#...as you yourself are so desperately in need of unleashing what's inside... filling the -sorrow gaps- / & you're trying to...

[aoitakumi8148]

[Left behind] 𝟚 of 𝟚.

𝓝𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝔂, 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓷... 𝓝𝓸 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝔂𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮. 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓮𝓫𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓚𝓻𝓪𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾... 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓕𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮

[legguk]

Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//the fugitive. kuroo tetsurou//

Request:  Not really?? But spawned from @janellion​ and I obsessing over royal kuroo like three weeks ago, so uhhh requested by me?? Peep the new TRT series ig ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.7K

Notes: i have come to the awful realization that i have ruined any and all of my dating expectations by writing so much fanfiction.

Everything about his current situation was far from ideal.  The heavy downpour as the sky let loose all of its unshed tears flattened his hair against his forehead, his jacket with all of the intricate embroidery jacket and the silver crown that had adorned his raven hair had long since been cast away to better disguise the fleeing prince.  It had been long expected, but a storm had unleashed itself upon the castle, bringing the day of impending doom upon them sooner rather than later.  The people of the kingdom have finally had enough of the tyranny, of the constant feuds, the never ending debts and taxes and now, filled with rage, they had made their way to the castle, hungry for blood and refusing to yield until the king’s head was on a stake.  

His feet sloshed through the puddles, soaking his socks as the rain continued to pour down all around him.  The young prince only stopped long enough to catch his breath under the shelter of a tree before he was once again running through the night in the darkness of the woods.  The last few moments he had with his family kept echoing in his head, eyes pricking with tears to match those of the clouds above him.

“My son, leave before they kill you too.  Get out of the kingdom, please.”

“But, father-”

“Tetsurou, please.  This is my final request.  Head south until you reach Effingfil River.  Once you get to the otherside, you’ll be safe.  Quick!  Make haste and don’t ever look back.”

Who was he to deny his father’s final wish before his end?  He had set out into the night, a dark cloak adorning his figure to shield his identity.  Although he knew better, Kuroo carried his silver circlet in his hands, a final memento of his royal life.  If worse came to worst, it would fetch a good price at the market, enough to make ends meet until he could find some sort of safe haven in the neighboring kingdom.  

But, the cloak, the crown, and every other royal thing about him had been tossed into a stream that had carried the articles away.  There was no time to be sentimental when you were running for your life.  Even so, now he secretly wished he had kept the woolen cloak.  The icy rain had soaked through his clothes, chilling him to the bone as a steady wind picked up, pelting the droplets harder against him.  His entire body shook in a mixture of cold and fear.  Never in his life did he expect to wander through the woods all alone; hungry, freezing, tears mixing with the rain as the water ran down his cheeks.  

Kuroo had no idea how close he was to the border.  Honestly, he wasn’t even sure that he was going the right way anymore.  He couldn’t see the stars through the thick branches above him and in the off chance that there was a break, the dark storm clouds hid his only compass from view.  He did know one thing, though.

He knew the flicker of candlelight in a window in the dead of night.  People.  Someone.  A broken sob of relief fell from his lips as he picked up his pace all over again.  If they turned him in, so be it.  He just wanted to be away from this nightmare, even if only for a moment.  

Your life has always been relatively quiet.  A small cabin on the edge of the woods didn’t boast many visitors, so the sudden pounding on your door that pulled you from your embroidery had made your entire body jolt in shock.  Setting your needle and thread to the side, you took up your candle, only for the steady knock on your door to come again.  “I’m coming.  Hold on!”

You had been expecting a lot of things, really.  Royal tax collectors coming to steal more money from you, the merchant from the other kingdom who smuggled the better quality threads from the other side of the border in the dead of night, maybe even a witch who had come to cast a vicious spell on you.  A dashing young man barely older than yourself, eyes tinged red with sorrow, clothes muddied from trekking through the rain, a hand clutching his chest as if to hold onto his aching heart, however, was nowhere on your list of expectations.  Before you could even stop yourself, you were ushering him inside without a word being passed between the two of you.  A second and a third log were added to the fire, the temperature in your small home quickly rising as you tended to the flames.  The strange boy at your door stood stiffly in the middle of your living room, the orange blaze casting dancing shadows across his features, amber eyes seemingly glowing in the low light.  

“Sit, please.  Let me see if I have anything for you to put on, so you don’t have to sit there in soaked clothes,” you say, pulling up a chair for him to be able to rest his weary feet, but when he took a seat, rather than sinking, taking pleasure in the opportunity to finally relax, even if it was only for the night, he sat with his back straight, slender hands folded elegantly in his lap.  Every so often he would reach towards the fire to warm his chilled fingers, but they were quickly returned to his lap as if he had done something incredibly inappropriate.  The soft rustle of your nightgown as you padded across the wooden floors shifted his attention away from the fire and over to you and the set of clothes that you held in your hands.

“I hope these fit you.  They belonged to my brother before he passed in the war, so feel free to keep them.  I have no use for them,” you say.

Kuroo gingerly takes the clothes from you, trying to hide the look of distaste on his face at the feeling of the material.  It was cheap and stiff, nothing like he was used to, but they were dry and that’s what was more important.  “May I ask for your name?”  He asks, peeling his shirt from his body to replace it with the one you had given him.

“Y/N, sir.  And who might you be and what in God’s name are you doing out in the woods at this hour?  There’s all sorts of animals out there that don’t take kindly to people in their territory.  You should consider yourself lucky.”

His eyes shifted to the window, peering through the night as if to check that there was no one who had seen him during his escape.  “I- I really don’t think I should tell you that.  At least, not yet.  My apologies if that seems rude, but, you see, I’m in a bit of trouble, and well, I don’t exactly know who to trust right now.”

You nod simply and give a short chortle.  “What’d you do?  Commit tax evasion?  Lord knows the king would have your head if that ever happened.  The man is greedier than anyone I’ve ever met.  You would think that he has enough money coming in, honestly.  With the amount of citizens that he hounds for his outrageous taxes, you’d think he wouldn’t need to raise them again, but he has to pay for his wars somehow, I suppose.  Sending innocent men off to die isn’t cheap, that’s for sure.”

