#salutem

[bonnefey]

For @rcvnance from here:

Though he'd not outright agreed to see her manor, she'd already begun walking... So capricious. In spite of himself, curiosity proved more potent than caution.

As he followed what he perceived of her silhouette, he found himself unable to focus on her surroundings for a moment. Disorientation sunk its claws in.

He blinked, coming to a stop as her hand raised... Old stone had replaced the dirt path once below their feet. What was surely tall trees flanking them revealed themselves as pillars, wrought iron...

"What...?"

Arc, his Spritzee, peeked out from under his lapel, glancing to and fro with nearly as much confusion.

"No, this is... A dream?" His voice faltered, feebly trying to convince himself. A hand reached gingerly towards a stone statue closeby... The light, rough texture of the surface against his fingers caused his breath to deepen further "Illusions of this caliber... Could they truly exist?"

[goth-hovatius]

sto traducendo tutte le opere di orazio e inizio a sentirmi come augusto post disfatta di teutoburgo

[pricelessemotion]

Can I ask you a question?

an au based on funny you should ask by Elissa Sussman

Summary: Los Angeles, 1990. eddie munson is a promising rockstar with a less-than-stellar reputation. you’re a budding music journalist who has been tasked with strengthening his social standing. what started as a mutually beneficial assignment turns into something more, as you both blur the lines between professional and personal.

Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist!reader

prologue: big city, wrong choices

A-side: off the record ★ starstruck and metal ★ lectori salutem ★ a little confession

Interlude ★ august ★ reply 1994

B-side: for the record ★ high fidelity ★ you and i

[latinare]

insanus similiter amenti salutem dicit!

me quoque omnia in Latina vertere iuvat

Insani optimi! Salve et propter linguam diverbio exercendam gratias tibi ago! Quem auctorem huius linguae legere amas?

[haemey]

And the final Credo fic of the batch! Also the final Credo fic in general, as in it's based on the final line of the Credo. There are more fics to come in the series though! As I said, I post them as I write, which is... not in "chronological" order.

Title translates to "And [I believe in] life in the future world. Amen."

G-rated, 905 words of pure fluff.

Just, all the Fluff.

Tags: South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Morning Cuddles, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bickering, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens)

A fluffy and warm morning at the South Downs Cottage.

Excerpt: Aziraphale's smile, which had been building up since the beginning of their conversation, had now reached its full width. It was mirrored on Crowley’s face. He was vaguely aware how silly they must look, both grinning like idiots, almost cross-eyed from trying to look at each other from too close. He found that he really didn't care.

This, along with Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem Descendit de coelis and Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est, has to be my favourite thing I've written for the series so far.

It's so sweet. I kept smiling and giggling the entire time while I was writing it.

Same with Descendit.

Not really the same with Crucifixus. Read that one with caution.

Tagging @goodomensafterdark again, hello :D You'll be safe from me for a while for now, until I've written more. Thank you so much for the reblogs until now!

[evolia7]

DA RECITARE IL SABATO

INDULGENZE CONCESSE ALL’ANTICA ORAZIONE “PIETATE TUA”

DA RECITARE PER QUATTRO SABATI CONSECUTIVI_

Papa Leone XII, il 9 Luglio 1828, concesse quaranta giorni di Indulgenza a tutti coloro che reciteranno la seguente Orazione.

Concesse inoltre CENTO ANNI (non giorni!) o cento quarantene, quando si recita tutti i sabati del mese.

PREMESSA:

Che meraviglioso tesoro che la Santa Chiesa ci dona, e con la quale possiamo liberare tantissime Anime dal Purgatorio dalle dolorose sofferenze che patiscono anche per lunghissimi anni!

Un di’ in punto di morte capiremo quali enormi vantaggi avremo ottenuto per la nostra anima, con l’applicazione di tali indulgenze alle Anime Purganti.

ORAZIONE:

Ti preghiamo, o Signore, che Tu voglia nella tua infinita misericordia scioglierci dai nostri peccati, e per l’intercessione della Beatissima Vergine Madre di Dio Maria, degli Apostoli Pietro e Paolo e di tutti i Santi, degnati conservare noi tuoi servi, i nostri paesi e le nostre abitazioni in perfetta santita’; purificare tutti i nostri parenti, amici e conoscenti da ogni peccato, e glorificarli con ogni virtu’; darci la salute e la pace; allontanar da noi tutti i nostri nemici visibili ed invisibili; frenare i desideri della carne, conservare la sanita’ dell’aria, accordare la santa carita’ tanto ai nostri amici, quanto ai nemici; difendere la nostra citta’ ( o paese ); conservare il nostro Sommo Pastore il Papa N.N., tutti i nostri superiori spirituali, i Principi, e difendere da ogni disgrazia tutto il popolo cristiano.

La tua santa benedizione riposi sempre sopra di noi, e a tutti i fedeli defunti concedi la pace perpetua, per Gesù Cristo Nostro Signore.

Così sia.

CONSIDERAZIONI:

Per molti aspetti questa antica Orazione sembra attualissima, ma quello che colpisce in modo particolare sono i CENTO ANNI di Indulgenza concessi a tutti coloro che la reciteranno tutti i sabati del mese.

Se pensiamo che talune anime giacciono da centinaia di anni tra le fiamme del Purgatorio e che puo’ bastare una preghiera come questa, recitata ovviamente nelle condizioni di animo previste dalla Chiesa, a liberarle finalmente da quel luogo di tormento, dovrebbe spronarci a recitarla tutti i sabati ( due minuti appena), ben sapendo poi dell’immenso dono che potremo fare a queste anime cosi’ sofferenti da lunghissimo tempo, e ai benefici che ne ricaveremo per le nostre anime soprattutto nel giorno del giudizio!

