#the war was won but there was no sense of victory or triumph

[njararna]

the ending of dairugger is definitely going to stick with me. its anti-war message was really prevalent and im glad the ending didnt go the way of feeling victorious but feeling this overwhelming sense of emptiness and tragedy, how none of this needed to happen in the first place. the galveston government’s pride costing the lives of so many…the war only draining from the civillians…them throwing all their efforts to war rather than to build migratory ships. there’s just so much to think on. definitely going to revisit in the future

[fics-not-tragedies]

January 2024 Music Prompts: Day 5

Francesca ♫ Hozier

Francesca ♫ Hozier x John Constantine

Though I know my heart would break/I'd tell them, "Put me back in it".

In the city where shadows whispered secrets and the night held its breath in anticipation, Constantine, prowled the dimly lit alleys. His life was a tapestry woven with threads of darkness and the eternal struggle against the demonic forces that sought to breach the fragile barrier between worlds.

One moonlit night, after a fierce battle that left the air thick with the acrid scent of infernal smoke, Constantine found himself in a secluded corner of the city. The echoes of the confrontation still resonated in his chest, a haunting melody of battles fought and adversaries vanquished. Yet, amidst the triumph, an unfamiliar ache lingered - a longing that echoed in the chambers of his heart.

The night seemed to hold its breath as he leaned against a cold stone wall, the city's pulse throbbing beneath his fingertips. In the solitude of the moment, he pondered the inexplicable yearning that tugged at the frayed edges of his warrior's resolve.

"Though I know my heart would break," Constantine whispered to the shadows, his voice a mere exhale in the stillness. The admission hung in the air, a confession to the universe that even a stoic demon hunter carried the burden of unspoken desires.

In the midst of the urban labyrinth, where mortal and supernatural forces collided, Constantine felt an unfamiliar vulnerability. The city's heartbeat, usually drowned by the cacophony of nocturnal life, now echoed the rhythm of his introspection.

As he navigated the labyrinthine alleys, a figure emerged from the darkness - a woman, cloaked in shadows like an ethereal wraith. Her eyes, pools of mystery that held the secrets of both realms, met Constantine's with an unspoken understanding.

In the silence that stretched between them, Constantine recognized a kindred spirit - an ally in the ceaseless war against the demonic forces. She, too, carried the weight of battles on her shoulders, and in her presence, Constantine sensed a resonance that transcended the realm of supernatural camaraderie.

"I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it,'" Constantine murmured, his voice a low declaration that hung in the air. The words, a plea to the cosmic forces that governed fate, held a quiet desperation. He was willing to endure the heartbreak, the vulnerability, for the chance to delve deeper into the enigma of his own desires.

As they walked through the labyrinth together, Constantine and the woman forged a connection that defied the usual boundaries of their existence. They shared tales of battles won and lost, victories celebrated and scars earned. In each other's presence, the weight of their duties felt momentarily lifted, replaced by a shared understanding that transcended words.

In the heart of the city, where the boundaries between realms blurred, Constantine and the woman stood face to face. The moon cast a silvery glow on their figures, an ethereal spotlight on a moment that held the promise of vulnerability and connection.

And then, as if guided by an unseen force, Constantine and the woman leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that tasted of both victory and longing - a union that held the echoes of countless battles and the quiet whispers of unspoken desires.

In that transformative kiss, Constantine discovered a solace that transcended the chaos of his existence. The heartbreak he had feared seemed a small price to pay for the warmth and connection that blossomed in the embrace of the night.

As they parted, the city's heartbeat resumed its rhythmic pulse, echoing the quiet triumph of a demon hunter who, in the midst of shadows and battles, found a sanctuary in the arms of a kindred spirit. And in the quiet aftermath of that kiss, Constantine embraced the vulnerability that came with the acknowledgment of his own heart - a heart that, despite the perilous nature of his calling, dared to beat for connection and the promise of a shared journey through the shadows.

[possumsinpeoplesuits]

I might just be deep in the Locked Tomb Brainrot at the moment, but this duology of Heaven Shall Burn songs feels like the perfect soundtrack for the finale, and epilogue of Gideon the Ninth.

Protector has these lyrics:

Believe me This is the very end Still I am chosen To protect and defend Ride burning skies Cross dying worlds But after all, I stand alone And fight this vital war I joined this war for you To front the chosen few Fight until the time has come And cry for all the fallen ones No fear of pain, no strife in vain Land is in sight, new hope will rise Don't be afraid, I'm by your side So strong in mind, we'll take their hearts by storm And no amnesty for our enemies I am your shield and sword Just carry on until the day is won All hail the world, we bow to none And I am here to heal You have to know I'll treat your bleeding wounds Endure the pain, take all the strain All doubt denied, grace will abide I'll win this war for you

Then, when the video shifts into Weakness Leaving my Heart:

There is no calling (There is no sense of temperance) There's nothing left to limit greed and pure malevolence A vast and clear disorder of This stricken system So shaken and displaced All foundations torn Just no one there to fight this spreading decadence But I feel there is still uproar in this heart I take my stance, but there is this yawning gap right by my side As if your absence summoned all these wicked ghosts But I feel That all this pain Is just weakness leaving my heart Yes, I’ll wear the mark of the outcast like an imperial crown Yet, all my agonies and torments Become victories and blessings I will carry you in triumph and in loss Your spirit is still strong within me And our enemies will face you Through my words and by my deeds Finally I know That all this pain is just weakness leaving my heart

[sspookyspoonss]

God I love a Funeral of Flowers, here is an analysis.

First a slight story explanations of what is happening when this song plays and the events that build up to it:

Byleth has taught a girl, Edelgard, for a year during which they become close. At the end of the year she reveals she has been plotting to have the Adrestian Empire which she leads declare war on the Church. Byleth choses to go against Edelgard and side with the Archbishop of the Church, Rhea who is (basically) the daughter of a ‘Goddess’ who set up the Church over a thousand years ago. Due to shenanigans she is captured for 5 years and Byleth spends the game trying to get her back.

A Funeral of Flowers comes after Byleth has invaded the capital of the Empire and killed Edelgard and rescued Rhea. So already a bad day because you’ve killed someone you’re close to. However I get worse when Rhea transforms into her dragon form (long not relevant story to do with her being the child of the Goddess) due to experiments on her in captivity but she has no control of herself. Byleth is forced to killer to to stop her. The song plays during this fight.

Edelgard and Rhea both have themes attached to them:

Edelgard has the Edge of Dawn. The song has a heavy focus on her loneliness and how she hopes her teacher will side with her in the conflict she will start.

Rhea has the Song of Nabateans. It is a lullaby that was sung to her by her mother. Importantly, her mother is fused with Byleth.

In aFuneral of Flowers, after the intro, the melody of the chorus of the Edge of Dawn plays. This melody is present in most music in the game as a representation of how everything that happens is a result of Edelgard’s actions, so it functions in the regard that you killing Rhea, who you’ve been fighting to save, is Edelgard’s fault. However, the part of the song that is used is specifically the parts where Edelgard is wishing for Byleth to side with her, which they didn’t do, instead killing her. It is a reminder that even though she’s started a war and has forced Byleth into this awful situation, she still cared for them, as they did her, even though they were forced to kill her. So the presence of the melody signifies a part of Byleth that regrets not siding with Edelgard as she wished they would (her actual dying words), or at least save her as well has the pain of having just killed her weighing on the Byleth’s mind during the fight with Rhea.

The Song of Nabeteans follows immediately after. The fact it overpowers Edelgard’s theme is triumphant in the sense it shows that Edelgard failed in her goal of unseating them from power (they control the church) and the Nabeteans (Rhea) won. However, it is still overwhelmingly sad. This is a lullaby that is being played, something peaceful while Byleth being forced to fight and kill the very person who sang it to them. This represents that despite the usual relief that would come knowing after this fight the war is finished, Byleth is killing someone they are close too, so there can be no such triumph or relief. There also is the fact that there is a really cruel irony to the fact that Byleth, who is fused Rhea’s mother the person who sang her that lullaby, is the one killing her. It’s another layer of tragedy that, in a way, this is Rhea being sang to sleep by her mother by way of the lullaby one final time, seeing her mother being what drives her every action.

Then comes the two versions of the song. Rain and Thunder. Thunder is what plays in combat and through the entire game is more intense while Rain is more laid back and plays on the overworld of levels. However this is flipped in this level. Rain is far more intense than the piano in Thunder that occurreds in combat. It’s a subtle nod that, unlike every other fight you’ve had in this game where your fighting is leading to a cut and dry good victory, this isn’t the case here. The fact the fight has to happen is tragic and at the end of it there will be no winners. The player will kill Rhea and end the war, but you’ve still lost the reason you fought so hard so. So fighting isn’t some ‘greater good’ noble thing it has been throughout the game. It is just a sad, brutal necessity which leaves no winners.

In conclusion, this song is the best final boss song in the game due to its heavy symbolism and I will die on this hill.

[wordsofrowan]

Written in Ink

Chapter 5 - As the Ink Dries

Alya cleared her throat as once again all eyes fell on her. “We still have one more letter to read. Let's listen to this final letter then we can decide on what to do from there okay?”

With a renewed sense of purpose, the class braced themselves for the last letter. If Adrien’s letter was anything to go by this was going to be very hard for them to process.  They all waited with bated breath for Alya to begin.

“Lila, This I think shall be the hardest letter for me, shockingly enough. I sit here, my heart shattered into a million pieces, writing this letter to you with a mix of anger and utter despair. I guess what I should start with is congratulations, Lila, you did it, you won. You have successfully driven away every single one of my friends with your malicious lies and manipulative tactics. You must be so proud of yourself.  So how does it feel Lila? How does it feel to have torn apart someone’s life with your venomous words? To watch as the bonds I once held so dear crumbled at your hands? You reveled in the destruction you caused, relishing in the pain and suffering you have inflicted upon me. Well, I hope you're satisfied because you’ve broken me. You’ve shattered my trust and left me feeling utterly alone. You played your game so well, didn’t you? Spinning your tales of victimhood and weaving your web of deceit that ensnared even the most loyal of my friends. Your lies have twisted their minds and poisoned their perceptions of me. You whispered lies into their ears and turned them against me, making them cast me aside like a worthless afterthought.  I use to believe that true friendship was unbreakable, that the bond I once shared with them all could withstand anything. You have proven me wrong Lila. You have torn through those bonds like a hurricane, leaving nothing but carnage and debris in your wake and now here I am left standing in the ruins of what was once my support system.  But I refuse to give you the satisfaction of seeing me completely defeated. No, I won’t allow you to revel in my misery. I have found my people and with them, I will rise from the wreckage and become stronger than ever before. I will rebuild my life, piece by painstaking piece, and surround myself with people who value honesty and loyalty and are deserving of my love and friendship.  You may have won this battle, Lila but mark my words the war is far from over. The truth has a way of surfacing and it will expose your deceit for all to see. You may have fooled my so-called friends for now but their eyes will be opened and they will realize the monster you truly are. And when that day comes, you will be left with nothing but the bitter taste of your own lies.  So enjoy your momentary triumph, Lila. Bask in the ruins of what you have created. But remember this victory is hollow, this is your pyrrhic victory, Lila. You may have taken away my friends but you will never break my spirit. I will rise, stronger and more resilient and I will show you just how better than you I really am. So farewell Lila. You have successfully broken me, but I refuse to let you define me. I will find my own path, free from the toxicity you bring. And when I look back on this dark chapter of my life, I will not remember you with anger, but with pity. Pity for someone so consumed by jealousy and insecurity that they resort to tearing others down. Goodbye, Lila. May you one day realize the emptiness of your victory and the magnitude of the pain you have caused. Sincerely, Marinette.”

