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wisdomrays · 2 years

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HUMAN WEAKNESSES AS A MEANS OF A SPIRITUAL PROGRESS

Question: How can we give advice to a person who says, “I have evil characters in my nature such as greed, hostility, and obstinacy and I cannot get rid of them in any way”?

Answer: As human beings are created with comprehensive potentials, they are equipped with bodily and spiritual abilities related to both the mundane world and the heavenly one, respectively. Therefore, true human progress and deliverance depends on their using these latent potentials for the purpose they are created for. As members of humanity are honored with the “best pattern of creation” (ahsan al-taqwim), they can come into line with angels as far as they realize their otherworldly and spiritual side thoroughly, and lead their lives within the lawful sphere by giving their willpower its due, and resisting the negative feelings innately placed in human nature for different wisdoms. As Rumi also put it, humans stand at such a point that although carnal feelings and lust exist in their nature, they sometimes make angels envious by the good works they do; but sometimes they make even devils ashamed.

O human! Read yourself correctly!

For this reason, people must first gain sound insight into themselves—their merits and weaknesses—and see certain negative feelings they have as a means for spiritual progress. If they can control those evil feelings and overcome them, and orient them toward goodness, then the seeds of Paradise within will begin to germinate. That Paradisiacal life experienced in the heart will turn the world into a corridor extending into real Paradise. In every part and every moment of such a world, a person can feel Paradise and witness its eternal beauties while in this world. It is also possible to voice this truth as follows: If the positive feelings in human nature are actuated well, they directly serve spiritual progress. As for the seemingly negative seeds, if they are taken under control by vigilance, watchfulness, and conformity to Divine orders, they become a means for different graces of God. In other words, your upright stance against those innate negative feelings will be counted as worship in the sight of God. For example, as the Daily Prayers are a very important form of worship that helps one achieve human perfection, defying carnal desires is no less important a form of worship. God Almighty points out this truth by the decree, “But as for him who lived in awe of his Lord, being conscious of His seeing him, and of the standing before Him (in the Hereafter), and held back his carnal soul from lusts and fancies, surely Paradise will be his (final) refuge” (an-Naziat 79:40–41). To reiterate, seemingly negative feelings can be turned to one’s advantage if taken under control and channeled toward goodness, and become one of the most important means for entering Paradise.

People become truly human by actuating their willpower

God did not create humanity within certain limits as he did animals. In other words, man is not a slave to a set of instincts. God granted willpower to humans and—in terms of the apparent reasons—He attached His blessings on the condition of giving willpower its due. For example, He could say, “When you lift your hand, I make the stars in the sky pour on your head.” In such a case, we would seek no relation between moving of the hand and pouring down of the stars. Similarly, God Almighty grants favors and blessings in consequence of the worship people observe and the difficulties they forebear in the way of God, there is no point in seeking a relation of causality. Then God Almighty accepts the acts of individuals, which they do in compliance with the requirement of apparent causes, virtually as a seed, and He returns those acts to them as eternal blessings in Paradise.

Attacks from the right and left

We can compare the positive feelings in human nature as a person’s right side and the negative feelings as the left side. I guess this can be better understood by Satan’s threat as related in the Qur’an: “Then I will come upon them from before them and from behind them, and from their right and from their left, and You will not find most of them thankful” (al-A’raf 7:17). With his malicious joy, Satan is virtually saying: “I can come to them from in front and break down their hopes for the future and burn their bridges on the way to Paradise, and direct them to Hell instead. By coming to them from behind, I can show them the past as a dreadful grave, make them refuse to take a lesson from the example of their fathers and grandfathers… and make them fall for the delusion that life began with them. By approaching them from the right, I can deceive them even while doing acts of goodness and spoil their good deeds by showing off and taking pride in them. When they tell about God and the noble Prophet, or when they begin to write, I make them emphasize their own person and spoil even their good deeds. Finally, I approach them from the left and show forbidden acts as good, I offer them poisonous honey on golden trays and lead them astray.”

In a hadith related to the subject, the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, stated that Paradise is surrounded with things unpleasant to the carnal soul, and Hell is surrounded with lusts that are tempting to the carnal soul. Accordingly, what leads one to Paradise is difficult and unpleasant to the carnal soul. Believers will make their way to Paradise by passing them one by one. As for the way to Hell, it is engulfed by carnal feelings and lusts. In this respect, it is most likely for Satan to make one fall by means of indulging in food, drink, sleep, and living to fulfill one’s carnal desires. Bediüzzaman points out the essential human weaknesses at the end of the “Twenty-ninth Letter.” He mentions six human and Satanic intrigues: “love of fame and position, fear, greed, racism, egotism, and lastly, fondness for comfort and ease.” It is possible to count more. For example avarice, inability to stomach others, lascivious behavior, ostentation, and conceit are among other weak points through which Satan can find a way to defeat us.

Build up walls around you with prayers

Satan takes advantage of these weaknesses by approaching from the left. As he stated, “Then (I swear) by Your Glory, I will certainly cause them all to rebel and go astray” (as-Sad 38:82). The Pride of Humanity, peace and blessings be upon him, taught us this prayer to combat Satan: “O Allah! Conceal my imperfections and calm all my fears! O Allah! Protect me (against dangers) from in front, from behind, from my right, from my left, and from above, and I seek refuge in Your greatness from being swallowed by the earth beneath me.” He invited us to seek refuge with God against Satan by reciting this prayer night and day. Satan is a professional; he knows such tricks that he toppled many giants far by using them. For example, if one tries to rise up in the night for Tahajjud Prayer, Satan uses various tricks and goading to prevent it. He will not stop even if he fails, and the believer leaves the warm bed in spite of everything. He plays a different trick on the way to ablutions and a different trick during the Prayer. For example, he tries to cause the worshipper to make noise, his aim to let the neighbors hear the noise and appreciate that person, so that the deed can be corrupted when the worshipper takes arrogant pride in his act. Satan has so many different tricks that it is really hard to overcome them; it takes serious determination and willpower along with continuously taking refuge in God’s help and protection. In this respect, what becomes clear is that a single wall will not suffice against Satan’s tricks. We must continuously build new walls through more prayer. One cannot have too many walls. Before he retired to sleep, the Pride of Humanity, peace and blessings be upon him, recited the surahs Al-Mulk, Ya-Sin, As-Sajdah, the Muawwizatayn (Al-Falaq and An-Nas), and the last two verses of the chapter Al-Baqarah. In addition, he sought refuge in God with prayers such as: “O Allah! Truly I have submitted myself to You, turned my face to You, entrusted my affairs to You, relied on You, there is no refuge or security except in You. O Allah! I believe in the Book that You revealed, and in the Prophet that You sent.” He also warned believers by saying, “Do not ever give in to heedlessness, always seek refuge in God against Satan.”

What befalls believers is to see our weaknesses as a part of human nature and to constantly seek refuge in God against them, giving our willpower its due, and to thus make those negative factors into stepping stones for spiritual progress. At the same time, they need to make constant efforts to ascend to the life level of the heart and spirit by following true spiritual guides, and thus continue their journeying accordingly.

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aliceanna7510 · 21 days

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"The Deliverance": Lee Daniels, the director Mom Worried That He Would Be Cursed

Don't call Ellis-Taylor an exorcist; rather, consider her an apostle who provides the family with comfort and strength and who could be their savior on HD Movies Soap2Day. Ellis-Taylor's beautiful presence is usually greatly appreciated, but the film begins to deteriorate when her character introduces the otherworldly aspect of the narrative. It's not that "The Deliverance" is too scary—quite the opposite—it seems too secure after it becomes clear that a demon is feasting on Ebony's family. These pictures and these phrases are not new to us. The thing that irritates me is that Daniels is a director who thrives on the macabre and the melodramatic. It's fascinating that he takes risks, for better or worse. Ebony has been an untrustworthy source of information in this situation for a while, so it's intriguing.

#soap2day #soap2day movies #entertainment

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astxriai-png · 2 years

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Lavender's Lagoon - Final Photos!

#2022 #fall 2022 #otherworldly #otherworldly deliverables #lavender's lagoon #original character #stop motion #stop motion puppet #stop motion set #fabrication #felting #my art

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abwwia · 1 year

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Artist Amy Sherald, USAmerican, b. 1973

Born in 1973 in Columbus, GA, and now based in Baltimore MD, Amy Sherald documents #contemporaryAfricanAmerican experience in the United States through arresting, otherworldly portraits. Sherald subverts the medium of portraiture to tease out unexpected narratives, inviting viewers to engage in a more complex debate about accepted notions of race and representation, and to situate #blackheritage centrally in the story of #Americanart.

Via https://www.hauserwirth.com/artists/11577-amy-sherald

Photo 1. JJ Geiger

Artwork: Amy Sherald

If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it, 2019

Through her monumental portraits of African American subjects, #AmySherald explores alternate narratives of #blackness through the exclusion of color from the notion of race.

