#he is obligated to ask himself who is he to impose his beliefs on this man that is carrying such a deep wound and hurting with him because | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pagingdoctorbedlam · 3 years

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Ready for zombies, Zoro, and some hurt/comfort? Then take a swig of this potion for @quirkyseastone ‘s “Brew a Love Potion” event! (But please read the warnings first!)

Characters: Zoro x Reader; appearance by Bartholomew Kuma

Genre: Zombie/Apocalypse, Hurt/Comfort (a bit light on the comfort though, woops)

TW/CW: Violence, guns and swords, blood, light gore, mentions of cannibalism, undead bodies

Inspiration: The concept for zombies in this fic is inspired by the novel Breathers by S.G. Browne (at least, what I remember from having read it over 10 years ago...)

Word Count: ~3.1k words

...

"Hold still, we're almost..." You apply the last bit of blush before appraising your handiwork. Not bad, if you said so yourself. At a glance, Zoro doesn't even look dead. "There. Want a mirror to see?"

"I trust you not to doll me up too bad." Roronoa Zoro yawns, even though the legendary zombie hunter no longer needs to sleep, having recently been turned into a zombie himself. Which, contrary to popular belief, is not in and of itself a death sentence. Most zombies act as they did in life, even if their bodies no longer recover the way a living human's does. The danger comes from the zombies who try to stop this decay by feasting on human brains...and sometimes more dangerous are the humans who've decided that every zombie is a ticking time bomb regardless of said zombie's intentions.

At least Zoro had never been that way, but now he's got to hide from the hunters who once considered him a legend. Sure, it wouldn't be hard for him to fight off hunters, even if you've had to stitch each limb back on at least twice (and you're still not sure where one of his eyes ended up). But you'd rather your newfound partner in protecting innocent zombies not cause a scene simply by walking through the market.

"Remember, don't rub your face. This makeup cost me a fortune. And try to fake breathing this time, okay?"

"Yeah yeah, I got it." He manages to take a breath that's believable but isn't so deep that it rattles the loose bones and organs in his slowly decaying chest.

Both of you get to your feet and finish the rest of your preparations for the outside world. Your clothing hides as much skin as possible, even with the warm temperatures outside. You spray Zoro down with cheap cologne so he smells less like roadkill and more like a teenager trying to cover up a bad case of B.O. And you slip on filtration masks in a vain attempt to avoid the ever-present smoke and dust beyond your walls.

No one's sure if the zombies came about because of the bombs, or if the bombs were secretly launched because the powers-that-be learned about the first nascent zombies and failed with their pre-emptive strike. But now much of the world is a wasteland, and bargaining for resources is bad enough without half the population lobbing accusations of cannibalism at the other half. You can't hold off this trip any longer, because you've ended up looking after a number of innocent zombies, and they need medical supplies before they fall apart any further.

You shoo Zoro away from the driver's spot on your motorbike. "Nuh uh buddy, we aren't getting lost today." You've heard a new band of hunters is coming to town, and the last thing you want is to run into them before you have a chance to secure your supplies.

"I don't get lost! They just keep changing where the market is." Zoro still reluctantly waits for you to take your place at the front before he sits behind you and firmly snakes his arms around your waist. You pretend you can feel his pulse when he holds you, even though you know the heart in his chest has long stopped beating.

Markets are supposed to be neutral ground. Everyone needs resources to survive after all, and one of the few things that bombs and zombie outbreaks couldn't kill is commerce. Stalls line the aisles of what was once a grocery store, faded advertisements promoting foods that no one's seen in years, and someone has fixed the speaker system to play the same old pop hits in a vain attempt at normalcy.

You hold tight to Zoro's hand, both to keep him from getting lost and so he stays close in case of danger. He obliges, and even holds bags for you as you pull him around. You might've called this romantic in the times before, back when your purchases would've been far more frivolous than bandages and shelf-stable rations, but you're unsure how close you and Zoro would've been without being thrown together by circumstance.

You pause by one stall, eyes wide. Zoro doesn't notice and keeps walking until he notices that you won't budge. He raises an eyebrow when he finally joins you. "What, some kinda' plastic plant?"

"Not plastic. It's real." You forgive him the mistake though, as the plant has sturdy, waxy leaves that almost look sculpted. It feels like so long since you've seen anything green (aside from Zoro's hair), much less an actual plant. But you note the name scribbled in tape on its battered plastic pot. It's nothing useful, not medicinal or edible in the slightest. Just a begonia that hasn't even bloomed yet.

The shopkeeper asks, "Gonna gawk, or you gonna' buy?"

You know you can't afford a plant, what with how rare they are. You might be able to bargain and beg if it were something more useful, but...

"We'll buy." Zoro slams something down on the table. "This'll be enough?"

You catch the glint of gold peeking from between his fingers. Jewelry isn't useful anymore, but human greed has a hard time giving up old habits. The shopkeeper smiles wide and practically shoves the begonia at you with one hand while snatching up Zoro's earring with the other. You thank him and depart the stall without another word, clutching the flower close to your chest.

"What was that about?" You hiss at Zoro.

"Looked like you wanted it," he says with a shrug. You squint up at his remaining earrings, only to realize that in his haste to remove the one he traded away, he tore the hole in his ear a little in the process. Probably didn't even notice that he'd done so, the stubborn fool...

Well, what's done is done. "Thank you. I'll make sure to take excellent care of it."

"Don't mention it." Which you know is Zoro-speak for "you're welcome". So you smile back at him without saying anything more on the subject, and continue the rest of your trek through the market.

You make the mistake of thinking this is a surprisingly nice day. But you don't realize that someone has noticed how Zoro isn't bleeding.

When Zoro pulls out one sword and tightens his grip around your midsection, you don't have to ask why. You're being followed.

You absently wonder what gave you away. Never removing your masks? A smudge in Zoro's makeup that revealed the deathly pallor underneath? It doesn't really matter, you think. Whoever is after you will chase you down until they can swing their weapons and play at being heroes, so all you can do is fight on your own terms. You avoid going home and swerve the bike toward the burned-out husk of an abandoned store that not even the most desperate zombies would hide in.

You glance at the tilted rearview mirror on your bike. The figures chasing you are hulking brutes, but nothing compared to their ringleader. He's built like a brick house with legs, and his imposing figure is thrown off by the pristine white hat topped with small bear ears. Instead of a holstered weapon, he has a bible strapped to his side. You've heard of this man. Judging by the look in Zoro's eyes, he does too. One of the most notorious zombie hunters in the country: Bartholomew Kuma.

What is he doing here, of all places?

Zoro says, "Soon as we touch down, hide. It's me they want."

"I can't just leave you. You know who that is back there?"

"Doesn't matter. I already died once. They can't do worse than that to me. But they could still hurt you plenty. 'Specially if you came back before they were done with you." In the rearview mirror, Zoro's eyes are sharp and cold as his blades.

You know how to handle a weapon in self-defense, but you're nowhere near the master that Zoro is. And he has a point. You're still human, you can bleed, you can hurt. And that might chew Zoro up worse than anything Kuma and crew could throw at him. You resign yourself to your fate and think of where in that burnt-out building you might be able to hide, preferably while still keeping an ear out for danger.

You speed on, trying to shake your pursuers, but soon the road runs out. The bones of burnt buildings jut out before you like oversized tombstones. You remember scouting here before, trying to usher out displaced zombies before the remnants of the building could collapse on them. Much of the ruins have fallen since you were last here, but there's still a concrete bunker that was once a stockroom, and it's mostly intact. You can lay low there until the fighting's over.

You relay this plan to Zoro, and you tell him, "I'll be safe there, don't worry about me. Once the fighting's done, I'll come back down and patch you up. So don't die on me again, alright?"

Zoro nods, even though he surely knows the claim is more for your comfort than anything. He's a zombie, after all, and they don't heal the way humans do unless they devour human brains. He won't bleed, but if he looses a limb, or even his head? There's nothing you can do to fix that. And to be honest, you're not sure if that'll do him in, or if he'd continue living in pieces. You don't want to find out.

You park. And you know you should hit the ground running, but your heart is hammering in your chest. You turn to Zoro as he pulls out his blades.

You quickly put your warm hands on his cold cheeks and pull him in for a kiss. You two never attached words to what's simmered under the surface for so long, but in case of the worst...you couldn't handle him not knowing how you truly felt. He blinks as you pull away, briefly stunned. You wonder if he'd blush if he could.

You run into the burnt-out husk of a building. The touch of your lips on Zoro's is replaced by a sword between his teeth.

In another lifetime, before people stopped dying right and the world went to hell over it, this building was a clothing store. You shopped here for outfits you haven't seen in years. Once, a friend who worked here snuck you into the back room, and you ate cheap takeout while surrounded by wall-to-ceiling racks of clothing and shoes. If you took time to wipe away the dust, you might still find graffiti left by the workers during their final shifts. You wonder if your friend left one.

You cannot look because you are huddled on a shelf and trying not to make a sound. The shelves are sturdy metal and easy to climb even without the rolling ladder. You're hidden high above the heads of anyone who might come in and pressed against a wall. No one should find you here.

For awhile, you heard sounds from outside. Speaking at first, though you couldn't make out what was being said. Then battle, swords colliding and guns firing. Screams. Then...nothing. You don't know if it's safe to come out. You'll find out soon. There are footsteps approaching.

A voice you do not recognize says your name.

"Roronoa Zoro is dead. Again. I am sorry that it had to happen." Heavy footfalls contrast a voice that is soft, almost even kind. "I understand why you might want to save him. You've built quite a reputation for that, you know. But I'm afraid it ends here. We cannot allow you to keep any more abominations alive. You understand that is what they are, don't you?"

You know he's trying to goad you into revealing yourself. It takes everything in your power to hold still and silent.

Metal crumples nearby with a shrill squeal, as if it could protest its false bones being broken.

"If you were to go on a trip...where would you like to go?"

The question throws you off guard, almost enough for sound to escape your lips.

"We do not have to kill you. All the government wants is to talk. If you cooperate, you'll be transported somewhere safe. Free of zombies, even." More metal crumples, and you wonder how Kuma is doing it. Does he have a weapon, or is he strong enough to break the storage shelves with his bare hands? "All you have to do is come willingly, and when we're done, you can go wherever you'd like, and you'll be kept safe."

But the only place you can think of is home. With Zoro. No matter what might come after you there.

The shelf under you shifts, and your body spasms as if you fell in a dream and awoke with your mind still lurching. You reach for anything to grab onto, but your fingers only touch air. (For the briefest instance, you spy graffiti drawn by a familiar hand upon the wall.)

You do not immediately recognize the feel of the arms, because they are warm and pulsing with life. You stare up at Zoro's face in disbelief. He's missing an eye and his face is smeared with blood, mouth drawn in a thin line.

"You survived," Kuma intones softly. "You ate them." And you wish you could refute him, but even before he spoke, you knew it to be true. Zoro's bloody fingers dig into your clothes to hold you tight. You hear his heartbeat for the first time, and it rarely skips a beat. Kuma says, "Let your friend down, Roronoa. You don't want to do this."

"Think I'm some mindless cannibal? Think again." Zoro sets you down and looks you dead in the eye. "Told you I wouldn't die. And neither will you. Now, get out of here." Half a second before returning his sword to his mouth, his tongue flickers over his blood-stained lips. "Hurry!"

You do as he asks and flee to the doorway of the building. You know you should run to the motorcycle and drive out of here, but there are two problems with that. One is how you don't want to leave Zoro again. The other is that even if you admit the truth to yourself, that he finally gave in and consumed the brains of his enemies like the zombies he used to put down...you don't want to turn around and see what he did to the corpses of Kuma's followers.

The fight is swift and brutal. You've seen Zoro fight before, but while he's normally a whirlwind with his blades, now he's a demonic torrent. Much as he tries to stick to his traditional fighting forms, they slip into more instinctual slashes when Kuma pushes back, and the only thing that keeps Zoro on top is sheer ferocity. He moves so fast, you swear he's slashing three times faster than a normal man, leaving the afterimages of a three-faced demon. (You've heard rumors of zombies growing entirely new parts when they've eaten too much mortal flesh, but surely those are only rumors, survivors not understanding what they're seeing...)

Kuma is far quicker than his size would suggest. But even he begins to buckle. He blocks one blade with a bible far sturdier than it appears, and then lunges forward in a final desperate attack. Zoro braces to parry an attack, but is taken aback as no blow comes. Something metal and blinking is clasped onto his wrist.

"We will not meet again."

And Kuma is gone. You blink in surprise. You swore you didn't see him leave through the other holes in the building, didn't feel anyone pass you, and yet...

The normally composed swordsman growls as he sheathes his swords and tries to pry the blinking metal bangle (a tracking device, what else could it be?) off his arm. You want to approach him, but are unsure if you should; all you can do is watch as he uselessly paws at the bangle. Until he stops suddenly. You catch a glimpse of fresh crimson.

Zoro freezes as the reality of what he's done, what he's become, finally settles in. He's a statue slowly dripping red, most of which isn't his own. His breath shudders, and that too takes him off-guard. He sways where he stands, almost falling to his knees but somehow staying upright.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you toward him, and you reach out. Your fingers brush against his back. He growls, "Don't. I'm not..."

"It doesn't matter what you are. You're still Zoro."

Gentle pushes at his shoulders turn him around so he faces you. His face has more color than you've ever seen, blood red and flesh pink and mottled blues and violets of bruises. His closed eyelid twitches as the eye underneath regenerates. How long will it be until all the color's gone, and electrical impulses run short to leave his heart to hang heavy and empty in his chest, and how much longer than that until he gets a taste for life again regardless of the cost?

That doesn't matter right now. The future looms taller and more frightening than Kuma, but right now, you're two scared humans in a broken warehouse. You wrap your arms around Zoro and pull him close.

For the briefest moment, you feel his mouth open, hear the click in his jaw. His teeth brush against your ear. You close your eyes and refuse to think about it.

His chin rests on your shoulder. Mouth closed. Arms wrap around you right and your hearts beat together, lungs scramble for air together, blood and worry (and tears, you think, but you're not sure whose) intermingle and crawl to a slow stop until only a numb and temporary peace remains.

"You'd be forgiven for walking away." His voice is raw and tired with the weight of living again and all that took.

"Maybe. But someone has to keep you from getting lost." You give him one final squeeze before letting him go. "Come on. Let's go home and get you cleaned up."

When morning comes, you'll have to face what the future holds for a brain-eating swordsman and the one who looks out for him despite it all. But tonight, the both of you are miraculously alive and breathing, and there's a green new plant in the window ready to soak up all the sunlight tomorrow can offer.

#seas brew a love potion challenge #opfanfic #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #zombie au #hurt/comfort #bedlam writes

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goldandlights · 4 years

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of cherries and dandelions

aka lil virgin!Jas biting off more than he can chew when he propositions Geralt shortly after Posada :(

rating: explicit pairing: geraskier (pre-relationship? it could be read as casual sex) tags: top!Geralt, bottom!Jaskier, first time, sex toys, communication failure, angst and fluff

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It’s summer in Lyria, a mild and pleasant evening, when Jaskier leans over to Geralt and croons some saucy verse about fucking in his ear. There are no other patrons to entertain in the tavern and the young bard honestly expects nothing but the usual glaring and growling from his sourly companion. Even 2 months into their shared travels, the Witcher seems to barely tolerate his presence. Pity... but hey, Jaskier is working on it.

Geralt is as fine a specimen as he has ever seen; tall, broad and strong , with thick arms and even thicker thighs that make the bardling’s mouth water when he imagines sinking down between them. (And the hair! The eyes! -oh, his eyes… )

Between the power to crush the bones in a human’s body, reflexes so fast he can cut an arrow out of the air and senses so acute they can pick up on a mouse rustling through the underbrush half a mile away, the white-haired Witcher was undoubtedly created to be a finely-tuned killing-machine. But Jaskier can find no trace of fear within himself.

In their time together, Geralt has shown himself to be noble and quietly compassionate above all else, avoiding confrontation and violence to the point where he’d rather leave an inn, meal unfinished and bed paid-for but unused, than defend himself against those who hurl abuse (and sometimes sharp objects) at him.

It’s just not fair and so Jaskier has sworn to do anything in his power to improve the situation.

It also makes the sizzling attraction all the worse.

Not only is Geralt stupidly hot, but he’s also kind and oddly charming and it messes with the poor bard quite terribly. He can’t stop sending winks and overt, suggestive glances Geralt’s way. Can’t stop spewing flirtatious remarks and innuendo. The young man has yet to learn how to be anything other than obvious about his desire but he does already know that confidence is the name of the game.

