#yes that’s one of the most blessed images to exist on this plane

[majesticwren]

Remind Me How the Birds Sing (ChrissyxEddie)

Summary: Inexplicably a connection exists between Chrissy Cunningham and Eddie Munson that bonds them even after “death do us apart”. Even being lost to what Chrissy believes to be the afterlife, her path crosses Eddie’s, once again bringing them close, despite existing on two different planes of existence.

Trigger Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Chrissy is a Ghost, Afterlife Concept, Mention of Death, Mention of Violence, Mention of Suffering, Mention of Drugs and Drugs Consumption, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers. Eddie's POV so LOTS of swearing.

Part 0 | Part 1

Words: 5.3k.

Gif by: Tagged.

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Tagged: @hiccup005 @a-sweet-little-fangirl

Part 2 - Close to Midnight.

Shit was going down.

He certainly didn’t know what the fuck was going on. But stuff was going on.

He just literally saw a girl lifting up mid-air, bones snapping, getting sucked into the ceiling of his trailer and ultimately having what looked like if her brains and eyes had been vacuumed from the inside.

Calling it grim was an understatement. Traumatising? Yes, plenty of that.

Either something big, like ghost, poltergeist, demonic-possession, coming of the antichrist kind of crap was happening… Or he was completely losing his mind.

Yes. Maybe it was like that. Maybe people could finally be happy and claim that Eddie Munson was a freak, a nutcase and ultimately a murderer.

He had to run. There was no other way. No one would have ever believed what he saw. No one would have justified him. Risking to find someone to be on his side was mental.

They would have crucified him.

He was the only witness to Chrissy Cunningham's death.

She was the queen of Hawkins High and the nicest girl in town. Everyone knew her. Everyone liked her.

Him? Oh, Eddie was easy to be transformed into a villain. And he would bet that the Hawkins crowd wouldn’t have let him get away with being arrested. They would have caught him, hurt him… Maybe even killed him.

Personal vengeance kind of shit. Hanged from a tree branch, with a sack over his head and crosses carved into his chest kind of bullshit.

Already having to explain how she ended up in his house would have been impossible.

No one would have ever believed that she was looking for drugs. Because he struggled to believe it too, frankly. But he wasn’t one to judge requests of that kind…  

But no one would have ever taken seriously the fact that she was the one who contacted him and that she chose to be there.

Just as it was, people would have immediately jumped to conclusions, brushing it off as him being a predator who lured her there, or worse kidnapped her or some shit like that, without knowing the truth of Chrissy deciding to follow him and him not having any sort of dirty intention whatsoever.

Because he could have been known to be mean and scary, but he certainly wasn’t a bad guy.

Let alone the fact that she was now dead. Murdered nonetheless. By an invisible force. In the middle of his living room.

Fucking fuck, shit, fucking hell.

Most of his recurrent thoughts were cussing against whatever fate decided to curse him with. And the rest was filled by his mind running in circles, making his panic and anxiety spike, broadcasting all the possibilities he had.

Which weren’t many and generally all ended in injustice, violence, death penalty or institutionalization into a psychiatric ward.

As if his newly developed trauma that he still didn’t have much of a chance to deal with, his constant state of panic that was making him swing so fucking close to a mental breakdown, and his anxiety spiking to maximum levels making him feel like he would have a damn heart attack at seventeen – which in all honesty would have been a fucking blessing -, wasn’t enough, there was the mourning.

When the image of Chrissy's terrible, cruel and gruesome death left his head, and anytime his paranoia would quiet down… Then sorrow would quickly settle in.

He liked Chrissy. Not liked, liked. Because she was a completely different creature, coming from the normalised, stereotypical world he was so against… And admitting to having a crush on her since the sixth grade was disgraceful and shameful. Not in a wounded pride kind of way, but simply because they came from different worlds.

She was the perfect golden girl, the example set for all the other girls in school. Not to talk about the fact that she was really pretty. And with pretty he meant a beauty. Nothing to do with the weird, nonconformist, held back from graduating on time, drug dealer with no money and no promise kid he was.

He stood absolutely no chance with someone like her. Never did.

Or at least so he thought. Until that very afternoon, when his brains went to mush and he decided to use a lot of his flattery, theatrical, ironic side to catch her attention – not even on purpose, and she laughed. Not at him, but with him.

And for only a moment he thought maybe something had happened.

They talked long enough for her to accept to go and see him and his band playing. Enough for her to feel comfortable and trust him enough to follow him to his trailer.

He was sure she wasn’t stupid and so naïve to follow a complete stranger to…

Well, it didn’t matter. Maybe she shouldn’t have chosen to trust him.

She should have stayed as far away from him as she always did.

Maybe it was all his fault. He should have treated her the same as he did to everyone else who would try and bully him because he was different and liked different things.

If she didn’t go with him, maybe she would still be alive and much of all that mess wouldn’t have happened.

Eddie kicked a chair out of frustration, clenching his jaw so hard he could hear his own teeth creak.

With a heavy brush of his unsteady hands, he cleared the tears off his face, pushing back his emotions and the need to crumble on the ground. The corner he hid his sorrow eruption was comfortable, but he certainly couldn’t hide there forever.

He needed a plan to escape. He needed money, maybe a car, to get as far away as possible from Hawkins and all the shitstorm that would have ominously followed every single one of his steps.

He ran without thinking about a proper plan. He didn’t bring clean clothes, food, or money, he didn’t even have any spare cigarettes – he was left with only seven, which sounded like torture enough.

So, now he was stuck in Rick’s house alone with his thoughts, standing on very thin ice.

The cupboards had revealed an assortment of long-expired boxed food and some canned baked beans and spaghetti hoops. Not much more than that… But he still had to do a proper sweep of the house.

Though he didn’t feel like he would have had much better luck.

As things stood, if the police or the angry mobs didn’t find him, then starvation would have soon.

He cleared his voice, trying to find some clarity in the multitude of terrible thoughts gnawing his mind.

Eddie got back up on his feet and immediately grabbed the bottle of beer he left on the counter, guzzling it down his throat as if it were fresh water. He even ignored the off taste of a beer forgotten for too long in the bottom of a fridge in a deserted house. As if that could have washed away his problems.

“Right Munson, pull it together.” He said to himself. Somehow talking to himself kept him slightly more grounded. The sound of his own voice, after all, was better than complete silence.

He looked around on the kitchen floor, looking for the very precious cigarette he tossed earlier out of peak frustration.

“This better fucking lit this time.” He mumbled picking it up and bringing it to his lips, ignoring the fact that it laid on a filthy floor.

He pulled out his matches, trying it again. He hunched over, trying to find cover from whatever damn whiff of air that kept killing the match's flame before. He struck the match literally an inch away from the cigarette.

Again, the flame died almost immediately, but this time he had been quicker, inhaling the air through the cigarette so that it would lit.

“That’s what I’m talking about baby!” He yelled victorious, smiling at the empty space around him with the cigarette between his lips.

He witnessed the unexplainable, horrific murder, of a nice person that didn’t deserve anything of that nature, that he coincidentally also liked. A murder he was wanted for…

The fortune must have granted him at least the bliss of one cigarette. He earned it.

“Right-” He began, inhaling a big puff of smoke as if he was about to start carrying out a plan he still had to design.

Eddie looked around, feeling weirdly out of place. He scratched his head, absolutely unsure of what the book “The People on the Run, Hiding From the Law and Scared Shitless” said.

Was he supposed to eat? Maybe first he should have swept the house for provisions? Or was he supposed to find a safe corner to crawl into and rest? Or was it better to have a shower in the attempt to wash off all those tremendous feelings first?

No. No shower. It would have looked tremendously guilty as if he was trying to wash evidence off his body.

Plus, he really couldn’t afford to lower his focus, he needed to stay on guard. What if the police came? What if someone found him?

Sleeping was immediately rolled out too.

Eddie rubbed his hands together, lying even to himself that everything was fine. He just needed… “This won’t work.” He whispered pushing his joined hands against his lips. He released a deep sigh, closing his eyes.

Another puff. He hoped the nicotine would give him some solace.

His brain was spinning so quickly, so out of control that he couldn’t think straight, not for more than two minutes.

He didn’t stand a chance.

“We are fucked, my friend.”

While he tried desperately to keep it together, his attention was caught by the soft noise of steps coming from his side.

It was a light tippy-tap, as if someone standing on their toes walked closer to him.

Except no one was in the kitchen with him and to his knowledge the house was empty.

Or, was it? It was plausible it could have been a noise from the next room.

Eddie’s eyes shot up to the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. His attention was now focused on the possibility that he wasn’t alone – which meant he could have been completely fucked way quicker than he ever imagined.

He might have had the reputation of being mean and scary – and it might have come very easy to him to act crazy as to keep people away, particularly bullies trying to lift problems. But he wasn’t a fighter.

He had been in a brawl only once and his pride was still wounded.

But he certainly wasn’t stupid. Of course, he lost the upper hand, it didn’t mean he lost the game – whatever that might be.

Eddie took a last, big puff of smoke and then flicked the cigarette in the sink. Then he gulped down the remaining beer, emptying the bottle just to roll it in his palm, holding its neck as a handle.

“Who’s there?” He called. His heart was pounding so loudly that he wasn’t sure he would have heard any reply.

The air was so still now it felt somehow heavier, and the house appeared to be even darker.

He didn’t switch on any light, that would have been the number one rule to be a dumbass. But now part of him regretted that.

The kitchen he stood in was lit only by the faint light of the opened fridge. He was never afraid of the dark, that wasn’t his thing even when he was little – enclosed spaces, that was his thing. And ducks. He hated those bastards.

But now it wasn’t relevant.

Eddie didn’t have any intention to go look, but he decided that if he hoped to have any kind of advantage, he should have moved toward the wall in front of him. To stand in front of the only light source in the entire house was stupid and made him a target.

Not that he was easy to miss regardless.

“I don’t like this, man…” He shouted at the seemingly empty house, trying his best to hide the shaking voice. “I won’t fuck with you if you will do the same, ok?”

Something shuffled on the floor, by the table.

Eddie’s attention shot immediately to where he heard the noise and his eyes jumped to the ground.

A new fear to be added to the list: the terror of having someone crawling towards you, in the dark, out of your perception.

“Fuck-” He whispered between gritted teeth, holding the bottle tighter and lifting it up slightly above his head.

Why didn’t he grab a fucking knife before he decided to move to the other side of the room? That would have been useful.

Also, why the hell the universe decided to curse him specifically that night?

“Listen, I am tired, I don’t want to play. We are probably here for the same reason. Just… If you need the kitchen, just say so. I don’t mind sharing.”

Another shuffle, this time it was clearly a chair. And Eddie saw it moving with his own eyes. It moved slightly to the side, lit by the fridge light.

Except nothing was there. Not on the ground, not standing behind it. Nothing… It moved though; he was sure of it.

Eddie’s heart was beating so fast that his chest ached. Uncontrollable fear took over his being. That possibility of being struck by a heart attack at seventeen became more and more real by the minute.

He tried to control his laboured breathing but failed.

After that night and what he witnessed he could not guarantee that whatever killed Chrissy wasn’t hunting him down too.

If he recollected it properly, she was running from something too.

Someone like Chrissy Cunningham wouldn’t have looked for drugs if it wasn’t to find an escape for a real reason.

And now his problems shifted under a different light. Who cared about the police and running from Hawkins when the fuckery of an invisible force that would break all your bones and suck your brain out was at large?

“Stay away from me.” He barked, pointing the beer bottle to the empty air in front of him.

Eddie wasn’t even sure he was thinking straight anymore.

What did he have to pose any threat against a force such as the one that killed Chrissy? And what hopes did he have? Absolutely none.

Maybe he was truly losing his mind.

“You already got Chrissy, what you want me too now? What are you, a sick pervert hungry for kids’ eyes?!” At that point, he was only rumbling nonsense that he hoped would have bought him time.

Time for what though?

His legs were jelly and he felt petrified. And besides, he saw what happened to Chrissy. She was paralysed, a puppet under the cruel hold of that monster. He stood no chance.

A cupboard door swung open and then abruptly shut again, its sound violently echoed through the empty house as loudly as the roar of thunder. It made Eddie jump.

He pressed himself against the wall behind him, shaking his head, at that point not even caring to appear as a coward.

And then he sensed it, the presence.

Now he decided to give that sensation a specific, imaginary target. Already from before, he felt goosebumps all over his skin multiple times, but not like a cold breeze would make all the hair stand up on his arms or nape of the neck, more like the magnetic charge of electricity would.

It was difficult to wrap his head around that concept but he was sure he felt it already. And now it was close to him.

He was so tense and on edge, that as soon as he felt something touch his left arm he bolted, running in the opposite direction, without even caring about the fact that someone called for his name.

His survival instinct, the adrenaline pumping into his heart and the fear clutching his chest made him completely deaf, concerned only about one thing: staying alive.

“Fuck you.” He shouted running towards the back door of the house.

Victim of pure panic, on his way he grabbed a shelf and pulled it down behind, so it fell and created an obstacle. He didn’t even think that an invisible demon wouldn’t have been stopped by such an effort.

But then again, neither running was of any benefit.

Definitely, he didn’t care about the noise or the mess he just caused.

He ran for his life towards the boathouse in the back, just by the lake, holding the empty bottle of beer, his only weapon, tight to his chest.

Eddie jumped through the door and shut if behind him, pressing his back against it. He didn’t even look back, he only stood there, absolutely petrified by terror, trying to catch his breath and think about a way to stay alive.

“C’mon Munson, you are smart. Think.” He hoped to pep himself, slapping his own cheek. As if that would have snapped some courage or common sense into him.

But how would one fight a damn evil spirit?!

Eddie banged his head against the door, gritting his teeth out of pure frustration.

Only then, at the first moment he actually managed to catch a full, big breath, he huffed rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Damn it-” He whispered between his teeth, lowering his hands.

He was exhausted.

If he had to die, he hoped it would have been quick.

Thinking about all the things he wanted to do and all the dreams he had only broke his heart… But didn’t prompt him to fight. What was there to fight, what could he do?

“You are something else, Edward Munson.”

He shouted, startled by the voice that filled the boathouse.

Even if a second ago he thought he was ready to give up, now he bent his knees and raised both his fists, still holding the bottle in one hand, as if he was ready to fight.

Fear still clutching his throat.

His dark eyes travelled frantically all around the empty room. For some reason, he expected to see someone and when he failed, he felt like a proper idiot.

As soon as the voice disappeared the only noise, he could hear was the incessant rocking of the small waves hitting the boat hooked into the shallow water and its rhythmical banging on the side of the boathouse floor.

“What do you want from me?” He asked to the emptiness around him, choking on his own breath.

“You can hear me?” The voice echoed through the air as if it came from far away, like from a memory or a dream - or it could have been the effect modified audio recording…

To be a vicious, murderous entity it surely spoke a lot. And had a weirdly gentle, soft voice. And sounded like a female – a girl. And one he knew as well.

Eddie frowned. “I can hear you.”

“Oh my God, Eddie, you can?” She squeaked her words mixing to a burst of giggles he definitely did not expect.  

He looked around, suspiciously doubting anything of what he was experiencing was truly happening.

“Sorry, uh-” He nervously grinned. “Don’t take this disrespectfully, but if you’d like to kill me, then now would be a good time.”

“Kill you? Why on Earth I would want to kill you?”

“Who is this?” He checked, leaning his head to the side, looking straight into the empty corner of the boat house.

Knowing what he knew, having witnessed what he saw and all, his brain kept him from immediately recognising that voice. Which was the main why he would have died being a sarcastic son of a bitch, he was convinced whomever what talking to him was playing him.

Was that what happened to Chrissy too? Did she get harassed by a ghost or something?

“Eddie, it’s me!” He felt the presence moving extremely close, with its magnetic tingling crossing his chest. “It’s Chrissy.”

His legs were shaken so violently that he almost dropped to his knees.

For only a second, he wanted to believe it. His stomach twisted as his black eyes sparkled with the emotions he didn’t let himself assimilate up to that point yet.

Chrissy… He didn’t call for her, but he thought about it and a genuine smile trembled on his lips.

But then, he shook his head vigorously. His way of coping was starting to erratically laugh, which was a great way to bottle up his feelings and forget about his grief.

Everything was going wrong, but if he didn’t have to remember that he just watched the sweetest girl in school being literally broken in half then his mental health would greatly improve.

As much as it could be possible, at that point. Because he truly wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on and what side was up.

He had definitely lost his mind already.

Chrissy Cunningham, talking to him from the afterlife kind of bullshit? That was beyond insane.

“No.” He took a big, deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “No, no, no.” He shook both his head and his hand mid-air. “This is not happening. I am losing my mind.”

“No! Listen, something is happening! I have been by your side for a while now-”

“From a while?! You died like an hour ago!”

“That soon? Oh… I would have bet it had been a bit longer than that.”

“Why would Chrissy Cunningham decide to haunt me, of all people?!” He nervously laughed again, shaking his head.

At that point, he gave up. What could he do? What was there to do at all?

He left his arms falling to his sides and gave up any intention to keep fighting, or running. He walked around, letting himself fall on a seat, heavily slamming his weight on it with a sigh.

If that was only a mind game acted to torture him there was no escape anyway.

Or maybe he had already spent too long by himself. Maybe it was the PTSD kicking in?

Dehydration?

Oh God, what if it was the off-beer he just had that was expired from so long the yeasts sent him tripping?

“I don’t know why I am here. Maybe is because I died in front of you?”

Eddie heard her voice move closer, so he looked in her direction, deciding to completely succumb himself either to death, a bad trip or madness. He hunched over, balancing his arms on his knees.

“Fuck it. I want you to know I didn’t hurt you. Ok? If there’s anything like absolution then…”

She giggled. “You’d be absolved only if sin was committed, dummy. And I know it wasn’t you.”

Hearing her talking, existing in a way, warmed his chest up. It could have been his imagination or reality, but at that point, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have openly admitted it, ever, but he was grateful to hear her voice again.

“Yeah? Do you know who did?”

“Ouch, we aren’t being subtle, are we?”

“Sorry, I-I don’t know how to talk to a ghost.”

“I don’t know who or what killed me. But it was like a demon.”

“A demon?” He didn’t know why he acted so surprised. After what he saw it wasn’t hard to believe.

Though it wouldn’t have helped his case. What did he hope for? The testimony of a dead girl and the entire community believing in the supernatural?

Eddie rubbed his hands on his face, releasing a deep sigh. “Ok – fine. So? What now?”

“You tell me.”

Eddie rolled his eyes to the ceiling, breaking into another nervous burst of laughter. “Oh, you expect me to know what to do? Ah, then we are slightly fucked, darling.”

“This must mean something, right? There must be a reason why I am here! And why we are talking…”

“Yeah, I am sure. I am going crazy, that’s the reason. Eddie the Freak is no more, I am Eddie the Mad. Quite fitting if you ask me.”

“No, listen. You only now started to be able to speak to me but… I’ve tried to make you notice me already. It’s… Growing, I think.”

“What is growing?”

“This. And my state is changing, clearly.”

“Care to elaborate on that thought, sweetheart?”

“No need to be grouchy.”

“Sorry, I get slightly testy when I am on the verge to lose my mind, talking with the girl I watched being murdered in my house, all the while being on the run for said murder because how can I explain it? Or any of this-”

“Well, I am dead. So, I think I win the contest.”

She wasn’t wrong. Eddie nodded towards her, pulling a guilty smile. He really didn’t mean to be rude, but his nerves were literally frazzled and exposed, being constantly hit.

“Sorry. Please, explain to me what you mean.”

“I am dead. As such I was getting used to my new existence, I guess. By the way, the afterlife sucks-”

Eddie pulled a face, theatrically pushing his hand to his lips. “Oh, my Lord, Chrissy Cunningham can swear!”

“It’s being around you. You swore so much I am now brainwashed.” She giggled.

Hearing that sound made him smile too, genuinely. Maybe he was going mental but if there was even the slight chance that it was happening for real, then it could mean Chrissy was really there.

“Anyways, it was all darkness and emptiness. It was literally like a pure feeling of nothingness. Soothing in a way, or at least it was for me. But then, you broke through it. I wasn’t sure how, but when I realised it was you – and you were running – I decided to follow you.”

“Why?”

“You were willing to help me, trusting I wasn’t going to rat you out but also with not an ounce of judgement towards me… I thought it would be only fair if I tried to help-”

“Help me?”

“Yeah, why not. What do I have to lose?”

“Sweetheart, I do not think you can do anything to help me, at this point. I am quite fucked as I like to say it, or far gone as you’d prefer.” That time, when he used the pet name for her, it wasn’t to be sarcastic.

“From endless nothing you appeared. I started to feel things again, to have more linear thoughts… In the beginning, you were only standing in the same darkness I was lost to, but now… Now I am here!”

“What do you mean?”

“It started progressively. At first, I could only see and perceive you. Then what you would touch I could see too and if you were still touching it, I could too. I started to gain my senses again, you know? Smell, taste… And then I was able to see the room you stood in, touching things even when you weren’t. I mean, look!” There was a shuffle in the invisible air in front of him, and then the door of a close-by cabinet containing fishing equipment swung open. “See?”

Her voice was shaking with her excitement in a way that made him smile. He closed his eyes, for a second, inhaling the fact that she sounded so positive, so alive… A literal ray of sunshine through that endless night.

