#inquiry and puzzlement

[bess3714]

The fabled first meeting between Steph and Tim, ft. the greatest of all the Batfam's weapons, a brick!

I love hitting my blorbos with bricks

What is wrong with the Bats that they immediately fall in love with anyone who is willing and able to beat their ass?

Alfred is clearly very used to this phenomenon

[gvfgal]

How to Fall in Love in Ten Days

18+ series, Minors DNI

A/n: Sorry for the wait on this one, I’m a busy girl and this was a longer chapter. Day nine… one more 🤭 Enjoy🤍

Content Warnings: fluff, mild sexual content

Word Count: 8.3k

Day Nine: The Reckoning

You awaken with a gentle stretch, a soft smile already playing upon your lips at the thought of spending a few precious moments with your husband before being swept once more into the whirlwind of preparations for the evening’s ball.

Your hand, seeking his familiar warmth, strays to the side of the bed, only to meet with the cold, unyielding surface of the comforter. A frown creases your brow as you turn your head, only to find Daniel’s place beside you vacant. Rising with a start, you realize you are entirely alone in the Duke’s chamber. A sense of unease begins to stir within you.

Reaching for the robe Daniel had so considerately draped over the nearby chair, you swiftly slip it on, its fabric barely warding off the chill that accompanies your solitude. After donning your house shoes, you make your way into the corridor, your steps quickening as the urgency within you grows—propriety be damned.

The first servant you encounter is Mildred, bustling down the hallway with fresh linens in hand.

“Mildred,” you call softly, though the note of anxiety is unmistakable, “have you seen the Duke this morning?”

She pauses, her eyes briefly noting your disheveled state before a dutiful smile graces her lips. “I regret to say I have not, Your Grace.”

With a curt nod, you continue on your way, repeating the inquiry to each member of staff you pass, yet all replies are the same. The emptiness that had been confined to the Duke’s chamber now seems to follow you, shadowing your every step.

At last, you reach the grand foyer, where the morning’s light streams through the high windows, illuminating the hive of activity as servants flit about, attending to their crucial tasks for the evening’s festivities. You pause, your gaze sweeping the room in a desperate search for Daniel’s familiar figure. But before you can find him, the heavy doors of Sterling House swing open with a creak.

Your mother enters, resplendent as always, her cheeks flushed with the vigor of her morning ride, her smile as broad as it is warm.

“Darling!” she exclaims, her arms extending as she sweeps across the room to envelop you in a firm embrace.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between surprise and the remnants of your anxiety. Only then do you recall, with a pang of guilt, that her arrival for the ball had been expected. And where she is, your brother cannot be far behind.

“Mother,” you manage at last, returning her embrace though your posture is still tense, “you’ve arrived.”

Her eyes, bright with affection, gloss over your stiffness, too overjoyed by the reunion to notice. She steps back, taking your hands in hers as she surveys you with a mix of pride and puzzlement. “But, my dear, you’re not dressed?”

“Well, I—”

“Nonsense!” she interrupts, her tone brisk but cheerful. “Come, we must have you presentable. We shall take tea in the drawing room before the hour grows too late.”

Tea in the drawing room is the furthest thing from your mind, yet the force of your mother’s will is a tide you cannot hope to stem. As she guides you further into the house, you cast one last glance over your shoulder, hoping—praying—for a glimpse of your husband amidst the morning’s flurry.

But all you see is the retreating bustle of the staff, the echo of your mother’s cheerful chatter filling the void where his presence should be. With a resigned sigh, you allow yourself to be led away, your mind racing with questions, your heart heavy with the weight of the unknown.

The drawing room was steeped in an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of delicate china as you and your mother occupied opposite ends of the plush settee. Both of you sipped your tea in a semblance of tranquility, though beneath the polished veneer, a current of tension stirred.

Clad now in a gown you rather favored, you strove to maintain composure, resisting the impulse to fiddle with a wayward thread that had come loose at the hem—a trivial thing, yet it seemed to hold all your restless energy.

Your mother, ever the picture of poised elegance, kept a smile affixed to her lips, her air one of genteel cheerfulness. Yet, you could discern the strain beneath her practiced facade. The silence, awkward and persistent, was wearing thin, and though she had thus far skillfully sidestepped any inquiries into your marital affairs during your morning preparations, it was evident that her restraint would not endure much longer.

“So,” she began, her voice abruptly breaking the quiet. There was a brief pause as she collected herself, her tone measured when she continued, “How do matters stand between you and the Duke?”

You regarded her steadily, weighing your response with care. Though it pained you to admit it, a trace of resentment lingered still—resentment toward her hand in forging this union, despite the contentment you had gradually found. A stubborn part of you, loath to concede that she had been right, hesitated to share the newfound joys you had discovered beneath the marriage’s rocky start.

“Fine. Things are...fine,” you replied, though the slight hesitation in your voice did not escape her notice. Nor did the telltale warmth that suffused your cheeks at the mere mention of your husband.

Your mother’s lips curved into a knowing smile. Setting her cup gently upon the side table, she turned to face you fully, hands folded gracefully in her lap.

“Dearest, you may harbor some vexation with me, but that does not mean I am any less acquainted with you than I have ever been. I know you as I know myself.”

You lowered your gaze, recognizing the futility of maintaining the charade any longer.

“Tell me, truly—have you fallen in love with him?” Her tone was playful, almost conspiratorial, yet it held the weight of a question that mattered greatly.

With a sigh, you relented. “Yes.”

Her response was immediate—a delighted squeal that drew the attention of the few servants stationed discreetly around the room.

“Mother, please,” you groaned, mortified by her exuberance.

“My apologies, dearest,” she murmured, though her eyes still sparkled with unrestrained joy. “But, oh, my love, this is splendid news indeed!”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” you replied, your fingers trembling slightly as you lifted the delicate china cup to your lips, the warm liquid a welcome distraction. “Yet, there is one small matter—I have not, as of yet, made this known to him.”

Your mother’s expression shifted from delight to bewilderment. “Whatever do you mean, my dear? You have not declared your love to your own husband?”

“Not in so many words,” you admitted, your voice tinged with a frustration you quickly masked with a saccharine smile. “Nor has he uttered those exact words to me, either,” you added, your thoughts briefly flitting to the myriad of other ways the Duke had shown his affection—ways far more expressive than mere words could ever convey. Yet, in the presence of your mother, you deemed it best to keep such thoughts to yourself.

She stared at you in disbelief, her head shaking slightly as though trying to dispel the absurdity of the notion. “How is it possible that neither of you have managed to speak such simple yet affirming words? It is beyond my comprehension.”

“Mother,” you began, a soft, wistful sigh escaping your lips, “our marriage did not commence under the most tranquil of circumstances. There were storms, to be sure, that would have overwhelmed lesser hearts. But somehow, in the midst of the tempest, we found ourselves… swept away by one another. The words have eluded us, perhaps because our hearts have been too full to be contained by mere language.”

Her expression softened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she reached out to take your hand. “Oh, my dear, I had no idea… But love is a tender thing, and while it is shown in many ways, do not let the moment pass without speaking it aloud. For in those words lies a promise, a bond that strengthens even the strongest of affections.”

You squeezed her hand gently, touched by her sentiment. “I know, Mother. And perhaps, in time, we shall find the right moment to say what has already been written on our hearts.”

Your mother nodded, her smile returning, though now tempered with understanding. “Make sure that you do, my love. For there is no greater joy than to love and be loved in return—and to know it in both word and deed.”

As you sat there, a comfortable silence enveloping the room, you found yourself contemplating her words. Though your heart was already entwined with his in the deepest of ways, there was something to be said for the power of those three simple words. Perhaps, you mused, it was time to let them escape your lips and find their way to his ears, where they truly belonged.

Daniel released a long, weary sigh as he endeavored for the third time to decipher the document before him. His thoughts, however, were inexorably drawn to you, lingering on how he had left you that morning. The early golden light filtering through the curtains had cast a warm glow upon your satin skin, the softness of sleep still evident in your delicate features. The image of you, so peaceful and serene, haunted him, making it all the more difficult to tear himself away to attend to his duties before the evening’s ball. Yet, the demands of his station required his attention, and he knew Sebastian would soon arrive to usher him into the preparations.

Determined to regain his focus, Daniel bent over the papers, but just as he began to find a semblance of concentration, a soft knock resounded at the door.

His frustration surged anew, but he tempered his tone before responding, “Enter.”

The door opened to reveal an unexpected visitor—Archibald, your brother and now his brother-in-law. “Am I intruding, Your Grace?” Archibald inquired with a knowing smile.

A grin tugged at Daniel’s lips despite his vexation. Rising from his desk, he greeted Archibald with a warmth that only true friendship could foster. “Not at all, Archibald. Please, come in.”

The two men exchanged a brotherly embrace, the familiarity and affection between them evident. “It’s a pleasure to see you, my friend,” Daniel admitted, sincerely welcoming the interruption from a man who had become family in the truest sense.

“Likewise, Daniel,” Archibald replied, taking a seat across from the Duke’s desk, as Daniel resumed his own chair.

Archibald, never one to mince words, leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. “So, how fare things between you and my sister?”

Daniel hesitated for a moment, contemplating the depth of his emotions. “I confess, Archibald, that my feelings for her have grown far beyond what I ever anticipated. She has become the very center of my world, and I find myself more concerned for her happiness than I am for my own.”

A faint smile touched Archibald’s lips, though his eyes remained serious. “That is good to hear, Daniel. I must admit, I know my sister is still wounded by my actions. I know it well, for I have seen the shadows it casted upon her spirit. But I believe that she deserves the world, and when I arranged this union, I believed with all my heart that you could give it to her. And it appears you have, against all odds. But you must not falter in your resolve.”

Daniel nodded, the weight of Archibald’s words settling heavily upon him. “I have no intention of failing her, Archibald. I admit I had my shortcomings early on by, now that I know her in the way that I do, I would rather suffer myself than see her discontented.”

“Then do right by her, Daniel,” Archibald urged, his tone both gentle and firm. “For my sister is dear to me, and I would be pained to think I had failed her by entrusting her to a man who could not cherish her as she deserves.”

Daniel’s gaze softened, his determination clear. “You have my word, Archibald. I shall do everything within my power to ensure her happiness.”

Your brother grinned in satisfaction with the Duke’s answer, knowing that he was a man of his word. “Well then, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, tell me about these prize horses I heard you purchased.”

Daniel let out a laugh, “my, does word spread fast.”

You had finally escaped the well-meaning but relentless questioning of your mother, having managed to claim a small reprieve before you were due to prepare for the evening’s ball. Though you loved her dearly, you found her inquisitions tiring, especially when they pried into matters you had yet to fully resolve in your own heart. Wandering the halls of Sterling House, you relished the solitude, the quietude of the grand estate offering a balm to your frayed nerves.

