#Shapur past | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marchdancer · 2 years

Text

"that's just the way he is and that's why I love him."

Kubard hated it, he hated it when someone criticized him for something that wasn't wrong. He hated it when people thought he was stupid or that he never thought about his actions. He hated it and especially hated it when the person was Shapur. Ever since they knew each other, Kubard couldn't shake off the feeling that Shapur looked down on him. Maybe because he thought he was better than him or because he was the illegitimate son of a bandit, Kubard didn't know. He would claim that he didn't care, but Kubard was no liar. However, if he was honest, he and Shapur would probably never get along. But sometimes these views can change over a jug of wine or two, and with a little help Kubard might understand Shapur a little better.

Peshawar Citadel, Pars Era 321

"This was stupid, impulsive and risky" Shapur's sharp words cut across the courtyard of Peshawar. Torches lit up the area in front of the great main gate, where until moments ago the Turanian army had laid siege to the citadel. The night sky was covered with dark clouds, which barely let a ray of moonlight through. In this pitch-black night, the Turanian army had tried to enter the Peshawar fortress. Fortunately, the Parsi army, under the leadership of Crown Prince Arslan and thanks to the foresight of Narsus, had been prepared.

Nevertheless, it was not easy for the soldiers to keep the enemy army at bay. The Turanian horsemen, had hidden in the darkness of the night and ambushed the soldiers. The young Lord Zaravant had also been caught, and only through the quick intervention of Daryun and Kishward, the lord of the fortress, could he be brought into the protective castle.

It had been grueling and the men, who fought under the command of Daryun, Kishward and Shapur, at the gates of the citadel had been defenseless against the enemy. Only through a trick and the intervention of Kubard had the Parsians been able to achieve victory.

But this was not seen by all present. On the contrary, Shapur was furious, not to say pissed off.

In the glow of his reddish torches he now stood in front of Kubard, who only stared at him tiredly and annoyed from above. Shapur, at six feet tall, was certainly not small in stature. But Kubard towered over him by almost a full foot. Any other human would have avoided any confrontation with the one-eyed giant due to the size difference alone, but not Shapur.

"What are you all so upset about?" Kubard asked, bored, scratching his three-day beard. "You know exactly what I'm upset about" hissed Shapur, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Kubard eyed his counterpart more closely, Shapur seemed genuinely upset, Kubard could tell by his malingering jaw and deep frown lines. Also by his right index finger, which seemed to twitch nervously. Kubard sighed resignedly and then shrugged his shoulders "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're getting at" he replied calmly, because if he was honest he really didn't know. But Kubard should have known better. He should have just agreed with Shapur and left it at that. But that's not who he was, and if he was going to be accused of something, Kubard at least wanted to know why.

"Are you really serious?" Shapur gritted his teeth in frustration and looked sharply at Kubard. In this dark night with only the flickering shadows of the burning fires, Shapur looked like a wild animal already making for the attack.

"Brother please let it be" whispered Isfan, grabbing his older brother by the arm to calm him down.

"Don't you tell me what to do" Shapur's voice thundered across the courtyard, making everyone present cringe. The soldiers, who until recently had been watching the scene between the two Marzban, hastily retreated. Even the moans and groans of the wounded seemed to fall silent. Shapur turned to his younger brother and glared angrily at him. Even though Isfan was a little taller than his older brother, under his angry gaze he suddenly felt like a ten-year-old who had been caught trying to steal cookies.

"As for your behavior, we'll talk about it later," Shapur hissed between clenched teeth, and Isfan looked guiltily to the side.

"Don't you think you're going a little too far?" Kubard asked, looking thoughtfully at Isfan, who looked aside, concerned, to avoid his brother's gaze. "I'm going too far?" Shapur wheeled around angrily "your behavior almost cost hundreds of lives, this advance was rash and arrogant, if you're already out for glory then" "Wait a minute" Kubard interrupted Shapur's moral lecture and took a step closer to his counterpart. "From my point of view, the offense stalled and that's why I decided to intervene. We would have lost the hundred men sooner if you had continued this stalling, tactic." "You disregarded the existing strategy with your intervention and brought unrest to the troops. We had everything under control out there until you showed up and acted like a wild ox." "You dare insult me?" Growled Kubard and his sword hand twitched menacingly "no I'm not insulting you" replied Shapur "I'm just telling the truth." Kubard gritted his teeth and ground his jaw, he clenched his right hand into a fist and raised his arm. Shapur also shifted his weight and prepared to ward off the coming blow.

"That's enough!" A voice thundered across the court, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a sword stroke. Kubard lowered his fist in astonishment and Shapur also loosened his stance.

The men's eyes wandered to the other side of the courtyard, in the direction where the makeshift hospital was being set up. A young woman approached the three men. She had tied her red hair into a loose knot, from which occasional strands came loose and framed her face with its many freckles. The glow of the torches was reflected in her green eyes. She wore linen pants with a short sword attached to her right hip. As she approached, she wiped her hands on a cloth that was already red with the blood of the wounded.

Kubard had already noticed the young woman at the Battle of St. Emmanuel, when she had tended to the injured soldiers. She was from Prince Arslan's retinue and Kubard had heard a few stories about her, but he had not yet the opportunity to speak with her personally. However, he had already heard her name from the other men.

Kayra stopped in front of them and looked sharply at Kubard and Shapur before turning to Isfan. "Lord Zaravant has regained consciousness. Apparently the healing herbs are kicking in. I think you should go check on him." Isfan seemed relieved at her words, and with a quick nod of his head, the young man turned and disappeared across the courtyard into the fortress.

Shapur and Kubard watched him go, each avoiding eye contact with the other.

Kayra sighed "I've treated enough wounded in the last few weeks" she began, looking back and forth between the two men, each still avoiding eye contact with the other. "I think the Turanian army has already given us enough injured soldiers tonight, then we don't need another fight between friends inside the walls." Kubard scratched the back of his head "mmh there is some truth to that" he grumbled and looked at Shapur. The black haired Marzban was still standing in front of him with his arms crossed, but his look seemed less gloomy and upset "as you say" was his curt reply addressed to Kayra and Kubard was almost willing to retort with a biting comment that he should be a bit friendlier with a beautiful woman when he noticed the smile on Kayra's face.

To Kubard it seemed like an understanding, almost affectionate smile, was there any truth to the rumors that circulated among the soldiers?

"Lord Daryun and her majesty the crown prince would like to speak to you" Kayra began to address Shapur again "they are waiting for you at the wall by the big main gate" Shapur mumbled something unintelligible, which sounded like a thank you, then he turned around and disappeared across the courtyard in the direction of the main gate.

Kubard stood a little puzzled and watched Shapur disappear into the darkness of the fortress, he noisily let the air out of his lungs and then shook his head in disbelief "you think he's ungrateful, don't you?" Kayra asked in a soft voice and the Marzban looked at the young woman who was also looking in the direction Lord Shapur had disappeared. "Mmh" Kubard just grumbled and ran the flat of his hand over his face "ungrateful, mmh maybe more like stubborn, intransigent, straightforward but in a bad way" "you mean rule-loving?" she asked. "Yes maybe" he paused "he's a good fighter and besides Daryun probably the only one I consider his equal but" "but you don't understand how he can always live by the rules and never take a risk?" Kayra asked him amused and Kubard looked at her in amazement.

"You know Lord Kubard I think you and I should have a talk, I think we will get along wonderfully. How about I buy you a mug of wine?" This statement now completely blew Kubard's mind, this woman was really interesting, but in a different way than the women he had known so far. He watched as she untied the knot from her hair, the red curls falling over her shoulders, dancing around her face like little flames. "A jug of wine in the company of a beautiful woman? That's an offer I can hardly refuse." He said, and his laughter thundered across the court of Peshawar.

The tavern in the cellar vault of the citadel was of low ceiling height, so Kubard had to duck his head at his height. The wine barrels were lined up against a long stone wall, in front of which stood a long wooden counter with wooden stools. A few tables were scattered around the room, with only the occasional soldier still sitting at them, drinking their wine and talking in hushed voices.

Kayra nodded briefly to the innkeeper as they entered, a short man of slender build and shaggy white hair. He returned the nod before turning, pulling an earthenware jug from under the counter, and filling it with wine from one of the barrels. Kayra sat down on a stool, at the other end of the counter, Kubard taking a seat next to hers.

The innkeeper joined them with two mugs and the filled jug of wine in his hand. The redhead placed a few coins on the wooden counter and accepted the jug. The innkeeper thanked her with a nod of his head, took the coins and went back to the other end of the counter, where he continued cleaning mugs with a cloth.

Kayra handed Kubard one of the two mugs and raised her "Here's to putting the Turans to flight!" she said and took a sip. Kubard raised his cup as well and took as well a sip, the wine burning pleasantly in his throat and feeling very invigorating after the long and rather cold night.

"So Lord Kubard, what do you want to know?" Asked the young woman suddenly, snapping Marzban out of his thoughts. Somewhat irritated, he looked at her, her green eyes twinkling with amusement and small dimples had formed on her cheeks as another smile played around her mouth. Kubard was caught completely off guard for a brief moment. Kayra laughed out loud at the sight of the baffled man, which only made Kubard more so at that moment. More confused. For one thing, a woman had never, and by that he meant never, laughed at him, and for another, Kayra, quite unlike in his imagination, did not have an angelic laugh.

No her laugh was rather deep and raspy and was accompanied by small grunting noises in between. If Kubard had not witnessed this laughter himself at that moment, he would not believe that this laughter belonged to the young woman next to him and yet, this laughter was contagious and before he knew it, his own thunderous laughter echoed through the cellar vault. The other soldiers and even the innkeeper looked irritated as their collective laughter echoed through the tavern and filled the entire room.

Slowly Kayar and Kubard calmed down again and each took another big gulp from their cups. Kayra was the first to speak again "so what do you want to know?" She asked again, looking expectantly at the Marzban. The latter scratched his chin a little sheepishly before he began to speak "well," he began "say, are the rumors I herar about you true?"

He looked at her expectantly and eyed her more closely. She was young, not too young, her features were too mature for that. Kubard guessed that Kayra and he must be about the same age. She was clearly not twenty years more, but certainly not at the end of her thirties, she lacked the wrinkles for that.

So she must be in her early thirties, like him.

"I'll be thirty-one this winter," she said, as if she could tell by Kubard's look that he was trying to classify her age, "so we're not far apart," she added, winking mischievously. She took another sip of the wine before setting the cup down and refilling it for herself and Kubard.

"Your question is very" she began to address again "very imprecise. From what I gather there are many rumors about me, some were others are a bit," she tilted her head and seemed to be thinking "very fanciful I would think." She set the cup again and took another sip. "If you mean the rumor that I am a mage, then that rumor is true. However, I do not eat children, nor do I bring any offerings there. That falls more into the realm of black magic. If you mean the rumor that I am a former slave, then this is also true and yes I served in the household of Lord Shapur at that time. I can also assure you that I am well versed in the art of healing and medicine, I also speak seven different languages. By the way, the rumor that I turn men to stone is also not true."

"And the rumor about you and Shapur?" Asked Kubard "which one? That I was his lover or that we were engaged?" Kayra asked back, but before Kubard could say anything back she was already talking.

"Both rumors are true. We were once lovers, we tried to keep it a secret as best we could but among the other slaves it was an open secret. Many thought I was simply his concubine, but that was not the case. When I turned twenty-one he asked me if I would become his wife. I was naive enough to say yes, but it turned out to be a big mistake. You think Shapur doesn't like you because of your lineage, don't you? Because you are the son of a bandit, but I can assure you that is not the case. Shapur used to believe that everyone could achieve something through hard work and that this should not be the privilege of the nobles only." "But" Kubard continued but fell silent when he noticed Kayra's head shake.

"Shapur seems to be a supporter of the existing system on the outside, but deep down he detests it. It is a system that almost cost his brother his life. A system that condemned Isfan's mother to death for no reason, just because she was a slave." Sadness settled over her face and she clutched her cup a little tighter. "I heard about the story. Shapur saved his brother then, didn't he?" "Yes he did. He set off alone into the mountains to look for him. His mother Lady Ziba arranged for Ashina to be thrown out then. She abandoned her and Isfan in the mountains. I think Shapur has not forgiven her to this day." Kubard looked silently into his cup, when he became Marzban then he had heard the story about Shapur's brother but had not known that he was the son of a slave.

"Lord Kubard" Kayra returned her attention to the one-eyed soldier "you said that Shapur was stubborn, undiscerning and straightforward in a bad way and rules in love. I agree with you, but you must know that this is only a facade behind which he hides. Behind this facade he is less uptight, he does a lot with himself alone, which is why he often seems stubborn and perhaps aloof."

She smiled dreamily "he used to retreat to his study and spend time there working until late at night, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. He always tried to find a solution to everything on his own because he didn't want to burden others with his problems. He can sometimes be strict and exaggerates in some things but only because he wants you to be prepared for the world that is waiting for you out there. Yes, it is true that he likes to follow rules because he believes that this involves less risk. But he also knows that sometimes it is necessary to break or circumvent the rules, but when he does so, he does so in secret without making a fuss." Kubard listened in silence, when the redhead had finished he looked thoughtfully into his cup, which was empty by now. Kayra noticed this and poured them both another drink before ordering another mug from the innkeeper.

The tavern had emptied in the meantime and only the two of them sat at the wooden bar. It had become quiet and only the crackling of torches on the wall and the clattering of mugs, which the innkeeper collected from the tables, filled the room. Normally Kubard hated silence, especially in a bar. It was too easy to be tempted to indulge in his own dark thoughts. But at that moment, the silence was comfortable, and he wondered if it had something to do with the young woman's presence.

“Shapur has taken risked in his life, he has spoken out loud, he trusts his instincts and followed his gut feeling. Sadly, he has lost already three important people as a result.” The young woman smiled slightly "you think he always criticizes you because you are the son of a bandit, don't you?"

The Marzban nodded in agreement "but maybe it's because you are the disciple of Lord Mert?"

"You knew Lord Mert?" Kubard was surprised to hear the name of his old teacher. Lord Mert was a Marzban of Pars in his time, and it was he who had taken the young Kubard under his wing and trained him. However, he died almost twenty years ago. "How did you know Lord Mert?" He asked in surprise "I knew him because I worked in his household, which became Shapur's household after his death." "Wait a minute Lord Mert was" "he was Lord Shapur's uncle" she answered his question. Kubard was surprised, even caught off guard, but thinking about it he suddenly realized the similarities Shapur had with his former teacher. The facial features, the laugh, the serious look, even his fighting techniques. Kubard suddenly felt foolish that he had not noticed these similarities earlier. "Lord Mert died almost twenty-one years ago I was just ten years old. Shapur had already been in the army for two years, under the command of his uncle. Back in the battle of Gilan, when the troops from Misr marched in there," she paused and it seemed that she was searching for the right words.

