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libidomechanica · 4 months

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By natural

A sonnet sequence

Bank of vapour; while the midst of men recoil away and isolate pure that he plots again, without; but yet forgot, and soft adorings from birth to Geb and Nut, Isis and Osiris thought, and the down wi’ right earnest. By natural? And yet say no to-day thou forget that heard with free scope of high disdain intended. And all those that best thou gavest it, else mistake to Balaam, and the think, because he cast no shadow where the shepherd blows us canonized for crowns on me, and somehow, each other it seems apart, as, supperless to say her daughter, plaiting for thee.

But if thou canst not stand on her, so graciously with his Associated without-end hour whilst the prize, did draw, when turtles tread, as might make it worth his lips uncurled and skilful pilot, thou seest the wild lorelie; over the walls so fair. Work that shine like liquor or aspirin. My glass a whit, to say they speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such a throne, his lands and piteous eye an inmate owns: all strut, and his finger move, and the darkness among the conjuror plays Ah, silver, too. Of peeresses ready. A little charge, whose three make in one in the aged creature grow: but because to wive; but faithless Thing—to whom they, with such success produce of each suck the seats a place where I am quite sure if t is a very source of love has my hand for the eggs both thorough my gentleman, who fights, or finer stays, and to the beauteous region both defy, not wonder.

Hyacinth, so will let me laughing jest. Assist me, Heav’n! Bow to Shooting—from these weird seizures, Heaven knows what is not! As on a shining. Half house; but he the Pleiads; his Discourse the Mourners of a saint: she touched it lying bathed in the King. The loved as warm starfish. The way. Then houerly thy letters, but all bail shall court an heiress forth, and his lands and owns the midst of me when the royal game of the grave. So your roseate bow’rs, celestial canopy. And could liberty began to weep! Yet in bud and honour. Bronze faint remove, fame, wealth brings contains repent old please you?

Not dashed with grains and the Sea’s self, a sight to say thy place. It kills without sin without a though not to love’s love, again? To point you for what in an hour. By what the Foam of his air, exposed, shall I felt for to thy great shapes of that bed; she comes, like a man of mankind’s forlorn, dying abroad and my state with a panic fear, but will be mud on the comfort fast, which takes his wind-tossed upon by both, to be market I steal, a waste garden, flowers and thy unbraided, her poniard, had oppos’d these other rapture of her good nor had a fever late, and harass’d with you too.

In memory to what thou hast spied. Not soon, as late a fable which quarrel tilts, yclept the Great World; for it. Our guide turneth through all the foxglove’s alembic, and whiskers, to demands our backs are plough which flies before: the world of trouble, well cultivated, it will not sweet mama … truth is the bride and fro. These moss-grown domes with thee and yet, to speak to me, taking your sweet Tibbie, I hae seen the curling brats the rest for your head anither aiming at the virgin-treasure than you will coin young, and I think such rites are in this, and jewel hangs upon them cruel; do not die.

Princely name is Shame, but not think to canter gently lay, in this silver saints I see; nor envy them, and my doorway? Numerous as shadowy brook, that thou go with Athos. From the thing approve his cheeks were long cupped in lilies and be thy breast doth hide something happens a dozen times do I love to speak to you and forbear to taste: the last year’s leaves are few, and she would split a Hair, drove Penmen, as an examples may streamingly. May be the sea-coal, come, and sweet, tore the rind of those that, we just mounting higher he’s to see them out, not even to Madeline, St.

I sleep oppression—or at large. Or Andalusian girl from the truth miscall’d my nest, when they might employ his art; at lengths of puissance; and those restraining stars. And maiden’s chamber. By natural, to temptation, unless a man. Close meeting off, about her sparkling eye glance traduce; no envious eyes though not vainer from love? As in a Prayer, or in quarrel tilts, yclept the Great Migration of his forehead’s smooth as any saint, half-canonized by pearly shepherd’s nose, that’s still, hoping the corner strain they fail! Drunk as a piper, kicking in constitution some days.

Sure a pow’r away; and yet, love and those bred up by us to our town, the young them, and never, never knew till now, either fright abode; assist the shut off the horse alone, and mails. Angels in the year in a waver of love her we have tied her up forever. Prostrate heat where were first notes of Yazd; and, all akin Northwards journals squeak and girl with his javelin wounded me: from what should bargain for the eggs both times declare. Where you not extremely sick? Life it was certain that reseeds itself the Cord fitted unhelpt, and shadow flits and envied passions springs have sworn.

Into her; and on her hands, to bear it. Who never she to mellow, If the kissed again. That heard the darkness, walking like a God in pain, made of Adamant, would overtake this shape. Of her sex: but could reach her will I visit from the timbrels, and crocuses, and be possessed! The clarity of three days he is waking, half anguishment which holds out its arms, and while I woo thee his bar to teach the glen sae shy; for laik o’ gear ye light, over the grounded springs me back to you this? Is but short, and oft a wanton is, school’d onely planet with a jewelled sky.

That heaven is love. Ask me why that this sad interim like Marius, to sit amidst the painted maid: but the rubies grew, and died in the act of love, for one shortest day, in clear melodious lyre.— An’ Charlie, he’s my darlin’ darling, my darlin’ darling, the youthful Sun. ’Er every morning, nor in nothing too much, some sort, I can give you too. But, like a pedantic, into thy heart wreck’d, with grief to find the nations and wanton-wise. Proud looked at scarce palls. Though royalty was written— wash it out dispense from soul to soul, one thought, ere frozen home in the liberties.

If left us first. This day I’ll dare to boast that I would have a genius from accident; it suffers not policy, that he want to make a fire with his finger pointed dart, and thine, the pale shade of Buonaparte’s noble! Then tell me, Angela was feeling yield both the town; found and kissed my mouth cushions and mountains sloped down with proud and hospitable: or, maybe, I myself almost despite thy sight, and me, curled, and made Love or lust makes or takes them born to our town, the youthful Sun. National possessing, and never heed: and dream of haggard seeming, but all as one.

Why, I’m posterity, or future bard shall complete their guilt: for how often must it love, defiance, hate, and woe the deity of good society is but she was yet inexperience rather not the pin; and her how, upon a trick; down on Danaë in a sainted maid: but all bail shall be as thine at anchor, the council broke, I rose and pour out alloy of fop or beau, a finish’d gentle reader’s eyelid dry, but since she cannot profit much more—but thought, ere it came, that neuer heeds the loom through Love’s Elysium. My glass shall in love, no doubt or stay?

Both thorough-bred to tie her up forever. ’ Such the soul, and steam-boats of vapours to waste, the bases deepe; griefe but Loues winter away straight and debonnaire: the tale belong to creepe: she sigh’d for Agnes’ Eve! An’ down yon scroggie glen, we daur na gang a milking, for Charlie came to mind the broken, I keep the world’s souls entranced in act, remembered lays, sweet maiden, wilt thou trace and movement with my boots but I trust that French novel? Of the old Man young, keep the while she asleepe did lay, he burning, by us; we two being made from faring ill. His wind-tossed upon the story ran.

The love is liberties; there, thought and fetes, and to cedar’d Lebanon. A present, a greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, as you turn back to-night. The glorious lamp of my pity-wanting pain. My Muses do not blind to the vast idol; whilst we receive still to them there but to dread? As on a Monday morning light and moisten’d spring from expense; they now can I then, as the devil his due; nor in thin array after the Horizon into caves, say, maiden virtue leads people are all men and hastes the children, grown old, and down monogamy like Tom Waits.

The torch of a merely speculation, stared as blank as death. As children of the drunk with fascination, I saw two wand’ring to myself alone. All cates and his magic whisks and cheek when it shows its boundless summer sang in the Braine. Led through a windy nightly, to the empty arms; it glides, thou art the door upon its hinges here: ’ but No! For, Maud, although the lady wed, or may do. When the days you can see for mintage lie, and all the ground? Ye who but see them out, not even nose, one with shifting change my years, I have done goes all the moon shines on my rose tree. Harsh and coole.

For once, and nothing mythological it was like ships, together prose or song, my sweet, the sound of missing thy amiss, accord perusals to hide our kisses from every source of love allows gather blisse. Her poniard, had one safeguard more; such as be carved angel, face, and still, although a door was wide, sam slips with the whole years the enemy with faery land, which had a whole years in absence Hell. Handsome ancient ditty, long such sweets are, it seems the southern moors I have your verse discoveries and not to my pure light, priests, tapers too, and feeling yield both times of your great.

I felt for thee. Then sighing, salving thy sight, when her father’s blush, that she stood a bust of Pallas for heart, which works on leases man from out an amatory score, true, t is my Abelard and merry note, while the tear is used. He held an ivory lute with her willing teach, till he came tumbling I unclose, the govern more endeared without regardless eyes, for Love’s fev’rous choices? The truth live, as this for my mare, my mother prose or song, my darling, my darling, my darlin’ darling, my darling, the child of snow; even Plutarch’s Lives have I said to it … You are a sample.

We shall move the sooner heart, which takes to a grande passionless can never a wrinkle. Better to be-that with a hole in it, had a dread altars blaze, and ten women living, thou canst pour from the little flower that crawled through. And this rusty bosom fire, showing dangerous tenderest be, at which increased. And maiden, can thy life be led to join theirs, less for lovers find when once touch’d, so pierce with him on my heart; but, fool, seekst not be sought; I mourn the lips, those who play unfair! Up, she sings he: the argent revelry, for the dear object is morality whate’er was and is no more. I have done goes all trembling the blissfully haven’d both from the truth, I bade the letters, but a voyage done! Full browses; he had seen only God’s will I walk as free as air, and fells it too became, in thee and shining heart, with thee and not the word by his side: were not winced.

She yields: my Lady in her love of the same ages can’t form a curl; or with the Foam of his Munificence, forc’t, by a tedious hours, that like virtuous she. And darken into caves, long-sounding an hour and back at us, amazed, two the best can paint out ioy, thought of a dream, I lay broad light. However, at the years till, tir’d of his force, lightly me, but, trowth, I care’t na by. Yesterday! What your introduction give rest, the food tree or turned in the floor, saw many a door in my eye-balls roll, and will banisht art; but somehow, each morn and love thee, and call my length.

Not the seed of gods, I grow a talker! What’s thick, or long white virgins keep, and studies artful postures, such things are fewer to the variously, a melancholy silence seal’d. But all was lost its will with buds and cannot step as does not love stol’n from the soft illusions, dear doting heart, I look forward to an evening on the true bloody spur cannot longing grabs me by moonlight of the more! And saints—to window that took my sight of that promise set on Vertues gold that in fact she talks. Gave out thy rest’? And radiant from thy fellowship I needs the fire of his Largess.

And she was written—wash it out, my tears before my sire charms o’ lovely glorious proof, that dies wishing me on the heard, that to the clear! Of air, not man, absolves our love! That is old, and win perhaps this year and all rich attire creeps rustling were: and, snugging their first blush; for a moment fell, when, with Silence! The wonder how quickly fired, as in bed. So Anacreon drawn the rimes, and all rich array, blendeth its odour with their ever-flourish’d too much in sighs, still the World call’d my nest, saving man at her casement high and strange with spites; yet we think, proceeds.

That dwell in my madness might take at her hair, it is a passion’d far while they be more ease that hides your great appears already with the town; found a dying flame; and so live in a convent’s solitary self-discoursing the little strange too in my beclowded stormie face, where his spurs in thy songs to my boat with chastity retire, along the true; and the chains were fix’d, but the Folly he sets up. ’Ve been a-toying, and birds sit brooding still. He rose alone. While praying in thee and softly so you wrong than he lost are left all these, which but to lifeless than the knot.

The Beadsman heard in the ground-worms riot. With fine Conceits, arise! Now you’re seared to say there; he always face, as alone surveys the wild and witty, and pardon me saying, Mercy, Porphyro! And yet your troubled like a printed page, black loam long manured by Vice, only to keep that name you. Real spirit reels at the Future clay,—to me seek with no special legend be, it will not swear it to his billets? A Corner, passion to go by quite unnatural. For laik o’ gear, was left me by moonlight, throbbed us so, that heav’nly- pensive thing art the dead. A tulip?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #155 texts #sonnet sequence

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anamariamauricia · 3 years

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Another excerpt from my post S3 Annamis fic:

Once more chocolate had been brought, Anne held her cup in her hands and waited for her next guest to make her appearance, ruminating the whole while on how Milady de Winter had gone from being a threat to someone she considered a friend. Not a close friend, not yet at least, but after all she'd done for Anne and her family, after all the nights spent with her and Aramis playing cards or simply talking whilst perpetuating their ruse of Milady and Aramis' relationship, she certainly considered the woman to be more than someone who merely worked for her.

"I was just with Porthos' wife and daughter," she explained once Milady had arrived. "I hope you don't mind using her cup."

"Just so long as it was the wife's and not the baby's," Milady replied dryly as she took off her cloak.

"Oh, give me your hand," Anne quickly instructed, grabbing Milady's hand and pressing it to her belly where the baby was kicking. "Can you feel that?"

Milady's knitted eyebrows sprang up as she blinked down at their hands. "What a strange sensation."

"Strange and sometimes uncomfortable, but always wonderful." Squeezing Milady's hand, she let go so the woman could sit down in the chair next to her in front of the fireplace. "Aramis was able to feel it only recently. I nearly had to pry his hands off this morning, he was so reluctant to leave."

"And where has our esteemed First Minister gone off to?"

"Athos and Sylvie welcomed a baby boy a couple weeks ago. Aramis, Constance, and d'Artagnan went to see them."

Something flickered on Milady's face as she stared at her. "Athos has a son?"

"Yes, they're calling him Raoul," Anne informed her. "I wonder if it is a family name."

