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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T+ for language and violence Warnings: Choking (kinda) Summary: Local feral human makes a friend, tries to sleep next to local mean vampire, then gets a taste of their own medicine Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring; 2: Bloodbath, Baby!

3: Haunt Me Dearly

What a lovely crimson mess I’ve made, you think, watching as the last of the bloody water drained from the bathtub. There were still several splashes of red along the sides, where you had leaned on or otherwise touched. Frowning, you considered whether or not to clean up after yourself. Surely it wouldn’t be one of your captors doing the cleaning? In that case, you think, I don’t want to make any enemies out of the servants. First you had to finish binding your wounds. Wouldn’t want to risk getting them dirty so soon after washing them, after all. Except you weren’t even sure that you could properly wrap them on your own, considering the positioning of your injuries.

“Ah, fucking hell…” You muttered, scowling a little. Then you remembered that Cassandra had sent a maid to wait outside the bathroom for you. Maybe they could help? Nodding to yourself, you threw on your new undergarments and pair of trousers, deciding to save the shoes for later. Once you were ‘decent’, you slowly opened the door, peeking out from behind it. Before long you were making eye contact with an unfamiliar woman, who looked very confused. “Any chance you could help me bandage my shoulder? I can’t do it without help, and something tells me Cassandra’s not going to lend me a hand.” With that said, you gave her a friendly smile, hoping to make up for the awkwardness of the situation.

“Of course! It is my honor to serve a guest of my Lady,” the maid- servant, maybe- said, giving a short curtsy. Admittedly you’re a little confused by her response. Still, you gladly welcome her assistance, moving back into the bathroom to grab the gauze. Although you intend to do as much as you can on your own, the woman is quick to take over completely. “Please, allow me,” she continued, carefully beginning to wrap your wounds.

“Are all the workers here so polite? I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoys working here, all things considered,” you mused, squinting at the middle distance. At that, the servant tenses up, clearly not expecting you to speak ill of her employers. Well, she had called you a guest. “Don’t be surprised, friend. Less than an hour ago I was fit to be consumed by ‘your Lady Cassandra’. Only reason I’m not dead right now is because of a stupid blood bond,” you explained, tone dripping with irritation. This time the servant doesn’t flinch at all, instead nodding slowly, taking a moment to let your words sink in. During this pause, you decide to introduce yourself, just in case the two of you might see each other frequently.

“I… see. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, no matter the circumstances of your presence here. You can call me Daphne, though I must warn you that I am not one for, ahem, gossip about my masters,” she replied, finishing her binding of your shoulder wound. Next she searched through the cabinet by the sink, looking for a medicinal salve of some sort. Once she found it she was right back to work. The substance stung a tad on your skin, but you could hardly complain, seeing as it would help fight off possible infections.

“You sure about no gossip? What if we call it ‘helping me get acclimated to my new situation’? I’m a fish outta water here, Daphne,” you suggested, turning your head to look her in the eyes. At first she ignored you, focusing on rubbing the medicine into your skin. Eventually she meets your gaze, briefly, and releases a quiet sigh.

“You are free to ask questions-” you start to celebrate, though not for long- “just as I am free to withhold answers. Though I may be more responsive if you can tell me one thing… Why was Lady Cassandra’s dress wet?” Daphne asked, making you freeze in place. Of course she wanted the one answer you didn’t feel confident about giving. She’s quick to notice this, though, and laughs to herself. “Well, I suppose some things must remain a mystery. Now let’s get your face cleaned up…”

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By the time you make it to Cassandra’s room, the sun is starting to rise, leaking in through the castle windows. Exhaustion weighs you down, making you want to fall immediately into the nearest bed. As it stands, that was none other than your soulmate’s, though it was currently occupied. For a moment you hover in her doorway, contemplating whether or not you should steal her blanket. Floor can’t be too bad, you think, right? Before you can decide you notice Cassandra stirring from her sleep.

“What took you so fucking long?” She asked groggily. Now she’s sitting up, blanket clinging loosely to her body, and you realize that she’s not wearing a shirt. Though a blush rishes up your cheeks, you’re certain it’s too dark for Cassandra to notice. Or at least you hope so. Wanting to think about something other than what she was (or was not) wearing, you focus your energy on responding.

“Isn’t it obvious? I got invited to a sick orgy on the way back, and I wasn’t about to turn that down, so…” You trailed off, gesturing idly with your hands. The movement stretches your shoulder more than you’d like, resulting in an ache that lasts several seconds. It distracts you to the point where you almost can’t catch the object Cassandra promptly throws at you. “What the hell…?” It’s a shoe, as far as you can tell, that definitely would have hurt, had it hit its intended target. “Such a lovely gift, babe. I will treasure it for the rest of my days, forever keeping it as a reminder that you-” your tone shifts from a false joy to deadpan- “are a piece of shit. Now, seriously, where am I supposed to sleep? Is there a walk-in closet I can camp in? Or do I get the bed, while you sleep in a fucking coffin or something?”

Before Cassandra has a chance to respond, you’re walking further into her room, wanting to take a quick look around. There’s a large dresser that you quickly toss her shoe inside, as well as a window sill with a built-in reading nook. Trading your tiredness for sheer dickery, you throw open the curtains, letting the light pour in (and nearly blind you in the process). Half of you expects your soulmate to screech in response. Maybe even turn to ash. Instead, you hear her moving, and you turn to find her laying back down, facing away from you.

“When you’re done fucking around, come over here and sleep. I will knock you out if I have to,” Cassandra muttered, still sounding half asleep. As much as you wanted to know if she’d go through with her threat, you are exhausted. Begrudgingly you approach the bed. It’s certainly large enough for two people, even having enough room for you to be completely separate from each other. When you start to climb in, you find yourself overwhelmed for a moment, surprised at the quality of the sheet fabric. Exactly how rich were these vampiric assholes? This room alone seemed to be worth more than you had ever known.

This was, perhaps, the one bright side to your situation: A comfortable state of existence. Well, as comfortable as one could get in a place like this. So lovely on the outside, a muse worthy of a thousand artists, yet hiding far darker horrors within… much like the woman you now found yourself laying beside. Why me? Why her? What could possibly bring the two of us together, you think, other than a cruel fate? There’s a pain in your chest, dishearteningly similar to heartache. Damning the universe, and your blood bond, and yourself, you think ‘fuck it’ before sliding closer to Cassandra. One arm drapes itself over her waist, while you slowly lean your head against her back.

In an instant she’s tense, not even breathing, waiting for you to reveal whatever trick hid up your sleeve. But no trick comes, just your hand meeting hers, squeezing softly. Suddenly the tension is gone. None remains, not even lingering in the air, and the two of you soon drift off to sleep...

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Shaking, body made a wreck through tremors, tears staining her cheeks. Breathing comes hard, each shift of her lungs bringing with it a mighty ache. Someone’s holding her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, fingers tracing circles against her back. But she’s lost in her dream, eyes clenched shut. Visions flash before her gaze like lightning in a storm. There’s no time to process, no opportunity to prepare for the thunder that follows. Every strike is a punch to the gut she can’t ignore. When release finally comes, it is not a gentle kiss to her forehead, or a reassuring hand on her own, but rather an intense surge of pain that jolts her awake.

Cassandra nearly screams as she sits up, hands reflexively going to hold her head. One of them stings, bad, and she notices what look like bite marks on the side. For a moment her confusion acts as a welcome distraction. Then she’s looking next to her, and the puzzle practically puts itself together. There you are, one hand in your mouth, an eyebrow raised as you stare at her. Ignoring the lingering memories of her dream, she turns all of her rage towards you. Quickly she grabs ahold of your arm, forcefully yanking your hand out of your mouth, even though it makes your teeth dig in a little deeper. It takes more willpower than she wants to admit to stop herself from strangling you right then and there.

“I didn’t know monsters could even have nightmares,” you taunted. Before you know what’s happening, Cassandra is lunging towards you, pressing her forearm against your throat. There’s just enough pressure to make talking difficult. Both of her yellow eyes are filled with hatred, aimed right at you, but you can’t help but laugh. “Ya know, I did try to wake you up nicely. I should have known you only respond to violence. Next time, though, I’ll remember to stay a safe distance away.”

“You don’t know anything, dipshit. Anyone else would know better than to spout so much fucking ignorance, but nobody taught you how to behave, huh?” Cassandra growled, applying more pressure with her arm, leaving you unable to reply (for once). “You’re a goddamn mutt, aren’t you? Thrown to the street like the garbage you are, left to live in the gutter, feeding off of trash like a fucking cannibal. You should be honored to be allowed anywhere near me. You should be worshiping me, for fuck’s sake!” Black dots form in your vision, a dark halo edging into the corners of your eyes, as your lungs beg for air. But you’re grinning. You’re showing your teeth, bright and proud, knowing full well that you have won this round. As soon as realization dawns on Cassandra’s face she’s pulling herself off of you.

Still, you are left gasping, clutching at your neck as she hurriedly gets dressed for the day. By the time you can see properly again, she’s left without another word. Even as she stalks down the corridor, eagerly rushing away from you, she hears your laughter howling through the castle. It digs into her brain, taunting her. Soon enough you’ll stop, light headed, but she will still hear it echoing inside her mind. You’ll haunt her just as much as her wicked dreams. Hopefully more.

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #blunt teeth sharp tongue #cassandra gets a turn to be a dick #>=3

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rokutouxei · 3 years

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like flashes of starlight

genshin impact | G | 4331 | ao3 link in bio xiao / aether

summary: Xiao’s entire existence is rooted in Liyue, all thousands of years of his life, and when he begins to develop a fondness for a traveler whose journey takes him farther than he can ever imagine, he finds himself seeing his much smaller world, its time and space, a little differently.

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its docks. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

His Liyue. His to protect. Rex Lapis’ Liyue.

The fittings may change, but the core is the same.

When he’d first met the traveler, a thought crossed his mind that slowly embedded itself deep into his consciousness. Xiao knew with one glance that Aether was not of Teyvat. The way he held himself; the way he wielded his elemental powers; the mere energy of him was not human, or demon, for that matter. Aether felt like something different, like the night sky, broad and all-encompassing to those on the ground.

Had Xiao’s apprehension not superseded his curiosity, he would have asked: what does Liyue look like, to an outsider like you?

As a fellow outsider, do you see it as I do?

Rex Lapis’ decree is simple. Protect Liyue. Vanquish demons. Restore order through slaughter. Purge evil through battle. Nothing more, nothing less. The five yakshas' existence, purpose, and meaning all lie within that framework of being the weaponry by which Liyue is guaranteed safety.

As the last remaining of the five, despite being also assisted by the many remaining adepti, Xiao holds his mission close to his heart.

When the threat of Osial befalls Liyue, both the mortal millelith and Qixing, and the mighty, illuminated adepti come to the rescue. It is not easy to put aside their differences, but in the end they come together to fight for their nation, standing on top of the Jade Chamber, overlooking the monstrous water dragon haunting them all from the past. All are willing to fight until their deaths. But there is another one, standing on the battlefield, that does not need to be there—and yet is there—and does not back down despite every opportunity he gets.

Aether.

Aether is not of Liyue. Aether doesn’t even look like he’s from anywhere in Teyvat, for that matter, the true fittings of an actual wanderer, as if he were from an entirely different world of his own. And yet he is here. Bruised and still injured from a previous battle—he had heard the floating girl that they had come from the Golden House, and a battle with a Fatui Harbinger had led to the summoning of Osial—Aether still stands with the rest of them, ignoring any weariness from previous battles.

“What can I do?” he offers, and the adepti share a look at each other as if gauging the situation. They know. It is not exactly easy to hide that Aether is not like other travelers, other adventurers. They lend him their power. Slowly, gauging how much he can handle of their energies. They convene on the ballista, fighting Fatui and avoiding the strikes of the fallen god, water blasting them painfully.

At some point during the battle, Aether and Xiao meet back-to-back as they dodge from an attack. The former glances at the adeptus with an unreadable smile.

Xiao has long been used to being the strongest one on the battlefield, the one most proficient at killing. But with Aether here by his side—blocking and returning a strike, a Fatui agent dropping to the ground—there is a feeling that fills him about having someone near his equal, if not even stronger, fight with him.

Excitement? Thrill?

The tiniest bit of lax, like he would be safe with him?

So when the ballista cracks open with a particularly hard strike, and Aether has no choice but to obey gravity, Xiao does not fight the instinct to leap between debris to catch him before he lands on the ground.

Only a quiet tsk comes out of him once Aether is safely in his arms, to which the other’s gasp of surprise melts into a brief, sheepish grin.

He'd imagined the traveler would ease his murderous workload—not add to it. And right now, Liyue might be lucky to have a willing outsider to help them out in such a time of crisis, but like this… Xiao wonders if the nation will be any safer with a savior as reckless as him.

Aether calls it an offering out of jest. Xiao seems exasperated every time, but he does not reject the plate of almond tofu that gets offered to him anyway. Besides, it tastes different when it’s the traveler that makes it.

It is unfair in a way that Xiao hears ahead if Aether might pass by the Wangshu Inn—related to commissions from Verr Goldet or Huai’an, or perhaps from a brief sighting of him from the mountains of Liyue. But he finds it no sort of nuisance, because that only gives him more time to prepare himself to meet the traveler.

The plates of almond tofu, like all offerings to archons and adepti, are made with a wish in mind. Like this, Aether subtly asks for a sliver of time, a moment with some company other than his floating companion. And the Xiao before Osial, before saving Liyue, well, he would have turned him down, would have thanked him for the plate and then disappeared into the night, but—

Here, he does not.

Instead, he guides Aether up to the rooftop of Wangshu Inn. Here, the history of Liyue unfolds behind Xiao’s eyes, a history he knows like the back of his hand. Jueyun Karst to the left. Dihua Marsh to the right. And should the night be quieter, and Xiao allows himself to stand on the lower floor, there are the broken ruins in Guili Plains, where the war he had fought still rings clear.

Wangshu Inn fills his mind deafeningly with memories, but when Aether is there, all goes quiet.

Sometimes, Aether talks to him. Speaks to him of developments in his journey, or about a notable yet stray monster that he had fought with. Other times, it is mundane stories of his adventuring with Paimon. But a lot of times, Xiao’s company seems to be enough, Aether looking out at the view with an indistinct expression on his face.

It is in moments like these that Xiao recognizes something in Aether that he’s only ever seen in a mirror.

A deep welling of sadness. One that has been sharpened and smoothened and shaped by time.

Is this why Aether smiles at him like he understands his loneliness?

“My sister,” he said once, voice nearly just a whisper, “I’ve never been without her this long.” And that was it. No other explanation. He does not expound on what it means. It feels too heavy to say anything more than that. So when Aether leans his head against his shoulder, awake but not quite in his head, Xiao lets him, letting his questions disappear in an exhaled breath.

Eventually, if the Archons allow them, Aether will know of his secrets in time. And Xiao will know of his secrets in time.

Right now, it does not feel like it is his to ask.

But he can stay, he can keep watch, so that he does.

It isn’t that Xiao does not understand what draws the citizens of Liyue—and other nations as well—to the yearly celebration of Lantern Rite, it’s just that such a loud and joyous eruption of fervor has always had a different connotation to him, the one who protects Liyue from the monsters hiding in their shadows.

While Aether explores the newly-decorated streets of Liyue with the enthusiasm of a young tourist, streamers of red and lanterns bathing the city in a beautiful gold, Xiao looks over the harbor feeling like a foreigner. He hates the Lantern Rite. And not only because of the general adepti dislike of mortal life. Of course, he will never be one to complain about his duty, but the pain… The Lantern Rite is flashy and joyful—exacerbating the usual haze of the residual hatred of defeated gods.

On those days, Xiao finds no rest.

(Not that any kind of rest has ever been truly restful, not in what seems like ten thousand years.)

No room to breathe. Only the briefest of moments between fighting tainted monsters that spawn from the ground, his spirit black and blue and choking from corruption.

His one fear is what would happen to Liyue if one day, he becomes unable to fight?

When the karma that weighs down on him becomes too much for him to bear?

He has to continue to believe in his battle, lest he forgets it.

He sees the lanterns and chants to himself, like forcing himself to believe it:

It is worth it.

A camp of hilichurls reek blackness, slowly creeping into the territory of Wangshu Inn. There are innocent people there. As silently as possible, as to not draw any more attention, he quickly clears them, granting no mercy. Their anger dissipates from their bodies and sinks into his skin.

It is worth it.

Their eyes all black now, growling and hissing, a group of vengeful, corrupted treasure hoarder spirits track a caravan carrying stocks of food and materials on its way to Liyue Harbor. They promise sickness and death to whatever they touch. Before the driver and the millelith even notice him creeping by, the spirits are dealt with. When he breathes in, he feels them calling him unforgivable.

It is worth it.

He’s never been partial to crowded areas, not with his constitution being as it is. He’d rather be as far away from other people as possible, as to not bring any more danger than he already must. All of this human experience of the Lantern Rite—peeking in between stalls, checking wares, tasting the festival food, creating lanterns—are for individuals like the traveler.

There is evil out there to be cleansed, he does not have time for “merriment.”

Which is why he does not understand why Aether does not understand.

Why they insist to “bring the Lantern Rite to him”, serve him food that reminds him of sweet, sweet dreams. What they get out of dragging him all the way to the outskirts of Liyue Harbor, if only to overlook the Mingxiao lantern, a quiet reminder of a battle fought what feels like eons ago. The closer they get to the festivities, the more Xiao feels out of place, the more he wants to run.

But he does not, because Aether is by his side. And on the walk to the harbor, he asks Xiao about the Lantern Rite, as if he hasn’t heard about it before. Forces Xiao to form the words with his own mouth. Filling in the blanks when he no longer knows what to say; when he’s forgotten what it truly is now, to the people he is protecting, what happens on the stage while he is on the sidelines.

That the Lantern Rite is a celebration of the new year, a thanksgiving for the previous year’s joys, and a prayer in anticipation for the coming year’s blessings. That the Lantern Rite is a commemoration of its long past, its commercial hub status getting adorned with its intricate history, traders and storytellers coming together to speak of old wars and adepti and long-fallen gods.

Lanterns as beacons in the night, guiding bygone heroes back to their homeland.

Aether could be fair and say it as well, but he gives Xiao a taste of his own medicine and lets it sink in on its own.

This celebration is for you too, Xiao.

And when the traveler is long gone, he and Paimon in the streets of Liyue no doubt looking in awe and wonder at the culmination of the Lantern Rite festivities, Xiao sits on top of the mountainside on the outskirts watching Liyue light up with brilliance.

And he tells himself:

It’s worth it.

This is worth it.

Perhaps on the next Lantern Rite, Xiao wouldn’t mind taking a walk in the city with him.

No one prays to adeptus Xiao.

Not in the same way other adepti have served the citizens of Liyue, at the very least. There are no prayers of good tidings and great harvest; no pilgrimages made up to abodes to seek wisdom.

This has never bothered Xiao in the slightest, not in his hundreds of years of service.

It is better off this way. He doesn’t have what other adepti like Mountain Shaper or Cloud Retainer can offer, no knowledge and insight that he finds worth sharing. Even half-adepti like Ganyu would perhaps have more to give to a longing pilgrim.

The only thing Xiao can give is his executioner’s blow.

That doesn’t stop him from hearing them cry. Wishes for death from the most desperate, like silent bells tolling in the dead of the night. Demands for violence that are whispered into the traitorous air, reaching his ears without fail. They don’t have to speak his name for him to feel their prayers.

They twist, turn, mutate into the most horrible of requests, the hatred and miasma from old fallen gods corrupting even the most innocent of pleas, Xiao’s spear materializing in his hand as if on instinct, to kill, to eradicate, to cleanse, to kill kill kill kill—

This is why Xiao does not like to sleep.

Slumber means dropping his guard, letting the swirl of the voices take over him until he’s at his most vulnerable. Sleep is only more cause for trouble.

The yaksha soon learns, however, that sometimes, it is worth the spare openness; his emotions remaining unsaid and yet seen, somehow, because Aether is Aether. Xiao wonders if, to the traveler, he is transparent. Aether does not even flinch when Xiao misses to restrain the growl that crawls up his throat in response to the clamor of pain. Instead, the golden-haired boy readjusts where he’s resting his head on Xiao’s shoulder, and reaches the small distance to place his hand on his. Rubs two, three gentle lines with his thumb on the back of the adeptus’ hand before he promptly falls back into slumber, a well-deserved afternoon nap after a long morning of commissions.

Xiao’s spear dematerializes without a sound.

And, equally quietly, loud in its silence, Xiao rests his head against Aether’s, and closes his eyes.

Anger is not an emotion Xiao would associate with Aether, and yet here they are, at the highest peak of Qingce Village in the late afternoon, after he had asked Xiao if he knew someplace quiet where they would not be interrupted.

“I don’t understand,” he says, sat down with his arms on his knees, his head on his arms, curled up in a ball. Xiao stands next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, listening patiently. “She didn’t want to. …I’d finally found her, and yet…” There lingers the quiet kind of anger, voice calm yet cold. On the inside, Aether is trembling with irritation and swaying with dismay. The backlash of betrayal. “We’ve been separated for more than five hundred years.”

