drshaleenagarwal-blog

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

I THINK I MANAGED TO ACCIDENTALLY PRESS THE BACK KEY REPEATEDLY OR SOMETHING BUT LIKE TWO PARAGRAPHS OF WRITING ARE GONE AND IT'S TOO MUCH FOR ME TO CTRL+Z BACK INTO EXISTENCE BUT NOW MY PROGRAM CRASHED SO I DON'T EVEN HAVE THAT ANYMORE IT'S ALL GONE PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW

[haggiswhisky]

Once upon a time, in a dark and ancient forest, there was a knight named Seraphina. She was known far and wide for her unparalleled skill in combat and her unyielding sense of justice. Seraphina's armor, as black as the deepest night, was adorned with spikes and intricate designs, marking her as a warrior who had faced countless battles. Her hair, white as freshly fallen snow, framed her face, giving her an ethereal, almost ghostly appearance.

One day, as Seraphina ventured deeper into the forest, she came upon a clearing bathed in a crimson light. At the center of the clearing stood an enormous, ancient tree with bark as dark as her armor. A blood-red sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The tree's gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and from its trunk, a faint, mournful wail could be heard.

Seraphina approached the tree cautiously, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. As she drew nearer, she saw that the tree was covered in strange, crimson runes that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Suddenly, the wailing grew louder, and from behind the tree stepped an old woman, her eyes hollow and her skin pale as death.

"Who dares to disturb the cursed tree of the Crimson Sun?" the old woman croaked, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves.

"I am Seraphina, the Knight of the Dark Forest," Seraphina replied. "I seek to rid this land of any curse that plagues it."

The old woman cackled, a sound that sent shivers down Seraphina's spine. "Many have tried, brave knight, but none have succeeded. This tree holds the spirit of an ancient and vengeful sorcerer. He was condemned to this form for his wicked deeds, and now he seeks a soul to take his place."

Seraphina's grip tightened on her sword. "I will not allow such darkness to spread. Tell me how to break this curse."

The old woman’s eyes glinted with a mix of sorrow and malice. "To break the curse, you must cut down the tree. But beware, brave knight, for the sorcerer's spirit will not go quietly. He will fight to the last breath, and only the purest of hearts can withstand his fury."

Without hesitation, Seraphina drew her sword, its blade shining with an inner light. She struck the tree with all her might, and with each blow, the wailing grew louder and more agonized. The crimson runes flared, and dark shadows began to pour from the tree, forming into a monstrous figure with eyes like burning coals.

The sorcerer roared in rage and lunged at Seraphina, his claws raking through the air. But Seraphina stood firm, her sword blazing with righteous fury. She fought with all her strength, her pure heart guiding each strike. The battle was fierce, and the forest seemed to tremble with the power of their clash.

At last, with a final, mighty blow, Seraphina's sword struck the sorcerer's heart. He let out a terrible scream and dissolved into a cloud of black smoke, which was swiftly carried away by the wind. The tree shuddered and then split in two, releasing a brilliant, blinding light that banished the crimson hue from the clearing.

The old woman stepped forward, her hollow eyes now filled with a glimmer of hope. "You have done it, brave knight. The curse is broken, and the sorcerer's spirit is no more."

Seraphina sheathed her sword, her heart heavy but resolute. "May this forest know peace once more," she said quietly.

And so, the tale of Seraphina, the Knight of the Dark Forest, spread far and wide. Her bravery and pure heart became a legend, a beacon of hope for all who faced darkness and despair. And in the heart of the forest, where the cursed tree once stood, new life began to bloom, a testament to the enduring power of courage and light.

[ghostofnibelheim]

azure-steel​:

There was a lot left to be desired when thrust into the frozen embrace of fear itself; when one was forced to cower in defeat nestled deeply into the bosom of the enemy, when the very notion of salvation in it’s purest form could only be found in the arms of abject chaos.

What had Strife done in a past life to deserve this as his current fate, did he wonder while he soared through the air carried by the beating of monstrous onyx feathers. To be rendered a meek quivering imbecile in the arms of a man who’d set to bring the world he knew into ruin. The foul stench of death vanished in the rush of icy winds billowing through his hair, the chill of which ran sickly streaks along the entire length of his spine. The temptation to peer into the black was all consuming, and more than once had he very nearly cracked open a single azure eye when the harsh flap of that single wing brought around the resolve that some bad ideas were best not pursued.

Fear did not come close to this thing he was feeling swilling around in his guts like a bad meal threatening to froth into his gullet. The only saving grace of this terrifying circumstance being that the graveyard littered with the lost and unfortunate could be cast to memory, to be viewed only in the darkest hours within the ghosts of fleeting nightmares. For that at least he was thankful.

It took too long for Cloud to realise that they had come to a sudden halt, denying himself the basic sense of feeling when the soft pad of leather boots beneath his cradled body settling atop hard solid stone. At least not until a familiar warmth swept over his crown, prompting the blond to finally open his eyes, to lay his sights on his unlikely saviour.

But it was in that instance, when their gazes collide, where sharp sky blue contrasted against that piercing endless jade ocean that the world around him dissolved. In an instant Strife was once again submerged in the clouded waters of the hot spring, the heat rising from the darkest spaces within him, where need and desire veiled the very essence of him and that desire was displayed, oh, so freely with the parting of lips and the despairing hands of arousal would latch around his throat, threatening to strangle the air right out of his lungs.

This man. He set his soul on fire.

How he wanted to feel that touch again, just one more time, to feel the pain, both physical and emotional, drain from his being leaving nothing but that unadulterated pleasure in its wake. To lean in a little closer, and feel those heated breaths upon sensitive steam dappled skin. That was until that image was corrupted by his good sense, reminding him in a flash of horror of what this man truly was.

Not his friend.       Certainly not a potential lover.

                                                  Never again.                                                    Never again!

And Cloud cringes away, forcing an arm against the man’s chest to create a layer of much needed distance, though he dared not admit to himself that action took almost everything he had left. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, and yet the fact of the matter remained that he did… never had he felt the sickening burn of self-loathing like he did in that single moment.

“You can put me down now…” a low murmur of an uncertain, shamefilled mind as his gaze is dragged back into the shadows of the cave.

The request was complied to without hesitation, but gently. Sephiroth was aware of the violent landing the blond had suffered at the bottom of that pit, and in part was actually impressed he could stand back on his feet at all, after an initial stagger. His gaze lingered on his form for a few silent moments then, making sure that strength would last, however long.

He didn’t wait to be told, nor asked this time, and as soon as the dark wing was dispelled, the silver-haired one intruded the other’s personal space once more in support to his walking; a form that was growing to be familiar by now even for his body. The discomfort was minimal, and the tunnel they set foot into was just wide enough to consent it for the time being.

“VS…” He murmured again, upon spotting the vertical marks on bare rock at the first intersection they met. This one was a lot more obvious than the former instances. Clearly, whoever had left these engravings didn’t count on enemy presence in this part of the passage, so no effort to conceal the directions was made.

“… Keep an eye out for these. One misstep and we could get lost forever.” Or, as long as their energy would carry them anyway. Which he surmised wouldn’t be long.

He did sense a change in the air however. A pungent odor in the weak breeze breathing into the caves. Saltiness. How deep had they moved into these caves? Could it be that they were approaching the sea? Maybe a saltwater cave was nearby.

Little more than darkness and occasional stumbling filled the silence between them for the longest time then, minutes turning to hours. Their progress was slow, and he noticed the difference in the former infantryman’s walk against his side. Not simply worn down by fatigue, he had to be hurting somewhere, his posture changed in a lame attempt to cope; but even if quiet and stoic, grunts and inward sharp breathing did all the talking for that suffering.

The more Sephiroth became aware of it, the more he noticed his own protesting pains too. The leathers on his body were digging uncomfortably in spots of his skin soon to become sore. The pauldrons on his shoulders felt heavier. Each pressure of his boots on the bare rock pavement felt like crushing weight on his skin. The refreshing healing of that mako spring they’d left behind was little more than a mourned memory in the back of his mind.

He stopped for a moment to adjust Cloud’s weight on his side, one shoulder rolling in response while uncomfortable sweat brushed beneath his long hair down the side of his neck.

“Look.” He spoke, breaking that silence after so long. This was first and foremost an attempt to summon Cloud’s focus, give him something to aim for and hopefully spur a second wind, however weak. But if at first it may seem as though there was nothing to really look at, a subtle difference was there.

Their surroundings, albeit still nothing but boring dark cave walls, were easier to discern. And not simply because their eyes had gotten adjusted to this void after long. To further test this impression, Sephiroth relaxed the concentration on the materia in his bangle, the artificial light of mako dimming. And yet as it did, the natural clearness of vision before them was more apparent.

A few more steps, and they reached it. Beyond the next corner, a straight blade of sunshine cast its elongated shape alongside the blue-ish walls. In the distance, the sound of regular crashing waves looped its incessant song. Louder and louder with each of their tired steps. By the time they reached the exit and looked down on the cliffside passage beside them, the sound of the sea was so concrete and loud they could scarcely hear each other talk without rising their voice.

[inb4belphienaps]

der Herbst

“Falling, to put it simply, isn’t pretty.

The air is heavier when you travel through it. An angel isn’t meant to fall. What happens then, when they do?

Well, you see, they are stripped bare.

Any resemblance to their former celestial self is taken from them. In their place, white turns black and fire burns. It rages in the form of the howling wind against their ears and swallows their dignity, leaving nothing in its trace.

Wings of a set are ripped and shed.

A ring of light, shines no more, not overhead.

The body, disfigured, laid to bed.

Then come the cries. Of pain, beyond comprehension. Of fear, beyond salvation. Of despair, beyond recognition. What was once a temple made for devotion, is instead shrouded in agony. It bears no resemblance to the punishments given by their peers. It is The Father, himself, damning them for eternity, forbidding them from ever even hoping to regain but a shadow of their former glory.

It is The Father disowning his child, shaming them for their decisions that have led them astray. The decisions that are no longer in line with his beliefs.

Oh.

Before that?

There are tears and frustration. Anger, rising like the tension in their bond with him. They begin to question their divinity. They do not see a favorable outcome. Consequences are weighed, and morality cemented. They realize that the bond they share with their brothers and sister is much stronger. Unbreakable, perhaps.

Unbreakable…they hope.

Chaos follows. The angel witnesses it happening like something out of a dream. A warning filled with malice, with a venom he’d only thought demons were capable of speaking. Moments soaked in desperation before the call to arms. Eyes filled with emotions he’d never thought possible. They are frightened. But they stand together, side by side. With their weapons raised and shields to the ready, there is no going back.

War with your own kind is different.

When they felt the end of their sword meet seraphic flesh, they hesitated. And they paid the price.

You think you know war. You think you’ve seen it all.

Until your brothers and sisters start falling. Like comets, like shooting stars, they plummet. They shriek. There is blood. Everywhere. In your nose, in your mouth, you breathe it. It clings to your skin and to your lungs. It dries on your hands and seeps into your very being.

Your sister screams. Amidst the ruin, you see your brothers too.

And then…she is falling. Weightless and yet ever closer to the ground. You abandon all reason and you fall with her.

Her light fades. The sky is black. You do not breathe. How can you? When she is hanging on for dear life, how can you yourself hope to live? The roaring of the heavens dulls into a hum. The deafening silence blurs your vision as you struggle to find someone. Anyone. Who can help. Who? Who is there if there is no Father? What can you do?

So you beg. You offer what little of you is left. Loyalty, the demon says. You are thankful he doesn’t ask more of you. Loyalty. It flows in your veins. Loyalty. It is powerful – “

With a quivering breath, Simeon closes the tattered cover to Lucifer’s journal. He hadn’t meant to pry. He didn’t think the man was the type to keep such things. To preserve them. Especially not in his study.

No, that wasn’t right. As he runs a finger over a crack in the leather, he flinches. He’d tried to destroy it before. Clearly, he had an attachment. Or maybe he wanted a reminder. A reminder of the days he’d managed to overcome and leave behind.

