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black-streak · 4 years

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Saturday night's alright for fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - Dangerous Game Indeed

Part 4

Changing gears here for a moment. This part has no fluff. More character building than anything to set up the beginning of the next part, which should go back to being fluffy. Pretty sure I'm going to write their date next, but I felt it important to establish a few things early on. I promise if this gets you confused, the next part will explain what happened here better

~---~

So here's the thing about being a secret hero in a place teeming with vigilantes and villains.

Being a bright red flash across the horizon doesn't work.

Not that Marinette wouldn't love to zip across the high rise buildings by her yoyo, but it just wasn't a feasible option unless she wished to announce her presence to every person in the city. Seriously, Tikki, who does she think she is, Robin? One traffic light bright hero was enough.

That's how this… possibly unwise team up came to fruition.

See, Mari planned to stay within the shadows, outta sight from the many bat people that stalked the rooftops at night, but like hell would she stay idle and complacent while Gotham suffered. So she waited and watched for quite some time before selecting her new miraculouses, eventually settling on the cat and fox combined. After all, chaos, destruction, and deceit work well together.

With her mind made up, she proceeded to plan out the costume and discuss how their powers were likely to combine; what to expect from this merge. The end result was magnificent. The bottomless-pit black bottoms were looser than anything she'd had before, wrapping tight in fabric bands only at the ankles and waist before shifting into a long sleeve shirt, just as free in the arms with the same tight bands at the wrists. The soft fabric draped across her chest, the front coming up to cover the bottom half of her face, the sides and back lifting up into a hood that covered her all the way to the eyes. Her gloves and hidden boots were a soot gray, indistinguishable in the dead of night and only barely of note in the day, with black claw tips and touch sensitive paw pads. Under the hood, her hair took on a more soot gray tone as well, black fluffy ears with gray insides just barely hinting out. A fluffy black tail with gray tip swished behind her. The colors were all Plagg while the design took more to Trixx. Her eyes however went into catlike slits of silver sclera and icy blue irises with what appeared to be black kohl ringing her eyes. Lastly, twin daggers tucked into the seams on her inner arms.

The first thing she discovered upon merging was that she became undetectable. Her movements made no sound nor did her breathing. She blended seamlessly with shadows and the night sky alike. People who looked in her direction would blink and discover it to be a trick of the light or assume it to be a delusion if they even saw her at all. It took concentration to push off the magic and allow others to see past the illusion. But she feared once it was gone, it'd be lost on that person forever. Sure, maybe they wouldn't notice her due to her own skill, but the magic would no longer protect her from them. So she didn't test it out. The next thing she realized was that her transformation didn't have much of a timer to detransform. Having worked with different kwamis for so long had built up a resistance to the strain.

Secondly, she found their abilities didn't end at cataclysm and mirage. Funny thing about being in control of illusions and deceit; you could spot it in others from a mile away. Making villainous plans easier to tear apart without a charm.

Plagg's… well Plagg's was different. As it turned out, death is simply an extension of destruction and while she had always known a poorly placed cataclysm could potentially end a life, she never expected this ability to sense death itself. She could feel when a place had seen too much or where it lurked heaviest in her vicinity.

She could also sense when someone had been brushed with its weighted touch. Which had led to many tragic, heartbroken nights of research to discover why so many of the Waynes were smothered in it. From Jason disappearing for so long and being exposed to Kwami knows what. The potentially abusive upbringing of Damian by his mother who he refused to speak of. Bruce and his parents, murdered before his eyes. Tim losing his own parents and being around to bare witness to the many brushes of his adoptive family. Add on their secondary occupations and what it entailed and well, it was enough to know not to pry.

The first few transformations, she stayed docile, never engaging, silently observing the inner workings of the city. The next few, she branched out, interfering minor crimes with quick distractions and carefully curated traps. The criminals themselves would wake up outside the police station with evidence scattered about them and no memory of how they ended up there. Then a race against the clock would commence while they tried to gather everything thrown about them and run before any officers could take note and capture them. Mari took great pleasure in watching this part, sometimes binding their wrists or feet to add an extra element to their struggle.

The two kwamis truly brought out her more sly, volatile side.

Eventually it led to foiling larger scale villains when Batman seemed to be taking his own sweet time arriving to the scene. By the time he or one of his.. partners? Pupils? Kids? She never knew what he called them in costume... Well to whoever showed up, it would look like the plan collapsed within itself as though a few variables were forgotten or fell out of hand.

The problem with starting to take action in a place like Gotham though is that no matter how much they can't prove your existence, the bats are bound to take notice. Because if they aren't the ones taking down these people, who is?

That's how Mari found herself narrowly avoiding encounters on a weekly basis. Sure, no one spotted her yet, but tracking her location through found thugs she'd taken down moments before made for some close calls of almost physically being ran in to. Not sure how convincing of a pipe on a roof she could be if that were to happen.

Add on her own animalistic instinct to hunt that led to many nights of stalking different vigilantes for hours on end, holding back the urge to pounce and well… it made for a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

'Or rather, catfox and bird,' she thought, slowly inching along an edge wall of the roof where Red Robin laid in wait.

Mari couldn't be sure how, but he seemed to have some sixth sense for looming figures. Either that or heaps worth of paranoia. Multiple times she'd had to hold deadly still while he whipped his head in her direction, staring her down. If it hadn't been for the magic whispering across her skin, Marinette was sure he'd have had her pinned within the first night of her stalking. As it stood, Red only stared quietly, eyes roving the area she kept to, only relenting when it seemed nothing would appear.

Tonight… felt ominous. Marinette knew how dumb it was to purposefully follow Red, even more so while cleaning up the dock she had just vacated, leaving an unconscious scarecrow tied amongst his goons by crates worth of chemicals. Normally she wouldn't tie them up, but instead misconstrue things until it looked like an accident, confused weaker pawns wandering about, trying to collect their bosses only for the bats to find and finish up the job. However, her need to remain an unknown figure lost against the need for entertainment, so she made everything of her interference obvious, but left no trace of herself for Batman to find.

Now she watched as Red stayed still upon the roof, clean up done and nothing left to do but think. She waited for pacing, frustration, anything. She received silence.

How boring.

Of course... he knew it was her.

Robin, Red Robin, and Agent A had all either figured it out or had been informed by herself. It was the rest of the family they kept in the dark, her unwilling to trust them with this yet and the three recognizing it as not their secret to tell.

Doesn't mean Red didn't take every opportunity to try and catch her slipping up.

Marinette could almost hear Plagg goading her to toy with the bird, Trixx right behind telling Mari to trust in the illusion. It would only break where she wanted it to. With that reassurance and no Tikki to reason with, Mari moved forward a touch, still completely hidden, but testing how well he sensed her.

Immediately, he turned. She froze. Then remembering herself, she carefully focused on the magic about her before cautiously letting a huff of air out her mouth, just loud enough to pick up, but quiet enough to not immediately draw attention to her exact location.

It was enough.

"You're here."

She met him with only silence for a moment then clicked her claws gently to confirm.

Zeroing in further, he took a step forward.

Sliding to his side, Mari carefully scuffed a boot and watched him follow her.

He seemed to assess the situation before turning back to where she was, allowing her to creep behind him. The tension in his shoulders let on to him knowing her actual location though.

Of course she chose that moment to channel her inner idiot and play along. Tapping his shoulder in a clear indication of permission to turn around, as that seemed to be what he was waiting for, she hopped back into the shadows. It was obvious he was only showing passiveness to lure her into a sense of security enough to reveal herself.

She knew this and yet as he turned to face her again, she focused into the magic, peeling it back until she knew her eyes alone glowed out at him from the dark.

She let him meet her eyes for only a half second before taking off, quickly blending into the night once more to the sound of curses from the next building over where Hood had been waiting to step in.

Maybe next time she would stalk Jason and see how he liked being watched.

#maribat #timinette #trust me #this will make sense

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faewhump · 4 years

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Unseelie Pet: 16. Chapter

Alex asks questions, but some of the replies aren’t what he would have expected.

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Content warnings: dehumanisation, drugging (faerie food), mentions of death, mentions of punishment, dubcon touching (not sexual)

Tagging: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @galaxywhump @slaintetowhump @whumpsideblog @thewhiteraven73 @frnkieroismydaddy @u-n-o-f-f-i-c-i-a-l

“How long have you been working for Malachi?” Alex asked Leah. After Malachi had found out about his habit of throwing his meals out of the window he had ordered her to always stay with Alex until he had eaten everything. The lesser faerie seemed rather annoyed by this job, but Alex still enjoyed the rare opportunity to talk to someone else.

“About a century,” Leah replied curtly. “Hurry up and eat your lunch, will you? I don’t have all day for this.”

To placate the faerie Alex began to eat faster, trying not to get too distracted by the amazing taste of the stew. After his deception had been discovered and Malachi assured he ate properly now, Alex had been scared that he would become completely drugged out of his mind again. Luckily, it seemed that by keeping himself on a low diet at first, he had built up something of a tolerance to the faerie food. It still affected him, of course, but it was in no way comparable to the state he’d been in the first few months at Rían’s Court.

“Did Malachi have other pets before me?” Alex asked.

“Sure, though it’s been a while now. Honestly, after the last one we all were a bit surprised when he picked you up.” Leah didn’t appreciate his questions per se, but Alex had the feeling that she still couldn’t resist the opportunity to gossip.

“Why that?” Alex continued his questions. “What happened with the last one?”

“Lord Malachi killed it,” Lead said casually.

Alex’s head snapped up. “What?!” He stared at the faerie with shock.

Leah flicked her blonde hair back, skilfully making sure that it didn’t get caught in her small antlers. “Accidentally, mind you,” she said, as if that changed much. “It was a pretty thing, much prettier than you. A spoilt little brat, Lord Malachi really doted on it… and yet it tried to run. Lord Malachi was livid, of course, and in his anger he didn’t notice in time when the punishment went too far.”

“So the pet… he died from the punishment?” A cold shudder ran over Alex’s back.

“Yes.” Leah nodded, then straightened up. “Enough talk for today, finish your lunch. I have other things to do.”

Alex continued to eat mechanically, he didn’t want to upset the faerie, but on the inside his mind was racing. He’d wanted to ask about what had happened to Malachi’s previous pets so that he would know what might in store for him, and he hadn’t necessarily expected to hear nice things. But this… Malachi had killed his last pet. Not on purpose, but still.

Alex didn’t even want to think about what kind of horrible punishment Malachi had inflicted upon the poor human that not even Fae magic had been able to save his life. In contrast, none of the things Malachi had done to him so far had been close to life threatening. And he had tried to run as well, even more than once, and the second time Malachi had been incredibly angry too. Alex’s skin still crawled whenever thought of the way the Fae had looked when his glamour had slipped.

Malachi had been so angry that the monstrous faerie traits he usually hid so flawlessly had shown, and yet he had only punished Alex with an illusion spell. And that although the previous pet had been way prettier than him. If he was uglier, then how was he supposed to make it longer than that one? Especially since Malachi apparently spoilt and doted on it… Alex wondered whether he had been sad when his pet had died.

When Malachi came to visit him in the afternoon, he immediately noticed Alex’s tenseness.

“What is it, my dear?” he cooed and gently cupped Alex’s cheek. “What is it that has you so upset, hmm?”

Alex swallowed, caught between the opposing instincts of flinching away and leaning in. “Leah told me about what happened to your last pet,” he whispered truthfully, aware that he was too distraught to lie convincingly.

“Did she, now?” Malachi dropped his hand from Alex’s face, and his smile disappeared.

“I asked her, so it was my fault, I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have, I was just curious, I’m sorry –“ Alex rambled, until Malachi placed a finger against his lip.

“Hush, pet, it’s alright. I’m not upset,” Malachi reassured. “It probably was only a matter of time until you learned of it, I simply did not want to scare you this early on. What happened with poor Laurent was quite unfortunate indeed, and I am not afraid to say that I am ashamed of it. Losing control like that was most unbecoming, and I assure you that it will not happen again. There is no need for you to be scared, I promise that I will make sure to only discipline you with a clear mind.”

Alex nodded slowly, although Malachi hadn’t said it outright he now understood why the Fae had been so careful with his punishments. He was scared of accidentally going too far again. The thought that there were things Malachi was scared or ashamed of was weird, up until now Alex had seen nothing but unshakable confidence and arrogance from him. He obediently sat on the pillow at Malachi’s feet when told and relaxed into the gentle way the Fae caressed his hair.

“Leah said… she said that Laurent was a lot prettier than me,” Alex mumbled, unsure where his insecurity over this fact came from. For a moment he worried that Malachi wouldn’t like that he brought the other human up again, but the petting didn’t stop.