I’ve never been without her this long.

For what seems like an eternity after that, Aether is quiet. Understandably so. This is none of Xiao’s concern, at least not in the sense where he would have the duty to step in, and yet the chaos of it is one he could only ascribe to be some sort of nightmare. Perhaps similar to the ones he gets often. He imagines Aether’s world turned cleanly upside down—those he had considered his greatest allies now potentially his worst enemies; and that he had thought was his enemy is under the hand of the one person he trusts the most in the entire universe.

It is heavy.

In the silence, Xiao recalls when there were still five yakshas around. How the mist of karmic pain that entangled around them for eons of dutiful slaughter had begun to choke them, turn them into twisted versions of themselves. He had seen each of them fall from being unable to tolerate the agony.

He worries the same might happen to Aether. He worries that when that happens, he will only be able to watch, the same way he did back then.

That he would have to be the last resort to slay him.

It is only when the sun is long out of the sky when Aether speaks again, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming, sobbing openly—“I want to go home.”

Xiao… places a comforting hand over Aether’s shoulder. He knows that Aether would have been ready to go in a heartbeat. That Teyvat and Khaenri’ah are nothing but a blip in the grand canvas of his journeys. And that, unlike him, all permanent miasma and choking with his feet sunk into the ground, unable to move, forever rooted in Teyvat, in Liyue, in his karma, Aether has and always will be like flashes of starlight, beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

That he would be gone before Xiao learns how to miss him.

The only question the yaksha has is, when he finally goes, if he would take the rest of Xiao’s heart with him.

He would have pulled a classic “foolish mortals” had he known no better about Aether’s own expansive lifetime. Like this, then, perhaps they are the same in their foolishness. At least the citizens of Liyue know better than to acquaint with him, their guardian whose only strength is in pursuing death. They hear the mere word of him and they scutter in the opposite direction. It is better that way. It is safer that way.

But Aether does not, and now it is too late.

Xiao stays up late wondering how much of what has befallen Aether is from him. How much of it is his own karma, spread by their bond—whatever sense he may make out of it—and leading to the other’s pain? Aether complains of nightmares, of being in that domain and calling out for his sister, only to be pushed back, thrown off, like he had never been wanted in the first place.

So Xiao sets up for an apology for what he has done, the least he can do for spreading the black miasma that surrounds him into someone unrelated like Aether, but the latter only throws him a look of confusion that slowly evolves into a now-familiar, cryptic smile.

“Why would I want to sever it?” Aether asks, “I’ve never thought of that, Xiao.”

Xiao is quiet, too dumbfounded to say another word.

So instead, Aether puts his hands over his hips and says, “When I am in Liyue, you make me strong, Xiao, knowing you are out here protecting the land as well. I have no regrets about being close to you.”

Then stay, Xiao nearly says.

“What does Liyue look to you,” Xiao finally asks, though he intones it not quite like a question, like he’s still apprehensive about it. Aether turns back toward him, all gold eyes and hair, stars in the night sky.

“Beautiful,” the traveler answers immediately, as if he had long thought of it that way. “Rich in its history, steeped in tradition. And with guardians that look after it long after the people have forgotten them in time. It’s a stunning nation.”

Then stay.

“I know you keep yourself all wrapped in secrecy for the people, but—think about it, everything they do is in debt to you.”

“A debt that does not need to be repaid,” Xiao says. “I only follow through Rex Lapis’ original decree.”

“And that’s exactly why it’s so praiseworthy.” Aether nods to himself. “It’s a negative cycle where only you bear all the consequences. Had they known about you—should they still honor you the way they did then—they would see you as the hero that you are, Xiao. As the hero I see you as.”

Then stay.

Yanxiao avoids eye contact with Xiao but does not hesitate in giving Aether a judgmental look when he orders a plate of almond tofu for breakfast. What the cook doesn’t know is that it’s a reward for a restless night of nightmares, and an apology for a friendship that has always been wanted.

For the something more that cannot be claimed.

As they share the plate of sweet dreams, Xiao realizes, while looking at Aether enjoying a bite, that one day, like everything else that has happened in the past, he might be able to forgive himself—forgive Aether—for what they have done to each other. No grudge can last a thousand years. And should the thousand years pass—well, Aether would have been long gone, and Xiao knows better than to dig himself an even deeper grave for his sorrows.

Xiao has lived more than a thousand years in the loneliness, where there is only his spear and his darkness, but now, bathed in starlight, he feels lost and ill at ease. Perhaps, in a different life, things would not have ended this way, and there would have been compromises to be made, and there would have been promises to be kept. He considers the possibility of a universe where that occurs, if it would be better, if it would be worse.

The young-seeming adeptus searches his heart, only to find no answers.

The prowess of that one mortal Beidou is not one that has escaped Xiao, and once Aether informs him that she would be allowing him safe passage into the closed country of Inazuma, Xiao is certain the traveler would be alright. It doesn’t entirely ease his worries, however, so once the day of departure arrives, he slips into the nearby Guyun Stone Forest to observe the ship as it prepares to sail away.

His mind is so clouded he doesn’t hear Aether approaching him from behind.

“Xiao?”

The adeptus feels a pang in his chest in the other’s tone of surprise; on the other hand, a breeze of thankfulness fills his heart—perhaps he is less see-through than he’d once thought. He turns to the golden-eyed boy with his usual blank face, hoping his mask does not break.

Paimon speaks before he can. “Are you here to say goodbye, Xiao?”

“Hmph.” If he was, he would need more coaxing to admit it. “I wanted to see to it the ship wouldn’t sink before you’ve even left Liyuen premises.”

Aether smiles like he knows what that sentence really meant. Xiao wonders if Aether really understands, or he just likes to believe it is that way. “Thank you.”

He’d promised once, after all, that he would protect Aether, hear his call, for as long as he is in Liyue. Anywhere beyond there… is entirely out of his jurisdiction.

“You know,” Paimon begins, crossing her small arms over her chest, “Paimon thinks it would be great if Xiao came with us. Then I wouldn’t be worrying so much about you getting in weird stuff, Aether.”

Xiao gets interrupted before he can reply. “That wouldn’t be a nice thing to ask, Paimon,” he explains, patting the fairy’s head gently before turning to Xiao. “Liyue is Xiao’s home, he belongs here. I can’t take that away from him—and him away from Liyue. Don’t you think, Xiao?”

Home, huh?

Two pairs of gold eyes meet, and in the other, Xiao sees a longing that he wonders is what foolish mortals would call love.

“May your journeys allow you to reach your sister soon,” is, instead, what Xiao settles with, and Aether pulls out another one of his cryptic smiles. Like he hears the Thank you. Like he hears the Liyue—and I—will always be here. Like he understands the I hope you, too, reach and return to that place where you belong.

Like he knows this is a goodbye, but of a different sort.

Xiao is too far from where they are to be visible when the two get on the ship. They wave vaguely in his direction, his attention called back by a whisper of his name in a familiar voice, carried by the sea breeze. Xiao watches as the anchor gets hoisted, the sails opened, and the ship begins to make its way into the great sea. Once it is out of his sight, he has no way to find out if Aether will be alright.

At dusk, the stars are beginning to come out, perfect for wayfinding. Its deep blueness is all-encompassing, as if cradling Xiao in familiar darkness.

The adeptus raises his head to the wide sky. The god he has worshipped is dead. Only Archons know where his pleas will end up in. But even if he does not know who will hear his wishes, for Aether—he prays.

Time is a silly thing. At first, a day feels like a hundred years, and then, a hundred years pass by in what feels like mere days.

What felt like the entire world once is now but a passing memory.

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its harbors. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

Once, there was a traveler that roamed the landscape of Liyue, changing it and influencing it wherever he went. Shifting its colors; turning it upside down; leaving his stardust on it.

Liyue will always be the same.

The same harbor.

The same rooftop on Wangshu inn.

The same cliffside in Qingce.

The places Xiao went to, trying to understand what Liyue looked like to one who had come from the heavens, looking down.

The traveler he wished on stars to.

Xiao still finds him everywhere, in things beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

#genshin impact #genshin impact xiao #xiaoaether #xiaoether #fic

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srose-foxfire · 3 years

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Damirae Week 2021- Day 4

“Tale as old as Time” Day 4: Masquerade Ball

“I have a gift for you.”

Was all Damian had said to Raven one early winter morning. She couldn’t help but lift up a brow as she noticed his short black tail kept swishing back and forth. Damian was unusually pleased with himself as he explained her gift would be ready for her till midday. Raven couldn’t fathom what he had planned for her and agreed to stay in her room so the surprise wouldn’t be ruined. All morning Raven found herself walking in circles, she kept biting her lower lip with anticipation to what was in store for her. She looked up through her bedroom window noticing how the sunlight pierced through the white puffy clouds. Raven went ahead and opened the window all the way to allow the soft cold breeze of winter to enter her room.

The coldness did sting her for a bit, but Raven felt strangely delighted to be enveloped by it. She continued to gaze how everything was covered in perfect white snow. Raven hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but this had been her first-time seeing snow, she had read about it in her books but seeing it in person was truly a marvelous sight to behold with one’s eyes. The forest surrounding Wayne Castle were all blanket in white, making everything seem like a frozen white sea.

Something Raven was just noticing was that her bedroom window had a view of the castle’s main gates. This made her recall when she had fled, the day she had seen Damian’s true beastly form for the first time. She winced at the memory thinking she truly acted like a fool before him. She had kept that memory suppress since the rest of the day that followed, she had been unconscious. Raven remembered she had had just passed the gates; she entered the forest when she heard a strange sound belonging to a creature she never met.

Raven had stopped and stood still, hoping to blend with the pine trees. Whatever inhabit the forest gave her a low growl and stayed well hidden in the trees. Raven carefully took a few steps back, hoping to give herself some distance from the creature. She darted her eyes through the trees’ thickest trunks and manage to see a black form dart between the trees. It looked huge, much bigger in body than Damian’s beastly form.

Raven continue to back away, lifting her hands in surrender, she prayed that her body would show she meant no harm. Taking another step back, Raven lost her footing as she hadn’t realized the small cliff behind her. Raven screamed, frantically swigging her arms hoping to grab hold onto anythingto lesson her fall, she continues to roll down as branches and rocks poked her whole body. In the distance the creature howled, Raven managed to catch the glimpse of black fur running down the hill faster then she, she felt her body slammed into it. She whimpered in pain, her head was throbbing very painfully, she carefully turned her head and looked up. The sun shined brilliantly, blinding Raven for a moment, all she could make out was a dark form over her, as it panted and watched her. Its eyes were black and it too like Damian’s were sad.

That was when Raven blacked out.

The next thing she knew was waking up in her bedroom with Damian’s sisters looking after her. Raven scanned the area from her window, hoping to catch maybe a glance of whatever lived beyond the castle. Damian or his family didn’t speak much of the creature but did label it to be some sort of monster that guarded the castle. Just another ‘addition’ the witch’s curse held. They believed she summoned some monster to make sure no one entered or even allow Damian to leave the castle. Not that Damian would ever leave, he felt there was no place for him beyond the castle.

A light knock on her bedroom door brought Raven back from her thoughts. She called out and Damian timidly entered her room.

“I have something for you, if you would please follow me.” Damian said as he bowed and extended his left paw towards her.

Raven couldn’t help but smile, at the gesture, she truly wanted to believe they had become somewhat the strangest of friends. She walked slowly towards him and wrapped her arm around his large arm. Damian smiled and Raven could had sworn she had seen a very faint blush cover her dark fur cheeks.

Damian guided her out of her room and took her through hallways and rooms around the castle. It always amazed her how hugethe castle truly was since she hadn’t really explored every bit of it. Raven only walked through the hallways she already knew, she believed if she venture further into the castle, she would be lost in the maze of hallways and chambers. Since their celebration a month ago, the castle was always kept clean, Damian’s siblings did all the work. Raven offered to help but Dick insisted that they had it under control, though he was always to stay away since most of the time it was him creating the messes they had to clean up.

Damian led Raven to which she assumed was the East wing of the castle. The hallway they were walking through had many glass windows lined to allow sunlight to illuminate the halls. Raven couldn’t help but gaze out and see the gardens now adorned with snow and ice crystals. In the distance she saw an ivory pavilion in the center. Raven then saw the hallway was nearing to some large wooden marble doors with golden swirl-like handles. They were opened and she quickly scanned the open room, it was very grand, bigger than any other room in the castle she had visited. It must be the ballroom, Raven thought to herself as she noticed the room held somewhat a circular shape and as a single grand golden chandelier lit it ceiling. She took a mental note on how to get to the room for she wanted to examine it more.

Down the hallway were a vast case of stairs which led to a to entrance of another large wooden doors. They walked up, Raven waiting for Damian to open the doors but he stopped and looked at them for a long moment before letting go of Raven’s arm and turning to face her.

“Before we enter, I must ask you to close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of the surprise.” He added with a smile.

Raven lifted her brow but closed her eyes either way. She could hear as the doors slowly creaked opened, Damian carefully grabbed her hands and slowly guided her inside. Though her eyes were shut, Raven had to squint as she could feel the room was illuminated by the sun’s rays as her eyelids turned a crimson red.

Damian let go of her hands and cleared his throat, “You may open them now.”

As Raven did, she gasped and widen her eyes in amazement. Books covered the entire walls of the two-floor room. A library, she thought. Raven turned and turned as she study each shelf, marveling at every ancient texture that slumbered here, waiting for her to read and study each of them. Never in her life had Raven seen a collection like this, she had only every dreamt it. To add the library had a ceiling painting, it was a beautifully drawn art piece depicting the time-lapse of a rising sun, to it setting, and finally the sky decorated with small stars. “It’s beautiful.” Raven managed to finally say.

“Do you like it?” Damian questioned her.

Raven couldn’t help but scoff at him, “like it? I love it! This place, I never seen anything like it. I can’t imagine someplace like this ever existed.”

Damian didn’t hide his huge grin as he continue to watch her circle the room, “then it’s yours. No one has ever entered this room since the curse was placed. My father treasured this room for many of the books you see belonged to my late-grandmother, Queen Martha. I believe you will value this library and every book the same way she did.”

Raven couldn’t find words to express how much she was grateful for this and the only thing she could do in that moment was wrap her arms around Damian in a tight hug.

~~~~

“Grayson, care to explain what you are doing?”

Damian growled at his brother as he watched him float around in his bedroom rummaging through his wardrobe. Annoyed and overly frustrated with his older brother’s meddling, Damian crossed his large fury arms across his chest and started tapping his foot on the ground rather loud.

Dick laughed happily, disregarding Damian in the room as he pulled out some clothing and bundled it up in his hands. “This will do nice,” Dick commented in a very low voice but still loud enough for Damian to hear. “Do you mind if I take this?”

Damian opened his mouth to protest but Dick continue, “No? Good. I will bring this back later today, make sure to bath extremely well and put on some cologne. The family and I have a little somethingplanned for later this evening.”

Damian let out an annoyed scoff, “And what if I don’t want to attend?”

“Oh, but you want to attend. Lady Raven has requested your company.” With that Dick exited the room leaving Damian with a dumbfounded face.

Raven had asked for his presence? After his mind had finally wrapped around to what his brother had meant Damian immediately went to his personal bath and soaked in a rose petal bath and washed his fur. For good measures he washed himself four times. Throughout the day, he had to wonder what his family had planned, what Raven had planned for them. Damian had to admit, since he gifted Raven the family’s library, they had been spending more time together. When out strolling with himself, Damian would find Raven on the floor, reading a book before the fireplace. He would then join her and ask if he could listen to her read. She had the most beautiful voice. Damian would think to himself as he listens attentively to Raven as she brought every passage she read to life. Sometimes Damian would sit next to her, resulting in Raven leaning up against him as she read.

It was times like these Damian would notice his own heart would beat much faster and his insides felt like they were in a whirlpool. Damian was content to the moments he was allowed to be by her side. Though he would look at her and couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly happy to be with him and his family. He did treat her like his prisoner when they first met, he grimaced at the thought of how harshly he had treated Raven. Damian had treated her like a thief wanting to rob his family’s treasures. Not once since she stayed in his castle had Raven ever tried to steal or wanting to take anything to claim as her own.

Damian sighed heavily as his heart started to ache of the times, he could had been kinder to her. Perhaps he could had shown her his true form much earlier, so she hadn’t gotten hurt that one time. Though revealing himself was the last thing he wanted to do, she was so damn beautiful, almost as if she were a goddess brought down to the Earth share her beauty with mortals. Raven was truly a kind-hearted person, while he was a beast. Though now under these strange circumstances, Raven didn’t seem to mind at all his form, but was this truly a place for her? As much as he may want it, Raven wasn’t bound to the castle like everyone else. She was allowed to leave and go back wherever she had come from. That sudden thought of saying goodbye to her, hurt Damian greatly. He felt a sharpen pain compressed his chest, thinking of never seeing her sprawled before a fireplace reading.

A small gentle grunt shook Damian awake from his thoughts as he looked to his door, Dick’s body halfway through the door. He had a huge grin across his face, “You ready Dami?”

Damian only nodded.

~~~~

Dick had brought Damian an outfit he would only wear on special occasions. An emerald tailcoat with golden accents on the seams, over a black button dressing shirt, and a pair of black trousers. To finish his attire, Damian had been given a black domino mask to cover half his face. Yesterdaythis outfit would had not fitted him, but Damian could conclude that his brother had his suit tailored by Kori. As Damian followed Dick along a hallway, the young prince had to wonder what Raven was wearing. If he was dressed like this, then perhaps she was…

“We’re here.”

Dick commented softy as Damian looked up and in the middle of the ballroom, there she stood. Damian couldn’t help but gasp softy at the sight before him. Raven was there standing in a light strap lavender dress. It wasn’t extravagant as gowns he knew from centuries ago, instead the bodice was covered in lilac laces design to look like vines and fallen leaves. It hugged her carefully showcasing her beautiful curves. At the dip of her waist the dress was lightly fluffed. It wasn’t exaggerated puffy, instead it looked like she could walk calmly well and wasn’t weighed down as it lightly feathers over the ballroom floor. To compliment her gown, Raven wore long silk lilac gloves and a pearl-white feather mask.

Dick bowed and exited the room, leaving both his brother and Raven alone. As he closed the doors, an old phonograph started to play a soft melody. Damian cautiously walked towards her and for the first time in years he became aware of his steps. Damian briefly glanced down to look at his shadow, assuring himself he was taking careful and beautiful strides as he was once taught when he was a prince. He kept one arm behind his back while the other was folded across his chest, when he stood tall before Raven, he bow slowly toward her. “My lady.”

Damian peeked under his thick lashes to notice a small blush over Raven’s cheeks before she courtesy to him, lifting her dress as she did. “Your highness…” then she slowed rose back up and locked his gaze with her amethyst. “May I ask why we are dressed… like this?”

“Pardon? I was told you requested me tonight, I would-” Damian stopped himself long enough to realized what had occurred. This was a set-upplanned by his annoying family. Damian let out an annoyed sigh and wonder how he could make sure his family would stop putting him and Raven in uncomfortable circumstances. “It would seem we been played; I am sure my siblings planned for all of this, what I don’t understand is why here.”

Raven gave a half-hearted chuckle as she turned and study the decorated room. “Probably I am at fault, I was here earlier; readying, when your sisters came to check-up on me. Then I asked them what the ballroom had been like before the curse. They explained that every month there was a party and told me stories of the Annual Masquerade Ball, your family held for your people to celebrate the beginning of autumn.”

The ball, how did he manage to forget that?! “Yes, actually my father was the one who started the ball in order to give everyone in Gotham a chance to be something else, allow them to dream of the wonders outside their lives. Needless to say, that was how Koriand’r met my brother.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she was just a simple seamstress from the village. She came dressed in this brilliant crimson dress, one she made herself. Grayson fell hard for her; she was invited to the castle multiple times to fix our garments and create dresses for my sisters. After a few months Grayson proposed to her, and they were to be wedded when-”

When the cursed happened.

Damian didn’t want to tarnish the mood reflecting on what the curse had taken from them. They all been living under a blanket of sorrow for much too long. Though if it hadn’t been for the curse then Damian would had never met the beautiful woman who was standing before him.

The music from the old phonograph started to play rather loudly, making Raven lift her hands as they clasp Damian’s paws. “It would be a shame to waste this music.” She never once left Damian’s gaze leave hers as she carefully placed one large paw behind her back and the other held her hand. “Please lead me, my lord.”

Damian couldn’t suppress the smile in him as he lifted her hand higher and swept her off the dancefloor.

Let this dream never end.

#damirae week 2021 #Damian Wayne #raven roth #dc raven #Beauty and the Beast AU #DC Universe #DC comics #damina wayne #damianwayne #damian and raven #raven x damian #raven and damian #day 4 #masquerade ball

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one-piece-musings · 3 years

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A Ghost Ship and Cards (O.C. Bravo D. Rocks)

The Captain cringed as they ripped through her raven locks. An eye closing as she pulled away from the hot combs that grazed past her face. Six pairs of hands worked rapidly to the specifications of the captain preparing her for the grand entrance. If she had learned anything upon the seas it was to make her first impression loud and unforgettable. Bravo D. Rocks was willing to play an entire life's bet on one moment.

