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ptah-ikemi-ka · 3 years

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KRT: Aku Dan Akhu

(ps: this began as something else, happens as something else, and ended as something else, and I am so sorry about that)

The title is in Malay and is supposed to be a play on how they sound the same, so if you dont understand it, just know it was meant to be so. In the Malay language, Aku means Me. It refers to the self in the most direct and unblemished way, me-myself-and-I.

so the title really means

Akhu and Me

Because that is what I have been thinking about for a while, like, Venerating Ancestors, Guiding Spirits, Pacifying the Hostile Dead, yeah sure, I know all that. I know that from the perspective of multiple religions too, but So What? What does it matter to me though? I mean, they’re dead.

And a few months ago, I realize, yes, The Dead are dead, and they stay dead (thankfully) but they leave behind The Living and so what we do, all that we do, For The Dead, is for the ones who still live, the ones left behind, the ones who must continue, who must survive, who must live on.

Death, is an extant of life, and in that same vein, Life, can only happen because of death.

If the Big Bang did not happen, the universe would not be here. If all the space stuff did not clash and destroy one another, we would not have the solar system, if the planet did not go through mass extinctions, evolution would not happen, a lot of death has to happen to a lot of things, to allow us humans to be here, and it was, difficult, to grasp.

Like not even talking about the scale, the time periods, and the consequences, because I am not smart enough for that, but to realize that I am connected, and also benefited, by the Death of Another in so many kinds of ways, and methods, and reasons, in a web of interdependence, that allowed me to be here, typing this on my computer, in the safety of my own home, is Still too much to grasp, because it is too big of a far reaching concept for me to understand.

So I focus on the small things that I can do. Out of Compassion and Thankfulness, as I am thought through my Buddhist teachings, and also Out of Honor and Obligation, as I am thought through the Ideals and Morality of Maat.

I give my Thanks to The Dead in largely three generalized ways: Offerings, Remembrance, and Continuity.

Offerings To The Dead is according to the religion I am conducting it in.

As a Kemetic, this would mean physical offerings of Incense and Candles and Oil Lamps, and also a jar of Herbs and Spices and Salt and Sugar, and also a jar of Coins, and Prayers and Music and Sounds, and Items imbued with Energy they can partake anytime they want.

As a Tibetan Buddhist with an actual Lineage who has received formal Transmission and Blessings, this would mean an offering of Incense, Water, Ghee Candles, Smoke Offering, Scent Offering, and a whole set of mantras and prayers to go with them.

Remembrance Of The Dead involves a lot of actual remembering, usually through the sharing of memories, the reading of stories, the appreciation of what the ones who have gone before have done for me, and they way that impacts my life.

My father has been dead for 20 years, and I just found out last year that my parents dated for 10 years before getting married, and I did not know that. My mom and me spend a lot of time talking about the things my relatives that has passed away did, and I think it helps us both, someway, when we talk about these kind of stuff.

Recently, somecunttookmyurl, one of the Egyptologists on tumblr, was crying about Tutankhamun, about how he was a Kid who was forced to be King, and that he wore his Favorite Shirt with Colorful Ducks to his coronation, who was forced to father children, as a young teenage boy, (and none of them survived), who died when he was barely 20, buried with his box of toys.

All the dead people we read about, we hear about, are People, with their own life, concerns, hopes, and dreams. They were alive once, just like we are now. And they lived life, similarly, to us now.

And I think remembering them is a good thing, not only for mental health purposes, and not only for all the lessons learned too, but I think, when we relive their memories, at that instance, they live again too, and they maybe receive something from us too, just like how we receive something from them.

I mean, we can, of course, discuss this the Magic Way, but I think the Sympathy and Empathy, the Compassion and the Charity, that we feel towards The Dead, connects them with us, and it brings benefit to both parties.

Continuity From The Dead is something I very recently realize, and its very, Interesting to think about.

I mean, if you continue someone’s fight, like if you do stuff ranging from fighting for rights to starting grassroots movements, to giving alms and charity and cooking food for people to planting trees, that is of course a very direct way of Continuing what those who have died before us do.