PER CHI VOLESSE PREGARLA IN LATINO:

PIETATE tua, quaesumus, Domine, nostrorum solve vincula peccatorum, et intercedente beata semperque Virgine Dei Genetrice Maria cum beato Ioseph ac beatis Apostolis tuis Petro et Paulo et omnibus Sanctis, nos famulos tuos et loca nostra in omni sanctitate custodi; omnes consanguinitate, affinitate ac familiaritate nobis coniunctos a vitiis purga, virtutibus illustra; pacem et salutem nobis tribue; hostes visibiles et invisibiles remove; carnalia desideria repelle: aerem salubrem indulge; amicis et inimicis nostris caritatem largire; Urbem tuam custodi; Pontificem nostrum N. conserva; omnes Praelatos, Principes cunctumque populum christianum ab omni adversitate defende. Benedictio tua sit super nos semper, et omnibus fidelibus defunctis requiem aeternam concede.

Amen

[rannadylin]

dies Martis, non. Mai., A.U.C. 2777, Linguae Tuae Loquendae die:

longissimus fuit dies; nunc demum domum revenio, discipulis doctis, duobus conciliis (uno ante diem scholasticum, altero post diem scholasticum) adstatis. cum domum meum pervenissem, plurimi e vicinis extra domos stabant, caelum inspicientes, nam nubes ubique erant. domum intravi; portabile instrumentum radiotelephonicum adspexi; nuntium instantissimum legi: in regione nostra conspectum esse turbinem! salutem in balneo quaesivi, et fortuna mecum erat; brevi tempore, turbo in orientem praeteriit nec hanc regionem afflictavit. nondum e periculo venimus; tempestas adest; multum pluit. nihilominus pluvium sine turbine mihi satis placet!

[waterinthemouth]

salutem per aquam

[jahayla-parker]

Bewitched Love : Peter Parker x Reader

Part 14

Bewitched Love Series Navigation

Desc. & Warnings: 1.4k wc, see navigation for description and warnings

Recap:

Peter glanced at y/n as tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked pointedly down at his bloody hand, subtly telling y/n where to look without alarming May. Peter noticed y/n’s hitched breathing upon seeing the blood. This wasn't good.

Y/n immediately pushed herself off the floor and moved to the other side of May. She pressed her hands against May’s shoulder. Y/n sent Peter a concerned glance when May didn’t react to the pressure of y/n’s hands against her open wound.

Peter pursed his lips and snapped his head around as he searched for a solution. He noticed the flashing lights of the first responders outside the collapsed building. Peter cupped his mouth to increase his volume. “Somebody help! I need an ambulance! Please, somebody...” he pleaded loudly.

“Consuendi vulnere, consuendi vulnere, consuendi vulnere,” y/n chanted. She took a shaky breath as she felt stitches slowly forming. But it wasn’t enough yet and y/n could tell. “Consuendi vulnere,” y/n screamed, using her hands to apply pressure to the wound as another attempt at stopping the massive blood flow exiting May’s body.

May was clearly not understanding what was causing Peter to act panicked. Nor did she understand why y/n was suddenly screaming in Latin. “What happened?” she asked, squinting at Peter in confusion.

Peter grabbed May’s hand and watched as y/n tried to heal her. “Nothing. You're okay. You're okay,” he chanted. Peter wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure May or himself at this point.

“It’s stitched b-but…” y/n’s voice rasped. “Something is wrong. The bleeding stopped, but…" y/n whispered. "May? How are you feeling?” She asked at a louder volume, sensing something was still wrong. But what?

May mumbled incoherently. “I'll just... catch my breath...” She repeated.

Peter nodded. “Okay. I'm right here. I'm right here,” he promised tenderly.

“Imple eam pulmonem spiritus plenus,” y/n hummed, hands on May’s chest again. While she didn't feel May's breath lapsing again, if that was what May said was the problem, y/n was going to fix it.

“Pe-Peter,” May choked.

“I’m here,” Peter promised, squeezing her hand. “I'm right here. We're okay. It’s me and you,” he cooed.

Y/n bit her lip aggressively. She could tell May’s lungs were getting proper air flow, but her body was still failing. Y/n could feel the energy draining from May’s body. She figured there’s had to be some internal injury that they didn’t know about. But, y/n didn’t know how to determine what it was. If she didn’t know what the wound was, she couldn’t figure out the correct spell to fix it.

Y/n felt a sudden lack of chemical energy coming from May just as May stopped breathing. “Imple eam pulmonem spiritus plenus, imple eam pulmonem spiritus plenus,” y/n whimpered. She pulled her bloody hands away and blindly began chanting a generic spell. It was pointless, y/n knew as much.

The spell needed to be more specific to actually work. But, y/n couldn’t do that without knowing where the injury was and she had to at least try to help May. As such, she began generically ordering her power to heal any of May's internal wounds, “consuendi vulnere internum”. “Quaeso!” Y/n pleaded with her cosmic powers. “Consuendi vulnere internum, consuendi vulnere internum,” she repeated, tears falling from her eyes and landing on May’s lifeless body.

Peter shook his head to himself in disbelief. “May? May? Will you look at me, May? Please?” Peter whimpered. “May? May? What are you doing, May? Please, will you just wake up and talk to me, please?” He cried, his chest heaving.

“R-r-reddet eam in salutem perfectam,” y/n tried desperately. She was pleading with her abilities to restore May to perfect health. If she was being honest with herself, y/n knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t able to do that. Maybe someday she’d be able to; but she doubted that even if she could do so, that she was supposed to do such things as bringing someone back to life. But, y/n let herself think it would work, she had to believe it was possible; otherwise, her doubtful emotions would certainly make her fail.

However, as she opened her eyes, y/n saw Peter’s despair. She knew it hadn’t worked. Her hands dropped as her body shook with tears, guilt, and shame. Y/n wanted to comfort Peter, but she was sure he was mad at her for not saving May. It was her job to get May out. It was up to her to save May after she was injured. Neither of which y/n had been able to do.