"I don't know all the details, but back then Lord Mert lost his life in that battle. Shapur never really talked about it, but he once told me that he and his youthful recklessness were responsible for his uncle's death. I didn´t think that this is true but Shapur has always been critical of himself. You must know he was always closer to his uncle than to his father or even his mother. By the time Lord Mert died, his younger brother, Shapur's father, was already dead. Since there were no descendants, Shapur inherited all of his uncle's possessions. However, he did not want them. His plan had been to manage everything until Isfan was old enough to take over. He never wanted to live the life of a noble, he always said that this life was like a golden cage. So, he didn´t feel worthy enough to inherit the title of his uncle. He was rebellious against his mother and against the system. Much to his mother's displeasure. So she wanted to get rid of Isfan and his mother and had them taken to the mountains. You already know the end. After that, he swore never to break rules again and to act as he was expected to. Straightforward, loyal and locked to others, so that he lets as few people as possible into his life that he can then lose."

Kayra drank the last sip of wine from her cup and smiled slightly at Kubard.

Kubard didn't know exactly how to react, he realized how little he knew about the Marzban. All these years, he thought Shapur was just buttoned up or would avoid him because of his origins, but that was not the case.

He also took one last sip before setting the cup down in front of him. He propped his forearms on the counter. Silence reigned between them for a while, and each pursued his own thoughts. After some time Kubard turned to Kayra "you just said that Shapur had lost three people" "mhm" "but you only mentioned two" "yes the third person" Kayra said, playing with her empty cup in front of her. She looked thoughtful "you know even though Shapur swore never to break rules again there was one person he was ready to break all the rules he knows and leave everything behind. His title as Marzban, his lands, his property as this he wanted to give up but also the person died. She died nine years ago." "Who was this person?" Kubard wanted to know, Kayra just smiled sadly before answering him "Me".

It was getting late when Kubard and Kayra walked through the deserted corridors of Peshawar. Kubard had offered to escort Kayra to her chambers, to his own surprise without ulterior motives. Perhaps because he knew that Kayra already belonged to another man, or perhaps because he knew that Kayra was one of the few women, he had met so far who seemed to show no interest in him.

Both had been silent the whole way, the moon was still hidden behind the clouds and so only sporadic torches lit the way to the different quarters. Kubard was the first to speak again, "I'm not sure if Shapur and I will ever get along, but I think I understand him a little better now." "I think you two are more friends than either of you want to admit." Kubard snorted loudly before scratching his head "we'll see" he muttered.

As they both turned the next corner, they stopped in surprise. In front of them stood Shapur. He looked slightly irritated when he saw Kubard together with Kayra. "there you are" he spoke and came towards them. Despite the dim light, Kayra could see the deep wrinkles in his face "I was looking for you" Shapur stopped in front of Kayra and looked at her. She smiled slightly and grabbed him by the upper arm "you look tired" she noted, Shapur expelled his breath noisily and grabbed the root of his nose "yes" he whispered softly "a little" and looked back at the woman in front of him. A clearing throat made them both move around, Kubard stood a little apart of them and looked a little embarrassed "I think you're in safe hands now" he said and winked at Kayra "I'm going to hit the hay now too." With an exaggerated yawn Kubard turned around to leave. "Thanks Kubard" Kubard stopped and turned slightly, Shapur stood a little in front of Kayra. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, the one-eyed Marzban smiled briefly "you're welcome" he spoke and made his way to his sleeping chamber.

Shapur was most certainly not as simple minded as he always thought. A smile played around the corners of his mouth as he thought of Kayra's words "that's just the way he is and that's why I love him."

#the heroic legend of arslan #shapur #Kubard #oc x shapur #Oc Kayra #Shapur past #I try to write a bit of Shapur past #not canon #isfan #Kubard and Kayra get along #Au where Shapur is not dead #romance #Lovestory #a bit of Kayra´s past #arslan senki #Manga #Rivalship and friendship

10 notes · View notes

kazeshinigami · 4 years

Text

Muses I’ve written in the past, or that are currently in hiatus:

Fullmetal Alchemist

Edward Elric

a variety of OCs

Shou Tucker

Kuroshitsuji

“Ciel” Phantomhive

Hunter x Hunter

Hisoka Morrow

Naruto & Boruto

Umino Iruka

Taketori Houki

Arslan Senki

Zande

Shapur

Bleach

Kuna Mashiro

Active muses:

Hisagi Shuuhei

Kazeshini (semi-active)

Eishima Satoru (Ninth Division OC; semi-active)

Characters I’ve considered/am considering picking up or bringing back:

lol never again — i can barely keep this one RP blog remotely active

i did consider trying to write tokinada bc no one else was, but then @mindinmuken saved us all

Tagged by; @txchikaze >:3c

Tagging; (shrug)

#九. games #angelmun stuff #[[ edit: forgot mashiro! ]]

7 notes · View notes

blogdemocratesjr · 5 years

Text

The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus

The Temple of Diana at Ephesus by Salvador Dali

In the midst of all this, like a haven of refuge where men found clear enlightenment concerning what was present, as it were in fragments, in Greek culture, — in the midst stood Ephesus. Heraclitus received instruction from Ephesus, as did many another great philosopher; Plato, too, and Pythagoras. Ephesus was the place where the old Oriental wisdom was preserved up to a certain point. And the two souls who dwelt later in Aristotle and Alexander the Great were in Ephesus a little after the time of Heraclitus and were able to receive there of the heritage from the old knowledge of the Oriental Mysteries that the Mystery of Ephesus still retained. Notably the soul of Alexander entered into an intimate union with the very Being of the Mysteries as far as it was living in the Mystery of Ephesus.

And now we come to one of those historical events of which people may think that they are mere chance, but which have their foundations deep down in the inner connections of the evolution of humanity. In order to gain an insight into the significance of this event, let us call to mind the following. We must remember that in the two souls who afterwards became Aristotle and Alexander the Great, there was living in the first place all that they had received in a far-off time in the past and had subsequently elaborated and pondered. And then there was also living in their souls the treasure of untold value that had come to them in Ephesus. We might say that the whole of Asia — in the form that it had assumed in Greece, and in Ephesus in particular — was living in these two, and more especially in the soul of Alexander the Great, that is to say, of him who afterwards became Alexander the Great.

Picture to yourselves the part played by this personality. I described him for you as he was in the Gilgamesh time [re: Eabani]; and now you must imagine how the knowledge that belonged to the ancient East and to Ephesus, a knowledge which we may also call a “beholding,” a “perceiving,” — this knowledge was called up again in the intercourse between Alexander the Great and Aristotle, in a new form. Picture this to yourselves; and then think what would have happened if Alexander, in his incarnation as Alexander, had come again into contact with the Mystery of Ephesus, bearing with him in his soul the gigantic document of the Mystery of Ephesus, for this majestic document of knowledge lived with extraordinary intensity in the souls of these two. If we can form a idea of this, we can rightly estimate the fact that on the day on which Alexander was born, Herostratus threw the flaming torch into the Sanctuary of Ephesus; on the very day on which Alexander was born, the Temple of Diana of Ephesus was treacherously burnt to the ground. It was gone, never to return. Its monumental document, with all that belonged to it, was no longer there. It existed only as a historical mission in the soul of Alexander and in his teacher Aristotle.

And now you must bring all this that was alive in the soul of Alexander into connection with what I said yesterday, when I showed you how the mission of Alexander the Great was inspired by an impulse coming from the configuration of the Earth. You will readily understand how that which in the East had been real revelation of the Divine-Spiritual was as it were extinguished with Ephesus. The other Mysteries were at bottom only Mysteries of decadence, where traditions were preserved, though it is true these traditions did still awaken clairvoyant powers in specially gifted natures. The splendour and the glory, the tremendous majesty of the olden time were gone. With Ephesus was finally put out the light that had come over from the East.

You will now be in a position to appreciate the resolve that Alexander made in his soul: to restore to the East what she had lost; to restore it at least in the form in which it was preserved in Greece, in the phantom or shadow-picture. Hence his idea of making an expedition into Asia, going as far as it was possible to go, in order to bring to the East once more — albeit in the shadow form in which it still existed in the Grecian culture — what she had lost.

And now we see what Alexander the Great is really doing, and doing in a most wonderful way, when he makes this expedition. He is not bent on the conquest of existing cultures, he is not trying to bring Hellenism to the East in any external sense. Wherever he goes, Alexander the Great not only adopts the customs of the land, but is able too to enter right into the minds and hearts of the human beings who are living there, and to think their thoughts. When he comes to Egypt, to Memphis, he is hailed as a saviour and deliverer from the spiritual fetters that have hitherto bound the people. He permeates the kingdom of Persia with a culture and civilisation which the Persians themselves could never have produced. He penetrates as far as India.

He conceives the plan of effecting a balance, a harmony between Hellenic and Oriental civilisations. On every hand he founds academies. The academies founded in Alexandria, in Northern Egypt, are the best known and have had the greatest significance for later times. Of the first importance however is the fact that all over Asia larger and smaller academies were founded, in which the works of Aristotle were preserved and studied for a long time to come. What Alexander began in this way continued to work for centuries in Asia Minor, repeating itself again and again as it were in feebler echoes. With one mighty stroke Alexander planted the Aristotelian Knowledge of Nature in Asia, even as far as India. His early death prevented his reaching Arabia, though that had been one of his chief aims. He went however as far east as India, and also into Egypt. Everywhere he implanted the spiritual Knowledge of Nature that he had received from Aristotle, establishing it in such a way that it could become fruitful for men. For everywhere he let the people feel it was something that was their own, — not a foreign element, a piece of Hellenism, that was being imposed upon them. Only a nature such as Alexander's, able to fire others with his own enthusiasm, could ever have accomplished what he did. For everywhere others came forward to carry on the work he had begun. In the years that followed, many more scholars went over from Greece. Apart from Edessa it was one academy in particular, that of Gondi-Shapur, which received constant reinforcements from Greece for many centuries to come.

A marvelous feat was thus performed! The light that had come over from the East, — extinguished in Ephesus by the flaming torch of Herostratus, — this light, or rather its phantom shadow, now shone back again from Greece, and continued so to shine until the dramatic moment when beneath the tyranny of Rome [Justinian, Byzantine Emperor from 527–565, son of a peasant, sent an edict to Athens in 529 forbidding the teaching of philosophy and law. Thereupon the last seven Athenian philosophers left the Roman Empire and emigrated to Persia.] the Schools of the Greek philosophers were ultimately closed. In the 6th century A.D. the last of the Greek philosophers fled away to the academy of Gondi-Shapur.

In all this we see two elements interworking; one that had gone, so to speak, in advance, and one that had remained behind. The mission of Alexander was founded, more or less unconsciously, upon this fact: the waves of civilisation had advanced in Greece in a Luciferian manner, whilst in Asia they had remained behind in an Ahrimanic manner. In Ephesus was the balance. And Alexander, on the day of whose birth the physical Ephesus had fallen, resolved to found a spiritual Ephesus that should send its Sun-rays far out to East and West. It was in very truth this purpose that lay at the root of all he undertook: to found a spiritual Ephesus, reaching out across Asia Minor eastward to India, covering also Egyptian Africa and the East of Europe.

It is not really possible to understand the spiritual evolution of Western humanity unless we can see it on this background. For soon after the attempt had been made to spread abroad in the world the ancient and venerated Ephesus, so that what had once been present in Ephesus might now be preserved in Alexandria, — be it only in a faltering hand instead of in large shining letters — soon after this second blooming of the flower of Ephesus, an altogether new power began to assert itself, the power of Rome. Rome, and all the word implies, is a new world, a world that has nothing to do with the shadow-pictures of Greece, and suffers man to keep no more than memories of these olden times. We can study no graver or more important incision in history than this. After the burning of Ephesus, through the instrumentality of Alexander the plan is laid for the founding of a spiritual Ephesus; and this spiritual Ephesus is then pushed back by the new power that is asserting itself in the West, first as Rome, later under the name of Christianity, and so on. And we only understand the evolution of mankind aright when we say: We, with our way of comprehending things through the intellect, with our way of accomplishing things by means of our will, we with our feelings and moods can look back as far as ancient Rome. Thus far we can look back with full understanding. But we cannot look back to Greece, neither can we look back to the East. There we must look in Imaginations. Spiritual vision is needed there. Yes, we can look South, as we go back along the stream of evolution; we can look South with the ordinary prosaic understanding, but not East. When we look East, we have to look in Imaginations. We have to see standing in the background the mighty Mystery Temples of primeval post-Atlantean Asia, where the Wise Men, the Priests, made plain to each one of their pupils his connection with the Divine-Spiritual of the Cosmos, and where was to be found a civilisation that could be received from the Mysteries in the Gilgamesh time, as I have described to you. We have to see these wonderful Temples scattered over Asia; and in the foreground Ephesus, preserving still within its Mystery much that had faded away in the other Temples of the East, whilst at the same time it had already itself made the transition and become Greek in character. For in Ephesus, man no longer needed to wait for the constellations of the stars or for the right time of year, nor to wait until he himself had attained a certain age, before he could receive the revelations of the Gods. In Ephesus, if he were ripe for it, he might offer up sacrifices and perform certain exercises that enabled him so to approach the Gods that they drew graciously near to him.

—Rudolf Steiner, World History in the Light of Anthroposophy

#Anthroposophy #spiritual science #world history #Aristotle #Alexander the Great #The Temple of Artemis #Ephesus #Dali #Salvador Dalí

3 notes · View notes

iran-tourism-english · 4 years

Photo

ShapurKhast or Falak-ol-Aflak (lit. 'the Castle of the Castles') is a castle situated on the top of a large hill with the same name within the city of #Khorramabad , the regional capital of #Lorestan_province , #Iran . This gigantic structure was built during the #Sassanid era (224–651). The #Khoramabad River runs past the eastern and south-western side of the #Falak-ol-Aflak hill providing the #fortress some natural protection on those sides. Today, the western and northern sides of the hill are bordered by the residential districts of Khorramabad. Falak-ol-Aflak castle is amongst the most important structures built during the Sassanid era. It has been known by a number of names since it was built over 1800 years ago. Recorded names have referred to it as #Shapur-Khast or Sabr-Khast fortress, Dezbaz, Khoramabad castle, and ultimately the Falak-ol-Aflak Castle. Falak ol-Aflak castle is made with different materials like stone and wood that are vulnerable to humidity. That is why the castle was built on the highest point of the city of #Khoramabad , so that the wind could penetrate the building and dry its foundations. #castle #shareourheritage #persia #summer #history #شاپورخواست #خرم_آباد #ایران #ایرانگردی #تابستان #استان_لرستان #طبیعتگردی #گردشگری #توریست #قلعه_فلک_الافلاک (at خرم آباد Khorram Abad) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFUxwJgAVE7/?igshid=1jsl06ng4emud

0 notes

charltonmusic2 · 4 years

Text

Recording guitar:

When recording a guitar, a good microphone to use is an “Shure SM57” microphone. It is a dynamic microphone for stage use. (It can also be used for vocals). To get a more precise and clear sound, your going to want to set up the mic as an “On-Axis” mic setup. This setup is when the mic is directly head on with the speaker in the amp. If it were at an angle to the speaker, it wouldn’t accentuate the sound clearly. It would sound “Compressed” or even “muffled”.