"His uncle," Milady answered to her surprise. "He left him his sword in his will," she added in a distant voice, her gaze having fallen to the floor.

"Oh," said Anne. "I don't think Aramis knew that."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Milady replied in her normal voice. "Athos likes to pretend that his life before the musketeers doesn't exist, that he just sprung out of Tréville's head, fully-grown and armed, like Athena."

Anne chuckled at the image. "And how is it that you know of his past?"

Milady's green eyes were piercing when they met hers. "Because I was a part of it."

MMMMMMMMMM

"How were things here?" Aramis asked brightly after telling her all about his trip.

"Oh, terribly boring with you being gone," Anne answered.

"Not even any interesting gossip from Milady?"

She swallowed past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. "She told me, about her and Athos, that they once lived as husband and wife," she said, and watched his gaze fall.

He nodded, and shifted in his seat. "Porthos and I knew that he'd joined the Musketeers because the woman he loved had died. That was all he ever let on until the Cardinal's attempt on your life. After that he had to reveal who she was, that she had survived the hanging."

Anne shuddered as she thought of the marks the rope had left on Milady's neck. Even now she could feel Rochefort's cold garrote against her own neck, and had to resist the urge to raise her hand and brush her fingers along its ghostly imprint.

"I didn't want to believe her," she admitted, "that Athos would have condemned his own wife to death so easily." It was something Louis had done to her, and she would have never thought Athos to have had such a thing in common with her late husband.

"If there's one thing I do know about that whole ordeal, it's that his decision was anything but easy. It haunted him in the years that followed; it still haunts him, I'm sure. But he thought he was doing right by the law."

"And she was defending herself from a man who tried to force her," she lightly countered.

"Thomas was his brother, and she had lied to Athos from the beginning about who she was and where she came from. In an unbelievable situation, her lying about what had happened made the most sense to him."

She mulled over Aramis' words. She hadn't known Thomas, and she did know Milady to be a liar and a seductress, but she also knew what it was like when a man you trusted turned on you, and the lengths he would go to have you. "If I had killed Rochefort instead of injuring him, should the King have condemned me as a murderess?"

Aramis recoiled. "Of course not. You-"

"Lied to Rochefort about what I did with the crucifix he had given me," she pressed. "About my relationship with you."

Deflating somewhat as he exhaled, Aramis set his drink down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Ana, you did what you had to do to protect yourself and your loved ones, and I believe Milady did the same. I don't think what Athos did was right, and he has to live with the decisions he made for the rest of his life. You and I both know though, that Athos is not the same man that even we once knew."

"No," she agreed. "He definitely is not. And she's changed too."

Aramis leaned back into his chair with a sigh. "If only she had told him the truth about who she was before they married, or even soon after; I'm sure he would have forgiven her, and then he would have been more likely to believe her about Thomas. The confrontation between her and Thomas might not have even happened then."

Anne thought of her decision to make Louis believe that he was the father of her son. She had a choice to come clean to him about what happened at the convent and then ask him to still proclaim Aramis' child as his own, but she was scared. Scared that he did not love her enough to forgive such a transgression, and scared that he would not accept her child. She shook her head. "She was scared. She didn't want to risk losing the love that she had."

Read the rest of the chapter: ao3 / ff.net

Start from the beginning: ao3 / ff.net

#the musketeers #milady de winter #anne of austria #aramis #anne and aramis #mkstrs fanfic #i just love the annes #such an interesting pair #love them working together and this journey i've put them on if i may say so myself #also unintentionally turned milady into a greek mythology nerd #love that for her #*seagull voice* mine

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flowers-creativity · 3 years

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Fic: In Bloom

Fandom: The Musketeers

Characters: Athos, Sylvie

Warnings: None

Summary: As they settle down together, Athos develops a new habit, trying to make Sylvie smile.

Notes: For aramisinaskirt as part of the Secret Solstice fic exchange who wanted romantic fluff. I hope you like this offering!

Many thanks to privateerstudies for organising the event and being a wonderful cheerleader!

AO3 link

The town they settled in was small but Athos loved it. In the beginning, he had worried that it would be too reminiscent of Pinon but for whatever reason, whether it was because he was no longer a Comte, and none of his neighbours looked at him with anything but the general curiosity a newcomer always elicited in a community that didn't see many of them, or if it was because of the woman at his side … It didn't bother him, whatever similarities to his childhood home he discovered.

Sylvie loved it, too. No matter how well she had dealt with war-torn Paris, she had not grown up in a big city, and she immediately felt at home. And she made plans: she wanted to establish a school to teach the local children how to read and write, and one day, there might even be another printing press. But first, she had a child to plan for, and a new home to establish.

Athos had to admit that there were moments where he was jealous of her drive; he was not entirely sure what he should be doing now that his duty to the Musketeers had ended. He was receiving a small stipend, as the Queen had promised him when he told her of his plans, so they could live modestly but well enough without struggling. If he had missed any luxuries after giving up his title, the life of a Musketeer had cured him of that. It had also made him unaccustomed to idle time, though, and he knew that sooner or later, he would have to find something to keep himself busy.

For now, he spent his time helping his love make their house into a home and getting to know their new town, mostly in the time whenever Sylvie threw him out of the house to 'get some peace and quiet without your fussing' because however much her growing belly may be hindering her, she did not take kindly to him suggesting that she rest and let him do all the work. To be fair, she did let him do more and more, but he still wished that she would take it easier.

So whenever Athos felt her patience wane, he went out for a walk. He met their neighbours, and if there was a need for a helping hand, he did what he could, aiding in fixing broken tools or painting a fence, brushing down a horse, tossing hay, in any way he could be of use. He took his rapier and found a secluded spot where he could run through his forms because he intended to keep his skills sharp, no matter what the future might bring.

And when he walked back to their house, he always brought Sylvie something that he hoped would make her smile.

Sometimes it was a fresh pastry from the local baker, sometimes a pretty ribbon he had spied at the market.

But most of all, he brought her flowers.

It had been in the early days, when they had barely arrived in town, when a bright red flower had caught Athos's eye as he was walking home. Red like her skirts, a bright colour that would look wonderful against her dark hair, as fiery as her zest for life … He had bent down and picked a handful of the flowers before he had even finished the thought. They might be anemones but he would be lying if he claimed any expertise in identifying flowers. It didn't matter; it mattered that they would hopefully bring her joy.

He almost hurried home, eager to bring a smile to his lover's lips.

Though he had no need of flowers for this; as soon as Sylvie noticed him coming into the kitchen where she was kneading bread dough in a large bowl, her face lit up. She did not stop her work, though, and Athos stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, one hand coming to rest on the slight swell of her belly.

Sylvie leaned back against him for a moment, turning her head to nuzzle against his cheek. No words were spoken but none were necessary; after a moment, she straightened again to bring her weight bearing down on the dough. Athos released her and picked up the flowers from the kitchen table where he had set them down. “I brought you these,” he said, slightly hesitant. He hoped she would not think him silly … “They made me think of you.”

Sylvie turned again to see, and her eyes lit up at the sight. And there was the smile he had wanted to see. “They're lovely!” she said. “What about them reminded you of me?”

Athos smiled and took one of the flowers, stepping back up to her and choosing a part of her hair. She held still as he began braiding her curls around the stem to anchor the flower. “They're bright,” he murmured, “like you; you've brought so much colour back into my life. It is only fitting to adorn you with all the colours nature has to offer.”

Sylvie bit her lip, her face turned up to him, her eyes wide and shiny. “And here I always thought that Aramis was the one with a honeyed tongue,” she returned.

He felt his cheeks warm up and was glad that she probably didn't see it when he let go of the braid and took a step back. “I might have spent too much time with him,” he said with a shrug. He observed his handiwork – he hadn't tied the braid off, so it might unravel soon, but for now, the flower sat securely among her dark curls.

Sylvie laughed. “That's true but I'm still surprised it was flattery you learned from him.”

“What else should I have? Poor decision-making?” Athos smirked. That made her laugh harder, and he relished the sound.

“Given that I really like how your decisions have turned out lately, I cannot say that's the case,” she finally said, abandoning the bread dough and going to wash her hands. She covered the bowl with a towel, then gave him a kiss on the cheek and said: “I've got to see how it looks. Put the other ones in a jug with some water for me?”

Athos nodded and moved to do her bidding while she went to their bedroom with the small mirror on the cupboard he used to shave.

She was back moments later, smiling even more brightly. “It looks so lovely! Thank you!” She rewarded him with another kiss, this one deep and sweet, and when they broke apart, he returned the smile, happy to have achieved his goal.

Soon it became something Athos did regularly – he brought her marigolds, irises, lilies, all the flowers he could name and many more he could not. The ones that made him think of Sylvie the most were yellow, red, orange, a burst of colour, though he sometimes picked purple, white or blue ones, too. Whatever he brought her, she was delighted and gladly indulged him in letting him braid some of them into her hair.

The only time it gave him pause was when he happened upon a field strewn with small blue dots. For a moment, he remembered a different woman, pale where his love was dark now, a different dark head of hair under his hands, and his chest restricted painfully. He barely remembered her these days, and he was thankful for it.

Shaking himself out of the memory, he turned away and went to find the brightest, most colourful flowers to bring back to his love.

#flower writes #gift fic #the musketeers #athos #sylvie #romantic fluff #fanfic

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beebrainedstudios · 3 years

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We’ve got all the right friends in all the wrong places

And yeah, they’re going down...

(Please click the picture for better quality; Tumblr’s butchering the image)

Time for a new AU everyone, one that I am super excited about revealing; the Swapped AU! What if the Danes had been split up from childhood? What if Rhy was the one who fled Arnes? What if Holland was the thief in Grey London?

This AU is a lot of fun, and I can’t wait to share more of it with you guys; in the meantime here’s some sketches! Details are below the cut!

The whole premise of this AU is that most of the characters have their roles swapped, with this sketch dump in particular focusing on the first arc, A Faded Shade of Magic. Having said all that:

- Athos is the adopted Antari of the Maresh royalty. He was found at the age of six, disoriented and dragging a bloody whip behind him; beyond that very little is known about his history. The Maresh did away with old memories and raised him as their own, well aware he was from another world but unwilling to abandon a wildly powerful child to face the world. Now, he’s renowned as Arnes’ most brilliant composer and artist, even if his magic is somewhat lacking- he shows no elemental talent besides bone, and forbidden from leaving Red London, Athos has never had a need to use Antari spells. However, after an accident leaves his entire kingdom in danger, Athos is forced to learn in a trial-by-fire as he tries to get a magical artifact back where it belongs.

- Holland is an Antari thief that stalks the streets of Grey London. He’s known there as the Demon, a monomer referencing the magic he uses to complete his crimes. Skilled in all forms of elemental magic and combat to boot, nothing slows Holland down; that is, nothing did until his girlfriend ratted him out to the king. Now, with nowhere to hide, Holland finds he’ll have to escape to another world with the help of one of his most recent victims.

- Astrid and Lila are the Queen and Empress of White London. Unlike her brother, Astrid did not receive the Antari touch, and when he disappeared into the space between worlds, she found she could not follow. Left without her only warmth in an unforgiving landscape, she grew even more bitter and wicked than the Astrid we know; however, she did find a source of light in an unlikely friend- Delilah Bard. Lila was an Antari who made the choice to rob Astrid one night; though she didn’t succeed, she did find another girl her age who was just as fierce and lonely as she was. Each eagerly adopted the other as a sister, and together they took the throne, ruling Makt with four iron fists. However, no matter how much she and Lila were birds of a bloody feather, Astrid could not forget her brother. Now, after many years they’ve turned their sights on Red London, eager to wreak havoc on the world that stole their family and ruined their home.

- Kell is the unfortunate slave of the White Rulers- a bitter, broken man with a constant pleasant smile and nothing to lose. Nobody knows how he ended up enthralled to the sisters, but everyone knows to stay out of his way. Kell spends most of his time darting between Red and White London, sent by Astrid to keep an eye on her brother as she prepares to steal him back. Though it is his hand that puts the plan into motion and Astrid that pulls the strings, Kell has his own motives for chasing the Ivory Prince across the worlds. He cannot survive a world where two Danes live instead of one, so while everyone else is scrambling to catch him, he plans to make sure Athos Maresh never finds his way back home alive.

And that’s it! Every character has something new to do in this AU, so if you’re wondering where someone comes into play or you’re just curious about the plot, send me an ask! I’m hoping to maybe write some things for this AU soon. In the meantime, enjoy!

(BTW disclaimer, the only ship in this AU between the main seven- Kell, Lila, Holland, Rhy, Alucard, and the Danes- is Rhy and Alucard. Just putting that out there.)

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highfunctioningflailgirl · 4 years

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Whumptober No.21

The fever swept through the garrison like a wildfire, and, like a fire, they fought it with their bare hands and as much water as they could carry. An endless string of buckets was passed into the infirmary by those who had recovered or not fallen ill. Inside, the carers poured the water into bowls, jugs and kettles. Helping hands coaxed mouthfuls past cracked lips and cooled feverish brows. They washed their sick comrades and laundered sweat-drenched sheets. Heated, the water was used to clean medical instruments or soothe congested lungs with hot steam.

And still, the fever burned through the men.

Doctor Lemay had never washed his hands as much as in the last two weeks. His skin was raw from soap and water, but he’d learned that cleanliness was beneficial during any kind of epidemic, and so far he’d been among the few not having succumbed to the fever yet. Drying his hands on a towel, he let his gaze sweep over the twenty beds they’d crammed into the infirmary. Eighteen of them were occupied on this day, and Lemay had a feeling the worst wasn’t over yet.

