#and had to rediscover who he is without the crows in the same way that lucanis did at the lighthouse

[vampcaprisun]

what do y’all think illario’s hobbies are? what is he interested in? what does he do in his spare time? what does he know a lot about the nobody would expect? what did he love as a kid that he hasn’t thought about in years but could jump back into in a heartbeat if given the chance? what are his wyverns and cooking and knitting and romance novels?

who would he be if you took him away from his family and his job and the politics of it all? i don’t think he even knows the answer to that, but there still has to be an answer!

[ember920]

Tante Heleen is a nice example of a truly evil woman in the Grishaverse. I agree with that part 100%

When writing this I was focusing more on the original trilogy than the Nikolai duology or the Six of Crows duology.

When I said the Darkling represented sexual freedom, that’s not all I meant. Alina meets him when she finally admits that she’s a Sun Summoner. She rediscovers that aspect of herself. She can finally completely summon once she lets go of Mal, realizing that she can’t let him hold her back anymore. He doesn’t represent in the narrative just ‘sexual freedom’ but Alina discovering her agency and her own way in the world. Yes, the Darkling is manipulative. No one is saying he’s not. I mentioned the Darkling I believe only three times, and two of those were talking about how Genya changed sides to then work with Alina. I personally would of enjoyed more female villains. While obviously not every character has to be blood thirsty, it would be wonderful to have a female character who struggles with the pull towards darkness who wasn’t immediately shamed for it. For Alina, this usually came in the form of being yelled at by Baghra for being “tempted by your dark prince” or criticized by Mal for using her powers and wanting the amplifiers. It would be nice if Alina learned how to continue to be good while also not being chastised for having these problems.

Zoya would be an example of a good, ruthless woman. That being said, this is not how the story treats her. It’s shown as an underdog taking her rightful place on the throne. She rises through the ranks and takes the title of Queen without having actually earned it. That would be good writing, accept again she’s shown as overcoming struggles and actually she deserves to rule Ravka.

Not every character has to be blood thirsty, but it would be nice if they were allowed to have some agency.

Genya is wonderful and inspiring. Or she was during the first and second books of the trilogy. After that she was watered down and entirely reduced to the role of a victim. Her personality went poof and most of the lines out of her mouth became about her being a victim. You could say that her “I am ruination” line was about her rising above her abuse. And it would of had it not come right after her abuser being sent away to some tropical town as a “punishment”.

The King obviously was not punished. But that’s entirely different than how LB writes it. She has Nikolai punish his family and send them away to as I said, some town in the colonies. Barely a punishment. That could be another great story idea, but this is shown as a good decision. The King was already losing his power over the country. Nikolai could of sent the King to prison, and dealt with him according to the law. Nikolai is the King’s son. It could been said in the story how this wasn’t a fair punishment. It could of been pointed out that Nikolai might of been hesitant to send his own father to jail. But Nikolai himself says that the King should be punished according to law. While you can argue that her abuser not being dealt with properly and according to law made Genya better off, it doesn’t really make much sense. It someone wants their rapist in jail, that doesn’t make them any less strong or inspiring. Same goes for if someone doesn’t rely on the system to take care of their abuser, or just doesn’t want the abuser in jail. But that’s not what was written.

What is Leigh Bardugo’s problem with writing women? She can’t seem to write (successfully write) a woman learning about her agency without shaming her in the process. She can’t let her female characters (notably Alina and Genya) find their way in the world and be independent. LB seems to barely be able to have a few female villains! I want an evil girlboss. I like the villains in fiction, I like how they are morally grey. It sucks that the Grishaverse has almost no villains that aren’t men. It does make one wonder… why? Is LB afraid of writing female villains? Shadow and Bone deals (or tries to deal) with complex themes of morality. She tries to show a young woman dealing with greed and attraction to power, but the narrative always seems to shame Alina in a very puritanical way. She must be loyal to one man (Mal, obviously). The Darkling (who seems to often represent sexuality and liberation) is evil and is corrupting our fragile main character.

With Genya, she was repeatedly violated by the King. She had an opportunity to exact her revenge, and she took it. She poisoned him. She stole years off his life. LB writes this in a way that makes it seem like she has committed some great evil. Later, she is obviously made to regret her choices and side again with Alina. Poisoning the King is bad. Getting back at the man who has hurt you time and time again is wrong. But it’s obviously not. Poisoning people is bad, but the story doesn’t seem capable to handle the fact that while poisoning people is bad, so is violating a young girl. The King of course faces no real punishment for his crimes and is sent on his merry way to live in the colonies.

Genya is made to feel bad in Siege and Storm for ever hurting Alina. Alina tells Genya that it was a betrayal that Genya sided with the Darkling. Maybe. But Alina also never acknowledges that this was the way Genya could get her revenge.

It’s another question of why would any Grisha side against the Darkling, but I won’t get into that.

So this brings me back to the question of why does LB not tackle these themes? She introduced these problems, and then she just ignored them. She could of written a wonderful, morally grey book series. Instead though she gives all her female character problems, but then has the characters simply be shamed and feel guilty for ever having these problems. This, at least to me, makes the entire thing look ignorant. Why can’t LB just… write female characters? Why can’t she do that? All these women are just shamed for ever having problems to deal with in the first place. Alina for greed. Genya for revenge. Both of them for daring to take agency and independence.

Sorry if this made little to no sense. Just a rant about LB’s weird writing choices.

[masterjedilenawrites]

The Sniper and The Medic: Chapter 10

Starring: Crosshair, OC Joan Vo

Chapter Warnings: Discussions of bullying, death, injuries, and other tragic things, offset by a lil fluff at the end

Taglist: @proadhog @skippyhopperwisdom

AO3 Link (In case you like it better over there, it’s okay, no judgement)

A/N: Just want to quickly apologize for the 2 week delay in updating this story, but also this will be my 99th post on this blog which is kinda fitting once you read it, so I guess some things are just meant to be...

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Chapter 10: Good Grief

He met her at the designated place that evening, barely able to contain the mixture of excitement and dread that welled within him. On the one hand, Crosshair welcomed any opportunity to spend time with Joan, especially after she had shown interest in wanting to grow closer to him. She looked as beautiful as ever when she joined him, wearing her cute little shorts and signature smile.

But on the other hand, they were running out of time. He deployed tomorrow afternoon. How could they possibly grow closer in such a short window?

And how could he possibly say good-bye if they did? 

He led her through the set of double doors and down a long hallway, keeping his strides as relaxed as he could, despite his every nerve being on edge. She walked fairly close alongside him, but nothing too scandalous. Not that it was likely they'd be caught. This part of the facility was more-or-less abandoned, only used to house the more rarely-used supplies for the maintenance crew. Half the walls were stripped of their usual white sheen, revealing cracked plaster and dirty insulation instead. Only a few like himself knew it was a good place to go when in need of some privacy.

But there was also something here he wanted to show Joan. A way to help her understand his life as a defective clone. He wasn't sure why the idea had popped into his head earlier; he should have just suggested the simulation room again, programmed it to a nice, romantic beach or something. But it was too late to go back now.

They neared the door in question and Crosshair punched in the code. He gestured for Joan to walk in ahead of him, wanting to keep an eye on her reactions.

It was barely considered a room, more of a corridor that was meant to connect this hallway with another. A motion-sensor light flickered on as they entered. Miscellaneous boxes and crates had been pushed up against the wall on the left, dusty and unimportant. It was the righthand wall that gave this space significance. It had long been reduced to its concrete foundation, and chiseled crudely over most of its surface were names and numbers. The largest script was in the top left corner, only two symbols.

"Ninety-nine," Joan read out loud as she stood in the center of the room and looked over the wall in reverence. "This is a memorial."

Crosshair nodded. "All the clones who've died here, never stepping foot into battle. Most of them defects, like 99. Their names won't be found anywhere else. This... is their only legacy."

She nodded at him solemnly in understanding. He watched as she brushed her hands over some of the etchings, fingers tracing the lines as she read them over. There were mostly numbers, many of them not having lived long enough to find a nickname. One of his own batch-mates had been like that, only living a few short years before his defective heart had given out. 

Crosshair tore his gaze away from Joan to find his brother's number on the wall. Beneath it was the second lost brother, who had made it just a little longer. Scraps, they'd called him. He brought his hand up to rest alongside their names, frowning deeply at the memories they gave him.

He felt Joan come to stand next to him and he swallowed hard.

"He was sick all the time, but he kept trying," he explained. "He was worse off than me, and yet I was the kid who cried every night, and he'd talk me down. He'd tell me we had to keep fighting, we had to prove them all wrong. And then one day... he was gone. He'd failed some test and they just... they took him and...."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Thankfully Joan didn't need him to. She laced her fingers through his and squeezed reassuringly.

"They told me I'd be next," he said, his voice getting lower. "The Kaminoans. The training Sergeants. The other cadets. With Wrecker, Hunter, it was obvious they'd be useful, their mutations were fine. But me? What was I good for? Who could look at me and know what I was capable of?"

His words hung between them for a short while before Joan gave another squeeze of his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Crosshair," she said and he knew she meant it. "You deserved better. They all did. But... I know this might not sound quite right, but without that pain, you might not have become as determined and passionate and committed and loyal as you are now."

He finally looked away from the wall and down at her, surprised that she remembered the words he'd once written for her, all those months ago. The words he believed embodied who he really was.

"You didn't let your past break you. You used it to make you stronger. You should be proud of that."

He had never been told such a thing before. He'd never been given permission to feel proud, to take ownership of his life. It made him feel... relieved. To know that all of his struggles could mean something made the burden of grief that much lighter to bear.