Oh, how much would have he suffered when his intoxication or whatever that was would have ended…

“So-” He rubbed his smile off his lips, trying to turn serious again. “You are the reason why my heart literally almost exploded in the kitchen a minute ago.”

“I am afraid so. Not my finest hour. But I needed to get your attention somehow, I tried to speak to you, to calm you down, but you couldn’t hear me.”

“How about next time you write a note, instead of that poltergeist shit?”

“Next time I’ll surely make sure to bring my pen and paper to the afterlife.”

“Fair point. So, now I can hear you.”

“Now you can hear me.”

Eddie was extremely hesitant. If that was a fantasy, then it was a very well-built thought in his mind and the human brain could truly go the extra mile to make insane people think that what they experienced was truly there.

At that point, of all his life decisions and everything that brought him to that point, were they worth it? Had anything about his life ever been worth it? He wasn’t a fighter, he was a runner, but how long was he able to do it? Look where it all got him, and it’s literally been a minute.

He sighed, rubbing his hands on his face again, with the firm intention to impress some common sense into his brain.

“Say something, Eddie.”

Part of him hoped that the prolonged silence that followed her last words meant that she was gone. But he was clearly wrong.

He looked back up to the direction her voice came from. but didn’t indulge in her request.

He pulled a sad smile, huffing a defeated, truly tired chuckle.

Eddie wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore. And in that moment of desperation, the only thing he thought that made sense to do was to lift his hand in the air, pulling his arm out, towards her. His palm turned upwards.

He didn’t have to wait long, but for the second it took, he felt like a dumbass.

Though, as soon as his palm was caressed by the warm sensation of fingers sliding onto it, followed by a small palm nesting in its centre, he found himself reconsidering everything he thought to be real up to that point.

Eddie gasped, choking on his own breath, and then looked up into the invisible air where he assumed she was standing. “You are really here.”

“Yes.”

“I can feel you-” He pulled her hand closer. “How is this possible? You feel warm, soft, and small… A-and real.”

His eyes jumped from one side to the other and all over the place, never focusing on anything, in particular, moving with the same speed his thoughts were doing, as he was desperately trying to trace a coherent design of the situation in his mind. Clearly failing and spinning more and more out of control at every second he kept thinking.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was as soft as a whisper. “But I can feel it too.”

He didn’t move an inch as he felt her crossing her fingers to his, embracing a hold that any other time he would have considered intimate, yet then felt different. Awkward in a way, but also soothing, somehow.

He didn’t want to be alone. That was the whole and simple truth.

He was terrified and knowing that he wasn’t by himself – may it be because of paranormal stuff or because of his running imagination – made him feel better.

He felt her moving closer, the now familiar tingling sensation of her energy surrounding him as she stepped into his personal space. She stood in front of his knees, and he let her.

The air was so thick Eddie was struggling to breathe properly.

Without even thinking about it, Eddie pushed a hand in front of him. He didn’t know what he expected to discover, but a wave of disappointment filled his chest up when he only found himself waving it into the air, without touching anything.

He thought he could have felt her. He thought to feel another person – even if a ghost, even because he was going mad, would have made him feel less unhinged and lost.

“I am losing my mind.” He sighed, more to himself than anything else.

But then Chrissy caught him, just in time before he dived into darker thoughts.

She pushed her other hand around his face, over his jawline, scooping his cheek up in her palm and again he let her, with absolutely no strength left in his body to keep fighting against it. She pulled his face up, directing his eyes right where she wanted them.

He could see only the ceiling, but somehow he knew she was looking right through his eyes. “You are not. I am really here.”

[preciouspatriots]

i don’t know what compelled danny to post the picture of him group hugging gronk and slates but it deeply and irrevocably made my day

[signed-yours-truly-the-whale]

Thoughts/Observations on Joker, part 1

AKA I Spent 7 Hours on This, I Will Die if it Gets Less Than Three Notes

I could rave for hours about this movie’s cinematography. Literal hours.

Nobody talks enough about Arthur’s full-fledged dedication to his clown craft. Man is working 60+ hours a week and does not break a sweat. I also fucking love this clowny face he pulls here. The first shot we see of Arthur in full. Holy shit is it beautiful. God bless Joaquin Phoenix.

These two shots together are incredibly important to me. In a split-second we see Arthur’s disbelief that he cannot control the whirlwind of emotions inside of his own head, not even being able to produce a smile, and then his resignation because it’s just another day. Heartbreaking.

Awwww shiiiiit

Gotham City is such a dump but I’d be bullshitting myself if I said I didn’t love the grimy aesthetic of it. It’s technicolor trash.

Arthur loves his job so much. He genuinely enjoys being Carnival. That hurts a lot to think about in hindsight.

This man just got his ass handed to him and he is STILL SPRAYING THE FAKE FLOWER ON HIS VEST

YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT DEDICATION

This opening card is so imposing. Not only does it take up the entire screen to the point of running off the edges, but it’s shielding Arthur from view. Arthur is invisible in light of Joker in Arthur’s own movie.

I screenshotted this by accident but I felt a need to put it here because he’s just so adorable. Even right before an episode.

E y e s s s s s

E Y E S S S S S

I desperately want to know what got Arthur sent to Arkham the first time. A suicide attempt? A public breakdown? I really want fanfics of it.

There’s a really, really good fanfiction on AO3 by Arthur_Fleck about Arthur slowly recovering and meeting a girl called In the Major and Minor Arcana

I highly, highly recommend it

Okay. Joaquin’s immersion into his characters -- all of them -- is absolutely incredible. But Arthur is just ... off the charts, man. No two of his characters are the same and he embeds himself so deeply in their skin, but Joaquin buried himself so deeply into Arthur’s brain that it is so hard for me to see any of Joaquin at all. God, he’s incredible and this shot makes me emotional because this just is Arthur.

ARTHUR WOULD BE A GREAT DAD AND I DO NOT ACCEPT ARGUMENTS

It really speaks to how shitty Gotham is that this man is having a full-fledged screaming/laughing breakdown on the bus and nobody is batting an eye

I adore how the cinematography paints Arthur as so small to his own environment. He’s a speck of dust. A fleck.

Babie is wincing :((((

I have been trying to figure out the layout of this apartment for months and my inability to, even with a floor plan, is driving me insane

I just found out that the Budweiser beer jingle Here Comes the King is on the soundtrack and plays when Arthur comes home and that made me go feral

I  A M  M U R R A Y , K I N G  O F  A S S H O L E S

It is second nature for me to do this stupid pose every time I watch this scene

Arthur blending into the crowd here makes me ... so happy. He looks so happy.

This is Arthur’s best laugh of the movie, fuck you. I am incredulous that I was the only person laughing when I saw this in the theater opening night.

This is one of the few moments I really see Joaquin shine through Arthur. I don’t know why, but this lighting and his voice and his intensity gives me visceral flashbacks to watching a little boy Joaquin in Parenthood. God, I love this man.

It really is a testament to Penny’s (lack of) parenting that Arthur is day dreaming about receiving affection and validation from a parent figure when his own mother is literally right there

GOD DAMN THIS MAN IS GORGEOUS

But also big bruise :(

Yes, I shall trust you, man named Randall smiling down at me in low angle light

Why was Hoyt not informed that Arthur got his ass beat on the job? As Arthur’s employer he should’ve literally been the first person to know so he could make a note of it. Either he wasn’t told or he gave so little of a fuck that his consciousness astral projected to another plane of existence while he shoved the white powder down his throat and forgot Arthur existed at all.

Literally fuck Hoyt. I hate him even more that his office is the coolest shit in the world

ARTHUR KNOWS THE CUSTOMER SERVICE SMILE

Joaquin dislocated his knee in this scene, the poor boy

I could write a full damn essay about why the misleading advertising of Sophie as a prominent character was the greatest twist of the whole movie. Literally I am still speechless how the movie did that.

I am not kidding when I say my sister has this same color scheme in the bathroom of our house and realizing that made me werewolf

Also Arthur being the son Penny doesn’t deserve warms and breaks my heart

The complete lack of reaction to Penny’s “Don’t you have to be funny to be a comedian” makes me laugh and cry internally

This shot? Gorgeous. His face? Deadly. That jawline? Cutting diamonds. Hotel? Trivago.

I really, really want a Joker 2, but at the same time I do not want a Joker 2 because Joaquin Phoenix has a baby who needs him now and he cannot be pulling shit like losing 52 lbs for a role

Also I REALLY need to discuss how much this brass ballet reminds me so heavily of Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. Holy fuck, I got actually chills in the theater

Like holy fuck

And then this shot reminds me so heavily of the opening of Fedddy vs Jason with Freddy Krueger laughing over his newspaper collage of missing children. Holy fuck I love this cinematography.

Guys. G - Guys, his name tag says Dr. Carnival, can you hear me  s o b b i n g

This part is so Chaplinesque, the way he slides the gun into his coat again

These children look so afraid of him for dropping the gun and wowie, does that really hurt

Was this asshole supposed to be modeled after Eric Trump? Because I get really douchebaggy Eric Trump vibes (minus the jacked teeth) from this ringleader

I don’t have much to say here except I am in love with the way Artie’s hair sticks straight up in bottle curls when the clown wig slides off

Also if you decide it’s a good idea to mess with a man dressed as a clown laughing maniacally on the subway of one of the most dangerous cities in the world, you are asking him to shoot you and I will not feel sorry for you

I will never not be in love with this image. I fell in love with it in the teaser trailer and almost went feral in the middle of the mall when I saw this was the poster they used to advertise the movie with. My friend described this movie as “chaos, beautified,” and nothing sums it up as well as this picture.

JOAQUIN AND TODD MADE THIS ENTIRE SEQUENCE UP AND I AM IN LOVE

Hello, handsome

[herstarburststories]

Beautiful Ghosts [p1]

A/N: HAPPY BDAY TO ME, YAY! The first chapter of this hopefully mini series is for @alleiradayne 's 1k celebration! Congrats, hon. A mix of angst and two kinds of comfort here. I gotta admit that I started working on this months ago and kept going until I was satisfied with how it was going. Hope you guys like this one! Divider by @talesmaniac89 !

Summary: Something as tribal as death wouldn't keep you away from Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Prompt: I’m not going to leave you. You’re never going to have to suffer by yourself again, I promise.

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, you

Rating: PG 13

Word count: 2404

As always, you are in Dean's arms when the two brothers enter the bunker after a hunt. There isn’t any sound to break the silence, no raucous laughter, or even a snarky comment about today’s slain monsters. Their steps are stronger than usual, and one breath is missing.

Of course, it’s different from your usual entrance. Your arms aren't tangled with Dean's and his aren’t wrapped around your waist or shoulders. You are in his arms, yes, but you are lying still in a state of lifeless despondency. To think, he was once hopeful, stupid enough to believe that he'd only be carrying you like this when he was marrying you. 

Sam is awfully quiet. He can think and organize a hundred words into speeches in his mind, but nothing comes out. The younger brother feels like a kid during a class presentation too worried to say the wrong word and receive the wrong reaction. Therefore, he chooses silence, just like the other Winchester. They both make room for the grief that way.

It's a silent agreement that you are gone for good. The spell used to bring Eileen back is no longer available, and there is no devil willing to make a pact — not that one would allow the others to do so, after all.

Dean still considers it. More than once, more than a million times between the drive back home when you laid in the backseat with your guts on the car's floor and putting your body on the couch with more tenderness he’d thought himself capable of. 

He would come back to hell just to save you, even if it meant not staying to see you thrive. The agony would be more bearable if he knew that for each scream of his, there would be a grin of yours.

He has no hope now. All Dean Winchester has is anger and unprocessed grief slowly metamorphosing into sadness, hate, and bloodthirst. Even when he killed the fucking werewolf right after he laid his teeth on you, it wasn’t enough. He needed to make someone hurt as much as he did.

It was supposed to be an easy hunt, but isn’t that life with this job? It's usually supposed to be a quick thing, and then you are choking your own blood like it's tequila.

“She is in a better place now.” Sam is the first to speak, utterly doubting that his brother would make a noise if he didn't first.

Sammy was always full of faith, but this time it made Dean furious. “You don't know that.”

“Dean.”

“Don't, Sammy. Don't even fucking try. You know who we are and what Billie thinks about us. Do you think (Y/N) won't get the same destiny as we will? Alone in the empty, going crazy for years, decades!?”

“We can find a way—“ 

“No, we can't! We all signed her death sentence the minute we asked her to move in. And she—“ Dean cuts himself off with the sharp knife of silence, staving any hope left with harsh thoughts. The living room is maybe the most similar it’s ever been to the old glory days now: men of letters used to get frustrated there all the time, usually with a bottle of whiskey and a dead body on the floor, full of holes from experiments. 

The eldest Winchester wants to scream, throw a chair, break a lamp. He’d do anything to get this heavy sensation out of his veins, as if every single drop of blood weighs 500 pounds.

Still, he doesn't fall on his knees.

An inconsistently wry smirk consumes Dean’s face, warped with grief. “I had to put her guts back in her body, you know? To carry her in the car.”

He lifts his hands. They are stained red. Sam purses his lips together, trying to find something to say that would have helped him when Jess died. Nothing but an annoying little voice saying time comes to mind. It's gonna be hard, but they will make it. They always do.

Sammy doesn't tell that to Dean, though. He isn't ready yet. And neither is Sam to vocalize the words.

We are gonna be okay because we always do. And the dead bodies end up like frightening memories and nothing else.

That would sound too cold, like most truths for hunters. If Sam says those words, it becomes real. Not even the bloodstained picture of murder is stronger than words of farewell. Besides, you were his best friend. He had to recompose and convince himself that everything would be okay before he helped Dean. For once, he had to be the brother who shut all the turmoil in to take care of the other

“I'm sorry, Dean.”

And then, Sam does the only thing that he could think of as useful for making the ache bearable. He hugs his big brother.

Dean struggles to get away from the hold, even with every fiber of his being screaming to remain there. “Let me go! Sam, I'm serious. Fucking let me go!”

“It's gonna be okay, Dean.”

“Let me go, Sammy! Now!”

“You are not alone, Dean. I'm here. She will be okay, too.”

“Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!”

Until he finally gives in, collapsing in Sam's arms like that little kid in Kansas who didn't want to cry in front of his dad after seeing his mom get killed.

There is blood on Sammy’s favorite shirt now, but he doesn’t care. He just tightens his embrace around Dean while his brother is lost into racking sobs. 

His grief is just as expansive as Dean’s, their ragged souls laced with a sickening kind of sweetness that can only show up when someone you love needs help. It squirms and crawls in their guts to make a home that sticks. It’s their tiny comforts— the good feelings always show up in defiance of the ache like a plant growing on concrete. They just have to get the energy to look for them.

Everything is still the way you left it in Dean's bedroom. He didn't put your clothes away. You left your book on the shelf and kept your perfume in the wardrobe. Your pillow is still scrambled as if you had left for a couple of minutes to grab a cup of water and would soon come back to snuggle up to him. Well, it could always be from the fact that he's holding onto that piece of cotton for dear life. If he had long nails, his floor would be a complete mess now.

He's glaring at the wall, mind trying to come up with ways to cope with the growing ache in his whole body. Yes, the books and poets and films speak fondly about heartbreak, but he already threw the last glimpses of his bruised heart on the fire, burning with your body to the point no one could say it was ever in his chest to begin with. What could he do? There's always a way for the Winchesters. If Dean thinks hard enough, maybe he can defeat death. Maybe he can have you back.

Dean puts the pillow away after another sniff. The smell of your pepper shampoo is almost fading — he shouldn't have hugged it. Nonetheless, the green-eyed hunter focuses on coming up with ideas, and it's a stupid, humanly behavior when his mind goes to what desperate people usually seek.

Dean was never a pious man. The fact his mother died while angels were too busy watching over him to help her didn’t do it any good. Yet in stolen moments like these, he, like most humans, would bear his soul in a peace offering to all the holy things he doubted. The Winchester never prayed for himself, though. Who would answer his cry for help? He never deserved to be saved. So, he put his hands together and closed his eyes for who he cared about. As the Layla woman who told him to have faith or Sammy as something scandalous happened. It was rare, but Dean did that sometimes. He used to hope someone was listening. He doesn't pray anymore, not even now. Because he knows someone is listening, and he doesn't care.

Can an empty room seem crowded? Yes, when touch-starving grief is piled inside, begging to be seen. Why can't he allow himself to feel it? Why can't he cry? Why can't he just stop using anger as a comfort? Dean doesn't know. It used to be easier to cry before. He'd say he's lost his emotions, but the all-consuming anger and his ferocious barks to keep the hurt is burning proof he isn't yet.

Y/N died, and it's his fault. Y/N died, and it's his fault. Y/N died, and it's his fault.

His nostrils are opening, the wrath that swaths him as comfortable as his own skin. It’s not natural enough that he doesn't feel the burn, and you know he's going to break again. Your Dean doesn't break easily, but when he does, it's in a million little pieces that he wouldn't allow people to help pick them up. He’d rather shove them under the bed with his childhood monsters or bruising his hands as he exasperatedly tries to get them all by himself. You know he's going to shift into a storm and start breaking things. You know it's a temporary morphine, and the sickness will remain in the morning.

That's the incentive you need to try harder, to flash yourself into this plane of existence long enough to be seen. You force every fragment of yourself and light and whatever other pieces you are made of now to appear. To be heard. To show Dean he isn't all by himself again.

An image starts glitching in front of him. It’s rapid enough for Dean's reaction to come as a frown and his hand to snake around to the gun at the hem of his pants. 

And then, he blinks and a heart-stopping joy hits him. He can't believe the unbreakable heaven that he's being blessed with. Every feeling that should be burrowed under his skin is fighting to come to the light, and God, he wants to. For the first time, he doesn't want to hold back because what was trying to come together finally is you.

You. You are standing right before his own green eyes. There is a soft look on your face. It’s laced with that pretty smile that’s always spread happiness to him as well. You are here, standing in his room, clean clothes and blood in your veins. Guts inside your body! He never imagined he'd be happy to think that.

Is this his heart? Oh God, it is. And it's beating. No, no. It's racing. His heart is working again and now he almost falls on his knees. The pain was never able to break him, but he had forgotten how strong happiness could be. He's relieved.

Dean's eyes burn when he looks at you. Maybe it’s because he’s too shocked to even blink or perhaps it is all the tears that were flowing. Who cares? That man would allow his entire body to collapse in flames if the smoke signaled you back home. 

He takes a few steps, having the nerve to touch you — probably the most daring thing he has ever done. He is ready for you to dissipate, for that to be a dream, anything. And you don’t. You remain there. You don’t leave him too. Your usually warm body is gelid, but Dean doesn't care. It's an honest warning, yet he's happy to ignore those for once. You're here. 

“Dean, I—“ Your voice. It's your voice saying his name. He recognizes the importance of a name now. For a brief moment, he's confused. What the fuck is happening? You purse your lips and Dean chortles in dismay, unable to discern his inner state of being. “I don't know what to say.”

“I thought I had lost you. I was so fucking scared, Y/N. I thought you were gone for good.” He's found the words for you, exhibiting his vulnerability so quietly. Your entire soul feels it— it's not true what they say. You don't stop feeling when you are dead. You start to feel everything deeper because after leaving your meatsuit, all that is left is your soul. And what's a soul but the patchwork of emotions? “I thought you'd never come back again. That I'd have to go on without you. I'm so sorry. It was my fault. I should have saved you.”

“No, Dean. Don't start self-loathing and all that. It wasn't your fault. What happened to us could've happened to any hunter. And if it happened to me, there is a reason for it.”

“A reason for you to be ripped apart?” He scoffs at your belief of fate. You always had a graceful heart in you, even after you met Chuck. 

“I'm back, right? I told you I'd always be with you, and I'm here. Always.” You intertwine your fingers, and he watches your hands for a little while. While it’s difficult for him to grasp anything but pain nowadays, he accepts the rush of joy in his chest. Dean looks up, and you're still here, big eyes offering him a loving gaze. “I'm not going to leave you. You're never going to suffer by yourself again. I promise.”

He kisses you, and it feels like your emotions have finally found a perfect body to rest in when yours is a little bit tired — a place to call home. He kisses you, and everything is worth it. Because he kisses you. And you kiss him back.

Dean Winchester is a marvelous hunter. He should know that the cold his tongue experiences in your mouth while you two make out ferociously isn't quite right. You should feel fervid, and you are warm in every way of being but skin. He should pay attention to that. He should stop trying to make you come alive with love. Still, he can't bring his rational side to care. That man was always guided by emotion, anyway. What could matter more than you on his arms? Worries could be postponed because you did what no one else ever could.

You came back to him.

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[bigskydreaming]

@russianspacegeckosexparty

Okay, been doing some Changelings ‘verse stuff, and I’m stuck on something. So, you know the numbers thing with changelings, how they have a certain unconscious tendency towards the numbers 3, 7 and 9? So I firmed this up in terms of how it correlates to the number of Faetowns. There are seven Bordertowns, existing fully in this plane of existence, and one on each continent (yes, including Antarctica, though technically its on an island just off the coast of it), with the one in San Francisco being the North American Bordertown. So technically people can and often do just walk right into a Bordertown, the same as they would any other location, but each Bordertown has a Changeling resident whose specific magic and role within their society is to make it possible for any changeling to reach the nearest Bordertown by requesting passage that calls to their magic. Like the San Francisco Bordertown has the Ferryman, or the Sao Paulo Bordertown has a changeling called the Chorus, etc.

