#metaphysical reflection

[turiyatitta]

Which You is God Within?

Those who speak of God as not being outside of you often mean well—but which “you” are they pointing to? The body? The persona? The memory of identity that walks through time? Or something deeper? There’s a difference between saying God is not outside of you and realizing why that’s so. If God is all, then every appearance—internal, external, formless, formed—is God. This includes the illusion…

[starseedsrise]

[elucubrare]

ohhhhh i'm so sorry we're just being mean today but

"man this is the religion where the god of strategy was born by being cut out of zeus's forehead with an axe because he had a headache and they couldn't figure out any other way to fix it i think we're beyond logical explanations"

the goddess of war and craftmanship emerged fully formed from the mind of the god of rulership and wise counsel, freed by the hand of the god of the forge and invention. his head hurt because he is giving birth. this is a "the curtains are blue" level read.

[fortunaestalta]

[randomszzz]

"love has always been the world's best secret ingredient" -> "I'd rather just get rid of them" Joshua kiryu

"there's only one way to stay alive in this shibuya: Trust your partner" -> "in a way, he's been alone all his life" Joshua Kiryu

[journey-to-balance]

Nine Ways to Growth & Peace of Mind

Organic Stream of Consciousness Thoughts - Spiritual Alchemy

1. Do Not Interfere In Others’ Business Unless Asked

Most of us create our own problems by interfering too often in others’ affairs. We do so because somehow we have convinced ourselves that our way is the best way, our logic is the perfect logic and those who do not conform to our thinking must be criticized and steered to the right direction, our direction. This thinking denies the existence of individuality and consequently the existence of God within us. Each one of us is unique. No two human beings can think or act in exactly the same way. All men or women act the way they do because their contracts prompt them that way. Why are you bothered? Mind your own business and you will keep your peace.

2. Forgive And Release

This is the most powerful aid to peace of mind. We often develop ill feelings inside our heart for the person who insults us or harms us. Nurtured grievances result in loss of sleep and eventually the development of stomach ulcers and high blood pressure. The insult or injury was done once, but nourishing of grievance goes on forever by constantly remembering it. Get over this bad habit. Believe the doctrine of Karma. Release the injury and remember the lesson. Life is too short to waste your energy on remembering insults and injuries. Forgive, release, remember the lesson and move on. Love flourishes in giving and forgiving. 3. Do Not Crave Recognition

The world is full of selfish people who seldom praise anybody without selfish motives. They may praise you today because you are in power, but no sooner than you are powerless, they will forget your achievement and will find faults in you. Why do you wish to give away your power in striving for their recognition? Their recognition is not worth your depletion of valuable energy. Also, do not seek a guru. Giving away your power by following a teacher without questioning depletes your energy and dulls the fine discerning abilities that are innate within you. Question your teachers and take away the teachings. 4. Do Not Be Jealous

We all have experienced how jealousy can disturb our peace of mind. There are many examples of jealousy in everyday life. Should you be jealous? No. Remember everybody’s life is shaped by his or her previous Karma, which has now become his destiny. If you are destined to be rich, nothing in the world can stop you. If you are not so destined, no one can help you either. Nothing will be gained by blaming others for your misfortune. If you are jealous because your loved one has directed their attention away from you for a moment, why does that cause you pain? Jealousy will not get you anywhere. It will only take away your peace of mind. 5. Change Yourself According To The Environment

If you try to change the environment single-handedly, the chances are you will fail. Instead, change yourself to suit your environment. As you do this, even the environment, which has been unfriendly to you, will mysteriously change and seem congenial and harmonious. This is the best way to turn a disadvantage into an advantage. Every day we face numerous inconveniences, ailments, irritations, and accidents that are beyond our control. If we cannot control them or change them, we must learn to transform our energy fields and our minds by running the energies through our bodies. You will gain in terms of patience, inner strength and will power and witness transformation all around you. 6. Do Not Bite Off More Than You Can Chew

