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el-michoacano · 3 years

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I Saw the Dead, Small and Great

It’s finally posting day for the @tltbb and I couldn’t possibly be more excited! What a great time this has been! Shout out to the event hosts, and also to @queensabriel and @melli4uhbees, who have been the best artists a girl could ask for!

Summary: Once upon a time, many, many years ago, Harrowhark's great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, told her that their family was descended from that one wicked snake that haunted the Garden of Eden, that the family Nonigesimus were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales. She knows better now.

Trigger warnings: Suicidal thoughts, lots of talk of death.

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1 Is your soul prepared?

Harrow isn't sure how the sign got onto her property. It's been there for years and years, the nails rusting, the white paint chipping, the wood rotting beneath it. The sign is as tall as she is, and double as wide as she can stretch her arms. It's sinking into the mud, though, like everything else in this damned place, standing crooked enough that it might just topple over in a strong breeze.

Is your soul prepared?

The words were wrought in bright, angry red once, but they're an ugly brown now, the color of old blood. It's oddly fitting.

Hooligans, Harrow thinks, but she can't be sure. The sign is large, and its post is set deep into the soft earth. Would just any rowdy local boys be able to do such a thing? Would they have any inclination to pass on such a message? She'd been the target of their little pranks before, but such an effort from boys who hadn't the cleverness to not wet the front of their trousers when they took a piss? It seems unlikely. They’ve always been more the type to leave dead animals hanging on the gates. The sign is too civil.

It was the church that planted the sign, she's sure. The Ascension Parish Southern Baptist Church had been after her for years, all the way up until it had caught fire and burned to the ground in 1912. Fingers had pointed at her for that, too, and even now, she occasionally wakes to find God is watching or Repent now! or Open your heart to God! painted across the front gates.

Removing the paint gives her something to do, she supposes. Is it really so bad?

Is your soul prepared?

Harrow has considered removing the sign more times than she can count, but it's not as though any other living soul sees it. Why bother? It's not as if her family's sinking home is the only site of such signs. There are others like it scattered all over the bayou, ones of this seemingly standard size, smaller ones tacked to chain link fences, even huge billboards. God sees all, they proclaim. Jesus saves. Hell is real.

Of course Hell is real, Harrow thinks with a roll of her eyes. She lives there, after all.

Hell's End is the name of this area, a name given by her great-great-grandmother when the family had first arrived in the States all the way from New Zealand. It was to be the end of their long and dangerous journey west, the start of their Heaven on Earth. How wrong she had been. How wrong they had all been.

Harrow is one of the very few who dare to come near this part of the swamp now. The brackish waters part around her feet, and the heels of her elegant boots leave no prints in the mud. The gators go scurrying away at her approach, and high in the moss-draped trees, the cicadas fall silent.

The snakes, though, make no move to flee. They watch her with their bright, slitted eyes, and they bow as best as they can. She is one of them. She offered an apple to Gideon, and another to Alecto, apples of forbidden, carnal knowledge. She is the snake in the Garden of Eden given human form, and she is the mistress of this particular bayou.

Once upon a time, her great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, had told Harrow that their family was descended from that one wicked snake, that they were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales.

She knows better now.

This wickedness is in her blood. Her parents had tried to fight it, but Harrow has long since given in. There's no use in trying to deny who she is.

The wickedness is as much a part of who she is as the swamp is.

The Nonagesimus family have always been the masters of this bayou, back since the 1750s when the house and its great iron gate had sprung seemingly overnight from the mud. That was centuries ago. Harrow isn't sure of the year anymore, but she is certain that it's high summer now. The children should be catching fireflies and the old biddies should be sipping sweet tea on the porch while their husbands talk about the weather, but Harrow is the only Nonagesiumus left in all the world, and the sinking mansion sits quietly in its watery grave, waiting to claim her as it has all the others.

Her family is long gone.

Harrow, with her twisted magic and her unnatural tastes, is all that remains of her once-great, once-powerful family.

The irony of it is enough to choke her, to send her hundreds of dead relations a-spinning in their graves. Or spinning in their coffins, at least. There are no graves here.

Though the closest towns are lively and New Orleans isn't terribly far away, there is no music in Hell's End.

There was, once upon a time, a lovely harpsichord in the parlor, but Harrow used it as firewood ages ago. Her mother had been an accomplished player, and she had taught Harrow to play, too, but Harrow couldn't bear the sound. Even in dreams, it breaks her heart.

There was an old gramophone once, too, but it met a similar fate. One too many times, it had come alive in the night, likely by Pelleamena's hand, and Harrow had thrown it from the top gallery. She still steps on its splinters from time to time.

The closest thing Harrow can bear to a song now is Ortus's low humming, though she's not sure it's a hum at all. It's a purr, almost, like that of a cat, a soft, comforting sound. It's the sound of his aura, she thinks, gentler than ever in death.

On occasion, she joins in on the hum, letting it rattle its way up her throat and down through her chest. It's a tender, deep sound, and she worries sometimes that it will shake her apart if she lets it.

Sometimes she thinks she wouldn't mind shaking apart. She could sift her way down through the warped floorboards, down into the manor's sunken foundation and even lower, drifting down, down, down.

Maybe she'll sink all the way into Hell. Maybe Alecto will be waiting for her there, her dark, dark eyes full of longing and anger. Gideon won't be there, though, Harrow knows. Hell is the last place Gideon belongs.

Harrow, though, belongs there. A witch, a homosexual, a murderer. Where else would she belong?

The wicker chairs set out behind the house are sinking and rotten, but the ghosts don't favor the back, and so Harrow often finds herself sitting there in the low evening light. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low, a book resting open in her lap, though it's too dark to read it now.

The mosquitos are a choking cloud this time of year, buzzing thick in the air, carrying diseases on the wind. They have taken too many of Harrow's kind already. She swats at them with her lace-gloved hands, but they're never deterred. Stubborn things, she thinks. They're the only swamp creatures that don't seem to fear her.

It has to do with her blood, she's sure. There was wicked magic in her veins from the day she was born, and they can smell it, even now, long after she's been bled dry. Though they hover around her like a plague, there's nothing left in her for them to drink. She used it all up trying to bring back her parents, her family name, her old life, her dead lovers.

But they're all gone now, and her magic can't bring them back. Not in any way that matters.

Her parents are gone, interred in the grand white marble mausoleum out behind the house. It's sinking into the swamp, like everything else is, a few centimeters every year. The doors can barely be opened now. When Harrow dies, there will be no way for her to join them in the tomb. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe she doesn't deserve to be with them. They certainly wouldn't welcome her, not after all her disastrous attempts to bring them back.

She doesn't deserve to be with Gideon in death, either, though no one to this day seems to know exactly what became of her. For all Harrow knows, Gideon is in some gator's belly. Had been, anyway. No one has seen her in decades. No one is even looking anymore. Not even Aiglamene is looking anymore. Gideon was murdered, Harrow is certain, likely by the church itself. The worst things always happen to the best people.

And then there was Alecto. A predator, yes, but Harrow's predator. There isn't a day Harrow doesn't regret drowning her, but there was nothing else to be done about her. She was mad. She was inhuman. She was everything Gideon wasn't, and Harrow had taken comfort in that for a while. But Alecto had ripped poor, sweet Ortus limb from limb in a fit of rage, and her drowning was a far easier death than she had deserved.

Alecto sits on the fence at the edge of the property most days, her dark, empty eyes staring off into the distance.

On particularly gloomy days, Ortus joins her. Even dead, he can't bear to be alone. He's more a great mass of shadow than a true figure, weak even in death, but Harrow would know him anywhere. Her heart aches when she sees him. The sad, tremulous smile he gives her makes her want to die.

But after all she's been through, is there anything that doesn't make her want to die?

Is there anything in the great, wide world that makes her want to live?

If there is, she hasn't found it.

At this point, she doubts it exists at all.

She doesn't live now, anyway. She just survives.

Slowly but surely, the Nonagesimus house is sinking into the mud.

It's been sinking for years, of course. It started the day Harrow's parents died.

Died.

It's too gentle a term. They didn't pass away in their beds, old as the hills, their souls well-prepared, as parents should. They didn't go peacefully. They didn't just die.

Pelleamena and Priamhark hung themselves from the high branches of the cypress tree that had been growing just inside the gates since before the gates had even been erected. Harrow had been the one to find the bodies, the one to cut them down, the one to lay them to rest in the family mausoleum.

Her being the one to read their note was by far the worst of it.

You bring shame on us, it had said. It had been scrawled in her mother's elegant handwriting, and her father hadn't even bothered to sign it. Harrow often finds herself wondering if he even read it, or if he had found Pelleamena's body before Harrow had and followed his wife to the grave of his own volition.

It was Harrow's fault either way, and to this day, after all these decades, she carries the weight of it on her back. It weighs so much that she can barely stand upright, hunched like an old woman in her wanderings. She would be an old woman, were it not for her magic. This eternal life is her punishment, and she deserves every single second alone.

Her parents were ashamed of her, and probably had been for most of her life. Even as a child, there was something wrong about her. They had tried and tried for more children, but alas, she was the only one to make it to birth. Their only daughter, they whispered, the blood witch. Their only daughter, the necrophiliac. Their only daughter, the homosexual. Their shame had driven them into the arms of Death, and their precious child had played witness to it.

She should have seen it coming from a country mile away, but she hadn't. She had been too busy trying to resurrect Gideon and kill Alecto to notice their downcast eyes and trembling mouths. She hadn't noticed how they had wasted away until she was cutting them down from their twin nooses.

Harrow supposes it doesn't matter. Even dead, her parents are with her now.

They stand silent most days, pacing the sinking house's top gallery, staring out over the swamp with their dark, sunken eyes and their sewn-shut mouths. Dead men, after all, tell no tales. She's made certain of that.

Though they can't reply, not in words, she does talk to them sometimes.

Today, though, she's more focused on the foxfire darting through the trees. This is no swamp gas, she's sure. She's intimately familiar with that particular sight. Instead of the usual blue, this light is violet, and it moves slowly, ambling through the trees without a care in the world.

There's someone down there, Harrow realizes.

The question is, is this person living or dead?

It isn't alive.

Harrow isn't sure if it's human, but certainly is not alive.

She meets it outside the iron gate, her hand resting against the metal, as if its narrow bars can somehow protect her from this strange half-dead girl.

"Hello," it says. Its smile is sharp and fanged, its voice a rasping whine, like dead tree branches scraping a window during a storm. It takes Harrow's hand in its golden right one, presses its soft, bluing mouth to her knuckles, and Harrow can feel the coolness of it through the lace of her gloves. It's prettier than it has any right to be, despite its wasted appearance and its pallid skin and the deep, dark shadows beneath its eyes. "Have you been waiting long?" it asks, catching her eyes with its own.

Waiting? Harrow doesn't wait. She takes. The only thing she's waiting for is death. Perhaps, she thinks, this is Death. "Who are you?" she asks, slowly, stupidly. Her voice is rough from lack of use, the croak of a frog more than the voice of a witch. It's oddly fitting.

The other woman, tall and pale as a ghost, laughs at her, and the sound is the knell of church bells ringing on a foggy morning. They're funeral bells.

Hear the tolling of the bells -- Iron bells! Harrow thinks. She pulls her hand away, wraps her arms around herself. What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

It asks, its voice low and seductive, "Who do you want me to be, Harrowhark?"

Harrow bristles. No one has called her by her name in years. She doubts anyone even knows her name anymore. Only old Aiglamene would remember, if she even remembers anything. This time, Harrow asks, "What are you?"

The eyes roll. They're a ludicrous shade of purple, striped with blue and brown, deep-set and heavy-lidded. They're inhuman. "I'm no one," it says, then approaches her, reaching a hand toward her face. Harrow doesn't flinch, even when the soft fingertips and sharp claws brush her cheek. "And yet everyone knows me." It moves closer, and Harrow can smell it: Musty, powdery, with something sweet underneath. Something terribly, deathly sweet. "Everyone faces me."

It's the smell of rot, Harrow realizes. "You really are Death."

It leans closer, brushes its mouth against hers. It agrees in a voice like shattering ice, "I really am."

"I've been waiting for you for years." Harrow feels strange saying it, but she can't take it back now. She feels stranger still letting this creature into her home, but she can't take that back, either. Why would she want to? Death is the first physical guest she's had for decades. It's been all ghosts and vermin for far too long. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Death says, its eyes roving as it steps into the manor, stepping gingerly through the puddles in the foyer, its feet bare. It's dressed all in white, its long skirt trailing on the floor, the hem damp and muddy. It wears only a camisole on top, the straps thin and hanging off its bony shoulders, short enough that it leaves a few inches of its midriff enticingly bare. Harrow startles at that: She hasn't been enticed in decades. She startles again when she realizes how utterly human it is to feel enticed. Perhaps she's still human after all. "I keep a very busy schedule."

Harrow has the distinct feeling that that isn't true, but she doesn't dare say so.

Death itself has come to her.

It's hard not to feel special in the wake of it, and she swallows down a wave of pride. Pride. She hasn't felt that in ages, either.

"You really live like this?" Death asks as it steps into the parlor, the damp rug squelching obscenely under its bare feet.

This room had once been grand, but now, it's little more than a shadow of its former self. A ghost of itself, like its mistress. The walls are lined in ceiling-high shelves full of moldering books and pretty little treasures, the Persian rug unwinding at its edges, the lovely chaise discolored and misshapen from years of sweat and sitting. All the furniture in the house is in such a state. Harrow can't find it in herself to be embarrassed by it anymore.

Death takes a seat on the chaise, kicking its bare feet up onto the far end, its delicate ankles crossed one over the other. Its skin is so pale that the worn navy velvet makes its veins all but glow.

It's otherworldly, and Harrow comes to sit in front of it on the warped wood of the floor. She arranges her skirts carefully, keeping her tattered slippers hidden under her equally tattered hem. Had she known Death was finally coming for her, she would have dressed better. "Why are you only here now?" she asks, an unfamiliar desperation in her voice. Of course she's desperate, she thinks. She's been waiting since before the turn of the century. She's been waiting longer than most people get to live.

"I told you," Death says, picking at a loose string on the arm of the chaise. A bit of the piping comes off with it. "I've been busy." It glances up with its ludicrous eyes, meets Harrow's gaze, holds it fast. Harrow feels caught in their depths, like a fly in a glass of sweet tea. Sweet it is, though. "And I thought you would have come to me on your own by now."

The following morning, Harrow wakes alone, still dressed and still exhausted.

She's disappointed, but she can't bring herself to be surprised. She's poison, after all. Even Death itself can't bear to be around her. She can't say she blames it.

She's still on the floor in the parlor, the chaise empty, but it still has that smell clinging to it: Musty and cloyingly sweet. Like violets, Harrow thinks again. Death has eyes like violets. Who would have guessed? Certainly not her.

She had always imagined Death as a skeleton wrapped in a black robe, a scythe at its side, its eyes empty black pits in its skeleton face. Death didn't look like a girl, but an ancient being, rotting away from the inside. She had had a nightmare, once, that Death had come to her in the guise of her long-dead aunt, Glaurica. In the dream, Harrow had very nearly taken its hand.

She had never feared Death. Even now, having met it in person, she doesn't fear it.

Death was the first real companionship she had felt in ages.

She thinks this even as her mother crosses the room. Pelleamena is dressed in the same long, trailing black dress she wore on the eve of her death, her long black hair pulled into a braid that hangs heavy down her back. It looks eerily like a rope. She's reaching for a book on the ceiling-high shelf, but her hand goes right through the spine, and she pulls back, staring through her transparent fingers as if it hasn't happened a thousand times over.

Harrow watches her, silent as a stone.

Even in death, they barely acknowledge each other.

Priamhark, as much as the ghostly thing that wanders the house is Priamhark, is less dead. When Harrow watches him, he watches her right back.

"Father," Harrow says to him as he paces the gallery.

He doesn't speak, Harrow has made certain of that with her postmortem sewing, but he looks at her, and his dark, dark eyes are gentle.

They stand together, his lighter-than-air hand over hers on the gallery's splintered railing, and this night, the swamp is dark.

When her parents killed themselves, Harrow called the police.

Hours passed.

No one came.

Pigs, Harrow had thought.

She's been alone ever since, save Death and the ghosts. Even Aiglamene has stopped visiting.

Harrow doesn't mind being alone most of the time. It's the peaceful nights that get her.

In the quiet, under the singing of crickets and the rumbling of the gators, she can hear Gideon's voice. Gideon, asking, You really gonna wear that? Gideon, calling her baby. Gideon, begging for her touch.

From time to time, it's Alecto's voice in her head, whispering songs and poetry and utter nonsense. Too much of her voice, and Harrow is certain she'll go mad. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto sings in her whispery, water-logged voice, and the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

Now, though, it's Gideon's voice nor Alecto's she hears.

The air is hot around her, humid, and Harrow loses herself in the fantasy, her black eyes slipping closed. Her chewed-down nails rake against her skin, and she imagines a golden hand in their place. She imagines bluing lips at her neck, too-sharp white teeth sinking into her neck. She imagines the cool, meager weight of Death above her. It's Death's voice she hears, and in its creaking hanging-tree voice, it whispers, Come.

Harrow does.

You bring shame on us.

Though her mother hasn't spoken in half a century, Harrow can still hear the words in her voice. She had a lovely voice, Harrow's mother. It was elegant and soft, almost musical. Her words always came slowly, carefully selected before they passed her lips. The note was probably exceptionally well selected. Short and sweet.

The note is tucked into the neckline of Harrow's gown, the paper tucked against her heart and tinged yellow from years of sweat and tears.

Harrow can't bear to be without it.

It's her cross to bear, and she must bear it alone.

It's a full week before Death shows itself again. Harrow finds it in her room, stretched out on the molding canopy bed. The canopy is less lace now than Spanish moss, the covers mildewed and practically falling apart. Death doesn't seem to mind. It looks perfectly at ease, its hands joined behind its head, its right leg bent, the other tossed over its knee. It was humming to itself, its pale foot bouncing along to the rhythm.

Harrow can hardly believe that it's back.

Death's voice is an undignified whine when it asks, "Did you forget about me, Harrowhark?"

How could I? Harrow doesn't say. She does say, "I tried to." It's not entirely true. "I thought you'd abandoned me again."