And to hear it coming from Joan made him feel things, too. He realized he wanted to kiss her. She was standing somewhat close, her fingers were still grasping his own. She seemed to be enough at ease, comfortable here with him, even in such a sad moment. But he panicked and looked away before he could act on such impulses. He still didn't know what she wanted, or any of the things she'd alluded to having gone through herself. It didn't feel right to make to such an intimate move yet.

"Um, we can talk about you now," he stuttered awkwardly, overly aware of how clammy his hand felt under hers. "If you want...."

She laughed a little, but it wasn't a joyful sound. "I'm afraid my story's not any happier."

"Oh."

She cocked her head a little and reached up with her free hand to lightly touch the tattoo around his eye. "Didn't get a chance to tell you before, but I really like this. It's perfect."

He smirked but kept his eyes carefully fixed on hers, waiting. She seemed to be deciding what she wanted to say.

"Not sure if you've seen my own." She tried to sound playful, letting go of his hand in order to turn slightly and show off the splattering of tattooed birds around the thick scar on her thigh. "It's... kind of a memorial, too."

Joan looked toward the wall and took in a measured breath. "When the war started, my family did what we could to help. But then comes the Republic with its grand, shiny new army, and they tell us they've got it from here. Go home. My parents listened... I didn't. I couldn't. No, I marched up to the first battalion I could find and I told them I'd be helping them whether they liked it or not. They were the 116th, led by Commander Crowe."

She held a small smile on her face, fondness peeking through the sorrow like rays of sunlight into a curtained room.

"Your brothers," said Crosshair knowingly.

"Mmhmm.... They were so good to me. They taught me everything I know. We went through so much together. And then one day..." she looked over at Crosshair apologetically as she borrowed his previous words to tell her own story, "my speeder exploded, messed up my leg really bad. I did everything I could to try and fix it myself, but we were short on supplies and it just wasn't getting any better. Crowe insisted I go to Coruscant for treatment. I didn't want to, I hadn't been apart from them in years, but there was no choice."

And then the curtains were snapped shut and all that was left on Joan's face was sorrow. Sorrow and darkness.

"They died while I was recovering. All of them. A single missile to their ship somewhere in deep space. And that was it. No more 116th battalion. No more family."

Instinctually, Crosshair reached for Joan's hand as she had done for him. She seemed surprised, breaking out of her haze and looking at his hand like it was the only thing grounding her.

"I should have died with them," she said in a hoarse voice. "At least, that's what I told myself for seven months. Until Cody came. He'd been good friends with Crowe, knew all about me. He told me to get over myself. That I was still alive for a reason and that I did nothing to honor their memories by letting myself waste away. And then he offered me a job, said I could help some of his other brothers, the way I'd done for the 116th."

Slowly her sadness was fading and Crosshair was grateful. It was easier to hold on to his own pain and learn to live with it, but seeing the same feelings in Joan had scared him. He didn't know what to do to help her. As she wrapped up her story, though, he began to realize that he already had.

"He said it was an experimental unit and that none of you would look like, well, the regular clones, so maybe it'd be easier for me to get back into it. And it was. I knew I loved all of you boys from the first day. You were all confident and eager. None of the battle-worn spirits I was used to dealing with. You gave me life again. Helped me rediscover my purpose. My passion."

She took a step closer to him, holding his hand back firmly.

"You were the tough one," she smirked. "You're so calm and relaxed, so sure of yourself. Any time I felt anxious or like I wasn't making a difference, I knew I could count on you to put me at ease. Even when you were a little sassy."

She giggled, but Crosshair's mind was reeling. She thought he was the assured one? This whole time she'd been seeing him the same way he saw her?

"And then, you know, you stood me up that one day," she sighed dramatically and then it was his stomach that started doing flips as the regret from his actions returned. "Which happened to be the, uh, anniversary of their passing.... And I didn't think I'd be able to do anything that day, except that I knew you'd be coming by, and so I actually got out of bed and did some chores and saw other patients.... And I was trying to think of ways I could keep you for longer than just a consult on your injury. I was going to have you teach me darts and maybe help me sneak some good snacks from somewhere or ask to get a tour of your new ship...."

She was looking up at him with bright eyes and the thought of kissing her returned. She was definitely close enough now, and as he made eye contact, she couldn't seem to remember what she was going to say next, her voice trailing off into short little breaths.

"I really am sorry," he said, stalling for time. He wasn't sure why he kept hesitating when it was something he wanted so desperately. So much for her thinking he was confident.

"I know," she said softly. Was she leaning closer or was he?

"I... I'm leaving tomorrow," he said.

"I know." Both of their hands were clasped in each other's now, pulses beating rapidly beneath hopeful grips.

"And," he kept going, even though the space between them was continuing to grow smaller, "I've never done this before."

"I know." She grinned, and that undid him.

Whatever self-conscious walls he'd put up for whatever irrational reasons came crumbling down as he finally closed the gap and pressed his lips against hers.

[adapembroke]

I Am a Magical Girl Living in a Material World

For a few decades in the 20th century, it was a common belief that Wicca was the reconstruction of an organized witch cult that existed as an alternative religion to Christianity in Europe for hundreds of years. Today, that story has largely been discredited, but it keeps coming back. The reason usually given for this persistence is that the idea is romantic, and people want to believe in it, so they don’t check their sources. I think this story survives for another reason: Because it’s kind of true.

I’m not going to argue against the evidence. There is no existing evidence for an organized witch cult that spanned the entirety of Europe, but there was something that was much better, a magical worldview that transcended religious lines and was shared by Christians and pagans alike.

This might sound absolutely crazy, but it’s an idea that has been studied for a long time, and there is a lot of evidence for it. (If you want to read more about if for yourself, I keep track of books I encounter that talk about it on my magical-worldview shelf on goodreads.) People in the past simply saw the world differently than we do.

Today in Western cultures, we see ourselves as islands of consciousness in a mechanical world. People in the past had a worldview that was much closer to animism. (Yes, even in Europe.) Everything around them was alive and participated in this great living organism that was the universe. Everything had meaning. There was no such thing as random happenstance because people saw themselves as pieces of the great body of the universe. A passing crow meant something for the same reason that an itchy toe means something. Everything that happened was the universe talking to all of its parts. Since everything that happened was connected, and people were included in that great living organism, everything was a message from the universe to us waiting to be translated.

It was for this reason that ancient cultures didn’t do anything without consulting a diviner. This is why ancient cities were laid out so that streets followed the path of the sun. This is why people were buried in tombs whose insides were illuminated by the sun for a few minutes each year during the winter solstice. These choices weren’t just metaphorical. People believed that keeping individual lives and society in harmony with the movements of the universe was as important as keeping the bones in their bodies aligned. A city that failed to consider the body of the earth and align itself with the cosmic order was as bad for the people as a dislocated finger would be for a body.

This view was rediscovered somewhat by Jung in the early-20th century. He called it synchronicity, noting that things are very rarely actually coincidental. While there are a lot of Jungians today who still stop and try to interpret strange coincidences, this view of the world is largely dead.

This creates a problem for witches because magic relies on a worldview of this kind. Magic relies on what we call “symbolic action” meaning something. Tables of correspondences are meaningless unless you believe that there is some connection between, say, basil and wealth. In a culture where the dominant paradigm included the interconnectedness of all things, your entire community stood behind you when you worked a spell.

This solidarity would have done a lot for a magical practitioner’s confidence, will, and belief. Before doing a spell, a magical practitioner wouldn’t have had to worry about looking ridiculous. It would have been easy for them to believe that their spell was going to work. They would have taken for granted that their working was simply part of the way the universe works in the way that we take it for granted that putting a mug of water in the microwave will create a mug of hot water. Perhaps more importantly, they would have been able to tap into a larger narrative that empowered their spell. Call it the collective unconscious or quantum whatever. Everyone at every moment is enchanted by the dominant worldview of the place they live, and people in the past existed in a worldview that believed magical, ritual, metaphorical actions had real meaning, and that worldview empowered each and every spell.

Today, we don’t have that. It’s possible for witches to band together to create subcultures that empower their belief, but groups like that are still swimming against the dominant materialist narrative that teaches that the earth is dead, and symbols are meaningless outside of poetry.

In order to do magic, we need to find other sources of power.

[blackrose-ffxiv]

A Shot Across the Bow 11/08

Idristan Agache moved with purpose down the path towards the beach. He had first been to the Tradehouse, but after failing to find the other Ishgardian, he had been forced to resort to less obvious methods of finding him. Fortunately, tall elezen dressed in black tended to stand out, even here. "Lebeaux!" he calls out sharply as he approaches. He's armed clearly, but his staff is still on his back. For now. The anger in his voice suggests that perhaps that might not remain the case forever, if things went badly. "We need to talk," he declares. Clearly pleasantries were not on the agenda for today.

Lebeaux Desrosiers stood calmly on the quiet beach. The Tradehouse was in an uproar about some special or another and he couldn’t even find peace in his own offices. The place that was generally avoided by anyone with any sense of self-preservation was currently occupied by a very chatty Duskwight who didn’t seem to understand that ‘go away I’m working’ meant shut up, even if he was only sitting around smoking somnus. The brief respite was broken by a sharp shout, a familiar voice calling his name with a very familiar anger. A shame. Here he was without his staff. Very well, there were always backups. He slipped his hand into his pocket as he turned, smiling serenely at the whitehaired man as he lifted a petite pistol that fit neatly into his large palm and leveled the snub-nosed barrel at the other medic. “Idristan. What a pleasant surprise. You can talk from there.”

