#poor Diomedes could be anyone of us

[valcalico]

Athena and Ares

(Just my thoughts on them and their relationship)

I have a lot of feelings about these two. They have a very complex dynamic, where they don’t really like each other, but they can’t work without each other either.

Athena provides rationality to the cruelty of war. She is the strategy and logic behind it. The objective. One might say she represents the generals, and the politicians and the main heroes. Basically the big players.

And Ares? He’s the opposite. He represents the emotion associated with war. He is the bloodlust and the desperate fight. Where the battle is thickest, where there is no room for thought, and when its pure survival instinct that drives you, that’s Ares. He represents the worst parts: the blood and the violence and the cruelty. He is accompanied by fear and terror (Phobos and Deimos). One might say he is the god of soldiers.

So they need each other. If they actually worked together, they’d be one of the dangerous forces ever, even in god circles. But they don’t. Not only because of how differently they view the world, but also because of deeper nuances in their relationship.

Athena is beloved. She is Zeus’ favourite child and his right hand goddess. The people love her. She is the patron of one of the most powerful, influential cities, Athens. She is highly respected everywhere else too. A protector of heroes and a friend to humanity.

Ares, on the other hand, is disliked by many. Zeus says he is “the most hateful of all gods” and says he would have thrown him into Tartarus if he wasn’t his and Hera’s son. (Its in the Iliad) (This part always makes me sad poor ares) He is highly respected in Thrace and Sparta. But Athens dislikes him and worships him out of necessity only.

Even in modern times, Athena is considered a feminist icon and badass lady, while Ares is labelled a brute.

Most people know this. So why did I just type out all that? Cause context is important when delving into the myths.

So first of all, let’s debunk that last point I made. In the ancient myths (and I’ll try not to include romans esp. Ovid), it didn’t work that way at all. Of course it’s important to keep in mind that ancient Greece was very misogynistic. But still, Athena was not feminist at all. Her being a “masculine” woman (mostly) was what made her so acceptable to Athens and she was regularly used to shut down other women. Also:

(The actual translation of this scene was circulated a while back. So you’re probably familiar with this. Also I’m not saying this to offend any worshippers of Athena or anyone who admires her. There are a lot of bad things in greek mythology and Athena’s internal and external misogyny is probably the least of my concerns. Plus if the greek gods did exist, i believe they change with the society, so they will no longer be Like That in the present day.)

Ares, on the other hand, was incredibly feminist, especially for that time. He surrounded himself with women he loved and respected. (Aphrodite, Eris, Enyo, etc). His lovers were often famously women who challenged the status quo (Otrera, Cyrene). He was regularly show to be a good father to all his daughters, immortal and mortal. (Harmonia, Hippolyta, Penthesilia, Alkippe). Also:

If that isn’t the coolest thing EVER-

Anyway, I won’t delve deep into that (well, any more than I’ve already rambled about it).

Now that we have gotten that out of the way, we can get to the hypotheticals.

I headcanon that despite ALL the evidence to the contrary, they maybe don’t despise each other completely. I see them having more of a love-hate relationship.

The thing is, gods are very contrary creatures. Zeus and Hera’s fights shake the world one moment, and in the next, they are as loving as any. Apollo is smiling and singing in one moment and skinning a satyr alive in the next. This complexity should be given this relationship too.

Like I said above, they need each other. Both general and soldier are equally important in war. And I don’t think you can completely truly need someone and hate their existence at the same time. (There are exceptions)

This scene in the Iliad really got me thinking:

If you take the scene at face value, this is probably not something to think too much about. Its Athena going to Ares, insulting him a bit, and taking him away from the war.

But its more than that. First off, Athena goes upto Ares and can calmly convince him to listen to her. Second, look how she frames the question. She says “shall we” which i think is pretty important. Athena doesn’t need to worry about Zeus’ anger or his rules, as she shows later on in the Iliad, and before, during the Rebellion. Both Athena and Ares knows this well. So why does she also need to withdraw? She can make the point without adding herself to the equation. She can also fairly easily run him off the battlefield like she does later. But she doesn’t. And there isnt any hostility from Ares.

Instead, they go together, away from the battlefield and...sit down near a river bank? Basically relax as much as they can? That doesn’t sound like a hateful relationship.

There is also the fact that Ares was going to join sides with the greeks (aka on Athena and Hera’s side) until Aphrodite convinced him to join her instead.

Its clear from this that Ares doesn’t really have much of a stake in this fight. He doesn’t care much about the greater objectives of the war. The only thing that can convince him to take a side is the people one the sides. He fights for the people he cares about, not for any greater good. He easily changes his loyalty because of his love for Aphrodite. He frequently gets into fights to save his children. He goes against Diomedes partly because of how he wounded Aphrodite. All of this means that he cares for Athena too. (And for Hera ofc). Maybe he doesn’t care for her as much as he cares for Aphrodite, but its not really fair to expect him to.

I like to think they genuinely do care for each other a great deal, they just kinda suck at showing it. Maybe that changes as time passes. I can see Athena being quietly protective of Ares (maybe she makes up an excuse to send him away during the Rebellion because she knows he will be in danger otherwise). I definitely think she felt a little guilt (guilt, not regret) at stabbing Ares, seeing as it wasn’t really fair. Ares didn’t know she was there.

I also think that Ares, who spends a lot of time with awesome women and is very fierce in standing up for them if the need arises, will be the one who calls her out a lot of the time on her misogyny or hypocrisy. Athena also has a habit of suppressing any “vulnerable” emotion. She likes to keep all her guilt, sadness, fear, hurt, and regret all locked up tight. I feel like Ares is one of the few people she lets a few of those emotions out around, even if she still tries not to. And in the lighter moments, in private, maybe they joke around a bit and laugh, too.