He knows for certain now. That they can never really see eye-to-eye. He doesn’t hold that knowledge inside of him. He doesn’t have that horror tainting his soul. He doesn’t have the strength to do as they did.

When Simeon read Lucifer’s words, his limbs had felt numb and his stomach had turned cold, as if someone had dropped him in a vat of ice. From that day on, they continued to haunt him. A man of few words as Lucifer was, had shaken him to his core.

.

Eventually, meaning becomes a thing of the past. He begins to loathe the idea of hiding in plain sight. The mask he wears begins to crack and what leaks from within reeks of anathema.

Love for another. And love for the self. Both were cast aside but not anymore. To love truly was to revel in the indoctrination of opposites. To commit was to marvel in the proclivity of damnation. To sacrifice was to bask in the purest forms of the pith of enlightenment.

It was an ascension for him. A choice he’d made over time, sure, yet a choice that was second nature to him. The very moment he’d decided to spin the world on its axis at an angle he could digest, he’d shown resistance.

If he thinks about it, Michael had always known. Deep down, perhaps he’d known it too. That the ways of the realm he called home, were not ways of kindness or ways of a better tomorrow. They were the ways of a flawed and arrogant man scrambling to hold onto tradition and forcing them upon those not within his grasp.

“Loyalty. It is powerful and a display of might in a different sense.

He reminds me of what it means to be loyal to oneself. Repeat this. Say it as many times as it takes for it to sink in.

Do I serve another master?

No. I only serve myself.”

He binds the leather shut and places the weathered journal back in its place.

A contemplative smile graces Simeon’s lips. To think he’d been frightened by these sentiments many centuries ago. How naïve he’d been. To have thought himself weak and impermissible. To have fashioned an entirely foreign identity out of spite. That was now beneath him.

There is clarity in the relief that floods him when he looks at you. In all your simplicity, you are a sight to behold. You shine, incandescent amongst the clouds. Only, they aren’t clouds. You are rooted in the earth, in the barren soil and the leaves, they form around your shape. You are a flower whose sweet scent is carried by the teasing breeze.

And he cannot think of anything more perfect than you.

As he fondles the base of his horns and traces their curvature upwards, he does not consider himself a demon. He is above that. He will no longer confine himself to ideologies. Instead, he will create.

He will create…with you.

[hklunethewriter]

But seriously, why do I never hear about Irene Iddesleigh around the Internet? It’s practically The Room of late Victorian literature! I have to tell y'all about this book. See here:

Got published because Amanda McKittrick Ros’s (the author’s) doting husband paid for it, but not for the “I want to have more control over publication/don’t need the traditional system” reasons—no, she simply thought her writing was too amazing for that

Mark Twain called it “one of the greatest unintentionally humorous novels of our time”

C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien would deadass have reading parties where whoever could go the longest without laughing won

“Hope is like a shimmering oaken ship on the turbulent seas of discord, fear, and impertinence, cast by the hollow winds of despair. The sun’s rays of goodness and victory tumble down from the heavens, but lo! The clouds of uncertainty beat them back as though"—ALMOST EVERY PARAGRAPH IS LIKE THIS. Metaphors and similes and alliterations and melodrama is the entire book.

a humorist from that era named Barry Pain (lmao) called it the book of the century. At first he found it funny, but then apparently he “shrank before it in tears and terror”

When Ros read what Pain said, she called him a “clay crab of corruption” and then claimed he did it because he was secretly in love with her (my gosh. her mind)

And for all that, it’s not even just the outrageously

🌌 purple prose 🌌

that’s the whole issue here. The plot is basically just

Act I: I’m going to willingly marry a man I hate, and I hate him because he isn’t my secret lover >:(

Act II: I hate him even more each day but we have a kid, oh and I’m having an emotional affair with my secret lover

Act III: husband discovers affair and locked me in a “cursed” room for a year (Charlotte Brontë is literally shaking) but I escape to America with my lover. Huh? I have a child? Never heard of him

Act IV: I somehow legally marry my lover in America and will live there the next fifteen years, but whoops! Suddenly he’s super bad with money and also a drunk and abuser and hits me and then dies by suicide

Act V: I go back to England. Nobody recognizes me even though I’m, like, 35, but they all hate my guts and love my dead husband. My son got the whole story from his dad and hates me the most. I’m sad. I walk to a cottage my lover used to use and literally drop dead. The end

So if you’re looking for something ridiculous to read and be entertained by, I can heartily recommend Irene Iddesleigh. It’s about 100 pages, so it isn’t a slog (somehow)—I read it in an afternoon. You can read it storybook style here or find it over at Project Gutenberg. It’s what Tolkien and Lewis would want.

In case you aren’t convinced yet, though, allow me to show you.

Until now he was inclined to be prejudiced against the snares and allurements of women, but he strongly resolved to try gradually and abandon every unkind thought harboured in his mind against them, fearing lest all his conjured imaginations were both unjust and selfish; and determined to drown them for ever in the clashing gulf of fate, felt a prouder and happier mortal than before.

But time would solve the problem and heal the wound which penetrated so deeply his bosom. Yea, a short time he hoped would bring his creeping fever of endearment under the binding stay of appointed authority, and heal its weakening effects with the sacred salve of truth.

Aka “my long-worn misogyny has just been reversed by a pretty woman”

Great

Chapter IV: When on the eve of glory, whilst brooding over the prospects of a bright and happy future, whilst meditating upon the risky right of justice, there we remain, wanderers on the cloudy surface of mental woe, disappointment and danger, inhabitants of the grim sphere of anticipated imagery, partakers of the poisonous dregs of concocted injustice. Yet such is life.

Chapter VIII: A word of warning tends to great advantage when issued reverently from the lips of the estimable. It serves to allay the danger pending on reticence, and substantiates in a measure the confidence which has hitherto existed between the parties concerned. Again, a judicious advice, extended to the stubborn and self-willed, proves futile, and incurs the further malice and fiery indignation of the regardless, the reckless, and the uncharitable.

Chapter XIII: It is astounding to view the smallest article through a magnifying glass; how large and lustrous an atom of silver appears; how fat and fair the withered finger seems; how monstrously mighty an orange; how immeasurably great the football of youth; but these are as nought when the naked eye beholds the boulder of barred strength—a mountain of mystery.

Every chapter has a paragraph like this. I won’t spoil them for you.

Such is life.

“My dearest and much beloved, I assure you your remarks have astounded me not a little! Your words sting like a wasp, though, I am quite convinced, unintentionally. You are well aware that within a short period I will be marked  out publicly as mistress of Dunfern mansion—an honour revered in every respect by me; an honour to which I at one time dare never aspire; an honour coveted by many much more worthy than I, whose parentage is as yet bathed in the ocean of oblivious ostentation, until some future day, when I trust it shall stand out boldly upon the brink of disclosure to dry its saturated form and watery wear with the heat of equality. You are about to place me in a position which cannot fail to wring from jealousy and covetousness their flaming torch of abuse. Yes, Sir John, on me you have not ceased to lavish every available treasure and token of your unbounded love. You have been  to me not only a loyal admirer, but a thoroughly upright and estimable example of life’s purest treasures. You have resolved to place me by your side as your equal, whilst wealth in boundless store is thirsting for your touch. You have elevated my unknown position to such a pitch as to defy taunt or jeer, and at any time if I may have, seemingly, ignored your advances, it was purely want of thought, and not through any underhand motive or scheme whatever.

“I assure you your allusion to my verbal answer last night is very pronounced, and may be overlooked on the ground of pure disappointment. Our time of singleness  is now short, and begging your forgiveness for my seeming neglect or indifference, I hope the tide, which until now has flown so gently, may not be stayed on the eve of entering the harbour of harmony, peace, and love.”

At the commencement of Irene’s answer of lavishing praises and flimsy apologies, her affianced moved to the opposite corner of the rustic building to scan the features of her he wholly worshipped and reluctantly doubted. Every sentence the able and beautiful girl uttered caused Sir John to shift his apparently uncomfortable person nearer and nearer, watching at the same time minutely the divine picture  of innocence, until at last, when her reply was ended, he found himself, altogether unconsciously, clasping her to his bosom, whilst the ruby rims which so recently proclaimed accusations and innocence met with unearthly sweetness, chasing every fault over the hills of doubt, until hidden in the hollow of immediate hate.

Ros is so close to being self-aware at the start of the last paragraph here, but then it’s lost in the same circular language found throughout. Ah, well.

[biwatson]

I would love to know more about “eros dissolving” and “a study of five” if you’d be so kind 🥰

oooh. okay, the shorter one first-- "a study of five” is a cute 5+1 fic I want to write, based early in Holmes and Watson’s friendship.

My draft summary: Watson, despairing that his fellow boarder is seemingly capable and efficient at all tasks, determines to compile a private list of rare things that Sherlock Holmes cannot, in fact, do without difficulty.

As for “eros dissolving” -- oh baby. <3 this is a soft, tender fic i’ve actually had in mind for a while and have a good amount of work done for (the entire outline and first chapter!) and tbh the subheader on my draft just reads “holmes and watson help some Victorian Lesbians”. essentially, i really want 1883 Holmes and Watson taking on a case for some lesbians, because I want gay solidarity, parallels, and as many tropes and headcanons as possible.

The very first chapter begins with Watson and Holmes waking up in bed for the first time, because Holmes decided to stay. An excerpt:

“I opened my eyes to the unfamiliar shifting of a body against mine. With mild but unmotivated surprise, I blinked awake to low morning sunlight. As my vision came into reluctant focus, I breathed in the familiar scent of tobacco and rosehip. Immediately, my body went lax, and I closed my eyes to listen as the soft, rhythmic exhales by my ear filled the well in my chest like no other calming spirit.

Peace curling below my skin, I took stock of the points where his body touched mine. His bare arm but brushed the side of my face, soft dark hairs tickling my cheekbone, and his left leg had entangled itself with my right, a jointed tree branch hooking around my knee below my bedsheets. The duvet stirred as his breathing lifted it in light, shifting centimeters, and in the silence of my room, he was all that I could sense. Without turning my head, I peered from the corner of my eye and felt a smile of purest affection slip across my face. Holmes was lying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow and his long nose pressed against the crook of his elbow. His dark hair was mussed across his brow, forming a fringed curtain over closed eyes. The half-profile of his face, slack with sleep and pink from the warmth of the bed, took hold of my attention with its unprecedented ease and openness.

A flush of color, like a tattoo of flower petals in the flesh, drew my eye to his bare shoulder. Heat simmered in my stomach at the memory of sucking and biting at the ivory skin there the previous evening. The sight of physical evidence of our intimacy, compounded by his soft breathing and the linking of his limbs with mine, filled me with a quiet joy the likes of which I had rarely experienced.

Now that he had slept in my bed and I knew what I was to wake beside him, I was not certain I could go without.

Suddenly, a knock at the doorframe had me jolting in shock, and across my body, I felt Holmes stiffen in sudden consciousness.

“Doctor Watson,” I heard, and my stomach clenched at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice from behind my bedroom door. I jerked my chin downwards to stare into urgent, piercing grey eyes, set in a face no longer softened by the cottony release of sleep. His hand had darted to his mouth, one long finger pressed against his lips, and feeling the warm haze of the morning flee my body in alarm, I cleared my throat.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Forgive me if I woke you, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson said, her voice apologetic. I stared holes at the silver doorknob, hyperaware for any sign of its turning. “But Mr. Holmes is not answering my knocks this morning, and there is a young lady downstairs who is quite insistent upon speaking with at least one of you as soon as possible.”

“At this hour?”

“It is almost ten o’clock, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson supplied, voice between bemusement and fondness, and disbelieving I twisted to my sidetable clock and gawked at the time. I looked back to Holmes where he lay by my arm, and saw he wore an almost identical expression of surprise.

“Ah,” I said, clearing my throat louder. “Then—perhaps—”

Holmes’s lips met my ear to whisper in a hiss. “Unless you believe it proper to speak with a client in a shirt that’s buttons have been torn from their seams, the client must remain downstairs.”

