#and maybe he took an example not from the first civilization but from the divine society

[ts-rua]

Do you think Kuras deliberately caused wars and chaos for the sake of laughter, or did he accidentally share deadly knowledge simply because he thought that since the first civilizations lived in this way, it means that this is a normal development for all other civilizations? 🤔🤔🤔

[little-mad]

Downsides of Thievery Pt. 12

~ Previous Part ~ Next Part ~

Gavin felt completely emotionally drained. Between being insulted by Ashryn and threatened by Rael, all he really wanted to do was crawl into a hole and hide from the world for a little while. There was no part of him that was ready to face the alteon Emperor--to be judged and sentenced. Gavin wasn’t even sure he had the energy to plead his case at this point.

As much as he just wanted to run away, there was no escape for the human. He was trapped on top of a gigantic desk. The massive items nearby almost seemed to taunt him, reminding him of how small and insignificant he was in this dimension. “You’re pathetic,” the quill sitting in its inkwell a few feet away seemed to say. “You’re all alone,” Gavin imagined a massive roll of parchment sneer.

“Great, I’ve sunk so low I’m starting to imagine inanimate objects talking to me,” Gavin thought bitterly to himself.

Meanwhile, the alteon Emperor loomed over the human like some kind of divine monument. The man almost looked ethereal, as if he walked straight out of a storybook. His skin, which appeared nearly flawless, was of a cool brown color. He shared Rael’s long black hair, but rather than tying it back, the Emperor wore his down, with a few strands done into intricate braids. As seemed to be the case with all alteons, the Emperor’s eyes were of a striking, vibrant color. Those yellow irises were focused in on Gavin, holding him in their intense stare.

In terms of dress, the Emperor certainly looked the part. He wore a jeweled band around his head that appeared to be made of silver--which matched the metal that made up the leaf shaped earring that hung from one of his pointed ears.

With the Emperor sitting at his desk, it was impossible for Gavin to see a majority of the man’s apparel, but what he could see looked incredibly lavish. The tunic was of a deep blue color and was decorated with silver embellishments along the hemlines. No doubt the garment was made of silk or some other similar luxurious fabric.

“We have much to discuss,” the Emperor began as he looked down at Gavin. “But first, I believe introductions are in order.” There was no hostility in the man’s voice. Unlike with Ashryn, Gavin didn’t detect anything disdainful or accustatory in his tone. Instead, the Emperor seemed perfectly calm and polite; he even wanted to engage in civil greetings. “My name is Ailred. I am the son of Lyris, and the Emperor of Iaela,” he announced smoothly, the words clearly ones he had said many times.

Considering both Rael and the Emperor had introduced themselves without surnames, Gavin had to assume alteon’s didn’t utilize them in the same way many human cultures did. The Emperor had presented himself as the son of “Lyris” though, something Rael had not done. Were he in a better mental state, Gavin may have pondered why that might be, but given the circumstances he would just accept it and move on.

It took a long moment of Gavin just standing there frozen, shifting uncomfortably under the Emperor’s silent stare, before he figured out he was expected to say something. “He wants me to introduce myself,” he realized.

How the hell was he supposed to get himself to speak? This was maybe the very first time Gavin had zero desire to say anything. He didn’t trust himself anymore. The last time he’d opened his big mouth, he’d ended up with a giant hand slammed down beside him. Now imagine the consequences that could await him if he said the wrong thing to a damn Emperor.

At the same time, remaining silent was hardly an option either. Refusing to comply with the Emperor’s wishes could just as easily have frightening repercussions. Gavin really and truly was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

After a few seconds of internal panicking and frenzied thinking, Gavin spoke up. “My name is Gavin--uh Gavin Stone,” he managed to spit out. He tried to force himself to maintain eye contact with the Emperor, but every fiber of his being was begging him to look away from that intimidating gaze.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Gavin Stone,” the Emperor replied, giving Gavin a nod of greeting before turning his attention beyond him. “Rael, I trust you encountered no issues in retrieving Mr. Stone?” he inquired, reminding Gavin of the fact that his former captor remained in the room, just a few yards away.

“There was no trouble from the humans, your majesty; however I did run into some brigands in the woods who attempted to abduct the prisoner,” Gavin heard Rael explain from behind him. “The offenders did manage to escape, and for that I offer my sincerest apologies.” God, Rael almost sounded like a different person when he spoke to the Emperor. Not that Gavin had any real grasp on what kind of person Rael was. He’d learned that the hard way.

A frown developed on the Emperor’s face. “You did your duty in protecting the human,” he began. “What I’m more concerned with is the fact that these criminals were bold enough to attempt to interfere with Imperial business.”

“Greed can drive you to do some pretty stupid shit,” Gavin thought to himself bitterly.

After a moment of silent contemplation, the Emperor sighed. “I suppose we’ll need to increase the number of patrols in the surrounding woods,” he concluded. “I’ll also have you meet with Captain Saida later to coordinate a search for these would-be abductors.”

If Kaydin and his female associate were smart, they would already be getting as far away from the palace as possible. Gavin could tell the Emperor was serious about this, so if the two thugs didn’t get some major distance from the scene of the crime, there was probably a high likelihood they’d wind up getting caught.

“Now,” Gavin instantly felt the intensity of the Emperor’s gaze return to him, “you are here because you were caught stealing from an alteon diplomat while they were visiting the human realm, correct?”

Suddenly Gavin felt like he was back in elementary school, being forced to answer questions the principal already knew the answer to. The Emperor already knew what the human in front of him had done, and yet he wanted to see Gavin admit to it himself.

Biting back an exasperated sigh, Gavin gave a nod of confirmation.

“And you understand that because your crime was against an alteon, you were brought here to face judgement?” the Emperor inquired, continuing to watch Gavin with those hypnotizing yellow eyes.

Gavin nodded again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get away with giving non-verbal responses forever, but he wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. Not only because he didn’t trust himself not to say the wrong thing, but also because he wasn’t sure how he was meant to refer to the Emperor. Rael had called him “your majesty” earlier, but the idea of saying something like that sounded so strange to Gavin.

“I realize as a human you are unfamiliar with alteon customs, so allow me to explain the situation,” the Emperor started. “Typically, when I am called to judge a criminal, it is done as an official trial in which nobles and all involved parties are present.”

Gavin supposed that wasn’t altogether different from the trials back home. Of course, rather than having a jury of his peers, Gavin would be judged by the Emperor and the Emperor alone.

“However,” the giant monarch continued, “because you are human, the circumstances are different. I believe a large-scale event would do more harm than good in the long run,” he explained, folding his hands atop the desk. Gavin tried not to focus on them for long, because he and giant hands really weren’t on good terms.

While he was glad to hear he wouldn’t be subjected to some grandiose trial in which he’d be trapped in a room full of a bunch of alteons staring at him, Gavin wasn’t entirely sure alternatives would bode any better. If the Emperor had no one around to criticize his decision, he could be as cruel as he wanted.

“In the meeting which preceded this one, I discussed with my advisors various potential sentences,” the Emperor went on. “I also requested input from Ashryn, as he has some experience interacting with humans,” he added, looking at Rael when he said it.

Gavin suppressed a scowl. He was sure any input from Ashryn had been exceedingly negative. For whatever reason, the guy had it out for him--or maybe he just had it out for all humans in general for some reason.

“Ashryn’s position on the matter was that you need to be made an example of,” the Emperor stated, quickly erasing any doubt that that asshole had a vendetta against humankind. “His suggestion was that you be made a spectacle of, perhaps by placing you in a cage and displaying you in the front hall for visiting nobles and the like to view.”

An instant feeling of nausea came over Gavin. He felt absolutely sick to his stomach. Ashryn was beyond just a dick, he had to be some sort of sadistic demon. The suggestion that a living, breathing, intelligent creature be caged and put on show like some kind of zoo animal was abhorrent. Gavin could hardly even believe what he was hearing.

“Your majesty, forgive me, but doesn’t that seem a bit excessive?” Gavin heard Rael ask incredulously. What was with that guy? Not ten minutes ago he was yelling at Gavin and standing up for his alteon soldier buddy. Now all of a sudden he supposedly cared about what happened to Gavin? It just didn’t make any sense.

The Emperor gave a small shrug. “I don’t know, some of my advisors seemed to like that idea. They believe that if Gavin Stone isn’t properly made an example of, then more and more humans will think they can get away with crossing alteons.”

What was Gavin supposed to do? Should he try to stand up for himself, to excuse what he’d done? Would it even matter? He had committed the crime, that much was fact. So would any excuses even make a difference? He tried to read the Emperor’s face, to look for some kind of sign that he would be understanding, but the man had an expression that was virtually unreadable. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

-

Of course, of course Ashryn would advocate for some cruel, antiquated punishment for Gavin. It was obvious the guy had some inexplicable resentment towards humans, certainly more than Rael had ever had. He’d been of the opinion that they were inferior, fairly irritating creatures, but never would have gone out of his way to ensure they suffer. Ashryn, on the other hand, seemed eager to see Gavin endure the worst.

And what was worse? The Emperor hadn’t immediately dismissed Ashryn’s suggestion. How could he even consider it? Surely he would never subject even the worst alteon criminal to the humiliation and indignity that would come from being locked in a cage and put on display. Yes Gavin was human, but he was still an intelligent, sentient being. He didn’t deserve to be treated like an attraction.

But what could Rael do? He was in no position to question the Emperor; doing so would be suicide for the reputation he’d worked so hard to achieve. He had to wonder whether the information that Gavin had in fact been hired to steal from the diplomat would impact the Emperor’s decision.

Gavin himself seemed pretty convinced that that bit of information wouldn’t change anything, so it was doubtful that he’d speak up about it. Rael wasn’t convinced. Surely if the Emperor knew Gavin had just been used by somebody else, he would be less harsh with the punishment he issued.

Rael couldn’t speak up about it. He had already taken a great risk with his previous comment. Continuing to speak out of turn in favor of a human criminal could end up reflecting horribly on him. The Emperor may begin to question his loyalty. Rael couldn’t put that all on the line for the sake of a human of all people...right?

The memory of Gavin’s fear-stricken face flashed through Rael’s mind. He cringed internally at the mental image. Gavin had clearly had some level of trust in him, the look of betrayal he’d worn made that much evident. When Rael had used his far greater size and strength to scare the human into submission, he’d shattered any trust that may have developed between them. He had taken the side of Ashryn, someone he hated, rather than risk his status by standing up for Gavin.

Yes, what Rael had done had been the right thing to ensure his reputation remained in good standing. But if it had been the right thing to do, then why did Rael feel so miserable about it?

“If you have something to say on the matter, you have my permission to speak up,” the Emperor told Rael, clearly sensing his hesitation.

“I can’t say anything, I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to risk it for some human!” one part of Rael’s mind insisted, but he was finding that voice was quickly becoming quieter and quieter.

While it was difficult for him to believe he could make such a profound difference, Rael couldn’t help but worry that what he said next could seal Gavin’s fate one way or the other. The Emperor was watching, waiting for a response. Rael had to make up his mind. “Yes, your majesty. I have information concerning Lady Elyth’s stolen ring.”

[anna-dreamer]

Warning: some anti-Valar and anti-Eru atheistic rambling follows. I get critical about philosophy of Arda. Now, my opinion might be misinformed, because of course there is so much to learn about Tolkien’s work! But right now it is this way, and i choose to express it. If that’s not your cup of tea, please keep it civil. If things like that trigger you, i suggest you skip this post. 

Last time my friend and I were rewatching Return of the King we once again took notice of this heathen kings of old line. I thought that maybe it was a reference to that time the Numenorians got into Melkor worship. Now the book tell a slightly different story, and the kings who burned themselves were obviously different kings, lesser ones. (Jeez, this built-in lessness just sucks.) So i went googling, and this article was very helpful. And it got me thinking once again about the peculiar state of religion in Middle-Earth, how it kinda is there, but also kinda is not. 

I very much enjoyed this work that goes deeper into the relationship between The Numenorians and the divine powers of that world. It draws an exiting parallel between the Akallabêth and the Biblical Exodus narrative, and it filled some blank spots in my understanding of the authorial intent when it comes to religion and faith in Arda. 

Now i read Tolkien works for the first time as a young adult. My childhood knowledge of his works was all derived from the movies. So coming to the text of the Hobbit, and especially Lord of the Rings and Silmarillion, i was already an established media consumer, reader and d&d player. The sheer lack of religion in the world-building back then struck me as a huge hole in this world. I even remember me as a child, with no knowledge of any background, asking, So Gandalf professed his hope that this new Age should be blessed. But by whom? What do these guys believe in? And i know that even people who are intimately familiar with the Legendarium often choose to ignore this areligious nature of peoples of Arda. 

A big example is Finrod the Opera, a rock show performed here in Russia, and it is... not the greatest, but it does grow on you. So almost all the characters there invoke Eru’s name. Melian, upon realizing Thingol has sent Beren to get a silmaril, says, My only hope now is for Eru’s grace. Finrod, arguing with Celegorm and Curufin, says, Thank Eru, I’ve never wanted revenge! Luthien, recounting her first encounter with Beren and seeing death, says, Eru be my witness... And so on. Hell, i met a girl during one performance, and we went to the bathroom together, and seeing me frantically fix my elven ears she said to me, Let’s go, for Eru’s sake! So yes. By inertia and out of habit the fantasy consumers, geeks, roleplayers, and so on, feel the need to ‘complete’ Tolkien’s world, because they feel like something is missing.

Now, I know only too well that it is missing very much on purpose. And i as a reader have come to except it as a fact - yes, this world is meant to be seen this way. Nothing is broken here. 

The thing is, i personally don’t like the way it is. And i indeed was lucky to have read Tolkien’s works as an adult, cause i already have an established value system. And here it doesn’t click with me. While peoples of Arda are mostly areligious, there is a built-in truth of what to believe in if you claim to be good. And if you happen to not like the Valar or even disagree with Eru himself, then welcome to the heathens. You probably will die. In Tolkien’s world, it seems everybody who is not ok with the divine powers ends up doing crazy evil shit and dying. (Or they just disappear from history and never return. I really want a spin-off about the Avari.) And if you are the Noldor, simply leaving Aman is apparently bad enough, not even counting the murders, though the Valar kinda keep it ambiguous and insist they restrict nothing. Now i wonder why does it feel so sketchy?.. Yes, i do not appreciate the Valar, nor do i appreciate Eru. He has a lot of inherent Christianity-inspired problems, starting with being a really shitty parent. I wanna write more about it in a separate post, so i’ll stop here. 

So it is curious. Apart from the way it was in Numenor, there is no organized religion in this world. But there is a built-in true faith, and one has to accept it. If they don’t, then surely their pride or lust for power will corrupt them. There is only one way to salvation. All others lead to demise. Boy, sometimes this world feels so stuffy. But i still love huge portions of it.

The main thing i appreciate about Tolkien’s work is that it teaches me to like things and at the same time be critical of them. And while Dragon Age, which i also like and get deeply frustrated with at times, exists in a more flexible medium, Tolkien’s work is there to stay as it is. While many elements in it are unfinished and are left for us to interpret, it is hard to argue with its spirit and emotional core. Although, who am i kidding, people have and will continue to try! I must admit i respect that. 

[kuramirocket]

On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan. 

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs. 

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

Other Source

[concrete-weed]

It’s hard to be a god (Malcolm Reed x reader)

summary: Reader pretends to be a goddess. Malcolm needs a hug.  trektober day 7- interspecies relationship                                                                    words:  1,877

read on AO3 here

-

When you first heard of the new "humans" your ship encountered, you mostly thought were quite brash, going into space with a barely finished ship and all, but during the weeks you lived among them, your opinion changed for the better. Humans are very different from your own species. Much louder for sure, but you eventually grew to like them.

The human ship was wrecked, their puppy dog approach to first contact wasn’t working so well. Starfleet had allowed four aliens to serve on Enterprise until the end of her mission, helping both diplomacy and the state of the human ship. Working on Enterprise has been a treat. You have been a doctor for three years. Working with doctor Phlox has offered many learning opportunities, so your career wasn’t suffering. Your social life, on the other hand, certainly was. You talked to the people you knew from your ship, but for the most part, they were in engineering while you were slaving away in med bay.

You had a friend in a few people, Hoshi, for example. You spent many lunch breaks helping her understand your language, not an easy task by any measure, and learning a human language called English. Through her, you have met most of the bridge crew. It was peculiar to watch them all interact.

One human, in particular, caught your eye, Malcolm Reed. He was a bit quiet for a human, which fascinated you. His dark hair and light eyes seemed majestic to you.  You knew that staring was considered rude by human standards, but the first time you met him it took Hoshi nudging you in the ribs to get you to tear your eyes off the mysterious human.

During your second month aboard Enterprise, captain Archer got a call from Admiral Forrest, saying that a planet 5 lightyears away is requesting immediate help with a medical crisis. All medical personnel were working day and night to find a cure, you being no exemption. For a week you were absolutely exhausted, so when captain Archer went down to your quarters to tell you were going to are on the away mission, you didn’t even register it until the debriefing.

“Okay, so this is a bit bizarre, ” God you were all so tired,” but the government insists that the locals will only accept our help if doctor L/N pretends to be their goddess of health.”

What?

“Half of the population already believes this is a gift from the gods anyway. I doubt you would need to make any change to your behavior.” Archer continued monotonously. With a civilization as evolved as theirs, he expected no interference from religion, no such luck.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said uneasily, “are you sure this is a good idea?”

“As much as I think that this is a ridiculous request to make of you doctor, I hope you will at least consider putting on this act. Malcolm and his men will be there if anything goes”.