You were so busy carrying on with your train of thought that you hadn’t noticed the way Kuroo’s body suddenly stilled as you continued to discuss his father so freely.  Annoyance and bitterness dripped from every syllable as you spoke.  The Kuroo family hadn’t been popular in the eyes of the people for many generations.  They thrived off of starting unnecessary conflicts that would drag on for years.  Even now, there were troops sitting off the shore of a small kingdom, blocking their trade routes, suffocating them slowly as they had been for the past seven years.

“I’m afraid that the monarchy has likely died today,” he says shortly, rolling up his pant legs.  They had obviously been made for someone much shorter than himself as the ends rested just below the middle of his calves.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m from the capital city.  Some of the citizens staged a coup.  Before I left, I heard them say that they wished the king and his whole family dead.  I don’t know what will be left of them by tomorrow.”

“Well, then let’s hope that this will finally turn things around in this country.  It’s difficult to make a living and pay a ridiculous amount of taxes when you’re out here by yourself.  My customers have been sparse since the recent increase.  They can’t afford to mend their clothes, but I can’t afford to live without their business.  Thankfully, with the border as close as it is, I get some business from the other kingdom, but it can also be a pain.  The hassle of trying to make the trip across the river isn’t worth it for most.”

Kuroo’s ears perked up slightly at the mention of a river.  “Which river is it?”

“Effingfil.  Why?”

“How close am I to the border?”

“Only a few miles, sir.  Is everything alright?  You seem a bit frantic.”

“I need to get out of the country.  Please, will you help me?”

“Sir, right now you need to rest.  You’re lucky that you didn’t get hypothermia or something like that out in the rain.”

“Then tomorrow?  First thing in the morning.  Will you take me to the border?”

“Why are you so keen on leaving, may I ask?”

“Because if I don’t, they’ll kill me too.  Please, I’m not ready to die,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his voice.  And in another odd twist of things you weren’t expecting, the stranger who had stumbled across your house in the darkness clutched onto your clothes as he hid his face against your shoulder.  You could feel his body shaking against your form as you took him into your arms, soothing circles being rubbed against his lower back, the silence only being broken by his choked sobs and the gentle crackling of the fire.

[plague-doctor-jules]

“Qui me defendet ab me terribilissimo ipse?” - The angsty Julian fanfic noone asked for

This takes place on a ship, sometime during the three years of Julian being a fugitive.

Triggers: Blood, self harm, self-mutilation, depression, suicidal ideation, hints of sexual exploitation, MANY mental health issues in general. If you do not consent to read such content, do not open the link.

He had sunk in again; into the mouth of that kind of madness he had fought time and time again, but never defeated.  It was one of the moments he dreaded anyone’s presence; even more so those whose opinion mattered to him. He was still human enough to wallow in a sea of sorrow, after all, and when that happened he wanted to go through the breakdown in secret, afraid that these moments of weakness would destroy the last traces of decency he had left if a prying eye ever saw him in that condition, like the one he was in that night.

The atmosphere was heavy from the smell of alcohol, blood and virginia smoke and the walls bared obvious dents of slammed fists and large stains, as if it had received some kind of liquid projectile, whereas the floor was littered with glass shards and crumbled pieces of paper. A bloodied knife was carelessly tossed to a corner, from where a trail of blood started, leading to the bed. Lying there naked, the plague doctor’s long, bony frame was half-shrouded by a soaked with blood and indian ink sheet, head hanging from the edge of the bed and the mane of unkempt auburn curls sweeping the floor. His deathly pale skin seemed even more sickly, almost translucent and his usually vivid stare was now rigidly fixed on the ceiling, as if the engravings there were suddenly the most fascinating spectacle. He barely breathed, or did his heart palpitate; nor any other muscle made the slightest twitch, save for his occassional blinking, and the tears which rolled soundlessly, mingling with the reddish roots of hair.

Upon the bedside table a sole sheet of paper, crumbled but straightened again, quill pen crushed next to it. The paper wrote:

The bloods of love shrouded me with crimson And joys untold overshadowed me with fear I rusted in the humidity of humans; mother afar -rosebud-oh! rosebud unwithering. At my road’s turn they awaited me, A heard of conflicting passions, and they tore me apart. It was a sin of mine to be able to love; mother afar- rosebud- oh! rosebud unwithering. Sometime, in the timeless void they half-opened; Ebony eyes In my insides- and they chained me in.

The poem did not end there, but the handwriting was even messier to the point of being completely unintelligible, and the ink was still wet, mingled with fingerprints of dried blood. On the doctor’s neck, the mystical sign was glowing; pulsating with light; and angry stab wounds on his chest and abdomen were already shrinking. New tissue had already started lining the inside of the larger one, filling in the hole he had stabbed into his heart. Ironic how sometimes physical wounds seemed to be the only ones healing, no matter how severe they were; for the gaping hole into his soul was still abyssmal and bleeding.

Julian’s tears kept flowing down.

I... can’t die... I can’t... I must be cursed.

This had happened many a time before, and each time it ended up the same bloody way. He would rise up some hours later or whenever duty called, appear and behave immaculate and make sure that noone could have the faintest suspicion of his previous state of mind. That was just a small price to pay for achieving to separate the “doing well” from the “being well” altogether; which he had been doing all of his life. But never was it so bad; never before.

I am a failure; I will always be one... I cannot even kill myself successfully... Why do I have to keep burdening this Earth with my existence?

After a while, doctor Devorak wiped his tears and got up from the bed. Stumbling, he reached the bedside table and grabbing at the piece of paper he threw it into the fire with a scowl. He looked at himself in the mirror; he was a mess. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot; and very very tired. He could barely recognize himself in the eyes of this weak, tired person who was staring at him from the other side of the mirror. God, what had he done to his vivid, filled with life stare? The rest of him was in no better condition, though. He had always been on the gangly side; but now he looked completely emaciated and sickly; almost as bad as he was when he had contracted the plague. Though most of his wounds had healed by now, he was covered in blood. His cheeks were stained with tears and scruffy to the touch; he hadn’t shaved in days.