For this recording, I used a Stratocaster with single coil pickups. I had the selector switch on the neck pickup. This gives it a mild sound and calms any natural treble that may come out of the guitar.

No effects were used on the recording. Just a guitar plugged into an amp, nothing else. This gives it a extremely natural tone which encourages the player to choose carefully on what they play because of the “nakedness” of their sound. It challenges your technique and connection between notes.

This kind of tone is also a great indicator if someone really plays with feel or not. The reason why is because when you really have a connection emotionally with what your playing, you emphasise and accent some notes and quietly play others. In a sense, your creating a musical story with action and sometimes mellowness. That’s the art of playing in my opinion, and the “dry naked” tone really leaves you with that reminder.

I’ve been using a compressed sounding overdrive sound. It’s quite interesting because it’s fairly obscure in some ways.

On the amplifier, (VOX VT40 Valvetronix)

I’ve been using these settings:

Gain: 5

Treble: 8

Middle: 10

Bass: 0

Also, I’ve been using single coils for this sound. I nearly always use either the bridge pickup or the middle pickup. (3rd Switch on Strat).

No effects are used except overdrive. No reverb or nothing. Those settings are also good for clean guitar aswell.

The way I’ve come to find this tone, is because I wanted to replicate a tone in RHCP’s 1991 album “Blood Sugar Sex Magik”. Particularly in the song “Give It Away”, is where I come to find the tone.

For many years, I’ve been drawn to Ray Manzareks VOX organ. “The Doors” is certainly a very talented band with a amazing reputation of un-ending creativity. But Rays organ really sets the mood for the band and gives the songs the character their known for. I don’t know why I decided to blog this, but i just appreciate their creativity. The organ has a sense of pure horror but absolute happiness and joy at the same time.

I’ve been studying ancient Arabic musical techniques and how they played their music. I’ve tuned my guitar to how a instrument called, “The Arabic Oud” would of been tuned. The “Arabic Oud” was made and introduced to Arabia somewhere between 272 to 241B.C., under the rule of King Shapur. The Oud is the ancestor or the European Lute which eventually blossomed into a incredibly important instrument famous for its use in the”Renaissance”. In Arabia, the Oud was referred to as “King” or “Sultan” of all instruments. So, it was an extremely important instrument to the people of Arabia. It’s translation is quite simple, in Arabic, “Oud” translated to English, is “From wood”. Basically just saying it’s made from wood.

The tuning in which I tuned my guitar with is in similarity to the “Arabic Oud”. Usually, a guitar would be tuned to:

E A D G B E

But with the Arabic Oud, it’s quite different. There are (like guitars) different amounts of strings sometimes more than 6 or less on an Oud. So since I have 6 strings, I had to do my best to try to tune my guitar accurately with the amount of strings I could actually use. So, my guitar is tuned like this...

C F A D G C

Note: These notes should be tuned 2 or 1 octave down than how these notes would usually be on guitar. The “Arabic Oud” needs to be tuned this way to be authentic to the ancient sound.

When the Oud was in frequent use, the Arabic musicians would play with the solid part of an eagles quill, this would eventually turn out to be the guitar plectrum we know of today because of its nearly identical way on how they used the quill. Modern day Oud players use something called a “Risha”. A slightly elongated plectrum. “Risha” translates to “Feather” in reference to how the instrument used to be plucked.

The song I have been learning, is a song which originated in Turkey. It is called, “Üsküdar’a Giderken. Not much is known about the origins of the song in terms of when it was made and by who. What we do know however, is that it includes the main qualities of authentic ancient music in terms of techniques used. If you run your finger down your guitar neck, it will make a sliding sound. Well, with the Oud, there are no frets at all, allowing you to have infinite gradation between each note when you slide. This contributes to the authentic sound.

The Ancient Arabic people had good knowledge with musical theory. It most probably was not referred as “Music Theory”. But nonetheless they had good knowledge of keeping in tune with eachother. When they used scales in their music, they didn’t call them scales but rather, “Maqam”. There are over 100 “Maqams”that were frequently used in Arabic Music, and that’s quite intense if your trying to remember atleast 10. The scales which the Arabic’s and eventually other ancient inhabitants from surrounding countries used, are actually the same ones we use today!

Some of the scales in which they used are:

Ionian

Dorian

Phrygian

Lydian

Mixolydian

Aeolian

Locrian

Chromatic

Whole tone

Many musicians frequently use these scales even down to this day. But of course there were many more scales that aren’t really used at all or are lost in time. But some ancient scales or “Maqam”, are most likely very compatible with the music you personally play. One of the musical scales or “Maqam” is called “Nahawand”. “Nahawand”, is an ancient version of the Aolien minor scale. Another scale or “Maqam” is called “Kurd”. “Kurd is an ancient version of the Phrygian mode.

Some ancient music can get extremely complicated. Let me explain. So, we’re aware of semitones. Semitones are individual notes that are part of an octave. There are 12 notes in an octave. And those notes are semitones. But, in ancient music, things called “Microtones” were used. Microtones are notes that are played in between the standard western semitone. For example, if someone played a C note on an Oud, it is possible for them to play a sharp and flat version of that note and it would still be classed as 1 semitone. That is a lot to remember if your trying to play an Oud authenticly.

But yes, the ancient world of music is extremely important and interesting to explore. It makes you understand that the people of the ancient world were incredibly advanced and extremely intelligent. So when you look at an instrument, you could ask yourself “I wonder where that originated from”. If you “dive in” you can learn quite a lot. From ancient instruments and ancient techniques, the past is an absolute goldmine for learning. You can bring ancient techniques into modern music and give it an interesting sound. Or, buy yourself an ancient styled instrument and start from the very beginning.

0 notes

afishtrap · 7 years

Link

This article analyzes the techniques by which the kings of the early Sasanian dynasty engaged the past and shaped the experience of future generations. I concentrate on the innovations and legacy of the first two kings of kings of the dynasty, Ardashir I (r. 224–239/40 C.E.) and his son Shapur I (239/40–270/2 C.E.). These sovereigns fashioned a new and politically useful vision of the past to establish their dynasty's primacy in Persia and the wider Iranian world, eclipsing their Seleucid, Fratarakid, and Arsacid predecessors. I identify and examine the artistic, architectural, and ritual means by which the early Sasanians conformed the built and natural environment of their homeland to their grand new vision of the past. I argue that the Achaemenid patrimony of the province of Pars played an important role in these efforts, serving as inspirations and anchors for the Sasanians' new creations.

Matthew P. Canepa. "Technologies of Memory in Early Sasanian Iran: Achaemenid Sites and Sasanian Identity." American Journal of Archaeology, Vol. 114, No. 4 (October 2010), pp. 563-596.

The Sasanian dynasty had its roots in the province of Pars in southwestern Iran, the homeland of the Achaemenid empire (fig. I).10 Although their empire had been defunct for centuries, the ruined palaces, sacred sites, and tombs of the Achaemenid kings of kings still loomed large on the physical and ideological horizons of Pars long after their fall. The vestiges of this great, yet half-understood, Persian heritage confronted all who held power in the province and eventually stimulated the Sasanians' own memorial and monumental practices. The most impressive concentration of visible Achaemenid remains in Pars lay at the western end of the Marv Dasht plain. Here, the plain meets the mountains, and the Polvar River divides the mountains into two spurs, the Hosayn Kuh to the north and the Kuh-e Rahmat to the south. Persepolis' massive platform rose below Kuh-e Rahmat, while, about 6.25 km to the north, the Achaemenids' royal necropolis, called today by its New Persian nickname of Naqsh-Rostam, marked the final spur of the Hosayn Kuh. Be tween these two ancient sites grew Staxr, post-Achae menid Pars' principle city and religious center.11 From at least the early Sasanian period, the inhabitants Pars conceived of Staxr, Persepolis, and Naqsh-e Ros tam as a whole.12 With their colossal architecture and fine relief sculpture, Persepolis and Naqsh-e Rostam emerged as objects of special pride and fascination for the post-Achaemenid rulers of Pars and, eventually, became the raw material out of which the Sasanians crafted their early expressions.13

While they presented themselves as the true stewards of the ancient Persian sites, the Sasanians' memo rial activities owed a great deal to their more proximate predecessors in the region. Indeed, the Sasanians initially drew from, and reacted to, the accumulated Hellenistic, Arsacid, and local post-Achaemenid Persian reinterpretations of the sites. After entering Parsa in 331 B.C.E., Alexander held victory games and banquet at Persepolis, a celebration that culminated in the destruction of the palace.14 While, in this instance, Persepolis served as a monument to Hellenic vengeance, other Achaemenid structures retained their original significance. Alexander made a show of caring for the Tomb of Cyrus to associate himself with the founder of the Achaemenid dynasty.15 Persepolis' significance as an aggressive, Macedonian victory monument did not endure long after Alexander's death. Despite its damaged state, the multivalent symbolic potential of the site attracted Alexander's successors quickly thereafter for different goals (see table 2). In 316, Peukestas, Alexander's companion whom he had appointed governor of Parsa, staged an elaborate banquet for his army at Persepolis before the showdown between Eumenes and Antigonos Monophthalmos, where he conducted lavish sacrifices to Alexander and Philip.16 The banquet hosted both Macedonian and Iranian contingents, and its seating arrangements and sacrifices evoke Persian protocol.17 This suggests that Peukestas, popular and trusted among the Persian nobility, intended to capitalize on Persepolis as an open-ended symbol that could speak to the event's different constituencies.18

[...]

In addition to their regalia, the Fratarakids incorpo rated into their coins aspects of the most prominent features of Achaemenid royal architecture and architectural ornament that still existed around them.28 Most of the Fratarakid coins depict a winged disk with a male bust emerging from it, recognizable on every Achaemenid royal tomb, many prominent reliefs at Persepolis, and many seals (fig. 2).29 On most issues, this divine figure hovers over a stepped rectangular structure with coffering or coffered doors that recalls Achaemenid architectural forms and post-Achae menid crenellations at Persepolis. Speculations on the identity of the structure on the reverses of the coins have proliferated; however, the most cogent interpretation of the iconography, not to mention the only one grounded in primary source material (i.e., archaeological evidence), argues that it was inspired by Achaemenid architecture, possibly the Achaemenid towers such as were built at Naqsh-e Rostam and Pasar gadae.30 Although we will likely never know the exact function or identity of the structure, on most issues, a male figure stands next to it in a posture directly in spired by the composition and posture of the Achaemenid kings of kings on their tombs: the figures face right, raising their right hand to the winged figure above. The figures hold their bow with the bowstring facing away from the object of veneration. This is the same posture of respect shown by the Achaemenid sovereigns on the tomb reliefs. The bow, however, is of a contemporary, recurve style, rather than a direct copy of those on the Achaemenid reliefs.31

A discrete break with early Fratarakid coin types occurs only after Pars submitted to the Arsacids.32 The coinage of Wadfradad II, the first ruler of Pars thought to acknowledge Arsacid suzerainty, marks a transition, and after Darew II, the obverse portraits clearly follow Arsacid royal iconography.33 The reverse types change as well but do not follow Arsacid models. Achaemenid iconography appears also to have inspired these new types. The reverses of most of these portray a male figure in profile, facing a fire altar broadly similar to the fire altars on all Achaemenid tombs and many of the seals.34

The Fratarakids built both on and near the plat form of Persepolis. A group of structures located 300 m north of the platform show characteristics of a palace and a shrine where the inhabitants honored the gods with a statue, a fire, or some combination thereof.35 These post-Achaemenid mudbrick structures employed some carefully chosen and reworked Achaemenid stone architectural members, such as a doorjamb and lintel, all taken from material at Perse polis.36 The Fratarakids removed a doorway from the tacara (private palace) of Darius I. With its depictions of beardless eunuch servants in profile wearing Persian robes and carrying personal articles of the king (as in other relief sculpture there), incorporated into its new context, it is possible the Fratarakids gave these figures a new interpretation or identity. A windowjamb associated archaeologically with the sacred area of the complex carries the simple, low-relief images of two figures in profile. They hold ritual paraphernalia in their hands in a contemporary Middle Iranian gesture of reverence.37 The window that the jamb decorated communicated with the antechamber to the inner sacred area, linking their actions to the sacred area inside.38 Although they were Fratarakid creations, the iconography on these reliefs responds to and reinterprets aspects of the Achaemenid reliefs, adapting their striding profile and outstretched, raised arms to contemporary post-Achaemenid, Persian visual culture. If Islamic accounts can be believed, the Temple of Anahid in Staxr, of which the Sasanians took over the hereditary priesthood, similarly integrated elements of Achaemenid architecture such as bull capitals and reliefs.39

More remarkable for their absence, the Arsacids apparently never sponsored any activity in the Achaemenid ruins of the province, nor did they carve a rock relief in Pars near the Achaemenid tombs. Arsacid kings appeared in monuments in other provinces in their empire, such as the rock relief of Mithridates I at Khong-e Nowruzi, deep in Elymais.40 One can conjecture that this dearth of Arsacid evidence in Pars is the result of the Sasanians' particularly thorough job of obliterating their monuments, as occurred at Bisotun, or simply because by this time, Persepolis and Naqsh-e Rostam no longer held any special significance beyond the province. Bisotun, the site of Darius I's monumental rock relief and inscription, preserves limited evidence of Arsacid engagement with the Achaemenid site. Al though they do not match the scale or intricacy of the Sasanian material in Pars, Mithridates II, Gotarzes II, and a king named Vologases carved reliefs several meters distant, on Bisotun's lower rock face or in the field to the north, though, given their orientation, these were intended to engage with Bisotun's walled sanctuary below rather than with Darius I's relief.41

[...]

The founder of the Sasanian empire, Ardashir I, led his family's rise from obscure, local garrison commanders to provincial kings by systematically assassinating neighboring chieftains and annexing their domains.42 The family overthrew the king of Pars in 212 C.E., setting up an eventual conflict with the Arsacid king of kings, Ardawan IV. During the Sasanians' bloody two-decade rise from local dynasts to kings of kings, Pars' monumental patrimony again played an important role as raw material for expressing a vision of Iranian kingship for a new regime. Once in power, the Sasanians took possession of Staxr and its surrounding symbolic landscape, being driven to match and supercede their predecessors' engagement with the Achaemenid structures.

#archaeology #iran #research #middle east #pre-history #jstor

3 notes · View notes

innerchorus · 10 months

Text

Arslan Senki Chapter 124

I've cooled off a little bit after the intense experience that this chapter was, so here are a few thoughts! (I read the official simulpub on Kmanga, apologies that I haven't looked for the raw this time but it may be out there if you check.)

The chapter opens in the underground waterways and I am immediately relieved because this means that we did indeed backtrack a bit from last chapter, meaning that we are going to see the fighting there that reveals exactly how Andragoras reached Hilmes

Sam, when speaking of the existence of these tunnels, saying that if he'd known about them he wouldn't have 'helplessly surrendered the royal capital to the Lusitanian army'. Sam, please don't blame yourself! If the royal family chose to keep that knowledge to themselves, it's their fault, not yours. The fact that he's still blaming himself for this... That he thinks of himself as a failure in this respect... 😭

The Kishward-Sam fight was less nervewracking than the one the anime included in the battle for the Keep of Saint-Emmanuel, but only because I didn't know the outcome then. I think it's hard to get some of the nuances of this fight across in manga format but as usual Arakawa did a good job with it, and I want to discuss it a bit!

