#so many daily fears vanquished

[tamagotchikgs]

perhaps,,,, the,, trick 2 becoming comfortable n happy is 2 be vulnerable sometimes

[dmagedgoods]

Devil May Care

Rating: General

Relationships: Raphael/Male Durge (my character Cian) Summary: The glorious hero failing? Dying because of a foolish mistake? Destroying his plan by losing his life so recklessly? Raphael won't allow it. (I’m always open for Raphael prompts btw, it just may take me a little time to answer them. ❤) Tags of importance: obsession, local devil struggles with feelings AO3 ~ You have been less predictable than most of your kind. The rich spectrum of mortal emotion is a palette of many hues. Adept and well-versed in its heady heights and delicious depths, I employ both to my advantage. They are, after all, of inestimable value in my daily business; however, in a primarily – one could say – academic sense; by no means from first-hand experience, naturally. But now I am astonished, little mouse, at finding myself invested in your fate, beyond those distant contemplations, fury bright and fierce in my chest. You stand amidst the gore, skin sickly pale against the ruthless red drenching your robes and the very earth around you. – A single pure white rose in a field of thorny brambles. Your innocence is deceptive, and illusion your design. But your subterfuge won’t save you now against the vigor of your enemies. You have miscalculated, and you pay the price, your companions vanquished, alive but spent, and fear written plainly on your pain-twisted features. You suck in a slow and shaky breath while I watch, at the edge of the chaos. I savor you, how your lips part around the barely muttered words of your last hopeless spells, the multitude of emotions passing across your desperate face. Is this how you plan to escape the claws, little mouse? Stealing away from this plane of existence? The anger burns higher, floods my veins. It seems there is only so much time left for me to enjoy you before you ruin my flawless plan with your incompetence. I am drinking in the sight of you, trembling with the heat of my rage and something indefinable, much colder underneath, when finally, you collapse and lie in a motionless heap among the dry, brown grass. The air goes still. Something overcomes me at the sight, and I struggle not to bare my teeth. With a flick of my fingers, your last two attackers burn to ash. Immediately, the wizard is at your side. “Give him room.” I approach, slowly. It is meant as a command rather than a threat, but my words fly with far more intensity than intended. If my thoughts weren’t utterly consumed by the figure lying on the ground before me, I might be concerned by the suddenness of my own outburst. “Would you be so kind?” With an arch of my brow the request imparts an order. The useless mage finally flinches back from where he is crouched at your side, but I can feel the vampling’s red glare on me from some distance behind where he too lies wounded, all your companions drained of all power to regenerate or heal. I lower myself to take a closer look at you. You are shivering. Sweat pours down your face in saline rivulets. The hollows of your eyes appear too deep, your skin waxy, your scent earthen and sweltering. I can feel the hostile magic still raging through your body. “You won’t escape me like that.” My voice seems to cut through the haze in your mind. Your long lashes flutter. Then your eyes meet mine, glazed and feverish. When I cup your damp chin you startle, sucking in a jagged, pitiful gasp. I swallow hard, ignoring your pained little whimper. Pathetic. A few infernal words and my own power cleanses you of the destructive influence of the magic your opponents infused into your blood. Perhaps unconsciously, you lean into my touch before your gaze clears. “Raphael?” A feeling rises in me, and I find myself suddenly consumed by an irresistible need to hide you away from all eyes, friend and foe alike. It’s agonizing and unwelcome, this foreign, ridiculous urge.

I am no stranger to desiring you, perhaps beyond what you are strictly worth for my plan, and as much as I attempt to distance myself from this need, I’m incessantly aware of its presence. But this is not desire. At least not in the way I’m accustomed to experiencing it. No, what tears at me and clouds my senses is something else, nameless because I deny it the solidity of a name, unacceptable because in conflict with my very nature. I take a slow, even breath, getting hold of myself before I can do something rash. Another flick of my fingers makes a potion appear. I uncork it and bring it to your lips. “Drink.” You do, your body language uncharacteristically submissive, docile like a mindless doll. It displeases me to see you like this, robbed of your gleam, of your value to me. In a few heartbeats, the liquid will take effect. I raise my eyes and examine your worthless companions for a long moment. They will make it back to your camp. With that, I turn away, ready to vanish from this place and leave behind me the brief but frankly alarming lapse in control I have experienced at your hands. Your voice stops me. It is disgustingly weak. “I … thank you.” With a wide gesture of my arms and a cold smile on my lips, I turn towards you once more: “The list of your debts is growing, little mouse. You can thank me when I come to collect.”

[maskedinstructor]

Black Education in America-The OVER (the) Ground Male Road-Pathway to the Inclusion of More Black Male Teachers in the Classrooms of America

Think Higher !

I have meticulously outlined for all who would care to peruse my papers on the initiative to introduce more Black men into the classrooms of America. I have been encouraged by the responses as there were many. I am baffled by the hesitation and lack of movement on the project. In areas such as this, the advancement of our young men, we must maintain a posture of persistence determination and fearlessness. I cite, for example, the valor of President Zelensky. of The Ukraine. He has visited America three times and requested funds, financial assistance to aid his country in its war for freedom with Russia. In this case, his bravery was greater than his fear." My people are dying. We will all be killed if I fail to secure the resources required to vanquish our enemy. Who can provide such assistance? America !!! There I will travel and seek help.' These were the thoughts which possessed him. He came ...three times. It was as if he was somehow obsessed with saving his nation. And, rightfully so. The response from America? OVER BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WITH EACH VISIT.

We must be as valiant as he. Other countries utilize America as their personal ATM. in our Over (the) Ground Male Road, America CAN do what is right by its own citizens. Presidents Zelensky was incredibly confident. He knew America would surrender its coffers to him. We, mighty Black males of America too, ''Must not be too proud to beg". The mantra will be, " Well, you , America, did it for the Ukraine. LET MONEY RAIN ON US TOO". President Zelensky emphasized the crimes against humanity that Russia was and is committing daily. There are no greater crimes against humanity than those which we, citizens of America, have suffered and continue to endure in America. Let us never be ashamed. Let us not be reluctant to ask for what is rightfully ours. The Constitution declares that we are heirs to it. It is our duty, by constitutional edict, that we challenge and change, alter and abolish anything that violates and prevents us from our rightful pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. Deep in our heart is that message to the country, " Well, America, you did it for The Ukraine. LET MONEY RAIN ON US TOO.

Let me summarize what is our plan and program. What we most desire is a national program that will recruit, train and introduce more Black Males into the classrooms of America. it is and should be a call to action . We, America, are in the throes of a national crisis and the proposal offered outlines the national priority which must be addressed to alter abolish it That program will be called, ' Over (the) Ground Male Road. The design and educational theme have been extracted and adopted from the work of Harriet Tubman who thought it not robbery to serve and save her people at the risk of her own life. We, her progeny, state that if measures are not taken to save our people through The Over ( the ) Ground Male Road , we will surely remain second class citizens, a fate worse than death.

Project Outline and final Remarks: The program will begin with a church tour. The purpose is to alert the community of the plan. Gifts will be distributed along with literature explaining the purposes and scope of same. The church is designated as the site of the inauguration as it is the backbone of the Black community. The site demonstrates that the need is both spiritual and political. The Black church will connect community to the reality of working with government to solve our problems. This has not been successful for us. Indeed, it has been hazardous to our health. The church is the site for we need to remember those who have passed away in struggles with government and politics. It is a reminder that we must stay strong and stay the course. America has proven itself ready to honor foreigners rather than its own citizens. It has proven that our problems are never included in the Book of National Dilemmas and Issues. The church is the inaugural site for it has been more humane in its treatment of our demands, necessities and essentials. We trust it. The church will also be our first recruitment site. We want men who have some teaching experience. We have found them in the choirs, worship leaders, Sunday school teachers, ushers , announcers, group leaders and assistant pastors.

Our first acts and subjects of fierce discussion and debate must be the referrals to special education classes of so many of our Black males. This, too, is a national crisis. There are so many that schools in America are specifically designated for Black male youth. It smells of an insidious plot to rid our nation of Black Male Leadership. From where will our Black Male teachers and resources come if they are handicapped at such early ages and stages of their life? The detente on referrals will solve one problem in the war on special education referrals and that is the lack of BLACK male teaching candidates. We need Black males from the Over (the) Ground Male Road to save our Black males from the very system that is created to educate them,

We need the church as the site of inauguration and continuity of service to maintain a relationship with the recruits and training before and after hiring. We want the church to keep its blessings on the parents so that they stay involved. We want and need the church as that propaganda machine to express weekly the successes of the program of teaching when Black men are the prophet, sages, scholars, workers, wonders, teachers, and instructors.

We want and need a Teachers' Church and Community Union. We have to forsake old methodologies, patterns, behaviors, strategies, projects and attitudes. We can no longer pour new wine into old skins. That has never worked for us and never will. These were placed around our necks to keep us mentally enslaved. In our plan, union and unity will exist and flourish. Observe how organized, effectively and efficiently the schools of other groups work. 'Anything for the children' is the slogan. Note how chaotic the edifices of learning are in our neighborhoods. Same Board of Education but a different result. We must do more for our children and it begins with whom we desire as their instructors. On your marks, set...Go! Onward "THE OVER (the) GROUND MALE ROAD...100 CHURCHES A YEAR...TEACHER RECRUITMENT & TRAINING...NATIONAL PRIORITY DECLARATION...GRASS ROOTS INVOLVEMENT IN RECRUITMENT AND TRAINING...CHURCH & STATE COLLABORATION... Throughout the work, the program, this mantra reigns" AMERICA YOU DID IT FOR THE UKRAINE. LET THE MONEY RAIN ON US."

BEST OF 2023

[cleanair608]

Good sleep = Good health

In the hustle and bustle of life, a good night's sleep can be quite the luxury. Between juggling kids, work, and hectic schedules, finding those precious moments of rest can feel like a rare treasure. But the value of quality sleep goes beyond just feeling refreshed.

According to the National Sleep Foundation, aiming for a solid seven to eight hours of deep sleep each night is not just a suggestion, it's a health necessity. Why? Because the benefits are substantial. Quality sleep acts as a shield against potential long-term health issues and has a profound impact on our daily well-being, influencing our mood, the strength of our immune system, and even our productivity.

Despite these compelling reasons, the reality is that many people, especially those dealing with allergies and asthma, struggle to attain restorative sleep on a consistent basis.

How does good sleep relate to good health?

Indoor air pollutants can be silent sleep disruptors, sneaking into our homes and wreaking havoc on our peaceful slumber. Imagine this: the very air you breathe at night can turn against you, causing irritation, congestion, and swelling in your upper airways. These are not just discomforts; they're disturbances that steal the tranquility of a good night's sleep.

But it doesn't stop there. These invisible invaders can infiltrate your central nervous system and the very core of your brain that controls your breathing patterns and sleep. They twist the threads of peaceful rest, leaving you tossing and turning.

And if that's not enough, prolonged exposure to this tainted air can lead to common sleep woes like the relentless symphony of snoring or the frightening pauses of sleep apnea. It's not just about losing sleep; it's about the quality of the sleep we so desperately need to recharge our bodies and minds.

How to choose air purifiers for good sleep 

No matter how many hours you spend in bed, that feeling of true restfulness eludes you.

That's why you need an air purifier with its HEPA filter. It's like a guardian angel for your sleep, removing up to 99.7% of those troublesome airborne particles, banishing them from your home.

Why does this matter? Because to unlock the secrets of deep, restorative sleep, you must vanquish the villains of the night. Those villains come in the form of dust mites, mold, pet dander, and pollen – common irritants that can turn your sanctuary into a sleep battlefield.

Even if you're not an allergy sufferer, these intruders could be sharing your bedroom, infiltrating your dreams. But fear not! A powerful yet soothing air purifier can be your ally, silently cleansing the air while you drift into slumber.

With every breath of clean, pure air, your sleep sanctuary is fortified. And the beauty of it all? A better night's sleep doesn't just mean waking up well-rested; it means waking up to a brighter, healthier you. Sweet dreams! 

How Avata air purifiers helps 

The benefits of daily use of Avata Air Purifiers  with zebox technology are manifold, starting with the most crucial:

1. Enhanced Sleep Quality

Clean air is conducive to better sleep. By reducing airborne irritants, Avata Air Purifiers create a more peaceful sleep environment. You'll wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to take on the day.

2. Odor Elimination

Unwanted odors from cooking, pets, or other sources can linger in your home. Avata Air Purifiers not only filter out particles but also help neutralize odors, leaving your home smelling fresh every day.

3. Improved Productivity

Clean air isn't just about physical health; it also impacts mental clarity and productivity. Breathing fresh air helps you stay focused, energized, and more productive throughout the day.

Conclusion

Avata Air purifiers are not the only way to improve your sleep—though we believe they are the best way! Other sleep-enhancing practices include temperature control, creating a dark sleep environment, using white noise, limiting blue light before bed, and maintaining a consistent daily bedtime and wake time.

While it is not the only way to get better shut-eye, running an air purifier in your bedroom at night is proven to have numerous benefits for your sleep and overall health. 

Air purifiers may be the missing piece to helping you breathe easier and sleep better at night. 

By cleaning the air and reducing allergens and pollutants, you are delivered a stronger immune system and improved respiratory health—and not to mention the overwhelming benefits of increasing sleep length and quality! 

[rachlovesactors]

Deep Down

The following is a true story and writing it saved my life.

TW: relationship drama, breaking up, depression, mentions of suicidal thoughts

Deep down, I always knew he would break my heart.  