Okay, now for the heavier bit. While i do think they care for each other, there is also a lot of resentment there. A lot of it, unfortunately, comes from how they are treated by their peers and elders. They like different people, they are liked by different people and they are liked to different degrees. Let’s talk about 3 of the main players.

1) Zeus. Does this surprise you?

I do think Zeus loves all his kids. He doesn’t like some of them, but he does love all of them. And he isn’t as bad of a father as everyone thinks. People have discussed that better so I’ll not rant about it here.

All that aside, he definitely has favourites. Athena is his favourite child (Apollo, I think, being his second). And this favouritism is SUPER OBVIOUS. Its like none of the rules apply to Athena, which is weird considering Zeus isn’t forgiving of those who defy his authority (did someone say Prometheus?)

Ares, on the other hand, is on the other side of the spectrum. The one Zeus dislikes the most.

We can see how this affects them in several instances. The most notable is probably in the Iliad, after Athena deceitfully stabs Ares and forces him to flee to Olympus, injured.

Ares calls Zeus out on his favouritism. He says that gods weren’t allowed to fight each other and if it were anyone else, they would have been punished. He says Zeus always does this, always lets Athena get away with everything, and that he needs to start getting his daughter under control.

Zeus doesnt like this too much and basically tells Ares to stop whining and that he isn’t much better when it comes to destruction. He says Ares is the most hateful of all gods and loves bloodshed. He says he would have gotten rid of him if he weren’t his son, but seeing as he was, Zeus cannot bear to see Ares in pain. He then gets Ares healed.

I can definitely see how this kind of blatant favouritism from someone who should be better to Ares would affect him. Ares is the firstborn son of Zeus and Hera. He should be getting a lot of respect, as per ancient standards but instead, he is overtaken by his virgin half sister from Zeus’ previous marriage, and many bastard half siblings.

Athena being able to break rules left and right, and Ares having to be nervous about even toeing the line will cause distance between them.

This in addition to his position as a god of civil order is a reason that i think he wouldn’t want to break any rule until he deems it absolutely necessary, like if someone he cared about were in danger.

I can totally see a situation where both of them try to help a hero but Zeus orders them not to. Athena then wants to break the rules, but Ares is very hesitant about doing so. Athena convinces him, either by taunting or by calmly urging him, to go along with it. They get caught but only Ares gets punished. Ares can then truly show Athena the difference between her and everyone else.

Remember when i headcanoned earlier that Athena sends Ares away during the Rebellion? That ties into this. She knows that if they get caught, ares could get into trouble whether or not he did anything. I expect Ares will be furious about it when he returns and finds out what happened though, thinking it was just to get him out of the way, until its revealed why she did it. Then he’ll probably be super awkward.

2) Poseidon

The equal and opposite force to Zeus.

Well, maybe not equal, but quite close.

Lets start with the canon. Poseidon HATES Athena, despises her completely, and he frequently clashes with her father too. They worked together one (1) time and as a result, Athena wasnt punished while Poseidon was enslaved for years. Then there is the fight for Athens, the whole epic of the Odyssey, and so on.

Meanwhile he and Ares are actually shown to be close. Other than the Halirhothius incident, they are pretty chill. Poseidon is the one who vouched for him after the Net Thing With Hephaestus. Poseidon is also pretty cool with Aphrodite and they work together occasionally.

I think Poseidon thinks of Athena as this bratty kid of his brother, who is constantly working against him. You know that one annoying cousin you have who you try to avoid during family reunions because you KNOW you will clash? This is that, but a thousand times worse.

Meanwhile Poseidon really cares for Ares, and Ares takes fatherly affection from anywhere he can get it. Poseidon maintains a good relationship with both Aphrodite and Ares. He is closer with Aphrodite and doesnt love Ares quite as much as Zeus loves Athena, but he still cares a lot.

3) Aphrodite

It is no secret that Athena hates Aphrodite. Even when Athena warns Diomedes not to harm any god, she says Aphrodite is the exception. Athena, along with many of the other Olympians, see her as nothing but a silly, flighty, hysterical goddess.

On the other hand, Aphrodite and Ares are known for their intense love for each other, from even before her arranged marriage. They have a lot of kids together, and are shown to be close with all of them. They each have like one story of jealousy/one story where they are at odds with each other, which is pretty good for such a high-profile couple (Aphrodite curses Eos and Ares kills Adonis). They are there for each other, like in the trojan war, when Aphrodite was wounded and Ares gave her his chariot to go back to Olympus. He also changed sides very soon, just because Aphrodite asked. Athena complains about this too.

I think I wouldn’t be far off in saying that Athena is definitely resentful of how close they are, and how much sway Aphrodite has over her brother.

While Athena definitely doesn’t see eye to eye with Ares, and disagrees with his domain, she still sees him as a War God. One of her kind. And she just doesn’t see how a War God can go for someone like Aphrodite. Basically, she doesn’t think Aphrodite is, for lack of a better term, good enough for Ares, seeing as she is a Love Goddess.

Ares, on the other hand, does not want to hear anything like this. He is fiercely defensive of Aphrodite. He defends her warlike aspect (Aphrodite Areia), while everyone else tells her that she has no place in the battlefield. He sees Aphrodite as more than what people have labelled her to be. Which is why I believe (other than Eos and Adonis), they have one of the healthiest open relationships in greek mythology.

This can definitely cause animosity between Athena and Ares, because of Athena’s scorn and Ares’ temper. It can also increase the conflict between Athena and Aphrodite.

Maybe as time goes on, Athena can start seeing Aphrodite as having more depth. I certainly hope so. While they wouldn’t be best friends, I don’t see why they can’t learn to get along. This could also strengthen Athena and Ares’ bond. As long as people don’t insult her or lay their claim on her domain of Love and Beauty, Aphrodite is often very supportive. I truly think Aphrodite can help Athena overcome her misogyny, with Ares.