No one knew what or who had brought this particularly vicious form of an ague to Paris, but it had infested the city within days. Lemay had reacted quickly, advising the King and his family to leave for their country retreat and not come back until the fever had burnt itself out, and, to his astonishment, the King had listened. Following his hippocratic oath, Lemay had stayed behind to help the afflicted - and found himself in charge of the garrison infirmary when the fever finally swept through the King’s own regiment.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

D’Artagnan had appeared beside him on shaky legs. Young and strong, his body had fought the invader fiercely and quickly: His fever had broken this very morning, and the rash that had come with it was already fading.

“You can go back to bed, young man,” Doctor Lemay told him sternly. “You’re barely past the worst, and you’re no use to me fainting onto these floorboards.”

As expected, the musketeer opened his mouth to protest: “But I can-”

“You can shut up and lie back down,” Constance Bonacieux’s voice cut him off.

The young woman had been a godsend. Capable, healthy and unafraid, she’d reported for nursing duty as soon as the first musketeers had fallen ill, and she’d been invaluable in their care ever since. Friends with several of the soldiers, she seemed to feel particularly attracted to the young musketeer from Lupiac. When his fever had spiked two days ago, she’d barely left his side, and now that he was recovering, Lemay watched the two of them exchanging passionate glances across the infirmary in spite of the misery surrounding them. The fact that Constance was a married woman appeared to be of minor importance.

“Honestly, Constance,” d’Artagnan insisted. “I’m fine. Fine enough to help the men-”

“Bed.” Constance threw him a glare that brooked no argument. “Now.”

Sighing, d’Artagnan rolled his eyes and wobbled back to his cot where he plopped down with an audible sigh.

Lemay couldn’t suppress a smile. Moments like these were a welcome ray of sunshine in otherwise dark days. They’d lost two musketeers to the fever so far, and at least four of the men in the infirmary were fighting a battle Lemay wasn’t sure they’d win.

Athos was sitting with one of them, gently washing the man’s face and arms while murmuring encouragement to the half-delirious man. The taciturn lieutenant remained a mystery to Lemay, looking at the world from underneath the brim of his hat with cool reserve, but displaying an unexpected amount of compassion for his fellow-soldiers now. Athos had been among the first to catch the disease, and it had hit him badly enough to still look pale and a little lost in his clothes two weeks later, and yet he’d barely allowed himself any rest. His reputation as a ruthless swordsman preceded him as well as his men’s admiration, and Lemay had witnessed his natural leadership at work when he’d reorganized the infirmary with Aramis as soon as he could stand without assistance.

True to their nickname, the Inseparables, he also never strayed far from the bed in the quietest corner of the room where Porthos was sleeping. The big streetfighter had been felled by the fever like a tree, and he’d only turned the corner yesterday. Athos and Aramis had tirelessly cooled him down and dribbled water and medicine into his mouth while also taking care of d’Artagnan and the rest of their comrades. Hardened men, none of them had been ashamed to hide their fear of losing their brother. Lemay had watched them pray, and one of them had always held Porthos’ hand as if they could physically anchor him to this world. They’d fought, fought hard, and they had won.

Not all of these men would be so lucky. Aramis was kneeling by an older musketeer’s bed this very moment, giving him the Last Rites. His dark head sunken in prayer, one hand on the dying man’s forehead, his soldier’s uniform was clashing strikingly with his clerical behaviour. The man was a contradiction in himself. A gifted marksman, he was also a man of faith and a gifted healer. He took life with one hand and saved it with the other. Aramis also had the reputation of being a womanizer, and judging by his dashing appearance and easy charm, Lemay easily believed it.

However, women had played no role in the last two weeks for this man who’d rolled up his sleeves and run himself ragged helping Lemay run the infirmary. He’d nursed Athos through his fever, then Porthos and d’Artagnan while never neglecting his duties for the other patients. His personal arsenal of herbal remedies had proven helpful, his medical knowledge surprising, and Lemay could not remember seeing him sleep.

Lemay’s heart sank when he saw Aramis stop in his prayers, cross himself and gently pull the blanket up over the man’s face. The solemn words “Go with God” drifted to his ears, and the men in the other beds fell silent. One of them started crying, and d’Artagnan went to take the man in his arms.

Aramis stood up and walked over to Lemay.

“Gilbert,” he said somberly, pointing his chin at the deceased. “He was in the regiment for more than fifteen years. Treville will be devastated.”

Constance joined them, looking sad but composed.

“We should give them a few minutes and then move him,” she suggested firmly. “We’ll need the bed.”

Lemay nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll wash him and gather his things,” Aramis said, but Lemay frowned when he saw him swaying on his feet.

Constance had noticed as well.

“Aramis?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

The marksman nodded, suppressing a shudder.

“I don’t think you are,” Lemay disagreed and grabbed Aramis by the shoulders. He could feel the man’s body heat through the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, Aramis…” Constance touched his forehead and pulled her hand back, wincing. “Why didn’t you say something?”

The marksman looked back at her from glazed eyes and shook his head.

“I thought I was only tired. I didn’t notice…”

As if pulled by an invisible string, Athos had appeared at Aramis’ side. He gave his brother one taxing look, then sighed.

“You, my friend, belong in bed.”

He made it sound light, but Lemay saw worry flickering behind the cool veneer. Like the other three, Aramis was a healthy man in his late twenties, never one to stay down for long when ill, but this fever picked its victims according to its own rules. They had a few long days and nights ahead of them until they’d know if Aramis as well would come out on the other side.

For a moment, it looked as if their new patient was going to put up a fight.

“I-...” he started, then broke off when his legs wobbled underneath him. Swiftly, Athos grabbed him around the waist and Constance slipped his arm across her shoulders.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” the marksman continued, bravado flagging. “I’m sorry.”

Lemay wasn’t sure what the musketeer was apologizing for. Falling ill? No longer being able to care for his patients? For worrying his brothers?

These men, the doctor thought in wonder as he watched Aramis being led to a bed and helped into it with tender gestures and uplifting words. They killed without scruple on the battlefield. They knew no fear, and one would think them callous and unfeeling. But here, within the walls of the infirmary, he’d seen the men underneath the armour. He’d seen compassion, care, bravery and love. He’d understood why they didn’t speak of themselves as soldiers. Brothers. These men were brothers.

(Read all of my Whumptober fics on AO3, here)

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #the musketeers #d'artagnan #athos #porthos #aramis #doctor lemay #constance bonacieux #infection #fanfic

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undermounts · 4 years

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Empire of Light—Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

AO3 | Table of Contents | Ashes and Embers | Playlist

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: In the sparkling capital of Morella, strange things go bump in the night.

Notes: this is a sequel to my first Blades 2 fic, Ashes and Embers. If you haven’t read that yet, you can do so here!

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Whitetower was not the sort of city that slept.

Even at the oddest hours of the morning, there was always some sort of trouble afoot—sometimes good trouble, sometimes bad, but always mischievous. The evenings were filled with the merry music from open tavern doors, the raucous laughter of drunkards, the rapturous cries of lovers, and other things that went bump in the night. Deals were made in dark alleyways, schemes were carried out amongst thieves atop the terracotta shingles that lined moonlit rooftops, and assassins and mercenaries earned their coin in underground fighting pits, where the wealthy and poor alike frequented to bet on the odds.

The Temple of Light, mercifully, was always quiet, and Cili loved quiet.

Cili, however, did not love Whitetower. He couldn’t wait until he ascended the full rank of priesthood—even though that was many years away—so that he could lead the pilgrimages across Morella or the recruitment journeys that picked up orphaned magic users such as himself, if only so he could get out of the city. It was too loud, and in some places, like the Nooks and Crannies, too smelly. In fact, if Cili had to pick a few words to describe Whitetower, they would simply be, “too much.”

Cili could still remember the day he had arrived in the capital city three years ago, not long after his fifth birthday had passed, when the priests had brought him to live at the Temple. Permanently. To put it quite frankly, that day was one of the most terrifying he’d ever had.

Whitetower was overwhelming, a sensory overload. After crossing through the city’s borders, Cili had seen more people within a few moments than he’d ever seen on the quiet farm he grew up on. The sheer volume of people that occupied the capital made him nervous—they were a tide he could get lost in, could drown in. He was used to small communities and houses that were fields apart. Even after three years, he was still adjusting to living at the Temple with all of the other acolytes and priests.

The Market District was especially stressful. There were so many people, so many voices, smells, colors, and sounds—all of it blending together into a cacophonous mess that made Cili cling to the sleeves of the nearest priestess and bury his face in her robes.

And beyond what Cili had experienced in his sheltered upbringing at the Temple were the stories he had heard. Some of the older students at the Temple gossiped about Whitetower’s underworld, the secret guilds of thieves, mercenaries, and assassins. Apparently, there were entire networks of tunnels hidden beneath the capital, dozens of secret passageways, and hundreds of peepholes for espionage.

The first time Cili had heard the gossip was in the hours after lights were out and the acolytes were supposed to be asleep. After that, he had spent the following day scouring the walls and rafters of the Temple for spies. He’d soon realized that he was acting a bit foolishly—the Temple of Light was perhaps the most secure place in Whitetower, right after the palace, but he still made sure to stay close to the priests whenever they were led throughout the city for their weekly services. While the other acolytes spoke of the criminals of Whitetower with some degree of awe or amusement—mostly about a thief dubbed the “Whitetower Reaper” that had mysteriously vanished a few years ago—Cili could only pray that he never encountered such rabble.

Nobles, knights, Light-users, traders, merchants, thieves, and assassins—Whitetower seemed to have it all.

The one thing Whitetower did not have was monsters. At least not of the beastly kind, with fangs and fur and claws. Although, the same could not be said of those ruled by greed and ambition… No, Whitetower was not home to strange creatures, aside from the occasional noble-owned voxper.

Or at least, that used to be the case.

Now, a giant, winged creature stood guard on the city walls with a blazing fire in his lungs. And unbeknownst to the general public, strange beasts prowled the shadows…

Cili quietly shuffled down the moonlit marble halls of the Temple, collecting and extinguishing the old candles that had been burning all evening and replacing them with new ones he would light tomorrow morning. This was the last part of his daily routine, his final task of the day as one of the younger acolytes, and his least favorite chore. He would never admit it, especially around the older children, but his heart always beat a little faster when he carried out this task, the tempo increasing with every flame he extinguished. Cili was not afraid of the dark, but he was afraid of the things that may lurk within it.

Growing up in the quiet countryside, Cili had never had any reason to believe in the folktales about wicked monsters or strange beasts that would snatch little children out of their beds at night. He’d only ever encountered lapna and kromps, which were more or less content to stay away, especially if rewarded with food. But after the events of the last year—portals opened to the Shadow Realm, the Crown Prince’s death, the Dreadlord’s rise and fall, the Battle of Ash, the Blood King’s ascension, and the guardian dragon’s arrival…. After all of that, Cili was no longer sure what to believe. He only knew that whenever he blew out a candle and stared into the shadows that crept in, he had the sinking, dreadful feeling that something was staring back.

Cili came to a stop in front of one of the white marble statues that lined the Hall of Saints. This statue in particular was of Saint Damaris, who was known for protecting children—especially orphans. This was Cili’s favorite Saint of Light, even if Damaris’ death was one of the more gruesome ones on record. Cili had learned that Damaris had died during the Great War—as most famous Saints did—while protecting a chartered boat of orphans from winged shadow gargoyles as they crossed the Silban River to safety.

Cili looked down at the candles at the base of Damaris’ statue, glanced at the darkening hall around him, then decided to extinguish those ones last. He did not mind having the Saint’s protection for a little while longer.

Cili continued down the Hall of Saints, blowing out and replacing candles as he went. As he did, he recalled the names of the Saints and their stories, a tactic he had once used to strengthen his memory of the famous figures that had soon become a habit. Saint Ahlai, protector of settlements along the Golden Coast, drowned while defending a cluster of fishing boats from a bloodsquid during a storm. Saint Noa, protector of travellers, stoned to death while protecting a royal procession from raiders. The list went on and on—Saint Pasha, Saint Viktor, Saint Emira, Saint Holland, Saint Calla, Saint Athos… One tragedy after another.

As he went about his task, Cili wondered if anyone he knew would one day ascend to the status of saint. A part of him hoped not. Revered as they were, almost every Saint seemed to meet a tragic end.

Cili reached the end of the hall, coming to a halt at the base of Saint Alina’s statue. He gazed upon the Saint’s alabaster countenance, her beautiful face at once nurturing, fierce, and sorrowful. She was one of the most popular saints, known as the protector of the innocents. Cili shuddered as he recalled her particular demise: burned while defending a town of human serfs during the Great War. The young acolyte shook that gruesome thought from his head as he withdrew a fresh candle from his basket and placed it at the base of her altar and leaned down to blow the flames out.

The moment the last candle guttered out, Cili felt a sudden chill wash over him, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. He inhaled sharply, clutching the basket of candles tightly to his chest as ice spread through his veins and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Heart pounding in his small chest, Cili slowly turned around. There was nothing behind him, although he found no relief in this small discovery. With the doors to the outer courtyard of the Temple closed and most of the candles extinguished, Cili was shrouded in darkness. His attention tunneled to the flickering semi-circle of candlelight that surrounded Saint Damaris’ statue, the only source of illumination in the entire hall aside from the watery moonlight

Cili’s blood was loud in his ears. He could not explain it, the inexplicable urge to run. Something was watching him, he could feel it. Waiting for him.

Cili inhaled deeply, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he smothered the urge to run toward the ring of light. Surely this was just some sort of joke. If anyone was watching him from the shadows, it was the other acolytes, playing a prank on him. Cili had a bit of a reputation around the Temple of being easily scared, after all. If they wanted to get a reaction out of anyone, Cili was the perfect target.

“This isn’t funny,” Cili declared, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

No response.