Then there are nine different Otherland dimensions, with the twenty seven other Faetowns each straddling the gap between this dimension and one of those nine Otherlands, existing half in this world and half in another one, with each of these Faetowns only springing into existence when enough changelings come together in one location that their cumulative magic hits critical mass and unconsciously builds the new Faetown in a new demi-plane that literally doesn’t exist until those changelings create a space and need for it. And each of the nine Otherlands have three corresponding Faetowns whose half or access point exists in this dimension, with one of those being on land, one in the sea, and one in the sky.  

So of the nine Otherlands, there are:

1) The Brightlands - the three Faetowns that bridge to the Brightlands have entrances in this plane of existence that can only be seen/touched in certain kinds of light. So the sea Bright-town is underwater in the Caribbean, not far below the surface and nestled into a coral reef.....but it can only be entered from the outside during the day, because the ‘doors’ to it are shafts of sunlight filtering through the surface to below, and acting as planar gateways that you can swim into and then on the other side there’s the Bright-town. Even though you haven’t physically moved in space, you’re only aligned with it properly once you’ve passed through one of those sunlight gates. The sky Bright-town similarly can only be accessed during storms, as lightning acts as the gateways to that Bright-town, with anywhere lightning strikes cracking the sky open and thus making a gateway that only lingers briefly, ‘scabbing over’ within minutes of opening. And then the land Bright-town can only be entered via firelight, with you having to literally walk through the fire trusting in the town’s magic not to get burned by it, in order to align properly with the Bright-town.

2) The Shadowlands - the three Shadow-towns can only be accessed in complete darkness. Their entrances can only be felt, not seen. Like the one in the sea exists way down deep in a trench and the entrance to it just flat out doesn’t exist if you try and illuminate the darkness looking for it. You basically just have to swim into the darkness and keep going deeper until things start to slowly brighten around you thanks to the lights in the actual Shadowtown itself. The land Shadowtown similarly only exists in complete darkness within a cavern in Romania, emerging from the cavern on the other side of the darkness portal into a city where its always night, no matter what time it is, and the sky Shadowtown’s entrance is basically an invisible staircase into the sky that can only be climbed on nights when there’s no moon. And just like the land Shadow-town, its always surrounded by a night sky as when the sun rises, it just drifts deeper into the Shadowland where its always night, drifting back out more into this dimension once night falls again. These towns of course being ideal for the changelings whose physical changes make them largely nocturnal, or whose magic is darkness-based or at its most potent during the night, etc.

3) The Clocklands - the Clocktowns are only visible/accessible in this dimension for one hour of each twenty-four hour cycle, before their ‘orbit’ takes them out of phase with this dimension and passes them through the various other planes the Clocklands reach into. With the Blessed Isle appearing off the coast of Ireland at dawn before disappearing again an hour later, the land Clocktown existing as a mirage in the Sahara for most of the day with it only being physically accessible and solid starting at noon for one hour, and the sky Clocktown, La Ciudad de Arriba, only appearing in the sky over Argentina and Chile at twilight, with moonlight revealing a staircase up to it.

4) The Mirrorlands - the Mirrortowns can only be accessed via their reflected image. Kitezh in Russia exists as the image of a town appearing on the east side of a lake....but if you try and enter the town as it appears above the surface, you’ll just walk through empty air as if its nothing but an illusion....as the true Kitezh only exists under the surface of the lake itself, and thus to enter it you have to walk into the lake and head for the gates reflected in the water. The land Mirrortown is an inverted city built into a deep cavern in Greece, that similarly can only be entered by walking into its reflection.....basically similar to Perseus using the mirror in his shield to approach the Gorgon. And the sky Mirrortown is basically the reverse of Kitezh....its in the sky over a lake in Uruguay, and again can only be entered via reflection, but whereas to enter Kitezh you have to walk into the lake and go deeper and deeper under the surface of the water, with the town’s magic enabling you to breathe, with this Mirrortown, you have to walk onto the surface of the lake, with the town’s magic making the path to it solid under your feet as you walk towards its reflected entrance.

5) The Ghostlands - the Ghost-towns straddle this plane and the spirit plane, and thus only exist in haunted spaces where ghosts have worn through the space between planes. They usually co-exist with the changelings living in the Ghost-towns, with the changeling magic enabling ghosts to have a physical existence again as long as they’re within the town. So changelings and ghosts have a somewhat symbiotic relationship, with the magic of the Changelings’ Ghost-town letting ghosts have somewhere they can manifest physically for as long as they remain tethered to the material plane, before they cross fully over....and in exchange, ghosts exist as kinda the gateways to the Ghost-towns themselves. They don’t have gateways or entrances in any specific spot, but rather, the way to them only opens if you have a ghost guiding your way. So basically, the only way to enter a changeling Ghost-town is to find a ghost or spirit in the area of the Ghost-town who is willing to take you there. 

The sea Ghost-town is underwater near an ancient shipwreck, with passage to it being through the shipwreck itself....but not any specific route so much as just whatever route a ghost guides you through. The land Ghost-town is in the swampland in the vicinity of the southern end of the Appalachians, and similar to the Mirror-towns, the path to it is only by walking on the surface of the waterways throughout the swamp, and then only when following a ghost.....with many of them being capricious and as likely to lead travelers astray via will’o’wisps and echoes, getting them lost in the maze of the swamp, or only taking them so far over the surface of the swamp before flitting off at which point the path ceases to be solid and they end up dumped into the water. The town itself is grown into the trees sprouting out of the swamp in its deepest places....think kinda like Pirates of Dark Water style, but with a swamp aesthetic that emphasizes the haunting beauty of such spaces. And the sky Ghost-town is hidden in the mists of the upper elevations of a mountain in Asia, with the path only opening when you follow a ghost higher and higher up the mountain through mists that make it impossible to track your progress....and again, if the ghost decides at some point along the way they don’t actually want to grant you entrance, they’ll vanish at some point and you’ll find yourself emerging from the mists back at the bottom of the mountain again.

6) The Wanderlands - the Otherlands which have the same strange relationship with space that the Clocklands have with time, the three Wandertowns move randomly and at whim. The land Wandertown, Wonderwall, is a traveling carnival the size of a small town that randomly appears somewhere new each night, and vanishes with the dawn to reappear elsewhere in the world where night is only just falling. The sea Wandertown, Frostmyre, is an inverted city carved out of the underside of an iceberg that can be in the Baltic Sea one day and then appear in the Indian Ocean the next, always just looking like a normal iceberg from above the surface, and only revealed for the impossible city that it is once you submerge and look at it from beneath the surface. And the sky Wandertown, Stormside, is on top of a stormcloud criss-crossing the globe and existing as a solid mass for the town and Changelings that live on top of it, always exposed to sunlight and clear skies as they exist above the storms rather than below.

7) The Dreamlands - Dreamtowns are only accessible in your dreams, and only at certain locations. You have to fall asleep within the vicinity of where the Dreamtown is supposed to be or rumored to be, and as befits the more whimsical nature of the Dreamtowns themselves and the changelings who pick one of them to reside in, it tends to be a crapshoot if you’ll awaken within the dream itself to see the Dreamtown before you, at which point you can then enter it in the dream and awaken for real to find yourself physically in it. The Dreamtowns are also unique in that there’s only three of them, same as the towns of any other Otherland, but each of the three Dreamtowns can be entered via dreams at several different locations, all across different continents. 

Like, the sea Dreamtown only appears to those who fall asleep on the beaches of certain coastlines, the sky Dreamtown only appears to travelers who fall asleep at the foot of certain mountains, and the land Dreamtown appears when dreaming somewhere along the roadsides of certain lonely stretches of highway in different countries. Like if you pull over and fall asleep at a rest-stop along certain stretches of highway through the Midwest, you might awaken in the dream to see a town within sight, where no town had existed when you stopped. Or even if you stop at a roadside motel for the night, you might awaken within a dream, not even realizing it, and go outside to use the vending machine at 2 am only to see a large, sprawling town beginning just on the other side of the road from your motel, even if there’d been nothing but empty desert or even a thick forest there when you checked into the motel.

8) The Hell-lands - Helltowns are built fairly ‘deep’ into the Otherland they straddle, making them exist way more in it than they do this dimension, and as such, they aren’t tethered to physical locations but rather specific needs. The residents of the three Helltowns, most of whom tend to refer to themselves as demons rather than using the changeling slang and terminology preferred by a lot of the others, tend to present themselves as capricious, mischievous beings who interact a lot more frequently and more freely with the rest of mainstream societies by way of summonings and rituals that they provide freely as they aren’t really things they can be bound by. Rather, they act as kinda like doorbells that get a certain demon/changeling’s attention by tugging at their magic and creating a doorway to the summoner that they can instantly step through IF they care to, after taking a quick mystical peek at the summoner and what it looks like they want....and deciding whether or not it seems potentially entertaining enough to take a jaunt ‘topside’ (or ‘downside’ in the case of the sky Helltown). 

But if not trying to summon someone from a Helltown but rather go to one directly, there are various summoning spells or rituals that can be used by anyone, as they really just draw on the magic of the Helltown itself to create a gateway that the person can use to then enter the Helltown from anywhere......but the trick of it is, while entering a Helltown doesn’t require a certain physical location, it requires a certain need. Their entrances are need-based, and its not enough to just WANT to go to a Helltown for whatever reason, you have to NEED to in a way that reaches deeply enough into the Otherland the Helltowns primarily exist in that it can actually forge and open a connection between it and you. All of the Faetowns have different approaches to society-building, and one of the more abiding principles Helltown societies are built around is no risk, no reward. And the greater the risk, the greater the reward, etc. 

Their societies tend to constantly be in flux, as the resident changelings/demons spend a lot of their time engaging in various power plays aimed at advancing their standing in their town or city’s power structure (as many of the Faetowns are more accurately cities rather than towns at this point). Helltowns are basically Machiavellian paradises, with intricate rankings of Dukes and Lords and other titles that predominantly exist just to have something to aim for and seize, toppling someone from their throne and then defending their usurped position for as long as they can before someone else supplants them, in a never-ending cycle that’s more about the game for them than any actual attempt at a definitive win. Their actual name for it is simply The Great Game.

9) ??? - And this is where I’m stuck, as I need a ninth Otherland for the underlying framework of the magic, premise, and where all of this is going, to like...work. I just can’t decide on what it should be. I was thinking something luck-based, but that leans pretty heavily into what the Dreamtowns already deal in, and my next thought was something riddle or cipher based? Like Faetowns that can only be accessed by unlocking some secret, solving some mystery or getting some riddle right, like encountering a Sphinx-like changeling along the road somewhere and then the Faetown unfolding before you if you answer their challenge correctly, that sort of thing. I’m not sure though, and I’m trying to think of any thematically mystical or folkloric medium like mirrors or shadows that I might have overlooked or just not thought of. Any thoughts?

(Oh and the exception to these entrances to the various Faetowns, is any Faetown can be easily entered at any time by any Changeling from within one of the Bordertowns.....by using any of the Painted Portals that exist for each of the other Faetowns thanks to Paul’s magic, thus circumventing the usual access points by connecting each town to every other town....as each town has their own hallway of Painted Portals that acts as a hub or kind of transit station to the other towns).

[starfaring-princelotor]

The Prison Kingdom

Chapter 2: To Create A Name

-

Summary: With new companions comes new information you were unaware of before.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide and blood.

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Lotura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. ★

A/N: Click here to learn more about fairies.

1 . 2 .

-

“I didn’t know pirates can read.”

“Aye, fancy that, eh? Learn something new with every rising sun,” you closed your book then fully turned your attention to the man leering over your shoulder, “I didn’t know that incubus’ can be nosy, little whelps, and yet, here we are, mate.”

Lance, he said his name was. Young faced with an offended scrunched up frown because of your comment, he seemed fresh to the battles of blades. And of insults. Rule number one when growing up under the honorable tutelage of your aged seafarer captain: whatever you do, do it well. May he rest in peace, the poor fool who took a cannonball to the gut. 

“Hey! I’m not nosy!” came his witty reply, accompanied by a muttered grumble.

You took that as his white flag.

“Pirate.” 

“Aye, capitain?”

Shiro said nothing else, only gave you that good old “stop picking on the soldiers” look. You shrugged in response. He stated that he needed to stop by his neighboring guilds and request assistance from a few specific set of people. And thus, along with you and a few others who gathered at Altea, Shiro created a small group of warriors for this expedition. 

There was Ulaz, a powerful necromancer who channeled spirit energy from the dead to do his bidding. Attractive mercenary with those glowing eyes and pointed ears, leader of the Blue Tail Guild. Then that one golem from the deep mountains, what was her name? Shay of the Yellow Eyes faction? Those fancy jewels embedded in her rocky exterior were tempting, but you were sure she could pack a punch if you tried to use your five-finger discount. And, last but not least, a dryad ghost who calls himself Rolo, belonging to the Green Claw Guild. His skills with traveling between planes of existence at ease would be most useful for scouting. 

Right now, the only one left was meant to be meeting at this farm on the outskirts of a small, unnamed village. Someone from the Red Teeth Guild, supposedly the one King Alfor led until his untimely demise. Her name was Hira, one of the Alteans who was tasked with defending the royal family. Keyword: was. She gave up that title and dedicated her life to hunting monsters with vengeance, more importantly the dragon that razed Altea to the ground. Though she lacked the magical abilities passed down by her ancestors, she made up for it in pure strength as a berserker. 

“- He is ready, Shiro. I have seen the boy fight alongside Lance, they both would make worthy comrades in battle.”

You could sense the pride and ushering tone in, who you assumed, was Hira. Off in the distance, the two boys mentioned were tending to a bull peacefully. Out here, it was easy to fall into the dull sense of a domestic life. A farm, crops to harvest, animals to feed. Making pasteurized cheese from only the freshest of milk. A humble existence, not one meant for the explorative type of people. Much too docile, too vulnerable.

“No, Hira. They are just boys. If we were hunting wild boars, yes, I would bring both Keith and Lance along, but this mission is too dangerous for the inexperienced,” Shiro argued, voice muffled behind the bales of hay, “I’m not putting their blood on my hands. Are you willing to?”

A pregnant pause, only to be interrupted by the peppered clucks of chickens nearby.

“Altea needs soldiers, Shiro.”

“Children are not soldiers, Hira. I’m done discussing this. Are you with us or not?”

“Fine. But keep your Galra scum on a leash. This war still isn’t over and I won’t forget what happened a decade ago,” she spat with spite lacing each syllable in her words, “His kind shouldn’t even be joining this party.”

“No one would forget, but his skills are invaluable if we’re going after a dragon that uses quintessence as an energy source. Our mission is to kill it so a repeat of the past doesn’t happen. Do you understand?”

Part of you wanted to say you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Really, you didn’t, it was just convenient that your hearing was much more enhanced than the average being. And, judging by the pupiless stare of Ulaz, you knew he heard them, too. That slightest, almost barely noticeable twitch in his ears gave him away. 

“That bull is going to charge them. Watch,” Rolo informed, also watching the spectacle of Keith and Lance’s shenanigans.

As if able to predict the future, Keith must’ve patted the animal a little too hard, which irritated the beast. He started hoofing the grass, gave one loud baying screech, before shoving both of them away in a disgruntled thrash. Don’t run, you thought, but it was instinct to flee when something once neutral becomes aggressive. Pity that Keith fellow was wearing red, though. 

“Useful trick ye got there. Ever thought about trying yer hand as a fortune teller? Could swindle a few fish for quite a bit o’ gold,” you chuckled, recalling the time you did such a thing yourself. 

“Huh. Wonder if Nyma would be up for that gimmick after this hunt.”

“This hunt...it is such a small group. Can we really fight a dragon?” Shay’s inquisitive voice openly asked, “I have heard rumors and stories of such feats only being accomplished by massive armies, yet we are of only 10 bodies.”

“We are not going to kill a dragon. Shiro needs us to find it first before requesting for support from Altea. Perhaps the kingdom’s allies can send reinforcements as well.” Ulaz spoke of Shiro as an old friend, an old comrade in arms, and oddly enough, that fact was reassuring, “We can not trek through enemy territory with siege weapons and cannons. Not yet.”

Not until we know what we are going against. 

“Can you build, pirate?”

“Can a shark bite?” you immediately retorted, but judging by the blank look on his face, he didn’t understand the reference, “Aye, aye, I can build. Bless me with a keg o’ gunpowder and I’ll gift ye bombs strong enough to take out me other leg.” 

Shay giggled, Rolo smiled, and even Ulaz found the dark joke a little humorous. 

-

There was something stifling about traveling by foot through the thicket of the woods. You would take the open sea and the ship over mangled trees and looming leaves any day. Rolo, however, was in his element. It seemed like the vines were reaching towards him to give an odd embrace from the trees themselves. Was it just you or did that trunk have a face carved out in it? Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time reading that book of yours. 

[Not every spirit is malicious. Some belong to those children who ventured too far, unguarded and blind to the dangers lurking deep within. Be careful if you hear echoed giggling of the young. Faes are master tricksters. Under no circumstance should you ever answer their question, lest you wish to be swept up and vanished into thin air. Avoid rings of mushrooms at all cost.]

Below was a quickly drawn image of cap mushrooms formed in a circle. There seemed to be a child-like figure with butterfly wings attached on its back. You came to realize then, while sitting around the campfire and partaking your turn for watch, that the creatures of the land vastly differ than those of the sea. You expected this, of course, but something in the back of your head had one question buzzing in your skull: how far could you flee if you came across such beasts?

Shuffling off to the side alerted you of Shay awakening. Slowly, she emerged from her tent as the fire danced, making those gems glimmer even more beautifully in the night. 

“Are you well, p-pirate?” she asked albeit hesitantly stuttering on the title.

With a nod of confirmation, you shut your book quietly just as she took a seat across from you. She seemed to be lost in thought, curious even, and it amused you greatly to see her glance away when you caught her stare. Then, her gaze stayed locked on the very interesting rock by your wooden leg. 

“Lass, does this ol’ thing give you the willies?” you tapped your leg, already quite used to not feeling anything come from the action, “It t’aint rigged with explosives, ye can trust me word on that.”

Now, she quickly snapped her wide eyes up at you, “No, no, not at all! I mean, it’s a little...I have seen such things before. But that is not why I was - forgive me - for staring.”

“Eh?”

“Your name. The captain calls you ‘pirate’ and you were introduced to us as so. I have never met someone who doesn’t have a name,” Shay rubbed her hands together unsurely, wondering if her question came out too personal, “ I - does it bother...do you have a name that you wish to be called instead?”

Cute and utterly kind by a default. You liked that about her.

“Would ye like to hear a story, mate? A story of the Name-Stealing witch of the sea?”

At that, her attention was completely enraptured by the flourish wave of your hand and the quill you pulled from your coat sleeve like magic. If there was one thing you enjoyed more than crafting bombs, it would be telling stories embellished in exciting lore and haunting truths. Or lies. That was left to be decided by the listeners. 

“Aye, among those who were unfortunately marooned on desolate islands, legends say that the nights following an empty sky, there be but a single bottle floating to the shore. No matter where, it always held a single piece of parchment and quill. You nay see her on the bank, or hear her whisper, but some say she stands afloat as a speck on the horizon. And some say...she will grant ye solace if ye but write yer name on that there paper.”

You now pulled out a rolled-up sheet from your other sleeve, earning a gasp of surprise from your audience. Well, your one audience.

“I came across her one fateful night. There’s a rule among us pirate folk: those who fall behind are left behind. Ye carry yer own weight to survive out there and me weight was just a little too heavy,” cue you knocking on your wooden leg, “I was starved and alone with nothing but me ‘n me pistol. Good ol’ trusty Kretch. Once the taste of sand could no longer sustain me, nor the grass, nor the leaves of the palms, I had to decide if I wanted a quick death to be my end.”

Concern. Of course she was concerned to hear those dreadfully haunting words. 

“But she came to me one night, offering me nothing but a bottle. I told meself, if there were a chance to live, I’d take it without thought. And I did. I wrote me name, but oh, what a fool I was. There I lay, death washing upon the shore, and she came to me. She took it with a kiss, so I may never speak it again. She took that parchment so I may never write it again. And when I woke on a different bank, and when those kind souls helped poor little ol’ me, and when they asked who I was…”

You crumpled the paper then immediately tossed it into the fire, the blaze quickly sparking a green flame in a show of bedazzlement.

“...I couldn’t remember it.”

At the end, Shay was practically sitting on the edge of her log with wide-eyed awe. Couldn’t remember your own name? The very idea seemed appalling and completely impossible. Not even magic can do that...right? 

“But why? What could a sea witch want with a name? Was she born without one and chose to steal names, collect them, to satisfy her own cruel jealousy? Or was she searching for hers? She may still be out there yet, Shay, ready to make a deal with those desperate enough to survive. Perhaps she even haunts those in the forests or the caves…”

“No! I want to keep my name, I - “ she shook her head to get the jitters out, clearly displeased with the thought of losing something so important, “Can you get it back? Your name?”

“Many have tried, but all have failed or perished in the pursuit,” you paused, letting a slow, sneaky grin spread on your lips, “Unless...ye have more than one name to go by.”

“More than one?”

“Aye. That’s why ‘tis important to make a name fer yerself. And that’s why Shiro calls me pirate, fer me own safety, eh? Not even she can steal a title like that.”

