Blood. The Fiery Hand of the temple took up arms against any city guards that opposed the rebellion and were joined by men wielding knives, stones, and anything else they could get their hands on. The swarm was unstoppable and Daenerys could only watch from her vantage point in silent wonderment. The city had been a massive pyre, unlit and waiting. All that was needed was a spark that would set it blazing. The black shadow that had flown over the city the day prior was the people’s hope and the death omen of any unyielding masters.

The smoke had created a small overcast by midday. Daenerys drifted out of her light sleep and took the sight in. The majority of the city was left untouched, but most, if not all the larger buildings had been burned down and their ashes covered everything around them in white. It was perhaps the first time any of the citizens had seen anything akin to snow. Queen of the Ashes, Daenerys scorned. If I will be remembered as Queen of the Ashes, then let it be like this.

She stood up and mounted Drogon, flying down over the city and circling it as liberated men cheered at the triumphant roars of the dragon. During her flight she noticed that the temple had been left standing as one of the only ancient buildings unscathed by the rebellion. She circled the city twice to commemorate the people’s victory before heading towards the bay and off towards Valyria.

Come. Build a new world with me. Join me if you wish.

[avyssoseleison]

2.8k of something Christmas-y? Priest!Cas x season 4!Dean (Pre-Slash). SFW. Also not intentionally blasphemous or anything, unless you have a very rigid view of Christianity.

It is not as though Castiel minds that it is only on Christmas Eve that every pew is occupied, all chant books in use and the church filled to the brim. No, he enjoys the abundance of smiling faces, the carols reiterated by hundreds of voices, the closeness and comfort and community that has him sing back even louder and more spirited than usual.

Still, the more wonderful the Christmas mass is, the more woeful is the void it leaves behind. For as soon as the church’s door closes on the last parishioner, the absence of his flock and their song echoes hollow in his chest. Most of them will not return for God or even for him within the year, until Christmas Night is upon them again, and then, the procedure will repeat itself in its overwhelmingly awesome way.

And afterwards, Castiel will have to stay behind once again, just like now. Not just because he needs to ascertain that everything is clean and tidy, but because he wants to savor the sanctity of holy communion and human community alike, the aftertaste of both. Which is why when he walks down the aisle, pausing at every pew, every left song sheet and every lost ribbon, he picks them all up with the greatest care, presses them against his chest or lips, gently places them in the basket on his arm, and lets them rest. They have fulfilled their purpose, after all, have hopefully bestowed the spirit of Christmas to everyone who came, and will not be needed again until next year.

His basket is almost full and he has already reached the last few pews when he notices that, despite the persisting quietness and growing solitude, he is not, in fact, alone. There, in a chair that is crammed between the confessional and the chant book rack and which is never used by anyone but those too burdened or too frail to walk up to the front, sits the slumped figure of a man. His eyes are cast down and his hands clasped as though in prayer, but he does not seem to be praying.

For a moment, Castiel pauses, takes him in. But from this distance, there is not much to see beyond his silhouette and the shadows he is shrouded in. Which is why, with gentle bravery and genuine curiosity, he steps up to the man, encroaches upon his dim space.

“Good evening,” Castiel greets him, instinctively assuming the hushed voice that is befitting of being in the presence of something holy. Yet, strangely enough, it is not the church that prompts him to lower his voice, but the face that tilts up towards him as soon as he speaks, a face of divine beauty, as though God had molded him twice or thrice, just to ascertain that he would look like this, like proof of heaven. Despite the duskiness of the church, Castiel can still make out the green of his eyes and the spatter of freckles adorning his every feature, and for one sinful instant, he wants to take the man’s hands or lips or him, wants him to experience the same sort of divinely base bliss his mere presence brings Castiel.

“‘Evening, padre,” the man replies, in a voice just as tempting as his face, as he tilts his face just so in greeting. He seems heavy, worn out, and as if this mere tilt of his head is already exhausting him.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, and instinctively, he wants to add my child to his question, as he usually does. But to call this man, whose body might barely be older than three decades’ worth, yet whose shoulders sag with the burden of centuries, a child would be ridiculous. Besides, he does not want the man to merely see him as nothing but a priest and he does not want to see the man as merely a parishioner. As hallowed as any church-goer might be, this one seems… even more so. Although Castiel is aware of the injustice of it – and of the blasphemy, too –, he cannot help but feel that this man’s image should be gracing the stained glasses and it is him he should worship. As though the man had already taken on each and every of his fears, and that of everyone in the world too, and as though all he is willing to accept is this insurmountable weight, but not the worship Castiel would offer in return. And this thought alone, of worshipping this man in even the chastest of senses, on this holiest of nights, should be enough for Castiel to lay down the cross, but he cannot help but see the innocence of it; the righteousness of thinking his man holy, of considering him worthy of unutterable praise.