In the beginning, I knew he was the one for me within the first two weeks of correspondence. I never believed in true love or the institution of marriage before I met him, but mere months into our relationship, I knew I had found my true love. True love existed, and it was him. Surely, we were destined to marry and live long lives together until we expired within months of each other, unable to bear existence apart. Yet the years passed, and though my conviction on our status as soul mates was made clear, there was no offer of marriage. I had advised him the entire length of our courtship that I would allow him to set the pace for everything and would never pressure him. He always declared that he eagerly awaited spending the rest of his life with me and that if there was ever trouble in our relationship, he would fight to hold on to me. Therefore, I thought I was in a stable, loving relationship, one that would endure life’s difficulties and be better for it. Alas, it would tragically appear this was not the case. One fine Boxing Day afternoon, I experienced one of my medical episodes, and after he assisted me by helping me to lay on the couch and retrieving my medication, he inquired as to my condition, and when I responded by saying I would be fine, he proclaimed “I am unhappy and want out of this relationship.”  

This cannot possibly be real! Surely, I am still in my bed, surely this is a dream, surely my loving partner of five years did not just declare that he is dumping me. I looked around, I shut and reopened my eyes, and I pinched myself for good measure. No, somehow, somehow... this is not a dream, it is a living nightmare. I of course asked questions to try to understand. I find myself still struggling to understand. He is depressed and I make his depression worse – however, he was quick to say that I have done nothing wrong, and when I asserted that neither of us would find another comparable partner again, he said that he agreed wholeheartedly. He only responded to a few more questions, and from them I gathered that he could no longer handle my horrible health, which causes me to be ill constantly and require assistance often. Unfortunately, my mortal parts contain many defective pieces. I suffer from many genetic, chronic diseases, including two that are autoimmune diseases, so in addition to my many regular issues, I often fall victim to viruses and infections and struggle to overcome them. This autumn was the worst semester of my life, and I previously had a semester with two hospitalizations for comparison. It took me seven weeks to vanquish a strep throat infection, and in that time I also had four other infections and low potassium. This was all in addition to my constant chronic companions that I must handle all the time. My now-ex true love assisted me a great deal. Every single time, I endeavored to make him know how much I loved him and appreciated his help. I shared with him that my greatest worry and fear was to be nothing but a burden, or worse, an ungrateful burden. He would retort that I could never be a burden and he wanted to help me. Evidently, there was an expiration date on that statement.  

Now a battle rages within the crevasses of my mind, and the million shards of my heart still carve my insides. But in all honesty, who do I blame for this broken heart? Do I blame him? He certainly suffers from melancholy, and watching the one you love endure illness and pain for months on end is certainly depressing, so without intention, I could be responsible for more unhappiness. Some might say that it is selfish, or perhaps weak, of him to leave because our path has become more difficult, especially because the brutality of depression has been upon us both. As with many of those who battle their own bodies daily, I have also been depressed and subject to suicidal thoughts. The enemy’s strength has at the very least tripled, if not quadrupled, upon the occasion of my being unceremoniously cast aside. I will not say “we broke up,” because I had absolutely no voice in the matter. Yet he did not create the situation, and indeed neither did I; my body did. Does he therefore pass without blame? No, no I think not. From the beginning I cautioned him of my horrible health, I had many chronic conditions, I was likely to need help from those living with me (in fact, I am unable to live alone), and my conditions are extremely unlikely to improve as there are no cures for my ailments. He was sufficiently warned, he accepted all of me, and he told me I was worth it and I was not a burden. Until I was.  

Deep down, I always knew he would break my heart.  

[sunny-sings-sooth]

Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

_____________________________________________________________

Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

[in-somnis-veritas]

Characters

(This is for an AU currently in the works! This is one of the only available posts for it right now, but make sure to drop by the page and follow us to stay up to date! More in-depth info will be released soon about the world of Adrestia)

Name | Age | Race | Status Mod Paragraph

Tommy | 16 | Half-elf | Commoner

Tommy was born and raised in the town of Alnwick, living with his mom for the first few years of his life as his father worked in the capital city of Somritas as a knight. He was raised completely unaware of his status of being a half-elf or the fact that his mother was, in fact, an elf. Now, 16 years old with a dead mother, he continues to live his life believing he’s human--not even showing the telltale signs of being a half-elf because of a pendant he’s worn since he was a toddler. Not that he knows that’s what it does. Loud, rambunctious, mischievous--he always finds the time to harass his friends or flirt with pretty girls who happened to be nearby. Best friends with Tubbo and with a brotherly relationship with Dream, he’s out thriving as an extrovert. Though it’s safe to mention he’s completely banned from the capital city,

Tubbo | 16 | Druid | Knight

Tubbo's entire existence is illegal, pretty much. Born to two druids, he himself is also a druid. When he was 6, his camp was attacked. All of his people were killed. The only survivors were him and his baby brother. After fleeing, they survived on their own for a week. They were soon picked up by another camp, which Tubbo lived in for 9 years. When he was 15, his camp sent him to the city. His brother stayed behind, while Tubbo made the three-day long journey to the city. Soon after his arrival, he became a knight. He has served ever since. Despite being magical, he appears fairly human. The only true way to tell he is a druid is the triskelion tattoo he has, which is just below the crook of his elbow on his right forearm. Within the city, his closest friend is Niki. She was the first one to find out about his magic, and he genuinely trusts her with his life. Outside of the city, his best friend is Tommy. Considering he can't go inside the city, Tubbo usually goes outside the walls to visit. Tommy was the second to find out. Saying he trusts Tommy with his life isn't true, mainly because he would be the one endangering it to begin with.

Dream | 19 | Human | Prince/Royalty

Prince Dream von Galatea the 1st, born August 12th, 1599, is the sole male heir to the well known kingdom, Somritas, in the northern Adrestia region. He is a very respected and competent prince to his royal adversaries and renowned across the land as an excellent warrior. Dream trains almost daily and vigorously, so much so that many outsiders try their hand at challenging him but have yet to beat him. The man greatly idolizes the old “fairy tales” of the human hero saving others from the monstrous non-human races. Though, this then causes the prince to have a bit of a Hero Complex. When a situation involves or pertains to someone he cares for and is emotionally invested in, he’s generally a very impulsive and sensitive man that will end up following his feelings in the heat of the moment rather than his rationalized thoughts. Other than that, however, Dream’s quick at adapting to new situations and thinking on the spot, especially when placed under pressure. To add on, he’s fiercely protective and compassionate to those under his kingdom’s rule and is seen often interacting with the townsfolk in the Town Square, thus his subjects adore the kind prince wholeheartedly. In order to rise to his rightful place as King, he must venture outside the castle walls and vanquish countless magical non-human races, thus proving himself capable to his father. Subsequently along the way, Dream’s close minded beliefs will get upturned as he begins to discover not everything in his kingdom is as fair and just as he once thought. 

George | 20 | Changeling | Upperclass Tailor

George Pruitt is a fairly upper-class tailor born and raised in Somritas. Both of his parents are tailors, and he is one of the most skilled tailors in the city. Many members of royalty favor him and ask specifically sew their clothes for important events. He is Prince Dream's favorite tailor as well. His upbringing was regular and nothing strange happened, but around 14 years old, he started getting signs of magic. He withdrew from people and really only socialized with Dream, which is why they're so close. He tries to seem as human as possible, and hates that he's magical.

Niki | 18 | Human | Commoner

Niki lives in the northern Adrestia region in the kingdom of Somritas as a baker. She owns her own shop where she she sells breads, pastries, cookies, and the like. The unofficial hub of all mysterious strangers, Niki seems to know everyone and everything. While raised on the culture of magical non-humans being bad, her encounters throughout the years change her mind to be more open and welcome to everyone. She makes friends very easily and her shop is one of the most visited in the kingdom.

Techno | 19 | Cursed Human | Prince/Royalty

Technoblade is the prince of the kingdom of Strata, a kingdom in the Adrestia region and one that is allied to the kingdom of Somritas. He was cursed the night before his fifteenth birthday by an unknown intruder in the castle and was shunned by the general public in the kingdom because of his now ‘monstrous’ appearance. He left the kingdom even though the king and queen wanted him to stay and is now searching for someone to undo his curse, which brought him to Somritas. He stays out of the actual kingdom because he would be burned if he ever went inside due to his appearance, so he just camps out in the forest close to it and only goes to the very outskirts of the marketplace and the black market to find someone that can break the curse. Techno is extremely blunt and he’s not afraid to call someone out for being an idiot, but only when he’s comfortable with that person. He hates interaction with people that he doesn’t know and pretty much never talks to anyone unless they talk to him first. He kinda bounces around in different groups of people, but stays with Dream mostly.

Wilbur | 25 | Cursed Human | Outlaw

Wilbur was born in a family that practiced magic. One day, they were caught and the royalty put them up to be executed, but Wilbur able to escape. He would steal things on the streets and retreat to the woods at night. He did this for a couple of years, but when he was 21 he got caught and was scheduled for a public execution. He got one of his eyes removed but was able to escape by setting something on fire as a distraction. He retreated to the forest once again where he practiced witchcraft and lived somewhat peacefully. Then he met Tommy.

Fundy | 20 | Silver dragon-touched human | Traveling Healer

Fundy is a mysterious traveler that works as a healer for money, slipping in and out of towns and leaving little more than a healed patient or two and fleeting memories of him behind. He leaves little opportunity for anyone to get close, and he always carries a wooden fox mask.

Philza | Ealy 30s | Aasimar | Commoner

Phil lives outside of the kingdom, on the edge of a forest with his wife. Aside from tending to his animals and small farm he makes furniture for the more wealthy members of society. He’s an all around kind and genuine normal guy, he’s always willing to lend a helping hand. Sometimes though, when the light hits right, an ethereal glow seems to take form in the shape of a ring above his head. Despite being a regular ol' guy, rumors seem to follow him wherever he goes. Many stories spread about a winged figure slaying beasts either in traps or by their own sword, swooping out of the sky to defend people, leaving nothing left of once feared monsters. Sadly, absolutely none of the rumors are talking about him, couldn’t be. Phil’s just ordinary.

Eret | 20 | Cursed Human | Noble (Court member)

Eret is from a small town on the northern coast of Somritas. They was raised there for the first 17 years of their life surrounded by elves and magic users the entire time. It was a hidden safe haven for elves within the kingdom, a vast majority of its population being the magical creatures. The village was full of so much magic that it ended up causing the humans who lived alongside the elves to become magic sensors, hence why Eret is, well, a magic sensor. They ended up doing something, that something never being disclosed as Eret refuses to explain. It ended up with the high council of elves within the town to be LIVID. They became petty. They cursed him. They made the kid appear magical, ruining Eret’s humanity and forcing them to look similar to an elf with glowing eyes. But it backfired and destroyed their retinas, completely blinding them. So, fueled with the want for revenge, Eret turned on their village and ratted out the magical population. It just so happened to be that they ratted the village out to a royal court member. This gave them a pardon and an audience with the king who gave them an offer. They could help the king as a magic sensor and spy and continue to sniff out the magical congregations or they could burn with the village. Eret chose to stay alive, so they helped the royals torch the village.

[seasaltmemories]

Regret

Rating: T

Summary: When the nurse finished her tale, Celica promised herself that she would never become such a pitiable woman. [Arranged Marriage AU] [Trigger Warnings]

~

The first time Anthiese remembered meeting her father was when she was eleven.

A year after the villa was attacked, Sir Mycen sent a letter to Novis declaring all of Desaix collaborators jailed or executed. Since heirs were now in a sudden short supply, her father had decided it best for her to join him at Zofia Castle.

She had only started to allow herself to view the priory as a home the prior month; nevertheless, Anthiese followed the dark-hair mercenary back to the capital without complaint. With both a decade and the fire under her belt now, she didn’t feel like a child anymore. And because eleven was the oldest she had ever been, she thought that meant she must be ready to be an adult now.

For all her poise, though, it didn’t make that first night in one of the castle’s guest-rooms any easier. It was furnished with the same silks and mahoganies of the royal villa, and no matter how much she tried to reason with herself that such similarities were only natural, she still found herself dreaming that she was choking on ash. That morning she woke up convinced she was buried in the villa’s rubble and scrubbed her cheeks near raw.

Her nurse had scolded her once the episode passed and spent the rest of the morning brushing powder on her face. If she couldn’t act like an adult, then maybe she could at least try to present herself like one.

She hated the process, feeling like a porcelain doll being painted and brushed to perfection. But if someone ever took the time to ask her what she wanted, she didn’t know if she would have protested in the slightest. She suspected she wouldn’t have been able to explain at all what she expected from this journey. It was only the distance that memory provided that allowed her to give words to such a childish desire. That if she bore all her pain with grace and determination, somehow, someway she’d be rewarded.

And so, Earth Mother, she tried. She tried to hold her head high and approach the throne as if it was where she belonged.

The man who sat before had hair as red as hers. It shouldn’t have been all surprisingly, but Anthiese found herself clinging to detail all the same. She liked to think she had never needed him before in her life, but it was thrilling to imagine he might need her in return. So she went through whole ritual of curtsying and giving her most genuine respect.

When she lifted her head again, she found her father looking at her as if he was meeting a god. Trembling, he extended a swollen red hand.

“Liprica?” It was barely a murmur, but the stink of his wine-soaked breath still overwhelmed her. When he moved to cradle a curl of hers, she couldn’t help but recoil.

His eyes widened, as if coming out from a waking dream, and somehow she knew in that instant that he’d never look at her with that same reverence ever again.

It didn’t take long for him to dismiss Anthiese back to her chambers. Once there, the cool mask of maturity she had been weaving since she had received the missive fell apart. She found herself bawling like a newborn, kicking and screaming at any of the maids that tried to restrain her.

Then, like a flash of lightning, her nurse struck her across the cheek. The fear and pain that followed was so overwhelming, Anthiese went silent almost immediately.

“How dare you behave in such a selfish manner! What kind of daughter refuses her own father’s affections?!”