"Abandoned you?" Death looks almost offended, its golden hand coming to its chest, clutching invisible pearls, but its laughter is high and sweet, bouncing off the crumbling walls like birdsong. Harrow represses a pleasant shiver at the sound of it. "Harry, my love," Death says, smiling with blue lips and too-sharp animal teeth, "I have been beside you since the day you were born."

My love? Harrow's cheeks go warm, but she ignores it, asking, "Since I was born?" It seems impossible. It also seems impossible that Death exists as a person at all. She's been surrounded by impossibility for as long as she can remember. This shouldn't be so surprising. "How could you possibly have time for that?"

"There are half a million Deaths," says Death with a wave of its hand. It wears lacy, threadbare gloves, and its cuticles are bluish, its nails chewed short. "This is just the area I chose to cover," it's saying, though it doesn't sound at all interested. Harrow wonders if it's even capable of interest. "There are fewer people here, less work. I can just hover most of the time."

The dark cloud of Death follows us, Harrow's grandmother had once told her. It seems she was right. Harrow can't quite believe it, even now. It's a curse, her grandmother had told her, and we deserve it. "Why me?" she asks.

"Why not?" Death shoots back. It holds out its arms, and against her better judgment, Harrow climbs into bed beside it, letting it enfold her. The gold of its skeletal right arm is chilly through the worn lace of her dress. "You Nonagesimus types are my favorite. You always come to me so willingly."

Harrow props herself up on her elbow, meeting Death's eyes with her own. "You know my family?"

"All the dead ones," Death says with a shrug that sends the strap of its camisole slipping off its shoulder. The veins just beneath its icy-pale skin are especially visible there, and Harrow lifts a hand to trace them. They have a green tint to them, and she wonders if there's blood in them at all, or if this iteration of Death has algae and swamp moss in its veins. "I gave the kiss of death to your father, and to your mother, and to Glaurica, and to sweet Ortus." Death ticks off each name off on its spidery fingers. Then it looks down at Harrow, one colorless brow lifting. "And then there was Alecto." Harrow feels the blood drain from her face, the breath fleeing her lungs in a single second. "She wasn't one of you, was she?"

"She could have been," Harrow says, softly, "eventually."

"You sent her to me gift-wrapped, didn't you?" Death doesn't sound at all bothered, and it slips its fingers beneath Harrow's chin, forcing her to look it in the eye. "It had been so long since I received a sacrifice like that. Your people don't offer tribute like they used to."

"Our magic isn't what it used to be," Harrow says.

"I wonder why," Death says. Its smile fades, though, when it asks, "You're how old? I'd say your magic is working just fine."

Harrow's lips threaten to smile, but it never comes. She says, "It's impolite to ask a lady's age."

Death itself laughs at her, songbird-sweet. "All you want is to die," it says, sounding bemused, one brow lifted in a match to the corner of its mouth, "and yet you'll live forever."

"For far too long, anyway," Harrow agrees, shivering when Death's golden hand slides into her hair, carding carefully through choppy black locks.

The silence that falls then isn't silence at all. Outside, the wind is in the trees and in the water. The cicadas are singing. Birds call to one another. Harrow's heart is beating a mile a minute, pounding in her ears. Death's heart isn't beating at all.

Softly, its voice almost a purr, Death says, "Did you know you've been dying your whole life?"

Harrow scoffed. "Isn't everyone?"

"Where did you go?" Harrow's voice is soft and plaintive, and she hates it. She's straddling Death's waist on her bed, its pointy hip bones pressing into the backs of her thighs. It feels like too much too soon, and it's far too intimate, but she has no intention of pulling away. She could stay like this forever.

Death presses its fingertips, both the flesh ones and the golden ones, into Harrow's hips. "Someone needed transporting," it said with a shrug of its narrow shoulders.

"You do that?" Harrow asks. Her hands are resting against the flat plane of Death's stomach, her fingertips tucked just beneath the hem of its camisole. "Transport people?"

"I transport souls," Death says. Its eyes are on Harrow's, searching for something in her black gaze. "This one was the last one in the area, save you."

Harrow's unkempt eyebrows draw together, her eyes flittering off to one side. As far as she knows, she's the only person still living in the area. She asks, "Who was it?"

Death, strangely, hesitates. "An old woman called Aiglamene," it says, and there's a strange weight in its voice, as if it knows how much Aiglamene meant to Harrow once upon a time. "Must have been a hundred and twenty years old." Its hands slide down to Harrow's thighs, its thumbs coming to rest in the creases of her knees. "Maybe even older than you."

"By a bit," Harrow agrees, doing her best to keep the sudden numbness out of her voice. "I didn't know she was still here."

"Keeping an eye on you," Death says, "from what I can gather."

And now she's gone, Harrow doesn't say, but the words fill her chest. It hurts.

"You should have seen her automobile," Death is saying, sounding almost mystified. Its hands are joined behind its head now, its eyes distant. "Such an incredible machine!"

More to herself than to Death, Harrow says, faintly, "I've never seen an automobile." Gideon had one that she was immensely fond of, but she hadn't trusted it on the marshy roads of the swamp. Alecto, old-fashioned thing that she was, chose to simply walk. It had made her disappearance so much easier.

"You're so behind the times, Harry," Death chides, though there's amusement clear in its voice. "You should come to town with me." It gives her a sly grin, looking very much like the fox that managed to break into the chicken coop. They're both foxes, Harrow realizes. "The things I could show you..."

"No." Harrow says it far too quickly, and her eyes dart off to the side, embarrassed. "No, I belong here. My magic ends here. I would age fifty years if I ever left the swamp."

"Shame, that." Death doesn't sound particularly bothered. Instead, its hands come to Harrow's thighs again, pushing the fabric of her skirt immodestly high, up past the tops of her stockings. It takes everything Harrow has to keep from pushing her hips into the touch. "But there are so many things I can show you right here."

The next time Harrow wakes, she isn't alone.

She's on the great bed in her room, Death's arms wound tight around her and holding her close. Her chest is pressed to Death's side, its skin bare and cool to the touch, devoid of breath or a heartbeat. It's eerily still. It's not Harrow's first time in such close contact with a corpse.

Outside, through the thin curtains over the balcony doors and the windows, the light is thin and greyish, either dusk or dawn, but certainly overcast. There's a storm coming. Harrow wonders if Death will simply sleep through it.

Death, unsurprisingly, sleeps like the dead. All through the night, it didn't move even once.

Was it only all night? It could have been years, for all Harrow knows.

As she lays quiet in Death's arms, she's surprised to find that she doesn't mind that idea. Let her dream her life away in the arms of Death. There are worse fates.

Just inside the door of the sinking manor is an antique dark wood table. On top of it is a crystal vase filled with flame-orange roses.

They were a gift of Aiglamene, given shortly after Gideon vanished in a rare gesture of comfort.

They are the single thing in the house that isn't rotting.

Harrow stands before them, staring, willing life through them.

Death stands beside her, watching quietly, its arms crossed over its chest, its head tipped curiously to the side. "I can feel their age," it says, its voice soft and thoughtful. "How long have you had these?"

"Decades," Harrow says. She plucks one from the crystal vase and tucks it behind Death's ear. Immediately, the life leaves the petals, and even when Harrow touches the petals, she can't revive it.

Death says, softly, "Are you afraid, Harrowhark?"

"No," Harrow says, and is surprised to realize that she means it.

"Good." Death steps behind her, wrapping its arms around Harrow's waist, resting its pointed chin on her shoulder. Its skin is soft and chilled. "With old Aiglamene gone, my attention is all yours."

The smell of violets mingles with the scent of roses, and Harrow realizes there's nothing she wants more.

"How do you do it?" There's something like awe in Death's voice, its head tipped to the side, a chipped tumbler half-full of decades-old scotch in its golden hand. "I'd lose my mind if I had to stay here all the time."

There's no derision in its tone, and Harrow says, "Maybe I have."

"Suppose you wouldn't know if you had," Death says, taking a long sip. "You could be dead right now, couldn't you? Would you even know the difference?"

She isn't dead. She may be dead inside, but she still feels. Harrow feels the chair she's sitting on, threadbare and creaky as it is, feels the warped wood beneath her bare feet, feels the coolness of Death sitting beside her. She would know, she tells herself.

She doesn't quite believe it.

Death goes out sometimes, wandering through the swamp and into the towns.

Harrow watches it leave from the iron gate, Ortus at her right, Alecto at her left. Her parents keep close, too, sewn-lipped and sullen.

Even with the ghosts, Harrow is alone, waiting.

Her life has become a waiting game, and she finds she doesn't mind, because she knows she'll never be alone for long.

Death always returns to her, sometimes with a man to sacrifice or a woman to seduce, sometimes with a butchered gator or a pot of jambalaya it found God-knows-where. It rarely comes to the manor empty-handed.

Death is courting her, Harrow realizes, and for the first time in decades, she smiles.

The courting is gentle. Death often is, isn't it?

It comes softly, like sleep, darkening the edges of the world and drawing it all in close.

Death steals the very breath from Harrow's lungs, pinning her flat against the wall. Its blue lips are pressed to her nape, its golden hand resting lightly around her throat, its spidery flesh hand at her hip.

Its voice is soft when it says, "You were made for this."

Made to be used by Death itself? Made to cater to Death itself? Made to be a lover to Death itself? The answer is obvious. "I was," Harrow agrees, her voice nearly lost in her heavy breathing. "I am."

Harrow spends her time in the arms of Death itself, now. But is that any different from how she lived before?

At the end of a long day, she waits beside the rusting gate, waiting for her deathly love to return to her.

The branches of the too-familiar cypress shake above her, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. She presses a hand to its rough bark and wills it to live. Like the roses, it must live. It's a monument now. This tree is her old friend, known all her life.

As is Death, approaching through evening fog, violet eyes shining in the dark.

Being in the company of Death is better than being alone, Harrow supposes as Death's arms wind around her, pulling her close. Death's lips are blue and chilled against hers, but she melts into the feeling of it, as she always does.

As they walk back toward the sinking manor, they pass the old sign. Is your soul prepared?

Death trails its golden, skeletal fingertips along the top of the sign as they pass, and the wood is immediately overtaken by mold and mushrooms, the paint flaking off in great chunks.

"Is my soul prepared?" Harrow asks as they walk in the dark.

"Oh, Harry," Death laughs. Its glowing eyes turn to her, hypnotic and bright as lightning bugs. "Your soul has been ready for me since you were born."

#harrow nonagesimus #ianthe tridentarius #harryanthe #harrianthe #harrowhark nonagesimus #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #the locked tomb #the locked tomb Trilogy #tltbb 2021 #tlt big bang 2021 #my tlt

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evandearest · 3 years

Text

The Garden of Eden | Part I: Cycles

Pairing: James March x reader (you) | ~Part: (1/4)~

Summary (Part One): Life with James March involved has had many cycles. In a time long ago, you once flourished. But things don’t always stay the same forever, do they? Will James find his way back to you?

Warnings (in this part): physical / mental / verbal abuse (child and adult), violence, graphic descriptions of murder / blood, dark themes, heartbreak, extreme emotional grief, just overall dark. avoid if any of the aforementioned is triggering.

Word count: 2,223

IMPORTANT Notes: Hello! I’m so excited to start this series that @etoile-writings requested that I can hardly type fast enough! lol. I really hope that I can do this justice!

The request was: juxtaposition - (noun) the fact of two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect. AND true love over a forced marriage + lots of fun ideas, such as flowers. Read on my blog for more if you want. I also suck at summaries but I thought I’d give it a try.

Speaking of flowers, I just wanted to say specifically to the requester: I didn’t just pick white roses because they are my personal favorite, but also because of their symbolism to the reader character. White roses symbolize purity, innocence, and youthfulness, associating with young love and eternal loyalty, and can also symbolize a new beginning and everlasting love. Just wanted to say that because I found it very interesting and symbolic!

SO... I have a few notes before we begin. 1) This is set before James died, approximately the year 1926. Since this is a fan-fictional story, the events are slightly warped from the show. The main plot of the show still flows, but this is kind of worked in, in a way. So the plot of the show doesn’t really change all that much. The second thing 2) a lot of things in this story will become clear as I post more parts. There will be more flashbacks and the plot will expand drastically. This is pretty much just an introduction. Just wanted to put that out there. And 3) I plan to do four parts, but that may be subject to change.

Some things never change.

That you had found to be true. The cycle of life was incredible. The lessons in life you were meant to learn were imprinted into your being by repetitious events that were sometimes out of your control. You knew that too well.

People had always told you, “God works in mysterious ways.” It hadn’t been so apparent to you until you had experienced that mystery yourself. It seemed that your life had entered its second cycle. It seemed that you had lived this exact moment once before.

Your head was pounding, a moan sounding when his fist collided into your side again. You kept your arms up in defense, as it was the only thing stopping him from hitting your face. That hurt much worse, and it was harder to hide. Explaining to your neighbors why there are bruises on your face was the last thing you would need. You’d already done it last time this had happened. Of course, you hadn’t expected this to happen again. You’d put too much faith into your husband. A wretched sob left your burning throat, your face soaking wet with tears.

“Please stop,” you pleaded, whimpering, while your husband Robert laughed.

“Maybe next time you should just keep your mouth shut,” he spat, sighing as he rubbed his knuckles. A fleeting memory flashed before your eyes.

“Maybe next time you should just keep your mouth shut!”

“I-I’m sorry!” you cried, clutching your jaw as you scrambled across the floor.

“Yeah, of course you are now,” the old man said maliciously, towering over your small frame. He laughed, shaking his head. “You think in vain of yourself. You can’t believe that a man would ever want a woman who talked to him like that. You believe that because you’re so innocent people will treat you as such.” He squatted down in front of you, his face getting closer to yours. “Well, I have something you need to know, young girl. Most of us humans don’t really care about others.” He chuckled again, standing up. “We’re all in it for ourselves.” He shook his head. His fist pulled back again, and you gasped, throwing your arms over your head.

“Leave her alone!”

James came racing into the room, his hands pushing his father’s fist away before it hit you. He shoved him back, and you watched in amazement. You couldn’t believe that he stood up to his father. Just moments before, as he had told you of the abuse, he had been shaking at even the thought of his father hitting him.

That’s what had led you into the conversation in the first place. When James had told you of how his father had been treating him since he was seven years old to now, at almost eighteen, you couldn’t help yourself. You’d thought that confrontation would stop him, or maybe he would realize how wrong it was if you had showed him. You were wrong, and now here you were, your favorite floral blouse torn, your jaw aching from the impact of his father’s hit.

You were wrong, and now James was in another bad situation. You stared at James, wondering why he would ever step in. Why he would ever step in when he knew what his father would do.

“You stupid boy!” The old man yelled, his fist striking James’ face. “Do you just like being beat? Don’t tell me it’s because you love this naïve girl!” James’ glare burned holes into his father’s face, his jaw set firmly.

It clicked behind your eyes. He loved you. He stepped in because he was protecting you, because he didn’t want you to experience what he had.

His father chuckled as he looked between the two of you; James now standing beside your form on the floor. He shook his head, and left the room without another word, although he slammed the door. You jumped at the loud impact, scurrying to stand beside James. There was a moment of silence before you spoke.

“James,” you whispered, studying his face. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he was listening. “Do you believe him? Are all people really that selfish?”

James still remained silent, but that was enough of an answer for you. You simply couldn’t accept that. You couldn’t accept that all people only cared about themselves. Not when you had seen it for yourself, firsthand with James and your family, or even the kindness of strangers.

But you were wrong again. Your own father had proved that to you when he had you married off to Robert Williams for money. It opened your eyes, and only then had you seen everything that people did just to get what they wanted. And now you know that the only person who ever cared about you was James. And you were ripped away from him just before you were able to begin a life with him, all because your father didn’t believe he would be able to take care of you. You’d never even known he cared so much about James’ wealth, or lack thereof.

For a while, that hadn’t been the end of it. You’d still think about James in your every waking moments. Sure, you’d settled into your new life with your new husband. At first, you had even gotten along with one another. You learned how to accept what you had, keep your spirit, and be as grateful as you could for simple things such as safety. But that changed too. The problem arose at the topic of children. To you, the thought of having a child with Robert made you sick to your stomach. You just didn’t want to fake it with him, but you didn’t know how to tell him that. You couldn’t give and raise a child with a man you didn’t love. You supposed it was because you still had hope that you’d see James again. For many years, he had believed your excuses, until he had grew tired of you pushing it off. That’s where the anger and violence had begun. So you ran.

At the very moment that you read about James in the newspaper, you ran. You ran straight to his luxurious brand new hotel. You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe that poor boy you’d left behind all those years ago had turned into such a successful man. You’d just hoped that he still loved you like you loved him; that he hadn’t forgotten about you.

But once again, as life repeats, you were wrong. James’ life was nothing you ever could have imagined. He’d built his hotel from scratch, and that was after he had clawed his way up the chain of command. He was filthy rich, living life in the most prosperous way imaginable, his power undeniable. You were in awe. If only your father could see him now. If only he’d seen what you had in James all those years ago when he had first began his journey to being a self-made man.

But wealth wasn’t the only thing that had changed. James obviously didn’t love you anymore. How could he, when he had a new wife? Elizabeth was her name. She seemed lovely, and it was wrong of you to assume he would never move on from you. Even if you’d never moved on from him.

So you stayed. You had no choice but to at this point. You had no where else to turn, no where else to go, no real life of your own. Just memories of a life long ago to hold onto.

You wept as you curled in on yourself. Your husband stood there, his breathing heavy as he glared at you with the anger of a thousand hurricanes in his eyes.

“You were the biggest mistake of my life,” he snarled, an expression of disappointment settling on his face. “A wife that won’t even give me children.” He scoffed and chuckled dryly. “What a pathetic joke.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You cupped your hands over your face, sniffling.

“Stop saying that!” He suddenly boomed, his fist raising once again. You shouted out in protest at the incoming attack, bracing yourself for the pain.

At what seemed to be the most perfect timing, a knock sounded at the front door.

Robert froze in his place, his fist hovering in mid-air. You sighed in relief, pushing yourself further into the wall, balled up in a fetal position on the floor. He turned, shooting a hesitant look back at you, before slowly making his way to answer the door.

The door handle jiggled as he opened it, and although you couldn’t see, you listened intently from your position in the living room.

“Hello,” Robert greeted whomever was on the other side of the door. “May I help you?”