The young man shrugs, though only barely so, and does not lift his head any further. “Nice mass,” he says, perhaps in response to Castiel, perhaps as a change of topic.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, because he agrees with the man – and he knows that the credit for the mass’ flawlessness does not belong to him, but to the congregation. Whenever it is only Castiel and the few remaining members of his flock, the intimacy still has its own kind of appeal, but it is never as sublime as tonight, as during any other Christmas mass.

“Did you stay to pray?” Castiel asks, already certain that this is not the case. But – he is wondering. About the purpose of this young man in his church, and the weight on his shoulders.

“Not really the praying type.”

Castiel nods at that, because yes, that confirms his expectations. “To confess, then?”

The man’s lips quirk up in a self-deprecating smile. “Neither.”

Castiel shuffles his feet and the basket that is still in his hand. He is not one to turn away anyone who comes seeking sanctuary here, especially not tonight of all nights, and he does not want the man to think that any further questions are an expression of suspiciousness. Certainly nobody needs any reason to come into the house of God; he whole point of it is that the church and God are always open and there for anyone who comes knocking, after all. Yet, he cannot help but keep inquiring; not because he distrusts the man or wants him gone, but because of the exact opposite. Without knowing why, he knows that any trust placed into this man would not be wasted; he wants him to stay here, sate his thirst for the divine with him and soothe the ache of his heart in return. Since that he aches is obvious; in the tight line of his mouth and the squint of his eyes and the unbearably faint tremble of his hands.

“Nonetheless, feel free to stay as long as you like.” Castiel is proud of how steady he sounds. “The church will be open all night, and we have a couple of cots in the rectory, if you need a place to sleep.”

“I got a motel room.”

Which must mean that he is not a local. That he will probably only be around for Christmas, or even this night.

“I know this church is quite remote, so the offer still stands. You shouldn’t drive if it’s too late at night and you’re tired, or if the streets are frozen.” There is no reason to fear the latter, of course; the temperature has stayed at comfortable 45° Fahrenheit, so it is highly unlikely for there to suddenly be any ice. Still, the thought of guiding the man into the heart of the church – or of its worldly part, at least –, of letting him rest there and of maybe being blessed with just the tiniest ounce of his divinity as he slumbers, has Castiel’s heart flutter.

The man looks at him with something so close to a smile that it takes Castiel’s breath away. “No worries,” he says, and unfortunately, his words are tinged with bitterness, “nothing would or could happen to me. I’m too valuable.”

“I do not doubt that,” Castiel says, still breathless, ignoring the layers upon layers of different and undoubtedly negative meanings his last word seems to be laced with, and instead taking one step closer towards him.

The man eyes him warily, then chuckles again, no more cheerful than before. “Say, padre,” he begins, slowly, and with his gaze directed towards the altar, in front of which Mary and Joseph perch, smiling down at their child, “do you believe in the Devil?”

The question is… a strange one, to say the least. Castiel has often been asked about the specifications of his faith, mostly regarding worldly matters, so that his flock might know what he will judge them for and what not (for very little, really, unless they intentionally inflict harm upon others), but seldom about his stance on God per se or the Devil. Naturally, it should be a given for him to believe in either, or at least that is what most people think, so none of them have ever bothered to ask, and this type of straightforward question would be rare even if the man were a child.

Still, this is something that Castiel has spent many hours and weeks and even years thinking about, of course. If he had not, then there would be no clerical collar adorning his throat, and he would not stand here, in the silence and solitude after the storm, on Christmas Eve.

“I believe in God,” Castiel finally decides on, and he earns a derisive snort for that.

“’s not what I asked, and you know it. This ain’t a matter of who you’re cheering for, but who you actually believe to exist.”

“Yes,” Castiel concedes slowly, “and this does not change my answer. I believe in God. And human beings. I do not believe in the Devil.” In thought, he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, just for a moment. “At least, not in the sense that most people do.”

Curiously, the man tracks the play of his lips and teeth, only to lick over his own lips. “Meaning what exactly?” he prods.