Y/N’s attention was pulled from her self-deprecating thoughts when she heard someone yelling. It sounded like Peter’s friend Happy. She focused on the voice, squinting to try and see through the bright lights of the police outside.

“Peter! Y/-. Azure Witch! Run!” Happy shouted again.

Y/N’s watery eyes finally focused through the smoke and lights. As such, she now saw the horde of SWAT officers that had surrounded the building, rifles drawn and pointed at her and Peter.

Peter was clueless to their surroundings, his eyes never having left May. He was shaking and crying, his hands clutching May’s shirt desperately. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” Peter whimpered shakily.

Y/n painstakingly stood, moving to be beside Peter. She put her arm around Peter’s trembling shoulders. “Peter,” she whispered lightly, hating that she had to try and get him to leave. Yet, she heard Happy continue to shout “run!”.

Y/n’s heart broke even more as she watched Peter lay down as if trying to hug May. She wiped her tears quickly and rubbed his back. Y/n wanted to give Peter some time with his now-deceased aunt. Her eyes flickered between the SWAT team outside, Happy shouting behind them, and Peter crying into May’s motionless chest.

Once the SWAT team began firing at them, y/n knew she had to make a choice. But, she saw Peter was wanting more time and she couldn’t get herself to force him to leave May. “Praesidium per mea navitas cosmicam potestatem super NOS,” Y/n whispered, holding one hand towards the glass doors the SWAT team shattered with their bullets. She took a breath as the cerulean shield formed around both her and Peter, the bullets bouncing off. Y/n tried to rub Peter’s back supportively with her other hand.

However, the magnitude of the SWAT team’s assault only increased in response to her forming the protective shield. They brought forward more officers and began firing rounds in a faster pace, hoping to break the azure bubble.

Peter’s concentration suddenly shifted. He wasn’t sure what caused him to snap out of his grief, tearing his eyes away from the final teardrop cascading down May’s cheek. But, as he turned to find y/n, his eyes widened.

Y/n had both of her hands held out before her, palms pushing towards the SWAT team firing at them from outside. There was sweat beading down from her forehead and her hands had started to shake as she kept the shield blocking each bullet aimed for the superhero duo. She looked exhausted and Peter could even hear her shallow panting over the popping sounds of the bullets striking her blue shield.

Peter forced himself to stand; although the best he could do was walk in sort of a hunched manner. He gritted his teeth as he resisted the urge to stay with May instead of what he knew he needed to do. However, when he saw y/n was kneeling and that her injured leg was bleeding again, Peter snapped back onto gear. Peter pressed forwards, grabbing her bicep tenderly. “W-we have to g-go,” he told her when she looked his way.

“Peter,” y/n sighed sympathetically.

Peter shook his head, offering y/n an appreciative expression. “We need to go, come on,” he commanded, tugging on her arm. “I’m getting you out of here,” Peter promised.

Y/n heard the determination in Peter’s voice and nodded. “I can’t move it with us yet, I don’t know h-" she tried to explain, nodding towards her shield.

Peter nodded, “that's fine”. His voice was weak and kept cracking, but he was determined to get y/n out of here and make sure she was okay. “I’ve got this,” he promised, moving her to the other side of him to be safe. “Just hold on, I know you’re tired, but please, just hold on tight, amica mea” Peter requested, gripping y/n’s bicep tightly.

“Mea stricta tena-” y/n whispered, her eyes heavy.

“No, no” Peter urged, “just rest, please. I-I.. I need you to rest, just b-breathe and…”

Y/n squeezed Peter’s hand and nodded. When Peter wrapped his arm around her and nodded, she let her protective shield drop away. Y/n leaned her exhausted head on his shoulder as he shot a web across the destroyed building to pull them away from the gunshots.

Bewitched Love Series Navigation

Peter Parker Navigation

Tom Holland Navigation

My Main Masterlist Navigation (All My Works)

Taglist:

@justapurrcat @natswife-marvelicious @directioner5life @ell0ra-br3kk3r @galaxyholland @bigbirdstwins @mcushvft @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @theslayerofthevampires

[turangalila]

Pierre de Cambrai & Gérard de Saint-Quentin (?) Tantae signa gloriae (V). Responsorium IX– Nocturnus II. Offices for Elizabeth of Hungary [Cambrai MS 38 (Analecta hymnica vol. 25, pp. 253 - 264) Le Labo. Médiathèque d'agglomération. Cambrai]

R/ Tantae signa gloriae venerentur hodie recreata cuncta / cujus vita recitat quod octonos suscitat mortuos defuncta V/ Post laborem operum ad quietem superum transit mater pauperum Marthae vice functa

De convalle paupertatis ad aeternae quietem gloriae transit mater pietatis Elisabeth gemma Ungariae cujus membris unctionis liquor manat sub roris speciae quo diversae lesionis dolor omnis sanatur variae o mira vis virtutis hujus sanctae regalis vidue quae salutem caecis mutis surdis claudis confert assiduae defuncta

_ Ossuaires – Office for Elizabeth of Hungary by Pierre de Cambrai - Villard de Honnecourt métier, memoires and travels of a 13th-century cathedral builder. Vol.1 Graindelavoix, Björn Schmelzer (2012, Glossa – GCD P32107)

[vladdocs]

I saw that you don't get asks so HERE WE GO. I've seen one document written in Vlad's hand, including his signature. Are there any other documents I can examine for his penmanship?

Thank you for the question, you are referring to this letter right?

Unfortunately (Or fortunately) there aren't any more like that, It was very rare for a noble to write his own letters, most of them having their own personal scribes. Here is what CD 1,1 says about it:

Vlad Țepeș, the Wallachian voievode, issues a safe-conduct for Sebastian, who goes to Brasov.