Hours later she knelt in front of a mirror as her hair was pulled up and pinned into place with golden hair pins now silky straight. Carefully, the woman leaned forward to pick the cherry rose lipstick pallet from the floor carefully lining her lips the same as they had done her eyes now shadowed in deep reds. Red hues glared from under those long black lashes and bravo could not help but smile anticipating her moment of glory.

She wasn't so much focused on creating a name as she was the reaction given when the old ship pulled into the port. She burst into laughter at the thought of fear upon their faces. The women around her worked rapidly to lay layers of silk pinning them into place carefully before repeating with the fifth layer of kimono. It was to signify her status as self designated royalty and a style she felt complimented her personality.

When they finished the door swung open and a small girl rushed in with spoken riddles bringing a growl from Xebec. Rouge hues shifted to meet the other in scolding before the words left her lips.

"Captain, The invitation was located and we are in route to the pirate festival. I do caution you in bringing THIS ship into port. There will be many who despise these sails and jolly roger and they may take their vengeance out on you alone. I worry for a twenty year old ship that was set..."

Before the woman could finish Bravo had hurled a brush at her popping her in the forehead before the fool could finish her statement.

.ೃ࿐"Don't you ever doubt my fathers ship! FUCK THEM AND THEIR OPINION'S and so long as you are in my presence don't you ever, ever, doubt my capabilities so long as you call me your Captain. No need to threaten me with a good time either, you already stuck gold!".ೃ࿐

Bravo explained as the woman rubbed her now bruised forehead in silence. The sweet smile to follow such a soft spoken voice fell back into place as bravo resumed her preparations. Though the words were spoken she held no offense because what they were going to do was going to bring a lot of attention. Her end game was to try and shake the world and capture all the shiny treasures that fell out. In order to advance and become notorious she would have to give up their best advantage.

.ೃ࿐"I intend to find Roger, I have some grievances to address so we simply must go. Don't you understand? There is no better way to make our presence known than to appear at a festival uninvited!".ೃ࿐

Bowing the other approached in silence to simply hand her the invitation to the festival quickly scurrying away much to the Captains delight. She preferred it this way. Fear and worry could move even the meekest of men and women. She desired to see the raw power promised to her by the crew in every waking day. They had sworn to avenge the name that had suddenly fallen to the grievances of others. Such a petty thing!

They were pirates and the world was ran by the cruel hand dealt by the sea. Whoever assumed that their adventures would be fair was a fool deserving of death by her hand. Bravo didn't really care of the things of the past and had no intentions of ruling anything at all. She just wanted to swim in the glory but wasn't concerned enough to chase the last island. Instead she would address what was before her and the fact they didn't know she existed was even more nerve racking and infuriating. Her father had not claimed her in any sense probably for her protection.

As nightfall fell, the Captain made her way down the old halls listening to the creaking of wood under her feet. Her laughter echoing out as layers of pinks, purples, and reds trailed behind her. The sandals she wore she was careful not to make a sound with as she stepped her hips swaying with each carefully placed step. Through etiquettes, Bravo was taught to move in grace as if floating. Her heart pounded as they inched closer to their destination. She knew this could go one of two ways and even if things did get a bit rough she'd surprise them by showing them that a feared ghost ship could also fly and fight with a vengeance. She had secrets to revel and was determined to keep the name alive if only for her own purpose. When the doors pulled open she glided past with stoic features. The image of the festival and ships reflected from her red pupils and Bravo found herself holding her breath.

The lights reflected into the heavens in invitation and the celebration could be heard even from far out. It was then suggested that they take a moment to gather their nerves with drinks before going ashore. Bravo could not help but nod in agreement her vices sounding rather lovely at the moment, for even she was nervous in the least. Bravo calmly waited for a red pillow to be placed on deck and let out a nervous sigh before quickly clamping her mouth shut to withhold any stupid comments.

Kneeling slowly she let out a much needed breath reaching out with freshly manicured hands to grip the sake bowl. Moments later she set casually an elegant bared leg propped in front of her as she lifted the bowl bringing it back only to lick her lips in approval.

.ೃ࿐"Hic!....pause.......Hic!".ೃ࿐

The woman chirped quickly covering her mouth with a blush quickly glancing about to see if any would call her on being drunk. It was then her second in command lifted the red top layer of silk to tie in place over her Kimono signifying her status. Bravo had never been big on hats instead she often decorated herself in gold and jewels and at times often wore a crown.

This was her revenge to be had and she intended to lay out any who stood in her path with grace and precision. Alcohol actually amplified her capabilities and she was known for being fully capable when under the influence. A drunken sage if you will, when tested with the kiss of alcohol. Her family set about her on deck and enjoyed their drinks in in celebration of her order to raise their revised Jolly roger.

The new black sails danced in the night breeze as the original white rocks sails dangled behind them blowing gracefully in the wind. The only one to be tied into place was the darkened red sail of her late father.

The ghost ship like appearance had much to her amusement spooked most in whom she encountered. The colors of the wood were also darkened for elegance and appearance. The ship by her design was renamed the Grim Reaper only because the girl at the time could not come up with nothing better her crew had actually agreed to.

She understood the wind so well and was the first to hang some of her newest sails sideways to assist in speed and navigation. The idea was spawned when she under drunken influence was seeking ways to speed up their approach. The Black Widow Pirates were unheard of and much like her design was often purposely confused for her fathers sails.

When the moment came and she knew they were within range she then gave the order for the cannons to be exposed and all armory to be on standby. She hoped she wouldn't need them but was certain of one thing and that was that pirate responses were often unpredictable.

.ೃ࿐"Don't worry, This ship was salvaged and built strong I assure you she still has a bit of fight in her. She is supposed to appear as if she sails in the land of the dead let's bring a chill to the festival. Its a wonderful effect and to be even more bold. Pull down the top sail and drop my father's sail in front of mine to prove my resolve.".ೃ࿐

As the order was given silence echoed out and the drunk princess turned quickly pulling her fan from her sash. Before her hand lifted to expand it her crew had disappeared to do exactly as she ordered. The whispers amused her so she gave no cares lifting her bowl to her lips to sip happily.

"She must have a death wish! She is certain to get us all killed."

Bravo spat her drink out onto the wooden planks whirling about in a hiss to address the subject at hand.

.ೃ࿐"If you are so cowardly as to doubt my plans then you are free to leap into the sea before I rise.".ೃ࿐

She said every word her voice smoothing out the serious tone decorating each word in promise. She gave no other comments as they dropped the sail satisficed in their resolve. Had she been her father the deck would probably be lined with the dead though none of the original Rocks pirates would have doubted. If anything they would have complained that the ship was not approaching fast enough.

This was about the treasures of the world and the thrill of installing a ghostly memory into the minds of others. Until now they were able to sail freely because none who survived were taken seriously in their claim of being attacked by the Rocks Pirates. It was the perfect cloak much like hiding in plain sight. Bravo cast no cares only because she had already seen the face of the world in her own transformation. Her will was built strong if only to protect her heart. A caged and locked away thing hidden behind greed and revenge.

She took her temper out on the world and her sails supposedly did not exist. Bravo would sink marine ships on sight to ensure none carried back a message of their true identity. She at the time needed the time to build and grow, to hone in on her haki and center the abilities of her fruit, Kūki kūki no Mi. The fan in her hand she used to direct attacks and control the element with ease compensating for range.

Bravo rose to her feet when the shore came close enough to view the Captain noting many of the sails she had seen in childhood. Sharp eyes glared out as the jolly roger she sought was not present. Softly cursing the Captain let out a disappointed sigh turning to face her crew shaking her head to tell them that Roger was not present upon the island.

Casting a quick shrug, the woman whirled back lifting the fan her thumb and index spreading the decorated fan out with a pop. The red ribbons dangling behind it danced in the breeze she kept circling them to slow their approach to almost a creep. Bravo sucked in a breath to take advantage of the mist that lingered over the seashore.

Slowly she lifted another arm to pull back her sleeve keeping her stoic posture black strands dancing about her as she prepared herself.

Bravo gave a long strike through the air drawing the mist on the wings of air to give them a bit of cover should she need to react quickly. As they sailed closer she quickly closed her fan tucking it within her sleeve alongside her other hand to patiently await their arrival.

She would watch their response to size up any and all opposition without a display of power. She believed that moving in silence was key in order to draw assumptions. She ordered her crew not to breath a word to add to the eerie approach. The creaking of the was ship able to be heard as they slowly pulled into port. The Fog slowly settled on board the ship and moved with them as they approached dispersing across the ground once they anchored.

#BravoDRocks #tagging from: one-piece-musings #one-piece-musings #one piece rp #originalcharacter #here goes nothing and now when I am supposed to do replies find myself creating entirely new muses thank god for multi muse #@chronicparagon #pinnedbybones

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hylianremnants-a · 3 years

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there is a timeline out there which ends happily for everyone, or at least, as happily as it can - a timeline where the earth never split open, & demise never launched his attack on the surface in pursuit of the triforce; where he never drove hylia to desperation, & eventually, death, as she did everything in her power to ensure the safety of the mortals she had come to, in her own, odd way, care for; where there is only one legend, & one hero within it.

hylia is a product of her creators. din, nayru & farore were incredibly powerful goddesses, able to create worlds & lifeforms on a whim, & to imbue simple artifacts with power so immense it could bend the very fabric of reality, but just as callous as they were capable. they knew the triforce would be an item desired by those who heard of it, & its abilities to grant the wish of any who were able to lay hands on it. it seems as if it was designed for that very purpose - after all, gods are incapable of using it, & if they truly wished to deprive the mortals of hyrule of its blessings, it would have been nothing for them to craft the triforce so that mortals would be unable to lay eyes upon it, let alone hands. but they didn’t. they created a separate realm for it, one which could be accessed by any who knew the way, & rather than seal it away to remain there in peace, they created hylia instead, to watch over the world they intended to leave, & the sacred relic housed within, & ensure that none - not even ones who, when they came later in time, would have been considered worthy - could lay a hand on it.

hylia was not conceived as a goddess. she wasn’t even conceived as a weapon, although that was how she perceived herself for a period of time unfathomable to mortals. hylia was conceived as a guard dog.

she was imbued with divinity, yes, but only so that it - that she - could be used as against those who would turn greedy eyes upon the goddesses’ golden treasure, & to prevent her from using it herself in turn, although until her final, desperate hours, she never would have dreamed of putting a hand upon it. she finds it hard to verbalize what, exactly, her relationship is to the goddesses. for much of her life, they were merely her creators, as they were the creators of all things. it was only after time spent walking amongst the mortals, observing their relationships & emotions towards them, that she began to think of the goddesses, collectively, as her mothers, but the title never truly fit them. after all, the mothers she saw in her time walking the earth, most of them, at least, stayed close to their children, to watch them grow & help them thrive. hylia has no recollection of the goddesses’ faces. she cannot say if she ever laid eyes upon them at all, before they took to the heavens & left the world behind. there was no emotional connection between them at all, simply a world placed within one hand, & the triforce in the other, & a simple order she couldn’t disobey - protect them.

& so she did. for eons, she stood at the gate between worlds, eldritch & unfathomable, & drove off any who opened the door, burning out their eyes in all her ferocious glory. her life was wings, & light, & flames, luminosity & loneliness, until she thought to look beyond the doorway, & see just what the world she had been ordered to protect looked like - & it was beautiful. skies of crystal blue & gentle winds, rolling fields of green filled with bright settlements of those whose lives seemed so small & insignificant, great bodies of water filled with foam & salt & glittering endlessly under a golden sun, & was it any wonder, then, that the goddesses had charged her with protecting such a place ? she was used to the strange, nameless colours & the gentle hum of power from the triforce, the only sound in the realm of silence she called home. the mortal world was just so different to what she had known until then, she could hardly be blamed for wishing to leave her post & walk in it, just for a while. it was the first time she had ever felt that she longed for something. it was the first time she gave into selfishness. it would not be the last.

the goddesses had turned their back on the world, & trusted it would be safe in hylia’s hands. she was only following their example when she stepped out from the sacred realm, transformed into something which, in a land of giants, would have passed for human. it was the first time she had used her powers for something other than pain. she was a goddess built for violence, & her first attempt to make herself something less - than was not as successful as she had hoped. her second attempt saw her enter the mortal realm in heavy cloaks & veils, wings hidden away until the mortals asked to see them, & it was this likeness of her which would be captured in statues which would find their way into the sky, in smaller carvings which would find a home in settlements across a ruined world; it was from those wings plumes would drop, to be discovered as treasures by a child of the sky. & so it went, the goddess becoming something more human each time she stepped away from her post, until, at last, she found a form she could be comfortable in, wingless & wandering. ( that wasn’t to say it was a form that made others comfortable. she spoke as softly as she could, & took care to be gentle with the little mortals who fascinated her, but a woman with eyes which softly glowed, & hair which flowed like liquid gold would always be looked upon with either awe, or fear. )

there are more myths about hylia than the ones which survived to be told on skyloft, more to the story of her & the one they called the first hero than a goddess coming to love a mortal, & the gifts she gave him to prove it, but some would say they were deliberately forgotten as a form of thanks to the goddess when she used her powers to send the mortals above the clouds. it would be much better for everyone if she was remembered as a kindly goddess, who favoured & cherished them, rather than the goddess she actually was - odd & at times overbearing, her morality misaligned with those she looked over, her intentions pure but her methods, at times, questionable. for all that she had longed to be in their company, it took time for hylia to warm up to those whose world she guarded. their lifespans were so small, & their emotions so intense because of it, & for the longest time, she could not comprehend why, why they felt so strongly & cared so deeply, & why, as the years passed, those emotions began to well up inside of her. there were times when she celebrated with them, wept with them, comforted them, yes, but there were centuries before where she had stood, cold & aloof, simply observing as they reached the highs & lows of their lives. they were incomprehensible to each other in their own ways, but still, they existed together. still, they praised her for saving them, & were careful to tell stories emphasizing her goodness, to sing hymns which thanked her for her benevolence. the stories of hylia as she was were lost to time, eventually, but what was meant as a kindness had unintended consequences when, all those years later, hylia’s mortal form regained her memories, & discovered, to her horror, just what sort of goddess she had been.

the decision to give up her divinity was not an easy one. she had been created with a purpose, to be a weapon, a guardian, a war goddess, a defender, & for the longest time, she had been exactly that. her absences from the sacred realm grew frequent, but she never completely abandoned her post, checking the doorway between worlds often, & defeating all who attempted to fight past her with ease. even when the world cracked wide, & demise’s army poured forth to terrorize the world, hylia had no fear. she had never lost a battle, & assumed that demise would, as all others had, fall easily when she took up arms. that he was capable of fighting her to a standstill shook her to her very core, & it was during that first battle, when it seemed, at times, that demise might triumph over her, hylia felt fear for the first time. she was able to drive demise into a retreat, but she knew it was only temporary, & the panic which rose within her was almost unbearable. it was only then that she understood why the mortals screamed as the horde ravaged their homes & murdered their kin. it was only then she made the effort to save who she could in the short time they had, & even that had ulterior motives; in the event that the unthinkable happened, & the demon king breached the cloud barrier in search of the sacred power, she would need warm bodies to delay his advance.

she never expected things to end as they did. skyloft was meant to remain airborne only for a short time, until she was able to slay demise, & restore peace to the land. had she known how the battle would have ended, she would have worked to save more of those who dwelled on the surface, but although the golden goddesses had made her divine, they had not made her omnipotent, & she was not, in those moments, a paragon of wisdom, despite what some might later say of her. she was a young goddess with a near - broken blade in hand, & wounds inflicted by evil incarnate which she knew would never heal. the battle against demise was won, the demon king trapped by a sealing spike crafted by her own hands, but at what cost ? the mortals were lost to her. the world had been ravaged. for the first time, hylia could taste blood.

she was so scared of what would happen once she died.

it was easier, though, when she was still divine to look at what might happen in the years to come, & decide that yes, the price would be heavy, but it would be worth it. & events as they happened - the kidnapping of her mortal form, the continued clash with the demon lord, the awakening of the only entity which had ever laid her low - were not her intention. she used the last vestiges of her power to leave gifts & messages & trials for the one she knew would become a hero in the future, to light flames, to forge the blade which would become evil’s bane, to compose a holy song which would guide the hero to the sacred power, & allow him to destroy the demon king once & for all. he was, at that point, simply ❛ the hero ❜, a faceless young man she could use in her plans. her mortal form, she considered only a vessel, a means to an end until she could awaken, & ensure demise’s destruction. they were only concepts, abstract at best, the few who would be sacrificed for the needs of the many. that they must live until they were needed never occurred to her. that they would be mortal, with all that entailed, seemed insignificant at the time. it can’t really be that surprising - after all, in their time of desperation, when the people of hyrule called upon their creators for help, the goddesses sent a deluge, & left their world to drown. with only their example to follow, is it any wonder the lesser goddess would be so cold in her considerations ?

perhaps she could have foreseen it, the chance that demise would awaken before her, but in the end, hylia had nothing left to give. her divinity was gone, then, & it was so strange, to bleed red as the mortals did. her last moments were spent in pain, in fear, & by then, even if she had been able to consider the possibility that her plan would be interfered with, there was nothing she could have done. the wheels of fate had been set to spinning, & she no longer had the ability to stop them. she had no way of knowing that demise would curse all those who came after them, & trap them in an endless cycle, & although her mortal reincarnation would regain her memories & much of her power, she would never regain true divinity until after her second death, when her & zelda’s souls would separate into goddess & mortal once more, & by then, she could not break the cycle alone - she was more ghost than goddess by then, capable only of reaching out to those who shared her blood, or those cursed by the demon king, in dreams & premonitions, with no guarantee she would be able to help them, or that they would be able to hear her at all. she didn’t want things to end this way. had her plan gone off as intended, she would have stood by it, fully believing that the means justified the end. of course, if her plan had gone off as intended, there would be no legends at all, & she would be a fallen goddess still able to stand proud, rather than a shade filled with regret.

there’s a timeline out there which ends happily, for everyone, where the threat of destiny is nowhere to be found, & those who want only happiness never find themselves at the centre of a cursed war, but it’s not this one, & until the cycle is broken, it never will be.

#◆ ― headcanon / hylia.#hhhHHHHHHHHHH WELL WE DID IT #this one massively got away from me & frankly i blame all of you #seeing everyone's takes on hylia was just. so fucking good & so inspiring #like yeah ok joke that the dash is a hylia hate zone ( sans dawn & miri the absolute angels ) BUT #it's been so fun to see everyone's opinions like i have been Living this day #& y'all have been so supportive of my hylia so far im ... a bitch might just cry #OKAY GOD okay. better tag this properly #death mention /#blood mention /#war mention /#violence mention /#immolation mention /#drowning mention /#flooding mention /#endless inescapable cycle of fuckery /#long post /

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Treat Your S(h)elf: I Drink Therefore I Am: A Philosopher’s Guide To Wine, by Roger Scruton (2009)

You could say that wine is probably as old as civilisation; I prefer to say that it is civilisation, and that the distinction between civilised and uncivilised countries is the distinction between the places where it is drunk and the places where it isn’t.

- Sir Roger Scruton, I Drink Therefore I Am: A Philosopher’s Guide To Wine

When I first got talked into investing in the dreams of my two cousins and their French families to continue to manage an old French vineyard I thought of Roger Scruton’s book. I already had this book on my shelf alongside his other works. Re-reading it nudged me to take a risk and go for it.

For one I have always loved wine and have drunk it from a very early age. Secondly what could be more cultured or civilising than to marry body and mind through the palate of philosophy and wine?

And finally, and perhaps more importantly, the opportunity to escape the madness of modernity - as well as make peace from war as a British combat veteran of the Afghan war by not so much as coming home but finding a new one - by getting back into nature with hard honest graft on the land that Mother Nature blesses. All of this I found especially appealing.

Of all the things we eat or drink, wine is without question the most complex. So it should not be surprising that philosophers from Plato and Socrates onwards to our contemporary times have turned their attention to wine: complex phenomena can lend themselves to philosophical speculation.

Wine is complex not just in the variety of tastes it presents – ‘wine tastes of everything apart from grapes’, I once heard a crusty old French vintner say – but in its meaning. Only the most woodenly literal-minded would deny that wine has a meaning: in its history, its role in human social life, in religious and other ceremonies. Though they drink it copiously over dinner at High Tables in their Oxbridge colleges, academic analytic philosophers do not spend as much time as they might in this kind of investigation of meaning or significance of wine – what we might call a phenomenology or a hermeneutic investigation.

Of course, there are more narrowly phenomenological questions which wine raises.

How do vintners or winemakers manipulate the underlying biochemical material to create the kinds of taste which they intend their wine to have? Does the ‘terroir’ of a wine really make a difference to taste, and if so how? What is the basis of evaluative judgements about the quality of a wine?