“He was exceptionally beautiful, yes,” Malachi confirmed, and Alex could hear the smile in his voice. “His hair was like long strands of spun gold, his eyes clear and blue like molten sapphires, and he had the sweetest signing voice of a nightingale.” Malachi sighed. “Do you sing well, my little bird?”

“No,” Alex admitted truthfully.

“Ah well, never mind.” Malachi sounded unconcerned.

They fell back into comfortable silence. Malachi kept on running his fingers through Alex’s hair, but somehow it didn’t lull him into the same relaxed trance as it had done lately. He didn’t understand why the fact that the last person in his position had been superior to him bugged him so much. It shouldn’t matter, least of all because Laurent had been dead for decades, but also because he shouldn’t care about how he compared to others in Malachi’s eyes.

The topic brought up another unanswered question as well, one which he had asked himself may times. Why him? He wasn’t special in any regard, nothing faeries would typically collect. He wasn’t exceptionally handsome or strong, couldn’t sing, dance, or play an instrument, and he wasn’t a talented craftsman. It made no sense that a powerful and influential Fae like Malachi picked him.

“Why me?” Alex asked and tilted his head to look up at the Fae.

“What do you mean, darling?”

“I’m not… I’m not special, I’m just a normal person, so why… why did you choose me?”

Malachi smiled down at him. “Don’t you remember? Oh silly little human, have you forgotten that we met before? What a shame, you usually are such a smart boy.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “We met before? When?” He was shocked, in his mind the solstice feast had been the first time he’d seen Malachi, but apparently that wasn’t true.

“A bit over ten years ago, I believe,” Malachi said. “Rían invited half of the Courts to that ball, and you were fairly occupied at the time, but we did talk briefly. You impressed me quite a bit back then, so witty and intelligent, as well as maddeningly adorable.”

“Oh,” Alex said tonelessly. “I’m sorry, I really don’t remember.” There had been many faeries at Rían’s balls, all of them beautiful and disturbing, so it wasn’t too hard to imagine that Malachi had been one of them.

“No worries, my sweet.” Malachi gently pushed his head down again and continued to pet him. “Back then I already thought that Rían wasted you horribly, such a pretty thing shouldn’t be used as a mere spy. I offered him a fortune, but he refused to sell.” Malachi sighed. “So when I saw you recently… I just had to have you. And it definitely turned out to be the right decision.”

“Really?” Alex was surprised. He had been nothing but obstinate at first, and although he was mostly obedient lately, he wasn’t nearly as devoted as other pets. He was still hoping to escape, after all.

“Yes, really,” Malachi confirmed. “You are a joy to train.”

“But… I tried to run. And I lied to you.”

Malachi chuckled quietly. “It would be quite boring if you already were perfectly behaved, wouldn’t it? But you needn’t fret, I will mould you into the perfect pet soon enough.”

Anxiety shot through Alex. If the training was the fun part for Malachi, did that mean he would become bored once he was broken? What would he do to him then? He’d said he’d never treat him the way Cian treated Lukas, but what if he sold him to another Fae like that? It was too much to hope that he would simply let him go… but maybe he would be willing to make a deal.

Alex steeled himself. “Lord Malachi, I offer you a deal,” he said, trying his hardest to sound serious. “I will be your pet, just as you like, if you let me go home unscathed once you lose interest in me.”

However, his declaration did not have the result he’d hoped for. Malachi laughed.

“Aww, is that why you’ve been so difficult?” he cooed. “You are scared that I won’t want you anymore once you’re perfect, aren’t you? My poor, poor darling, of course I'll always keep you.”

“No, that’s not –“ Alex protested, but amidst Malachi’s cooing and fussing he didn’t have the opportunity to clarify what he’d meant. Eventually, he gave up and just bore the Fae’s attentions without complaint. His only hopes lay in waiting for the right opportunity to escape.

#tw drugging #death mention #punishment mention #tw dubcon touching #tw dehumanisation #whump #pet whump #fae whump #pet whumpee #fae whumper #intimate whumper #unseelie pet series #alex #malachi #leah #and laurent in mentions #my writing

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bestfriendforhire · 4 years

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Children of BFFH, Entry 54

“I’m very happy that Father isn’t making us spend time in traffic.” stated Aid as we strolled to the family ship, now parked in the yard.

“Mother convinced him.” announced Luce with a toothy grin. This trip had been her idea, but we were all looking forward to it.

“I’ll make sure to give her an extra hug then.” I told them with a smile of my own. Most of my free time over the past couple of weeks was spent hanging out with our new friend, Valeria, trying to help her appear more human. I was quite certain that her success could largely be attributed to Cosette and Mila’s work with her and Valeria’s determination, but all of us kids tried to help her practice, playing out countless scenarios to test her.

“I wouldn’t have minded seeing more of the city, even if only through a car window. I quite like cars.” insisted Valeria. Coming from a century where being kept inside, studying to be a proper aristocrat, was seen as something grand, she had a much different view on many things than the rest of us.

Ella, on Valeria’s other side, happily exclaimed “I enjoy cars too! There’s always something new to see!” The day Ella could grow bored would probably be the day Auntie Aaliyah decided to permanently wipe out this universe. Some things were incredibly improbable.

“I prefer the view from the sky. We’ll get to see everything at once!” suggested Aspy as he barely restrained himself from jogging ahead.

Doc sighed dramatically before saying, “My brother’s wanting to look down on everyone again. How can I get him back on the right path?”

He moved to shove her, but was blocked just long enough by a telekinetic wall that she was able to move to the side. Then he did chase after her, first on the ground and then into the air where they were quite obviously messing with each other’s abilities, falling an inch here and there. Not having Crazy around to join them was sooo relaxing! Stormcrow was too burdened with his bags to fly, and the quadruplets were probably arguing with their parents about what gadgets they should bring to show their grandfather.

“Think Grandfather will recognize us this trip?” questioned Luce apprehensively.

“If not, we’ll remind him again. He usually senses that we’re of his blood.” replied Aid, giving our sister a hug.

“Yes, but he doesn’t always really know us.” complained Luce with a frown.

“He will one day. We just have to be patient.” I assured her. Father had told us that Grandfather’s madness was only temporary, but Grandfather had been confused since before we were born. I couldn’t even guess what Grandfather would be like with his mental faculties fully functioning. Mother only ever spoke positively of him, but I just couldn’t see the man she spoke of in the one I knew.

Once on the ship, we quickly stored our luggage and prepared for takeoff. Though Mila kept the ship in perfect order, my siblings and I were still expected to do proper flight checks when one of us flew. Today was my turn, so I was finding what fake problems Mila had set for me while the others started deciding what game to play for the flight. I knew my parents had us do these checks for when we flew spaceships without Mila, but the routine really was tedious. Ten minutes and six problems later, I was barely done before everyone finished boarding.

“If you want to play with the others, I’ll gladly convince Daddy to let me fly.” offered Dani while hugging Leilani. My tiny niece would be turning four next week.

“Thank you, but I’ll take my turn.” I told her, not missing that she offered after I finished my pre-flight checks. “You fly a little fast for some of our passengers.”

She rolled her eyes, but was grinning at me. Dani was very well aware of how the rest of us felt about her piloting, given that she sensed our emotions. Leilani was trying to wiggle out of her mother’s arms to hug me, no doubt sensing my feelings as well.

“Enough, children. On we go.” ordered Mother as she took the co-pilot seat. “We’re already running a couple minutes late.”

“Yes, Mother.” I told her.

At the same time, Dani said, “Fine, Mom.” Dani really did love to fly ships, especially at the edge of her ability to control them. She was very, very good, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she managed to crash a few times that I didn’t know about.

Once Dani was belted down and Father had Leilani, I guided us off the yard and into the sky. The ship’s defenses were turned on, so local radar wouldn’t even detect us. ��Father surely had permission for us to be flying from the yard already, but there was no reason to startle anyone with this ship’s speed, not that I’d push its capabilities at all this flight. If I did push the ship, we’d probably arrive in Caerllion within an hour rather than three and a half.

Mila could probably outfly my parents, but manually controlling the aircraft throughout the flight was a test of patience and awareness, especially with Mother discussing ideas Messy had told her about for a city. I knew Messy loved the idea of creating a city too, but we rarely directly discussed it together, each plotting a big surprise for the other. Unfortunately, she was probably ahead on her designs. Messy was brilliant and could probably persuade Mila to help her even more than Mila helped me. Being siblings had perks. Then there was Auntie Aaliyah, who was just as doting as she was disturbing as a parent.

Luckily, the conversation kept me plenty occupied throughout the flight, so I didn’t end up feeling like too much time had passed by the time I was taking us down for a landing West of the castle. I nearly botched my landing when I caught sight of the most rickety-looking bus I had ever seen bouncing along the smooth road from our landing pad.

“Just an illusion, Four.” stated Mother with a smirk once the ship was settled on the pad. “Aaliyah’s driving, so expect a loud stop too.”

Probably on queue, given that Auntie Aaliyah was well aware of our conversation before we knew we’d be having it, the bus seemed to swerve out of control, do three donuts, and screech to a stop perfectly over a couple parking spots. I laughed, shaking my head. Auntie Aaliyah waited outside the bus to admire all of our faces as we approached, despite knowing precisely how we’d react without looking.

The bus’ interior was far more luxurious than necessary for the short trip to the castle, but I wasn’t going to complain. The illusion on the outside would probably be dismissed before we arrived to keep up appearances with the locals. Mother was a duchess and couldn’t be seen looking as anything else outside of the castle. As her children, my siblings and I needed to have perfect manners whenever we might be seen by the public anywhere in Europe, which was one of the obvious drawbacks with our visits here.

Despite not having the Slayer name, Slayer politics were part of our life when away from Somerset Estate. Poor behavior on our part could lead to those under Mother to embarrassment, possibly leading them to betray Mother’s interests. Sadly, our distant cousins were known more for their enormous pride than great wisdom. Foolish attacks against one another were common.

“How was the trip?” asked Messy once we were settled.

“I’d wager better than yours.” replied Aid with a smirk.

“What!? No way. Ours was awesome!” insisted Crazy.

“She lies. Mother was Mother, so there were constant hassles.” argued Messy, shaking her head at Crazy.

Looking at Messy in shock, Crazy said, “But they were fun hassles!”

After a little more debate, the two related their journey to the rest of us, probably leaving out bits that not everyone could know.

“No, I’ll definitely pass.” insisted Luce when Crazy expressed her wish that we could have been there.

Departing the bus with my luggage in hand, I noted that the bus was a slick, black vehicle that had to be custom built.

“Lord James, a pleasure to see you again.” stated Sebastian, who was already waiting for us. “Please, sir, allow the servants to tend to your luggage.”

I refrained from sighing and left the luggage by the bus.

“Are there guests already?” questioned Aid as he placed his suitcase next to mine.

Nodding, Sebastian said, “Yes, Lord Aiden.”

Luce frowned, setting down her luggage as well.

“We’ll go see your grandfather tonight. For now, show the others around.” ordered Mother. “Most of our friends haven’t been here before.”

After a little discussion, the trip started with a tour of the grounds to hopefully avoid bumping into our parents’ guests. Cosette and Valeria were covered in protective spells to keep the sun from bothering them, and Dani and Leilani already had their inhuman skin and hair colors covered by an illusion. We’d be safe if spotted, but I was counting on Aid steering us clear of anyone we’d want to avoid. Not openly using magic was always a strange feeling for most of us.

My siblings and I were able to answer most questions about the yard, even knowing the public stories of those in the family crypt. Communicating through Aid, Sebastian told us that Father and Mother wouldn’t be available for lunch, so I suggested a light lunch down by the lake, knowing the servants would gladly bring us food if Mila didn’t beat them to it. Luckily, the adults with us agreed. Even Mommas Ai and Mai didn’t want to subject any of us to local business dealings. Those two probably knew more about the area than even my siblings and me, given that they spent most of their childhood here.

Resisting the urge to ask Doc or Momma Maple to show us all more of every given place’s history during the tour was torture, but this estate was steeped in Slayer family secrets. We’d have to wait for tomorrow to have our history lessons when we ventured out to other parts of the United Kingdom.

#Children of BFFH #Children #of #BFFH #Jovial Times #Jovial #Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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darealbellabelleoftheball · 5 years

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Phantom Rambles

Chapter Twenty Four - “Barrels! . . . Barrels! . . . Any Barrels to Sell?”

The Persian's narrative continued...