As Alya finished reading the letter, a heavy silence engulfed the classroom, suffocating the air and hearts of each student. Marinette's words pierced through their defenses, leaving behind a trail of sorrow, guilt, and regret. Tears welled up in their eyes, mirroring the depth of their emotions.

“That’s not true! I just wanted to be her friend! Don’t you see what she’s trying to do! She just wants to pit us against each other so we can be as miserable as she was!” But Lila's feeble attempt to defend herself only ignited an inferno of anger and resentment. Her words, laced with manipulation, fell on barren ground. The class had seen through her facade, and the truth stood unmasked before them, naked and raw.

"That's enough, Lila! Your twisted games and manipulations have torn us apart," Alix shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and wounded trust.

"You played with our hearts, shattered our faith in friendship, and now you dare to shift the blame? We won't let you rewrite the narrative anymore!" Rose added, her voice quivering with a fierce determination.

The classroom erupted into a tempest of voices, each student unleashing their pent-up rage and pain. Emotions surged forth like a tsunami, crashing against the walls of their shattered trust.

"Do you understand the damage you've caused? How you dismantled Marinette's life and left us in ruins?" Max's voice boomed, shaking with a blend of indignation and heartbreak.

"You took advantage of her kindness, exploited our innocence, and left us bruised and broken. We believed in you, and you reveled in our vulnerability!" Mylene exclaimed, her voice laden with the weight of betrayal and disillusionment.

The once-adoring classmates had transformed into an army of wounded souls, united in their rejection of Lila's false narrative. They refused to remain silent victims in her intricate web of lies.

"Your actions have scarred us irreversibly, Lila! We won't grant you forgiveness so easily. We won't let you escape the consequences of your cruelty!" Ivan’s voice thundered, fueled by a fierce resolve.

The classroom became an emotional battleground, each student unleashing their anguish, disappointment, and shattered trust. It was a cathartic release, a necessary purging of the pain inflicted by Lila's manipulative hands.

Yet, amidst the chaos, a flicker of solidarity emerged, like a fragile flame in the darkness. The students, united by shared suffering, began to find solace in one another's eyes, sensing a collective strength to move forward.

As the uproar gradually subsided, a heavy stillness settled over the room. The students turned to one another, their eyes reflecting a mixture of weariness, resilience, and a glimmer of hope. They realized they had a long and arduous journey ahead to mend what was broken, but they were no longer under Lila's spell.

Marinette's letter had ripped apart the veil of deception, and within that truth, they found solace and unity. Together, they pledged to support one another, nurture their wounds, and ensure that Lila's web of lies would never again ensnare their lives. They were determined to rise from the ashes of betrayal, to forge bonds stronger than ever before, rooted in authenticity, compassion, and unwavering trust.

With a renewed sense of purpose, the class stood united, ready to face the daunting challenges ahead. They would rebuild what was shattered, heal their fractured friendships, and prove that even amidst the darkest of deceptions, genuine connections can emerge and thrive.

XoXo Rowan

[gamecrag]

The Warhammer 40k universe is a brutal and unforgiving place, where war and conflict are constants. Among the factions vying for power, the forces of Chaos stand out as some of the most fearsome and deadly. These servants of the Dark Gods are led by powerful champions, warriors who have dedicated themselves to the cause of Chaos and who wield incredible power on the battlefield. In this article, we will take a look at 10 of Chaos' greatest champions from the Warhammer 40k game universe, each one a formidable opponent in their own right. 10) Skarbrand "I will rip the bones from your body and leave your skin to rot! But your skull I will give to the skull-god, and it will be one among the multitude." Skarbrand is a powerful daemon in the Warhammer universe who was once the greatest of all Khorne's Daemons. He has won countless victories through an eternity of battles in the Blood God's name. Skarbrand is a paragon of violence and a whirlwind of bloodshed and destruction in whom the Blood God once rejoiced. He has slain untold millions, left entire worlds ravaged in his wake, and even ravaged the realms of the other Chaos Gods. It was Skarbrand who destroyed the First Palace of Slaanesh and killed Nurgle's great Poxviathan. Skarbrand led the eight Hosts of Murder to their triumph over the combined armies of the other Chaos Gods. 9) Huron Blackheart "The only reward for loyalty is betrayal." formerly known as Lufgt Huron, was the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws, a renegade Space Marine chapter that gained notoriety as the piratical Red Corsairs12. He was also the ruler of the planet Badab Primaris, which he ruled with an iron fist, earning him the title Tyrant of Badab2. After his fall to Chaos, he became an inhuman servant of Chaos, and is now the master of the Warband of piratical Chaos Space Marines called the Red Corsairs. Huron Blackheart is also known as the Lord of the Maelstrom and is the dark-souled king of an empire of monsters1. He possesses many superhuman abilities, including enhanced reflexes, senses, strength, speed, durability, resilience, stamina, limited regeneration, night vision, longevity, and excellent melee prowess. 8) Erebus "That which we foolishly call truth, is only a small island in a vast sea of the unknown. For Man to truly flourish he must willing to abandon the ever-shrinking island of such petty 'truth' and surrender himself to the reality of that which is beyond." Serving as a senior Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers Traitor Legion. He was originally the first chaplain of the Word Bearers Space Marine Legion at the end of the Great Crusade and during the Horus Heresy in the early 31st Millennium. Erebus is considered one of the most prominent members of the Word Bearers Chaos Space Marines and a member of the Dark Council of Sicarus. He was instrumental in converting first Lorgar and then Horus to Chaos, and refers to himself as the Hand of Destiny, the mortal instrument of the plans of the Ruinous Powers. Erebus is considered by many to be the single man most responsible for the Horus Heresy. 7) Fabius Bile "If a man dedicates his life to good deeds and the welfare of others, he will die unthanked and unremembered. If he exercises his genius bringing misery and death to billions, his name will echo down through the millennia for a hundred lifetimes. Infamy is always more preferable to ignominy." Fabius Bile is a character in the Warhammer 40k universe. He was born to a minor noble house during the Unification Wars of the 30th Millennium on Terra . He was once a Lieutenant-Commander and Chief Apothecary of the Emperor's Children before he fell to Chaos and joined Horus in his heresy against the Emperor. He is now an infamous mad scientist, specializing in genetic manipulation and the creation of Enhanced Warriors. Fabius is also known as the Spider and the Primogenitor and is a Chaos Space Marine. He

is capable of cloning and providing augmentations to others but is hampered by his absolute sadism as many of these experiments tend to be. 6) Typhus the Herald of Nurgle "Look upon me and know that I can slay you at will. You have no defence save one: to look into the darkness at the back of your own mind. There, you will find Father Nurgle waiting to offer you life in return for your submission. Deny him, and you are mine." the Herald of Nurgle, He is a Chaos Space Marine who serves as the champion and most trusted lieutenant of Nurgle, the Chaos God of decay, pestilence, and corruption. Typhus is the leader of the Death Guard Traitor Legion, and is considered one of the most dangerous and powerful champions of Chaos in the galaxy. Typhus is known for his formidable fighting abilities, his skill with a scythe, and his ability to summon swarms of insects and clouds of poisonous gas to spread disease and destruction. He is also capable of summoning units of Nurgle daemons to aid him in battle . In addition to his combat abilities, Typhus is also a master of contagion and infection. He has the power to spread diseases and plagues across entire worlds, and he often uses this power to weaken his enemies before launching a full-scale attack. 5) Lucius the Eternal "Brothers! Welcome to the feast! Tell me, which among you will be the first course?" one of the most powerful champions of the Chaos God Slaanesh. He is also known as The Soulthief, Fulgrim's Champion, Blade of Aeons and the Scion of Chemos. He was originally the Captain of the 13th Company in the Emperor's Children Legion, where his skill with a blade quickly became legendary among the Legion. However, he ultimately betrayed the Imperium and became a lord commander of the Emperor's Children Traitor Legion. He wields the Lash of Torment and the Blade of the Laer. Lucius is also known for his ability to steal the soul of his opponents when he kills them in combat, and he takes on their appearance and memories. 4) Kharn the Betrayer "The Emperor needed a weapon that would never obey its own desires before those of the Imperium. He needed a weapon that would never bite the hand that feeds. The World Eaters were not that weapon. We've all drawn blades purely for the sake of shedding blood, and we've all felt the exultation of winning a war that never even needed to happen. Khârn the Betrayer is a Chaos Space Marine of the World Eaters Legion, and he is the greatest mortal Champion of the Blood God Khorne in the galaxy. He is second only to the Daemon Prince Angron in power and is known as the avatar of Khorne, embodying that god's indiscriminate rage and bloodlust. Kharn is equipped with Khârn’s plasma pistol, Gorechild, frag grenades, and krak grenades . He currently leads his own World Eaters warband called the Butcherhorde. The name "Betrayer" was granted to him much later by the followers of the Emperor. Interestingly, in an act of unusual dignity, Khârn’s battle-brothers bore away his corpse and took it with them when they fled the Sol system after Horus’ defeat, but by a dark miracle, Khârn still lived and the Blood God was not finished with him. 3) Angron The way he honoured Kor Phaeron? No, no and no. No mercy for Angron. Angron the Oathbreaker. Angron the Betrayer." He is the Daemon Primarch of Khorne, also known as the Lord of the Red Sands, and the Primarch of the World Eaters Space Marine Legion. He was raised on the brutal world of Nuceria, fighting as a gladiator slave and having his aggression enhanced by surgical implants. Angron is known for his incredible fighting skills, power, and rage, and is considered one of the most bloody-handed and savage of all the Primarchs. 2) Abaddon "I am the Arch-fiend, the Despoiler of Worlds, and by my hands shall the False Emperor fall." Leader of the Black Legion, and one of the most powerful Chaos Space Marines in the galaxy.

Abaddon is known for his cunning, strategic mind, and immense combat skills, making him a formidable foe to any who stand against him. Abaddon is a former member of the Sons of Horus Space Marine Legion, who was chosen by Horus to lead the Black Crusades, a series of massive invasions into the Imperium of Man. He is also known for wielding the legendary daemon sword Drach'nyen, which is said to have been forged from the shadow of the first murder and can kill even the most powerful of enemies. Abaddon is also a master of dark magic, capable of summoning powerful daemons and using them to his advantage. In the lore, Abaddon is depicted as a charismatic and ruthless leader, who can inspire his followers with his speeches and lead them to victory in battle. He is also depicted as a complex character, with a deep-seated hatred for the Imperium and a desire to see it destroyed, but also a sense of honor and loyalty to his followers. 1) Horus The greatest traitor in the history of Mankind. Horus is a pivotal character in the Warhammer 40,000 universe and is the central figure in the Horus Heresy, a conflict that led to the downfall of the Emperor and the Imperium. The Horus Heresy is a time of great conflict in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, pitting brother against brother and the legions of space marines against each other as the Emperor’s dream of a unified human empire are brought crashing down by Horus’ ambitions. The galaxy’s messiest breakup didn’t get its name until 1988, with the first edition of Adeptus Titanicus. The NOVA Open Reveals article describes Horus as a fallen demigod in thrall to the Ruinous Powers, a stark contrast to his former, noble self.

