#putting myself on blaze and praying for mercy

[waterme-stories]

I'm not a big marketing guy, but I made these with my own two hands and I love them. And you should order one by the end of this week if you want to get it by Xmas.

[hadesswhore]

H𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔞 - burning /completed/

He embraced my touch, his cloak hugging my uncovered flesh, his intense cold gaze inspecting my body meticulously, as to make sure I was alright.

I wasn’t.

An anger frown curved his eyebrows as he analyzed my state: half naked, with only a loose violet bra, a hip belt, and a curt coined scarf around my waist. A lowly dancer’s clothing. 

Wrath crowned his being. Rage was effortlessly readable in his eyes. He didn’t like what he was seeing. 

I didn’t either.

I averted my eyes in abash, gazing down at my clutching fingers, ashamed about the situation he found me in, the position his men put me in. A mere war-distraction. A pure toy of pleasure. 

I blacked my sight away, not daring to reclaim it, praying to escape this opprobrious state. To disappear. I felt like a burden, a disappointment of his.

And it hurts.

The air inside his cover was thick, grasping, dominating. Forcing his claim on me. It was warm, incredibly fiery. But his embrace was more blazing, much, and much and much feistier than the tied cloth. To the point where my heart’s resting pieces jumbled and reformed, giving life to my already buried soul. 

Giving me life.

Only to burn it again and turn it into ashes. Again and again, and again another time. Dooming my being. Till no ashes were left. Just a hard, devastating, enchanting fire longing in my chest.

His mere presence was consuming my mortality, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the strange comfort his body gave mine, the comfort of being helpless while being devoured. At his mercy. Sinking in reverie. A mythical one.

Until the reminiscence of his icy eyes made me remember his disappointment. Disappointment. Disappointment. 

It hurts.

Its hurts, like a cool freezing ocean wave, extinguishing the fire spreading in my chest. 

My insides were cold.

And it hurts.

My eyelids were still closed. I choked as I distastefully cursed myself, my sinful self. I shivered, a hot liquid pouring on my tangled fingers: Drop after drop, and another drop again. Again and again, and again another time. 

Was it rain?

No, rain wasn’t this warm.

Warm.

I unveiled my vision at my now moist gripped hands. Its fingers, its fingers painted with a red, dark red, perhaps firebrick, tint. Drawing each scratch, each scar, each wrinkle of my scarred palms. As a painter’s ink would to his painting. The ink being firebrick heated blood, the painter my Lord’s veins.

Diomedes’ veins.

And the painting, well, the painting was my soaked hands. 

The drops kept on falling, one after another. Again and again, and again another time. Following the slow rhythm of my moving head, falling as it climbed the air, staring at the ink’s origin. My Lord’s temple.

Diomedes’ temple.

The firebrick kept on raining on my scars, until I finished my climbing. Head up, high as I could, but still underneath him. I faced his intense clear eyes.

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish petals illuminating his orbs. Grand, Majestic, yet homely. He had the earth’s tint, the mud’s scent, the forest beauty, the familiar sense of a shelter, of a home, my home. Everywhere he was, seemed right to me. 

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish sense of a beloved feeling. A faraway sentiment that was forgotten, but still alive, somewhere in my mind, in my spirit, my soul, my heart, my ashes, my fire.

His irises were wording me. Enchanting Goldenrod irises reassuring me, telling me that I was fine where I was: in his arms. I was secure, protected, even when I didn’t see him.

It felt right, dangerously well, devastatingly good, madly pleasing. Like a swift feeling of enjoyment that destroyed my Troy’s walls, welcoming him in my unprotected heart’s palace. Ashes. Fire.

I scanned his eyes, then the glimpse of disappointment in his infuriating orbs. 

He was disappointed.

And it hurts. 

I couldn’t help but gulp in fear, my throat sore, my stomach churning. The coined scarf shook lightly. Was it by fear or desire? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. 

And it hurts.

I wanted him to adore me, to venerate me, to admire my body as those lustful men do. My womanhood yearned for validation, his validation. Looks of adoration and awe, not apathy and distaste. 

I shivered as I felt the blood pouring in my chin, my Lord’s blood. Slowly sliding my neck, reaching my bosom, to pose between my breasts, in the middle of my chest. Right where my burned ashes left his heated warmth, his torrid embrace’s fire, his fire, his.

-    My lord, you’re bleeding. I whispered as his cadenced breath collided with my freezing nose. 

His eyes narrowed, went from my face to where his ink’s last drop hid. My searing spot. 

-    And you’re shivering. His rough, resounding voice declared, muscles tightening the cloak’s grip around my shape.

Gently, he lifted my legs, arms snacking my waist and thighs, carrying me to 

his tent.

-    I’ll get you warmed. He murmured.

It was a just sentence, a mere statement, but with his voice, so firm, so resolute, I couldn’t help but timidly swallow my fear. It was a mere sentence, yet it felt like an inescapable punishment. 

I’m already burning, my Lord.  

****

- My Lord. I stammered, admiring his voluptuous mass setting the fire, stronging it, harding it, broiling the thin wooden sticks till their ashes proliferated in the tent’s caged air, thick gray smoke covered his bare back, clothing his exposed flesh, its shadow sharpening each chunk of him.

Robust sturdy muscles contracting firmly with each move he made, with each dance his strong arms performed. Thick veins, bustling, twitching, showing their gift by their august ploy.

Hard brown skin, scratched, scarred, bruised by the memories of the hardships he’s been through: Battles he has lost. Wars he has won. Lands he has taken. Kingdoms he has conquered. 

Scars.

Old as new, big as small. Each defined him better than no one. Each held a story no one knew but himself, proving every prowess he has achieved. Each scab carved his spirit, each scab shaded his spirit, all these scabs birthed his spirit, made him who he is:

Son of Tydeus, Favored by Athena.

A warrior, a hero, a butcher, a king, a lord, my lord, my jailor, my.

Ashes.Fire.

The air was getting thicker and thicker under the growing vapor, the broad cloak sticking to my body like a second skin. His presence was gripping my chest and my desire was burning my core. 

Checking the wide lasting pyre and the warmness of the suffocating place, he stood, turning around, veins and scars dancing together. bruises.

He shifted to the left wing of the tent, where the towering steel column royally holded the lavish curtains of the room. Then his eyes met mine. Petals piercing leaves. Goldenrod piercing green. His irises ordered mine as he sat on the woolen couch I made.

- Wash me. He said.

I downed my gaze, freeing my shape from his cloak’s grip, folding it gently before putting it on the thick threads of the rug beneath.

I made that one too, I noticed.

I stood, I moved, my slow steps closing the distance between us, then I stopped, I sat, my shivering hands wetting a cloth, my unsteady moves scrubbing his torso, his arms, his abdomen, his palms, his back, all strong, all sinewy, all power. I cleaned his defined anatomy.

Eyes down, green down, leaves down, submitting to his imperious will.

As I should.

A long sigh escaped him as I scrubbed his scarred muscles, accentuating my hold to purge the dried blood off his skin. Wiping the dirt off. Wipe after wipe, and another wipe again, again and again, and again another time. 

All his nerves’ knots opened as I pressed the sore areas of his body, and he immediately relaxed, humming a pleasing war lullaby. 

He liked it, I noted.

I liked it too, I noted too.

His warmth was spreading all over the cloth, all over my hands, warming my jittery organs, like a heat wave, a contagious fever taking both of us. An illness, a delicious illness devouring my being as a whole.

He was poisoning me.

And I liked it.

My fingers, my fingers no longer shivered at his touch. Fingers still painted with his ink, my lord’s veins on my hands, his prickling dried blood on me. 

He suddenly took my hand in his, wrapping his large fingers around mine. I jumped at the contact, my fever hitting high; he never touched me while I was washing him. I was the one touching him.

Warm, but odd.

I lifted my confused look to his face. Alluring. Majestic. Beautiful. 

Green eyed Goldenrod, Goldenrod stared at Firebrick.

Wrath took reign of his features again. Rage readable on his pupils, his jaw clenched intensely, his eyebrows arched sharply, his irises darkening at the view he got.

It wasn’t Goldenrod anymore, it was shallow, deep, a pure shade of black. 

A vein popped out of his frown, the hurted one, the artist. A red drop fell on our wrapped palms, followed by a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, they kept on falling, again and again, and again another time, till our bond was once again soaked. Firebrick drowned his fingers, drowning mine, drowning the cloth. 

My eyes examined the blood’s origin, thankfully, it wasn’t a harmful wound, a bit of ointment and time would alter it to a simple scratch, a memory, one that it held me in its story.

I smiled at the thought.

I felt a small tug on my hand, and I lowered my gaze, his fingers tracing the engraved passages of my scars, the marks my stories left. Bruises. Memories.

It was then that I realized: Goldenrod wasn’t eyeing firebrick. Dark Goldenrod was analyzing the painting. Dark Goldenrod was judging the painting. Dark was judging the painting.

Furious. Infuriated. Angry.

Dark was mad.

He tightened his grip, more ink falling on his hold. Droplet after droplet, a hot bloody rain, burning every inch of my flesh, meeting it, covering it, as to hide my grazed hand.

- Who did this? 

Dark was mad.

Furious. Infuriated. Angry.

His voice holded a tone I despised the most: displeasure. My bruises, my memories, my marks, displeased him. My state embittered him. I displeased him. He was clearly disappointed in me.

And it hurts.

So I adopted what I always adopted: Silence.

Do not speak even spoken to.

I kept quiet under his screaming gaze, under his furious disappointment, under his. 

- Hermania. He declaimed, loudly.

Grip tightening, drops falling, gaze judging, voice ordering. Distaste. Distaste. Distaste. 

Disappointment.

It hurts.

Hot acidic tears burned my eyes in a vain attempt to be freed, but I wouldn’t let them out, I couldn’t let them out, I couldn’t show, I couldn’t feel. Not in front of Dark, not in front of Distaste, not in front of Displeasure. 

Feelings of frustration, rushed, took, hit my body down, building a void right in the middle of my chest, replacing the long gone emblazing fire. Heart. Ashes.

They didn’t matter anymore.

My executioners didn’t matter anymore, because he was theirs, they are nothing now, unimportant, nonexistent in front of him, they were none, all their darkness faded as my lord’s fire enveloped me completely, blazing my insides, searing my desire. 

They didn’t matter, they didn’t haunt me, not anymore, he had made sure of it.

- You slaughtered them. 

My voice was serene, but my heart still ached, and my fingers were shaking while I applied some Yarrow ointment on his temple that I sometimes saw Briseis apply on the bleeding soldiers.

- Good then. 

Diomedes declared, boastful, proud, satisfied as his grandeur should.

Hand down, he grabbed the wet cloth thrown on my knees, and rinsed it in a clear basin’s water, wetting it again, cleaning it from his blood, his memories. He then lifted his eyes to meet mine: ink no longer adorning his features, boastful, proud, satisfied. His magnificent spoke:

- Undress, let me purify your body from my men’s soiled touch.

His men, mediocre, filthy.

The fire was hot, the room was hot, my heart was hot, his words were hot, it was blazing, pleasing, intoxicating. 

My skin flushed as I took off my poor wrappings, matching my color with the flames, much to my lord’s content, and much to mine.

Humming, he signaled me to approach him. I crawled, slowly, steadily, gawkily, until he placed me between his thighs, my legs crossed in his warmth. Where I belonged. 

His hand hugged the cloth, the cloth hugged my skin, and it started scrubbing my whole body, cleaning his men’s filth. 

Wet coarse fabric brushed my back, my neck, my arms, accentuating my searing when he reached my chest; wet hot liquid pasted my breasts, and I leaned against him, enjoying the feeling.

Pleasure. 

Warm. Blazing. Calming.

His touch was hot, my body was hot, my heart was hot. 

Sensations. Sensations. Sensations. 

Mix of unknown sensations took down my soul and spirit. It was blazing yet calming my soul. Hard were the hands of my lord, gentle were their moves on me.

Pleasure. Sensations.

He landed his head on my shoulder to stop my shiverings. Dark honeyed clocks caressing my cheek, his temple sticking some ointment on mine.

Ink no longer firebrick.

I shut my eyelids, feeling his caring grip on me: Calm embrace, gentle wiping. He passed through my whole painting till its dirt disappeared under the cloth’s wetness.

My heart no longer hurted.

Suddenly, as he returned to my chest, the once gentle wiping turned into a ferocious war. Tight grip, feral scraping, flushed bosom. Red. Fire. My lord’s favorite.

I squeezed my closed eyes, forcing myself to endure the ache my jailor provided me, bearing his hard palms. Callous firm fingers quickly replaced the wet cloth; touching my breasts, moving them, pressing them, feeling them like the softest tissue of silk.

My nipples hardened under his treatment: Brutal and savage. Spreading from my searing point a burning wave drowning me whole, diving till my deepest place and displaying its presence by a warm liquid escaping my core.

I felt his mouth on my neck: sucking, licking, grazing my skin, striving my flesh into bloody flushed spots, marking me with his sharp teeth: Brutal and savage.

I could barely contain my voice, aching to cry my sensations, eager to scream the pleasure he gave me, to shout his brutality, his barbarous ways that woke my innermost fantasies. But I kept quiet, shutting my lips as hard as I did with my eyes, because that’s how a slave should be: Silenced.

Whatever my lord gives, I shall take, voiceless.

Callous fingers replaced the cloth, tracing my body’s curves, all my scars and bruises, all my beauty and charm, leaving hot trails paths behind them, warming my insides, warming my ashes, my fire, searing.

Sensations.

Feelings of well being and ease overwhelmed my spirit. I felt wanted, I felt needed, I felt desired. My pride was at its peak. My existence was real.

No longer the ghost wandering in the castle’s libraries, no longer the unadorned royal servant, no longer my father’s daughter, no longer a priest’s shame; living on fortune slaves throw to their gods, drowning in luxuries that took the life out of my soul. 

Instead, I felt like dancing.

I felt those dim poor alleys of the meagerest districts of Troy, taking mornings’ hardships and singing nights’ glories, bearing winter’s diseases and celebrating summer’s festivities.

I felt like dancing. I felt life. 

Right in my butcher’s hold.

Still sucking my shoulder, his fingers thrusted my inner walls in one, hard, push. Making me feel him whole, every rigor of his claw marking my inside already wet by his foreplay. Gods, wet merely by his presence.

Sensations.

He pushed deep, I sensed three, but their thickness made me doubt, four, five perhaps… No three. Those weren’t just normal hands, they were a king’s, a conqueror’s.

Thick. Rough. Raw.

They kept still, their upper part reaching my fevered level; so long, so taking, so conquering. Then they curled, and I yerked.

Sensations. Sensations. Sensations.

An intense thunderbolt hit my inner legs, I didn’t know if it was my legs anymore, I didn’t know anything anymore, felt nothing, nothing but an ardent pleasure taking my whole muscles down, all my sanity was gone. 

I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it.

My body’s never been this burning, my body’s never been this well. It wasn’t right, but it felt alright. 

I gasped for air, struggling to keep my voice to myself, so I opened my eyes to lessen my sensations, only to meet his beautiful petals, shining under the blazing pyre’s glow. Mesmerizing goldenrod, watching my every move, my beauty and scars, my charming imperfections.

Pressure took on my core as he deepened his fingers furthermore, making wince at the intrusion. Acidic salty tears started swimming on my cheeks, this time of pleasure, not frustration. 

My leaves begged him, my shivers begged him, my tears begged to let me scream my sensations at all lungs, only my voice didn’t.

- Moan. Hot, chills, touch; Shout, scream, burn your lungs and throat with my name. Cry to all Greeks that you’re mine, and I shall kill every protestant.

My king roared. Grand, majestic, royal, demanding.

And who was I to deny my king’s demand? Who was I to refuse this freedom?

His fingers started moving, and my moans sang at their rythme, up and down, back and forth, teasing my tights that followed their cadence, down and up, back and forth, in and out. Again and again, and again another time, till my back arched under a wave of ecstasy, my screams transmitting its intensity, my soul feeling its sensations.  

I lied down, then my lord suddenly stood, and I closed my eyes. I tried to control my heavy breathing while assimilating what just happened; I don’t know how I feel, relieved? Satisfied? Happy perhaps? I don’t know, what I do know is the shallow emptiness that overwhelmed me when he exited my muscles, letting my bare behind bump against the woolen couch. Confusion began, unease continued, then frustration appeared, soon followed by my next sorrowful worry: Wasn’t I enough?

I felt silly, stupid even, my pride was hurt: Hermania, the beautiful Hermania who made men crawl in lust couldn’t satisfy her lord’s. I was lost, I was hurt, I was angry at that man for making me desire him, for making beg to get his attention, for making me feel worthless without even trying, every glimpse of confidence I had oon my body vanished under the weight of insecurities I didn’t know of I had, till him, till his damned eyes scrutinized me. I felt beautiful at his touch, but his indifference was lethal.

Beauty is a power, my power, the only thing that makes me relevant in this twisted world, so what am I if I’m not beautiful?

 Just a piece of useless carrion.

All men desired me, all crawled at my moves, all pleaded for a night of pleasure, all begged to see me dance at their feet. Men, women, royals, subjects, everyone admired me, but I couldn’t care less about everyone, all I care about is Diomedes. I couldn’t care less about others compliments, others admiration, others lust… all I wanted was my lord’s. Raw. Brutal. Real.

He makes me feel, he makes me alive, and I like feeling, I like life. I like my lord, I like Diomedes, that’s why I can’t help but worry, fearing that he doesn’t feel the same toward me. 

A loud sigh was emitted from the other corner of the room, as a response for my shambled feelings.

- Speak your concerns, Hermania.

Only then I noticed that I was crying, tear after tear and another tear again, quietly but surely. My worries took the best of me. Another strong exclamation lounged over my whimpers, his gentle fingers brushed some hair strands from my face, the same fingers that were inside me were now swabbing my wet cheeks, switching form my sweet moist to my salty one. I directed my gaze to meet his:

- My lord. 

I whisper, I whimper.

- Why don’t you admire me?

I scream, I tear apart.

All my sadness, all my frustration, all my insecurities leaked out in those words. Suddenly, shame and embarrassment leaked out on my face at his wide surprised eyes. Then, wonder and astonishment leaked out on my features at the sound of his laugh. Dulcet and euphonious. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. 

He knelt in front of me, his eyes pried mine, amusement lingering in their soft golden light, shadowed but a hint of desire. He is pleased, he is aroused. and I like it. His body approached mine, his mouth muttered something under his hushed breath, muscles moving, veins dancing, forehead resting on mine, so close, so burning.

Bright Goldenrod shadowed green. Petals covered leaves. His softness covered mine. Lips on lips. Sweet and sour. Claiming my being till its searing point, conquering everything, my body, my mind, my soul, my. 

He grabbed my waist, his strong arms carrying me to his bed, my flushed flesh on the featherlike covers, screaming royalty and riches, hiding passion and ardor, his body throwned mine, never breaking our contact. His mouth was eating me raw, tasting, teasing, claiming me as a king would claim. Crude and arrogant. He burned yet spoiled my pride, I felt wanted, needed, desired, admired. The best.

He backed away, breaking our contact, admiring his claim, my body red by his marking, my lips bloodied by his treat. A mild smile graced his mouth at his work, he was pleased, I was too, until I heard his next utterance.

- I don’t admire you Hermania.

My lord said as he bent and licked my earlobe. I stiffed at his words, frowning when his eyes met mine, lust crowning his goldenrod, mixed with something else, care perhaps.

- I worship you, woman. He alleged as he thrusted me raw, not caring to shuffle my cries as they resounded through the whole beach, if not all of Troy. 

- Ah, my lord I-. 

I moaned, my voice squeaky, before he shutted it with his own, grand, majestic, lustful: 

- Quiet, let your body speak for you.

He scolded while his hips pushed against mine, his thrusts getting wilder and wilder, flesh on flesh, sliding in my inside, till its deep spot, obliging my body to feel each inch of him, and to accept each drop of him as he filled my emptiness with his warmness. My back jumped at the contact with his burning liquid, vibrations, chills dispersed from my core to my now oversensitive shaking legs. It was hard, it was blowing, it was burning, much and much denser than the lasting fire, it was Diomedes.

- Gods, Hermania, you’re heaven on earth, my heaven.

Heaven on earth, heaven on a woman, heaven on me, right under the flaming hell of his, consuming my good the best way possible, right on the shine of our sin. 

Is it this? Is this how it feels when you’re your admirer’s admirer? Oh my lord, he stopped long ago, but my sensations didn’t

- Are you well? He asked, still inside me, and I nodded my head as he grabbed my head and started kissing my neck, a slight whimper was my response to his sweet applause.

- Words, precious. He softly demanded, his mouth went from licking to sucking my cheeks.

- Yes my lord, I am. I murmured, embarrassment flushing on my face, he suddenly drew back, eyeing the very spot he sucked, desire clinging in his irises.

- Good, cause I don’t plan on stopping. He laid down, his broad chest on mine, supported by his muscular shoulders so as to not crash me with his heavy weight. His arousal met mine, entering raw, taking me whole.

- I’m going to worship you, Hermania, from dusk till dawn. He promised, and he did.

He admired me, He worshiped me, till the light of the day sprang on the music of our breaths.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

8th August >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Saint Dominic, Priest 

on

Tuesday, Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time.