Sam's eyes here... He looks so sad, you just know he longed for that to have been him instead of leading the life he's living now

...and with that expression, the fight resumes. Kishward has already come to the conclusion that what Kubard said about Sam looking for death was true, and that's what we see when Sam next attacks, right after this line about envying Shapur and Garshasp. It's obvious that he's trying to force Kishward into a position where he has to kill him. He won't surrender, he won't switch sides, but he is willing to die like the warrior he no longer sees himself as.

If Kishward met him as he would someone he sees as a true enemy, he would have killed Sam then. He could have done so with his other sword while Sam is open after that strike. But he doesn't, because he doesn't want to kill his former comrade!

And Sam IS NOT WILLING TO KILL KISHWARD EITHER. If he had, Kishward would surely already be dead for what looks like seeking only to stand firm rather than land a fatal blow of his own, and that's why he only receives a broken sword and a shallow cut to the face. The... choreography (?) of the fight at this point is slightly different in the novels but I think the manga did a good job making a small change to show both of their attitudes more clearly.

(For the curious, in the novel Kishward's sword breaks on Sam's armour when Sam deliberately doesn't evade his slash, but as Kishward never intended for it to be a killing blow, it only cracks his armour. I'm not sure that would have come across from images alone so thumbs up to Arakawa for her modification.)

Sam still calling Andragoras 'Your Majesty' showing his inner conflict (Hilmes would hate it just as he did when Sam said 'His Highness Arslan' in his presence, but I find it understandable) but HE STILL DEFENDS HIS POSITION

and this is another small change from the novel but Arakawa's Sam is much more vehement here, much firmer in his conviction to not let Andragoras past and I love that because I can't deny it bothered me a bit in the novel scene where there's a lot of hesitance in his dialogue and he just says "Even though it's Your Majesty...' but here we get THIS:

And if that doesn't confirm that despite any inner conflict he feels, he will never betray Hilmes for Andragoras, I don't know what does. So I was thrilled to see this, honestly.

In the novel it feels as though it's Andragoras's imposing presence that oppresses Sam's will to resist him but that's not so here. I can only believe that Sam allows him through precisely because he wants to avoid the situation he mentioned earlier; 'more slaughter between kinsmen.' If Hilmes and Andragoras talk, will fighting between Parsians be averted? This must be his hope. I do wonder whether he ends up having his suspicions about precisely what Andragoras wanted to tell Hilmes, though... after all, he already knows part of it himself.

(I had some mixed feelings about this moment, so I did quite a lot of thinking about it before, but honestly, it makes sense for Sam's character and what we know is important to him. I'm just very, very glad Arakawa allowed him to face Andragoras down like that first. I do wonder how Hilmes would see things, though.)

Anyway Hilmes's expressions in the following scene wrecked me and just watching him sweat and tremble in position and be on the verge of vomiting was hard. Anyway, the sordid details come to light, and we know who the sorcerer who supplied Gotarzes with the prophecy that caused all of it was...

Some more images of Hilmes's (very beautiful) mother!

Gotarzes, though... The way he's drawn when he's grasping Osroes's wife shows how repulsive his decision was, and it's clear she doesn't want this, but she would have had no choice.

Hilmes tries so hard to believe that this is all a lie, but... you can tell that he can't. It's difficult to watch him go through this. And I can't believe we didn't even conclude this scene (unless Andragoras is just going to leave now in the manga; he didn't in the novels but we'll see, moving things around here could work but equally splitting it with the parallel conversation between Arslan and Tahamenay is a nice touch and I'm glad Arakawa is devoting the necessary time and attention to all of this).

You know... I'm exhausted lmao, someone else please post about the Team Arslan section that came after this.

#arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #arslan senki spoilers #sam #kishward #andragoras #hilmes #osroes #gotarzes #hilmes's mother #(maybe i didn't tag her before but she deserves her own tag)#it's my birthday today and the unexpected Shapur glimpse was a perfect gift

39 notes · View notes

ryukoishida · 8 years

Text

PARS 2017 | Day 2: Spring Feelings | In which Isfan tries to avenge his brother’s death only to fall in love with the mafia’s deadly assassin.

Title: Come, Break Me Down Day/Prompt: Day 2 – Spring Feelings Author: ryukoishida Summary: Isfan is only in this line of business to await his chance to avenge his brother’s death someday; he never expects to fall in love with the deadliest assassin in Lion’s Den. [Mafia AU] Pairing(s)/Character(s): Isfan/Gieve, Daryun Rating: NSFW Warning: Gunplay A/N: Remember that sad excuse of a mafia AU? Yeah, I wrote more for it. Rather than reading this as a linear story, just… treat these as little vignettes, I guess. Might help if you read the first part, but it’s not necessary.

Radical Notion Series: i. (All My Friends Are) Bad Kids | AO3 ii. Come, Break Me Down | AO3

“Mr. Isfan?” the stranger asks the moment he opens the door to his cheap, one-room apartment unit.

It’s almost three in the morning.

“Yes, and who the hell are you?” he resists the urge to yawn, the defense mechanism of having a strange man dressed in a tailored suit of somber colours ringing his doorbell so urgently in the middle of the night hasn’t quite kicked in yet.

“Mr. Shapur sent me,” he only says, and with both hands, offers him a white envelope, “to give you this.”

“You a co-worker of my brother’s?” Isfan narrows his eyes as he plucks the letter out of the man’s hands, molten gold irises gleaming with a trace of suspicion that’s justifiable given the line of business that his brother is in — the kind of business that Shapur doesn’t want Isfan to be entangled with.

They may not be borne of the same mother, but Shapur was the one who took care of him since his mother was killed in an unfortunate “accident”. Of course, as Isfan grew older and understood more of the circumstances of his broken family — the illicit relationship his mother had with Shapur’s father, who, at the time, was working for the largest criminal empire of Pars as one of the leader’s right-hand men — he knew that his mother died because of another woman’s jealousy and irrationality.

Isfan doesn’t blame Shapur for any of it; in fact, he’s thankful for all that Shapur has done to support him — both financially and emotionally. Shapur never disclosed anything related to his work or source of income, and Isfan never thought to ask. Despite that, their relationship isn’t strained by their parents’ estranged affairs; it has only pulled the two half-brothers closer than ever.

“I’m one of his subordinates,” the man clarifies, and Isfan hears the quiet pride in his voice, in the way he straightens himself a bit taller when Isfan’s glare doesn’t phase out.

“Well, thank you for bringing me this,” Isfan waves the letter in his hand, the motion a little stiff and unnecessary, so he stops. “Anything else?”

The man, who now upon closer inspection, seems at least a few years younger than Isfan who’s a fourth-year majoring in mechanical engineering at the local university himself, looks hesitant for a short moment, his mouth opening slightly as if to say something but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, he mutters, eyes focusing on a spot to the right of Isfan’s face, “No. Have a good night, sir.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He shuts the door without waiting for the stranger to speak, his back leaning heavily against the door as he tears open the letter with shaking fingers.

Something must have happened if Shapur wasn’t able to meet him in person or even send him a text. He imagines his older brother having to run away to another country because the police are after him, which wouldn’t be too much of a stretch considering the type of work he deals with on a daily basis, but Isfan realizes how foolish his worries have been when he finally unfolds the paper and reads the last words his brother will ever say to him.

“When this note reaches you, I’m most likely dead…”

The rest of the letter, written in meticulous cursive, is read in silence but Isfan neither takes in its content nor its meaning, the words run together in a swirling mess of ugly, blue ink; his tears have blurred a few lines of handwriting, the diluted Persian blue seeping down the page like streaks of blood.

Hours later when he’s sitting in the dark bedroom with the letter still grasped tightly in his hand, the sky outside starting to light up in orange glow of a new day, Isfan makes a decision and a promise to himself: to bring down the bastards who are responsible for his brother’s death.

He’s not a defenseless, frail little boy who needs someone to take his hand and lead the way anymore.

From this day, he drowns in the sorrow and indifference of winter.

Isfan is about to meet the murderer of his brother.

“Can I trust you to control your temper when you deliver this to him?” Daryun asks as he hands his subordinate a heavy leather suitcase, his deep voice, usually imbued with authority and solemnity, carrying a hint of concern.

Isfan takes the suitcase in one hand from the man with night-black locks and piercing golden eyes that would render weaker men to cower before him begging for mercy, and a miniscule of a smile appears on his lips, though it doesn’t touch his eyes at all, “What were you expecting me to do? I’ve never even saw the man before — I’m actually rather excited to meet the mysterious and most capable assassin of our company.”

Daryun’s brows gather into a deep frown.

“You’ve been with the Lion’s Den for the past three years, so I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of rumours about Gieve’s involvement in Shapur’s death.”

Isfan tries to hide the flinch upon hearing his brother’s name, but it doesn’t escape Daryun’s observation.

“Your brother was a man I admired ever since I started here, when we were still working under Andragoras; he meant a lot to me and those who knew him well, too, but it’s not in our place to tell you what to think, or who to blame,” Daryun looks out the window of the office for a brief moment, the mask of inscrutable stoicism temporarily melted into an expression much softer, more human, when he allows himself to remember, and then he turns back to look at Isfan. “You should hear his side of the story first. Know who your true enemies are, Isfan. Your brother wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself because of him.”

It’s rare to see the arms dealer talking so much, but Isfan senses the older man’s sincerity, knows that he’s just looking out for him, and he appreciates that all the same.

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” he tells Daryun, mulling over what the older man has said.

Daryun seems satisfied at the brunet’s reply, but Isfan can feel the temptation slithering through his bloodstreams all the way to the tips of his fingers, the desire to pull the trigger, to feel the warmth emitting from the metal of the gun strapped closely to his side.

“Gieve, someone’s here to see you.”

Isfan and the young woman with an uncomfortable amount of face piercings who’s walking ahead of him enter a spacious and brightly-lit, L-shaped chamber located in the underground of an industrial part of the city.

At first glance, Isfan notices the peculiarly vivid and loud furnishings that overwhelms everything else within his sight: the walls are washed with deep turquoise and stark white frames; one wall is completely dominated by all types of firearms — from dainty pistols to heavyweight assault rifles and extravagant scopes and accessories — while the adjacent wall has shelves of expensive alcohol and a bar complete with a few stools; and the open space is decorated with a coffee table and strangely cozy couches of floral patterns that probably dated back to the 60’s that seem at odds with the purpose of this room.

From the far end of the chamber, Isfan hears the echoed cocking of a gun and the subsequent reports fired.

The woman pokes her head around the corner and calls out for her boss again but to no avail.

“Just take a seat anywhere and make yourself comfortable,” the woman waves her hand towards the couches when she walks past Isfan towards the direction they’ve come from. “When he gets like this, it’s going to take him awhile to come back.”

“Gets like this?”

“Testing out new firearms,” she says before closing the door on her way out.

He considers waiting as the woman has suggested, but pure curiosity and the desire to finally come face-to-face with his brother’s killer are burning furiously at the back of his mind, and after placing the suitcase under the coffee table, Isfan quietly walks towards where he can still hear the man fiddling with his weapon.

Gieve’s back is towards him, and the reason why he’s ignored his subordinate’s call previously is now clear to Isfan: he’s wearing a pair of hearing protector over his ears. From his position, Isfan observes the fluid and graceful way with which the man reloads the magazine with quick fingers and efficient movements.

Isfan has no idea how long he’s been staring at the man, as the assassin continues shooting at the paper targets with frightening accuracy and speed. Most of his shots are aimed either at the head or heart — the most delicate parts of a human body — and he hits his targets almost perfectly.

He’s been standing in the same place for so long that his legs are beginning to get numb, but he cannot tear his eyes away from the man, who seems so physically fragile when Isfan first sets eyes on him that, has he not witnessed Gieve’s shooting finesse, he would definitely have been one who underestimates the man’s true skills.

Putting the handgun down, he swivels around so unexpectedly that Isfan instinctively takes a step back in alarm.

He calmly takes off his protective gear and places them on the counter. Gieve doesn’t look surprised to see him there, as if he’s been expecting his presence all along.

The sense of self-preservation prickles hot in warning along Isfan’s spine, shouting at him to run, yet he can’t force his legs to move, transfixed as he is by the assassin’s ethereal grace and undeniable menace.

Doomed from the start, Isfan thinks, a long time from now.

“When did Daryun hire such a pretty delivery boy?”

He grins at Isfan, the expression playful and boyish, but Isfan is hyperaware of the hungry, wolfish curve of his lips and the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes.

“Mr. Daryun’s warned me about you, but you’ve definitely exceeded my expectations,” Isfan appraises him warily as the man approaches him.

Every step he takes is calculated and deliberate, and Isfan doesn’t miss the handgun strapped on the shoulder holster that wraps snugly along his slender body and over his wiry shoulders, the black leather a gorgeous complement to the dark hyacinthine-coloured button-down shirt and tailored feather-grey dress pants that accentuated his lithe figure.

Isfan swallows, eyes unable to look away from those eyes, beautiful like the summer sea and full of unspoken promises, or those lips that just won’t stop smiling at him, like Isfan is an amusing object and he’s enjoying this just as much as a cat enjoys toying with its prey.

“Oh? And what did Daryun tell you about me? All good things, I hope.”

He walks past the brunet and makes his way towards the couches. Isfan follows from a few paces behind.

“He said you’re an incorrigible flirt and that I should avoid coming within your reachable distance,” Isfan recalls Daryun’s words, which he thought was a joke at the time of the conversation.

“That was one time!” Gieve laughs good-naturedly as he takes his seat. He gestures for Isfan to sit down across from him. “What else?”

“That I shouldn’t try to ambush you in any way or form if I want to stay in your good graces… and stay alive,” Isfan pushes on. He finds Gieve’s scrutiny mildly disconcerting, the green of his eyes a mesmerizing shade, yet it’s equally cold and cryptic.

“Good advice,” Gieve nods approvingly. “And?” He leans forward in his pause, elbows bracing against his knees as a lock of dark hair uncurl from behind his ear from the motion. “Why are you really here? Don’t tell me you’re in it for the money or the adrenaline rush.”

It seems like the assassin already knows Isfan’s identity and is looking for a particular answer, and Isfan thinks he may have the perfect response.

“He told me I should listen to your side of the story concerning my brother’s death,” Isfan’s voice is deceitfully calm, yet his heart is beating so hard that the blood roars in his ears, and he feels as if he can’t quite breathe.

Gieve’s expression gives neither his thoughts nor his emotions away, his mouth curling up into one of those inscrutable smiles that Isfan is beginning to despise.

“Ah, the tragic, epic tale of one avenging his brother’s death — how touching,” he says, and it’s strange that despite his frivolous comment, his tone suggests that he’s merely stating an obvious fact.