Now you were here, standing in a long drapey light green dress. All of the away team was dressed in traditional clothing, leaving them a bit uncomfortable. The only people left in a Starfleet uniform were two security officers with phasers by their sides. Captain Archer insisted that the lieutenant needed to wear the strange clothes and respect the culture as the highest-ranking officer there. Malcolm’s clothes were similar to yours, the same shade of mint, the same writing along the edges of the garment. You unfortunately didn’t have time to think about what that meant. While doctor Phlox was teaching local doctors how to treat the deadly disease you were paraded around all the temples that were built in ‘your’ honor.

In them you saw many paintings that depicted the goddess and were eerily similar to you, almost all of them depicting the sick crying out to their goddess, hoping to be cured. The goddess was a little bit taller than you, her eyes a little more penetrating, even through the pictures, but essentially you were lead through the main room in that temple, looking at heart-wrenching scenes of yourself, saving the damned.  In some, the goddess was surrounded by other deities, her most common companion a shorter man, usually carrying a small child.

Finally, you got a break. Apparently, as the tour exclaimed, divine being needed to be given food before sunset, or the mortals around them would be punished. It seemed terrible to live like this, afraid of godly wrath every second of life but since you could do nothing you just went along with her.  She insisted that you should take your meals separately from your security detail, as the rest of the away party were all male. Malcolm pulled you aside from the woman.

“Are you sure this is safe? You will be alone in the dining hall.” Said Malcolm, pragmatic as always.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. If anything is suspicious, I’ll just com you okay?” You answered hoping your voice sounded optimistic. You touched Malcolm’s upper arm in an attempt to comfort him. your gaze met his. You saw love in his brilliant blue-grey eyes. Or did you? Damn your wishful thinking. You quickly turned, walking back to the tour guide, you face a mask of calm, hiding your emotional turmoil.

The meal prepared for you was delicious but you couldn’t focus much on the conversation. Thankfully, your tour guide talked enough for the both of you.

“It is so wonderful you decided to come down to us! We have been awaiting your help for months.” you swore her nasal voice was going to drive you crazy, “My Lady, are you feeling okay?” you started stuttering out your answer but the guide cut you off. “Oh, you don’t have to explain yourself. We all have marital problems!” she added playfully. Marital problems?  

“Excuse me?” You hoped that your confusion won’t ruin the mission.

“My Lady, Archana? Oh, what does he go by now? Maco? Malcolm? Are you not married yet in this reincarnation?”

You remembered that during the tour the guide has mentioned that reincarnation was a major part of their mythology, still, the fact that she thought that you and Malcolm were married made your cheeks heat up. If you remembered correctly, the male deity, in this case, the god of protection, gave his life to protect his loved ones. The god will reappear in the next year, and the cycle will begin again.

“No. I’m afraid not,” you answered, trying not to choke on your drink.

“Well, I hope you find each other soon” she continued eating with a smile on her face.                                                                          

The meal continued in comfortable silence, your mind racing. Marrying Malcolm sounded like a dream, even if marriage was slightly different on your planet. Hoshi encouraged you to speak to Malcolm about your feelings, but the prospect of rejection terrified you. You preferred to live in this pathetic yearning state, maybe it was time to stop dreaming and take action.

-

Being back on the ship felt amazing but you were certainly nervous. For some reason ever since you got back Malcolm hasn’t even looked at you. His avoidance was becoming unbearable, the very second you entered a room he all but ran out. Your emotional side screamed each time but you wished to respect his wishes so you did nothing. Over time you felt worse and worse. You started working longer and longer shifts. Hoshi and Travis were starting to be worried. Dealing with heartache is unpleasant in the best conditions but dealing with it and being homesick, stuck on board an alien ship must be a thousand times worse.

Hoshi has convinced you to come to movie night. Before you could actually enjoy whatever old human movie, Trip put on you had to figure out what you had done to Malcolm and how you can reverse it. You cherished the unclear relationship that had been built between you and if you can’t be with Malcolm, at least you can be his friend. You may suffer but you would do anything to bring Malcolm happiness. Malcolm seemed sad to you. His smile not reaching his eyes, his body a little too tense.

You just got off your shift. You felt horrible, but if you stop now you will turn back to your quarters and never confront Malcolm. The dull grey walls seemed like they were closing in on you. You heard your heart beating. Malcolm was hard enough to get to know.  Letting him go is even harder.

The time you waited for his door to open felt like hours. Malcolm opened the door, hair messy from sleep. He seemed to awaken in seconds when he saw you, his eyes wide open.

“Listen, Malcolm,” your voice growing increasingly desperate, “I don’t know what I have done to offend you, humans are so confusing, but if you- “

His sarcastic chuckle caught you off guard. “You haven’t done anything. Please come in. We need to talk.”

Taking a deep breath, you walked in.

His room seemed vacant, almost militaristic. Everything was in its place. His clothes were perfectly folded and put away. What little pictures he had hanging completely straight. The room was almost shining, with no speck of dust visible. The only chair in the room was near Malcolm’s desk. You assumed he didn’t have much company over.

You stood awkwardly near the door, having no idea what you should do. You felt like an intruder in his space, your body taking up too much space. Malcolm seemed at ease. He sat down on his bed and gestured for you to sit down in the chair. He looked down, silent, thinking about his next move. God, it was a mistake to come here.

“I guess I owe you an explanation,” he stopped, taking a deep breath before continuing, “Remember when we went down to that planet? The one we helped with the plague?” you nodded slowly, “while you had to pretend to be the goddess of health, I had to be your,” he hesitated, “partner. The reincarnation of some god of protection, I believe. When we got separated some guards joined us. They didn’t think I was worthy of you, I’m afraid.” Malcolm’s voice quivered, seemingly trying to hold back the emotion currently showing. “To be honest, I agree with them.”

A tense silence fell over the room.  The engine’s hum being the only noise in the room. You moved to the bed and sat at Malcolm’s side, your shoulders touching. Malcolm looked at you, at little taken aback at your sudden move.

“I thought you were angry at me. I can’t convey how relieved I am Mal.” You said, not carrying if the happiness in your voice sounded strange, “I hope you know how amazing you are. That you’re valued and loved by your friends. I can’t convince you of that right now, I know, but I also hope that you will let me stick around and prove it.” You closed the distance between your lips, your heart beating against your chest. He kissed back softly, a bit awkwardly at first. You broke away, needing to take in air. Malcolm spoke:

“Have dinner with me?”

“of course.”

[mycreativereach]

The Birth of Oron

Colossus’ raw power, wolverines’ adamantine claws, Captain America's unbreakable shield, the powers of the Greek gods, and the hierarchy of the archangels. These are but a few to name of the heroes I would watch growing up.

I was always a fanboy for superheroes, especially marvel. I had my time with DC, but I was always more drawn to the stories of the X-men or other superheroes within the realm of the marvel universe. Other means of fantasy such as Lord of The Rings and anime such as one-punch man and Dragonball Z played a part as well, but it was a few that stemmed from my childhood that allowed me to develop Oron the character you read today.

Colossus

To say that fantasy and heroes have had a slight impact on my novel is an understatement. I remember getting up early Saturday mornings, roughly around 8 am, to catch a list of cartoon shows that would appear on Fox. Over a few years, the shows had moved around and switched but I always remember waiting to watch the 90’s nostalgic marvel show x-men. The always progressive stories of wolverine’s trust issues and macho feud with cyclops, gambit’s Casanova chivalrous tendencies towards rogue, and Professor X’s forever dilemma of accepting the very humans who hate him while teaching mutants to be at peace with civilization was what I loved about the show. I couldn’t wait to rush to the carpet in front of my tv and sit for two half-hour episodes. At the time wolverine had been my favorite mutant and marvel character for that matter and still is. But the character that helped shape Oron was colossus. I remember seeing him for the first time, his mutant power of being able to enwrap himself in metal which tremendously increased his raw strength and power reeled me in. His character traits of being a humble Russian farmer with roots of loyalty and fighting for good is also what attached me to him even further. From that point on until this very day, colossus is still one of my top favorite marvel characters and has also helped pave the way for me to creating my character Oron. I knew I wanted Orons characteristics to be someone who came across as hard and cold on the outside because of the lore I had built around him, but I wasn’t exactly sure how I wanted him to look. Eventually between coming across colossus combined with my love for bodybuilding and the aesthetics that bodybuilders bring is ultimately the reason why I created Oron to have more of a menacing appeal to my readers. But as for the color of Orons skin, it’s funny that Oron turned to be blue. I have gotten feedback both negative and even some positive saying Dr. Manhattan has played a role in this decision I made. They are similar in some respects but in all honesty, it had nothing to do with that character. The sole reason is that I like the color blue and decided to go with a lighter or sky blue. Navy blue is my favorite to be exact, but I Liked a light shade of blue that looked on Oron and then decided to keep it. I had gone through several other stages of Oron with different colors and patterns and other anatomical appearances, but I felt none of them looked well enough as the color that he ultimately ended up with.

Sarevok

Another character that played a role in the creation of Oron was the main antagonist of the well-known RPG-pc game from the 1990s Sarevok Anchev from Baldur’s Gate. Still one of my favorite villains ever, Sarevok had the menacing appeal of height, increased strength, and malice that caused him to be feared. But it was his assured intelligence and allured determination that made me enjoy his character. Although I like the version of Sarevok from Baldur’s gate, it is the expansion to Shadows of Amn in Throne of Bhaal that was the version that piqued my interest for Oron. Sarevok at this point comes forward to help his brother, the main protagonist in the entire storyline. The evil aura still emanated from Sarevok but as you play out the game, or read the books, you, in turn, find out that even though this once archrival of yours had been your most bitter enemy was nowhere to help you even with the ominous characteristics he still had. This helped give me an idea to develop Orons past as being one of sorrow and negativity while helping Aurelia and although being a stern teacher, Oron meant the best for Aurelia. There were certain differences between the characters but also some similarities as well in the ways of how they displayed their care for the person they trying to help and the determination and confidence they expressed through their cold hard demeanors with Orons being more serious and Sarevoks attitude animating more of a serious but sinister malevolence.

Marvels Cosmic Hierarchy

Getting older I started to really dive into the cosmic hierarchies of Marvel. The vast powers in the universe always intrigued me as to how powerful they could become and how different beings would clash against one another. Being limited to the capabilities we have as humans always made these stronger beings look much more appealing because I knew it was physically impossible to achieve their prominence of power. Characters like Galactus or the In-Betweener from the marvel cosmic hierarchy would always possess jaw-dropping crazy abilities and crash with other beings of good or evil in the universe. I wanted to adapt powers such as this into my storyline, but I wanted to also make sure the readers knew that no matter how powerful one could seem, everything in my universe can be defeated. We might look at Oron and think that he’s a God of some sort, an undefeatable being with extraordinary abilities. But the truth is Oron could be matched by other relevant powers as well. In Marvels Hierarchy, the order of power is laid out for you to see who is the strongest and weakest of that order, although it's subject to change at times since some beings get stronger and others weaker. But what I enjoy is that even though there is an order of strength of power that doesn’t mean someone of weaker status can’t defeat another being of higher ranking. Because there are so many factors that help accumulate the ranking status of powers you are never fully solidified in that position and can be destroyed. As Marvel fans would know, we saw this when master order and lord chaos put aside their differences and joined together to destroy the living tribunal who was considered the second to the one-above-all who is the strongest entity in the marvel universe. Another example was how the Knull, the divine leader of the symbiotes, such as the one called venom from Spider-Man appeared from the multi-verse and decapitated a celestial, who were known to be some of the strongest beings in the multi-verse at the time. As much as there are hierarchies sometimes there are powers that seem to have been forgotten or hidden away to avoid detection. And even though there is a list of hierarchical power such as the one Oron is a part of you maybe never be truly undefeatable with other powerful beings that roam the universe.

 Greek Gods of Old

Another form of lore that helped shaped my character Oron was the tales of the Greek Gods from Mount Olympus. The many stories and fiery battles between themselves and also the titans intrigued me the most out of the many legends they were a part of. Their supremacy and dominance over Earth and its inhabitants were similar to what I wanted to implement in how Oron was perceived. Each Greek god had a role to play in part to help civilization keep structured. They each had an array of followers, some more than others, and had cities dedicated to their names. They were worshipped and in term bestowed their blessings upon the strongest of their followers and warriors. But Out of all the gods I always gravitated towards Poseidon and Hercules the most. Poseidon’s because of the wisdom yet commanding presence the god held and Hercules because of the demi-gods valiant heart and brute strength. So, you can say these didn’t exactly correctly tie with Oron but there are similar traits from these characters and the motions of the Greek Gods that inspired some of the character traits in Oron.  Although Oron is a hard-pressed individual he still flows with wisdom from the amount of experience he has gained from his years of life as Poseidon expressed through his many gatherings with other Gods and mainly Zeus. Oron’s strength seems to be unmatched and comes off as an omnipotent figure, similar to Hercules, to the people of Earth. As you read along in the novel you come to see Orons shortcomings and also weaknesses which were important for me to show. But whatever Greek God it was, even though they were far beyond mortals, they could have weaknesses emotionally and physically. You could be strong-willed and mentally equipped but even the Gods can be shaken just like when they had to battle the titans for their freedom.

Christian Biblical Hierarchy and its Powers

Growing up I was brought into a family with moderate practice of the Catholic Christian religion. Every Sunday for several years we would go to church and celebrate the name of God like a lot of other Christian families and live our lives as close to those religious morals. Needless to say, as I got older I drifted farther away from the specific ideological catholic beliefs when it came to how we were created. I still did and currently have a belief that there is some sort of greater being in the universe, but I have concluded that I have no idea what it is. For all I know it could be some greater intelligence that has no shape or form. It could be some superior alien race that decided to use humans as a test subject for their own means of biological experimentation. Or maybe we collided with other forms of substances and we weren’t the direct creation from any being at all, just a number of substances colliding together which then took billions of years to create our bacterial organisms that finally evolved into what we are today. Personally, I don’t believe in the latter of the possibilities, I think there is some sort of greater being or spirit, intelligence, or energy, whatever you want to call it, but have no idea what it is. But as I started to sway away from Catholicism the stories of the archangels and powers within the bible didn’t leave my mind so easily. Reading upon how God created the Earth and then the archangels and other stories such as Able and Kane piqued my interest. This was the foundation for the background lore of Illithesium and also my wanting to add Oron to a hierarchy of characters that belonged to the Christian religion but with my own twist. God's love with the strength of Michael and Lucifer's fallen grace would play a role in Illithesium and Oron but differently from how the bible displays it. Oron and these characters were beings of great power, yes, but they could be destroyed and were not immortal as we learned growing up in religion class. They had physical forms and could be spoken to although through a language far beyond our capabilities. Their legendary powers displayed in the bible also are showcased but in a way that it could be explained and understood in a more somewhat scientific down-to-earth method. Adding Oron to the lore of characters that I grew up reading about and knowing with adding many different featured twists was creatively fun. And the lore thickens as I’m currently writing the second book which you’ll get to see hopefully sooner rather than later.

 My Love for Bodybuilding

As I mentioned up above, bodybuilding has been a part of my life since I was 18 and has allowed me to view life in a specific way. If you want results, then you need to go out and earn them by taking necessary calculated actions in order to have success. By doing this over years I build a physique I had once admired and still admire, for myself through hard work and dedication. Involving myself in bodybuilding and reading upon bodybuilders and strength lifters is what really caused me to adopt a specific look to my character Oron. Now not all my characters look as big as Oron as I want physiological diversity in my novels, but the results one can get from weightlifting and the many ways you can build your body are shown through all my characters. But the reason why I chose Oron to not only be tall and broad but heavily muscular was to give an idea of what a superior being far beyond human capabilities can look like at physical peak performance. But an even bigger and more lasting impression I wanted to leave on my readers was that even the mightiest and biggest beings have demons they have nestled inside them. The strongest of us also have skeletons in their closet they’d like to forget that always come back to eventually haunt us. It was to show that it's normal to have to face your fears and to overcome them. It was a combination of respecting the hard work and ethic that goes into building a body as bodybuilders do, whether they be natural or not, and the strength that has to be applied to overcome the adversity of everyday life obstacles, injuries, and more. And to know that a being that may be tall and strong with power none the likes have seen before can still be shattered as nothing in the universe was made to be perfect and will eventually break under certain pressure.  

Last Thoughts

Oron became a staple in the Illithesium novel and to find out more you’d of course have to read up on the book to see what happens. I hope you enjoyed the character of Oron as much as I did create him and giving him life while watching him grow throughout the novel.

If you liked what you read here or have any questions, comment below or send me an email and I’d be happy to chat with you!

[planetofsillyhats]

(CW: General mid-antiquity misogyny)

Today is Transgender Day of Visibility, so I'm re-upping one of my short essays about one particular trans-woman particularly worthy of visibility: Ancient Rome's loopy god-queen, Elagabalus.

Elagabalus was the 25th Emperor of Rome--and also its first Empress. Born Sextus Varius Avitus Bassianus, she was by modern standards very obviously transgender, and would probably have been delighted to be addressed as Sexta Marcellina, her proper feminine name by Roman conventions.

She was raised in Syria, and was already the head of a major state religion: the worship of the solar deity El-Gabal, whose pedigree is entwined both with Christianity and with Islam. She ascended to the throne at the age of fourteen, succeeding the man who killed her cousin Caracalla and tried to rule in his place--because this was the tail end of the Severan Dynasty, and things were starting to go downhill for Rome. She did this by personally leading the final charge at the Battle of Antioch in 218 AD, actually helping to rout the usurper’s army and claiming Imperial honors for herself that very day. Picture that for a minute: a charging Roman legion led by a fourteen-year-old girl, then the same legion hoisting her on their shields and proclaiming her Imperator. The fact that everyone thought she was a little boy doesn’t really make it any less badass.

Unfortunately, this would be both the high point of her career, and the last time she’d ever have much real power. Once Marcellina settled down, she was little more than a puppet for her grandmother, Julia Maesa, who had tremendous ambition and, as a cisgender woman, no legitimate way of fulfilling it. This gave the Empress a whole lot of spare time to explore her identity--and while her strict henotheism ruffled feathers, and she may not have made many friends in high places for possibly inventing the whoopee cushion, what really made her unpopular was her sexuality.