Something deep inside of her started to catalyze. She didn’t quite know what she was becoming, but she had the feeling she wasn’t quite Anthiese anymore.

“Who is Liprica?” It felt dangerous to ask, but the question fell from her lips before she could take it back.

The nurse furrowed her brow in pity. Surprisingly, she picked up the child and gathered her in her lap. In the last show of tenderness she could remember, the nurse recounted the story of the only woman the king had ever loved.

When she finished her tale, Celica promised herself that she would never become such a pitiable woman.

~

When Celica awoke in Mila’s cell, she felt that same sense of transformation pull at her limbs. While her memory and vision came back to her slowly but surely, some third, indescribable part of her seemed to leak out onto the ground. Like a cocoon cracked open before it could hatch into a butterfly, if she was supposed to become someone else again, she had no clue anymore on how to get there.

She liked to think it was courage or bravery that compelled her to stand, but that felt too optimistic a conjecture to make. Picking up Falchion and climbing past the torn cell bars seemed more muscle memory than anything deliberate. She didn’t know what could possibly be fueling her at this point. With each breath she swallowed, she tasted the ash that still lingered in the air.

Earth Mother...

She didn’t know if it was a prayer or a curse. As much as Celica rather forget it, the memory of Mila’s grasp had been burned into her memory. No matter how many times she went back to try and construct a different version of events, Mila’s claws seemed to tear into her mind each time.

You didn’t take imprisonment gracefully either...

Celica’s mind drifted back towards the Rigelian maid she burned. She must have seemed just as monstrous and terrifying as Mila in that moment. Guilt swirled inside Celica’s stomach like a storm, but she tried to channel it into something positive. If there was hope for her, then perhaps Mila might calm with time.

Are you sure you’re so above reproach?

Celica bit her lip and pressed forward into the darkness of the tunnels. Perhaps this whole underground was her cocoon. She wouldn’t be able to see what she’d become until she left.

~

It was dawn when Alm reemerged from his grief. Not because the pain had subsided or because he had somehow overcome it, but rather because he was simple too exhausted to sob any longer. All his pity and empathy had been wrung out of him like washing rag.

From the distance, he saw Berkut lead a squadron of soldiers up towards the bastion. And despite how he knew Father meant to Berkut, meant to everyone, a strange possessiveness overtook him. He found himself moving towards the top end of the ramparts, blocking any view of Father’s body.

“Alm--” Berkut struggled to catch his breath, eyes wild and unfocused. “--there you are! Do you have any idea what’s been--”

“I know!” Despite himself, Alm’s voice came out harsher than he wanted. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ve just--”

As Alm struggled to find some words that might capture the last few hours, Berkut pushed past him. Alm couldn’t stop him before he managed to catch sight of the ugly scene.

“Uncle...” Those two syllables managed to break Alm’s heart all over again. There was a weakness to Berkut’s voice he hadn’t heard since the two of them were children. Alm leaned forward to comfort him; however before he could complete his embrace, Berkut gripped his forearms in a tight squeeze.

“Who did this!?” Berkut hissed.

Mila’s shadow hung heavy over the two men. This was a conversation that they had sworn to keep behind closed doors, but what were they supposed to do once everything had been blown open?

“It was her, wasn’t it? Never should have let her out of our sight!”

“What do you want me to do?!” Alm could feel what little control he had mustered start to fray. “He’s gone now! Nothing can change that! Not even a brand!”

Alm wondered what this must look to the outside world: Rigel’s two fine princes yelling like madman. All of Father’s hard work to crafting the perfect golden hero vanquished before he even had a grave to roll around in.

From that thought, the sorrow returned, stronger than ever before. However before the tears could return, Berkut dug his nails into his skin.

“Don’t you dare.” There was a dangerous calmness to his voice. “You don’t have the luxury of grief anymore. You have to be able to do what’s necessary for the country.”

He turned around to face the squadron. “Everyone kneel! You have the honor to bask in the presence of our sovereign emperor!” Berkut fell to his knees in front of Alm, and like dominoes, each following soldier did the same.

“All hail Albine Alm Rudolf II, may his reign be righteous and just!” The cry went out like a chorus, ringing across the ramparts. With each round, another further group repeated it, until the entire castle was shouting as one voice.

It took all of Alm’s willpower not to vomit.

When Berkut rose again, he was quick to issue orders about funeral and burial preparations. As the squadron dispersed Alm wanted nothing more than to fade into the wind--to let the one who truly wanted this responsibility take it. But before he could voice any of those thoughts, Berkut caught him off-guard with one final question.

“Do you have any idea if your wedding gift is still secure?”

Alm was puzzled for a moment. Wedding gift had been their code for Mila since his marriage was arranged. How could he go from recognizing her involvement to asking about her imprisonment?

Suddenly everything came together with terrifying clarity.

Where in the world was Anthiese?

~

Celica had trouble discerning how long she had been in the underground tunnels. There was no natural lighting to indicate if it was night or day. No people going about their daily routine. For all she knew she could have been unconscious for centuries, and spend another few running around in circles. The only way to prove herself wrong, would be if she kept pressing forward regardless.

On one hand the solitude was, all things considered, welcomed--she still felt too fuzzy to attempt any stealth maneuvers. On the other hand though, the further she ventured, the further she felt unmoored from the rest of the world. When she first descended down here, she had mostly followed the pain in her brand. Without its guide, she had no idea where to go.

After what felt like ages wandering in the darkness, Celica found a green feather lying at a crossroads. Immediately she ran up to it, as if it were a talisman that might save her soul. And while even under closer scrutiny, she couldn’t discern anything further about the feather, she noticed a fresh set of claw marks on the rightmost wall. Whether intentional or not, the Earth Mother had not completely abandoned her. And so despite all odds, Celica allowed herself to believe in the hope that she would not stay lost forever, that if she was meant to die, it wasn’t here.

For a moment, it seemed as if her hopes weren’t for nothing. In time her makeshift trail of plumage and scratches brought her to an room so warmly lit, it almost blinded her. Something about that orange glow tugged at Celica’s heart strings. The relief was so great, she almost believed she might be able to truly love Rigel. That she’d never need anything ever again, and she’d be good and obedient if it meant staving off the dread that seemed poised to swallow her whole. She couldn’t help but run to the light without looking back.

However as her vision adjusted, any comfort she had managed to dream up, evaporated in an instant.

From the slick marble tile and high-vaulted ceilings, she could tell that this once was a place of grand splendor. There was a strange nostalgia to the splintered benches and crumbling columns, but she found her gaze being drawn mostly to the broken slab at the far end of the hall. It was hard to say, but perhaps if she put all her attention to reconstructing what it could have been, then maybe the stench of death and decay would fade away. Things would go back to the way they were supposed to be, and she wouldn’t have to live in this nightmare anymore.

Celica didn’t realize she had continued wandering forward until she tripped and found herself on the cool floor. Blankly, she checked to see what had made her fall. She expected to find a loose stone or cracked board, but instead a limp, bruised arm laid sprawled across the path. When it twitched, she could help but shriek.

However rather than reach out and grab her, the arm did nothing but spasm weakly. Instead the true source of life came from the groan that echoed across the room. She followed the arm to find the source to be Jedah of all people, crushed under a pile of rubble.

“Anthiese...is that really you?” His words were slurred and difficult to make out. The only sign of life on his blood-crusted face was the slight tremor of his lip as he spoke.

Celica shivered. His choked voice made her blood run so cold, her tongue felt frozen in place. She tried her best to get away from the horrid sound, but in the process of trying to push herself up, Falchion clattered against the floor with a piercing ring.

“That sword!” He gasped. Quickly Celica picked it back up, a new possessiveness overwhelming her, but he seemed content to simply follow the light that bounced off the blade. “...that’s why he forsook us. You used our own tools to conquer us.”

“My intention has never been to conquer Rigel.” Celica spat.

“Look around you. Duma’s Faithful have been on death row for the longest time. This is just the noose finally tightening around our neck. Now your goddess can reign completely.”

Again Celica remembered the sensation of Mila’s claws on her chin. She wondered if she looked closely, how many other corpses she might find. She wondered if their bodies would carry the same wounds as her.

“Perhaps this is Duma’s last lesson...” Jedah mused. “In my arrogance, I thought I had tamed you thoroughly enough. Let that boy influence me too much. Now you shall be our undoing.”

Celica’s skin crawled. As much as her hatred for him hadn’t diminished in the slightest, she did not want to watch him die. Even as she tried to look away, she couldn’t stop from noticing all the blood stains that lined the walls. Just how many other corpses were hiding among this room? How much blood would stain her hands before Mila’s rampage ended?

“I didn’t want this.” Celica whispered--as if any of that mattered at this point.

When what remained of Jedah’s life began to fade away--she found herself closing her eyes and raising her face towards heaven. If it was a prayer, then she only prayed her drumming heartbeat would drown out his dying gasps.

When she heard a group of soldier shout for her arrest, she didn’t resist.

~

News of Anthiese didn’t get to him until late that night. After Berkut found him, he passed Alm off to Massena for a more formal coronation. Even if Rigel Castle hadn’t been in such a dismal state, succession had become a fraught topic since Father ascended to the throne. Up until now, every heir had been required to be blessed by the Duma Faithful before they could rule. In theory such a thing shouldn’t be necessary now that the Emperor also doubled as head of the Church, but wars had been fought over more insignificant details in the past. As a result, Alm spent most of his day signing documents and sending letters, certain Jedah would interrupt him at any moment. When sunset came and there was still no attempt of a coup, Massena finally bestowed Alm his crown and declared him emperor.

The only witnesses were General Zeke and his wife.

Alm was escorted back to his old chambers afterwards. In theory, they’d have a more public ceremony tomorrow, so it be better if he looked like he had at least gotten an hour or two of sleep. Still even his study had not escaped the day untouched. A pile of notes the height of his forearm laid on top his desk, all addressed to Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf II.

Despite the hour, he still felt the vast emptiness from the morning, somehow too exhausted for sleep. So he tried to do what he thought a chosen hero should do. He lit a candle and went to work.

Anthiese’ report was nestled in between a record of civilian deaths and an estimate charge for castle repairs. He’d be lying if he acted as if he hadn’t be thinking of her all day, but he forced himself to read the paper at the same detached pace as every other piece.

It claimed that the lost princess had been found in Duma Temple, next to Father Jedah’s wasting body. Considering the number of Duma Faithful found dead, she was currently being imprisoned on charges for mass murder. However most of the corpses had been found under rubble and other debris; the report argued it was unlikely she had been the only one responsible. The only piece of evidence she could have been involved was the sword she had been found with.

Alm read the last sentence over. Then he read it again and again, until the words started to blur before his eyes. He pushed the document away and took a deep breath. He tried to hope against hope.

He pulled out the charges for repairs. He read the first line of figures. Then he crumpled it into a ball and headed for the dungeons.

On his journey downwards, Alm couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time he made this trip. If he had reported first to Father as expected, would he still be here today? As illogical as it sounded, he couldn’t stop from trying to pinpoint everything went wrong, when Father’s demise had been locked in place.

“Promise me you won’t let her lead you astray.”

That had been some of his last words. And yet despite everything, when Alm thought of Anthiese, he still imagined her flushed face and the sensation of her lips against his eyelids. He didn’t want to open his eyes, see what she must really think of him when not performing for his pleasure.

This time there was no forcing his way in. The minute the guard saw him, she immediately stepped aside and gave a deep bow. “Is this going to be a private interrogation?” She asked while handing him the keys. And maybe this was another mistake, another point of no return he was damning himself to, but he wanted the two of them to be honest for once, about Mila and everything in between.

“Yes,” He answered. And by the time the door slammed shut, she had all but disappeared down the hall.

A long time ago, Father had told him that the worst thing an Emperor could do, was appear anxious. Any physical tics or irregular breathing could turn into a terrible tell for enemies to exploit. Therefore, Alm took his time facing Anthiese, slowly inhaling and exhaling until the rise in his chest was barely noticeable.

When he finally looked up he found her curled up on the floor wearing a torn set of his shirt and trousers. Shackles chained her to the wall, only allowing a short range of movement, yet even that amount of freedom made him uneasy. He struggled to predict what might occur if she got her hands on him.

“Wake up,” Alm ordered.

He struggled to trust what might occur if he got his hands on her.

The only sign of life she showed was the singular cold eye that peeked out behind her curtain of hair. She looked less like the alluring temptress from the night before and more like a stray hound.

“Most of the time, the high judge is the one to lay out the case, but just this once, I’m going to give you the chance to explain yourself.” He tried to speak with Father’s commanding presence.

Anthiese tilted her head to the side. For a moment she just stared. Then a sickening giggle began to scratch its way out of her throat.

“How nice. Do I get to choose the method of execution as well?”

Alm’s eyes narrowed. “I’d stop the jokes if I were you. The high judge lost his wife this morning. He’s not likely to have much sympathy for you.”

Anthiese stopped giggling. “Do you have sympathy for me?”

His brand ached at her words, as if it was just now being etched into his skin. He wondered if perhaps it was something like an infected wound, slowly spreading to the rest of him.

“Don’t mock my mercy,” He took a step forward, ignoring the pain. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? What wielding that blade means?”

“I’m not an idiot.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I know you already know about the temple and how much blood they say is on my hands. What’s the use in asking for my story?”

“A man is supposed to think the best of his wife.” His words caught on something sharp inside of himself. “An orphaned king must be the loneliest creature in the world. If possible, I don’t want to lose you too.”

“That’s your problem,” Anthiese snapped. “You’ve forgotten Jedah’s warnings. How could a Zofian woman be anything but duplicitous and selfish? It doesn’t matter if you pamper her with flowers, you can’t change nature.” She leaned forward and bared her teeth. “You should have locked me up our wedding night.”