Arguably only those who actually make the wine and those who are life long wine connoisseurs can conceivably answer that on some experiential and technical level. But these are not the only philosophical questions in this area: the hermeneutic questions have their place too, in an understanding of the phenomena.

Sir Roger Scruton’s 224 page book is about the hermeneutics of wine rather than its psychology or phenomenology more narrowly conceived. Scruton, the late great conservative philosopher, is that rare breed who comes closer than most to bridging the gap between the grass roots and the High Table in answering such mysteries. The result is an engaging, insightful, informative and (in parts) a very funny book. It is immensely readable, more in the anecdotal style of Scruton’s England: an Elegy (2000) or On Hunting (1998), than his more heavyweight philosophical works, such as The Aesthetics of Music (1997), Sexual Desire (2004), Beauty (2009), and his writings on Wagner and high culture. He does often come across as curmudgeonly, but his (written) relations with women, music and poetry are very delicate and tender. And so it is with his love affair with wine. It is indeed a very personal book and its is warmly personable, like the man himself, and it contains so much of Scruton’s distinctive wit and intellectual personality, it ought to be of interest not just to wine enthusiasts (whom Scruton likes to call ‘winos’) and philosophers but also anyone curious enough to understand the place of wine in our world civilisation.

The first and obvious thing to say about Scruton’s book is how the title of the book is of course a play on words. It’s a playful wink to Eric Idle’s “Philosophers’ Drinking Song,” in which the Monty Python cast, lightly disguised as a group of Australian philosophers all named Bruce, list the world’s thinkers from a drinking standpoint. This includes the couplet slightly amending Descartes’s proof of his existence: “And René Descartes was a drunken fart / ‘I drink therefore I am.’”

The pun on words is Roger Scruton’s way of taking the Monty Python couplet seriously. After all Descartes was a serious man and though he was born in Touraine, the rich French wine region, did probably not drink much. He treats all this as a paradox that G.K. Chesterton might well have toyed with - that is, as a truth standing on its head to attract attention - and examines the drinking of alcohol as a way in which human beings learn more about each other, fellowship, some of the deeper realities, God, and not least themselves.

In this Scruton is a wise philosopher who teaches us how wine cultivates our moral virtue and our civilisation. He encourages us to recognise that stream of liquid descending from our pursed lips into our throat as the red or golden chord that runs from heaven to earth, and binds everything in-between into a cosmic whole. Wine both reflects and helps constitute our participation in all strata of reality, and points the way to our redemption, divine or otherwise.

In Scruton’s Prelude (a musical term, of course) where he quotes Emerson “who commends the great wino Hafiz [a Persian poet] in the following words: “Hafiz praises wines, roses, maidens, boys, birds, mornings and music, to give vent to his immense hilarity and sympathy with every form of beauty and joy.” This is echoed in Scruton’s terms that “by thinking with wine you can learn not merely to drink in thoughts, but think in draughts. Wine, drunk at the right time, in the right place and the right company, is the path to meditation, and the harbinger of peace.”

The book is divided into two parts, labelled ‘I drink’ and ‘therefore I am’ respectively. The second part of the book is more strictly philosophical - Scruton starts it with the nice conceit that ‘therefore I am’ contain the whole of philosophy, each word standing in turn for reason (therefore), consciousness (I) and being (am). But arguably wine and Scruton enthusiasts will probably get more out of the first part.

The first chapter is a nice description of his own discovery of wine as a young man. Warmly written, the chapter is devoted to his friends who made him “fall” for wine (or is it he who made them fall?) and his acquisition of a 1945 Château Lafite, “the greatest year from the greatest of clarets”. His first memories are happy ones of his mother’s home manufacture of elderberry wine in a post-war England where the French (and Spanish and Portuguese) grape had not yet “conquered the suburbs.”

“For three weeks the kitchen was filled with the yeasty scent of fermentation. Little clouds of fruit-flies hung above the jars and here and there wasps would cluster and shimmer on the spilled pools of juice.” Other Englishmen of Scruton’s generation will recognise and sigh at this description as many fathers - including my own - made his own beer and wine from motives of both fun and economy.

Thus ill-equipped, Scruton goes to university ignorant of the rich variety of wines available even then to an English wino. At Cambridge and, later, in Paris, a succession of tutors, patrons, and friends not only introduce him to a growing list of wines but also teach him how to drink them. Some of the wines he is given are complex and expensive Burgundies, others cheap French supermarket vin ordinaire.

But Scruton discovers that all have certain inherent qualities that an educated palate can discover by drinking them attentively and appreciatively. By learning their provenance and history, he enriches his knowledge of the locality that produced the wine — and he can imagine (I would like to believe this is so) that he can glimpse the character of the local people in the wine itself. He learns finally that certain wines go with certain things, not merely certain foods, but certain occasions, certain friends, certain thoughts, even certain topics of conversation. He becomes a wino.

When in his early middle years, Scruton buys a farm in southern England, he discovers to his delight an array of homemade-wine equipment, identical to that of his mother’s elderberry experiments, on the kitchen floor: “I listened to the bubbles as they danced in the valves, and studied the wasp-edged puddles on the tiles. I had come home.” Yet it is a different person who comes home. Scruton celebrates his good fortune not with elderberry wine but by opening and drinking in quiet happiness a treasured bottle of Château Lafite 1945 that had accompanied him in the long wanderings now ended. For, by this time in his life, Scruton is a confirmed Francophile in his drinking tastes.

The chapter ends on a remark concerned with the “new habit, associated with American wine critics like Robert Parker, of assigning points to each bottle” which should not only be “viewed with nothing but contempt” but also compared to “assigning points to symphonies, as though Beethoven’s 7th, Tchaikovsky’s 6th, Mozart’s 39th, Bruckner’s 8th all hovered between 90 and 95.

Perhaps his second chapter ‘A Tour de France’ is the best one. This is a very personal, but informative and interesting, guide to Scruton’s favourite French wine regions. starting in Burgundy, down to the Rhône Valley, the Pyrenees and ending in Bordeaux with T.S. Eliot’s description of a spiritual journey that applies equally to a journey through wine:

We shall not cease from exploration, And the end of all our exploring

 Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

With much reason, Scruton does not think very highly of blind tasting: “To think that you can judge a wine from its taste and aroma alone is like thinking you can judge a Chinese poem by its sound, without knowing the language.” I let out a whoop of appreciation when I read this. In one clean swoop he casually casts aside the resultant snobbery that comes from the ritualising and self-importance of blind tasting events.

I think blind tasting whilst sincere is also an exercise in showing off. I’m not saying people don’t have a nose for wine or can tell certain elements but blind tasting is not the best way to truly appreciate the full complexity of wine. Indeed in my embryonic wine making experience (by watching my cousins and the managers on our vineyard) I would say terroir is perhaps one of the most overlooked aspects of wine making and it determines the difference between good wine and a bad one.

It’s great to read that Scruton defines himself as a terroiriste. Not the French word for a terrorist! But a believer in the French word, terroir. It is derived from the Latin word terra meaning earth or land. It’s a word coined by the French to express a wine’s sense of place. There is no English equivalent for this word. It was originally used to distinguish the wine making practices of old world wine. In other words terroir is how a particular region’s climate, soils and aspect (terrain) affect the taste of wine alongside the traditions gone into producing the wine. Some regions are said to have more ‘terroir’ than others. Johan Joseph Krug (1800–1866), the famous champagne producer, once suggested that “a good wine comes from a good grape, good vats, a good cellar and a gentleman who is able to coordinate the various ingredients.” No trace of terroir.

But I think Krug is wrong and vintners as well as the wine industry as a whole have come to the same realisation of the importance of terroir. Back in the 1980’s, many of these ‘terroir-driven’ wines were actually affected by wine faults including cork taint and wild yeast growth (brettanomyces). Vines thrive in a range of soil compositions from highly draining granite and schist based soils to limestone and clay and vines, in turn, react to these different soils in different ways. And on top of the differing soils, certain areas of the world have such unique combinations of geology and topography that interact with specific sun exposures that the resulting wines have distinct characteristics that cannot be found anywhere else.

Nowadays terroir is used to describe practically every wine region. Because much of European wine (old world) is steeped in tradition it is easier to get a sense of terroir. It’s a bit harder in a place like Napa or Sonoma (new world) because of the looser laws that govern winemaking but younger winemakers are coming around to the idea of terroir and trying to express the land. But certainly in France today vintners - as they come to increase their geological knowledge and environmental understanding and find ways to marry that to their unique artistry and craft - have realised the unique role terroir plays in the wine making process.

The next chapter looks at wine from “elsewhere:” Here Scruton looks at the Middle-East where wine was born; Greece where Bacchus, Dionysos, and more importantly, Eros used to hover; the United States; Australia, New Zealand and their misspelling of Syrah as Shiraz, the Iranian city of poets, gardens, nightingales and last but not least, wine; a few lines on South Africa, then Italy, Romania and Spain. But “travel narrows the mind, and the further you go the narrower it gets. There is only one way to visit a place with an open mind, and that is in the glass”.

Scruton had already warned the reader in the previous chapter not to read the “elsewhere” chapter: “After punishing body and soul with Australian Shiraz, Argentine Tempranillo, Romanian Cabernet Sauvignon and Greek Retsina, we crawl home like the Prodigal Son and beg forgiveness for our folly. . . [Bordeaux] is the wine that made us and for which we were made, and it often astonishes me to discover that I drink anything else.” I rather fancy he is being tongue in cheek here.

This is for the “I drink” part of the book. Its author then moves to the “therefore I am” part which often needs much deeper philosophical knowledge than perhaps than even your average educated layman might have some difficulty having if they are not versed in a basic understanding of aesthetics as philosophical discussion. But here his aim is to rescue wine from the philosophers and the so-called wine experts.

To those who have never been captivated by the complexity of wine and the way it is bound up with western civilisation, a book on the philosophy of wine might be dismissed as the typical product of conservative snobbery and elitism. But this would be a mistake. Scruton is not a snob about wine (nor, for that matter, about anything else). On the contrary, one of the strongest themes in his writing is his deep love of the everyday, of the simple pleasures of society as he imagined it once to be, where people were at one with the land and with the traditions of their culture. According to Scruton, this is something that (although it probably never existed) should be open to all, but which is being destroyed by the march of modernity. (In a nice aside, he asks: ‘Who am I to stand against the tide of history? Come to think of it, I am the only person I know who does stand against the tide of history’.)

In passing, Scruton evokes the great philosopher Avicenna who lived in Isfahan (Persia) during Islam’s Golden Age (980–1037 AD); he was a wine aficionado who recommended drinking at work defying “the Koranic injunction against wine, citing it as an example of sloppy reasoning,” that does not take into account whether it is a small or a large amount. Scruton (p. 133) also points to the fact that “in surah xvi, verse 7 of the Koran wine is unreservedly praised as one of God’s gifts. As the prophet, burdened by the trials of his Medina exile, became more tetchy, so did his attitude to wine begin to sour, as in Surah v verses 91-92. Muslims believe that the later revelations cancel the earlier, whenever there is a conflict between them. I suspect, however, that God moves in a more mysterious way.”

Scruton is very quite skeptical that the vocabulary used by so-called experts to describe wine is of much help: “If I say of a wine that it has a flowery nose, lingers on the palate, with ripe berry flavours and a hint of chocolate and roasted almonds, then what I say conveys real information, from which someone might be able to construct a sensory image of the wine’s taste. But I have described the taste in terms of other tastes, and not attempted to attach a meaning, a content, or any kind of reference to it. The description I gave does not imply that the wine evokes, means, symbolises or presents the idea of chocolate; and somebody who didn’t hit on this word as a description of the wine’s flavour would not show that he had missed the meaning of what he drank or indeed missed anything important at all. Our experience of wine is bound up with its nature as a drink [which] endows wine with a particular inwardness [and] intimacy with the body [that is not] achieved by any smell, since smell makes no contact with the body at all, but merely enchants without touching, like the beautiful girl at the other end of the party. . . Nothing else that we eat or drink comes to us with such a halo of significance, and by refusing to drink it people send an important message —the message that they do not belong on this earth.”

Again, I found myself saying amen to that.

The good part of the second part is Scruton trying to make a case for the cultural uniqueness of wine. In one sense, Scruton is right to do this: it is undeniable in many parts of western culture, wine has played a unique role in religious and social rituals, which no other drink has. But he can push his point beyond plausibility when he attempts to argue that because of the qualities of wine itself – and what it is to drink it properly – nothing else could play this role (more on this later).

The argument starts well, with a very illuminating discussion of the distinction between the various ways in which a substance can intoxicate. There are those that merely stimulate without altering the mind (like tobacco, for example). Then there are those which have mind-altering effects, but whose consumption itself brings no plea- sure (e.g. heroin). The third category contains those things which alter your mind and bring pleasure in their consumption: cannabis and forms of alcohol other than wine are his examples. Wine, Scruton argues, is in a fourth category of its own: here the alteration of the mind is internally related to the experience of consuming it.

These distinctions are very useful, and the distinction between the third and the fourth category is subtle but certainly real. It relates to the question of what non-human animals can and cannot do. Scruton makes the nice observation that an animal cannot savour wine (or any- thing else). In being able to savour or relish the taste of wine, a person no more separates out the effect of the wine from its taste than they can separate the meaning of a piece of music from its sound. Although one would not realise this from reading the thousands of words that are written daily about wine, wine would not be the drink it is if it did not intoxicate.

The last two chapters deal respectively with wine and whine, and being and bingeing. Though Scruton has something to say in favour of Puritanism, he castigates the ease with which “puritan outrage [and in particular, prohibition, but also sexual behaviour] can be displaced from one topic to another, and the equal ease with which the thing formerly disapproved of can be overnight exonerated from all taint of sin.”

He vehemently protests against “the humourless mullahs,” and the misuse of drinking, but also rejects the idea that fermented drinks are just shots of alcohol, and insists on their social functions across civilisations and time: “The burden of my arguments is that we can defend the drinking of wine, only if we see that it is a culture, and that this culture has a social, outward-going, other-regarding meaning. . . When people sit down together sipping drinks, they rehearse in their souls the original act of settlement, the act that set our species on the path of civilisation, and which endowed us with the order of neighbourhood and the rule of law.” But he has not much against drinking alone, and ends with a few words from the Chinese poet Li Po (700 BC), the same poet whom Mahler used in his Lied von der Erde (though in a very approximate translation):

A cup of wine, under the flowering trees; I drink alone, for no friend is near. 

Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,

For he, with my shadow, will make three men.

Scruton points out in several brilliant passages, the prohibitionist, like the modern day Islamists and moral police in the West and the all too familiar binge-drinker are alike in their ignorance of the virtue of “temperance.” They can envisage no stopping place between abstention and alcoholism. Their absolutist logic, he argues, is like objecting to a first kiss on the grounds that it will one day lead to a divorce. And neither can really understand drinking for any reason other than to get drunk.

Scruton confirms the wider value of temperance in our lives: “Virtue should be cast in human form if it is to be humanly achievable. Saints, monks, and dervishes may practice total abstinence; but to believe that abstinence is the only way to virtue is to condemn the rest of mankind. Better to propose the way of moderation, and live thereby on friendly terms with your species.”

As it happens, the occasional bender may actually have therapeutic qualities in moderation (i.e., if indulged in infrequently). George Orwell, who can hardly be accused of lacking a puritanical streak, thought that people should get drunk every six months or so. The experience, he thought, shook one out of one’s regular complacency and could be compared in this to a weekend abroad. Certainly it very often produces a feeling of greater humility in those who can remember what happened. Yet getting drunk is something that most drinkers do very rarely, if at all.

Changing our mood and outlook is a very different matter. Under the influence of a moderate amount of alcohol, our inhibitions are loosened. Shy people become bold, the tongue-tied talkative, the dull lively, the unimaginative fanciful, and the isolated social. (Even “mean drunks” usually start the evening in festive and forgiving mood.)

That last loss of inhibition is the most important because it promotes the fellowship that is the basis of a decent society. Not all intoxicants perform this vital function. Cannabis and similar drugs tend, if anything, to imprison the taker within his own consciousness (however expanded it may seem to him in his dreams). Except for those who lose themselves in alcoholism (and consequently become asocial in their attempts to deceive others about their condition), however, alcohol is a profoundly social drug. At the same time, not all varieties of alcohol are equally social in their effect. This thought leads Scruton to narrow somewhat the scope of his enthusiasm. Having rejected teetotalism, he continues: “The real question, I suggest, is not whether intoxicants, but which. And - while all intoxicants disguise things - some (wine preeminently) also help us to confront them by presenting them in re-imagined and idealised forms.”

Scruton makes a fascinating and intriguing point related to our historical relationship with the vine to make wine the highest ideal form. He claims that wine derives from a crucial historical transition in our relation to the earth – when human beings settled, put down roots and stopped being mere hunter-gatherers. In a memorable phrase, Scruton claims that in this way wine celebrates ‘the earth itself, as the willing accomplice in our bid to stay put.’ But of course one could say similar things about distilled spirits and beer. Such drinks are not made in such an incredible variety as wine is, but Scruton’s point is not about variety but about the intrinsic and relational qualities of the drink itself.

In the end, one cannot help feeling that he is relying a little too much on the sheer panache of his writing to help his argument bounce along: ‘Wine is not simply a shot of alcohol, or a mixed drink. It is a transformation of the grape. The transformation of the soul under its influence is merely the continuation of another transformation that began maybe fifty years earlier when the grape was first plucked from the vine.’ Wine is a transformation of the grape, to be sure. And the mind or soul is transformed in its consumption. But these two transformations are so very different that it is hard to see what can literally be meant by the one being the continuation of the other.

In fact, Scruton’s view is not just that wine is unique as a stimulant, but that it has to be drunk in a particular way in order for the harmony of taste and intoxication to take hold. It is not hard to agree with Scruton’s argument that there are more or less civilised ways of drinking wine. And this part of his thesis is very plausible: ‘The burden of my argument is ... that we can defend the drinking of wine, only if we see that it is part of a culture, and that this culture has a social outward-going, other-regarding meaning. The new uses of wine point towards excess and addiction: they are moving away from the old way of drinking, in which wine was relished and savoured, to the form of drinking typified by Marmeladov, who clutches his bottle in a condition of need.’

However I still found all this a tad unconvincing in that he makes a case that only the savouring and relishing of wine can play a central cultural role as opposed to other spirits - think of Scotch whisky for the Scots and beer for much of Northern Europe or even tea(!) for the English. So my apologies to Roger Scruton but I remain sceptical of his argument that of all stimulants, wine is uniquely civilising, however much I want it to be true.

I think Scruton is also wrong to despise cocktails. A well-made cocktail is as complex a set of taste experiences as a good Bordeaux. A good-strength cocktail is the perfect prelude to the theatre, giving one exactly the right lift to help the play to entertain, but not suppressing one’s appetite long enough to spoil a post-theatre dinner. It can be the booster rocket that starts a convivial evening. But the cocktail has its limits. The alcoholic strength of most cocktails reduces their usefulness both as an aid to sustained fruitful conviviality and to the kind of imaginative introspection that Scruton thinks necessary for a happy life.

That aside, Scruton knows that the best (including Li Po’s poetry) should be kept for the very end. The bouquet (of the wine, but in French the word is also used for the finishing of a firework) comes with the Appendix: What to drink with what, though here the second what does not stand for food, but for philosophers. This part of the book I very nearly coughed up my wine as I found it terribly amusing to pair a suitable wine, as one would with food, to a philosopher one might be reading.

St Augustine: Drink a glass of Moroccan Cabernet Sauvignon, though “the City of God requires many sittings, and I regard it as one of the rare occasions when a drinking person might have legitimate recourse to a glass of lager [which I did in Odessa, while reading Scruton], putting the book to one side just as soon as the glass is finished” [which I did not do, since I had three glasses, each of which containing half a liter].

Francis Bacon: “Any discussion of his insights should, I think, proceed by the comparative method. I suggest opening six bottles of a single varietal—say Cabernet Franc- one from the Loire, one from California, one from Moravia, one from Hungary, and if you can find two other places where it is grown successfully you will already have given some proof of the inductive method—and then pretending to compare and contrast, taking notes in winespeak, while downing the lot.”

René Descartes: “As the thinker who came nearest, prior to the Monty Python, to stumbling on the title of [my] book, Descartes deserves a little recognition. . . He has ended up as the most overrated philosopher in history, famous for arguments that begin from nothing and go nowhere. I would suggest a deep dark Rhône wine [that] will compensate for the thinness of the Meditations.”

Baruch Spinoza: “The last time that I understood what Spinoza meant by an attribute it was with a glass of red Mercurey, Les Nauges 1999. Unfortunately, I took another glass before writing down my thoughts and have never been able to retrieve them.”

Immanuel Kant: “And when it comes to [his] Critique of the Judgment, I find myself trying out [several wines], without getting any close to Kant’s proof that the judgment is universal but subjective, or his derivation of the ‘antinomy of taste’— surely one of his most profound and troubling paradoxes, and one that must yield to the argument contained in wine if it yields to anything.”