Opening the drawer, he absentmindedly rummaged through his belongings. A small picture of his sister, back when they were children; that was pretty much the last time he had seen her. Some bottled leeches. A dried bouquet of wildflowers that someone had given him, though he could not quite remember who. A set of golden cufflings given to him by Lucio... the man whom he had supposedly killed. And a small pouch of herbs gifted by Asra... the man who gave him the curse.

Julian’s fingers finally found what he was looking for, and retrieved a straight razor. Julian stared at it expressionlessly for some seconds before he sat back onto his bed and started shaving with the languid strokes of someone who was only half heartedly performing a routine. Three years had passed; and yet, his memory did not seem to come back... though Julian wished he could somehow forget even more. The war, for instance. Or the time when he was captured by pirates. Or the plague. Lucio dying. Lucio using him and hurling him down the stairs like a rag doll after he force-fed him a plague beetle. The satisfaction and excitement in Valdemar’s eyes when he observed his scleras turning crimson.

The sudden sting of pain made him break free from the bad memory lane, and come back to reality. He idly looked at the nick on his chin, and the sign at the base of his neck that started glowing anew. That damn sign... Julian did not quite register his fingers leading the razor to it, until the pain came; as relieving as it always were. He ripped through his flesh desperately, cutting skin muscle and tendons alike; anything to get rid from that glow thaht stubbornly insisted on keeping death from taking him and putting an end to his misery. Finally the piece of skin was loose... But the glow was still far from fading, even through the blood; mocking him. Julian could only stare with disgust as the wound shrunk and disappeared like the rest of them, leaving no trace.

Julian sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a long time; as if he wished the world disappeared alonside with his vision. The sea seemed to be treacherously calm that night; much unlike so many nights before; when the tempest required even the doctor to lend a hand to the crew in order to avoid becoming fish food; and in the process he was busy enough to keep his thoughts at bay, for during a tempest one does not think; merely act and think about why acted like that later if lucky. However the waters seemed to be as still as stone that night; even the usual rocking that can be felt in every boat no matter the weather was barely there. The doctor looked around his cabin and sighed again; it was trashed. Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped out, making a mental note to find a good excuse if someone happened to get in and see its state.

“Something the matter, doctor?”

The voice that sounded from across the corridor made him jump with surprise and he turned to see the ship captain peering at him; confusion turning into mild shock when he saw his bloodstained shirt and tear-stained face. “Was going out to take some air” Julian hurried, to avoid a cataclysm of questions that the captain seemed to be about to unleash. “I thought I heard a racket coming out of your room, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.... damn.” He only muttered, looking at him up and down. “You look like you could use a distraction.”

“I would, yes.” Julian sighed in agreement. “It seems that alcohol didn’t do much this time around.” he glanced at the captain sideways. “Why, you interested in helping?”

“I might be.” The captain replied, licking his lips.

Julian rolled his eyes. “Because you pity me?”

“Call it what you will.” he shrugged. “It’s your problem, not mine. Not that I care, anyway. You suit yourself, like the rest of us do.” he turned to leave.

“No no wait!” Julian’s voice sounded way more desperate than he intended. “Please... I need the distraction. I need to forget. please, make me forget, even for a while... I don’t care who it is, or why, just... please... hurt me... I want it to hurt...”

The ship captain chuckled darkly. “That sounds more like it.” He grabbed Julian by the shoulders and pinned him roughly on the wall.

And Julian did not bring any resistence.

((title translation: “...Who defends me from myself, who is the most terrible of all?”))

[antiquated-storyteller]

Dieing flame

Inspired and basically done off of this . This is a sort of “What if” situation. Each link was chosen as the music that would play during the events told. * I strongly advise listening to this song with the lyrics on.

Intro prologue/fight

“You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

How many times had they heard that saying? Countless of times, was the answer. Each and every time it would cause them to smile sadly, at the hero in the book they read. At how the hero had lost themselves, for various reasons. They could no longer tolerate the pain that was left in their wake. The destruction, the death that clung to them as much as hope did. Of the people that they couldn’t save, of those that they did save. Each and every time they heard those words, they thought and were agreement with each other; ‘That may have happened to them...But not our hero. Not our Warrior of Light.’

Alphinaud, Alisaie, they was still children despite everything. The couldn’t see her pain behind her smile. They couldn’t hear her laugh going into a mere whisper of what it once was. Of how she gazed at the night sky in yearning for something more. No, they chalked it all up to her merely needing rest. They all did. Each and everyone one of them should have asked. Should have spoken to her. Had lent her a shoulder to cry on, to hear her doubts and fears. To see her as still herself. Not as a Warrior of Light, as the EIkon Slayer, as Hydaelyn’s most precious daughter. As simply Vala.

“Only he thought of me as that....” She told them. Her back turned, bow hanging limp in her hand and her other hand placed atop one of the mountains of crystals at her feet. It was like all the other times. The same story that had been told countless times.

The Warrior of Light, sent upon to stop a Primals awakening with her fellow companions. To stop a Primal whom would tear Eorzea and its people asunder. She would go and stop it, no matter who got in her way. Whether it be man or beast. She had a duty to protect Hydaelyn’s children. Yet, yet what awaited at the threshold was a reminder of what the stories didn’t say. Of what the mistrals didn’t sing in their retelling. Of the pain, suffering, and sorrow of those involved in such things. Of the stench of blood, the warmth of it caked on her hands of those who were desperate enough to pray for salvation or of those who had already been “saved” by their God.

They only sang about her heroics, of her deeds as a “Warrior of Light”. Always singing of her. Of how she helped everyone, how she solved all their problems when times were grim. She was always there to save them. Always. There was no one to save her from herself.

“I wish,” Her voice cracked as she felt the tears long held back begin to fall. “I wish I could be reborn.”

A single tear fell right on top of the crystals. The brilliance they showed off then was beautiful as it was terrifying.

They cried out her name, in confusion, in pain, in betrayal and realization. If it wasn’t for the others Scions present they easily could have had died in an instant to her arrows. She gave them no quarter; her prowess often admired from afar - they all had front row seats to her performance now.