Still, Geralt is Geralt. Tough and experienced and probably entirely straight .

So even if the mental image of all that juicy bulk pressing him down into the sheets makes Jaskier’s prick twitch and leak, he does not expect his actions to incite a response in the other man at all.

That’s his first misjudgement.

Because when faced with the 5th overt come-on in as many hours, for the 6th week in a row, Geralt huffs, rolls his eyes and- stands up?

“Come on, then,” He says gruffly, already turning towards the stairs and Jaskier’s brain grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.

Wait, what.

He stands frozen, gaping unattractively until Geralt notices his hesitation and turns around with a raised eyebrow.

“Or are you all bark and no bite after all?”

Well.

Barely 18 and still rather fresh out of Oxenfurt, Jaskier has been with a whole lot of three women and sucked cock exactly once . -under the watchful eyes of those that still knew him as Julian there hadn’t been many opportunities to experiment.

Still, the bard had his fingers, fantasies and a lovely little toy pulled from a heap of bits and bobs at a novelty shop in Vizima.

It was maybe 6 inches long with a conveniently flared base and a lovely bulge on the upper half. Add just a bit of oil and it slides in easily, the comfortable stretch setting every nerve alight. Jaskier enjoys having it in, even when he’s not hard or trying to get off, and plays with it whenever he can. It’s just so nice to be full, to clench around it, to dream of his body giving a lover pleasure this way.

Is this the opportunity he’d been waiting for? Possibly. If it is though, it’s fast slipping through his fingers. With a grunt as if to say I knew it , Geralt turns and continues his way up the stairs. Shit.

Gathering all his courage, Jaskier shakes himself out of his stupor and stumbles forwards.

When the door to their room falls shut behind him, the bard is already fully hard, blushing furiously at his own over-eagerness when Geralt takes one look at the tent in his breeches and raises a perfectly shaped brow.

Jaskier knows he mustn’t let the nervous energy twisting in his gut bubble over. The Witcher can smell emotion, at least basic ones like joy or fear, and he’ll notice any uncertainty the bard projects. How would he react? Surely Geralt has no use for an inexperienced bed-partner.

Really, Jaskier feels quite out of his depth. In their tiny room, the burly Witcher is doubly imposing and the bard has no frame of reference for how such things between men are carried out. Deciding it’s best not to lose momentum, he puts his lute down against the wall and steps up to where Geralt is standing next to the bed.

Confidence, Jaskier.

He pushes right into the man’s space and kisses him, forcefully, hands going up to grab at the broad chest he’s been staring at lustily for weeks. Immediately, Geralt is kissing back, huge hands settling on Jaskier’s waist.

Biting and sucking on soft, plush lips, he forces Jaskier back a step, then another, curbing any attempt to crowd the Witcher towards the mattress. The young man, however, is too distracted to worry about the shifting power balance. He has two handfuls of Geralt’s thick, bulging pecs to bind his attention and, oh, they’re tensing deliciously as a growl rumbles from the Witcher’s throat.

“I’m not one of your milk-maids, Jas,” he bites out and the bard finds himself picked up and damn near thrown onto the bed as though he weighs nothing at all.

After two months of yearning and awkward boners, the youthful bardling finally gets his wish of being buried alive under 200 pounds of excitable Witcher, keening and whining as he’s absolutely ravished . Either Geralt also has some sexual frustration to burn through or he’s always that intense -at least it leaves no room for nervousness.

Within minutes, Jaskier’s doublet and undershirt have been shoved off and the Witcher’s face is buried in the hair on his chest, breathing him in, sword-calloused fingers pulling and pinching at the bard’s nipples. Pain transforms into tingling pleasure and Jaskier barely contains a cry.

He had never thought to play with his chest this way; a most grievous oversight. When Geralt’s mouth latches onto one of the stiff little nubs, licking and sucking, eager little mewls start spilling from Jaskier’s mouth. Sweet Melitele . If anything, he seems to be the milk-maid in this scenario.

There’s nothing soft about the body atop of him, nothing that gives to the frenzied clutch of his hands. Geralt has divested himself of his shirt as well and Jaskier runs his hands mindlessly over the skin he can reach, drinking in the unfamiliar sensations of coarse hair and scarring under his fingertips.

The urge to spread his legs like a 3 ducat whore is a bit embarrassing but undeniable. And it’s really not fair when life rewards his shamelessness with a Witcher’s hard belly pushing down onto his prick. Jaskier nearly spills then and there from the friction. He’s so fucking hard and they haven’t even done anything yet.

If Geralt notices the wet spot at the front of his trousers, he doesn’t say anything -which is a rather small mercy overall, considering the thoughtful look the older man levels at Jaskier when he draws back, sitting up between wantonly splayed thighs to examine the young body underneath him.

“Sensitive, are you?” Geralt murmurs, drawing his calloused palms down the length of Jaskier’s quivering body.

They’re warm, so warm as they run along his vulnerable belly and sides. A gentle, soothing pressure which brings momentary respite from the urgent throbbing between Jaskier’s legs. Goosebumps prickle over his skin.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, arching his back as Geralt rubs his thumb over the soft little bump below his navel. It is answer enough.

To distract and discourage further questioning, Jaskier catches one of the Witcher’s thick wrists in one hand and makes grabby motions with the other. Even when not pitted against a Witcher’s heightened senses, Jaskier is a terrible liar. He worries if Geralt starts asking questions, the truth about his previous experience -or lack thereof- will slip out.

He’s in luck though; Geralt looks surprised but simply obliges the wordless demand.

Happily buried under a mountain of Witcher again, Jaskier seeks out his slightly chapped lips for another lovely kiss. It’s addictive. Their mouths meet languidly, and he relishes in the opportunity to card his fingers through the other man’s beautiful white hair.

Geralt, surprisingly, does not protest and does not, for the moment, make any motions towards getting on with the programme. He actually seems quite happy to stay in that position for a bit, simply enjoying the warmth and closeness of their bodies as Jaskier works to calm his racing heart.

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“I want to see you suck my cock.”

Spoken softly into the unexpectedly peaceful silence, Geralt’s murmur is carefully undemanding. His hungrily roaming hands, however, give away the desire hidden underneath. Nodding to the unspoken request, Jaskier lets go of the Witcher’s soft tresses to watch him undress.

That’s when Jaskier realises his second misjudgement of the night.

He knows himself to be quite average in length and girth. With his little glass toy being similarly sized, Jaskier had thus felt quite safe in the belief that, whatever his first proper male conquest was packing, he’d be able to handle it just fine.

Except that nothing about Geralt was ever average. Not his appearance, not his strength and not, apparently, his fucking dick.

>>>>> read the rest on ao3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #i'm ON my bullshit #this is 7k total #the 2nd chap will be up on thursday #ayyy #my writing #NOW BACK TO THE OMEGA!GERALT SMUT

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pamphletstoinspire · 3 years

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The Ascension is Not a Pastoral Burden

Let’s admit it: the Solemnity of the Ascension is a practically marginal feast for Western Catholics. In many Western countries and much of the United States, it’s even been rendered ahistorical, shunted off from the fortieth day of Easter to the nearest Sunday. The dirty little secret is that the feast is so irrelevant to the self-understanding of most Catholics, evidenced by paltry Mass attendance on Ascension Thursday, that bishops, ostensibly to address the “pastoral burden” of attending Mass on a weekday, transferred the obligation to the next Sunday (where at least the remnant of Catholics still going to Church after the great episcopal lockdown of 2020 might ramp up attendance figures).

I want to suggest that our problems with belief in the Real Eucharistic Presence of Jesus are related to our ignoring of the Ascension.

In 2019—before ecclesiastical field hospitals struck tent and shut down last year—Pew reported that seven in ten American Catholics either misunderstood or simply rejected the Church’s faith in the Real Presence of Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.

What does this have to do with the Ascension?

Dissident theologians since Vatican II have pushed a false model of Catholic faith and dogma in their effort to marginalize Catholic teaching they did not accept. In that model, some truths of the faith were “central” to the faith, others more “peripheral.” Catholics had to believe the “central” truths—like Jesus’ Incarnation or saving death—but had more “freedom” about those “more removed” from the central deposit of the faith (e.g., the Virgin Birth or the Assumption or most moral teachings apart from a generic “love your neighbor”).

This model of theology is false because Catholic teaching is not arrayed across a football field, with some truths on the kickoff line and others on the 40-yard line. A more Catholic understanding of our faith is one Joseph Ratzinger has recalled, even though it has a much older provenance: the “symphony” model.

The truths of our faith are not arrayed across a football field, some for the quarterback, others for the wide receiver, and a few hoping for a “Hail Mary” pass across the goalpost. The truths of our faith are a symphony, in which there are major motifs and minor notes, but which all illumine each other and work together to create not just a coherent, but a beautiful work where none of those elements are “optional extras” open to omission, much less rejection.

Ven. Tomás Morales, S.J., reminds us that “the Ascension closes the circle of love opened in the Incarnation. He takes us completely into heaven.” The Ascension is not Jesus’ closing act before dropping the curtain, having “done” what He set out to do. Jesus, out of love of human persons, became a human being in the flesh and redeemed us. Having redeemed us as our Priest, Sacrifice, and Advocate, He returns to His Father to “always plead our cause” (Preface for Easter III) in the flesh at the right hand of God.

Jesus’ Ascension is not, therefore, a marginal event whose celebration imposes a workday “pastoral burden.” (Couldn’t He have waited till the weekend to do the “goodbye” thing?) It is the continuation “in heaven” of His Work “as it was on earth.”

So, the questions for the Ascension become: (1) do we really believe this is a watershed moment (and mystery) in Jesus’ life and (2) do we really believe that human flesh and blood is in heaven?

I suggest that the answers of many Catholics to the second question range from “I don’t know” to “no” to “does it matter?” And if those are our answers to the mystery of the Ascension, it’s not hard to understand why pollsters asking about the Real Presence got answers ranging from “I don’t know” to “no” to “does it matter?”

Perhaps at one time an understanding of a disincarnate “spirituality” accounted for such thinking. Perhaps we so focused on Jesus that we forgot that Jesus “reveals man to himself” (St. John Paul II, Redemptor hominis, # 8) so that, where the Head has gone is relevant for the Body that will follow. Or perhaps we really don’t believe much and just go through the motions.

Our culture does not help. The constant drumbeat today is one of a gnostic, disincarnate anthropology that reduces human beings to thoughts or, more accurately, wants with a body attached. What I “want” is “me.” The body is at best a malleable tool to meet those desiderata, at worst a prison oppressing “me.” Ancient Greek dualists had nothing on moderns who think of sex as a psychological state, personhood as consciousness or conferred by the “choice” of another, and other deficient philosophical and theological anthropologies. The problem is that these anthropologies are not just intellectual errors but inflict real damage to persons who should be loved.

And even Catholics cannot swim in these polluted intellectual currents without absorbing some of the toxins.

If “I” am a thought with a body attached, the Ascension (and Assumption) are meaningless: what does it matter that Jesus (or Mary) is body and soul in heaven? If “I” am consciousness, Jesus was in fact a fool: the Passion was melodramatic overkill for salvation that He could have just wished. Time and history are irrelevant: if the body is just $2.98 worth of chemicals serving a particular person at a contingent moment of history, then history is unimportant; it’s all an eternal return and so who cares if it’s Ascension Thursday or Sunday or Saturday afternoon or even if it’s the Ascension?

The Resurrection is irrelevant: as liberal Protestant exegetes once put it pace 1 Corinthians 15, “what would it matter if we dug up the bones of Jesus?” The General Resurrection of all humanity is both meaningless and absurd, imaging it were “even possible,” much less necessary, that all human persons be united soul and body.

And if the body is sub-personal and subject to the “me” that wills, then the Eucharist as the “Real Presence” of Jesus, body and soul, humanity and divinity, is an absurdity: all we need is “spiritual Communion,” joining our thoughts and hearts to Jesus. (This is why the ongoing blur about getting Catholics back to being present at real Mass is not just a pastoral disservice but a theological danger in which the bishops appear to be acquiescing.)

The French poet Charles Péguy wrote in “Je suis leur Père” of Jesus bringing to heaven “a certain taste for man, a certain taste for the earth.” Perhaps the reason we don’t “get,” much less celebrate, the Ascension is that we have lost that taste here on earth.

BY: JOHN M. GRONDELSKI

#ascension

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rainbabbles · 3 years

Text

Cryptic Thrills 🎸 Notes

Rambles about each of the bandmember’s lives

💀 Mortimer

Background via Toyhouse

Is the son of a grim reaper who's often left to his own devices. He's got his sister, Lorelei, to take care of him, but she's also off working. Therefore, Mort had spent most of his childhood keeping himself entertained- and dreaming of being a famous rockstar.

He met his best friends Volney and Stein when he was young, and together he gathered up their talents to become Cryptic Thrills. His family doesn't approve of his lifestyle, but Mort ignores the criticisms to have fun in life.

Family

Lorelei - His sister is a grim reaper that specializes in tracking down those who have cheated death. This usually means people who have used magic or other unearthly ways to extend their life. Lorelei is an aloof and serious figure who knows the importance of her job. She’s cynical to all this joyous and indulgent in life, especially when Mort is obsessed with making the biggest racket there is. Relationship wise she bickers with Mort a lot, and once he got old enough she doesn’t keep in touch often. She’ll definitely make sure he doesn’t lose his soul in some freak accident, but being a complete laughing stock? She’s not going to be there for that.

Tully - Mort and Lorelei’s mother. She’s a rather enigmatic character and is one of the grim reapers whose main job is to guide souls to the after life. She rarely appears in their lives, but when she does she’s a rather soft spoken and caring character. If she has any wisdom, she’ll offer it up to her children first.

Species

Grim Reapers are usually skeletons and their sole purpose is to become grim reapers. Their touch of death is extremely dangerous if not controlled right, and Mort has to do everything in his power to suppress this ability. He’s one of the odd ones out who don’t want to take up the pedestal.

The skeletons are usually solidary creatures. They are born from human bones obviously, but were not humans themselves in a previous life. The creation of a grim reaper is a mystery no one has been brave enough (or lived long enough) to ask.

Lifestyle

Being a famous rockstar now, Mort certain lives that life to the fullest. However, he’s often caught in a lot of trouble with the law and usually gets the help of his gang to skip cities every so often. Rules can’t stop this fun skeleton!

🦇 Stein

Background via Toyhouse

Is part of a group of gargoyles that guard the Basilique des Portes Sacrées (Sacred Gates Basilica). He became friends with Mort and Volney at a young age and with their love of music, they formed a band together.

However, doing such frivolous things went against his guardian, Halberg's, wishes, so Stein is constantly being pulled left and right when doing band and church obligations. Though his love for music usually prevails.

Family

His colony consists of around 15 living gargoyles, most are ancient. Stein is currently the only young one in the group.

Halberg - Stein’s main guardian who’s incredibly overprotective as well as strict on Stein’s life. Halberg is a rather imposing gargoyle who’s fought off several demons and other satanic creatures around the basilica and beyond. He knows the dangers of the world and is displeased with how close Stein is toeing the line between the occult and the sacred (occult as in cool hell motifs in rock, but sure). Halberg is tough, but Stein still loves the guy just when he was little.

A few notable gargoyles: Diggory (eldest gargoyle), Favre (strongest), Patrice (stingiest), and Valentin (righteous).

Species

Gargoyles are both feared and revered by the church. Out of the belief of their powers, angels granted gargoyles life and the task of protecting holy ground from demons and other sinful creations. They themselves are monsters that may not be blessed themselves, but the act of serving God gives them a purpose for existing as is. They’re like beastly guards at the gates of virtue.

Each cathedral has a colony of gargoyles, the sizing increases with the size of the religious building. Not all gargoyles at a cathedral can come to life, but the ones that do tend to be larger statues and hide away. They are active at night, and the daylight renders them to stone. Colonies of gargoyles stay within their territories, but they do all congregate every once in a while to hear an elder council relay information.

Gargoyles cannot reproduce and are referred to using masculine or genderless terminology. They have a great resistance to demonic energy. Gargoyles usually die by destruction (but their rock forms are incredibly durable), being consumed with sin, or being weathered by the elements.

Lifestyle

Stein is slowly giving up most of his duties to tour around with his band. His job was mostly to do patrols so it’s nothing harrowing, but he’s split between his duties to the basilica and his band boys. Gargoyles like Halberg worry if Stein’s lifestyle is a disgrace to their very name.