“Greetings, sir,” replied the voice of a man. You froze. You could’ve sworn you knew that voice. But it couldn’t be.

“Yeah?” said your husband.

“Would it happen that a woman by the name of ‘Y/F/N Y/L/N’ resides here?” said the man. You let out a breath. It was him. It was James.

Robert paused, and you began contemplating revealing yourself.

“She’s busy,” Robert rushed out nervously.

There was another pause, this time from James.

“I’m not sure you’re telling the truth, sir,” said James. “You seem to be quite flustered.”

“She- she can’t come right now,” Robert demanded, “she’s busy. Come another time.”

You panicked. He was going to make him leave! This was your only chance!

“Help!” you shouted, before even having time to think about it.

Before you knew it, the man you had dreamed of for so many years was standing before you. You gasped as your eyes met his, the same dark brown framed by his sharp masculine features. It was as if you had seen the sun after years in the dark. Your eyes took in his features before shifting to look at the object in his hands. A bouquet of white roses lay clasped between his hands; your flowers. He had remembered. He really had come back for you. Finally, you had your James again.

“What is the meaning of this?” Robert shouted as he followed quickly behind James. James’ head turned slowly to look at the man, his jaw locking firmly as his eyes settled on him.

“How about,” James clicked his tongue, pausing for a mere second, “you explain the meaning of this.” He gestured toward you, his head turning to briefly look at you again. Robert crossed his arms.

“I don’t think I’m inclined to tell you anything,” he said, a look of resentment taking over his expression. “In fact, I think you should see your way out.” James stared at the man for a moment before his lips upturned into a small smirk.

“Of course,” he grinned, his accent drawing the words out. Your heart skipped a beat as he slowly began walking towards the hallway to the front door. No, you thought. He couldn’t leave. You thought he had come back for you. He couldn’t leave you, not when you needed him the most. Not when you’d waited this long.

Just as your hopes had almost been crushed, James spun around. What happened next was hard to process immediately. Blood suddenly covered James’ face and chest, spurting out from Robert’s throat as James’ knife slid smoothly across, the skin slicing like butter. James stood, a look of satisfaction on his face, his eyes settling upon yours. A flicker of what seemed like doubt rushed across his face as you grew silent, your eyes wide and innocent as you stared at him, digesting what had just happened.

“James?” you whispered.

“Yes, dear?” he said smoothly, his jaw moving back and forth slowly as he worked it nervously. You climbed to your feet, padding over to him softly. Your hand slowly came up to rest upon his cheek, thumb softly gliding over the bone there, the blood on his face smearing with the movement. Your other hand gently grabbed the roses from his hands, glancing down at them adoringly, your lips curling into a smile.

“Darling,” James said hesitantly, eyebrows furrowing, “I apologize if I’ve frightened you.” You smiled up at him.

“No,” you said reassuringly. “No, quite the opposite.” You paused, studying James’ handsome features. You leaned in slowly, your breaths mingling. “You’ve freed me.” It was a whisper, barely audible, but at your close proximity, you knew he could hear. You could feel the warmth of his body so close to yours as you moved closer and closer. Your lips met in a passionate kiss, James arms enveloping you, the world seeming to align once more.

It seemed as if you had no worries, no hardships; that all of your anxieties had magically disappeared with his kiss. He’d reset your life. He’d given you everything you wanted just by being in yours. All those years that you had waited for him seemed worth it. All of your blind devotion seemed worth it. James had finally, finally come back to you.

All those people had been right: God did work in mysterious ways. And in that moment, you decided James was your meant to be; your heaven on Earth; your purpose of being. Or further... he was your God.

---

Series Masterlist: The Garden of Eden Series

Main Masterlist

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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Having just sent you a message the other day about how much I love your historical asks, I realized I have a question myself that you might know the answer to. I’m a Christian and I have never been able to figure out why Christianity has historically viewed non-procreative sex for pleasure as bad. (And none of my family, including my clergy father, have figured it out either. I think my dad has a bone to pick with Augustine? And I feel like Aquinas also has something to do with this.) But given that Jesus had a body and gives a speech about “the Son of Man came eating and drinking” as though he enjoyed it, how did this whole “the body is sinful especially the sex part” thing happen? I have been thinking about this a lot recently for Old Guard reasons, which should surprise no one.

Oof. So, a short and simple question, then. (Sidenote: did they expand ask limits? Because I’ve definitely gotten a couple asks today, including this one, that are longer than usual, rather than forced to space out and hope that Tumblr doesn’t eat them.)

The entire history of sexuality in the West and its relationship with Christianity throughout the centuries is obviously a topic that far, far exceeds anything I could possibly cram into this ask, but let’s see if I can hit on some of the highlights. First off, one could remark that some aspects of Jesus’s teaching managed to disappear from the official doctrine of Christianity almost immediately, and for a variety of theological, cultural, and social reasons. As anyone who has a passing knowledge of the late Roman Empire is aware, they were known for being sexually liberate (at least if you were a nobleman, as the freedom certainly did NOT apply to women), and the notorious run of emperors who were having orgies and sleeping with boys and their sisters and hosting nonstop sex parties did a lot to sour early Christianity’s relationship with it. Because pre-Constantine/Theodosian Code Rome was Christianity’s enemy (since Christians refused to perform the traditional civic sacrifices to the Roman gods, which was all that Rome required alongside permitting its citizens to practice whatever other religion they wanted), and because the emperors were such a high-profile example of sexual excess, that became an easy point of critique. Obviously, the Roman polemicists, like every other historian, should not be trusted on EVERYTHING they say about the emperors, but the general pattern is there and well-established. So Christianity, trying to establish its religious and moral bona fides, can easily go, “Well, Caligula/Nero obviously sucks, come join us and live a purer and more moral life!”

Constantine converted in the early fourth century and the Theodosian Code was issued at the end of the fourth century, which made Rome officially Catholic and represented a huge reversal of fortune for fledgling Christianity, helping it expand like crazy now that it was officially sanctioned. However, the Roman Empire was splitting into two halves, west and east, and the development of Greek Christianity in the eastern empire was strongly influenced by ascetic and austere traditions (if you’ve heard of the Stylites, i.e. the guys who liked to sit atop poles out in the Syrian desert to prove how holy they were, those are them). The cultural context of denial of the flesh and the renouncing of bodily pleasures also played intensely into the third/fourth/fifth century debates over heresy and orthodoxy. Some of the most vicious arguments came over whether Jesus Christ could have actually had an embodied (and therefore possibly inherently sinful) human body, or it was just a complicated illusion, the “shell” of a body that his entirely divine nature then inhabited without actually being part of. This involved huge theological arguments over the redemptive nature of the Eucharist and even Christ’s sacrifice: was it real/effective/genuine if he didn’t REALLY die and suffer the pain of being crucified, and was just assured that he’d be fine ahead of time? So yeah, the question of whether Christ had a real body (because then that might be sinful) was the knock-down, drag-out theological disagreement of the early centuries C.E., and left a lot of hard feelings and entrenched positions in its wake.

Likewise, your dad is correct in having a bone to pick with Augustine, at least in terms of his impact on views of sexuality in the late antique and early medieval Christian church. Augustine is obviously famous for agonizing endlessly over his sexuality/sexual urges in Confessions, his time as a Manichaean, his relationship with a woman and the birth of his son out of wedlock (and if you want a lot of repressed homoeroticism: well, Augustine’s got that too) and how his conversion to Christianity was intensely tied with his renunciation of himself as a sexual being. Augustine also pioneered the nature of the inheritance of Original Sin: therefore, every human who was born was sinful by virtue of sharing in humanity’s legacy from Eve’s transgression in the Garden of Eden. (And yes, obviously, this led to the beginnings of the embedding of clerical and social misogyny. Oh Augustine, I kind of hate you anyway because I had to read the entire goddamn 1000-page City of God during my master’s degree, but bro, you got a lot to answer for.) This involved EVEN MORE obscure speculations about whether original sin was passed down in male semen, and therefore Jesus was free of it because he was supposedly born divinely to a woman without a male father, but yeah, the idea that sexuality itself was already a suspect thing was fairly well correlated and then cemented by Augustine’s HUGE influence over the early church. Everything post-Augustine incorporated his ideas somehow, and so the idea of bodily pleasures as separating you from divine purpose got even more established.

Then we had the Carolingians in the eighth and ninth centuries, who were the first “empire” per se in Western Europe post-Rome, and who were also intensely concerned with legislating moral purity, policing the sexual behavior especially of its queens, and correlating moments of political or military defeat with insufficiently virtuous private behavior. The Carolingians likewise passed these ideas onto their successor kingdoms, especially the medieval kingdom of France (which would eventually become the pre-eminent secular power in Western Europe). Then the eleventh century arrived with the Cluniac and Gregorian Reforms (which were interrelated). One of their big goals was for a celibate and unmarried clergy on all levels of holy orders, from humble village priests to bishops and archbishops. Prior to this, clergymen had often been married, and there wasn’t a definite sense that it was bad. But because of this, and the idea that a married clergyman wasn’t pure enough to provide the Eucharist and would be distracted from his commitment to the church by a wife and family, the Cluniac and papal reformers intensely attacked sex and sexuality as evil. Priests didn’t (or rather, were not supposed to) do it, and if you weren’t in a heterosexual church-performed marriage and didn’t want children, you shouldn’t be doing it either. (Did this stop people, and priests, from doing it? Absolutely not, but that was the rhetoric.) This was about when celibacy began to be constructed as the top of the heap in terms of holy lifestyles, for men and women alike and laypeople as well as those in holy orders. NOT having sex was the most virtuous choice for anyone, even if sex was a necessary evil for having heirs and the next generation and so on. (Which is interesting considering that our hypersexualized present attaches so much value to having sex of one sort or another, and the asexual-exclusion types, but yeah, that’s a different topic for now.)

Of course, when the Cathars (a schismatic Catholic heresy in France and Italy) in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries began attacking ALL materiality and sexuality as irredeemably evil, the Catholic church went a bit like “whoa whoa that’s a little too far, hold on now, SOME sex is good, sex can be nice, we’re not actually like those guys” (even though they had been about a hundred years before). Because Cathar spirituality taught that any kind of attention or indulgence to the body was sinful, that included any kind of sex at all, even married heterosexual intercourse. (Of course, the Cathars themselves didn’t always live up to it either; see Beatrice de Planissoles and her Cathar priest lover.) The Catholic church obviously didn’t want to go THAT far, so they began rowing back some of their earlier blanket statements about the evilness of sexuality and taught that husband and wife both had a responsibility to offer each other sexual pleasure and fulfillment. I’ve answered many asks about sexual behavior and unions in the medieval era, the arguments over the definition of marriage, and how that changed over time in response to social needs and pressures, so yes. We know what the IDEALS were, and what people were legally supposed to do, but the fact that church writers were complaining about bad behavior, sexual and otherwise, literally the whole time means that, obviously, this did not always match up with reality.

The theories of the Roman physician Galen, which prescribed that female orgasm was necessary to conceive, were also well known and prevalent in the medieval world, which meant that ordinary married couples trying to have children would have had some awareness that female pleasure was supposedly necessary to do it. (This ties into my “it wasn’t an unrestrained extravaganza of violent painful rape for women all the time YOU GODDAMN MORONS JESUS CHRIST” rant, but we will recognize that I have Many Rants. So yes.) Obviously, we can’t know what the sex life of individual married couples behind closed doors was actually like, but there were a variety of teachings and official stances on sex and how it was supposed to be done, and as noted in other posts, just because the church thought it is zero guarantee that ordinary people thought that way too. People are people. They (usually) like having sex. They had sex, both gay and straight, married and unmarried, so on and so forth, even if the church had Opinions. Circle of life, etcetera.

Anyway, then the Renaissance arrived (and we just had the “why the Renaissance sucked for women” ask the other day), which prescribed a reversal of all the comparative sexual and political and social latitude that women had gradually acquired over the medieval era. It very much wanted to see women returned to their silent, domestic, maternal, objet d’arte roles that they had occupied in antiquity, and attacked the actions of women in their public and private lives as one of the major causes of the crises of the late medieval era. (Because you know, misogyny is always a useful scapegoat rather than blaming the powerful men who have fucked everything up, as we’re seeing again right now.) Because the Renaissance is regarded, fairly or unfairly, as the start of the early modern Western world, it’s where a lot of modern gender attitudes and views of sexuality became more explicitly codified and distributed faster than at any point in history before, to a more extensive audience, thanks to the invention of the printing press. We’ve obviously had moves toward sexual liberation and agency in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and the emergence of the modern feminist and gay rights movements, but now in some ways, we’re back in oddly Puritan attitudes in the twenty-first century. And since America was founded by Puritans, their social attitudes are still embedded in the culture, fanned today by hyper-conservative Protestant evangelicalism. Even though Puritans themselves ALSO, shock surprise, didn’t always live up to the stringent standards they preached.

...whoof. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but hopefully that gives you the broad-strokes development.

#history #medieval history #queer history #history of religion #history of sexuality #history of marriage #women in history #long post #good lord that's a lot of tags #emjee #ask

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lavendermilkandhoney · 3 years

Text

12/22 The Lovers – Johnny & Rogue

In Game

The Lovers is the card of dichotomies. It points to the contradictions that clash within each of us and of the challenge of striking a balance between extremes. The Lovers is also the card of dilemmas, like The Fool who stands at the crossroads, unable to make his choice.

Location

This one is found at the Silver Pixel Cloud drive-in theater located in North Oak. It'll be behind the big screen. You need to get inside by typing in the access code 0000.

Zodiac Sign : Gemini

The Lovers tarot card represents Gemini as a symbolic way of indicating the duality of both the sign and the card. Gemini as the zodiac sign of the twins matched with the lovers' card which shows up the male-female counterparts, dualities of each other.

In Tarot

UPRIGHT: Love, harmony, relationships, values alignment, choices

REVERSED: Self-love, disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values

The Lovers card shows a naked man and woman standing beneath the angel, Raphael, whose name means ‘God heals’ and represents both physical and emotional healing. The angel blesses the man and woman and reminds them of their union with the Divine.

The couple stands in a beautiful, fertile landscape, reminiscent of the Garden of Eden. Behind the woman stands a tall apple tree, with a snake winding its way up the trunk. The serpent and apple tree represent the temptation of sensual pleasures that may take one’s focus away from the Divine. Behind the man is a tree of flames, which represent passion, the primary concern of the man. The twelve flames suggest the twelve zodiac signs, the symbol of time and eternity. The man looks to the woman, who watches the angel, showing the path of the conscious to the subconscious to the super-conscious, or from physical desire to emotional needs to spiritual concerns.

The volcanic mountain in the background is rather phallic and represents the eruption of passion that happens when man and woman meet in full frontal nudity.

Upright

In its purest form, the Lovers card represents conscious connections and meaningful relationships. The arrival of this card in a Tarot reading shows that you have a beautiful, soul-honouring connection with a loved one. You may believe you have found your soul mate or life partner, and the sexual energy between you both goes way beyond instant gratification and lust to something that is very spiritual and almost Tantric. While the Lovers card typically refers to a romantic tie, it can also represent a close friendship or family relationship where love, respect and compassion flow.

The Lovers is a card of open communication and raw honesty. Given that the man and woman are naked, they are both willing to be in their most vulnerable states and have learned to open their hearts to one another and share their truest feelings. They shape the container from which trust and confidence can emerge, and this makes for a powerful bond between the two. In a reading, this card is a sign that by communicating openly and honestly with those you care about, you will create a harmonious and fulfilling relationship built on trust and respect.

On a more personal level, the Lovers card represents getting clear about your values and beliefs. You are figuring out what you stand for and your philosophy. Having gone through the indoctrination of the Hierophant, you are now ready to establish your belief system and decide what is and what is not essential to you. It’s time to go into the big wide world and make choices for yourself, staying true to who you are and being authentic and genuine in all your endeavours.

At its heart, the Lovers is about choice. The choice about who you want to be in this lifetime, how you connect with others and on what level, and about what you will and won’t stand for. To make good choices, you need to be clear about your personal beliefs and values – and stay true to them. Not all decisions will be easy either. The Lovers card is often a sign that you are facing a moral dilemma and must consider all consequences before acting. Your values system is being challenged, and you are being called to take the higher path, even if it is difficult. Do not carry out a decision based on fear or worry or guilt or shame. Now, more than ever, you must choose love – love for yourself, love for others and love for the Universe. Choose the best version of yourself.

Finally, the Lovers card encourages you to unify dual forces. You can bring together two parts that are seemingly in opposition to one another and create something that is ‘whole’, unified and harmonious. In every choice, there is an equal amount of advantage and disadvantage, opportunity and challenge, positive and negative. When you accept these dualities, you build the unity from which love flows.

Reversed

The Lovers card is pure love and harmony. Reversed, it can signal a time when you’re out of sync with those around you, particularly your loved ones. You may find your relationships are strained and communication is challenging. Does it seem as if you are just not on the same page and no longer share the same values? If so, come back to the reason you have this person in your life. If you love him or her unconditionally, know this moment shall pass and the best you can do is bring love and compassion to the situation. In other cases, you may realise that you have simply grown apart and it’s time to move on. If your relationship continues to be peppered by arguments and a lack of respect for one another, then it could be time to let go. Honour yourself and do what is best for you both.

The Lovers reversed can also reflect that the feelings within a relationship are not mutual. One person may be more emotionally involved than the other, and this gap could lead to disappointment and insecurity later down the track. You may be reluctant to open your heart to the relationship for fear of getting hurt.

The reversed Lovers also speaks to self-love and respect. To what extent do you honour and accept who you are and the value you offer in this world? Be mindful, too, if you look at other people and wish you were more like them. Understand that if you can recognise these traits in others, it is because you have them within you. As Dr John Demartini says: ‘When we admire qualities in others, it’s the Universe’s way to get you to wake up and recognise your own strengths – in other words, you need to realise that whatever you perceive in other people you also have within yourself.’

If the Lovers reversed shows up in a reading, you might face a tough choice with significant consequences. Instead of making a decision based on your values, you feel tempted to cut corners and avoid responsibility for your actions. You may think you can get away with it, but the reversed Lovers implores you to think again and choose the path most in alignment with your Highest Good – no matter how hard it might be.