Blushing at the reminder of my exuberance from last night, I raised my voice. “If you could please offer her some tea, Mrs. Hudson, and occupy her long enough for myself to dress, I would be much obliged.”

“Very well, Doctor.”

“—And please,” I added, eyes drifting to my side. “Leave Holmes to me, Mrs. Hudson.”

He smirked, lip twitching in a curl of mischief.

“Happy to, Doctor.”

At the sound of her departing footsteps down the stairs, Holmes sat up promptly in bed. 

“That, Watson, was nearly a—”

Holmes did not finish his declaration, for I found I could not refrain from dissolving into sudden, uncontrollable giggling. Watching him blink at me, overcome by the foolish aftermath of surprise and uncannily adolescent shame, I planted my face against Holmes’s bare side and snickered like a school boy.

“Oh—Holmes—my God, I haven’t had a morning bell like that since university.” Distantly, I felt Holmes’s rigid muscles beneath me loosen and tremble as his low, devilish chuckle sifted through the silence. Unceremoniously, Holmes dropped backwards onto the mattress, eyes glimmering with amusement.

“I should hope not,” he said, turning to face me as his hand moved beneath the sheets across my waist. “We’ve not been in university for some time, old man.” He shook his head wonderingly as I snorted. “I cannot believe I did not wake before now, in the least as she came up the stairs. I slept so heavily I did not even stir. You should come with your own warning label, my dear doctor.”

“Would you adhere to it, if I did?” I returned, pressing my lips to his collarbone with a certain smugness.

“Mm, perhaps not,” he hummed, and I bit back a yelp as he shifted and a pair of frozen toes pressed to the inside of my shin. 

“Good Lord, your feet are ice,” I complained, huffing into the hollow of his neck.

“Poor circulation, I’m told,” said Holmes, deeply amused. He chuckled as I harrumphed at the feeling of cold toes insinuating themselves between my skin and the mattress for warmth. “You are remarkably warm, Watson, even for February.”

I sought his long hands, which were nearly as cold as his toes, and took them in mine, rubbing them gently and kissing their knuckles. “And you’re far too cold, for such a warm bed.”

“I see your morning laziness does not extend to morning intimacies,” he observed, and the fond note in his voice was unmistakable. 

“This is its own form of laziness,” I explained languidly, pressing my lips to the pulse in his wrist, and with a huff of effort I twisted in bed and draped myself across his naked form like a blanket. Holmes grunted theatrically beneath my weight, coughing out a laugh, and I smiled like a fool as he sought to wriggle free.

“My dear Watson, I don’t know if you were paying attention, but we have a client.”

“I could hardly care less.” Holmes snorted almost despite himself, opening his mouth to retort, and I interrupted him, “And you care just as little for manners.” I turned my head, sighing contentedly against his pale abdomen. “I am happy where we are.”

“As charming as you are this morning, Watson, I fear that Mrs. Hudson will return soon to rouse you, and more thoroughly this time.”

I groaned in defeat, conceding the point. “Then you owe me a different morning in, at a later date,” I said petulantly.

Below me, Holmes stiffened, and I leaned up to see him lifting an eyebrow at me. “Our near exposure this morning poses no worry to you, I see.”

“We shall have to be more careful,” I admitted, slightly more solemn, and when his face flickered with self-recrimination, I continued, “But I’m afraid now that I know how it feels to wake beside you, I shall be much more willing to throw caution to the wind for the opportunity.”

Immediately, Holmes’s measuring expression dissolved with a softness that stirred hazy joy in my gut. “Your tenacity continues to astound,” he said. “More and more, I pity any devil who dares stand between you and your quarry.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at wearing a fellow down.”

“And out, I should say.” 

He clucked as I scoffed and shoved at him, barking a laugh at the rare lewdness, and he eeled fully from beneath me to stand, completely naked and utterly captivating in the light of day. He stretched, muscles a fluid tableau of alabaster, and his bare feet whispered against the floorboards. I stared unabashedly as he shrugged into his trousers and retrieved his rumpled shirt from beside the bed, drinking in the arresting sight of his bare, lithe figure at a distance. He turned to see my leering and smirked, confident enough to my heart thump warmly in my chest.

“Do stop gawking and make yourself useful. Get dressed and maintain the coast is clear for me for the madcap shuffle to my own rooms.”

I laughed at the imagery and cast aside the sheets to rise. “Very well, Holmes, I shall preserve your reputation.”

“It is the very least you could do. It is partnered with yours, after all.”

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

🌹🍁🌿🌾🌺 for Silver and Rexus.

🌹 Where in the world does your OC feel most at home? Is there any reason why? If it’s not the place they were born, where were they born? Is there a certain somebody that makes them feel at home where ever they may be? What does home mean to them?

The answer is actually the same for both of them, though it takes some time before the reason is the same: The Ivory Oasis, the upscale pleasure house where Silver works. It’s a brothel, yes, but the whole point of the place is to be ridiculously comfortable. It’s lavishly furnished and impeccably maintained, and boasts a luxurious bathhouse, a natural hot spring, a beautiful courtyard with a pool, any and everything anyone could ever want to relax. The culture there is all about looking out for and taking care of each other - it’s meant to be an oasis for the workers as well as the clients. Alba, the madam, has a bit of a soft spot for taking in strays and giving them work and a free place to live and free food and access to all the nice things about the place, and both Silver and Rexus have been those strays at one point or another.

(Under the cut because I have feelings about this)

Silver - then known by his real name, Adrian - came to Minrathous from his hometown in eastern Tevinter (near Carastes) when he was 18. His father cast him and his mother out after his linea sanguinis - a coming-of-age thing for Tevinter nobles that involves what’s basically a blood magic paternity test, and is QUITE embarrassing if you were unaware that your kid is not really your kid - and rather than stay with his mother he chose to go to Minrathous on his own. None of his plans for what to do when he got there panned out, so he ended up on the streets for some time until one of the Oasis’s courtesans, Aularia, brought him there and convinced Alba to take him in.

Rexus, meanwhile, born and raised in Minrathous, was the legitimate son of noble parents, but to his father’s great dismay never manifested magic. He first came to the Oasis as a client, though he knew and had been assisted by Alba before during his own post-disowning time on the streets. Though he befriended Silver shortly after the latter became a courtesan and became an almost controversially frequent tesseratus (a client personally invited by a courtesan by gifting them special coins unique to that courtesan called tesserae that could be exchanged for their services) Rexus didn’t come to live there until 9:38, when Silver found him drunk and in despair in the Free Marches and brought him back to help with his work smuggling escaped slaves out of the Imperium and make amends for the life he’d lived before.

Silver considers Alba a highly respected and beloved mother figure, but he and Rexus are kind of each other’s person that always feels like home? There are a lot of reasons and most of the time no one really understands what exactly their relationship even is, but it comes down to a lack of pressure to be anything but themselves and just being incredibly comfortable with each other. Even if all they do is to have some drinks and talk shit with each other, it’s like kicking off your shoes at the end of the day and settling down into a cozy chair with your legs flung over the sides. They’re happy, they’re safe, they’re wanted. That’s home to them.

🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?

Silver takes a bath.  His bedchamber is probably more private than the bathhouse, but for Silver, ‘time to himself’ isn’t the same as ‘time alone’.  He likes time to himself.  Time to himself is sitting in a hot, lightly scented bath with a glass of wine, where he can see out into the courtyard, observing people but not necessarily interacting.  Or, it’s his morning exercises in the courtyard - again, among people, but doing his own thing and not interacting.  Time alone is being in his bedchamber with all the doors and windows shut, unable to see or hear people, just him and his thoughts.  He does not like time alone.  Aside from his bedchamber he doesn’t really claim an area of the Oasis as ‘his’, though he easily could.  He could ask to rearrange the entire place to suit his fancy and Alba would see it done, but he’d never make such an imposition.  He prefers existing among everyone else there as opposed to making them exist around him.

Rexus SEEMS like he would take the same approach and want to be around people (read: bothering them) instead of spend time alone, having been alone most of his life, but where Silver genuinely likes People in a broader sense, Rexus really doesn’t. He likes attention. Which explains why he likes Silver so much; Silver is probably the most ridiculously attentive person in existence, and he’s a frequent go-to for wind-down time. Otherwise, his time to himself changes a bit pre- and post-exile; before, ‘needing time to himself’ meant finding someone to take to bed and otherwise ignore, watching the harbor from his balcony, and drinking, a lot. After, a combination of needing to lie low and actually wanting to do and be better mean he’s a lot more comfortable with himself, by himself. He’ll still sit in a crowded tavern or find a place to chill for a while that overlooks the harbor and watch people to pass time, but he won’t feel as much of a need to interact. He’ll be more comfortable with introspection, as well, and will be able to just lay in his bed in his room at the Oasis, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate.

🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?

(I’m only answering this one for Silver because someone else asked it about Rexus and you have to share :P)

Like I said in the previous answer, Silver is a consummate caregiver and therefore ridiculously attentive. He’s always on the lookout for things he can do, needs he can meet. He’ll bring things like drinks, snacks, blankets, etc. without being asked. He listens intently when people talk, remembers, and either makes sure to have things they said they liked next time he sees them, or will bring up things they said later. He LOVES drawing baths for people - every patron at the Oasis has to bathe before...activities...and Silver loves working out what is best for each individual person in terms of temperature, herbs and oils to add to the water, just figuring out how to best help them relax.

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them.

Silver:

“He’s such a terribly silly man.  My love would have you believe it has taken knowing me, of all people, for him to care as he does, to give as he does, to risk as he does, but you mustn’t believe him.  No matter all his pretty words, I’m not so special to make him the man he is.  One does not...just become that.  I don’t pretend to know him before he came here, but...I think he was always like this.  Silver loves with all of him as naturally as he breathes, and that, he did not learn from me.  I think he has always felt keenly how others need what he can give, and he has always had the strength and the will to give it.  All I have done is believe him that he could.”

- Aularia, his late lover who he credits with the inspiration to begin his secret humanitarian work as his masked alter ego, Sen.

“👉 👌” 

- Rexus.  It’s his way of saying he can’t put into words how much Silver’s kindness and enduring faith in him has meant to him, how inspiring and uplifting he is, what beautiful hair he has, and how very lucky he is that this man has chosen to, despite shit like this, love him so very much.

Rexus:

Rexus is a jewel in the armoire of my soul.  He smells always of the sweetest, purest honey, and I should dearly love to bathe him in a basin of warm milk, sprinkled with lavender and vanilla, that he might leave such sweetness behind.  I titter thinking of how the soft whiskers of his beard tickle at my nose, my lips, my...ears.  Such songs I could sing of his unparalleled grace and beauty, but who would hear them?  They would die. Of longing. Immediately.  I am surprised I have not died of longing for him already myself.  Oh, but such sweet fortune that I may look upon him in all his splendor in my bed each night, unhindered by fine cloth for which I paid much coin solely to drape just so around his pleasing curves, and marvel at the sight of his plentiful body hair, which I envy spectacularly.  

- an excerpt from, supposedly, Silver’s journal, though Silver does not keep a journal and the handwriting clearly belongs to Rexus himself.

🌺 What does your OC do to calm down when they’re scared or after a nightmare? Do they have any special comfort items or need to be reassured by a specific person? How do they handle this if they’re alone?

Silver has to deal with this more often than he likes to admit.  Poor guy’s cursed with an imagination just about as vivid as Lux’s, but instead of making up fun stories his just torments him.  He worries a lot about a lot of people, and that he’s putting in a lot of effort that will ultimately end up meaningless.  When he needs to calm down at night, he gets up and gets a glass of water, makes tea, or goes for a swim.  Water is always soothing to him in one form or another, even if he doesn’t drink it and just like...stirs his finger in it for a while, it’ll help him feel better.  Someone’s always up and about at the Oasis, so he might seek them out to chat idly for a while; he loves the interaction and the others like feeling seen by him.  He might write a letter, usually to Emma, as he doesn’t see her anywhere near as often as he’d like, or read an old one.  Sometimes the refugees he helps send him coded messages a while later to let him know how they’re doing, and those have proved invaluable to him more than a few times to let him know he’s doing good work and really making a difference.  