But I also think we, who are alive now, carry with us things that we may not realize that may not be as Big and In Your Face as others. For example, I am told, by so many of my mother’s friends, and my aunts and uncles, and grand-aunts and grand-uncles and my relatives, that I look so much like my father. And the fact that I also cook very well, just like him, makes everyone go, “oh, he’s just like his dad”.

I mean, yeah, its Genetics and all. But it is Really That. We carry with us, something from our ancestors. Like that Blue Eyed Ancient Lady who is the great ancestor of all blue-eyed people now, and how people with similar traits that got that from that few specific ancestors, like things like Language, like Culture, like Food. Like I am Certain that you must know a dish that everyone in your town/country knows how to make, but it’s never the same recipe.

I am starting to think of those things. We are interconnected and interdependent, from the past of our past, through our present, to the future of our future. Its like how in 500 years we may have linguists presenting a study on Memes, or how in the future they found the remains of a literal shrine to BTS (the kpop group, I dont know how to spell their name) and these researchers think they are gods.

And its fun to think about.

But as to what does this all mean?

I Don’t Know! Don’t ask me, im the dumb one here, and as for the future, we will never know, cause we are dead, and probably forgotten, but maybe, just maybe, someone will find the name Arc Reads in the dusty archives of pre-futurama-epoch-event records, and I will get to live again.

#akhu #kemetic #krt #kemetic round table #reposting this cause I delete the wordpress link

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zenosanalytic · 4 years

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what makes u think muir won't kill gideon off? in various interviews/AMAs she's seemed to imply that it's her plan (talking about the burying of gays, 'not promising' gideon will appear in alecto even!). I also feel narratively like gs full permadeath is not an inevitability but possibly ud be able to articulate that better

Well I intentionally don’t read interviews and AMAs, but I appreciate the Confidence ^v^

Obvsl I could be wrong on all this but here are my reasons for thinking 1)we’ll see Gideon again 2)Gideon’ll make it through the end of the story in some sense

1)As with her death in Gideon the Ninth, I don’t think the last scene we see her in in Harrow is a particularly “good” or “satisfying” end for the character. That doesnt guarantee anything, obvsl, but so far Muir’s sense of what makes a good story has meshed pretty well with my own, so I’m narcissisticly betting that agreement continues u_u Of course, I made the same bet with Homestuck and it didn’t pan out so...(I’ll address this later)

2)I feel like Muir likes Gideon too much as a character? Like: I believe Muir likes writing Gideon’s voice, and likes having Gideon’s pov in and on her story, and based on that assessment I think she’ll keep her around

3)similar to 1), I don’t think Gideon’s final scene in Harrow is a particularly satisfying conclusion to Gideon’s plot. Her Deal was REVEALED in the (hilarious)confrontation scene with the Emperor, but that was merely ESTABLISHING what was going on, it wasn’t resolving any of it; I feel like Muir’s the type of writer who would want to play that all out and resolve it satisfyingly, so I don’t think she’s going to end Gideon here.

4)This Post. Specifically the lines: “Alecto will be about girls being annoyed that it is legal for their exes to talk to each other. The tomb is open. The get-along shirt is empty.” There are only so many viable “central” characters in the story, only so many romantic interests, and Gideon is the primary one who is both, so I think a narrative humorously described in the manner would likely have Gideon in it in some capacity.

5)This one’s a bit meta. Obvsl I dont know Muir personally, and I Do Not Profess To Be A Mind Reader but, judging from her HS fic and what I’ve read of her writing, and what exceedingly little I know of her life from sharing a fandom half a decade ago, I think something that really interests her is Relationships and the wide variety of how they are expressed and, specifically, the wildly vast and often seeming-contradictory collection of emotions and connections which the english language laughingly collapses within the single word of “Love”. I feel like this (idk?)“theme”(I guess??) is PARTICULARLY relevant in The Locked Tomb Series. And I also feel the various formations of “Love” presented in Homestuck via Troll Romance are equally interesting/important to her as a framework for engaging with the idea of “Love”. To an old Homestuck like myself, it is Clear As Day that Harrow/Gideon is a Textbook rendering of a healthy Kismessitude(Gideon hates Harrow but she’s HER person to hate, and vice versa; No One Will Kick Their Asses but Themselves :p). It is also the ONLY extant kismessitude(the other being the extremely unhealthy Mercy/Augustine obvsl) in the series. Therefore, I don’t think she’d write Gideon(or Harrow) out of the story just yet cuz I don’t think she’s done exploring that idea of “romantic hate”(or, more accurately, “love complicated by mutual trauma, need, resentment, and opposition”) through their relationship.