In conclusion, Athena and Ares have a very complex relationship. They do not simply hate each other, and neither do they have the most loving relationship. But they do care for each other. But strain can often be put on their relationship from their relationship to other people as well. Hopefully as time passes, they can overcome that, and have a healthier relationship, instead of sharing a good moment and then proceeding to fight each other for the next 500 years.

[cursed-with-feelings]

“Hey there, handsome.” Marisol purred as she placed a gloved hand on Diomedes’ shoulder. He was always a good time and she felt finding him at pride would be no different. She really needed pride to take her mind off what happened though the witch would never voice that to anyone. Scyalla ever present in her nightmares at this point. That same feeling of betrayal and death, she oftentimes was in the place of the shifter... The haunting blue eyes that she wanted to drink to forget. Yet, nobody could see how torn apart she was on the inside. Marisol always made sure of that. Every wall built and reinforced with unimaginable amounts of steel. She looked like the party, frat girl, CSI agent that she always was. 

“How about you get us a round of shots?” She suggested to him with a wink. Diomedes probably had more money than he knew what to do with and his poor assistant was over there carrying all his prizes from the various games that he one. “A little post game celebration for the victorius and strong Diomedes.”  

@dicmedes​

[sirbeaumains]

Drabbles

Some drabbles I wrote a few months back set in my Colors series, featuring a variety of major and minor characters and also some technical spoilers. -shrug- These are true drabbles, aka 100 words exactly ignoring the prompt. And all the prompts were given by @stardustscribes who patiently came up with 15 words for me over the course of like two hours lol

///

Horse

As Bran trudged through the field, disgruntled, Gillian ambled slowly behind her. Whatever his opinion of living in the capital, seeing the mountain bloom in spring was a beautiful thing and he was glad to see it.

Bran had taken to mumbling under her breath.

“Are you complaining about walking again? How many times have we talked about this?” Gillian asked in amusement as Bran kicked a wildflower. She’d gotten better at travelling discretely and not acting like a duchess, but there were some things she’d never fail to complain about.

“Is it so much to ask for a horse?”

Dusk

It’s dusk as he slips out of the palace and into the city that sprawls before it. Yet another day of forced interaction with nobles who abhor his presence. Yet another day of people giving his father pitying looks, murmuring about how poor King Dov is left with his own future murderer as a child. How sad the other two were killed. They were good girls, unscarred, no miserable prophecy on their head. How sad.

Medrath pulls his cloak’s hood up as he enters a market square, merchants packing up for the day. How sad, he thinks bitterly. How sad.

Starlight

Dairna pulled at Medrath’s hand as she led him through her house. It was the home of the Baron of Hoaryrath, but it was small and barely a house in Medrath’s opinion. He was used to the large castle in the capital, and this tiny lodge high in the mountains was as different as you could get.

He let Dairna yank him around, unsure why the younger girl was so excited. He expected she didn’t meet many people.

A blast of frigid air hit him and he shivered, but his eyes went wide. The snow under the starlight looked incredible.

Reflection

Gillian can see himself reflected in Fay and Maylor de Catroph. He has Maylor’s height, and Gillian wonders if his beard will grow in that thick when it finally appears. His resemblance to Fay is more obvious—they both have fair hair, fair skin, and fair eyes. He finds himself glad that she has silver hair and blue-green eyes compared to his gold hair and blue eyes. If he had been a male copy of his—of Fay, he wouldn’t know what to do.

He laughs to himself. Even in his mind he can only call them by their names.

Dozen roses

Cassia spends the days mending clothing instead of making gowns with her sisters. Her mother is angry at her for staying out so late the night before, and darning socks is her punishment.

She knows she shouldn’t be upset—she broke the rules, so punishment is natural—but she can’t help but pout. Eir had snuck her into her castle and let her look through the medical books in its library. Cassia had never been happier. And then Eir had given her a bouquet of roses. Books, flowers, Eir—her favorite things. How could she have remembered to go home?

Protect

The maze is silent around them, and the silence is only magnified in Gillian’s mind each time they come across another corpse.

There’s chaos all around them as Gillian darts forward, but the king is already dead, dead at Diomedes’s hand and Bran’s sword.

There were riots throughout Perfysiko he was told, but he was forced to stay the night on the boat. They didn’t want any of the Stelemuntene delegation hurt. For their protection.

Protection, Gillian thinks, staring out the small porthole at the sea. Something I have failed to do this entire journey. What a healer I am.

Statue

Shasta stared at the lady statue unblinkingly. She wondered who it was. There was writing at the bottom, but she couldn’t read, and neither could any of the animals.

It was a good statue, she guessed. Even covered in moss it looked like a human. A very green human.

Shasta peered around it. The grove behind the statue was the greenest thing she’d ever seen. She looked over her shoulder at the brown and white of the mountain in winter. She looked back at the much-too-green grove.

The animals said it was weird, she mused. A god’s grove. Still odd.

Cook

“What is this supposed to be?” Gillian asked flatly, staring down at the bowl in front of him.

Bran scowled at him. “Haven’t you ever seen porridge before?” She held her head high and tossed her braid from one shoulder to the other in a show of pride, but the blush on her cheek betrayed her embarrassment.

Gillian raised an eyebrow and made a show of lifting the entire bowl up by the spoon.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything. But if I did, it would be that you should never, ever cook anything ever again.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Seaside

Chrysanthe loved the sea. It would be hard for her to hate it—she lived on an island—but she found it fascinating. It was a force of destruction—destroying ships with storms, flooding her village every spring, silently killing anyone who dared to think they could tame it.