👻 Volney

Background via Toyhouse

He doesn't remember who created him, but he was a mix of a teru tero bōzu and a haunted doll. Volney grew up in a haunted foster home and would spend his time trying to be a perfectionist. He wasn't going to be a little monster like the other kids.

The opportunity to use his skills came when he met Mort and Stein, seeing as they both didn't think he was a weirdo. (Well they did, just that he was a weirdo they liked). Volney used his musical skills to help the band become polished, thus joining them in their rockstar dreams.

Family

Volney has no family and his origins came from DNA testing at the facility he was fostered at. Volney has no desire to look for his parents, so he considers the foster home folks as his guardians. He’s gotten fostered several times, but conflicts with other children and authority figures got him sent back.

Mrs. Raggzly - A Raggedy-Anne doll who cared for many of the monster foster children. She’s a huanted doll so she taught Volney most of his ghostly powers and how to harness it. She’s old and a bit of a forgetful lass, but her button cupcakes are a killer.

Species

Volney being a teru tero bōzu comes with being extremly soft and knowing how the weather works. Niche, but it comes with its perks if Volney knows when’s a good day to cuddle up and read next to the rainfall. The haunted doll part is trickier, as he does have ghostly powers, but how his soul came to be possessing his form is unknown.

Volney cannot phase through walls, but he can create spooky hallucinations, possess objects, and make things levitate.

Lifestyle

Volney has an apartment to himself and has ghost ferrets he takes care of (Pins and Cushion). He likes his solitude and rarely interacts with neighbors, but surprisingly he doesn’t mind going on rock tours with his guys. Beats being lonely.

Ehy that’s it so far! These boys live rent free in my head!!!!

#rainbabbles #cryptic thrills #mort #mortimer #volney #stein

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overheardatthecontinental · 4 years

Link

He's back. John. The handsome, injury-prone man who never misses a trip to the emergency room on Thursday nights. Doctor Helen checks up her favorite patient after he comes in with severe burns.

Part six of the endless ways John Wick could have met his Helen.

...

"Good. Maybe try to take a week off from your… accidents. Let your body heal some." "And miss date night?" Helen smiles.

“He’s back again.”

Helen spares a moment to look up from her paperwork and to Maggie, the lead nurse in the Emergency Room. “Who?”

“It’s Thursday.”

Ah.

“Thursday night hottie.” Helen says before wincing, “We really shouldn’t talk about patients like this.”

“Why not? It’s true. He’s sexy as hell. And it is a Thursday.”

John Smith was his name, at least the one he gave. He never had any sort of paperwork, no insurance. He always paid his bill in full and with cash. He was tall and muscular and probably could have been on the front of GQ in another life. He always comes in in three-piece suits and patent leather shoes

The injuries are varying. A fracture to his wrist, a terrible concussion, a stab wound to the thigh, a sprained ankle, whiplash from a car crash, a broken finger, stitches on a cut on his arm, abrasions, stitches on his temple.

It had been months now since her first came with a fractured wrist.

He would never tell her how he got it, although he would often come up with a brief line about how.

Scratched by a rusty nail.

Car accident.

Fell down the stairs.

Hit by a car.

Walked into a door.

And then there was her personal favorite:

Walked into a knife.

She would push for details and he would smile and prevaricate.

God, he drove her crazy.

Helen sighs and sets down her pen. “What’s the story this week?”

“You’ll love this.”

Helen waits expectantly and Maggie does not disappoint, “He was making tea and spilled the hot water down his bicep.”

Helen snorts, stacking the papers back in a neat little pile. “It’s a simple mistake. One we’ve all made.”

“I swear, he’s the highlight of my week.”

Mine, too . Helen thinks. “What room?”

“C19.”

Helen wanders down the hall, squirting hand sanitizer onto her hands before saying, “Knock knock.” She walks in and marvels at John Smith. Which she is absolutely certain is not his name.

He sits on the chair rather than the bed, as he always prefers to do. She considers having the bed taken out of the room on Thursday nights and replaced with a stool.

He is without his suit coat and vest tonight, his white button-down is folded carefully on the bed. His left arm with a blistering burn.

The same wound would have others in tears or wincing in pain. John looks as he usually does. Pleasant and unaffected.

“Good evening, John.”

“Doctor Kingston.”

“Let’s see the damage.”

He turns in his seat, revealing his arm.

He has welts down the front of his shoulder and the outer side of his bicep. She resists the urge to shake her head.

“And how did this happen?”

“Spilled some hot water.”

She does not resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Were you holding the kettle above your shoulder?”

He smirks in response but says no more.

Helen sighs, “Well, it could have been worse. Were you wearing your suit jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That may have saved you from third-degree burns.” She puts on her glasses and examines the wound. Second degree, as she suspected.

“I’ll wrap this for you but you’re going to need to take it easy.” She tells him.

“Sure.”

Helen sighs, “You make it difficult to believe you.”

Again, he smirks, the corner of his lip tipping up in a grin.

She fills a basin with water and brings it to his side, along with antibacterial soap. She knows better than to tell him it will hurt. She has set bones without him flinching.

“What are you reading this week?”

“ Beyond Good and Evil. Nietzsche.”

It’s her turn to smile, “I thought you said that Nietzsche was a conceited prick.”

“I stand by that statement. But there is value in his works all the same.”

“Like what?”

She cleans the wound gently and with great care. He doesn’t seem to notice. She thinks she could probably punch him directly in the blister and he would not react.

“Despite his blatant sexism and classism and complete lack of understanding of privilege, I understand the lack of meaning that he references. Morality has always been a tricky subject for me.”

“In what way?” She glances up.

John Smith has never been anything but kind and respectful to her and the hospital staff. Aside from his prevarications when asked about his wounds, he is a perfect patient. A gentleman at all times.

“I don’t think I believe that there is meaning in life anymore.”

“But you did at one time?” She indicates the tattoo on his shoulder. A dark cross.

“I was raised in a Christian orphanage.”

And that alone is the most he has ever said to her about anything related to himself. She finds her hands pausing but she forces herself to continue, to make sure his wound is free of anything that could cause infection.

“Do you believe in God, Doctor Kingston?”

And there are boundaries that she does not typically cross. This is one of them. John is her patient and she should not treat him differently just because she was fond of him and because he was as close to a ‘regular’ as the ER ever got.

“I don’t.” She admits finally. “But my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, are not responsible for my morals.”

“What is?”

“Personal choice.”

“But is anything a choice? We are born into cultures that impose their values upon us.”

“But we do not have to take anything at face value. We can adjust our beliefs as we see fit.”

“So you believe that we are the onus for every action.”

“I think sometimes things happen beyond our control. But we have a choice in how we react. In the steps we take as a result.”

She sets down the cloth and goes back to the cabinet. She enters a code and opens one of the drawers.

“But that’s the catch, isn’t it?” John muses, “We can’t change the past. And sometimes that locks us into unbreakable habits, paths we can’t stray from.”

Helen finds the burn cream that she is looking for and turns back. “Do you think you’re on the wrong path, John?”

John doesn’t answer, at first, watching as she carefully applies the cream to his burn. She caps it and looks up at him expectantly.

He looks into her eyes. Warm and kind and everything that he is not. Everything that is beyond his reach. Everything that he cannot have.

“I think I’m in a tunnel where I can’t turn back. There’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, but forward.”

“And what lies ahead?”

“Death.”

“Yours?”

John snorts at that, “I’m truly not trying to sound conceited, but I’m not actually sure I can die.”

Helen rolls her eyes and unwraps a roll of gauze. “Given your Thursday night habits--”

“Accidents.”

“Sure.” Helen says with a small, indulging smile. “Given your Thursday night accidents , I’d say you’re in pretty good shape. You heal quickly.”

“Always have.”

“It’s a good quality to have, although I wish you did not put it to the test so often.” She fastens the gauze and wraps it with tape, "you'll want to change this twice daily. Keep it moisturized. Water-based is best. Don't try any internet remedies like canola oil or toothpaste."

John smirks, "Is that a thing?"

"You'd be surprised. I don't need to tell you not to pick at it, do I?"

"No."

"Good. Maybe try to take a week off from your… accidents. Let your body heal some."

"And miss date night?"

Helen smiles, "I'll send Maggie in with your paperwork. Then you'll be free to go."

"Thanks, Doctor."

Helen makes her way to the door but stops, just shy of the exit. She looks back and John is shrugging on his white shirt.

"I don't know about this tunnel you're stuck in and I don't want to presume. But I do know a bit about self-fulfilling prophecies. If you think there's no way out, you won't see all the ways you can escape."

And he just stares at her and the power behind that gaze nearly makes her fall.

Like she is a lighthouse, a star, a guiding beacon.

She wants to say to hell with policy, to hell with boundaries. To walk across the room and bring him into her arms and tell him it will be okay.

"If…" he hesitates.

"If what?"

"If I can find a way out, can I buy you dinner?"

Helen smiles, "Yes."

And she exits the room, leaving John alone.

He has obligations. Contracts. Allegiances that won't simply let him walk away. It would be impossible.

But he would do the impossible.

#john wick #helen wick #incorrect john wick #john wick headcanon #overheard at the continental #helen x john wick #john x helen wick #helen wick deserved better #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction

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scotianostra · 4 years

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On May 30th 1291 Claimants to the Scottish throne met King Edward I of England at Norham on Tweed to resolve succession.

This chapter of our history is called The Great Cause, it would lead to a decades long period of disturbance with some of the most famous Scots taking centre stage with the likes of Sir William Wallace, Andrew Moray and Robert the Bruce, but how did it all come about?.

Our King was Alexander III, a strong and successful king. In the 1250s, still in his teens, he had asserted his independence in the face of aristocratic efforts to control him. In the 1260s he imposed his authority on a debatable frontier. The islands on Scotland’s western seaboard, nominally under the control of the king of Norway, were effectively independent; but by 1266 the Norwegians had been forcibly persuaded to bow out, and the locals were obliged to acknowledge the superior lordship of the Scottish royal house.

So successful, in fact, was Alexander’s rule, that the latter part of his reign suffers from documentary silence. Contrary to the belief of Walter Scott, who once opined that everybody in medieval Scotland was too busy fighting to write anything down, the hush that descends on Scottish affairs in the 1270s is testimony to the peace that Alexander had succeeded in establishing, this was heralded as a Golden age for our country.

Alexander was far less lucky in his family, first, in 1275, came the death of his queen (and Edward’s sister), Margaret. Then, in the decade that followed, came the successive loss of all their children: their younger son David died in 1281, their only daughter, also Margaret, in 1283, and lastly their elder son, Alexander, in 1284. It was an incredible run of dynastic bad luck, and inevitably raised the question of who would succeed to the Scottish throne when Alexander himself died, for the king had neither brothers nor uncles who might step in and replace him. Prudently, therefore, Alexander – still only in his early forties – elected to remarry.

In 1285 he took as his second queen a young Frenchwoman by the name of Yolande of Dreux. Imprudently, however, just a few months into their marriage, the king set out to meet his new wife in a terrible storm. On the evening of 18 March 1286 he rode from Edinburgh to Queensferry, crossed the Firth of Forth by boat, and continued along the coast towards Kinghorn, where Yolande was waiting. But she waited in vain. At some point during the last stage of his ill-advised journey, her husband lost his escort, tumbled over a cliff and broke his neck. Not until the next day dawned was his lifeless body found lying on the shoreline at Kinghorn.

The only living relative of Alexander was his Granddaughter, Margaret the Maid of Norway, her mother had died in childbirth, or or would have fell to her, so it was Margaret was sent for. Unfortunately she died on the journey to Scotland in 1290 so with the failure of the direct line of the Scottish royal family this left the throne empty.

Somehow, the Scots had to decide who should be the rightful king without finding themselves falling into civil war – but who would get to wear the crown? Well two of the most prominent rival claimants, Robert Bruce, (not THE Bruce, his Grandad) and John Balliol, both seemed to be preparing battle it out, while the Guardians no longer had a clear unifying figure to rally behind. In despair, one of the Guardians, Bishop Fraser, wrote a rather desperate letter about how the country was “disturbed” through a “fear of a general war and a great slaughter of men”, asking for direct help to save the country and determine who should be king. The man to whom he was writing and imploring was King Edward I of England.

Edward I had got on well with Alexander III (his brother-in-law) and prior to the latter’s death, relations between the two countries had probably never been closer. The Scots had turned to him for assistance when Eric of Norway had been reluctant to send Margaret to Scotland and he had succeeded in persuading him, as well as arranging a marriage alliance between Margaret and his own son, Edward of Caernarfon (had she not died, the Union of the Crowns would have taken place after Edward I's death, rather than 1603!)

He was something of a legal expert and therefore unusually well qualified to arbitrate on what was, essentially, a legal decision. What’s more, he had shown himself a very capable diplomat in European disputes in recent years and was powerful enough to ensure that Bruce, Balliol or any other claimant would not be able to take the throne by force (either before or after judgement).

Don't worry I'm not only saying good things about the man, but I had to point out the logic in turning to the English King for help.

So on the other hand King Edward was not merely a neutral friend. A hard, ruthless and extremely cunning man, Edward undoubtedly saw an opportunity to extend his influence in Scotland. Having already conquered the Welsh and having failed to previously secure an acknowledgement of English feudal overlordship over Scotland, this represented too good an opportunity to miss. And so it was on this day in 1291, Edward called a Scottish Parliament at Norham (northern England), despite the fact that the Treaty of Birgham that he had signed in 1289 guaranteed no parliaments would be held outside of Scotland. Nevertheless, he provided the nobles and bishops with the relevant assurances and they came to Norham, only to be welcomed by an assertion by Edward that he was “Lord Paramount of Scotland” and that before he hear any claims to the Scottish throne, he should be acknowledged as such. Having learnt from his failure to gain such a submission from Alexander III, he had done his research and found all the evidence he could in English chronicles of precedent for the King of England having feudal overlordship of Scotland (something of a thirteenth-century dodgy dossier) and challenged the Scots to prove him wrong.

Robert Wishart (the Bishop of Glasgow and one of the Guardians) rather bravely spoke up against Edward, stating that only a king could make such a submission and therefore it was impossible to do in absence of a king. He also asserted that Scotland was independent of England, to which Edward I effectively shrugged and replied that they could prove their independence by force of arms if they so desired. When Wishart suggested that this was not in keeping with the morals of a Christian Crusader king, Edward was enraged and effectively threatened to lead a Crusade against the Scots!

The talks broke down with neither side managing to get what they wanted – Edward did not get his submission and the Scots did not get a decision on their new monarch. However, Edward changed tack and rather than demanding that the nation of Scotland pay him homage, he required that any candidate claiming the Scottish throne must first pay him homage as an individual, in which they would have to acknowledge that Edward had “the sovereign lordship of the said kingdom of Scotland”.

Robert Bruce seems to have been determined to be as amenable to Edward as possible (presumably hoping to win the crown through his favour) and was the first to submit, leaving the other claimants no choice but to follow suit or else Edward would have barred them from claiming the crown. Eventually, even the Guardians backed down and gave Edward possession of the royal castles for safe-keeping until a new king was appointed.

13 men came forward and made their claim to be Scotland's King, this was whittled down to three, John Balliol, Robert Bruce and John Comyn (known as the “Black Comyn”), father of The Red Comyn.

Finally in November 1292 Edward made his decision, John Balliol was to be the next king of Scotland.

Now I have done my own whittling trying to keep this post as short as I can, if you wan't to read more backgroundy type stuff and a lot more detail check out the post here https://erenow.net/biographies/agreatandterriblekingedwardi/9.php

#Scotland #scottish #royalty #the great cause #medieval history

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basicsofislam · 3 years

Text

BASICS OF ISLAM : Islamic practice : Conclusion of Ramadan

Not long ago, we welcomed Ramadan with a mixture of feelings that overwhelmed our hearts and the hearts of Muslims all over the world. The hearts were and are full of hope, based on the promises and great tidings, given by Allah and His Messenger (S), of great bounties and endless blessings:

We have been promised that the past sins will be forgiven for those whose fast is based on belief (Eemaan), sincerity and on truly expecting the reward from Allah (Ihtisaab).We also have been promised that the past sins will be forgiven for those who offer night prayers (Qiyaam) during the whole month, and who do that with the same two conditions of Eemaan and Ihtisaab.We have further been told that there is one night in this month which is better (in rewards) than a thousand months of worship, and that all the past sins will be forgiven for those who spend it by offering Qiyaam again with both Eemaan and Ihtisaab.We have been told that the devils will be chained down, that the gates of Hell will all be shut and that the gates of Paradise will all be open throughout this month.We have been told that Allah will free (from punishment) some of his ‘ibaad (worshipers) on every single night of Ramadan.We have been told that Allah answers the du’aa of the fasting person at his iftaar.We have been told that Allah multiplies the rewards of fasting beyond limits or imagination.We have been told that the fasting person will be joyous and happy when he meets his Lord.