Tuesday, Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: White: A (1))

(Readings for the feria (Tuesday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading Numbers 12:1-13 'How have you dared to speak against my servant Moses?'

Miriam, and Aaron too, spoke against Moses in connexion with the Cushite woman he had taken. (For he had married a Cushite woman.) They said, ‘Has the Lord spoken to Moses only? Has he not spoken to us too?’

The Lord heard this. Now Moses was the most humble of men, the humblest man on earth. Suddenly, the Lord said to Moses and Aaron and Miriam, ‘Come, all three of you, to the Tent of Meeting.’ They went, all three of them, and the Lord came down in a pillar of cloud and stood at the entrance of the Tent. He called Aaron and Miriam and they both came forward. The Lord said, ‘Listen now to my words: If any man among you is a prophet I make myself known to him in a vision, I speak to him in a dream. Not so with my servant Moses: he is at home in my house; I speak with him face to face, plainly and not in riddles, and he sees the form of the Lord. How then have you dared to speak against my servant Moses?’

The anger of the Lord blazed out against them. He departed, and as soon as the cloud withdrew from the Tent, there was Miriam a leper, white as snow! Aaron turned to look at her; she had become a leper. Aaron said to Moses: ‘Help me, my lord! Do not punish us for a sin committed in folly of which we are guilty. I entreat you, do not let her be like a monster, coming from its mother’s womb with flesh half corrupted.’

Moses cried to the Lord, ‘O God,’ he said ‘please heal her, I beg you!’

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 50(51):3-7,12-13

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness. In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me from my sin.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

My offences truly I know them; my sin is always before me Against you, you alone, have I sinned; what is evil in your sight I have done.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

That you may be justified when you give sentence and be without reproach when you judge, O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

A pure heart create for me, O God, put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, nor deprive me of your holy spirit.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

Gospel Acclamation John 8:12

Alleluia, alleluia! I am the light of the world, says the Lord; anyone who follows me will have the light of life. Alleluia!

Or: John 1:49

Alleluia, alleluia! Rabbi, you are the Son of God, you are the King of Israel. Alleluia!

Gospel Matthew 14:22-36 Jesus walks on the water.

Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side while he would send the crowds away. After sending the crowds away he went up into the hills by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, while the boat, by now far out on the lake, was battling with a heavy sea, for there was a head-wind. In the fourth watch of the night he went towards them, walking on the lake, and when the disciples saw him walking on the lake they were terrified. ‘It is a ghost’ they said, and cried out in fear. But at once Jesus called out to them, saying, ‘Courage! It is I! Do not be afraid.’ It was Peter who answered. ‘Lord,’ he said ‘if it is you, tell me to come to you across the water.’ ‘Come’ said Jesus. Then Peter got out of the boat and started walking towards Jesus across the water, but as soon as he felt the force of the wind, he took fright and began to sink. ‘Lord! Save me!’ he cried. Jesus put out his hand at once and held him. ‘Man of little faith,’ he said ‘why did you doubt?’ And as they got into the boat the wind dropped. The men in the boat bowed down before him and said, ‘Truly, you are the Son of God.’

Having made the crossing, they came to land at Gennesaret. When the local people recognised him they spread the news through the whole neighbourhood and took all that were sick to him, begging him just to let them touch the fringe of his cloak. And all those who touched it were completely cured.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

------------------------------

Saint Dominic, Priest 

(Liturgical Colour: White: A (1))

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading 1 Corinthians 2:1-10 The wisdom that God predestined to be for our glory.

Brothers, when I came to you, it was not with any show of oratory or philosophy, but simply to tell you what God had guaranteed. During my stay with you, the only knowledge I claimed to have was about Jesus, and only about him as the crucified Christ. Far from relying on any power of my own, I came among you in great ‘fear and trembling’ and in my speeches and the sermons that I gave, there were none of the arguments that belong to philosophy; only a demonstration of the power of the Spirit. And I did this so that your faith should not depend on human philosophy but on the power of God.

But still we have a wisdom to offer those who have reached maturity: not a philosophy of our age, it is true, still less of the masters of our age, which are coming to their end. The hidden wisdom of God which we teach in our mysteries is the wisdom that God predestined to be for our glory before the ages began. It is a wisdom that none of the masters of this age have ever known, or they would not have crucified the Lord of Glory; we teach what scripture calls: the things that no eye has seen and no ear has heard, things beyond the mind of man, all that God has prepared for those who love him. These are the very things that God has revealed to us through the Spirit.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 95(96):1-3,7-8,10

R/ Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

O sing a new song to the Lord, sing to the Lord all the earth. O sing to the Lord, bless his name.

R/ Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim his help day by day, tell among the nations his glory and his wonders among all the peoples.

R/ Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Give the Lord, you families of peoples, give the Lord glory and power; give the Lord the glory of his name.

R/ Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim to the nations: ‘God is king.’ The world he made firm in its place; he will judge the peoples in fairness.

R/ Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Gospel Acclamation John 8:12

Alleluia, alleluia! I am the light of the world, says the Lord; anyone who follows me will have the light of life. Alleluia!

Gospel Luke 9:57-62 'I will follow you wherever you go'.

As Jesus and his disciples travelled along they met a man on the road who said to him, ‘I will follow you wherever you go.’ Jesus answered, ‘Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’

Another to whom he said, ‘Follow me’, replied, ‘Let me go and bury my father first.’ But he answered, ‘Leave the dead to bury their dead; your duty is to go and spread the news of the kingdom of God.’ Another said, ‘I will follow you, sir, but first let me go and say goodbye to my people at home.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Once the hand is laid on the plough, no one who looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[the-dragonthief-passages]

19th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Back on the road after some breakfast. As I was leaving the inn, I remembered Amren and his sword. Since the hideout was on my way back to Whiterun, I figured I would swing by and grab it. I passed by some game I managed to hunt down, as well as some guests on their way to a wedding in Solitude. A wedding for a royal, now that I think about it. Sounds fancy.

One of the bandits standing guard outside has been causing trouble for the old man keeping watch, the leader's uncle. Blind as a bat, but he was rather sweet. Unfortunately, considering he would probably starve if I left him while the others were dead, I put him down out of mercy. The other bandits... not so merciful. They had a wolf kept in a cage, and I let it loose on them to wear them out before finishing them off. Their leader Havjarr wasn't any harder than the rest of them. And as predicted, he had Amren's family sword in their chest. I took Havjarr's gauntlets to pawn off once I got to Whiterun. Not even lunchtime and I was already doing good.

I sold some of my loot on my way to Dragonsreach. Amren happened to be there too, so I went ahead and gave him the sword back, and he taught me a technique with a sword and a shield that his dad liked. After that, I headed towards Farengar's study.

He was speaking to a woman who's face I couldn't see very clearly. They said something about First Era writings. I couldn't really care less. I just went ahead and gave him the Dragonstone. His "associate," the one who told him about it, congratulated me on completing such a feat.

Suddenly, Irileth ran in and called for us both. A dragon was spotted outside Whiterun at the western watchtower. On the spot, Jarl Balgruuf quickly rewarded me for the barrow trip with an enchanted shield and permission to buy property in Whiterun, then asked me to help with the dragon. I both hoped that it was the same dragon that attacked Helgen and prayed that it wasn't as I followed Irileth to the watchtower.

The battle was intense. There arrows flying everywhere, fire blazing from it's mouth, and weapons swinging everywhere. I had never fought so hard in my life. In the end, we won. We heard it cry "Dovahkiin! No!" as it collapsed into death.

That's when things grew weirder than they already were. The dragon's scales and flesh started to burn away, and that similar absorbing effect back in Bleak Falls Barrow, but larger, came rushing into me. I could feel the very essence of this dragon in my body. I had never seen anything like it. The dragon was nothing but a skeleton.

One of the guards said that I was "Dragonborn," a legend who could take the souls of dragons slain and use them for Shouts. That's what the Draugr Overlord I fought yesterday. It was Shouting at me. The same one that I had just learned.

I was so dizzy and confused from this mess. I barely even noticed when Irileth told me to report back to the Jarl. On my way back, there was a booming voice like thunder over the whole hold, maybe even Skyrim itself. The same word that the dragon cried before it died. "Dovahkiin."

All eyes were on me was I made it back to Dragonsreach. It was almost unnerving. "How did someone like me get caught up in business like this? I'm not some hero, I'm just a wanderer trying to live my life." Thats all I could think to myself. There were men in strange cloaks at the gate when I arrived, but I didn't pay attention to what they wanted. I just had to focus on reporting to the Jarl.

Once I arrived, I told him everything. He said the "Graybeards" were summoning me from the Throat of the World, in High Hrothgar. He said they can teach me how to Shout. It's a "tremendous honor." I don't know about that. After that, he titled me as the Thane of Whiterun. I met my new Housecsrl Lydia by the front door, but left her there, then headed to rent a room at the Bannered Mare again.

The last three days have been utter chaos. One day I'm a wanted criminal about to be put on the chopping block, the next I'm the most important person around with the ability to steal dragon souls. I don't know how I got into this mess. What I do know is that I don't think I'm ready for any of this. I've only been free for not even a week, and now I'm expected to climb 7,000 steps to learn how to use a power I never wanted?

The Graybeards can wait. I need more time before I'm ready to see them.

[emjee]

Hey y’all. Have a ficlet based on this post that wouldn’t leave me alone.

It isn’t a problem, Yusuf tells himself. It isn’t a problem because it’s not a concern. It’s not a concern because he isn’t paying attention. He does not notice. He’s looking away. He’s looking away so he does not notice.

“Ah,” Nicolò says, looking up from the sword in his lap. “You are back. I was beginning to worry.”

Yusuf doesn’t know how long he’s been gone. All he knows is that earlier in the evening he took one look at Nicolò trying to get tinder to catch for their fire, tongue poking out as he concentrated on striking the flint over and over again, and immediately excused himself, claiming he was going down to the river to wash. Nicolò had frowned and told him to be careful, as they were losing the light, and Yusuf had all but taken off at a run.

The fire is blazing now. That should spell the end of his worries, but of course it doesn’t, because once Nicolò has satisfied himself that Yusuf is in one piece he returns to sharpening his sword, working the whetstone against the edge. The tip of his tongue is pushing into a dimple at the corner of his mouth.

Most gracious, most merciful, Yusuf thinks wryly at God. Sometimes you give me cause to doubt that second bit.

But, Yusuf reminds himself, it isn’t a problem. He’ll just stop thinking about it. Simple at that. No need to complicate this ever-deepening friendship with the only other person alive who understands what Yusuf’s life now is. It’s not as though he’s given much thought to Nicolò or his tongue or the many uses it could be put to, including but not limited to various scenarios that bring it in contact with Yusuf’s skin or the inside of his mouth or—

Fine, now he’s looking, he’s watching, watching Nicolò’s large, sure hands guide the whetstone against the edge of his blade, watching the tip of his tongue work almost imperceptibly against that dimple.

He is halfway though this terrible decision before he even knows he’s properly decided.

“Nicolò.” By the time Nicolò looks up, Yusuf already has the sword in his hands. “Leave the sword.” He sets in on the ground away from the fire and all but climbs into Nicolò’s lap. Nicolò’s eyes widen but he doesn’t try to get away, doesn’t shove Yusuf off him. Instead his hands come to Yusuf’s waist, and his mouth opens as though he meant to say something but promptly forgot the words. Yusuf takes Nicolò’s face in his hands, looks straight into those unsettling pale eyes he has come to adore because they belong to Nicolò, gives him time to toss Yusuf away with any number of maneuvers they’ve both used on each other.

But Nicolò doesn’t, and his mouth is still open, and Yusuf doesn’t want to wait any longer, can’t keep wondering what it’s like to…

He fits his mouth against Nicolò’s and all but sucks on Nicolò’s tongue. It isn’t elegant, or graceful; it is in fact far from Yusuf’s best work. He takes pride in being a sensitive lover, and hopes—prays, truly—that Nicolò will be at least intrigued enough to let Yusuf make it up to him.

His worries are interrupted by the sudden realization that Nicolò is kissing him back with what can only be called ferocity. The hands at his waist have turned into fists grasping and twisting his tunic, and then Nicolò is using one of those maneuvers designed to dislodge an assailant, except he doesn’t let go, just rolls so Yusuf is under him.

If he’d known how this was going to go, he thinks, as Nicolò all but licks up the side of his neck, perhaps he would have said something sooner.

*

Approximately nine centuries later, Joe awakes to the sensation of Nicky’s finger brushing against his lips.

“Watching me sleep again?” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“I cannot help myself, sometimes,” Nicky says, “seeing as you are very beautiful.”

“Sweet.” Even Joe doesn’t know if he’s referring to the compliment or addressing Nicky directly; it’s too early for such distinctions.

“For some reason I was thinking of the first time you kissed me.”

“Mmm. That was a good kiss. Sweet,” he says again, and hears Nicky snort.

“It was nothing of the sort.”

That’s enough to get him to open his eyes. “What do you mean? It was—I remember it being, I don’t know. Tender. Beautiful. I wanted you so badly.”

“That you did, and I you, but tender is not how I would describe it. You threw my sword away and straddled me and all but sucked on my tongue.”

Oh, Joe’s completely awake now. “I did not throw your sword away,” he says, sitting up, “seeing as I didn’t feel like getting run through with it. But if you didn’t want me to suck on your tongue you should have kept it inside your mouth—”

“So you admit that’s what you did—”

“Instead of, I don’t know, flaunting it all over creation every time you had to concentrate on something—”

Nicky rolls so he’s flat on his back, arms over his head. “Flaunted it, did I?” He licks his lips.

“You are a menace.” Joe pushes the blankets back and stretches himself over Nicky.

“A menace, hm? I suppose I must be stopped.”

“I suppose so.”

He closes the last bit of distance between them and finds Nicky’s mouth open and ready.

[chazz-anova]

A Little Bit Of Magic - Chapter 1

Fandom: Far Cry 5

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Lady Veronica Rook, a wizard turned rogue bounty hunter and part time thief, is approached by one of the King's men on a stormy night to acquire her services. Little does she know, she's setting off on a quest that will change her forever. (Fantasy!AU)

A/N: LITERALLY I saw one picture and that spawned this entire AU lmao, this has been a fun start and I'm excited for the rest of this little mini-series! I hope you all like as well <3

Dancing candlelight casted amorphous shadows on a bare stone wall. In the center of the room, a firepit blazed; warming the bones of weary travelers who sought refuge from a tempest storm brewing outside the walls of the inn.

Barmaids bustled from table to table, bringing stout ale to rowdy patrons. One such patron sat at the short oak bar, nursing a tankard of beer. In front of the customer stood a barkeep who looked rather piqued. “Veronica, every night you sit here and take up space that could be filled by paying customers. Pray tell, what must I do to squeeze some coin from you?” The woman asked, her sunny blonde hair bobbing as she swept a damp rag over the counter.

Across the bar, Veronica looked up from her stein with a smirk as she replied, “You’d just as likely squeeze coin from me as easily as you’d milk a dragon, Mary May. Is there not a special allowance for a friend who’s saved your life twice over?”

“If I’d known your aid would end up costing me damn near a barrel of ale in the long run, I would have gladly thrown myself into the jaws of death!” Mary professed dramatically, a small smile giving her away.

V rose her tankard high, proclaiming “And what you pay in ale, you make back doubly in entertainment!”

With a sigh- the barmaid stashed the rag she’d been holding under the counter. “Well allow me to take my leave, before your entertainment proves to be too much!” Mary May rolled her eyes as she departed to the back storeroom; Veronica always knew how to work her last nerve.

Now left to her own devices, the woman spun in her seat to analyze the other patrons. She hoped with any luck, she could swindle some coin from someone deep in their cups to secure a room for the night. Unfortunately- saving a friend’s life only afforded you free drinks, not free rooms. Having grown up in the streets of the Kingdom of Hope, Veronica trusted her pickpocketing skills; especially in a tavern such as this.

The Splayed Eagle Inn was run by V’s friend, Mary May, and had been her home for the past few months. All types found themselves in this bar, whether they be well-to-do, working class, or a simple ne’er-do-well. Of course- Veronica liked to think she didn’t fit into any of those categories.

Sitting around the main floor of the inn were a few possible targets, and our girl set to sizing up the first; an older man seated in the corner. He wore the garb of the royal guard. His complexion was that of worn leather, and his eyes scanned the room suspiciously. ‘Not a great mark..’ Veronica thought, shifting her gaze to her next person.

The person in question was not a person at all, but rather a dwarf. The short man guzzled beer from his stein greedily, egged on by two more of his kind. Finishing the drink he slammed down his cup and roared in revelry. ‘Though dwarves love gold and these ones would certainly have some coin, perhaps they are a hair too unmanageable for a robbery.’ Considering this, the woman moved down the list.

Just as Veronica was about to size up her next mark, she felt a hand on her shoulder. The blonde turned, expecting to see Mary May had returned to give her more grief. V was surprised to see an unfamiliar face and she immediately went on the defense, shrugging the stranger’s hand off her shoulder. “Can I help you?” Her words dripped with distrust.

The stranger met her eyes with a look of contempt, and V considered grabbing her dagger in case things became dicey. The woman who’d grabbed her shoulder stepped back now, regarding Veronica coldly with dark eyes. She wore a black fur cape with the hood up, obscuring her features, though her greasy black hair hung in matted locks on her shoulders. She lifted her hood to reveal a ghastly scar across her face. “Yes, mage, I do believe you can help me.” The stranger chuckled.

Hearing her true title, Veronica started visibly, but quickly recovered. ‘How does she know? Certainly this wench is no mage, I sense no magic in her! Is she an assassin from the Guild? Gods, Mary May will kill me if I’ve brought such darkness to her doorstep!’ V’s inner monologue was harried, in contrast to her cool voice as she rebuffed, “Mage? Surely you jest! I am but a humble adventurer.”

Spitting at her feet, the woman scoffed. “Save your lies! I already know of you, Lady Veronica, and of your discharge from the Royal Mages Guild. I come seeking your help in regards to your… new vocation.”

“And what would that be?” V continued to be difficult, her tone hostile. She didn’t like how much this woman knew of her.

“Bounty hunting, of course. Or was it not you that the Royal Guard granted a bounty to just a week ago for bringing in one of the Banshee Queen’s sprites?” At this, Veronica’s mouth drew into a thin line. She knew she’d been got. The ravenette shrugged, “I dare not judge, how else is a rogue witch to make any coin these days?” Though she put on a facade of good cheer, something dangerous lurked in her gaze.

A humorless laugh escaped Ronnie and she lifted her chin defiantly, “Even if you speak the truth, why should I help you, hag?”

Smiling cruelly, she retorted “It is not I who requests your service, but your King and country.”

“Well, his Kingly-ness will simply have to bring is ass down here if he truly wants me help!” V laughed, chalking up the woman’s words to a childish prank.

Suddenly- the stranger closed the short distance between them and the mage felt the tip of a blade threatening to pierce her gut. “I would recommend a modicum of respect for King Dutch. As his bodyguard, I may feel inclined to defend his honor.”

Under her breath, Veronica murmured ancient arcane words and a ball of flames appeared in her spread palm near the woman’s head. “And I may feel inclined to worsen your scar if you do not back away.” She growled the threat, feeling a rush of relief when the King’s bodyguard moved away. She would rather not release a fan of fire in her friend’s bar.

Sheathing her dagger, the woman took a breath. “Let us start over. I am Jess Black, bodyguard and right hand to King Dutch Roosevelt.” She gave a stately bow along with her title.

“Well Lady Black, what would you have of me?” V asked, voice laden with suspicion. Though she preferred to seek her own bounties, a requisition from the King was sure to bring decent coin.

As they began to discuss business, Jess took a seat next to Veronica and spoke vaguely. “Our ruler would have you retrieve a package for him, for a hefty reward.” When the mage said nothing, she continued, “I cannot divulge the details- but you will find what you need in the hamlet of Fall’s End with a cleric named Jerome.”

“Am I expected to go forward with such little information?” She shook her head in disbelief, finally finishing her drink.

“You are expected to do as our ruler bids! I have told you all I know.”

Veronica’s brow furrowed as she probed, “Surely his majesty has sent some sort of incentive, if it is truly he who sent you!”

Jess sighed heavily, producing a leather pouch from the folds of her cape. She set it on the bar with a clink, and V grabbed it immediately. “Gods, there must be nearly forty gold here!” She exclaimed, counting it out quickly.

“Our benefactor has put this forward as a downpayment of sorts, with the promise of more once he’s gotten his package. On the condition that you leave immediately.” Jess asserted with a nod.

The blonde eyed the gold hungrily- knowing she was on hard times. “Well if my kingdom needs me, who am I to resist the call? Though surely ‘immediately’ could mean ‘first thing in the morn’, with his Highness’s mercy?”

Putting a hand on the pouch of gold, the ravenette shook her head. “I must insist on your departure this night, King Roosevelt wishes for no delay in your meeting with Jerome.”

For a moment Veronica’s gaze shifted from Jess back to the pouch of gold, but she relented with a sigh. “It will take me a moment to prepare myself, and I shall make haste.”

Jess gave a rare smile, acquiescing “Your speed is most appreciated.” She turned to the back wall of the bar then, wondering aloud, “Where is the damn barkeep?”

With their conversation over and coin now heavy in her pocket, V slipped behind the bar to the back office where she’d stashed her travel pack.