Friedrich Nietzsche: “Although we should drink to the author of The Birth of the Tragedy, therefore, it should be with a thin, hypochondriac potion, maybe a finger of Beaujolais in a glass topped up with soda-water.”

Edmund Husserl: “I recommend three glasses of slivovitz from Husserl’s native Moravia, one to give courage, one to swallow down the jargon, and one to pour over the page.”

Jean-Paul Sartre: “Sartre’s great work of philosophy, L’être et le néant, introduces the Nothingness that haunts all that he wrote and said. . . If ever I were to read Sartre again, I would look for a 1964 Burgundy to wash the poison down. Small chance of finding one, however, so there is one great writer whom I shall never again revisit—and I thank God for it.”

Martin Heidegger: “What potion to complement the philosopher who told us that ‘nothing noths’? To raise an empty glass to one’s lips, and to feel it as it travels down—noth, noth, noth, the whole length of the tube: this surely is an experience to delight the real connoisseur.”

In conclusion I really enjoyed reading this book (again and again).

This is a wonderful book for anyone who loves wine and wants to try identify what, in all its complex connections with so much of what is valuable in civilisation, might be special about drinking it. I think he does a wonderful job in looking at the philosophical and religious questions related to wine, from the Koranic injunction against alcohol to the true nature of temperance. These questions take us far from the vineyard at times, making excursions into terroir as different as Wagnerian music dramas and the philosophical nature of smells. His arguments as well as his beautiful prose are fresh, original, teasingly provocative, but also joyous.

This book is only about 224 pages but fun to read either in one sitting or dipping in and out at pleasurable intervals.

There are pages of useful advice on what wine to buy that are also glimpses into what to look for in the wine. I think his recommendations are good ones even if he leans too heavily into French wines. As someone who co-owns a vineyard I can say with reasonable confidence that I know my French wines but also wine from South Africa but confess my ignorance of wines from the new world such as California or Chilean wines. But I see that as an opportunity to discover rather than stay in my comfort zone. Here Scruton gently prods you along to do just that.

As an aside Scruton, who never shies away from his staunchly conservative Tory beliefs, perhaps forget to mention one juicy vignette in that Karl Marx’s political and philosophical ideas were probably inspired by wine. Indeed Karl Marx’s family were the happy owners of a vineyard in Trier, a small affluent Rhineland city, on the rolling hills of the Mosel River Valley. The family sold it due to hard times. Then as now these vineyards of the Mosel Valley remain mostly small-scale, are still known for their fruity white wines, and especially their lemony Rieslings and agrotourism. It seems the politics of wine (tariffs and import taxes) played a larger role in the history of leftist thought than their quaint appearance might suggest. In the early 1840s, the economic struggles of these very vineyards inspired Marx to criticise the draconian Prussian government - and in the process, some historians argue, begin developing the theory of historical materialism for which he is best known. In fact there is a delightful book I can recommend written by Jens Baumeister called, ‘How Wine Made Karl Marx a Communist’ (2018) if anyone is interested in reading more about that.

Of course it’s always hard to know how seriously one is supposed to take Scruton in some of his more extravagant comments in the book, like many things he says in his other books: ‘you could say that wine is probably as old as civilisation; I prefer to say that it is civilisation, and that the distinction between civilised and uncivilised countries is the distinction between the places where it is drunk and the places where it isn’t.’ His desire to outrage and court controversy rises to the surface, and can result in some of the funniest moments in the book. But as with everything he writes, some of Scruton’s claims must be taken with a pinch of salt or more appropriately, with a glass of claret.

Indeed I prefer to picture his words as if he was one’s old and familiar drinking companion sitting on weather beaten leather chairs and making provocative but teasingly good natured remarks out of a desire to amuse rather than to be boorish or loutish. Indeed this book is best enjoyed with a glass of wine on hand whilst sitting on a comfy old worn out leather chair curled next to log burning fire as the light dims outside.

I would whole heartedly agree with Roger Scruton that wine is a “drink that causes you to smile at the world and the world to smile at you.” Instead of imprisoning you inside a solitary introspection, it takes you out of yourself - and your ideas with you - to mingle with others and their ideas. Wine is therefore a voyage of discovery - and rediscovery - in many senses. And for this I can happily raise my own glass and say amen to that.

But what glass of wine would I raise when reading Scruton’s own book?

Well, one bottle won’t do. So temperance is out of the window then - sorry Roger. You will need a good French Sauternes or Barsac (preferably 2014) with the nostalgic autobiography, a finely bodied Bordeaux wine (I would go with a more complex wine from Saint Emilion) with the philosophy section of the book, and a champagne (of course) to drink with the philosophical jokes towards the end of the book.

Oh go on then, finish off with a tipple of Cognac before bed time, I am sure Scruton wouldn’t begrudge anyone that pleasure.

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akanemiura · 3 years

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Nightingale

To listen, fine; not to listen, fine too... nightingale

- Chiyo-ni

To know my mother, I stitch her together from stolen glances, like a predator cat whose eyes I must never meet. I make a crude construct out of imperfect memory and the myths she left behind; and this poem, patched together from tatters after it was rescued by her from its watery grave, is one of the pieces I linger on most. In my imagination, I am mother and daughter and we read the lines together, feel the weight together, and reflect on how we, the yearning duet, live these words together in a world that struggles to keep us together.

The crowning jewel of my mother's achievements stands the test of time inside a museum in Bukyo, where waterlogged scraps of paper bearing timeless poetry have been preserved under glass to keep the last of their salt-spotted words from disappearing all together. Rie knew of the shipwreck that took the priceless scrolls under the waves of the Ruby Sea some fifty years before and never did get them off her mind. She used her voice to appeal to the bakufu for assistance through polite, but firm letters and was politely, but firmly refused; the funds for such a seemingly frivolous endeavor simply did not exist in a year when the harvests were lean. It could have been the end of the line for this dream of hers, and yet she was undaunted. She traveled the islands and ingratiated herself to the clans who could not figure out what to make of the tan woman with a bow slung across her chest, who offered to chase out bandits and shovel shit for a chance to speak with someone in charge. Read this, she would tell them, reeking of labor but having the eloquence of education, and pulled out the little chapbook of haikus she kept in her breastpocket. This is our culture, our pride, she appealed, and when the sweeping rhetoric of national treasures could not put a light in the eyes of the lords and ladies, it was: Sell it to someone who wants a rare treasure and feed your vassals. Pay for the new wing of your home you've been wanting. Please just save it before the seawater claims it forever. And when she heard the last Thank you, but we simply can't, she forged ahead and took to the seas. She mended sails and cooked in slanting galleys on violent tides before a ship of Confederates agreed to trade her labors for a shot at resurrecting a graveyard of treasures. They say she led the dives in grueling sixteen and twenty hour days. When pressed as to why she was working so hard, she said she was simply too excited to sleep.

It was at the state celebration in honor of her successes that she caught the eye of Genjiro Miura, a man who had sown his wild oats with several wives of yore and had finally grown ready to take the lead from his own aging parents for good with a sense of quiet dignity and stoicism. As I understand it, this was not always the case; in fact, he was once like my brother Gensai, perfectly illustrated by a story told to me by my grandmother whereupon he got ripping drunk with my aunts and uncles at a wedding and shot a flaming arrow at a pile of manure they'd laughingly shaped like an ass. I would never tell him I know about his secret life before the tribulations of leadership permanently bricked over his smile, but I'd like to think my mother saw the laugh lines around his eyes and knew there was more to find under the surface of a much-older façade. My father was another of her deep sea diving projects made manifest as a man whose children she would come to bear.

The slab in the Miura cemetery, at the foot of Daitenzan in the foothills that spread out from the mountain like slender fingers, is inscribed Kudou Rie, and I say it aloud when I come to sweep her grave and clean its carved face. I was lucky to be given life by the woman who dove into shipwrecks and hunted Doman tigers, handed down a wild spirit from on high before she settled into the tribulations of compacting all that fire into two children who never truly figured out how to cage it. I was carried by a legend, made to lay her to rest, and the bellows of her memory blew the coals in my belly into a furnace out of control. When she began to slip away, she refused to let us watch her wither; rather, she told her children a story in the only way a Miura woman can. She held my brother and I close and whispered that she had made the prideful mistake of dueling another samurai who was, in fact, a willful and jealous spirit gone on a rampage. Rather than admitting defeat when she bested it in combat (of course she had), it crawled inside her mouth and sickened her soul, leaving her bedbound in spite of our care. I am still fighting, she reassured me. And we don't fear a proper fight, do we? We do not.

It was, in fact, a case of seafarer's lung rot that had come about from one final treasure dive taken after my brother was born. She had been tamed for too long and she hungered for the salt air and twisting depths of days gone, just one more ride on the rollicking ship where she could revisit the past. I wish she had just swallowed that longing the way I have forced myself to my whole life. I know the pain of eating your pride, I know the gnawing that comes with being undernourished by your discipline, by the world that demands it. And yet here I am, newly-married, setting out once more for the warfront to emulate the boiling warrior's blood that has carried my lineage across time, and we have yet to even know each other as husband and wife. My father watches me depart not with pride, not with sadness, not with disdain; rather, he sees me with recognition of a kindred spirit who is sinning the way he knows all too well. When I leave, he knows I don't care if I come back.

#akane #ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv writing #short story #drabble #bozja #hingashi #war #sad bitch hours are back baybee

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essays-for-breakfast · 3 years

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Let the Time of Separation Disappear

Kiane Week Day One: Touch/Feel

This group thing was a terrible idea. The Seven Deadly Sins – more like the seven daily prayers King sent to the Sacred Tree to put an end to this madhouse. No matter how skilled the individual fighters might prove in combat – and King had his doubts about at least two of the four oddballs in this matter –, they would not function as a unit. The afternoons he spent trapped in the community quarters high up in Liones castle demonstrated this point with such emphasis, he might laugh. That is, if he hadn’t felt so miserable.

On the rare occasion that the Mage, Merlin, showed herself, she would levitate in a corner of the room, smile to herself, and watch the disaster unfold. She played the group without the need of a single word, and King did his utmost to turn invisible whenever she teleported into their midst. But the Captain, Meliodas, would always shatter his efforts by showering everyone on the team with a disgusting excess of liquor only humans could find amusing.

And unfortunately, ‘everyone’ included King.

The third of the bunch, Gowther, did nothing much at all. He sat on the floor in his clunky armor, took away space, and sometimes speed through a book Merlin handed to him in about a minute. The mere thought of gluing his eyes onto a piece of manufactured wood filled with this many words gave King a headache.

And no, the alcohol was not responsible this time. Although the sight of Gowther’s untouched mug on the floor did produce a foul taste on his tongue. King hurried to open the nearest window, and swallowed a lungful of oxygen. A bit better. Even though the air circling around the human castle lacked the scents of nature, of conifers and pollen and grass heavy with morning dew.

“What’s the matter, King, you gotta throw up?”

King craned his neck to throw a death glare at the owner of the voice.

Ban was by far and away the worst. If a single human existed to whom King liked to demonstrate the deadly capabilities of his Sacred Treasure more than Aldrich, Ban would make for the ideal candidate. Careless, loud, rude, followed by the stench of alcohol wherever he went, and overall, the most human-like human King had had the displeasure to meet. The day he would fight alongside this man would without a doubt bring about the end of Britannia.

“I would have rather stayed in my cell,” King said with a pleading look in Meliodas’ direction.

“Too late. I got’cha out of there, so you owe me your eternal loyalty. Although I might free you from your debt if ya take another drink and relax. I’ve got good news this time.”

Gowther looked up from his book with a teeth-clattering shriek of his helmet. “Does this mean you have found one of our missing members?”

Meliodas grinned. “Bingo.”

“Nooo!” King buried his face between his hands. “Not another one. I won’t take another.”

The only hinderance that had so far saved him from the dreaded field missions as a special order of King Bartra’s Holy Knights with a special talent for lacking any resemblance of teamwork, had been their shortage of numbers. According to Bartra’s vision, seven knights would unite against an unnamed great threat. King’s lucky streak had not only pushed him into the spotlight as one of these seven, it had also chosen the worst people as his teammates. And he had little hope that the Sins of Envy and Pride would upset the trend once they showed up.

Meliodas wiggled an accusing finger in the air. “Now, now, King, you have to give her the opportunity to win you over. I met her by chance before she was sentenced. She’s a nice girl. And her grilled pork tastes far better than mine.”

“That’s a low standard to beat.” Ban robbed across the lavish carpet – the pelt of a white hound-like creature if King had to guess – and put an arm around the Captain’s neck. “I’ve never tasted worse food than yours!”

“Well, it’s not like cooking’s a revered skill where I come from.”

“To return to your complaint, King,” Merlin said while hiding her intentions behind the rim of her wine glass, “I believe our newcomer will surprise you. You might find that you share more than a few things with her.”

Aha. Another one of Merlin’s cryptic messages. Did the Captain carry with him a dictionary on the way she shared knowledge in singular puzzle pieces to understand her? And could King borrow such a dictionary?

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said with a sigh.

Meliodas clapped his hands together. “Great! But we gotta go out to the yard to meet her. She’s a little shy.”

With crossed arms, King floated behind the others through the great halls of the castle. Cold stone atop of more cold stone, decorated with stone ornaments. A handful of knights passed them on their way towards the yard and stared at the group with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. Many a hand wandered towards the hilt of a sword, mace, or spear. King could handle the glares, as a Fairy, he had earned a plethora of glances and hushed comments from his prison guards throughout the past two hundred years. His human form did little to divert suspicion, after all, he hobbled behind an armored colossus, a drunkard, and a blond child. But what unnerved King far more was the fact that he would soon have to collaborate with these human knights and fight their war. Last time he had been forced to kill, his hand hadn’t stopped trembling for days on end.

King bumped into Ban when the latter stopped dead on the doorstep towards the yard. The string of curses he planned to hurl at Ban died in his throat, suffocated by the sight of his newest teammate. She reached thirty feet above the cobblestone, her head blocked the sun, and she refused to dissolve after one, two, four hacked breaths that escaped King’s mouth like whimpers.

She hadn’t changed one bit. Of course, she had grown in these two hundred years, the shape of her body had become more defined with added curves, but she still wore her hair in pigtails, she still shuffled her right foot over the ground, and she still hid her face behind brown locks when none of the other Sins raised their voice to greet her.

Her eyes, a shade of violet more intense than any forget-me-not – the same.

Her hands, strong and dirt-stained and able to form clay into fantastical figures – the same.

Her voice when she mumbled a “Hi, guys” into her hair – the same.

The world turned upside down and shrunk, King’s vision and his sense of smell narrowed until no one but her existed, her and a cave and a field of flowers he had called home. She had survived – what had led her here? Did she remember? No, of course not, the spell King had woven had plucked every last hint of him from her memory. But she still stood here, presented to him as his teammate. They could spend their time together like they had used to – but they would fight in a war together. She might get hurt, she might be forced to kill, she might see the failure he was, a killer who didn’t hesitate to end his best friend’s life. Even if the universe had worked its magic to make her remember him… wouldn’t she hate him? For abandoning her?

Ban smacked his elbow into King’s ribs. “Will ya say hi to her already? Otherwise my feet are gonna freeze to the ground.”

What? Had any of them talked? Had Meliodas introduced her already? King turned towards the Captain for help, but he only offered a knowing grin that matched Merlin’s expression to a T.

She extended a hand towards King, the skin covered by tiny scars from a life in the wild. “The name’s Diane.”

“Harle- You can call me King.”

“Nice to meet you, King.” The smile she gifted him was ripped right out of his memories, untainted by the two hundred years of separation.

And when he placed a trembling hand against her outstretched finger, every moment that had withered and lost its gleam in the darkness of his prison cell returned to him, and they were kids again. The games of tag, the stories she told him, the anecdotes about plants he shared with her, the sound of her laugh, the smell of grilled pork, the warmth of her body next to him when they slept.

All of this and more overwhelmed King at the touch of Diane’s skin. The sweaty palm of his human form against the softness of her fingertip, so close that he felt the individual grooves and bumps of her skin.

His heart might have well run away and forgotten to beat when Diane leaned forward. “We wouldn’t happen to know each other, right? Something about you feels familiar… I can’t put my finger on it.”

“W-where could we have met?” King blinked against the sting in his eyes. Probably dust. Yeah, definitely dust. “I’m sure you’re imagining it. You can find a face like mine all around human towns, right Captain?”

“Sure, but most of those folks can’t fly.”

“I always wondered about this,” Ban said. “But I’ve had at least two… three… five bottles of ale, so I can’t trust me ears or my eyes anymore. Speaking of, with our sixth member tracked down, the evening calls for a celebration! Captain, you wouldn’t happen to have more of that Vanya Ale stocked somewhere?”

Meliodas grinned. “I’m one step ahead of you. You’ll join too, right Diane?”

“How could I decline when you’re the one asking?” Diane winked at the Captain, but by some miracle, her eyes found their way back to King. “Still, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. It’s like a memory from long ago I can’t quite reach.”

“Maybe it was a dream,” King said. “People can imagine the most wonderous things when they’re dreaming.”

But he remembered. He remembered all of it, all the moments, the conversations, and the quiet togetherness Diane had forgotten. And on this day and throughout the next five years King stayed beside her. He found excuses to touch her, hand her a drink, brush her arm when floating next to her, high-five her after a successful mission. Her skin against his skin for the briefest of moments.

So that at least one of them remembered.

#kianeweek #kianeweek2020 #nnt #nanatsu no taizai #nnt fanfic #king x diane #kiane #king #diane #the sins #my writing #I don't know what this is #but it's not the prompt #too tired to edit

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memory-hoarder · 3 years

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WARNING (LONG POST AHEAD)

I turn off the lights, scrolled my phone and clicked the Spotify app currently listening to (calming acoustic) 10: 05 PM, best time to unleashed all emotions that piled up from nowhere. I covered myself with a huge blanket and placed the laptop on my lap and decided to visit my page. I know, I'm being inactive lately but I'm doing my best to update my journal publicly to remind me of my long absences.

Tonight, I decided to post the questions I received a night before my birthday celebrated. I kept this on my file for a month now. Admittedly, this is the huge decision I made on my birthday. So, I asked a random people on my messenger lists - some are my work colleagues while others are acquaintances. At first, I am hesitant to ask for favor to anyone but I did. Well, I guess it was successful though I received different reactions - some confused and thought I was making fun while others are game on to sent their questions. Obviously, it took days for me to answered cos it turns out that I wasn't prepared myself for few questions that somehow affects me literally.

The twist here is I am not allow to send my answer to their questions. However, I can answer it through this journal. Which I described as bravery.

Here are some of the questions:

How’s Life? How’s Life?

A question that been asked me twice. Well, this year was the great sadness of my life that challenged me mentally, emotionally and drained me physically. Sometimes a mere struggle on financially. I’m doing fine but lots of times I seriously breaking down especially the trauma of what happened 8 months ago. But today, I accepted the fact and slowly healing me and appreciate what really God’s intention and plan for my life.

Are you happy right now?

Not sure how to put it into words but there is no reason not to be happy. Right? If you just appreciate the life you are living right now or even the smallest thing that makes you smile or giggle I guess there is no reason to be sad at all. Although, lots of times I felt happy, sad, angry or lost. But there are still lots of reasons to celebrate or be joyful too. I juts let myself felt all the emotions that life wanted me to experienced to remind me that I indeed exist. There are people who could bring me joy and sadness at the same time but all I know they are all part of my journey.

Have you ever missed me before we lost our communication? Do you consider me as true friend?

Of course, I do. I miss the old you the person who I genuinely treasured during my college days. And, you are one of the reasons why I indeed survived college. I just don’t understand why we both let this friendship died. Was it because we no longer catch up? But, how I hope building friendship again will no longer hard as I imagined. But, please know that you became part of my story. I always count on you whenever I am sad and confused. I feel comfortable sharing my thoughts because I know you will never judge me. Hope to see you again soon. Take care of yourself!

Why there are times you don’t have the mood to talk?

Because, I read my surroundings and I feel comfortable being alone not to isolate but to process my own thoughts with myself which my normal thing growing up and I choose this way - became aloof at times not wanted to talk to anyone or go out. It makes me sad to think only few understand my personality. However, I can't just normalize this because of extrovert people I knew. I don’t have mood to talk and I push away people closed to me because I find a happy place being alone. Its not sad or dark what it gives me is peace of mind that no on can offer.

Would you like to change your past or stay on your present path? Why and why not?