And yet there were moments like this. She had convinced Diomedes and Tabitha to take a break from worrying about the future to go seashell collecting at the beach. The sea gently pooled around her ankle before retreating, a playful game of tag.

Chrysanthe could hear her siblings laughing. She smiled.

Seraphim

Gillian goes through the motions of gardening, instead focusing on his recent conversation with Fay. He didn’t enjoy initiating one-on-one conversations with her, but he needed a ten-year long mystery solved.

Unfortunately, she had no idea where he had received a brand of the sun goddess Orleana’s mark. He hadn’t had it as a child, and the Tesvik general that had kept them hostage hadn’t dared touched them—they were noble prisoners, deserving respect.

The mark brushed uncomfortably against fabric. He usually forgot about the raised skin, but he was intensely aware of it now.

How did it get there?

Woods

The woods grew deep on the mountain. The trees rose tall, tall enough to nearly blot out the midday sun. Gillian wanted to make a comment to tease Bran about how they could never maneuver a horse through this dense forest, but something stops him. He didn’t want to be the first to break the unsettling silence that surrounded them.

He knew it wasn’t truly silent—they had passed many animals already—but the woods had a strange way of muffling all noise. Gillian found himself uneasy, but Shasta and Dairna both considered it normal.

Even their footsteps were silent.

Companion

Medrath was talking but Gillian wasn’t listening. It was unusual for him to ignore the other man, but Gillian couldn’t stop looking at a moving lump on Medrath’s arm.

“—and, Gillian will you listen?”

Gillian started and looked up. Medrath was glaring and Bran was snickering. He smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry, it’s just that you have a moving lump on your, well, shoulder now.”

Medrath paled slightly. “Ah, that’s—”

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by Bran’s laughter. A small mouse peeked over Medrath’s collar, whiskers twitching adorably.

He was never going to live this down.

Soft

“Gillian,” Dairna says as she sits next to Gillian.

He smiles in greeting. “How did you get in here? I thought only students were allowed in the Academy’s library?”

Her smile turns playful. “How can they tell who is a student?”

Gillian laughs. “Fair enough. Why are you here then? I didn’t know you liked reading old tomes.”

“Not particularly,” Dairna admits. A hand plays with a heavy looking necklace, the softness of her hands contrasted to the angles of the metal. Gillian tears his eyes away to look her in the face. “I just knew you would be here.”

Breeze

A gust of wind signals Dimi’s arrival. The steward of the Royal Communications building gives him an exasperated look. “Dimi Knifesmith. I believe we’ve talked about your tardiness.”

Dimi gives his award-winning smile. “A charming habit, I believe you said.”

He sees the steward beat back a laugh. Dimi counts that as the win for the day—late to the job and made his superior laugh it off. “If you weren’t one of our fastest runners—and such a smooth talker—you would’ve lost this job months ago.”

“But I am, and I’m still here!” Dimi cheerfully waved himself in.

Storm

It’s said that the unpredictability of the ocean is caused by Safloes declaring war against the humans who dared think they could cross his sphere of influence unchallenged. The other gods of the elements were incensed at this and fought Safloes back with their own power, turning the world into their battleground and causing typhoons and volcanic eruptions in their wake.

As Gillian desperately hung onto a post fixed to the wall, he could see how an ocean storm was a battle between Safloes and Herion. He had never felt anything fiercer. He hoped their ship could weather the damage.

[catholiccom-blog]

The American Apologetics Giant You've Never Heard Of

Among the ports of call on this summer’s Catholic Answers Cruise and Pilgrimage (June 3-10, Montreal to Boston) is Prince Edward Island, best known to Americans—those who still read books—as the setting of the Anne of Green Gables novels and the birthplace of the author, Lucy Maude Montgomery. Prince Edward Island is also the birthplace of one of the greatest bishops in the history of the Church in America, Francis Clement Kelley (1870), founder of the Catholic Church Extension Society and second Bishop of Oklahoma. From the first he excelled at writing and would go on to publish 17 books, then became a Catholic priest.

Ordained a priest for the diocese of Detroit, Michigan, Fr. Kelley’s first assignment set the spark to the tinder that fired his life’s work. The Lapeer, Michigan parish “spoke of a cold calculating indifference to God.” The culprit was the previous pastor, removed for apostasy. The 22-year-old Fr. Kelley rallied his disillusioned parishioners with sermons rich in doctrine and delivered with clarity and wit. Under Kelley a brick-and-mortar building project began in earnest but stalled while the young priest donned his country’s uniform in 1898.

“No one could have had a stronger conviction that the war with Spain was not only unjust but unnecessary,” Kelly later wrote, but as an Army chaplain he was able bring the sacraments to soldiers mired in the tropical heat, bad sanitation, snakes, mosquitoes, and fever of Tampa and Huntsville.

Writer and apologist

Returning to Michigan, Fr. Kelley joined the Lyceum circuit, and his honoraria funded the construction of his parish. His audiences ranged from “small boys throwing peanut shells” to “old ladies who looked with disapproval at the first Catholic priest they had ever seen while wondering how he concealed his horns so cleverly.” Fr. Kelley came face to face with middle America gathered in meeting halls, red schoolhouses, vacant shops, and tents. He witnessed the miserable living and working conditions endured by Catholic priests “among the scattered people and the churchless places” of the American West and South. He resolved to found a home mission society to bring the Faith to the many regions of America overrun with poverty, prejudice, and ignorance.

A column for Ecclesiastical Review of Philadelphia launched the Catholic Extension Society. Reprinted as a pamphlet, Kelley’s “Little Shanty Story” described the ramshackle rectory of a Catholic pastor in Ellsworth, Kansas. The pamphlet captured the hearts of Catholics across the Republic and in poured donations. One captured heart was that of Archbishop of Chicago, James Quigley. And within a year Kelley’s bishop gave him the Exeat to transfer to Chicago where the Catholic Church Extension Society was formed shortly before.