We all knew the true meaning of fasting. We knew that there are conditions for the fasting to be acceptable and to give its desired results: Eemaan and Ihtisaab.

So now that Ramadan is almost over let us ask ourselves:

Did we perform our fast with the true belief and the full surrender to Allah, or was it just a hard exercise for us in order to lose some weight? Did we fast because Allah imposed it on us or just because we have been used to it from our childhood? Were our intentions to please Him or to please and impress others?

Did we gain from the Season of Goodness during the past days? Have we been able to achieve any of its virtues?

We all hope to be among those who offered the fast in the right way, in order to cultivate its glorious fruits.We hope to be granted forgiveness of our previous sins, to be able to do much more good and to overcome all our weaknesses.We hope to be among those who receive the gifts from the Jannah, whose gates are open.We hope to humiliate our enemy (Satan), who is chained down, by rejecting any of his deceitful advice.We hope to be among those who shall be granted full atonement of their sins by the end of this month, and among those who will be most happy with their fast when they meet their Lord.We hope that all of us will be pleasing to Allah in our words and deeds so that we deserve His Mercy and victory.

Let us also keep in mind that the exercise of piety that we have performed during this Ramadan must not end with Ramadan.

Reciting Quran should not stop after Ramadan. If you can read one part every day then do so, but if one part is too much for you because you are too busy playing games and watching TV, then read something But do not neglect the Quran. You may not be able to fast every day after Ramadan, but you can fast three days every month, if not two days every week.

You may not be able to meet the members of this good Muslim community as we do for Iftars and Taraweeh prayers, but you can meet them every Friday after Ramadan and during other social gatherings which are made in the spirit of Ramadan.

Every Ramadan, this community, together with the members of the Islamic society at this collage, provide an excellent example about genuine brotherhood by the degree of cooperation, kindness and generosity offered and clearly manifested during Ramadan.

Let us pray to Allah to keep within each one of us the spirit of Ramadan after its departure.

ZAKAAH AL-FITR

Zakah al-Fitr is the name given to charity which is distributed at the end of the fast of Ramadan. It is classified as a Wajib (compulsory) on every Muslim, whether male or female, minor or adult as long as he/she has the means to do so.

The proof that this form of charity is compulsory can be found in the Sunnah whereby Ibn `Umar reported that the Prophet made Zakah al-Fitr compulsory on every Muslim, male, female, young or old. The head of the household of family may pay the required amount for the other members.

The significant role played by Zakah in the circulation of wealth within the Islamic society is also played by the Zakah al-Fitr. However, in the case of Zakah al-Fitr, each individual is required to calculate how much charity is due from himself and his dependents and go into the community in order to find those who deserve such charity. Thus, Zakah al-Fitr plays a very important role in the development of the bonds of community. The rich are obliged to come in direct contact with the poor, and the poor are put in contact with the extremely poor.

This contact between the various levels of society helps to build real bonds of brotherhood and love within the Islamic community and trains those who have, to be generous to those who do not have.

The main purpose of Zakah al-Fitr is to provide those who fasted with the means of making up for their errors during the month of fasting. Zakah al-Fitr also provides the poor with a means with which they can celebrate Eid al-Fitr along with the rest of the Muslims.

Ibn Abbaas reported, “The Prophet made Zakah al-Fitr compulsory so that those who fasted may be purified of their idle deeds and shameful talk (committed during Ramadan) and so that the poor may be fed. Whoever gives it before Salah will have it accepted as Zakah, while he who gives it after the Salah has given Zakah.”

Hence, the goal of Zakah al-Fitr is the spiritual development of the Believers.

By making them give up some of their wealth, the believers are taught the higher moral characteristics of generosity, compassion (sympathy for the less fortunate), gratitude to God and the righteousness. But, since Islam does not neglect man’s material need, part of the goal of Zakah al-Fitr is the economic well-being of the poorer members of society.

Zakah al-Fitr is only Wajib for a particular period of time. If one misses the time period without a good reason, he has sinned and can not make it up. This form of charity becomes obligatory from sunset on the last day of fasting and remains obligatory until the beginning of Salaah al-’Eed’ .

However, it can be paid prior to the above mentioned period, as many of the companions of the Prophet used to pay Zakah al-Fitr before the `Eed. Ibn `Umar used to give it to those who would accept it and the people used to give it a day or two before the `Eed. And Ibn `Abbaas reported that the Prophet said,

“Whoever gives it before the Salah will have it accepted as Zakaah, while he who gives it after the Salaah will not, for it will only be considered as ordinary charity.

The amount of the Zakah is the same for everyone regardless of their different income brackets. The amount used to be made out of certain quantity of is of food, or grain. Now a days the amount of the Zakah is calculated by its monetary value. Keeping the purpose of the Zakah in mind, the contemporary scholars believe that making the Zakah in money is practical and more beneficial to those who are entitled to it.

What would a person do now with so much barley, wheat or even dates!

Successful indeed are those who, during this Ramadan, will fast during the day and pray at night. Those who did not will regret it, and regret it strongly …

Ameen. Aqeemus Salaah!

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whatwashernameagain · 5 years

Text

Keep him safe - Chapter 29

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, previous chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, Fantasy AU You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 6.326

Warnings: fire, smoke, breathing issues, vague mention of prostitution and assault

Summary: Detective Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however feels a lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly have received from his costumary clumsiness. Meanwhile his partner Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: Ready to dive into Roman’s story and make use of all those suggestions you guys gave me? (Again, thanks to my lovely betas @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @hanramz-the-fander. They work so very hard on their futures, I’m so proud of them!)

Chapter 29

This morning, Logan and Roman had entered the kitchen to the sound of whispering and soft giggling. Patton had been up with Virgil to help make breakfast as much as he was allowed and seemed to quite enjoy the routine he was invited to. He’d smiled brightly at them and told them about his chats with Emile and how they planned to all get together since Remy was going crazy at home and wanted to see his pet project (Virgil), his eye candy (Roman) and his sidekick (Logan) and be adored like he deserved. Virgil had secretly decided to distract him, since Patton was still torn about returning to work. On the one hand he felt obligated to open the cafe and missed his customers, as well as fearing they would hold the prolonged pause against him. On the other hand, he was afraid of going back. Trevor had no way of contacting him right now, and therefore could not make him feel guilty. What if he showed up at the café? What if he didn’t? Both possibilities worried the kind man, since he feared Trevor would not handle being alone well. He could get hurt on his own!

The plans Virgil was making with him were a perfect distraction from his fears. Remy was still recovering and perfectly willing to aid his little project. He and Virgil were still in regular contact, and he’d chosen to help by demanding being taken care of. Patton needed someone to dote on. The things Remy did for his patients!

Seeing Patton smile first thing in the morning calmed Logan. He felt like he could finally breathe again.

Yet the recent events had not failed to affect Virgil. After seeing Patton brought home bruised and so hurt and intimidated – almost broken, his nightmares had intensified and pushed him back hard into his memories of the sexual violence he’d had to endure. It was a setback that had caught him entirely by surprise and made him anxious and frightened. Despite trying really hard, his fear and discomfort in his own skin caused some of his former aggression to surface at random moments, especially when he was startled or touched without ample warning.

Though he hid it well and managed to swallow most fierce responses for his family’s sake, Roman’s keen eyes hadn’t missed the anxiety, the longer, too hot showers, the bitten nails or the increased need for comfort from Patton as well as the urge to shield the baker from pretty much anything. Thankfully, the poor emo seemed to handle contact with him fine, since Patton had such a loving, innocent touch.

Logan’s hands in his hair and on his back did not seem to threaten him too much either, since the older man had become such a paternal figure in his life. The serious detective clearly regarded him with nothing but platonic affection and touched him almost like he would a child, fussing with his clothes or wiping chocolate from his cheek with his handkerchief when he helped Patton bake. The former delinquent had seemed surprised by his own trust as he’d allowed Logan to hug him after waking up from a nightmare and meeting him on the corridor at night, having apparently summoned the ever vigilant mother-hen. He had expected to feel fear of a tall presence in the dark hallway after bearing the vivid replay of the day he had been assaulted by the Scorpions in his dream. He’d just woken up, soaked with sweat and shaking, stumbling out of his room to forget the sound of his shirt ripping and taunting laughter. Especially now, he couldn’t forget that his last protector had tried to rape him in the end.

Logan had been sleepy and clueless though, having just stumbled half blind out of his room with an awful bed-head after hearing Virgil’s door close, asking if he’d dreamed badly without any of his usually precise articulation and uncoordinatedly bundling him in his arms with a barely suppressed yawn, already half asleep by the time he’d leaned his cheek against the purple mane. It had been so utterly domestic and harmless that Virgil could find no fear in himself. Fondly, he’d steered the grumbling man back into bed and tucked him in next to the cool rat looking like a soft and shiny ball in the dim glow of the planet lights. He’d been snuffling and mumbling about whiteflies on his precious encyclia orchid the moment he’d hit the pillow.

Unfortunately, his relationship with Roman was affected differently. Despite his best intentions, somehow he seemed to regress to feeling like a frightened, nineteen year old prostitute again that tensed and trembled upon being cornered by a man larger and stronger than him. It clearly upset him to grow so uncomfortable when Roman reached around him to grab something in the kitchen or to unintentionally back away a step when the detective made grand gestures, but he couldn’t help it. He tried. He really did. Yet he suddenly couldn’t quite shake the memory of the beliefs he’d held about the other early in their relationship. He’d get over it. He knew better than to be afraid of Roman. Still, the damage had been done. The young detective had seen the quick flash of fear and lingering discomfort and felt it like a hook in his heart, pulling sharply.

He didn’t know how much more of those feelings he could handle.

Perhaps it was better to back off? He’d been at this point so often. It was always the same for him. Fall in love with a beautiful young man – learn he’d been foolish to make up a Virgil that did not exist – get hurt in the process. Fall for the more vulnerable side of Virgil – get played and hurt for being a naive idiot. Learn about the real Virgil and fall hard, for real this time – making him feel obligated to sleep with him and hurting them both. Choosing to have a friendship with him and still getting his hopes up – making Virgil anxious and miserable with his thoughts that would not stay out of the gutter, god-darn it!

He was just so tired.

His own stupidity and inability to learn from his mistakes was the problem here. With bone deep weariness he realized that he was a fool and that he needed to move on. He’d been at this point again and again and again. Perhaps this time it will work! Perhaps with time, Virgil would want him! Perhaps this, perhaps that. He was harassing Virgil and that was it. He didn’t need a lovesick man hoping to be noticed. He didn’t need to fear hurting Roman’s feelings or getting his hopes up unintentionally. He didn’t need to fear undressing or stretching his pretty body or touching anybody and unwittingly making somebody in his home drool over him. He probably felt dirty when Roman touched him. Roman did. He felt like a pervert.

It was time, for real this time, to just move on. He forcefully forbade himself to think that Virgil only needed a little time.

The worst was that he’d thought he wasn’t imagining his chances when Virgil had looked so taken with Roman when they’d wrestled playfully and had seemed to like the closeness. He had thought they were making progress.

NO. He was doing it again. Letting his stupid, wanting, hopeful mind run wild with longing. THIS was what Virgil saw and what frightened him.

He’d stop this now. He was being a creep and it was disgusting.

There were other beautiful, fierce damsels to covet and charm, surely.

Surely.

It had not been easy for the gentle detective, though. Virgil was rooted deep within him, and everything he did seemed to remind him of the fantasies he used to entertain. Especially now that he was growing brave and powerful under their very roof he was like a magnet to the handsome young man.

Patton had proven a great distraction and had offered a lot of love to him, perhaps knowing through some paternal instinct how squishing a smaller body close to his chest helped his friend against the loneliness creeping in during their quiet nights. Perhaps this was the reason Patton had migrated to sleep on the couch with him instead of staying in Logan’s bedroom. Of course, he was also weary of imposing on him. Though Virgil had also offered his room, they knew he needed his space while Patton and Roman enjoyed having someone close to reach out with their toes and seek contact on the other side of the couch if they felt like it.

Still, after having built up his hopes time and again, foolishly believing every time he and the barista got close that perhaps this time, there was a way to work it out in the future, Roman felt discouraged and lost. Not being wanted and worse, perhaps even causing disgust and fear, ate away at his confidence and made him feel ugly and undesirable. Like he was lacking in every aspect of his life. Logan thought he had better focus on the new development in their jewel thief case to feel competent and challenged again, but perhaps he also required another boost of confidence. Which was a problem, since Logan felt supremely uncomfortable at the prospect of telling his best friend that he was beautiful and desirable. That was a disaster waiting to happen. Could this case not get interesting enough to catch his excitable friend’s attention properly again? It certainly had the potential to create drama.

Thankfully, he seemed to have found the encouragement he needed on his own.

A little breath of a laugh drew Logan’s attention from carefully filing the weather report for the case he had just solved, even though no one was likely to actually look at his carefully compiled data. The cretins.

Roman had sunk lower in his office-chair, half hiding a pleased blush behind his lush, caramel curls falling into his face. His green eyes, accentuated by a daring, cat like eye-liner, sparkled with awe. He looked charmed.

Though usually, the incessant typing on his smartphone would have annoyed Logan, he chose to let his partner get away with it with mixed feelings.

A grin lit up his happy face upon receiving another message from Looks_can_be_Deceiving_. on Instagram. They’d been commenting on Roman’s pictures for a few months now, but recently, their contact had increased. The anonymous user was apparently charming Roman quite eloquently and gave him a feeling of being wanted. Of course, Logan had discreetly kept a careful eye on him, or them, currently. However, he hadn’t detected anything but ordinary flirting and real interest in what his partner liked and cared about as far as he could tell with his limited social competence. Whatever he was giving Roman with their communication, it seemed to help the young man’s confidence and lifted his spirits. It would be alright, Logan told himself. His partner was smart enough not to fall for a random person online. A person who asked about his day, cared about his art, listened to his problems and made him feel like he was a beauty that could not compare to any other.

Yes. Absolutely nothing to worry about.

The paper he’d been filing crumbled in his fist. How he hated not knowing who this person was and not being able to intimidate them into divulging their intention towards his partner. Still, he had to admit they were making Roman happy and giving him something to look forward to. He needed someone to make him feel worth being loved – romance and courtship and flowery compliments or whatever it was people did when they showed interest in another individual.

Logan felt a heavy weight in his chest at the reminder that he could not give his friend everything he needed.

Trying to shake off the unprofessional, untidy emotions, he rose to acquire more tea. Roman squealed happily and rolled his chair into his path to show him a comment with glowing pride.

“Look, my grumpy friend, I am like ‘a treasure sculptured from finest marble rivaled only by Michelangelo’s David.’ Yas, Queen. They are obviously a person of good taste! Look at how lush my hair looks in those braids in this picture! Patton is an artist!”

Bracing a hand on his partner’s shoulder, Logan obediently gazed at the selfie Roman had taken after Patton had braided his messy locks before chasing Cat and a panicked Virgil in an attempt to do the same. He tried to give his friend the attention he obviously needed more consciously now.

“Indeed. It is a pleasing image of you.” He commented somewhat stiffly. Knowing he fell woefully short, he brushed the curls the young detective had hidden his blush behind back into a semblance of the artful mess they had been and grabbed Roman’s mug to refill as well. And clean it. Tesla, this object constituted a health hazard.

He perked up upon finding his partner on the phone as he returned, scribbling down an address on rainbow-colored paper eagerly. They had both been waiting for new evidence on a group of burglars apparently trying to compete with their jewel thief and falling woefully short. Violence and property damage were closer to their field of expertise than unexplainable entrances into secured buildings and lifting (or leaving) priceless pieces of art as a personal statement. Since their thief had apparently started taunting them by stealing their stolen goods in return and conveniently leaving them with hints for Roman to find, things had become more interesting. While the intentions behind leaving the artworks might have been chivalrous, the thief made sure to taunt and belittle Roman just enough in the process to fuel his fire and passion and make him all the more eager to catch him.

“I just got another anonymous tip, how exciting!” His young partner cried, slamming the phone down. A passionate fire lit up his attractive face. Pulling his hair out of the way into a shiny bun, he got ready to rush into adventure, looking bright and happy and finally, blessedly carefree. He was ready to hunt!