I believed majority will choose the past, we all wanted to change one thing that we regret of doing - apologies, goodbye's, places to travel, opportunities we must have and other important things we slip away that is why I choose the past over my present. One thing I am eager to experience all over again is my mom's precious life, only if I had the power to bring her back. I was just 16 years old when she died, and I think the years of her being a mother to us will never be enough. However, her life is a blessing and all the valuable teachings that she imparted on me and to my siblings will remain on us forever. How I wish for her to at least see as growing up especially my brother that she spoiled a lot, and for us to give back all the things she deserved. I imagined date her on a restaurant, buy her clothes, treat her to the salon or accompany her on the grocery store. I also wanted to visit the past to catch up with my high school friends – Mira and Jeno, I will never forget how they literally brings me deep joy and the reason I am early bird during junior high because of the dare. I just missed the sound of Jeno's sense of humor, I treated her more than a friend rather a sister and it broke me when I received the news that he's gone. I was not there for him nor visit his and mom's grave for years now. I wanted to comfort Mira, but I am too far away and impossible to have my own money for my flight expenses. What I did is to cried and prayed for his soul. All of the good memories flashed back once more yet I realized God might took away two beautiful souls in my life but I am confident they watching over and guiding me through life.

I am or was curious regarding James situation, did it ever cross your mind you regret James being your boyfriend?

In all of the questions I received this one hits me hard to the core. For everyone’s knowledge James and I are in a relationship for over 4 years now. Just like other couples we did fight over little things yet we matured and grow together. One thing I really loved about James Charlie is how kind and pure his heart. He helps people as long as he can even himself are struggling to live. Not to mention his over confidence that I am jealous of. I guess, because of how friendly and inviting his amour. Also, a talented one he knows how to dance, sing and imitate different kinds of sounds, He’s grammar and vocabulary are lit. He can also play guitar very well, draw portrait’s and even writing a poems. He knew, he won my heart through his creative abilities. I was also surprised how he interested over history of aliens, bermuda triangle, mermaids and what I consistently heard of the Pyramid of Giza, life documentaries and other related history of it. I find him sexy whenever he talked about some of it. Our age gap is never an issue on our relationship and I am lucky that he guided me on everything, considered my opinions or thoughts and when I freaked out badly which occasionally happened he handle me perfectly and I appreciated his temperament level during my anxiety attacks or whenever I choose to isolate myself him being shut off. He understood me in my own terms and be myself. Yet relationship will test your loved from one another, there were also things that I don’t like of him doing however James does listened to me. He listens to advises either coming from me or from other people that cared for him. He is a vocal person, that one thing that I fall for him is his sense of humor. I guess talkative and being clingy towards person is his nature especially growing up in a broken family. Consistent communication is a key. I remembered he told me that I was different to all the girls she dated on his past life. That I am out of his league, he doesn’t know that he is of out my league too but when I know him deeply he taught me lessons in life and felt his warm love. Over the course of our relationship he respect the limitless of our love language and he accepted and understood the love without intimacy is a different level of love and respect and from his perspective I wanted everyone to know that James has a huge respect towards me, my beliefs and reasons. How someone could wait for something that he can easily took away something on his past relationship. Our relationship is somehow changed us individually into a better person. Getting older, he became dreamer and goal oriented. I witnessed all his hard work, that he celebrated through silence. He wanted to build home and think of small business that will be our retirement in the future. How many kids we wanted or how many dogs we will going to breed. I guess, some people misunderstood James for so long, how miserable life that no one to talk and curse during your victories or failures? Friends and addiction in alcohol and other stuff are his way of escaped, escape from the reality that lead him to take his own precious life once. I know how difficult life for him way back on his early 20’s that he fought all his battle alone and how he overcome his depression and addiction without someone to lean on. And nowadays, everything makes sense to me that I realize being independent sometimes is not a choice but more on a decision. decision and accepting no one will guide you through your journey so you have to do it alone either it brings you sadness or happiness in a process, not to count living alone and make money all by yourself. I agreed he might do bad decision in life but that doesn’t mean his life has no purpose at all. Instead, God is confident that he will win this battle not for everyone, not for the sake of me or our relationship but for himself. As for our current situation, I know being with him and fight through the end will inspired him a lot. Yes, he currently working on his self and will prove to everyone when the time comes that he will be able to regain his new

life and continue living.

We introverts, tend to think a lot, like really overthink a lot. What do you mostly overthink and how deep? Deep, like does it leads you to think more negatively resulting to depression? (mild depression, maybe).

I overthink some scenarios on my head when it really affects my whole being and when every time I think of it, obviously it trigger my anxiety not depression I guess. I can recall one or two hard situations that happened to me, and I know it wasn’t me trying to act that way. I even punished myself and literally breakdown trying to hurt myself, call me freak or whatever cos now I asked myself too how I even allowed myself to did terrible things, because anxiety creeping on me and telling me to do it. But, mostly I think of is my future and myself – deep that it scared me a lot. I have lot of questions of this world that I keep on searching by myself until now.

Why it took for you to share your problems?

Honestly, when I’m having a serious problem I am not confident to share to anybody except to my family who already knew. It took too long because advises no longer work for me, I listened because it was normal people do – advise and advise. Maybe, it was me who are picky to share my problem with, sometimes people listened but never in heart. Not all people deserve to know your struggle and during your lowest times, I have my own terms of coping so you do.

How do you maintain your petite body? If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?

Wow! I never see this coming. Well, I guess being fit is what I inherited on my father's side. They not so fat unlike on my mother's side. I have no limit on foods I intake in other words not your discipline person to look up to. I do eat carbs, junk foods and sodas is always on my list. I never worried if I am physically fit aside from walking Maxine during days off. I don't know how do I maintain this body I guess I'm never. Being fit actually is my insecurity. However, I do loved my body whatever what happen.

Well, if I had 3 wishes in life - first, to end this pandemic so that everything will back to normal. second, for James to have peace of mind and good health while waiting for the process of his case. And, lastly, for me to be strong, lasting patience and strong faith.

How would you solve your problems?

Problems is always part of lives. But, I believed it is always about the degree of the problem. Whenever, I had problem sometimes I resolved it in time but other times I need more time and space to think what will be the resort of it. And, pray for some guidance.

As independent being, how do you handle depression and anxiety?

Good thing to end all of this questions, I became independent when I graduated from college. I have to commute 131 kilometers back and forth from another city just to apply on my first job and the process is never easy at all. When you sent all of your applications form on each companies but never accepted It brought so much sadness, one point of my life I am eager to seek job because I used it as my coping mechanism to walked away from home which I did now, I walked away to protect my peace of mind especially having anxiety growing up and having this thing is hard as people imagined. You might only see darkness and feel of losing but for me, I guess for a year now I handled myself perfectly I never allow this condition to swallow me whole and affect my way of living. I reminded myself to keep strong and remain optimist and always protect my peace of mind at all cost.

I am 24 now strong and happy and leaving Haruki Murakami quote: "And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what storms all about"

#self love #journaling #birthday #24 years old

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ephemerlskies · 4 years

Text

thank you, colmar | myg

⇢ pairing: yoongi x reader

⇢ genre: drabble, established relationship, so much fluff it could be mistaken for a cloud...., very mild angst, long distance relationship, writer!yoongi

⇢ word count: 4.5k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, this is very PG to be honest

⇢ summary: long distance was a challenging feat to take on, though you and yoongi were sure you two would be the exception. since his leave, you had been counting down the days, hours, and minutes until you finally got the chance to visit him. little did you know, this visit was going to become the most memorable weekend of your life.

a/n: i can't even explain myself i'm SORRY.... but i am literally the softest yoongi stan ever known to man. it had to be done. this was purely for my own indulgence lmao. also yoongi? france? a concept.

Do you know the feeling of being outside during a sunset? Telling yourself, ‘I’m going to watch the sunset this time’ and being so sure that you won’t miss the sun’s gradual sinking beneath the horizon. Then, during the mess of dusk and life, you do miss it; the sky darkening before you can even realize the sun has already bid its farewell to the sky today. And, maybe if you spent less time ensuring that you would enjoy the sunset rather than simply enjoying it, you wouldn’t have to scold yourself to pay more attention tomorrow.

That’s how life felt with Yoongi.

You’d been caught up with existing, along with the countless sporadic surprises and thick responsibilities that came with it, and maybe you had taken the moments spent with him for granted, the moments you once promised you would cherish as they came. But what’s the good of regretting the past when it felt far less burdensome to just appreciate it all? Even when the time with Yoongi brisked by, as if it had somewhere better to be than right here with you, the memories were still there to cherish, retrospectively.

When you found out Yoongi had seized the opportunity to study abroad in a small, French city just a car ride away from the German border, you felt like you, again, had only been able to see the rounded edge of the sun before it ducked beneath the land; then it was gone.

You tried to be happy for him, you were happy for him, and you shoved your newfound resentment of France and Colmar, the city he’d be residing in for the next two years, into a shameful yet not so secret compartment of your brain. Your smile had worked against you, becoming transparently saddened when he told you the news.

Yoongi asked if you were okay with this, to imply that had the moral choice to say no. Any and every ounce of you would have thought it vile to keep him from such an accomplishing triumph towards his career as a writer. To you, there was no way you could take that away from him. And you told him that, to which he responded that no other thing in the world would tilt him away from what you wanted of him.

For some reason, that was painful to hear. You didn’t want Yoongi to say that, not because it layered more pressure on your decision but because he offered this as if it were no bigger of a compromise than cleaning spilled water and you despised the idea of being the reason he would put an end to his dreams. You wanted to be the reason he chased them. So, that's what you were. A martyr for sake of selfless love, marching into the battle of a long distance relationship.

Two years was tough, but it was something you were capable of. It was something that wasn’t going to be the final destination of your journey with him, just a speed bump to create some turbulence to happily ever after. Although, you believed happily ever after had happened the moment you met him.

But then again, the opportunity of visiting Yoongi in Colmar felt awfully similar to happily ever after. One fifteen hour plane ride, what felt like another fifteen hour car ride - though it was most likely only an hour or so, and a listless walk to the house where he was staying later and you released a guttural sigh that the hardest part was over. The anticipation of seeing him after each bi-weekly, late night phone and Skype call and far too much distance for your liking had passed, though slowly and just as lonesome as those five months apart from him. All you had to do now was walk into the door.

And again, seeing him with his hair a mess and dressed in the same shirt he’d lounge in at your apartment had dethroned yet another happily ever after.

The first embrace had your muscles feeling the most relaxed it had felt since the last gut wrenching farewell-hug at the airport. The long journey, the countless shed tears over missing him was not as heavy in your mind; his arms carried the weight of your body like none of the loneliness and worries were your burden to bear anymore and all you could give in return was to bring your wearied hands to run against his scalp, through his freshly-washed hair. The air of this French Summer night was meager, pathetic, compared to the warmth of Yoongi’s body. How his lips dragging kisses along your jaw and cheek made you want to mock how the Summer in France couldn’t possibly equate to his kind of amorous heat.

You and him walked hand in hand along the cobblestoned streets of Colmar. The Renaissance Houses, parked two rows on each side as far as your eyes could see, had decorated the riviera fittingly. Strangers of France glared with objection to you being here, and with Yoongi it had almost slipped your mind that the French weren’t fond of tourists. Maybe this short walk wasn't enjoyable in the slightest, the eyes of judgement and turned backs gripped your throat with discomfort. Maybe it wouldn’t have been worth it if you weren't hand in hand with the love of your life. But that was quite a hefty maybe.

The subtle brush of his thumb along the backside of your palm withered away every set of eyes that blistered against your skin into nothing but a lighter, less noticeable brush than his finger. As you moved through the town with him, your resentment of France and Colmar moved with you however quieter than it had before. It trailed behind, waiting to pass through and in front of you the moment you had to leave him again. As of now, you couldn’t resent France being ingested in its beauty, where your hand was being held by Yoongi.

He had pointed out every restaurant and shop that he planned to take you to and spoke of the kind family housed across the riviera, and how they’d been helping him with his French. Young children found it fascinating and esteemed to teach someone older than them; Yoongi had taken quite a liking to the excitement they would share while spouting random words in French during their almost daily lessons.

“Tu es mon amour.” With his rich, low voice he whispered some phrases that he said reminded him of you. This was thoughtful enough that it had you treasuring the intimacy of it all. It was his way of offering a little pocket of romance to feed your heart when it felt starved of him, which it often did; Yoongi had never been anything less than generous with his thoughtfulness.

“Miel.”

“What does that mean?”

“Honey.”

“Sucré. Sweet.” That resounding tingle in your stomach had nearly disoriented you, soon traveling to the soft of your cheek where he had left a warmer-than-Summer kiss. How could you forget that this was what it always felt like with him? Perhaps you were still too busy shaming the French Summer’s radiance as inadequate in comparison to Yoongi's lips and hand.

“Belle, doux, éternal. Any guesses?”

“Nope!”

“Beautiful, gentle, forever.”

You clung to his arm, feeling as though if you let go you could drift away into the black riviera, separating two halves of the same street. Now, you had been on the side with Yoongi. And the riviera had littered reflections of the stars and moon in its body similar to how Yoongi littered his delicious words along the streets of Colmar. Walking down and down, hand in hand with Yoongi and soon the first night together in five months had coalesced with the end of the road.

You fell asleep from the pure exhaustion afflicting your limbs and eyelids, without more than a ‘Goodnight’ and ‘I’ve missed you’ to Yoongi as he found his rightful beside you. Sleeping next to you, the light snore of your jaded breath was quiet compared to the deafening silence of his empty bed that dragged him into fits of insomnia. Your company had been consumed by his longing heart to full capacity and now he thought to himself he would never have to eat again because your presence had proven to be plentiful in feeding his hunger for this lifetime and the next.

Yoongi sealed the night with a loving kiss on your forehead before joining in your slumber, bodies touching to make up for five months of space. There was no need for space right now. Even though you had been all the way across the world just days ago, being a millimeter away from you now was far too straining and gaping of a distance. Through the night, there was never a moment when a part of him was not laced between a part of you, and even in a state of sleep he thanked the heavens for that.

---

The noise of the outside clamor, the argumentative honking of cars and utterances of pedestrians failed to tear you from your sleep. Neither the warm air leaking through the opened window nor the ripe morning sun piling over the bed sheets conspired in your awakening. It was the symphonic lullabies emitting from the record player that seeped into your dreams and lulled you awake with its gentle jazz music and had you sitting up. Then, it was the sweet mix of smells trailing from the kitchen that had you fully conscious and remembering where you were and who you were with, along with the all too apparent absence in the bed.

The riviera looked alive this morning. People walked down the streets joyfully like there was something other than your reunion with Yoongi to be worthy of celebration. As sunlight melted your skin to a light sweat, you pulled yourself from under the covers and inhaled the sweet, warm aromas from sources you couldn’t quite place.

Not long after you had awoken, Yoongi returned with a tray of food and a smile so wide it could be seen by everyone in Colmar. Unluckily for them, this smile surfaced just for you. He set the tray in front of your eyes and mouth that were both watering at the lovely little display of his work.

“How was your sleep, baby?” Spoken as light as the air and harmoniously with the music, he found a spot across from you and brought your hand to his lips.

“The best sleep I’ve had in five months. You?” The feeling of his smile against the back of your hand could have outdone the smoothest velvets and sleekest silks and softest wools in the world.

“Me too. Let’s eat.” The release of your hand had you groaning and crossing your legs to stare at the selection of food. “I got us some croissants from the bakery just a block from here, strawberry jam, grapes, and brioche bread with some brie cheese. French people know how to cook, that's for sure.”

“Yoongi, you got all of this today?” A mix of guilt and gratefulness churned in your head but he only laughed to mend the crimination against your own need for rest.

“Honey, you just got out from a long plane ride to visit me. It was the least I could do. Plus, I was up early anyway so I thought this would be a good use of my time.” From the looks of it, all the food was fresh. He implied this did not require as much effort as you thought, not nearly as much effort as enduring air travel.

It was then when the breach of emotional labor had been closed. You and him always forged your relationship through mutuality, whether that entailed trust, comfort, support, or intention, there was never a moment when one gave too much and one gave not enough. The never ceasing equity and balance filtered through the gaps you thought could never be closed. You were always enough for him and he was always enough for you; that had been your normal with him.

Sunday morning, in France, in Colmar, sitting in the sun kissed bedroom and watching the waters run down the trench, eating the sweet fruits and flavors of the town could have fooled you into thinking this could be forever. A brief moment strung together a temporary kind of eternity; your eyes were never seized for too long by the sights of France, your mind purged of the resentment towards Colmar as of now. Your soul had been enamoured entirely by Yoongi, and you refused to let yourself miss the sunset. Not this time.

Little by little, the food had been eaten through the morning. Through the small, delightfully insignificant topics discussed between you and Yoongi. This was what you missed the most, you thought. Being with him, talking about the small things no other would ever think to mention, and those small things became more important than a necessity. He dusted the shallowness from your ‘small things’ and made them meaningful through his genuine care. So, how could you stop yourself from sharing with him your whole world?

“I have a new hobby.”

“And you’re just telling me now?” He tossed a grape into his mouth in suspense of your answer with a tone that made it seem like it had been some sort of life line kept from him.

“Well, I wanted to surprise you with it.” The suddenness of your leap to retrieve said surprise had further drawn from Yoongi a desperation to know what you had been talking about. After a bit of digging in your suitcase, a victorious smile followed when you found it.

Yoongi felt his arms move to pull you onto his lap by an unknown force generated well beyond his own will. As if his body was now governed by his love for you, his love to be near you and hold you, rather than his own mind.

“I make little clay figures now. And before you say it, yes I am losing my mind just a little.” In your hand laid a miniature bear, slightly deformed from a lack of skill and inexperience with these kinds of things. “I have to do something because you’re not around to bother when I’m bored!” It wasn't perfect, in fact it was far from it. The body was unsymmetrical and the limbs had been a bit misshapen more sausage-like rather than arm-like, and nonetheless Yoongi took it between his index and thumb finger with the prudence and excitement of one who was holding the most precious gem in the world.

“___, this is the dumbest and cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” He rotated the little bear between his fingers, memorizing each painted detail. Imagining you impulse buying loads of supplies and binging tutorials on instructions to make these had his stomach burning from his eruption of sweet laughter.

His other hand was hooked around your waist and his chin sat on your shoulder. The blend of jazz in the morning and Yoongi’s laughs induced you to a state of entrancement, nodding off in his loving muse of physical affection. Finally being able to touch him and hear his voice unencumbered by low quality microphones of video calls was something you could easily re-assimilate to, but at the same time you were afraid of the comfort this had sheltered you with; you knew that being in France would only last a weekend before you had to leave this asylum from solitude. Then, it was back to muffled conversations and fingers stroking the pictures of him on your phone’s screen rather than the plush of his cheeks and arms.

“Please tell me there are more of these.” The whispers lovingly grazed the nape of your neck so that you reattached to reality. You tried to hold in the tears and the fact that you were already missing him, feeling like another sunset had drifted from your grasp.

“There are, but I brought this one for you.” He thanked you with a warm kiss, you returned your welcome through a soft caress of his cheek and pushed his lips deeper into you. You hoped maybe his kiss would imprint into your skin; that during moments of the day where you couldn’t come to distract yourself with work or friends and when you would lie awake at night from the harrowing torment of the missing body in your queen-sized bed, you could touch your hand to your cheek embedded with the memory of his lips and that would somehow requite this aching as if he were really there.

“I love it, thank you. What should we name him?” Yoongi hadn’t removed his lips from the side of your face, knowing you longed for him to never pull away, and that this unsaid desire was mutual as everything always was.

“Yoongi Jr. has a nice ring to it, don't you think? He certainly takes after his dad!” You held his hand and moved it next to his face to compare the two. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Mm, no he’s too cute. He definitely takes after his mom.”

“Looks like we’re at a standoff.” You said with the interest of getting your way.

“What about a compromise?” Your nod of agreeance to this suggestion had struck him with inspiration. “What about Miel? You know ‘cuz bears like honey?”

“Babe, you don't have to explain it.”

“I was just making sure you got it!”

God, he was so cute.

“Yoongi, what would you do if I told all your friends that you're secretly a softie?” In a fit of bashfulness, he fell back onto the bed with a chuckle. You had sprawled out over him, legs woven in with his and hands tugging the soft shirt over his torso. The rise and fall of his chest had your head, resting over it, rising and falling. Your head didn’t rise and fall back home without him. It was stagnant, miserable, waiting to rise and fall with his chest again.

“I think I would have to kill you.” He joked while pulling you in closer.

“Okay, okay, your secret’s safe with me. And Miel is a cute name for our little child.” Yoongi had been in a league of his own when it came to sweeping you off your feet. You couldn't specify when it happened, but the gradual notion of assurance that he was something of a forever presence in your life had become the only thing in the world that stood entirely unequivocal. This certainty solidified through every moment you spent with him, especially this one.

“Well, Miel! Welcome to our little family.” He said as he waddled the little figure along his chest in front of where your eyes laid. You smiled as Miel pranced before your rising and falling head.

It might be illogical to try at a long distance relationship that was only subdued with sparse and abbreviated visits. The nightmarish idea that only once every five or six months could you afford to visit him for less than a week had made it more than sensible to end it before the pain had grown too immense. On paper, that was the rational choice. But when he held you, when he bestowed an endless supply of kisses, when he did cute things just to see you smile, there was no stopping yourself from exempting all reason and rationality.