Diplomacy:

The attribution of this simple letter of free passage, sealed half under the text, is assured by the applied seal of type C (→), as well as the dating and external characteristics. According to GÜNDISCH, the chronological dating of this document must be placed after no. 91 of 22 July 1476, in which the Brașov notary of Oradea informs his city council about Vlad's movement to the Barsa Country with the royal army under the command of Stefan Báthory. Since Cipău, the place of issue, is situated approx. 230 km SE of Oradea, but 65 km NW of Sighișoara, where this army was on August 1st, the letter must have been written before this date, on the march route. The text betrays a scribe who was either too little versed or under great pressure of time. It is full of serious stylistic errors ('salutem […] salutem dicit') or repetitions ('permittere et permitti"). Unlike the other documents from Vlad's pretender period, the title of the voivode is missing from the title, which can be interpreted, in addition to the scribe's clumsiness, possibly as an indication that he was well known among the Transylvanian elite.

Context:

In the summer of 1476 the ties between Basarab Laiota and the kingdom of Hungary continued to worsen, as the Wallachian voivode became increasingly close to the Ottomans, who from 1474 onwards were fuelling the escalating conflict with the Hungarians. After the heavy fighting in Moldavia in 1475 and the Ottoman reaction the following summer, the installation of a pro-Hungarian voivode in Wallachia became a matter of urgency to ensure the protection of Transylvania. Distinguished during the military operations in Bosnia in January 1476, Vlad was recommended for his experience in the anti-Ottoman wars and, despite his turbulent past, particularly for the conquest and defence of Wallachia, for which he was also given command over a significant part of the royal army. The present letter of free passage cannot be contextualised more precisely due to lack of detail. Similarly, it cannot be said whether Sebastian also received a letter of credence from Vlad, thus acting as his envoy. However, this letter is the first indication of the resumption of diplomatic contacts between the former viceroy and his old enemies.

Might be impossible to find something confirmed to be written by Vlad himself

[pwlanier]

WATCH IN SILVER

IN THE SHAPE OF A SKULL

BEAUTIFUL IMITATION FOLLOWING 16TH CENTURY MODELS

MARKED 'MOŸSE BLOIS', FIRST HALF OF THE 19TH CENTURY

Silver dial engraved with a head

Ofangelot and foliage with a

Mill next to a river in the center,

Hour scale in applied gilded brass, false counter for phases of

The moon, blued steel needle: oval movement engraved with recovery,

Openwork and engraved rooster, exhaust

Rod, hose rope rocket, cylindrical pillars; silver case

In the shape of a skull, ring

Suspension in the center of the skull

Which is engraved with two scenes from the

Genesis, the creation of Eve (ii. 21) and the

Adam's temptation (iii. 6). The forehead with

A skeleton holding emblems of the

Time - a fake and an hourglass. One

Quote from Ovid (Metamorphoses, xv,

234) surrounds these scenes: 'Tempus

Edax rerum tuque invidiosa vetustas

(O rodent time, and you, envious

Old age) 'Sicut meis sic and omnibus

Idem' (I treat myself and all

In the same way) and inside

'Scala cæli ad gloria via' (the scale of the

Heaven is the way to glory). The jaw is engraved on the outside with the

Legend 'Sic justitia satis fecit mortem superavit salutem comparavit'

(So justice is satisfied, it has

Defeated death and obtained salvation), and to

The interior with the adoration of the Child

Jesus and 'Gloria in excelsis deo' (gloire

To God in the highest of heaven).

Timepiece 'memento mori' to which belongs the famous ringing watch in

Skull shape supposed to have belonged to

Mary, Queen of Scotland who would have given it to

His maid, Mary Seaton.

Smaller and without ringing, our watch

Shares with the latter the scene of the

Adam's temptation and three of the inscriptions,

Including the one taken from Ovid. These same inscriptions are also on a watch

Of comparable size, also without ringing, sold at Christie's, Paris, on the 19th

June 2018, lot 83.

Since Marie's watch is

Known since at least 1822, we can locate the production of these skulls

In the second quarter of the 19th century, a period of the romantic movement and

Walter Scott's novels, and a little more

Late, the beginning of the worship of Mary

From Scotland.

Translation is difficult.

Interencheres

[pricelessemotion]

Lectori Salutem | E.M.

Summary: [5.1k] you and eddie shoot pool and spill secrets.

Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist! reader

Warnings: drinking, language

Notes: things are finally picking up! next chapter will include some 18+ content so you must have your age in your bio for the taglist!

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

Eddie clambers into the passenger seat of your car. Upon leaving the diner, you managed to convince him to let you drive to your next destination, citing a general need to live. 

The drive back to Eddie’s was considerably less nerve-wracking. This go around, he decided to obey the speed limit and not split lanes like a maniac. Not only did he give you peace of mind but he also spared the delicious french toast that you ate from making a reappearance. 

Turning the key, the car starts with a light rumble. The sound of electric guitars and heavy drums shatters the silence between the two of you. 

Fuck.

You still had the Corroded Coffin tape in your stereo. 

Eddie is turned away from you, grabbing the seatbelt. At the sound of his own voice being played back to him, he slowly turns around to look at you. The grin on his face would put the Cheshire cat to shame. 

“I didn’t know you were a fan, sweetheart.” The nickname is saccharine coming out of his mouth. 

“I–” You sputter, trying to come up with a good defense. “I’m thorough in my research.”

Eddie is obviously amused at the fact that he’s caught you red-handed. His seatbelt is already buckled, but it’s stretched thin as he leans across the center console. He smells like syrup and cigarettes. For a second, you consider turning the stereo off completely. 

“Should I be scared? Do you have a shrine to me in your room? Do you have my face tattooed on your ass?” With each question his voice gets louder and louder, filling the tiny space with his velvety timbre. 

Though your face is hot with embarrassment, you’re secretly relieved. Any semblance of tension from bringing up Evelyn at the diner has dissipated. It’s been shredded with every strum of a guitar. You find it’s easier to be around Eddie this way. It’s easier to give in to his playfulness, rather than try to maintain the facade of professionalism. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You say, casting him a sideways glance. 