Kelley excelled as a fundraiser, but his public candor about the lack of missionary spirit in the American seminaries and his scathing criticism of the American hierarchy’s neglect of Catholic rural America made him East Coast enemies, including the papal delegate, Archbishop Diomede Falconio. Quigley stuck by Kelley and arranged meetings for him in Rome to obtain Vatican approval for the Society. To Kelley, Pope Pius X was, “a saint who saw no obstacle to holiness in the possession of a fund of humor” but it was the pope’s Secretary of State, Cardinal Merry del Val who was “the first great and powerful Roman friend of the Extension Society.” He instructed Kelley, “in the science of untying hard diplomatic knots,” lessons the priest would apply throughout his life. Del Val secured a Papal Brief of Approval for the Extension, largely silencing Kelley’s critics.

Apologetics was central to the work of the Extension Society, and when a chapel car rolled into town, one especially popular feature was (then as now) the question box. Before a priest of the Extension would deliver a lecture or offer Mass, he would field questions about the Catholic Faith, often from Protestants or Mormons. Some questions derived from innocent ignorance: one woman thought that Jesus Christ had brought the Bible down from heaven, whole and entire. Other questions were the result of the Ku Klux Klan’s anti-Catholic propaganda: “Is it true that a priest has to murder four people before he can be ordained?” “Do priest really have hooves like cows instead of feet?” A priest visiting a town in Oregon took off his shoes and socks to settle the matter.

Father Kelley’s rolling chapels restored the sacraments to countless fallen-away Catholics all over rural America. Extension Society priests offered each of the sacraments and the Mass throughout the West, Midwest, and the South. In the many towns where the rail cars planted the seed of the Faith, chapels and churches sprang up, supported by Extension Society dollars and constructed by the faithful who had returned home.

Kelley helped finance the work of the Extension with his Extension Magazine, which at its peak boasted half-a-million subscribers. A Catholic version the Saturday Evening Post, the quarterly spread the word about the Society’s work, thereby attracting donations. Extension Magazine also included articles in apologetics, poetry, and short stories, including scores of mystery stories penned by Kelley himself.

Books to politics

So popular was Extension Magazine that when America entered the First World War, Kelley received the offer of a substantial bribe in exchange for an editorial endorsing Woodrow Wilson’s interventionism. Kelley declined, passing up “his one and only chance to become rich” and penned instead, The Pigs of Serbia, a scathing rebuke of the war and its promoters on both sides of the Atlantic.

American meddling in the affairs of Europe was not the only U.S. foreign policy that provoked Fr. Kelley’s anger. “The Mexican Question”, mishandled by administrations from Taft’s to Coolidge’s, became, a focus of Kelley’s life, and perhaps the one for which he is best known today. The resulting book, Blood Drenched Altars, is his only work still in print. The volume argues that Mexico under Spain was a glorious Catholic country, culturally superior to the United States well into the 19th Century: “They dotted the land,” wrote Kelley, “with architectural triumphs which to this day have not been equaled in the Americas.”

Father Kelley’s fight for the soul of Mexico took him to the corridors of American power, striking up dramatic conversations with William Jennings Bryan, Woodrow Wilson’s Secretary of State, and a meeting with Wilson himself about American’s unwillingness to get involved in the atrocities in Mexico.

The diplomat, and bishop

After the First World War, Fr. Kelley took his crusade for the Church in Mexico to Versailles where he proposed a “liberty of conscience” requirement for any nation desiring membership in the League of Nations. Kelley’s amendment was a matter of practical politics, and a wise one, not a theological proposition. Yet, as he later observed, at the modern world’s official gathering of liberalism, a chief tenet of liberalism, religious freedom, was given no quarter, scuttled by Clemenceau and Wilson.

The time in Paris did bear fruit. Kelley used his skills in practical diplomacy to help achieve a just resolution of the “Roman Question.” The Vatican had lost her lands and sovereignty to the Italian revolution. Kelley proposed a territorial concession, access to the sea, and recognition of sovereignty. Ten years later, the substance of Kelley’s plan was approved by Mussolini, and the sovereignty of the Holy See was restored and secured.

In June 1924, a man who had been a sailor, soldier, scholar, orator, mission priest, political adept, international diplomat, and published author with a prose style praised by H.L. Mencken, was ordained the second bishop of Oklahoma. The mission priest was now a mission bishop, establishing the Faith on the plains, and bringing a new diocese to maturity.

Francis Kelley’s life shows how dogged determination, a devout prayer life, and a profound humility can together achieve great things for God. “The thing was God’s, not mine. If he wanted a fool or a child to do it, that was his business. He had his way of picking over poor material and working it over to suit his purposes. I was quite sure that I was poor material. But why worry? The skeleton of a failure often marks the beginning of a right trail.” Bishop Francis Kelley was far from a failure, but he did understand what St. Teresa of Calcutta would later observe: “We are not called to be successful; we are called to be faithful.”

Catholic Answers President, Christopher Check invites anyone who would like to join him this June on a visit to Bishop Kelley’s birthplace: CatholicAnswersCruise.com. He recommends Kelley’s autobiography, The Bishop Jots it Down, and Francis Clement Kelley and the American Dream by Fr. James P. Gaffey (in two volumes), both regrettably out of print.