The Lovers reversed can also suggest inner conflicts and being at war with yourself rather than with external forces. It indicates disharmony and a struggle to balance your inner union. Are you punishing yourself for something you have done or considered yourself responsible for? To help you out of this place, you will need to focus on articulating your personal belief systems and values. They will guide you in making better decisions next time. You may want to return to the energy of the Hierophant and seek the counsel and advice of an institution or spiritual mentor.

---

Thank you so much @cybervesna for the polish traduction from the official guide book and its associations with the characters!

#cyberpunk2077 #johnny silverhand #rogue amendiares #tarot #the lovers #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 tarot

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little-chattes · 3 years

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Ok so I’ve done a complete re-read through and one thing that kept nagging at me was how little Gideon and Harrow’s relationship makes sense given its quite frankly abusive origins. Harrow spends her whole life making Gideon’s a living hell and Gideon just… forgives her. Total and complete forgiveness for an irredeemable girl.

At first I took the sudden shift in their relationship as lazy writing to rush along the end of the story, but that didn't make any sense either. Muir strikes me as an intensely purposeful writer. Then I remembered that Muir is also an intensely Catholic writer and it hit me. Muir isn’t writing a story about a healthy human relationship, oh no, she’s writing a story about Christ’s relationship with The Church… if Christ was a sword toting butch lesbian and The Church was a sardonic bone witch. Call it tender blasphemy.

Now Gideon’s role as a Christ figure is fairly easy to parse out given that her dad is… God. But for the sake of self indulgence (I have to put my 15 year long flirtation with Christianity to use somehow) I’m going to go through all the parallels anyway. There are a LOT of them.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

Miraculous Conception

Luke 1:34-38

34 But Mary said to the angel, “How will this be, since I [e]am a virgin?” 35 The angel answered and said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; for that reason also the [f]holy Child will be called the Son of God.

Gideon is conceived by artificial means when one of God’s own servants (Mercy) delivers a sample of John’s genetic material to Wake, a ‘normal’ human woman who chooses to carry Gideon in her womb. Notably, the sample lives far beyond its point of expected viability, thus making the conception somewhat miraculous (“Only the sample was still active, no idea how considering it was twelve weeks after the fact” HTN 441).

The Cuckold

Matthew 1:18-25

18 Now the birth of Jesus the [a]Messiah was as follows: when His mother Mary had been [b]betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be pregnant by the Holy Spirit. 19 And her husband Joseph, since he was a righteous man and did not want to disgrace her, planned to [c]send her away secretly.

Gideon the First decides not to kill his lover, Wake, and releases her out the airlock (AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE SAW ME AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME” from Harrow’s vision of Wake’s note, HTN 124) just as Joseph took pity on Mary, his betrothed, by deciding to divorce her quietly instead of making her infidelity public which would condemn her to death by public stoning (Deuteronomy 22:21). Gideon the First knew that Wake was pregnant and didn’t tell John because he thought the baby was his. Similarly, Joseph goes on to raise Jesus as his own son.

The Birth

Luke 2:7

And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a [f]manger, because there was no [g]room for them in the inn.

Neither baby Jesus nor baby Gideon were given a proper cradle, one being laid to rest in a manger where the animals ate and the other stuffed in a transplant bio-container (GTN 23).

The Dead Children

16 When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.

King Herod intends to kill the prophesied King of the Jews and instead of finding the specific baby, he just has a bunch of them slaughtered. However, Jesus escapes the slaughter of the innocents by Herod when his parents secret him away to Egypt.

When the great aunts gas the nursery and kill the 200, Gideon is meant to die along with them but escapes her fate.

Now this event has a completely different biblical connotation for Harrow.

Firstly, the murder of the 200 children represents Original Sin. In the bible, Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden, and as their descendants, all of humankind is doomed to also bear the weight of that sin from the moment we are born until the day we die. This is a fact that is drilled into Christians as soon as we’re able to understand it, we are born wretched and unworthy sinners, and there’s nothing we can do ourselves to fix that.

“I have tried to dismantle you, Gideon Nav! The Ninth House poisoned you, we trod you underfoot—I took you to this killing field as my slave—you refuse to die, and you pity me! Strike me down. You’ve won. I’ve lived my whole wretched life at your mercy, yours alone, and God knows I deserve to die at your hand. You are my only friend. I am undone without you.”

Harrow is a multitude, she is 200 children, the entire future of her house. Shes not just one human being,, she’s the whole damn church.

Naz/Nav

he went and lived in a town called Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

Although Gideon is not from the Ninth, she is given the Ninth name Nav when she arrives as a baby. Similarly, Jesus is known as Jesus of Nazareth, though that is not where he was born.

The Poor Bondservant

Jesus' role as a servant is emphasized many times in the bible. He was a carpenter's son born in a stable

Philippians 2:5-8

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.

Gideon is described as being made “a very small bondswoman” (GTN 24)

The Sword

Matthew 10:34

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

The Wretched Sinner

Harrow is wretched, self loathing, and cruel.

She is in thrall of the enemy of god, a figure who was once gods most favoured warrior, cast into hell.

She is like the depiction of the sinner who loves the devil

It's important to note that Harrow isn’t a single person, she is a multitude, the entire future of her people condensed into one body.

The Enemy of God

20 Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, nholding in his hand the key to othe bottomless pit1 and a great chain. 2 And he seized pthe dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil and Satan, and qbound him for a thousand years, 3 and threw him into othe pit, and shut it and rsealed it over him, so that she might not deceive the nations any longer, until the thousand years were ended. After that he must be released for a little while.

Before the fall, Satan was described as a “guardian cherub” who resided in the garden with God (Ezekiel 28:14)

(a funny aside, in the bible the devil is known as the great deceiver but in HTN Muir specifies that Alecto is incapable of lying)

A Life of Abuse

Isaiah 53:3

"He was despised and rejected by mankind,

a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.

Like one from whom people hide their faces

he was despised, and we held him in low esteem”

They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff" (Luke 4:28–29).

Gideon lives a life of mockery and is abused by Harrow.

An Unlikely Savior

Despite the fact that Gideon does not fit the expected image of a Cavalier, Harrow chooses Gideon to be her sword and protector.

Despite the many openings Gideon has to make Harrow pay for the pain she caused her, she remains loyal to her

Trust

Harrow realizes that she cannot face the lyctor trials without Gideon, and places her trust in her

Christians are told they must place their trust in jesus in order to reach salvation

Purifying Water

Acts 2:38

Peter replied, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Harrow confesses her sins to Gideon and puts herself at her mercy

Gideon forgives Harrow totally and completely, she baptises her

One Flesh

Mark 10:8

and the two shall become one flesh; so they are no longer two, but one flesh.

“The imagery and symbolism of marriage is applied to Christ and the body of believers known as the church. The church is comprised of those who have trusted in Jesus Christ as their personal Savior and have received eternal life. Christ, the Bridegroom, has sacrificially and lovingly chosen the church to be His bride” (x)

Ephesians 5:25-26

25 gHusbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and hgave himself up for her, 26 that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by ithe washing of water jwith the word,

They take the vow of necro and cav, one flesh one end

Gideon’s forgiveness of Harrow is reaffirmed

Harrow risks her life to stay and fight with Gideon, even if it means her death and thus the destruction of her death. Her love for Gideon is now greater than her love for the Body.

The Sacrifice

John 19:34

Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water.

They will look on the one they have pierced'" (John 19:36–37).

Gideon chooses to die for Harrow, death by piercing

and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

In order to complete the lyctor process, Harrow both physically and spiritually consumes Gideon

Because of Gideon’s sacrifice, Harrow attains eternal life at the right hand of god

The Tomb

The Resurrection

1On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women came to the tomb, bringing the spices they had prepared. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus

Harrow turns her body into a tomb for Gideon, a tomb fashioned after that on the Ninth

Resurrection on the Third Day

Thus it is written, and thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise from the dead the third day, and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. Luke 24:46-47

“So many months had passed: and yet, at the same time, she had only lost Gideon Nav three days ago. It was the morning of the third day in a universe without her cavalier: it was the morning of the third day—and all the back of her brain could say, in exquisite agonies of amazement, was: She is dead. I will never see her again.” (HTN 374)

Just in case you missed this important piece of information, Muir repeats it three times.

Go, and tell them, then, that he that was dead is alive, and lives for evermore, and has the keys of death and the grave,"

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ashestoashesjc · 4 years

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A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend At The Farmers’ Market

Short Story 1/(2)/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10

From the gun gray expanse of the asphalt parking lot, Ulrick and Sett looked on to a dozen rows of eggshell canopies, the vibrant, succulent wares therein contained, and a no-less-vibrant throng of bright, friendly faces, with all the burbling anticipation of a Roman century preparing to march into hopeless battle.

“Grrrurrr. <We don’t have to do this, you know,>” said Sett, giving Ulrick his approximation of a gentle slap on the back, but one that still managed to rob him of his balance. “ GgrrrRrrr. <I don’t mind going to supermarkets on the other side of town fifteen minutes before they close to avoid people.> Rrrrr. <It’s romantic.>”

Sett’s taut, sparse skin didn’t allow him the greatest range of expressive nuance, but Ulrick suspected it was less romantic than he was letting on.

“No, this is happening,” Ulrick said, regaining his stance and casually brushing off his shorts. “I mean, this farmers’ market is still on the other side of town, but it’s daytime. Baby steps.” He took Sett’s hands in his own and brought them to his lips before his lowering them again.

“Just... y’know...” he started. “Keep a low profile.”

Sett nodded, adjusted the baby blue bandanna wrapped around his neck until it covered everything but his eyes, pulled his turtleneck’s sleeves to his wrists, and then shot Ulrick a thumbs up.

Their first step past the threshold hit them like a wave with the overwhelming impression that they were shopping well outside their tax bracket. Surprisingly, weird, macabre magicians and the undead dudes they make out with weren’t in high demand for gainful employment opportunities.

Hemp totes, straw hats with wide, floppy brims, oxford button-downs, and ethereal sundresses surrounded them on every side, like they’d stumbled onto the photo shoot for a summer catalog and would be promptly escorted out. Ulrick almost wished they would escort him out. He felt out of place, and not just because buying more than two cucumbers could bankrupt them. What if they were discovered?

This had admittedly been a constant concern of Ulrick’s when venturing out into public with Sett, and the background of judgmental yuppies couldn’t help. But this was important.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and halted his thought train to look up and see the vaguely worried scrunch of Sett’s eyebrows. “You alright?” Sett signed.

Ulrick smiled and tucked his arm around Sett’s. “Peachy,” he said. “Now, let’s get to window shopping.”

“Yeah,” Sett signed, alongside a low, hoarse chuckle. “We can’t afford any of this.”

The two weaved their way through row after row of white-capped stalls, packed high with produce so ripe and symmetrically sublime, Eden’s gardener would want tips. Occasionally, Ulrick would gravitate toward a vendor and inspect a pepper or gourd or rutabaga, excitedly detailing their properties and functionalities in the art of necromancy, and how banging they taste in stew. Sett, past the “eating” stage of his nonlife, was nonetheless entranced with Ulrick’s passion.

But then the first scream came, and they knew it was time to relocate.

There were far more strollers than one might expect in any venue that wasn’t a daycare, and children invariably screamed their faces purple when confronted with Sett, zombie-visage covered or not, so they spent the day bouncing around like pinballs every time they ran into a scream-flipper.

This was, perhaps, more fun than it should have been; made even more fun in their lightning round when Sett would slingshot from stroller to stroller, leaving a banshee shriek of wailing infants in his wake.

Satisfied with the day’s torment, they situated themselves at a stand parallel to the entrance, giving them a clear view of the area with the highest foot traffic.

“What about him?” Ulrick said, pointing to a fellow in a navy blue cardigan, his blond crest of hair frozen in place with holding gel.

“Hmm. Pass. I don’t want to eat the brain that thought that was a good look,” signed Sett.

“Alright, what about her?” Ulrick asked. She had long brunette hair, a pair of dirt-caked overalls, and a carrot-filled wicker basket held to one hip.

“Pass,” Sett signed.

“What? Why?” said Ulrick.

“She looks like she enjoys gardening. I hate gardening.”

“Jeez, you’re a picky eater. Uh...” Ulrick purveyed the area. “How about her?” He gestured to a well-dressed woman standing at a stall and violently shaking cantaloupes, with two toddlers standing nearby on a leash.

Sett used his hand as a visor to get a better look. “Oh, snack,” he signed. “Someone’s gotta free those kids.”

Ulrick stopped giggling long enough to search for another person, pausing at a muscular man in a gray, fitted tee, with his hair thrown into a messy bun. “Okay, him. What about him?”

“Meh. Pass,” Sett signed, seeming to barely acknowledge the farmers’ market Adonis.

“Oh, come on. Really? You’re gonna pass on that?”

“Eh, just not my type, really.”

“Not your type!” Ulrick repeated. “I’ve seen you eat literal roadkill!”

“And yet you still kiss me. So, who’s the weird one here?”

“It’s still you, my guy.”

Sett scoffed. “If you like him so much, why don’t you eat him?” he signed.

His disbelief teetered from amusement to annoyance.

"I would totally eat him!" Ulrick shouted, a bit more intensely than he'd expected.

Without Ulrick noticing, the farmers' market had gone ghost town quiet. His eyes flitted around to all of the bemused faces, the manbun he’d been hypothetically sautéing included, and then quickly to Sett for moral support, but found him hunched over a stall, studiously comparing the firmness of two tomatoes. "Uh..." Ulrick sputtered to a disconcerted, now mumbling smattering of onlookers. "You know, like... in a sex way?" After a moment, the ambiance shifted with a chorus of 'ah's and a lone 'still gross.' Farmers' market commotion shortly resumed as if the topic of cannibalism had never been on the forum floor. He had to regroup before his questioning glare could have its intended withering effect. Sett simply shrugged and signed, "You told me to keep a low profile." Ulrick paused and then tried in vain not to snicker. "Oh, drop dead," he said, rolling his eyes.

#flash fiction #A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend

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andersunmenschlich · 3 years

Text

Genesis 2

That’s the end of creation! That’s how absolutely everything got created, bar none, creation finished, over, done, finito. No more creating. Bible says this “everything done” day is the seventh, so I guess the time before light and darkness got separated actually does count as a day. Who knew.

The gods, that’s who.

Anyhow, the gods made the seventh day a holy day, set apart as super special because that’s when they finished all the creating. The first day ever that they didn’t do any creating at all. They were done.

And now, suddenly, in verse four, the writer changes.

No, I’m not kidding. It’s a very abrupt shift. Most noticeably, we’re not talking about the gods in general anymore: “אֱלֹהִ֖ים” is now always prefaced by “יְהוָ֥ה”—Yhvh, a specific god! “Gods” gets used like a last name now. It’s like, instead of “the Millers did thus-and-such,” now it’s “Alex Miller did thus-and-such.”

New writer. Real obvious.

Anyway! Our new divinely inspired writer takes us back to before the gods told the earth to sprout plants.

This writer tells us that the reason there weren’t any plants was because Yhvh God hadn’t made it rain or created Adam to aerate and fertilize the ground. Strange. I’d gotten the impression that there weren’t any plants because the gods hadn’t created them yet.

Our new writer also tells us that mist rose from inside the earth and watered the ground. Huh.

That would seem to make the lack of rain unimportant. Why say that there weren’t any plants because there was no rain when rain wasn’t needed?

Weird.

Anyway, Yhvh God took some dirt and shaped it into a kind of golem, then breathed into its nose, and poof! Adam.

Uh.

The plants still haven’t been created. I definitely remember Adam coming after the plants.

Land, space, water, and darkness—light, night, and day—sky—sea, dry land, plants—sun, moon, and stars—sea creatures and flying things—land animals—then Adam. And after Adam, nothing except deciding what everything but the sea creatures are going to eat.

Adam was last. I remember that very clearly (it was only ten or eleven verses ago). What kind of divinely inspired contradiction is this?

Ow, no, don’t throw things.

I’m just confused, that’s all. I don’t know how Adam could be created both before and after the plants. Probably I’m stupid. The Bible couldn’t be wrong, after all! Somehow, I’m sure, the gods created Adam male and female on the sixth day and Yhvh God created Adam plain old male on the third day. I don’t know how that’s possible. But the Bible says it happened, so it must have.

Ah, I know. The first writer messed up the plurals and singulars. Divine inspiration ruined by mortal stupidity! There’s only one god—Yhvh God—and there were two Adams, one male and one female.

...Except that still leaves the problem of those two Adams being made on both the third day and the sixth. Uh.

And wait, this new writer says there was only one Adam, one single male Adam.

...Okay, so the first writer messed up hard, then. They wrote “gods” instead of “god.” They said one intersex Adam… or maybe two Adams, one male and one female… were created on the sixth day instead of one male Adam being created on the third.

That’s… that’s some serious error right there.

Ow! Ow! Quit it!

Look, it’s not my fault! I’m not trying to make the Bible inconsistent! It’s just, look! First the Bible says man was created after the plants and now it says man was created before the plants!

This isn’t my fault! I didn’t make it say that! It just says it, all on its own!

Ow!

All right, all right!

So maybe I misread? Maybe the first part wasn’t meant to be read in a strictly linear way? I know it’s all “this happened, then this happened, then this happened—the first day. This happened, then this happened—the second day.” But maybe you’re supposed to skip around? Maybe the things that apparently happen in one day are actually happening in another?

…That’s stupid! No! I can’t convince myself of that at all!

Ow, ow, okay! Maybe I just don’t understand it because I’m the stupid one, and I’ll never be able to understand it no matter how hard I try—not because it’s dumb, but because I am. Fine, fine, you win, I give up.

So, after creating Adam, Yhvh God creates a garden in a place called Pleasure (“עֵדֶן,” Eden), and sticks Adam in the garden. Yhvh God also makes all kinds of trees that are pretty and/or produce tasty fruit grow in the garden, as well as the tree of Life and the tree of Being Able to Tell the Difference Between Good and Bad.

Side note to tell us about a river that runs through the garden, then splits into four rivers, each of which runs through or along a different place.

The original river doesn’t get a name, but the other four are Increase, Bursting Forth, Rapid, and Fruitfulness. Increase runs through the land of Circle (which has just the best gold, you guys, and awesome gum resin and precious stones, too). Bursting Forth goes through the land of Black. Rapid runs along the east side of Assyria. And we all know Fruitfulness, everyone knows the Euphrates, no need to explain that any further here.