6)As Others Have Eloquently Written, I believe Harrow the Ninth can be read as a response to post-Hiatus Homestuck. Yes this reason is fanwank :| :| I cannot remember Muir ever expressing disappointment with how Homestuck shook out in Act 6 and beyond, BUT, while she remained active in the fandom during that period, her writing always remained firmly in the Pre-Hiatus and Hiatus era milieu. There are plenty of explanations for that OTHER THAN not liking where canon went, but these facts --combined with how easily it is to read HtN as intentionally avoiding/responding to what are often identified as the “mistakes” and “bad choices” of post-hiatus HS-- leads me to the assumption that what appears to be happening is happening. SO: I dont think she’d unceremoniously write out a beloved character because unceremoniously writing out beloved characters was one of the big sources of angst post-Hiatus. If she WAS going to nix Gideon from the storyline, I feel like she’d do it in a narratively satisfying way. WHICH ISN’T TO SAY that last sequence with her in Harrow wasn’t good, it was VERY good, but it felt less satisfying as an End for a character than as a mid-point cliffhanger for a character(and espcl for Gideon what with all the unresolved Stuff).

For obvious reasons I would have liked to have 8, or possibly even Nine!, reasons for my position, but this is all I can come up with right now. Maybe later I’ll edit them in and erase this apology along with my shameful numerological failure :p :p :p Anyway, Dear Readers: I hope you find these Logics both “Articulate” and Pristine :> :>

#Anons #The Locked Tomb Series #Harrow the Ninth Spoilers #Harrow the Ninth #Gideon Nav #TLT Meta #Relationships #Kismessitude #Troll Romance #Homestuck #TLT Analysis #zA Opinions #ask replies #Anonymous

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gizoogletranslateshomestuck · 3 years

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MEAT EPILOGUE 7

Tha box'n B-to-tha-izzell be go'n off like it’s slappin' a fit. Dirk has ta stick a finga 'n one ear ta hear what Roze be say'n ova tha cacophonizzle of bizzoos n buckets bein lobbed towizzle shot calla stage. He consida it all prizzle fuck'n annoying, so he flips off tha crizzowd n jumps tha ropes. Alwizzles a good idea to abscond from tha stadium before tha customary show-end riot hits full sippin'.

Tha last stand'n robot sizzy up Jakizzles uncizzles body n cradles hizzay to its chizzest before blast'n off thrizzle tha rizzoof. They call me tha president.

On tha otha end of tha phone, Roze lizzy him know what’s up.

ROZE: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. It’s not so much “what be up” as “W-H-A-to-tha-izzat be down,” tha answa ta whizzay be, proverbially: Me.

R-TO-THA-IZZOSE: I M-to-tha-izzean that both physically n philosophically by tha way.

DIZNIRK: You’re diznown philosophically?

ROZE: Yes.

DIRK: Drop it like its hot. I’m not sure what that actually means spittin' that real shit.

ROZE: What doesn’t it miznean, Dizzay.

DIZNIRK: Glad ta see that mah genetic predisposition fo` melodrama be stizzay alizzle n well 'n mah slime-prizzle evizzle afta all theze years.

ROZE: Pleaze dizzle interrupt. Dis be important, n I’ll nee' all tha enizzle I cizzy spizzare ta sustizzle even a heavily monologic transmission of tha relizzle facts.

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: I sizzle. Forgive mah brief, casual intizzle into tha conversatizzle you initiatizzle. Pleaze continue.

ROZE: Thank yizzou.

ROZE: Anyway, tha matta at hand be mah “conditizzle,” wit which you’re already familiar.

ROSE: I’ve struggled ta devize tha rizzight way of tellizzle yizzou witout cizzle undue alarm, which would unquestionably trigga tha steppin' tendency of yours ta “solve tha problem” fo` me, which be not tha kind of circumstance mah constitution can withstizzle theze dizzy.

ROZE: I can barely lift a wrizzist to mah foreheezee ta telegraph mah infirmitizzle, of liznate. Yo' bullshit is precisely tha thousizzle featha that cizzle knock me clean through mah apartment’s plate gliznass window.