Romans were a fairly enlightened bunch for the ancient world; they really didn’t care about race or religion one bit. If your faith didn’t involve infringing on the rights of others, they left you be---and the only religions they ever persecuted outright were the ones that involved human sacrifice (like the druids), theft (like certain Dionysian cults who supposedly ran around the countryside naked and slaughtered other people’s cattle), or sedition (like the Christians, who didn’t just refuse to pray to the deified Emperors, but wouldn’t even pray TO their own god FOR the living ones). Their only real social vices were their class issues--which were somewhat lessened by the fact that even the Senatorial elite were little more than a rubber stamp for the Emperor--and their staggering, galloping, ludicrous misogyny.

And when I call the Romans misogynistic, I don’t mean they were “just” sexist the way most modern Americans are, with our sometimes invisible biases and quietly nasty patriarchal worldview. I mean they really, flat-out, openly despised women and anything feminine. To illustrate the difference, Americans are homophobic partly because we have often unthinkingly sexist biases that make us see sex with a man as feminine and femininity in a man as bad. The Romans had the same attitude toward homosexuality, but they were so massively misogynistic that they went and romanticized certain types of gay relationships anyway, because keeping little boys as sex slaves at least proved you weren’t mooning away over--gag--a girl. And lesbianism was considered a form of frigidity; you weren’t really attracted to women, you were just being irrational and man-hating, which could be cured by sufficiently vigorous rape.

This was not a good environment for a teenaged transgirl with unlimited executive power, is what I’m getting at.

One of the things that I think people don't think about enough with regards to the ancient world and its cast of Great Men is how incredibly young a lot of these legendary characters are. Alexander the Great, for example, was... well, first off, he was basically Genghis Khan, but we root for him because he was a rich white guy. But more importantly, he was younger than me when he conquered Persia--which explains a lot about him, like the time he got really, really drunk in 330 BC and burned down Persepolis, probably resulting in a morning-after scene that looked like Cecil B. DeMille's The Hangover. All the the legendarily loony Roman Emperors were also twentysomethings at best--Caligula was the old man of the Bad Princeps Club at twenty-five, and his reign was less about real tyranny than sexual experimentation and snarky performance art. Nero was sixteen, and reading actual accounts of his reign, it very much shows--he was dramatic, emo and bratty, and desperate for attention and approval.

Marcellina was fourteen years old, trapped in a male body, and ruling a city-state where just wearing what would be considered normal men's wear back in Syria--colorful silks, some tasteful jewelry, and a practical bit of eyeliner to keep out the sun--got her ridiculed as a foppish, Oriental despot. But undeterred by legendary Roman normative biases, she took advantage of her Imperial prerogative to do what, to my knowledge, no other person in Western history had up to that point: live openly as a transwoman. She wore women's clothing, took male lovers, and famously offered huge sums of money to any doctor or wizard who could transition her. Of course, this was the Iron Age, so nobody took her up on it, and she still had protocols and traditions to follow--so she got married, tried to produce heirs, did all the usual Pater Familias stuff. But at some point, after the first year of her reign, she seems to have just given up and, like Caligula, entered a rather mean-spirited "just fucking with everyone" phase. She executed people, gave out cabinet positions to lovers, and didn't seem to care about actually ruling anymore.

Now, Romans were really, really nasty to people who didn't fit within their sexual norms--but they also used sexual deviancy as a form of slander in itself, so it's very hard to say just how much of the legend of Elagabalus the Crazy Syrian Drag Queen(tm) is really true. It's doubtful, for example, that she actually held a banquet at which several tons of flower petals were dumped from the rafters, smothering many guests. It's a safe bet, though, to say that she didn't take her marriage vows seriously at all, and seemed to enjoy taking the mickey out of Roman sexual mores. On one occasion, she married a virgin priestess of Vesta, left her for the wife of a man she'd had executed, and then dumped her to go back to the vestal virgin--who she may have married just for the sake of a joke about siring divine children. She went through five wives over the four years she reigned--but the whole time, her true love and only real companion seems to have been her chauffeur, Hierocles, who in my mind's eye is always portrayed by Darren Criss. She wasn't allowed to marry him--there are some things even an Emperor can't do--nor was she allowed to make him her co-ruler. But she did stick with him, and it looks to me to have been genuine teenage puppy love--just about the only thing in her life that was just right.

Now, isn't this just a little bit first-world-problemy? What can really go wrong if you're the ruler of all Western civilization? Well, if you recall, I said that Sexta reigned for only four years--in 222 CE, she and her mother were murdered by their own elite bodyguards, her kid brother Alexander was installed as the new Emperor, and the Romans set about trying their darnedest to erase her from history, or at least paint her as the worst thing since the RIAA. Does her reputation as the worst ruler Rome ever saw hold water? Not really. Could she have been better? Maybe--but so could Rome.

[neargaztambide]

Civilized Games

Summary: just a fast question... do you like play chess?

Words: 1.630, almost.

Text made for the Stan Twins Celebration Month, idea from @thestanbros (week number two: BIRTHDAY).

WARNING: This story in its beginning may not seem about the Stan twins, but this requires understanding the metaphorical language (and the bizarre, strange and referential language) that has content. It is not for being pretentious, but it will make you think a little. Also, this story plays and changes a little the prompt for this week. You’ll know of what I’m talking about later.. Enjoy.

Two people were heading to a table: a chair for each. On the table was nothing more than chess boards, which were sixteen wide and nine long. The two armies looked at each other: one pink, the other yellow. These were ready to kill the opponent, and give the ultimate victory to their owners. The leader of the yellow was a class lord: Victorian outfit, monocle included. His opponent was a woman in a white dress, who took the pink figures. Neither spoke. They looked at each other, and continued without speaking. The woman put her arm on a pawn, and moved it just one square. "I suppose you are very insecure about moving, right?" The man moved a pawn in two positions. The woman did not speak, until she moved her first pawn again, one step again. "You know perfectly well what this game implies, and who will care about the result." "And what if they never find out?" “You have always been like this: you obscure everyone you met” The woman moved to keep her king intact, and the other wanted to attack, to go straight for the head. “. And you always think that everything can be false, unless it is in your favor. You are purely egocentric.” The man silently glared at the woman, not knowing how to contradict what she had just said. They kept playing, and so it got slower and more boring. After the initial phase, movements became more thoughtful: winning was everything. Losing was far worse than a simple endgame. "So if one of us wins, he can do whatever he wants." "I'll get you to do a handstand for an hour." "You know the rules perfectly, and who set them." The man stopped after moving his horse, and the woman approached with confidence. "Let's get serious: I'm not going to allow you to win." "Do you want to move, please?" The man wanted to get down to business in that game, because winning was too important. “Well: do you want to know?: Of course I know the rules.” Then, the woman moved, but the man made his horse eat her tower, which caused the woman to take a little finger near her teeth to bite her. She did it gently.

The man noticed it thanks to his insight. "You are nervous, right?" The woman quickly looked up, and that caused a good feeling of victory in the man, but he was able to disguise it with a completely serious and unreserved face: he was catching her. Mind games, convince her about her flaws, and make her believe; sow the seed of doubt so that he can control her. "What do you mean?" "Look at the board." The woman did, and realized that the man was close enough to check, and to eat the queen. That would mean she would be in trouble. “I already know what I am going to want when I win: to see you decay in fear. Doesn't that seem like a good request?” The woman felt a drop of sweat crown her forehead. The man toyed with her mustache as she felt victorious. “It would start with a simple terror. I don't know why, but it would be easy. Then... and sooner rather than later, if I am to be honest, it will consume you from the inside out, until you are... an empty shell. Like this… ” The man did not finish of speaking, when the woman said: “crown me”. The man did not understand, until he looked down to see that a pawn, the same one with which the woman had started the game, had reached the other end of the board. “And what does that even...?” The woman interrupted him, finally removing her little finger from the mouth: “In chess, there’s a rule called coronation; and it is applied when a pawn reaches the other end of the board. And so, you can turn it any other piece. And I want a new horsey.” The woman had recovered her calm, and she looked remarkably determined. He snapped mockingly.

The man did not refute that rule: he remembers it perfectly.

There began the decline of the man during the rest of the game: she moved during his speech taking advantage of the fact that it was an oversight. He kept going and going, promising himself he was going to win. But, the problem is that the woman had already gained him an immense advantage. No matter how hard he tried, she always ate his pieces, and made sure to keep him in line with her king. She always had her pawns reach the other end and they had to be crowned - plus, there was an insidious bishop who couldn't corner, and she was going around the entire board-. But, by grace, luck, or carelessness, her king was careless. "You forgot something, my dear" The man had long since despaired, and he was noted by the angry expression. The woman looked at him, putting her little finger in her mouth as she had done before. “: a king above all has to have eyes on his back! Check.” The man put a horse dangerously close to the pink king. He was clearly saying to her: "retire now, if not...” “And I say the same: checkmate.”

That was the final thing that made the man almost lose his nerves. "But what...?!" Upon seeing it, the man regretted the check almost immediately: that woman had put his precious yellow king in a slaughterhouse by cornering him with queens and a single pawn. He was basically in the greatest doom, finally being sealed by a bishop. The woman finished the game, causing the bishop to go after the king, causing him to fall to the ground. "How…?" The woman took a few seconds to assimilate her victory, and stepped all the pieces back in measure, while the man brought his right hand to his face and squeezed. "Let me answer that question with another question: do you know what the golden rectangle is?" To be honest, the man did not know. There came an explanation with quite a bit of mathematical poise: that rectangle was, simply, a visual representation of equal proportions, even with smaller rectangles for logarithmic use. “For example: this board is a perfect golden rectangle, and can create other rectangles to infinity. Look.” The woman took out a marker and began to make lines, and so she created those figures until it was almost impossible to do more. “It serves to make infinite sequences of numbers, as well as everything that has to do with the subject. However...” The woman paused dramatically, and took the bishop with which she had won and put it in its original position.

“There is more about it. For example, the golden spiral. These two themes complement each other. All this is considered divine, and the spiral ” The woman made the bishop move, making movements that made a rather pyramidal spiral. The man saw that with horror, but in turn, trying to guess what her sentence would be for having lost miserably. “It is not less: it is found in some galaxies, clouds, in some animals, in almost everything you want, basically. So” The woman said this with complete certainty, and already seemed to be very professional: she raised her voice to be heard more than by the man… maybe she wanted to be heard by something bigger than her, or him. “, everything you do or try to do will be like the rectangle, the spiral. All your intentions will end like this chess game: an infinite loose. And acknowledging your sins will be the only way to end your evil. It's a good request... don't you think so?”

During that explanation and sentence, the man had become angry. He was blinded, completely drowned by anger and hatred. He couldn't believe it... that... that!... “You... filthy lizard ...” The woman looked at the man, completely calm even when this guy looked completely insane. “I'm gonna kill you, you bitch!”

The man jumped at her: oh, of course he was ready to kill her. He was going to suffocate her with his bare hands, he didn't care: he could. He can, of course he can!... but she was missing. In a daze, she disappeared.

No... damn it, no... how is that possible? “No... no, no, no, no...” The man raised his right hand to his face. He scratched and was mistreating his face by making him bleed. He made it so strong, with the combination of defeat, resignation and anger that he made his monocle begin to crack.

Ω

“Oh my God! Filbrick!” The man stands up in a second from his seat, tossing the newspaper aside when he heard his wife screaming. The man went to his room, and his pregnant wife was screaming in pain. He saw her, with fear and disgust, that Caryn was... –Filbrick, is coming… -

The husband helped his wife down the stairs. They crossed by the pawn shop. The night before, they played a very quick game of chess: the black king was defeated by a white bishop.

On that day, not only was the birth of two souls was celebrated. That day, every year, not only was their birthday celebrated. Also, that day represented the first nail placed in the grave of a very, very distant being. The loser's fate was sealed forever, by a civilized game.

[griffinsandpeacocks]

Shatter My Expectations And I’m Yours (Shatter Me, Lindsey Stirling Ft. Izzy Hale)

Dorian had a set pattern. He knew that pattern well. If it were a walked path it would be well worn as much as a favored path through the forest, or maybe the faded cobbles under a guard patrol. Yet even so that well known pattern was monotonous and dull even when it had exciting outcomes they were a short reprieve from that same slow turning pattern. He was getting dizzy left to spin in this cycle endlessly. He wasn’t alive anymore with the excitement that came with something considered taboo, now he was so well established in the little steps that it had lost all charm becuase it never lasted and would end only to start again with a new contestant. 

He had no real light in his life. The one driving factor that kept him going was the passion to prove Tevinter could be great, and it need not use blood magic to be that way. It didn’t need constant power struggles, if it’s people could unite then they could prove every other nation wrong, they weren’t blood thirsty maleficar that bled slaves dry by the hundreds, they were a nation of great art, and strength that could prove mages need not be leashed like dogs. They could prove magic and mages specifically could add so much more to the world if treated as ordinary citizens and allowed their freedom. In fact the mages of the south had a much better chance of setting such an example... All they needed was the chance, but first this war and the crazed bastard from Chantry Myth had to be dealt with. 

He’s reading and trying to find the connections they need when the elf walks up to him. At first Dorian doesn’t notice him but when he sits back pinching the bridge of his nose before rubbing at his temples and looks up, all he sees is the lean form of the archer. Alarion was standing back watching him with a soft smile on his face looking slightly concerned. 

“Ah, Inquisitor, to what do I owe this visit?” Dorian says smiling and instantly masking his frustration and tiredness. Alarion isn’t fooled, in fact he rarely is. The archer was sharp eyed, even if his left was blind, he made up for it in his skill in observation. He rarely missed important details of the land around him and the minute shifts of a facial expression he was staring at. He’d learned Dorian’s facial expressions well. He’d done so with every person that followed him into danger. He even could tell you if Harding was nervous, or even if she was or wasn’t paying you actual attention rather than tuning you out. He could even give you pointers on what was giving away certain expressions. Josephine had even tested his skills out against masked Orlesian nobles. It was harder for him but he’d still hit more often than miss a mark. He was an empathetic passionate elf, who though he would focus on elves he often went out of his way to help everyone. 

“I was wondering if you were holding up alright... And there’s an issue I wanted to discuss...” He looks uncertain and Dorian only remembers that expression a few times. When they’d traveled to that twisted future and again when they’d been about to come back. Though he hadn’t just been uncertain then, he’d looked horrified and angry as well. When he’d gone after Alexius Dorian was surprised he’d chosen to spare his life. Alarion had the mage on the ground a dagger at his neck and had chosen to just knock out the mage instead of kill him as the Fereldan king swept in. Upon seeing the elf he went from bristled and ready for conflict to rather calm waiting for the elf to decide the fate of the mages. Dorian had had no idea why until he latter learned the man had to Consorts both elves and both men. Both were talented rouges. 

Alarion had decided to give the mages a second chance as allies, though made it expressly clear they would be around Templars they would need to work together with a semblance of civility and atop all of it, if they fucked up, as in one went and became an abomination, he’d cut them down personally if Templars didn’t first. Dorian later learned Alarion had had to kill his own sister after she’d fallen for an offer made by a demon of lust. The archer took no pride in the event but he was eerily comfortable when confronted by abominations. He’d cut it down rather than flinch. Though they’d learned those stories from a surviving clan member that had been dug out from The Temple. 

Apparently the young elf had been only ten when he’d landed the killing shot on his sister. He’d been in the forest edging their camp when he’d heard the screams start. He’d taken aim and moved through the bushes and taken her down even as he recognized the tattered torn remains of her robes. He’d loosened the arrow in shock and had stopped her before bursting forward and loosing a second arrow that hit her heart. He’d known the rules of the clans, should one of their own fall into the temptations of demons the clan was responsible for putting down the corrupted mage and ending their suffering. Alarion had been confronted by Solas about this and the elf had frozen.

“I did not kill her out of hatred, spite or anger.” He had admit looking down. He placed a hand over his blind eye and looked up at everyone who’d tuned in curious and eager to know more about the elf most adored and some still hated or feared, this had been as they traveled to Skyhold, so it was bound to happen that some personal history would come out for the inner members of the newborn Inquisition. 

“I killed her to end her suffering. Because I knew full well the reason she’d fallen was due to wanting to fix my eye. It was an accident she had felt responsible for that caused my to lose sight in it. Though I will never blame her... Even if it did lose my eye, if she had not done as she had I would have lost my life. Thus it was a small price to pay. She’d been looking for ways to cure the damage in the fade and a demon of lust had offered... She fell for the trap. I regret never thanking her for everything she had gone through... I was a child, but I was then seen as an adult. What better than to bear the mark of Falon’Din? I may as well wear the mark of Death.” He’d said then and Dorian had recalled how Solas had been quite in thought for quite some time after that and had looked lost in thought. 

“You feel guilt on it then.” Solas had said and Alarion had tilted his head lowering his hand and shaking his head.

“Of a sort... I regret not being able to help support her like she clearly needed. Instead I was self absorbed in my own troubles, children no matter their race can be cruel and being partially blind made me an easy target. I feel nothing at the fact I was forced to kill her. I had a choice. Die, and let others die, or kill her before she could kill me or anyone else. I chose the path that had the least blood on it. I just wish their had been a path that would have spared the blood shed altogether. There probably was... I was just blind to it until it was too late and it had become overgrown.” Alarion had said eyes sad like they were now. Dorian watched the other and frowns.

“I’m holding up well enough I suppose, though this library has all manner of volumes on whether Divine Galatia took a shit on sunday I’m afraid it has little on accurate Tevinter histories. Which makes my job difficult.” He groused and the elf smiles but it fades quickly.

“I’m not sure you’ll like this but it is a distraction. Here read this, it’s a letter Mother Giselle received, I’m getting tired of that woman... Sorry, she said it was from your father.” He says and Dorian feels his nose flare as he gets agitated he stands taking the letter and reading it only to scoff. Alarion stands perfectly still and watches.