“You are the love of my life, you know that?” This had taken him by surprise. If it were possible, Yoongi was sure he had fallen in love with you all over again. The way you carried yourself with such conviction turned him from someone who could never quite settle on any decisions or beliefs to someone who had the strength to be sure in every step he took and that you and him would make it through two years of Colmar; that you and him would always make it.

“___, I- I need to get this off my chest.” He sounded hesitant, withholding of some secret. Your worry came to a peak, your mind brewing a cluster of doubt that maybe he hadn’t felt like all this pain was worth it. His breathing halted, along with the rise and fall of his chest and your head. Swallowed in the pounding of your heart, you sat up in hopes this would help obtain grounding for what was about to come.

Was this it? Was this visit the last before a goodbye that would turn the empty space in your bed into a permanence? Had you been teetering on the last of your relationship, and is this him finally stepping away for you to fall to the end of it?

But it slipped your mind in this moment. That unmistakable habit of Yoongi’s to always, without fault, sweep you off your feet.

He'd been fumbling over himself to get to his desk drawer which wrung out more suspense from you. You, still drowning in your own self-pity and imagination, were choked with tears and the rock now lodged in your throat, wishing he would just get it over with.

A part of you hoped it was because he met some beautiful French person that earned his affection because it would be unbearable to hear that it had been you that just wasn’t enough for him anymore. That your love wasn’t worth the endurance and the pain of missing you.

Anything but that, you prayed, let it be anything but that. You hated France and Colmar and writing now more than ever.

He interrupted your wallowing with an arm hidden behind his back that seemed unable to hold steady due to his shaking, effectively turning your attention to this oddly nervous behavior.

“Wh- What is it…” This came out less as a question and more as an urge for him to get on with the heartbreak that you had played out in your head about a hundred times since he said he needed to ‘get something off his chest’.

“I um,” He cleared his throat and sighed like the abundance of warm air in Colmar was not sufficient in giving nearly enough oxygen to thaw his frozen lungs. “I love you so much, ___. And I know we haven’t even finished college yet and I have over a year left in France but I don't think I can continue without doing this right now. Every bone in my body has been bruised for not doing this sooner.”

Oh god, here it comes.

“Will you marry me?” And just like that, he’d bulldozed you to pieces and not in the way you’d expected; never in the ways you’d expected. One would think you would be able to predict this pattern of behavior from him, but you laid on the floor, defenseless, in shock, and absolutely swept off your feet - again.

“What…” If you could go back and slap the sense into yourself to say yes, you would have. But life doesn’t give you those choices. It gave you a dumbfounded expression and a measly ‘what…’.

“Before you say no!” He opened the velvet lined box to reveal a simple ring with a marquise cut opal jewel and two round diamonds on each edge of it. The stone of your birth month, again his thoughtfulness had you tumbling over and over. “I know spending our first month of engagement halfway across the world is dumb. To literally anyone else it is stupid and horribly timed. But not me.”

“Yoongi-” Lowered onto his knee, he fondled your hand with his; the same one holding Miel who was now clasped between the two hands. Your hearts beat in a perfect synchronicity, more so than the jazz music playing in the background and the sun’s waltz with the ripples of the riviera.

“Being here, without you, has made me realize something. It put into perspective what life would be like without you. And, God, it’s nothing compared to what I imagine a life without writing. Hell itself looks like paradise compared to all the heavens without you, ___. And when you call me or text me or send me pictures of what you’re eating for lunch, that just…” He blinked away the wetness threatening to leak from his eyes. You, on the other hand, had thrown all restraint to the wind as streams were now trickling down your face, dampening the clothing beneath your chin.

“You have no idea how much your effort means to me, baby. How kind and understanding and patient you have been has pushed me to stay here. You don't know how often I fear you think I chose writing over you. Never- I don’t. I choose you. Every time I will always choose you. I will choose the forty eight hour visits and the five months of being apart and the spells of monumental loneliness. I would choose to live ten, hundreds, thousands of lives if that meant I could spend at least an hour with you. But that’s not the case, is it? I have the chance to spend this life with you, so I’d be damned if I let that go to waste. I love you, ___. No, I’m in love with you and I didn’t realize the two were any different until I met you. I want to be with you forever. I know this to be the only truth I can confidently place all bets on. So again, will you, ___, marry me?”

His lips, tongue, and body had again not moved from his own will, no; he finally realized it had to be influenced by something far more powerful. With you, because of you, Yoongi moved through life by love. Although he had the mind of a writer, with every word at his fingertips and the ability to stack one on top of another in a way that could move the masses, this proposal was not of the mind of a writer. It was driven by the love of a lover. All of his words were a medicine to cleanse your ears diseased of shameful distrust in his love. The love that just devoted the rest of its life to you.

“Yes.” You announced to the world, but not the world of Colmar. To Yoongi, who was your world now. “Yes, fuck. Yes, yes, yes, yes.” In the midst of your repetitions, he scooped your body in his arms and held you against him tighter than ever before and he noted that moving through love had that effect; holding tighter, kissing deeper, speaking kinder.

“I love you. I love you, Yoongi.” Now through sobs, he couldn’t bring himself to resist how you had been beckoning the affection from his heart.

Would it slip out of his chest and seep into yours? Would his affection ever translate with the same intensity that it had ridden his heart? It did more than that, unbeknownst to him; it convened with your affection of identical fervor and flooded the riviera of Colmar above the length of the trench, above the cobblestone streets alongside it, above the rooftop of the renaissance house surrounding you, flowing all the way the sunset that seemed to be the only thing you could see right now. In your eyes, there was the most beautiful sunset and there was Yoongi.

“Je t’aime, mon amour.” He slipped your fourth digit on your left hand through the ring. The cold metal encasing your finger was a new sensation, the first and last promise on this chaste finger. The only one that felt perfectly fitting and destined to be there.

And suddenly, your resentment for Colmar and France and writing had been inflamed by a tender appreciation. For being the place where you had been engaged to Yoongi and giving perspective to both of you, that distance has nothing to be discouraged of and instead, it would forge a bond of unparalleled resilience. For anointing your heart with a riviera of pure and true love, and vowing a lifetime of vibrant sunsets to witness. To that, all you could say was:

Thank you, Colmar. Thank you.

#bts fanfic #bangtanarmynet #btsgoldnet #bts writing #bts fluff #bts angst #bts long distance au #BTS suga #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi fanfic #yoongi angst #yoongi drabble #writer!yoongi #rubycoast #thank you colmar

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mattchase82 · 3 years

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Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, Confessor from the Liturgical Year (1904)

"Oh! how exceeding great is the glory of Aloysius, Son of Ignatius! Never could I have believed it, had not my Jesus shown it to me. Never could I have believed that such glory as that, was to be seen in heaven!" Thus cries out Saint Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, whose memory we were celebrating a month ago: she is speaking in ecstasy. From the heights of Carmel, whence her ken may reach beyond the heavens, she reveals to earth the splendour wherewith the youthful hero of this day shines amidst the celestial phalanxes.

Yet short was the life of Aloysius, and it had offered nothing to the superficial gaze of a vast majority, save the preliminaries, so to say, of a career broken off in its flower, before bearing fruit of any kind. Ah! God does not account of things as men do; of very slight weight are their appreciations, in His judgment! Even in the case of the saints themselves, the mere fractional number of years, or brilliant deeds, goes far less to the filling up of a life-time, in His view, than does love. The usefulness of a human existence ought surely to be measured, as a matter of fact, by the amount produced in it, of what is lasting. Now beyond this present time charity remains alone, fixed for ever at that precise degree of growth attained during this life of passage. Little matters it, therefore, if without any long duration or any apparent works, one of God's Elect have developed in himself a love as great or greater than some others have done, in the midst of many toils, be they never so holy, and throughout a long career admired of men.

The illustrious Society that gave Aloysius Gonzaga to holy Church owes the sanctity of her members and the benedictions poured upon their works to the fidelity she has ever professed to this important truth, which throws so much light on the Christian life. From the very first age of her history, it would seem that our Lord Jesus, not content to allow her to assume his own blessed Name, has been lovingly determined so to arrange circumstances in her regard that she may never forget wherein it is her real strength lies, in the midst of the actively militant career which He has especially opened before her. The brilliant works of Saint Ignatius her founder, of Saint Francis Xavier, the apostle of the Indies, of Saint Francis Borgia, the noble conquest of Christ's humility, manifested truly wondrous holiness in them, and to the eyes of all; but these works of theirs had no other spring nor basis than the hidden virtues of that other glorious triumvirate, in which, under the eye of God alone, by the sole strength of contemplative prayer, Saints Stanislaus Kostka, Aloysius Gonzaga, and John Berchmans, rose to such a degree of love, and consequently to the sanctity of their heroic fathers.

Again, it is by Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, the depositary of the secrets of the Spouse, that this mystery is revealed to us. In the rapture during which the glory of Aloysius was displayed before her eyes, she thus continues, whilst still under the influence of the Holy Ghost: "Who could ever explain the value and the power of interior acts? The glory of Aloysius is so great, simply because he acted thus, interiorly. Between an interior act and that which is seen, there is no comparison possible. Aloysius, as long as he dwelt on earth, kept his eye attentively fixed on the Word; and this is just why he is so splendid. Aloysius was a hidden martyr; whosoever loveth Thee, my God, knoweth Thee to be so great, so infinitely amiable, that keen indeed is the martyrdom of such an one, to see clearly that he loves Thee not so much as he desireth to love Thee, and that Thou art not loved by Thy creatures, but art offended!.... Thus he became a martyrdom unto himself. Oh! he did love, whilst on earth! Wherefore, now in heaven, he possesses God in a sovereign plenitude of love. Whilst still mortal, he discharged his bow at the Heart of the Word; and now that he is in heaven, his arrows are all lodged in his own heart. For this communication of the Divinity which he merited by the arrows of his acts of love and of union with God, he now verily and indeed possesses and clasps forever."

To love God, to allow His grace to turn our heart towards Infinite Beauty, which alone can fill it, such is then the true secret of highest perfection. Who can fail to see how this teaching of today's feast answers to the end pursued by the Holy Ghost ever since His coming down, at our glorious Pentecost? This sweet and silent teaching was given by Aloysius, wheresoever he turned his steps, during his short career. Born to heaven, in holy baptism, almost before he was born to earth, he was a very angel from his cradle; grace seemed to gush from him into those who bore him in their arms, filling them with heavenly sentiments. At four years of age, he followed the marquess his father into the camps; and thus, some unconscious faults, which had not so much as tarnished his innocence, became for the rest of his life the object of a penitence that one would have thought rather beseemed some grievous sinner. He was but nine years old when, being taken to Florence, there to be perfected in the Italian language, he became the edification of the Court of duke Francis; but though the most brilliant in Italy it failed to have any attraction for him, and rather served to detach him more decisively than ever from the world. During this period, likewise, at the feet of the miraculous picture of the Annunziata, he consecrated his virginity to Our Lady.

The Church herself, in the Breviary Lessons, will relate the other details of this sweet life, in which, as is ever the case with souls fully docile to the Holy Ghost, heavenly piety never marred what was of duty in earthly things. It is just because he really was a model for all youth engaged in study, that Aloysius has been proclaimed Protector thereof. Of a singularly quick intelligence, as faithful to work as to prayer in the midst of the gay turmoil of city life, he mastered all the sciences then exacted of one of his rank. Very intricate and ticklish negotiations of worldly interest were more than once confided to his management: and thus was opportunity afforded of realizing to what a high degree he might have excelled in government affairs. Here, again, he comes forward as an example to such as have friends and relatives who would lain hold them back, when on the threshold of the religious state, under pretence of the " great good they may do in the world, and how much evil they may prevent." Just as though the Most High must be contented with useless non-entities in that select portion of men He reserves to Himself amidst nations; or, as though the aptitudes of the richest and most gifted natures may not be turned all the better, and all the more completely to God their very principle, precisely because they are the most perfect. On the other hand, neither State, nor Church, ever really loses anything by this fleeing to God, this apparent throwing away of the best subjects! If, in the old law, Jehovah showed Himself jealous in having the very best of all kinds of goods offered at His altar, His intention was not to impoverish his people. Whether admitted or not, it is a certain fact, that the chief strength of society, the fountain head of benediction and protection to the world, is always to be found in holocausts well pleasing to the Lord.

Prayer:

Venerable old age is not that of long time, nor counted by the number of years: but the understanding of man is grey hairs; and a spotless life is old age (Wisd. iv. 8, 9). And therefore, Aloysius, thou dost hold a place of honour, amidst the ancients of thy people! Glory be to the holy Society, in the midst whereof, thou didst, in so short a space, fulfill a long course; obtain that she may ever continue to treasure, both for herself and others, the teaching that flows from thy life of innocency and love. Holiness is the one only thing when one's career is ended, that can be called true again; and holiness is acquired from within. External works count with God, only in as far as the interior breath that inspires them is pure; if occasion for exercising works be wanting, man can always supply that deficiency, by drawing nigh unto the Lord, in the secret of his soul, as much and even more than he could have done by their means. Thus didst thou see and understand the question; and therefore, prayer, which held thee absorbed in its ineffable delights, succeeded in making thee equal to the very martyrs. What a priceless treasure was not prayer in thine eyes, what a heaven-lent boon, and one that is indeed in our reach too, just as it was in thine! But in order to find therein, as thou didst express it, "the short cut to perfection," perseverance is needed and a careful elimination from the soul, by a generous self-repression, of every emotion which is not of God. For, how could muddy or troubled waters mirror forth the image of Him Who stands on their brink? Even so, a soul that is sullied, or a soul that without being quite a slave of passion, is not yet mistress of every earthly perturbation, can never reach the object of prayer, which is to reproduce within her the tranquil image of her God.

The reproduction of the one great Model was perfect in thee; and hence it can be seen how nature (as regards what she has of good), far from losing or suffering aught, rather gains by this process of recasting in the divine crucible. Even in what touches the most legitimate affections, thou didst look at things no longer from the earthly point of view; but beholding all in God, far were the things of sense transcended, with all their deceptive feebleness, and wondrously did thy love grow in consequence! For instance, what could be more touching than thy sweet attentions, not only upon earth, but even from thy throne in heaven, for that admirable woman given thee by our Lord to be thine earthly mother? Where may tenderness be found equal to the affectionate effusions written to her by thee in that letter of a Saint to the mother of a Saint, which thou didst address to her shortly before thy quitting thine earthly pilgrimage? And still more, what exquisite delicacy thou didst evince, in making her the recipient of thy first miracle, worked after thine entrance into glory! Furthermore, the Holy Ghost, by setting thee on fire with the flame of divine charity, developed also within thee immense love for thy neighbour: necessarily so, because charity is essentially one; and well was this proved, when thou wast seen sacrificing thy life so blithely for the sick and the pestiferous.

Cease not, O dearest Saint, to aid us in the midst of so many miseries; lend a kindly hand to each and all. Christian youth has a special claim upon thy patronage, for it is by the sovereign pontiff himself, that this precious portion of the flock is gathered around thy throne. Direct their feeble steps along the right path, so often enticed as they are to turn into dangerous by-roads; be prayer and earnest toil, for God's dear sake, their stay and safeguard; be they illumined in the serious matter before them of the choosing a state of life. We beseech thee, dearest Saint, exert strong influence over them during this most critical period of their opening years, so that they may truly experience all the potency of that fair privilege which is ever thine, of preserving in thy devout clients, the angelical virtue! Yea, furthermore, Aloysius, look compassionately on those who have not imitated thine innocence, and obtain that they may yet follow thee in the example of thy penance; such is the petition of Holy Church this day!

#catholicism #traditional catholic #catholic #christianity #heaven #love #jesus christ #its the truth #catholic saints #catholic faith #saint aloysius gonzaga

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holyevents · 3 years

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One becomes easily accustomed to the sense of peace. It spills through one’s being, like a slow-acting poison - numbing its host to all else but its sweet lull. Eventually, one forgets to live without it, sinking into a state of content lethargy, gorging themself on the belief that such serenity might extend into the horizon of forever. That is, perhaps, an apt way to describe the state into which many of the subjects of the Holy Land had fallen, the thought of discord a far-off notion in the mind. Until shock held them by the throat, discord grinned its wicked smile from the shadows, and death stole away the one figure that kept the horrors of the world at bay.

May the fallen Star, Cador (who had, in one life, been known as Abraham), find harmony in all that he encounters.

The moon was near-rising, and still the final third of the Tridium had yet to make his appearance. They were meant to gather, to deliberate and commiserate in equal measure, to further plough the path of grandeur and success for the kingdom that they so loved, and the city that they held so dear. AZAZEL and GABRIEL, the Moon and the Sun respectively, sat at opposite ends of the table - making the absence of their Star all the more noticeable. It was the first time that they had entered the room without being greeted by the older man; the first time that they have found themselves waiting on him, and the first time that they have felt an unease settle so pervasively between them. Yet neither of them cared to acknowledge it, not quite yet. One messenger had already been sent to his quarters, then another - and both of them had returned with no Cador in sight, only eerily distinct expressions of anxiety and discomfort.

GABRIEL was the first to break the silence that had fallen over the two divine beings. “Perhaps we should send another messenger.”

“Perhaps we should admit to ourselves the truth,” AZAZEL countered, eyes meeting his.

The archangel arched his brow. “And perhaps we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

A third messenger was never sent, for the Sun and the Moon went forth themselves, seeking the missing piece that made them the formidable Tridium. The sun was nowhere to be found and the moon was slowly waking, stars bespeckling the sky as though they, too, were curious as to where Cador hid himself. He was one of them, was he not? How could he ever be led astray? There was none that could snuff out the light of a burning star; their existence only ceased by means of implosion, and Cador was never one that would dare relinquish any notion of greatness and glory by being his own undoing. A highly revered man, he was regarded as such by both the wealthy and the impoverished, widely-beloved by many of the mortals within the Holy Land. He had their hearts. Cador had suffered - for what is the loss of a son but the definition of it? Cador had risen to greatness: for is not greatness created in the ruthless elevation of oneself, rising from destitution and growingstrong for it?

And, with such greatness and glory, the perception of one’s limits becomes rather skewed. If he was loathed, which he certainly was by those who privately preferred more Heretical ideals, then he was meant to rise above it. If he was loved, then he knew that he held the people’s faith. He was untouchable. Death is nothing more than a far-off, tangential notion that is not a consequence of existence, but rather, an anomaly - to celestials and infernals… and, in truth, to Cador.

That is what AZAZEL and GABRIEL garnered from the rigid raise of his brows and his widened, glassy eyes, at least. They stood over his body, looking down at a corpse frozen in shock the splintered door crumbling behind them -as dead as the cadaver it had so diligently locked away. GABRIEL brushed the splinters from his sleeve as AZAZEL leaned closer, investigating the marks that hinted at Cador’s demise. Blotchy skin, red eyes. The remnants of foam around his mouth. His face had grown blue and, even now, as she pressed against the cold skin, she could feel the food that had lodged in his throat as he took his final mouthful:a fruit that his son had been known to favor. She wiped her fingers against Cador’s shirt before pulling away. The two divine beings looked at one another before AZAZEL shook her head. Stars did not die this way. They faded slowly, beautifully before implosion; they did not rot away.

The stench of artificial rot was in the air. Cador’s body was bloated with it. The stain of murder bespeckled his skin, was strewn about the room, and it felt heavy. The Star of the Tridium had been murdered, just as they were sinking into the honeyed lull of harmony. Should word get out, there could be war. The mortal faction would want reparations, if they ever knew the truth.

It was a good thing, then, that the Sun and the Moon knew how to keep their secrets.

They wore veils as they walked among the streets of the Holy Land, as they went from village to village harkening the passing of the great Star, Cador. It had been known that he was growing older, that his health was not that of a young man’s any longer. Though it came as a shock, Death was Death, a natural occurrence in a mortal’s life. The town criers wiped their tears beneath their veils, watching as the grief swept through the people’s faces as they listened to the great life that Cador had led; the good that he had done for his people, and the dying wish that he had made. A young boy with dirt smeared across his face took a heaving breath, rubbing his nose with a tattered, torn sleeve. An aged seamstress clutched at her chest, shaking her head as she rocked back and forth upon her chair, Cador’s name a wail upon her lips. A squire, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, let their sword clatter to the ground as they fell to their knees.

Our Star, they lamented, whether it be upon their lips or in their weeping hearts. Our hope, our leader, and our salvation.

It was as though a silence swept, not only over the people, but over the entirety of the Holy Land. It seemed as though the very earth itself shuddered in trepidation at the onslaught of blood it would have to drink…

It was as though peace had been a curse cast over them, causing them to cease all machinations and to content themselves with idleness and petty games. The great Star of the Tridium had been the sacrifice that was needed to lift the curse from their shoulders, and renew them once more. The Kingdom of Caelum began preparations for their travels to the Holy Land, the prestigious and glorified of the kingdom readying themselves and their companions for the journey. In the revelry of the Infernal Realm there was pause as news of the fallen Star made its way across the land - the infamous and dastardly figures in the kingdom began to ready themselves for the journey that would undoubtedly follow.