I have said that the room in which M. le Vicomte de Chagny and I were imprisoned was a regular hexagon, lined entirely with mirrors. Plenty of these rooms have been seen since, mainly at exhibitions: they are called “palaces of illusion,” or some such name. But the invention belongs entirely to Erik, who built the first room of this kind under my eyes, at the time of the ‘rosy hours of Mazenderan’. A decorative object, such as a column, for instance, was placed in one of the corners and immediately produced a hall of a thousand columns; for, thanks to the mirrors, the real room was multiplied by six hexagonal rooms, each of which, in its turn, was multiplied indefinitely. But the little sultana soon tired of this infantile illusion, whereupon Erik altered his invention into a “torture-chamber.” For the architectural motive placed in one corner, he substituted an iron tree. This tree, with its painted leaves, was absolutely true to life and was made of iron so as to resist all the attacks of the “patient” who was locked into the torture-chamber. We shall see how the scene thus obtained was twice altered instantaneously into two successive other scenes, by means of the automatic rotation of the drums or rollers in the corners. These were divided into three sections, fitting into the angles of the mirrors and each supporting a decorative scheme that came into sight as the roller revolved upon its axis.

The walls of this strange room gave the patient nothing to lay hold of, because, apart from the solid decorative object, they were simply furnished with mirrors, thick enough to withstand any onslaught of the victim, who was flung into the chamber empty-handed and barefoot.

There was no furniture. The ceiling was capable of being lit up. An ingenious system of electric heating, which has since been imitated, allowed the temperature of the walls and room to be increased at will.

I am giving all these details of a perfectly natural invention, producing, with a few painted branches, the supernatural illusion of an equatorial forest blazing under the tropical sun, so that no one may doubt the present balance of my brain or feel entitled to say that I am mad or lying or that I take him for a fool.

I now return to the facts where I left them. When the ceiling lit up and the forest became visible around us, the viscount’s stupefaction was immense. That impenetrable forest, with its innumerable trunks and branches, threw him into a terrible state of consternation. He passed his hands over his forehead, as though to drive away a dream; his eyes blinked; and, for a moment, he forgot to listen.

(LOL Raoul)

I have already said that the sight of the forest did not surprise me at all; and therefore I listened for the two of us to what was happening next door. Lastly, my attention was especially attracted, not so much to the scene, as to the mirrors that produced it. These mirrors were broken in parts. Yes, they were marked and scratched; they had been “starred,” in spite of their solidity; and this proved to me that the torture-chamber in which we now were HAD ALREADY SERVED A PURPOSE.

(Raoul 😱 The Persian... 😐💅)

Yes, some wretch, whose feet were not bare like those of the victims of the rosy hours of Mazenderan, had certainly fallen into this “mortal illusion” and, mad with rage, had kicked against those mirrors which, nevertheless, continued to reflect his agony. And the branch of the tree on which he had put an end to his own sufferings was arranged in such a way that, before dying, he had seen, for his last consolation, a thousand men writhing in his company. (OOF)

Yes, Joseph Buquet had undoubtedly been through all this! Were we to die as he had done? I did not think so, for I knew that we had a few hours before us and that I could employ them to better purpose than Joseph Buquet was able to do. After all, I was thoroughly acquainted with most of Erik’s “tricks;” and now or never was the time to turn my knowledge to account.

(The Persians like... *Cracks knuckles* “Don’t worry Raoul...I’ve got this” 😎)

To begin with, I gave up every idea of returning to the passage that had brought us to that accursed chamber. I did not trouble about the possibility of working the inside stone that closed the passage; and this for the simple reason that to do so was out of the question. We had dropped from too great a height into the torture-chamber; there was no furniture to help us reach that passage; not even the branch of the iron tree, not even each other’s shoulders were of any avail.

There was only one possible outlet, that opening into the Louis-Philippe room in which Erik and Christine Daae were. But, though this outlet looked like an ordinary door on Christine’s side, it was absolutely invisible to us. We must therefore try to open it without even knowing where it was.

When I was quite sure that there was no hope for us from Christine Daae’s side, when I had heard the monster dragging the poor girl from the Louis-Philippe room LEST SHE SHOULD INTERFERE WITH OUR TORTURES, I resolved to set to work without delay.

But I had first to calm M. de Chagny, who was already walking about like a madman, uttering incoherent cries. (Raoul calm down baby) The snatches of conversation which he had caught between Christine and the monster had contributed not a little to drive him beside himself: add to that the shock of the magic forest and the scorching heat which was beginning to make the perspiration stream down his temples and you will have no difficulty in understanding his state of mind. He shouted Christine’s name, brandished his pistol, knocked his forehead against the glass in his endeavors to run down the glades of the illusive forest. In short, the torture was beginning to work its spell upon a brain unprepared for it.

(I shouldn't have found this as funny as I did... 🤣😅)

I did my best to induce the poor viscount to listen to reason. I made him touch the mirrors and the iron tree and the branches and explained to him, by optical laws, all the luminous imagery by which we were surrounded and of which we need not allow ourselves to be the victims, like ordinary, ignorant people.

“We are in a room, a little room; that is what you must keep saying to yourself. And we shall leave the room as soon as we have found the door.”

And I promised him that, if he let me act, without disturbing me by shouting and walking up and down, I would discover the trick of the door in less than an hour’s time.

Then he lay flat on the floor, as one does in a wood,

(This is the actions of a broken man. And I know that’s not how he’s lying but just let me have this...)

and declared that he would wait until I found the door of the forest, as there was nothing better to do! And he added that, from where he was, “the view was splendid!” The torture was working, in spite of all that I had said.

Myself, forgetting the forest, I tackled a glass panel and began to finger it in every direction, hunting for the weak point on which to press in order to turn the door in accordance with Erik’s system of pivots. This weak point might be a mere speck on the glass, no larger than a pea, under which the spring lay hidden. I hunted and hunted. I felt as high as my hands could reach. Erik was about the same height as myself and I thought that he would not have placed the spring higher than suited his stature.

While groping over the successive panels with the greatest care, I endeavored not to lose a minute, for I was feeling more and more overcome with the heat and we were literally roasting in that blazing forest.

I had been working like this for half an hour and had finished three panels, when, as ill-luck would have it, I turned round on hearing a muttered exclamation from the viscount.

“I am stifling,” he said. “All those mirrors are sending out an infernal heat! Do you think you will find that spring soon? If you are much longer about it, we shall be roasted alive!”

I was not sorry to hear him talk like this. He had not said a word of the forest and I hoped that my companion’s reason would hold out some time longer against the torture. But he added:

“What consoles me is that the monster has given Christine until eleven to-morrow evening. If we can’t get out of here and go to her assistance, at least we shall be dead before her! Then Erik’s mass can serve for all of us!”

And he gulped down a breath of hot air that nearly made him faint.

As I had not the same desperate reasons as M. le Vicomte for accepting death, I returned, after giving him a word of encouragement, to my panel, but I had made the mistake of taking a few steps while speaking and, in the tangle of the illusive forest, I was no longer able to find my panel for certain! I had to begin all over again, at random, feeling, fumbling, groping.

Now the fever laid hold of me in my turn . . . for I found nothing, absolutely nothing. In the next room, all was silence. We were quite lost in the forest, without an outlet, a compass, a guide or anything. Oh, I knew what awaited us if nobody came to our aid . . . or if I did not find the spring! But, look as I might, I found nothing but branches, beautiful branches that stood straight up before me, or spread gracefully over my head. But they gave no shade. And this was natural enough, as we were in an equatorial forest, with the sun right above our heads, an African forest.

M. de Chagny and I had repeatedly taken off our coats and put them on again, finding at one time that they made us feel still hotter and at another that they protected us against the heat. I was still making a moral resistance, but M. de Chagny seemed to me quite “gone.” He pretended that he had been walking in that forest for three days and nights, without stopping, looking for Christine Daae! From time to time, he thought he saw her behind the trunk of a tree, or gliding between the branches; and he called to her with words of supplication that brought the tears to my eyes. And then, at last:

“Oh, how thirsty I am!” he cried, in delirious accents.

I too was thirsty. My throat was on fire. And, yet, squatting on the floor, I went on hunting, hunting, hunting for the spring of the invisible door . . . especially as it was dangerous to remain in the forest as evening drew nigh. Already the shades of night were beginning to surround us. It had happened very quickly: night falls quickly in tropical countries . . . suddenly, with hardly any twilight.

Now night, in the forests of the equator, is always dangerous, particularly when, like ourselves, one has not the materials for a fire to keep off the beasts of prey. I did indeed try for a moment to break off the branches, which I would have lit with my dark lantern, but I knocked myself also against the mirrors and remembered, in time, that we had only images of branches to do with.

The heat did not go with the daylight; on the contrary, it was now still hotter under the blue rays of the moon. I urged the viscount to hold our weapons ready to fire and not to stray from camp, while I went on looking for my spring.

Suddenly, we heard a lion roaring a few yards away.

(Erik you utter ass Was it really necessary to do lion noises?! They are having enough trouble as is)

“Oh,” whispered the viscount, “he is quite close! . . . Don’t you see him? . . . There . . . through the trees . . . in that thicket! If he roars again, I will fire! . . . ”

And the roaring began again, louder than before. And the viscount fired, but I do not think that he hit the lion; only, he smashed a mirror, as I perceived the next morning, at daybreak. We must have covered a good distance during the night, for we suddenly found ourselves on the edge of the desert, an immense desert of sand, stones and rocks. It was really not worth while leaving the forest to come upon the desert. Tired out, I flung myself down beside the viscount, for I had had enough of looking for springs which I could not find.

I was quite surprised — and I said so to the viscount — that we had encountered no other dangerous animals during the night. Usually, after the lion came the leopard and sometimes the buzz of the tsetse fly. These were easily obtained effects; and I explained to M. de Chagny that Erik imitated the roar of a lion on a long tabour or timbrel, with an ass’s skin at one end. Over this skin he tied a string of catgut, which was fastened at the middle to another similar string passing through the whole length of the tabour. Erik had only to rub this string with a glove smeared with resin and, according to the manner in which he rubbed it, he imitated to perfection the voice of the lion or the leopard, or even the buzzing of the tsetse fly.

The idea that Erik was probably in the room beside us, working his trick, made me suddenly resolve to enter into a parley with him, for we must obviously give up all thought of taking him by surprise. And by this time he must be quite aware who were the occupants of his torture-chamber. I called him: “Erik! Erik!”

I shouted as loudly as I could across the desert, but there was no answer to my voice. All around us lay the silence and the bare immensity of that stony desert. What was to become of us in the midst of that awful solitude?

We were beginning literally to die of heat, hunger and thirst . . . of thirst especially. At last, I saw M. de Chagny raise himself on his elbow and point to a spot on the horizon. He had discovered an oasis!

(Lol this part)

Yes, far in the distance was an oasis . . . an oasis with limpid water, which reflected the iron trees! . . . Tush, it was the scene of the mirage . . . I recognized it at once . . . the worst of the three! . . . No one had been able to fight against it . . . no one . . . I did my utmost to keep my head AND NOT TO HOPE FOR WATER, because I knew that, if a man hoped for water, the water that reflected the iron tree, and if, after hoping for water, he struck against the mirror, then there was only one thing for him to do: to hang himself on the iron tree!

So I cried to M. de Chagny:

“It’s the mirage! . . . It’s the mirage! . . . Don’t believe in the water! . . . It’s another trick of the mirrors! . . . ”

Then he flatly told me to shut up,

(Fine, burn your tongue you ungrateful child!)

with my tricks of the mirrors, my springs, my revolving doors and my palaces of illusions! He angrily declared that I must be either blind or mad to imagine that all that water flowing over there, among those splendid, numberless trees, was not real water! . . . And the desert was real! . . . And so was the forest! . . . And it was no use trying to take him in . . . he was an old, experienced traveler . . . he had been all over the place!

And he dragged himself along, saying: “Water! Water!”

And his mouth was open, as though he were drinking.

And my mouth was open too, as though I were drinking.

For we not only saw the water, but WE HEARD IT! . . . We heard it flow, we heard it ripple! . . . Do you understand that word “ripple?” . . . IT IS A SOUND WHICH YOU HEAR WITH YOUR TONGUE! . . . You put your tongue out of your mouth to listen to it better!

Lastly — and this was the most pitiless torture of all — we heard the rain and it was not raining! This was an infernal invention . . . Oh, I knew well enough how Erik obtained it! He filled with little stones a very long and narrow box, broken up inside with wooden and metal projections. The stones, in falling, struck against these projections and rebounded from one to another; and the result was a series of pattering sounds that exactly imitated a rainstorm.