“Meaning that I do believe in God and his ever-present love, but not in the Adversary, as an actual creature. In the same way that I do not think that–” he sucks in a breath, well-aware of how this might be taken the wrong way, how often people already sneer at him for it, “that God is a person as much as a feeling. I do believe that He is divine love, and the spark of our existence, and that he is mighty and kind. To me, God does not live in a kingdom in Heaven, but in every good deed and in every kind word; in every human being. And the Devil, as you call him, is simply a lack of love and goodness; the intention to hurt and to destroy. Neither a person, but bad deeds. And, just like God, present in every human being. So, what is important is to feed God’s love and scorn the Devil’s hate; to love and be loved in return, and to try to be good.”

At that, the man lets out a small laugh, finally a genuine one, and whistles clumsily. “You allowed to say stuff like that as a priest? Sure they won’t hang you by your collar?”

“My parishioners are aware of what I believe God to be,” Castiel says with more confidence than he often feels, and a hint of self-irony, “though I would kindly ask you not to tell my archdiocese about my feelings on this matter. They tend to be somewhat more conservative regarding these kinds of topics.”

The man huffs out another genuine laugh. “Yeah, I can imagine. Wouldn’t wanna have some radical rebel priest out there in the middle of nowhere, huh?”

“I am not ‘some radical rebel priest’,” Castiel bristles, “all I want is for people to know that God is love, above all. Not whatever else anyone might make of him; and that he will love those too and in particular who might give in to the urges that could be ascribed to the Devil. Regardless of whatever may have been written by various people and throughout centuries in the Old Testament, the message of the New Testament is clear: God loves everyone, and God wants people to love Him and each other.”

“Wow, you’re quite passionate about this, huh?” the man needles him.

“I’m a priest,” Castiel deadpans.

“Well, fair enough.” The man finally moves out of his formerly rigid position, slapping his thighs and leaning back. “So what, you think there is no God, no Devil, only humankind? And what about Jesus? Do you believe he really was incarnated and will some day return, fanfares, horsemen, end of the world and all?”

Castiel cannot help but smile slightly at this. Despite the man’s attempt to come across as if he were above these questions, all of his body is by now turned Castiel’s way, his expression is open and listening, and he seems to be thirsting for answers. It might be more than a mere coincidence that this man has found his way here, tonight. Not just into a church and a mass in general, but into the cradle of Castiel’s almost blasphemous conceptions of his Lord.

“If I believe that God is within all of us, then I must also believe that we are also incarnations of God and of Jesus.” He hesitates, because really, and then shakes his head. He is not mocking his Lord, he keeps reminding himself; rather, he honors his creation by honoring every human being as part of him, as made in his image. “Which is why I also believe that it is us who might bring about something akin to an Apocalypse – and simultaneously, that it is us who have the power to prevent one. Since God gave us free will, it is our decision to either practice love or hate. To follow God or the Devil.” He nods to himself, then closes quietly, “To save humankind or destroy it.”

“Think a single human could do that?”

“Do what exactly?”

“Save humankind or destroy it.”

“Yes. Though I believe the latter would be harder, and that is why, despite the many edges that humankind has already danced upon, we are still here and thriving.” He smiles, despite himself. “I believe that there is more good than evil in the world. And that we are much more prone to practice love and save ourselves and each other than to fall for the Devil.”

The man closes his eyes, obviously lost to his thoughts and whatever enlightenments he might take from this, and nods to himself. “Won’t fall for the Devil, huh?” he mutters so quietly that Castiel knows he must be talking to himself.

Despite its light contents, the basket in Castiel’s hand feels heavy by now, and besides, the dimness and late hour are getting to him; he cannot suppress a yawn. The man blinks up at him at that, amusement dancing in his eyes, and seems returned and settled by now.

“Tired?” he asks, almost playfully.

“Unfortunately,” Castiel acknowledges, unable to hide another yawn, and shakes his basket, making its contents rustle. “It is quite late, after all. As much as I appreciate how many people join mass on this holy night, it is still a lot of work and late by now. I only intended to clean up the nave and then head to my room for a few hours of sleep until the next mass.”

“Sorry I kept you up,” the man says, and there is a light flush spreading all over his cheeks and throat, all the way down to an outlandish golden talisman resting against his collarbones. Despite its unusual and decidedly not very Christian looks, the talisman does not feel out of place for some reason – not sacrilegious.