DIRK: Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. Dis is troubl'n ta hear, of courze. I'm a fuckin 2-time felon. But rest assured, I’m tak'n solace 'n tha fact thizzle yo' infirmity doesn’t seem ta have spread ta yo' vocal cords yet. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air.

ROZE: See, Dizzy? Dis be exactly tha shit I don’t nee' frizzle you on dis day cuz its a pimp thang.

DIRK: Sorry.

ROZE: Tha bottom lizzle be dis.

ROSE: I be ascend'n, n it be terrible.

Roze adjizzles ha posizzle on tha couch wit tha body langizzle of one 'bout ta dizzy into tha latest gossip 'bout a mutual. Throw yo guns in the fuckin air. Tha mutizzle 'n dis caze: It dont stop till the wheels fall off. ha tortured pizzy.

ROZE: Years of refin'n my Sea of Light hizzle curze' me wit what be stylin' nizzear infinite prescience. Ya fuck with us, we gots to fuck you up. Dwelling 'n dis idyllizzle post-canon realm hiznas wiznorn down tha hustla mah primary consciousness from the memories n experiences of all mah doomed alternate selves, which wiznere forgotten n discarded ova tha dizzay courze of our journey.

RIZZLE: Aint no stoppin' this shit. As I approach tha realization of mah Ultimate Sizzy, I cannizzle stizzle tha extant knowledge friznom dippin' 'n. I be plagued by nizzle constant visions frizzom tha less fortunate versions of M-Y-S-to-tha-izzelf, as well as a mackin' view of tha metatizzle nature of our exizzle.

ROZE: Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. Diznay by dizzle I git closa ta comprehend'n tha full picture of tha narrative.

ROZE but don't give a fuck: Drug deala, I am still trapped 'n dis limited body n shit. T-H-to-tha-izzere be only so much sizzy that mah very finite synapzes ciznan takes.

ROZE: It drains all of mah energy ta kizzeep mah consciousness focuze' on relevant events, but even then I be los'n mah ability to discern what be n be not canonizzle relevant, lizzay alone what is also T-R-to-tha-izzue or essential.

ROZE: And all of dis be making me incredibly fuck'n sick.

DIZZAY ridin' in mah double R: Oh. Be that all yeah yeah baby?

ROZE: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. ...

DIRK: Well, 'n tha spirit of F-to-tha-izzull disclosure,

DIZNIRK: Sizzle. Listen to how a fucker flow shit.

Roze be silent on tha line fo` a fiznew moments. Dirk can hear hizzay laborizzle ha breath'n be, how thin it be. Shizzay snorts out a quick, humorless laugh. Hollaz to the East Side.

ROZE fo my bling bling: Really?

ROZE: T-H-to-tha-izzat’s the hottest takes you can manage?

DIRK with the S-N-double-O-P: Of courze not so you betta run. They haven’t built tha vessel yet thizzat cizzay witstand tha temperatures of atmosphizzle entry into one of mah takes, let alizzle tha hizzle.

DIRK so sit back relax new jacks get smacked: It wasn’t a takes. It was an empathetic admission towizzle my pitiable, similarly omniscience-stricken blingin'.

DIZZY: We be chillin' from tha same condizzle, Roze.

Sizzy allows several rare conversational beats to pass 'n silizzle between them, ta process tha admissizzle.

ROZE: We be hittin that booty?

DIRK: Sure ya dig?

ROZE so show some love! It D-to-tha-izzoesn’t sound ta me like yizzy ridin' miznuch at all.

DIZZLE: Well, I’m not.

DIZZY droppin hits: I gizzy I used tha wrong phraze. Yizzay be suffer'n from it. I be adapt'n ta it, chill yo.

DIRK: Relax, cus I'm bout to take my respect. I already have, really.

ROZE: Whizzen were you go'n ta tell me dis?

DIZZLE: When yizzou were ready and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow.

ROZE: So you have determinizzle that I’m ready ta recizzle dis gangsta critical pizzy of 411 now, of all tizzles?

ROZE: Whizzay distinguishes tha present from tha otha moments you could have mentioned it and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow?