“Can...stealing a name kill someone? Do you think she can kill a dragon if she took its name?” Shay questioned more for herself than for you, “It’s scary to think about…”

“Ah, but then ask yerself, do ye want t’forget the dragon? Pain is the world’s cruelest teacher, but I cannot imagine waking one day and not remembering how me family died by the dragon’s fire,” you explained before tilting your head in thought, “Were ye there, lass? When the dragon attacked?”

She shook her head no, “I wasn’t, but my people helped with saving the injured who were buried under the wreckage. Many were worried about the royal families and of the prince and princess as well.” 

Now it was your turn to lean in, intent on catching every word she shared.

“It is tragic that Queen Mellanor passed at Allura’s birth. Even more that her father was killed by the ally he trusted. We weren’t able to find Prince Lotor nor Emperor Zarkon, assuming they had fled as soon as the attack had started. It was horrible, hearing the survivors share their woes. I wish it hadn’t happened. Even a few Galra citizens living in Altea were affected, but…”

Here, she began fidgeting with her hands nervously then lowered her voice down a pitch as if the forest have ears of their own.

“When we uncovered Galra citizens, they were herded off into the castle...and they never came out.”

Somehow, Shay’s story was much more frightening than yours. Not only because you believe her, but you also believe that the fate of those Galra was likely leading to an unhappy ending. 

“I think - “

A rustle, one against the wind, and your head snapped in the direction of the noise. 

“Shh - wait, I hear - “ and before you could finish your sentence, a blunt force punched you in the face, sending you flying off your seat to knock into an allies tent. 

You heard Shay let out a yell, a battle cry and a way to warn everyone that an intruder was here. A cacophony of noises rose in volume, people scrambling to attack a wisping shadow in failure, for the punches came too quick and too powerful. A whirlwind of purple light trailed by each landed blow and, tried as you might, every shot from your pistol did nothing against the flurry of that damn bludgeoning weapon. 

“Rise!” Ulaz shouted and, instantly, a cooling spell fell over you, releasing you from the bruising pain of your crushed rib. 

You owe him a drink for that one. 

“Form up on me! Shields up!” Shiro ordered, equipping his own shield to cover his front, but it was already too late. 

By the time the chaos settled and the dust came down, the attacker had Hira’s throat in a deadly grasp while holding her body up in the air. Metal claws were cutting into her skin, drawing a line of blood, just to emphasize how serious she is close to dying. One wrong move, and her life would be forfeit. You waited with held breath on a command, anything from Shiro, but nothing came in one, two, three seconds.

Then, Shiro’s eyes widened at the person standing across from his infantry.

“Sendak?”

[lettersofsky]

DistantPastZine - The Grand Highblood - Warden of a Prison for the Mind, Body and Soul

The First of the Four Extra pieces I did for the @distantpastzine . Time for some Murder Clown Pope Fun Times >:3c

Rating:Mature Archive Warning:No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom:Homestuck Character:Grand Highblood (Homestuck) Additional Tags:Religious Imagery & Symbolism | Clown Religion Language:English

When a motherfucker rips his own pan open to hear those most blessed and sacred of Church teachings, then he opens himself up to be put to his proper use :o)

~

Twisted bodies left to rot in the streets Turning labyrinths a thought and terror with no chance of escape Pans shattered and broken by the Mirthful whims of the Messiahs on High His and others bare to them for their most righteous a judgements

The Grand Highblood of Alternia’s Mirthful Church, one Kurloz motherfucking Makara to those that lived to be blessed with the knowledge of it, was… the most righteous of motherfuckers. Ain’t ever was another motherfucker that was as dedicated, as motherfucking devote as he was. Ain’t no one ever had a touch more refined, more designed and fated to be reaching into the pan of the most motherfucking blasphemous, the most wretched of the wretched and non-believers, to tear them all kinds asunder.

And perhaps he’d practiced on those he wasn’t supposed to have ever wanted harm upon, perhaps he’d turned his Chucklevoodoos upon Church kin and those of like colour or those that were meant to be the nearest and dearest to his pumper, but there was no place for such reservations when a motherfucker had been all kinds a fucking blessed with a purpose straight from the Messiahs’ maws. A kinmate, a pale or red bitch broken, shattered and thrown away was a small price to pay for what the Messiahs had decided he was destined for, what they all on high had motherfucking decreed.

And perhaps still, the Messiahs had called upon him to tear open his own pan, to bleed in both the physical and mental planes alike for them, to open himself to their whispers and mutterings so that they could guide he and his kin alike into greatness and that flourishing mirthful bliss that was so motherfucking owed to them so that the world may be ripe for the Messiahs to lay all to motherfucking waste as they so decreed. As was motherfucking assured and decided upon long before the Church was even a creation given thought and form.

The Messiahs could and had called on Kurloz for any motherfucking thing of imaging and he would and had answered with claw and tooth, club and voodoos at the ready to do what they were needing of him. What the Church was needing of him.

He’d torn apart the previous Grand Highblood for them. The blasphemous motherfucker that was set on bringing all kinds a motherfucking shame onto the Church by agreeing to do as the Empress on deep and cold decreed with no care to faith or honour or anything that made the Church so much better than the motherfuckers good for no more than paint on their walls. He hadn’t been expecting one a his own to turn against him, foolish and arrogant in all kinds a ways that made him worse than what was needed for the Church. He hadn’t expected Kurloz, young as he’d been, to pull a pumper frozen by the horrors of endless wrathful ages from his chest cavity and parade it around the Church as was his own most sacred of motherfucking rights.

Kurloz hadn’t been able to free his kin from the Tyranny’s claws, but at least they weren’t being shepherded into decay by someone that should have motherfucking known better.

Then there came the call for the hideous little heretic, imbued with the most miraculous and holiest a colour that were meant to be the most motherfucking sacred of the Church. Kurloz had relished the hunt for it, blasphemous fool talking about peace and equality, of choice and kindness, like a fucking wriggler that ain’t ever learned its place in the proper order of the world around it. There wasn’t any place for questioning or rebellion on Alternia, not if he and his most holy of brothers and sister, carrying their Messiahs wants and wishes, had anything to say about it. The little heretic and its collection of stains onto history weren’t allowed to exist long past their capture.

Kurloz had witnessed the execution himself, ordered his most loyal and honour-bound of motherfuckers to carry out the holy deed all personal like, made an example of it all so that any other thought of rebelling or questioning were stamped out in a single show of Highblood might. The terror of it had been the best kind a miracle; a brew all the Messiahs’ own design mixing from the heretic’s dying breaths, its disgrace of a Jade and the two Lowblood companions that thought they could deny the fate that had chosen for them, even the sweetest of concoctions ain’t been able to even dream of holding a candle to it.

Would have been better if his most disgraced and expunged of Executioners had carried through with his orders and slew the Olive where she knelt, but Kurloz would deal with him another day. Ain’t no one that had ever been able to escape the ire of the Church yet, they would tear him apart eventually. Kurloz could feel it in his pumper that the Darkleer’s horns would be a motherfucking adornment to his throne before Kurloz was passed from this world, certain as the Alternian moonrise.

After the blasphemous heretic came the Messiahs’ call for the Orphaner. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell what was the Messiahs’ most motherfucking sacred of orders and what was his own rage at the Sea-Dweller thinking himself so above them that he could just stride his way into his most blessed and sacred of throne rooms, hand Kurloz the knowledge that he’d been in the knowing of where exactly a criminal of Church and Ocean was hiding herself and expected to be able to get off free of consequence. A stint like that might have worked amongst the bottom-feeders of the deep but Kurloz was having none of it. The Sea-Dwellers thought themselves better than the Church, thought that a flutter of their fins and a display of gills would be all it took to get the Church to do as they wished.

Kurloz was motherfucking delighted to prove a notion such as that wrong. The violet looked all kinds a pretty on the walls of his throne room and mixed with the looks on the faces of the next bottom-feeders thinking him and his kin tame and under control, well it was almost worth the loss of his Neophyte.

But such was the motherfucking price for bringing forth the version the Messiahs sung of in tunes of starlight, horror and bleeding.

Then the Messiahs fell silent, fell silent and plotting and planning as the world continued to progress towards what they were wanting of it, towards the vision Kurloz was the most motherfucking proud to be able to bring to them. But then the blasphemous winged rebel maker showed his hand and Kurloz was set on his way to tear him apart, rip the hideous abnormalities from his spine and the questioning from his pumper until he was well-behaved and brought back into the Empire’s purpose for him.

Or he’d cull him.

Kurloz wasn’t the most picky of motherfuckers and if fate turned to wanting the winged-abomination and his assisters erased from the world (and hello to you Neophyte-culler your presence has been all kinds a noticed don’t you worry none he’ll be getting to you destroyer of one of the Messiahs’ faithful tools before too long) then who was Kurloz, so motherfucking devote and dedicated to the Messiahs and what the Church was all kinds of striding towards, to deny their wanting?

Wouldn’t be a motherfucking gentletroll if he weren’t to do what was asked of him, would he? And who was he to start playing at being a faithless motherfucker this late into the way of things? Wasn’t proper of him to question the want of the Messiahs, so Mirthful in their Mercy and Condemnation in kind, wasn’t proper of him to do anything but bring those that wandered from the truth and reasons of things back into the places they were supposed to be motherfucking content in occupying.

Kurloz had a purpose; had a set of instructions, rules and operations whispered to him in dreams and visions that were in need of following and motherfucking completing before the world was ushered all sweet like into what the Messiahs had shown through the dreaming of those motherfucking blessed enough to have seen it.

But Kurloz wasn’t gonna be the one alive to see things brought into the Messiahs’ vision.

And that was all kinds a motherfucking fine.

He wasn’t gonna be the one that ushered in the Mirthful destruction and mayhem that the Messiahs were all up and promising them, but he was gonna be laying all kinds of motherfucking groundwork, that most motherfucking solid of foundations, for those that would be there, the ones that would motherfucking serve and work towards the Messiahs’ wants and desires and he wasn’t gonna be there but he’d be overseeing the miracles slotting into their right proper places from his guaranteed place amongst the Grand Highbloods of years gone past within the highest of honours of the motherfucking Dark Carnival.

He’d be watching as the Church was led onwards to the Messiahs’ great vision, watching and reveling in all the motherfucking things to come as his brothers and sisters offering the world and all they were to the Messiahs as they were all up and motherfucking supposed to. Kurloz had decided upon it, had worked towards it during the entirety of his existence, torn apart rebellions and the most blasphemous of heretics the fates had to throw in the way of what was to be And there wasn’t any motherfucker that was gonna be stopping him now.

No. Not any motherfucking heretic, not any motherfucking rebellious little mutant, not even the motherfucking Empress spreading her endless depths a tyranny out to the farthest reaches of space could bring a halt to what was to come.

He would make sure of it.

Come all ye and hear their most sacred a teachings Fall into place and find all ya motherfucking contentedness Quell that rage in your chest and be rid of thoughts a questioning Else you find yourself within the embrace of the roads and stalls of the Dark Carnival most motherfucking divine

[kagethedream]

He Walks Alone

In the quiet hour of the night, when dew clings to the earth and mists begin to rise, a Ren’dorei walks along the streets of Boralus. Drunkards have long passed out and hearths only held smoldering coals. Even the Guard seemed tempered and complacent. So many dreamed in their sleep where images carried their minds sometimes so far away. Even the smugglers were tucked inside their safe havens. 

Not this elf. He walked alone. 

Lanterns swayed with the incoming breeze. The tides were high and dinghies bumped against the edges of piers. The only sound in the general area was his footsteps as he tucked his head low and drew the collar of his coat up to ward against the chill of the evening. 

The direction took him further away from the part of town that lead to the brothel’s path. His destination became unknown until he turned at an intersection and began down the pier that headed out of town. 

A wall of fog lay up ahead, thicker than the filtering moisture dampening the sounds of his progress and keeping the city lights from shining too brightly. It should have lifted the small hairs on the back of his neck or given him a shiver of warning. Most would have felt the ill presence and turned aside. 

Not this elf. He continued forward. 

His body broke the fog like a ship cutting along water. Kage soon became engulfed until the sight of him disappeared. There was no other side in sight, the fog seeming endless before him. Kage kept walking, not looking this way or that. Whispers began rising up to tickle inside his ears, urging him off the path. The lengthy points of the Ren’dori’s ears flattened down as he fought to ignore them. 

Kage would not be swayed or bothered by anything to keep him from the summons. His Old God had called and it was his place to simply obey. How long had it been since he’d been promised the calling? He couldn’t know for certain. Time in the Void sometimes seemed eternal. 

His next step broke free. When Kage stepped all the way through, Boralus was left long behind. He paused, standing up tall to draw in a deep breath. A familiar smell and end to his longing. It was here he felt truly alive; this is where he ought to be. A realm of chaotic beauty and unfathomable tragedy. 

“You came, little one.”

“Always.”  Kage grinned and reached up to lower his coat’s collar. He no longer had to hide, to attempt to go unseen. Here he could exist with pride, with purpose. His strides carried him to the edge of a ledge where stepping off would seem perilous and damning. Kage did so anyway and a small disk appeared beneath his foot. Each step he placed another came into existence beneath him. 

He was in the hands of his Old One now, entirely at his mercy. What would he have for him this time? What message was he to bring to those he came across in Azeroth?

The discs continued, creating a path to lead him in a downward spiral. Or was it upwards? Hard to say as gravity had little and nothing to do within this plane. Colors began to cease as darkness soon engulfed him. Kage did not fear. It felt more like an embrace; like he was coming home. 

“You are failing me, little one.”

This caused Kage to pause and break the rhythm of his strides. “Oh?”

“How many dreams have you offered to me? So little compared to how many you promised.”

“I can do better. I will do better.”

“No. It does not challenge you enough. Keep fulfilling the dreams and offering their wills to me but I want something else from you now.”

“Yes. Anything!”

“So eager. Do you not wish to ask for something yourself?”

Kage drew closer until he felt himself back on solid ground. The surface under his feet felt cushioned, soft and comfortable. The air smelled slightly fragrant, spicy and warm. A single flicker of void flame lit up before him casting a ring so he might see. The Void provided a chair to meet the back of his legs, encouraging him to be seated. 

As he adjusted it was there Kage saw it. Movement. A single, thin but enormous silhouette coming out of the shadows. There was no real form and no way of knowing what his Old God truly was. He felt humbled and blessed to be in such a presence. His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, Kage felt so exhilarated. 

The Old God chuckled. “I would not entrust this to anyone less devout. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Always.” Kage shifted to the edge of the provided seat. His knuckles were nearly white as he gripped the ends of each arm. 

“Good. You will bring unto me a corrupt soul.”

“....” Kage was confused. Didn’t they normally ask for an innocent one? A virginal one at that? Why couldn’t he take his then? Oh right… his wasn’t entirely with him at all times. The warlock began to fiddle with one of his bead bracelets. 

“No, not one inside your trinkets. A live one. Bring them to me. I must be fed.”

Fed? Kage swallowed harshly and frowned. He grew bold which sometimes paid out and other times bit him in the ass. “Uh… what makes you different from N’Zoth then? I mean…”

The darkened figure suddenly zoomed in close until the head was right before him as big as himself, the seat and beyond. No eyes opened up to peer at him. It was both frightening and relieving. Kage half expected this to be but another ruse of N’Zoth’s deceptions. What did appear was almost more terrifying. A mouth opened up with far too many teeth to possess, sharp and jagged. He realized his Old God was smiling. 

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Very few things unnerved Kage. “N-no. No, I suppose not.”

“Good. Now obey and do not delay.”

And just like the snap of fingers, Kage sat up straight in his bed drenched in the early morning’s dew. The air in the room smelled fragrant, spicy and warm. A dark chuckle echoed in his ears until he was once again entirely alone.

Well, shit.

[europeansdomusicalsbetter]

Beauty and the Beast is styled to the 1800′s not the 1700′s no I will not shut up

Today’s the day I’m finally salty enough to do this. It’s taken quite some time but finally the time has come. Now, general disclaimer - I have my degree in art history, not fashion history or military history, so I am aware there will be some mistakes. I own up to this, however.

All of this is under the cut

Everyone who does a “historically accurate” Belle always always styles her much like this painting of the Madame du Pompadour by Francois Bouchet painted in 1759 (on display in the Wallace Collection in London):

If you’ve ever seen one of those redrawings, you’ve seen this or something like it. Now, the Madame du Pompadour was at the height of fashion and witticism and learning etc (don’t come at me, I wrote a 10 page paper about how she chose her own codes of representation for herself to style herself that way) as she was King Louis XV’s mistress. So if you’re going to style a princess after the 1760′s, yes this is a good choice. But alas, Belle’s yellow gown looks nothing like it:

You put the two side by side and there’s really nothing there to insinuate Belle’s wearing a gown fit for a 1760′s princess (or mistress of the King as the case may be). Instead, it looks an awful lot more like this fashion plate published in Le Follet in 1863:

Oooh check out that bell shaped skirt, those bare shoulders and arms, and that hair styled down rather than up. That’s not a dress shape you’re gonna see in an era that uses panniers. To illustrate how wildly different skirt shapes are - here’s a 1859 illustration from Punch magazine:

and an actual pannier in LACMA’s collection:

So really, if Belle’s dress doesn’t go flying out at the sides like this, it’s not 1700′s.

But you may be saying, “You can’t base everything on Belle’s ballgown! That’s not fair!” Which is a very fair thing to say. So let’s move on to Beast’s outfit in the same scene, shall we?

Beast sure cuts a nice figure in his best clothes, doesn’t he? He would be wearing the latest fashions as well, if he wants to be on par with Belle, who he loves, and is trying to show that to, wouldn’t he? Great, now that we’re in agreement, let’s look at this.

Notice how his coat cuts back to the side? That doesn’t look at all like a 1700′s greatcoat. For reference, here is a 3 piece court suit in LACMA’s collection from about 1760, on par with the stylizing people usually give to Belle’s dress by way of the Madame du Pompadour:

Notice how this coat doesn’t cut back at all but just slides down on the same plane the whole way? Notice how highly decorated it can be? We have what’s called “The Great Male Renunciation” to thank for that, which came from French rejections of bourgeoisie dress styles of the Ancien Regime. In short, men’s fashion largely did away with all decoration as seen on the court suit from above (I say largely because of course we have the dandies who rejected that, bless them). Look at Beast’s clothes again, and now let’s look at tailcoats.

Dress styles from The Great Male Renunciation haven’t really changed much, if you go digging. There’s a little fussing about pants hems - should we stay with breeches at the knee or go full length? - but for the most part the lines are the same. Case in point, the tailcoat.

The tailcoat is what one wears for White Tie - which is the highest form of elegant dress. Black Tie is under that, now think about what a Black Tie event looks like. So, fine dress in the 1800′s, what does that look like? Well, here’s an 1805 illustration for the very beginnings:

And here’s an image of George W. and Laura Bush with Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh from 2007:

Notice how the tailcoat is still there? How it cuts back rather than slides down the same plane? Let’s look at Beast again, keeping this in mind:

Yup. That’s a tailcoat. In fact, look at those pants too. What do those look like?

Oh, right, tuxedo pants with a side stripe. Which did not exist before The Great Male Renunciation.

But again you may be saying “You can’t base everything on evening dress! What about the others?! What about Lumiere and Cogsworth?!” Okay, let’s look at them. Human form, of course.

Firstly, I don’t exactly know what Lumiere is wearing there, why does he think an open vest (let’s not even try to call that a waistcoat) over shirtsleeves is going to fly at a royal party, but hey, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt of being an inanimate object for ten years, he’s still not totally up on sartorial codes.

So, his breeches and cuffs, those don’t look 19th OR 18th century. In fact, those breeches don’t look like breeches at all, they look like trunk hose, seen here on King James VI and I of Scotland and England (r. 1567/1603-1625) attributed to John de Critz circa 1605 (on display in the Museo del Prado in Madrid):

The cuffs also look 17th century as well, in fact if that’s supposed to be lace, it looks like the cuffs on van Dyck’s painting of Henri II of Lorraine painted 1634 (on display in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C):

Why does Lumiere look so antique, even next to the theoretical timing of the 1760′s? Probably the same reason this member of staff at Buckingham Palace is dressed for the 1700′s (excepting the hat) while helping Kate Middleton with her wedding dress in 2011:

Servants of royal households (especially footmen) don’t exactly dress for the times, as it were. They get their livery and they wear it. You’ll see footmen dressed for the 1700′s as much as for the 1800′s nowadays, but in the 1800′s? Your footmen were livered for the previous century no doubt about it.

Cogsworth, as Head of the Household, has a bit more laxity about livery than Lumiere who is...never given a title. He’s just Lumiere. Cogsworth is Head of the Household, rather like a butler, Mrs. Potts is Housekeeper, and Lumiere is...well he’s Lumiere. For arguments sake let’s make him First Footman to be approaching equal status as the others and leave it at that.

Now you may be saying again, “But! Servants maybe aren’t great indicators, sure, but what about the town?! What about Gaston?!” Well, okay.

No one looks like a weird 19th century re-imagining of medieval eras like Gaston, I guess. Look at that tunic and hose. Looks more like Phillippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy than a 1700′s man:

(Granted, Phillippe here is wearing poulaines, a popular long-toed shoe from the 15th c. rather than boots)

19th century re-imaginings of the medieval era were very common (looking at you, Viollet-le-Duc re-imagining what Notre Dame de Paris should have looked like). Dressing like it, maybe not. But nothing about Gaston says “1700′s” to me.