[thewahookid]

THE POSITIVE VIBES OF THE TRIUMPH OF THE IMMACULATE HEART OF MARY

If you don't believe in the Triumph of the Immaculate Heart of Mary then you're surviving on positive thinking when it comes to the future of our planet. That's not a pleasant place to be. God the Father gave hope to humanity when he had Our Lady of Fatima announce the Triumph and an Era of Peace for humanity amidst the threat of atheism and nuclear war. If you want a lot more positive vibes in your life then believe in Fatima! The sects will promise you the end of the world, but Fatima will promise you a better this world. The World just offers us of a Social, Enviromental, Nuclear, Robot and the newest one is an AI apocalypse. Fatima promises a long, long time of peace for humanity.

The Church looks forward prophetically to the Triumph of the Immaculate Heart of Mary in our world which was announced at Fatima. Many people today though say, "All is Well!" and things are "Excellent!" But we know things are not OK or Excellent. There is a belief in the Marian Movement that the Triumph is not just one event. It may be a series of events.

What's the difference between a Triumph and a Victory? Google Bard says, "Triumph is a more specific term that refers to a great or overwhelming victory. It often carries the sense of a victory that is won against great odds or that is particularly impressive." There is also the sense that Triumph is not so much against an opponent, such as if there are multiple opponents to have victory over.

"In the end my Immaculate Heart will Triumph!' - Our Lady of Fatima, 1917

“What I started at Fatima, I Will Finish in Medjugorje. My Heart Will Triumph.” - Our Lady of Medjugorje

"It will be a cause of amazement even to the Angels of God; a joy to the Saints in Heaven; a consolation and great comfort for all the just on earth; mercy and salvation for a great number of my straying children; a severe and definitive condemnation of Satan and his many followers." - Our Lady to Fr. Gobbi, Marian Movement of Priests Blue Book

"This victory will take place with the fall of practical atheism throughout all the world, with the defeat of the masonic and satanic forces, with the destruction of the great power of evil, and with the full triumph of God in a world, then completely purified by the great merciful chastisement." - Our Lady to Fr. Gobbi, Marian Movement of Priests Blue Book

---

"At Fatima, I have promised, “In the end my Immaculate Heart will triumph”. That promise has no conditions. No matter how little man responds, it will take place."

"How many, however, will enjoy that victory? How soon will it come? When will the forces of love be released from my heart? These questions have no sure answer. Concerning these issues, much depends on mankind responding to my call." - Locutions to the World

(The Locutions say the Triumph will take place in this century.)

[lesmislettersdaily]

The Eighteenth Of June, 1815

Volume 2: Cosette; Book 1: Waterloo; Chapter 3: The Eighteenth Of June, 1815

Let us turn back,—that is one of the story-teller’s rights,—and put ourselves once more in the year 1815, and even a little earlier than the epoch when the action narrated in the first part of this book took place.

If it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th of June, 1815, the fate of Europe would have been different. A few drops of water, more or less, decided the downfall of Napoleon. All that Providence required in order to make Waterloo the end of Austerlitz was a little more rain, and a cloud traversing the sky out of season sufficed to make a world crumble.

The battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past eleven o’clock, and that gave Blücher time to come up. Why? Because the ground was wet. The artillery had to wait until it became a little firmer before they could manœuvre.

Napoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this. The foundation of this wonderful captain was the man who, in the report to the Directory on Aboukir, said: Such a one of our balls killed six men. All his plans of battle were arranged for projectiles. The key to his victory was to make the artillery converge on one point. He treated the strategy of the hostile general like a citadel, and made a breach in it. He overwhelmed the weak point with grape-shot; he joined and dissolved battles with cannon. There was something of the sharpshooter in his genius. To beat in squares, to pulverize regiments, to break lines, to crush and disperse masses,—for him everything lay in this, to strike, strike, strike incessantly,—and he intrusted this task to the cannon-ball. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius, rendered this gloomy athlete of the pugilism of war invincible for the space of fifteen years.

On the 18th of June, 1815, he relied all the more on his artillery, because he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred and fifty-nine mouths of fire; Napoleon had two hundred and forty.

Suppose the soil dry, and the artillery capable of moving, the action would have begun at six o’clock in the morning. The battle would have been won and ended at two o’clock, three hours before the change of fortune in favor of the Prussians. What amount of blame attaches to Napoleon for the loss of this battle? Is the shipwreck due to the pilot?

Was it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that complicated this epoch by an inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years of war worn out the blade as it had worn the scabbard, the soul as well as the body? Did the veteran make himself disastrously felt in the leader? In a word, was this genius, as many historians of note have thought, suffering from an eclipse? Did he go into a frenzy in order to disguise his weakened powers from himself? Did he begin to waver under the delusion of a breath of adventure? Had he become—a grave matter in a general—unconscious of peril? Is there an age, in this class of material great men, who may be called the giants of action, when genius grows short-sighted? Old age has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal; for the Dantes and Michael Angelos to grow old is to grow in greatness; is it to grow less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napoleon lost the direct sense of victory? Had he reached the point where he could no longer recognize the reef, could no longer divine the snare, no longer discern the crumbling brink of abysses? Had he lost his power of scenting out catastrophes? He who had in former days known all the roads to triumph, and who, from the summit of his chariot of lightning, pointed them out with a sovereign finger, had he now reached that state of sinister amazement when he could lead his tumultuous legions harnessed to it, to the precipice? Was he seized at the age of forty-six with a supreme madness? Was that titanic charioteer of destiny no longer anything more than an immense dare-devil?

We do not think so.

His plan of battle was, by the confession of all, a masterpiece. To go straight to the centre of the Allies’ line, to make a breach in the enemy, to cut them in two, to drive the British half back on Hal, and the Prussian half on Tongres, to make two shattered fragments of Wellington and Blücher, to carry Mont-Saint-Jean, to seize Brussels, to hurl the German into the Rhine, and the Englishman into the sea. All this was contained in that battle, according to Napoleon. Afterwards people would see.

Of course, we do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle of Waterloo; one of the scenes of the foundation of the story which we are relating is connected with this battle, but this history is not our subject; this history, moreover, has been finished, and finished in a masterly manner, from one point of view by Napoleon, and from another point of view by a whole pleiad of historians.7

As for us, we leave the historians at loggerheads; we are but a distant witness, a passer-by on the plain, a seeker bending over that soil all made of human flesh, taking appearances for realities, perchance; we have no right to oppose, in the name of science, a collection of facts which contain illusions, no doubt; we possess neither military practice nor strategic ability which authorize a system; in our opinion, a chain of accidents dominated the two leaders at Waterloo; and when it becomes a question of destiny, that mysterious culprit, we judge like that ingenious judge, the populace.

[diaryofomellas]

Sometimes fixing the canon means finding an equally evil murder wife for the "villain".

Enjoy this spoilery snippet of my fic that I finished at 6am today featuring two deliciously sinful ladies and a bonfire in the background.

The mighty siege engines bearing the Horde crest were quiet now. Lifeless. Sitting unmanned on the shore after a job well done. Among them stood High Overlord Saurfang. Unmoving. Staring at the flames, hunched with the weight of his failure and the consequences of his decisions. Broken.

Lighting up the sky like a second sunset, the arcane fire on the payloads had spread from root to root, bough to bough, until the entire World Tree was consumed. Heat reached them all the way across the sea as carbonised branches broke off and fell into the waters below. The air, thick with smoke and soot, had driven almost everyone away from the beaches and into the conquered town just south of Mist’s Edge.

Lor’danel was alive with Horde voices now. Laughter. Music. Overflowing mugs clinking together over shouts of triumph, as if rivers of kaldorei blood had not drowned its streets just hours ago. Omellas had made sure the soldiers would want for nothing that night so they could celebrate their hard-won victory. No one would waste another second questioning the Warchief's decisions when they could spend that time singing their Lok'tra songs over free kaldorei wine and juicy roasted nightsaber steaks.

Shoulders pushed back and chin high, Omellas left the crowded areas behind with a promise to join them later for songs and drinks. She wanted her people to see the clarity and confidence in each stride, as opposed to the old orc brooding alone among the forgotten ballistas.

The sweltering heat and nearly unbreathable air suddenly reminded Omellas of the mines in Frostfire Ridge. Back then there had been blood on her hands too, but liberating slaves was a just cause. Now, however, the blood belonged to the innocents burning alive in the tree.

Saurfang’s cowardice and betrayal had left them no choice. He had allowed Malfurion and Tyrande to leave that battlefield with their lives. He had compromised their entire plan.

His plan! Omellas' fists clenched hard, wishing they were holding a certain orc neck instead. Gutless bastard!

One more second. If he'd had kept Tyrande talking just one more second; if she had activated her hearthstone just one second later, Omellas' arrow would have pierced the priestesses skull instead of the tree right behind her.

Trudging through the beach, boots dipping into the sand caked with blood and sweat and ash, Omellas shifted her focus from the recent failures to the future. Sylvanas waited for her near the surf and now looked back over the shoulder, sensing her Champion's presence. They had a war to plan, the two of them and Nathanos. No more trust wasted in the wrong people.

"I sent Nathanos and most of the Rangers to recover as many elven bodies as they can.” The young woman came to a halt facing the shallow waves painted red and orange.

To the left, the Dark Lady cocked an inquisitive eyebrow waiting for an explanation.

"I am going to raise them all," Omellas revealed.

"All of them? Lor'themar will not be pleased.”

Omellas knew, of course, that Lor’themar Theron was firmly against raising his blood elves as Forsaken. Years ago, on a different beach with the same bloody sands they stood together among the dead. He glared at Sylvanas and the words leaving his mouth dripped with loathing. You will leave our corpses alone, or I will deal with you here and now.

But their numbers were dwindling. New Dark Rangers were required to replace those who had been lost in countless battles since. Again, they had no other choice.

Omellas met Sylvanas’ gaze with staggering determination. "I will deal with Lor'themar later. We need to bolster our ranks."

“If anyone can overcome such a challenge," Sylvanas said, smiling fondly at her Champion, "it is you.”

The Ranger General basked in the warmth of her queen's praise for a few seconds before glancing behind her shoulder. Dozens of kaldorei corpses littered the beach — many of them still bearing arrows with Omellas' trademark deep purple fletching. "We have more than enough Sentinels here to create a whole new type of Dark Ranger. I would very much like to work with them, if they are willing."

"And if they are not?"

Omellas did not hesitate. "I cut them down once. I can do so again."

That answer pleased the Dark Lady. Omellas had grown to become a fine leader, just as Sylvanas had always intended. But after yet another betrayal by one she thought she could trust, her mind would not rest. The circle continued to get smaller and smaller, unreleased arrows leaving her quiver emptier with every new act of treachery. Sylvanas did not need to voice her concerns; Omellas could sense them, hear them as clearly as her own thoughts.

Next to Sylvanas the young woman stirred. The backs of their gloved hands brushed together. Omellas lived for those moments. The lingering touches, the stolen glances, any kind of connection she could hold on to. She used to be content with picking up the scraps of intimacy from the floor like a dog begging for treats. She would tell herself, this is enough. Before, she would have stood completely still, savouring the closeness for as long as she could before her queen was gone again.

It was not enough anymore. Everything was different now. They were different, and the burning tree in front of them was the evidence of how they had changed the world forever.

"Your quiver will never be empty, my Lady.” Omellas made sure to look straight into Sylvanas’ eyes so she could scan her for any hints of a lie. There were none. “I am eternally yours to use as you please.”

Others had come and gone and Omellas had not wanted to keep any of them. But her… She would go to the ends of the world for Sylvanas. She was more than her mentor, more than her queen. She was more than a Warchief. Sylvanas was the one.