Rexus gets angry when he’s afraid, because he shouldn’t be letting whatever’s affecting him affect him, and he is, of course, terrible at coping by himself.  He paces, rambles loudly, drinks, throws things, is prone to saying really mean stuff, just isn’t at all pleasant to be around when he’s afraid unless you know how to solve whatever’s bothering him or can convince him he’s being stupid.  Silver is, of course, usually good at this, as is his partner Tyranos (belongs to @lavellanlove), and surprisingly Emma was too when she was with him.  His mother, Atilia, can be this for him to a degree, but only during and before TSU when telling her his problems meant she’d pull strings to get them to go away with minimal effort from him.  Alone he just drinks until he passes out and forgets about it.  

Got any more?

[identityonfilm]

Character analysis - Lucifer Morningstar

Staying true to my chosen topic, identity and the importance of representation on cinema and TV, I decided to analyse one of my favorite, most complex characters from TV. I went through this based on watching the episodes of the show, watching and reading interviews from the creators and the cast of the show, theories and also talking and debating with friends who have watched the show and can relate to him and his experiences, putting in evidence the importance of representation.

Being such a complex character that represents and normalizes a lot of stigma, he allows me to explore trauma, coping mechanisms, sexuality, mental illness and above all, identity.

Lucifer Morningstar is a character from the Lucifer TV show (originally from FOX and found a new family on Netflix after being canceled in 2018) based on the DC comics by the same name.

Lucifer is, quite obviously, the Devil. We’ve since our childhood been taught to think he’s terrible and to fear him, but that’s practically impossible with this fictional satan. If anything, he shows us the biggest, hardest path to redemption humanity could ever witness and that if he can, so can we.

Even though this Lucifer isn’t completely based of the Bible, his origins are. Lucifer Morningstar, born Samael, is the son of God and Goddess, the favorite son, the Poison of God, the Lightbringer. His task was to light up the stars. He and his siblings were neglected from a young age, since Dad was too busy with humanity and his only contact with his children was to command them. Our hero got enough of the neglect and, fascinated by the free will humanity possessed and angels lacked, started a rebellion against his own Father. In result, he got thrown out of Heaven and into Hell as his sentence, becoming its ruler. In the Underworld he created his own identity: Satan, the Devil, detaching himself from his angelic nature. From there, he commanded demons and gave out punishment to the most rotten, guilty souls that got into his realm. There, the demon Mazikeen became his friend and protector, until both of them left to Earth for a “vacation”.

Lucifers backstory is tragic and clearly traumatizing. The Lightbringer went from being the purest angel, God’s favorite son, to being the Devil, owning up to his original name’s meaning, the Poison of God. Lucifer became violent, impulsive, frustrated and, under his carefully crafted layers of confidence, a very insecure creature, full of self hatred. He’s an immensely relatable character to a lot of viewers, for a multitude of reasons. Along this post i will explore these topics.

 Daddy issues: The root of all of Morningstar’s issues is undoubtedly, God Himself. His own father, who’s supposed to love and protect His son, failed, abandoned and vilified him. Throughout the series Lucifer vents and rants about the pain He caused, His injustice and unfairness. His family is the root of all his trauma and the abandonment from a parental figure is something a lot of children and teens unfortunately go through and seeing this strong, seemingly indestructible character breaking at the thought of his Dad, just like they do, is extremely important.

 Trust issues: Alongside the daddy issues blooms his trust issues. He was wronged by his family, everyone he’s ever met and even has been vilified by all of humanity. In the 13 billions of years he’s been alive, he has learned how to build his walls up and close himself off from possible friendships and even relationships. He doesn’t completely trust anyone, not even himself, but we see his walls crumbling down throughout the seasons, especially with Chloe Decker, his partner and eventually, his lover, and Linda Martin, his therapist.

 Interpersonal difficulties: As mentioned before, Lucifer has his walls way up, which doesn’t allow him to have healthy relationships. Most of his relationships are rocky and unstable, big part of that due to difficulty in communication. While his most toxic friendship is with his oldest friend Maze, his rockiest is possibly with co-worker Dan, all the way through his growing relationship with his only present brother, Amenadiel, sweetest sibling-like relationship with Ella, a very awkward friendship with the detective’s “spawn”, Trixie, to the most focused on relationship of the show - “Deckerstar”- his relationship with Chloe Decker, his co-worker becomes friend becomes best friend becomes lover. Chloe is Lucifer’s soulmate, the one who makes him emotionally and physically vulnerable, the true love of his life. The key to his path to redemption. But his most important friendship is, without a shadow of a doubt, his therapist, Doctor Linda Martin. The normalization of therapy is such an important point of this show. Lucifer starts therapy in the beginning of season 1 and continues throughout the show, where she helps him breakthrough most of his issue and teaches him how to deal with his emotions and himself. His character is full of denial. He refuses to be seen as weak, fragile, “human”. He sees emotions as a flaw and weakness. His sessions with Linda help him open his eyes to a new reality and to connect with and embrace his vulnerable side.

 Self-destructive behavior/unhealthy coping mechanisms: Lucifer often falls into unhealthy behavior when something somewhat tragic happens. That unhealthy behavior ranges from excessive use of drugs, abuse of alcohol, sex, self-harm, cutting his wings off often because they’re a symbol of divinity that represent his loyalty to his Father), all the way to being completely reckless and attempting to get himself killed. His complete disregard for his own life and well-being is a constant in the series, going as far as dying to protect/save someone, but in these moments of despair, it goes from a place of protectiveness for the ones he loves to suicidal behavior rooted on his self-hatred and guilt.

 Hypersexuality: As mentioned above, one of Lucifer’s coping mechanisms is engaging in sexual activity. This is often linked to childhood trauma, either by abuse where victims need to reclaim the power over their own bodies or by neglect and lack of physical affection in formative years. He chooses to numb his pain and emotions with pleasure.

“They are addicted to the neurochemical and dissociative high produced by their intense sexual fantasy life and ritualistic behavior.” by Robert Weiss on Psych Central

 Isolation: Due to depression, trauma and spending years alone in Hell, Morningstar tends to isolate himself when things get rough. While he craves love, friendship and affection, he denies that to himself, he doesn’t understand that he can be loved, fully, for who he is, both angel and devil, without it being a manipulation from his Father.

 Sexuality: Lucifer Morningstar is a canon bisexual character, and the best part about it, is that it’s normalized. There isn’t a big storyline about his sexuality or homophobia, he just openly talks about and is shown with both women and men. And it’s normal. Actually, most of the characters on the show are canon LGBTQ+, which is one of the reasons the show is so loved by many. Representation is so important and seeing ourselves and our experiences represented on TV is immensely important in helping us feel more normal and seen. As of 2020, the actor Tom Ellis has won two bisexual representation awards for playing Lucifer. (x)

 Upon this analysis, we can confirm that his trauma, behavior issues and his identity as we see on the show is widely shaped by his childhood and his background story, mainly by his Dad, Mum and siblings. According to the NSPCC, some effects of neglect are:

 l “taking risks, like running away from home, using drugs and alcohol or breaking the law.

l getting into dangerous relationships

l difficulty with relationships later in life, including with their own children

l a higher chance of having mental health problems, including depression.”

 However tragic it may be, his story and his path to redemption and happiness is extremely inspiring and shows the audience that no matter where you came from, your past does not define you. No matter what you’re going through, it gets better. It’s a message of hope, love and identity.

 References:

 Weiss, Robert. (2018). Hypersexuality: Symptoms of Sexual Addiction. Retrieved from https://psychcentral.com/lib/hypersexuality-symptoms-of-sexual-addiction/#:~:text=Sexual%20addiction%20or%20hypersexuality%20is,of%20at%20least%20six%20months.

NSPCC. Effects of neglect. Retrieved from https://www.nspcc.org.uk/what-is-child-abuse/types-of-abuse/neglect/

Feser, Madison. (2019). The Doctor Is In: Therapy Is The Medicine Of Choice In Fox’s ‘Lucifer’. Retrieved from https://studybreaks.com/tvfilm/lucifer-fox-therapy-mental-health/

https://lucifer.fandom.com/wiki/Lucifer_Morningstar

[azure-steel]

Hollow Me Through, Worship Me Whole - @blackwinged-silversolace

The decent into madness was a long one. An arduous sloping stony path where purchase slipped beneath feet; sudden lurching motions set as reminders of the journey, cruelly teasing the mind into believing outcrops of brittle stone could possibly aid in the return to clarity. Stone that would crumble in your hands the moment one dared to reach.

But there was no rushing of winds against ones face as they eventually come to the end of that path and plummet into the black, no nauseating lurch of the gut accompanying the fall into that thick roiling pit of despair. And it was all consuming, devouring the flesh and all living feeling until nothing remained, invading the mind like mould. 

The fight to hold on to that simple sense of humanity began to wane the moment Cloud had allowed the nightmare absolute domination. And he had allowed it, willingly so. When the occasional hauntings were less the appearance of ghosts from a past he couldn’t remember, when they gained substance, when the dreams could touch upon shivering mortified flesh and cast their shadows like shrouds of ice creating frigid plains where all feelings came to die. 

No longer a nightmare, no longer a mere dream, but a need, an addiction, insanity in its purest most beautiful form; it was warm here, a welcome reprieve from the bone drying struggle to keep afloat when it was so much easier to sink. Hope became the fantasy, hope of holding on to what he once knew, what he used to be, cast aside to favour the biting promises of becoming whole again, to be one within the cold unyielding embrace of that Silver Calamity. It all went against everything he’d ever stood for; the hero, the fated mystic warrior of Gaia, his destiny engraved amongst the star strewn sky to birth a new era of peace unto men. 

It wasn’t to be. 

And as he stands before the gaping maw of the crater, called here by a voice he couldn’t quite hear, by a hideous glare he couldn’t quite see, Cloud gazes forth, eyes shining bright in the fading blaze of his own consciousness, beyond the borders of desolate rock sickeningly eager to meet his fate. 

Alone, he takes that first fateful step, and then another, another, one after the other, the gravel spattered path crunching beneath the hard soles of each heavy boot.  

The chill of the cave was barely felt as Cloud descends, lifting a single hand to grasp firmly, the blade he once held so dear, a prominent facet of his identity, a link to Cloud’s troubled fractured history. He swings the weapon to his side, the broad steel tip screaming against the stone before he allows the handle to slip, absently, and clatter heavily to the ground. 

It wasn’t to be. 

They’d chosen wrongly, a broken man who craved the bitter fruits of self-destruction as a drowning man craved air. To bleed before the feet of the one who ravaged him so brutally, and bestow upon him this ardent malignant passion Sephiroth had dared him to taste -- only once. 

And so he leaves the blade behind to rust and rot on the cold damp ground. 

Cloud Strife wouldn’t be needing it anymore. 

[douxreviews]

The Hollow Crown - Series Review

“Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings.”

Occasionally, television reminds us that it can be a brilliant medium. It is easy to become cynical, believing that only a show that pretends to be reality or a comedy in which good actors spout terrible dialogue can be aired. Then, just as we despair, along comes something truly genius. The Hollow Crown is truly genius.

It is a series of four of Shakespeare’s history plays. Often performed together, these stories take us from the late years of Richard II’s reign through the reign of Henry V. Although we will never know if Shakespeare intended for these plays to be performed as a series, they work as one. The stories lead on to the next; characters appear in more than one; and, references are often made to earlier plays.

The BBC, once again, didn’t hold back when producing these four shows. Each has a dream cast and a dream director and they were all filmed on location in England. The music is gorgeous; the sets and the costumes are lush; the cinematography is stunning.