(Though, neither do these two kids with a turtle outside the bookshop during “Belle” so maybe this is a weird medieval town?)

Let’s take a look at when he’s dressed up to the nines for his “wedding” shall we? Just to keep it fair. Maybe he’s having an off day, sartorially during “Belle.”

What’s that line in that wedding coat? It seems to move back into being tails like a tailcoat again. Let’s investigate further.

Yup. Sure looks like that diverts into being tails in this silhouette shot.

So Beast and Gaston are both dressed for the 19th century and Great Male Renunciation with those tailcoats, even if Gaston absolutely must keep to his color palette.

For the sake of covering all our bases, let’s talk about his gun for a second, too. Again, I am an art historian, not a military historian, so I’m not claiming to have full knowledge about all this, mind. But this gun looks like a blunderbuss to me.

Gaston’s gun

Ottoman Blunderbuss gun, Circa 1820 (private collection (Knohl Collection))

Notice the barrel shapes? You might even say Gaston’s is exaggerated for visual interest, but there was a very special gun auctioned off in 2016 by Woolley and Wallis, Auctioneers:

This is a “Fitzgerald patent flintlock signal trumpet, converted musket” that was “sold by appointment to Thomas Clio Rickman” by Willam Fitzgerald in the early 19th century and was patented in 1799.

Granted, this is not a common gun, it was patented, after all, but it does exist. And note the year of 1799, on the cusp of the 19th century, and certainly not the 1760′s. 

Now you may be saying “But the Beast is a Prince! So it must be the 1700′s or the Revolution would have happened!”

The French Revolution of 1789 was a big deal, of course, and yes it did execute plenty “aristos.” Let’s not forget, however, that no one knew the Beast’s castle was there, so the Jacobins probably weren’t beating down the door of the castle anyway and planting liberty trees in the middle of Belle’s “poor provincial town” (unless that weird medieval kid was actually wearing a Phrygian Cap........)

But here’s something to keep in mind. Well, quite a few things.

When can a man have the title “Prince” in France? Well, the Ancien Regime, of course, and even further back than that. Let’s say Frankia as a starting point c.800 for clarity’s sake, all the way through 1792.

“Why not 1789? That’s the Revolution!” Well, it was the start of it, yes. And it was the storming of the Bastille. But the Revolution began with a period of a Constitutional Monarchy. It wasn’t officially a Republic until 1792, once Louis XVI’s head was in a wicker basket.

Moving on, you could be a Prince as well under Napoleon’s Empire, under the Restoration and the July Monarchy, and Napoleon III’s Second Empire. And even when those fell, people kept their titles. They weren’t getting murdered for them, after all.

Beast being a Prince does not necessitate him to have been alive before 1789. There’s a reason the 1800′s are called the Long Nineteenth Century, a lot of stuff happened really fast all the time. This list doesn’t even cover that time that the city of Paris became an anarchistic commune and so the National Guard was sent out to murder between 10,000 and 20,000 people for it.

All in all, “Beauty and the Beast” is styled to the 1800′s. It’s just obvious once you start looking at it and comparing it to the supposed time it’s equated to. Disney making it into the 1700′s in the live action remake is buying into incorrect readings of it, just like how they made the egg seller sing “That’s too expensive” during “Belle” when the original line is sung by this guy buying a jug.

[aetherhealingagent]

Cult AU

((Cause this is important. I’m gonna babble!

-Not in modern times, no actual time period just like...the past? Pre-medieval I dunno. Not necessarily in a pokemon verse but it works fine in one as well.

-Okay basics of the general religion of this world, so there’s a pantheon of gods, and then there is a “King” of the gods. And most people worship the king along side other ones. And I guess it’s a mix of the whole heaven aspect and Moksha (reincarnation) and Ether in alchemy. Where people want to go to Ether where the gods are, and regain their “pure” human state. But only the best of the best go there, everybody else cycles through for however long it takes them to be perfect. If your’re really bad you get booted to “Hell” for that next lifetime, then launched back into the cycle.

-Okay actual cult stuff, but not the one Rue runs. Basically just hyper religious folks who have this whole prophecy going on, where they have to sacrifice somebody to the main god. For a fast pass to Ether. And this person is, Rue obviously. He’s raised to know next to fucking nothing, so he has to learn by ear, and life is pretty shitty until they attempt to sacrifice him. 

-Surprise surprise, he doesn’t die all the way and somehow makes it to safety somewhere. He’s not at all pleased and is very much shaking a stick at every god in the pantheon. And believes anybody who puts their faith in some god is an idiot and gullible.

-He eventually comes across the capitol of some kingdom and sticks around. So life kinda sucks in this kingdom, but people are optimistic. Town also worships the main god, but are very casual about it. Rue points this out and they ask him what to do instead, and jokingly he suggests some extreme forms of religion. 

-Nobody takes him seriously, but he meets the king and suggests this idea to him. And the king is one of those extremely religious folks lowkey, and he’s all for it. So the kingdom is like, “Yes, our king is a genius and wise leader. He must know what he’s doing!” He’s not too bright, and really fucking wants to get into Ether. So Rue is like the Religious leader of this kingdom now.

-So Rue tells everybody that he has a direct connection to the gods, proves this by performing some minor magical feats. Cause when he didn’t die in the sacrifice, whatever magic blessing that were to be gifted to that cult kinda stopped the transaction halfway and got stuck in Rue.

-Thinks are chill for the first year as Rue started gaining a lot of influence, and people were swept into this extreme form of worship to the King god whether they wanted to or not. To the point where some were outcasted for being against it. The King was especially into it and Rue found that he could “suggest” things to him under the guise of “Our lord commands it.”

-This leads to Rue having an insane power trip, and he amps up the religion and it gets stricter, punishment for defiance gets harsher. Very aggressive n fear inducing sermons. People were very eager to please their god and get into Ether, think Puritan levels in that aspect.

-Some quick things, this god is focused around the sun, cause he is the light. So everybody has to be at church by sunrise, and again before sunset. Then tehir are weekly offerings to this god from each family. Any semblance of defiance or you happen to piss of Rue, you’d be labelled as a Heathen and burned in the pyre in the middle of the main church. It was very much a public spectacle.

-Now while they worshiped this god, they also kinda worshiped Rue. Viewing him as a Demi-God of sorts, and he made sure this image of perfection was kept. 

-This cult also had this idea that your mind and body where in the way of you getting to Ether and tainting you. So you had to get rid of these inhibitors. So the “lucky” few got special rituals done on them in private, by Rue and a few ‘trusted’ clergy. In this ritual they numb your body by submerging you in freezing water and injecting you with a numbing agent. For your mind, cause it’s in the far past, they’d just drug you to hell and back. From this you’d have pretty violent hallucinations, which Rue says is the demons trying to blacken the soul, and you must fight them off. 

-Ritual also included tossing hot gold coins fresh off the stove into the water. Gold was considered pure, and this god had a gold and white motif going on.

-Did some people die from this? Yes, but that’s because “They were too weak and succumbed to the demons.”

-So through all this Rue knows it’s all bullshit, but he’s reveling in this power. He went from being some ingredient in somebody’s plan to being the one pulling all the strings. And subconsciously he starts thinking himself as higher than everybody else, more than human. Only refer to him as “Your Grace”, or your going into the fire.

-There are two ending, both ending with the Kingdom in Ruin.

Bad end: Rue gets absolutely bored with this and moves on, he announces that the Kingdom is damned no matter what they do, burns a fourth of the capitol down and leaves with a bang.

Eh End: This would be through intervention of another character, Rue will start letting go of this complex a bit and relax his control on the people. Might even become benevolent. But this person he cares for will face the repercussions of being associated so closely with him, because the king and those in the high Clergy will be upset with the special treatment and target the poor fool. Not to mention the shit Rue will put them though with his cult antics. 

For all this he’d feel hella guilty for all the shit he’s pulled. He’s basically just locked it all up til now, and it’s crushing. So he flies the coop, leaves the city at night without a word. People wake up and everything is chaos, they believe the gods have abandoned them. The Clergy and the king try and take over, restore the harsh cult ruling, but fails as the general populace aren’t fucking having it from these jerks. Who are somehow worse than Rue.

Rue goes off, does some sulking in some ruins. Goes off and finds a small seaside town to live in, far far away. He ends up helping an old lady run her flower shop, and takes over when she dies. He’s pretty lonely but enjoys the flowers.

 It doesn’t last as the people from the original cult have found him out, and need to complete their ritual. So they basically tie him down and burn down the shop with him in it. The flames of this fire burn brighter than the sun, white and gold. The towns people have a small funeral for their recluse flower shop man, but these people come back and desecrate the grave to erase his existence.

While usually he’d be reincarnated as normal, probably go to “Hell” for all that nonsense, he’s also filled with magic. Which usually leads to some emotional elemental sprite of some sort running wild and dangerous. But also has the favor of the gods because: the King God had a massive ego boost from his increase in followers, they are fickle af, and they kinda feel bad cause they could have 100% stopped the original cult part that lead to everything else.

So Rue’s soul is wiped from this plane of existence. And he basically becomes a god himself. With a body of flame and melting gold. 

Good ending: Bold of you to assume there is one. Where he doesn’t make a cult and lives a relatively normal life.

[whatisonthemoonarchive]

Appreciate the history lesson Robert M.

https://www.firstthings.com/article/1999/12/john-paul-ii-and-the-crisis-of-humanism

What ever our contribution, we as Moonies still have a voice as witnesses to history and watching John Paul 2 getting gunned down in St. Peter's square was the culmination of a process that we were swept into and out of our innocence.

Whether we choose to educate ourselves about the essential nature of Communism or even modern Liberal Democracy for that matter is almost irrelevant to the core message. Atheistic materialist Communism=bad. Democratic Capitalistic Consummerism=bad. Christian piety charity=good.

We made these choices every day as Moonies from the first day that we were induced to reject "Hippie freedom", (speaking for myself, of course). To consecrating our lives in a form of martyrdom to Jesus Christ. It would be many years before we discovered that Moon himself didn't believe in it but was another of the incessant weeds thrown up to misguide and redirect impressionable souls to largely politically convenient ends. 

Communism was destined to collapse upon it's own preposterous claims and everybody intuitively understood this. Including Pope John Paul, Moon, Solzhenitsyn, C.I.A. Director George H. Walker Bush, Reagan, Andropov and his successors, The Bank of London, Federal Reserve bank, etc, etc. The only ones who didn't know how or when were the actual folks caught in it's meat grinding mechanism on either side of the wall.

When the wall finally started to crumble there were no shortage of lunatics claiming responsibility. Fortunately, it was fairly evident to the rest of the world that it was the indomitable spirit of God deep inside the hearts of men and women trapped behind the wall that collapsed the monstrosity. 

The Pope went down in a hail of gunfire as if to punctuate the orgy of madness. Naturally, it was perceived to be a militant muslim at first. Very convenient. Further public investigation perhaps fueled by the remnants of the K.G.B. revealed that Turkish Grey Wolves were in fact an appendage of the C.I.A. A cacophony of indignation from the west flipped the story to blame the K.G.B. and it cohorts in Bulgaria. The Pope would survive and the world breathed a sigh of relief. Blame didn't seem appropriate any more as the Pope expressed forgiveness and Christians responded. The secret remained with him until his death. Yet another martyr for God.

The Moonies were beside ourselves. What to do now? Hundreds made the pilgrimage to mother Russia to claim victory for God, including yours truly. Most of us were confused by what we saw. Young Russians, Tartars, Georgians, etc. Swarmed to our workshops guided by former, or perhaps, current K.G.B. functionaries. The kids were extraordinarily well educated and well behaved. Most spoke fluently at least 2 languages and were well versed in something known to them as "the classics". I personally was utterly humbled. The experts organizing the events for the church were besides themselves alternating between threats and cajoling us not to fraternize to deeply with the locals. I threw caution to the wind and immediately embraced our new friends. Some were obvious, like little Vladimir who was the spitting image of early Lenin but older than the others who privately indicated to me that he was the designated F.S.B. representative monitoring our activities. He continuously plied me with offers to help him escape with his family, to the U.S. or anywhere that wasn't there. I assured him that I had no ability to do so but he persisted throughout the entire time. The other children of probably mostly former Communist officials were a delight. They loved Americans and were disappointed when I told them I was Canadian. Most of the male moonies had multiple offers of marriage in their first week there which I assumed were politely turned down in favor of our Moonies blessed wives. We were instructed by our handlers to return to Moscow and stay together as a group by train from the Sanitorium on the Black Sea in Yalta where the workshop was held. I rejected this out of hand and chose to follow up little Vladimir's offer to stay with his family in their flat in Moscow. His wife and family were wonderful he had a modest apartment with the usual amenities which I discovered later was an anomaly. I visited in turn all of my guests in Moscow and discovered that most Russians lived in dire poverty usually with three Generations crammed into Tenements blocks without a stick of furniture save a table with a couple chairs. Vladimir has lost control of me by then as well. I hopped from apartment to apartment meeting people that you and I would never have access to in the United States. One girls father was a Scientist working on Artificial Intelligence at the time (1993). I hadn't a clue what that was, sounded important so I feigned astonishment and shook his hand emphatically. He revealed to me in perfect English that a taxi driver made more money than he did because they had access to foreign exchange. I knew that was true because I had taken about thirty people out for Ice cream the previous night and spent the equivalent of two Baskin and Robbins sundays. I commented on this to an American participant next to me and he cautioned me to keep quiet about it so not to offend our hosts. I agreed. Everywhere I went I was plied with shots of Vodka or I "was not a friend". Originating from Canada, I had no problem complying to my new found friends. I was escorted through dazzlingly clean and orderly cavernous subway terminals all over the city from one district to the next. I went horseback riding outside of Moscow at a Orthodox Monastery that had miraculously survived the Communist purges.

A week had passed before I collected my senses and realized that my plane rendezvous was quickly approaching. I found my way to the original Unification church lodgings which was a former Hotel close to the Airport. I was strictly admonished by the church leadership and plied with questions about my adventure. I assured them that their fears were completely and utterly groundless and that they may be suffering from some sort of cultish miasma themselves. They told me that I was never to return to Russia and I assured them that it probably wouldn't be necessary. Russians and everyone else from the former C.I.S. states would descend upon us like a swarm in the days ahead. My newfound Russian friends showed up at the airport to see me off with a flurry of embraces and kisses on the lips, much to the astonishment of the workshop organizers. Some were crying, I was feeling it too but managed to keep my sh*t together. Yes, I was still married to my Moonie bride and maintained my integrity throughout my experience.

I never returned to Russia like others did, but was content to correspond for a few years after, including with little Vladimir. I was busy raising a family in rural Alabama trying to deal with the local Unification church leadership that was starting to resemble the former autocrats of Communism. Moon himself made the unlikely effort to reach out to his perceived counterpart in North Korea. I understood the process but was still taken back by how easily Moon had embraced his former sworn enemy. Amid showers of multi-millions of dollars in gifts, Moon had reached an understanding with his former nemesis to open businesses in North Korea and foster a new age of cross cultural exchange. We later found out that Moon personally profited from this arrangement, seemingly at the expense of his former countrymen. While the overtly Communist Government of North Korea went on to systemically starve their citizens and develop dreadful weapons of mass destruction in order to secure their control.  

Why did I relate all of this you may ask? Since my experience both in the Moonie cult and my travels during. (Russia, C.I.S., El Salvador, during the revolution, Korea, both pre-cold war and post.) My mind has expanded, thankfully, to God. Yeah, I concede that Moon played a role here too. We eventually arrived at something called the Internet with which to educate ourselves in order to digest these experiences. What we have come to fathom, much in line with the admonishments of Pope John Paul 2 and others. Is that God exists and pours his love upon us daily whether deserving or not, in such volume that we are affected in spite of the desperate tangle of 'Isms and ideologies seemingly designed to distort and confuse our spirits from that which we naturally cherish. Someone tried to murder John Paul but they forgot that Catholics, and many others follow someone known as Jesus Christ. We don't even worship the dude but seek his guidance provided in a little handbook called New Testament. Sometime I remember to crack it open in a moment of anguish and my heart was melted in utter complete surrender. Not by force of course, but because my mind could suddenly absorb the kernels of truth from the scant but magnificent parables taught over 2000 years ago by this guy to a bunch of miscreants. Not unlike myself, abandoned by the wealthy and powerful who always seem to be with us but not of us. Trying to control and take what they can from us including our impoverished spirits. But no. Not this time. It is nothing but sand. Of course Jesus said it best. Matt. 4:1; Mk. 1:12; Lk. 4:1

"You will bow down and serve your God and creator" (paraphrasing Jesus speaking to Satan in the wilderness). I concur, God's will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Thanks for reading. Shout out to John Paul and all the saints. I'm unworthy but have committed myself to do what I can, come what may.

Frank F

[randomscenariosandwritings]

The Moon and the Sun She Could Never Reach

~The Sun and the Moon He Loved~ NCT!Soulmate Au Part 1.5

Parts--> Part 1//Part 1.5 (You are here now)//Thanksgiving Special//Part 2// Part 2.5// Part 3

A/N Hey everyone! So this is not a part 2 sorry, not quite done with that yet but I wanted to give you something to hold you over until then so I wrote this up. Basically, it’s more of his side of the story, what he was doing the actual context behind everything he did. I hope you enjoy it! It might also be helpful in trying to determine who her soulmate is ;) so there’s that! Remember to feel free to comment I love hearing what you have to say and love hearing your guesses for who her soulmate is, feel free to continue to guess and guess at other characters as well (I really like keeping secrets from you guys sorry not sorry, but I promise you’ll get real names in part 2 maybe not everyone’s name but you’ll get names). Forewarning I suck at and hate editing my work because I am lazy af so it is entirely likely that this sucks and is super crappy I really hope it isn’t but there is always a chance so keep that in mind! Try to enjoy it though! Thanks so much for liking the original!! <3 

Description: He was the sun and she was the moon and they were soulmates. Which was both a blessing and a curse. She needed his light and warmth and he needed her to reflect it back to him, but they were ever so distant, both unable to truly reach each other. He reached out for her every way he could, but only in his darkest moments could she ever be found.

Genre: same as last time angst and fluff

Warnings: same as last time: alcohol and death, mentions of abuse, mentions of tattoos, also swearing forgot that one on the last one but it’s here now (Please let me know if there are any warnings you would like on this list or any future lists, I want to make sure my blog and posts are safe for everyone and won’t cause any harm in any way, but I can’t do that if you don’t inform me of these kinds of things)

Word count: 4271 words

(Not my gif, credit goes to the original owner, I can’t make gifs so they will never be mine just saying also here’s a quick hint ;) her soulmate is in this gif)

It was his grandpa who shaped how he felt about soulmates, more specifically his own soulmate. It was not his mother who spent her days buried in work and her nights drowning in alcohol to try to wash away, forget, and distract herself from the memories of her own soulmate, his father, who she'd lost too early. It was not her, who tried desperately to blind herself to his last words permanently written around her wrist in a font too pretty for the pain they carried. Nor did he learn it from his lifelong neighbor who was a mixture of hope and utter disdain for his soulmate, both because of the very words on his wrist and the possibility that they might be the last words his soulmate would ever say to him, which if true would mean a very short and tragic story for the pair of them. It was instead his Grandpa who saw a world in black and white and gray once again after only a few short years of seeing in color. It was his grandpa who had loved his soulmate dearly even after she left him for another man and even after she died in a fiery plane crash somewhere over the US. His grandpa had told him since the day he was born that love was worth the pain, that seeing in color for even just a few years was worth it. to have beauty and wonder and magic for even just a short while was worth all the pain that came during and after. It was his grandfather that taught him that yes, love is poison, but it's the best way to die. He was taught that even if life hurts it can still be beautiful and the beauty is worth all the pain, that's why some of the best artists were some of the most troubled people.

So, he did everything he could to remind himself that there was beauty tied to all the pain that would inevitably come his way. He wrote poems and drew pictures on his arm and made his skin beautiful to make himself remember to love her because she was beautiful and love is and was beautiful no matter how much it hurts. He must love his soulmate, the one he was given because no matter what happened the time they would have together would be beautiful and wonderful and magical. Even if it only leads to pain and trauma. So, he drew on his arm and wrote to his soulmate and talked to her and wished for her because everyone dies one day and everyone would leave one day, everyone would be gone eventually and he wanted to go out on his own terms. He wanted to go out knowing he'd truly lived and had seen beauty had really beheld it. He wanted to die knowing he had lived and loved and seen beauty in a dark world made of pain, he found a light. He wanted to die having lived and known a beautiful life.

He was well aware that the very reasons he drew on his arms were the very reasons his mother hated that he did it. She didn't care one bit for the potential of ink poisoning, not when she was giving herself alcohol poisoning. She only cared because it was him celebrating everything she was running from, celebrating everything she was trying to drown out. She saw it as a lie he was telling himself because she'd lived the loss of a soulmate and losing him wasn't beautiful, losing him wasn't easy. Remembering the good times didn't make losing him in a car crash any easier. She had lost her own soulmate young and here he was celebrating the possibility. It was like a slap to her face and he loved his mother. So, he hid his musings, his gentle ramblings, and carefully drawn art underneath long sleeves and careful actions to protect his mother from the pain his hope would cause her and to protect himself and his soulmate because he understood well what happened when pain and alcohol mixed and found a target.  