Ah, you should have seen us putting out our tongues and dragging ourselves toward the rippling river-bank! Our eyes and ears were full of water, but our tongues were hard and dry as horn!

When we reached the mirror, M. de Chagny licked it . . . and I also licked the glass.

(*PFFFFT* This is my FAV part of the book btw (Followed closely by Crispy going YOU SHALL NOT PASS!))

It was burning hot!

Then we rolled on the floor with a hoarse cry of despair. M. de Chagny put the one pistol that was still loaded to his temple; and I stared at the Punjab lasso at the foot of the iron tree. I knew why the iron tree had returned, in this third change of scene! . . . The iron tree was waiting for me! . . .

But, as I stared at the Punjab lasso, I saw a thing that made me start so violently that M. de Chagny delayed his attempt at suicide. I took his arm. And then I caught the pistol from him . . . and then I dragged myself on my knees toward what I had seen.

I had discovered, near the Punjab lasso, in a groove in the floor, a black-headed nail of which I knew the use. At last I had discovered the spring! I felt the nail . . . I lifted a radiant face to M. de Chagny . . . The black-headed nail yielded to my pressure . . .

And then . . .

And then we saw not a door opened in the wall, but a cellar-flap released in the floor. Cool air came up to us from the black hole below. We stooped over that square of darkness as though over a limpid well. With our chins in the cool shade, we drank it in. And we bent lower and lower over the trap-door. What could there be in that cellar which opened before us? Water? Water to drink?

I thrust my arm into the darkness and came upon a stone and another stone . . . a staircase . . . a dark staircase leading into the cellar. The viscount wanted to fling himself down the hole; but I, fearing a new trick of the monster’s, stopped him, turned on my dark lantern and went down first.

The staircase was a winding one and led down into pitchy darkness. But oh, how deliciously cool were the darkness and the stairs? The lake could not be far away.

We soon reached the bottom. Our eyes were beginning to accustom themselves to the dark, to distinguish shapes around us . . . circular shapes . . . on which I turned the light of my lantern.

Barrels!

We were in Erik’s cellar: it was here that he must keep his wine and perhaps his drinking-water. I knew that Erik was a great lover of good wine. Ah, there was plenty to drink here!

M. de Chagny patted the round shapes and kept on saying:

“Barrels! Barrels! What a lot of barrels! . . . ”

(Precious babys)

Indeed, there was quite a number of them, symmetrically arranged in two rows, one on either side of us. They were small barrels and I thought that Erik must have selected them of that size to facilitate their carriage to the house on the lake.

We examined them successively, to see if one of them had not a funnel, showing that it had been tapped at some time or another. But all the barrels were hermetically closed.

Then, after half lifting one to make sure it was full, we went on our knees and, with the blade of a small knife which I carried, I prepared to stave in the bung-hole.

At that moment, I seemed to hear, coming from very far, a sort of monotonous chant which I knew well, from often hearing it in the streets of Paris:

“Barrels! . . . Barrels! . . . Any barrels to sell?”

My hand desisted from its work. M. de Chagny had also heard. He said:

“That’s funny! It sounds as if the barrel were singing!”

The song was renewed, farther away:

“Barrels! . . . Barrels! . . . Any barrels to sell? . . . ”

“Oh, I swear,” said the viscount, “that the tune dies away in the barrel! . . . ”

We stood up and went to look behind the barrel.

“It’s inside,” said M. de Chagny, “it’s inside!”

But we heard nothing there and were driven to accuse the bad condition of our senses. And we returned to the bung-hole. M. de Chagny put his two hands together underneath it and, with a last effort, I burst the bung.

“What’s this?” cried the viscount. “This isn’t water!”

The viscount put his two full hands close to my lantern . . . I stooped to look . . . and at once threw away the lantern with such violence that it broke and went out, leaving us in utter darkness.

What I had seen in M. de Chagny’s hands . . . was gun-powder!

🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨

(DUN DUN DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

Tag

@angelofmusicsuggestions

@ask-the-angel-of-music

@potoincorrectquotes

@maladypond

@summerb4jc

@masksonmasks

@wheel-of-fish

@epwhales

@phantomgraphicnovel

@phantom-of-the-keurig

@phantomofthetrashcan

@phantom-of-the-uhhhpera

@shernoel

@madamedaae

@quill-of-doom

#Phantom Rambles #POTO #Booklr

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dragons-suck · 5 years

Note

I'm unfamiliar with your characters, so for those it isn't in the short bio of, is there any particular kind of magic that they use?

Moksha: Has never used magic in his life. He just does a lot of biting.

Nezumi: Word magic. He can imbue his writings with power that can vary from binding to burning. It’s versatile.

Niels: Illusion magic with a side of luck manipulation. He may not actually look the way he does, but we’ll never know. His power is never ‘off’. He can ‘conjur’ fireballs and the like, but the effects are only illusionary.

Parizel: Biomancy. He can rearrange the forms of anything me knows the anatomy of to a small extent, which includes a very slight bit of telepathy. He’s not actually very good at magic, though.

Remy: Spark/explosion magic. His power always comes out in short bursts of electricity/flame.

Vizsla: He’s a curse eater. He takes on the curses of others after touching them, effectively freeing them but leaving him to suffer the effects of the curse. He’s built up quite a resistance over time, I’d say he only suffers about a tenth of the full curse.

Dulcinea: Blood magic, mostly used for buffs. She can strengthen others by being in close proximity to them.

Echo: Force magic. Like Dulcinea’s buffs, but with a wider area of effect. She can bolster the defenses/attacks of her allies and herself.

Eliza: Is being really cute magic?

Lucia: Classic artifice magic. She can warp metal/imbue it with special properties. She’s great at making conduits for mana and other types of energies.

Lyria: The manipulation of white mana. She can compress it and form angelic beings to fight for her. However, once she leaves the plane her creations slowly return to their basic magical components. She hasn’t learned how to anchor them yet.

Mercedi: Healing, both mental and physical. Her heals aren’t limited to living things, she can also repair cracked/broken items.

#hfghdhsgd sorry this is so long #niuttuc

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dentelle-grise · 5 years

Text

Your Latest Trick - chapter 29

Summary: Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party. (Loki x Reader NSFW)

Chapter 29 - Loki sets out to impress and tries a little too hard.

First chapter here (can be read as a oneshot) All chapters to date at AO3 (71K, NC-17)

Tagging my rebloggers, commenters and other folk who asked. Please let me know if you want in (or out) of the list: @joanbushur, @frenchfrostpudding, @lovely-geek, @wolfsmom1, @sigridlaufeyson, @lokislonelylady, @monitoroutside, @daniissuchadani, @devilbat, @deadlydreamersecrets @helenisabel, @stardustandangelsfanfiction, @ely-seum, @wendyrobson1978, @the-ships-i-ship, @shemart101, @dreamourbrainout, @sadghostomg, @lokilover2000, @blobfishington, @lynneth1968-blog, @deaddecade, @nardo94, @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981, @ashesandfire, @imagines-of-the-fandom, @beingrandomisfun, @tomsragnarok, @skulliebythesea, @bubbles8231999, @jesuisunthot, @all-of-teh-fandoms, @atreqhukea

Chapter 29

You’re in this place again. The cottage. His place. And though Loki seems unusually bright and light hearted, you can barely hold back from bombarding him with questions.

The weather is turning. It’s not a storm coming, but the true onset of winter this time. Looking at the darkening sky, you wonder how long he intends you to hide out here. You ask yourself whether you’d be prepared to live somewhere lost like this, give up everything else, if it meant being with him.

He’s hiding from Thor of course. And you’re hiding from the rumour mill.

Well, one thing is sure. Out here, sooner or later, he’ll have to explain himself.

The boat is laden with parcels. They mostly contain food, but you get a surprise when what you took for a hamper, well covered by a blanket, turns out to be the casket from the throne room. Its colours are angry and agitated, moving faster than before, perhaps from the shaking they got on the ride.

“Whoah.” you say, taking a steps away from it. It doesn’t seem a reassuring thing to have brought on a trip away. But then this isn’t any regular romantic break, is it?

He shoos you away from it, handing you a box of apples instead, and takes the casket himself, lifting it up carefully, almost reverently, only holding it only though the blanket, without letting to touch his bare hands.

“Does your Dad know you’ve got that?”

“In point of fact. It’s mine.” He says, more to the box than to you.

“The Aether!?” Now, admittedly Odin is probably safer without it, but is Loki any better?

“No, the casket.”

Whatever the reason is that he brought it, you’re not happy about having it in the cottage.

“But why bring it here?”

“Wait and see.” he teases, like you were an impatient child. This doesn’t reassure you.

Magic artefacts aside, Loki has certainly stocked the kitchen well enough, so much so that that the house looks even smaller.

You spend the waning day quietly. There’s just a single chair by the hearth, this is a place for one person after all, but you fit in it perfectly beside him. You are hardly touching, but it feels like an echoed afterglow of the frenzy of last night. If only it weren’t for what happened this afternoon. There’s a warmth between you but also a tension that hovers like an uninvited guest.You alternately watch the growing dusk, the dancing flames and his face.

“Why deceive Heimdall?” you venture.

Without any sign of surprise or resistance to your question he looks you in the face and smiles.

“Because he’d only snitch on me to Thor.” he states simply. “As he so finely demonstrated.”

Why deceive Thor though? To ask that question would be to enter troubled waters indeed.

“But couldn’t you just have hidden us?”

“It’s not that simple. When so much of my attention and energy is otherwise engaged…” He gives you a knowing and appreciative look. “It’s far easier to wear a mask than to disappear. A simple illusion is all it takes, then a person’s imagination will do the rest. Even Heimdall’s.”

“So… he saw me and… Odin…” You shudder and pull a face, but Loki doesn’t react and when you look at him he’s got this wistful expression and you start to feel deeply annoyed that he’s missed the point. Ignored your discomfort.

But then he says, “I told father everything about us.”

You catch your breath. Finally.

Your joy bounces in your chest and you want to hug him, but you keep it squeezing his shoulder.

“And what did he say?”

There’s a silence. Too long a silence. Loki takes a breath.

“Well nothing actually.”

You feel a shiver of cold, despite the fire, and picture Odin at his worst. Is this why Loki whisked you away?

“He was asleep at the time.”

“Asleep?” You let your hand fall to your side. “Well why tell him if he couldn’t have heard you.”

“On the contrary, mother once told me he hears everything when he is asleep .”

Something is not right. What does Loki mean by ‘asleep’? Could it be that Odin, overdoing it as you’ve seen is not just asleep but in ‘the sleep’.

“Why are we here even? And why did you bring that…‘thing’?”

“We need give things a chance to calm down.”

That you can see.

“And this,” he nods at the box glowing under its cover. “Well this I’ve got to show you.”

“It’s not going to bring Malekith here is it?”

He seems just as unruffled and amused.

“Not while he only has one arm and is on the run from his own countrymen, which I have on good authority.”

“But the Aether…”

“It makes the casket’s magic stronger.”

You didn’t know anything about Loki possessing a magic casket before now.

“But what does it do?” The only magic casket you know of is the ancient one from Jotunheim and that’s hardly be Loki’s, but then neither is the Aether. And with Odin ‘asleep’…

“It can make anything you want.” He says cheerfully. The glow in the unlit kitchen is more rosy than blue at the moment. Loki reaches to touch the casket and you watch fascinated as he undoes the clasp on the lid. “But mostly it makes ice and snow.”

So it is the Jotunheim casket.

“Look.” He points out the window, away from the artefact in his hands. In front of the house there’s a small decked area, for mending nets and the like, but now you see there’s a terrace. “Look” he prompts again and before your eyes columns grow at each corner and a roof, the across the beach and shore a there spreads a sheet of smooth shiny ice as flat as a frozen lake. What’s he doing? You go to turn. “Keep looking out there, you don’t want to miss this.” he warns. Arches, cloisters and stairs and doorways to great hallways grow, all apparently out of ice. You’ve never seen anything to dazzling or impressive, its as though Loki just created a whole new palace out of ice and magic.

“Not such a hovel now is it?”

You look over at him. Loki is turned away, his face in darkness, but you can hear him gently panting, Such magic must take quite an effort. You politely ignore it. And look out at the new buildings that have sprung up. “It’s beautiful.” It’s not just incredibly built, but tastefully designed. You see the expanse of ice that has replaced the beach. “I wish I had my…”

“By the door.” And there lie your ice skates. “Go on, try it. I’ll be out in a minute.”