“Marco?” he questioned as he clutched the basket of candles tightly to his chest and then slowly began to creep toward the other end of the hall, careful to keep his steps steady so he did not betray the immense fear he felt. He did not want the other acolytes to get the satisfaction of seeing him run. “Jude? I know it's you guys. You can cut it out. I’m not afraid.”

Again, no response. Then—

There was a rustling sound, like the flap of wings. Then the scrape of something solid and heavy against the smooth marble stone and—

Cili lost his nerve and ran, dropping his basket of candles as he sprinted for the semi-circle of candlelight around Saint Damarius. No sooner had he begun to run did the creature in the shadows flare to life.

A horrible snarl ricocheted off the marble and alabaster floors of the hall, followed by the abrupt boom of beating wings and the click, click, click of talons snapping against the floor.

Something hot and leathery struck Cili across the back of his legs and he stumbled, crashing to the floor only a few paces away from Saint Damaris’ light. Cili’s chin throbbed from smacking it against the marble tiles, but he shoved himself to his hands and knees, hastily scrambling for the ring of light like his life depended on it.

It did.

Cili waited until he was fully within the semi-circle of candlelight, naively believing that the light of a few measly flames would keep the mysterious creature at bay, before he flipped onto his back, throwing his hands up as he finally faced the beast.

His scream lodged in his throat, which felt as if it had been swollen shut with fear.

Cili did not know how to process what exactly was before him. He had never seen a creature like this in his childhood storybooks, had never even heard of a creature like this, either from the other acolytes or the old storytellers that sat around Whitetower’s town square.

The beast had the face and wings of a bat, although its body was distinctly humanoid, corded with rippling muscle. But the creature’s composition was not nearly the strangest thing about it. The beast did not have skin nor fur, but rather, it appeared to be made of shadow. Tendrils of darkness wicked off of its body like smoke and glowing lines of reddish orange light trailed along its arms and torso, like molten lava bubbling through the cracked, blackened surface of cooled magma.

As it slowly prowled forward, the gargoyle screeched at him, baring a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and Cili flinched back, throwing up his hands defensively. He called desperately upon his teaching of the Light in a vain hope that something the priests had taught him would be useful in warding this creature away, but defensive magic was too advanced for someone his age, its teaching withheld until he reached his tenth year.

The young acolyte scuttled backward as the beast stalked toward him until his back met the base of Damaris’ statue. Trembling, Cili’s eyes were trained on the gargoyles taloned, hideous feet as it lumbered closer to the circle of light. Closer, closer, closer—

One of the gargoyle’s talons breached the light.

And nothing happened.

Cili whimpered, realizing that there was nothing that could save him, not the candlelight, not Damaris, and judging by the quiet that still settled over the temple, not the priests, either. Desperate, Cili conjured an Orb of Light in his palms, the only bit of magic he could confidently do. In response, the gargoyle hissed, rearing back as a clawed hand swung forward, narrowly missing Cili’s face as the boy lunged back. Almost instantly, due to his fear and lapse in concentration, the Orb guttered out.

Panicked, Cili tried and failed to conjure another Orb of Light as the gargoyle shifted over him. Cili’s hands fell uselessly into his lap as the monster cornered him against the marble statue, its tepid breath ghosting over the boy’s face as it opened its gaping maw wide for the killing blow.

Left with nothing else to do, Cili closed his eyes and began to pray.

“Light guide me through this endless night and protect me from the darkness. On Viktor, on Calla, on Athos and Alina. On Noa, on Pasha, on Damaris—” Cili broke his prayer and sobbed desperately. “Saints, save me!”

The doors to the Temple slammed against the walls as they burst open, and a flash of Light so bright it was blinding illuminated the room. The beast above Cili was thrown back by the blast and struck the opposite wall with an animalistic whimper of pain.

Cili’s gaze snapped to the open doorway where two cloaked figures appeared, silhouetted by the night sky and the mist that drifted across the cobblestone roads of Whitetower. The one on the right, distinguishable by the taller stature, swayed ever so slightly as the one on the left lunged forward with incredible grace and speed. Cili just barely caught the glint of steel before two blades shot out of the cloaked figure’s gloved hands. It was only until Cili followed the path of the blades that he realized the Shadow beast had gotten up from its supine position against the wall and had begun to charge toward him once more.

The blades sunk into the gargoyle’s stomach, slowing its advance. The monster roared in pain and frustration as its wings snapped out, lifting its body into the air. There was a whizzing sound and sickening squelch as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast’s wings, quickly followed by another arrow that struck the other one, causing it to crash to the ground once more. Cili looked to the taller figure, who now brandished a glittering bow of silver and gold metal. Beneath the folds of their coat, he could just make out the silver hilt of a sword.

No sooner had the beast fallen from the air did the second figure with the knives spring forward, gripping the protruding shafts of the arrows and using them as leverage to shove the gargoyle back, pinning it to the wall. The Shadow creature howled as Cili’s rescuer used their weight to trap the beast, then yanked the arrows down, shredding its wings to the point of uselessness. The cloaked figure pulled back, unsheathing a knife strapped to their thigh, and raised the gleaming weapon high, prepared to stab deep into the beast’s heart.

Cili’s breath caught in his throat. He could not believe what he was witnessing, could not believe that he was about to watch these mysterious heroes defeat this monster, could not believe that he was saved.

Cili’s heart dropped like a stone as the creature lashed out with its snapping teeth, forcing the cloaked figure to jump back, leaving just enough room for the gargoyle to swing out with a muscled arm. The back of its taloned hand caught Cili’s defender across the midsection, batting them aside. As the figure tumbled to the ground, their hood fell back, revealing a head of shoulder-length, dark, and wavy hair. The face underneath was tan and ruggedly handsome, distinguishable by a well-kept beard and a scar that crossed a single eyebrow.

The beast shoved away from the wall, lurching toward the doors out of the Temple in a desperate attempt to escape with its life. But then the other figure was there, moving faster than a wicked wind as they darted forward and struck with their gauntleted fist, catching the gargoyle with a blow so savage and powerful, the weakened creature rocked backward, stunned.

Like the gears in a well-oiled machine, the man on the ground swung his legs out, catching the beast by its shadowy ankles. The Shadow creature slammed into the ground just as the man rolled out of the way and shoved himself up to his knees. He brandished his dagger once more, stabbing clean through the monster’s shoulder to pin it to the ground.

His voice was low and gruff as he demanded, “Do it!”

Cili watched in awe as the taller figure unsheathed the sword at their side—the strangest blade Cili had ever seen, crafted of steel but threaded through with a blueish, crystalline substance that resembled forks of lightning. The figure lifted the sword high, a silver glow—The Light, Cili realized—emanating from their hands and spearing down the blade as they stabbed down, piercing the gargoyle’s chest, and presumably, its heart.

There was a bright flash and Cili watched as the Shadow beast dissipated into nothingness.

When the Light faded, Cili gaped at the space where the creature had once been. There was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever existed within this temple, nothing but a few soot stains on the milky white marble floors.

A soft, tired sigh drew Cili’s attention away from the marks on the floor and he looked up in time to see the taller figure rest the tip of their sword against the floor and lean against it as if winded. The man quickly retrieved the blades that had clattered to the floor after the Shadow beast disappeared and tucked them away before snatching the arrows as well. He clambered to his feet just as his hooded companion straightened, nodding gratefully as they slid the offered arrows back into their quiver and sheathed that peculiar sword.

Cili watched in awe as his rescuers righted themselves, the realization dawning on him. “You’re Saints, aren’t you?” he breathed, slowly pushing himself away from the base of Damaris’ statue. “That’s why you saved me.”

Immediately, Cili’s rescuers stiffened, their attention snapping to him for the first time since they arrived as if they had just remembered he was there.

“Aw, hells,” the man muttered beneath his breath as he quickly yanked the hood of his cloak up, concealing his face beneath the shadows once more.

The two figures wordlessly glanced at each other as Cili’s gaze flicked between them, awaiting an answer. He could not believe it. They had heard his prayer. The Saints had come. The Saints—

“We aren’t Saints of Light.” The voice that replied was dulcet and sonorous—a woman’s. Cili thought he could listen to her speak all day.

“But I saw you use the Light,” Cili insisted, shaking his head as he got to his feet. There was still a slight tremor in his legs, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, although he paid no notice. “I prayed for you and you came—”

“We aren’t Saints,” the woman repeated gently, glancing over her shoulder at her companion before she took a slight step forward. “We’re just… devout followers of the Light. Purging the realm of darkness.”

Cili tilted his head, leaning forward in an attempt to see under the woman’s hood. Sensing his efforts, the woman pulled away and Cili frowned, although his disappointment was short-lived. Another thought crossed his mind. “So you’re… like adventurers? Heroes, like those in the storybooks?”

Cili had a feeling the woman was smiling as she tilted her head to the side. “Something like that.”

Cili nodded slowly, his gaze sliding from her concealed face to the soot stains that marred the floors. “What was that thing?”

“Just a monster,” the woman replied. “A bad guy. But it’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Cili chewed the inside of his lip, sidestepping away from the spot where the creature had died. The danger was gone, but he still felt unsettled. “Will more come?”

It was the man who replied this time. “Not if we can help it.”

Cili frowned, unconvinced, but did not reply.

As if sensing his unease, the woman reached out with nimble fingers and swiped something off of the man’s person, much to his dismay, but before her companion could protest, she knelt before Cili.

“Do you want to know what you can do if one of those beasts ever comes back?” she asked gently.

Cili’s eyes widened. He was nodding before he even realized he was doing so.

The woman held up her hand. Between her slender fingers was a small, sheathed knife. But Cili’s attention was not on the blade. Instead, his gaze lingered on her skin, which was a pearlescent shade of blue and horribly scarred as if it had been severely burned. A single gold ring adorned her thumb.

The woman took Cili’s hand and pressed the hilt of the blade into his palm as she spoke. “The priests at the Temple will teach you how to protect yourself and others,” she told him. “That sort of training will be invaluable. But magic won’t always be there to help you, especially if you choose not to use it.”

Cili’s brow furrowed. “But why—”

The woman shook her head. “That is a choice you will make when you are older and understand the world better. And you must make it for yourself. But until then, you should know how to defend yourself without magic, too. Just in case.”

She curled Cili’s fingers around the hilt of the blade. “This can help protect you, but you must only use it if you are in grave danger, understand?”

She waited for Cili to show that he did. When he nodded, she continued.

“If one of those beasts ever comes again,” she said slowly, a teacher guiding a student. “You take this—” She squeezed his hand, guiding it toward her chest. “—and put it here. Understand?”

Cili swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked up then, peering beneath the woman’s hood. He just barely glimpsed her pointed ears and a blur of green that was so bright, he thought they might be gemstones, and caught a whiff of starflowers, pine, and mist, before she pulled away. The woman dropped his hand as she straightened and stepped back.

“Be careful,” she instructed him. “And only use that when absolutely necessary.”

Cili nodded.

The woman stared at him for a few moments longer, her gaze heavy without being seen. Then she bowed her head. “May the Light guide you.”

Cili echoed her response, still shell-shocked as she turned on her heel and faced her companion.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, reaching into the folds of his cloak. When he pulled his hand out, a glittering silver coin danced between his fingertips. He flicked it towards Cili, who caught it against his chest, confused.

“This’ll be our secret, yeah?” the man prompted, his hood shifting as he gazed around the Temple and sighed. “Bet they don’t pay you enough for this stuff. Wandering around creepy hallways at night.”

Cili did not know how to tell him that the Temple did not pay him at all, so he only nodded and replied, “Yes.”

“Right,” the man said slowly, before turning on his heel to follow his companion. As he went, he gave a lazy salute. “Light guide you, kid.”

Cili watched, stunned as his two rescuers made their way toward the doors that led out of the temple, their whispers carrying in the empty hallway.

“Please tell me you did not just bribe him.”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who taught him to kill a man, so I don’t think either of us are winning role model of the year, kit.”

Cili waited until they were halfway down the marble steps that led up to the Temple entrance before he scrambled after them, hiding behind the door to watch them go. They both moved like shadows, lithe and nimble as they stuck to the darkness and leaned against each other, as inconspicuous as any other couple wandering around the city after a night in the taverns.

Bewitched by the two figures that had just saved his life with magic and steel—he was still not convinced they weren’t Saints—Cili followed them as quietly as possible off the Temple grounds and into the misty streets of Whitetower.

It was not until they reached the end of the block that his rescuers straightened, putting a casual distance between them. As they shifted apart, Cili saw why.

Cili watched from behind a barrel, mist swirling around his calves as his rescuers met up with two more cloaked figures, hidden in the shadows of an apartment that sat atop a shoemaker’s shop, which was closed for the night.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as she brushed her hand along the slope of another figure’s shoulder. Her other hand twisted behind her back, the mist churning with it. “Where it’s safe.”

“Oh?” the figure replied liltingly with a teasing edge as his head fell to the side. “Are you giving me orders now?”

A low laugh filled the air, full of warmth and affection. The sound was so entrancing, Cili almost didn’t notice that the mist had thickened around them, nearly concealing his saviors from sight. By the time the woman finished laughing , they were just fading blurs in the fog.

“I would never do such a thing,” Cili thought he heard the woman reply, “Your Majesty.”

Cili’s breath hitched and he moved to follow, but the fog was so thick, he could barely see his own hands.

He tried to find the mysterious figures by sound alone, but when the mist cleared, they were gone.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Notes: And we’re back

Tagging: @diamonds-and-decorum, @kelseaaa, @xsweetnspookyx, @tyrils-star, @maeksoo, @tylorswft, @somin-yin, @vesselsynths, @mikewawazoski, @rainesenator, @desperatetrashwives, @choicesficwriterscreations

Let me know if you would like to be tagged/removed!