Mary May’s office was small but tidy, featuring a large desk and business ledger. Sitting there was Mary herself, counting out coin into the safe next to the desk. Next to the safe was Veronica’s beige backpack, which May let her stash in the office during business hours. Hearing her footsteps, the blonde turned away from her safe to face V. “Ah, come to retrieve your loot without buying a room to store it in first? You must have gotten yourself a job.”

A smile crossed Veronica’s features, showing pearly white teeth. “You know me well friend, I must be off immediately unfortunately, so it would appear you’ll save some ale tonight yet!” She crossed the threshold into the room, leaning over the other to grab her sack.

“My, it must be an illustrious one to cause you to abandon a perfectly good night of drinking!” She chuckled.

This made the blonde stop a moment as she considered telling her friend the details. Thinking better of it, she instead said, “Nothing so fancy! I should be back in a week at the latest, try not to miss me too much!” Giving Mary May a chuckle., Before Veronica was fully out the door, she leaned back to say quickly “And be sure to give your worst service to the raven-haired patron sitting at the bar!”

V slung her sack across her back, weaving through Mary May’s drunken customers towards the front door. Once she cleared the room, she turned back one last time and saw Jess staring at her as she departed. The look on her face gave her chills.

The heavy door to the Splayed Eagle Inn opened with a prolonged creak, and gave way to a gust of wind that caused the mage to pull her cloak closer around her. She stepped foot into the deluge outside and hustled into the treeline, taking her first steps towards facing an evil she couldn’t begin to imagine.

[babeyvenus]

The Wolf Among Us

Bigby x Oc

Summary: Sonya Blaze, A.K.A. Hell Rider, is a half fable, half mundy girl who comes to Fabletown to learn more about her side of the folktales. She works alongside Sheriff Bigby Wolf as his newest partner and together they strive to find out who's behind the unexpected murders in Fabletown.

TW: Mentions of death, gore/blood, alcohol, smoking, drugs, sex implications, suicide, guns and ofc language.

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Chapter 18: What a Twist

Everyone turns their head to see the mermaid running towards them, panting softly as she runs up to Sonya. “Easy. You’re not late.”, Sonya smiled, holding her arms.

“Excuse me, dear.”, Crooked Man says to Nerissa. “I….I wanted to make sure I had the chance to say something.”, Nerissa said, catching her breath.

“Why don’t you take a moment to catch your breath, little one?”, Crooked Man suggested.

“What’s she doing here?”, Bluebeard asked, crossing his arms.

“I’d like to…I–I need to say something.”, Nerissa declared.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something.”, Bluebeard said. Sonya glared at him. “Fuck off and let her speak.”

“She has something to say and we’re gonna listen.”, Bigby said. He nodded at Nerissa. “Go right ahead.” She smiles at him, and then glares at the Crooked Man. “You probably don’t remember me. I don’t know why I was afraid to come here.”, she said.

“My dear, I don’t know what it i–”

“Just shut up!”, Nerissa ordered, making him look at her in surprise. “You enslaved us for years. Let us hear stories about what you’d do….told us we would lose everything if we stepped just one toe out of line. And we couldn’t say a word about it because of these damn ribbons.”

“Wait….”

“But you know what….now it’s my turn to talk.”, Nerissa said, smirking. “How are you–?”, he asked, clasping his hands.

“I found Vivian’s body. Did you kill her?”, she asked. She turns to Sonya and Bigby. “Did he?”

“He might as well have.”, Bigby says, looking at the Crooked Man. “Vivian wanted you guys to finally be free. She explained what happened. Figured she knew she was gonna die regardless.”, Sonya said. Nerissa looks down in sadness. “I’m sorry, um….I don’t think I know your….”, Crooked Man excused himself.

“Nerissa! My name is Nerissa!”, Nerissa yells at him.

“It’s okay, my dear, it’s going to be just–”

“He ordered them dead, this fucker. Faith and Lily–"

"That’s a lie!”

“I was in the goddamned room when he did it!”, she exclaimed to the crowd. She turned to Crooked man, angrily. “Faith and Lily are dead because of you! The only two people who ever gave a damn about me… and now I can finally say, you’re an asshole. And I hope you rot at the bottom of the Witching Well for what you did."

"Then this just confirms it.”, Bigby says, grinning. Nerissa turns to the crowd. “He made Georgie do it, it was always him, Georgie would’ve never done anything without his say-so, ever.”

“You’re going to take the word of–”

“At least five other girls will back me up on this.”, Nerissa cuts him off. “We all heard you say it!”

Crooked Man glared at her. “Did you now…”

“There goes our evidence.”, Sonya grins at Bigby. “She saw it first hand….”, Beauty says in shock.

“He’s guilty!”, Bluebeard declared.

“Sounds good to me. What about you, Deputy?”, Bigby smirked at Sonya. “Sounds good to me.”, Sonya agreed, smirking at Crooked Man. “So, we’re all in agreement.”, Snow said.

“So that’s it, right?”, Beast asked.

“Throw him down the Witching Well!”, Johann ordered.

“No! That’s too fuckin’ easy for a crook like that!”, Gren disagrees. Bigby looked at him in confusion while cuffing the Crooked Man.

“What do you mean?”, Beast asked.

“He’s gotta pay for what he did!”, Gren shouted. “That’s what we’re doing!”, Sonya exclaims in confusion. “Listen to yourselves!”, Greenleaf yelled.

“You’re all rats fleeing from one sinking ship to the next. So quick to latch onto whatever will keep your miserable lives afloat. This is how you want to repay all I’ve done for you?”, Crooked Man asked, glaring at the crowd.

“What, you take two people’s lives away and now you want mercy?”, Gren asked, in disbelief.

“You know we can’t let you go free after this.”, Snow said. “Are you seriously trying to get sympathy for ordering a hit on fables?, Sonya scoffed, amused. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Well done then.”

“Now, for your sentence–”, Snow starts but is cut off by Greenleaf. “We don’t have to become murderers.”, she suggests.

Sonya turns to her. "You're still trying to excuse his actions? He killed people. He threatened you all and you want us to make it easy for him? You're not saving him."

Greenleaf frowns. "I don't need to be taking orders from a half fable.", she says, quieting everyone.

Sonya frowns. "What's that got to do with the situation here?"

"The hell is she talking about?"

"Half fable...?"

"Greenleaf, where are you going with this?", Bigby asked. She pointed at him. "Did you really think that no one was gonna figure it out? The new fable in town, the new deputy– no one's even heard of this girl!"

Greenleaf turned to the crowd. "They've practically let a mundy run amuck in our town!", she exclaims making the crowd gasp.

Snow and Bigby's eyes widened. "Now, hold on-"

She turned to glare at Snow. "You let this happen. You're worried about what the Crooked Man would've done, what about her? What if she blabbed to other mundies about us!? What safety would we have then!?"

Sonya could feel everyone's eyes on her as she glared at Greenleaf. The old woman continues. "The wolf and the princess are no better. They just do what they want. If you're so willing to let a half mundy enter Fabletown, what's to stop you from letting other mundies in!?"

The Crooked Man clapped. "Well. This is a surprise to remember."

Sonya glared at him. "Now hold on, whether or not Sonya's a half fable, it didn't stop her from trying her best to find my sister. They care about us. About this town.", Holly interjects.

"They only cared when they thought it was Sonya that bit it, though.", Gren added. Holly shook her head. "But it wasn't her fault. It took me too long to come to terms with that.", she said, looking down. "I trust them. They've gotten this far when Crane never bothered and the Crooked Man is here. That's all we wanted was for justice to come to this town and they've done it. What more do you want?", she asks Greenleaf.

Sonya smiles at Holly, giving her a nod before turning back to Greenleaf, crossing her arms. "Are you done? Can I speak now?" The old woman scoffed, keeping herself quiet.

"Alright then.", Sonya says but Bigby puts a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to explain yourself.", he says. She gives him a small smile. "As your deputy, I'd want everyone to trust me and put their faith in our jobs. What better way to do that than to be honest?"

His expression softened and he lets go of her shoulder. Sonya claps to get everyone's attention. "If you're all writing a book and you must know, I am a half fable. I don't know if you all have heard tales of the Ghost Rider. But I am the next Ghost Rider. My dad was the previous one before me. He died a couple of years ago and I swore and prayed to every god I could think of to bring him back.", she frowns.

She paces in front of the crowd as she continues. "A demon of some sorts, Mephistopheles, or Mephisto, offered me a chance to "help" those in need of saving. To help wary souls find their place in the after life. My dad did the same thing. The only reason why his soul wasn't saved is because he traded it with Mephisto. Same as I have."

She looked down. "He told me about this place. Hell, he worked with Crane outside rather than working at the office. He told me stories about how great this place was. Living fairy tales commuting amongst each other like any regular old person. I thought he was just telling stories but a few years after he died, I decided to look for Fabletown myself."

She looked at Snow. "That's when I met Snow and Crane. Crane gave Snow the rundown of my situation because he knew my dad. Which then helped me get a job as deputy.", she says, glancing at Bigby. "And now we're all here."

Sonya glared at Greenleaf. "However, me being a half fable wouldn't mean I'd rat everyone out. I'd have no good solid proof to the police anyways. I'd look like a damn loon and would probably get arrested for wasting their time. So, I dunno what your little plan was to get everyone's attention onto me and off of the task at hand, but we're still at a trial. And, last time I checked, I wasn't the guilty one."

Greenleaf looks down in shame. “He’s guilty! I know that, but we don’t have to kill anybody. Like you said before, there's another way we can go about this. We can imprison him. Lock him up forever…somewhere he can never hurt anyone again.”, Greenleaf says.

“How can we be sure he won’t escape?”, Snow asked, frowning. “I can help! We’ll use magic. I assure you–”, Greenleaf said, making Sonya look up in thought.

“That’s not good enough!”, Bluebeard shouts.

“There will be more if he isn’t stopped!”, Nerissa says. “So we get rid of him!”, Gren says.

“I don’t know…”, Beauty says, uncertain. “We can send him away!”, Beast suggests.

“Everyone! Listen up!”, Snow announces. “Clearly we’re having trouble agreeing on a suitable punishment. So I think we–”

“This is going nowhere!”, Bluebeard cuts her off. “Someone needs to make a decision!”, Snow exclaimed. “Who?”, Beauty asked.

“I hope you aren’t suggesting yourself.”, Bluebeard says, stepping up to her.

“We should have a vote. Make it democratic.”, Bigby says. “Do you really think that’s going to work?”, Bluebeard asked. “He’s right. Nobody can agree on anything.”, Snow said.

“What about Bigby and Sonya?”, Nerissa asked. “What about them?”, Snow asked, turning to her.

“They were appointed, they’re….the only official representatives, really. They should be the judges.”, Nerissa said.

“That makes sense to me.”

“I guess it does.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? This isn’t how it’s–”, Snow says before Bluebeard interrupts her again.“It’s what the people want, Miss White.”

“Okay.”, Snow said, then turned to Sonya and Bigby. “Mr Wolf. Miss Blaze. It’s your call.”

“Snow, I–”

“Just….do what you two think is right.”, Snow said, interrupting Bigby. Sonya rolls her eyes as he pulls her aside. “What do you wanna do?” She looks at him, incredulously. “Why me? You’re the boss.” , she says.

He rolls his eyes. “Forget that. He kidnapped you.” She sighed. “Good point but he nearly got you killed.”, she argued. He clenched his jaw for a moment and looked at the crowd as they looked at them.

He nodded. “Smart.”, he let out a soft sigh. “Fine.” They walked back to the crowd.

“We could try Greenleaf’s plan. The only thing I’m worried about is whether or not he’d convince her to stop doing it. She’s so hellbent on keeping him alive even though Faith and Lily are dead. And the fact that we could’ve died….”, she says, catching his attention.

She closed her eyes, sighing again. “Let’s just see what Greenleaf has in mind. If things go south, we could always make a plan just in case it does.”

“Everyone, we’ve–”, Bigby started to say until suddenly Crooked Man charged forward and wrapped his cuffed wrists around Sonya’s neck, shocking everyone. “Not this way!”, he yells, tugging her back toward the Witching Well. She coughed and choked, struggling against his hold as Bigby ran to her.

Just before they touch the well, she grips onto the chain that connected the cuffs and melted it, making her drop to her knees. Bigby grabs Crooked Man’s shirt and punches him in the face, holding him over the Witching Well. “Aaahhh……there you are….”, Crooked Man said, creepily as Sonya catches her breath.

The crowd runs toward them, wary of the next move. “I hope you all….remember this moment…..think of me when you try to sleep.”, Crooked Man says.

“You know, we were gonna make the choice of letting you live. But you just tried to murder my deputy. That’s a problem.”, Bigby said, shaking him above the well.

“You’re going to miss me….”, Crooked Man croaked. Bigby looks at Sonya with an unsure expression, watching her rub at her neck. She frowned and nodded.

Bigby looks back at Crooked Man with a smirk. “No. I won’t.”, he says and he drops the Crooked Man down into the well, watching him disappear in the darkness.

“For Lily. And Faith.”, she hears Holly say. Sonya takes another deep breath, as she clasps her neck softly, now coming to terms that she could’ve died.

The Crooked Man was going to kill her because he wasn’t getting his way. That had to be enough proof to show everyone. Bigby looks at her and kneels down to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She snapped her out of her rampant thoughts and looked up at him with red rimmed, glassy, wide eyes.

He frowned, softly taking her hand away from her neck and lifted her chin up to examine it. His expression turned displeased as he saw a red mark on her neck. “I’m fine…”, she says, standing. He stood up with her and nodded, not saying a word and left.

Everyone else leaves the chamber, unsure, afraid, unsettled or otherwise. Sonya could only watch their retreating backs before looking into the dark well for a moment and finally leaves.

She walked out of the office, walked past Bigby’s office. She paused, turned to the door and opened it slowly. She peeked her head through and smiled at Bigby’s sleeping form as he snored softly on his desk.

She walked in, quietly moving over to him and lifted a hand to gently shake him awake. His eyes popped open as he looked around and relaxed when he saw Sonya.

“Why didn’t you head home if you were gonna sleep?”, she asked. He sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. “I was gonna get some paperwork done...hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep.”

She leaned on his desk. “You might wanna go home instead of being here. You deserve a break.”, she said, looking down at her shoes.

He looked up at her and looked at a nearby clock. “Hey…”, he says, getting her attention. “You wanna go grab something to eat?”, he asked, giving her a slight smile. She chuckled. “At this hour?”

“I don’t hear a complaint.”, he says, raising an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes playfully. “Fine. We can go find something that’s open.”

Subway Late Night

Sonya sputters a laugh, nearly choking on her drink. “So, you mean to tell me, he’s making you owe him a place to stay because you blew his house down?”, she asks, after hearing Bigby explain his roommate situation. He swallowed his bite of his meatball sub, giving a sigh and nods. “He’s a pain in the ass.”

“Well, if we’re being fair, in the stories I’ve read, the pigs boil you alive. I think that’s way more than enough.”, she says. That intrigued him. “Really?”, he asked.

She nodded, taking a bite. She looked up at the sky as they walked away from the shop. “To think I’d be living among actual fairy tale characters….”, she mutters. “I mean, I knew the sugarcoated stories had to have some type of dark history behind it but jesus…”

“Yeah… no sugarcoating with this one.”, he says, pointing at himself. “It just sounds like you were hungry.”, she says, smiling. He nodded. “I was.”, he says. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Every fairy tale character is here? Or at least nearby?” He shrugs. “More or less.”

“So...does that mean that Rapunzel is here too?”, she asked. He nodded. “I was wondering because I read a story that the guy that saved her fell from the tower and got his eyes poked out by thorns.”, she says, making him grimace. “That’s dark.”, he says.

“Is it not true?”, she asked and finished up her sandwich. “I wouldn’t know… Not a lot of fables talk to me. That or they’re at the Farm.”, he replied.

“Sounds boring. Looks like I came here just in time to spice up your life.”, she says, grinning and making him roll his eyes in amusement. He threw their trash away in a nearby trash can before they walked in the Woodlands and pulled out a Huff n’ Puff, making Sonya reel back once he lit it. “What is up with you and the cancer sticks?”, she asked, pinching her nose.

“It helps.”, he says. “With addiction??”, she asked in disbelief. He chopped her head softly, “No. It helps drown out smells from the city. My nose can’t take everyone’s scent all at once. Especially if I’m trying to pinpoint someone’s location.”, he says, leading her to the elevator.

Once the elevator stopped on their floor, it opened, allowing them to enter.

Her eyes widened in realization. “Ohhh, so its like being in a perfume store and taking in too many scents all at one time.” He nods, taking a drag.

“Does your nose get stuffy from smelling a lot of things simultaneously?”, she asked. He shook his head, letting the smoke out. “It gives me one mean migraine, though.”

She smiled, enjoying the new info. “So, you are like a pup.”, she joked. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t start.”, he says, making her snicker.

He did have to admit, he felt lighter. The Crooked Man was gone, Faith, Lily and Nerissa got their justice. All that was left was to deal with whatever came their way next. And he was fine with that.

He smiled at Sonya as they arrived on their apartment floors. She rubbed her eyes, sleepily. “I actually miss that stupid couch…”, she muttered.

“Go on home. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”, he says. She looked at him, remembering what Snow said. She gave him a faux smile. “Yeah. G’night, Bigby.”

He nodded before she walked away and entered her apartment. Locking the door, Snow’s words echoed in her mind. “When this case is over, you’ll be on leave until we need you.”

She walked over to her couch and laid into the cushions, curling up. “Damn that Snow.”, she grumbled, shutting her eyes.

The Woodlands Next morning

Bigby rubbed his eyes sleepily as he waited for the elevator doors to open. He pulls out a Huff n’ Puff, lighting it up as Flycatcher catches him. “Hey, Sheriff.”, he greets Bigby. “You gonna see the truck off? We’re leaving for the Farm in a few….I already informed the Deputy and she’s helping outside. Just thought you might wanna, I don’t know…”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”, he says. “Okay…great.”, Flycatcher smiles as the door to the elevator closes. He hears someone walk up to him and sees Sonya. “Hey.”

He greeted her back. “You’re up pretty early. Thought you would’ve slept in after everything that’s happened.”

She shook her head. “Nah, I heard that Toad was getting sent to the Farm and I didn’t want T.J. to be too upset.”, she explains as they walk up to a long line outside of the Business Office. “This fuckin’ line.”, Bigby hears Gren mumble.

As they walked past everyone, they were given smiles or uncertain looks. He lifted a hand to the door of the office until Snow White rushed out, holding some files in her arms. She stops when she sees them. “Oh….Mr. Wolf! Flycatcher left his keys.” She holds out the keys to Bigby.

He holds his hand out and she drops the keys in his hands. He looks down at the keys before looking back at Snow. “Is everything okay? You look–”

“I’m–I’m sorry, Sheriff. I have to take care of this.” , Snow said, before giving Sonya a look. “We’ll talk later, okay?”, she said before walking back into the office. Sonya frowned deeply and walked away, much to Bigby’s confusion.

She walks past Bluebeard and he gives Bigby a look as he walks to the office. “Good morning, Miss White.”

“You’re late.”, Bigby hears her say. He walks to the elevator, ready to get away. The elevator doors opened and his eyes widened at Colin, holding a six pack in his mouth. “Someone’s gonna see you, Colin.”, Bigby said. Colin smiles and winks at him before walking away. He sighed and shook his head, entering the elevator.

As he walked outside, he could hear Toad fussing at Flycatcher as Toad and T.J. climbed in the trunk. “Fly.”, Bigby calls, catching the younger one’s attention. “You forgot these.”, he says, tossing the keys to him. “Oh! Thank you. It’s, uh, been pretty busy around here.”, Flycatcher said as he caught the keys.

“Morning, Sheriff. Nice fuckin’ day.”, Toad said, angrily. “Shit.” He fussed at T.J. “Just go grab that, would you?”

“Sorry about all this. We tried to help.”, Bigby said, standing next to Sonya. “Just why the hell did she have to send me and me boy away? Huh? You two promised me I’d get another chance, but Miss White said I had to go up to the damn Farm anyway! I told her I had the money but she wouldn’t hear it!”, Toad shouts.

“That’s because she’s stuck up about it…”, Sonya mutters, crossing her arms. “Sheriff Bigby! Sonya!”, T.J. called. “I have something.”, Sonya and Bigby walk up to T.J. as he sniffles. “You know he was up cryin’ all night. Poor kid.”, Toad said, shaking his head.

“Can you give this to Miss White? Please.”, T.J. plead as he holds out a little wooden box to them. “Dad says there’s no time to say goodbye, so…if you guys could bring it to her…she was nice.”

“What is it?”, Bigby asked him, holding his hand out.

“I couldn’t take them all with me. And she said she liked that one the best.”, T.J. explained as he hands the box to Bigby. Bigby opened the box and saw a pretty blue beetle inside of it.

To: Miss White

From: TJ

“It’s a Willow Beetle. That’s a big one. They’re cool, ‘cause when they’re little they have these pouches that squirt juice at you if you touch 'em.”, T.J. informed as Bigby closed the box. “She’ll definitely love it.”, Sonya gave him a smile. “She said it was pretty.”, T.J. said.