In the silence that stretched between them, the screams of the kaldorei still in the tree became almost unbearably loud. Omellas pushed away the memories of her own people screaming while they were slaughtered at the hands of the scourge; the piercing shrieks of Horde and Alliance as they trampled each other trying to run away from a cloud of blight on a frozen continent; humans and Forsaken alike crying for help and drowning on a tidal wave at Gilneas; dozens upon dozens of soldiers with fel poisoning rotting from within in the medical tents all over the Broken Shore. The awful sound of people dying painfully was seared into her brain. It haunted her dreams. She knew Sylvanas could not be indifferent to the sound either, despite whatever mask she put on to hide it.

“You gave the order, but destroying the tree was my idea.” Omellas found herself trying to reassure Sylvanas. Or perhaps… herself. “It was necessary to cover the loose ends other people failed to tie up. War is messy. Dirty. We both know that.”

In a moment of impulsivity, Omellas grabbed Sylvanas’ hand. To her surprise, Sylvanas held her hand tighter before interlacing their fingers as best as her gauntlets allowed.

“Do you still feel the same way about me? Even after this?”

The question came as a surprise, but Omellas did not let it show. “You can read my thoughts.”

Sylvanas shook her head softly. “I need to hear it.”

“My Lady, I would burn down the whole world with you.”

Their eyes locked. Sylvanas’ heart would be racing if it still could. Omellas’ was about ready to jump from her chest, beating so fast it made her dizzy. Sylvanas focused on that sound instead, willing the unsteady thumping to drown out everything else.

"I have always loved you, Sylvanas Windrunner." There was no doubt in Omellas' voice. Only devotion. Unwavering loyalty. A burning, unending passion. "And I always will."

The heat from the fire no longer mattered. The screams of the dying no longer reached them. As crimson stared into clover, their world narrowed to their interlaced fingers and the fervent need they had for each other.

“Please, Sylvanas,” Omellas whispered, breathless. “Let me kiss you.”

Hearing her name said with such adoration tugged at something deep within her undead core. Sylvanas lifted her free hand to trace a finger across the young woman’s jaw, then held the chin to lift her face. The Dark Lady leaned in, their lips touched, and Omellas could swear her heart stopped.

So long had she waited for that moment, she had convinced herself it would never come. Omellas was done waiting. Fingers tangled themselves in silvery locks of hair, pulling Sylvanas closer by the back of her neck. Tongues touched, their kiss deepened. It was fierce and wild like them, and they drank each other in as if their thirst could never be sated.

[dwellordream]

“Henry's marriage to Catherine had long since grown cold. Though his wife remained, and would remain, loyal and devoted, Henry was in very different case. The raptures of the early days had faded and the consequent demands upon him for self-discipline and generosity had found him wanting. Catherine was five years his senior. In I527 he was still in his prime, in his mid-thirties, she over forty. As king he could satisfy desire all too easily, for who would refuse a king easily, especially a king such as he? Fidelity was rare among monarchs and the temptation besetting him, in particular, strong.

At first Henry had been a gallant husband. Catherine had accompanied him to every feast and triumph, he had worn her initials on his sleeve in the jousts and called himself 'Sir Loyal Heart'. He had shown her off to visitors, confided in her, run to her with news. Though there had been talk of a lady to whom he showed favour while campaigning in France, he had slipped home ahead of his army and galloped to Catherine at Richmond in order to lay the keys of the two cities he had captured at her feet.

We cannot know when he first succumbed to the temptation of adultery, but it must have been within five years of his marriage, when there appeared on the scene one Elizabeth Blount, a lady-in-waiting of Queen Catherine and a cousin of Lord Mountjoy - and she may not have been the first. She caught the king's eye during the New Year festivities in I5I4, that is, shortly after he had returned from the first campaign in France. Bessie Blount eventually bore him a son, in I519. Subsequently she married into a gentle family, the Talboys of Lancashire, with a dower of lands in that county and Yorkshire assigned by act ofParliament. Hers, then, was a fate less than death; and her son, the duke of Richmond, was occasionally to acquire considerable political and diplomatic significance.

Next there was Mary Boleyn, since 1521 wife of William Carey, daughter of a royal councillor and diplomat, and sister of Anne. That Mary was at one time Henry's mistress, and this presumably after her marriage, is beyond doubt. Years later there was a strong rumour that she too had born Henry a son, but we cannot be sure. Anyway we may guess that the liaison was over by l526, and when her younger sister climbed on to the English throne, with perhaps pardonable pique, she dismissed Mary from the court. The latter was to do well enough, with her family at the centre of affairs during the reign of her niece, Elizabeth I - which was more than could be said of Bessie Blount. And finally there was Anne, Thomas Boleyn's younger daughter.

Following in the wake of her sister, who had been in the entourage that accompanied Mary Tudor to France in 1514, Anne had crossed the Channel about 1519 to enter the household of Queen Claude, wife of Francis I, an amiable lady who had several young girls in her care and supervised their education. The newcomer to the royal school must have been about twelve years old. She stayed in France until the out- break of war in 1522 and then came home, by which time she was on the way to becoming an accomplished and mature girl. She does not seem to have been remarkably beautiful, but she had wonderful dark hair in abundance and fine eyes, the legacy of Irish ancestors, together with a firm mouth and a head well set on a long neck that gave her authority and grace.

On her return, if not before, her future had apparently been settled, ironically by Henry and Wolsey. She would marry Sir James Butler, an Irish chieftain and claimant to the earldom of Ormond, to which the Boleyns, rivals of the Butlers, had long aspired. Anne was therefore to mend the feud by uniting families and claims. Had this familiar kind of device been executed, and had this been the sum total ofher experience ofhow marriage and politics could interweave, things might have been very different for England, if not for Ireland. But Butler's price was too high and Anne remained in England.

Her father, aided perhaps by her grandfather, the second duke of Norfolk, had meanwhile brought her to Court, as he had her sister before her. There she eventually attracted attention, first from Sir Thomas Wyatt, the poet, a cousin of hers; then from Henry Percy, son of the earl of Northumberland and one of the large number of young men of quality resident in Wolsey's household. Alas, Percy was already betrothed. At the king's behest, Wolsey refused to allow him to break his engagement and, summoning him to his presence, rated him for falling for a foolish girl at Court. When words failed, the cardinal told the father to remove his son and knock some sense into him. Percy was carried off forthwith- and thus began that antipathy for Wolsey that Anne never lost.

But it may well be that, when Henry ordered Wolsey to stamp on Percy's suit, it was because he was already an interested party himself and a rival for the girl's affection of perhaps several gay courtiers, including Thomas Wyatt. The latter's grandson later told a story ofhow Wyatt, while flirting once with Anne, snatched a locket hanging from her pocket which he refused to return. At the same time, Henry had been paying her attention and taken a ring from her which he thereafter wore on his little finger. A few days later, Henry was playing bowls with the duke of Suffolk, Francis Bryan and Wyatt, when a dispute arose about who had won the last throw.

Pointing with the finger which bore the pilfered ring, Henry cried out that it was his point, saying to Wyatt with a smile, 'I tell thee it is mine.' Wyatt saw the ring and understood the king's meaning. But he could return the point. 'And if it may like your majesty,' he replied, 'to give me leave that I may measure it, I hope it will be mine.' Whereupon he took out the locket which hung about his neck and started measuring the distance between the bowls and the jack. Henry recognized the trophy and, muttering something about being deceived, strode away.

But the chronology ofAnne's rise is impossible to discover exactly. All that can be said is that by I525-6 what had probably hitherto been light dalliance with an eighteen or nineteen year-old girl had begun to grow into something deeper and more dangerous. In the normal course of events, Anne would have mattered only to Henry's conscience, not to the history of England. She would have been used and discarded - along with those others whom Henry may have taken and who are now forgotten. But, either because of virtue or ambition, Anne refused to become his mistress and thus follow the conventional, inconspicuous path of her sister; and the more she resisted, the more, apparently, did Henry prize her.

Had Catherine's position been more secure she would doubtless have ridden this threat. Indeed, had it been so, Anne might never have dared to raise it. But Catherine had still produced no heir to the throne. The royal marriage had failed in its first duty, namely, to secure the succession. Instead, it had yielded several miscarriages, three infants who were either still-born or died immediately after birth (two of them males), two infants who had died within a few weeks ofbirth (one ofthem a boy) and one girl, Princess Mary, now some ten years old. His failure to produce a son was a disappointment to Henry, and as the years went by and no heir appeared, ambassadors and foreign princes began to remark the fact, and English diplomacy eventually to accommodate it, provisionally at least, in its reckoning.

Had Henry been able to glimpse into the second halfofthe century he would have had to change his mind on queens regnant, for his two daughters were to show quality that equalled or outmeasured their father's; and even during his reign, across the Channel, there were two women who rendered the Habsburgs admirable service as regents ofthe Netherlands. Indeed, the sixteenth century would perhaps produce more remarkable women in Church and State than any predecessor - more than enough to account for John Knox's celebrated anti-feminism and more than enough to make Henry's patriarchal convictions look misplaced. But English experience of the queen regnant was remote and unhappy, and Henry's conventional mind, which no doubt accorded with his subjects', demanded a son as a political necessity.

When his only surviving legitimate child, Mary, was born in February 1516, Henry declared buoyantly to the Venetian ambassador, 'We are both young; if it was a daughter this time, by the grace of God sons will follow.' But they did not. Catherine seems to have miscarried in the autumn of 1517 and in the November of the following year was delivered of another still-born. This was her last pregnancy, despite the efforts of physicians brought from Spain; and by 1525 she was almost past child-bearing age. There was, therefore, a real fear of a dynastic failure, of another bout of civil war, perhaps, or, if Mary were paired off as the treaty of 1525 provided, of England's union with a continental power.

Catherine, for the blame was always attached to her and not to Henry, was a dynastic misfortune. She was also a diplomatic one. Charles's blunt refusal to exploit the astonishing opportunity provided by his victory at Pavia and to leap into the saddle to invade and partition France had been an inexplicable disappointment. Of course, had Henry really been cast in the heroic mould he would have invaded single- handed. But established strategy required a continental ally. Eleven years before, in 1514., Ferdinand of Spain had treated him with contempt and Henry had cast around for means of revenge, and there had been a rumour then that he wanted to get rid of his Spanish wife and marry a French princess.

Whether Henry really contemplated a divorce then has been the subject of controversy, which surely went in favour of the contention that he did not - especially when a document listed in an eighteenth-century catalogue of the Vatican Archives, and thought to relate to the dissolution of the king's marriage - a document which has since disappeared - was convincingly pushed aside with the suggestion that it was concerned with Mary Tudor's matrimonial affairs, not Henry's. Undoubtedly, this must dispose of the matter even more decisively than does the objection that, in the summer of 1514, Catherine was pregnant. In 1525, however, the situation was different. Charles had rebuffed Henry's military plans and, by rejecting Mary's hand, had thrown plans for the succession into disarray.

For a moment the king evidently thought of advancing his illegitimate son - who, in June 1525, was created duke of Richmond. But this solution was to be overtaken by another which Henry may have been contemplating for some time, namely, to disown his Spanish wife. Catherine, therefore, was soon in an extremely embarrassing position. Tyndale asserted, on first-hand evidence, that \Volsey had placed informants in her entourage and told of one 'that departed the Court for no other reason than that she would no longer betray her mistress'.' When Mendoza arrived in England in December 1526, he was prevented for months from seeing the queen and, when he did, had to endure the presence of Wolsey who made it virtually impossible to communicate with her. It was the ambassador's opinion that 'the principal cause of [her] misfortune is that she identifies herselfentirely with the emperor's interests'; an exaggeration, but only an exaggeration.