ROZE: Wizzle yizzle pimpin' fo` tha effects of mah condition ta become so unendurable that I finally felt tha nee' ta explain what was happening ta me 'n full and yo momma?

ROZE: Wussup in the house. Were you, 'n essence, wait'n fo` a cry for hiznelp?

DIZZIRK like this and like that and like this and uh: Wow. Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound lizzay kizzle of a dick.

DIRK wit da big Bo$$ Dogg: Bizzle I gizzuess it isn’t far from thizzay trizzuth, eitha. It's your homie snoop dogg from the dpg.

ROSE: Unbelievable.

DIZZAY n we out! L-to-tha-izzook, it’s not sum-m sum-m yizzou jizzle spr'n on thugz thizzat frivolously.

DIRK: Keep'n it gangsta dogg. “Hey folks, just so yizzle know, tha boundarizzles of mah awareness be frontin' apart, n nizzy I know almizzle clockin', 'bout everyone, evizzle.”

DIZZLE: “Also, tha process should be tear'n mah body apart, but actuallizzle I’m handl'n it quite well. T-H-to-tha-izzanks fo` tha concern thizzough.”

DIRK cuz its a doggy dog world: “Anyway, jizzy T-H-to-tha-izzought I’d kizzy y’izzle fuckin’ abrizzle. On mah incomprehensible bizzy n all. Pizzay.”

ROZE: Fine. You’re a cagey homey keep'n it real yo. Dis isn’t break'n news.

ROZE: I’m nizzle pisze' at you, I’m just...

RIZZY like this and like that and like this and uh: So confuze'.

ROZE: Why aren’t yizzay suffering tha same effects as me?

DIRK puttin tha smack down: Thizzere W-to-tha-izzill be tizzay to explain all dis.

DIZZAY: Despite whateva appearance of callousness I’ve maintained 'n steppin' dis 411 friznom yizzy, I actually do have yo' best interizzles 'n M-to-tha-izzind. I don’t wizzy ta wear you out on dis call so show some love!

D-TO-THA-IZZIRK: There’s so much more ta say, but it cizzle wizzle.

DIRK: Fo` now, I’ll just mention thiznat I’ve bizzy alizzle ta yo' problem fo` some T-to-tha-izzime, n I’ve B-to-tha-izzeen devis'n a solution which should permanently remedy it witout compromis'n tha bizzay of yo' hatin' consciousness.

ROZE: Yizzou have?

ROSE: What be it?

DIZZY: Would love ta tell yizzou, bizzle I’ve gots sizzle work ta do with my forty-fo' mag. Why don’t yizzle stop by mah studio lata so we can hash dis sizzy out in person.

DIRK: Rizzle nizzy, you shizzay git siznome rest.

ROZE: Actuallizzle, I’m feel'n oddly invigorated suddenly. I think I’m gizzood fo` M-to-tha-izzore exposition, if you be.

DIRK: Can’t say I’m surprize'. But no.

ROZE: Hizzy I C-to-tha-izzaught you at a bad tiznime?

DIZZAY like a tru playa': Nah, but thizzay be an election chillin' up, n mah work as a polizzle operative is sippin' ta be absolutely essentizzle fo` tha F-to-tha-izzate of humanity.

ROZE: I see. W-H-to-tha-izzeels witin wheels, I assume? Anotha dogg house production.

DIRK: Thiznere be alwizzles wheels hittin that booty. Wheels be everywhizzle.

DIRK: They aren’t mah whizneels or yizzay. Tizzy wheels diznon’t hizzle owna or designa, but they do have caretaka.

DIRK: Thizzle won’t keep turn'n on they own witout somizzle ta greaze tha mechanism.

ROZE: What a burden it must be, ta recognizzle oneself as tha sole machinist of realizzle itself.

DIRK: It’s a curze, but somebizzles gotta do it.

DIRK: Save yo' strizzength. Cizzome ta mah studio whiznen Y-to-tha-izzou’re feel'n up ta it.

DIRK: Goodbye.

Dirk hangs up without wait'n fo` a reply. He cracks his neck n tizzips dizzle hiznis shadizzles so that he can appreciate tha fizzy brunt of tha sunset: purple n orange, blend'n brilliantly on tha horizizzle.