“We’re about ready to head out.”, Flycatcher said as he walked back towards the truck. “What’s it like at the Farm? I’ve heard ogres live there. And they eat people in their sleep sometimes.”, T.J. said as Toad places a hand on his shoulder. “God, I hope not.”, Toad said. “Do we have to go?”, T.J. asked him. “I wanna stay here.”

“Well, we don’t have a choice anymore.”, Toad said. “We’re sorry, T.J.”, Bigby said. “But look on the bright side, okay? There’s plenty of space to run around, and a nice river nearby so you can swim all you want.”

“Even in daytime?”, T.J. asked, with hopeful eyes.

“Yeah.”, Bigby nodded, smiling. “You won’t have to worry about the mundies seeing you. It’ll be nice.”

T.J. sniffled some more, making Sonya rub his back. “Come on….it won’t be so bad.”, Bigby said.

“Have you been there before?”, T.J. asked, looking up at Bigby.

“No….I’m, uh—some of the animals aren’t comfortable around wolves.”, Bigby says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“So you wouldn’t know, would you?”, Toad asked, making Bigby lower his head. “Hey, if they won't let Mr. Wolf be there, I doubt they'll let any ogres touch you.", Sonya grinned at T.J. He gives her a small smile.

"And hey, I think I got something for ya.", she says, walking over to her bike and dug into a small bag. She pulled out a bag of gummy worms and handed it to him.

"Thought you might like to try them. Wasn't sure whether or not you could have candy but it's a mundy snack.", she says as he takes it with wonder.

“We’re all set.”, Flycatcher says, getting in the truck. "Bye, Mr Wolf. Bye, Miss Sonya.”, T.J. said, with glassy eyes. “Goodbye, T.J.”, Bigby says. "Seeya kiddo. I'll try to see if I can visit you!", she said, giving him a grin.

Bigby pulls out a cigarette, grumbling when he gets interrupted. “Hey, Bigby! Where’s your friend, Colin? Where’s the fuckin’ pig?”, Toad asked, angrily. “I dunno. He must’ve run off.”, Bigby shrugged as he lit his smoke.

“What a crock of shit.”, Toad said, angrily as they drove away. Sonya sighed. “I hate that he cusses like that around T.J. He’s so sweet.”, she says to Bigby and looks up as it starts to rain. “Where are you headed off to?”, he asked.

“Well, I-”, Sonya starts before she gets cut off. “Saying goodbye?”, a familiar voice asks. Sonya and Bigby look across the street to see Nerissa, in a white shirt and a jacket, and jeans, smiling while holding an umbrella. They smile at her, walking across the street.

“Hi.”, they say as Sonya gave her a hug.

“Hi.”, she says, returning it. “You’re still wearing that thing.”, Bigby said, pointing at her neck. Sonya’s eyes trail to Nerissa’s neck as she sees the purple ribbon and frowns.

“Oh….yeah.”, she said, nervously. “I guess I am…it’s not easy to forget.” They walk under a shade, shielding themselves from the rain. “I know it seems like I should be able to….it’s just….”, she sighs.

“Could I…?”, Bigby asked, reaching out to her. Sonya slaps his hand, making him retract it. “What did I tell you? You’re so impatient.”, she fussed. He grumbled, rubbing his hand.

Nerissa rubs her arm. “I’m sorry... I-I know you’re just trying to help, but this is just something I need to do on my own. Okay?” He nodded, putting his hands at his sides.

“Listen, I-I came here because….I have to tell you guys something.”, Nerissa said. “What’s wrong?”, Sonya asked.

“It’s about what happened to Faith and Lily. I’m not sure where to start….”, she said, biting her lip. “Faith, Lily and I, we had this plan. We were gonna find a way out. Leave the Pudding 'n Pie for good….but then Faith decided to get some…leverage. She stole a picture of Crane and Lily together. The minute Faith stole that photo, we had dirt on one of the Crooked Man’s allies. If he found out–!”, she took a breath.

“I-I had no choice. You two have to understand. You’ve seen how they kept us quiet at that place. Can you imagine the lengths they’d go to just silence someone who had physical evidence?”

“Nerissa, what did you do?”, Bigby asked, confused and shocked.

“I freaked out. Okay? I thought if I came clean to Georgie, he’d get the Crooked Man to leave us alone! We could just forget the whole thing….maybe try again in a few years.”, Nerissa confessed.

“You…what!?”, Sonya asked, shocked.

“So I told him everything. And I begged for mercy. For all of us! I didn’t want anyone to die over a picture!”, Nerissa says, tearfully. “So you sold them out?”, Sonya asked, crossing her arms in disappointment. “No!”, she exclaimed.

Sonya looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “Yes....”, Nerissa looks down at her feet. “Georgie promised he’d smooth things over with the Crooked Man. But then….Oh God.”

Sonya sighed, reaching to rub her back but she flinched, making Sonya’s eyes widen. She gave her a weak smile, appreciative of the attempted comfort.

“I don’t know what happened, but that night, at the club….Georgie came back and told me things had changed. He had to make an example of us…we had committed treason. And while the two of us were sitting there…as he was telling me this….Faith walked in. And I had to watch while Georgie–”, she explained, sniffling.

Bigby’s eyes widened. “Wait, so Georgie told you all this? Not the Crooked Man? Back at the Well you said….”

“I know what I said.”, Nerissa said firmly. Sonya frowns. “But it wasn’t the truth, was it?”

“What does it matter? I know the Crooked Man did it. So what if it wasn’t the whole truth? It was true enough!”, Nerissa exclaimed.

“So you think that makes it okay to lie?”, he asked, frowning at her.

“I know he ordered their deaths. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it because of a stupid technicality. Especially after-” She sighed and looked at them.

“That night, after Faith….I tried to warn Lily, but she wasn’t with her scheduled appointment. So I did the only thing I could do. I-I left Faith’s head at your doorstep.”, Nerissa confessed.

“You?”, the other two asked. “So that piece of fabric I found near there….that was you?”, Bigby asked. Nerissa nodded. “Yeah…I cut my leg trying to get over the fence.”

Sonya looked at him. “Its no wonder why she was placed there with care.” She turned to Nerissa. “So you started all of this?”

“I just…. I pointed you two in the right direction. People like us get forgotten all the time. The Crooked Man was counting on that. When we suffer, we do it in silence. And the world likes it that way. We just….fade. Like we never existed. I couldn’t watch that happen to Faith. Or Lily. Nobody cares about us. Not really.”, Nerissa says, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, Nerissa.”, Bigby said. “I’m sorry that’s what it took to get us to pay attention.”

“It’ll be different now. You guys will make things right…. The two of you and Snow.”, Nerissa said, smiling. Sonya crosses her arms. “It just feels like it won’t matter.”

“It seems like no matter what we do, it’s just not enough for her or anyone.”, Bigby says, sadly. “We just can’t win with these people.”

“I know it might feel that way, but….they need you two. All three of you. You three make a good team. The way you look out for each other….and look out for us. You don’t see that a lot these days.”, Nerissa nods..

“I don’t really know where we stand anymore. Things are just...different.”, Bigby shrugged, looking at his feet.

“Things are always different. Look, after everything you two have done for us… Maybe they don’t want to admit it, but…without you two, none of this would’ve happened. You two listened when no one else would. Both of you protected your friends….no matter the cost. And you brought justice to this town….finally. Because you two brought the Crooked Man in, everyone saw who he really was. So from where I’m standing, you guys did the right thing. You guys have been given these jobs for a reason. And I left Faith at your doorstep, because I knew, if anyone stood a chance against the Crooked Man, it was you two.”, Nerissa reassures.

“That’s all we wanted was for things to be right. To be better.”, Sonya says. “You two have changed this place. For better or worse. Fabletown wouldn’t be the same with you two.”, Nerissa says, grinning and opening her umbrella as she starts to walk away from them.

She pauses and turns to Bigby. “You’re still not as bad as everyone says you are.” Bigby’s eyes slowly widened in realization. He looked at Sonya as she looked at him and back at Nerissa in confusion.

“I need to tell you something.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“I feel like we’ve met before.”

“You’re trying to place me.”

“You like my ribbon?”

“Do you like it?”

“Faith wore one too.”

“Would hide her beauty, so she could escape his kingdom.”

"They used to call me The Little Mermaid."

“Did Dr Swineheart ever get back to you about Faith?”

“He said he wanted to run more tests.”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I’ll see you two around.

“No way…”, Sonya mutters and turns to Bigby. “Should we go after her?” He looked at “Nerissa’s” retreating back and shook his head. “I think she deserves to be free.”

She sighed and walked back to her bike with him, placing her helmet on her head before climbing on.

“So...you’re headed where now?”, Bigby asked. “You’re not leaving too...are you?” She looked at him with a small smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”, she chuckled, tugging her bag on her back. “I’m gonna visit my mom.”

His eyes filled with curiosity. “Your mom…? How come? Did something happen?” She shook her head, “I haven’t been able to keep in touch with her since we were working so I thought a little visit would ease her mind.”

He nodded in understanding. She smirked, teasingly. “What, you gonna miss me?” He rolled his eyes. “No, I was just thinking.”

She leaned on the handle bar of her bike. “About what?” He rubbed behind his neck. “Apologizing to your mother.”

Her eyes widened a bit before she snickered. “What?”, he asked, frowning. “You sound like you’re gonna get in trouble. Relax.”, she says, smiling. She sits up. “Did you wanna come with?”

He looks at her bike. “You sure I can fit on that?” She shrugs. “I’m more worried about your poor pup ears.”, she teased, making him roll his eyes again. “I think I can handle the sound of a muffler.”, he says. She scoots up. “Get on then.”

He awkwardly gets on the bike, hesitantly wrapping his arms around here as she starts up her bike. “I don’t think I have to tell you to hold on, right?”, she asks. He narrowed his eyes, making her shrug. “Okay.”

She pulls off, the loud roar of the engine making Bigby’s ears twitch and his hold gets a little tighter.

[vampyrasa]

you find to your astonishment, a page of crumpled parchment that is serrated at the edge          clearly torn from one of the many books that sat, like all else within the castle, caked with dust across the library floor. the date was of immense antiquity, but was penned in the finest calligraphy:

          january 7th, 1804, the essay of vladislav vodă           castle dracula,  transylvania-bucovina

          pained though i am to say it, i cannot, despite the unholy reach of my apathetic soul, put to test my memory of my beloved yelizaveta. too long has passed and my memory, though strengthened by the magicks of my master in hell, has become irredeemably feeble through the centuries, and leaves much to be desired when attempting to recall even the most memorable of faces. 

          the strength of my affection was weak, and so i shall admit it. that undeniably and irrefutably, my love was indistinct and lacked no singular romantic offerings toward the beauty that had become, by some twist of luck and fate, the countess and my wife.  what memories of her that remain are those that coalesce in a picture of strangely happy times, when we two would be wakeful into the early hours of the morning and speak of nothing but the history of our peoples and the old, mystical writings of my wife's most treasured studies. it was these conversations that lead to the passion of my convictions only reassuring me that i had done right by accepting my father's proposal, for i had been so originally jaded to the idea of taking a wife at all. 

          let me first explain that it was not at all the fault of her own. she came from a good family and had, though it pained me to admit it at the time, a far more gigantic mind than i had hoped to receive through my meager education. and she possessed so majestic a demeanor that to liken her to the divine would do no justice on her behalf. no, there was no fault that ever could be attributed to my darling yelizaveta,  for the responsibility and liability of my apathy rested squarely on myself. 

          if ever there existed a mortal woman in whom goodness was resolute, i was then and remain ever certain that the very concept of ascetism was born directly of her bosom. even as she began wasting away with the same sickness that had scorched the lungs of every woman settled north of our shores of the danube, ever was the countess entrenched in her empathy for the ails of our common man. to this day does it baffle me to remember her resolute demeanor as i delivered the news of maverick soldiers to the west come to snuff out the fires of our dear culture - things that had, as of late by the old king himself been deemed reactionary to his expanse in transylvania - and how she pleaded with me to leave her bedside to give reprieve from those most affected by the blaze that had been set to the west of borgo pass.  

          it was she who encouraged me to forsake our forced conversion, yelizaveta who set her frail hands upon my face and nursed my consuming desire to understand the manner of my being. she, who with so distant a lineage that had once worshipped the might of old perun, brought her lips upon my brow and whispered to me to waste no time in delving deeper into the secrets beneath our cities. i do not know if it was the same abysmal sickness that overtook me during battle or if it was a new maniacal craze of its own, but for many weeks i threw myself into a desperate pit of study, blissfully unaware of her gentle life's decline.  that i, like a fiend, sat still within the solemn gloom of my study until my crime had come to light, haunts me to this day. i was unconscious to my weakness. i was blind to the gradual but definitive nature of death that clutched her in its hold.  to this day i cannot yet remember the fabulous beauty of this venus. save for the expression in her eyes, which cannot so easily be fathomed and put down by simple pen, when she acted as my confidante.  much have i endeavored to recall to my memory the suppleness of her cheeks, the scrutiny in her eyes, or any of the passion with which she spoke of the people i'd been left to govern in that long and distant year. but the length of this eternity has not enabled me to discover any part of her entity that was not at once shrouded with the fragility of death.   like any mortal, she would have liked to die peacefully and happily, and without fail completing all of her earthly affairs before reaching the end of her path. this is an immutable truth.  were it not for the restrictions placed upon me by the holy order of my king, i know it to be true that my eyes could have beheld her beauteous reflection before her suffering was at an end.   

          it was to the end of my beloved wife that i went to war with this abominable world.  a world that, for so abysmal and dark a creature as me, has no place and has lost all meaning.  a man that through such carnal dissonance and unimaginable suffering has learned the depth of my passionate love for the gentle beauty of my wife, yelizaveta.  and if there be no mercy left for me for god in heaven, it is only this i feel safe enough to pray that it be gifted in my stead.  let there be mercy for she.

[everettlance]

A LIVING DEATH // SELF-PARA

The flashbacks don’t take long to start. For a person who’s been transplanted into a new body, it becomes increasingly difficult to tell what’s real and what isn’t. He isn’t real because he can’t be real. The laws of possibility state strictly that the dead remain dead, and yet, here he is. The dead, walking through an empty home.

His new house is for him and him only. His parents and several siblings meet him at the train station when he gets home but he refuses to speak to any of them.

He can’t listen to what they have to say. He doesn’t want to hear it, whatever empty words they might have for him, or worse, if they have love.

No one is allowed in. Maverick is not allowed in, not even allowed to talk to him. He walks past Agatha’s empty house, the lights darkened. He often finds himself in Orpheus’s bed, discovering his new body, discovering that the only thing approaching pleasure is in the carnal. Nights slip by. His old weed dealer is happy to see him.

The first flashback is in his cavernous bedroom, which he learns is cold in the winters. It feels like the bitter mountaintop, and suddenly the covers are not simply cotton, but rather, a blanket of snow, and before him is Seraphina: Take care of yourself Everett, and I’ll catch you in the next lifetime, okay?

How? His voice is an echo and is begging. It is raw, he is raw. He’s not sure if he’s speaking aloud or not, but no one is here to confirm. How do I take care of myself, Sera, how?

She is trapped and so is he. She beneath the boulder, he beneath the memory of it. He knows he isn’t here but he doesn’t know how to get out; his heart pounds his ribcage as if begging to escape it.

Sera doesn’t tell him how to take care of himself. She doesn’t tell him how to run away. She doesn’t say anything but tells him, over and over: Even Crash Justice can’t muscle his way through this one.

And what if he can’t?

Hours spent paralyzed beneath the memories. It’s Seraphina, then it’s Marino, falling from the ferris wheel. It’s Margot, torn to shreds by the wolves. It’s Burly, slicing at his face — the scar recreates itself every time he looks at himself in the mirror, not a memory but a present happening. It’s Memphis’s silent begging. It’s Agatha:

You better fucking win.

I did it, he says, on his knees like he’s praying in his room, the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, I did it. Now what?

No one will tell him. None of the ghosts know the answer because none of them lived.

Sloane and Tommy visit him together and he kills them both again. And again. And again. It becomes more difficult to discern reality from unreality. He tries to write things down: I am here, I am real, I am Everett Lance and I won the Hunger Games.

But it isn’t true.

He is Everett Lance and he lost the Hunger Games.

Both things cannot be true.

They are.

On the outside of the house is latticework up which vines crawl. It’s easy to grip, easier to fall from, and the first time he tries it, escaping the memory of Memphis, who lays dying on the beach in his bedroom, he nearly falls. He catches himself on a pipe, but in the moment where freefall felt certain, Memphis disappears. The sand is gone. Only he is here. Moments later, he’s on the roof.

He knows that he is losing it. The roof doesn’t care. He lays flat and looks at the stars. He looks at the tattoo on his arm and traces the waves with his fingers. This is how he knows he is a person, even if he doesn’t know who that person is.

Maverick leaves for Seven. It’s better this way.

There’s a thunderstorm one afternoon. The lightning sends him in two directions at once: he is in the forest, holding Delta’s body as she dies, and he is in the middle of a town, watching the sky spin.

Whose memories entrap him?

He climbs onto the roof, away from the bodies that pile in his room. The lattice is slippery and he nearly falls twice, three times. The roof is slippery. No one comes to stop him. He doesn’t die. He’s lucky.

The stylist comes and asks if he’s more loyal to the red or blue team, and which he’d like to wear on his Victory Tour.

He tells her to put him in black.

He goes for long runs. He drinks himself to sleep. He lets himself cry. Nothing helps. Only the roof, slippery, steep, his weight and himself clinging to the shingles, can quiet the other tributes and drown out the Arenas.

He goes hiking, blazing his own trail. He finds steep cliffs and sits on the edges. He wonders about falling. He doesn’t. He goes to the shooting range, hits the first target and drops the gun.

Never again.

Life moves both forwards and backwards at a dizzying pace. He ignores texts, calls. The Peacekeeping Academy wants to make a hero of him but he’s read what they said when he died. They dismissed him, said he was a traitor for volunteering.

He is a traitor but he’s not sure to whom.

Spring begins, though he will never again trust the seasons.

The day he leaves for the Victory Tour, District Two is shrouded in cold weather, common for this time of year, but when he arrives in District Twelve, warmth is beginning in the upper reaches of Panem.

It’s an honor to be here today…

In Twelve, no one stands on the podium before Margot’s photo. He doesn’t know who or what to look at and the ringing in his ears is his own panic. He speaks quickly. He doesn’t succumb to the memory of Margot’s death, though he can feel the dirt in his hands as he digs.

I’m so privileged to have been chosen out of so many tributes to come back for the Quell…

In Eleven, the weather is even warmer. Trees blossom but there are no green leaves or pink flowers in the square where the stage is set up. Apple’s face looks at him from the projection, but as in Twelve, no one stands before it. It was only her, the only tribute from her District chosen to return. He had told her he hadn’t wanted to kill. It feels like a lie now.

My love for Panem kept me going through the Arena…

In Eight, there are more faces: Marino, Nikita, Franklin, Jeannie. The four of them stare at him and he tries to avoid eye contact. For a moment he can’t tell if they’re real or not. Or if they were ever real. The cards: he reads from the speech he’s been given. Nikita and Franklin have no family present, but Hunter Twill stands in front of Jeannie’s picture in sunglasses, shooting him a thumbs up. In the recap, he saw Jeannie explode, but couldn’t see her face. He wishes he could have seen it. Could have buried her like he’d buried Delta and Margot. It was a dignity that she deserved but would never get. And Nikita, stronger than him, smarter than him — should she be here right now instead of him? Should they all? 39 Victors rather than him, it feels like more than a fair trade. And Marino’s family, he knows they’re looking at him. He knows that Margot is not the only guilty one. He’s the only one remaining to bear the burden. It’s too heavy. In Eight, he stumbles, stutters, the world tilts and he sees stars — the speech is cut short, he is brought off the stage, excuses are made for him that he doesn’t deserve. His new body is checked over, questioned: are you alright? Do you feel alright? They think it’s because he’s a clone, and he doesn’t know how to say it’s because of everything else they’ve done to him.

Even though it was difficult, the trials that the Gamemakers set us were always fair…

In Seven, Alder and Maverick are there. Maverick tries to talk to him but he doesn’t want to speak. He has been given no cards to tell him how to face his old best friend. Alder leaves him be which feels like more mercy than he deserves. Burly’s family stands tall and proud; they glare at him. He can’t look, he can’t look. He leaves Seven as quickly as he can.

Panem has always been strong through trying times, whether or not the trials we face are fair...

In Six, he walks onto the stage and is immediately in the woods of the Arena. Sloane is on the ground to his left, Tommy to his right. There is blood all over his hands, all over his notecards. Amphora’s family, her smiling face, she looks so happy. How could she be happy here in the Arena? Tommy’s family stands in front of his picture; a wolf, decaying like him, prowls in front of them. Hadn’t he mentioned a mother? He feels sick. He forces himself to look because he doesn’t want to be a coward. He adds one thing into his speech:

I’m sorry.

On the way to Four, he makes a request. As the train rumbles towards the ocean, preparations are made. One wish can be granted, surely, for the Victor of the Quarter Quell, the boy on whom the Capitol is leaning to bring peace. When he gets onstage, Delta’s face is one of four. The Dunes are there, he recognizes them by the family resemblance, and thinks of Mako in the Capitol, happy. The Blues pull his attention, though, and he sees immediately that she gets her red hair from her family. They do not look at him unkindly, and after the speech, for the first time, he lingers. He tells them he thought it would be nice; to remember her. That he wishes she would have been brought back. That she deserved the Victory. She deserves to be remembered. Above him, lightning flashes but he digs fingernails into palms and forces himself to remain here, in the present; it’s what they deserve.