This maxim needs to be remembered constantly. We sometimes take on more responsibilities than we are capable of managing. Are you doing this to satisfy your ego or make someone else happy? Know your limitations. Why take on additional loads that may create more worries? You cannot gain peace of mind by expanding your external activities. Reduce your material engagements and spend time in prayer, introspection and meditation. This will reduce the thoughts in your mind that make you restless. An uncluttered mind will produce greater peace of mind. 7. Meditate Regularly

Meditation calms the mind and gets rid of disturbing thoughts. This is the highest state of peace of mind. Try and experience it yourself. If you meditate earnestly for half an hour everyday, your mind will tend to become peaceful during the remaining twenty-three and half-hours. Try meditation upon waking and then again in the evening as you take thirty minutes for yourself to observe the earth moving into the restfulness of night. As you practice meditation, your mind will not be as easily disturbed as it was before. You would benefit by gradually increasing the period of daily mediation. You may think that this will interfere with your daily work. On the contrary, this will increase your efficiency and you will be able to produce better results in less time. 8. Never Leave The Mind Vacant

An empty mind is the devil’s workshop. All evil actions start in the vacant mind created from living in the negative influences of idle chatter, watching television and participating in gossip. Keep your mind occupied in something positive and worthwhile. Actively follow a hobby. Do something that holds your interest. You must decide what you value more: money or peace of mind. Your hobby, like social work or temple work, may not always earn you more money, but you will have a sense of fulfillment and achievement. Even when you are resting physically, occupy yourself in healthy reading or mental chanting. 9. Do Not Procrastinate And Never Regret

Do not waste time in protracted wondering “ Should I or shouldn’t I?” Days, weeks, months, and years may be wasted in that futile mental debating. You can never plan enough because you can never anticipate all future happenings. Value your time and do the things that need to be done. It does not matter if you fail the first time. You can learn from your mistakes and succeed the next time. Sitting back and worrying will lead to nothing. Learn from your mistakes, but do not brood over the past. DO NOT REGRET. Whatever happened was destined to happen only that way.

[natureselements]

"Whispers on the wind carry forgotten love songs, reminding me that even ghosts hold onto melodies of the heart." anarosapano 🌿

✨shop here✨

[crunchybees]

some astrology notes

a planet is both a facet of your personality and an object in your environment

the 6th house indicates how we self regulate. especially in the moon persona chart, its how we self regulate our emotions (i.e. keep our emotions from over taking us). in my moon persona chart, my 6th house is ruled by aries, with mars in my 6th house as well, and when i feel low or bothered by something, i can always count on a good workout to help me feel better.

[non-conventionnel]

Anton Sammut's Fb Page

[bored-philosopher-corner]

Phd Journal - 25 10 2024

I recently read about the concept of digital immortality, in a social science, probably more specifically communication, thesis. It is a fascinating concept, both because it is highly interesting and deeply of our time, and also, at the same time and in the same expansive manner, deeply troubling for a plethora of reasons.

Digital immortality, storing our minds, our memories, the aspects of our personalities in a digital format to, so to speak, live on after our deaths, the deaths of our physical self, brings up questions about identity, consciousness and what it means to be humans. As a student of philosophy, the ethical implications are massive. Who controls these digital selves? How do we protect the privacy and the dignity of these entities, if and when they might exist, if it even is the correct terminology. What happens to our relationships with the dead and the living? All those questions are unsettling. I've thus found myself thinking that it was deeply related with transhumanism and transhumanists' want to enhance human beings, to...somehow, defy death itself. Transhumanists strive to transcend human limitations, by aiming to preserve consciousness and personality digitally, they envision a future where mortality is less definitive and rather is more of a state to be navigated and perhaps even overcome. However, does the/a digital version of ourselves truly represent our identity?

The metaphor or "defying" death captures another problem altogether : it's not just about exetnding life, but rather more about transforming our very nature.