The Baltimore-based artist is best known for her stylized, figurative paintings of vibrantly dressed individuals rendered in grayscale skin tones against flat, highly-saturated backgrounds that evoke a sense of timeless identity.

“I’m painting the paintings that I want to see in museums,” she said.

“And I’m hopefully presenting them in a way that’s universal enough that they become representative of something different than just a black body on a canvas.”

Sherald was the first woman to win the Smithsonian’s Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition grand prize with her 2016 entry Miss Everything (Unsuppressed Deliverance).

Former First Lady #MichelleObama tapped Sherald to paint her official portrait for the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C.

Via artsy

#womensart #artbywomen #femaleartist #PalianShow #herstory #blackherstory #artherstory #blackfemaleartist #greatfemaleartists #greatpainter #portraits #contemporarypaiter

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deliveranceministry4 · 1 year

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The Force of Liberation Service: Breaking Liberated from Otherworldly Servitude

Presentation

Redemption service has acquired critical consideration lately as people look for profound mending and freedom from different types of subjugation. Established in the Christian confidence, this service centers around liberating individuals from satanic impact, generational condemnations, and other profound fortresses. In this article, we will investigate the extraordinary idea of liberation service and its effect on people looking for opportunity.

Figuring out Liberation Service

Redemption service is a type of otherworldly fighting that tends to the harsh powers influencing people's lives. It depends on the conviction that malicious spirits can impact and control individuals, causing physical, close to home, and profound burdens. This service underlines petition, scriptural lessons, and the force of the Essence of God to break the chains of subjugation. Liberation priests, furnished with otherworldly insight, work close by people to distinguish and stand up to areas of persecution. They work with the most common way of projecting out evil spirits, repudiating curses, and welcoming God's mending and reclamation into the existences of those looking for liberation.

Breaking Chains and Tracking down Opportunity

The essential objective of liberation service is to break the chains that tight spot people and upset their otherworldly development. Many individuals who look for liberation have encountered drawn out battles like fixation, unexplained actual afflictions, steady bad thought designs, or disastrous ways of behaving. Through the force of petition and mediation, liberation clergymen assist people with defying these issues and track down enduring opportunity. By denying past sins, excusing others, and pronouncing loyalty to Christ, people open themselves to the extraordinary work of the Essence of God. Learn more Deliverance Ministry

Redemption service perceives the job of generational condemnations — negative examples and impacts that pass down through family lines. These condemnations can appear as repeating issues or unexplainable examples of conduct. The service tends to these condemnations by driving people through a course of contrition, renunciation, and the breaking of acquired profound fortresses.

Enabling People for Profound Fighting

Liberation service liberates individuals from servitude as well as prepares them to take part in profound fighting. Members figure out how to distinguish the strategies of the adversary and foster systems to oppose and beat profound assaults. The service underlines the significance of building areas of strength for an in Christ through supplication, concentrating on the Expression of God, and developing an individual relationship with Him.

Through liberation, people experience a restored feeling of direction and strengthening. They are urged to stroll in their inherent personality, utilizing their otherworldly gifts to affect their families, networks, and their general surroundings. Liberation service fills in as an impetus for self-improvement and otherworldly change, empowering people to live triumphantly and satisfy their inherent fates.

End

Liberation service assumes a crucial part in assisting people with tracking down independence from profound subjugation. By tending to the impact of fiendish spirits, generational condemnations, and profound fortifications, this service opens entryways for mending, reclamation, and strengthening. Through supplication, profound direction, and dependence on the force of God, people can break liberated from chains and leave on an excursion of enduring change.

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writer59january13 · 2 years

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Angel of mercy please intercede

Weakest most lame specimen

among human breed

control of my life I willingly concede

wordless son of a gun fires off

following capricious poetic deed

done dirt cheap while

traveling highway to hell

the speed limit I did not exceed,

nevertheless pressing pedal to metal

found me flirting with mortality

though being crash test dummy

if fatal would at long last

bring deliverance linkedin

to mental health woes

spirit of mine courtesy

self imprisonment freed

uncoupling yours truly,

one suburban human among

Homo sapiens species greed,

who avoided risks incurred

against life and limb didst heed

overly precautious immersing

self in the electric kool aid

basic acid litmus test, which absent forging, limning, reckoning...

critical (race theory) consciousness within crucible of existence sabotaged maturation of body,

mind, and spirit indeed

and subsequently did impede

healthy development, hence

euthanasia next best option.

Though predominantly skeptical concerning divine intervention... crushing desperation grinds heavily kickstarting, mortgaging, pummeling

ripsnorting, unraveling, ar...wresting...

sense and sensibility...annihilating

joie de vivre exceeding Herculean powers to defy overbearing blitzkrieg, luftwaffe pounding psyche

wickedly, unbearably suffocating, helplessly choking

impossibility to gasp even one breath

lifesource within sucked dry as a bone,

hence desperation beseeching

salvation to triumph

over mailer daemon adversity

wildly analogous to aerialist

readily clasped linkedin clenching tight teammate's hands thwarting being pitched

feather head over tar heels,

whereby yours truly grasps empty air

spiralling untethered from gravity lost in space

scanning distant heavens to espy prayerful rescue courtesy winged warrior

benevolent endearing joyous miraculous celestial being

rendering genuine ambition to mend figurative fences,

with kith and kin,

where orneriness (mine) cleft

delicate whirled wide webbing,

thus me metaphorically dangling

bandied to and fro hither and yon

free falling unmoored

grudgingly surrendering mine mortality nsync with manifest destiny

regarding death be not proud of all corporeal entities

temporarily suspending atheism in limbo where faith no more steady Rock of Gibraltar (though steeply entrenched)

peering skyward gleaning any hint

to perceive inimitable otherworldly gifted helpmate

to usher deliverance, viz exaltations

experiencing unbridled affinity

toward kith and kin.

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miserable-pile-of-lies · 3 years

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The Sleeping Beauty of Wallachia Ch. 3 (Full)

I know it's been a lifetime since I last updated the story, but I really wanted to deliver with this chapter as it sets up the basic frame of the fanfic! I really hope you guys enjoy what I came up with, feel free to leave reviews on A03!

Summary: Wallachia is in great peril at the behest of Death himself; all those who have attempted to battle the creature have swiftly been executed and made an example of. The key to defeating the beast lies in Dracula's castle, located twenty odd miles out from a small village by the name of Danesti. In this village, the headwoman Greta must act quickly to save her people from the onslaught of attacks by night creatures and other minions who have sworn their loyalty to Death. Will she alone be able to stop Death or will she require additional aid to save Wallachia?

Skeletal appendages scraped furiously against the transmission mirror depicting the Speaker and head woman, muttering a string of curses against the two mortals. Death hovered in the dimly lit war hall, formerly the stronghold of the vampire king Dracula, standing in front of the reflective surface while his jawbone rattled in a fit of rage.

“Those damn Speakers continue to impede the progress of my fucking war,” the entity spat out savagely, swinging his gargantuan scythe in the general direction of his night troops. Night creatures nervously searched the faces of one another, conflicted by the appearance of their commander who currently donned his true form.

In the presence of their Forgemaster Hector, a naïve necromancer native to the distant country of Greece, the mystical being deceitfully modeled his appearance after that of Vlad Dracula Țepeș. Despite the steadfast loyalty the night creatures held towards their liege, Death had promised the beasts an unlimited supply of sustenance that what would ultimately lead to the extermination of humanity.

Left with free reign of the planet, the night hordes would transform Gaia into a ruinous paradise where the nighttime skies dominated daylight and the forsaken creatures would never have to return to the torturous confinements of Hell.

“The whole lot of you are absolutely useless, do I have to do everything on my own,” the grim reaper lamented, waving a hand to dissolve the magical mirror’s image, erasing the sight of the two women that would later contribute to his demise. One night creature resembling a large bat blew through its nostrils tactlessly, finding no amusement in the unprovoked castigation of the army.

Hearing the sound of the snort, Death languidly turned its effervescent build towards the large beast, staring daggers in retaliation at the ill-timed slight.

“Braying like an ass will not change my words, I was perfectly clear in my demands,” the angel of death howled out powerfully, raising the daunting crescent of his scythe above his frightening form. Making quick work of the unlucky demon, the gruff of its neck caught onto the merciless edge of the blade and the head of the devilish bat soared into the air in moments. Blood sprayed out from the decapitated monster as it unceremoniously fell on the polished floors of the chambers. Exposed arteries showered its nearby compatriots cowering in fear at the execution, all halting further movements.

“Would anyone else care to challenge my words, if so, step forward,” Death questioned calmly, effectively slinging off the blood that clung to the steel of his otherworldly weapon. Silence filled the war hall effectively, no one dared to stand in opposition against the underworld ruler.