It struck you how often you had taken to this solitary wandering, and you could not help but laugh softly to yourself at the thought—what if, years from now, you became one of those ghostly, withered figures in old family stories, a Duchess-turned-wraith, endlessly pacing the halls in search of peace that always seemed just out of reach?

Your musings were interrupted as you neared Daniel’s office, for the low murmur of conversation from behind the door made you halt in your steps. You recognized one of the voices at once—Archibald. Your brother’s presence so near sent a flutter of both unease and curiosity through your chest, but it was the realization that he was speaking with your husband that caused your pulse to quicken further.

Instinctively, you edged closer to the door, your steps light as a whisper on the polished floorboards. Pressing your ear against the oak panel, you strained to catch their words, grateful that the quiet of the corridor afforded you this clandestine opportunity. The low, measured tones of the men’s conversation reached you in fragmented phrases, but Archibald’s voice was unmistakable.

“…She deserves the world… my sister is dear to me… it would pain me deeply to think I had failed her…”

Your breath hitched as those words sank in, echoing in the quiet space between you and the door. A pang of emotion, sharp and unexpected, struck your heart. For so long, you had harbored a deep resentment toward Archibald, not merely for the role he had played in arranging your marriage but for the perceived betrayal that still stung, even as the wounds had begun to heal. To have been treated as a mere pawn in a game of alliances, your wishes disregarded in the service of some higher purpose—it had cut deeper than he could ever have known.

Yet, hearing him now, so unguarded in his confessions to Daniel, you found your resentment wavering. He spoke not as the commanding brother who had maneuvered you into a match for the sake of duty, but as a man burdened by his love for his sister, a man whose heart ached at the thought that he might have wronged you. His words stirred something unfamiliar within you, a softening of the rigid defenses you had erected around your heart.

Before you could dwell any further on the matter, Roslyn approached, her soft footsteps barely stirring the quiet of the corridor. A knowing smile curved her lips, her eyes alight with amusement.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she whispered playfully, her voice scarcely above a murmur so as not to betray your presence to the gentlemen beyond the door. “But it is time, my lady. We must begin the preparations for this evening’s grand affair.”

Reluctantly, you allowed yourself to be drawn away from the door, placing your hand in Roslyn’s outstretched palm. She gave it a reassuring squeeze, her expression bright with anticipation.

“I daresay,” she continued, her tone brimming with a conspiratorial glee, “you shall be quite pleased with your gown for the night. And I rather suspect His Grace will be equally so,” she added with a mischievous wink.

You could not help but smile at her light-heartedness, feeling a warmth spread through your chest as you momentarily set aside your earlier reflections. The excitement for the evening began to stir within you, replacing the weight of your troubled thoughts.

“Very well, Roslyn,” you replied with a gracious nod, returning her gentle squeeze. “Let us waste no time.”

With that, the two of you set off toward your chambers, the whispered strains of conversation behind you fading into the distance, and the anticipation of the evening drawing ever nearer.

As you stood poised behind the grand doors of the ballroom, the lively strains of the orchestra drifted through the heavy wood, their spirited melody filling the air with anticipation. You found yourself quietly humming along, the soft notes a meager balm for the flutter of nerves that threatened to unsettle your composure.

Roslyn had not exaggerated—your gown was a triumph, an embodiment of grace and opulence, surpassing even your most extravagant expectations. The dress, a resplendent white, gleamed like moonlight against your skin. The bodice was adorned with delicate pearls and fine embroidery, the intricate patterns weaving across the sumptuous fabric like vines in full bloom. It hugged your form with effortless elegance, its empire waist falling into a cascade of silk that pooled at your feet like a river of starlight, gliding with each subtle movement.

The sleeves, light as a whisper, rested just below your shoulders, offering a delicate glimpse of bare skin—a scandalous yet refined detail that added to the gown’s allure. The skirt, though deceptively simple at first glance, was richly layered, the underskirts lined with shimmering threads of gold that caught the light with each graceful step you took. It was, in all respects, a gown fit for a bride, a silent homage to the day you had pledged yourself to Daniel.

Your hair, swept up with exquisite care, was arranged in a series of intricate braids and soft curls, pinned with jeweled combs that sparkled like fragments of a broken crown. Loose tendrils framed your face, softening the regal elegance of your appearance with a hint of romantic abandon. Around your neck, a delicate string of pearls gleamed faintly, their pale hue a perfect complement to the ivory of your gown. At your ears hung simple diamond drops, a modest touch amidst the finery, but no less beautiful for their subtlety.

You drew in a steadying breath, your gloved hands smoothing over the front of your gown, fingertips tracing the fine embellishments as though their delicate patterns could anchor your unsettled nerves. The weight of the evening pressed upon you, but it was a burden you bore with grace. Still, you had yet to catch sight of Daniel, and your heart beat a little faster at the thought of his arrival. Only together could you make your grand entrance, a moment you had both anticipated with equal parts excitement and apprehension.

From beyond the grand doors of the ballroom, the lively hum of conversation reached your ears—murmurs of expectation, no doubt, from the esteemed guests awaiting your presence. The orchestra, playing just within earshot, filled the air with music that twined with the fluttering pulse of your thoughts. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to be swept away by the melody, losing yourself to the swirl of anticipation and wonder.

But then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, you heard a voice from behind—deep, resonant, and infinitely familiar.

“Wow. Absolutely breathtaking.”

You turned swiftly at the sound, every thought of the ballroom vanishing in an instant. The world itself seemed to shrink, reduced to the presence of the man before you.

There stood Daniel, and in that moment, he eclipsed all else. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat, your mouth parted in a soft gasp of awe before you quickly regained your composure. Yet the image of him lingered, seared into your mind.

His attire was nothing short of regal, his coat a pristine white that gleamed like alabaster under the soft glow of the candlelight. Golden embroidery traced the edges of the lapels and cuffs, intricate yet elegant, a subtle nod to his status without betraying extravagance. The waistcoat beneath was equally resplendent, the threads of gold weaving through the fabric like veins of sunlight, a delicate balance between opulence and restraint. Every detail was immaculate—tailored with precision, the ensemble was the epitome of refinement, as though crafted by the hands of the finest artisans solely for this night.

His long, dark curls, normally a cascade of untamed waves, had been artfully styled, swept back from his brow in a manner that accentuated the noble sharpness of his features. Yet a few stray tendrils had escaped, falling to frame his face with a touch of rakish charm that only he could wear so well. His clean-shaven jawline was a striking contrast to the wildness of his hair, and the hint of a smirk played on his lips—an expression that both disarmed and captivated you.

There was a quiet confidence in his posture, the kind that spoke not just of his station, but of the man he had become. The years of burden and responsibility had sculpted him into someone both formidable and kind, and tonight, he wore that mantle with ease.

For a moment, you found yourself at a loss for words, as though even the finest syllables could not adequately convey the sight before you. His presence filled the space between you, and though the ballroom buzzed with activity beyond, it felt as though you were the only two people in the world.

“Daniel,” you finally breathed, finding your voice, though it was softer, more reverent than you had intended. You could not help but smile, a warmth rising in your chest. “You look… magnificent.”

He closed the distance between you with a few measured steps, his eyes never leaving yours. “The feeling is mutual,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your form with unmistakable admiration. “I may be dressed as a Duke, but standing next to you, I fear I pale in comparison.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my lord.”

“Then it is fortunate I do not need it,” Daniel replied with a playful grin, extending his arm to you. His eyes gleamed with mischief, but beneath it was something deeper—a warmth, a promise of what was to come. You took his arm without hesitation, feeling the strength and surety in his grasp. Together, you moved towards the grand entrance, your footsteps in perfect harmony.

A doorman approached with reverent precision, his gloved hand on the polished brass handle of the doors. Just before they opened, you exchanged a final glance with Daniel, one rich with unspoken words. In his eyes, you saw the reflection of your own thoughts—a sense of perfect alignment, of knowing that everything, in this moment, was exactly as it should be. There was no need for words; the look alone was enough.

When the heavy doors swung open, a collective gasp echoed through the vast ballroom. All eyes turned to you and your husband, poised at the top of the grand staircase, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. For a heartbeat, the entire assembly seemed to hold its breath, awestruck by your entrance.

The ballroom itself was a vision of opulence—white and gold dominated the decor, creating an ethereal ambiance. Gossamer drapes of the finest white silk hung from the towering windows, pooling gracefully upon the marble floors. Golden chandeliers, dripping with crystal, cast a radiant glow across the room, their light reflecting off gilded mirrors and the elaborate gold accents that adorned every surface. The ceiling, painted with delicate frescoes, gave the impression of being beneath the heavens themselves. Garlands of white roses, intertwined with soft ribbons of gold, lined the edges of the room, perfuming the air with their subtle, intoxicating scent.

As you descended the staircase, arm in arm with Daniel, the murmurs of admiration rippled through the crowd. You moved with a grace that felt both regal and effortless, as though this was where you had always belonged. Yet, it wasn’t the grandeur of the scene nor the finery of your attire that captured the room—it was the love that emanated from the two of you, palpable and unmistakable.

When you reached the center of the ballroom, the crowd parted as if by silent agreement, making way for the Duke and Duchess. The orchestra began to play a soft, lilting waltz, and without a word, Daniel turned to you, taking your hand in his. His other hand rested lightly at your waist, and with the first note, you began to dance.

Though you had shared many dances in the days leading to this moment, this one felt unlike any other. It was utterly effortless. With each turn and glide, you and Daniel seemed to move as one, as if the two of you were floating just above the floor. The music swelled around you, but it was as though the world beyond your embrace had ceased to exist. There was nothing but the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your hand, the warmth of his touch, and the unmistakable feeling of being completely, perfectly in love.

You were both radiant, exuding a quiet joy so profound that it filled the entire room. The guests, who had initially watched in admiration, now found themselves touched by the love between you, as though its warmth had spread to them all. It was not just a dance—it was a celebration of everything you had endured and everything you had become together.

At the back of the room, Roslyn and Sebastian stood side by side, watching in quiet awe. Roslyn’s smile was bright and full of pride, while Sebastian, ever composed, seemed unable to contain the emotion welling up in his chest. His eyes misted, and with a small, incredulous chuckle, he shook his head.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to compose himself, but Roslyn only laughed softly at his sentimentality, nudging him playfully.

You and the Duke continued to twirl across the dance floor, the light strains of the orchestra creating a melody that seemed to lift your very steps. Other couples had now joined the dance, their figures moving elegantly around you, though it was clear you and Daniel remained the focus of attention. A dreamy smile adorned your lips as you allowed him to guide you effortlessly, your movements synchronized, as though the two of you were in perfect harmony with one another.

Daniel’s eyes sparkled as he grinned at you, his voice low and warm. “You truly are radiant, my love,” he reiterated, his words soft yet sincere. He leaned in ever so slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “I cannot wait to get you alone later.”

You giggled at his cheeky remark, giving him a gentle admonishment. “Daniel, do compose yourself.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening. “Danny,” he corrected with a quiet chuckle.