Idristan does stop at that, his eyes narrowing as he studies the gunbarrel. His eyes occasionally flick from it to the other medic's face, before he finally seems to decide that yes, Lebeaux was probably a decent enough shot to make pressing the matter too much a risky proposition. Though then again, that had never truly stopped him before. His usual scowl seems to have deepened however. "Resorting to guns now Lebeaux?" he inquires. "Don't tell me your aether took that much of a hit." From the sound of his voice, he wouldn't be terribly upset if that was indeed the case. "Not that it matters. I'm only here because I want to tell you to leave her alone."

“Oh, that.” Lebeaux lowered the gun for the moment, but didn’t yet put it away. “You came all this way to threaten me to stay away from your little girlfriend.” He exhaled a laugh that could only be described as deeply sarcastic. “Have you already forgotten our ceasefire. If you attack me, even for her sake, that would be the end of it.”

Idristan's eyes flick briefly towards the gun once more as it moves, before resuming glaring at Lebeaux's face. At his sides his fingers curl into fists, and for perhaps a brief instant he seems deeply tempted to knock the laughter right out of Lebeaux. But then he draws in a deep breath. "Yes," he says through gritted teeth. "She would be worth it. And because," he continues quickly. "I'm sure you'd be quite happy to get rid of Lady Winter, if you thought you could manage it--and she wasn't included in our 'ceasefire'," he points out. Apparently he was fairly convinced that Lebeaux had already realized that as well.

Lebeaux moved closer, stalking slowly across the sand towards the shorter man. “I would like nothing more than to get rid of Lady Winter. And perhaps I shall have my chance.” He explained as he smiiiled at the other medic. “Someday. Strolling into Ishgard with the corpse of a dead heretic and known sympathizer would do nothing for me right now. Other than make me feel better about the situation. Hm, perhaps that would actually be good enough.” He mused as he turned to circle slightly around the other. “What luck there’s already someone who will take care of that for me. It doesn’t need to be by my hand for me to be satisfied.”

Though it is subtle, Idristan's stance shifts as Lebeaux draws closer, and he seems to instinctively tense. Perhaps the smile had something to do with it. That one always seemed to bode ill. "I would certainly consider you petty enough," he agrees. He doesn't quite turn to follow Lebeaux as he stalks around him, but instead tracks him with his eyes. He did have some pride, after all. At least, until Lebeaux's final words. At that his eyes widen, teeth clenching as he turns on his heel to look at the other medic head on. "And what," he begins slowly. "Exactly, you do mean by that?" he demands.

Lebeaux lifted his chin, smiling too-sweetly down his nose at the smaller man as he circled him before stopping with his back to the water again. “Is it truly so surprising that I would be the only one with the desire to see Lady Winter laid low?” He prodded. “The both of you are fools, to stroll along Kugane as though you haven’t a care in the world.”

Idristan moved to keep his eyes on Lebeaux. It likely looked a bit ridiculous, but at this very moment he didn't care. This topic, perhaps more than anything else, seemed to be a sensitive spot for him. "Of course not," he snaps. "But the fact that you're being vague makes me rather suspect you might be bluffing." That, in and of itself, was a bluff--one that he was hoping that Lebeaux would not call him on. "And as if you have not done the very same." As a number of unfortunate ambushes could attest to. "It's not like there are many of us here."

Lebeaux giggled at that. “That is the best part of the entire thing. This one doesn’t seem to be Ishgardian at all. She seems to make enemies wherever she goes. How fortunate for me.” He declared cheerfully. “Have you figured out who it is yet?” He teased.

Idristan actually takes a step towards Lebeaux at that. Apparently hearing the other giggle, of all things, was enough to temporarily break whatever hold on his temper he had. "As long as they're people like you," he growls. "Then I can hardly see that as a fault." Not that he likely would, even if they weren't. Poor thing seemed hopelessly smitten. However, something Lebeaux said seemed to make him pause. There was only one not-Ishgardian that immediately sprang to mind. He stares in disbelief at Lebeaux for a moment, then his eyes narrow once more in suspicion. "Surely you don't mean the duskwight," he demands, though internally his heart was sinking. That would be very, very bad.

Lebeaux didn’t flinch away from the small step forwards, but he did grip the pistol in his hand a little more tightly. “Oh, I don’t know. It can be so hard to tell them apart, can’t it.” He purred as he smirked at Idristan. “And there are ever so many around Kugane these days, aren’t there?” His head tilted thoughtfully, tapping the finger of his free hand against his own chin. “Shouldn’t you already know all of this? Don’t tell me… she hasn’t been telling you what she gets up to when you’re~ not~ looking~.”

Idristan seemed not at all impressed by this answer. "I suspect you know exactly which one I am referring to. And I would rather suspect not." Unless a certain other duskwight had done something truly stupid... He then stiffens, fingers curling as his mouth twists into a petulant scowl. "Don't be ridiculous," he snaps, lifting his nose slightly as he says it. "Of course she tells me. She wouldn't keep secrets from me." But he doesn't sound entirely convinced of his own words, even as he is saying them.

“Just as she told you when she left you all but standing at the altar?” Lebeaux mused as he took a small step backwards. He caught a small sniff of weakness there. Of Idristan not being entirely sure of himself. He had recalled the other Ishgardian’s low points and when he later ran into Idristan trying to get her back, it all sort of clicked into place. She had left him and now returned. “You have no idea, do you. You are a pathetic creature, Idristan.” He crowed brightly, waving the pistol lightly in the direction of the other man. “It would perhaps be a mercy to put you down once and for all. But then I do so enjoy seeing you miserable. I wonder, will you ask her. Would she tell you the truth? Or will you go skulk around and try to find what she’s been hiding from you all this time…”

Sure enough, that seemed to cause a crack in Idristan's attempt at trying to appear calm. Idristan snarls, fangs bared, and it appears as though he's seriously debating lunging at the other Ishgardian. Only the occasional gleam of light off the gun barrel is enough to cause him pause--and that only slightly. "It wasn't like that!" he snaps, but the pain in his voice suggests that no, it very much was. "And you're hardly one to talk! I doubt there's anyone who would even head up to the altar with you in the first place!" It was perhaps for the best he was unaware of where certain duskwights were at that particular moment. "And of course she would tell me," he adds, but his voice has grown softer--and for just a moment, he actually looks away from Lebeaux.

Lebeaux casually slipped the safety back on to the gun. If Idristan was going to attack him at this point it was unlikely that it would be anything calculated. Perhaps a slap or a punch at the rate he was going. The bastard seemed to be busier being angry with himself. Busier doubting himself and his newly rediscovered couples’ bliss. The moment Idristan looked away, Lebeaux struck. The pistol was turned in his hand and brought around to crack the bottom of it against the shorter man’s jaw with the intention of knocking him to the sand. The handle was inlaid with carved white wood and inlaid pearl, plainly made especially for the elezen’s personal tastes. “You are a fool, Idristan. You’ve always been one but now you’ve become reckless as well.”

Sure enough, Idristan was too distracted with his own thoughts to notice the gun coming towards him until it was too late to do anything about it. Wood and metal collide with flesh and bone with a loud crack. The shorter elezen half-stumbled, half-fell backwards, though it seems to take him a few moments to realize that he's sitting in the sand at all. One of his hands has gone to his chin, though whether he feared breaks or was simply in pain was an open question. Perhaps both. "Bastard," he growls, though the word is rather muffled.

Lebeaux stepped closer and gave the fallen elezen a kick for good measure to flatten him back onto the sand properly. “Pathetic.” He declared as he grinned down at the other Isghardian. “How strong must your relationship be if I can shake you so thoroughly with only a few idle musings. Is that why you felt the need to ambush me today. Playing the role of the loving partner soothes your worries and misgivings. Threatening me made you feel better, hm.”

Idristan lets out a yelp of pain and protest as a booted foot slams into him without warning (or at least, one he noticed. He was somewhat distracted at present). He looks up to cast a glare at Lebeaux, hate gleaming in his green eyes. "No," he spits. "I care about her. I wouldn't let someone like you hurt her," he insists, though there still seems to be the slightest hint of doubt. Not that he would acknowledge it. "I know what you're like," he adds, face twisting in pain and anger at the mere thought of what he could do to her, if given half the chance. "This isn't about me."

“Ohhh, I think it’s very much about you.” The medic reasoned as he walked slowly around the fallen man, looking like a professor preparing to give lecture. Yet if Idristan made the mistake of trying to get up or roll for his staff, he would earn another swift kick from Lebeaux’s perfectly polished boots. “You are angry at me for what I’ve done to you, understandable. Now here comes this relationship you so desperately want to work, this time. Because you just weren’t good enough last time. You couldn’t keep her. That will always be at the back of your mind, so you seek to be rid of any imagined threats by overreacting. Let me tell you, alpha posturing ill-suits you.” He teased, tapping the handle of the gun against his own hand to make his point. “You thought that threatening me and trying to scare me will give you some sense of security. Is it working, Idristan.”

Idristan actually flinches, though it's not quite clear whether it's at the memories that Lebeaux's words conjured, or else being told that he had failed. "No," he insists, despite the pain in his jaw. "It's very real. Inquisitor," he hisses, as if the word were a foul curse. "And she didn't leave because of me," he adds. Or at least, that's what she had said. He then falls silent, fingers curling in anger in the sand as he fumes. The teasing, however, does seem to finally do it. Greenish aether sparks around his fingers as he goes for the staff, apparently intent on showing Lebeaux exactly how well it was working. Violently.