Eddie, for the most part, remains stoic. But you catch the twitch of his mouth and see the tell-tale shade of pink flood his cheeks. If anything should be indicative of the fact that you’ve stunned him, it’s that he’s stopped talking for the first time since you met him. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: He never shuts up. 

You release the parking brake and peel off into the streets. If Eddie is at all bothered by listening to his own music, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he takes the opportunity to quietly sing along, only stopping to pepper in commentary about the track or to give you directions. The richness of his voice is so distracting that you haven’t even noticed that you have no idea where he’s taking you.

Trying to find street parking in East Hollywood is a fruitless endeavor. You almost wish you had taken up Eddie’s offer to ride his bike. Eddie directs you around the backside of a building where a sign indicates that it’s a private parking lot, not meant for public use. He assures you that you won’t get towed.

The Blue Line is a bar tucked in between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaners. Walking up to the doors, you’re hit with the clashing scents of peanut sauce and fresh linen.  

There are very few people inside, given that it’s a bar and it’s barely even five o’clock yet. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor, making a quiet but awful velcro-like sound with every step you take.

“Buckley!” Eddie’s voice booms as you enter the establishment, echoing off the concrete floors and exposed brick walls.

A tall, freckled girl springs up behind the counter. At the sound of her name, she grins, her dark lipstick contrasting pearly white teeth. 

“Munson!” She yells back. The few patrons that linger around various areas of the bar are evidently disturbed by the sudden change in volume, turning their heads and scowling. She doesn’t seem to care. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just looking to shoot some pool in the best bar in L.A.” Buckley audibly snorts at the last part of his statement. “My tab still open?”

“Always.” She shakes her head and raises her brows at him as if to say, of course. She turns to look at you. “Who’s your friend?”

Your mouth opens, but the words die on your tongue. You and Eddie are not friends. At least, you’re not supposed to be. But you don’t know if you want to tell this woman, who Eddie is clearly close with, that you’re here on assignment to try to cherry-pick the best parts of him and turn them into something palatable. 

At your hesitation, Eddie swoops in and makes the introduction for you. He doesn’t mention the fact that you’re a journalist. Whether the omission is for your benefit or his, you’re not sure.

“Nice to meet you,” She throws the rag she was using to wipe down the counter over her shoulder and extends her hand. “I’m Robin.” 

Her handshake is firm, but her eyes are soft. The fine bottles of liquor behind her are backlit by an unseen light source, giving the illusion of stained glass. She quickly turns around and rummages through the minifridge and grabs two beers. 

“You know the rules, Munson, don’t get too rowdy and clean up when you’re done.” She says, popping the caps off of the beverages and setting them down on the counter.

“Me?” Eddie grasps his chest in faux incredulity, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Too rowdy? Never.” 

Robin sticks her tongue out at him in response right as she’s being flagged down by a customer at the far end of the bar. She salutes the both of you, flouncing away to refill the man’s old-fashioned. 

To your right, there’s something akin to a hall of fame. A collage of pictures of different celebrities that have visited the very room you’re standing in. You wonder if Eddie is up there, but you don’t dare to go see for yourself.

“Can you play?” He asks, walking towards the pool table. 

You make a noncommittal noise. You had played your fair share of games of pool, sure, but never in a setting quite like this. Never with someone like Eddie. Setting your bag down on one of the empty tables that lined the perimeter of the room, you pull out your tape recorder.

“You mind?” You ask, holding up the device in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie grimaces and shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over a bar stool at the opposite end of the table. The motion draws attention to the plethora of ink that litters both of his arms.

“Do we have to?” His face scrunches up as he asks the question, a slight whine in his tone. 

You almost feel inclined to say no, if only just to see the wrinkle that has formed between his brows disappear. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: he is very hard to say no to. That’s how you ended up in this bar in the first place. 

It would be easy to forgo the tape recorder and pretend that the two of you are just friends hanging out. But if there’s one thing that you know, it’s that the human memory is fallible. You can't risk the quality of your article for the sake of his comfort. 

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Eddie bristles at your response but says nothing. He takes a square of blue chalk and thoughtfully rubs it on the end of his pool cue. The sunglasses he took off are tugging down at his v-neck, exposing sharp collarbones and even more ink. 

“I have a proposition for you.” Eddie declares. 

You raise an eyebrow. 

“For every ball you sink, you get to ask me a question about my life. For every ball I sink, I get to ask you about yours.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, thinking that he can’t possibly be serious. But he just stands there, staring at you as he sets the blue piece of chalk down at the edge of the table. 

“Final offer. Take it or leave it.” He throws both palms up in the air, pool cue tucked into his side. 

For the second time today, you take Eddie’s words as a challenge.

“You’re on.” 

Eddie takes his time setting up the game. While he’s leaning over the side of the table gathering the scattered spheres, you can’t help yourself from admiring his silhouette. The back of his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of skin that you cannot tear your eyes away from. 

Oh my god.

Eddie Munson has a tramp stamp. 

A chaotic collection of branches and thorns surrounds a Latin phrase: lectori salutem. You rack your brain, trying to remember the one semester of elective Latin that you took back in freshman year of college when Eddie suddenly turns around. You quickly look up to meet his eyes, but the smirk on his face reveals everything. 

For the second time today, Eddie has caught you staring. 

“Ladies first.” He says, grandly gesturing toward the table. 

You break the rack. A blur of colors bursts forth in every direction. Despite your best efforts, none of the balls make it into a pocket. Looking back at Eddie, you see he’s still got that smirk on his face. He leans over and effortlessly knocks a ball into a pocket. Stripes. 

“Where did you go to school?”

“NYU.” You reply, having been asked this question so many times that the response is practically automatic at this point.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. “Out-of-state tuition must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“I had a scholarship.”

“Wow. Pretty and smart. You’re kind of the whole package, aren’t you?” The teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t take away from the sincerity in his words. 

The compliment flusters you, which you’re sure is the whole point of Eddie’s making it. 