Indeed, if human-beings were one day, in the future, digitally immortal, it would change not only the human-nature ; if there is such a thing as human nature, thinkers have been discussing this idea for thousands of years and there are still not one but many definitions of the concept of human nature ; but it would also potentially change the nature of Artificial Inetlligence. Which would be an entirely new concern. If, human-beings achieve true digital immortality, it could redefine what is means to be human and AI. The blending of human consciousness with AI could lead to a new kind of entity, neither fully human nor fully AI. Which poses new ethical and metaphysical challenges. As a student of ethics, I consider that human-beings cannot serve as tools, which would be deeply unethical, human-beings cannot be means to others' ends, which is very kantien, but I like his deontology. While AIs are by their very nature tools and can be used to further one's ends. Kant's categorical imperative champions the inherent dignity and worth of human-beings, emphasising that they should never be treated merely as means to an end. AIs, on the other hand, are specifically designed to serve as tools to facilitate human activities, according to some definition. This disctinction is fundamental between beings with intrisnict value and those created for a specific utility. All of which, when considering digital immortality, is a fine line to thread. Whith digital immortality, human-beings who become thus immortal would then be...what? They were, when living, moral agents, according to Kant's terms ; which I would like to use in my research ; and then, in their "false death", since they become immortal digitally, they would be AI-like or AI-powered, and thus somewhat tool-like? I see here that if a digitally immortal human-being, once a moral agent, becomes more AI-like, they moght straddle a complex line between their previous agency and being a tool, which, if they still have their consciousness while digitally immortal might pose a problem, but then, we are facing the immense problem of defining consciousness. On one hand, theyr would retain a form of their identity and consciousness (with all of its problems), but on the other hand, they would lack the autonomy of a living human and potentially become a means to others' ends. This hybrid existence therefore challenges the traditional ethical frameworks we are accustomed to. Do these human beings who become immortal digitally still possess the inherent dignity Kant assigns to humans, or do they transition into a different category of existence altogether?

This concept of digital immortality redefines our understanding of moral agency and ethical responsibility in the age of advanced technology. Though, assuming digital immortality is a real thing, we are not even sure that we will maintain our consciousness. And even then, which one? The one we had at the moment of our death, a compilation of our memoried (which might differ entirely from consciousness altogether accoridng to some definition, and I would agree that memories are not the same as consciousness) ? What kind of consciousness could a person, who, say, once knew the feeling of ice-cold air on their skin, the way a feather could fall, how their cat liked to be pet, the way their grandma cut fruits, how to braid their own hair, etc. how could such a full person still be considered conscious during their…non-life in the digital realm so to speak ? Indeed... The richness of human experience—those sensory details, emotional moments, tactile memories—are almost impossible to digitize fully. Digital immortality might capture data, memories, or patterns, but it might fall short of preserving the authentic consciousness or the depth of human life. Consciousness isn't just a compilation of memories but the ongoing, dynamic experience of being alive, which involves emotions, perceptions, and interactions with the world in real-time. Those nuances—like the specific feel of ice-cold air or the unique way your grandma cut fruits—are tied to the physical and temporal presence, things a digital format might not replicate. This line of thought highlights the potential disconnect between the data-driven immortality and the living, breathing essence of a person.