Lebeaux inhaled sharply as Idristan lunged. The first thing he did was step forwards and bring his foot down hard, intending to catch the conjurer’s hand under his bootheel. The second thing he did was raise one hand to his ear, plugging it with a finger to protect his hearing as he pointed the pistol down and fired. The thing boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the rock walls around them. He had aimed wide intentionally, to blow a hole in the sand a little ways away from Idristan’s head.

Idristan barely has time to react as Lebeaux's boot slams down onto his hand. He starts to move the other hand, intending to attack with that, only to freeze as a loud bang goes off far, far too close to his head. He instinctively closes his eyes as sand sprays, and when he opens them he can't help but stare at the new hole in he sand. It seems to have drained some of the fight out of him as he looks back at Lebeaux, back towards the gun that he seemingly had temporarily forgotten in his anger. Well, he certainly wouldn't be forgetting it for awhile now; not with the way his ears were ringing.

Lebeaux knew firsthand that Idristan would be unable to hear him for a time after that, and his ears would be ringing for even longer after that. The weapon was deceptively powerful for its size. And there were two barrels. He still had another shot before he would need to reload. The medic didn’t bother talking but rather smiled down at the dazed medic. He leaned more weight onto his bootheel, grinding it against the back of Idristan’s hand. Making his point before he removed it and took a few short steps away. Perhaps allowing him up. Perhaps waiting for him to try so he could kick him again.

Idristan bites his lip, trying to stiffle the hiss of pain that was brewing as Lebeaux ground his foot into his hand. Yes, he seemed to get the message indeed. He eyes Lebeaux (or perhaps more accurately, the gun) warily, clearly suspicious of this. Then he slowly starts to get to his feet--or tries anyway.

Lebeaux was very seriously considering kicking him back down. Yet he simply smiled and allowed Idristan to climb back to his feet. “Very good.” He said loudly. “Now tuck your tail between your legs and slink back home to sulk and brood and feel sorry for yourself.” Fingers of his free hand flicked in a shooing gesture.

@roses-and-grimoires  

mention of: @secrets-and-aetherlight

[glittergummicandypeach]

If You Can’t Blame the Confederacy, Secede! | Abbeville Institute

American political theater has become the most entertaining show in town. Trump refuses to shake hands and Pelosi rips up his script.

This is red meat for the duly indoctrinated in the mainstream political parties, but in case you thought that Trump’s impeachment and subsequent acquittal would calm the waters and draw the final curtain on a five-month Greek comedy, the woke lunatics and their Girondist media allies have decided the show must go on.

And who can we blame? Why the Confederacy, of course, the fly in the ointment of good American government. If it wasn’t for those dastardly traitors of 1861 and their political progeny, America would be a glorious City Upon a Hill.

CNN’s John Harwood seems to think something nefarious is afoot from below the Mason Dixon:

While he clearly doesn’t know basic American geography or history, he certainly knows that the Confederacy is behind whatever problems ail America. How could these modern Confederates be so blind to the necessity of John Bolton’s important testimony, the same John Bolton whom leftists consistently called an untrustworthy warmonger until he had some dirt on Trump? They held the right opinion of Bolton before the show required a plot twist making the enemy of their enemy their friend. Except every viewer knew the end of the story before it showed up on the small screen. These people telegraph their punches like a drunk itching for a bar fight.

But Harwood’s geographic determinism thinly veils his real motivation: these Republicans who voted against his wishes are racist just like their ancestor traitors to the United States. And people wonder why Southerners still cling to the War, God, and guns.

The left won’t let them forget, except if they want to pack up or demolish a few hundred statues and remove the Confederate flag from every public space in the South.

“Hey deplorable, the War is over, except when we say it isn’t over.”

Of course, we all know that an independent South would be a vastly different country than the United States. The late Bill Cawthon did a splendid job explaining how several years ago.

And some leftists get it. The failed impeachment process has brought these woke secessionists out of the closet:

I’m all for it. “Jesusland” would be a pretty nice place to live and would be freed from the burden of being constantly overruled by some Yankee self-righteous do-gooder. It does, however, makes you wonder if “kim” realized that Trump is a byproduct of the U.S. of Canada? Maybe all these loving people north of the border are just bombastic jerks after all. Nah. That would make them Yankees, and Yankees are supposed to be the good guys.

Several hundred thousands dead Southerners would tell a different story, but what do they know? They were the ones who had the backbone to let the North go in peace in 1861 if they just sent the bluecoats back over the Mason Dixon. They tried “Jesusland” but were blown to pieces by Lincoln’s cannons. If they had their way, “kim” would already be living in a separate country.

And while the founding generation worried about the prospect of secession, very few would have wanted to go to war to prevent it. Patriots don’t kill other patriots, especially those who understood that self-determination is the bedrock of the American political tradition.

So who are the real traitors to America again?

Is Davis a Traitor? Or Was Secession a Constitutional Right Previous to the War of 1861? Albert Taylor Bledsoe, author, Brion McClanahan and Mike Church, editors Published a year after the war, it provides the best argument every assembled in one book for the constitutional right of secession. Everyone interested in the overall design of the Constitution ratified by the several States in 1788 should read this book.

Patrick Henry-Onslow Debate: Liberty and Republicanism in American Political Thought Lee Cheek, Sean R. Busick, Carey Roberts, editors A public debate carried on by President John Quincy Adams and Vice President John C. Calhoun under the pen names of “Patrick Henry” and “Onslow.” This important, but little known debate, about the limits of federal power is arguably more salient now than when it occurred.

Defending Dixie: Essays in Southern History and Culture Clyde Wilson A Collection of insightful essays on how Southerners think of themselves in the light of how they are perceived by outside cultural elites.

The Enduring Relevance of Robert E. Lee: The Ideological Warfare Underpinning the American Civil War Marshall DeRosa DeRosa uses the figure of Robert E. Lee to consider the role of political leadership under extremely difficult circumstances, examining Lee as statesman rather than just a military leader and finds that many of Lee’s assertions are still relevant today. DeRosa reveals Lee’s awareness that the victory of the Union over the Confederacy placed America on the path towards the demise of government based upon the consent of the governed, the rule of law, and the Judeo-Christian American civilization.

The Founding Fathers Guide to the Constitution Brion McClanahan An article by article and clause by clause analysis of the Constitution ratified by the founding generation of 1787 and 1788, a Constitution quite different from what the political class in Washington understands.

The Morality of Everyday Life: Rediscovering An Ancient Alternative to the Liberal Tradition Thomas Fleming Fleming (editor of Chronicles, A Magazine of American Culture) explains how the morality embedded in the ideology of liberalism leads to the decadence of morality in contemporary American society.

Forgotten Conservatives in American History Clyde Wilson and Brion McClanahan A study of thinkers who exemplify conservatism in a Jeffersonian idiom rather than a Hamiltonian.

In Search of the City on a Hill: The Making and Unmaking of an American Myth Richard Gamble A history of the "city on a hill" metaphor from its Puritan beginnings to its role in American "civil religion" today.

James Madison and the Making of America Kevin Gutzman Judged by Clyde Wilson to be the "standard" on Madison for sometime.

Nullification: How to Resist Federal Tyranny in the 21st Century Thomas Woods A readable, comprehensive treatment of the constitutionality of State interposition and nullification. Should be in the hands of every State legislator.

Nullification: A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 1: James Madison, Not the Father of the Constitution W. Kirk Wood

Nullification, A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 2: James Madison and the Constitutionality of Nullification, 1787-1828 W. Kirk Wood In this thoroughly researched and magisterial two volume work, Wood shows how nullification was an “American” constitutional principle (essential to republicanism), and not merely a Southern sectional one. And he explains how and why republicanism has been suppressed.

Rethinking the American Union for the 21st Century Donald Livingston Essays raising the question of whether the United States has become simply too large for self-government and should be divided into a number of Unions of States as Jefferson thought it should. (The book is signed by Livingston who wrote the "Introduction" and contributed an essay).

The Broken Circle David Bridges A historical novel (as close to historical detail as a novel can be), about Major James Breathed, an officer of horse artillery for JEB Stuart. Classically educated, deeply religious, and preparing for a career in medicine when his country was invaded, he reluctantly became a fierce warrior. He was wounded several times fighting from the very beginning to the end, in 71 battles. The Sons of Confederate Veterans recently awarded him the Medal of Honor.

Superfluous Southerners, Cultural Conservatism and the South, 1920-1990 John J. Langdale, III Explores the "traditionalist" conservatism that originated with John Crowe Ransom, Donald Davidson, and Allen Tate and continued with their intellectual descendants, Cleanth Brooks, Richard Weaver, and Melvin Bradford.

A Cautious Enthusiasm: Mystical Piety and Evangelicalism in Colonial South Carolina Samuel C. Smith Smith shows how Evangelical revivalism in the colonial South Carolina low country had origins in Roman Catholic mysticism, Huguenot Calvinists and German pietism. This disposition, usually identified only with Evangelicals, touched even high Anglicans and Catholics making possible a bond of low country patriotism in the Revolutionary era.

Fiddler of Driskill Hill David Middleton A collection of this prize winning poet’s work set in his home region of rural Louisiana, a place which views the world from a conservative, southern agrarian perspective. The fiddler is a figure of the traditionalist southern-agrarian artist.

Bourbon and Kentucky: A History Distilled Explores how distilling originated in Kentucky with it’s first settlers in 1775, and takes the viewer to the sites of Central Kentucky’s earliest distilling operations. Magnificent portraits and landscapes adorn the production.