“Only one question, remember? It’s still your turn.” 

Eddie sees right through your attempt to deflect. Graciously, he doesn’t point it out. He just leans down once again and lines up a shot. Stripes Twelve. Right lower pocket. 

“Why do you hate New York?”

The sureness with which he asks the question throws you for a loop. Whatever you had expected to come out of Eddie’s mouth, it definitely wasn’t that. 

“What makes you think I hate New York?”

“Tsk tsk. I’m asking the questions here.” Eddie scolds, but his voice is devoid of any real ire. He plants his hands on the table, leaning towards you. You can just barely see the faint outline of a gravestone on his right forearm. “You don’t hate it, but you don’t love it either.”

In the five minutes that have passed since he started questioning you, Eddie has managed to see right through you. You’re starting to wonder if you’re actually that transparent or if he is just that good at reading people.

“I don’t know. My dad is from there. Whenever he talked about New York, it always seemed like some mythical place. He always said ‘Don’t live in New York so long it makes you hard. Don’t live in California so long it makes you soft.’ I guess I went to New York to prove to myself that I could, y’know. Prove that I could leave the nest and not fall flat on my face.”

Heat blooms in your chest during your ramblings. The pressure you feel is so much that you’re surprised steam hasn’t started coming out of your ears. Despite knowing exactly why you went to New York, you’ve never said the real reason out loud. It didn’t seem like it mattered to anyone but you. 

Eddie has a thoughtful look on his face. “3,000 miles is a long way to go to prove a point.”

You shrug. Eddie pauses for a moment, waiting for something. At the realization that you’re not going to say anything more, he leans over the table and shoots.

Stripes. Thirteen. Top right pocket.

“Did you?” Eddie posits, elaborating on the quirk of your brow. “Prove your point?”

You want to laugh. That’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself since you made the move back west. The prodigal daughter returned with nothing to show for it. 

“I proved that living in California my whole life made me soft.” You admit, gazing down at the table, the floor, your shoes, anywhere but his face. 

Eddie frowns in your periphery. He has a clear shot at the far end of the table. You wish he would take it already. 

“It’s not a bad thing, y’know.” Eddie’s fiddling with his pool cue, generously rubbing more blue chalk on the end. You don’t know much about pool, but you doubt that it’s necessary. It seems like he’s doing it more to prolong the inevitable. “Being soft.”

“Isn’t it?”

You’re almost sure that he’s joking. Actually–you’re sure that he’s making fun of you. He must be. The notion makes you angry. Oh, of course, the heavy metal rockstar is extolling the virtues of being soft! You look up, a snide remark already on the tip of your tongue. But when you finally meet his eyes, his gaze is intense. Contemplative, even. You take another sip of your beer and hope it washes away the lingering bitterness. 

Eddie Munson and his damn sincerity.

He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then decides against it. He leans over, lining up that clear shot that you had spotted earlier. His necklace hangs from his neck, the red guitar pick grazing green cloth. 

Stripes. Nine. Middle left pocket. 

“So,” Eddie starts, smiling satisfactorily to himself. “Do you actually have my face tattooed on your ass?”

If his earlier question about hating New York shocked you, then this one was like being struck by lightning. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You should’ve known that this would come back to bite you.

“It’s just a question.” He defends. “I’m genuinely curious.”

“No, Eddie, I do not have your face tattooed on my ass.” 

“But you do have a shrine of me in your room.”

“I am this close to using this pool cue to poke both your eyes out.” You threaten, absolutely buzzing with mortification. 

“Fine! Fine, I’ll let it go.” He concedes, before saying the next few words under his breath. “For now.” 

Eddie is the opposite of a bad sport when he misses his next shot. He only clicks his tongue and gives a slight shake of his head. You’re relieved that you finally have the chance to get out from under his microscope. 

Solids. Four. Bottom left pocket.  

“What do you like most about living in LA?” You ask. You know that it’s cliché, that everyone who moves here is asked the same question. But you can’t help but want to hear everyone’s answers. Each person you meet paints a picture of your hometown with vibrant colors. It’s always refreshing to hear a new perspective. 

“The food, oh my god, the food!” He practically moans. “I swear whatever bullshit they were passing off as Mexican food back in Indiana should be investigated.” 

Eddie goes on a whole tangent about tortillas that could easily be used in a commercial advertising the food scene of southern California. All of the talk about tortillas reminds him of his favorite food truck, located in East Los Angeles. It’s parked right across the street from a record store. He discovered it while trying to visit every record store in the city. 

“And speaking of record stores… I mean, fuck, you can’t find half the obscure shit that you have here back in Indiana. There’s no point in shipping your shit out to the midwest if no one’s gonna buy it I’m guessing.”

“I never even thought of that.” You admit. Every time you walked into a music store, there was always a new shipment waiting for a band you had never heard of. “Growing up, my favorite thing was always to go to the record store. Even if I didn’t buy anything, I would just sit in one of the booths and listen to vinyl.”

You smile at the memory of the sun streaming through windows and chunky headphones too big for your adolescent head. The nostalgia clouds your mind so much that you fumble the next shot, accidentally knocking a striped ball into a pocket and giving Eddie the chance to ask you yet another question. 

“Do you regret going to NYU?”

“No.” You say, and you mean it. “I think it’s good to get out of your comfort zone. I think… I think it’s important to figure out what’s wrong for you. Maybe even more important than figuring out what’s right.”

Eddie hums in agreement and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. You take the opportunity to eject the tape from the recorder and put in a fresh one. Tucking the tape into your bag, you remember that you still have the mixtape Eddie made for you. You make a mental note to listen to it on the way home.

“Having fun?” Robin appears next to you, gathering a few bottles that hapless patrons have left behind. She lifts Eddie’s off the table and adds it to her collection. You hadn’t even noticed that he had finished it. 

“Eddie is absolutely kicking my ass at pool right now.”