Why this is important, I don’t know. Scene-setting? Nobody’s been able to find the garden of Pleasure using these directions, so it can’t be for that. Anyway, I’m sure Yhvh God knew perfectly well, when he was inspiring this writer, that a worldwide flood was gonna seriously change topography later on.

So the idea is that Adam will be a gardener.

No, this is obvious. There were no plants because there was no man to cultivate the ground? Adam gets put in the garden to tend and keep it?

There’s a reason man exists, and it’s to look after Yhvh God’s plants.

Ow! What?

Oh, the whole “dominate every living thing and even the earth itself” thing? Look. I’m not sure how much I want to trust that first writer, what with their gods and adams and plants being created before humans and all.

Yeouch! Dagnabbit, what?

I can’t throw out any of the Bible? I have to make all of it make sense, all together?

But it contradicts!

Ow! Stop it!

Okay, okay, it doesn’t contradict! I’m stupid! Men exist both to look after plants and to dominate everything, they were created on the third day and on the sixth day, they were spoken into being and they were dirt brought to life, they were male and female and they were just male!

Yhvh God told Adam he could eat fruit from every tree in the garden except anything off the tree of knowing the difference between good and bad, because if he ate anything from that tree “מ֥וֹתתָּ׃ מֽוּת”—he’d be as dead as dead gets that very day.

Then Yhvh God gets to thinking that maybe it’s not great for Adam to be alone.

Uh.

Don’t hit me, but didn’t Adam have Yhvh God? Like… was he really alone? God was there! I grew up hearing that when God’s with you, you’re never alone.

What good is “I will never leave you nor forsake you” if, even with God there, you’re still alone?

Augh, no! I’m sorry I asked!

[nervous breathing, cough]

Okay. So.

Since it’s not good for Adam to be alone (and he’s alone even with God), Yhvh God decides to make a suitable helper for him. Which Yhvh God does by forming animal golems out of dirt and bringing them to life.

….

I… look, I know I’m dumb. But I swear this contradicts what we were told in chapter one.

“Let birds fly above the earth across the face of the sky” on day five, before Adam was ever made, and “let the earth bring forth living creatures” on day six, also before Adam was made, is not compatible with “out of the ground Yhvh God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air and brought them to Adam to see what he would call them.”

Don’t you try to tell me Yhvh God had formed every beast of the field! “וַיִּצֶר֩” is a consecutive imperfect verb just like “וַיָּבֵא֙” (“and brought them”)! They’re the same tense!

Ow! Fine, I’ll move on.

So, being as God isn’t good enough company, he figures maybe a horse will work as a companion for Adam. Or a cow, maybe. How about a dung beetle? Pigeon?

Yhvh God seems kind of stupid, honestly.

Aaah! Fire! No! Bad! Put down the—where did you even get those pitchforks?!?

Right, so, Yhvh God makes all the animals and birds out of dirt and brings them to Adam, in the garden of Pleasure, and whatever Adam calls each one is the name it gets. This is probably a real long process, on account of how many different animals there are, but even after Adam’s named the very last glyptapanteles wasp, he and Yhvh God still haven’t turned up any lower animal suitable to be Adam’s companion and helper.

So Yhvh God goes ahead and makes a more appropriate lower animal.

Ow! Dangit! Look, I’m just saying! It’d be one thing if Adam and Eve were made at the same time, in the same way, like they maybe were in Genesis 1:27, but this is Genesis 2:22, and Eve is obviously not Adam’s equal here!

She’s a tiny part of Adam, a bit he can do without. Yhvh God puts him in a coma, pulls out a single rib. That’s Eve.

Like Adam says when he wakes up and sees her, she’s one of his own bones, a piece of his own body. She’s not her own being as such, she’s a little chunk of him that was removed so he’d have company.

Don’t look at me like that!

What other conclusion are readers expected to draw when one person is literally a single bone pulled from the other one? Especially when the bone-person was made specifically for the sake of the original human.

Anyway, the new writer says this is why a man leaves his parents and is joined to his wife such that the two become one flesh: because that’s what they were in the beginning, one body. The man goes looking for his missing rib and clings to it—the rib gets absorbed by the original body. Man is not complete without woman (woman is never complete, any more than a gear is complete with or without a clock: it’s the clock that’s complete with the gear, and incomplete without it).

Stop hitting me! What is wrong with you people? This interpretation was accepted just fine for hundreds of years, and you know it! This new idea that the Bible would never say women were created not on their own merits but rather for the sake of men—it’s completely ridiculous because look, Bible!

Don’t like the idea of women being lesser than men? Too bad! Leviticus 12:2 and 5! 1 Corinthians 11:9! Ephesians 5:22! Deal with it!

And now another side note: they were both completely unclothed, and it didn’t bother them psychologically. No shame, no embarrassment, none of that. No word on how they felt re: weather, plants, bugs, etc.

End of chapter.

Anyone else feel like these chapters end a bit awkwardly? Like they were randomly slapped in by people who weren’t actually reading any of it?

#Bible #Genesis 2 #nondenominational Christianity #upbringing #Isaiah reads

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howtodisassembleyourdeviant · 4 years

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Be My Garden of Eden Ch.3

I kinda screwed up. I didn't realize it, but I ended the last chapter too early, so this is more like ch. 2.5, but I'll just post it as it's own and call it good. I'm still new to Tumblr, and I have to use my phone, so if the format keeps changing or I do weird things, it's because I don't know what the f*ck I'm doing. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!!!

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He didn't want to disturb you, so he left, moving to the couch. Turning on the tv, he flipped through the channels, ensuring the volume was low. A cooking show popped up and he paused. An older woman promoting independence from androids giving step by step instructions on how to make crepes. He watched with rapt attention, the end result looks quite beautiful. It seemed simple enough.

An idea occurred to him. He moved to the kitchen, forming a list of ingredients he would need. He was... Giddy. He had never cooked before. It wasn't a program required for a sex android, particularly one from such a low-grade shack as Mimosa. He was happy to discover you were fully stocked, quickly finding all the items and tools he would require.

You awoke the next morning, a jarring sound waking you. Jumping up, you almost ran out without a top on, rushing to throw on your robe.

"Connor? Are you alright?" You looked around the living room, seeing no sign of the android. Hearing another banging sound, you rounded to the kitchen, peeking inside.

"Wow." You gaped. Your kitchen was an absolute mess. What looked like pancake batter was splattered everywhere, a large puddle on the floor, and from the skidmark in it, you'd guess the sound that woke you up was Connor falling. You could see the scorchmark around one of the burners, baking soda adding to the mess on the floor and counters. Good to know you could have burned to death in your sleep. The pan in question lay abandoned in the sink, doused in the white powder and still smoking a bit.

Connor stood by the stove, just as messy as your kitchen, batter all down the right side of his jeans. Guilt made him look far too much like a kicked puppy, head down with his doe-eyes staring up at you through his long lashes. Next to him was a plate of crepes, in various states, some looked undercooked, while others were completely burnt. The best looking ones were on a separate plate, topped with strawberries and whipped cream.

"I'm sorry, I promise I'll-"

"Looks tasty," you giggled. His eyes shifted up, "did you make it for me?" You gestured to the plate.

"Uh, y-yes, I did," stammering, he handed you the plate.

"Thank you," you grabbed a fork and moved to the small breakfast nook. He watched with bated breath as you took your first bite. He relaxed when you hummed happily.

"This is really good, thank you, Con!" You really were surprised, considering the mess. His cheeks tinted a light shade of blue. Was he... Is that how androids blush? It looks absolutely adorable on him.

"I'm happy you enjoy it," he beamed, solidifying his puppy appearance in your mind. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging. You're not sure what you're enjoying more, the food or the sight of the delighted android. It's definitely a great way to wake up in the morning.

You couldn't help but wonder if this is how couples felt in the company of their lover, but you quickly stopped that train of thought. He's not staying. You can't afford for him to stay, and even if you could, he would go to Canada to start a new life. Without you. Still, it's nice to dream.

You ate while he cleaned the mess. you offered to take over from there, since he did cook for you, but he adamantly denied. Letting you clean would completely undo what he was trying to do. Not to mention, he was certain that, at your height, you would not be able to reach the splatters on the roof. You laughed when you noticed. How did he even manage that?

"You might want to clean yourself up as well," you jested, trying not to laugh at how the crepe mix kept dripping from his hair onto anything he was cleaning. he glanced down at himself, seeming to have just noticed how filthy he was, grimacing. The showers at the club were more identical to high-pressure decontamination chambers and lately it's been bothering his synthetic skin. He tries not to be in there any longer than necessary, but this might take longer to remove. When he just stood there, you sighed.

"Come on, there's still a couple hours left," you dragged him to the shower, "just leave your clothes outside the door. Hope you don't mind my girly soaps," you chuckled as you shut the door.

He stood, baffled for a moment, before he scanned the bathroom. He often wondered if the other androids felt the need to scan a room every time they entered one, or if it was none of their concern. Still, he took in the multicolored bottles of various bathroom supplies, noting nothing of significance.

He began to strip, realizing he could see himself in the mirror. He looked over his body, seeing the many imperfections along his skin. They were healed as well as they could be, but there were still marks, synthetic skin raised in a similar way to scar tissue, but tinted in a way that hid them well, at least, until they were touched. The most recent one, a strike to his hip, was still healing, the white chassis visible. Tentatively, he touched it, flinching away from his own fingers as a jolt of unpleasant tingles shot out from the wound. Pain. Why could he feel pain? He tore his attention away from it, pushing his fear away. He can't think about it now. It was too… real. He can't make it real.

Connor turned his attention to his face, bringing up the memory of your painting. He looked similar to the man, but where the man's eyes held a sense of serenity, his own looked empty, devoid of something. How could you see anything in such a vacant stare?

Looking at himself, he finds, is ruining the illusion. He was making things real when all he wants to do is pretend that this was his life. That there was no outside world. No Club Mimosa. No humans using him as a sex toy. No owner beating him. Just him and you, watching cartoons. He turned away from the mirror.

Just him and you.

When he exited the shower, smelling wholly of you, something he quite enjoyed, he realized he had no clothes. You had taken them to be washed after he left them outside of the bathroom. He tried knocking on the door, but you didn't answer. You were a modest person, so he figured you would not appreciate him walking out naked. He took a towel, noting its small size, and wrapped it around his waist before walking out. After a quick search, he found you rummaging around your closet.

"Y/n?" You jumped.

"Shit! I didn't hear you…" your voice trailed off as you twirled to look at him, coming face to face with six-foot of dripping android, muscular chest bare for the world to see. Your cheeks flared and your mouth suddenly felt parched. You turned away, returning to your search. Connor would be lying if he said he didn't like how flustered you looked.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," your voice was a tad jittery.

After a moment, you called "Ah-Haa!" Holding up a large pair of sweatpants, far too large for yourself.

"Some of my last roommate's clothes were thrown in one of my moving boxes. They should fit you, at least until your clothes are done in the wash." You tossed him the sweats and a sweater you had already placed on the side, finally emerging from the closet. "You go ahead and get dressed, I gotta make a phone call." He nodded, watching as your cheeks flushed again while you made your exit.

The material was soft on his skin, and he didn't feel constricted as he had in his android labeled clothes. The sweater was quite large on him, but he liked it, how it hung off him, burying him in its softness. The odd stripes on it were rather jarring, but the individual pigments are pleasant.

"…later on tonight. Thanks." You hung up the phone. "Well, I can't afford another night, but you don't have to go running off once your clothes are done." He smiled. Just a little longer. He doesn't have to break the illusion just yet.

"Thank you," it was all he could think to say, but it didn't come anywhere close to how much he truly appreciated what you were doing for him.

"It's no problem. I wish I could offer you better," the last sentence was said under your breath as you looked away, towards the window. "Wanna see the fish? I forgot to feed them yesterday, so they must be quite hungry."

He wanted to tell you how much this time with you meant to him. Every moment cherished. If he had to suffer a thousand beatings just to get one more minute with you, it would be worth it. You made him feel different. You made him feel…

Alive.

But, even as the words burned his tongue in their desperation to leave his lips, he only smiled, following you to the backyard.

The afternoon was spent enjoying the early autumn sun, watching the brightly colored fish, dashing to their meal, or simply floating along, letting the food come to them. There were even a couple of turtles, sunning themselves on the rocks. It was tranquil, like a dream.

And like all dreams, he had to wake up sometime.

The setting sun marked his time to leave, exchanging the comfort of your sweater for his stiff android uniform. You gave him a pouch of thirium, figuring he could find a way to hide it, before hugging him. You held on so tightly, hands clinging to him harder than the last time. He held on for as long as he could before breaking away, feeling an ache in his chest.

#connor x reader #rk800 connor reader #connor reader #connor fanfiction #dbh #witchjules #am i doing it right?#detroit become human #rk800 reader #dbh au

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years

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Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: M // NSFW

Genre: Series | Mafia!AU | Crime!AU | Angst | Romance/Fluff

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Smut, Slow Burn

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,451

Chapter 19: Mikrokosmos

"Each person has their own history. Each person has their own star."

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

A chorus of “A-men” resounded throughout the sanctuary and Jimin joined in with his fellow parishioners. His head was bowed low and he clasped his hands together in prayer, hoping that he could commend his spirit unto the Father whom he so desperately believed in. He wished to leave his burdens on the altar and rest his mind as easily as he would dare.

But even in that act, Jimin was a sinner.

Every Sunday he tried to leave his pain and worries and everything that afflicted him at the altar of the Lord – at God’s table. But he selfishly took something back with him every time. He did not fully relinquish his burdens upon God because he also knew that the Father would never put on him more than he could bear. He believed that his anxieties were seemingly petty. They were the young and foolish woes of a man who barely knew what it meant to live his life.

And yet, despite his hypocrisy, Jimin continued to return to the House of the Lord. He continued to pray diligently; not for himself, but for his brothers. For the people he cared about and for the people they, in turn, cared for. It was a never-ending cycle, a seemingly bottomless pit. Or was it more appropriate to say that the connections that people had with each other could literally number the stars?

Would it be that way for generations to come? He wished for it; for the pain and suffering to end. For a true and lasting peace to be obtained.

He truly wasn’t meant to remain in a world of darkness.

Halfway through the reverend’s sermon, the doors to the sanctuary opened. A few parishioners turned their heads and bowed politely, their smiles warm and inviting. Jimin continued to focus on his prayer, Bible turned to Romans in his lap. However, a shadow was cast over the pages and he couldn’t help but to lift his head and see who was now standing beside him.

Jimin’s mouth fell open slightly and he blinked when he realized it was Eden.

Her hair was pulled back, a low braid draping over her shoulder. She wore a dark green dress with long sleeves and the skirt just barely touched her knees. Simple, black pumps adorned her feet and she was holding a black and gold clutch in her hands. A frown touched her lips before she sat down gently beside him, reaching toward the back of the pew for a Bible.

“What book are we in?” she whispered while opening the book.

“Wha—oh, we’re in Romans. Romans, Chapter twelve.”

Nodding, she turned to the book of Romans and followed along with the reverend as he continued to preach his sermon. No other words were spoken between them and they both sat together in companionable silence. They sang together, prayed together, and even participated in Holy Communion together. It was when Jimin finished off the wine that he realized why Eden decided to show up.

It was First Sunday. No matter how busy or how upset she was with the world, Eden always made time to come to Holy Communion.

After the morning service was finished, fellow parishioners invited everyone to enjoy a meal together. Jimin often declined since he had other obligations during the day. This morning would be no different.

Both he and Eden politely bowed to the others before exiting the church.

Her heels clicked along the stone walkway leading to the steps that fanned out toward the parking lot. Jimin’s longer legs kept pace with her the entire way. However, instead of returning to her vehicle or even out onto the main street where she would have taken the bus, Eden turned and walked along the path leading toward the church’s expansive back garden. Jimin followed since she didn’t seem to protest his company.

When she reached a stone bench, Eden sat down and fished around in her clutch. Jimin couldn’t help the smirk that touched his lips as she pulled out a cigarette. Shaking his head, he sighed and took a seat next to her.

“Really?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “We just finished with service.”

Eden pointed two fingers at him, the cigarette perched between them. “Don’t start, Jimin-ah,” she said while pulling out a lighter. “The Lord will be happy that I showed up for service at all.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her on that. After everything that happened, he was almost positive that Eden wasn’t going to show up to church ever again. Jimin understood why she was upset, and he didn’t blame her for doubting him or even Jungkook. But it would have been a lie to himself if her mistrust didn’t hurt him. It did. They’d known each other for the better part of three years now. Despite being a devout Christian, the path he walked often forced him to go against the teachings of the Lord.

Jimin felt so dirty when he entered sacred ground.

Like Jungkook, Jimin did not hide his affiliation with the criminal underworld from Eden. She accepted it and didn’t even look down on him for his status. She even once told him that the fact that he went to church meant that he felt some semblance of guilt for what he was doing. He always prayed in earnest and Eden knew that he was genuinely kind and decent human being. At least that was how she saw him. At the end of the day, however, it was how he was seen in the eyes of God that mattered the most.

Being reminded of that by her lifted his spirits even just a little.

He waited until she exhaled smoke from her nostrils to speak. “Eden Noona,” Jimin prodded softly, “about Yoongi Hyung…”

“If you’re about to give me some kind of excuse for what he did, then don’t bother.” She tapped a bit of ash from the end of her cigarette. “I’m not in the mood.”

Jimin sighed. “Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”

She crossed one leg over the other, cradling her arm as she held her cigarette away from her face. Eden’s eyes cut sideways to look at him and he could see a mixture of anger and hurt swirling in her eyes. “Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly.” She took a long drag from her cigarette, flicking off an ash as smoke exhaled from between her lips. “Thus saith the Lord.”

“You can’t hold onto that forever, Noona. Him aside, it’s not good for you.”

He watched her crush out the cherry on the ground by her shoe before tossing it into a nearby waste basket. She saw her smirk, but it was a mirthless gesture. “I bet you don’t even know how long he and I were together, do you?” Eden turned to look at him. “Or how we even met?”

Jimin shook his head, his brows furrowing. “But I can listen, if you’d like.”

She scoffed, a hand reaching up to finger at her braid. “We met in the States six years ago. I guess you could say we were friends. But considering that everything I’ve known about him has been a lie, now I’m not so sure.” Sighing, she let her hand fall to her lap. “I came here a year after that. We started dating then. And we continued to date for three more years.”