The Blues invite him into their house. It is small and comfortable. They offer to show him her room but he doesn’t want to see, not yet. He says this: Not yet. Maybe I’ll come back. They thank him for protecting her and sticking by her side. In their home for the first time in months he feels like he’s real. He apologizes for not being able to save her and cries.

We are better as a united nation than we are as individual parts, and I was better in the Arena with my allies than I was alone.

In Three, he finds Seraphina’s parents. She’d asked him to tell them she loved him and he won’t break a promise, even if his hands are shaking. Even if his lunch threatens to make a reappearance as he faces, directly, the parents of the girl he killed. The McCabes are kind, though, understanding; they just want to know what he and their daughter spoke about and did. They haven’t seen her in ten years, never expected to get her back. He tells them about swimming in the pool, eating the last cookie and facing her wrath. It feels nice to have a good story to tell.

The relationship between the Districts and the Capitol is one of peace, mutual protection, and balance.

In One, many faces, many families, look back at him from the crowd. He is tired, his body is exhausted and the travel has worn him out. Throughout the trip he has been tested, they’ve taken blood draws and measured his heart rate, had him undergo various physical examinations to be sure that all is well. They want to make sure, they say, that the stress doesn’t wear him out in this new body. He thinks it’s funny and laughs, but they don’t seem to get what’s so humorous about it. Diana’s face; she had offered him mercy, hadn’t hurt him though she could have. In front of Mandi’s face is a crowded podium; she was right about having a big family. There are so many people who love her; his knees threaten to buckle under the weight of all that grief, but he holds it together on the stage. He’s getting good at pretending.

It’s one I am proud to be a part of as your new reigning Victor of the Quarter Quell.

He returns home last, and even though many of the Districts saw warmer temperatures, it’s snowing when he walks onto the stage to give his speech one last time, this time to his home. Before him are the faces of Lionel, Agatha, and Isabela. Only Isa has people standing before hers, her family. The snow falling — he wonders if the Arena is broken, because it’s supposed to be springtime now — doesn’t deter the crowds. The District is proud of their Victor, proud to have brought it home for the Quell and the second time in a year. Cain is there, Orpheus is there, Trixie’s there, he’s the only one who feels like he’s missing. Where is he? Where is this person they’re celebrating?

The speech is not his. It’s bad, cliche, and it feels sour in his mouth. In the other Districts, they hated it; a few people even booed, though they were swiftly punished for it. In Two, though, he sees people nodding. He sees hands over hearts. He feels sick. Sick in this place that made him. Sick with the altitude of the heights they’ve lifted him to.

Afterwards he is only allowed one night at home before he has to go to the Capitol for the ball. In the empty house, they are all speaking. Carlos, Travela, Memphis, Marino, Burly, Sloane, Seraphina, and Tommy. Their fingers press against the wallpaper, they want to get out, but they can’t any more than he can. Agatha is stuck telling him, over and over, to win. He’d better fucking win.

Why? he asks, but she never has a good answer for him.

He climbs up onto the roof. He looks at the stars and tries to place himself in the universe.

[kyber-kisses]

I Know

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: character death, angst, cursing, mild descriptions of wounds and torture.

Summary: almost a year after the readers death, Dean finds himself at the mercy of a witch who knows one of his only weaknesses. You.

A/n: because I’m slowly dying of boredom I decided to do Bad Things Happen bingo. Please send in your preference for the next square! 

Fucking Witches. Dean Winchester was officially done with their shenanigans and messed up thought processes. It was like they had a flare for the dramatic. If they were so into killing folks. Why couldn’t they just do it quickly?

Finding himself bound tightly to the old chair in the rundown house the witch had been residing in, Dean for once wished he had dragged Sam along with him on this case. If Sam was here there was no way the witch would still be alive.

Instead here he was. Tied in place and basically steeping in thick silence. How this bitch has got the drop on him was still beyond him. The last thing he remembered before waking up here was driving to one of the witnesses house. He didn’t remember getting out of the car or being tied up. It was almost as if it had all happened in the blink of an eye.

He had already tried struggling and pulling at his restraints but to no avail. The ropes were probably laced with spell work along with the chair, seeing as he couldn’t even shift the price of furniture across the floor. Either that or it was bolted to the floor.

“Son of a bitch-“ he hissed, slightly out of breath from pulling on the ropes. His head whipping around in hopes of finding something to help him get out, but the room was empty of everything except himself.

“Well look who decided to wake up.” It was like she was waiting for the perfect moment, because not a second later the young witch stepped out from beyond the shadows, her black hair hanging in ringlets as her lips twisted into a bright red smile.

Going through his choices quickly, Dean chose to go with the playing dumb act, pretending he had no idea what was going on. Maybe, just maybe he could somehow gain the upper hand.

“I feel like there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t have a clue as to what is going on.”

“Oh but I think you do. You're a hunter.”

“A what? I don’t know what that is. I was just in town to meet up with some old friends.”

The witch smiled again, stalking closer to the bound Winchester, a small hexbag gripped in her freshly polished nails, the polish reflecting the orange candle light slightly. “Oh don’t play dumb with me. You're not just a hunter. You're Dean Winchester.”

Oh for fucks sake. Of course this witch knew who he was. Could he ever catch a break?

“Oh well, ya caught me.” He gave in, flashing her a grin. “Now you want an autograph or something?” Time to think of another plan. If he had enough time to that is.

“Oh no, I thought we’d have some fun first.” Her white smile becoming more menacing as she stopped in front of him, tilting his chin upward and fully catching his gaze.

“No offense Sweetheart, but I ain’t interested.”

“Oh I know. You only ever had eyes for miss Y/N Y/L/N, isn’t that right?” She cooed, her smile widening when his face hardened, his mouth snapping shut, eyes blazing. “Oh struck a nerve did I?”

“How do you-“

“How do I know about her? Oh well that’s easy. I’ve been watching you Winchesters for quite sometime.” She explained, moving to tuck the hexbag into one of the inner pockets of his canvas jacket. “Dean and Y/N. Friends to. . .- well not quite lovers. You were too late for that, weren’t you?”

Everything in him wanted to lash out at her, make her regret ever saying your name, but once more the ropes restricted him from doing so. His struggle barely doing anything to loosen the binds. “So help me if you don’t shut up I’m gonna rip your tongue out.” He growled, feeling the pure white hot rage crawl up his spine.

“Must have been painful losing her, especially when you loved her so much. Only- you never did tell her that did you?”

“I said shut the hell up!”

She was toying with him. Pulling at all the loose strands of his soul. If people really knew Dean Winchester they would know that the key to fully unraveling him was to bring you up. You death had crushed him in more ways than one and now this bitch was using it against him.

“Like I said before, Dean. Let’s have some fun.” She smiled, tapping him on the nose before muttering an incantation under her breath, backing away slowly.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

The hunter was met with silence as she gave him a wink, disappearing around the corner. “Just having some fun and games. Good luck, pretty boy!”

And just like before he went back to struggling against the bindings, the thick rope burning his wrists as he twisted and pulled. He had to get the hex bag off him before it- before it-

It was like a switch had been pulled because not a second later he felt his eyes get heavy and his shoulders slumped, pulling him head first into unconsciousness. When he opened them again he found himself no longer in the rundown house but on a darkened hillside,the moon being the only source of light across the black landscape.

It took him a minute before he finally realized where he was. His eyes falling shut in hopes of finding himself anywhere but there. This was where he had found you, your blood caked body sitting limp and cold against the lone tree not too far off.

This was the night he lost you.

It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped down the back of his shirt as memories came knocking into him like bricks. It was just some fight. You had yelled yourself hoarse after Dean and Sam had returned from a hunt they decided not to tell you about. You had been furious and scared when you didn’t know where they were. And Dean ended up yelling right back, saying things that to this day haunt him. He was trying to keep you safe- and yet everything back fired right in his face. You had stormed off in a rage only for some vamps to find you and—

He clenched his jaw, battling down the memory. He had to figure out how to get out of this magically induced nightmare. He couldn’t live through this again. The first time nearly killed him.

“Dean.”

At the sudden voice he felt his body seize up. No. No this wasn’t real. It wasn’t you.

“Dean.” This time there was more force in your tone, and Dean let himself turn, his breath leaving his lungs as the sight of you.

When he woke up he was gonna gut that witch six ways from Sunday. That bitch was taking evil to a whole new level.

Sure enough, there you stood. Your hair framing your hollowed face as you bore into him, your throat covered in gashes and cuts littered your arms and legs. You looked exactly the same as when he had found you.

“Y/N-“ struggling to speak, he inhaled.

“Words, Dean. Use them.”

“How is this-“

“Witches Dean. C’mon use your damn brain for once. “ your tone becoming menacing as you stepped closer, your bare feet moving heel to toe as you moved through the grass. “But it’s me.”

“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” He sighed, jade eyes glazing over with unshed tears as he watched you. He had so many things he needed to say and yet? They were caught in his throat, a part of him still telling him you were just a hallucination conjured up by the witch.

“Slightly, yes.”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I never should have yell—“

“Don’t.” You raises a hand, silencing the hunter in front of you. “You don’t get to be sorry. I’m dead, Dean.”

“I know. And I never should have let you walk out of the bunker after that fight.”

“That was the whole reason for the fight in the first place!” You yelled, eyes widening. “Because you wouldn’t let me go on the damn hunt! You put me on lock down without telling me! Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and find the people you love the most gone without a word? And then you said you were keeping me safe!” You paused, sucking in a breath. “ Im a hunter, Dean! Or was. Either way you stopped me from helping and doing my job!”

“I know that now, and I am sorry.” His voice breaking as he looked at you. You didn’t deserve this. You deserved so much better. “I loved you too much to risk putting you in danger.”

Your jaw clenched, eyes on the verge of creating tears. “Then why didn’t you tell me that when I was alive?”

“Because I didn’t know how. And you can hate me all you want but I need you to know that I am sorry.”

He could practically see the anger draining from your face- only for it to be replaced with heartbreak and tear stained cheeks. “I bet you are. And do you want to know what the worst part of it all was? I died alone and I died scared.” You own voice wavering as you looked at the older Winchester, successfully shattering his heart all over again. “I died thinking you hated me.”

That. That was what he had always feared. Ever since he found you he had wondered what you had been thinking. With those six little words you broke the remaining pieces that had somehow managed to stay together inside him. He could never make this right. It was too late.

“I think we’re done here. You better wake up.” You have him one last glare before turning on your bare heel, walking off into the dark, the moon casting stark shadows across your frame.

“Y/N, wait!”

With one more blink he found himself back in the falling apart house. He expected to be looking up into the eyes of the witch but instead he was met with the worried cobalt blue eyes of a certain trench coated angel.

“Cas?” The words coming out confused as he felt the hallucination induced tears slide off his face. “What the hell happened?”

The angel tilted his head as he began working on bindings around the hunters wrists. “You prayed earlier. I came.”

“What about the witch?”

“Dead. When I killed her it broke you out of your trance.”

Slowly rising from the chair, Dean rubbed at his tender wrists. “Shame.”

“That I saved you?”

“No, thank you for that by the way. Shame that she’s dead. Would’ve liked to end her myself after what she did to me.”

Heading towards the door, Cas was hot on his heels, curiosity easily getting the best of the celestial. “What did she do?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done with.” Digging through his coat pockets, Dean produced the keys to the impala, his new mission already set in stone inside his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I have yet to visit in a while.”

“Would you like me to come with?” Cas spoke, knowing exactly where Dean was headed without him having to say so. Whatever the witch had made him see it was the final push Dean needed.

“Nah. It’s alright.I need to do this alone.” Throwing open the driver side door, Dean paused to flip the keys in his hand. “But thanks man. You know for coming and pulling my ass out of the fire. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

*. *. *. *. * .

Even if the numbers on the dashboard read 1:30AM, Dean still found himself putting the impala in park at the edge of the cemetery on the outskirts of Lebanon. Moonlight curved around headstones and the grass was still damp from the earlier rain. Lampposts still lit up the space partially with orange light as the hunter weaves through the headstone, stopping in his tracks once he found yours.

He and Sam had given you a hunters funeral but he still insisted on getting you a headstone. It gave him a place to visit- even if he had yet to until this moment.

“I know it wasn’t really you in the hallucination.” He breathed, hands stuck deep into his pockets as he stared down your name carved into the piece of granite. “But it didn’t hurt any less. That- that illusion of you said some things that in truth made some sense to me. Things I have been telling myself ever since I lost you.”

A soft warm breeze ran through the cemetery, ever so slightly tickling his skin. It was easier to find words here. It was quiet. It allowed him no worries over who else might be listening. You used to say that the dead speak to those who listen. He was listening as best he could.

“If you really died hating me I am so sorry. I should never have held you back. If I hadn’t we never would have gotten into that fight and you never would have stormed out. In the end it was still my fault.” He paused.”I could never hate you.” He could feel the hot tears gathering in his eyes again as he inhaled, bringing his gaze skyward in hopes of keeping the tears in. “I think I was just scared. When I realized I loved you - that I was in love with you. I just wanted to tuck you away and keep you safe from the world. But that’s not how those things work. It took me too long to realize that and I’m so sorry.”

His eyes went back to the granite headstone, the moonlight catching the polished rock just right so that your name shone. 

Please be listening.

“I should have told you. I should have told you and not tried to bury it.” His voice cracked. “I love you Y/N. Always have and always will.” 

And with that he kissed his index and middle finger, pressing it lightly against the cool granite that was the last piece of you on this earthly plane. It would be the closest he ever came to kissing you.

As he turned to walk back through the cemetery another warm gust of wind went past him, ruffling his hair and he swore- even if it sounded insane out loud that he heard your voice interwoven through the breeze.

“I know.”

End.

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[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Wed., Apr., 14, 2021

5th week of great Lent

The Life of the Monastic Mary of Egypt (552)

 April 1/april14 and on the 5th Sunday of the Great Lent

     The Life of the Monastic Mary of Egypt: At a certain Palestinian monastery on the outskirts of Caesarea there lived a saintly monk, Zosima. Having dwelt at the monastery since his childhood, he asceticised at it until he reached age 53, when he was disturbed by the thought: "Is there to be found in all the furthermost wilderness – some holy person surpassing me in spiritual sobriety and deeds?"      Just hardly had he thought this, when an Angel of the Lord appeared to him and said: "Thou, Zosima, by human standards hath asceticised not badly, but of mankind there is no one righteous (Rom. 3: 10). So that thou canst realise, how many there are of others and of higher forms of salvation, come out from this monastery, like Abraham from the house of his father (Gen. 12: 1), and go to the monastery situated by the Jordan".      Abba Zosima immediately left the monastery and following behind the Angel he went to the Jordan monastery and settled in it.      Here he beheld elders, truly radiant in their efforts. And Abba Zosima began to imitate the holy monks in spiritual activity.