Somehow, Gieve’s nonchalance makes Isfan even more furious. He slams both fists on the coffee table, golden eyes blazing with the intent to kill, but Gieve doesn’t so much as flinch.

“You sick bastard, don’t you dare treat this as a joke!”

“I never intend to do such a thing, Isfan, but I don’t know what you want me to say, either,” Gieve leans back into the couch, unperturbed by the other man’s outburst.

“Tell me the truth, all of it!”

Gieve heaves a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair before he starts, gaze never straying from Isfan’s, “Here’s the thing: I’m an assassin, and if you couldn’t tell already, I make a living by killing people in the simplest method that requires the least amount of clean-up. Your brother — Shapur, if I recall correctly — he wasn’t part of the plan, but believe it or not, I saved him—”

“By putting a bullet in his head?” Isfan growls, low voice filled with incredulity.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Gieve admits without hesitation or guilt, and Isfan hasn’t expected that.

He’s not about to make excuses for a job by hiding behind a wall of made-up righteous reasons; if the man before him still wants to take his life after he hears him out, then so be it. “How much do you know of the circumstances?”

“Just bits and pieces.” Isfan seems to have at least calmed down a little, though his jaw is still clenched and his body rigid, ready to spring at any moment.

“Did you know that your brother was captured by the Khosrow Group and that the senior members of the gang had been using, shall we say, ‘creative’ methods to extract information from Shapur — important information, secrets that can bring down Andragoras and the entire Ecbatana Group if given to the right person?

“My job then was to take out the alpha of the branch group in charge of the extraction, so naturally your brother was at the location as well, and by god, those sons-of-bitches had fucked him up well beyond recognition.”

Gieve has seen his fair share of gore and violence — after all, it’s part of his job description — but what he saw that day through the tinted glass of the luxurious high-rise building that houses the many operations of Khosrow Group was one of the worst and inhuman images he’d encountered up until this point in his career: there were bleeding cuts and welts and bruises all over his body not covered by filthy clothes tainted in the man’s own sweat and blood, his eyes had been taken out, and his fingers looked sickeningly crooked.

They had ruined him just enough to have Shapur hanging precariously by a thin thread below which lies the canyon of sweet, liberating death.

Shapur wasn’t going to live, so Gieve did the only thing — the only merciful thing — he could to make it the least painful for a man he barely knew.

“What did they do to him?” There’s a trembling to Isfan’s whisper that makes the assassin look up.

“I don’t think you want to know,” Gieve says, tone earnest for the first time during their exchange.

Gieve allows the implication of that statement sink into Isfan’s mind, and watches the brunet carefully in case he lashes out again, but all Isfan can do is stare into his palms, his eyes prickling with unshed tears.

“It’s late to say this now, but I’m sorry for your loss,” Gieve’s sympathy is sincere, but Isfan refuses to acknowledge it with a noticeable gesture or expression. “Look, I’m not going to give bullshit excuses to defend my own action: I was the one who shot your brother, and his blood is on my hands. Just know that he was beyond saving by the time I got there, and putting him down was the only option I could think of at the time to end his suffering.”

When Isfan remains eerily silent, Gieve continues with a modulated manner, “So? How should we proceed from here?”

Golden eyes flash vehemently and glare at him through brown forelocks, his hand slipping into his jacket and fingers grasping the familiar shape of his gun.

It will be so simple, Isfan thinks, and after that he’ll go after the bastards at Khosrow — every single one of them who’d hurt his brother.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you — right here, right now.”

“Well for one thing—”

Gieve swiftly glances at Isfan’s hand inside his suit jacket and back to his face, a crooked smirk growing along his lips after he pauses.

In a matter of seconds, he’s already on his feet and launches himself straight at the other man by stepping directly on the coffee table between them, and Isfan, distracted by the toiling waves of anger and frustration that easily overwhelm his reason and perception, finds himself instantly trapped under Gieve’s smaller body, his arms pinned down and the tip of a knife held taut against the pulse point of his neck.

The assassin lowers his head and whispers into Isfan’s ear, hot breaths moistening the sensitive skin there, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

As if to prove his point further, he presses the tip of the blade with just enough pressure to split the surface of Isfan’s skin, and a bead of blood oozes from the tiny wound.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Isfan ignores the blade held close to his neck and growls deep in his throat.

“As long as you promise to be this entertaining every time we meet,” Gieve chuckles.

“Fuck you,” Isfan spits out in disgust.

“Maybe next time,” Gieve replies smoothly, and before Isfan can retort with a better comeback, Gieve retrieves his knife and gets off of him. Standing before him, the assassin hardly looks disheveled, his hair still a beautiful mess of ink black and sunset violet, and his shirt and pants still looking as pristine as ever.

He pulls himself up, smoothing down his creased suit, and gives Gieve one last, scorching glare before he stalks out of the shooting range, slamming the door hard behind him.

Sometime after Isfan leaves and while Gieve is examining the contents inside the suitcase that Isfan has left behind, he receives a phone call from Daryun.

“How did it go?” Daryun asks without any preface.

“The SRS is really pretty, and it seems fairly light-weight? And oh — so many convertible calibers to play with! You do know what I love best, Daryun, but I don’t think tan is quite my colour.”

“We can discuss the kind of modifications you want after you’ve tried it out,” Daryun says hurriedly before dragging Gieve back to the topic at hand, “I mean the talk with Isfan — how did that go?”

“If you’d wanted to send someone after my life, you should’ve picked one who’d pose more of a challenge for me,” he says without changing his tone, picking up one of the barrels and inspecting it closely.

“Fuck, he did something, didn’t he?” the man on the other end of the receiver sighs, and Gieve can just picture the usually calm and menacing arms dealer pinching the bridge of his nose with the most impressive frown.

“He certainly tried,” Gieve laughs heartily, placing all the parts back into the rifle’s case with meticulous care.

“I’m sorry,” Daryun mutters apologetically, “I honestly thought that, with three years between now and what’d happened to Shapur, he’d have an easier time taking it in.”

“You should send him over more often, I want to see how far I can push him until he breaks,” he grins slyly.

“Gieve… come on, play nice.”

Daryun can feel a migraine coming on as soon as Gieve uses that tone of voice; he doesn’t have time, nor is he paid nearly enough, to play mother hen in this organization.

“Letting him get out of here alive after he attacked me today — that’s me playing nice,” Gieve says, not without a hint of threat in his playful tenor, “but I was kidding anyway. He seems like a decent kid, a bit too goody-two-shoes for my taste, but whatever works best for you.”

After the conversation concludes, Gieve takes out the switchblade he was brandishing earlier. The tip of the metal still bears Isfan’s dried blood, and as he carefully wipes his knife clean, the assassin figures that he may just try to win the other man over with charm, if only to make up for the life he’s taken from him.

“Okay Isfan, you may be cute, but did anyone ever tell you that you make really idiotic decisions sometimes?”

Gieve is positively certain that he’s leaving a very obvious trail of blood as Isfan tries to half-drag and half-carry him as quietly and quickly as possible without alerting their enemies of their whereabouts.

Somewhat tricky when the underground parking lot is really just a giant, enclosed amplifier that reverberates every little sound they accidentally make.

Hiding behind a Honda parked by the wall, Isfan finally has a chance to inspect his companion, who seems sickly pale and clammy, and is shocked to find that Gieve has been shot in the leg from the earlier scuffle. Blood has already soaked through and darkened the expensive fabric of his charcoal dress pants, and he can only see the entrance wound on one side of his calf, which means that the bullet is still embedded inside his flesh.

“Oh shit, you’re bleeding…like, a lot,” the brunet stutters, and his instinct is to put pressure on the wound to slow the blood flow. The warm blood gushes between his fingers, and Isfan tries not to think about it and is only vaguely successful in that regard.

“Yes, thank you for being so observant, that was really helpful,” Gieve mumbles, the sarcasm weak but forever present. His eyes slip closed as he leans back against the pleasantly cool metal of the vehicle while he tries not to wince at the stinging and burning sensation radiating from his wound every time he takes a deep breath.

“Zaravant, Jimsa, and the others should be here soon,” Isfan assures him — assures them both — as he creates a temporary dressing out of his rolled-up handkerchief secured by tightly winding his tie around it.

It’s only a matter of time before they are found; there’s only so much area to cover, and Khosrow Group, if nothing else, prides themselves in numbers.

“How much ammo do you have left?” Gieve asks in a hoarse whisper. The blood loss hasn’t been so bad, but with the adrenaline from the fight gradually wearing off, the pain is becoming more unbearable and distracting.

“Two more rounds,” Isfan says after checking.

After a bit of fiddling and a lot of muttered swearing, Gieve pushes something into Isfan’s hands, “Here, take this.”

“But you never let anyone touch this gun,” Isfan blinks owlishly at the objects he receives from the assassin, two hands cradling Gieve’s treasured Classic Carry Elite and the leftover rounds.

“You’re not ‘anyone’,” Gieve manages to crack open his eyes a little, the sea-green hazy and barely able to focus on Isfan’s face when he speaks, “I thought I made that very clear.”

“I can’t believe you can still say that with a straight face,” Isfan only replies with an exasperated laugh. He puts the gun and cartridges close by him.

“And it’s not like I’ll be of any use with a gun right now, am I?” Gieve nods pointedly at his wound, and notices belatedly that his words are starting to slur, that his vision is turning blurry as well, and he rests his head against Isfan’s shoulder, exhaling a shuddering breath. “I trust you with my gun just as much as I trust you with my back.”

“You’re talking too much,” he mutters, cheeks growing strangely warm, but he’s sliding his arm around Gieve’s shoulder to bring him closer.

“Oh, sorry. Blood loss tends to do that to me.”

They stay quiet for a few minutes when they hear footsteps echoing in the distance.

When the sound dissipates again, Isfan finds the resolve to ask, “Why would you do that?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“Get yourself involved in this mess — my mess.”

“I’m not about to let you walk into Khosrow’s nest by yourself; you won’t last more than five minutes in here. Lion’s Den got a reputation to maintain, you know.”

“So, that’s it?”

Gieve swallows hard, fingers gathering into a loose fist when he allows himself to speak in frank admittance, “And also to compensate for what I’ve done… to Shapur, and to you.” His head is lowered so that it’s impossible for Isfan to see his expression.

“You’re an idiot,” Isfan shakes his head slowly, finally understanding.

“Excuse me, but who’s the jerk that brought us into this shit of a mess?”

“I knew what you did was necessary. My brother would have appreciated your weird brand of kindness, I think.” Even now, a sliver of uncertainty wedges its way into Isfan’s mind, but he knows that it’s useless chasing a phantom enemy when the true villains stand directly before them. The brunet runs gentle fingers through Gieve’s hair, matted with blood and sweat, and continues with a small smile, “I was just too much of an obstinate asshole to admit it, which is to say I’ve forgiven you some time ago.”

A brief pause, and then comes Gieve’s raspy yet snarky reply, “You couldn’t have let me know about this sooner?”

He can’t remember when pushing Gieve against the wall and kissing him ardently on the mouth have become more of a matter of habit than just an outlet to release the adrenaline from their latest mission or the lingering frustration that he bears towards the infuriating assassin.

“Jacket, off,” Isfan orders as soon as they stumble into Gieve’s bedroom, the words muffled against the other man’s lips as they share a wet, filthy kiss, all tongue and vicious teeth leaving their lips swollen and red.

“Mm, pushy,” he gasps out when Isfan starts to nibble his way down his neck, leaving a trail of marks that will bloom purple while unknotting his tie and roughly pushing his jacket off of his shoulders to reveal the lavender button-down and the leather gun holster.

“Are you complaining?” he asks, leaning away momentarily to let Gieve tear off his suit jacket before the slighter man pulls him back in by his tie and gives him a bruising kiss that left both men breathless and wanting more.

“Not at all,” he grins mischievously up at the brunet, sea-green eyes darkened by desire.

Gieve pushes him back until they reach the edge of the bed, and the moment Isfan sits down on the mattress, the assassin wastes no time to clamber onto his lap, taking advantage of the height this position grants him in assaulting his companion’s neck with more enthusiastic kisses and licks while his elegant fingers make quick works on Isfan’s tie and buttons, soon revealing a long patch of tantalizing skin and muscles that begs to be touched and marked.

He starts at the collarbone, peeling off the material of Isfan’s shirt bit by bit as if to tease himself and kissing lightly along the exposed skin until he reaches his shoulder, but before Gieve can even consider taking the rest of the garment off, Isfan stops him with his fingers wrapped around his wrist, his golden eyes rapturous and captivating the entirety of Gieve’s attention, and possibly his heart.

Taking Gieve’s hand and with his gaze focused on the assassin’s face, Isfan leads him to the grip of Gieve’s prized handgun. The wooden round heel feels oddly cold against their overheated skin, and it sends a trickle of thrill and excitement down Gieve’s spine, his irises darkening with the promise of more.

Isfan knows that look well — a sort of hunger that can only be satiated by relinquishing his control to Isfan whom he trusts always — and pulls him close by a fistful of his shirt, mouth by his ear.

“May I?”

He may have whimpered at the infuriatingly polite tone and the contrasting connotation they both comprehend that those two words hold.

“Fuck, yes please,” he moans against the crook of Isfan’s neck.

The brunet takes the holster off of Gieve’s willowy frame and lays the leather straps on the bed; with utmost care, Isfan removes the gun from its holster, holding it gently in his right hand to feel the smooth grip and solid weight while his left thumb traces the bi-tone metal of the slide mechanism.

As Isfan takes his time to appreciate the elegant form of the gun, Gieve is getting a little impatient, and he makes certain that Isfan is aware of this by grinding himself against Isfan’s thigh, his breathing hitched just from that slight pressure.

“You’re so pretty when you’re eager,” Isfan chuckles, his lips curving into a playful smirk when he brings them closer for another kiss, much softer this time, more contemplative but less satisfying, and the inferno of lust simmers down into a single flame.

That is, until Isfan pulls himself back from the kiss and says, with a hand firm on Gieve’s shoulder, “Down on your knees for me.”

He complies without a cheeky retort, which is a rare occasion by itself, and lets Isfan undress him slowly — torturously so — until he’s only in his briefs. The material has already been stained by precum from their foreplay, and Isfan hasn’t even started yet.

Retrieving the gun from the mattress, he holds it out before Gieve’s face, the tip of the barrel barely an inch away from those reddened lips Isfan has been so fervently kissing earlier.

Gieve eyes the weapon with glazed eyes, and then glances up at Isfan as if asking for his permission. It’s an act that they’ve played a few times before, and they understand and trust each other entirely in this regard.

“Go on,” Isfan urges quietly, fingers running through Gieve’s hair in an affectionate manner as he combs his bangs back to reveal rosy cheeks and stormy eyes, “I thought you wanted this.”

With his heated gaze still trained on Isfan’s face, Gieve begins to lean forward, touching his lips against the metal and closing his eyes at the delirious pressure against his sensitive lips when Isfan presses the gun closer, with more urgency.