You furrowed your brow slightly in confusion. “Danny?”

“It’s what my mother called me,” he explained, his tone carrying a faint trace of nostalgia. “No one else has used it since. But ‘Daniel,’ ‘Your Grace’—it’s all too formal, far too distant for the bond we now share. I want to be more than just the Duke to you.”

The simplicity of the nickname, the tenderness it carried, stirred something deep within you. It felt as though it granted you a new, more intimate connection to your husband, one that made your love for him deepen in an instant.

“Danny,” you repeated softly, savoring the sound of it on your tongue. “I rather like it.”

A boyish grin broke across his face, but despite his effort to remain composed, he could not conceal the joy your acceptance brought him. “Good,” he murmured.

The dance soon concluded, the music tapering off into a final, gentle cadence. But, as was customary at such events, the conclusion of the dance only marked the beginning of the evening’s many duties. You and Daniel were soon swept into the flurry of hosting responsibilities—greeting guests, accepting congratulations on the splendor of the evening, and enduring a constant stream of compliments regarding both your attire and the exquisite décor.

Throughout it all, you purposely avoided Archibald, though not out of lingering anger. No, the resentment you had once harbored was now diminished. Instead, you were merely waiting for the perfect moment to approach him—a moment that seemed elusive amidst the evening’s bustle. It was not until after dinner and another round of dancing that you finally caught sight of him. From across the room, you noticed him slipping quietly into the art gallery, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating his retreating figure.

A sense of resolve settled over you, and you excused yourself from the group of women with whom you had been conversing. With deliberate grace, you maneuvered your way through the crowded ballroom, your gaze fixed on the doorway through which your brother had disappeared.

When you entered the gallery, the hushed stillness of the room enveloped you. It was a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the ballroom, and for a moment, you simply stood at the threshold, observing your brother. Archibald was alone, his tall figure standing before a large painting, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed at the art in quiet contemplation. The flickering light from the sconces cast a soft glow over the canvases, highlighting the intricate details of each piece.

You took a deep breath and approached him silently, your footsteps barely making a sound on the polished floor. For several moments, you stood beside him, neither of you speaking. The weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, but for once, there was no urgency to break the silence. It was as though the presence of one another, after all that had passed between you, was enough for the moment.

Eventually, your gaze drifted to the painting before you, a serene landscape of rolling hills and a distant, glowing horizon. Its tranquility seemed to mirror the quiet peace you longed to find with your brother.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence at last. “The horizon seems endless… as though one could walk forever and never reach its end.”

Archibald turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable, though you caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He looked back at the painting, and for a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost pensive.

“Endless indeed,” he murmured. “Much like the paths we walk in life… always striving toward something just beyond our grasp.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, and a lump formed in your throat. The silence returned, but now it felt heavier, laden with the unspoken tension that had long existed between you. Your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your gown as you struggled to find the right words.

“Archie,” you whispered, your voice trembling ever so slightly, “I… I have held onto my anger for far too long. I know you only wanted what was best for me, but… it hurt. It hurt more than I can ever express.”

Your brother remained silent, his gaze fixed on the painting before him, but you could see the subtle tension in his posture, the way his hands tightened behind his back. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you continued, your voice soft but earnest.

“I was so blinded by my own pain, I failed to see the love behind your actions. And for that… I am sorry.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and despite your best efforts to hold them back, one slipped free, trailing down your cheek. You quickly wiped it away, hoping he hadn’t noticed, but when you glanced at him, you saw that his expression had softened. He turned to you, his eyes filled with a quiet sorrow.

“I never meant to cause you pain,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I was doing the right thing… but I see now that I went about it all wrong.”

For the first time in what felt an eternity, you glimpsed the vulnerability in your brother’s eyes—the regret that had long been veiled beneath his pride. The death of your father had irrevocably altered both your lives, casting a shadow that had, for a time, divided you. Yet now, standing before him, it seemed the chasm that once separated you had all but vanished.

“I forgive you, Archie,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. A soft sniffle escaped you as you gathered your composure. “And, truly, had it not been for your unyielding persistence, I might have missed one of the greatest blessings ever bestowed upon me.”

Your words caught in your throat as the thought of your marriage, and the Duke’s love, brought fresh tears to your eyes. The gratitude you felt for the path you had been set upon—despite the trials along the way—threatened to overwhelm you.

Archibald smiled, a warmth softening the usual sternness in his countenance. His own eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I am glad—so very glad—that you have found happiness, sister. For that is all I have ever wished for you.”

Without hesitation, your hands sought one another’s, the simple gesture carrying a weight far greater than words could express. In that moment, the silent understanding passed between you—a reconciliation of both heart and soul.

“I know, brother,” you murmured, squeezing his hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of all that had come to pass.

Just then, the soft tapping of heels echoed through the room, drawing your attention. Delilah, Archibald’s wife, appeared at the threshold, her movements tentative as she approached. Her voice, as delicate as ever, broke the stillness.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, offering a nervous chuckle, “I did not mean to intrude. I simply wondered where Archibald had disappeared to.”

You smiled warmly, dismissing her concern with a gentle wave of your hand. “Delilah. You are no interruption at all. In fact, I was just telling Archie how pleased I am that the two of you are here.”

You held your brother’s hand for a moment longer before releasing him, your heart full as you gazed at him. The bond between you, once so strained, now felt restored, stronger than ever.

Archibald turned toward his wife, taking her hand with an air of pride, and stood tall beside her. His gaze fell upon you with a tenderness that caused your chest to tighten. “It is our honor to be here, Your Grace,” he said with a teasing formality, the gleam of amusement in his eye betraying his sincerity.

You rolled your eyes playfully at his use of your title, eliciting a soft laugh from Delilah.

“I love you, Archie,” you said, your voice thick with affection.

“And I you, my dear sister,” he replied, his tone just as full of warmth.

Straightening your posture, you took a deep breath and let the familial tenderness give way to your duties. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you said with mock solemnity, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips, “I have a ball to attend to.”

With a playful wink, you glided past your brother and his wife, disappearing into the lively throng of guests in the ballroom. The weight of the moment lingered behind you, but now, with a light heart, you returned to the grand affair, ready to embrace the night with renewed spirit.

After as much more socializing as you could bear, you found yourself slipping away from the festivities, seeking the solace of the garden. The cacophony of the ballroom receded behind you as the cool night air welcomed your escape. You had scarcely seen Daniel for much of the evening—no doubt swallowed by the throng of guests clamoring for his attention—but something within you assured that he would find you here, in the serenity of the garden. The two of you had always shared a quiet affection for such places, a space where words need not fill the air to convey your hearts.

As you approached the small fountain nestled at the heart of the garden, the gentle trickle of water seemed to anticipate his arrival. And sure enough, there he was, sauntering in from the other side, a satisfied grin spreading across his handsome features as his eyes settled upon you, exactly where he expected you to be.

“I knew I’d find you out here,” he remarked, his voice tinged with smugness yet softened by affection, as if your presence here had confirmed something deeply known to him. There was a tenderness in his tone that you had come to recognize as a constant—an unspoken sweetness woven into his every word as of late.

You met him at the fountain, standing opposite one another, your regal attire reflecting the moonlight as though you were statues of the garden itself—timeless, eternal.

“Well, I do hate parties,” you replied, a playful lilt in your voice, though it carried a hint of truth. The crowded ballrooms, the endless pleasantries—they were often burdensome to your spirit, and here, in the quiet company of the garden and your beloved, you felt a far greater ease.

Without another word, the two of you sank onto the ledge of the fountain, the cool stone beneath you, the soft babble of the water offering a soothing rhythm to the night. Silence settled between you—not the awkward kind, but the comforting stillness that had become a familiar friend. It was in such silences that your love quietly bloomed, nourished by the simple act of being together.

After a long, thoughtful pause, Daniel broke the quiet. “Do you know,” he began, his voice low and earnest, as though confiding a secret to the stars, “there is nothing in this world I would not do for you?” The question, though spoken softly, carried the weight of his heart, and there was a palpable intensity behind it. His gaze remained distant, his thoughts clearly wandering through memories or hopes that stretched far beyond the garden’s bounds.

For a moment, you simply gazed at him—his profile bathed in the soft, silvery light of the moon, his expression one of quiet determination. In that moment, the weight of his words settled upon your heart—not because they had been uttered, but because you had seen them reflected in his every glance, felt them in the tender way he regarded you. Despite all that had transpired, despite the convictions he once held so firmly, he had chosen you.

A soft smile touched your lips. “I know it now,” you replied, your voice warm yet tinged with gentle reproach. “Had you said this to me five days past…” You paused, your tone turning playful, “I would have had to stifle the urge to laugh.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle escaped Daniel as he lowered his head, a hint of boyish chagrin flickering across his features. “And I fear I could hardly blame you for it.”

Your gaze followed his, drifting into the distance as the memories of all that had led you to this moment—both joyous and tumultuous—flooded your mind. The journey had not been easy, but it was one that had shaped the bond you now shared.

“Yet somehow,” you mused softly, shaking your head in wonder, “it feels as though it was those very trials that drew us together with such swiftness.”

Daniel turned his face to you, his lips curving into a grin that mirrored your own sentiment. “On that, my love, we are in full agreement.”

The two of you paused, held in the stillness of the night, the intensity of his gaze suggesting that he had more yet to say.

Your name escaped his lips, whispered with such sweetness and urgency that your breath caught. “I lo—”

But before he could complete the thought, the sound of someone stumbling through the nearby shrubbery shattered the moment. A guest from the ball, evidently the worse for drink, had made his way into the garden, colliding clumsily with the foliage before attempting, with great effort, to right himself.

Upon seeing the two of you, his drunken stupor seemed to ebb, if only momentarily. “Your—your Graces,” he stammered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his flushed brow, his clothing disheveled from the evening’s excess. “A thousand pardons—I did not mean—”

“Nonsense,” Daniel interjected, his voice clipped yet polite, a Duke’s well-honed composure firmly in place. “We are pleased to see our guests enjoying the evening.”

The man, still flustered, nodded awkwardly before continuing his uncertain journey, disappearing into the shadows of the garden.

Once the interloper was well and truly gone, Daniel turned back to you, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. “It seems we ought to return to the festivities. Our absence will surely be noted.”

You felt a pang of disappointment, the weight of his unfinished words lingering between you. How you longed to hear them, to echo them back with all the fervor that filled your heart. Yet perhaps the moment was not yet ripe. What had passed between you—unspoken though it remained—was enough for now.

With a soft sigh, you nodded, offering him your hand as the two of you prepared to return to the ball. For the present, the promise of those words, and all that they signified, would sustain you.

It was late in the evening when the festivities at last came to a close. Your mother, Archibald, and Delilah lingered longer than you might have wished, though you knew their absence would be felt keenly when they departed. Still, with the promise of a family breakfast upon the morrow, they finally took their leave, allowing you and your husband to retire.