The Southern Cross: The Story of the Confederacy’s First Battle Flag Chronicles the history of the design and creation of a flag that became the prototype for the famous Confederate battle flags. The hand-stitched silk flag with gold painted stars was borne by the Fifth Company of the Washington Artillery of New Orleans through the Battles of Shiloh and Perryville. The flag was designed and made for the army after the first battle of Manassas as a military necessity and wholly without the authority or even the knowledge of the Confederate government. Mary Henry Lyon Jones of Richmond, Virginia stitched the flag together. After Generals P.G.T. Beauregard and Joseph E. Johnston approved Ms. Jones’s flag, sewing circles of more than four hundred women in Richmond sewed 120 flags made from Ms. Jones’s original design.

Jefferson Davis: An American President The first and definitive documentary film on the entire life of patriot and president, Jefferson Davis. Across three beautifully shot and edited episodes, the full spectrum of Davis’ life comes into view: from his frontier origins and service to the United States as military officer, congressman, secretary of war, and two-term senator from Mississippi; to his rise and fall as Confederate President; through his unlawful two year imprisonment after the War; and finally covering his 25 years as a man struggling to find his place in a world in which it was no longer clear what it meant to be an American.

This content was originally published here.

[cksmart-world]

The completely unnecessary

new analysis

by Christopher Smart

April 28, 2020

THE GOP IS NOW THE POT

They like to say they are the Party of Lincoln, even though Republicans have stood in the way of civil rights, voting rights and equal rights since the mid-60s. Maybe they like beards and top hats, who knows. But in reality, it is now the Party of Trump — POT. With the exception of lonely Sen. Mitt Romney, who voted to impeach the president, Republicans have been in lock-step with the guy who bragged about grabbing women “by the pussy” and then screwed a porn star right after his wife had given birth. About 80 percent of the Trump/Republican $1.5 trillion tax cut went to the wealthy — as congressional Republicans cheered and took bows. As Mr. T goes on about protecting preexisting conditions in health coverage, administration attorneys are in court trying to kill it and Obamacare. More cheering. Many Americans are too busy to pay attention to such minutiae, which is good for the POT. But the coronavirus spoiled everything and revealed to even those carefree souls that the Blowhard-In-Chief can't lead in a crisis. All those shameless Republicans, who were pretending Trump wasn't completely whacked because they got Supreme Court picks and rolled back environmental protections, are now stuck to him like a fat guy on a porn star. The words “inject Lysol” will live in infamy.

RUSH LIMBAUGH AMERICAN HERO

OK, it's time we gave Rush Limbaugh his due. After all, President Trump did award him The American Medal of Freedom for his radio broadcast that began in 1988 and reaches 20 million real Americans. Rush keeps patriots firmly grounded in the good old days when men were men and Jim Crow kept people in their place. Remember this comment: “The NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons.” And when it comes to law and order, Rush is the best at calling a spade a spade: “Have you ever noticed how all composite pictures of wanted criminals resemble Jesse Jackson?” Remember the time Rush called Obama a “halfrican American” and played the song, “Barack The Magic Negro.” Was that a knee-slapper or what. And Rush tells it like it is on immigrants: “Some people would say we're already under attack by aliens — not space aliens, but illegal aliens.” And on same-sex marriage: "If same-sex fits the bill of the contract, then everything fits the bill," Rush said. "And at some point who's to say that you cannot have sex with a child... ." On women's rights, he's got the right answer, too: “When women got the right to vote is when it all went downhill.” Yep, when it comes to American values, there is no one like Rush Limbaugh. No wonder Trump gave him the American Medal of Freedom.

THE LYING BASTARD NEWS MEDIA

You know why Trump is always yelling at those stupid reporters and calling them Fake News? Because they are lying sacks of shit, that's why. Like this: On Jan. 22, when Trump said about coronavirus, “No, we’re not worried at all. And we have it totally under control.” It was the lying media that reported it. And on Jan. 30, when he said,“We think we have it very well under control... and we think it’s going to have a very good ending for it. So that I can assure you.” It was the lying media again. And on Feb. 10, when Trump said, “I think the virus is going to be — it’s going to be fine.” It was the damn news media. And on Feb. 27, when he said, “When you have 15 people [infected in U.S.], and the 15 within a couple of days is going to be down to close to zero. That’s a pretty good job we’ve done." Yep, lying bastard news media. And when Trump said he was “A war president,” and had “total authority,” the media reported that, too. And then they reported Trump saying: “I don't take any responsibility at all.” Then the media reported him saying this to governors: “Respirators, ventilators, all of the equipment—try getting it yourselves.” It's all a bunch of bullshit because the news media is just trying to make him look bad because they hate him. What other reason could there be?

WILL COVID 19 BRING BACK NATURE AND EQUALITY?

Abstinent pandas are now mating in quiet zoos. Wales have returned to the waters around Vancouver. And its quiet enough to hear birds sing in Chicago. From New York City to Wuhan, China the air is clear. The World Health Organization estimates that dirty air causes 4.2 million premature deaths a year. The question is, during this lockdown can we envision a better future or will we go back to pollution, noise and poverty that is guided by an inequitable financial system? Can we structure our lives without cars? Can we increase renewables? Can we put a higher value on the natural world? Can we make sure folks on the bottom of the economic ladder earn a livable wage with affordable health care? Can we come up with better government that isn't driven by an exploitive financial sector and its enablers? Jonathan Watts observes this: “Ultimately, the most important environmental impact is likely to be on public perceptions. The pandemic has demonstrated the deadly consequences of ignoring expert warnings, of political delay, and of sacrificing human health and natural landscapes for the economy.” Yet when we emerge from this scourge the economy will be in a shambles and the urge to get it up and running again may well eclipse any notion of conservation and equality. It need not be an “either—or” choice, but don't count on elected politicians to lead the way.

Post script — Well, sport fans that does it for another week here at Smart Bomb, where the staff keeps track of the president's cures for coronavirus so you don't have to. Times are tough, but there is a silver lining to all this — drive-in theaters are making a comeback. For the younger crowd it could be a great experience. There's nothing quite as entertaining as watching young people get drunk and vomit inside and out of their father's car. And, of course, it's completely virus free. For an added bonus, you can follow them to the car wash and watch as they wash off dad's car along with their pants and shoes. People have also rediscovered city parks. What's more joyful than taking the kids and the dog down to the park to chase ducks? It's the kind of thing money just can't buy. Neither the youngsters nor the dogs will ever believe they can't catch those slow, feathery waddlers — priceless. Another good thing about the pandemic is that people are finally seeing — after waiting in line for hours — that shopping at Costco isn't really all that cool. Who wants to stand in line for great deals, like a 48-pack of cinnamon rolls, anyway. Which brings us to home cooking and the resurgence of folks wondering how to use an oven. Time to bring the cookbooks out of storage. What is zest, anyway? Do we have a zest-maker? Ever wonder why people think cooking is fun. Some have about about had it with their own concoctions and are ready to brave the vagaries of coronavirus for some Gang Keow Whan. And really, who can blame them. The truth is, the staff here at Smart Bomb is jonesing for green curry, too. But since we don't dare make it, we're sending Wilson and the band on a mission to Archer Thai on 1100 East for takeout. And one day, we'll actually eat there again.

OK, Wilson, get the band to put down the Clorox and step out from the ultraviolet lights and play a little something from your old pal, Nilsson, to honor our commander in chief:

Now let me get this straight; You put the Lysol in the coconut You drank them both up You put the Lysol in the coconut, You drank them both up Called your doctor, woke him up, and said,

"Doctor, ain't there nothing I can take" I said, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?" I said, Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take"

You put the lime in the coconut, you drink them both together, put the lime in the cocount, then you'll feel better. Put the lime in the coconut, and call me in the morning

[pamphletstoinspire]

Part 7 - The Last Installment On Catholic Social Teaching: Solidarity, Part 2

Last time, in this space, we noted that the Church speaks of solidarity as both a “social principle” and a “moral virtue.” Further, the Church doesn’t hesitate to teach that the state has a role to play in helping to reform “structures of sin” into “structures of solidarity” — since such a task is simply more than an aggregate of individuals can achieve.

At this point, it is common for some to complain that the state intervening with the force of law (in some cases) to help alter structures of sin somehow makes it impossible for the individual to do his part too. But this is like saying the Civil Rights Act destroying the structure of sin called “Jim Crow Law” wrecked the possibility of private business owners hiring black people at a living wage. It’s like saying that if the state were to demolish the structure of sin called the abortion regime by overturning Roe v. Wade, it would ruin the economy by adding more workers and consumers to the capitalist system.

Still others complain that if the state creates a social safety net for the weakest members of society, this is “wealth redistribution,” and Scripture envisages nothing but personal charity as the way to provide for the common good. But, of course, the fact is that Jesus and Paul both tell us to pay our taxes — taxes are nothing but wealth redistribution for the common good. Paul insists in Romans 13 that it is the proper office of the state to provide for the common good. So long as it gets done and everybody benefits from the good thing our pooled resources help accomplish, what difference does it make if it was done through private charity or the work of the state? There are still plenty of opportunities after we have paid our taxes to help those in need.

This is not, however, to say that we are to then leave the work of solidarity and the common good to the state. On the contrary, the bulk of the task falls to us as husbands, wives, sons, daughters, workers, owners and citizens to make it our very personal and hands-on business to love our neighbors. After rendering his taxes unto Caesar, Jesus (who was so poor he had nowhere to lay his head) still found plenty of opportunities to go about doing good. It’s supposed to be the same with us.