Alm could feel his blood hum through his body. It felt like an entire colony wasps was needling at his skin, wanting to burst clean from his body and swarm. Images of a manor in the woods he did not want to think about flooded his mind.

“Tell me you didn’t know you were doing.” He begged. For a moment he believed that was all they needed to return to the magic of their night together.

Anthiese pushed herself up so that they were eye level. “I rather watch the continent burn than become anything resembling my mother.”

He wished he could say he was blinded with rage. He wished his body had acted as a separate creature from him. but if anything, he felt more like himself than he had all day when he slammed his fist into her cheek.

Anthiese hit the floor hard, her chin catching on a loose stone. A slow stream of blood started to dribble down her neck as Alm gasped for breath. Carefully, she picked herself up, cradling her cheek.

“Thank you, Emperor Albein--” Her voice was cold and distant. “--for finally showing me your gentle, tender care.” The giggle returned louder than ever.

But despite all her best efforts, she could stop the tears that were streaming down her face.

A.N. Well, man was last chapter a bad cliffhanger to end on.  I'm real sorry for the whole two year hiatus, definitely had a lot of personal projects to focus on.  Good news though, this is now the WIP at the top of my "to finish" list.  At the very least, I finally feel as confident as I'll ever be with this chapter, while there are still plenty of questions to answer, I thought it important to really get this personal reactions from the two of them, I wanted to show how grief and trauma can really consume ppl in the worst ways, how it can be defined by painful absences as much as vivid hauntings.

[hogwartsfirebolt]

Ways you said I love you prompt: Without needing to say the words

I couldn’t find this prompt on the list, but it was so beautiful the story started writing itself in my head. Thank you very much for asking ❤️

Ways you said I love you: Without needing to say the words.

Draco dreams of the forest. A forest, he supposes, but it feels like the forest.

In the dream, he’s holding a stone and looking at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter. In the dream, he’s crying. He can hear his parents calling out for him, he can hear, still, the echo of bombardas that he knows should have ended hours before.

He knows, in the dream, that things had gone the way he always knew they had to. He knows that he wishes they hadn’t. That, in the dream, he’s devastated.

That heartbreak follows him into daylight, drapes itself over him like a cloak. He feels it when he wakes, feels it as he walks the halls of the manor he commands, feels it as he’s told by his house elf that his father has called by floo and is waiting for him. He feels it as he hears him say, “the Potter boy was seen in Dorset three days ago. You know what to do if you find him.”

The heartbreak follows him all day, because he knows if he sees Harry Potter, he has to kill him. He knows that he will. And he mourns him already, the man he has never met, the man who is more legend than man, because he remembers himself standing in that forest. Because, in a dream, he knew him.

He also knows what’s expected of him, and he will follow through. Even if it kills him.

-

But this is not that kind of story.

-

What happened was this: the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord was born as the seventh month died.

And so, one fateful Halloween night, the man who called himself Lord Voldemort aimed his wand at that baby, after killing everyone standing on his way. He didn’t flinch or bat an eye, way past the point of hesitating before taking a life, even if it was the life of an innocent, wide-eyed one year old who stared at him with his arms outstretched, looking for comfort. He aimed his wand and said the words that would kill him.

The babe, defenseless, just sat there.

...but killing off a child would not be very PG-13 of us, would it, and so what happened was this: the little boy broke the Killing Curse as it slammed against him, turned it into endless fragments of green light, tendrils of black magic that floated up into the ceiling like dancing fingers, fading into nothing. Some of it slipped inside of him through his weeping little baby mouth, through his wide green eyes, through the jagged crack the impact put on his forehead, but most of it – gone.

And yes, the boy was nestled in a cocoon of protective magic strengthened by his parents’ sacrifice, but he was an actual baby, and a powerful curse slamming against him was certainly enough to knock him out, even if he did have a bit of a magical force field. He passed out. He did not die.

The man who called himself Lord Voldemort – perhaps not much of a man after all –  did not die that day, either, in any way, shape or form. There was no rebound to the spell. From his side of the wand, it appeared as if it had hit the boy and done what it was due.

He peered into the crib that held the unconscious baby and, being a Dark Lord and therefore not knowing the first thing about babies, assumed his work there was done. Satisfied, he turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs, ready to continue his pursuit of power, now unstoppable. That’s what he thought.

But the boy had not died, as we’ve established. What happened to him was this: a devastated young man in a flying motorcycle found him and, you know, like a regular person, thought to shake him around a bit before assuming he was dead. And the baby knew him, so he sighed with relief upon waking, lay against the man’s chest and fell back asleep clutching his battered jacket in his tiny fists.

When Hagrid came for the boy, Sirius insisted on accompanying him, and together they met Albus Dumbledore in Surrey. Yes, unfortunately that still happened.

We know how this story could have gone. But it is not how it went.

What happened was this: young Sirius Black now had an alibi. Even though the baby was still left in a terrible home with his terrible aunt and uncle, his godfather, a free man, visited him in the form of a dog – against Dumbledore’s orders, but, in young Sirius’ words, he did not give a shit – and taught him about magic all through his childhood. Harry Potter was a happy boy. He knew his stay in Privet Drive was momentary, he knew as soon as that man “Dumbledore” allowed it, his godfather would take him.

A few things changed, of course. This is not the story we knew. Let us try to break it to you… gently.

  1. Harry James Potter received the “you’re a wizard” talk at 4 years old, as soon as Sirius thought he’d be old enough to understand it.

  2. Sirius Black told him all about his parents as well. Showed him pictures and books and sometimes cried while he cradled Harry to sleep.

  3. Sirius Black, unbeknownst to Harry, once slipped into the Dursley’s bedroom at night, let them think he was a demon, and threatened to unleash hell’s wrath upon them if they weren’t nice to their nephew. It worked.

  4. Lord Voldemort didn’t die that Halloween night.

  5. Lord Voldemort continued his campaign for power and immortality.

  6. Lord Voldemort gained terrain over the Ministry, terrorized and devastated magical villages, established governors in each of them –  Death Eaters, all of them.

  7. Lord Voldemort directed a series of attacks against ministry facilities.

  8. On Christmas Eve, 1986, the Ministry fell. Millicent Bagnold was killed in her office, and Pius Thicknesse was appointed Minister in her place.

  9. Lord Voldemort gained full control of magical Britain.

  10. Albus Dumbledore visited when Harry turned 7 and told him the story of Tom Riddle, the man, and Voldemort, the monster. Harry was 7, and Dumbledore let him know he was a soldier. He let him know he was the most powerful wizard of all time, probably. He let him know he was their only hope. Harry was 7.

Everything was different.

Harry was whisked away from Privet Drive and taken to Grimmauld Place. He was 7, and his transformation into a warrior, a bringer of hope, began.

-

Harry Potter is, at 20 years old, a first priority criminal, wanted by a corrupt government for treason and criminal disloyalty.

The tips of his fingers hold more power than many wizarding folk see in their entire lives, charged with years of training, charged with light and dark magic, balanced inside of him like night and day. And what he does is this: he walks. There’s a member of the Resistance next to him, always, a different one each day as he walks through the country, feet calloused, refusing to apparate anywhere before he sees it all. He walks, passes villages in his search for horcruxes, and bestows small miracles upon those who need him.

He comes and goes, more legend than man. In places where governors reign wielding terror as their weapon, the people await him. His name is whispered in taverns, held close like a secret, like something precious, and when he appears, white hooded cloak shadowing his face, it’s as if rain poured after centuries of drought. He smells of dirt before a storm, of fresh grass, and every house welcomes him in secret in the middle of the night.

His hands brush over burning foreheads, over broken arms, through strands of hair, and his touch is curative. His words slide smooth like a balm over wounded souls, his message — we will win this, I will win this, worry not, fear not, for I will end this — the love everyone feels for him, deep in their hearts. He’s a stranger, but he’s not. In places where fear has become a living, breathing thing, villages where everyone cowers before their leaders, people bow down for their warrior, kiss his calloused hands, his scarred forehead, and what little they have they give him so he can continue his trip.

At night, after he has left, the air smells different, smells like him, like rain and lightning, and his message of love is whispered into the night with the certainty that he will free them, he will free them.

Harry Potter, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. The boy who lived, the man destined to become a savior.

At night, people come together in secret and say, “long live Harry Potter, savior of all.”

-

He’s just a boy, too.

He flies over Dorset, broom held tight between his legs as he makes his way to the Resistance’s refuge in East Devon. The hands that cured a man of blindness earlier, now push through a wooden door and find their way around the back of his godfather, who was up waiting for him. Desperate times, but that man always has a smile for Harry.

“News of civilization?” He asks then, holding him tight, letting him know it’s okay to share the burden of his responsibilities if only for a minute.

“Yes. A man knows of a man who bought the cup. We need to move to Wiltshire.”

That’s how he lives. Just a boy who happens to be a savior, who lives nowhere and everywhere, who knows his duty, who has trained his whole life to achieve it.

And Sirius goes with him. “We’ll hit the road tomorrow.”

-

When Harry Potter knocks on his door, Draco almost sicks up on the spot.

Piercing green eyes stare at him, ready for a fight. But Draco is smart. He knows Harry Potter has come looking for something. Draco reads the paper, talks to his father daily about the information they have on Potter at the Ministry. He wouldn’t come, unless he was looking for something.

Draco should kill him, should end this, win the Dark Lord’s favor.

But he dreamt of a forest, and of knowing this man who carries the wild in his eyes.

He lets him in.

-

Malfoy Manor is full of secrets. Harry coaxes them out of hiding, cradles them near his chest and learns about darkness by stumbling into it in every corner.

The cup calls for him from the heart of the house, and he finds it on the second day of his stay, unearths it from a coffin in the depths of the dungeons. He destroys it on the spot, unspools the layers of iron with the magic contained beneath his fingernails, and destroys it.

When he turns, Draco Malfoy is in the corner. The child of a Death Eater.

But Harry has been in many places, seen enough repentance to recognize it in downcast grey eyes. He lowers his cloak and walks to the child of a Death Eater, holds his head between his hands.

“You can tell me.”

“There’s more where that cup came from,” Draco mutters, as if Harry had forced it out of him. He could have, but he didn’t.

“Will you show me?” And he can tell this man whose beautiful face he holds between his fingertips knows little of gentleness, knows it because he sees him flinch at Harry’s uncomplicated love and soft words.

“I should turn you in.”

“Will you show me?”

Draco shows him.

-

He learns more from Harry Potter the first two weeks they spend together than he did in 7 years at Hogwarts.

In the mornings, he steps out the door to find Harry kneeling by the flower beds, and when he turns to Draco his smile is wide and gentle, “Look at this,” he says, and with a touch to their petals, he makes the buds shake off their stupor and bloom, nurses them back to health. “Every living thing is ready to thrive, if you ask nicely.”

In the evenings, when they share a meal by the fire, he can’t stop himself from thinking about his father. About the fact that he’s betraying him. And Harry knows, because he always knows. In the short time they’ve spent together, he’s always seemed to know.

“Once you’ve passed your own limit, punishing yourself for love, you will start hating yourself, Draco,” he tells him as if he could read his mind, and then reaches for his hands and plays with his fingers, traces an outline of vines and flowers along Draco’s arms with magic, with locks of pure, blue light. “And if you think you know what’s right, that’s what you should do.”

And it’s nothing Draco doesn’t know. He knows what’s right, knows the magic of Harry’s hands, knows his heaving chest after an evening looking through the libraries for clues of where he needs to go next, he knows his profile, has been staring at it for days, he knows what he feels after Harry kisses his hands and tells him he can join them if he wants, they have room for him, he has room for him.

He knows what’s right. Harry’s message of love, of life is what’s right. And he would walk through fire if Harry asked, but right now, he’s simply asking him to thrive, if he’s ready.

He’s ready.

-

“The locket is in Inverness,” Harry says. He can see Draco flinch, and he knows the reason. “We have a fortress there. Will you come with me?”

He knows the reason.

-

This is what it’s like, walking with him: there’s magic where Draco never thought to look before. In the eyes of a child, who feels hope for the first time, in the lips of a mother that kisses Harry’s hands and Draco’s forehead. There’s magic in Harry’s feet as they touch the ground and make flowers bloom around him, as he brings life to everything around him, offers tenderness and words of love in places where authoritarian brutality is the norm.

It’s this: walking into prisons at night and melting out the iron keeping innocents locked in. It’s colors seeping into grey, it’s Harry reaching into a tree and it producing a perfect, ripe apple to gift to him, it’s Harry pressing it to Draco’s lips with a smile and saying, “here, you’ve earned it.” It’s Draco biting into it and being certain of the fact that he loves this man, tasting it in the sweet, sweet juice after breaking the skin of the fruit.

He knows, now, that Harry is the legend he has always heard about. He’s infinite, raw power poured into the purest vessel it could find, he’s gentleness to his core, he’s magnetic and good. He makes it impossible not to love him.

And he knows, now, that Harry is also the boy everyone forgot used to hide underneath that cloak. That for all the life he brings everywhere he walks, there’s a solemnity he carries in his chest, the burden of hope heavy between his shoulder blades, crushing him even if he does not know.

Sirius comes and goes, joins them on their trip and disappears on recon missions, over and over. Once, when they’re alone, Draco tells him about it, says “he’s just a boy” and Sirius sighs because he knows what it’s like to love him, to love this boy who is both young and ancient, like Draco does, and can’t even assure him, because there’s many ways this could end, and only one of them, the least likely of them, lets them keep him.

So he gives Draco a stone.

-

It takes them a year. Harry makes his way through England and Scotland, brings hope and freedom to the people as he searches for the items he needs to destroy the Dark Lord.

Draco guides him into Hogwarts, hand in hand, the moment they know where to find the last one. As Harry destroys it, he sees Draco cry.