On the verge of throwing a fit, Death stopped in his tracks at the sound of quickened footsteps in the distance, closing in on the massive war hall. Permitting a gratuitous exhale, the immortal turned his back to the night hordes who readied themselves for the newcomer, recognizing the familiar footfalls from anywhere. With the flourish of his skeletal hand the grim reaper chanted inaudibly, summoning forth his power to shapeshift into the rightful lord of the castle.

Tendinous muscles bloomed in the place of bone, quickly overtaking the shrinking mass of Death who groaned in soothing tones at the tickling sensation. Inky black hair sprouted from the scalp of his skull and fine threads of linen materialized over muted skin. Black wool breeches pooled over his long legs while a standard charcoal doublet garnished with the Țepeș family insignia appeared over the newly formed body of Vlad’s imposter. Polished leather boots clacked as Death spun around for the night creatures to observe his clever disguise, finishing the last transfigurations needed to complete the transformation.

Looking back into the transmission mirror, the surface reflected an image of the war lord indiscernible from the genuine article currently incapacitated by Death. Sharp claws adorned with a platinum wedding band traced over the mirror thoughtfully, not bothered by the sudden intrusion of Hector who appeared to be out of breath from dashing from his workshop.

Strands of starlight shook gently as the Grecian man doubled over from exhaustion, sweat gathering at his brow as his vision locked onto Dracula. Gently gripping the railing of the grand master stairway, the Forgemaster allowed himself a moment to catch his breath while his night creatures marched out of the war hall.

“Dracula, we need to replenish our forces, the number of casualties in your army continue to rise across Wallachia,” Hector announced wearily. Currently, the Forgemaster worked tirelessly around the clock to provide the soldiers that supplied Dracula’s army. Although he was honored to be chosen as the chief general in the crusade against humanity, Hector could not help but feel that he was reaching his limitations. Additionally, the necromancer pondered the whereabouts of his equal Isaac who had yet to make an appearance in the court of Dracula. Feeling a stab of disappointment at the late arrival of Isaac, Hector found his hands tied up with numerous tasks that did little to distract his thoughts that led to the other Forgemaster.

The two necromancers had been introduced to one another with the assistance of Dracula during his pursuit of knowledge upon Lisa’s request. Hector recalled being in awe, shyly eyeing the other sorcerer whose appearance was quite different than what he had expected based on Dracula’s vague description of the man. Wise beyond his years in matters of philosophy, the Ghanaian man bore the façade of a fabled ruler from a faraway land. Sharp cheekbones exquisitely found purchase against the high points of his face, sleek lines defining the entirety of his graceful form.

However, the other man was unapproachable in their initial encounters, seeking no camaraderie with Hector outside of their shared association with Dracula. Life had dealt a fair share of cruelties to Isaac; sold into slavery at a very young age, his village invaded by Teutonic Knights seeking gold on behalf of the Catholic Church. Having his own share of hardships, Hector faced abuse administered by his parents and peers throughout his lifetime.

Despite the difficulty bonding with Isaac, it became clear to the reserved man that Hector coveted their connection and respected him despite their different worldviews. Isaac slowly began to disclose tidbits of information about his past, detailing the events of his travels throughout the years. The young philosopher was often met with unwarranted violence, constantly badgered by men who had something to prove. Following suit in storytelling, Hector confided in Isaac about his current quarters on the island of Rhodes, forced into isolation by locals who feared the Forgemaster.

“They called me a demon, convinced that I was a byproduct of Satan and his wickedness,” Hector confessed quietly around the campfire. Looking across the flickering flames, his companions offered their sympathy in silence at the disheartened declaration.

Aquamarine hues reflected sorrow, recalling the daily deliverance of venomous words from his birth parents. His mother Rhea viewed her son as a curse, damning their family from the moment he left her womb. His father Cyrus cruelly forced Hector to use his abilities for his greed, completely lacking any attachment to his son. Trauma was an understatement when it came to describing the afflictions he suffered under the roof of his childhood home, every day more miserable than the previous one.

Hector recalled reaching his breaking point when his mother and father heartlessly set aflame Cassius, an undead canine that he revived in the picturesque meadows of Corfu. Infuriated by Hector and his strange proclivities of bringing dead animals into their living quarters, Rhea ripped off a long branch from a nearby olive tree.

“If only I could have foreseen the depravity of your character; why did God gift me with an evil seed,” Rhea cursed ruthlessly while beating a sobbing Hector, leaving irritated welts across his vulnerable back and arms. Curling into a fetal position to avoid the worst of his mother’s fury, Hector begged his mother to stop, but she refused to relent her punishment.

In retaliation, Hector ignited the residence under the cover of darkness, miming the brutality of his parents in an episode of calculated rage. Horrid screams shattered the silence of the night, smoke carrying the scent of burning flesh that could be smelled for miles. Neighbors cautiously gathered around the family home in horror, hurling a plethora of wicked expletives directed to the young boy. Hector retreated into the night wordlessly, never returning to the island of Corfu.

“Your story furthers my point, humanity is an infestation that ravages anything it comes into contact with,” Isaac asserted casually, wrapping his artisan hands around a ceramic mug containing water infused with citrus tones. Mahogany eyes squinted in displeasure at the shortcomings of mankind; a species that Isaac deemed unnecessary given their lack of purity and selfishness.

Propping an alabaster hand against his temple, Dracula wordlessly looked to both men who appeared to be at a standstill in the discussion.

“Peculiar would not even begin to express the paradoxical nature of this discussion, wouldn’t the two of you agree,” Dracula suggested whimsically while rising from the dewy grassland. Both humans exchanged a perplexed look with one another before allowing their supernatural companion to continue his train of thought.

“Despite the misfortunes that you both have endured, neither of you have purposefully gone out of your way to hurt others,” the vampire explained with a faint smile, looking to the two magically imbued mortals. Hector allowed a small smile of his own to surface in agreeance while Isaac quietly mulled over the words in deep contemplation.

Not long after their travels together, Isaac followed Dracula’s recommendation of perusing the world for further insight on humanity and what it had to offer. Traveling through the city of Tunis to return to his abode in the Western Sahara Desert, Isaac encountered a man who simply went by the name of Captain. Commanding a crew of forty-four men, the Captain invited Isaac to explore the world with him, seeing curiosity twinkling in those umber hues. Prior to the present war, both Hector and Isaac communicated through the distance mirrors gifted to them by Dracula. The vampire was quite insistent about the two staying in touch, emphasizing the importance of their friendship.

Hector listened in wonder at the tales that Isaac narrated, completely enthralled by the whirlwind of journeys that Isaac experienced across the globe. Various knick-knacks were presented under the ever-watchful eye of Hector, souvenirs gifted by companions made along the way during his world expedition. Contentment radiated off Isaac in a terrific arrangement throughout their conversations over the next couple of months, feeling closer than ever before to the other Forgemaster. Despite the Ghanaian man being worlds away from Hector’s humble abode in Rhodes, the Grecian man truly felt that he could call himself Isaac’s friend.

“I have never felt more at peace Hector,” Isaac conceded amicably as the sound of relaxing waves sloshed in the backdrop of his lodgings, retiring to his personal cabin for the night. The other Forgemaster curled his body against the worn mat in his small man-made hut, propping a hand under his chiseled chin. Daydreaming about a life of exciting escapades, preferably at the side of Isaac or Dracula, Hector allowed his imagination to run wild. However, Hector lacked the confidence to travel on his own at the mercy of other humans, knowing that his naivety could easily be exploited.

“What you have accomplished is an astounding feat, I’m happy for you,” Hector professed honestly while gently scratching behind the ear of his curious pet Cezar, the small pup wagging its stubby tail at the attention of his master. Tucking away a lingering lock that swayed in his vision, the Corfu native was thrilled that Isaac had achieved inner peace in his ventures to distant lands. Prattling on into the night as they often did, the two men would communicate almost daily until calamity struck Wallachia.

_____________________________________________________________________________

False rumors quickly spread across Wallachia regarding Lisa Țepeș, all unfounded accounts of the human doctor being a malevolent witch who used black magic to heal the residents of Târgoviște. Local priests and clergymen of the Catholic Church demanded that the woman burn at the stake for her crimes, claiming that Lisa denounced the teachings of the church through her unorthodox methods. Leading the public lynching of the innocent physician, the Bishop stormed the cottage and burned the structure without remorse, gleefully watching the home crumble in on itself amongst the flames.