The king, then, had tired of his wife and fallen in love with one who would give herself entirely to him only if he would give himself entirely to her; his wife had not borne the heir for which he and the nation longed, and it was now getting too late to hope; he had been disappointed by Catherine's nephew, Charles V, and now sought vengeance in a diplomatic revolution which would make the position of a Spanish queen awkward to say the least. Any one of these facts would not have seriously endangered the marriage, but their coincidence was fatal. If Henry's relations with Catherine momentarily improved in the autumn of 1525 so that they read a book together and appeared to be very friendly, soon after, probably, Henry never slept with her again.

The divorce, which came into the open in early 1527 was therefore due to more than a man's lust for a woman. It was diplomatically expedient and, so some judged, dynastically urgent. As well as this, it was soon to be publicly asserted, it was theologically necessary, for two famous texts from the book of Leviticus apparently forbade the very marriage that Henry had entered. His marriage, therefore, was not and never had been, lawful. The miscarriages, the still-births, the denial of a son were clearly divine punishment for, and proof of, transgression of divine law. Henry had married Catherine by virtue of a papal dispensation of the impediment of affinity which her former marriage to Arthur had set up between them.

But Leviticus proclaimed such a marriage to be against divine law - which no pope can dispense. So he will begin to say. And thus what will become a complicated argument took shape. Henry had laid his hand on a crucial weapon - the only weapon, it seemed, with which he could have hoped to achieve legitimately what he now desired above all else. How sincere he was is impossible to determine. More than most, he found it difficult to distinguish between what was right and what he desired. Certainly, before long he had talked, thought and read himself into a faith in the justice of his cause so firm that it would tolerate no counter-argument and no opposition, and convinced himself that it was not only his right to throw aside his alleged wife, but also his duty - to himself, to Catherine, to his people, to God.

At the time, and later, others would be accused of planting the great scruple, the levitical scruple, in Henry's mind. Tyndale, Polydore Vergil and Nicholas Harpsfield (in his life of Sir Thomas More) charged Wolsey with having used John Longland, bishop of Lincoln and royal confessor, to perform the deed. But this was contradicted by Henry, Longland and Wolsey. In 1529, when the divorce case was being heard before the legatine court at Blackfriars, Wolsey publicly asked Henry to declare before the court 'whether I have been the chiefinventor or first mover of this matter unto your Majesty; for I am greatly suspected of all men herein'; to which Henry replied, 'My lord cardinal, I can well excuse you herein. Marry, you have been rather against me in attempt- ing or setting forth thereof' - an explicit statement for which no obvious motive for misrepresentation can be found and which is corroborated by later suggestions that Wolsey had been sluggish in pushing the divorce forwards.

Longland too spoke on the subject, saying that it was the king who first broached the subject to him 'and never left urging him until he had won him to give his consent'. On another occasion Henry put out a different story: that his conscience had first been 'pricked upon divers words that were spoken at a certain time by the bishop of Tarbes, the French king's ambassador, who had been here long upon the debating for the conclusion of the marriage between the princess our daughter, Mary, and the duke of Orleans, the French king's second son'. It is incredible that an ambassador would have dared to trespass upon so delicate a subject as a monarch's marriage, least of all when he had come to negotiate a treaty with that monarch.

Nor was it likely that he should have sug- gested that Mary was illegitimate when her hand would have been very useful to French diplomacy. Besides, the bishop of Tarbes only arrived in England in April 1527, that is, a few weeks before Henry's marriage was being tried by a secret court at Westminster. The bishop could not have precipitated events as swiftly as that. No less significantly, another account ofthe beginnings of the story, given by Henry in 1528, says that doubts about Mary's legitimacy were first put by the French to English ambassadors in France - not by the bishop of Tarbes to his English hosts.

He and his compatriots may have been told about the scruple or deliberately encouraged by someone to allude to it in the course of negotiations, but did not invent it; nor, probably, did Anne Boleyn - as Pole asserted. It is very likely that Henry himselfwas the author ofhis doubts. After all, he would not have needed telling about Leviticus. Though he might not have read them, the two texts would probably have been familiar to him if he had ever explored the reasons for the papal dispensation for his marriage, and he was enough of a theologian to be able to turn to them now, to brood over them and erect upon them at least the beginnings of the argument that they forbade absolutely the marriage which he had entered.

Wolsey said later that Henry’s doubts had sprung partly from his own study and partly from discussion with 'many theologians'; but since it is difficult to imagine that anyone would have dared to question the validity of the royal marriage without being prompted by the king, this must mean that the latter's own 'assiduous study and erudition' first gave birth to the 'great scruple' and that subsequent conference with others encouraged it. Moreover, Henry may have begun to entertain serious doubts about his marriage as early as 1522 or 1523, and have broached his ideas to Longland then - for, in 1532, the latter was said to have heard the first mutterings of the divorce 'nine or ten years ago'.'

By the time that Anne Boleyn captured the king, therefore, the scruple may already have acquired firm roots, though probably not until early 1527 was it mentioned to Wolsey who, so he said, when he heard about it, knelt before the king 'in his Privy Chamber the space of an hour or two, to persuade him from his will and appetite; but I could never bring to pass to dissuade him therefrom'. What had begun as a perhaps hesitant doubt had by now matured into aggressive conviction.”

- J.J. Scarisbrick, “The Repudiation of the Hapsburgs.” in Henry VIII

[internalsealpanic]

Lesson Learned

summary: Pinning exercises are a lot easier when you ask nicely.

a/n: The backstory to this piece was that I went to the church part of our discord server and told people about me being thirsty about Slade and they collectively went: DO HIM. The reader does have a backstory which boils down to rich girl from a crime family is a little shit because I thought this would have a funny dynamic with Slade.  Special thanks to @batarella and @knightfall05x for proof reading and giving me ideas. Would this count as my one entry for kinktober? 

warnings:  This is straight up smut. Please read responsibly. Brat taming, strength kink, daddy kink, orgasm denial, and hinted size kink. (Hilariously half of these were by complete accident.) There is some injury mentioned but not too graphically. Both characters are assholes.   

masterlist

Slade was on the ground, his head was swimming even as the sharp shriek of sirens rang loud in his ears. His senses were at once too sharp and too unfocused. Whatever drug he'd been hit with had to have targeted the nerves in his muscles too. He couldn't move. Not substantially anyway. Not in a way that would actually help him.  Through the haze he hears the clicking of heels against the floor, then a sharp pain shoots through him when said heel dug into one of his still closing bullet wounds. 

 You stood above him, your shark's smile hidden behind your mask.  "Well old man, I didn't think you would be caught this easy. I might need to rethink this meeting." You hummed tapping your chin as you lean down your heel digging further into his flesh. It's a tactic your sister had taught you. People were less inclined to think clearly when in excruciating pain.  If Deathstroke was this easy to capture, was he really worth your money? 

 He was watching you, blue eyes looking defiant. You whistled low. You liked a hard negotiation. It kept things more interesting. The rapid footsteps of men drew you out of your contemplation much to your annoyance. You debated on just paying them to go away. It would make your life easier but there's a chance these men were truly loyal to the man you had just paid a visit to.

 You weigh your options. His reputation may be enough to keep your siblings away. Maybe just long enough 'til their petty little war is over. "I'm going to hire you-"

 "-this assumes I'm going to say yes"

 You snorted. He noted the confident roll in your shoulders, the kind of cocky self-assured gesture of someone who knows they're going to win.  Every movement, every angling of your form deliberately used to show a difference in power and lack of respect. In short, it made you very punchable.

 "Your statement assumes you have a choice." You chuckled tilting your head to the side in challenge. He scowled at you and you try to keep the sheer delight you feel out of your body language. You weren't sadistic by any means but for one, brutality was practically bred into you, and two, you are, what your darling eldest brother had so kindly put, a  little bitch.  "I'll tell you why you'll say yes to my proposal." You said stepping off of him and pirouetting towards your duffle bag. "One, I'm offering your more than a million dollars in cash for the simple job of training me-" You observed his face as it remains carefully impassive. You expected as much. You heft your bag into your arms and unzip it rummaging through the cache of weapons you had stored just in case plan A through F failed you. "Unless we're associated, I'm the only one walking out of here with any money for their troubles." You said tossing the severed head of his target in front of him. You gave him an all too pleased grin. 

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

 You find yourself pinned down again in the span of 15 minutes, face squished against the training mat, your arms pinned behind you, and most annoyingly your ass raised while your bastard of an instructor laughs in your ear, his lips dangerously close to your ear. You hiss and bristle feeling the fibers in your muscles burn from the uncomfortable angle they've been forced into.  You squirm trying to buck him off but his strength rendered your efforts moot. His enhanced strength keeps your body firmly between the sweat-covered mat and his large, toned body which just made you bite your lip to keep anything vulgar from escaping you. 

 You were 110% sure he was fucking with you at this point but any smart remark you had was either smothered by the mat or died whenever you felt acutely aware of your skin against his.  

 "Get off of me, old man," You snarl, making a futile attempt to kick him off with one of your legs. He chuckles at your weak attempts, the reverberations from his chest pressing against your back sending a thrum of excitement rolling over you concentrating into more distracting areas. You can't see it but you know he's grinning smugly above you and you can't decide whether it's your horniness or your anger that will win out. You sincerely hope it's the latter. 

 "C'mon, kid, you can get out of this," He encourages but you don't miss the playful mockery dancing in his tone. You squirm and wriggle and sigh. "Just let me out," You demand, politely. He doesn't budge. You turn your head to pout petulantly at him. That doesn't do anything either. 

 You sigh again. You hated pinning exercises with a carefully cultivated passion which you would normally direct at whatever instructor was dumb enough to force it upon you. However, that wasn't really possible as of this moment. One of the reasons for this hatred was that you were never pinned down unless you wanted to be, even then they were usually too hesitant to follow through so you never really saw any practical use for the skill. That is until last week when you found yourself being pinned down by the Red Hood which was honestly a fantastic position if you weren't trying to get away from him. Apparently, the large man didn't take too kindly to being shot at even when your very professional self explained that you were in fact a decoy. After you were entirely unable to slip his hold, you begrudgingly agreed to let Slade teach you a few maneuvers. The other reason was that you liked being pinned down. Your body is far too enthusiastic about the feeling of being pinned down. You're pretty sure you've expended more energy into suppressing your thrilled shivers than you have trying to get out of any of the holds he's demonstrated so far.  The fact that he was an attractive asshole with no shirt did not help.    

 "Maybe if you ask nicely, princess" He drawls his teeth grazing your ear, beard bristling against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You bite back a groan and stop the cant of your hips. "Or are you even capable of that?"

 "I am, sir" You grind out but it sounds too breathy to be threatening. You feel the curve of his lips against your shoulder.

 "Dunno, brat, I've never seen you do it," He taunts pressing closer to you. You're suddenly aware of just how close you two are. You hate how the way he called you brat sent thrills up your spine. You try to even your breath but you're entirely too feverish both body and mind. You had to think of something before you were lost in a haze.

 You nudge your arm one last time before an idea strikes. A familiar shark-like grin spreads like wildfire across your features. Pressing your ass against his crotch, you roll your hips, the movement slow and deliberate and painfully tempting. Sure, it was a dirty trick but 1) he never said anything about using your assets 2) you've been wanting to do that since the first hold. You feel his muscles tense and you can't help but radiate smugness.  Your smile vanishes, however, when he rolls his hips against yours giving you a feel of his hardened length through the thin fabric of your gym shorts. The slow, tantalizing friction against your core draws out a vulgar moan from you. 