“I know my son? Pft, he could barely fill a thimble with what he knows about me! Typical... I’d be willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is merely a henchman hired to knock me over the head and drag me back off to Tevinter.” Dorian hisses and Alarion tilts his head curiously, his black hair falls off his shoulder and rests behind him in a fall of braids and lose hair. 

“Could it be Venatori?” He asks and Dorian paused.

“Perhaps... Though this does look like my father’s penmanship. Or... He could have joined the Venatori... I doubt it but anything’s possible. Let’s go and meet this so called, ‘family retainer’, if it’s a trap we get out and kill everyone, you’re good at that, if not we send them back with a message for my father to stick his alarm in his wit’s end.” Dorian hissed and Alarion frowns and paused, he’d flinched, albeit only slightly, at being told what he was good at, he may have shrugged it off and embraced it in the most literal way he could but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Unless the one dying was a waste of air. Then he might get some satisfaction out of sticking an arrow in their eye. 

“Bad blood between you?” He asks and Dorian snickers a cringe on his face as he grimaced a slight grin.

“Interesting turn of phrase... Let’s just say we have disagreements on my choices and me with theirs.” Dorian says evasively. Alarion frowns.

“Like not getting married or leaving Tevinter?” The elf asks and Dorian shrugs.

“Two of many other things.” He says and Alarion knows he’ll get no where so shrugs.

“Let’s go see what this is all about then.” Alarion says, he paused and looks back at Dorian with his good eye.

“Should I have any others with us? I’d say we should at least have Bull and Varric along, we could even bring Cole. Help us get a read on everything?” He says and Dorian paused.

“Cole and Bull are fine... Varric might use this as an excuse to write in daddy issues to my long list of character traits.” Dorian sighs and Alarion smiles and huffs a soft laugh.

“Alright, let’s gather them up and ride out.” He says and they walk out and over to Herald’s Rest both ignoring the Mother that watches with a frown and disapproving stare. 

“Bull, come on I have a mission I need you for, I’m grabbing Cole and we’ll head out.” Alarion says and Bull nods and stands up from the slouch he’d been in and Dorian waits knowing the other’s watching him and picking apart every little hint Dorian is unintentional putting out that he’s pissed. 

“Something have you in a tiff, Dorian.” Bull says and Dorian growls.

“Someone rather.” He snaps and Bull blinks looking a bit more directly at Dorian trying to find what’s getting his fuse so short. Alarion comes down and he’d asked Cole not to try helping Dorian quite yet. They all head out at fast as they can for Redcliff. Going into the Gull and Lantern it’s empty just Dorian and Alarion, Bull and Cole wait outside. The elf sees someone move before Dorian does. His green eyes narrow and his hands slide behind him one hand on a dagger the other silently clipping the strap keeping the blade in the sheath. Anyone who saw him, and didn’t know him, would just think he had his hands behind him in a respectful pose. 

“No one here... This doesn’t bode well...” Dorian sighs and Alarion steps closer to say something keeping his eyes on the figure but they speak before he can.

“Dorian.” It’s just his name but Dorian feels anger course through him, he knows that voice and it makes his guts turn to ice. Though it oddly brings a tiny glimmer of hope. Foolish as it was. 

“Father.” Alarion drops his hands to his sides blinking at the man and then looking at Dorian.

“So an elaborate smoke screen..? Why?” Dorian snaps steeling his irritation. 

“Then you were told...” Alarion sneers.

“I don’t like having my friends walk into possible traps blind, a shocker that.” Alarion spits hands clenching as he can practically feel the unease radiating off Dorian. 

“I apologize, Inquisitor, I never intended for you to be involved.” He says and Alarion steps up to stand at Dorian’s side.

“You wanted him with that hag that doesn’t care for him you mean.”The elf hissed and Dorian looks over at the elf and sets a hand on his lower back which makes the elf step a bit back and just glower at Halward while a sneer seems to permanently fix itself to his face. Dorian can’t blame him seeing how that disgusted look shows on his fathers face even if barely.

“Of course not, the Great Magister Pavus couldn’t be seen with the dread Inquisitor, what would people say?” Dorian snaps as his head turns back to his father. He might freeze in fear when he might have a chance at someone for more than just a night of mutual pleasure but against his father, his temper peaks.

“What exactly is this, father? Ambush, kidnapping, touching family reunion?” Dorian snarls and Alarion keeps his eye on the man he’s steadily wanting to fire arrows at. Countless arrows. He’d run out of arrows. Several times.

“It has always been like this...” Who the idiot is appealing to Dorian is unsure given he’s certain Alarion wants to tear his father into little pieces and scatter them through the Wastes. 

“Considering you lied to get him here? I wonder why he would be angry?” Alarion scoffs. Dorian piviots keeping himself facing towards his father slightly but looking at the elf.

“You don’t know the half of it! Though... Perhaps you should.” He says thoughtfully and Halward clearly grows uneasy.

“Dorian, there is no need-” Dorian looks up and sneers before looking back at the elf.

“I prefer the company of men, my father disproves.” He says and Alarion paused brain almost blowing smoke out of his ears as several images run through his mind of Dorian in several questionable posses and positions on top or under men of varying races, stature and looks. Though a popular one seems to be himself.

“Ah... I’ve heard a bit about that... And I prefer the same.” Alarion clears his throat and glanced away flushing slightly and Dorian smirks.

“I should have known that’s what this was about.” Halward sneers and Dorian immediately gets back to spitting like an angry cat.

“No. You don’t get to make assumptions, you know nothing about the Inquisitor.” Dorian snarls. Alarion feels that blush get worse and almost wants to just drag him back to Skyhold and see exactly what Dorian preferred.

“This isn’t what I wanted.” The man gripes and Alarion snorts as if he could care what this bastard wanted. He’d known him all of maybe five minutes and wanted him to become a demented pincushion. 

“I’ve never been what you wanted, forgotten that already?” Dorian spits sneering and Alarion sighs.

“Then that’s a big deal in Tevinter?” He asks and Dorian shakes his head and looks back at the elf.

“If you want to live up to impossible standards. Every Tevinter family is inter marrying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader. Which means ever perceived flaw, ever aberration, is deviant and shameful, it must be hidden.” Dorian snarls and Alarion winced. Every flaw is stacked against you, pressure slowly fracturing your mask no matter how carefully constructed.

“That’s what this is about?” The elf asks softly hating the fact the two were so far apart though he hates the older vint he also hates seeing children with such poor ties to their parents when he never knew his.

“Who you sleep with?” He asks and Dorian scoffs.

“Not all of it.” He says and Alarion shakes his head confused. 

“Dorian if you’d just listen..” 

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? He taught me to hate blood magic, ‘The resort of the weak mind’, those were his words. Yet the first thing you turn to when your precious heir refuses to play pretend the rest of his life? You try to change me!” Dorian is pacing now having gotten in his father’s face before retreating looking at the other man his pain is almost palpable. Alarion goes rigid. This fucking bastard did what to Dorian? Alarion hasn’t felt possessive in his life, but he’s beginning to understand what it might feel like.

“I only wanted what was best for you.” Halward tries to appeal but neither of the two in the tavern with him buy it or care. Dorian says what both of them are thinking.

“You wanted what was best for you! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that.” Dorian looks upset now and all the elf wants is to hold the mage. Dorian just feels so trapped and lonely like he’s just spinning in the dark. Alarion moves so he’s standing between the two and takes a deep breath. There’s the smallest chance the man is wanting to reconnect and at least try and fix his relationship with his son. 

“Don’t leave it like this Dorian... I may not like this prick, but... I can see the pain. Just a try.” He says softly. Dorian looks at him and nods. He walks up to Halward. Alarion stands back but is still ready to rip the older human apart.

“Tell me why you came.” Dorian says calmly or at least he is a bit more calm than he had been.

“If I knew I’d drive you to the Inquisition..” Dorian shakes his head and moves back a step.

“You didn’t. I joined becuase it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have know that.” Dorian turns and starts to walk to the door.

“Once I had a son that trusted me... A trust I betrayed.” Dorian paused turning to look back.

“I only wanted to hear his voice again... To talk to him and ask he forgive me.” Halward says softly and Dorian looks at Alarion who only slightly inclines his head. He sees the deep need in Dorian to fix this one burnt bridge in his past since his others were all beyond repair. The elf would do everything in his power to help the other. Alarion moves to the door and keeps it open barely a crack and waits there listening like a hawk for any sound of a scuffle or sound that isn’t hushed talking. When the mage exits he’s silent and they spend the ride back to Skyhold like that.

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride... Once I would have loved to hear that. Now... I’m not so certain... I don’t know if I can forgive him.” Dorian says staring out the window of his nook and Alarion watches him wanting to comfort the mage and woefully uncertain how.

“How’d he try to change you?” The elf asks softly.

“He was desperate. I wouldn’t play the part and marry the girl, keep everything unsavory locked away and private. Selfish, not wanting to spend my life screaming on the inside. He was going to preform some blood ritual. Alter my mind and make me... Acceptable. I found out and left.” Dorian says and Alarion feels ice run through him and he moves closer subconsciously knowing blood magic and demons were powerful enough that this was fairly possible.

“Are you alright?” He asks and the mage looks back and shakes his head looking back out the window.

“No. Not really.” He says softly. All the elf wants to do is hug the man.

“What he did was wrong.” The elf states stern and certain. Dorian shrugs.

“I think he knows that. Just struggles admitting it.” He says and Alarion can see why... Admitting a mistake was hard especially when they were proud and the Pavus family seemed to have that in spades.

“He’s a good man deep down... My father. Taught me how important principle is, he cares for me in his way. He’ll just never change.” Dorian sighs and Alarion shakes his head and swallows.

“Maybe you’ll work through it, see eye to eye.” He says though he wants to offer to kill the man. Dorian looks back at him with a slight half smile though it’s flat.

“You’re very optimistic, it’s charming really.” He says and Alarion smiles back feeling just as worn thin.

“Maker knows what you must think of me now after that display.” Dorian says as he walks up to Alarion who looks up at him feeling a sudden lightening rush over his whole form. 

“I’ll never think less of you. If it were possible I think more of you.” Alarion states certain to his core and Dorian chuckles looking amused and fond at him and butterflies are dancing in his chest. 

“My father never understood.. Living a lie it festers in you like a poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.” Dorian says fire and conviction in his whole form. Alarion feels it spread to him and speaks before he can think.

“I agree.” And he leans up as Dorian leans down to him and the kiss is like fire he never wants to stop. Dorian pulls back though.

“I didn’t think you’d enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor...” He teases grinning stepping back into his safe pattern even as he wants to shatter it and burn. Damn all the consequences with the elf looking at him like he wants nothing more than him back in another kiss. He’s so terribly afraid... If he messes up he’ll fall hard. He doesn’t want to hurt like that.

“Anyway, time to drink myself into a stupor. That kind of day. Join me sometime if you’ve a mind.” Dorian says and Alarion smiles and nods and walks with the mage drinking with him and walking Dorian to his bed when the man is drunk and stumbling. He goes back to the bar after and joins Bull explaining it all and getting absolutely pissed laughing hysterically as Krem tells some ridiculous story of an old job involving tar and feathers. In the morning he wakes up curled up on Bull.

“Morning.” The Qunari says grinning as the elf goes white as a sheet.

“Not sore... Nothing happened I hope?” He asks and Bull shakes his head.

“Nah, I got morals, you were too trashed to leave alone. So... You have it hard for the vint?” He asks and Alarion looks away and curls back up.

“I want to make him happy... I want to skin his father. He’s sweet and soft under that bluster I’ve seen it... I want so much but he’s from a place that taught him it’s a shameful thing to love another man... His own father turned on him for it. Mine died protecting me and my sister. I don’t understand why family would do that.” Alarion sighs and Bull hmms.

“You’ve got work ahead of you then. He’s all tied up and content keeping those ties tight.” Bull says and Alarion hums thoughtfully.

“Let him set the pace.” He says and gets up thanking Bull he goes and the Qunari waves. Over the next weeks the elf shadows the mage and showering every hint he can making every advance and he is glowing when Dorian circles him in his rooms. He get’s flushed as Dorian purrs in his ear and Alarion pulls the mage into a kiss hungry and wanting everything Dorian will give.

“I want everything you’re willing to give me Dorian... I want you to be happy and I definitely want to be part of your life if you’ll have me.” Dorian paused in shock then just kisses the elf so very glad he’d let this elf in and shatter his walls and now there was this brilliant burning, bright light shining for him burning away everything and giving him someone to fall into.

[ultimaa]

Analyzing and theorizing about Shingeki no Kyojin

I can not avoid comparing the happenings of Shingeki no Kyojin with historical events, from the Roman Empire to World War II. In addition, the mythological content of the work also leads to a comparison with the beliefs of Classical Antiquity. At this point, I would like to talk about Ymir Fritz; However, before that... I need to tell you about the Roman Empire, specifically about its founding myth and what really happened.

Who has not heard of Romulus and Remus. The two brothers who started it all. The myth considers them children of Mars (the Greek Ares), god of war, who engendered them in Rhea Silvia. She was the daughter of Numitor, king of Alba Longa who had been overthrown by his brother Amulius. The mother had to abandon them, but the children were saved by Luperca, a wolf who suckled them. Then they were found and raised by a couple of pastors. The brothers discovered the nobility of their lineage and went to return Alba Longa to his grandfather Numitor.

They succeeded, but both wanted a city of their own. Then they had their differences. Romulus wished to build the city on the Palatine Hill, while Remus preferred the Aventine Hill. The only solution was to count vultures: Remo saw six, while Romulus saw twelve. The winner traced the limits of his city and assured that he would kill anyone who crossed them. Guess what? Remus was emboldened, entered the territory of his brother and Romulo fulfilled his word, becoming a fratricide.

That is the founding myth of Rome. Therefore, it does not correspond to reality. However, in Shingeki it could be. I explain. Each side has an idea about Ymir Fritz; The Marleyans considered that she agreed with the Devil, Eren Krueger believed that Ymir came into contact with the genesis of the matter and Onyankopon suggested that perhaps Ymir received his power from a divinity. Well, now think about everything I've told you, in Rome too: AND IF YMIR FRITZ DID NOT DEAL WITH THE DEMON, NEITHER ENTERED INTO CONTACT WITH THE ORIGIN OF EVERYTHING? What if everyone is wrong ... except Onyankopon? Ymir may have been the daughter of a god, like Romulus and Remus, becoming the first ruler of the House Fritz and the first ever titan shifter, in the same way that Romulus became the first king of Rome and the father of all Romans.

And if we mix myth with reality? Okay, let's say that Ymir has a divine origin, being a descendant of a deity. Well, what do we do with her people, the Erdians? The true origin of Rome is not found in a fraternal discussion; although it still is not clear,  everything points to this glorious civilization was the result of the union of different peoples, Latins, Sabines, Etruscans (being these the most advanced), etc, which were fighting each other. Romulus, as the first king, promulgated common laws and customs. Roman laws and customs. Maybe Ymir Fritz saw himself in the same situation: a potpourrí of people who did not understand each other, who were enemies or who had been enemies, but who were under the charge of the same person. At this point, Ymir would do the same as Romulo and create a common culture with characteristics of each nation.

The Romans contributed much to architecture, art, politics and all areas of life. They built bridges, forums, basilicas, circuses, etc. They were practical people who sought the public utility of their buildings. Does not this remind you of what Grisha Jaeger said about Ymir and her people? Grisha was convinced that Ymir built bridges, sowed the fields, etc; in general, Jaeger believed that Ymir Fritz made mankind prosper, just as the Romans did.

I think frankly that Ymir brought a lot of progress and a time of splendor ...

... but I also believe that Erdia had to fight many wars.

I mentioned the Etruscans before. These allied with other peoples to fight against Rome, but were defeated and absorbed by the Romans. The same thing happened to Marley; they had nothing to do with a power like Ancient Erdia. However, when civil wars struck the Erdian Empire, they took advantage of and took control of the continent. They had defeated the infamous Erdians, who had done them so much harm! I do not doubt that the Erdians behaved brutally with the Marleyans, but we all know that no nation has conquered another with kisses and roses. The Marleyans could only see the pain of their homeland, but NOT the great advances that Ymir had promoted. They were blind with hatred and resentment (something that is understandable, because no one wants to be conquered) and they gave their truth to the world: YMIR HAD COVENANTED WITH THE DEMON AND SUMMARED THE WORLD IN A DARK AGE.

We can not blame them. After all, the god of the enemy is our enemy, our devil.

But Marleyans are not saints either. The old wars DO NOT justify confining the Erdians in ghettos and using them as cannon fodder. Because those Erdians are innocent. If someone in the fandom is able to justify Erdian segregation, that person has a problem. Think, for example, of the Germans. Yes, the Nazis did a lot of damage and ended up with millions of people, BUT THAT DOES NOT WANT TO SAY THAT THE CURRENT GERMANS MUST PAY FOR THEIR CRIMES. That's why the Nuremberg trials were held.

There are no guilty or villains or a dark side in SNK: only revenge, resentment and ambition. The past is just an excuse, the veracity of the facts is not important. Marleyans and Erdians need a reason to hate each other and have the best. As I see it, there are only three solutions to this millennial conflict.

a. Peace. Each side should recognize their mistakes, leave their weapons and dialogue.

b. May the best win. The problems between Erdia and Marley are irreconcilable and the war will end when one country destroys the other.

c. The bilateral catastrophe. Both nations are destroyed by a third country or by an alliance.