Not long after the unexpected invasion, Dracula was alarmed by a disturbance in the cosmos after departing from the market town of Târgșor. The small town was roughly three miles out from the small dwelling that he shared with his wife from time to time following the birth of their son Adrian. The scholar had just returned to Wallachia after a year of traveling, departing from the port city of Braila just days ago. Wasting no time, the voivode glided through the bleak skies of a Wallachian winter, perturbed by the prickling unease that struck him out of nowhere. From the darkened clouds above, the nosferatu noticed fumes shrouding the small refuge of their home, seeing two figures situated in what remained of the cottage.

Crimson red engulfed the sclerae of Vlad’s eyes, his wrathful aura alerting one of the two creatures standing. Ivory frost coated platinum blond loose waves that resembled that of his wife Lisa, golden eyes widening in apprehension as the youth registered the presence of his father. An old woman crouched remorsefully by the young man with a hand full of withered cowslips picked from the nearby flora, laying them down in front of the incinerated remnants of the home.

“Words cannot express how indebted I am to your mother, the church has truly gone too far,” the elderly human muttered repentantly, clasping her worn hands together in a silent prayer. Jet black locks viciously swirled around the pale visage of the vampire, treading through the snowy sleet that did little to impede his powerful steps. Finally stopping before the pair, hellfire danced in his blazing irises that refused to burn out.

“Where is your mother and why were you not by her side,” Vlad snarled out quietly while dropping his traveling sack onto the blanketing snow, glowering at the dhampir without any inhibitions. A wave of tremendous guilt washed over Alucard at the blunt criticism of his father, unable to loosen the knot in his throat. Dark fitted leather gloves squeaked in protest, looking to the longsword he held in his hand for guidance. The weapon was a keepsake given to him by his mother in his teen years, a family heirloom passed through the ages.

“Mother asked me to travel to the city of Pitești to purchase medicinal herbs from the local market for her patients, I was only gone for two days,” the young man weakly explained. Raising a gloved hand to his temple in silent resignation, his eyes shut worriedly at the unknown fate of his mother, hauled away to the town square of Târgoviște to be burned for all to see.

Bloodied tears mirrored those that ran translucent in a state of clear distress. Despite the two butting heads from time to time, Vlad and Adrian loved Lisa more than anything else in the world so it was no question what they needed to do now. Casting a downward glance at the woman who knelt in the frosty snow, Vlad looked to the human thankful that at least one soul refused to participate in the cruel spectacle. Slowly rising to her feet with creaking bones, Alucard lent a hand to help Mrs. Djuvara rise from the snowfall, alleviating the strain of her getting up from the ground to the best of his abilities.

“The Bishop left about thirty minutes ago sir, rambling like a mad man after seeing the contents of the cottage,” the gray-haired crone commentated apologetically, gently thanking Alucard for his assistance. Giving her full attention to Vlad, almond-shaped eyes lowered in thought before she deemed it appropriate to continue.

“The Catholic Church wishes for Lisa to burn at the stake, those clergymen should be ashamed,” Mrs. Djuvara angrily expressed, crossing her arms at a complete loss.

If those bastards wish to burn my wife, blood shall be spilled all over these lands the immortal scholar promised menacingly while Alucard looked to his father with unadulterated determination. Somewhere in his delicate heart Alucard knew that his mother would be saved and that she would not want either of the men to spiral into violence on her behalf.

“There is no time to waste, we need to leave now Father if we hope to stop them,” Alucard suggested gently, sheathing his longsword into the scabbard that was fastened to his hip. Silently nodding in agreeance, Vlad directed one last glance to Mrs. Djuvara who watched the two men with concern.

“Thank you for your kindness, this act of generosity will not be forgotten,” Vlad expressed with a slight nod in her general direction. Turning on his heel, Vlad charged back into the frigid heavens once more. Following in suit, Alucard gave a polite bow in a show of gratitude before he took to the gloomy skies after his father.

“I truly hope she is alright,” the kind woman spoke in hushed tones, rubbing her aged palms together to regain some warmth before heading down the slushy path with careful steps. Tucked away in the grim forest nearby, a shadowy figure briskly swore, praying that the two supernatural beings would fail to reach the physician in time.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Not a soul in Wallachia knows what occurred following these events, only aware that Lisa never reached the town square as the Bishop had intended. The Catholic Church decided not to pursue the matter any further after several months passed, deciding that God would be pleased by their work regardless of her unknown whereabouts. Many speculations were made by those residing in Târgoviște relishing a year of peace following the abduction of Lisa Țepeș, theorizing that she used her craftiness to escape the reach of the church. Completely unaware of the violence that would pervade the cursed province, Wallachians returned to their daily routines and forgot all about Lisa of Lupu.

Shortly after the presumed tragedy, Hector received a distress signal from his distance mirror roughly six months ago, contacted by Dracula to conduct a global population cull. Briefly explaining what led to the maniacal request, the vampiric king pleaded that Hector travel to Romania to assist in his war against mankind. At a loss for words, Hector hesitantly asked Dracula to give him more time to consider the harrowing proposal.

Feeling guilt streaming through his conscience, the necromancer attempted to contact Isaac for additional guidance in what path he should walk. However, the other Forgemaster failed to answer the line of communication that both were accustomed to. Left to his own devices and feeling indebted to Dracula for his kindness in those previous months together, Hector agreed to act as a general in the vampire’s army. At the acceptance of the request, Dracula summoned forward his transmission mirror, allowing Hector to safely arrive to Wallachia without a moment to waste.

Upon his arrival, Hector noticed several oddities while exploring the expansive fortress. For one, Dracula failed to mention that Hector and Isaac would be the only generals acting in his army. While the Grecian man understood that Dracula detested the vampires in his inner court, the sorcerer could not understand the set of tactics that his master presented. No vampires had been spotted in the months he spent in the estate. Marbled hallways remained vacant apart from the night creatures that passed through on occasion, leaving Hector with so many questions that would remain unanswered.

Moreover, the late appearance of Isaac bothered Hector to no end, knowing that the missing Forgemaster prided himself on being punctual. When the young wizard prodded Dracula about the man in question, the lord of the castle insisted that he could not get ahold of Isaac.

“I have tried to speak to Isaac on several occasions, yet I cannot seem to reach him,” Dracula permitted after weeks of leading Hector on about the whereabouts of the Ghanaian man.

Hearing the admission aloud troubled the tanned islander despite the war lord attempting to put his mind at ease.

“Who could possibly harm Isaac, he will be fine,” the undead tyrant exclaimed irritably with the wave of his hand, silencing the anxious man altogether. Shortly after his biting remark, Dracula issued an apology to the dismayed general, explaining that he meant no harm. During his tenure at the castle, Hector took notice of the constant mood swings that afflicted Dracula, his temperament setting off at the slightest inconvenience.

Night creatures controlled by the childlike fellow were disposed of in cruel moments dealt by the voivode, often victims of senseless brutality. Seeing their battered remains evoked memories from the childhood that Hector desperately tried to escape, feeling ill when coming across his slaughtered beasts. In those moments, Dracula knew exactly what to say, explaining that his episodic cruelty stemmed from his immeasurable sorrow. Despite it being clear that his lord was still in mourning, the sorcerer could not help, but feel that many details leading to the tragedy were abstract in nature.

Only once did Hector attempt to question Vlad about the demise of his wife, hoping that he could comfort his friend. Unsurprisingly, Dracula vehemently lashed out at Hector when inquiring about Lisa, clarifying that his grief was too painful to blatantly express.

“Her passing is like an open wound that was left to fester Hector, vulnerably exposed to the brutal elements,” the sovereign spat out venomously. Approaching the portrait of Lisa that sat in his over cluttered study, Dracula tenderly caressed the oil painting with a hollowed expression.

Feeling a strange mix of empathy and apprehension, Hector simply observed the unsettling scene, concluding that he could not offer the consolation that his liege would never be able to claim.

The two quickly began to draft plans, offering their own introspections about which cities would best serve as ground zero in the war. Setting the tone of the attacks was of the utmost importance to Dracula, deeming that the first strike against Wallachia would determine the success of future battles. After careful consideration, the warlord determined that the first skirmish had to be personal in nature so that Wallachians took his actions seriously. Maneuvering a pasty hand against a yellowed map of Romania, a finger landed on the foundation of his misery, allowing an insidious smirk to sprout in place.

Târgoviște would be the first target of Dracula’s unbridled fury in avenging Lisa, staking claim on the capitol in one fell swoop. Many attempted to escape the city in the initial wave of attacks but quickly fell victim to the onslaught of the night hordes. Those surviving escaped through elaborate labyrinths lying underneath the city, fleeing north to the region of Transylvania. News quickly spread regarding the ambush on Târgoviște, survivors warning anyone in proximity to desert Wallachia at once.

Not long after, Hector began to expand the numbers in Dracula’s army with the excess of corpses from successful frays around Wallachia. His materials for forging varied in appearance, leaving the necromancer to question his own moral compass at times. Some of remains relatively intact appeared to be as young as a five-year-old, robbed of a meaningful life all too soon. Others seemed elderly to the point of having issues with mobility, their joints stiffened from a lifetime of working day in and day out.