Y’shtola had blocked her arrows with a magic shield, but it wouldn’t hold for long. They knew they had to stop her, it was their duty. Their solemn duty, no matter who or what stood in their way - a Primal could not be born. Thancred had launched himself at her next, his visible eye showing the pain bubbling underneath.

“Vala get a hold of yourself!!!” He cried to her. “Don’t listen to the Primal’s whispers!”

His blades were about to connect with the back of her skull, hoping to knock her out to end the summoning. He should have known better, he had seen her fight after all. She ducked underneath his blades at the last possible moment, delivering a swift kick and launching back from whence he came. Wtih an arrow piercing him along the way.

“Thancred!!” The twins cried, finally coming back to reality. The man landed on his back and coughed, trying to breath. He had more than one arrow he realized, one stinging as if the wind was biting into him, and the other steadily oozing poison. Krile was about to go to him, but the strings of a lyre and a voice stopped her. Foes Requiem, it sounded more painful, more mournful. When they looked upon her, their cherished warrior - tears, non stopping tears rolled down her cheeks from those beautiful crystal blue eyes.

“VALA STOP THIS!!!” Alphinaud cried, tears beginning to prickle in his own blue orbs.

She paused, her eyes widening at his expression. Mirroring what she felt inside, what she was inside at that moment. A sudden screech interrupted them. It sounded like something clawing at glass, shrieking to be let free. The crystals, they were screaming. Her eyes flew to them. She had done this, she had let her heart break. A part of her was happy, they could finally see what she had locked away for so long. Yet there was another part of her, screaming at her to stop this. To stop all of this. To remember what she swore to do. To turn tragedies into happy endings. Her oath won, if only for a moment.

They saw her point her bow to the sky, ready to unleash a hail of arrows. A “Rain of Death”. They needed to raise another protective barrier, little did they know that there was no need for one. Their old friend let loose the arrow, right above herself.

They screamed as they realized what she had done, yet could do nothing. The rain came down upon her, in red, so much red. She fell to her knees, the crystals light sputtering behind her. “Red blossoms” began to bloom on the floor. She wanted to laugh, she still bled the same blood as them. Weakly she looked at them. Her former comrades, her family. Her eyes still wept, for everything. Everything that had happened up to that point, everything that was happening. They were weeping as well.

She wanted to tell them not to cry, not for her, not for what she had almost done. She was not worthy of such tears. Her voice died in her throat however as she felt a familiar pull. Of a sweet whisper in her ear. Her eyes widened at the realization. In mere moments the crystals behind flourished in a brilliant light, shattering from the inside out in a gust of wind. The gale blinded them all, yet through tear filled eyes they saw her. Her coattails enveloping her in a cocoon of what appeared to be wings, she screamed.*

The wind continued to swirl around them, causing them to screw their eyes shut as the pieces of the remaining crystals began to hit them. When they next opened their eyes, they wish they hadn’t. The Scions found themselves in a field of what appeared to be spider lilies, surrounded by a ring of flames at the outer edges of what would have been a lake. In front of them, where Vala should have stood was that same cocoon made of wings.

They were a dull ash grey, yet  in an instant the color began to change before their very eyes. They started to dye themselves a starling blue. The flames surrounding them adopted this color and roared to life as the wings unfurled. Another cry rang out, full of pain and sorrow. What was revealed before them; engulfed in sacred flames was the Primal that had been born.

“Phoenix.”  Alisaie could scarcely mutter. Never had she dreamed that she would see this Primal again, nor had she any wish to see it be born. 

The Primal gave another shrill cry to the heavens, its blue feathers shot out like arrows. The Scions scarcely had time to dodge, more so when the very feathers erupted in pillars of fire.This was repeated twice more, then it was followed by the beast flying higher, readying its next move.

“Everyone get together!!” Thancred cried. They all grouped up and clung to each other as they were buffeted by a whirlwind, once, twice, and three times total. The flames licked at them, but not burning them completely. The pain bled and only seemed to get worse as time went on.

They had to fight back, there was no choice now. Y’shtola and Thancred were the first to strike back, A Stone spell cast quickly and followed by spears of ice. Thancred dodging the flames that erupted and being able to land several blows. Krile and Urianger hesitated but soon they too began to join their comrades. Only the twins remained, their hearts holding them back. They were screaming at themselves internally. They all were in their own right, some had more control to quiet those voices at the moment however.

He heard it first, Alisaie readying to cast her own magic. The click of the lock for the orb that sat atop her rapier. She had her eyes shut as she cast the magic, feeling it course through her and knowing where it was to go. Alphinaud grit his teeth, but he too began his own incantation as the battle carried on. Oh how it seemed to last for an eternity, yet amazingly they were able to subdue the beast. Yet, just as it seemed as they were to kill it - it being on the ground at their feet, wings battered, cut, and bruised did they hear its voice.

“She fell. She crashed. She broke. She cried. She crawled. She hurt. She surrendered. And then...” Phoenix looked at them, looked deep into their souls at the memories each held of the one who had called out to him. “She rose again.”

Just like she had done to herself, the Primal let it’s own plumes rain down on itself. They witnessed it die right before their eyes, but this wasn’t the end. For just like it’s name - it arose again. From inside the flames they saw it - or rather her. Vala and Phoenix were now one. Her eyes glowed with the fire of the Primal, her scales turned to talons at her hands and feet, and the flames wreathed around were beautiful as they were deadly.

They wanted to cry, they wanted to scream, they wanted to give up. But they couldn’t they knew, that she wouldn’t want them to. Just like she had. She never cried when she needed to, she never screamed when she needed to, and she never gave up. So they continued the fight. Blades were scorched and acquired new scars. The elements raged with her flames. At one point she even looked like her old self, the bow she created brought back those memories.

In the end however, just like the stories that were sung about her. Of the Primals that she had defeated, so too did she join them. The world that was made from within her heart began to turn to ash and fluttered in the air around them, almost appearing like snow. The smoke was almost comforting, it seemed as if it was from a hearth. Yet there was no solace, no peace of mind as they held her within their arms. Tears staining her face, wiping away the remains of ash from her skin.