Then, would it mean that the idea of digital immortality stems froms the idea that everything can be put into mathematical data, thus abandonning the incredibly important quality of the full experience of life we get from living it? The concept of digital immortality does seem to arise from the belief that all aspects of reality can be reduced to data. Phenomenology, however, argues that the essence of the human experience is richer than any data set. Digital immortality thus misses the depth and richness of actual lived experience, and who would want that for themselves or for anyone? If the irreplaceable and fundamental aspects of being human are our free will ; the ability to make choices and understand the implications of those choices is a cornerstone of our humanity, it allows us to forge our own paths and embrace our individuality ; our feelings of both the physical world and the emotional world ; of paramount importance because our physical and emotional experiences shape our lives in ways that are deeply personal and often indescribable, joy, sorrow, love, pain, the sense of smell, of hearing, etc.—all these emotions, feelings and senses create a rich tapestry of human experience ; and, to name only three, the fact that we constantly create ; the act of creating—whether through stories, music, art, or any other form of expression—embodies our need to understand and share our experiences, it connects us to one another and to our shared history ; then digital immortality means nothing to us, because it does not capture and does not permit free will, feelings and/or creation. Digital immortality reduces these rich, multifaceted aspects of humanity to mere data, stripping away the very essence of what makes us truly human. Without free will, we can't make authentic choices. Without our feelings and senses, we lose the depth and richness of our experiences. Without the ability to create, we forfeit a core part of our identity. In this sense, digital immortality transforms us from beings into tools, mere shadows of our former selves. We lose the dynamic, ongoing experience of life that defines human existence. So, while the idea of digital immortality may hold allure, it ultimately fails to capture the true essence of being human, reducing us to something far less.

I mean to say that digital immortality, by missing these core human qualities, ultimately renders us non-existent in the true sense of what it means to be human.

[francesca-parita]

Suspended Trees - Metaphysical Lake

"In a suspended space where everything feels distant, the trees rise isolated in the calm waters, enveloped by a surreal and metaphysical atmosphere."

[turiyatitta]

Beyond the Veil of Illusions

The Great Unknowing What if existence is not what it seems? What if perceiving solidifies an illusion so seamlessly that even doubt itself is part of the design? A void stands before you—not as absence, but as a fullness beyond measure, a nothingness so complete that it overflows into everything. An infinite well that never depletes, an empty and endlessly abundant abyss, a silence that hums…

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Shadow Day 8

Majora('s Mask)

*throws bouquet of roses* For the Time lovers.

Also my bias is probably coming through really strongly right now, but I'm not well rested enough to care plus I've been playing Majora's Mask a lot again this month, it's as important to me as Twilight Princess so this is kind of my love letter to it and Time and my excuse to explore the concept of Majora and the Fierce Deity and divinity in LoZ, though that's an essay for another day lol (/j)

As always can be read as romantic or platonic depending on your preferences, Reader is gender neutral and this is definitely self indulgent so it can be read in or outside of an LU context, most of the references to the LU names are for simplicity and to give a rough idea of why Reader has some stuff they do. Makes it easier to clarify lol, though as I've been hit by yet another storm the Linktober prompt will be for tomorrow, I'm basically picking a god and praying this actually posts X_X

TW(?):

Don't think there's any warnings besides MJM's typical body horror really, and very graphic descriptions and Majora in general.

Even after so, so long, so much so it feels like a lifetime ago, Termina still stuck with you and Time.

The thing about being in a timeloop that went on for who knows how long and whose failure to reset it would be total destruction to so many good different people, is that you quickly learn some habits to try and maximize as many successes as possible, how Time (Mask, then, after the living nightmare of Termina, during the War of Ages, still Link though) quickly learned the location of each enemy he could, how you learned to call out the best way to quickly assess and take down an enemy as quickly as possible, how you both learned to watch each other’s backs and to care for the people and Termina to the point Link went from just a warrior to a healer, granted the trust of holding the crystalization of the hopes and dreams of the people of Termina that, even if they couldn’t remember it, wanted the cycle to end, wanted to hunt the threat to reality itself and purge it from the world. To bite down onto it’s neck and feel the thrill and glee and cutting down such an opponent.

Most importantly, after bleeding, crying, sweating and toiling against the unrelenting flow of time and insanity all brought upon by a lonely child being left alone and manipulated to commit heinous acts as ‘pranks’. It taught you and Time the importance of contingency plans, and about always, always being prepared for any and all situations, unlikely as they could be. Of taking through note of even the smallest detail that caught your eyes at a glance.