You step outside onto the terrace that wasn’t there before, then onto the transformed beach that lays beyond it like a vast mirror-smooth plaza reaching into the ocean.

Under your skates, its fabulously even. It’s been nearly a year since you skated but you remember instantly. You set off, alone on the ice like you’ve never been. The ice is new and there’s no one to run into. You can go as fast as you like, turning curves and figures you never thought yourself capable of. You wonder if it's an illusion that he’s spun, purely in your head, because it’s incredible. You decide you don’t care.

The sea seems miles away, barely audible. Surrounding you is the crisp cold air of a winter’s day. When is he coming you wonder. The palace has grown so huge now that it dwarfs the island, the little house must be there somewhere among the ice buildings.

And there he is, coming for you out of the night. He’s already built up quite as when he catches up to you and sweeps you up and into the movement. You speed into the growing night together, dark before you, the moon above and the light of a fantastic city behind you.

You’re laughing, nearly screaming, from the exhilaration, the cold air drawing tears from your eyes and drying them just as fast.

He leads but you turn together, as though you had always been partners and knew where to go, when to move. You are so close that a single false move would send you into a high speed tumble, skates and all, but you have no fear. You are perfect together and you feel how simple it makes things to trust him.

You don’t want to break the spell with a single word. If he can do this, he can do anything. But finally, you circle to a halt and he lifts your hands together in his. He kisses them warm, making you realise how cold they were, you hadn’t given it a thought.

His embrace is firm and his kisses are hot and welcome, but you’ve got to get moving again before you get too cold. As you make your way back, the house is a little warm light in the nestled among the cool graceful architecture of spires and arches, all sculpted from the frozen waves.

At the foot of the great castle, you shed your skates. He steps towards a grandiose doorway framed by a pair shining columns in the form of snakes. Then he looks over his shoulder a moment, gives you another look you know and he starts to run. You follow him into the palace, first great reception rooms, then though passageways and up stairways to balconies sparking in starlight. He is showing off and you let him. This he can have when the rest of his life is in hiding. And you allow yourself to dream a little of a time when that will no longer be so.

You stare in wonder at a vaulted roof high above your head. An ice palace, like in the stories of Jotenheim. Did he have all of this stored up in his head waiting? Then you see Loki’s already at the very end of the hall and disappearing up a narrow spiral stairway. After him you go, racing up and bursting out on a roof garden. It’s devoid of any plant life but breathtaking. Like everything here, it’s timelessly beautiful, though completely hard and cold. The ice isn’t like the stuff you know from winter. Underneath, it glistens blue or pink.

The roof, like most of the floors are powdered with snow, so you can keep up without slipping, and see Loki’s prints before you. They lead to a small suite of rooms at roof level, like private apartments, but with little in the way of furnishings. But Loki has gone from there already. Running down an outdoor stairway you think you see real snow coming in the air now and feel the wind rising, and then your slip though an archway into a darker chamber, less exposed but just as cold.

What will you do when you catch him? You would surely welcome one another’s heat, but there is nowhere here that is comfortable. You’ll get him back to the cottage, once you’ve got your hands on him.

Though you follow through a multitude of rooms, you notice you are no longer chasing but searching, the building seems to have a thousand rooms and staircases, avenues and hallways and all show his footprints, or yours. It’s magnificent but somewhat eerie when you’re alone in it, this palace all cold and sparking under the moon.

He must be playing a game with you. Hiding like this. But really, it’s creepy, everywhere you meet ice mirrors or rooms with floors you can see through to the storeys below.

Perhaps he’s gone back to the cottage.

“Loki !” The name echos around you off the high ice walls, coming at you as though a handful of other women were wandering somewhere in these walls looking for him.

If only you could get back to the cottage under. Though it must be close now, in the complex of rooms leading one from the next, you can’t seem to get to it. Are you lost? You decide just to keep moving toward the exterior. If you keep moving out and down you’ll be okay. Loki needs to understand that there’s a point when things cease to be funny. It’s as though the palace had continued to grow while were on your way downstairs. The stairway just leads to another passageway through the dark heart of this place. You brush aside the feeling of panic and head for the glow of moonlight.

Finally you come out into a courtyard in a light flurry of snow. Real white snow falling from the sky. From the courtyard you are relieved to see the cottage again and although no light comes from its windows now but a cold purple glow, you head for it.

The interior silent and you sigh with relief at the warmth. There’s nothing left of the fire and the only light is from the casket. And there’s Loki, finally, standing over it, a dark form against the glow.

“There you are!” you cry. But he doesn’t move or reply,

He’s bent slightly, a hand on the nearby wall where he must be channeling the energy.

“Loki?”

The figure turns. And though you can’t see much against the light you see straight away that it’s not Loki.

The scream is out of you before you even think it. The horror that fills you is worsened by the fact that you thought it was Loki. It’s not, it’s a monster.

For Loki has summoned not just the ice powers of Jotenheim, but one of its creatures. Red eyes glow through the dark as you back away, screaming louder than you ever thought you were capable.

You yell at the monster to get back and run from the cottage. Outside in the snow you scream for Loki again. What has he done. Out here in the middle of nowhere. Then you hear the clumping step of the monster coming for you and you start to run.

TBC

#loki #fanfiction #lokixreader #your latest trick #mcu #thor

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kristie-rp · 5 years

Text

An Introduction to Demonology

triggers: implied abuse (physical, verbal, psychological), implied kidnapping (of a sort), violent witchcraft, protest, discriminatory/predatory behaviour, demons being weird

The marketplace of the first tier is crowded more often than not. The visitors who are natives to Hell knew how to navigate the winding passages between the stalls and storefronts, allowing the place to flow smoothly. Fights break out like twists in the rapids of a river, but the people continue to move, flowing on without interruption.

A group has built up around the base of the petrified tree standing in the middle of the market, not unlike algae pooling in a river. Demons are just as prone to uncertainty as any mortals, and it is for that reason that the Hegemony has become so popular.

“And worse, Satan himself has become weak – allowing one of the Kings to leave to be with a filthy human?”

A malformed demon with sigils etched over its’ skin laughs aloud, calling the attention of the speechgiver. “You can hardly pass judgement with your pet, Asmodeus.”

A woman in a ragged gown steps forward, pushing her husband aside. She crackles with visible black power, previously white skin shifting towards ash gray and charcoal. Her hair is poorly cared for, hacked into short clumps in a frustrated pique. “Have you something to say to me, Ninurta?”

The demon falters but grits its teeth. “Why should I be afraid of a good-for-nothing human?”

“Ha,” the woman breaths. She steps forward, reaching for Ninurta. Despite its’ efforts to resist, it is compelled to approach, one step, two step, dragging and halting – but still it ends with Priscilla resting a hand in the centre of its flattened head. “You shouldn’t, of course. It’s beneath you.” She murmurs something, a low chant that ends on a crescendo and a scream. Ninurta howls in pain and collapses to the ground in a helpless heap as Priscilla sneers above him. “But I am far from human now, and what I am is above the likes of you.”

She expects silent respect in the face of her show, but what happens instead involves a horrified gasp tearing through the crowd. It morphs into outrage quicker than she can react, and she looks around to find the origin of the disturbance. She finds it in the petrified wood, a small flower blossoming on the branch above her head.

Priscilla grits her teeth and curls her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. She can feel magic pulse as she meets her husbands eye, and nods sharply to him. Asmodeus gestures behind the tree and reaches up to tear the bud from where it has grown, crushing it in his hand. Priscilla casts the spell she needs to to lock the problem away.

Everyone has a secret, if not more. Asmodeus and Priscilla are no different. They protect their secret as well-practiced experts, hiding it away from the world they prefer. The two are demonic in nature if not in species, a monster and the bride who exchanged her soul and freedom for power and an end to her humanity – and yet the two of them have managed to create a pure soul.

Any mixed breed child is a disaster in the making – a look at Paimon’s legacy can reveal that. Asmodeus is of the opinion that he has managed to create something worse. No self-respecting demon wants to lay claim to a pure soul, not as their own, not unless they can corrupt it. And despite their best efforts, they cannot corrupt Sarina. Her hair and skin remain a pristine, gleaming white, and her eyes continue to glow gold. Their daughter might have inherited her mothers’ jawline, but the picture she paints is of an angel at creation.

It’s almost more disgusting than a human.

Her saving grace thus far has been her power, and Priscilla’s insistence that if they teach her she has no choice, she will lean towards the darkness they revere. She’s a mixed brat, not quite half demon, a little over a tenth human, and the rest of her a witch, all contained within a twelve year old girl in a heavy black cloak.

“There must be a way to fix her,” Priscilla says, wringing her hands. Her brow is furrowed in concern, because in spite of everything, some maternal instinct remains in her. “Torture? Pain? What can we do?”

Asmodeus kicks the trunk she conjured sharply, and finds himself unsatisfied by the protesting squeak the load gives. He growls sharply, turns away.

“Perhaps it’s best to kill her,” his wife goes on. It’s a mistake; her comment captures his attention, and he grips her by the throat and lift her aloft. She claws ineffectively at his hand on her, and drops as he growls his fury and annoyance.

“Worthless whore – you gave me that abomination. I should burn the both of you and be done with it.”

He doesn’t, though. He never does. Priscilla is too powerful, and too much of a sign of prestige for him to give her up now. Few other demons have corrupted a human so thoroughly it no longer registers as human on any kind of scale, enough that they truly feel welcome in Hell. He casts her aside and she drifts harmlessly to the ground, magic powerful enough to react on instinct. Her throat is raw and she rubs it with black fingers, glaring at him as he approaches the trunk and tears it open. He drags Sarina out by the back of her neck, snarls in her battered face.

“What have we told you about using your disgusting powers?”

Sarina flinches back from the spittle that springs from his lips, and says nothing, as she has learned to do. It’s better not to complain aloud – better not to defend herself. That way, the demon that makes up her father is slightly less likely to beat her to the edge of death again.

She only wanted to float, the way her mother had. She hadn’t meant to make anything grow, to alert the entire marketplace that there was someone light-magic capable in their midst – hadn’t meant to ruin the rally her parents had been planning for ages.

But she had, and they weren’t going to listen to her complaints.

Better to grit her teeth and take it.

The plains are a frankly disturbingly barren realm. Nothing has ever grown in this place, and it’s ravaged by winds more at home on the windiest places of Earth than here, in the typically sheltered dimension that makes up Hell. The ground is cracked and dry, and pillars carved from stacked stones continue in seemingly random sequence into the distance. There is no doubt that the place is dead.

Ninurta has never felt welcome in this place, but it is where the only demon it trusts to fix the damage done to it presides.

“You reek of death,” is what the wind whispers to it as it pauses to catch its’ breath against one of the pillars.

“You say the nicest things,” it snaps back through a clenched jaw. It would try to sound more respectful to the King of this realm, only it remains in pain, and cannot open its’ maw.

The being it is here to see manifests on the other side of the pillar. He trails his fingers over the pillar as he leans around it, and the wind beating at the surrounding area fades away.

Samael is the King of this sector. He calls himself male and shifts skin on a whim. Today, he has a more demonic, monstrous form, something Ninurta is able to appreciate. Bone is held together with sinew, grey half-dead muscles in place impossibly, except down here, where every appearance is more than likely half an illusion. His head is a humanoid skull with no jaw, teeth hanging in jagged structures. It’s off putting – and it puts Ninurta at ease for the first time since that damned rally in the marketplace.

He says nothing as he grips Ninurta’s jaw, tilting it one way and the other as he considers the damage done. This is more standard than the greeting it received; for reasons that Ninurta has not been permitted to know, Samael is selectively mute, and, when he chooses to speak, it is on a breeze. A theory did the rounds half a millennia ago that the King cannot speak normally, as the rest of them generally do, but it has lost traction without Samael acknowledging it. It is difficult to pull emotion from a skull devoid of flesh, but Ninurta imagines this is an expression of concern. The theory is confirmed when Samael rests a skeletal hand on each of Ninurta’s shoulders, and vanishes them both in a twist of wind.

Samael, it seems, is calling a cavern home today. The pillars are visible from the entrance, arching into the distance. “What are they even for?” Ninurta asks. It doesn’t expect an answer, and doesn’t get one, not in a way that helps. The only response is a freshly conjured gust of wind buffeting the demon until it turns to settle on the floor of the cave. Samael smears a foul-smelling poultice over the parts of Ninurta that show damage; it seeps into its flesh and sooth the pain. As the process continues, Ninurta talks, explaining the scene at the marketplace. It isn’t until Samael stops moving, notably before the pain ends, that he glances at the King’s face. “What?”