All she could do was smile at them, a smile best suited a hero after all.

First and foremost if you read all that, congrats! Second of all, I was going to include the weapon drops of what she would have, but I saw my chance at heartbreak and took it! However, Vala’s weapon drops for her Primal fight would be weapons made of obsidian or accented with the stone. Why obsidian you ask? Well here is why:  The Obsidian meaning is linked with the concept of darkness, and just like our ever-spinning planet and its phases of night and day, the human soul also contains elements of light and dark. A powerful protection stone, the Obsidian crystal meaning helps identify your dark side so that its healing properties can clear it away from your psyche. The Obsidian crystal stone meaning reminds us that everyone has a good and bad side. Instead of hiding from our inner truth, Obsidian shines a light on the negativity and clears it away, helping us to choose the path leading towards light and love.

I guess you can say, she still wants to protect them even after she’s gone.

[spiteweaver]

previous | first | next

No.

This couldn’t be happening. No matter how real it felt, the thrum of magic in the air, the heat of sunlight on his skin, the hammering of his heart inside his chest, it couldn’t be happening. It was a terrible dream, and he would wake up from it soon, to his beautiful mate, smiling and reassuring him that all was well.

No.

No, no, no, no--

“Banrai!”

“No!”

“Banrai, stop! There’s nothing you can do for him now!”

“Let go of me!”

Banrai shifted in a flash of light, and Solaire, small even in his draconic form, could do nothing to stop him. The Ridgeback charged forward with reckless abandon, spines flared, head lowered.

Abaddon appeared before him, all glistening thistle scales and bristling obsidian fur. They collided. Abaddon held firm, his feet shifting only slightly under Banrai’s ferocious thrashing. “Do you want to die?!” he bellowed. “Do you want Dreamweaver to come home to a dead husband?!”

“Do I want them to come home to a dead son?!” Banrai replied. “That’s my son--our son! That’s our boy in there! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Junior! Let me go! Please, Abaddon!”

“I won’t!”

“Then you’re killing him!”

“If I let you go, I’ll be killing you as well!”

They clashed. Claws raked skin and scale. Teeth tore into thick hide. Dark blood spattered the ground. “Pull them apart!” someone cried. “For Lightweaver’s sake, pull them apart!”

Banrai went down, his fall shaking the earth beneath him. Abaddon’s foot rested upon his neck. They were both battered, missing great chunks of flesh and armor, but Abaddon more so. “You need to think rationally,” he said. “Banrai, you cannot endanger yourself. Your clan needs you. That’s what it means to be a leader.”

“What would you know?” Banrai spat. “You were a warlord. You were a coward. Your people hated you.”

Abaddon didn’t flinch. If the remark cut him deeply, it didn’t show on his face. He pressed his foot down more firmly. “You need not remind me,” he said, “I was there. Still, I learned a thing or two, both from my own mistakes and from your mate. They would never forgive me if I let you go in there.”

“I’ll never forgive you if you don’t!”

“So be it. I would rather you be alive and bitter than dead.”

A shadow passed by overhead. Abaddon glanced upward, and caught a glimpse of orchid against the pure blue of the sky. “Dreamweaver has returned,” he informed. “Don’t let them see you like this.”

Abaddon removed his foot. Slowly, his stomach churning, Banrai pulled his immense body upright. The two shared a look, fierce and charged with a maelstrom of emotions, before Banrai’s eyes softened and filled with tears. Abaddon said nothing, only pressed his cheek against his old friend’s in quiet solidarity.

Dreamweaver alighted before them. Neither was proficient at reading auras, but they could feel the panic in Dreamweaver’s, so palpable and raw was it. “What happened?” they asked. “Banrai, Abaddon--you’re both in shambles.”

“It’s nothing,” Abaddon assured. “Dreamweaver, Phantasos is inside.”

Dreamweaver stumbled, and Banrai rushed forward to support them. They fell limply against his side, heaving enormous, labored breaths as they tried to collect themself. “My--my boy--my boy is in--you let him go--you--”

“No one ‘let him,’” Abaddon said. “He went before we could stop him.”

“It’s my fault,” Banrai murmured. He nudged his mate’s neck gently, pleadingly. “It’s my fault, Dreamy. I should have been watching him. I knew he wanted to act, but I was so concerned with Crucis and the village that I--I took my eyes off of him. I should have never.”

Their gazes met. Banrai cringed. There was sorrow unlike any he had ever witnessed in his mate’s eyes. Dreamweaver reached for him, cupping his cheeks with their clawed hands. “At least,” they said, “you are safe.”

Then they were inconsolable.

“I can go in after him,” Holloway offered.

“You barely made it out the first time,” Solaire said.

“We...” Banrai clenched his jaw. “We won’t ask that of you again, Holloway. You’ve already risked your life once.”

“It’s Phantasos,” Holloway said. “He’s worth risking my life a second time.”

“I’ll go,” Dreamweaver sobbed, “please, let me go after him.”

“Absolutely not,” Abaddon said. “You are the Lightweaver’s most trusted acolyte. The Arcane element is rising over yours--and you are more in-tune with it than any of us. Even being this near to an unchecked piece of the Seat could have severe consequences.”

“However, something must be done,” Solaire conceded. “We cannot let the celestine spread any further.”

“Junior and I rounded up the Arcanites we could find,” Abaddon said. “He’s certain they can contain it, at least until Lutia can come sort it out--but getting Phantasos out is another matter entirely.”

“Why did he go in?” Holloway clucked his tongue. “Foolish boy, what does he think he’s going to do?”

“He thinks he can dispel it, I suppose,” Banrai replied. “He thinks--”

“Gods, I did this!” Dreamweaver wailed. “He thinks he’s me, is what he thinks! I have to go after him!”

“You--will--die,” Abaddon repeated. “Did I not make that clear enough for you?”

“I’m the oldest, most powerful being in this godsforsaken land!” Dreamweaver argued. “If anyone can get him out, it’s me!”

“It’s not about age and power,” Abaddon insisted, “it’s about elemental alignments! I’m no magic-worker, but even I know that! Just because you’re a damned demigod doesn’t mean you’re invincible!”