     Thus passed much time, and the holy Forty-Day Lent approached. At the monastery there existed a custom, on account of which also God had led the Monk Zosima thither. On the First Sunday (i.e. Forgiveness Sunday) starting the Great Lent the hegumen served the Divine-liturgy, all communed the All-Pure Body and Blood of Christ, and they partook afterwards of a small repast and then gathered again in church.      Having made prayer and a due number of poklon-prostrations, the elders, having asked forgiveness one of another, took blessing from the hegumen and during the common singing of the Psalm "The Lord is my Light and my Saviour: whom shalt I fear? The Lord is Defender of my life: from what shalt I be afraid?" (Ps. 26 [27]: 1), they opened the monastery gate and went off into the wilderness.      Each of them took with him a modest amount of food, such as needed it, while some however took nothing into the wilderness and fed on roots. The monks went about beyond the Jordan and spread out as far as possible, so that no one might see, how anyone fasted or asceticised.      When Great Lent drew to a close, the monks returned to the monastery on Palm Sunday with the fruit of their labour (Rom. 6: 21-22), having tested out their own conscience (1 Pet. 3: 16). And as regards this, no one asked anything, how anyone had toiled or made their effort.      And this year Abba Zosima also, in the monastery custom, went about beyond Jordan. He wanted to go deep into the wilderness, so as to find there any saints and great elders, both saving themselves there and praying for the world.      He went on into the wilderness for 20 days and then, when he sang the Psalms of the 6th Hour and made the usual prayers, suddenly on the right side from him there appeared as it were the shadow of an human form. He took fright, thinking that it might be a demonic apparition, but then having made over himself the Sign of the Cross, he put aside the fear and finishing his prayer, he turned towards the side of the shadow and saw going through the wilderness a bare human form, the body of which was black from the blazing sunlight, and the faded short hair was whitened, like a sheep's fleece. Abba Zosima rejoiced, since for all these days he had not seen any living thing, and immediately he turned towards his right side.      But just only as the naked wilderness-dweller perceived Zosima approaching, it immediately attempted to flee from him. Abba Zosima, forgetting his aches of age and fatigue, quickened his pace. But soon seeing the impossibility of gaining the upper hand he halted and began tearfully to implore the departing ascetic: "Why dost thou, saving thyself in this wilderness, flee from me, a sinful elder? Approach me, though I be incapable and unworthy, and grant me thine holy prayer and blessing, for the sake of the Lord, Who disdained no one ever".      The stranger, without turning, cried out to him: "Excuse me, Abba Zosima, but I cannot turn about and show my face to thee: for I am a woman, and as thou wouldst see, there is upon me  no sort of garb for the covering of bodily bareness. But if thou wouldst to pray for me, a great and woesome sinner, throw thine own cloak to cover me, and then I can approach thee for blessing".      "She would not know me by name, save that through holiness and unknown deeds she hath acquired the gift of perspicacity from the Lord", – perceived Abba Zosima, and he proceeded to fulfill that asked of him.      Covered by the cloak, the ascetic turned to Zosima: "Why thinkest thou, Abba Zosima, to speak with me, a woman sinful and unwise? What is it that thou dost wish to learn from me, and in sparing no strength thou didst exert such efforts?"      He however, having bent down upon his knees, asked blessing of her. At this point she likewise bent down before him, and for a long time they both each implored the other: "Bless". Finally the woman ascetic said: "Abba Zosima, it becometh thee to bless and to make the prayer, since thou art honoured with the dignity of presbyter and for many years, standing before the altar of Christ, thou hast offered up to the Lord the Holy Gifts".      These words frightened the Monk Zosima all the more. With a deep gasp he answered her: "O spiritual mother! Clearly of us two thou art the far closer to God and mortified for this world. Thou hast known me by name and called me priest, never before having seen me. It becometh thee therefore to bless me, for the sake of the Lord".      Yielding finally to the obstinance of Zosima, the Nun said: "Blessed is God, Who willeth the salvation of all mankind". Abba Zosima answered: "Amen", and they rose up from the ground. The woman ascetic again said to the elder: "Why hast thou come, father, to me a sinner, bereft of every virtue? Apparently, moreover, the grace of the Holy Spirit hath guided thee to do me one service, needful for my soul. But tell me first, Abba, how now live the Christians, how now thrive and prosper the Saints of God's Church?"      Abba Zosima answered her: "By your holy prayers God hath granted the Church and us all an effective peace. But thou who hast hearkened to the entreaty of an unworthy elder, my mother, to have prayed on account of God for all the world and for me a sinner, – let not this wilderness meeting be for me to no avail".      The holy ascetic answered: "It more becometh thee, Abba Zosima, having priestly rank, to pray for me and for all. For this also was the dignity bestown thee. Moreover, all thine request bid of me gladly wilt be fulfilled on account of obedience to Truth and from purity of heart".      Having spoken thus, the saint turned herself towards the East, and having lifted up her eyes and raising up her hands to Heaven, she began to prayer in a whisper. The elder beheld, how she stood in the air a cubit off the ground. Seeing this wondrous vision, Zosima threw himself down prostrate, praying fervently and not daring to say anything except "Lord, have mercy!"      The thought entered his soul – a premonition whether this might lead him into temptation? The woman ascetic, having turned round, lifted him from the ground and said: "Why do ponderings so trouble thee, Abba Zosima? I am no apparition. I – am a woman sinful and unworthy, though also guarded by holy Baptism".      Having said this, she signed herself with the Sign of the Cross. Seeing and hearing this, the elder fell with tears at the feet of the woman ascetic: "I beseech thee by Christ our God, conceal not from me thine ascetic life, but bespeak it all, so that it be made clear for God's majesty. Wherefore I do believe by the Lord my God, by Whom thou also dost live, that for this I was sent into the wilderness, so that all thine ascetic deeds be made manifest for the world".      And the holy ascetic answered: "It distresses me, father, to relate to thee the shamelessness of my deeds. Whereof thou mightest then flee from me, averting the eyes and ears, as do they that flee the poisonous viper. But I shall tell thee everything, father, being silent about nothing of my sins, thou however I exhort thee, cease not to pray for me a sinner, that I be vested in boldness for the Day of Judgement.      I was born in Egypt and my parents being yet alive, and I being a twelve year old girl, I left them and went to Alexandria. There I lost my chastity and gave myself over to unrestrained and insatiable fornication. For more than seventeen years I indulged licentiously and I did it all gratis. That I did not take money was not because I was rich. I lived in poverty and worked at a spinning-wheel. I thought, that all the meaning of life consisted in satisfying fleshly lust.      Living such a life, I one time saw a crowd of people, from Libya and Egypt heading towards the sea, so as to sail to Jerusalem for the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. I too wanted to sail with them. But not because of Jerusalem and not because of the feast, but – simply, father, – because there would be more people with whom to indulge in depravity. And so I embarked on the ship.      Now, father, believe me, I am very amazed, that the sea tolerated my wantonness and fornication, that the earth did not open up its mouth and take me down alive into hell, so enticed and lost a soul... But evidently, God desired my repentance, not the death of the sinner, with long-suffering patience awaiting my conversion.      Thus I arrived in Jerusalem and all the days prior to the feast were just like on the ship, spent in obscene matters.      When the holy feast of the Exaltation of the Venerable Cross of the Lord arrived, I went about as before, for tempting the souls of youths to sin. Having seen, that everyone very early was heading to the church, in which was situated the Life-Creating Wood, I went along with everyone and went into the church portico area. When the hour of the Holy Elevation drew nigh, I wanted to enter into the church with all the people. With great effort shoving myself towards the doors, I the wretch that I was, attempted to squeeze inside. But although I stepped up to the threshold, it was as though some force of God held me back, not allowing me to enter, and it threw me far off from the doors, whilst amidst this all the people went in without hindrance. I thought that, perhaps, it was through womanly weakness that I was not able to work my way into the crowd, and again I attempted to elbow aside people and shove myself to the doors. However hard I tried – I could not enter in. Just only as my feet but touched the church threshold, I was stopped. The church admitted everyone else, no one else was prevented entering, while only I the wretch was not allowed in. Thus it went for three or four times. My strength was exhausted. I went off and stood in a corner of the church portico.      Here I came to sense, that it was my sins that prevented me to see the Life-Creating Wood, the grace of the Lord then touched my heart, I wept bitterly and in repentance I began to beat at myself upon the bosom. Lifting up to the Lord groans from the depths of my heart, I caught sight before me of an icon of the MostHoly Mother of God and I turned to it with the prayer: "O Lady Virgin, having given birth in the flesh to God the Word! I know, that I am unworthy to look upon Thine icon. It would be mete for me, an hateful prodigal, to be cast off from Thine purity and be for Thee an abomination, but I know also this, it was for this also that God became Man, in order to call sinners to repentance. Help me, O All-Pure One, that it be permitted me to enter into the church. Forbid me not to behold the Wood, upon which in the flesh the Lord wast crucified, shedding His innocent Blood also for me a sinner, to deliver me from sin. Do Thou command, O Lady, that the doors of the Holy Veneration of the Cross be opened to me. Be Thou for me the ardent Guide to He born of Thee. I promise Thee from this moment no more yet to defile myself with any sort of fleshly defilement, but just as soon as I but see the Wood of the Cross of Thy Son, I shalt immediately cut myself off from the world, and go whither Thou as Guide shalt guide me".      And when I had prayed thus, I sensed suddenly, that my prayer had been heard. In humbleness of faith, trusting upon the Compassionate Mother of God, I again joined in with those entering into the church, and no one thrust me back or prevented me from entering. I went on in fear and trembling, lest I not reach it to the doors nor be vouchsafed to behold the Life-Creating Cross of the Lord.      Thus I too perceived the mysteries of God, that God is prepared to accept the repentant. I feel to the earth, I prayed, I kissed the holy-things and emerged from the church, and I hastened again to stand before my Guide, where I had given my vow. Bending on my knees before the icon, I prayed thus before it:      "O our Beloved Lady Mother of God! Thou hast not rejected my prayer as unworthy. Glory be to God, accepting through Thee the repentance of sinners. It has become time for me to fulfill the promise, in which Thou wert the Guide. Wherefore now, O Lady, guide me on the pathway of repentance".      And herewith, not even having ended my prayer, I heard a voice, as though speaking from afar: "If thou pass over beyond Jordan, there wilt thou find the blessed respite".      I immediately believed, that this voice was on my account, and with weeping I cried out to the Mother of God: "Mistress Lady, forsake me not, defiled sinner that I be, but help me", – and immediately I went from the church portico and proceeded along. A certain man gave me three coins of money. With them I bought myself three loaves of bread and from the merchant I learned the way to the Jordan.      In setting off I went into the church of Saint John the Baptist near the Jordan. Having made poklon-prostration before everything in the church, I immediately went down to the Jordan and washed my face and hands with its water. Then in this same temple of Saint John the Forerunner I communed the Life-Creating Mysteries of Christ, I ate half of one of my loaves of bread, drank from the holy Jordan its water and slept there the night on the ground at the church. In the morning I found not far off a small craft, and I journeyed on it across the river to the opposite shore, and again I prayed my Guide, that She would guide me as it might please Her. And forthwith I came into this wilderness".      Abba Zosima asked the Nun: "How many years is it, my mother, since he time when thou settled into this wilderness?" – "I think, – answered she, – 47 years have elapsed, since I came from the Holy City".      Abba Zosima again asked: "What hast thou or what is it thou findest here as food, my mother?" And she answered: "I had with me two and an half loaves of bread when I traversed the Jordan, gradually they dried out and hardened, and eating little by little, for many years I ate from them".      Again Abba Zosima asked: "Is it possible thou hast survived for so many years without sickness? And received thou no sort of temptations from unexpected suggestions and enticements?" – "Believe me, Abba Zosima, – answered the Nun, – I spent 17 years in this wilderness, literally like with wild beasts I struggled with my thoughts... When I began to eat bread, immediately the thought occurred about the meat and fish, towards which I was so attracted to in Egypt. I desired also the wine, since I drank much of it when I was in the world. Here indeed, not having often plain water and food, I fiercely suffered from thirst and hunger. I endured even more powerful woes: the desire seized upon me for lewd songs, I seemed to hear them, disturbing my heart and my hearing. Weeping and striking myself on the breast, I remembered then the promises I had given, going into the wilderness, given in front of the icon of the MostHoly Mother of God, my Guide, and I cried, imploring that the thoughts tearing at my soul be driven away. When repentance was perfected in the measure of prayer and weeping, I beheld from me a radiant Light, and then in place of my tempest a great quiet ensued.      The prodigal thoughts, pardon, Abba, how shall I confess to thee? The fire of passion burned within my heart and burned all over me, exciting lust. At the appearance of the accursed thoughts I threw myself down on the ground and literally I saw, that before me would stand the MostHoly Guide Herself and She would judge me, for transgressing my given vows. Thus I did not get up, laying face downwards day and night upon the ground, until repentance was made and that blessed Light encircled me, dispelling the evil disturbances and thoughts.      Thus I lived in this wilderness for the first seventeen years. Darkness after darkness, misery after misery stood about me, a sinner. But from that time until now the Mother of God, my Helper, guides me in everything".      Abba Zosima again inquired: "How is it for thee that there is needed neither food, nor apparel?"      She answered: "My bread ended, as I said, in those seventeen years. After that I began to eat roots and that which one is able to find in the wilderness. The clothing, which was upon me when I crossed over the Jordan, long ago shredded and fell apart, and I had then much to endure and to suffer both from the Summer heat, when the blazing heat fell upon me, and from the Winter, when I shivered from the cold. How many a time I fell down upon the earth, as though dead. How many a time in immeasurable struggle I dwelt with various misfortunes, woes and temptations. But from that time until the present day the power of God in unknown and manifold ways has watched over my sinful soul and humble body. I was fed and covered by the utterance of God, comprising all (Deut. 8: 3), since it is not by bread alone that man doth live, but by every utterance of God (Mt. 4: 4, Lk. 4: 4), and not having the protection of rocks to clothe themself in (Job 24: 8), if they do put off from themselves the garb of sin (Col. 3: 9). When I remembered, from what evil and from what sins the Lord delivered me, I found within this to be food inexhaustible".      When Abba Zosima heard, that the holy ascetic spoke from memory from the Holy Scripture – from the Books of Moses and Job and from the Psalms of David, – he then asked the Nun: "Where, my mother, hast thou learned the Psalms and other Books?"      She smiled at hearing this question, and answered thusly: "Believe me, O man of God, I have seen no one human, besides thee, from the time when I crossed over the Jordan. I was never earlier schooled in books, nor hearkened to church singing, nor Divine studies. Perhaps it is that the Word of God Himself, the Living and All-Creating, doth teach man everything intelligible (Col. 3: 16; 2 Pet. 1: 21; 1 Thes. 2: 13). However, enough still, I have confessed to thee all my life, but the point with which I began I also end on: I charge thee  by the Incarnation of God the Word – holy Abba, pray for me, a great sinner.      And I charge thee furthermore by the Saviour, our Lord Jesus Christ – that everything, which thou hast heard from me, be not told to anyone until such time, when God shalt take me from the earth. And do thou fulfill this also, which I herewith tell thee. A year's time in future, during the Great Lent, come not across the Jordan, as bids your monastery's custom".      Again Abba Zosima was amazed, that the practice of his monastery was known to the holy woman ascetic, although in front of her he had not mentioned nor said anything about this.      "Remain, Abba, – continued the Nun, – at the monastery. Moreover, if thou intendest to exit the monastery, thou wilt not be able to... And when there ensues holy Great Thursday with the Sacramental-mystery of the Last Supper of the Lord, place in an holy vessel the Life-Creating Body and Blood of Christ our God, and bring it to me. Await me on this side of the Jordan, at the edge of the wilderness, so that I in coming may commune the Holy Mysteries. And to Abba John, the hegumen of your monastery community, say thus: attend to thyself and thine flock (Acts 20: 23; 1 Tim. 4: 16). I desire, however, that thou not say this to him now, but when the Lord shalt indicate".      Having spoken thus and having asked once more his prayer, the Nun turned and departed into the depths of the wilderness.      A whole year the elder Zosima dwelt in silence, not daring by the Lord to reveal about the appearance to him, and he prayed diligently, that the Lord would grant him once more to see the holy ascetic.      When again there ensued the first week of holy Great Lent, the Monk Zosima because of sickness was obliged to remain at the monastery. Then he remembered the prophetic words of the Nun, that he would not be able to exit the monastery. After the passing of several days the Monk Zosima was healed from his infirmity, but he remained the whole time until Passion Week at the monastery.      The day of the remembrance of the Last Supper came nigh. And then Abba Zosima fulfilled what was commanded of him – in late evening he emerged from the monastery towards the Jordan and sat at the riverbank in expectation. The saint seemed tardy, and Abba Zosima prayed God, that He would not deprive him of the meeting with the woman ascetic.      Finally the Nun came and stood at the far side of the river. Rejoicing, the Monk Zosima got up and glorified God. But the thought then came to him: how could she get across the Jordan without a boat? But the Nun, with the Sign of the Cross crossing over the Jordan, quickly made her way over the water. When the elder wanted to make prostration before her, she forbade him, crying out from amidst the river: "What art thou doing, Abba? Thou art a priest – bearing the great Mysteries of God".      Having traversed the river, the Nun said to Abba Zosima: "Bless me, father". He however answered her with trembling, astonished at the wondrous vision: "Truly God is not false, in promising to liken unto Him all that are cleansed, howsoever this be possible with the dead. Glory to Thee, O Christ our God, having shown me through Thine holy servant, how far I stand from the measure of perfection".      After this the Nun asked him to recite both the "I believe" of the Creed and the "Our Father". At the finish of the prayers, and having communed the Awesome Sacred Mysteries of Christ, she raised her hands towards the heavens and she pronounced the prayer of Saint Simeon the God-Receiver: "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes hath seen Thy salvation".      Then again the Nun turned towards the elder and said: "Please, Abba, do thou fulfill for me yet another request. Go now to thy monastery, and in another year's time come to that dried-out streambed where we the first time spoke". "If only it were possible for me, – answered Abba Zosima, – to follow after thee constantly, so as to see thine holiness!" The Nun again besought the elder: "Pray, for the Lord's sake, pray for me and remember my woe". And having signed the Jordan with the Sign of the Cross, she as before went over the water and disappeared into the dark of the wilderness. The elder Zosima returned to the monastery in spiritual rejoicing and trembling, but in one thing he reproached himself, that he had not asked the name of the Nun. But he hoped the following year finally to learn also her name.      A year passed, and Abba Zosima again set out into the wilderness. Praying, he reached the dried-out stream, on the Eastern side of which he saw the holy woman ascetic. She lay dead, with arms folded on her bosom, as is proper, and her face was facing the East. Abba Zosima washed with his tears her feet, not daring to touch the body, for a long while he wept over the deceased ascetic and began to sing the Psalms as are proper to grief over the death of the righteous, and reciting the funeral prayers. But he had misgivings, whether it should please the Nun, that he should bury her. Hardly had he but thought this, when he saw, that which was traced out near her head: "Abba Zosima, bury on this spot the body of humble Mary. Restore dust unto the dust. Pray the Lord for me, having reposed the month of April the first day, on the very night of the salvific sufferings of Christ, after the communing of the Divine Last Supper".      Having read this inscription, Abba Zosima was astonished at first, who might have done this, since the ascetic herself was unlettered. But he was glad finally to learn her name. Abba Zosima realised, that the Nun Mary, having communed the Holy Mysteries at Jordan from his hand, instantaneously had made her distant wilderness journey, which he, Zosima, had taken twenty days to traverse, and immediately she had expired to the Lord.      Glorifying God and having washed with his tears the earth and the body of the Nun Mary, Abba Zosima said to himself: "It is time already, Elder Zosima, to fulfill that commanded of thee. But how wilt thou be able, thou wretch, to dig out the grave, having nothing in thine hands?" Having said this, he saw not far off in the wilderness a cast-aside piece of wood, and he took it and began to dig. But the ground was very dry, and he could not much dig it, and drenched with sweat he could do no more. Having straightened up, Abba Zosima saw at the body of the Nun Mary an enormous lion, which licked at her feet. Terror seized the elder, but he signed himself with the Sign of the Cross, believing that he would remain unharmed through the prayers of the holy woman ascetic. Then the lion began to fondle up to the elder, and Abba Zosima, emboldened in spirit, commanded the lion to dig out the grave, so as to commit to earth the body of Saint Mary. At his words the lion with its paws dug out a pit, in which the body of the Nun was buried. Having fulfilled their bidding, each went their own way: the lion – into the wilderness, and Abba Zosima – to the monastery, blessing and praising Christ our God.      Having arrived at the monastery, Abba Zosima related to the monks and the hegumen, what he had seen and heard from the Nun Mary. All were astonished, hearing about the grandeur of God, and with fear, faith and love they established it to make  memory of the Nun Mary and to honour the day of her repose. Abba John, the hegumen of the monastery, at the words of the Nun Mary, and with the help of God corrected at the monastery the things that were needed. Abba Zosima, living all the yet more God-pleasing a life at the monastery and reaching nearly an hundred years of age, finished there his temporal life, and crossed over into life eternal.      And thus there has come down to us this wondrous account about the life of the Nun Mary of Egypt, passed down through the ancient ascetics of the famed monastery of the holy All-Praiseworthy Forerunner and Baptist of the Lord John, situated at the Jordan. The account at first was not written down by them, but was reverently passed on by the holy elders from teachers to their students.      "I however, – says Sainted Sophronios, Archbishop of Jerusalem (Comm. 11 March), the first transcriber of the Vita (Life), – that which I in turn received from the holy fathers, I have committed everything of it into the written account".      "May God, working great miracles and bestowing great gifts on all, that turn themselves to Him in faith, may He reward also those honouring, and hearing, and transmitting to us this account and vouchsafe us a blessed portion together with Blessed Mary of Egypt and with all the Saints, pleasing unto God by their thought and works throughout all the ages. Let us give glory to God the King Eternal, that we be vouchsafed to find mercy on the Day of Judgement through Christ Jesus Our Lord, to Whom becometh all glory, honour, majesty and worship together with the Father, and the MostHoly and Life-Creating Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen".

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

SAINT MARY OF EGYPT

Homily by Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh

Source: mitras.ru

We keep today the memory of Saint Mary of Egypt in the gradual progression from glory to glory which Lent is, and which must lead us step by step to facing the supreme glory of the Divine Love crucified, the sacrificial love of the Holy Trinity.

Saint Mary of Egypt was a sinner, someone whose sin was known to everyone and not to God alone; perhaps she was the only one who was least of all aware of it because sin was her life. And yet, one day, she wanted to go and venerate an icon of the Mother of God in a church. The supreme beauty of womanhood in the Mother of God reached her heart, touched it. But when she came to the gate of this church, a power prevented her from crossing the threshold. The Publican had been able to stand there because his heart was broken; Mary of Egypt had no broken heart, and the entrance of the church was forbidden to her. And she stood there, aware that what she was, was incompatible with the holiness of the Presence, the presence of God, the presence of the Mother of God, the presence of all that is holy on earth and in heaven.

And she was so profoundly shaken by this experience that she left all that had been her life, retired into the desert, and with a life which the service books define as ‘extreme’, fought to conquer her flesh, her soul, her memories - everything that was sin, but also everything that could lead her away from God. And we know how glorious her life was, the kind of person she became.

What lesson can we receive from her life? How often is it that we have knocked at the door of God in the way in which Mary tried to come into His presence? How often have we tried to pray, to be in His presence in silence? How often has our longing been to God, and how often have we felt that between our prayer and Him, between our silence and Him, between our longing and Him there was a barrier which we could not pass. We were crying, praying into an empty sky, we were turning towards icons that were silent; all we could perceive was the Divine absence, and an absence so frightening, because not only could we not reach Him, but we perceived that unless we reached Him, our soul was laid waste, there was within us nothing but emptiness, an emptiness that if it continued, if it became our definitive condition would mean more than death - ultimate separation.

But how often also has God knocked at the door of our heart. You remember the word of the Book of Revelation: I stand at Thy door and I knock... How often has God, in the words of the Gospel, in the events of our life, in the weak promptings of our soul, in a whispering of the Holy Spirit, in all the ways in which God tries to reach us - how often has He knocked at this door, and how often have we made sure that this door does not open. Either didn't we simply care to open it because we were busy with things that mattered to us at that moment more than His interrupting, disturbing presence; and how often did we refuse to open the door because the coming of the Lord to us would have meant the end of things which were precious to us, which mattered to us... And the Lord stood knocking, and the door was shut in His face: exactly in the same way in which every door was shut in the face of the Mother of God and Joseph on the night of the Nativity.

We may not be aware of it with the intensity which should be ours; and yet for each of us, simply, the proof of it is that we are here, and millions of other people at some moment have suddenly perceived the presence of God, have heard His knocking, have let perhaps the door ajar, have listened to what He was saying, had a moment of elation, a moment when suddenly we came to life, and then we shut the door again. We chose our aloneness, we chose to be without Him, and what we imagined to be ‘free’ from Him: we are never free; we are never free not because He enslaves us, not because He hunts us down. We are never free because He is ultimately in the end the only supreme longing of our whole being, because He is the fullness of life, the glory of life, the exultation of life for which we long and which we try to glean right, and left in vain.

Mary of Egypt confronted with the Divine absence, with God’s refusal to allow her into His presence, confronted with a shut door within herself felt that unless the door opened, everything was vain. And she turned away from everything that stood between her and God, and life, and fullness, and exultation.

Isn't she for us an example, a call, an image of what could be the life of each of us? But we may say, Yes, this applied to her, she was a prospective saint… Each of us is called to commune with God in such a way, that God and each of us should become one, that each of us should become partaker of the Divine nature, a living member, a brother, a sister, a limb of Christ, a temple of the Holy Spirit, a son and a daughter of the Living God! This is our vocation; but can that be achieved by our own strength? No, it cannot! But it can be achieved by God in us if we only turn to Him with all our mind, all our heart, all our longing, determinably, yes: it is determination, and it is longing, a passionate, desperate longing... And then - and then all things become possible. I have said so often that when Saint Paul asked God for strength to fulfil his mission, the Lord said to him, My grace suffitheth unto thee, My power deploys itself in weakness... And at the end of his life, having fulfilled his vocation, Paul, who knew what he was saying, said, all things are possible unto me in the power of Christ Who sustains me... All things are possible, because God does not call us to more than can be achieved by Him with us and in us.

How much hope, how much inspiration can we find in each of the Saints of God, as frail as we are, and in whom the power, the glory, the victory, the life unfolded itself, deployed itself gloriously.

Let us once more receive inspiration from what we hear, receive inspiration from what we meet face to face in the Gospel, in Holy Communion, in prayer, in the silence in the presence of God. And let us move one step more forward towards the vision of the love of God made manifest in Holy Week, in the last steps of the way of the Cross, in the final victory of crucified Love, and in the victory of the Resurrection of God. Amen.

Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh 4/21/2013

Isaiah 41:4-14 

4 Who has performed and done it, Calling the generations from the beginning? ‘I, the Lord, am the first; And with the last I am He.’ ”

5 The coastlands saw it and feared, The ends of the earth were afraid; They drew near and came.

6 Everyone helped his neighbor, And said to his brother, “Be of good courage!”

7 So the craftsman encouraged the goldsmith; He who smooths with the hammer inspired him who strikes the anvil, Saying, “It is ready for the soldering”; Then he fastened it with pegs, That it might not totter.