Jimin’s heart thumped heavily against his chest. Five years ago?

It was an absolute madhouse in their world and yet Yoongi continued to make time for a woman he cared for? There was a part of Jimin that could hardly believe what he was hearing. The Yoongi Hyung he knew was deemed as The Lightning Claw for a reason. He was swift and deadly, striking without provocation and leaving devastation in his wake. The world they entered nearly ten years ago was at its peak of violence and chaos back then. Blood splattered across the streets and sometimes the aftermath was so terrible that not even the police would step in.

“For three years, I believed he was keeping me away from his friends and family because he didn’t want them to know he was dating some half Korean orphan girl. He would leave for days, supposedly on a business trip, and then come back like nothing happened.”

But now that he thought about it, there were days that Yoongi would just take off. He would disappear and come back a few days later. Even after he started making more international moves, he would never be gone for more than a week or so at a time. And when he came home, he would do his standard debriefing before heading out again. They all assumed he was with someone, but he never spoke up about it. Jimin even remembered Yoongi almost coming to blows with Taehyung when he wouldn’t ease off with his incessant teasing, prodding Yoongi to introduce her to them.

“I never knew where he lived but he always came to my house. We hardly went out in Gangnam and when we did, it was always late. We mostly would just take trips together out of town. It just didn’t make sense to me.”

When the fighting was especially bad, Yoongi waited until all his injuries were completely healed before disappearing again. While Jimin couldn’t imagine what persona his brother was attempting to portray, he knew that he never wanted Eden to worry over him because of how bloody and disgusting their world actually was. Wanting to push her as far away from that madness as possible certainly wasn’t unreasonable.

But he knew that Eden wouldn’t see it that way. She’d been damaged by his dishonesty which, as a result, caused her current trust issues. Now, after finding out the truth, he honestly couldn’t be upset with how standoffish she was being. Who wouldn’t be?

“All this time, I thought he was just bored or was too busy to be with me. But the truth?” Eden scoffed, then laughed. “He was ashamed.”

“Eden Noona,” offered Jimin, causing her to look away from him, “I’m sure it wasn’t like that. In fact, I know it wasn’t. We all bothered him constantly about who he was always running off to go see, but Hyung never wanted to give up any details and we respected his privacy enough not to get involved.” He lifted his hand to touch Eden’s shoulder. “You don’t understand what life was like back then. Turf wars were happening all over Seoul and we were just fighting to keep a leg up in the game. I’m sure he just didn’t want you to get mixed up in all of that or even get hurt.”

He saw her roll her eyes. “The path to hell is paved with good intentions.” She rounded on him. “That wasn’t his choice to make, Jimin-ah!” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you even realize how much danger he put me in by keeping me in the dark? What if a rival gang decided to kidnap me? What if they tried to use me to take advantage of you guys?”

Jimin averted his gaze, realizing that she wasn’t wrong either. He knew that going into a situation blindly was just as dangerous as knowingly walking into enemy territory. Had that very scenario occurred, there was a good chance that it would have ended badly. The times were not so forgiving in those days. Even Jimin transformed into a monster, seeing red and spilling blood as easily as a child spilled milk.

“I understand why you’re angry, Noona, I do,” he said, his hand sliding off her shoulder, “but there’s no way for us to determine if what he did was the best choice or the worst choice.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Can’t you just forgive him this once? Not for his sake, but for yours?”

He didn’t move his eyes from hers, hoping that his sincerity would come across as best as he could. It was no secret how Jungkook felt about Eden and while he wasn’t sure if Yoongi still felt the same, he wanted there to be peace between them all. They were so close to finally walking away from the darker parts of their past. They were finally going to be able to step out into the light again; to feel the sun on their cheeks and the rain on their skin. They could stop hiding and go back to being the people they used to be before willfully walking onto the road of darkness.

“I don’t want to see this eating away at you anymore.”

Eden sighed and stood from the stone bench. Jimin immediately followed, watching her flatten out the skirts of her dress in the front. A soft breeze pushed against them, blowing his hair in different directions. A pained expression crossed her face before she took a breath and looked back at him. Her eyes seemed less angry, yet they appeared more hurt than they had been just a few minutes earlier.

“…I need time, Jimin-ah,” she finally said, causing a small ache to form in his chest. It was the softest he’d ever heard her speak in all the years he’d known her. “I just need some time to finally let it all go.”

Then she smiled at him, her hand reaching out to ruffle his hair a little bit. He gave a weak smile in response before watching her turn to head down the rest of the path and out of the garden. Jimin stood alone, waiting until he could no longer hear the clicking of her heels going down the sidewalk. When he turned his phone back on, there were a couple of missed calls, four text messages and one voicemail.

It was from Hoseok.

“Jimin-ah. I know you’re in service, so you don’t have to call me back. Come home as soon as you’ve finished. I’ll give you all the details when everyone is back.”

Sliding his phone into his pocket, he saw the small cluster of dark clouds beginning to form through the canopy of trees. A storm was coming.

“So,” Jimin said, his voice quiet, “it’s finally happening.”

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dbh-is-a-crime · 4 years

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All Dbh Chapters

@kaydel your reply to my ask has inspired me to give my thoughts on each of the chapters.

Chapter 1: The Hostage

Is honestly a good first chapter, the tension and stakes are high, it pulls you in. There's a reason people who played the demo were hyped for the game. And regardless of what I think of Cage's writing, it's not the first time he's done a solid intro to a game. (Swiftly followed by garbage but I digress..)

We learn something about deviancy and how it starts, we get a sequence of dialogue based gameplay to set up how important it is to the story, and we get a taste of Connor’s somewhat underdeveloped investigation gameplay.

I will admit that there are several lines I kind of like in this scene (’You can’t kill me, I’m not alive’ I’d like this even better if Bryan didn’t love it so much) And most of the outcomes are very cool!

Chapter 2: Opening

Is not a chapter, it's the opening credits. It's not really interesting, but it's not as bad as Heavy Rain's, only because it's about half as long. Kara was robbed.

Chapter 3: Shades of Color

What a title am I right! And no, it's not just because of the paints. This chapter, title aside, isn't bad! We don't learn anything about Markus but it sets the world up nicely. It's one of the cooler open areas. It shows off the graphics nicely.

And all of that is promptly ruined by the overly heavy-handed scene with the protesters. With the follow up of the back of the bus! Also the preacher guy is weird what was the point of that.

Chapter 4: A New Home

Easily one of the most (if not The Most) boring chapters in the game. Mundane QTEs? We all looooooove those! At the end of the chapter you get some exposition to a very nice composition (this game really would be nothing without the music) and that part is actually ok. But the mundane housework gameplay doesn’t get a pass, even if it is to give context for what the life of an android is like. Would be 100% better if there was 40% less housework.

Chapter 5: The Painter

A solid chapter! Learning about Markus through his interactions with Carl? An actual good narrative device? Unbelievable. At surface level their relationship is sweet and Carl is so supportive of Markus growing beyond his programming. Though there is a darker undertone that mirrors the caged android birds. And that it’s all a gilded cage. And I like both of those interpretations, they’re interesting.

The music mini game is interesting the first time you do it but after that I’m never picking it again, chess it is from now on.

Chapter 6: Partners

Connor’s return after 5 chapters. I think that might be the longest break between appearances for any of them. Anyway this chapter is mostly fine. It sets up Hank and Connor’s troubled partnership and shows us what most of Connor’s gameplay is going to be. (Detective work and trying to reason with Hank) It would be interesting if there was an option to let Ortiz’ android go, seeing as there if a version of the scene where you don’t find him. But I guess it’s too early for Connor to be disobeying.

Chapter 7: Stormy Night

Classic David Cage has women being abused by men! Unfortunately this is one of Kara’s best chapters. The tension from the very first moment if real, and as soon as Alice runs up stairs, you just know what’s going to happen. Without fail, every person I’ve ever watched, immediately tries to follow her. Honestly? Solid way to make me care about the kid.

I know some folks have problems with showing child abuse on screen, but my opinion is that they kept the worst of it as implied, like in the failed ending of the chapter, you don’t see it actually happen. So I’m personally okay with it, but I can understand why some may disagree.

10/10 for the chase/escape scene. It’s stressful as hell but honestly the music just makes it...like idk the moment Kara deviates? I nearly, literally screamed the first time. The build up to it is so good, and you as the player are determined to protect Alice and will fight through the programming to do it.

Chapter 8: Broken

Gonna be honest, Markus’ deviating scene falls a little flatter for me. I’ve watched several people play for the first time and actively not want to break programming and retaliate. Which makes the fact that its a scripted event you can’t avoid frustrating to them. I guess we just haven’t seen any anger from him yet so it doesn’t feel like the reaction you expect? (I get that it’s supposed to be him finally cracking, the story just...doesn’t convey that very well.)

Also the fact that you get punished for staying silent with Carl dying is shitty.

Chapter 9: The Interrogation

Talk about fucking tense! This scene is a real challenge, in either difficulty. Unless you don’t care about the android self-destructing?

I don’t have much else to say, it’s not a bad scene but there’s not a lot of substance to it. The ‘the day will come when we will no longer be slaves’ line is...the start of the truly terrible writing choices in this game.

Chapter 10: Fugitives

Not a bad scene. Getting to choose to steal a bunch of stuff is fun, and the fact that you can steal all this shit and then go and sleep in the car is pretty funny. I don’t like the house or Ralph, just because it’s another chance to put a female character at risk from a male character. 7/10 I’m never picking the house. (Also did you know you can fail to steal from that guy in the laundromat and he wakes up lmao)

Chapter 11: From The Dead

Ok this is going to be kind of a controversial opinion...but I’m tired of this scene. While it’s true that no scene in the game holds up on the 20th watch/play, this scene lost most of it’s shock value on the 3rd watch. Now that being said, the sound design in the scene is brilliant. And putting the audio processor back in does still give me chills, but the rest of the scene? I mean, I guess cannibalising other androids is a pretty powerful story action. But the fact that you can take all of the things you need from dead androids if you search hard enough kind of ruins that for me.

Also idk why but everyone collectively thinks that Markus screams when he reaches the top of the slope and I have no idea why.

Chapter 12: Waiting For Hank

Boooooooring. Ok, getting beat up by Gavin after refusing to make him coffee is mildly interesting. But the fact that Hank just hates you in the scene is honestly quite tiring. Like, his opinion of Connor will inevitably go down at least once, you can’t avoid that. Also there’s nothing to explore in the office so...

Chapter 13: On The Run

Both versions of this scene are very tense. And not in...a super fun way. Like ok, Kara has that empowering woman moment where she cuts her hair, great, but the rest of the scene isn’t that good. (And the version with Ralph is downright disturbing.)

Chapter 14: Jericho

Oh god let’s players cannot do this part. And the amount of time I’ve spent watching people run around clueless because they weren’t paying even the slightest attention or follow the obvious path, makes me hate this chapter. I also hate it because the gameplay isn’t very interesting. Markus’ precog is mildly interesting, but that’s really it. (The end of this chapter has some pretty stunning visuals tho)

Chapter 15: The Nest

Ok, the opening conversation with Hank is cute if Connor is trying to be nice. Though the actual chase is pretty tense. The music is on point as always, because the composers for this game were very overqualified for the job. Also the fact that you get punished for not saving Hank both amuses and vexes me. You don’t catch the guy because you were a shitty partner. But what was the point of taking the risk with Hank if there’s no reward? (Yes I know he still ends up in evidence lock up but that’s hardly reward enough for risking your partner’s life)

I mean okay the pigeons flying through the roof is pretty funny, but the investigation in the apartment isn’t all that interesting. Also I’ve just realised I haven’t mentioned the Zen Garden once but honestly most of the scenes there aren’t that interesting anyway.

Chapter 16: Time To Decide

Wow where do I start on how uninteresting this chapter is. You learn very little about Markus’ companions, you get to have a conversation with a magical minority, and you get a line about an android being dragged behind the back of a car. (After reading the wiki about James Byrd I feel genuinely sick and could not be more disgusted that this was used so clumsily in the game.)

Chapter 17: Zlatko

His name sounds like a brand. Also this is my least favourite Kara chapter. They go to his place for almost no reason (just so they can get caught) and we get a 20 minute scene of Zlatko being a cartoonish monster of a man. Also this has been pointed out and now I can’t stop thinking about it. Why is Kara scared of Luther when she sees him? Like...??? Anyway re-finding her memories is boring, finding Alice is also boring, and hiding from Zlatko is just stressful. Nothing interesting to the story happens here, except that Luther joins Kara and Alice.

Chapter 18: Russian Roulette

Perhaps the shortest chapter in the game. It’s not like...super boring, but it’s not interesting either. Also don’t forget to notice the picture on the table or you’ll have no chance of getting the good ending later! Seriously, they should have made it a requirement for the scene to move on if it’s going to be that important.

Chapter 19: Spare Parts

The whole freerunning thing at the start is lame. And the fact that you have to grab the android and then release him to get the best outcome is confusing as hell. (I have seen many folks fuck this up.) The part where you sneak around in the guard house is actually kind of cool. Also North go down if you’re nice to people....I love this game.

Chapter 20: The Eden Club

Pity the lesbian sexworker androids!!! In all seriousness though this is a chapter I do not like. The endings are unfulfilling, the whole storyline is gross, poorly written and very Cage-esque. (Also why would you make the two android lovers the same model?! Just make one of them one of the other 8 female WR800 models you have!) I mean I guess I can say that the glowly design of the sexclub is nice or whatever.

Chapter 21: Pirate’s Cove

Ok this is a personal one but I don’t like this chapter. Something about the family dynamic between the three falls flat for me and so the whole scene being about them makes it...ehh. Also Kara under threat again! Woohoo! The scene on the carousel is kind of cute and the scene composition is nice, but the fact that all the Jerrys are standing around watching is a little weird. Also bait us with rA9 crap why don’t you! we’ll just never learn anything about this i guess

Chapter 22: The Bridge

I like this chapter to be honest. I know Pirate’s Cove is meant to be relaxed but I find this chapter more relaxing. Even if it ends with a gun to Connor’s head. I mean it’s not that hard to not get shot really. And seeing Hank start to care and question their mission is interesting. I don’t know, I guess I just like the visuals of the snow and the bridge. (Anyone notices that it goes from raining to snowing like three days later, wtf)

Chapter 23: The Stratford Tower

Now this one is complicated. Because I like the breaking in and getting up to the broadcast department part, I even like the pre-speech tension. Markus carrying the weight of history and knowing his words will shape what people across the world think of androids.

The music as he gets ready to start the speech is....just so good. But then he starts talking and.....mmmmm press x for civil right yes please! Press square to end slavery? Absolutely! God...the writing in this scene is Bad. Which is a shame! Because it squanders the carefully crafted tension built up until this point. I like the energy going into this scene, the idea that they’re about to take a stand, make history. But it is unfortunately ruined for the sake of a poorly executed racism allegory.

Chapter 24: Public Enemy

Ok, going to investigate the crime scene of what you just did as Markus is pretty good. Its not an original idea, that was the opening sequence for Indigo Prophecy, but it still works I’m not going to lie. Also the cop from the Hostage showing up to thank you if you saved him is cute. The fact that Hank is starting to question Connor and look for signs of deviancy in him is also nice! Also I hate it but going after Simon gives you a more cohesive storyline if you’re going for a deviant Connor route. (Can I get an F for Simon? He can die so many different ways)

Chapter 25: Midnight Train

Can’t believe that the chapter about the underground railroad is literally called Midnight Train. Yeah the dialogue in this? Shocking, terrible, absolutely unforgivable. Rose I am so sorry this happened to you. Also a cop arrives to....put Kara in peril at the hands of a male character again! Can’t go a chapter without that!

Chapter 26: Capitol Park

Hmmmmmmmmm. ‘We have a dream’? ‘I can’t breathe, but I’m still alive’? Hi, yes, hello? David Cage is doing it again, yeah he’s co-opting black history for his story about androids, somebody needs to stop him. Why did no one stop him.

Ok, most of this chapter other than that is ok. It’s not particularly good, but it’s ok. (wiLL yOu bE gOoD oR eViL?!?!1)

Chapter 27: Meet Kamski

Ok this man is so creepy and emotionally manipulative and as a narrative tool I’ve actually come to love it. Like the tone of this chapter is such a breath of fresh air. Maybe it’s just the fact that they added a new character after such a long time and that he knows more than he ever lets on. rA9 baited again...

Also this is Connor’s turning point in a way. You can still choose to change your path later on, but this is the real moment of truth where a character pushes him to reveal where he’s at. (Also the fucking MUSIC)

Chapter 28: Freedom March

Oh no. I’m so sorry Markus you deserve better. I hate this chapter if you can’t tell. The combo of the black history slogans and the jesus music is too much for me. Also the good ending is locked behind Simon being alive/Spare Parts success route??? Also F for that random android who’s name is John that we hear about twice.

Chapter 29: Last Chance, Connor

I usually keep a low profile with Gavin so I miss out on the beatdown unfortunately. But having the option is hilarious. If you don’t sacrifice at the march, Simon is alive, interrogation bad end, Rupert and the Tracis escape....can you even find Jericho?

Just a thought, anyway this is short but tense chapter. Don’t hate it.

Chapter 30: Crossroads

Kara’s part of this is dumb as hell. The Alice twist literally destroys the storyline but anyway...

Markus has very little to do until the end. His version is ok, but Jesse’s line delivery leaves something to be desired. (You’re one of us....)

Connor’s is easily the most interesting of the three concurrent stories at this point. Going in to capture Markus/North, chasing them through the hold if ur a machine..very good.

And....going deviant. Okay yes that still gets me, I did actually shout YES!! out loud the first time I witnessed it. The music’s slow build in the scene, and most of the dialogue (if you choose carefully) swells to this point and...and..it happens!!

Like idk I’ve only been slowly building up to this for 9 hours, sue me.

Chapter 31: Night Of The Soul

I like this chapter! Or Markus’ version anyway. Connor’s...well the Hank version is just sad. The Jericho version is fine.

But Markus? Visiting Carl’s grave or the man himself is such an emotional moment for the character. And the single humanising moment he’s had in several chapters. The conversation is so weighted with his doubts and fears and Jesse Williams gives a beautiful performance! (Also as I’ve said, the alarm system saying ‘welcome home markus’ kills me on impact)

Chapter 32: Battle For Detroit

Is a good chapter. What, did you expect me to say it isn’t? Cause it is. Or some versions of it are.