Shaking away these intrusive thoughts, Hector continued to perform his duties to the best of his abilities, successfully overtaking many cities with his revived hellhounds. Things were running according to plan until the unexpected appearance of Speakers in Greşit; the mages assisting the common people from the attacks of night creatures. Since then, different caravans had travelled throughout the province in hopes of defending the innocent civilians falling prey to the unexpected raids commanded by Dracula.

Projecting the falsehood of contemplation under the focused gaze of the young man, the doppelganger summoned away the enchanted mirror. Pacing to the throne that sat at the heart of the war hall, the faux Dracula slowly sat down while interlacing his corpse like fingers together.

“What do you suggest that we do Hector,” Dracula requested patiently, looking to the Forgemaster currently descending the steps with a weighted gaze. Drawing himself to the side of his master, Hector failed to ignore the fallen night creature slain in the war hall, its fresh blood still perfuming the stagnant air. Sparing a brief glance at the sight of the corpse, the magician allowed a downcast expression to cloud his handsome features, pity flooding his body.

“The night creatures need guidance on the battlefield; however, we do not have the means to be everywhere at once Master Dracula,” Hector expressed bluntly.

Conceding with a small bob, the commander of the army allowed his high-ranking officer to pursue his thread of reasoning.

“Why not utilize your vampiric subjects in this war, they could easily best anyone that challenged your authority,” the magical user hesitantly recommended after a beat of silence. Thrumming his lengthy fingers along the arms of the dark oak throne, an extended sigh was released at the suggestion. Craning his neck to make eye contact with the standing Forgemaster, Dracula allowed an unrefined snort to escape his mountainous frame, startling Hector with the action.

Rising from his cushioned seat, the imposter scrutinized the undead conjurer with a wary eye, bending down to gander at the Mediterranean male. Suppressing the urge to back away at the sudden invasion of his personal boundaries, Hector furrowed his brow but remained in place, refusing to yield to the intimidation tactic. Nevertheless, his heart thrashed madly inside the cavity of his chest, unsure of how Dracula would respond to the open defiance of his commanding general.

Surprisingly, the ghoulish sovereign beckoned the sorcerer to follow his footsteps up the stairway, leaving Hector stupefied. After Hector took a moment to gather his bearings, his stride shadowed his master who walked ahead in silence.

On the upper level of the castle, the crackle of lightning could be heard within the glass lanterns decorating the top of massive pillars. The Forgemaster trailed behind the imposing figure of Dracula by several steps, pondering the undisclosed destination that his master had in mind. Peculiar rooms embellished with the strange mechanisms of the castle passed in the background, colossal cogs spinning in tandem to power the lifelike structure. Illuminated by the blue radiance from the electrically powered lamps, both men began to slow their extended steps before coming to a complete stop at the appearance of an unexplored threshold previously unknown to Hector.

Darkness swept away any previous amusement from the face of the vampire, retrieving a skeletal key shrouded in a venomous miasma, visible to even the unsuspecting eye of Hector. Sweat beaded across tanned skin that shivered at what lied ahead, a wave of unexpected nausea overriding his otherwise well disposition. Am I being punished for what I previously suggested Hector questioned shakily, fearing that his unfiltered callousness stirred the rage of his liege.

“Hector, you must promise me that you will never tell anyone about this particular room,” Dracula cooed softly, brushing a frigid hand against the quivering form of his subject. Unbeknownst to the Grecian man, Hector faced no danger behind the doorway that Dracula wished to show him.

Nodding reluctantly at the inquiry, Hector directed a skittish glance to his master wordlessly. Wasting no more time, the entryway of the room was swung open by an otherworldly force, revealing an otherwise chaste setting.

Gossamer curtains carelessly blew back and forward, blinding sunlight filtering through the boarded windows of the secret lodging. Surprise struck the features of the Forgemaster, seeing a mysterious man in the center of the room, lying in a lavish canopy bed. The lord of the castle hesitantly entered the room with a grimace, trudging towards the rest station with heavy footfalls. Tilting his head downwards, Dracula once again gestured for Hector to follow his lead, inviting the magician to stand by him with the repeated curl of his ghoulish finger.

Promptly accepting the invitation, the Corfu native briskly paced his steps to stand by his commander, following the line of attention given to the ethereal man sleeping in the comfort of the bed. The expanse of porcelain skin revealed the lean form of the fellow, marred by an unsightly scar that splayed across his Adonis-like chest. Flaxen loose curls attractively framed the resting warrior, unfurling around the man in a breathtaking impression that resembled the mythical tresses of the Greek god Apollo. The celestial being only wore leather-bound trousers that effectively displayed his powerful yet lithe frame, equal parts refined and daunting in aura.

Clearing his throat at the awkward stretch of silence, a pale hand splayed across the bare chest of the dhampir, partially covering the only imperfection that could be found on the man.

“My son attempted to thwart my plans in avenging my wife,” Dracula carefully disclosed. Slithering the hand upward, his icy hand cupped the sculptured cheekbone belonging to the youth in bed.

Looking between the parent and child, it was clear to Hector who the unconscious beauty resembled, favoring the late woman that he often saw in the disorderly study of his sovereign. Only around the eyes and brows could he see the influence of his master, both father and son showcasing striking features that conveyed their noble heritage. Despite the discovery of Adrian seizing his interest, the Forgemaster was befuddled by the late introduction of the halfling prince.

“Before his betrayal, I tried to call on the assistance of the closest generals within my court, demanding that they come at once after what the humans had done to my beloved wife,” the vampire king hissed while drawing back his claws from his sole heir.

Pausing for the sake of building momentum in the elaborate lie, the false Dracula closed his crimson eyes, soundlessly relishing in the misplaced trust of the naive sorcerer.

“A vampire by the name of Orlok struck down Adrian with a cursed blade despite my prompt warnings, leaving him in this weakened state,” the voivode admitted with a bite, leaving a disquieted Hector to piece together what occurred.

Starlight strands shook at this revelation, finally coming to terms with the reluctance that his master exhibited at the mention of vampires being at the forefront of his war. Loyal subordinates of Dracula mortally wounded his offspring, proving themselves to be as depraved as human beings.

“I came to a realization following the near death of my successor; neither vampires nor humans deserve to walk these lands,” the executioner confessed boldly. According to the violent account of the crown ruler, Dracula dispatched every vampire in his path following the assault of his cherished son.

Bonds of blood and love fueled his animosity towards his own species, concluding that vampires were incapable of viewing mortal creatures as purposeful creatures.

“Please forgive me for my suggestion, it was an unreasonable request,” Hector confessed sorrowfully. Brushing off the verbal sputtering of his general, the doppelganger felt a ripple of fatigue begin to hammer away at the effectiveness of the spell disguising his legitimate form.

I will have to dismiss him at once Death deliberated apprehensively, detecting that the veil of the glamour was slipping rapidly from his persistent usage of the spell as of late. Allowing a rare genial smile to surface, Dracula summoned his tactical officer away, promising that he would find a proper solution to lessen the workload of the Forgemaster.

“Words alone cannot describe my gratitude Master Dracula, I will not fail you,” Hector promised with a bright smile, feeling a surge of passion spark at the unguarded constitution of his friend.

Once the jovial magician departed from the alcove, a deep scowl set on the face of the imposter wearing the skin of Dracula, sickened by the fictitious bond between him and the accursed man-child. Death lifted the enchantment camouflaging the angel of death, gliding over to the unmoved form of Alucard. Flesh melted away in a horrifying reveal, making way for the signature semblance of the spectre.

“Do you hear me Alucard,” the grim reaper griped, clearly miffed by the tireless charade that he put on day in and day out to accomplish his current objective. Procuring an agreeable spot in a gothic high back chair that sat close by, the entity permitted a superfluous exhale to leave his lungless structure. Gazing at the sleeping prince, a sharpened appendage attempted to pierce the heart of the unconscious youth. Simultaneously, a visible force field crackled at the threat of danger for the son of Dracula, Death forcibly removed by the triggered spell. Allocated by the true ruler of the castle, the spell allowed Alucard to remain unharmed by the malicious entity, protected by the paternal love of his father.

Groaning at the effectiveness of the hex, a feral snarl erupted from the underworld king. Stomping back to close in on the cursed male, the skeletal face of Death unceremoniously crowded in the proximity of the defenseless dhampir. Small breaths escaped from the gorgeous warrior compelled to sleep against his will, unable to voice his displeasure against the depraved creature.

“That cock wart Dracula will pay for making a mockery out of me, I will find away to break this spell and I will take what rightfully is mine,” Death assured brusquely, gripping the hollowed cheeks of his captive. Releasing the delicate face of the supernatural fighter, the grim reaper vanished from the chambers, slicing through the frigid air of the room with his trustworthy scythe.