‘To defeat an abomination, you need one of two things: A deity, or a monster.’, you think cynically to yourself, stepping over Time’s fallen form as Warriors bolted over with blizzard forged fury in his cold, calculated movements to defend him in your stead as you called Hyrule over, the young man quickly starting to heal your Hero as you glare down at the disgusting stain on reality engaging Twilight and Wild all at once, gleeful at having watched the person you adored the most fall, bringing out the ultimate contingency from your cloak, you hadn’t even told him about it, because you prayed you’d never need to resort to this, ‘… Forgive me, Link. The first option isn’t doable here.’

Time was your everything, you knew how his story ended, with so much grief until he finally met Twilight again. You tried, you really did, to not allow yourself to love him but it was impossible because he was Link, the man who longed for adventure ever since he was young, embodying the freedom of the forest of life and death that made up the whole of Faron Woods and the Lost Woods and as steady as it’s moors, voice quiet and calm like a stream in the woods and with and with a smile to rival the warm sun and so, so heartbreakingly kind. Who protected and saved and healed people while slowly healing his own soul and who attempted to soothe his descendant’s pain the second he could even from beyond the grave.

And you’d be darned if you allowed anything to take him from you or the boys before his time without a fight. You couldn’t care less if he would eventually die as he was destined to in every timeline, it didn’t matter if it was futile, because he mattered, you loved him, and you’d keep him safe and happy for as long as you could.

It didn’t matter if one day tragedy will catch up to him, it mattered that he was loved while alive.

Even if you had to step on fire to make sure of it.

“Twilight, Wild. Step away.”, the edges of the spikes of the purple and crimson mask that haunted your nightmares as much as it did Time’s, it leered at you with it’s arsenic and pus eyes, picking apart at your weaknesses as it’s spikes dug into your hand as you tightened your grip to keep if from shaking. Tone falsely confident as you called to the Hero of Twilight and Wild to retreat.

(‘To defeat an abomination, you need a deity or a monster.’

The definition is awfully interchangeable, if you look at it.

You had found it, abandoned and in a dungeon Wind’s Era, not quite awake, but not asleep either. The eldritch hunger almost chocking you with it’s voracity, the darkness assessing, stalking, prowling and starving, it prodded at you but didn’t dig yet. It knew how to play the long game in it’s quest to stop feeling empty.

Funny thing is, so did you. You were a lot harder to break than the Skull Kid, would not break.

Majora wanted to cease, like how it had ceased before the Terminan Tribe ripped it from it’s slumber, taught it hunger, taught it cruelty, taught it how to manipulate and take amusement in consuming the wishes of mortals and their very souls only to never be satisfied. Had fueled it with wrath from being ripped from a lovely, endless dream of beautiful songs and a kind soul. To be torn from it’s fantasy and then left to rot.

You offered to grant it a proper rest. And so a deal was struck. Your one contingency if the situation was truly dire, in case you couldn’t get the Fierce Deity Mask instead -because you knew how Link was, he’d burn himself out until there was naught but ash. You refused to let it ever come to that, after his excruciating screams of pain had clawed an aching, hurtful place into your very soul-, and Majora was starving and desperate, a dangerous combination for any being but something you could use.

So be it, if to protect divinity you needed to become a monstrosity, a monster was what you’d be.

You’d keep him safe. And you knew that if the Fierce Deity put him down once, he could do it again in case you slipped. Between him and Sky you weren’t afraid at all of the risk.

Even if Time never forgave you for taking it.)

You smile bitterly, tearing up in spite of yourself as you see the second Time spots you and the cursed artifact in hand, eye wide, voice ripping from his throat in desperation, “I’m quite selfish, I’m sorry.”

His haunted expression cuts you deeper than any knife, as you knew it was an image that featured in many of your nightmares and his own. But you’re insatiable for his happiness, so you take the plunge.