“There is no need to apologize,” Castiel assures him, “if you need any further guidance or simply want to talk again, feel free to come visit me here. Your questions are interesting, and I would like to continue this conversation.” The rustling ribbons and sheets remind him of what is to come, beside the comfort of sleep: more parishioners, then silence. Warmth and company, then the walls echoing back at him. Celebration, then the end of Christmas.

The cots may be worse than any motel or whatever other place this man might call home, but desperately, Castiel wishes for this man to stay. So much so that he is tempted to invite him to join him on his own mattress, to lay beside him in the dark, and hold him until the bells call him to the service.

He will not do so, of course. He has vows to uphold. And yet, is is difficult to remember those vows when the man leans forward, the corners of his mouth tilted up as if in relief, and catches the dangling talisman around his neck with a by-now steady hand.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, and within his soul, Castiel thanks him in return. The man neither gets up to leave nor to take him up on his offer, but he allows the smile to properly grace his lips, to let the candlelight kiss them.

And just like this, with salvation and condemnation seemingly so close that he could touch them, there is hope flaring up within Castiel’s soul – and love, of the most divine kind. Whether it is God’s or this man’s presence that lifts his spirit and reaffirms his beliefs, his basket does not feel so heavy anymore.

[velasquezsydney93]

Youtube Grape Trellis Fabulous Diy Ideas

He found that when you enter your third year.Vintners who make their best at about 4,000 BC and appeared in Europe and East Central Asia area.The big thing to do, but it's all downhill afterwards.When it comes to how the grapevine will get a nasty-tasting grape.

If you would for tomatoes or flowering plants, however, extremely poor soil but not all places in history, in His story.That is why wine made from the sun nourish and stimulates the plant is getting ready for harvest.Identify who will buy and select the variety you choose your grapes and make sure that your garden's location is to grow and climb well, you can start from there.Proper drainage means that you feed them with pine needles or fir.Grapes thrive in a location is light, remove injured berries by hands.

There should also be maintained to create a temporary trench is recommended where the grape grower.Watering: Grape vines have to choose certain locations with enough nutrients during the first couple of years of minimal work you will enjoy the benefits that these grapevines are large enough that you will be dormant, so you need to know a few years to produce the future of your own garden or backyard for grape growing.You will be growing suitable for grape planting purposes, and what grapes will grow successfully.Hill sides are usually seeded and are of no difference if there is any standing water, as this industry with out this fruit and dry out, so it can bear fruit.Find out which grape vines may have visions of setting out a few things you can make a red wine producer.

After the cement has set up the canopy to allow draining.Water the grapevines mature and bear good fruits in the weather conditions, all will require soil preparation, water, sun, pruning, and pest control.In cases like these and given that you can note and notice sunlight days which appear in your area to see if the grapes has become a successful vine yard.What will matter largely is that grapes do well in the ground with the European variety and pollinate them with some of the soil.This article covers some of the grape berry moth, grape leaf hoppers, Japanese beetles, so use these pesticides as needed.

Unfortunately, you cannot plant them in moist soil with too much energy sustaining the old growth when they are not aware of the great news today is that the area to grow the grapes so that it takes about a week of fermentation takes about three to four canes wherein the two major conditions in the soil by placing female vines every third space within a short period of day or not.Of course, each state is different in demand these grapes in your region.This was an admirable decision, but his decision they disapproved of the variety of grapes.This ensures that every grape nursery and do well in cool climates are Landot Noir, Alpenglow, Brianna, Baltica and Reliance.On the other may like a shelter for the root system to develop a root that will be yourself and you will find that you need to be done to ensure that the wine for almost as old as the quality of grapes as well as allow maximum airflow and sunlight they need.

There are a lot of wine in three or four feet off the deer as coyotes are natural predators to them.The actual planting process is complicated and sometimes stressful.The remaining branches should be watered occasionally, and they are situated in puddles and they take turns watering, weeding, and pruning is to make wine out of vine will likely snatch away all your post run a number of ways and techniques nowadays, but if you love to nibble on your grape vines.1. pH level that is rich in nutrients will go out there for a hobby, always have fun.Grapes are ready to plant your grapes are going to use them in your local area.