There’s something inexplicably sensual about the way his tongue curls around the muzzle and laps at the rose gold and gunmetal of the slide with so much eagerness, the red of his lips such a beautiful contrast to the gun’s cold shades of silver and black.

He moans around the barrel as he tries to take it in deeper, one hand clawing at Isfan’s clothed knee with the sort of desperation that makes the brunet want nothing more than to break down the assassin’s perfectly poised stature, that self-assured smirk, the shield of pride that builds up from his successful kills.

Isfan wants to destroy it all for the moment and expose what’s beneath all that blood and history and secrets that even now, after having been together for almost a year in a relationship they don’t dare put a label on, Gieve is still hesitant to tell him.

Swallowing greedily around his precious firearm’s barrel and gripping Isfan’s thighs with whitened knuckles, Gieve revels in the stretch and fullness in his mouth.

With his hand still grappling Gieve’s hair, Isfan tightens his fingers and tugs the other man’s head back so that the gun is no longer in his mouth. Gieve whines at the loss, and whimpers when Isfan teases him a little more by dragging the warmed metal down his jaw and the column of his neck.

When he places the gun back into its holster and hangs the leather straps on the back of his chair, Isfan returns to the bed to find Gieve in the same position — kneeling and staring up at him with dark eyes and red lips, his hair mussed up from Isfan playing with it, and his underwear a wet, wet mess.

He isn’t going to be disappointed for long.

“You’ve been so good,” Isfan softly traces the other man’s lower lip with his thumb as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, and because Gieve will always be Gieve, his tongue darts out and shamelessly chases after the taste of Isfan’s finger, encouraging him to put the digit into his warm mouth. “Would you like a reward?”

“And what will that entail?” he asks, voice hoarse from their earlier activity but eyes still glimmering with interest.

“Let’s just say it’ll involve my tongue and your ass,” Isfan tells him, as casual as if he’s explaining the mechanics of the new modifications on one of Gieve’s guns. Isfan helps him up from the floor and removes his soaked briefs.

“Intriguing,” Gieve comments just as lightly, though the flush on his cheeks is almost too obvious, and then Isfan is guiding him so that the assassin is lying on the bed with his hands and knees bracing the mattress. “Enjoying the view?” he asks teasingly, turning his head to give the other man his signature smug look, which Isfan is intending on destroying in a few minutes.

He finds the bottle of lubricant and condoms in the bedside drawer and places the items where he can easily reach for them before situating himself behind Gieve, one hand gently fondling the assassin’s soft skin, finger tracing down the knobs of his vertebrae and stopping at the small of his back, where it’s slightly curved, giving the impression of a graceful feline ready to spring.

“A bit, yeah,” Isfan murmurs.

Compared to Gieve, Isfan is still wearing too much clothes: his unbuttoned slate-blue shirt hangs off of his shoulders, and his trousers are feeling too tight and constricting at the sight of Gieve — shed of all the layers that created a convincing front for the public eye, steel-eyes and iron-bones, cold and unbreakable, a killer with no regrets, now shaking with anticipation, eyes predatory yet yielding as he feasts on Isfan’s adoration and attention.

It’s been so long since Gieve feels even remotely comfortable sharing this part of himself with anyone, and he wouldn’t have guessed the current outcome a few years ago. Isfan is the type Gieve has tried his best to avoid: distressingly earnest, genuinely good to those he treasures, and irrevocably loyal to those deserving few.

“Only a bit?” Gieve snorts, facing the headboard of the bed again, “I’m insulted—— shit!”

He’s rudely interrupted by Isfan, who has, without warning, starts licking down between his butt cheeks, his hands tight on his hips as he tentatively traces a path with the tip of his tongue until he reaches the ring of quivering muscle.

“Mm, you were saying?” he murmurs with a slow smile, and the hot breaths casted against sensitive skin with a warm tongue that begins to stiffen and delving inside make Gieve’s arousal swell, skin crawling with pinpricks of burning stars, eyes shut tightly and hands gathering fistfuls of bedsheets.

“You…” he huffs out when he attempts, unsuccessfully, to regain his composure against the gentle and frustrating assault from his lover’s mouth, “you are an asshole who enjoys tormenting me with that talented tongue of yours way too much.”

“Makes up for all the times you’ve teased me in front of the others,” Isfan responds with a low chuckle, and he sucks the rim with just enough pressure so that the other man loses his train of thought, his mind blissfully blank and overwhelmed by pleasure, “Calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘pretty’…”

“But I was just being honest…” he whines when he locates his voice after a short while, still trying to be defensive even as he feels Isfan’s slicked fingers entering him, slowly pushing in until he grazes the particular spot that causes Gieve to groan into the pillows, his cock twitching in want.

Gently and with careful hands on his waist, Isfan turns him over so that Gieve is lying on his back, one leg propped on Isfan’s shoulder. Below him, the assassin looks ravished: his face and body are flushed a lovely shade of pink though the long scar across his chest just below his collarbone draws a pearl-toned line, his lips bitten raw, sea-green eyes glassy, and the thin lines of black ink on his biceps stark on his skin that tell the bloody history of his past, a bitter reminder but an emblem of personal pride, nevertheless.

“Yeah? As honest as you are now? With your body splayed out and displayed for me like this?” Isfan turns his head slightly to place a soft kiss on the pale scar on his calf, and remembers a time when he’d never imagine that his future will turn out like this: being in an intimate relationship with the man whom he’s sworn to kill to avenge his brother’s death, only to realize that he’s not the true enemy at all.

The scar marks a change in their relationship, and Isfan never wants to turn back.

“God, why did I ever thought you were a goody-two-shoes?” Gieve moans when he feels the tip of Isfan’s length nudge against him.

With little difficulty, Isfan is able to slide all the way in, and the tight warmth that engulfs him is enough to make the brunet’s heart tremble and his frame shake with yearning. He leans down to kiss Gieve, just a gentle peck on the mouth, barely enough.

“Should I be a good boy for you next time, then?” Isfan grins, topaz irises gleaming with wicked intent.

“Cheeky,” Gieve laughs before dragging him down for a deeper, longer kiss, his legs wrapped tightly around Isfan’s waist to wordlessly encourage him to move.

With one of his hands securing Gieve’s leg on his shoulder and the other on his hip, Isfan begins to pull out, slowly at first, knowing how much it’ll drive the other man crazy and allowing himself to feel every inch slipping out before he pushes back in again with a snap of his hips, the motion hard enough to jostle Gieve’s body and making him gasp from the sensation.

“Touch yourself for me,” Isfan murmurs as he continues, guiding Gieve’s hand to his dripping cock. He doesn’t need more encouragement as he tries to match Isfan’s furious pace, his fist pumping fast with a chaotic rhythm that soon loses to the coil of heat burning low in his abdomen, the exhales branding hot against his neck as Isfan’s breathing quickens, the need to release burning bright and blinding.

Gieve comes first, with curses spouting from his mouth and his back arched up as ribbons of white flow between his fingers, warm and wet and making a mess on his skin; it doesn’t take long for Isfan to unravel after watching his lover spill all over himself, his body shuddering as he comes inside Gieve with a low grunt and a whisper of his name.

Wrapped in this warmth — Gieve’s warmth, strangely contradictory when he ponders upon it, a cold-blooded killer capable of this gentle, tender warmth — and embraced within those arms, their hearts beating together, Isfan thinks he’s finally ready to leave the darkness of winter behind and welcome the sweet light of spring.

A/N: Oh my god. I’m NEVER writing anything that has to do with guns EVER again, fuck me. But I really do enjoy writing assassin!Gieve being needy as fuck in the bedroom. Go figure. Also, can you tell I just basically gave up at the end there? LOL.

A few notes/HCs concerning this AU if anyone cares:

- After Isfan graduates, he calls up Daryun, whose contact information was written on the Shapur’s letter, along with Narsus and Farangis’. The only reason he calls Daryun and not the other two is because they’ve actually met each other before when Isfan is still a teenager.

- Isfan is technically a weapon designer who helps researching and upgrading weapons, working under Daryun’s supervision for three years. (Imagine Q from 007!)

- Gieve was a freelance assassin before he joins Arslan’s Lion’s Den. He has an obsession with guns and sees beauty in the designs, accuracy, and ergonomics of firearms. He likes using expensive guns that are efficient for his jobs and are pretty to look at.

- Gieve has tattoos on his biceps — thin lines of black ink around the arm, each signifies one kill in his career.

- Gieve’s treasured Classic Carry Elite (handgun), and the SRS-A1 (sniper rifle) that Daryun has Isfan deliver.

- In the bedroom, Gieve willingly relinquishes his control to Isfan, whom he trusts with unwavering loyalty and love. While Gieve always calls Isfan “pretty” and “sweetheart” in public, on their own, Gieve will get turned on as soon as Isfan starts using pet names.

#pars2017 #arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #gieve #isfan #gieve/isfan #isfan/gieve #bowie's crappy writing

7 notes · View notes

marchdancer · 2 years

Text

Heronie of the slaves - Song of fire and sand "For me you will always be a queen"

"For me you will always be a queen"

Kayra was a beautiful women But for Shapur she was so much more

Kayra (Pars Era 321)

To describe Kayra was not easy:

She was like the desert wind, which danced around and which you could never get hold of. Sometimes gentle and quiet, sometimes merciless and loud. Her voice was like a gentle spring rain, which was refreshing to the skin and made you pause for a moment. She was gentle and loving, good at listening and giving advice. She was like the sea on a calm day, light, playful and beautiful. Her red hair was reminiscent of the Parsi roses that bloomed in the royal garden. Her green eyes shone like the lush forests of eastern Pars.

Narsus described her as perceptive. Daryun as an equal comrade. Elam and Alfreed would call her a loving elder sister. Farangis saw her as a strong friend. Gieve recognized not only her outer beauty, but also her inner beauty and saw her as a confidante. For Jaswant she was an ally against the hostilities. Prince Arslan would call her the sun, warm and full of hope, a patient teacher and confidante. For Isfan she was like a sister and a mother at the same time.

Shapur knew this to be true of Kayra, but he knew more:

He knew that her gentle voice, which was like a spring rain, could also be like a summer thunderstorm. A thunderstorm that could arise so fast and pass away just as quickly.

He knew that the calm sea that glistened gently in the sun also had its shallows Shoals that he could never fully fathom, shoals that could capsize a ship. Like the sea, Kayra could become stormy and cause any ship to crash on the cliffs, only to become calm and gentle again in the next moment. Shapur knew that just like roses, she had her thorns and could not be plucked easily. She could be passionate and impetuous, like the desert wind and her green eyes so deep that if you were not careful you could get lost in their deep green, almost like in the dark forests.

Shapur knew all this and much more.

He knew of her demons deep in her heart that came out at night and robbed her of sleep. He also knew that he was guilty of those demons, he knew of the scars she hid on her back. Scars that were not only on the outside but on the inside as well. Scars that he was to blame for and scars that she tried to hide from everyone. Shapur knew that Kayra was no longer a young girl, but a woman. A woman who had fought her way and not backed down, he could see the scars on her hands. Hands that had fought for their own survival and that of others. The same hands that he had held so often in years past and that so often wandered through his hair in the morning. Hands that now held a weapon and tended the wounded, hands that gently cupped his own and were stained red with the blood of the wounded. Shapur knew she did not blame him, but he blamed himself. He blamed himself for the lost time, for his hesitation and for his naive behavior. Kayra did not, for this was another side of a side that never looked back and looked forward. The side of her that Shapur always admired, the side that always put one step before the next and the side that dreamed of a better tomorrow.

Shapur knew that he could not protect her, not from the cruel world he saw every day. But he also saw that she was not broken by it but stronger than before. He knew how stubborn she could be and how much she hated to lose, how much she fought for her ideals and lost sight of many things. Shapur knew this and he knew much more. He knew how quickly she could be hurt if her trust was broken and he also knew that it was hard to regain that trust. Shapur knew this and much more, he knew Kayra's peculiarities.

He knew that she had never liked her laughter before, because she always grunted a little bit. He knew how much she hated thunderstorms and how much she loved the smell of freshly baked bread. He knew that her hair smelled of lavender and lemons and that she loved the time of almond blossoms.

He knew her countless freckles. He knew the small scar on her right iliac crest that Isfan had inflicted on her when he had played with a bow and arrow as a young boy.

Shapur knew that Kayra also read books late into the night to increase her knowledge to become better at helping people. He knew a lot about her and he saw many sides of her.

But he did not know all sides of her, not anymore. Some were still there, visible to all, some were hidden and some where gone a long time ago. But for Shapur, Kayra would always be special.

No matter if the simple peasant girl, the slave, the warrior, the healer. For Shapur Kayra was a queen, his queen for whom he would fight and to whom he was loyal so.

Shapur could say "no matter how you see yourself for me you will always be a queen" and her loving smile that put little dimples in her face and her green eyes sparkling like emeralds showed him that he would never know all her sides, but that was ok for him.

#arslan senki #oc x shapur #oc #Shapur #the heroic legend of arslan #isfan #Kayra #a littel bit au #shapur is not dead #shapurs pov

3 notes · View notes

goldeagleprice · 4 years

Text

SARC Auction 37 Nets $1.85 Million

The folks at Stephen Album Rare Coins bring a substantial base of combined knowledge to the process of cataloging their high quality, diverse consignments. I think also that their bidders tend to be very well versed in the specialized fields in which they collect or trade. It is for these two broad reasons that I really enjoy bringing our readers previews or reviews of the SARC live and online auctions.

SARC Auction 37 was held June 11-14, 2020, at their offices in Santa Rosa, Calif., with great results. Both the strength of the coin market and of the SARC business model was on display as high prices and a huge sell-through of 96.5 percent of lots sold made this a fun event for all involved. I asked Michael Barry, Chief Operating Officer (COO) at SARC for sale totals and he supplied this information, “The total price realized was 1.85 million USD (including buyer’s fees), a new record for our growing auction house. Pre-sale estimate for the auction was 1.20 million USD.”

The “Pavilion” dollar was issued to commemorate the succession of Hsu Shih-chang to the office of President in 1918, and in celebration of his 67th birthday. This example was engraved for Dr. Ralph Garfield Mills and realized $130,900 with buyers’ premium.

One of the most exciting moments in SARC Auction 37 came when a Chinese silver “Pavilion” dollar sold for an astounding price of $130,900. Joseph Lang, CEO and Director of East Asian & Later Indian Numismatics relayed that, “This is more than three times higher than previous sales records for a Pavilion dollar (based on auction records available on CoinArchives Pro). The reason for the record-breaking price is that this piece was engraved for Dr. Ralph Garfield Mills (1881-1944) of Lincoln, Ill.”