Daniel, accompanied by his attendants, withdrew to his chambers to be undressed, while Roslyn and your maids guided you to your own room, there to relieve you of the intricate finery you had donned for the evening.

Once you had been freed of your gown and the delicate rouge wiped from your face, you slipped into a silk nightgown, the fabric whispering against your skin. Seated at your vanity, you allowed Roslyn to begin the task of undoing your carefully arranged hair.

The room was bathed in quietude, the warmth of the evening’s joy lingering in the air. A soft smile played at your lips as you reflected on the love that had blossomed so unexpectedly in your life.

“You were simply majestic this evening,” Roslyn remarked as she gently withdrew a pin from your hair. “You glowed with such radiance, truly a vision to behold.”

A faint blush tinged your cheeks as you removed a pin yourself, one that had been overlooked near the front. “I daresay we have the Duke to thank for that,” you murmured, unable to suppress the warmth in your voice.

As though summoned by your words, a gentle knock echoed through the room—three soft raps. Instantly, a tremor of excitement coursed through you, knowing without doubt who it was.

“Come in,” you called, your voice steadier than you felt.

The door creaked open, and Daniel entered, closing it softly behind him so as not to disturb the peacefulness of the room. Stripped of his formal regalia, he now appeared in the comfortable guise of your husband, his damp curls falling about his shoulders. The linen of his nightshirt clung to him, tracing the outline of his form in a way that sent a flutter through your chest.

Roslyn smirked knowingly as she observed the way your eyes lingered upon him. Having cared for him since his infancy, she found little cause to be affected by his appearance, no matter how fine.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord?” you teased, as he moved toward you with that effortless grace you had come to adore.

“I merely came to see if you were soon to join me in bed,” he replied, his tone so casual, as though the chamber he occupied no longer belonged to only him, but to both of you—his words a subtle reminder that you were now his, as he was yours.

Seeing that the Duke’s presence had rendered you momentarily speechless, Roslyn quickened her pace, deftly unpinning the last of your hair and allowing your curls to spill over your shoulders.

“I shall have her ready for you presently, Your Grace,” she said, smirking again, though this time her words held a touch of amusement. “And then she is all yours.”

Daniel’s reflection in the vanity mirror caught your gaze, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he crossed the room to the balcony, where he leaned against the railing, awaiting the moment his bride would be delivered to him.

With a few final strokes of her fingers through your hair, Roslyn finished her work. She curtsied hastily and made her exit, offering you both a quiet “Good night” before closing the door behind her.

Once the room had fallen into stillness, Daniel stepped forward once more, his eyes tracing your form with quiet admiration before he extended a hand towards you.

“Shall we?” he asked, his voice soft, yet filled with that familiar warmth.

The words stirred a memory—your first night together, when he had spoken those very same words, though then they had been uttered with far less grace. How much had changed since that time, and how grateful you were for the journey that had brought you here.

With a smile, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you from the room. Before departing, he paused only to snuff out the few candles that remained alight, the gesture a silent assurance that you would not be returning this night.

The corridors were hushed, save for the distant murmur of servants still toiling below, tending to the remnants of the evening’s festivities. You made a mental note to see that they were afforded ample rest in the coming days, for their labors had been great, and their efforts well worthy of reward.

No sooner than you entered Daniel’s chambers were his lips on yours. It’d be foolish to waste any time, for you both know what it was you had been anticipating. You kissed him back passionately, allowing him to hoist you off of the ground as you wrapped your legs around him.

He made his way with you over to the bed, never daring to part his lips from yours as he did so. After laying you down gingerly, his mouth began to explore all of your exposed skin, from your collar bones to the peak of your shoulders, up the side of your neck until his mouth was hovering by your ear.

You let out a soft whimper as his hands began shoving your gown up around your waist.

“Don’t worry, angel, I’m not going to make you wait much longer.”

Glad for the reassurance, you nodded and took his face in your hands and kissed him again eagerly, allowing him to lift you momentarily to remove your undergarments before lowering you again. He made quick work of his pants, and once removed, his hands found a grip on your legs, pulling you to the end of the mattress. A satisfied, love-laced grin spread across his face at the way your eyes pleaded up at him, your arms snaking their way around his shoulders and pulling him towards you until your foreheads were touching.

In that moment, as you lay beneath him, the urge to speak those elusive words—words that had danced upon the edge of your lips for the past few days—welled up within you. The depth of his gaze, warm and unwavering, spoke volumes of the affection he held, and the way his eyes softened with each passing second made it seem as though he sought to immortalize this instant in the very fabric of his memory. You felt the weight of his adoration, so pure and unguarded, and it stirred something profound within you, a yearning to give voice to the feelings that had thus far been left unspoken. Yet still, you hesitated, as if afraid that once uttered, the moment might lose its delicate perfection.

And yet, it was clear to you how ardently he, too, longed to utter those very words. There had been a fleeting moment in the garden earlier—an instant when the confession seemed poised upon his lips, only for it to slip away, as though fate itself had intervened, whispering that the time was not yet ripe. Though the sentiment burned within him, aching to be voiced, there remained a sense of restraint, as if some unseen force held him back, suggesting that even now, the moment was not destined for such declarations. Those words deserved a moment far more innocent, because the things he was thinking about doing to you then were anything but.

After staying frozen like that for what felt like an eternity, Daniel finally slid into in one fluid motion, capturing your moan into another kiss. When words failed you both, your bodies did the confessing for you.

And confess they did, time and again, until the pale light of dawn crept through the curtains, casting its gentle glow upon the love you had so tenderly nurtured in this newfound world of your own.

Taglist: @jakekiszkashangnail08 @josh-iamyour-mama @freyjalw @gvfsstardust @peaceloveunitygvf @positivegvfthings @traffic-was-a-b1tch @heheheheheheheurmum @musicislove3389

[mimiruku]

Pssst, sleepover at Takesushi tonight. If the boys could have one, the trio can too 🪴🌺🌸 What is Miruku planning for the occasion?

Hello, June. Thank you for asking such cute things. I've been thinking about this since the day you sent it! So precious ! I enjoy them being a trio . . . & doing trio things . . . today sleepovers! tomorrow, destroying the world! THIS IS STUPID LONG.

╰┈┈➤     Miruku's sleepover plans & everything in between. Puzzlement lay beneath a receptive smile, his expression bright and appreciative ;   ❝ I'm invited too. ❞  The inquiry does not come clear, spoken like a fact and Miruku makes no attempt to correct himself. He should have asked, ' Why am I invited? ' ( later, he'll conclude - an assumption, that it was because Rio is polite, that it wont be too nice to leave him out since Momina likes him so much - She was being a good friend to Momina. How nice! How sweet! )

He only brings himself, his courtesy defeated through over-analyzing the possibility of allergies and preferences . . . but somewhere in between their long conversations and playing, he'd have confessed of this failed attempt. ❝ I wanted to bring something too, but I was afraid I'm gonna kill the whole Yamamoto lineage. ❞

Sleeping will not come easy, there is an unnamed discomfort in sharing a bed - sharing a room ⸻ sharing. He does not blame anyone for this pang of unease, instead he busies himself staring at their sleeping faces ; there is solace in that, that they'd trust him to be that close to him. ( He'll take pictures of them like this, unflattering grainy pictures you can barely see and understand, it matters to him, this is an occasion he'd like to remember. Likely, he's the one that has most pictures of them during their little sleepover. )

If Rio were to wake up, Miruku would take the chance to thank her ; for being tolerant as she was, for being genial. All in whispering, private acknowledgement.  ❝ I like you a lot, Rio. ❞  It does not matter if she feels the same way, her goodwill is enough.

In the morning, ( he likely hadn't slept at all. ) He'd have seek out Tsunyoshi, apologize for the noise and for everything halfway in their overly zealous gaming ( and to think Miruku doesn't even like video games! ), but mostly thank him for his hospitability too.

Momina will get a LONG message from Miruku later after they've come home about how great Rio is. They often talk about Rio like that in private.

Days after the sleepover, Momina and Rio will receive printed out pictures of the night, he did not take the liberty in choosing, there are some horrific looking pictures in them,

Miruku replies to the letter Rio gave him, Miruku also returned the cookie favor at some point.

[dandylion240]

“We’ll be in touch,” the younger officer said, taking a step back eager to get away.

“That was a waste of time,” Connor mumbled as the officers walked away presumably to continue their inquiries. 

“We don’t need them,” Caleb said in a commanding tone. 

Watching his husband in puzzlement Sage asked “what are you thinking?”

“Mathias lives here on the island,” Connor said, nodding on the same wave link as Caleb.

“I’m sure he’ll help us,” Caleb said with certainty. They had their childhood bond of friendship despite Karissa’s attempts to destroy it.

[staring-at-my-keyboard]

A Serendipitous Encounter pt 3

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

part 1 . part 2

OC intros

POV: Thomas

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

TWs:

⇾ none!

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

“Are you alright, my dear?” Thomas inquired, taking Atlas’ other hand and gazing into his eyes. The person frowned in puzzlement. 

“Why would I not be? Is concern the reason you stole me away from my sudden throngs of admirers?” There was an undercurrent of amusement in his speech, but the relief was unmistakable. The person continuously shot poorly-concealed glances at the pair’s held hands.

“You simply seemed unmoored, is all. Lost within the tumultuous sea that is the culture of soirées. I myself have been to a great many and have never seen your face, and your rather unorthodox approach to conversation at dinner does little to suggest this environment is one of familiarity.” While unable to entirely depart from his typical lightheartedness, Thomas spoke with a sincerity rare of him. He could scarcely imagine conferring with Atlas under the guise with which he comported himself before the general body of Fallen London’s upper society. He kept his voice gentle, low, having such a want to put the academic at ease that he even surprised himself.

What was this?

“Alas, I must admit when I am had.” Unaware of Thomas’ inner turmoil, Atlas gave him a wry grin. The man was fairly certain a part of himself melted, then. “Truthfully, I am rather poor with the subtleties of false polite conversation. It impresses me how able these people are regarding the déguisement of vulgar gossip with decorous words and roundabout language. Not only that, but they ask so many questions, too many questions, yet somehow simultaneously state more assumptions than I know what to do with. I confess, I felt rather.. overwhelmed.”

Thomas nodded in understanding. “I assumed as much. We can remain here as long as you wish, enough people witnessed us that we are unlikely to be disturbed.”

“Yes, about that, I must ask— who are you? So many were envious of my garnering the admiration of the ‘Acclaimed Beauty,’ and you seem to be even more popular than the very host.”

Thomas smiled. While it was not uncommon to receive inquiries regarding his identity, it was also not very often he was confronted with a naked “who are you”. How singular! 

“I have found myself upon the receiving end of the unfortunate combination of an affluent lineage, and a distinctly handsome countenance,” he explained. “Having been raised in environments such as this, learned charisma has done me no small amount of fortune as well.”

Atlas cocked his head to the side and oh, how the firelight danced in his inquisitive eyes. “Is it not considered vain to refer to oneself as handsome?”