“NO NO NO NO DON’T-“

You put on the mask, and you scream.

It’s like stepping on fire, a twisted, desperate tune, a note of discord, a belt of harmony and fury and most importantly, the mighty need to consume the one who had tried to take the one you loved away from you.

Defy death, defy entropy, defy chaos, defy flame and voracity.

You cling to your self control with a snarl, howling in defiance. Sinking your nails into the abyss’ throat and biting, tearing, holding, tasting rot and withered flowers and the writhing of shadows and the blood of distorted gluttonousdivinity on your tongue with savagery equal to the way the demon sinks it's spikes onto you. Chew on it’s tender, rotting flesh, quaff down the lukewarm pus of it’s heart and the rust of blood as it bites off your skin, stripping your mind into chunks as it nests into your ribs like the spikes of wild, dead roses when it finds your mind tougher to break and you BURN YOU ARE LIFE YOU ARE CHAOS AND YOU ARE DROWNING AND YOU ARE FLAME-

You move, and Majora’s laugh sounds like a scream and a song as reality howls.

Your bones, sinew, muscles, nerves, veins and teeth are reformed, the being pounces, dancing, swerving, whipping, cleaving, ripping and feeding into the monsters with putrid, revolting gusto. Whenever it’s attention even tries to waver towards the Heroes you sink your hold in harder, stubborn, you’re sure there’s blood dripping from your mouth beneath the mask, your eyes, your ears, as it reaches a crescendo of glee and pain. A human body isn’t meant to hold so much divinity at once, much less as wretched and horrific as Majora’s, but you don’t care, can’t care, when you’re holding onto yourself like a vice, refusing to give it even a single inch.

It doesn’t kill Dark Link, the bastard (the one who’d hurt Time, the one who would have finished him off if not for you and Warriors). But the screech the Shadow releases as it gets ripped to shreds and the ripple of it’s retreating form is enough to make you partially agree with Majora’s vicious, amused glee that it was satisfying. Even if the feeling of you allowing it to utilize your skin temporarily felt revolting and disgusting in a way it made you wish you were actually on fire, not just in so much pain in a metaphysical level that it sure rivaled being set on fire, frost burned and lightning struck all in one go.

All is still now, all is silent.

Now comes the difficult part.

'Are you quite sure?', whispers Majora, crooning like nails on chalkboards, and it’s spikes sink into you tighter when you grip the sides of it, teeth gritted as you start prying it out of your face, amused by your defiance, but no longer as hungry. You did allow it quite the meal, you bet nothing like fellow divinity tastes better to the being, like the taste of a forbidden fruit you were going to be unfortunately acquainted given you’re sure Dark Link’s blood is on your teeth.

'Yes.' comes your faint response, as your sanity frays in fragile threads, you think someone calls your name, but you are drowning, you are burning, and you know that if you don’t focus it will break you. And you’d be fully dead before you let that happen. If you’re going to die you’re going to die as a human.

'Tou are so, so cold… So cruel.' It drawls, the demon’s voice like the gnawing of rats, like maggots under you skin, you convulse, falling to your knees with a wounded keen and pull harder, you barely noticed someone falling by your side, frantically calling your name, but the mask’s eyes dim to an outsider’s perspective, resigned as it hums dreamily, 'I suppose that’s why The Divine Hunter cares for you so, why it’s vessel’s claim is so strong.'

Good, you were banking on it being sleepy, after gorging yourself on the enemy of your boys, Hylia’s gash and Din’s assets your mouth is going to taste putrid for months isn’t it?

Majora hisses, growls, howls and screeches, a brush against your essence as it retreats. Unwinding from every single cell of your body, distorting your atoms back to their proper shape. It still hurts, buy it’s more bearable, although you quickly notice you’re chocking on a different form of Divinity, more possessive, more wild but just as old and ferocious as it snaps at the retreating heels of the twisted, chaotic thorns. Making reality remember your own shape quicker at the cost of filling every crack consumed by the demon.