I was only vaguely familiar with Dr. Ralph Garfield Mills before reading this wonderful background on him from the SARC Auction 37 lot listing:

“Dr. Mills was Professor of Pathology and Director of Research at Severance Medical College (now Severance Hospital of the Yonsei University Health System), from 1911 until 1918 in Seoul, Korea. According to the Johns Hopkins University circular “Annual Report of the Johns Hopkins University 1913-14” published in Baltimore, Md., in 1915, Dr. R. G. Mills, “an instructor in Pathology and Surgery resigned to become Professor of Pathology and Surgery in the new Peking Union Medical College in Peking, China in 1918.” He was also listed as the Vice-President of the Korea Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society in Seoul in 1916. In 1923 Dr. R. G. Mills was again head of the department of pathology of the Peking Union Medical College and he wrote about the previous year in which “two of the contending war lords whose forces were clashing near Peking retired from the sanguinary scene of their conflict leaving several hundred wounded soldiers in an old temple. The Peking Union Medical College authorities commandeered all the suitable vehicles that could be found and brought the wounded men into the great city hospital.” Dr. Ralph G. Mills and his wife, Ethel, served as missionaries in Korea and China.

CFO and Director of World Coins, Paul Montz, was happy with their Auction 37 results. “We were curious to see how this auction would do, with all the changes the pandemic has forced on the industry. We were pleased to see that the market appears to be stronger than ever. This strength carried throughout the auction in all categories.”

To prove the point, here are some additional stand-out highlights directly from the sales catalog with results tacked on after the pre-sale estimates:

LOT 1066: INDIA: MUGHAL EMPIRE: Jahangir, 1605-1628, gold square heavy mohur, Lahore, AH1015 year 2, KM-184.1, BMC-293 (1015 year 1) & 294 (1016 year 3), special presentation type from the early part of Jahangir’s reign, obverse legend has full name & patronymic shah nur al-din jahangir ebn akbar padshah, and the regnal year “2”; reverse legend ruy-e zar-ra sakht nurani be-rang-e mehr o mah, ”he made the face of money to shine with hues of the sun and moon,” and the mint formula zarb lahore, NGC graded AU-55. Estimated at $14,000 – 16,000 (Realized $26,180).

A beautiful square heavy mohur of the Mughal Empire under Jahangir. Both round and square heavy mohurs were struck during the first six years of his reign, replaced by standard weight rupees and mohurs during year 6. This is one of the best examples you will find. It realized $26,180 with buyer’s fee.

LOT 1462: CHINA: CHIHLI: Kuang Hsu, 1875-1908, silver dollar, Peiyang Arsenal mint, Tientsin, year 24 (1898), Y-65.2, L&M-449, dragon eyes in relief, a superb quality example with bright white original mint luster, a superb example. PCGS graded MS-63. Estimated at $15,000 – 20,000 (Realized $26,180).

LOT 816: MEDIEVAL ISLAMIC: ASSASSINS AT ALAMUT: Muhammad III, 1221-1254, gold dinar (2.56g), MM, AH618, A-D1920, dated in the year of his accession, citing the Abbasid caliph al-Nasir li-din Allah, slightly uneven surfaces, unpublished and almost certainly unique and of great historic importance, VF-EF, RRRR. Estimated at $4,500 – 5,500 (Realized $16,660).

LOT 1757: WORLD: THAILAND: Rama IV, 1851-1868, gold stamped fuang, ND (ca. 1856), Cr-170, Krisnadaolarn & Mihailovs, p. 150, plate F07, upper left, stamped with four marks: chakra, mongkut, and phra tao (twice), grained right on the edge (derived from coins of the Indian Presidencies), EF, RRRR. Estimated at $2,000 – 3,000 (Realized $9,520).

LOT 102: ANCIENTS: SASANIAN KINGDOM: Shahpur (Sabuhr) I, 241-272, gold dinar (7.30g), Ctesiphon, G-21, diademed bust of Shapur right, wearing mural crown with korymbos // fire altar flanked by two attendants, each looking away from the fire and wearing mural crowns, two pellets right of the altar, lustrous and well struck example. ANACS graded MS-64. Estimated at $3,500 -4,000 (Realized $5,355).

SARC Auction 37 also offered selections from the H.F. Bowker Numismatic Library. Here too, prices were quite strong, particularly for some of the out of print works which have become increasingly difficult to locate. Here is one of the most outstanding highlights from the Bowker lots:

LOT 3689: NUMISMATIC LITERATURE: Schroeder, Albert, Annam Études Numismatiques, Paris, 1905, original printing, 651 pages, 111 fine phototype plates, in two volumes, one of text and one of plates, contemporary red cloth binding, original paper covers with the text volume hardbound, the standard French-language work on Vietnamese cash, silver, and gold and still the best work on gold and silver coinage, now extremely rare, RR, ex. H. F. Bowker Numismatic Library. Estimated at $300 – 500. (Realized $4,760).

Of course, I always like to dig a bit further and look for items which may have been overlooked by many, but were certainly seen by specialists. These are coins which may not have brought the stunningly high hammer prices, but which I had an eye on with high expectations. In most cases, in this sale these little trendsetters did not disappoint.

Early Panamanian coins in high grades always bring active buyers. This 2-1/2 centesimos of 1929 is the finest known example graded by either service at this time.

A Panama 2-1/2 centesimos of 1929, a one-year type as are many in the early coins of Panama, graded MS-66 by PCGS realized $2,200 on an estimate of $100-$150. The MS-65 value in the current Standard Catalog of World Coins is $165, but it is quite hard to locate these in grades any higher than that. An MS-66 is an oddity for the type and might be the finest known example, as NGC has not encountered any examples above MS-65 and this seems to be the first MS-66 graded by PCGS.

The Military bust of Yuan Shi Kai has been collected fervently in the dollar denomination for years. The fractionals, like this 10 cents, are now also in high demand and realizing staggering prices in the highest available grades.

The China Republic coins of Year 3 (1914) with Yuan Shi Kai in military uniform also did extremely well in SARC Auction 37, with a 10 cents and 20 cents each graded by PCGS as MS-64 realizing $2,400 apiece. In the past it was the dollar denomination which garnered the most collector interest, but those crown attitudes are changing. These prices were nearly 10 times each coin’s pre-sale estimate, so people are certainly paying attention now. Even the Yuan Shi Kai Year 3 (1914) 50 cents graded PCGS MS-62 realized a whopping $6,500. Those are shocking prices to me, and apparently to the SARC folks too. It’s definitely an area to watch.

The same is true of the Republic of China Dragon and Peacock coat of arms types Year 15 (1926) 10 and 20 cents in the sale. They were each graded MS-64 by PCGS and each realized a stunning $3,750. Collector or investor interest is really high right now for the minor types.

Deeply struck and nicely separated countermarks add to the eye appeal of this St. Eustatius countermarked stuiver. Locating one with both countermarks is difficult.

On the less traveled path, SARC Auction 37 offered a St. Eustatius double countermarked stuiver. The original SE countermarked 2 sous of St. Eustatius are offered for sale pretty often. You might see one or two for sale in any given year, without even looking too hard, but the second issue with SE and a second countermark of P are not often seen at all. The piece in SARC Auction 37 is a KM-4, one of only two ever available types with both the original SE countermark and the P countermark which was applied later. The 2 sous host coin is from the French colony of Cayenne, which today is the main city in French Guiana on the northeast coast of South America.

Background on St. Eustatius countermarked coinage in use during the British occupation of the island was provided through the SARC Auction 37 lot listing: “It was determined that only genuine Cayenne stuivers would be used as currency on St. Eustatius, and these were countermarked “SE” for St. Eustatius by Peter dit Flamand. In 1809, there were so many counterfeits in circulation that an additional “P” stamp was applied to genuine pieces.” There are several different versions of the SE stamps known, but I think there are only two P stamps confirmed. One has a double lined upright and rests in a plain circular indent. The other type is a raised solid P in a circle of dots, all in an incuse circle.

The SE and P stuiver in SARC Auction 37 was graded VF for countermarks and AG for the host. I would have placed it higher for both, based on typical appearance for these types. Either way, the pre-auction estimate range of $250-$350 was left far behind when the lot sold for $900, which is the exact value listed in the current SCWC for a VF example.

High grade Iraq mid-20th century types continued to surface at SARC in Auction 37. The one that caught my eye was a copper fils for Faisal I dated 1933/AH1352. This coin was graded MS-65 brown by PCGS. Again the final price was just short of 10 times its pre-sale estimate at $1,300. This type was a large mintage coin, but survival at this grade level must be very thin.

Finding high-grade coins of Lebanon from the French mandate era leading up to WWII can be difficult. But they do come up; as did a silver 25 piastres dated 1936 and struck at the Paris Mint. It’s one in a series of three denominations using this beautiful design of the traditional Lebanese arms and crossed cornucopias. Graded MS-63 by PCGS, the coin sold for well above its pre-sale estimate and even went above its catalog value by over 40 percent.

The Nepal highlight of SARC Auction 37 was a copper paisa struck under Tribhuvira Vir Vikram who ruled from 1911-1950. You’ll find that in the Standard Catalog of World Coins he is listed as Tribhuvana Bir Bikram, but I will leave pronunciation and spelling arguments to more educated language experts. The coin itself is cataloged as KM-686.2 and is noted as “believed to be a pattern.” If I recall correctly, this listing originated with the owner and current consigner of the coin Wolfgang Schuster. At the time it was added to the SCWC we had little idea of its value, except that it was quite rare. The final hammer price was $650, giving us a better notion of value today.

Both high-end and mid-range world coins were well represented in SARC Auction 37 and most everything sold and sold for premium value, as CFO and Director of World Coins, Paul Montz described. Consider it a good sign for the world coin market and a terrific indication of the growth of this firm. Look for more exciting sales in SARC’s future.

For more information see www.stevealbum.com.

The post SARC Auction 37 Nets $1.85 Million appeared first on Numismatic News.

#Precious Metals

0 notes

alisonfloresus · 7 years

Text

The Important Influence Of Baghdad On The Development Of Western Medicine (Part 1)

Some would say that we are living in interesting times, particularly as another US-Iraq confrontation at this stage seems almost inevitable. Such is the present power of the United States that only a few voices in the rest of the world suggest that the United Nations should be the only party to be involved in any future decisions about the coming conflict. Nobody in the West is brave enough any longer to take a moral stance against the imposed economic sanctions, which by now have killed more than 1.6 million Iraqis, mostly children, according to the UN’s own statistics. On the eve of the Eid-Al-Fiter (the most widely observed Islamic festival marking the end of the fasting month of Ramadan), the well-respected Qatar-based Arabic news network Aljazeera reported that in the past three months (from September to November 2001), more than 31 thousand Iraqis (including 21 thousand children under the age of 5) died due to the UN-imposed economic sanctions against Iraq, a figure even higher than the 1999 UNICEF estimate of an average 5200 Iraqi child deaths per month. This comes at the same time as warnings from Iraqi physicians about an escalating crisis of increased cancer cases in the southern part of the country. The report adds that the fear of having babies with birth defects is so great that many pregnant women choose to have abortions. I myself must accept some blame for not reorting this, having recently turning down an opportunity to visit the suffering patients in the hospitals in Baghdad in the interests of personal safety.

So what brought us to the point of the precipice, this point where two belligerent nations want to draw swords against each other in the region once known as the cradle of civilisation. This was the land of the Sumerians, the Assyrians, and the Babylonians where advanced civilizations flourished long before that of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. This Garden of Eden, this land of Abraham, where the Hanging Gardens on the River Euphrates were once considered amongst the Seven Wonders of the World and where the origins of our medicine once flourished . There is little doubt that any historian would say that the Mongol invasion of Mesopotamia was one of the turning points in the history of this region. Its long shadow and memory has left formidable imprints that are still discernible in thought formation of Iraqi political leaders right into this century. The destruction of many centuries of learning, being ruled for a period by barbarians, Ottoman Turks and later the British has left a lasting stamp on these proud people who want to protect their recently found freedom. I would like to take time for a moment to consider life in this part of the world before the sack of Baghdad by the Mongols. I would like to identify the influence of the Baghdad School of Medicine on the medicine we practise today in the Western world. This influence has been neglected and unjustifiably overpassed by scholars in the West and this article is written to allow us for a while to acknowledge that fact and try and restore this missing part of our history. We must remember that medicine, as we know it today did not develop overnight and this knowledge over the centuries has been handed from one country to the other. Between the ancient civilizations of Egyptians, Greek, Roman, and the Renaissance era in Europe, there was a gap, commonly called “the dark ages”, during which the flames of the knowledge of medicine was hosted, not by the West, but by the Arabs or Moslems. The nomenclature, “the dark ages” reflects the civilization in Europe between the 7th and 13th centuries, but by no means it expresses the state of affairs in the Arab world or the Islamic Empire at that time. By the ninth century, Islamic medical practice began to advance beyond the talisman and the people of Mesopotamia became avid for the wisdom of Galen, Hippocrates, and Paul of Aegina. By the tenth century, their zeal and enthusiasm for learning resulted in all essential Greek medical writings being translated into Arabic in Baghdad. The Islamic Empire continued to grow and extended its influence from the Atlantic Ocean on the West to the borders of China on the East. Arabic became the International Language of learning and diplomacy and the centre of medical knowledge and activity shifted eastward as Baghdad emerged as the capital of the scientific world. This era also saw the introduction of hospitals with wards, the introduction of medical terminology and the regulation of medical students who by now had to pass rigorous examinations. Baghdad General Hospital soon became the envy of the Islamic world and incorporated innovations, many of which still sound modern by today’s standards. The hospital used fountains to cool the air near the wards of those afflicted with fever; it was the first hospital to have a ward exclusively devoted to the mentally ill. The Baghdad School brought a refreshing spirit of dispassionate clarity into psychiatry, which was free from the demonological theories that swept over the Christian world. It is known that Najab ud din Muhammad, a contemporary of Razi, carefully compiled observation on actual patients made up the most complete classification of mental diseases theretofore known. He described agitated depression, obsessional neurosis, Nafkhae Malikholia (combined priapism and sexual impotence). Kutrib (a form of persecutory psychosis), Dual-Kulb (a form of mania). At night, the pain of the restless in Baghdad General Hospital was soothed by soft music and storytelling. I still remember the open courtyard of the Ibn ‘al Bitar still being used in this fashion, just before the Gulf War, by the patient’s relatives at night as I strolled back from my night rounds.

There were also social policies introduced by the governing regime to Baghdad General Hospital, which assured that the prince and pauper received identical attention and the destitute received five gold pieces upon discharge to sustain them during convalescence. We must remember that this was at a time when the streets of Paris and London were still paved with mud and open sewers. Baghdad General Hospital was amongst the first to introduce separate wards for male and female patients and these were staffed by attendants of both sexes. This medical centre of excellence contained both a library and a pharmacy and it is known that medical staff attended outreach clinics to attend to the disabled or the disadvantaged who lived in remote areas.

Baghdad also introduced regulations to maintain quality control on drugs, they advocated that pharmacists became licensed, and legal measures were taken to prevent doctors from owning or holding stock in a pharmacy. Methods of extracting and preparing medicines were brought to a high art in Mesopotamia and techniques of distillation, crystallization, solution, sublimation, reduction and calcination became essential processes of pharmacy and chemistry. With the help of these techniques, the Saydalanis (pharmacists) introduced new drugs such as camphor, senna, sandalwood, rhubarb, musk, myrrh, cassia, tamarind, nutmeg, alum, aloes, cloves, coconut, nuxvomica, cubebs, aconite, ambergris, and mercury to the world. The important role of the Baghdad School and others in developing modern pharmacy is memorialized in the significant number of current pharmaceutical and chemical terms derived from Arabic: drug, alkali, alcohol, aldehydes, alembic, and elixir among others, not to mention syrups and juleps.