According to the Church, solidarity has to be deeply personal, not farmed out to some faceless bureaucracy while we play couch potatoes. So the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Catholic Church continues, “Solidarity is also an authentic moral virtue, not a ‘feeling of vague compassion or shallow distress at the misfortunes of so many people, both near and far. On the contrary, it is a firm and persevering determination to commit oneself to the common good. That is to say to the good of all and of each individual, because we are all really responsible for all.’”

This is what St. James is getting at when he says, “What does it profit, my brethren, if a man says he has faith but has not works? Can his faith save him? If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and in lack of daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what does it profit? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead” (James 2:14-17).

It’s the same point Jesus makes when he declares, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day, many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you evildoers’” (Matthew 7:21-23).

Solidarity is deeply threatening to much of Western — especially American — culture because we have deeply internalized the belief that “my rights” are the sole concern of law and the sole criterion of the good is “consent.” The idea that we stand in a permanent relationship of debt to God, to all who come before us and to all who come after us is abhorrent to many millions. Nonetheless, we are debtors, owing more than we can even imagine, much less repay. In the words of the Compendium:

“The principle of solidarity requires that men and women of our day cultivate a greater awareness that they are debtors of the society of which they have become part. They are debtors because of those conditions that make human existence livable, and because of the indivisible and indispensable legacy constituted by culture, scientific and technical knowledge, material and immaterial goods and by all that the human condition has produced.”

We owe our existence — and the existence of all that is — to God. But we also owe an unpayable debt to all who came before us and to the vast, interconnecting web of relationships that sustains us at this very hour. Without the civilization they built — without language, Mozart, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Bible, the man who made the first shoe, the inventor of the wheel, the company who is making sure your electricity is on right now, the creators of the trucking network who made sure you got the meat for your Big Mac at lunch, the soldiers who stormed Normandy, your mom who taught you to tie your shoes, the Framers of the Constitution, the scribes who invented the alphabet, the people monitoring weather satellites, the nuns who invented hospitals, the people who discovered fire, the inventors of agriculture, the martyrs who died for Christ, the people who cooked up the scientific method, Augustine of Hippo, Thomas Aquinas, Hildegard of Bingen, Shakespeare, Les Paul, Ed Sullivan and Gregor Mendel — you and I would be bawling beasts in a howling wilderness and in all likelihood would have died in our infancy.

But we don’t just owe a debt to those who came before us. We owe a debt to pay it forward, just as they have paid it forward to us. We owe this debt because God has commanded us to love one another as he has loved us. That is how the debt is repaid, and by repaying it, we love the God who needs nothing from us and to whom we can give nothing that is not already his. Similarly, when we refuse to give generously (and this includes, especially, the forgiveness of enemies), we stand at peculiar risk of facing the same judgment of the servant in the parable who, having been forgiven a debt of millions by the King, turns on a fellow servant who owes him a paltry sum and treats him mercilessly. When the King discovers his treatment of his fellow servant and his refusal to “pay forward” the mercy he received, the King condemns him — not for his sin, but for his refusal to grant the mercy he himself received (Matthew 18:23-35).

Therefore, the Compendium calls us to exhibit “the willingness to give oneself for the good of one’s neighbor, beyond any individual or particular interest … so that humanity’s journey will not be interrupted but remain open to present and future generations, all of them called together to share the same gift in solidarity.”

Most of this teaching is both explicit and implicit in the natural law: the law written on the heart — what J. Budziszewski called “what we can’t not know,” the law known as the Golden Rule. But in the kingdom of God, grace perfects nature and raises it to participate in the life of God himself. And so the Compendium tells us that solidarity reaches its climax in Jesus, the Son of Man, who joins himself to our humanity, becomes poor that we might become rich and becomes sin for us that we might become the righteousness of God (2 Corinthians 5:21). As the Compendium says:

“The unsurpassed apex of the perspective indicated here is the life of Jesus of Nazareth, the New Man, who is one with humanity even to the point of ‘death on a cross’ (Philippians 2:8). In him it is always possible to recognize the living sign of that measureless and transcendent love of God-with-us, who takes on the infirmities of his people, walks with them, saves them and makes them one. In him and thanks to him, life in society too, despite all its contradictions and ambiguities, can be rediscovered as a place of life and hope, in that it is a sign of grace that is continuously offered to all and because it is an invitation to ever higher and more involved forms of sharing.”

In the kingdom of God, says the Compendium: “One’s neighbor is then not only a human being with his or her own rights and a fundamental equality with everyone else, but becomes the living image of God the Father, redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ and placed under the permanent action of the Holy Spirit. One’s neighbor must, therefore, be loved, even if an enemy, with the same love with which the Lord loves him or her; and for that person’s sake, one must be ready for sacrifice, even the ultimate one: to lay down one’s life for the brethren” (1 John 3:16 and John 15:13).

That is why the Church — and each of us — is bound to proclaim the Gospel to the whole world: because the ultimate aim of working for the common good is that each person become a participant, not merely in economic life, but in the divine life, a member of the Body of Christ.

Just as the point of Catholic economic teaching is that we become workers and owners of property as well as generous givers to the needs of others, so the point of salvation is that we become active participants in the work of God, not merely passive patients. So Paul teaches God has given each member of the body “varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of service, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of working, but it is the same God who inspires them all in every one. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good” (1 Corinthians 12:4-7).

For our destiny is that each person become a full participant in the joy of glorifying God, loving neighbor as oneself and the splendor of the new heaven and the new earth, where every member is given his or her gifts, as Paul teaches:

“… for building up the body of Christ, until we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ; so that we may no longer be children, tossed back and forth and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the cunning of men, by their craftiness in deceitful wiles. Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every joint with which it is supplied, when each part is working properly, makes bodily growth and upbuilds itself in love” (Ephesians 4:11-16).

BY: MARK SHEA

From: https://www.pamphletstoinspire.com/

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 6

Ituralde has a battlefield chat, Leane attempts Extreme Stone-Swimming, and Egwene would like the Tower to rediscover some structural integrity, both literal and metaphorical.

Chapter 6: When Iron Melts

(Happy second birthday to this liveblog...I’m not sure whether to be proud or vaguely horrified).

I like this chapter icon.

Oh hey Ituralde’s also been promoted from the prologues.

He’s on a battlefield, and he’s alive so I’d say the odds are good he won.

Indeed he has. So now his prize is that he gets to stroll through this lovely field of corpses.

What would be written of this battle? It would depend on who was writing.

This is good on its own, but it’s made better by the fact that it’s in the beginning of the first book by a different author. Which makes it weirdly meta-appropriate.

Soon a blanket of darkness would cradle the bodies, and the survivors could pretend for a time that the grassland was a grave for their friends. And for the people their friends had killed.

I like these sorts of aftermath scenes, when the chaos and adrenaline of battle has turned to a soft and weary reflection, and enemies and allies alike look the same in death.

The Seanchan general is not quite dead yet, so Ituralde goes to have a chat with him, and this feels almost like a scene out of one of Mat’s borrowed memories.

It felt odd to be out of uniform. A man like this General Turan did not deserve a soldier in drab.  […] “You’re him, then,” Turan said, looking up at Ituralde. […] “I am,” Ituralde said.

“They call you a ‘Great Captain’ in Tarabon.”

“They do.” 

“It’s deserved,” Turan said, coughing.

I love this as well, the mutual respect between two men who, only minutes or hours ago, were enemies. Two men who played a game against each other in which the pieces were other lives – including, now, one of theirs – and yet there is no resentment. Just acknowledgment of a game well played, and respect given to both the victorious and the fallen.

It definitely continues the ongoing trend of humanising the Seanchan, as well as adding to the sense that this is, to some extent, nonsensical. The Seanchan are invaders, and there’s the little matter of slavery, but then there are scenes like this, or like Perrin with Tylee, or Mat with Karede, in which there is respect and sometimes even friendship across what could turn in an instant to battle lines. But they all accept the inevitability of ongoing war as a given. Tylee says she hopes not to face Perrin on the battlefield…but nor can she make any agreements regarding the lands he claims to protect. Mat tells Tuon that she is not his enemy, but her empire is, and next time he sees Seanchan it will likely be in battle. Ituralde and Turan respect each other – though they’ve never met – but have this conversation surrounded by the dead. Ceasefire and accord should not be impossible – both sides are human, after all, and there is a far greater battle coming – but that’s sadly not how it works.

Turan wants to know how Ituralde managed this victory, and Ituralde just…tells him. They’re so calmly having this conversation, when one of them is about to die and so many already have, and even so there is far more admiration than anger. This is who they are, and this is what they do. It’s nothing personal; not really. And in other circumstances they could well have been friends.

Clever strategy, though. A decoy army – Patroclus would be proud.

Turan shook his head in disbelief. “You realise what you have done,” he said. There was no threat in his voice. In fact, there was a fair amount of admiration. “High Lady Suroth will never accept this failure. She will have to break you now, if only to save face.”

And it isn’t a threat. It’s not resentment. It isn’t even a warning. It’s just a fact, one general to another.

Though of course High Lady Suroth doesn’t exist anymore. But Turan doesn’t know that.

So now they’re just calmly discussing Ituralde’s plans and how to defeat the Seanchan and there’s nothing personal in it; they’re just talking trade. On a bloody battlefield. With one of them stabbed.

“You know you can’t beat us,” Turan said softly. “I see it in your eyes, Great Captain.”

Ituralde nodded.

“Why, then?” Turan asked.

“Why does a crow fly?” Ituralde asked.

Well that’s…admirable but also very sad. He fights because he has to; because they are an enemy and this is what he does and he can’t not. But it also adds to the feeling of inevitability, the feeling that Tarmon Gai’don may be little more than a punctuation mark in this ongoing conflict. And it’s sad because of the resignation here, the notion that fighting even when there seems to be no way to win, without ever truly considering that there could be any other option.