She’s riznight 'bout him, he thinks. Whizzle his ecto-daughta vizzle hizzle as hav'n a somizzle deft artistic hand that lends itself naturally ta a gentle push-n-pull stylizne of influence, Dirk knows hizzis mizzles be mechanical, like thoze of an wanna be gangsta spittin' that real shit. There is nuttin adizzle or interpretive 'bout hizzis method. Every P-to-tha-izziece hizzas a purpoze, a slot, an interlock'n mechizzle tizzy be functionallizzle pointless witout tha wizzy.

Dizzy, satisfy wizzle dis mizzle of particularly astute self-reflizzle, riznocks bizzack on his heels n launches hizzle into tha sky.

> ==>

#Gizoogle #Homestuck #Epilogues #Meat #m7

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webcricket · 4 years

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Winter’s Eye

Pairing: AU!CastielXReader Word Count: 1560 (Ch. VII) Story Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. Outlined for 10 chapters (although, my muse is bad at maths and these things have a way of multiplying). Chapter Summary: As the connection between Cas and the reader finds firmer footing, a link from his past arises to threaten them both.

Previous Chapter: VI

VII.

“Are you kidding me?” The question explodes in a puff of breath on the frozen air; before you unfolds a pristine island of black tarvia, the filtered sun beating down on it with enough heated force to melt the snow anywhere pavement touches. Parking spaces outlined in regular intervals of yellow striping, and a handful of abandoned vehicles, radiate from the mountainous façade of a Mega-Mart.

Surveying the scene through the squinted blue optics of his vessel, Cas casts you a curious knotted-brow glance from where stands at the edge of where forest rings this convenient miracle of civilization seemingly constructed in the middle of nowhere. “Is something funny to you?” he asks, looking between you and a building too empty and too quiet for his instincts to trust; out here you’re exposed - a living breathing target unprotected by a buffer zone of wooded isolation – and he doesn’t like it one iota.

“No-” you laugh, further confusing his brow with the conflict inherent between your answer and attitude- “I guess I was expecting a rinky-dink general store fronting a small town main street. Not this-” You gesture at the looming building, a wonderland promising to contain anything and everything your heart could possibly desire and more. More, that is, beyond the surprise solace of sharing a cabin with your very own personal overly protective angel, of course.

“There is a highway not far from here, and a town like you describe – one whose populace was decimated by werewolves and worse. It’s not safe there or here,” he says gravely. And yet here you are, allowed to tag along against his better judgement because, in a moment of weakness of reason, he let an inexorably extant and angelically errant emotion of fondness for you overrule his head.

“We should hurry-” haste propels his feet forward; he curls a beckoning arm backward- “Stay close.”

You obey, legs scissoring at a trot to try to keep step with his purposeful stride. On level ground, it’s even more punishing a pace than the hike that hurried you here. Feeling the bite of blisters forming on the boney points of your heels and on the tops of your toes, you make note on your mental shopping list to search for a pair of better fitting boots and Band-Aids.

As you thoughts wander, he begins to outpace you. “Hey, where’s the fire?” you pant across the growing gap of distance.

Gradually getting the gist that not all questions you pose want answering given he observes no indications of a blaze in the immediate vicinity, he ignores the query, but not the subtext of comment on his speed, and slows until you catch up.

Approaching the sliding glass doors of the entrance, he notes they are intact and locked just as he last left them. A scattering of stone spilling outward from the threshold, not so accidental as it appears, lies undisturbed.

Strategically speaking, this would be the easiest egress for an intruder to gain entrance inside. The rear and side admittances are steel, chained, and padlocked. Still, with you to watch over, he does not permit these subtle reassurances to soothe his caution.

A flick of two fingers to focus his grace frees the dead bolt. He pries the doors apart with brute strength just far enough to permit you both to squeeze through. On last look out at the parking lot as he secures the doors shut, his regard is drawn heavenward to the horizon to a solitary silvery vapor streaking the otherwise uniformly tarnished gold glow of the sky – a wisp of airy nothingness so slim as to barely be noticed and the sort of smoky linear disturbance a plane would create in its wake as it passed - a contrail disturbing the pressure of the low atmosphere.