He hasn’t told him what Harry has always known, that the way this ends for him is in sacrifice, but he thinks Draco must suspect. So he holds him in his arms and smooths his hands through his hair and over his eyelids. “It’s almost over, my beloved. Now let him come to me.”

He makes himself sound more confident than he feels. For the first time, as he holds Draco close, he doubts his own faith, for entirely selfish reasons.

But he remembers his lessons, and he remembers Dumbledore, and the Order, and reminds himself that this is what he was born for.

“Let him come to me.”

-

Draco knows what Harry is going to do, and sees him try to hide it. He sees him fight, sees him help every single witch and wizard to cross paths with him, the way he always does.

And when they part ways in the midst of the battle later that night, when Draco sees his mother, he feels something shatter inside of him and knows it’s happening. So he runs.

-

“The boy who lived, come to die.”

“You think this ends with me, Tom, but it doesn’t. The people’s pain is more powerful than their fear, and they won’t be silent. Do not think they’ll be silent. From the other side, I will see them bring you down.”

And then a curse, finally doing what it was due all those years before.

-

He stands in the forest, a stone held tight between his fingers. He can hear his parents’ cries for him in the distance, running towards him, echoes of bombardas that should have stopped hours before. He stares at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter.

“Why?”

“This was the only way he would die. I know you don’t understand, Draco, but this was the only way.”

“But he’s not dead, he went back to the castle, he’s making everyone pick sides. Harry, it’s over, it’s over.”

-

Harry stands in Kings Cross.

He’s given a choice, and he thinks of the burden, thinks of what his life might look like now, what will be expected of him next.

He thinks of the boy with the grey eyes.

He makes his choice.

-

In the morning light, a hero is reborn. Draco tosses him a wand and runs to fight next to him. Where he always belonged.

Afterwards, when the withering body of a man who was a monster hits the ground, they walk into the Hall, hand in hand, covered in dust from head to toe. Harry touches every bloodstained forehead, every dead body, presses his forehead to them and whispers words in the ancient language of the magic that runs through his veins, through underground streams and every living, breathing thing.

Everywhere in the Hall, eyes begin to open, and look into a new world.

-

“The change is only starting,” Draco tells him, as they stand with their foreheads pressed together outside the castle.

“It has started, my beloved.”

He doesn’t say he loves him, but Draco has known from the beginning, hears the words in the spaces between, slowly, dripping from every pore of Harry’s skin.

“We should go away for a while, just… while the dust settles.” Harry doesn’t protest, but Draco sees it in his eyes, and so, he interrupts his thoughts with a soft press of cracked lips, rough to touch, tender to heart. When he pulls away, Harry’s smile is nearly blinding. “You deserve it, for once. Besides, I know of a place in Wiltshire where the flowers sing your name.”

“And you?”

“And I sing it, too. I sing it, my love.”

[merryfortune]

Leech

Un-Love You Challenge: 06. I want to need you

Ship: Daruizen/Nodoka

Fandom: Healin’ Good PreCure

Word Count: 2.7k

Synopsis: There's a pity in wanting and in needing, pity that Nodoka obliges when Daruizen, in the form of a Nanobyougen, asks for a little more than just refuge.

   A faint tap, tap, tap on her widow competed with the scratch, scratch, scratch of Nodoka’s pencil in her work booklet as she completed a bout of English homework and study. At first, she had thought it her imagination but there was something pitiful, like a baby bird, about this noise so she decided, sliding her chair back, the sound of the feet dragging on the wooden floorboards was musical, it was time to investigate and so, she did.

   She stood by her far side window: it was huge and she always felt caught up in some awe of the wind and sunshine and in that glint, she saw it. Small and tiny and yes, something incredibly pitiful and Nodoka’s heart ached. Not for a baby bird, although that was almost accurate as she thought of what was fought for by the lakeside that an arborist cherished, but for something else.

   “Daruizen…? Is that you?” Nodoka murmured as she caught this tiny little thing in her hands upon opening the window.

   He looked up at her. His body was small and bulbous save for his wiry, leathery wings but admittedly, he didn’t look like much. Not compared to the final iteration of his self that Nodoka had seen and had vanquished as Cure Grace. Oh, she remembered him as being as colossal as a skyscraper and as being so resistant to how she and her friends could fight him because of all the Mega Parts that he had inserted into himself. 

   He had gone from being a giant among villains to being able to fit in the palm of Nodoka’s hand. He resembled Shindoine in this form: round and winged, not much by the way of being humanlike or anything else like that but apparently, he was still capable of emotions, of speech.

   He looked up at her with a wounded expression, teardrops in the corners of his acidic yellow eyes, “Help me, please, Cure Grace.”

   Nodoka grimaced. She sighed and she still felt the sunshine on her face. She still felt that what her past deeds unto Daruizen were right and justified. Rabirin’s words as a confidante and source of direction rang true to her right now and in her ear and yet, her heart ached for the misery that she held in her hands. 

   Daruizen turned shy in her hands. His wings cramped and crowded him as he hung what little of his head that he could, in shame. Nodoka moved a hand and Daruizen shuddered. She was gentle as she pet the top of his head with her fingertip, considering what she ought to do.

   She had wanted to help him but that past tense to her desire was quickly becoming present tense. Without Rabirin, or even Asumi, to defer to on short notice for counsel, it was up to Nodoka to make her own decisions and she knew in her heart that she was a good, kind person and she wanted to extend the help that she had received from friends, family, and medical professionals to even the undeserving like Daruizen. She sighed.

   “I’ve hopefully built up enough immunity to you, after everything that’s happened.” Nodoka murmured but her brows pinched forward. “However, if you do anything untoward then there will be consequences.” She said that even when she stroked the top of his head.

   Daruizen cuddled up to her. As though he were making a promise to behave but Nodoka was sceptical of him. Even if he looked all adorable and pathetic in this form. She sighed. Disappointed in herself that she was even letting him melt her heart like this. She just knew if Rabirin were here, she would disapprove but as she was not, all that mattered was Daruizen’s approval and already, Nodoka could feel him leech life energy from herself through her finger. Like a pinprick. 

   He nattered pleasantly and already, Nodoka could see some difference in his Nano-Byougen form. His wings fluttered and he was eager for more but Nodoka bopped him on the head.

   “No.” she scolded him. “You’re only allowed a little bit per day. I - I’m still really scared of when you went berserk with the Mega Parts… I don’t want that happening again.” The strength her voice quavered when she revealed her fear.

   Daruizen’s eyes glimmered. They neither softened or hardened; showed sympathy nor harshness; showed only that he had heard Nodoka and he had listened to her, too. And so, with a tender uneasiness, Nodoka allowed Daruizen into her life once more. 

   She returned to her desk to study and Daruizen stayed nearby, as though chained or leashed to her presence. He was mostly unnoticeable but Nodoka felt distinctly irritated to have him around. Even as she tried to do her homework, their previous encounters played hard and fast and sharp in her head. It was difficult to believe that such a powerful foe and combatant, one who had so closely rivalled her in every step of the way on her journey of being a Pretty Cure could be rendered so lowly and microscopic. That he even remained at all.

   Yet despite this friction between them, Nodoka found it did get easier. Though there had been many a moment wherein she had been tempted to keep him all locked up in a jar, she didn’t. Every couple of hours in the daylight, she gave him a little bit of herself to have a nibble on. That, too, got easier as well. 

   At first, it felt a pinprick and then, Nodoka didn’t notice it at all. What was once a chore to her, soon became something that she looked forward to or even enjoyed. Of course, “soon” spanned many days, even a month or so. It wasn’t something that happened swiftly like a river, more like the slow erosion that one would have caused by surging through a valley. 

   Daruizen’s gratitude became cute to her. The way his face lit up when the energy he absorbed was particularly rich with good vibrations and energising magic; the way his wings scrunched up when Nodoka had had a crummy day and it was reflecting in the residual magic that he fed off her. Either way, these little in between moments were becoming increasingly precious to Nodoka.

   Even if they didn’t speak much - as in having grand conversations - it was still apparent that he was only doing this for himself. He wanted what he had lost back and honestly, Nodoka couldn’t blame him for that. She wanted her own magic as Cure Grace back pretty badly as well. Not that her health was failing or otherwise declining since giving up the rod, but it wasn’t exactly superhuman. Nodoka had gotten less paper cuts, less bumps and scratches having her alter ego Cure Grace around, she observed. She could even run a little bit farther on her running route as well, she had had to shorten it as well now that it had been several months since she had last felt the power of being a Pretty Cure course through her.

   So yeah, she could understand why Daruizen wanted to be a big, mean Terabyougen again. She just hoped that when it was all done and dusted, he wasn’t going to be that big or that mean. He was pretty manageable, and even downright adorable, being this small and useless. 

   As peculiar as their relationship was - calling them host and parasite was probably the most accurate way to describe the nuances of their relationship, she thinks - Nodoka had gotten used to him. She was even going to miss him when he had gotten his powers back and decided to vanish. Doing whatever it was that armyless Terabyougens do, Nodoka supposed.

   She had even let him sleep with him as of late. Again, really. Just like old times in a stretch of the imagination. After all, they had been literally inseparable for several years in Nodoka’s childhood and preadolescence. Even if they were mostly oblivious to each other, but he did make a good little bed bug. He didn’t bite.

   Daruizen would brood on her pillow, just by her face and together, they would sleep. Sometimes, Daruizen would rest against her face and Nodoka would enjoy just how velvety he felt, even if it was a velvet streaked with grease or oil and she would wake up with some sort of smear to wipe off his morning and he enjoyed her warmth. The warmth that humans emanated was gentle, it was uncubatory and safe, completely unlike the unrelenting and horrible warmth of the magmic, undermined world of the Byougens.

   Even so, their routine was very touch and go. The cat might have been out of the bag regarding the Pretty Cures and her parents knowing about all of that was well past gone but it was a completely different feline to worry about if they were to find out that one of those monsters was still around. And even worse, living under their roof with their precious daughter but somewhere in amongst those daily cycles of giving Daruizen the table scraps of her energy, she had forgotten that one day, it might be entirely possible that her parents, or her friends, might find out about him.

   Daruizen had latched onto her fingers as per usual to have a feed of her energy whilst she flipped through the book she was meant to be reading for literature class when there was a bright light. Daruizen had eaten his fill and so, he reverted to his previous form, more evolved than his present.

   Nodoka was blinded as Daruizen transformed in front of her. She stumbled back off her chair and even fell onto the floor as she looked up at the unfolding cataclysm of white and red and black. From the kitchen below, she could hear her parents call and fuss for her but she could hardly find her voice as she bore witness to the rebirth of the Byougens General Daruizen. Her heart hammered in her chest and all she could do was tremble as her room was filled with these blinding lights.

   Yet it wasn’t because he was her enemy that she was horrified. Nodoka was horrified, she was actually wondering if that’s what it was like to transform into Cure Grace in front of others and just before that wondering could transform into a reverie, she was accosted by Daruizen. She heard the dull thumps of his feet landing on the floor, then she heard the sound of knees dropping on the wooden floorboards and was completely blindsided as she felt arms surge out from the light and embrace her. They were tight, either side of her and she was brought down to her knees by it.

   Daruizen was hugging her. He emanated this spiky gratitude yet despite how offensive it was, it felt fragile too. Fit to break if Nodoka did so much as breathe. She was just barraged with this clingy affection as he hugged her, buried his face into her shoulder and there was a sob. It was awful, somewhere between swallowed and completely cried out.

   Nodoka’s hands twitched and unthinkingly, despite that fragility that bawled, Nodoka hugged him back. When that light faded, he was human. Or maybe just human enough, Nodoka realised as he cradled him. His horns were smaller than before: tiny, little nubs of velvet. His face had a pinker colouration to it than before, when he had been of such a mossy pallor. Even his clothes weren’t quite so sharp, they were softer, rounder, and even more floral by the embroidery. The red which was once like dried blood was now an earthier brown.

   This was a Daruizen who was not quite human but not quite a devil either. A new type of Terabyougen, perhaps? Nodoka didn’t know but she could see where her help had patched him up. He was healthier than before, so to speak. She let go of a flurry of anxiety that Daruizen might be on the cusp of attacking her, backstabbing the kindness that she had shown him but no. She didn’t think it was going to be like that. 

   “A-Are you okay?” Nodoka asked, stuttering with a tinge of surprise. “Are you scared?”

   Daruizen growled.

   Nodoka shuddered. It was a harsh, rasping noise from the bottom of his throat and it spooked her.

   “Yes…” Daruizen finally admitted after that moment of broken repose.

   “You poor thing… It was scary for the first time for me, too. Not knowing what was happening to my body, the surge of new energy and magic…” Nodoka consoled him.

   “That’s not it.” Daruizen sharply intoned.

   His raised voice scared Nodoka again. Her body freezing as she felt the fangs of his voice in her skin but again, when it was all over, and Daruizen could find it within himself to behave, she relaxed and it felt like she was shaking off a dousing of ice-cold water.

   “I’m scared of leaving you.” Daruizen murmured and every word was so difficult for him to say but he said it. And he said some more, pressing on. “I’m scared of losing you.”

   Nodoka blinked, “What do you mean…?” she asked.

   Daruizen pulled back and Nodoka was harrowed by his facial expression. He was mid-bawl, tears and all. He held onto the mid of her shoulders before his clawed hands slipped downwards, along her willowy limbs and all to timidly hold her hands.

   “I - I want to need you.” he sobbed.

   “Pardon?” It still did not compute with Nodoka.

   “I-I want your light.” Daruizen didn’t know how else to explain it. “I want your love.” Every breath he took was painful as he revealed all his icky feelings to her. “You are my beginning and my end and I - and I’m scared of not having you. Of being cast aside by you or torn away from you. There is nothing left in this world for me but I stayed. I survived. A-All because I wanted to return to you. I - I want to be healed and - and now that I am. I don’t want to be because it might mean losing to you again.”