“There’s a standoff in a warehouse by the docks! The copycats are facing the mysterious jewel thief and we shall apprehend them finally!” He exclaimed, waving his hand (and the hastily grabbed service weapon) in a grand gesture. Terry shoved Boyle and Jake down hastily, fearing odd bullets flying.

“Ops, sorry!” He giggled, allowing Logan to pull the gun from his hands like scissors from a small child to secure it in his holster.

Apparently, the thief planned to deliver the actual copycats this time. Despite his seductive offer, Roman would not allow him to get away. Today, he’d not only apprehend the gang, but also his nemesis.

***

Upon arriving at the scene, the red and blue lights of their vehicles washed the smoke spilling from the windows in dazzling colors. The left side of the warehouse was already crackling with writhing spires of orange fire.

Something had gone wrong.

Blinded by flashing lights, confused workers dressed in blue overalls stumbled out of the only entrance to the building that wasn’t blocked with flames and thick, billowing smoke. The fire brigade was just arriving and securing the scene.

“Oh no, you won’t!” Roman growled, grabbing a fleeting man by the jacket and easily shoving him against the car. This was certainly no employee of the logistics company that was blazing in front of them with increasing heat and roaring noise. Not with that watch.

“Secure a perimeter! NO ONE leaves without our permission!” He roared.

Logan got a hold of the next copycat, skillfully plucking her out of the fleeing herd of blue fabric. He immediately earned himself an angry glare from the firefighters competing for the authority over the scene.

Yes, the young detective knew they had fires to extinguish and people to save, but he had a criminal to catch, darn it! They better get out of Roman’s way!

Shaking the chubby man in his grip to make the words he wanted come loose, he snarled “Where is he?”

“Wh- I don’t kn-” He thought better of his answer at being glowered at by a very handsome, very tall detective looking ready to go toe to toe with a livid wolf-pack to get his hands on his prey.

“He was in there, man. We heard him talk. There’s only one way out, he’s gotta be-”

Roman shoved him in the back of his squad-car unceremoniously and turned to scan the herd of people his colleagues were corralling a safe distance away. His ears were ringing with the howl of two different sirens and the roar of hungry flames devouring wood and melting structures. He could feel the heat on the back of his exposed neck.

He wasn’t there.

No. With a sudden wave of panic, Roman knew he couldn’t let this be the end. He couldn’t let him get away after everything that had been going wrong in his life. After everything he’d lost, he wouldn’t lose him too.

He took off with a sudden burst of speed like a charging wildcat breaking through dry, crackling grass, his long legs pushing him past the hastily erected barrier. A tall fireman fumbled to grab him, looking astonished. Roman slipped through his well-meaning hands with a twist of his arm.

The flames were impossibly loud inside the creaking structure, drowning out a sound that was so devastated, so utterly desperate, it would have stopped the young man in his tracks, had he been able to hear it.

Smoke was immediately blinding him. It felt hot enough to burn his skin. Yet, he knew he had to go forward. The slippery snake would escape him and find another way and continue to taunt him with his inability to do something right – or he’d get hurt.

Outside the howling inferno, Logan pushed past the two officers trying to grab him. His eyes were wide with horror in his suddenly white face. One colleague was shaken off by the sheer force of his momentum, the other held on tighter. Logan slammed his elbow against his face, breaking the man’s nose with an audible crack. The tall firefighter Roman had evaded threw himself in his way desperately and received a punch in the face for his efforts that nearly took him off his feet. Refusing to back down and lose another suicidal idiot, he managed to hang on to the mad officer’s arm. Yet, despite his bulk, he was simply dragged forward with a roaring scream that sounded wounded.

Still, his weight slowed the detective down enough for two more people to tackle him with their entire bodies, finally bringing him to his knees. He screamed and writhed against their hold, twisting a wrist and kicking a woman off his side, making enough room for himself to rip his arms free and, despite their efforts, drag himself towards the flaming building.

“ROMAN!”

His yell was wild with terror.

The air was awash with tiny floating embers searing his skin. Every breath felt as if he were burning from the inside, as if his airways were being scalded. He coughed and suddenly couldn’t seem to stop. His vision blurred with tears, yet he pushed forward, into the inferno.

Something creaked beside him like an old tree. The crash of parts of the upper floor coming down around him deafened him with its sheer intensity. He was brought down hard by a piece of wood hitting his side, crashing against the floor rumbling with the death of a building being incinerated.

Pain made him shake and curl up for a moment, shielding himself from the burst of burning, splintered wood raining down on him. With startling clarity he realized that he’d run into a deathtrap. The roof was collapsing.

Fear made his chest constrict. He couldn’t seem to draw enough air into his lungs, no matter how much he panted. Dizziness started to make him unsteady. The fire was burning up the oxygen around him.

His body screamed as he pushed himself up, feeling nearly unbearable heat against his face. Remembering Logan’s drills he’d laughed about then, he stayed low, holding his sleeve against his face, when he heard it.

A hacking, painful cough.

Roman pushed himself forward, all fear forgotten. The smoke billowing like living, writhing clouds grasping at him were mere distractions as he tried to locate the sounds. They had been in the smoke for far too long!

Rounding a corner, he found a huddled, blue clad form cowering against a stack of crates. A worker, left behind or disoriented by the fire. Roman grabbed them ruthlessly and firmly pulled them into his arms. A startled sound escaped the person, half drowned out by the fire. For a second, they tried to push him away.

Roman ducked down, lightheaded from coughing and barely feeling the weight due to adrenaline pulsing in his veins, and pushed ahead. To protect them against the smoke, he pushed the others face against his neck, determined to save this person.

He staggered back as a gust of air hit him that felt like it was roasting the skin on his face and hands. His vision swam with the shimmering reflexes of the heat. With a feeling of utter desperation, he realized that he didn’t know which way to go. No matter how much he blinked his dark lashes sticky with ruined makeup, he couldn’t see through the fog.

Over the roar of the flames– impossibly loud in his ringing ears – he felt like he heard a voice.

Logan!

He’d recognize that sound anywhere, and it was closer than he’d thought.

Ducking low and holding on to the blue overall in his arms, he plunged into the living, devouring mass of gray fog with hope alone to guide him and stumbled into blinding, clean sunlight. A cool spray from the water-hoses directed at the building over his head dampened him in seconds.

A roar of awed sounds hit Roman like a rising tidal wave. The storm of clapping and cheering droned out the sound of the flames as the flashes of multiple cameras blinded him, capturing the image of the ash-dusted, tall figure rising from the smoke billowing around his body. The person in his secure embrace was dwarfed by his bulk, held safely even from the fire.

Urgent hands grabbed him and pulled him from the blistering heat against his back. He was half blind and deaf from the horror he’d escaped, yet he turned into his partner’s direction almost on instinct.

Logan looked shattered.

His hair was wild and his usually so composed face was white and twisted with fear, his glasses crooked and almost off his face. His tie was loosened and his jacket nearly pulled off, tangled around a flailing, half restrained arm.

Terry had grabbed him in his arms bulging with the effort it took to hold the writhing, desperate man still. A bunch of firefighters and officers were cowering or standing around them, holding their bleeding noses or nursing various bruises. The moment Logan perceived Roman being pulled from danger, coughing and shocked but alive, he sagged like a puppet.

“Jesus Christ on a cracker.” The bruised firefighter muttered, slumping against a tire, utterly drained. The other officers mirrored his reaction, all of them secretly glad the suicidal pair was united again. What a day.

Roman was steered to the ambulances parked just around the secured perimeter. He realized only as a paramedic tried to urge him to release his bruising grip, that he was still clutching a civilian in his arms. Somehow, it was incredibly hard to let go of the shaking body. The reality of what he’d just done started to sink in and for some reason, he felt awash with fear for this person. Clutching them close to his chest, he held them tightly while he tried to find the strength to overcome his sudden protectiveness. The other person’s breathing was ragged - quick and erratic - yet they clung to his broad shoulders hard, hiding their face in his neck. He felt their warm, damp breath against his skin, alive and irregular. It gave the young detective the strength to loosen his hold enough to allow the paramedics to pry the other from his grip and put them on a gurney. Roman, dizzy and disoriented, was pulled away a moment later to be fussed over and have his breathing checked. This time, he wasn’t getting out of a trip to the hospital, he realized. A coughing fit that felt like it tore his lungs from the walls of his ribcage made him double over. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

A mouthpiece was fitted over his face insistently. He tried to listen to the instruction to breathe evenly, yet his hands were shaking as he tried to hold on to the device and he couldn’t seem to slow his panting, shallow breaths. His face felt as if he’d fallen asleep in the sun. He was not feeling very regal right now!

Logan had been settled in the open door of the ambulance next to him, wrapped in a blanket and looking pale and lost. He was shivering. A young woman was taking his blood pressure with a critical look. Roman realized with a jolt that his partner was being treated for shock.

He hung his head. Jesus, Logan would murder him for this. A well-meaning hand on his shoulder drew him out of his thoughts. The paramedic smiled at him kindly.

“You saved a life today, detective. You did good.” She reminded him kindly. He spotted a slight, middle eastern accent. It was nice. Her voice was nice. Roman decided to listen to her melodic tones as she talked while rubbing his still blurry eyes. Darned soot.

What was that on his shoulder? It did not look like soot at all.

It was makeup.

Roman shot up so fast the paramedic flinched. Logan started flailing with his blanket as he took off, probably fearing he’d dive into the flames again. His partner was heading in the other direction, though.

The ambulance he’d set the worker down at was just being cleaned up. He grabbed the nearest paramedic by the arm, using it to steady his swaying body.

“Where is he?!” The detective croaked. His voice was shot to hell.

“Um- I don’t- I’m sorry.” The startled man stammered. “He was just gone suddenly. I put the mask on him and turned to prepare a syringe and suddenly the door was open and he was gone without a trace. The officers are looking for him!”

It was no use of course. The jewel thief was gone. He’d lured the copycats into the warehouse, set the fire and used Roman as a way out, dressed as a worker and knowing fully that everybody would focus on the tragic, heroic image of the naive detective and his distraught partner and discount the threat of the person in his arms. The paramedics would be largely ignored by the police as opposed to the people fleeing on their own. He’d have time to slip away unnoticed while the copycats would get caught and be out of his way. The amount of makeup smeared across his shoulder suggested that any attempt at getting a description would be close to useless. Roman himself only remembered a slight body and shaggy hair obscuring a blurry face. A wig, most likely.

He sagged against the man next to him hopelessly. He’d been played again.

Without resistance, he allowed the paramedic to settle him on the hastily pulled out gurney. He had no idea why the realization that the jewel thief had risked killing Roman in the fire hurt him so badly. Or the fact that he’d accepted the possible loss of innocent lives. Perhaps the fire had gone out of control? Or perhaps he was just a suicidal murderer. Through his parched throat, it was barely possible to swallow his painful disappointment. Somehow, he’d hoped for the other to be - more. A theatrical villain turned vigilante, perhaps. Charming and dramatic, intertwined in a dance with Roman, barely evading him while leaving clues and gifts that turned more noble the longer their chase lasted. Roman had thought he was changing. He’d mocked him in the beginning, leaving impersonal taunts to the police, but the longer they had played, the more he’d focused on Roman. He’d complimented him even as he’d insulted him, and recently, he’d helped him solve cases. Had he just imagined the joy the other had taken in leading him to petty thieves hunting in his territory? He’d thought they were finding a sort of common ground.

He was such an idiot. The jewel thief was nothing more than a ruthless criminal. He’d done it again. Made up things about someone and gotten hurt again. Roman was so tired of being himself.

As he hugged his body, he felt something crinkling in his pocket.

A thick, crumpled paper came free in his search. It was sooty and smelled of smoke. Hastily scribbled words were scrawled messily over the surface. With a jolt, Roman recognized the handwriting.

‘Lovely Roman,

As you can see, this theatrical masterpiece went exactly according to plan. Except for the tiny detail of the chemical spill reacting to my diversion, that is. The housekeeping here is truly a marvel. It was supposed to be a sparkling smoke installation. I thought you would have enjoyed it, my treasure, since you are appreciative of art as exquisite as you.’

Progressively, the words appeared more hastily written.

‘I seem to have gotten a tad lost in the smoke. Which is… not ideal. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Please find this. Please don’t hate me.’

The writing was becoming harder to read. A word was almost smudged out by some liquid having fallen on the paper.

‘You should know that your naive idealism is more than just entertainment to me. I don’t have words anymore. You inspire me. Your silly attempts to change me-’

The paper was torn at the side as if a cough had made the writer jerk and tear too hard. He deciphered as much as he could of the mostly smudged ending.

‘You make me want to change. You are the -

Goodbye.’

Roman stared at the message, written in what the thief had thought to be his last moments before he’d shown up and saved him. He’d thought of him as he’d huddled against the crate, waiting to die. There was a storm in his chest that didn’t even begin to allow him to decipher how he felt. He was shaking. No one he’d been with had ever appreciated him as much. It was inconceivable.

A certain detail bugged him, however. The words came back to knock on the inside of his pounding skull. Lovely Roman… treasure… art as exquisite as you…

He knew those words.

With a shock not unlike the cold water drenching him after the fire, the realization came to him. He almost lost his phone as he fumbled it out of his pocket, panting and coughing painfully with the effort. His vision was blurring.

Just was he managed to focus on the screen, it lit up with a notification.

Looks_can_be_Deceiving_. sent you a message.

‘I knew you’d figure it out, clever thing.’

***

Roman felt barely able to stay upright at all, he was tired, coughing up disgusting mucus all the time and his chest hurt from it. Oh, and he smelled like a burnt rug. He feared to even look at a mirror, knowing his makeup would be smeared all over his reddened face along with soot and ash. He feared the guilt and failure were written there even more clearly.

Still, those cruel doctors dragged him through blood tests, x-rays and even made him almost choke on a Bronchoscopy. Ugh. Though he’d technically saved someone from a burning building and everyone was complimenting him on it (when they weren’t berating him) he didn’t feel very heroic right now.

His mind kept revolving around the note, the words that, for the first time, had felt honest instead of flattering or belittling. Somehow, he couldn’t get over this honesty. It felt monumental. With it mixed his anger at having been tricked and evaded once again, along with the confusing protectiveness he felt for the person that had held onto him for dear life, his headache had food to grow. It did not bear thinking about that he’d been chatting with this nemesis for months, telling him about his thoughts and feelings and feeling so appreciated. The worst was the way Logan had looked after the fire, though. Roman knew this image would haunt him along with the memory of finding Octavia’s dead body in his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Finally, he was dressed in a very unflattering hospital gown to get the dirt clinging to his clothes off his body and settled into a single room. Due to his broad shoulders, he was given a large gown that made him feel like he was drowning in the pale fabric. Huddling under the covers and hating the fact that he’d been ordered to stay put and breathe through the oxygen mask placed on his face for another hour at least, he listened to the insistent ringing in his ears and wished for a shower.

Luckily, the verdict could have been a lot worse. He’d suffered first degree burns on his hands and face as well as a sore airways due to inhalation of irritant compounds. He’d have to cough up the mucus his body created in order to clean his lungs and deal with a headache due to his exposure to carbon monoxide as well as hoarseness.

Could be worse. He could be dead.

Roman shivered at the thought. Logan would kill him.

A pulse oximetry was clipped to his finger along with the mask, just to be on the safe side. In order to stay on that side, the anxious doctors had prescribed antibiotics and bronchodilators to widen his swollen airways and prevent infection. Perhaps he’d have gotten off easier if the paramedics hadn’t sung his praise after they’d brought him in. For once, he wished he wasn’t revered like a hero and just left alone to curl up and work through his thoughts. As soon as the doors closed, however, the ringing in his ears intensified and his thoughts started roaring like the fire he’s just escaped. The young detective didn’t know whether to be relieved or frightened as his partner slipped through the door, uncharacteristically unannounced.

He looked terrible.

His steps were utterly silent as he approached the bed. Only the sound of their breathing, Logan’s sharp and quiet as opposed to Roman’s loud, hoarse ones filled the sterile space between them.

Though in pain and shaken, the younger man was for once glad Patton wasn’t there to care for him, no matter how much he needed him to tell him everything would be okay. He didn’t want him or Virgil to see his partner like this.