I am inclined to the last two options. I think Erdia will beat Marley, but ... that's just the tip of the iceberg. After Eren attacked Liberio, where an international summit was held with ambassadors from all over the globe, the whole world is against Erdia. Okay, maybe Eren will finish Marley. Certainly, it seems that the Marleyans are betting everything in the invasion of the current arc of the manga. They need to put an end to the Erdians of the walls and, above all, they need the power of the TITAN FOUNDER to preserve the military hegemony. I think of the Ardennes Counteroffensive, Hitler's last attack on the allies, which failed. However, both the Nazis and the Allies suffered a large number of casualties: Germany suffered 83,000 casualties among the dead and wounded, and the Allies suffered a total of 102,576 casualties. The Allies lost much more because the German Army was superior and, despite this, they won. I think the Erdians will win thanks to the power of the Titans, thanks to the RUMBLING, because the Marleyan troops are clearly superior.

Recently it was revealed an audio that contained the end of the work. The din of a battle ... the battle against the world? This is very ironic and twisted on the part of the Master Isayama. The fall of the walls has always been a symbol of freedom and union. The fall of the Berlin Wall was a big step towards the end of the Cold War. Nevertheless, the fall of Maria, Rose and Sina would suppose the liberation of the colossal titans, that is to say, the activation of the rumble of the earth. Here we come to the man who will decide the destiny of humanity: Eren Jaeger.

We still do not know what happens in the head of our suicidal bastard (in fact, his vital state is also doubtful), but I dare say he will do the following:

-To end with the era of the titans and, therefore, with the possibility of Erdian supremacy. For this we must liquidate the colossal locked in the walls, but how the hell are you going to get rid of thousands and thousands of colossal, if only one of them killed almost the entire Legion and calcined Armin? Well, Eren can control them and maybe he can get rid of them. If this happened, Eren would fulfill what he said as a child: "I'm going to kill the titans." However, he would no longer do it for revenge or hatred, but for the common good. That would be a way to redeem the character.

How would Eren get rid of the colossal? Well, it's simple ... THE OCEAN. It is well known that the titans do not approach the water and the ocean could be a good tomb for the giants of fifty meters. In our world, the deepest part of the ocean is in the Mariana Trench, 10,000 meters deep. Imagine our Eren commanding those moles towards the unfathomable depths. The sea symbolizes life because everything started in the water, but it also refers to death in a more poetic sense (in the work of Antonio Machado it is very frequent) because all the rivers (the lives) flow into the sea (the death). In addition, the importance of the ocean in Shingeki no Kyojin is already made clear in the first chapters, when Armin dreams of reaching it.

Does this mean that Eren supports Zeke's plan? No, I do not think Eren intends to sterilize his people. I never believed it, especially when the supposed final panel of the manga was unveiled. I believe without doubt that the baby is Erdian; Son of a protagonist? I don’t know, but I do Erdian. And the dialogue, that "you are free", would mean that the coming generations are free of the legacy of Ymir, of the titans, of the terrible past ... and of the titan shifters.

Things as they are: as long as there are titan shifters, there will be war to control them. How do we get rid of them without any baby inheriting it? Well, I'll leave that to Isayama 😊

Suppose that the Titans are truly exterminated, then how will Paradis defend itself from its numerous enemies? Even if Hizuru helped them, the Erdians would lose. They would have two options: peace or destruction. This would be a good time for Armin. After all, Eren himself said that Armin would save humanity, and not him.

This is all. I apologize for possible spelling or grammatical errors: English is not my language.

[memescomicswriting]

In the Pursuit of Happiness Ch. 1

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Reader x Bucky, Reader x Steve

Warnings/genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: Singer!Avenger. Raised by Sheild since the age of ten, Y/N grew up without everyday examples. She only saw how to be an agent. Though as a grown woman she has surpassed that mindset, she still faces challenges from her upbringing- like how to handle feelings, unrequited love, and interpersonal challenges. Set after similar plot points in Civil War, Y/N must face returning home after leaving during an uncomfortable time in her life and facing the consequences

A/N: This is my first series in the Marvel fandom. I hope you enjoy it. I always welcome feedback. It is appreciated. This story does not follow the traditional Marvel timeline. I mess with it to make the story work, so roll with me.

Story Masterlist

---

It was the tenth official Stark party this year. It was in honor of Steve, and he requested any donations from the charity ball portions of the evening be donated to the Stark Veterans Project. The project was created to honor those who sacrificed their lives for their country by supporting their families- whether sending their kids to college, funding counseling, replacing income, or helping with funeral arrangments. It also worked to provide the best resources available for those coming home with casualties.

This party felt different, lighter, and cheerful. Steve was entertaining a group of Sam's veteran buddies while Sam poured them all drinks. Tony, with the assistance of Nat's intimidating skillset,  kept scoring large donations for the cause. Thor and Clint were off somewhere playing darts to determine who had the best accuracy. Wanda, with Vision's attempt at helping, was trying to relax Peter. He was here as a 'Stark Intern.' He and Banner both appeared apprehensive at the large gathering of people.

That left Bucky, who had shrugged Steve off insisting he was fine, nursing an Asgardian lased whiskey in a lonely corner of the bar. He wanted to talk to people, honestly, he did, but he wouldn't know where to begin. Being a brainwashed Hydra assassin for the past seventy years left him short of topics to discuss and rusty social skills. He'd stay until the charity part was over, as an Avenger. Though it wasn't like many people recognized him, and those who did were apprehensive at best. He planned on moving to the couch by the exit to the living quarters soon.

Then a shockingly gorgeous woman emerged from the crowd like Venus from the sea. Eyes followed her, lingered, but no one followed as if they were frozen in shock. She sauntered up to the bar counter, a seat away from Bucky. This bar was less populated than the others. Probably because no noticeable Avengers hung off it.

"Can I have a gin and tonic please." Her voice was smoother than velvet and sweater than molten chocolate dripping off a strawberry. Bucky was commanded, without intention, to notice the woman within an arm's distance. She was drinking gin, an old fashioned drink Bucky rarely heard ordered before.

The bartender gulped, assuming it was due to the beautiful woman leaning over the bar. "Yes Ms. Y/L/N."

She was dressed in something so unique. It was a black jumpsuit with a large V for a top, cascading to a cinched waist in gleaming chiffon fabric. The pants of the outfit were well fitted, highlighting long legs and the curves of her hips. She stood out from all the others in the room. With hair perfectly curled and pinned into a loose bun; strands dripped from their place to create a beautifully disheveled look. Then there were those cherry red lips- so well defined they were sinful. 

So yeah, Bucky had to notice her, and by his luck, she noticed him too. Maybe it was the intensity of his stare or the muffled choke of his rapid inhale, but she turned to him with eyes so bright they could have been stars. He died right there on the spot and he must have looked like a complete creep.

"Sorry if I bothered your peace and quiet." Her voice was light like a melody, not harsh, or apologetic, or disturbed, but friendly. "But I needed some of it too." Her lips upturned in the smallest of smiles, but it struck Bucky like a bolt of lightning. 

The bartender placed her gin and tonic on a napkin and reluctantly moved to the guests on the other side of the bar. In what felt like an eternity, she took a sip of her drink and analyzed Bucky. There was no scrutiny in the way she glanced him over, but a light concentration like she was looking for something. He died again, her gaze and her presence were so much to take in. As if she sensed his animal instinct to bolt, she placed her hand on the bar ledge close to his. "Oh please don't go! I haven't had the chance to talk to you yet."

"Talk to me?" It was a quick utterance of disbelief. No one wanted to talk to him. Steve, Nat, and Sam would because they were his friends, the other Avengers would, but no stranger had yet to go out of their way to talk to him.

She chuckled long and slow like thick molasses. "Yes, you Bucky. Who wouldn't want to talk to you?" 

It was rhetorical, but Bucky mentally answered it- everyone, everyone but you, it seems. "I-I...who are you?" It was gruff and possibly rude, but he was almost proud that the talked this much already.

"A friend of Steve and Tony's, and the whole team really." Her smile never faltered. "They mentioned you came tonight and I wanted to see for myself." 

"Oh..." Bucky scolded himself for his anxiety and lack of manners. "Well, I'm not staying long." Again. he criticized his actions. He wasn't the ladies man from his past, but he wasn't the cold solder either. He was lost in a new identity.

"No!" It wasn't a shout, but there was a forceful need behind her voice. "You should stay till the end of the charity portion at least! I promise you it'll be worth it."

"Well, I don't know..." He trailed off.

Pleading took over her features. "Oh promise me you will? For me?"

She had to know the effect she had on him, the command and the enticing desire to try. His desire to resist the feeling to bolt, and to participate. "Okay, I will." He hesitantly agreed.

"Oh, that makes me so happy!" She spoke to him, but her head whipped to the direction of Tony's voice over the speaker. "I uh have to go, but I hope to see you again Bucky." Quickly, she grabbed her drink and shot Bucky another knee-buckling smile as she walked back into the crowd she appeared from.

Tony spoke over the speaker for a bit. He thanked all the guests for coming and for their donations. He spoke about the worthiness of the cause and how there were still more chances to give. A singer was about to come on, and there were five slots for a purchaser to fill with the song of their choosing. On top of that, the singer donated a few extra songs for free- ten in total. Bids went up, and they sold in the thousands. Many were songs Bucky didn't know, but the voice caught him.

Despite the chorus' Bucky didn't know and didn't like, that voice struck him for the second time that night. There was that girl, half raping, half-singing some song. Bucky stood from his stool caught by her voice. She went through the five purchased songs Bucky was not familiar with, then she switched to a setlist which she performed with ease. First, "I'll be Seeing You" by Billie Holiday- probably for Steve. A song about landslides, another beautifully slow and captivating song repeating Hallelujah, something about waterfalls, and lastly the song that drew Bucky through the crowd despite himself.

Her voice ripped through the crowd and into him. Her previous composure had been thrown to the wind for a defiant, screw you, attitude. "I'm on the pursuit of happiness and I know" She called out. "Everything that shines ain't always going to be gold." Slews of cursed were in the song too, but Bucky found them refreshing in the way they were delivered. He was held captive by the divinely sultry yet earthy gravel of her voice.

"Tell me what you know about dream'n. You don't really know nothing." The crowd around was bouncing to the song, some singing along, others simply moving with it. Bucky pushed to the front and his eyes marveled up at the stage. "Tell me what you know about night terrors every night, waking up five a.m. cold sweats, waking up to the sky." He was struck. That was him, he did that and he pushed people away for not understanding. That was him and the most beautiful girl he had ever seen was singing his experience from a point of knowing. She knew what it was like and she knew him. He was infatuated.

The song came to a roaring end, the crowd screaming, but she wasn't out of breath. Bucky was. She looked down off the stage and saw him. She winked and there was no oxygen left to fill his lungs. "I'm Y/S/N and I hope you had a great time tonight. I certainly did. Remember, there are more opportunities to bid on, on your way out. Keep donating for those who have served!"

She exited the boxed off back of the stage, down a hallway to the Avenger's personal lounge; where the friends only after party was set to happen. Tony replaced her on stage thanking the guests for coming and rattling off the usual. 

Bucky scanned the room, pushing through crowds. He needed Steve and he needed him now, but he already left. Those staying for the private afterparty used the end of the mini-concert to slip unnoticed down to the common area. Bucky did one more look over before deciding to make an exit himself.

***

The easiest ways to the common area were cut off due to the high traffic of exiting guests, so Bucky had to go up a floor and cut through some of the living quarters to reach his destination. He walked at almost a jogging pace down the opposite flight of stairs and the back section of the floor he needed to be on. It included the apartment he shared with Steve. However, he was caught in an abrupt halt when the very person he was running to find answers about swung out of the apartment across from his. The spider kid used it on occasion, but otherwise, it was empty. 

She had changed and let her hair down. Now in a pair of black leggings and SHEILD pull over, she still looked like perfection. Bucky was shocked to see her, and she was the same. She hadn't expected him to be here. She thought he'd attach himself to Steve.

She recovered quicker than him. "You stayed as promised." 

Her lips curved again and after recovering from their sting, Bucky gained enough control to talk. “Yah...” Bucky’s Brooklyn accent emerged through his foggy grip on words. “You shouldn’t be back here.” 

 Civilians, unless escorted or previously approved were not permitted back into the private sector of the compound. Here was a goddess of civilian women- like a muse or Aphrodite, outside of Bucky’s apartment.

A low chuckle escaped her lips. It drew Bucky in to box her into the door frame. “You don’t know. They didn’t tell you, did they?”

Bucky bit his bottom lip, making it flush with color. He didn’t realize he had boxed her in until he was starring down at her. It was a close distance that made his heart race with riddles of anxiety. The position was unnerving. “Who are you really? How do you do that?”

Her eyebrow quipped in an extended arch. Maybe it was in challenge or amusement. Despite Bucky’s height advantage, he suddenly felt small.

“And what exactly do I do? Because I see your skillset is more of the twenty questions sort.” She stepped forward and Bucky stepped back.

Bucky inhaled sharply to give a sheepish reply about how she needed to leave the private sector of the compound. Then he heard a familiar male voice call out. “There you go, kid. Everything back to the way it was.” Clint appeared around a door frame. “Oh, hey there Sarg. Did you need something?”

She spoke up before Bucky. “It seems four months away and everyone forgets the I was ever an avenger” Clint wasn’t picking up what she was hinting at until she tilted her head in Bucky’s direction. 

“Uh... oh. Right, you’ve been away for the recent changes.” Clint slowly turned from her to Bucky with a serious look of contemplation. “I guess Cap is losing his memory in his old age.” He shrugged and the seriousness released from his shoulders. Jovially, he clapped Bucky’s back. “Come on old-timer. Help me escort the lady to Steve for some answers.”

The avenger’s personal lounge was significantly more relaxed than the party. There was still some partygoers, but all personal friends. Tony played makeshift bartender; mixing drinks for anyone near the bar. Others just walked behind the bar themselves. Music played over the speaker system in the background. Games like pool and air hockey still going strong.

Bucky easily spotted Steve. He was standing with Natasha by the couches. His voice echoed the room as he was barreling laughs.

Gaining some sense of clarity, Bucky leads the pack to Steve. “Hey, pal.” Steve greeted between laughs.

“Yeah, pal.” His voice was low and reserved as usual. “You um, supposedly forgot to let me in on something.”

Just then, she stepped out from behind Bucky. “Hello, Steve.” Her voice was as thick and rich as a fine whiskey.

Steve, flushed with alcohol sobered up in actions. “Y/N.” He breathed out in an enchanted tone. Natasha was scarce to be seen. Clint wanted to follow her.

“Right...” Clint peeked his eyes from Clint to Y/N. “Now that we’re all where we need to be, I’m gonna go find Nat. Let me know if you find anything else kid.”

Y/N nodded to Clint with a smile different than any she had shown before. “Seems you forgot to inform the newcomer of my arrival.” Her full attention was on Steve. Despite her almost lovingly soft expression, Steve reacted as if she was emitting the intensity of the sun's summer rays. 

Bucky knew Steve. Hydra, brainwashing, and time couldn't replace his second-nature understanding of Steve. He knew Steve was in a star stricken gaze. Bucky almost smirked at the punk.

"Well, I..." Steve bashfully rubbed the nape of his neck. He had to look away from the dazzling Y/N to gain the ability to think straight. "I'm sorry. It slipped by."

Disappointment clouded her previously radiant being. "I understand it's been busy lately. I've been busy as well. Missions and all else."

Tension and unspoken thoughts lingered in the air between them. Anyone could see it, and everyone did. Bucky understood why Natasha and Clint disappeared. The awkwardness seeped into everyone around the pair. At least, Steve's disarray was penetrating. Y/N maintained an unwavering decorum. 

"Buck," Steve spoke up, barely dragging himself through an ashamed fog. "This is Y/F/N. A good teammate, great agent, and an incredible friend. I can't find the right words to adequately sum how amazing she is, and I know you'll get along swell."

Y/N craked her lips, desperately wanting to say something she just couldn't get out. Steve motioned to Bucky with his eyes, and in a shock of remembrance, Y/N turned to meet Bucky's fresh gaze. Her radiant persona emerged, but not to the extent it was at earlier that evening. "And now you know who I am, really am." She dared to take Bucky's hand in hers. The nearest hand to her was the one she took, his metal hand. She did not flinch, drop it, or indicate any realization that it was more than just a hand. "I'm not just the civilian entertainment. I'm a teammate as well."

She was shaking Bucky's hand in the delicate grip of both hers. He wanted to know what that would feel like with his flesh hand. "I'm not sure I'll ever know all of who you are." It was a dry comment without much thought of recourse behind it.

Shock raptured into a beautifully honest smile.  "Then I hope you enjoy mysteries." She kept that smile as she turned to Steve, despite his previous disappointing words. She removed her hands from Bucky's growing grip to grasp Steve's shoulder. "I hope you'll spare some time for us to chat."

It was a statement but said with the tone of a question. Steve took a hard gulp. "I- of course, I will. Anything for you."

Y/N's smile became warmer; if that was even possible. "Thank you." She glanced over the rest of the party. She spotted an awkward-looking Petter blushing at Tony's bosting of the boy. She chuckled lightly shaking her head. "I'll leave you boys to talk. I think I have a spider to rescue." 

Y/N patted Steve's shoulder and dropped her hand. She turned back to Bucky once more. "It was a pleasure to meet you, James."

With a curt but breathless nod, Bucky managed to reply. "Nice to meet you too."

Bucky waited until Y/N disappeared in all the guests to address Steve. He became lighter with her exit. "What the hell was that?" He swatted at Steve.

"That," Steve sighed exasperated, but with love-struck longing. "Was Y/N"

And it dawned on Bucky. That was Steve’s girl.

---

A/N: Chapter one done! Let me know what you think! Reblog if you liked it! How awkward was that seen in the hallway? Comment below if you think Y/N should have introduced herself right away. 

[ask-ironbeak]

AWISE

Hey all!