Shakespeare is not an author you can watch with one eye while doing the crossword. His language is dense and, because he wrote in the days prior to special effects, much of what is happening is spelled out in some detail. Your reward, however, for paying attention and concentrating on the play at hand is some of the most beautiful language ever written, at least in English. When that language is spoken by some of the greatest living English actors, it becomes magic.

Richard II

The story takes place over the last two years of Richard’s reign and shows us the rise of Harry Bolingbroke who will become Henry IV. The cast is magnificent, especially Patrick Stewart who, I would argue, is among the best of the RSC old guard. And, on a personal note, can I just say that James Purefoy in period costume works so much better than whatever it is that he is currently playing in The Following.

Like so much of Shakespeare, this play is much more complex than one would initially suspect. On the surface, it is about one king losing his throne to another. It is, however, so much more. It is the story of two men who face off against each other. One is a born leader; the other not so much.

Ben Winshaw, who deservedly won a BAFTA for this role, plays King Richard as weak and entitled, convinced by the divine right of kings that he is untouchable. As he makes the decisions he does, even without the benefit of history, we know that they are wrong and that he is making his downfall inevitable.

Rory Kinnear plays Bolingbroke, Henry IV by the end of the play. He plays the role with subtlety and grace, yet underneath it all is a man conflicted and tormented. He never wanted to be king; he just wanted back what was his.

The best example of this disparity is in the language used. Richard never strays from the royal plural; Bolingbroke never uses it once. Now Henry IV, Bolingbroke understands that the divine right of kings has been turned on its ear and his guilt at what he has done, both to his cousin and to the monarchy, is stunningly conveyed in the final scene.

This play is not performed often, but it should be. It is as strong as the three that follow it.

Henry IV, Part One

Many years have passed, and Henry IV is ensconced on the throne. He has aged and now is played by Jeremy Irons who is simply wonderful. “Uneasy lies the head” being a true statement, Henry has spent his reign wrestling with his guilt and with the constant threat of civil war as not everyone is thrilled about who is wearing the crown.

To make matters even more troubling for our king, his son and heir Hal is a right pain in the ass. Instead of hanging out with his father at court and becoming a mighty warrior, Hal chooses to spend his days hanging out in an Eastcheap tavern with Falstaff and other lowlifes. Tom Hiddleston plays Hal and does so with gusto.

Herein lies the tension of this play. Hal has two fathers; the king whom he disrespects and Falstaff whom he disrespects even more. Henry has two sons; Hal who makes him furious and Hotspur (one of the great Shakespearean names) who is not his son, but is the warrior supporting the crown. The problem is that Hotspur is hotheaded and feels that not only does he have a right to the throne as Richard’s true (and declared) heir, he has earned it.

The inevitable battle is truly epic and tough to watch. The producers did not hold back and the flying arrows and sword fights look amazingly real. Extras roll around in the mud and, at the end, all of our heroes look truly filthy and exhausted.

Hotspur and Henry face off and we see Hal become the true heir to the throne in front of our eyes. The language helps, but Hiddleston plays the scene to perfection as everything from the tone of his voice to the way he holds his head changes and becomes more regal.

Simon Russell Beale is the finest Falstaff, ever (he, too, won a well-deserved BAFTA). So many actors play the role going for the obvious laughs. Beale, on the other hand, manages to inject the character with pathos and humanity, and his paternal love for Hal is obvious to all. Admittedly, some of the humor is lost as a result of these choices, but I didn’t miss it. For maybe the first time ever, I understood what Hal saw in such a horror of a man.

This version is filled with wonderful character actors, too numerous to mention. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t send a shout out to Julie Waters who plays Mistress Quickly to perfection. These plays are slight on roles for women, but Waters manages to jump off the screen, going toe-to-toe with both Hiddleston and Beale and, more often than not, winning.

Henry IV, Part Two

This is my least favorite of the four plays, but I did like the choices that Richard Eyre (the director) made in his cuts. He turned what can be a turgid and, let’s face it, dull play into something interesting to watch. He turned it into a play about becoming old and facing death.

King Henry is approaching his death and he frets about the unsuitability of his son to wear the crown when he is gone. Although it takes a while to get there, the final scenes between Henry and Hal are mesmerizing. Irons and Hiddleston are wonderful as the mantle of power is passed, literally as Henry crowns his son. The very brief moment before all this happens, as Hal sits on the throne with his crown, tears running down his face, actually made me well up.

Hal’s other father is aging as well. Falstaff is completely deluded about what Hal’s becoming king will mean for his old friend. Convinced that a life of leisure and sack is just around the corner, Falstaff is biding his time. The scene in the tavern with Doll was tender and lovely. Here is an old man, aware of his mortality, trying to drum up sympathy for his plight. It is all too late, as his past actions are catching up with him.

Never do they catch up more than at the end of the play and Beale plays Falstaff’s final humiliation to perfection. Genuinely shocked by Hal’s change of heart, the emotion races across his face while the newly crowned king dismisses him out of hand. Hiddleston plays this scene extraordinarily well. It is clear that he is doing what he must and what he believes is right, but there are hints that he wishes he could have avoided this scene all together.

Henry V

The producers were up against it filming this play. Undoubtedly the best known of the history plays, it is filled with speeches that are so well known, they are quoted and paraphrased in nearly everything one watches. Additionally, every English actor worth his salt has performed the role at one point or another and Kenneth Branagh filmed a version that would be tough to beat.

It is also, arguably, the most English of all Shakespeare’s plays. By that, I mean it is patriotism in its purest form. The English king, a reformed bad boy, travels to France and, against all odds, triumphs over his adversaries. Throw in the St. Crispin’s Day speech, and I want to stand tall and salute the St. George’s Cross.

The Hollow Crown version, although not the best, worked in terms of the series. It brought to a satisfying close the arc of a weak king, succeeded by a stronger king, succeeded by the most famous king of them all. Hiddleston was better as the younger playboy than he was as a fierce warrior, but when Henry disguises himself to walk amongst his troops before the battle, he was believable -- we had already seen it.

The problem I had with this version is that Hiddleston is on his own, and he doesn’t quite carry it off. He does not have a Jeremy Irons or a Simon Russell Beale with whom to interact and his final scene with Princess Katherine should have at least some degree of sexual tension. This did not.

Having said that, I pity anyone who has to take on the St. Crispin’s Day speech and make it his own. This one was fantastic. Rather than shout it from the ramparts, the director chose to have Hal speak it to “a happy few” and to speak it from the heart. I found myself grinning at the end of it.

The end was also an interesting choice. The director chose to have Falstaff’s boy, who appears sporadically throughout the play, age and turn into John Hurt who had been voicing the role of the Chorus. He breaks the fourth wall in the final moments and it worked. It reminded us that we are watching is, indeed, history and that time passes for us all.

I’m convinced that if Shakespeare is looking down at some of the schlock being performed in his name, he is sighing with relief at these. I’d like to think that, like me, he wishes they hadn’t stopped, but had continued on with Richard III.

ChrisB is a freelance writer who spends more time than she ought in front of a television screen or with a book in her hand.

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

I THINK I MANAGED TO ACCIDENTALLY PRESS THE BACK KEY REPEATEDLY OR SOMETHING BUT LIKE TWO PARAGRAPHS OF WRITING ARE GONE AND IT'S TOO MUCH FOR ME TO CTRL+Z BACK INTO EXISTENCE BUT NOW MY PROGRAM CRASHED SO I DON'T EVEN HAVE THAT ANYMORE IT'S ALL GONE PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW

[agirlandabear]

Of choice and unconditionality: to forgive God

A demon can always feel an angel.

An angel can always feel a demon.

It was the mission of the Blessed ones to rescue their Fallen Brethren.

It was the pleasure of the Damned to lure them into the darkest pit of despair.

Angels were truly easy to corrupt. Simply threatening to bring harm to mankind was more than enough to break the Kin of the first Four Spheres, even if it took a bit of extra coaxing.

Yet, if there was something a demon should rightly fear, was the superior Kin. Seventh, Eighth, Ninth? Nobody had Fallen from there except Lucifer himself and a handful of others that formed the First Hierarchy.

Sixth Sphere? Hard. Hard, but possible. Hells rejoiced when a soul plummeted from that height.

Fifth, however...

Fifth was a... tricky Sphere.

It had happened, of course, but by Belphegor’s balls, nobody wanted to entangle with an angel born in the Fifth Sphere.

Why? Well, because angels were all the same. They were made of the purest love, martyrdom, and benevolence.

All the same in their proceeding, all willing to let themselves be used and discarded by the Force of Creation. Some were not so easy to manipulate, but overall, this was and had always been a one sided fight. Nobody knows how to turn the other cheek better than an angel.

Except when it came to those in the Fifth Sphere.

The fuckers had a dogma and they stuck to it. Yeah, you might eventually succeed or fail in swaying angels out of their unconditional love for the Almighty, but in the meanwhile a battle of wits and eloquence took place. Threats, persuasion, trickery, seduction, promises, temptation, it was all nice and common, the only ones that could really get hurt were the humans.

Except when it came to those in the Fifth Sphere.

The fight was literal there, and trust the ashes of the Forgotten to tell you the Fifth Sphere excels at hunting and obliterating the Fallen.

It was fucking carnage.

While the superior Triad could purify the lesser demonic soul in an instant, the Fifth Sphere was brutal. Run, hide, it doesn’t matter. Sooner or later their burning swords will be falling upon your neck if you’ve pissed one badly enough.

It was perhaps what kept the Hells from going rampant, the threat of their retaliation.

They didn’t call them the Celestial Hounds for nothing.

The worst thing was that they didn’t have a superior other than The One Above All, and the Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?

All the other Spheres knew mercy and compassion. The Fifth did too, really. Except they expressed their clemency through... well, utter and final obliteration.

What a scary thing was to truly Die.

Human death was barely a change of clothes. Take a stroll around Purgatory, come out Blessed or Fallen. Attempt to recruit the others to your side. Keep them from luring you in. Fail or succeed. A tug of war of love and hate. Thus was eternity.

Or so it is until a demon threatens an angel of the Sixth Sphere with a plague that should befall a portion of mankind should the angel refuse Demise. Either if the angel Falls or lets the plague consume unknowing humans, it doesn’t matter. A Fifth Born now is on the demon’s tail.

You push too far, the Hounds are onto you.

Fight back, for all the good it’ll do. Their wings are dark and large, they fly faster than any other member of the Kin, and they fear no final Death, no pain. Nothing.

Once. Once a Fifth Born was defeated, and what a sight it was.

It challenged Leviathan, master of a Seventh of All Miseries. And the fight shook the very foundation of Earth.

But before Falling, Leviathan had been an Eighth Born. He had been Kin to Peter and John, to The Mother, to Adam and Abel.

And still the Fifth Born held its ground for longer than time could express.

Despite failing, it sent a message, loud and clear.

You cannot escape the Hounds.

If The One unleashes two of us upon Lucifer himself, he will fall.

And we are many.

We are many more than you can escape from.

All demon Kin refused to acknowledge the fact that they lived and thrived because The Almighty allowed it. Because the Hounds were patiently watching them play around, waiting to be released. When The One Above All considered they were beyond redemption, it was over.

Lucifer wandered Earth with a gentle smile, bemused and almost nostalgic; knowing The Father still thought there was hope for him.

And He said, Let there be light: and there were also shadows.

In the Fifth Sphere, Michaela’s form becomes tangible and fearsome, light twisting into shapes of life, curves and angles, bones and flesh. Her long hair whips in the heavenly wind and her massive brown wings bend together to cast a cross shaped shadow.

She has found a Malakhim has been pushing far enough. He has been given enough chances.

And it is time to end it.

She flies to the presence of The One, as close as she can get, to where His Might burns and blinds.

“Father, if Your will permits it, I shall proceed. There is one that must be stopped. Your children have suffered enough in his name. May Your light shine upon his spirit before my arrival.”

And with that, she is gone.

~

Once, her spirit was tied to a body. Once, she too had been human.

Those days had been left behind before Time enveloped Creation. Her entire existence had been at the service of the Almighty since before the dawn of mankind. She was one of His fiercest exterminators.