The tension in all three characters stories, regardless of which version, is perfectly hit at this point.

Kara’s....ah fuck idk I mean the border version is ok? The others....kind of suck? The guy letting them through with high public opinion and Markus doing a peaceful demonstration is kind of cute and sort of makes sense in a way.

Markus’ versions (both in which he is alive) are pretty cool. The revolution is hard, and I do like that it ends with him saying that they haven’t won, they’ve only started a war. The demonstration is kind of dumb, and I actually prefer them getting shot and then the news anchors suggesting that maybe androids are people in their own right that humans refused to acknowledge. (Feels more real, ya know?) Also black folk song!! Why??

Gonna be real, most of Connor’s versions of this scene are pretty good. Cyberlife tower is tense as hell but he’s a fucking badass. Machine Connor on the roof gives us the best line in the game. ‘What’s up lieutenant, ran out of whiskey so you came here looking for trouble?’

So that’s some of my thoughts on each of the chapters of dbh, I could go into more depth but my eyes hurt and I’ll probably hit post limit soon.

#dbh meta #ramblings #mine

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destieltropecollection · 5 years

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Destiel Trope Collection 2019 Day 26: Royalty AU

Under The Falling Skies | @dean-cas-in-the-impala Rating: Explicit Word Count: 96792 Main Tags and Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence/Alternate Universe - historical, Drama, Romance, Prince Castiel, Barbarian Dean, Royalty AU Summary: "So, Dean." The king clears his throat, looking at the barbarian who's eating a chicken's leg and scratching his belly with a contented face. "To end this conflict, I am offering you one of my daughters in marriage, so we can become allies and good friends. Choose whichever you want." The king gestures to his three daughters, all maidens of rare beauty. Dean belches loudly and pats his belly, causing loud laughter among his warriors. He takes a good look at the princesses, shifting his gaze from one to the other. "I appreciate your offer, King Uldred, and I will accept it. Though I don't want any of your daughters," he says with a broad grin. The king frowns. "I don't understand." "I want him." Dean points at the young prince with his gnawed chicken's leg. "I'll have Castiel."

The King's Companion | @archeolatry Rating: Explicit Word Count: 72361 Main Tags and Warnings: AU- Fantasy/Fairytale, King!Dean, Medieval Violence, Temporary Major Character Death Summary: Once upon a time, a young king ruled over a great and peaceful kingdom. Only two hundred years before, Wintan-ceastre had been a dark and terrible place, ruled by the fearsome King Azazel and his black-eyed men. Andean is the latest in a line of hunter-kings sworn to fight monsters and suppress magick in all its forms. With only a week before the bicentennial festival, and with a a growing sense of worry gnawing at his belly, the king is rescued by a handsome hermit. Castiel is aloof, naive—and comes with two guardian sprites. The King’s new companion is a little rough around the edges, but there’s more to him than Dean could ever imagine. A story about the stories we tell, and the things we chose to believe in: tradition, family, truth, and maybe—just maybe—true love.

The Most Noble | @suckerfordeansfreckles Rating: Explicit Word Count: 32291 Main Tags and Warnings: alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alpha!Cas/omega!Dean, prince!Cas, concubine!Dean, depictions of violence, attempted rape/non-con (Alastair and Dean), mentions of rape, true mates, knotting Summary: He’s still not entirely sure how he ended up here, naked and with spread legs, on expensive cushions, in the king’s castle. He remembers waking up to loud voices only a few hours ago, and then two armed guards barged into his room, dragged him out of his bed and towards their horses. He remembers his father’s neutral face as he held Dean’s screaming brother Sammy back from running after the guards, not even meeting Dean’s eyes as the men tied his hands behind his back, heaved him onto a horse’s back, and took him with them without any explanation whatsoever. Now he's here, and he has no idea what will happen to him.

Ruby Colored and Regal | @origin-void Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2717 Main Tags and Warnings: Russian AU, Royalty, Modern Royalty Summary: After a drunken night Dean finds himself married. But the guy in question is Castiel, the son of a ruthless dictator. Now Dean is terrified while his doting and devoted husband remains oblivious to his feelings.

Peace-Weaver | @thursdays-fallen-angel Rating: Mature Word Count: 20445 Main Tags and Warnings: Non-traditional ABO Dynamics, omega!Dean, alpha!Cas Summary: Castiel may be of age, a man grown, but without an omega at his side, without someone to wear Eden’s real crown, he doesn’t stand a chance. He was trained to be a fighter and made to expect to rear children while his future mate ran the kingdom; it was never expected that he would rule on his own. Now there's a wounded omega in his father's old cabin, a war on the horizon, and no hope of a happy ending with either.

Kiss Me Where I Lay Down (WIP) | @casbeanwrites Rating: Explicit Word Count: 34285 Main Tags and Warnings: Courtesan Dean, Prince Castiel, Falling in Love, Team Switch, Happy Ending Summary: Dean fucked himself. Not in the fun way. In the metaphorical one. He fucked himself because he’s laying here in his bed, fingers on his lip, thinking about the man who kissed him ten hours ago. Who kissed him goodbye. The man with eyes so blue, so blue the sea constantly throws fits about it. All those storms, it’s the ocean being angry that Castiel’s eyes stole its colours. The man who kissed him and left him with nothing but the promise of coming back.

Paramour by Post | @almaasi Rating: Explicit Word Count: 18112 Main Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Aesthetic, Romance, Fluff, Pen Pals, Gender Identity, Baker Dean, Bisexual Dean, Royal Castiel, Blind Castiel, Agender Castiel, Non-Binary Castiel, Beekeeper Castiel, Masturbation, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Garden Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Top Castiel, Bottom Dean Summary: After a mix-up with the evening post, Dean begins exchanging regular correspondence (and delicious baked goods) with a stranger, who quickly becomes a friend. Castiel believes Dean is a woman. Dean doesn't know if Cas is a man, a woman, or an especially rare creature... and yet somehow he doesn't really mind. He's gone and fallen hopelessly in love. As far as he can tell, the feeling is mutual. But will all the fantasies hold up to reality, once they finally decide to meet?

#destiel #writersofdestiel #deancasfanficnet #destielfanficnet #destiel trope collection #tropes #royalty au #2019

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weepylucifer · 5 years

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the first time eve steps out of the cottage in the morning and spots a serpent coiled up asleep underneath the porch, her first impulse is to scream.

the second one is to get her husband.

she does neither - adam is resting still, after a long day in the field. he does so hate being woken before his usual time. eve is a woman grown. she can handle this herself.

it does not even resemble that serpent, she tells herself as she picks up a large stick. this one is much smaller. it looks like any other snake that is common to this area. and yet...

there was a time, back in the garden, when no beast or bird would make her afraid. but snakes... she shudders as she carefully lifts the reptile with the stick and flings it away into the underbrush. she is not likely to forget her initial bad experience so quickly.

rubbing her arms to stave off sudden goosebumps, she turns away, shaking her head as if to dispel the memory. there is work to be done. she must milk the cow, prepare the morning meal for herself and her husband. then afterwards she will clean up around the cottage. weaving, cooking, weeding her garden, gathering fruits and berries... there is a neverending supply of work, and every day it begins anew. enough work, almost, to dispel any thoughts of that other garden, any longing for what she has lost.

the reptile is returned to its spot the next day.

eve purses her lips in disgust. once, she would have been able to admire the creature’s shimmering scales, its golden eyes, the intricate latticework of its print. but the lord has decreed that between women and snakes there shall be nothing but enmity, and she is the only woman there is. and even if the lord had not decreed that, she would not be able to look upon a serpent with a kindly eye again, not after all that has occurred.

again she gathers up a large tree branch and gets rid of the snake. she wonders why it has returned, but warns herself against becoming unduly vigilant. it is merely a creature seeking shelter from the elements in the dry little space underneath the porch, and even if she does not like it around, that does not make it a harbinger.

getting rid of the porch snake becomes part of the morning routine.

eve does not tell her husband this. his suspicions - his wife and snakes - she doesn’t want to bear it. besides, he might kill the creature. not that eve has not considered doing this herself - stepping on its head as has been foretold - but when she looks down at her naked feet (she fashioned shoes for them some weeks into their wandering - crude things at first but she has gotten better. adam wears his every day during the fieldwork; she has to mend the soles regularly. eve does not like to wear her sandals around the house) and finds she cannot. what if it spins around and bites her heel? that too has been foretold. besides, it is but a witless critter. it cannot be faulted for the deeds of that malicious spirit back in paradise - or hers.

this continues on for so long that, while she still feels repulsion towards the snake, eve stops thinking about it as anything more than yet another household chore. this is not eden, where every animal was their friend. some of them will annoy them, or even do them harm if not staved off. that’s just how things are in the wide, free world.

one morning, instead of the snake, there is a man.

no, not a man, an angel. eve observes him curled up under her porch, wings wrapped around himself, a swell of relief and joy warring in her chest with a strange trepidation. her stick drops from her trembling hand. she’s never seen an angel sleep.

there had been regular visits from angels back in the garden, and none at all since they left it. to be graced by seeing one again is wonderful after such a long time of believing herself deserted. but why now? why is this one here in this undignified position? what became of the serpent?

the angel wakes under her watchful gaze. he springs up furling his wings, but stays a respectful distance from her. two who are unsure of what to think of each other watch on.

the angel is not one she’s ever seen before. he has a youthful face, dark ringlet curls, and golden wings speckled with brown that remind her of the birds of prey she sometimes observes soaring in the air ahead. he is still more pale than eve or her husband ever were.

“what brings you here?” she asks, a little breathless, forgoing, in her surprise, any sort of reverent mode of address. “what of the snake?”

“that horrid creature? it is gone now,” the angel replies. his voice is melodious. his shape is more reminiscent of adam than eve, although it is missing the marks and callouses of hard physical labor that are starting to show on adam’s body. “i came to keep watch over your sleep - you must think me negligent.”

eve shakes her head. “oh not at all... who sent you here?”

“nobody - i myself. i thought it would be right to come.”

the angel looks young. eve has no idea how age works with celestial beings. is she a bit disappointed that this angel is here on his own accord, that he is not sent by the creator in a gesture of forgiveness? perhaps so, although she chastises herself for this selfish thought. is she nonetheless grateful that this angel decided to come here at all, apparently dispatching of that vexing snake? yes, certainly. she has been missing angels, their company never anything but agreeable.

“i thank you nonetheless,” says she. “if you wish, you may visit more often. perhaps you’d like to come inside, partake in our morning meal?” it is not much she has to offer - certainly nothing comparable to the sumptious fruits of paradise. but nonetheless, she must be hospitable.

the angel bows. “thank you for your kindness, o mother of mankind,” he says, “but i must take my leave. perhaps i shall venture here again, as my duties allow.”

eve smiles. before the angel can fly off, she asks, “what name may i call you by?”

the angel hesitates. “my name...? i have various.” almost hesitantly, he mirrors her smile. “you... may call me helel.”

#to be continued #from eden #...is what this new thing will be called #ruh roh evey #some of you may already know from that last line what's going on here #sometimes all is not as it seems #this will have more angels and other types of people in it as it progresses #it's a whole thing #posts by me

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diveronarpg · 5 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with IVAN RAHAL, who is TWENTY-EIGHT years old. He is often called IAGO by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW: ABUSE, ADDICTION , DARK THEMES

There was something strikingly beautiful about the innate corruption of human nature and how they strive to tame it. It was like asking a flower not to bloom, a knife not to cut, a child not to laugh. It went against the very nature of things – and yet they continued to do so anyway. The whole of humanity thought it better to pay homage to a concerto half-written, then to let such music reach its culmination, then to let true BEAUTY shine as it rightfully should. And why? Because they feared it, as Moses feared looking upon the face of God – lest they be ruined by it all. Ivan was different, though. Ivan longed to be ruined, wanted it as thoroughly as Christ had wanted to redeem the world with his own BIBLICAL agony. But the singular desire for others to long for the same was all-consuming as well, and so he did as any child might, and he indulged. It began small, Ivan noticing his father’s penchant for drinking – the more he drank, the more he devolved, and it was in that he first saw the beauty of unbecoming. The deconstruction of man was a truly beautiful thing to witness, man left at his most vulnerable like his father was. He spat and he moaned when his son began to take the bottles away, becoming less and less while Ivan became more. His mother began to look to him, his siblings began to revere him – and it was in this that he learned the equal value in giving and taking; more importantly, how to exploit them both.

He took from his family their father, a man of wealth and power, but gave to them the perfect son, a protector and a provider. And what did they give him in return but their infallible adoration? So he began his work again, handing his younger brother a needle, placing pills into his mother’s hand, whispering only the darkest of intentions into his sister’s ear until she became fractured and broken. Yet they still counted him as something holy, a true REDEEMER in a family besotted with sinners and failures. Then he took the only thing that there was left: himself. He made sure to extract himself from their grasp slowly, painfully. The days leading up to his deployment he was intent on reminding them all of how he loved them so and how he was the only means of completing their fractured home. The PILLAR upon which all of them could lean. But then he was standing at the doorstep, bags packed and smile golden as his siblings clung to him and his mother fell, broken with despair, at his feet. But his time with his family had come to its end – he was ever-eager for the world to meet its ruin at his hands. Whether it be with gun, knife, or his words and his words alone, he would get them to see the beauty of CORRUPTION, and they will put him upon a throne for it.

When he enlisted in the army everyone had asked him if he knew what he was getting into – little did they know that he had meticulously taken note of the psychological abuse they enacted to break individuals into haphazard, broken pieces and build them anew. But there would be no building, no, he simply wanted to bear witness to man at its very lowest, reaching for blades and guns rather than another hand for comfort. And it was in this environment that he well and truly thrived, unflinching in the face of such burden, finding it a blessing instead. For, the more that they ruined him – bruises, cuts, and wounds becoming the most intimate companions – the more he grew, hardening in the face of such BRUTALITY. Drinking it in. Relishing it. The bullets flew freely from his rifle, blood covering his knife more often than not. They called him and his band of brothers war dogs, for they howled at the moon with their manes painted scarlet, bodies littering their WAKE. What a gift, Ivan had thought, what a gift to be surrounded by such discord and pain. It was the only thing he could think to call it, and it truly was, for at this time he met none other than Odin Bello, the subject of his fascination and the flower that would bloom in the corruption Ivan would sew into his soul.

So, like the devil chasing after a saint, he followed Odin to Verona and that is where his eyes were opened to the true beauty of the world, the wonders that could be found in streets and alleys covered in scarlet. Like Lucifer himself, he slid into the garden of EDEN, fascinated by the eternal war raging within the city and the demons that abandoned themselves to it all. It was a garden of paradise for him, too far steeped in its own corruption to be able to bear witness to any other way out. There was a rot that had beset the cobblestone streets many years ago and now Verona was permeated in it, growing in it, and thriving so much so that it infected Ivan with a wild delight. With Odin’s aid, he successfuly marked himself as a Capulet, finding the philosophies of Cosimo far more preferable to the boorish antics of the Montagues. Then a gun was put in his hand and it was as if the world had laid itself out before him, PROSTRATING itself so that he might take it and ravage it with little thought for the marks that he might leave. But he has not forgotten his vow to the world to bring ruination to all that his marble fingers could reach. The world is steeped in corruption and discord. Angels above weep because they know already: Ivan Rahal will DESECRATE it all the more.

ODIN BELLO: Muse. There are those who might call Odin his victim of choice, but to do so is to cheapen what truly lies between them: the relationship between artist and muse. The first time he spoke to Odin, he knew that there was something special about this soul – something that was lost and needed to be found. So Ivan provided that sense of belonging that he desired, the comrade and the home that he was in search for. What did Ivan ask for in return but for the small allowance of letting him ruin each and every aspect of his life. A small price to pay, was it not? When Odin began to feel his heart grow soft for Delilah, Ivan was there, murmuring in his ear that this was what it was like to fall in love. And fall in love Odin did with the beautiful creature that was young, sweet Delilah. It was when they were well and truly besotted by one another that Ivan did what he knew best: he destroyed them both. Again and again and again.

TAMURA CHIKO: Hobby. He is not quite as fascinated with them as he is with Odin – but sometimes he lets his mind wander to his more base enjoyments and Chiko happens to be one of them. It began with small things that Ivan had learned irked people rather well: staring too long, interrupting them in a middle of a sentence, making small, cutting remarks that undermined their skill and knowledge. It’s really just an idle hobby for when his mind demands a respite from the ever-present idealization of carnage and political stratagem. But there is nothing he loves more than the look he receives from Chiko when they turn his way, annoyance written across their face because he has breathed a little too loud for their liking. Many people have told him he has a habit of drowning himself for his work and its moments with them that remind him to pause and enjoy the simpler things in life.

PANDORA PHAN: Mark. There are many Montagues that he seeks to make bend a knee to him. Pandora is one of the unfortunates that he has set his gaze on, a rather fascinating woman that seems to evade every other Capulet’s grasp, save for his own. Perhaps it is because, when he first arrived in Verona from his tour he had made a point to get beneath her skin – to corner her and make her realize what it was to be powerless. He hopes that she hasn’t forgotten it. Then he was made a Capulet and there was not a single doubt in his mind that her ire had increased tenfold with that development alone. So here they are, the two of them, hating each other. It is only a matter of time before he ends this entertaining little feud with a knife to the ribs and a bullet to the head. Such a great feat would most certainly get him a promotion. And, if not, then it would at least be another entertaining story to tell.

HALCYON SANTOS: Leash. Although Odin is his captain, it is Halcyon that holds him back with a leash. He knows that she has no inkling of the depths of his depravity, but all the same she seems intent on reigning in his more base desires. But there is no blaming her – he is completely aware of what a handful he can be. It is rather unfortunate for her, though, that he has no intention of doing so, which often puts the two at odds; a fact that neither of them care to hide. There is no anger in it, no bitterness, no contention. It is just simply fact that the he is a dog, foaming at the mouth, and she is the iron leash that holds him back, releasing him only when others advise her to do so. It won’t be long, though, before the weight that he throws around causes the leash to snap. A shame when it does though, because he has come to grow rather fond of it.

Ivan is portrayed by TONI MAHFUD and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

#literate rp #mafia rp #lsrp #lsrpg #cap #m #ivan rahal #toni mahfud fc #o #om

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

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From Eden: Chapter 4

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence.