His mother being drunk was hardly a rare occurrence but her being awake while he made dinner was. So he was shocked when his mother came stumbling around the corner a bottle in hand and alcohol on her breath and his hands weren't fast enough to roll his sleeves back down to cover the images on his arm before she saw them. Her eyes darkened as they landed on his colorful arms and it was only then that he thought the panicked words "Shit, mom's drunk again," entirely unaware that his soulmate had just heard him and nearly fallen out of bed, instead just focused on trying to control his mother's pain and rage and failing miserably.

He went to bed in pain and woke up sore and was eternally grateful that his soulmate wouldn't feel the full effects of these bruises, they were only skin deep for her, only minor wounds that would hurt when pressed upon but were otherwise insubstantial. He went to school that day and was careful to avoid using pens so as to avoid the itch to decorate his skin. It wasn't safe or smart to draw all over his arm right after being caught.

The next day he locked his pens up in his desk drawer and hid the key in his bookshelf and for the next couple of days, all was well until one night while working on math homework.

There on his skin in black ink, dark and obvious against his skin, bold and unapologetic something was written. He didn't even read it at first as he panicked at his failure for a brief second before remembering the lock on the drawer and the key in the bookshelf and the pencil bag filled with only pencils and erasers. So after calming, he stared at the words and found unfamiliar handwriting and the carefully written "Are you Ok?" his thoughts raced immediately at the sudden realization that for the first time in his life his soulmate had actually written to him.

"She’s real! Oh my goodness! She’s real! She exists! What do I do?" He thought rapidly his thoughts firing at a mile a minute all because suddenly she wasn't just a phantom in his mind, she was real and she had handwriting and he was freaking out. He started grinning and couldn't stop and his arms flailed as he squealed quietly to himself, because oh my goodness I'm actually not alone and all of this hasn't been for nothing and she's worried about me because I haven't been drawing on my arm!!! He was ecstatic and thrilled and he wondered if this is what girls felt like while watching really cheesy romance films and the couple finally got together or if girls felt this way about being noticed by their crush. After a moment of absolute joy, he quickly stood and grabbed the key from his bookshelf and unlocked the box so he could respond. "I will be," he wrote carefully a smile still lingering on his face as he stared down at her words. He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo as proof that his soulmate was real and that she at least cared a little bit and because he was absolutely in love with her handwriting and her in general and wanted to capture this moment.

His happiness, however, faded when suddenly a woman's voice appeared in his head, "Dammit, why can't he just give me a straight answer? I just wanted to know so I could stop worrying and go back to ignoring him forever, why must he be so damn difficult? Just answer you jerk, so I can put my mind at rest and we can go back to never speaking," His heart fell and shattered on this cold truth, that she wanted nothing to do with him. He knew it was her voice, it was the only thing that made sense, but suddenly he didn't want to know what her voice sounded like, he didn't want to know that her voice was one of the most wonderful things he'd ever heard, because the words it delivered were not. It hurt to be told by your soulmate, in your first interaction and the first time you've ever heard their voice, that they'd rather not have anything to do with you...ever.

"Well then I’m never going to answer cause I don’t want you to avoid me anymore," He responded bitterly in his mind and only slightly hoping that she would hear his response because he was highly upset with her.

"Please, just answer me, it’s driving me up the wall," Her voice said in response, meaning she'd heard his words. Her voice sounded exasperated which only infuriated him further. How dare she ignore him like this and get his hopes up by finally reaching out to him in the most insincere manner he'd ever heard.

"No, if it keeps you talking to me you’ll never know," He responded quite literally physically sticking his tongue out though there was no one in the room with him and then mentally chiding himself for his dumb behavior and silently questioning whether or not his soulmate was supposed to bring out the most immature parts of him or if this was a bad sign?

"So mature," she scoffed distracting him from his rambling thoughts about all of this and this odd situation he'd gotten caught up in. "Fine, don't tell me," She added a moment later and he sighed upset with the fact that he'd upset her, though he wasn't sure why because she'd upset him first. Maybe it was just because he was hardcore in love with her and this whole conversation hadn't changed that because her voice was amazing and he wasn't about to base his entire view of his soulmate around one conversation.

He had wanted to reply but was interrupted by a slurred voice from the hallway, "What are you doing?" his mother asked in her drunken voice and he sighed.

"Sorry mom, just working on homework, I'll come to make dinner now," He responded standing up and started to leave the room forgetting about his short sleeves and the black ink on his arm until she caught his wrist as he was walking past. He knew what was coming as soon as her hand closed around his arm and couldn't help but think "Well, tonight is the night I die..." he frowned as his mom pulled his arm closer to her eyes so she could read what was written. He prayed that his soulmate hadn't heard this last comment in his head, he didn't want to worry her more than she already was, even if she didn't particularly like him.

"Oh, so you're talking to her now?" His mother said with a dark tone her eyes darkening with rage as she took another swallow from the bottle in her hands. "I guess I didn't teach you well enough that only pain comes from soulmates," She said and dragged him towards the kitchen.

It was an hour after she finally stopped that he regained the ability to move and so he carefully struggled to stand up and then walked, or more like stumbled, towards the back door. Eventually, he made it through the door and collapsed against the back wall of the house. He stared up at the moon and smiled lightly. "I finally talked to her today," He said softly able to ignore the pain as he talked to the moon about the woman whose voice was in his head and words were on his skin. "I don't think she likes me very much, but I think it's just fear, these days there are so many stories about soulmates going bad and even if there weren't it wouldn't be too hard to get worried about this whole fated to be with someone. I think she's scared, but I'll keep loving her anyway," He said staring up at his friend the moon. "She reminds me of you, distant, cold, beautiful, loving, she's probably a great listener too, just like you. Plus, she's hiding a side of her, just like you," He added a soft smile lingering on his lips as he drifted to sleep in his backyard.

When morning came he didn't want to open his eyes, he wanted the night to return, so he could go back to the time when he spoke to the moon and had no worries other than his soulmate and whether or not she loved him. As soon as he saw the sun in the sky his hands started to shake and tears began to stream down his face. He could no longer hide from what had happened not in the glaring and garish light of day. The moon had always been gentle and kind, alluring in that it offered peace and hope in the darkness, but the sun had always been harsh and unforgiving it watched everything and stood distant with no quiet solace like the moon, but instead with the knowledge that you could never have it never reach it. It was distant and harsh and thought it knew all his secrets. The sun was no friend just a harsh critic who thought they understood him.

In the light of day he could not ignore the harsh bruises and the deep pain that he felt and had, he could not run to a quiet friend who would listen and comfort him instead he had to face the truth. A harsh and burning reality that his mom had beat him...again. That this was slowly turning into a habit of hers. The first time she'd beaten him had been the night when he'd been cooking dinner just a few days ago, this was only the second time and he didn't know how to handle it. He was scared and hurt and unsure and so his hands shook violently, his breathing became ragged, and his body was racked by the sobs that coursed through him each violent tremor of his body hurting him more and more. He had never been more thankful of the entirely superficial nature of his bond to his soulmate, that the pain would only carry skin deep. She wouldn't feel most of it and it made him glad that she was safe from this but that wasn't enough to calm his terror and soothe his agony.

He started to ramble unable to stop words from pouring out of his mouth like water dripping through fingers. "Please, please, please, please," He repeated over and over again unaware of who he was pleading to or what he was pleading for only aware that something was wrong, nothing was right.

Then he heard her voice "My favorite was, 'I’ll hold you in my arms and fly, We’ll fly towards the blue moon’ that was my favorite one of his little writings" and the thought of the moon and of her calmed him just enough to stop the muttering, remembering the image he'd drawn on his skin, the delicate blue moon and small blue stars framing carefully done words caused the tears to stop. He could remember sitting in class bored out of his mind as his math teacher droned on and on about something or other that he knew he should've been listening to. He remembered the gentle thought of just wanting to fly away, to soar out into nothingness away from the dismal, dreary, darkness of everyday life and enter a place far beyond. He remembered picking up the black pen and staring down at his skin and remembering his soulmate and the words coming to him then and there as he thought of his soulmate and flight and a better life. It was these memories that stopped the tears, not her voice, not the words she had said but memories of safety, memories of a time when all he had felt was love and peace and hope.

Once he stopped crying he stood shakily and he walked carefully to the side of his house where the fence gate stood and exited the backyard and turning right to go to his neighbor's house. He was still quivering and shaking as he reached his fist up towards the wooden door before him. He knocked lightly on the door and was thrilled when the youngest and only daughter of the household opened the door. "Oh, thank goodness, you're just who I needed to see," He said startling the girl slightly, he only ever came over to see her older brother.

"Why?" She asked staring at him like he was a madman very startled by his shakiness and the redness of his eyes. She knew something was wrong and had no clue why he would be looking for her in his moment of need.

"I need to borrow some makeup to cover some bruises before my soulmate sees them," He responded quickly and she nodded with a slight frown before beckoning him inside and leading him to her room, she didn't know how he'd got the bruises and didn't want to ask if it had anything to do with his haggard and shaken appearance. He looked like a leaf in the fall that had fallen to the ground and been trampled on one too many times and she didn't want to know what had caused such a bright boy to collapse like this.

"Do you need help with it?" She asked carefully as she handed him the makeup he'd need, watching him with a keen eye as he shook.

"No, I'll be ok, thanks though," He responded with a soft smile and she nodded watching him leave and undoubtedly enter her brother's room to get help from the older male.

She knew she was right when she heard her brother's voice "Are you sure you don't need help?" and then the quivering voice that answered him.

"Please," Was his answer in a shattered voice, but she knew she'd be no help and went back downstairs to watch whatever was on.

His hands were still shaking by the time the two of them had gotten the makeup to cover all the dark bruises that ran from his collarbone down to his waist. So his friend began to talk.

"Do you want to stay here for a couple of days?" His older friend asked carefully.

"No, my mom needs me, she won't eat if I'm not there and she doesn't mean it she's just hurting, it's worse lately because their anniversary is this month," He replied shaking his head softly, "But thanks for the offer," He added a moment later smiling timidly up at the older male, someone he'd come to see as an older brother.

"Let's go downstairs and get some breakfast," The older male said gently, extending his hand to help the younger boy up and then carefully guiding him down the stairs to the kitchen. They fixed up two bowls of cereal and chatted happily as friends do.

Not too long after breakfast, he ended up sprawled out on their living room couch while the two siblings bickered about what show to watch. He studied his hands carefully every now and then silently checking on whether or not they'd stopped shaking while his thoughts wandered to his soulmate and what she was doing. He wondered if she was awake yet or if she'd been awake longer than him, entirely unaware that she was talking to her brother about him.

Once his hands stopped shaking he couldn't help but think of her and the gentle words that had led to the memories and his ability to stop crying and so he made the decision then and there that today he was going to make her feel beautiful again. Today he needed the reminder more than ever that pain was made worthwhile by beauty. That even when the world burns and you stand in the center of the flames there is still something beautiful about that moment. At that moment he understood the allure of the sun, the bright golden rays, the warmth, the exhilaration of life brought by its fiery heat. So he reached over to the table nearby where he'd seen pens earlier and began to decorate his skin.

His friends watched him with warm smiles on their face as they realized he was doing fine once more, he hadn't lost that hopeful spark that the world was beautiful. They watched him as he carefully drew and wrote on his skin until suddenly he looked up at them with a mischevious glint in his eyes. "I need a favor," He said as he capped the pen and finished his last drawing upon his skin. "Will one of you write something across my collarbone?" He questioned with an innocent look on his face, a too innocent look on his face like a child trying to hide that they'd broken something.

"Fine," the other male responded coming over to kneel in front of the now art covered male. "Only because it might help me meet my soulmate," He responded before grumbling about something under his breath.

"You really think that writing on him is going to help?" His sister questioned wheezing with laughter at her older brothers thought process.

"Hey, all I know is the first time I meet my soulmate he's gonna yell 'Where have I seen your handwriting before?' if it just so happens that he sees it because I agreed to do this then that's great, I'm just trying to get my handwriting out in more places so I can meet the love of my life whoever that is," He responded rolling his eyes at his sister.

"Ok, I want you to write 'I’m tired of their stories let’s write our own,' across my collarbone," He directed pointing where he wanted it with his hand. The older male nodded and got to work writing it as carefully as he could. "Ok, now underneath that in smaller handwriting, write 'I’m getting this tattooed somewhere on me, eventually, so you can never forget if you want a say in where have someone write the answer on the back of your neck or something." He directed a moment later.

"Wait, what?" the older male said pausing as he wrote when he realized the younger boy was telling them all he was planning on getting a tattoo.

"You heard me, now write, old man," the younger boy directed a tad bit impatiently and the older man followed his directions and concluded writing the sentence. The three of them waited patiently in anticipation for an answer and were surprised to see it arriving on his right arm. "Well now I know she's right-handed," the younger boy said as the writing appeared in a different handwriting than the earlier 'are you ok?'. Then the older male began to read the answer aloud.

"I will accept this tattoo in one of three places, exactly where it is now, across the top of my back, or as a tramp stamp," He read not quite realizing what he'd said for a moment and this his face blanched slightly while his sister burst out laughing and the younger male blushed and hid his face in his hands.

"She's perfect," He muttered softly into his hands hiding the embarrassment and the absolutely giddy smile on his face. He rocked back and forth slightly nearly squealing...again.

"Only you would get this excited over the fact that your soulmate just suggested she get a tramp stamp," spoke the only girl in the room through fits of laughter.

"At this point, I'm pretty sure he'd think she was perfect no matter what she'd said unless it was ‘ew! No don't get a tattoo!’" replied the older male finally recomposing himself.

"I think you're right," replied his sister laughing once more about the boy who was absolutely giddy and rolling on the floor about his soulmate. "Oh wait, there's more writing showing up," She added a moment later and then began to read it aloud, "Whose handwriting is this on my sister's chest?"

"Ok, quick we've got to answer her, step one tell her I'm leaving it where it is but I may consider the tramp stamp idea and then answer that other question however you see fit," Spoke the younger boy finally collecting himself. The older man wrote quickly and that was the last communication between the two that day.

He spent most of the day with his older friend and his sister talking about his soulmate and their soulmates, his friend's sister had already found her soulmate so she spent most of the time just hyping them up with the idea of having a soulmate and getting them excited for the possibilities while the two boys made comments about what they thought their soulmates would be like. Whether they'd be tall or short and how they'd end up first meeting them.

Eventually, though he returned home and made his mother dinner before sneaking off into his room to sleep the night away, excited for the days to come and the future they could possibly hold, a future where he might meet the woman who had told him she wouldn't mind a tramp stamp.

(Still not my gif, credit to the owner/creator, cause I love it it’s super cute)