 "Do you wanna run that by me again, brat?" He whispers low and husky emphasizing the last word with another grind of his hip. You pant, hips answering back with their own desperate movement. You want to let your hips keep moving, to make him move, to feel his cock against your core but pride flared in your chest. "Make me." You bite out. "I really should teach you some manners."You feel the low rumble of his answer in response seemingly amused by your continued resistance. He rocks his hips against yours drawing out another breathy moan from you. Out of spite you bite your bottom lip and rock your hips in tandem with his. What did you hope to accomplish from this? You don't know but it certainly felt good. Your skin feels hot and oversensitive as your bodies continue to move at this rhythm. The feel of his muscles rippling against you makes you arch your back. You wanted more but you had too much pride. As if spurred on by the movement, he presses a kiss on your shoulder and sucks at your flesh, a rough hand grips your waist tight enough to bruise. "Slade!" You choke out losing your composure.  The cry sounds more like a plea than you would like. You sound so small and needy beneath his ministrations. 

 Distilling your anger into your weakening limbs you try to buck him off again. You make a small noise of triumph when he budges but whine when his grip on you just gets tighter. "Not quite, princess,"  

 He flips you onto your back. A hand pins both your arms above your head as he situates himself between your legs. His lips capture yours in a rough kiss, the type where you feel two bodies fighting each other for dominance. His teeth bite lightly against your bottom lip asking for entrance. You open your lips less in concession and more of a challenge. The wet muscles of your tongues entangle. Your nose is filled with the musk of him. It was overwhelming. You moan into the kiss and you feel him smile into it. Another small victory. 

 Slade ends the kiss having undeniably won the match. You try to move your hand to punch the grin off his face but again your hands don't budge. You curse his enhanced strength halfheartedly as the feeling of the heat coiling in the pit of your stomach takes over. Instead of diving back in for another kiss as you expected, Slade trails kisses down your jawline, your throat, and your collar bone leaving very defined very visible hickeys. There was something oddly possessive in his actions.  The look in his eye was predatory. 

 You, foolishly, let your attention wander to your hands seeing what angle you could possibly force them into so you can slip his grip and maybe turn the tables. Your attention snaps back to him when the pressure around your chest loosens and the distinct sound of a zipper fills your ears. Your eyes widen as you watch as he unzips the front of your sports bra with his teeth. Your breath catches even as your chest fills with the lack of constriction. Your too hot skin is grazed by the training room's cold air. He places a kiss in the valley between your breasts but when you whimper and move slightly urging him to proceed. He moves on to your stomach. "Asshat" You seethe through gritted teeth. You let out a groan of frustration. You were going to kill him. You honestly don't care if you've just wasted half a billion dollars on this asshole. 

 His kisses drift down to your inner thigh drawing a moan from you. Slade chuckles seeing your desire seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. He isn't entirely surprised considering how unsubtle you are about your interest. A rare moment of embarrassment blankets you. Your legs try to close but rough hands pry them apart placing them on his broad shoulders. You bite your lip when he plants a kiss on your inner thigh. Your lips are puffy and red at this point, looking delicious as you panted. Slade wonders how your lips would feel around his cock but he decides he'll save that for another time. He hooks his fingers on the waistband of your shorts and his eye widens momentarily when he doesn't feel a second layer of fabric underneath it. He looks at you incredulously.

 You shrug trying to keep the mischief off your face looking absolutely unapologetic. "It's laundry day-" You shrug a little amused that this is the detail that caught him off guard. "-I did tell you I had stuff to do~"He also supposedly had stuff to do but, apparently, you were stuff. He chuckled and without dignifying your comment with an actual response, he rips your shorts off with ease and tosses them somewhere behind him.  A complaint or a threat, you weren't entirely sure, died on your lips when his tongue gave your core a nice long lick. A loud, needy keen escapes you. Your hands now free from his grasp dig into his scalp.  Pleased with your reaction he continues. His skilled tongue exploring your core hitting spots you didn't even know were there. Your hips meet to match his pace as he fucks you with his tongue. You whine when he withdraws his tongue but mewl loud and wanton when you feel two rough fingers stretching your insides. His mouth latches onto your sensitive bud, fingers pumping in and out.  You throw your head back not being able to contain your moans.

 "Look at me, brat," The command is deep and resonant. Your whole body buzzes with excitement. Slade can see your eyes dilate as his voice drops an octave. 

 "Yes," Your breath hitches when he doesn't move. "Sir" You add as a concession hoping it was enough. You felt your pride waning from the small piece of power being given away. Thankfully, he rewards you with another long lick before you can dwell on it. Slade watches as your face twists in pleasure trying your best not to throw your head back. You see the smugness on his face even when half of his face is buried between your legs. You don't attempt a threat simply because you don't trust whatever comes out of your mouth to be coherent. You were so close. You rock your hips trying to chase your high. Your skin is flush and glistening with sweat. You were so close. He feels your walls tightening around his fingers. Another needy keen escapes you as you were about to tip over the edge. 

 The motherfucker pulls back. You snarl at him but it comes out sounding more like a needy croon than anything else. He chuckles at you even as he captures your lips for another kiss. His tongue is thick with the taste of you. Your hand tangles itself into his hair while the other tugs at the waistband of his sweatpants.  He pulls away giving your lips one last nip before his body is off of you. It's funny how just moments ago you wanted him off of you badly enough that you'd play any dirty trick you could think of but now your skin is burning for his touch.  He takes off his sweat pants and his engorged cock slaps against his abs. It takes every brain cell at your disposal not to drool at the sight of it. He was BIG. You wonder briefly if he would even fit.  

 He spits on his cock rubbing his head against your thoroughly soaked folds. You mewl. A playful look in his eye does not go unnoticed but you were far too preoccupied with other concerns. Thankfully, so did he. Slade eases into your pussy in slow shallow thrusts. You can physically feel your walls stretching inch by inch as he works his way into your tight pussy. He can feel every bit of resistance your pussy is putting up. It's his turn to hiss when he finally bottoms out. Your walls cling to his member trying to milk it for all its worth. You drag your nails down from his shoulder to his arms. You pout when his skin heals immediately. You wanted to mark him as he did you but apparently, his healing factor was not up to being kinky today.   

 He laughs at your little protest and gives you a quick kiss. He begins to thrust shallow and languid. Your lips are locked in, sensually nibbling at each other's lips. You arch your back pressing your chest against his musculature savoring every bit of stimulation you could get.   You cant your hips against his urging him to go faster. His large hand grips your hips and pins them down. The coil in your stomach grows tighter at the ease at which he stops you. You feel him grin against your hot skin. 

 "Didn't I say I would teach you some manners?" He pulls himself out leaving you feeling hollow and wanting. You're pretty sure if you weren't drunk on your arousal the look in your eyes would be nothing short of murder, however, this was not the case, Whatever venom you had in you vanished in a swirl of neediness that racked your body. Your cant your hips uselessly trying to find friction only to be met with cool air. 

 "Slade pleeeeaaase!"

 You gasp, as a sharp stinging sensation on your pussy knocks the breath out of you. Slade gives you an expectant look. 

 "Sir, plea-"

 Another slap. Your back arches.  You’re panting heavy, mind swirling and searching. 

 "Daddy please!" The words tumble from your lips thoughtlessly. You both freeze. Slade's face is unreadable making you want to shrink away and let the earth swallow you whole. Panic rises in your chest until you feel his hips slam against yours. The force is enough to knock the breath out of you. He manhandles your body to fuck you at a better angle. His grip on your thighs tight and bruising. You whimper when he dips his head down near yours pressing kisses to your jaw and the pulsating flesh of your neck leaving your mouth free to moan his name like a mantra.   A deep resonant growl rumbles in his chest sending thrills through your skin into your spine. Your hardened nipples drag against his chest as they bounce with his pace. His cock pumps in and out of you at an animalistic pace. You were absolutely going mad over his rough pace but it wasn't enough to push you over. You were both so close.

 "Daddy, please! I- I need-" Slade's cock twitches. His pace goes from animalistic to punishing in the space of a heartbeat. He growls into your ear as he reaches down to rub your clit with skilled, calloused fingers. Your walls tighten around him as you go over the edge.  Your orgasm hits you in a flurry of heat and electricity. He fucks you through it as he chases his own. He pulls out his cock. Ropes of cum covering your chest and your stomach. 

 He lays beside you pulling you close. You moan quietly still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss. You ease into his hold and close your eyes. 

 "See how easy your life is when you're a good girl, princess," He whispers mockingly into your ear. You raise a middle finger at him too fucked out to care whether it actually conveyed as much venom as you wanted it to. 

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Thanks for reading! Next week will be our regularly scheduled fluff unless I get possessed by the thirst muses. 

tag list:  Tag list:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes ,  @boosyboo9206 , @americasmarauders , @l-horizondepeu , @arestorationofbalance  , @cloudie-skay , @knightfall05x

[artistsoftheapocalypse]

Entrant’s Username: @purkinje-effect Theme: Remembered Rituals Title of Work: “Delighting a Devil”

Artists Comments: Throughout the year, Furriers of Lowell wear a Halloween mask to anchor their otherwise uncertain sense of identity. Besides the city’s history as a textile and artisan hub, the origins of their costuming habit have all but faded to obscurity. They maintain their masks in top condition, repairing and altering them with papier-mache, plaster, horn, fur, glass, or leather. The week between Great War Day and Halloween is their most reveled observance with a strict date attached, second only to an Unfolding. Their holidays mostly correlate to matchmaking and community bonds, and Halloween’s history of divinatory games found its revival in Hallows’ Week. During the day, they group together indoors, and share stories of recalled past identity fragments. At night, they gather to share lavish dishes at bonfire potlucks all week. Parlor game superstitions of yesteryear have twisted up with fervent gravitas. Those believed to possess any oracular sense provide detail through palmistry findings regarding what alterations a Furrier’s flesh will next allow, and the possibilities of whose resultant identities they’ll come to know. Though they all get their turn, the first victor of each night’s parlor games holds the distinction of getting their palm read first.

Mod Comments written by: Loor A last-minute entry, and it does not disappoint! The picture itself feels like a moment of triumph caught in a photo; the palm reader actively having to hold onto their subject who is still pumping a fist in victory to say LOOK, I WON! I GO FIRST! :D AND THE MASKS!! The Devil mask is intensely detailed and I can’t help but gush about all the details and how you got the cheeks, brow, and horns to all come through despite the turn and tilt of the face!! Wonderful work, thank you for sending it in! :D

[nevertheless-moving]

This Crackship has Inspired Me

inspired by this by @maulusque which is the funniest star wars ship i’m somehow only learning about just now.

Palpatine listened with the same idle half attentiveness he always reserved for Skywalker’s ramblings about his wife, smiling and nodding genially at the appropriate intervals. At least his rants about blasted Kenobi or his monstrous little Padawan yielded tactical insights into the Jedi Order’s weaknesses. 

There was very little he could do with ‘shine of Senator Amidala’s hair’ or the ‘brilliance of his speeches.’ Of course, he always found something to use but there was an awful lot of nonsense to sift through.

“...I still can’t believe she married me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more...” Skywalker trailed off.

“You deserve every happiness, my boy.” Palpatine said kindly.

Anakin looked down, a shadow falling over his face. He stared into his drink.

“What is it?” Sidious pried gently.

Skywalker hesitated. “Can I tell you something...and can you promise not to...think to badly of me for it?”

Palpatine leaned forward, disguising his keen interest behind a reassuring ‘genuine-warm-smile.’ “Of course, Anakin. I couldn’t lose my confidence in you anymore than you could lose yours in me.”