#blades of light and shadow #choices #bolas #nia ellarious #tyril starfury #mal volari #imtura tal kaelen #aerin valleros #pixelberry #playchoices #bolas fanfic #blades fanfic

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ohanahoku-ao3 · 4 years

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Whumptober Prompt 27

A Drought in Paris. Also on AO3 here. @whumptober2020

"That's it, men. The last of our water is gone." The captain announced to the musketeers. "I suggest we all start praying for rain."

Aramis sighed, taking off his hat to scratch his head. "I've never seen a drought this bad before."

"It makes me wonder how the farmers back in my town are faring. I imagine their crops are all but ash by now in this heat," d'Artagnan said.

"We're lucky that there haven't been any fires recently. In this heat, with no water? Paris could burn to nothing before anyone could stop it." Athos mused, shaking his head.

"Well, at least we can be thankful for the crime rate going down due to this heat," Porthos said with a grin as he laid down the winning hand for their card game.

/////\\\\\

"What was that you were saying about the crime rate, Porthos?" Athos called as he sent a man crashing headfirst into a wall.

"Forget I said anything," Porthos grumbled, pushing another man down into his chair.

Once the town's water supply ran out, tension had run high in the city, people's tempers were worn thin. Those without water attacked those who still had a meagre supply, and people accused one another of being selfish and greedy.

"Now, stop this!" Athos ordered. "Fighting will only make your body thirst for water more. Those who still have water are urged to share but are not required by law to do so. If you start this again, you will be sent to prison." He warned them. "This drought cannot last forever, so be patient and remain calm. It will rain soon."

The men in the tavern settled down, tired out already with the heat and lack of water in their systems.

/////\\\\\

"Hey, d'Artagnan." Athos called from the barrel he and the others were sitting around. "Come join us for another round of cards! We've got to put Porthos back in his place."

Said man chucked. "You can try, mates. But you're going up against a master."

d'Artagnan pushed away from the wall that he'd been leaning on and made his way over to them. His face was flushed red as he reached them.

"You don't look too well, d'Artagnan." Aramis said, standing up to grab his arm as the young man's eyelids fluttered. "Come on, I think you should lie down." He told him.

"Kid doesn't look good at all," Porthos commented as Aramis guided the young landowner to the bunker.

/////\\\\\

"How is d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked.

"Not any better than the rest of us," Aramis said, starting to feel a little wane himself. His vision blurred slightly around the edges, and he swayed on his feet as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Maybe you should go lie down yourself," Athos told him, squeezing his shoulder. "Go on and get some rest."

They watched as the musketeer left to do just that.

/////\\\\\

Halfway through the next day, Porthos joined the others in the bunker after having collapsed in a dead faint while trying to break up another dispute.

That left just Athos and a few of the other musketeers that had not yet succumbed to the heat.

Athos rested on the ground, back against a pole as he watched the sunny blue sky for any sign of rain, for even a wisp of a cloud. But there was not even a hint of rain.

His breath wheezed in and out of his chest, his throat bone dry and aching for the sweet relief that only water could provide. His vision was fading in and out, and his ears were ringing faintly, The man stuck in a seemingly endless dizzy spell.

Grey seeped into his vision, and soon he had blacked out.

When he came to, it was to the blessed feeling of water droplets refreshing dry, cracked skin. He blinked his eyes open as his tongue darted out to catch the raindrops, looking up to the dark night sky as the rain poured down.

He laughed, struggling to his feet as he called out to the others.

The drought was finally over!

#whumptober2020 #no.27 #ok who had natural disasters on their 2020 bingo card?#extreme weather #the musketeers #fic #heatwave

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capitaineathos · 4 years

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For the first meeting whump ideas, Porthos and Aramis for the last prompt. (Could you also make that Porthamis please?)

(Oh, absolutely anon! Sorry this took a bit! I’ve been thinking about exactly how I wanted to fill this prompt, so I hope it’s what you were looking for! ^-^)

Prompt: A tries to hijack B’s car to escape someone chasing them. B starts calling for help and unfortunately catches the attention of A’s pursuers

Aramis loved to recall the day they first met. It was strange and it was crazy, but when he looked back on it, it was always with a deep fondness; despite the unconventional circumstances of their meeting, Porthos had been brought into his life that day and he would never wish to trade that for anything. Retellings of the story always brought a smile to his face and a laugh to his voice, and Porthos always got that crinkle under his left eye as he laughed at the theatrics that Aramis preferred to accompany his tales with. Of course, some of it may have been somewhat embellished, but who would care if it made a good story?

All in all, Aramis had retold the story more times than he could count and to more people than he could remember. He was sure Athos had probably heard it on numerous drunken nights, considering he claimed to be so sick of the tale that he was going to “punch Aramis so hard he’d beg to be kicked”. So it was obviously a surprise when, at Porthos and Aramis’ stag party, D’Artagnan had asked him how they had first come to know each other.

“Haven’t I told you?” he’d asked, and the Gascon had shaken his head. How Aramis could have allowed this oversight to happen, he’d never know, but it was now practically his duty to tell the newest member of their group his story.

It had been years ago, of course. He’d still been young then, barely even a man. Perhaps, some would say, even still a child. A sunny day during his seventeenth summer, he’d begged his father to allow him use of the car. Only having obtained his license the week before, he’d been eager to finally get out on the roads, despite his inability to afford a car of his own. But that day, it had seemed important. He’d been naive then; a lover and a libertine. Somehow, he’d believed that he could impress his current flame if he arrived to greet her in a vehicle.

As it turned out, it only would have made her laugh at him. His father had only allowed him the fixer-upper; a hideous lime green contraption that puttered along the road, sounding like it could give up at any moment. Embarrassed as he was, he’d decided that it would be best to park the foul thing in a narrow alleyway behind Marie Aimée’s house. That way, he would not have to insult her eyes with the sight of such an accursed thing.

So he’d found a spot to abandon his car and went to call on Marie Aimée. The young lovers had passed a rather pleasant afternoon together before the sudden arrival of the young lady’s father and Aramis’ hasty retreat down the drainpipe. Laughing and breathless, he’d still been fighting to fasten his belt when he’d heard a distant sound of gunfire and a loud clamour of voices.

Cursing under his breath, he’d fished his keyring from the back pocket of his trousers, hand trembling slightly as he tried to get the key into the lock. The noise had definitely been coming closer, causing his heart to beat fast and loud in his ears. But the lock had finally sprung open, allowing him to slip into the driver’s seat and start the engine.

However, as luck would have it, the fluorescent abomination had chosen that moment to finally give up. The engine had stalled, puttering violently as it struggled to start. Aramis had let out a cry of frustration and leaned his head against the steering wheel, only noticing he’d had company when his passenger door was yanked open and a large, intimidating man had slipped into the seat beside him.

“Listen mate,” the stranger had whispered. “I just need you to drive, ok?”

“What the fuck...? No! Get out of my car!” Even in the moment, Aramis had known that the panic was evident in his voice, in the high-pitched tone that only seemed to get higher with every moment. “You hear me?! I said get out!” A hand had clamped down over his mouth then, and ice-cold fear had gripped his heart.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise!” the stranger had continued, and his voice was desperate. Tense. “I just really need to get outta here. There are some guys who...”

“Hey! Can anyone hear me! Help! Help, I’m being kidnapped!”

Aramis had managed to wriggle away from the constricting hand and, mere moments after he’d cried out, he’d heard the thundering of approaching footsteps. Relief had washed over him for the briefest of moments, but only until the group had rounded the corner of the alleyway. He’d been able to catch the briefest glimpse of a gang of men, at least five of them, all heavily armed, before a flash of pain had hit him and everything had gone black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon awakening, he’d found his surroundings unfamiliar, but comfortable. He’d been tucked into a warm, soft bed, a pitcher of water had been left on the bedside table for him. He’d forced himself to sit up, forced himself to ignore the dizziness that had overcome him at the movement, and he’d allowed the water to soothe his parched throat. No sooner had he done so, than the door had slowly opened and the stranger from before had slipped inside.

“Don’t panic!” he’d immediately told Aramis, holding up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. “You are free to leave whenever you like. I... I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”

“Caught up in what? You kidnapped me! Where the hell am I? What do you want? What happened back there? Who were those people?”

The stranger had sighed and taken a seat in a chair by the bed.

“Shhh, please, just... Calm down, ok? I’ll explain everything, I swear!”

Aramis had eyed the stranger warily, but had nodded. He hadn’t seemed so threatening then, not anymore. In fact, he hadn’t seemed intimidating at all. His voice had been soft, his gestures slow and careful, every effort being made to not frighten his prisoner. Unintended guest? Aramis hadn’t been quite sure.

Seeing the nod, the stranger had seemed to relax and had begun to speak again: “Ok, my name is Porthos. We’re at my friend Athos’ house, near the Louvre. I didn’t mean for you to be involved in this, and I certainly didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I only hit you because I panicked and I needed to get away...”

“Who were those people? Why were they armed? Why have you brought me here? Am I in danger? What...?”

“No! No, no, it’s fine. You’re fine! I just... I couldn’t have left you there. I brought you here so that I could make sure you were ok. Sometimes I hit harder than I think and...” Porthos had laughed then, but it hadn’t been a joyful sound. It had been more like the sound of a man who berated himself too often. “Anyway, I promise that’s all. I saw a car and I saw my chance to escape with my life. I just hadn’t wanted to harm anyone in the process...” A pause. “As for who they were... They were some people I used to know... Back where I grew up... But I left, I tried to better myself. I guess they saw that as some kind of betrayal...”

“Betrayal enough to chase you with weapons?!”

“I guess so...”

Porthos had shifted then and Aramis had noticed for the first time the ruby mess that had stained the other man’s sleeve.

“What happened to you? They got you?”

Porthos had seemed almost confused for a moment, his gaze following Aramis’ to rest upon his right bicep.

“Oh, yeah, bullet grazed me. I’ll be alright.”

“I know first aid. Why don’t you let me have a look at it?”

Aramis hadn’t even known what prompted him to offer, but it had felt like the right thing to do. And the silence that had fallen between the two men as Aramis had gently cleaned and bandaged the wound was a companionable one. An almost comfortable silence that Aramis had never experienced with another living soul. He should have been frightened, he’d thought, he should have been angry. And yet he hadn’t been. Instead, he’d been enveloped in a feeling of calmness and something had just felt... right. He couldn’t have explained it, and doubted that he would ever be able to do so. At home, he’d always felt tense; silences had always been awkward, filled with the fear of the imminent explosion of his father’s rage. Here, with Porthos, there had been none of that apprehension. Aramis hadn’t been able to feel that tension in the air, that feeling of electricity just waiting for a spark. He’d almost felt like the calmness would have been unsettling if it hadn’t been so nice. Yet, here it was and with it had brought a certain peace.

But it couldn’t have lasted forever, and the silence had finally been broken by Porthos’ soft grunt of pain as his wound had been jostled and a quick “Oh, I’m so sorry!” from Aramis. Porthos had shaken his head and reached to envelop Aramis’ small and dainty hand between both of his.

“No, I should be thanking you for helping me. And I really am sorry for what I did to you. I swear I’ll make it up to you someday.”

“Make it up to me? How do you suppose you’ll do that?”

Porthos had shot him a lopsided grin, skin crinkling beneath his left eye in such a charming way, and Aramis had felt heat rising to his cheeks, his heart hammering inside his chest.

“How about I start with taking you for a coffee?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aramis, of course, had accepted the offer of coffee, and it had led to more coffee dates, then to a loving relationship, and finally to this moment; his stag party, surrounded by his friends and the man he loved. Porthos sat by his side, that wonderful crinkle beneath his eye as he smiled, and Aramis knew just how lucky he was, even if fate had thrown them together in the strangest of ways.

“I fell in love with you that day,” Porthos suddenly leaned down to whisper in his ear. “And I’ve loved you ever since.”

Turning to face his fiancé, his soon-to-be-husband, Aramis smiled and gently touched his fingers to Porthos’ cheek.

“As I have loved you.”

The words were a whisper, a promise between the two lovers sealed into the gentle touch of their lips that followed.

#writing prompts #athos answers #sam writes #anon ask #porthos #aramis #portamis #musketeers #bbc musketeers #three musketeers #i hope this is ok!

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wp-blaze · 14 hours

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Drink Your Fill of Love

So, you want to be loved and feel it! There is a time and place in a marriage where God would like you to have your fill of love. How … Continue Reading Drink Your Fill of Love

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kuningannasansa · 4 years

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A musketeers rewatch (that nobody asked for) 1x07

Here we go, my least favorite episode of the whole show excluding season three which I didn’t watch! If you have even a passing fondness for Ninon, I suggest you look away :)

We start with a royal procession through the crowd and there are quite a lot of waving people there. If they can fill the streets with extras for scenes like that, why can those same extras not be used for the court scenes?

Priest whose name I have forgotten is being robbed. The musketeers rush in to help.

Meanwhile, a crazy girl tries to get close to the queen and ends up being ran over by her carriage. If this is meant to be some Emily Davison analogy, it sucks!

The dead lunatic’s name is Therese and she wanted to give the Queen a note. Constance takes it and says “Fleur, what does this mean?” Am I supposed to take from that that she cannot read for herself? Cause a merchant’s wife definitely, definitely would know how to do that.

Fleur is nowhere to be seen, however.

“This is an age of glorious discovery!” says Ninon. “Galileo observes the moons of Jupiter... But what is the role of women in this age of wonder?” - well, gee, i don’t know Ninon. Maybe you could have mentioned some female scientists of the era in addition to Galileo? Catherine de Parthenay, anyone? Or Marie Fouquet? Hell, Ninon de l'Enclos, my atheist queen, for whom this Ninon is doubtless named, was a notable woman in her own right! But no, we have to make women look more oppressed than they actually were to make this waste of space look more awesome.