You swear that thing is smiling smugly at something else, teeth bared and very entertained, taking the suffering of the people of Termina and the cold revulsion in your veins with it as it retreats with it's cacaphony of voices to the shade, 'A shame. Feasting more would be delightful, but very well. We trust that though you hurt today, tomorrow you’ll make sure we head on our way.'

You don’t have the mind or heart to say anything else to it, for it grows silent as the spikes rip from the sides of your face, you bite of a tortured yell as the spikes rip off chunks of skin and flesh, clawing at the ground with, thankfully, soothing, perfectly regular fingers and nails, albeit cracked, you feel someone take their hand in yours, and you crack open an eye, carefully aware of the blood dripping down your face from the half removal of the heart shaped mask and the thrum of thunder replacing the cold in your veins with boiling, protective warmth.

Time.

“You shouldn’t be up already.”, you rasp, looking over his wounded form, healed by Hyrule, you shakily take your left hand to keep prying at the Majora’s Mask, only for him to take it gently in yours, you taste blood, the petrichor of the Lost Woods mist and pine on the back of your mouth, chasing the rot of Majora away.

“It’s nothing, we both know I’ve had worse.” He says, firmly shaking his head. His scarred eye is open, ivory like bone, the markings more vibrant and prominent with the ferocity of a god, he looks tired, and you attempt to speak, to apologize, to voice your worry because you knew channeling the deity without a conduit was a bad idea, before coughing, shaking from the aftermath of your reckless, reckless plan.

(You unfortunately can’t say you regret it much, though, when you silently bear the combined brunt of Time and Fierce Deity’s care once you reach camp and the protective way they act towards you. Even though Majora is long gone much to your resigned exasperation, and the rest of your boys amusement, but that is for much, much later.)

Time gently hums, it rings through you like thunder as he holds you close, tapping your neck in a rhythm you could recognize in your sleep for when he was about to pull arrows, blades or shrapnel from your skin, or was ready to have it done to himself, you immediately loosen yourself as much as possible, gripping his hand tightly as he rips the rest of the Majora’s Mask off, inert and lifeless as when you’ve both woke up from a new day, he holds you close as you try to breathe, reassuring himself you’re still here, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Please.” He pleads, begs, prays. He can't lose you too.

And you can’t help it, you smile as you cry crimson and russet tones from your eyes, holding him back as close as you dare to. He doesn’t hate you, you’re sure you’re going to soon participate in the argument of a lifetime. But Link doesn’t hate you, doesn’t see you as a monster any more than you could ever see him as anything but the kind companion you always knew.

So you let yourself nod, helpless to say no to him for anything really. And allow yourself to breathe, you’re both going to be alright.

[schrondingers-dumbass]

Very late to the party again, but I think it is insane the comfort and many ways in which the World Beyond Numbers crew is comfortable with breaking the “rules” of actual play.

They have such an ability to forgo the instinct of playing nice and instead stick to nuanced and complex character choices that I would be terrified to take- ame checking out and escaping because she prioritized her duty over conforming to the citadel’s ways, Eursolon being ready to free spirits and fully go rogue to find his answers, Suvi’s decision to stick with orders at all costs- they are all so ready to go “fuck this, let’s make it interesting” and it leads to so much amazing and deep character work.

Dunno, I just think we should talk more about how insanely good they are as players and storytellers

[deancasforcutie]

real talk we all know Rusty Nail Dumb and puts Captain Kirk's bridge to shame but what is this fandomwide Skill Issue of even four years later not getting the point it was dumb and random and meaningless on purpose -as cosmic irony- because real death so often is but that need not defeat Dean (or us) from Carrying On as a metaphor for individuation/entering a new life stage/It's Part of Growing Up. I was paralyzed in horror watching that finale live in Hell Time and even I got that immediately