She barks out a laugh. 

“I know the feeling. We used to play with each other all the time back in Hawkins. I think I only won once, and that was because he was high off his ass.” 

Your ears perk up at the mention of the small town in Indiana. You could tell from their interactions that they were close, but this was a whole other level. Does she know about 1986? 

“Maybe he’ll have mercy on me.” You muse, slightly wincing at the doubtful look Robin gives you.

“I have faith in you. Don’t let Edward get into your head.” She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, the glass bottles clinking in her wake. 

So, you think to yourself, Eddie stands for Edward. It’s a regal-sounding name. A little too refined for the rockstar who’s rough around the edges.

When Eddie returns from the bathroom, he holds two more beers in his hand. You’re about to say that you still haven’t even finished your first one. That you think one is enough. You still have to drive back, after all. But he sets both of them down next to his leather jacket, making it clear that they’re both for him. He sniffles as he approaches, giving a small cough to clear his throat. His knuckles brush the tip of his nose until it glows an angry red, even in the dim lighting. He pulls up his pool cue right to the edge of the green-striped ball. He’s got a clear shot. 

He shoots.

He misses. 

You quietly breathe out a sigh of relief. Despite the fact that your job is to get into the nitty-gritty of people’s lives, you’ve never been on the receiving end. It’s unnerving. There’s a reason why you’re a writer. You like the control of rough drafts and rewrites and edits. It leaves less room for misinterpretation.  

Circling the table, you hope to find an easy shot. 

“You have to actually hit the balls with the stick for them to go anywhere,” Eddie says, taking a long sip from his second beer. “Just wanted to make sure that you knew that.”

You roll your eyes at his obvious attempt to psych you out. Leaning over the far end of the table, you balance the pool cue delicately between your fingers. When you finally make the shot you smile to yourself as not just one, but two of the balls go careening into pockets at opposite ends of the table.

“You know, I’ve half a mind to think you were hustling me, sweetheart.” Eddie takes a long sip from his second beer, the condensation dripping down his hand. 

“It’s not hustling if you just assumed I would be bad at it.” You’re so proud of yourself that you can’t help the smugness in your voice. “What’s your middle name?”

“Now you’re crossing the line.” He deadpans. “That’s just too far.” 

“Oh come on, Edward.” At the sound of his legal name, Eddie’s facade drops. The reaction encourages you to continue your teasing. “It can’t be that bad.”

“How do you know that’s what Eddie stands for?”

“I have my sources.”

“Your sources could be wrong. It could stand for Edison. Or Edmund. Or Edgar.”

“Something tells me my sources are correct.” Your eyes flick over to the freckled girl behind the counter. Eddie catches your glance and kisses his teeth, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“What if you’re secretly a fairy who’s trying to get me to say my full name so that I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life?”

“Fine. Don’t tell me your middle name.” You concede, trying to come up with a better question.  “How did you know that I was a writer? Back in your room–when I picked up the book–you called me a writer.” 

“Isn’t that like, your whole thing?” Eddie waves his hand flippantly. 

“Yeah. But there’s a difference between journalistic writing and fiction writing. How did you know that I do both?”

Eddie takes another drink from the beer in his hand, thumb grazing the label. 

“Maybe I’m ‘thorough in my research’ too.” He says, quoting your words back to you.

It’s a non-answer and both of you know it. You decide not to press the issue. Maybe Eddie isn’t such a good sport after all. You started winning and he stopped playing fair, dodging your questions left and right. For someone who is supposed to be getting interviewed, he isn’t doing a very good job. You settle on a topic you hope he’s willing to actually talk about. 

“Patsy Cline.”

“What about Patsy Cline?”

“She didn’t exactly fit in with all of the metal.”

“My Uncle Wayne loves Patsy Cline. He would always play her records whenever he was cooking or cleaning. I guess listening to it reminds me of home.”

“So do you actually like it? Or do you just find it comforting?”

“Is there a difference?” Eddie muses at you from behind the lip of his beer bottle, before taking a long swig. “Wayne actually gave me that vinyl as a parting gift. He said it’s for ‘when you want to listen to real music’. He was only joking. Kinda.”

Eddie visibly softens while recalling the man who raised him. His tense shoulders have drooped and his jaw unclenches. He speaks of the older man with an unmatched fondness. 

“Wayne sounds like a funny guy.” You smile, sidling up to Eddie. “What’s he like?”

“He’s the best. He took me in when I was just about this big.” He juts his palm out at his waist.  “I had big ears, a buzzcut, and a gigantic chip on my shoulder. I was so– I was so angry at the world. He was the first person who told me it was okay to feel that way. 

He was a trucker before I came along, but then he quit and started working at the plant so that he could be there for me. Everything I do, it’s all for him.”

The words make your heart clench. Sparing yourself the embarrassment of revealing just how much his words got to you, you take your next shot. With misty eyes, you see the flash of blue make its way across the table and into a pocket. You already know what you’re gonna ask him. 

“Say you get everything you want. You win Grammys. You sell out Madison Square Garden. What next?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Eddie polishes off the third beer. “I’d probably start by buying Wayne a house, but that’s if he’ll even let me. He’s always saying that I’m the kid and he’s the adult. That he’s supposed to be taking care of me, not the other way around.”

He lets out a quiet burp, which he muffles with his fist. His pool cue has been long forgotten next to him. The configuration on the table before you tells you that you can win in just two more rounds. You’re not sure if you want to. You try anyway. 

Solids. Three. Middle right pocket. 

“Does your reputation actually matter to you?”

“That’s a loaded question.” Eddie leans backward. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, the effects of the alcohol seeming to finally kick in. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.” 

You make a show of grabbing the tape recorder and clicking the stop button. You slide it over the wooded lip of the table, proving to him that the device really isn’t recording anymore. 