Samael tilts his head, lifts a bony finger to tap at the space where his lips would be, if he’d elected to put on skin this morning. He gestures, twining his fingers in a particular way that Ninurta takes to mean he wants to touch on one of the things that have been described by him. “Rally,” it says, only to see the King shake his head. “Asmodeus. Priscilla. Attack. Life magic.”

Samael nods sharply, and resumes applying the poultice.

“I don’t know. Asmodeus and his whore both panicked when the flower bloomed; one of them destroyed it, she cast a spell. The crowd scattered, they hauled their trunk away, I dragged myself here because you’re the only capable healer in this damned place.” Samael frowns, or Ninurta imagines he does. “I don’t know what’s in the trunk. It’s probably a problem they haven’t bothered solving.”

The skull twitches, and Samael crouches to write letters in the dirt. Daughter, it spells out.

“Their daughter? No one’s seen her. In possibly... ever? Of course, no one would tell me if they did. Not today.”

Samael’s jawless skull emanates exasperation and Ninurta has a vague sense of unease. The King withdraws his hands, and the lesser demon realizes the job is done. The pain is gone, but it won’t be healed yet; Ninurta needs to rest until the process is complete. It won’t take long, as it is a pure demon and is hardier than that, even to dark magic.

“Your highness?” Ninurta presses, somewhat sarcastically. Samael does not reply, and indeed disappears once again in a whirl of dirt and air. If there’s ever a sign the conversation is over, this is it.

Ninurta doesn’t require sleep, but when it becomes aware again, it is sprawled on a carpeted floor between a lit fireplace that is constantly flickering, and there’s furniture around it. This would be more startling if it wasn’t entirely aware of Samael’s ability to twist his world on a whim. It suspects all the Kings can do it, in their own dimensions; it does not know if Paimon’s ability has been severed in his abdication or not.

What it does know is that a small, pale face is hanging upside-down over it. Strands of white hair are brushing its’ skin, and golden eyes gleam down. To Ninurta, the lurker looks like a human girl-child, and it finds itself growling instinctively.

The human recoils immediately, darting out of sight. Ninurta would watch her move, but it is abruptly unable to move, unable to feel anything below its’ jaw. It roars, outraged by the attack from – so far as it can tell – the tiny human. It stops when the wind moves around it, but only because it knows this is good news: the King will not allow a human in his home, however it looks.

A being that must be Samael appears in Ninurta’s vision. He has adopted a new appearance for a new day, for reasons unknown. He appears almost human, with alabaster skin and ashen hair, all of it layered with cracks of gold. Something off about his appearance gives away his identity to Ninurta, who knows better, and a kind of simple bone crown has grown from the top of his head. “There’s a human in here,” Ninurta snaps. Samael’s completely white eyes – the sockets seem to be filled with a smooth continuation of the skin he has taken – stare at the lesser demon on the floor, before he vanishes from sight, this time by stepping out of the way.

A series of moments pass, and the lack of sensation fades. Ninurta gets to its feet, relishing in the lack of pain, and is immediately faced with Samael and the human. The King has his hand resting gently on a pale shoulder, and the human is peering up at him as though he offers something she has not seen before.

Samael must whisper something to her, because she swallows and opens her mouth. “I’m called Sarina,” she says. It’s a soft voice, quiet. The accent is familiar – too similar to the witch who dared to curse it before it came to this place.

Ninurta stares at the girl for a long moment, seeing similarities it missed before. The jawline of Priscilla, an eyeshape similar to Asmodeus. “You claimed their halfbreed brat?” it demands of the King, because this explains a fair amount. Samael has always preferred halfbreeds and mixed bastards to purebreds; it is quirk unique to the King of this barren, wind-battered land.

Samael nods, and the girls lips twitch into something like a smile.

The mess of the Ninurta’s recent past hits it all at once. Fried and almost destroyed by a witch who may actually be worse now she cannot make any claims to humanity, healed by a foul-smelling poultice only the Demon King Samael knows to make, and now this, waking to a half-breed brat as the clear next pet project of the King it respects so much – it has a right to be stressed, it’s sure. Samael squeezes the girls shoulder as Ninurta watches, and the two leave the room. It is only then that it notices that both of them are floating, feet a good few inches from touching the carpet.

It’s not sure why its’ surprised, really. Samael might not be as readily corrupted as Paimon, but he has always been curious.

#kristie writes #kristie's writing #kwrites #kwriting #ft. sarina #ft. samael #ft. asmodeus #ft. priscilla #ft. ninurta

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scoundrels-in-love · 6 years

Text

Rainy watches Star Wars: The Last Jedi

Let me start this with saying I did spoil my self and quite thoroughly before this movie. And my initial opinion was that this movie will be absolute disappointments on all fronts I cared about.

So, when I walked in the cinema, my expectations were so low, it’d be hard to fall lower. (But as we know, I had same thoughts about year 2017 and it proved me wrong, so it’s not like it was impossible.) I came out thinking, damn, it was pretty okay movie. Maybe even good. No, it will not be my favorite Star Wars movie, it is still Rogue One and I did like The Force Awakens better, but I think the trilogy does not die with it. Especially since it’s trilogy and there is a lot to be seen in Episode 9 still.

I will not give it rating, I can’t rate these things and if I was forced to, I would not give even Rogue One a 10. That’s just how I am. But what I will do is write a long-ass recap and analysis of the movie. Having read spoilers and reactions to them, I have come conclusion a lot of the rage, in my opinion, comes from focusing on the details instead of lessons they’re trying to show. Lessons we may see us give a very satisfying conclusion in Episode 9.

Obviously, spoilers below. All of the spoilers. Read at your own risk. Later, when more folks have seen the movie, I may do shorter extractions with add-ons for specific plot points or characters. Also, this will be ship stanning or hate free (and in general, I tried to keep this positive, instead of dissing anything, though there are quite a few things I dislike). I have my preferences, but those will, hopefully, remain beyond the walls of this recap. Also, it’ll be all over the place, bouncing to and from various details, etc. If you stick around, let me know what you think, I’d love that!

Let me start this with saying I am not built for war movies. I do not deal well with deaths of characters even as brief as Rose’s sister or the pilots who exchanged smile and salutes before the docking bay thingie was blown up. Each time a ship or speeder goes down, I wince and break a little bit inside. So, obviously, that sets me up for being emotionally vulnerable all through the movie.

I did not expect TLJ to start essentially immediately after TFA ended. That took me by surprise and threw me right in middle of hell. I think it was rather solid choice, though.

A lot of people disliked how disheartened and disillusioned Luke was. I think he was still wrapped in illusion, one that Rey forcefully breached. And he was weighed down by guilt. So much of it. He did not just fail Ben, or his sister and Han. He failed himself. In a moment of slip, he lost everything and was reminded that even strongest, kindest hearts can have a slip up, no matter how momentary. And it can have horrible consequences.

To be honest, when Kylo said Luke had tried to kill him I was like “no, that’s Snoke manipulating his memories”. And if it had been the case, I would be okay with it. Right now, I lean more towards the fact Luke never actually physically soul searched Darth Vader, never witnessed that darkness and the endless blood on his hand. And the dark side was so thick around young Ben, that Snoke’s influence could’ve dripped onto Luke in that moment. Just a bit of tar, lasting for few seconds, but enough to turn the tide. If only Ben could’ve slept through it, but it was not meant to be. Possibly also because of Snoke.

Something that struck me deeply was the way Luke had to watch the Tree burn down. For me, it felt like he was forced to watch his second home burn down. Like he had wanted to leave his uncle’s and aunt’s home, he wished to leave ways of Jedi behind, something that had become a home to him in spiritual sense. But in the end, the choice was never entirely given to him, someone else made it for him and he had to watch his home become embers. And as always, Luke carved his own path ahead from that moment.

Yoda’s lesson was, FOR ONCE, one thing said out-loud from the many the movie tried to get across. Failures will happen. Failing does not define us. How we get up from them is what matters. That makes us who we are.

Some say whole Finn’s and Rose’s mission was a filler, absolutely pointless. But, if we’re being really mean, pretty much every star wars episode has one of these scenes/story lines. And, I do not think it was entirely failure. Yes, it was a detour and one that failed, but it also lit another spark, in the hearts of the children on that planet. Plus, again, lesson about failures - they did not let it beat them down and returned to fight to the last breath.

In my opinion, another lesson was ‘retreating is not necessarily cowardice’. Is Finn a coward? No, my son is brave beyond reason. He may want to escape, back in TFA and at start of TLJ, but especially in latter it is to find a spot of safety which can be a beacon for Rey and Luke Skywalker, the HOPES of the galaxy. And even then, the moment he sees a chance to do more, to actively participate in saving, he’s right back in the fray.

Poe gets literal slap in the face for not realizing it. He gets punch in soul later, when Viceadmiral Holdo does what she does and Leia tells him “she was busy saving people, instead of showing she is a hero.” WHAT A GODDAMN QUOTE. Which I sadly don’t remember correctly.

I have a lot of feelings about Admiral Holdo in general. I cried and literally saluted her in cinema when she stayed behind. I felt a little bad I wished she had pulled the last move a moment sooner so more than like, 6 ships out of 30 survived the assault. But she truly went out like the Queen she was.

I think a lot of people could be pissed about how Resistance wasn’t united, how there was an uprising in itself. But we have to realize, it is made of people. Not humans or aliens differentiating here. Just, different people. And there will be disputes and issues. And it’s normal, it’s understandable. Especially in a hellish situation like this. It makes sense. Resistance isn’t flawless, the unity of it must be hard fought for. (Let us recall Rogue One.) Yes, she could’ve handled it better, but she knew Poe would oppose and try to undermine it. In the end, both she and Leia knew his heart is in the right place.

Also, yes, I tried to count how many ships might’ve reached the surface of salt planet. I was devastated it was so few and that the ones who made to Millenium Falcon were literally a handful.

I absolutely loved how Poe was like “LEIA!!!” when it turned out it was her to be breaking in the bridge, so sure she’d be so against Holdo’s decision. only for her to stun him. Like, you still have so much to learn, my boy.

Oh man, I am afraid to get started on Leia, to be honest. Carrie Fisher was my Top Shining Star in this movie. For me, she was the mirror of every loss Rebellion suffered. Her expressions, her eyes. The way she felt Luke pass away, the way she felt Kylo... Ben, nearby. Each and every time I was wrecked. I sobbed during Luke’s and Leia’s reunion, she was beautifully regal and in character and Luke was also most Luke again, reassuring there is hope for Ben. Just before he appeared, I did want to scream, are you just going to sit and take your death? Go out and fight, for one more moment. (Leia with a blaster was a vision.)

When Carrie’s daughter was watching through window at her somewhere in vast space, I teared up thinking about how prophetical this was. And in a sense, Carrie Fisher, did rise up against impossible odds to continue to live in our lives. I don’t know how they will respectfully write Leia Organa off screen, but they better do it right.

I have some issues with space physics in this movie, like would Leia and Rose’s sister for that matter, hovering over open space, like, pull off what they did? But again, this is movie where space explosions have sound, etc. So I am just going to scream: LEIA CANONICALLY USED THE FORCE.

I knew Luke was an illusion/hologram. There was no way he could make it to base, no matter how he tried. And it made me think of just how immensely powerful he is. The way Han’s little dice thing lasted even beyond his departure, the way everyone saw and felt him. I cried so hard during that forehead kiss, I still tear up.

I can’t say I dig Luke simply left, just like that. I feel like there is more he could have done. But at the same time, it seemed to me, and to Rey and Leia, as if he left with purpose. Is he going there to be a Force Ghost and influencing fate and people by popping up all over the place? I don’t know. I hope it is not actual last we see of him.

Skywalkers being drama queens continue, volume lost count a: the cape drop by Kylo Ren. Volume lost count b: the shoulder brush off Luke does after all he walks out of the smoke. I loved that sass. In fact, we saw that the moment Rey appeared, he kinda sparked back to life, with the smirk he gives her when he swings on his spear. I admit some lines felt a little out of character/the mood felt off, but overall, Mark Hamill did magic.

Which brings me to another point of this movie: downfall of pride. Luke threw that around left and right, but it goes beyond Jedi. It goes beyond essentially blind faith Light Side always prevails just because. It also is the cornerstone of Snoke’s demise. “Oh, he was so hyped up and meant to be badass, died just so simply!! HOW COME. BAD WRITING” people say. But, was it not what happened to Emperor? To essentially pretty much EVERY Sith lord and even Jedi that has graced canon, extended universe and so forth? He thought he was beyond anyone’s reach, he thought he could humiliate Kylo Ren to his heart’s content, feed the anger in him, but did not think of the backlash. Did not think that simply taking him back in fold could not be enough. Did not think of age old lesson - there is always two, no more and no less. A Lord and their apprentice. Kylo Ren thinks it is time he took apprentice, Rey. So he offs his Master. And that IS something Snoke should’ve seen, but he did not, because he thought there is no way someone as torn as Kylo could turn against him. That Kylo is thoroughly dependent on him.