“Then who is going to save my son?!”

“Quiet.” Solaire held up a hand. “Did you lads hear that? Sounded like thunder.”

“Now there’s a storm on the way too?” Holloway groaned. “The gods of this realm are cruel, aren’t they?”

“I said it sounded like thunder,” Solaire said, “not that it was. I think--I think it came from--”

Suddenly, all around them, there was a horrible cacophony. The colony seemed to shriek in anguish as great chunks of it fell to the earth, shattering and dissipating into fine dust. Holloway gathered his wits and scrambled forward, guiding what he could of it into his jar. The crystal pulsed once, twice, thrice...

Everything went silent.

...

Light.

Warm, and golden, and full.

It bathed Observatory Hill in a chaste glow, brighter than the sun and yet somehow as soft as a candle’s flame. Dreamweaver’s magic responded to it, their eyes glowing, their hair unfurling around them as they shifted forms, mapping out distant stars and galaxies without names.

“It’s him,” they breathed. “It’s Phantasos.”

As the group watched, awe-struck with mouths agape, the pink celestine encasing the observatory turned pale yellow, the color of Dreamweaver’s magic, pulsed one final time, and shattered.

“What’s happened?” Solaire asked. “I’m blind, you know?”

“Get back!” Holloway called. “Everyone get back!”

A cloud of glittering gold shrouded the hill, forcing onlookers down to its base. Dreamweaver had to be pulled away, their shrieks ringing in their people’s ears, “He’s alive! Let me go to him, he’s alive!”

Even as the dust settled, they were screaming their son’s name.

In the silence that followed, they received a weak, wavering response.

“Dede?”

Phantasos appeared at the crest of the hill. His eyes were a swirl of nebulae and comets, his hands still glowing white hot with the power he had unleashed. Finally, Abaddon released Dreamweaver, and they raced forward, tripping, crawling at some points, in their desperation to reach their son. When they did, they hugged him to them fiercely and wept openly into his shoulder.

“You’re alive,” they croaked. “You’re alive.”

“I’m sorry, dede,” Phantasos said. “I didn’t mean to worry you, but--but you were away, and Lutia wasn’t here, and Crucis was wrapped up in crystal, and I couldn’t let the village--”

“I’m going to kill you,” Dreamweaver whispered.

“I know, dede.”

“Phantasos...” The young heir flinched at the sound of his father’s voice, and, timidly, met his gaze. Banrai did not scold him. Instead, he pressed his massive forehead to his son’s and wept as Dreamweaver did. “I’m also going to kill you,” he said.

“I know, da.”

“How did he...?” Holloway pointed to the observatory, now pristine as it once had been, though covered in a thin dusting of crystal remnants. “How...?” Then he pointed to Phantasos, mouth still hanging open. “What--in what world is he capable of--this shouldn’t be--how did he do that?!”

“He’s his parents’ son,” Abaddon said simply. “Looks like we all underestimated him.”

“Jolly good!” Solaire exclaimed. “Jolly good, boy! Fine show, I’m sorry I couldn’t bear witness to it!”

“Honestly, I...” Phantasos stared down at his own hands. “I don’t know how I did it. I don’t even know what I did. I just--I just did it.”

“That’s magic for you,” Abaddon said. “Arcanites have got it down to a science, but most of us--well, we just do whatever feels right, and it tends to work out well enough.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Dreamweaver pleaded. “I think we’ve all had enough magic for one day. Oh, my baby boy...”

“I’m all right, dede,” Phantasos said. “I feel fine. I feel really good, actually.”

“You’re going straight to Aphaster lands,” Dreamweaver informed, “and getting a thorough check-up! I won’t be able to rest until I know you’re healthy and completely in-tact!”

“Oh good.” Phantasos grinned. “I can see the Seat.”

Dreamweaver started to yell at him, call him reckless and foolish and stupid--but they were so relieved that they could see his smug little face once more that they could manage nothing but a tearful smile of their own.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for Wednesday, march 31 of 2021 with Proverbs 31 and Psalm 31, accompanied by Psalm 12 for the 12th day of Spring and Psalm 90 for day 90 of the year

[Proverbs 31]

These are the words of King Lemuel. An oracle of wisdom handed down to him by his mother:

Mother: What shall I say to you, my son? What wisdom can I impart, child of my womb?

What insight can I share, son of my vows?

Do not waste your strength on women

or invest yourself in women who would destroy even kings.

Take care, my son, O Lemuel.

Kings should not drink too much wine

or rulers should not crave strong drink;

For if they do, they will become drunk and forget the decree they just made

and alter the course of justice for all the poor and afflicted.

Rather, give liquor to one who is dying,

and offer wine to those struggling with life’s harsh realities.

Let such a one drink and forget what he is missing;

then perhaps he won’t remember his sorrows anymore.

Speak out on behalf of those who have no voice,

and defend all those who have been passed over.

Open your mouth, judge fairly,

and stand up for the rights of the afflicted and the poor.

[The Radiant Bride]

Who could ever find a wife like this one—

she is a woman of strength and mighty valor!

She’s full of wealth and wisdom.

The price paid for her was greater than many jewels.

Her husband has entrusted his heart to her,

for she brings him the rich spoils of victory.

All throughout her life she brings him what is good and not evil.

She searches out continually to possess

that which is pure and righteous.

She delights in the work of her hands.

She gives out revelation-truth to feed others.

She is like a trading ship bringing divine supplies

from the merchant.

Even in the night season she arises and sets food on the table

for hungry ones in her house and for others.

She sets her heart upon a field and takes it as her own.

She labors there to plant the living vines.

She wraps herself in strength, might, and power in all her works.

She tastes and experiences a better substance,

and her shining light will not be extinguished,

no matter how dark the night.

She stretches out her hands to help the needy

and she lays hold of the wheels of government.

She is known by her extravagant generosity to the poor,

for she always reaches out her hands to those in need.

She is not afraid of tribulation,

for all her household is covered in the dual garments

of righteousness and grace.