The anxious Knight took a fortifying sip of Soulean brandy before leaning forward and confessing in a low whisper, “I was happy of course during our wedding- but- more than that- I felt. Satisfied. Victorious. I mean.” Skywalker took another gulp. “Jedi aren’t supposed to get, you know, possessive of people. And slaves...its complicated.” 

“Whatever you say, I promise it will never leave this room.” Palpatine encouraged him with his best grandfatherly-tone.

“On Tatooine...” Skywalker’s voice was barely audible, and Palpatine had to restrain himself from shaking the words out of him. The boy typically preferred not to discuss his most easily manipulated vulnerability.

“In the slave quarters...the most valuable thing a person can own is themselves. And even if you can’t be free- you can choose to have a different master. It’s not- it’s not the most common form of s-secret marriage. Or even the most approved. It’s actually a little taboo.”

Skywalker hunched in on himself and Sidious kept his face gently neutral.

“But- I remember feeling so good when I won that podrace. I earned something important and it was me who did it. And this was better than that. Padme- she didn’t even love me that much at first - I think I was always going to let her have me, if she just asked. It was one of the first things I thought when she walked in- It was one of the first things I thought when anyone wealthy looking came in the shop, ‘what if they buy me?’ And she was so clean and beautiful and I thought that if it was her maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But somehow I won her and she chose to bind herself to me. So...we both kind-of have each other but-”

Skywalker dropped his head in his hands.

“It’s probably wrong- I know it’s wrong- but winning her? A smart, headstrong, gorgeous person who should by all rights want nothing to do with me- I don’t think I’ll ever match that sense of victory. Of power. No matter how many battles I win or enemies I destroy. And- that’s what I felt during my wedding.” 

Palpatine leaned back, impressed despite himself. He had always despaired over the boy’s seeming lack of desire for power for its own sake. But that was almost...poetic. He had never been much for ‘romance’ but he did very much enjoy when his enemies chose, under their own power, to play into his hands. Making that happen on such an intimate level... well he could almost see the appeal. 

Out-loud he said, “I think that feeling is perfectly natural, my boy. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Really?” Anakin said, pathetically hopefully.

How to phrase this...

“I myself enjoy a sense of, well, power, over others. From time to time. Of course, I know its not the same, but when I manage to pass a tricky piece of legislation the feeling of winning over another often personally overshadows my anticipation of the joy my work will bring. It’s perfectly normal and harmless. It’s not as though that feeling of victory over another diminishes the good my actions do. And you and the Senator are so very good together. Don’t let shame yourself for a...harmless bit of perceived darkness.”

He clasped Anakin on the shoulder and the idiot beamed back at him adoringly. 

Long after the evening ended and his future Apprentice departed, Darth Sidious sat in his office musing.

A simple probing into an exploitable flaw had revealed a dimension of power Palpatine had, shockingly, never considered. Sex was enjoyable, but ultimately not a priority. And rape was one of the less creative forms of torture. But love- tricking someone into falling in love- earning someone’s absolute devotion- there was a certain appeal. 

Obviously he had sycophants by the score, but Skywalker had incredibly said it himself: ‘a smart, headstrong, gorgeous person who should hate him.’ Now that would be a triumph. And Senator Amidala even knew about her husband’s less traditionally tasteful sides! Anakin really had pulled off a bizarre coop, hadn’t he? His pretty face probably helped give the whole process a boost, but Sheev had a rather impressive amount of personal wealth in need of a new mechanism for display that should serve the same function. He decided to keep the matter under consideration.

A week later, during a briefing with Commander Fox- who he would decommission for the sheer number of senatorial secrets he possessed were he not proving so uniquely invaluable at suppressing food shortage riots- the idea reemerged.

It would tie up a number of loose ends if those secrets were wholly under my control- and there would be a delicious irony in having one of my most elegantly designed weapons choose to serve me so completely before the choice was taken away...

Palpatine was nothing if not patient, and decided to bide his time, carefully observing before committing any real energy or resources.

Another week after that, the Commander came in for another meeting, absolutely professional but clearly projecting the wincing sensation of a hangover as well as...nerves? The over-promoted clone was usually freakishly adept at maintaining natural mental shielding, but apparently the over-indulgence had weakened him. 

Throughout the briefing the nerves gradually hardened into determination before his typical mental walls came up to block any other easily-gleaned insights. Palpatine was intrigued.

After the conclusion of their scheduled business, Fox cleared his throat. “That’s a very...flattering robe you’re wearing.”

Palpatine raised a brow. The commander usually didn’t try flattery on him, not because it never worked, but simply because he seemed to find it beneath his skills.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Commander.”

“I can be very...kind. When the mood strikes me. And red is a very...striking color on you.” Palpatine blinked rapidly, genuinely shocked for the first time in quite a while. That was absolutely a suggestive tone of voice. Could his mere idle thoughts somehow have already manifested themselves?

“Oh?” Palpatine responded calmly. “I can’t say I knew that, Commander.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, sir.” He drew out the last syllable in a... new way. Typically when the Guard Leader said ‘sir’ it was either sarcastic, neutral, or inexplicably pronounced like a slur. This time he seemed to caress the word in a manner that wouldn’t be out of place in a bedroom.

Before Palpatine could think of how he wanted to reply, the clone bowed lowly and marched towards the door. At the exit he paused and pulled off his helmet.

Free of the vocalizer, his voice was much smoother, “And please, when we’re alone...feel free to call me Fox. Sir.”

“Thank you, Fox. Safe travels,” Palpatine called weakly as the figure slipped away.

Palpatine leaned back, grinning wickedly. Well. This was an interesting development.

[infjtarot]

Chariot ~ Anna Maria D'Onofrio Tarot

Some authors have linked this card to the sun god, who in various traditions rides his chariot across the sky. Others have seen the armed rider as Mars, the Roman god of war, who is also riding a chariot. But the illustration on the card resembles medieval representations of a popular story about Alexander the Great. After having conquered many countries, Alexander decided to subdue the sky. He harnessed two gryphons — legendary flying animals — to his chariot and held a spear with a piece of meat over their heads. The hungry gryphons tried to reach the meat and, flying upward, they carried his chariot with them. On the way up, though, a flying wonder-man appeared and warned Alexander to give up his plan. Alexander lowered his spear, and the chariot landed safely on the ground. the chariot celebrates a victory The armored rider with his spear looks like a warrior. But the calm atmosphere and the decorations hint at a march of triumph rather than the act of going to war. This makes historical sense: war chariots kept their symbolic role in victory parades long after they became obsolete in actual fighting. The crown on the rider’s head may also be a symbol of victory rather than a mark of royalty. The card may represent someone who has just overcome a difficulty or a clash with an adversary. Now he can enjoy his victory in a strong and secure position. The card may describe a victory that has already been won or the possibility of a future victory. The warrior’s garb indicates that victory comes to the one who is daring and ready to fight. There are various views as to the meaning of the letters V.T on the chariot’s front plate. They differ between decks and may be the initials of one of the artisans who produced the printing plates. Still, they can be given meanings if associated with something relevant to the reading. the chariot is in motion The card’s number, seven, combines a solid structure (four) with movement (three). We may also see such a combination in the square chariot and the triangular shape of the rider’s body. But the chariot has a clear structure only in its upper part. The lower part of the illustration is asymmetrical and has many strange features, which give it an intangible and dreamlike appearance. This may indicate that the solid structures of status and power suggested by the image have no real basis. The ethereal nature of the chariot base gives the impression of floating in the air. This feature makes the illustration more dynamic, in contrast to the symmetry and heavy solidness of the upper part. The chariot is a solid structure, but its role is to serve as a vehicle of motion. In this regard, the card can refer to an advance toward a desired goal. The querent has means and resources that can help him, but they can also turn out to be a burden hindering his progress. The Chariot card may also represent a desire to go on a trip or matters related to vehicles. the chariot is a status symbol In ancient times a chariot was a symbol of high rank or a token of excellence endowed by the ruler, as in the biblical story about Joseph in Egypt. Nowadays, too, a luxurious car is considered a high status symbol. The chariot’s square shape and the four poles in its upper part hint at prestige and domination in the material world. A fleur-de-lys shape, which was the symbol of the French royal house of Bourbon, appears above the front plate of the chariot and in the crown decorations. The Chariot card can thus represent honor and prestige, aspiration to a high social status, or benefits gained through service to those in high positions. It can also signify snobbery, opportunism, and a desire to advance at whatever cost. the chariot is protected from outside The armor, the crown, the spear, and the chariot body create a solid and sturdy enclosure around the rider, protecting him from all sides. Only his hands and face are exposed, and they give an impression of fragility and weakness. The card can express an appearance of confidence and power that is enhanced by external symbols of success, but which hides a weak personality inside. Perhaps the querent is relying too much on external means instead of making use of his inner resources. The card can also signify dependence on material or technological mechanisms to the detriment of the human factor. In relationships, the overprotectiveness of the rider can signify a reluctance to loosen up and open oneself, or an emotional block caused by fear of intimacy and self-exposure. The card can also refer to vanity and arrogance, which are expressed in the story of Alexander. The rider’s hand posture can be a pretentious attempt to imitate the confident hold on the belt and scepter of the Emperor. In this aspect the card can also express overconfidence and failing to acknowledge one’s own limitations, which can lead the querent to dangerous situations. Sometimes it can simply be the natural ambition of a young person, self-assured and overly optimistic as if he is going to conquer the world. the chariot goes without control The Indian Upanishad scriptures compare the undeveloped man to a chariot whose parts act unguided, as if of their own will. In this metaphor the rider is the conscious mind, and the parts of the chariot are the various parts of the individual’s personality. We can see something similar in the card. The rider is holding no reins in his hands, and it seems that the horses are pulling the chariot as they wish, leaning to the left side of the card. The two face masks on the shoulders may represent conflicting thoughts or opposing wishes. Perhaps the querent doesn’t know where he wants to go, and meanwhile the old habits pull him toward the known and familiar. It may also be that instead of setting his own targets, external factors, such as his status and assets, determine his course. Yoav Ben Dov

[vhsrights]

Here's a silly little prompt: JJ being jealous of Sergio because he's getting all of Emily's attention. ❤

ooh yes, it’s always a battle of JJ vs. Sergio, and Emily is caught in the middle :) (i’m sorry if this doesn’t make the most sense but enjoy)

The Cat Strikes Back - Jemily and Sergio

WC: 966

Her target laid poised on the other side of the room. He didn’t have a clue as to what was coming to him, or did he? The target had masterfully acquired enough time up to date, and that must not have been an easy task. His air of grace was haughty as well. JJ wasn’t intimidated. She had faced much worse.

She could handle one simple cat.

Sergio was perched in Emily’s lap, enjoying the automatic rhythm of her pets against his fur. His purr was soft in the room, being overshadowed by the monotonous sound of the TV. However, JJ wasn’t paying attention to the TV. Her eyes were set on Sergio. 

He was in her spot.

The cat had warmed up to her easily at the beginning of her and Emily’s relationship, but this was a whole new obstacle. The cat didn’t seem to fancy JJ’s increased time in Emily’s proximity. It was a spot that he had religiously presided over in the past. The king would not be dethroned that easily, or so he thought.

The brunette was somehow not privy to this war of wills. She had simply settled against one side of the couch and welcomed Sergio into her lap. JJ had mentioned Sergio’s need for one or twice before jokingly, but things were now starting to get out of hand.

JJ’s plan needed to be set into motion. 