Logan looked positively wild. His jaw was clenched as hard as his fists – Roman could almost hear him grinding his teeth. He swallowed, his throat visibly working, yet words seemed to fail him. There was a primal, terrible emotion in his dark eyes Roman couldn’t place. The younger man hunched his shoulders, trying to keep his breathing even and to keep himself from crying. Bruised and burnt and utterly exhausted, he found it impossible to hide that he was scared. Logan took a step towards him, his chest heaving, and grabbed Roman’s hospital gown over his sternum like a striking viper. The material twisted in his trembling fist.

Roman knew, suddenly, that Logan would punch him.

A whimper escaped him as he was yanked forward and hugged so hard he thought he’d been put into a choke-hold. Logan half climbed onto the bed and held him – restrained him almost. He buried his hand in the ash dusted curls and gripped so hard it hurt. His first breath was barely a gasp, his second a violent sob. Suddenly, he was shaking so badly he could barely hold on to his friend anymore. All strength seemed to leave him as he sagged against Roman, a strangled, agonized howl escaping him.

Tubes and cables getting in the way and hastily shaken off, Roman fumbled to hold on.

With fingers clumsy from shock, he pulled his partner closer. Feeling dizziness hit and combine with this growing headache, he nestled until he managed to curl up on the bed with Logan in his arms. His older friend was holding on to him like he wasn’t going to let go ever again. His knuckles had turned white with the strength of his grip on Roman’s gown and hair. It hurt, but the younger man would never want to pry him loose. Instead, he felt like he couldn’t get close enough. He still smelled the acidic, burnt scent of ash and smoke on his skin and hair. It made his heart race and his stomach nearly turn. Rescuing the squished glasses and burying his nose in his partner’s hair, he focused on his clean scent. He intertwined their legs and pushed past his sick feeling. It hurt almost physically to feel Logan shaking.

“Shhhhh, it’s alright. I’m alright. I’m sorry.” He muttered soothingly, yet his voice sounded wrecked as if he’d been chewing gravel.

The sensation of his reddened skin and burning eyes fell away as he focused all of his attention to the warm body in his arms. Logan’s ribcage expanded erratically with his sobs as his tears fell on Roman’s shoulder. He was mumbling something into his neck.

“dn’t evr-” A gasp interrupted him that seemed to shake his suddenly frail body. Roman tried to quiet his breathing to understand.

“Don’t evr do this t’me ag’n!” He half cried, half pleaded. A feeling like a stake being driven into his heart made Roman jerk at the agony of those slurred words. He curled around his partner tighter. How could he forget even for a moment how much he was loved? Even if Logan wasn’t his lover and couldn’t give him the exciting romance or gallant compliments he craved, he gave him a home.

“’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

The older detective laughed wetly as his reckless partner mumbled an apology into his hair like a scolded child.

“You are i-impossible, you foolish man, I’ll have to put a leash on you.”

His hands softened on Roman. With a sigh, he calmed until his sobs turned to hitching breaths and his body turned pliant in their embrace.

_____________________________

Notes: Now things are finally getting interesting with Deceit! And what will happen with the pictures taken of Roman after the fire? Will we see Remus soon? (Totally)

Thanks to @broadwaytheanimatedseries, who is writing Keep her safe and allowed me to use her firefighter.

The next chapters will sure be exciting! If you enjoyed the chapter, I’d be happy about comments or reblogs :D

Next Chapter

#detective AU #Eva writes #Sander Sides #Prinxiety #Logicality #Roman Sanders #Deceit Sanders #Logan Sanders

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sanoiro · 6 years

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Lucifer 3x23 - Meta B: This Kiss

“Many believe we have reached a resolution in 3x23 where Deckerstar is concerned but the truth is that we are only now starting to get into the deep waters, whatever that means... Wait, what?????

Chloe at the end of her case goes to the same piano Lucifer was playing at the beginning and hits the keys. Heart and Soul. An iconic moment and not just a reference to a beautiful scene in 1x09. In 1x09 Chloe leaves Dan and goes to Lucifer as she believes he needs a friend. The thing is that Chloe all along knew one thing. Lucifer needs a person in his life but he does not want one. She has understood the implications of that and yet she stayed firm next to him much like she did with Maze.

Lucifer, on the other hand, tells her that night that she doesn’t need him but she choose to be with him and that tells the same thing I wrote above.

Now, what I love most about this song is that I always believed that it’s very easy to persuade and manipulate a heart but you cannot nudge a soul towards a direction you want it to go. Souls are solid and impenetrable and yet vulnerable when they actually open up and our leads’ souls are set on each other since the very beginning so we were waiting until their hearts were in the same place.

As I’ve said in Meta A, Chloe benefited from Lucifer’s let’s go back to normal shenanigans as she had the time to review the past two years and what they meant to her. Hence the piano playing in a time she believes he is not there. That alone is important as she unknowingly exposes herself to him.

In this part, we get the infamous lines... You choose me. You did choose me but why they were so important to Lucifer? Because no one had ever chosen him before. Willingly with no stakes, deals or expecting anything in return. He was bothersome, downright an inconvenient feature in her life and Chloe choose him. She did what not even God himself did according to Lucifer’s beliefs. Not his siblings, not Amenadiel without expecting his wings to return no one had EVER simply chosen him.

It was not a matter of male pride as Chloe and we as the audience had assumed in 3x21 It was the desperation of a boy who was left behind again. Unloved, uncared for with only an obligation to give and be punished at the whim of every human, celestial or divine power because once upon a time he rebelled for what he believed and was who he was created to be...

As they say, if you want to see the most flawed system see democracy... All is perfect until you put it into practice or add the human factor. That alone tends to mess things up.

I believe that in this scene Chloe understands Lucifer’s motives in the last episode (3x21) as well and when he goes over the fact that he was afraid we get back to 3x20 & 3x21... About Fear and what that makes you do. That is why Chloe knows who he is. Because he sees the boy, the teen and the man in front of her with one common thing. Fear blended with love, vulnerability and ready to rise or fall on her command.

Chloe at this moment knows she has the power to destroy him and having Trixie means she knows how complicated a child’s reasoning can be... Absurd yet deeply mature and logical. And so the shake of her head says it all. She will not do that. She understands as Lucifer gives her an answer she asked in 3x21 but got the truth through an indirect answer by him. Fear.

Another interesting point is that Lucifer is no longer afraid of showing the Devil face to her, but we know that since 3x01. It’s that he realises that his Devil Face is not his identity but his identity as the Fallen is a past he cannot and does not want to erase. It’s him and he tries to be open but if she knew then Lucifer is convinced that Chloe would run away.

Therefore, Lucifer feels so free on telling her, safe in his conviction that she will never believe him and yet at the end of 3x23 he tries once again. Not to show her but to be completely frank.

I’m a very bad guy, I have done unspeakable things which you can only suspect and so yes I am a monster not just in appearance, which I can't show you but everything else I have done and they will always be a part of me but I’m not sure they are me. So I’m not sure whatI’m giving you here but here you go either way.

You see when Linda found out about the truth her first questions were about Heaven and Hell but also what constitutes a sin and how you get to Hell in a way. She realised the gravity of actions and that in this world there was a God and so there was good and evil.

Lucifer has shouted over and over again that he is not evil but when you get back home from work and there is grim under your fingernails you wonder how much of your self-image is true and whether you can indeed be something else aside from what the world sees you as.

Let’s go back to 3x11, Lucifer never gave up until 3x11. He accepted the view humanity had about him only after that episode. Until then Lucifer still had faith. Isn't that tragic? Perhaps that is why he met Chloe but the thing is that he never had accepted he might have been evil until Amenadiel came and told him that.

Then 6 years later, Chloe comes and he has lost himself in meanings and definitions. all imposed on him. He has moments of clarity like in 1x12 and 3x07 but the thing is for how long you can go on until you believe the majority and you stand alone? Heaven, Humanity on Earth and even Maze have this idea of him and yet Lucifer is something different which apparently only Chloe can see and of course Linda but mainly because he exposes himself to her willingly.

Lucifer: Detective, it's true. Chloe: No. Lucifer: The other side of me is it's bad. It's monstrous, even. But you wanted the truth, and you deserve the truth. Right now, I can't show it to you, so I'm just gonna have to tell you.

So who is that other side of him? I doubt he talks about his face. Lucifer talks about the life that according to him Chloe refuses to not just believe but also acknowledge even by human standards. Basically, we get back to the same problem. Lucifer sees himself as a dichotomy. A) The Devil as a job and The Devil as the carrier and executioner of all evil. And then B) the abused Samael who had to survive so he carried on the best he could and that demanded some sacrifices from himself not just as an Angel but as an entity.

It is perhaps why he refuses to acknowledge that Samael exists anymore. Aside from a comment I had made months ago that he sees Samael as the child his Father murdered, Samael is also the identity he had to butcher piece and piece off his flesh -literally in 3x11- in order for whatever he had left to survive.

Unfortunately what Lucifer believes he has left, is the monstrous side that every soul carries. The darkness we all have inside but he does not know anymore how to label it as. He still believes there must have been something good left in him that deserves and can be loved but at the same time, he is afraid that whatever he has shown to Chloe is but an elaborate game of a fake identity much like Marcus did in S3. Meaning that once she knows that the fake identity is not real, Chloe will run away. That is why Lucifer in 2x12 questions reality and is so quick to reject it in 2x13 and 2x14 as well in 3x21.

His lines:

You want the truth and you deserve the truth but right now I cannot show it to you.

Are carrying a desperation because he wants to be truthful but has no idea how and the wings do not show the reality he had to face for billions of years but an unadulterated image of what he once was. Pure. Good. A child that deserved his Father’s love. You see the fact that in S2 Amenadiel was promoted to be the favourite has affected Lucifer more than we will ever know. More than we will ever know in S3 at least.

There have been many metas on why Lucifer told her he is the Devil and I have an opinion on that... Why didn't he say I love you? Well, the key I believe is in his expression when he tells him he is not and looks so forlorn.

You see at that moment he tells her I’m the Devil he basically admits that there is a part of him that can love - A LOT - but that love is covered by something filthy which he expects her to see.

He gives her a chance to run because he opens up the can and say; Do you see this? This is what I am and there is something good in there but I cannot ask you to dig and get it out. But this also gives it a lot of worth as well because being the Devil and caring is like asking for the moon to shine as bright as the sun and for some weird reason I’m doing just that for you but can you handle it? Can you handle this uncommon brightness of the moon knowing it will never be a star?

So does he say that he loves her? For the second time as far as I remember since 1x01 he calls her Chloe in front of her and that speaks volumes. So Chloe knowing him she can see between the lines and take what was left unspoken. She knows him and demanding more than what he can give now, 3x21 aside, can wait. He has gone further that he has ever gone before and that is all she cares about.

Problem is that Lucifer when Chloe tells him that, “No you are not” is broken as he once again believes she is not believing him but then another realisation hits with her next words. “Not to me.”

Lucifer believes that Chloe knows him even if she refuses to believe him that he is indeed the Devil so he is grasping the last threads of that when reality hits her those words will be the same. We will have of course to wait until hopefully 3x24 for that but I do believe it’s coming.

And finally the kiss... You see sometimes the backstory has a lot to tell for that one moment which lasts around 10 seconds...

In 3x23 Lucifer is the one who leans and initiates their kiss, not Chloe. Chloe did that in 2x11. For the first time, Chloe has a proof that Lucifer actually wants an intimate relationship with her and not the sexual one he tried in S1. Also, the fact that he never ever attempted to bed her in the last three seasons means that she trusts him more than she ever trusted Marcus.

Moreover, Chloe now knows the big secret. Lucifer Morningstar is afraid and has abandonment issues, not commitment issues. He is afraid that she will leave him, that she will not want to stay with him like his family and everyone he has met so far has done. They have failed him and Lucifer has not failed anyone because for the major part of his life he has been used and discarded even by his bedmates.

So his admission says, I want to be sure you will stay because as you have seen I have been around. And if we want to get further, Chloe in a way tested him as well. She chooses him to be with her as her work partner but also gave him a lot of ways out over and over again but he stubbornly stayed. He may not be reliable on many things and not always around but at the end of the day like in 3x23 he is there, waiting for her.

What I do love as well is that she tries to deepen the kiss after she received it as a chaste one and he loses his balance. I admire Ellis for his acting there. Because he knows that his character is totally dependable on Chloe but not on the matter of needs. He is now gravitating around her and it will be Chloe to call the shots whatever they may be while he will stoically wait and accept them whenever they may come.

In brief? Chloe has now total control over the Deckerstar relationship. The kisses, the sex, the partnership and how they will move on after 3x24 if a double reveal (wings & Devil face) comes.

And on a final note, Lucifer now stops trying to protect her from him and as we see at the end of the episode, he tries to at least support and protect her emotionally, which is what he has been doing tactfully for a long time. In 3x24, for the first time since 1x01, he will actively shield her and that alone will change everything.

So rejoice dear Lucifans but remember that realisations always come with a price... Sometimes a heav-enl-y one.

So that’s it I guess. If I fail in two weeks you will know why.....

Now please do allow me some time off and wait for the Spoilers and Speculation post on Saturday. Please!

#FINALLY EDITED!#lucifer meta #lucifer spoilers #lucifer speculation #lucifer 3x23 #Quintessential Deckerstar

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writing143 · 6 years

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What caused the English Civil War (1642 – 1651)?

The English Civil War was one of the most significant wars in English history. Lasting from 1642 to 1651, the war in England was largely the result of a period of conflicts between supporters of the King, also known as the Cavaliers and the advocates of the Parliament, know as Roundheads. The Arguments between these two powers over religion, money, and political power fuelled by a series of other initiating events are the causes to why war broke out.

To begin with, one of the fundamental causes for The Civil War was King Charles’ personal beliefs. This factor played a major role in the events leading up to the war and ultimately to the King’s controversial execution in 1649. Like his father James I, King Charles I had a stubborn personality and unshakeable belief in the doctrine of Divine Right of Kings. The Divine Right of Kings is an ancient theory that asserts that the monarch derives his right to rule directly from God, which therefore imposed that the King’s subjects were obliged to unconditionally obey him as they would God. This notion of the monarch’s sovereign right to supreme power further contributed to King Charles’ unpopularity.

Division over religion is commonly the vital trigger for unrest within a country, and this was largely the case in the English Civil War. Towards the beginning of his reign, King Charles I married Princess Henrietta Maria of France. Since Henrietta Maria was a Catholic, and the religion of England primarily Protestant, this act raised strong suspicions about King Charles’ motives. Many Puritans believed that this was a step towards making the country Catholic and strongly opposed the marriage.

King Charles’ financial mismanagement was also another major contributing factor to the English Civil War. King Charles I unwisely spent Parliament’s money on lavish extravagances and expensive foreign wars which faired extremely unpopular with the people. Consequently, King Charles’ lack of sufficient funding compelled him to reinitiate Parliament several times during his reign.

Another cause for the war was the argument over power. The political views of both Parliament and the Monarchy were evidently contrasting. This was understandable due to the make-up of the two groups. Parliament was largely represented by middle class people, who were mostly Puritans, while King Charles I was supported by a class largely made of wealthy nobles and high class people who resented the Puritan’s views of religion.

The relationship between the King and Parliament was not a good one. Charles obstinately held the view that he was the unquestionable god-chosen monarch and could not be challenged by man. Parliament strongly disagreed with the Divine Right of Kings, and reasoned that as they were elected representatives for the people, they had the right to the power. Conclusively, the bitter struggle for power between Parliament and the monarch was instrumental in initiating the war.

In 1641, rebellion broke out in Ireland, and eventually developed into a violent war that spread all over the country. The Catholic Irishmen were alarmed by the events taking place in Scotland, and feared that England was planning an invasion of Ireland in order to eradicate the Catholic religion. Violent chaos ensued across the country until the Catholic Confederation was formed in 1642. The Irish rebellion is regarded as the major immediate cause of the English Civil War.

In 1642 King Charles I became disillusioned with Parliament and dissolved it. For the next 11 years, Charles ruled the country without parliament. This period of King Charles’ absolute solitary rule is commonly known as the Eleven Years’ Tyranny. However, since only parliament had the right to collect taxes from the people, King Charles I was eventually forced to devise new ways to acquire the money himself. In 1634, King Charles I decided to collect ship tax. This tax was traditionally collected from residents of coastal towns and villages to support the navy that protected the English coasts. When King Charles I imposed the ship tax on every resident of the country, it was not accepted well, and made the majority of the public turn against him. King Charles I aptly gave excuses to justify his actions, claiming that it was due to security reasons that the tax was being imposed on inland residents. Surprisingly, even with the addition of the illegal ship tax money, King Charles’ finances proved insufficient to pay for his costly wars that ensued in Scotland and Ireland.