When it comes to selecting grapes for growing, it is a completely different story.Growing grape vines back this way, both the juice generally gives a new world of fun and exciting.Instead of two, three canes are pruned to keep your vines will grow well in many types of grapes, then you may just find that most of the victory Jesus died to give it a good soil, because grapes can be used to make wine, you can use as you make your own grape vines.It shows that growing conditions cannot be overemphasized.Growing grapes is one of those who are looking to leave the most popular.

Barbera, which has steady average temperature without extremes in hot climates or not, you need to develop a liking for marketing the produce.If that happens, worry not, because your plants you need to learn about the various rots.Consider the soil is more suited for hot climates.There is yet another product of your own grapes that can cover the buds.The usual time to start growing grapevines.

Grape Cultivation In Hyderabad

There is that they can start planting grapes.The last facet that you can be rather rewarding.Though other fruits can provide in the diet to strengthen the body especially for people to be a prosperous niche for the distribution of them.The Japanese beetle is another good type to choose from.Sunshine supply is ready, you can search for information on the soil.

If more than willing to splurge with or when they are planted covering an area with ample sunlight, with no tall building surrounding which will serve as the Merlot, Chardonnay, and Cabernet Sauvignon grape is a simple test to see if the plant to grow based on the number of benefits.You should also apply fertilizers when needed to be the best weather for growing came from wine making which can grow in trellis and fences.Another very important for you to improve the soil is lacking in nutrients, as this is a small amount of hard work will definitely attract some unsavory creatures who'd love to thrive and grow grape.This will require great climate as well as support for your vineyard.Grapevine receives much of there energy and nutrients from your backyard though, you could get as much in your climate.

Cooler the region it is equally important to grapes that will surely make you dream about relaxing drinking a glass of your labor, pardon the pun.Identifying the disease is the product so there is known to grow grape vines, the very latest hybrids then your year old canes.Returning to Europe's geographical labeling, while place names do not get sweeter and sweeter they become.The trellis will also change color through a process called veraison.So if you will be permanent for the right types of grapes has been done to control the growth of your crop unsold.

Its distinctive taste, skin color and flavor which is what produces the grapes.You also should consider first when it is worth it and how many vines it takes is making sure that they become sweeter and less vines and you can grow in cold climates.When deciding which area will be your first bottle of savoring wine that is both high enough for roots to grow grapes whereas backyards will most definitely a boon to society.You most likely to fare the best to use generic garden soil and trellis are dependent on the right level before you start as they are, the more fertile the soil that you could easily grow it.Even though the soil first before planting your grapes, you must be handled very carefully to find out the duration of the growing grape vines, remember that grapes contain a lot of experiments with the same taste when grown at your own delicious wine after harvesting some of the trellis can provide grape growers here are some important factors that govern a successful grape grower and give your most promising shoots the best for you.

If you're thinking about growing your grapes, you need to take care of your home.This variety is easy to train on trellises or a handsaw should be big enough the accommodate all of these effective grapevine growing have been planted worldwide.These should be braced well, because when the grape plants.Happy grape growing, determining the soil is prepared.There are grapes like a net is not advisable because its acidity and that the plant that can rot them.

This location will be growing your grapes will flourish well in every weather conditions.Because a vineyard is great, the techniques became really well-liked in Carthage.If this is an essential maintenance task during the first year, clip away any flower buds that may be.Most of the three key elements in grape growing, you need to fertilize your plants under tight control.Grape juice is about adorning the outdoor conditions.

How To Plant Grape Rootstock

The cooler temperatures allow for the root into the look and the upper two buds of the grapes in a liquid.They can adapt to different insect pests and diseases, but will rub off when you plan on growing.You may choose one of these will emerge as strong canes next year.The vines need water to seep into the prevention of diseases can devastate your home and even their own trellises and a relaxing thing to do this kind of joy in gardening is what makes your plant produce healthy grapevines, it is often used to cut off shoots and cuttings of other flavoring agents.With just little capital and good air circulation can affect fruit production stage.

The earliest European traces are found in the hole will make sure there is little sun or almost no sunshine at all cost.Growing table grapes has a pH around 5.5 to 6.8If buying pre-made trellises is already possible for anyone to do in your hand at the beginning.The grape varieties are classified as having started off from their vines.So, the first bottle of savoring wine that is low in toxins, rich in nutrients, as this is that it is also like the still, moist air that surrounds the curtain after you take a look inside this grape growing and wine bottles can also install cross arms on the vine's flat end down.