Thomas could not help but be slightly taken aback. There was no accusation in the words, nor insult or distaste. It was simply an unintentionally sharp question, asked in order to further understand.

Where had the Court found such an individual?

“It is not my own belief, I am simply relaying the insistences of those around me. In truth, I completely lack an opinion of how I look.”

Atlas inclined his head, before seeming to go distant for a moment.

“It must be difficult,” He said. “To have ever-present eyes on you, marking what you are. Especially amongst crowds such as this.”

Instantly, Thomas recognized his opportunity to further inquire— it was a rare thing, the warm desire to learn more about a person just for the sake of it, but the man found himself to be solidly within its throes. He leaned in— closer, but not too much so.

“Your voice suggests something more than a simple outsider’s perspective.” He intoned dulcetly.

Atlas merely chuckled, seeming to physically shake off— or hide— a burden that was only noticed upon its sudden absence. “You’ve witnessed how I conduct myself before crowds such as these. I am ill-suited for perlustration.”

Thomas decided to accept the redirection, reminding himself that despite whatever flights of fancy seized his heart, he and Atlas had just become acquainted that very evening. He still wanted to discuss with the dashing character, still wanted to lull them into comfort and ease those angular shoulders, and therefore decided to make use of the introduction over dinner.

“They say sharp minds are wont to defer from the conventions of society, for they have more important considerations to occupy them. I recall you are an academic? What is your area of study?”

Atlas immediately brightened. “Well, I’ve found myself swept up in the world of archaeology as of late, and as a result of my expeditions into the Forgotten Quarter I’ve come across the Correspondence.”

For the following hours, the Acclaimed Beauty would be missing from the Grand Hall, as would be the mysterious academic who made such an impression before dinner. Some would be disheartened by lacking the chance to discuss with them, many more would be disappointed by never getting the chance to woo the Acclaimed Beauty into a dance. Those within the parlor saw no reason to interfere with the blooming of something unmistakable.

Upon their emergence from the smaller room, Atlas and Thomas found that a large number of the guests had made their departures— those that remained either knew the host personally, or had indulged in so much wine as to render them unable to tell the time. 

“I really should be going.” Atlas said, voice saturated with apology.

“Nonsense,” Thomas argued. “I am on fond terms with the host, there is no reason we cannot stay. You are a fascinating figure, and to deprive anyone of your words would be a tragedy.”

Atlas shook their head, looking away slightly. “You are beyond kind, and a lovely conversation partner. But I have my studies to attend to. I am also unaccustomed to confabulation at length, and I fear I may grow dull.”

“Never.”

“Nonetheless,” The academic grinned bashfully. “I do have several lectures tomorrow, and as you now know they require substantial preparation.”

“Oh, of course.” Thomas could not quite banish the disappointment in his tone. “At least allow me to pay your cab fare, we are both aware of what they charge at this hour.”

“No, no, I could not allow-“

“I insist.”

“..Alright.”

[3/3]

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

[ask-de-writer]

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to CLASSICAL FANTASIES

THE FISHERMAN'S LEG (Part 15 of 20)

A sequel to Dee 1/2 Demon

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

16914 words (work in progress)

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

New to the story? Read from the beginning HERE.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Minami, Ichuru's body in his arms, began to stride determinedly along the street toward the Shop of Repairs. Tanira was about to try stopping him but Magistrate Lim prevented her with a silent raised hand.

Brow knitted in puzzlement she backed away. Bobbing his head in a bow while walking, he whispered to her, “He is greatly distraught. Folk who are so upset often reveal more than they intend. He has already let me have one thing that he has never let out before this.”

Minara overheard and quietly took Takahara aside to explain.

Nodding thoughtfully, she followed along.

Minami stopped just outside the door of the Shop of Repairs and cried out, “Murderers! You must restore life to my son! You have to undo your evil act!”

Dee looked up from her anvil where she was working on a set of kitchen knives. Her clear inner eyelids slid up over her golden, snake like eyes. She simply shook her head, her usually slowly undulating flame orange hair slowed.

“That is something that no mortal being can do, Minami,” she hesitated before adding, “san. He has been drowned and dead for hours. Only necromancy could bring him back and that is unlawful Sorcery.”

“So is murder! That gives you no trouble at all, does it Monster? I have seen you and your six evil witches do it with my own eyes!”

Patsu made a comic stare about the Shop, shading her eyes with a hand. “We seem to be a bit short of evil witches here. Mind explaining where the others are?”

Satsuna set aside the leather wet weather boot that she was repairing to step up close and take a look at Ichuru's body. Her face pinched in puzzlement, she asked, “Why was he not wearing his floats? When he fell in while playing the straps made marks in his clothes that would last until they were dried out. There are no strap marks on these clothes.”

Minami gave no bow at all as he snapped, “He needed no floats! All that he had to do was stay in the boat to be safe! Your evil magics toppled him into the sea to drown!”

Miko had put aside the calligraphy that she had been working on and stepped close, shaking her head. “Minami san, that makes no sense at all. Even if it were true, which it is not, you had what? Four or five men besides yourself in the boat, of whom at least four could swim. Even without his floats, any of you could have easily extended a pole, like a boat hook for him to grasp. Failing that, a swimmer could have gone in and pulled him out.

“Why would you ignore him at all? When any child is in any boat, you must pay attention to them. It is a basic safety precaution.”

Before Minami could retort, Magistrat Lim intervened. Bowing politely, he stated firmly, “This has gone far enough. My good Constables, Canra san and Horichi san will take Ichuru to the Temple of Two Trees to be prepared for cremation.

“You, Minami san, and you young ladies of the Shop of Repairs must all come with me to the Tribunal. There we shall hold a proper Inquiry into this distressing situation that has resulted in the death of Ichuru san.”

The whole lot trooped up Sabo's tidy streets to the Tribunal. After all had taken their places, kneeling before the Magistrate, he laid his sword across the black lacquered table that he knelt behind.

He signaled with his hand, saying, “Miko san, I wish you to keep the record of this Inquiry.”

She took her place, taking from a drawer in her table the inkstone, brushes, Tribunal Chop and paper needed for the record.

Dipping her brush in a small cup of water, she wiped it on the inkstone and sat ready. “What shall I write?”

The Magistrate replied, “Seal the upper right corner of each page and title it INQUIRY INTO THE DEATH BY DROWNING OF ICHURU SAN, aged ten years.”

He composed himself carefully and went on, “These are known facts. More may be found later but we must begin with what is known and proved. First, Minami san, sentenced to a moon at labor on the Roads of this Province, escaped after only two weeks of his sentence. Second, Minami san engaged crewmen who were used in the theft of the boat Sea Lion.”

Minami started to object but remembered in time to raise a finger and bow. “The Sea Lion is my boat! I cannot steal what is mine!”

Magistrate Lim quietly raised his hand. “You owe a great deal of money to your crew. They took out the Lein on it. The Tribunal holds the ownership and the crew has full rights as owners until the whole of the Lein is paid. Only then will you own the Sea Lion again. The taking of it without the permission of her proper crew is theft.”

Exasperated, he inquired of Miko, “Did you get all of that?”

She bowed politely and replied, “Every word and who said it.”

“Good. Thirdly, Minami san abducted Icchuru san from his home and the custody of his mother.”

He interrupted himself to explain, “The Order of Protection served to you, forbids approach to the house, Fish Market or the persons of Tanira san and Ichuru san. The violation of that order makes taking him an abduction.”

The Magistrate took an exasperated breath and added, “Fourth, entering the Fish Market and taking Ichuru's floats and his toy boat. It is known that he would not enter a boat without wearing the floats.

“Fifth, you took the Sea Lion to the fishing grounds.

“Sixth, his floats were found neatly folded and dry when you returned. His clothes showed no sign of the float straps and were deeply soaked. Two of the men with you were also soaked.

“Seventh, and last for now, you accused Dee san and her friends of murdering him.

“His body was sent to the Temple of Two Trees to be examined for any sign of witchcraft or Sorcery before being prepared for cremation. High Priest Nandi san will do that and we shall have his report in person soon.”

To be Continued

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[auburniivenus]

❝ why do you like me so damn much? ❞ - jinx

Auburn   curly   locks   find   repose   upon   the   gentle   cradle   of   another's   lap,   her   caramel   gaze   leisurely   traversing   the   pages   of   a   gorgeous   magazine.   An   unspoken   serenity,   a   tableau   of   quietude   only   disturbed   by   Jinx's   voice,   weaving   through   the   stillness,   a   tender   caress   upon   her   ear.   With   an   involuntary   motion,   she   lowers   her   reading   material,   countenance   etched   with   puzzlement   and   wonder.   Indeed,   she   hadn’t   anticipated   such   an   inquiry,   yet   she   recognizes   in   Jinx   a   propensity   for   bluntness—a   directness   that   is   both   disarming   and   endearing.   Is   there   truly   a   necessity   for   a   rationale   to   underpin   her   affections?

"W-Well."   She   begins,   her   timbre   a   tentative   murmur,   as   if   the   words   she   seeks   are   delicate   butterflies,   elusive   in   their   grace.   "I   suppose   I   could   delineate   a   myriad   of   reasons,   yet   perhaps   my   fondness   for   you   stems   from   the   stark   contrast   you   present   to   my   own   essence.   You   embody   tenacity   and   resolution,   seemingly   impervious   to   the   tempests   of   life.   Furthermore…"   Continues,   her   voice   now   infused   with   a   hint   of   mirth.   "You   evoke   in   me   thoughts   of   cotton   candy   and   bubble   gum   ice   cream."   A   giggle   escapes   her.   Indeed,   Jinx's   hair,   with   its   whimsical   hue,   perpetually   conjures   images   of   confectionery   delights   in   her   mind.

@ismelodrama

[sothisislovex]

"My dream?"

With a thoughtful expression, Prince Henry repeated his wife's inquiry while walking down the halls adorned with paintings portraying their precious marriage. It's been a year since the mysterious, beautiful maiden wandered cluelessly inside the castle. He knew the moment he saw her, even more so when their hands touched for the first time.

His thumb gently brushes against Cinderella's hand, their fingers still intertwined. In contrary belief, Cinderella's hands were not as soft as they appear. Calloused from years' worth of endless labor from her wicked stepmother and stepsisters. Yet Henry couldn't help but find them so beautiful: the hands of the woman he fell in love with because those hands, despite their history, continued to give and were kind to the touch.

Henry sighed, feigning perplexity with how he sighed in a rather dramatic fashion, followed by shaking his head, "Hmm, that's pretty difficult to answer when it's already come true, but-"

He leans in for a kiss, heart fluttering upon contact. When he pulls away, his eyes gleam with such adoration and tenderness as he whispers to his wife lovingly, "-that's why I'm excited to find the next one with you by my side."