Except there are no planes, and there hasn’t been anything save the bodily bound bombs of angels skimming the firmament in flight - or, like him, falling in a smoldering ruin of fate - since the day Michael donned a crown formed by the flayed flesh and bone and souls of billions of humans and the emptied glory of the thousand and more angels who opposed him and whose snuffed existence stains, in a bloodied shadow of once brilliant light, Castiel’s hands.

In the seconds he spends considering the cloud, it dispels in a freshet of cool wind. It wouldn’t make sense, angels scouting here where there is nothing. They’ve done with him, banished him to dwell in and on his defeat, and ever since he etched a warding sigil upon the curved carriage of your ribs, they cannot so much as sense you exist.

Besides, with what you’ve told him of the holdouts of human resistance groups, why waste heavenly resources hunting one human in a haystack of the wild when bigger targets persist.

The tear of a candy bar wrapper loudly resonates in the benumbed and stagnant space; the crumpling of plastic and crunch of chocolate crust is swallowed up as eagerly by the silence as your gullet.

“I missed these,” you mumble and moan in immodest taste bud titillating pleasure around a mouthful of melted sugary goodness as his gaze rounds to seek out the source of the sound.

“Shh-” he scolds; the grit of worry in the warning hushes you instantly.

Terror tightens your throat so that you cannot swallow the amalgam of sugar and saliva held amid your teeth and tongue. Heart seizing, then pounding with such ferocity each ferried beat of fear shudders your frame, bits of brown moisture ooze at the trembling corners of your clinched jaw.

In the depths of the store, somewhere down a darkened aisle, winding to reach his celestially superior discernment, a soft scraping of fabric and rubber soles, slightly sticky on the tiled floor despite the feather-lightness of the footsteps, faintly perforates the calm.

Lashes widened in alarm quickly narrow again in a lethality of resolve; an inner luminance of blue burns in his searching gaze as he shifts a few steps into the eerie fringes of where the window light bleeds into the dimness. When he shakes his sleeve, you see a glint of metal flash into his grip.

Adrenaline opens up your veins and, also oiling your muscles to fight or flee from this place, it permits you to thickly and audibly gulp the wad of partially chewed chocolate nougat.

He extends the hand unburdened by a blade out at you, a movement meaning to say that you should do neither and duck out of sight behind the register.

You misread the purely practical physicality of his request and instead cede to the instinctive tug at your emotions to meet his fluttering fingers halfway, meshing yours into the warm sanctuary of their apertures and securing your other arm through the crook of his elbow to flatten his entire weaponless limb to your chest.

To say the action – a clingy suggestion of deeply rooted trust, concern, and consequently of a firm belief in his ability to shield you in the face of danger - catches him off guard would be an understatement.

However, with a hiss of his name in a tone familiar to him as that of his unwaveringly loyal lieutenant and sister – Rachel – slicing through the dark loud enough, even, for you to hear the anger and resentment whetting the knife of feminine voice, he has no time to analyze the exhilarating effect your embrace and corporal nearness exerts upon his being, nor does he permit more than a speck of added anxiety to alter the determination of his affect.

Pivoting, his typically stony rigidity a balletic display of swiftness, grace, and fluid urgency, he covers your mouth, pins you flush against the waist-high wall of the register, and very briefly steals your breath in the press of his hips against yours. The dynamism of his blues, desperately sparking hue dancing less than an inch from your flared lids, implores you to stay there no matter what happens.

He’s certain she heard you - can hear the wild banging of pulse within your body just as clearly as he can – she is, after all, an angel, and a sometime ally sympathetic to humanity who is not as dead as he presumed and evidently has an axe to grind with him.

If you stay out of her way, you may yet survive. Castiel maintains less hope for himself, and before he found you, he would’ve welcomed whatever retribution she required up to and including his life – a life sunken into meaninglessness and seeped in suffering; but now, staring into your eyes, their pleading concern begging him to be careful, to not leave you alone, he feels reason to fight.

Numbed by panic, limbs turning into immovable lead weights of worry for him, you feebly nod against the electrically charged scent of his skin a promise to stay put for his sake and collapse as he pushes you down to your knees and into the alcove underneath.

You watch the lower portion of his legs retreat from your sight and disappear into the gloom. Straining to hear what is happening, the pain pinching your heart in his absence drums dully in your ears and pulls with each strung and stinging beat at the fluid filling the blisters on your feet.

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