Though no one said it aloud, they all knew. Every creature knew what possibilities loomed over them; what the Hundred-Eyed God likely saw with their never-ending sight. Some fates, they knew, were going to be bloodier than others. The seat of the Star was ripe for the taking. The only question was - who would be the figure standing behind its throne?

THE FIRST WEEK OF THE NEW MOON: The movements of the wealthy are not kept secret for long. It is well known that only those who sit comfortably upon a mound of money are the only ones that are able to traverse between the kingdoms, and are the only ones expected to participate within the funeral rituals of the great Star, Cador. Where the fat of the calf is, vultures follow, and are not robbers all too content with being compared to such predatory animals? The robbers know it is fair easier to strike angels and demons when their defenses are thinned, spread out like a caravan, making them ripe for the plucking.

The Tridium knows of this, though, and is aware of the dangers of such travel. They are determined to extend the courtesy of safety and protection to those who seek to remember the life of Cador, and so they have requested that volunteers within the Holy Land take up arms to defend their visitors. Among those who have volunteered to do so are:

GROUP I:

LUCA RICHE

CAPHRIEL

ORIAS

GROUP II:

ROMILDA ALTIER

SAMAEL

DMITRI

GROUP III:

ARIANNE ALTIER

RAUM

ZADKIEL

THE SECOND WEEK OF THE NEW MOON: The preparations for Cador’s funeral have finally come to an end, and the celebrations and rituals begin. The rites span over six days, each day with a specific means for paying Cador’s legacy homage.

The first day is known as the MEMORIAM OF DAWN, in which the community gathers together to build a pyre for the departed, rising at dawn to collect the necessary instruments and resources - wood, flowers, oils, and the like. While they gather and prepare, they sing of the departed’s childhood, and if none can be recounted then they sing of the first time the departed smiled at them, their first laugh, and so on. The second day is known as the MEMORIAM OF THE FIRST TWILIGHT and it is upon this day that the treasures of the departed are gathered together so that they might be redistributed to their loved ones and the community, depending on the wishes of the dead. This typically takes place at the Temple of the Saints and is often accompanied by acts of charity, such as alms-giving and distribution of goods in the name of the departed. The third day is known as the MEMORIAM OF SUNRISE and it is on this day that there is quiet and respite to be taken by the loved ones of the departed. Traditionally, they sequester themselves and allow themselves time to bask in the life that they had shared with the dead - oftentimes gathering together if only to drink, eat, and exchange memories.

The fourth day is known as the MEMORIAM OF SUNSET, during which what can only be described as festivities take place - the last three days of funeral rituals meant to be a joyous celebration of the life that had been lived. A bonfire takes place and those who wish to render the memory of the departed upon their skin, either in letter or through symbols. Laughter, singing, dancing often marks this and typically bleeds into the next. The fifth day is known as the MEMORIAM OF THE LAST TWILIGHT and it is on this day that the last vestiges of the departed are burned. Treasures that no one wishes to keep for themselves, letters that they had written, renderings and sketches - all are burned upon the pyre, along with the body that remains. The lighting of the pyre is rather ceremonious, with a loved one removing the shroud as frankincense curls in the air, placing one final kiss upon the departed’s brow before extending the torch and setting the pyre aflame. Libations, song, and dancing ensue once more and consequently bleed into the sixth and final day, known as the MEMORIAM OF DUSK. When dusk settles on this final day, the ashes from the pyre are collected and are taken care of at the discretion of the departed’s loved ones. Candles are lit throughout the community - placed upon windowsills, balconies, fountains, the old haunts and known places of refuge for the dead. With this closing ceremony, it is recognized that, though the ache still lingers - and perhaps it always will - there is hope that such love will be renewed again

The people of the land - and the visitors from the neighboring kingdoms - gather together to remember the great life that Cador had. Minstrels ready their instruments, children and adults alike gather the wood for the bonfire, and so the celebrations begin and the libations are shared among all. In their drunkenness, there are some who can’t help but notice how odd Cador seems to look on the pyre - it is as though there is a glamour that is placed on his visage. The hues of his skin seem skewed. The way the light shines in his hair gleams rather oddly.

But no matter, no matter… leave the dead to their peace…

THIRD WEEK OF THE NEW MOON: It seems that the entirety of the world has been renewed, that fresh vigor runs deep within the soil. For this reason, it is said that the Daemonium are becoming agitated - for the only renewal they know is that of their insatiable hunger. It is on the outskirts of Sanctus Terra that many hear of it. The Tridium is aware, but they make the decision to stay their hand - they feel themselves becoming overwhelmed while being spread so thin. Those of the Round Table need to reserve their forces and maintain their focus on electing a new Star to represent them and their interests. But there are the restless few who cannot help but take a quick trip to relieve their own hunger - their hunger for glory.

THE FOURTH WEEK OF THE NEW MOON: Due to the unprecedented events that occurred at the beginning of the New Moon, the celebration known as The Coming of Spring was delayed, and many instead chose to celebrate it during the fourth week of the New Moon. The allocated sites have been announced and the people of the Holy Land are able to let the last vestiges of grief go as the renewal of the spirit takes place. Perhaps some will wish that the new Star be as righteous and glorious as the one that had passed. Perhaps those who hunger for it will get the schism that they want so dearly to occur between the factions.

FINAL NOTES: And with that, we have released our first event! Not to get sappy, but you all have no idea how grateful we are to have your interest and excitement. This has been a long time coming and we absolutely cannot wait to see all the interactions that will take place!

The OPEN POSITIONS will always be on a first-come, first-serve basis, so drop an ask to the MAIN to let us know if you want your character to participate in this. It is meant to be a joint collaboration between those within the Holy Land and the neighboring kingdoms, so angels, demons, and mortals alike are welcome to volunteer themselves! If there is no space available, we will let you know as soon as we can.

If you have any questions, please drop them in the discord channel and if you find yourself coming up empty for plots, don’t hesitate to contact us. We absolutely love collaborating and helping our members. You are free to thread out any of the events that have been outlined in the event or to have your characters go on their own adventures. Otherwise, we hope you all have fun and enjoy!

#thcevent #event i #rp #rpg #spn rp #fantasy rp #OUR OPENING EVENT WOW!!!

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bobasheebaby · 4 years

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200 Harry Potter Prompts

Let me preface with this: I love the Harry Potter series, both the books and the movies and have shared both with my son; HOWEVER I don’t support the things that JK Rowling has been saying recently. I refuse to let her transphobia destroy something I love so I propose we take back these quotes from the characters we love and make as many of them as gay as we possibly can. Fuck you JK

1 “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” —Albus Dumbledore

2 “No post on Sundays.” —Vernon Dursley

3 “You’re a little scary sometimes, you know that? Brilliant … but scary.” —Ron Weasley

4 “It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” —Albus Dumbledore

5 “Honestly, don’t you two read?” —Hermione Granger

6 “Why couldn’t it be ‘follow the butterflies’?” —Ron Weasley

7 “Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.” —Arthur Weasley

8 “It is our choices, NAME, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” —Albus Dumbledore

9 “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” —Harry Potter

10 “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” —Albus Dumbledore

11 “I don’t go looking for trouble, trouble usually finds me.” —Harry Potter

12 “The ones that love us never really leave us.” —Sirius Black

13 “What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.” —Rubeus Hagrid

14 “Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.” —Albus Dumbledore

15 “I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed.” —Rubeus Hagrid

16 “It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.” —Albus Dumbledore

17 “Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, NAME?” —Hermione Granger

18 “You’re just as sane as I am.” —Luna Lovegood

19 “I mean, it’s sort of exciting, isn’t it, breaking the rules?” —Hermione Granger

20 “Give him/her hell from us, NAME.” —Fred and George Weasley

21 “We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on.” —Sirius Black

22 “Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have.” —Hermione Granger

23 “Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.” —Luna Lovegood

24 “Let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” —Albus Dumbledore

25 “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” —Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem

26 “Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.” —Kingsley Shacklebolt

27 “It is the quality of one’s convictions that determines success, not the number of followers.” —Remus Lupin

28 “Not my son/daughter, you bitch!” —Molly Weasley

29 “You’ll stay with me?” “Until the very end.” —Harry and James Potter

30 “Of course it’s happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” —Albus Dumbledore

31 “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” —Albus Dumbledore

32 “Time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead." — Harry Potter

33 “If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." — Sirius Black

34 “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends." — Albus Dumbledore

35 “It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more." — Albus Dumbledore

36 “You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?" — Albus Dumbledore

37 “Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it.” — Albus Dumbledore

38 “The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.'" — Albus Dumbledore

39 “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself." — Hermione Granger

40 “I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there." — Harry Potter

41 “When in doubt, go to the library." — Ron Weasley

42 “Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward." — Draco Malfoy

43 “Mischief Managed!" — Harry Potter

44 “We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided." — Albus Dumbledore

45 “Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go." — Voldemort

46 “Curiosity is not a sin…. But we should exercise caution with our curiosity… yes, indeed." — Albus Dumbledore

47 “Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." — Albus Dumbledore

48 “The thing about growing up with NAME (and NAME) is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.'" — Ginny Weasley

49 “Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike." — Albus Dumbledore

50 “NAME says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right." — Hermione Granger

51 “Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe." — Nearly Headless Nick

52 “Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth." — Albus Dumbledore

53 “No, NAME, you listen,” (pause) “We're coming with you. That was decided months ago — years, really.'" —Hermione Granger

54 “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." ― Albus Dumbledore

55 “Do not pity the dead, NAME. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love. “-– Albus Dumbledore

56 “Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.” – Ginny Weasley

57 “For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own.” – Albus Dumbledore

58 “We’re all going to keep fighting, NAME. You know that?” – Neville Longbottom

59 “I am not worried, NAME … I am with you.” – Albus Dumbledore

60 “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.” – Gilderoy Lockhart

61 “Parents shouldn’t leave their kids unless —unless they’ve got to.” – Harry Potter

62 “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies.” – Lord Voldemort

63 “Killing is not so easy as the innocent believe.” – Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

64 “What's life without a little risk?" — Sirius Black

65 “There were near misses, many of them. We laughed about them afterwards. We were young, thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.” – Remus Lupin

66 “You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” – Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

67 “You will also find that help will always be given at PLACE to those who ask for it.” – Albus Dumbledore

68 “I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!” – Hermione Granger

69 “To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever." — Albus Dumbledore

70 “Though we may come from different places, and speak in different tongues, our hearts beat as one." — Albus Dumbledore

71 “Always.” — Severus Snape

72 “Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.” — Albus Dumbledore

73 “It is important to fight and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then can evil be kept at bay though never quite eradicated.” — Albus Dumbledore

74 “Dark times lie ahead of us and there will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.” — Albus Dumbledore

75 “Time is making us fools again." — Albus Dumbledore

76 “I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.” — Albus Dumbledore

77 “The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.” — Albus Dumbledore

78 “I just feel so ... angry, all the time., and what if after everything I've been through, something's gone wrong inside me. What if I'm becoming bad?" — Harry Potter

79 “Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” — Severus Snape

80 “Well, it may have escaped your notice, but life isn’t fair.” — Severus Snape

81 “Ah, yes,” he/she said softly, “NAME. Our new — celebrity.” — Severus Snape

82 ““I wish … I wish I were dead …” “And what use would that be to anyone?” — Severus Snape & Albus Dumbledore

83 “You don’t want me as your enemy, NAME.” — Severus Snape

84 “DON’T . . . CALL ME COWARD!” — Severus Snape

85 “Look . . . at . . . me . . . “ — Severus Snape

86 “Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you." — Sirius Black

87 “NAME was a brave, clever, and energetic man/woman, and such men/women are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger." — Albus Dumbledore

88 “Like the fact that the person NAME cared for the most about in the world was you.” — Albus Dumbledore

89 “You don’t understand — there are things worth dying for!” — Sirius Black

90 “Well, [bad] times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others.” — Sirius Black

91 “Oh, I’ve interrupted a deep thought, haven’t I? I can see it growing smaller in your eyes.” — Luna Lovegood

92 “I sleepwalk, you see. That’s why I wear shoes to bed.” — Luna Lovegood

93 “He/She doesn’t think you treated him:her very well, because you wouldn’t dance with him/her. I don’t think I’d have minded. I don’t like dancing very much.” — Luna Lovegood

94 “Come, daddy, NAME doesn't want to talk to us right now. He's/She’s just too polite to say it.” ~Luna Lovegood

95 “Being different isn't a bad thing. It means you're brave enough to be yourself.” - Luna Lovegood

96 “NAME, if brains were gold, you'd be poorer than NAME, and that's saying something.” — Draco Malfoy

97 “You foul, lying, evil little cockroach!” — Hermione Granger

98 “Oh, it was NAME, I was thinking about him and I lost track of things.” — Hermione Granger

99 “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.” — Hermione Granger

100 “It would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats, NAME, because in case you haven’t noticed, NAME and I are on your side.” — Hermione Granger

101 “Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” — Hermione Granger

102 “Very well spotted.” — Hermione Granger

103 “Always the tone of surprise.” — Hermione Granger

104 “Sometimes friendship means not having to say anything. Thank yous and apologies can sometimes get lost, but that doesn’t mean they’re unexpressed.” — Hermione Granger

105 “You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer him/her up.” — Ron Weasley

106 “And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” — Ron Weasley

107 “I knew NAME was lying about that tattoo.” — Ron Weasley

108 “There's a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.” — Ron Weasley

109 “Oh, yeah, I borrowed it for a bit of bedtime reading.” — Ron Weasley

110 “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” — Ron Weasley

111 “Hang on a moment!” (said sharply) “We’ve forgotten someone!” — Ron Weasley

112 “I never really gave up on you. Not really." — Ginny Weasley

113 “It's okay NAME, it's alright. It doesn't matter." — Ginny Weasley

114 “People think they know all there is to know about you, but the best bits of you are ... heroic in really quiet ways." — Ginny Weasley

115 “Excuse me, but I care what happens to NAME as much as you do!” — Ginny Weasley

116 “Yeah, NAME, because you’re so talented ... at posing ...” — Ginny Weasley

117 “Forgot to brake, NAME, sorry.” — Ginny Weasley

118 “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?” — Ginny Weasley

119 “I never really gave up on you. Not really. I always hoped ... NAME told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And he/she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more — myself.” — Ginny Weasley

120 “There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for.” — Ginny Weasley

121 “A good first impression can work wonders.” — Molly Weasley

122 “Beds empty! No note! Car gone-could have crashed-out of my mind with worry-did you care?” — Molly Weasley

123 “Where's the fun without a bit of risk?” — Fred Weasley

124 “You're joking, NAME! You are actually joking, NAME ... I don't think I've heard you joke since you were-“ — Fred Weasley

125 “What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?” “Oh no, NAME,” [sarcastically.] “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.” — Ron and Fred Weasley

126 “Where is NAME?" "Still in the showers," "We think he’s/she's trying to drown himself.” — Harry Potter and Fred Weasley

127 “We thought we heard your dulcet tones." "You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, NAME, let it all out," “There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn't hear you.” — George and Fred Weasley

128 “I don't think you're a waste of space.” — Dudley Dursley

129 “Yeah, but coming from NAME that's like ‘I love you.’” — Harry Potter

130 “The point is, if we find out you’ve been horrible to NAME —” “— and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it.” — Arthur Weasley and Remus Lupin

131 “What you fear most of all is-fear.” —Remus Lupin

132 “There’s a bigger cause out there. It’s bigger than any of us here. But we stick together, all right? We stick together and look out for each other. Because you four are all I’ve got left. And I’m not going to see you die. Forever alive, all right? We’re not going to die." -Sirius Black

133 “Thought we were supposed to be friends? Best friends?” “We are, NAME.” — Severus Snape and Lily Potter

134 “NAME was scowling at him/her, but NAME refused to be judged by a cat.”

135 “I don’t know everything about life and marriage and happiness. But I do know what love is. And I do know that when love is real, and when love is in its strongest form, it is the most powerful thing on this earth. It kills, saves lives, heals wounds, and most of all, brings hope. That is what you have done for me, NAME. You have brought me hope." — James Potter

136 “I'm sorry too, that I will never know him/her ... but he/she will know why I died and I hope he/she will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he/she could live a happier life." — Remus Lupin

137 “I DON'T CARE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!” — Harry Potter

138 “You do care. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” — Albus Dumbledore

139 “He/She must have known I'd want to leave you." “No, he/she must have known you would always want to come back.” — Ron Weasley and Harry Potter

140 “You think I'm a fool?" “No, I think you're like NAME, who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his/her friends.” — Harry Potter and Remus Lupin

141 “You’re less like your father/mother/etc than I thought. The risk would’ve been what made it fun for NAME.” — Sirius Black

142 “The battle is always the same, just with different chapters.”

143 “I will if you go out with me, NAME.” — James Potter

144 “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.” — Albus Dumbledore

145 “We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, NAME, but battle on." — Albus Dumbledore

146 “Eat, you'll feel better." — Remus Lupin

147 “Training for the ballet, NAME?” — Draco Malfoy

148 “You’re a fool, NAME, and you will lose everything.” — Voldemort

149 “There is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.” — Voldemort

150 “What if I don't care?" “I care. How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral ...and it was my fault ...” — Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter

151 “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies.”

152 “I have seen your heart, and it is mine.” — Voldemort

153 “What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, NAME?” “Nothing — nothing, my Lord!” “Such lies, NAME . . .” — Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy

154 “Come out, NAME ... come out and play, then it will be quick it might even be painless I would not know I have never died.” — Voldemort

155 “Do nothing! He's/She’s mine to finish! He's /She’s mine!” — Voldemort

156 “They never learn. Pity.” — Voldemort

157 “Invite him inside, NAME. Where are your manners?” — Voldemort

158 “As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, NAME, I must be the one to kill NAME.” — Voldemort

159 “Oh, he/she knows how to play, little bitty baby NAME.” — Bellatrix

160 “I don't like to be kept waiting!” — Bellatrix (Hermione)

161 “Ah, shut up, NAME, yeh great prune.” — Hagrid

162 “You think it - wise - to trust NAME with something as important as this?" “I would trust NAME with my life.” — McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore

163 “It unscrews the other way.” — Professor McGonagall

164 “They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot.” — Professor McGonagall

165 “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, NAME." — Professor McGonagall

166 “"I – I didn't think –" “That is obvious." — Harry Potter and Professor McGonagall

167 “Why is it when something happens, it is always you three?” — Professor McGonagall

168 “NAME, that was foolish!" "He spat at you.” — Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter

169 “NAME – you're here! What –? How –?" — Professor McGonagall

170 “I didn't want anyone to talk to me.” "Well, that was a bit stupid of you.” — Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley

171 “Are you really giving us permission to do this?” “Yes, NAME.” “Blow it up? Boom?” “BOOM!” Neville Longbottom and Professor McGonagall

172 “That's the spirit, now away you go.” — Professor McGonagall

173 “NAME, take NAME with you. He/She looks far too happy over there.” — Professor McGonagall

174 “Do nothing? Offer him/her up as bait? NAME is a boy/girl/child! Not a piece of meat!” — Professor McGonagall

175 “That was bloody brilliant!” — Ron Weasley

176 “May I offer you a cough drop, NAME?” — Professor McGonagall

177 “Things at NAME are far worse than I feared." — Dolores Umbridge

178 “You know, I really hate children." — Dolores Umbridge

179 “I'm sure we're all going to be very good friends." — Dolores Umbridge

180 “The time has come for answers, whether he/she wants to give them or not." — Dolores Umbridge

181 “Deep down, you know that you deserve to be punished. Don't you, NAME?" — Dolores Umbridge

182 “I WILL have order!" — Dolores Umbridge

183 “What NAME doesn't know won't hurt him/her." — Dolores Umbridge

184 “As I told you NAME, naughty children deserve to be punished.” — Dolores Umbridge

185 “NAME, do something. Tell them I mean no harm.” “I'm sorry, NAME. But I must not tell lies.” — Harry Potter and Dolores Umbridge

186 “And that, boys/girls, is why you should never go on looks alone.”

187 “NAME, listen ...” [quietly] “I can’t be involved with you any more. We’ve got to stop seeing each other. We can’t be together.” “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?” — Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley

188 “It’s been like ... like something out of someone else’s life, these last few weeks with you. But I can’t ... we can’t ... I’ve got things to do alone now.” — Harry Potter

189 “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love."

190 “You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” — Albus Dumbledore

191 “NAME’s man/woman through and through, aren’t you NAME?” “Yeah I am. Glad we straightened that out.”

192 “He/She accused me of being NAME’s man/woman through and through.” “How very rude of him/her.” “I told him/her I was.”

193 “He/She will only be gone from PLACE when none here are loyal to him/her.” — Harry Potter

194 “Working hard is important. But there is something that matters even more, believing in yourself.” — Harry Potter

195 “One can never have enough socks.” — Albus Dumbledore

196 “People find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than right.” — Albus Dumbledore

197 “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Albus Dumbledore

198 “The best of us sometimes eat our words.” — Albus Dumbledore

199 “Time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead.” — Hermione Granger

200 “Don’t you tell me what to do, NAME!” — Hermione Granger

25 notes · View notes