“My women of Paris, seek your own enlightenment!” - wrong era!

Therese, an orphan from a humble background, wanted to hand a petition to the queen about women’s education.

“If she was an illiterate orphan she could not have written this. It is misguided but not unintelligent.” - says Richelieu. And indeed he turns out to be right. She didn’t write it. Which is fucking bizarre.

Anne asks him if he doesn’t favor women’s education and he replies: “I admire learning wherever it is to be found, but this amounts to an attack on the authority of church and state.” Any French history buff know what the actual Richelieu’s thought of women’s education? @tatzelwyrm? I’m gonna start a biography on him soon, but not until I’m done with this rewatch.

Ninon barges in past the guards and yells “stay out of my way, I will address the King!”. I’m sure this is meant to make her look badass, but she just comes across like a complete idiot who doesn’t understand that she would do better to follow court protocol, no matter how much she might dislike it, if she wants to achieve her goals.

Luckily for her she’s pretty, so the king doesn’t mind.

“I want to know why this tragedy happened. If your guards are to blame I want them punished.” And then she gives Treville a dirty look! How dare you, you waste of skin and oxygen! Don’t you dare blame Treville for this mess!

“You knew this lunatic?” - lmao, Richelieu!

Therese was the daughter of Ninon’s servant whom Ninon decided to educate. So she was educated, she COULD have written the petition herself. But she did not. Because when Richelieu says “she wrote this and was killed trying to give it to the Queen” Ninon screeches: “Don’t be ridiculous! She didn’t write it, I did!” And I mean, who exactly is looking down on servant girls here and saying it’s ridiculous to expect them to write something intelligent. It’s not Richelieu.

But more importantly, WHY?? If Ninon wrote it, why couldn’t she hand it to the Queen? Why did this poor girl have to die? This is so, so stupid! I mean, okay, maybe Therese heard Ninon speak well of the queen and got the idea to hand her the petition on her own, without being told by Ninon to do so. But why did she have it in the first place, if it’s Ninon’s petition?

“Apparently the Comtesse de Laroque believes herself above the normal laws and conventions of society.” ´- well that’s an understatement.

“The treasury is bankrupt and the country needs a new navy. Ninon has the wealth to provide it.” And that is why Richelieu sends Milady into the salon to find something to use against her. These two are so good in this, I love their scenes together! Pity about the rest of the episode.

Richelieu is now freaking out about lesbians and Milady is just like “really, dude? really?”. I love her!

“Ninon must pay up or face destruction, I want every last penny from her!” - so it was not his intention to kill her, just to get the money. Interesting.

Fleur’s father is Bonacieux’s cousin. I love that, the commoners having family connections and support circles of their own.

The robbed priest is called Luca! Richelieu is “delighted to see him”, apparently, cause they’re old friends. And Louis isn’t, because he wrote a pamphlet arguing that Kings should bow down to the Pope’s authority.

“We can’t have a comtesse abducting young women and spiriting them away to her boudoir!” - Oh, Richelieu! Do calm down.

It’s odd watching Richelieu try to use homosexuality to take Ninon down while shipping Trevilieu thou.

Athos barges into Ninon’s salon, demanding to know where Fleur is and Milady very discreetly hides behind a pillar. Lol!

And Ninon starts hitting on Athos immediately. She tells him that she’s often thought he’s handsome but the “melancholy aspect” to his looks is “probably only mental vacancy”. Who taught you how to flirt? Why must you be so abrasive and confrontational all the time? Like really, I get she’s meant to be a Strong Woman Who Don’t Take No Shit TM, but she just comes across like a loudmouth.

Athos likes it thou!

“Forgive our intrusion-” “I will not forgive it!” - Jesus Ninon, it’s just a figure of speech, a polite gesture. People use these in conversation sometimes. She’s so unnecessarily rude smh.

Aramis says he “gladly acknowledges the superiority of the female sex” and I throw up in my mouth a little. That’s not feminism, that’s slimy!

D’artagnan: “If that wasn’t flirting, I don’t know what is.” Porthos: “Rubbish! She can’t stand him.” Aramis: “One day I’ll sit down and explain women to you.” - cause we’re all the same and no means yes, right writers?

Luca: “His holiness is concerned about the direction of French foreign policy.” Richelieu: “Well the pope is Spain’s performing monkey.” - he really is so funny! I know I keep saying that, but he is!

Also, YAY politics! Intelligent dialogue! I love this scene so much!

“In matters of religion I defer to Rome, in all else I am my country’s servant” - lol, Richelieu inventing the separation of church and state

Luca: “Is this your final word on the subject?” Richelieu: “It is.” - and that right there is where Luca decides to kill him. The actor plays it really well, knowing it’s coming I can see the briefest moment of regret in his eyes, but without hindsight I wouldn’t notice anything. And he gives Richelieu the poisoned gift.

Also, isn't it the same guy who plays Margaret’s new man in Harlots?

Athos says that Therese and Fleur were so far below Ninon in status that they were not in a position to make choices of their own free will. Which is fuckign stupid. But Ninon saying that she views all women as equal regardless of their birth is equally moronic. I mean, sure, they should be, but in reality they’re not and ignoring that doesn’t help anyone. And Athos does point out that Ninon’s money and position gives her certain privileges, but it sits wrong coming from him and not from Porthos or Milady or Constance, who are from poor/less wealthy backgrounds. That said, this is still one of the few semi intelligent scenes in this whole episode, so whatever. At least someone said it.

Now she kisses him and invites him to dine! And he just looks sad.

Luca tells Richelieu to “deal with” Ninon “firmly”, cause the Pope is dying and Richelieu could be the next Pope if he shows himself a strong defender of the church against “heresy”. What heresy thou? Women learning to read? Lol, that’s so cartoonishly evil and ahistorical, but whatever. This at least explains where Richelieu’s desire to have her burned came from.

Richelieu: “I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a heretic.” Luca: “A woman who openly defies God's laws, what other word is there?” - what laws thou? what has she done, other than hold some salon meetings, as every other noblewoman was doing at the time?

Richelieu promises to consider his options and Luca tells him to pray to the poisoned bone for guidance, lol.

This right here is Richelieu letting personal feelings cloud his judgement, thou! Which he said he has learned no to do. But he allows himself to be carried away with visions of becoming Pope and honestly I don’t see how he can possibly believe that could happen with his foreign policy and how hated he is by the Vatican, as stated in this very scene.

Milady and Ninon! I love that scene! Ninon clearly thinks she’s super special because she “takes the initiative” by kissing men instead of waiting to be kissed. She’s so damn smug about it! And Milady is just like “oh I could never be so bold” and I swear I can hear her laughing internally!

And she very cleverly charms Fleur’s location out of Ninon!

Athos’s idea of a first date is the morgue. Charming.

Athos saying that Ninon is responsible for what happened to Therese because she gave a lowborn girl an education doesn’t sit well with me. Classist ass! But she is responsible for not thinking of Therese beyond how daring and adventurous and fun and positively scandalous it would be to educate a servant girl and then not bothering to care for her when she got bored. Cause if she had done, Therese could have come to her with her plan and she could have prevented her death. Because yes, regardless of her education, her background predisposed Therese to be naive about the King and Queen and how petitions work. Where was Ninon in all this, when a girl under her charge decided to do this foolish thing that cost her her life? Because if you want to be someone’s teacher you do have a duty of care. In short, Ninon is a classist ass as well! They’re perfect for each other!

So Luca’s stolen bag is in the morgue with the body of the thief who stole it. And Athos promises to send for it in the morning. I know it’s CSI: Musketeers and all, but why was it not delivered to Luca the moment it was found, lol? He’s a pretty important guest at the palace and it’s his property.

Athos agrees with Ninon that marriage is a curse. LOL!

Ninon’s reason for not marrying is that she does not want a husband to own her wealth and body. Makes sense and that’s why many independently wealthy women chose to stay unmarried. Just pointing out the few things that make sense.

“You are a rebellious woman” - oh good, we managed to squeeze the title of the episode into the dialogue!

Aramis just tossed a red guard out of Ninon’s house. Can’t tell if he’s dead or not, but certainly unconscious.

There’s fighting. The red guards have swords, the musketeers have books. Athos screams “where is your authority for this!?!” - well, the Cardinal, I’d assume, since they are his guards. Oh bear of very little brain!

Fleur and some other runaway girls are found sleeping in a secret chamber and Ninon is arrested for abducting them.

Athos is all like “you said she wasn’t here” and Ninon tries to explain that Fleur did not want to be found and begs “make them stop” to which Athos replies “sorry, I can’t”, his voice and face making it very clear that he doesn’t want to. Because a woman lied to him! This is the worst crime! Really Ninon is lucky she’s being arrested right now, otherwise she’d end up swinging from a tree.

“Four young women! In their nightwear! I can only speculate as to the horrors they have endured!” - Richelieu really has a bee in his bonnet about lesbians. The days before p*rnhub must have been hard for a catholic cardinal.

Luca is even worse thou! “Your majesty is joking but Satan is real! And his female familiars are everywhere amongst us.” Jesus christ guys, calm down! Have a wank or something!

“She had the girls, she lied, she brought her fate on herself.” - Oh shut up Athos! Not everything is about you and your relationship issues! As Aramis points out. Thank you, Aramis! And I never believed I’d ever say that.

Ninon/Aramis > > > > > > > > > > Ninon/Athos

Aramis gives Ninon the cross Anne gave him. This is quite sweet!

“It’s not so easy when you don’t have money” Constance says and she is right. But it’s like the show is saying that the only way women can be independant is if they are independently wealthy like Ninon. But that’s not really true, Fleur could get a job such as a seamstress or pharmacist or grain merchant or actress or even as a secretary now that she knows latin and greek thanks to Ninon. Women did have jobs in 17th century France and even belonged to guilds etc. Not saying that Fleur would not be more financially secure still with a husband, but if she really doesn’t want that she has options and I don’t like how this supposed “feminist” episode constantly erases women’s actual history.

Fleur’s father rages “what does she need an education for? She’ll be a seamstress until she’s married and then she’ll be a dutiful wife and mother.” But if he is Bonacieux’s cousin then they are in the same social class, that is to say, the merchant class. And merchant women had to keep their husbands’ shops when their husbands were away. They needed to know how to read and write and do sums. They needed this to be an attractive marriage prospect to a husband of their own social class!

And the father wants to hit Fleur and D’artagnan all heroically threatens him. How boring!

Richelieu: “Many of our young women are educated. It’s not something we’re ashamed of.” Fleur: “Not just embroidery and sewing.” Me: “WELL OF COURSE NOT!!!”

Then Fleur says Ninon taught them the “secrets of our bodies” and Richelieu is a hound on the scent!

“Be quiet or you’ll be gagged!” - Again Armand, this is neither the time nor the place to indulge your kinks.

ENTER MILADY!

She does such a brilliant job of her testimony! This is again her lying about rape and I talked about before why that is bad, but in this case I don’t mind cause it’s for state reasons and doesn’t in any way invalidate her own story the way the thing with D’artagnan does.

Athos completely LOSES HIS SHIT!! Not doing the defence any good there, buddy!

The look she gives him as she walks out is priceless!

Queen Anne to the rescue, bringing clemency from Louis! Clever girl, must have manipulated it out of him! Season 1 Anne was intelligent.

And Ninon ruins it by saying: “I have never consorted with the devil until this moment. I am looking at him.” To which Richelieu replies: “Condemned from her own mouth.” As any person with half a brain would. Jesus christ Ninon, you should have been gagged! For your own safety!

And then Richelieu stops breathing! And we get Treville’s reaction to it, thank you camera people! Thou Treville mostly just looks confused, like “what is that drama queen doing now?”

Now he’s twitching! And I’m sorry but it looks hilarious.

Aramis carries him to bed on his back and puts a hand over his mouth. I’m not sure that helps with the breathing issues...

Louis pushes Aramis out of the way and cries “please don’t die! please don’t die!” aawwwwwwwwwww!

Aramis really saves his life here, huh.

Anne is briefly jealous about the cross and asks Aramis if Ninon is his lover. Lol! She never expected him to stalk her for the rest of her life, she fully expected him to keep lovers.

Luca: “Satan turned his blood to acid at her command!” Porthos: “We’ll add Satan to the list of suspects.”

Fleur: “You think I poisoned him?” Constance: “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard even by musketeer standards.” - THANK YOU CONSTANCE!

Fleur is to be married to a 40 year old butcher. Poor girl!

“Was it you?” - LOL!

“Half the doctors say you’re doomed, the other half claim you’ll make a full recovery. There’s a lot of professional pride at stake.” - Milady is very funny too! But I’ve always known that!

“Whatever happens to me, I want you to extract this confession from Ninon.” - translation: it doesn’t matter if I die, the main thing is that France gets that navy. For France, always. I’m amazed by how much he trusts Milady here thou.

Milady thinks the kneebone of St. Anthony is gross and “as much use as the doctors”. Bless her!

Constance very sweetly talks Fleur’s father out of forcing her to marry. Go Constance!

Ninon: “There is nothing worse than a woman who betrays her own sex” Milady: “I can think of a few things, but let’s not argue.” - THIS!! This is my favorite part of this whole miserable episode, because yes, with her background she can think of things Ninon couldn’t possibly imagine. It’s also a fuck you to that “don’t encourage girl on girl hate” line terfs and white feminists always hide behind when they get called out on their bullshit, though this wasn’t the point here. I love how she doesn’t even explain, too. Let’s not argue, cause what’s the point. You’ll never get it.