In a twirl of violent winds and dark brown feathers, she landed amongst humans, who could not see her or feel her.

She walked the length of the road, and by its end, felt a tug.

A small, gentle tug.

An angel can always feel a demon.

Before a fraction of a second had passed, she leaped into the air and dashed to where the insistent tugging took her. Like a call.

Michaela had taken to the skies a long… long time ago.

Many, perhaps too many, demons had met their final Death by the end of her sword during these eons.

The trees split to let her through.

Did she have doubts? Did she question the Father?

She was a dash against the white-blue sky.

Of course, and proudly. Blind obedience could be twisted either way, but critical thought, acceptance, and faith was the foundation of the truest of loves.

The winds enveloped her as she descended upon a clearing, where a demon lay gazing into the clouds, sitting with his back against a tree.

Was she tempted to taste Damnation?

The demon glanced her way, unmoving.

Every single day.

Michaela’s grey eyes remained on the demon as she walked towards him, the divine Flame roaring to life in the grasp of her fingers.

He wasn’t talking, or reacting. It was not the first time, though. Repentance, false as it may be, sometimes could only reach a creature in its final moments. But some would face their actions head on, resigned to the consequences of their doings.

It would not be the first time Michaela took the life of a paralyzed demon.

Towering over him, the Fire of His Holy Wrath tight between her fingers, she muttered a prayer for the foregone soul and set herself to attack.

He didn’t flinch. Motionless and unfazed, he watched her dash.

Still he tilted his head, and then…

“What a beautiful woman you must have been in life.”

His voice, especially his choice of words, made her hesitate.

The demon’s eyes lazily returned to the sky.

Michaela halted at the sight of those orbs.

They were so… tired.

So lifeless. So resigned.

She lowered her hand.

“Such a human thing to say,” she answered, her voice tight and clipped.

“Truly. Old habits die hard.”

“Old? Stand, Lost one.”

The command of her voice could never be refused, and soon, tiredly, the demon was on his feet.

“Spread your wings for me.”

The pristine white feathers ruffled with a shake.

“Such a young Malakhim. Such monstrosity you are. In a mere lustrum you have ripped yourself so far away from The Father’s Grace that you deserve nothing but the peace of my sword. I must say, that I am even impressed.”

“Do what you came to do, inquisitor. Be fast.”

Michaela indulged herself in the fruit of knowledge.

Knowledge and discernment were valuable in her mission. Understand the enemy to rid the world of it sooner and better.

It was still dangerous terrain, though.

“Do you comprehend what will befall you?”

“Yes.”

“You want it.”

“Yes.”

“Were you suicidal in life?”

“Yes.”

“So was I.”

“Don’t all suicides belong to Damnation?”

“Only if we wish to.”

The Fallen one narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. He smirked and his voice turned soft and amused. “You are trying to seduce me!”

“Believe me, it gives me no pleasure to bring final Death to an existence, especially one as young as yours.”

“Time means nothing to a Seraph.”

“You are more human than Kin.”

“Don’t you have a mission, Hound? You were not sent here to talk.”

“Wasn’t I? I was sent here. I was just sent here. Doesn’t He-?”

“If you say ‘work in mysterious ways’ I swear I’m gonna vomit.”

She chuckles.

“Do you find Heresy entertaining?”

“As I said, you are more human than Kin.”

“You see me as a child.”

“Yes. And your ignorance is easy to dismiss and forgive. You mock Him because you haven’t bathed in His Light… Don’t you wish to see it, Malakhim? If you carve for Oblivion afterwards I can still provide. But don’t you wish to feel it at least once?”

The demon smiled slowly.

“Do what you came to do.”

She answered his smile with a saddened shake of her head.

“Such a youth. May you find peace in eternal Silence.”

She lifted her sword once more.

“SERAPH!”

A new form plummeted from the heights, all white feathers, lithe and shaking.

It kneeled before her in a gesture so pagan it as painful to watch. Hands latched to her ankles.

“MERCY! HAVE MERCY! I BEG OF YOU!”

An angel.

Wings beat and the demon fled.

She groaned.

No matter. Within the span of an instant she could be by his side again.

Michaela stared down the Malakhim that supplicated at her feet.

“Stand.”

The other did, with raw tears falling down his cheeks.

“Who are you?”

“I’m no one! I’m nothing! I’m an undeserving failure that will take his place if his crimes have been too many. Take my life. Take my life, please, but spare him!”

“Better spare me and simply tell me who you are and what you want. What’s your name?”

“L-Luciel. My name is Luciel.”

“And what is your relation to that Fallen one?”

“He… He was my only brother. Before, when we were human.”

“Ah… I see now. What is his name?”

“He has none.”

She clicked her tongue. “Nonsense. He has taken a form, and for that, he requires a name.”

“If he has one, he hasn’t said it out loud to anyone.”

“You are trying to save him.”

“Yes… Yes, I am.”

“Such a human attachment. I am surprised you haven’t followed him. Why is that?”

“If I Fall, there will be no hope left for him.”

“So you stand firm through altruism. Respectable, albeit questionable. Luciel, know that the crimes your brother has committed cannot be forgiven because he does not want them to be forgiven.”

“He does! He does, of course he does. You just… You have to understand, he rejected Purgatory. There’s so much pain inside of him. He needs time. Give me time. I can heal him. I can help him.”

She shook her head with sadness and grasped the other’s shoulder.

“Luciel, you cannot heal the Fallen. They are the only ones that can save themselves. You must learn to let go of this attachment. Love him still, and rejoice in the knowledge that in true Death he will bring no more harm.”

The male looked as if he had just been burned.

“How can you ask that of me…! I failed him in life and I refuse to fail him again. Please. Please, you are ancient. For you, time is meaningless. Please, just give me some time.”

She tilted her head. “He will bring pain upon mankind.”

“Not while I chase him. He escapes me. If I’m constantly chasing him, he can’t stop to hurt anyone!”

Her eyes softened. “You are going to lose track of him. Eventually you won’t feel him anymore.”

“It’s true that unlike you I can’t feel all demons wherever they are. But… But I have to try.”

Michaela remained silent.

“Please, please let me try to save him.”

She sighed.

“Goodness, who let the two of you out of Purgatory…?”

Luciel laughed and hugged her tightly. “Thank you! Thank you! I’ll try to follow him now. I promise he can be saved. Thank you!”

The angel took flight and Michaela rubbed her eyes.

Was she doing the right thing?

Something deep in her heart told her to have faith.

~

For her, that had lived through ages of nature and man, time was such a relative concept.

She knew how long had it been since encountering that Damned, but for her it felt like mere moments, while entire generations of Earthly beings thrived and died in the same span of time.

How long is long enough?

She had promised Luciel time, but how much time is too much time when time is meaningless?

She sang her praise as her spirit was set on fire and, oh, how beautiful it was to Worship.

Worship in all things. Worship in your thoughts and in your actions.

She decided enough time had passed when Luciel finally lost track of his brother.

She descended upon Earth, knowing exactly where the demon was.

She found him waiting, sitting on the roof of a collapsed house.

He turned to her once more, his empty eyes finding hers and then returning to the clouds.

“For one so adamant on rejecting salvation, you sure spend much of your time glancing towards the Heavens.”

“Not heaven. The sky.”

“You stare into eternity. Into infinity. There is nothing more Heavenly than that.”

“I stopped caring for what’s beyond the sky.”

“It has not stopped caring for you.”

The smile stretched upon his lips again. “Such a shameless flirt, Seraph…!”

“Your brother thinks you can be saved, and frankly so do I. Make no mistake, since times before Thought I have been hunting the Fallen Brethren and this is the first time I am unleashed upon one and found it worthy of a second chance. But Luciel has lost track of you, and so I’ve come. To bring you redemption or Death. It’s your choice.”

The demon stood and walked towards her. “Do you remember what it was like to be human?”

She tilted her head.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what it felt to have flesh and bone? To cry, to sleep, to starve?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

The demon hopped off the roof and entered the house.

Michaela followed suit. The insides were dark but she could see every detail.

The Fallen one was already waiting, his form solidified, human by all standards except for his alleged immortality.

He turned around, gentle green eyes searching the darkness.

“Manifest. I can still sense you but I wish to talk to you, and I can’t hear you if you don’t take human form.”

The demon waited for a long moment, thinking that perhaps she would refuse. But eventually in the dimness flesh coated bone and six dark wings were left behind.

Michaela glanced at him without a word.

He chuckled.

“What is it, Malakhim?”

“You’re shorter than me.”

“If so I wish.”

“Was this how you looked before Ascending?”

“I don’t know. I never saw my reflection back when I had my body.”

“And whose body is this?”

“Of a young woman with a pure soul that once invoked me.”

“Have you been working miracles, Seraph?”

“Only when it’s prudent.”

He walked closer and took a strand of her long brown hair between his fingers.

“I like it. It suits you.”

“Why did you make me take this form?”

“Because I want you to remember what it was like to be human. To feel pain and joy.”

He turned and opened a door. A boarded window barely let light penetrate the darkness. There were two mattresses on the floor, a closet, a bucket.

Shackles.

“What is this place?” She asked, carefully.

“Home… This… This piece of shit… Is home.”

“Is this where you died?”

“No. I grew up here. My brother, the angel you saw, we were twins. He abandoned me. My mother, if you could call it that, held me here. Tortured me. Year after year after year. And I was alone…”

“Physical pain-”

“Physical pain!” He snapped. “Do you think I ever cared about the physical pain? That passing thing!? No. No, even animals can forget the ache of the body. Do you want to know what I felt in here?”

She said nothing.

His fists tightened.

Tears began to fall.

He shook, teeth clenched.

“Love.”

Michaela frowned.

“I felt so much love in here. There was nothing but love. For my brother, for my life, for my mother. Can you imagine that? I loved my mother. I still love my mother. The creature that brought torment and agony over me. I love her… It was unconditional love… It was the purest love. The love of a child.”

She walked closer but didn’t touch him.

He wiped the tears that kept falling with the heel of his hands. “I waited and I loved. I wanted to die. Then there was hate. Endless hate. And then there was silence… Purgatory was silent… Do you know what they offered me? They offered me His Eternal Love. Do you know what I did? I laughed. Eternal, unconditional love had been nothing but poison for me.”

He turned to her.

“I don’t blame Him for abandoning me. I don’t even care that He let it happen… But to keep on loving Him eternally…? It’s monstrous. It’s monstrous and cruel and unforgivable. Then, I am Fallen. Then, I want Death.”

Her gaze softened.

“You did all those things just to bring me to you. You wanted to be hunted down.”

He nodded in defeat.

She reached up and cupped his face with both hands, her thumbs softly brushing his wet cheekbones.

“I won’t bring Death to you.”

He opened his eyes, holding her wrists in his grasp, and pleaded with a grief so deep it broke Michaela’s heart.

“Please… give me peace…”

“Death won’t free you.”

“Nothing else can.”

“Yes it can. I can.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I will give you the choice. I will give you the choice and through your free will you will be healed… I will stay with you… I will stay with you as you mend yourself… Luciel was right… You can be saved. You deserve to be saved.”

He kept on shaking his head but now his shoulders were also trembling. He broke in a chuckle that became louder and louder. He leaned forward, his forehead touching hers as he laughed, madness spilling from the sound like venom.

“You innocent fool! Do you want me to love you, you miserable creature? Meaningless pawn? Do you think loving you by choice will erase the demand of your Lord!? Stay. Stay, by all means. I will twist you. I will reshape you. And when you have finally Fallen they will send another. They will send one that will give me what I want. Stay and love me, stay and love me, stay and love me and I will destroy you…”

Michaela held him tenderly for in his mirth, he was still weeping.

Thus was eternity.

A tug of war of love and hate.

He welcomed her, for what was an angel but a demon waiting to be corrupted?

She stayed… for what was a demon but an angel waiting to be saved?