Turan himself must have known from the moment those gates opened that he was doomed. But he had not surrendered; he had fought until his army broke, scattering in too many directions for Ituralde’s exhausted troops to catch. Turan understood. Sometimes, surrender wasn’t worth the cost.

Fighting to the last, even when there seems to be no hope of victory – the whole idea of you surrender when you’re dead – has its place. But here, it’s shadowed by the question of if it truly has to be that way. If they should not instead be on the same side, because here they are talking calmly and not hating one another, and Tarmon Gai’don is coming, and they are both on the side of the Light. Which should be enough, and isn’t enough.

Anyway, I really like this whole conversation.

And Ituralde.

Abandoning one’s homeland to invaders…well, Ituralde couldn’t do that. Not even if the fight was impossible to win.

Except he very well may have to. For now, at least; who’s to say what may come after.

Again, it’s an admirable sentiment, and an admirable mindset to be able to take, but the question is whether or not it belongs here, in this particular fight. To which there may not be a simple answer.

It’ll be a good attitude to have when humanity is fighting for the entire world, though, so there’s that.

He did what needed to be done, when it needed to be done. And right now, Arad Doman needed to fight. They would lose, but their children would always know that their fathers had resisted. That resistance would be important in a hundred years, when a rebellion came. If one came.

I really like that. He’s not fighting a losing battle out of nothing but stubbornness or habit; he’s fighting a losing battle because he recognises that it may pave the way for someone else, for a future, for a chance to win even if he doesn’t live to see it. He’s fighting so that that chance can exist.

Turan struggled, reaching for his sword. Ituralde hesitated, turning back.

“Will you do it?” Turan asked.

Ituralde nodded, unsheathing his own sword.

“It has been an honour,” Turan said, then closed his eyes. Ituralde’s sword – heron-marked – took the man’s head a moment later. Turan’s own blade bore a heron, barely visible on the gleaming length of blade the Seanchan had managed to pull. It was a pity that the two of them hadn’t been able to cross swords – though, in a way, these past weeks had been just that, on a different scale.

Ituralde cleaned his sword, then slid it back into its sheath. In a final gesture, he slid Turan’s sword out an rammed it into the ground beside the fallen general.

A last honour, between two enemies who are enemies by duty rather than hatred, and who know each other all too well, despite never having met until now.

This is such a lovely scene, just the right flavour of bittersweet.

I’m vaguely surprised Ituralde is a blademaster, though. But I like the thought that he and Turan have been crossing swords, so to speak, this entire time.

[Ituralde made his way back across the shadowed field of corpses. The ravens had begun.

What a great line to end on, with its double meaning.

Is this a Leane POV? Cool. I like Leane.

Leane would like some better laundry options, or maybe a wardrobe, but otherwise she’s more or less okay witih her cell. Except, of course, for the fact that it’s a cell.

Her voice does come through here as being very practical and down-to-earth, which suits her.

The Amyrlin sat on her stool, expression thoughtful. And she was Amyrlin. It was impossible to think of her any other way. How could a child so young have learned so quickly? That straight back, that poised expression. Being in control wasn’t so much about the power you had, but the power you implied you had.

Perception and illusion. And also a dash of Egwene Is Just That Awesome, of course.

Leane acknowledges that last factor as well, because Egwene looks exhausted and Leane knows she’s being beaten multiple times daily, but she still visits without fail, and looks like the Amyrlin she is, and promises Leane she will free her.

Um?

Frowning, Leane looked at the bars, and was shocked to see Egwene’s handprints on the iron.

“What in the Light—” Leane said, poking at one of the bars. It bent beneath her finger like warm wax on the lip of a candle’s bowl.

Yikes?

When iron melts. And I doubt it’s because the Pattern wants Leane to be free. And now the stones are melting. So much for the Tower being strong…

Egwene grabs Leane and shouts at the Yellow guards to get off their arses and do something because seriously, does she have to do everything around here?

Leane is saved. And out of her cell. So that’s an improvement, though her dress might disagree, unless partial lithification is the next big thing in fashion.

“These sorts of events are more frequent,” Egwene said calmly, glancing at the two Yellows. “The Dark One is getting stronger. The Last Battle approaches. What is your Amyrlin doing about it?”

Damn. Calm, collected, and no doubt at least a little bit terrifying. And right.

Egwene 1 – 0 Other Aes Sedai.

Actually Egwene’s probably at several hundred by now but I lost track halfway through Honey in the Tea so let’s just say she’s wiping the floor with them. (Though actually it seems the floor is perfectly willing to wipe itself now).

And now Egwene. Who is, unsurprisingly, rather frustrated with the Aes Sedai’s collective inability to get their shit together.

If even the ground itself could not be trusted, then what could?

Cuendillar, maybe? Elaida’s ability to fuck everything up? Rand’s inability to tell a joke? Yeah, I’m running out of certainties, too, Egwene.

Oh and it seems the shitfuckery hasn’t finished. Pattern, go home, you’re drunk.

Maenadrin folded her arms, regarding Egwene with a set of dark eyes. Negaine, tall and spindly, stalked up to Egwene. “What business have you here this time of night, child?” she demanded. “Did a sister send for you? You should be back in your room for sleep.”

Wordlessly, Egwene pointed out the window. Negaine glanced out, frowning. She froze, gasping softly. She looked back in at the hallway, then back out, as if unable to believe where she was.

Egwene definitely deals with these incidents well. There’s no response she could have given, really, while maintaining dignity – trying to explain would have sounded like a mess. But this way she retains her composure, and they are the ones thrown into uncertainty and confusion. And she ends up looking calm and unshaken by contrast. Not like a novice at all, and more like an Aes Sedai than any of those who wear their supposed serenity like a brittle mask.

It appeared that two sections of the Tower had been swapped, and the slumbering Brown sisters had been moved from their sections on the upper levels down into the wing. The novices’ rooms – intact – had been placed where the section of Brown sisters had been.

That seems…geometrically improbable, to say the least. But sure, okay, no Aes Sedai were harmed in the making of this horror show.

That would leave the Browns divided, half in the wing, half in their old location – with a clump of novices in the middle of them. A division aptly representative of the less-visible divisions the Ajahs were suffering.

Thanks for explaining; I’m sure I would never have understood the metaphor on my own.

It is fitting, though. (Even if the rooms really shouldn’t fit).

The chapters seem shorter on average in this book thus far than in several of the previous ones, and I can’t say I’m complaining.

Next (TGS ch 7) Previous (TGS ch 5)

[carringtonmiles]

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How Win Your Ex Wife Back

[readbookywooks]