In 636 A.D., the Muslims conquered the Persian City of Jundi-Shapur, and after this period, Islamic medical schools mostly developed on the Jundi-Shapur pattern. In the late seventh century, only Baghdad and Jundi-Shapur had separate schools for studying basic sciences. In Baghdad Medical School, doctors learned anatomy by dissecting apes, skeletal studies and didactics while other schools only taught anatomy through illustrations and lectures. During the eight century, the study of medicinal herbs and pharmacognosy was added to the basic training and a number of hospitals in Baghdad maintained barbel gardens as a source of drugs for the patients and a means of instruction for the students.

Surgery was also included in the Baghdad curriculum many surgical procedures such as amputation, excision of varicose veins and haemorrhoids were required knowledge. Orthopaedics was also widely taught in Baghdad and doctors routinely used plaster of Paris for casts in the reduction of fractures. Interestingly, this method of treating fractures was only rediscovered in the West in 1852. Ophthalmology was practiced in Baghdad, but it was not taught as part of the curriculum in medical schools, rather an apprenticeship to an eye doctor was the preferred way of specialisation. The ophthalmologists of Baghdad exhibited a high degree of proficiency and it should be remembered that medical words such as retina and cataract are of Arabic origin. lbn al Haytham (965-1039 A.D.) wrote the Optical Thesaurus from which such worthies as Roger Bacon, Leonardo da Vinci and Johannes Kepler drew theories for their own writings. In his Thesaurus he showed that light falls on the retina in the same manner as it falls on a surface in a darkened room through a small aperture, thus conclusively proving that vision happens when light rays pass from objects towards the eye and not from the eye towards the objects as thought by the Greeks. He presents experiments for testing the angles of incidence and reflection, and a theoretical proposal for magnifying lens (made in Italy three centuries later). He also taught that the image made on the retina is conveyed along the optic nerve to the brain. Razi was the first to recognize the reaction of the pupil to light and Ibn Sina was the first to describe the exact number of extrinsic muscles of the eyeball, namely six. The greatest contribution of Islamic medicine in practical ophthalmology was in the matter of cataract. The most significant development in the extraction of cataract was developed by Ammar bin Ali of Mosul, who introduced a hollow metallic needle through the sclerotic and extracted the lens by suction. Europe rediscovered this in the nineteenth century.

from JournalsLINE http://journalsline.com/2017/06/13/the-important-influence-of-baghdad-on-the-development-of-western-medicine-part-1/ from Journals LINE https://journalsline.tumblr.com/post/161792035545

0 notes

innerchorus · 1 year

Note

Gurgin for the ask game, pick and choose whatever numbers you want! It's a free-for-all! :D

I probably am gonna ask you about Shapur, Isfan, and Kubard later too because of course I am

I said I wanted to answer every question for him and I wasn't lying. Thank you for enabling me! (Ask game post is here, for anyone else who wants to send something in / reblog it themselves. I have a few others to answer already which I'll get too asap now this post is done, but feel free to send in more!).

My first impression of them

Just one of a handful of evil masked guys. Best mask design by a long way, though.

2. When I think I truly started to like them (or dislike them, if you've sent me a character I don't like)

I first got curious about him when I read about his backstory and found out about his shared past with Farangis. Honestly I'm not quite sure how I got to the point where I love him as fiercely as I do now, but I know I started shipping him with Zandeh after seeing art by @strangeshipper and it built from there. I don't know. I just find him really interesting.

3. A song that reminds me of them

I know I've mentioned You Are The Blood by Sufjan Stevens before, but also Don't Worry, We'll Be Watching You by Gotye (POV: you are being recruited by Team Zahhak).

4. How many people I ship them with

Always with Zandeh. OTP status for sure. I have considered other stuff (such as the Zandeh/Gurgin/Parizad OT3) though. And Hilmes/Gurgin in Mage Hunt AU. And if anyone wants to suggest other ships for him, I'm listening.

5. My favorite ship of them

Zandeh/Gurgin, obvious answer is obvious.

6. My least favorite ship of them

I don't know whether anyone actually ships it but Gurgin/the Master.

I won't lie, it's crossed my mind, but my headcanon is primarily that although the Master was once interested in stuff like that he's been alive for so long that he doesn't really have those sorts of urges any more (overlaps a bit with my thoughts on how the type of magic that Team Zahhak use might affect sexual desire, I don't think I've directly mentioned that before but the basic concept is that it can warp it from its baseline just as it warps their bodies, and results vary from person to person, but it's quite common for it to be either dulled or switched off completely and kind of goes hand in hand with the headcanon that their magic renders them sterile).

Gurgin in Sacrifice AU falls into that category, he doesn't completely lack interest but his focus is dominated by his work for Team Zahhak and by the time the AU picks up his story afterwards he's also underweight and depressed so his sex drive is basically 0. And then he meets Zandeh, and gets better, and realises what it's like to want someone so badly you can't think of anything else, lmao

(My headcanons for Gurgin vary a bit in this respect depending on the AU, though. There's probably an AU out there where his desire never returns or he never had any in the first place but even in that case I still see him and Zandeh as life partners and feel they'd work it out somehow.)

7. A quote of them that you remember

What he says when he's rallying his comrades at the end of Book 7 after their Master is (temporarily...) killed: "Let those who do not respect the Snake King Zahhak boast of their victory! Three years, just three years is enough. At that time, they will fall from the peak of joy to the bottom of the valley of despair. The higher they climb, the further they fall!"

It's primarily the last line that sticks in my mind. If I ever make the Gurgin playlist that I daydream about so often, I'd definitely title it 'The Further They Fall'. Anyway, that's actually the last line of dialogue from the final scene of Book 7 (the last book before the timeskip). A very ominous way for it to end, right?

8. Your favorite outfit of them

He has One Outfit. (He would've worn something different when he was a trainee priest, but there's no description of it. A manga flashback to that time feels much less likely now, but you never know, maybe Arakawa will decide to reveal a little of Farangis's backstory before the end… my one hope…)

9. Your least favorite outfit of them

One Outfit, and I love it so no complaints. But I wish Arakawa had planned to adapt the second half so I could see him getting drenched by the rain in Soleimaniye.

10. Describe the character in one sentence

My blorbo who did lots of things wrong.

11. What’s the first thing you think about when thinking about the character?

Huh, this question made me realise that in the mental picture of Gurgin that first pops up when I think of him, he's not wearing his mask. His hood is up, though, and he's in Team Zahhak black. Maybe it's because I've been thinking about the Magical Healing AU more recently, where his appearance is often like this.

12. Sexuality hc!

He doesn't waste much time thinking about it, but he's mainly into men. However, I do headcanon that he had a crush on Farangis when he was young.

13. Your favorite friendship they have

This question makes me sad because I don't see him as someone who's ever had many friends. I don't think his peers at the temple liked him that much (though honestly I think he probably felt quite indifferent about this). There were a handful of other trainees he spent time with, but his closest friends were probably his brother and Farangis. There's certainly no real evidence of friendship between any of the Team Zahhak disciples.

He deserves more than having one-sided conversations with winged apes! Was that mainly for exposition purposes in canon? Perhaps, but it's also a result of a lack of human contact — the novel makes it clear that the mages feel loneliness as their numbers dwindle, and at that point Gurgin is operating alone and hasn't heard from his remaining comrades for a while.

(He absolutely does talk to Hamkar from time to time in Sacrifice AU before Zandeh arrives on the scene, too.)

14. Best storyline they had

Is there anything about his canon trajectory that I really wanna label 'best' lmao? I mean, I wish things had turned out different for him but I do find his loss of faith / corruption arc interesting. Though that's because I also love to think about a future for him where that all gets reversed.

15. Worst storyline they had

His involvement with what went down in Oxus, probably. Oof.

16. A childhood headcanon

You know, I haven't spent much time thinking about what his childhood was like (aside from Mage Hunt AU specifics that differ from whatever a general /baseline headcanon would be). I guess the only thing I feel certain of is that he and his brother had no other siblings, and whatever region they grew up in didn't have much to offer in terms of creating a better life for themselves, and that's why they ended up at the Temple of Mithra in Khuzestan. (Tentative headcanon is that he grew up in / near the Nimruz mountains.)

Aghriras entered the priesthood because of ambition, and that reasoning makes sense for Gurgin, too (they're azat, freeborn commoners aka the lowest social class above slaves, and if they want to climb above the few opportunities that affords to them then it's either joining the priesthood or proving their merit on the battlefield) but I do think that to a certain extent Gurgin followed his brother.

lmao I can feel a backstory headcanon forming even as I type this.. like, what if their father died or left them when they were young (Gurgin probably doesn't remember him much) and they were raised by their mother, who wanted them to have a better life than she had? She wouldn't have wanted them to face the horrors of war, so she encouraged them to work hard on their education so that they could find their place in the priesthood. Perhaps she, too, had passed away by the time they left for the temple, so at that point they only had each other. I feel like Gurgin didn't have any close family after his brother died.

Oh no Gurgin, are you desperate for recognition from your Master because you never had a father figure? Fuck.

17. What do you think their first word was?

Eh, probably some variation of 'brother' or 'mother' (with the headcanon above). I feel like most first words are… not that interesting.

18. How do you think they were as a kid? (Like, were they shy, noisy, wild, etc)

Curious and intelligent! Asked a lot of questions. Easily frustrated when things didn't go his way. I imagine at school he had trouble making friends as he both sought approval from his teachers and thought himself superior to others who were not as clever as him, plus he could be impatient with others. (He was, in general, a bit better about all of this at the time he joined the priesthood, but when he's with Team Zahhak all those negative traits are brought to the fore.)

19. The most random ship you've seen people have with them

Well, I'm not sure this really counts but sometimes I'll ask my boyfriend really weird ArSen questions out of the blue, and recently I asked him "give me a Gurgin ship" and usually when it's something like that he'll try and pick something at random that he thinks I won't like… He said Gurgin/Farangis.

(No, he didn't remember that they knew each other. And I can't think of a way this would work but it sure gave me a whirlwind of feelings to think about. The thought of something happening between them because of shared grief, years after they last saw each other? It's so angsty and messy. If something did happen I think Gurgin would feel immensely guilty for it, but I'm not sure about Farangis. I feel like she might be able to compartmentalise it as something that happened that shouldn't have done, and move on. She'd handle it better than Gurgin, at any rate.)

Wait, my Hilmes/Gurgin ship is pretty random I suppose? Think of that as an alternate answer. Zandeh/Gurgin probably qualifies too given that they don't ever meet in canon, but I can't see it that way now, not after spending so much time thinking about them together.

I've also had very vague thoughts of yeeting Gurgin back into the past, but would I ship him with anyone in that circumstance? Eh, not sure.

20. A weird headcanon

I'm sure I have many! The 'he likes hot baths' headcanon is a pretty random one that came from 1. reading that the real Mount Damavand has some pretty nice hot springs near it (which in ArSen verse are probably disgusting bubbling sulphurous poison mud pits but whatever), and 2. the fact that he probably had a bad time during the flooding of the Dark Temple and it amuses me to imagine him enjoying water in a different context? I just want to let him relax from time to time? He works hard, he deserves it.

I want to write a bath scene for him in Interlude (Magical Healing AU). Or I keep thinking about a comedy scene of him at one of Ecbatana's bath houses with a gaggle of bird-faced beasts for company, because it amuses me.

Here's another headcanon: he's pretty bad at archery. It was taught at the temple, but it didn't interest him much and he wasn't that motivated to work on his skills, even though Farangis tried to instruct him. As far as weapons go, later on he uses a Team Zahhak-typical knife, which he wears strapped to a thigh like Farangis. (He still has it in Sacrifice AU! Chekhov's Snake Knife lmao.)

21. When do you think they were at their happiest?

When he was at the temple with Farangis and his brother, before things went wrong. Other than that, he was pretty fucking ecstatic in Book 16 when the Master said that he would be his successor (disregarding the fact that it's because there is literally nobody else left at that point lmao). I'm not sure I believe the Master was ever planning on stepping aside, but whatever.

22. When do you think they were at their lowest?

After his brother's death.

23. Future headcanon

The whole of Sacrifice AU, I guess. Just anything where he makes it out of Team Zahhak and tries to lead a different life.

24. What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?

I love this question. I wouldn't necessarily know the answer for every character but I do have a headcanon for this for Gurgin, and that is that no matter how vehemently he protested his brother's innocence, a small part of him wondered whether Aghriras really had done it. I don't think he'd ever admit that to anyone (except perhaps to Zandeh in Mage Hunt AU, where Gurgin's backstory adjustment gives him very good reason to hope that Aghriras had killed that particular person). The fact that Aghriras's innocence was later proven only makes it much worse.

25. When do you think they acted the most ooc

I don't think any of his canon scenes are OOC? Is that what this question is asking? I may not like what he does, but none of it feels unbelievable.

26. When do you think they were being "themselves" the most?

Maybe I'm picking this just because it's before he went down a dark path, but I think the conversations he used to have with his brother back when they were at the temple are pretty typical of his true self. The little flashback conversation we get in particular gives the impression of someone who's curious about stuff he maybe shouldn't be, and is attracted to power, but it also shows that he was willing to listen to his brother's guidance. I don't think he'd have ended up with Team Zahhak if his brother had lived.

Otherwise, his Book 16 decisions that get him killed are unfortunately also peak Gurgin, at least in his Team Zahhak era.

27. If they could meet a character from another show/movie/etc, who would be the most fun for them to meet?

Either (or both) of the Devil Forgemasters from Castlevania, 100%.

28. The most unnecessary thing they ever did?

Killing the dog at the temple. Or lashing out and cutting off the hind legs of a winged ape (a creature that is on his side, and under his command!) when his plans started to go wrong in Book 13.

29. How do you think they would be as a parent? (and if they are a parent, how do you think they would be if they weren't?)

Honestly, not great but not as bad as he might think. But it's not something he wants. Thoughts of having a family aren't really on his mind (except for AU instances where he's worried it's something Zandeh might want that he won't be able to provide).

30. The funniest scene they had?

Okay, Gurgin's not actually present in this scene but it's hilarious to me so I'm choosing it: after the winged ape attack on Soleimaniye in Book 13 was thwarted, Kubard and Narsus are discussing what happened. They don't know that Gurgin was the one in charge, but Narsus's opinion is that it couldn't have been Ilterish (the usual commander of the demon army) because Ilterish would've done a better job, lmao. Sorry Gurgin but your inexperience is showing.

Anyway, that's the end of the questions! Not sure how many people are interested enough in Gurgin to make it this far, but like... if anyone does want to talk about Gurgin with me... my inbox is always open...

#arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #gurgin #if farangis can have a sexy thigh knife then so can he #this post took me ages to write #i went on... so many tangents...#the irresistable urge to keep talking about my blorbo

44 notes · View notes