   Nodoka was shaken to hear such passionate words from Daruizen. The begging and the confessing. It was so utterly selfish but it was so utterly him as well, desperately clinging to what he had as it no longer came so easy or so simple to him. Nodoka sighed. Her expression softened and she reached out to Daruizen. She pet the top of his head and his hair was soft as silk. Slowly, Daruizen began to calm down. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat and he sank into Nodoka’s lap. He cuddled up to her, trying to make himself small again, just like a Nanobyougen, bringing up his legs to his chest as he held onto her.

   “There, there,” she murmured, “I understand now.”

   Daruizen turned his head slightly so he could see Nodoka, even if it was through the strands of his fringe. He was shy, trying to hide his outburst and ugly emotions. It didn’t suit him, he thought, with his tail literally between his legs. But it also suited him, or at the very least Nodoka, to be soothed. To have his head stroked and be told everything was alright.

   “I’ve always wanted to see the best in you and as forces of nature - the good and bad, the sick and the healthy - we’re always going to be in tandem so I want there to be balance too. Some way to meet in the middle, so Daruizen… I want you to need me too. I like being the heroine after all.” Nodoka replied.

   “I’m glad.” Daruizen’s voice was faint as he replied, he closed his eyes as Nodoka kept consoling him, with her voice, with her hand, with all of her heart and soul.

[arcticdementor]

Millions of Americans know.  Daily, others are coming to grips with the reality.  But fear pervades the nation, so many people stay quiet.  They stay quiet hoping destruction isn’t visited upon them.

Time to end the fear.  Here’s the ugly fact that must be confronted: The Democratic Party is now an extremist organ waging a fierce cold civil war to seize power and eviscerate America as founded and upend and erase its exceptional culture.

…

As of the 2020 elections, Democrats have abandoned the middle ground.  They’ve been moving steadily left throughout the 2000s.  The Republican and Democrat parties traditionally sought to govern from the middle, a little right or a little left.  But the middle has ceased to serve the Democrats’ aims.  

In fact, Democrats see themselves as engaged in a civil war with one-party rule as the goal.  No?  Read Democrat apologists Peter Leyden’s and Ruy Teixeira’s article, “The Great Lesson of California in America’s New Civil War.”  For Leyden and Teixeira, it’s a zero-sum game.  

…

Leyden’s and Teixeira’s ideal: California, which they laud as a one-party state and a model for the nation.  California, which achieved Democrat control by importing illegals, driving out middle- and working-class Californians with oppressive taxes and high costs for everything -- notably housing and energy -- and universal balloting, which is ripe for abuses and fraud.  Homelessness and crime are endemic in the once Golden State.

…

What about the less known but disastrous aim of urbanizing the suburbs?  Why should cities alone suffer under Democrat rule?    

Then there’s Big Tech’s and Corporate America’s bold collusion with Democrats.  No idealism is involved.  Perhaps some fear, but it’s mostly cold calculation.  It’s about money and power and corporate brass believing that siding with Democrats is the ticket to more of both.

…

The amalgam of a political party, government, and large corporations should chill liberty-loving Americans to their bones.

…

Tobacco is bad, but pot and illicit drugs are recreational.

In pure Orwellian fashion, language is being perverted to try to dupe us that dishonest elections are fair, illegals are simply noncitizens and migrants, and riots are peaceful protests.

The 2020s is the decade where America’s fate is decided.  Will we be free or unfree?  A republic or some form of tyranny?  Will Democrats win the civil war they’ve started?  Or will decent, God-fearing, freedom-loving Americans of every stripe coalesce and vanquish the Democrats and end the greatest threat ever to the nation?

We win this war by first accepting who the Democrats have become and the initiatives they’ve launched to destroy our country.  We defeat them, and then we never let this threat rise again.

[smallwomanlongstory]

Our Lady of Czestochowa

My memory once contextualized major events using seasons, or tenure at a certain job or school. At some point, though, I began to mark time according to traumas. I knew we sold a property right before the second big relapse. Our daughter's baptism happened a week or so after the first night S slammed my body into furniture.

When it all started, it was October. I took T on a trip to a field across the Hudson River to pick pumpkins. At the farm stand, I picked up a jar of four berry jelly. Waiting in line, I stared at the jar lid and counted the little red, pink and white checks, arriving at an even number. I smiled, thinking there was a potion sealed beneath the gingham. Magic that would vanquish those little drug baggies that tumbled from S's jean pockets into my washing machine. The jelly would show him that I’d thought of him. Foolishly, back then, I still hoped things could be fixed with kind gestures, or the right string of words. 

That October was defined by my bare feet slapping cold hard pavement as I chased after S; by tears streaming down my face as I grabbed him and begged him to go to the hospital. October was my mother’s hand moving back and forth between my shoulder blades as I struggled to fall asleep in my childhood bed. My own bed was uninhabitable because it was where I held my husband and felt his heart beat so hard and so fast, I thought he would die. October was fear; fear that the handful of diet pills S took would give him a heart attack; fear when he called from a far-away city, paranoid and crying; even greater fear when my phone wasn’t ringing.

S moved to the United States, to a middle state, without knowing a word of English, when he was seven. His father took him to a park where S saw kids his age playing soccer. Wanting to join, S asked his dad for an English lesson. His dad told him to just stretch out the Portuguese word for sock, Meia (pronounced "May-Uh"), and taught S a new word, “play.” S sprinted across the grass, repeating his line, “Meia play, Meia play, Meia play,” in his head. When he finally reached the children and asked the rehearsed question, they said, “no”, and ran away.

In the emergency room that October, S squeezed my hand, turning my knuckles white, begging me to tell the doctors he was ok to be released. I knew he wasn’t. I knew he would get out and use again, but I looked at the other people in the psychiatric emergency room; a man in hospital scrubs pacing up and down the hall, spitting into a cup; a women on a gurney, the fluorescent ceiling lights highlighting something brown smeared across her pant leg; a teenage boy behind plexiglass and wires, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking and sobbing. On drugs, S terrified me, I didn’t want him home, but I could also see the little boy in him, scared himself, running across the park wondering if his shy “May I Play” would be understood, and I couldn’t leave him alone with all that filth and sorrow.

That night, from the depths of my jewelry box, I resurrected the Our Lady of Czestochowa medallion that my grandmother gave me and I started wearing it daily. Every night I told Our Lady my fears, took the necklace off, and placed it under my pillow. Through spiritual osmosis, I hoped, The Black Madonna would take my worries. 

The real Our Lady is a wooden icon, an image of The Virgin mother and her child that was painted by Saint Luke onto a table-top. Said to be fortified by the tears Mary shed ceaselessly following her son’s death, many miracles are attributed to the relic.

During a fourteenth century war with the Tartars, Our Lady’s wooden throat was struck by an arrow. A mark was left. That time period was a bloody one for Poland, and just a few decades later a Hussite pillager added two gashes to her cheek. When the pillager lifted his sword to make a fourth scar, he dropped to the ground and died in agony.  Restoration attempts have tried to smooth the icon’s face and neck, but the stigmata always reappear.

Our Lady of Czestochowa is nicknamed The Black Madonna. Theologians speculate that her face was tinted by soot, centuries of candle offerings. I knew smoke had nothing to do with her coloring.  There is no point in consecrating one’s suffering to something blithe.

When S was healthy, we had a favorite skit. Whenever T woke up wet or hungry, we went together into her room and lifted her from the crib. S would voice-over T’s crying, pretending to be a disgruntled hotel guest. In a pinched English accent, S would say something like: “The service around here is outrageously slow. It took three whole seconds for you people to get here.”

Then I would go, “So sorry sir, I came as soon as you rang. Can I get you a fresh Elmo diaper?”

In the fussy indignation common to infants and crusty old men, S would continue, “What must I do for some warm milk? Need I write a letter to management? Notify my grandmother perhaps?”

T would see her parents laughing and tending to her. Her tears would dry up and she’d smile or coo. I loved our little act. In it, we were our own little universe, a normal family.

Except we weren't, and I became obsessed with Our Lady of Czestochowa. I bought a thick book, a collection of the miracles attributed to the icon: men at war made safe though the odds were against them; blind women made to see; ships manned by devout sailors, righted after being flipped.  My favorite was about a little boy who, not understanding the damage it would cause, placed his baby sister in a warming hearth. The mother returned from some chore to find that her baby was charred, and immediately carried the little burnt body up the hill and into the monastery where our Lady presides. The child was healed and the story wrapped neatly with the family reunited, no questions raised about the brother’s intentions, or the mother’s distraction.

The Black Madonna has two elaborately decorated dresses; one adorned with jewels and one that was hand-sewn with gold thread and beads by peasant women. As liturgical seasons pass, the monks change her. I liked to picture them preparing for the ceremony like school girls given new ornaments for an exceptionally pretty paper doll, competing for a chance to fuss over the amber and embroidery. In my mind, the brothers would become fresh, exchanging snubs and lightly slapping the back of one another’s hands. I wanted to believe that the Black Madonna made them devolve into pettiness, because I wanted Our Lady to be powerful.

Somewhere, I read that I should picture the person I was worried for wrapped in a warm blanket, protected. Desperate for a tool, some nights I put S in every blanket, sheet, and towel in our linen closet. I’d put him in God’s palm, next to Jesus, on a radiant cloud with my dead grandparents. I would feel stupid, childish, still worried.

 It wasn't until the week or so before I left S that, suddenly, finally, I recognized why the blanket imagery never worked. The warm places I'd managed to create weren’t meant for S, they belonged to me. I still love to lift the Black Madonna medallion to my lips and kiss its scars. She reminds me that I can always access faith and safety; it's in my experience, in all the ways that I've survived.

[dailychapel]

God my Champion, embolden me with the power of Your Holy Spirit when I am tempted to fear. Please strengthen me, help me, and hold me up with Your righteous right hand. These circumstances will not prevail against me, for You champion my cause. These troubles will be like grass that withers in the heat of the sun, for Your hand of blessing rests on me. Amen.

[Psa 18:2-16 NKJV] 2 The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust; My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. 3 I will call upon the LORD, [who is worthy] to be praised; So shall I be saved from my enemies. 4 The pangs of death surrounded me, And the floods of ungodliness made me afraid. 5 The sorrows of Sheol surrounded me; The snares of death confronted me. 6 In my distress I called upon the LORD, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, [even] to His ears. 7 Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. 8 Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. 9 He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. 10 And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. 11 He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him [was] dark waters [And] thick clouds of the skies. 12 From the brightness before Him, His thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire. 13 The LORD thundered from heaven, And the Most High uttered His voice, Hailstones and coals of fire. 14 He sent out His arrows and scattered the foe, Lightnings in abundance, and He vanquished them. 15 Then the channels of the sea were seen, The foundations of the world were uncovered At Your rebuke, O LORD, At the blast of the breath of Your nostrils. 16 He sent from above, He took me; He drew me out of many waters.

[Jer 5:1-31 NKJV] 1 "Run to and fro through the streets of Jerusalem; See now and know; And seek in her open places If you can find a man, If there is [anyone] who executes judgment, Who seeks the truth, And I will pardon her. 2 Though they say, '[As] the LORD lives,' Surely they swear falsely." 3 O LORD, [are] not Your eyes on the truth? You have stricken them, But they have not grieved; You have consumed them, But they have refused to receive correction. They have made their faces harder than rock; They have refused to return. 4 Therefore I said, "Surely these [are] poor. They are foolish; For they do not know the way of the LORD, The judgment of their God. 5 I will go to the great men and speak to them, For they have known the way of the LORD, The judgment of their God." But these have altogether broken the yoke [And] burst the bonds. 6 Therefore a lion from the forest shall slay them, A wolf of the deserts shall destroy them; A leopard will watch over their cities. Everyone who goes out from there shall be torn in pieces, Because their transgressions are many; Their backslidings have increased. 7 "How shall I pardon you for this? Your children have forsaken Me And sworn by [those that are] not gods. When I had fed them to the full, Then they committed adultery And assembled themselves by troops in the harlots' houses. 8 They were [like] well-fed lusty stallions; Every one neighed after his neighbor's wife. 9 Shall I not punish [them] for these [things]?" says the LORD. "And shall I not avenge Myself on such a nation as this? 10 "Go up on her walls and destroy, But do not make a complete end. Take away her branches, For they [are] not the LORD's. 11 For the house of Israel and the house of Judah Have dealt very treacherously with Me," says the LORD. 12 They have lied about the LORD, And said, "[It is] not He. Neither will evil come upon us, Nor shall we see sword or famine. 13 And the prophets become wind, For the word [is] not in them. Thus shall it be done to them." 14 Therefore thus says the LORD God of hosts: "Because you speak this word, Behold, I will make My words in your mouth fire, And this people wood, And it shall devour them. 15 Behold, I will bring a nation against you from afar, O house of Israel," says the LORD. "It [is] a mighty nation, It [is] an ancient nation, A nation whose language you do not know, Nor can you understand what they say. 16 Their quiver [is] like an open tomb; They [are] all mighty men. 17 And they shall eat up your harvest and your bread, [Which] your sons and daughters should eat. They shall eat up your flocks and your herds; They shall eat up your vines and your fig trees; They shall destroy your fortified cities, In which you trust, with the sword. 18 "Nevertheless in those days," says the LORD, "I will not make a complete end of you. 19 "And it will be when you say, 'Why does the LORD our God do all these [things] to us?' then you shall answer them, 'Just as you have forsaken Me and served foreign gods in your land, so you shall serve aliens in a land [that is] not yours.' 20 "Declare this in the house of Jacob And proclaim it in Judah, saying, 21 'Hear this now, O foolish people, Without understanding, Who have eyes and see not, And who have ears and hear not: 22 Do you not fear Me?' says the LORD. 'Will you not tremble at My presence, Who have placed the sand as the bound of the sea, By a perpetual decree, that it cannot pass beyond it? And though its waves toss to and fro, Yet they cannot prevail; Though they roar, yet they cannot pass over it. 23 But this people has a defiant and rebellious heart; They have revolted and departed. 24 They do not say in their heart, "Let us now fear the LORD our God, Who gives rain, both the former and the latter, in its season. He reserves for us the appointed weeks of the harvest." 25 Your iniquities have turned these [things] away, And your sins have withheld good from you. 26 'For among My people are found wicked [men]; They lie in wait as one who sets snares; They set a trap; They catch men. 27 As a cage is full of birds, So their houses [are] full of deceit. Therefore they have become great and grown rich. 28 They have grown fat, they are sleek; Yes, they surpass the deeds of the wicked; They do not plead the cause, The cause of the fatherless; Yet they prosper, And the right of the needy they do not defend. 29 Shall I not punish [them] for these [things]?' says the LORD. 'Shall I not avenge Myself on such a nation as this?' 30 "An astonishing and horrible thing Has been committed in the land: 31 The prophets prophesy falsely, And the priests rule by their [own] power; And My people love [to have it] so. But what will you do in the end?