The ultimate end of King Charles’ independent rule came when he attempted to impose England’s religious policies in Scotland. King Charles I aspired to have a uniform Church throughout Britain, and decided to introduce a new prayer book into Scotland in 1637. The highly Anglican prayer book was met with widespread hostility by the Scots, who thought the book was much too Catholic to be used in predominately Protestant Scotland. A violent outrage ensued shortly after this event, and King Charles I was forced to take the book away. Riots escalated to general unrest; forcing King Charles to recall Parliament in 1640 in order to acquire the funds necessary to quell the Scottish uprising. The new parliament agreed to grant Charles more money to fund the war in the term that Charles drop the illegal ship tax. King Charles I refused their request and dismissed parliament. A few months after dismissing parliament, King Charles I finally broke under the pressure of the advancing Scots, and summoned another English parliament.

More dissatisfaction for the King ensued in 1642, when King Charles asked the parliament to remove 5 MPs for reason of treason against the monarchy. When they refused, Charles I personally burst into the House of Commons with 400 soldiers to arrest the five Members of Parliament who he accused of treason. All 5 MPs managed to escape, although consequently, this misguided act left King Charles I even more unpopular with Parliament. A few months after this event , King Charles I raised an army of his supporters in Nottingham, formally signaling the commencement of the English Civil War.

In conclusion, the English Civil War was an ineludible event that was understandably evident to happen due to the aforementioned reasons. It was a clash between Parliament and the Monarchy over money, religion and power which resulted in the separation of the people in the country, causing a civil war.

#history143 #essay #english civil war #Charles i #history #history essay

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mygangtome · 6 years

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Do not be deceived by this charming moment, Gentle Readers! Blame is about to be laid!

@dreamersscape, granted, I have let your final question marinate for some time.

And before I speak, let it be heard and known that I LOVE ALLAN-A-DALE. In all his human disaster glory. Fight me if you don’t believe me.

I’m not going to tell another person they’re looking at a question like this wrong (it is an ethical question after all, so it makes sense that different people would see it differently).

But I must confess I see Allan as totally, wholly up-to-his-ears dirty in blame in the abuse, kidnapping, and murder of Marian.

Now, to be clear, I’m not saying that a court of law would legally find him culpable, unless perhaps a Good Samaritan law were in effect in Nottinghamshire (which, of course, it’s not). Allan’s actions in Season Two are, largely, in-actions, being passive in instances where choosing action could have saved the day.

Even in the kitchen, when Marian stops Robin from killing Allan, it is Allan’s in-action that is required/called for by Marian: don’t betray me. (Which is to say: DO NOTHING to betray me.) She doesn’t ask for protection, or even his loyalty. Hers is a requirement of ‘don’t’ rather than ‘do.’

So, what’s wrong with that? Allan doesn’t actively betray Marian. He doesn’t give her away, or proactively endanger her.

Well, if not legally culpable, moral culpability has something else to say.

In the spirit of the title of Chidi Anagonye’s unfinished book, “What We Owe Each Other”: Does Allan owe Marian? Does Allan owe Robin? How does Allan see his obligations to them/to being ‘a good man’?

Well, let’s be clear. Allan, by his own assertion, is stuck. When he fell in with good people, he acted as good man. However, he also continued to act good because of the positive rewards it brought him. We see this most clearly at the skivving off to Scarborough; though recall, that in falling in with Robin & Co. Allan escaped hanging (and dismemberment). When Allan believes his present reward system in helping Robin/gaining a Forest Family is set to terminate, he immediately falls back on his greatest hits: theft and escape.

Season Two starts with him still of this mindset. Yes, maybe the King is not imminently to return and Allan’s Forest Found Family to be lost to him, but Allan is high-key about getting paid [*for the record, @Robin, knowing the love languages of those around you/working for you can avoid you having to see them grossly betray and leave you. Give the man who really needs it to feel secure and valued some coin of his own, LORD HUNTINGDON (who has no personal interest money or wealth but who at one time had lots)]

Allan’s vocal about money, his lack of it, and he’s, obvious to anyone watching, about to act-out.

And yet, even in his ‘betrayal’ of the gang, before he is discovered, Allan is operating on some very specific self-imposed boundaries. There are things he’ll do for Guy (sending Roger of Stoke to his death, for one—but a man Allan doesn’t know and has no connection with—to whom he thinks he ‘owes nothing’), and things he won’t (tell Guy where the camp is). This, even after the torture that brought about what cooperation Guy has from Allan.

Allan is literally only willing to sacrifice knowledge that might make the gang’s outlaw life more complicated, not to risk the gang. Consider, even, that he also doesn’t tell Guy where Annie and baby Seth are. Allan is only there to give information when explicitly asked for it, and then only that he has deemed okay to pass on.

Allan, you see, in his own broken ethical code, believes he owes Robin.

Robin saved Allan from hanging in Episode One

Robin made Tom & Co. members of the gang, gave them a second chance, and was willing to rescue them at potentially great personal cost.

Robin has respect for Allan’s talents

Robin calls Allan his ‘brother’

Allan (in his own words) loves Robin

Owing Robin seems to mean owing Marian (who is Robin’s first concern), to whom Allan has a distant-at-best relationship even before he’s banished. And yet, Allan—of his own will and code—shows up at great personal risk at the camp to arrange for Marian to pull a con to make Guy think she’s at a convent.

Allan’s code tells him he owes Marian (Robin), and that he should work to keep her safe from Guy.

In the kitchen fight scene, Allan and Marian’s relationship takes on a new tie that binds when Marian dissuades Robin from taking Allan’s life.

Here, Allan gives Marian his word that he will never betray her. That he won’t give her away. He does not promise anything beyond NOT being the cause of her peril.

Perhaps this is how he rationalizes the fact that he does not assist Marian in escaping Guy once she’s revealed to be the Nightwatchman, and is locked in Locksley’s barn. (A situation, quite frankly, that Allan would have had little difficulty in subverting in the time he and Marian were arguing about his helping her). “Guy, I’ve caught the Nightwatchman!” as you have a sword at your side is NOT how you protect the woman you made a pledge to.

Half a handclap for trying to keep Guy from branding Marian with a hot poker before Guy knew who she was, but no points at all for failing to try and spin the situation by convincing Guy that Marian is simply impersonating the Nightwatchman, Allan.

Guy actually runs away, leaving the barn door open, the building unsecured. Lots of time for Marian and Allan to get out of Dodge. “I don’t have to do anything,” Allan tells her. “I’ve helped you wherever I can.”

Allan believes he should help Marian.

Marian tries to use Robin as a sweetener if Allan helps her, but she barely has time to start her pitch before Guy returns,

In 2x11, When Marian is caught out as the Nightwatchman, once back at the castle, Allan works very actively in preventing her escape (holding her and even picking her up to keep her from escaping after she built the fire) yet, then ultimately does risk himself to keep her secret, in a very ACTIVE, and not at all passive impersonation of the Nightwatchman, keeping her identity safe from Vaisey, and her safe from hanging. But doing nothing about her being trapped in the Castle (her identity now dangerously known).

Observe how easily Allan makes his escape in the Nightwatchman disguise. He could not have arranged something similar for Marian?

Note that when Marian thanks Allan for saving her life, he doesn’t say ‘we’re even now’. There is no reason to believe that Allan thinks his obligation to Marian is discharged (for her saving him from Robin)

The question persists from 2x11: Does Allan do this because he also finds this to be in Guy’s best interest? Has his loyalty at that point switched away from Robin and to Guy? Is it still in flux? Is Allan now agreeing to protect Marian because it’s what Guy would require/want?

Is Allan’s concern for Marian situational based on to whom she is most important? And from whom Allan’s survival is most imperiled? If that’s so, it explains why once Guy catches Marian, Allan doesn’t help her: Guy doesn’t want his help, Guy wants the Nightwatchman unmasked. And Allan taking no action helps bring that about.

At that moment, Marian loses any currency she had with Allan, if his believed obligations to her grow only from her value to powerful men that surround him.

If this is truly how Allan is thinking, he has strayed quite far from the ‘good man’ Djaq believes him to be.

And yet, Allan knows that Marian values him as a life, as a man with a potential to do good (she is always appealing to his potential to choose good)—not merely because of his connections with Robin and Guy. She directly opposes Robin when it is Robin’s will to kill him. She is the only resident of the castle that knows who/what he truly is, and yet she does not attempt to use that as leverage against him. There is no way he doesn’t know that she would oppose Guy or the Sheriff (physically if necessary) were they to try and have him killed.

But still we get the ‘going along with farting’ line.

What Allan owes Marian at that time (when she asks him to help her frustrate Team Castle’s attempt on the King’s life) is his mind. He owes her any thoughts of how to frustrate the assassination attempt on the king. But here we get another Roger of Stoke situation. Allan has no loyalty to the King (in the season one finale we see how much he fears Richard’s return), he was never going to be a Royston White shouting that he’ fought for Robin Hood and King Richard’. So Marian, who tries to incite him to action with news of the Sheriff’s scheme, needs a better motivation for Allan. What does he care if Richard is killed? A King a continent away he’s never met. Things are bleak in Nottingham. They were when he was with the gang. Now that he’s on Team Castle—well, Richard NOT returning is clearly the best option for that situation. And in his mind, he won’t even have to be the person to pull it off.

Marian’s pleas fall on deaf ears because she fails to successfully appeal to ‘which side [his] bread is buttered on’, to wit: “Allan, if you save the King and frustrate Guy and the Sheriff’s plans, I will tell Robin and get you back in with the gang, on salary.” Marian fails to understand Allan’s code and how he is motivated (similarly to Robin in never giving Allan any coin), and the results for her are catastrophic.

In order to carry on, Allan is deliberately embracing shortsightedness in his onscreen moments up to Marian’s kidnapping. He poo-poos her clearly viable belief that Team Castle are headed for the King, he calls her out of her depth for wanting to kill the Sheriff, even though he knows what she has been able to do as the Nightwatchman (ex. hold her own in fights with Guy).

From the moment Marian accepts Robin’s proposal, the dominoes begin to fall that lead to her murder. By preventing any of as many as ten situations, Allan (unlike Robin) could have circumvented Marian’s death. He is the closest to her, the most like an ally, the character who owes her the most.

And who fails to deliver on that in a way that would have protected her.

In 2x13 we see Allan awake while both the Sheriff and Guy sleep in the same room with him. He’s even got his sword. Kill either* of them in their sleep and steal the key to unlock Marian? Who he now has to know is being kidnapped to the Holy Land? Nope. Go to the barn, strike Marian’s shackles with his sword? Nope again.

[*the Sheriff is about to embark on a months-long odyssey to the Holy Land and back, so I assume he can be easily disappeared without worrying that Sir Jasper will order the razing of Nottinghamshire. Additionally, he’s at a distant inn in Portsmouth where nobody knows who he is, almost 200 miles from his post]

From what’s there onscreen, I hold Allan responsible for violating his own code toward Marian, as well as what I understand to ethically be what we owe each other. Granted, plenty of these issues are in point of fact plotholes or criminally unexplored motivations. But they’re what we’re given.

Now, @dreamersscape, don’t hate me.

Memories of better times. [ragged sigh]

a post by @nettlestonenell

#my gang to me 2018 #allan a dale #marian #lady marian #bbcrh #bbc robin hood #robin hood bbc

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the-eternal-captain-harlock · 7 years

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Captain Harlock & Miime: Musings on Isolation, Loneliness and Grief

(For the scope of the analysis I will be focusing solely on the Harlock/Miime relationship as it is portrayed in the 1978 Space Pirate Captain Harlock TV series. If you haven’t watched this anime yet, you really need to.)

“I am Miime; I am the woman who has given her life to Harlock.” - Miime, SPCH

It did not take me long into my sojourn into the 42-episode long self-contained Space Pirate series (and my first Matsumoto anime) to discover just how much I loved Miime, the tall willowy, mouthless, alcohol-swilling, harp-playing, soft-voiced alien woman whose relationship with Harlock is almost as meaningful and touching (in this series) as the relationship between Harlock and Tochiro.

Miime quickly became an exemplar of everything I wanted to see in a supporting female character. I already knew what I didn’t like: female characters who nagged, female characters who made the primary male characters awkwardly uncomfortable, who made them stammer, blush and act like idiots (if they were of high-school age) or forced them to supplant their ideals and opinions with their own, either through sheer bitchy determination or the pervasive ‘power of love’ angle (if they were older and *allegedly* mature). I didn’t know what I hated more: the female characters who ruthlessly and annoying imposed either their emotions, ideals or bodies onto their male counterparts, or, conversely, the male characters who allowed them to do so and conceded to the woman’s wills. I’ve always been more interested in fictional male protagonists then in female ones, and I always view the arrival of a new female character – be they hero or villain – into a novel or show with a certain amount of trepidation, owing to the drama they ineffably inflict upon that particular fictional universe, whether this is intentional on their part or not.

Miime was blessedly free of all of the above behaviors. Everything about her, from her simplistic yet elegant character design, to her voice, mannerisms and hobbies, spoke of maturity, of refinement, and, most important to me at least, the desire to be true to her own person, to remain herself, as she is the last living remnant of her race. Perhaps if she had been a human woman her relationship with Harlock would have been radically (an unsurprisingly) different, but as she is a Juraian, an alien, a literal ‘Other,’ she abides by her own codes of conduct and not once does Harlock ever request or demand that she alter her behavior towards him, just as she never tries to ‘change’ him, as most human woman would try to do.Thus she remains unique, mysterious and ultimately unknowable - much like Harlock himself.

And the relationship the two of them share is unique indeed. Harlock makes no demands upon Miime whatsoever. She has no specific duty as a crew-member of the Arcadia and is free to move about the ship as she pleases. She pours Harlock his wine, but not because she is his serving girl and it is her duty to do so; she plays the harp for him, but not because she is his court musician and it is expected of her. Everything she does for Harlock is for their mutual enjoyment. They do not ask or demand anything from one another, they simply do things together, organically and naturally, in complete emotional and physical freedom. They are perfectly at ease with each other, displaying no awkwardness or stress when together. Miime does not bicker with, fight with, flirt with, nag, challenge or impose on Harlock’s freedom in any way. She has pledged her life to him, even stating she would follow him into hell if he ever asked her to. Her devotion is total. Her loyalty is beyond reproach (1). Her relationship with the Arcadia’s brooding Captain puts her in the unique position of possessing true knowledge of his personality, allowing her to share her insights as to what kind of man he is with the other crew-mates, who are often confused by Harlock’s decisions and actions. She becomes his unofficial spokesmen and advocate and never doubts that he will accomplish his goals.

Likewise, Harlock confides in Miime, telling her his plans, expressing his occasional doubts and frustrations or simply reminiscing about the past, often over drinks. But Miime is not a merely passive character Harlock keeps around as a drinking companion. Miime proves her worth as a fighter, displaying competent shooting-skills and reveling hidden depths of power when Harlock is threatened. Unlike Tadashi Diaba, however, she is not learning how to become a warrior or out for revenge against the Mazone invaders. Like Harlock, much of her story has already taken place and she has already reached the pinnacle of her character development. To remain at Harlock’s side is enough; she has no set goals or plans like Tadashi, no ulterior motives or hidden agendas. Whatever else is happening to the galaxy at large is inconsequential as long as Harlock continues to wander the stars under his ‘flag of freedom.’ Calm, quiet and thoughtful, Miime stands unobtrusively by Harlock on the command-bridge, ready to give advice or make pointed observations, or fills his cabin with the soothing melodious music that relaxes him while the rest of the crew revels in the Arcadia’s corridors, living for the moment while their haunted Captain broods on the fate of humanity, vowing to fight to the end to protect the earth even as he bemoans the hedonistic apathetic state of mankind. Miime is the only one he truly confides in, and Miime repays his trust by simply being there and supporting him (sometimes even saving him), regardless of the circumstances.

But what truly bonds them? Why do they enjoy one another’s company so thoroughly? Why do they understand and respect each other so fully? What lies behind the simple dignified tenderness they display towards each other? They are not lovers; they display virtually no hint of romantic infatuation or physical attraction. Yet despite retaining their autonomy and personal freedom they still share a certain bond, an intimate relationship which seems to transcend both love and friendship. But this bond is, sadly, rooted in tragedy and grounded by the threefold components of isolation, loneliness and grief.