[ecotone99]

[SF] Matilda and the Mares of Diomedes

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Having been confused by her actions more than ever...Matilda was left pretending she knew what she doing once again. She didn’t have the luxury of bullshitting her way through life, and wearing her blue crest reminded her of that. It bothered Matilda to see the Boar terrorize her friends and family as he ran amok across the land: spewing endless nonsense. To these idiocies Matilda often laughed...until she didn’t. Such instances where the boar attacked poor citizens personally whenever they disagreed with them, or attempting to mount any woman he saw were younger than him, or bore resemblance to his own daughter. Matilda observed as the men of the land did nothing as the boar continued to rape and pillage across her land with his words of perverse nature, or forcing citizens to agree with him that he and his own daughter would make a perfect pair. To these sentiments, Matilda thought: that’s some white people shit. She continued about her day continuing to observe her previous battles, as she took notes of all the errors she had made on the battlefield. Matilda didn’t have the luxury of making mistakes and the dead-eyed tenants of her land often made sure she remembered that fact, as her brown skin-tone made her susceptible to be attacked by the hate projected by the Boar and his ignorant followers.

Fighting her battles through a Medium or in a way where only those who sought answers and knowledge in such a fashion where only a few believers could brag or dwell on her fucked up true story, as she noted her readers had now began actively talking to her and noting that they had seen her life in a manuscript, having finally found a like mind: proud to have Reddit. It was the two followers that lead Matilda to pick up her weapons of silver and gold, as she noticed she had left many open-ended questions. These were questions the dead-eyed savages had finally earned the right to know, as they had been kind enough to read her biography without judgement. It was these two brave followers that had reminded Matilda that she were capable of building an army, as she were still in need of one to defend their lands from the Boar. She wished good fortune to her followers and readers, as they had finally began to realize what this Nation had done to Matilda and her Peoples. These dead-eyed savages were people too, thought Matilda: their ability to listen and learn showed her that it were time to archive her Traditional Yurok stories, as her papa had once informed her that only certain knowledge of her culture was supposed to be known to non-Indigenous Warrior citizens. These brave people had proved to Matilda that she were ready to lead her men into battle as she wished to ride beside them. These dead-eyed savages were those who opposed injustice, and their ability to politely humor a Princess with no kingdom: had now given Matilda the understanding that these individuals were also just like her: leaders...not followers.

Having seen that the Cyclops still held blackmail of yellow shame against the Boar for his escapades with prostitutes...Matilda knew the duo were dangerous in ways she hadn’t yet known. She watched as the Boar sucked the land dry as he used her tax-dollars for sports or to feed his endless glutinous anger, as the Boar was crazed for not being allowed to rear his own daughter. Matilda began to feel disgusted whenever she saw either the Boar or his daughter who continued to cover herself with gold paint in her hysteria. Matilda began searching for aid each night, as she awoke her warriors by sitting on them as they slept. Matilda would forget this detail until one night in which her soldier woke up and began to hyperventilate while she sat on his chest. This worried Matilda as she were sitting in the dark, and unable to use her legs, as she still cursed herself with a spine disease even in her dreams. As she asked the random if he knew the Viking (this was in the past), the poor man began to cry as Matilda accidentally sat on him attempting to explain she couldn’t stand without assistance. The man called her a monster, and Matilda cried even in her sleep, and fell back into seclusion for a short time, as she wished for a new body that didn’t offend her soldiers so bad. She would return to assembling her army whenever she thought the public were ready to let go of their stigma against disabilities or women, and Matilda waited until that time patiently. She knew the time would come: as the Boar had began the first steps to implement orders of permanent Marshall Law. It seemed Matilda needed her army now more than ever: as now it were only a matter of preserving normalcy and it were all of their problem to preserve their own freedom.

It would seem Matilda was the only one who felt this way, as others questioned how she could work for the Boar under the blue crest of hope, and still call herself a patriot. To these accusations Matilda often took offense, as she were a stand alone even at her occupation adorning the crest that honors truth, facts and science. Since the free individuals were bigger pansies than Matilda evidently: she began to scour the land once more to assemble her army, and in the process she’d figure out the next tactical moves to advance on the Boar. Matilda came across the prayers of her soldiers as they often only reached her in the most dire times: when those who no longer believed in any God prayed for anyone to hear their pleas. Matilda had told herself she were “anyone” and began to observe why such requests were at such an increased influx quite sudden. It lead her a black box in a place where racism and ignorance ran rampant, funded by taxpayers and profited by the Boar and his minions. The black-box bore the name St. Clair and were in charge of rehabilitating those who were unfortunate enough to be incarcerated in the middle on nowhere. Matilda frequently visited the men and women in these black-boxes in her dreams, as she loved practicing her fighting moves with worthy adversaries in their dreams. These were some of the greatest warriors the Nation had to offer, and they had been locked away for it, just as a majority of Indigenous Warriors. These were the Deinos, the famed soldiers who were driven mad by Hera in their dreams, and punished for it in their real lives. Matilda pitied them: as her birth mother had once been a Deinos, for she had been not the best type of person: starting with trading her children for freedom.

It were not an issue, as Matilda were a monster too. She now worried about the well being of these strong and courageous Deinos. One night she walked into a cell in which a man were sleeping and mumbling to himself in his sleep. Matilda met up with him in his dream, and the handsome man informed her that he were a criminal known as Mills. Matilda had grown up admiring the olympian Billy Mills: so to this coincidence she simply said “dope”. The man explained how he had been trapped in the black box, and that he had heard rumor of St. Clair, as the tip had been what had lead Matilda to wander in the first place. She told the man that she too had been raised to believe she were a criminal, as Hera had once told her that crime was all Matilda would ever be good at. Mills began to cry, as he mumbled to himself in perfect timing and avoiding looking at her even though she sat atop his chest. The man fell into a spell, and Matilda noted she couldn’t return to her friend, as he now avoided sleeping in order to mumble. Matilda decided it were time she observe what atrocities St. Clair had been accused of, and she headed East to find solution for her comatose friend Mills. Once again, Matilda were left fighting alone, representing all that she believed this Nation was built on: justice and freedom.