Congrats and thank you for making it this far in the post you’re amazing whoever you are and I love you!!! I hope you enjoyed this and I hope it’s not too much of the same thing I just really wanted to get you guys something as a reward for being amazing and because y’all were really excited about the last part and I don’t know I wanted to do something nice for all of you amazing people but it’s hard to write an extra part and the real part 2 at the same time. It was easiest to just work with what I had but if it’s too similar for you or you feel like you pretty much just read the same thing again I do apologize and totally understand. Anyways I really hope you liked it and thanks for sticking with me!! ALSO, ONE LAST REMINDER TO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT I LOVE HEARING FROM YOU AND I WILL LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOUR COMMENT IS JUST A KEYBOARD SMASH FOLLOWED BY A HEART OR JUST A HEART OR LIKE ANYTHING REALLY!!!! (Sorry, that’s kind of really aggressive...I just really like hearing from you...and I want you to know that...)

~~~~~~BONUS FOR THE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY MADE IT THIS FAR Y’ALL ARE WONDERFUL HUMAN BEINGS~~~~~~

“I want you to think very carefully about your answer to this next question,” She said as she glared at her brother who sat across from her. “Your answer will determine your fate, so be careful,” She added her eyes cold and focused on him.

“I only speak the truth,” He replied his steely gaze matching her glare neither one about to back down. “Now ask away,” He added and gazed carefully at the situation, this next chain of events could likely spell victory for her and that could not be allowed to happen, not with what lay on the line. 

“Taeyong, do you,” She began her voice low and intimidating as she kept her eyes carefully transfixed on him, “Do you have any eights?” She questioned keeping her face devoid of emotion other than fierce competitiveness and utter intimidation. 

“Go fish,” Taeyong responded and watched patiently as she drew from the pile if she drew an eight the game was effectively over, but if she didn’t he would be the winner, he knew all her other cards and had at least one of each of them, except for the eight, if she’d guessed any other card her victory would have been assured, with only four cards left in the draw pile, three of which were eights, the other the missing five, the odds were highly stacked in her favor but with a little luck he could still triumph. He watched her carefully, his face still as she glanced at the card. She tried desperately to keep up the cool and collected act but he saw her eyes twitch slightly and a smirk grew on his face. She deposited the card into her hand and he immediately started asking for her cards each one getting delivered up to him creating match after match. He had won. “I look forward to breakfast tomorrow, make something good,” He said with a smirk as he piled the cards back together to clean them up. 

“Shut up, we both know I’m the better cook,” She replied sticking her tongue out at her brother. 

“So mature my dear sister, so very mature,” He replied standing up. “Have fun waking up early to make it, I’ll be sleeping in,” He added as he walked away. She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back.

“I’ll be sleeping in,” She mocked in an odd voice as she grumbled to herself and started her own trek to her room. Looks like she was on breakfast duty in the morning. This was the fourth day in a row, she was starting to think she might just be really bad at Go Fish...

[thehumbledwritinggirl]

Shadowlight: Amara Deema and Tanda Seeker

A young Alti by the name of Amara Deema was born with 8 arms, he was tall in stature with a lean muscle structure, and was among the upper middle class of his society. Thankfully, for his sake, he grew up to know his parents. His father Dalin, was a high class official of his sect, being that he has six arms and four legs. To be able to keep his way of life, Dalin underwent the Centaur Transition. a magical coming of age ceremony that transformed his lower body into something close to a centaur. His front feet when closed together look like hooves, but when he opens them, five fingers become apparent, each one able to give him a better edge when it comes to climbing. His rear feet offer the same action. Amara however did not receive four legs like his father did, but Amara already had his coming of age ceremony. The Quest Meditation, was a two phased ceremony. The first phase was public ceremony, traditionally giving him the beginning to start his meditation at the temple.

For almost every Quest Meditation, they would usually last about one month. Amara was a special case though, his meditation was quick; for only one reason though. His meditation led him to an unknown plane of existence. It was dark, but streaks of colored light flourished from time to time. Walking around Amara was confused. Then he came face to face with a young woman, about 18 years old. Her eyes looked like the stars themselves were contained within them. He then proceeded to ask, "Who are you?"

"I am you," She spoke.

"But you don't look like me," Amara replied.

"That is because I am also, not you," She said.

"That doesn't make sense" Amara became even more confused.

"Let me put it to you in a way you might comprehend, from a quote by the first elder goddess. I am nothing, but I am also everything. I am the darkness, but I am also the light. I am a demon, but I am also an angel. I am the Underworld, but I am also the Heavens. I am a person, but I am also the Omniverse. I am one, but I am also many. I am fire, but I am also water. I am earth, but I am also air. I am Death, but I am also Life. I am left, but I am also right. I am the Descendant, but I am also the Ancestor. I am the past, but I am also the future. For I am nothing, but I am also everything" Tanda quoted.

"The Goddess of all Creation, Allyr. Those were words written down on the ancient Ruby Tablet, the one that cannot be broken. So you follow her" Amara questioned.

"I serve her will. By the Rite of Allyr, I have full communication with her, foresight, aura sight, aura manipulation, and trained under her guidance of many ancient martial arts" the girl explained.

"And what is her will" Amara asked.

"That is not for me to tell" the girl replied.

"What can you tell me" Amara questioned.

"Allyr commands Vrinea to give you the gift of immortality, the art of reincarnation and immense strength" the girl replied once more.

"Why would I need to reincarnate if I'm immorta" Amara wondered.

"Only an immortal can kill another immortal. And from what I am told, there are several out in the world, and beyond, who have this gift. But it is given to you so you may change the future of your race, the Alti's" Tanda spoke.

"I only want to ask one more question then" Amara told her.

"I know your question. I am Tanda Seeker" Tanda replied.

"Wait, if you knew my question" Amara began.

"Then I knew all of your previous questions and the proper response to them" Tanda interrupted. And to answer your first ever question, this realm is the mind of Allyr"

"How did y--" Amara was about to begin a question.

"Foresight and direct connection with Allyr remember. This has now become boring. Your meditation was shorter than most by the way. It was intentionally planned for you to be in meditation for only seven days. Goodbye" Tanda spoke, before flicking Amara on the forehead. Suddenly a rush of images flustered through Amara's head, as if the whole universe flashed before his eyes, beginning, middle, and end. And suddenly he sprung awake from his meditation.

"Yahhh" Amara screamed before falling over backwards onto the meditations mat. His father, Dalin, was watching him.

"The monks were concerned about your meditation, so they called for me. Your done early. Too early. What did you see" Dalin questioned his seventeen year old son.

Rubbing his forehead, he began to piece together what he witnessed, "I saw a young girl, she looked like a priestess of the angel race, but I didn't see any wings. Her name was Tanda Seeker, a follower of the ancient Goddess Allyr. She said my meditation was planned, but not by whom."

"Son, your meditation was planned by yourself. Did you receive any gifts" Dalin questioned.

"The gift of Immortality, the Art of Reincarnation, and the gift of immense strength, all from the Goddess Vrinea" Amara continued to piece together.

"The Mother of Vines? But that shouldn't be possible, she can't grant immortality to us, she is not our creator" Dalin's brow furrowed.

"Do you remember The Ancient Ruby Tablet father, the one that can never be broken" Amara asked.

"Wait, one of the thirteen Tablets of Allyr? Those were known as a myth up until the finding of the Ruby Tablet" Dalin replied.

"The others may be scattered across Vrinea. One of them might dictate how gods and goddesses can interfere with one another's creations" Amara spoke, "I think I need to go search for them, or find others like Tanda to help me go search for them."

"Not now you will not, it is tradition to test your gifts after your meditation, the monks wish to test your skills, especially since you are out of meditation so early" Dalin reprimanded.

"Fine, but only to prove my gifts are given to me. She did say only an immortal can kill another immortal" Amara spoke.

"Who, that girl in your vision? What was her name...Tanda correct," Dalin asked.

"Yes father," Amara replied.

"Then we shall use lethal force, created by the might of our Orc brethren and sisterhood smiths. The Orcs have now begun to create something they call firearms, and combination weapons. They have spoken of how they would be of great use to us Alti's. So we shall use the prototypes and even some magick used by the monks. This will be the greatest test out of all the Alti temples" Dalin suddenly began to gleam.

~Meanwhile, on a small, remote floating island of Serra Pahn~

"Yes, he got the message" Tanda spoke silently in her hut, scrying her crystals.

"And what about the others" a voice emanated from the crystals, causing them to glow with each word.

"I will bring them together" Tanda responded promptly.

"Good, do not forget to watch over Emerald either. She is to meet with Krystal Raina soon" the voice replied.

"I will your grace, thank you for your blessing" thanked.

"You are welcome Tanda. May the lights guide you in the dark" The voice responded, before ending the communication that was held with Tanda.

"Always" Tanda said alone.

[my-wayward-son]

Some thoughts and some art

I’ve done a few idealized self portraits over the last year, but I think both my drawing ability and my ability to conceptualize what I’ll actually look like a year or so on T have improved.  So, there’s the guy.  Now onto the thoughts (warning that this includes some personal family stuff and talk of death).

So, I’m supposed to be house-sitting for my parents today through the 29th, and I’m seriously about to leave my apartment with a bunch of stuff to camp out in their house, but I I just went on a very interesting thought spiral, and I need to process it because it’s quite literally making my stomach hurt right now.

My parents are on a plane headed for (a different US state) to visit my dad’s dad, who had a stroke a few months ago and doesn’t seem to be getting better.  

Thirteen months ago to the day, my mom and I were on a plane to (the same other US state) to attend her dad’s funeral.  He passed away after a sudden-yet-not-unexpected cardiac event, and it really threw some things into perspective for me, namely that I have basically no relationship with my extended family outside of birthday cards and the like, yet I always expect them to be there.

So I have some (probably very expected) feelings of regret and sadness that I haven’t seen my dad’s dad in about 4 years, and he probably doesn’t have a lot of time left with us.  I hadn’t seen Bob in 5 years when he died, and while that wasn’t at all unusual for how I grew up, I still feel a little bad about it.

After Bob died, my mom was tasked with writing the obit, which ended up with me writing the obit from my mom’s dictation (I’m a tech writer, it’s fine).  For the part at the very end where you list all the surviving relatives, my mom had received a list from one of her step siblings.  All the names were in the format of (full first name) (full middle name) (maiden name if applicable) (last name) (suffix if applicable) EXCEPT my cousin’s husband, who was listed as (nickname) (last name).  

I flipped out a little bit.  Was it good?  No.  But was it justified?  I think yes.  I have OCD, I’m a perfectionist, and I make very tiny edits to extremely technical documentation for a living.  I wanted my mom to call her step sibling and get the full name  so the whole list would be consistent, but she refused.  I got pretty upset.  

To be clear, this was pre-transition when I still had a good relationship with my mom.  And I was upset specifically about the naming convention.  But my mom didn’t believe what I was telling her.  She turned it into “Laur hates my step siblings.  Laur starts drama.  Laur better not embarrass me in front of everybody at the funeral.” 

I thought she was just stressed (we both were), and I let it go.  For 13 months, apparently, because I haven’t thought of it once since then.  But now that I let myself go back there, I see a pattern.  My mom quite literally would not allow me (an adult) to express emotion about something she didn’t think was worth expressing emotion about.  She thought there HAD to be a deeper reason, and that she knew what it was even though I was telling her that was incorrect.  

The way my mom’s been behaving toward me post- coming out came as a huge shock.  But it really shouldn’t have.  She doesn’t understand something, doesn’t think it has any value, and decides she knows best.  No matter what the other adult in the room says.

I don’t want to go to my mom’s house because I don’t want to think about my mom.  

Even before I thought of this, I’ve been thinking about Bob a lot lately.  I did one of my Vietnam sketches based on a reference photo that looks a lot like his younger self (see it on my art sideblog here).

He was an artist too, and after he died I redrew one of his paintings (mine is on top; the original is on the bottom).

One of his best/most favored paintings was apparently titled “The Red Egg.”  It’s lost; no one knows where it is or if it’s even still in existence.  My mom has tried to describe it to me, but I have no mental image.  Today’s inktober drawing of the egg carton reminded me of him again.  

I don’t feel like I belong with my blood family anymore.  The people who I’m close to, who take care of me, are not related to me.  I’m blessed to have them.  It’s just weird as fuck to have my family be around and have things between us be strained.  But like I said, there were cracks in the foundation before I even started my transition.  So maybe I should never have expected a different result to begin with.

[confrontingbabble-on]

“These twelve dubious concepts promote conflict, cruelty, suffering and death rather than love and peace.

1. Chosen People –The term “Chosen People” typically refers to the Hebrew Bible and the ugly idea that God has given certain tribes a Promised Land (even though it is already occupied by other people). But in reality many sects endorse some version of this concept. The New Testament identifies Christians as the chosen ones. Calvinists talk about “God’s elect,” believing that they themselves are the special few who were chosen before the beginning of time. Jehovah’s witnesses believe that 144,000 souls will get a special place in the afterlife. In many cultures certain privileged and powerful bloodlines were thought to be descended directly from gods (in contrast to everyone else).

Religious sects are inherently tribal and divisive because they compete by making mutually exclusive truth claims and by promising blessings or afterlife rewards that no competing sect can offer. “Gang symbols” like special haircuts, attire, hand signals and jargon differentiate insiders from outsiders and subtly (or not so subtly) convey to both that insiders are inherently superior.

2. Heretics – Heretics, kafir, or infidels (to use the medieval Catholic term) are not just outsiders, they are morally suspect and often seen as less than fully human. In the Torah, slaves taken from among outsiders don’t merit the same protections as Hebrew slaves. Those who don’t believe in a god are corrupt, doers of abominable deeds. “There is none [among them] who does good,” says the Psalmist. Islam teaches the concept of “dhimmitude” and provides special rules for the subjugation of religious minorities, with monotheists getting better treatment than polytheists. Christianity blurs together the concepts of unbeliever and evildoer. Ultimately, heretics are a threat that needs to be neutralized by conversion, conquest, isolation, domination, or—in worst cases—mass murder.

3. Holy War – If war can be holy, anything goes. The medieval Roman Catholic Church conducted a twenty year campaign of extermination against heretical Cathar Christians in the south of France, promising their land and possessions to real Christians who signed on as crusaders. Sunni and Shia Muslims have slaughtered each other for centuries. The Hebrew scriptures recount battle after battle in which their war God, Yahweh, helps them to not only defeat but also exterminate the shepherding cultures that occupy their “Promised Land.” As in later holy wars, like the modern rise of ISIS, divine sanction let them kill the elderly and children, burn orchards, and take virgin females as sexual slaves—all while retaining a sense of moral superiority.

4. Blasphemy – Blasphemy is the notion that some ideas are inviolable, off limits to criticism, satire, debate, or even question. By definition, criticism of these ideas is an outrage, and it is precisely this emotion–outrage–that the crime of blasphemy evokes in believers. The Bible prescribes death for blasphemers; the Quran does not, but death-to-blasphemers became part of Shariah during medieval times.The idea that blasphemy must be prevented or avenged has caused millions of murders over the centuries and countless other horrors. As I write, blogger Raif Badawi awaits round after round of flogging in Saudi Arabia—1000 lashes in batches of 50—while his wife and children plead from Canada for the international community to do something.

5. Glorified suffering – Picture secret societies of monks flogging their own backs. The image that comes to mind is probably from Dan Brown’s novel, The Da Vinci Code, but the idea isn’t one he made up. A core premise of Christianity is that righteous torture—if it’s just intense and prolonged enough–can somehow fix the damage done by evil, sinful behavior. Millions of crucifixes litter the world as testaments to this belief. Shia Muslims beat themselves with lashes and chains during Aashura, a form of sanctified suffering called Matam that commemorates the death of the martyr Hussein. Self-denial in the form of asceticism and fasting is a part of both Eastern and Western religions, not only because deprivation induces altered states but also because people believe suffering somehow brings us closer to divinity.

Our ancestors lived in a world in which pain came unbidden, and people had very little power to control it. An aspirin or heating pad would have been a miracle to the writers of the Bible, Quran, or Gita. Faced with uncontrollable suffering, the best advice religion could offer was to lean in or make meaning of it. The problem, of course is that glorifying suffering—turning it into a spiritual good—has made people more willing to inflict it on not only themselves and their enemies but also those who are helpless, including the ill or dying (as in the case of Mother Teresa and the American Bishops) and children (as in the child beating Patriarchy movement).

6. Genital mutilation – Primitive people have used scarification and other body modifications to define tribal membership for as long as history records. But genital mutilation allowed our ancestors several additional perks—if you want to call them that. In Judaism, infant circumcision serves as a sign of tribal membership, but circumcision also serves to test the commitment of adult converts. In one Bible story, a chieftain agrees to convert and submit his clan to the procedure as a show of commitment to a peace treaty. (While the men lie incapacitated, the whole town is then slain by the Israelites.)

In Islam, painful male circumcision serves as a rite of passage into manhood, initiation into a powerful club. By contrast, in some Muslim cultures cutting away or burning the female clitoris and labia ritually establishes the submission of women by reducing sexual arousal and agency. An estimated 2 million girls annually are subjected to the procedure, with consequences including hemorrhage, infection, painful urination and death.

7. Blood sacrifice – In the list of religion’s worst ideas, this is the only one that appears to be in its final stages. Only some Hindus (during the Festival of Gadhimai) and some Muslims (during Eid al Adha, Feast of the Sacrifice) continue to ritually slaughter sacrificial animals on a mass scale. Hindu scriptures including the Gita and Puranas forbid ritual killing, and most Hindus now eschew the practice based on the principle of ahimsa, but it persists as a residual of folk religion.

When our ancient ancestors slit the throats on humans and animals or cut out their hearts or sent the smoke of sacrifices heavenward, many believed that they were literally feeding supernatural beings. In time, in most religions, the rationale changed—the gods didn’t need feeding so much as they needed signs of devotion and penance. The residual child sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible (yes it is there) typically has this function. Christianity’s persistent focus on blood atonement—the notion of Jesus as the be-all-end-all lamb without blemish, the final “propitiation” for human sin—is hopefully the last iteration of humanity’s long fascination with blood sacrifice.

8. Hell – Whether we are talking about Christianity, Islam or Buddhism, an afterlife filled with demons, monsters, and eternal torture was the worst suffering that Iron Age minds could conceive and medieval minds could elaborate. Invented, perhaps, as a means to satisfy the human desire for justice, the concept of Hell quickly devolved into a tool for coercing behavior and belief.

Most Buddhists see hell as a metaphor, a journey into the evil inside the self, but the descriptions of torturing monsters and levels of hell can be quite explicit. Likewise, many Muslims and Christians hasten to assure that it is a real place, full of fire and the anguish of non-believers. Some Christians have gone so far as to insist that the screams of the damned can be heard from the center of the Earth or that observing their anguish from afar will be one of the pleasures of paradise.

9. Karma – Like hell, the concept of karma offers a selfish incentive for good behavior—it’ll come back at you later—but it has enormous costs. Chief among these is a tremendous weight of cultural passivity in the face of harm and suffering. Secondarily, the idea of karma can sanctify the broad human practice of blaming the victim. If what goes around comes around, then the disabled child or cancer patient or untouchable poor (or the hungry rabbit or mangy dog) must have done something in this or a previous life to bring their position on themselves.

10. Eternal Life – To our weary and unwashed ancestors, the idea of gem encrusted walls, streets of gold, the fountain of youth, or an eternity of angelic chorus (or sex with virgins) may have seemed like sheer bliss. But it doesn’t take much analysis to realize how quickly eternal paradise would become hellish—an endless repetition of never changing groundhog days (because how could they change if they were perfect).

The real reason that the notion of eternal life is such a bad invention, though, is the degree to which it diminishes and degrades existence on this earthly plane. With eyes lifted heavenward, we can’t see the intricate beauty beneath our feet. Devout believers put their spiritual energy into preparing for a world to come rather than cherishing and stewarding the one wild and precious world we have been given.

11. Male Ownership of Female Fertility – The notion of women as brood mares or children as assets likely didn’t originate with religion, but the idea that women were created for this purpose, that if a woman should die of childbearing “she was made to do it,” most certainly did. Traditional religions variously assert that men have a god-ordained right to give women in marriage, take them in war, exclude them from heaven, and kill them if the origins of their offspring can’t be assured. Hence Catholicism’s maniacal obsession with the virginity of Mary and female martyrs. Hence Islam’s maniacal obsession with covering the female body. Hence Evangelical promise rings, and gender segregated sidewalks in Jerusalem and orthodox Jewish women wearing wigs over shaved heads in New York.

As we approach the limits of our planetary life support system and stare dystopia in the face, defining women as breeders and children as assets becomes even more costly. We now know that resource scarcity is a conflict trigger and that demand for water and arable land is growing even as both resources decline. And yet, a pope who claims to care about the desperate poor lectures them against contraception while Muslim leaders ban vasectomies in a drive to outbreed their enemies.

12. Bibliolatry (aka Book Worship) – Preliterate people handed down their best guesses about gods and goodness by way of oral tradition, and they made objects of stone and wood, idols, to channel their devotion. Their notions of what was good and what was Real and how to live in moral community with each other were free to evolve as culture and technology changed. But the advent of the written word changed that. As our Iron Age ancestors recorded and compiled their ideas into sacred texts, these texts allowed their understanding of gods and goodness to become static. The sacred texts of Judaism, Christianity and Islam forbid idol worship, but over time the texts themselves became idols, and many modern believers practice—essentially—book worship, also known as bibliolatry.

“Because the faith of Islam is perfect, it does not allow for any innovations to the religion,” says one young Muslim explaining his faith online. His statement betrays a naïve lack of information about the origins and evolution of his own dogmas. But more broadly, it sums up the challenge all religions face moving forward. Imagine if a physicist said, “Because our understanding of physics is perfect, it does not allow for any innovations to the field.” Adherents who think their faith is perfect, are not just naïve or ill informed. They are developmentally arrested, and in the case of the world’s major religions, they are anchored to the Iron Age, a time of violence, slavery, desperation and early death.

Ironically, the mindset that our sacred texts are perfect betrays the very quest that drove our ancestors to write those texts. Each of the men who wrote part of the Bible, Quran, or Gita took his received tradition, revised it, and offered his own best articulation of what is good and real. We can honor the quest of our spiritual ancestors, or we can honor their answers, but we cannot do both.

Religious apologists often try to deny, minimize, or explain away the sins of scripture and the evils of religious history. “It wasn’t really slavery.” “That’s just the Old Testament.” “He didn’t mean it that way.” “You have to understand how bad their enemies were.” “Those people who did harm in the name of God weren’t real [Christians/Jews/Muslims].” Such platitudes may offer comfort, but denying problems doesn’t solve them. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Change comes with introspection and insight, a willingness to acknowledge our faults and flaws while still embracing our strengths and potential for growth. In a world that is teeming with humanity, armed with pipe bombs and machine guns and nuclear weapons and drones, we don’t need defenders of religion’s status quo—we need real reformation, as radical as that of the 16th Century and much, much broader. It is only by acknowledging religion’s worst ideas that we have any hope of embracing the best.”

Valerie Tarico is a psychologist and writer in Seattle, Washington.

https://valerietarico.com/2015/01/20/religions-dirty-dozen-12-really-bad-religious-ideas-that-have-made-the-world-worse/

[brimmsedge]

Dream: Zentai-Aecus

The dream starts, with a flutter of images. Zenae and I. Faces, kisses, candles, rose petals, lantern lights, tent holes, laughter, Polaroid pictures, Lake-side sunsets, feet in the water on docks, morning cuddles, lazy days in bed, reading books, she keeps peeping out from behind the pages and grinning at me. Hand holding, forehead kisses, drunk dancing under bead lights, a forever smile of her face stained on me heart. 

Then the smiles fade, flashes of war. Bombs, fire, huddling close, broken buildings, planes dropping bombs. Then there’s a scene with the camera paning back. Zenae is crying in a broken building wearing a dirty white dress, lying on the ground. I see me in pain, I see the same war pictures again. This time there’s a shadow looming in them and winning the war. When it gets to the scene with Zenae on the ground, I find nothing. The same broken building, the spot where she laid was still mounded up. But she was nowhere to be found.

There’s static and the vision fades to black. The black opens like eyelids. I find myself in a small room. My arms, legs, are not my own. Deformed, distorted. The room is walled by 4 pillars of light. The floor is grey, everything else is darkness or a shade of. Nothing in the room. I’m able to see my reflection in the wall of light. I don’t recognize the person staring back. I never do but this time was more so. I had horns and my glowing eyes again. A demon. As I realize it, my wings twitch in my peripherals and I realize I can move them.