[1Co 4:1-21 NKJV] 1 Let a man so consider us, as servants of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God. 2 Moreover it is required in stewards that one be found faithful. 3 But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by a human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. 4 For I know of nothing against myself, yet I am not justified by this; but He who judges me is the Lord. 5 Therefore judge nothing before the time, until the Lord comes, who will both bring to light the hidden things of darkness and reveal the counsels of the hearts. Then each one's praise will come from God. 6 Now these things, brethren, I have figuratively transferred to myself and Apollos for your sakes, that you may learn in us not to think beyond what is written, that none of you may be puffed up on behalf of one against the other. 7 For who makes you differ [from another]? And what do you have that you did not receive? Now if you did indeed receive [it], why do you boast as if you had not received [it]? 8 You are already full! You are already rich! You have reigned as kings without us--and indeed I could wish you did reign, that we also might reign with you! 9 For I think that God has displayed us, the apostles, last, as men condemned to death; for we have been made a spectacle to the world, both to angels and to men. 10 We [are] fools for Christ's sake, but you [are] wise in Christ! We [are] weak, but you [are] strong! You [are] distinguished, but we [are] dishonored! 11 To the present hour we both hunger and thirst, and we are poorly clothed, and beaten, and homeless. 12 And we labor, working with our own hands. Being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we endure; 13 being defamed, we entreat. We have been made as the filth of the world, the offscouring of all things until now. 14 I do not write these things to shame you, but as my beloved children I warn [you]. 15 For though you might have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet [you do] not [have] many fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the gospel. 16 Therefore I urge you, imitate me. 17 For this reason I have sent Timothy to you, who is my beloved and faithful son in the Lord, who will remind you of my ways in Christ, as I teach everywhere in every church. 18 Now some are puffed up, as though I were not coming to you. 19 But I will come to you shortly, if the Lord wills, and I will know, not the word of those who are puffed up, but the power. 20 For the kingdom of God [is] not in word but in power. 21 What do you want? Shall I come to you with a rod, or in love and a spirit of gentleness?

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

[cobra-diamond]

How to Develop Avatar’s Season 4 - Part 2

1       The Value of the Comics

           The Avatar comics written by Bryke and Gene Yang have a lot of problems. The characters can be wonky at times, parts of the plot are bizarre, they are too short, too juvenile in tone, lack necessary details, certain key ideas are half-baked and the writing is poor overall. Whether you think highly of them or not, the comics are not lost causes and do have some lasting value (the artwork certainly looks like Avatar).

           The value of the comics is that they provide a string of new conflicts that, when taken together, feel like natural outgrowths from the show. However, this only applies to the three Fire Nation-centered comics of The Promise, The Search and Smoke and Shadow. This is because these three volumes have common themes, subjects and conflicts running through them that tie directly into unresolved problems from the show, whereas the other comics are more or less just new adventures for the Gaang. Keep in mind that the Avatar comics are not Season 4. None of them are. But within the three Fire Nation comics are clues that reveal the potential that is inherent to established narrative for continuing the show past Aang’s journey.

           And it begins with Zuko.

2   ��   Where Aang’s Journey Ends, Zuko’s Endures

           Aang’s journey in the show could be considered as consisting of a single, clear goal with a definite end game: master all four elements and defeat the Fire Lord. Once Aang masters all four elements, he is ready to face the Fire Lord. Once he defeats the Fire Lord, his journey is over. How he masters all four elements and defeats the Fire Lord is what makes the story deep and compelling. This is where Zuko comes in.

           His journey wasn’t clear for half of the show. Until Iroh spelled it out for him (and us viewers) in Avatar and the Fire Lord, it appeared they were setting up Zuko as a morally ambiguous wild card who could end up on either side. Why Zuko’s inner turmoil was important to Aang’s journey was less clear. Indeed, we did not know the full importance of Zuko’s journey until he stood up to his father in Day of Black Sun and taught us why his story was important: he was the crown prince abandoning the evil ways of his country to help the Avatar save the world. So you’d think that when Zuko helped Aang master firebending, defeated his sister in the Agni Kai and was crowned Fire Lord at the end of the show that his journey was over, right? That being crowned Fire Lord was Zuko’s reward for being a sensitive, gentle soul unlike the ruthless, warmongering norm in his family? That he’d spend the rest of his days slowly coping with his trauma while enjoying endless, relaxing days of romantic bliss with Mai? That he wouldn’t face internal opposition from the diehards and stalwarts of the old regime? That, from the start of his reign, he would be leading a Fire Nation that was fully accepting of him and everything he stood for… Right?

           Wrong.

3       The Tragedy of the Fire Nation

           In addition to the overarching conflict of the Hundred Year War and Aang’s need to defeat the Fire Lord, there were numerous subtle threads running throughout the show that gave the story its heart and soul: the tragic, lasting effects of war on a people and their culture, the effects of foisting too much responsibility on children, the importance of friendship and having people to lean on, among many others. One of these threads concerned the topic of how decent, normal people can turn bad.

           In Season 1, it is revealed that Avatar Roku—a firebender—was a respectable, honorable avatar despite being a member of the Fire Nation. In the same season, a Fire Sage helps Aang in his journey to connect with Roku, despite being from the Fire Nation and loyal to the Fire Lord at the same time. In The Blue Spirit, Aang laments to Zuko how one of his best friends was Fire Nation and says to his enemy, “Do you think we could have been friends, too?”

           A Fire Nation admiral and firebending master—Jeong Jeong—deserts out of disillusionment with the war. Iroh fights Zhao to stop him from destroying the Moon Spirit, to which Zhao does agree, for a moment, until his temper gets the better of him, showing that concern for harmony and balance isn’t an entirely lost concept in the Fire Nation.

           In Season 2, Aang rescues the Fire Nations occupying governors’ child, despite the practical advantage of keeping it as a hostage, and we are explicitly shown how happy this makes the invaders. Zuko becomes a truly sympathetic character in Zuko Alone, showing how he has always struggled to live up to the expectations of his warmongering family, despite being a member of the Fire Nation, and leading up to Season 2’s finale, Zuko and Irohs’ disillusionment with their country reaches new heights, showing that the militaristic expectations of the Fire Nation isn’t even embraced by all members of its ruling family.

           In Season 3, the Gaang lives in the Fire Nation. We see Fire Nation people, their kids, their towns, their daily lives. Aang is actually excited to be in the Fire Nation because it reminds him how much fun it was before the war. In Avatar and the Fire Lord, Roku is shown to have been the best friend of the Fire Lord that started the war, but Sozin’s desire and will to achieve his goals corrupted him, and in that same episode, Aang comments that friendships can transcend lifetimes, suggesting that the Avatar and the Fire Nation can be friends again. Ultimately, this is proven true when Zuko joins the Gaang, helps them stop the war and becomes friends with Aang.

           But most importantly, at the start of every episode, Katara says the Four Nations used to live together in harmony.

           What the show was saying, in so many small ways, was that what the Fire Nation was doing and what it had become were neither normal for the Avatar world, nor for the Fire Nation. Not even Chin the Conqueror’s conquests of the Earth Kingdom holds a candle to the Fire Nation’s multiple layers of evil, self-interest and disregard for world balance. While the existence of the all-powerful Avatar, in theory, helps keep the peace between the four nations, the Fire Nation did not used to be hostile to the other nations. Sozin changed the old Fire Nation, the one that was peaceful and enlightened, that achieved an unprecedent era of prosperity that convinced Sozin that the Fire Nation was first among equals. The fun, friendly Fire Nation that Aang remembered was lost and it stayed lost for a hundred years…

           … And the solution was not to destroy the Fire Nation.

4       The True Purpose of Zuko’s Journey

           Until the series finale, Zuko’s journey appeared to be about him achieving moral redemption for his time spent as a halfhearted, incompetent, semi-accomplice in his nation’s evils. But Zuko did not turn against his father and help the Avatar in order to redeem himself for his sins. He turned against his country because he was alienated by it and couldn’t meet its expectations; because it was what Iroh expected of him. His heart told him that betraying Iroh in Ba Sing Se was wrong and that he needed to right that wrong. To Zuko, doing the right thing meant following Iroh’s guidance and accepting him as his true father, and to do that required switching sides. Zuko’s redemption was not achieved when he became Fire Lord at the end of the show, but when Iroh hugged and forgave him. That was the moment of catharsis for Zuko.

           Unfortunately, Zuko’s troubles were deeper than his banishment and Agni Kai with his father: he didn’t belong in the Fire Nation that he was born into. He was a normal boy born into an abnormal situation that he didn’t have the personality for. He didn’t have the ruthlessness, intelligence, competence and raw talent for militarism and totalitarian rule that his sister had, so he failed to live up to his father’s self-serving, power hungry expectations which, in turn, represented the peak of malice, moral corruption and ruling-through-fear that the war had instilled in the leadership of the country.

           So when Zuko finally realized the righteous path and followed it, his story was over, right? He stood up to his father and Iroh forgave him. He showed us that he had a pure heart and was a good person and good, moral people are supposed to be rewarded for their innate qualities, right? What only mattered to Zuko’s journey was that he help the Avatar, vanquish his sister and end the war by royal decree so that a new era of love and peace could begin… Right?

           Wrong again. Iroh even say so when he tells Zuko that his journey is not over when they are together in the White Lotus camp in The Phoenix King:

           “… Someone new must take the throne. An idealist with a pure heart and unquestionable honor. It has to be you, Prince Zuko… And only you can restore the honor of the Fire Nation.”

           Until that moment, Zuko had no visions of himself as the ruler of his country, never mind changing anything about it. To him, the Fire Nation he grew up in is the Fire Nation. As he understood it, his father had to be eliminated, the airships destroyed and the rest of the world defended from what remained of the Fire Nation’s power. Him taking the throne was an afterthought at that point, never mind what to do about his sister. Perhaps he thought that stopping his father and helping Aang become a fully-realized Avatar would be enough to intimidate Azula (and the rest of his country) into peace, since there appeared to be no plan to militarily dominate the Fire Nation. That’s a topic for another day, however.

           Whatever Zuko thought his endgame was, he didn’t know it, but Iroh knew it. Avatar Roku knew it. The White Lotus knew it and Aang came to know it. Zuko’s journey was not to prove that he is a good person on the inside. It was not to turn against the Fire Nation. It was not to teach Aang firebending. It wasn’t even to defeat his sister and assume the crown. Those were just means to his journey’s end. Zuko’s journey was, and always has been, to be the Fire Lord that redeems the Fire Nation.

           And it wasn’t over when the final credits rolled.

5       The Two Parts of Zuko’s Journey

           Zuko’s journey could be thought of as having two parts. Part one is in the show. It is where Zuko learns why the Fire Nation needs to change and what he needs to do to change it: help Aang, defeat Azula and become Fire Lord. Part two would be the trials and tribulations that he must go through that result in the Fire Nation’s redemption, or at least the key events that set it on that path. Redeeming the Fire Nation, however, is not a process solved by merely wearing the Fire Lord’s crown. It is not enough for him to have a pure heart and have unquestionable honor. He has to make the right choices when it comes to weening his country off of war, conquest, colonies and a massive military industry, to say nothing of the culture that supports all of that. He has to reform the members of the old regime: the generals, admirals, soldiers, nobles and true believers. He has to get the people who are resentful of him on his side. This is not a simple, good versus evil, 3-months-later-having-tea-in-Ba-Sing-Se kind of problem.

           As it turns out, that’s what the creators think too. The three Fire Nation comics,  which are sanctioned continuations of the franchise immediately following the timeline in the show, are about this very topic. While the comics are not Season 4, they provide a framework for understanding how Zuko’s unfinished journey is the logical basis for a 4th season: Zuko’s dismantling of the colonies is not sunshine and daisies, but assassination attempts and opposition.

Keep Reading - Part 3

[pjstafford]

A Look at my 2020

The end of the year is upon us. It’s been a tough one for all of us. It is a year we will all remember forever. I want to do a positive reflection of this year. I will probably write a blog about what I hope our country’s New Years Resolutions should be. The thoughts on that have been rolling around my head for a few days. But today, December 16, at 4:30 a.m. and unable to sleep, that 2020 familiar dread of what will happen today waking me early, I want to look at some positives. I want to unwrap the positives of 2020 like a Christmas gift before Christmas so that I can wrap myself in them as a blanket of warmth. One thing that I have been truly impressed with is the resilience of the human spirit. Let’s call this a resilience exercise.

Counting my blessings one by one...