Entering the black box Matilda noted a smell that reminded her of Hades. There were the lingering taste of anal rape and death in the air that seemed stale and warm all at once. To these disgusting senses, Matilda casually leaned over and did an impression of her baby friend Roro, as vomit casually fell from her mouth without gag reflex triggering it. Gross. Matilda wished barf didn’t come out of her nose every time she puked but whatever. She wiped her chin and continued down the white hall with cells on each side, all closed with blood smeared all over the doors of all those unfortunate enough to have committed a crime that warranted human rights violations. Matilda cracked her neck as she walked down the hallway and held her hand to her back: ready to draw her bow and arrow at any moment. As she heard the clamoring of the doors she wondered what beasts were held captive in such inhuman conditions, and she wasn’t quite sure how the action of Matilda coming here was going to help her friend Mills. As she neared the end of the hallway she turned about face and saw a fat man standing at the other end of the hallway. He were too fat to tuck in his shirt, and so his belly hung out as he looked like a pregnant sow. The man shook his head at the woman, unintimidated as he unzipped his pants and entered a door that stood to his right. "Yeah...that’s not how this goes", thought Matilda: sprinting down the hallway as fast as she could. Just because the men of this land glorified the rape of their own men, women and children, didn’t mean Matilda were allowed to nothing like them. That’s not how she gyrated, and so she continued sprinting down the endless hallway to save whoever the man-sow had taken hostage, and she thought that it were a statement to her culture: as she were one of the only ones on the land willing to trade her own life: if it meant she could preserve the life of just one individual and the whole of their freedom.

It bothered Matilda that the man had ignored her, but she no longer had the time to be annoyed by his sexism when the rapist obviously didn’t know who she were. As she ran, she noted all the blood on the door had protruded from the meal slots carved in their door, or seeping from the base of their cells. These people were trying to escape something no human should endure: and now Matilda knew why Mills had sent her there to scout. She stopped for a moment and she took the base of her long-bow and cast in onto the concrete floor as she demanded the attention of her warriors without being able to see them personally. She hit the floor in a rhythm of deep drum, and she felt all those curious lean against their doors: having not heard a woman singing in a very long time, as she sang her traditional songs to these men as she walked and tried to find the door that housed the beast she had decided to slay. She stopped once more and instead of singing sweet songs of peace and love, she hit her bow on metal doors and began to battle cry with each inmate until they agreed by tapping back on their door that they understood they no longer needed to lie or suppress their past demons, as Matilda were the only true demon in this black box. To this: she knew that these were the ones she had been searching for all along, as their might was uncontainable. These were the ones she wished to lead into battle, as she were honored by their ability to be sincere, and now for their like understanding of the importance of rights she fought to preserve as now the she battled for lives of all those she knew she’d be lucky to someday call her followers.

Matilda had lost track of the door as she sprinted and she felt she were running out of time as the chilling screams of the man being penetrated rang throughout the black box. Matilda didn’t have time to search, and so she resorted to her dad’s tricks: demanding the ugly man show his face unless he ready to admit he were Matilda’s Bitch. As she began to curse the man her warriors laughed for the first time in a long time, as they heard the voice of women curse the Gods with her profanity riddled comments. Matilda had fought worse beasts, and so the pig-man did not scare her, as she now felt her warriors find unison with their battle rhythm. A voice from behind the door softly whispered through his food slot smeared with his own blood: he asked the Indigenous Warrior what they were to call her as she could hear he was smiling. She cracked her neck from side to side, and she informed her men that she were called Tila by her troops and that Mills was in trouble as she had come to find solution to break his spell. The man reached out his malnourished hand to shake the hand of his captain, and Matilda shook it without hesitation. The man began to cry, as he said he were imprisoned for a plant that was now legal, but now he were raped everyday and beaten by the officers who pretended to preserve and protect the people of the land. Matilda used the dead-eyed savages “God’s” name in vain once more as she held the man by his weak hand and she began to cry for all the doors that she hadn’t the time to introduce herself to. She told the man that she were a battle angel, and that she needed help remembering which door the man-pig hid in as he were busy raping whoever he pleased. To this the man let his hand fall limp, as he had used his last breath to introduce himself, as his heart gave out from starvation. The correctional system in work: as that the dead-eyed savages slept safely from the black boxes having convinced themselves, it would preserve their freedom.

Matilda gently laid the dead hand to rest as she went back to her task, more livid in rage than she had ever been in her life. Matilda reached a door that held a violent shaking and noticed she were scared of opening the cell, having been an inmate as youth. She took a deep breath and in the quiet of her doubt she heard chats. Her men now said her Warrior name in synchronicity and the door no longer held her fear or captured her imagination. She kicked on the door and when that didn’t work she raised her bow and aimed an arrow right at the lock, and thought: this has to do the trick. She were right: Matilda had opened the door to a locked room with only a mattress and light above once more. These poor men had been living out her nightmare everyday, unaware that she needed them and that she believed in their unmeasurable might as a single unit. She stepped into room as the boar continued to thrust his erect penis into the ass of a bound prisoner who was bleeding from his rectum. Matilda were too angry to be shocked, as she simply stood in the door and said calmly to the pig-man who stood there with his dick out “hey bitch”. As the man turned his penis fell out of the man he were raping and Matilda took her chance, as she swept past the obese Merican’ and grabbed the poor man he had been raping repeatedly. She pulled the poor man into the corridor and removed his blindfold, and the ropes restricting his hands from defending his own sexual freedom.