I put my hand on the wall. It’s warm but solid. No cracks. My mind flashes again but it’s not bodiless this time. I bring my hand to my face to cover my eyes. As if that would ease the pain. “Zenae?” I cry. I don’t remember crying but my hands and face started to get wet. “How long have I been here?” The camera zooms out. Showing how much darkness surrounds this cage. It feels like an ocean of shadow. Nothing for miles. I stare up to see the source of light that projects the walls but as I do the white takes me.

I wake up from Zenae’s point of view. But the camera becomes her and then becomes about her. So she’s the focus of attention but I am not her. She’s in a broken down shack. The best way to describe how she looks is like she leveled up. When she was in love before and in the broken dress that was like level 0 and level 1 in the dress. Now she’s level 56 or so. She’s older and fierce. It reminded me of the Fallout series. She had water purifiers and scattered materials around her shack. The Sun broke in through stray rays of light in the holes of the rustic walls. She started making breakfast and looking outside to the unrecognizable wasteland. 

A small boy ran up glad to see she was awake. Two older men but younger than her, or just lower level, came up to her holding their own sacks of food. Asking if they could join her. She said yes and the camera zoomed out to show a small compound of about 30 people. The hustle of early morning workers. When they finish eating a professor comes in, knocking on the door frame beforehand, though there is no door. 

Zenae was washing a dish, turned to look and nodded in approval. The old man carried scrolls of paper and an odd device, probably something he created himself to read the digital information. 

“I’ve been finding more information about your condition. If you’re interested.” he spoke softly but loud for being in the morning. It shook her a little but she smiled.

“Always. Are you any closer to finding a cure?”

“That’s the problem, we’ve been trying to view your condition as a disease but it’s just a manifestation. There are data logs of a temple buried not far from our campment here a little west of the tombs we visited last week. It’s so close I’m surprised we missed it. The jungle here was made to encase these ruins. I made the mistake of thinking the temples were built after. These logs show otherwise. Could you imagine? Someone building a forest around a home. Instead of going to the forest to build a home. It would have taken hundreds of years to make.”

“10,000 years give or take.” she answered looking into his eyes, pausing to let the number take its toll before continuing. “There were a lot of strange things that happened during the war. My change wasn’t supposed to be one of them. I told you, I just woke up this way. I never asked for this. I just want to die like a normal person.”

“I do wish you’d let us study you more, maybe allow for humans to understand the genome of longevity.”

“It’s a curse, not a blessing to watch everything you love die.” she responded fiercely. No longer looking at him but a blank stare burning into the table. 

“Well, let’s get going then.” He said, standing up from the table. The smaller kids were staring in anticipation. I could almost see her white angel wings flutter up and fold behind her back. Though at the time thought it was my imagination. 

They pack up and head to the site. A small team of 10 people carried equipment through the vicious, unwelcoming paths of the forest. The ruins were that of stone and technology. Probably similar to the place she went to before where the old professor got his information. The first few rooms were broken terminals of sorts. Bert, the professor said not to pay any attention to them. Most valuable computers will be in offices. Lobby terminals are most likely for any guests.

She nodded and pushed forward. My point of view went a few feet in front of her, and for a brief moment as she passed, she almost looked right at me. Like she could sense me. But saw nothing so kept moving. The winding corridors of stone and wires lead the way. A few lights hooked to generators still spurred. Luckily there was no real threats left in the place. A few large cat tigers, cats but dog size, but not as large as real tigers. Although, they had teeth that left their sides of the mouth occupied the lower areas, but didn’t pose much of a threat. There were two puzzle rooms that startled Zen.

“Bert, why would a place of technology resort to such archaic methods of security?” she asked.

“Perhaps in case of a power outage. The system would still work. Though, by the looks of this place, seems out of place. You’re right. Unless, the makers were anticipating nuclear fallout. Be careful ahead.”

Zenae moved the stone pillars and rotating pieces along the wall and solved the puzzle before I even knew what it was about. She was always so witty. The next room had clean stone. No one had really opened it in a long time. There were carvings in a different language and a strange altar in the middle of the room. 

“What do you make of this Bert?”

“I’m not sure. I can translate the wall before we try to solve this one.” He took out his strange device and starting imputing the data. Zenae continued to stare at the wall as if the translation would come to her with the passage of time. It didn’t take long before his machine beeped and he exclaimed. “It says, ‘A time of friend; the burning within. The heartache of love; sent from above. Tether the bonds; don’t sever the bones. No time to run, the fire is blood.’“

Zen’s head turned with an eyebrow raised. “I don’t suppose you know what the hell that means?”

“The burning within, hope? Sent from above, that’s you.”

“Not funny.” her eyes narrowed. 

“I’m not trying to be funny. You said it before, you’ve seen your white wings. Your golden skin. Radiating presence. Angels don’t die. You were sent to aid us after the war. Help humanity reclaim what we lost.”

“Heartache from above?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But if the fire is blood, and the burning within a friend of time? Tether the bonds. I think we need the blood of a friend of yours.”

“Well you’re out of luck. Unless you know of any 10 thousand year old souls roaming around.” she laughed. But Bert just frowned, disheartened by her joke and the reality it would mean. No cure.

“Actually there might be.” one of the younger round fellows who had just been there for equipment purposes and backup spoke up. His voice uncertain in the company of the renowned Zenae of Coldharbour. The angel sent from above. All her skills have been honed over the 10 thousand years she’s been aiding in the recovery of man. 10 thousand years after the war ended. Gathering lost survivors and starting settlements. All while searching for a cure to her blessing. 

“There’s an old tale, my mother used to tell me. Caeles, the Suffering.” 

“That old bed time story? Jeez, Chaed, why not tell her about the woman who lived in the giant shoe too.” his friend teased. But Chaed, the rounded boy didn’t smile. His heart believed it, and Zen’s face matched his concern.

“Go on, Chaed.” She looked to Bert who picked up the story.

“Caeles may have been real though we have no proof of it. He was a martyr. Someone who turned himself into some type of weapon to end the war. Rumors of government experiments. Some say he was the devil or death incarnate.” 

“I remember the tales. What of it though?” she replied.

“It was said he was imprisoned by God for being an abomination. Left in a cage to rot. A Prometheus of sorts. Left to die every day for his sins. If he still lives, if the story is true, that would make him your age about. From before the war.” Bert continued.

“Where would we even find a prison like that? Wouldn’t it be in heaven? It’s just a dumb story.” the other boy responded again.

“It’s not!” the rounded boy yelled. “We have an angel right there and you’re going to deny that heaven and hell exist? That with all the sights of Zenae, you’re going to remove the possibility that a demon is here on Earth too?”

Zen’s attention peaked. Why hadn’t she thought about it before? Could there be someone from before the war. And what would the chances that they would be a friend to her?

“I might have a clue. A few years back, my father heard people talking about the Howling from Yellowstone. Travelers were passing through to find good resources for a new settlement. But there’s a creature there in the caves that howls and screams in agony all night. No one can sleep and they are terrified it will eat them alive. At first I thought it was nothing. But I found this journal in the last tomb we went in. It speaks of the Howling but from 50 years ago or so. Still howling. I think the prison is there. Somewhere.” Chaed finished. 

“Kid, you would have loved Bigfoot.” Zenae smiled. Bert laughed for he knew the reference. But the others didn’t nor did the kids. They only bore the mask of confusion. 

My face still shimmered in the water-like walls of light. It was clearer than a golden-holy light. Memories flooded back as I paced back and forth in my prison. I remember more of the war. Removing my heart to become this thing. The gift to end the war. The suffering. But in order to stop the world from suffering, it was placed on me. All I had to do was end the fighting. 

The hole in my chest ached. My grey skin darkened around the hole where my heart was. There was a dark red color but it seemed to shine like a tattoo. Definitely not blood. The red had seeped out the hole and began to spread over my chest like roots. Small ones. My demonic wings wrapped around my arms as I slumped to the floor with my back against the wall. 

My face was wet again. But no crying. Maybe my face was numb because I was always crying. Always suffering. The floor would wet with my tears but dry shortly after. The heat from the energy was great within the walls. Someone was using great power to keep me here. 

“Zenae.” I whispered. “I’ll surrender my love for you. It’s all I got but I’ll let it go.” Memories flashed. Of the war. Of Zen. Her suffering. I remembered our love. Our dates. An entire lifetime. Then the war that drove us apart. I couldn’t just sit by and watch her suffer. She lost her family, her friends. All we had was each other but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t strong enough. 

So I left to end the war. I made a deal with God, though it wasn’t the God. I know that now. Two gods, of light and darkness. I made my deal with the dark. I would give my heart to Zenae to keep her safe, and in return I would wreak havoc and restore peace to the world. Little had I know, I was being used as a weapon. Killing everyone, both sides indiscriminately. I was the embodiment of their suffering but I also caused it. So much death. It wasn’t until there was nothing left but me that God came down and locked me away. 

I’ve been here since. Trying to let go. But without my heart, I can’t. The only thing to do is stare at the walls thinking about Zenae. The happiness, the sadness. The love. Oh but the butterflies in my stomach have died. This time I could feel myself crying, but sobbing too. My mouth opened and I let out unnatural long screams of agony. Suffering. Do I truly deserve this pain?

“Yellowstone is a dangerous place now.” Bert started. “The Volcano is dormant or dead now. No one knows. But there are many cracks of seeping heat from below. “

The land around the volcano was flourishing. It seemed untouched by the fallout. Bright pinks, whites, and yellow flowers. It felt like a paradise. A garden. But a trap to lure people in. Tons of unfettered trees, natural springs, and wildlife. As soon as they arrived they could hear distant howling. 

“Now that we’re hear I can’t believe the morons in the world that are left. This is just the wind. Pressure from the volcanic cracks from below. High pressure to low pressure. Sorry to disappoint kid.” 

Everyone dropped their bags and started to make camp for the night. There were a few hours until dusk but not enough time to start exploring the caves without a good shelter. Tents went up, drying lines were hung. Lots of wet, sweaty clothes and used tools to be washed. A few others made dinner, while some collected firewood. Zenae stared into the sunset. It felt bleached. More color than normal. Bert said this wasn’t the place, but her heart was telling her otherwise. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. 

She didn’t have to. Once the Sun dipped below the horizon she heard it. A cry. Howling wasn’t the right word. This being is crying. The ‘Suffering’ part made sense. She stood up from her chair. They others were all gathered around the fire trying to make fun of the trip out here and not letting Bert and/or the lack of Caeles’ prison get them down. Determined to have a good time no matter where the road takes them. 

No one else heard it, they just watched Zen rise up from her chair with a look of a ghost on her face. “Zen? You okay?” Bert said, almost embarrassed by her outburst. Just using his eyes to stare at her standing figure without moving his head from the focus of the dancing fire. 

“Did you hear it?” she asked while her eyes scanned the horizon, trying to hear it again and find the direction of the source. 

“Hear what? Are you playing games? Ghost stories of the Howling for the kids? They need rest, I don’t think this is the time or place for-” before he could finish he heard it. He stopped mid-sentence and stood up too letting the blanket he had wrapped around him drop into his chair. He began looking for the source too. 

“I’m not crazy, and I can’t believe it kid, but you were right. Caeles is real. Which means we are one step closer to the cure. And that it might even be possible.” She looked down to him and gave him a friendly, and respectful smile. 

One last scream woke the two others who had started to get sleep early. Everyone got up and Zen had the direction. She grabbed some lights and equipment and started off. Bert was stumbling but shortly behind her.  Some stayed behind. A trail of flashlights and green glowsticks lit the night. 

No other cries came. So they made another camp. And a few scouted back to bring word to the other camp so that they could migrate there. Each night and sometimes in the day they would hear the cries and search for the source. During the day was harder because the wildlife in the area was so loud. Unlike other parts of the wasted world, animals were scarce. Here, bears, birds, woodpeckers roamed wildly. Though the bears were not aggressive. They were most passive than the deer. They’d stand up and watch the group pass by and pounce their head with excitement. 

It was strange for Zen to see, a place with such a terrible creature but so peaceful. Hardly any of the animals were skittish. Some of the deer would appear angry and face the group. But rabbits and small rodents would approach the path and say hello. Many were curious of the visitors. 

One night they found it. Zen was trying to rest. She had hardly slept the entire time she got there. Afraid she’d miss one of his calls. Her heart would sink each time it called out. At first she had heard the howls. But each time she heard more of the agony behind the cries. It became less and less monstrous and more human. She felt bad at the idea of someone locked away for 10 thousand years all alone. 

Zen heard the call and it woke her from the sleep. This one was louder than the rest. Or maybe they were closer. But she could feel her heartbeat shaking her body. Something in her resonated. She was starting to feel that bond the poem spoke of. Could they be a friend? Could this really work?

The cry lead them to a rough cave entrance at the side of a mountain. There were lots of cracks for the steam from the volcano to let out. That’s where the cries come from, she thought. Each crack was a vent that lead to the same place. She’d imagined they had passed this spot several times. 

Not wasting any time she entered the cave. At first she was doubting her find. It was just a cave. Except at the back there was a wooden trap door. Human structure would be a prison of God’s will? Everyone funneled down into another strange ruin. Same model as before. No doubt made by the same people. No terminals though. This one she learned early was a maze. One of the archaic defense mechanisms. Booby-trapped too. 

A few times Zen’s faster reflexes had stopped a lethal action against her allies. When they finally got lost Zen closed her eyes trying to clear her head of frustration. But to her surprise it wasn’t black. It wasn’t the dark of her eye lids. It was white. And she could see. She opened her eyes to see the dark torch-lit halls of the maze. 

Bert saw her closing her eyes and looking around and tried doing the same though it didn’t appear to have the same effect. “What is it Zenae?”

“I can see. A different part of the maze. Maybe this maze isn’t made for our senses.” The other members also tried closing their eyes to see and failed. 

They made it to the entrance using her new ability. This time she could see words that are not written in the waking world. “Halls of Egress.” she spoke. 

“Egress?” Bert asked. 

“Exit. Basically. The action of coming out; more specifically.” Zen replied.

“But we don’t want to leave, we want to go deeper.”

“I don’t think this message was for us. Maybe for the Howling?” she asked.

“Perhaps.” 

Zen looked further into the maze and could see new markings with arrows. She followed the path this time there were new choices. When she opened her eyes they were walls. But with her eyes closed the way was open. Seeing Bert watch his friend walk through a wall was amazing. He nearly shit himself. He tried to warn her she was going to hit the wall but the words stumbled into an avalanche of utter sounds followed by surprised sounds and scientific awe

Eventually the path led them to a dead end. But the arrow pointed down to the floor. She opened her eyes and saw nothing, closed she saw nothing too. 

“I think it’s below us. We have anything to break the stone?”

“How long has it been? Hours? Days? Years...” I’m back to pacing the room. Dragging my dark claw-like nails against the walls. The energy sizzles and pops but shows no wear. I just enjoy the sound of something rather than my own madness. 

But what’s this new feeling. I look up to the light. I feel a heartbeat pounding through these walls. Above me. Something is coming for me. I’m not going down without a fight. Has God come to finish me off? Had he forgotten about me? What about the Dark God? Or did he get what he bargained for?

I feel the weight of the light thicken. “For those who passed before and died, upholding faith for more; inside they’ve torn.” I said staring up into the light and the ceiling seemed to stop projecting the Everlight onto me. Everything went dark. Then a new light shown down a few meters away from my cage. I saw an unfamiliar stone floor. I tried looking up but couldn’t see much. Then another light dismissed the shadows. Followed by a rope and people. 

Eagerly I stepped to the wall, as close as I could to get a glimpse of this life. When the first body landed the room’s torches lit themselves. Much smaller than I’d seen. I saw an endless sea of grey and darkness. How is this possible? But from the darkness came something I had not expected. 

“Eden?” a familiar voice called to me. Her voice to my ears made them twitch and made me take a half-step back. Zenae stepped into the light made resonating from somewhere in the cage I was in. Maybe the walls? Despite the walls giving off light, they were still crystal clear. 

“Z-Zen...” I tried to speak but I choked on the words.

“No fucking way.” one of the others said. “You do. You actually know him.” But neither my or your gaze left each other’s eyes. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“What are you doing here? How?” I asked.

“You... you’re the demon.” there was an awkward silence where the questions left unanswered. 

Bert stepped forward. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat to break the tension. “My name is Albert Raccino. I’m a thing of a scholar of the old world. I met your friend Zen here and she has helped us restore humanity to a fragment of what it used to be. She’s s great spirit and an angel of the Lord. She’s come here for your blood. We need it to enter the sanctum where her cure might await. She no longer wants to be this creature.”

Zen gave him a glare but lifted it because it was true. But my look of shock. to find out an angel and demon in love. “This is no coincidence.” I stepped away from the wall. 

“What is?” Zen asked. 

“Demon and angel. I told him to keep you safe. Why would he do this?” I turned away. “How did you become this?”

“I don’t exactly remember. I had a dream about someone feeding me a heart of pure light and I woke up like this. I had wings for a while too and they come and go.”

“A heart?” I asked, turning to her. :”No... You sick fuck.” I screamed to the ceiling of the room. 

“What? What did you do?”

“To become this demon I gave my heart away. To keep you safe. Don’t you get it, he created us to be equals. There’s no coincidence that you need my blood to get your cure. Both of us being survivors. Tell me, how long has it been?”

Zen looked to Bert for a moment, he seemed to nod in agreement. “Ten thousand years. Give or take.”

“Ten...” I dropped to the floor. My breathing heavy and faster now. How could this happen to me. 

Bert tried to distract me, “How did you get in there? Can you get out? I know it’s stupid but what do you know of the force?”

“It’s just a wall.” I placed my hand against it. Zenae instinctively placed her hand to the other side of the glass. Except her hand passed through it. Touching my skin by another started me, I pulled back. Also startled that she was able to bypass the wall. When I pulled back, I startled her as well. But a moment to regain she did it again. She was able to walk through the wall and back out again. She tested each part of her body and I watched in amazement.

“Let’s see if I can take you with me.” she reached her hand out for me to take it. She hadn’t been this close before. Her eyes wandered over my horns and my wings, to my dark skinned hand and black nails. I reached out cautiously taking her hand. Her touch was so much warmer than mine. 

 Everything went normal until my skin touched the wall. It started to phase but as I went through I was put in scorching pain. I pulled my hand away and let out a loud yelp. I held my injured hand in the other inspecting it for damage.

“Eden are you okay? What happened?” Zen asked.

“The wall, it burns when I pass through it.” There was a moment of hesitation.

“You can do it, Eden. I believe in you.” She held out her hand once again. Her eyes glossed over me and sank into my eyes. It was unfair how she stole every star from the sky and put them in her eyes. Beautiful blue, but my god, do they shine. My stomach fluttered with butterflies. A feeling I hadn’t felt in forever. An emotional wave of calm washed over me. No amount of pain was going to turn me away from her. I thought that suffering wasn’t meant for her. But I think that as long as we had suffered together, we would have been okay. I shouldn’t have made that decision for her.

She could see my mixed emotions battling in my head. She stepped into the cage and grabbed both of my hands in hers. Her face was so close to mine and I wanted to kiss her and cry my sorrow away. But now was not the time. I could feel her heart beating so fast. I suppose mine would too if I had one left. I guess, that’s my heart in her chest too now. She’s been taking good care of it.

“Let’s go slow and maybe the pain won’t be as great.” She said and I nodded. We touched the wall, this time I was prepared and offered a defense to its impact. Hot white pain rose up from my bones and stung my skin. I pushed through it. Each inch I pushed pulsed through my body; echoes of pain. It got to my forearm and it was too much. I screamed in agony and ripped my arm from her grasp again. My arm searing hot and crackled as I held it in front of me.

“I-I can’t do this Zenae.”

“Stop that. Yes you can. You can do this. I’m here to help you through this. You just have to let me. I know you’re scared but you’re not alone. I can ease your pain.” She said. Her rising hope filled me again and the pain in my arm subsided.

“Like a Band-Aid then. Nice and fast.” I nodded. She nodded in agreement. She stepped through the wall another time. Holding my hand in hers for a moment before she began to pull. I felt her thumb trace over my rough skin. Love triumphs pain. I thought. This love is worth the pain.

I braced myself for the agony again. Getting through my arm was easier at this point; however, after my forearm the wall seemed to tighten on my body. Making it harder to be pulled through. Zen felt this too and ordered the others to help pull me out. My blood boiled liquid iron. I screamed and tried to resist the pain. Shaking my head back and forth, I let out a violent torrent of demonic beams at the ceiling. A power I’m not sure I remembered I had. The barrier reached my heart and face and my voice dropped octaves. A deepening roar echoed through the chamber. My cries of agony rippled through the others. I wondered if they felt my pain too. Each scream I felt their grip loosen in fear then tighten and pull harder.

My free hand clawed at the wall and my own leg. Anything to distract me from the aching sizzle and burning blood flowing through my veins. After my head passed, I felt light headed. The pain left me numb. I had one chance and I dropped to the floor, letting gravity help me out. I laid on the floor and slowly huddled to a small ball. My skin steamed grey vapors. I looked at my hands; they were pale. It was if the grey was being boiling off me. I ran my fingers through my hair, my horns were gone. My feet weren’t hooves anymore. The wall purified the demon from me. I’m human again.

I felt Zenae’s hand on the back of my neck in comfort. This time it was cool to the touch, though, probably because my body was so warm now. She lightly lifted her fingers up and down along my spin. She was talking to Bert and the others but my sense of sound was temporality distorted. I heard them talking but could only focus on easing my pain. But the way she touched me felt it was subtle and wasn’t trying to bring attention to it. It was just a hand on my neck for comfort. But the way she moved her fingers across my skin. I felt sparks of suns flow into me.

I stood up and looked down. The hole where my heart was, was still there. The red changed tint but still covered the tissue of the scar. Zen saw me touching the skin. She too put her hand over mine and pressed it against my heart. I leaned my head down and kissed the top of her hand and wrapped my other hand over hers. I smiled. Something I hadn’t known for 10 thousand years.

We climbed up the robe and for some reason Zen’s vision was gone. However, I could see the way without closing my eyes. My vision had been tainted it seemed. Once we got back outside the Sunlight pierced my eyes and I dropped to the ground. My fingers ran through the grass, birds chirping, I could hear water frothing in a nearby stream. I opened my eyes again. No pain. I stared at the Sun and smiled.

“He’s an angel too now.” Bert said to break the silence. No one else had said much until now. He was looking at Zen though.

“Yeah I think he is too. I can feel something in him is different.”

We made it all the way back to the first settlement area. I regained what strength I had lost and learned what had happened in my absence, even a little of what I had done. I did not remember much about being the demon. We went to the ruins to finish what we started. Zen and I had discussed both taking the cure, growing old like we were supposed to and letting our story end. We could finally get the happy ending we’ve talked about for years before the war.

We got to the chamber and I placed my hands on the two altar pillars with spikes which impaled me and let my blood run down the spiraling side onto the floor beneath my feet. After a moment the door before us opened. Everyone with us prepared their flashlights and guns in preparation. Zen just grabbed my arm and put it around her neck. She wanted to help me walk even though I just lost some blood and my hands hurt. But since I got out she’s been catering to me so much. Taking care of me. Normally I’d get sick of it. But all my time alone had taught me that no one cared for me. No one had come to save me from myself. From my prison. She came and rescued me and shows she cares about me instead of letting me hear the words.

I don’t remember much about what happened in the chamber. I remember it was dark and had a single pillar of light in the center over an object. It was a statue or sigil. Orb or something. I couldn’t see. Everyone else just stood by while Zen and I eased over to the center of the room. When we got passed a certain point the ground lit up with golden runes and blasted into the air.

I don’t know what they did, but we were cured. Kind of. I remember my body got cleaned. My point of view left my body. The room was now inverted. The walls were white and where shadow was light crept. The other people became just shadow humanoids.  The golden sigils were violet. Zenae’s white feathered wings spread through the air. I was floating directly in front of her. Our hands were joined between us, fingers intertwined. I had black feathered wings. My scar was gone, my skin clean from the dirt and sweat. We were both wearing white robes too. Elegant, silk, robes.

The room faded and it was just us drifting together into the pillar of light in the center of the room. But the floor faded too. Just two bodies flying in space. We hugged and embraced each other. I let out a single tear, but this time it was of joy. Zentai Aecus. Whole. Yin and Yang. Two halves of one spirit. We spiraled into each other, becoming just color of black and white spinning together.

The POV went back to the room for a moment and everyone just stood in awe. The pillar of light was gone. Along with us. They just saw us enter the center of the floor and get lifted into the sky quickly as feathered angels. The room went quiet.

“There never was a cure. Just a way back home.” Brimm said from Bert’s body. He grinned and my vision went black.

Then I woke up.