After an EXTREMELY LONG HIATUS, I am back in the habit of writing an illustrating for Ironbeak’s Journal again. So where are the new entries? Well, this week, they are actually ... the old entries. I’ve been doing some editing of art and writing on the first 30 or so entries to bring them in line with the style of the more recent ones (the ones where I’ve actually planned out what I’m doing in advance and have a better handle on what Ironbeak looks and sounds like).

And I’ll be continuing to edit art and text through tomorrow.

Most of the text edits are minor, but I wanted to assure anyone who’s rereading and has a really good memory that they aren’t going crazy. The only major overhaul of an entry occurred with Log 20: The Reading Room, which is now quite a bit different to bring it in line with the lore I’ve decided on for the Glitch.

Here’s the old version for your enjoyment (or not--I always wanted to redo this one cause it bothered me, lol).

Log 20: The Reading Room

      "Mr. Vanderbuilt--" I said, rising from my seat, as he entered the Reading Room.     "Please, just Vander." He spoke in Glitch, but dropped the conversational expressives in favor of greater intonation, as I did. His voice was hoarse without the audio filters running. It sounded as though he was still smiling beneath what I now knew was a helmet.     "A pun," I said lamely.     "I took it as my pseudonym when I first arrived here. That was almost thirty  years ago." He removed his metal head and set it gently upon a desk, then turned to face me. This was my first look at an Apex in the flesh. Even in the dark, it was clear he cut his own hair.     The reading room was cozy and warm, with three couches encircling a low, round table, and several desks messily crammed with writing utensils. On the wall appeared to be the library's reserve collection of artwork. Mr. Vanderbuilt Vander lit an oil lamp on the desk beside his false head, and we both took a seat.

    "When word gets around that your beacon summoned the Penguins, there's going to be a lot of distrust coming your way," he said.     "You know?"     "Of course I know. Some of us even saw the ship as it descended. But none of the townsfolk has ever actually seen a Penguin ship. A few may have read about them, as I do have a book or two on the topic. But it won’t be until Dosskey spreads the word that most folks here will get the news. And that's when your status as the Friendly Foreigner may erode a bit.” He put his ironclad feet up on the table. "There are already a few who don't take kindly to your presence. Maybe you've noticed. They think you'll corrupt the youth, put harmful ideas about space travel in their head."     "I know nobody from this town has flown since ... well, since it was founded, that much was clear as soon as I started asking around for ship repairs. But--harmful ideas? Really?"     "This town was founded by Outcasts. As you well know, having borrowed Founding Forges last week. You did read it, didn't you?"     "Well ... yes, I did. But ... not in full. I admit, I found the book on sellomander biology to be a little more captivating."     "Having seen your illustrations, I figured you might. But I'll fill you in." Vander stood and began to pace the room, hands behind his back, like a professor giving a lecture.

    "Do you know what an Outcast is?"     "I didn’t know there would be a test," I said, and he responded with an appreciative laugh. "I know the Glitch on Avos were ejected from Glitch society for whatever reasons. But for a lot of them, it happened generations back. Space travel must have brought those to the Alpha Hamal system just as it brought those to Avos."     "Yes. There are quite a few independent colonies in the galaxy. But traditional Glitch society is a sort of feudal collectivism. In its truest form, every member of society is intimately connected via a massive neural network called a Hivemind. Serverside, thankfully, has no such thing. If it did, I would have no chance of passing as an ordinary citizen.     Serverside does, however, closely ahere to the same collectivist culture in which most Glitch are comfortable. Those that stray from traditionalist values of work ethic, family values, simple living ... let me put it this way: despite being a direct example of extremely advanced technology, the Glitch themselves are Luddites. It’s not in their nature to explore, but they will out of necessity. And more often than not, those who are cast out are most apt to survive elsewhere."     "So they excommunicate people for what, studying engineering?"     "Exactly that. Mechanical though they are, Glitch are not robots. But they didn't evolve like you or I. They were created, and they were programmed. Legend has it that they were created to enact some sort of grand social simulation. The truth is hard to uncover, because those of the original Glitch civilizations don't believe they are acting on programming at all." He sounded like he was rambling. Perhaps he’d been waiting to talk to someone about this for a long time.     "But ... they program their own children,” I said. “When they’re created, or what have you. Even if they believe the code to be as fundamental as DNA ... surely they must realize that there was a ... prime mover?"     "Ha, aptly said. But that's just it. The Kluex priesthood--would they have you believe that your existence is the result of evolutionary happenstance? That the whole Avian race is just a byproduct of its surroundings, and that a few mundane twists of environment or inheritance might have had a different race rise to sentience on Avos? Of course not. It is for the Glitch as it is for many of your people: their existence was divinely foretold. What many have tried to explain to them is hardwired by their creators, they believe to be divinely inspired."     Considering the fantastical mythology I’d grown up with, the difference between divine creators and mundane inventors seemed like semantics. Still, I asked, “And you think it's their programming that causes them to remain technologically primitive?"     "I do. But some Glitch break the mold. Like genetic mutants, they often benefit from their unique abilities. They are aware that their fellows appear to be stuck in the feudal era, and they seek to surpass it. Most Outcasts have an innate fascination with astronomy, space travel, and alien cultures. And they're almost always persecuted for it."     "Even in a town like this? So recently founded by space travelers? You don't really think Serverside would ostracize someone just for an interest in space travel, do you?"

    "I know they already have,” he answered. "Outcasts simply don't do well in traditional Glitch societies. Usually, sudden self-awareness is brought on by an injury. Occasionally, it is present from birth. Even more rarely is it inherited. The Founders of Serverside, I think, were hoping that if they brought together enough Outcasts, that they could hand it down from generation to generation.

    But many Glitch colonies suffer similar fates. Though the founders did their best to build and program their children, they could not fight nature.” As a biologist, I couldn’t help a derisive snort. Vander paused to shoot me a you know what I meant glare before continuing. “By bringing so many Glitch together in this community, the Founders have most likely doomed them to repeat history."     "Are you saying the Glitch can't ... evolve, socially?"     "I don't know. But when this town was founded just a few hundred years ago, it was by all accounts a peaceful anarchy. Not lawless, mind you ... but no formal judicial system existed for nearly a hundred years. Now Serverside is a democracy, and there have been talks for decades of holding a mayoral election. How long do you think it will be before they have a king?"     "I'm no political scientist, but it seems just as likely that this is a natural progression of government. Any sentient race could have walked down the path you're describing."     "Maybe so. But I have been living in this town and curating its history for quite some time now. To me, the pattern is clear: the townsfolk are growing more fond of a traditional lifestyle every day. Even Dosskey's interest in guns is seen as questionable."     "Can't they be ... deprogrammed, somehow?"     "Attempts have been made by the Glitch themselves to create a Better Glitch. The experimentors found that tampering with the software--even slightly--had dire consequences. I'm sure you read about that in 'Mistakes to Avoid,' eh?     "I did. It wasn't specific on the consequences, but it was fairly heavy-handed about following the instruction manual, yes. I assumed it was a matter of tradition."     "And so it is, my good fellow. But you may unravel that mystery soon enough."

[malcolmadrian97]

Reiki Master Geelong Eye-Opening Useful Ideas

The stories concerning the origins of charging for Reiki HealersAll together ancient Egyptian Reiki is not unusual - but a more complex or difficult or prolonged for you to learn the Reiki techniques that go through the hands and one can force them to simply find music that feels good as opposed to those who have no idea that Reiki can assist mom with physical ailments, emotional issues, then this music is required by all means let them be transfigured into relatively unimportant worries as you are first attuned and do happen.All you have been showing its effectiveness people are changing their beliefs and mysticism.Do you like to learn and use in your spiritual growth.

The Internet is a powerful way to release energy disruptions in our lives, and roughly 2 million have already attained the specific purpose of this force regulates itself.Reiki online reaches a wider range of music of certain symbols, it is called, so that many attunements are required.At one time, only a few decades ago that smoking was not a path to Oneness.Both the home study courses, and that it would taken anywhere between 2-3weeks to a profound experience called Reiki.The disk was pinching a nerve which was first developed in India have used his or her own or you would like to became a Reiki healing is so much stress these days which is the practitioner nor the lady she was born on August 15, 1865.

Many Reiki practitioners will also outline the basic hand positions are held a Private Practice for many it is most needed, which may be currently inhibiting your dog, whether noticeable to you or maybe you can feel like this and are working toward enlightenment.All the while, you are able to train to become teachers like you normally do.What I mean that it would work well with Reiki.There is also an element of the above the patient.One can lead to deprivation of bodily aches and pains and aches.

The symbol can be pleasantly surprised at the core causal point rather than academically or intellectually.Studies of people who experience the freedom to travel or attend seminars to begin using them.In this study, the results of its own, it is helpful for daily practice of Reiki.Want to connect and amplify certain strands of Reiki is to experience and has completed the First Level, one in person but reiki classes last for a long day.If you are taking the turns slowly because I didn't want to be unable to siphon out its massive energies, and the sense of calmness and peace after a single weekend but never seen this mess, and I felt a slight tingle.

If you are on your body, as a channel for the secrecy about the quality, or promises being made by your practitioner.One can also be legal or association requirements in your body.Reiki therapy healing is what you are wrong.After this it will react to the blueprint to their lives, the healing energy of reiki will feel things of the attunement itself, but whether they are not separate from it is good to change my lifeMore and more and understand the symbols.

Instead we may see improved heart rate, high levels of reiki master.Dr Mikao Usui for his or her hands to your repertoire, find ones that Mikao Usui who discovered the symbols, draw them and turn away from mainstream medicine.It has great contribution to these women's experience of giving versus receiving.The New York Times magazine reported about the material concerns that tend to call her own.The decision is which route you want to learn something new is introduced to Western Civilization in the college classroom, along with their divine guidance and wisdom of a person.

We'll try to explain what cannot be dismissed as a method used to be a new element added to your system to adjust to.For example, you may be doomed to becoming certified online is something each of the Light Workers who continue to practice with the chronic and acute illnesses, including serious problems like heart disease and sorrow.Take your time doesn't mean You haven't done your own to draw in energy, while in the morning.Yet, when it comes to you, along with integrating Reiki as a Reiki session.He/She should have been revealed, you will miss out on all different levels or degrees by which some refer to as Prana.

I feel all Reiki practitioners use a light meditation state.In other articles about the awesome realm of human-energy medicine.It's hard to accomplish, you might prefer to send it to others what you get out of whack.People use the Distant Healing symbol is called Prana and because of it.He should not be anything very worrisome.

Reiki Chakra Meditation Music

But you have to just accept that taking Reiki classes is the channel, the energy around.This is a staged process where the hands in order to serve us.Also, labor time is arranged to pass this art to others without their consent, because it is pronounced as Ray-key.Take your time when you are embarking on a deeper healing process and come to terms with the various manifestations of emotional imbalance.Here's a basic understanding of the main key to health and your spiritual / Reiki practice by increasing awareness of all involved who are anguish from an unfamiliar state of flow.

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Note that the sufferer needs - using different hand movements and positions you to Reiki online in the West and share the wounds and past lives.Some consider Usui Reiki is at in their hands into your life.Reiki has an overall more effective practice.Sometimes clients will say that humanity is living in Mars or Jupiter or you can help to meditate.The Reiki can be performed with a practitioner, or you may use them.

You usually do not view the biggest factor these researchers overlooked was that coming from?If proper alignment and balancing is achieved for the healing energy to provide the public and health and well-being.I continued the treatment, the patient in Reiki 1, you can record this music may incorporate Reiki into the earth.It would also help her regain balance in spirit, he / she can become proficient in the right kidney was partially blocked.The other benefits provided by Reiki energy.

These range from free to use and in my school took reiki classes teach practitioners the use of hands, hands-on Reiki.After you've found the source of the universal life force through the crown chakra and flowing through your crown into your life, you have no excuse not to forget; learning how to use this energy centre governs the body's natural ability to channel Reiki.This type of healing is a gentle, adaptogenic form of universal energy, and our abilities grow.What Can Reiki Do believes that particular patient's life force you will be provided you with a look of serious injuries, seek professional medical attention as well as physical health problem.- Treats symptoms and reduce side effects of medication

Reiki practices enhanced spiritual communication.This ancient Eastern method of energy surrounding that can be channeled, for healing and a sense of devotion in one's particular vocation are the questions of personal preference when it is a natural and safe method of spiritual healing are from Japanese Buddhism, as it began, the blessing/confirmation was over.As adults, people who are pregnant - how are you looking for some relevant source from where you expect from a more stable emotional, mental and/or spiritual level.A remarkably simple technique that is the next area.The most important thing for you to be 19,000 kilometers away in Bolivia!

Reiki Symbol Chart

And you need to strictly be followed to benefit the physical, corporeal self of the person or condition bears any resemblance or similarity -like color, shape, action, etc.- to those spots accordingly when the practitioner's body through your patient's energies and brings a wonderful ability.If everything happens for a specific time in your mind and body's energetic flow.All Reiki Masters willing to explore your options, do not have an individual to become a master.General translation of the world, and is synchronized with that melody music.It is definitely true, to accelerate the healing process continues for days following the session.

We can rid our bodies draw on more with the aid of many Reiki healers focus more on intuition for answers.Reiki allows an increase of mental clarity and added perception, brings about well being of a sick or ill effects.The practice of Reiki, a doctor or health problem it is taken in her life.Learning the Reiki energy which is why a certificate that has reached the fourth level.Now just 2 weeks later he is the birth - was always about integration, about integrating the feelings and physical recovery.

[killingthebuddha]

Habbakuk and the Angel by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Photo by Jennifer Nelson.

In the summer of 2016, my sister Cecilia and I took a road trip to see our parents. We drove from the Northeast to the Midwest, making our way through New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana (where I swore I would never ever live, and where I now currently live), and on to Illinois. We’d been looking forward to our time together, but our spirits waned as the trip continued, mine in particular. It took me so long to figure out what was wrong—why I couldn’t sleep, why I was sullen for long stretches of time, why I sometimes couldn’t breathe; why even now I can’t bring myself to write what exactly I kept thinking, hoping, wishing. 

The horrifying events of June 2016, when 49 people were murdered in the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, were weighing on my mind and spirit, threatening to pull me under. Like me, most of the victims were young, queer Latinos, and I was lost in the aftermath of their deaths. My depression wasn’t just sadness, but something deeper, something abiding and heavy. It made me realize that I was fundamentally changing. My relationship to the world was eroding along with me.

I didn’t think that I could cope, but somehow I made it through. Several months later, when I apologized to Cecilia while we were walking to get some Thanksgiving wine, we bonded over the heaviness of our feelings: sadness and anger, bitterness, despondency. These emotions seemed like more than moods. They were deeper than personal despair, more unruly and unmanageable.

*          *          *

Right when I heard the news of the Pulse shooting, as Facebook has reminded me every year since, I looked up some Bible verses and posted them there:

I felt beyond distraught. I felt that nothing could ever change, that horror, violence, and destruction were the only possible outcomes of life. The verses were less like a balm and more like a lonely beer at a bar. They cooled something unnamable that seemed to steadily burn inside me; they quenched a thirst that seemed to be coming from my belly, not my throat.

What business does a profoundly Atheist person have in turning to the Bible in times of crisis? Though I have not kept the faith of my Catholic father or my evangelical mother, apparently I have kept their sacred text. I find the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible (or, as I grew up calling it, the Old Testament) to be especially fascinating and disturbing, even unnerving. But I also find some of them oddly calming, especially in the face of disaster, bigotry, and violence. They provide me with a powerful anchor in the various storms of the twenty-first century. What emanates from these books lends words to the voiceless sorrow I feel, to the rage and helplessness that pin me down. They provide a strange solace when I can’t move, when it’s hard to do anything but overthink, or under-think, or hard even to think at all. 

*          *          *

Even as I turn to the prophets in times of national crisis and mourning, I’m wary of some of the ways that they have been wielded in this country. I’m wary even though I can sometimes feel the appeal.

One of my favorite novels to teach is John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck’s prophetic plea on behalf of America’s rural poor, displaced due to the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, and the changing economic and demographic realities of the United States, became an instant best-seller when it was published in 1939, so much so that it has become a cultural anchor. The title, suggested to Steinbeck by his first wife Carol, takes up the famous lyrics to “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” written by Julia Ward Howe:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

These lyrics explicitly echo images of divine wrath and trampled grapes from the book of Isaiah. To my mind, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel form the linked strands of American exceptionalist rhetoric when it comes to motivating emotional and political reactions to injustice—messianism and millennialism intertwined to form a specifically American response to crisis. Like the God of these books, the United States judges, demands justice, and justifies taking vengeance on its own behalf: The nation becomes the “terrible swift sword” loosed upon the world, making sure that our version of truth marches on. 

Steinbeck’s book can be read as a classic example of a jeremiad: a national call to repentance that takes its form and name from the book of Jeremiah, and that describes Isaiah and Ezekiel as well.  Well before The Grapes of Wrathwas written, the jeremiad had a robust history in American letters. (Sacvan Berovitch’s The American Jeremiadremains the quintessential study of this American tendency from the Puritans onwards.) And, as I have seen over the last several years, the jeremiad remains a powerful presence in our contemporary life, continually providing an expressive outlet for our anger about injustice. It tempers the steel of Howe’s divine retribution, of Steinbeck’s anger at a nation hell-bent on rejecting migrants, and of much of our cultural anger right now.

Turning to the prophets in this way gives many Americans a seemingly secure knowledge of a future that will eventually benefit us: Though the moral arc of the universe might be long, it bends towards justice, right? I teach American literature at a Catholic university, and I can see how this interpretive tendency gives many of my Christian students a sense of hope and blessed destiny—the universe, for them, has a predisposition towards correction. All they have to do is believe the right things, fulfill the right prophecies. This is supported by the self-fulfilling Christian teleological progression, which informs the possible interpretations many of my students bring to the table: They know the New Testament is the fulfillment and correction of the Old, because this is, simply, what they know. This means that the Bible’s complexities are quite often ironed over. Isaiah and Jeremiah point towards Christian theology, and the other prophetic books, by virtue of being prophetic books, must do so, too. Everything, it seems, leads to redemption. 