Creating an ingress that led to the Infinite Corridor, Death saw a copious number of settings distorting the foundation of time and space, different eras and locations all residing within the unusual dimension.

“In order to assure my victory, I must douse out any semblance of hope for humanity,” the supernatural being concluded grimly. Selecting a seemingly arbitrary setting, Death pursued the target he had sought out for months: the absent Forgemaster Isaac.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Harsh pants dispensed at the suffocating dryness of the barren lands; a wearied figure found difficulty with properly trekking through the golden sand that seemed infinite. Bringing the waxed batik fabric of his bell-shaped sleeve to his drenched brow, Isaac squinted in exhaustion at the compression of heat, seeing waves distort his unreliable vision. Leering at the nothingness that extended for miles, the Ghanaian man paused in his journey. Looking back at the night creatures created from the remains of desert bandits, maroon eyes warily searched the blazing heavens to see if the deadly entity hid amongst his troops.

Dropping to his knees abruptly, the Forgemaster felt his stamina begin to plummet at an unprecedented rate. For several months the necromancer avoided the grim reaper with the assistance of his distance mirror, indebted to Dracula for his selflessness during a critical time in Wallachia. Frowning in discontentment at the unpleasant memory, the sorcerer felt responsible for failing the traveling scholar in his time of need.

Approximately a year ago, Isaac received a distressed message from his highly esteemed friend Dracula, foreboding the current events that he now endured. While the communication from the man of letters was not an aberration in his daily rituals, the Forgemaster noticed an immediate difference in the usually collected countenance of the vampire king.

Shooting pains stirred within the frontal lobe of his head at the recollection, immediately bringing Isaac back to the tumultuous present. Night creatures gathered around their master, concerned by the abnormal behavior of the dark skinned enchanter. One night creature by the name of Fly Eyes stood at the forefront of the troops, chittering away commands to instruct the lesser beings within their ranks to search for nourishment at once.

Attempting to placate the dehydrated magician, Flyseyes knelt by the side of the Ghanaian man, gently prying open the attractive curve of plump lips with his razor-sharp talons.

Carefully bringing his hands to his side, Flyseyes retrieved a leather waterskin from the satchel belonging to his liege. Despite his nightmarish appearance, the night creature retained a good deal of his humanity, constantly conversing with Isaac about a great deal of worldly matters. In his previous life, the anthropomorphic fly acted as a Greek philosopher who died in the ancient city of Athens, remembering inconsequential details from his past. Delicious morsels for discussions by the fire, the creature inspired new trains of thought for Isaac with his wisdom and vice versa.

“You really should drink Isaac, do you wish to expire,” the night creature prattled with a hint of admonition, the water-filled receptacle promptly placed in front of the revenant summoner. Allowing a small exhale to leave his crumbled form, the Forgemaster gladly accepted the offering given by his wise servant, taking extensive gulps to savor the lukewarm water.

Pulling back to intake an influx of fresh air, Isaac straightened his toned frame, unable to articulate his hopelessness. Wide vermillion eyes stared adamantly, refusing to yield in their conquest of retrieving their master, the wise man seeming so lost for the first time since the two met.

“Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here,” the night creature mentioned offhandedly, raising a barbed nail to pick at the human flesh stuck between his visceral fangs.

Down casted burgundy eyes closed at the ancient Athenian proverb, shaken by his own bewilderment, instead offering an Islamic adage to combat his own troubled psyche.

“Life is not guaranteed at all, but death is absolutely guaranteed upon all, yet we still prepare for life more than death,” the necromancer countered, passing the waterskin to the puzzled night creature.

Although the demonic entity politely accepted the leather canteen, Flyseyes no longer required the fundamental resources needed for human survival. Placing the waterskin by his side in the shifting silt, the jarring beast stood up, seeing the dispatched creatures returning to their malnourished master bearing gifts. Not too far off, a small caravan trailed in the overshadow of the flying critters, a small collection of several men and women on camelback.

Slowly, Isaac retrieved his forging dagger from the rough cotton sash tied to his strong core, prepared to add the travelers to his ranks if need be. Shockingly, the men appeared to be completely calm, not bothered by the presence of the Forgemaster or his beasties. Cool steel began to heat up in his clammy palms, hooded eyes sinking close from the burnout administered by the unexpected travels leading him to the accursed desert.

This is the end I suppose, my only regret is dying in this hellish heat Isaac mused casually, falling onto the fiery golden sea. Vision blackening at the edges, the last sight captured by Isaac was the dismounting of the leader, an unusual ambiance filling the air at his arrival.

#Castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #gretacard #greta danesti #sypha belnades #death #hector #isaac #isaac laforeze #forgehusbands #lisa tepes #vlad dracula tepes #draculisa #I hope you guys are fed well with this chapter #because my fingers have died from typing and revising all of this a million times #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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novantinuum · 4 years

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Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 1.6K~

Summary: The question— incomplete, and yet bursting with long-held curiosity— emerges from thin air while he’s about to tuck Steven into bed in the back of the van one night.

In retrospect, no parenting book could’ve ever prepared him for this one.

A Greg and Steven focused fic, set when Steven is freshly four. This is one of those I had on the poll a month or so back, ahah! Finally finished it. Apologies for the wait. The good news is that my list is now whittled down to three non-Crack the Paragon WIPS! Woo! That’s rather exciting.

There’s some brief meta rambles on the AO3 version. If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3. Thank you! <3

____

“Where’s yours, Daddy?”

The question— incomplete, and yet bursting with long-held curiosity— emerges from thin air while he’s about to tuck Steven into bed in the back of the van one night.

In retrospect, no parenting book could’ve ever prepared him for this one.

“My...?” Smiling encouragingly, he lets the word dangle unfinished in the air for a moment, and gestures to try and prompt the little tyke to continue. “My what, kiddo? My... pajamas?” he says, pointing towards each item his kid bears in succession. “My... stuffed tiger? My very own... tickle monster?!”

In the spirit of good-hearted mischief, Greg tousles his boy’s dark, flyaway curls. When he then moves his hands to tickle his sides, Steven breaks into delighted peals of laughter, squirming nonstop.

“Noooooo,” he giggles breathlessly, batting his small pudgy hands at him to stop the affectionate onslaught. “No tickles, your gem! Like mine! You ‘aven’t never showed it.”

In an instant, the small universe encapsulated inside their van freezes, and he goes momentarily slack-jawed as he struggles to process the words that just came out of his son’s mouth.

“My- w-where’s my gem?”

He lets out a low chuckle at the absurd thought— imagine that, him, having a gem of his own! Where on Earth did his kid acquire this notion? And then... his memory can’t help but drift back to a few hours earlier, when Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl spent a mission-free day with Steven on the beach, surrounded by all manners of summer tourists. Humans coexisting amongst Gems, most entirely nonplussed by their otherworldly appearances. Steven was eagerly padding across the shore in his brand new swim trunks— the pair he received for his birthday just a week ago— the quartz gem at his navel on proud display. Midway through the afternoon, though, the kiddo seemed to become strangely preoccupied by all the human beachgoers. He’d glance at people’s faces, their sternums, their exposed navels, and then scowl in confusion. At one point he excitedly ran up to a dark skinned young woman with hair like Garnet’s to give her a high-five, and returned puzzled, his lips pressed in a thin line. At the time, Greg didn’t understand what all of his bewildered, curious gawking was about, and quietly instructed him not to bother other people. But now, given this latest comment, a theory builds in his mind... oh stars, was he looking for their gems?

Did he somehow assume both from his own and from his frequency of interaction with Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl that everyone had one hidden somewhere?

Swallowing, he deliberately makes it a point to mask his nervousness about this topic in front of his impressionable four-year-old child as best he can. Oh, boy. They haven’t had this sort of conversation yet. He always kinda feared it was coming, coursing towards him like a tidal wave faster and faster with each passing moment, but never in a million years did he imagine this moment would be tonight. And now, his tongue dry as a stone in his mouth, he finds himself at a complete loss for words. As best he knows, there’s no one else even remotely like Steven in the entire universe. How does one even convey this concept to their child in terms they’d understand?

Because even if he— ignoring the rose quartz gemstone embedded flush with his skin where a typical kid’s belly button would be— looks the part, Steven isn’t human. That much is obvious. That’s simply a fact. Humans don’t glow as babies. They don’t grow so ramrod still while sleeping that they appear like they’re not breathing at all. They can’t casually lift double their body weight at the tender age of four. Not to mention, in all his years of life thus far, he’s never gotten sick. Never gotten a scrape or cut that didn’t heal up completely in less than an hour. Not once. There’s no way that’s by mere coincidence, Greg muses, there’s gotta be another reason. He’s gotta have some sort of mega-boosted immune system or something, or magically healing cells. No branch of human science can successfully justify the alien nuances of his son’s existence. He just... is. He’s a walking miracle, the light of his life.