I: Isolation

One sad reality of Harlock’s existence is that he is an extremely isolated individual. Although the entire universe is essentially his sandbox and the Arcadia possess enough firepower to level cities and hold off entire alien fleets, Harlock never takes advantage of his considerable power and fearful reputation to make the rest of humanity do his bidding or live according his higher standards. Planet Earth is not a sheltering or welcoming place for the self-exiled space-pirate. Harlock has no wish to dominate, but he will not suffer himself to be dominated, so he endures the derision and scorn of Earth’s rulers and the constant harassment of the planet’s Defense Force with little genuine retaliation, preferring to roam the stars in hopes of finding his ‘final resting place.’ Despite having a homeworld and a people, Harlock, both by choice and circumstance, lives out a solitary and confined existence, with only those few chosen comrades who remain with him in order to fight for their own beliefs and carve out their own paths.

Miime shares in this isolation; for although planet Jura still exists her race has been completely destroyed in nuclear warfare and the following environmental retaliation brought on by the planet’s sentient plant-life. In a brief flash-back, a younger Harlock visits Jura and rescues Miime, now the last Jurian, from the plants and offers her refuge aboard his ship. Not only does Miime owe her life to Harlock, she also is allowed to live on his ship seemingly condition-free. Harlock has no utilitarian motives - neither practical or personal - for keeping her around. Miime does not cook or clean or fly Space Wolves or man any of the Arcadia’s guns; she is not a doctor, a scientist or a navigator. The bulk of Harlock’s otherwise human crew seem mostly indifferent to her presence; they do not compete for her attention or affection, nor do they make advances on her. Even aboard the Arcadia Miime remains in isolation and because Harlock also lives in voluntary isolation, spending most of his time in his elegant sterncastle drinking, brooding and playing his ocarina, their mutual situations and circumstances draw them closer together in a relationship built upon what is missing in their lives rather than what they have in common. They are both unique one-of-a-kind individuals, alone in a cold inhospitable galaxy that has little to offer them in terms of meaning and fulfillment. Even when together, isolation still dominates, for although Miime and Harlock spend a great deal of time alone behind closed doors there is always a significant physical distance between them. Both are heavy drinkers (Miime requires alcohol to survive, as it it is a natural part of her diet; Harlock is an alcoholic), but we never see them genuinely intoxicated and acting stupid, flirty or inappropriate with each other. In their isolation is also their liberty, for being who they are - free, above all things - they are under no obligations or expectations to behave in certain ways. Harlock and Miime have nothing to prove to each other or to anyone else. Their relationship remains fixed and unchanging amid a universe full of chaos, danger and constant strife. They can always rely on one another - their isolation is their safeguard and shield; perhaps it is not such a tragic state after all.

II: Loneliness

There is - or should be - a distinction drawn between someone who is physically alone and someone who is feeling lonely. For most people, the two aspects are one and the same. If there is no one around you, no one to talk to or interact with in some manner, this will be perceived by most as a negative state, one which they quickly rectify by either calling or visiting friends, chatting online or making plans for family gatherings and meaningful dates with significant others. To be alone with oneself, with ones’s own feelings, thoughts and memories without any distractions for an extended period of time, is hard for most people to handle - for most, but not all. I myself am an unapologetic loner. This is not due to shyness or social ineptness; I am merely extremely introverted. As I write this part of the article I am alone in the house (except for a sleepy old pit-bull) and I love it. This is the main reason I became so attached to Harlock and Emeraldas - they are both loners living according to their own codes and beliefs, following their own paths and perusing their own destinies (2). The Arcadia - which serves the duel purpose of being Harlock’s fortress, safe-haven and tomb - enables him to remain free and unattached to the rest of humanity, liberating him from the confines of mankind’s apathetic degenerate social state and allowing him to remain true to his own self and goals.

But although Harlock is a true loner and possesses a solitary nature, he still suffers from genuine loneliness from time to time, although the only other human he intentionally seeks out to spend quality time with is Tochiro’s seven-year-old orphaned daughter, Mayu, which he does at his own peril. Miime, on the other hand, suffers loneliness even more keenly. Harlock, at least, can draw comfort (however sparse), in that he actually has a home-planet and a race to protect (even if he wants nothing to do with them), while Miime is the last of her kind - the last Jurian. Her planet still survives but the Jurian civilization is now nothing but ruins overrun by hostile plant-life. There is no going home for her. Her family and friends are all dead. She is a dispossessed being, without home or people, adrift in a hostile universe. In order to alleviate her loneliness she cleaves to Harlock with a single-minded vengeance, offering him her life, going were he goes, aiding him in all the ways she can, never once standing in his way or making demands of him. “It is better to be with people you hate then to be alone,” she tells Harlock, after lamenting how she had hated her people for the destruction they had wrought, only realizing after they were all dead how much she missed them now that she is truly and utterly alone. Her loneliness is made all the more potent in that she cannot truly leave the Arcadia. Harlock’s human crew-mates can leave and return to Earth if they wish but there is nowhere for Miime to go and no reason for her to leave. But she does not view Harlock’s ship has a prison - she learns about its secrets, about Tochiro, and this draws her and Harlock even closer together. Both Harlock and Miime are alone (one mostly by choice, one entirely by circumstance.) but their shared emotional experiences (and their mutual love of wine and music) allow for them to form and maintain a relationship that dulls the pain caused by loneliness (and the isolation) and gives Harlock the space to engage in meaningful interactions with another that brings them both happiness. Loneliness is the driving force that keeps their relationship stable and constant for the entirety of the series. Neither Miime or Harlock take each other for granted. Both remain grateful for what the one does for the other. Loneliness has gifted them to one another, and, because of its overhanging spectre, their bond is further strengthened by the knowledge that what they have is something unique, something valuable, and ultimately, something that neither one dares to compromise - for if that should happen the loneliness would become unbearable and the isolation truly complete.

III: Grief

The entire Space Pirate Captain Harlock series is overshadowed by an atmosphere of quiet unshakable melancholy. It rests upon Harlock like a second cape, infusing all his actions and choices, unweakening in its hold on him from the first episode to the last. He is never freed from it, for this is a melancholy born of grief, of loss, and of a seemingly-futile yearning for what can never again be. Harlock is in a perpetual state of unending mourning – he mourns for an Earth whose natural beauty and splendor is fading with each passing year, he mourns for a humanity who has forfeited its dreams and visions of the future so as to live in a state of continuous apathy and sloth; but, above all, he mourns for the loss of his best friend, the man who never gave up hope either in humanity, the future, or even Harlock himself. Tochiro Oyama is dead (except in two flash-back episodes), and without that that spunky, optimistic genius-engineer at his side, Harlock’s natural inclinations towards pessimism and depression must be battled at every turn if he is to remain an effective apposing force in the fight against the Mazone. Harlock speaks in passing about ‘looking for a final resting place’ and about spending ‘a life wandering space, looking for a place to die.’ Harlock is a less hopeful and forgiving man then Tochiro, and is tempted often to abandon mankind and the Earth to its fate. But to abandon either of these things is, in effect, to abandon Tochiro himself, especially as his only child, Mayu, lives in an orphanage on Earth. To turn his back upon the planet and its people is to turn his back on Tochiro and his heirs and to scorn his friend’s dream of a better future. Almost against his will, Harlock denies Mazone Queen Lafresia the earth for Tochiro and Mayu’s sake, if nothing else, though he does wish to prove to humanity (who view him as a disruptive, peace-threatening menace to society) that he can and will protect them, regardless of his own negative feelings (or theirs). Prior to the Mazone’s arrival, Harlock lived a listless, goalless life of petty piracy, protected and entombed in a semi-haunted Arcadia infused with the soul and living brain-cells of Tochiro himself. His war with Queen Lafresia gives him a purpose again and rekindles his fighting spirit, but even when victory is achieved Harlock refuses to remain on earth; instead he self-exiles himself once more, leaving his entire crew behind, to continue wandering the stars - but this time, only Miime is allowed to accompany him.

If Miime is dominated by her loneliness (and her literal ‘alone-ness’) then Harlock is ruled by his grief; no-one, not Miime, Tadashi or even Mayu, can take the place Tochiro holds in his heart. Harlock does not desire wealth, fame, acclamation, status as a hero or even to be respected and appreciated. He fights successfully to secure a future for the Earth but he cannot be apart of that future – for Harlock desires only the Arcadia of his youth, his past life with Tochiro, the long-ago days when it was just two carefree young men seeking to live free and pursue their dreams. But those times of youth and adventure cannot be reclaimed. Tochiro is dead (though still present) and Harlock can do nothing but carry on without him. He keeps Miime at his side, and she follows him willingly into the dark and to whatever fate awaits them. Earth may have been saved and mankind given a second chance, but for Harlock, Miime and Tochiro there is no going back home. Home does not exist for them anymore. Their only true home now is the Sea of Stars, their only banner the Jolly-Roger, and a life lived in freedom their only sustenance. Miime vanishes with Harlock into the vastness of space, remaining loyal to him to the last, even as Harlock remained loyal to Tochiro’s dream, the three of them uplifting and sustaining one another in their long exile. It is not necessarily a happy ending, but it is certainly a fitting one, appropriate to the nature of its characters and in keeping with the series’ overall mood and tone.

Thus wherever Harlock may go, Miime will always be at his side, a true companion he can rely upon for comfort and advice. For Miime, Harlock will always remain her savior and provider, and her comfort and advice are gladly given, since they both retain their freedom - which is, ultimately, all they ask for and in the end, as long as they remain within the confines of the Arcadia, is all they are allowed to have.

(1) You can only imagine how pissed-off I was when in the 2013 Space Pirate Captain Harlock CGI film, after Yama replaces Harlock as captain, Space-Elf!Miime declares that her loyalty is to the ship rather than Harlock himself. Boy that made me mad - that among so many other things.

(2) Harlock’s, Emeraldas’s and my own personality traits in a nutshell.

#Captain Harlock #Miime #Harlock article #Space Pirate Captain Harlock #screenshots #leiji matsumoto #leijiverse

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epistolizer · 3 years

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Hit & Run Commentary #135

Cal Thomas is now flagellating himself over the specter of White privilege as lamented in his column titled “America’s Reckoning With Racism”. If he is really so concerned about this why doesn’t he surrender his influential position in the media to a minority? Readers should also note that he selected the luxury of Florida in which to live out his golden years rather than the squalor of one America’s ghettos in which he would have been able to actualize the values he demands of the rest of us such as the willingness to be verbally denounced and berated by those we have allegedly oppressed.

So do media propagandists jacked out of shape over the use of tear gas and pepper spray to disperse riotous protesters intend to articulate condemnation as rigorous of Antifa’s strategy to gouge out eyes?

Do those claiming to support Black Lives Matter really support the cause when asked or fear bodily harm and vandalized property?

Regarding municipalities and jurisdictions threatening to disband police departments in order to placate riotous mobs demanding astronomical welfare handouts categorized as social programs: will those breaking the law in such areas still be apprehended or taken into custody? If so, even if under the banner of another name, aren’t those still the functions of a police department?

With the abolition or defunding of police departments, Whites have even more justification to flee urbanized areas leaving them to further decay and blight.

Apparently mobs marching through the streets are enough to get technocrats to ease the rigors of the plague cult. Perhaps churches ought to begin holding mass decentralized public worship meetings not directly linked to any one congregation surrounded by armed militias. If left unaccosted, such would not be violent.

Given that Black Lives Matter only gets jacked out of shape when those of a certain ethnic composition get mistreated by the police, doesn’t that expose how inherently racist that movement is?

If protesters carry signs with language deemed linguistically inappropriate, the media shouldn’t blur the image. Don’t these liberal journalists any other time insist upon how obligated oppressors are to listen to these disenfranchised COMMUNITIES expressing THEIR TRUTH unfiltered?

During protest coverage, media propagandists informed that certain images had to be blurred to protect viewers and their families from alleged profanity. Too bad the media is not as decisive about rendering judgment against the destruction and theft of private property

Media propagandists said that the profanity on protest signs had to be blurred so as not to harm viewers at home. But is it about protecting viewers or out of concern that seeing such might shock the average American that usually doesn’t consider the implications of this subversive element regarding how there is an effort underway to implement a worldview of demoniac tyranny formulated in the bowels of Sheol itself.

Protesters are demanding funds from cut police budgets be redirected towards jobs and education. Yet those calling for such will barely work or pursue academics as it is. Often these behavioral choices are denounced among such demographics as “acting White”.

Veggie Tales creator Phil Vischer has criticized the conservative response to violent protests as valuing property over lives. Wonder if he would respond the same way if the target had been a warehouse full of his anthropomorphized produce DVD’s and related licensed merchandise?

In its streamed service, a church posted a slide that in person worship would not resume until later in the summer. Then perhaps the next song sung by the worship band should not have contained the lyric that to die for Christ is gain? Because doesn’t that propositional juxtaposition indicate they really don’t mean it and are just as much afraid to croak as nearly every other slob on the street?

As much as these churches are harping about race, don’t be surprised if after lock down quite a few White pewfillers simply don’t come back.

If the government and private enterprise imposing the policies of such (the definition of fascism) can coerce you into wearing a mask in the name of public health, what is so wrong with assorted laws and regulations intended to punish sexual contact outside of heterosexual marriage in the name of disease prevention? Granted, such laws would be near impossible to enforce from a standpoint of practicality. However, that is not usually the position that they are argued against. Rather, it is claimed such regulations infringe upon matters of personal choice even when the health of another individual is involved, the very principle that has been curtailed to a disturbing extent in the Age of Plague.

It it was immoral to stoke fear of disease in the name of promoting abstinence, why is it moral to stoke fear of disease to coerce compliance with a variety of social distancing measures?

A Confederate monument was preemptively demolished in Decatur, Georgia on the grounds that allowing an incompetent band of hooligans that had probably never even held a powertool prior to being overcome with the current fit of revolutionary madness could imperil public safety. So wouldn’t it be prudent to also remove assorted Martin Luther King or Barack Obama commemorative statuary for similar reasons out of an abundance of caution?

At the Trump campaign rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, attendees were allowed to decide for themselves whether or not they would wear a mask. Medical establishment functionaries (many of which no one elected to office or not even employed as part of the civil service) issued numerous pronouncements decreeing that those deciding not to conceal their countenances in the proscribed manner were threatening the lives of those with compromised immune systems. But unlike a supermarket, one does not possess a compelling necessity to attend a political rally in order to continue one’s existence or maintain one’s quality of life. As such, so long as the individual is fully cognizant that masks will not be required at a particular venue or event, doesn’t there come a point where the individual needs to shoulder some of the responsibility for their own healthcare maintenance rather than to pawn that obligation off on everybody else? After all, haven’t we been told for decades now that if you don’t want your mind or soul soiled by filthy media, then don’t tune into such productions? Likewise, if you are afraid of picking up a disease in a place that the purpose in being there is more of a pleasure than a necessity, perhaps you ought consider not going there in the first place.

Commissar Cuomo is categorizing the removal of the Theodore Roosevelt statue at the Museum of Natural History in New York as an act of love. How long until mass executions or the seizure of the property of designated counterrevolutionary thought criminals will categorized as an act of love?

On Fox News Sunday, Chris Wallace remarked that, in light of the NFL’s reversal on the national anthem and the call to rename a number of military bases, a cultural shift is underway. But are these changes something that the vast majority want? Or is it that they afraid to question such proposals out of fear of riots and looting on the part of violent subversives?

If we are to be so gripped with fear of violent retaliation on the part of apoplectic activists (for that is rather the reason than belief in diversity and inclusion) to the point that White thespians can no longer be allowed to perform voiceovers for cartoon characters of color, do the producers of the musical Hamilton intend to replace the Black actor that performed that eponymous role with a White one to more accurately depict the historically documented image of that particular Founding Father?

Perennial rabble rouser Al Sharpton insists it is an outrage to have someone to pay taxes to provide for commemorative statues of individuals that fought to keep that taxpayer enslaved. Maybe so. But given that it has been documented that Sharpton is profoundly delinquent in regards to the taxes he owes, he obviously doesn’t have as much going towards that particular budgetary outlay as he dupes his deluded followers into believing. Shouldn’t this multimillionaire having flouted his fiscal obligations be the even greater outrage?

On the Five, establishmentatian mouthpiece Dana Perino called for a moratorium on all conspiracy theories. In other words, we are obligated to believe without question any information handed down to us by government or those institutions in league with it at the highest levels such as academia, multinational industry, and the mainstream media. Who is to say what constitutes a conspiracy? This time several years ago, had someone pronounced that a virus would be invoked to keep you under near house arrest, your face swaddled like a jihadist concubine, and vast swaths of the economy nearly destroyed, they would have also been denounced as a conspiracy theorist.

By Frederick Meekins

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