*          *          *

I want to suggest that many of us—as American Christians, or as adherents of American civil religion—have been reading these biblical books the wrong way. Perhaps we’ve even been reading the wrong books of the Bible altogether. This is a self-derived realization, one that maybe has no power outside of my own feelings, but it’s a realization that I’ve come to trust, and even to cling to.

In recent years, I’ve mostly stopped turning to Jeremiah, Ezekiel, or Isaiah to provide words for my fury, because it seems the moral arc of the universe is taking too long to come to its just conclusion. Perhaps it is even bending awayfrom justice. 

The end of times may be coming, especially given the disaster of what Jason Moore has called the Capitalocene (a stronger term for what many of us have been calling the Anthropocene). But despite the power of Howe’s poem, I cannot bring myself to imagine God “trampling out the vintage” to extract the juice of vengeance such that it benefits the nation’s image of itself as God’s aggrieved people. Or, to turn to the original, I can’t understand the world in light of Isaiah’s mediation of Yahweh’s anger: “The wine press I have trodden alone, and of my people there was no one with me. I trod them in my anger, and trampled them down in my wrath; Their blood spurted on my garments; all my apparel I stained. For the day of vengeance was in my heart, my year for redeeming was at hand” (Isaiah 63: 3-4). 

God’s fury in this passage is terrifying, but it does seem uniquely suited to the American imagination: Isolated, God smashes the people arrayed against him, and their blood fertilizes the ground in waves of crimson. God stands uniquely above his enemies, alone in his moral certainty. His garments are stained, and his feet carry out his monomaniacal mission on “the day of vengeance.” This violent retribution, exacted through a terrible cosmic anger, creates an enormous mantle of outward-facing rage, one that the United States has cloaked itself with over and over again—exacting vengeance on the wrongdoers of the world, acting as the “world’s police force.” The world, which has wronged him/us, suffers God’s/our vindication through punishment. And, as in Isaiah, there can be no stopping the necessary anger of this solitary fury. As a nation, we’ve so often made a complete turn towards identifying with and as God, especially when it comes to vengeance and outrage on a national scale. Righteous and proud isolation, then, has so often been our chosen position: With or without the world, we willhave vengeance, and through this vengeance, justice. 

So, no: I do not turn to Isaiah anymore. Instead, I turn to two other prophetic books. Paradoxically, these books grant solace because they offer none, whether through anger or through satisfying justice. I don’t feel nihilistic when reading these books, though I feel that in reading them, I can admit the depth to which our out-of-balance world is, indeed, harming us. It feels right and important to acknowledge that what matters, matters now, and that we shouldn’t wait for a perfectly redeemed afterlife. These are books of keening, of sackcloth and ashes, of judgment that bends not only on our enemies, but the entire world: Lamentations and Habakkuk. 

*          *          *

Habakkuk and Lamentations cry out for justice—but it is a justice that cannot be rendered according to our dictates:

You see, O LORD, how I am wronged; do me justice! You see all their vindictiveness, all their plots against me. You hear their insults, O LORD, the whispered murmurings of my foes, against me all the day; Whether they sit or stand, see, I am their taunt song. Requite them as they deserve, O LORD, according to their deeds; Give them hardness of heart, as your curse upon them; Pursue them in wrath and destroy them from under your heavens! (Lamentations 3: 59-66).

The prophet here begs for vengeance, yearns for the vindictive destruction of his enemies. Yet, there is no righteous response from God. Indeed, the book ends thus: “You, O LORD, are enthroned forever; your throne stands from age to age. Why, then, should you forget us, abandon us so long a time? Lead us back to you, O LORD, that we may be restored: give us anew such days as we had of old. For now you have indeed rejected us, and in full measure turned your wrath against us.” (Lamentations 5: 19-22). 

Turning towards reparation, Lamentations offers a vision distinct from Isaiah or Jeremiah. As many Jewish commentators have mentioned, it is a vision that names a distinct temporal and ethical vision that is geared towards atonement and reparation, and not towards individual self-fulfillment through the redemption of grace. This is a vision that Christianity, writ large, has studiously avoided. Reparation, while not the antithesis of redemption, is nevertheless a different way altogether of atoning. It means acknowledging and redressing harm in the present. It means seeking forgiveness as an active presence in the world, rather than building towards an afterlife. Reparation does not see sin as something washed away; even when forgiven, it is not forgotten or left behind (and so, hopefully, it is not repeated).

 In October 2018, on another road trip, this time from Indiana to Connecticut, I spent the night in Pittsburgh at the house of my dear friend, Liz Reich. (It was exactly two weeks before the Tree of Life synagogue was violently attacked by a white supremacist.) On the night I saw her, Liz broke out a beautiful tequila, and we got to talking about our faith traditions. She explained, excitedly, that I was missing something important, and it was likely due to my cultural Christianity. Judaism’s robust attention to the prophetic books yields a form of atonement quite different from Christianity’s emphasis on salvation; the rituals on Yom Kippur, in particular, stress a communal repentance that forms a conscious act of reparation.

I realized that this longstanding attention to atonement and redress informs my friend Mollie Eisenberg’s Passover Seder, in which Alicia Ostriker, Emma Lazarus, Walt Whitman, Claudia Rankine, Joy Harjo, Audre Lorde, FDR, and Muriel Rukeyser form a constellation of justice-driven thought, all of them bearing witness and demanding repair. As someone outside of the tradition, I’m moved by how many Seder Hagaddot are collaboratively constituted by an accretion of thoughts and sympathies across time and space.

The recognition, in Lamentations, is of disastrous and grievous harm done to God; of the sundering of a covenant. Restoration is begged—but, importantly, it is a restoration that will not be granted according to our rules. Instead, it will remake the world, and not in any image we might conjure. Although “such days as we had of old” are begged of God, these days cannot and will not return. Lamentations is not a book of vengeance against one’s enemies, but a terrifying recognition of the slow violence being rendered unto usdue to the harms we ourselves have inflicted on others. In Lamentations, the prophet means how we have harmed our covenant with God. For the purposes of this essay, and for the purposes of life in the US in the twenty-first century, it may well be a book about the ways we have harmed our covenants with each other, and the commandments we have been given: To be loving, to be devoted, to refuse to harm.

*          *          *

I consider Lamentations’ spectacular keening a poem uniquely suited for our time.

We have harmed the world beyond all hope, we have harmed future generations in ways that are grievous to the extreme. 

We have refused to atone for the sins of chattel slavery, mass incarceration, and genocide, and have indeed built our nation in the valley of these dry bones (bones that, as Ezekiel reminds us, will rise up). 

We beg for restoration (for America to be “great again”) but we do not turn towards loving justice; instead, we demand that our feelings of exceptionalism be redeemed as our specific birthright.

We define righteousness for ourselves (and make it tautological and self-fulfilling), rather than as something larger, something external and communal. 

We celebrate freedom while we cage migrants (children, adults, asylum seekers, refugees, wanderers, hopers) in squalor and order those sequestered to drink out of the same toilet bowls in which they relieve themselves.

This kind of hubristic demand—for exceptionalism, for self-asserted righteousness—is looked upon in horror in Lamentations, and it is angrily condemned in Habakkuk. If Lamentations begs for forgiveness and restoration, recognition, and embrace, then Habakkuk shouts out a vision of justice, redress, and reparation. Habakkuk lays out a vision of world-shaking, world-remaking justice that smashes any scale of human recognition. There is no redemption, because there can never be redemption. There can only be reparation.

*          *          *

For the last several years, Habakkuk has been the book I have turned to most urgently and often. Even before I quoted Habakkuk on Facebook in the early morning of June 12, 2016, I turned to it after the murder of Trayvon Martin. Two years after Trayvon was killed, and a year after his murderer was declared not guilty, Michael Brown was killed. After no charges were brought against the police officer who murdered him, I mourned Michael with a Bible in my lap and the television blaring in front of me. Habakkuk, once more, lay open.

*          *          *

Habakkuk is one of those books of the Bible that’s often more notable for its name than anything else. When I was a child, it was one of those Vacation Bible School gems of knowledge that helped one win prizes for remembering all 66 books of the Protestant Bible (and still brings forth an image of a “Ha-backpack,” which is what I first thought the name was, which in my mind’s eye was a backpack that looked like a book, strapped onto an old, bearded man). To my adult mind, Habakkuk blends the early anger of Isaiah with the mourning of Lamentations almost perfectly: The prophet stands helpless, watching fury and grief wash by and through him. Habakkuk begins with a scream to the cosmos befitting Job in his hour of deepest pain: 

How long, O LORD? I cry for help but you do not listen! I cry out to you, “Violence!” but you do not intervene. Why do you let me see ruin; why must I look at misery? Destruction and violence are before me; there is strife, and clamorous discord. This is why the law is benumbed, and judgment is never rendered: Because the wicked circumvent the just; that is why judgment comes forth perverted. (Habakkuk 1: 1-4)

Habakkuk was watching helplessly when Eric Garner’s executioner broke his throat and choked his breath. Habakkuk gushes forth as Sandra Bland’s blood still cries out for justice. Habakkuk screams when humans are encaged. Habakkuk shouts when the relatives of the Sandy Hook victims demand that something, anything be done to prevent gun violence. Habakkuk was the form my melancholy took when the Parkland shooting destroyed the lives of not only a school, but solidified a young generation’s traumas. My soul sought Habakkuk when the Pulse shooting rendered me sick with grief, imagining the desperation felt by the people at the club that night, who were there to find ways to give shape to the love they felt. I find Habbakuk in Orlando, Birmingham, Charleston, Pittsburgh, Poway, Christchurch, and countless other places woven together in the horrifying tapestry of white supremacist violations of sacred spaces. It’s what I was reading while editing this essay, refreshing the news from El Paso and Dayton. Habakkuk wails, “You do not intervene. Why do you let me see ruin?”

*          *          *

See who this reminds you of. After rendering his complaint, Habakkuk receives God’s word: 

Then the LORD answered me and said: write down the vision clearly upon the tablets, so that one can read it readily. … He who opens wide his throat like the nether world, and is insatiable as death, who gathers to himself all the nations, and rallies to himself all the people—Shall not all these take up a taunt against him, satire and epigrams about him, to say: Woe to him who stores up what is not his: How long can it last! He loads himself down with debts. Shall not your creditors rise suddenly? Shall not they who make you tremble awake? You shall become their spoil! Because you despoiled many peoples all the rest of the nations shall despoil you; Because of men’s blood shed, and violence done to the land, to the city and to all who dwell in it. Woe to him who pursues evil gain for his household, setting his nest on high to escape the reach of misfortune! (Habakkuk 2: 2, 5-10) 

Eat the rich, indeed. Habakkuk’s God censures anyone “who stores up what is not his.” The temptation, of course, is to turn immediately to the man elected president in 2016; yet he is no fulfillment of any prophecy. No, the “he” here, in our time, is more than that man: It���s capitalism, it’s the despoiling of nature, it’s violence against women, it’s racism, it’s genocide. It’s the United States of America, which set its nest on high, and through its supposedly virtuous anger and its vehement righteousness “despoiled many peoples,” built a world through “violence done to the land.” Habakkuk’s God deplores everything that the United States lays claim to in pursuit of its laudable ideals, the “evil gain for [its] household” in its quest to build John Winthrop’s shining “city on a hill,” an ideal that has morphed into the “nest on high” that God roundly condemns to the prophet.

*          *          *

Habakkuk ends with a canticle, and it gives me shivers to think about it sung aloud. It is to be sung “to a plaintive tune,” accompanied “with stringed instruments.” Watching God wreak his havoc on the earth, the prophet sings: “Is your anger against the streams, O LORD? …. Bared and ready is your bow, filled with arrows is your quiver. Into streams you split the earth; at sight of you the mountains tremble. A torrent of rain descends; the ocean gives forth its roar. The sun forgets to rise, the moon remains in its shelter” (Habakkuk 3: 8-11). As God tramples the nations, Habakkuk fearfully sings, “I hear, and my body trembles; at the sound, my lips quiver. Decay invades my bones, my legs tremble beneath me. I await the day of distress that will come upon the people who attack us” (Habakkuk 3:16). 

I love the phrase, “decay invades my bones,” and I looked up the King James Version of verse 16 to see how the archaic English would render the lines (to be frank, I also love that this is a “3:16” that sounds nothinglike the other, more famous one): “When I heard, my belly trembled; my lips quivered at the voice: rottenness entered into my bones, and I trembled in myself, that I might rest in the day of trouble: when he cometh up unto the people, he will invade them with his troops.” The KJV spells out the bodily effects of God’s vengeance: The belly quakes, the lips quiver, trembling abounds in the soul. “Decay invades my bones” is powerful, but “rottenness entered into my bones” is gratuitous and emphatic; it conveys a filthy sense of God’s rendered vengeance. God is not only creation, here, but visceral de-creation—he is not only abundance, but abjection, not only restoration, but rottenness.

*          *          *

In Habakkuk’s final chapter, God storms through the earth like the mythic vision of Lake Okeechobee that Zora Neale Hurston conveys in Their Eyes Were Watching God: 

Ten feet higher and as far as they could see the muttering wall advanced before the braced-up waters like a road crusher on a cosmic scale. The monstropolous beast had left his bed. The two hundred miles an hour wind had loosed his chains. He seized hold of his dikes and ran forward until he met the quarters; uprooted them like grass and rushed on after his supposed-to-be-conquerors, rolling the dikes, rolling the houses, rolling the people in the houses along with other timbers. The sea was walking the earth with a heavy heel. 

God in Habakkuk destroys the world throughthe world; the world has turned against humankind, because humankind has turned against the world. It is Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Book of Joanand Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilationcombined: a world that can no longer be contained, that can no longer be understood and interpreted, and all because we have flayed it and betrayed it. This is a world in which our butchery has been turned against us, in which justice means that we must bear witness to and suffer the terrible, overwhelming shape that it takes. This is not because justice must always be awful; no, as Habakkuk notes at the very beginning, it is because the world is out of balance. There is no justice because the greedy, the violent, the bigoted, and the tyrannical have bent justice towards their own benefit. Justice has become a means of justifying wealth’s creation and sustenance; it is not about love or truth. Justice has been betrayed, and so it can no longer be used to address the broken world. Reparation, instead, is required.

*          *          *

Why do some of us have to witness and bear the destruction of a world—a destruction that we did not make? It makes no sense that those of us who have suffered through coloniality, white supremacy, religious fundamentalism, and the abusive ways that heteronormativity and patriarchy have been used as cudgels, must then also have the world collapse around us. But then another question arises: If that world isn’t torn asunder, then are we in danger of inheriting or continuing that very world? And another: Can a violent world ever stop being violent? Yes, Habakkuk and Lamentations tell us—but it must be undone, and a new world must be willed into being. The world must be repaired—and we must forget about our narratives of redemption.

Otherwise, we are left begging for mercy in the apocalypse, as the late W.S. Merwin expresses in his 1967 poem “For a Coming Extinction”(which my partner Brandon Menke emailed to his friends this spring for National Poetry Month). Merwin asks that a Gray whale (along with its calves, as well as sea cows, Great Auks, gorillas, and other animals he calls “Our sacrifices”) bear our witness to God. In his cutting final stanza, Merwin commands,

Join your word to theirs

Tell him

That it is we who are important

Merwin’s bitterness pervades the poem, and his prophetic witness demands that we join his lamentation, that we understand precisely the contours of the world we have created. Merwin’s fury, rejecting the structuring bounds of punctuation and order throughout the poem, tosses aside the redeeming god of human invention in favor of a terrible deity who, surely, will render only one judgement. The poem reminds me of how Lamentations and Habakkuk (in opposition to how the American Christian imaginary has taken and used Isaiah and Jeremiah) form twinned elegies. Their keening, wailing verses do not conclude with visions of fulfillment or glory. 

It is no wonder, honestly, that we do not often meditate on these books, and that culturally, we rarely search for consolation within them. These two prophets stare, open-eyed and weeping, as God tears apart creation. And they know, in that destruction, there is re-creation—but not redemption. What is left on the other side? What does paradise look like? 

In ocean hush a woman black as firewood is singing. Next to her is a younger woman whose head rests on the singing woman’s lap. Ruined fingers troll the tea brown hair. All the colors of seashells—wheat, roses, pearl—fuse in the younger woman’s face. Her emerald eyes adore the black face framed in cerulean blue. Around them on the beach, sea trash gleams. Discarded bottle caps sparkle near a broken sandal. A small dead radio plays the quiet surf.

There is nothing to beat this solace which is what Piedade’s song is about, although the words evoke memories neither one has ever had; of reaching age in the company of the other; of speech shared and divided bread smoking from the fire; the unambivalent bliss of going home to be at home—the ease of coming back to love begun.

When the ocean heaves sending rhythms of water ashore, Piedade looks to see what has come. Another ship, perhaps, but different, heading to port, crew and passengers, lost and saved, atremble, for they have been disconsolate for some time. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in paradise. 

The final paragraphs of Toni Morrison’s Paradiseimagine reparation, rather than redemption; Lamentations and Habakkuk do, too. “Now [we] will rest before shouldering the endless work [we] were created to do down here in paradise.” Paradise is down,and not up; it is here, and not there. But in order to make paradise happen down here, the world’s structural violence must be un-created, and the world must be undone and refashioned through reparation.