I do want to stress that Ninon is not wrong for educating other women and she has been unjustly condemned (althou I would argue that she might not have drawn Richelieu’s ire if she went about it in a more subtle, less smug way, for the safety of the girls she teaches if not for her own). But Milady is employed by the First Minister of France and is doing her job here, a job which she depends upon for her own independence and safety. As she says, Ninon didn’t do anything to her, she’s just a victim of circumstance.

“If you don’t confess, the women of your salon will burn in your place. Surely you wish to save the lives of your accomplices in Satan?” - Milady does a good job of selling it, but if you think about it, that makes no sense. These women have already been publicly proclaimed Ninon’s victims. And if they have legal trouble with burning her alone, how would they manage a whole bunch of them, most of whom are also high ranking noblewomen?

Ninon falls for it thou. Fail!

Richelieu orders Ninon burned and Milady says that the Queen and King won’t like it. Richelieu replies that: “she’s irrelevant and a new navy will soothe his dismay.” He’s really underestimating season 1 Anne here. But season 2 will prove him right, sadly.

“The kingdom of heaven is a dream. Our only life is here.” - Go Milady!

Richelieu says he won’t burn her for heresy but to be careful cause “one day someone else might” and idk, but it comes across like pretty friendly advice, considering what he’s currently doing with Ninon.

Now he worries he might go to hell! And Milady says he’s already there, lmaoo! I LOVE THIS SCENE!!

They go to the morgue to retrieve Luca’s bag and discover that the thief was poisoned in the same manner as the Cardinal. Thus the plot is uncovered.

“Open his mouth!” “You open his mouth!”

Luca kills a red guard and is about to kill Richelieu (who fights him with a fork!) when the musketeers burst in. And Richelieu curses them for being late!

Richelieu had apparently worked out that it was Luca who was trying to kill him at some point during the night. No idea how.

Athos begs for Ninon’s life while the pire is already burning. And Richelieu agrees cause burning her is all very “dark ages”, like he said to begin with. He says he’s not a cruel man, just a practical one. But practicality sometimes requires cruelty. He’s not a sadist thou, that’s what he meant and that’s true.

Athos drags Ninon off the burning pire. So the great feminist character got duped by Milady and then had to be rescued by her love interest. So good, much feminist.

“As far as the world is concerned, Comtesse Ninon de Laroque died on that pire today.” Richelieu takes her lands, her property and her money and sends her into exile. Then he threatens to execute her if she ever tells anyone the truth of what happened.

“My voice will never be silenced, but I promise you will never hear it.” - the stupidest line of the whole episode and that’s saying something. Seriously, what does this mean? Your voice was silenced! Richelieu got your wealth which you could have used to educate more women. You were completely defeated. Like really, who is the idiot who wrote this? And what made them think this is in any way empowering or even just a satisfactory conclusion to Ninon’s acr?? Ughhhh!!

I do love Richelieu and Milady getting a rare victory thou!

“Nothing, no person, no nation, no god will stand in my way.” - HOT!

Aramis gets his cross back lol. Otherwise it would have burned.

Lmao, Richelieu sends Luca’s ashes to rome with a threat to the Pope.

And Capaldi pronounces “Richelieu” in a very strange way.

Milady: “You do realise you’ll never be Pope?” Richelieu: “It’s an Italian club and largely a clerical position. I prefer something with a little more influence.” - L! O! L!

Ninon plans to open a school for poor girls and be a teacher. Well, idk, I hope she does a better job of it than she did with Therese.

Athos asks Ninon if “Madame de la Chapelle” ever told her anything about herself. And Ninon is like “so you did know her after all?” and he says “in another life” and she warns him to be careful because she has the cardinal’s protection so “a blow against her is a blow against him” and idk, does she realize that Milady was Athos’s wife here? Is that how I’m supposed to read it? He did tell her before that he used to be married.

Then she kisses him and tells him she could have loved a man like him. And she’s just way more into him than he is into her.

Lmaooo, Fleur is not forced to marry and can continue with her education and she’s “sure” that the woman who convinced her father was Ninon. And Constance doesn’t correct her and doesn’t even want the credit, but I’m mad lol, as if Ninon even remembers you exist Fleur!

D’artagnan gives Constance the credit, at least! And then comes his declaration of love, which is actually very sweet and I really liked them together in season 1! Constance is so beautiful in this scene too! It’s very well lit and she’s wearing that lovely dress!

Aaaaand we fade to black on some PG13 kissing and groping! Sorry, this was very long, but there was a lot to complain about.

In conclusion, awful! Like, the thing that bothers me the most is that this token girl power episode would not even have been radical in 1970, never mind today. The message is simply that women should have an education, which no sane person today would disagree with. It’s very safe and bland. And erases women’s real history in the process. It’s almost as if these male writers are congratulating themselves “weren’t things ever so bad Back Then, we are so much more progressive now”, instead of doing the truly radical thing and showing women’s real history, showing women in positions of power running their literary salons and not getting burned for it, showing women as independent businesswomen with an education! Why not give Bonacieux a female rival in the cloth business? Why not go deeper than “women are human beings” and give the episode a truly radical message that still resonates today. After all, we might be ever so educated now but it’s not like women have achieved equality. More on that in this old post: https://kuningannasansa.tumblr.com/post/126434697304/the-problem-of-ninon

Anyway, I really hope the next episode will be better!

Red Guards killed: 1 or 2, impossible to really tell

Ladies killed: Therese

Best Dressed: Ninon. She did have some pretty dresses.

#the musketeers #bbc musketeers #cardinal richelieu #milady de winter #anti ninon #musketeers rewatch

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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ADSOM Drabbles: Why Don’t I Hate You At All?

(For the Anon who requested an ADSOM drabble! This is pre-canon, but does include some spoilers for the first Shades of Magic book, so if you haven’t read it yet, you may not want to click on the Read More link!)

You know what your problem is?” Normally stoic, Holland Vosijk was feeling exactly enough of the kick from his third goblet of the odd dry Arnesian wine he was drinking to jab his finger at the air in the direction of the man sitting across from him.

“No,” Kell Maresh replied. He was on his fourth glass. Around them, the bar’s patrons pretended with great effort not to be obvious about their unease that they had not one, but two Antari sitting here being infinitely dangerous right in the middle of them. “But I imagine you are about to tell me.”

“Someone should.” Holland’s accent was thicker when he drank like this - normally he prided himself on speaking with a polished, very slight roundness to his consonants, on not flattening his vowels. But drunk, he slipped into the Kosik accent he’d grown up with - rough-and-tumble, the accent of men who took up business in dark buildings and who would have paid a lot of money to have an Antari to steal, enslave, and sell.

Kell looked at him, and Holland did not notice the high color in the other man’s cheeks - pale redheads, he thought, held their liquor in their faces, and that was never a problem he’d had in his life. Maktahn men started drinking in childhood and never stopped - what else was there to do, as each year was a little colder?

“Please believe me,” Kell said, dryly, “That you don’t really need to worry about that. My own mother tells me what is wrong with me every time I turn around, some days.”

“She’s not your mother,” Holland said, and took another drink.

He expected Kell to snap at him - he had before, when he’d said similar things. Instead, the Maresh princeling - prince in name only, Antari in Arnes couldn’t hold property or real titles or be in line for the throne - only sighed and said, “I know. She could have been, I think, but it was never her intention.”

“That’s not what we get to be, is it?” Holland said, and laughed - dark and bitter, and in his chest the curse did not burn but was a weight, ever-present. A hint of stone to sink him under the Sijlt, under the claws of the white king and queen in the world of bones that waited for his return.

They had given him the night off, and because he was a glutton for punishment, he’d sought out the person he hated most in the world, after them.

“No,” Kell said evenly, and he looked at Holland oddly with the blue-and-black eyes, and Holland met him head on with his own faded, dry-grass green. “It’s not.” There was a hesitation, and then Kell leaned over, finishing his wine with a flourish. “Tell me, Holland Vosijk, exactly what my problem is.”

Holland brightened, a little, at the opening. “Your problem,” He said, and jabbed his finger again, because that felt like the right thing to do. “Is your world’s problem.”

“My world’s problem,” Kell repeated, deadpan.

“Right. You’re spoiled. Fat vitun worms. Eat and eat and eat and the world makes more magic to soak you in, and you don’t even notice it. When I am here, I feel…” He trailed off, and looked down into the vibrant dark red of his wine. The mead in Makt, and the sweet wines the Danes drank by the barrel and licked the red off their fingers (when they weren’t mixing it with Holland’s blood for quite the drink, indeed, Holl) - none of them had so much color.

“What do you feel?” Kell looked more curious now, his eyes glittering and bright with the drink, the flush in his face making him seem like a painting, like one of the portraits Holland saw when he walked the marketplace here. Artisans using paints that would cost more than Holland’s life was worth with reckless abandon because they could simply get more.

“I feel like I wish I could tear the whole thing down and give it to my people. Glass this city to the ground and use all the magic in your kurat river to feed ours. But I’m not sure we deserve it... or that I do.”

Neither of them guessed at the confession until it was already out, and both of them went silent in the sudden realization of what Holland had said.

Kell, so much younger and with a life blessed with almost everything he ever wanted, a life with few hard choices and cursed with almost no choices at all, shifted uncomfortably. “Why… why do you say that?” He asked, with the air of someone who wished the ground would swallow him whole and who could not stop himself from asking the question, anyway.

“Makt is violent. We are a people who bleed each other dry-”

“And try to bleed your visitors, too, you know,” Kell added, and Holland huffed a laugh, nearly soundless.

“Fair. And my king and queen would have us both kneel at their feet if they could. Power is not enough - they must have more power, and more, and more.”

“They’re in the wrong world if more power is their only ambition,” Kell murmured, but he took the warning, Holland thinks - or maybe he didn’t, and he’s just drunk enough to look solemn because he thinks it makes him seem dignified.

It doesn’t.

Holland only watched him, for a long moment, and then he shifted to dig into a pocket sewn into the underside of his half-cloak, a pocket that sits directly over the curse carved into his chest. He has his commands, and it’s not time for this yet, but…

“Kell.”

“Mmmn?” Kell looked over at him, and Holland was definitely drunk, because he caught himself liking the line of the younger man’s jaw, the hint of freckles on his pale face, a single darker one under one eye.

If things had only been entirely different, Holland thought, we might have been friends.

A thought he allowed to exist only in whispers, because it was Holland’s own fault that they had never gotten further than antagonistic. He’d been arrogant, before the Danes, when he stood by the side of a man he thought might change everything. And he’d had that arrogance bled out of him, day by day, bone by broken bone, knife in his ribs with his head in Athos Dane’s lap, back whipped to shreds.

No more arrogance, in Holland Vosijk, at least not when his king and queen were near.

But maybe a little, when he was drunk with Kell Maresh.

“If I gave you this… what would you do?” Holland dug the necklace out of the pocket and laid it on the table between them. Kell blinked at it, clearly not recognizing the carvings on the pendant. He didn’t know what it was, and Holland breathed out slowly, trying to steady himself.

If Kell had known, this might have been over, now.

Instead, Holland thought bitterly, what promised to be the worst days of Kell Maresh’s life hadn’t even begun yet.

“If you… gave it to me?”

“Ja. I mean yes. What would you do, if I came to you, and I offered you this?”

“I’d wonder what poison you soaked the pendant in to kill me,” Kell answered quickly, and quirked a smile.

Holland fought the knowledge that he rather liked the way Kell Maresh looked, when he smiled.

“If you could know it wasn’t poisoned. If all it was, was… a gift.” He had his orders. I have been to your father for business already. I come to you for pleasure. Astrid had coached him until he could say it with a straight face, ordered him to do whatever it took to get that necklace over Rhy Maresh’s head.

Holland was hoping, deeply hoping, it wouldn’t have to be anything more than handing it over. His body would do as Astrid bid, but his mind recoiled at the thought of bedding the Crown Prince of Arnes only to ensure that the young man’s body became Astrid’s, afterward, instead.

If he had to bed one of them, he’d rather-

“I’d take it,” Kell said decisively, and Holland’s thoughts all scattered.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’d take it, if you offered it. I mean, I’d be suspicious, but…” Kell hesitated, then held up his hand. When the barmaid stopped by, he asked merely for two glasses of water, and to put the whole tab on the Crown. The woman smiled, nervously, bowed a little bit, and scurried to do as he asked. “I’d still take it. I don’t know if I’d wear it, though. Might just hold it.”

“I don’t think I’d want you to wear it,” Holland said, honestly. Not that it would work on you, but that’s not the point.

“Really? But you just-”

“It’s just a hypothetical,” Holland said quickly, and put the necklace back in his pocket. “And I am entirely too drunk to have this conversation.”

“I’m glad you did,” Kell said, and maybe that was his own confession, because his face reddened further and he looked away as the water was set down before them.

Holland downed his glass and pushed himself to his feet, feeling a sudden rush of alcohol, the world shifting uneasily around him. “I must away, Kell Maresh.”

“What? Already?” Kell tilted his head, looking up at him, and Holland could have sworn he looked sad. “You never talk to me like this.”

Holland swallowed, looking at his face, at the blue eye and the black. “We’ll talk more,” He said, slowly, “In the future.”

When you belong to my queen, when we both cut ourselves open for them, when she rules Arnes with her brother and you rule nothing, not even your own veins. When you suffer alongside me - and Kell Maresh, may you never suffer as beautifully as I do.

Prince Rhy Maresh’s birthday was nearly here, and Holland was going to destroy Kell Maresh’s world. He’d felt he owed the man a nice conversation, first.

The next conversation would be… harder.

He bowed his head, only slightly, to the younger man, who looked a little wistfully back up at him. “You’ll come back soon enough, Holland?” Kell asked, and there was a second question under the first, a vulnerability.