8 “But you, Israel, are My servant, Jacob whom I have chosen, The descendants of Abraham My friend.

9 You whom I have taken from the ends of the earth, And called from its farthest regions, And said to you, ‘You are My servant, I have chosen you and have not cast you away:

10 Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’

11 “Behold, all those who were incensed against you Shall be ashamed and disgraced; They shall be as nothing, And those who strive with you shall perish.

12 You shall seek them and not find them— Those who contended with you. Those who war against you Shall be as nothing, As a nonexistent thing.

13 For I, the Lord your God, will hold your right hand, Saying to you, ‘Fear not, I will help you.’

14 “Fear not, you worm Jacob, You men of Israel! I will help you,” says the Lord And your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel.

Proverbs 15:20-16:9 

20A wise son makes a father glad, But a foolish man despises his mother.

21 Folly is joy to him who is destitute of discernment, But a man of understanding walks uprightly.

22 Without counsel, plans go awry, But in the multitude of counselors they are established.

23 A man has joy by the answer of his mouth, And a word spoken in due season, how good it is!

24 The way of life winds upward for the wise, That he may turn away from hell below.

25 The Lord will destroy the house of the proud, But He will establish the boundary of the widow.

26 The thoughts of the wicked are an abomination to the Lord, But the words of the pure are pleasant.

27 He who is greedy for gain troubles his own house, But he who hates bribes will live.

28 The heart of the righteous studies how to answer, But the mouth of the wicked pours forth evil.

29 The Lord is far from the wicked, But He hears the prayer of the righteous.

30 The light of the eyes rejoices the heart, And a good report makes the bones healthy.

31 The ear that hears the rebukes of life Will abide among the wise.

32 He who disdains instruction despises his own soul, But he who heeds rebuke gets understanding.

33 The fear of the Lord is the instruction of wisdom, And before honor is humility.

1 The preparations of the heart belong to man, But the answer of the tongue is from the Lord.

2 All the ways of a man are pure in his own eyes, But the Lord weighs the spirits.

3 Commit your works to the Lord, And your thoughts will be established.

4 The Lord has made all for Himself,

5 Everyone proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord; Though they join forces, none will go unpunished.

6 In mercy and truth Atonement is provided for iniquity; And by the fear of the Lord one departs from evil.

7 When a man’s ways please the Lord, He makes even his enemies to be at peace with him.

8 Better is a little with righteousness, Than vast revenues without justice.

9 A man’s heart plans his way, But the Lord directs his steps.

[hadesswhore]

H𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔞 - burning

He embraced my touch, his cloak hugging my uncovered flesh, his intense cold gaze inspecting my body meticulously, as to make sure I was alright.

I wasn’t.

An anger frown curved his eyebrows as he analyzed my state: half naked. With only a loose violet bra, a hip belt, and a curt coined scarf around my waist. A lowly dancer’s clothing.

Wrath crowned his being. Rage was effortlessly readable in his eyes. He didn’t like what he was seeing.

I didn’t either.

I averted my eyes in abash, gazing down at my clutching fingers, ashamed about the situation he found me in, the position his men put me in. A mere war-distraction. A pure toy of pleasure.

I blacked my sight away, not daring to reclaim it, praying to escape this opprobrious state. To disappear. I felt like a burden, a disappointment of his.

And it hurts.

The air inside his cover was thick, grasping, dominating. Forcing his claim on me. It was warm, incredibly fiery. But his embrace was more blazing, much, and much and much feistier than the tied cloth. To the point where my heart’s resting pieces rejumbled and reformed, giving life to my already buried soul.

Giving me life.

Only to burn it again and turn it into ashes. Again and again, and again another time. Dooming my being. Till no ashes were left. Just a hard, devastating, enchanting fire longing in my chest.

His mere presence was consuming my mortality, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the strange comfort his body gave mine, the comfort of being helpless while being devoured. At his mercy. Sinking in a reverie. A mythical one.

Until the reminiscence of his icy eyes made me remember his disappointment. Disappointment. Disappointment.

It hurts.

Its hurts, like a cool freezing ocean wave, extinguishing the fire spreading in my chest.

My insides were cold.

And it hurts.

My eyelids were still closed. I chocked as I distastefully cursed myself, my sinful self. I shivered, a hot liquid pouring on my tangled fingers: Drop after drop, and another drop again. Again and again, and again another time.

Was it rain?

No, rain wasn’t this warm.

Warm.

I unveiled my vision at my now moist gripped hands. Its fingers, its fingers painted with a red, dark red, perhaps firebrick, tint. Drawing each scratch, each scar, each wrinkle of my scarred palms. As a painter’s ink would to his painting. The ink being firebrick heated blood, the painter my Lord’s veins.

Diomedes’ veins.

And the painting, well, the painting was my soaked hands.

The drops kept on falling, one after another. Again and again, and again another time. Following the slow rhythm of my moving head, falling as it climbed the air, staring at the ink’s origin. My Lord’s temple.

Diomedes’ temple.

The firebrick kept on raining on my scars, until I finished my climbing. Head up, high as I could, but still underneath him. I faced his intense clear eyes.

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish petals illuminating his orbs. Grand, Majestic, yet homely. He had the earth’s tint, the mud’s sent, the forest beauty, the familiar sense of a shelter, of a home, my home. Everywhere he was seemed right to me.

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish sense of a beloved feeling. A faraway sentiment that was forgotten, but still alive, somewhere in my mind, in my spirit, my soul, my heart, my ashes, my fire.

His irises were wording me. Enchanting Goldenrod irises reassuring me, telling me that I was fine where I was: in his arms. I was secure, protected, even when I didn’t see him.

It felt right, dangerously well, devastatingly good, madly pleasing. Like a swift feeling of enjoyment that destroyed my Troy’s walls, welcoming him into my unprotected heart’s palace. Ashes. Fire.

I scanned his eyes, then the glimpse of disappointment in his infuriating orbs. He was disappointed.

And it hurts.

I couldn’t help but gulp in fear, my throat sore, my stomach churning. The coined scarf shaking lightly. Was it by fear or desire? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.

And it hurts.

I wanted him to adore me, to venerate me, to admire my body as those lustful men do. My womanhood yearned for validation, his validation. Looks of adoration and awe, not apathy and distaste.

I shivered as I felt the blood pouring in my chin, my Lord’s blood. Slowly sliding my neck, reaching my bosom, to pose between my breasts, in the middle of my chest. Right where my burned ashes left his heated warmth, his torrid embrace’s fire, his fire, his.

- My lord, you’re bleeding. I whispered as his cadenced breath collided with my freezing nose.

His eyes narrowed, went from my face to where his ink’s last drop hid. My searing spot.

- And you’re shivering. His rough, resounding voice declared, muscles tightening the cloak’s grip around my shape.

Gently, he lifted my legs, arms snacking my waist and thighs, carrying me to his tent.

- I’ll get you warmed. He murmured.

It was a just sentence, a mere statement, but with his voice, so firm, so resolute, I couldn’t help but timidly swallow my fear. It was a mere sentence, yet it felt like an inescapable punishment.

I’m already burning, my Lord.  

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

3rd August >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Tuesday, Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time.

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Numbers 12:1-13

'How have you dared to speak against my servant Moses?'

Miriam, and Aaron too, spoke against Moses in connexion with the Cushite woman he had taken. (For he had married a Cushite woman.) They said, ‘Has the Lord spoken to Moses only? Has he not spoken to us too?’

   The Lord heard this. Now Moses was the most humble of men, the humblest man on earth. Suddenly, the Lord said to Moses and Aaron and Miriam, ‘Come, all three of you, to the Tent of Meeting.’ They went, all three of them, and the Lord came down in a pillar of cloud and stood at the entrance of the Tent. He called Aaron and Miriam and they both came forward. The Lord said, ‘Listen now to my words: If any man among you is a prophet I make myself known to him in a vision, I speak to him in a dream. Not so with my servant Moses: he is at home in my house; I speak with him face to face, plainly and not in riddles, and he sees the form of the Lord. How then have you dared to speak against my servant Moses?’

   The anger of the Lord blazed out against them. He departed, and as soon as the cloud withdrew from the Tent, there was Miriam a leper, white as snow! Aaron turned to look at her; she had become a leper.

   Aaron said to Moses: ‘Help me, my lord! Do not punish us for a sin committed in folly of which we are guilty. I entreat you, do not let her be like a monster, coming from its mother’s womb with flesh half corrupted.’    Moses cried to the Lord, ‘O God,’ he said ‘please heal her, I beg you!’

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 50(51):3-7,12-13

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness.    In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt    and cleanse me from my sin.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

My offences truly I know them;    my sin is always before me Against you, you alone, have I sinned;    what is evil in your sight I have done.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

That you may be justified when you give sentence    and be without reproach when you judge, O see, in guilt I was born,    a sinner was I conceived.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

A pure heart create for me, O God,    put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence,    nor deprive me of your holy spirit.

R/ Have mercy on us, Lord, for we have sinned.

Gospel Acclamation

John 8:12

Alleluia, alleluia! I am the light of the world, says the Lord; anyone who follows me will have the light of life. Alleluia!

Or:

John 1:49

Alleluia, alleluia! Rabbi, you are the Son of God, you are the King of Israel. Alleluia!

Gospel

Matthew 14:22-36

Jesus walks on the water.

Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side while he would send the crowds away. After sending the crowds away he went up into the hills by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, while the boat, by now far out on the lake, was battling with a heavy sea, for there was a head-wind. In the fourth watch of the night he went towards them, walking on the lake, and when the disciples saw him walking on the lake they were terrified. ‘It is a ghost’ they said, and cried out in fear. But at once Jesus called out to them, saying, ‘Courage! It is I! Do not be afraid.’ It was Peter who answered. ‘Lord,’ he said ‘if it is you, tell me to come to you across the water.’ ‘Come’ said Jesus. Then Peter got out of the boat and started walking towards Jesus across the water, but as soon as he felt the force of the wind, he took fright and began to sink. ‘Lord! Save me!’ he cried. Jesus put out his hand at once and held him. ‘Man of little faith,’ he said ‘why did you doubt?’ And as they got into the boat the wind dropped. The men in the boat bowed down before him and said, ‘Truly, you are the Son of God.’

   Having made the crossing, they came to land at Gennesaret. When the local people recognised him they spread the news through the whole neighbourhood and took all that were sick to him, begging him just to let them touch the fringe of his cloak. And all those who touched it were completely cured.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[tyrannoninja]

The Battle Roar of Sekhmet

Egypt, 1350 BC

I entered the sanctuary area at the back of our hut with a bowl of gazelle meat. Beside me, my little niece Nebet hugged her miniature drum as if it were a doll. The likenesses of our forefathers and mothers watched our passage with painted eyes, their altars adorned with weapons and the gold flies their valor had earned them in life. But it was the gilded likeness of Sekhmet, she of the lion mask and blood-dyed gown, who awaited our arrival against the wall. Despite the dimming of the sunlight through our hut’s narrow windows, Sekhmet’s amber eyes blazed with the same fire that had emboldened generations of our ancestors.

Many times I had knelt before her as I did now, lighting the meat I laid at her feet. The scent of its burning recalled battle after battle of blazing tents and enemies being speared, shot, or cleaved into pieces. The warmth channeled the sun’s blazing heat, which glossed my dark brown skin with perspiration. Even the crackling of flesh breaking down into ash became the cracking of bones and shields as I yelled the battle roar of Sekhmet in my memories.

This evening I would consult our matron for a different battle. This time, our enemies were not Kushites with ochre-reddened hair and leopard-belted kilts. Nor were they easterners like the Hittites or Babylonians, with pale skin and loosely curled beards. No, they were Egyptians like us, fellow children of the Black Land who had fallen under the influence of the false Pharaoh Akhenaten.

Already they had dragged little Nebet’s father away to slave away in the lair that tyrant had built for himself and his cult of lies. I did not even want to guess what his minions had done to her mother. Only I remained to protect and teach the girl over the past year, and never would I let her suffer the same fate as her parents.

I gave her a nod and she pounded her drum with more unbridled passion than a temple ensemble. Together we sang our prayer for Sekhmet’s vigilance, for her guidance, for the courage with which she would imbue us in the face of war and persecution. The fire on my offering continued to flicker on our ancestors’ faces as their spirits’ voices joined ours in a greater chorus. The thumping of my heart became a rhythm complementing Nebet’s drum, as did the war drums that had thundered before all my past battles. Alongside the music’s growing fury there rose an energy within me that flamed as hot as Sekhmet’s gaze. As she opened her jaws to bare her fangs in my vision, so did I.

It built up from my breast to my throat, ready to be released over a climax of cracking drums and shrieking cries.

Instead came the hoarse bray of a royal trumpet. Then followed silence, and finally the rapping of a bony knuckle on our door.

Nebet embraced the drum with shivering arms. I murmured to her that it would turn out alright, for you could never tell a frightened child anything else. Even I didn’t want to believe otherwise.

Outside the door, as expected, awaited Vizier Ay with his leopard-skin mantle, accompanied by royal guards with spears and cow-hide shields. He greeted me with the usual sneer on his dark, wrinkled date of a face, and the night-black dreadlocks of his wig clashed with the scruffy white stubble around his mouth. But judging from the way his eyes ran up and down my figure, he had more than uppity pride spreading that filthy smile of his.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Egypt’s distinguished champion, Takhaet,” Ay croaked. “I understand you’ve earned yourself a whole swarm of flies, yet your beauty remains unworn after so much combat.”

I scoffed. “Most men say my beauty is enhanced by that. But maybe strong women are too much for you to handle, old Vizier.”

“Don’t you dare disrespect a servant of Pharaoh, young lady!” The Vizier spat into my face and banged his staff against the dirt road. “This business is so important, may I inform you, that defiance could cost you your very life — -or your adorable little niece. Tell me, O Takhaet, was it to our Aten that you were praying to?”

If I were to lie, I could spare myself and Nebet whatever this ancient monster and his master had planned for us. But I could not deny our lyrics had named Sekhmet rather than Akhenaten’s pet demon. Nor could I deny that our drumming had spoken in her favorite rhythms rather than any other god’s. And even if it would save my family, I could never betray the men and women of my village by pointing to them. A painful truth was better than a lie that hurt others.

“No, but it’s neither your business nor Akhenaten’s! You can prostrate before that devil you call Aten all you want, but you can never claw out your subjects’ deepest beliefs, no matter how you try!”

The sneer returned to Ay’s face. “But I can silence them. And I have, many, many times. Why, I must’ve…disciplined more commoners like you than all the barbarians you’ve ever slain, Takhaet. But, this time I’ll be diplomatic.”

I was not surprised when I saw one shriveled hand of his glide back and forth over his crotch. That gesture wrung my stomach like a wet rag inside.

“I know what you’re thinking, withered son of a jackal’s bastard. And I could rip out what remains of your manhood with my bare fist!”

The Vizier stepped back, cackling like a sickly hyena. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean that kind of deal. I meant something that would strike closer to your heart. Get the child!”

One of his soldiers shoved me aside and marched into our hut. Nebet screamed and flailed her arms when he yanked her up between his arms.

“Isn’t this a sweet, plump young piece of crocodile bait!” he said. “Hopefully they’ll leave one piece for my supper!”

“You savage!” I lunged after him, but one of his comrades wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me away.

“So what shall it be, O Takhaet? Your little Nebet or your loyalty to dead gods?”

I could not allow my niece, all that remained of my blood-kin, to fall into the clutches of men viler and more wretched than any Babylonian or Kushite I ever slew. Too many children, probably thousands, must have already been tossed to the crocodiles at Akhenaten’s behest. If either her father or mother still lived, only knowledge of their child’s survival could keep them going.

Caving into Ay’s demands would keep her alive. It would also further fuel his swollen Vizier’s pride and embolden him to seek out more victims, more children to threaten and kill. Sekhmet could never die, but both Nebet and all the other children of Egypt could.

I answered his dilemma with a kick of my heel into my arrester’s shin.

Breaking myself free of his chokehold, I tore the knife out from under his belt and chucked it into the brow of Nebet’s captor. My niece hopped and clung onto my back even as I caught the soldier’s fallen spear and used it to pole-vault over the rest. On the other side waited Ay’s personal chariot. After knocking the driver out with the spear’s butt, I grabbed the reins and whipped the horses into a neighing gallop.

Driving the chariots was always my favorite part of battle.

Huts, villagers, and trees blurred past me. The wind blew in a cool gale against my face. I couldn’t help but yell with girlish glee as I relived the thrill of a chariot chase, even with all its bouncing jolts and veers.

Nebet, much to my joyful surprise, squealed and laughed with me. “Can we do this again sometime, Aunt Takhi?”

“Next time he comes, I promise!” I said.

Our fun ended with the bang of a thrown spear against the chariot’s wheel. It threw us into the sky over the skidding horses until we crashed onto a hut’s thatched roof. Only by the mercy of the old gods did I catch Nebet before she hit something harder.

Ay’s thugs encircled the hut and hurled more spears at us. As I dodged their throws with Nebet on my back, I observed we had reached the village’s edge. Beyond the outer palisade sprawled a grassy field with scattered acacias, which in turn gave way to forest on the horizon’s edge. The shelter under those trees would be our only hope.

I picked up another spear and vaulted from the roof, over the palisade, and into grass that stretched higher than my knees. I sprinted as if I were racing a cheetah, but Ay’s cursing guards were closing behind me. My calves and thighs flared like a bush fire under my skin. A slung stone grazed my hip, but it made me stumble a couple of steps.

Ahead grazed a herd of gazelles. I ran straight through them, and they scattered in all directions. I hoped their stampede would run over my pursuers, or at least that they would lose us among the panicking animals. I did not hear any men scream death cries, but neither did I see them behind me anymore. It was better than nothing.

I had burned away so much of my energy that evening that I slowed into a panting stagger upon entering the forest. I put Nebet down and collapsed into the low crotch of a sycamore fig tree, letting out a relieved exhale. The darkness under the treetops would be our sanctuary this night, because I had worn myself out for the day.

“Cower all you want in those woods, traitor!” Ay’s croaky voice, muffled as it was by the foliage, was unmistakable. “The leopards shall do our work instead!”

Nebet buried her head in my bosom like a baby nursing her own mother’s milk. Her teary eyes and cheeks reflected even the little waning sunlight that shafted through the canopy. “We’re never going back, are we, Aunt Takhi?”

I stroked her disheveled puffs of hair and gave her my most motherly smile, because I could not give her anything else. Not even a lie. “Only the gods know what lies ahead, my sweetheart.”

“But they failed us. Sekhmet failed us, they all failed us! That old man was right, the old gods are all dead!”

“But his god never existed. Why else would we be able to get away from him? We even killed at least one of his minions!” I wrapped my arms around my niece. “Besides, our prayer got interrupted. What if we were to finish it? This time, we’ll pray on behalf of all Egypt against Akhenaten’s oppression!”

“But we don’t have my drum. Or her idol!”

She was right, we could not go home to our hut’s sanctuary. And Akhenaten had robbed all the temples in Egypt of the gods’ likenesses in favor of that Aten monstrosity. Or rather, all the temples still in use. Egypt’s history, with all its chieftains and kings with their various works, ran many centuries further in the past than those. Many of those past works lay buried under wilderness like the forest around us. “We may not need them,” I said. “I can think of something even better. And it shouldn’t be far from here at all.”

##

The white gaze of the moon, surrounded by innumerable stars, had replaced the sun in a blackened sky. Its light, faint as it was, guided me and Nebet through the maze of sycamore and palm trees. She tightened her grip on my breast with every bird squawk, monkey hoot, or coughing roar of the leopard. I myself felt cold serpents of fear slither up my spine despite the balmy humidity.

A twig cracked. Nebet yelped, and I spun around with hands clenched onto my spear. Across a nearby clearing bolted the shadow of a small antelope. Wait, once we had found what we were looking for, I might need that. With a singular throw, I managed to spear that duiker through the head.

“Is that for us?” Nebet asked.

“It’s for Sekhmet,” I said while hauling the carcass onto my shoulder. “Keeping hanging on there, little one. We’re almost there.”

From the corner of my eye, I spied paw-prints bigger than most leopard tracks on the leaf-littered ground — -tracks almost as big as a lion’s in fact. But lions were creatures of the open plain, not the forest, and Nebet had been scared enough times as it was.

We passed a vine-entangled falcon sculpture with a disc and a cobra mounted on its head. This was the likeness of Ra, the god of the sun which Akhenaten’s devil Aten tried to usurp along with all the other gods. Behind it a stout limestone obelisk towered up into the treetop canopy from a high slanted platform. Between them and the statue of Ra rose overgrown walls with a gatehouse bisecting them.

“This is a Temple of the Sun, like those built during the Fifth Dynasty,” I whispered to Nebet. “That would make it, what, over a thousand years old?”

“Whoah, that’s even older than Grandmother!” Nebet said. We chuckled together.

“It’s older than any of our grandparents, little baboon. Temples like these were built in honor of Ra, and was Sekhmet not born from Ra’s eye? We might speak to her through him!”