~ Day 5: Angel/Demon AU

Angst/Fantasy

Saeran x MC

Sources: Ars Goetia, The Divine Comedy (mostly)

Michaela: female form of the name Michael. A question meaning “Who is like God?”

Malakhim: Lowest angelic class. It’s not a name in this story, simply a noun referring to a member of the celestial Kin. Means Messenger or Envoy.

@rfaauweek

[shleyaay123]

What Curiosity Brings

Inspired by this lovely piece of fan art by @thegreencarousel and the many posts of Crewt Auntie @linddzz. Now on AO3.

Credence Barebone/Newt Scamander 

“It was Newt, of that Credence was absolutely positive, and yet the Hufflepuff was nowhere to be found.”

Credence knew that snooping through another’s belongings was wrong. Snooping was the result of too much curiosity, and curiosity came from the Devil’s whispers. Curiosity drove even the purest souls to sin. Snooping led to belts, punishments and pain.

Snooping led to finding wands under beds and Mother screaming as she flew across the church rafters.

So it was certainly not out of curiosity that Credence rifled through the bottommost drawer in the desk that Newt had so long ago pushed into the corner of his shed. He had run out of ink and hadn’t been able to find another inkwell in the chaotic debris of parchment and seeds and vials that Newt called his workspace. Of course, without more ink, he could not finish his task of deciphering and editing Newt’s notes into something comprehensive and grammatically correct. And so, not wanting to aimlessly wander the suitcase in search of his energetic lover—oh, and how Credence’s neck flushed warm and red at the very thought of that new development, indeed—he had begun to pull out drawers and shuffle their contents around with soft nudges of his fingertips.

Curiosity did not make him open the bottommost drawer in the desk, but before he could recognize the signs of its arrival within his mind, his eyes had caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of the drawer behind a thick brown folder. At first he jumped, afraid he had stumbled across one of the tinier creatures calling the suitcase home. Very quickly, however, did he realize it was something else entirely.

And that was when the curiosity struck.

Curiosity brought his hand forward. Curiosity folded his fingers around the brown folder and pulled it into the light. Curiosity possessed his mind and drove out any thoughts of privacy, of punishment or sin. Curiosity, so innocent and silent, made him open the folder and stare at the photograph laying at the edge among fading yellow pages covered in scrawling, glistening calligraphy.

Credence was not unfamiliar to magical photographs anymore. The old textbooks Newt loaned him when the Obscurus had finally settled back into his bones and magic had become something less mysterious were full of them. He had seen plenty of smiling portraits of influential wizards and sketches of bubbling cauldrons with black ink spilling over their rims, but this...this was...

A cold breath slithered from his lips as he pushed a loose cascade of dark tresses up to one side of his head in an absentminded gesture of unease.

This was all wrong.

It was Newt, of that Credence was absolutely positive, and yet the Hufflepuff was nowhere to be found.

Gone was the confident, determined posture that came from being around his charges, and there was no sign of the playful smirk that appeared when the wizard was being particularly badgering and teasing to those he trusted most. The young man in the photograph held a dark jacket over his shoulders, more like a security blanket than a cloak, his ginger hair cut short and his eyes shadowed and dark from a clear lack of sleep. His cheekbones were sharper, his freckles less pronounced, and despite his youth, there seemed to be a stifling weight upon his posture that Credence could never imagine his current companion suffering through today.

The younger Newt wore a dust brown uniform with simple braid and buttons, a multitude of restraining belts and pouches wrapped around his waist, hips, and chest. He stared at Credence for only a few seconds, each one painful and pleading for some unknown torment to end, before quickly shifting away to the floor. Even this familiar lack of eye contact felt off, as though this young wizard was afraid of being both praised and rejected for his very existence.

The Newt that woke Credence every morning with a gentle hand on his arm and a kiss upon his lips was not fond of maintaining eye contact with humans, either, but never did he attempt to apologize for himself in any way, shape, or form. His Newt remained, in all circumstances and weather, a wild, fantastic beast all his own. This young soldier, this innocent boy, practically screamed guilt and despair with every shift of his slowly hunching body.

The Obscurial found it all a bit too familiar.

“Credence?”

“Ah!” Credence clutched the folder to his chest, blinking rapidly in the sudden onslaught of awareness that he had been crouching on the floor of the shed for quite a while now. The shadows that stretched up the walls had grown higher, darker, as the sun at the height of the suitcase began to fade into a dusky orange. “I’m sorry!”

Credence turned his head and peeked up between the curls that had fallen back over his shoulders, watching as Newt tilted his head to the side and smiled.

“What on earth are you doing down there?” He asked, ignoring Credence’s automatic apologies with the same amount of concern he had never given them to begin with. “Drop something?”

“...no...no, I-uh…” Credence loosened his grip on the folder pressed to his chest, and only then did Newt seem to realize that it was there. Subtly, so much so that anyone who didn’t know the Magizoologist extremely well would have never noticed, his expression froze. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Credence watched as Newt’s lips grew tighter, his eyes grew darker, and his shoulders pushed back as though bracing for a standoff with a wild, stampeding Graphorn. His smile stayed in place, plastered and false, as though he were determined to push his worries out of his mind through sheer force of fragile optimism.

Had Credence been physically capable of hating any part of Newt, that fake smile would have been at the top of his list.

“I’m sorry. I was looking for more ink. I didn’t...” He whispered, forcing his gaze to settle on a spot of mud that had managed to find itself stuck to Newt’s white collar. He had been with Newt long enough to know that no beatings or scathing remarks would follow his confession, but the silent fear of being cast aside still thrummed through his veins with every shaking breath he took. “I saw the picture move, and I wanted to see what it was.”

“...Hmm, you found the picture of me and my brother, then?” Credence winced at the slight strain in Newt’s falsely cheerful voice before glancing down at the photograph in confusion.

“You have a brother?” He had been so focused on the faded depiction of Newt that he had completely overlooked the taller uniformed man standing at his side. Now that he looked closely, however, he realized that besides the light sprinkling of freckles across their cheeks and a similarly chiseled jawline, he never would have known that the two men were related.

Where Newt had shuffled uncomfortably in his own skin with a frown, his brother stood tall and straight. His eyes were hard and cold, though not unkind, as he stared back at Credence’s curious expression. His hair was darker, straighter, and slightly styled to lie flat along the top of his head in a futile attempt at self-control. A dark wand rested lightly in his right hand, though Credence had no doubt that that same grip could become unyielding and proficient in a manner of moments at the first sign of trouble. As the image of Newt shifted his gaze downward, the elder Scamander raised his chin as though silently attempting to compensate for his sibling’s shortcomings.

Credence decided that he disliked him immensely.  

“Yes. Theseus, he’s older than me. He’d already been in the war for almost a year before I joined the DRRB on the Eastern Front.” Newt groaned as he bent down to join Credence on the floor, folding his legs beneath him as he leaned over the open folder. “This was taken before we went our separate ways, about two weeks after I started training. My mother insisted.”

“Durb?” Credence asked incredulously.  

“Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau.” Newt chuckled, his eyes never shifting from the photograph of his past. “I don’t think anyone was surprised. Theseus wasn’t, at least, he made that quite clear.”

“He looks…” Credence bit his tongue, not wishing to offend the older man more than he already had with his violation of privacy. Damn his curiosity.

“Intimidating? Brave? Dashingly handsome?” With each description, Newt’s voice dropped slightly in a strange mix of bitterness and resignation that did not sit right with Credence at all.

“Bossy.” Credence felt Newt’s head snap up, and just before the Obscurial could open his mouth to apologize once more, a high pitched wheezing followed by a short, deep snort echoed through the room. Credence looked up from the photograph to see Newt’s fist hovering in the air below his chin, as though he wished to politely cover his snickering mouth but was powerless to do so. His eyes crinkled in mirth, and the cold squeezing in Credence’s gut loosened ever so slowly.

“Oh, you are wonderful,” Newt wheezed. “That, yes, he was definitely bossy. But, I suppose, he wasn’t the worst as siblings go.”

Credence felt his cheeks heating at the compliment and quickly glanced back down at the folder now sitting in his lap, pushing the photograph to the side and skimming the pages behind it. There were a few newspaper clippings detailing the gritty horrors of different warzones, with black and white landscapes devoid of any life littering the sides of bleak texts. Behind the clippings where thick pages of what appeared to be early versions of Newt’s field notes, all concerning different breeds of dragons. Rough sketches of claws, wings, and snouts were splashed here or there with charts and uneven paragraphs, and Credence could not help but smile.

“Did you like working with them? The dragons?” He asked, pulling out a fully detailed drawing of what was labeled as a “Ukrainian Ironbelly”. The beast had an impressive wingspan, its body arching upwards in a proud stance that showed off the detail sketched in the scales running up the dragon’s side. Deep red eyes stared at an invisible opponent, its jaws unhinged as though about to release a jet of flame into the air.

“…for the most part. They really are the most beautiful beings, if you treat them well.” Newt reached up and gently took the drawing out of Credence’s hand, scrutinizing his past work with a hint of a smile and a soft sniff. “Not easy to do when you’re forced to ride them into battle, let me tell you.”

Credence tried to imagine it, tried to picture Newt’s young freckled face twisted in fear and determination as he held onto the horns of his beloved beasts, with dark clouds crashing down upon them en masse. Just as the image began to fully form, and just as the cloud began to morph into something so much more personal and violent, he banished it forcefully with a shake of his head. The last thing he wanted or needed was to think of Newt screaming and falling…or worse…

Newt must have noticed his mouth twist in despair at his morbid thoughts, because the next thing Credence knew, there was a gentle hand in his hair rubbing at his scalp in soothing circles.

“Hey,” Newt murmured in his ear, “none of that, now. I’m right here. It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”  

Credence forced himself to nod. After a brief hesitation, he placed the folder onto the ground and folded his body into Newt’s calming embrace. They sat like that together, lost in memories and daydreams alike as the sounds of the worlds beyond the doorway filtered in and out of the tiny shed. Credence glanced at the old sketch of the Ukrainian Ironbelly still resting in Newt’s hand, admiring how far they had both come in so short a time, together and apart.

“…well, some things haven’t changed, at least.”

“Hmm?”

“I still can’t read your handwriting very well.”

“My handwriting is perfectly legible, thank you! It’s not my fault you Americans just use chickenscratch and be done with it!”  