Her clothing is beautifully knit together—

a purple gown of exquisite linen.

Her husband is famous and admired by all,

sitting as the venerable judge of his people.

Even her works of righteousness

she does for the benefit of her enemies.

Bold power and glorious majesty are wrapped around her

as she laughs with joy over the latter days.

Her teachings are filled with wisdom and kindness

as loving instruction pours from her lips.

She watches over the ways of her household

and meets every need they have.

Her sons and daughters arise in one accord to extol her virtues,

and her husband arises to speak of her in glowing terms.

“There are many valiant and noble ones,

but you have ascended above them all!”

Charm can be misleading,

and beauty is vain and so quickly fades,

but this virtuous woman lives in the wonder, awe,

and fear of the Lord.

She will be praised throughout eternity.

So go ahead and give her the credit that is due,

for she has become a radiant woman,

and all her loving works of righteousness deserve to be admired

at the gateways of every city!

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 31 (The Voice / The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 31]

I run to you, God; I run for dear life.

Don’t let me down!

Take me seriously this time!

Get down on my level and listen,

and please—no procrastination!

Your granite cave a hiding place,

your high cliff nest a place of safety.

You’re my cave to hide in,

my cliff to climb.

Be my safe leader,

be my true mountain guide.

Free me from hidden traps;

I want to hide in you.

I’ve put my life in your hands.

You won’t drop me,

you’ll never let me down.

I hate all this silly religion,

but you, God, I trust.

I’m leaping and singing in the circle of your love;

you saw my pain,

you disarmed my tormentors,

You didn’t leave me in their clutches

but gave me room to breathe.

Be kind to me, God—

I’m in deep, deep trouble again.

I’ve cried my eyes out;

I feel hollow inside.

My life leaks away, groan by groan;

my years fade out in sighs.

My troubles have worn me out,

turned my bones to powder.

To my enemies I’m a monster;

I’m ridiculed by the neighbors.

My friends are horrified;

they cross the street to avoid me.

They want to blot me from memory,

forget me like a corpse in a grave,

discard me like a broken dish in the trash.

The street-talk gossip has me

“criminally insane”!

Behind locked doors they plot

how to ruin me for good.

Desperate, I throw myself on you:

you are my God!

Hour by hour I place my days in your hand,

safe from the hands out to get me.

Warm me, your servant, with a smile;

save me because you love me.

Don’t embarrass me by not showing up;

I’ve given you plenty of notice.

Embarrass the wicked, stand them up,

leave them stupidly shaking their heads

as they drift down to hell.

Gag those loudmouthed liars

who heckle me, your follower,

with jeers and catcalls.

What a stack of blessing you have piled up

for those who worship you,

Ready and waiting for all who run to you

to escape an unkind world.

You hide them safely away

from the opposition.

As you slam the door on those oily, mocking faces,

you silence the poisonous gossip.

Blessed God!

His love is the wonder of the world.

Trapped by a siege, I panicked.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” I said.

But you heard me say it,

you heard and listened.

Love God, all you saints;

God takes care of all who stay close to him,

But he pays back in full

those arrogant enough to go it alone.

Be brave. Be strong. Don’t give up.

Expect God to get here soon.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 31 (The Message)

[Psalm 12]

Quick, God, I need your helping hand!

The last decent person just went down,

All the friends I depended on gone.

Everyone talks in lie language;

Lies slide off their oily lips.

They doubletalk with forked tongues.

Slice their lips off their faces!

Pull the braggart tongues from their mouths!

I’m tired of hearing, “We can talk anyone into anything!

Our lips manage the world.”

Into the hovels of the poor,

Into the dark streets where the homeless groan, God speaks:

“I’ve had enough; I’m on my way

To heal the ache in the heart of the wretched.”

God’s words are pure words,

Pure silver words refined seven times

In the fires of his word-kiln,

Pure on earth as well as in heaven.

God, keep us safe from their lies,

From the wicked who stalk us with lies,

From the wicked who collect honors

For their wonderful lies.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 12 (The Message)

[Book Four]

[Psalm 90]

A prayer of Moses, a man of God.

Lord, You have always been our refuge.

Our ancestors made You their home long ago.

Before mountains were born,

before You fashioned the earth and filled it with life,

from ages past to distant futures,

You are truly God.

You turn people back to dust,

saying, “Go back to the dust, children of Adam.”

For You a thousand years is like a day when it is over,

a watch during the night;

there is no difference to You.

You release the waters of death to sweep mankind away in his slumber.

In the morning, we are blades of grass,

Growing rapidly under the sun but withering quickly;

yet in the evening, we fade and die, soon to be cut down.

For Your anger has consumed us.

Your wrath has shaken us to the core

and left us deeply troubled.

You have written our offenses before You—

the light of Your presence shines brightly on our secret sins,

and we can’t run or hide.

For all our days are spent beneath Your wrath;

our youth gives way to old age, and then

one day our years come to an end with a sigh.

We may journey through life for 70 years;

some may live and breathe 80 years—if we are strong.

Yet our time here is only toil and trouble;

soon our days are gone, and we fly away.

Who can truly comprehend the power unleashed by Your anger?

Your wrath matches the fear that is due to You.

Teach us to number our days

so that we may truly live and achieve wisdom.

How long will we wait here alone?

Return, O Eternal One, with mercy.

Rescue Your servants with compassion.

With every sun’s rising, surprise us with Your love,

satisfy us with Your kindness.

Then we will sing with joy and celebrate every day we are alive.

You have spent many days afflicting us with pain and sorrow;

now match those with years of unspent joy.

Let Your work of love be on display for all Your servants;

let Your children see Your majesty.

And then let the beauty and grace of the Lord—our God—rest upon us

and bring success to all we do;

yes, bring success to all we do!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 90 (The Voice)

and this closing line from The Message:

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,

confirming the work that we do.

Oh, yes. Affirm the work that we do!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 90:17 (The Message)

it’s important to know the affirmation of Love in what we do while in this world.