“Of course, my reputation matters to me. Anyone who says they don’t care about their reputation is lying. Sure, you learn to brush it off. You learn to expect that everyone you meet is gonna have preconceived notions about you. Whatever. People have always had some shit to say about me, I say let ‘em talk.

But it never gets any easier realizing that everyone you meet thinks they know you just because of some shit they read in a magazine. It never gets easier knowing that nothing you do belongs to you anymore.”

Eddie’s words weigh on you. Whether or not he realizes it, you fall into both those categories. You had turned your nose up at the lousy headlines. You had thought he was just another reckless rockstar. Now, you’re tasked with writing him a new one, one that’ll make people like you see him in a better light. It's still the same. He still doesn’t get to control how this story ends. 

“Is that why you agreed to this interview?”

You know you’re essentially wasting a question. Whatever his answer will be won’t matter in the long run, because you won’t be able to use it. You want to know the answer anyway. 

Eddie looks down at the table and then back to you. You know that he could tell you that you used up your question. That if he was a little less drunk he would probably diffuse the tension by quipping back to you, only one question, remember? He doesn’t. He sees that you have the winning shot perfectly laid out for you. This time, he doesn’t prolong the inevitable.

“Yeah, it is.”

You make the shot. Just like that, the game is over. Your victory feels hollow. 

A blue-striped ball sits lonely on the table. A question left unasked. An answer left unheard. 

Eddie puts his leather jacket back on and brings the empty beer bottles back to Robin. You pick up the tape recorder. It feels like dead weight in your hands.

You meet Eddie at the counter, where he’s happily chatting with an amused Robin, all previous tension regarding your last question seemingly forgotten. You bid your goodbyes. The two of you shuffle awkwardly together towards the entrance before Eddie gets distracted by something.

“Oh my god, I love these!” Eddie regards the gumball machine full of small, shitty prizes with a childlike wonder. 

He grabs his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, dutifully pulling out two quarters. He shoves them both into the coin slots and cranks the handle. The machine spits out a plastic capsule with a bright green lid. He takes the prize and thrusts it into your hands. 

“For you.”

You’re confused by the sentimental gesture but decide not to question it. Shaking the contents out into your hand, the prize reveals itself to be an 8 ball keychain. 

“Hey! We match!” Eddie pulls out the motorcycle keys from his pocket, and sure enough there’s an 8 ball hanging from the key ring that’s identical to the one you’re holding in your hand. 

“Yeah.” You smile to yourself, twirling the small sphere between your fingers. “We do.”

The drive back to the house in West Hollywood is quiet this time. You elected to switch from the cassette to the radio as soon as you got in. The sounds of classic rock drift between the two of you. Eddie spends the entire drive looking out the window, proving himself to be a quiet and contemplative drunk rather than an obnoxious and outspoken drunk. 

Pulling up to the curb, you feel slightly awkward. You’ve never been good at goodbyes. 

“You doing anything tomorrow?” Eddie’s head flops in your direction, his body language giving away the depth of his inebriation. 

“Um.” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he might be planning. “It depends. What time?”

“Around noon? We have a recording session tomorrow and I just thought maybe you’d like to hear some of the stuff we’ve been working on. Plus you’d get to meet the other guys. It would be good, right? For your article.”

He says the last sentence as if it’s an afterthought. 

“For the article.” 

“It’s at the recording studio near Sunset? Big red sign, can’t miss it.” He’s using his hands again as he talks. The silver rings glint under the yellow of the street lamps. “Can I have your number, though? Just in case it gets canceled or something. I don’t want you to show up and think I’m sending you on a wild goose chase.”

“Sure.” You rattle off the number for him. Eddie continues looking at you, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to write it down for you?”

“I have a good memory.” He grins toothily, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

With that, he tumbles out of the car and stumbles to the front door. You watch his retreating figure with the realization that you’ve barely scratched the surface of who Eddie Munson is.

You remember to swap cassettes before pulling away. As you begin mentally writing the beginnings of his article in your head, the mixtape plays softly in the background. 

Living in a world of make believe 

I can hide behind what's real

But wearing your emotions on your sleeve

And they all know what you feel

taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren@cloudroomblog@amira0303@forrestfae6@aysheashea@vintagehellfire@poisonedluv @kimmi-kat@mmunson86

if your username is crossed out it means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you 💔

[conduit-of-grace]

“‘Ideo omnia sustineo propter electos’ - ‘I bear all things for the sake of the elect,’ ‘ut et ipsi salutem consequantur’ - ‘that they also may obtain the salvation,’ ‘quae est in Christo Iesu’ - ‘that is in Christ Jesus.’

What a good way to live the communion of the saints! Ask our Lord to give you that spirit of St Paul.”

- St. Josemaria Escriva, “Communion of the Saints” from The Way, #550

[musingmelsuinesmelancholy]

Ave, fonticuli Stella.

Asteriá mater Alma

Fons magicea

Felix Caeli porta

Felix Barathrum porta

Summens illude Ave

Qoud Serpens locutus est

Salutans nomen Evæ

Ruptor catenis

Profer lumens caecis

Mala nostra pelle

Bona cuncta posse

Ostende te osse Regina

Sicut aquas divina

Reflectunt stellarum

Preces nostras portare

Regina omnia recedens

In lunares salutem

Patients tempus, calendariis

Supra

Infra

Tenebris aquis

Nox caelum speculum

Gloria tribus in uno

Parody of the hymn “Ave Maris Stella”

Despite years of catholic schooling my Latin is shit so doubtless the grammar is off haha.

[meadowlarksabove]

Dear past me

Letter to...(Open)

To G., child from the Great Salt Lake and soldier under Decanus Julianus.

Salutem.

Your best friend is going to trample you for his own benefit. I want you to take the knife he hides under his bedroll and carve yourself a new companion before that happens.

I know you´re soft, I know you love him dearly. I know you´ll let him step on you again and again until you´re half dead.

But you will feel better when the blood pours and your heart is satisfied.

Stop crying and you´ll see that I´m right.

G.