[stjames-infirmary]

A scene, which wildered fancy viewed in the soul's coldest solitude, with that same scene when peaceful love flings rapture's colour o'er the grove, when mountain, meadow, wood and stream with unalloying glory gleam, and to the spirit's ear and eye are unison and harmony. The moonlight was my dearer day; then would I wander far away, and, lingering on the wild brook's shore to hear its unremitting roar, would lose in the ideal flow all sense of overwhelming woe; or at the noiseless noon of night would climb some healthy mountain's height, and listen to the mystic sound that stole in fitful gasps around. I joyed to see the streaks of day above the purple peaks decay, and watch the latest line of light just mingling with the shades of night; for day with me was time of woe when ever tears refused to flow; then would I stretch my languid frame beneath the wild woods' gloomiest shade, and try to quench the ceaseless flame that on my withered vitals preyed; would close mine eyes and dream I were on some remote and friendless plain, and long to leave existence there, if with it I might leave the pain that with a finger cold and lean wrote madness on my withering mien. It was not unrequited love that bade my 'wildered spirit rove; 'twas not the pride disdaining life, that with this mortal world at strife would yield to the soul's inward sense, then groan in human impotence, and weep because it is not given to taste on Earth the peace of Heaven. 'Twas not that in the narrow sphere  where Nature fixed my wayward fate there was no friend or kindred dear formed to become that spirit's mate, which, searching on tired pinion, found barren and cold repulse around; oh, no! Yet each one sorrow gave new graves to the narrow grave.  For broken vows had early quelled the stainless spirit's vestal flame; yes! Whilst the fateful bosom swelled,  then the envenomed arrow came, and Apathy's unaltering eye beamed coldness on the misery;  and early I had learned to scorn the chains of clay that bound a soul panting to seize the wings of morn, and where its vital fires were born to soar, and spur the cold control which the vile slaves of earthly night would twine around its struggling flight. Oh, many were the friends whom fame had linked with the unmeaning name, whose magic marked among mankind the casket of my unknown mind, which hidden from the vulgar glare imbibed no fleeting radiance there. My darksome spirit sought - it found a friendless solitude around.  For who that might undaunted stand, the saviour of a sining land, would crawl, its ruthless tyrant's slave, and fatten upon Freedom's grave, though doomed with her to perish, where the captie clasps abhorred despair. They could not share the bosom's feeling, which, passion's every throb revealing,  dared force on the world's notice cold thoughts of unprofitable mould, who bask in Custom's fickle ray, fit sunshine of such wintry day! They could not in a twilight walk weave an impassioned web of talk, till mysteries the spirits press in wild yet tender awfulness,  then feel within our narrow sphere how little yet how great we are! But they might shine in courtly glare, attract the rabble's cheapest stare, and might command where'er they move a thing that bears the name of love; they might be learned, witty, gay,  foremost in fashion's gilt array, on Fame's emblazoned pages shine,  be princes' friends, but never mine! Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime, mocking the blunted scythe of Time, whence I would watch its lustre pale steal from the moon o'er yonder vale thou rock, whose bosom black and vast, bared to the stream's unceasing flow, ever its giant shade doth cast on the tumultuous surge below: Woods, to whose depths retires to die the wounded Echo's melody,  and whither this lone spirit bent the footstep of a wild intent: Meadows! Whose green and spangled breast these fevered limbs have often pressed, until the watchful fiend Despair slept in the soothing coolness there! Have not your varied beauties seen the sunken eye, the withering mien, sad traces of the unuttered pain that froze my heart and burned my brain. How changed since Nature's summer form had last the power my grief to charm, since last ye soothed my spirit's sadness, strong chaos of a mingled madness! Changed! - Not the loathsome worm that fed in the dark mansions of the dead, now soaring through the fields of air, and gathering purest nectar there, a butterfly, whose million hues the dazzled eye of wonder views, long lingering on a work so strange, has undergone so bright a change. How do I feel my happiness? I cannot tell, but they may guess whose every gloomy feeling gone, friendship and passion feel alone; who see mortality's dull clouds before affection's murmur fly, whilst the mild glances of her eye pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds the spirit's inmost sanctuary. O thou! whose virtues latest known, first in this heart yet claim'st a throne; whose downy sceptre still shall share the gentle sway with virtue there; thou fair in form, and pure in mind, whose ardent friendship rivets fast the flowery band our fates that bind, which incorruptible shall last when duty's hard and cold control has thawed around the burning soul, -  the gloomiest retrospects that bind with crowns of thorn the bleeding mind, the prospects of most doubtful hue that rise on Fancy's shuddering view, -  are gilt by the reviving ray which thou hast flung upon my day.

The Retrospect: Cwn Elan, 1812 - Percy Bysshe Shelley

[atrayo]

Jewels of Truth Statements and Favorite Quotes of the Month

Hello All, I've been somewhat busy on my end of things. Whereby my channeling the Angelic Host has taken a backseat as of late much to my displeasure with it. I have been investing in my other spiritual gifts and my abilities as a psychic-medium which includes energetic healing. (that includes prayer at a distance) This is beside my caregiving role with my own mother. For sanity sake, I have been taking classes and workshops at a local learning center for psychics, mediums, and healers in my vicinity of Florida. Called Spirit University which hosts guest presenters nationally and locally with a hearty regimen of the spiritual and psychic arts. Aside from that I also as a past time hobby for many years now I'm an online gamer. So right now I'm either in the "Sea of Thieves" closed beta period or playing "Fortnite" or the alpha testing period of "Just Survive". This is just a sideline mention of my whereabouts otherwise I also post at least once a week on my Facebook Fanpage, my Twitter @Atrayo, and Instagram @atrayo1 social media accounts. My Postings consist of a new or older angelic channeled "Jewels of Truth" spiritual wisdom statements that also includes Meme Images as well. Today's channeled Angelic spiritual wisdom statements continue with the theme of channeled gods and goddesses of Olympia. Since as I have channeled that all polytheist deities aside from the Creator chief deity as God are the angels infinitely expressed as the endless heavens. Each according to the differing epochs of human civilizations from the pre-Biblical well into modernity. This is my personal view as truly a fused all-inclusive divine meta perspective. Be this the Hellenistic Greek Mythology of our world history to religious traditions such as Hinduism. This is the spiritual angle I'm coming from when I share my angelic channeled automatic writing statements such as the one for today. When possible I'll cite the lesser angelic deity whenever possible in all fairness to them and myself with distinction. So my 3 "Jewels of Truth" statements will come respectively from the angels as lesser deities of holy sister Artemis and holy brother Apollo. I'm currently exploring the realm of the Ascended Masters as the lesser deities of the Heavens via automatic writing. These are their missives much like Morpheus and Apollo I've cited before on this blog site of Atrayo's Oracle. May you find them intriguing irrespective if you believe in such a spiritual metaphysical heritage. Enjoy.

Artemis: 2600) All that rests stands still until a force from unknown origins permeates the living fibers of the living. Here stands before you the living essence of the night I as "Artemis" goddess of the Moon. Overseer of countless souls on this Earth I have peered into the stillness within gentle giants and have found the Face of God smiling through me. I do not orbit this Earth alone for my heavenly siblings of Elysium stand united to my observations. All that happens at night doesn't stop there alone for it hurls onward into the light of day. Only the strong may understand what broods upon the evening awakens to take their rightful place alongside the angels in every paradise imaginable. I am not the one to be revered as ages gone by my brother "Apollo" always laps up such glory. What I do recognize is the need for respect and safety of all that is wild upon the Earth. The Earth stirs in shock at her ecological and meteorological systems being forced ahead of her appointed hour. These ecological tempos have been forced outside the pendulum shift of her native nominal patterns of wellness. Akin to having her pupils dilated upon the morrow. All the creatures that stir are also alarmed at the increased frequency of changes upon this Earth. They understand their homes are jeopardized due to no fault of their own. What is done is done and very little can be accomplished but to brace yourselves for what is to come collectively now and many countless tomorrows. As brother Noah did so long ago with a Biblical Flood globally that cast Atlantis into the sea simultaneously. Many will point fingers and worse maim and take further lives of countless others just to survive the ecological perils of tomorrows. Prepare yourselves responsibly teach the young and the feeble the ways of the Earth lest you be drowned with despair one and all. Diana has spoken and so I seek kindred sisterly and brethren souls to alleviate suffering from the days of woe upon the righteous as the reborn of Elysium. Amen.  (channeled source of Artemis the angelic goddess)---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. 

Artemis: 2601) What rests at night continues to sleep until the spirit awakens the body during evening hours. The Beauty of the night is pale compared to the brilliance of the day. However, even paleness as milky white is gorgeous upon the handsome eyes of onlookers. Be not afraid of the dark for both beauty and truth resides here equally much like the daytime hours of countless more. Come closer and listen deeply to understand that to equate evil with darkness alone is a misplaced truism waiting to happen. For the righteous also rejoice during the evening hours in merrymaking of all festive sorts. To cast the dark of the night as unbecoming is to forget what is still is most empowered indeed as vibrantly alive. Shimmering with Life upon All that recognize the stirrings of souls before the morning hour of first light. I Artemis remember ages gone by and rejoice at the accomplishments of mankind in these few short centuries. Eons to mortals and moments are paradise upon all angels alike do the cycles of time feels upon the holy of eternity. What is true tonight stays true forever more when God is first upon the meek and the mighty alike. The night is enemy to no one so celebrate with your sister the moon all that is precious upon your eyes and hearts. To know us as the angelic deities of bygone so-called pagan faiths are reborn as the mighty endless Angelic kind upon all the faith-filled souls. We heed your prayers and praise to God the Most High and act in his divine accord forever more. With every moment of eternity in this age of the Abrahamic Traditions as religions upon the world. Do we partake equally with God in service to all regardless of religion, spiritual tradition, and so forth. We have gone nowhere in Olympus and we are here upon the needy and the wanting yearning to live with God in plenty and goodwill for all. Jupiter as Zeus is now relegated like Cherian as Cronus much like his father before him Uranus, not like Brahman the chief Creator but akin to the Arch Angels. A similar designation only for comparison of potency metaphysically as the angelic minor deities of yore. Nothing has changed in paradise and everything has changed upon the world. We are here to be called upon to serve the pure of heart to overcome the world. Amen. (channeled source of Artemis the angelic goddess) ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo.

Apollo: 2602) I Apollo as the living light of ages gone by having seen the stirrings of the old and young alike. Amused as each generation toils for baubles to only forfeit them when infirmed before the next life calls them home. I do not judge poorly for each soul has rights and privileges to not only exist but to excel henceforth in a realm of plenty. I only find these evident occasions to be hallmarks of yearnings unrecognized by the communal truths we all share with God the Father. I understand that Jupiter as Zeus is now retired and no longer as the appointed heir that has been designated upon Olympia. This unlikely power struggle is upon humanity to decide our fates to continue our narrative by faiths now dead being called "Hellenism". Truly as you have surmised "Ivan the Atrayo" we are Angels assuming roles christened by all mortals with the Purest Essence of God to declare who we are through their folly and grandeur combined. Humanity is equally divine as all the inhabitants of this Earth and upon the totality of Creation(s) united. Each of you as spiritual beings are living and dying sparks of the metaphorical flintstone of God(dess). We as the minor angelic gods are here to serve all kinds of life plural. For you are us in a simplistic biological forms having forgotten in part your living legacy with God. This is why what humanity dictates by benevolent faith occurs in paradise elsewhere. Our fates are tied together by the Supreme Will of God for all souls. This is both beautiful and dangerous when humanity worships evil when dividing the worthy from their grace. Thus creating Hell on Earth instead as a cause and effect occurrences. Be not afraid those that read my words your souls are safe within the splendid perfection of God himself. Just ensure your mortality is well anchored to God the Father / Mother of all that is precious in Heaven. All the rest happens again and again as life exposes Angels struggling to recall their divinity upon the Earth via reincarnations by reincarnations times Infinity. Amen. (channeled source Apollo the angelic god) ---Ivan Pozo-Illas / Atrayo. 

-------------------------------------- May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.  ---John O'Donohue. Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country. ---Anais Nin. We all have the extraordinary coded within us, waiting to be released. ---Jean Houston. We are participants in a vast communion of being, and if we open ourselves to its guidance, we can learn anew how to live in this great and gracious community of truth. ---Parker Palmer. Grace is the ability to redefine the boundaries of possibility. ---Manning Marable. Holiness comes wrapped in the ordinary. There are burning bushes all around you. Every tree is full of angels. Hidden beauty is waiting in every crumb. ---Macrina WiederKehr., O.S.B. The moment one definitely commits oneself then Providence moves, too. ---W.H. Murray. Ivan "Atrayo" Pozo-Illas, has devoted 22 years of his life to the pursuit of clairvoyant automatic writing channeling the Angelic host. Ivan is the author of the spiritual wisdom series of "Jewels of Truth" consisting of 3 volumes published to date. He also channels inspired conceptual designs that are multifaceted for the next society to come that are solutions based as a form of dharmic service. Numerous examples of his work are available at "Atrayo's Oracle" blog site of 12 years plus online. Your welcome to visit his website "Jewelsoftruth.us" for further information or to contact Atrayo directly.

[readbookywooks]

It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that of my adversary was extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence, but there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and trembling, she asked, "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" "Oh! Peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night, and all will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful." I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure - her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground. When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that I had lost. After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around; I hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight - his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause - the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. "Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration I said, "This is the being whom I accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion." This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered or what region he may now inhabit." "I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated. "You are mistaken," said he. "I will exert myself, and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up your mind to disappointment." "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand; I have but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction." I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. "Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on some other mode of action.