[yogafish310]

 "If I keep a green bough in my heart the singing bird will come." - Chinese proverb HOME BOOKS & AUDIO OTHER OFFERINGS SCHEDULE & NEWS CONTACT & LINKS  The Invitation by Oriah It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful to be realistic to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes.” It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming, from the book The Invitation published by HarperONE, San Francisco, 1999 All rights reserved  The Person Oriah is first and foremost a story-teller, a lover of words and symbols and the stories that lift our spirits, open our hearts and offer us ways to see patterns and create meaning in our lives. The focus of her life and work has been an on-going inquiry into the Sacred Mystery. Her writing, teaching and personal journey all explore how we can each become the individual we are at the deepest level of being and how we can co-create meaning together in the world. Blending humour, insight and compassion for our human struggles Oriah encourages herself and others to be ruthlessly honest and infinitely kind toward our own strengths and our weaknesses. Raised in a small community in Northern Ontario, Oriah’s family encouraged her to bring her questions and explorations to the Christian tradition they espoused. At home in the wilderness she was drawn to and at home in the ceremonies and earth-based teachings of the First People’s, eventually teaching and sharing what she learned. Her daily practice includes ceremonial prayer, yoga, meditation and writing. A graduate of Ryerson University’s social work program (Toronto) and a student of Philosophy at the University of Toronto she has facilitated groups, offered classes and counselled individuals for over thirty-five years. The mother of two grown sons, Oriah lives in Toronto, Canada. Oriah is the author of several best-selling books: The Invitation (now translated into more than fifteen languages), The Dance, and The Call: Discovering Why You Are Here. Her book, What We Ache For: Creativity and the Unfolding of Your Soul, explores the challenges, rewards, and necessity of doing our creative work. Opening the Invitation is a small book that shares Oriah’s story of writing and sharing her much-loved poem, “The Invitation.” All five of Oriah’s books are published by HarperONE, San Francisco. Using story and sharing meditations Oriah’s writing explores how to follow the thread of our deepest heart's longing into a life where we can choose joy without denying the difficulties we each face. Facing the challenges and finding the joy of living who we are is further explored on her Sounds True CD, Your Heart’s Prayer. Oriah has shared her insights and stories with audiences throughout the world at conferences and retreats and through radio and TV appearances (CBC, TVO, Oprah, NPR, PBS, Wisdom Network.) Oriah is currently focused on writing. She is working on a novel, another non-fiction book- a collection of stories about deepening our inner lives- and writing a weekly blog, “The Green Bough” at oriahsinvitation.blogspot.com Oriah offers counselling and spiritual guidance sessons for individuals in person or by telephone. For details email Oriah at mail@oriah.org The Name Oriah has a long and unusual history with her name. In 1984, at thirty years of age, after the onset of severe Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, she had a dream where several elderly women- those she calls Grandmothers in the dream- told her to change her given name to Oriah as part of the process of healing. Nervous about doing something others might see as strange, but desperate to be well, she took the name Oriah and has been called this (by everyone but her mother) since that time. Twenty years later, while doing a book tour, on three successive nights, in three different cities, she was told by people at the bookstores she was visiting that Oriah means light of God in Hebrew, and that it is an ancient Jewish custom to change a patient’s name when doing a healing, to invite new and healing energies. A year after taking the name Oriah, still seeking healing, she went to a shamanic teacher who gave her the medicine name "Mountain Dreamer.” The shaman told her that a medicine name tells someone what gifts they have to offer the world in their lifetime and that Mountain Dreamer meant "one who likes to find and push the edge." Because she first shared the prose-poem "The Invitation" (in 1994) with those who had come to participate in ceremony with her, the poem and her subsequent books first appeared under the name Oriah Mountain Dreamer. This led to all kinds of interesting misunderstandings (Eg.-people assumed she was an elderly or deceased Native American man.) Interviewers often begin conversations with, "Now that's not a real name, is it?" Oriah, while deeply honouring the spiritual tradition from which she has received her name, understands that in our modern culture such a name is bound to prompt reactions. She even admits to sometimes sharing the prejudice of thinking that people using names like Mountain Dreamer might be a little flaky! So, she good naturedly explains, when asked, that Oriah Mountain Dreamer is indeed a "real" name, although not her birth name, and reflects on the fact that in our culture what is considered “most real” is that which indicates familial association (inheritance rights, marital status and/or patrilineage) while some other cultures would consider a spiritual name more “real.” In the spring of 2006 Oriah and HarperONE decided to release the paperback editions of some of the books simply under the name Oriah in the hopes that this would make her insights, stories and meditations available to a wider audience. In her daily life Oriah uses her family name, House, although she finds that leaving phone messages from Oriah House has led some to think the call must be from a group home or social institution. And so the process of naming and explaining continues. There are lovers content with longing. I’m not one of them. -Rumi Author photo by Sophie Hogan, Elora, Ontario 2009 All other photos gratefully received from Oriah’s ex-husband, Jeff. Connect with Oriah on Facebook Facebook Connect with Oriah on Twitter @OriahMtnDrmr Oriah’s Blog Click above to view Oriah’s Blog, “The Green Bough.” She will post musings and meditations on cultivating our inner lives and co-creating meaning in the world, every Wednesday. Books To order or read an excerpt from Oriah’s books, click on the front cover "A remarkable book. . . . A fierce and tender presence, The Invitation’s wisdom could become a lifelong companion, engaging and awakening the original and unique rhythm of your mind and soul."John O’Donohue, author of Anam Cara "The Call. . . . is a gift to us from a wise, funny, and honest teacher who knows the territory of the human heart and soul like few others." Joan Borysenko, co-author of Your Soul’s Compass "To read The Dance is to invite all of the far flung part of yourself. . . . back onto the dance floor for a slow, sweet waltz. At the end of the dance, you have whirled yourself back into one whole person." Elizabeth Lesser, author of Broken Open A spiritual exploration and practical guide to unleashing your creativity. The story of how Oriah's poem travelled the world and, unbeknownst to her, touched people's lives. Oriah On CD Oriah’s Newsletter Oriah sends a newsletter by email three or four times a year. If you would like to receive the newsletter please send your email address to mail@oriah.org Current Newsletter Archived Newsletters Website design and development by JL Digital Design