With the pig-man now stuck in a locked cell, Matilda used this time to restore the dignity of the man she had finally managed to save. She pulled up his pants quietly while he cried and gave him medicine for his many lacerations. She turned to kill the pig-man, and as she did the man finally asked who she were: to this she said “nobody” as she didn’t think this was a time for humble bragging. As she opened the door and prepared herself to lock herself into the cell with the beast, the pig-man burst out of his pig pen as the door flung open. Well fuck thought Matilda, who hadn’t really wished to fight in front of an audience, as she were still vain when it came to people looking at her crooked spine. The pig-man charged down the hallway and to this threat Matilda had no choice but to sprint head first into a battle with a beast who portrayed everything wrong with her Nation. The pig-man leaned his head down as he moved as fast as he could yelling the squeals of men with no culture as Matilda now growled the steady hum of the bear and howled at the moon that protected her. She saw the pig-man weren’t the brightest as he exposed his balding scalp as he charged at her, and finally...Matilda knew what to do. As she drew nearer she placed her hand to her back once more to retrieve her bow and arrow. Instead of drawing her bow last minute, Matilda took her right hand and only grabbed a single arrow and took hold of it by its center as she used it as a knife instead. She took a quickened step to the wall, and as the man-pig drew too close for comfort: Matilda swiftly stepped from the floor using one foot as she threw her body into the air up and over the beast until she could see the rim of his balding head. She grabbed her arrow with both hands and drove the arrow straight down upon the man's head, as her arrow protruded out through his many chins. Killing the monster instantly. Matilda decided this were the time to let go of some her of pent up anger towards dead-eyed savages. She called the obese dead man a bitch one last time as she reveled at the last words he’d ever hear: being thrown at him by a small woman as she split his bald skull. The man fell to his knees and Matilda politely bent over to pulled out her slender arrow from his split skull. “Eww gross” thought the woman, as she wiped goop from her handcrafted arrows. She looked up and saw the man she had assisted as he quietly observed the petite woman who had somehow held the moves of a giant skilled gladiator. He thanked her and Matilda said there were no need: as she were on a errand from Mills who still needed her help. Thank you, thoughts and prayers did next to nothing in this case, and as the man saw this: they agreed the debt would be repaid if he’d help her awaken and assemble all of those that Matilda were honored enough...to call her followers.

As the two talked she saw that something were stirring as the prisoners once more began to chant her name and she knew that it were the reason why she’d been sent here once more. The pair now walked back to the entrance of the black box, and they were met with a small army of pig-men and women who were ready to defend their rights to be paid to rape, starve and murder their inmates. Matilda hadn’t the fucking time for this shit, as she needed to get back to Mills before the sun came back up: her new friend agreed with her. The two decided it were time to free the men who had repented for their crimes at the hand of the Mericans’ that ignored their pleas for help, and the pig-men and women who loved to be paid to rape those who were no longer allowed to vote. Even if they wished to vote for reform of correctional facilities or for the education of their own free children, they were banned and voiceless to the violence. They kept calling themselves criminals as they were also being punished for the sins, and they were known to Matilda as the Diones (the terrible). She knew their anger, as Matilda was also forced to pay taxes to the Boar that refused to pay his own taxes. They raced back down the hallway that they had just came from, and the man told her that she were to use the hall space, to once more jump up and over the pig-men and women. She liked the idea and asked what he had planned on doing, and he smiled finally as he told her he was going to open all the cells at once and charge her men straight into the pig-men and women if only to create a distraction. The man handed her silver clip, and told her he had protected the family heirloom rectally, and it was apparent the shiny metal had been what had originally attracted his rapist, as pigs are obsessed with all things that shine. Matilda took the item and placed it in her quiver, as she assumed it could be used for something... someday. As the mass of pigs grew closer: the two said their farewells for the time being and they now stood tall as an army of ten million strong. The pair had a plan and strategy, and the swarm of ignorant pigs had none: as always. Matilda told the man he needed to bury all those who had died and been left facedown to rot in their cells, and to this the man nodded, as he now had a better understanding of both life, and the those who live dead. He reached across Matilda and she said she were ready: watching as all the cells clicked and burst open all at once. Her men stood hesitant in their doorways, skinny and bloody from the endless abuse at St. Clair. As their eyes fell upon the dead pig-man who lay with his skull split open: the men now finally saw Matilda as they agreed silently that she were their leader, their Tubman to follow to their freedom.

Her army now flooded into the hallway and as they charged: she instructed her men to run tightly packed in three lines, as they were to plow down the middle of the pigs, and kick them into the cells they had once protected. They understood, and fell into formation as they sprinted into battle as a platoon, and Tila leading the charge. She watched from above as they successfully clashed with the swine, and skidded past them as she used their shoulders and backs to move past the crowd of perverse, criminal pig-men and women. As she made it past the crowd and rolled out the door, she looked back and she saw the man she had assisted as his fierce face stuck out in the crowd. She had given the poor man as much as she could in the short time they had met, but she knew their paths would cross again. Matilda made it back to the bedside of Mills, and she saw he were still glossy eyed and mumbling to himself. She sat next to the man and held his hand, as she cried for all those locked up in black boxes that she hadn’t yet met or helped. As she did so she remembered the gift her new friend had given her, and so she retrieved it from her quiver and washed the shame and feces from the now gleaming silver clip. She placed it upon Mills, centering it on his broad chest that were hyperventilating as he mumbled. As she did so: the man woke up and began to talking to her groggily. Matilda told him how she had found his clues, and her army, as she now had two-point-three million soldiers that called themselves Diones. Matilda had hoped she still held the support of the Indigenous Warriors who shine, as their only stood two million left having survived the Genocide. Matilda heard drum beats and swelling orchestras in the distance, as she prepared for an epic battle for the rights of those who stood tenant on her land. It weren’t a choice to fight anymore, as there was now a reason for Matilda to finally justify murdering the Boar that still trashed her house, as he pouted that he still wasn’t allowed to mount his own daughter. Matilda knew this were a battle in which she would either die, or become legend: fighting for all those who now openly called themselves her followers.

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