The woman slowly crept towards Emily from her side of the couch. It was a rather large 3 seater, leaving enough space for the three of them to spread out their respective spots. She pulled the blanket up to not disturb Emily and stay off of Sergio’s radar. The documentary on the history of video games was a good distraction to the other two. 

Eventually, JJ was sitting up beside Emily and Sergio. She was almost at the most important part of her plan. Sergio stirred towards her and JJ froze. She couldn’t be sabotaged now. It was ‘do or die’.

In a split second, JJ grabbed Sergio’s favorite yarn toy out from behind her and into the cat’s eyesight. The cat wasn’t able to reach it from his spot so JJ antagonized him further by throwing it a little ways away onto the ground. She studied him and watched him hesitate in his spot. A small feeling of triumph came over her when she saw the cat jump down.

Now was her moment. 

JJ eagerly set her head down where Sergio had been presiding. Emily felt the pressure of the weight on her leg once more and began to pet whatever it was. She had been entranced by the mechanics and theory on the screen, not noticing her girlfriend’s sinister plot against her pet. JJ hummed out of delight when the soft pads of Emily’s fingers brushed against her forehead. Things were as they should be, and JJ’s plan had worked.

That was until Sergio realized what had happened. 

The cat had been preoccupied with the toy for a short five minutes. He had nipped and pawed at the yarn thing. But the cat’s interest and attention span were only so long. Coming to terms with how he had been played, Sergio turned to JJ and Emily. 

Two can play at that game, and so he made his move.

Sergio sat where JJ had thrown the toy and meowed. He practically yelped in ‘cat’ for a solid 2 minutes before Emily decided to pay him any heed. 

“Sergio, what is it? Wait. How did you-” Emily saw her cat looking over at her sullenly from the ground, wondering what she had been petting. She looked down to find JJ, who was trying to seem as neutral as possible.

“I- Jayje? When did you get there?” Emily had been really captivated by the doc, and that made her confusion much more apparent. 

“Oh, you know I’ve been here for a while,” JJ spoke and hoped to not alert Emily to her actions. She stuck her tongue out at Sergio when the brunette wasn’t looking, to which the cat bared his teeth.

“Wait, so then what’s wrong, Sergio? What’s gotcha down?” Emily tried to figure out why Sergio was behaving like this. 

“I think he’s fine. Besides, he has his toy so he’ll be okay. We should focus on the documentary; it’s starting to get really interesting.” JJ spoke a tad too soon and Emily caught on to the fact that there was probably something fishy going on. 

“Oh really? So you liked the parts about the nano capacitors in the Wii U Game chips?” Emily asked JJ, who simply looked back at her as if she had switched languages.

“Yeah, thought so. So, what’s going on? Is there something you want to tell me, Jen?” JJ realized that she had been caught and the only way out, was through.

“Sergio stole my spot, so I took it back. That’s all.” Emily laughed at the statement and then realized that the blonde was being serious.

“Really, Jayje? That’s what this is about? He’s just my cat; you could’ve told me.” Emily was still snickering, which intensified, as JJ pouted like a child.

“But- but- I just wanted your attention. I’m your girlfriend after all. I do have a minimum cuddle limit.” Emily smiled and took in JJ’s statement. 

She regarded Sergio’s dramatic behavior and laughed, realizing what had taken place right beside her.

“Oh alright, alright. Serg, you know it’s my lady’s time right now to have her spot. You get a lot of time with me as it is. JJ, come here.” Emily pulled the blonde close, making sure to constantly have some form of physical contact.

JJ had won. She was victorious over the simple, black cat, for now at least. 

[minervacasterly]

Queen Mary (I) Tudor -The Woman behind the Legend of 'Bloody Mary'

"As Mary continued to face Protestant treason she became even more ruthless, with the infamous burnings intended to eliminate what she perceived as a stubborn and destabilising minority. In our context we see Mary's actions as those of a fanatic. In her context she was eliminating fanatics, and of the most dangerous kind, incorrigible rebels against God and queen. But Mary also had to work positively, to build a future, and this unravelled in the face of her infertility and declining health. She failed in her ultimate duty to produce a child and this meant, once again, that the wider family was key to the future. Mary's preferred choice as her heir, was Margaret Douglas, could not compete with the claims of Henry VIII's second daughter and, as Elizabeth took note, it was the knowledge that she would succeed her sister that fueled the disorder and rebellion against Mary. With the loss of Calais in the last year of Mary's life it would be easy for her enemies to paint the young, Protestant Elizabeth's accession as a brilliant new dawn. It is as such that it is still projected. Mary remains associated with her late seventeenth-century sobriquet 'Bloody Mary', and an infamous recent advertisement for the London Dungeon depicted her face transforming into a demon-zombie. Elizabeth, by contrast, has been played in films by a series of beautiful actresses: Elizabeth is ever Cate Blanchett, fairy queen, to Mary's bitter, grey-faced Kathy Burke. Yet these sisters were neither simple heroines nor villains. Both were rulers of their time and we can only understand Elizabeth if we see, as she did, what the Tudor sisters had in common and how she could learn from Mary's example. Most significant for Elizabeth was the fact that Mary's Protestant enemies had sought to redefine the nature of a 'true' king. They argued that religion was more important than blood, or victory in battles -a true king was Protestant- and that all women were by nature unsuited to rule over men. Elizabeth's response was to offer her ordinary subjects a theatrical representation of herself as a 'true' ruler: the seeds of which had been sown by Mary herself in her speech during the Wyatt revolt, in which she is a mother who loves her subjects as if they were her children. Here was a female authority figure accepted as part of the divine order." ~Leanda de Lisle, TUDOR

"The blackening of Mary's name began in Elizabeth's reign and gathered force at the end of the 17th century, when James II compounded the view that Catholic monarchs were a disaster for England. But it was really the enduring popularity of John Foxe which shaped the view of her that has persisted for 450 years. Attempts to soften her image have been made, but their tendency to depict her as a sad little woman who would have been better off as the Tudor equivalent of a housewife is almost as distasteful as the legend of Bloody Mary. To dismiss her life as nothing more than a personal tragedy is both patronizing and mistaken. One of the main themes of Mary's existence is the triumph of determination over adversity. She lived in a violent, intolerant age, surrounded by the intrigues of a time when men and women gambled their lives for advancement at court. Deceit, like ambition, was endemic among the power-seekers of mid-Tudor England who passed, in procession, through her life. Pride, stubbornness and an instinct for survival saw her through tribulations that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Her bravery put her on the throne and kept her there, so that when she died she was able to bequeath to Elizabeth a precious legacy that is often overlooked: she had demonstrated that a woman could rule in her own right. The vilification of Mary has obscured the many areas of continuity between her rule and those of the other Tudors. Today, despite the fact that much more is known about her reign, she is still the most maligned and misunderstood of English monarchs. For Mary Tudor, the first queen of England, truth has not been the daughter of time." ~Linda Porter, THE MYTH OF BLOODY MARY

"Foxe's account would shape the popular narrative of Mary's reign for the next four hundred and fifty years. Generations of schoolchildren would grow up knowing the first Queen of England only as "Bloody Mary", a Catholic tyrant who sent nearly three hundred Protestants to their deaths, a point made satirically in W. C. Sellar and R. J. Yeatman's 1930s parody 1066 and All That. Mary's presence in a recent survey of the most evil men and women in history is testament to Foxe's enduring legacy. But there is, of course, a different Mary: a woman marked by suffering, devout in her faith and exceptional in her courage. From a childhood in which she was adored and feted and then violently rejected, a fighter was born. Her resolve almost cost her her life as her father, and then her brother, sought to subjugate her to their wills. Yet Mary maintained her faith and self-belief. Despite repeated attempts to deprive her of her life and right to the throne, the warrior princess turned victor and became the warrior princess turned victor and became the warrior queen. The boldness and scale of her achievements are often overlooked. The campaign that Mary led in the summer of 1553 would prove to be the only successful revolt against central government in sixteenth-century England. She, like her grandfather Henry VII and grandmother Isabella of Castile, had to flight for her throne. In the moment of crisis she proved decisive, courageous, and "Herculean" -and won the support of the English people as the legitimate Tudor heir. Mary was a conscientious, hardworking queen who was determined to be closely involved in government business and policy making. She would rise "at daybrea when, after saying her prayers and hearing mass in private," she would "transact business incessantly until after midnight." As rebels thereatend teh capital in January 1554 and she was urged to flee, Mary stood firm and successfully rallied Londoners to her defense. She was also a woman who lived by her conscience and was prepared to die for her faith. And she expected the same of others. Her religious defiance was matched by a personal infatuation with Phililp, her Spanish husband. Her love for him and dependence on her "true father", the Emperor Charles V, was unwavering. Her determination to honor her husband's will led England into an unpopular war with France and the loss of Calais. There was no fruit of the union, and so at her premature death there was no Catholic heir. Her own phantom pregnancies, together with epidemics and harvest failures across the country, left her undermined and unpopular. Her life, always one of tragic contrast, ended in personal tragedy as Philip abandoned her, never to return, even as his queen lay dying. In many ways Mary failed as a woman but triumphed as a queen. She ruled with the full measure of royal majesty and achieved much of what she set out to do. She won her rightful throne, married her Spanish prince, and restored the country to Roman Catholicism. The Spanish marriage was a match with the most powerful ruling house in Europe, and the highly favorable marriage treaty ultimately won the support of the English government. She had defeated the rebels and preserved the Tudor monarchy. Her Catholicism was not simply conservative but influenced by her humanist education and showed many signs of broad acceptance before she died. She was an intelligent, politically adept, and resolute monarch who proved to be very much her own woman. Thanks to Mary, John Aylmer, in exile in Switzerland, could confidently assert that "it is not in England so dangerous a matter to have a woman ruler, as men take it to be." By securing the throne following Edward's attempts to bar both his sisters, she ensured that the crown continued along the legal line of Tudor succession. Mary laid down other important precedents that would benefit her sister. Upon her accession as the first queen regnant of England, she redefined royal ritual and law, thereby establishing that a female ruler, married or unmarried, would enjoy identical power and authority to male monarchs. Mary was the Tudor trailblazer, a politiccal pioneer whose reign redefined the English monarchy." ~Anna Whitelock, MARY TUDOR: PRINCESS, BASTARD, QUEEN

Furthermore, as the country shifted from Catholicism to Protestantism, people began to find it easier to vilify her. During the Victorian age, England was at its height. People would say that the sun never set on the English Empire, and as a result, there was a growing sense of nationalism. Previously beloved figures like Queen Elizabeth I, Kings Edward III, Henry V, among others, were no longer kings and queens for people to admire and look upon but national symbols of pride, who were almost god-like. Edward III's victories against the French, Henry V's conquest of France, Elizabeth's Protestantism and victory against Spain with the Spanish Armada and other Catholic rivals, were extolled, and glorified, while Mary I's foreign ancestry was looked down upon. Ironically, all of these monarchs were also foreign in one way or another. You can say that Queen Elizabeth I wasn't because her parents were English, but what about her paternal ancestry, or her maternal one? No matter which way you look at it, she had foreign ancestry as much as any monarch. In fact, the Victorian era's own monarch, was of foreign descent as well! Victoria wasn't even an English name. She was named after her mother, Victoria of the Saxe-Coburg clan who was German and she married her cousin, who was also German. It was very common for royals to marry other royals, which meant that their offspring would be of foreign descent. In Mary's time this wouldn't be a reason to look down on her, on the contrary, she could point to her royal ancestors, be they foreign or not, with pride as a sign of how much royal blood flowed through her veins, making her eligible to be her father's heir. But as it has been pointed out before, times change and with it, so does our view of every historical figure.