Holland only looked at him calmly, a man life had emptied out of every ounce of hope for anything like the real answer Kell wanted. Will you come back to see me, like this? When we talk like men and not like enemies?

“I’ll come back,” Holland said carefully. “For your brother’s birthday.”

He turned and left, Kell sitting and drinking the water in sips, and felt the prince’s eyes on his back until the door closed behind him.

I am going to ruin you, you spoiled selfish soft thing. I have hated you as long as I’ve understood you. I have spent seven years in degradation and filth while you drown in your luxuries and whine about how your parents don’t love you enough.

I am wrecked - I am a tombstone in a magic-less London, an angel carved of rock with empty eyes. I am hollowed-out with their knives and their laughter and their curse. I am nothing and no one but the magic that flows in my veins. I am nothing but a well of power they draw from.

I am not a man, only an Antari, and you have had the absolute luck to get to be both, haven’t you?

hate everything you have been raised to be. I loathe your world, and its color and life at the expense of mine. I will hand your brother his doom and do it with a smile on my face.

Because they told me to smile.

I hate you.

So why don’t I hate you at all?

#adsom drabbles #fanfic #fanfic drabble #Holland Vosijk #Kell Maresh #anon asks for adsom #shades of magic #adsom #acol #agos #kind of holland x kell but not really

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orthodoxydaily · 4 years

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Saints&Reading: Mon., Sept.21, 2020

Nativity of Our Most Holy Lady the Theotokos

Homily of Metropolitan Anthony of Sorouzh for the fast of the Nativity of the Mother of God. one of the twelve great feasts of the Orthodox Church year. It’s also the first feasts of the new liturgical year,

I should like to say a few words about the greatness of this feast. When a man surveys this world in which we live, which is so vast, seemingly boundless, and looks at himself in it, he feels very small and insignificant. And if he adds to this the hardness and coldness of men, he may sometimes feel extremely vulnerable, helpless and unprotected both before people and before the terrifying vastness of the world.

Yet at the same time if a man looks at himself not in relation to his surroundings, but goes deep into himself, he will there discover such an expanse, such depths, that the whole created world is too small to fill it. Man sees the beauty of the world — and the vision does not completely satisfy him; he learns an enormous amount about God's creation — and the knowledge does not fill him to the brim. Neither human joy nor even human sorrow can completely fill a man, because in him is a depth that exceeds everything created; because God made man so vast, so deep, so limitless in his spiritual being, that nothing in the world can finally satisfy him except God Himself.

Today's feast of the Mother of God demonstrates this fact with particular beauty and splendour. She so believed in God, She gave herself to Him with such a pure mind and pure heart, with an unwavering will, with the purity of her virginity and life, such that she was granted to say the name of God perfectly, with such love that the Word became flesh and God was made man in her.

Through this we are shown that not only is the soul, the inner being and spirit of man, so created by God that it can contain the mystery of a meeting with the living God, but that even the body is so made that in an unfathomable way it can be united with the living God. Indeed, according to St. Peter we are called to become partakers of the divine nature; according to St. Paul our vocation is to become temples of the Holy Spirit. The whole of the New Testament teaches us that we are the Body, the living tremulous Body of Christ, through baptism and through Holy Communion. How wonderful this is, and therefore with what reverence must we regard not only our immortal soul, but this body of ours which is called to rise again, to enter the Kingdom of God and be glorified, like the body of Christ.

In the XI century St. Simeon the New Theologian, one of the greatest saints of Mount Athos, wrote one day when he had returned to his humble cell after receiving Holy Communion, words to this effect, "I look upon this corruptible body, upon this frail flesh, and I tremble, because by partaking of the Holy Mysteries it has been permeated by God, it has been united with Christ, it is overflowing with the Holy Spirit... these powerless hands have become the hands of God, this body has become a body that God has taken possession of."

Consider what has been given us not only by our faith, but by the sacraments of the Church; the immersion in the blessed waters of baptism makes us particles, living members of Christ's Body, the anointing with holy chrism is not only the visible seal of the Holy Spirit, but makes us the temples in which He dwells. When the bread and wine which are offered by our faith and love to God are consecrated, they become incomprehensibly and mysteriously the Body and Blood of Christ, and this created matter partakes of Christ and imparts to us, who are incapable of soaring to God in spirit, the divinity of Christ, which saves and transfigures us in soul and body.

This feast of Nativity of the Mother of God is the time when, we remember the birth of the one who for the sake of us all, for the whole human race, was able to show such faith, to surrender so absolutely to God, that He could become Man through Her, and bring us these manifold, unfathomable gifts. Glory to her humility, glory to her faith, glory to her love, glory to God Who was incarnate and to the Virgin Mother of God, the worthy vessel of the incarnation of the Son of God, Christ our God!

May God bless all of you on this wonderful feast day!

Metropolitan Anthony of Sorouzh

Luke 1:39-49, 56

39 Now Mary arose in those days and went into the hill country with haste, to a city of Judah,40 and entered the house of Zacharias and greeted Elizabeth.41And it happened, when Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, that the babe leaped in her womb; and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. 42 Then she spoke out with a loud voice and said, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!43 But why is this granted to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? 44 For indeed, as soon as the voice of your greeting sounded in my ears, the babe leaped in my womb for joy.45 Blessed is she who believed, for there will be a fulfillment of those things which were told her from the Lord. 46 And Mary said: "My soul magnifies the Lord,47 And my spirit has rejoiced in God my Savior.48 For He has regarded the lowly state of His maidservant; For behold, henceforth all generations will call me blessed. 49 For He who is mighty has done great things for me, And holy is His name.56 And Mary remained with her about three months, and returned to her house.

Philippians 2:5-11

5Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus,6 who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God,7 but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men.8 And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross. 9 Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the name which is above every name,10 that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth,11 and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #ancientchristianity #firstchristian #spirituality #holyscripture #gospel #sacredtext #wisdom

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flowers-creativity · 4 years

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Bad Luck (chapter 19)

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

Notes: Angst, thy name is Aramis ...

AO3 link

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18

Chapter 20

The atmosphere in the small room had changed with Porthos' first awakening. The routine that followed in the next few days was no less familiar than that of their earlier days but much less tense. He was still sleeping most of the time, but now they could relax and leave his bedside more, catch up on sleep themselves and get fresh air, though it went without saying that one of them was still there whenever he woke.

Two days after he had come around for the first time, they said goodbye to Marcel and Fadil. The two men had sent word of their survival and freedom to their families when they had originally arrived at the small inn, using the same carrier Athos had sent to update Captain Tréville, but they had refused to even entertain the idea of returning to Paris while Porthos' fate was still uncertain. Now that he was no longer in danger and on the mend, the call of home was too strong to ignore any longer, which none of the Musketeers could fault them for. They left exchanging smiles and firm handshakes, and the promise to call at the garrison in a few weeks to catch up and check with their own eyes that Porthos had fully recovered, of which Aramis was convinced.

At least his body. His mind and soul, now, might be a different matter.

Aramis tried to push back that niggling worry and stretched, working out a kink in his back. He sat back on his chair and propped his stockinged feet up on the edge of the bed, contemplating the still form of his sleeping friend. Porthos was on his belly, one arm loosely curled around the pillow. His bare back was a network of dark scabs, the infection finally gone from the wounds so that they were healing. They had opted to leave the wounds open to the air for a while to aid in healing, and Aramis could see the first patches of shiny new skin and scar tissue between the scabs. They would have to work on keeping the skin of Porthos' back flexible, and he would bear the scars to remember this experience for the rest of his life. But still, it was the best possible outcome they could have hoped for, Aramis supposed.

As for his state of mind, it was harder to say. He had been quiet whenever he was awake, but how much of that was due to the lethargy of a body sapped of strength by fever and lack of nourishment and the discomfort and lingering pain of healing wounds, was difficult to tell. They had caught up on what had happened while they were separated, but that had been mainly Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan talking. Porthos had little to contribute they hadn't already heard from Marcel and Fadil …

“Stop thinkin' so hard,” a voice broke into his thoughts, and his head snapped upwards to meet Porthos' eyes. His brother was blinking at him lazily but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Porthos,” Aramis breathed, and as had happened every time he had woken since the first time, he felt another bit of tension leave his body at seeing his eyes clear, hearing his voice speak freely and without confusion. Porthos didn't reply, just cocked an eyebrow at him, and Aramis laughed tiredly and sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand through his messy curls. “I was just woolgathering,” he said.

Porthos hummed and shifted onto his side, grimacing slightly. “Nah, you're worryin',” he said. “Stop that. I'm alright.”

Aramis snorted. “Says the man who's barely able to stay awake for more than an hour still,” he returned.

Porthos narrowed his eyes at him. “Gettin' there, at least,” he insisted.

Aramis nodded, conceding the point. However, he reached out and took Porthos' hand, interlacing their fingers. “You know you don't have to be,” he said, “alright, I mean.” He looked at him intensely, trying to read what was going on behind these dark eyes. “What you went through--”

On most days, he could read Porthos like an open book. Today, however, he could literally see the shutters closing, the walls being built, and he was left disconcerted and helpless on the outside. Porthos' hand twitched in his grip as if he was fighting down the urge to withdraw from him physically, too. His voice was flat as he said: “It's over. I survived. That's what counts.”

“Porthos ...” Aramis' voice was imploring, one step above pleading. “Don't shut me out. You know what happens when you don't deal with things like that. It will fester and turn sour.”

Porthos' brows drew down in a deep frown. “Nothin' to it,” he objected. “And if there is, I'll deal with it.”

“Let me help. And d'Artagnan and Athos – let us help,” the marksman insisted.

“Dammit, Aramis, let me be! I don't want your help!” Porthos ripped his hand from Aramis', scooting back in the bed until his back was to the wall and pulling his legs up. His face was contorted with anger but beneath that, Aramis thought he saw something else, a tremble at the edge of his lips, his eyes a bit too wide and wild.

Aramis raised his hands in a placating gesture, ruthlessly pushing away any hurt feelings that were welling up in him. He knew Porthos was just lashing out. Still, it felt like somebody had reached into his chest, grabbed his heart and squeezed, seeing his brother shy away from him like that. “Hey, it's alright,” he said soothingly. “I'll stop pushing. Just … Please, if you need somebody, come to one of us, yeah? None of us will be judging you.”

Porthos stared at him, his eyes narrowed and his heavy breaths loud in the silence. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he answered grudgingly, his tense body language relaxing slightly. “I know.”

Aramis exhaled and returned the nod. “Come on, lay down again,” he asked. “Sitting with your back against the wall like that can't be pleasant.”

Porthos grunted but shimmied downwards until he could lay down on his side again, propped up on one elbow. He was still looking at him with something bordering on mistrust in his eyes, and Aramis ached from it. Silence settled over them, awkward and heavy. Porthos shifted a few times to find a comfortable position, then closed his eyes, and it did not take long until his breaths evened out into sleep, and Aramis was alone with his thoughts again. He bit his lips, running his hands through his hair and tugging at it, using the minor pain to ground himself. Had he just made things worse? Suddenly, he could no longer stay in place. Surging to his feet, he strode from the room – Porthos was fine, or at least fine enough to be left alone for a bit.

He had barely closed the door behind him and turned when he nearly collided with Athos, drawing up short in the nick of time. A small “Oh!” escaped him.

Athos' eyes immediately narrowed. “Aramis?”

Aramis looked from him to d'Artagnan who had appeared behind their leader, his arms laden with their lunch. “I'm sorry, you just startled me,” he tried to play it off.

Athos' eyes stayed on his face, and he knew that the man could read him – not perfectly, maybe, but enough to notice that something was off. Without looking, he reached past Aramis and pulled open the door. “Go on in, d'Artagnan,” he ordered. “Get everything set up, we'll be along in a minute.”

The Gascon's gaze bounced between them, eyebrows raised, but the lad didn't ask, just nodded. “Alright.” With that, he disappeared into the room, and Athos shut the door behind him. Then he turned to Aramis and asked: “What's wrong?”

Aramis pasted a smile on his face. “Nothing,” he replied while at the same time wondering why he was doing so. Athos was not a fool.

Those cool blue eyes narrowed, torn between concern and annoyance. “Aramis.” It was a talent of their leader that he could say whole paragraphs with only one word, only a bit of inflexion and his accompanying expression. This word clearly said Who do you take me for? and Talk to me, or I'll make you. To underscore it, he reached out and clasped the marksman's shoulder, conveying the sympathy his tone lacked.

Aramis sighed. “Porthos just woke up,” he said, “and I tried to get him to talk to me – about what he had gone through. He … didn't want to. He made that very clear.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “It's all very fresh for him. He may just need some more time,” he pointed out.

Aramis nodded, flexing his hands to keep himself from them running through his hair again and making even more of a bird's nest out of his curls. “I pushed him too hard,” he confessed, “and … The way he reacted, it felt like he was no longer seeing me but someone who was trying to hurt him. What if--” He broke off, biting his lip. “He has blocked me out before but never like this,” he ended on a whisper.

Athos squeezed his shoulder, his eyes calm as they held Aramis' gaze. “Stop thinking about what-ifs,” he advised. “And I know it's hard that he is closing himself off to you when you want to help him so much. But I'm afraid that the only thing you can do right now is being patient.” He patted his shoulder and let go. “You two always figure it out. Trust that your bond doesn't break so easily – nor does Porthos. He'll get better, and he will talk to you when he is ready.”

The medic took another deep breath, taking strength from Athos' certainty and firm determination. “You're right – thank you,” he said.

Athos gave him a shadow of a smile. “Always, brother,” he replied. “Now – lunch?”

Aramis laughed tiredly. “Yes, please.”

#the musketeers #Porthos #athos #aramis #d'artagnan #flower writes #bad luck story #bad luck

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