1. I am alive. Surviving is a cause for celebration. As far as I know I have been COVID free...although there were a few days in April or early May when I was sick with something and in Feb I had the strangest cold in my life and this time last year weeks of fatigue ended in frozen shoulder syndrome on Christmas Eve. See, I want to be thankful, but I don’t want to be naive in my retrospection. Best to be honest. I’m not sure if I had COVID or not, but if I did I survived with relatively minor symptoms. Every cough or sniffle I feared in a completely irrational way was COVID. There was the week I walked around sniffing everything to make sure I could still smell. It dawns on me it is going to be difficult to write a honest and, yet, positive, retrospective of 2020. I am alive, but I have never been less healthy. I’ve gained weight. I haven’t had the physical exercise to which I am accustomed and now when I try to take a long walk I realize my stamina is gone. It will take years of concentrated effort once things are “back to normal” for me to become normal again. It wasn’t that I didn’t try. I did yoga daily in the Spring and switched to an online Tai chi class in the summer, but I don’t live near beauty or anything interesting so wasn’t motivated to walk and just my everyday life of lockdown in a studio apartment meant less movement. All of which sounds even to me like not very good justification. Did I mention though that I survived. I am alive. I will take that as blessing number one.

2. No one I care about very deeply has died or even been seriously ill from COVID. Doesn’t March 2020 seem far away? I don’t want to be dismissive of 300;000 dead especially with more to come. I or someone I love could still be gone by New Years Day. But in March and April we held our breaths for an apocalypse and at some point most of us decided to take a breath. I don’t know really if it’s good or bad that we have simply adjusted our normal and the number deaths we are willing to accept. It’s bad, what am I saying? It’s bad. But how long can we wait in fear? So I don’t know, but I want to count as a blessing that those I love have all survived to date. I cannot vanquish the fear, but I can be grateful for survival.

3. I have maintained employment in a bad economy and have mostly been able to work from home. There have been some struggles. Sometimes the work I do is depressing. Sometimes I feel I don’t make a difference. There has never been a worse time to be an advocate...or a person with disability, or a caregiver, or a provider agency, or a health care professional. I have maintained employment.

4. I count among my blessings the fact that I had a wonderful 2020 before....remember there was a 2020 before. I love when my work takes me to Santa Fe for a prolonged time. A friend came out in Feb for a wonderful weekend. Another friend came to Albuquerque to see me for my birthday in early March. I remember thinking how social I was in those first ten weeks in 2020. It’s as if I somehow knew....it sustained me.

5. I count among my blessings that when I felt my mental health despair getting at its worse...the strain of living alone in a studio apartment, working from that same apartment and following the Governor orders not to go or do anything. ..that I had friends and two weekends of “risky” behavior; a friend who came for the Fourth of July holiday and an out of state trip to Durango in late September. I’m fortunate that when I had to have human contact my closest friends were there for me

6. I count as my blessings that Biden won the election. It’s not simply a matter of politics. I’m not sure if the last eight months of the Trump Presidency wasn’t worse for my morale than the pandemic because Trump kind of lost whatever semblance of sanity he had. Part of the trepeditation over what each new day will bring is what Trump will say, do, tweet, exacerbate. I still fear revolution in the street before Jan 20. The pandemic is not the worse of what America has gone through. That’s the oddest thing about this year.

7. Here is the blessing which probably will be unpopular. The lockdown and stress of all we have experienced is tough, but the slowdown is a blessing for me. My life had gotten pretty busy. While I miss travel, it’s ok for a year not to have had the time suck that travel for work entails. I will be so happy the first work trip I get to go on, but I feel like 2020 has given me the gift of time. It’s odd because, like many, my creative sense has suffered. I have written almost nothing. Still, I often think of a Dylan lyric, maybe in the next life I will be able to hear myself think. I could hear myself think this year. Unfortunately I thought about the existentialist angst of the meaning of life and my failures as a human being and I don’t think there is enough time still to process the effects of the pandemic and I’m sick to death of the sound of my thoughts, but....I have been given this unique gift of time. Even on December 16th I am not rushed to shop, to cook, to decorate, to go to a zillion parties. It’s a different year. The Holiday will still come. It is pleasant not to feel urgency over, let’s face it, non-urgent things. I am mentally and emotionally fatigued, but not nearly as physically exhausted as I was this time last year

8. The next one is a big one. The gift of living in the moment. I have spent my entire life since 7th grade when Miss O’Neil gave me a copy of The Rubyait of Omar Khayyam trying to live with the philosophy of living for the now. Clear the cups of past regrets...tomorrow, why I may be myself with yesterday’s seven thousand years. The only time I have ever truly experience this is in a handful of concert experience. Even now, I fear for my future and I blame myself for my mistakes. Still, my relationship with time has changed. There is the sun rising and setting and that is a day. Seasons will change. But the gift of time means I can approach my day differently. When five o clock comes on a workday, a needed nap is a step away. No where to go on a Friday night... no where I can go...means the weekend rhythm exists only as I define it. The simple pleasures we always take for granted mean something more now. There is a coffee truck that stops near me on Fridays and Saturdays. When it first started stopping I was over the moon that I could walk and get a latte with fairly little risk. If I go to the grocery store and have a conversation with a stranger, it is different than it was before. Mindfulness exercise and meditation is one thing, but nothing can compare with this year to further my lessons in this pursuit. May I take the lesson with me into years to come.

9. Zoom...yes, of course I have zoom fatigue. But five friends in five different states having a monthly drink together on zoom is a benefit of the pandemic. I watched a movie this year with someone who lives in Brazil. I celebrated a friend’s sixtieth person even though I couldn’t be with her. I’ve attended book discussions and readings in New York and I already have tickets to an event in March. Kind of love New York. I’ve never been there in person. Just a lot happens there. Educationally and socially the world is now open to me. I am not limited to what is going on in my community. I hope this doesn’t completely go away.

10. Finally, storytelling and music. I found it hard to read new things in the lockdown for a while, but in March friends asked me to a virtual book club of three books I already read and we reread them together which took us into the summer. I rediscovered the Foundation series of Asimov and suddenly I could read again! My favorite book I’ve read published in 2020 is Jess Walter’s The Cold Million. I did read a digital advance copy of David Duchovny’snew book due out in 2021 and it is, in fact, the breakout novel I knew this hot young writer would eventually write. Looking forward to 2021 book club! I finally binged Breaking Bad and The Travelers as well as The Queens gambit and watched Peanut Butter Falcon. I am doing a disability focused watch on the X Files and I better kick it it the rear because I’m presenting on it in Feb. at a conference. My God, Dylan put out his first original music in eight years. It will take me eight years to fully ingest it and enjoy it. You see, no matter what happens, humanity will tell its stories and gather to make its songs. It’s that human resilience. Creation of art is not trivial. It’s vital. It has continued in this odd and strange year. It is humanity’s greatest gift and I have definitely used it this year as a resilience and growth tool.

Those are my top blessings in this horrific and, yet, wondrous year. However, you have been impacted, what we all share in common is that In a very short time it will be a memory of a year in the past.

[laceypruett]

Traveling After a Pandemic

If you knew the angst that went into simply agreeing on a title for this piece, you would laugh. This is our current world. We have a scarcity mindset, mixed with some fear over what we’ve been through this past year. I’ve had seasons of scarcity, fearfulness, and oh the worry. Worry laced everything in 2020 and tied it in a bow, so when I shared my potential title, I was met with, “but we’re still IN a pandemic.” Are we?

According to historians, pandemics typically have two types of endings: the medical, which occurs when the sicknesses or death rates plummet, and the social, when the epidemic of fear about the disease wanes.

“When people ask, ‘When will this end?’ they are asking about the social ending,” said Dr. Jeremy Greene, a historian of medicine at Johns Hopkins.

In other words, an end can occur not because a virus has been vanquished but because people grow tired of panic mode and learn to live with a virus.

I chose the title I did, because, for me, it is the truth. The cool thing is that you get to decide for yourself, your family, and your life experience what is true for you. After this way-too-long discussion with some fellow authors, there was a moment when I said, “no more.” No longer will I live in fear, and no longer will I worry myself about what may happen. Death rates have plummeted (one of the medical ends to a pandemic) and the virus strand is weakening. This is great news! Precautions I’ve taken since last March can now soften a bit. I definitely won’t worry about things out of my control. An example of something out of my control… what others think of my life decisions.

When some of the world lifted their restrictions on air travel, my husband and I booked a few flights to some of our favorite places. “You’re going to travel out of the country, right now?” It echoed for several days, but it’s just one more reminder to make your own rules for your life. Yes, the pros outweighed the cons, for us, and that is enough. I wondered what it would be like “out there,” and what the experience would really be, and curiosity squashed fear.  We considered our safety, security, and health, in this decision to fly internationally, and we booked accordingly. You see, for us, the world is vast and there’s opportunity to expand one’s life perspective with traveling and seeing the world. Staying at home doesn’t make sense to us, as a long-term decision, especially if health and vitality are the goal. We take good care of our health, and we take proper precautions, so for people in our situation, travel is an option. If you have the travel bug, I invite you to get out there again, too. I’ll explain why later in this article.

When the COVID-19 flu strand pushed us into a global pandemic, my husband and I were crushed. We had four trips we now had to cancel or that were canceled on us. Birthdays, anniversaries, France, Spain, British Virgin Islands, and Cabo San Lucas all vanished off the calendar. We were sad but worked to quickly shift mindsets. We would have different types of adventures for a while. We would make an adventurous life at home, under these new daily, safety standards. We would enjoy the Texas beach house more.  We would spend time enjoying new hobbies, activities and a slower pace. The re-wiring of adventure expectations took some ebb and flow (especially by me—I already purchased new outfits for Spain and for France), and while I look back on the memories, we made last year, I am grateful for them. More on that later… let’s get to the good stuff. Traveling internationally, after a pandemic, was different but worth it. It’s easier if you plan ahead, set some new expectations, and give just about everything and everyone some added grace. 

Here are my tips and awareness (based on separate trips to Cabo San Lucas, and Riviera Maya, Mexico, flying commercial airlines, and staying at a resort & spa property (not private residence):

1.     Clean up your diet, increase your fitness routine, and be impeccable with nutritional supplements months before traveling. Do a 7-14 day detox if possible. This is key! Don’t travel with a weak immune system.

2.     Don’t fight the masks. It’s happening, and it’s nobody’s preference. (At least, I don’t think anyone loves wearing them?) As of today, wearing a mask is required  in all airports, on all commercial aircraft, and it was required in the lobby areas and restaurant entries. You can wear a mask whenever you want, but these are the places a mask was required. I wore a separate mouth and nose covering for the flight that met the required standards. It was more comfortable than my mask and worked well.

3.     Bring your own anti-bacterial soap. At the end of each day, it felt nice to scrub away the day with an extra anti-bacterial protection. Even if you don’t usually use an anti-bacterial soap, use one now for ease of mind. One bar of Dial soap lasted 10 days.

4.     Pack a pen! In addition to the usual customs and immigration forms, there’s a new COVID disclaimer form to fill out and turn in upon arrival at the airport and again at your lodging.

5.     Bring your usual daily multi-vitamin, but add in the following every day: Zinc, an immune modulator, extra vitamin C & D. These helped me feel armed against new elements, foods, and the new environments.

6.     Expect delays at check-ins. We arrived at the airport, our hotel, and even at restaurants that each had their own added health screenings or checks. The oddest one was a device you step into (think air brush tanning days) that sprays you with an antimicrobial solution. It’s light and dries quickly, and at its worst, just slightly annoying. They spray your baggage on arrival at the hotel with this solution, too. Some take your temperature, and some offer you (and expect you to take) hand sanitizer.

7.     Make reservations! Most restaurants are requiring them to comply with the distancing needs of the tables (Mexico restaurants and bars filled up but we were spaced out really well.) Don’t expect to just show up, without a reservation, and get seated anywhere. If it happens, yay!

8.     Hire private ground transportation. This minimizes your exposure to new taxi cabs and drivers each time you need to go somewhere. Walk whenever and wherever you can. Exercising keeps everything moving, even the bad bacteria and virus strands, and these getting stuck in our body cause the problems.

9.     Tip generously, when appropriate. Hearing the stories of how this year has been for different people, really opened my eyes to the outlier issues we’re now facing, outside of the actual sickness. By traveling soon, you are helping to reverse some long-standing financial damage people and businesses are facing, due to closures and restrictions. Select local businesses, restaurants, foods, and entertainment when possible. You can immerse yourself into the culture of where you’re visiting, and meet some wonderful people at the same time.

10.  Call ahead and ask what’s new due to the pandemic. Being aware of expectations, protocols, and changes will allow you to prepare yourself accordingly and to enjoy the experience better. None of us are at our best when expectations are not met. Proactively do some research and set yourself up for success.

Go explore! My soul came alive immediately as I started roaming one of my favorite areas of Mexico. Being in the elements, the sun, especially, taking in the sights, sounds, and feelings filled me up with vitality. Don’t wait any longer! Find your next adventure spot and start booking. I am grateful for our continued health, and we remain protective of it. You are in control of how you protect yourself, and it is possible to feel safe and protected while traveling the beautiful world again. Be respectful of others’ “house rules,” as everyone is trying to help everyone feel as comfortable as possible right now, and by respecting these efforts, we all get to feel a little more freedom. 

For us, the pandemic was a temporary situation, not a permanent change to our way of life. This travel experience has been educational for us, as many things felt differently than what we’re used to, but necessary for where we currently are with pandemic concerns. While we hope even more of the restrictions lift and more countries open up to American travelers, we hope some of the new practices never leave. Airplanes, airports, hotel rooms, and bathrooms have never been cleaner! I see people giving everyone space and washing their hands longer. Que Maravilla! On that note alone, take a deep breath and go explore somewhere new. Let me know what you find!