“Yes. What’s your dream, Henry?” Cinderella asked, blue eyes settling upon the face of the man she fell in love with. “Everyone has a dream, after all.” She wanted to know what Henry’s was. Perhaps it was a dream she could help fulfill. 

Together, their fingers interlocked as her attention turned to the rows and rows of finely detailed paintings lining the hall, all corresponding to past events. Their wedding day, a moment they shared together on the dance floor, or another time they were found galavanting through the flower gardens. All these paintings were meant to hold memories, ones that would be forever cherished long after they were gone. Someday, their children would admire the same view and know their parents loved each other wholeheartedly.

His thumb brushing over her hand brought her attention back to him and she smiled when she was met with an expression of undisguised puzzlement, dramatic in his confusion until he seemed to finally settle upon an answer that surprised Cinderella. A dream that had already come true? She was curious to know what that was, though a kiss was something she couldn’t resist leaning into when it was offered, her questions snatched by his lips.

She never thought she could find a love as pure and wonderful as Henry’s. It was everything she could have asked for and more. It didn’t matter that he was a prince or came from royalty. That first night they met, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been a humble cobbler. She would have accepted him, just as he accepted that she had been nothing more than an abused laundry maid…

Opening her eyes, she met his adoring gaze with a melting look of her own, still fawning over the charming man who’d snatched her heart so long ago. It was at that moment that she realized his dream... Had been her. 

“Oh.” She couldn’t resist the swelling in her heart, the promise that their next dream would be something they shared together. It was all she could have ever wanted; a new dream shared with the one she loved. 

She squeezed his hand in acknowledgement, a silent agreement that she wanted the same thing. Without hesitation, she leaned in for another kiss, her lips brushed against his as her long lashes fluttered shut once more. Oh, how she loved him, so.

“I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

[ryusxnka]

“Hey, Toshiro,” Opacho gives the captain’s robes two firm tugs to get his attention. She stares up at him with a curious glint in wide brown eyes, an extremely important question leaves the child’s lips. “Do you poop?”

       I ndulging a child's impromptu inquisitiveness was never an existing fraction, a substantially fundamental point in accordance with the adolescent's present, of his habitually industrious day; he'd perpetually devise and orchestrate an integrality of miscellaneous duties chiefly affixed to his bureau, his barracks, and furthermore any and all necessitated errands 'neath his mentally-constructed agenda every daybreak to fulfill 'fore the wake of twilight. - And yet he still happens to continuously find himself interweaving amongst the threads of this one's exhaustible presence, unintentionally so, for they were comparable to a leech yearning for companionship ---- no matter its intrusive, insufferable, nature. This particular instant, flank to flank they were currently positioned with one another, was no dissimilar. She utters his name and forthwith tugs at his captain's swaying Haori, a desperate endeavor to garner the attention he had fixated towards the horizon ----- and she expeditiously acquired it once an inquiry, a perturbing selection in subject matter, unhesitantly  absconded 'tween her partitioned lips. " ... UH!? " Eyes, augmented in dimension, exhibiting his burgeoning puzzlement, descended earthward to fleetingly align with her brace of coruscant browns, overlaid by innocence seldom beheld, 'fore reverting afresh ahead. " S-Stop talking and focus on the task at hand, Opacho! " he awkwardly chides, junctioning his appendages.

[2022animalfarmg2]

HOOFMADE

Fernanda Neves & Sofia Briso

Synopsis: 

Through the first chapters of Animal Farm, the figure of Mollie was used by Orwell to represent the Russian bourgeoisie, who we know lacked revolutionary appetite and therefore, did not care for the morals that were being preached. What if after running away Mollie were to create her own ribbon company, maintaining her luxurious and capitalist lifestyle? And as she did not apply to the cause of the revolution and its principles, would she operate her industry with animal farm’s slave labor force? 

In the very beginning of the revolution, Mollie already starts having some negative thoughts about it. Her firsts inquiries to Snowball were “Will there still be sugar after the Rebellion?” and “shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?” The answers made her uncomfortable, she knew she couldn't lose those things. After she realized she would have to give up her ribbons and sugar for the cause, Mollie doesn't see any reason to gather within animalism or continue working hard towards someone else’s interests. The doubt arises as to whether this so-called animalism should concern her.

As Mollie strolled back to her stall, she couldn’t help but to think: “I wasn’t born to stay here. Applying to Animalism is not going to get me anywhere”. She felt in her deep inside a desire to do something bigger with her life. To create something, make change, change the world.

The visionary ideal had been running through her mind ceaselessly, and she thought about it during several sleepless nights. Midst one of these episodes, Mollie found herself in a very agitated mood. One moment, she decided to get up and light a candle, hoping that it could quiet her mind. As she got up, Mollie glanced at her ribbons which she kept hidden from Snowball under her straw. And that was it. 

Something was telling her to follow her heart and do what she most loved in the entire world. And that was to make herself feel and look beautiful, and her instincts told her that her vocation was to share that feeling with others, so that the world could also be prettier and happier. She would make ribbons, to every living creature, human or animal, around the globe. Every product would be made by animals, hoofmade, with love. 

A million things started to come up on her mind, business plans, ribbon designs, potencial projects and many more ideas. She decided to head outside, to her usual hangout spot, and by hanging out, she meant heading to the drinking pool, where she would stand foolishly gazing at her own reflection in the water. There she would have the peace to process everything that she had just experienced. 

Thinking whilst looking into her reflection, Mollie heard a strange noise. The noise came from the bushes located on the other side of the hedge, inside Foxwood’s territory.

Mollie approached the bushes next to the hedge, and she saw a man, one of Mr. Pilkington’s helpers. He was really tall, bulky and watched her piercingly. Mollie felt a mix of embarrassment and puzzlement. 

“What are you doing here?” she unintentionally, almost automatically asked. The young man responded “I was working late on the maize and decided to come and rest before the sun rises, then I saw you. Shall I ask you the same question, miss?” “Mollie, not miss” added Mollie with a condescending tone, and the man replied “Alright Mollie, I’m Joseph Smith, nice meeting you.” “It is nice meeting me right? Wish I could say the same about you.” She replied. “So, what are you doing down here this late, planning to run away? Sneak out?” Asked Joseph, “Something like that Joseph, something like that…” “You can call me Joe, you know…” 

The conversation went on until the Sun started to rise and each of them returned to their normal daily activities. Mollie and Joe decided to meet again the next night to talk, and soon they hung out together every night and became such good friends that Mollie even told him about her hopes and dreams for the future, and about how she couldn’t endure animalism and the revolution anymore. One of those nights, the two of them decided that they were going to start seeing each other also during the day. 

When the next day came, Mollie left work to hangout with Joe and when she got there, he had this amazing plan for her business. He would help her with the cotton production for the textile department of her business, and his family, that was interested in industrializing their business, would help with the manual work, producing the ribbons. Joe had already talked to his family about their potential partnership with Mollie and they were totally on board with the association. To seal the deal, Joe reached his hand out for a hand-shake, but then they laughed due to Mollie’s inability to perform it. Instead, the young man stroked her nose.

Little did she know that, a few hours later, this joyful moment would cause her such stress. As Mollie strolled blithely into the yard, flirting her long tail and chewing at a stalk of hay, Clover took her aside. “Mollie,” she started, “I have to talk to you about a severe matter. This morning I saw next to the hedge that divides Animal Farm from Foxwood. One of Mr. Pilkington’s men was standing on the other side of it. I’m pretty sure I saw you two talking, and you allowed him to stroke your nose. What does that mean, Mollie?”

She opened her mouth to start explaining, but managed to control herself. As much as she trusted Clover, she couldn't risk all her plans going down the drain, and decided that it was better to keep it a secret. All she could do was keep denying the insistence. But it started to get so difficult that she could not look Clover in the face anymore, and the next moment she took to her heels and galloped away into the field.

A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she went to Mollie’s stall and turned over the straw with her hoof. Hidden under the straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several bunches of ribbons of different colors. That moment, Clover realized that Mollie didn’t give a shit about the rebellion.

A couple of days later, Mollie woke up determined to get out of there, she couldn’t stand anymore her meaningless and vapid routine. Mollie waited until dawn, so that the pigs and the other animals would be asleep, including the dogs. She had chosen the right moment to run away, her plan was foolproof and she felt really confident about it.

While she gathered her things, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of fear and apprehension, after all she was leaving the only home that she had ever known. However, Mollie was serious when things were about achieving success and would do whatever it took to get where she wanted.

She rapidly made her way to the gate, and when she finally reached it, Mollie saw a horizon of possibilities for her new life, she felt free, as if nothing could stop her. And then left without looking back for a second. 

Mollie followed Joe’s instructions and made her way to the Elm Tree Farm, the family’s nearby farm, where he and his parents were waiting for her. A few weeks went by and Mollie had already settled into the farm and was almost considered part of the family; Mrs. Smith had even clipped her coat. Now was the time to put the plan to action and start building the factory. In order to do that, Mr. Smith acquainted her to meet with a fat red-faced man that was in charge of the factory’s construction. He gifted her sugar and sealed the deal with a stroke on the nose. When Mollie tilted her head downwards, she saw the pigeons observing her. Right after, she went to meet them straight away, asking for an exchange of favors. For a handful of sugar, they would spread a message to animals all over Willingdon saying that she was offering jobs, and by spring the ones who took it would start working.

A few months later the factory was ready to be ran at full steam, and dozens of animals that came from every corner of Willingdom arrived to commence the production. The animals were divided according to their skills: the ones familiar with the more advanced technologies took care of the industrial part, whereas the conservative ones stayed on the cotton fields that would be necessary for textile production.

The work was hard and tiring, but HOOFMADE was growing progressively, but it was not enough to please Mollie’s ambitious mindset. To achieve her target, more money would be required, and by that, the workers would have to sacrifice a fraction of their earnings, besides working longer hours. But it was all for a greater cause…

[writingratthings]

The Cheetah's Circular Path

In the heart of the African savannah, there dwelled a sleek and swift cheetah named Chester. With spots like ink blots upon his golden fur, he boasted of unmatched speed, capable of outrunning the swiftest gazelle.

Yet, despite his prowess, Chester possessed a peculiar habit—he ran in circles. Every morning, as the sun painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, Chester would set off on his morning sprint, only to trace the same path time and time again, never venturing beyond the perimeter of his circular route.

The other animals of the savannah watched with puzzlement as Chester dashed round and round, his agile limbs carrying him effortlessly across the grasslands. The gazelles would pause mid-leap, the zebras would halt mid-stride, and even the wise old elephant would raise his trunk in curiosity.

"Why does Chester run in circles?" they would wonder aloud, exchanging puzzled glances and shaking their heads in bewilderment.

One day, the wise old owl perched atop a baobab tree decided to unravel the mystery of Chester's circular sprints. With a flap of his wings, he soared down to the cheetah's side and posed the question that had puzzled the savannah's inhabitants for so long.