Speaking of Kylo, since TFA I wanted him to be shown more as his own person instead of puppet in Snoke’s ugly hands. This movie did that. It made him, if not entirely sympathetic, then still more acceptable. I was glad he was not the one to fire missile at the bridge, he even looked shell-shocked when other tie-fighters did it. And he also never denied than Han loved him, instead he reflected it to try and get at Ray. I enjoyed his thought of that all old must end. In this, he reminds me of Revan from KOTOR and SWTOR. First, he was Jedi (in training), then fell to the Dark side and eventually, went nuts and decided he must end all there is and start over. So, in a sense, a bit of Emperor’s dogma, too?

The cinematography and symbolism of the lightsaber being torn apart, at the same time as the battleship was stunning and I still shiver thinking about it.

As Snoke said, Rey and Kylo are indeed foils to each other, darkness attracted to light and light attracted to darkness. Incredibly raw power. I would like to see this end with Gray Jedi kind of mindset, maintainers of actual balance. This movie MAY set it up for Kylo to have redemption arc at the very end and a (co) founder of Gray Jedi order. Or it may set up him as weak villain all through and through. Weak in the sense he is already blinded by rage and fight with his past, as proven by his fight with Luke. He loses the final, in a sense incredibly easy, battle just because he has to finish Luke off. Either he will clear his head or go about everything as incredibly unstable as he is. And fall because of his pride, as did every Sith before him.

I do wonder, if next movie will start after time, when literally a handful of people are rebuilding the Resistance or we will once again be thrown right into another chasing scene of Millennium Falcon. There’s potential in both.

Lot of people are saying this movie decimates Rey’s character. I do not entirely agree. She is desperate to clutch onto hope Galaxy can be saved via returning to Ben to light because she’s been denied all other options. Luke has become less of hero in her eyes, in fact, he had considered becoming a cold blooded murderer. And even then, she offers him to come with her and he refuses. Because Rey, fundamentally, believes in best in people. Like Luke once did. What’s more, if she does indeed know her parents were nobodies who traded her for a ration of booze, these are memories, pain and betrayal stirred up by dark side. She is drawn to it. But at the end of it, she does not take Kylo’s hand, sees it can only breed more so much more pain and returns to her friends. I do not think she will ever entirely fall to Dark Side, there is not enough time to make her do that and then retrieve her from it in one movie.

Speaking of Rey’s parentage, Snoke said he created the force bond between Kylo and her, and essentially that he planted certain things in it. Lies about her parents could be one of the things he put in there, to give Kylo tools. The mirror could have been a way to show she is born from Force, much like Anakin was. When Light side was dominant, he was the one to bring more Balance, perhaps by falling to Dark side. Now, Force may have given Galaxy another hero, to turn the tides towards Light.

Now I would like to speak some of other badass lady - Rose. I felt for her, deeply. She was not afraid to stand up to her literal hero. She did not hesitate to say what she hated about the whole rich-planet. She has and always will give everything for Hope. I have to say, her proclaiming she saved Finn was a VERY big stretch, though. They were literally going to be killed in 10 more minutes, if Kylo wasn’t so busy with focusing Luke. Like, no. You didn’t save him. You delayed the inevitable and incidentally, both of you survived. Also, you don’t have to look at him like coward about knowing where escape pods are on First Order ship. He literally was in clean up crew. Of course he did. But she matters so much in maintaining balance between foolish bravery and retreating is not cowardice message, in fact underlining the latter, by reminding that Rebellion is about saving those we love, not simply murdering the ones we hate.

This episode was SO strong with parallels. Like all the parallels all the fricking time. Finn and Poe getting slapped by their bosses/ex-bosses. Kylo and Rey both calling Millennium Falcon ‘that junk’. THE HUG BETWEEN FINN AND REY from TFA and at the end of TLJ. ‘Floating rocks’, of course. The moment I saw the rock block, I thought, well, here comes ‘Force is sometimes about floating rocks, too’. As well as ‘every thing you just said is absolutely wrong’. A classic. And, like, all the fricking glasses/containers of liquids shaking to show tremors all through the whole movie. There were at least 5 shots of that. We get it, things are getting shaken up. We get it.

Honestly, any scene on the salt planet was SUCH A LOOK. I have NO idea why the speeders had to extend the ‘leg’, apparently for balance, but I think mostly to create a stunning visual moment. After the speeders split up, and mission was essentially failed, it looked like blood on snow. Bloody ice underneath snow. It was gorgeous, heartbreaking symbolism of all the blood that has been spilled. Perhaps even of the bloodshed that rests under proclaimed purity of Jedi mindset. It made my gut clench. Just as did the moment it spills into the base, when First Order finally arrives.

Speaking of which, Hux, what did you think you’re gonna get, screaming at Kylo that First Order is leaderless? Lmao. Loved how they fought for control in walkers/ship. Like they both said “open fire” and Kylo looked at Hux, essentially “binch, really?”.

I did like the whole thing on the rich-folk planet. Amused at BB-8′s tactics of subduing people. Loved the escape of Finn and Rose, that the animals escaped. Heck, I was so worried for them, that they’d just get mowed down or recaptured. I had to remind myself, maybe even death is better than the life they had.

I think they pulled a really good (double?) bluff with their hacker. I mean, I was not convinced he was on their side, but when he gave the necklace back to Rose, I can see why Finn and Rose would think he’s truly fighting the good fight. I also really hope Finn fetched the necklace out of the wreck for Rose, it doesn’t deserve to be left behind.

It’s a small thing, but I LOVED that Finn didn’t strike Phasma down from behind. Like, of course it was still kinda underhanded, but she could’ve rose weapon in defense (if someone suddenly says hey behind you in this situation, you don’t think it’s an ally). But still. Her quick demise is one of my actual “:/” moments in the movie, I did think she should’ve gotten more time, more stories. But my original point is, my boy didn’t try to kill anyone from back.

Ships or no, I love every glimpse of Finn and Poe and Rey friendship, the way they deeply care for one another. Nothing can take away that Finn screamed for Rey and asked about her first, or that Rey’s one request to Chewie was to tell him something. And Finn wearing Poe’s jacket! Oh man, Poe’s and BB-8′s reunion had me clutching my heart mentally. And I am very glad to add Rose to this roster. I don’t know if Finn reciprocates her feelings or hers are actually more than being still kinda awe-struck for him. But no matter what, he cares about her deeply. With her, we get to see he will always go and save his friend and take care of them with all he got. We didn’t get the line ‘now I have something to fight for’, but I clearly think that’s definition of Finn - fighting for those he cares about, platonically or not.

Also, how did Rey get from Snoke’s escape ship to Millennium Falcon? And how did communication device work from Resistance Cruiser to First Order ship, without interception and all? /squints slightly

I am very glad Rey saved the books, I think it will do her good to study them and figure out her own path inbetween the lines.

And I think that’s.... That’s actually it. Or I am too tired to remember more points. Other than few, plot unrelated observations:

The porgs were a menace. I liked and hated them at the same time, I could only think how mad Han would be about this literal infestation.

The little alien-nuns of Ach-To, tho. They live in peace and suddenly comes this girl, blasts a house up, crashes their cart with cut-in-half boulder. I feel for them.

Salt foxes are AMAZING. (What the heck at the soldier dude who straight up tastes white substance on an unfamiliar planet OFF THE GROUND. You got guts.)

Did the kid at the end use the Force to make broom lean into his hand or was I just too blurry eyed?

Also someone wrote amazing thought of how we should’ve seen Anakin and Luke meet up in the Force, with Han, too, imo. And I really wish for it.

#sw: tlj #tlj spoilers #star wars: the last jedi #star wars #rey #kylo ren #finn #poe dameron #leia organa #luke skywalker #rose tico #snoke #rainy watches stuff #rainy rambles

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marvolous · 7 years

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❛ abraxas.

date: 6 september, 1944 (?)

location: slytherin common room

status: closed with @abraxasmlfoy

❛ Shall we discuss our summers? ❜

By now, the student body is cooling down from the excitement that has kept the castle at a constant boiling point. The amazing events of the first night are still fresh, throbbing just below the surface of daily activity. Most injuries —— both to body and building —— have been fixed, yet a soreness remains. There are whispers of nightmares and lost innocence in the hallways, and a heavy book hitting the stone floor causes a hush to fall. The latest cruel trick is to make dust rain on unsuspecting peers. Outside of the drama of war, new classes and new students keep collective blood pressure rising. This is a time of great excitement, building stress, and a proliferation of associations of all varieties.

Tom dislikes most direct associations, but connections have to be maintained. Since day one, he has spoken to his inner circle, made good on promises to professors, and begun laying the groundwork for a successful year more generally. He has also practiced blood magic and heroically defended his house alongside some of the least heroic people worth knowing. But, these developments are part of the past, committed to a journal, and no longer in the forefront of his mind. He is two days into a regular schedule and the force of responsibility weighs heavily. Between piling coursework to do, volumes to read, theories to test, plans to confirm, students to police, thoughts to organize, and fresh faces to catalogue, already is his time slipping away into the ravenous mouth of transience.

Nothing is free, least of all time.

He was with Abraxas now by what might have been happenstance. Over the course of the evening, faces had moved in and out of the recently-repaired common room in predictable cycles. Early studiers occupied tables and couches for a while, and a fire kindled later drove out some of the more warm-blooded of their house. After-dark debaters took their places in armchairs for several hours, giving way to late night whisperers clustered near the fireplace sometime later. But now, the room was deserted. Those who were present were largely on the periphery as Tom had claimed the heart —— the fireplace and its centrality —— for himself. It was made inviolable by his presence, rendered sacrosanct by his seniority; he guarded the flame with his back to the room. Though his eyes were on the book he held and his thoughts streamed uninterrupted from mind to quill to paper, he was aware of the world around him.

He remained silent and still as Abraxas approached and took a seat. He guessed based on the sound of his approach and the time of night, but a sideways glance confirmed. The makeshift sanctum, a temporary and public retreat, had no barriers to block him. In fact, Tom acknowledged a somewhat unsound appreciation for time alone with him. There existed between them a wholly different kind of barrier, one extremely porous and intangible; it drew them together and held them apart, and it was built almost entirely on fallacies and misunderstanding.

Most importantly, Abraxas had constructed it, and Tom spent his time trying to reach through it.

He had dreams at times of his hand gripping a beating heart. The ownership changed from night to night, but he knew texture well even in dreams. His fantasy-fingers ran over tissue and pressed into the smooth membrane within, and he gathered from the resistance and the unusual coolness of the blood that it belong to the least dear one of all his friends. His recurring and macabre dream was not a product of bloodlust or dislike, but of a deeper desire. So the thought went: if he could force his way through skin and flesh and bone, then he might make something of the heart.

In this case, he reflected on the marrow of Abraxas’ being in a mode he understood best: violation; a profane act of grasping within a body; a melding of the space of persons into one closed circuit.

Tom had spent his entire life reaching and had become quite good at it.

He did not want to talk about summer experiences and soon-to-be youthful memories. He wanted instead for Abraxas to bend to his will —— to a sacrificial blade. The greater good demanded an understanding, after all. They could seal in blood a future befitting them both. Tom did not want his head, but only his heart —— and then, not his passion or his dedication, but something far more visceral. Like the law of nature in a world without society, he wanted an instinctual bow of dignity and an acknowledgment that the line of succession was never a promised thing.

How deeply illegitimacy colored his life. To be a usurper as well? Abraxas spoke so finely about so many things, and he spun from stories grand allusionary monologues, but he had yet to learn the most instrumental fact of their reality. Tom had decided to forsake the illusion of the world as they knew it; he was building a nascent realm of his own with new rules and new values. Abraxas’ bitter clinging was obsolete; not every shade of green suited him.

But Tom’s wants went unspoken and scarcely acknowledged. Like fear and shame, they were acutely human feelings that sprung from an internal well that was both immature and still poorly checked. It was undeniable that he had only just begun the journey of total self-reliance. He did not see this Malfoy prince —— h i s, whose future was already so intricately if unwelcomely bound up in Tom’s own —— as a genuine obstacle, the annoyance of his courteous contempt chafed his pride nonetheless.