We pried open the door in the temple entrance and entered an open courtyard blanketed with undergrowth. The giant obelisk reared on its platform at the court’s opposite edge, with another likeness of Ra chiseled into its based. This time Ra was not all falcon but instead a man with a falcon mask who trod the python Apep underfoot. He did not watch his temple alone but shared it with other animal-masked gods standing along the courtyard’s sides. I recognized Anpu the jackal, Sobek the crocodile, Hetheru the cow, Khnum the buffalo, Sutekh the aardvark, and Djehuti the ibis.

And then there was Sekhmet, she of the lion mask.

Her representation was over thrice the height of the one back in our hut. Not even centuries of erosion, or the creepers wrapped around her, could hide the glint of her ivory fangs or inlaid amber eyes. Under the moon, her glare blazed with more predatory brilliance than I had ever seen on her images.

“Look here!” Nebet had run over to a niche underneath the surrounding wall and was tapping on something wooden. “Drums!”

And she was right. Drums of all sizes had been cached in there, some as small as her own miniature one and others big enough for a grown woman like me. My niece and I could drum together now!

I laid my duiker kill at Sekhmet’s feet and lit it with a makeshift torch. It blossomed into a huge ball of flame that made my previous offerings look miserly for the comparison. And with both Nebet and I holding drums between our legs, we recited our prayer with the full force of our voices.

All our ancestors must have been among the chorus that chanted with us, but the gods around us sang loudest of all. The beats came in many rhythms from both our drums, from my heartbeat, and from my memories. Entire armies thundered beside us, hooting and roaring, women shrieking and whooping like hyenas on the warpath. And as our larger offering crackled under the fire, so too did whole hordes of our enemies have their bones cracked and shields split asunder.

Again, it was building up from my lungs into my throat. I was ready to let it out like I never could at home.

What came was a roar. But not from myself, or Nebet. It wasn’t even Sekhmet’s roar, but that of a real, mortal feline.

There were three of them that had bounded into the temple’s courtyard. They were big and heavily built as lions, but had the hides of leopards, with two having spots and one a pure black coat. The larger of the spotted ones had a short mane like a young male lion’s. I had heard stories of rare crosses between lions and leopards, but never had I seen one on all my hunts. Never mind a pride of three!

Blocking the way between Nebet and these half-bred cats, I jabbed my spear at them with a hiss and snarl. The male of the trio bared his fangs and answered with a deep, coughing roar that froze my flesh to the bone. At his sides his mates crouched, rolling their shoulders with glowing green leopards’ eyes on my niece.

We were outnumbered, but even I could not outrun half-lion, half-leopard felines in the woods at night. All I could do was teach them the fear of humanity. So I chose to charge them head-on.

The male cat met my challenge with the lightning quickness of his leopard parentage and the lion’s brute might. He had me pinned back-first under his paws, the weight of his muscles nearly crushing mine. He would have split my bones had I not gotten one stab of the spear into his flank. It did not fell him, but in his roar of pain he relaxed his pressure enough for me to roll free.

I jumped to make another thrust, aimed at his skull. Again his mixture of lion’s strength and leopard’s reflexes defeated my attack with a swat of his paw that took off the spear’s bronze head. The sudden force of his blow threw me off my footing into one of the statues’ bases.

Nebet’s scream of terror and pain pierced into my heart as well as my eardrums. The spotted female cat had already caught her by the skirt in her fangs! I threw my decapitated spear into the beast’s shoulder, saving my niece from the crunch of death, but the male of the pride had sprung for me. I darted out of his way, letting him collide with the statue behind me, and put Nebet onto my back. I beat away the spotted female half-breed’s next attack with the duiker’s charred corpse and hurried for the temple entrance.

From the head of another idol, the cat with the pure black coat shot down paw-first in my way and slashed its claws across my breast. I reeled back until all three of the pride were circling us like vultures over a kill. I had been a fool. There was no way to beat these cats in battle. The best we could do was break out of their trap and shut them in.

After one kick into the male half-breed’s face, I rushed past him through the entrance’s doorway. Together with Nebet, we slammed the old door closed. Though it throttled back and forth with the felines roaring behind it, the hard wood it had been hewn from withstood their attacks with resilience belying its antiquity.

I scooped my whimpering niece up and mumbled thankful prayers that the night’s violence had not inflicted fatal damage on her. “It’s all right, my sweetheart. We’re safe now.”

“Not any longer, O Takhaet!”

Ay and his squadron of soldiers had found us! Ringed by all their spears and axes, I had spent too much energy to defy them any longer.

“This time, I’ll make it simple. Surrender your dead faith or die!” Ay’s sneer had widened to an open grin of malevolent joy. “Choose rightly, and we’ll bring you home and act as if this never happened!”

It would have meant defeat for my cause, for the traditions I and all the people of Egypt had followed before Akhenaten’s ascent. But Sekhmet and her brethren had failed us twice. No, if those three half-lions were any sign, she must have turned on us, never mind all that we’d done for her. And if my niece’s life was no longer at stake, it no longer mattered whether we swore by Aten rather than the gods who had deserted us.

“How about this, old man?” It was Nebet who spoke. Not even the tears in her eyes could extinguish away the determination in them. “You tried to kill us, so why don’t we do the same to you?”

She tugged the handle on the door. I helped her, and we ran straight through the confused soldiers the moment it banged open again.

The clamor of feline roaring, splintering spears and shields, and the screams and death cries of men echoed between the trees. So did our laughter together.

“You are a clever little baboon, aren’t you? How’d you hatch that one so quick?”

“They came when we prayed to Sekhmet. She must’ve summoned them for something. And besides, you used gazelles on those men earlier.” Nebet was beaming with the fierce pride of a triumphant warrior, a beam I had shown myself many times in my career. Like aunt, like niece.

“All right, you win!”

A gagging Ay, with wig fallen off and a blood-sprayed leopard-skin mantle, had tripped on his cane behind us. “I’ll tell Pharaoh you surrendered, and have your whole village left alone. Truth be told, that bloated fool would rather laze around in his new ‘palace’ than run his kingdom as he should. Sole representative of Aten’s will, my smelly ass!”

After helping him up, my niece and I nearly exploded into laughter from the hilarious irony of it all.

##

When we returned to our village after daybreak, the people welcomed us with cheers, hoots, and songs of praise. The headman thanked us for driving back the tyranny of Akhenaten and his false god, promising to reward us with the greatest feast the village had ever known.

And so it was held that evening. Hundreds of drums cracked and rumbled as we roasted whole cattle and antelopes in Sekhmet’s honor, firelight dancing to the many rhythms. Hundreds of men, women, and children sang her praises, adding to the drumbeats with clapping, stamping feet, and the banging of spear butts and walking sticks. This time, I did not need memories or imagination to enhance the music. It was real, it pulsed all around me, and it even made me dance beside the flames.

Finally, I could let it flow from my lungs, up my throat, and out of my mouth. And for once, it was my own voice from whence came the battle roar of Sekhmet.

[lawrenceop]

“I have come to set the earth on fire” (Lk 12:49)

The talk below is an extract from the St Jude Novena which I preached in San Francisco in November 2019. I offer it on 29 April 2020, the feast of St Catherine of Siena whose words form the basis for this reflection. The audio recording of the talk below is online here. 

A few years ago in London, Prince William married Catherine Middleton in an Anglican church service that was broadcast around the world. The then Anglican Bishop of London, Richard Chartres, acknowledged that the day, 29th of April, was the feast of the Dominican Saint Catherine of Siena, and he began his sermon with her words: “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” Unfortunately, having begun so well, he then interpreted this beautiful phrase in a rather insipid manner. He said, we’re called to help each other (especially through marriage) to become our “deepest and truest selves.” In other words, God desires us to actualise ourselves, express our inner selves, and be true to ourselves – whatever that means! But St Catherine, that great mystic who had dialogues with God the Father, could not have meant something so banal, could she?

So, let me suggest a more Catholic reading of St Catherine’s words, and therefore a much more awe-inspiring understanding of the truth. Who does God mean you to be? He desires you for himself! He wants you to be his Beloved, his Spouse, his intimate Friend! God desires to be bound to you in a love that is closer than the love of husband and wife! St Catherine of Siena thus cries out: “O eternal Father! O fiery abyss of charity! O eternal beauty! O eternal wisdom! O eternal goodness! O eternal mercy! O hope and refuge of sinners!… O mad Lover! Are you indeed in need of your creature? It seems to me you are for your behave as though you could not live without her… Why then are you so mad? Because you have fallen in love with what you have made! You are pleased and delighted over her within yourself, as if you were drunk for her salvation. She runs away from you and you go looking for her. She strays and you draw closer to her. You clothed yourself in our humanity and nearer than that you could not have come.”

Hence, in the Song of Songs, long understood to be the wedding song of God and the human soul; the love song of Christ and his Bride the Church, God the Lover plays hide-and-seek with the Beloved soul, and then, he sings to her, that is to say, to you and to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away… My beloved is mine and I am his”! Arise from sin, arise from weariness, arise from the dalliances of this world, and come away. Rise up to the new life of grace! Come away and be one with God. Come away and be filled with love. Hence the Lord says: “I have come to set the earth on fire”. For he comes to fill us with his Holy Spirit who is the personal Love of the Father and the Son, and who descends like fire from heaven, burning away all impurities and sin, and intensifying the love of God within us until God lives in us, and we in God. This is the awesome truth of who God means you to be, and it is fire!

This, I hope you’ll agree, is so much more exciting than self-realisation or becoming our deepest and truest selves. No, we are to become much more than ourselves. We are to become like God! We’re to be divinised by grace, set on fire by the Holy Spirit, and bearers of the image of Christ in the world. Thus St Elizabeth of the Trinity said: “O consuming Fire! Spirit of love! Descend within me and reproduce in me, as it were, an incarnation of the Word; that I may be to him another humanity wherein he renews his mystery.” God comes and renews the mystery of his being Emmanuel, God-with-us within us. God is with us here and now, in the present moment, and so he never abandons us but rather, he calls us to abandon ourselves into his love and care and providence. “Arise my love, and come away.”

But as St Augustine famously put it: “You have made us and drawn us to yourself, [O God] and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” The distractedness of akedia, therefore; the unquiet and agitation of our present times: are these not symptoms of the restless human heart that seeks God but does not know where to find him and rest in him, rest in his providence? St Augustine realises after his conversion that “you were within, but I outside, seeking there for you… You were with me, but I was not with you.” For we can be confused and distracted and attracted by the many different voices and good things of the world. There are so many things we want to do, so many things we want to accomplish, so many things that demand our attention and our energies.

However, in striving for the future, and worrying about the past, we might miss the grace of the present moment. And it is here, in the now, and in the interior life of our selves that God is with is, present through grace and with his providential will to teach us and to save us. St Teresa of Avila thus characterises the Christian life of prayer as an inward movement towards the centre of the soul, as if into the “interior castle”, and she reminds us that Jesus said: ““I pray not for them only, but for all those who shall believe in me.” He likewise said, “I am in them.” How true, O my God! are these words, [says St Teresa] and how well does the soul in this prayer understand them! And we should all understand them, were it not through our own fault, since the words of Jesus Christ, our King and Lord, cannot fail. But as we do not prepare ourselves properly, and do not remove everything from us which might obstruct this light, hence we do not behold ourselves in this glass [or internal mirror] in which we look, and wherein our image is engraven”. In other words, if we will still ourselves, and focus on the words of the Lord, and pray to him who is with us and within us, we shall see him and hear him speaking to us, making his will known to us, and giving us the grace to do his will, and so to trust in his providence.

Hence the Lord says to his friend: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion.” Mary has chosen to sit at the feet of the Lord, to rest and recline beside him, and to listen to his teaching. She has chosen to be a disciple of Christ. So too must we. The Lord says to you, “My friend, my beloved, arise and come away.”  

This interior prayer, as I have said, is the remedy of akedia, for the weariness, spiritual carelessness, and despondency of our age. Some people speak of mindfulness, but it is not enough to be aware of ourselves and our surroundings. No, God wants to give us so much more than just self-realisation! He wants us to be mindful of his love; he wants to love us and be loved by us; he wants to marry you! Therefore, let us adopt the position of Mary, and sit at the Lord’s feet, listening to him. Very often we fill up our prayer time with our requests, our petitions, and our words. It is good to ask God for things, of course, and this is what novenas are for. But remember that the first novena was a time of quiet waiting with Our Lady, waiting to be set on fire by the Holy Spirit. So we must also use this time to listen and adore and just be with God, trusting in his providence. St Faustina put it beautifully: “When I see that the burden is beyond my strength, I do not consider or analyze it or probe into it, but I run like a child to the Heart of Jesus and say only one word to Him: “You can do all things.” And then I keep silent, because I know that Jesus Himself will intervene in the matter, and as for me, instead of tormenting myself, I use that time to love Him.”

Prayer time is time to love God, and to be loved by God. Prayer is the crucible of love in which we are made to be who God means us to be. Through prayer we are inflamed by God’s love so that we in turn, bearing Christ within us, can set the world on fire, as St Catherine said. Therefore, St Augustine, having encountered the God of Love through prayer exclaims: “You called, shouted, broke through my deafness; you flared, blazed, banished my blindness; you lavished your fragrance, I gasped; and now I pant for you; I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst; you touched me, and I burned for your peace.”

The Lord wishes to do this for you too: “I have come to set the earth on fire, and how I wish it were already blazing!”

Listen to the recording of this talk, recorded Live in San Francisco, here.

[housedzemael-archived]

Lost and Found

Chapter 2 is here with a lovely little walk down memory lane for Ser Orlaux 

Archive Link 

Chapter 2:  A Man and His Dog

My eyes fluttered open, taking stock of the beautiful purples, reds, and golds of Gyr Abania's evening sky. I inhaled, and immediately regretted the act. My ribs ached, it hurt to even think about moving, my thoughts a jumbled mess of images from unknown hours before. Masked men, armor familiar, but not local. Spears and daggers thrust in my direction and in return. Splitting pain all along my side, growing fiercer and then dulling to a numbness that stopped my breath. Muffled distant distorted words, only one of which I can parse. 

Dzemael. 

I shot up, nevermind the pain, knocking the large bulldogs head off my chest in the process. The hound gazed up at me for but a second before jumping to her feet and wagging her tail so hard her entire body went with it. Henrietta! Of course! She's how I was still breathing. I laugh, and grimace at the pain it causes, before patting the old girls head. I mentally noted to give her extra treats when we got home.

"Good Dog." My voice was hoarse, my throat dry, a small gathering of leaves decorated my legs. I aired the question dancing in my mind. "Hell's, how long have I been out for?" Henri simply barked happily in reply. I went to stand, and almost regretted it as much as the laughter from before. I fell to my knees and grimaced. Henri trotted over to me, giving my face a singular lick before rolling over on her back, belly to the sky waiting for pets. 

I wished to smile at this, but the leaves had left a gnawing feeling in my stomach that worried me. I didn’t know how long I had been out. I didn’t know if those men after me knew where my family was. I didn’t know if they had found them while I sat unconscious among the trees. I didn’t know if the lights of my life were safe.

I struggled to climb to my feet again, my own rage at my injured condition building monumentally. I let out a cry as I crash into the trunk of a tree. Henri ran to my side, and let out a low whine to match my yell of frustration. I looked down at her, and sighed, using the trees to walk forward. 

“Girl, where’d you find me?” I asked, not actually expecting an answer from my dog, but getting one in a way anyway. Henri trotted forward ahead of me, rounding a selection of trees before lightly barking. Slowly, I made my way towards her, beyond the trees was a clearing I remember patrolling for our little town. A hamlet really, not more than 100 people when everyone's home. Henri walked back over to me, tail still wagging, a happy little dog.

My spear sat chipped and embedded in a tree at the far end. A veritable mile from where I stood, holding onto scattered greenery for dear life. I sighed, at least I wouldn’t need to pay for an entirely new spear, simply some repairs. I looked off into the distance, above the trees and into the sunset. Letting a calm wash over me for but a moment. Sure, they may have found my family, but they’d never defeat them. Maerwynn was a Red Mage with no equal, even years after putting her sword in favor of an Inn, and a stable place to raise our daughter. They were to be fine, waiting for me at home probably more than a little worried sick. 

I could just envision myself limping in on my spear, only to be knocked to the ground by a little half elezen girl mad at me for missing her bedtime stories. Where she told me about the grand adventures she went on. Where the smallest rock was the most dangerous dragon. I laughed again, the pain subsiding a bit. Henri came to sit at my feet. 

I stood there for a few moments, in fact a few moments too long. Till the smell of smoke hit my nose. Not a woodfire burning in someone's home, but the kind of smoke that foretells the wake of Halone, the smoke the begets war. Henri smelt it too, jumping to her feet and rushing into the woods ahead of me as images of a life I left behind stalled my movement. 

I could not bare the thought of my home becoming like one of the dozens of burnt out villages I saw during my tenure as a Dragoon. Corpses stuck in poses, gross mockeries of life, from when the Dragons took them. I knew, realistically, the Dravanians were not the cause of that smell, but the scent of ash and corpses, it never really leaves a man. 

Staggering through my senses, I rushed towards the tree playing sheath to my spear and yanked with all the force I could muster. Splinters flew in the clearing, and so did I, right after Henri and towards the flame. The wilds were my enemy, along with time, and my own frailties. I cursed the winds, the gods, I prayed that I was wrong, my nose simply mistaken. 

But fate, she is armed with arrows, and I’ve been naught been her pincushion these past twenty years.The forest broke into open fields, which changes to tended land. Henri ran fast, faster than I, and it was her mournful howl that brought me to my knees once again. No, I could not let myself fall there, not when perhaps the hound ran wrong, perhaps she was simply sad to have missed dinner? 

Crawling to my feet I took off running again. Spotting scattered houses consumed by a strange blaze that smelt not of dragons but of oil and rust. I rushed blind, I saw no soldiers, no bandits, I saw only deep tracks in the road and heavy footprints in the well traveled mud. I couldn’t run fast enough to the Inn, the little roadside haven we had built with our own collective four hands. 

It wasn’t burning when I got there, no the Imperials burnt it later, but it was broken. The timbers over the doors fallen, cracked in two and blocking the entrance, windows smashed, Danica’s playhouse sat crushed, silhouetted by the dusk sun. 

“Maerwynn!” I shouted my loves name. Again and again, throwing my spear to the ground and my back into clearing an entrance. “Danica!” My daughter’s full name next, a rarity out of my mouth, frightening me just as much as the silence did. My hands bled from the work, my lungs burnt, my eyes ran red with tears only to worsen when finally I reached inside my home. 

And saw my home, broken and bleeding on the floor, barely clinging to life. Maerwynn. My Love. I fell to my knees at her side, dragging her up onto my lap and clinging to her desperately. Like my embrace would heal her wounds. I began to sob into her hair, rocking her ever so gently. Whispering again again her name. 

I felt a weak hand on my cheek, and a gentle exhale of breath and with it an electric surge of hope that died almost as quickly as it manifested. I gasped, as my love smiled. Even then, at the end of things, she found it worthwhile to smile at me, even as I watched the light start to fade from her tender blue eyes. I do not know what great deed some past life of mine did to deserve her, or what great crime I must have committed to have her stolen from me. She coughed, and drew me from my thoughts, blood spattered her lips and dripped down her chin.  

“ ‘Laux, where have you been?” Her voice was weak and distant, barely above a whisper. I gently grasped her hand at my cheek with my own bigger hand, pressing it closer to me. I forced a smile to my face, though tears had ruined any illusion of happiness here. She shook her head weakly. “Don’t answer that love. Rahlgr’s Mercy, I’m just glad you’re alive.” 

I squeezed her hand, and opened my mouth to respond, but was cut short by more of her whispered words and the growing chill of her hand in mine. Though low, her words were rushed, as if she was racing to tell me her story, and I guess in a way she was. Running her words so Nald’thal couldn’t stop them. “Find her, ‘Laux, I told her to run when I heard the fighting start. Told her bad people were coming and that she needed to hide. You have to find her before he does!” She jolted up with her last words, and attempted to grab me by the shoulders and drag me closer. 

“Swear to me you’ll find Danica.” Her weak hands grasped at my shoulders with all the might she could muster, an amount akin to a newborn coeurl. I nodded, an affirmative that put a smile on her face. There hadn’t been any question to my course of action before, but now I was but an Elezen shaped bloodhound. 

“Of course, Maer. I’ll find her, I’ll  protect her. She’ll be ok, everything will be ok.”  I reassured her, this time it was she who opened her mouth and found no words to respond. Her hand grew weaker, and began to fall from my shoulder, frantically I pinned them there. “Everything will be ok,” I reassured again, lowering my head to hers, and gently kissing her forehead, like she was so delicate she might have been broken by the touch of the evening breeze. 

She closed her eyes.

She breathed her last.

 “I love you.” I spoke into the suddenly much too large world. “I love you.” again the words echoed with no reply. “Always and Forever, I love you.” I broke into sobs once more, loud crying to fill the void left now that my home was across the Aetherial Sea. Repeating a mantra that can no longer be echoed back to me in the voice of my Love. 

A bark woke me from my slumber in a Gridanian Inn. Eyes snapped open, an arm instinctively reaching for my spear, but finding only the big brown eyes of a Bulldog sitting at the foot of my bed. I sighed, and forced my body to relax, shaking my head in frustration. Dropping my spear, I roll back over, it’s too early to leave and continue my trek to Coerthas.

“Good Dog.” I whisper, as Henri rolls back into a ball on the floor and continues in her own dreams. “Good Dog.”