"Why do you run in circles, dear Chester?" asked the owl, his amber eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Chester paused mid-stride, panting lightly as he considered the owl's inquiry. With a sheepish grin, he confessed, "I run in circles because I'm afraid to venture beyond what I know. The world beyond my familiar path is vast and unknown, and it scares me."

The other animals listened intently, their gazes softening with understanding.

The wise old owl nodded sagely, his feathers ruffling in the breeze. "But Chester, my dear friend, it is precisely the unknown that holds the greatest adventures and discoveries. Embrace the uncertainty, and you may find wonders beyond your wildest dreams."

Moved by the owl's words, Chester decided to break free from the confines of his circular route. With a newfound sense of courage, he bounded forward, his paws carrying him beyond the boundaries of his familiar path.

As Chester explored the vast expanse of the savannah, he encountered sights and experiences he had never imagined—hidden watering holes teeming with life, towering acacia trees adorned with succulent fruits, and breathtaking vistas that stretched to the horizon.

From that day forth, Chester's sprints no longer followed a circular path. Instead, he roamed the savannah with boundless curiosity, his agile form a blur of motion against the backdrop of the African landscape.

And so, the fable of Chester the cheetah taught the animals of the savannah a valuable lesson—that true growth and discovery lie beyond the confines of our comfort zones, and it is only by embracing the unknown that we can truly unleash our full potential.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow across the grasslands, Chester continued his journey into the unknown, his spirit soaring with the promise of adventure that lay ahead.

And the animals of the savannah watched with admiration, knowing that Chester had found his true stride in the boundless expanse of the world beyond his familiar circles.

[bess3714]

He doesn't even bat (get it?) an eye at the purple teenage vigilante

[isaiahbie]

Why Study Philosophy?

As a Christian who teach and study philosophy, I sometimes encounter a layer of puzzlement from my believing brothers and sisters. In fact, it is not uncommon for Christians to be wary of philosophy because of the apostle Paul’s warning: “See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deception, according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary principles of the world, rather than according to Christ” (Colossians 2:8).

Some Christians have taken Paul’s exhortation as a reason to avoid the study of philosophy altogether. The church father Tertullian (AD 155-220) is famous for warning that philosophy will only lead to heresy. With Athens (home of Plato’s academy) representing Greek philosophy, and with Jerusalem (birthplace of the church) representing Christianity, Tertullian asks:

“What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord is there between the Academy and the church? What between heretics and Christians? . . . Away with all attempts to produce a mottled Christianity of Stoic, Platonic, and dialectic composition! We want no curious disputation after possessing Christ Jesus, no inquisition after enjoying the gospel!”¹

Though Tertullian’s attitude toward philosophy hasn’t been a majority view in church history, many modern Christians share his position—or at least his suspicion about the value of philosophy.

And yet, I hope to convince you that the study of philosophy can be a valuable resource both to individual Christians and to the church. I also hope to convince you that the gospel provides a unique way to go about studying philosophy—one that equips the believer to avoid potential dangers—and that this is consistent with Paul’s warning about philosophy.

But before I can say why, and how, Christians should study philosophy, it would help to clarify a bit more what philosophy is.

What Is Philosophy?

The word “philosophy” comes from the Greek “philosophia,” literally the “love of wisdom.” Present-day philosophers (typically college professors) spend their time pondering (and attempting to answer) fundamental questions about ourselves and our world—questions like:

What does it take for a belief to count as knowledge?

What is the nature of human persons?

Do we have free will? (And what is free will, anyway?)

Is morality objective?

Such questions are fundamental in the sense that they inquire about assumptions and concepts we use all the time implicitly, but rarely (if ever) consider outside of the classroom.

Since it’s possible to ask fundamental questions in any field of inquiry, it turns out philosophy is widely applicable, even inescapable. For any X, where X stands for a field of inquiry—whether it be science, religion, business, or art—there is a philosophy of X. We are always working with presuppositions that can be brought out for examination.

There’s considerable disagreement, of course, about the right answers to philosophical questions. You may even be tempted to think that there’s no way to tell what the right answers are, that perhaps the best we can do is simply form opinions. But this concedes too much too fast.

Fortunately, over the last two and a half millennia, philosophers have developed tools for clarifying fundamental questions and for introducing distinctions that can help us to make progress. And the philosopher’s primary tool is argumentation, the method of supporting a claim or position by reasoning from other claims. Using the tools of logic, then, we can assess arguments for and against answers to fundamental questions about ourselves and our world.

Goods of Philosophy

It is not surprising, then, that philosophy majors tend to be better critical thinkers, clearer analytical writers, and more creative problem-solvers compared to other majors. For these reasons, philosophy majors tend to score higher on standardized tests like the LSAT (typically required for applications to law school) and the GRE (for applications to graduate programs in other fields). Employers often seek them, and they make great entrepreneurs.²

All of the goods I’ve mentioned so far have been extrinsic (or instrumental) goods. These are reasons for studying philosophy that concern the effects or consequences of doing so. But studying philosophy is also intrinsically good, which is to say good in and of itself.

Augustine recognized the intrinsic good of philosophy when he argued that Christians can benefit from reading pagan philosophy. Reflecting on God’s promise to Moses in Exodus 3, that the Israelites would find favor with the Egyptians and plunder their goods as God saved them from Egypt, Augustine writes:

“If those, however, who are called philosophers, have said things which are indeed true and are well accommodated to our faith, they should not be feared, rather, what they have said should be taken from them as from unjust possessors and converted to our use. Just as the Egyptians had not only idols and grave burdens which the people of Israel detested and avoided, so also they had vases and ornaments of gold and silver and clothing which the Israelites took with them secretly when they fled, as if to put them to a better use. . . . In the same way, all the teachings of the pagans contain not only simulated and superstitious imaginings and grave burdens of unnecessary labor, which each one of us leaving the society of pagans under the leadership of Christ ought to abominate and avoid, but also liberal disciplines more suited to the uses of truth, and some of the most useful precepts concerning morals. Even some truths concerning the worship of one God are discovered among them.”³

When Augustine says pagan philosophy contains “liberal disciplines more suited to the uses of truth, and some of the most useful precepts concerning morals,” he’s claiming that the Christian will profit from sifting through the field of philosophy and adopting the good that can be found there. Augustine famously did this himself, incorporating aspects of Plato’s worldview into his own mature Christian view. Similarly, Thomas Aquinas wedded Aristotle’s system with his Christianity.

Not Only Good But Necessary

Not only is the study of philosophy good, however; it is also necessary for the Christian, and for at least three reasons.

First, everyone has “a philosophy” in the sense of having a worldview (or a set of presuppositions), even if unexamined. And whether consciously recognized or not, a person’s worldview affects how they live and interpret their experiences.

Second, C. S. Lewis observes in a sermon titled “On Learning in Wartime”: “Good philosophy must exist, if for no other reason, because bad philosophy must be answered.”⁴ In other words, it’s necessary for Christians to provide responses to alternative philosophical positions. This point is not original to Lewis, of course; the apostle Peter tells us to “always being ready to make a defense to everyone who asks you to give an account for the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15). Lewis is simply applying this verse to philosophy in particular.

Finally, and most importantly, we are commanded to love God not only with our heart, soul, and strength, but also with our mind (Mark 12:30). It’s tempting to think of Christian worship as primarily about having a certain emotional experience, or living by a certain set of moral rules. But God wants us to love Him with every part of our being, including our intellect. And the tools of philosophy are uniquely suited for such development. Moreover, Paul exhorts, “And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12:2).

Recognizing false worldviews and developing your own is the work of philosophy.

How Should Christians Approach Philosophy?

But doing philosophy is not without risk. Maybe you think that’s because Christian beliefs are sometimes publicly disparaged by well-known philosophers, as depicted in some faith-based movies. Even though some atheists do wield philosophy against Christians, the loudest voices don’t represent the whole.

The bigger risk for Christians, in my view, is when philosophy attracts us for the wrong reasons. (This may be true of theology as well). Some philosophy students enjoy winning arguments and see the skills philosophy provides as a means of proving themselves or building up their sense of self-worth. This is the warning of Colossians 2:8: “See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deception, according to the tradition of men, according to the elementary principles of the world, rather than according to Christ”

Because of sin, especially its “noetic” effects (on our thinking), we’re naturally inclined to use good things (e.g., the study of philosophy) for bad reasons (e.g., to see ourselves as intellectually superior).

What, then, is the Christian to do? I’ve argued that philosophy is both necessary and good for the Christian; but I’ve also warned it is risky, given our fallen state. Thanks for the help, you’re probably thinking. Yet another philosophical conundrum! (And if you’re Eleanor Shellstrop from The Good Place, you’ll exclaim, “This is why everyone hates moral philosophers!”)

But there is an answer, and it’s grace. The gospel says we are accepted by God not because of anything we do, but because of what He has done. As a Christian, my only comfort in life and in death is, as the catechism says, that “I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.” My value does not depend on my intellectual prowess, and God is not going to love me any less for not winning an argument with someone who rejects Christianity.

The gospel has many more implications for how we ought to study philosophy (and love God with our minds more generally). I will conclude by mentioning two. First, we have every reason to operate with epistemic humility—a right understanding of the limits of our own knowledge and an openness to others’ correction. After all, we know our own weaknesses and proclivities for error and, given the good news of the gospel, we can confidently admit our shortcomings without fear of an identity crisis. Finally, we are free to take risks. Since our value doesn’t depend on the success of our arguments or how well we defend a particular view, we can explore the fundamental questions philosophers ask, and speculate about potential answers, without a paralyzing fear of being wrong.

Notes:

¹ Tertullian, Prescription Against Heretics, Chapter 7. ² See this Google Site by the Christian philosopher Tomas Bogardus. ³ Augustine, On Christian Doctrine, 2.40.60. ⁴ C. S. Lewis, “On Learning in Wartime,” Autumn 1939.

[silver--linings]

Eight And Sand

[Crossposted on AO3]

Word Count: 2353

Characters: Ingo, Irida, Kamado, Zisu, Adaman, Mentions

Rating: Teen and Up (Swearing), Gen

Tags: Exile, Spoilers (for main story, not post game), Autism (not explicitly stated but heavily implied), Superstition (kinda), False Accusations (that whole arc), Autistic Ingo, Optimistic Ending, Kamado Negative (as always)

Warnings: Brief forced eye contact and touch (NOT SEXUAL)

Summary: Shortly after Arceus' Fated Child was expelled from the village in which they lived, another kindred soul entered the town. 

He did not remain long.

Shortly after the sky went red, Ingo had found himself at the Training Grounds.

He wasn’t quite sure what drew him here. Perhaps it was seeking familiarity, both in the atmosphere of a battling arena and in the presence of a friend. Perhaps it was the feeling of wrongness he felt when he had passed the townspeople, previously ignored in favor of his set destination. Or, perhaps he was simply drawn there, the comfort of routine and a sense of purpose putting the steam in his engine.