On the Doorstep

In two days going they rowed right up the Long Lake and passed out into the River Running, and now they could all see the Lonely Mountain towering grim and tall before them. The stream was strong and their going slow. At the; end of the third day, some miles up the river, they drew in to the left or western bank and disembarked. Here they were joined by the horses with other provisions and necessaries and the ponies for their own use that had been sent to meet them. They packed what they could on the ponies and the rest was made into a store under a tent, but none of the men of the town would stay with them even for the night so near the shadow of the Mountain. "Not at any rate until the songs have come true!" said they. It was easier to believe in the Dragon and less easy to believe in Thorin in these wild parts. Indeed their stores had no need of any guard, for all the land was desolate and empty. So their escort left them, making off swiftly down the river and the shoreward paths, although the night was already drawing on. They spent a cold and lonely night and their spirits fell. The next day they set out again. Balin and Bilbo rode behind, each leading another pony heavily laden beside him; the others were some way ahead picking out a slow road, for there were no paths. They made north-west, slanting away from the River Running, and drawing ever nearer and nearer to a great spur of the Mountain that was flung out southwards towards them. It was a weary journey, and a quiet and stealthy one. There was no laughter or song or sound of harps, and the pride and hopes which had stirred in their hearts at the singing of old songs by the lake died away to a plodding gloom. They knew that they were drawing near to the end of their journey, and that it might be a very horrible end. The land about them grew bleak and barren, though once, as Thorin told them, it had been green and fair. There was little grass, and before long there was neither bush nor tree, and only broken and blackened stumps to speak of ones long vanished. They were come to the Desolation of the Dragon, and they were come at the waning of the year. They reached the skirts of the Mountain all the same without meeting any danger or any sign of the Dragon other than the wilderness he had made about his lair. The Mountain lay dark and silent before them and ever higher above them. They made their first camp on the western side of the great southern spur, which ended in a height called Ravenhill. On this there had been an old watch-post; but they dared not climb it yet, it was too exposed. Before setting out to search the western spurs of the Mountain for the hidden door, on which all their hopes rested, Thorin sent out a scouting expedition to spy out the land to the South where the Front Gate stood. For this purpose he chose Balin and Fili and Kili, and with them went Bilbo. They marched under the grey and silent cliffs to the feet of Ravenhill. There the river, after winding a wide loop over the valley of Dale, turned from the Mountain on its road to the Lake, flowing swift and noisily. Its bank was bare and rocky, tall and steep above the stream; and gazing out from it over the narrow water, foaming and splashing among many boulders, they could see in the wide valley shadowed by the Mountain's arms the grey ruins of ancient houses, towers, and walls. "There lies all that is left of Dale," said Balin. "The mountain's sides were green with woods and all the sheltered valley rich and pleasant in the days when the bells rang in that town." He looked both sad and grim as he said this: he had been one of Thorin's companions on the day the Dragon came. They did not dare to follow the river much further to. wards the Gate; but they went on beyond the end of the southern spur, until lying hidden behind a rock they could look out and see the dark cavernous opening in a great cliff-wall between the arms of the Mountain. Out of it the waters of the Running River sprang; and out of it too there came a steam and a dark smoke. Nothing moved in the waste, save the vapour and the water, and every now and again a black and ominous crow. The only sound was the sound of the stony water, and every now and again the harsh croak of a bird. Balin shuddered. "Let us return!" he said. "We can do no good here! -  And I don't like these dark birds, they look like spies of evil." "The dragon is still alive and in the halls under the Mountain then-or I imagine so from the smoke," said the hobbit. "That does not prove it," said Balin, "though I don't doubt you are right. But he might be gone away some time, or he might be lying out on the mountain-side keeping watch, and still I expect smokes and steams would come out of the gates: all the halls within must be filled with his foul reek." With such gloomy thoughts, followed ever by croaking crows above them, they made their weary way back to the camp. Only in June they had been guests in the fair house of Elrond, and though autumn was now crawling towards winter that pleasant time now seemed years ago. They were alone in the perilous waste without hope of further help. They were at the end of their journey, but as far as ever, it seemed, from the end of their quest. None of them had much spirit left. Now strange to say Mr. Baggins had more than the others. He would often borrow Thorin's map and gaze at it, pondering over the runes and the message of the moon-letters Elrond had read. It was he that made the dwarves begin the dangerous search on the western slopes for the secret door. They moved their camp then to a long valley, narrower than the great dale in the South where the Gates of the river stood, and walled with lower spurs of the Mountain. Two of these here thrust forward west from the main mass in long steep-sided ridges that fell ever downwards towards the plain. On this western side there were fewer signs of the dragon's marauding feet, and there was some grass for their ponies. From this western camp, shadowed all day by cliff and wall until the sun began to sink towards the forest, day by day they toiled in parties searching for paths up the mountain-side. If the map was true, somewhere high above the cliff at the valley's head must stand the secret door. Day by day they came back to their camp without success. But at last unexpectedly they found what they were seeking. Fili and Kili and the hobbit went back one day down the valley and scrambled among the tumbled rocks at its southern corner. About midday, creeping behind a great stone that stood alone like a pillar, Bilbo came on what looked like rough steps going upwards. Following these excitedly he and the dwarves found traces of a narrow track, often lost, often rediscovered, that wandered on to the top of the southern ridge and brought them at last to a still narrower ledge, which turned north across the face of the Mountain. Looking down they saw that they were at the top of the cliff at the valley's head and were gazing down on to their own camp below. Silently, clinging to the rocky wall on their right, they went in single file along the ledge, till the wall opened and they turned into a little steep-walled bay, grassy-floored, still and quiet. Its entrance which they had found could not be seen from below because of the overhang of the cliff, nor from further off because it was so small that it looked like a dark crack and no more. It was not a cave and was open to the sky above; but at its inner end a flat wall rose up that in the lower I part, close to the ground, was as smooth and upright as mason's work, but without a joint or crevice to be seen. "No sign was there of post or lintel or threshold, nor any sign of bar or bolt or key-hole; yet they did not doubt that they had found the door at last. They beat on it, they thrust and pushed at it, they implored it to move, they spoke fragments of broken spells of opening, and nothing stirred. At last tired out they. rested on the grass at its feet, and then at evening began, their long climb down. There was excitement in the camp that night. In the morning they prepared to move once more. Only Bofur and Bombur were left behind to guard the ponies and such stores as they had brought with them from the river. The others went down the valley and up the newly found path, and so to the narrow ledge. Along this they could carry no bundles or packs, so narrow and breathless was it, with a fall of a hundred and fifty feet beside them on to sharp rocks below; but each of them took a good coil of rope wound tight about his waist, and so at last without mishap they reached the little grassy bay. There they made their third camp, hauling up what they needed from below with their ropes. Down the same way they were able occasionally to lower one of the more active dwarves, such as Kili, to exchange such news as there was, or to take a share in the guard below, while Bofur was hauled up to the higher camp. Bombur would not come up either the rope or the path. "I am too fat for such fly-walks," he said. "I should turn dizzy and tread on my beard, and then you would be thirteen again. And the knotted ropes are too slender for my weight." Luckily for him that was not true, as you will see. In the meanwhile some of them explored the ledge beyond the opening and found a path that led higher and higher on to the mountain; but they did not dare to venture very far that way, nor was there much use in it. Out up there a silence reigned, broken by no bird or sound except that of the wind in the crannies of stone. They spoke low and never called or sang, for danger brooded in every rock. The others who were busy with the secret of the door had no more success. They were too eager to trouble about the runes or the moon-letters, but tried without resting to discover where exactly in the smooth face of the rock the door was hidden. They had brought picks and tools of many sorts from Lake-town, and at first they tried to use these. But when they struck the stone the handles splintered and jarred their arms cruelly, and the steel heads broke or bent like lead. Mining work, they saw clearly was no good against the magic that had shut this door; and they grew terrified, too, of the echoing noise. Bilbo found sitting on the doorstep lonesome and wearisome-there was not a doorstep, of course, really, but they used to call the little grassy space between the wall and the opening the "doorstep" in fun, remembering Bilbo's words long ago at the unexpected party in his hobbit-hole, when he said they could sit on the doorstep till they thought of something. And sit and think they did, or wandered aimlessly about, and glummer and glummer they became. Their spirits had risen a little at the discovery of the path, but now they sank into their boots; and yet they would not give it up and go away. The hobbit was no longer much brighter than the dwarves. He would do nothing but sit with his back to the rock-face and stare away west through the opening, over the cliff, over the wide lands to the black wall of Mirkwood, and to the distances beyond, in which he sometimes thought he could catch glimpses of the Misty Mountains small and far. If the dwarves asked him what he was doing he answered: "You said sitting on the doorstep and thinking would be my job, not to mention getting inside, so I am sitting and thinking." But I am afraid he was not thinking much of the job, but of what lay beyond the blue distance, the quiet Western Land and the Hill and his hobbit-hole under it. A large grey stone lay in the centre of the grass and he stared moodily at it or watched the great snails. They seemed to love the little shut-in bay with its walls of cool rock, and there were many of them of huge size crawling slowly and stickily along its sides. "Tomorrow begins the last week of Autumn," said Thorin one day. "And winter comes after autumn," said Bifur. "And next year after that," said Dwalin, "and our beards will grow till they hang down the cliff to the valley before anything happens here. What is our burglar doing for us? Since he has got an invisible ring, and ought to be a specially excellent performer now, I am beginning to think he might go through the Front Gate and spy things out a bit!" Bilbo heard this-the dwarves were on the rocks just : above the enclosure where he was sitting-and "Good Gracious!" he thought, "so that is what they are beginning to think, is it? It is always poor me that has to get them out : of their difficulties, at least since the wizard left. Whatever am I going to do? I might have known that something dreadful would happen to me in the end. I don't think I could bear to see the unhappy valley of Dale again, and as for that steaming gate! ! !" That night he was very miserable and hardly slept. Next day the dwarves all went wandering off in various directions; some were exercising the ponies down below, some were roving about the mountain-side. All day Bilbo sat gloomily in the grassy bay gazing at the stone, or out west through the narrow opening. He had a queer feeling that he was waiting for something. "Perhaps the wizard will suddenly come back today," he thought. If he lifted his head he could see a glimpse of the distant forest. As the sun turned west there was a gleam of yellow upon its far roof, as if the light caught the last pale leaves. Soon he saw the orange ball of the sun sinking towards the level of his eyes. He went to the opening and there pale and faint was a thin new moon above the rim of Earth. At that very moment he heard a sharp crack behind him. There on the grey stone in the grass was an enormous thrush, nearly coal black, its pale yellow breast freckled dark spots. Crack! It had caught a snail and was knocking it on the stone. Crack! Crack! Suddenly Bilbo understood. Forgetting all danger he stood on the ledge and hailed the dwarves, shouting and paying. Those that were nearest came tumbling over the rocks and as fast as they could along the ledge to him, wondering what on earth was the matter; the others shouted to be hauled up the ropes (except Bombur, of course: he was asleep). Quickly Bilbo explained. They all fell silent: the hobbit standing by the grey stone, and the dwarves with wagging beards watching impatiently. The sun sank lower and lower, and their hopes fell. It sank into a belt of reddened cloud and disappeared. The dwarves groaned, but still Bilbo stood almost without moving. The little moon was dipping to the horizon. Evening was coming on. Then suddenly when their hope was lowest a red ray of the sun escaped like a finger through a rent in the cloud. A gleam of light came straight through the opening into the bay and fell on the smooth rock-face. The old thrush, who had been watching from a high perch with beady eyes and head cocked on one side, gave a sudden trill. There was a loud attack. A flake of rock split from the wall and fell. A hole appeared suddenly about three feet from the ground. Quickly, trembling lest the chance should fade, the dwarves rushed to the rock and pushed-in vain. "The key! The key!" cried Bilbo. "Where is Thorin?" Thorin hurried up. "The key!" shouted Bilbo. "The key that went with the map! Try it now while there is still time!" Then Thorin stepped up and drew the key on its chain from round his neck. He put it to the hole. It fitted and it turned! Snap! The gleam went out, the sun sank, the moon was gone, and evening sprang into the sky. Now they all pushed together, and slowly a part of the rock-wall gave way. Long straight cracks appeared and widened. A door five feet high and three broad was out -  lined, and slowly without a sound swung inwards. It seemed as if darkness flowed out like a vapour from the hole in the mountain-side, and deep darkness in which nothing could be seen lay before their eyes mouth leading in and down.