Steven’s never been a normal child, that’s for sure.

But how is a father supposed to lovingly and sensitively explain this to innocent ears?

“I, erm- I don’t have one of those, bud,” he says slow, still desperately sorting through his thoughts to figure out what else to say about this.

The kid stubbornly wriggles free from his arms, lifting up the bottom hem of his baggy pajama shirt to showcase the glittering pink gemstone resting at the center of his belly. “But I got one, an’ Amethyst an’ Pearl got one, an’ Garnet, she- guess what,” he says in an attempt at a whisper, wide eyed as if he’s about to impart some sacred knowledge. “She even got two gems!”

“That’s right, she does have two gems!” he nods, only barely holding back his chuckle at the hilarious solemnity of his kid’s proclamation. “But Steven, not everyone has ‘em like you and them. It’s something unique to the four of you. Y’see, they are Gems, just like me and everyone else in town are humans. It’s, um—“ his speech falters as he struggles to find words someone so young could possibly begin to understand— “it’s sorta just who they are.”

The corners of Steven’s mouth turn downwards in an exaggerated pout, and it’s immediately obvious that this blind, clumsy attempt at an explanation didn’t satisfy him one bit. Greg leans back against the inner siding of the van, gently tugging at a strand of his hair as he scours his mind for any potential solutions to this parenting quandary.

Think, think, think... How does one connect this topic to things such a young kid might understand?

“Listen, uh...” he begins again, marked hesitation tinting his voice. “Pearl’s been teaching you about bugs lately, right?”

However, if Steven— bless his heart— happened to notice his heightened nervousness, he sure doesn’t let it show on his face, instead enthusiastically jumping to answer his question.

“Uh-huh!” he nods, and then proceeds to happily babble about what he’s learned, flapping his hands in front of him as he does so. “She tells me all about bumble bees an’ stick bugs, an’ these...” His brow creases as he pauses, combing his memory for the right words. “...fuzzy worms? But they aren’t worms, ‘cause they sleep for really super long and then, then they get wings and fly away!”

He can’t help but smile at his son’s animation about this subject. He soaks up knowledge like a sponge, that’s for sure. Between Pearl and him, they’ve been trying to introduce him to some of the basics lately, stuff kids his age should know. Like reading, and writing, and counting, and music, and basic science. Pearl does the math and science, (those classes were never his wheelhouse in school), and he takes care of everything else. Given, erm... given their kinda strained history, they don’t exactly collaborate on lesson plans, but so far the arrangement seems to be working out okay. Steven’s having fun, at least, which is all that matters in the end.

“Oooh, caterpillars and butterflies, huh?” he says, reaching for the thick blanket folded up against the side wall of the van. “Well, y’wanna learn a cool new thing?”

His son bobs his head, his eyes glittering.

“All those bugs you named?” he begins, unfolding the blanket for the two of them as he goes. “They’re each types of completely different creatures, or, different species, we call ‘em. And humans and Gems, they’re types of species too. And every species has something that makes them unique, different from everything else. You know how all those bugs have special things the others don’t have, like the bumble bees and their stripes, and those caterpillars’ fuzz?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, that’s what it’s like for humans and Gems, too! Garnet and Amethyst and Pearl and you, you all have gemstones, just like yours right here,” he says, tapping a gentle finger over the rose quartz embedded at his midsection. Steven lets out a small giggle at the contact. “That’s your special thing as Gems, something humans don’t have.”

“What’ve humans have?” he asks in curiosity, tilting his head.

Greg purses his lips, his fingers subconsciously massaging the blanket’s rough, time-worn surface as he considers the elements that— from personal experience— he’d consider essential to human life. “Hmm. Well, let’s see... I guess... humans eat, and sleep, and grow from babies all the way until they’re adults. Gems don’t age. They don’t really... do any of that.”

“But I can do that!” he whines, brows creasing.

“Hm?”

“I thought you jus’ said I’m a Gem?”

Greg’s breath stills upon the deliverance of this pointed question, spoken with such youthful innocence, and yet wholly capable of penetrating through every layer of his ill-formed logic. He swallows hard. Once again, he is not prepared. He likely never could be.

His son... oh, his beloved Steven. Without meaning to, he keeps ignoring the inherent humanity that sets this boy apart from the rest of the Gems. He’s similar to them in many respects, yes, but he’s also not. He’s both, but...

He’s also neither.

He’s unique from everyone, his own thing altogether. Something entirely new.

Quite honestly, the best word he can grasp at to describe him is hybrid.

And while at this present moment he has no idea if he’s doing his son a disservice, othering him from the rest of humanity at such a tender age, he figures that he at least deserves to know the truth.

“You’re kinda- uh, both, at once, actually,” he clarifies, these very words acting as a beacon to clarify a wide range of once deep-seeded assumptions in his mind. “Gem and human. You’ve got special things from both sides, how funky is that?”

“Huh.” Steven mulls this new information over, and then flashes a toothy grin. “That's cool!”

#su #steven universe #greg universe #su fanfiction #my writing stuff

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detectiveidiotboy · 3 years

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His Time In The Commonwealth III: Deacon's Story

so as my beloved fanfiction, The Black Widow’s Waltz, comes to an end, i’ve decided that i am going to re-release the backstory chapters as their own stand-alone fic, since they read well as their own story. before that, i thought i might do a fun little thing where i release each of the companions backstories as their own post here on tumblr under the tag #his time in the commonwealth.

it is now time for part three of this little mini series i have. now that we’ve seen what happened to nick, let’s see how good ol’ deacon ended up where he is...

Deacon stood in the center of the burning remains of the Mercer Safehouse, staring at the man who set the place on fire not two hours earlier. The arsonist's back was turned, cropped black hair shining in the red-and-yellow flashes of the house fire. A woman crawled out from the debris - a synth who’d arrived just weeks before. She was shouldering a sobbing agent with cracked, bloody glasses and leg twisted backward. The man raised his rifle and gunned the two women down with an honest-to-god smile on his face.

Nate, you are one fucked up guy, Deacon thought as he stepped over the burning remains of an agent trapped under a beam.

“Deacon? Is that you?” Nate turned, eyes shining against the flames illuminating the light. “I thought I’d run into you sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” Deacon snarked, unstrapping his shotgun from his back, “I’ve been a little hard to pin down lately - Dez was always the one who assigned my ops in my downtime, but she’s been pretty distracted lately. You know, being dead ‘n all.”

“Morbid.” Nate chuckled. “I always did like your sense of humor.”

“I’ve been told I’m one hell of a comedian.”

Deacon pressed the barrel of his shotgun against Nate’s chest. The man stared at him, seeming far more interested than worried about the twelve gage of death aimed at his sternum. Nate was tough shit - but even he couldn’t survive getting all his organs blasted out by a point-blank shotgun round. At least, that was the hope Deacon clung to. “So, you wanna die here? Or is there somewhere else you want me to shoot you?”

“A surprisingly generous offer,” Nate said, lowering the gun with a finger, “but I’m afraid I have to decline. I have more important things to do than help you get some petty revenge.”

“Sorry, not happening,” Deacon cocked the gun, raising the barrel until it rested just beneath Nate’s chin. “Actually, you know what, nah - I’m not sorry at all.”

“I assumed not,” Nate said, raising his hands. “Fine, Deacon.” He said with a sigh. “If this is really how you want things to go, then shoot me - but wouldn’t you rather know why I’m doing what I’m doing?”

“Nope,” Deacon said as he blasted the fucker’s head off his body.

Except, that wasn’t entirely what happened. Nate stumbled back, almost fell over entirely, but despite the scattershot tearing through his throat just seconds before, his head was still stubbornly attached to his body. Nate laughed, slowly rolling his head forward until it was back on top of his shoulders, smiling widely. Deacon’s own vindictive smile dropped as he lowered the gun. “Shit… you really are immortal.” He said.

“That’s right,” Nate said in a sing-song voice. “Immortal and invulnerable. I’m basically the closest thing this world has to a god,” He laughed as he took a step forward, and Deacon took one back. “Now, since your idea was a miserable failure, let’s try mine.” He said, stretching his legs on the tips of his toes and clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t you want to hear the reason behind my supposed betrayal?”

Deacon answered Nate’s question by bashing the butt of his gun against the psychotic killer’s face. Nate, momentarily stunned, staggered to the side and Deacon was able to retreat back towards the woods that surrounded the safehouse. At the very least he could act as bait to lure Nate away from any possible survivors. It was the least he could do for them, since he was the one who brought their murderer into the fold.