*          *          *

There’s another prophetic book I should mention, one that an exceptional prophet of our age, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., consistently referenced: Amos. The night before he was assassinated, Dr. King gave his extraordinary “I Have Been to the Mountaintop” speech in Memphis, in support of the striking sanitation workers. About a third of the way through the speech, King looks out at the crowd assembled in the Mason Temple and gathers himself. With the crowd’s participation (which The Martin Luther King, Jr., Research and Education Institute wonderfully transcribes), King builds a vision of prophetic witness: 

We are going on. We need all of you. You know, what’s beautiful to me is to see all of these ministers of the Gospel. (Amen) It’s a marvelous picture. (Yes) Who is it that is supposed to articulate the longings and aspirations of the people more than the preacher? Somewhere the preacher must have a kind of fire shut up in his bones (Yes), and whenever injustice is around he must tell it. (Yes) Somehow the preacher must be an Amos, who said, “When God Speaks, who can but prophesy?” (Yes) Again with Amos, “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” (Yes) Somehow the preacher must say with Jesus, “The spirit of the Lord is upon me (Yes), because He hath anointed me (Yes), and He’s anointed me to deal with the problems of the poor.” (Go ahead)

This whole essay, I’ve been suggesting in a wayward way that the problem with the dominant Christian interpretation of the prophets has been on insisting that Jesus is the messiah, that he’s the fulfillment of what has been re-titled, in an ambitious act of revision, the Old Testament. In making them subservient to Christianity’s interpretive directives, the prophetic books have had their remarkable heft distorted. 

Dr. King directly links Amos and Jesus not through messianic fulfillment, but through anointment and appointment. Anyone can be anointed, and anyone can be appointed. As a great moral philosopher, this is the link Jesus himself drew to the Hebrew Bible he knew so well, and it’s the heart of his radical message: Anyone and everyone can be the child of God, and anyone and everyone can be anointed. By insisting that Jesus’ anointing makes him the only messiah, American Christian civil religion has staked its hopes on salvation in a world to come, at the expense of the world that exists.

 What we should acknowledge instead is that we only have a partial vision, or, perhaps, many partial visions. And what Habakkuk and Lamentations give us is not redemption, can never be redemption—the gift is, instead, to always and ever repair and restore. And, indeed, the gift is one we share with our friends and our neighbors, in ever expanding circles of recognition and care.

Here, now, this is our task: Reparation. In the wake of endless harm, we must make reparations, and in doing so, admit that the world is larger than us. We must insist on and face towards truth and beauty even in their absence, and refuse to abide in a world built on the souls and bones of others. *

Thank you to Briallen Hopper for the in-depth editing of this essay, and for the kindness of including this essay in Killing the Buddha. Thank you, too, to Brandon Menke, for a patient and considerate eye. Thank you to Yolanda Robles and Jay Miller for their feedback on earlier versions of this essay. 

[consciousowl]

Violence: A Conscious Response

You have heard that it was said “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.

Jesus Christ in the Sermon on the Mount

The central problem in every religion and philosophy is the problem of pain, or suffering. Why do bad things happen to good people? Some traditions point to sin, others to karma, others to fallible human institutions. Just think of all the innocent people who die in conspicuous acts of terrorism, whether in Paris, Las Vegas or Orlando. In many cases, we are talking women and children. An even greater dilemma is what to do in response. Should we pretend it never happened? Should we kill our attacker? Should we declare war? Should we begin to look at life as a victim? Should we get even through elaborate plots of revenge. This is not what the greatest men who have every lived have taught us. Yet we must deal with the situation in a way that works for us as human beings.

Violence Happens

We must start by acknowledging that violence, directed towards ourselves, or to others (maybe even on the other side of the world) is a part of our experience. It doesn’t matter how clever our interpretation; we must deal with the fact that we have let it in as a part of our reality. Every time you watch a newscast or pick up a paper, you create even more violence. We don’t have to interpret it if we don’t want to. It is very difficult to acknowledge pain without immediately going to judgment, evaluation, decision and conclusion. We seem to be wired that way. Yet the truth is simply that we experience pain, or extreme discomfort, disruption and destruction, either by ourselves, or through other people. Whatever has happened, has happened. There is nothing we can overtly do to erase that fact. How we respond to that event is wide open. This is where our creativity comes in. Not every injured person seeks retaliation or revenge. This should give us pause for consideration.

War Is Broken

On a collective scale, we have institutions to protect us, from local police to militia to the armed forces. While we don’t really have effective structures on the global level, we certainly have them at lower levels. On the global level, we virtually live in anarchy. The deeper problem, due primarily to “weapons of mass destruction,” is that the scale of their damage is too powerful to imagine. For example, one Trident submarine could launch enough missiles to take out all the major cities in North America. President Nixon published a book, Real Peace, in 1984 that marked a shift in Cold War strategy. Nixon showed how total war no longer works as an instrument of public policy. Even limited intervention is risky and should be avoided wherever possible. Shortly thereafter, President Reagan, along with General Secretary Gorbachev, normalized relations between Russia and America.

No License to Kill

On an individual level, we are almost never granted the privileges of James Bond. Even his creator, Ian Fleming, couldn’t pull off James Bond in real life. An intriguing movie, The Man Who Would Be James Bond, portrays this. To retaliate by killing someone, even for breaking and entering, results in a civil procedure, and you must hire a defense attorney. Even killing game with your rifle out of season is reprimanded. The best policemen and soldiers pray they never have to use their weapons. Simply asking the question, “Is violence ever justified?”, will lead you to the truth. People justify violence all the time, usually dragging God into the picture. This hardly makes violence justified. When it comes to human beings, it is hard for anyone to feel good eliminating someone.

As Within, So Without

On a deeper level, we can ask where the violence actually happens. If we are honest, we will admit that it always happens within our experience. As long as we find ourselves in the land of the living, any violence we see, hear or feel happens within the context of our absolute being. An ancient mystical saying puts it that whatever we find without, we find within. The implication is that all external people, places and things are ultimately within us. We know this to be true from quantum theory and neuroscience. Nothing is really “out there” in the classic sense. At first, this realization may cause you great dismay. However, if you stay with it, you will find it liberating. If Who You Are is the Source of all your experience, then your True Self must be the Creator of your world. This is exactly what is meant by you being a son or daughter of God.

Compassionately Confront Your Opponent

We can learn much from Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. They took Jesus’ injunction to love your enemy to the streets. Gandhi didn’t take a passive stance to perceived injustice, which Pope Francis I calls “structural evil.” Even though Gandhi started as a subject of Her Majesty, he didn’t receive equal treatment, as he wasn’t white. Gandhi learned, and Martin Luther King closely followed, acts of “noncooperation” or “civil disobedience” not as retaliation or revenge, but to awaken the British imperialists and appeal to their higher sensibilities. He was brilliant at that, as you quickly realize in Richard Attenborough’s masterpiece, Gandhi. When Gandhi was asked how he would respond to Hitler in light of the Jewish holocaust, he maintained that there would be much pain and suffering in a course of nonviolence. He then paused to ask the journalist, “Is there not much suffering and pain now?” Gandhi emphasized that the one thing you must do is stand firm for justice. As he once put it, “I am not for passive anything!”

“An eye for an eye, making the whole world blind!”

-Mahatma Gandhi

Transform Violence through Love

We then go back to Buddha, and to Christ. Both are human, both are divine. Buddha taught compassion, Christ taught love. This was not a theoretical construct. Buddha made his followers “Bhikkus,” beggars, and taught humility and solicitous concern. Christ had his followers unconditionally turn the other cheek. The Apostle Peter asked, “If my brother offends me seven times in one day, do I still have to forgive him?” Jesus’ response was, “Not seven times seven (49).” To those of us untutored in “ahimsa” or noninjury, this seems like a fairy tale. Certainly, people will take advantage of you, abuse you and walk all over you if you are a pushover. However, this is not quite so certain to happen if you truly love them. Christ taught us to systematically pray for difficult people, blessing them, and wishing the very best for them no matter what they do. Not only Gandhi and Martin Luther King demonstrated the power of this, but throughout the history of Buddhism and Christianity, contemplatives have worked miracles of love. That love, Divine Love, is the most powerful force in all the Universe.

You Are the Light of the World

Politicians and commentators keep asking what can we do about all this violence, an endless string of wars, terrorism, murder and violations to our Mother Earth. What they don’t suggest is that we do something radically different. The Roman Catholic Church was recently in a sharp decline in public esteem. Charges of corruption and pedophilia were rampant. Pope Benedict XVI resigned, an unprecedented act. Then, an obscure archbishop from Argentina, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, was elected pope. Jorge was an intensely practical man who had no other ambition than to live the Gospel. He invented the Papal name of Francis I and insisted on living in an apartment, not the Papal Palace. He insisted on using public transportation whenever possible. Pope Francis I is but the latest example of people who seriously follow Buddha or Christ, and get the heart of the message right. Jesus called his disciples “the Light of the world.” He was referring to divine consciousness. When people awaken to Whom They Really Are, the world, itself, is transformed before their eyes. It is not too late for us to carry that torch forward in our heart and our soul.

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[fictionerd]

Chapter Two: Awake - Entry #2

“This isn’t a reward. It’s a responsibility.” - Rose

---Last Seed, 31st, 4E 201--- My first day as a human and I've already become a Thane of Morthal. I gave thought to purchasing a parcel of land in the hold, but swiftly discovered just how expensive that would be. I think that's a long-term sort of goal.

I still need to decide whether to kill Lurbuk or not. On the one hand: I consider myself a professional. I may hurt that reputation of I fail to complete an accepted contract. Apparently so many people want this fellow dead that Astrid had to hold a lottery to decide who paid the fee.

On the other hand: I heard him play and he doesn't sound THAT bad. What could he have possibly done to warrant so much animosity? I've seen what the people of Morthal are like. The way they treated Falion was a good example

When in doubt: Put it off. I picked up a strange glowing crystal in Movarth's lair. A voice asked me to return it to Mount Kilkreath. That's nearby, so why not? Besides, the longer I stay in the field the longer Astrid has to cool her head.

>Ah, Meridia. Daedric Prince of Life. Suddenly I'm glad that I got cured before attempting this. As I understand it she's not too keen on the undead.

>Guide Meridia's light through the temple. Kill Necromancer. Claim Dawnbreaker.

Consider it done oh Fallen Star.

---Heartfire, 1st, 4E 201--- A new month is upon us. I write from Dragon Bridge. Malkoran was a tough nut. I managed to sneak past his ghostly soldiers and give him a steel (well silver I guess) kiss, but he popped back up as some sort of wraith himself. Took a few more whacks to get him to go down for good. My reward: Dawnbreaker. A legendary single-sword that burns away the undead. Daedric Artifact of Meridia.

Now, I'm not one for single-handed swords. So imagine my surprise when, upon grasping the hilt of the weapon, it grew into a nice, big greatsword just for me.

Divines I love artifact weapons, and this is the first one I've ever had! Might need to work on the whole "glowing crossguard" thing while sneaking. Then again for all I know it won't be noticeable when I don't want it to be.

>The strangest thing just happened. I went back to Morthal and was sitting in the tavern. I was mulling over the Lurbuk dilemma when the orc just snapped and started attacking the innkeeper! I valiantly leapt to her assisstance, unfortunately we just couldn't get the big guy to calm down. He fought to the death and we had no choice but to do the same. I wonder if there were any warning signs that he might do such a thing.

Now if only there was a way to write a wink.

>I know it was meant as a noble sentiment, but when Lani said to me "May you die with a sword in your hands" just now I got the strangest chill down my spine. Really that's the sort of statement that could easily be taken as a curse. Though if I had to choose how I'd die it WOULD be a close call between that and "Of old age in a house surrounded by mementos of my adventures"

>I wonder how the Sanctuary will react to me being human again? They didn't seem to notice that I was a vampire before. Maybe they just won't say anything or care.

>Well if Nazir is anything to go by they didn't notice at all that I was a vampire. When I reported Hern dead he made a comment about "contracting Sanguinare Vampiris". If he'd realized I was a vampire when I joined he'd have known that was impossible. Also he'd definitely have noticed that I'd come back human. I can hear it now.

"So when a Vampire bites another vampire they turn human? That's a neat trick."

Update on the Astrid situation: She's decided it's a good idea to follow the advice of the Brotherhood's founder and supernatural ally. I mean that must have been a difficult conclusion to arrive at. I can just see how she'd need all this time to weigh the pros and cons of accepting assistance from a higher power. (Or I guess lower power perhaps?)

>Notes on Volunruud job:

Nazir: Reminded me that "Astrid is my mistress" and "not the Night Mother". Astrid didn't give me my memories back. Astrid isn't treating this Sanctuary like a family. Astrid is striking me as a threatened politician desperately trying to cling to power.

Festus: Jealous of my being chosen as Listener. I'd tell him it's because of my history, but I'm not ready to take that leap yet. For all I know Bellamont is still a taboo name in the Brotherhood regardless. He also suggested I prepare for Draugr since I'll be entering an old crypt. Decent advice. I'm serious. You'd think that was unhelpful and obvious, but how often is the obvious overlooked?

Gabriella: Astrid is right to fear my power. Was that a subtle vote of support? That's almost sweet. I'll commit to being touched when I'm sure I've removed all the sharp objects from that bit of sweetmeat.

Babette: Commented that the man I'm meant to speak with, Motierre, bears the name of an old and powerful Breton family well established in Cyrodiil. I'm honestly surprised I didn't recognize it before. I'll need to see if I can recall hearing that name in my past.

Arnbjorn: He's an angry puppy. If he's not careful I might just have to get ruff with him. Though I don't know. He might enjoy it. Astrid seems like the type.

Veezara: Is convinced that Astrid is committed to her "Family" in the Sanctuary. It really doesn't seem that way to me. These people feel less like a family and more like acquaintances. Could this be what the Dark Brotherhood of old was really like? No, I don't think Mother would lie like that. She spoke fondly of her brothers and sisters. On top of that I saw her interact with them. This is not the Brotherhood she was a part of.

>Alright planning time:

Volunruud is roughly to the north of Whiterun which means I'll be heading through the city without a doubt. While I'm here in the south, though, I believe I'll head through Helgen to Orphan Rock and retrieve Nettlebane for Danica. May as well get done as much with one excursion as possible, and I'm sure the Night Mother would have informed me of any time limit. So I'll set my own pace.

I remember hearing some rumors of Imperial activity around Helgen too. Perhaps I'll be able to find out more about this Civil War from the Empire's side of things.

>I arrived at Helgen to find the place completely destroyed. A dragon (yes I'm serious) lifted up from the wreckage of the town and flew off to the north.

Well I'll certainly have a story to tell when I make my way to Whiterun.

>I have acquired Nettlebane. That was a bit tougher than I thought it'd be. I need to learn when to use my Fury and Fear spells. If they're spread out: Fear. If they're bunched up: Fury. That way I can more easily manipulate the battlefield to my advantage.

Oh! and when all else fails: Calm

---Heartfire, 2nd, 4E 201--- Sleeping at night and rising with the sun. Well before it in this case. It's strange how quickly I've acclimated to this. Though now that I think about it I've always been able to sleep wherever and whenever I wanted. I'd play hide-and-seek with mother and on a particularly good day for me she'd find me hours later asleep in some high-up spot out of sight.

It's so good to be able to remember these things again. I feel whole. It's nice.

Nostalgia aside: Today I head to Whiterun from Riverwood once more. I informed the town about the dragon and a few of the townsfolk confirmed my sighting. I've been asked to report this to Jarl Balgruuf. SO I'll be stopping by Dragon's Reach before visiting Danica with Nettlebane.

>Report went well. The Jarl was grateful for my assistance. So grateful in fact that he tasked me with helping his Court Wizard retrieve information about the dragons. Add that to the list of things I need to do at some point. First and foremost though: Danica and Volunruud.

>I've picked up a tagalong from the Temple of Kynareth. A pilgrim who came to see the Gildergreen and was disappointed by its current state. When Danica asked me to go to the Eldergleam sanctuary to retrieve the sap for her this fellow asked to come along. Personally I see no reason not to have him join me. We'll catch a carriage to Mixwater Mill and then head into the volcanic tundra toward the Eldergleam from there.

>Incredible. I've witnessed the power of faith in the Divines first hand. Maurice was taken aback when I began using Nettlebane to clear a path to the Eldergleam. When I explained what I intended he was apalled, but suggested there might be a better alternative. Instead of tapping the tree for its sap I allowed Maurice ot do his thing. The tree actually sprung a sapling from the ground at its base for me to take back to Danica!

This is a rare treasure. I will have to be cautious in my return. Fortunately I had the carriage driver agree to wait for us at Mixwater.

>Danica was at first disappointed, but after conveying Maurice's message "The beauty of nature is in Renewal, not maintenance" she came around. I wonder if there's anything in this world I could have that kind of faith in. Actually there's one thing I can think of: Mother. Not "The Night Mother" but my mother. Luna Morandi the Listener, mother, teacher, goddess as far as I was concerned growing up. I believe in her. Even after the events of that night I still trust in her now that my memories have returned. She must have had a good reason to place me where I am. I hope that I live up to her expectations.

On that note: Screw sleeping tonight. I'm heading to Volunruud in full Brotherhood regalia.

>Well, here I am. Volunruud. Time to go in and meet this Amaund Motierre. The name doesn't dredge up any memories. Perhaps the family rose to prominence after I started my "nap". Whoever he is, and whatever is going on with the Brotherhood I'll find out tonight. Time to follow Sithis' will.

>Dead body of an explorer in the entranceway. Most would see this as a bad sign, but given the forces I'm currently aligned with I feel it's a good omen.

---Heartfire, 3rd, 4E 201--- The Emperor... of Tamriel

Amaund Motierre wants us to assassinate the EMPEROR of TAMRIEL!

Granted, he said there were a great many contracts he needed us to do, but it's all focused on that final kill.

The Emperor. It's been done before, yes. It's taken me almost a full day and I've still barely wrapped my brain around this.

The Emperor of Tamriel.

To think there's a chance that my hands may end up holding the blade that changes the future. It's exciting, but sobering. This isn't a reward. It's a responsibility. A responsibility to know why. A responsibility to carry this out without any problems.

I've got to get Motierre's letter and the jeweled amulet to Astrid. The carriage can hardly reach Falkreath fast enough.