Without turning, he added, ❛ Or shall we talk about the cosmic qualities of souls and men? ❜

#you've heard of head-splitting migraines #now get ready for #tom & abby do doublespeak for like 3 hours #ANYWAY #i have no idea what's going on here and it's 2 am #ft. take this as u will #( abraxas | 01 )#( location | common room )#( date | 06.09.44 )#( book 1 | chpt 2 | pg 1 )#long post

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shefa · 7 years

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Facing the Storms in Our Lives

FACING THE STORMS IN OUR LIVES

FIRST DAY ROSH HASHANAH SERMON 5778 – 2017

Rabbi Stephen Weiss

B’nai Jeshurun Congregation, Pepper Pike OH

I’m going to be honest with you. This summer just has not quite turned out the way that I had planned. It was supposed to go something like this: After sharing in my favorite holiday tradition – the all-night study on Shavuot, I would head to Europe to lead our congregation’s Jewish Heritage Tour of Budapest, Prague and Berlin. The rest of the summer would be punctuated by two bike trips I was planning to take. I would ride my bicycle from Cleveland to Cincinnati and then along the Erie Canal from Buffalo to Albany. And of course, the piece de-resistance – the most important, the single most important event of the summer by far – was that at the end of August we would celebrate our daughter’s wedding.

Well, the wedding was unbelievable – beautiful, joyful, the happiest day of my life. I still pinch myself. It’s hard to believe that it was real; and for that I will forever be grateful to God. It was a weekend filled with absolute magic.

But the rest of the summer? Well by now you all know about my car accident in May – yes, for the record: car, not bike! Despite my repeated attempts to force myself back into the world, my injuries were severe enough that I was basically out of commission the whole summer. Two weeks before the wedding I was still unsure I would be able to enjoy my daughter’s big day. Even now, though I have returned fully to work, a number of problems related to the injury persist. I won’t be riding my bike any time soon.

So, this summer did not turn out in the way I had planned for and expected. The truth is, that’s how life is for most of us.

As the Yiddish proverb says, “A man plans and God laughs.” Except it’s not always funny. Many times, when our life goes “off script” we find ourselves confronted with tremendous, even overwhelming adversity.

For Sheryl Sandberg, the C.O.O. of Facebook, life went “off script” when she found her husband lying dead of a heart attack on the floor of a gym at the resort where they were vacationing in Mexico. In her book, Option B, she tells the story of how, weeks later, she and a friend, Phil were planning a father-child activity. They came up with a plan for someone to fill in for her husband, Dave. She cried to her friend, “But I want Dave.” Phil put his arm around her and said, “Option A is not available. So, let’s kick the ‘heck’ out of Option B.”

That statement pretty much sums up life’s challenges. For better and for worse, few of us live a life that is always Option A. We live a life that is always some form of option B.

Raise your hand if your life is turning out exactly the way you thought it would, if your life followed the trajectory that you expected and there have been no surprises, pleasant or unpleasant along the way…. Go ahead…. You see, no one goes untouched.

There is an expression in the Talmud, the rabbis said: Tzarot rabim chatzi nechama – “the troubles of the many are a half-comfort.” It helps to at least know that we are not alone.

If our lives sailed along as we planned and envisioned them, we would have no need for these holidays with their soul-searching and introspection, their pleas for forgiveness, for blessing and life. We would not sing through our tears as we chant the Unetaneh Tokef prayer: “On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: Who shall live and who shall die, who shall wander and who shall be at peace, who shall wax rich and who shall be impoverished, who shall be exalted and who shall be brought low?” No… in place of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer – if our lives were Option A – we would come, offer a prayer of thanksgiving, have some apples and honey and call it a day.

We are here because too often life throws at us challenges that come from nowhere and seem utterly insurmountable. It might be a sudden injury that brings our lives to a grinding halt. Or the shattering of a relationship around which our world was built. Or the loss of a job leaving us unsure how to meet our needs and the needs of those we love. It might be suddenly confronting serious debilitating, degenerative or God forbid terminal illness. It might be our grief over the death of a loved one, especially when that death comes unexpected and too soon, most especially if it is the loss of a child. And this year, in this congregation, as I look out at all of you, I know that we have seen far too many storms.

Like the Hurricanes which brought such devastation to Texas, Florida and the Caribbean, these events sweep in with a force that cannot be deterred and utterly change the landscape of our lives. Sooner or later it happens to all of us, sometimes repeatedly, sometimes coming as many storms at once. And after the storm, we are never the same.

In her book, Sheryl Sandberg uses her experience to guide us through the challenges of accepting Option B and learning how to confront and move beyond adversity and rebuild our lives. In doing so, she turns to the writings of the founder of positive psychology, Martin Seligman. Dr. Seligman underscores what he sees as three impediments to our ability to recover from adversity and go on. He calls these three impediments the Three P’s: Personalization, Pervasiveness and Permanence. Learning how to avoid these three Ps would take us a long way toward nurturing the resilience that we need to overcome the challenges in or lives.

Personalization is the belief that we are at fault. When something goes wrong in our lives there is a great tendency to want to blame ourselves. Sheryl tortured herself with the illusion that she had been responsible for her husband’s death. If only she had gotten to the gym in time she could have saved him. If only she had realized that he had heart disease, she could have saved him. That guilt in turn spilled over into her apologizing for everything in her life: to her mother, who put her life on hold to stay with her, to her friends who dropped everything to come to the funeral, to her clients for missing appointments, to her colleagues for losing focus. It took her a long time to understand that if the doctors didn’t know that her husband was going to have a heart attack, how could she? Her psychologist made her ban the words “I’m sorry” from her vocabulary.

Now you may be thinking, “Rabbi, isn’t that what these High Holidays are all about? Aren’t I supposed to feel guilt for the things that I’ve done wrong? Shouldn’t I apologize to those people that I’ve hurt? In fact, isn’t the whole point of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer to move us to teshuvah, to repentance?”

And the answer is yes… yes, of course it is. This is the season of teshuvah. And teshuvah is fundamentally about recognizing where we have fallen down, what we have done wrong, who we have hurt; and seeking to change. That is the prime goal we engage in at this time of year.

But sometimes when we are hurting, we can confuse what we have done wrong with the hurt that we are feeling. There is a difference between apologizing for that which is within our power and feeling guilty for that which is beyond our control. Let me say that again: There is a difference between apologizing for that which is within our power and feeling guilty for that which is beyond our control.

That’s why over and over again during these holidays we will ask God for two things: selichah and mechilah. Those two words are repeated over and over again in the High Holiday liturgy.

Selichah means forgiveness. God should forgive us for the things that we have done wrong, for the people that we have hurt, for the ways in which we have turned away from God’s commandments, for our failures of morality and ethics. Selichah is forgiveness for our sins.

Mechilah is often translated into English in our prayerbooks as “pardon;” but that’s not really an accurate translation of the word. To be “moichel” somebody – maybe some of you recognize that word if I say it in the Yiddish. It’s the same word – to be “moichel” somebody means to relieve them of responsibility. Somebody has an obligation to me and I say “I moichel you” – “you don’t have to do that.”

Selichah is God forgiving us for what we did wrong. Mechilah to be “moicheled” is God releasing us of the burden of those things for which we are not responsible. God is saying to us: “Let go of that! You did not control that. Don’t let that weigh you down.” God forgives us for those things too because sometimes we have to learn to forgive ourselves, to let go and to be able move on. We have to be able to move past personalization.

The second P, pervasiveness, is the belief that an event will affect every aspect of our lives. It is the belief that if we are suffering or grieving or struggling over one thing in our lives, then we must suffer, grieve or struggle in every other part of our life as well. Everywhere we look we see pain and sorrow. And should we feel momentarily happy, we beat ourselves up and feel guilty about it.

In her book, Sheryl Sandberg writes: “As I blamed myself less, I started to notice that not everything was terrible. My son and daughter were sleeping through the night, crying less and playing more. We had access to grief counselors and therapists, I could afford childcare and support at home. I had loving friends and colleagues.” Being able to feel success, joy, love and peace in other aspects of our lives allows us to access our spiritual reserves, to find the strength to go on.

This is what our sages called “hakarat ha-tov” -- recognizing and acknowledging the good in our lives, taking stock of our blessings and expressing gratitude. That may seem obvious to you or, if you are hurting right now, it may seem incredibly hard. But our tradition is clear that as Jews we are bidden to find sources of joy in our lives even in our times of sorrow, and to find good that we are thankful for even when we are struggling.

When someone passes away, we observe the rites of mourning. During shiva, for seven days, we don’t leave our homes. We wear the torn garment. We engage in all the mourning practices. Except for one day of that seven. Which day is that? Shabbat. Shabbat overrides the mourning. The rabbis teach that Shabbat counts as one of the seven but we don’t observe it as one of the seven. We are not allowed to mourn or grieve on Shabbat. Why not? Because on that day we have an obligation to express our gratitude to God for the gift of creation, of peoplehood, of Torah. We have an obligation to be with community and feel appreciation for the other lives that touch us, support us and uplift us. Hakarat ha-tov: Even in our deepest pain, we have to recognize the good.

So many good things happen in our lives every day, small and large, that we too often take for granted. The very fact that we are alive and breathing, that we have family, friends and community. The beauty of our natural world. It can be as simple as, for me, the small miracle of the invention of silicone ear plugs that enabled me to dance at and enjoy my daughter’s wedding despite the loud volume of the band! For others, maybe it’s the miracle of cochlear implants, or of a walker that allows you to be more active and get around and not be tied down, or recovery from a recent illness, or getting a job, making a friend, or finding love. Maybe it’s just a beautiful day, or having just a little less pain today than yesterday. There are so many good things that happen in our lives at every moment. Far more than the dark moments we face. And when we can recognize and acknowledge them, when we can tackle the pervasiveness, we are on the road to healing.

The third impediment to our recovery -- the third P, permanence -- is the belief that the aftershocks of the event will last forever: that because one relationship ended we will never find a new partner, because we failed once we will always fail, that because we are grieving a loss we will never again feel joy. Sandberg shares that “For months, no matter what I did, I felt like the debilitating anguish would always be there. Most of the people I knew who had lived through tragedy said that over time the sadness subsides… I didn’t believe them.” She goes on to say, “When my children cried, I would flash forward to their entire lives without a father. Dave wasn’t just going to miss a soccer game, but all the soccer games. All the debate tournaments. All the holidays. All the graduations. He would not walk our daughter down the aisle at her wedding.”

Here’s the thing: it’s all true. Her husband would not be at any of those events. But what is not true is that all those events would therefore completely void of any joy, that she would feel the same grief then that she felt at the time of his passing. The human soul is hard-wired for optimism and hope. Give us a cloud and sooner or later we will find a silver lining. In fact, Sheryl Sandberg brings studies in her book that show that we all tend to overestimate how much negative events will affect us.

In one study, some students were asked to imagine their current romantic relationship ending and predict how unhappy they would be two months later. Other students were asked to report their unhappiness two months after an actual break-up. Guess what? Those who experienced a real split were far happier than expected. In other studies assistant professors thought being denied university tenure would leave them despondent for the next five years. College students predicted they would be miserable if they got stuck in an undesirable dorm. Both turn out to not be true. The bottom line is we are very bad, and overly pessimistic, in predicting our future emotional state.

How do you combat that feeling of permanence? By banishing words like “never” and “always.” Instead of saying “I will always be struggling,” say to yourself “today I am struggling.” Instead of saying “I will never again know joy,” try saying “sometimes I can’t feel joy.” Live in the moment; and if the moment is sad, or difficult, or frustrating that’s okay. But you own that moment, don’t let that moment own you. Don’t let the moment define you. Remember that what you feel today does not determine what you will feel tomorrow. Leave yourself open to the possibility of feeling joy and joy will find you.

At the end of her book, Sheryl Sandberg writes: “But just as grief crashes into us like a wave, it also rolls back like the tide. We are left not just standing, but in some ways stronger.”

The challenges and storms in our lives don’t need to be personal, pervasive or permanent; but resilience can be. We can build it and carry it with us throughout our lives. We can recognize when to let go of guilt. We can learn again to feel gratitude. We can rise above our grief and allow ourselves to rediscover love and joy. For all those who suffered the effects of Irma, Harvey and Maria, and for each of us facing storms in our personal lives, may the coming year be a year of resilience, a year of rebuilding, a year of hope and healing and blessing.

#jew #jewish #torah #spirituality #grief #grieving #mourning #loss #death #struggle #challenge #obstacle #option b #rosh hashanah #rosh hashana #judaism #crisis #life #life skills #coping

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