This fic is currently in progress.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Also Available on AO3

(Gif by @codyfernsource)

The air shifted and changed, suspended in a single moment—not the breeze that stirred the leaves on the branches above her head, but the energy around her. It felt different. She couldn’t figure out why or what it was, but the familiarity crept along the back of her neck. Her skin, her blood was alive with it, the darkness rising to the surface as if something—or maybe someone—called out to her. She never knew what it was, who it was that whispered her name and pierced through the static of her thoughts. But now it was shouting at her, summoning her to follow.

Mottled light broke through the leaves and spilled across the pages of the book propped against her knees. She’d stopped reading minutes ago. Her eyes fluttered closed and she took in a long, deep breath, almost as if she was afraid the feeling would leave. Afraid that the inexplicable current of energy was just her wild imagination, a hope, a desperate part of her trying to reach out to something that wasn’t really there.

When she opened her eyes, she found a boy standing on the sidewalk. He leaned against the whitewashed picket gate, this complete stranger, looking at her like he knew. And yet, there was a curiosity in the way he tilted his head, his lips parted a little, his hands fidgeting around the wooden posts. Neither of them could figure out why they were staring, but the air had stilled around them. Waiting. Halting in deference. The birdsong had even stopped.

The gate creaked on its hinges when it swung open. “What’re you reading?”

His voice was disarming, his question not what she’d expected, somehow. And she had so many of her own. What are you? Are you like me? Am I broken?

Heavy combat boots trampled across the grass until he folded himself cross-legged in front of her under the large oak tree. This strange boy in ripped black jeans sat down as though they’d known each other for lifetimes.

She regained her ability to speak. “The Last Man,” she answered. “It’s by Mary Shelley.”

His gaze traveled to the pages that fluttered beneath her hand, then up to her eyes, lingering there. She hadn’t anticipated his boyish mop of disheveled strawberry blond curls at war with the intensity in the clear blue of his eyes. They were bright and endless and seemed far older than he probably was, though she couldn’t judge his age at a glance. Their close proximity made the shift in energy more noticeable, almost palpable, surrounding them both. Power curled around him like tendrils of smoke; a shiver roved down her spine as it whispered to her.

“Never read it. What’s it about?” he wanted to know.

“The end of the world.”

His face was suddenly lit by a wide, beaming grin. “Is it any good?”

“Yeah…I’ve already read it a few times.” She closed the worn paperback. “You’re new around here, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” I’d know if I’d seen you. I’d feel it.

“Ms. Mead took me in,” he explained. He toyed with a loose thread on his jeans. Strands of messy golden hair fell across his forehead into his eyes. “I’m Michael—Michael Langdon.”

“Mead…” She tested the name aloud. “Down the street? Is that what her name is? I’ve never asked; she hates my aunt so we’ve kind of got this silent agreement thing going on. She’s always seemed nice.”

The name conjured images of a woman with short, jet black hair and dark lipstick. She walked the neighborhood sometimes, cloaked in black and carrying herself with an edge that she could only wish to imitate. If her aunt happened to be halfheartedly tending to her garden or idling on the porch, Ms. Mead’s scathing glare could wound. There was only one person on this street who’d take in a boy like him. In the middle of suburbia, Ms. Mead looked as out of place as she felt. Maybe that’s why she’d always been so kind to her.

Michael nodded. “You want to meet her?”

“Really? Right…now?”

He pushed himself up from the lawn, flecks of dirt and blades of grass shaking loose from his jeans. The black T-shirt that looked a size too big on his lean frame billowed in the wind. He smiled, nearly bursting with excitement, and held out his hand to her.

“Come on.”

She hesitated, her fingers hovering inches from his. The air was still charged and heavy, and she wondered what would happen if she followed that whisper, that power coiling in his wake. His pale skin felt hot to the touch. Michael held onto her hand for a few moments longer after he’d helped her up from the ground, his cherubic face betraying the darkness that she sensed coursing through his veins. She’d never sensed it on another person before, and judging from his inquisitive, awestruck stare, neither had he.

She dropped Michael’s hand. They fell into step beside each other on the sidewalk, the book tucked underneath her arm. She wanted to ask him—and she came close to it on their walk down the street, but the questions died on her tongue. There was no possible way he hadn’t felt it, too, if it’s what led him to the front yard and pulled him toward her. How could she find the words for what she wanted to ask? How could she even bring it up if it sounded totally unbelievable?

Michael let her in through the backyard and pushed open the French doors on the side of the house. She stepped into a surprisingly light and airy kitchen full of vintage appliances and cream cabinets. It wasn’t at all what she’d imagined.

“Who’s your friend, Michael?” Ms. Mead asked, walking in from the adjoining room. “Oh, I know you! I’m Miriam Mead…it’s about time we finally introduced ourselves. You live down the street in that pretty little house with the picket fence.”

“Sometimes,” she clarified. “My parents are kinda paranoid about leaving me by myself, so they send me to my aunt’s when they’re not around. Which is often.” Paranoid wasn’t the right word, she knew, but it was close enough. If she was left to her own devices, she got bored, and then she got creative with the power at her disposal. They didn’t like that. “Not that she keeps an eye on what I do…but—”

“That wretched woman,” Ms. Mead said. The lines between her eyebrows deepened as she frowned. “I’ve never liked her. The feeling’s mutual, though—always has been, ever since I can remember. You know why she’s so damn pissed all the time, don’t you?” Ms. Mead wore a grin full of mischief, her dark eyes sparkling.

She shook her head at the same time Michael asked, “Why?” He seemed to know what she didn’t, rocking on his heels, eager for the details. “What’d you do?”

“What didn’t I do?” Ms. Mead laughed. “Oh, nothing too serious, don’t you worry. But I’ve been known to slip into her garden at night. A few rituals, mostly harmless. Just little things that will irritate the hell out of her. She knows it’s me, and that’s what makes it fun.”

Michael laughed. “That’s awesome.” She had to laugh, too. Her aunt deserved it.

“You know, I always had a good feeling about you.” Ms. Mead wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a half-hug before letting her go. Michael looked pleased, and for a second she figured that this is what it felt like to belong someplace. “You’re welcome here any time, and don’t be shy, either. Those doors right there are always open.”

Ms. Mead left them, her footsteps fading somewhere in the house. She ventured further once she spotted the one anomaly in their normal, suburban kitchen: an altar nestled across from a small, round table, the centerpiece of the room. Draped in black cloth, it housed an assortment of candles that dripped black and red wax down the elegant black candleholders. A silver pentagram caught the light from the flames from above, while a collection of offerings were displayed on the shelf set deep into the wall.

She left the book on the table and stood in front of the altar, enticed by the flicker of the candles. She’d always heard of these types of practices—she’d done her research—but she hadn’t ever seen them for herself. Her hand drifted over the candles; the power in the room was intoxicating, and she wanted to reach out to it. She couldn’t help herself. It was intense, flowing from Michael like dark wine.

The candles flared beneath her open palm, dancing wildly until the flames licked at her skin. She didn’t feel any pain, didn’t burn her flesh. The fire resumed its normal height at her command, fresh wax making trails of crimson and black.

“You have it in you, too.”

Michael’s voice was low beside her. She glanced to her left to see his eyes fixed on the exposed skin of her inner forearm where she knew he’d noticed the ugly bruises she tried to hide under her plaid button down. She tugged on her sleeve.

“When did it start?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s always been there, even when I didn’t know what it was or how to use it. All I’ve been told is that whatever it is, this…power…it comes from the dark.”

“I felt it.”

“I know you did,” she turned toward him, “because I sensed it on you, too—and that’s never happened to me before. I’ve always been afraid of it, but this…it’s something different.” You’re something different, she wanted to say, but stopped herself.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” She caught a tremble in his words, a look akin to panic flashing in his eyes.

“No.”

She tugged at her sleeve again, a habit she couldn’t break. There was that edge to him that she couldn’t decipher, something far greater and more sinister than whatever she carried in her soul, but she didn’t fear him. He was still a boy, after all. Still human like her.

Relief softened his face. “I used to be afraid, too,” Michael told her. “And then Ms. Mead, she found me and helped me figure out what it all meant. What I’m supposed to do…who I am. Things are a lot clearer now.”

“Do you know what I am?” She was so desperate for anything. It was the first time she’d encountered anyone who might’ve had the right answers.

Michael shook his head. “No, but the power you have can’t be very different from mine. It feels the same.”

“Yours is a lot stronger,” she reasoned. “It almost knocked me on my ass when I tapped into it just now.”

“I inherited my father’s power.” Michael rubbed at the back of his neck, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. As if this was just a normal conversation. “I’m still learning to control it myself.”

Her parents didn’t pass this onto her, she knew that for sure. “Your father?”

Michael angled his head toward the altar behind her, wordless. She twisted around, her silhouette reflected in the portrait sitting there. The Devil himself.

Her mouth dropped open a little. She scooped up her tattered paperback from the table and breezed past him. “I should go.”

“Wait—please,” his voice broke as he trailed behind her, “I’m not lying. I didn’t mean to scare you, but it’s the truth. I thought…I thought maybe it would help you.” Her fingertips skirted the handle of the door. “That it would make you understand. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “I know.” When she turned around, she didn’t find anything menacing about him at all. The power that seemed to consume the very air they breathed had receded, and Michael’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I know—I’m sorry. It’s just…a lot to process.”

Understatement of the century.

He nodded. “You shouldn’t run away from it.” She wrenched open the door, and it let out a high-pitched squeal. Michael braced one hand against the doorframe. “That door’s always unlocked.”

She shoved the paperback into Michael’s chest before she crossed the threshold, and he caught it. “You said you never read it,” she explained. “And I’ll need it back eventually.”

He smiled.

***

“She shouldn’t hurt you like that.”

Michael stood over her while she lit the squat, half-melted candles on the floor. The muggy evening outside had seeped into the room and she’d shrugged off the thin zip-up sweatshirt over her tank top to accommodate, so Michael had immediately found the patchwork of bruises on her shoulders and upper arms. Some were newer than others, shades of brown and purple mingling with splotches of red and a sickly yellow-green. Once the last wick caught flame, she flicked the lighter off.

“She shouldn’t hurt you at all,” Michael insisted. “It’s not right.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t seem to give a shit,” she answered. “She only does it when she’s drunk and pissed off. If my parents find out, they’ll dump me at some other useless relative’s house or ship me off to one of those awful boarding schools.” She slipped the lighter into her jeans pocket and rose from the grimy floor. “You’d miss me too much.” She tried to offer an easy smirk, but Michael’s anger didn’t dissipate.

“You don’t have to put up with it, you know. You’re stronger than her.”

She brushed off her hands. There was dust everywhere—she could see it floating in the light thrown from the candles around the room. It was gritty beneath her shoes and tickled at her nose.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. If I fight back…what happens if I go a step too far?”

“She’d deserve it.” A shadow crossed over Michael’s face. “For treating you like this.” The coldness in his tone startled her for just a second. Whenever he allowed his darker tendencies to take over, the shift always seemed jarring on his boyish features. The surge of power prickled along her skin; his emotions always exacerbated them.

All the time she’d spent with Michael since they’d met a few months ago—they were together almost every day; she preferred his and Ms. Mead’s company rather than her aunt’s disinterested presence or the confines of her own house—and he hadn’t given her the details about where he’d come from. She knew nothing about his life before Miriam took him in, nothing about his family apart from what had fathered him.

But Michael had learned about her parent’s neglect, the work that conveniently kept them from having a role in raising her, their endless arguments. How she existed in their lives as a stranger. Or maybe something unwanted.

“You seem to know a thing or two about shitty families,” she ventured. He avoided her, kicking at a pile of nondescript debris on the floor. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but whatever happened…you can tell me instead of letting it simmer.”

Part of you is still human, she mused. She could never understand having a legacy like his, could never fully grasp the concept of such high expectations forced on her before she’d even been born. She’d observed enough about Michael to pick up on his quirks, those flashes of near childlike innocence that managed to creep through all of the darkness he harbored in his soul. He seemed so young, but yet there was something archaic and otherworldly in his eyes. He may have been the Devil’s son, but evil didn’t rule him entirely, not all the time. Just like the dark had staked its claim in her, and she still felt and cared and loved.

She could see why they’d gravitated toward each other. But she also wondered what he could’ve been like before, what might’ve been if they had both traveled a different path. She’d come to relish the feeling the darkness gave her—and had no doubt that Michael did as well—but sometimes she had to wonder. With evil breathing down their necks, calling them home, drawing from the well of inherent power in them, would it have been possible to be anything else?

“It doesn’t matter, it’s over with,” Michael said. “They only held me back. Didn’t want anything to do with me.”

She didn’t know how much of that she believed, but she dropped the subject. Maybe one day he’d tell her everything.

“That makes two of us.”

Michael raked a hand through his hair. “All right, no more stalling. You promised.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “Let’s see it.”

For the past few weeks, they’d been scouring the suburbs for derelict abandoned houses. Boarded up windows covered in a mosaic of graffiti, broken furniture and garbage littering the empty, cobweb-infested rooms—the usual dilapidation. There were a lot of them in these neighborhoods; vacant shells left to rot, just sitting in the middle of their overgrown yards. They’d become the perfect haven for the two of them to flex their powers without having to accidentally wreck Miriam’s house.

“Patience is a virtue,” she joked in singsong.

Michael scowled, though there was a trace of a smirk in the corner of his lips. “You’re horrible.”

“Stating the obvious.”

She brushed off her hands on her jeans again—the dust seemed to want to cling to her sweaty skin—and inhaled. There was a faint fragrance from the candles, which she’d bought for cheap and hoarded in her bedroom. They smelled like an old woman’s perfume, but they got the job done.

Michael stood opposite her, one arm folded behind his back, his chin tilted upward as he waited. She lifted her hands, her fingers splayed, her palms reaching outward to gather up the power that crackled around them. A rumble began somewhere, a low sound that reminded her of a distant train humming over railroad tracks.

The room, possibly a den or a living room in its previous life, had four wide windows; all of them had remained intact, none of them boarded over. They started to shake, the glass rattling in the old wooden frames. With a flourish of her hands, all four of them exploded with a tinny, roaring crash, the pieces of glass creating a luminous arc in the light of the candles. A cascade of tiny, jagged shards suspended in the air, not one of them nicking their skin as they finally pattered onto the floor once she let go of them.

Michael shook his head, strands of golden blond matted to his temples from the night’s balmy temperature. “Oh, come on…you can do better than that.”

“Hush,” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, though she was laughing, “I’m just warming up. Not all of us are as lucky as you, Devil boy.” That childish smirk resurfaced on Michael’s face and he shifted on his feet, trying so very hard to hide his grin.

She took a few breaths and tapped into the power singing in her veins again, feeling it surge along with the energy from Michael. The strength of it washed over her like a tidal wave, nearly knocking her off balance. She planted her feet apart to keep hold of it, digging deep to maintain control before it got too unwieldy. Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her back as the temperature spiked—the candle flames shot up to twice their height, then resumed their normal size.

But she wasn’t finished yet.

A gust of wind blew through the room just before fire materialized seemingly out of nowhere, rising up from the dirty, glass-ridden floor. She drew patterns in the air with her index finger, watching the flames move and spark as they formed a giant circle around both of them. Controlled. Burning, but not consuming anything in their path. The room was suffused with the scent of it, rich and dark and laced with a hint of sulfur.

Michael clapped, taking a few steps to meet her in the middle of the circle. The orange glow painted long shadows across his face and picked up the reddish highlights in his curls. “There you go,” he praised. The shadows made his eyes dark, but his smile was radiant. Proud. “I knew you could do it.”

She clenched her fists, extinguishing the fire. “Your turn.”

Michael waved the haze of smoke away, then swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead to keep the perspiration from dripping into his eyes. She wasn’t new to this; she’d seen him use his powers just as much as she’d flexed her own in the past few weeks, and she never quite got over the sight of it. The feeling of it. Even though Michael didn’t have complete control yet, the strength behind him was exquisite.

She didn’t know how they’d managed to find each other in the mess of their own lives, but she was damned fortunate that he’d let her in and wanted to share all of this with her. Some days, she didn’t know if she considered herself worthy. But most days, she felt like they were just a pair of kids stumbling around in the dark, trying to make sense of things.

The room shook. The ground was vibrating, the walls creaking and unstable under the force of power. It felt like the earth itself was bending at his will. She watched the candles waver as the tremors continued until the flames went out, plunging them into the semidarkness. Wood began to split, the glass scattering around their feet, the ambient rumble like thunder welling up from the center of the house.

Michael trembled from the weight of the power he released into the room, his knuckles stark white at his sides. Dust rained down from the ceiling, chunks of plaster hitting the floor between them. She heard a crackle that sent her heart thudding against her ribcage—the walls began to break, a spider web of cracks working their way up from the baseboards.

And then Michael’s eyes went white. He started convulsing, losing control as the house shuddered and groaned. Rivulets of crimson spilled from his nostrils down the front of his sleeveless black shirt. She leapt forward just as Michael collapsed, taking a chunk of the roof with him.

“Michael!”

She backpedaled out of the way, coughing, waiting for the plume of dust to settle before she caught sight of him again. Michael lay sprawled on his back inches from where the roof debris had landed. She was on her knees beside him a second later, her pulse beating wildly, panic clawing its way through her chest.

“Michael.” Her pulse slowed a little once she noticed the rise and fall of his chest. “Michael, open your eyes.” She leaned over him to knead her fingers through his hair, then traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “Come on, Devil boy, wake up.”

Michael stirred at last and exhaled a shaky breath. He blinked slowly, squinting up at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes still wide.

He pressed his fingers to his nose as he sat up, groaning, and stared at the red coating them. She heard his quiet gasp.

“Yeah.” Michael wiped his fingers on his jeans. His endless clear blue gaze found hers, and all she saw was a frightened child. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “It’s you I’m worried about. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I lost control.” Michael pushed himself up from the floor and she followed, her hand coming to rest against his back. He still looked dazed and wobbled a little on his feet. His voice sounded small and unsteady. Dirt streaked Michael’s forehead and nose and created gray shadows on his arms. “I don’t know…there was too much power inside me and I couldn’t stop it.”

“I think we should give it a rest for the night,” she suggested.

Michael nodded. He wiped at the blood that had trickled down his chin with the hem of his shirt.

“Let’s go home.”

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