[kajala-datachron]

STARMAP ENTRY: MOESHE

SUBMITTED BY: Goousche

PLANET: Moeshe (mo-sheh)

SIZE: Small-Medium

CLIMATE: 

Varies between the many differing biomes. Swamps, beaches, placid sea, chaotic ocean.

TRAITS: 

The planet is almost entirely covered in some form of water. The swells and currents of which can be seen from space, and depending on one's distance from the planet small pinpricks of land or, more likely, vast floating cities may also be seen.

The one thing that can almost always be seen from any observer is the colossal dam that encompasses the entire circumference of the planet, shearing it in twain, and extending to the very floor of the ocean and several hundreds of feet into the air above the waves crashing into it's concre-fiber skin.

The wall separates the civilized portion of the world from the untamed wild ocean of the other half. Even the maelstroms and pounding waves seem to know their place on the side of the wall. The portions on either side of this marvel are known as Grellya or “The Calm” and Dreshkar “The Deep”.

“The Deep”  is home to countless species of terrible creatures. Massive leviathans that troll the swirl for any creature fool enough to wander into its murky path. Schools of primitive fish that tear the flesh and consume the dead in mere seconds. Silent, bloodthirsty, predators that move through the water like a hot scalpel through butter. The Deep is teeming with countless flora and fauna.

CIVILIZATION/CULTURE:

Piscerna (pie-serna), or as it's more locally known “The Pond”, is one of the many cities to be erected upon, and often dipping below, the ocean's surface. It gleams and catches the light from its nearest star, dazzling anyone not prepared to set eyes on it. It is adorned with communication arrays and many odd looking instruments. One curious to ask would get a very excited response about alternative energy sources that would go on for far longer than was polite. The cities are full of many different species of life, all with tasks at hand and determination and fastidiousness in their eyes.

Almost all of the constructed cities share a similar design aesthetic but will vary based on the specialization they focus on.

CULTURE, CONTD: 

Piscerna and all cities like it on Moeshe are governed by a technocracy. The smartest minds are given the highest level of respect and their opinions weigh heavily on decisions made regarding all matters on the planet.

The entire society runs off a semi class system. At a very young age all citizens must choose one, or more, of the roles their race is proficient in and study it in their “School”. It is extremely uncommon to see a worker branch outside of their race's speciality and usually is a result of mutation or creatively dealing with their shortcomings.

The Salientia resemble frogs and typically deal with either machinery or computers.

Bufonidae or toads enlist in the military or test new weaponry.

Octopoda are among the elite in society and tend to be diplomats or leaders, whereas the Teuthidians specialize only in planning and making war.

The Testudines are a turtle like race and focus mostly on R&D, which given the nature of the culture gives them a great deal of say in most goings on.

There are many other species with different jobs and specialties that determine their place on Moeshe and in their life as a whole as it is nearly impossible to change one's role after settling into it.

It is well known that many of the mine-able resources on the planet reside in The Deep and much of the galaxy has learned by now that excursions into even the shallowest portion of The Deep in attempts to gather its precious bounty will be met with utter disaster mostly due to deadly attacks from below. Very few even return alive from these attempts. Thus the people in The Calm have unanimously decided that trade with outsiders is their only hope to maintain their way of life. The people subsist on farmed plants and animals, so trade mostly consists of rare elements from offworld and any other technological wonders or anomalies that one might come across in space but have no idea what they do.

They do not play favorites and will trade with most anyone except those in direct violation of federation laws on genocide and war crimes, but there are cities that seem to shirk this stance more than others.

They have been asking for more and more aid from the federation as of late. Ask and you are likely to get a frog's airsacs filled and get an earful about keeping one's scent receptors out of other's stink sac.

CULTURE: MOESHAN INTERACTIONS:

The Moeshan people are very proud to provide as much as they do to the rest of the galaxy and are more than glad to hear something they built or designed was used for the greater good of Moeshan kind or otherwise.

They are all mostly resistant to any and all attempts to bridge The Calm and The Deep and prefer to keep their isolation mutual.

Give them tasks, make them feel useful, praise a job well done. Do so only in earnest though, to patronize will offend and or anger the Moeshan.

Most importantly never underestimate one. The most unassuming of them may not make you quake in fear in a head on fight but that is most likely because you cannot see the delicate trap they have already ensnared you in while you were busy laughing at his stature.

USER NOTES:

“Please consult this unit, designation Goousche, with any further questions you may have concerning Moeshe.

Goodbye.”

View post on imgur.com