All of this was Deacon’s fault; he’d accepted the risk when he brought Nate on board. Desdemona had told him it was a bad plan - hell, P.A.M had reservations about it. Deacon should have listened to the future-telling robot instead of trusting his own chronically poor judgment. It had just seemed too good to be true - a supposedly immortal killing machine who resented authority and had a major bone to pick with the Institute? It was like the Atom itself had popped down into the Commonwealth and built them a savior out of clay and nuclear ash. Deacon couldn’t have let an opportunity like that go - and really, he’d asked himself, what was the worst that could happen?

Apparently, the worst that could happen was that the Brotherhood of Steel made their little savior an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now Tom, Desdemona, Glory, P.A.M… hell even Cartington ! They were all gone. Deacon hadn’t been at the base at the time of the attack - Nate had seen to that. Told him to head over to Sanctuary for a surprise. Well, surprise! Everyone Deacon loved was dead. He didn’t know - nor did he care - why he was spared; the only thing that mattered now was putting a stop to Nate before even more lives were lost, both synth and human alike.

Deacon dodged and weaved through the trees. He could hear Nate following him not far behind. It wasn’t long before Deacon’s lungs were straining and each breath was like a stab in the chest - god dammit he was a spy , not a runner. His body was not designed for prolonged exercise. Deacon’s heart was beating in his throat by the time he was forced to slow down. He’d put some distance between him and Nate, but it wouldn’t last. Nate never exhausted, Deacon had seen evidence of that. His stamina was endless - must come standard as part of the whole ‘god among men’ package.

Deacon reached into his pocket and pressed down on a button. It was the last stealth boy he had, and it wasn’t entirely full. It gave him only a few seconds to breathe while he tried to figure out his next move. To his right there were woods, to his left… more woods, and in front of him was, as one might guess, a large expanse of woods. Deacon wasn’t nearly as familiar as he needed to be with this part of the Commonwealth, his basic mental map was insufficient for a midnight life-or-death sprint.

He had less than ten seconds left on the stealth boy. Deacon could hear Nate closing in, so he did the only thing he could think of and backed himself up against the bark of an irradiated tree. He pressed his lips together firmly as Nate wove through the clearing, head swinging back and forth like an attack dog. It was as if he was tracking Deacon down by the scent of his fear. Again, considering Nate's otherworldly nature, not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

“I know you’re here,” Nate said, a manic laugh following the words. He drew a silenced 10mm pistol from his jacket pocket, showing it off to the seemingly-empty clearing. “Recognize this, D?” He said. Deacon did - it was Tommy’s gun, Deliverer . The very same handgun that Deacon had gifted Nate on his official entry to the Railroad. “Seems poetic, don’t it? Whispers died hiding in the shadows, and now I’m gonna kill you while you’re curled up with a Stealth Boy in your pocket.”

Deacon lunged for Nate just as the effects of the stealth device wore off. He caught the man off guard, at least, wrapping both arms around him in a bearhug of death and tackling him to the ground. Deacon had no idea how he was going to kill his target if even a point-blank shot to the neck wasn’t enough to do it, but at the very least he was going to make Nate suffer .

Deacon grabbed Nate’s arm and yanked, using his foot to pin down the man’s back and dislocate the appendage with a swift movement. Nate choked on a cry - it was the first time Deacon had even seen the man externally express pain. Maybe it was the first time he’d ever been hurt - good. Deacon slammed the heel of his boot into the back of Nate’s head, aiming for the spine. Nate’s good hand darted up, snatching Deacon by the ankle and pulling him to the ground.

Suddenly, their positions were reversed, and Nate was on top of Deacon, pilling him down with the gun pressed to Deacon’s cheek. The dislocated arm was already back into place, its hand closed around Deacon’s neck and choking him. Deacon clawed at the fingers, trying to pry them off. Nate was unbelievably strong - even with how thin and nimble his fingers appeared they were perfectly capable of crushing Deacon’s windpipe.

“Tsk, how disappointing,” Nate muttered, probably to himself. Deacon snarled as the 10mm dug into his flesh. “I really did hope I would have a chance with you. You have such a pretty face.” Deacon felt the silenced barrel trail down his cheek and press against his left breast, “be a shame to ruin it.”

Six silenced shots rang out. Deacon seized as he felt the bullets slide through him, tearing his heart to ribbons. The delicate organ came to a spasming, sudden stop in his chest, and before Deacon realized what had happened he was dead.

Once the spy had stopped moving, Nate put the gun back into his pocket. Deacon's fists relaxed and fell away from the hand still clutching his throat. Nate's fingers lingered on the bruises he’d put on Deacon’s neck, savoring the feel of indents on the other’s flesh. Nate reached up and gently removed the sunglasses from the dead man’s face, folding them up and putting them in his pocket. “I never did understand how you could see out of these things when it was dark.”

Deacon’s eyes stared back at him, expression still caught between rage, terror, and agony. Nate frowned, reaching over to shut Deacon’s eyes for him. “Pity. You really were cute.” Nate leaned over and pressed a kiss to Deacon’s still warm cheek, then stood to leave.

Seconds after his heartbeat could no longer be detected, the auto-stimpack anklet Deacon was wearing deployed. There was no blood flow to carry the medicine through his system, but through the power of osmosis, defusion, and several other pre-war science words Deacon didn’t understand, the contents of a dozen stimpacks made it to the shredded remains of his heart. Veins reconstructed themselves, weaving together tissue and cells to produce a mass of blood vessels that would just barely manage to function as a pump. Five minutes after the drugs did their best to fix a literal broken heart, the taser went off, sending waves of electricity through the corpse of one Johnathan Deacon and starting up his pitiful excuse for a new heart.

The first breath Deacon took after dying was both the single best, and most painful breath of his entire life. The bright lights and sense of calm that death had brought him were replaced with an agony that the words ‘living hell’ didn’t even begin to touch. He couldn’t even scream, the pain in his chest consuming him so completely that all that was left were small, gasping whimpers as he curled onto his side and clawed at himself.

Every muscle burned as his body worked to repair the damage of going several minutes without breathing along with all the other things that were wrong with him. Nearly half a gallon of blood was misplaced in him, and there were still at least three of the six bullets still somewhere inside him pressed up against his recently revived nerves. Deacon’s vision went black and every muscle in his body was tensed. Part of him wondered how long this would last before he died again because there was no way he could be in this much pain without something being vitally wrong with him. The other, much larger part, trusted his friends’ genius and reminded him to wait the pain out.

“So, you guys want me to wear this thing?” Deacon said, holding up the ankle brace that had been given to him by Tom and Carrington. “Like, on my person?”

“Is something wrong with the design?” Tinker Tom asked, genuinely concerned.

“It’s kind of a fashion disaster,” Deacon said, fidgeting with the thick, untreated leather that made up the strap.

“It is a highly advanced revival device, not a fashion statement.” Dr. Carrington said with a roll of his eyes. “Since when have you cared about your appearance anyways?”

“Hey, my appearance is my life,” Deacon countered. “You should know - you’ve done, like, at least three of my face jobs.”

“Four,” Carrington corrected.

“It’s meant to be worn under your clothes anyways,” Tinker Tom said. “The design was my idea - Carrington’s work here is nothing short of genius, but if we wanted any practical use for this thing with our field agents we needed something easily concealed.”

“Easily concealed, right,” Deacon said as he snapped the brace around his leg. “Unless I want to wear shorts. Man, there goes my summer plans.”

“Would you at least try to take this seriously?” Carrington snapped. “This is just a prototype, but if we can verify that it works it could save the lives of countless agents. Unfortunately, the only way to test it is for one of our agents to become mortally wounded while wearing it.”

“And so you’re giving it to me? Gosh, guys, I’m honored, really.” Deacon placed a hand to his heart. “Voted most likely to die on a mission by his peers.”

“You are the one Dez assigns to the most dangerous operations,” Tinker Tom said with a shrug. “Don’t take it too personally. If anything, it means we want you around the most.”

Deacon couldn’t admit it, but that did make him feel a little warm in the chest area, but he and ‘genuine emotions’ hadn’t seen eye-to-eye in years, so Deacon gave his co-conspirators a wink and a smile and said, “Alright, but don’t expect me to run head-first into danger just to give you guys some data. If this thing actually works like you say it will, I’ll buy the first round of the night when I get back to the land of the living.”

“Hmfph,” Carrington huffed, predictably. Then, less predictably, he smiled and said. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Deacon laughed as he came down from the high of agony that was recovering from a mortal chest wound, the sound pitiful and weak. The worst of the pain wasn't done yet, he could tell, this was just a short reprieve while his body geared up to continue its tantrum. “Carrington, you crazy bastard,” He muttered against the blood-soaked grass. “When I get to hell, remind me to buy you that drink.”

Deacon laughed and sobbed and spasmed until the sun was high in the sky.

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