Truthfully, the red sky had him rattled. He’d never seen something like this before, and despite his limited frame of reference, he figured it was safe to say that he hadn’t before, either. Although, to be fair, it was likely no one had seen something like this before. The town certainly felt tense, even with Ingo being as dense towards social cues as he was, and a collective anxiety would explain such an abrasive air about the Village.

The steps up to the dojo were worn and familiar, the ground remaining unchanged even as its opposite twisted in kaleidoscopic patterns. His habit of keeping his eyes trained somewhat downward did not spare him from seeing the dark look flitting over Master Zisu’s face, as he had risen his gaze to focus on her hair, as was polite.

A spark of confusion flickered in his chest, the tension of the town finally registering in his consciousness. The strange looks he’d mostly ignored, the hostility crackling within the air, the oppressive silence that met his arrival… what had he missed, in his typical habit of going full speed ahead?

“Master Zisu!” Ingo greeted boisterously, deciding to keep his typical routine and greeting. In a way, it was a desperate grasp for normalcy, a not-so-silent plea to her for peace. He knew not what sort of peace he reached blindly for, but something was amiss. “Hello!”

“Warden Ingo.” Zisu looked at him directly, then, pinning him in place with her gaze. Her tone was cold, her voice firm. She had never been so… shut off, as long as he had known her (which, he supposed, wasn’t long. But for him, it had been a decent chunk of time). A smile had not graced her face even once, he realized, and the lines of tension in her brow had never faded,

After a long moment where Ingo waited for her to explain herself, or say anything, really, he spoke again, softer. “Zisu? What is going on?”

A bolt of rage flashed across her face, wiped away quickly enough that Ingo could almost convince himself he’d imagined it. There were other emotions there, as well – pain, disbelief… strong enough that he, in all of his socially inept glory, could pick up on it quickly. He felt the oppressive air sink lower onto his shoulders, deepening his slouch, if minutely. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here, Warden Ingo,” she finally said, her words carefully measured and clipped. None of her usual fiery passion fueled the words.

“What do you mean, Master Zisu?” His voice returned to its normal volume, and the departure from the quiet inquiry seemed to frustrate her even more. The confusion in his voice was impossible to hide, and he didn’t bother to.

“You–” Zisu began, the fire behind her words rekindling, but before she could continue, a distant shout from Kamado silenced her. They both turned, and the utter puzzlement Ingo felt only increased as he witnessed Kamado marching up the stairs like a soldier to war, followed closely by the Clan Leaders.

What the fuck was happening?

Irida looked… he supposed the best word was grim, but he couldn’t gather for the life of him why she’d look like she was approaching her terminal station. Adaman didn’t look much better, but he was easier to read, his emotions less suppressed than Lady Irida’s in the moment. Where she looked as if she were to face an alpha Steelix barehanded and knew she could not win, Adaman had a cold fury swimming in his eyes. It reminded him of someone, of bloody fists and a manic smile… as he sought to latch onto it, the memory danced away, as if taunting him. Even in such a dire situation, his memories played games.

Kamado, however, looked murderous. It was clear he was the source of Adaman’s fury when, with little prompting, the man’s fist was bunched in his coat – hands off hands off hands OFF – and lifting him to force him to look him in the eyes. His skin crawled. Kamado did not know of Ingo’s aversion to eye contact, but in that moment, he knew that the Commander wouldn’t care. “Warden Ingo of the Pearl Clan. Explain yourself.” He all but growled, poorly contained fury lapping at the edges of his tone.

“Commander Kamado!” Lady Irida shouted, and – his brain had a brief lay-by. Shouted? Lady Irida rarely raised her voice in the presence of Clan members. She’d told him that it made her seem younger than she was, petulant, and she couldn’t afford to have a lapse in maturity, not in her position. “Unhand him. Now.”

“So you side with the outsider, Lady Irida? The traitor?” Kamado did not unhand him, but his gaze had left Ingo’s eyes, and that was a small victory.

“Your claims are unfounded, Commander.” Her voice took on a scathing air, and it was becoming clearer with every passing moment that there was a lot of context absent on Ingo’s end in this exchange. “First the child, and now my Warden. Watch your step, Kamado.”

The air took on a dangerous aura, neither Kamado nor Irida willing to budge. He knew it probably wasn’t the best time, but Ingo felt completely, utterly uncoupled from this conversation. “I deeply apologize, Commander Kamado, Lady Irida. If I may… what, exactly, is this about?”

Kamado’s angry eyes returned to his, and Ingo regretted speaking up. “The sky is what this is about, Warden Ingo.” The reasoning for Kamado’s emphasis on ‘Warden’ escaped him. “What did you do?”

“What did I–”  Ingo, in his shock, allowed his voice to rise well beyond even his normal loud volume. “What did I do? As in, you think I caused something to happen to the sky?”

The Commander’s grip tightened in his already tattered collar, and Ingo had the faint thought of I hope he doesn’t tear it before his mind caught back up. “You and them,” the pronoun was hissed through gritted teeth, and Ingo assumed he was referring to the child, judging by how he was acting with him, “you dropped from the sky. Both of you. You may have been here for a couple of years yet, and them for some odd months, but you two are the variables.”

“The– the variables?” Ingo interjected, incredulous. The situation was dire, yes, but dire enough to drive the Commander mad? Truly, what was happening?

“Do not interrupt me, outsider.” At the silence that followed, he continued, “You came through the rifts. Amnesia is an awfully convenient excuse for a spy, would you not agree? You come through the rift first, gather information on our Clans and our Team, and bide your time for your companion. You gain our trust, pretend you don’t remember a thing beyond your name. You aggravate the nobles. Your companion quells them. An efficient setup.”

“Commander Kamado.” Irida’s hand came to Kamado’s wrist, the one holding Ingo’s collar. She squeezed, and Ingo knew she was much stronger than her appearance would suggest. Even so, Kamado only winced, returning his gaze to her. “I will not ask you again. You will remove your hands from my Warden now.”

Perhaps it was the cold steel in her voice and eyes, or perhaps simply wanting to avoid another incident, but Kamado loosened his hold enough for Ingo to step back a couple of paces. His foot tapped rapidly in an attempt to calm himself down, even if only a slight amount. Lady Irida remained next to him, arms crossed, allowing no room for argument.

Undeterred by the change in position, Kamado continued. “If not a spy, which I am not certain we can rule out, you most certainly are a catalyst. You are not innocent in this whole affair.”

Ingo opened his mouth to defend himself, but for once, he found his voice abandoning him. Was he some sort of spy? Surely he would know if he were a spy, no? Could he be some sort of… sleeper agent? Is that what they’re called? But he would know if he made the Nobles frenzied, he was sure! … Would he?

Kamado took his silence as damnation. “He dares not defend himself. Lady Irida, he is your Warden, but this is a matter of dire importance. On behalf of the Galaxy Team, I am offering my official advice that he should not be allowed to continue his duties. I ask of you: release him into our custody. We will keep him contained. He can’t hurt anyone with us.”

“No.” Lady Irida’s answer was swift and firm. Kamado frowned at her. “And I know you will threaten diplomatic standing with the Pearl Clan. But you will not be imprisoning one of my finest Wardens. This is non-negotiable.”

Kamado opened his mouth, and then shut it. He took a deep breath, and then two more for good measure. When he had composed himself, he opened his mouth once more. “I propose a compromise, then.” Irida gestured to continue. “Exile. Much like with the child.”

They were exiled? Ingo thought faintly, blinking slowly as the gravity of his words set in. Exile… that’s… better than imprisonment.

Irida looked as if she were to object, so Ingo stepped in. “My apologies for interrupting you, Lady Irida, but I believe the Commander has offered a reasonable compromise for the options at hand. I cannot allow my safety to come above those of my Clansmen. There will be no Trolley, here. I can accept exile.”

Before his Leader could interject, Kamado steamrolled her. “He agrees. The matter is settled.” Kamado took this moment to look at Ingo, mercifully allowing him to gaze at his (frankly ridiculous) mustache. “Warden Ingo. No, just Ingo.” Somewhere deep in his heart, Ingo felt a twinge of grief at the removal of his title. It felt like losing something twice, but he knew he’d only held this title once. “If we see you out there, if we think you culpable for this? You will be arrested. No question. Say your final goodbyes at the gate.”

It was like a blur, going from the Training Grounds with the disdainful stares of Kamado and Zisu to the gate, guarded by Ress, who looked… surprisingly sad, given the context. Adaman and Irida accompanied him, the former a surprise. It was possible he was there to support his fellow Leader, of course, but his clenched fists betrayed his distress over the situation. How odd.

“Ingo… I…” Irida started, her voice choked. Having known her as long as he had (as long as he could remember, more like), Ingo could tell she was blaming herself. It was a difficult situation on either side of the tracks, he knew. “I’m sorry, Ingo.”

“Lady Irida.” Ingo looked at his Clan Leader, really looked at her. She was disheveled, her eyes tinged red with unshed tears. Her shoulders had a resolute set to them, but they quivered ever so slightly, holding back what was likely an onslaught of emotion. A Clan Leader must be dignified in public, he knew. “I made this decision. It is no failing of your own, nor is it something that you would be able to control.” Although his voice was loud, it belied his sadness, his confusion… he had always been better at voicing his emotions. Irida seemed to understand him, though. For that much, he was grateful. Grateful for everything, really.

“You should… seek out Lady Sneasler.” Irida took a deep breath. “In the Coronet Highlands. Not many Galaxy Team members go there, and no matter what Kamado says, you are still her Warden. Only your Noble or your Leader can deem you unfit.”

“I cannot go to the Settlement.” It was hardly a question. Both of them knew that.

“...No.” Irida clenched her fists and unclenched them, releasing some of the stress. “But I will check on you, much like I’ll be checking on the child. I’ll bring some supplies. I know you can care for yourself, but they don’t hurt.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Ingo’s voice had a smile, the warmth and gratefulness he felt for his Leader shining strong even in the dire situation they found themselves in.

Adaman piped up from where he’d been observing, close enough to hear but far enough that they’d had relative privacy. “If you need anything, anything at all. I’ll kick Melli’s ass into shape and have him help you. As catty as he is, he likes you.”

That got a soft snort out of Ingo, and Adaman finally smiled. It wasn’t until that moment that Ingo realized that he looked strange without a smile or a pompous air.

Ingo liked him better smiling, he decided.

He turned back to Irida, sensing that this was the true farewell, at least for that moment. “Lady Irida. I know I will see you soon, but in the event of a derailment… thank you. For everything you’ve done. I cannot express how welcome you have made me feel, nor the gratitude I feel towards you. I know I have little frame of reference, but I can say that I have not had a better friend.”

Lady Irida truly had to hold back tears, then, he knew. She came forward and embraced him tightly, and Ingo found he did not mind it coming from her. He held her back just as fiercely. For a Clan that valued space, a breach of it was sacred. “I wish you… what was it? You’ve said it before. Eight and … and…”

“Eight and sand. Thank you, Lady Irida.”